Golden curls cascade in a tumultuous fashion, framing the tear-stained cheeks that peek out from between tendrils of the long mane that is the envy of so many. Knees are drawn to her chest, sobs echoing against her kneecaps – muffled by her hands that attempt to suppress the sounds of her raging agony. Body shudders as she gasps, catching her breath before leaning back against the wall. Glistening eyes cast a forlorn gaze to the sea – peaceful, serenely whispering to her on the gentle summer's breeze. Navy hued eyes glance down to the sand that unfolds from the back porch, extending far beyond her comprehension. A full moon, brilliant and bright, directs her gaze with pallid beams that dance across the dunes. She sniffles, trying to find a sense of calm.

He is not worth her tears.

He is nothing but a pauper – a façade – a fraud.

Perched atop the windowseat, she extends her long, toned legs (such beauty that emanates from every pore – perfection at its finest) before her, feeling her bare toes press and pry against the window screen. Pressure, she winces before she hears the -click- of victory as the screen wobbles, then topples lifelessly to the sandy backyard, two stories below her. Precariously perching herself upon the sill, she then, so delicately, dances out from the window – onto the flattened roof beyond.

It is then that he slips into her room;

just in time to see the graceful nymph's waltz.

Dark gaze watches her, body moving to the window. He is captivated, caught breathless as he observes. Serena van der Woodsen arabesques, putting on a show for the moonlight – and her observer. Forgotten is Blair; forgotten is the forsaken love. Forgotten, neglected are his emotions – the fear, the pain, the angst. He sees beauty, beauty unfolding before him. Tears stain her porcelain skin, tainting each cheek – trails of sorrow (the memories – the anguish she feels!) that pour the emotion from within her heart. She is misery, she is mourning – she is beautiful.

He cannot move – he is riveted, possessed, transfixed.

Unaware of his watchful eyes, she continues to move. Her window, forgotten – as are the limits of human nature also cast aside. Instead, she lets nature possess her as she dances to a song within her mind, within her heart. Arms rise over her head she spins, pivoting on her right foot as she extends her left before her body. Nimble, she leaps from the roof to its edge, toes curling over the peak as she maintains perfect balance. She sways, then finds her feet as she leaps once more, dancing.

She is humming to herself, mourning her loss, mourning her pathetic pauper.
Then her eyes open – she gasps and sees him.

Mouth forms an 'o' of surprised as navy eyes widen, pallid moonlight illuminating them, expressing her shock. "Chuck," she breathes softly, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "What are you doing here?" she asks, tone switching to that of accusatory – realizing he should not be in her bedroom. Though he might have heard her dancing on the roof above his head, he need not intrude. "Go to bed," she pleads softly, brushing tears from her cheeks (though she cannot hide her sorrow from him, for it is too late) as she cowers, lingering near the roof's edge once more.

Should she move too close, he'd surely see her swollen eyes, her shame and guilt and hollow gaze of misery.

Steadily he stares, watching her. His eyes fade from their glossy entrancement, enchanted by her. He counters her question by pointing accusingly beyond the windowpanes. "You're dancing on my bed," he murmurs softly, "I'd much rather you dance within the sheets than on the roof above me." He notes her scowl, that fades to a mournful grimace. Exhaling, he slips onto the window seat and sits upon the sill; one foot on the roof, one within her room upon the seat to steady himself. "Serena," he whispers to her, voice fading on the gentle breeze that caresses them both. "You are much too beautiful to mourn over one pathetic ounce of Brooklyn trash." His tone is both gentle and chastising – both caring and apathetic. How he can balance the two, she'll never know.

Mystery and confusion – her two greatest friends as of late.
She wonders, wonders why he lingers so near to her – why does he care?

"I loved him," she whispers, voice breaking at the ending she places upon the word 'love.' She knows in her heart that she loves him, even now. But the past tense, the fixation of being incapable of having him, it shatters her heart, her being, her true entity. What is she without love? She is nothing – she is broken, she is fading, disappearing, sinking. Lower lip quivers, voice faltering as she tries to continue. "It hurts, you know," she says softly as she approaches him, no longer afraid. She will not shatter at the touch of the devil – the nymph welcomes him to disrupt her dance. Delicate hand extends, fingers tracing along his knuckles a moment as she exhales, a sad sigh leaving her lips. Expression of confusion flees from her pleading eyes, studying his a moment. "You do know," she adds softly, empathy now flooding her gaze as well.

He nods, silent as his thoughts prevail. Her touch is warm, alluring. He shakes his head though – she is Serena. She is beauty, perfection – his step-sister. She is Blair's best friend, she is everything he could never have. Teeth sink into his lower lip as he considers, shrugging – as though it is nothing (though they both know his heart is bruising, breaking). "It's fine S," he responds, attempting to sound nonchalant. But his words are not strong, not convincing. "I worry about you," he admits softly, glancing into her eyes. "You are too good for him."

Silence falls between them – the devil and the golden haired angel – mourning their losses in company.