happy early birthday to me?
My Home is the Lowlands
Gossip Girl
Chuck Bass/Ed Westwick
R
A/N: this one is for me. All for me, an indulgence of things I like and things I want to see. If you see here a slightly out of character Chuck, I find it easy to dismiss in light of the plot's events. If you see here crack-laden self-indulgence, well then, you've got a good eye.
Chuck answers his door, still yawning, confident that only Nathaniel would be so bold as to actually be pounding at his door at this hour.
Nate pushes in when he unhooks the chain, "where the hell did you go, anyways?" and Chuck says "good morning to you too, asshole."
And then, "I didn't go anywhere, what are you on about."
Nate studies him carefully, shuts the door to the hotel room behind himself. "Gossip Girl's got you getting off a plane at six this morning."
Chuck shrugs, because really, it wasn't him. He tells Nate so.
"Well, it looks an awful lot like you. Except you're wearing this stupid hat, which... I mean, I wondered, because you've got some lame hats, man." Nate opens Chuck's laptop and spins it around after a few clicks.
Chuck peers down at the grainy picture on the screen. "Chuck Bass: Midnight Rider". It does sort of resemble him. Except that Chuck would never be caught dead on a British Airways flight.
"It's not me."
He goes back to bed and forgets about it as soon as his head hits the pillow, but he can hear Nate's sidekick beeping as he drifts off.
***
Chuck's just come off the basketball court, he's sweating unattractively, when he sees him. The kid's learning up against chain link, low-slung jeans clinging to his hips and ratty looking concert t-shirt that shows off surprisingly well-kept biceps. Chuck can't help but notice, even if this kid's nowhere near somebody he would ever consider. Chuck's a connoisseur of first glances.
The guy looks up, then, and Chuck stops walking.
Because this guy, well, he looks uncannily like Chuck, and even Chuck's not deluded enough to think that more than one of him would be a good idea.
"Nice hat." Chuck says, blinks, tries to rearrange things in his head, formulas and math that would somehow produce the sum of having a doppleganger standing in front of him looking unwashed and smarmy. But the guy laughs, a sound that would probably be classified as infectious. If he were anybody but Chuck Bass he might have joined in, but actually, there was nothing funny about the Dobbs fedora that this kid is wearing.
"Thanks," the other guy says, laughter tempering off, and Chuck wonders in which country it's alright to wear jeans with that many stains on them. "I'm particularly fond of your track suit."
Chuck blinks again, because oh. In England, then.
He knows it's rude to gape, and it's infuriating that he can't find the words he's looking for here. Managing any at all seems to be the way to go. "Why do you look..."
"I'm your brother, it would seem."
***
And once Chuck thinks it through, it's incredibly easy to believe. From a film, really, and why shouldn't it be. He's literally and figuratively been brought up with silver spoons, he lives an inarguably fictional life. Finding out he's got a twin brother that he was separated from at birth should really be expected.
"I took you and she took him," his father says, barely glancing up from his desk, "I'm busy now, Charles, if you don't mind. Please?" He motions toward the door, and Chuck's world has just been rocked as much as it's possible to upset a Bass' foundations. Chuck plans, plots, controls. He should have expected this.
Should have. It would appear that he's slipping.
***
It's all over Gossip Girl within the hour. Chuck's been checking every ten minutes.
They're back in his suite ("Dad owns this hotel? That is fucking amazing, man") and Chuck's trying to call Nate. Blair. Fucking Serena, even. Chuck's luck just isn't going in it's usual direction. Possibly because he has to share it ("What music do you listen to? I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say you're a Miles Davis fan") and his face with a completely infuriating, disease-ridden ("I can't believe a fucking limo drives you around. American rich-boys, fuck. Take the bus!") stranger.
Ed puts his dirty Chucks all over Chuck's comforter.
"You're name is seriously Chuck?" He wonders, Britishly. Chuck's head is pounding and Nate's not answering his phone. "Like, truly?"
"Yes." Chuck hisses, hitting redial and frantically opening a bottle of Jack.
"Brilliant." Ed snorts, says under his breath, "nice", crosses his legs.
Chuck slams his empty glass down onto the counter and pours another.
***
He's known him for an hour and already Chuck knows more about Ed than he would ever have wanted to. Nothing would have been ideal, but instead he is now privy to several bits of information.
Like that Ed smokes like a chimney and swears more than anyone Chuck's ever heard. That he's in a band and that they play in clubs. That he hates sports and all psychical exertion that's not of a sexual nature, and that his most recent conquest was an airline stewardess on the flight over on the day previous (well, Chuck muses, separated at birth). That he's allergic to strawberries like Chuck is.
