Disclaimer: See first page
Author's Note: You may be wondering over the point of this fic. I wouldn't have a clue myself. You'd think that, at chapter 5, the author would have an idea. Heh.
Rory opened her bedroom door, dressed in her uniform, her long hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Tristan sat at the kitchen table, reading an old issue of Cosmopolitan, an empty mug before him. "Morning" she said cheerfully, placing her bag on the table, gathering up some papers and text books.
"Morning" he replied, pushing his chair back. "Your mother came tearing down her this morning, switched the coffee machine on, emptied half a coffee bag into it and was wailing on about her black hand bag. I just sat here, mute"
"Wise move in those situations. She's dangerous in the morning - just wait..one, two, three.." Rory stood still, her ears straining for thudding on the stairs.
"Rory?! Where's my black handbag?" Lorelai's voice floated down, her feet pounding on the stairs.
"Isn't it hanging by your brown coat on the rack in the entrance? Rory called.
Lorelai rushed into the kitchen, abruptly took the mug out of Rory's hands and took a swig.
"Nooo, that's my other black bag, the one with the long strap. I'm looking for the short strap one."
"Here," Rory picked up the handbag that sat on an empty chair, the object hidden from view. Lorelai snatched the bag from her hands.
"Thank you! Rory, what would I do without you?" Lorelai stuffed her purse inside.
"Shrivel up and die, most likely" Rory smiled
"Nice and positive for a quarter to seven in the morning! Now, I gotta meet Sookie early, she's making me breakfast and I'm finishing late, so I'll be home around 7:30, okay?" Lorelai crammed her feet into some shoes and grabbed her coat.
"I'll have pizza ready" Rory smiled, planting a good bye kiss on her mother's cheek.
"Atta girl!" Lorelai called over her shoulder, the door slamming behind her. Rory turned back to Tristan, taking in his dumbfounded expression on his face.
"Wow. That was an interesting experience, Did she even notice me?" Tristan laughed leaning against the sink.
"In about 15 minutes, yes." Rory grinned, zipping up her bag. She checked her wristwatch, blowing a stray hair from her mouth. "I think we better be moving too, if we want to get to your uniform before school." She struggled her backpack onto her slight shoulders, teetering down the hall. Tristan rolled his eyes and walked into lounge room, grabbing his keys. Then they were gone, leaving a trail of warm air, smelling of a mixture of cologne and clean hair in their wake
******
"Oh my" Rory stared up at the grey mansion before her, closing the car door. "That is a very large house" Tristan couldn't help but smile.
"You get used to it" he lied. Tristan watched her, amused by the way she craned her neck and flickered her eyes over the structure.
"Do you ever got lost?" the innocent girl questioned, standing on the front steps. Yes, thought Tristan bitterly, but flashed a smile.
"Noooo.you've never been to my house before hey?" He paused at the stairs.
"You call this a house? It's bigger than my grandparents.and don't you dare say what you're going to say."
"Should I take advantage of the fact that you've never been to my house before?" Tristan smiled widely, his head cocked to one side. Rory rolled her eyes.
"You never stop do you? It's 7:50 in the morning, we're outside and you just can't help yourself." "Blame yourself, seeing you in the sunshine gets me thinking of."
"Stop" Rory commanded and turned him around by the shoulders, forcefully propelling him to the door. "Be a gentleman and show a lady in. Do you have a library?"
"Ooh, Rory. I didn't know you were this strong"
The door swung open, Alfred appearing. Rory and Tristan paused, Rory staring blankly at the old man, with a prim face.
"Good morning Master DuGrey, you're just in time for breakfast."
"No thanks" Tristan shifted inside, depositing his keys on the table.
"And who might you be?" Alfred extended his wrinkled hand to Rory. Rory blinked at him in the sunlight, dazed at the aristocratic man standing before her. Tristan rubbed his nose, ignoring the giddy tickle to laugh. "Rory Gilmore, Alfred.Alfred, Rory Gilmore." Tristan waved his hand lightly.
"Pleasure to meet you," he made a quaint bow "May I take your bag? Your coat? Would you like some refreshment?"
Rory looked slightly bewildered. "Oh, erm, no. Thank you" she added on as an after thought, clutching nervously at her bag straps, almost afraid that he'd suck them off.
"As you wish," the butler closed the heavy door and continued his way to the dining room.
"Madam, Master DuGrey is home," Alfred promptly said in the entrance, addressing the hidden patrons. But by the sickly smell of perfume, he could tell who it was in there anyway. There's only one other person who reeks like that, he thought, with some venom.
"Tristan?" The blonde boy grimaced, the muscles in his back tensed, the polished voice reaching for him. He stepped into the dining room, his sullen eyes lighting on two people seated at the table, instead of one. He couldn't say that he was surprised. The second person sat in a chair, clothed in a robe of his father's, his dark, exotic eyes melding with his olive skin. He looked youthful, perhaps in his late twenties.neatly cut hair, with an air of smugness, a self-confidence that Tristan noticed immediately, and loathed. It didn't matter who he was. He was just a face. Another empty sheath, with a brooding mood, which spread throughout the house, relentless.
