Years later, they are living this depiction of a life that they didn't think they would be.
It isn't a lie, by any means, it's just more like a half truth. The fact is that there are two truths to the lives they lead (1, what everyone thinks they know; 2, what their life actually is). Some secrets they'll never tell.
Long passed snarls and mockery about Brooklyn and the boy who lived there, only to be comfortably accustomed to them only be referenced in the form affection. There are still moments in which she grumbles i"Humphrey!"/i in a nearly demeaning manner, but what impacts him the most is the way her eyes sparkle ever so slightly at the way it falls from her lips. He merely smirks and she doesn't allow that to go unnoticed quite as easily as he lets her slide.
The difficulty of the situation is that for years, they've heard murmuring and hushed voices about their impending break up like there's no way they could really be happy.
Honestly, he has no intent on letting that happen; she never thought she'd find happiness, contentedness with iDan Humphrey/i. They exist in a world without definitions solely because they refuse to define anything that exists between them, managing to talk about everything other than what really matters. He once read somewhere that sometimes things are better left unsaid, but he thinks that it's everything that hasn't been said that could break them.
He hides in dark rooms, cold air engulfing him because she always seems to bring the light with her; he bites his lip and offers her a cheekily sideways glance.
He goes on pretending, silently trudging forward that it doesn't matter, when he sees her emerge from his dark bedroom at nearly 3 in the morning with her tresses misplaced and without a care in the world. Her fingers tap against his back, tips of them skate over the cotton t-shirt clinging to his body and the sleeves of his button down ihideous/i flannel overlapping her palms. He'd snark at her about her choice of clothing if he didn't know any better - instead, he lets her fingertips linger as she pushes them over his shoulders.
He knows she's mentally taking note of the cursor blinking on the blank document of his laptop screen, that it will all eventually come to a head, but for tonight she bites her tongue. Saving the remarks for another day, she smooths her palms over his chest. The movement would stun him if it weren't for months or maybe even years (he gets his days jumbled up anyway) of becoming accustomed to it.
Her voice never rises above a whisper, just a flick of her her eyelash against his skin and her lips a mere ghost in the crevice of his neck; "come back to bed."
He notes that it isn't a demand and is quite possibly even bordering a plea; he chalks it up to something else that hasn't been said when they used to talk about everything. These moments, the ones where they are both bare and stripped of daylight, he forgets all elements of happiness that have fled between them - the ones that lead them here to begin with. All that remains is the ghost of her lips on his skin, the way she mutters phrases of need or want or desire, and the feelings conveyed amidst every movement.
Due to those three things, he goes on forgetting what should be said yet isn't - goes on believing that what they have is enough.
Only in the darkness does he whisper words of love and only in the darkness does she whisper words of love in return. It isn't that he doesn't mean the words as they quietly tumble from his mouth, it isn't that she maybe doesn't mean them in return. It's that there's a certain bout of simplicity that speaks between them by not letting the words pass; therein lies all that remains unsaid.
He swallows the customary hard lump in his throat as he feels her slightly moist lips press just against his jaw line and he knows it's prompted by his lack of response; it's soft, gentle, the kiss you places there like she knows he's hers and she doesn't have to stake claim. He rethinks openly admitting that to her although they left behind the battle of the wits (on some levels) and the pride that proceeds them. His thoughts hang for just a beat, getting the better of him.
That's when she whispers in the awfully tantalizing tone, "the bed's just no good without you."
He laughs lightly (more like a school boy giggle), the back of his throat rumbling the softest of sighs eliciting from her slightly parted lips, and lifts his hand to her arm. The soft pads of his fingers trickle up to the small curve of her elbow and back down to her wrist. His fingers surround her tiny wrist, the bones of it a masterpiece of its own.
Rather than gracing her with a response, he tilts his head as a shiver skims down his spine at the feel of her warm breath tickling the hairs along his jaw. For a moment, his eyes drift closed and he almost envisions all of his dreams coming true. The truth is, she has become such a cynic since her divorce with Louis and has nearly insisted that they continue to live in sin; he doesn't mind, but sometimes his heart beats out of his chest when she's near.
Part of him just wants a promise that something will come of all of this.
He turns and offers her a tight smile, all resolve being lost when it's replaced with the urge to tuck the loose strand of brown her behind her ear. His smile no longer fake but rather slides into a real one. He tucks away whatever needs to be said to save for a rainy day, knowing that day Monday is probably farther into the future than it needs to be.