He learns that Ed's in town for a gig, that looking Chuck up was just a side venture.
His phone vibrates then, and Chuck almost lunges for it on the countertop.
"What the fuck, man?" Nate demands, and Chuck is so relieved that he would possibly consider hugging his best friend were he in the room.
"His name is Ed." Chuck whispers harshly, "get your ass over here right now. I need out."
He slams the phone closed and glances at his bed, where Ed's still perched.
"I'm leaving," Chuck tells him, and wonder what the protocol is for leaving your newly discovered twin brother alone in your suite.
"Don't steal anything."
Ed's voice floats out the door after him, cheerful, "fuck you!"
***
"I know this chick." Ed says, points to a photo of Serena as he browses through the "chuck bass" tags on Gossip Girl.
Chuck rolls his eyes, he's very close to achieving a sort of nonchalance. The fucking fabulous weed Ed's somehow managed to get his no-income hands on has taken a bit of the edge of irritation out of his bloodstream and replaced it with smooth, slow tingles. "Everybody," he says, "knows Serena."
Ed squints harder at the screen, reaches across to pick up his beer (from where it's leaving a ring on Chuck's Mis Van Der Rogh), "no, really. A year or so ago, we were backpacking around... just for kicks, you know? We stayed in this amazing hostel, met some really cool people. This Serena chick was there."
Chuck snorts, because thinking of Serena hiking or sleeping on dirty mattresses is laughable... all of her current infatuations with Dan Humphrey aside. "Wasn't her."
"Whatever, man." Ed says, and he actually throws his empty bottle the ten feet to the trash can, causing Ed to cringe. "It was completely her. She can climb rock walls and shoot more Johnny Walker than I've ever seen any man do."
***
They've come to an impasse, it would seem. They watch some television, play some Playstation. Chuck wonders when Ed's band is playing their show, when he's leaving, because whenever that is, it's not soon enough. He's not about to ask him, though, for risk of appearing actually interested. He's not saying anything.
They're sitting on Chuck's bed, Ed's got the remote to Chuck's television set and he's flicking idly, not stopping on anything long enough to discern what's on.
They must look like bookends, each of them perched on a separate foot of the bed. Really, really mismatched bookends. Chuck's skin is tingling with inaction, with pent up frustration at having to be civil to this stranger just because he's got his face. Just because he's his brother. Just because he shares more with this person than he's ever shared with any other person in the entire world. It's a thought that makes Chuck uncomfortable, even more so than the fact that Ed's made himself at home among Chuck's possessions.
"So. Do you have a girlfriend, Chuck?" Ed breaks the silence, stops flicking. Chuck's mind traitorously flickers to Blair before he shakes his head a little too vehemently for his liking.
"Boyfriend?"
Chuck snorts, says "no, what would make you think that..." and then Ed pounces.
***
Ed knows all the places in which Chuck is sensitive, and if he knows that, he knows many more things that Chuck doesn't even want to begin to contemplate. So he doesn't, he tries to block out all thought beside how fucking fabulous Ed's hands feel on his body, working him over, winding him up.
It's not a particularly hard task, not thinking, which is good many times over, considering that he's doing unspeakable acts with his brother, no less. Serena had said it, though, had known Chuck capable of it even before he did.
It's almost as if Chuck doesn't mind that Ed's got him pressed into the matress, because it's almost as if they're the same person, and he feels for a moment like he's submitting to himself, the only worthy opponent in the entire world Chuck might consider succumbing to.
Might, though, but probably not, and he growls and bites hard on Ed's shoulder, licks the salt with his tongue and takes the opportunity Ed's surprise provides to flip him and hold him down.
***
Ed takes him to a bar, a nightclub in the city that Chuck didn't even know existed. They slide down a dirty staircase, Ed knocks on the door, flashes a smile that's identical to Chuck's own, and people open doors to places for him as if he were Chuck and they were still in the haunts of Manhattan's elite.
These are places where reputation trounces money, and Chuck's baffled because yeah, reputation is important, but money always comes out on top... Ed, though, Ed's got his name on the list at places that'd turn Bill Gates away.
The place is dark and stuffy, like all the air in the room has been sucked out and replaced with dirty rhythm, a deep pulse that beats in Chuck's veins and makes his head pound. He forgot to bring any Aspirin, but in the two minute walk from the door to the bar, Ed's been offered handfuls of cocaine, so Chuck's not going to be worrying about his head too much longer.
Chuck'll never tell anybody about this, not even Nate, and once he vows this fact to himself, it's a bit easier for him to relax.