"Mother." He said tightly, staring at the stranger seated at the table, coolly drinking coffee. The boy stood there sullenly, frozen on the thick carpet, the space between them miles and miles.
"Tristan, this is Eli." His mother broke the silence, ashamed of her son's lack of manners.
"Eli? Is that short for Elijah?" Tristan chopped out each word, his muscles tightening to an unbearable degree.
"Actually, yes." The dark haired man ignored the cutting edge to Tristan's voice, gazing insolently into the boy's eyes. Tristan's face didn't crack, the two males watching each other, testing the air. He looked at his mother, sitting like a satisfied cat at the head of the oak table, preening. Anger swirled and bottled inside of him, lashing at his insides, reckless. The boy's blue orbs turned a darkened color, dangerously flashing. Who is he?! They screamed with intensity, demanding, but already knowing the sick truth.
Rory stood behind Tristan's tall frame, hiding in the shadows. She was curious. Curious at this life that was so different to her own, the people, the air, the mentality. The paintings that lined the walls, the thick carpet that crushed under your feet, the marble, the heavy gilt frames. All held her in a sense of awe, a captive in the world of rich.
Rory inquisitively peered past Tristan's board shoulder into the dining room. More gold. And look at that oak table! It must weigh a ton. Rory's eyes finally landed on the patrons, seated like a majestic couple, at the furthest end of the table. She swallowed quickly, closing her open mouth, and flushing slightly.
"Good morning," she said awkwardly, twisting her feet nervously, four eyes turning to her. Tristan recoiled. His mind was crying out, wanting his arms to gently propel Rory from this scene, erase her from the sickening act. He knew what was coming. Sure enough, the sugar laced voice rung out, with painful clarity.
"Good morning," Mrs. DuGrey placed her coffee cup meticulously down on the saucer. "And who are you?" his mother flickered her eyes over Rory's shape, as a snake would use it's tongue.
"Rory. Rory Gilmore," Rory stepped into the dining room properly, eagerly stepping into the light. Like an innocent lion cub, she was in plain view of the predators.
Tristan stood there, mute, still frozen. He hated the small talk, the polite chitchat. And here he was, standing there, locked in some cage with some woman who went under the name of 'mother' and the prick that has slept with her last night. And worst of all, he had put Rory in line of fire, dropping her into the torrential waterfall with no safety vest.
"Rory. Pleased to meet you," Mrs. DuGrey's pout stretched into a slight smile, picking up her coffee again. "Are you in any relation to Emily and Richard Gilmore?" Tristan cringed. Here it comes. The inevitable look into the family history, the prying into the scandals, the judgement. But by that look on his mother's face, it was safely presumed that she had already formed an opinion.
"Yes, they're my grandparents, do you know them?" Rory replied politely, frowning at change in her facial expression.
"Yes, actually I do. Tristan? Would you like some coffee?" she ceased conversation with Rory.
He hated himself for exposing Rory like this, to the superficial behavior, the deep mire. Some things are never meant to be seen by the innocent.
"If you'll excuse us," Tristan snapped out of his reverie, pulling Rory by the arm, abruptly yanking her from the room, her form disappearing around the corner. He dragged her down the hall, clutching her stiff arm.
"Ow! Tristan you're hurting me!" Rory wriggled in his iron hold, trying to wrench her arm free.
"Sorry." He said contritely and dropped her arm immediately. He pushed open the door to the library. "Here. Have a browse" Tristan swept his arm of the room. The room was something that he took for granted. Shrugged off without a glance. A hideout. He did not realize the magic, the euphoria that would engulf him if he only let it
"Wow. That is a lot of books!" Rory stepped through the door, her jaw dropping. Her eyes gleamed, hungrily devouring the rows of books, neatly packed in, one after another. Volumes of philosophy and history was never ending, thick, musty binders sending her into dizzy excitement.
"Yeah, whatever."
Tristan's tone penetrated her mind. She looked at him sharply, watching his face.
"I'm going to go get my uniform," he met her eyes. Whoops. Mistake. Rory stared at him, frozen in the middle of the room, her eyes searching his, noticing his harsh tone. Tristan swallowed nervously, loathing way that her eyes searched his, looking past the clear-cut profile into his very soul. He tore his eyes away, looking down at the floor.
"Don't run off." He said brusquely and with that, he turned on his heel and left the room. Rory sighed at his disappearing back, watching it go and hide behind the thick oak of the ornate door, waiting for the time when he would open up.
Tristan jogged up the stairs briskly, directing his feet to his room. He tore off his creased clothes dumping them in a puddle at his feet and roughly pulled out his uniform from the closet, his numb fingers moving with slow speed. Go faster! He urged himself. His mind was thinking of one thing. Get out of here as soon as possible
"Who is she?" his mother appeared at his side. He couldn't say that he was surprised. He rolled his eyes, and jerked his shoes from the shoe rack that hung at the side, the blackness gleaming and winking wickedly at him. Some maid had sat there, polishing and cleaning them to a fine sheen, and all he wanted to do was rub them in dust.
