Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget

It’s the incessant ringing that wakes him. Drags him from the depths of a murky dream where Blair looks at him with betrayed eyes and Georgina’s laugh echoes around them. That shrill sound pierces his ears until his hand finally closes upon the cell phone lost amidst the tangle of sheets and downy comforters. He peers blearily at the caller ID screen.

-SERENA-

He pushes the ignore button, sending it straight to voicemail. Pulling the blankets over his head, he nestles back into the warmth of the bedding. He’s not ready to face the day quite yet.

Seconds later, his phone chimes once more. He fumbles for it, and succeeds in knocking it off the edge of the mattress. The strident noise continues to assault him as he wearily rolls over and reaches for the cell upon the plush carpet. With annoyance, he sees that it is Serena calling back. He flicks ignore again, then silences the ringer for good measure. Nothing can be that important.

Laying his head down upon the pillows, he grimaces. The beginnings of a serious headache are forming behind his eyes. Even worse, he finds himself suddenly wide awake. He is seriously going to kill Serena.

He considers getting up, but with a glance at the clock on his nightstand, decides against it. On a Saturday morning, 9:15 was an ungodly hour to be up at. Nothing is rousing Chuck Bass from his bed until at least 10:00.

Except perhaps the abrupt pounding on his door.

For a moment he thinks his father might have returned early from Hong Kong. But no. Bart wouldn’t bother knocking; he’d stroll right in.

Who the fuck would be here so early?

Groggily, he sits up and immediately regrets it. The world reels as his vision blurs.

No more scotch, he tells his churning stomach. No more scotch ever, ever again.

Groaning, Chuck forces himself to stand and makes his way slowly towards the entrance of his suite, relying heavily upon the wall to keep him upright. Passing the light switch, he flicks it on and winces as the sudden brightness invades the room. He feels it like an ice pick to the cornea.

This had better be good.

He opens the door with a quick jerk, and then blinks in confusion.

“Nathaniel?”

“You almost ready?” Nate asks. His voice is entirely too cheerful.

“What?” Chuck says in barely restrained irritation. His head is throbbing. Literally pulsating in agony with each beat of his heart.

“You forgot,” Nate says simply, his face falling in disappointment.

Noticing the shorts and jersey the golden boy is wearing, Chuck remembers.

Nate, his spry athletic best friend, had wanted to play some vigorous sport. And in a moment of weakness, because Nathaniel was just so damn agreeable that it was hard to refuse him anything, Chuck had promised. They had made plans, and now here Nate was to collect.

Shit.

“Give me a moment,” Chuck sighs miserably. Instantly, Nate is beaming at him.

At least he’s happy, Chuck thinks as he pads back into his suite. If he didn’t love Nathaniel like a brother, there is no way in hell he would be willing to do this. He much prefers more leisurely pursuits. Ones that do not require him to sweat. But, alas, there’s no way out of it now. Not with his best friend already here and that kicked puppy expression he gets whenever he doesn’t get his way. It’s impossible to say no to that.

So here he is, preparing to play basketball when he would much rather watch.

Opening his closet, he surveys the clothing neatly arranged on wooden hangers. What to wear? He shuffles through the wardrobe, quickly deeming the selections from Gucci and Prada unacceptable. Far too nice. Finally, he settles upon an Upper East Side approximation of athletic wear: the velour track suit.

A few minutes and a couple aspirin later, he’s ready to go. All that remains is to put on his sneakers. It’s when he’s bent over tying them that Nate finally asks the question that Chuck has been dreading.

“So,” his friend says into the silence, “how was it?”

“How was what?” Chuck replies, stalling for time.

“You know! You had sex!” Nate exclaims in exasperation. “What was it like?”

“It was…” Chuck begins. Then his voice trails away. He licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He feels a wave of nausea that has nothing to do with being hung-over.

Unconsciously, he touches his chest, rubs the spot where her nails had dug painfully in. The small crescent- shaped cuts have long since healed, faded into thin pinkish scars, but he still feels them as if they were blazing brands upon his skin indelibly marking him as hers.

Her voice ghosts through his mind, “Every time you touch her, touch anyone…” and he shivers.

He remembers her eyes boring into him in that final moment of shock and shame as her body rode him and he couldn’t fight it any longer. His chest tightens as once again he imagines her lips upon his, the smell of her all pervasive vanilla perfume, the triumphant sound of her laughter.

It had been a mercy when he finally succumbed to the ever encroaching numbness that obliterated his consciousness and allowed him the brief respite of feeling nothing, knowing nothing. In that drug induced sleep, he’d been able to escape.

He’d woken to find her gone, and the horror made manifest. The marks on his chest, the cloying scent of her on his skin, the rent remnants of his shirt all baring evidence that the nightmare was real.

Shaking the memory away, Chuck looks up and meets Nate’s inquisitive gaze.

“It was… fun,” he lies.