Author's note: I'm so sorry, dear readers, that I abandoned this story for such a long time. I lost the thread of it during finals, and wasn't able to pick it back up until a while after. This chapter is quite a bit longer than usual to compensate.
-
TO A FRIEND
-
I ask but one thing of you, only one,
That always you will be my dream of you;
That never shall I wake to find untrue
All this I have believed and rested on,
Forever vanished, like a vision gone
Out into the night. Alas, how few
There are who strike in us a chord we knew
Existed, but so seldom heard its tone
We tremble at the half-forgotten sound.
The world is full of rude awakenings
And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground,
Yet still our human longing vainly clings
To a belief in beauty through all wrongs.
O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!
-
--Amy Lowell
-
-
The doorbell rang around noon, shaking Serena out of her slumber. She tossed over, stifling a yawn, and was drifting back to sleep when it rang again. She frowned and placed a pillow over her heard so that it would block her ears.
"Serena," came Lily's voice from downstairs. Serena ignored it.
"Serena!" she called again, aggravated.
"I'm coming!" yelled Serena, throwing on a silk bathrobe and tripping down the stairs.
"You have a guest," said Lily, disapprovingly noting her daughter's disheveled appearance.
"And it's already midday, Serena, you should be awake and—"
"Okay, mom," Serena interrupted, running a hand tiredly through her tangled blonde hair. "Who's my guest?"
A thin girl stepped into the room from where she had been loitering in the hallway.
"I'll leave you girls alone," said Lily, picking up a stack of newspapers from the coffee table on her way to the dining room.
"Penelope?" Serena asked, deeply surprised. "What are you doing here?" Penelope had lost weight since the last time she had seen her; she looked almost skeletal. Even her cheekbones jutted out more than usual. When was the last time she had seen Penelope? Her eyes narrowed in disgust when she remembered; the day she and her friends returned from France, when Penelope insulted Blair in front of the entire student body.
"Do you know where I can score some coke?" Serena asked sarcastically.
"What?" asked Penelope, her mouth hanging slightly open.
Serena shrugged. "That's the only explanation I can come up with for your mysterious weight loss."
Penelope crossed her arms across her chest. "I need to talk to Blair, and that short, bald guy at her house said she was here."
"That 'short, bald guy'?" asked Serena furiously. "You mean Blair's stepfather?"
"Whatever," retorted Penelope. "Can I talk to her?"
Serena's eyes narrowed further. "Why?"
"She's the Queen Bee," Penelope replied shortly.
Serena raised her eyebrows skeptically. "When did you decide to reinstate her to the throne?"
"Look, are you going to tell her I'm here, or should I go upstairs myself?"
But the two girls heard Blair's faraway voice cut through their argument.
"Serena, what's going on?"
"Penelope's here," replied Serena tersely. "I'll chase her out if you want."
Blair appeared at the top of the staircase, fully and impeccably dressed. Unlike Serena, she was not a late riser; she had showered and dressed hours before and had even devoted a considerable chunk of the morning to editing her history paper for the third time.
Her lips curled up into a smirk when she saw Penelope, and she eyed her up and down.
"Heroin chic is so last year," she drawled.
"I'm modeling for Versace in fashion week," explained Penelope with obvious pride, ignoring the insult. "And models have to have perfect bodies, so I've been on an intensive workout routine."
"I would have guessed that you were in intensive chemotherapy from the way you look," replied Blair.
Serena sniggered. She didn't like her best friend hanging out with Chuck but at least there was this silver lining; it put Blair in a good mood and therefore caused her to recover her cutting sense of humor.
Penelope seemed less amused. "If you stop insulting me now, I can get to the point of my visit."
"Enlighten me."
Penelope shook her hair back and pursed her lips as if she were about to do something really distasteful. "I came here to offer you a spot in the show," she said.
Blair could not hide the surprise in her voice. "The fashion show? You want me to model for Versace?"
Penelope nodded, looking as though she had swallowed a lemon. "I have a cousin who could arrange it. He's the one who got me in, in the first place."
"Why would you arrange it?" asked Blair, placing her hand on her hip. "What do you want?"
"I want you to convince Chuck to stop blackmailing me," Penelope replied. "He knows…things about me which can't be made public. He said he'd keep quiet as long as I stayed out of school—"
"Oh!" said Serena, dawning comprehension on her face, "so that's why I haven't seen you in school!"
"Yes," said Penelope resentfully. "I had a hell of a time getting my dad to sell some story about doing my coursework from home because we were having family problems—"
"Your dad's loaded," said Blair scornfully. "It can't have been that hard to pay them off."
