Diddlee's note: This is not my fiction. I didn't write it. But don't worry, I didn't steal it either. This is the amazing work of my Twin, Pooh. She's incredibly talented but still has a thing against ff.net. So she's given me permission to pimp her out through my account. So maybe she didn't exactly use the word pimp. And it's a good thing she never ventures over here, or she would probably kill me. There are 11 parts in all to this story, and part of my desire to post here is I want to see the word count to judge for myself how longwinded she can be. If you're into Tristan angst, please proceed. I think this is the best characterization of him out there, and if GG wanted to do a companion book series to the show, they should look no further than this fic.

I've left her header information from our site. If you've read it there, please feel free to review it here. And if you feel as strongly as I do about this fic, let everyone know in your reviews. So without further ado, nothing from this point forward is mine.

CHARACTERS / PAIRING: Tristan and some other guy
SUMMARY: Tristan's therapy sessions from GG: Season 1; 3rd person omniscient but mostly from the therapist's POV
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ok, here's "The Dissertation"! PROCEED WITH CAUTION... Very Long, Very Pro-Sympathetic-And-Complex Tristan Fic!! Just having some fun trying to sketch out Tristan's character since we know so little about him. For those of you who might want to skip this (and there may be a couple of you. der!), the basic storyline for this fic is a rehashing of Tristan's thoughts and feelings about what's happened so far in Season One. And please… I've never been to a therapist before (though that's really surprising) so I have no idea exactly how a session is supposed to be except for what I've gotten from TV and movies (great sources, if you ask me. D'oh). His main job here is only to help Tristan speak his mind. Also remember patient/doctor/reader confidentiality; since these are Tristan's private sessions, some parts contain only short excerpts from each session, instead of the entire therapy session.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but the clothes on my back, and that annoying shrink. The rest was borrowed from GG and the WB.



Part 1:

It was a face-off. Two equally stubborn men staring at each other from across four feet of plush gray carpeting. Only one was paid to be stubborn, and the other was merely exhibiting all the petulance of a teenage boy when faced with a situation he did not want to be in. A situation which, frankly, he considered a huge waste of time. There would be no forced companionship or friendliness if he could help it. He was quite prepared to stay smug and condescending and uncooperative for as long as it took for the other man to give up. The expanse of four feet had never seemed greater.

The older of the two, dressed quite casually for a member of a four-hundred dollar an hour profession -- in a pair of khaki slacks and a cashmere sweater which hid a neatly knotted tie -- crossed his legs and clasped his hands in his lap. He could be as patient as the other was arrogant and obstinate. He had no instruments of torture, and the small end table beside him was clear, save for a mug of coffee. He glanced at his companion over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. He had had nothing but friendly things to say when he had first greeted the boy, but the boy had not been as receptive. And he had not blamed him. Had actually expected it. The boy himself seemed to have come directly from school, still wearing his uniform of a pale blue button-down shirt, gray pants, black dress shoes, and the prerequisite dark blue blazer with the school seal over the left chest. He had returned the initial greeting, less than friendly or open, because he knew that it did not matter whether or not he charmed the older man, and promptly slumped into the couch opposite the armchair. He had exhibited all the signs of indifference that any other boy his age would have, if put in the same position. And by the way he was sitting, slouched, with one elbow resting on the armrest and his head on his hand, the older man knew that the boy was testing him. Challenging him to make the first move. Expecting him to make the first move. Waiting for him to take the bait. Because that was what he was paid to do.

And already, just from the first few minutes of observing him, the older man knew enough about the boy to choose any topic to start on. Though his blazer had been unbuttoned, suggesting a fun-loving and good-natured air, his tie remained neatly knotted. He was uptight. In general, or about something specific, the other man wasn't entirely clear on, but was certain that it would become more apparent later on. The casual posture suggested that he was normally something of a hotshot, able to charm his way out of almost anything. As if he would have had fun with this impromptu meeting, had he so desired to. Would have charmed him immensely. Would have worked his manners and magic and aura on him, like he had with countless other adults who had found the young man absolutely charming and likable after a few minutes. Only now, he seemed uncomfortable in his own skin. As if something had happened to him that had caused this change and made him human. Made him realize he was vulnerable after all. Made him not want to be in a room, alone, with a man who could possibly draw out that information and make him face it head-on. He knew instantly that this was not normal for the boy. The casually bored expression on the young face had been perfected out of years of practice. And he knew that this boy would not crack anytime soon, no matter what the pressures were. But, if he hit on the right topic, he would. The boy would crumble, and everything would come spilling out of his mouth. The older man had faced numerous adversaries this way. It was all a matter of time and patience on his part. He knew the boy would fold eventually.

