He is on his fourth drink - but who is counting, really? - and currently doing his very best to ignore that fucking ever-present tightness in his chest. He tells himself that she doesn't look that good in that navy dress anyways.
He is throwing back the last of his drink when Al walks through the door, and if he wasn't Chuck Bass he would breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of her.
She accepts a champagne flute from one of the waiters, winks and says something to the man that makes him blush and offer her a shy smile in return. The poor man is following her with his eyes as Al walks over to Chuck hurriedly with a huge smile on her face. The fringed hem of her purple, flapper-style dress dances around her legs.
"That poor man will never get over you." He states with a smirk, and she laughs at his opening line as she leans in to kiss him on the cheek.
"The uniforms look great Fish; he in particular looked more than." Al winks, "And I do believe in telling the truth to gorgeous boys in uniform."
"Cougar," He says with a smirk. "If he calls in sick due to heartache I will call you to fill in for him."
"I would totally rock a French maid outfit," Al muses, sipping her champagne and offering the waiter another wink.
Serena excuses herself to go find Nate, and she is once again left alone out on the balcony with nothing but her thoughts for company.
Company she wouldn't mind to get rid of to be honest.
She is getting a little cold in her dress, but isn't particularly interested in rejoining the party, the glances, and the whispers.
His eyes are haunting her. Even though he is not around, the memory of him looking down at her in concern seems to be etched in the back of her eyes.
She can't handle it when he is like that - when he is being nice. It is unsettling and gives her stomach the most unwelcoming feeling.
She keeps reminding herself of what he did. But as he looks at her like that, the memories seem to fade, only to be replaced with another one. The memory of her doing something she has always been good at, (maybe too good in fact) stabbing someone where it will hurt the most.
She remembers it like it was yesterday. What she did, how he found out, and how she could literally see his eyes darken and become clouded with hurt. Then there had been nothing in them but dark ice and steel.
"There you are!" Serena exclaims as she walks back into the ball room, finally having come to terms with the inevitable.
"I was just about to retrieve you from whatever Prince Charming who was most likely chatting you up out on that balcony."
"I left a heap of heartbroken princes outside," She smirks, going along with her friend's attempt to lighten her mood. "Poor bastards didn't know what hit them."
Serena bursts out laughing and smiles. Accepting another drink from one of the waiters, she looks out over the room, and that is when she sees it – sees her.
For a moment she feels as if the room starts to spin around her, transferring her back to a quiet corridor. She can almost feel the smell of detergent, hear the echoes of a girl laughing in her head. For a split second she feels so light-headed that she fears she might pass out or throw up. Through the haze, she can vaguely hear Serena calling out her name.
"Blair!" Serena snaps worriedly, grabbing a hold of her arm. "Is something wrong?"
"Who is that?" Her voice is a barely there whisper. She can barely hear the words over the buzzing noise in her head.
"Who is what?" Serena replies questioningly, but she doesn't stick around to repeat her question.
Her feet seem to be moving of their own volition as she is walking across the marble floor, passing by couples dancing and chatting. But she only has eyes for him, standing there with her.
Nate joins in on the conversation he and Al are having - and his two friends immediately gets into a discussion about some game or whatever - and for the first time all night he can feel some of the tension in his shoulders ease off.
It doesn't last long before the tension returns, and he can feel her eyes on him. She is by his side before he knows it.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"
Her voice is pure ice. He is startled not only by the tone of her voice but by the fact that she is even addressing him at all. But most of all he is confused about the change of game rules and their habit of avoiding each other. Looking over to Nate, he can tell that his friend is equally confused.
He then follows her gaze to Al, who smiles in reply to her harsh words. He can see a hint of uncertainty in Al's eyes as well.
"I'm Allison," Al offers, but Blair ignores her completely since she is too busy staring him down.
"Chuck and I are friends from Harvard."
"Friends from Harvard." Blair repeats mockingly. "That is cute…and it's just lovely how the two of you have managed to stay together all these years."
Al opens her mouth to object but he puts a hand on her arm to silence her. He knows that when Blair is in a mood like this it is better for the innocent bystanders not to say anything to avoid becoming collateral damage.
"Something on your mind?" He replies in Al's place. "We are in the middle of something."
"I guess you don't really have a problem with his inabilities to remain faithful." Blair says with a wicked sneer, once again addressing Al. "I guess that is the upside to being an immoral whore."
"Whoa, hang on!" Al objects, not the one to simply stand by and be offended. "Look, I don't know what…"
"What the hell is your problem?" He interjects - his confusion moulding into anger from her offensive outbreak.
She doesn't reply.
She just looks at him – eyes shooting daggers - as she bends her wrist and spills the entire content of her glass down the neckline of Al's dress. Al steps away with a shocked gasp.
Not breaking eye contact with him for a second, she then sends the empty glass to the floor. The expensive crystal shatters into tiny, glimmering pieces and the sudden noise catches the attention of nearly everyone in the room.
She storms off, so full of suppressed anger that she has tunnel vision. She is out the door and on the street within seconds. She is just about to take off down the street as someone grabs a hold of her wrist, forcing her to turn around and face her capturer.
"What the hell is your problem?" He spits and his eyes hold none of the concern from earlier. The softness has been replaced with a searing anger that matches her own.
Good. She can handle anger.
"You have got some nerve!" She spits back just as infuriated. "That was a low blow even for you!"
"You are so goddamn unstable! Think you could explain your crazy outbursts to the rest of us so that we'd have a chance to keep up?"
"...believe me when I say that I am fully aware of just how stupid it was of me to call you!"
