A/N: Thank you all for your supportive, wonderful words about last chapter =) It inspires me so much to know you're connecting with the characters as much as I am. XOXO!
i.
Tuesday, February 12
There are a few abbreviated screams, along with unintelligible syllables in deeper baritones, but mostly, the auditorium is silent. The cheerleaders broke off in the middle of a chant, and even the single swish of a pom-pon could be heard in the resounding quiet.
"Oh, my God," Serena gasps beside him, on a wet gulp like she's trying to swallow down vomit. She reaches for his knee, and squeezes it, hard.
Her other hand comes up and covers her mouth.
The people around them are likewise stunned speechless.
There's a sick thud that would not be audible if there was any type of din in the room, followed by a helpless whistle from referee who is not trained to deal with this sort of thing.
The voices of the people on the court- players, coaches, trainers- start to rise, then, and Serena looks to the sources of the sounds, lips parting frantically, waiting for someone to do something, stop this-
The referee drops the object from his mouth as his mouth drops open. Human instinct kicks in and he starts forward.
There's another thud.
Serena is on her feet, stepping over him before he can even react.
She makes no effort to excuse herself as she shoves past the two people between them and the aisle, and takes off down the wide steps down to the court, her flats slapping the hollow wood and making it vibrate.
Her mouth forms his name the first time, but nothing comes from her throat, and it's not until she sees him raise his arm again that she screams, running without hesitation onto the court, at the top of her voice, bloodcurdling in the silence:
"Nate!"
ii.
Sunday, February 10
Morning
Bart and Lily breakfast alone together this morning, in the penthouse instead of one of the restaurants downstairs: a more leisurely affair after last night's family dinner. She comes in apologizing that she's late- draped in loose white cashmere and quilted flats- and he kisses the back of her hand and corrects her that she's stunning.
He asks after Serena and Erik, and she inclines her head, eyes shifting over the tablecloth, and sighs a little.
"Erik is his wonderful, thoughtful self," she says. "I couldn't have asked for a more sensitive, mature child. And after his… what happened last year," she stops and licks her lips, "I worried this might set him back, make him withdraw again."
Bart picks up his coffee cup. "But, no?"
"No," she echoes, shaking her head. She props one elbow on the table and rests her chin in her fist. "He's engaged and warm like I've never seen before. Instead of pulling back, it seems he's really learned to turn toward the people who love him. It's…"
She trails off, gazing at nothing for a moment, and then clears her throat.
"It's deeply gratifying, if I'm being honest. He's always been a special person. I'll never stop blaming myself for what he went through, but I'm so happy to see how he's growing."
"That's wonderful," Bart concurs. He shakes his napkin once to open it and spreads it on his lap. "I'm very pleased to hear he's coping well. He's such a fine young man."
Lily smiles to herself, straightening her posture, and follows his lead with her napkin.
Enough of a pause settles between them that Bart passes off his next comment like an afterthought.
"And Serena?"
Lily blinks twice.
"Well." She inhales sharply, searching for words. "Serena is handling all this… somewhat more stoically than I might have guessed- she's spending a lot of time at home, which is something of a comfort- and while she's always been more… emotionally accessible than Erik, it's encouraging to see that she's not turning to some of the… coping mechanisms that she did when she was younger." She looks up at him. "Which isn't to say I don't need to ensure I'm paying close attention, but generally she's rather sloppy at concealment, and aside from perhaps drinking a little more than she has the last few months, nothing else seems amiss."
Bart nods, reaching over to pour her some juice. "And has she talked about…" he seems to not know the actual words for what he's trying to ask. "Her… feelings? Her emotional state? I can only imagine what she must be going through, being as close to Blair as she is."
"I will say, I don't think she's grown to the point where she's able to really speak in-depth on the complexity of her emotions, but she's not hiding it when she struggles."
She pauses.
"And just between the two of us- " she actually leans in; he does, too- "she and Blair aren't spending time together right now. My sense is Blair has shut herself in to focus on healing, so Serena is coping on her own and…" she shrugs. "Waiting for Blair to reach out when she's ready."
The corner of Bart's mouth quirks downward, head inclined close to hers.
"I see."
Lily frowns in commiseration, and reaches for a croissant for Bart and then one for herself. "It's unfortunate, but it may be a blessing in disguise- empowering Serena to stand on her own two feet, instead of leaning on Blair to the extent she's done in the past. And," she glances over, "I actually think she's developing a better bond with Charles as a result, strange though that sounds."
Bart gives a pedestrian smile.
"Well, I'm certainly pleased to hear that," he says, smooth and bland.
Lily nods, lifting the domed lid on a bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs. "How is Charles doing?" she asks after a pause, like she evaluated first whether she should broach it.
"He seems to be doing well. He's been spending a few afternoons each week in my office studying introductory topics to start to learn the business." Now Bart pauses. "Truth be told, it's the first time I've seen him devote himself to a developmental activity of this nature. It's… encouraging."
Lily's smile curves over the rim of her coffee cup. "That's thrilling," she says warmly. "To see him come along like that. And," turning away to reach for the smoked salmon and tomato platter, "does he seem to be recovering from the recent fallout well? It really does seem to me that he and Serena are getting on well, though they've always spent a good amount of time together. I can't help but wonder if he's a steadying influence on her."
Bart watches her as she says this, but she's looking down- spooning capers onto his plate- and not even remotely gauging his reaction.
She doesn't know.
She doesn't know about any of it, about the cocaine, the public striptease, the scene at the fashion show afterparty last week.
When one of the bouncers fed the incident up to him via the usual chain of command, he wondered immediately if Lily had heard too. After all, there must have been someone in the audience who knew the Van Der Woodsen family. But Betsey Johnson caters to a young crowd, not his fiancee's contemporaries, and then days went by without her mentioning it, and he realizes now, looking at her easy smile and unclouded eyes, that she has no idea.
