Goodnight Blair, Goodnight Chuck
After that night she met him at the bar, that dreadful night where Chuck vowed to murder those damn butterflies no matter how much it hurt Blair, she did not speak to him again.
It had been the hardest thing he ever had to do, to lie straight to her face and tell her the most horrific things that he could muster—things that he could never really feel towards her even if he tried.
That he only wanted her when she was beautiful, delicate, and untouched.
The truth was she never stopped being those things.
Her beauty grew each day he saw her. Each day he learned to appreciate parts of her that he never took the time to notice before. How her deep brown eyes darkened when she looked at him, how she toyed with her soft curls when she wanted to get his attention, and how her cold exterior could completely melt away when she allowed the warmth of her smile to shine through.
And then there was her skin. Her skin became softer and more delicate each time he touched her. How many times after sex did he wait for her to fall asleep just so he could explore her without scolding him for being too affectionate? He would let his fingers slide up and down her body—down her chest, across her ribs, around the delicious curves of her hips. Then he would go back and do it all again with his lips, or his tongue, or both.
And as crazy at it sounded, to Chuck, Blair was untouched—by anyone but him. He knew that was not the truth of course, he knew that Blair had slept with his best friend. But the thought killed him, so he denied the thought of them together every second he was conscious—hoping that eventually he would just forget about it all together.
So in actuality, the problem was not that he did not want Blair Waldorf, the problem was (and always will be) that Chuck Bass wanted her too much; too much for him to admit out loud and certainly too much for her to accept willingly.
She claimed that the thought of him caring for her in any way past his lust and desire nauseated her. She claimed she wanted him to kill off the butterflies, to destroy any warm and fuzzy feelings he had for her. So how could she look at him the way she did when he finally did it?
Earlier that day Blair had made it clear that she did not want Chuck the way he wanted her. And later Nate made it clear that he did not want his best friend around either.
When the two most important people in your life give up on you, it's easy to sink down to the bottom of a bottle of scotch. It's easy to stare in the eyes of your drunken reflection and hate what you see.
But at the end of the day, there was absolutely nothing easy about devastating the woman you love.
He knew what he had to say, the fastest way to hurt her with his words. But he did not anticipate how destroyed she became. There was so witty comeback, no "fuck you" or slap across the face. Any of those would have been welcomed compared to the absolute shock her saw on her face. The tears that shone in her eyes but refused to fall disturbed him and Chuck could not look at her a second longer. She was Blair Waldorf, a fighter who did not take shit from anyone, but there she was, allowing herself to become completely undone in front of him.
If that wasn't love, Chuck didn't know what the fuck was.
After that night, they didn't speak for weeks. They communicated through body language, but neither had the guts to say anything. She would glare, he would smirk. She would scoff, he would leer. She was a bitch and he was a pig. It was only a matter of time before Blair figured out what Chuck knew since Victrola: they were perfect for each other.
But then things started to change when Blair, innocent and pure, would get shit-faced and drunk-dial the last person she claimed to want to talk to.
The first time she called him, she was drunk.