Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I've been sitting, either at my desk,
or at the computer, trying to determine which way I should take this. I can
go either way really. Thanks for all the reviews that you guys have taken
the time to write, I really appreciate them. Especially one individual
(Heh, you know who you are!)
Rory sat on the bus, the heater pumping out deliciously warm air, addictive as a sleeping drug. Her eyelids felt heavy, her head foggy. She leaned her forehead on the cool windowpane, and stared out of the bus, watching the scenery flash by, struggling to keep awake. The bus lurched to a stop and people arose from their seats. Rory blinked at the view outside the transparent glass and her mind clicked. Jumping from her seat she grabbed her bag and hastily followed everyone else off the bus.
Lorelai Gilmore sat on the seat in front of the bus, watching people of all ages file off the bus, the icy wind slicing through their coats. She sat, holding her bag on her lap, impatiently twisting the straps. Rory finally stumbled off, her mouth stretched into a wide yawn.
"Oh come on woman! It's freezing out here! And you just dawdle off the bus!"
"Mom? What are you doing here?" Rory managed, between yawns.
"Hey careful, if your mouth gets any wider, you'll be able to swallow my head whole, large as it is." Lorelai put her arm around her chums' shoulder. "Michel was driving me insane today." She continued "even more so today than any other day, cold weather does that to him, so does hot weather, snow too. Anyway, he was grumbling on about how bad the heating was in the inn, and I just couldn't help but imagine how scrummy he'd look roasting on a spit in the fire. A red apple in his mouth too. So I decided that I should get out of there early, see a fresh face, and whine to her."
"Hmm, I just had this picture of Michel naked, roasting" Rory snorted, directing her mother's steps to Luke's.
"Disgusting child! Your literature teacher encourages you to use your imagination too much. Which reminds me, how was all perfect Chilton today?" Lorelai opened the diner door, feeling a wave of warm air awash with smells of fries and coffee brush over them.
"Ugh. I hate her! She drives me crazy! And she doesn't even have to say anything half the time, just the looks and the painful knowledge that she scored better in her British History assignment than I did."
Lorelai looked at her only daughter sympathetically, distinctly knowing what she was talking about
"Naturally, Paris got an A, and I got a B+." Rory sat down at a table, close to the window.
"A B+? Babe, that is great! I never got a B+ in British History when I was in high school"
"Did you even do British History?"
"Weee-eelll, no, but I know that if I did, I'd get C's" she smiled cheerfully, trying to pull Rory out of the rut.
The owner of the diner came to their table, his worn cap perched on his head.
"Luke, did you ever get a B+ in British History when you were in high school?" Lorelai pounced on the man with the coffeepot.
"I'll bet he didn't take British History either" Rory remarked to her mother.
"Actually I did take British History, and I am proud to say that I got straight A's in that subject" Luke announced proudly, until he saw Lorelai's face. Wrong answer Luke. He swallowed and glanced at Rory's downcast expression.
"I'll just get your usual, right?" Luke wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Lorelai smiled tightly. He poured some steaming coffee into their mugs, frantically trying to amend. He opened his mouth to say something to Rory, but decided against it, instead, her retreated like a dog with it's tail between its legs back behind the counter.
Once he was out of earshot, Rory looked at her mother pointedly. "See? Even Luke scored better than me in British History" Lorelai drummed her fingers on the tabletop.
"He cheated"
"Sure sure." Rory quipped sarcastically. "Face it, I suck. Why do I even bother? I'm never going to be good enough. Imagine what Harvard will be like? A kezillion times worse! What if I have to board with a Paris?" Rory moaned, slumping her head on the table.
"Rory, that's not true. You are good enough. Just the very fact that you attend that hell everyday, surrounded by snobs who pay obscene amounts of money redecorating to fit mood swings, and who condescend to you. And for you to come home with B+'s and A's should tell you that you are good enough. And if you push yourself too hard, you're going to burn out. And I don't want a pale imitation of a daughter because then I wouldn't have anyone to complain loudly to.and to share my addiction of coffee with. And we all know what I'll be like if that happens. Luke would cop it all and he'd ban me from his diner forever, equaling in no good coffee, which leads to moods. Thus, the vicious cycle begins."
"I don't think so. For a start, Luke's too in love with you to ban you. He'd miss you too much" Rory grinned mischievously. Lorelai continued to tap, trying to think of another topic.