"He might be," he says after a pause that's just short enough to still be considered thoughtful.
Yes, he might be; the bouncer made a point of stating that the young Bass acted very quickly to get her out of there, and mentioned that they were last seen getting into Charles's limo just down the block.
He's downstairs in Bart's study now, actually, as they speak. They'll have coffee when Bart arrives to the office after breakfast.
So this topic can be tabled for an hour or two.
"I actually," he says, putting down his coffee cup and reaching for Lily's hand, "wanted a private moment with you because there's something important I want to ask you."
She follows suit, and places her left hand in his, teasingly: "You've already asked me something very important," she reminds him and wiggles her fingers, the conspicuous diamond catching the pale morning light, as Bart's eyes crinkle at her.
Her effortless flirtation is the first instance of a woman being able to make his heart flutter in his chest in eighteen years.
"This," he says, still smiling, "is a smaller matter."
iii.
Afternoon
When she rises from buckling the ankle straps of the shoes she brought with her to the tailor, the gown is the perfect length for her long legs and high heels.
When she stands on the platform in front of the tri-fold mirror and says she wants the sleeves contoured to make them tighter, she stretches her arms out to the side, then reaches forward, showing how the fabric rides up.
When she twists in front of the mirror, her fingers trace the waist of the gown and suggests they could tighten it to nip her torso in.
When she debates adding a slit to the skirt, she lolls her head evaluatively while the tailor shows her that because of the bias cut of the fabric, they can only slit it up to the knee, which would be ideal for walking- and she agrees.
When her eyes track the clock, she exclaims that she's lost track of time and has another appointment she has to get to.
When she steps out onto the darkening sidewalk, a wet chill cooling her face, she gets in the cab that stops for her and heads straight to the Lower East Side.
It's a dark day today- the sky is heavy, threatening snow, but the internet has assured her the precipitation will hold- and the street is darkening even though it's just 2:30.
She pulls out her brimmed beanie on the way and tucks her hair inside.
Pulls the brim low over her brows.
When she finds her guy- he says his name is Zeke, which means it probably isn't- she drops the same line she's used at least a dozen times before, leaning against the bar, sideways glance, casual half-smile:
"I'm waiting for a friend."
"Oh, yeah?" He glances around boredly, straw darkening as he takes a sip, and Serena's impressed he's willing to consume anything produced in this hole. It's the kind of place they keep dark so you don't notice the rats.
Maybe not impressed, actually, she reconsiders, taking in the greasiness of his too-long hair.
She casts a look around the room for her friend. "Yeah. About my height, blonde hair- name is Damien."
'Zeke' shrugs.
"Haven't seen him." He turns around so he's facing away from the bar, like she is, and leans against it, mirroring her body language. He looks over at her, concealed as she is in a sweater and jeans and a coat, but his eyes linger in a way she doesn't like.
She isn't in the mood to be hassled; she doesn't flinch. Guys of this type like to dangle you for their own amusement.
"Buy you a drink?"
In a flash, she thinks of Dan, Dan who would die if he saw her here, with this guy, would put his hands on either side of her face and kiss her forehead and tell her he loves her and she doesn't have to do this, can't do this- and her stomach turns. She pushes him away.
"I'm good, thanks," she replies, flat, eyes averted. "Just waiting for my friend to meet me."
He chuckles in his throat, mouth closed.
"Cool." He lets silence fall for a moment, the din of the low-ceilinged room buzzing around them, sucking at his straw until it gurgles in empty ice cubes, and then says, "mmm," like something's just occurring to him.
He puts down his glass on the bar.
"I have to use the restroom. Mind watching my drink?"
"Sure," she says without looking over.
When he leaves her alone, the bartender leans over and asks if he can get her anything.
She glances over her shoulder and says, no, thanks; she's just waiting for her friend.
Does he want another? the bartender asks, rattling the empty glass.
She replies that she's not sure with a quick look of apology, and makes for the dark corridor that leads to the bathroom.
She has the envelope in her fist, buried in her pocket. She's stepped behind a coat rack and is glancing back toward the bar to make sure the corridor is empty when he emerges.
He steps way too close.
"You again," he says, casual, as she backs up. Then, lower: "Damien says hi."
She stifles an eyeroll. "Do you have it or not?"
He smiles lazily down at her. "Got somewhere to be?"
"Yes," she says.
"I was hoping you'd join me for a drink."
She averts her eyes. She's not going to play this game. She is, however, going to have words with Damien for sending this creep. Doesn't he have any wholesome mules anymore?
Inconveniently, she again sees Dan, almost willing the vision into reality, over his shoulder.
Her back is very close to the wall. Another step and she'll be cornered.
She pulls the envelope from her pocket and shoves it at him. "Here."
At this, he pauses, surprised. "You sure you're the girl Damien said was coming?"
"Yes," she bites.
Although the girl Damien knew was another Serena entirely.
"I'm just in a hurry. Do you have it or not?"
"Of course, duchess." Bored with her, he withdraws the package from his own pocket and passes it over, taking the envelope she's pressing against his other arm. He tucks it inside his coat. "If it's not all there- "
"It is." She sidesteps him and heads back down the corridor, through the bar and onto the street.
iv.
Her hat is in her bag, hair shaken loose, when the elevator stops on the third floor of The Palace and Chuck hesitates on the threshold at the sight of her.
She grinds her teeth together.
"Sis," Chuck says, cordial, as he steps in.
She presses 18 and 21 and Door Close.
"Bart was asking after you," he murmurs when they're enclosed.
She looks at him sideways. "Why?"
