Gossip Girl fic: This is not a love story [1/?]
Title: This is not a love story
Author: acidpop25
Rating: Soft R for now
Pairing: Chuck/Nate
Summary: This is not a love story, and it’s especially not a love story about Chuck Bass.
A/N: I'm dedicating this one to sandra_lanimil, without whom I would never, ever be able to write a decent Chuck. AU after the end of season 1.
This is not a love story, and it’s especially not a love story about Chuck Bass. This is not a love story, because love stories are boy-meets-girl and not boy-meets-boy, and anyway, Nate has known Chuck for as long as he can remember. This is definitely not a love story.
So here’s the start, roll camera, open scene on two boys and a half-redecorated bedroom, the should-be would-be princess across an ocean of bitterness and hurt. The leading man is reclining on the bed like a king with devil horns hidden under his hair. The leading man is sitting on the edge, looking up with big baby blues that belong under a halo. There is no leading lady.
Nate had fully intended to hide in the Hamptons this summer, he really had. But he had also assumed Chuck was going to be off in Europe the better part of the summer, so when a seething Blair had informed him otherwise, Nate had abandoned his packing and told his mother to have a nice time without him, he would stay behind. She hadn’t bothered to argue, which was at once galling and a relief, but he didn’t have the energy to stew over it much beyond that. She had left for the Hamptons; Nate had headed over to Chuck’s. So went the summer.
“All I’m saying is I think you’re being an idiot about this.” Chuck pauses pointedly. “Again.”
“The use ‘em and lose ‘em strategy isn’t really my style,” Nate demurs, not quite meeting his friend’s eyes. He really doesn’t want to be having this conversation. Again.
“No, you prefer extended moping. Really, Nathaniel. Even if it’s whatever her name is-”
“Vanessa.”
“-it’s bound to be an improvement.” He slings an arm around Nate’s shoulders, and Nate does his best not to tense or jump or something at the unexpected contact. “I’m just doing my charity work for the year.”
Nate snorts. “Gonna put it on your college application?” he asks, and Chuck grins.
“You can write me a glowing letter of recommendation. My writing talent lies mostly in checkbooks.”
“You’re more of an orator.”
“Sweetest tongue in Manhattan, Nathaniel.”
“So the girls say.”
“Not just the girls,” Chuck replies smugly, and gives Nate a token leer for good measure. Nate’s cheeks flush pink, and it’s not for the reasons Chuck is doubtless assuming, because simple embarrassment doesn’t make Nate’s stomach flip, doesn’t make his mouth dry and his heartbeat race.
(Un)fortunately for him, Chuck lets go.
It goes like this: the angel is falling a little more each day, because something has been breaking and maybe the good boy isn’t so good after all (maybe he wants to be broken down, dirtied, wrong). The good boy has spent so long being good, the good boy has spent so long seeing no-not-seeing a mouth like sin and hips like danger, the good boy has spent so long trying to be blind to all of this and trying to be deaf to the caress of that voice. Innocence is just another word for ignorance, after all.
First message, received at 12:23 PM:
“Hey, Vanessa, it’s Nate. Guess I picked a bad time... I was just calling to check in, see how your summer's going. Anyway, I’ll talk to you later. You have my number.”
Next message, received at 2:02 PM:
“Hey, me again. Listen, I just was wondering if you had any time on your hands. Maybe we could hang out a little, save each other from summer boredom. Uh, just as friends, of course. So... call me back when you get a chance, okay? Bye.”
Next message, received at 2:58 PM:
“Hey, it’s Nate. Again. I'm starting to doubt you'll get this message- either that or you’re screening your calls. And if you are, please just stop and call me back, Vanessa. I... kind of need to talk to you. And I know... maybe I didn't handle things as well as I could’ve, but I- well, a voicemail isn't enough time to talk about it. Just call me.”
No more new messages.
Vanessa raises her eyebrows at the empty room and stares at her phone for a minute before scrolling through her contacts and hitting Nate’s number. One ring, two rings...
“Vanessa, hey.”
“Hey yourself,” she answers, moving to perch on the end of her bed. “Got your messages. All three of them.”
Nate gives an embarrassed little chuckle. “Yeah, I, uh. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. And, I'll put you out of your misery right now and tell you that I wasn’t answering because my phone died on me, so I had to leave it home charging while I was out.”
“Oh. Right, of course.”
