Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget

He hasn’t slept, and yet as he watches the sun come up from the roof of the Palace Hotel, he isn’t tired. Amazingly, he feels rejuvenated. Something is fluttering in his stomach, and it isn’t making him sick. Instead, he is positively giddy. A new day has finally dawned over the Upper East Side, and in a short while he will get to see her again.

He returns back to his suite, a spring in his step. He showers quickly, and slows down only long enough to choose what to wear to this, his first date of many. He picks out a bright orange-red suit coat. It is absolutely over the top, but the color matches his mood exactly.

Who knew being in love was this brilliant?

Riding the elevator downstairs, he begins absently humming strains of Sinatra, and when the doors open, he practically waltzes across the lobby and out to the curb.

“Good morning, Arthur,” he beams at his chauffer. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

While holding the limo door open for his charge, Arthur squints at him suspiciously. “Yes, sir,” he replies stiffly.

Undeterred, Chuck continues, “Do you know where they serve the best breakfast in Manhattan, Arthur?”

The man frowns ever so slightly. “Well, I have heard Via Quadronno has some excellent pastries, sir.”

“Fabulous!” Chuck exclaims as he slides into the interior of the limo. “Take me there. We’ll have some.” He laughs at Arthur’s baffled expression as he shuts the doors and gets back in the driver’s seat. “But swing by the Waldorf residence first. We have to pick up Blair.”

He leans back against the leather seats, remembering what had happened here with her just hours ago. He smiles at how ridiculously wonderful it had been and how much clearer everything was since. Last night had been inevitable, he realizes, because they are inevitable. He knows it in his blood, in his soul. Blair Waldorf is his, and in a few short minutes he will be with her again and all will be well. He is so fucking excited and antsy, he feels like a kid waiting for Christmas!

Only a couple more blocks, he tells himself as he looks out the window. Then with chagrin, he remembers that he doesn’t have flowers. He should have Arthur stop so he can get her flowers. In the movies, guys always bring flowers. But damn it, they are so close and he cannot stand even a slight delay in seeing her again. He’ll remember next time because if anyone deserves a bouquet, it is her. But not red roses. Too cliché. No, he’ll give her something different, unique, just like she is. Peonies. Purple peonies, so gorgeous she’ll take them and throw herself into his arms so he can dip her and they’ll kiss just like in one of those sappy chick flicks he secretly enjoys almost as much as she does.

After what seems like an eternity, the limo pulls in front of Blair’s building. He climbs out before the vehicle even comes to a complete stop and hurries inside. He steps into the elevator and bounces on his toes in eagerness as he presses the button for her penthouse. When he is nearly ready to explode from pent up zeal, a ping announces he has reached his destination. He squeezes out through the narrow space between the doors the second they start sliding open, too impatient to wait even that long. He hurries into the Waldorf foyer and catches sight of Dorota hastening down the staircase from the bedrooms above.

“Mister Ch – ” she begins.

“I’m here to see to Blair,” he blurts out, craning his neck up the staircase, hoping Blair will descend any second behind her maid.

“I am sorry, Mister Chuck, but – ”

“But what? Am I too early? Is she still asleep?” he asks in a rush. Did this woman not understand? He has to see her. Now! He starts up the stairs.

Dorota steps in front of him, effectively blocking the path. “No,” she says. “Miss Blair not here.”

“What?” he blinks, uncomprehending. “Where is she?”

“Has gone to confess,” Dorota explains.

He snorts at the absurdity. “Since when is Blair Catholic?”

“Is good for her!” the maid snaps suddenly. Her eyes narrow sternly at him. “Good for you too. God always watching Mister Chuck.”

Under her gaze, he shifts minutely. What exactly has Blair told her maid about him? From that look, it cannot have been good. He swallows, “Well, supposing I wanted to confess, where would be the best place for me to do that?”

Dorota’s coldness thaws fractionally, and she names a church nearby.

“Thank you!” he grins, clasping her hand unexpectedly, before wheeling towards the exit, missing sight of her shaking her head at his retreating form in amusement. This time, he bypasses the elevator, and dashes down the stairs instead. Hurling himself back into the limo, he tells Arthur to take him to the church Dorota mentioned immediately.

