AUTHOR: The Corruptor
RATING: PG with some mild swear words
CHARACTERS / PAIRING: Tristan and some other guy
SUMMARY: Tristan’s therapy sessions from GG: Season 1; 3rd person omniscient but mostly from the therapist’s POV
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Ok, here's "The Dissertation"! PROCEED WITH CAUTION... Very Long, Very Pro-Sympathetic-And-Complex Tristan Fic!! Just having some fun trying to sketch out Tristan’s character since we know so little about him. For those of you who might want to skip this (and there may be a couple of you. der!), the basic storyline for this fic is a rehashing of Tristan's thoughts and feelings about what's happened so far in Season One. And please… I’ve never been to a therapist before (though that’s really surprising) so I have no idea exactly how a session is supposed to be except for what I’ve gotten from TV and movies (great sources, if you ask me. D’oh). His main job here is only to help Tristan speak his mind. Also remember patient/doctor/reader confidentiality; since these are Tristan’s private sessions, some parts contain only short excerpts from each session, instead of the entire therapy session.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but the clothes on my back, and that annoying shrink. The rest was borrowed from GG and the WB.

He hadn’t been surprised when Tristan called to cancel his next appointment. The boy had groused about classes and exams. And somehow, miraculously, the serious and brooding demeanor had disappeared the last time they had met. School was distracting him, but he had also cheerfully informed him that he and Rory had met at a happy medium. Though they were nowhere close to where Tristan would have preferred for their tentative relationship, they were now more friends than enemies. He had checked his aggressive flirtations with her, attempting to allow her time and space to come to terms with what she thought was his new persona, and she had held back on the number of sarcastic remarks she flung in his direction. Their friendship was tenuous and in its infancy, but still, it was a start. The man hadn’t thought it possible, but for the first time since they had begun their sessions together, Tristan had actually left his office happy. Genuinely happy.

He also hadn’t been surprised when Tristan cancelled the next two appointments. Either school was taking up too much of his time, or the boy had finally accepted whatever relationship he could get from the girl. Or maybe things were finally heading in the direction that Tristan longed for. He deserved to be happy, and the man was happy for him. For all intents and purposes, he hadn’t expected to hear from the young man again, unless Tristan decided to share an update of his life, or gush about how he and Rory had finally come to mutual terms with each other.

He had been surprised, however, when walking up the front steps to his office building early Saturday morning, to find the young man sitting dejectedly on one of the steps, doubled over as in pain. He was dressed messily in a pair of jeans and a red-button down shirt. His blonde hair, usually tousled, was more so, sticking out in places on their own accord. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed from an uneasy sleep. If he had managed to sleep at all. The man took a few tentative steps towards him, slowing his pace so he could get a better look. Tristan’s elbows rested on his thighs, fingers threaded together into a fist, which half-covered the lower part of his face. The normally vibrant eyes were closed, and even from this distance, the man could see the boy’s jaw clenching and unclenching in misery, probably berating himself silently for whatever event had occurred to bring him here.

“Tristan,” he said, simply, stopping directly in front of the boy.

“I was a jerk.”

The man was startled at the very first words out of the young man’s mouth. Tristan still had not opened his eyes, was still lost in whatever safe, but inconsolable, place his mind had taken refuge in. He didn’t know what to say. So he tried a joke. “What else is new?”

Tristan’s eyes flickered open and the first thing he saw were a pair of expensive brown loafers in front of him. He stared at them, trying to focus his attention. Focus his anger. To ignore the desolation that was threatening to overcome him. He couldn’t speak. Not yet.

“Did we have an appointment?” the man asked, casually, allowing the boy to gather his thoughts. Whatever was weighing on his mind had to be important enough for Tristan to seek his counsel this early on a Saturday morning.

Tristan licked his lips, slowly. “I…” His throat was dry and his voice scratchy. He wouldn’t look at the other man. “Your secretary said you’d be in today.”

The man gave him a curious look. “Yes. I needed to get some files in order for this thing I’m doing,” he answered vaguely, because Tristan really wasn’t interested anyway. “Did you want to talk?”

Tristan turned his head to the side to watch a mother pushing her baby in a stroller. His expression went from utter misery, to anger, to an exhausted melancholy. “I’m not…” He swallowed with some difficulty. “I don’t…” He watched as the mother and her baby turned the corner, out of his sight. Pained, he closed his eyes and sighed. “I knew this therapy thing was a bad idea.” He tried to smile but couldn’t even muster up enough energy to form a weak one. “I don’t need it. I never did,” he finished, feebly, softly. His face was a mask of utter confusion, as if trying to figure out exactly what he needed. And failing miserably.

“Tristan, I’m free right now. We could talk if you want,” the man offered, heart breaking for the young man.

