Author's note: I apologize again for the long delay; I have already written first drafts of the next couple chapters, though, so the next update shouldn't be far away. Also, keep in mind that the more you review, the more I am motivated to work hard and update quickly. :)

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- The Prohibition

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Yet love and hate me too;

So these extremes shall ne'er their office do;

Love me, that I may die the gentler way;

Hate me, because thy love's too great for me

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-John Donne

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Chuck emerged from a deep sleep to find himself lying on the floor of a white church. It was a beautiful, quaint, old-fashioned church; yellow light streamed in through the high windows, and the walls, the pews, and the pulpit were a sparkling clean white. It was entirely empty and quiet.

He got to his feet uncertainly. "What am I doing here?" he asked aloud, and then clamped his mouth shut because his words had echoed in a sharp and disturbing manner, shattering the peace and solemnity of the empty place of worship.

He looked around at the bare pews and tried to imagine the church full of people, as it was no doubt meant to be; people who gathered together to pray to a god. It was a concept Chuck had never understood, and had always been impatient with. He had never felt the impulse to put his blind faith into something he could not control, something that probably did not exist. He considered himself too rational to believe in any kind of god; he was a man of the world, and was doused in the cold reality of it. He was a businessman.

He tried to imagine the motives of the people who came to this church. Perhaps praying together made them feel less alone and more hopeful, as if they were nurturing a personal bond with their God and with each other, one that was meaningful and lasting. Perhaps it helped them ignore the reality, which Chuck had always known to be this: that the universe is indifferent, and that we all die alone.

He remembered, suddenly, Blair's strange desire to confess to a priest after that first night, so long ago now. He frowned at the memory. Blair was not even a Catholic, and she was as much an atheist as he was. What desperation had driven her to look for answers in that most unlikely of all places? What confusion, what helplessness, what desolation she must have felt! He could not imagine it. It was a very different kind of searching need—a different kind of blind faith—than that of the anonymous people in the church that he had imagined to himself.

Sick of these thoughts, Chuck got to his feet and walked down the aisle; at the other end was an open door, and beyond it was a thicket of trees. He walked out the door and found himself in the middle of a forest. There was no forest path to follow, but his feet led him onwards, through the trees, picking out their own path without any doubt.

And then he reached a clearing, and in the center of the clearing was a young girl, kneeling on the grass; and all about her were strewn heaps of brilliant blue flowers. Her head was bent down, and her eyes shut. Her palms were pressed together, as if she were praying.

"Blair!" he called out.

And when she heard his voice her eyes opened; she stood up and faced him, and her cheeks flushed bright as the sunset and her lips curved into a wide smile.

And she was the same Blair he had seen in the greenhouse in France; as confident and as happy and as alive and beautiful. Except that this time she was smiling at him, and not at his best friend.

She held out her hands, still smiling brilliantly, and he walked forward and took them.

"I am my beloved's," she sang, "and my beloved is mine."

"You're quoting the old testament," he noted with surprise.

"Don't you have faith?" she asked.

"No," he answered. "I don't believe in God."

"Neither do I," she replied. "But do you have faith in anything?" she asked. "Do you have faith in me?"

He was silent.

"I love you," she said, her voice as clear as a bell. "I will love you forever. Don't you believe that I am telling you the truth?"

He stared into her eyes, and they were very clear and soft. She wore the same yellow dress she had worn on that day in the greenhouse in France, and there were flowers twined in her dark hair.

Finally, he found the courage to speak.

"All I want is for your words to be true; and if they are not, then I wish always to be blind."

Her hands trembled suddenly within his grasp, and she let go of them, and clutched at her stomach. Her face turned ashen, and she let out a moan.

"What's wrong?" he asked fearfully, and reached forward to pry her hands away; behind them he saw blood seeping through the cloth of her yellow dress. A terrible scream ripped through him.

"Oh God," he cried, "Oh, no, no, no—Blair—"

He placed his hands over her stomach, pressing so hard on the wound that his knuckles shone white; but blood seeped through his fingers.

"She won't survive," interrupted a new voice, behind him.

Chuck jerked his head around, breathing harshly, and saw a young boy with fair hair who had the face of someone Chuck loved—but it had been distorted almost beyond recognition.

He clutched a dagger in his right hand and it was dripping with blood.

