Disclaimer: I don't own Gossip Girl. :'(
oh, dream maker, you heart breaker
wherever you're going I'm going your way
It's one in the morning (nearly two, really) and she can't sleep for the life of her. Everything was wrong; everything was completely falling apart. Her room was too messy, her schoolwork papers were falling off her desk in an unkempt way that was just simply not Blair Waldorf material. The lights outside were too bright, shining in her eyes; the cars driving by (which she'd always fallen asleep to as a child) were loud and obnoxious. Her mattress was lumpy and her blankets were scratchy, it was too hot inside the covers and too cold outside them; she kept on remembering that horror movie she'd watched years ago and the way the lead girl was killed in her sleep by that horrible man with a bloody knife and her heart was absolutely torn apart by the boy who didn't know the meaning of love.
God, life is so fucking pathetic.
Blair sat up carefully, flinging off the mask covering her eyes (it was ridiculous to wear it anyway, it didn't do much to help) and carelessly letting it float to the floor, watching it as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. For a moment, she wondered if her Mom (vacationing in Rome without her again) was wondering if she were all right, home alone, without Dorota, who was taking a week off to tend to her son, who'd gotten the flu.
So she stands up, absentmindedly throws the covers over her rumpled pillows, and walks downstairs, relishing in the familiar echo of her hollow footsteps, ringing throughout the lonely house. Someone could go mad, she thinks to herself, in this kind of aloneness.
Her stomach growls but she ignores it as always; no use in consuming extra calories when she's already so imperfect, correct? She walks toward the small room that she's spent so many nights in, so many days when everything was just breaking and she needed an escape. (She also ignores the fact that most of those times, there was a certain arrogant black-haired boy who stood by her side no matter how many chick flicks he was forced to watch.
Turning on the television, Tiffany's was already pushed into the DVD player. Just as the music began to play and Holly was dropped off at Tiffany's, the slightest sound (just like a knock and the little chipper of a bird) sounded from outside a window, making her pause the movie and stand. Suddenly, every single creepy movie she's ever watched flew into her head as she began to wonder how they'd find her. Chopped up and bloody, red splattered against the walls? Maybe she'd be bruised up and beaten. Would he be a serial killer? Or some insane freak? What if—
The noise sounded again. "Shit," Blair managed to choke out, and she grabbed an umbrella (the only weapon she found suitable) and walked to the window where the noises had originated, trembling.
And there greeted a sight that nearly made her laugh out loud.
Charles Bass, obviously inebriated and so very pathetic looking, with his rumpled hair and wrinkled clothes, stumbles around the sidewalk, tripping and laughing and giggling, paying no mind to the staring passerbyers.. "Blair!" he calls out as soon as he spots her head sticking out of the window. "Blair-bear!"
"Don't call me that!" she spits out cruelly, ignoring the puppy-dog look on his face. "What are you doing here? Are you trying to ruin my reputation?"
He grins stupidly, his voice raised way too high. "No!" He shouts back up at her. "I just wanted to sing to you."
Sing? He's definitely drunk off his ass, she tells herself as she presses the elevator button, practically sprinting as she steps into it, grabbing a jacket from the hook beside it, walking out as she reaches the first floor and goes out the door, where she finally realizes that she's got no shoes. And suddenly, in her gray trench coat and messy updo, with the rain pouring down hard and Chuck Bass looking so very lost, she feels like Holly as she looks for her nameless cat.
"Dammit, Chuck," she curses under her breath as she grabs his shoulders, gripping his shoulders so tight because she knows if she doesn't she's going to let go and he'll be lost forever. "What's wrong with you?"
"You," he responds immediately, without missing a beat. "You're not with me, that's what's wrong."
She sighs and tries to ignore the way he takes her hand—the gesture was only made by boyfriends and Chuck Bass was far from one. Chuck and Blair holding hands, she thinks bitterly to herself, and begins to drag him outside before he catches his death in the freezing cold of New York winter nights.
Softly, he begins to sing, just as he told her. "Moon river, wider than a mile, I'm crossing you in style, someday…." He hums, unsure of the lyrics, and the look in his eyes almost makes her want to ask him to break her heart again because this kind of pain is a lot more worse.