Penelope was visibly irritated. "Yeah, but there's a limit to how much school I can miss. If it goes on like this indefinitely they won't let me graduate!"
"Why is Chuck exiling you from Constance?" asked Serena.
Penelope looked uneasily from Serena to Blair, whose eyebrows were raised, and then back.
"He said, literally, "Blair has enough shit to deal with without her ex-posse bitching at her and getting in her way at school."
Serena and Blair both looked momentarily stunned.
"Look, Blair, please," began Penelope, who for such a proud girl was come remarkably close to begging, "convince Chuck to let me back into Constance, and I'll put you on the runway for the biggest event of the season."
Blair eyed her consideringly.
"I'll think about it," she said finally. "You can leave now."
Penelope turned to leave. "You'll let me know when you've made your decision?" she asked when she reached the doorway.
"Yes," replied Blair, and waved her hand dismissively.
*****
Chuck woke up that morning to the sound of his cell phone ringing.
He rubbed his eyes and stretched leisurely, but it kept ringing so he got out of bed to answer it.
He was in a surprisingly good mood. It was a lovely Saturday morning, he thought, looking out the window, the weather was nice; and he had spent an entire day with Blair without screwing up once. Well, it had not gone entirely smoothly, perhaps, but it had ended well, and that was what mattered.
He smiled a bit when he saw who was calling.
"Good morning, Blair," he said into the phone.
"Did I wake you?" she asked. He wondered how she could always tell.
"Yes, but don't feel bad." He had slept extremely well for twelve hours, and without any nightmares; for him this was unheard of.
"I don't feel bad," she answered. "I can't believe you were still in bed, you lazy ass."
Chuck smirked into the phone and made no answer.
"Anyway," continued Blair briskly, "I called because I'm curious to hear your explanation as to why you've been blackmailing Penelope."
Chuck froze for a moment, and tried to think of something to say. Ultimately, all he could manage was: "Why don't you come over for breakfast, and we can talk about it."
Blair sounded pleased. "You'd better make that lunch. Normal humans eat breakfast in the morning, not the afternoon."
"Brunch," Chuck compromised.
"Alright," agreed Blair.
He heard the line disconnect, and realized she'd hung up without bothering to say goodbye. He tossed his phone onto the bed, amused, and went to his closet to find something to wear.
He felt slightly nervous, looking through his clothes; he couldn't seem to find anything he wanted to wear. He realized, to his great embarrassment, that he was worried about what Blair would think of how he looked.
"When did I become such a girl?" he asked himself aloud, disgustedly, settling finally on a shirt that Nate had given him years ago as a gift.
When he was fully dressed and had brushed his teeth, he stood in front of the mirror, worriedly running his hand through his hair. It had occurred to him that he didn't know what to do about food. Was Blair expecting him to cook? Surely not; they could order in, or go out to a restaurant. He could just ask her what she preferred when she arrived. When was it reasonable to start expecting her? He glanced at his watch, impatient. It had only been fifteen minutes since they had spoken on the phone.
Pathetic, he thought as he fiddled nervously with his shirt cuffs and checked that every button of his shirt had been buttoned. But then he looked up again at his reflection in the mirror, and smiled wryly at it.
The doorbell rang, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
He went quickly to the door, beginning to say: "That was fast!" as he opened it. But the words died on his lips; Blair was not on the other side of the door. It was Nate.
"Nate," he choked out. His fingers latched onto the doorknob so hard that his knuckles were whitening.
"Chuck," Nate said grimly. "I need to talk to you about Blair."
Chuck swallowed hard. "Just say whatever you want to say, Nate."
He said the name, "Nate", so softly—almost gently—that for a second Nate almost forgot his painful errand, almost forgot the past year, and remembered his childhood friend. His best friend, who loved what he loved and hated what he hated. His best friend, who put him above everything and everyone else, and who would never dream of betraying him. It was too painful to think about; it left a sour taste in his throat that he tried to swallow.
"I'm not mad at you, Chuck," he said sadly.
"Then why are you here?" Chuck asked brusquely.
"I want you to do the right thing," Nate replied firmly. "I want you to leave Blair. Permanently, this time."
Chuck's eyes widened in shock, and it was a moment before he could speak. When he did, his tone was as cold and sharp as ice.
"And on what grounds do you presume to come to my house uninvited, after physically assaulting me only a matter of hours before, to make this demand, Nathaniel?"
"I love her," Nate said, certain of himself now, his voice clear as a bell. "Can you say the same of yourself?"