"You did this?" cried Chuck with a wild desperation in his voice; "did you kill her?"

"No," Nate replied coldly. "You have only yourself to blame for that."

Wielding a bloody knife, Nate looked fiercer and more threatening than Chuck had ever imagined he could; strange, mad lights danced in his eyes. His ordinarily handsome face was frozen in a mask of fury.

Chuck turned away, focusing entirely on Blair, who lay very still on the ground. He held her small hand in his own, and it was as cold and lifeless as marble. He began to weep, hot, acidic tears that temporarily blinded him.

Nate watched him cry, and after a few moments his mask began to melt away. When Chuck next looked up he saw only an ashen pale, freckled boy with haunted eyes. And then Nate turned away, and walked into the forest, and never looked back.

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"Chuck?" came a worried voice from far away.

"Chuck." He felt his arm being roughly shaken, and then he felt suddenly as though his shoulder socket were being dislocated.

"Ow," he said, opening his eyes. "That was completely unnecessary." He rubbed his shoulder in feigned resentment; really he felt relieved to be free of the pull of such a vivid and horrible dream.

Blair pouted. "That's what you get for never telling me what your nightmares are about. What the hell was that?"

"I dreamt that Dan Humphrey was performing a naked rendition of 'I Feel Pretty' and I was forced to watch."

Blair couldn't help but crack a smile, and after making a few snide comments about the apparent danger she faced of her boyfriend leaving her for Dan, she disappeared into the bathroom to shower and perform her complex and lengthy daily beauty rituals.

As soon as Blair closed the door behind her Chuck let out a deep breath and rubbed his temples, shaken.

He crawled back into bed to rest for a few more minutes, settling in the exact spot Blair's body had warmed while she slept, and then he felt calmer. When he heard the shower turned off he climbed out of bed and got dressed. He got a newspaper from his desk and scanned the morning headlines while he waited for Blair to come out and fill him in on the schedule for that day. During the past few weeks Blair had been staying over frequently, and they had fallen into certain habits. They had a daily routine now: Blair would shower, and afterwards, while Chuck showered, she would write a list of all the things they were going to do that day. She would then show Chuck the schedule, which usually met with approval on his part, as well as some amusement; the lists were invariably meticulously organized down to the last detail, even allocating time for limo transportation, and sometimes extra time for whatever they chose to do in the limo that might be time-consuming.

He heard Blair turn on the blow dryer through the bathroom door. Soon enough he knew that she would come through that door with perfect hair and make up, all dressed up—and absolutely poised. Sometimes he wished that he could see the process. He wished he could watch her fix her hair elegantly, securing it with a headband, could watch her swipe mascara through her lashes and brush rouge across her cheeks. He could picture her doing these things, and to him it was an intimate and lovely picture. But she always locked the bathroom door, insisting that he could only see her when she was perfect.

Finally, the door opened, and Blair emerged, as perfect as he had expected. He put down his newspaper and leaned toward her to brush a tendril of hair behind her ear, and inhaled her delicate perfume.

"What's on the list today?" he asked.

She smiled mischievously. "You'll see."

He chuckled and walked past her into the bathroom, and when he observed the condensation on the mirror and the dewy drops of water on the shower curtain he frowned slightly, involuntarily.

"I don't understand why we have to shower separately every morning," he called over his shoulder to Blair. "I would much rather shower with you."

He could hear Blair's laughter in the other room. "You know perfectly well what showering together would lead to, Chuck Bass," she said.

"Yes I do," he replied. "And the problem with that is?"

"I'm on a morning schedule! I need to be at school on time; I don't need distractions."

"Distractions can be good when they involve wet, naked—"

"Alright," Blair interrupted loudly. "From now on we shower twice a day—alone in the morning and together at night. Deal?"

Chuck smirked as he stepped into the shower. "Deal," he asserted.

He tilted his face upwards in the shower so that the onslaught of water would hit it directly. He screwed his eyes shut and concentrated hard on the painful sensation, on clearing his mind, willing himself not to dwell on the most disturbing images and fragments from his dream. But Blair in her bloodstained yellow dress lingered there still and would not fade entirely, and it was vain to hope the pounding water would wash away the memory.

