In the dark of the night, a tall, ungainly shadow skulked along the streets, drawing on his covert skills, honed over the years in the Marines. He moved in silence, not a sound he made, his footsteps muted by his soundproof barrier. Several feet ahead was the unsuspecting couple he’d been trailing through the town. The shadow paused when they paused, ducked when either turned around, and tripped once – the trash cushioning his fall, before he continued on their tail once more.
With every fibre of his being, Rosinante felt like a creep. This was what creeps and stalkers did, wasn’t it? He was stalking his adopted son (he couldn’t figure a more fitting term) and his future daughter-in-law, and had been following them for a few days, ever since, by chance, he caught a glimpse of that conspicuous mushroom spotted hat. Rosinante had done a double-take and went into brief cardiac arrest. Law had a girlfriend? No way. While the kid had blossomed into a fine and handsome young man, would girls be attracted to such a grouchy and sour temperament? Granted, Law had matured, and he was no longer afflicted with illness.
Rosinante had felt his chest swell with pride and joy, observing Law with the girl. Law was happy, wasn’t he? The kid rarely smiled, but Rosinante hoped he was happy. Were they married? No, surely, there’d be news of such an event. He wondered how long they’d known each other. In fact, Rosinante had numerous questions buzzing in his mind. The girl was pretty. A tad tomboyish, Rosi thought. Muscular. She looked cheery enough, and for that, Rosi was grateful. Law needed someone cheery to contrast his cold demeanour. He needed someone to smack cheeriness onto his face.
Sleepless nights were an ordinary affair, and yet, since chancing upon the couple, Rosinante’s nights were spent deliberating over whether he ought to approach, wish them well, though days would pass before Rosinante made up his mind and gathered sufficient courage to step out of the shadows. Still, he waited until Law had left and the girl was alone, and then he followed her back to the harbour. Having done away with his face paint years ago, Rosi figured, at least, he wouldn’t terrify her too badly if she happened to turn around and see him. He walked with a slight awkward gait, his posture hunched, a look of quiet intensity in his eyes. Although he felt like a creepy old man shadowing the lady, he hoped the light from the street lamp would be generous in illuminating his face.
Rosinante glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting Law to materialise out of nowhere to kick his sorry ass for stalking his girlfriend. Rosinante turned back to the lady when he saw no signs of the spotted hat accompanying an enraged face. Rosinante deactivated his barrier.
“Hey!” he called out, his voice hoarse from years of abusing the cancer stick. A second later, regret flashed in his eyes. “Uh.” He halted in his steps, lowered his gaze to stare at the ground. Great. Now she’d think he wanted to kidnap her. Rosi panicked because he’d never been in such a situation. Moreover, after his recent period of hibernation, his social skills had atrophied. “You there!” He heard someone say and realised it was him. Great, things were just escalating now. She likely thought him a murderer. Rosinante held up his hands, forgetting that he was holding a beer bottle, a potential murder weapon. Quick, explain!
“You- I saw you with him,” Rosinante faltered. “L…Law.” The name felt funny on his tongue. It’d been too many years. “You could say I knew him when he was a kid.” A pause. “It’s been many years since then, since we last saw each other.” Rosinante’s shoulders drooped with a quiet sigh. “He doesn’t know I’m here,” he admitted. “And there’s a reason it needs to stay that way.” He raised his gaze to the lady. “Can we talk, somewhere?”
Rosinante clutched the sink and lifted the brush. A gaunt and grim face stared back in the mirror as he dragged the brush over his lips, painting on a red line that quickly grew wobbly. He grabbed the cloth, wiped his face. The brush quivered in his grip; the line went awry again. He daubed on more and more paint, covering up the mistakes, and ended up with a giant patch of painted-on facial hair. He shrugged; they already thought him mad. He left the bathroom, only to return within seconds. He scrubbed off the paint till his skin turned a little raw. It’d been too long. Corazon: no longer did he go by that name; no longer was he his Corazon.
Marines parted ahead of him as Rosinante plodded down the lower-deck corridor of the navy ship. He could feel their eyes trained on him, appraising him as they kept their distance. He didn’t look his best, with his dishevelled hair tucked under his hood, his clothes shabby and loose-fitting. Nonetheless, it wasn’t like Doffy would be dressed to the nines, and ought to look a sorrier sight after his defeat.
Rosinante tripped. Once, before he righted himself and carried on unfazed.
Tsuru sat outside the cell. They exchanged looks, and she nodded. Rosinante lingered, out of view from the prisoner, his heart vaulting in his chest. He could see Doffy’s feet lying by the bars. How many years had it been? He’d lost count. Too many. Too little.