Ed knows everyone, presses through the crowd shaking hands and being on the receiving end of random hugs and gropes that Chuck's not sure he'd ever put up with. He vaguely wonders if there are any communicable diseases that can be passed through skin-on-skin contact.
"How many times have you been to America?" Chuck shouts loudly over the thrum, when Ed lags back to lean in close and ask him how he's doing.
Ed tells him he's never been here before, and doesn't give him further explanation as to why he's so well-known besides, "it's the fucking scene, you know?" before letting out a ridiculously loud whoop that can almost be detected above the music.
Chuck stares blankly. He can feel a buzzing in his pocket, and it might be his phone, is probably a text from Nate, but he can feel buzzing in his toes, too, and in his thighs and elbows and in his fucking jaw, because he's out of his element, and he's not used to it.
This guy that looks like him, his fucking brother, is used to it, though, and Chuck's looking at himself as someone else, as something else. He's looking at himself and what he might have become without his father, without his money, Heaven Forbid, and he's not sure if he likes it or not. The fact that he's not sure, though, that's the kicker, because he should be sure, it's fucking money and these people are pawns and Chuck's above it all.
He definitely doesn't like it. He's most certainly not having fun. But Ed is, and Ed is a strange type of mirror that Chuck's never even considered.
***
"You up for it?" Ed asks, and he sneers toothily at Chuck, as if he's daring him to say no as he flashes a clear package of what Chuck knows to be a glorious powdered way to get himself to stop thinking.
Chuck sneers back and presses against his brother as he grabs to packet out of his hand and shoves him towards to bathroom, where ever the fuck that might be.
"Knew ya had it it you, little brother."
Chuck grips his wrist tighter, yanks harder. "Like fuck you're older."
***
Her name is Chelsea, apparently, but probably not really, and he's got her thighs wrapped around Chuck just like he likes. She's got curly black hair and tacky thick dark blue eyeliner, and Chuck doesn't think he's ever let somebody so... so touch him.
But his coke-laden brain is telling him to go with it, ripping down his defenses, his judgment, his only weapons, rendering him powerless and too stupid to realize that he doesn't like it.
Chuck's got his hands splayed all over Chelsea's waist, got a hand in her too-tight jeans, she's biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. They haven't even left the club, because Chuck's dignity is gone with the fucking wind.
"Fuck, that's awesome." she breathes, laughs low and sweet, and Chuck presses harder, rubs small little circles against her with long, practiced fingers. "You fucking look like Ed!"
He drops her, says "fuck you", wipes his hand down denim and spins back into the swaying crowd.
***
Chuck sees him and thinks, oh dear God, please kill me now. He's standing with Ed, they're sucking down tequila without any salt.
Chuck watches his throat move for a moment, the long column works to swallow before he slams his shot glass down hard and Ed laughs loudly.
Wondering idly if he thinks Ed is Chuck, Chuck sidles up to them and fixes Dan Humphrey with his best death glare.
"Whoa, dude." Dan says, still chuckling, "your friend is trying to kill me with his eyes." Chuck just narrows his eyes further and stands his ground, although he supposes that if Dan is here, it might very well be Dan's ground.
Ed slings an arm around Chuck's shoulders, "this is my brother, actually, mate. His name's Chuck. Chuck, this is Penn."
***
Maybe a band starts playing, but Chuck really can't tell. Colors are swirling and mixing with each other and he's sweating and possibly dancing, moving in some way.
And maybe Ed goes on-stage, takes the microphone, and maybe he starts to sing, sing so that Chuck can focus on something for the first time in hours, and his voice is sticky and sweet and deep and fucking gorgeous.
And then maybe he has more tequila, but maybe not, and he definitely has more cocaine and possibly he gets punched in the gut, but maybe not, because maybe he's just watched Ed shove his hand down Penn's pants and his tongue down Penn's throat. Any it's possible that Chuck's just bought the entire club a round of something bright green, and that Ed's invited them all back to a party at Chuck's room.
All of this is possible, all maybe, because really, Chuck? Doesn't remember a thing. That's his story, and he's sticking to it.
***
When he wakes up, the first thing he does is cough, because the air is so thick with smoke that he wonders if he's fallen asleep in a fucking ashtray.
He opens an eye, though, cautiously, and immediately wishes he were dead.
His suite is trashed, which really isn't new to him, the curtains have been ripped from their hangers, his coffee table split straight down the middle. His white carpet is destroyed, dark red stains that Chuck hopes is wine littered throughout the room. None of this, though, none of it is new.
The people, they're new.
