The third time Blair Waldorf kisses Chuck Bass, Nate finds out when the masses do, and his world crashes down in a fury. It's the first time he can ever remember being thankful for Gossip Girl, and it's more than just a kiss, and it leaves him with more than just a vague unsettling motion he can push down and store away. Nate can feel his anger seethe and ricochet around his body in search of a suitable outlet—bang, bang, bang.

He really should have seen this coming, and, in retrospect, he feels a kind of unplaced pull of responsibility for having not anticipated it, like he could have headed this massive collapse of the world as he knows it, if he'd thought about it, and if he'd tried. And the thing is, he could have. He really could have stopped it.

But maybe it would be worse if he'd seen it (the way that Jenny saw it, but at least Jenny had a conscience enough to tell him, at least Jenny cared), a sharp and distinct cloud of betrayal looming in plain view of each secret smile they shared, each inside joke, each smirk that sailed right over his head like tenth grade Algebra. Because they had more in common with each other in a pinky finger than Nate does in his entire body, even if he unraveled every single genome, each microscopically thin slice of DNA stretched across Manhattan for everyone to see.

And maybe it's because Nate never understood the nuances of being mean, the strange underlying satisfaction in kicking someone who's already down. Nate never understood Chuck and Blair together, or even Chuck and Blair alone, but he suddenly and very clearly understands that you don't need to understand someone to love them, or to understand that there are some things that just can't be forgiven, no matter how hard you try.

Nate knows that there's a lot he understands but won't ever fully wrap his head around, stores of information he'll never fully grasp. Like why this had to happen to him, and why today of all days is the day that his life had to fall apart. He knows he's being hypocritical. He just can't bring himself to care.

Except, life doesn't happen on schedule, as planned, and on time. But it happened today, and that means today Nate knows he has to go kick the living shit out of Chuck Bass.

No number of years of friendship can overshadow having an affair with your best friend's girlfriend—"Three things I care about, money, pleasure and you," his cigar-smoking ass. If Chuck didn't give a shit about him, well then Nate certainly didn't give a rat's flying fuck about Chuck. Same for Blair. He could feel a headache coming on, the way they used to when he played soccer in elementary school, and someone fouled him. It's funny how nothing ever really changes.

The worst bit, he thinks, is that it's a package deal. Chuck and Blair. The best friend and the boyfriend. This kind of thing isn't actually supposed to happen to people, and if to people, then certainly not to him. He's Nate Archibald, for God's sake. He's supposed to get this blessed sort of disconnect from situations like this, an "Oh, that's too bad," moment. Except then you change the channel, and it's the Blackhawks at Detroit, and holy shit, that was checking from behind, and wait, aren't they gonna fight this one out?

Nate briefly thinks that maybe this is how Blair felt when he told her about Serena, which causes him to wonder if Serena knew about this, her dizzying smiles, and blonde hair and winter scarves. He steadies himself on the brick wall outside St. Jude's (Where is Chuck? Where is he?) and discards these thoughts systematically from his brain. This isn't about Serena, it's about Blair. And Chuck. It's about Chuck, mostly.

And he spots Chuck, Chuck and his limo both. His throat tightens dangerously The crowd on the sidewalk disappears. Nate can feel nothing but his pounding blood and the long-forgotten instinct to fight. He takes a slow, deep breath, and, for the first time in a long time, his life seems real. Chuck glances up at him, and something deep inside Nate's chest snaps. And then—suddenly—he's really doing it, and he has Chuck pinned up against the trunk—the crowd is cheering—and the blessed adrenaline boils over and leaks down through his toes and out into the crisp winter air. All systems go.


A/N: Hi if you're still reading :)