Rosinante took a step forward, and then another, pausing in front of the cell. His eyes slowly took in the sight of Doflamingo, embraced in chains, cuffed and shackled. A twinge of sympathy pricked Rosinante. Black and white didn’t suit his brother; pink was his colour, flamboyant was his nature. Rosinante drew in a deep breath, and finally deactivated his soundproof barrier. He braced himself for Doflamingo’s characteristic laugh. Rosinante stood silent for a moment, not knowing if Doffy could register his presence. He’d gone over this scenario in his head numerous times, their reunion, what he would say, what he would do (on some occasions, he aimed his gun at Doffy, finger poised on the trigger), but there and then, he could only speak in silence. His mind was a blank. He itched for a cigarette, wished he hadn’t been foolish enough to try quitting for the umpteenth time.
Rosinante cleared his throat. Hoarsely: “Doffy.”
Behind him, Tsuru rose to her feet, offering her seat. She stepped away, though remaining just a little out of conversational distance. Marines lined the corridor, armed and on guard.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Rosinante said. “I wasn’t gone that long.” A pause. “It took me longer this time” –he placed a hand on his chest- “I had quite a bit of healing I was busy with,” he said wryly. “But I just keep coming back, don’t I? My path always leads back to you.”
“This is the memory, this is the curse of having too much time to think about it. It’s killing me, this is the last time, this is my forgiveness; this is endless…. Someone help me ‘cause the memory convinced itself to tear me apart and it’s gonna succeed before long. He is everywhere I go, everyone I see, but this clouds won’t leave…” – Mayday Parade, The Memory
The first month had been the hardest. First week, actually– No, year; the first year, and every day that came after.
Vic refused to believe that he had actually done it, that the moment he was taken into surgery, he wasn’t coming back; that he was no longer there. She didn’t want him to do this, she– God, William was everything to her and now… Now he was gone, just like that… and while his heart would now beat inside his son’s chest, there wasn’t going to be any part of the man she loved left… William had given her the best years of her life, though only a few, they held such importance and she wasn’t ready to let go. Victoria needed more time, she needed him for only a while longer; a few years…
Now there was only time to think about it; what could’ve been and isn’t, all the what ifs and every minute spent faking a smile so Stephan wouldn’t notice, trying to remember the good times that only brought her down once again. It was his smile that she missed the most, his scent; waking up next to him and having to kiss him multiple times so he would be up and getting ready for work on those day he did get off work and stayed home; hell, even messing around in their offices and being so cheesy other people in the building either smiled or looked away. He was everywhere, in every little aspect of her life, her workspace, even in the empty spot on the bed. She could still see his face, hear the faint sound of his laughter, even when she knew it wasn’t really there, but a part of her hoped to find him leaning against the doorway, smiling as brightly as ever, probably to tease her about the way she stared.
It was how they had met, sort of. She had stared indeed, entering his office to attend to a security call, that apparently was mistaken. Vic had never seen him before, but God, he was gorgeous. His eyes captivated her immediately and she couldn’t look away, bringing out a teasing smile from him along with the simple line: “Are you okay, miss?” which quickly had her blushing and apologizing for that. So unprofessional, yet somehow, she had scored a dinner with New York’s most charming doctor ever. He was really the perfect man, straight from the beginning. Her mind didn’t know it at the time, but she was already his from day one, no questions asked.
God, how she wished to see him again. Instead she only had the remaining pictures, all the happy memories that taunted her, reminding her that none of that would ever happen. She wouldn’t kiss his lips again, hear him laugh, see him smile or go anywhere with him. He wasn’t anymore; William had passed from the person she loved the most in this world to a memory… and all willingly. He had decided to leave, for a good cause, but now, now she couldn’t look at Sam the same way. If only he hadn’t been sick, then things… things would be so much better… If only.