His gaze shifts from her eyes to her lips and back; he presses his lips against hers, soft and fleeting. It is obviously slightly impacting because when he pulls back, she sleepily draws in for more. He feels her eyes flutter closed, eyelashes sweeping over his temple as his hand encircles her waist to pull her towards him.
His tongue touches hers (or maybe hers touches his, he doesn't really know the difference) and his fingers press into the small of her back; with a contented sigh, she brings him to the realization that it always leads to this and he continues convincing himself that if she's happy then he's happy.
"Blair Waldorf, girl I love," he says quietly, sheepishly.
She grins against his lips, "Dan Humphrey, boy I love."
His heart skips a beat and he can't bring the rest of it out there between them; he allows her to take the lead, allows her to tug on his hand, allows her discard his t-shirt onto the floor of the bedroom, allows her teeth to dig into his skin as she slides her fingers between his. He knows it's so much more than nothing, doubts that it means as much to her as it does to him: everything.
He still can't help the proclaimations of love ghosting in the air between them, the way she leaves her scent on his skin and his on hers, or how he fits perfectly with her; he's afraid to second guess it.
-
He bites his lip, lets her steer conversations for fear that he will say the wrong things. He has to tell himself that the harsh reality of the situation is that they just want different things; even so, he doesn't know how to go about clarifying. He hears her stutter a little, not for any other reason than hesitation, and he wonders why she's still hesitating after all of this time.
The words pass through his lips about how the film she wants to watch is lame; she growls and mutters a derogatory comment about how he is such a iboy/i. But she doesn't stop there, she just lets it all out - everything that they aren't saying. If he's honest, he hadn't expected her to be the one to crack first.
And then the catalyst: "I come out here every night and you don't write a single thing. You used to tell me I was your muse and now look. You haven't written anything in months. What exactly are you doing with your life? What do you want?"
"I want more, I want you," he echoes the words from years ago. He's tried to understand, tried to give her leniance with the fact that for nearly the first year they were whatever they have become she was married to Louis, but he's trivial and mundane. He lightly shakes his head, releases a sigh, braces himself for the inevitable goodbye. "I'm in love with you, Blair, still."
"I'm in love with you too, Dan," she sighs, defeated, "but maybe that just isn't enough anymore. I need - we need some time to think about what we're doing, where we're going."
He swallows, doesn't bother saying anything.
She slams the door when she goes, not as loudly as he had expected; he thinks that maybe everyone was right.
-
He sits in front of his computer, staring at a blank slate with the blinking of a cursor. If he's honest, although he doesn't particularly have anyone to be honest with anymore, the last thing he wanted was a blank slate. He doesn't see a reason for starting over; better yet, all he wanted was to move forward.
Between logic and hysterics, he thinks hysterics won once again.
He absently scrubs at his face, buries his fingers in his hair and rests there for moments too long, dwelling on where he went wrong. He's beginning to wonder if the problem was that he never said anything when he clearly wanted to. It's beginning to dawn on him that maybe she was silently pleading with him to just say it, to reveal what is on his mind.
Moments pass and his phone rings from beside his computer, the vibrations almost echoing louder than the ring itself. His heart lerches in his throat when he sees that it's her calling him. He debates answering, or pretends that he does, when he knew he was going to answer all along.
"Hello?"
"Dan?" She questions, confusion lining her voice; he imagines the furrow in her brow before he silently reprimands himself for doing so. He hears her laugh nervously down the line, and before he can say anything - "I didn't mean to call you, I must have dialed your number out of habit."
She trails off in a forlorn moment, he can hear it in the way she tapers off; that's the problem with being a writer, the attention to detail.
He thinks that's what he loves most about her is that does it, too.
"Yeah," he replies breathlessly. Whatever air he had left in his lungs hitches in his throat; he clears his throat as quickly as he can. He stutters with words, "how - how are you?"
"Dan," she replies tiredly, defeated, "can we please not do this?"
"I know, I just," he grumbles and chokes on his words a little bit, "I just miss you."
There's silence; he can hear his heartbeat in his eardrums. Pounding: ithud! thud! thud!/i He almost thinks that time literally stops moving waiting for her to reply.
"I, uh, I have to go."
Just like that, like it isn't a Thursday, like it hasn't been 10 days since he's seen her, the other end of the line goes silent.
-
"You shouldn't be here," she sees immediately upon seeing him step off of her elevator.
