Sunny Weather [R] for dirty_diana
Title:
Sunny Weather
Author/Artist: bob5fic
Pairing: Chuck/Nate.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1474
Recipient: dirty_diana
Disclaimer: Gossip Girl is not mine.
Warnings: Character death
Summary: They did fuck eventually. It didn’t really change anything. Chuck and Nate fifteen years in the future, with Blair still inbetween.
Author/Artist Note(s): Hope you enjoy my take on the prompt, even if it might not be quite what you had in mind.
Blair Waldorf died at the ripe old age of thirty-six.
“She would have wanted to die young, before her looks began to fade,” Chuck had said. He didn’t mean it. At least, he couldn’t have meant it. Nate refused to make sense of anything Chuck had said in his grief-stricken state.
(Nate assumed that Chuck was grief-stricken.)
It was only a phone call anyway, to check that Chuck was okay. They hadn’t spoken for months and Chuck and Blair, as far as Nate knew, hadn’t spoken for years.
Chuck, of course, wasn’t okay. Nate went to visit him straight after the funeral (which Chuck had failed to attend).
“How’s S?”
Chuck was immaculately dressed in a black suit and tie, glass of scotch in hand and sleeping hooker in his bed when Nate finally found him. He had fled to a hotel in the south of France that he had bought on a whim only the week before. He was grieving, Nate was sure. This was more unnerving than the time following Bart’s unexpected death.
Blair would know what to do. Nate caught himself too late and brushed the unbidden thought aside.
“She’s devastated,” Nate said as he followed Chuck inside the penthouse suite. “What about you?”
“I’m quite used to Waldorf not being around,” he said with a causal flick of the wrist. “Drink?”
Nate nodded towards the naked woman visible through the open doorway. “Maybe in private.”
Chuck smirked and shook his head, disappearing inside the bedroom as he requested his guest get dressed and make herself scarce. He handed her a thick envelope of cash as she made her way out.
“What can I get you, Nathaniel? It’s really been a while.”
“Blair’s dead.”
“Scotch then?”
Nate watched and waited as Chuck went to serve them drinks, filling the crystal tumblers to at least halfway full before he turned to hand one to Nate.
“Why are you wearing black?” Nate said.
Chuck raised his glass as if to make a toast. “Somebody died.” And he downed the contents in two large gulps.
***
That night Nate drank himself into a stupor.
This wasn’t what he had been expecting. Chuck was never particularly prone to states of denial. Nate was never particularly good at picking up the pieces.
(Blair would know what to do.)
***
It had been three days.
Three days of room service and hangovers and watching Chuck fuck six different hookers whether Nate was there or not.
Nate wasn’t very proud of himself when he got sucked off on the fourth occasion but he was drunk and sad and Chuck had insisted, watching with rapt fascination as he took another anonymous girl from behind.
There was a strange and unfortunate nostalgia in their activities and Nate was taken back to nights in room 1812 and the best chronic in all of Manhattan, drinking and smoking and watching porn and ignoring incessant texts from Blair.
Nate was a terrible boyfriend. He thought as much when he came in the nameless woman’s mouth.
The thing was, all the women were brunettes. Nate had to still be grieving because they all reminded him of Blair.
***
“You remember that time in Monaco?”
Nate lifted his head from the couch to look at Chuck, who was sat behind his desk, signing stacks of papers and dressed as immaculately as ever (today in purple, which was as far from black as he had dared to venture since Nate had arrived).
“Christmas?”
They were sixteen then, going on seventeen, but still not quite a Julie Andrews movie.
“I remember,” Nate said.
“You’d just fucked Blair.” Chuck smirked as he caught Nate’s expression. “It was all you ever talked about.”
“Why are you thinking about Blair like that?”
“Why must everything always be about Blair?”
Nate’s head flopped back against the couch cushion. He was too tired for all of this. And he had no fucking clue how to handle this Chuck.
(When had he ever?)
“You’re not making any sense anymore,” he said quietly.
“What was the sense when we could have just fucked each other?”
