This is the first time I write a GG fic….blah, blah, blah, blah. I'm sure you guys read this speech numerous times before, so I won't bore you a similarly redundant and slightly differentiated version. Anyways this is just some POV stuff. I'm temporary making this one shot deal due to excessive homework from hell. (Down with the establishment!) Reviews and constructive criticism *hint, hint* would be appreciated. All hate mail will be automatically directed to the trashcan due to my weak heart and overly reactive imagination. (Serious! I'm sure I'm a textbook case in some country's education curriculum.) So here you go, knock yourself out!
P.S.: Ignore the typo. I've been chain coffee drinking (like chain smoking, but with an infuriating side effect of stomach ulcers instead of lung cancer.) and the last time I slept was……I'm not sure.
P.S. 2: Last time I checked, that was at least 5 different ways to spell Tristan's name. I based my decision on the gilmore-girls.net transcript section. Please don't stone me…It's…it's…it's illegal!!
Disclaimer: If I own this whole moolah, you think I would be here curled up in front of the computer instead of curling up in my penthouse suite waiting for the money from various endorsements to roll in?! But to those mentally and creatively challenged people: No, I don't not own Gilmore Girls and its respective characters and plot. Sue me and you'll get all my lifesavings, which when last calculated, came to a GRAND total of $55.72…Canadian!!! (Stupid weak Cdn dollar.)
When Will the Music Stop?
Tristan slapped one of his patented megawatt smile as he walked across this room; another high society function to go through. If Tennessee Williams was here, he would say that this place reeked of the odor of mendacity. He nodded amiably to some passing guests, pretending that their participation actually matters. He is no doubt reciprocating their actions and thoughts. 22 years. It's been twenty-two years since he was introduced to these people and it is amazing that he had yet to throw a fit in public. He had yet to run out in the middle of a dinner party and abandon this façade. That's because there's nowhere to run. You Idiot. He reminded himself again as he approach the window.
It was raining, correction, pouring outside. Brazen winds threaten to decapitate the beautiful chestnut tree outside. Occasion slivers of lightning would dart across the sky followed by the vicious roar of thunder. It was one of those nights that began every cliché filled B-rate movie in human history. It was one of those nights that force you to think of your past. Hold your thoughts, Dugray. You are NOT going there.
He turned around and glanced across the room. Yep, it's still there and sadly, it was still filled with people. People parading their riches and status around. They liked to talk about their affection for their yacht, their summer home, their prized thoroughbred and their children; in that exact same order. He came here earlier with a date. What's her name again? Lexie? Trixie? Dixie? He had forgotten about it already. She had no doubt joined a group of equally dimwitted girls chatting over the latest Gucci haute couture by Tom Ford. They probably have trouble pronouncing the word "haute couture". But Tristan didn't get overworked over it. Whoever her name was, was one of the many arm candies in this room. The kind you allowed them to cling onto you for one evening to please your parents. It was a fair exchange. The chance for her to be associated with a Dugray, and a moment of peace and silence for him.
Tristan unconsciously swirled the tumble in his hands. The amber liquid danced precariously close to the edge, threatening to spill all over his Armani tux. But does it matter? He liked tempting fate. Most people like to live on the edge. But he was different. They usually would step back once the edge started to crumble. But Tristan would stomp on it, daring fate to deal his card. The proverbial silver spoon came with a rigid schedule. Comprehend social etiquettes by three, fluent in French by eight, top student in a prep school at all times. Rules were everywhere, and flirting with fate was the only way to defy these rules. The elder Dugray thought military school would break him off of this habit. But the only military school did was to enforce such behavior. He took a swig from his tumbler. Ahh, military school, an unfortunate side effect of his last ditch effort to… Remember, you are NOT going back there. Right.