The worst part? That was easily the moment they brought his lifeless body out of surgery, in plans of taking him straight to the morgue, but no, Vic hadn’t left. She stopped them, she… God, she had been so stupid. “William…” She said, standing up to go to them. The nurses asked for her to move away but, “No, this is my husband’s body and I… I need to see him once last time.” With that, she stood beside the stretcher, slowly pulling down the white blanket they had used to cover him. Her hand trailed over the cold cheek of her husband, a sob escaping her lips at the cold. It felt so different, so empty, so… dead. “Will, babe, you’re… you’re cold. Wake up, baby, please…” She sounded so pathetic, even to this day, she knew she should’ve just let them pass by her without a word. Instead she resisted letting them go, begging him to wake up, begging to see those stormy blue eyes she had fallen in love with. Except she wouldn’t, never again. It killed her…
There were moments when Vic felt like she couldn’t go on, like the void inside her chest would actually end her, but only one thing kept her going; their little Stephan. She had to be strong for him, but sometimes, sometimes she felt like if she tried then she could meet Will once more, only once, but no, that wouldn’t happen… and all she had was a gravestone to talk to. Surely making herself look like a crazy person, but it was the closer she felt to him. The wind could sometimes feel like a caress from him… maybe she had gone crazy after all.
This is actually from the fanfic I was writing, which was based on the Chair plot (Three Words, Eight Letters). So this is Blair without her Chuck.
Black surrounded her, squeezed and smothered, and tightened its grip until she felt like fainting. The only thing that shone through the darkness was a neatly-bound bouquet of white flowers, but Blair didn’t want to look at the light, because that meant looking at what was right under it; a long, wooden box.
Her limbs felt weak as she walked. Even her head felt like it was about to drop off her shoulders. It didn’t help to hear the rest of them mourn beside her. The priest’s speech was still stuck in her head, though, so she tried to block out their words by listening to his. Every man must face death, because in death, every man is equal - even great men like Charles Bass. There was some truth to his words, although Blair did feel like punching him; Chuck Bass was not a great man - he was the very best… had been the very best. Blair cringed at her own thoughts, and ignored the sideways look her mother sent her.
The walk was long, and her steps only felt heavier by the second. All she wanted was to sit down, curl up in the late-summer grass, and pretend this wasn’t happening. But she couldn’t do that; it was not how a lady should act.
At home, the darkness was as all-consuming as it had been in the church. Her mother and Cyrus were changing for the gathering at Lily’s, and Blair walked the last, long mile to her bedroom, where she finally pulled off her shoes. With the last remaining energy in her weary bones, she walked to the bed, and collapsed right on top of it. The silk against her cheek felt like home.
The tears rolled before she knew it, and violent sobs quickly followed suit. She clammed one hand on top her mouth, hoping to mask the sound enough for her mother not to come running - or worse; Dorota. It wasn’t working very well, though, and she quickly dropped her hand. Her fingers on the other one had already started digging through the soft material beneath her, and now five more joined them. She wasn’t sure why she was clutching her bed like she would be killed if she let go. All she knew was that the slight pain of fabric digging into her palms was a nice almost-distraction. It was enough for her thoughts to slow down for exactly 0,78 seconds, before she remembered his face, and the way the world seemed to light up when he smiled broadly - and not smirking like it was his trademark to do.
What she wouldn’t give to see him smile again - hell, she would settle for a smirk that usually only meant trouble. At least it would be trouble with him.
The knock on her door startled her, and Blair closed her eyes in fear of being face to face with her mother in this state. But the door didn’t open, and the voice questioned her from outside, “Blair? Darling? Cyrus and I are going to Lily’s. Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
Going to some fancy party to talk about Chuck in lowered voices was not exactly what she wanted right now. Especially because she knew that a lot of people would be there simply to keep up an image, and not because they actually knew or liked Chuck. It would be too much to be faced with the people, who hated him, and defend him while knowing that it would do no good; he was still cold in the ground, no matter what.
Blair swallowed, and hoped to God that her voice wouldn’t give away the grief that was swallowing her whole. “Yes, I’m sure!” she called out, silently cursing herself for letting her voice break a little. It was as if the more she told herself not to cry, the more she did.
It was easy to tell that Eleanor hesitated for a few seconds; her shadow didn’t move, only wavered a bit, as if she was leaning away from the door one second, and towards it the next. But she didn’t say anything, until the silence was getting ridiculous. Then she asked, “Do you want me to stay with you?”
In one way, that was exactly what Blair dreamed of; to let her mother into her room, and be embraced by loving arms. Her mother would hold her and whisper soothing words into her ear while Blair cried her eyes out, and then everything would be okay. She would wipe her cheeks, in the end, and they would smile sadly at each other. Blair wouldn’t be weak, like she was now; she would have someone to hold her together and support her.
But at the same time, she hated to become dependent of her mother - and even more to look weak in front of the woman, who had always expected the best from her. Through her entire life, Blair had been raised to be a strong woman, and it was exactly what she aspired to be. Being weak was not an option as a Waldorf woman. So she would keep this weakness behind closed doors.