"Ooh, how did you and your science partner go in the dissection today? The frog didn't make any inappropriate gestures now did it? I remember a frog that I had to dissect once." Lorelai giggled, remembering the memory.
Rory ignored her mother's rambling.
"Fine. Apart from the fact that my science partner forgot that we were supposed to meet early to write up the prac, so I had to do it all by myself" "Did you apply some sort of punishment? Cos our house needs a really good cleaning. A really good cleaning actually. I found a whole tribe of dust bunnies under my bed the other day. I was petrified that they were going to attack me."
"Yes, I told him that he had to dissect it all by himself."
"Oh, a male hey? And does Mr. Mysterious have a name?"
"Tristan"
"As in Tristan, the blonde bad boy, who persists in calling you Mary?"
"The one and the same"
Lorelai picked up the coffee, emptying the cup.
"And how is Tristan? Irritating and egotistical as usual?"
"Not really." Rory shook her head "Tristan and I have a weird relationship. We aren't foes, but I don't know if friends are the right word. We still bicker, but we've always done that. And we both know that half the things we say we don't mean." Rory remembered the look in his eyes. "Sometimes I feel quite sorry for him" she said quietly.
"Rory! This is Tristan! The guy who has made your life hell, along with Paris, well, Paris still is a frump, but you're telling me that you feel sorry for him? Do you have a fever?" Lorelai dropped her cup and felt her forehead. Rory swatted her hands away.
"No, seriously Mom. I always get this feeling that the Tristan that everyone sees is not who he really is. And you haven't seen the look in his eyes. His eyes look empty, like he's missing out on something. It must be horrible to be placed on a shelf, being trapped by your family's name." Rory sighed, sipping her coffee. "I don't have that problem, obviously, considering that you as a Gilmore, created a scandalous sensation and I never grew up in Hartford's highest society.."
"Thank God," Lorelai interjected, wincing from the past.
Luke placed two plates on the table, his servings generous. He stood there, fiddling with the tea towel swung casually over his shoulder.
"Is there anything else I can get you?" he asked, hopefully.
"Coffee" the two girls held their now empty cups, their eyes as large as the hollows in their mugs. Luke felt slightly uncomfortable, two sets of blue orbs staring at him.
"Right, why did I even ask?" He poured the steaming black liquid, the beverage pooling in the bottom. They flashed two smiles of appreciation and he moved onto he next table. Lorelai picked up a French fry and promptly dunked it in ketchup. She chomped off half of it, her face twisted in a grimace.
"Ugh. Too much ketchup. Why is it that I can never get a balance?" Lorelai wiped her mouth with a napkin. "So you were saying?"
"Oh, yes, Tristan." Rory picked at her burger. She pulled some tomato from the mound, nibbling on it thoughtfully.
"It's like he wears a mask, a bad boy playa, but inside he's a little boy, desperately wanting the wind to blow his sails." Lorelai didn't say anything. Rory looked at her.
"Maybe I'm reading too much into this." She said before taking a huge bite from her burger.
"Maybe, maybe not" Lorelai scratched her head, watching Rory carefully.
"Sounds like Tristan isn't the bad boy that you once painted."
Rory sat there, shifting the leftovers of her fries around the plate.
******
Tristan parked his car in the open garage, stone paths leading from it to the large, grey house. Dignified, it sat, erect, an architectural wonder, but a prison for the driver. He slammed the door and walked slowly to the main entrance, mounting the stairs reluctantly. Alfred, the family butler, swung open the heavy oak door before he got within 6 ft of the door.
"Welcome home, Master DuGrey" Alfred swept his arm with a wide arc. Tristan dropped his keys on the table, and looking up he saw himself in the guilt- covered mirror. He turned away, wanting to evade himself.
"Is there anything I can get you sir?" Alfred questioned, accommodating as usual; his slight English accent came fluidly from his mouth.
"No, Alfred, I'm fine" Tristan lied, rubbing his forehead. He made his way across the foyer to the wide stairs, his feet echoing in the vast amounts of marbled space, his sound reverberating, swinging back to haunt him.
A chill traveled down his spine, the emptiness of the house overcoming him. The place he grew up in was decked out in the latest décor, every chair and tablecloth placed in the exact spot. Every vase of flowers off set the coloring or the supposed feel of the room. But what feeling? It was "Homemaker's Paradise", the house always in order, with 4 servants working to remove every trace of dust, every finger smear on the windows. The smells from the kitchen wafted out as he climbed the stairs, his legs weights. He stomach churned at the smell of another delicacy that his mother had ordered to be prepared by the time that she returned in the evening.