He returns the look, steady and piercing, and she forces herself not to squirm, not to rub the talisman in her pocket. "Just how you're doing."
"Just me?"
"No," Chuck says. "Erik too. But he was more interested in you."
Thoughtful, after a pause: "Probably because I'm such a screwup."
(She has a point; it's no secret that past history weighs heavy with Bart.)
"I'm just saying," he says as they near 18. "Watch yourself."
He steps up to the door, elevator slowing, and looks over his shoulder.
She makes eye contact. Her heart burns a little at the uncomfortable thought that Chuck would probably not like what she's just done any more than Dan would.
She thinks he's going to say something else, but he doesn't.
v.
Evening
Blair calls him that night and tells him without preamble that she's received a few gowns from designers, along with notes asking to dress her for the Met Gala.
He's stunned silent for a moment.
"Which designers?" he asks eventually, trying to gauge whether this is a good development.
"Carolina Herrera, and now Zang Toi."
The latter of which is not one of her favorites- too much sparkle- but at least there was no obvious resemblance in their line to any of the publicized photos of her.
"And," she says, softer, "Marc Jacobs."
"I see," he says carefully, remembering Lily's comment about the French Revolution theme and all that blue.
"It's blue," Blair confirms, like she's reading his mind.
He struggles for a comment, and finally manages, "Do you like them?"
"The Marc Jacobs one is off-the-shoulder, light blue, and slit up to the knee with flounces on the hem. It's very Marie Antoinette meets Upper East Side." Her tone is academic, not excited. "The Zang Toi is black- wide neck, open back with a big cowl, and crystals over one shoulder. A modern spin on Breakfast at Tiffany's."
And the Carolina Herrera?, he can't bring himself to ask.
Again, like he said it out loud: "The Carolina Herrera is…"
She sighs, and lowers her voice like it's a secret.
"Perfect."
His eyes crinkle, mostly in relief.
"Have you given any more thought…?"
"Not yet," she says, voice small. "I don't know yet."
He's standing at his window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the phone, curtains drawn back. Midtown looks like a mural tonight.
"Lily would die of joy if you wore a Marc Jacobs," he says, for lack of a better comment.
She chuckles and murmurs "Lily" like she's remembering someone from a past life.
"How is she?"
"She's Lily," he replies with equal fondness. "Bart announced today he's whisking her away for a week for her birthday. Apparently he's had it planned for a while, but he wasn't sure if she could be away from Serena and Erik after…"
He stops short.
After what happened to you.
She comes to his rescue. "Where are they going?"
"Antigua. Some villa that can only be reached by boat."
Bart made a point of telling him this part, eyes riveted on Chuck's face, because he wanted to make very clear that if there were issues with Serena while they were away, they'd be difficult to reach.
Chuck held himself still and said, again, that while Serena was of course shaken by the whole… situation… there was nothing for him to worry about.
It looked for a second, then, like Bart was going to say something else, after having asked about Serena's 'feelings' twice- catching Chuck quite off guard, as it were, in the middle of a conversation about the agenda for the upcoming Bass Industries board meeting- and Chuck got chills on the instant, realizing as he did, then, that Bart knew something.
He knew something.
There was no way he was this interested in Serena's emotional state without provocation.
"That's nice," Blair is saying, pedestrian. "Good that they can get away. When are they leaving?"
But Bart didn't say whatever it looked like he was going to say. Instead, he closed his mouth, regarded Chuck for a minute across his desk, and then asked, quite seriously, if he could entrust Chuck with keeping an eye on things while they were away.
Of course, sir, Chuck nodded.
"Next Monday, after the gala," Chuck says, "and they'll be back for her birthday dinner."
vi.
Monday, February 11
Early morning
The buzzing of his nightstand jars him into consciousness.
He slams his open fist on the table, unaccountably frantic, emerging into waking from a peaceful sleep after talking to Blair until his eyelids drooped.
He knocks his phone off the nightstand and nearly rolls onto the floor as he gets out of bed to get it.
(Later, he'll wonder what his half-conscious mind thought that phone call was.)
It's Arthur.
He's panting as he answers.
"Hello?"
"Good morning, Mr. Bass. I'm sorry to wake you."
He gulps for breath, rubbing his hand over his face, sinking to the floor, his back against his bed. "What is it?"
"I thought you should see Page Six sooner rather than later this morning."
His shoulders slump.
"Why?" his voice is almost a whine. "What is it this time?"
Arthur pauses, unsure whether he genuinely wants an answer to this.
He sighs. "Nevermind. Is a copy on the way up?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you. I'll see you at our usual time."
vii.
Serena's brow is wrinkled in consternation. "What the hell is this," she whispers, belligerent. "My God."
Erik, beside her, has his jaw set. "Milking it for all it's worth," he says, so low it's nearly a growl.
She pushes her fingers into her hair, still damp from her shower a few hours before, because she couldn't sleep and she was sweating in her sheets.
After several hours of tossing and turning.
When they get to school- they don't ride with Chuck this morning- the courtyard is abuzz with incredulous whispers and weary glances.
The students of Constance-St. Jude love a scandal as much as, if not more than, any other group of one-percenters, but this incessant invasion of their privacy and ritualistic sacrifice of their peers to public scrutiny has grown tiresome.
Under normal circumstances, Serena would be focused on avoiding Penelope et al as they tried to engage her in talk of gala outfits and get her feedback on their choices (which she's so far managed, artfully, to avoid); as it is, the ladies-in-waiting are nowhere to be seen.
There are no photographers on their block any longer; the school managed to win an injunction that they must keep themselves to a one-block radius from school property; so the hushed mutter of the student body's collective frustration is all there is on this Monday morning, which is otherwise eerily silent under a heavy gray sky.