Again, she hoped that her voice would not betray her, as she answered her mother, “No. You can go. Cyrus-” she felt a lump in her throat at the mention of his name, although she was not sure why, and quickly swallowed, “Cyrus is waiting. I’ll be fine.”
Fine. That was the one thing she was most definitely not. But a white lie had never hurt anyone.
For a moment, it seemed like Eleanor was going to argue, but when she spoke, her tone made it clear that she had given up, and didn’t have the energy, nor the heart, to discuss it further. “If you’re sure… Okay, but we’ll be back soon.”
Blair didn’t answer, only listened to her mother’s footsteps as she walked away, and could vaguely hear her address either Dorota or Cyrus, although she suspected it was the latter. Dorota had Blair already personally banished from her room. It was not that the housekeeper was being unpleasant - quite the contrary; she was acting more like a concerned mother than Blair’s own, and with her kid on her arm, she was impossible to talk to without bursting into tears.
With the threat of her mother gone, Blair let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she had been holding. Not long after, she realized that she was now alone - well, as alone as she could be with Dorota still being somewhere in the penthouse. She tried to convince herself that it was for the best, and that she needed some time alone, but the truth was that she needed someone or something to distract her from her thoughts. Because they were dangerous and pulled her even deeper into the darkness.
Once upon a time, she had accused Chuck of being the one, who made her darker, but it was really his absence that did the trick.
It had been a closed casket funeral. Blair was glad. It was one thing seeing his face after he had died - she had done so plenty in her dreams - but it was a completely other thing to see him in such a broken state. Serena had told her about how damaged his body had been when it was pulled from the water, and that was not how she wanted to remember Chuck.
She wanted to remember him as - not her first - but her greatest love. The one, who showed her how a limo was supposed to be used, and told her he loved her after years of bickering. The one, who, at first, was disgusted by the butterflies in his stomach, and cheated at the prom so she would be queen for a night. The coward and hero, wrapped into one. Although, some might argue and call him a dark prince, rather than a white knight.
Blair didn’t care what he was - had been - because either way, she was his queen, and that was all that mattered.
But as the happy memories came flooding back, so did the bad, and she found her head swimming with flashes of Chuck with other women. No matter how much she had pretended that it didn’t bother her, it had always made her somewhat disgusted. In the beginning, it had only been a little nauseating, and a blow to her ego. Later, she felt pangs of hurt, threatening to make a crack in her heart. And when she had finally found out about him and little Jenny Humphrey, her heart was broken beyond repair, and she swore that she wouldn’t take him back in a million years.
The memory made her feel sick, even now.
And then there was his endless supply of insults, when he had felt especially cruel. She still remembered his comparison of her and his father’s Arabian. He could even make wife sound awful.
His temper. His ruthlessness, when it came to claiming what he wanted. His inability to let her properly in, no matter how hard she tried.
It all came back, now when it was supposed to stay far away.
Blair felt sick. Partly because of him, but mostly because of herself.
Without even thinking, she sat up in her bed. The blood rushed from her head and made her dizzy for a second, but when that passed, she swung her legs to one side of the bed, and landed on the floor. Under her, her feet were uncertain, and it felt like her heels were drowning in the floor, after wearing her high-heeled shoes for so long.
Her steps were far from noisy as she walked from her bed to the bathroom. Behind her, she closed the door, and she turned the water on for safety’s sake. It would make just enough noise, she decided. This time, no one would notice.
The bathroom tiles were warm against her knees. It was a good thing that the heat was on, because Blair was sure that she would think more about this, if she felt the cold stones against her skin. But there was only warmth, and she calmly pushed the lid and seat out of the way, ignoring the part of her that wanted to rush to the sink and wash her hands. She could do that after.
She was not sure if it was because of her disgust with Chuck’s bad behavior, when he had been alive, or if she was disgusted with herself for even thinking badly of him - or if she was even trying to punish herself for it. She didn’t even know if it was because everything was crashing down around her, and this gave a feeling of some sort of control. Either way, she gathered her hair carefully in her left hand, and looked down in the toilet for a second. Her hands were shaking. If she was being honest, her entire body shook. The tears didn’t stream down her cheeks anymore. They hadn’t come since she had stumbled out of bed. She was too determined for that. Her eyes felt dry, too, as if she had cried all of her tears out.
Three fingers were all she needed.
When she was done, she wiped her mouth with the back of her right hand, and let go of her hair with the other. She stumbled to the sink, and used an almost unhealthy amount of soap. The toilet flushed all by itself, and Blair grabbed a toothbrush. The mint was a nice change in smell. Finally, she closed for the water, and let out a deep breath.