"Who's Eli?"
"Answer the question"
"What number is he?" Tristan still faced the closet, his back to her. He pulled a crisp wife beater from the lower drawer and wriggled it over his head. The suffocating stench of her perfume swum up his nose, causing his mind to set off in a delirious spin. The words came out harshly, venting his fury.
"Is it number eight? And how long is it going last? Until Dad comes home? That's is, if Dad even comes home." Tristan cut ruthlessly, buckling his pants.
"Tristan, this is none of your business." She slammed the closet door shut, her hands biting into his bare arm, demanding his full attention. He dropped his shirt.
"No, it's not my business. But what you do in this house effects me. And anything that effects me, I have a right to know about. You know, I wish that nothing you do effects me, it would make things so easier. But things aren't like that, so who is he? Huh?" he taunted, towering over her.
"You could have been more polite." She stared back, trying to gain the upper hand. He stared at her incredulously. I made no impact on her. She can't even hear me. Tristan felt bitter seeds pop up in his heart, thriving on the hate, lapping up the rays of poison.
"Why should I be polite?" he raised his voice at her, not believing the standards of the woman in front of him. "Just because he's the flavor of the month? Because he's a guest? They're not good enough reasons. Give me a reason to be polite." He jerked her hand away from the closet door, opening it again, picking up his shirt again.
"How dare you. How dare you tell me how to run my life. I am an adult, your parent, and I do not have to check back with my seventeen-year-old son in everything I do. Do you think that I really care about what think? I thought I had brought you up better than that. And that Gilmore girl.what are you thinking?! At least I have taste." She spat back, heedlessly trampling on his swollen nerves with her sharp heels.
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, facing the closet, containing his rage. Here she goes again, he thought bitterly, twisting the story around so that I'm to blame. He wanted to slam his clenched fist in the door, and watch the wood crumple. He turned around and faced her again.
"You are unbelievable. So this is my fault? I'm not the one who's having an affair! And don't you start on Rory. She means more to me, than you ever will." And with cobra speed, a tanned hand flashed in the air, and came crashing down on the boy's jaw. Skin connected with skin with a loud slap, the blood rushing to the hot hand imprint, burning. Tristan bit down on his lip, the skin immediately swelling. The air between them was hazy with guilty tension, the fumes becoming thick, overtaking any rational thoughts.
"I am your mother" she choked, her words barely restrained. "I deserve respect from you. And that's not what I am getting!" she paused, knowing that she was once again victorious. She took a deep breath, awaiting his mumbled apology.
"Mother?" he flung bitterly, the word tasting foul in his mouth. He shook his head, his voice dangerously calm, quiet. "I don't see a mother when I look at you. I don't even recognise you. All I see is a selfish woman, intent on only pleasing herself, without a thought of anyone else. A mother sets a good example. A mother denies herself if there is even a hint of pain that could possibly be inflicted on their child. A mother acts responsible. A mother can be depended on. And I don't see that when I look at you." The woman before him gazed into her son's eyes, then laughed. She laughed cruelly, the sound grating on his already raw nerves.
"Come back to the real world Tristan. No mother is like that. It's called a game. Don't you think that I don't know the real reasons for your father's long absence? I'm not a fool you know." She snorted. Instinctively, he turned away, pained. She was right. Her laughter echoed in his ears, hacking away at his words. A face flashed before his eyes, a familiar smile. Tristan turned back, looking at the perfectly made up face, wanting to re shape the features into another's, seek comfort in her eyes. He wanted to shake her, show her what she truly was. But that would never be, he thought ruefully.
"No. There are such mother's, but women like you can never be one of them. I'm sick of your games." He said quietly, sorrowfully. He brushed past her and looped his tie in his fingers from the desk and left the room, leaving her behind. Tristan slowly walked down the stairs, taking deep breaths, wondering whether or not he had made any sense. He paused, and slung his tie around his neck, and made his way to the library.
Upstairs, Mrs. DuGrey leaned against the closet door; her proud, arched back slumped. She rubbed her temples in a circular movement, feeling the blood pound. She looked around the room uncomfortably, feeling as sense of loss. She expelled a sigh, weary, but her resolve unchanged. For a second, she felt remorse. But it was gone like a flash, and she left the room, closing the door behind her.
"Rory, let's go," Tristan cracked the library doors open.
"Hmmm." Rory stood by the window, her hands holding leather bound book, her eyes reverently caressing the pages. He paused, watching her in her element, the black words the key to soul, the pleasure sprawled across her face. She practically skipped across the room, opening the doors wide and sucking him in with her hand. She pushed the open book to his nose.
"Smell." She commanded, looking up at him, impetuously.
He obligingly breathed in.
"Mmm.musty?" he smiled lopsidedly, waiting for her passionate reaction, his face partially hidden in the book.
