disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: to laura_sommeils on LJ.
notes: Nate/Blair moirailling everywhere.

title: cult logic
summary: We never change. — Nate, Blair.






She looks at him through slit eyes on a Tuesday evening—or maybe it's Wednesday morning, technically, she can't see the clock—and holds a tumbler full of whiskey up to the firelight in salute.

She tips her head back and drains it, and knows that his gaze lingers at her throat.

Her golden boy.

Blair sighs, and cradles the empty cup in her hands. She's a mess in a dress, all done up in crimson; red for courage, red for love. Twenty-two and falling because they'd been through this so many times before, but at least now she has a reason to hate everything she'd ever been.

"How do you drink this stuff? It's awful," she says.

Nate's slumped in his chair, half-drunk and debauched, and he doesn't even acknowledge her.

Blair hits him for good measure—violence isn't the answer, Blair —and he sort of shakes, eyelids flickering open.

She stares at him. "You have got to lay off that stuff."

"Whatever," he breathes, rolls over, looks like he's trying to sleep.

Blair contemplates stabbing him with her stiletto. "Wake up, Nate."

"What do you want, Blair," he says but doesn't ask, which is good because Blair doesn't really do question period, anymore.

"I want you to listen to me, dolt. It's important."

Nate sighs. It's this big long thing that comes from somewhere deep in his chest, underneath his rumpled shirt and suit jacket, and it sets Blair's teeth on edge. She fights not to be mad at him because it's not really his fault that she's getting drunk in front of his fireplace on a Tuesday—Wednesday—night.

Except, you know, it sort of really is.

"Do you think we…" and she trails off, because she's not really sure how to go on.

Nate glances up, gold hair across gold skin and Blair's throat goes tight. She wonders if he knows. She wonders if he even cares.

"Yeah," he says slowly. "I think we're stuck like this."

"I wish we weren't."

He shrugs, one shoulder flopping up and down, and Blair—Blair thinks about Manhattan, and about Colombia, and about all the things her younger self had wanted. She thinks about Serena, seventeen forever, and Chuck, and darkness, and Prague, and all the little games that had seemed so important at the time. Hell, she even thinks about Dan, and smiles a funny little smile that's a bit shattered around the edges.

She misses Dan.

She misses Chuck, too, but Chuck is still a raw wound.

At least Nate had never been a true hurt. Nate was still a prince, but Blair had seen enough of the world now to know that princes weren't all they were cracked up to be, and maybe she was just better off on her own.

Better than nothing, she muses.

"Do you miss them?" she asks.

Nate doesn't even look at her. "All the time."

Blair sighs, and leans back.

They never change, their little cult. One day, they'd all end up in the same room, half-drunk and debauched, and maybe they'd hash it out then.

But for now…

Blair sets her jaw, and pours herself another drink.