She observed herself in the mirror.
Deep, brown eyes that were once sparkling with life, but were now as dull as the worst knife in the drawer. Her hair looked disgusting, even though she had showered every morning, no exceptions. The rest of her body was too fat, as always. She could definitely lose a few pounds.
Chuck had told her she was beautiful, once. But he wasn’t here anymore, so who was going to think so, now?
There was a pale shine to her skin, which had otherwise darkened somewhat under the French sun. Makeup were hiding the bags under her eyes, thank god, but there was no way of covering up the redness in them. Her cheeks even seemed swollen and a little too pink. A desperate kind of pink.
"Blair!"
The sound of her own name practically echoing from the walls made Blair jump, and her heart skipped a beat.
The voice was male, and very familiar. What was he doing here? He should be at Lily’s. And how did he even know where she was? Blair held her breath. If only she waited for a few moments, he would realize that no one was home, and he would leave. She really wanted him to leave.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she counted the seconds. One, two, three…
"Blair, I know you’re up there! Please, I just want to talk to you." She could almost reach out and feel the desperation in his voice. He needed her, so she needed to be strong now. She wasn’t the only one, who had lost Chuck; so had his friends - however few there were - and this was his best one. Or had been, once upon a time, Blair was not really sure anymore. Either way, he still cared.
The stairs felt like the side of a steep mountain, rather than the simple steps she usually used, and her gaze wanted to bore itself into the wood. But she forced herself to look down at Nate, who was looking even worse than herself. It was obvious that he had been drinking, with the way he was leaning slightly against the wall, and with the way his clothes was rumpled all the wrong places. All black, like her. Except, he was wearing much more fabric than her.
Blair had showed up at the funeral, wearing a skimpy, black dress. It was one that was meant for outrageous clubs, not a ceremony. But she liked to think that whether Chuck was up in the clouds, or in the flames of Hell, he had been watching the funeral, and had taken notice of - and absolutely loved - her dress. With that in mind, she had ignored all negative looks that had been cast in her direction. Luckily, Lily had either not noticed her clothing, or hadn’t minded. Blair’s own mother and Cyrus had asked her about it at home, but both had shut up pretty quickly when Blair had mentioned that it would be what Chuck would have wanted. Blair’s friends had given her a nod of acknowledgement, but had otherwise not commented on it, not even Dan, who had acted as a self-righteous moral compass before. Blair had thanked him for that by not insulting him the entire day.
"Blair," Nate breathed out the second she reached the floor, and she realized that he was worried. He was worried about her? He was the one, who was drunk off his ass.
Blair crossed her arms in front of her chest, subconsciously bracing herself for some sort of attack. That was all the world had done for her lately; it had attacked her with tragedy upon tragedy. And there was nothing she could do about it, which was the most terrifying thing she could imagine.
Her tone lacked her usual bite, when she spoke, and she was terrified to realize that she couldn’t do much more than whisper. “What do you want?”
She wanted to be alone - she needed to be alone. But she didn’t want him to leave, and let her be consumed with lonely thoughts again.
Nate frowned, as if her words were difficult to understand. What didn’t he understand? She was still the same. She was still the bitch that no one could truly love - no one but the man, who was now buried in the cold, hard ground. “I was worried about you,” Nate explained, and if Blair had been herself, she would have rolled her eyes, “because you weren’t at Lily’s.”
"So that’s a crime now? Not showing up to the after-party of my dead ex’s funeral?" she snapped, not sure where her sudden aggressiveness came from. All she knew was that it felt good. She had been keeping her feelings behind locked doors for too long. "Yeah, something must be terribly wrong with me.”
The hurt look on his face nearly made her want to apologize, but she kept her tongue, and looked as realization dawned on his face. Sadness seemed to take over his features. Blair wondered what he had figured out, but didn’t want to ask. Her answer came a few seconds later, “It’s not a party, Blair. It’s a gathering to honor Chuck’s memory, and I was just wondering why you weren’t there. But I think I can guess the answer.”
Panic set in, so strong that Blair didn’t even have the time to acknowledge the pang that had followed the verbal mention of Chuck’s name. Had he heard her? Hadn’t she brushed her teeth properly - could he smell it? It was a disgusting thought, but it was possible. Had Dorota heard and told him? Blair’s eyes scanned the living room, but there was no Dorota in sight. That didn’t mean she wasn’t hiding somewhere. She was actually good at that.
It was hard to keep the paranoia out of her voice, when Blair cautiously asked, “What? What’s the answer?”
