Title: Boys Don't Lie

Author: Isabelle

Rating: PG-13 (for language)

Disclaimer: I don't own Gossip Girl or its characters.

Summary: After some conversations with Nate, Chuck attemps to get Blair back. Chuck/Blair.

Special thanks to Tati, my beta :)


"Why are you sulking?" Nate asks me, and I quickly scoff.

Chuck Bass does not sulk. I'm just debating my options: redhead by the bar, blonde waitress with too much cleavage, or drunken teenybopper. I tell Nate this, because he should know better than anyone that I don't sulk.

I debate options.

"Ok, man." He lets it slide, and I glare at the back of his head, because he's supposed to be on my side. On team Chuck.

I begin to concentrate awfully hard on the cleavage from the waitress and, in my concentration, I don't see Blair walk up to us, her navy blue cocktail dress moving around her legs.

"Nate," she greets, and my eye twitches.

She spares me a glance and, I swear I've developed x-ray vision, because I will not remove my eyes from the waitress' cleavage. I will not look at Blair or her navy dress.

"Ogling won't get you in her pants," she quips and walks away.

Nate is staring at me now, rum and coke in hand.

"What?" I snarl because I'm pissed as hell.

Nate just shakes his head and stares on as people laugh and dance.

"Got it bad," I hear him mumble under his breath, and I decide Nate and I should no longer be friends for the rest of the night. He totally doesn't get me.




"I think I really like Vanessa," Nate tells me some weeks later as we walk up the steps of the school.

We're friends again because men can't fight like bitches and throw fits, no matter how much of a primadonna they are. I've told Nate he needs to tone down the primadonna act. It's embarrassing.

"Good for you," I grumble.

I didn't have breakfast, and I'm moody.

Nate gives me a side glance and smiles. Golden boy smile.

"There's Blair," he mentions as we get closer.

Of course I know Blair's there. It's like I have a god-damn Blair radar in my head and yet Nate is still pointing it out. Like, no shit, I know! I smelled her around the corner!

She's dressed in her usual perfection with a cherry-red headband on her perfect head.

Damn bitch.

She spares us a glance, and I feel warm to the tip of my ears.

"I don't care," I mumble and light a cigarette.

He lets out a laugh, and I'm positive I will stab him in the eye with my cigarette.

"Sure you don't, Byron." He says, and he's up the steps before I can catch up to him.

Tomorrow I will begin a rigorous workout routine. Next time Sprinty won't be able to get away.




"Nate! I didn't know you were joining us for dinner!" Lily is overly enthusiastic, and it may have to do with the fact that she's on something. On a few some things.

"If it's ok," Nate says next to me a few days later.

"Of course, it feels like a party with Blair also here."

And I have indigestion. Considering that I've had nothing to eat all day, I think it's quite a miracle.

Nate throws me a glance, and he must've seen the pale look under my eyes, because he does spare me a sympathetic look.

"Charles," Lily urges me when I stay rooted on the spot.

Nate sits next to me at the table and makes easy conversation with everyone, including a stunning Blair.

I can smell her perfume above the saffron rice, and I want to get drunk.

I attempt to do so by ordering the maid to bring me a Scotch. Double.

"Not at the dinner table, Charles" my father orders, and I'm cracking my jaw so hard, I'm pretty sure I'm going to need molar replacement surgery.

She spares me a glance, and holds it there for a minute longer than she's allowed herself to do all summer. Nate looks at her and then looks at me. I look at Nate and excuse myself from the table. It's a staring mess.

Chuck Bass does not sulk. I'm just debating my options.

Throw myself out window, fuck the maid, or get drunk.

Options. Options.




"You're wearing that?" Nate asks as he steps into my room.

I look down at my lilac suit. It's Oscar de la Renta. It's perfectly me.

"Real men wear lilac," I tell him, eyeing his own bland suit.

He chuckles, taking a seat on my bed, playing with his phone.

He's silent, and now I'm inspecting my suit.

"Ok, why do you ask?" I give in, studying him.

He looks at me and he's about to tell me when Serena barges in, hand on her hip and glaring.

"You take longer than a woman to get ready," she snaps, and I want to pull her hair.