"But isn't it a good musty? Its history, knowledge, passed on through generations." she pulled back the book, carefully turning the pages.
Tristan's smile molded into a grin.
"Of course. I love that smell" he lied, Rory oblivious to his mocking tone. "As much as I'd like to watch you all day get excited over books, we're going to be late if we don't move. And aren't you aiming for that perfect punctuality record?" he teased
"Do we have to?" Rory looked crestfallen. He looked at her in mock surprise.
"Are you telling me that you want to skip school? Well, I knew that I was irresistible, but I didn't think that my powers were strong enough to seduce Rory Gilmore!" She closed her book with a snap, his words having wakened her from her rapturous trance. She rolled her eyes, an all too familiar reaction to the majority of words aimed at her.
"Let's go big head."
******
They sat in silence, Tristan slumped behind the wheel, concentrating on driving. Rory on the other hand, sat erect, staring out the window, her mind occupied with the events that had just passed. The meeting of his mother, the butler, the library. All if it was what she had expected, the feast for her eyes, the smells of plush and rich wafts of leather. Every piece of furniture and every centimeter of carpet screamed 'rich', but somehow, Tristan didn't fit in. ever since she had laid eyes on him, heard his voice, the expectation that he fitted in the 'rich preppy boy' puzzle was there. Today, it had shattered, and not without some noise. He looked too uncomfortable, too out of place to fit.
Rory remembered his mother, the way his entire body had tensed when she called his name. And that dark skinned man. He wasn't how she had pictured his father; she was expecting fair hair and with the same haunting, intense blue eyes, as Tristan had, unless, of course...
"Tristan, that wasn't your father was it?" Rory asked cautiously, still staring out the window, her eyes downcast. He flicked his eyes off the road and onto her, her head still turned away from him. He opened his mouth a couple of times, like a fish out of water, forming words to say.
"No it wasn't" he finally stated simply, the words hanging in the air between them. The short distance between them crackled with tension, the hum of the car, quieting down to a slight vibration. One was processing the information, the other awaiting judgement. But it never came. He watched her for a few more seconds and she turned to hi sympathetically, her eyes seeking his. Instinctively he turned back to the road, but thankful for the brief gaze. Tristan felt irrevocably choked up, hot tears pricking at the back of his eyes. He wanted to crawl over the seat and curl up in her lap and dream away the pain, like a little boy, lost. She would understand. But he didn't. With some difficulty, he cleared his throat and shook the suspicious moisture from his eyes. Rory didn't miss one second of his actions, watching him carefully. She sighed and resumed her position, the trees whizzing by, feeling slightly sick.
The car glided up the drive and he maneuvered skillfully into a spot, reserved exclusively for him. He leaned his head on the steering wheel, the leather imprinting patterns on his forehead, switching the car off. Rory still sat silently beside him. She unbuckled her car seat, the chinking of the metal reminding him that she was there.
"Thanks for the ride" she said, wondering what else to say.
"Not a problem," the boys head jerked up, unbuckling his seat also. "Shall we?" he gestured to the outside, students already walking by, staring quizzically into the car, trying to distinguish it's passengers. They opened doors in unison, the cold air hitting them in the face. The car alarm beeped and Tristan started to move off when Rory stopped him.
"Tristan, your tie." She motioned to the loose silk dangling from his neck. Tristan dropped his books on the car in exasperation.
"You wouldn't happen to have a mirror on you, by any chance?" he asked, feeling ridiculous.
"Gee, you know, I left it in my other jacket" she smiled sarcastically. "Here" Rory reached up and took the two lengths in her hands, folding like a pro. Tristan looked around self consciously, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Why do I feel like a little boy?" he moaned, slightly embarrassed. Rory continued twisting and folding.
"Hush, Tristan or you'll get a spanking." Rory stared up with an authoritative look on her face, her voice squeaky. He grinned, the words registering.
"And what type of spanking are you talking of?" Rory's only answer was a none too sharp tug on the tie.
"Okay! Sorry!" he choked, his throat squashed. He looked down at her hands. Small, white, soft. So different from another pair of hands that had often engaged in this act. Tristan's mind flew back, where the hands were larger, tanned and much more rough. A shrill voice was scolding him, yanking at his throat and dress jacket impatiently. His collar was stiff and starched, his hair painfully combed and set. The owner of the hands was relentless, pushing him forward to the crowds and the tall towers of adults smiling obligingly at him, expressing sugared comments such as "he's adorable" or "a smart looking lad" in plenty. He remembered the hate, the discomfort of being placed on a shelf, a prized trophy that his parents showed around, brazenly polished. The dizzying crowds, the smell of cigarette smoke, women's perfume. Their tribal scents that permeated the air and engulfed his senses.
"There," Rory smoothed the tie down, bringing Tristan back to the present. "Good?"
"Thanks," he adjusted his jacket and ran a hand through his hair. "Do I look properly dressed now?" he smiled at her. She returned his smile, handing his books to him.
