I think an awful lot of us are guilty of identifying with Blair in 3x22, because Chuck's done something reprehensible and we're women who would never want to be in that situation. I've always written from her point of view, about her feelings and her heartache; however, things are surely pretty cataclysmic for Chuck if he'll turn to Jenny for some kind of comfort. He loves Blair, he hates himself for losing her, and so he makes a terrible mistake. These are his thoughts on that great betrayal, and on pain and love in general.
Enjoy.

Thy Will Be Done

You hold them in your hands: pink, perfect, feathery blossoms on paper thin stems.

You're holding her in your hands: poised, perfect, feathery lashes drifting on pale cheeks, your name and your mouth on her lips as she drifts off to sleep.

You dream of her.

You wish you didn't.

You wish she hadn't made you into what you are. A wall within a wall would have been easier to remain all your life than a man, a human being with a heartbeat and enzymes and water in his lungs drowning him; how much simpler would the world have been if you'd kept your mouth shut, never offered her the chance, never let her climb that stairway to heaven and never pulled her down into hell. That's the problem, you suppose, that light meets inferno and makes you seem more fallen angel than devil in disguise. You're not redeemable, and you ought to have known.

Everyone else knew.

Not you.

It seemed a miracle, at first, that she would want you at all; and why did you want her, crave her body so badly it made you sick. Face in the glass, you see hers beside it. "Chuck," she whispers, when the body is gone but the feeling still remains. "Chuck."

Such sweetness in sin.

And you fell into grace.

If love had never existed, you know the pain would go away. You know the pain would go away – the pain of hope, which cuts you deep with every tick of the clock, the sting of her skin on your fingers both acid and balm – and that you would be free if love had never existed at all. It's a sickness, and you must cut out the tumour. You should cut out your heart and hand it to her: here, see, this is what I am. This is what you made me. It's not a disease, however, with such a simple treatment plan. You need alcohol to numb the burn, smoke to cloud her face; the treatment is palliative when it's all too clear you'll be dead in a matter of hours. Why didn't she come? Does her heart, beat, ache, flash, flare, explode? Is the world grey, or do the ashes set her eyes so?

The blossoms crumble as they hit black plastic, and you feel her slap crease your face.

You sit in the dark, in silence and in sorrow, and when the candle comes you accept it instead of the sun. You shape your lips around cold, oddly flavoured creatures and pretend they're hers. You make your body sing the kyrie of a thousand deaths, and the other doesn't even stir when you breathe her name onto the empty air.

"Blair."

"Chuck?"

And your heart drums out righteous love and fear.

Fin.