Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.
Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.
Rating: T (will be bumped up soon)
Story Title: Untouched
Chapter Title: Part Nine
He never did like surprises much.
The kind of surprises he was used to receiving weren't the happy-go-lucky, 'we're getting you a puppy' kind of surprises. They tended to be more akin to bombs dropped on his personal and social life. Things more of the nature of his parents announcing that they're shipping him off to some institutional camp (meant for learning, but usually involving some sort of torture inflicted on said 'campers') for the summer or the business deal that his father was working on with one of his good friends' father fell through and he was no longer to socialize with any of their family or his parents had changed their travel plans and he'd be alone for the Christmas holidays.
He was used to nothing good coming without a price. There was always a second shoe, hovering just over the ground, ready to drop should he be caught off guard growing complacent. His only saving grace thus far came with the knowledge that everything and everyone has a price, and his parents had enough money to cushion the blows that came with life's little surprises.
Perhaps this is why he kept his life so in order; doing everything familiar, not stepping out of the smallish circle of people that he actually entrusted. Weekly meetings with his grandfather, parties at houses of people he'd known since birth. Not that he trusted all these people, but they were no different than anyone else. He knew how to command their respect and shut them up when need be. Nothing out of keeping ever came from that area of his life, save for the occasional pissed off boyfriend from one of the girls that hopped off the turnstile and into his bed for an evening. Or a pissed off girl that had dreamed of being the one to change him.
If they only knew.
He let out a breath of smoky confidence, feeling the burning of the cigarette down near the filter, the heat almost too hot near his fingers. He leaned against the door to his car, looking at his grandfather's house, lost in thought.
He wondered if she knew that she was changing him.
Not outwardly. On the exterior, he was still the same boy that teased and tormented her in the hallway, the library, anywhere that the multitudes could witness. On the inside, however, that's where he was wondering how much longer he could go without pulling her into the janitorial closet and chancing their getting caught together, teeth tearing and tongues soothing, as their next meeting time loomed long before him and remained somewhat unknown.
He'd left it up to her. A surprise.
Her hesitation, if you could call it that, in letting him know the details for their next rendezvous was becoming that second shoe. He'd held off in taking this to a physical place, save for mostly innocent grazes with both hands and eyes, making sure she felt each and every inch of herself being consumed. Savored by him. He knew she felt it too; otherwise she wouldn't have asked if he planned on kissing her. It was a move he was taken aback by; he'd known by the fluttering of her eyelids and the way her breath turned shallow that she was more than willing to let him make the next move right then and there on the couch in his bedroom.
Perhaps if he had, throwing all caution to the wind, she wouldn't have been able to put off the decision, driven by the heat he knew that was built up between them, that would be evidenced by the first meeting of their lips. He knew it was coming. He wondered if she did. If she was aware of the potential energy that surged between them, in desperate need to be put into motion.
He cursed the laws of inertia.
"You coming in or not?" came the deep voice from the main entryway.
"Yeah," he nodded, throwing the filter down on the ground and snuffing it out with the sole of his shoe.
"Those things will kill you, you know," his grandfather patted his back in welcome.
"So will living your life in fear of everything that could potentially kill you."
"Ah, the living dead."
"Exactly. How's tricks?"
"Go pour yourself a drink, I have to make a call," Janlan instructed, taking his grandson's coat and handing it to the maid on his way through the sprawling mansion.
"Yes, sir," he said, moving to pour himself a soda. He knew not to push his limits too far with the older man. Not to mention his thoughts were muddled enough without the added mess that alcohol would introduce. He sat down and pulled out his cell phone, checking through the missed call register. Scrolling down through the familiar but blaringly lacking list, he frowned; mainly from knowing that his was not the next step to be made.
"Expecting a call?"
"No," he shrugged, taking another sip of his cold drink.
"Then what's with the face?"
"It's just my face. If you don't like it, take it up with Mother and Father," he smirked.