They're everywhere, in every corner, curled up asleep or fucked out or fucking dead for all he knows, and he doesn't recognize a single one of them. They're all blown-out and dirty and fuck, some of them are naked. There are more beer bottles around than Chuck's ever seen in one place, but before he can even process what to do about it, he hears a throat clear from the other side of the bed.
Glancing over, his eyes sweep over the sleeping form of his brother to settle on...
"Um," Chuck says, panicking momentarily, "you aren't..."
"Penn." the guy says, closing his book, "I'm Penn. Not Dan, despite the fact that you called me that several times last night when I was..."
"Stop." Chuck says, hurriedly. "I would appreciate it very much if you would never finish that sentence."
"Sucking your dick."
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
"And he was really fucking fantastic at that, wasn't he?" and Ed's up now, so good, good, Chuck will have somebody to blame this all on, somebody to ask what to do. Because, really, he's teetering somewhere on the verge of bewilderment and massacre.
There's a noise from the kitchen, and a kid pops his head around the door-frame, "hey, Ed, we're taking off now. If you see my fucking boyfriend anywhere between here and the club, let me know."
Ed chuckles at the kid, and Chuck really can't think. Can't process words. What the fuck is going on. "Ryan fucking Ross, can't you keep tabs on him for one night?"
"I think I saw Brendon with Beckett earlier." Penn chimes in helpfully, and no. No this is not okay.
"This is not okay." Chuck says outloud, and now everybody is staring at him because it would appear that he's forgotten how to think or speak, and no. No, this is not alright. He's Chuck fucking Bass.
To prove the point to himself, he calls hotel security and has everyone out of his suite within the hour and the place spotless. He calls Mis Van Der Rogh to inquire about a new coffee table. He puts his life in order, he takes a shower and he puts in an appearance at the Elanor Waldorf Launch Fashion Show, because that's who he is.
If Blair raises her eyebrows suspiciously at Chuck's dark glasses, he pretends not to notice.
***
He returns to the room that evening to find Ed sitting calmly on his bed, backpack stuffed full and shoes on.
"You're leaving." Chuck notes, doesn't pretend to be sad, just shakes silently with fury and hopes to God that he is. Ed nods, cigarette dangling from his lips obscenely.
"Well," Chuck says, turns away from him, sends a half-hearted text message to Nate. "It's been fabulous."
Ed laughs, sly chuckles that sound sincere despite their timbre, and puts his cigarette out on his bag, throwing the butt into the trash beside him. "Come the fuck here, Chuck."
He freezes, everything inside him going hot, but he's not fucking turning around if he can help it.
He can't, though, and he does turn around, but he doesn't go to Ed, he makes Ed come to him, because they're equal, more equal than Chuck's ever been with anyone, and it's scary and awful and Chuck's possibly going to miss it, not that he'd even admit it outloud thank you very much.
Just to remind himself, he lets Ed shoves him down and fuck him hard, pressing skin to skin so mercilessly that Chuck wonders if maybe they could become the one person they at one point must have been. Ed tastes like smoke and ash, like places that Chuck wishes he'd been, could go to, places that there isn't enough money in the world to take him to.
He leaves later, pecking Chuck on the lips in an obscenely sweet gesture. "See ya around, little brother."
***
He's walking to school with Nate, a few days later, when the kid from That Night comes up to him. "Chuck! Hey, Chuck!" he yells, runs over. Nate stares, because the kid is wearing thick black eyeliner, his hair is in his eyes. "I found Brendon, just in case you wanted to know."
Nate's gaping at Chuck now, so Chuck glares at the kid. "I have no idea to what you are referring, now if you'll excuse us..."
"Whatever man," the kid says, "say hi to Ed for me!"
He walks off, and when Nate asks him what that was about Chuck shrugs and says that he has no fucking idea.
***
He's watching television, years later maybe, he's not even sure because it's barely something he could be bothered to remember in the long list of excursions and adventures that make up the glamorous life of Chuck Bass.
But he stops on a music channel, and there he is, Ed Westwick, front man extraordinaire. Ryan Ross' fingers fly across the fret board in the next shot, and then back to Ed's face and his stupid, stupid lips.
Chuck's got a closet full of dirty secrets, so many that there's barely room for Ed. He's in there anyway, buried in deep and covered up so that Chuck doesn't remember that sometimes he secretly wonders, wishes, considers what he could have been like if.
Chuck knows many people who've lost everything in the business world because they wondered the same. Chuck's not that stupid.
But sometimes. Well. If when absolutely nobody is watching he signs the occasional autograph as Ed Westwick, nobody can prove it.