"C'mon," Nate grabs me as I shrug on my jacket.

I now see why he was wondering about this particular choice of mine. Blair is also in lilac, and he has to physically restrain me from going back to my room and wearing something pagan. Like black on black on more black.

"We're late," he hissed, and I avoid Blair's inspecting look.

"Shopping with the Easter bunny?" She asks when we enter the limo. She throws this over her shoulder, and I glare at her.

"After you were done with him," I snap back, and I can see she attempts to hide a smile.

I don't know why but that gets me into a decidedly better mood.




"Tension?" Nate asks innocently as we play tennis.

Ok, so that last one came out a bit violent.

I'm just stressed. Senior year can be a bitch.

Blair can be a bitch.

Actually, you know what? Scratch that. Blair is definitely a bitch.

And to think I used to think she was hot.


"I'm fine," I snap and stalk to the end of the court. I need water. Possibly vodka.

Nate catches up to me; all golden and refreshed while I'm panting.

"Man, you need to do something about this, it's killing you."

I stare at him in utter shock. Like I haven't been trying? He's seen me try. I should've never told him that drunken night that I hadn't been with anyone since Blair.

Blair's destroyed me, and I now want to destroy myself.

"I mean, compliment her on her dress, ask her out for dinner – something," Nate is telling me as if he were the poster boy for boyfriends. Who had to remind him of her birthday all those years? Who had to suggest half the presents because he was clueless? Now he's telling me what I should do.

"That's rich, Nathaniel," I break out because otherwise I would do something much, much worse. Like stand in the rain under her window with a boom-box over my head. "Can I remind you that-"

"Look, I know I fucked up with Blair and often. But that's because Blair and me made no sense. Now, I'm looking at this as a third party and, believe me when I say, she wants you to try harder."

And I'm looking at Nathaniel like he's grown another head. Or possibly a brain because for the first time I feel he's rather smart. He has his moments.

Try harder.




The trying harder is a disaster because I've ended up with a drink on my new green Dior shirt.

I stalk over to Nathaniel, who is very amused as I walk to him with a grimace on my face. I'm officially the laughing stock of the UES.

"I hear wine stains," he says, and I'm pretty sure I want to kill him.

He smiles and shrugs.

"Try harder," he says, and I thank God I don't have a hit man on speed dial.

"Yes, perhaps next time she'll shoot me." I snap and glare at Blair who is in the other side of the room laughing gaily as I stare her down.

She looks at me for a moment and she gives me a 'what did you expect?' look.

"You're going to have to bring out the big guns," Nate contemplates as he munches on his shrimp.

"If I bring out a bigger gun, I'm pretty sure she'll pull a bazooka from her Kate Spade."

Nate glances at me.

"You worry me sometimes, man. You know entirely too much about fashion," he stated and takes another bite off his shrimp.

"I'm not listening to anything you say," I state and give serious contemplation to the boom box idea. I supposed I could find one. In Queens.

"Maybe you have to do some grand gesture," He adds, shrimp in mouth.

I scoff and take a sip from my scotch.

"Spontaneous instead of… whatever it is you've been doing," Nate is eyeing a glowing Serena. "What have you been doing?"

"Attempting to talk," I say. I should change. I feel the wine has dribbled into my underpants.

Nate lets out a laugh.

Nate has no idea what he's talking about.




I attempt to hide the piece of paper when he sits next to me during lunch, but it's too late. He's seen it and can instantly tell it's a poem.

He's amused, and I'm pretty sure this is the last straw of our relationship.

I've decided to be a loner.

"Roses are red," he begins, teasing me.

I let out a breath, attempt not to blush as I hide my pathetic crumbled paper.

"Violets are blue. Blair would you forgive me and I'll promise to be true." He finished, having a laugh.

I don't tell him that I like it, and that I write it on a heart-shaped note and leave it in her locker.

I get a note some days later:

He gave me some roses
I threw them away
He left me stranded
Now he's going to pay

Blair can get quite creative when she wants to.




"Have you asked her yet?" He asks me as we get in the limo after school.

"I like my balls where they are, thank you," I say, watching her from the glass as we drive off.

"She's not going with anyone," he comments, stuffing his Calculus homework in his bag.

"Good for her," I tell him.