He walked the gauntlet of icy stares, pictures and portraits of long dead ancestors lined the wall of the stairs, their eyes boring into his soul. Tristan pushed open his bedroom door, his retreat in perfect order. During the day a maid had come in, picked up the clothes that he had tossed there in his haste this morning, left folded neatly on his bed, or deposited in the laundry chute. His bed made, the dark red covers smoothed. His pillows beaten and fluffed, his study desk freshly polished, the glass on the windows clear. On his bed sat gilt decorated card, presumably an invitation of sorts. He ignored it and threw his bag in top of it, hiding it from his sight.
He pulled off his jacket, letting it slide to the floor. He regretted the maid's perfection, wishing that something in his room were the same as he had left it this morning.
He sighed into he leather desk chair, his eyes falling on a picture frame. Three faces stared back. One face was a mixture of the first two. The woman's eyes, the man's jaw, but neither ones smile. The young boy's face he didn't recognize. The smiles were fake, plastered on; right on the flashes cue.
Tristan stared at the older man's face. When was the last time he saw him? Three months? 6? He'd lost count. Off closing a business deal by no doubt. Another success to add to the DuGrey name. Chasing after some young, sensual European slut perhaps? He massaged his neck, the muscles there tightly coiled, springs with no release.
He made his way to the bathroom. Flicking on a switch he noticed fresh towels and an immaculate basin. Twisting the taps to the bath, he watched as the hot water churn in the large bath. Adding some aromatherapy salts, he unbuttoned his shirt, the white undershirt soon following.
He heard a noise from outside, the sound coming through his open window. It sounded like a car door being closed, a woman's laugh rang shrilly. He stepped over to the window, his athletic form hidden by the strong tree. The green foliage wafted around the frame, disguising the window from outside.
The woman who had stepped into this room this morning was standing by the silver Mercedes, her head thrown back in a hollow laugh. He watched as she leaned in and placed a kiss on the driver's lips, boldly, without a care in the world. Tristan turned away, walking back to the bathroom. He undid his belt buckle and left a trail of socks, shoes, and pants, dropped haphazardly on the floor.
Tristan turned the taps off, sliding gingerly into the hot water. He lay there, watching the steam rise in silence, vainly trying to erase the memory of the scene that he just witnessed from his mind. It wasn't the first time his mother had had an affair. What else was she to do in the long periods his father flew around the world, surrounded by beautiful women. No man is a saint, least of all his father. And every time he came back, lies would mount, each suspecting the other's actions, but oblivious to the other's knowledge.
He sunk further into the bath, his entire body submerged. He closed his eyes, the water surrounding his head, muting the sounds of the outside world. The pipes in the wall creaked faintly and he lay there, unconsciously holding his breath in the warm cocoon. He ignored the warning bells ringing in his ears, which screamed at him, his body crying for oxygen. He wondered what it would be like to float along, spun in warmth and the muted peacefulness the only sound.
A knock on the bathroom door and a distorted, "Master DuGrey? Dinner is being served in 5 minutes" filtered through the water. Tristan sat up, gasping for air, and he called to Alfred who was patiently waiting at the door.
"Thankyou Alfred" he heard light footsteps walk away. Hoisting himself out of the bath, he reached for a towel. Looking in the mirror, he saw his skin was tinged red, the blood rushing to the skin, the heat drawing it out. He toweled his head; the fronds of blonde clumps reaching that tousled look. He tossed it to the side, landing in a damp heap. Wrapping a fresh towel around his lower body he walked to his room, opening the closet doors to his extensive wardrobe. Clothes lined the walls, packed, all made of expensive materials, label names screeched at him, placed starkly on the cloth, some of it never worn.
Tristan pulled a pair of jeans off a hanger, freshly pressed and a long sleeved red sweater. He shut the door to the objects reminding him of his ever-present wealth. He slid the jeans and the sweater over his cotton boxers and undershirt, stuffed his socked feet into sneakers and clipped on his watch.
He stepped lightly down the stairs, making his way to the dining room. A lady sat there, at the far end, still dressed in her business suit from the morn, her lips still stained red. She was reading the newspaper, the fine china plates positioned perfectly on the places.
