Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget

Manhattan is beautiful at night, he thinks. From the helipad atop the Palace Hotel, he surveys the splendor of the Upper East Side. He comes here often to be alone, to think. On the roof, above everything, he feels free.

He likes standing in the gentle breeze and the cool evening air as he takes in the view. It is breathtaking, but tonight as on so many other nights, he wishes that the glittering lights would dim so that he could actually see the sky. Somewhere up above him, there are stars, but he hasn’t ever seen them here. Not in New York. The dazzling lights of the city that never sleeps blot them out.

He remembers, as a little boy, not understanding the song “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” He’d never seen stars outside of a book, and preserved on paper they didn’t seem that impressive. When he’d finally seen them in real life during a visit to his uncle, he had been awed. Stars did twinkle, sparkling like glass shards caught in the sun. And there were so many! Thousands upon thousands of stars, each like a diamond illuminating the night sky, and all made for wishing.

Such a pity he can’t see them right now. He could use a wish. He’d very much like to ask for advice.

Chuck Bass is a consummate actor. He has the entirety of his social circle convinced he is the ultimate rule breaker, the boy who always bucks authority and never follows the crowd. In reality, he isn’t. It is just that a different set of rules govern his world. Different laws dictate his behavior. His actions may appear random, full of impulsiveness and risk, but they aren’t.

It’s all a carefully constructed illusion.

He is a planner. He knows what parties and events he is attending on any given night. He knows approximately who he will see there, and what he will talk about in advance. He knows around what time he will leave with a girl. Exactly who the girl will be is left up to chance, but he has a preference for brunettes and will swing that if he can. He’ll fuck her once, and if he is feeling particularly generous, he’ll let her stay the night. He’ll take a shower before bed and fall asleep in his silk pajamas. More often than not, he’ll awake from dreams of Blair and Georgina and not be able to return to sleep, although he will try. When he finally gets up, he’ll have a smoothie with a little extra kick to start the day. Sometime before lunch, he’ll smoke some marijuana and the rest of the afternoon will pass in a haze until the evening when the whole process begins afresh.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

When he graduates, he’ll get into every college he applies to because he is Chuck Bass. When he turns twenty-one, he is entitled to his trust fund. Later, maybe a house in the Hamptons, or a prescription drug problem. This is his life, every bit as premeditated as Blair Waldorf’s. But while she meticulously hashes out every last detail of her future, Chuck sketches his in more broad strokes because he knows happiness is not on the menu. The slightest variations from day to day are the only things that make his existence livable.

Still, he doesn’t resent the monotony. Rather, he thrives under the routine. Knowing in advance what is going to happen makes life easy, comfortable. He finds solace in the structure. It is only when things deviate too far from his intended plan that he gets upset, makes mistakes, poor judgments. Being without the plan is like being naked, and for all his womanizing ways, Chuck Bass does not like to be naked. It makes him feel vulnerable, exposed, like that night years ago with Georgina when he had so desperately wanted to cover himself and yet hadn’t been able to. So now clothes are his form of defense. Modern day armor. Hence the jackets, the vests, the bowties, the ascots, the expensive shirts with upturned collars so that even that small expanse of skin at the back of his neck is protected. The more clothes, the more security. To him, wearing the appropriate attire is just another aspect of his life’s routine, and both the apparel and the predictability make him feel safe.

But he isn’t feeling safe at the moment, and all the clothes in the world won’t help.

Two weeks ago his perfectly ordered world was turned upside down and he’d had no clue what it meant or what he was supposed to do. He’d had to improvise, and that scared him shitless and yet exhilarated him at the same time. He’d never felt more alive. Terrified, but alive.

He should have known it wouldn’t end well.

It all started with that dance, that goddamned dance that meant everything, and yet nothing at all. Those three fucking minutes had left him looking forward to watching a ridiculous movie with a frigid bitch and inexplicably hoping for something he should not have even been thinking about and would never admit to now. Then, she hadn’t even shown up. She’d fled the country! Even worse, she’d spent that Thursday evening, their Thursday evening, watching their blasted movie with Nathaniel before she left, a detail he has no doubt she intended for him to discover.

Bitch.

And for reasons he couldn’t fathom then, and really can’t fathom now, he’d gotten it into his head to seek out Georgina Sparks. To ask for her help! Imagine that. Help from evil incarnate? What had he been thinking? He must have been out of his damned mind! That’s what Blair and her games had reduced him to, a crazed lunatic who sought aid from the worst demon imaginable. And of course the hell spawn had offered him the escape he wanted… for an unspeakable price.

With both hands gripping the concrete ledge, Chuck shudders at memory. He isn’t sure which is more horrific: that she thought up such a trade in the first place, or that he had agreed to it? Probably the latter, he suspects. He’d wanted to become an unfeeling monster after all, while she had merely been obliging his wish, even if the sadistic whore got off on it. Ironic then that the only thing that had spared him was her, the sound she had made right before he –

No. He is not thinking about that. Bad enough that every time he closes his eyes now, the image of her spread out beneath him, wet and ready and willing, seems permanently imprinted on his retinas. He doesn’t need any more reminders, thank you very much. He’ll be haunted by the thought plenty enough without actively remembering the way she –

Oh God, he’s going to be sick.

