NEW AND IMPROVED VERSION!

Every summer since after sixth grade, when they had started going out at the end of the year, Blair implored Nate to send her love letters while she was away, an idea she found terribly romantic. Every year, Nate forgot. The summer before Junior year, Blair , while snooping through Chuck's room finds a stack of letters, one for each summer Nate forgot, unsent in unsealed envelopes. (before season one).

A/N: Let me start by saying thank you to all the amazing people who reviewed and favorited this story, it means a lot to me. My writing has significantly improved since I first wrote this, and I found myself cringing as I re-read it a few weeks ago. It was then that I resolved to improve it (you all who suffered through the first one are made of hardy stuff XD). Think of this as in honor of the third season and C&B's new relationship ;)

So, without further ado: check it out!

Love, Chuck

The Summer Before Junior Year

Early July

"Nate!" Blair quickened her graceful, practiced stride, a pleased smile curling her lips at the welcome sight of her boyfriend.

Many times during her two week sojourn in France, she had envisioned this reunion. In the screen of her imagination, the scene would play out like one from the cinema: soft, stirring music would swell and fill the room, accentuating the romance of the moment, and they would walk towards each other slowly, and then with faster and faster steps, until they were joined once more in a dramatic embrace.

However, as had happened many times before, the vision in Blair's head did not reconcile with the banality of real life. This only faintly prickled her, though, for once her face was buried in the smooth fabric of his shirt, reality seemed almost as perfect. After all, with Nate, how could it be any less?

"I missed you," she said in an uncharacteristically soft voice, allowing his arms to heal the wounds of separation she had acquired during the past fortnight.

Nate gave her a vacant [read: stoned] smile. "I missed you too."

Pleased with his response, Blair pecked his lips chastely. Nate relaxed slightly with relief: he had said the right thing.

It was then that the other half of Blair's welcome party coughed pointedly. Blair whirled around at the source of the noise. Her other (scratch that: only, Blair reminded herself bitterly) best friend smirked at her, though even his feigned leer couldn't entirely obscure a look of faint disgust. Perhaps he had some bad foie gras...

"Bass," she greeted him coolly, before emitting a tinkling laugh and pulling him into a brief hug.

"Waldorf, stunning as ever." Chuck politely kissed her cheek. Nate made no indication that he cared, or even noticed his friend's lips in the vicinity of those of his significant other. Chuck observed Blair's mahogany eyes involuntarily sweep the private terminal. Only a flicker of disappointment betrayed her dismay at her mother's conspicuous absence. Chuck was not a stranger to the feeling.

Swiftly, Blair masked her disappoint, and turned back to Nate. "You didn't send me any letters," she whined plaintively.

Nate looked blankly at her for a moment, before a flash of recognition (muted by the lulling effects of Mary Jane) flew across his magazine model features. He scratched his head. "Sorry, Blair. I guess I forgot." It was obvious that he considered the offense to be a minor one, though in Blair's mind, an unspoken word echoed painfully: 'Again'.

She sighed quietly, unwilling to display the (half-expected, if truth be told) dismay that coiled her stomach. Out of the corner of her eye, Blair saw Chuck stare at her with a cryptic expression. Blair glared at the luridly-dressed teen, resenting his irritating ability to see through her façade. He raised his eyebrows, and a corner of his mouth tugged up knowingly. Nate, as per usual, was oblivious to this wordless exchange. With some effort (and years of practice), Blair suppressed the scream of frustration that threatened to rip from her throat.

Since she and Nate had started dating in seventh grade, every summer Blair told her hapless boyfriend to send her love letters when she was away on vacation, and idea she found terribly romantic.

Every year, Nate forgot.

Nate seemed to sense Blair's disappointment and did some fast thinking (remarkable in itself considering the amount of pot he had inhaled in Chuck's limo on the way to the airport). Unfortunately, this miraculous burst of brain power yield no results. Over Blair's thin shoulder he saw Chuck, who was mouthing something at him.

He over Blair's shoulder at Chuck who was mouthing something at him.

"Um—how about I take you to dinner tonight? To make up for it," he suggested, encouraged by Chuck's urging nods.

"That sounds perfect," said Blair, breathing out the last word and smiling demurely. "It appears Eleanor left for Milan just in time for my return, so that should be do-able."