"God, looking at that smirk, it is like looking at your father."
Tristan's face was instantly wiped free of said show of sarcasm. That was one comparison he wasn't eager to have made. "So, what's on the agenda for tonight, Gramps?"
"No agenda. Just a leisurely dinner. Why, you have a hot date later? Eager to take leave of my company?"
"No, I might have had this study session, but it looks like it won't happen tonight."
"I'm sorry; did you just say study session? As in books and learning?"
"It's been known to happen," Tristan rolled his eyes, downing the last of the liquid from the glass. "Refill?" he stood and reached out for his grandfather's equally empty bar glass.
"Are your grades in trouble?" he asked as Tristan fixed his rum and Coke, with just a splash of Coke as per usual, before pouring more soda into his own glass.
"No. I have an overachiever for a project partner."
"And who would that be?"
"You don't know her," he handed off the glass and resumed his seat across from his grandfather in the sitting room.
"Her?" Janlan's eyebrows rose in interest.
Tristan sighed, knowing that it would have been better to keep his big mouth shut. It was hard for him to do, as he knew he was in need of advice—whether he wanted it or not—and it was Janlan he always turned to in times of need.
"She's a Gilmore."
"Gilmore? You don't mean Richard Gilmore's granddaughter? The one that was born illegitimately?"
"Well, at least you didn't say 'out of wedlock,'" Tristan shook his head and let out a deep sigh. "Her name is Rory, and yes, I believe Richard is her grandfather."
"Richard mentioned you'd gone to her last birthday party," Janlan nodded.
"Well, Father said," he raised his glass. "You know what that means."
"So, you've no interest past being this girl's study partner?"
Tristan looked up, unsure exactly what to say. There were no such things as secrets among the society set. As soon as he mentioned even a fondness for Rory to his grandfather, the next Saturday at the Club that Janlan ran into Richard it would be brought up in passing, Emily would be on the phone to his mother—as well as fifteen other old biddies that had nothing else better to talk about—and it would all end up getting all over school and thoroughly permeate into both of their everyday lives.
And then it would be over before it truly began.
"Of course not," he said simply, hoping against hopes that his grandfather would just let it drop, believing him or not, and be unable to say anything one way or the other to anyone else.
"Well then, have you given any more thought into interning for the company this summer?" his grandfather branched out into another topic, just as taxing on his system, but only able to affect his life. And for that, he let him give him the whole spiel without argument this evening.
--&--
By Thursday afternoon, with receiving only a quick glimpse of her as she scurried into class right before the bell and out again as if a part of some sort of between-class relay race, he'd given up hope of their getting to meet for anything other than a study session this weekend. He had hoped that she was thinking of ways to meet him non-stop, as he'd been doing, but he wasn't going to admit to it if she couldn't even bother herself to so much as leave the note she'd promised in his locker.
He was still capable of having a good time without her.
He popped open his locker to deposit his books and collect his car keys in order to go home and sort through his other offers for the coming weekend; ones he'd neglected in anticipation of hearing from her until now. He tossed everything in without much care, as per usual, but it was a slip of orange paper that caught his attention before he could shut the door. He bent down to retrieve it, not bothering to look around first. There was nothing written on the outside folds, but he knew it had to be from her. Just at holding this slip of paper in his hands, the anticipation of what she might have written caused his heart to race and his mouth to desiccate. Using just two fingers to pry the two halves apart just enough to scan the contents, he couldn't help the smile that formed across his features.
8 p.m. Friday night; be at the following address and look for further instructions in the mailbox. I'll be waiting.
Rory
He scanned over the address, vaguely recognizing it before shoving the paper into his pockets with his keys. She would be waiting. And so would he.
--&--
Though at this time of the year the sun was allowed to hang above the horizon for increasingly longer stretches by just moments each day, reaching further into when they'd grown accustomed to experiencing dusk, Tristan was covered by enough darkness at eight in the evening not to warrant a call to the police for reaching into the mailbox that Rory had led him to that Friday evening. He saw no name on the side of the box, though that was fairly common among the wealthy. No need to give the freaks and the desperate an easier time in finding their target.
