Wires

by nl7

"They were the same hard liquor, burning down your throat and to your core and to your brain." When Blair walks back into Chuck's life, the world comes to a screeching halt. Games will be played, tempers will be tested, thirsts will be quenched, and two sparks will go up in flames. AU, Chuck and Blair at boarding school.

17. Catastrophes of the Human Heart

Chapter Seventeen: Catastrophes of the Human Heart

Love, hunt me down.

I can't stand to be so dead behind the eyes.

And feed me, spark me up;

A creature in my blood stream chews me up,

So I can feel something.

- Touch by Daughter

:::

They say that a wood is the best keeper of secrets. Old with age, rustled by storms, tired and teeming with stories. The people come, the air changes, but the woods never do; black trunks lean as branches curl and prick for strands of hair, for fingerprints, for anything at all that will leave the past behind.

There are whispers carried on by the wind, tragedies carved into the trees, and blood. Blood on their leaves.

In 1983, a group of troubled boys from the next town over burnt a shiny red Corvette to a crisp for fun, killing the two Briar students who were staring at the stars from inside almost instantly. In 2000, a professor went in search of a nice place to read alongside the Paramore Fields and found the quiet bottom of a broken well instead.

Eight years later, the woods watched again as the most calculating girl they'd ever known took one wrong step down memory lane, leaving only the tattered threads of a prim red bow behind.

And the trees wept.

The trees wept.

:::

May 30th, 2008: The Dining Hall

(ten days since the disappearance)

"It's been ten days since the disappearance of Blair Waldorf, daughter of New York City fashion mogul Eleanor Waldorf-Rose. The socialite turned reformatory student was last seen skipping out on lunch at the academy's campus on Thursday morning. Witnesses claim they heard a scream surface from the campus backwoods at the time of the disappearance but others aren't so sure. The school, a renowned haven for delinquent heirs and heiresses of Manhattan's finest, isn't exactly educating the most pristine pupils…"

"I resent that," said Diana, whose eyes were trained on the computer screen before her as she kneaded one of her heels into the dining hall's hardwood flooring.

Jenny elbowed her to hush.

"Waldorf was involved in a campus pool break-in and the near death of a fellow student early last autumn. School officials say they aren't too concerned about what seems like another good girl turned bad ditching the end of her semester. Will we find Miss Waldorf lounging in Cabo or sunbathing in Spain? Only time will tell. Stay updated on the disappearance right here, on NY 21."

Diana didn't even wait for the cheery redhead to chirp out her usual sign-off before slamming her laptop shut.

"Bitch," she murmured, just to fill the silence. "She doesn't even know Blair like we do, doesn't have a clue what any of us has been through, but because we have money…"

"Because some of us have money," Jenny whispered.

"Enough," hissed a gravelly voice over their shoulders, and the two girls turned to find that Chuck was standing behind Eric and Damien now, eyes set on where the laptop screen had just been. And even Diana had to stifle a gasp at his appearance.

Sure, Chuck Bass was always slightly inebriated and definitely high, but he was quaffed up to GQ standards at all times. Now, his smooth skin was marred with dark circles and red splotches, an angry cut ran up the side of his jaw from God knows what. His lips were cracked and bloodied, his uniform barely hung from his hunched shoulders, and his tie was untied. He rolled a pair of silver objects between his cracked and calloused fingertips again and again, a clink clink clink that was maddening.

Diana saw that they were cufflinks.

"Hey," Damien murmured, nudging Chuck's arm.

The boy didn't react. Instead, he glanced around the dining hall. Months ago, this had been their favorite meeting ground, black tabletops and sleek modern flooring that bled out into open gravel, a tangle of potted plants and trees, a spiral of marble steps down into a set of ethereal gardens and courtyards and finally to the quad. There they'd had whispered meetings and forbidden trysts: planned city trips, flasks clinked under the moonlight, a flushed Blair pressed up against ivy and roses…

Now it was the scene of her disappearance. And he wanted none of it.

It didn't help that the grounds were now littered with county cops, men with ridiculous hats and tan uniforms intent on enforcing the school's new curfews and regulations. No students out past the quad. No loitering between classes. All students in their dorms with lights off by 9pm. And absolutely no debauchery: rowdiness, smoking, drinking—

Chuck pulled a flask from his jacket with his right hand, dropped the cufflinks into his pocket and replaced them with a lighter.

Jenny stood up. "Chuck?"

But he was already headed for the balcony with his various vices in hand. The entire dining hall watched with bated breath as he stood to have a swig of his drink right beside one of the officers.

"Fuck," Damien murmured under his breath.

"Son, I'm going to need you to hand over the flask."

Chuck smirked, held the flask up in the air, then dropped it on the floor of the dining hall, sending the contents of it, a foul stench of whiskey and disobedience, flying across the room. The officer put a hand to his holster and took a step forward.

"Alright, you need to come with me."

"No, officer," Chuck spat, "what you need to do is find Blair Waldorf. You're not being paid to play babysitters in monkey suits."

"We're doing everything we can—"

Chuck slammed his hand against the wall. "Well, it's not enough."

Just as the officer reached for what seemed to be the silver glint of handcuffs, Mrs. Reginald stepped in seemingly out of nowhere with his friends in tow. The woman looked tired as she picked the flask up from the floor and put a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Chuck, that's enough," Mrs. Reginald whispered. Although he instantly shoved away from her, Chuck's stance relaxed a bit, and he blinked as if he was now realizing where he was, what he was doing. He shrunk in a way that Mrs. Reginald had never seen him do. He looked more like a small boy than the game-spitting suave Upper East Side king he portrayed himself to be.

"I've got him," she murmured to the officer, flashing her ID. "I'm his counselor. What we're seeing now is nothing more than a cry for help. Blair Waldorf is his girlfriend."

The officer sighed. "Ma'am..."

Mrs. Reginald's voice thickened. "Please."

A long silence followed. A few freshmen at a nearby table feigned chatter as they listened for the final verdict. Across the room, some seniors flicked a spoonful of raspberries at each other. Diana held her breath, Eric hung his head, and Jenny crossed her fingers against her lower back.

"Okay, alright," the officer relented. "But get him out of here."

"Gladly," Chuck murmured, shoving past the small crowd that had formed to make his way to the marble steps outside. Mrs. Reginald followed after him, a careful three steps back.

"Charles…Chuck, you have to trust me," Mrs. Reginald called out, exasperated. "Doing this is not going to get her back."

Chuck turned, the look in his eyes so cold that the woman recoiled. "You know, that's what Blair said to me before she disappeared. She told me to trust her with this, that she knew what she was doing. And now she's gone." He smirked again, but the expression held no amusement. "So, excuse me if I don't believe you."

Mrs. Reginald reached for him again, but he was already ducking down the steps, storming off into the woods and out of view from the rest of the school, leaving behind only the tears in his eyes, heavy and blinding, that were now reflected in her own.

:::

"You do know that a red mark on your record isn't decorative—don't you, Bass? But then again, please do get suspended. I might finally find some inner peace."

Chuck was going to throw up. He was sprawled out in their shed, a makeshift hideaway, nauseated by the lingering scent of Blair's perfume combined with the stench of cigarette smoke hugging his clothing. Legs stretched out across the dusty floor, he shoved his suit jacket from his shoulders and hiccuped.

Chuck Bass, hiccuping.

Everywhere he looked, Blair was there: smirking at him from the chaise, brushing back an errant strand of his hair back, whispering to him at midnight sweet nothings and plans for world domination. (Between them, those two were really the same.) But the low howls of the wind were fucking with his head, and he'd consumed so much alcohol in the past ten days that he expected to drop dead any second. He was sure his father would love that.

Resilient Bass Rises from the Ashes after Mourning Delinquent Dead Son.

Chuck snickered, but nothing was really all that funny.

"I would care."

Chuck's heart stopped before picking up ten times the pace. He glanced around for the familiar brown curls, the pink heart-shaped little smirk, pristinely tucked away for the rare occasion she would let Chuck see that side of her, all satin entwined with lace, all sweetness dipped in sin. But it wasn't Blair at all.

It was Jenny who whispered, "I said, don't you care about getting expelled?" She then carefully shut the shed's door behind her. It had begun to rain outside, and the small blonde's hair was matted to her cheeks, her department store-bought coat was shaggier than ever, and one of her socks had slipped down a lanky leg while the other was still holding strong. She pursed her lips, fiddled with her thumbs, as if she expected him to say something.

"Little Jenny Humphrey," Chuck snarled, as if he didn't even know her, as if they were still in that gilded kingdom called the Upper East Side, and she had dared to stumble into his court. "Don't you have some flowers to sing to?"

"If you get expelled, you won't be here when she comes back," Jenny said. Her voice was so soft against the rowdy winds outside, he could barely make out what she was saying. She knelt so that they were at level with one another, and Chuck peered at her with suspicious eyes. She continued, "That is, I mean, she doesn't really have anything to come back to if you're gone, you know…We're her friends, but you…"

Jenny paused, glanced at the ground. "She loves you."

Chuck recoiled as if he'd just been slapped.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," Jenny stumbled over her words, eyes darting madly around the room. "I just feel that she does, I just…" The girl pulled something from the waist of her kilt, a pair of tiny pink ticket stubs adorned with roses on fire, topped by a French phrase in unintelligible script. She offered them to Chuck, and his hand trembled when he took them. "I found those in her purse. I saw that date, and…I put two and two together. She came home that night with a look in her eyes I've never seen, Chuck."

