Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget

He isn’t positive when it happens. When the tormented expression leaves his eyes completely and they become cold and calculating. When his smile is replaced by a disparaging sneer. When he realizes the reflection in the mirror is someone he no longer recognizes.

Had it been a gradual decay? Had pieces slowly eroded away until all that lingered was the poisoned core she had instilled in him? Or was it quick? A rapid decline that had erased himself and left her masterpiece behind? Could he have done it differently? Would it have been enough? He doesn’t know.

So many things can happen in a moment, and the moments string together to create an existence. A thought formed. A word spoken. A step taken. Should he plot them out? Trace their inexorable progression from A to B? Pinpoint exactly when it became too late, when the balance shifted past the tipping point and he became more her than him? He isn’t sure.

Then again, are the minute details of his downfall significant? Is the proper sequence important? Would having that knowledge change anything?

So many questions that keep him up at night. Questions without answers.

But in the end, he thinks, it doesn’t really matter. Answers or no, isn’t the result the same? Either way,
Chuck Bass the innocent was dead. Gone as surely as if he’d been consumed by fire, ashes lost to the breeze. All that remained was Chuck Bass the cynic, scathed but stronger for it. Hardened. Remorseless. Able to do what must be done without flinching or doubting or second guessing.

Georgina would be so proud.

He pushes the questions away. They are the thoughts he tortures himself with when he’s feeling especially masochistic. What’s done is done, and there’s no changing it. No epiphany that would make it all better. No magical solution waiting to be found. He’s been over it too many times. He knows there is no justification that would satisfy. No explanation that could suddenly make it all clear. There are no resolutions, and the only certainty he has is that it started that night. The night he met Carter Baizen.

Carter is not his friend. Never his friend. Anyone who willingly associates with Georgina Sparks is not to be trusted under any circumstances. But Carter is a mentor. Surely that. He takes Chuck under his proverbial wing as it were. Shows him all the pleasures that wealth and privilege can bring. The trendiest clubs. The hottest restaurants. The escorts who know how to keep their mouths shut.

Carter is using him, of course. Using him for the influence of his last name, for easy access to hotel suites and limos, for the hoards of cash Bart Bass bestows upon his son instead of real affection. Chuck understands this, and is fine with the situation. Considers it was a fair trade. After all, he is using Carter too. Using him to gain entrance to Georgina’s world.

From the relative safety of a group, he observes her in her own element. Studies her. Learns the intricacies of deception and manipulation. How to expose a weakness. How to exploit it. All the tricks of the trade, straight from the master, that he will need in order to mount an assault against her.

She isn’t pregnant, obviously. He suspects as much, but she lets him doubt for a long time until at last he catches her drunk and high on Carter’s favorite combination, champagne and cocaine.

“What about the baby?” he demands.

“There is no baby. There never was,” she laughs. “Like I’d be stupid enough to get pregnant by a pathetic excuse like you!”

And in a flash of anger, he breaks the cardinal rule of being male. He slaps her across the mouth, hard enough for her teeth to cut into her lip. She touches the blood, looks at it on her finger, then licks it off in a way that make him want to vomit.

“If you wanted to play rough, all you had to do was ask,” she jeers as he flees, her mocking laughter ringing in his ears.

But that isn’t the end of it. Days later, how he pays for that slap. Gossip Girl, an anonymous blogger who mostly keeps tabs on the high school students at St. Jude’s and Constance suddenly seems to take a particular interest in him. The timing is just too much of a coincidence as incriminating photos begin to appear on the website. Chuck and Georgina locked in an embrace at Butter. Chuck taking a shot of tequila. Chuck holding a martini at a club with Carter. Chuck with a joint to his lips. Chuck kissing a brunette, a redhead, a blonde, another brunette.

And Serena glares and stops talking to him completely. Nate, meanwhile, thinks it is the coolest thing ever and begs to meet Carter. Only Blair, Blair who has been distant since her harsh words in his hallway, approaches him with concern.

“What is going on Chuck? This isn’t you!” she states with conviction.

There is nothing he can say to her. No way to possibly make her understand without telling her the truth, and that is something he knows he can never do. He tries to brush her off, but she clutches his arm, insistent.

“Chuck, please! Talk to me. I’m worried about you,” she pleads.

He roughly jerks his arm from her grasp with a sneer. “Stay out of it!” he snaps. She reels back from the harshness in his tone, unshed tears welling in her warm brown eyes. Her lips press together and she straightens, drawing herself up. She turns and walks away, dark chestnut curls bouncing, head high, a model of dignity. Watching her retreat, he forces himself not to call after her, knowing it is better to let her go than risk pulling her under with him.

Good thing too, because the pictures keep coming, each more damning than the last. And all Chuck can do is stiffen his spine, act like he doesn’t care that conversations stop when he enters a room, smirk in disdain and mock his classmate’s naivety calling them children. Fucking children.

Is it possible he plays his part too well? So well that eventually it stops being pretend?

