Grand Romantic Gestures
Chapter Eight – Part Two
There were few lights on in the Brooklyn building, some gallery lighting on the upper floor and a couple tables in the cafeteria. Bedford Galleries was closed but Eric knew he'd find Damien there, checking lighting, studying dimensions, making sure that every single inch of the gallery embodied his vision. There were no more paintings to hang or sculptures to situate; the work was now in the details. Eric almost turned around at the thought. Damien would surely be too busy to deal with him but who else could he talk to? Bart had sworn him to secrecy thereby nullifying his entire family. So he put his hand to the glass door, a shocking realization hitting him as he opened it; He believed in Damien enough to confide in him, to trust him with something of this magnitude. That must mean something.
Eric found him in the first room, two coffee cups dividing his boyfriend and a tall brunette. She was an older woman, long cream skirt offset by a feather top, thick platinum hair undone and blending into her pale face. They were deep in talk and once he'd taken a few steps into the room he understood why. Damien was discussing his work, middle aged woman taking notes in time. There were several of requests for interviews now and Eric wasn't surprised to know Damien had rescheduled one when his presence was no longer required at Eleanor's wake. Eric stood awkwardly three steps from the doorway. Damien kept talking and Eric considered withdrawing, but then the Brit caught sight of him and his expression changed. There was no relaxation, no bemused chatter, the older boy's face became as worried as Eric's own must be. "Mr. Allenby," The reporter tried to attract the artist's attention back, disproving glance at the younger interloper.
"Excuse me," Damien pushed past her. He came right to Eric's side before asking. "Are you okay?"
Eric didn't know how to respond. He gave a look to the reporter and it was enough. She was dismissed, even after her complaint of not enough material Damien compelled her out the door and locked it behind. "You're better tell me what has you so pale."
"I nearly killed my brother."
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The Waldorf penthouse was starting to thin, crowds of people traded for closer friends. Lily manoeuvred through the room to stand by the buffet, empty champagne glass dangling from her newly manicured nails. A hand moved to refill it and Lily didn't need to turn to know it wasn't one of the hired servers. "You shouldn't be talking to me," Lily chastised but held her empty glass anyway.
"Where is Bart?" Rufus asked and Lily was horrified to realize that despite the context, her own stomach jumped at the intonation.
"He's tending to our family," Lily emphasized for her own protection.
"You haven't tired of playing house?"
Lily didn't want to stare at him but how could she not? How dare he make such an assumption? "Good night Rufus," Lily put the untouched glass beside the melting ice sculpture. She could feel his eyes as she walked away, but she wasn't melting under the heat.
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The first thing he felt was the tiny pinprick in his hand, the second was the slow coldness that spread from that point outward. He knew immediately that he was in the hospital, that realization followed by beeping noises, strange voices, and the scent of cleanliness without perfume. He could feel the rough sheets wrapped tightly to his body, the pillow sagging beneath his head and knew he was the patient. For the briefest of moments he felt a paralyzing wave of disappointment. It terrified him enough to force his eyes open. The blinding neon washed his mind of any thoughts, temporarily blinded his senses before exchanging itself for circles of light and stillness.
His stomach shot through with pain, his sides aching beyond their physical place. He knew what they'd done, the memory might have been four years old but he could still remember what it felt like to have one's stomach pumped. He put hand to his abdomen, grimace of pain contorting his features. "Are you alright?" Someone asked and the reality of who the voice belonged to chased the pain away under a new concern. His father was here. His father was sitting right beside him. It must have been truly bad for Eric to have done that to him.
"I'm fine," Chuck lied. He forced his face neutral and his hand back to the side. He kept his eyes at the neon, floating white circles preferable to whatever expression his father might hold. He waited for the chastisement, anxiety rising with every moment that passed. That last time his father had launched into a screaming fit that had resulted in a new obstetric wing and a flight across country.