Jenny smiled at him. "I mean, she refused to tell me about it. Said that I should…consider buying real estate in my own business. I believe those were her exact words. But…anyone could tell that was the best night of her life."

Chuck absorbed the words, ticket stubs bending in his fists. It had been the best night of his, too.

:::

It had been a chilly Friday in February, and winter hadn't quite escaped the month yet.

From afar, the Briar dorms' windowsills seemed to be cluttered with iced-over roses and cold ivy. Chuck remembered the sound of Blair's knee-high boots crunching over frosted gravel like it was yesterday, the feel of her small fingers tightening over his, which were covering her eyes. She'd bitten her lip as he led her over to the limo parked quietly around the campus's front, murmuring that if he didn't tell her where they were going right now, she'd have him arrested for kidnapping, so help me, Bass. Arthur had turned the engine off, careful not to wake the groggy Briar weekenders during their midterm slumps.

"So this is it," Blair smirked. "The day you finally kill me."

"And deny myself the pleasure of your incessant complaining?" Chuck whispered against her ear, giving her a gentle tug into the waiting limo. He pinched her side. "Not likely."

"Bass," she'd hissed when he covered her eyes once more.

"Waldorf," he cooed back. She was just about to elbow him hard in the groin, when his hand slipped from her eyes, cradled the side of one rosy cheek, then traced down the collar of her black trench, the lacy camisole underneath. The look in his eyes was so lost, so in—

"You're stunning," Chuck whispered. "Do this with me. And if you don't enjoy it, I suppose I can endure one film of your choice tonight. You know, to compensate."

Blair rolled her eyes. "As if you didn't cry after Casablanca."

"My sinuses—"

"Oh, please," Blair had scoffed, but before she could recount the sniffles Chuck had muffled under his bowtie as Ingrid Bergman made her final departure into a sky of fog, she narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "What exactly are we doing, Bass? I swear on every Armani suit you own, if this is some sort of deranged orgy you're trying to—"

"Relax, Blair," Chuck laughed. "You're going to go into cardiac arrest." He massaged one of her tiny shoulders with his hand, which was instantly slapped away. "You'll like this."

Blair narrowed her eyes. "Any film?"

"Any film." Chuck glanced at the beauty mark on her neck. He wasn't too worried. He knew his…lover's tastes better than she cared to think, and even if she didn't find their evening favorable, he knew that they wouldn't exactly be watching the film later.

"And I get to make you that study schedule we've been discussing," Blair added, perking up.

"Waldorf," Chuck warned.

"Fine," she'd relented, arms crossed. It had been around Valentine's Day, and they'd just gotten used to this playful bickering, the smell of her hair when he'd wake with a lock of it draped across his arm, the way she now instinctively grabbed his hand when a film reached its climax. It was before the bottomless pit of almost proclamations, of woods who swallowed girls whole, leaving wounds in place of fingerprints.

But it was easy then, in that limo. And so Chuck kissed the top of her head, so carelessly that it surprised them both. Blair had glanced up, eyelashes fluttering, as she sleepily murmured, "Fine, Bass. But this better be good."

And oh, it was.

An hour later, Chuck and Blair were in the midst of some enchanted woodlands, staring up at an iron cast gate engraved with dying flowers, fairies donning top hats, wilted willows, and other sorts of ethereal madness that Blair couldn't even fathom. The way Chuck was looking at it now reminded her of the expression he'd held when he hosted the first Victor/Victrola evening of the year, the careful fascination he always held with what teetered the line between delicacy and debauchery, all that was beautiful and deranged.

Perhaps that was why he was so obsessed with what they had. Blair had bitten her lip at the thought, finding it frightening and terrible—

And absolutely wonderful.

She twined her fingers with his.

"La Belle Etrange," Chuck drawled, guiding her up a beautiful midnight carpet, all jet black dotted with galaxies inside. Blair, who had been adamant on remaining unimpressed, was now gasping and shuddering against Chuck's arm, delighting in the unbearable sensation of floating on air. Chuck grinned, toying with the ends of her curls. "The Beautiful Strange. An underground circus ensemble that specializes in the dangerous and decadent. The one thing of my father's I can actually enjoy. He collects pet projects like they're cigars. And this—" he gestured to the black velvet surrounding them, the haze of blue clouds and bubbly drinks served by men in dark suits "—is the one I wanted to share with you."

"What…" Blair trailed off. An usher, face painted half in a swirl of deep watercolor purples and blues and half dead pale, down to the lips, led them to their seats. They were seated amazingly close to the dark stage at the center of the tent they were in. The chairs were all plush and pink, littered with roses for the guests, but the rows were bordered with thorns. Blair shook her head. "How can this be real?"

"My father invested in this when I was very young. I remember sketches of long jackets and alcoholic beverages that burst into thin air, all sorts of magic that so uncharacteristically appealed to him. But I suppose he could still see my mother in all of the whims; it was something she would have loved. He had the slightest of emotion back then, thought he could salvage a bit of her by buying this. He even brought me to it, once," Chuck explained. His tone teetered on emotionless as he told the story, but Blair knew better. She reached for his hand and set it on her lap. Chuck stiffened. "But when he realized that she was truly gone, he forgot about this just as he forgot about me."

"But I still come," Chuck continued, not having to explain why. "The ensemble performs once every year, just as the season turns, every time in a new place, every time with a new theme. Only twenty guests are invited to the show."

Blair looked around. The crowd was, in fact, awfully small. Beautiful men and women sat in the chairs, draped in expensive shawls and fur coats. They toyed with icy sparklers and mingled with masked servers before the show commenced.

"Oh, Chuck…" Blair had whispered. "But this is yours."

Chuck grinned. "Like so many things you deigned to claim from me: my school, my club, my…" Heart. "This is ours now." He leaned in close to her as music began to play. "This year's performance is a rendition of La Belle et la Bête."

Beauty and the Beast.

And then the curtains widened into the fading day, the stage lifted, and the performers took their stage.

Now, sitting in the shed with Jenny Humphrey of all people, Chuck could barely stomach that look on her face. The blatant awe and joy he never imagined wrangling out of Blair Waldorf. Half-human, half-beasts lifted white rose ballerinas high into the air to the cacophony of soft ballads and clanging metal. The stars of the show fell into a momentary obsession onstage, their costumes so intricate that the beast's fur seemed to light with fire when he growled, the skirt of the beauty's dress seemed to spit doves when she twirled.

He remembered the how the fake villagers sang:

It's a wonder, how she could love a monster.

Blair had rubbed her chin against her shoulder, glanced at Chuck.

It's a wonder, how he could love at all.

His grip tightened on her hand.

And when Chuck had looked again, there had been tears streaming down the girl's cheeks, nearly sparkling in the darkness of the room. He had a hard time breathing, overwhelmed not by the beauty of the show, but of the one right beside him, how indeed she could love a boy so terrible. How his mother had done the same.

How fatal that could be.

Blair stared at the show, and Chuck—as always—stared at her.

:::

"Chuck?" Jenny murmured now, interrupting the memory. She bowed her head, ashamed. "I shouldn't have brought those. It only made you feel worse, I just wanted to make you feel that…that you really do have something to lose."

Chuck stared at her a moment, eyes empty. "You think I don't know that?"

Jenny blinked. "No, I—"

"You have no idea how this feels," Chuck growled, stumbling up to his feet. "Everyone I love leaves me. Everyone goes." His voice broke so sharply that he brought a hand to his own throat, blinked away the tears of blind rage in his eyes.

Jenny thought of suitcases on the ground outside of her Brooklyn loft, which seemed awfully far away now. She thought of her mother's hands tightening on the handles, brushing her cheek with a goodbye she still felt to this day. She knew exactly how it felt.

Jenny had no idea what possessed her to go to Chuck, but she did. She was so small, that she could barely reach an arm across his shoulders, but she still hugged him with all she had, flinching in preparation of his reaction. But instead, he folded into the girl, buckling in defeat. It was so unlike him that it broke her heart. She'd always felt for Chuck even though, really, he didn't deserve any sympathy. But, unintentionally, he'd still brought her to Damien. Indirectly, he'd given her a life.

"It's okay," Jenny tried, hugging him tight. "I'm here for you, Chuck. We…all are."

Chuck grimaced and shut his eyes. The girl could barely hold up his weight, but he didn't care because neither could he. Mothers and girlfriends the same, the wind outside howled gone, gone, gone. Brunettes with warm brown eyes blurred into a single face until Chuck closed his eyes and gagged on air.

Eventually, he fell asleep that way, head on Jenny's shoulder. And she huffed when she rolled him onto the chaise. That evening, she sat in the corner of the room to check that Chuck was breathing every so often, something Blair might have done. Bored, she began to flip through the pages of a book on one of the shelves, the most beautiful hardcover of them all: The Art of War.

She was unsurprised to find a petal inside of it, wedged between the front cover and first page, wilted and bruised.

Once belonging to a forgotten pink rose.

:::

June 1st, 2008: Undisclosed Location

(ten days since the disappearance)

In her dream, there were roses.

No, not that kind. Despite the distant memory of champagne-filled nights and mystical circus endeavors, Blair's distaste for the flower held strong. It was the color she saw everywhere, drowning the clouds, raining from the sky. Always that same hazy red: as light as romance, as deep as lust. It tinted every inch of her subconscious, where the concrete glittered like cemented diamonds and being Chuck Bass's girlfriend wasn't too hard.

