AN: Do I ever not write an author's note? I like to talk. I did another Gossip Girl thing. I'm sorry! I can't help it! When Chuck and Blair break up I lose my mind and have to write fanfic to keep my sanity. So here's my take on Chuck and Blair immediately after their fight in 3.17. Based on the way things progress for them emotionally in future seasons, I imagine that they both kind of implode that night. I think that while Chuck's immediate reaction is pain over losing Blair, not full realizing what he's done to her yet, Blair suffers more because she feels used and insecure. Hope these things come across in this drabble!
"You haven't been outside in days."
Nate's right, of course, but Chuck doesn't care. He was only driven out of his room by a desperate need for alcohol, even if it is before noon. He had enough scotch stockpiled in his room to last a person for weeks, but he's drained it all in a matter of days and depleted his supply of pot. He makes a mental note to text his dealer when Serena and Nate clear out. For now, he'll make due with what he can get his hands on.
If he doesn't, he'll start hearing it again.
Goodbye, Chuck.
It follows him home that night, into the scalding shower, under the silk duvet. He tries to just sleep it off, but the nightmares of losing her are unbearable. So unbearable that he has to crack open a bottle.
Goodbye, Chuck.
Goodbye.
Good…
It starts to fade after a few glasses. After a few more, he can hardly remember her name. After several bottles, he can't remember his own. Good. Two joints in and he feels light headed. Chuck Bass has no limits. Chuck Bass doesn't lose control. After a lifetime of substance abuse, it takes a hell of a lot to get him fucked up. But he's been pushing the envelope tonight. Anything to shut off his brain. Consequences be damned. It doesn't matter. He has nothing to prove anymore. No one's here to see him. He can't hurt Blair anymore than he already has. She can't think any worse of him than she already does.
It's not like he cares what anyone thinks of him anyway, especially not Nate and Serena. As much as he loves his friends, they've all seen each other hit rock bottom several times over. Each time they think it's the last. They think it's the most pain they can stand.
Serena's wild days before boarding school, when it would take Nate and Chuck's combined strength to drag her home from clubs, half naked and vomiting. Nate's benders when his father first went to jail, when he blamed himself for his father's mistakes and his mother's suffering, so Chuck would have to watch him hole up in his apartment chain smoking joints. Chuck's breakdown the day of his father's funeral, when Nate and Blair found him passed out on the floor of his suite with his shoes on the wrong feet, and Blair had to threaten to make him vomit so he could walk straight.
Blair.
Her name like a knife to his heart. Blair, who sided with him during fights on the playground, even though he was almost always the instigator. Blair, who supported his bid for Victrola before his father had agreed to let him buy it. Who fought for him after he'd given up chasing her. Who stood by him through his father's death. Who told him she loved him even though it meant admitting defeat. Who held him in her arms when he couldn't hold himself. Who saved his life. Who forgave him for running. Who stayed even when he tried to push her away. Who guided him through the turmoil of his "mother" pushing her way into his life and taking his hotel. Who gave everything for him until she had nothing left to give, until she couldn't take it anymore, until she couldn't take him anymore.
He doesn't blame her. He's glad she can escape him. He tries to do the same. He drains another bottle. Smokes a bowl. Pops whatever pills he can find. Screams into the morning darkness. Poisons himself until his body physically cannot handle it anymore.
Everyone has a breaking point, after all.
He reaches his physically and emotionally at the same time, sobbing like a child as he expels the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He's sure this has to be his rock bottom. It can't get any worse then this.
He lost Blair.
There's only so much a person can endure, and he's done his fair share of enduring.
Killing his mother. Having his father blame him for it. Blaming himself and loathing himself. Trying to earn his father's respect, only to lose him all together. Pushing everyone so far away he becomes untouchable. Letting someone so far in that when she leaves, she takes his heart with her.
He pulls his knees to his chest and leans against the wall like he did that night when Serena was in the hospital and he couldn't get his father off his mind. He tries to take deep breaths, but his chest tightens and the oxygen just won't flow right. He tries to keep himself alive against his better judgement. When he catches his breath, he still feels hollow.
The last time he broke down like this, he had Blair to pull him out of the darkness. Now he's alone, just like he's supposed to be. He rests his head against his knees and finds comfort in the fact that after a lifetime of falling, he's finally hit the ground. Hard. If he falls any further, he's confident he won't feel any pain at all.