"Chuck, stop it," she demands weakly, leading him upstairs and into her bedroom while he continues to hum the tune. "Stop it, I'm serious."
"You're too serious for your own good." he replies in the husky tone that he knew she can't resist, and begins to kiss her neck sensuously, biting and sucking in all the right places, smiling against her soft, soft skin whenever a soft moan escapes her parted lips, hugging her closer to him.
And suddenly the strong musk of scotch and scotch and everything scotch floods her nostrils and she realizes he isn't in his right mind. They'll probably have crazy drunken sex and in the morning she'll find a note on her pillow and all she'll ever be to him is a regret. "No," she says to herself, No, no, no, this isn't what's supposed to happen. "No!" she repeats, and pushes Chuck away with all the force she can muster. "Stop, Chuck."
"Why should I?" He growls slowly, and the animal inside him is beginning to show. His eyes wild, his hair everywhere, and the rotating way he was grinding his hips against her, gritting his teeth to hide his groans of pleasure… It was all she could do not to give in and fuck him right there, on her windowsill, with New York watching with their sick pleasures. But she remembers. His broken voice as he couldn't love her. The heartbreak when he couldn't say it. He can't say it. He'll never say it.
"Because you're drunk, and you'll just forget it in the morning, like you always do with your whores." She bites out bitterly, and ignores his hollow eyes (because they merely reflect hers.)
He stares intently, like he's trying to figure it all out. "But I could never forget you, Blair," he whispers in a way that she doesn't know who he is anymore, "You're everything to me. Everything. Without you, I'm just a broken heart."
(He tells her such pretty words but that doesn't mean they're in the dictionary.)
"How do I know you're telling the truth?" She asks weakly, her voice trembling in the worst places. Her lip quivers uncontrollably, and she has to blink just to keep her sanity. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry for the bastard. A mantra of sorts.
Chuck smirks, and suddenly, every smirk she's ever seen flashes back to her mind. As he entered her for the first time. When she kissed him. When she loved him. Every single time. It's not worth it. Is it? "Because drunk words are sober thoughts, baby." He murmurs in her ear, and promptly lets himself fall onto the bed, closing his eyes and groaning. "Fuuuuck, Blair. Do you see this?" He sits up again, with bloodshot eyes. "I got all effin' drunk for you, and you don't even love me." His arms wave wildly, following the track of his words. "You don't even love me."
Blair snorts, and he smiles at the gesture. She sits behind him and he lays her head on his lap—a surprisingly (gulp) boyfriend-like behavior trait. Her hands are not in her control anymore and they reach out slowly, combing her fingers through his tangled ebony hair. "You know that's not true," she tells him carefully, treading on glass, "It's actually the opposite, Bass."
"I'm an idiot, aren't I?"
She lets out a giggle. "Hey, the first step to solving the problem, is figuring out you have one."
Suddenly, he turns pale and stiffens. "I – I – I have to—" he mumbles, unable to get the words out, and instead, covers his mouth with his hands, determined not to barf all over Blair's hundred-dollar bedspread, silk and a fortune, but worth the wonderful sleep. Except for lately, when nothing could get her to fall asleep.
Blair grabbed his elbow immediately, leading him to the bathroom like potty-training a two-year old. She's dealt with enough of Serena's wild years to know exactly what to do; she appreciates, though, that he took enough consideration to keep her bed clean. Serena wasn't nearly as polite when she was inebriated.
He kneels onto the tiled floor and throws up into the toilet bowl, sounds of retching echoing throughout the room, bouncing off the walls and never escaping. She holds his hair back, preventing it from hanging in front of his eyes, and she feels the soft squeeze of her fingers against his for only a moment. He turns around, whispers a hoarse, "Thank you," and gags again, barfing into the porcelain bowl.
After about an hour of this, he finally collapses, head resting against the sink and eyes drifting shut. She flushes the toilet and nudges him gently, and he walks (more like stumbles) to her unmade bed, where he falls onto it recklessly and almost right away, drifts to sleep. She kisses his forehead, tracing the contours of his cheekbones, and as she falls with him, she wonders if this is going to be a regular thing.