For a second time, she lightly pressed her lips to Nate's, who looked relieved to have placated his mercurial girlfriend. Satisfied, Blair peered down the escalator to the baggage claim. Taking advantage of her distraction, Nate mouthed 'Thank you' to his friend, who simply nodded and rolled his eyes. Archibald could be really dense sometimes.

"Sweetie?" called Blair. Chuck recognized her sweet tone as one she used when asking for favors. "Could you help Dorota with my bags?"

Nate nodded vaguely and set off at a half-run, eager to put distance between himself and his dangerous-sounding girlfriend (he, too, was familiar with The Voice). Blair and Chuck followed and a more leisurely pace.

"So," started Chuck, "how was the flight?"

This was a rhetorical question, and he smiled slightly in anticipation of the response. Nevertheless, Blair replied (meeting expectations), groaning.

"There needs to be some sort of... before-flight passenger assessment; like parties, some people just should not be allowed in. And don't get me started on the food, I may never forgive Eleanor for accidentally purchasing tickets in coach," Blair spat the last word as if it were some sort of pestilence or cursed oath. She paused before adding, more cheerfully, "Paris was wonderful—thanks for asking—though I don't think I could stand anymore of the non-stop flirtation between Daddy and what's-his-face."

Chuck sighed appreciatively. "Nathaniel's great and all, but I've missed your bitching, Waldorf."

He chuckled and dodged Blair's shoulder bag as she swung it where his head had been located not moments before.

After an eventful half an hour, which included several attempts at transporting all of Blair's luggage, a caffeinated cappuccino when Blair had clearly ordered decaf, and a multitude of crude jokes (courtesy of the one and only Chuck Bass), the group poured into the cavernous, leather-upholstered back of Chuck's limo.

As Blair gazed out the wide, tinted windows at the city she had missed so dearly during her Europe trip, Chuck covertly tilted his head towards the blond boy next to him.

"Don't forget flowers," his hushed reminder hissed into his friend's ear. Nate's face adopted a look of befuddlement intermingled with surprise. Chuck shook his head in amazement.

August

"I understand perfectly," Chuck intoned into his phone. His back was turned away from her, but Blair could clearly hear the resigned timbre in his voice, not unlike the whimpers of a loyal puppy, kicked by its owner. From the involuntary clenching spasms of his free hand, the thumb of which was hooked into the pocket of his dark trousers, Blair knew he was speaking to his father.

"Yes," Chuck continued, turning slightly and stealing a glance at Blair. She looked at him questioningly. "Yes, father. I'll be right up."

He hesitated for the briefest of moments, as if waiting for something. But, not evidently not receiving it, he snapped his phone shut with a distasteful expression and a mutter that sounded like "Goodbye to you, too."

Chuck's dark eyes found Blair, who was seated daintily on the couch, next to her perched a bowl of popcorn (provided by the well-meaning Dorota) and a DVD case.

He sighed. "My father has requested my presence. I should be back soon." His expression turned mischievous. "Don't do anything naughty until I return, after which all misbehavior shall be encouraged." He winked at her saucily.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Blair replied, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "Bye, Chuck."

"Excellent," said Chuck with false seriousness, and then added with a leer, "I would be so disappointed if I were absent when the Blair Waldorf's feeling frisky."

"You must be familiar with disappointment then."

"Touché, Waldorf."

"You know you love me," Blair called teasingly in a sing-song voice at his retreating form. As he unlocked the door, Blair thought she heard Chuck utter something indistinct in reply. However, before she could ask him to repeat himself, he had left and shut the entrance to his suite quietly behind him.

"You have no idea, Waldorf."

In a way, Chuck has become her replacement for the AWOL Serena, every Wednesday evening of the summer (excluding the two weeks for which she was absent in France) she and Chuck had staged a movie night—alternating houses (or in Chuck's case, suite) every time. Deviously, Blair had tested his resilience, playing progressively more romantic—and sometimes, cheesier—movies, sporadically gaging his reactions throughout whatever film she had selected for the evening.

Unlike the increasingly distant Nate, who preferred gunfights and explosions and who complained whenever she chose any sort of romantic movie (besides the kind with scantily-clad gunfighting women), Chuck would halfheartedly grumble about her selection, but would docilely watch with her the whole way through, uncomplaining until the end, when he would jokingly question her taste and judgment.