He shuffles his feet beneath him in the foyer, wondering how even managed to be here and in her presence. One minute, he's walking on the sidewalk and the next he's staring her in the eye. He swallows, blinks, tries to remember his own name.
Finally, he etches towards her, shoes sliding ever so slightly on the marble floors, and extends the first copy of his new book. It hasn't been long since she left, not really, not as much as it feels like; he's had hopes that 3 weeks was enough time for her to want to see him. His father tells him that he's always been a dreamer.
Surely she'll hear him out, he thinks; "I just wanted you to be the first person who saw it before it his shelves. Read it, don't read it - it's up to you. I just wanted you to know that I was doing something all along."
"Good for you," she replies absently; he knows what she's doing.
He hesitates before he ultimately decides - "Look, Blair, I know what you're doing" - to call her on it - "you can pretend like you don't care, but you and I both know you a little bit better than that" - regardless of the outcome.
She stares at him for a long minute before, "we're done here."
She doesn't take the proffered book, just turns on her heel and ascends the stairs; he releases a slightly exasperated breath. He advances into the living room and leaves the book on the coffee table. Whether she reads it or not, she has his only copy; he leaves without so much of another word.
-
Approximately 18 hours later, she barges into the loft like she lives there and drops the book into his lap. He wasn't really expecting her and, to be quite honest, he's a little surprised that he's looking her in the eye. He notes the way her jaw tenses but her eyes are soft; he purses his lips together, thinking that she made the trip all the way here so she should get the opportunity to speak first.
He waves his hand in an effort to give her the floor.
"It was absolutely cliche, Humphrey. I really think it could use some revising but I suppose it's too late before it hits the shelves, now isn't it?" He smirks a little because he feels at ease knowing that she is his toughest critic, knowing that she won't ever go easy on him. She quirks an eyebrow, "I see you're still portraying fiction as fact."
"We all have our perception," he replies with a shrug; he thinks that he sees the smallest fraction of a smile spread across her lips but he doesn't want to mislead himself.
He lifts his hand, reaches out for her fingertips, and at the faintest feel of them grazing she recoils a little with a teeter to her heels. Her eyes look heavy, a definitive shake of her head light but present. He knows she doesn't want him to touch her, knows that if he does she will lose all resolve, knows because that's how he would be if they were reversed.
"Your perception is wrong," she replies.
"How is that?" He challenges; he's beginning to recognize this for what it is.
She smiles, bats her eyelashes in a way that says she's amused but she isn't - "you aren't a very good writer."
He laughs, "don't lie to me, Blair. Your eyes sparkle when you're being fecitious. You can't fool me."
"You just think you know me so well, Humphrey," she counters.
"Maybe I do," he says cheekily, "maybe I know you better than you know yourself."
He feels the tension between them as her leg absently brushes against his; the motion prompts him to squeeze his legs together, touch her more. He watches her resolve fade before his very eyes; he fights a smirk so as not to be a complete and total asshole. She glares at him, hard, but he doesn't believe it.
"You ihave/i always been delusional."
He cocks a half smile. The silence falls between them, all eyes and heartfelt gazes and emotions spilling out in the space from her to him. She breaks first, her gaze faltering for a half second but enough to give him the opportunity to lean forward in his seat and slide his thumb over her cheek.
"And did you see my dedication?" He ventures.
"Yes," she replies absently, cheek sinking into his touch.
He swallows, "And?"
He feels a tear slide down her cheek, trickle over his thumb; "you could have just asked."
"I was afraid," he admits. He pushes himself to his feet, chest pressing against hers, face mere inches from hers, breath entwining with hers. He can't connect his eyes with hers, his gaze continuously seeking hers out. "I thought you would say no."
Her fingertips find the front of his shirt, his nose colliding with hers as she finally lifts her gaze to his, and he waits for her to indicate what he should do with baited breath. He feels her lips touch his and her fingers thread into the hair at the nap of his neck. He shivers beneath her touch.
He peels the material of her clothing from her body as she does the same to him, tumbling into the oh so familiar sheets of the bed that he could barely stand since the moment she left.
"Blair Waldorf, girl I love," he whispers into the darkness; his body curls around hers, his arm loosely draped over her waist. His fingertips tap against her hipbone, his breath trailing over her skin, and he feels his body release tension he didn't know was present. "I just want you."
What he didn't realize until this very moment is that they've actually been fighting about the same thing all along.