"So…" he started. The boy's blue eyes flickered up to meet his, but glanced away, uninterested. As if he had merely caught sight of a bug flying past him. "Why don't we talk," he suggested, offhandedly.

The boy shrugged. "If you want." But he made no other move to elaborate.

He sighed. "You're parents…"

"My mother," the boy corrected, pointedly, but still managed to exude jaded indifference.

"You do know the reason for why you are here?" It wasn't really a question, but he made it into one.

The boy had amazing self-control and refrained from rolling his eyes. "Yeah. They want to give validation to their failing marriage, and they thought they would play the dutiful parents and get me to talk about it with someone."

He tried not to smile at the boy's frankness. "Yes. They wanted you to talk about how you feel about it. They feel that you've been holding all your feelings in and that they don't want you to be overly upset and unprepared if something should happen."

The boy scoffed. "If something should happen," he repeated disdainfully. He seemed to be deliberating the truthfulness of this statement, finding it relatively funny. "Something's been happening for years." And yet, there was no bitterness in his voice, merely resignation.

"Does that bother you?"

"That they want me to talk about it with someone?" the boy asked, pretending to be confused.

He had to give the young man his due. He was already proving to be a far more superior challenge than any other young men he had met in the past. This one was good-looking and reasonably intelligent, hiding it behind a façade of apathy and indifference. But the spark of intelligence was there in his eyes, in his face, and in his body language. The boy did not hold him in contempt, but his entire posture suggested that he knew what he was doing and what the older gentleman was trying to do. The mere flicker of those intense blue eyes told him that the boy knew the game and the rules, and wasn't afraid of playing. But he had never met a young man he couldn't break.

"That it's been going on for years," he prodded gently, qualifying his original question.

"Should it?" the boy responded with a haughty question. Ask a stupid question, get a stupid question in response.

He wondered how long they would be speaking in circles. But at least the fire seemed to have come back into the boy's eyes for the first time since he had strolled in through the door. That was a good sign. It meant the boy was open to sparring with him, and if he knew anything, it was that most teenagers loved to spar. Especially if they thought they had the upper hand. "Your parents thought it might," the man admitted, as if not believing it himself. "That is why they sent you here."

"My mother sent me here," the boy corrected again.

"Your parents thought you could benefit from a helpful and listening ear." He continued, as if he hadn't heard.

"My mother called, made an appointment, informed me not so nicely to arrive on time, and to be cooperative." He smirked at this last piece of information, knowing his mother would have had a fit had she been there with him. Cooperative indeed.

"Your parents wanted you to…" Again, he ignored the correction, hoping it would anger the young man enough to get him to say something. Get him to react in a way other than curiously bored.

"My mother, okay?" It seemed important that he grasp this fact. "Shrinks are my mother's thing."

"Fine. It was your mother's idea," he noted, as if it didn't really make a difference to him either way who sent the boy. "And what about your father?" He eyed the boy with interest, questioning, but not sharing the question.

"What about my father?" the boy asked, sullenly, echoing the question. "He doesn't care about this. This whole shrink thing is solely my mother's idea. My father's perfectly happy that he got a well-adjusted son who could really care less about their marriage."

"Do you really believe that?"

The boy smirked, ready with a haughty and disinterested comeback. "That my father's perfectly happy or that I'm well-adjusted?"

The man grinned, because the boy really was funny. And he was willing to make fun of himself, a sign of healthy adjustment if he had ever seen one. "Either one," he played along.

"Is it important that I do?" the boy challenged. His position hadn't changed on the couch, but he had raised his head from its resting place.

"Not really," he admitted, neutrally. "Unless you think it is."

He didn't. Something they agreed on. The room fell back into an awkward silence. The boy glanced away, his eyes seemingly unfocused, but taking in everything. The older man watched with interest, studying him. The boy didn't flinch, though he knew what the man was doing. The older man tilted his head to one side. He had come prepared, but not with the stereotypical pen and pad or tape recorder, as was usually attributed to men of his profession. He was merely being paid to sit there and talk with the boy, to provide a listening ear. Nothing more. But this boy seemed to need more. And he had piqued his curiosity.