Chuck's muscles tightened, and his voice grew even colder. "Is that why you want me to leave her?" His eyes narrowed. "You think I should leave her because you want her. And I should let you have her, because I always give you what you want; and I always have, no matter what, because that's what I thought it meant to be a best friend—"
"No," Nate interrupted loudly. "That's not why I think you should let her go. It has nothing to do with me."
"Why, then?" asked Chuck.
Nate pushed past him, into the living room, making it clear that he had no intention of leaving immediately; that whatever he had to say could not be said briefly. His golden hair glinted in the sunlight, but his face was cast in shadow.
"Come here," he said over his shoulder, "and I'll tell you."
And Chuck followed him with dread, and with a heavy weight in his heart.
****
Blair knew that something was wrong the moment she arrived and saw the front door wide open, and Chuck nowhere in sight. She entered and closed it behind her, frowning. She called out, tentatively, "Chuck?"
There was no answer.
She walked through several rooms, repeating his name, trying to keep her anxiety out of her voice. She felt a stab of relief when she entered the bedroom, and found him there, sitting on his bed. But the relief died when she saw the tension in his posture, and noticed that he was nursing a glass of scotch.
"Bit early to be drinking, isn't it?" she said, trying to keep her voice light.
"What do you want?" he asked in response, somewhat rudely.
"I—well, I—" she stammered in response. "I know that you've been blackmailing Penelope for my sake. I wanted to know why."
"Why do you think I did?" he returned, tossing back his scotch.
She was still taken aback by his harsh tone, but she composed herself and said, simply, "I think you knew Penelope was causing me stress, and you got rid of her because you want me to be happy."
She actually smiled a bit, waveringly, and it struck him that she sounded so certain of his good intentions and of his affection.
"It sounds like there's nothing left for me to explain," he said, and there was an underlying sarcasm to his tone that he had not intended.
The smile faltered. She looked like a little girl suddenly, in her mary jane pumps and her schoolgirl skirt and her signature headband.
"What is it you want from me, Blair?" he asked, giving the words special significance.
Blair whitened. "How could you even ask me that?"
He rambled on, as if he had not heard her--"a five carat ring, a monogrammed set of china, a house in the Hamptons, 2.1 kids, sec-ur-ity, com-mm-it-ment--" he stretched out the words, sounding out each syllable scornfully.
"What's wrong with all of that?" Blair asked in a voice full of betrayal. "Why shouldn't I want all that from you, someday?"
Chuck stared at her incredulously.
"I'm Chuck Bass," he said in the voice of one explaining to a child that two-plus-two equals four.
Blair felt suddenly ill; her hands trembled, and she held them awkwardly at her sides, as if she couldn't think what to do with them; her stomach did a strange flip, a sick feeling that always started there when she was distressed and worked its way up her throat if she was not careful.
Chuck saw that she had stopped looking at him. Her eyes were darting nervously, first staring at the bed, the lamp on the endtable, at the wall behind him, and finally at the floor. And their expression--he couldn't quite put his finger on it, though he could usually read her like a book. He expected to see anger, but more than anything she looked ashamed.
"If all these things are--off the table," she said haltingly, in a voice that quavered and was so unlike hers, "then what are you offering me, exactly?"
"Who said I was offering you anything?" Chuck retorted immediately--and then flinched at her expression. Why was his first impulse always cruelty?
He had just begun to see clearly, in the inexpressibly painful past hour, that this was the pattern he and Blair had followed throughout the course of their relationship. As soon as things started going well he would say or do something unspeakably cruel with the hopes of permanently driving her away. And then she would leave him, heartbroken; and later she would maybe give him another chance when he was stupid enough to ask for it, but each encounter left her weaker, and each time she trusted him less. He was too much of a coward to break the vicious circle, and so was she, though only he could be blamed for perpetrating it.
He wanted to tell her, You're the only way out, Blair; you have to end it to save yourself. I'm too much of a monster to do it. I've already tried, I don't think I can try again.
But he was too cowardly even to say these things, and he didn't think she would understand.
And there was more that he wanted to explain to her, things that even he did not fully understand; to do with their childhood, and with loyalties, and friendships.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, and her eyes flashed. Her red lips set into a rigid, thin line, and her cheeks reddened. He could see that she was beginning to hate him; he felt something twisting in his stomach, something bitter and acidic. Was she going to hit him? She looked like he might; he didn't blame her. He waited for it.