Now there she was, standing in the middle of it all.

One minute, Georgina Sparks had been that close to Blair's face, holding a split piece of wood high over both of their heads, vendetta written clear in her eyes. The next, Blair had felt a sharp sting to the skin above her cheek, an ache in her head harsher than any physical pain she'd ever felt. The color of dark blood blanketed her vision then faded, faded, faded to pure red.

In her dream, there were also scars. They trailed over Chuck Bass's face like a map to his past, a walking landmine. They were at Briar, but the school had turned into burgundy bricks that looked more like death than home, and his room, a prison cell. He was in hiding, and she was wearing a red dress.

Blair took a gentle step forward, flinched against the pain of being half-awake and knowing that the smell of old leather and hard liquor was all in her head. That this was a dream, that Blair was going to wake up, that Chuck would be gone.

"Your face," she whispered, kneeling down before him. His bed was unmade, sheets ruffled in the exact way they'd been the last time she was in it. From underneath his bed spilled empty clear bottles, strings of fabric, a masquerade mask, old books half-read, and cufflinks. Blair closed her eyes. It was everything her subconscious had collected of Chuck Bass.

And now he wouldn't look at her.

"Your face," Blair choked out. She reached up to lift his chin, to stroke her fingers down the blistered skin. "Bass, look at me." Tears slipped down her cheeks. "Chuck, please."

When he finally did, his eyes were black.

"One scar for every time I've disappointed someone," Dream Chuck said in a voice that was not quite his own. "I'm a product of shame, Waldorf. My father's shame, your shame—"

"Not my shame," Blair promised. "I'm not like your father, Chuck. I—"

Dream Chuck reached up to touch her face. Calloused fingers brushed over it and cut the skin there. The room was suddenly made of bone and thorns, exactly like the stage of the show he'd taken her to see back in February. She understood what this was now.

Beauty and the Beast.

"Please, Waldorf. Try quitting your wet dreams over Archibald long enough to tell me you love me," Dream Chuck rasped. "Ah, wait. You don't."

Blair lowered her eyes. She was the beast.

Dream Chuck pursed his lips and leaned over, breath heavy against her ear. "You're dancing with the devil, Waldorf. That's a dangerous game." He laughed. "How far are you willing to go to see this through?"

Blair pried away. "What?"

"Wake up, Blair," Chuck urged, voice deep and strange. The ground moved under her feet, the red of the room flickered and faded. The feel of his skin softened, and the air went dry. She sputtered and gasped when he reached out to grab her arm a final time. "See this through. Wake up."

"Wake up."

Blair stirred. A sharp pain shot up her back and clung to her spine, musty antiques and waterlogged wallpaper infiltrating the rosiness of her dream. She groaned under her breath and the vision of Chuck slipped, faded until she could only see the girl standing in the dank room before her.

Blair sniffed. Since their preteen years, Georgina Sparks had aged with all the grace of old cheese. The girl was bony in all the wrong places, angular and storybook witch-like in the face, with stony blue eyes cloaked in thick liner and mascara. Flakes of the makeup had fallen onto Georgina's pale cheeks, cast black tears down her skin. And at the top of her head was a good inch or two of honey blonde, her roots a stark contrast to the drugstore-dyed jet black ends.

"Rise and shine, Blair," Georgina smiled. She was dressed in a forest green plaid skirt and white Oxford that was frayed at the sleeves and torn at the collar, no doubt from Blair's scratch at her when she'd first arrived at this dump, blindfolded in the abandoned basement under God knows where. It had been ten days, and Blair was still wearing the same old Constance uniform Georgina had forced her to put on at knifepoint. She crinkled her nose. She'd showered twice since she'd been here, hands tied in a painful knot, doors sealing her into darkness on the rare occasion Georgina wasn't tormenting her.

"We're going to be late for class, B," Georgina continued, grabbing for some hideous Coach satchel and shoving two battered composition notebooks into it.

Blair pursed her lips, murmured, "You're insane."

At first, when Georgina had first slammed her with the plank, leaving an angry bruise in its wake, Blair thought that the girl might kill her. It had never occurred to her that these psycho murder stories might exist outside of the terrible Lifetime movies Diana often forced her to watch—My Husband's Wife seemed to always be a crowd favorite.

But when Blair had woken up to Georgina waving around a sharp kitchen knife in jolly hysteria, she realized that the girl was just truly bat-shit crazy. She was forcing Blair to play out this warped role-play in which they were thirteen years old and back at Constance again. When Blair wasn't banging on the basement door for help or sobbing at her jagged reflection on the tiny basement window, Georgina was rambling on about all of the talk she'd collected as Gossip Girl, placing a new carton of yogurt in Blair's hands every so often, referring to the cot on the floor as the steps of the MET.

Blair realized now from Georgina's incoherent ramblings that, as silly as it sounded, all of this seemed to be over some stand-off the two girls had in the eighth grade. An immature brawl that seemed to have triggered something deep and dark inside of the other girl.

Back in junior high school, Georgina and Blair had decided to throw parties on the same day—a birthday versus a social—and rather than backing off, the former had actually attempted to challenge Blair for the date. Blair, of course, had issued a social takedown, an affair that happened to escalate more than she had intended it to. One staged verbal smack down and sabotaged party invitation later, and Georgina was reduced to nothing. Yes, perhaps the party snub had resulted in complete social annihilation. But, was Blair really to blame for her deranged tendencies? Anyone else would have chalked it up to the middle school fates and moved on.

Now, Georgina recoiled, tightened her grip on the handle of her Coach. She turned and whispered, "What did you say?"

"I said that you're insane," Blair spat. The plastic headband Georgina had stuck on her head felt awfully tight, and it agitated her out of the silence she'd kept for the past week. "And evidently obsessed with me. If you're still so mad about that lame party you threw, you could have sent me a strongly worded text rather than set yourself up for jail time when the police find out about your psychotic outbreak."

Blair smirked, tugged at the bindings on her wrist, then continued, "It's a pity, really. Orange isn't your color."

"It was more than just a party," Georgina hissed. Blair ducked when she threw the bag across the room, let out a panicked little breath. "Before you, I was popular." Georgina stepped closer, eyes shining. "Before you, my parents loved me.

"You really have no idea of the consequences of your actions, do you?" Georgina's smile was maddening as she proceeded to mimic Blair's voice. "I'm Blair Waldorf, I'm going to ruin lives because my daddy loves men more than Mommy, and I throw up my supper. I'm Blair Waldorf, I'm going to fuck Chuck Bass and still get my happily ever after. I'm Blair Waldorf and everyone's in love with me!" Georgina curled her fingers into fists. "Please, Blair. You think that this is over some hurt feelings? My mother and father thought there was something wrong with me after you were through. I had no friends, even some of the parents were treating me like I had the plague. They tried to send me to a reformatory, then a hospital, then an asylum. I was so alone, I began to talk to the walls. I was never the same after what you did."

"God," Blair whispered, despite herself.

Georgina ignored her, collecting her school supplies before flicking on the basement lights. The single bulb flooded the room with dim lighting, casting an eerie yellow glow upon the floral rug, dusty oak wood armoire and lamp stand, and Georgina's own sinister features.

"But this is your chance," Georgina continued. "This is your chance to set things straight, Queen B. This is your chance to apologize for everything you've done."

Blair almost laughed. "I'm sorry?"

Georgina smiled, took a step closer to the broken rocking chair Blair was sitting on. "That's right."

Incredulous, Blair shook her head, pushed up from the chair with her hands still behind her back. "You're right, Georgina. I'm sorry." She was so close to Georgina now that she could smell the girl's cheap perfume, see the dents in her too-light concealer. Blair smiled. "I'm sorry that you're a psychopath with bad hair." Blair spat dried blood at the ground, a very un-Blair thing to do, but it carried her point across all the same. "Who will never be popular."

Something changed in Georgina then. Even in school, she'd always had this slightly unhinged look to her. But now, her cheeks flared red, her eyes widened, and the purple vein at the left of her forehead bulged beneath her skin.

Blair instinctively took a step back.

Georgina shoved at the old, covered table beside her, sending it to the ground. They both coughed as a cloud of dust came between them, particles swimming and floating and dancing for leverage before falling to the ground.

Georgina whispered, "I don't need anyone in my life who doesn't want to be there."

Blair narrowed her eyes. "Then let me go."

For a moment, Georgina looked as if she might consider this a viable option. And then she clenched her fists, lips curled into a smile.

"Come on, B," she said, shoving Blair back onto the chair. "We're going to be late for calc."

:::

June 2nd, 2008: Undisclosed Location

(eleven days since the disappearance)

Blair had stopped dreaming.

She peered around the room, straightening her neck to get rid of the creak in it, her ratty Mary Jane slippers scuffing the floor below her. She was starving, not on purpose, not on a carefully calculated schedule of afternoon cocktail and single macaroon intakes, and it was awful.

"I'm Blair Waldorf," she said with a huff. "This doesn't happen to me." She shut her eyes and a tear fell before she could stop herself. "This doesn't happen to me, this doesn't happen to me, this doesn't…"

Blair sucked in a breath as more tears fell. Above her, the tiny basement window framed miles and miles of night sky and just a corner of the yellow moon. The glow of it brought her back to her first few nights at Briar, that frail-hearted girl clutching The Art of War in her hands, taking Chuck Bass to battle and ending up on the floor with him instead.

