Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget

He can’t sleep. It isn’t insomnia, although he’s certainly suffered from that lately. No, right now it is this strange bed he decides as he shifts in a vain effort to get comfortable for the hundredth time in the past ten minutes. The mattress is too soft, the pillows too fluffy, the covers too heavy. Nothing is like what he is familiar with, everything is just a tad different, and Chuck finds the slight changes disturbing. A room may just be a room, but suite 1812 had been his room and now he is stuck somewhere else because his father had announced it was time for the soon-to-be joined van der Woodsen and Bass clans to live together in pre-connubial bliss.

That was the plan anyway.

Not sure how well it is working out now that they are all here in the same quarters. It is too soon to tell really. Although Serena’s vehement opposition to the whole idea was quite evident and had been from the moment the movers began bringing in boxes labeled ‘CHUCK.’

Guess brother-sister bathing is out.

If he is honest, however, he shares some of her sentiments. He would be lying if he hadn’t initially balked when Bart told, or rather ordered him to relocate from the reassuringly sterile environment of his hotel room to an equally sterile penthouse. He most definitely wants a family, but this first step towards becoming one fills him with trepidation. He doesn’t know how to be part of a family, how to make himself fit into this Upper East Side version of the Brady Bunch, and from the look his father had given him right before dinner, neither does he.

Bart hadn’t said anything to him of course. He hadn’t needed to. He’d just given one of those slow burning stares full of disapproval before his son’s actions even merited it and Chuck had inwardly cringed, understanding the meaning behind his father’s severe gaze. Without words those ice blue eyes had told him with absolute authority not to fuck this up because he is used to being on his own, to doing what he pleases when he pleases with whom he pleases. Now his behavior better be above reproach or there will be hell to pay.

Feeling an urge to roll over again, he instead gets out of the bed with a muffled groan. Groping blindly in the darkness, he tries to find his lamp, but only succeeds in knocking something over.

“Shit,” he mutters, tripping over whatever it was, and bumping into what he assumes is his dresser from the feel of the knobs digging into his stomach.

The entire layout of this place is wrong, he concludes as his hands search along the wall for a light switch he knows must be somewhere even if he is having difficulty locating it. Nothing is where it is supposed to be. Finally, his palm brushes over the panel and with a flick, brightness cuts through the inky shadows.

He squints at the sudden illumination and then scowls when he notices where he is. How the hell did he manage to end up in his walk-in closet? How embarrassing. But at least now he can see well enough to turn on his television in his bedroom. Late night TV always sucks, but it’s better than staring at the ceiling.

With sigh, he shrugs into his robe and sinks onto the edge of his mattress, flipping rapidly through boring channel after boring channel. Nothing looks remotely interesting, just a bunch of infomercials and re-runs of shows that nobody cares to watch anymore. Maybe he should play Halo instead.

After powering up the X-box, he flops down prepared to shoot anything that moves. However, he can’t seem to get past the opening menu. A lump forms in his throat at the theme music and he realizes he hasn’t touched this game since his argument with Nate. It was their game, and they haven’t spoken since that awful fight two weeks ago right before spring break and that… that is the longest they’ve ever gone without speaking since they were five.

Fuck it. Best behavior or not, he needs a drink. Padding to the kitchen, he pours himself a scotch and tiptoes back to his room. He barely has a chance to sit when a gentle rapping on his door causes him to freeze.

Crap!

Lily must be a light sleeper and he’d woken her and he’ll catch shit for it from his father in the morning and he had just known he should have muted the volume on the television!

“Yes?” he calls softly, attempting to hide his drink under a hastily grabbed blanket so that he doesn’t get yelled at for even more things come breakfast.

But as the door opens a fraction, it isn’t Lily peering in but Eric.
.
“Eric?” he whispers. “Did I wake you? Is the TV too loud?”

“No,” the younger boy replies. “I just couldn’t sleep and saw your light was on. Mind if I come in?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean…” Chuck’s voice trails away and he makes a gesture that encompasses his room in a broad sweep. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Closing the door behind him, the blonde picks up a pillow and seats himself cross legged on the floor, leaning against the foot of the bed.