Gossip Girl
Chuck Bass/Ed Westwick
R
A/N: this one is for me. All for me, an indulgence of things I like and things I want to see. If you see here a slightly out of character Chuck, I find it easy to dismiss in light of the plot's events. If you see here crack-laden self-indulgence, well then, you've got a good eye.
Chuck answers his door, still yawning, confident that only Nathaniel would be so bold as to actually be pounding at his door at this hour.
Nate pushes in when he unhooks the chain, "where the hell did you go, anyways?" and Chuck says "good morning to you too, asshole."
And then, "I didn't go anywhere, what are you on about."
Nate studies him carefully, shuts the door to the hotel room behind himself. "Gossip Girl's got you getting off a plane at six this morning."
Chuck shrugs, because really, it wasn't him. He tells Nate so.
"Well, it looks an awful lot like you. Except you're wearing this stupid hat, which... I mean, I wondered, because you've got some lame hats, man." Nate opens Chuck's laptop and spins it around after a few clicks.
Chuck peers down at the grainy picture on the screen. "Chuck Bass: Midnight Rider". It does sort of resemble him. Except that Chuck would never be caught dead on a British Airways flight.
"It's not me."
He goes back to bed and forgets about it as soon as his head hits the pillow, but he can hear Nate's sidekick beeping as he drifts off.
***
Chuck's just come off the basketball court, he's sweating unattractively, when he sees him. The kid's learning up against chain link, low-slung jeans clinging to his hips and ratty looking concert t-shirt that shows off surprisingly well-kept biceps. Chuck can't help but notice, even if this kid's nowhere near somebody he would ever consider. Chuck's a connoisseur of first glances.
The guy looks up, then, and Chuck stops walking.
Because this guy, well, he looks uncannily like Chuck, and even Chuck's not deluded enough to think that more than one of him would be a good idea.
"Nice hat." Chuck says, blinks, tries to rearrange things in his head, formulas and math that would somehow produce the sum of having a doppleganger standing in front of him looking unwashed and smarmy. But the guy laughs, a sound that would probably be classified as infectious. If he were anybody but Chuck Bass he might have joined in, but actually, there was nothing funny about the Dobbs fedora that this kid is wearing.
"Thanks," the other guy says, laughter tempering off, and Chuck wonders in which country it's alright to wear jeans with that many stains on them. "I'm particularly fond of your track suit."
Chuck blinks again, because oh. In England, then.
He knows it's rude to gape, and it's infuriating that he can't find the words he's looking for here. Managing any at all seems to be the way to go. "Why do you look..."
"I'm your brother, it would seem."
***
And once Chuck thinks it through, it's incredibly easy to believe. From a film, really, and why shouldn't it be. He's literally and figuratively been brought up with silver spoons, he lives an inarguably fictional life. Finding out he's got a twin brother that he was separated from at birth should really be expected.
"I took you and she took him," his father says, barely glancing up from his desk, "I'm busy now, Charles, if you don't mind. Please?" He motions toward the door, and Chuck's world has just been rocked as much as it's possible to upset a Bass' foundations. Chuck plans, plots, controls. He should have expected this.
Should have. It would appear that he's slipping.
***
It's all over Gossip Girl within the hour. Chuck's been checking every ten minutes.
They're back in his suite ("Dad owns this hotel? That is fucking amazing, man") and Chuck's trying to call Nate. Blair. Fucking Serena, even. Chuck's luck just isn't going in it's usual direction. Possibly because he has to share it ("What music do you listen to? I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say you're a Miles Davis fan") and his face with a completely infuriating, disease-ridden ("I can't believe a fucking limo drives you around. American rich-boys, fuck. Take the bus!") stranger.
Ed puts his dirty Chucks all over Chuck's comforter.
"You're name is seriously Chuck?" He wonders, Britishly. Chuck's head is pounding and Nate's not answering his phone. "Like, truly?"
"Yes." Chuck hisses, hitting redial and frantically opening a bottle of Jack.
"Brilliant." Ed snorts, says under his breath, "nice", crosses his legs.
Chuck slams his empty glass down onto the counter and pours another.
***
He's known him for an hour and already Chuck knows more about Ed than he would ever have wanted to. Nothing would have been ideal, but instead he is now privy to several bits of information.
Like that Ed smokes like a chimney and swears more than anyone Chuck's ever heard. That he's in a band and that they play in clubs. That he hates sports and all psychical exertion that's not of a sexual nature, and that his most recent conquest was an airline stewardess on the flight over on the day previous (well, Chuck muses, separated at birth). That he's allergic to strawberries like Chuck is.