His mother didn't look up when he entered. He sat down at his place, wriggling uncomfortably in the chair.
"Good day?" she asked absent-mindedly, picking up her fork.
"Fine" he returned, equally absent mindedly, knowing that she really didn't care. He picked up his fork, and shifted his food around the plate, feigning interest. She looked up.
"You're not eating. Is the chicken not cooked?" She made to order another serving. He waved his hand.
"No, no, It's fine. I'm just not hungry" he managed a smile, loathing the fakeness.
The phone rang shrilly in the other room, the sound penetrating the thick silence. His mother rose from her seat to answer it. Tristan was left at the table alone, his mother's voice filling his ears. He heard the smooth voice greet the person on the other end, making the usual chitchat. He shifted away, walking to the library, searching comfort in the large collection of books, ranging from novels created thousands of years ago to newly published works.
He sank into the large chair, the darkness of outside seeping through the open window to where he sat. His eyes traced the collection of books, a collection that has taken years to create, shelves empty, waiting for more. His mother's voice sounded down the hall, her footsteps moving closer.
"Tristan should be around. I'm sure he'd love to talk to you." The person on the other end reeled off words, his ears deaf to them.
"And how is your business contract going darling?" her tone was laced with sweetness. It was his father, and she was, searching for him, so that he could have the chance to engage in mindless conversations. If I haven't had enough for today, he thought rebelliously.
Tristan hastily rose from his seat, and made his way to the door at the far end. He silently opened it and closed it with extra precaution. He slipped down the corridor, his path twisting back. He grabbed his keys from the front foyer table and headed to the visitors lounge. He opened a window and climbed out of it, landing on already moist grass. The autumn was drawing to a close, the chill of winter nights were dominating more and more, the icy fingers of frost creeping into the greenery, curling, it's grip getting stronger and stronger.
Mrs. DuGrey pushed open the door to the library, it was empty. She heard an all too familiar car engine roar down the drive. She stood at the window, the silver Jaguar speeding, leaving the grounds with unmistakable haste. The voice on the other end was never ceasing, the phony sentimentality rubbing against the grain. She sighed and sat down, watching the lights fade, wishing herself, like the car, leaving this place.
A.N: Like a flower, I need some source to thrive.so review!!
Rory sat on the bus, the heater pumping out deliciously warm air, addictive as a sleeping drug. Her eyelids felt heavy, her head foggy. She leaned her forehead on the cool windowpane, and stared out of the bus, watching the scenery flash by, struggling to keep awake. The bus lurched to a stop and people arose from their seats. Rory blinked at the view outside the transparent glass and her mind clicked. Jumping from her seat she grabbed her bag and hastily followed everyone else off the bus.
Lorelai Gilmore sat on the seat in front of the bus, watching people of all ages file off the bus, the icy wind slicing through their coats. She sat, holding her bag on her lap, impatiently twisting the straps. Rory finally stumbled off, her mouth stretched into a wide yawn.
"Oh come on woman! It's freezing out here! And you just dawdle off the bus!"
"Mom? What are you doing here?" Rory managed, between yawns.
"Hey careful, if your mouth gets any wider, you'll be able to swallow my head whole, large as it is." Lorelai put her arm around her chums' shoulder. "Michel was driving me insane today." She continued "even more so today than any other day, cold weather does that to him, so does hot weather, snow too. Anyway, he was grumbling on about how bad the heating was in the inn, and I just couldn't help but imagine how scrummy he'd look roasting on a spit in the fire. A red apple in his mouth too. So I decided that I should get out of there early, see a fresh face, and whine to her."
"Hmm, I just had this picture of Michel naked, roasting" Rory snorted, directing her mother's steps to Luke's.
"Disgusting child! Your literature teacher encourages you to use your imagination too much. Which reminds me, how was all perfect Chilton today?" Lorelai opened the diner door, feeling a wave of warm air awash with smells of fries and coffee brush over them.
"Ugh. I hate her! She drives me crazy! And she doesn't even have to say anything half the time, just the looks and the painful knowledge that she scored better in her British History assignment than I did."
Lorelai looked at her only daughter sympathetically, distinctly knowing what she was talking about
"Naturally, Paris got an A, and I got a B+." Rory sat down at a table, close to the window.
