Disclaimer: Sorry to disappoint dears, still not mine. Neither is the song "One By One" by Enya.

A/N: Awe y'all are so sweet. Thank you so much for all the fantastic reviews. And to Supergirl101 thanks for the great song recommendation! I love that song and you're right the lyrics will fit in beautifully with this story. I can definitely see using them in the future. Everyone remember I would love to hear song rec. from you. As well as any other feedback! No trory stuff yet, but wait for the next chapter it will be there. I'm going to try, key word being try to update this about once a week. So let me know what you think!

Chapter Two: One By One

"He says adios/says adios/and now you know why/there's no moon in her sky/

He says adios/says adios/goodbye/No goodbyes/for love brightens their eyes/ don't say adios/say adios/ and do you know why/there's a love that won't die/Don't say adios/say adios/goodbye."~Enya

          When he woke up the next morning, he was lying on his bathroom floor. The last thing he remembered was thinking that he was going to just throw up some superfluous organ like his spleen at the rate he was going—then nothing. He guessed he had passed out. Thankfully his hangover didn't hit him too hard, a headache and slight nausea but nothing compared to last night. He took a shower and in walking into his room he found a dark suit had been laid out on his bed, for the funeral.

          The funeral—for a moment he had almost forgotten.

          But now it all came rushing back, that he was here because his grandfather was not. The fact that he had to give a eulogy for him in a little over an hour and he still had no idea how to put his feelings into words.

His Poppup, his mom's dad was the best man he knew—had known. His other grandfather Janlen was fine, but he was his dad's dad and stiff and formal. Not his Poppup who had been larger than life. Robust and quick and laugh and quick to scold, he recalled also smiling briefly remembering when his Poppup had caught him making out with Cecile in the rose garden at age 13. He had never been so embarrassed in his whole life. His Poppup lectured him in front of Cecile about how one treats a lady. And he couldn't tell his Poppup that Cecile wasn't a lady…or anything close to one. Ladies did not let you stick your hand up their shirt on the fist date. He had never been able to look her in the eye after that incident.

          The one man in his life he actually looked up to, respected…and loved was gone. The one stabilizing force and now Tristan felt completely adrift. Nothing steady, nothing right. Lost.

          He sat in the church not even hearing the words the priest was saying. Everything in him screamed to run, to leave. But he couldn't and all his energy was focused on not fleeing, not breaking. He had to remain stoic. The church was filled to its capacity. People stood in the back because there were no seats left. Some were here as an obligation, but most were here because Francis Desales had been a truly great man, he was loved. And he would be sorely missed. Most of all by his grandson.

          Tristan wouldn't have even realized it was time for him to speak if his mother hadn't squeezed his hand, signaling he should go up to the podium. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze back. Janette dabbed her eyes once again with the handkerchief and watched her baby, who reminded her more everyday of her father, go up to give the eulogy.

          He walked up to the podium slowly; he held no note cards of pieces of paper in his hands, nothing to prompt him. He knew this was going to be the hardest speech he would ever make, also the most important. And so he would speak from the heart, like his Poppup had taught him. He cleared his throat hoping that would dispel the lump that had formed there and unclenched his shaking hands. Taking a deep breath he began.

          "Last night I kept trying to come up with one memory, one moment that would sum up who my grandfather was, and I couldn't do it. I couldn't pick one, and I guess that makes me lucky because I have so many great moments to look back on. And I know that all of you out there have the same thing, memories of him that are special to you. That's what's important he won't ever really be gone as long as we remember him and all that he was. He used to tell me when I was younger that there is no real past tense of love, because real love never dies. Just because the person may be gone from this earth the feelings you have for them don't change. As most of you know my Nana passed away 15 years ago, and there wasn't one day that I don't remember him going to me 'Your Nana, Tris, was quite a lady. Lord how I love that woman.' Love not loved. Death can't conquer love, not really. So what I'm asking you to do is to remember him, honor him. Not by giving money or erecting statutes or anything like that, just don't forget about him. By keeping his memory alive…a part of him will always be with us."

          After the service most people went back to the DuGrey's home for the wake. It was the last place Tristan wanted to be, everyone eating and carrying on like nothing had changed. But he knew his father would kill him if he skipped out this early. So he did his duty, counting the minutes until the guests would leave. He was sneaking outside for a cigarette when a voice startled him.

          "Tristan?" a voice called out softly on the terrace. She was almost positive she had seen him go out this way.

          It took him a minute to process the voice but then he remembered. Like he could ever forget her voice. He had certainly heard it enough over the years.

          "I'm over here Paris." He responded stepping out from behind one of the plants.

          She stood there for a moment unsure of herself, she hadn't seen him in such a long time and so much had changed since then. But one look at the tousled blonde hair and the sad blue eyes, she remembered this was Tristan—the little boy playing at being a grown-up.

          "I'm so sorry Tristan." She said softly and emphatically. Not offering any of the other contrived platitudes people felt were necessary. "He was a wonderful man and he loved you a lot."

          It were her words and conviction that brought him close to tears, while he and Paris may not have been the best of friends the last couple of years, they had a past. He fought against the tears threatening to fill his eyes and looked away flicking the smoldering cigarette off the balcony.

          He felt her arms encircle him and he returned the hug, grateful for it. Her hair smelled like peaches and she was solid and comforting, something that he desperately needed. He withdrew, his eyes dry.

          "Thanks."

          Paris smiled and nodded "I thought you might need an old friend."

          Tristan smirked grateful for the distraction "Are we friends? After the Romeo and Juliet fiasco I thought you would only want my head on a stick, as a trophy."

          Her eyes narrowed "Yes your head on a stick wouldn't have been a bad addition to my trophy collection since you almost cost me an A in Shakespeare, but luckily I pulled us through. I don't know what the hell was wrong with you before, but I really hope you worked through this asshole stage you were in." she continued in a softer tone as she went to leave. "If you need anything, let me know."

          "Someone to catch me up on the work at Chilton would be nice."

          "You're coming back?"

          "Sure looks that way." He affirmed not adding that it wasn't the work he felt unprepared for.

          "Oh." She furrowed her brow for a moment. "But winter break is over tomorrow."

          He nodded. "I know, see you tomorrow Paris."

          "See you tomorrow." She echoed as she walked into the house.

Here we are again…back at the button. Decisions—decisions. If you want to make the author rejoice and do a funny little review dance I'd suggest clicking on the submit a review button. Trust me, the dance is worth it. It's a mix of Lorelai's Coffee Dance (see my fic There May Be Something There…" and Anya from BTVS Capitalist Money Dance. Picture it, this is what your reviews will cause—funny funny dancing and eternal gratefulness.