He just hoped he was right on his target.
He'd known the physical effects of withdrawal before. He'd given up smoking once or twice when he felt the need for a challenge. Times of stress, all induced by his family or the demands that came along with his last name, had driven him back to it. He knew the increased heartbeat and slight shake of his hands as just more shows of weakness—other hurdles to overcome quickly.
She'd been avoiding him, for what reason he wasn't sure: he was sure that she could take her pick. He hadn't been able to get a close look at her in days, save for time in class that he had to be careful not to be caught daydreaming by the teacher. Often when looking on her, he let his thoughts drift into a more secluded environment, but lately his gazing couldn't even be called daydreaming. It was more of a fix. To see how her hair was fixed; the way her lips shined, showing him if she'd had time to stop by her locker to reapply the lip gloss that passed as the only make-up she normally wore; if she was absently clicking her pen in and out to show that her thoughts too were not remaining on their instructor's voice. He longed to make her tell him what her thoughts drifted to, if ever they landed on him, but it was much too risky for her to crane around to stare at him in such a manner during class so he could ascertain this knowledge on his own. And it was far too risky to pull her aside for a confidential conversation in the hallways. But now, his waiting was almost complete, as unending as it'd seemed.
He'd even stopped by her bus bench today, hoping to coax more information out of her on the ride to her house, but she hadn't been there. He was left with five hours of nothing, save for hoping that tonight would be worth the wait.
True to her prior instruction, he found another orange slip of paper in the mailbox. This one had his name on it, for what reason he wasn't sure, other than the higher chance of someone else finding it first. He unfolded the paper and read the directions that took him over to the side of the house, and as many times as he read it, it instructed him to climb up the trellis and onto a second story balcony.
Now his interest was peaked. She was having him play Romeo to her Juliet, at the house he recognized as her grandparents. There was just as much chance of their getting caught as that ill-fated pair. His lips curled up at line that popped into his head from the play, wondering if she wouldst leave him so unsatisfied this evening. It was impossible, he decided, as his satisfaction would come in being able to touch her, breathe her in, and draw her near. All the things that he'd been denied so harshly all week.
He climbed the sturdy trellis with ease, swinging his leg up over the railing and coming to rest on the other side as softly as possible. No need to heighten suspicion with the loud thuds that normally preceded burglars. He looked around, noting the drawn curtains over the window in front of him and the high trees that separated the property from the one adjacent to it. They were in perfect seclusion, if only she would join him.
The curtain shifted to the side, and he caught a sliver of her face as a smile broke over her mouth quickly before she let the curtain fall back into place. From the underneath side now she came, opening the window and emerging through it with ease.
"Juliet, I presume?"
She looked at him with confusion, but caught on quickly as a soft giggle escaped her lips.
"I hadn't thought about that. I was just trying to offer payback for you making me climb that tree last week."
He nodded, his hands now shoved into his pockets. "I see. So, I take it from my out of the ordinary entrance, that we won't be studying tonight?" he let his voice both drop and lower, the husky whisper seeming to draw her in closer to him.
She shook her head. "If that's okay," she looked up into his eyes, making him wish for something to lean against, something to hold him up. "I just wanted to see you."
"Here I am," he brought his hands out of his pockets, showing her that he was in fact all there. Completely present and at the ready. She hopped up on the side of the balcony railing, her feet now dangling down in front of her. He leaned next to her, in the corner, and took another look at her. She was always beautiful, but it seemed to be an exponential effect with the ability to touch her. He was drawn in more and more with each meeting, each sighting. He reached out and caressed the underneath side of her bare calf, not even pantyhose to cover her legs, leaving them exposed until the short skirt of the dress she wore began above her knees. Her head fell forward and to the side, her chin pressing into her shoulder nearest him.
