Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget [Part XXX] Georgina/Chuck/Blair, R
Title: Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget
Author: cynicalshadows (a.k.a. Alicia)
Pairings/Characters: Chuck/Georgina, Chuck/Blair
Rating: R, also M for Mature, and D for DARK - Don't say I didn't warn you!
Chapter: 30?
Word Count: 5941
Spoilers: Season 1
Summary: We all have demons we can't escape, and even Chuck Bass had been innocent...once.
I’m doing this tonight
You’re probably gonna start a fight
I know this can’t be right, hey baby come on
I loved you endlessly when you weren’t there for me
So now it’s time to leave and make it alone
-‘N Sync-
She goes back to Nate. Nothing surprising about that. It was to be expected. And yet, he had held out hope, foolish though it was that maybe she would choose him. He doesn’t know why he had thought that if she was free, if the choice was hers alone, she would return to him. She’d never wanted him for more than sex to begin with, and now… Well, now she was getting that from Nathaniel.
It’s his punishment, he supposes, having to listen to the reports of their trysts. To nod and smirk and joke and jibe as if it all isn’t making him sick inside, like he doesn’t want to smash Nate’s teeth in every time the golden boy throws some lewd comment out about how being a girl’s first is amazing. How tight she always is, how wet, the sounds she makes.
It makes him want to vomit. Or scream. Or hop into his father’s private jet and flee Manhattan permanently. But he can’t do any of those things. He’s Chuck Bass and he is not about to give her the satisfaction of seeing how upset he is. Was! How upset he was. He isn’t upset anymore. He doesn’t give a shit. Fuck that bitch. He is so over whatever it was they had together. It hadn’t been that great anyway.
As long as he keeps saying it, maybe one day it will no longer be a lie.
It would help of course if he could stop torturing himself with reminders of her. He should delete her number from his phone, throw his scarf away, and not pursue any chick with brown hair until the sight doesn’t immediately conjure mental pictures of her chestnut tresses fanned out beneath him as he…
His jaw tightens, pain lancing through his chest at the memory of what he will never do with her again. Maybe it is better to just swear off brunettes completely. Everyone already says blondes have more fun, so maybe they are more fun too.
Except he hasn’t really been in the mood for fun lately.
It’s like he’s broken. Finding a willing woman is easier than ever, but once he gets her back to his suite nothing happens. Or rather, something happens, but not at all what he wants to happen. Every time as soon as things progress to a certain point, he imagines her with Nate and it all comes to a screeching halt with no chance of revival. He knows. He’s tried. From the erotic to the pharmaceutical, nothing works to restore his libido and he has no choice but to send the slut packing. Once she’s gone, of course, the problem instantly goes away and he can take care of things himself, jerking off to fantasies of her and him reuniting in his limo. But if he had wanted to handle it on his own, he wouldn’t have brought the fucking girl back to his room in the first place. He’s never been so frustrated.
Not even his scotch holds the solace it once did. The more he drinks, the more she intrudes on his thoughts. Always laughing, smiling, dubbing him a coward, telling him that he isn’t half the man Nathaniel is.
Coldblooded bitch.
Maybe he shouldn’t have given up. Maybe he should have fought for her harder. Maybe he shouldn’t have thrown that tape away. Maybe he should have…
Fuck!
It’s done. He needs to move on. He’d let her go. She’d chosen Nate. No use dwelling on it. He’s got other things to worry about. More pressing matters. Like this message that just arrived with a beep on his cell.
Gossip Girl specializes in rumors and revealing those secrets that are supposed to stay hidden, and from the looks of it this one certainly qualifies. It’s a blast in the form of a photo. A nice candid of Serena buying what is clearly a pregnancy test along with a caption for those who are too clueless to figure out what the snapshot means on their own.
- Is “S” really with child? -
How could Serena be so stupid? She of all people should know better than to take chances! Hadn’t whoring around with Georgina taught her anything? And then to have her bun in the oven be the spawn of that Brooklyn charity case! If she was going to get herself knocked up, she should at least have made sure the guy had the money to make the problem go away. It isn’t like keeping it is an option. Chuck’s soon-to-be stepsister can barely dress herself, let alone take care of a kid. An abortion is the inevitable Upper East Side solution, something easily taken care of on an afternoon when she is conveniently sent home from school with stomach flu so no one is the wiser, and the potential embarrassment is quickly avoided and never spoken of again. But now, because Serena was sloppy, had allowed herself to be caught red-handed as it were, everyone knows and this isn’t exactly the kind of mess her friends can bail her out of.
Goddamn it!
His father is going to be pissed. Worse than pissed. Livid. There is nothing Bart hates more than when the Bass name becomes the focus of public ridicule, and this will set the tongues of the society matrons wagging for sure. The teenage daughter of his fiancée impregnated by a lowlife loser? Could there be anything more titillating to those dried up old hags in the Colony Club? Chuck thinks not, unless it had been him who was responsible for Serena’s condition. That would definitely be more scandalous.
With a sigh, his finger hovers over a button on his mobile. One press, a fraction of force, and he’ll reach his father, will be able to inform Bart of this latest crisis that doesn’t involve his son although his father’s disapproving tone will make him feel like it is somehow his fault, and he’ll end up taking the brunt of Bart’s annoyance at having to do damage control since he cannot exactly take it out on Lily van der Woodsen’s idiot child until their marriage license is signed.
He gnashes his teeth, shoving the cell back in his jacket. Screw it. Let Serena enlighten his father. Chuck wants no part of the fallout when that goes down. He’ll get enough of it as is.
Instead of calling, he goes to class. Using the time in speech and rhetoric, he prepares for the emotional onslaught that has become math. When that dreaded hour draws neigh, Nate slides up to the desk they share.
“Hey,” his friend whispers sitting beside him as Chuck inwardly grimaces, fervently praying he is not about to be subjected to another play by play of the most recent romantic romp with the Waldorf. “Did you hear about Serena?”
Chuck’s shoulders relax minutely. “Who hasn’t heard about Serena, Archibald?”
“Oh, right,” Nate mumbles. “I was just… How could that happen man?”
“Well, you see Nathaniel,” Chuck begins sardonically. “When a man and a woman love each other very much - ”
“Ha ha. I meant, how could she let it happen?”
Chuck shrugs, wondering the same thing. “It was probably an accident. Condom broke or something,” he muses aloud. Then his lips twist into a disparaging sneer. “If Humphrey even knew enough about sex to use one.”
“Maybe he got caught up in the heat of the moment and forgot,” Nate suggests, shifting slightly in his chair.
“Forgot?” Chuck repeats skeptically. “Putting on a rubber is not something one forgets. It’s a deliberate choice, and a smart one at that.”
“Yeah. Of course. Totally,” Nathaniel agrees after a second, his voice overly bright.
Chuck glances at him, brows furrowing a little in suspicion. Could the golden boy have…? No. No, not possible. Not even Nate is that dense.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of books and binders and boringness, but as the final bell rings, Chuck considers inviting Nathaniel over to get high and play Halo after school. It’ll mean suffering through more talk of Blair, but at least if Nate is with him, he isn’t banging her. A little agony this afternoon ensures a lot less agony tomorrow. The trade off is more than worth it.