Tonight, it was Chuck's turn to be the evening's host, and Blair had—with cruel intentions in mind—selected Titanic, the ultimate chick flick, as the night's entertainment. Now she waited for Chuck's father to release him from his clutches so they could start the film.

Ten dull minutes passed before Blair's phone buzzed. She snatched it from the coffee table and flipped it open.

Bart late, be back ASAP - C

Blair Waldorf was anything but idle, so, as movie-viewing was postponed at the moment, she decided to occupy herself through other means. From her post on the sofa, she surveyed the length of Chuck's suite, granting it more consideration and attention than she usually did. It was handsomely (and no doubt, professionally) decorated, looking more like a wealthy New Yorker's bachelor pad than the refuge of a sixteen-year-old troubled child. Blair threw the cashmere blanket off her lap, and, smoothing imaginary creases from her navy skirt, set off on an exploratory expedition of Chuck's abode.

Chuck was unusually neat for a guy; the only mar in the otherwise impeccable room was his garish scarf, which was tossed haphazardly over the back of a chair. From the ajar door of his (quite large, truth be told) closet, she could see that all of his equally loud clothes were folded or hung tidily, without wrinkles (Blair suspected a maid played some part in this).

In his bathroom (which Blair only peaked in, who knows what sort of things... or girls... could be lurking in there), she momentarily scowled at the piece of her reflection visible before giggling at his collection of beauty products, which rivaled her own (not that she would ever tell him, or anybody else, that).

Blair made her way over to Chuck's bed and sat down, ignoring the comments she knew Chuck would make about her location bubbling up in her head. On his bedside table, next to a glossy hotel phone, were two framed photographs. One she recognized as a snapshot from the beginning of Sophomore year: she, Serena, Nate, and Chuck on the brick wall between their two schools, all glowing with the sense of accepted entitlement that came with being born into their world.

The other picture she had seen before, but had never given much thought. It was black and white and resembled a Vogue advertisement from decades past. It depicted an imperious and proud looking woman, whose angular but beautiful features were strikingly similar to Chuck's. With a pang, Blair realized the woman must be Chuck's mother, who died in a plane crash when he was six. She gingerly replaced the frame; she found it poignant that Chuck Bass of all people had a picture of his mother next to his bed.

As her hand left the wooden frame, something else caught her eye. The drawer of the cherry wood bedside table was slightly open, as if the owner had closed it hastily. She gently eased the drawer open, curiosity piqued. She couldn't shake the odd feeling that she was prying, doing something... illegal.

She told herself not to be ridiculous; this was Chuck. He never hid anything about himself -- he forced the world into acceptance of his faults.

Blair inspected the contents, moving aside suspicious foil packets (with as little skin contact as possible) and rummaging through the revealed cluttered depths. She found that, besides a copy of Playboy (which she removed using her headband as a lever - she'd have to burn it later), there was not much else in the drawer besides a small tin box, some matchboxes, and a stack of letters.

At the zenith of this pile was a crisp envelope bearing her name and the address of her father's flat in Paris. Her brow furrowed in befuddlement, and she reached out and removed the letter...

Only to find the next one displaying her name as well, only instead with the address of the hotel in Rome the summer before that she had stayed at with her mother and the ex-best friend formerly known as Serena. Resolved, Blair withdrew the entire stack.

She spread the letters out on the bedspread, and found there to be five of them - each with her name and the address of wherever she had vacationed during some summer.

Blair picked up the oldest one (addressed to the prestigious Athens hotel she had stayed at before seventh grade) and made to open it. They're addressed to me; they're my letters, she told herself, brushing off the sudden warning bells ringing from her conscience.

She extracted the letter from the envelope and scanned the first few sentences. Blair felt her jaw drop Serena-finding-limited-edition-Manolos-in-her-size style.

It was a love letter; the kind of letter Blair had so desperately wanted from Nate.

Nate had forgotten, Chuck hadn't.

He had written her a love letter - the sheepish and possibly sneering Chuck Bass equivalent of a love letter, but a love letter nonetheless.

Hands shaking, she briefly inspected and replaced the other letters and found that they too, were love letters. Blair took a deep breath and returned to the earliest one. She began to work through the lefty scrawl of twelve-year-old Chuck.