"A B+? Babe, that is great! I never got a B+ in British History when I was in high school"
"Did you even do British History?"
"Weee-eelll, no, but I know that if I did, I'd get C's" she smiled cheerfully, trying to pull Rory out of the rut.
The owner of the diner came to their table, his worn cap perched on his head.
"Luke, did you ever get a B+ in British History when you were in high school?" Lorelai pounced on the man with the coffeepot.
"I'll bet he didn't take British History either" Rory remarked to her mother.
"Actually I did take British History, and I am proud to say that I got straight A's in that subject" Luke announced proudly, until he saw Lorelai's face. Wrong answer Luke. He swallowed and glanced at Rory's downcast expression.
"I'll just get your usual, right?" Luke wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Lorelai smiled tightly. He poured some steaming coffee into their mugs, frantically trying to amend. He opened his mouth to say something to Rory, but decided against it, instead, her retreated like a dog with it's tail between its legs back behind the counter.
Once he was out of earshot, Rory looked at her mother pointedly. "See? Even Luke scored better than me in British History" Lorelai drummed her fingers on the tabletop.
"He cheated"
"Sure sure." Rory quipped sarcastically. "Face it, I suck. Why do I even bother? I'm never going to be good enough. Imagine what Harvard will be like? A kezillion times worse! What if I have to board with a Paris?" Rory moaned, slumping her head on the table.
"Rory, that's not true. You are good enough. Just the very fact that you attend that hell everyday, surrounded by snobs who pay obscene amounts of money redecorating to fit mood swings, and who condescend to you. And for you to come home with B+'s and A's should tell you that you are good enough. And if you push yourself too hard, you're going to burn out. And I don't want a pale imitation of a daughter because then I wouldn't have anyone to complain loudly to.and to share my addiction of coffee with. And we all know what I'll be like if that happens. Luke would cop it all and he'd ban me from his diner forever, equaling in no good coffee, which leads to moods. Thus, the vicious cycle begins."
"I don't think so. For a start, Luke's too in love with you to ban you. He'd miss you too much" Rory grinned mischievously. Lorelai continued to tap, trying to think of another topic.
"Ooh, how did you and your science partner go in the dissection today? The frog didn't make any inappropriate gestures now did it? I remember a frog that I had to dissect once." Lorelai giggled, remembering the memory.
Rory ignored her mother's rambling.
"Fine. Apart from the fact that my science partner forgot that we were supposed to meet early to write up the prac, so I had to do it all by myself" "Did you apply some sort of punishment? Cos our house needs a really good cleaning. A really good cleaning actually. I found a whole tribe of dust bunnies under my bed the other day. I was petrified that they were going to attack me."
"Yes, I told him that he had to dissect it all by himself."
"Oh, a male hey? And does Mr. Mysterious have a name?"
"Tristan"
"As in Tristan, the blonde bad boy, who persists in calling you Mary?"
"The one and the same"
Lorelai picked up the coffee, emptying the cup.
"And how is Tristan? Irritating and egotistical as usual?"
"Not really." Rory shook her head "Tristan and I have a weird relationship. We aren't foes, but I don't know if friends are the right word. We still bicker, but we've always done that. And we both know that half the things we say we don't mean." Rory remembered the look in his eyes. "Sometimes I feel quite sorry for him" she said quietly.
"Rory! This is Tristan! The guy who has made your life hell, along with Paris, well, Paris still is a frump, but you're telling me that you feel sorry for him? Do you have a fever?" Lorelai dropped her cup and felt her forehead. Rory swatted her hands away.
"No, seriously Mom. I always get this feeling that the Tristan that everyone sees is not who he really is. And you haven't seen the look in his eyes. His eyes look empty, like he's missing out on something. It must be horrible to be placed on a shelf, being trapped by your family's name." Rory sighed, sipping her coffee. "I don't have that problem, obviously, considering that you as a Gilmore, created a scandalous sensation and I never grew up in Hartford's highest society.."
"Thank God," Lorelai interjected, wincing from the past.
Luke placed two plates on the table, his servings generous. He stood there, fiddling with the tea towel swung casually over his shoulder.
"Is there anything else I can get you?" he asked, hopefully.
"Coffee" the two girls held their now empty cups, their eyes as large as the hollows in their mugs. Luke felt slightly uncomfortable, two sets of blue orbs staring at him.
