Author's Note: Four months ago, I wrote this little oneshot for the very first Chair Week based on these behind the scenes photos of Ed and Leighton. Last night, I found my original draft of the story on my external hard driven hidden amongst old classwork. It (kind of) works as a prologue to the story I ended up posting and while I hate posting out of order, I was encouraged to so...Enjoy!

The music pounds against her sense, plays so loudly that she wonders why the cops haven't been called to break up the party. Her best friend squeals as the song changes; bumps and grinds up against her as the beat pulses louder and louder in her head. The room smells of cheap beer courtesy of Nate's older cousin, and a graduate of P.S. 308 is trying to complete a keg stand without losing his mortarboard in the process.

She rolls her eyes in disgust just as Serena grabs her, pulls her close, and whispers in her ear. She can barely understand her over the music, but the name spoken to her is like ice water to her face and everything freezes when she spies him hovering on the stairs leading into Max Lane's basement.

She turns away, focuses on the way her former classmates are moving to the music. But her best friend has stopped mid-dance, and she has no choice to but face what she has been trying to do since their graduation ceremony this morning. Serena squeezes her hand for encouragement and gives her a confident smile as she tries to urge the brunette to go talk to him.

It's easy for beautiful, sunshiny Serena, she scoffs. Men just fall at her feet and proclaim their love to her.

But she knows that if she doesn't say it now, she'll live with this regret forever. She is not a coward, not the weak-willed person someone on the yearbook staff anonymously labeled her as when they stripped her of the descriptor assigned to her by her classmates for their a cruel prank. The only minor consolation to the scandal had been that the same person labeled Serena as unimportant, although standing in the middle of the Lanes' basement she knows as much as anyone her that simply isn't true.

Her eyes sweep across the room, scanning for any sign of him. She spies him standing over by the Lane's ratty, old couch, watches as a red Solo cup is thrust into his hands. He seems almost grateful for the drink as he drowns it in a single gulp. It is only when he begins to push past their former classmates and head towards the keg in the corner that she begins to do the same. They met before he can fill his cup, and she speaks first before he can greet her with an uninterested smirk.

"I need to talk to you," she informs him with a twinge of anxiousness in her words.

His face is blank as the words are lost in the music, and he raises his hand almost as if to ask her to repeat her words. With a sigh, she motions for him to follow her. He leaves the cup on the sticky table, steps around the puddle of spilled beer on the cracked concrete floor of the basement, and wordlessly follows her through the mass of people to a quieter place than this.

Somewhere along the way, his hand brushes against hers and their fingers entwine until they are holding hands as she leads him to the unlocked storage room in back. Serena had told her about this place, pointed it out almost as soon as they had arrived. She didn't want to know what Serena was doing to know the layout of Max Lane's basement, but for now she is thankful for the knowledge that her best friend's exploits have afforded her.

"I wanna talk," she informs him as she pushes open the door. His head ever so slightly dips so that his mouth is level with her ear, and she shivers ever so slightly when he hotly speaks the words into her ear.

"I prefer to talk after."

Together, they step into the unfinished room lit by a single, bare light bulb in the ceiling. Surrounded by boxes and yet eerily cut off from the noise of the party raging just on the other side of the door, she leads him towards the broken futon stored in the room. There is no telling what – or, who – has been done on this futon, and she tries not to think about it as he sinks down and watches her expectantly.

"What do you think about my sweater?"

He raises an eyebrow at her, sweeps his eyes over the black cardigan she is wearing. He replies that he likes it, asks her why since the question makes no sense to him. She peels it off, lets the cotton fabric slide off her shoulders and fall to the floor.

"And now?"

"Even better."

"And," she asks as she pulls her headband from her hair, "what about my headband?"

"I," he begins as he leans forward on the futon, "admire it."

She lifts her left leg, places her shoe on the futon beside him, and strokes the inside of her thigh. His hand reaches out to follow hers, strokes softly as he expressing his adoration. He watches her next move, shows no betrayal of emotion as she reaches behind her and tugs down the zipper of the dress her mother made her for graduation. The dress falls and puddles at her feet, leaving her clad in her nicest bra and panties from Victoria's Secret.

"I worship it," he informs her as his hands slide to her hips and hers slide to his shoulders and then to his face. She leans forward, hoovers just above him as though she is going to kiss him.

"How do you feel about me?"

She strokes his cheek and chin softly, tries to entice him to speak, and watches with baited breath as he gapes his mouth like a fish. Open. Close. Open. Close.

"Say it."

"I –"

The door to the room is pushed open, interrupting their private moment as another couple comes stumbling into the room. He looks almost grateful in that moment and rather than yelling at the couple to leave, he slides out from under her and heads towards the door. She yanks up her dress, jamming her arms through the sleeves as she tries to follow him out the door.

She yells after him, calls out his name as she tries to catch him before he can blend back into the masses. He shakes her off, heads up the stairs with her hot on his heels. She manages to corner him at the top of the stairs, manages to prevent his smooth exit by slipping her body in front of his just before he reaches the door.

"Leave me alone," he hisses in her face. She shakes her head, advances on him until his back becomes pressed against the laminate wood paneling lining the staircase. The music is loud but not loud enough the cover the roar of her frantic heartbeat in her ears.

"We're just doing what we always do. Finding excuses," she informs him. Her voice is laced with tears, with raw emotion to carries over the music and straight to his ears. "Well, I won't do it anymore."

She appraises him with her eyes, flicks them up and down until he shifts uncomfortably against the wall.

"I know you told Serena you love me."

He tells her that Serena heard wrong, denies that he ever told the blonde what he was feeling. He tries to move past her, tries to exit, but the force of her hand against his shoulder prevents him from going any further.

"Last year, you told Nate. This year, you told Serena. You tell everyone but me. Why can't you tell me?" She asks as she raises her hand and places it against his cheek. "Is the yearbook staff right about you being a coward?"

"That's not true," he snaps, ripping her hand away from his face. "And you know it!"

"The yearbook staff can be right about you all they want, but I won't let them be right about me. I will not be weak anymore."

Her firm voice softens, beckons to him gently as her hand is placed against his cheek once more. And then she cups his face between her hands and forces him to listen to her.

"You can't run. You have to stay here and hear it this time," she informs him. "Chuck Bass, I love you. I love you so much it consumes me. I love you. And I know you love me too."

She waits for a moment, pauses in order to give him the chance to repeat the words back to her. In that brief pause, though, he says nothing and the fear within her wells up.

"Tell me you love me," she implores. "That everything we've done – all the gossip and the lies and the hurt – will have been for something. Tell me it was for something."

He licks his lips, tugs her hands away from his face. Her chin quivers, and she desperately tries to swallow back the sob threatening to escape.

"Maybe it was," he replies before pausing, "but it's not anymore."

He slips past her, opens and shuts the door she had been blocking without any interference on her part. And why would she? The blood flowing through her veins has turned to ice; no longer pumped by something other than a broken heart.