FIC, we're hiding like elephants when they're happy, blair/dan
we're hiding like elephants when they're happy
pairing: dan/blair
rating: PG
words: ~900
summary: dan tries to write a sequel to Inside but he can't write fiction while blair is in monaco. end of S4.notes: (in case you are not a GG fan, dylan is a fictional character created by dan) expect mild confusion.
title/references to 'À bout de souffle' (1960)
Inside II
Dan hit backspace.
Inside I
Inside
...
Outside
He shook his head and hit backspace again, deciding that for the sake of time affectivity he would just write and hope the title followed.
It had been a month without her. Three weeks, four days and three hours to be exact- Dylan hadn't been counting, his mind worked in numbers, that was all it was. It seemed like everything slowed down without her; some evil trick of the Universe to prolong the aching of his heart and the over-processing of his brain. He would overhear a French woman in a cafe and wonder what Blair was doing. Because he could call her, right? He could easily call and see if she wanted to re-watch À Bout De Souffle through disparate screens. “minus Richard Gere of course, I didn’t even think that thing was eligible for resale”, he heard her say, “why remake a French masterpiece and cast a man who spends his days trailing after escorts”.
So, yes, she had specifically emailed him to advise he did not call/text/mail her under any circumstances because she was a "Princess now, in both name and nature, with conferences and galas and royal balls to attend" which highly decreased her interest in Dan Humphrey and other Dan Humphrey-related antics.
Dan hit backspace again.
...Her interest in Dylan and other Dylan-related antics. Nevertheless, he had respected her wishes and deleted the email (he would delude himself for five hours, possibly four, and then scroll through his Trash mail and retrieve it). Two days later however, she was texting him.
What are you doing, Humphrey?
Dan's Dylan's will-power had always been questionable, but surely this was just ludicrous? He had all but bitten the skin of his fingers down to the knuckle before deleting the text, sitting on the ground cross-legged and rocking back and forth like a small child.
A day later and he was sitting at the Doctor's, waiting to be diagnosed. Dan had questioned a case of Blair-itus, but if he were to assume it to be a contagious virus, he could also deduce that he was the only known sufferer. With the exception of Chuck Bass, possibly. Even then, Dan's Dylan's condition seemed to deteriorate at an astronomical pace, whilst Chuck strode through Manhattan, a trail of lingerie and Durex in his wake.
Blair-itus: the loss of and/or disassociation with Blair Waldorf. See depression.
Dan Dylan realised not-so-suddenly, that his latest instalment to Inside had become somewhat of a memoir, rather than a work of fiction. A diary entry. He slumped forward onto his desk, a month without her and he was reduced to scribbling love tales and lingering emotions in a diary. Once a writer, an intellect, a belletristic marvel, now a pubescent girl.
Doctor Frank prescribed Dan some antibiotics for his stomach bug and some rest. All he had done for the past month was rest; sleep, think and stare at the dial on a loop. It was a routine now. He had almost broken down when he had misplaced his mobile days before. Sleeping and thinking had merged into one long, painfully indistinct blur between night and day. It was inertia, and he envied the way his laptop could restore itself so easily after hibernation, flickered back to life after an hours inactivity while he shut down altogether.
On the second week, Blair called him. He watched her name flash up, waited for fifteen seconds and then watched it die as the light disappeared and she faded again. All he wanted was to hear her voice. Her sigh. The little inflections she made in each word as if speech itself was an unnecessary and time-consuming process. Humphrey, and the breathiness of the way she said it. Her laugh and the two variations of it. One: silent and non-committal, only recognisable if you knew what you were waiting to hear. Two: a loud, outrageous and uncharacteristic squark of discomposure. He loved both, complicated amounts. Complicated, because there was no way of defining the lengths he would travel to hear her laugh again, because nothing made sense without it.
He missed her and he needed her and there was nothing more to it. It was selfish and ugly, his need for her. He had become something he didn't approve of, the sort of guy he would frown upon in his post-Blair existence. He would cry for himself if the reality of it wasn't all so depressing.
You need to talk to her, his Rufus had told him whilst on a weekly Brooklyn visit.
No.
Why not?
I'm...sigh...I'm not supposed to contact her.
Because of the kiss?
All three of them, yeah. Hang on, uh, Dad? How do you know about that?
Eric.
Of course, yeah, great, Eric.
Stay with us for a while, just until she comes home at least.
Why?
For the sake of the sofa, son.
Dan stared down at it. It had moulded into the shape of his ass, two oval-shaped indents, a result of countless days inactivity.
Right. Uh, no, I'm fine, honestly.
I'm going to call you later, okay?
Sure.
Two hours later and Dan's phone bleeped.
Answer your phone, Humphrey!
She didn't call again. Neither did he break the rules in the hope of regaining some sanity. Not until 3am, when the apartment was dark and he remembered the night they had fallen asleep together on the sofa beneath him. A crescent moon, her head against his shoulder, the lemony-scent of her hair.
What's wrong, Blair?
He hit send and put his mobile on the seat next to him. For tonight, she would be beside him. Three point five seconds later, she replied.
I want to come home.
Come home.
I can't.
I miss you so much, Blair.
Dan deleted the message instantly. He placed his mobile back on the seat beside him, reached for his laptop and erased the document.