He willed himself off the memory train and concentrated on his reflection staring back at him from the window. A blond haired boy with a great physique and an equally spectacular pedigree. If it is so spectacular, why are those blue eyes devoid of emotion? If those eyes were windows to his soul, then the only thing one could see was a piece of barren, frozen land. He remembered a time when these blue eyes still held a spark. And he clearly remembered another pair of blue eyes containing the same spark. Tristan Janlen Dugray, you are NOT going anywhere with that!
"Rory Gilmore! I'm glad you can make it. What took you so long?" Lucy Pratt, the hostess greeted the girl that walked through the door with a tad too much perkiness. The sound of her name slowly brought up his adolescent memories. That's it, there goes the floodgate.
From his position back here, he can clearly see the reflection of the girl. Rory had taken the towel that the butler offered and slowly dabbing away the water droplets on her. In a way, she was still the girl he left behind. Still the beautiful face, the stunning blue eyes, and the breathtaking confidence. But the Mary he left behind would not walk comfortably into a society soirée wearing a black strapless dress and matching black stilettos. That little cocktail dress was the kind that Audrey Hepburn would have worn in one of those black and white films. Timeless, elegant, classic, breathtaking. He was not sure whether he was describing the dress or the girl within it. Her hair was pinned back, revealing a pair of delicate silver hoops, the only piece of jewelry on her. Little wet tendrils plastered against her forehead. He actively repressed the urge to touch them.
Tristan haven't heard about her over the years. The Hartford grapevine came up empty-handed with this Harvard grad. Then again, Rory didn't cause juicy scandals. She didn't have a torrid affair with the swimming instructor or the need for a weekend nose job. She was a boring person…at least in the society's standards. After all, when it comes to shock value, a secret abortion will always win over a perfect GPA, hands down.
"We would've been here earlier, but something came up last minute." Rory answered as she accepted a champaign flute from one of the servers.
Wait a minute…we? Maybe she came with a girlfriend. That was the simple explanation he wanted to settle on. But the little voice in his head reminded him of something that is entirely possible. Maybe she came with a date. Though they are not standing that close to him, their conversation had effortlessly captured his attention as if those words were equipped with a homing device.
"Where is he? I thought you guys are coming together."
He. He sucked in a deep breath. He never thought such a simple word could cause so much pain in him. He tried to ignore the sensation for too long now. For years, he thought the word Rory would lose its effect on him. Apparently, he was wrong. Tristan Dugray still has a thing for Rory Gilmore. A voice cam out of nowhere taunted him. Every single one of those words was giving him a headache. The mere thought was spinning his head.
Maybe she was still with Dean. Dean. He remembered the name clearly ever since the first time he saw him at the dance. More than once was Tristan willing to give up anything to switch places with the lucky guy. Anything. Anything to be able to get close to her without her sneering at him. But those thoughts usually went nowhere. Once his head was cleared up, he would chide himself of such stupidity. Sure, spending quality time with the girl of his dreams was great. But did he have the guts to trade in the obscenely large mansion, the indoor and outdoor swimming pool and the country club membership for an after school job at a local market and community league baseball? Society maybe a pain in the ass, but there were convenient perks that came along with the Dugray coat of arms. Perks that he's not ready to part with.
"He went to park the car. You know how men are around cars." Her expression was a mixture of exasperation and amusement accompanied by eye rolling. "Something about the valet not treating his baby properly."
"And the object of his affection would be…"
"It's his new Ferrari. Silver." She answered the question casually.
Wait a minute. How could bagboy afford a Ferrari? That means he is not Dean. The word had brought his spirit back up again. He already had a preliminary image of Rory's date. Rich boy, fast girls, fast car, fast life. He knew, because he was one of them. In fact, he's still one of them…except the fast girl part. He gave that up a long time ago. He allowed the smirk to stay on his face. This meant he still had a chance of proving himself to her. That's the reason why he cleaned up his act. So that one day, by an off chance, he could win her heart over. He looked up the window just in time to see the girl pointed in his direction and Rory approaching him. He put down his drink and straightened out his bowtie. But the moment never came.