He heads to the courtyard, looking for his best friend, knowing he usually hangs there for a while once classes let out. Rounding the brick corner into the quad, however, he halts. The golden boy is there alright. But so is she. And they’re being all cutesy together. The perfect fairy tale couple.
Seeing them like that makes his stomach churn, his half-digested lunch rapidly rising to be tasted again. It is all he can do to keep the look of disgust off his face, to keep his expression neutral, like he is unaffected by their blatant display of affection. He knows he should turn around, walk away and not spare them another glance, but he can’t get his feet to cooperate. He’s rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but stare, feeling like his heart is breaking all over again as Blair caresses Nathaniel’s cheek and their lips connect.
Envy rips at his insides, but still he’s powerless. He can’t do anything but keep watching, hating his own weakness, when unexpectedly she opens her eyes mid-kiss. Over Nate’s shoulder, their dark gazes meet. Immediately, something crackles through the air between them, electric and so very raw. Then her mouth finds Nathaniel’s again, and the moment is gone if it had ever been there at all.
Willing himself to breathe, Chuck finally regains control of his legs. He stalks slowly to his waiting limo, feeling like a knife is ripping through his soul and struggling to keep his fists at his sides so as not to succumb to the desire to clutch his abdomen to keep his metaphorical guts from spilling out of the metaphorical wound he’s just received. Only once Arthur closes the door safely behind him, does he allow himself to gasp, curling in upon himself, burying his head in his hands.
That fucking bitch.
Why the hell doesn’t she care for him? He knows her better than he knows himself, and yet she does not know him at all, doesn’t want to know him at all, is content to think him an insensitive monster and nothing he does can prove otherwise. She’s more judgmental than that asshole Dan Humphrey!
God he needs a drink. Several drinks. Enough alcohol to obliterate these terrible feelings of resentment and guilt and inadequacy. He is a Bass! He should be above this petty emotional jealousy crap.
In a burst of rage, he tears his newsboy cap off and flings it from him with a curse before reclining back against the seats and closing his eyes. With deadly calm, Chuck counts to fifty. He concentrates on relaxing, on letting his anger go, on inhaling the familiar scents of the limo. Leather upholstery, a whiff of tobacco, a hint of scotch, and there, very faint, a trace of vanilla more imagined than real.
He shudders. That sickeningly sweet phantom smell is always there now, hovering just out of awareness unless he deliberately focuses on it, or Georgina’s cruel voice decides to encroach on his private thoughts, her mocking laughter ghosting through his mind at inopportune times, reminding him again and again that he will never fully be free of her haunting presence. He’d had a brief respite when he’d been with Blair, but ever since Monaco, the bitch was back. Yet another reason he should have known his relationship with Queen B was too good to be true, too good to last, too good to be anything but a pipe dream
Later that same evening, shortly after another attempt with a redhead he’d found in the Palace Hotel bar ends without success and he’d shouted at her to leave, there is knock at the entrance to his suite. Warily, he opens the door, hoping it isn’t the drunken slut returning to further insult his stamina. But the person standing in the hallway is not her. It’s Serena.
“Hi Chuck.”
“Please, call me brother,” he smirks, goading her, knowing how much she opposes the union between their parents.
She doesn’t rise to the bait, however. “I need to talk to you,” she says.
“About getting knocked up?” He gestures for her to come inside. “I must say I’m a little disappointed you weren’t more careful.”
Ignoring his comment, she strides past him and straight to the wet bar, plopping herself onto a stool. Chuck assumes she wants a beverage as she sits there in silence, but when he walks behind the counter, he isn’t sure what he has that is suitable for someone in her condition to consume. Rummaging in the cabinets, he finds a bottle of sparkling water. That will work. He stands, reaching for a glass, discovering that she is peering at his reflection in the mirror over the bar intently.
“Chuck I really need to trust you,” she begins, her tone conveying how serious she considers this matter. “I’m hoping that deep down inside you’re actually a decent person and won’t make me regret this.”
What could she possibly regret telling him when everyone already knows her secret? Unless… Unless this isn’t about the baby at all, but that look he’d shared with a certain Waldorf in the courtyard today. The ice princess must really be in a panic to have sent Serena to do her dirty work.
“You’re here for Blair, aren’t you?” he states, turning around to find confirmation etched on the blonde’s earnest face. “Look,” he sighs impatiently. “I’m not going to tell Nate about us. I tortured her, got bored, and moved on.”
“There’s no moving on just yet,” she confesses. “The pregnancy test wasn’t for me. It was for Blair.”
He blinks, afraid that he’d heard her correctly. “What?”
“She won’t take it,” Serena explains in a rush. “So given that if she’s pregnant, you’re the fa - ”
“No!” he replies emphatically, cutting her off. “We used a condom.”
“Well obviously it broke!” she retorts, temper flaring at his immediate denial.
Her sudden fury confuses him momentarily, but then the truth of the situation dawns on him with absolute conviction. Serena doesn’t know Blair has fucked more than one guy. “What is obvious is that your best friend has kept you in the dark,” he scowls.
“What are you talking about?”
“I said I handle my business,” he grinds out. It is one of the few accomplishments he is proud of. He is always safe.
Firstly because as often as he has screwed around, and with as many partners as he has had, it is beyond idiotic not to use protection. Who knows where those whores have been? He doesn’t want his dick to fall off!
Second, he’s grown up watching conniving bitch after conniving bitch try to swindle his father into matrimony by claiming they’re having his baby, not realizing Bart had had a vasectomy after the death of his first wife. As Chuck got older some of these same gold diggers turned their attentions from father to son, knowing he’d inherit a billion dollar fortune and a Bass heir would guarantee them a portion of it. If that isn’t incentive enough not to trust any chick who swears she’s on birth control, he doesn’t know what is.
And last, but definitely not least, is the pregnancy scare he’d had with Georgina. Sure, she’d been lying the entire time in order to manipulate him, but he had still been terrified enough to take measures to guarantee the possibility never occurred again. Spermicidal condoms every time, without exception, and a nice little medicine bottle full of the morning-after pill just in case something untoward happened. Chuck Bass does not take chances when it comes to sex. He prepares for all eventualities, and handles his intimate affairs.
“Apparently Nate doesn’t,” he continues, understanding at last the uncomfortable look Nathaniel had had on his face in class this morning. Shock registers in Serena’s blue eyes at his claim. “They slept together just after we did,” he elaborates in a detached manner. “It’s him you should be asking for help.”
When Serena leaves a few awkward sentences later, he goes to pour himself a scotch. It’s only as he has difficulty transferring the amber fluid from the decanter into his glass that he realizes his hands are trembling violently. His whole body is. He leans unsteady against the bar, sliding down the lacquered wooden paneling until he is slumped upon the floor.
Blair, his Blair, might be pregnant because Nathaniel, that mother fucker, had defiled her! Didn’t respect her enough to take the steps necessary so she wouldn’t ever have to go through something like this! Couldn’t stop in his quest to get his rocks off long enough to care that he was putting her dream of attending Yale on the line! He hadn’t even summoned enough concern after the deed was done to get her a prescription so her risk of conceiving was less!
That selfish prick.
