Author's Note: I don't own them, I'm just manhandling them. Additionally, please don't shoot me for writing this...
when you came in, the air went out,
and every shadow filled up with doubt
i don't know who you think you are,
but before the night is through
i wanna do bad things with you.
***
10:00pm
Part of growing up on the Upper East Side, Chuck thinks, is knowing your strengths and knowing them well. Chuck knows his—how could he not, given his circumstances? Charisma. Rhetoric; he can convince anyone of anything, nearly, given a wide enough time frame and a few glasses of champagne. Aesthetic eye. Influence. Money. Ability to seduce, that last being, for the most part, his ace in the hole. He is, after all, Chuck Bass, and that alone is enough to get almost anyone into his bed.
The operative word here being almost.
It's ironic—the one person whose presence he actually wants there is the one person he can't seem to nail down. No matter how many nights he spends drinking in Chuck's room, no matter how many joints they smoke together—Chuck just can't seem to get a hold on him.
It's ten at night on a Saturday, and Chuck is mixing himself a drink, wondering if maybe he should just nip this in the bud. After all, it's not like this night will be different.
There's a common misconception among Chuck's peers, particularly those at St. Jude's and Constance Billiard, that Chuck Bass is as confident as he outwardly seems. He's not. Knowing one's strengths doesn't necessarily translate to self-confidence or confidence of any other type, and the fact of the matter is that Chuck is unused to being told he's worthy—he's used to trying so, so hard to prove himself, giving his everything and having it ignored. From his father, he's used to brush-offs and dismissive hand-waves; from the girls (and boys) he fucks, he's used to being treated as though he's made of money and not much else. He doesn't have to try in school, because he knows it's not his merit that got him there anyway, and no one would believe him if he tried to tell them that he is, in fact, intelligent.
Fact: Chuck Bass took the SATs in his sophomore year of high school for no other reason than to prove that he could.
Fact: He scored a 2400.
It doesn't matter, though, because the Bass men don't need SAT scores or ACT scores or grades. They just need business sense and smooth talking. Chuck has both of those—the only difficulty is getting anyone to see it.
***
There are a grand total of two people in the world whose opinions are of importance to Chuck—those people are his father and Nate Archibald.
In particularly depressive moments, Chuck wonders if the former will ever acknowledge him aside from chastisement and idle conversation. His father finds it… difficult, to say the least, to admit that Chuck is more than a high-living connoisseur of sex and alcohol—it's easy for Bart to think the worst of him, which is a conclusion that Chuck will admit that his behavior forces his father to draw. But that doesn't excuse it, not really, not when all that Chuck has ever wanted, for his entire life, has been his father's attention.
The latter—Nate—has been his friend since they were toddlers, his best friend since elementary school, and the object of his desire since puberty. This doesn't surprise Chuck much, considering; Nate is beautiful. He always has been, and while Chuck considers himself to be more than just a "connoisseur of sex and alcohol", he also knows that he can appreciate the human figure. He knows beautiful things—knows them well, in fact, and frequently has them spread out across his bedsheets. And yes, Nathaniel Archibald is beautiful.
It's the love that surprises him.
Falling in love with anyone had never, ever been part of the Chuck Bass game plan. He was going to graduate, follow in his father's footsteps and take over the family company, make everyone around him proud with his cunning sense and ability to negotiate. He would marry out of convenience, in a match that benefitted both parties, and have the standard 2.5 children, white picket fence, healthy 401K. Nate Archibald had never been a part of that, at least not in any capacity outside of "'best friend".
Except.
Except that Nate had rested his head on Chuck's thigh and looked up at him, laughing, through a marijuana-induced euphoric haze, and Chuck had fallen in love. It hadn't been anything special, just a flutter somewhere between his chest and his stomach, a tightening of his smile, the sudden and uncontrollable urge to run his fingers through Nate's hair—nothing special, though, no fireworks or angels' trumpets. Just a sudden knowledge, a sudden realization.
And this is how it's been ever since. Status quo.
***
11:30pm
It's nearly midnight, and Nate is sitting on the balcony of suite 1812, legs dangling between the bars and a cigarette in his hand. He never smokes cigarettes, not unless there's something weighing heavy on his mind—Blair, most likely. That's all it ever is these days. Nate spends most of his nights sleeping on Chuck's couch, but it's rare that he expresses this kind of desire to stay in and do nothing.
"Care for a drink, Nathaniel?" Chuck asks, leaning against the doorway and watching the way the New York glow flickers across Nate's skin.