Nate regarded her for a second, then he moved closer, as if he was about to tell her a deep secret. Intrigued, Blair followed his example. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, now. Scotch. She swallowed, and watched his lips as he talked, “The answer is that, because your personal vendetta against him, you don’t want to show any him respect, not even today!”
Blair took a step back as if he had hit her. He might as well have; it wouldn’t have hurt nearly as much as this did. How could he say that? How could he say that!? He had no right!
But instead of shutting up, like he should have, he continued in that evil voice of his, “The dress, Blair, really? Is that really how you see him? As a playboy and pervert?” He spat the words out, as if they were poison that would kill him if he kept them inside his mouth for too long, and Blair felt her heart jump oddly in her chest. Her throat tightened, and tears welled up in her eyes. Still, she stared at Nate stubbornly, with an almost dead expression on her face. The tears ruined the illusion of her supposed indifference a little. “And now you refuse to show your last piece of respect by not going to the gathering!” Blair wanted the accusations to go away, she needed them to. This could not be how Nate saw her. He had to know her true motivations - both with the dress, and the fact that she wasn’t planning on showing up at Lily’s.
Clearly, he didn’t, and she was afraid of speaking up. Nate was not himself, so what would he do or say if she told him everything? If she told him that she couldn’t sleep, and when she finally did, all she saw was Chuck, falling down from the building she had saved him on, a long time ago, would he understand? What if she shared the tale of how she got this dress, and how she had nearly let Chuck take her, then and there, in the dressing room? Would he get it, if she shared her fear of facing other people’s hate towards her beloved?
Blair wasn’t sure if she wanted to know. But one thing was certain; she was not going to be silent.
At least, he was not making a move to disappear into the elevator, and he was quiet now, giving her room to explain. Despite his aggressive and petty behavior, Nate was a good person, deep down. Not even extensive amounts of scotch, the grief of losing his best friend, or the belief that his ex was only happy to see said best friend go, could change that. Blair had to admire him for that.
"He is so much more than that," she began, not even noticing her misuse of present tense, "and I’m not trying to disrespect him. The dress… it’s a gift for him, and a joke." She swallowed, and ran her fingers over the hemline. "I love him, always. But I just… can’t go.”
In front of her, Nate was quiet for a few seconds. Blair kept her eyes on the dress, but, in the end, dared to look up at him. He looked absolutely broken. And sorry, which was the most important thing. He believed her. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, sounding both embarrassed and guilt-ridden, however he didn’t look away from her eyes. “I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry.”
Blair shook her head, an almost-smile on her lips. “I would’ve been more brutal, if I’d thought you’d thought of him in that way,” she admitted, and noted that the corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards at that. He even gave her a small nod. “You’re a good friend,” she added with a whisper, and liked the way he stared at her. She had missed those blue eyes of his. She had missed the comfort they had always brought her. Her eyes automatically flickered to his lips, and she realized just how close they were standing. Somehow, she had moved closer while talking. Or he had, she was not sure. Either way, she enjoyed this; the comfort that he practically radiated. Blair really needed that. She needed a friend.
Without thinking her actions through, she rose to her tiptoes, and leaned into his warmth. A single second charged with electricity and grief passed, and then she felt his lips against hers. Wasting no time, Blair parted her lips to his tongue, and let out a sigh. He tasted like the scotch on his breath, and a second thing that was just Nate. She absentmindedly applauded herself for brushing her teeth thoroughly, but all thoughts were stopped when he laced his fingers into her hair. Only my boyfriend gets to touch my hair. She had spoken the words ages ago, but they were still true, and Nate was not her boyfriend.
Sensing that something was wrong, apparently, he pulled away from her, and Blair avoided his eyes. The silence was deafening. All Blair wanted to do was to throw him into the elevator and get him away from her. She felt absolutely disgusted with herself. Chuck was barely cold in his grave. A lump was forming in her throat, and the tears were returning.
"We’re all at Lily’s," Nate began, when the silence became too much, and it was obvious that Blair wasn’t going to say anything. "Serena, Eric, Dan, Jenny, Lily, Rufus, my mom, your mom, Cyrus…" He trailed off. "If you need someone to talk to, come." His palm was warm against her cheek when he reached out to touch it softly. Despite everything, Blair leaned into the touch. It was as comforting as his blue eyes, but not nearly as unsettling as his kiss. "I’m going to go over there now."
