A/N- Yay! The sequel to 'Sleepless Mondays' and although I guess it's not essential that you read that before reading this, it would probably help in explaining a few things. So I wanted to make this fluffy, but then I was like, well that's not Chuck and Blair's style, so you got this instead :)
Many thanks for all of your lovely reviews, and be on the lookout for my next C/B oneshot coming soon. I really should try and write a full-length story haha. I do have the idea planned out a little.
So hope you enjoy this, and pretty please review at the end :)
Chuck Bass loves Tuesdays.
He loves this Tuesday in particular, because Blair is laid next to him, pretending to be asleep he figures, because on more than one occasion he's seen a chocolate brown eye creep open, only to shut quickly, her breathing staying even.
He loves Tuesdays because Blair paints her lips ruby red, not the pale pinks he's been used to seeing. Her nails stay painted too, varnished, polished to perfection like she's the goddess of all beauty products, a brilliant advertisement, poster perfect.
Her body's still a little frail. Her wrists are a little thin, a little weak, and her elbows a little bony. But her skin's still porcelain and Chuck can't fault that.
He wills her to get better, secretly. Doesn't ever tell her, doesn't ever tell anyone, but when he watches Blair's face fall as Eleanor comments yet again that her thighs are looking a little less toned than normal, that her cheekbones aren't as hollow, that her nose appears a little wider, he can't help but wish that she won't visit the bathroom, because he knows what happens in there.
He'd seen her before. Before all of this, before everything with Nate, everything with Serena, with him, he'd seen it. He knew. He figures Nate didn't know, doesn't know. Either that, or he pretends not to, didn't care, doesn't care.
Serena knows. Chuck's sure of that, and yet she hasn't mentioned it. Not to Eleanor, not to Nate, never to Nate, not to him.
He's not sure how Serena could have stood back for all of the time her and Blair have been friends without saying anything.
And then he remembers that he did the same thing, always knowing, never acting on anything because Blair didn't know then, what she does now. He likes her.
Chuck Bass likes Blair Waldorf.
Chuck Bass likes Blair Waldorf in a way that he's not sure he's felt before, and her finding out scares him more than anything.
So he lays there. Not watching her, not studying her everything because he's almost sure that if he does, she'll catch him out.
And Chuck can't risk that.
Blair Waldorf loves Tuesdays.
She loves the way that even though classes start at the exact same time that they do every other morning, it feels as though she's entitled to a lie-in, the room silent as her eyes stay closed against the soft pillows.
She loves how, if it's raining, she feels warm, if it's sunny, she feels cool, and when Chuck's hand moves slightly against her stomach, she feels as though she might throw up or burst into song at the same time. She's not sure why he rests it there, why she never wants him to move, but she'll settle for not knowing.
It beats knowing too much any day.
She loves how, until she sees Chuck laid next to her, until she opens her eyes, she's not scared, not anxious, not lonely.
She loves how she can lay there and pretend to be asleep, his breath against her, just a small reminder, a tiny reminder of contentment, while the rest of the world thinks she's in bed alone.
Tuesday mornings give Blair more satisfaction than sleepless Mondays.
Tuesday mornings, are mornings before the two of them have to pretend for the rest of the week that they hate each other, that they don't speak, that they've ruined each others lives too much to ever get anything back.
Tuesday mornings consist of a guilt-free breakfast, of black coffee with sugar, one lump, or possibly even two, bagels with cream cheese, muffins; blueberry or chocolate chip, waffles sometimes, with maple syrup and a slice of crispy bacon.
Tuesday mornings are where Chuck and Blair regain strength, fuel, energy, until the next Monday night they'll speak to each other again.
Until 8:15am, Tuesday mornings are the most uncomplicated of all.
Chuck had asked for a single ruby grapefruit to be flown in from France the previous Monday. One of the maids had cut around the segments with a sharp knife, leaving the flesh easy to prise away from the peel with a fork.
Blair had only frowned at him, and crossed her legs to reveal black stockings stopping just at her thigh. He'd barely been able to explain the significance of the grapefruit when she'd raised an eyebrow, acting as though she hadn't just made him hotter than he was the previous night.
Blair Waldorf had that kind of effect on Chuck Bass.
"It's a ruby grapefruit." He'd finally said, faux-confidently, as though he was the one needing convincing. "It matches your lipstick. Ruby red. Ruby Tuesday."
Blair hadn't said anything. Just looked at him for a little while with an expression across her face that Chuck couldn't work out. Still hasn't. And then she'd just nodded and picked up her fork as though the moment had never happened.
Chuck Bass still didn't quite get Blair Waldorf.
To Blair, the weekend doesn't feel like the weekend any more. She spends her time shopping with Serena, buying fresh ingredients to make the latest cocktail in the blender in her kitchen, or examining her Mother's latest designs0 in hope that she'll be able to find something to wear for Chuck the following Monday.
Mondays and Tuesdays have become the new weekend.
They're spent painting nails, kissing, and lying in bed watching Friends reruns.
They don't talk, not just because Blair is frightened that Chuck might say something to bring her world crashing down around her yet again, but because she knows that he doesn't know what to say.
And as awkward as it is, it's the most comfortable she's ever been.
And if her mind didn't sometimes flit to Nate, and what he might be doing, Blair's almost sure that Chuck might be able to save her.
Mondays and Tuesdays scare Blair more than anything.
She hates being scared.
Chuck wishes he didn't know that Balir still loves Nate. Either that, or he wishes she didn't love Nate at all.
He watches her when her back is turned. He watches from the bed as she skims her way to the bathroom, the top cotton sheet draped around her body, because he knows she's still self-conscious.
He wishes she wouldn't turn the shower on when she makes herself sick. Maybe then it would give him the excuse to save her.
Sometimes, Chuck thinks that he might cry (if that was his style) when Blair emerges from the bathroom, looking perfect as though nothing is out of the ordinary. Her shiny hair, her sultry make up, her extravagant clothes, her perfectly moisturised skin: none of it matters any more, because he's seen beyond that.
Every Tuesday, every damn ruby Tuesday, he wishes he hadn't, wishes he couldn't.
And then she paints her lips in front of his mirror, in front of him, ruby red for ruby Tuesdays, and he has to forget, at least until the next week.
Ruby Tuesdays are Chuck Bass' favourite day of the week. They're the least complicated and the hardest at the same time. And he's just not sure what to do anymore.