"Hey sweetie, looking for me?" Somebody had beat Tristan to the punch line. If the sight of the pair exchanging a quick kiss was akin to her shoving a dagger into his heart, then the sight of her date was the hand that twisted the dagger. The person whose hand Rory was holding was none other than Mark Walcott.
There went his hopes. Mark was in anyway better than Tristan. The Dugray family name might have came with a catchy Latin motto, but the Walcotts were genuine blue-blooded old money family. One can clearly trace the bloodline back to some British feudal lord. The Walcotts was more influential than the Dugrays if that was humanly possible. Mark attended Ealing Prep; a school that requires an influential family name, a 140 IQ AND a fat wallet to get in. Even his freaking Ferrari was better than Tristan's. He remembered Mark's Ferrari Barchetta making some loud noises over the Hartford grapevine. Well-deserved noises, seeing that there's only 448 of those around the world. But most importantly, Mark didn't have the reputation of being a player. He was one of those rare breeds in society that actually treated women with the respect they deserved.
5 years. He was away for 5 years. Did you expect things to stay the same in these 5 years? Did you expect her to WAIT for you? He already knew the answer to those two questions. He looked up at the couple again. The sight of him whispering into her ears and her giggling caused his blood to boil. In his memory, Rory Gilmore never giggled. She laughed heartily; she smiled graciously; she beamed brilliantly. But she never giggled. That was a down to earth kind of giggle accompanied with a whimsical twinkle in her eyes. Not the empty noise those peroxide blondes made. He emptied the content of his tumbler and set it down harsher than he expected.
Rory Gilmore is happy. Get over it!
If this happened 5 years ago, he would have walked out to the parking lot and leave a few complimentary scratches on that shinny new Barchetta. But, now, he just wanted to walk away from this disgusting scene. He decided to leave the room and find a quieter place to lick his wound. No way was he going to stand around like an idiot around Rory.
~*~*~*~*~
Rory slipped quietly into the library and closed the door behind her. It was a crazy circus out there. She noticed that Mrs. Blaine already had a few too many glasses of cosmopolitans and would probably confront her husband about his infidelity anytime now. Dr. Chase had slipped out to the servant's quarter, and even Rory could guess what's going on there. And the downstairs guestroom, don't even go there. Mark and her came here because he's a Walcott and she's a Gilmore and somewhere in somebody's rule book, that meant mandatory appearance in on of the biggest "parties" of the year. If she had a choice, she would have stayed home and watch Casablanca again.
She walked over to the fireplace and threw in another log. She took off her shoes and sat right in front of the cracking flame, hoping to catch some of the warmth radiated from it. Through no fault of the central heating system, it was cold outside. It was the people. Everyone with their masks slapped on, pretending to be interested in each other's story. She didn't particularly enjoy being here. This is like a terrible school play. Everyone remembered the lines, but there's no emotion behind those words and there's no director to yell cut. Then again, maybe she shouldn't judge them so harshly. After all, as Oscar Wilde once said, "Never speak disrespectfully of Society. Only people who can't get into it do that."
In fact, she should be grateful. She would never reach what she's standing right now without the help from the Gilmore name. Without her grandparents, she would never have got into Chilton, and might have never gotten into Harvard, and consequently never receive her law degree. No exactly never, but her journey to academic success would be harder; much harder.
When she graduated from Chilton, she thought there was a whole world of opportunity ahead of her. She could pursue her journalism dream. She could become a New York Times best selling author; or the very least a New York Times reporter. She was invincible. But then, reality quickly crashed upon her and she was force to cower back to the comforts and stability of her family. Though she didn't enjoy the process, she wasn't ashamed to admit that the Gilmore name had opened doors for her. After these years, she had newfound respect for her mom's courage. She wasn't sure if she had the guts to run away if she was put into a similar situation.