He learns that Ed's in town for a gig, that looking Chuck up was just a side venture.
His phone vibrates then, and Chuck almost lunges for it on the countertop.
"What the fuck, man?" Nate demands, and Chuck is so relieved that he would possibly consider hugging his best friend were he in the room.
"His name is Ed." Chuck whispers harshly, "get your ass over here right now. I need out."
He slams the phone closed and glances at his bed, where Ed's still perched.
"I'm leaving," Chuck tells him, and wonder what the protocol is for leaving your newly discovered twin brother alone in your suite.
"Don't steal anything."
Ed's voice floats out the door after him, cheerful, "fuck you!"
***
"I know this chick." Ed says, points to a photo of Serena as he browses through the "chuck bass" tags on Gossip Girl.
Chuck rolls his eyes, he's very close to achieving a sort of nonchalance. The fucking fabulous weed Ed's somehow managed to get his no-income hands on has taken a bit of the edge of irritation out of his bloodstream and replaced it with smooth, slow tingles. "Everybody," he says, "knows Serena."
Ed squints harder at the screen, reaches across to pick up his beer (from where it's leaving a ring on Chuck's Mis Van Der Rogh), "no, really. A year or so ago, we were backpacking around... just for kicks, you know? We stayed in this amazing hostel, met some really cool people. This Serena chick was there."
Chuck snorts, because thinking of Serena hiking or sleeping on dirty mattresses is laughable... all of her current infatuations with Dan Humphrey aside. "Wasn't her."
"Whatever, man." Ed says, and he actually throws his empty bottle the ten feet to the trash can, causing Ed to cringe. "It was completely her. She can climb rock walls and shoot more Johnny Walker than I've ever seen any man do."
***
They've come to an impasse, it would seem. They watch some television, play some Playstation. Chuck wonders when Ed's band is playing their show, when he's leaving, because whenever that is, it's not soon enough. He's not about to ask him, though, for risk of appearing actually interested. He's not saying anything.
They're sitting on Chuck's bed, Ed's got the remote to Chuck's television set and he's flicking idly, not stopping on anything long enough to discern what's on.
They must look like bookends, each of them perched on a separate foot of the bed. Really, really mismatched bookends. Chuck's skin is tingling with inaction, with pent up frustration at having to be civil to this stranger just because he's got his face. Just because he's his brother. Just because he shares more with this person than he's ever shared with any other person in the entire world. It's a thought that makes Chuck uncomfortable, even more so than the fact that Ed's made himself at home among Chuck's possessions.
"So. Do you have a girlfriend, Chuck?" Ed breaks the silence, stops flicking. Chuck's mind traitorously flickers to Blair before he shakes his head a little too vehemently for his liking.
"Boyfriend?"
Chuck snorts, says "no, what would make you think that..." and then Ed pounces.
***
Ed knows all the places in which Chuck is sensitive, and if he knows that, he knows many more things that Chuck doesn't even want to begin to contemplate. So he doesn't, he tries to block out all thought beside how fucking fabulous Ed's hands feel on his body, working him over, winding him up.
It's not a particularly hard task, not thinking, which is good many times over, considering that he's doing unspeakable acts with his brother, no less. Serena had said it, though, had known Chuck capable of it even before he did.
It's almost as if Chuck doesn't mind that Ed's got him pressed into the matress, because it's almost as if they're the same person, and he feels for a moment like he's submitting to himself, the only worthy opponent in the entire world Chuck might consider succumbing to.
Might, though, but probably not, and he growls and bites hard on Ed's shoulder, licks the salt with his tongue and takes the opportunity Ed's surprise provides to flip him and hold him down.
***
Ed takes him to a bar, a nightclub in the city that Chuck didn't even know existed. They slide down a dirty staircase, Ed knocks on the door, flashes a smile that's identical to Chuck's own, and people open doors to places for him as if he were Chuck and they were still in the haunts of Manhattan's elite.
These are places where reputation trounces money, and Chuck's baffled because yeah, reputation is important, but money always comes out on top... Ed, though, Ed's got his name on the list at places that'd turn Bill Gates away.
The place is dark and stuffy, like all the air in the room has been sucked out and replaced with dirty rhythm, a deep pulse that beats in Chuck's veins and makes his head pound. He forgot to bring any Aspirin, but in the two minute walk from the door to the bar, Ed's been offered handfuls of cocaine, so Chuck's not going to be worrying about his head too much longer.
Chuck'll never tell anybody about this, not even Nate, and once he vows this fact to himself, it's a bit easier for him to relax.