He'd made her come through their clothes that night, soaked in cherry pie and her own tears. Before she'd left him there, she remembered a single moment after the final thrust of his hips.

Chuck had let out a sound she'd never heard before, all deep and fierce and feral. The hand in her hair tightened, the one on her hip had squeezed. And then it was over. He pressed his forehead to her chest and licked the dessert from her collar.

She'd shivered under the moonlight.

"Cherry," Chuck murmured.

"No puns, Bass," Blair whispered, eyes still closed. "Not now."

"I must say, Waldorf," he chuckled against her skin. "Fighting with you would be preferable if it always ends this way."

Blair shook her head. "You're insane. And this was a moment of weakness."

Chuck had lifted his head. "You're strong, Waldorf." He looked so serious that Blair almost didn't recognize him. "You're not just some Park Avenue princess who's going to be kneeling on porcelain for the rest of your life. You're stronger than you know, Blair."

"Stronger than you know," Blair whispered to herself now, straightening in the rickety old seat she was in. She rolled her wrists against the rope that bound them. Her arm caught against a splint of loose wood, and it jabbed into her skin. She cried out and recoiled.

Stronger than you know.

Blair shut her eyes and leaned forward, trying desperately to find that loose wood again. Finally, it caught on the knot, as well as her skin. Despite the pain, Blair began to dig into it, lifting and dragging until she felt the frayed rope begin to give.

It's always been you.

Blair shoved against the wood with abandon, blowing a curl out of her face.

Do you know how beautiful you are?

Blair let out a low sob. Blood dripped from a fresh cut on her wrist, but the rope was so loose now that she could almost slip her hands from it.

I miss you, Blair.

The rope fell to the floor.

I don't know how to love you, but I still do.

Blair let out an incredulous little hiccup of relief as she clutched her injured wrist to her chest. She stared down at her hands, covered in dirt and blood and dust. The ridiculous thought of scheduling an appointment with a manicurist ran through her mind before she leaned over to free her feet.

When she stood up, the room spun for a moment. How many lunches had she passed up in her lifetime? How many piled-up plates had her friends feasted on as she watched in horrified longing? She was going to go home. Back to Chuck. Back to her best friends. And everything would be different now.

A floorboard creaked upstairs.

Blair cursed under her breath. She took ballerina steps across the basement floor, careful not to take too long a look at anything. Because, if she was being honest with herself, she was ten times more terrified now that she was free. And Georgina was roaming around the house above her.

Blair took a deep breath as she climbed the steps up to their landing. She braced herself against the door and gently pushed it open.

The room on the other side was nothing short of grand. It was as dark as the basement had been downstairs, but the marble flooring and its cover of carpet, bronze busts on antique pedestals, crisp off-white chaises and fake flowers in crystal planters, were all on display under the moonlight that was filtering in from the ceiling windows above. This wasn't a house. This was a manor.

Blair looked around as she closed the basement door behind her, turning the knob so that it wouldn't click. Sheets covered some of the furniture, the tables were cleared, and the rooms held the sort of emptiness of abandonment. It was clear that this was Georgina's family's getaway estate, like Diana and Ethan had. Blair, always one to come up with a snide remark in even the most dire of situations thought that Waldorfs simply couldn't be bothered with such archaic living spaces.

Blair swore she could hear the tired chuckle under Chuck's breath in her head at that one.

She listened for more footsteps before tiptoeing under the room's shadows, exhaling when she made it down the estate's long main foyer. She refused to look back, just kept tabs on the silence. The only thing that frightened her was a sudden flash of light in her eyes. A moment after it hit her, she realized that it was simply a moonbeam bouncing off the glass of a picture frame on the wall.

A lot of them.

Down the main hall, there were lines and lines of pristinely ordered portraits of the Sparks family. Bearded men with the same cold blue eyes and blonde-haired ladies posed for stiff snapshots. And each was labeled with a golden plaque underneath. In the darkness, Blair squinted to read the names, finding none that read Sparks.

She shut her eyes, remembered.

"Blair Waldorf."

"Hi, Blair. I'm Georgina Sparks."

"That's a silly last name."

"I know. I changed mine, but don't tell anyone. It was so boring. I made this one up."

Blair shook her head at the memory. She remembered now, that the weirdo had always had a hard time accepting reality, had said the name and said the name until it stuck with all of her classmates. Georgina Sparks, the girl had called herself, but role call at school had always outed her as—

Blair's mouth dried.

With a sudden quaking fear, Blair continued down the line of photos, soon reaching the more modern coloring of a digital. There she found a school photo of Georgina, back when she was still just the blonde, gap-toothed girl just trying to make it on the Upper East Side. When the light hit the glass, Blair could see her own eyes reflected over Georgina's. They held the same fear, the same doubt.

Blair swallowed, glanced down.

Underneath that frame was a family portrait. A woman with empty eyes, a man who looked too familiar beside her. His fingers were pressed too-tightly to little Georgina's shoulders, scrunching the fabric of the pale blue dress she wore.

Beside her, a young boy wore a matching tie.

Blair let out a cry that was just short of a scream.

"No," she whispered, eyes darting around at the other frames, portrait upon portrait of the same teenaged boy staring back at her with the same golden smile, floppy hair, and kind eyes she knew much too well. She pressed her fingers to the fresh plaque under the final photo, running them along the ridges of the name.

Ethan Merrick.

It was the last thing she read before she felt a hard bang against her knees.

One that brought her to the ground.

:::

June 3rd, 2008: The Courtyard

(twelve days since the disappearance)

"Look, it's been twelve days," Penelope spat into the stolen cell, careful not to rouse suspicion from the officer standing guard at the dining hall exit. She pressed her heel into the gravel behind the stone steps that bled out into the courtyard, leaving a little trail of stiletto-shaped holes in the floor below her.

Breadcrumbs, she thought before kicking a mound of dirt over them.

"It's been twelve days," she repeated to Georgina's voicemail, clutching a tattered piece of paper with a scribbled number and fading address in her sweaty palm. "And you haven't answered any of my calls. We were only supposed to scare her, to get back at them. God, I still have her phone. It's all over the news, there are search parties every night. I cannot be your accomplice in this sick game. We were supposed to be in this together."

Penelope glanced around to ensure that no one was listening. It was a beautiful June day and despite all of the restrictions and growing weight of Blair's disappearance, students had flooded the yard. Upperclassmen flirted with freshmen, girls sat sunbathing with too many buttons popped open; boys dropped footballs trying to take a peek. The low hum of chatter and gossip was not at the same cheeriness it would usually be so close to summer and the end of finals, but it was lively all the same.

Except for one corner of the yard, where the stone benches were claimed by five dreary students, all huddled together, lunch trays balanced on shaking knees, hands and jackets overlapping in such closeness that from afar, you could hardly tell one from the other.

Chuck Bass had seemingly decided to rejoin society. And though the dark circles had taken up permanent residence under his blank eyes and he still casted annoyed glances at the line of tan uniformed officers every so often, he took a sip from Diana's soda—spiked, Penelope was sure—and sat enraptured by whatever little Jenny had to say. The girl seemed tired as she gestured her hands to the woods, and tied and retied her mess of a hair into a frazzled blonde bun. Diana finally stopped her, stealing the band to braid Jenny's hair back herself. Beside them, Damien Dalgaard toyed with the fabric of Jenny's uniform skirt before remembering his place and pulling away. He turned to Eric and squeezed the boy's shoulder.

Penelope frowned, swallowed down the growing lump in her throat. She could say what she wanted about the delinquents, but at the end of the day they had each other, their bond was impenetrable. And she…she had no one.

The girl in the woods, she realized, had not been her friend.

"Fine," Penelope hissed, squeezing the phone until her knuckles burned white. "Whatever the plan is, leave me out of it."

Whatever, she thought. She was way too pretty to have a criminal record, anyway.

Across the yard, Jenny was pissed.

"I don't understand why we seem to be the only ones who care," she seethed, shooting pointed looks at the giggling sophomores tossing crumpled up paper balls at each other on the patch of grass beside them.

"Because this may be her kingdom, Humphrey," Chuck said dryly, stealing another swig of Diana's coke. "But we're her court."

At this, the entire group silenced.

"I was the one who told Blair to do something about Penelope," Eric finally said, his voice breaking on each word. "The last time we talked, I beat her up about how she didn't care, when she's always been there for me. Even before Briar. Blair may be ruthless, but she's loyal. And now…she's gone, and…"

"Hey."

The group turned to find Ethan standing behind them, a sheepish smile on his face. Eric let out a breath as the older boy put his hands on his shoulders and pressed his lips to the back of his head. He wore a tan blazer with a strange crest on it. Pinned to its lapel was a bright orange visitor's pass.

"Ethan," Diana murmured, reaching up to hook her arms around his neck. "What are you doing here?"

"My friend is gone," he met Chuck's eyes over Diana's shoulder. "Same as you." Damien moved over to offer the boy a seat, but Ethan gently shook his head and nodded at Eric instead. "Can I talk to you alone for a second?"

Eric followed him over to a shady spot underneath one of the oak trees. Ethan shrugged the blazer off one shoulder, and Eric swallowed, eyes trailing over the dimple on his left cheek, the bronze tan on his skin, the lines of his jaw that slanted down his neck, to the planes of his chest. Eric closed his eyes. The boy in front of him smelled like suntan lotion and freshly cut grass and home.