"You should ask her. I bet you she wants you to."

I ignore him.

I already tried asking her. She rolled her eyes, sent me to Hell, and walked away.

Chuck Bass is done being humiliated. I will show up to the ball with the hottest bitch I can find who will never expect poetry or boom-boxes.

"I already have a date," I tell him because I know it'll get back to her.

He stops his fiddling and looks at me, confused.

"You do?"

"Melanie Porter," I smirk.

"The freshman?" He lets out a laugh.

I glower at him. What is wrong with Melanie Porter?

"Man, I heard she has herpes."


They all have herpes nowadays.

I still take her. It's not like I'm going to touch her or anything.

She's too… blonde.




We arrive at the ball, Nate with Vanessa on his arm and me with Melanie. Who looks horrendously trashy next to Blair. Blair, of course, is in black. A backless black gown. Zac Posen, I would say.

Not that I was looking at her.

"I heard your date has herpes," Serena tells me as I stand by the bar. It (the bar) looked lonely, and I went to keep it company.

"Hello to you, too, sister." I really don't want to deal with her.

"I told you she wouldn't forgive you," she continues.

I look away because I wasn't staring at Blair dancing with Parker-something or other.

"It takes time for Blair to forgive someone."

"I already told him all this," Nate comes up next to me, and I can't believe it. My very own pep-squad.

"Why are you here with that slut?" Serena demands. I cannot believe I ever wanted her as a sister. Sisters are completely overrated.

"Because Blair said no." And I walk away, leaving the party early.

And I accidently left my date there.

I heard she ended up getting a ride home. Or got ridden. Who knows?




Nate and I are in my room, basically about to get high, but the moment he walks into my bathroom Blair burst through my doors.

I'm caught with blunt at hand. When she sees it, she scoffs and rolls her eyes. Like she wouldn't expect anything else.

"Lost?" I ask.

She stares me down, arms crossed.

"Are you in love with me or what?" She demands.

I blink, because I'm sure I haven't lit up yet.

"Hello!" She pulls me out of my reverie by snapping her thin fingers in front of my face. "Are you?"

"You've got a lot of nerve!" I stand up to face her. Our faces are inches away from each other. "I have been soaked, humiliated, deserted, and verbally abused by you for a better part of five months and you barge in here demanding to know if I love you?"

She raises her eyebrows expectantly. Like she doesn't find this unusual or rude.

My nostrils flare.

"No. I stopped loving you the moment you stopped giving a shit," I lie, and I want to take it back the moment I've said it, because there's hurt in her eyes that I've seen before—but back then it was all Nate's fault. Now it's mine. My fault. Just mine.

"Nate's lying, then?" She asks.

My head swivels to look at Nate, who is rooted to the spot, watching us. He has a deer-caught-in-headlights look.

"I-" he begins, and I growl, grabbing my blunt from the bed. I light it up in her face, defiantly.

She stares at me, and I swear she's about to cry, but she doesn't.

"You're a liar and a scumbag, and I regret the day I let you kiss me, Chuck Bass!"

"If I remember correctly you were the one who slid up to me and rubbed yourself on me!"

And it's a shouting match.

"I did not!" She's turning red. She's wearing flats so she's small and little, and I want to kiss her.

"You did, too!" I'm fuming. "I can give you the play by play in case you forgot, but most women find me unforgettable!"

"Considering you've slept with everyone in Manhattan at least twice, I'm not surprised!"

"I have never slept with anyone twice aside from you!"

"And two was apparently enough!"

"It'll never be enough, fuck, Blair!"

And she's staring at me, eyes wide.

I sense Nate wanting to be anywhere but here. In Bosnia, maybe.

Her lower lip is sticking out slightly and I desperately want to capture it in my mouth.

"Did you cheat on me?" She asks softly.

"No." I ponder this. "Well, does kissing count?" I ask.

She lets out a breath and closes her eyes.

"This just can't work." She says sadly, and she walks out.




This time Nate understands my need to become an alcoholic, because he just lets me drink until he finds me almost passed out.

"You used to be fun," he says as he helps me to the bed.

"That bitch broke me," I mumble.

"You broke her," he says easily as he dumps me on the bad, face down.