She’s got to be frightened. He remembers how frightened he was when he thought Georgina might’ve been pregnant. And she’s essentially alone in her fear, like he was too! She shouldn’t have to go through this by herself. She needs someone to support her, and it’s Nate’s blunder so he should fucking man up and be there by her side, no matter what the results!
Chuck grabs his phone from his pocket, intent on calling the golden boy and notifying him that his girlfriend is scared shitless and needs him, but he stops just shy of pressing the 2 on his speed dial.
No, no he won’t tell Nathaniel. He’ll be there for her instead. The kid could be his. Probably isn’t, but there was still a shred of possibility, and that’s all the excuse he needs. He’ll have a reason to talk to her tomorrow, and she’ll have to listen so long as she might be carrying his child.
Hope glimmers faintly in his chest, a gentle fluttering he’d believed he would never feel again. This is his chance to show her that he isn’t the heartless bastard she assumes him to be.
He arrives at school early the next day and loiters outside the quad, smoking to take the edge off his nerves, patiently waiting for her to appear walking down the sidewalk. Eventually she does, breezing past him so quickly that he has to hastily snuff out his cigarette to hurry after her.
As if she knows he is following, her pace increases. “Oh don’t stop on my account,” she tosses over her shoulder without turning her head.
“Oh I have to. Secondhand smoke is bad for the - ”
She whirls, glaring at him. “I’m not pregnant!” she spits so venomously he almost reels from her words. “So goodbye mistake so far in my past I can hardly remember.”
This is not precisely going how he had envisioned this playing out last evening. Perhaps she was under the impression that he had come to blackmail her again? Or gloat at her misfortune? If so, he can easily correct that assumption.
“You cannot be serious,” he grins, the fingers of one hand reaching out, touching her stomach, trying to curl around her waist in a gesture of familiarity and tenderness.
She slaps his arm away, thwarting his attempt at comfort. “You can’t be touching me,” she snaps viciously, her mask of composure slipping for a second. Then, regaining her poised veneer, she adds with an exasperated sigh, “Look if you were gonna tell Nate, you would have done so in Monaco. But you don’t want him to hate you, and you know he would. Game over.”
Chuck swallows down all the taunts that immediately spring to his lips, but one still manages to escape. “Game’s not over until I say it is.” It isn’t so much a threat, as a promise.
She smiles, that fake condescending twist of lips reserved especially for him. “Then have fun playing with yourself.” With that parting shot, she whisks away, heading inside.
He stares after her for a moment deliberating, and before he even is fully cognizant of doing so, he has his cell cradled in his hands, typing furiously.
- GG. S not pregnant, covering for Blair. Same Blair whose sheets were rumpled by two guys in one week. -
His thumb pauses over the SEND key, hesitating.
Is this wise? Alerting Gossip Girl that Blair’s been tumbled by more than one guy? Everyone will correctly identify one of the lucky two as Nate, but nobody will suspect the other was him, least of all Nathaniel. He’ll most likely think it is just some rumor spread by a vindictive underclassmen recently hazed by Queen B. She, of course, will deny the validity of the entire thing because Nate is her one and only, and he will believe her. And even if he doesn’t, if he ever has doubts at all, he will assume it was Carter she was with and not Chuck. Being the vilified bad boy of the Upper East Side has its advantages, and not being considered a contender for Blair Waldorf’s pussy is one of them.
Other people know the truth though. Serena for one, and that Vanessa girl. S, however, shouldn’t be a problem. She is Blair’s BFF, and she won’t risk messing that up again by airing her dirty laundry. She’ll keep quiet like a good little confidant. Which leaves the boho barista. She’s been to a couple events, tagging along with that baggage of Serena’s, but no one really knows her except Humphrey, and even better, no one wants to know her. If she does say anything, Blair will call her a liar, and Chuck will back her up, making it a case of their word against hers since the wannabe filmmaker no longer has the video tape of them discussing their first limo encounter as proof, and no one in their right mind is going to take the accusation of a lowlife from Brooklyn at face value when two of the most influential students at school are saying otherwise.
His jaw muscles flex subconsciously, and he presses the button, sending the damning text anonymously out to the best rumor monger in Manhattan. Now he just has to wait for the bomb to drop. It’ll teach Waldorf not to disregard what he is capable of in the future. She thinks she is untouchable at the top of the social hierarchy? She doesn’t even know how precarious a position she is in, and while this gossip won’t make her fall without substantiating evidence to back it up, it will cast doubt on her image of perfection. She’ll have to modulate her behavior even more than normal, because while the rest of the girls at Constance might have elevated her to elite status, they would still love nothing better than to knock her from the very pedestal they’d put her on.
The message arrives right when school lets out as dozens of phones go off at once, a veritable chorus of beeps, and chimes, and dings, and buzzes. Chuck is outside when it happens, and soon people are approaching him, asking if he knows anything because he is close with both Nate and Blair.
“I don’t know who it was,” he sidesteps smoothly. “You know I - ”
And suddenly he’s being thrown backwards. It’s so swift, he doesn’t even have time to tense or struggle or fight the momentum. Just lets it transpire, and it’s rather surreal, and on some level he recognizes instinctively that karma has finally caught up with him as he slams into the waiting limo.
“Did you sleep with her, huh?” Nate demands, face looming over Chuck’s as he presses him harder against the trunk.
Chuck does nothing, merely looks at the outraged betrayal in his friend’s eyes. He can’t tell the truth, and he can’t lie, and his silence is answer enough anyway. Nathaniel shakes him fiercely, fingers digging into his throat. “You son of a bitch!” he roars. “I ought to kill you!”
“Look,” Chuck says evenly, still making no move to defend himself. There is no defense for his actions. They are inexcusable, and he deserves much worse than harsh words. “Can we talk about this without your hands around my neck?”
“What did you do?” Nate demands. “Did you get what you wanted like you did with all those other girls?”
Anger blazes in Chuck’s belly. Why is everything always his fault? Why does everyone else get to walk away blameless time and again while he gets deemed the devil incarnate? She had sought him out! She had kissed him first! She had said she was sure!
“Yes, Nathaniel,” Chuck snaps. “I took what Blair kept throwing at you and you kept throwing back!”
“Oh, so somehow you screwing Blair for sport is my fault?”
How dare Nate try to cheapen what they had shared that way! “It wasn’t for sport!” Chuck asserts. “She needed someone and I was there.”
“Oh, so you cared about her?” Nathaniel scoffs incredulous.
His dubious tone sets Chuck’s teeth on edge. Why does nobody think him capable of emotion? He is a person just like everyone else. Just because he doesn’t wear his fucking heart on his sleeve doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel! “You guys were broken up,” he points out wearily.
With unexpected vehemence, Nate shouts into his face. “For how long? A week? An hour?”
He starts to storm away and Chuck winces in recollection. An hour? Not even. It was probably closer to… twenty minutes.
“Look, I am sorry!” he calls out, running after the golden boy, desperate to fix this. “I know how long you and I have been best friends, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay Chuck,” Nate snarls, shoving him back. “From now on, you just stay away from me.”
And there it is. Condemnation in those cobalt eyes that have always only held acceptance before, that have never looked on him with anything other than trust and loyalty.