“I think that you assumed it was a big vendetta says a lot about your love life, Nate,” Vanessa teases, “but anyway. You wanted to meet up very badly, apparently.”
“I did, yeah.” A pause. “I could sort of use someone to talk to, if you’re okay with sitting through a tale of woe.”
He can almost hear the smile in her voice. “I don’t mind. Usual place?”
“Sounds perfect,” he agrees, a bit relieved. “And, hey, Vanessa? Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“Sure. I’ll see you soon.”
“See you soon.”
This is how confession starts- small talk, avoiding the issue, avoiding talking about it, avoiding making it into something real and dangerous. A bright pretty young filmmaker stirring the ice around in her diet Coke with a straw, a bright pretty young rich boy drumming his fingers on the table. If this were a love story, he would sweep her off her feet (but this isn’t a love story, and she doesn’t love his world).
“So,” she says eventually, watching him, “what’s got you desperate enough for someone to talk to that you called me?”
Nate frowns slightly. “It isn’t like that.”
Vanessa shrugs. “I’m not one of your closest friends,” she says, simple matter-of-fact fact. (Vanessa is so down-to-earth; he has always liked that about her).
“I guess I just needed an impartial opinion,” Nate says, but what he means is I need this not to get out, and especially not to get back to Chuck and he trusts her to understand that.
“Sounds serious,” she says, leaning back in her chair a bit.
“I guess it kind of is, yeah.” Nate doesn’t (can’t) quite meet her eyes as he says it, staring down at the table instead, and Vanessa reaches over and squeezes his hand, stilling the restless fidgeting of his fingers.
“It’s okay,” she assures him quietly, “you can talk to me.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, searching for the nerve, the words, the will. “There’s this person,” Nate finally murmurs, “who I’m- sorry- kind of into.” A pause. “Um. Really into, actually.”
“So far, not seeing the problem.”
Nate’s voice drops quieter, lower still. “It’s, um. It’s not...” he can’t get the words out, can’t force them past his lips, but either Vanessa notices a lot more than she lets on or else she’s psychic, because she does it for him.
“It’s a guy, isn’t it.” Not really a question, but Nate nods anyway, mute and lost, but Vanessa just looks concerned and sympathetic- there is no pity or aversion or discomfort in her gaze, and Nate lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
“Listen to me,” Vanessa says, “there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. You know that, don’t you? There’ll always be people who can’t or won’t understand, but... your friends, your real friends, they’ll be there for you either way.”
“I... yeah. Yeah, I know they will. But... I don't think I'm ready to talk about it with any of them yet. I... I haven't talked about it with anyone before this.” He lets out another breath, shifting a bit in his seat. “I've been thinking, though, a lot. Not really getting anywhere with it beyond, it's a terrible idea.”
“Why?” she asks, as if there aren’t a thousand reasons, a thousand different answers to that question. “I mean, I know there’s a lot of things that make it tough to deal with, but why, specifically? What’s holding you back?”
“It...” Nate trails off for a moment, frowning to himself. “He and I would never work,” he finally says. “He’s all wrong for me, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Hm,” Vanessa hums, half to herself, and pauses for a sip of her drink. “Honestly? I admit I can be a little reckless, but I'd say you should go for it and see what happens. I know I'd be kicking myself worse if I didn't try than if I did and it didn't work out.” She shrugs slightly. “Just me, though. It’s totally your call.”
It isn’t really reassuring at all.
Next come the sleepless nights, tossing and turning and thinking and worrying and wanting, all tangled up in the sheets and in a hundred clawing fears. It’s like admitting it has broken the dam, let loose this endless rushing deluge of emotions he doesn’t understand. But it all comes down to him, always. Doesn’t it always?
“...you’re not even listening to me, are you?”
Nate blinks. “Sorry,” he says, “I wasn’t.”
Chuck just rolls his eyes (Nate only gets lost like that when something is on his mind). “What are you brooding over now?”
“I... it’s nothing,” Nate says with a shake of his head, but he is watching Chuck’s lips and thinking I can’t do this, I can’t and feeling the blood pounding in his ears.
“Probably,” Chuck drawls, “but nothing or not, it won’t stop you from obsessing over it.” The corners of his lips quirk into a slightly crooked smile. “You’re too tense, Nathaniel.”
“Am I?” There is an odd note in Nate's voice, and by the way Chuck's gaze changes, like now he's suddenly really looking at Nate, he has heard it too.