Dear Waldorf,

I know you wanted Nathaniel to send you one of these, but I doubt he'll remember to write one. Anyway, because of my best friend's total incompetence, I am going to write to one instead. That's the only reason. It's not like I like you or anything. If this is complete crap [to the left of this Blair saw 'shit' crossed out, she remembered how angry she got when anyone of her friends swore back then] , I'm sorry. I predictably have never written one of these before.

I don't think you hear this enough at home or from a certain best friend of mine, but you are the prettiest girl I have ever met, way better looking than that slut Ariana Montgomery, who had the nerve to insult your headbands behind your back last week (don't worry, I dealt with her). Even prettier than Serena (though I know you don't think so). I know that you love Nathaniel and that you think I'm "heinous" (your words) and a perv (you know you love it), but I can't help but wish... [here too there was a chunk scribbled out, though significantly larger than the last one].

Also, I'm sorry if I ever touch/smell/play with your hair, it's mesmerizing and I can't help it. Your hair smells good, like flowers. But I think must be allergic to your shampoo or something, though, because my stomach churns when I smell it. God, that sounds mean. I'm not trying to be mean. It's kind of like the stomach flu, but in a good way (if that's possible), fluttery. I hope you're having a great time in Athens, take a picture of a nude goddess statue for me. Kidding (sort of).

Love,

Chuck

p.s. I'm probably never going to get the guts to send this, I don't even know why I'm writing the p.s. to tell you that.

After reaching the end of the 'p.s.', Blair continued to stare in wonder at the piece of paper in her hands. She had never heard Chuck act so... sweet before. Sure, he was nearly always charming, but in a different, more sleazy 'I want to get in your pants and I know you'll let me' sort of way. She attempted to wrap her mind around the implications this... letter (she couldn't bring herself to say 'love letter' in connection to Chuck), but couldn't; it was too excessively... strange.

The next letter was addressed to her cabana in Tulum, where she had passed a fortnight before the start of eighth grade lounging by turquoise water, basking in the blazing Mexican sun. She had returned with a tan, but her hair refused to lighten with streaks of sun; back then she had been desperately jealous of Serena's golden locks, especially the odd, hypnotizing power they seemed to have over Nate. Though now more proud of her chocolate tresses than she was then, she felt a twinge of old envy, which seemed to reverberate through the years from the memories this old letter resurrected. Blair stifled the uncomfortable, but familiar feeling of self-doubt, and began to read.

B,

I reminded Nathaniel to write to you yesterday, but I think he was too stoned to understand what I was saying (blame Carter, my hands are clean on this one), so I wouldn't get my hopes up. I don't understand how someone as smart as you are could date someone like that. No offense to Nathaniel, who is my best friend, he tends to lie on the more thickheaded end of the spectrum. You're probably tanning on a beach right now. Serena told me how you were trying to lighten your hair with the intense sunlight there (and which we lack in the city). I think that's stupid. Your hair is perfect, I like it dark. It sort of looks like spun chocolate.

I wish you would come back from Mexico. We're in the Hamptons (duh), but Nate and I aren't doing much. We've played video games and gone to the beach mostly, but there isn't a hell of a lot to do here with you gone, Nate always high (again, not my fault), and Serena trekking down the steady path to whoredom (you can thank Georgie for that).

Speaking of her, I think Georgina knows I like you. She's a psychotic creep, I can't believe I ever--- never mind. She is always mentioning you around me, and giving me that knowing look of hers. I hope she's just guessing. She better not know.

No one can know. No one can know how much I want to hold your hand, how much I want to be the one who gets to kiss you instead of Nathaniel, how much I want to buy you nice presents randomly (Nathaniel totally fails at that, by the way, I have to walk him through it every time, it's ridiculous). No one can know, not even you.

Love,

Chuck

For the first time, Blair was overwhelmed with an uneasy feeling of intrusion; she knew she was looking at something Chuck would rather wear monochrome for the rest of his life than let her see. However, once more her curiosity trumped her (admittedly, slightly skewed) moral compass, and her thin fingers clasped around the edges of the next archive of an uncharacteristically emotional Chuck... a Chuck Blair had never before encountered.

From the (much neater) script on the front of the smooth white envelope, Blair knew that the letter dated from the trip to Denmark she took with Serena, Lily, and Lily's then-boyfriend, Claus, the summer before freshman year.