She picked up one of her shoes and absentmindedly caressed the smooth suede. Though they were brand new, they were extremely comfortable to walk on. She turned it around and its black and white label stared back at her from the sole; Manolo Blahnik, the best of its kind. It was a present from Mark. She liked them; it was one of those sensible shoes that you could wear to work or an evening party. But then again, there were limitations. You could not wear them to a playground; you couldn't run through the woods with them; and you certainly would not go feed the ducks wearing those. It is beautiful in the outside, but it is also restraining. Sort of like the way her life had morphed into.
She liked Mark. He was the only one that had ever understood her dilemma. Maybe because they were similar in many aspects: antisocial bookworms thrust into an environment where the word privacy was only an urban legend. A place where both of them did not belong. Yet, there were still some fundamental differences between them. How could you describe the delightful quirkiness of Stars Hollow to a guy whose cheapest car he'd ever driven was a BMW. Her idea of Italian food was her and Lorelei parking their asses in front of the TV during movies night and sharing an extra topping pizza between them. His idea of Italian food would be flying the both of them towards Italy in his private jet and order actual Italian food in a local restaurant with his perfect Italian and gelato for dessert. Her comfort food was Luke's chocolate pancake, his was…she didn't know, something from Dean and Deluca's maybe. He reminded her of somebody she once knew.
Rory slipped her shoes back on and stood up. This was hardly the time or place to contemplate her relationship with Mark. She needed something to take her mind off of it and staring into a crackling flame no longer works. She needed music. Maybe something by Guns N' Roses or at the very least Tool; but the chance of finding either was very slim in this house. She scanned the CD rack, discarding Limp Bizkit as an obvious no. She deemed Our Lady Peace not suitable for the moment and made a conscious effort to not throw Britney Spears into the fire. Finally, she settled on jazz. It seemed appropriate. She wanted something about unconditional and naïve love; the kind you get in a 50's movies. But as Duke Ellington's music seeped through the speakers, she realized something else was missing. A book to help her escape into a different dimension.
The Pratt's may lack taste when it came to decorating the living room. But whatever artistic merit they lack was duly compensated in the library. Mahogany bookcases lining every inch of the wall containing topics that ranged from forensic entomology to contemporary poetry. After much debate, Rory finally picked classics as the topic of the night. She slowly climbed up the ladder, careful not to rip her dress, and precariously balanced herself in front of volumes upon volumes of leather bound books. She ran her slim finger over them.
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice: she loved it, but she also read it more or less a hundred time and had most of its lines memorized.
Fydor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment: only Chilton could make Russian literature boring.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby: the point of escape literature was to escape from reality.
Homer, The Odyssey: normally, she won't refuse epic poetry, but it's too long to read.
John Milton, Paradise Lost: too religious and anti-epic to read in an obviously un-religious environment.
Plato, Republic: too intense for a quick read.
Come on, stop being so nitpicky. That's it, the next book will be the one you'll settle on. Rory closed her eyes and randomly pulled out a book. She opened her eyes and climbed down the ladder with the same care as before. She sank into one of the soft buttery leather armchairs and finally looked at the book in her hands. The little gold words on the spine read Shakespeare. Not bad, considering she could use the whimsical comedies of Much Ado About Nothing and some scenes in King Lear would compliment the weather nicely. But when she opened the cover and looked at the cover, she let out an inward groan. Of all the books in this massive library, fate made her picked Romeo and Juliet; the one book that brought back those memories. She looked up towards the ceiling to project some intense negative energy at an imaginary higher existence, instead, only an antique chandelier was on the receiving end of her death glare.
After a while, she gave in and opened the book to Act five. As she read the final word of the doomed lovers, she was immediately teleported back in time to the night of the performance. Something special happened that night. But suddenly, as if she'd hit some primitive protective reflex, she snapped the book shut. It was foolish to go down that memory lane. It was even more foolish for her to attempt reading it since five years ago. And it was extremely foolish for her to believe that she could stay peaceful and calm reading it. She closed her eyes to collect her thoughts, and when she opened them again, she saw something she didn't noticed before.