Her blue eyes are skittering side to side in search of Nate. She feels hot nerves in her stomach, but she can't explain why; it's another invasion of privacy, another excuse for the public to pry into their personal lives, but it's nothing she hasn't seen before.
The first bell clangs and she realizes- not decides; realizes- that she's not going to history class. She hasn't done the reading.
(Even though she was up all night.)
She's exhausted and jumpy and on the verge of tears.
(Because she was up all night.)
She reasons that she's doing a service to her teacher and classmates, and goes up a back staircase.
And then up a service staircase. And down a service corridor, and through two sets of utility doors that, if one wasn't curious and somewhat brave, one would never know leads to a final set of stairs, bone-bare wrought iron, no hand rail, that gives way to a platform on the roof of Constance-St. Jude's, where various utility towers and the water tank and the HVAC system and who knows what else can be accessed.
And, pleasantly, which is too high for anyone on school grounds to be able to see up to; and which has a bordering wall high enough to conceal its inhabitants if they stay away from the edge.
She drops her school bag a few feet from the top of the stairs and is wandering toward the water tank in the cool morning air (it's unseasonably warm this morning, and actually feels like it could rain rather than snow), fumbling for the cigarettes she grabbed when she saw Page Six this morning, certain she brought a lighter but annoyed she can't remember which pocket she put it in, when she hears the gristly sound of a shoe turning in loose gravel or stray salt crystals.
She freezes.
Takes a step back.
Another sound, and with irrational fear- who is she even afraid of? A custodian? A water inspector?- she starts to back away, hand clenching the cigarette pack in her pocket.
Then, around the tower of the water tank, steps Nate.
He looks surprised, happy, to see her; but he doesn't perk up.
"Hi," he says.
He tries a smile.
She's sweating again.
"Hi," she smiles back. "I was looking for you downstairs."
"And you tracked me all the way up here?" He grins, but he's clearly preoccupied. "Impressive."
A little of her tension breaks at the sight of Nate's smile.
"I have the nose of a bloodhound," she replies, coming toward him.
He repositions to his spot on the other side of the water tank, where there's a partially-obstructed view of the Park, and she joins him.
She leans over and confides in a whisper: "I'm skipping class."
He pantomimes shock. "No. Serena Van Der Woodsen skipping class? I don't believe it."
"Rough night," she murmurs and settles her head against the tank, a misty wind whipping her hair back.
"Yeah? You okay?" he glances at her.
She shrugs. "Just couldn't sleep."
She waits a minute, and then turns her head to look at him.
"What about you? Are you okay?"
He closes his eyes, a sad smile curving at his mouth.
"Nothing new, right?"
Meaning: Not the first time I've been plastered all over Page Six, right?
"This is pretty over-the-top, though," she mutters, her undertone uncharacteristically sharp. After a moment's hesitation, she withdraws the pack of cigarettes and brandishes it by way of offering. "Want one?"
Nate hates cigarettes. And all hard drugs. He doesn't even really like to be blackout drunk; he claims it hinders his athletic performance for days afterward.
Also, it's always been quite obvious, he can't stand the smell.
But it's been a long, hellacious month, one month today- not that he remembers the date, but Serena does- since she called him as the blizzard stretched into a gray day just like this one.
Nate, I know you don't want to talk about Blair right now, but please listen- there's something you need to know.
And on this gray morning, they woke to a fresh, full-color spread of photos- a few of Nate by himself, handsome in suits and rolled-up shirtsleeves and ties and polos and seersucker shorts and a backwards white baseball cap- and a lot of Nate next to Blair, his arm around her, his hand reaching for hers, offering her his elbow for her to tuck her hand into, his palm snug against the small of her back, at charity dinners and garden parties and museum benefits, the two of them grinning, or looking in different directions to greet people, and one, in particular- the tabloid's cover shot- from last year's Snowflake Ball, of him kissing her gloved hand extravagantly.
In a moment that Nate knows, every time he looks at it, to have been laced with the fresh guilt of having lost his virginity to Serena a few weeks before, of knowing why she left, of knowing why she wouldn't return Blair's calls.
Of struggling with acid in his stomach to make Blair happy, to make it up to her, without her ever knowing- to pay penance for what he did to her.
The girl who so happily tucked her hand into his, and smiled and murmured I love you with palpable sincerity when he kissed her hand like that- a public act of his love for her.
The guilt of that moment, dragging up countless others just like that as she played Blair the Stoic during those first weeks of Serena's absence, flamed inside him as soon as he saw the cover of Page Six this morning.
The devotion on his face as he gazed at Blair, stunning in royal blue, smiling her soft smile back at him.
Trusting him.
And the cover of this week's humiliation sprawls underneath the photo:
CAN HE GET HER TO THE GALA?
So, to both of their surprise, he looks at Serena's face and then the pack of cigarettes and says, one shoulder twitching up, indifferent: "yeah, why not?"
viii.
Nate's checking his watch for the second time- he thinks he's being more furtive about it than he is- when they hear the dull echo of footfall on the iron steps up to the rooftop.
They both freeze, Nate's arm outstretched to shake his watch down his wrist so he can glance at it, the stream of smoke pouring out on Serena's exhalation slowing down quickly, and look at each other. Serena curses herself inwardly for leaving her bag in plain view at the top of the steps.
She drops her cigarette and grinds it under one heel, silent, then takes a step back and peers around the water tower.
Chuck's standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at her bag, a smirk on his face.
Sensing her gaze on him, he looks up.
"Well, well," he says, and leans down and picks her bag up, bringing it with him to avoid leaving it out in the open.
Nate steps out behind her, throwing Chuck a smile. "Hey, man. Join the party."