If he thinks about it any longer, he’ll lose his nerve, so Nate draws in a quiet breath and just leans forward, clasping Chuck’s head in his hands and kissing him square on the lips, and it’s enough to surprise even Chuck Bass- for a few terrifying seconds, he doesn’t respond. Just long enough for Nate to start panicking, but then Chuck’s hands find Nate’s hips and pull him in closer and he’s kissing him back, surer and harder than any girl. It is at once the most natural thing in the world and frighteningly alien; for all Nate has thought about this, it still all feels startling and new. The faint burn of stubble against his cheek, the planes and angles where Nate is used to soft curves, the smell of Chuck’s cologne instead of perfume, the barest taste of cigarettes on his tongue. Nate isn’t entirely sure what to do, where to put his hands or how to react, but if he's doing something wrong Chuck gives no indication of it (on the contrary).
“Nathaniel,” Chuck says, pulls back enough to look at him with heavy-lidded eyes, and it hadn’t ever occurred to Nate before that maybe Chuck has been wanting this too, but it’s occurring to him now, and it’s occurring to him that Chuck is asking a question, asking are you serious, are you sure? with his eyes and giving Nate one last chance to turn back.
“What,” Nate says, and he is smiling, just a little, at once shy and emboldened, “don’t tell me you’re going to start turning down willing partners now.”
Chuck lets out a low, wicked laugh and doesn’t let Nate say anything more (besides Chuck and don’t stop and fuck, all gasped against his neck because Chuck really, really knows what he’s doing). Later Nate will remember to be scared or shocked or ashamed at how easily he gives into Chuck’s sure hands and filthy voice, but he isn’t feeling that way now, isn’t feeling anything but pleasure and hot, sweat-slick skin (Chuck’s reputation doesn’t do him justice). When they have thoroughly worn each other out, Chuck pads across the room for a cigarette and settles himself on his bed instead of the couch, but his eyes are still on Nate, lying there still and breathless and not ready (not able) to think about anything yet. Eventually, he gets to his feet (unwillingly) to pour himself a glass of water and drain it in a few long swallows before sliding under the sheets beside Chuck with a low sigh. Chuck stubs out the cigarette a few moments later and sinks back into the pillows, even lets Nate rest his cheek against his shoulder before the two of them fall (together) into a lazy, sated doze.
Next
Author: acidpop25
Rating: Soft R for now
Pairing: Chuck/Nate
Summary: This is not a love story, and it’s especially not a love story about Chuck Bass.
A/N: I'm dedicating this one to sandra_lanimil, without whom I would never, ever be able to write a decent Chuck. AU after the end of season 1.
This is not a love story, and it’s especially not a love story about Chuck Bass. This is not a love story, because love stories are boy-meets-girl and not boy-meets-boy, and anyway, Nate has known Chuck for as long as he can remember. This is definitely not a love story.
So here’s the start, roll camera, open scene on two boys and a half-redecorated bedroom, the should-be would-be princess across an ocean of bitterness and hurt. The leading man is reclining on the bed like a king with devil horns hidden under his hair. The leading man is sitting on the edge, looking up with big baby blues that belong under a halo. There is no leading lady.
Nate had fully intended to hide in the Hamptons this summer, he really had. But he had also assumed Chuck was going to be off in Europe the better part of the summer, so when a seething Blair had informed him otherwise, Nate had abandoned his packing and told his mother to have a nice time without him, he would stay behind. She hadn’t bothered to argue, which was at once galling and a relief, but he didn’t have the energy to stew over it much beyond that. She had left for the Hamptons; Nate had headed over to Chuck’s. So went the summer.
“All I’m saying is I think you’re being an idiot about this.” Chuck pauses pointedly. “Again.”
“The use ‘em and lose ‘em strategy isn’t really my style,” Nate demurs, not quite meeting his friend’s eyes. He really doesn’t want to be having this conversation. Again.
“No, you prefer extended moping. Really, Nathaniel. Even if it’s whatever her name is-”
“Vanessa.”
“-it’s bound to be an improvement.” He slings an arm around Nate’s shoulders, and Nate does his best not to tense or jump or something at the unexpected contact. “I’m just doing my charity work for the year.”
Nate snorts. “Gonna put it on your college application?” he asks, and Chuck grins.
“You can write me a glowing letter of recommendation. My writing talent lies mostly in checkbooks.”
“You’re more of an orator.”
“Sweetest tongue in Manhattan, Nathaniel.”
“So the girls say.”
