Chapter Two: Pack up the Moon

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

--W.H. Auden, Funeral Blues

"Blair." Serena's voice seemed to come from miles away.

It echoed in her head, ricocheted and repeated. She heard it so many times she wondered if after all she had imagined it. Blair, Blair, Blair…Blair, Blair…

"Blair!" This time it was louder and sharper, cutting through the fog in her head, and Blair looked up. She became aware of Serena's worried face hovering above her, so close to her own; her golden curls cascaded down like a curtain, shielding Blair from the world.

"What happened?" she croaked.

"I think you passed out," said Serena, biting her lip. Her eyes were red and her lashes glistened with wetness.

Are those tears for my sake? thought Blair hazily. How sad for Serena…she shouldn't ruin her perfect make-up. Blair rolled her head back against the floor. She's normally so pretty and happy. Always the prettiest. She was having trouble forming coherent thoughts. They were fleeting and disturbed, like when a little boy runs towards a flock of pigeons in the plaza, and they fly up into the air flapping their wings and screeching feverishly.

"I think I'm…" she started slowly, slurring the words, "I think I'm fine, S."

If anything, Serena seemed more alarmed than before. Blair gradually became aware of other noises; chairs being scraped back as people got to their feet around her, a somewhat familiar voice asking Serena if he should try picking her up now.

Oh no, Blair grimaced, her eyes still closed, Humphrey's going to rescue me. As soon as this had occurred to her, she caught her breath.

Why do I need to be rescued? She lay as if paralyzed a few moments longer, and then it came back in a flash: the throbbing music, the bar, the skinny blonde bitch (called Cecilia, apparently), Dan and Serena's horrified faces, and him.

She stiffened in Serena's arms let out a whimper of pain. And then she sank back into darkness.

***

"Hey, man," yelled Nate as he pounded the door, "Open up."

"Go away," came a muffled voice from inside.

"No. Chuck, come on. I need to talk to you." He slammed his fist into the door even harder. Finally it swung open.

"What the hell do you want, Archibald?" Chuck hissed. He cut a frightening figure, standing in the doorway with his hair disheveled, his eyes almost burning a hole into Nate's skull, his lips curled back in a snarl. He was practically foaming at the mouth. His fingers were curled so tightly around a glass of whiskey they were white and bloodless; his shirt looked torn as if he had tried to rip it off his own body in a fit of anger, and his silhouette was dark and menacing against the light from his room. He looked like a wild animal released from his cage. If Nate didn't know him—hadn't been his best friend practically since birth—he would have run away screaming. In fact, it took every fiber of his being to keep from running away screaming. He closed his eyes briefly, took in a deep breath, and thought to himself, you can do this. You can do this. Be a man. He opened his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I heard about what happened tonight…about what happened—" he winced in advance—"with Blair."

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO SAY HER NAME IN FRONT OF ME," erupted Chuck, pushing Nate so hard that his shoulder slammed painfully into the wall. "I thought I was VERY fucking clear when I told you—"

"No, Chuck," ground out Nate in-between gasps of pain, "we need to talk about this—"

Chuck hurled the half-empty glass into the wall and it shattered into a million pieces, spraying them both with whiskey and with tiny shards of glass.

"JESUS," glared Nate, as he massaged his injured shoulder. "Get a fucking grip."

"Get the hell out of my house," growled Chuck, reaching for the doorknob as if threatening to slam the door in Nate's face.

"Fine." Nate threw his hands up in the air and marched off. He spun around before he reached the end of the hallway.

"Did you know she passed out?" he spat, still rubbing his shoulder.

"What?" Chuck froze.

"After you left. I don't know what you said but it was so bad she started hyperventilating and she fainted a few seconds later. Humphrey had to carry her home." Nate was seething.

After a moment, Chuck asked, "How do you know this?"

Nate let out a bleak, short laugh. "Gossip Girl, of course."

Chuck didn't appear to have anything to say to this, so Nate continued.

"I'm sick of your bullshit." Chuck glanced up at him for a moment, and then looked away again. "I'm sick and tired—I've put up with a lot. You can be an ass to me, I can take it. But Blair—"

"Oh," said Chuck softly. "Of course. You want to protect Blair."

"Yes," sputtered Nate, "of course I do—she's my best friend."

Chuck's eyes grew cold. "How touching."

Nate paled, and shook with rage. "You hurt her—"

"You mean I ruined her." Chuck's voice was still low and soft. "I ruined her for you. She was Nate Archibald's pristine virgin princess until I got my dirty hands on her—"

"How dare you," cried Nate, "try to make this about that?"

"Because that's what it's about," Chuck hissed, "your newfound 'friendship' with Waldorf. Revenge."

"Revenge?" echoed Nate incredulously.

"You hated that she chose me," said Chuck. "Now it's you. She comes crying to you whenever she needs someone, so that you can comfort her. Tell me, Nate, where were you all those years that she needed you, when you actually had the right to do that?"

"I wasn't a good boyfriend," conceded Nate, his voice tremulous, "but I'm trying to make up for it now—"

"Admit it, Archibald," Chuck spat, "you love comforting Blair, telling her how much she doesn't need me, how I don't deserve her, how you two will get along just fine without Chuck Bass—"

Nate ground his teeth. "I did not take her away from you. You pushed her away. Intentionally, I might add. Why did you do that, anyway, huh, Bass?"

Chuck's eyes glittered dangerously; his mouth pressed into a thin, hard line.

"Get out," he said, and finally slammed the door.

Nate got out. But before he left, his rage took over and he screamed at the closed door, "This is it, Bass—we're over. This time for real. I'm fucking done."

There was no response, of course. Nate went home.

Except that standing outside his door were perhaps the two people he least expected to see. "Serena?" he asked. "Dan? What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk to you about something," said Serena, tossing back her hair. "Give me your keys." Nate handed them to her numbly. She opened the door and ushered them both inside.

"It's about Blair," Dan began, but Nate cut him off.

"Where is she right now?"

"She's asleep—Dorota's taking care of her," sighed Serena.

"God," said Nate angrily, "Chuck can't keep doing this to her—"

"We agree," nodded Serena, "which is why we came up with a plan."

"Oh?"

"You're going to think it's crazy," Dan warned, "but desperate times…."

"Fine," said Nate shortly, "I'll agree to anything, as long as it involves punishing Chuck Bass."

"Oh," Serena laughed, "I think we can guarantee that it does."