“Nate,” Chuck whispers. A plea. A prayer.
“Did you hear what I said?” Nathaniel yells. “You stay the hell away from me Chuck!”
Then he’s gone, and Chuck is left staring after him, immobile on the sidewalk, feeling like a piece of his psyche has been shattered. Nate was more than his best friend. He was the brother he’d never had, a living testimony that good people did exist in the world, a constant reminder that someone had faith that he could be good too. And now… none of that remains.
Slowly, he becomes aware that his classmates are gawking at him in silence, everyone stunned at the clash that had occurred in their midst.
“Show’s over,” he announces, climbing into the limo to escape their accusatory looks. He knows better than to wish that the altercation had gone undocumented, and before he even is able to get to the Palace Hotel his mobile chirps with an incoming text from Gossip Girl. He doesn’t even bother to see how bad it is before he deletes it. What’s the use in checking? It’s got to be bad. Half the school had witnessed their blowup. The message probably contained a verbatim transcript of the entire argument complete with a picture montage!
Damn it to hell.
Back in his suite, he sits on the couch taking swigs straight from a fresh bottle of scotch. As the liquid burns down his throat, he thinks of the countless times his friend has slept here, all the things they have done since they were kids, the plans they had made, the children they had been, Chuck-and-Nate, the adults they would become, Charles-and-Nathaniel, always together, always a pair, the golden boy and the dark prince, inseparable, sharing a bond so strong classmates would’ve whispered they were gay had they not been who they were, a bond that was now utterly and irrevocably severed because a girl had come between them, a beautiful and self-centered girl who professed to love one and hate the other without even knowing what those terms meant outside of the fantasy movie she pretended her life to be.
A solitary tear rolls down his cheek as he swallows another mouthful of alcohol, already feeling it like acid in the pit of his empty stomach. He’s lost them. The two most important people he’s ever known now want nothing to do with him ever again. Not since that terrible night with Georgina has he ever felt so completely alone.
The next day, he doesn’t go to school. He isn’t ready to deal with the incriminating stares and hushed conversations that stop whenever he enters a room just yet. But from the flurry of texts arriving from Gossip Girl all day, each one meticulously detailing the dethroning of the onetime Queen of Constance, his bloodthirsty peers have more than enough dirt to occupy them in his absence. It’s like sharks in a feeding frenzy, each minion craving a chance to add to the humiliation of their former leader, every lowly freshman ostracizing Blair just as swiftly as she had ostracized them.
If he hadn’t been so fucking numb, he might have pitied her.
Late that afternoon, a different sort of message lights up his phone’s screen. It’s from her.
- We need to talk. Butai? -
Knowing he should ignore it, but unable to suppress his curiosity, secretly wishing her desire to speak to him is a form of peace offering, he types a short response.
- 8:30 -
He’s at the restaurant by 8, perched on a stool at the bar in a pink pullover sweater that is rather too festive for what may very well be an extremely somber occasion. He wanted three words, eight letters from her before, and this evening he wants them again. Only not ‘I love you.’ No. No, tonight the phrase is ‘I am sorry.’ If she isn’t coming to make amends, to accept some of the responsibility for the terrible mess three lives have become, he isn’t sure what he’ll do. But it is not going to be nice. If she admits some of the fault is hers, well… they can work something out.
He checks his watch. Anytime now. His eyes flick to the untouched scotch in front of him, hoping he won’t need it, fearing that he will. He’s already sent Arthur a text in preparation of the eventuality that she is not going to apologize. It’s a… shopping list of sorts. Things he’ll require his chauffer to obtain for him and have waiting when he returns to his suite.
At three past eight, Blair sidles up to him at the counter. He turns towards her, his face a frozen visage, knowing the outcome of this little chat depends entirely on the first words to leave her mouth.
“I came to congratulate you in person,” she says.
Immediately, he reaches for his scotch, dreading what inevitably comes next in this never ending disaster the past two days have become. As he sips from the glass, he appreciates the bitter irony of the location Blair had chosen for what is to be their last meeting. ‘Butai’ is Japanese for ‘stage,’ and he is about to put on the performance of his life.
“You ruined my relationship with Nate, Serena, all of my friends,” she continues, laying all the blame for everything at his feet like she always does. “Even little Jenny thinks she’s too good for me so… Bravo. It’s just like you wanted. I have nobody to turn to but you.”
The tragic twist of fate in this situation is not lost on him. Blair has finally come to him, just as he had yearned for her to do. Only it wasn’t because she wanted him. Oh no. It was merely because no one else wanted her. He wasn’t her second choice, or even her third. He wasn’t a choice at all. He was the last resort, the person she didn’t even care for but whom she was fine using when she needed to be made to feel attractive, special, precious. A princess again. His princess.
“Actually, you don’t even have me.”
“Enough,” she sighs, the ever innocent martyr.
“I’ll try to be more succinct,” Chuck spits. “You held a certain fascination when you were beautiful, delicate, and untouched. But now you’re like… one of the Arabians my father used to own.” He pauses, gathering the strength to do what must be done, to say what he knows will hurt her as badly as she has hurt him. Still, he can’t look at her when he sneers, “Rode hard and put away wet.”
He meets her eyes then, has to for the worst insult to be driven home. “I don’t want you anymore,” he lies. “And I can’t see why anyone else would.”
Dismissively, he glances away, ignoring her as he quickly gulps the rest of his scotch in an effort to keep the truth from spilling from his mouth. He sets the tumbler down, shoves it away. Steeples his fingers and presses them against his lips, forcing the words back, wishing she would say something, do something. Scream, yell, call him an ass, slap him, hit him with her purse, cause a scene. Anything but just sit there in shocked devastated silence.
After a painfully drawn out moment, mercifully she gets up and leaves, and only once the door to the restaurant swings shut behind her does he allow himself to slump in his seat, rotating his head to stare after her, regretting it had to end this way.
He phones Arthur to pick him up, making another call while he waits outside for the limo. When it pulls in front of the curb, he climbs in and lowers the partition. “Did you get everything?” Chuck inquires.
“It’s all arranged like you requested, sir,” his chauffer answers.
“Thank you,” he mutters, raising the tinted glass once more.
Arriving back at the Palace, he returns to his suite and within half an hour, the escort he had ordered knocks at his door.
He surveys her. Chestnut curls. Chocolate eyes. Roughly the same size, although slightly fuller at hip and longer of leg.
She’ll do.
“Put those on,” he says gesturing toward a chair as he lets her in. “And there’s perfume in the bathroom.”
She looks, her glance landing on the neatly folded Constance Billard uniform, the opaque stockings, the headband. “Got a school girl kink?”
“You’re not being paid to talk.”
He strides from the room, allowing her time to change while he pours himself a scotch, hoping it’ll wash away that sense of shame and nausea.
A few minutes later, she stands before him again. She isn’t her, nothing but a Canal Street knockoff, but tonight she is all he has.
Wordlessly, he takes her in his arms, crushing her to him, not kissing her, but burying his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of magnolia blossoms.
“Why, Blair? Why couldn’t you apologize?” he whispers, so softly the prostitute barely hears him.
And feeling incredibly awkward, she raises a hand to pat the boy’s back, fairly certain he is sobbing against her neck.
