Talia’s thick eyebrows pulled together as she watched Eric. It was as if her mind could only focus on one thing at a time, and now that her attention had shifted over to him, he was all she zoned in on. She watched his every movement—how he kept his eyes trained straight ahead, trained on nothing, almost as if he weren’t even really in the room.
Listen, she understood that; she wanted to get the fuck out of this elevator too, but Eric was acting different. He had been more receptive earlier, but now it was as if he were just an ornament in the elevator—a statue, of sorts. His body was stiff, even after he slid down to sit on the floor with her, and for a while he said absolutely nothing. He didn’t even really look like he was thinking about anything either; his face stoic and unrelenting in the slightest, a mask of sorts.
Right when Talia was going to ask if he was okay, the filing cabinet in the depths of her mind opened to reveal a file titled ‘van der Woodsens.’ She could practically hear her step-father’s voice in her head, debriefing her on the family as he did with all of her new peers when she first came to New York. He had told her the ins and outs of everyone that she’d be in contact with, and it all felt very Devil Wears Prada-y when Andy and Emily had to study the book with all the guests names for Miranda.
van der Woodsen… Talia’s mind instantly fell on Serena, the adored It Girl of the Upper East Side. She had heard plenty about the blonde bombshell, but hadn’t said more than three words to her in passing, so Talia tucked the thought away. Eric, on the other hand, Talia didn’t know too much about. She knew that he was a little more ‘under the radar’ than his sister—and didn’t he…
Talia was close to forming a coherent, possibly even correct thought when his words pulled her out of her head. No, I really don’t, he had said, and Talia parted her lips to say something in response when the phone rang. She was taken aback by the sudden springiness in his step when he answered it—where was this energy for the past ten minutes? It didn’t matter; they were getting out of here soon and Talia would be able to go home and attempt to hand in her assignment on time.
When he spoke again and suggest that she turn out her joint, Talia followed his gaze down to the clip that was in her hand. It was about half-way through; the product of a perfect roll, and all the time she had spent in her head caused the flame to go out on its own. Her interest was his steady gaze on her joint, and suddenly her train of thought began chugging again.
Oh. How oblivious could she be? “Right, of course,” She mumbled as she slipped the half-a-joint into the container she pulled it out from. She wanted to blame the weed for making her into such an idiot, but it was her own fault. Talia was always too lazy to learn about everyone she’d be in regular contact with in New York—it wasn’t fun to scour Gossip Girl’s old posts and read her crude comments about the elite’s lives. She also just didn’t like to learn about peoples’ lives without their permission; if they wanted to tell her, they would. And if Eric wanted to tell her, he would’ve—and yet, he didn’t exactly tell her to put the joint out. Perhaps this was just more complicated.
“I’m sorry,” she said after some time. She didn’t want to pry into his private life, but she figured she should say something. “I should’ve realized you were uncomfortable.” Talia kept her blanket statement as simple as that; there was no need to make his struggles the highlight of their conversation. “Here,” she said, pulling out a tiny water bottle from her bag and rolling it over to him, “It’s water.” Talia figured it’d be safer to clarify the contents of the bottle at risk of sounding like an idiot. It wasn’t like it was uncommon for the younger members of the elite to sneak alcohol in water bottles, though.
“I’m not,” Eric quipped defiantly, though his tone surprised even him. He was uncomfortable, and that was a good thing - it was good that drugs didn’t feel like second nature to him anymore. They had, for a long time, and it hadn’t exactly helped him. So why had he been annoyed when she’d apologized for it?
He hadn’t sat back down after the phone call, and now he stood with his back against the wall of the elevator in the far left corner, his arms crossed over his chest. He couldn’t get more defensive if he tried. It was strange. He didn’t usually act like this when it came to his addictions. Of course, usually he talked about it with people he knew better and in less dangerous situations, but that still didn’t explain why he was feeling as upset as he was.
Although, and he didn’t want to admit this to himself, but maybe it was the fact that back when he was in high school, weed was the drug that made him feel as happy as he could, with a crushing depression hanging over him. Through all of his worries, all of the pain and emptiness, weed had numbed things, covered everything with a soft layer of fog that took his mind off things for a little while.
It was the first time he’d been in touch with that particular drug again, but rather than feeling the familiar feeling of relief he’d learned to associate with it, he’d been presented with a whole new spectrum of emotions. Perhaps it was that quiet realization that made this extra difficult.
Whatever it was, his expression softened a little bit when the bottle of water hit his feet. He looked at her, suspicious of the contents even after she’d assured him it was water, but then eventually sat back down and picked up the bottle before taking a sip (although he first brought the bottle close to his mouth without actually drinking to see if he could smell any potential alcohol). “Thanks.” And then, when he put the bottle back down, “sorry.” He’d nearly bit her head off earlier, and that wasn’t usually him.
“It’s just - a thing, drugs and I.” That ought to be sufficient. It told her there was something, but for all she knew he was just a very principled man. He could just tell her, that he really couldn't be around drugs because of his past, of who he was, but he didn’t think that would make this more comfortable for either of them. Over the years, he’d learned to wait to talk about it until someone specifically asked him. If he didn’t, it made for the perfect conversation stopper. Nothing had been more awkward than when he’d told his roommate in college, who responded solely with, ‘shit - mate, I’ve got like three bags of cocaine hidden in our bathroom.’
“Are you high? Right now?” he then asked, his sick curiosity winning from his rational thinking skills. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to achieve with that question, or with her answer for that matter, but he just knew he wanted to know.
