( GOSSIP GIRL, BLAIR + SERENA )
—
Her name is a prayer in a hushed voices, soft and silent against the swarm of people, murmured into the side of her neck. Their boyfriends stand to the side, drinking scotch and oblivious to the gentle caresses and the looks that last a beat too long. It's been this way since they were thirteen, too wrapped up in each other to see anyone else. Lips nervously licked before diving in towards each other, practice, Blair had whispered, threading her fingers in a golden mane of hair.
It had always been Blair to initiate it, red lips pressed together in a frown. Hands pushing against Serena's waist, pushing her up against walls, or onto a bed. It had been her — in her thigh high stockings and tight little conservative high-collared dresses — that had climbed up her body, lips descending down onto Serena's. It had been her to press her hand up higher and higher, underneath the dinner table while smiling at relatives, family friends, important members of society, their friends, her boyfriend. Blair had been the one to leave marks on Serena's neck, on her stomach, on her left thigh. It had always been Blair to deny everything the next morning, shifting over in bed, the sheet covering her body, "this never happened."
Like clockwork.
This never happened.
But I have the marks to prove it, Serena would want to scream. I can still feel you on my skin. I can feel your lips everywhere - branding me.
It starts from something more than sisterhood, the two of them intertwined in a way that borders the line of friendship and more, something sexual in their affection, romantic in their bond; they'd die for each other, like Romeo & Juliet, their hands braid each others hair and paint each others lips and bring each other to ecstasy. It starts in knee high skirts, study sessions with highlighters and breathy voices and the thrill of exploring something forbidden. Sex. Serena's got a degree in it and Blair's never done anything more than french kiss with Nate in a crowded movie theatre. In exploring each other. Blair's mother would disapprove, like she does when two girls kiss on T.V. and Blair's stomach flutters with something she can't explain ( and pushes down for years and years and years ).
It ends in a burning blaze of...it never ends. Serena leaves and Blair's heart is ripped out, torn to pieces and it's the biggest betrayal. Her skin burns with it. With hate and jealousy and envy and why did you leave me behind? Serena fucks Nate and Blair feels consumed by it; pictures Serena on top of him, touching him and remembers all the times Serena touched her. It keeps going. A repetitive cycle of them fucking each other over — metaphorically and not metaphorically — the two of them entwined in a twisted game of love that they keep going back to, push-and-shove, and Blair's refusal to admit it's anything more than two friends having fun because she doesn't fuck girls.
"I'm not like you." Blair says, eighteen and swirling her liquid around in her glass. Serena's hand is on her thigh and in two days she's going to jet across the world to find her father and Chuck never told Blair he loved her back and the only thing she can care about is Serena leaving her again - the two of them will be on different ends of the country next year and this was supposed to be the last summer they had together before they left. Serena sips on her martini, slow and measured sips of a recovering party girl.
"Like me how?" Serena asks, a pointed eyebrow raised.
"I'm not gay." Blair says, already more than tipsy. Drunk. About to initiate something—something sloppy and drunk and hot and fast. Serena knows all of Blair's signs.
"Neither am I." Serena says, voice warm. "I'm bi." It feels satisfying to say aloud, to attach a label to her feelings, to not have them written off as drunken hook-ups. It validates her attraction. Even if in the process it won't validate it at all, fake, attention-seeker, greedy but in the moment it feels satisfying, like a victory has been won.
Blair looks down at her glass. "I'm not that either. I'm straight." It feels forced out of her lips, another lie she tells herself and wills herself to believe. Just like she does with everything else. Fake it till you make it. Wish hard enough and it'll be true. But she can't fool herself for long and she can't fool Serena.
"Blair," Serena sighs, her hand reaching for hers, her thumb stroking her hand, her palm. Her lips quirk upwards and soft flashes through Blair's mind. "You worship Audrey Hepburn, you're not straight." And she doesn't mention her Sylvia Plath collection, or the Old Hollywood stars tapped to her bedroom wall, or the Hollywood women she calls her icons and the models that she stares at for a beat too long. And she doesn't mention how she kisses her like she's dying for water and Serena is the last drop, her salvation. Or how many times she's gone down on her to be considered straight.
Blair's lip wobbles and her grip on Serena's hand tightens, it hurts, and Serena can see how the evening will play out: dragging her upstairs to a hotel room, on her back as Blair hovers above her, on top, ( always on top ) and kisses her so fiercely she forgets how to breathe, what her own name is. Her salty tears falling into Serena's lips, pulling blonde hair and telling her all the things she doesn't want to hear ( and how it turns her on ).
"I do love Audrey," Blair laughs, unable to say the words aloud, unable to think them to herself.
"No straight girl loves Audrey." Serena giggles.
The spell breaks. "Shut up, Serena." Blair whispers, "What if someone hears you?"
And Serena wants to say she's not ashamed, that she'd shout it from the rooftops but — she's scared of falling into stereotypes, of being mocked and not believed, of having vicious words screamed at her through a website.
Her lips straighten into a thin line and she throws back the rest of her drink in one go. "Let's go upstairs." She whispers, tugging Blair by the hand. Her drink is left on the counter, half-empty and her hands are in Serena's hair the moment they reach upstairs.
It's the same game. Again and again.
Serena glances over at Chuck and Nate, their boys of the moment, and dips her hand lower so it rests from Blair's middle back to her lower back. Her body fitting snugly next to hers, best friends, right? Nobody is any the wiser when two girls touch, writing it off as everything but romantic. Blair shivers underneath her touch, her smile light and counts down the minutes until they can escape. She catches Chuck's eye, Serena catches Nate's and they laugh to each other - Serena caressing her back, her touch feather soft.
How long will you love me?
Blair once asked her, tired and drunk, her feet sore from dancing. Serena twirling around her in a blaze of red.
For however long you'll have me.