The boy finally turned to meet his eyes. He was too tired to protest. “Your secretary said you’d be free…”

The man glanced at the office building behind Tristan. He offered a paternal smile. “Why don’t we go inside where it’s more comfortable,” he suggested. “I’m afraid I don’t listen so well when there’s no couch around.”

That brought a small smile to the troubled boy’s face. Tristan gave an imperceptible nod, and stood up with some difficulty. “Okay,” he agreed, almost inaudibly.

The man led them into the familiar office. Tristan stopped at the door, could not bring himself to walk through. Everything had been working out fine. And for some reason, he didn’t have the heart to return back to the dark, lonely place he had been lost in for the past few months. The place that this cozy office forcefully reminded him of. The place where she was not a part of. He wasn’t supposed to see the inside of this office again. It represented everything he didn’t want to be. And it wasn’t how things were supposed to work out. Not for him. Not for them.

The man went about his business, getting his coffee ready. He did not call attention to Tristan’s reluctance to enter. “Have a seat. I think you know which one.” He gestured vaguely behind him towards the couch and armchair. He watched Tristan out of the corner of his eye as the boy swallowed reluctantly, and took a hesitant step inside. It was a far cry from the Tristan that had first walked into the confines of his office so many months ago. That Tristan had been cocky, brash, confident, charming, petulant, and funny. That Tristan had stormed in, as if owning the place and the man. That Tristan had stared at him across a span of four feet and challenged him to pick his mind. That Tristan had defied him on every trite question and cliché he had directed at him, forcing him to stay on level with him. That Tristan did not walk through the door this time.

This Tristan moved heavily towards the couch, falling into the cushions with some effort. As if even the simplest of movements caused excruciating pain. This Tristan was not relaxed at all. He was tense. He did not want to be there. This Tristan was not charming or cocky or petulant or funny. Rather, he looked small and lost and broken. This Tristan was barely a shell of that other Tristan.

The man didn’t say anything, just observed as Tristan gently eased himself back into the couch cushions. The boy was staring at his hands, seeing something that wasn’t there, but causing him pain nonetheless. “Can I get you anything, Tristan? Coffee?” he broke the silence.

It was the wrong question to ask. The young man’s head snapped up and towards him, a passing expression of anger flickering across his handsome features. And for a brief second, those haunting blue eyes had become vibrant once again. Before they dulled to hazy anguish. “No… no thank you,” he managed to mumble, before falling silent once again, and giving his hands a disgusted look. He didn’t think he could ever drink or look at coffee the same way again.

The man brought his mug of coffee back with him and seated himself in his usual position in the armchair. “I haven’t seen you for a while,” he started, conversationally. The boy obviously wanted to get something off his chest, but whatever it was, it was causing him too much agony for them to get into it directly. They would have to start off slow. Again. “How are you?”

“Fine.” The strong muscles in his face tensed as his jaw clenched. He did not sound fine.

The man nodded. “How’s school?”

“Fine.” He clenched and unclenched his fingers, rubbing them together nervously.

“How were exams?”

There was a pause. “It doesn’t matter,” Tristan answered, brusquely.

“Well, of course, it does. Aren’t your grades based on how well you do?” He was only joking, trying to infuse a lightheartedness into the conversation. Over the past few months, he found that Tristan opened up more when the man was able to make him smile.

“No,” Tristan corrected, annoyed. He gestured absently around him. “It doesn’t matter anymore. School. Grades. Exams. They’re just something to keep your mind off of more important things.”

The man titled his head, contemplatively. “Well, what does matter then?”

Tristan’s eyes met his, practically reprimanding him for asking such a stupid question. Of course. They both knew what was important. To Tristan. They had spent hours analyzing it, dissecting it, piecing it together. His feelings. His thoughts. Meeting them head-on, going around in circles. But no matter how they approached the problem, what really did matter never changed. It always returned to her.

“Yes. Of course,” the man agreed readily, sparing Tristan the anguish of having to say the name out loud. And it had to be one particular name. Only one person had the power to turn the charismatic young man into the pathetic shell that was sitting before him. “Did something happen?”

Tristan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Did something happen? Where would he start? “No. I’m here for my health,” he retorted, harshly.

“Tristan.”

The boy picked up a pillow from the couch, staring at it blankly. “Why does it… Why can’t she… Why can’t I…” He couldn’t seem to finish any of his thoughts. Frustrated, he threw the pillow across the couch, not bothering to watch as it bounced off the armrest and fell to the floor. Despondently, he covered his face with his hands and sighed.

“Tristan,” the man prompted.

And somewhere from behind his hands came a muffled reply. “We were supposed to be friends.” There was resignation. Defeat.

“I thought you were friends. I thought everything was going well. What happened to that happy medium?” No response. “Tristan?”