“I’d offer you a drink,” Chuck mumbles into the awkward silence that descends. “But, well, the liquor’s downstairs, you’re too young and Serena would kill me if she knew.”

“You were drinking before you were my age,” Eric says. “Serena too.”

The kid has a point. Still…

“Look how well that’s turned out,” Chuck smirks. “For me and for her.”

“Serena’s been doing okay lately, and you seem to be fine yourself,” Eric answers.

“Yeah, well tell that to my father,” Chuck snorts.

“I’d… rather not,” the younger boy admits, glancing up at him before looking away quickly. “He kind of… scares me.”

At that admission, Chuck feels his lips twist in a hint of a smile. “He scares me too,” he nods. “He’s only got one facial expression.” When Eric almost chokes on his own saliva, he adds, “What? You know it’s true. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

The blonde makes a small, strangled sound of repressed mirth, so Chuck bends down to slap him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. You can laugh. I won’t tell anybody,” he assures him. Before Eric can respond, though, he motions towards the television. “You want to play? I’ll go easy on you.”

Eric breaks into a grin. “Don’t bother. I’ve got more than enough skills to kick your ass on my own.”

“Cocky. I like it,” Chuck declares, ruffling the blonde’s hair. He tosses him the extra wireless controller and brings up the game customization screen.

“Your armor is pink?” Eric states as Chuck selects his usual character.

“What? Is there a problem with that?”

“No, it’s just…” Eric stammers. “It’s a war game and you’re in pink.”

“So?” Chuck glowers, remembering a similar conversation with Nathaniel “Real men wear pink.”

“I never said they didn’t. I was just a bit surprised,” Eric swallows. “Although now that I think about it,” he continues, his eyes flicking to Chuck’s silk pajamas visible beneath his robe, “I shouldn’t have been.”

Following Eric’s gaze, Chuck looks down at himself, sees the pastel pink stripes. “That’s it. I’m changing it,” he bristles, scrolling through the other available armor colors. “How about purple?” he says, raising one brow at the blonde, a challenge in his expression.

“Real men definitely wear purple.”

“I’m glad you agree.”

The first game goes to Chuck, but the scores were so close that Eric demands an immediate rematch. This time, he wins.

“Yes!” he exclaims, pumping one fist into the air in triumph. As he does so, the sleeve of his nightshirt slides down, revealing an angry red scar along his wrist.

Catching a glimpse of it, understanding instantly what it is, Chuck gasps in shock before he can help himself. Then Eric, noticing the exposed scar after Chuck’s inadvertent reaction tenses and quickly tugs his cuff back down. Neither of them says anything for a long moment. They both just stare resolutely forward at the flickering TV.

Eventually, Eric breaks the silence. “Well,” he sighs. “Aren’t you going to ask about them?”

“Do you want me to ask?” Chuck answers.

Eric is taken aback by that response. “I…” he shakes his head in bafflement. “It’s just that most people ask.”

Chuck wishes he hadn’t drained his scotch twenty minutes ago. “I’m not most people.”

“So… you don’t want to know then?”

He lets his dark eyes meet Eric’s frightened expression. “Oh I do,” he confesses. “But I figure it isn’t any of my business and if you want me to know, you’ll tell me. So why pry?”

“Why pry?” Eric repeats incredulous.

“Unless you’d rather I pry,” Chuck counters, attempting to lighten the mood. “I can speed dial my P.I. if you’d like.”

Eric blinks astonished, thinking he is joking. “You have a private investigator on speed dial?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Chuck teases.

“No,” Eric says, a ghost of amusement in his tone. “No, I’m pretty sure they don’t.”

“That’s a shame,” Chuck pouts, faux serious. “It makes gathering Intel so much easier.”

Eric smiles the slightest bit at that, and the horrible vice of panic that had clamped around Chuck’s chest when he had seen that scar, had realized that someone he knew had come so close to killing themselves without his knowledge, finally begins to relax.