Still, he wouldn't be happy unless the boy actually spoke. "Mr. DuGrey," he prompted.

He hit a nerve. He could tell by the way the young man's jaw clenched lightly. It was only a temporary nerve -- one caused by annoyance and disdain on the boy's part -- but it was still a step into the boy's enigmatic personality. "Mr. DuGrey is my father or grandfather, or what they call me in school. I'm not them, and I'm not in school right now. My name is Tristan." There was an irked expression on his face.

"Why don't you want to be called that?" He was interested in knowing what was going through the boy's head.

"Sounds kind of impersonal, don't you think? Aren't you supposed to try to be my friend or something?" he retorted. Perhaps in his own way, he was trying to tell him that he wanted to open up. But only if he saw him as what he really was. A sixteen year old boy. Not a young adult dressed in adult clothing, hiding behind an adult and detached name.

Here was something he could start on. "Would you like to talk about them?" Was there some reason he did not want to be identified with those men? When no response was forthcoming, he prompted gently, "Tristan?"

"Who?" He played ignorant. Yet he managed to look proud, bored, and sleepy all at the same time.

"Your parents, your grandfather… school…" he offered. Most of his clients could go on about any of those topics for any length of time.

Apparently, not this young man. Tristan shrugged. "Not really," he admitted, impassively, giving a noncommittal shrug. He was a lot more in control than a lot of his other clients, many of them men much older than this one. He was impressed with the boy and could sense a great future. If he didn't drive himself insane first with whatever was bothering him.

"No?" He raised a brow, as if he didn't believe him. Didn't believe the young man could possibly be this closed off unless it was an act. "You're a sixteen years old. I would think you'd have a myriad of rants about your parents and school and girls…"

The boy shifted in his seat. "I don't," he replied matter-of-factly, adding a sigh as if to remind the man that this was all a huge waste of time. That the man was wasting his own time. That he would rather be somewhere else.

"Everyone else does," he goaded.

"I'm not everyone else," he pointed out, firmly. And the older man already knew that. No, this young man wasn't like everyone else that walked in through those same doors. Was there a hint of upset in his voice?

"Let's talk about your grandfather then," he continued, as if he hadn't heard what the boy had said.

"I would prefer not to."

"And who are you all of a sudden? Bartleby, the Scrivener? We're not in a Melville novel. Why do you not want to discuss your grandfather?" He raised a brow.

The reference to literature seemed to make the boy even more uneasy than anything else had up until that point. He bristled, but brushed it off and returned to the question at hand. "Because my mother sent me here so I can tell you how I feel about her. And my father. And this has nothing to do with my grandfather."

He contemplated the boy for a brief second. Perhaps he was trying to protect his grandfather. Perhaps there was real affection for his grandfather. Perhaps it really had nothing to do with his grandfather. "Fine. Then why don't we talk about your parents," he suggested, trying a different tact.

"I'd rather not."

"Are we going to do this with every topic I bring up?"

"Maybe," he admitted. At least the boy was honest. He wasn't really trying to be difficult. He had merely not heard a question or topic that interested him enough to share his thoughts on. Private thoughts. And there was a hint of a smile. So he was teasing just a little, amused at his own situation.

"So you have no inclination to speak at all." Not entirely a rhetorical question but more of a mere observation.

"It would seem that way, wouldn't it?" They boy showed some signs of life as he smirked. The man immediately knew that this was only a shadow of what the boy normally would have been outside of this office. And he had a clue what kind of charm and power the young man could possibly exert on unsuspecting victims, if he so chose. And he was certain that had the young man been so disposed, he could have easily charmed the socks off of him.

"I know you want to talk. You can, you know. I am a neutral third party," the man reminded quietly, as if giving permission.

"There's no such thing." Experience and life in his social circles had taught him that. "And what if I don't want to? What if I have absolutely nothing to say?" Highly unlikely. Tristan was as opinionated as any outgoing, confident teenager, but the man couldn't be sure of that.

The man exchanged looks with him, letting him know that he knew this wasn't true. But he did not contradict him outright. "Humor me," he dared, lightheartedly.