It takes a second for Nate to answer, which only serves to prove to Chuck that there's more at work here than just wanting to have a good time. "Probably shouldn't," he said, but Chuck pours him one anyway, because even if Nate doesn't know that he needs it, Chuck does. And Nate accepts it when he hands it over, so maybe the argument was moot, regardless.
"So talk," Chuck suggests, leaning against the railing and looking down at Nate, and sighs when Nate just shakes his head. "Is it Blair again?"
The magic b-word, the one that never fails to get a rise out of Nate. "Isn't it always?" he asks, taking a drag on his cigarette (now mostly ash). "I just don't know what's up with her lately. I can't keep doing this hot-and-cold thing, you know?"
Oh, yeah. Chuck knows.
***
Chuck is extremely familiar with the hot-and-cold game. He knows it well, because it's the same routine he's been getting from Nate—pushed aside and picked back up on a whim, whenever the girlfriend gives him enough leash to get some breathing room. It's not really something that Chuck resents; he'd rather be dropped and picked up again than pushed aside permanently, and so he doesn't complain. Much.
It doesn't stop him from sleeping with Blair after the breakup.
Contrary to what he's made evident to Blair, he didn't do it out of feelings for her (though he does consider Blair to be his friend, or did, once). He did it out of misplaced bitterness towards Nate, and a certain curiosity—What is it about this girl that's worth pushing me away? And what he'd found was nothing. Blair was beautiful, but she was childish and immature, and Chuck couldn't understand what it was about her that made Nate so crazy.
Why can't I be that for him?
It's such a stupid thought.
***
11:48pm
"Maybe you should forget about her," Chuck says, and tries to keep the heaviness out of his voice. Nate isn't here for his internal monologue and personal angst. "Girls always want what they can't have—if she thinks she can't have you, she'll be back before you know it."
This is the kind of shit he wishes he knew better than to say to Nate.
Nate laughs, and the sound is soft and bitter and nearly breaks Chuck's heart. It's stupid and sappy and all of the things Chuck never wanted to be, but he finds himself irritated, a little hurt by the fact that he can't protect Nate from that kind of injury—the kind that Blair Waldorf doles out in spades through pretty lips, with pointed words and frigid smiles. The kind that Chuck can't buy away with any amount of money, or talk away with any amount of smooth words, or write away with his father's influence.
"If I lose her, I have nothing left," Nate says quietly, the last of his cigarette sailing off the balcony and into the night. "Dad's in rehab, Mom's just not all here…"
In an unprecedented and likely never-to-be-repeated gesture, Chuck sinks down onto the balcony beside Nate, settling on the cement and resting his head against the cool metal bars. "That's not true, Nathaniel," he says, and it's probably the most honest thing he's ever said to Nate. "You'd still have me."
***
Once, when Chuck and Nate were thirteen, they'd spent a long time in the walk-in closet at Chuck's father's house, pressed into a corner with their arms around each other, and they'd kissed for what felt like ages, lips sliding messy and slick against each others' and fingers tangling in each others' hair. It had been nervous and awkward and experimental, because they were kids and neither of them really knew what they wanted.
But it had been good. And the next day, Nate had smiled at him like they had a secret, and Chuck wanted to keep that expression forever.
***
11:58pm
The thing about Nate Archibald is that he's beautiful, and even though Chuck knows that, it never stops taking him by surprise. Because Nate is beautiful in a totally unassuming way—beauty that knows nothing of its effect, totally haphazard and unplanned in every way. It's all in the little things, the way that Nate's hair always looks like he just rolled out of bed like that (usually because he did), the way his nose is a little crooked from when Tommy Milton broke it with a kickball in fifth grade.
Chuck knows a lot of gorgeous people, but Nate is more beautiful than any of them.
In the now, Nate looks up at him through messy fringe and says, "Yeah, I guess I would, wouldn't I?" And Chuck knows it's not a real question, because he's always been there. Ever since they became friends, Chuck has been there.
It's like the most natural thing in the world when they kiss, like magnets with opposing charges coming together. And maybe it is natural—maybe they've been living their lives as vectors, parallel, never intersecting, and now—now, with this change in variables, they're finally being forced together. It's gentler, more hesitant than anything Chuck has ever done; he's used to rushing through these things and coming out bitten and bruised but utterly sated. With Nate, he knows it will be different.