“Not just the girls,” Chuck replies smugly, and gives Nate a token leer for good measure. Nate’s cheeks flush pink, and it’s not for the reasons Chuck is doubtless assuming, because simple embarrassment doesn’t make Nate’s stomach flip, doesn’t make his mouth dry and his heartbeat race.
(Un)fortunately for him, Chuck lets go.
It goes like this: the angel is falling a little more each day, because something has been breaking and maybe the good boy isn’t so good after all (maybe he wants to be broken down, dirtied, wrong). The good boy has spent so long being good, the good boy has spent so long seeing no-not-seeing a mouth like sin and hips like danger, the good boy has spent so long trying to be blind to all of this and trying to be deaf to the caress of that voice. Innocence is just another word for ignorance, after all.
First message, received at 12:23 PM:
“Hey, Vanessa, it’s Nate. Guess I picked a bad time... I was just calling to check in, see how your summer's going. Anyway, I’ll talk to you later. You have my number.”
Next message, received at 2:02 PM:
“Hey, me again. Listen, I just was wondering if you had any time on your hands. Maybe we could hang out a little, save each other from summer boredom. Uh, just as friends, of course. So... call me back when you get a chance, okay? Bye.”
Next message, received at 2:58 PM:
“Hey, it’s Nate. Again. I'm starting to doubt you'll get this message- either that or you’re screening your calls. And if you are, please just stop and call me back, Vanessa. I... kind of need to talk to you. And I know... maybe I didn't handle things as well as I could’ve, but I- well, a voicemail isn't enough time to talk about it. Just call me.”
No more new messages.
Vanessa raises her eyebrows at the empty room and stares at her phone for a minute before scrolling through her contacts and hitting Nate’s number. One ring, two rings...
“Vanessa, hey.”
“Hey yourself,” she answers, moving to perch on the end of her bed. “Got your messages. All three of them.”
Nate gives an embarrassed little chuckle. “Yeah, I, uh. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. And, I'll put you out of your misery right now and tell you that I wasn’t answering because my phone died on me, so I had to leave it home charging while I was out.”
“Oh. Right, of course.”
“I think that you assumed it was a big vendetta says a lot about your love life, Nate,” Vanessa teases, “but anyway. You wanted to meet up very badly, apparently.”
“I did, yeah.” A pause. “I could sort of use someone to talk to, if you’re okay with sitting through a tale of woe.”
He can almost hear the smile in her voice. “I don’t mind. Usual place?”
“Sounds perfect,” he agrees, a bit relieved. “And, hey, Vanessa? Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“Sure. I’ll see you soon.”
“See you soon.”
This is how confession starts- small talk, avoiding the issue, avoiding talking about it, avoiding making it into something real and dangerous. A bright pretty young filmmaker stirring the ice around in her diet Coke with a straw, a bright pretty young rich boy drumming his fingers on the table. If this were a love story, he would sweep her off her feet (but this isn’t a love story, and she doesn’t love his world).
“So,” she says eventually, watching him, “what’s got you desperate enough for someone to talk to that you called me?”
Nate frowns slightly. “It isn’t like that.”
Vanessa shrugs. “I’m not one of your closest friends,” she says, simple matter-of-fact fact. (Vanessa is so down-to-earth; he has always liked that about her).
“I guess I just needed an impartial opinion,” Nate says, but what he means is I need this not to get out, and especially not to get back to Chuck and he trusts her to understand that.
“Sounds serious,” she says, leaning back in her chair a bit.
“I guess it kind of is, yeah.” Nate doesn’t (can’t) quite meet her eyes as he says it, staring down at the table instead, and Vanessa reaches over and squeezes his hand, stilling the restless fidgeting of his fingers.
“It’s okay,” she assures him quietly, “you can talk to me.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, searching for the nerve, the words, the will. “There’s this person,” Nate finally murmurs, “who I’m- sorry- kind of into.” A pause. “Um. Really into, actually.”
“So far, not seeing the problem.”
Nate’s voice drops quieter, lower still. “It’s, um. It’s not...” he can’t get the words out, can’t force them past his lips, but either Vanessa notices a lot more than she lets on or else she’s psychic, because she does it for him.
“It’s a guy, isn’t it.” Not really a question, but Nate nods anyway, mute and lost, but Vanessa just looks concerned and sympathetic- there is no pity or aversion or discomfort in her gaze, and Nate lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
“Listen to me,” Vanessa says, “there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. You know that, don’t you? There’ll always be people who can’t or won’t understand, but... your friends, your real friends, they’ll be there for you either way.”