Dear Blair,

I don't think Nate gets why you want him to spend the time writing a letter and getting lost in a thesaurus looking up synonyms for 'pretty' (what he thinks a love letter is). I told him that that's not the point, but he just shrugged. I feel inclined to add that I can easily come up with several synonyms on my own without the assistance of some book. Pretty, adorable, sexy, attractive, beautiful, lovely, gorgeous, hot, stunning, breathtaking... OK, I know not all of those literally meant 'pretty', but they all apply to you anyway, so I don't think it really matters.

Denmark for summer vacation? That's not exactly the most tropical destination. I guess you'll have to make do without strutting around in a bikini for two whole weeks (in this regard, I truly pity the Danish, being denied that lovely sight). If I was actually sending this, I'd get a slap for that when you return. But it's true. Anyway, I look forward to the return of my partner-in-crime. Nathaniel's great and all, but he refuses to purchase clothing or sabotage our peers with me.

Fuck, this letter took a shitload of attempts and even more scotch. The last draft I wrote last night before collapsing into an alcohol-induced slumber was very inelegant. I guess you would have to be drunk to not realize how unbelievably stupid "Dear Blair, I thought you should know I'm in love with you, love, Chuck" sounds (though I must admit, it is impressively articulate considering how much alcohol I had consumed by that point).

I guess confessing it that way, in a complaint, doesn't sound much better either. I'm not very good at this. I hope someday I can actually tell you in person instead of in a fucking letter that I'll never send (though the chances of me having the nerve to do either is about as likely as you and Nate splitting for good). I don't know what good it would do anyway (if you guys had broken up, unicorns existed, and hell froze over all contributing to rendering us in a romantic relationship). I'd be shit at being a boyfriend and you deserve better than a fuck up like me anyways. I guess that's why you're with perfect Nate. I'm going to stop now, as I'm sounding progressively more pathetic.

One last thing: even though me and Serena aren't there to watch you, you shouldn't do what you normally do with food. Yes, I know. I can't comprehend how you could do that to yourself, you're perfect.

Love,

Chuck

p.s. Don't you dare worry about those high school girls. Those skanks won't know what hit them.

Blair couldn't help the wave of self-pity and supreme disappointment wash over her: Why couldn't Nate have done this? Why couldn't he ever bother to write to her, telling her she was beautiful and sexy and that he loved her? No, it had to be Chuck Bass. Blair bitterly thought that this was just another one of life's ironies coming to bite her.

She couldn't even begin to let his gargantuan admittance sink in - it was too unbelievable, too unlikely. Chuck Bass didn't love anyone... other than perhaps himself. The very idea of them, Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck, as anything other than scheming partners and best friends was ludicrous.

Wiping her eyes carefully, so as to not smudge her makeup, Blair, more hesitantly than before, grabbed the next envelope. She knew it would be from her vacation in Rome, where she spent two weeks with her mother and (as always) Serena, basking in the Italian sunshine, shopping, and speaking broken Italian to cute Mediterranean-looking guys.

Blair,

I wasn't going to write again after my royal fuck up of a last letter (not to mention the fact that I am in no way ever letting you see these letters), but I couldn't stop thinking about you (god, that makes me sound like a lovestruck preteen girl). And now here I am, writing a love letter to my best friend's girlfriend, who happens to be most gorgeous girl I have ever had the pleasure to be acquainted with, along with deliciously wicked (I thought I should let you know, Blair, that you in scheming bitch mode is pretty effing sexy). And the best part? I can never have her.

Nathaniel bother to inform me yesterday that you and Serena had jetted off to Rome (I inquired about your location as this season's stuff has just been unveiled at Saks and I was going to invite you shopping, not that I told him that. He'd only ask if my player behavior was a cover up for my secret attraction for men. Unlikely as it's a cover up for my secret attraction to his girl friend, who I am completely in love with. I didn't tell him that either, obviously). Don't flirt with too many Italian guys, OK? It could be constituted as torture for them to be beguiled by a doe-eyed, brown haired-vixen and to get nowhere with her I sympathize with them). Not to mention I'd have to kill them (perhaps not personally, but I would hire someone, my sympathy only stretches so far). Neither of these scenarios would be beneficial to international relations. So, for the sake of world peace, Waldorf, please don't (though I know you will anyway, especially while under the influence of the coquettish Serena van der Woodsen). We are definitely going to go shopping when you return. Just don't tell Nate, he'll laugh at me.