They kiss for a long time, no thirteen-year-old explorations or hurried presses of lips in the secrecy of a closet. Here, now, it's brilliant—perfect, even if it is unfamiliar territory, even if this is teetering on the edge of everything Chuck's ever wanted and everything that he's terrified to lose.
"We shouldn't," Nate says against Chuck's mouth, but his hands are telling a different story, long fingers sliding through Chuck's hair and settling against the curve of his shoulder. "Blair—"
"Is not a part of this equation," Chuck replies, and that's the last either of them have to say on the matter.
It takes them a while, but they make it to Chuck's bed in a flurry of discarded clothing and fluttering touches. Chuck is an old hand at this—he used to do it frequently—but it's clear that Nate is uncertain, and probably with good reason, and Chuck, for once, won't press the matter. "Do you—?" he asks, and means Do you want to?
"I've, um," Nate says, and means I've never done this before.
"Trust me, Nathaniel, when I say that I've worked it all out."
And he has. From the removal of the last of their clothing, to little noise Nate makes when Chuck starts to stretch himself open—he's imagined these things a thousand times over without ever expecting them to be real. And now they are, and he won't fuck this up. Not for anything.
As far as sex goes, theirs is awkward and unspectacular and messy, and it's the best Chuck's ever had. It feels good, sure—fantastic even—but mostly it's Nate below him, looking up with this expression that's somewhere between want and wonder, his eyes wide and holding more light than Chuck thought possible. And the way it only takes him a few minutes to loosen up, to let his hands fall to Chuck's hips and shift, pressing up, their bodies moving against each other in a rhythm both familiar and totally alien.
This is good. This is like every teenaged sex dream fantasy Chuck has ever had, brought to life and made flesh below him.
***
Chuck Bass is a lot of things, but 'committed' has never been among the adjectives ascribed to him. And there are a lot of things he could blame for that, for his inability to settle down, for his fear at the idea of dedication and the way he shies away from responsibility (unless it's responsibility he takes upon himself)—he could blame his father for never loving him enough, his mother for leaving. Society, for telling him that he doesn't need to be more than a playboy if at least he can do that prettily. His conquests, for letting him do what he does.
In a moment of dizziness and euphoria, hips rolling down against Nate's, Chuck thinks that maybe that could change. If it meant that sex would always be like this, like coming home instead of like staking a claim—if it meant that Nate would be there, with his blueblueblue eyes and boyish grin and messy hair and his puppy-dog loyalty—if that's what dedication means, Chuck can do that.
He wants to do that.
***
12:46am
Nate moves his hand, tentatively, and wraps long fingers around Chuck's dick; surprised, Chuck throws his head back, moans, and makes a mess of Nate's stomach. A few seconds, and then Nate shudders against him, fingers clenching spasmodically on Chuck's hips as he comes.
Shuddering through the aftershocks, Chuck lets his hips roll once, twice more as Nate softens out of him, then slumps over to the side, ignoring the way the sheets stick to his sweat-slick skin. As the post-orgasmic rush fades, a new feeling dawns—fear, that maybe now, out of the heat of the moment, Nate will realize that this isn't what he wanted. That Chuck was a rebound lay, that he wants to get back together with Blair. That they're going to pretend this was all just—
A dream.
Nate rolls onto his side and looks at Chuck, hair plastered to his face but still somehow gorgeous. "That," he begins, and then cuts himself off, biting his lip.
"Was," Chuck supplies.
"That was…" Nate looks half-dazed and uncertain, which is more or less how Chuck feels. "Interesting. Good. New."
"Two out of three isn't bad." Chuck can't help it—he jokes to lighten up awkward situations. And this, this is the mother of awkward situations. But it works, half-baked as it is; Nate cracks a smile, laughs softly and relaxes into the pillows just a little.
"I just don't know what that… means," he says after a long moment of silence. "I still love Blair, but—"
"Hush, Nathaniel." This isn't a conversation that they should be having as pillow talk, and so Chuck reaches out and presses a hand over Nate's mouth, cutting off his words. "We'll figure it out tomorrow. For now, sleep."
And as they curl up together, Nate's arm heavy and warm across Chuck's waist, Chuck can't help but think: If he can have this, this one night, the memory of how Nate felt—maybe he'll tell Nate that he can bless it when Nate and Blair get back together. That maybe he can give Nate up, if he can have this.
But he knows—and this is his last thought as he drifts off to sleep—he knows that would be lying.
***
i don't know what you've done to me,
but i know this much is true:
i wanna do bad things with you
i wanna do real bad things with you.
— Jace Everett, Bad Things.