Eric didn't deserve this. Not after Blair.

"What's with the clown suit?" he finally managed to choke out, eyeing the hideous tan fabric on Ethan's shoulder.

"New uniform, new rules," Ethan explained. He reached up to unpin the visitor's pass from it, held it up for Eric to see. "They sure are cracking down on security in this dump, huh?" He flicked the pass to the grass. "Maybe they should have done that in the first place, and Blair would still be here."

"It's got nothing to do with that," Eric murmured, eyeing Penelope in the distance over Ethan's shoulder, "and everything to do with her."

"Hey," Ethan pressed, lifting a hand to grasp the other boy's chin with two fingers. The touch was enough to give Eric the same butterflies he'd had in his stomach at the beginning of the year, when things were easier and their love was new.

When they'd all been together, and it seemed like anything was possible.

"Hey," Ethan repeated, eyes shining. "Come with me."

Eric frowned. "I don't know if the dining hall's going to give you free food, if that's what you're—"

"Let's get out of here, alright?" Ethan said. "I know a place where it'll just be me and you. The weekend's starting. I know how you get, you don't have to ditch school." Ethan stroked a finger down Eric's neck before dropping his hand altogether. "No parents, no teachers, no interruptions, and no beating yourself up about this."

"No…" Eric trailed off. The offer was so tempting that it left him breathless. "I have to be here. For Blair."

"Look, I love Blair," Ethan breathed. He loosened the tie around his neck, watched as a leaf fell from one of the nearby trees. "Ever since…I haven't been able to stop thinking about her. I owe her everything I have because she's the one who gave it to me. She's the one who brought me to you."

"Ethan—"

"And if I was here, I would be doing everything in my power to find her, but I can't. I'm away from all of you," Ethan said, exasperated. "I'm away from you. And I'm not…" Ethan brushed his palm up the back of his own neck. "I'm not really surviving without you correcting my grammar and making sure I'm not such an all around fuck up all the time."

Eric sighed. "You're not a fuck up."

Ethan shot him a half-smile. "Yeah. Because of you." He stepped closer, pushed a strand of overgrown blonde locks behind Eric's ear, and the younger boy nearly melted. "Please, let's just…be together right now. I know that I have a lot of bad ideas, but I'm not sure that this is one of them."

Somewhere further upstate, a girl screamed bloody murder in an old abandoned house.

"Okay," Eric relented. "Okay. But I'm going to have to sneak out."

"Hey," Ethan smirked, dropping an arm around his somewhat-boyfriend's shoulders. "Glad to see that I've had some sort of influence on you."

From the stone benches, Jenny watched the boys nudge each other's sides as they climbed the steps back to school. She bit her lip against the first smile she'd let out since Blair had gone.

"It's nice to see him happy again," Jenny said without thinking. "To have Ethan back." The moment she uttered the words, her eyes met Chuck's. They hadn't talked about the moment they'd had in the shed. What they had was still something just short of true friendship, but there was a certain decency in his nod to her now that had been missing before.

Jenny flushed and relaxed in her seat.

"I've talked to my father's PI," Chuck rasped. The day grew hotter and the sun beat down on his jacketed back. Droplets of sweat collected on his neck, but he barely noticed. "They have nothing. Blair's mother is in hysterics. And Blair's room is a crime scene. They won't let me in."

"They're giving up," Jenny whispered in realization, more to herself than anyone else.

Diana, who had been unusually quiet throughout the conversation, had her eyes trained on someone across the yard. She watched as Penelope paced back and forth over the gravel, her eyes frantically wide.

"I'm going to speed up this process," Diana said, stomping across the grass in hot pursuit.

Jenny swiped a sweaty palm down her face and sighed. Ever since Blair's disappearance, it was like her friends had become a group of ferocious little toddlers who'd been freed from their pen and were now running rampant across the school. She pushed up from her seat and called after the girl.

"Diana, what are you doing?

"What should have been done a long time ago," Diana called back as her hands finally found purchase in the fabric of Penelope's uniform shirt, and she shoved the girl to the ground. "You have five seconds to tell me what you know."

Penelope scowled down at the new scrape on her shin. "How dare you? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I know that it comes easy to you, but don't play dumb," Diana smirked. "Somehow, my friends and I have been through hours upon hours of interrogations and filing reports but you were the one who had become besties with Blair right before she disappeared. You were the one who was with her when she walked into the woods." Penelope made a failed attempt to get back up, but Diana had her skirt pinned with one of her heels. "Talk."

"You bitch," Penelope hissed. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Listen, Penelope," Diana finally snapped, "now is not the time to piss me off. My friend, my best friend has been missing for twelve days. I really don't care what she is to you or how much you hate her. She's been gone nearly two weeks, and the last time she was seen was in those woods. Anything could have happened to her." Diana reached out to curl the collar of Penelope's shirt in her fist.

Jenny shook her head. "Diana…the officers will see you. Chuck got lucky last time, but—"

But Diana wasn't listening. "So if anything happens to Blair and you knew about it, then her blood will be on your hands, no one else's, for the rest of your life." Diana swallowed, suddenly sounding like she was talking about something else. "This kind of thing doesn't go away. It'll follow you. Every morning, you'll see her face. Every decision you make, everything you do, will be defined by this."

Penelope's eyes were filled with tears too now, and Diana narrowed her own. "So choose, Penelope. What kind of person do you want to be?"

"Hey, come on," Damien said, pulling at Diana's shoulder. "Take it easy, Di."

Diana whipped around to respond, but Penelope interrupted them both.

"I'm sorry," the girl sobbed into the palm of one hand. The other reached into her purse, slowly, to pull something out of it. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen, okay? It was just going to be a joke." When she lifted her hand, it surfaced with a cracked white phone case. It trembled in her palm.

Diana grabbed for it in disbelief. "Blair's phone."

"There's something you should know," Penelope finally said. "There's something everyone should know."

:::

Montgomery, New York

Under different circumstances, the ride up to Ethan's manor in Montgomery would've been amazing. Outside the car window, spring was stretching into summer. The mountains burst with greens and reds and blues, the water on the rivers were still, and the roads were clean. Ethan had his blue convertible, and the top was down. Eric closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the leather seat. The air was so empty. If only his head could feel the same.

"What are you thinking about?" Ethan called over the roar of the engine.

Eric watched tree after tree disappear as they whipped by. "Blair."

"Yeah," Ethan sighed, gripping the steering wheel tight with one hand, running his fingers over Eric's knee with the other. "Me too."

A half hour later, and they'd come to a clean black gate, hidden partially by a gathering of weeping willows that leaned over it, tired and protecting. Flower buds blossomed along some vines, and beyond it were acres and acres of mowed lawn. Ethan got out to open the gate with a key, and Eric watched him, bit his lip in guilty happiness as the boy stretched and his polo rode up to reveal a hint of skin underneath.

When they drove up to the house, a wave of nostalgia passed over Eric. With its white columns and open airiness, it reminded him so much of the 1770 House, the Hamptons manor that had remained in the van der Woodsen's name for as far back as time allowed. Though it was void of any homely aspects—tires did not swing from the trees, plants did not litter the porches, and curtains did not dance in the breeze—it gave Eric a warm feeling. He couldn't help Blair here, but he couldn't help her at Briar, either. He glanced at Ethan, gave his hand a gentle squeeze. Maybe this was where he was meant to be.

Ethan smiled back at him when they parked, then frowned as his eye caught something over his shoulder. Eric turned to find a rickety old black pickup truck parked on the lawn by the side of the house.

"I thought we were alone."

Ethan narrowed his eyes, then relaxed. "We are. It's probably just the groundskeepers looking after the lawn and the gardens out back." He gestured over to the entrance and tossed Eric a key. "Go inside, check the place out. I'll get your bag out of the trunk."

Eric relaxed, too. He caught the key in one hand and made his way over to the house, delighting in how quiet it all was. But when he stuck his key into the lock, the door gave and pushed open by itself, as if it had already been left ajar. Eric frowned, turned around, but Ethan had his head down as he dug through the trunk, checking his phone with his other hand.

Probably just the groundskeepers.

He left the door open for Ethan behind him, taking in the enormous hall before him. It was more like a museum than anyone's home. Back in Manhattan, before he'd been sent away, he'd lived with his mother and sister in everywhere from Park Avenue suites to cabanas in Cabo. Their homes had always been cluttered with his mother's jewelry on the vanities, his sister's clothes on the floor. Their summers sometimes spilled into the school year without any regard to Serena or Eric's futures. But here, there was only order.

Frame after frame lined the hall like some sort of private gallery. There weren't any keys or old bills on antique tables. There was just space. Eric smiled when he caught sight of Ethan's portrait on the wall. His grin seemed too casual for the slicked-back do on his head and the stiff suit he had on. He reached up to touch the engraving on the gold plaque below it.

When he removed his finger, there was blood on it.

Eric stumbled back, eyes wide.

"Ethan?"

"Not quite," came a hollow voice from the next room. Eric's heart stopped as he peered around the first corner and into the landing for a grand staircase. At the bottom step was a girl whose hair was half blonde, half black. Her eyes were a dauntingly bright blue, unmistakable after you'd already seen them once. Eric pressed his lips together, glanced down at the too-tight school girl uniform on her body.

He knew that Ethan had an estranged sister, one who was unhinged, one who was supposed to be off at some institution while their parents tortured Ethan instead. But it couldn't be this girl.

No. This was the girl he'd seen in the woods.