Love,

Chuck

Blair gave a watery laugh as she finished the penultimate letter. She recalled not hours after stepping off the plane back, Chuck showing up at her house insisting that they needed to head to Fifth Ave. ASAP (which wasn't too hard to do considering the location of her house, they needed only to step out her front door).

Perhaps because Chuck's plight so resembled the overdone plotlines of the romantic and cheesy rom-com movies she loved and forced him to watch with her, Blair's eyes glistened and stung with unshed tears. She sniffed; it was suddenly so transparent why he was always available, not to mention willing, to watch a movie with her; why he never complained about her selection.

However, unlike the clichéd story lines they devoured every Wednesday evening, Blair was painfully aware that Chuck would never have his happy ending; she was hopelessly in love with Nate - always had been, always would be. Someday, they'd get married and everything would turn out okay, everything would be absolutely perfect - she'd make sure of it. The mere suggestion of her life unfolding any other way was preposterous.

Blair ached for her friend, who now played a role in the imaginary movie of her life that she never foresaw.

With a heavy heart pulled the final letter from its envelope; the letter from merely a month before.

Dear Blair,

I've thought a lot about what you said to me about Bart. I've been trying to assimilate myself into the business and his role in it, learning how it works and operates. How to succeed. I'm determined to this year prove to him that I'm not the lazy, good-for-nothing though good-looking waste of time he thinks I am (though I will not deny that I am quite dashing... admit it, Blair). Granted, he always blows me off, but... I don't know, I guess you make me want to be a better person. Less of a fuck up. You're the only one who seems to believe in me, which is saying something as you are my (second) toughest critic. I'm definitely going to need your help with an idea I have - I'll tell you about it later when I've done more research and assembled more information.

Moving on, Nathaniel told (more like bragged to) me about how you were considering not waiting anymore to... well, you know. I can't help cringe and feel physically sick, like I'm going to throw up, when I think of you and Nate sleeping together. Nate will probably disappoint you anyway (that's the jealousy talking, I have no way of knowing how Nathaniel is in the sack, despite what my hilariously deluded father believes). You two seem happy together, the storybook couple, so I guess I'll help you two out. I know how much your v-card means to you, and want your first time to be as perfect as you have ever secretly wished it would be (don't even deny it, Waldorf, I know you too well).

You've been through so much this year and it has killed me to watch you hurt so much. But I can never show too much, can never give my secret away. I know you'd be disgusted if you know, and that kills me too. However, I'm glad that we've become closer though I'm sorry it's at the sake of Nathaniel becoming more distant. I know you worry about that. I don't understand how my asshole of a best friend could ever not pay attention to you at all times. He gets to touch you whenever, gets to hold you whenever. I don't see how he could hold back. If I was with you I'd give you all the attention you deserve. I'd never hurt you, only if you broke my heart. But, seeing as I can never reveal or give my heart to you, there is little chance of that ever happening. The red lipstick you have chosen as your trademark doesn't help in the least by the way, it's rather distracting from my whole "pretend not to be utterly smitten with Blair Waldorf" plot (ironically one of the few plots we have never worked together on). Anyhow, give my regards to Harold and the bf.

Love,

Chuck

Blair jumped as she glanced at the small clock on her enV screen; Chuck would be returning shortly. She swiftly re-stuffed the envelopes into the drawer in a frenzy and reviewed the area to make sure nothing looked out of place. Her subterfuge complete, Blair returned to her spot on the couch and encased herself in the blanket, hoping it would help stifle her shivering.

Her mind spun as sundry aspects of Chuck's personality fell into place, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. With sudden clarity and insight, Blair realized how much more respect he showed her, more than any other female, how he would drop anything (or anyone) he was doing to come to her aid, ... how he sometimes gazed at her with that peculiar look on his face.

Chuck Bass' unrequited passion for her was an unforeseen obstacle in her way to her perfect, scrupulously plotted out life. With a small frown of resignation Blair knew instinctively - for the good of them both - Chuck Bass needed to fall out of love with her. It would be her most difficult operation yet, and the first she would have to carry out without her partner-in-crime.

What she needed to do, however, was despairingly obvious... and heart-wrenchingly cruel.