Ed knows everyone, presses through the crowd shaking hands and being on the receiving end of random hugs and gropes that Chuck's not sure he'd ever put up with. He vaguely wonders if there are any communicable diseases that can be passed through skin-on-skin contact.
"How many times have you been to America?" Chuck shouts loudly over the thrum, when Ed lags back to lean in close and ask him how he's doing.
Ed tells him he's never been here before, and doesn't give him further explanation as to why he's so well-known besides, "it's the fucking scene, you know?" before letting out a ridiculously loud whoop that can almost be detected above the music.
Chuck stares blankly. He can feel a buzzing in his pocket, and it might be his phone, is probably a text from Nate, but he can feel buzzing in his toes, too, and in his thighs and elbows and in his fucking jaw, because he's out of his element, and he's not used to it.
This guy that looks like him, his fucking brother, is used to it, though, and Chuck's looking at himself as someone else, as something else. He's looking at himself and what he might have become without his father, without his money, Heaven Forbid, and he's not sure if he likes it or not. The fact that he's not sure, though, that's the kicker, because he should be sure, it's fucking money and these people are pawns and Chuck's above it all.
He definitely doesn't like it. He's most certainly not having fun. But Ed is, and Ed is a strange type of mirror that Chuck's never even considered.
***
"You up for it?" Ed asks, and he sneers toothily at Chuck, as if he's daring him to say no as he flashes a clear package of what Chuck knows to be a glorious powdered way to get himself to stop thinking.
Chuck sneers back and presses against his brother as he grabs to packet out of his hand and shoves him towards to bathroom, where ever the fuck that might be.
"Knew ya had it it you, little brother."
Chuck grips his wrist tighter, yanks harder. "Like fuck you're older."
***
Her name is Chelsea, apparently, but probably not really, and he's got her thighs wrapped around Chuck just like he likes. She's got curly black hair and tacky thick dark blue eyeliner, and Chuck doesn't think he's ever let somebody so... so touch him.
But his coke-laden brain is telling him to go with it, ripping down his defenses, his judgment, his only weapons, rendering him powerless and too stupid to realize that he doesn't like it.
Chuck's got his hands splayed all over Chelsea's waist, got a hand in her too-tight jeans, she's biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. They haven't even left the club, because Chuck's dignity is gone with the fucking wind.
"Fuck, that's awesome." she breathes, laughs low and sweet, and Chuck presses harder, rubs small little circles against her with long, practiced fingers. "You fucking look like Ed!"
He drops her, says "fuck you", wipes his hand down denim and spins back into the swaying crowd.
***
Chuck sees him and thinks, oh dear God, please kill me now. He's standing with Ed, they're sucking down tequila without any salt.
Chuck watches his throat move for a moment, the long column works to swallow before he slams his shot glass down hard and Ed laughs loudly.
Wondering idly if he thinks Ed is Chuck, Chuck sidles up to them and fixes Dan Humphrey with his best death glare.
"Whoa, dude." Dan says, still chuckling, "your friend is trying to kill me with his eyes." Chuck just narrows his eyes further and stands his ground, although he supposes that if Dan is here, it might very well be Dan's ground.
Ed slings an arm around Chuck's shoulders, "this is my brother, actually, mate. His name's Chuck. Chuck, this is Penn."
***
Maybe a band starts playing, but Chuck really can't tell. Colors are swirling and mixing with each other and he's sweating and possibly dancing, moving in some way.
And maybe Ed goes on-stage, takes the microphone, and maybe he starts to sing, sing so that Chuck can focus on something for the first time in hours, and his voice is sticky and sweet and deep and fucking gorgeous.
And then maybe he has more tequila, but maybe not, and he definitely has more cocaine and possibly he gets punched in the gut, but maybe not, because maybe he's just watched Ed shove his hand down Penn's pants and his tongue down Penn's throat. Any it's possible that Chuck's just bought the entire club a round of something bright green, and that Ed's invited them all back to a party at Chuck's room.
All of this is possible, all maybe, because really, Chuck? Doesn't remember a thing. That's his story, and he's sticking to it.
***
When he wakes up, the first thing he does is cough, because the air is so thick with smoke that he wonders if he's fallen asleep in a fucking ashtray.
He opens an eye, though, cautiously, and immediately wishes he were dead.
His suite is trashed, which really isn't new to him, the curtains have been ripped from their hangers, his coffee table split straight down the middle. His white carpet is destroyed, dark red stains that Chuck hopes is wine littered throughout the room. None of this, though, none of it is new.
The people, they're new.