Chuck didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until his father asked the question. "Why did you do it?" Then he turned to his father in astonishment. The opening wasn't much different from last time but the manner of delivery was. Bart had used a soft tone.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean...did you try to..."
Chuck suddenly realized just what his father was alluding to. "I was trying to calm down." He spat out in disgust and it was Bart's turn to release his breath.
The nurse appeared shortly after, chasing his father away and bringing in his place a portly doctor with thick glasses.
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Eric didn't mean it literally; he just couldn't reconcile himself with the fact that he'd been the one to let Chuck drink. Eric had never seen himself as the enabling type but he'd folded so easily. The truth was that his decision had probably saved Chuck's life. Eric had chosen a controlled location under his watchful eye. Still when his brother sunk straight down into his seat he couldn't help but feel partially responsible for it.
"If I've learned anything," Damien pressed a cup of chamomile tea into his boyfriend's hands. "It's that there are no easy choices.'
"What did you do?"
"A little bit of everything. Some things worked, other didn't, some things worked for a time but in the end I had to learn a simple lesson. You can't save someone who doesn't want to save themselves."
"But Chuck's been trying."
"Then he'll figure it out on his own." Damien assured him.
"Do you talk to you brother?"
"I try not to."
"Why?"
Damien shrugged his shoulders, jaw clenching briefly before he put the feeling to words. "Because I could easily spend my entire life trying to fix his."
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Bart had developed an intense dislike for that small cupboard of a room. He'd sat at his son's bedside for three hours with strict orders to not disturb his sleep. They'd have sedated Chuck but sedation was half of the puzzle that'd ended him there. It'd hardly be appropriate. Then, shortly after Chuck had awoken, the nurses had ushered Bart back to that cupboard. They wanted to evaluate his son individually and so Bart sat and contemplated. He wondered how large the cover up would be this time (obviously huge), whether he should confide in Lily (he was leaning heavily towards no), whether Eric was trustworthy (he had few doubts on that) but most importantly what his son had truly been thinking.
"Mr. Bass," That unapproachable nurse returned; the blonde with the horrid bedside manner. He was developing an intense dislike for her as well.
"What did the doctor decide?"
"Dr. Brown has no fixed opinion," The doctor arched her brow and Bart noticed the wrinkles form.
"What does that mean?"
"He got only five questions in before your son suggested the doctor trying mixing twenty pills with a full bottle of scotch." The blonde shifted her paperwork. "The doctor proceeded with question six after and your son's reply was...well...it wouldn't be polite to repeat it."
Bart tried not to smile, he truly did but, well, it was just so much his son. "Are we done then?"
"No. Your son has agreed to have his own psychiatrist do the consult."
"His psychiatrist?"
"Doctor William Sherman," She read the name off the chart and Bart was dumbfounded. "He'll be arriving any moment. I'll call you when they've finished."
Bart crossed his arms and employed the glare that had garnered him an empire. "No. I've played by your rules but I'm not waiting anymore." He didn't wait for the doctor to refute him; he paused only long enough to draft a quick text and then returned to his son's side.
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Blair pulled the pins from her hair, let the tightly coiled bun fall into waves around her diminutive shoulders. Her eyes were red, her tears sparked more than once that day. She tried to rub them back to a neutral white, realizing halfway through that it was a dimwitted exercise. She could hear the door open and knew Serena had entrapped her at last. "Don't bother saying it," Blair told the mirror before she caught the blonde locks in it.
"You should..."
"I already know it was the wrong thing." Blair ran a brush through her chestnut hair as she spoke. "I don't even know why I was that angry."
Maybe because your mother just died Serena knew but also knew enough not to say it. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"
Blair rolled her eyes into the mirror, giving a pull at her waves with her thickest brush. "He was there after everything," Blair admitted. "He was...so....un-Chuck-like!" Blair stared back at her friend through the mirror, hoping that would be enough. The blonde remained silent. "He was...comforting. He convinced me to go to the hospital." Blair could feel the tears prick again and blamed them on the emotions of the day. She'd cried enough over that liar. "He promised me he'd come back the next morning," Blair's tone turned sharper. "And he didn't. I mean it's not like I truly expected him to," she tried to cover up the truth but her tears undid it.