Author: cynicalshadows (a.k.a. Alicia)
Pairings/Characters: Chuck/Georgina, Chuck/Blair
Rating: R, also M for Mature, and D for DARK - Don't say I didn't warn you!
Chapter: 30?
Word Count: 5941
Spoilers: Season 1
Summary: We all have demons we can't escape, and even Chuck Bass had been innocent...once.
I’m doing this tonight
You’re probably gonna start a fight
I know this can’t be right, hey baby come on
I loved you endlessly when you weren’t there for me
So now it’s time to leave and make it alone
-‘N Sync-
She goes back to Nate. Nothing surprising about that. It was to be expected. And yet, he had held out hope, foolish though it was that maybe she would choose him. He doesn’t know why he had thought that if she was free, if the choice was hers alone, she would return to him. She’d never wanted him for more than sex to begin with, and now… Well, now she was getting that from Nathaniel.
It’s his punishment, he supposes, having to listen to the reports of their trysts. To nod and smirk and joke and jibe as if it all isn’t making him sick inside, like he doesn’t want to smash Nate’s teeth in every time the golden boy throws some lewd comment out about how being a girl’s first is amazing. How tight she always is, how wet, the sounds she makes.
It makes him want to vomit. Or scream. Or hop into his father’s private jet and flee Manhattan permanently. But he can’t do any of those things. He’s Chuck Bass and he is not about to give her the satisfaction of seeing how upset he is. Was! How upset he was. He isn’t upset anymore. He doesn’t give a shit. Fuck that bitch. He is so over whatever it was they had together. It hadn’t been that great anyway.
As long as he keeps saying it, maybe one day it will no longer be a lie.
It would help of course if he could stop torturing himself with reminders of her. He should delete her number from his phone, throw his scarf away, and not pursue any chick with brown hair until the sight doesn’t immediately conjure mental pictures of her chestnut tresses fanned out beneath him as he…
His jaw tightens, pain lancing through his chest at the memory of what he will never do with her again. Maybe it is better to just swear off brunettes completely. Everyone already says blondes have more fun, so maybe they are more fun too.
Except he hasn’t really been in the mood for fun lately.
It’s like he’s broken. Finding a willing woman is easier than ever, but once he gets her back to his suite nothing happens. Or rather, something happens, but not at all what he wants to happen. Every time as soon as things progress to a certain point, he imagines her with Nate and it all comes to a screeching halt with no chance of revival. He knows. He’s tried. From the erotic to the pharmaceutical, nothing works to restore his libido and he has no choice but to send the slut packing. Once she’s gone, of course, the problem instantly goes away and he can take care of things himself, jerking off to fantasies of her and him reuniting in his limo. But if he had wanted to handle it on his own, he wouldn’t have brought the fucking girl back to his room in the first place. He’s never been so frustrated.
Not even his scotch holds the solace it once did. The more he drinks, the more she intrudes on his thoughts. Always laughing, smiling, dubbing him a coward, telling him that he isn’t half the man Nathaniel is.
Coldblooded bitch.
Maybe he shouldn’t have given up. Maybe he should have fought for her harder. Maybe he shouldn’t have thrown that tape away. Maybe he should have…
Fuck!
It’s done. He needs to move on. He’d let her go. She’d chosen Nate. No use dwelling on it. He’s got other things to worry about. More pressing matters. Like this message that just arrived with a beep on his cell.
Gossip Girl specializes in rumors and revealing those secrets that are supposed to stay hidden, and from the looks of it this one certainly qualifies. It’s a blast in the form of a photo. A nice candid of Serena buying what is clearly a pregnancy test along with a caption for those who are too clueless to figure out what the snapshot means on their own.
- Is “S” really with child? -
How could Serena be so stupid? She of all people should know better than to take chances! Hadn’t whoring around with Georgina taught her anything? And then to have her bun in the oven be the spawn of that Brooklyn charity case! If she was going to get herself knocked up, she should at least have made sure the guy had the money to make the problem go away. It isn’t like keeping it is an option. Chuck’s soon-to-be stepsister can barely dress herself, let alone take care of a kid. An abortion is the inevitable Upper East Side solution, something easily taken care of on an afternoon when she is conveniently sent home from school with stomach flu so no one is the wiser, and the potential embarrassment is quickly avoided and never spoken of again. But now, because Serena was sloppy, had allowed herself to be caught red-handed as it were, everyone knows and this isn’t exactly the kind of mess her friends can bail her out of.
Goddamn it!
His father is going to be pissed. Worse than pissed. Livid. There is nothing Bart hates more than when the Bass name becomes the focus of public ridicule, and this will set the tongues of the society matrons wagging for sure. The teenage daughter of his fiancée impregnated by a lowlife loser? Could there be anything more titillating to those dried up old hags in the Colony Club? Chuck thinks not, unless it had been him who was responsible for Serena’s condition. That would definitely be more scandalous.
With a sigh, his finger hovers over a button on his mobile. One press, a fraction of force, and he’ll reach his father, will be able to inform Bart of this latest crisis that doesn’t involve his son although his father’s disapproving tone will make him feel like it is somehow his fault, and he’ll end up taking the brunt of Bart’s annoyance at having to do damage control since he cannot exactly take it out on Lily van der Woodsen’s idiot child until their marriage license is signed.
He gnashes his teeth, shoving the cell back in his jacket. Screw it. Let Serena enlighten his father. Chuck wants no part of the fallout when that goes down. He’ll get enough of it as is.
Instead of calling, he goes to class. Using the time in speech and rhetoric, he prepares for the emotional onslaught that has become math. When that dreaded hour draws neigh, Nate slides up to the desk they share.
“Hey,” his friend whispers sitting beside him as Chuck inwardly grimaces, fervently praying he is not about to be subjected to another play by play of the most recent romantic romp with the Waldorf. “Did you hear about Serena?”
Chuck’s shoulders relax minutely. “Who hasn’t heard about Serena, Archibald?”
“Oh, right,” Nate mumbles. “I was just… How could that happen man?”
“Well, you see Nathaniel,” Chuck begins sardonically. “When a man and a woman love each other very much - ”
“Ha ha. I meant, how could she let it happen?”
Chuck shrugs, wondering the same thing. “It was probably an accident. Condom broke or something,” he muses aloud. Then his lips twist into a disparaging sneer. “If Humphrey even knew enough about sex to use one.”
“Maybe he got caught up in the heat of the moment and forgot,” Nate suggests, shifting slightly in his chair.
“Forgot?” Chuck repeats skeptically. “Putting on a rubber is not something one forgets. It’s a deliberate choice, and a smart one at that.”
“Yeah. Of course. Totally,” Nathaniel agrees after a second, his voice overly bright.
Chuck glances at him, brows furrowing a little in suspicion. Could the golden boy have…? No. No, not possible. Not even Nate is that dense.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of books and binders and boringness, but as the final bell rings, Chuck considers inviting Nathaniel over to get high and play Halo after school. It’ll mean suffering through more talk of Blair, but at least if Nate is with him, he isn’t banging her. A little agony this afternoon ensures a lot less agony tomorrow. The trade off is more than worth it.