"How are we?" Chuck's tone is weary; Serena wouldn't be surprised if he was coming up here to be alone. Chuck found this spot in ninth grade- now she thinks of it, it was autumn, the first months they were even in this building- and has certainly been the one up here the most, owing as much to his boredom with class as to his affinity for rooftops in general. Serena has only come a handful of times, and suspects Nate's been even less. Blair came once, when it was first discovered, and declared herself above such things as skipping class to loiter on an unkempt rooftop.
Nate leans back against the tower, back in his original position, as Chuck joins them, depositing Serena's bag next to her feet when he passes her, taking the open wall space on the far side of Nate.
Serena digs out another cigarette. "Want?" she asks Chuck.
He glances at her- bringing her own cigarettes to school; noted- and gestures for one. She fumbles with the lighter, which is acting up, and lights it for him, then offers a second to Nate. "Nate?"
"I'm good, thanks," he says, gaze far away.
She settles back against the tower wall, hair probably catching debris from God knows what, and tries to blow her smoke the other direction.
"You saw it, I'm assuming," Nate mutters a minute later, in Chuck's general direction.
"Yes," Chuck says, smoke clouding out his mouth and nostrils on the syllable.
It's not difficult to understand what the public is hoping for. It's even easy to see:
Blair's triumphant return, sliding out of a sleek stretch limo, hand perched in Nate's palm;
him steadying her as she steps onto the curb, brushing back her long dark hair;
oblivious to the flash bulbs, caught in each other's eyes, maybe a little shiver of nerves, quickly comforted by a word murmured in her ear, a kiss on the hand;
Nate tall, broad-shouldered and handsome as anything in Prada tails, all bluster and swagger, his stance protective;
Blair's body language trusting, the curve of her waist fitting in his hand, her head angled slightly in his direction as they pose for pictures on the red carpet;
the image of untouchable young love that mends the pieces of their shattered fairy tale, proving that this next generation of Astor and Vanderbilt heirs are redefining American royalty, giving us all something to believe in.
And the headline: AMOR VINCIT OMNIA.
Out of nowhere, Nate says, after a swallow that no one sees: "I miss her."
Serena's face crumples a bit before she catches herself.
Head tilted down, Chuck takes a drag, cheeks hollowing, eyes on the floor.
"I just miss her being around, you know?" Nate tries again, low. "I hate this and I hate what happened and everything, of course. But, even without that…" he shakes his head. "She's Blair."
What he means is: she's part of 'the four of us.'
And, more abstractly, though he doesn't realize it in these words: …and we're not doing so great without her.
Serena inhales sharply (and Chuck wonders if she's about to out him for not needing to miss her in the way she and Nate do), and reaches over to pat Nate's arm, looking at his eyes. "We all miss her," she says softly.
Over Nate's shoulder, she watches as Chuck exhales through pursed lips, head still tilted down, smoke pouring from his mouth in a thin stream.
Nate smiles sadly, nodding thanks, though Serena did nothing; there's nothing anyone can do.
"My mom is all over me to ask her to the gala," he says after a moment, his tone laced with distaste. "She's driving me nuts."
"Just as friends, or…?" Serena's brow wrinkles.
Nate shrugs.
"I don't think she cares." He smirks, but it's humorless.
Serena blinks. There's a certain vacant look about Nate today- just today?- that's somehow different than his usual half-there-half-daydreaming.
"How ironic," Chuck drawls then, "that for once, society and tabloid are aligned in their goals."
"Yeah," Nate agrees with a quick bite of laughter, but Chuck's expression doesn't change. He takes another drag.
"Well," Serena says, searching for something to cheer him, "my mom booked you a seat at our table, so you're welcome to spend the evening with us. She said your mom isn't coming, so she made sure there was room for you."
Nate does smile at this, eyes warming. There's the Nate she knows.
"That's really nice. Tell her thanks for me. I'll tell her myself when I see her," he adds. Then he turns to Chuck. "So you have a date, or what?"
"Two," Chuck smirks. Serena rolls her eyes, inhaling deeply, end of her cigarette flaring bright orange, as a particularly sharp wind strikes her and flips her unbuttoned coat open. "Erik and now, apparently, you."
Serena chuckles. "A society heavyweight on each arm. 'Chuck Bass Takes the Met Gala.'"
Nate snorts now, genuine laughter, and Serena feels a relief that she still doesn't fully understand. "I'd better be getting a corsage, then."
"Wrist or lapel?"
"Lapel," Nate says, "all the way."
He glances at his watch again, not bothering to hide it at all this time, and sighs. "I have to go to class."
"Why?" Serena says, halfway between pouting and incredulous. "We're hanging out."
She doesn't say it; none of them do; for just a second there, we almost forgot about everything.
He sounds genuinely regretful. "I know, but we have a game tomorrow. It's postseason."
After the last few months, sports are one of the only things he hasn't lost. His basketball performance in the playoffs was abysmal, humiliating; he cost St. Jude's the final four, and he knows it.
He's usually the catalyst for victory. Not for defeat.
Nate the Great.
"I have to play well," he says, firm. "And if I'm not in class by 9:30, it counts as an absence and I'll be benched."
"This is exactly why I don't play sports," Chuck says drily, dropping his spent cigarette and patting it out with the toe of his loafer.
Nate smiles, adjusting his scarf and straightening his tie. He pauses, and then, quiet:
"She used to come to my games."
He doesn't say it fondly. It sounds sad. It sounds like regret.
He looks between Chuck and Serena. "You guys staying here?"
"For a bit," Serena says, reaching into her pocket for a third.
"No one's counting on us," Chuck clarifies smirkingly.
ix.
The wind has picked up and Nate's footsteps are barely audible on the stairs on the way down.
Even so, they wait in silence, each weary of the other.