"He might have been," Serena advised her. "His life has been pretty erratic as of late."
Blair gave a laugh until she realized just how serious her friend truly was. Serena was not the type to make excuses for Chuck.
"My mother is cheating on his father."
Blair shut her eyes at the thought, brush going back to the dressing table. "I'm sorry Serena."
"Like you said," Serena's smile turned lopsided. "It's all about expectations."
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Chuck was already talking with Doctor Sherman when his father arrived, the thin rail of a psychiatrist occupying the chair closest to his son, writing notes in his booklet. The doctor eyed Bart warningly as he entered and Bart responded by not bothering to reintroduce himself. He had a lot of questions to put to the man but he contented himself with crossing his arms instead, back held straight as a rail and ears keen to pick up every word of the conversation.
"There are several treatment facilities..."
"I'm not interested in that," Chuck cut the doctor off.
"You should consider..."
"I'm not going to rehab."
"I brought the pamphlet for one in Boston..."
"What else is there?" Chuck was a forceful enough that Sherman dropped that tangent.
"You're still scoring extremely high in several areas of our screen," Sherman admitted with a timed look at his father, another light suggestion that the older man leave the room.
"And?"
"I'd like to try something else." Sherman made a few notes on the file.
"No more of that valium shit," Chuck ordered, rubbing absently at his eyes.
"I'd like to try you on a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor medication."
"What the fuck is that?" Chuck drawled but his father had him beat. Bart knew exactly what that meant.
"You think my son is depressed?"
"They are traditionally called antidepressants," Sherman admitted. "But they're often used for treatment of anxiety and other mental disorders."
"I have a mental disorder now?" Chuck rolled his eyes and sat back into the bed. Life was so much simpler when he was just a run of the mill alcoholic.
"You're not putting my son on any of those things," Bart announced with firm finality.
"That's not really your choice to make." Sherman reminded Bart.
"They're dangerous!"
"So is withdrawal," Sherman explained.
"He just needs to stop drinking!"
"You son has been abusing alcohol for nearly a decade."
"He's only eighteen now!" Bart corrected, crossing his arms angrily across the chest. "He'd have to have been drinking since he was eight!" He tightened his arms until he realized the doctor wasn't correcting himself. He turned to his son and saw the truth. "Since you were eight?" Bart asked in astonishment.
"Nine," Chuck admitted with a feeble voice and his father was finally shocked to silence.
"Considering the length of his addiction and its presence in his developing years, there is no predicting how his body will respond to full withdrawal. If you then consider the history of mental disorder in the family."
Bart took a deep breath at that little reminder. "How about a family history of adverse reaction to antidepressants?" Bart crossed his arms tightly again.
"If there is a history then we would have to take care to educate Chuck as to the potential side effects."
Chuck shut his eyes and let the older men argue over him. "If!" Bart's face went a darker red. "My wife would still be alive if it wasn't for your stupid medications." That proclamation made the son open his eyes again.
"I can understand your feelings," Sherman tried to placate his enraged father. He didn't have much of a chance. "You must also understand that antidepressants can be very helpful," Sherman contradicted. "Many thousand people are helped every year through the use of medication in accompaniment with cognitive therapy."
"You're not putting my son on that shit!" Bart insisted.
"Chuck may see the situation differently."
"I'm an adult right?" Chuck finally broke. "I get to make the choices?" He waited until the arguing stopped, until they both waited to hear his wishes. "I don't want a damn thing."
"Chuck," The doctor tried again. "You should reconsider."
"Nothing, not a thing."
Sherman nodded his head but it wasn't in pleasure. The doctor had put his best arguments forward and was still defeated, so he did the only thing a doctor could, he wrote discharged against the advice of his physician and let things be.
