Title: The Perfect Year

Summary: Sixteen had been not so sweet, seventeen had been worse, but eighteen, eighteen was going to be perfect.

Author Note: I started writing this before 2X04, so the Marcus/Catherine thing didn't happen.

'It takes an endless amount of history to make even a little tradition.'
(Henry James)

Tradition was croissants and Tiffany's on Sunday.

Tradition was going to the same college as your parents, your parent's parents and your grandparent's parents.

Tradition was finding yourself, the day before your birthday, right after you've broken up with your boyfriend (he threw a hissy fit when he found out you knew all about Catherine's affair), sweaty and not caring because the way your body was entangled with his makes you feel alive. You're finding your hands in his hair, his mouth on yours, your bodies pressed against each other, working as one in perfect unison, the way the two of you have always worked together so perfectly since you were children, plotting the demise of your classmates for your own amusement.

You lay in his arms, pretending to be asleep while he watches you, and then you lay there a little while longer (not because you like the way his arms are around you, as if you're his, but because you want to make sure he's definitely asleep). You gather your clothes, making sure not to leave any evidence you were there, even though you're positive 'I just fucked Chuck Bass' is tattooed upon your forehead, and every other place he kissed you. You try not to wake his parents, his brother, or your best friend, as you leave, shooting glares at the servants to make sure they keep quiet about you ever being there.

Then and there, you decide you hate traditions.

You wake up a few hours later, feeling hot and sticky and in desperate need of a shower. An ominous feeling comes over you. A feeling of deja vu.

Determined that this year is not going to go the same way as the last, you make a 'to do' list.

1. Get into Yale
2. Avoid all males (if you're going to get into Yale, you don't need any distractions).
3. Act nicer (Karma is a bitch after all)

In an act to officially wipe the slate clean, or, perhaps, in an effort to indulge your nostalgia, you go to confession (and you studiously ignore the fact that he may have déjà vu too. He wouldn't go there, would he?)

You make another deal with God that this year will be better than the last, after all, he did send your boyfriend back to you, both of them in fact, if, perhaps, a little too late.

You ignore the black limo trailing you as you leave the church, and you manage to escape without a confrontation, even if it would match today's theme, because the repetitiveness is starting to give you a headache.

However, you do go to the store to have some pieces put on hold, before ringing up later to see if any of the pieces have been collected.

They have.

You study your reflection in the mirror when you see him enter the bedroom where you have come to escape the party. You can't muster up a look of surprise, because, deep down inside, you knew he'd follow you.

You close your eyes as he puts his hands on your waist, tucks your hair behind your ear and leans in and whispers "happy birthday", his breath hot against your cool skin.

You keep them closed as he gathers your hair and pins it all up with the large gold vintage butterfly clip you put on hold, specifically for him.

You keep them closed as he kisses your shoulder, you neck, and every place in between. You resist the urge to turn around and kiss him back, because there's a bed in the corner and that is not how tonight was supposed to go.

You tell him that too, once you've finally found the self-control to resist him. You tell him this, but you can't look him in the eye, so you stare at his shoulder but you can practically see the bruises that must be there (you had sunk your teeth into him to muffle your euphoric cries the night before), so you look at the wall instead. You tell him that the last year has caused you enough heartbreak and hurt to last you a lifetime, and you don't want this year to go the same way.

He tells you it won't, but you know whatever he says won't make a difference, because when you're together, you can't help but hurt each other.

Then you leave; it's time to blow out your candles.

You're grateful for his present; it stops your hair getting into the icing or the candles. You take a deep breath and blow them all out. Your eyes meet his and you silently pull his gift from your hair, making sure you don't hurt yourself with the claw grips; you're hurting enough already.

Looking into his eyes which have the same look that must be mirrored in your own; you know that he knows that you didn't wish for them.

You're planning a charity ball for Saturday night (it's for the eagles or something that live in the park) when Eva the sophomore, who you've decided is to be your prodigy (she's got just the right amount of class and bitch), starts questioning you about whether you're taking a date or not.

The answer is no. Many have asked you, but you've turned them all down. You tell her that whilst you've always gone with a date to every party you've ever planned, you're straying away from tradition this year and flying solo.

It's only when you see a picture of her talking to Chuck Bass on Gossip Girl that day that you realise why she had a sudden interest in your love life. Whilst it is juvenile to get someone else to find out whether you're seeing someone, you can't help but feel a surge of pleasure.

It's January and there is grey snow covering the pavement and a blustery wind blowing your hair in your face. Your boots are getting ruined but you don't care. This is the day you've been waiting for you're whole life.

You had woken early, nerves fluttering in your stomach that reminded you of another sensation that you a long learnt to quell. You rang the lobby every few minutes to see if your mail had finally arrived but when the white envelope was in your hands, not too thin, not too fat, you had an overwhelming desire to throw up, crawl under you covers and hide.