She has been ranting all the time during his questioning and is yelling at him now.
"...and I regret it more with every passing second! You are such a pig!"
"…what the hell are you on?" He shouts back, not listening any longer either.
"…I was drunk and obviously out of my right mind, you asshole! And you just have to bring your whore here to rub her in my face?"
"Don't you dare call her that again."
His voice is nothing but a threatening growl now. The contempt in his eyes would be heartbreaking if she allowed herself to notice.
"You don't get to have an opinion on whom I spend my time with!" He snaps, his voice back in a higher pitch. "You lost the right the minute you…"
He trails off, and the unspoken reminder of what went down between them creates a deafening silence as they stand opposite each other. Both of them are breathing heavily and simmering with resentment.
She is the first one to break the sudden stillness.
"And you don't get to tell me what to do!" She yells back at him, close to stomping her Manolo-clad foot. "What goes around comes around!"
"You couldn't be more right."
She raises her hand but stops right before she sends it smashing against his cheek. Something is holding her back that she isn't able to interpret.
Later on she won't be able to tell who made the first move – which one of them was the one to take the initiative. But all of a sudden she finds herself pressed up against the wall of the brick building they were standing in front of, her lips crashing against his violently, and her fingers intertwining in his hair.
Her mind - that seconds ago was a whirlwind of mixed emotions - is now blissfully blank. Her body - that was numb - is now anything but as she pulls him closer, eliciting a soft groan from his lips.
His hands slide up her thighs and the sound escaping her lips in response brings her back to reality – and the realization of what she is doing hits her.
"No!" She manages to blurt out while she pushes him away with all the strength she can gather. Her arms feel like they have lost all strength and her breathing is strained. She quickly moves away from her position against the wall. "I am not one of your whores!"
"You've got that right." He bites back. She can tell that his breathing is equally irregular, and he pulls a hand through his hair and straightens his tux. "I am not known to share my toys, and you seem to get around."
"Go to hell."
And with those final words she rushes off on shaking legs, forcing herself not to look back.
She is walking alone in the now chilly New York night, doing her best to pretend that she doesn't know where she is going, or what she is thinking.
Even as she walks inside the building and through the lobby, she still refuses to acknowledge it as her intended destination.
The building was finished last year and has quickly become both a landmark in the New York skyline, as well as a greatly talked about project. It houses a vast amount of luxurious apartments as well as a group of even more extravagant penthouses and it has become the place to live for the young and successful. The company – she refuses to think of the name because that would indicate that she is here on purpose, which she is not - responsible for the building's design and construction has been represented with numerous awards for their innovative design and environmental friendly thinking.
As she takes the private elevator to the top floor she is still feigning ignorance. When the elevator comes to a halt reality hits her, and for a second she wishes to be far, far away.
Then the doors open before her and she is met by a confused and annoyed pair of eyes.
He open his mouth to speak, but - afraid that if he does, he will force reality back into her mind - she silences him with an uncompromising, "Don't".
He is back at his penthouse, exhausted and dead set on blocking out any memory of the night's events. He is also contemplating the most suiting cure to help erase the vivid memory of her soft lips against his and her hands pulling at his hair.
When the elevator announces the arrival of a guest with a merry ding, he knows.
He just knows who his late night visitor is. Still, when the doors slide open, he opens his mouth to object. He is too tired to fight with her. Too exhausted to hate her. Not entirely sure why she still feels the need to fight.
But as she cuts his unspoken protest off with a "don't", the look in her eyes doesn't tell of hate, upcoming arguments or vindictiveness, but simply mirrors his own confusion.
"Don't" She pleads once more, and they both stand there for a moment, looking at each other hesitantly. Both are trying to decipher the look in the other person's eyes and struggling to find their bearings.
Then in a heartbeat they both give up their futile attempts, and before she can really register what is happening, she finds herself pressed up against a wall for the second time that night.
It is violent and rough. There is no tenderness in the way his lips find the right spot on her neck, and no patient anticipation in the way she hastily rids him of hindering layers of clothing. No coy invitation in the way she locks her legs around his waist, and no softness in the way his hands travel up her thighs.
Sounds of ecstasy are being swallowed by gnawing kisses, and roaming hands are focused on anything but tender touching.
No loving words or appreciating looks. No words being exchanged whatsoever, not a single moment of eye-contact.
It is nothing but pure fight. An aggressive battle for control. A battle to be the one that comes out on top - as unscathed and unaffected as humanly possible. Where the winner proves just how much he or she doesn't care, how little it matters.
An explosion of pent-up emotions that has the last remaining, silky-winged butterflies swirling and dancing in panic where they are locked away, deep down. The hurt and anger lacing their wings tears on the walls of their prison, but not enough to allow them out to fly freely.
But still their flutter increases in strength and speed, as if they are ridding themselves of dust and preparing their escape.
She knows that it was a mistake the very second it is over. Before her heart rate has even begun to slow down - and while her limbs are still barely able to support her weight - she knows that she shouldn't have come there.
She knows that she has done nothing but reinstate her position as one of his whores, and she can no longer remember why that seemed like a logical thing to do minutes before.
She smoothes out her dress, unavailingly trying to zip up the battered zipper at the side of her dress before giving up. She still hasn't looked at him once, and neither of them have spoken a word. He is still leaning against the wall, but as she picks her clutch off the floor and presses the button to the elevator, he walks over to the other end of the room.
The elevator arrives, and the sound of the bell is like a fog horn in the eerie silence, that accompanies the jangle of ice cubes in his tumbler.
She knows that he isn't looking her way – she would know it if he was – and without looking back, she steps into the elevator.
tbc