The hands moved away from the face. “There is no friends. There is no happy medium,” Tristan informed, angrily, meeting the other man’s eyes, as if he couldn’t possibly understand. He gave a short harsh chuckle, and shook his head, to himself. “She’s just like the rest of them.”

“But you said…” the man interjected.

Tristan’s eyes moved to the ceiling, trying to calm himself. “I said. I said a lot of things. But it’s true. She is just like all the rest of them. She wasn’t my friend. She just used it to keep me under control. Dangled herself in front of me to appease me so I would stop bothering her. Stop coming onto her. Stop trying to get close to her. Is it a crime that I want to know her better? That I want to be with her?”

“No, there isn’t.”

“And she took that and turned it against me. Put herself out there, offered to be friends, then took it away when she decided that I wasn’t really worth her time after all. That’s what the game is about. You give someone something they want so you can manipulate them into doing what you want them to. And that’s what it was really about. She never wanted to be my friend in the first place. Just thought that by offering it, I would leave her alone.” Tristan stopped, abruptly, as emotions threaten to overtake him. He glanced away, disgusted at himself. And at her. And at the man who was forcing him to voice these thoughts aloud.

“You’re just upset. You can’t mean any of those things.” He had idly wondered, during prior sessions, how long it would be before Tristan’s unrequited feelings for the girl would make him bitter. Make him upset enough to finally turn against her. Even if he didn’t mean to. Even if most of the things he said were done so out of the heat of the moment.

“You don’t understand. I knew she was too good to be true. Her perfection… it’s all an act. And she had me fooled. I’ll give her that.” Tristan gave a harsh laugh. But just as soon as it came out, he stopped, his face falling.

“So she’s just like all the other girls.” The man raised a quizzical brow. He had never seen the boy vent like this before. Even before, when things had not been going as Tristan would have liked, he would never say anything harsh about the girl. And he would never even let him say anything that might have slandered the girl or her actions.

Tristan let out a slow sigh. He hadn’t meant any of those things. “Only… she’s not.”

The man leaned back against his chair, watching the boy. Now that he had gotten most of his anger out, he appeared spent. Exhausted. “Tristan… what happened?” he asked, insistently. “What happened to being friends? I thought the two of you agreed to that.”

The boy hung his head. “I thought so, too.” His voice was quiet, contemplative, expressing all the torment he must have kept bottled up until that point.

“So what went wrong?” the man prompted quietly.

“She made a joke,” Tristan informed, simply. “We were friends, and she made a joke.”

The man sat back in this armchair slowly. “Well, that hardly seems…”

Tristan shook his head. The man didn’t understand, and he wasn’t sure he could make him do so. “She made a joke. We made each other laugh. She made me smile. Made me think we really were friends and that we could possibly be more,” he informed. He couldn’t stop a grin from gracing his lips as he recalled that wonderful moment they had shared in front of her locker – the two of them, laughing and teasing each other as if they truly were very good friends. But just as quickly as it had appeared, the grin faded. “And then she took it all away.”

“And you had nothing to do with that.” There was some doubt in the man’s voice. Doubt that Tristan could have done without. Because it suggested that maybe he wasn’t as innocent as he would have liked to believe. That ultimately, he had been the one to push her away.

“I got her concert tickets… To… to… it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head forcefully. “I got her tickets and she didn’t want to go with me. But isn’t that what friends do? Hang out together?” He glanced up, hopefully. And immediately knew that he wouldn’t like what the man would say.

He gave Tristan a sympathetic look. “Was it really just to hang out? As friends? Tristan?” He didn’t believe the boy, and his tone of voice informed him of that.

“Why wouldn’t it…” But Tristan’s voice faltered. He could lie to this man who he had come to for help. He could continue to lie to himself about his intentions. But what was the point? It didn’t change the fact that Rory still would have said no. That she still would have said the things she had.

“I think you know the answer to that,” the man reminded, gently.

Tristan glanced away. “She said she couldn’t go with me.”

“Because of Paris.”

Tristan jumped up, frustrated. “I don’t know why I’m even here,” he said quickly, looking around, bewildered. “I should go.”

The man stayed seated. He knew the boy would not be going anywhere. Not while there was still so much to tell. Not while there was still so much weighing on his mind. “Did you honestly think she would say yes?”

Tristan’s face turned to his, frowning. “Why wouldn’t she?” he asked roughly. “We were friends.” Friends. If he kept saying it, Tristan was sure he would be able to hold onto at least that. To remind himself that not everything was hopelessly lost. That maybe… just maybe… she hadn’t meant all those horrible things. Things he had thought her incapable of voicing, or believing.

“And she thought it was a date,” the man reminded, gently. “You thought that once you were friends, it would be so easy to make that next jump to being more than friends. That once she showed she was at least a tiny bit receptive to you, you’d be in the clear to truly pursue her. Didn’t you?”