Your shaking hands managed to tear it open, Dorota watching your reaction, armed with Kleenex- in case you don't get it- and your phone- so you can call your father right away if you do.

Relief, joy and happiness had washed over you; the smile hadn't left your face yet. You had insisted upon mailing your letter accepting your place yourself, braving the cold and the snow.

It's only when it begins to sleet that you regret your decision. You try to hail a cab but unless you have long blond hair, they aren't going to stop. The black limo pulls up beside you and you are torn. Do you get in or wait for a cab. You remember your boots are suede; you get in.

You push out the memories of all the times you have been in this limo and are grateful to see it has been reupholstered.

You tell him you got into Yale and he congratulates you; he actually seems genuinely please for you. You question him about whether he has received any acceptances either. He replies vaguely, saying a few.

You're not sure why, but when he drops you off at your building, even offering to walk you up (you decline), you tell him you're planning to have a little get together later to celebrate and would he like to come?

He accepts and you ignore the fluttering in your stomach; it must be nerves about your dream of going to Yale coming true.

All the way up the elevator you curse yourself for asking him tonight. Not because you don't want him there, but because you haven't actually got anything planned.

Later that night when you've pulled something together and the turn out is far better than you expected, Serena informs you Chuck, too, got into Yale.

You're body freezes in shock, your eyes widen, and your butterflies flutter.

You take a bite out of the ripe red strawberry, trying to shake off the feeling that something is wrong, when you realise what it is. Gabby Klein (some wannabe that's really annoying but has her uses) is sitting on exactly the same step as you. You frown to yourself. When did this happen, and why didn't you notice? You must have been so busy you didn't even notice. Or maybe, a part of you acknowledges, that without your partner-in-crime to keep you focused, you forget about what's really important; staying on top. (You're inner Chuck Bass makes many crude remarks, but you ignore them because you are trying hard to stop thinking about him.)

You immediately resolve to do something about it, because when you, Is, Hazel and Penelope leave for college, you're not leaving your throne to her. You've been preparing Eva for that honour.

A few nights later, at a party conveniently at her house, you see her flirting with Chuck. You decide your plan has to be kicked into action sooner than you had originally planned. By sooner you mean now.

As chaos, created and directed by you, happens all around you, he raises his scotch glass, and you raise your glass in return, a slight smile on your lips.

Oh, how you had missed causing mayhem.

A small contented smile sits on your face as you push your bare feet through the wet sand. Usually, you detest the sand, it gets everywhere, but just this once, you don't mind. Nothing could ruin this night.

Not even when he comes and sits next to you on your red blanket. You both sit there, silent, staring out to sea. He congratulates you on an amazing senior party, and you accept his comment silently, because, after all, it has turned out to be a major success. The boat ride to the island had gone smoothly, and everything here was just completely perfect; the perfect way to say goodbye to high school and all the things you were leaving behind. Yes, this was definitely one of the best senior parties ever.

All of your senses are on red alert and him being a mere few inches away, the closest he's been for almost a year. You become aware of your heart starting to beat erratically, your breathing becoming shallower and hope he doesn't notice because you don't want him to know that he still manages to have that effect on you.

The silence between you, awkward and yet comfortable, is broken by small droplets of rain hitting your bare arms, before the heavens open up. You stand up your face falling, the bonfire in the distance dwindling out, the rest of your ex-classmates running for cover. You are torn between crying or screaming or both; everything is ruined.

Maybe he sees the look of anguish on your face, or maybe he just knows you so well, but before you can have a truly spectacular Waldorf Meltdown, he is grabbing your arm, pulling you close to him, and whispering five words in your ear.

"Blair Waldorf, I-"

Your eyes meet his, your breath catches, your heart stops and time stands still as he whispers the last two words to you. It is truly how the movies say it is.

Suddenly it doesn't matter about the rain or the ruined party because you're clinched in the most passionate kiss of your life and you only have one regret; not taking a deeper breath.

Yes, this is most certainly the best senior party ever.

Once again you find yourself in exactly the same position (and it just happens to be your favourite) but this time you don't mind, because you've realised something; maybe tradition isn't such a bad thing after all.

You both lie tangled up in your Egyptian cotton sheets in your dorm room, fitting exactly into one another, both pieces of the same puzzle, neither wanting to close your eyes and give into sleep, wanting the moment to last forever.

A few hours later, you are awoken by the first light of the morning's sunrise, (you must get darker curtains; they might look good but you do need your beauty sleep). Today was a new day, a new year; you don't know where it'll lead you, but you're willing to take the chance. Everything may not always be perfect, but that's what makes it fun.

Nineteen was definitely going to be a good year.

I don't know what happened; it just came out as the second person even though it was going to be third person, but once I started, I just couldn't stop.

I would really appreciate reviews letting me know how it turned out. x