But what else can he do? He has to bide his time. Look for an opening, an opportunity for her to get careless, to slip up. So he acts the role of the bad boy incarnate, watching, waiting for his chance.

When it finally comes, he is ready. More than ready. Eager.

And since this charade had began at Butter so many nights ago, he thinks it only fitting that it should end there too. Which is why he invites Georgina to dinner and sits across from her now. He is sure she will appreciate the irony.

“I wanted to thank you,” he begins, but she quickly cuts him off.

“Cut the crap, Chucky.”

“No, really. I do,” he says. “Everyone has a price, G. You taught me that.”

She rolls her eyes in irritation. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

“I brought you here tonight to make you an offer,” he tells her simply.

“I don’t give a damn about your money,” she sneers.

He takes a breath. “I know that. But there are things you do give a damn about. Your carefree lifestyle, for instance.” Now is the moment. The point of no return. He presses a button on his cell. Seconds later, her phone beeps inside her Louis Vuitton clutch. “You might want to check that.”

With a patronizing sigh, she glances at the waiting message. Her eyes narrow slightly. “What is this?”

He keeps his expression neutral. “Don’t you recognize it? It’s a little get together. I think Carter called it the Lost Weekend.”

Snapping her phone closed, she snorts, “Nice try, dear, but Carter didn’t allow cameras into that party.”

He nods in solemn mockery. “And with good reason too. Someone could take pictures. Like this one.”

He presses send again, and raising one cynical brow she reopens her cell. He watches her lips compress into a thin line as she looks at the screen.

“See that guy? The one you are so expertly snorting cocaine with? A senator’s son, if I’m not mistaken. But then, I’m sure you are already well aware of who he is, that’s why you sucked his cock at the party, correct?” With a touch of his finger, a third image appears on her cell. “In the pool room. Not exactly discreet.”

She raises cruel eyes to his. “You bastard,” she hisses.

Chuck fights to keep the exultant smirk off his face. It wouldn’t be wise. “No need to get upset. I totally sympathize. I mean, there are a lot of photos of my dubious activities out there online. None from a party quite like this though. A true expression of excess, wasn’t it?” Another press of a button, another snapshot on her phone. “Think of what else you did that weekend with your precious Upper East Side connections, Georgina. A blow job is really the least of your worries.”

She’s gripping her cell so tightly her knuckles are white. The glare gives him is murderous, and Chuck finally realizes the full implications of the phrase ‘if looks could kill.’ A bead of sweat trickles down between his shoulder blades. Please God, let this work.

“Now, here is the deal,” he says matter-of-factly. “You fuck up my life, I fuck up yours. You tell people I raped you, I send these to your parents, to Gossip Girl, to the press, to the homes of everyone you know in New York. You ruin me, and you’ll be involved in the scandal of the decade.” He pauses to let the gravity of the situation sink in. “So what’s it going to be Georgina? Mutual destruction? Or a ceasefire?”

He stares at her, and she stares back. Neither willing to budge or back down. Finally, she wets her lips and looks away. The tension in his chest eases minutely.

“Well played Bass,” she says grudgingly.

“I learned from the best.” He raises his glass in a bitter salute.

She acknowledges his gesture with the slightest nod, purses her lips in thought. “Fine. A truce.” Picking up her glass, she clinks it with his and downs the drink in one gulp. Looking at him amusedly over the crystal rim, she adds, “But do you really think you can go back? Just stop and forget about everything you’ve done to get here?” She shakes her head and breaks into a vicious grin. Holding up her phone, she indicates the picture still on the screen. “You didn’t infiltrate this world, Chucky. You became part of it. You’re one of us now. Congratulations!”

Disturbed by her proclamation, he leaves her sitting there laughing. Let the whore pay for her own dinner, he thinks. What the hell does she know, anyway? Spiteful bitch. She’s just jealous, upset that he won.

Once he’s back in the limo, however, it doesn’t feel like he won. It feels like he lost. Something is missing. He can sense it, the emptiness inside. He starts to shake. With relief or fear or something else, he isn’t sure. All he knows is that he wants, needs something. Someone.

He goes to Blair. He hasn’t seen her in… Well, it’s been a while. But she is still the one person he knows whose opinion matters the most, although he would never tell her that. It would go to her head. Expecting her to smile when she discovers him upon her doorstep, he is surprised at her look of disappointment and disgust.

“What are you doing here? We’re not friends anymore, Chuck. Lately, I don’t even know who you are.”

He sees her condemning expression, the accusations in her eyes, and tells the absolute truth. “Neither do I,” he confesses.

She shakes her head. “I don’t want your excuses.”

“Blair, please –” His voice is painfully small.

Crossing her arms over her chest protectively, she snaps, “No! We’re done here. Just go.”

He is out on the sidewalk, getting into his limo, when Blair calls after him. He turns and there she is, a glare twisting her beautiful features. “I’ll be watching you, Bass. Nate can’t see reason when it comes to you, but if you try to bring him down, corrupt him with your depravity, I swear to God, I will do everything I can to end your friendship.”