During the brief drive, he wonders if he will have to go inside the church to find her, but as they arrive, he spots Blair just leaving. As she walks down the steps and across the street, she slides on a pair of oversized sunglasses that look like ones Audrey Hepburn would approve of.

God, she is gorgeous, he thinks to himself, and last night made him the luckiest man in the world.

He lowers his window as the limo rolls up beside her. “Well this is the last place I’d expect to find you,” he teases.

She takes off her sunglasses, and the look she gives him is not friendly. She doesn’t even stop as she talks to him, but continues walking determinedly along the sidewalk. “Go away Chuck! I’ve been given orders practically from God himself to avoid you.”

Not quite the greeting he was hoping for. But then again, she is a girl and there is a ritual to these sorts of things, isn’t there? So she must be playing hard to get, and if she wants to act that way, fine. He will play her game, and he will win.

“Would you consider avoiding me over breakfast?” he counters smugly.

“Sorry,” she retorts sarcastically, not sounding the least bit apologetic, “But as is tradition on the day before my birthday I’m heading to the jewelers to put some pieces on hold for Eleanor and N – ”

“Nate?” he finishes, cutting her off, a twinge of annoyance flashing through him at the way her face lit up as she thought of Nathaniel. “Oh I don’t think he’ll be singing ‘happy birthday’ this year,” he smirks.

She turns cold eyes on him. “No one knows Nate and I broke up and it’s going to stay that way so I can fix this,” she begins. She says something more, and he even replies, but the suggestive response leaving his mouth is more automatic than anything else. He is still trying to process the first part of what she had said.

She wants to get back together with Nate? After last night? After she had…? And they had…???

This has to be some kind of a trick! But the next sentence Chuck registers proves it is no joke.

“From this moment forward, the events of last night will never be mentioned again,” she threatens, “Is that clear?”

“Not as clear as the memory of you purring in my ear which I have been replaying over and over,” he leers, hiding his hurt behind nasty innuendo.

“Well erase the tape because as far as I’m concerned it never happened!” she spits.

The statement hits Chuck like a kick to the chest. He feels like he can’t breathe, as if a vice is around his lungs. Did she really just say that? That in her opinion last night never happened? How can that be? Last night means everything to him. How can a night so personal and precious and perfect and fucking profound mean nothing to her? Hell, less than nothing?

It is only after she walks away and he calls after her bitterly that he realizes he is shaking, his stomach churning. He thinks he might throw up.

“Sir?” Arthur says cautiously, glancing at him in the rearview mirror through the partition he did not bother to lift this morning.

“Follow her,” he bites out, raising the obscuring glass now.

How stupid could be possibly be? Of course she didn’t care for him. He had deluded himself into thinking last night was anything other than a meaningless screw and here he had been about to make a fool of himself and hand over him his heart along with breakfast! Thank God she had scorned him and made him come to his senses.

His eyes sting and he wipes at them in irritation. He is not going to cry. No, will not shed a single tear over an insignificant slip of a girl like Blair Waldorf. He means nothing to her, and she… She means nothing to him. He certainly doesn’t love her, and oh God why does it feel like a knife is wrenching through his guts?

He is doubled over, head held in his hands, trying to regain his composure, gasping raggedly, when he first detects the hint of vanilla perfume. “Oh God, oh God no,” he whispers in the silence a second before the haunting sensation of Georgina’s caress washes over his skin. He shudders, bile rising in his throat. Brusquely, he rubs at his arms, trying to chase away the phantom feel of her touch, and all the while he imagines he can hear her harsh laughter echoing in his skull, propelling him towards insanity.

A short while later, the limo halts with an unexpected jerk.

“Why have we stopped?” Chuck snaps through the intercom, not recognizing the buildings the limo is stalled in front of and still very much cognizant of the nightmarish memories of the whore although he is attempting to shrug them off.

“She went inside the shop on the left, sir,” Arthur explains.

He peers outside in the direction indicated, and his brow furrows in confusion. It’s a jewelry store, high end, of course, but not Tiffany’s. Why the hell would Blair put stuff on hold anywhere other than Tiffany’s? It made no sense. She loves Tiffany’s and keeps the little blue boxes from every present she has ever received from there and nothing would possess her to go anywhere else.