The boy sighed, and threw out some crumbs. He was playing with the other man, but he also had the intelligence to know that he was also being played. "So you want to hear how I feel about my parents?" He paused, making sure he had the man's attention. He did. But not entirely because both men knew that whatever rant would come out of his mouth at this point would only be filled with half-truths covered by half-lies. "It's a joke."

"What is? The failure of their marriage?"

"Everything. That. This. My mother wants me to talk to you about it, but it's a joke. They've done nothing but fight for years. And only now she sends me to a shrink. Come on. Even you can see how stupid that is. When the complete meltdown of their marriage finally arrives, they just want to be able to say that they were prepared. That they prepared me for it. And then everyone can go on about what wonderful parents they are. How they were not self-involved and actually cared how I felt. Actually cared about my emotional and mental well-being." And amazingly, still no bitterness. It was almost as if Tristan had closed himself off from that part of his life, and had detached himself emotionally from the reality of his parents' failing relationship. His own defense mechanism.

"Uh, huh." Almost as if he didn't believe him. Or that he had heard the story so many times that it failed to interest. That Tristan was not unique.

Those two simple syllables annoyed Tristan. As if what he had to say wasn't worth listening to. "Aren't you going to write it down or something?" he mocked, gesturing absently in the man's general direction. His charcoal blue eyes had long since taken in every little detail of the spacious and comfortable office. A very rich office. And yet, homey and cozy. The man sitting opposite him also seemed as great a contradiction as Tristan felt. He had pried, caring, when he really shouldn't have. It worried Tristan. And it frustrated him. It made him want to question the man's sincerity. Because there was only one person that Tristan would not question, who could evoke that kind of heartfelt and unquestioning trust from him. That person was currently not in the room, though he carried her with him in his head constantly.

"Not unless you want me to," he informed. He made no move to reach for a writing utensil, and Tristan did not comment on it any further. "So you don't think they cared?"

"I don't know. Yes. Maybe they did. Maybe they still do. Fact remains, I've been pretty much independent for years. Ever since it started." Tristan's brow furrowed. It wasn't really something he wanted to discuss. For years he had come to the conclusion that his parents, though loving, had not provided him, nor were they inclined to, the amount of attention and affection that he desired. He had accepted it, the revelation, along with the knowledge that while he was loved, his parents were too busy to be anything other than just two people who lived in the same house and occasionally asked about his day. And he knew that he did not want to be that way with his own children. Not if he could help it.

"And you blame them for that."

"I don't blame them for anything," he informed, brushing it aside.

"But you do."

"No, I don't," he insisted, brusquely, his eyes fiery.

"You wouldn't be so passionate if you didn't," the man pointed out, indifferently.

That seemed to get Tristan's attention. He immediately toned down his voice and made his face an impenetrable mask once again. Bored. Stifled. Untouchable. "I blame them for making it into a joke," he said, nonchalantly.

"What does that mean?" he prompted, curious. The boy had so many layers, he didn't know where to begin. Everything he said or did seemed to be a contradiction within itself. He had known many boys -- encountered many of them in this very office -- where he had been paid to do exactly what he was doing with this one. He recognized the act. The need to act tough, the feeling of being untouchable and superior. Only this one was different. Unlike some of the other boys, this one knew that it was an act, didn't even believe in part of it. He knew and he was desperately trying to deceive himself into believing the act wasn't an act.

The boy sighed, as if he had explained it a million times already, when in fact, it was probably the first time he had actually spoken of it to anyone. "The idea that they want to prepare me for the impending failure of their marriage. That's the joke. They've been fighting for years. On and off. There's nothing impending about it. It's not like it just happened out of the blue. They'll probably continue for the next couple of years." He gestured vaguely with his hand.

"So you think they aren't serious."

"Oh, no," he disagreed. "They're serious. I just wish they would be a little more serious. Stop dragging it out."

"What do you mean?"

Tristan gave him a look that said he did not like being asked that question. And in fact, the man didn't like asking the question. It was too trite. Too expected. Too cliché. "Look, I understand that I'm supposed to be the epitome of the perfect golden child. Okay. Fine. I get that. But sometimes I wish that they could just be like almost every other parent."

"Meaning?" He was interested. "In love? Like the Beavers?"

Tristan's blue eyes flashed indignation. "Hardly," he scoffed. It would have been a funny observation had they not been discussing his parents.

"Then what?" He ignored the look of annoyance that flickered across the young man's face once again.