“No, I…” But he had. She had been so receptive to him. So friendly. He had found an opening, hope, and ran right through. Forgot everything about taking it slow, allowing her time. He had been too antsy. Too eager. Too joyously happy to remember any of the steps he had vowed to stick to in order to get to know her. In order for her to get to know the real him. He frowned. No, it was all her fault. She was the one who had led him on. Given him hope when she shouldn’t have. Especially when she was going to do exactly what she did. “She left me hanging. Wouldn’t even give me a straight answer. I mean, she can be so blind sometimes. And then she had to blast me for even thinking of her, for buying her concert tickets to see a stupid singer that I don’t even care about.”

“She can’t read minds, Tristan.”

Tristan fell back into the couch, exhausted, but angered. “How much more obvious do I have to be? I’ve never had this much trouble with any other girl. They don’t hold out for this long. And no… I didn’t want her to be like every one of those other girls. I really don’t. But… do you know what kind of trouble I went through to get those tickets? To find out who she liked? I mean, the amount of effort and time I put into that… any other girl would have…” He bit his lips, stopping. He didn’t want to continue that thought.

“Any other girl would have fallen all over you and given in,” the man concluded, because he had no problems finishing Tristan’s thoughts for him. He sighed. “Tristan…”

But Tristan would have none of it. He didn’t answer. Refused to meet the man’s eye. He looked away and let the silence stretch out for a few minutes. Then finally, turning towards the other with a wry, humorless smile on his face, he shook his head pathetically. “I can’t tell you what kind of aggravation she puts me through. It’s enough to make me…”

“Hate her?” the man offered, raising a curious brow.

Tristan seemed to digest those two words. “Never. I could… never.” But his voice was weak. As if he was too tired to argue anymore. As if it would be so easy to give into hate. So much easier for him to believe that, to feel that, and to revert back to being who he was before she had miraculously walked into his life and changed it.

And the man had to egg him on a little more. “But she could,” he said. “Hate you.”

Tristan stared at him. “That’s the difference between us. I can’t hate her as easily as she thinks she can hate me. It’s just that…” He stopped, collecting his thoughts. Collecting his calm. “It’s him.” And there was that bitterness that had threatened to spill out a few minutes ago. “It’s him,” he repeated, eyes flashing angrily. “He made her do it.”

“Who’s he, Tristan?” the man asked, now confused. But not really. He knew there had to have been some form of competition for the boy to get so worked up.

“I hate him.” There was venom in the voice. But there was also resignation.

From those three words, the man knew exactly who Tristan was referring to. The ex-boyfriend. “Why?” he asked, unnecessarily.

There was genuine surprise etched on Tristan’s face. After all they talked about, did he really still need to repeat everything? It should have been clear to the man why there was so much anger and animosity towards the other boy. “Do you really not know or is this one of your trite psychiatric devices to get me to repeat something totally unnecessary and redundant in order for us to start on the path to healing?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm. But at least he had stopped feeling sorry for himself for a brief second.

The man shrugged. “I really don’t. I mean, you hated him before because she was with him.”

“And now she went back to him. After what he did to her. After he so unceremoniously dumped her. After he didn’t even bother trying to win her back. After it’s so clear that he doesn’t deserve her,” Tristan answered for him without needing to be prompted. He averted his eyes, disgusted. How could Rory be so blind to who he really was and then allow herself to be duped by… Tristans’ jaw clenched. He couldn’t even think the other boy’s name without feeling the waves of nausea roll through his stomach.

“And you? Do you deserve her?” the man asked, getting his attention once again.

Tristan hesitated, but only for a short second. “No… But I would have been begging for her forgiveness the second I did something as stupid as letting her go.”

“So you think you’re better than him,” he said simply.

“I don’t think. I know,” Tristan corrected, unable to keep the haughty tones from his voice.

“Because you’re good looking and smart and rich,” the man suggested.

Tristan didn’t like those answers. “Money has nothing to do with it.” He shook his head, adamant.

The man raised a curious brow. “Doesn’t it? Isn’t that what the concert tickets were all about? That you have money and he doesn’t, thereby making you better somehow.”

Tristan squirmed in his seat. “I don’t need money to compensate for what you believe I think I lack as a person. The tickets had nothing to do with money. They were for her. Because she likes that type of music. And because the concert was sold out. And because I thought she’d want to go if given the opportunity.” And because he had thought that after the kiss… after their mutual understandings and friendly conversations… that she had felt the same spark he had, making it hard for her to resist for much longer. And that ultimately, she would have liked to go with him. As friends or more.

“So it had nothing to do with you having money, and him having none.” An unnecessary observation.