***
Nate showered and ate then went for a run. He did everything in the wrong order. He didn’t warm up; he just ran. Not a steady pace but an all-out sprint until he was spent and aching and totally lost. He found a bar and ordered a drink, then another. He threw up in the bathroom before he remembered to eat again.
When he got back to the suite, he had a missed call from Serena.
He listened to his voicemail and then burst into tears.
“What are you doing?” Chuck’s voice came from the shadows.
“I’m crying, Chuck. I’m fucking crying! What does it look like? What do you think people do when their best friend dies?”
Chuck poured them both a drink and shoved one of the glasses into Nate’s shaking hands. “You’re a pussy, Nathaniel.”
Chuck had never seen Nate cry before. Nate had seen Chuck cry only once (and that was by accident).
Nate took a long sip, sniffing hard and wiping at his eyes. “Blair’s dead. And Serena’s a mess. And now she’s left me.”
“Which one?”
“Fuck!” Nate threw the glass at what he hoped was Chuck’s head but it only made contact with a nearby wall. “Fuck!”
A moment later and Chuck’s hand was at his crotch, the other halfway around his throat; and Nate sprung to attention like a clueless prepubescent having their very first wet dream.
“Fuck me,” Chuck said and crashed his lips to Nate’s.
(They didn’t fuck that night.)
Nate punched Chuck in the face, which was for the very first time because Nate had always felt bizarrely protective of Chuck. He had wanted to punch Chuck in the face more times that he could count but even more times than that he had punched someone else for Chuck, and that was why he feeling was so strange. Chuck was never physically intimidating but he was still intimidating all the same.
Nate wondered if he would be killed in his sleep as he lay awake for most of the night.
***
“Did you ever fuck Humphrey?” Chuck asked over breakfast.
Nate choked on a mouthful of french toast and bacon.
“Thought as much.”
“We...” Nate tried again,
Chuck arched an eyebrow above a swollen black eye. “Were strictly PG-13? Yes, I know.”
***
They did fuck eventually.
It didn’t really change anything.
***
“I’m leaving,” Nate decided one morning. “You’re on your own.”
“I know.”
“Blair’s dead,” Nate said for the hundredth time.
“I know.”
“She’s dead, Chuck. She’s dead and she’s never coming back and I just fucking wish you’d admit that to yourself.”
Chuck poured himself a drink with barely shaking hands.
“Blair’s dead.”
Chuck downed the contents in one.
“When was the last time you even saw her?”
The glass smashed in Chuck’s tightly clenched hand. “Today,” he said and Nate dropped all his clothes.
“Chuck...”
“Leave, Nathaniel. I’ll have my jet chartered to take you back.”
“Where is she?”
Chuck held his now bleeding hand in front of his face and carefully flexed his fingers. “I think you better go.”
“No.”
“It’s no good. She’s dead to me but she’s over there, watching. I saw her last week. When you called, she was with me. We were together six weeks before she died.”
Chuck’s entire body seemed to tremble when he finally let himself say that word.
“Blair was married,” Nate said, confused.
“Blair was with me. And now I’m dead.”
“Chuck...”
“What do you want, Nathaniel?!”
“I want you to cry.”
But Chuck didn’t cry. He screamed. Nate heard that sound for years to come.
***
“I have to go,” Nate said during the night, under cover of darkness (under Chuck).
“We both fucked Blair,” Chuck said. This is as close as we’ll get.
“We both loved her.”
“I bought her a hotel.”
“You did?”
“Right here.”
Nate reached over and switched on the light as Chuck sat up in bed and lit a cigarette.
“This?”
Chuck exhaled with an amused sniff of air. “Too late. She hates it.”
“How do you know?”
“I can tell by her expression.” Chuck glanced over at Nate, who clearly had the expression of You’re going slightly mad all over his face, and laughed. “You really live up to that pretty and dumb image of yours.”
Nate laughed too. “How do you know?”
“The same reason I know that Blair would never accept this, in spite of the over-the-top grandness of the gesture.” He leant over and placed a tobacco-tainted kiss to Nate’s waiting mouth. “I know you better than anyone.”
gossipwriter is the account the mods use to post gifts, it has not authored or created any of the gifts.