Chuck turned the water off, his mouth set in a grim line, and dressed himself. He tried to smile in the mirror, noticing Blair would be quick to notice that something was wrong if he did not try very hard to conceal it. And he convinced himself that he could not tell her; it would upset the delicate balance they had achieved. It was not the right time.

"Are you ready?" asked Blair impatiently. "We have an appointment."

"What might that be?" he asked, running a towel through his hair.

"We're going to the Met with Serena and then having coffee," said Blair brightly.

Chuck did not complain, though he did not relish the thought of seeing his step-sister, whom he felt sure did not approve of his relationship with Blair. But he shrugged, thinking that she might after all distract Blair from minding Chuck's troubles.

They found Serena in the impressionism wing, texting on her blackberry instead of looking at the paintings.

"Oh, hey," she looked up and smiled at Blair, ignoring Chuck for the moment. "Sorry; I was just checking in with Dan."

"That's fine," said Blair. "Have you been here long?"

"No," replied Serena, returning her blackberry to her purse and then placing her hands on her hips awkwardly. "I just got here. Were you looking for me long?"

"No," Blair shook her head.

A brief, uncomfortable silence ensued. Why am I awkward with my best friend? Blair mused. It is, I suppose, the first time Chuck and I have gone on an outing in public as a couple…she glanced at Chuck, and was struck suddenly by how pale and drawn he was. There were tight lines around his mouth and eyes, as if he were compressing something.

She saw Serena looking curiously at Chuck too, and she cast about for something to say.

"How's Dan?" she said finally. "I haven't talked to him in a while."

"He's great," said Serena brightly, "he wants to see you and…" her smile faded a bit, "actually he mentioned something about wanting to see you and Chuck, too."

Chuck snorted. "What, like a double date?"

Blair colored slightly; Serena looked faintly annoyed.

"I think it's a good idea," said Blair firmly. Chuck glanced at her, incredulous.

"What?" her voice was sharp. "He's one of my best friends, after all."

"Well, let's do dinner then," said Serena with an expression that said, clearly, "okay, what the hell!"

"Good," Blair agreed. Chuck suddenly left her side to look more closely at the paintings in the gallery.

"Something's bothering him," Blair sighed, when he was out of earshot.

"What is it?" asked Serena curiously, following him with her gaze.

"I don't know," admitted Blair, in a tone of fatigue and defeat. "With him, it could be a million things."

"I think I might know," said Serena seriously, blinking her blue eyes.

Blair was taken aback. "What?" she asked urgently.

"I've been in touch with Nate," explained Serena. "The two of them had a fight. Nate hates him, really hates him—he called him many names over the phone."

"That's hardly news," said Blair.

"Well, it's been ongoing," elaborated Serena, "and I think it's worse than you might think."

"Worse than Nate attacking him in public?" asked Blair sharply.

Serena only patted her arm sympathetically in response.

Blair sighed. Then she looked up, and saw that Chuck was walking back towards her, and her heart lifted a bit in spite of everything.

"What do you think of Monet?" she asked.

Chuck shrugged. "He was a skillful but short-lived decorator."

Blair rolled her eyes. "We don't have to talk about art if you don't want to."

"Good," said Chuck, "I've been to this wing of the Met a million times, and I hate impressionism anyway."

"Fine," she snapped. "Let's talk about something else."

Chuck arched his eyebrows. "Did you have a specific topic in mind?"

"Yes," Blair said, feeling emboldened. "Serena has been talking to Nate, and apparently he absolutely detests you and thinks you're a worthless bastard." Her voice softened towards the end in sympathy for him, and she almost regretted bringing up the subject at all.

Chuck froze. "I've been called worse things by better men," he said frostily. But Blair knew better.

"Isn't there anything we could do—to try to salvage your friendship? I know how much he means to you—"

"No," Chuck spat. "He doesn't mean anything to me, and there's nothing anyone can do."

Blair's eyes flashed. "That's a lie," she said firmly. "And maybe if you actually made an effort--"

"Enough," interrupted Serena. "Enough—both of you. Can we please just go get coffee? Unless anyone actually wants to look at art."

Chuck felt momentarily grateful to Serena.

"Nate has other friends, anyway," continued Serena, "friends who don't lie to him or steal his girlfriend."

And just like that, the gratitude was gone. Serena steered them towards a nearby café while Chuck seethed.