"Every bit"
Author's Note: You may be wondering over the point of this fic. I wouldn't have a clue myself. You'd think that, at chapter 5, the author would have an idea. Heh.
Rory opened her bedroom door, dressed in her uniform, her long hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Tristan sat at the kitchen table, reading an old issue of Cosmopolitan, an empty mug before him. "Morning" she said cheerfully, placing her bag on the table, gathering up some papers and text books.
"Morning" he replied, pushing his chair back. "Your mother came tearing down her this morning, switched the coffee machine on, emptied half a coffee bag into it and was wailing on about her black hand bag. I just sat here, mute"
"Wise move in those situations. She's dangerous in the morning - just wait..one, two, three.." Rory stood still, her ears straining for thudding on the stairs.
"Rory?! Where's my black handbag?" Lorelai's voice floated down, her feet pounding on the stairs.
"Isn't it hanging by your brown coat on the rack in the entrance? Rory called.
Lorelai rushed into the kitchen, abruptly took the mug out of Rory's hands and took a swig.
"Nooo, that's my other black bag, the one with the long strap. I'm looking for the short strap one."
"Here," Rory picked up the handbag that sat on an empty chair, the object hidden from view. Lorelai snatched the bag from her hands.
"Thank you! Rory, what would I do without you?" Lorelai stuffed her purse inside.
"Shrivel up and die, most likely" Rory smiled
"Nice and positive for a quarter to seven in the morning! Now, I gotta meet Sookie early, she's making me breakfast and I'm finishing late, so I'll be home around 7:30, okay?" Lorelai crammed her feet into some shoes and grabbed her coat.
"I'll have pizza ready" Rory smiled, planting a good bye kiss on her mother's cheek.
"Atta girl!" Lorelai called over her shoulder, the door slamming behind her. Rory turned back to Tristan, taking in his dumbfounded expression on his face.
"Wow. That was an interesting experience, Did she even notice me?" Tristan laughed leaning against the sink.
"In about 15 minutes, yes." Rory grinned, zipping up her bag. She checked her wristwatch, blowing a stray hair from her mouth. "I think we better be moving too, if we want to get to your uniform before school." She struggled her backpack onto her slight shoulders, teetering down the hall. Tristan rolled his eyes and walked into lounge room, grabbing his keys. Then they were gone, leaving a trail of warm air, smelling of a mixture of cologne and clean hair in their wake
******
"Oh my" Rory stared up at the grey mansion before her, closing the car door. "That is a very large house" Tristan couldn't help but smile.
"You get used to it" he lied. Tristan watched her, amused by the way she craned her neck and flickered her eyes over the structure.
"Do you ever got lost?" the innocent girl questioned, standing on the front steps. Yes, thought Tristan bitterly, but flashed a smile.
"Noooo.you've never been to my house before hey?" He paused at the stairs.
"You call this a house? It's bigger than my grandparents.and don't you dare say what you're going to say."
"Should I take advantage of the fact that you've never been to my house before?" Tristan smiled widely, his head cocked to one side. Rory rolled her eyes.
"You never stop do you? It's 7:50 in the morning, we're outside and you just can't help yourself." "Blame yourself, seeing you in the sunshine gets me thinking of."
"Stop" Rory commanded and turned him around by the shoulders, forcefully propelling him to the door. "Be a gentleman and show a lady in. Do you have a library?"
"Ooh, Rory. I didn't know you were this strong"
The door swung open, Alfred appearing. Rory and Tristan paused, Rory staring blankly at the old man, with a prim face.
"Good morning Master DuGrey, you're just in time for breakfast."
"No thanks" Tristan shifted inside, depositing his keys on the table.
"And who might you be?" Alfred extended his wrinkled hand to Rory. Rory blinked at him in the sunlight, dazed at the aristocratic man standing before her. Tristan rubbed his nose, ignoring the giddy tickle to laugh. "Rory Gilmore, Alfred.Alfred, Rory Gilmore." Tristan waved his hand lightly.
"Pleasure to meet you," he made a quaint bow "May I take your bag? Your coat? Would you like some refreshment?"
Rory looked slightly bewildered. "Oh, erm, no. Thank you" she added on as an after thought, clutching nervously at her bag straps, almost afraid that he'd suck them off.
"As you wish," the butler closed the heavy door and continued his way to the dining room.
"Madam, Master DuGrey is home," Alfred promptly said in the entrance, addressing the hidden patrons. But by the sickly smell of perfume, he could tell who it was in there anyway. There's only one other person who reeks like that, he thought, with some venom.
"Tristan?" The blonde boy grimaced, the muscles in his back tensed, the polished voice reaching for him. He stepped into the dining room, his sullen eyes lighting on two people seated at the table, instead of one. He couldn't say that he was surprised. The second person sat in a chair, clothed in a robe of his father's, his dark, exotic eyes melding with his olive skin. He looked youthful, perhaps in his late twenties.neatly cut hair, with an air of smugness, a self-confidence that Tristan noticed immediately, and loathed. It didn't matter who he was. He was just a face. Another empty sheath, with a brooding mood, which spread throughout the house, relentless.