And behind her was a lump on the floor, a disarray of brown curls, pale cheeks, and closed eyes. Blair Waldorf laid there in an unconscious heap, her lips parted, her legs bruised, and a sharp cut across her forehead. Momentarily forgetting the girl before him, Eric went to help Blair.

"Not so fast, Little E," the girl chirped. Her hand surfaced from the baggy hoodie she wore over the frayed Oxford and her ratty skirt. It held a knife.

Eric tried to ignore the dry blood on it.

She smiled. "It's about time that we finally meet. I'm Georgina."

Eric frowned, mind reaching for his sister's middle school days, the familiar name, the girl who'd gone berserk and never made it through Constance with all the rest.

He swallowed. "Georgina Sparks?"

"No," Ethan whispered behind him, dropping the duffel bag in his hand. It landed with a sharp thud on the floor. "Georgina Merrick." Ethan shook his head, his skin going pale as he stared at Blair on the floor in horror, at his sister waving the knife freely. "It's been you this entire time, hasn't it? You're supposed to be in an institution in Sourcrest."

Georgina sobered from her maniacal gaze. "I guess Mom and Dad should have been paying better attention, huh?"

Eric took a half step back. "She was the one who sent the blasts, the one who was always in the woods. I knew that I hadn't imagined you."

"No," Georgina smiled. "But I enjoyed all the frantic little speeches you gave to your friends about me. Hard when you're the odd one out, right? I know exactly what that's like, Little E."

"He's nothing like you, Georgina," Ethan said and much to Eric's disdain, he stepped closer to his sister, cautious eyes on Blair. "It wasn't bad enough that you and our parents combined had to give me the childhood from Hell? You sent out that blast, and it ruined my life. I had a shot at love…" Ethan trailed off, and Georgina's eyes flickered to Eric so quickly that it was nearly unnoticeable. "You would do that to me?"

Georgina pursed her lips. "Without a doubt."

Ethan took another step closer. "Why?"

"Why?" Georgina mimicked in a high tone that didn't match Ethan's deep tempo even slightly. "Why do you think, Ethan? Why is that one bad day, and I was shunned by our parents for life? Why is it that you were always their favorite, even after they found out—" Georgina cut off, jerking her chin at Eric "—what you were."

"What I am is your brother, Georgina," Ethan said, exasperated. "And that's my boyfriend." His voice broke as he cast a glance at Blair again. "And that's my friend. You can't do this and blame it on me or Blair or anyone else. It wasn't just one bad day, it was years. You're sick, Georgina. You used lock me in my room for hours, throw your food at the walls at dinner, threaten the maids…Georgina, this starts and ends with you. I tried to love you the best that I could, but I have more bad memories of you than good. I was alone. And if you think that being Mom and Dad's only child was a reward, you've got it all wrong."

If Georgina was moved by any of this, it didn't show. Her eyes held the same emptiness they'd had for years. Out of the corner of his eye, Eric saw movement behind Georgina and gasped. Blair lifted her cheek from the cold floor and almost whimpered in pain before stopping herself. Upon seeing Eric and Ethan, a tear of relief slipped down the side of her face and, with one shaking hand, she focused on Eric and held a finger to her lips.

He gave her a subtle nod, heart pounding in his chest, then returned his attention to Ethan and Georgina. Ethan was standing dangerously close to his sister now, and Eric let out a shallow breath upon seeing the proximity.

"I don't want to hurt you, dear brother of mine," Georgina said, though she didn't let up on the knife. "This was between me and Blair."

"Fine, now you're done," Ethan said. "You've paid her and all the rest of us back ten times over. Enough. You still have a chance to make things right. Just let me walk out of here with Blair, and none of us will say anything. I'll keep your charade up with Mom and Dad, and you can start over someplace else, alright?"

Georgina rolled her eyes, gripped the knife tighter. "No. I'm not the one who's leaving this time. Because your poor Blair Waldorf? She's dead and gone."

"Not quite."

Blair had slowly crawled her way down the first landing and caught Georgina's leg so quickly that it threw the other girl off balance. The knife slipped from Georgina's hand as she fell and in the next second, they all reached for it, but Georgina was too quick. In a moment, she had a squirming Blair pinned down under one arm as she held the knife over her face.

Blair shut her eyes, let out a shallow breath of surrender. "Please."

Georgina shook her head, pressed Blair tighter to the floor. "You should've been nicer to me." The knife came closer and—

"Drop the weapon, Miss Merrick."

In their surprise, both girls turned to look at the entrance of the room. Cops lined the wall, steady hands pointing guns right at the girl's arm. A moment of weakness, Georgina dropped the knife, and Blair shoved away, sobbing as she limped into Ethan's arms. He dug his face into the top of her head and lifted her up so that she wouldn't have to walk on her bad leg. Eric took her hand as the cops ushered them out of the house.

Outside, the sun burned Blair's cheeks. She didn't even want to imagine what she looked like now (as if that mattered). Her throat was so dry she could barely breathe. She knew that both Ethan and Eric were talking to her, were trying to get her to respond, but she couldn't make out a thing. All she could see were the summer leaves blurring into sirens, and Chuck Bass standing beside one of the cars.

Chuck Bass.

Blair jerked out of Ethan's arms so quickly that her leg gave out underneath her. Men in dirty uniforms lifted her onto a stretcher in the next instant as her eyes darted madly for a sight of Chuck. Or…had she only imagined him?

Could she be imagining this entire thing?

"Ethan…" she murmured as they strapped her down. She reached out and found purchase in the sleeve of a blazer jacket, the silver fastened to it. She stroked her fingers over its grooves and ridges as a sea of people crowded around her, a blind blur of colors and panic. Blair closed her eyes and felt for the engravings again.

C –

Blair's eyes fluttered open. "Bass?"

B.

:::

June 11th, Two Weeks Later

Blair was released from the hospital just in time for junior prom.

Perhaps it was a coincidence. Perhaps it was just a smidge of mercy for the hospital staff who'd endured her wrath throughout her stay there. After an inordinate amount of summons, complaints about the bland ham sandwiches, and Blair questioning their competency at repairing broken legs, one nurse was even given leave after Blair's release to recuperate his sanity.

But in her defense, the last few weeks had been grueling on Blair. With Georgina in custody and Penelope's involvement under heavy investigation, it seemed like every member of the entire precinct wanted her statement. She repeated the story over and over again, always pausing at the last words Georgina said to her before Blair was saved.

You should've been nicer to me.

Blair was so different now. She could see it in the bathroom of her hospital suite, the wildness in her eyes, the burn in her lungs from two semesters of half-smoked cigarettes and hard liquor. Her lips were a flushed red, as were her cheeks. Diana and Jenny had been by with a Blair Waldorf survival kit—the latest Vogue, makeup, nail polish, intimates, and those dreaded final assignments at school (Chuck's, too)—almost every other day. She had been as well maintained as she could manage under those—she grimaced thinking back on it now—circumstances. But there was still something in there that she hadn't noticed before.

With Chuck, with her friends at Briar, she wasn't sure of the girl she'd become. But perhaps she'd always been her.

On the ride back to Briar, Chuck had been awfully quiet. In fact, it was like he'd been maintaining some vow of silence in the past two weeks. In her room, he'd been a mere shadow. No snarky commentary about her mother's hysterics or father's French ramblings upon seeing Blair's bruised-up face or clever insult on Damien for surprising Blair with the world's ugliest teddy bear from the hospital gift shop.

"Fine," Damien had huffed as Diana and Jenny took turns throwing it at each other and squealing in horror. "Donate it or something."

Blair had smirked. "And scare the children? They've suffered enough misfortune." But when no one else was looking, she clutched the bear in one arm and mouthed him a silent thank you.

Damien had leaned over to kiss her cheek. "I'm glad you're alive, Blair."

Blair smiled back. "You won't be for long if you don't get off of me, Dalgaard."

She'd looked to Chuck for a sly little smirk then, but it never came. In fact, the only time he'd break from the stoicism was when Blair would recount her time with Georgina to the police.

"And then…" Blair would purse her lips, glance down at her elevated leg, deep purples and blues blossoming from behind the bandages. "That was when she hit me with the plank." Her eyes flitted up to Chuck. He'd stiffened in his seat, face contorting into an expression so pained Blair wanted to cry.

When his eyes met hers, he'd always sober into that same infuriating neutrality, all blank, sans emotion.

Finally, on the way back to Briar after her release, Blair had had enough.

"What, no sexual innuendos about knocking hospitals off the to do it in list?" Blair asked, pressing back against the leather of the limo's seat. "No ideas about what we can do while I'm in this cast?" Blair pressed her lips together, lifted a small hand to his shoulder. He tensed, but would not turn to look at her. "Chuck, it's me. I—"

"You should've gone back to the city with Eleanor," Chuck rasped, staring at the fold of her collar.

Blair narrowed her eyes. "Are you joking?"

Chuck looked away. "You should be resting, recovering. With the people you love."

Blair shook her head, incredulous. You are the people I love, she wanted to say. But all that came out was, "Why are you doing this?"

Chuck closed his eyes. "What exactly do you think I'm doing, Waldorf?"

At hearing the nickname she'd grown so fond of used with such harshness, Blair fumed in her seat, clenching so tightly that her leg ached in protest. She braced her hand on the doorknob and leaned forward in her seat. "Arthur, stop the car."