"Right, why did I even ask?" He poured the steaming black liquid, the beverage pooling in the bottom. They flashed two smiles of appreciation and he moved onto he next table. Lorelai picked up a French fry and promptly dunked it in ketchup. She chomped off half of it, her face twisted in a grimace.
"Ugh. Too much ketchup. Why is it that I can never get a balance?" Lorelai wiped her mouth with a napkin. "So you were saying?"
"Oh, yes, Tristan." Rory picked at her burger. She pulled some tomato from the mound, nibbling on it thoughtfully.
"It's like he wears a mask, a bad boy playa, but inside he's a little boy, desperately wanting the wind to blow his sails." Lorelai didn't say anything. Rory looked at her.
"Maybe I'm reading too much into this." She said before taking a huge bite from her burger.
"Maybe, maybe not" Lorelai scratched her head, watching Rory carefully.
"Sounds like Tristan isn't the bad boy that you once painted."
Rory sat there, shifting the leftovers of her fries around the plate.
******
Tristan parked his car in the open garage, stone paths leading from it to the large, grey house. Dignified, it sat, erect, an architectural wonder, but a prison for the driver. He slammed the door and walked slowly to the main entrance, mounting the stairs reluctantly. Alfred, the family butler, swung open the heavy oak door before he got within 6 ft of the door.
"Welcome home, Master DuGrey" Alfred swept his arm with a wide arc. Tristan dropped his keys on the table, and looking up he saw himself in the guilt- covered mirror. He turned away, wanting to evade himself.
"Is there anything I can get you sir?" Alfred questioned, accommodating as usual; his slight English accent came fluidly from his mouth.
"No, Alfred, I'm fine" Tristan lied, rubbing his forehead. He made his way across the foyer to the wide stairs, his feet echoing in the vast amounts of marbled space, his sound reverberating, swinging back to haunt him.
A chill traveled down his spine, the emptiness of the house overcoming him. The place he grew up in was decked out in the latest décor, every chair and tablecloth placed in the exact spot. Every vase of flowers off set the coloring or the supposed feel of the room. But what feeling? It was "Homemaker's Paradise", the house always in order, with 4 servants working to remove every trace of dust, every finger smear on the windows. The smells from the kitchen wafted out as he climbed the stairs, his legs weights. He stomach churned at the smell of another delicacy that his mother had ordered to be prepared by the time that she returned in the evening.
He walked the gauntlet of icy stares, pictures and portraits of long dead ancestors lined the wall of the stairs, their eyes boring into his soul. Tristan pushed open his bedroom door, his retreat in perfect order. During the day a maid had come in, picked up the clothes that he had tossed there in his haste this morning, left folded neatly on his bed, or deposited in the laundry chute. His bed made, the dark red covers smoothed. His pillows beaten and fluffed, his study desk freshly polished, the glass on the windows clear. On his bed sat gilt decorated card, presumably an invitation of sorts. He ignored it and threw his bag in top of it, hiding it from his sight.
He pulled off his jacket, letting it slide to the floor. He regretted the maid's perfection, wishing that something in his room were the same as he had left it this morning.
He sighed into he leather desk chair, his eyes falling on a picture frame. Three faces stared back. One face was a mixture of the first two. The woman's eyes, the man's jaw, but neither ones smile. The young boy's face he didn't recognize. The smiles were fake, plastered on; right on the flashes cue.
Tristan stared at the older man's face. When was the last time he saw him? Three months? 6? He'd lost count. Off closing a business deal by no doubt. Another success to add to the DuGrey name. Chasing after some young, sensual European slut perhaps? He massaged his neck, the muscles there tightly coiled, springs with no release.
He made his way to the bathroom. Flicking on a switch he noticed fresh towels and an immaculate basin. Twisting the taps to the bath, he watched as the hot water churn in the large bath. Adding some aromatherapy salts, he unbuttoned his shirt, the white undershirt soon following.
He heard a noise from outside, the sound coming through his open window. It sounded like a car door being closed, a woman's laugh rang shrilly. He stepped over to the window, his athletic form hidden by the strong tree. The green foliage wafted around the frame, disguising the window from outside.
The woman who had stepped into this room this morning was standing by the silver Mercedes, her head thrown back in a hollow laugh. He watched as she leaned in and placed a kiss on the driver's lips, boldly, without a care in the world. Tristan turned away, walking back to the bathroom. He undid his belt buckle and left a trail of socks, shoes, and pants, dropped haphazardly on the floor.
