clean
dan/blair

prologue
—

Her stomach grumbles and she cries.

It's 4:22am and she's invisible. It's 4:22am and she's empty. No one catches her deploring herself, depriving her body, or dying inside. Insecurities bleed from her mirror cracks and her hips wear the scars. It's the all too familiar fall from grace with the dreaded paradox of wanting more, wanting less. She could see the headlines now: Upper East Side 'It Girl' Ruptures Stomach Lining. Tragic, really—except this isn't her first binge, purge or sleepless night. And her own damn 'family' doesn't even notice her.

She first told him about her history of bulimia on a Tuesday. There they were, sitting on The Met steps. She had a Starbucks Caramel Latte in her left hand and an Asiago cheese pretzel beside her. Her dark brown eyes were sparkling from the sun above her, his grey St. Jude's hoodie fit her well enough, matching her glittering beret. She wore a silver Alex and Ani bracelet on her left hand; it had a silver plated piece attached with a symbol engraved. Her brown hair was down, a black hair tie occupied her right wrist, swooping down her back, parted on the right. No matter where he looked though—the V she cut at the neckline, or the way her red lips tilted up when she smiled or the crinkling of her nose as she laughed—he always drifted back to her bracelet.

Dan Humphrey was—
"Quit staring." The words weren't loud but they snapped him out of his own thoughts on her jewelry. She put the coffee she was drinking down, swept her hair to the left. "It means strength," she said.
He opened his mouth to speak, but only licked his bottom lip while she took a breath.
Her bracelet jingled as she played with the ends of her hair; her eyes downcast, hyper focused on her denim jeans. "I…uh…I've…" she never stuttered before, "struggled with an eating disorder…bulimia nervosa."
"Blair," and he let out the lungful he'd been holding. "You know you didn't have to tell me."
"I know."

Blair smiled lightly; it reached her eyes. She popped open the plastic containing her pretzel and looked up at the sun. Then, she laughed. Took a bite. Dan went up a step to meet her where she's at. He watched her chew, her jaw in perfect alignment, mouth closed. She really was the most beautiful girl on UES. Stray hairs attached to her lipstick, so he moved them out of her way, held her face as if it were porcelain. She swallowed and he kissed her.

An hour and an entire make out later, he went home and Googled the shit out of Blair's bulimia.

It's an ordinary thing when hair falls out, save for Blair Cornelia's. They're watching Breakfast at Tiffany's when she places her head on his lap for a while. As she readjusts, locks cascade from her scalp faster than she has an explanation for. The next time he sees her, she keeps bows in her hair. She cuts her already small sandwich into slivers. Picks the chocolate chips out of her breakfast muffin. She says she can't meet him at the art gallery because she's redecorating her bedroom. He cannot stop noticing how white walls match her skin. She asks him if he likes it, and he nods stiffly. You're sick again, baby, he doesn't say.

Dan doesn't do anything either, except follow Waldorf.

"You're not okay."
Blair wants to shrink. She can't pretend to be stupid now. How could she be so dumb, disappearing and leaving a trace? And even if she hadn't, she's always known he'd figure it out eventually. He is God damn observant. Here's her—in her own house—being interrogated. Didn't people have better things to do than stalk her? First, Gossip Girl knows the intricacies of her daily life; second, Dan shadows her into the only private sphere she's ever had. The volume of her thoughts isn't loud enough to drown out Dan's sigh. She can't handle his exasperation this very moment. Please leave.
"You're bulimic again. We're not leaving this bathroom until you get help. I know you've been purging; Darota called me. She says you've been too fucking happy, but I know that's bullshit—you're sad all time and food…you're scared to eat it."
Whispering under her breath is useless. What should she say? That, yeah, she's not better because she keeps going back to Chuck; that his words bruise her? Or even as she's almost in college and her mother still has a hold on her? Social fucking suicide. A part of her tells her to stay. Dan is different. While with him, she doesn't think about destruction, self-loathing or a certain Bass. Just Dan and Blair, Blair and Dan; coffee cups and movie marathons; Manhattan mornings and Brooklyn nights. Just the way she likes it—as much as she hates to admit.
"Call your doctor, love. I'm worried about you."
Dan leans his back against the sink, and Blair pulls the lump out of her throat with her teeth. "I'm fine, Humphrey. I'm eating."
"If you don't call, I will."
"Fine, fine." Blair relents. "Know I'm doing this because I'm sick of listening to your insufferable pushing." She purses her lips.
"Proud of you."
A smile. "Shut up. Hand me the phone and guard the door."

He kisses her cheek, and does as he's told

author's note: [tw: bulimia nervosa]. this piece is very personal to me as i have osfed and arfid. writing this makes me cry. if you're triggered, please don't read this; i promise i won't be offended! ~ i'm back on a fresh slate. i used to be on here lots when i was sick with an eating disorder. the ironic thing is i never thought i was sick; but looking back at my old works from 2014-2015 i realise that i was struggling tons with depression and suicidal thoughts, even an ed. nonetheless, i have since chosen recovery (january 2016). it's been an uphill battle from there though, not all sunny and happy. i spent a lot of time crying and reacting emotionally and anything could've thrown me back down the path towards using behaviours. now two years into my journey, i feel stabilised to say the least. okay so... this is a long note and i really just want(ed) to give an update!