evanderwoodsen:
He was fine. This was okay. Eric tried to keep reminding himself, keeping his heart rate (which had skyrocketed) under wraps. Just because this was a potentially dangerous situation didn’t mean he’d have to let it get to dangerous. It was just weed. He’d used to have at least three different stacks hidden around his room and the en suite, just in case. He was fine.
But then again, that was years ago, and he had changed a lot since then. He also knew himself well, thanks to Dr. Jacobs at the Ostroff, who’d sat him down, looked him straight into his eyes and told him just how susceptible he was to addiction. And how he’d have to look at it like an allergy. Most people can be around cats just fine and never have to think twice about it. People who were allergic to cats couldn’t. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t fair, but it was life.
He slid down the wall to make himself slightly more comfortable, but all of his muscles were so tight that he doubted it would do much good. The earthy smell filled the small cabinet, and Eric started panicking internally. What if he’d get high from the smoke? Would that declare his sobriety chip null and void? The very one that was feeling heavier each second? For a second he thought, stupidly enough, that he should’ve been around drugs again much sooner, so that he wouldn’t have been so terrified now that it finally happened. But he knew that wasn’t the right way. From the moment he’d left the Ostroff, he’d known that he’d had to stay away completely if he wanted to make sure he’d stay sober. Maybe he could just … try to hold his breath as much as he could, only breathing when it was really necessary.
Before he could decide on a plan of action, he vaguely heard her speak and drew himself from the depths of his mind to process it and reply in kind. “No, I really don’t,” he said, though the irony was not lost on him. He knew he was a rarity among his peers, knew that most of his peers at least used recreationally, if just to get through another tedious dinner gala. He was ready to field any questions, when luckily the emergency phone rang and Eric gladly stood up to answer it and dodging any potential follow-up questions.
The phone call was quick - and Talia had been right, white people really did hate the smell of weed. “Well-” he started, still putting as much space between them as he could by standing in the far corner. “She called the technician, he should be here in about twenty-five minutes. She also kindly reminded me that drugs were not allowed on the premises. So.. Maybe..” he said, looked at her joint and hoped - begged- she’d put it out.
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.