"Where are we, exactly?" he kept up the conversation, willing her to feel comfortable, and not completely at ease himself with his lack of total knowledge. He couldn't be at the ready with a believable fabrication should something go awry if he wasn't equipped with the whole story first.
"My grandparents' house, this is the balcony off of my mother's room from when she was little."
"It's nice. Secluded."
"Well, you know what they say, like mother, like daughter," she said rather wistfully.
He narrowed his eyes at her comment and let his fingers scrape along the fold of her knee, still mapping her body out with a sense other than sight. He hoped to get the pleasure of using all of his senses to create a master copy of her every nook and cranny: never being able to exhaust his explorative efforts, he was sure.
"So, you both like it up here?"
"See that place, right over there?" one slim finger pointed over to the other side of the balcony, the corner opposite from where they were situated.
"Yeah."
"That is the place of my initial conception," she barely spoke above a whisper, but his full attention was commanded. "My parents did anything to get away from their parents, and evidently this was the one place no one ever looked for them. Hence, their ability to make me, right in this very spot."
He had no words for her, and he wasn't really sure what she was telling him all of this for. He let his hand travel back down the front of her leg; tracing the shinbone that ran down the middle, unwilling to push her limits as she confided in him.
"She's really afraid the same thing will happen to me, she's been guarding me against it since before I can remember. That's why she liked Dean so much, he never," she furrowed her eyebrows for a moment, as if to find the right way to describe his lack of attention to her needs. "I don't even think he thought of me that way, really. I mean, he loved me, but like you love a piece of art. You want it to remain as it is, perfect, untouched."
He nodded, letting his hand trail up a bit higher on this pass around, cresting over the bend of her knee.
She looked up at him suddenly, pulled from her prior thoughts, and reached one hand up to touch his jaw line. He stilled the movement of his hand, coming to rest securely underneath her lower thigh, tucked between soft skin and hard concrete. Both were cool to the touch, and he wondered if she were freezing out in the still chilly spring night air, wearing only a light dress. In all honesty, he couldn't imagine she was if the same adrenaline was being released over her body as was in his; he knew the moment of no return for the pair of them—as his own had long since past—was rapidly approaching.
Her fingers felt out the slight stubble that had grown out over the course of the day, as if it was reaching up from under his skin to meet her grazing fingers. She was gentle, and he could tell she wasn't sure how much pressure to apply to his skin. He was the furthest thing from fragile she might ever encounter, and yet here she was being gentle with him. He came to rest in front of her legs, which were parted just enough for him to slide between easily. Her exploration had landed her hand on his neck, covering his racing pulse. She gave a soft smile at the feel of his pulse jumping under her palm.
"Kiss me," she whispered.
And so he could wait no longer. Keeping his one hand stable under her leg, he allowed the other to wrap around her waist, anchoring him around her. His own eyes fell closed as he finally allowed his lips to find hers. The barest of pressure at first, matching her own, feeling his breath catch for the first time in his life during a kiss. He was waiting for permission to take control of the kiss, something undeniable to give him free reign over her senses. It came in the form of her parted mouth and seeking tongue as it ran across his bottom lip. Suddenly there wasn't enough pressure in the whole of the world to allow him to meld hard enough into her. He probed; full of curiosity, longing, and pure need. Knowing each kiss would be different, a species in and of itself, he wanted her to know they were all worth exploring. He never wanted to breathe again if it meant being locked in such a sweet torture. Her tongue was just as hungry as it matched his, tasting and sampling him with the rush of the first time.
It wasn't until he grew slightly dizzy, like a child trying to blow up a balloon too fast, that he drew far back far enough to take a breath. His eyes opened to see the raw vision before him: her lips stained from the blood that had rushed there because of his brashness, not make-up, and her eyes that spoke only of the desire for more.
He came back to her immediately, to fill her need. And drive his own.
He foresaw no surprise she could have in store for him to be anything other than worth the anticipation that this moment had exploded with.