Hey there!
This started when I saw an icon I had saved on my computer that read 'I never knew a heart existed outside of make-believe', which then lead to me listening to the song that this line came from ('I Saw it on Your Keyboard' by Hellogoodbye) while I started to write.
For anyone who reads my other fics (shameless plugging, yes indeed ;) ) I am terribly sorry for the huge wait between updates, I shall try to remedy that this weekend coming when I'm finally home. Life has been crazy (cue right now when I'm meant to be doing an essay due in two days and am instead typing up random stories that seem to keep popping into my head :S ) but hopefully it'll calm down soon and I can get back to writing
Anyway, hope you all enjoy…
(It's now 5am here, an I have to get up at 9 for a mega busy day, so I really do hope you enjoy it ;) )
Title: Make-Believe
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but what exists of a 'plot'.
A/N: Bold italics is past/memories
Summary: When Blair Waldorf was little, she used to play make-believe. It was her favourite game. And he was her favourite partner.
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"It's all make-believe, isn't it?"
Marilyn Monroe
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When Blair Waldorf was little, she used to play make-believe. It was her favourite game. And he was her favourite partner.
She used to carefully craft a home for them to live in, and would set out their lives for him to act accordingly. And he would respond flawlessly.
She'd never admit it to anyone, but Chuck Bass made the perfect life partner.
Serena was too flighty and her interest would be captured by something else mere moments after Blair had suggested the game they play. Her demeanour entirely too bubbly to be contented with simply adopting the role of playing 'house' in all it (and Blair's) childlike seriousness; she usually ended up running through them all like a hurricane that Blair had to soon learn the art of recovering from.
Nate was disinterested from the start. All he cared for was making Blair happy with the least amount of effort; and so he'd appease her for a short while, all the while planting seeds to slowly overturn her own thoughts and blend them to fit with his way. He was sneakier than he was given credit for; and she was underestimated far too often: she deserved far more credit than she received for all the things she did.
Chuck, in contrast, was like a chameleon. He adapted to any situation he found himself in with a practiced ease so close to an art form it became a natural instinct that barely anyone could decipher. It was a talent he'd learned to prime at an early age; the capacity he held for a skill for which he knew would have its uses in years to come. He always was ahead of the curve.
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On the evening of Chuck's sixth birthday, Blair visited him at home and they played his version of make-believe.
She asked if they were going to play in his room, and for her answer he lead her in the completely different direction: down the long corridor, to the very end; about as far as you could get from Chuck's bedroom.
When he produced a key from his pocket, she frowned, and when he proceeded to place it in the lock; the old wrought iron clinking and churning as the kinks rolled out to allow the tiny duo access, she had a hand on her hip and a steady pout on her lips.
But when the heavy mahogany door swung open to reveal the room beyond, her eyes were in awe and her face was open.
Her patent leather shoes clicked on the panelling beneath her feet, in perfect unison with his, and as they moved, the dust danced around them in the light and made them look almost as if they were floating among the stars; dancing in the moonlight across sparkling shores.
And in that room, with nothing but an empty space; and the photo of a woman who was dark-haired and regal, with a Mona Lisa smile that betrayed a bit of mischief, despite the decrepit quality of the photograph; Chuck Bass and Blair Waldorf played make-believe.
And they never changed a thing, just used their imaginations; and they created their own little world.
It was only when she looked back on it now that her heart breaks for that little boy. The one who never knew love existed outside of make-believe.
The one who was still trying to adapt to the idea that he himself was not only a benefactor of the concept, but a recipient also.
She had always attributed their closeness to the fact that she knew him. She knew him better and longer than anyone else. She had watched him grow up and she had paid attention.
But somewhere between them playing house in her bedroom when they were six and tearing it down like a house of cards twelve years later; she had somehow lost sight of who Chuck Bass really was.
Because Chuck Bass had the most vivid imagination, even at such a young age. And Blair Waldorf couldn't help but wonder if he was just always a natural expert at reinventing the world; or if somehow they made him that way.
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She lay on the bed beside him, looking up at the ceiling till she felt the clouded wisps would burn into her eyes, and stretched out her hand next to his; feeling his warmth as she clasped her palm with his and entwined their fingers.