Tristan shifted in his seat, irritated. “What’s the point of having it if you can’t use it? I don’t purposely flaunt it just because I have it. I mean, I got those tickets not because of the money, but because I wanted to. For her. To make her happy. The money itself shouldn’t matter. It’s just there.”

“It matters to some,” the man reminded gently.

“But not to her,” Tristan shook his head, refusing to fall into the trap the man was setting for him. “At least it shouldn’t. I can’t help it that my family has money. I can’t help it that I was born into this family. I can’t help it if everything’s been pretty much handed to me and I’ve never been asked to work for it.”

“She thinks you’re a snob. A rich jerk.”

Tristan frowned. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. But she doesn’t know me. And if she did, she’d know that I don’t throw my money around just because I have it. You don’t think I’d give it up if I could?” He could tell that the man didn’t believe him. And in all honesty, he wasn’t even sure if he believed himself. But he continued on anyway. “You don’t think I wouldn’t give it all up? All the money and material wealth… if it meant I could be part of a real family? With parents who actually speak to me instead of about me... who don’t only address me to express disappointment in me… or to give me not so subtle reminders not to tarnish the family name… or to even order me to date the daughter of one of their potential clients…” He paused, biting his lip. He was there to talk about Rory, not about his family. He had come to terms with them a long time ago. But Rory… “That act… buying those tickets for her… I’ve never done that for anyone else.” His voice trailed off, contemplatively, softly, as if trying to gauge the sincerity of his own words.

The man was quiet for a long minute. “No, but it was a subtle reminder that she would be missing out on a lot if she chose him and not you.”

Tristan shook his head, slowly. “I didn’t even know about him at the time. She said they wouldn’t get back together, and I believed her. He had his chance. He blew it.” His intense eyes flickered up to meet the man’s sympathetic ones, letting him see the anguish in those deep blue irises. There was almost desperation in his voice, pleading for something – anything – to help him understand what he was going through. “Why does he get a second chance with her, even after everything he’s done, and I can’t even get one?”

The man had no answers for that. “It doesn’t seem fair, does it?” he asked, stopping himself before he added the old cliché of life not being fair and Tristan needing to deal with it.

Tristan didn’t answer. Didn’t want to be reminded that he had almost everything else he could possibly want. That not having Rory wouldn’t be the end of his life. That he should just move on. He took a moment to collect his thoughts. “You ask me why I can’t just come out and tell her how I feel. It’s because she won’t believe me anyway. And because she has this way of leaving me hanging. Like with the tickets. She was supposed to say yes. Instead, all those people I told about it are going to watch me fall flat on my face again.”

“Why would you tell people even before she said yes?”

“I don’t know. I guess I was just so happy… about the possibility… and then she had to rub it in my face. Not just her. Him. Because he made her do it.”

“Do what?”

Tristan didn’t answer the question. “I was an idiot. I grabbed her books and wouldn’t give them back. I’ve never done anything like that before. Not even in grade school. It’s so childish. I was so used to always getting my way… but when I’m near her, it’s like I go into a state of arrested emotional development.”

“And he made her do that to you?” There was an incredulous undertone to the man’s voice.

Again, he refused to answer the question directly. “I hated him. When I saw him there… looking all smug...” He didn’t share how his stomach had dropped to his feet and the pit of despair in his gut had started to creep through his body. How he wanted to turn away from the scene unfolding before him, but his feet wouldn’t move. He had been rooted to the sight, unable to tear himself away, subjecting himself to further humiliation and pain. His head and heart had been at odds with each other in a peculiar internal struggle. While his head tried to force him to see what couldn’t be… willing him to move on with his life… his heart held firm. Even while it shattered into a million pieces at the sight of Rory and him. “And she ran to him. She ran. Like I’m so repulsive. Like I’m a speck of dirt… she didn’t even look back.” Tristan was disgusted. With himself. With her.

“And that made you upset. To see her so happy to see him.”

Not just happy. Surprised. Ecstatic. Elated. All the things she wasn’t with him, around him. “No,” Tristan said, firmly, even though he didn’t feel it. “It was because she was practically begging for his forgiveness. Begging him to take her back. Like she was the one who had said or done anything stupid. And he wouldn’t even forgive her until she said those three magic words.”

“I love you?” the man asked, raising a brow. They were the only three logical words that could send Tristan into such a tailspin.

But the boy shook his head. “No… Those aren’t the words, but she did say them. To him.” He made a face, just thinking about it. “Isn’t that kind of like forcing her, too, in a way? Screwing with her like that until she said it? Not forgiving her until she did so?” His mind told him she had sounded less than enthusiastic. Almost defeated. Forfeiting. But he knew he could have just been imagining what he wanted to hear. And either way, his heart had still wrenched to hear her utter those words.

“I don’t know,” the man admitted, slowly. “I don’t know her. I don’t know him. Or their relationship. I only know you.” He paused, thoughtful. “So what were the magic words?”

