Chapter Text
Their friendship had always been marked by exchanged glances and rare displays of affection. Something that never dared to go beyond the meeting of their eyes across a room, suspended between what they were and what they were supposed to be. That wasn’t Chuck, not at all—he wasn’t the type for subtle looks or gentle words, and everyone on the Upper East Side knew it. Chuck was preceded by his reputation: a womanizer, a selfish man, an opportunist... so many rumors circulated about Chuck Bass, and over time, many of them turned out to be true. Yet there was still something that kept drawing people toward him: the mystery surrounding him. Because who was Chuck Bass, if not a mystery to everyone—or almost everyone?
Nate Archibald, on the other hand, had a completely different reputation: his blue eyes, blond hair, and dazzling smile made him the perfect representation of the American dream one could encounter in Manhattan, especially considering the flawless image his family projected: a father who had earned wealth and respect, a loving wife, and a son destined for great things, as everyone said.
Theirs was a friendship that had evolved over time, thanks to summers spent together, school days, and the many dramas that involved them every day. They helped each other, they completed one another.
Chuck couldn’t help but be fascinated by Nate’s innocent and childlike ways. Was it possible for a seventeen-year-old boy to be so naïve? Whether it was love or simply the reality of the world, Nate observed everything with the eyes of a dreamer, an optimist with a grand vision. He was like a child, and Chuck felt almost obliged to protect him from the cruelty and pain that the world, unfortunately, wouldn’t spare Nate either.
That feeling, which Chuck—stubborn as he was—forced himself not to admit, would show up at any moment; any situation was a good excuse to drag Nate wherever he went, whether it was the wild parties of Manhattan or the unbearably boring brunches organized by Bart Bass. Chuck always managed to come up with some trivial excuse, something that left Nate bewildered. He wanted the company only Nate could provide; it reassured him, even if only through his blue eyes.
Manhattan, New York, 05/05/2009
It was precisely that feeling that convinced Chuck that bringing Nate to the club he had opened in downtown Manhattan was a good idea. The bright lights, the air thick with alcohol and drugs—that was Chuck’s scene, though not Nate’s. Nate kept looking over his shoulder and, above all, at his drink, afraid that one of those pills being passed from hand to hand might end up inside it.
He followed Chuck around like a lost puppy. Of course, Nate loved parties like any other teenager in Manhattan, but Chuck always managed to take everything to the next level. After all, not everyone could handle Chuck Bass’s fast-paced lifestyle. Nate couldn’t really immerse himself in the atmosphere, not like Chuck, who flirted, drank, and danced on an endless loop all night long.
It was there that it happened for the first time, in the most ordinary way possible.
After all those free margaritas, anyone starts to look attractive—even your best friend. The defined jawline, the rosy lips, the skin so smooth... he looked like a doll.
Chuck watched him silently, sitting on the couch, contemplating what to do: go back to the girl he had been having fun with earlier, or maybe go to Nate, who was sitting all alone near the open bar? At that moment, the second option seemed much more interesting.
They kept drinking together, the alcohol taking its toll, and the music began to sound strange and annoying in their drunken and confused minds, so they slipped outside the club, sat down on the sidewalk, and Chuck called his driver again and again until, on the fourth try, the man finally answered. Suddenly, they found themselves shoulder to shoulder, their beers no longer cold—at best lukewarm—and a rush of thoughts ran through Chuck’s head, so many questions and so few answers.
Nate confessed that he wasn’t feeling so well, the nausea was setting in, not to mention the headache. Chuck just smiled at him and draped an arm around his shoulders.
“Always the same with you, never holding your liquor…” he murmured, rubbing his friend’s shoulder. “Just don’t throw up on me.” He added, shifting his hand from Nate’s shoulder to his hair. Nate didn’t respond, too busy fighting the dizziness and nausea.
The word “throw up” only made the feeling worse. His stomach felt twisted. Why had he even agreed to come with Chuck? It always ended the same way: too much drinking, then feeling sick all night.
That constant sensation of being on the verge of vomiting was exhausting, leaving him in turmoil.
<span;>Chuck watched him with amusement, stroking the nape of his neck, playing with the soft hair, brushing the skin with his thumb. Nate’s pained expression almost made him feel sorry—but above all, tender.
<span;>His hand slid down his back as he whispered words of reassurance into his ear. Every time he swore he wouldn’t let Nate drink that much, and every time he ended up letting him.
Nate allowed the touch and leaned into him, closing his eyes and holding his forehead in his hands, as if his head might detach and fall.
“I hate you…” he mumbled, resting his head on Chuck’s shoulder.
“You say that every time we go out.” Chuck smiled, pulling Nate closer until the blond strands tickled his nose. They smelled of lemon and were soft and a little ticklish.
“You changed shampoo…” Chuck whispered, the alcohol beginning to blur and cloud his thoughts.
Nate lifted his head, resting his chin on Chuck’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes: he seemed distant, almost. Behind the gaze blurred by scotch, he could still glimpse something.
Strangely, Nate couldn't stop himself from thinking about how pretty those eyes were, and how nice they were to look at.
The blond smiled at him, shifted slightly so he could face him head-on. He pressed his forehead against Chuck’s—it was damp, sticky with sweat from the heat outside, but he hardly noticed, and didn’t mind.