He heads to the courtyard, looking for his best friend, knowing he usually hangs there for a while once classes let out. Rounding the brick corner into the quad, however, he halts. The golden boy is there alright. But so is she. And they’re being all cutesy together. The perfect fairy tale couple.
Seeing them like that makes his stomach churn, his half-digested lunch rapidly rising to be tasted again. It is all he can do to keep the look of disgust off his face, to keep his expression neutral, like he is unaffected by their blatant display of affection. He knows he should turn around, walk away and not spare them another glance, but he can’t get his feet to cooperate. He’s rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but stare, feeling like his heart is breaking all over again as Blair caresses Nathaniel’s cheek and their lips connect.
Envy rips at his insides, but still he’s powerless. He can’t do anything but keep watching, hating his own weakness, when unexpectedly she opens her eyes mid-kiss. Over Nate’s shoulder, their dark gazes meet. Immediately, something crackles through the air between them, electric and so very raw. Then her mouth finds Nathaniel’s again, and the moment is gone if it had ever been there at all.
Willing himself to breathe, Chuck finally regains control of his legs. He stalks slowly to his waiting limo, feeling like a knife is ripping through his soul and struggling to keep his fists at his sides so as not to succumb to the desire to clutch his abdomen to keep his metaphorical guts from spilling out of the metaphorical wound he’s just received. Only once Arthur closes the door safely behind him, does he allow himself to gasp, curling in upon himself, burying his head in his hands.
That fucking bitch.
Why the hell doesn’t she care for him? He knows her better than he knows himself, and yet she does not know him at all, doesn’t want to know him at all, is content to think him an insensitive monster and nothing he does can prove otherwise. She’s more judgmental than that asshole Dan Humphrey!
God he needs a drink. Several drinks. Enough alcohol to obliterate these terrible feelings of resentment and guilt and inadequacy. He is a Bass! He should be above this petty emotional jealousy crap.
In a burst of rage, he tears his newsboy cap off and flings it from him with a curse before reclining back against the seats and closing his eyes. With deadly calm, Chuck counts to fifty. He concentrates on relaxing, on letting his anger go, on inhaling the familiar scents of the limo. Leather upholstery, a whiff of tobacco, a hint of scotch, and there, very faint, a trace of vanilla more imagined than real.
He shudders. That sickeningly sweet phantom smell is always there now, hovering just out of awareness unless he deliberately focuses on it, or Georgina’s cruel voice decides to encroach on his private thoughts, her mocking laughter ghosting through his mind at inopportune times, reminding him again and again that he will never fully be free of her haunting presence. He’d had a brief respite when he’d been with Blair, but ever since Monaco, the bitch was back. Yet another reason he should have known his relationship with Queen B was too good to be true, too good to last, too good to be anything but a pipe dream
Later that same evening, shortly after another attempt with a redhead he’d found in the Palace Hotel bar ends without success and he’d shouted at her to leave, there is knock at the entrance to his suite. Warily, he opens the door, hoping it isn’t the drunken slut returning to further insult his stamina. But the person standing in the hallway is not her. It’s Serena.
“Hi Chuck.”
“Please, call me brother,” he smirks, goading her, knowing how much she opposes the union between their parents.
She doesn’t rise to the bait, however. “I need to talk to you,” she says.
“About getting knocked up?” He gestures for her to come inside. “I must say I’m a little disappointed you weren’t more careful.”
Ignoring his comment, she strides past him and straight to the wet bar, plopping herself onto a stool. Chuck assumes she wants a beverage as she sits there in silence, but when he walks behind the counter, he isn’t sure what he has that is suitable for someone in her condition to consume. Rummaging in the cabinets, he finds a bottle of sparkling water. That will work. He stands, reaching for a glass, discovering that she is peering at his reflection in the mirror over the bar intently.
“Chuck I really need to trust you,” she begins, her tone conveying how serious she considers this matter. “I’m hoping that deep down inside you’re actually a decent person and won’t make me regret this.”
What could she possibly regret telling him when everyone already knows her secret? Unless… Unless this isn’t about the baby at all, but that look he’d shared with a certain Waldorf in the courtyard today. The ice princess must really be in a panic to have sent Serena to do her dirty work.
“You’re here for Blair, aren’t you?” he states, turning around to find confirmation etched on the blonde’s earnest face. “Look,” he sighs impatiently. “I’m not going to tell Nate about us. I tortured her, got bored, and moved on.”
“There’s no moving on just yet,” she confesses. “The pregnancy test wasn’t for me. It was for Blair.”
He blinks, afraid that he’d heard her correctly. “What?”
“She won’t take it,” Serena explains in a rush. “So given that if she’s pregnant, you’re the fa - ”
“No!” he replies emphatically, cutting her off. “We used a condom.”
“Well obviously it broke!” she retorts, temper flaring at his immediate denial.
Her sudden fury confuses him momentarily, but then the truth of the situation dawns on him with absolute conviction. Serena doesn’t know Blair has fucked more than one guy. “What is obvious is that your best friend has kept you in the dark,” he scowls.
“What are you talking about?”
“I said I handle my business,” he grinds out. It is one of the few accomplishments he is proud of. He is always safe.
Firstly because as often as he has screwed around, and with as many partners as he has had, it is beyond idiotic not to use protection. Who knows where those whores have been? He doesn’t want his dick to fall off!
Second, he’s grown up watching conniving bitch after conniving bitch try to swindle his father into matrimony by claiming they’re having his baby, not realizing Bart had had a vasectomy after the death of his first wife. As Chuck got older some of these same gold diggers turned their attentions from father to son, knowing he’d inherit a billion dollar fortune and a Bass heir would guarantee them a portion of it. If that isn’t incentive enough not to trust any chick who swears she’s on birth control, he doesn’t know what is.
And last, but definitely not least, is the pregnancy scare he’d had with Georgina. Sure, she’d been lying the entire time in order to manipulate him, but he had still been terrified enough to take measures to guarantee the possibility never occurred again. Spermicidal condoms every time, without exception, and a nice little medicine bottle full of the morning-after pill just in case something untoward happened. Chuck Bass does not take chances when it comes to sex. He prepares for all eventualities, and handles his intimate affairs.
“Apparently Nate doesn’t,” he continues, understanding at last the uncomfortable look Nathaniel had had on his face in class this morning. Shock registers in Serena’s blue eyes at his claim. “They slept together just after we did,” he elaborates in a detached manner. “It’s him you should be asking for help.”
When Serena leaves a few awkward sentences later, he goes to pour himself a scotch. It’s only as he has difficulty transferring the amber fluid from the decanter into his glass that he realizes his hands are trembling violently. His whole body is. He leans unsteady against the bar, sliding down the lacquered wooden paneling until he is slumped upon the floor.
Blair, his Blair, might be pregnant because Nathaniel, that mother fucker, had defiled her! Didn’t respect her enough to take the steps necessary so she wouldn’t ever have to go through something like this! Couldn’t stop in his quest to get his rocks off long enough to care that he was putting her dream of attending Yale on the line! He hadn’t even summoned enough concern after the deed was done to get her a prescription so her risk of conceiving was less!
That selfish prick.