"Sure, they loved each other once. Maybe they still do. And I know, in their own demented and weird way, they love me. But this… dragging it out… is starting to get weary. Other kids… their parents fight, throw silverware, break things, then hurry along the destruction of their marriages by having countless affairs. Then they just end it. Divorce. Lawyers. Tabloids. Pre-nups. Settlements. Move on." Apparently, he considered his parents' inability to decide on the final fate of their marriage as capriciousness. And that could not be respected.

"So you consider your parents' way of dealing with their relationship as unusual?"

Tristan rolled his eyes this time. "The only thing unusual about the way they're dealing with it is the fact that they were able to keep it from making the gossip rounds at the country club."

"So you want your parents to divorce?" He raised a brow.

He seemed to think about this for a brief moment. "What kid doesn't want their parents to stay together? I'm not advocating family breakups. Hell, who wouldn't want a nice and pat nuclear family of mother, father, kid. And even your occasional dog and white picket fence. I would just rather they make up their minds and leave me out of it."

"Okay… so you've kind of given me a glimpse into how you feel about your parents' marriage. Let's talk about your parents themselves. How do you feel about them?" he prodded, slowly, gently. Another trite and overused question by those in his profession, but a question that had to be asked nonetheless. All he needed was to hit another nerve to get him to open up.

But someone had forgotten to tell Tristan to play along. Or rather, he was perceptive enough to know he was being baited. And as a person who knew the rules to the game, he was not about to lose the fine control he held over his feelings and private thoughts. It would have been too easy. Besides, his parents probably wouldn't care how he felt about them, would probably just chalk it up to teenage angst if he said anything bad about them. "They're my parents," he said simply, returning to the bored and indifferent tone of voice that he had been exuding when he first entered the office.

"So we're back to this," the man concluded, matching Tristan's apathetic attitude. If it had been meant to faze Tristan, it didn't work. Tristan had played the game much too long to willingly walk right into a trap.

"I guess so." The sour mood had returned. He realized he had already said much more than he ever considered saying when he had first arrived.

"Okay…" The man tried a different topic. Hopefully something a little more interesting. "Let's talk about school then."

"Let's not," Tristan countered, jaw clenched.

What teenage boy didn't want to vent about school? He was a grown man and he still had countless things to rant about his high school experience. "You go to Chilton?" It was asked as a question, but he already knew the answer. Even if Tristan hadn't been wearing the uniform, he would've known. "It's a prestigious school."

Tristan offered a self-satisfied smirk. "You're perceptive. I can see why you charge so much."

He had to chuckle at that. The boy had a sense of humor when he wasn't feeling sorry for himself. "So school must be interesting. Private school and all."

The smirk faded. "I don't want to talk about school." His voice had gotten softer, more contemplative, as he glanced away. And yet, there was also indignation, as if the man wasn't worthy of hearing his true feelings about school. Or about anything else, for that matter. This boy kept his true feelings close to his heart and it would take considerable prodding to get him to open up. He wished he knew of an easier way than just bombarding the young man with constant questions, trying to keep him off-guard.

Tristan's insistence implied that he had touched another nerve. Bigger and more raw than the one he had touched earlier when Tristan had insisted on not being called by his last name. Interesting. "Well, what about girls? You must have something to say about them, a charming and good-looking young man such as yourself. What are the girls like at your school?"

"They're girls," he said again, simply. He hadn't even reacted to the compliment. Either he had heard it so many times that it had become irrelevant, or he didn't believe it and it wasn't important to him. He stifled a practiced yawn, trying to tell his companion that he was bored and that he would get nothing out of him. Nothing of importance, that was.

"What teenage boy doesn't like talking about girls?"

"I don't have anything interesting to say regarding that topic." Tristan shrugged and met his eyes, unblinking, challenging him to contradict him aloud.

He didn't. "So we're just going to sit here for the rest of the session and not talk," he asked rhetorically.

"Fine by me." Said in the typical spoiled rich boy tone. It was a tone that suggested Tristan was well versed in, but for some reason, sounded strange and uncomfortable coming from his mouth this time. He added another indifferent shrug.

"Your mother is paying good money for you to sit here then. Doesn't it seem like a waste?" he asked, seriously, paternally.

Tristan glanced up, as if he had just been offered the option he had been waiting for. "I could leave right now. You wouldn't have to tell anyone, and you'd still get your money."