Chuck let out a deep sigh and placed a firm hand on her good leg. "And what exactly are you going to do, Blair? Hobble your way down the highway?" He furiously gestured at the tinted window, to the expanse of trees and forests outside. "As much as I'd enjoy seeing you attempt it, this isn't exactly Park Avenue."

"And what exactly do you intend to do, Bass?" Blair spat back. "Ignore me until we graduate? That'll be quite the task, even for you. You can't just pretend—"

"I wasn't there," Chuck yelled. The sound was so loud in the tight space in the car, his skin was so red, eyes were so furious that Blair nearly fell back. She pressed her lips together as hot tears sprang from his eyes, and his fingers tightened on the fabric of her skirt. "I wasn't there. I let you go. I let this happen."

Blair swallowed, shook her head in realization. Carefully, she placed her hand atop his. It was trembling. "Chuck, none of this is your fault."

Chuck swiped a hand down his face in frustration. "I thought you were gone."

Blair moved closer, whimpered in pain. "You couldn't have known. I didn't. I couldn't even imagine that…" She turned his hand over and ran a finger down the heart line of his palm, down his wrist until she could feel the dull pounding of his pulse. "If anything, Bass, you saved me. Thinking of you, thinking of getting back to you, it made me strong."

Chuck swallowed, eyes trained on the passing trees.

"You may be Chuck Bass," Blair whispered as she released him, firm in her tone now. "But I'm Blair Waldorf, and I saw this through. Don't let that have been for nothing."

:::

Dexter Hall Dormitories

"I'm hideous."

"B…"

"I look like I've just crawled out from under the earth."

Blair frowned at her reflection.

Outside, lights twinkled across the quad, twined around the trees, and dotted the pathways around campus. The night was hot but breezy, and fireflies danced across the very same woods that had seemed so perilous just a month ago. In one day, the school had transformed into fair castle for junior prom's designated theme: Fairytale Festival. Outside, masked girls and boys chased each other around the gardens, and the dining hall doors, now rid of stiff officers standing guards, were open as some early birds mixed and mingled over virgin cocktails and hors d'oeurves. The night was perfect.

It was Blair who was all wrong.

"Try to relax, B," Diana insisted as the other girl fidgeted with her stiff dress, and Jenny patted her down with puffs of powder, trying in earnest to cover up the jagged scar that now ran down the left side of her face. "You're getting makeup everywhere. You're going to ruin your dress."

"I'd be doing it a favor," Blair hissed. "This is what happens when I don't have time to shop properly." She pushed Jenny's hand away and coughed on a cloud of powder. "When I'd dreamt up a fairytale night, the plan was to go as a queen, not a villain." She gestured down at the ill-fitting black silk on her, which stopped just before the hideous blue brace on her healing leg.

Diana sighed, toying with the fishtail braid in her hair. She was going as the little mermaid and had truly gone all out for the theme. Her skin glistened under a coat of light blue glitter to give the luminescent illusion of scales. Tucked into her braid were bits of green ribbon made to look like an intricate pattern of seaweed caught in waves, all attached to the beautiful seashell clipped to her bangs. It matched the emerald dress she wore, tight all the way down to her shins, where it then puffed out to resemble fins.

"Ethan couldn't make it, what with everything…" Diana had trailed off upon her first entrance, "so I decided to steal his Prince Eric."

"I'm glad that everyone's night is going perfectly," Blair hissed, face dropping into her hands, "except for mine."

"Blair, you're going to have so much fun," Jenny said, finally giving up on the powder.

"I still can't believe you're not going, J," Diana whined, frowning down at the girl's pajamas. They were covered in an array of smiling frogs and lily pads.

"I'm not a junior," Jenny whispered to the ground. "And since Damien's not my date…the only thing this princess will be doing until midnight is writing my world history final paper."

Diana rolled her eyes. "Even Blair is done with her finals, J."

Jenny frowned, threw a stray bobby pin at her. "Extra credit."

"You should come," Blair pressed, turning away from the mirror in disdain. "It's not as if I have a date. I could bring you."

Jenny smiled sadly, eyeing the Juliet dress she'd borrowed from the theater department specifically for this occasion. In the right light, it seconded as Cinderella's midnight ball gown.

"We both know that Chuck will be there, Blair," Jenny promised. "He can't stay away from you, even if he wanted to. He…" She trailed off, careful not to make the same mistake twice. Suddenly, her eyes brightened in recollection. Diana and Blair frowned as she ran to dig through the back of their shared closet like a madwoman, careful not the wrinkle the majority of the clothes in it, which were Blair's.

Diana shook her head, picked up the curling iron to finish Blair's hair. "Well, B. She's finally lost it."

When Jenny surfaced, her blonde curls had come lose from the ponytail she wore, and the enormous garment bag in her hands threatened to weigh her down.

"There was a night after we took that trip down to the city and stayed at Chuck's hotel, the morning you and I sat in our pajamas and watched Project Runway for hours," Jenny said in a rush, giddy at the memory. Blair and Diana exchanged an amused glance. "It was like…you were my muse. I came home, and I just started sewing. I spent hours in the costume room, imagining you in this dress." Jenny pulled the zipper down to reveal the pile of rose tulle bursting from inside of it. "I figured you'd never wear it, it's nothing fancy, nothing with a brand name, but…it's the best piece I've ever made. I…it belongs to the person who inspired it."

With an adorable little smile, Jenny stepped back to reveal the dress.

It was something more than beautiful. Magic, even. The dress in its entirety was a creamy beige, peach and blush at the same time, the color of delicious melted sorbet. Its heart-shaped neck faded into a corseted bodice, which exploded into a skirt of tulle flowers and roses in all fiery reds and light pinks, coral oranges and leaves of forest green. It was a walking garden, each part of it a different grove. Something only a beauty would wear en route to her prince, the enchanted beast.

Blair raised a hand to her cheek with a gasp, catching a single tear on one finger.

She let out a breath. "Jenny."

The blonde girl flushed a bright red that spread out to even the tips of her fingers. "If it's horrible, you don't have to wear it. I won't feel bad. I just thought…it'll cover your brace. It's long enough."

Blair closed her mouth, straightened, and resumed that regal façade of hers as the girl rambled on, but the smile in her eyes did not go. "If I didn't want to wear it, I wouldn't wear it, Jenny. You should know that by now." She stepped towards the dress and, out of sight, smiled down at it. She glanced back at Jenny with the kindest smile any of them had ever seen on her. "It'll do."

Jenny looked like she was going to fall over in excitement.

As they helped Blair into her dress, they laughed and talked like they had before things had gotten so terrible, like that first night in the Bogart Gardens, when they'd become an impenetrable trio and could only see possibility. Outside, the trill of classical music fused with the hum of a faster tempo. From afar, the dorm balconies shone in the dark, and the mountains in the distance took them back in time. Over Blair's shoulder, Jenny and Diana shared the same look of relief, of understanding. Blair was back, they were together again, and the night held promise.

This was theirs. This was good.

:::

Jenny would not lie to herself and pretend that a heavy wave of sadness didn't wash over her as Diana and Blair disappeared down the hall arm in arm. She threw a blanket over the Juliet dress on her bed and traded it in for her textbook. Her gaze flickered to the small plastic baggie beside it, which held a single white pill.

It'll make all that stress go away, princess, the boy in her AP econ class had promised, trading it in for a two-page essay she'd written for him. In the drama surrounding the past few weeks and all of their worry for Blair, Jenny had been at her breaking point. How could she possibly keep up with classes and be the girl she was so desperate to become at the same time? The answer was that she couldn't.

Jenny shut her eyes, pressed the pill to her tongue and swallowed.

Not without a little help.

"Hey there, Cinderella."

Startled, Jenny nearly choked on the pill as it made its way down her throat.

Behind her, Damien had ducked into their dorm and shut the door behind him. He had his hands up in surrender, careful not to scare her. But when she saw what he had on, it had the opposite effect. Damien had clearly been sneaking around the theater department with Jenny's "borrowed" key—she had to get that back—which explained the intricate dress coat he had on, stark white with blue threaded finishes. And on his legs were…

Tights.

"Oh my God," Jenny giggled into her palm. "If you've lost your pants, they're not here."

But instead of ridiculing his own outfit, he glanced down at the frogs on her pants. Damien raised a playful brow at her. "Or should I call you the frog princess?"

Jenny's smile dropped, and she turned back to her bed to pick up her book. "Funny."

"I'm here to win you back," Damien announced. With that, he whipped out an imaginary sword from the holster on his side. He swished it around in the air, circling Jenny with childish jabbing motions. Finally, he retreated when she only stood there, unimpressed.

"Come on, J," Damien pleaded, taking one of her tiny hands in his. "Don't use the Blair on me."

Jenny narrowed her eyes. "The Blair?"

"Yeah," Damien smiled. "You know, when she looks like she wants to kill you but couldn't care less if you died at the same time? It wounds me." His eyes twinkled as he feigned stabbing himself with the invisible sword, then stumbled back, clutching at his side.

Jenny rolled her eyes, trying hard to hide her smile.

"You should go," she warned. "Just because it's the night of ball, doesn't mean that they're not still being anal about security after what happened."

"That doesn't matter to me."

Jenny threw her hands up in distress. "And what does?"

"You," Damien whispered, his voice going deep as he reached out to scoop her against him with one arm. Jenny gasped, and she felt like that shy little girl again, desperate for a junior's attention, willing to do anything to be seen. As if he could read her mind, Damien continued, "I see you, Jenny. This is how it's supposed to be. Chuck doesn't work without Blair. None of us work without the group together. And I…I don't work without you. And if it took Chuck Bass being an asshole to show me that, thank God for him."