Author/Artist: bob5fic
Pairing: Chuck/Nate.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1474
Recipient: dirty_diana
Disclaimer: Gossip Girl is not mine.
Warnings: Character death
Summary: They did fuck eventually. It didn’t really change anything. Chuck and Nate fifteen years in the future, with Blair still inbetween.
Author/Artist Note(s): Hope you enjoy my take on the prompt, even if it might not be quite what you had in mind.
Blair Waldorf died at the ripe old age of thirty-six.
“She would have wanted to die young, before her looks began to fade,” Chuck had said. He didn’t mean it. At least, he couldn’t have meant it. Nate refused to make sense of anything Chuck had said in his grief-stricken state.
(Nate assumed that Chuck was grief-stricken.)
It was only a phone call anyway, to check that Chuck was okay. They hadn’t spoken for months and Chuck and Blair, as far as Nate knew, hadn’t spoken for years.
Chuck, of course, wasn’t okay. Nate went to visit him straight after the funeral (which Chuck had failed to attend).
“How’s S?”
Chuck was immaculately dressed in a black suit and tie, glass of scotch in hand and sleeping hooker in his bed when Nate finally found him. He had fled to a hotel in the south of France that he had bought on a whim only the week before. He was grieving, Nate was sure. This was more unnerving than the time following Bart’s unexpected death.
Blair would know what to do. Nate caught himself too late and brushed the unbidden thought aside.
“She’s devastated,” Nate said as he followed Chuck inside the penthouse suite. “What about you?”
“I’m quite used to Waldorf not being around,” he said with a causal flick of the wrist. “Drink?”
Nate nodded towards the naked woman visible through the open doorway. “Maybe in private.”
Chuck smirked and shook his head, disappearing inside the bedroom as he requested his guest get dressed and make herself scarce. He handed her a thick envelope of cash as she made her way out.
“What can I get you, Nathaniel? It’s really been a while.”
“Blair’s dead.”
“Scotch then?”
Nate watched and waited as Chuck went to serve them drinks, filling the crystal tumblers to at least halfway full before he turned to hand one to Nate.
“Why are you wearing black?” Nate said.
Chuck raised his glass as if to make a toast. “Somebody died.” And he downed the contents in two large gulps.
***
That night Nate drank himself into a stupor.
This wasn’t what he had been expecting. Chuck was never particularly prone to states of denial. Nate was never particularly good at picking up the pieces.
(Blair would know what to do.)
***
It had been three days.
Three days of room service and hangovers and watching Chuck fuck six different hookers whether Nate was there or not.
Nate wasn’t very proud of himself when he got sucked off on the fourth occasion but he was drunk and sad and Chuck had insisted, watching with rapt fascination as he took another anonymous girl from behind.
There was a strange and unfortunate nostalgia in their activities and Nate was taken back to nights in room 1812 and the best chronic in all of Manhattan, drinking and smoking and watching porn and ignoring incessant texts from Blair.
Nate was a terrible boyfriend. He thought as much when he came in the nameless woman’s mouth.
The thing was, all the women were brunettes. Nate had to still be grieving because they all reminded him of Blair.
***
“You remember that time in Monaco?”
Nate lifted his head from the couch to look at Chuck, who was sat behind his desk, signing stacks of papers and dressed as immaculately as ever (today in purple, which was as far from black as he had dared to venture since Nate had arrived).
“Christmas?”
They were sixteen then, going on seventeen, but still not quite a Julie Andrews movie.
“I remember,” Nate said.
“You’d just fucked Blair.” Chuck smirked as he caught Nate’s expression. “It was all you ever talked about.”
“Why are you thinking about Blair like that?”
“Why must everything always be about Blair?”
Nate’s head flopped back against the couch cushion. He was too tired for all of this. And he had no fucking clue how to handle this Chuck.
(When had he ever?)
“You’re not making any sense anymore,” he said quietly.
“What was the sense when we could have just fucked each other?”