"Now I couldn't do that."

"Honesty. Hmm. Strange." But there was a sarcastic tone to the musing.

He sighed. If Tristan was serious about not wanting to share, there really wasn't anything he could do. "I also can't stop you. If you want to leave, by all means, do so."

That was Tristan's cue. He immediately stood up to his lean six-foot frame, unfolding himself easily. Then just as assuredly and confidently, he ambled towards the closed doors. He gave a short wave, not expecting to turn back.

"Of course, I know you want to talk to someone. I'm that someone, Mr. DuGrey. You're not going to find a more willing or less judgmental ear than my own. And we don't even have to discuss your parents. Yes, they paid for these sessions, but in all honesty, we could very well just sit here in silence. But I have a feeling you have things on your mind that you can't comfortably share with anyone else. We can talk about whatever you want. Your parents, your family, friends, school, girls, sports, whatever. Everything said in this room stays in this room. Your parents pay me, but my loyalty is only to you."

That stopped Tristan in his tracks. Tempting. His hand was on the doorknob already, and he was contemplating stepping through. But the man had been partially right. There were things on his mind. And there really was no other person he could comfortably share them with. And it really had nothing to do with whether his thoughts and opinions stayed in the room, clouded in secrecy. The fact remained, he really didn't need a shrink. That was his mother's thing. All he really needed was a friend. He sighed and turned around slowly, allowing the man to see just how conflicted he was.

"I don't…" He didn't know, wasn't sure. It meant opening himself up. Opening himself up to a world of hurt and pain, and to facing the knowledge of everything that made him who he was. And everything he wanted to change about himself.

"We can start off slow," the seated man suggested, hopefully, seeing hints of progress.

Tristan sighed and begrudgingly returned to the couch. He slid easily back into it, slumping once again. "Very slow. And only if you don't make me lie down," he warned, trying to infuse as much apathy into his voice.

"Fine," he agreed, chuckling. The boy had an ease and confidence and humor that seemed at odds with the conflicted and brooding shell that sat before him. He was sure that in another lifetime, Tristan would have been ready with an easy smile and an infectiously personable and affable nature. It was further evidence that something had happened recently to him that had made him this way. He was certain that it had nothing to do with his parents' failing marriage. As Tristan had informed, and seemed to have accepted, they had been fighting for years. It was nothing new. And he had mostly become insensitive to it. So it must have been something else. Something recent and powerful enough to make him so. "You don't have to say anything until you're ready."

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He wasn't ready. But it had been ten or so minutes of relative silence. The older man noticed that while four feet still divided them, the distance had seemed to be less than at the start of the session. He watched as Tristan debated whether or not to actually share any of the thoughts that were invading his head. He was no longer slumped back into the seat. As a matter of fact, he was sitting up straight, practically at the edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees, his head cradled in his hands. He was staring at the floor, not meeting the other's eyes. And this was telling. Because it meant that ready or not, he was about to share something. He was only taking his time to decide exactly what pieces of information he would be sharing, and in what order.

Tristan lifted his head. "Is it bad to want your parents to just divorce and get it over with?"

He was startled by the suddenness of the question. And he found the young man studying him, trying to gauge how sincere he was going to be in offering an opinion, in helping him through his issues and his conflicts. There was something very intense about the way Tristan's eyes were so focused in their seemingly unfocused appearance. As if he were sleepily taking things in, and the older man was sure that this boy's intensity and eyes had gotten him more than one female admirer. The boy certainly did know how to use, and direct, his attractiveness and charm. "That depends."

"On what?" Tristan was showing his curiosity and questioning nature.

"Well, if it's been really bad for a few years, perhaps it would be better for the parties involved to consider finalizing a divorce. Wouldn't you think so?" he mused.

Tristan didn't say anything, just seemed to ponder it.

"If there was any reason to expect a reconciliation, then it would probably be premature to consider divorce. Of course, I'm not a divorce lawyer, so I wouldn't know."

Again, Tristan remained thoughtful.

He noted that the room had seemed to be getting warmer. And yet, the young man had not made any moves to slip out of his school blazer. Or even loosen his tie. Control. It was all about control. And right now, the young man had a firm grasp of it. "Do you want your parents to just get to the divorce?" he pried, gently, because there really was no other way to ask the question.