She rapidly blinked her eyes again to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. It was still there. From where she's sitting, she saw somebody curled up a corner behind the heavy draperies. Somebody with tousled blond hair with his back was facing hers. That head looked awfully familiar and when he ran his fingers through his hair, her body shuddered uncontrollably. The glint of silver on his finger confirmed her worse suspicion. Heck, he'd been loitered around her locker often enough for her to recognize that distinct piece of jewelry. In fact she thought she'd saw him earlier. But he was gone before she could talk to him and a lonely tumbler in the windowsill was the sole evidence to prove that it wasn't a mirage. Before she knew it, she heard her voice resonated through the room.
"Tristan Dugray, is that you?" Her voice was quivering with uncertainty. This isn't exactly the way she'd imagined meeting him. She's not sure if she had dreamt of such moment. But she knew if this ever happened, it wouldn't be this way.
Tristan slowly walked out of his hiding place and stood in front of her. He still looked the exact same way as that night; same messy blond hair, same blue eyes and the same cocky stride. But she noticed something else upon further examination. The hair was a bit shorter, the eyes were a bit depressed and the stride was not as cocky as before. It looked as if he abandoned some of his essence in North Carolina. She stood up and closed the space between them. As if on cue, the smoky voice of the jazz singer filled up the awkward silence between them.
Do nothing till you hear from me
Pay no attention to what's said
Why one should tear the seam of anyone's dream
Is over my head
"Hey." They both uttered and shut up simultaneously.
Do nothing till you hear from me
At least consider our romance
If you should take the word of others you've heard
I haven't a chance
"So, how's…" They blurted out together again, only having the sentence cut short. The room was replaced by stifling silence again. Come on Rory, this was that guy that made high school unpleasant for you. Aren't you going to snap at him or bicker with him or at the very least make a lame Jane Eyre analogy. You never lost you tongue around Tristan before. She can feel her hear rate shoot up to 130 as the both of the glance around the room in search of a new opening line. She looked at him and saw his eyes eventually traveled to the book she was still holding.
True, I've been seen with someone new
But does that mean that I'm untrue?
While we're apart, the words in my heart
Reveal how I feel about you
Some kiss may cloud my memory
And other arms may hold a thrill
But please do nothing till you hear it from me
And you never will!
Their clumsy attempt to start a normal conversation was cut short by Mark poking his head into the room.
"Hey Rory, you done…I'm sorry, I didn't realize someone else was in here."
"Mark." She didn't know why she's upset at seeing Mark's face. She also didn't understand the pang of guilt that shot up within her. She didn't do anything…did she? "I want you to meet someone. This is Tristan Dugray. We used to go to school together. Tristan, this is Mark Walcott, my boyfriend." The extra emphasis on the word boyfriend was not for Tristan, it was for her.
"It's a pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine's." Tristan snapped out of the haze and shook Mark's out stretched hand. He tried to keep his voice steady, even though every fiber of his body was straining against the impulse to shred the dark haired boy into little pieces. He gestured towards a brandy decanter on the coffee table. "Care to have a drink?"
"Actually I have to take a rain check on that. Rory and I have to run." He gently ushered the girl towards the door.
"I'll probably see you around some other time. It was great seeing you again, Tristan." Rory added before leaving the room. With that, Rory Gilmore had disappeared from his life as quickly as she showed up.
Tristan poured himself a drink and sat down dejectedly on the sofa. The book was still sitting quietly on the corner table where Rory had placed it. He picked it up and put it on his lap. He remembered he once learned a dance where everyone changed their partners repeatedly throughout the dance. But no matter where you go, you'd always end up with the same person you started with. He traced the indented words on the cover of Romeo and Juliet. He wondered would Rory Gilmore end up in his arms once the music stopped.
Final a/n: Just want to tell you guys that the Oscar Wilde quote was from "The Importance of Being Earnest". It is a beautiful satirical play and I really recommend it. I also urge you to read it before the movie comes out. Yeah…that's it…
