Yeah, I know I've already bent your ear tonight. However, a prompt from a bizarre source reminded me of a favourite C/B quote, and it would do us all good to remember that, once upon a time, Chuck almost died for the little piece of Blair he could still hang on to.
Enjoy.
Bruise
'I'm sorry.'
'I'm not. I got to spend a little more time with you.'
– Blair Waldorf & Chuck Bass, Gaslit.
There's a time lag, a lapse in the space between the now and the then, the here and the hereafter. He's spent his entire life trying to fathom why each day blurs into the next, why each night is like the night before and the night that follows. He's watched clocks and calendars, he's watched years turn and decades end, and yet the secret eludes him: what is it about time – the slow tick-tocking, the never-ending spirals of hands over face – that so entrances and divides? What is it about the finality of an ending that makes the interim that much sweeter? Each moment may pulse like blood beneath the skin, but that doesn't mean any particular instance could halt his heartbeat.
Monaco: the sun blazes, and he's not sure if he's alive.
Tuscany: sand, pouring through his fingers, and he's not there.
Thailand: darkness, filled with soft emptiness to drown the deeper dark.
Prague.
The truth is he's been lying to himself, born a liar, raised by a liar to be a liar. His head knows nothing but his heart knows less, his soul is non-existent but who cares; he's a swinger, a party animal, a dark horse, a black sheep. Who he is does not entail reflection, basking in the silent seconds between before and after.
Who he is should never know between.
Between is monotony.
Between is the end of him.
But the silly thing is, as he feels his heartbeat thundering in his ears and clings to the beginning even as his fingers grasp the end, he knows he'd trade every moment of before and after for just one more second, one more minute, one more smile or one more kiss or even one more knowing look, the ones he used to hate because they seemed to indicate possession: I know you and I own you. I'm here. I don't run. One word, one sound, three syllables – anything of the between.
Monaco, Tuscany, Thailand, Prague.
Scotch, absinthe, Absolut, gin.
Victrola, Palace, Empire, Gimlet.
The silly thing is that he'd trade it all for just a little more time with her.
Fin.