"She hasn't left her room for days."
Eleanor's right, of course, but not even good ole Nate Archibald can help her now. She can't leave her room. She's too ashamed and humiliated and brokenhearted. She feels worthless and weak and so, so stupid.
Her mind is whirling when she gets back to her apartment that night, and she feels sick to her stomach. She's crying again, made weak by love and failure and betrayal and Chuck. He always makes her weak. She thinks of him, of his strong arms holding her on silent nights in his penthouse while Nate and Serena were out. Of his lips, kissing her, professing his love for her, telling her she's beautiful when she needed to hear it most. Was it all just a lie? It had to be. She isn't beautiful. Not even the Bass men want her. She's just a toy. Something to play with and then throw away.
She retreats to her bathroom and closes the door, accessing the emergency stash of liquor she keeps stored under her sink. It's not so easy to binge drink in her own home, under Dorota's ever watchful eye. But sometimes she needs to escape, too. It's the disease of the Upper East Side, and she's not immune. Sometimes she needs to punish herself, to hurt herself. She grabs for a bottle of anything, vodka maybe, but she can hardly taste the clear liquid as it burns down her throat.
It was all a lie. Their relationship was a sham. They're both too twisted and self destructive. Tonight proved that. He's incapable of love, and she must be suicidal to love someone like that so deeply. He's a liar. He never loved her. He never wanted her. He never treasured her, never thought she was beautiful, never thought she was powerful and respectable.
He's right. She's nothing. No one will ever love her. She's unlovable, undesirable, trashy, disgusting, weak, reusable. As if by force of habit alone, she makes herself throw up and feels a little more in control. It was like the hand of God reached down into her throat instead of her own. She takes another hearty swig from the bottle to wash out her mouth.
How could this have happened to her? To them? They were supposed to be forever. Blair and Chuck. Chuck and Blair. She can't even blame Jack Bass. They broke themselves. He broke her. He used her like she was nothing more than one of the prostitutes he used to kick out of his suite before sunrise.
And she… she was willing to do it. She went to Jack preparing to literally whore herself out for Chuck's hotel. For a goddamn stupid hunk of concrete.
But she knows it's more than that. It's his pride and joy. It's the first thing he was proud of. It's his, and not his father's. It's the epitome of the man he wants to be. It's the love of his life, apparently, instead of her.
They tried to kid themselves into thinking they were better together. That they actually had a shot at being decent human beings. But the truth is, all they did was justify each other's vindictive ways. In the end, they turned out to be everything they tried so hard to pretend they weren't. He's a ruthless business man with a heart of steel, just like his father. She's a silly little girl, fated never to be a powerful woman, who got tricked by men, just like her mother.
That thought alone is enough to make her purge again. And again. And again. Finally, she has nothing left to throw up except for stomach bile, but she feels more relaxed. Maybe it's just the half empty bottle of alcohol.
More likely, though, it's the combination of both methods of abusing her body. They work well together. Old habits die hard, after all. She's allowed to… digress… every once in a while. And if this is what it takes to calm herself down tonight, so be it.
She'll pull herself together in the morning. She'll get up, put on her newest outfit, and go shopping for an even newer one. She'll… she'll… she doesn't know what she'll do. Move on? How is she ever going to move on from Chuck?
He's the love of her life, and that isn't going to change any time soon. Their relationship was absolutely everything to her. It was all she needed, all she cared about, the be all end all of her life. For him, too, she knows. Maybe that isn't healthy, but she feels sick without him.
She doesn't know what to do, doesn't know who she is, doesn't know if she'll ever be anyone, with or without him. She misses him.
Her chest tightens and her breathing quickens. She reaches for the bottle again and drinks heavily. It's not calming her down. She's too anxious. But she keeps drinking until she drains the bottle and she's dry heaving in the toilet again.
When she finally stops feeling queazy, she scoots back until her spine hits the wall and pulls her knees to her chest, sucking in air. When she catches her breath, the queasiness seems to have subsided, but she still feels like she's falling. She's holding herself together, but just barely. If she falls any further, she's confident she'll hit the ground so hard she'll shatter.