She was uncomfortably (but for a different reason this time) aware that the day after, Nate would eagerly relate all the dirty details to Chuck, who would then (hopefully) get over his ridiculous infatuation (Blair was perfectly aware that it was more than an infatuation, but she preferred to think of it that way - it was far easier to think of Chuck as only briefly entranced by something).

That being completed, the pair could go back to being just friends (which is what they were now, but the state of their relationship seemed oddly blurred), and Blair would pretend she had never read the letters... and that she had never intentionally hurt him.

She needed to sleep with Nate.

Blair felt the relief she usually did when she was resolved on a course of action, but this time for whatever reason, the feeling was slightly tainted.

Blair gave a start as she heard the bolts of the entrance door groan, giving way to a disgruntled looking Chuck Bass. Hoping desperately that Chuck wouldn't notice her quaking hands and burning cheeks (under normal circumstances, this would be unlikely; Chuck was one of the most observant people she knew), Blair asked hesitantly, "What did Bart want?"

"Oh, the usual. Wanted to know why I drink so much, what he did to be burdened with such a disappointment of a son, why I dress like a gay man on crack." Blair's eyes automatically drifted to Chuck's lurid lavender and lime getup. "His words, not mine. It's not my fault I look so good in purple."

Blair suppressed the wave of compassion she felt for her friend, knowing that Chuck would resent pity for his situation. Instead, she opted to lighten the mood (and perhaps her own gnawing sense of guilt).

She snickered awkwardly and said, "I can't say that I disagree with him on the last one. You look like a frosted cupcake."

Chuck grinned deviously. "So bite me."

"Ew, I'd rather not."

He rolled his eyes. "Love you too, Waldorf."

At his quip, Blair sucked in her breath. She immediately regretting this automatic overreaction to Chuck's empty sarcastic response, but Chuck was turned away from her, fiddling with the DVD player. Blair's eyes unwillingly traveled to the firmly shut bedside table, before returning to Chuck, who was examining her chosen movie. She could practically hear him roll his eyes.

"Seriously, Blair? Titanic?"

She frowned, playing her part well, "What's wrong with Titanic?"

"It's only the epitome of the chick flick genre," he pointed out, clearly questioning her sanity.

"Oh shut up you big baby, you'll love it."

The pair settled down on the sofa, and the movie began. Periodically, Blair gave Chuck sidelong glances, analyzing his reactions, but his attention seemed to be intently directed at the on-screen romance.

What Blair was unaware of was that Chuck was putting on that show for her benefit, spending most of the movie watching her instead.

As Jack froze in Rose's arms, Blair, her eyes sparkling with tears (she always cried at the same parts of movies, no matter how many times she had seen them), rested her head on Chuck's shoulder. Chuck briefly glanced down at her, but made no comment.

As the credits rolled, Blair kissed Chuck's cheek and said, sincerity ringing in her voice, "Thanks for watching that with me."

Chuck was caught by surprise and remained silent for a few moments. Blair immediately panicked, had she done the wrong thing? Why she making things so awkward? She was preparing to apologize for her rashness when he finally turned to her—smirk in place—and replied smoothly:

"For you, Waldorf? Anytime."

She knew he meant it.

Three months later, intoxicated by champagne, dancing, and an exhilaration of freedom she had never felt before, she met his lips in the back of his dark limo. He then pulled away and proved he meant it.

In actions, not heartfelt confessions, not scribbled letters, he verified his love for her, asking her the question he had never considered asking anyone else.

... So she silenced him with her lips and took the plunge.

The plan she had originally concocted that August evening was not put into action until a month after that kiss. It was a month so completely off the Blair Waldorf Normalcy Meter that she felt herself spinning out of control. Drowning in a feeling that she had dove too deep into uncharted waters and overwhelmed with a need to surface and return to her prior, monotonous but enticingly familiar life, Blair committed the most ruthless deed she had ever carried out. With the thrum of music from the cotillion dance hall reverberating in the background of the ornate upstairs landing, she followed Nate into that dark room, feeling Chuck's anguished eyes on her back

A/N: Woohoo! That took quite a bit of time. You might have (if you had read the old version) noticed that I made very few, if any at all, edits to the letters (for a reason - I feel their more realistic in their rough form). I did, however, make significant changes with the rest of the piece.

Tell me what you think!