Tristan cocked his head to one side, thinking. "I'd rather they didn't. But the fighting… it gets loud sometimes. You learn to deal with it. An active social life helps," he admitted, almost ruefully. Apparently the boy did not spend much time at home. It implied a wealth of friends and a highly active dating life.

"So you'd rather they didn't," he concluded.

"Divorce isn't a big deal," Tristan informed, as if the older man should have known that about the marriage failure rate in their elite circles.

"It is for some people," he pointed out. Apparently, though he didn't necessarily condone divorce, the idea of a strong marriage seemed to be important, and appealing, to this young man. And he was almost positive that the boy wouldn't be able to tell him why. He could tell the boy why, but Tristan hadn't asked, nor was he interested in that train of thought.

Tristan bit his lip. "I'd rather they be happy." It was said quietly, reflectively.

"Happiness is a big deal to some people, too. You should be commended for wanting that for them. Most kids in your situation would rather think about themselves." A truth learned from experience and countless other stories. What Tristan had related wasn't something he heard often. Especially from children of the rich, who were usually only interested in whether their trust funds and allowances would remain intact, and whether they would be living with the parent who would supply the best lifestyle for them. But unlike those kids, this one seemed to be genuinely a nice and affectionate boy deep down underneath the act.

"Yeah, well." Tristan seemed almost embarrassed at this admission. As if he should have felt weak for thinking of someone other than himself.

He sighed, deciding to take a risk. "Tristan." The young man met his eyes, the sheepishness gone. Only curiosity remained. "What's really bothering you?"

There was a startled look on the young man's face, as if he had just been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "What do you mean?"

"It's not your parents. You said it yourself. They've been fighting for years. And from your tone and body language, I already know that you're resigned to whatever they decide. You've gotten over it. Now tell me what's really going on," he chided.

Tristan's eyes flickered over various objects before finally settling on his companion's face. "Nothing."

"We've made so much progress."

"My parents…" he started, automatically. When all else failed, talk about the parents, blame it on the parents.

"It's not your parents, Tristan," he said, firmly. He needed to keep the boy's thoughts in line. He guessed that the boy had expected to be in control of every situation he had been placed in, but if they were going to get anywhere, he would have to take over the reins. "You said you didn't want to talk about your parents or their marriage, and yet, you were more than willing to share. Now, your grandfather, you said you didn't want to talk about because he has nothing to do with your parents' failing marriage. I understand that, and for all intents and purposes, you're right. But on the subject of school, you have been nothing but insolent." He paused to allow Tristan the opportunity to object. He didn't, only continued to meet his eyes with a curious and almost amused expression. It would have been infuriating if he hadn't expected it from him. "I'm taking a wild stab, but I'm guessing it's school that has you all conflicted. Now, unless you tell me that whatever is bothering you has absolutely nothing to do with something at school, then we'll find something else to talk about."

He could see Tristan debate whether or not to speak. The amusement remained sparkling in the boy's blue eyes, but he only glanced at his questioner, as if a mere afterthought. "I don't want to talk about school." But there was hesitation, suggesting room for compromise.

"No?" He raised a disbelieving brow.

"Not now," Tristan admitted, softly, thoughtfully.

"Okay." It was a step, and he accepted it.

The charming armor came back up. Too close too soon, and he had to step back. "I thought you were being paid to figure out how I felt about my parents."

"I'm paid to listen to you and to help you sort out whatever is bothering you. Not just about your parents."

"If people found out… I'm some hotshot at school. People envy me, look up to me, want to be me. I'm not supposed to be seeing a shrink. Tristan DuGrey isn't a therapy kind of guy." He bit his lip, perplexed.

"No one is going to know, unless you want them to. And please don't think of me as a shrink. I'm just a friend." Tristan looked dubious at this, but he continued. "And while you're here, I will not treat you like you're treated at school. I will respect you, but I will not worship you like the people at Chilton do. Here, you may feel free to be whatever personality you think you'd be most comfortable with. But I would much rather you just be yourself."

Tristan pursed his lips and rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. "And what if I don't even know what that is. To be myself."

"Do you honestly not know, or do you not want to admit it to yourself?" he questioned.

Tristan's head snapped up, and his hand moved from his neck to run through his hair, nervously. "I'm not sure."

"Then I guess we'll find out together, won't we?" He offered a comforting and reassuring smile.

Tristan looked doubtful, but nodded once.

End Part 1