“I... yeah. Yeah, I know they will. But... I don't think I'm ready to talk about it with any of them yet. I... I haven't talked about it with anyone before this.” He lets out another breath, shifting a bit in his seat. “I've been thinking, though, a lot. Not really getting anywhere with it beyond, it's a terrible idea.”
“Why?” she asks, as if there aren’t a thousand reasons, a thousand different answers to that question. “I mean, I know there’s a lot of things that make it tough to deal with, but why, specifically? What’s holding you back?”
“It...” Nate trails off for a moment, frowning to himself. “He and I would never work,” he finally says. “He’s all wrong for me, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Hm,” Vanessa hums, half to herself, and pauses for a sip of her drink. “Honestly? I admit I can be a little reckless, but I'd say you should go for it and see what happens. I know I'd be kicking myself worse if I didn't try than if I did and it didn't work out.” She shrugs slightly. “Just me, though. It’s totally your call.”
It isn’t really reassuring at all.
Next come the sleepless nights, tossing and turning and thinking and worrying and wanting, all tangled up in the sheets and in a hundred clawing fears. It’s like admitting it has broken the dam, let loose this endless rushing deluge of emotions he doesn’t understand. But it all comes down to him, always. Doesn’t it always?
“...you’re not even listening to me, are you?”
Nate blinks. “Sorry,” he says, “I wasn’t.”
Chuck just rolls his eyes (Nate only gets lost like that when something is on his mind). “What are you brooding over now?”
“I... it’s nothing,” Nate says with a shake of his head, but he is watching Chuck’s lips and thinking I can’t do this, I can’t and feeling the blood pounding in his ears.
“Probably,” Chuck drawls, “but nothing or not, it won’t stop you from obsessing over it.” The corners of his lips quirk into a slightly crooked smile. “You’re too tense, Nathaniel.”
“Am I?” There is an odd note in Nate's voice, and by the way Chuck's gaze changes, like now he's suddenly really looking at Nate, he has heard it too.
If he thinks about it any longer, he’ll lose his nerve, so Nate draws in a quiet breath and just leans forward, clasping Chuck’s head in his hands and kissing him square on the lips, and it’s enough to surprise even Chuck Bass- for a few terrifying seconds, he doesn’t respond. Just long enough for Nate to start panicking, but then Chuck’s hands find Nate’s hips and pull him in closer and he’s kissing him back, surer and harder than any girl. It is at once the most natural thing in the world and frighteningly alien; for all Nate has thought about this, it still all feels startling and new. The faint burn of stubble against his cheek, the planes and angles where Nate is used to soft curves, the smell of Chuck’s cologne instead of perfume, the barest taste of cigarettes on his tongue. Nate isn’t entirely sure what to do, where to put his hands or how to react, but if he's doing something wrong Chuck gives no indication of it (on the contrary).
“Nathaniel,” Chuck says, pulls back enough to look at him with heavy-lidded eyes, and it hadn’t ever occurred to Nate before that maybe Chuck has been wanting this too, but it’s occurring to him now, and it’s occurring to him that Chuck is asking a question, asking are you serious, are you sure? with his eyes and giving Nate one last chance to turn back.
“What,” Nate says, and he is smiling, just a little, at once shy and emboldened, “don’t tell me you’re going to start turning down willing partners now.”
Chuck lets out a low, wicked laugh and doesn’t let Nate say anything more (besides Chuck and don’t stop and fuck, all gasped against his neck because Chuck really, really knows what he’s doing). Later Nate will remember to be scared or shocked or ashamed at how easily he gives into Chuck’s sure hands and filthy voice, but he isn’t feeling that way now, isn’t feeling anything but pleasure and hot, sweat-slick skin (Chuck’s reputation doesn’t do him justice). When they have thoroughly worn each other out, Chuck pads across the room for a cigarette and settles himself on his bed instead of the couch, but his eyes are still on Nate, lying there still and breathless and not ready (not able) to think about anything yet. Eventually, he gets to his feet (unwillingly) to pour himself a glass of water and drain it in a few long swallows before sliding under the sheets beside Chuck with a low sigh. Chuck stubs out the cigarette a few moments later and sinks back into the pillows, even lets Nate rest his cheek against his shoulder before the two of them fall (together) into a lazy, sated doze.
Next