He didn't miss the hollows under her eyes when he first saw her; her slightly-too-skittish gaze is not lost on him.
Bart's searching look comes back to him.
He hazards a sideways glance, and she feels it at once- jumpy- and looks at him, then away.
"Sis," he says, drawing out the latter "s."
She tips her head back, rolling her eyes to the sky. "Bro."
He leans his head against the wall, too, watching her. "You look tired."
She doesn't reply; her unlit third cigarette is perched between her fingertips.
"Run out of concealer?" he presses. "Or late night?"
"Don't." She reaches for her lighter. "If you're gonna be like this, you can go."
He raises an eyebrow. "I can go?"
His lips stay formed on go long after the word evaporates.
"This is my spot," he reminds her, not caring that it's a childish thing to say. He just wants to provoke her; it's perverse, but he wants to be proved right.
Not because he wants to be right, but because he can no longer conceive of a reality where he's wrong.
She's holding up her cupped hand up shield her cigarette from the wind, and flicking at her lighter- he looks at it idly as he watches her, and notices that it's actually one of his, a Dunhill that he hasn't seen in a while- but every spark dies. She frowns and takes the cigarette out of her mouth, shooting him an impatient look.
"You don't own it," she retorts lightly, "and I've had sex up here, so I have as much history as you do."
He suppresses his real response to that, which is that he's had sex there, too-
his coat wrapped around her, the plush lining cushioning her back against the concrete wall, hiking her stockinged legs around his waist while she complained that his hands were cold-
and walked away with his cashmere trousers ruined.
Instead, he says, "God, tell me it wasn't with Humphrey."
Serena smiles a small smile. "Dan," she says, like it's the first time she's thought of her boyfriend in years, in a way that strangely pangs at Chuck. "No. Not Dan."
And the pang comes again, because Serena doesn't even joke that, well, now that he's given her the idea, maybe they'll change that…
She puts her cigarette, the tip uncolored because she's not wearing any lipstick to rub off on it, back in her mouth, and flicks faster on the lighter.
Like that's going to fix it.
He sighs.
"It's out of fluid," he tells her.
"How do you know?" she says around the cigarette, persistent on the trigger.
He moves toward her, crossing the space where Nate was standing between them.
"Well, it's my lighter, for one thing," he says, and produces from his inner pocket a book of matches. Victrola matches- black glossy case, dark gold raised V.
Luxury matches.
He tears one off and strikes it, flame flaring high for a second before settling, and shields it likewise with his hand.
She gives him a long look, then leans one hand on the brick next to them and bends forward, fingers in a V against her lips to hold the cigarette steady, to meet the flame.
When it's lit, she straightens and takes a deep, satisfied drag.
She takes her hand off the concrete wall, Dunhill clutched awkwardly with one finger, and hands it over. Nods at the matches.
"You always carry those?"
He hasn't taken his eyes off her.
"You answer mine first," he says quietly.
She swallows, impatient. "I was up late, yes."
"Why?"
"I couldn't sleep."
"Yes," he says. "I gathered that."
She looks down at her cigarette, the glowing orange, the browning of the paper.
"I had a latte late and they didn't give me decaf."
He snorts. "Please. Can you at least try? That's insulting."
She looks at him.
She looks fucking awful, he decides. Maybe she can pass it off as exhaustion to other people, but not with him, and would not be able to with Blair. They've seen it on her too many times.
"It was just once," she says.
"Twice, actually." She lowers her gaze at this. He licks his lips. "I told you, Bart was asking."
"Because he's worried about his reputation," she bites. "Not because he cares. Leave him out of this."
They're still standing close, and he steps closer still, pocketing the hand that holds the Dunhill and the matches.
A pace between them, he leans his shoulder on the wall.
"I care," he tells her.
She turns her head away.
"I do," he says. "And not because of anyone's reputation. Including yours."
She blinks, brows scrunching a little, and he can't tell if she's touched or angry.
Then she sniffs, with finality, and says, "I'm not going to again."
She looks at him, and he's genuinely not sure whether she believes what she's saying.
"It feels familiar," she whispers. "And I wasn't… good-" she has trouble finding this word, and pauses after she says it- "when I was like that."
No, she certainly was not. He wasn't good then, either.
Is she, really, good now?
(Is he?)
His scarf flutters in a disconcertingly warm breeze.
She's looking at him.
He clears his throat and asks for a cigarette.
x.
After school, after practice, after dinner, after his shower, Nate pulls on sweats and a long-sleeved waffle weave and heads down to the kitchen to have tea with his mother. She asked him before he went up to his room, where he'd hoped to hide out for the rest of the night without being subjected to more nagging- talking, he reminds himself- about Blair, if he'd have tea with her before starting his homework, before she goes to bed.
And he's her only son, her only child. The man of the house.
All she has left.
So of course he smiled at her and said yes.
And her eyes brightened and he felt guilty for being irritated with her. She's his mother. She's been through hell, public hell, and she's entitled to need a little extra attention.
Even if she is acting a lot like the eccentric Upper East Side recluses she's made fun of his whole life.
He pads into the kitchen, barefoot, silent, glowing from the shower, and sees her at the dining room table, tea tray laid out.
"Hi," he says, leaning over to kiss her cheek, bracing his hands on the back of her chair. As he does so, he sees that she's flipping through today's copy of Page Six.
He sighs inwardly at what he knows is coming.
She smiles over at him as he slides into the chair opposite.
They've already covered how his day was, and how practice was, and whether he was excited for tomorrow's game.
He reaches for the teapot.
"It's still steeping," she says, holding out a hand to stop him. "Fresh mint."
His favorite.
He smiles his most charming smile, hoping she'll take the hint and want to preserve his happiness.