For a second, he’s too shocked to respond. Then habit takes over. A sneer curls his lips. “Try it princess. I dare you,” he taunts before slamming the door of the limo in her outraged face.

That same night, at Carter’s house, he sleeps with a stranger. Frantic hands and hurried kisses with a girl who looks like Blair and tastes like Georgina, and afterwards he’s sick and shamed. But he rejoins the party and there’s Carter’s outstretched palm holding a white pill. Chuck asks what it is, and the older boy asks him if it matters. He takes it with a swallow of scotch and a wish to forget. As the amber liquid burns down his throat, he tells himself that is why his eyes are stinging.

Later on, there are other nights with Carter Baizen. Another club, another drink, another drug, another girl. And the evenings become less distinct. The parties blend together into a never ending celebration of hedonism. Even when Carter graduates and disappears from the Upper East Side, the self-gratification doesn’t stop. Chuck, Baizen’s protégé, continues the festivities.

And the women keep coming. He doesn’t even have to try. They practically throw themselves at him. Deep down, he understands that they don’t actually want him. They want his money. They don’t even really see him as a person. Gradually, he stops seeing them as people too.

Chuck Bass as no use for women

Correction.

Chuck Bass has one use for women, and one only.

Like the woman beneath him now.

He rolls off of her onto his back, gasping. Already, mere seconds later, he can’t remember her name. He’s too high, too drunk, too numb to care. And yet not numb enough. Never enough. Georgina’s mocking laugh still grates in his brain.

He shudders, and the girl next to him snuggles into his side. He pulls away brusquely. Chuck does not cuddle. It’s a rule. Fucking. That’s it. Anything more leads to trouble. Anything more and they get clingy, thinking he cares. He doesn’t. He won’t. It’s better for him if they understand right at the beginning that they’re just a means to an end. A way to forget.

But this one obviously hadn’t understood the game. Or worse, thought she was special and the rules therefore didn’t apply. And now she’s talking. Wonderful. He prefers when they don’t.

He ignores her chattering, and gets out of the bed. Pours himself a scotch. With his back to her, his recollection of her face is fading, blurring into the others. Only her hair remains distinctive in his memory. Long sable tresses cascading in soft curls. He’ll remember that. The other details don’t matter, but the hair… Some nights the hair matters. It matters a lot for reasons he won’t admit even to himself.

The tousled waif in his bed is still talking, but he can’t hear her. Georgina’s voice is ghosting through his head like a contemptuous caress, disturbingly familiar, “…touch anyone, you’ll think of me, of this.”

He gulps at the scotch, hoping this time it will warm more than his stomach. That it’ll burn away all remnants of her. He can still feel her hands upon him.

Then there are hands upon him.

He whirls and sees it is the stupid slut who just won’t take a hint. His nostrils flare in annoyance. He needs her to leave. Now. He’s tempted to throw money at her and thank her for services rendered, but she’s not that kind of girl. Right now, he wishes she was. The transactions were always so much simpler.

Obviously, subtlety is not going to work with this chick. He’ll need to be more explicit, but in a way that avoids direct confrontation. He doesn’t want a scene, even behind the closed doors of his suite.

He picks up his scotch, and takes the bottle along for good measure. He pads to the bathroom, firmly shutting the door behind him. Once inside, he locks it in the event she decides to follow him. When he doesn’t return, she’ll eventually put the pieces together and go. Most likely call him a few choice phrases on her way out. Maybe break something. The clingy types usually do. It’s typical.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, he hopes the bitch will leave sooner rather than later. He has plans tomorrow. The Sheppard wedding, an infernal all day affair, and if he is going to make it, he needs some sleep. He wants to be rested because weddings mean bridesmaids, and he plans to bang half of them before the reception is over and he hits the town with Nathaniel.

Chuck smiles, thinking of his best friend. Nate is so good. Through it all, he has stood by Chuck’s side, has not judged him. Nate is the only one who knows almost everything Chuck has done and still looks at him like he is a person. Under the weight of that accepting gaze, Chuck feels like the worthless piece of shit he is. He’s glad for the reminder, needs it really. It helps keep him in check. Prevents him from becoming a true monster.

Sipping his scotch, he considers inviting Serena to join them. Recently, they have come to an understanding. She still throws snide barbs at him, but the insults no longer hold the sting they once did. It’s difficult for her to look down upon him when she’s standing in the pit herself. After all, they are both her creatures, Georgina’s creations. Without ever having to speak the words, they know this about each other. Only the two of them really comprehend what kind of a person Georgina is, and the knowledge has formed a fragile bond between them. He won’t acknowledge it, but he is thankful. He had missed the blonde’s friendship.

But there is one person whose friendship he has not missed. If it was possible for fifteen year old world weary Chuck Bass to hate anyone as much as he hates Georgina, it would be her.

Blair fucking Waldorf.