Jenny let out a little sigh, glanced down at his lips.

"Give me tonight," Damien whispered into her ear, kissing a jagged line down the side of her face. "Just like you gave me those five minutes in the theatre back in September." He tugged her back a step, and they fell into the blankets and a sea of fabric from Jenny's forgotten dress. She closed her eyes as a wave of euphoria spread through her body, sparking her fingertips, numbing her brain. It wasn't exactly induced by Damien's hands stroking her skin as if it were porcelain and pulling fabric down, but that certainly helped.

"Tonight," Jenny echoed under her breath.

:::

The Briar Ballroom

"Wow," Eric breathed when their little trio stepped into the grand ballroom.

Wow, indeed.

The prom committee had gone wild transforming the outside of the school, but it had only been a glimpse of what lay inside. Unlike the deep satin and sensuous music that had cloaked the Saints and Sinners ball in darkness, the Fairytale Festival was only light. Harp strings battled soft ballads as performers juggled and swished through the crowd with fireball poppers and flutes of pink liquids. Moonlight poured into the rooms from the balcony windows, flooding the ballroom in glistening white. Dresses twirled and swished in a rainbow of colors as Auroras, Tianas, and Snow Whites danced with their dates.

"You know," Eric whispered into Blair's ear, poking her hand. She smiled softly, glanced at him over her shoulder. With his loose white dress shirt, black rolled up pants, and kind smile, he made the perfect seaborne prince. "We could rewrite the tale so that Eric had a little fling with Belle on the side, too."

Blair rolled her eyes, chuckled under her breath. "No. You two go. I'm a Waldorf. I'll be fine."

Diana squeezed the girl's hand. "Are you okay to walk?"

Blair rolled her eyes once more and lifted her dress an inch. Underneath, her brace was an eyesore. "This thing is just decorative at this point. In keeping with my luck."

She expected a laugh from Diana, but the girl's eyes were trained on a dark figure out on the balcony. Blair's heart stopped as Diana gently nudged her arm. "Cheer up, Queen B. Your king might be closer than you think."

With that, Diana flounced off with Eric on her arm, already swaying to the slow beat. Over the music, she said, "And so it's down to you and me, Eric. Who would've thought?"

"I'm not the ideal date, I know," Eric mumbled, dodging a few dancers.

Diana frowned, turned to him and dropped her hands onto his shoulders, squeezing tight. "You are the perfect date. Now shut up and dance with me before I lie and tell your boyfriend that you were so enamored with the way I look tonight that you've gone straight for me instead."

Eric happily obliged.

Across the ballroom, Blair was dodging its guests, smiling and nodding as girls fawned over her dress and boys claimed that they'd joined every search party to get her back. Yes, it's an original Jennifer Humphrey Design. Yes, she was ever so grateful for the team effort, but if they'd excuse her—

Her eyes settled on the boy on the balcony.

Out on the stone, gated ledge, there were a few stray juniors, chatting and drinking, but they all seemed to clear out in respect upon her entrance. Blair swallowed as she went to him, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, gasping when he turned.

Chuck wore a black coat over his white dress shirt, just casual enough to resemble the king of an abandoned kingdom. A slanted gray crown was balanced atop his head, his overgrown hair allowing a little flip at the front, his jaw chiseled to perfection. On his face was a gray mask to match the crown, giving off the illusion of black-lined scars in the darkness.

Blair suddenly felt shy. Chuck was looking at her like he couldn't breathe.

In truth—Blair smiled to herself—she couldn't blame him. Diana had styled her hair in a carefully unruly, piled up bun, a few flowers Eric had found for her tucked into the curls, dots of color in the silky brown. But a few stray curls hung at the sides of her face, curling against her cheeks, hiding the scar underneath.

"Waldorf," he murmured, slightly winded. "You clean up well." Chuck's hand twitched like he was dying to touch her but was afraid it would burn. "But I suppose I already knew that."

Blair smiled. "Of course you did." She looked to the ground, and her long lashes cast lines of shadows down her cheeks. "You came."

Chuck lifted his lips in that unnerving half-grin. "Blair…"

"Don't," Blair said, lifting her chin. "There's something I have to say."

"By all means," Chuck replied, half amused, mostly terrified, but his steady gaze wouldn't betray him.

"You can't run anymore, Chuck. Neither can I," Blair said. She leaned against the balcony wall and gestured out into the night, where the vines and stone had faded into a black nothingness. "There's nothing left. Nowhere else to go."

Chuck jaw clenched.

"I'm not going to lie to you anymore. I'm not going to pretend that what we have is near perfect. I'm not going to tell you that this is what I thought I wanted," Blair whispered at the night. "That it wasn't supposed to be Nate and I on that ballroom floor, Constance lit up in light, arms linked with Serena's."

Chuck bowed his head.

"I didn't ask for any of this. I'm a Waldorf," Blair murmured, more to herself than him. "But I am so tired of losing you, Chuck. I don't want to anymore. Because this...this is better than anything I could have ever asked for. You wonder if what I feel for you is real, as if it hasn't followed me, consumed me, every second of every day since I stepped foot in this school. As if I don't know that it was you who spun that bottle and stopped it just so that it would land on me. As if I don't know that your favorite film is Battle Royale, that your idol is James Bond, that you used to pretend to be him at our grade school parties, Chuck…why do you think I drink gin martinis?"

Chuck let out a little breath of incredulity, but Blair refused to look at him.

"I know that you have a scar behind your ear, and I'll never say what it's from aloud, but we both know that your father is like a violent ghost that you can't shake, no matter how hard I try to scare your demons away. I know that you're volatile, but I also know that you're afraid. You're Atlas, Chuck. Everything hurts because the entire world is on your shoulders. You've always taken care of all of us and pretended not to with a couple of slick jokes and awful booze, and that's what hurts the most." Blair caught her breath, took a step forward. "Because I know. I know that you love—"

What followed was the sort of kiss Blair had never experienced before. It was the sort of kiss that was desperate, wanting, like running along a riverbed and finally reaching its source. Completion. It was the sort of kiss that spanned centuries, to every great love that shared it, reincarnated through the lips alone.

It was the sort of kiss that paid attention. Chuck cradled the back of her head in his palm, pressing her back against the balcony, taking care to note every whimper, every nibble of the bottom lip, every gentle sigh. He trailed a sonata down the slope of her spine, played and played until there was nothing left but the sound of his soft groan against her skin.

When Chuck finally broke away, he said something, but in her daze, Blair could barely hear it. It sounded a lot like—

"Come to Tuscany with me."

Blair blinked, braced her hands on his chest. "Chuck?"

"Come," he whispered, his palm curving against her cheek, "to Tuscany with me. The entire summer, just you and I. No distractions, no…You say that I'm deranged. I say that you're an uptight maniac when the mood strikes. But fuck, Blair—" The curse sounded odd on his smooth tongue, "I'm Chuck Bass. And I am incredibly in love with you." He smiled, so hopeful, so easy that it almost broke her heart. "I would follow you to the end of the world."

Blair bit her lip, looked up at him through low-cast lashes. "Carrying my Manolos?"

Chuck smirked, said gently, "If they matched my tie."

Blair smiled, and the moon caught her eyes. "They always do."

And so it had come to this.

She wanted to breathe, and he did too.

They were the same brand of hard liquor, burning down your throat and to your core and to your brain. The same golden, wayward souls. They were both fucked up—but not that much.

His hand curled around hers, rough fingers sinking into her porcelain skin. There were tears in her eyes as the wind whipped at their faces. Music from the party blared behind them. Her heart sunk when his eyes flitted to hers, blazing even in the darkness.

She gasped as her foot slipped on loose gravel.

"It's now or never, Waldorf."

A pause.

A heartbeat.

"I haven't been to Tuscany," Blair finally said, giving him the smallest of glances. It spoke volumes.

In minutes, they'd left the fairytale—had they?—and her one heel clicked easy on the concrete as they fled to the limo that had been waiting from the start.

"Chuck."

The boy paused, nervous.

"What, Waldorf?"

He hesitated, squeezed her hand a little tighter, like a little boy who'd chosen the brightest balloon of all and couldn't bear to let it fly away.

"Chuck," she repeated softly. "I love you, too."

---

Author's Note: I'm crying. No, really. I am. I feel like I've been working on this chapter for centuries, and words cannot describe how badly I feel for that. I hope many of you understand that I didn't want to let you guys down. Sometimes life just gets in the way, and I hope I was able to make up for that.

I'll keep this short, as I just want to post this already, so that I can share it with all of you. If I thanked every single person who helped make this story happen with inspiring tweets and the kindest messages of encouragement, I'd have an essay's worth of names. So all I'll say is this: thank you to everyone who enrolled at Briar with my version of our favorite pair two years ago and never looked back. I love you guys. Here's to another year at our favorite boarding school.

About Part Two: While I still have to figure out my schedule and what I will and won't have time for as I graduate university this May, a part two for this story is already fully outlined. I know how this story ends, and it's not quite like this just yet. So I'll do my best to see it through. If there is a part two, it will start with a summer of magic, romance, and some tragedy in Tuscany and will follow the duo until graduation. It will continue in this very same document. So…here's hoping. Let me know what you guys think. Much love, N.