“You’re not creeped out? You don’t think I’m a freak?” Eric inquires, his voice so vulnerable and young sounding.

“No,” Chuck breathes honestly. He hasn’t ever quite done that, but he’s done things that are nearly as bad. He’d fucked more girls that he can count, done every drug known to man, drank himself into oblivion time and again, and had even almost willingly slept with Georgina for goodness sake! Who is he to judge?

“Once people know, they get weird,” Eric complains, more to himself than to Chuck. “Everyone’s so careful around me. Like one bad thing and I’ll break or something.”

“And will you?” Chuck retorts gently.

“No,” Eric claims. “I’m fine now.”

“Okay then,” Chuck asserts. “So how about we break our tie?” He points to Eric’s controller. “Best two out of three? Winner gets bragging rights?”

For a few seconds, Eric just peers at him curiously, as if he doubts Chuck is really not going to press about the suicide attempt. Then he beams, his face transforming into a boyish grin Chuck can’t help returning. “You’re going down!” he promises.

“Bring it,” Chuck taunts.

Three hours later, after numerous games and no clear victor between them, Eric yawns. “I should get some rest,” he murmurs, rubbing his eyes. “School starts again tomorrow.”

“Right… school,” Chuck gulps. “Night little brother.”

“Night Chuck,” Eric waves groggily as he walks to the door. “And… thanks for everything.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The next morning, Chuck rises early despite having almost no sleep. It had occurred to him while watching the sun come up that he should annoy Serena. It is the brotherly thing to do, and if he is sly about it, his father won’t ever know.

While she is preoccupied picking out shoes to wear with her uniform, he sneaks into her bathroom and turns on the shower.

“Huh?” he hears her say before she starts to open the door.

“Just a minute!” he shouts. “I’ll be right out.”

“What the hell Chuck?” she snarls. “You have your own bathroom! Why are you invading mine?” Still, she stomps away.

A couple minutes pass, and then Serena is back, pounding impatiently on the door. Or perhaps not impatiently, he smirks. He has been in here a while.

“Chuck, I’m serious!” she cries. “Are you done yet? This is my bathroom! It’s late, and not to mention disgusting!”

Tuning out her rant, he picks up her lotion dispenser. The bottle may be nondescript, but as he squeezes some into his palms and rubs it into his skin, he recognizes the powdery floral scent as that of Crème de la Mer. Nice. Now if only they had a product line for men…

Seconds later, more furious knocking, followed by Serena shouting his name in warning before she just bursts in. “What are you doing?” she demands as she looks at him in bewilderment perched atop the marble counter, fully dressed, smoking, the shower running absently in the background.

“All right ladies,” he calls behind her. “My sister needs to shower. Make room!” Serena whirls horrified, only to spot the empty stall. “I’m just messing with you,” he confesses smugly, thinking that it is just so much fun riling her up. She makes it so easy.

Not the least bit amused by his behavior, Serena snatches his joint away, snuffing it in the sink. “I can’t believe you lit up in my bathroom!”

“Well if I lit up in mine, then the folks would know it was me, Sis,” he drawls sardonically.

Serena bristles. “Oh, okay. Let’s get one thing straight,” she fumes. “Our parents may be insisting we blend our households, but I am not your sister! I do not share any of your DNA, nor do I ever wish to.”

The opening is just too good to let pass. “Then I suggest you get new hand towels,” he deadpans.

With extreme strength of will, she avoids rising to the bait, although her jaw clenches. “Okay, it is imperative I bathe,” she explains wearily. When he merely reaches for his discarded joint, she grabs his shoulders. “Can you just get out?” she shrieks.

Enjoying this game, he ignores her and places the slim cylinder between his lips, intent on goading her further. It works.

“You know what?” she spits. “Fine! Just forget it!” Petulantly, she jerks the rolled cigarette from his mouth, throws it down, and storms out.

God, he loves having siblings.