"Darling," she says slowly, "I've been thinking about this all day- well, for a few weeks, really- as you know…"
No such luck.
She braces her hands on the table- on Page Six, as it were. "The gala coming up, it's the first major social event of any kind since everything with your father, and of course, with Blair."
His shoulders tighten. He forces himself to relax.
"Mom…"
"Now, please, just hear me out."
Her voice is so small, so lilting, so very much his mother's, that he is powerless to argue with her.
He loves her. She's his mother.
He nods, forcing his jaws not to clench.
"I understand you and Blair didn't work out. I do. And while I wish that were not the case- you know my opinions on Blair and what a flawless wife she'll turn out to be…"
(What she'll never understand is that Nate doesn't disagree, not one bit.)
"Your relationships are completely your decision and you have my full support in them. That being said, I can't understand the harm, I really can't, in just asking Blair to let you escort her to the gala, if, if, she'd like to go. I understand that's a big if."
He glances at the teapot again.
"Blair and I have barely spoken. We're not on bad terms, but- I mean, after what's happened to her, and… we tried, we really did," he finishes lamely. "I care about her- "
His mother's face lights up.
"Of course you do," she insists, reaching for the teapot. "And caring about her, as a friend, even, what could be more natural than to support her in this way?"
She flips his teacup on its saucer and pours.
It smells incredible.
He licks his lips. "I'm not saying- I mean, if she wanted me to take her, as friends, of course, I would be more than happy to do that."
She keeps her eyes on the pale green of the tea as she finishes with his cup and moves the spout to hers. "And who's to say she doesn't?"
Nate blinks. "I mean…"
"Darling, you haven't talked to her about going together, so how do you know she isn't just hoping that you'll step up and offer to take her, as friends?" She settles the teapot back onto its doily and brings her saucer in front of her place setting, then folds her hands onto her lap under the table. "If she does want to go, of course she won't want to go alone. And who else could possibly be better to take her than you?"
He touches his teacup. It's too hot.
"I see what you mean," he says unwillingly, even though he does see. If Blair wanted to go to the gala, hypothetically, though she could have any number of dates under normal circumstances, the level of attention she's been getting in the media would make this a crucial decision for her. There's an obvious alternative, but, Nate has thought to himself whenever his mother has led their conversation this way, after everything, this is not the time, not the moment for that sort of debut. (What sort of debut that would be, he's not even sure.)
"So? That settles it," his mother confirms, and he wonders if he missed something – several minutes of conversation, perhaps, where he agreed to do what she's asked?
He looks up at her.
She pauses, rim of the cup near her lips, and he knows she's about to burn herself because it's too hot.
"You'll pay her a visit and see if she wants to go with you."
She takes a small sip and flinches.
"Not," she adds, waving one hand as she places the saucer back on the table, "with any pressure, of course. Just to see, firstly if she'd like to go, and if so, if she'd like you to take her."
He looks away from her hopeful face, forehead perpetually twisted in anxiety these last few months, and down into his own teacup. She's lost weight since his father went to prison; having been blacklisted, with sinister quietness and a politeness that stunned and enraged him, from the societies and boards she's been on since he was a little boy, she's taken to wandering the house for most of the day, curtains drawn tight- at first to avoid the prying lenses of the paparazzi, and then because she really had nowhere to go, no one to talk see. Her datebook, open, always, in the study that she shared with his father for twenty years, has been blank since Christmas.
He wishes he could be angrier at her.
The way she wrings her hands when she thinks he's not looking, though- head dipping, the posture of a woman completely lost, completely alone- always stops him.
He picks up his teacup and burns his tongue too.
He puts on his kindest smile, and says he'll ask her, as a friend, if she'd like him to escort her- but, he insists, that's all.
His mother's smile reaches her eyes.
He remembers when she used to look like that every day.
xi.
Dan doesn't even look surprised when she cancels their dinner plans at the last minute. She's been telling him she's focused on preparing for the gala- shopping, fittings, coordinating with her mother and listening to the last-minute details of the planning committee- including an issue with the company supplying all the candles they're going to need, where the vendor assumed the inventory requested in the purchase order was an error, an extra "0" on the end, and they only meant to order one-tenth as many candles- the candle delivery, thusly, precipitated a frantic Sunday night conference call, with Lily pounding three espressos and pressing the fingertips of both hands into her temples at once, insisting that black votives would surely be the death of her.
Dan smiled at that story, and asked incredulously how many candles they could really need? Couldn't someone just go to Michael's?
(Bless his heart.)
He can see how tired she is; it's obvious. And only partly because she's been making a show of yawning all day.
He even commented, concerned, as she laid her head on his shoulder this morning that she didn't look like herself.
"I'm so sorry," she says when she asks if they can reschedule. "Are you free tomorrow?"
"Sure," he says. "For you, always."
She pauses for a moment, and then asks him if he'd like to go to the St. Jude's basketball game.
He blinks. "Basketball?"
She shrugs. "Before dinner. Like a pre-date activity. Game, dinner, movie?"
He agrees, but tilts his head, teeth testing his lower lip, waiting for her to explain.
"I was talking to Nate earlier," she explains, leaning in, voice low. "Obviously he's not having a great time given the whole…"
"Horrible invasion of his privacy and manipulation of his personal history for entertainment purposes?" Dan deadpans, expression steady. "Sure, I get that."
"Yeah," she smiles sadly. "He mentioned about his game tomorrow and said something about how…"
She breaks off and swallows.
Dan waits.
"Blair" (and Serena actually seems to have trouble saying her name) "used to go to his games. And he just looked so…"
She sighs, long, her breath warm in the misty courtyard.
