Born-and-bred Upper East Sider, you were. As was Serena, as was Blair; silver-tongues and catty grace was something that ran in all your veins. Though, out of the three of you, Serena had always been the wildest.

Out of control, you’d heard Nate mutter under his breath and to your face, driven the phrase to death. Chuck is less troubled—smirking. Blair is nowhere to be found. S and B were fighting, again. You take one week off in Copenhagen, and now look what happens?

So, here you have NYC's darling splayed comfortably in your lap. Serena's cupping your cheeks, glassy-eyed and spouting the sweetest, slurred poetry that could only come out of girls with best friends who've had too much to drink. (Probably other things, too. God, there could be half a drugstore in her system.) It's hardly an unfamiliar position; though usually Blair would keep an eye on you two. Except, Blair isn't here, and Serena-duty unfortunately falls to you.

“Ladies, if you're gonna be giving each other cooties, how about you put on a show while you're at it?” Chuck drawls, and it’s so expected that you don't even deign to answer that. He's been making that request between you and Serena or Serena and Blair or you and Blair or any combination— all three, even. It's like all the guys' of Constances' wet dream. It's never gotten Chuck anything beyond a scandalised smack (Blair) or an elegant middle finger (you).

And, just like the other times, you expect Serena to twist on your lap half-laugh, half-sigh "That's disgusting, Chuck," before either snuggling closer to make a point of things (in stark contrast to how Blair turns up her nose yet hastily pulls away), except this time—

Serena giggles, eyes dropping to your lips. “That’s not a bad idea, actually.” She admits, voice husky with overuse from all the time she's spent charming and singing and screaming the whole night and—Oh, she's drunk, drunk.