Tristan gave a rueful smile. “That she hated me.”

“Oh.” Tristan hadn’t needed to elaborate. The man knew that those words had been a major blow to the boy’s ego. Whether she had meant it or not. And he could tell that Tristan was desperately trying to convince himself that there were extenuating circumstances that had made her say those things.

“There’s rules,” Tristan continued, absently. “A code of conduct. And he didn’t follow them. He broke every single one of them. And he probably doesn’t even care because he has her now, and I don’t.” Tristan frowned.

“And that made you angry,” the man concluded.

“And incredibly frustrated. Because he just came in, out of the blue. And all of a sudden, he was the greatest boyfriend in the world, and he had her in his arms. And I was the one left standing there, gawking at them, clinging to her books.” Tristan made a frustrated noise, staring at his hands. He could still see her books in his hands. Could still remember how exasperated and annoyed he had been with her. And how taking her books, acting like a spoiled little boy, had seemed like the only reasonable thing to do. Until he had seen him… and her… and remembered that her books, acquired by force, might be the closest he’d ever get to her.

“And that made you hate him even more.” Everything he said was unnecessary, but it seemed to help Tristan open up, to say what he was really feeling.

The frown on Tristan’s face deepened. “When I saw him there… waiting for her… I didn’t know what to do.” His voice came out softer than usual, almost lost. He swallowed with some difficulty. “He was on my turf. I mean, I know I’m popular, but I don’t make any mistakes about assuming that it’s my school. It’s not. But when it comes to Rory, it’s my turf. She can leave Chilton at the end of the day and return to Stars Hollow. She can be with him. For now. I have no disillusions; I know that she’s constantly thinking about him. But school is the one place where I can be on her mind, too. Where she has to think of me.” He swallowed again, trying to get his thoughts in order. “Hartford and Chilton are mine. He doesn’t belong. When she’s there, I can at least remind her of my existence. Even when she's hating me. Even when she’s avoiding me. When she’s at Chilton, I can have her all to myself.” He stopped to give his head a forceful shake, as if he still couldn’t believe what had transpired that day in the school courtyard. Refused to believe. “And he asserted himself. Disrespected that. Came to Chilton and took that away from me.” He made a hard fist, knuckles turning white from the pressure. He met the man’s eyes, anger flaring. “How can I not hate him? Not only does he have her, he’s also invaded my space. My sanctuary. So what do I have now? I don’t have my turf. And I don’t even have her.” He let out a long sigh, frustration etched all over his face. He was too tired, too exhausted, too upset to keep reliving that moment over and over again in his mind.

The man didn’t say anything for a few minutes, allowing the boy to relax for a bit. “How angry were you?” he asked quietly.

Tristan immediately tensed up again. “I wanted to beat the crap out of him.” Then sighing once again, he continued. Only this time, while his posture still exuded resentment towards the other boy, his voice only conveyed grief. “But what would that solve? What would it accomplish? I’ve made an ass of myself before in front of everyone I know. What’s the point of doing it again?”

“What is the point, Tristan?” the man prompted.

Tristan’s shoulders sagged, as he struggled to come up with the words. “Things like this aren’t supposed to happen to guys like me. We’re not supposed to be so lost. So helpless…” He let his voice drift off. He bit his lip, trying to recall the exact moment he had lost all control over his actions and his feelings. It hurt too much to feel, and yet, he couldn’t stop feeling. Couldn’t stop suffering.

“Tristan.” His soothing voice broke into the boy’s thoughts.

Tristan glanced at him, irked. He knew what the man was going to tell him. And he couldn’t let him do it. “I know what you’re going to tell me. You want me to give up… to cut my losses.” The last part left a sour aftertaste in his mouth, and his expression conveyed as much. Rory was not a business transaction. He refused to think of her in that way.

“No…” But his tone of voice suggested otherwise. His entire face could not have been plainer. He thought Tristan was fighting a losing battle. “I can’t force you to do something you don’t want.”

But Tristan could hear it. The defeat in the man’s voice. The pity. The disappointment. He didn’t think what Tristan was putting himself through… putting her through… was healthy for either one of them. “I don’t need your pity.”

“And I’m not giving it to you,” the man assured.

“But you think I’m pitiful. The way I pine for her,” Tristan drawled, sarcasm in full force.

“You’re not five, Tristan,” the man reminded, not so gently. “You’ve got to stop feeling sorry for yourself and blaming everyone else for the way you feel. You’re old enough to know what you want. You’re old enough to go out there and get what you want. But you’re also old enough to take responsibility for those things. You can’t expect to be coddled if things don’t go the way you want them to. Especially when you’re the one who set those events into motion.”