It wasn’t cautious, it wasn’t slow. For Chuck, it was enough to place his hands on Nate’s jaw and lean in until their lips met. The other boy didn’t resist; he let himself be kissed, let Chuck do what he knew best.
His lips were soft, practiced, warm.
Chuck’s hands moved to the back of Nate’s head, pulling him closer, holding him in place by his hair, clutching the blond strands between his fingers, drawing him ever nearer. Nate placed his hands on Chuck’s shoulders awkwardly, not quite sure what to do.
They slowed down little by little, taking their time, and Chuck’s grip on Nate’s hair loosened, becoming more of a caress. They stayed lip to lip for a few seconds before slowly pulling apart, catching their breath.
Chuck smiled, released Nate’s head, letting his hand slide down. Nate let out a nervous chuckle, quickly withdrawing his hands in embarrassment. And before either of them could question what had just happened, Chuck’s driver’s limousine pulled up in front of them, forcing them to break apart completely.
Waking up, Nate feels even worse.
The stomachache has turned into a terrible headache that won’t let him think, and even though the gnawing nausea has improved, it never goes away completely.
If last night he hated Chuck, now he hates him even more.
It takes him a confused thirty minutes to piece together the events of the previous evening—the alcohol, the girls, the strong smell of weed that had spread through the whole club, the kiss.
The kiss.
He can only put together blurred images, vaguely remembering the taste of Chuck’s lips, the unpleasant mix of weed lingering in their mouths, and the burn of scotch.
Licking his lips, he still tastes the alcohol—bitter, vile, vomit-inducing. It has stayed with him all night, and disgusting is the only word that comes to mind.
The bile rises in his throat, the acidic aftertaste yanking him back to the present, where he is still in his bed, alone, confused.
He gets up, heavy, measured steps carrying him to the bathroom. He leans over the sink, closes his eyes, and exhales silently.
He has to fix this mess.
His head spins, his legs won’t hold him, everything he ate or drank last night threatens to come back up. Not a single part of his body is working properly in that moment—not even his brain, which won’t stop dragging him back to a few hours earlier, when he had found himself so close, so intimate with Chuck Bass.
The more he thinks about it, the more confused he feels, and the more confused he feels, the faster, the harder his head spins.
He splashes water on his face once, twice, three times—until he feels better, until the taste of vomit is gone, until the taste of Chuck is gone. He rinses his mouth, rubs his lips with his thumb, a banal attempt to erase the taste of alcohol.
He lifts his head. Droplets of water stream down his face, blond strands sticking to his forehead.
He doesn’t feel better—he’s still confused, but now he feels a little more in control of his body, of his mind, and for now, that will have to be enough.
---
Chuck doesn’t wake before noon; he puts off what he doesn’t like, as always, as he’s grown accustomed to doing.
The sunlight reminds him it’s time for the moment he dreads—the one where he has to face the wreckage of the night before.
His head threatens to explode, and he regrets everything he did last night—but not enough to stop him from doing it all over again the next night anyway.
He pushes himself up on his forearms and glances at the nightstand: a glass of water and headache pills—the only things he really needs right then.
He downs the water and pill while trying to sort through the chaos. He still has his pants on—dirty, sweaty, wrinkled. His shirt lies on the floor, crumpled near the foot of the bed.
Another shirt ruined. Another thing ruined.
He sighs—the stench of his own breath makes him recoil. Cautiously, he gets up; his knees tremble, a subtle reminder that his body can’t keep up with his pace, like a warning light flashing obsessively—and one he ignores.
He steps past the shirt, nudges it with his foot, leaves it there. It’ll end up in the trash anyway.
He goes into the bathroom, glances quickly in the mirror, takes note of the dark circles under his eyes, the disaster of his hair, and files it away for later. Not now. It’s too early to think about appearances.
Looking more like a homeless man than a billionaire.
He shuts his eyes and refuses to think about it.
Not now. Not later. Never.
Those words carry a voice he already knows, one he doesn’t want to remember.
He splashes water on his face, hoping to feel better.
What the fuck happened last night?
There are no girls now, only him and his reflection in the mirror. He stands still for a few seconds, silent, trying to organize the fragmented memories left from the night before.
He vaguely remembers a blonde girl he’d been having fun with for a while, the suffocating vanilla perfume that had clung to him—he almost sneezes just thinking about it. He turns and looks toward the living room of his apartment; strangely, it seems intact and clean. As he wonders whether the maid had come early or if it was actually him who hadn’t made a mess when stumbling home—which seemed unrealistic—everything comes back to him.
Nate comes back to him.
The smell of his hair, his insults that weren’t really insults, the way he had leaned on Chuck’s shoulder seeking comfort, like a child with a scraped knee. He thinks of Nate’s drowsy voice, the sour alcohol breath that was far too much like his own. And the kiss.
Strange how that comes back to him last, given it was the most striking event of the night. The way Nate had kissed him, deep and unexpected, had surprised him—in the best way, he remembers that. He remembers that once they got into the limousine, they both pretended nothing had happened, joking and laughing about nonsense the way you do when you’re completely drunk. He remembers how Nate’s lips looked pinker after he kissed him, after Chuck had bitten and licked his lower lip. It was the same shade Serena’s lips had when she wore lip gloss—except Nate’s were better. They didn’t leave a bitter aftertaste, the color didn’t fade, and most importantly—they were Nate's lips.