She’s got to be frightened. He remembers how frightened he was when he thought Georgina might’ve been pregnant. And she’s essentially alone in her fear, like he was too! She shouldn’t have to go through this by herself. She needs someone to support her, and it’s Nate’s blunder so he should fucking man up and be there by her side, no matter what the results!
Chuck grabs his phone from his pocket, intent on calling the golden boy and notifying him that his girlfriend is scared shitless and needs him, but he stops just shy of pressing the 2 on his speed dial.
No, no he won’t tell Nathaniel. He’ll be there for her instead. The kid could be his. Probably isn’t, but there was still a shred of possibility, and that’s all the excuse he needs. He’ll have a reason to talk to her tomorrow, and she’ll have to listen so long as she might be carrying his child.
Hope glimmers faintly in his chest, a gentle fluttering he’d believed he would never feel again. This is his chance to show her that he isn’t the heartless bastard she assumes him to be.
He arrives at school early the next day and loiters outside the quad, smoking to take the edge off his nerves, patiently waiting for her to appear walking down the sidewalk. Eventually she does, breezing past him so quickly that he has to hastily snuff out his cigarette to hurry after her.
As if she knows he is following, her pace increases. “Oh don’t stop on my account,” she tosses over her shoulder without turning her head.
“Oh I have to. Secondhand smoke is bad for the - ”
She whirls, glaring at him. “I’m not pregnant!” she spits so venomously he almost reels from her words. “So goodbye mistake so far in my past I can hardly remember.”
This is not precisely going how he had envisioned this playing out last evening. Perhaps she was under the impression that he had come to blackmail her again? Or gloat at her misfortune? If so, he can easily correct that assumption.
“You cannot be serious,” he grins, the fingers of one hand reaching out, touching her stomach, trying to curl around her waist in a gesture of familiarity and tenderness.
She slaps his arm away, thwarting his attempt at comfort. “You can’t be touching me,” she snaps viciously, her mask of composure slipping for a second. Then, regaining her poised veneer, she adds with an exasperated sigh, “Look if you were gonna tell Nate, you would have done so in Monaco. But you don’t want him to hate you, and you know he would. Game over.”
Chuck swallows down all the taunts that immediately spring to his lips, but one still manages to escape. “Game’s not over until I say it is.” It isn’t so much a threat, as a promise.
She smiles, that fake condescending twist of lips reserved especially for him. “Then have fun playing with yourself.” With that parting shot, she whisks away, heading inside.
He stares after her for a moment deliberating, and before he even is fully cognizant of doing so, he has his cell cradled in his hands, typing furiously.
- GG. S not pregnant, covering for Blair. Same Blair whose sheets were rumpled by two guys in one week. -
His thumb pauses over the SEND key, hesitating.
Is this wise? Alerting Gossip Girl that Blair’s been tumbled by more than one guy? Everyone will correctly identify one of the lucky two as Nate, but nobody will suspect the other was him, least of all Nathaniel. He’ll most likely think it is just some rumor spread by a vindictive underclassmen recently hazed by Queen B. She, of course, will deny the validity of the entire thing because Nate is her one and only, and he will believe her. And even if he doesn’t, if he ever has doubts at all, he will assume it was Carter she was with and not Chuck. Being the vilified bad boy of the Upper East Side has its advantages, and not being considered a contender for Blair Waldorf’s pussy is one of them.
Other people know the truth though. Serena for one, and that Vanessa girl. S, however, shouldn’t be a problem. She is Blair’s BFF, and she won’t risk messing that up again by airing her dirty laundry. She’ll keep quiet like a good little confidant. Which leaves the boho barista. She’s been to a couple events, tagging along with that baggage of Serena’s, but no one really knows her except Humphrey, and even better, no one wants to know her. If she does say anything, Blair will call her a liar, and Chuck will back her up, making it a case of their word against hers since the wannabe filmmaker no longer has the video tape of them discussing their first limo encounter as proof, and no one in their right mind is going to take the accusation of a lowlife from Brooklyn at face value when two of the most influential students at school are saying otherwise.
His jaw muscles flex subconsciously, and he presses the button, sending the damning text anonymously out to the best rumor monger in Manhattan. Now he just has to wait for the bomb to drop. It’ll teach Waldorf not to disregard what he is capable of in the future. She thinks she is untouchable at the top of the social hierarchy? She doesn’t even know how precarious a position she is in, and while this gossip won’t make her fall without substantiating evidence to back it up, it will cast doubt on her image of perfection. She’ll have to modulate her behavior even more than normal, because while the rest of the girls at Constance might have elevated her to elite status, they would still love nothing better than to knock her from the very pedestal they’d put her on.
The message arrives right when school lets out as dozens of phones go off at once, a veritable chorus of beeps, and chimes, and dings, and buzzes. Chuck is outside when it happens, and soon people are approaching him, asking if he knows anything because he is close with both Nate and Blair.
“I don’t know who it was,” he sidesteps smoothly. “You know I - ”
And suddenly he’s being thrown backwards. It’s so swift, he doesn’t even have time to tense or struggle or fight the momentum. Just lets it transpire, and it’s rather surreal, and on some level he recognizes instinctively that karma has finally caught up with him as he slams into the waiting limo.
“Did you sleep with her, huh?” Nate demands, face looming over Chuck’s as he presses him harder against the trunk.
Chuck does nothing, merely looks at the outraged betrayal in his friend’s eyes. He can’t tell the truth, and he can’t lie, and his silence is answer enough anyway. Nathaniel shakes him fiercely, fingers digging into his throat. “You son of a bitch!” he roars. “I ought to kill you!”
“Look,” Chuck says evenly, still making no move to defend himself. There is no defense for his actions. They are inexcusable, and he deserves much worse than harsh words. “Can we talk about this without your hands around my neck?”
“What did you do?” Nate demands. “Did you get what you wanted like you did with all those other girls?”
Anger blazes in Chuck’s belly. Why is everything always his fault? Why does everyone else get to walk away blameless time and again while he gets deemed the devil incarnate? She had sought him out! She had kissed him first! She had said she was sure!
“Yes, Nathaniel,” Chuck snaps. “I took what Blair kept throwing at you and you kept throwing back!”
“Oh, so somehow you screwing Blair for sport is my fault?”
How dare Nate try to cheapen what they had shared that way! “It wasn’t for sport!” Chuck asserts. “She needed someone and I was there.”
“Oh, so you cared about her?” Nathaniel scoffs incredulous.
His dubious tone sets Chuck’s teeth on edge. Why does nobody think him capable of emotion? He is a person just like everyone else. Just because he doesn’t wear his fucking heart on his sleeve doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel! “You guys were broken up,” he points out wearily.
With unexpected vehemence, Nate shouts into his face. “For how long? A week? An hour?”
He starts to storm away and Chuck winces in recollection. An hour? Not even. It was probably closer to… twenty minutes.
“Look, I am sorry!” he calls out, running after the golden boy, desperate to fix this. “I know how long you and I have been best friends, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay Chuck,” Nate snarls, shoving him back. “From now on, you just stay away from me.”
And there it is. Condemnation in those cobalt eyes that have always only held acceptance before, that have never looked on him with anything other than trust and loyalty.
“Nate,” Chuck whispers. A plea. A prayer.