Tristan didn’t need to be coddled, and he threw the man an annoyed look. “No one told her to walk into my life.” He realized he was being childish, but he couldn’t help it.

The man nodded, agreeing. “And no one told you to let her affect you so much.”

Unbelievable. Tristan glanced up at the ceiling, suppressing a bitter chuckle. “So I’m at fault for how she makes me feel,” he concluded, giving the man an unappreciative look.

“Tristan,” he sighed. “You said it yourself. You can’t force yourself to like someone. You can’t force someone to like you. What else do you want me to say? I can’t make it better. Not in the way you would like me to. I’m not her.”

“I want you to tell me that it’ll be okay.” He needed that. Desperately needed that. Needed someone to tell him that what he was doing wasn’t entirely wrong. That there was a light at the end of the tunnel. That there was hope. That he wasn’t holding onto a lost cause. That he wasn’t really an ass, unable to be redeemed. But he knew that it was impossible. The man wouldn’t be able to truthfully tell him the things he needed to hear. But what was one lie? He could live with it. He did it to himself all the time. It wouldn’t matter much if someone else did it to him, too… Unless that someone was Rory.

“You know I can’t do that.” There was a hint of sorrow in the man’s voice. Sorrow that Tristan could do without.

“I didn’t think so,” Tristan said, simply. Resigned. Deflated. Crushed.

“I think you should prepare yourself for the possibility that…”

But Tristan cut him off, wouldn’t let him finish that thought. “I’m not ready to give up on her.” Then repeating it with more conviction, “I can’t give up. Not on her. Not on us.”

The man sighed. “So what happens on Monday? What are you going to do when you see her?”

“Who says I’ll be in school on Monday?” Tristan retorted.

“Because that’s not you to run away from a cause you think is worth fighting for. And because no matter what kind of pain she puts you through, you can’t stay away from her. She's your Achilles heel.”

Tristan stared at him. When had this man learned to sketch his character so well? “Maybe it’s not worth it. And besides, how would you know? You don’t know me,” Tristan protested, weakly.

“Tristan.” The man gave him a knowing look, almost scolding him for trying to play that kind of game with him. Especially after all they’ve been through together.

He shook his head, adamantly. “If I see her, I’m going to run in the opposite direction.”

“You can’t run forever,” the man pointed out. He was disappointed. When had Tristan ever turned the other way when Rory was involved?

“No…” the young man agreed, reluctantly. “But I can try.” There was false bravado in the voice.

The man sighed. “Is that what you want to do?”

“I don’t…” He was going to say that he didn’t know what he wanted to do. That he never did. That he was too confused, too tired, too scared to put himself out there and attempt to come to terms with what he really wanted. What he was afraid of losing.

“What do you want?” The man repeated, softly, insistently.

Tristan pursed his lips, frowning as he thought. “I want to crawl under the covers and not come back out until graduation. I want to move away and never run into her again. I want someone else to catch my attention and make me fall for them as much or harder than I have for her. I want this misery and pain to end. I want my life to go back to whatever miserable and unfulfilling existence it was before she walked into it. I want to go back to being ignorant about the emptiness of that life. I want that to be enough again. I want…” He stopped, struggling to come up with the words. Trying to gather his resolve. Trying to bring the fire and the passion back. Because he didn’t want any of those things. The man leaned forward in his seat, finally catching a flicker of whatever made Tristan Tristan back in those intense blue eyes. Tristan frowned again. “I want… I want her.”

“So that’s it.” There was some finality in that statement. Tristan didn’t say anything, didn’t really feel the need to explain himself any further. The man continued. “That’s your decision. To keep going. Despite the hurt and the pain. Despite everything’s that happened. Despite all the unconscious actions the two of you have subjected each other to. You’re not giving up.”

Tristan was silent. And confused. Was that what he was telling the man? That he wasn’t giving up without a fight? He wasn’t so sure anymore. At that moment… when she had uttered those horrible words… seeing the two of them together… he had been pissed. That much he was sure of. Pissed and… and heartbroken. The way he had never been with anyone else. The pain, the ache, the distress… he wanted to throw something – anything -- and beat the crap out of someone. But then he had looked down at his hands, and realized that he was still holding onto her books. And despite everything she had said, everything she did, they were still her things. There was no way he could hurt her. No way he could do that to her because despite everything she did that cut at him, he would rather suffer through the agony alone than make her suffer with him. He had almost given up then. Finally getting her hint. Willing to reluctantly concede. But when he had squared his shoulders and buttoned up his jacket, closing himself up again… vowing not to let her hurt him again… he wasn’t so sure anymore. Did he really want to give up, go back to that other life, cut his losses and move on? Or had he just been preparing himself for the war to come?

“I honestly don’t know,” he finally answered.

The man shook his head sympathetically. “Tristan, is it really worth it? She may never come around. You may just be setting yourself up for a world of hurt.”

