mandag 25. mai 2009


Non-judging Breakfast Club, Oscar night

Nate looks like someone out of The Breakfast Club as he skids on Dorota's recently waxed floor, hands grabbing for the corner of Blair's dresser as his feet nearly slide out from under him. Serena doesn’t even bother trying to stifle a laugh when Nate rushes in, bowl of popcorn precariously close to tipping over.

"Did I miss him?" he wheezes, face flushed and out of breath.
"Relax, Tinkerbell," Chuck says, rolling his eyes, "Wall-E isn't actually going up to the stage to accept the Oscar, you know?"
"You're just cranky because it made you cry!" Serena scoffs.
"I had something in my eye!"
"Both times?" Blair asks incredulously.


Since they're all used to being special, they have a system when it comes to birthdays.

Chuck celebrates his for a solid week, because I'm Chuck Bass reason enough to justify strip clubs and seven days of a steady diet of desserts and booze (this is how Serena learns to hold her liquor), but Blair forces herself to keep from complaining about it all going to her thighs; "You're gorgeous even with a mouthful of cheesecake," Nate constantly reminds her.

Serena's birthday festivities are always the day before because she's too wasted to do anything the day after the party for the masses. Three Red Bulls each to keep up with the wild child, their hearts beat to the tune of whatever the DJ is playing in the club that night. It's table-dancing and bar-hopping and hangovers on top of hangovers. The year that Serena's in Hanover, Blair misses the buzz of too much too fast too soon.

Nate prefers things to be more low-key, post-birthday smokes and Lil' Wayne in surround sound, all complaints met with "Shut up. He's a poet!" He subjects them to a Die Hard-Rocky marathon combo, explosions interrupted with the sound of fists pounding against Stallone's flesh. Serena makes the mistake of suggesting Fight Club one year – "At least Brad is nice to look at!" – and the price is two hours of watching Rambo unleash his fury. Nate watches infomercials the year he burns his bridges.

Blair being Blair, they always have to celebrate on the exact day and always with a party. Designer hats and tiaras traded in for free flowing Dom Pérignon and diamond necklaces, save the date is emblazoned in the back of their minds for all of eternity. As with all Waldorf shindigs, there's a certain order to things: Nate's in charge of the birthday call, fingers hitting speed dial as soon as the second hand hits twelve (except that one year, but they don't talk about that); Serena is on cake duty, weeks spent gauging whether the queen is in the mood for chocolate or vanilla (there were cupcakes the year she was away, an assortment of flavors to choose from because Dorota wanted to play it safe); the only responsibility Chuck has is to keep from sexually harassing anyone – "Three hundred and sixty four days, you can roofie as many unsuspecting souls as you want, Bass, but this is the one night that I would like everyone's virtue in tact!" – so he crosses his nonexistent heart and promises (except that one year, but they really don't talk about that). If she could, Blair Waldorf would have her birthday turned into an internationally recognized holiday.

Avoid me over breakfast?

"Don't your kind burn when they get fifty feet within a church, Bass?"
"I'll risk the tan," he replies. "Need a lift?"
"See, that would make it hard to avoid you."
"Careful, my feelings might get hurt if you keep talking like that."
"And wouldn't that be a shame?"
"Avoid me over breakfast, Waldorf," he says, throwing open the door. "I'm starving here."

She should tell him to shove his Belgian waffles up his ass. Surely that's what her spiritual advisor would want her to do – maybe Pops wouldn't use those exact words because, clearly, he doesn't share her love of vivid imagery – but she has been craving some French toast and it's not like giving the cold shoulder to persistent assholes like Chuck Bass ever really works. If she has breakfast with him, there's a greater chance of her accidentally spilling hot coffee all over his pants. The Big Man Upstairs would approve of her creativity.

"Stay on your side of the limo," she orders, shoving him away as she gets in.
"I always do."

She raises an eyebrow.

"You practically threw yourself at me," he informs her.
"You're delusional."
"I have the tape to prove it," he says, vaguely pointing at the air in front of them.
"You fucking did not!" she gasps, ready to say to hell with creativity and stab him right there with the heels of her Manolos. "I'll kill you—"
"Relax, princess," he smirks. "I'm not Rick Salomon."

She lets out all her breath in a loud whoosh.

"Don't ever do that to me again."
"Again, huh?" he waggles his eyebrows. "Guess I don't have to ask if it was good for you."
"Must not have been too memorable since I've already blocked it out."
"I could refresh your—"
"I could impale you with my sunglasses," she glares, daring him to say anything else.

He doesn't, of course. Chuck Bass may be Rosemary's baby, but he's not a complete idiot


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