"Mother." He said tightly, staring at the stranger seated at the table, coolly drinking coffee. The boy stood there sullenly, frozen on the thick carpet, the space between them miles and miles.
"Tristan, this is Eli." His mother broke the silence, ashamed of her son's lack of manners.
"Eli? Is that short for Elijah?" Tristan chopped out each word, his muscles tightening to an unbearable degree.
"Actually, yes." The dark haired man ignored the cutting edge to Tristan's voice, gazing insolently into the boy's eyes. Tristan's face didn't crack, the two males watching each other, testing the air. He looked at his mother, sitting like a satisfied cat at the head of the oak table, preening. Anger swirled and bottled inside of him, lashing at his insides, reckless. The boy's blue orbs turned a darkened color, dangerously flashing. Who is he?! They screamed with intensity, demanding, but already knowing the sick truth.
Rory stood behind Tristan's tall frame, hiding in the shadows. She was curious. Curious at this life that was so different to her own, the people, the air, the mentality. The paintings that lined the walls, the thick carpet that crushed under your feet, the marble, the heavy gilt frames. All held her in a sense of awe, a captive in the world of rich.
Rory inquisitively peered past Tristan's board shoulder into the dining room. More gold. And look at that oak table! It must weigh a ton. Rory's eyes finally landed on the patrons, seated like a majestic couple, at the furthest end of the table. She swallowed quickly, closing her open mouth, and flushing slightly.
"Good morning," she said awkwardly, twisting her feet nervously, four eyes turning to her. Tristan recoiled. His mind was crying out, wanting his arms to gently propel Rory from this scene, erase her from the sickening act. He knew what was coming. Sure enough, the sugar laced voice rung out, with painful clarity.
"Good morning," Mrs. DuGrey placed her coffee cup meticulously down on the saucer. "And who are you?" his mother flickered her eyes over Rory's shape, as a snake would use it's tongue.
"Rory. Rory Gilmore," Rory stepped into the dining room properly, eagerly stepping into the light. Like an innocent lion cub, she was in plain view of the predators.
Tristan stood there, mute, still frozen. He hated the small talk, the polite chitchat. And here he was, standing there, locked in some cage with some woman who went under the name of 'mother' and the prick that has slept with her last night. And worst of all, he had put Rory in line of fire, dropping her into the torrential waterfall with no safety vest.
"Rory. Pleased to meet you," Mrs. DuGrey's pout stretched into a slight smile, picking up her coffee again. "Are you in any relation to Emily and Richard Gilmore?" Tristan cringed. Here it comes. The inevitable look into the family history, the prying into the scandals, the judgement. But by that look on his mother's face, it was safely presumed that she had already formed an opinion.
"Yes, they're my grandparents, do you know them?" Rory replied politely, frowning at change in her facial expression.
"Yes, actually I do. Tristan? Would you like some coffee?" she ceased conversation with Rory.
He hated himself for exposing Rory like this, to the superficial behavior, the deep mire. Some things are never meant to be seen by the innocent.
"If you'll excuse us," Tristan snapped out of his reverie, pulling Rory by the arm, abruptly yanking her from the room, her form disappearing around the corner. He dragged her down the hall, clutching her stiff arm.
"Ow! Tristan you're hurting me!" Rory wriggled in his iron hold, trying to wrench her arm free.
"Sorry." He said contritely and dropped her arm immediately. He pushed open the door to the library. "Here. Have a browse" Tristan swept his arm of the room. The room was something that he took for granted. Shrugged off without a glance. A hideout. He did not realize the magic, the euphoria that would engulf him if he only let it
"Wow. That is a lot of books!" Rory stepped through the door, her jaw dropping. Her eyes gleamed, hungrily devouring the rows of books, neatly packed in, one after another. Volumes of philosophy and history was never ending, thick, musty binders sending her into dizzy excitement.
"Yeah, whatever."
Tristan's tone penetrated her mind. She looked at him sharply, watching his face.
"I'm going to go get my uniform," he met her eyes. Whoops. Mistake. Rory stared at him, frozen in the middle of the room, her eyes searching his, noticing his harsh tone. Tristan swallowed nervously, loathing way that her eyes searched his, looking past the clear-cut profile into his very soul. He tore his eyes away, looking down at the floor.
"Don't run off." He said brusquely and with that, he turned on his heel and left the room. Rory sighed at his disappearing back, watching it go and hide behind the thick oak of the ornate door, waiting for the time when he would open up.
Tristan jogged up the stairs briskly, directing his feet to his room. He tore off his creased clothes dumping them in a puddle at his feet and roughly pulled out his uniform from the closet, his numb fingers moving with slow speed. Go faster! He urged himself. His mind was thinking of one thing. Get out of here as soon as possible
"Who is she?" his mother appeared at his side. He couldn't say that he was surprised. He rolled his eyes, and jerked his shoes from the shoe rack that hung at the side, the blackness gleaming and winking wickedly at him. Some maid had sat there, polishing and cleaning them to a fine sheen, and all he wanted to do was rub them in dust.