He falls to his knees, ruining his Armani trousers in the process, as bile rises fast and furious in his throat. He heaves, vomiting a small puddle of acidic fluid since he hasn’t eaten in days. Afterwards, he takes several deep breaths, praying the nausea subsides long enough for him to make it back to his suite.

Once there, he immediately strips and gets into the shower. Although the warmth of the falling water eases some of the tension in his shoulders, no amount of soap can banish entirely the vague sense of being unclean that developed shortly after he left Australia. He scrubs until he is red and raw and wincing, and still the ghostly feeling lingers, like strange hands touching his skin. In desperation, he twists the hot water knob as far as it will go, hissing through his teeth as the spray turns scalding, but appreciative of the distraction the pain provides. He’d freely walk through fire and shove his hand into a blender for some lasting clarity.

Initially, he believed nothing could feel as awful as realizing Blair had ran from whatever their relationship had been. Now, he knows how naive that thought actually was. The knowledge that he had nearly slept with the slut who starred in his nightmares of his own volition was much, much worse. It defied logic. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, and he would if it was the least bit funny, but of course it is not. No, it is horrific.

It makes no fucking sense. None at all. Right is left, up is down, and Chuck Bass had almost…

He can’t even finish the thought. It’s too ludicrous. And yet it was true. Unequivocally true. Facts were facts, even if the pieces didn’t add up.

And therein lay the problem. The pieces did add up, just not how they should have.

There is no way he could have been so stupid. He is Chuck Bass!

And yet…

Oh damn it all to hell.

He gets out of the shower and towels off. He tries to avoid seeing his reflection. It disturbs him. Those haunted features are entirely his, and yet he thinks he resembles a child in the mirror. He feels like one too. A kid, lost and alone and eager to be loved, seeking comfort and assurance that the monsters aren’t real, even though that’s a lie. Chuck knows the monsters exist. He’s seen them, wonders secretly if he is one. After all, he certainly doesn’t feel like himself at the moment. The old him would never, ever under any circumstances even have considered having sex with Georgina. The fact that he had done more than consider it frightens him immensely. It is like the core of his identity is missing, those defining characteristics of his personality erased.

Thank God for routine, he thinks. He may not know who he is anymore, but he can easily fake it until he figures it out. Fall into patterns of familiarity and surely that sense of self will return, right? If not, well… He will deal with that if it happens. For now, he is going out and finding a girl to fuck because that is what Chuck Bass would do.

That summer, he beds more chicks in a couple months than most men do in their lives. Two, three a day. Frequently more. A ceaseless parade of warm, willing bodies, and each kiss and caress only makes him feel more and more lost. Every release leaves him numb and hollow instead of satisfied. He doesn’t understand why it isn’t working.

He turns to his other habits, booze and drugs, the old standbys. Pill and powder, liquid and lungful, he tries it all. Sometimes in the midst of a high, he can sense some emotion percolating just out of proper awareness, but the impression is never sustained long. The highs are over too soon, leaving him feeling as empty as before.

The cycle of wanton women and substance abuse continues under finally, near the end of August, his cell beeps. It is a message from Gossip Girl alerting all of the Upper East Side that a certain Queen B has at last returned from Italy. Reading the text, feelings long dormant inside of Chuck flutter back to life.

He phones Arthur to bring the limo around and is almost on the curb in front of the hotel before he realizes he’d been planning to go to her house. Scowling, already trying to suppress the wellspring of emotion that appeared when he learned she was back, to kill it outright, he reminds himself that he has no desire to see Blair Waldorf. She is a bitch and he is not going to visit her at all. He… he is going to the Hamptons!

Most of the last week of summer he spends holed up in one of the Bass vacation homes. Surrounded by verdant lawns and luxury, he feels miserable. Every time his phone chimes, he practically falls over in his haste to see if there is an update on Blair, but after the initial message, Gossip Girl has no further rumors to report.

Useless whore.

The Thursday before school starts up again, he returns to Manhattan. He is sitting in his suite, sipping scotch and begrudgingly thinking about the logistics of arranging a chance run-in with a specific chestnut haired beauty when someone knocks on his door. He opens it and finds himself looking at the girl in question.

She’s here!

Instantly, his stomach starts fluttering despite his best efforts to quell the enthusiastic response.

“What do you want, Waldorf?” he sneers. She ignores his cold greeting and whisks right past him into the suite. “Hey! I didn’t say you could come in!” he shouts after her.

Blair tosses him a challenging look over one shoulder. “I’m pretty sure you did, right after you asked about my summer and I told you it was great,” she teases. Then with a swish of skirts, she rounds the corner into the main room and Chuck has no choice but to follow her.

