Okay, it's been a while. I lost a lot of writing momentum, and am hopefully getting back into it. Thankyou to anyone who still reads and reviews my stories after such a long time, it means a lot to me and gives me the push to even entertain the thought of writing :)
There's this part in Inside where at the very height of decadent life, Dylan hits rock bottom. He has everything and he has no-one, because somehow the corruption of the Upper East Side consumes outsiders in a way is doesn't those born into it.
Whatever is coursing through his veins is silk, it's soft and smooth and rich and the world becomes so incredibly fluid Dylan feels it glide around him, past him, through him. Its insidious warmth fills the cavernous emptiness within and the world tips and turns and darkens at the edges of his sight, lonely boy lonely boy LONELY BOY
A name given to him by the Upper East Side, a name he has resented and hated and ultimately justified.
He's sitting in a bar somewhere in Manhatten- he stopped keeping track of them after he poured himself into the third one this evening- nursing something dark and bitter. His wayward thoughts run in slowly maddening circles, and he can feel the vacuous space within him steadily making itself apparent as it has been doing for the last few weeks. It's aching and nagging and consuming, and he feels like a building that has been gutted by fire. The fire of revenge, of spite and malice that burned everything that made his life full in a passionate and unwavering blaze of hurt, that felt so warm and fulfilling and justified. Dan fed it with dwellings and ruminations of Blair and Chuck, of Nate and Rufus and Serenaserenaserena, with a chapter on Blair and a chapter on Chuck, with cheques from Vanity Fair and the adulation of women.
But all things come to an end, and to his despair, anger started to drain from him. The kindling of his internal fire that wanted to burnburnburn the Upper East Side began to slip away, and the more it did, the more room was made for far less productive emotions
Loneliness.
Misery.
Regret.
It isn't for writing the articles, exactly. It feels deeper than that, because the part of Dan that still seems sane and grounded staunchly defends the chapters he's written. Except maybe Nate's. This feels more permanent and gradual, this is sneaky and cruel and he knows exactly when this began.
…when he calls her name and she pauses for him, there's this boy looking at her for a spilt second, this sad, hurt boy that makes her feel sixteen again. One flippant comment and he's gone again, squashed beneath this new Dan Humphrey…
He saw her, in that moment, in a way he had forgotten how to see her. Hurt and open and forgiving, the girl who made his stomach flutter when she passed him in the hall at school, who accepted him and loved him even when he didn't deserve it who looked at his blistering bitterness in that moment, and saw the sadness rolling beneath it.
Serena had soothed him for that moment, and that break in momentum was all that was needed. Ever since that day Dan had felt his fire dwindling. Ever since that day Dan felt the cold ache of regret.
He signals the bartender, who wordlessly refills his glass. The world is teetering wildly even when seated, and he's starting to lose time between moments of drunken clarity. Dan sees the sideways look of the staff and thinks maybe it's a time…a good time….maybe it's a good time to go… He tips the entire glass of something tasteless-he lost sensation to his face a while ago- back and slides gracelessly off the stool. The world lurches violently to the left and he catches himself too firmly on the bar, a jarring sensation making itself known up his forearm. Off in the distance somewhere a disembodied voice, whoa, sir? Sir? Maybe you should sit down.. That's ridiculous, he's just been sitting down for the past….ages, and besides, the staff are looking at him funny. Dan's foot takes a purposeful step forward, but his body sways sideways, and as he tries to catch himself the disembodied voice is the last thing he's aware of, sir? Is there someone we can call?
If he were able, he would answer.
No.
There's no-one.
He has no-one.
She's not the first person they call, but she's the first person that picks up. Serena steps gingerly into the bar- empty, it being an obscene hour on a Tuesday morning-and the frazzled yet composed bartender gives her a smile of immense gratitude.
"So sorry to drag you out of bed Miss, but he's in a bad way."
He doesn't know the half of it.
Serena smiles gently at him, a fondness showing on her face. Countless bartenders had been kind enough to call help for her in the past, and countless others hadn't bothered. She appreciates this man. "Don't be sorry."
She spies him in one of the booths, slumped in what has to be an uncomfortable position. Serena inches forward slowly, feeling like she shouldn't be so close, like Dan wouldn't want her this close. A soft sigh escapes her, and she feels the slightest sting of regret; he looks bad, not just in a bad way. His cheekbones stand out more through his skin that she's comfortable with, his skin pale except the bruised patches beneath his eyes. His curls are unkempt falling around his face, and it looks like he hasn't shaved in a few days. Asleep like this, he looks so much like the Dan Humphrey she loves. Loved, she reminds herself. Loved loved loved. Gone is the bitterness and the cold quality of his expression, gone is the scathing edge to his words and steely aspect of his gaze. In this moment he is just lonely boy, Dan Humphrey from Brooklyn who once loved Serena Van der Woodsen, who has been beaten, battered and bruised by the world.
She rolls over and fumbles for her phone as it vibrates against the drawers, and Steven remains facing away from her. They'd had a spat before bed about Sage for the umpteenth time, and when Dan's name stands out against the backlight of her phone it isn't thoughts of Steven Spence that give her pause.
Remember, Sabrina's never cared about anything.
It rings insistently in her hand, and amongst the maelstrom of feelings and memories and confused responses that image of him in the café rises above. The broken brown eyes, clinging to anger because it's easier to be angry than be hurt, the gentle way her name leaves his lips, and the brutal return of the new Dan Humphrey moments later.
What happened to you, Dan Humphrey?
She slides her thumb over the answer button and slinks deftly from the bedroom.
Serena sighs again, bringing her fingertips of the left hand up to his face gently, and speaks to the bartender without looking at him, "Please, could you call us a cab?"