***
Nate showered and ate then went for a run. He did everything in the wrong order. He didn’t warm up; he just ran. Not a steady pace but an all-out sprint until he was spent and aching and totally lost. He found a bar and ordered a drink, then another. He threw up in the bathroom before he remembered to eat again.
When he got back to the suite, he had a missed call from Serena.
He listened to his voicemail and then burst into tears.
“What are you doing?” Chuck’s voice came from the shadows.
“I’m crying, Chuck. I’m fucking crying! What does it look like? What do you think people do when their best friend dies?”
Chuck poured them both a drink and shoved one of the glasses into Nate’s shaking hands. “You’re a pussy, Nathaniel.”
Chuck had never seen Nate cry before. Nate had seen Chuck cry only once (and that was by accident).
Nate took a long sip, sniffing hard and wiping at his eyes. “Blair’s dead. And Serena’s a mess. And now she’s left me.”
“Which one?”
“Fuck!” Nate threw the glass at what he hoped was Chuck’s head but it only made contact with a nearby wall. “Fuck!”
A moment later and Chuck’s hand was at his crotch, the other halfway around his throat; and Nate sprung to attention like a clueless prepubescent having their very first wet dream.
“Fuck me,” Chuck said and crashed his lips to Nate’s.
(They didn’t fuck that night.)
Nate punched Chuck in the face, which was for the very first time because Nate had always felt bizarrely protective of Chuck. He had wanted to punch Chuck in the face more times that he could count but even more times than that he had punched someone else for Chuck, and that was why he feeling was so strange. Chuck was never physically intimidating but he was still intimidating all the same.
Nate wondered if he would be killed in his sleep as he lay awake for most of the night.
***
“Did you ever fuck Humphrey?” Chuck asked over breakfast.
Nate choked on a mouthful of french toast and bacon.
“Thought as much.”
“We...” Nate tried again,
Chuck arched an eyebrow above a swollen black eye. “Were strictly PG-13? Yes, I know.”
***
They did fuck eventually.
It didn’t really change anything.
***
“I’m leaving,” Nate decided one morning. “You’re on your own.”
“I know.”
“Blair’s dead,” Nate said for the hundredth time.
“I know.”
“She’s dead, Chuck. She’s dead and she’s never coming back and I just fucking wish you’d admit that to yourself.”
Chuck poured himself a drink with barely shaking hands.
“Blair’s dead.”
Chuck downed the contents in one.
“When was the last time you even saw her?”
The glass smashed in Chuck’s tightly clenched hand. “Today,” he said and Nate dropped all his clothes.
“Chuck...”
“Leave, Nathaniel. I’ll have my jet chartered to take you back.”
“Where is she?”
Chuck held his now bleeding hand in front of his face and carefully flexed his fingers. “I think you better go.”
“No.”
“It’s no good. She’s dead to me but she’s over there, watching. I saw her last week. When you called, she was with me. We were together six weeks before she died.”
Chuck’s entire body seemed to tremble when he finally let himself say that word.
“Blair was married,” Nate said, confused.
“Blair was with me. And now I’m dead.”
“Chuck...”
“What do you want, Nathaniel?!”
“I want you to cry.”
But Chuck didn’t cry. He screamed. Nate heard that sound for years to come.
***
“I have to go,” Nate said during the night, under cover of darkness (under Chuck).
“We both fucked Blair,” Chuck said. This is as close as we’ll get.
“We both loved her.”
“I bought her a hotel.”
“You did?”
“Right here.”
Nate reached over and switched on the light as Chuck sat up in bed and lit a cigarette.
“This?”
Chuck exhaled with an amused sniff of air. “Too late. She hates it.”
“How do you know?”
“I can tell by her expression.” Chuck glanced over at Nate, who clearly had the expression of You’re going slightly mad all over his face, and laughed. “You really live up to that pretty and dumb image of yours.”
Nate laughed too. “How do you know?”
“The same reason I know that Blair would never accept this, in spite of the over-the-top grandness of the gesture.” He leant over and placed a tobacco-tainted kiss to Nate’s waiting mouth. “I know you better than anyone.”
gossipwriter is the account the mods use to post gifts, it has not authored or created any of the gifts.