The warmth on her cheek disappeared, and he walked to the elevator. Blair watched him enter it, when the doors finally slid open. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, but she shook her head. Not today. She would face the rest of the world another day. Nate understood, she knew. He pressed a button, and then the doors slid closed.
Blair was left with her thoughts again, this time with guilt burning in the pit of her stomach.
This is an old self-para I did for Sawyer a while back. It's giving me feels again, and I miss Sawyer, so I thought I'd post it here as a writing sample. It's probably not my best, but enjoy. (P.S. This is a flashback that takes place when she's around thirteen.)
“Have you tried her cell phone?” Nora’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard to Sawyer right then. She’d never felt more irritated in her life. Or scared.
“Yes. Obviously I have tried her cell phone. I have tried every possible means of contact I can think of. I don’t-I don’t know where she is…” Sawyer felt like crying. She grasped the phone like it was the last thing keeping her alive. Her voice was weak, along with the rest of her body. And her mind was racing. But she wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t crack just yet. “Thanks, um, thanks for your help though.”
She hung up the phone and leaned back against the kitchen wall.
It was always like this. It was always like this.
She’d been gone before. Her mother. But not this long. Sawyer had come home the day before to find she hadn’t returned from work yet, but figured she’d be back soon enough. But by the time Sawyer had woken up the next morning, she still hadn’t come home. And come lunchtime the driveway was still empty. And by the time Sawyer was nervously making her dinner, she still had yet to return. It was nearly midnight when Sawyer ended the call with one of her mother’s colleagues, the last person she could think of to contact, and she was close to having a panic attack.
Her mom was always doing that. Going away. And it wasn’t to party or drink, though she probably did do some of that. Sawyer figured it was to forget that she actually had a life and responsibilities and everything else that “weighs you down.” But running away was the sort of crap you were only supposed to do when you were a kid. Not when you were past 40. She was supposed to be the parent. She was supposed to look after Sawyer. Not the other way around. Sawyer was the one who was supposed to stay out all night and drink too much and make her mother worry. She did do those things occasionally. But not nearly as much as her mom did.
It was easier when she was a kid. She would still become terrified at the thought of her mom going away forever. But Rebecca was there. She didn’t have a parental bone in her body, but at least she knew how to keep cool. And the thought of abandonment was less daunting when her sister was there. It was sort of as though, if her mother really did leave forever, at least she wouldn’t really be alone.
But Rebecca was gone. Who knew where she was. So Sawyer had to deal with her missing mom herself. And as the time went by, their tiny house seemed bigger and darker, and it felt like she’d never come home.
Sawyer didn’t like the idea of being left alone. She wasn’t used to it by then or anything. It still hit her hard each time her mother skipped town. She still got that sick, anxious feeling inside.
By 1:30 in the morning, she was sitting by the door, her hands clenched nervously, a lump in her throat. She wasn’t even going to cry now. She was past that point. All she could do now was simply stared blankly at the door and hoped to god that her mom wouldn’t go away forever.
Hayley was currently seated in front of a large mirror decorated with bright florescent bulbs, as she awaited the arrival of her band mates. The location was backstage of the Hard Rock Cafe, specifically in New York. She was alone for the moment, due to the fact that whenever the band did a show out of town they'd tour their surroundings for awhile. The shops, restaurants, clubs and of course all the little nick-knack stores. Tonight was a little different however, because Hayley had stayed behind. She just hadn't felt like riding around on a cramped up bus with four men, not anymore. The guys had promised they'd be back in time to prepare for the show and that was just fine with her, as long as she could be alone.
While taking a look at herself in the streak free glass of said, well lit mirror a feeling of disgust washed over her. Something that was becoming natural with every time she caught a glimpse of herself. Quickly she decided to make a few adjustments to her current attire. Seeing as the sun had set an hour or so ago, and their show started at eight she'd figured her wait for the guys wouldn't be much longer. So, now was as good a time as any to make some changes. Her currently blonde and faded orange hair was pulled up into a ponytail that reached to her shoulders. However, it wasn't doing to great of a job hiding the blueish gray rope marks that graced her pale flesh and circled her throat. Honestly, it was like she'd put her secret out there for the whole world to see.
Her reflection showed the path her forest green eyes took, slowly down from the untainted pale of her face and the baby pink of her lips, to the abrupt bruised rings that pushed inward around her neck. Lifting her right hand, she trailed her slender digits across the wounds lightly. Sending a surge through her body, one that could only be identified as a mixture of pain and pleasure. Hayley was only sixteen, but she was already planing for her life to end very soon. In fact she was ready for it to end now, and if she could just salvage enough time on her own. Well, she'd take it herself. No plots were needed, no crime scene body outlines or serial killers. Just a sharp knife or maybe a large bottle of pills and she'd be out like a light.