She didn't hit him; she just stood still, her cheeks flushing dark red. He imagined she was torn between two influences; on the one hand there was whatever love she might still harbor for him, on the other there was her pride—the fact that she was Blair Waldorf, that she was made for finer things, that he was not worth the dust beneath her feet, that a Waldorf was meant to command others and not be used cruelly by them. He thought, bizarrely, of a line from Ovid: Love and Dignity cannot abide in the same House.
And still she stood before him, the line of her jaw haughty and stubborn. There was a bitter pride in her eyes, and they cut like a knife; it hurt him to look at her.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked finally, in a monotone.
He began to wish she had hit him instead.
He stared at her as she grew angrier and angrier, her eyes narrowing.
"Well?" she hissed.
She was on the verge of walking out, possibly forever. It would be so easy to just push her a little bit more.
"It's easier," he heard himself say, "when you have nothing to lose."
"You do have something to lose," Blair rejoined, incensed. "How would you like it if I walked out that door right now and never came back?" Her tone was of anger and she glared at him furiously--but underneath the simmering anger she felt fear and panic.
She waited breathlessly for him to respond, feeling more and more that this was a critical turning point in her life.
He did not answer, but only looked back at her steadily, those dark eyes hooded and unreadable, as they always were.
There was a blockage in her chest. She tried to breathe through it, fighting a wave of rising panic; he still said nothing.
"I'll leave right now," she said in a steely voice, as soon as her breathing had become more regular. "If losing me means nothing to you then I'll leave right now. I won't stick around forever like a victim, waiting for you to abuse me."
Chuck remained silent, and Blair spun around and marched to the door.
Halfway there she broke into a run; blood was pounding in her ears and her surroundings blurred slightly in her eyes. She reached blindly for the door, her hand shaking, and was rattling the doorknob frantically when she felt a weight pressed against her back and shoulders. A hand reached down to covers hers and clasped it tightly, preventing her from opening the door.
She felt the muscles of his chest and shoulders pressing into her back, and shocks ran through her nerves where he touched her.
She spun around to find herself pinned up against the wall, one of her shoulder blades jammed painfully into the doorknob.
Chuck held her tightly while she struggled, until she stopped; his nose was inches from hers; in his eyes was a look of wild pain, which surprised her so much that she gasped aloud.
"Don't leave," he said, breathing so harshly that she could feel his ribcage vibrating. "Please don't leave," he repeated.
"I—" she began, and his eyes darted from her lips to her eyes, and back, as he waited for her to finish her sentence. He held her wrist pinned against the wall, and could feel her pulse galloping. His grip on her wrist and on her upper arm tightened inadvertently, and she gasped in pain and perhaps in fear; and he noticed and let go of her immediately and stepped away, shocked.
"You're afraid of me," he said, and his voice wavered; "aren't you."
"No," she said breathlessly, and pulled him back, cradling his head in her hands, doing all she could to erase the look on his face. Her fingers whispered feverishly across his skin. There was still a fluttering in her stomach, but not the sick kind. The pain and the fear and the anger melted away, and there was only Chuck, his jaw tense beneath her hands, and his eyes, so sad and serious that it broke her heart a little to look at them.
"I'm not afraid of you," she repeated, and leaned forward to plant a string of butterfly kisses along his jaw; she pressed her palm to his chest and felt his heart pounding, his skin warm to the touch even through the layers he wore. After a moment he leaned down to push her against the door and kissed her hard.
She felt lightning strike through her, melting her insides, turning her bones to glass. He leaned down to kiss the pulse in her throat, and his lips burned against her skin; and then his mouth moved back up to hers, and all thought dissolved, or at least all ability to separate thoughts into cogent threads of consciousness. She felt her knees buckling beneath her so she had to hook her arms around his neck so as not to fall, and he lifted her up so she could wrap her legs around him.
He fumbled with the buttons at the back of her dress; his fingers scorched her skin.
"I'm sorry," he said, and she kissed his temple, and his eyes and nose and mouth, and he shuddered.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, almost stammering, "I just—I can't seem to figure out how to let go."
She was too caught up in a fever to pay attention to his words; she pressed her body to his and kissed him again, more deeply, and her eyelids fluttered shut and against them she saw little bursts of light.
He had mostly slipped off her dress by now, and his hands burned her skin. She pulled off his sweater, desiring desperately to feel his skin against her skin.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered against her neck, after a few moments, tracing a line across her spine and up to the wings of her shoulder blades with his fingertips. She shivered and said nothing.
"Tell me to stop now," he said more insistently, "or I won't be able to."
"Then don't," she replied, melting against him, pressing her lips once more to his, and without breaking the kiss he wordlessly lifted her off the wall and carried her to his bed.