He finds her already seated on the sofa, legs crossed daintily, with an expectant smile on her face. He glowers down at her. “Why are you here?”

In response, she extends an envelope. His name is written in elegant calligraphy across the top of it. “What is this?” he asks.

“My mother and I are having some people over for a party on Saturday. I thought you might want to come,” she remarks offhandedly, shrugging like she doesn’t care if he attends or not.

“Saturday? Kind of late to RSVP, isn’t it princess? Or am I a last minute addition because someone else cancelled?”

Standing, she rolls her eyes at him. “No one cancels on a Waldorf soiree, Bass! You just weren’t home when I tried to drop the invite off last week.”

“You could have left it at the front desk,” he points out sardonically. “Or did you want to see me so badly you needed an excuse to come back?”

“I didn’t need an excuse!” she cries.

He smirks triumphantly. “So you did want to see me.”

Seeing his smugness at having maneuvered her into making such an admission, Blair compresses her lips into a thin white line. “Clever, Chuck. You don’t get nearly enough credit for your wit,” she says finally. “But why shouldn’t I want to see you? We’re friends, after all.”

“Friends?” he snorts bitterly. “Is that why you ran off to Milan? Because we’re friends?”

“That had nothing to do with you!” she denies hotly. “I just wanted to spend time with my mother.”

“Right,” he mocks, his words coated in sarcasm. “Because you and Eleanor have such a close bond.”

Her eyes flash. “Don’t you talk about my mother or –”

“Or what?” he interjects, cutting her off. “You’ll leave? Go right ahead! Please, do! Spare me the trouble of having to call security to throw you out!”

Her mouth drops in stunned indignation. “I… I hate you!” she spits.

“The feeling’s mutual!” he bites back.

“Really?” she asks unexpectedly, her voice small. The second the word leaves her mouth, she looks shocked to have said it.

Confused at her dismayed expression, Chuck replies insolently, “Why does it matter?”

She blinks, her face transforming back into a composed mask. “It… It doesn’t,” she states, but the tone lacks her usual conviction and that brief look in her eyes had almost seemed… hurt.

What the hell?

Before he can respond, she whirls suddenly, practically running down his hallway. And without even understanding why, he chases after her. In a few long strides, he reaches her, grabs her shoulder turning her around. She resists, striking out as he tries to prevent her reaching the door. Her tiny fists rain blows upon him as they struggle. Finally, he captures one of her arms by the wrist and pulls her flush against him, pinning her other hand between them.

“What the fuck was that, Waldorf?” he cries.

Blair says nothing, refusing to look at him or even acknowledge he has spoken. She’s panting for breath, an embarrassed flush deepening the color of her cheeks.

Chuck narrows his eyes at her, a thought gradually taking form. “Do you not want me to hate you?” he inquires carefully.

“Why would I care?” she scoffs, meeting his eyes at last. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Why would you care indeed?” he repeats quietly.

“I don’t,” she reiterates. “I love Nate.”

“You sure?” he asks, searching her face.

She swallows, diverting her gaze for a brief second. “Of course,” she finally says.

“You sound uncertain.”

Her breath catches in her throat. “You’re delusional,” she manages to state.

“Am I?” he counters, feeling absolutely positive he is not misreading her. After all, his grip on her has loosened, his hands merely resting now upon her skin, and yet still she stays in the circle of his arms. Beneath his palms, her pulse seems to be racing as much as his own.

Unable to control the impulse, he traces a finger up her spine. She shivers, her eyes drifting shut as she arches into him. He gasps at her movement, his groin hardening in response. And rather than pull away disgusted, she presses closer, manicured nails kneading at his chest catlike, ruby lips parting in an almost inaudible sigh.

Without conscious thought, almost of its own accord, the hand holding her wrist lets go to wrap around her waist, fingers stretching across the small of her back and that first gentle curve along the top of her ass.

“Chuck…” she moans softly, her body relaxing, muscles undulating, becoming liquid under his touch.

“Yes?” he whispers urgent, his mouth hovering over hers.

“I…” she breathes, opening her eyes, forbidden desire evident in her darkened pupils. She blinks, twisting her face away. “I love Nate.”

The words land like an unanticipated punch. Abruptly he drops his arms and steps back from her, thrusting clenched fists into his pockets. “That so?” he grinds out viciously, jealousy and resentment radiating off of him. “Then I suggest you go seal the deal with your precious boyfriend before someone else does the honors for him.” His lips twist into a nasty sneer. “You’re nothing but a bitch in heat.”

Her perfectly arched brows rise in outrage. “You nauseate me!” she snaps before storming off.

He watches her go and just as she opens the door, he calls out with taunting politeness, “See you at the soiree princess.”

In the entranceway, she turns glaring. “You’re officially uninvited!”

He condescendingly smirks. “Never stopped me before.”