Tristan turned the taps off, sliding gingerly into the hot water. He lay there, watching the steam rise in silence, vainly trying to erase the memory of the scene that he just witnessed from his mind. It wasn't the first time his mother had had an affair. What else was she to do in the long periods his father flew around the world, surrounded by beautiful women. No man is a saint, least of all his father. And every time he came back, lies would mount, each suspecting the other's actions, but oblivious to the other's knowledge.
He sunk further into the bath, his entire body submerged. He closed his eyes, the water surrounding his head, muting the sounds of the outside world. The pipes in the wall creaked faintly and he lay there, unconsciously holding his breath in the warm cocoon. He ignored the warning bells ringing in his ears, which screamed at him, his body crying for oxygen. He wondered what it would be like to float along, spun in warmth and the muted peacefulness the only sound.
A knock on the bathroom door and a distorted, "Master DuGrey? Dinner is being served in 5 minutes" filtered through the water. Tristan sat up, gasping for air, and he called to Alfred who was patiently waiting at the door.
"Thankyou Alfred" he heard light footsteps walk away. Hoisting himself out of the bath, he reached for a towel. Looking in the mirror, he saw his skin was tinged red, the blood rushing to the skin, the heat drawing it out. He toweled his head; the fronds of blonde clumps reaching that tousled look. He tossed it to the side, landing in a damp heap. Wrapping a fresh towel around his lower body he walked to his room, opening the closet doors to his extensive wardrobe. Clothes lined the walls, packed, all made of expensive materials, label names screeched at him, placed starkly on the cloth, some of it never worn.
Tristan pulled a pair of jeans off a hanger, freshly pressed and a long sleeved red sweater. He shut the door to the objects reminding him of his ever-present wealth. He slid the jeans and the sweater over his cotton boxers and undershirt, stuffed his socked feet into sneakers and clipped on his watch.
He stepped lightly down the stairs, making his way to the dining room. A lady sat there, at the far end, still dressed in her business suit from the morn, her lips still stained red. She was reading the newspaper, the fine china plates positioned perfectly on the places.
His mother didn't look up when he entered. He sat down at his place, wriggling uncomfortably in the chair.
"Good day?" she asked absent-mindedly, picking up her fork.
"Fine" he returned, equally absent mindedly, knowing that she really didn't care. He picked up his fork, and shifted his food around the plate, feigning interest. She looked up.
"You're not eating. Is the chicken not cooked?" She made to order another serving. He waved his hand.
"No, no, It's fine. I'm just not hungry" he managed a smile, loathing the fakeness.
The phone rang shrilly in the other room, the sound penetrating the thick silence. His mother rose from her seat to answer it. Tristan was left at the table alone, his mother's voice filling his ears. He heard the smooth voice greet the person on the other end, making the usual chitchat. He shifted away, walking to the library, searching comfort in the large collection of books, ranging from novels created thousands of years ago to newly published works.
He sank into the large chair, the darkness of outside seeping through the open window to where he sat. His eyes traced the collection of books, a collection that has taken years to create, shelves empty, waiting for more. His mother's voice sounded down the hall, her footsteps moving closer.
"Tristan should be around. I'm sure he'd love to talk to you." The person on the other end reeled off words, his ears deaf to them.
"And how is your business contract going darling?" her tone was laced with sweetness. It was his father, and she was, searching for him, so that he could have the chance to engage in mindless conversations. If I haven't had enough for today, he thought rebelliously.
Tristan hastily rose from his seat, and made his way to the door at the far end. He silently opened it and closed it with extra precaution. He slipped down the corridor, his path twisting back. He grabbed his keys from the front foyer table and headed to the visitors lounge. He opened a window and climbed out of it, landing on already moist grass. The autumn was drawing to a close, the chill of winter nights were dominating more and more, the icy fingers of frost creeping into the greenery, curling, it's grip getting stronger and stronger.
Mrs. DuGrey pushed open the door to the library, it was empty. She heard an all too familiar car engine roar down the drive. She stood at the window, the silver Jaguar speeding, leaving the grounds with unmistakable haste. The voice on the other end was never ceasing, the phony sentimentality rubbing against the grain. She sighed and sat down, watching the lights fade, wishing herself, like the car, leaving this place.
A.N: Like a flower, I need some source to thrive.so review!!