Improv #11: sonata~pie~automatic~leaves
Author: Grace
Rating: R, for single use of profanity
Spoilers: "Run Away, Little Boy"
Summary: Character sketch of everybody's favorite exile. There is no pairing, no dialogue, just a few moments in the life.

To Boldly Go...

He absently flicked the ash from the tip of the cigarette, the motion unconscious, automatic. As he lifted it to his lips to take another drag, he leaned back against the building. The brick was coarse and cold against his back, but there was comfort in its solidity. He exhaled slowly, the smoke mingling with the fog of his warm breath hitting the cold air. It was an unseasonable night in North Carolina, dipping into the low thirties even though it was only October. Here he had been counting on the weather being one of the perks of his exile to Nowheresville, NC. Even that was proving to be a disappointment--just like the rest of his life.

He dropped the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk, grinding it out under the heel of his academy-issued boot. He snorted quietly--he had thought the Chilton uniforms were bad, but these get-ups made them look like fucking Versace. He didn't even want to contemplate his haircut.

He stood there, staring up at the stars long enough to get a stiff neck and for his ears to go numb. A sharp gust of wind sent a rush of brown, brittle leaves swirling around his feet, and he couldn't resist the urge to step on them, reveling in the satisfying crunch.

He shook his head, disgusted by what he had been reduced to down here. "Wealthy Hartford playboy gets his kicks communing with nature"--he could see the society-page headline mocking him in his head. God, he could use a drink right now. Where were the guys from Toy Soldiers when you needed them, with their alcohol-filled mouthwash bottles? Great, now he was contemplating bad movies starring that snot-nosed kid from Star Trek: The Next Generation.

Resignation settled in, and he headed back into the dormitory. He should get started on his midterm studying, since rumor had it that not even his father's money would be able to buy him good grades. He groaned as he approached his room. The faint strains of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata were filtering through the door yet again. His roommate, a kid who made Paris Gellar look like a slacker, had read somewhere that classical music helped you study. Something about it having the same rhythm as a normal heartbeat. Regardless, the little psycho had immediately hijacked the stereo. The situation was dire--he had reached the point where listening to Madonna's desecration of Don McLean's "American Pie" seemed like a viable alternative.

His hand on the doorknob, he hesitated. This had to be a bad episode of The Twilight Zone, didn't it? This couldn't be his life. He barely recognized himself in the mirror these days. The stylishly messy blonde hair had been butchered into a buzz cut; his handsome features marred by purple bags under his eyes, the result of sleeping on what he suspected was a rock-stuffed mattress. The Chilton crowd wouldn't know him anymore--not that they ever really did.

He felt, somehow, detached from his body as he watched his hand release the doorknob, saw his feet turn back in the direction they had just come. And then Tristan DuGrey stopped thinking, and just ran.