"Who's Eli?"
"Answer the question"
"What number is he?" Tristan still faced the closet, his back to her. He pulled a crisp wife beater from the lower drawer and wriggled it over his head. The suffocating stench of her perfume swum up his nose, causing his mind to set off in a delirious spin. The words came out harshly, venting his fury.
"Is it number eight? And how long is it going last? Until Dad comes home? That's is, if Dad even comes home." Tristan cut ruthlessly, buckling his pants.
"Tristan, this is none of your business." She slammed the closet door shut, her hands biting into his bare arm, demanding his full attention. He dropped his shirt.
"No, it's not my business. But what you do in this house effects me. And anything that effects me, I have a right to know about. You know, I wish that nothing you do effects me, it would make things so easier. But things aren't like that, so who is he? Huh?" he taunted, towering over her.
"You could have been more polite." She stared back, trying to gain the upper hand. He stared at her incredulously. I made no impact on her. She can't even hear me. Tristan felt bitter seeds pop up in his heart, thriving on the hate, lapping up the rays of poison.
"Why should I be polite?" he raised his voice at her, not believing the standards of the woman in front of him. "Just because he's the flavor of the month? Because he's a guest? They're not good enough reasons. Give me a reason to be polite." He jerked her hand away from the closet door, opening it again, picking up his shirt again.
"How dare you. How dare you tell me how to run my life. I am an adult, your parent, and I do not have to check back with my seventeen-year-old son in everything I do. Do you think that I really care about what think? I thought I had brought you up better than that. And that Gilmore girl.what are you thinking?! At least I have taste." She spat back, heedlessly trampling on his swollen nerves with her sharp heels.
Tristan squeezed his eyes shut, facing the closet, containing his rage. Here she goes again, he thought bitterly, twisting the story around so that I'm to blame. He wanted to slam his clenched fist in the door, and watch the wood crumple. He turned around and faced her again.
"You are unbelievable. So this is my fault? I'm not the one who's having an affair! And don't you start on Rory. She means more to me, than you ever will." And with cobra speed, a tanned hand flashed in the air, and came crashing down on the boy's jaw. Skin connected with skin with a loud slap, the blood rushing to the hot hand imprint, burning. Tristan bit down on his lip, the skin immediately swelling. The air between them was hazy with guilty tension, the fumes becoming thick, overtaking any rational thoughts.
"I am your mother" she choked, her words barely restrained. "I deserve respect from you. And that's not what I am getting!" she paused, knowing that she was once again victorious. She took a deep breath, awaiting his mumbled apology.
"Mother?" he flung bitterly, the word tasting foul in his mouth. He shook his head, his voice dangerously calm, quiet. "I don't see a mother when I look at you. I don't even recognise you. All I see is a selfish woman, intent on only pleasing herself, without a thought of anyone else. A mother sets a good example. A mother denies herself if there is even a hint of pain that could possibly be inflicted on their child. A mother acts responsible. A mother can be depended on. And I don't see that when I look at you." The woman before him gazed into her son's eyes, then laughed. She laughed cruelly, the sound grating on his already raw nerves.
"Come back to the real world Tristan. No mother is like that. It's called a game. Don't you think that I don't know the real reasons for your father's long absence? I'm not a fool you know." She snorted. Instinctively, he turned away, pained. She was right. Her laughter echoed in his ears, hacking away at his words. A face flashed before his eyes, a familiar smile. Tristan turned back, looking at the perfectly made up face, wanting to re shape the features into another's, seek comfort in her eyes. He wanted to shake her, show her what she truly was. But that would never be, he thought ruefully.
"No. There are such mother's, but women like you can never be one of them. I'm sick of your games." He said quietly, sorrowfully. He brushed past her and looped his tie in his fingers from the desk and left the room, leaving her behind. Tristan slowly walked down the stairs, taking deep breaths, wondering whether or not he had made any sense. He paused, and slung his tie around his neck, and made his way to the library.
Upstairs, Mrs. DuGrey leaned against the closet door; her proud, arched back slumped. She rubbed her temples in a circular movement, feeling the blood pound. She looked around the room uncomfortably, feeling as sense of loss. She expelled a sigh, weary, but her resolve unchanged. For a second, she felt remorse. But it was gone like a flash, and she left the room, closing the door behind her.
"Rory, let's go," Tristan cracked the library doors open.
"Hmmm." Rory stood by the window, her hands holding leather bound book, her eyes reverently caressing the pages. He paused, watching her in her element, the black words the key to soul, the pleasure sprawled across her face. She practically skipped across the room, opening the doors wide and sucking him in with her hand. She pushed the open book to his nose.
"Smell." She commanded, looking up at him, impetuously.
He obligingly breathed in.
"Mmm.musty?" he smiled lopsidedly, waiting for her passionate reaction, his face partially hidden in the book.