She glanced over at him, and found him still staring at the place she'd just departed from. She watched as he blinked, saw a single tear escape beneath his thick eyelashes and meander its way along his cheek before unceremoniously falling to the depths of the dark abyss that surrounded them.
She understood what was happening, perhaps better than anyone: because she understood him.
And so, she would make-believe with him once more. Pretend that they lived together in their castle of gold, and that everything they had come to know was not crumbling around them.
She heard his breath hitch, and she held his hand tighter.
The last time she'd tried to help him, she thought she'd succeeded. She herself was deluded into thinking that he would be ok, that he was strong; that he would make it on his own.
But sometimes you can't make it on your own; and sometimes it's better to drown yourself in the memories rather than face reality.
He would be forced to deal with everything soon enough, but for one night she would give him what he needed; an escape; a solution. She would give him this.
Tomorrow was another day, and when it came, she would be right there with him.
This time, she'd be there for him and never stray.
This time, she'd stay by his side and never leave.
This time, she'd hold his hand; and never let go.
They'd make it together.
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"You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you, Peter Pan. That's where I'll be waiting."
Peter Pan
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"Do you remember when we built a sandcastle?" she had asked.
She'd turned round in time to see his curiously calm reaction.
"On your sixth birthday, at school, we built it together in the sand pit," she had clarified. "Do you remember?"
He had shaken his head, and remained quiet.
He had been lying, but she had said nothing of this.
Instead, she had continued on.
"It stayed standing; even when all the sand dried out, it didn't collapse," she had explained. "It could have stayed like that; exactly like that; for days, weeks, months – even though inside, it was dead."
He maintained his silence and simply stared at her in return.
"And yet, just like with what happened to ours: would you ever expect to build a sandcastle and then return a year later to find it still standing?"
He had stared at her with irritation evident in his eyes. For the banality of her explanation was unneeded, and though the original question itself had been slightly unexpected, it had steadily been growing to be altogether unwelcome. When she refused to make eye contact, he had averted his gaze; and had then proceeded to sweep the entire contents atop the bar off the counter.
He had turned to her, fierce malevolence shining from the sweat on his brow, and had condescendingly quipped, "So, ultimately, you then determine that the things which contributed to its demise are those same factors which took part in its creation."
His face had been hard, his eyes dark, as he awaited her response.
"No," she had merely replied.
And then she had allowed the corner of her lips to twist upwards, in the slightest of movements that he had latched onto: his gaze following her lips at every tremor, every shake.
"That would be only be a cliché," had been her response.
She had taken a step towards him, their eyes locked, and raised her face up to his: open and engaged. Her hands had sought his out, as if the notion of blindness would be ineffectual in ever keeping them apart, and she had interlaced his fingers with her own.
"Ultimately," she had breathed out against his lips, holding tighter to his hands. "You build a stronger castle."
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When Blair Waldorf woke, it was to a women watching over her.
The picture on Chuck's bedside, the photo of his mother: it was identical to the one that was in that room all those years ago.
She turned her head to face him: watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, the slow fluttering of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the single thin tearstained line gilded into his skin.
Their hands remained entwined.
She added strength to her hold with him and migrated even closer towards him.
And as she glanced back at the regal women standing watch over his sleeping form, Blair Waldorf made a silent promise to make sure Chuck Bass never forgot who loved him first.
And tucked safely behind the elegant female; was the image of a girl with dark hair and dark eyes, a passion red bowed headband atop perfect curls, standing beside a sandcastle with a look of sheer pride in her eyes.
Yes, Chuck Bass belonged to Blair Waldorf; and he had never once forgotten it.
Because sometimes it wasn't so much that people forgot: as they needed to be reminded.
For as much as he was hers, she was his.
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"The tricks of illusion came to him so easily that it seemed he had been born knowing them and needed only to be reminded."
Ursula Le Guin, A Wizard of Earthsea
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The End.
A/N: a few lines are inspired by those in 'Disappearing Acts'.
Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think – It means a lot!
Steph
xxx