I refuse to move, plus I think I no longer feel my legs.

He rolls me over and I let out a loud burp. He scrunches up his face.

"You're disgusting." He walks away, shaking his head. He's gone for a while and I become afraid that I've been left all alone.

"Nate!" I shout from the bed. "Nathaniel!"

"You're going to wake up Eric!" and now it's Serena looking down on me. She and Nate are staring down at me.

"I'm going to be sick," I mumble, and I end up being sick. On my bed sheets.

"You're self-destructive, Chuck," Serena comments when they finally get me showered and in bed.

"Sis?" I ask her, because I can claim I don't remember in the morning.

She raises her eyebrows questioningly.

"Have I lost her forever?"

And her face softens and I realize she does care.

"No," she admits, shifting. As if she's violating some best-friend-blood-bonding-secret. "Just for right now."

I better remember that in the morning.




Christmas is right around the corner when we bump into each other as she hurries down the New York sidewalk.

The wind is chilly, and she looks cold as she stares up at me.

I don't know what to do or say, so I attempt a smile.

She returns it back and continues walking.

"Blair!" I decide to call after her.

She stops, and I can see her take a breath, and finally turns to face me.

I stop as I see a single tear down her cheek.

I walk to her and attempt to gently wipe it away.

"What?" She asks, refusing to look at me.

"Yes," I finally say.

"Yes what?" She's confused and she stares at me.

I lean in because this is only for her to hear. No need for Gossip Bitch to post it all over the web.

"I do still love you," I say, and I walk away. Because I don't want her to look at me.




We're riding the limo for a Christmas party and Nate smirks over at me.

"You finally told her," he smiles, taking a sip of his champagne.

"How do you know?" I ask, confused.

'You look like you've just taken a really satisfying shit," he said, still smiling.

"Nathaniel, that is disgusting," I tell him, but find it hilarious.

"Are you two speaking again?" He asks.

"No. Yes. I mean she said 'hi' last week."

"How middle school."

I glare at him. "I don't want to scare her."

"Godzilla couldn't scare Blair," Nate chuckles.

"Blair-less Nate has humor," I quip and he nods.

"Blair-less Nate is happier," he acknowledges. "Blair-less Chuck sucks."

"Blair-less Chuck is unhappy," I finally admit.

And that's it right there. I won't be happy without this woman in my life. Because nearly every memory I have includes her. When she laughs with me, my skin feels tingly; when she cries because of me, I feel destroyed; when she's just standing with me, I want to devour her. And when she's not, I feel incomplete.

I want to hold this woman, just hold her. Watch as she paints her nails, hear her talk about the new girl she will destroy, buy her presents, and have children with her.

I want this woman whole. Not parts of her, not bits of her, not a conditional her. I want her whole. The whole Blair pie. I want it all.

She's selfish and self-centered and incredibly sexy, and I cannot get enough of her.

I feel like I want to run and get to the party before the limo. I think Nate senses the change because he stops drinking and starts staring at me.

"You look like you swallowed a lamp."

I laugh possibly for the first time since I held her back in May.

What is wrong with me? Leaving her like that? Wanting anything other than her? I'm a moron. A rich, handsome moron, but a moron.

When the limo pulls up to the party, I trample over a confused Nathaniel as I attempt to grab her as soon as I see her.

She's wearing red and looking stunning. Always classy and always stunning. She sees me as she accepts a drink from an older man, and I give her my best smile.

This takes her back, and I don't blame her because I don't think I've flexed this much face muscle in a while.

I quickly go to her, grabbing her elbow and dragging her away.

"Chuck!" She sputters, confused by the sudden attention.

"I have to talk to you," I hiss as she gives the older man an apologetic smile.

When we're finally outside the room, and in a deserted hallway by ourselves, she turns to me and glares.

"What is your problem, Bass?" She snaps, hands on her hips.

"Ok, here it goes." I prep myself, and she's looking at me like I've lost my mind.

Which I have. Lost my mind, that is.

"I'm a selfish bastard, ok?" I begin. Nice, Romeo. "But you're also a selfish bitch."

Her nostrils flare. This is not going well.