It almost makes up for the loss of –

No. No he is not thinking about that. Nothing good lies at the end of that path, only pain and loneliness and regret.

Nonchalantly, he waits until he hears the unmistakable sound of her bedroom door slamming before exiting the bathroom. Descending the stairs after her, Chuck finds Eric peering anxiously over the railing.

“What are you doing?” Serena asks him.

“I’m hiding from my valet,” Eric says quite seriously. “He wanted to put my socks on for me this morning.” Shaking his head, Chuck claps Eric on the shoulder, propelling him down the rest of the steps. “You’re servants are very attentive,” the younger boy continues.

Unable to resist yet another opportunity to tease Serena, Chuck whispers conspiratorially to Eric, “You should meet Bergita, the new Latvian maid.”

“No! No he should not meet Bergita! He’s fourteen!” Serena exclaims, leading Eric away. “Avoid this person,” she adds with an angry look at Chuck.

“May I remind you Serena that you used to have a sense of humor?”

“No.”

The three of them enter the dining room, finding it already occupied by their soon-to-be married parents and an elaborate breakfast buffet.

“Morning Father,” Chuck greets.

“Morning kids,” Bart mumbles, not even looking up from his newspaper.

“And how is Lily von Bülow today?” Chuck inquires, lifting Lily’s hand to drop a chivalrous kiss onto the back of it, noticing she is wearing dark oversized shades inside.

“Oh, I have a headache,” she sighs dramatically. “I had a very frustrating conversation with the wedding planner this morning.”

“Well may I say aggravation becomes you?” he replies, knowing that compliments make all women feel better.

“You may,” Lily acquiesces coyly. “But I won’t believe it.” Still, the slightest flush colors her cheeks as she removes her ridiculous sunglasses. “So, first day back at school, huh?” Then her voice trails off, her gaze raking over Serena picking over the fruit platters. “Honey, you didn’t uh… want to shower?” she ventures with perhaps less tact than one would expect from a lady of good breeding.

Across the table, Chuck suppresses a laugh as Serena scowls at him. “I have to go meet Blair,” she announces, plucking a croissant from the pastry tray.

At hearing her name tossed out so casually, Chuck tenses. He barely manages to keep his expression neutral and disinterested. He hasn’t seen Blair since that awful night at Butai, and Gossip Girl hasn’t reported any sightings of the Waldorf other than that either. The former Queen B has been missing in action, but today he is going to have to face her. He’d known this moment was coming, but still hadn’t been anticipating his heart to clench quite so acutely at the mere mention of her.

Bitch.

“Eric?” Serena says expectantly, waiting for her brother to join her on the walk to school.

Before Eric can begin to rise, however, Chuck intercedes. “Go ahead,” he tells Serena. “We’ll take the limo.”

Caught between them, Eric shrugs and with a huff Serena leaves, her annoyance at the entire situation palpable. It makes Chuck smirk in satisfaction.

After she goes, Bart finally glances up from the business section of the Times. “As my best man,” he states, “I expect you to keep things smooth until after the wedding.”

“Best man?” Chuck exhales, swallowing past the emotions flooding his chest. “I’m… I’d be honored sir.” He dares a small smile, wondering if perhaps a woman’s calming touch was all his father needed to forgive his son and take pride in him. “To family,” he toasts suddenly, lifting his orange juice and as his crystal goblet clinks with first Lily’s, then his father’s, and lastly with Eric’s, Chuck feels like maybe losing his best friend and his first love are not the end of the world after all.

During the ride to school, he makes plans to meet Eric for lunch before the blonde saunters off to get books from his locker. Chuck is left leaning against the concrete ledge in the courtyard, pretending to pay attention to the guys chatting near him when he sees Blair walking up to the school with Serena. The sight causes his lungs to constrict. He can’t breathe as he drinks the sight of her in like he’s been starving.