"Sad. I don't know. It seemed like he just missed the support. And you know what his family's gone through the last few months. I thought it would be nice…"
She looks into his dark eyes, his understanding, empathetic, considerate eyes.
She can trust him with Nate's vulnerability.
She knows that.
"…if he had someone there to root him on and cheer for him."
He nods slowly.
"I understand," he says. "Of course we can go to the game."
xii.
But she gets home that night, having left Dan to his books in the library with the casual comment that she accidentally left her books at home (to make him think she hasn't completely disregarded her studies), and there's something about her interaction with him this afternoon that burns in her heart. She pictures those dark eyes. The way he says I understand and of course and I'm here for you and most of all, I love you.
Because he does- he loves her.
And she doesn't deserve it.
And she's known that for a while. But suddenly, inexplicably, that's swelling inside her today, looking into his honest face and knowing she's nothing but an absolute liar. A terrible friend, a girl he'd never love if he saw fully.
Tears slipping from her eyes indifferently, she's dialing his number before she realizes she has her phone in her hand.
He does sound surprised at this change of plans, but he says, of course he'll come over.
She orders dinner service. Her mother is at the museum, no doubt dealing with the votive crisis or something related. Erik is at a debate tournament.
She opens her bathroom drawer and buries the Altoids tin in the back, underneath a plastic sleeve that contains a silk turban for keeping your hair smooth on long flights. Then she shoves pocket packs of Kleenex in front of it and slams it shut.
When she answers the door, in a robe over soft lingerie, the hugs Dan, arms around his waist inside his jacket. He hugs her back, apologizing for how cold he probably is.
She takes him to bed at once, kissing him the entire time, barely opening her eyes. If he's surprised at her urgency, he doesn't question it, and he meets her kiss for kiss, only stopping to tell her he loves her.
Her mouth quivers, just for a moment before she presses it into a shaky smile, when they collapse together after.
Just then, the doorbell rings with their dinner. She slips on her robe and goes to direct the server, Dan's eyes following her appreciatively.
She keeps delaying him leaving; she's tired, she says, from the weekend, and she didn't sleep well last night. She says this last like it's a confession, and Dan says, sounding proud of himself, that he thought that might be the case.
Can he stay? she asks.
With a raised eyebrow, he asks, Overnight?
She nods and says her mother won't mind. He smiles uncertainly and says his father might.
But, he says when she looks crestfallen, he'll stay until she falls asleep. How about that?
She slides close to him and teasingly asks for a bedtime story. Snickering into her hair, he says he's just been writing a paper on Tennyson- would she like to hear his favorite part?
Stop, she chides, giggling; he can't recite that on command.
And so he does:
"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land,
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."
In the afternoon, they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All 'round the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.
The charmed sunset lingered low a-down
In the red West; thro' mountain clefts the dale
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Bordered with palm, and many a winding vale
And meadow, set with slender galin-gale;
A land where all things always seemed the same!
And round about the keel, with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed, melancholy Lotus-Eaters came.
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To each, but who-so did receive of them,
And taste, to him, the gushing of the wave
Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And deep-asleep he seemed, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart did make.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then someone said, "We will return no more;"
And all at once they sang, "Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."
He thinks Serena is asleep when he finishes the last stanza, but her eyelashes flutter and she smiles up at him, propped on his elbow, from her pillow.
"That was pretty," she says. "Why is it your favorite?"
Dan smiles back, smoothing a stray hair from her forehead. "Tennyson wrote this whole series- it's much longer than that- out of literally one scene from the Odyssey. Something in that moment, that one glance," he shakes his head, eyes vacant for a moment, and shrugs, "spoke to him. And he, this young writer at the time who hadn't really had any success yet, turned it into his first major project. That one moment in the Odyssey was like his muse." He smiles, gaze still faraway.
Sleepily, she chuckles. "Must've been a great moment."
"It was," Dan says.
"So," Serena murmurs, eyes sliding closed again- Dan's reading voice is extremely soothing- "are the Lotus-Eaters bad, then? Or good?"
He adjusts his cheek against his fist and looks down at her. "That's the great debate. The Lotus-Eaters make these mariners feel new again, they make them feel safe, and introduce them to this dream world, where it's always a sunny afternoon."
"But, it's through drugs," Serena points out with another chuckle, and opens her eyes, channeling all her remaining energy to give him a pointed look. "I mean, come on, Lotus-flowers?"
He laughs, too, indulgent. "Yes. But maybe the Lotus just allows the mariners to open themselves to see the world for all its possibilities. The Lotus-Eaters are seen by the mariners as the inhabitants of paradise."
"Are they, though?" She runs her fingers through his hair even as her eyes drift shut. "The Lotus world can't be real- they said it's always a sunny afternoon, and everything is completely perfect," she points out, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. She shifts onto her side, so they face each other on the pillow, and opens her eyes halfway with effort. "It sounds like a really great trip to me. The Lotus must be pretty top-grade stuff." She winks, sleepy.
Dan snickers again, but shorter this time.
"Reality is nothing but perception," he says softly, eyes tracing the lines of her face.
"True," she agrees with a sigh. "But maybe the Lotus-Eaters are just lonely, and they just want the mariners to stay there."
Her eyes drift shut.
She shrugs.
"Or maybe I'm just too sentimental."
"No," Dan says after a moment, "they might be lonely."
She's asleep a few minutes later, murmuring thanks to him for being with her, and telling him she's looking forward to tomorrow's date.
He holds her for a long time, waiting to make sure she's really sound asleep. He gets out of her bed stiffly and turns off the light. He closes the door behind him.
He goes out of the suite, up the hall, and down the elevator. All the way home, every step and jolt of the subway, he's silent. Maybe, he thinks, she's right, and the Lotus-Eaters are lonely. And maybe the mariners don't understand them at all.