"That's pretty rich, you condemning me for stealing my best friend's girlfriend. At least I didn't feel the urge to flee the country afterwards like a silly blonde prat."

The waitress brought their cappuccinos and Blair pursed her lips to keep from grinning as she stirred sugar into her coffee. She was slightly amused in spite of herself.

"Chuck," said Serena distastefully, "if you were my boyfriend, I'd put poison in your coffee."

Chuck smirked and replied, "Serena, if you were my girlfriend, I would drink it."

***

Chuck liked to stay up late at night because during the day he never had time to think. Or maybe that wasn't it exactly; he had time to think, but his most interesting ideas came to him at night. The daylight hours were more cheerful, always well-ordered. There was always something to be done, one needed always to be practical and to concentrate on daily concerns. Chuck liked to go for walks at night. He liked sitting on a solitary bench in the park, shrouded in darkness, only the sound of the wind swooshing through trees for company. The world was transformed when everybody was asleep, and he awake; she felt its mystery and its beauty more acutely. There was a certain solitude, in the park at night, beyond the power of romance or fancy; sometimes beyond pain. At school he felt alone but his awareness of the fact was impeded by artificial restraints on his attention; by meaningless interactions with other students, by the need to study, or in his case, to pretend to take notes. At night in the park there were no distractions and he could see through the trees to the gate at the end of the park, to the road beyond it. It made him feel more alive, and also less so. The wind, and the air, the stars--all beloved by the poets, whom he had read. But sometimes they seemed to him only to be gas and vapor, particles, and cold emptiness, and hollow stars. And other times he could form no such impressions, was struck dumb, had to let it soak into his skin. He grew to like this the best. Am I alone in my estrangement, he wondered, or is that the secret burden that all men carry? At night he thought, I understand nothing of this boundless universe; I am so small, and so ignorant and confused, and so insignificant.

Sitting on his bench in the park, Chuck drew his blackberry out of his pocket on impulse. He texted Blair, telling her where he was and asking her to join him. It was the first time he had ever even thought of sharing his private, intense little world of the night with anyone else.

She did not reply, and a wave of disappointment washed through him. He sat there still, but he no longer felt the usual wonder and mystery of the stars and the park. He felt only lonely and cold, and he began to think about leaving.

And then, suddenly, he saw a slim figure—only a dark silhouette in the night—approaching him, and his heart began to pound in his chest irregularly. He recognized her immediately even though he couldn't see her; it was a recognition that went beyond the way she looked to the way she was.

"Chuck," she said softly, as she emerged from the shadows.

"You came," he whispered, shifting so that she could sit on the park bench beside him.

"Of course I did," she smiled.

"I'm glad you did," he replied, and his eyes were warm. He took her hand in his own and her fingers burned at the touch. Her heart fluttered irregularly in her chest; she had not seen him let his guard down like this in a while. She knew that she had a chance now, and that she ought to take it.

"Now," she said in a quiet but decisive voice, "you have to tell me why you've been having nightmares, and what they have been about." She was about to add, it hurts me that you keep it from me, but she thought better of it.

Chuck sighed deeply. "I always have nightmares," he said. "It's not a recent phenomenon."

Blair stared at him.

"I know," he said, answering her unasked question. "It's a bad thing. And it's strange. But I don't know why it is, and I can't tell you."

He chose not to tell her that they had gotten worse recently. He did not tell her that they always featured her—and recently, also Nate. Several nights ago he dreamt that he was attending Blair and Nate's wedding. Since then, his dreams had grown more strange and frightening. Two nights ago he dreamt that he was in a room full of mirrors, and that the only way out was through a narrow doorway in which Nate was standing, barring Chuck from exiting. And in the dream Nate said to Chuck, "Blair is outside this room, and the only way to get past me is to kill me."

And Chuck did not want to kill him; but he kicked him and hit him many times, until he fell on the floor gasping in pain, and he watched himself doing these things in the mirror. This went on until Nate had finally had enough, and Chuck was at last able to push past him and out the door.

But Nate grabbed onto his ankle as he tried to leave:

"Remember," he whispered, flinching from the pain, "remember that you were mine first."

And with that the dream ended. It had been the second-worst dream to date; the worst was the dream he had had just the night before.

Chuck shuddered as he remembered it, and wrapped his arm around Blair to remind himself that she was warm and alive, and tried to forget.