Icarus Heart:

Greater Love #1

Fandom: Gossip Girl

Pairing: Chuck/Blair

Rating: T

Warnings: not an HEA, a little on the dark and morbid side

Archive: Ask

Author: Lily Zen

Notes: Part of a series I'm working on. Though this alludes to past events in the show, this is a future-fic based on how I think Chuck/Blair would turn out about a decade later.

Disclaimer: I do not own Gossip Girl. I also do not own the poem. It is "III" by Pablo Neruda, found in the collection of poetry 100 Love Sonnets. For the purpose of this story, I've broken up some of the stanzas, so this is not the typical format of the poem.

Bitter love, a violet with its crown

of thorns in a thicket of spiky passions,

spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come

to conquer my soul? What via dolorosa brought you?

Blair. Blair… Blair.

It consumed him, the wild need that just the utterance of a name could invoke. She was the first real love he'd allowed himself to have, the first to reach beyond the arrogance, beyond the façade—"I'm Chuck Bass,"—to the boy within. Blair touched the lonely child in the darkest, coldest crevice of his soul, and warmed him up, chased the frostbite from his bones; brought him to her breast and just loved him.

He was the most resistant patient, but eventually her patience outlasted even his reluctance (his fear).

Why did you pour your tender fire

so quickly, over my life's cool leaves?

Who pointed the way to you?

A night that should have been haze by now stood out in the cruelest vividness. Just a night, a club, a heartbreak, a dance…and his own heart was lost, captured in her tiny hands, and the trust in her eyes when she pulled him close, the sigh of her silk slip on the leather upholstery so loud in his ears as his veins pulsed with adrenaline and dopamine, and whispered against the curve of his ear, "It's alright. I want this too."

Her sweet and earnest declaration drove him higher, more wood for the fire, for the pyre that he was slowly building in his soul to set flame to the ice cold corpse of his former self.

What flower,

what rock, what smoke showed you where I live?

He was so gentle with her, gentler than he could ever remember being with anyone, and each of her ecstatic, lust-laden sighs and mewls was taken, stored away, and committed to excruciatingly detailed memory, each one a little piece of redemption, of hope.

Because the earth shook—it did—that awful night;

then dawn filled all the goblets with its wine;

the heavenly sun declared itself;

while inside, a ferocious love wound around

and around me—

Great love. Impossible love. The kind of love that songs were written about, that people gave their lives, their souls, their dignities for.

That was ChuckandBlair, BlairandChuck.

Burning too hot to last, out of control; wildfire that decimated the countryside, making room for new growth.

Their love was the first, and because it was the first, it would always be the best, the brightest, the purest…until it wasn't anymore. Until it became dark and twisted, like Othello and Desdemona, so sweet it soured, too good to stay good so it must become bad.

till it pierced me with its thorns, its sword,

slashing a seared road through my heart.

Then it was decay, dead flowers in the garbage, the petals retaining a kind of beauty even then as they darkened and withered, and fell away to expose the raw inner workings.

He would always have the memory. It would linger like a dried bud, like a wound long scarred over. Beautiful, eternal, perfectly imperfect.