Unless there was something here she especially wanted, something she wanted badly enough that she would deign to grace a different store with her patronage instead of Tiffany’s.

That had to be it. It must be.

He stares through the tinted glass, coming to a dark decision. As he does, the cruel presence of Georgina fades from awareness, almost as if she is rewarding him.

He waits until Blair exits the store, disappearing around the corner on her way back home, before he stalks inside with grim resolve, breezing past the overly helpful salesclerk. With deadly efficiency, he moves to the glass cases, studying the contents of each before sweeping onto the next. Once he has examined everything, he ponders momentarily, then backtracks decisively to one of the displays.

“I’ll take this,” he grinds out to the hovering jeweler.

“The Erickson Beamon necklace, sir?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t even bother to check to see if it is on her gift registry. He knows it will be. The item is stunning, a slim chain upon which delicate pieces of platinum dangle like charms, and there in the center, larger and more prominent, but still tasteful, a diamond encrusted heart. It is so essentially Blair, and if he can’t give it to her, she’s not getting it. From anyone. Ever!

Bitch.

Afterwards, he returns back to his suite and he hardly has time to remove his jacket and untuck his shirt before someone is tapping on his door. He checks through the peephole and slumps when he sees who it is.

It is Nate, one of the only people he does not want to see at all right this moment.

“Come on man!” his friend says knocking again. “I can hear you breathing on the other side of the door. She anybody you can get rid of? I really need to talk to you man. Please?”

Fuck.

With a exasperated sound, Chuck flings open the door. “Nathaniel,” he greets with false enthusiasm.

“Where’s the girl?” Nate asks as he enters.

“In my dreams. I was trying to get some shuteye,” Chuck lies smoothly, quickly moving the gift bag from the jewelers out of view. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s my mom,” the golden boy sighs, dropping onto the couch.

“Sounds Freudian,” Chuck smirks, but Nate continues oblivious to the inappropriate insinuation.

“She wants me to give Blair her ring,” he says.

That catches Chuck’s full attention. “What? You guys broke up,” he points out without thinking.

“Yeah, I know. I mean, uh… Wait, how do you know?” Nate looks at him, and for perhaps the first time those cerulean eyes are fully alert.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

“Predictably, your ex ran the old… Uh… grill the best friend play. Tried to find out where your head was at,” he answers lamely. “So uh… Where uh… Where is your head?”

There is no way anyone could possibly not see through that pathetic excuse. He is so royally fucked. Mentally, he braces himself for a confrontation. But one does not come.

“Spinning,” Nathaniel admits, seemingly unaware of Chuck’s lapse. He must be really stoned. “I mean my mom wants me to get back with Blair so Eleanor doesn’t pull out of their business deal. It’s all because of my dad’s whole trial thing, you know?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about all that,” Chuck freely confesses, his brain working frantically.

Nathaniel cannot get back together with Blair. He absolutely cannot. Not that Chuck wants her for himself. Not anymore. But it is the point of the thing! If he wanted her, and couldn’t have her, then he would have to make certain she couldn’t have what she wanted either because if he can’t have what he wants, then neither can she Goddamn it.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

“But look,” Chuck continues, and only the most dedicated observer would have noticed his slight hesitation before speaking, “If you’re done with Blair, be done. Don’t cave to your parent’s wishes if they’re not your desires.”

Nate raises his brows, incredulous. “Excuse me? Where’s my boy? Seal the deal? Tap that ass? Money marries bigger money?”

Hearing his own words repeated back at him, Chuck hangs his head in a show of embarrassment, but he already knows exactly how to play this out. He will be the concerned friend just trying to have Nathaniel’s back. He only has his best interests at heart. And when Nate leaves the suite a few minutes later, the cheered up lad still has no clue there were ulterior motives behind Chuck convincing him to stand up against his parents controlling his life.

Locking the door after his friend’s exit, Chuck realizes he should feel guilty for manipulating Nathaniel that way, but he doesn’t. Not really. Perhaps deep down he does, but the utter satisfaction he is experiencing right now overpowers everything else.

Blair Waldorf is not going to have a happy birthday this year, and Chuck Bass has just guaranteed that.

Life may be a bitch, but sometimes life can be a bastard too.