Sure, it was dark thought, but somehow it made her smile. The idea of not having to get up every morning and see the broken shambles of her life. It brought relief. Even now, when the lights would shine bright in only a few hours and she'd sing her heart out on a stage surrounded by the people who made things a little easier. She still only thought of ending it all, it didn't matter what she wanted though. She had too many people to please, too many lives to save that weren't her own in that crowd. The small female shrugged at the thought, as she took her hair down and let it fall gently over the marks, covering them for the most part and yet leaving her front view exposed. Just staring at it made her want to do it all over again.
Vivid was the memory of her last attempt, in Jeremy's bathroom while his mother cooked dinner and he watched television. She'd locked the door, and pulled a large rope from her sleep-over bag. It wasn't long before she'd tied it to the shower-current poles and laced it tightly around her small neck, everything was perfect. Her feet just the right length from the floor when she jumped, only she was too heavy and a few minutes in as she choked and gasped for air the pole gave and came ripping from the wall to the floor, taking she and the rope with it. Jeremy found her a few seconds later, and shortly after she was in the hospital. His mother didn't make her pay for the damage. Didn't they realize, each time they saved her she only wanted to do it again?
Just like she was planing to do tonight, after the show? Once the lights dimmed, and the “Para-family” went home Hayley would remove the red scarf, that Josh had brought her to wear tonight. He called it a good gesture, she called it a lie. Rip it right from her neck and use it as a biting cloth, to stifle her little moans of pain. She'd crawl up in her quiet little bunk, and take the pocket knife from under her pillow that she'd brought so many years ago. Slit her wrist, and of course someone would notice how quite she was and save her again. She was counting on it. Just then, a soft shuffle came from the hall, followed by a click of the door. Jeremy poked his head in and looked over at her, she could feel his blue eyes attempting to burrow deep into her soul and heal it. Discover some plan, or a notion that was running through her pretty little head. She smiled and nodded, it didn't work and he'd believe she was fine. Just like always.
That sound rang loud and clear, the thick grumble of tires over gravel. It was so loud in her ears, like the jingle of an alarm clock or the piercing screams of her mother. Nebraska opened her chocolate hues slowly, as she laid there on her back in the darkness of her bedroom, the softness of a white blanket holding her—the only innocence she had left, she wasn't ready to leave it yet. To have to flee her sanctuary to go greet a monster, what had her life become; or what had it always been? With a long sigh the petite female pushed herself up from the bed and onto her feet. “Hair, face, dress...” She whispered to herself, trying to run over the check list her father always shouted in her face whenever something on her appeared out of place. Pale hands touched each object as she spoke it, once everything met her own requirements, she slid her feet quickly into soft slippers and left her room to meet the stranger downstairs.
“Daddy, evening...how was work?” Coming down the stairwell she waited for the man to answer, tall and muscular with dark hair and eyes like hers, something to fear. Since returning home Nebraska had took on the roll of homemaker; she cooked, cleaned, washed, everything a loving husband would need his loving wife to do. Except, nothing of that sort fit in this picture. “Well...I got another promotion, life is golden.”She nodded in response, wondering if he would continue with his story as she hurried over to relive him of the duty of carrying his suitcase and vest. “Well, Nebraska...how was your day?” Surprised that he had asked, she hung his vest neatly in the hallway closet and glanced over her shoulder. “Well, um...I saw Dr. Veron today, he said he thinks I may have Dysthymic disorder...and thinks we should switch my medi-” She was cut off by her fathers large hand waving in the air mockingly. “Why is there always something new wrong with your head?”
“Well I-”
“No. Don't bother...I'm not getting you anymore medicine. You better learn to toughen the fuck up or this world will eat you alive.” Nebraska glanced over at her father, the smug look on his face as he continued speaking to her; it woke something up. Her body went numb, as she nodded slowly in response as if hearing anything after eat you alive; her now empty eyes drifted off to the ends table where the mans favorite hunting blade lay. As she made her way into the family room she spoke softly. “Go on daddy, I'm all ears...” The tone was a low growl, as the moment blurred into a broken shard of a memory.
Nebraska lay on her bed, confined and alone; once again her night was being spent in isolation. A smirk tugged at her bitten and bleeding lips, she began to giggle and laugh hysterically at what she'd done. Almost suffocating, unable to pause long enough to get air. “Yes daddy, life...is golden!”