"Being away from you has gotten me thinking. If two so very selfish people can selflessly love each other, then I think we might have a winning chance. Because I don't want to spend the rest of my selfish life wishing and wondering what would've happened if I would've tried harder. If I would've fought for you the way you certainly deserve."

Her hands have fallen to her side and she's staring at me, wide-eyed.

"What are you going to do the next time you get cold feet, Bass?" She demands. "Leave me at the altar?"

"So you want to marry me?"

"We're 18!" She yells.

"I don't care. I'll marry you. If that's what it takes, I'll marry you. I'll marry you right now. Tomorrow, whenever."

Her mouth is hanging open.

"You're going to get bored of me," she says as I walk closer.

"I've known you for fifteen years and I've yet to be bored," I reply, taking in her lips. They're red, and they match her dress.

"You're an alcoholic with daddy issues," she snaps.

I purse my lips.

"You have seriously low self-esteem, which makes no sense because you've got an awesome pair of hips." This touches her, and I touch her hair, but she slaps my hand away.

"I don't trust you," she defends, backing up.

"Oh, yes, you do," I correct her, and the way her cheeks redden, I know it's true.

"I'm not sure if I love you," she defends weakly because her back is now to the wall and she's got no where to go but to me.

"Anything I can do to convince you?" I murmur, and then I grab her because I've been waiting entirely too long to have her in my arms.

I just hold her, looking down at her and softly touching her face.

She's just staring at me, letting me touch her. I trace her eyebrows because they're perfect.

I lean in and kiss her right eyebrow.

"You have perfect eyebrows," I murmur and I feel her lashes bat against my cheek when.


"Shh…" I tell her and kiss her other brow.

"I want to remember you like this," I whisper.

"You're going to forget me?" She asks, and I sense she finds this amusing. She's slowly giving in.

"In case you push me away again." I touch the soft hairs on her hairline. They're slightly blonde which makes no sense since her hair is naturally brown. I should know.

"You're so melodramatic," she sighs.

"I'm melodramatic?" I laugh. "He gave me some roses, I threw them away, He left me stranded, Now he's going to pay."

She blushes crimson red and hides her face in my neck. I hold the back of her head to me, touching the back of her neck softly.

"You were being an idiot," she mumbles.

"I wrote you a poem!" I defend when she looks at me.

"Tell it to me," she demands, now touching my face as she combs my eyebrows.

For such a little thing, she demands an awful lot.

"No." And now I think I'm blushing. "You probably burnt it in your Chuck altar."

"I don't have a Chuck altar!" she cried, attempting to dislodge herself from my arms.

I don't let her.

"Yes, you do. All girls have an ex-boyfriend burn altar," I insist.

Her eyes narrow and, along with them, so do her eyebrows.

"You self-centered, arrogant-"

And I kiss her then. She does fight me for a moment but I hold onto her and kiss her like my life depends on it. Because, in many ways, it does.

She finally gives in and buries her fingers in my hair, moaning against my mouth. We need to get out of here before we're caught, because I'm now pushing her small body against the wallpaper and I think I might pass out from need.

She pulls away, but she's still holding my face and we're breathing against each other. Like we've finally taken a fresh breath of air after months of isolation.

"Tell it to me. The poem," she pleads.

I give in because one, I love her and two, I'm horny.

"Roses are red." I kiss her ear and she smiles. "Violets are blue." I kiss her jaw. "I love Blair Waldorf," I kiss the very edge of her mouth. "And she loves me too." I kiss the back of her hand.

Her mouth is opened as she stares at me, and I know I've got her.

"Oh – you're good!" She says, smiling.

"I do try," I smirk, and she swats me playfully.

She wraps her arms around my neck and presses her left cheek to my right one. We stay there for a moment, and it's quiet and intimate. I don't realize we start swaying to the music coming from the inside until she kisses me cheek. Ever so softly and so very tender that I never thought she would treat me like this. Not unless you were an Archibald. But here I am, Chuck Bass, being delicately kissed by the Queen of the Upper East Side.

"Do you really love me?" She whispers.

I capture her mouth and gently assure her with my kisses.

"Boys don't lie," I tell her.

She snorts. "My boy better not."

I don't debate my options. I take heed of the warning because she's quite lethal on heels.


The end