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Eric let his fingers trail along the rim of his now empty cup, other hand intertwined with the boy across. He genuinely felt better. "I just don't understand Bart. I mean can he actually do that? Cover everything up?"
"With the right power anything is possible," Damien propped his foot on the bar stool, knowing expression on his face.
"I just did think that Bart Bass would be so," Eric struggled for the word. "Permissive."
"Do you really think your stepbrother would have got that bad if his dad was rigid?" Damien pushed his foot higher.
"He's always pushing a certain standard, and he's so quick to reprimand. I mean in business he's ruthless."
"Enablers come in all shapes," Damien ran his hand down the counter. "My mother used to scream at Tom too, yell and rant, ground him for weeks until he finally just moved out. It didn't stop her from giving him money or stepping in to save him when he got too close to bottom."
"I just..."
"I used to do it too," Damien admitted. "It's easy to judge the situation, but it's far more difficult to live in it. When you love someone it creates a whole new level of confusion."
Eric nodded his head as his phone vibrated. He grabbed it from the table and pushed a button to receive his stepfather's text.
Charles is awake now. He'll be discharged soon.
Damien handed him his jacket before his boyfriend needed to say anything.
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Eric sat silently through the ride home, watching the streetlights reflect through the tinted glass, chancing only the briefest glances at his older brother. Chuck sat on the side bench, white shirt still untucked and hanging over his mourning pants, suit jacket unbuttoned and throw hastily over. His brother's face had dimmed to a deeper grey, eyes staring blankly out the opposite window.
Something just wasn't right. There was no thank you, not even the pretence of discussion. There was no conversation at all. The only time Chuck spoke was when he thrust his wrist forward to expose his hospital band. "Can you cut this off," He asked his father and without a single comment, Bart did just that. He fished through a side compartment until he found a Swiss army knife, pocketing the bracelet as soon as it was free.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Later, his mother would ask Eric where he'd been all day. He'd explain that Chuck had a problem: no elaboration or detail divulged. Lily, who'd seen Blair's rant, would think she understood. Bart would nod and offer the same. Chuck would sleep for most of the next two days and they'd feign innocence as to the reason.
Eric would learn that favouring the Bass side meant being complacent in the deception.
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The first thing Chuck did upon arriving home, before changing out of his bedraggled suit or even combing his hair, was to fish through the bathroom cabinets until he found the two prescription bottles. He'd arrived at a succinct conclusion the moment he awoke; Chuck Bass could never write his happily ever after. He could pretend, plan, plot and hope but in the end he'd still be nothing more than what he always was. So he uncapped each bottle, tossing the remnants of some fairytale dream into the open toilet. Some people were meant for sober living, to be reliable, dependable and consistent. It was obvious now that he wasn't that type and playing at it had nearly killed him. He pushed the handle and watched his aspirations swirl to final doom.
At least his liver wouldn't fail for another decade or two.
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A/N – Anyone want the return of textbook Chuck? A very special visitor is about to put EmoChuck to death :)
Modernmyth – thanks :)
Bluestriker – thanks :)
Sky Samuelle – I think I usually have Harold prefer C in my mind but right now he's on side Blair
Grantingtroyturner – Yeah, at least Bart is improving in his responses
Puresimplicity – I think Bart has changed a lot through these three stories. Of course I had started TH before his personality was fixed as a total SOB so I had more room to work with. Then he's been pushed and pulled right along with Chuck. I'll include the Dan/AJAX at some point I promise.
:D – thanks
CBEBTRtrory12 – feel free to bash Chuck all you want. He deserves it all. You're absolutely right, he keeps making bad choices.
BlackLace – I think this Bart is a lot different from the show. I explained why in the comment to Puresimplicity.
MidnightSky – thanks :)
Up Next – Finally we've got to Damien's opening. (It seems like it's been a week away for months). The next chapter opens with a letter.