They're everywhere, in every corner, curled up asleep or fucked out or fucking dead for all he knows, and he doesn't recognize a single one of them. They're all blown-out and dirty and fuck, some of them are naked. There are more beer bottles around than Chuck's ever seen in one place, but before he can even process what to do about it, he hears a throat clear from the other side of the bed.
Glancing over, his eyes sweep over the sleeping form of his brother to settle on...
"Um," Chuck says, panicking momentarily, "you aren't..."
"Penn." the guy says, closing his book, "I'm Penn. Not Dan, despite the fact that you called me that several times last night when I was..."
"Stop." Chuck says, hurriedly. "I would appreciate it very much if you would never finish that sentence."
"Sucking your dick."
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
"And he was really fucking fantastic at that, wasn't he?" and Ed's up now, so good, good, Chuck will have somebody to blame this all on, somebody to ask what to do. Because, really, he's teetering somewhere on the verge of bewilderment and massacre.
There's a noise from the kitchen, and a kid pops his head around the door-frame, "hey, Ed, we're taking off now. If you see my fucking boyfriend anywhere between here and the club, let me know."
Ed chuckles at the kid, and Chuck really can't think. Can't process words. What the fuck is going on. "Ryan fucking Ross, can't you keep tabs on him for one night?"
"I think I saw Brendon with Beckett earlier." Penn chimes in helpfully, and no. No this is not okay.
"This is not okay." Chuck says outloud, and now everybody is staring at him because it would appear that he's forgotten how to think or speak, and no. No, this is not alright. He's Chuck fucking Bass.
To prove the point to himself, he calls hotel security and has everyone out of his suite within the hour and the place spotless. He calls Mis Van Der Rogh to inquire about a new coffee table. He puts his life in order, he takes a shower and he puts in an appearance at the Elanor Waldorf Launch Fashion Show, because that's who he is.
If Blair raises her eyebrows suspiciously at Chuck's dark glasses, he pretends not to notice.
***
He returns to the room that evening to find Ed sitting calmly on his bed, backpack stuffed full and shoes on.
"You're leaving." Chuck notes, doesn't pretend to be sad, just shakes silently with fury and hopes to God that he is. Ed nods, cigarette dangling from his lips obscenely.
"Well," Chuck says, turns away from him, sends a half-hearted text message to Nate. "It's been fabulous."
Ed laughs, sly chuckles that sound sincere despite their timbre, and puts his cigarette out on his bag, throwing the butt into the trash beside him. "Come the fuck here, Chuck."
He freezes, everything inside him going hot, but he's not fucking turning around if he can help it.
He can't, though, and he does turn around, but he doesn't go to Ed, he makes Ed come to him, because they're equal, more equal than Chuck's ever been with anyone, and it's scary and awful and Chuck's possibly going to miss it, not that he'd even admit it outloud thank you very much.
Just to remind himself, he lets Ed shoves him down and fuck him hard, pressing skin to skin so mercilessly that Chuck wonders if maybe they could become the one person they at one point must have been. Ed tastes like smoke and ash, like places that Chuck wishes he'd been, could go to, places that there isn't enough money in the world to take him to.
He leaves later, pecking Chuck on the lips in an obscenely sweet gesture. "See ya around, little brother."
***
He's walking to school with Nate, a few days later, when the kid from That Night comes up to him. "Chuck! Hey, Chuck!" he yells, runs over. Nate stares, because the kid is wearing thick black eyeliner, his hair is in his eyes. "I found Brendon, just in case you wanted to know."
Nate's gaping at Chuck now, so Chuck glares at the kid. "I have no idea to what you are referring, now if you'll excuse us..."
"Whatever man," the kid says, "say hi to Ed for me!"
He walks off, and when Nate asks him what that was about Chuck shrugs and says that he has no fucking idea.
***
He's watching television, years later maybe, he's not even sure because it's barely something he could be bothered to remember in the long list of excursions and adventures that make up the glamorous life of Chuck Bass.
But he stops on a music channel, and there he is, Ed Westwick, front man extraordinaire. Ryan Ross' fingers fly across the fret board in the next shot, and then back to Ed's face and his stupid, stupid lips.
Chuck's got a closet full of dirty secrets, so many that there's barely room for Ed. He's in there anyway, buried in deep and covered up so that Chuck doesn't remember that sometimes he secretly wonders, wishes, considers what he could have been like if.
Chuck knows many people who've lost everything in the business world because they wondered the same. Chuck's not that stupid.
But sometimes. Well. If when absolutely nobody is watching he signs the occasional autograph as Ed Westwick, nobody can prove it.