Her chestnut curls are lovelier than he remembers, and for once she doesn’t have her trademark headband on to restrain the luxuriant tresses from cascading around her shoulders. They hang loose and free, just begging to be messed up by eager fingers burying themselves in their softness. Her periwinkle jacket offsets the porcelain of her skin, making her seem luminescent, and as she nears the steps, she holds her chin high, her poise undeterred by the crowd of people staring and gasping and blatantly whispering snide remarks, not even bothering to hide their cruel comments behind their hands. Through it all, she is an ethereal beauty gracing the Upper East Side with her presence.

God, he admires her courage.

Then Jenny Humphrey, that Brooklyn upstart, flicks a spoonful of yogurt at her. The wannabe’s aim is perfect, and it lands with a splat in Blair’s immaculate brown mane, ruining her self-assured ascent up the stairs. Instantly, everyone bursts into vicious jeering laughter, some even snapping photos to send to Gossip Girl in case anyone missed the public humiliation this morning. Chuck watches as that aura of dignity Blair was so flawlessly projecting shatters seconds before Serena rushes her inside and away from their mocking classmates.

Glaring at Jenny, thinking the little bitch should be careful, Chuck heads inside as well. Humphrey’s kid sister has no idea who she is going up against. Blair may not be on top at the moment, but she will be soon enough. It’s the natural order of things. Blair is, and always will be, a Queen. She knows how to keep her eyes on the prize, and it’s simply a matter of when, not if, she’ll reclaim her throne. In the meantime, she’ll keep track of who is loyal and who is not, and woe to any who cross her, mistakenly thinking she is beaten. She isn’t. The phoenix has nothing on a Waldorf.

Then again, her face had looked so devastated seconds ago. He hasn’t seen her like that since… Well, since he’d compared her to a horse. Not even a horse, if he’s honest with himself. Rode hard and put away wet? No. No that was an apt description for a whore, and that was exactly how he’d intended her to interpret the phrase. He’d deliberately called her a whore because she had used him like a whore for months, someone to get her off and make her feel good, and when the secrecy she had enforced on their relationship and the lies she had told to Nathaniel afterwards eventually blew up in her face, she had blamed him for it all while she acted the ever innocent victim. His words that night may have been harsh, but he was more than justified in saying them.

Right now, though, he’s worried she hasn’t fully recovered from the sting of his utter rejection. Sure getting food thrown at her in front of the majority of the student body was embarrassing, but regardless she should have been able to make an overconfident freshman quiver with just a glance. She is Blair fucking Waldorf, not some lowly minion with ambitions above her station!

Maybe she needs a reminder…

He’s almost outside again when he realizes where his feet are inadvertently carrying him. Forcing himself to stop, he tries to shake off the nagging sense that he should help her. She doesn’t need his help, he admonishes himself sternly. She doesn’t need him or want him or love him. He is nothing to her, and damn it she will be nothing to him, no matter how much the sight of her exposed and vulnerable had taken his breath away. He does not care for her anymore. At all.

At lunch, however, he finds himself making excuses to drift past the Met with Eric. The boy wants a hotdog and well… the best cart has to be one parked near there. As they stroll by, he catches a glimpse of her perched on the steps with only Serena in attendance. Nearby, the rest of her old court snubs her, deigning to eat with the likes of Little J rather than Queen B.

That’s it.

“Come on, Eric,” Chuck says, throwing his arm around him.

“Where are we going?” the younger boy asks as Chuck guides them in the opposite direction of Saint Jude’s.

“A stationary store.”

Eric squints up at him. “A stationary store? Right now?”

Chuck messes up the blonde’s wavy hair. “I need to pick up a card,” he grins. “It’s important.”

With Eric’s assistance, Chuck selects a card. On the front is a reproduction of one of the surviving portraits of Elizabeth I, England’s most famous Queen. He couldn’t had requested anything more perfect. Inside, he jots a quick note.

You can’t make people love you, but you can make them fear you.

Leaving it unsigned, he licks the envelope, sealing it shut. He’ll drop it in her locker before his next class. It should be all the motivation she’ll need to regain her resolve to fight for what is rightfully hers.

Those bitches won’t stand a chance.