“Did you hear what I said?” Nathaniel yells. “You stay the hell away from me Chuck!”
Then he’s gone, and Chuck is left staring after him, immobile on the sidewalk, feeling like a piece of his psyche has been shattered. Nate was more than his best friend. He was the brother he’d never had, a living testimony that good people did exist in the world, a constant reminder that someone had faith that he could be good too. And now… none of that remains.
Slowly, he becomes aware that his classmates are gawking at him in silence, everyone stunned at the clash that had occurred in their midst.
“Show’s over,” he announces, climbing into the limo to escape their accusatory looks. He knows better than to wish that the altercation had gone undocumented, and before he even is able to get to the Palace Hotel his mobile chirps with an incoming text from Gossip Girl. He doesn’t even bother to see how bad it is before he deletes it. What’s the use in checking? It’s got to be bad. Half the school had witnessed their blowup. The message probably contained a verbatim transcript of the entire argument complete with a picture montage!
Damn it to hell.
Back in his suite, he sits on the couch taking swigs straight from a fresh bottle of scotch. As the liquid burns down his throat, he thinks of the countless times his friend has slept here, all the things they have done since they were kids, the plans they had made, the children they had been, Chuck-and-Nate, the adults they would become, Charles-and-Nathaniel, always together, always a pair, the golden boy and the dark prince, inseparable, sharing a bond so strong classmates would’ve whispered they were gay had they not been who they were, a bond that was now utterly and irrevocably severed because a girl had come between them, a beautiful and self-centered girl who professed to love one and hate the other without even knowing what those terms meant outside of the fantasy movie she pretended her life to be.
A solitary tear rolls down his cheek as he swallows another mouthful of alcohol, already feeling it like acid in the pit of his empty stomach. He’s lost them. The two most important people he’s ever known now want nothing to do with him ever again. Not since that terrible night with Georgina has he ever felt so completely alone.
The next day, he doesn’t go to school. He isn’t ready to deal with the incriminating stares and hushed conversations that stop whenever he enters a room just yet. But from the flurry of texts arriving from Gossip Girl all day, each one meticulously detailing the dethroning of the onetime Queen of Constance, his bloodthirsty peers have more than enough dirt to occupy them in his absence. It’s like sharks in a feeding frenzy, each minion craving a chance to add to the humiliation of their former leader, every lowly freshman ostracizing Blair just as swiftly as she had ostracized them.
If he hadn’t been so fucking numb, he might have pitied her.
Late that afternoon, a different sort of message lights up his phone’s screen. It’s from her.
- We need to talk. Butai? -
Knowing he should ignore it, but unable to suppress his curiosity, secretly wishing her desire to speak to him is a form of peace offering, he types a short response.
- 8:30 -
He’s at the restaurant by 8, perched on a stool at the bar in a pink pullover sweater that is rather too festive for what may very well be an extremely somber occasion. He wanted three words, eight letters from her before, and this evening he wants them again. Only not ‘I love you.’ No. No, tonight the phrase is ‘I am sorry.’ If she isn’t coming to make amends, to accept some of the responsibility for the terrible mess three lives have become, he isn’t sure what he’ll do. But it is not going to be nice. If she admits some of the fault is hers, well… they can work something out.
He checks his watch. Anytime now. His eyes flick to the untouched scotch in front of him, hoping he won’t need it, fearing that he will. He’s already sent Arthur a text in preparation of the eventuality that she is not going to apologize. It’s a… shopping list of sorts. Things he’ll require his chauffer to obtain for him and have waiting when he returns to his suite.
At three past eight, Blair sidles up to him at the counter. He turns towards her, his face a frozen visage, knowing the outcome of this little chat depends entirely on the first words to leave her mouth.
“I came to congratulate you in person,” she says.
Immediately, he reaches for his scotch, dreading what inevitably comes next in this never ending disaster the past two days have become. As he sips from the glass, he appreciates the bitter irony of the location Blair had chosen for what is to be their last meeting. ‘Butai’ is Japanese for ‘stage,’ and he is about to put on the performance of his life.
“You ruined my relationship with Nate, Serena, all of my friends,” she continues, laying all the blame for everything at his feet like she always does. “Even little Jenny thinks she’s too good for me so… Bravo. It’s just like you wanted. I have nobody to turn to but you.”
The tragic twist of fate in this situation is not lost on him. Blair has finally come to him, just as he had yearned for her to do. Only it wasn’t because she wanted him. Oh no. It was merely because no one else wanted her. He wasn’t her second choice, or even her third. He wasn’t a choice at all. He was the last resort, the person she didn’t even care for but whom she was fine using when she needed to be made to feel attractive, special, precious. A princess again. His princess.
“Actually, you don’t even have me.”
“Enough,” she sighs, the ever innocent martyr.
“I’ll try to be more succinct,” Chuck spits. “You held a certain fascination when you were beautiful, delicate, and untouched. But now you’re like… one of the Arabians my father used to own.” He pauses, gathering the strength to do what must be done, to say what he knows will hurt her as badly as she has hurt him. Still, he can’t look at her when he sneers, “Rode hard and put away wet.”
He meets her eyes then, has to for the worst insult to be driven home. “I don’t want you anymore,” he lies. “And I can’t see why anyone else would.”
Dismissively, he glances away, ignoring her as he quickly gulps the rest of his scotch in an effort to keep the truth from spilling from his mouth. He sets the tumbler down, shoves it away. Steeples his fingers and presses them against his lips, forcing the words back, wishing she would say something, do something. Scream, yell, call him an ass, slap him, hit him with her purse, cause a scene. Anything but just sit there in shocked devastated silence.
After a painfully drawn out moment, mercifully she gets up and leaves, and only once the door to the restaurant swings shut behind her does he allow himself to slump in his seat, rotating his head to stare after her, regretting it had to end this way.
He phones Arthur to pick him up, making another call while he waits outside for the limo. When it pulls in front of the curb, he climbs in and lowers the partition. “Did you get everything?” Chuck inquires.
“It’s all arranged like you requested, sir,” his chauffer answers.
“Thank you,” he mutters, raising the tinted glass once more.
Arriving back at the Palace, he returns to his suite and within half an hour, the escort he had ordered knocks at his door.
He surveys her. Chestnut curls. Chocolate eyes. Roughly the same size, although slightly fuller at hip and longer of leg.
She’ll do.
“Put those on,” he says gesturing toward a chair as he lets her in. “And there’s perfume in the bathroom.”
She looks, her glance landing on the neatly folded Constance Billard uniform, the opaque stockings, the headband. “Got a school girl kink?”
“You’re not being paid to talk.”
He strides from the room, allowing her time to change while he pours himself a scotch, hoping it’ll wash away that sense of shame and nausea.
A few minutes later, she stands before him again. She isn’t her, nothing but a Canal Street knockoff, but tonight she is all he has.
Wordlessly, he takes her in his arms, crushing her to him, not kissing her, but burying his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of magnolia blossoms.
“Why, Blair? Why couldn’t you apologize?” he whispers, so softly the prostitute barely hears him.
And feeling incredibly awkward, she raises a hand to pat the boy’s back, fairly certain he is sobbing against her neck.