Tristan frowned. “I know. But I’m not ready to give up.” He wasn’t sure if that was the truth, but it sounded good coming out of his mouth. Sounded good knowing that he could be that decisive when it came to her. He sighed. “The thing is, she can’t really hate me, can she? Not after everything’s that happened. Not after we had planted those seeds of friendship. Not after we had been sort of friends for a little while. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. So she can’t possibly mean it.”

He seemed to be trying to convince himself. The man didn’t agree or disagree. “Only she knows.”

Tristan looked away. “See… the thing that’s been bothering me… what doesn’t make sense… Why would she say that? That she hated me. If she didn’t mean it… unless she did.” This was a possibility he could not consider. “Why did she say that? Hate…” He let the word linger in the air. “You know, I always thought that I’d rather she hate me than feel pity or indifference to me. That hate and love were pretty much the same things. But it’s not true. I’d rather have her indifference. At least then, there was some hope.”

They were both quiet, too caught up in their own thoughts to willingly break the silence. Finally, the man spoke. “So that’s it,” he repeated, neutrally.

Tristan thought about it. “Yes. I guess so.” And there was some finality in his words. But they both knew that that wasn’t it. It was far from over. And would continue to be unresolved until Tristan could finally solve, and overcome, whatever inexplicable pull she had on him. He stood up quickly, suddenly. He didn’t want to be there anymore. Didn’t want to hear the man tell him things he didn’t want to hear. The office had become too hot, too confining, too depressing for him. He needed to get out. Needed to forget about her, even if only for a little while. “I have to go. My parents don’t even know I’m here.” But it was an unnecessary statement. They both knew that his parents probably didn’t care where he was, or what he was doing at that moment. Tristan didn’t wait for him to contradict him. “I’m sorry for taking up your time.”

"Tristan." The man's voice pulled him back in. Tristan glanced at him, questioningly. "You never answered the question. What now?" His voice was soft, paternal, friendly, concerned. He was not pushing the boy into answering, just wanted him to think hard about his future actions.

Tristan's shoulders sagged imperceptibly. "I have to do what I have to do," he answered, cryptically.

The older man knew that it would be the only answer Tristan would give to his question. And he didn't want to push him. There was a whole summer ahead of the boy. A whole summer to really decide what he wanted to do, even if he thought he had already made up his mind about the girl. "And then?" The man raised a curious brow.

Tristan squared his shoulder, meeting his piercing and thoughtful eyes. "And then I go out and do it."

The man watched him. He could see signs of life. See signs of the old Tristan coming back. The hurt, the pain, the confusion, and the anger were gone. They were now replaced by a new determination. And the man wasn’t sure whether to be worried or relieved. There was no way he could know whether Tristan was truly moving on, or just settling in for the pursuit. And he knew there was no way that Tristan would tell him. If he even knew what he was going to do. He watched as the boy made his way to the door, opening it. “You do know that I’ll be here if you need me.”

Tristan seemed to think about this for a second. Then taking a hesitant breath, he answered in the affirmative. “Yeah. I know.”

For some reason, the man didn’t believe him. “Tristan, I’m serious. I’m here for you if you need someone to talk to.”

The man could see the boy’s eyes flash from across the room. Yes, there was evidence of the old Tristan, from months before, peeking out through the deflated exterior shell. “Right. Because you get off on my misery,” Tristan retorted. Too close, too much, too soon.

The man smiled. “Yes. That, too.” Then, letting the smile fade a notch, he reminded the boy again. “I’ll be here,” he stressed, knowing that even though the boy wouldn’t take him up on the offer now, that he would be back eventually.

Tristan squared his shoulders. “I know,” he assured, firmly.

“Good.” The man nodded once, pleased, needing their impromptu meeting to end on an upbeat. “Now run along and tell your mother I’ll be billing her for these sessions at an overtime rate.”

Tristan grinned, the beginnings of the familiar smirk. “Oh, I will. She’ll love that.” He started out the door, but hesitated just outside. He turned back, slowly, to see the man still watching him. “Um… thanks,” he told him, almost embarrassed.

The man nodded and shrugged. He knew how hard it was for the young man to open himself up to someone else, to share, to say that one simple word. And he wouldn’t push it, wouldn’t make him feel bad for wanting help in sorting out his feelings. “What are friends for?” The rhetorical question made Tristan roll his eyes. “I’ll see you around, Tristan.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” he agreed, nonchalantly, before finally walking away.


Author's Note: Sorry, the end was a little cheesy, but I couldn't be sure which direction to take it. We'll just have to wait and see next season, huh? Lol. Dissertation #2, baby!! AN #2 (Updated): Leaving the original note up, but just wanted to say that high hopes got squashed, and any more in this series will be completely AU. Sadness.