They loved so alike that none can slacken, none can die.
[-]
It is one of those things that will always be a driving wedge between the two of them. She has her hand laced with his fingers and it's all Dan can do to keep from walking out like he doesn't belong.
(And if he's honest with himself, he never has. But she always made him feel like he could be worthy.)
[-]
Their story is old and tired, worn down with resistance and big gestures and wrong timing. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, and thus tragedy ensues. He knows that he sounds crazy and looks motley after a night by her side. Leaving dapper and dashing in black tie and all he can do is hold her gaze across that crowd, gulp down more champagne and pretend that he's seamlessly omnipresent.
But she is Serena. And he watches her slink through the hoards of clingers-on, skin-tight black dress hugging every curve enticingly. Long legs click-clicking with delicate heels and that head of hair cascading in a dangerous wave down her naked back.
He thinks sometimes that she may be the closest thing he has to a drug.
(Christ knows he's overdosed more times than he could ever count.)
[-]
Sometimes they stay in Brooklyn. First editions tossed on his cranberry colored sheets from late night erotic readings, giggles born on her lips and dying on his tongue. Empty take-out containers litter the floor. Half-eaten samosas and pineapple rice decorate the hardwood along with her too fancy dress and his sorry excuse for a nice shirt. Her Jimmy Choos tangled all up in his Humphrey.
Morning sun streams along her skin, making precious slits of satisfaction. She's Aphrodite and Helen of Troy. Dan muses that since he's an English major and all, he should be able to think of more women that she compares to. Correction, that compare to her.
[-]
He loathes the ballet. And charity events. And stupid parties thrown by Blair or Chuck. He hates Damien Daalgard and Juliette Sharpe. He doesn't feel like revenge or scheming or luxury suits and fine assortments of cheeses.
He's Dan fucking Humphrey. He likes literature and coffee shops. He wears a lot of scarves and Henley shirts to give the appearance that, yes, he really is Ernest Hemingway's bastard son. He'd rather go to a foreign film or run records and dance around the loft. He'll make waffles.
But as soon as she commands his attention, he'd rather shack up in the Upper East Side to be at her disposal.
[-]
He's twenty two when he realizes that he's never going to get out of this unscathed. For someone this smart, he should have figured that at sixteen.
She is still so much woman. More than he's ever been able to handle.
(He's at least confident that he is not the only one that feels this way.)
[-]
When she chooses him for the "he lost count" time and leaves him standing stupidly watching her, he sighs again and ducks his head, fumbling towards the grand golden staircase. A hand on the shoulder, an apology wrought on her sin-stained lips. A push, a shove, and his heels hit the steps with so much conviction.
"I'll never do this again," Dan quietly orders himself, furrowed brows and gloved hands reaching for the coffee pot. A quiet loft and nothing but his thoughts for distraction.
(His self deprecating order is bullshit, and two days later he finds himself standing before her yet again, fingers slipping the silk on her collarbone.)
[-]
Sometimes he wonders if he is such a fool for love, not her. After all, he's a writer; he needs this kind of inspiration. A beautiful girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Soul mates torn apart by circumstances beyond their control. It's the kind of stuff that great epic tales are made of.
Isn't it?
[-]
Convincing himself to love Vanessa wasn't difficult. Everything was so simple, easy. He never had to try. It was pirogues and second hand book stores. Falling asleep on the couch in the living room, corners sagging their bodies towards the other. Carefree. Zero drama.
It was boring as hell.
He's addicted to drinks thrown in faces and lines of cocaine on bathroom sinks. Thousand dollar ties, suede loafers, diamonds and rubies. All the finer things in life that a boy from Brooklyn was never meant to understand, yet alone hold close to the hole in his chest, filling it up with sixteen and first love and that happily ever after he knows has to be coming.
[-]
Tell me how to win your heart for I haven't got a clue.
He knows that he has her the moment that they are on the dance floor at her cotillion ball, he's got one hand in her mess of a ponytail and one hand on the swift curve of her hip, dipping her low into the tile floor. And it feels like all those things he reads in his lit books, heart leaping in approval.
He has her again with picnics in the park, taking her punishment for the pool incident, the token I love you that he has said to another girl but never meant until this girl, a beach sleepover, a kiss in the broken doorway of an elevator.
He has her when she's with Nate. He has her when she's with Carter. He has her when she's with Colin, Ben, insert random guy's name here. And how does he know this?
(Because if she's going to choose it is always going to between him and some flavor of the week. He knows this because he's lost count as to how many times it's happened.)
[-]
His father isn't the smoothest man in history. Rufus thinks that chili and waffles are the two main food groups. He likes 70's rock and still believes that his wife finds it sexy. (It's not.) He does however know what to say to a woman to make her know that she is it and always has been.
"Dan, love is the only shocking act left on the planet."
He is his father's son. And he knows it every time he hops in a cab to go all the way across the bridge to shout from the street outside her window. Every time he considers flying the Atlantic when she texts him from Paris. Every time he puts on the same suit and tie and waits in vain for her to appear out of thin air like an ethereal nymph.
It's never going to be over. That's pretty basic, his father tells him, coffee cup in one hand. We're Humphreys, and we fight for what we want. Rufus fought for twenty years. It's a long time, twenty years, but Dan will fight longer if necessary.
[-]
Dan writes their story, rewrites it, tosses it in the trash, downs a glass of whiskey, writes it again.
He will continue to do this until he gets it right. He has plenty of time.