"But isn't it a good musty? Its history, knowledge, passed on through generations." she pulled back the book, carefully turning the pages.
Tristan's smile molded into a grin.
"Of course. I love that smell" he lied, Rory oblivious to his mocking tone. "As much as I'd like to watch you all day get excited over books, we're going to be late if we don't move. And aren't you aiming for that perfect punctuality record?" he teased
"Do we have to?" Rory looked crestfallen. He looked at her in mock surprise.
"Are you telling me that you want to skip school? Well, I knew that I was irresistible, but I didn't think that my powers were strong enough to seduce Rory Gilmore!" She closed her book with a snap, his words having wakened her from her rapturous trance. She rolled her eyes, an all too familiar reaction to the majority of words aimed at her.
"Let's go big head."
******
They sat in silence, Tristan slumped behind the wheel, concentrating on driving. Rory on the other hand, sat erect, staring out the window, her mind occupied with the events that had just passed. The meeting of his mother, the butler, the library. All if it was what she had expected, the feast for her eyes, the smells of plush and rich wafts of leather. Every piece of furniture and every centimeter of carpet screamed 'rich', but somehow, Tristan didn't fit in. ever since she had laid eyes on him, heard his voice, the expectation that he fitted in the 'rich preppy boy' puzzle was there. Today, it had shattered, and not without some noise. He looked too uncomfortable, too out of place to fit.
Rory remembered his mother, the way his entire body had tensed when she called his name. And that dark skinned man. He wasn't how she had pictured his father; she was expecting fair hair and with the same haunting, intense blue eyes, as Tristan had, unless, of course...
"Tristan, that wasn't your father was it?" Rory asked cautiously, still staring out the window, her eyes downcast. He flicked his eyes off the road and onto her, her head still turned away from him. He opened his mouth a couple of times, like a fish out of water, forming words to say.
"No it wasn't" he finally stated simply, the words hanging in the air between them. The short distance between them crackled with tension, the hum of the car, quieting down to a slight vibration. One was processing the information, the other awaiting judgement. But it never came. He watched her for a few more seconds and she turned to hi sympathetically, her eyes seeking his. Instinctively he turned back to the road, but thankful for the brief gaze. Tristan felt irrevocably choked up, hot tears pricking at the back of his eyes. He wanted to crawl over the seat and curl up in her lap and dream away the pain, like a little boy, lost. She would understand. But he didn't. With some difficulty, he cleared his throat and shook the suspicious moisture from his eyes. Rory didn't miss one second of his actions, watching him carefully. She sighed and resumed her position, the trees whizzing by, feeling slightly sick.
The car glided up the drive and he maneuvered skillfully into a spot, reserved exclusively for him. He leaned his head on the steering wheel, the leather imprinting patterns on his forehead, switching the car off. Rory still sat silently beside him. She unbuckled her car seat, the chinking of the metal reminding him that she was there.
"Thanks for the ride" she said, wondering what else to say.
"Not a problem," the boys head jerked up, unbuckling his seat also. "Shall we?" he gestured to the outside, students already walking by, staring quizzically into the car, trying to distinguish it's passengers. They opened doors in unison, the cold air hitting them in the face. The car alarm beeped and Tristan started to move off when Rory stopped him.
"Tristan, your tie." She motioned to the loose silk dangling from his neck. Tristan dropped his books on the car in exasperation.
"You wouldn't happen to have a mirror on you, by any chance?" he asked, feeling ridiculous.
"Gee, you know, I left it in my other jacket" she smiled sarcastically. "Here" Rory reached up and took the two lengths in her hands, folding like a pro. Tristan looked around self consciously, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"Why do I feel like a little boy?" he moaned, slightly embarrassed. Rory continued twisting and folding.
"Hush, Tristan or you'll get a spanking." Rory stared up with an authoritative look on her face, her voice squeaky. He grinned, the words registering.
"And what type of spanking are you talking of?" Rory's only answer was a none too sharp tug on the tie.
"Okay! Sorry!" he choked, his throat squashed. He looked down at her hands. Small, white, soft. So different from another pair of hands that had often engaged in this act. Tristan's mind flew back, where the hands were larger, tanned and much more rough. A shrill voice was scolding him, yanking at his throat and dress jacket impatiently. His collar was stiff and starched, his hair painfully combed and set. The owner of the hands was relentless, pushing him forward to the crowds and the tall towers of adults smiling obligingly at him, expressing sugared comments such as "he's adorable" or "a smart looking lad" in plenty. He remembered the hate, the discomfort of being placed on a shelf, a prized trophy that his parents showed around, brazenly polished. The dizzying crowds, the smell of cigarette smoke, women's perfume. Their tribal scents that permeated the air and engulfed his senses.
"There," Rory smoothed the tie down, bringing Tristan back to the present. "Good?"
"Thanks," he adjusted his jacket and ran a hand through his hair. "Do I look properly dressed now?" he smiled at her. She returned his smile, handing his books to him.
"Every bit"