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 sat, nervously fiddling with a paperweight he had picked up from the end table beside the couch. The other man watched him and said nothing, observing him. It had been a few days since their first meeting, and this time, the young man had changed out of his school uniform before arriving. He was wearing off-white cargo pants over black shoes, and a gray T-shirt underneath his blue button-down shirt. The top two buttons had been left undone to reveal the top of the T-shirt and the beaded choker around his neck. He was wearing a navy windbreaker, left unzipped. He hadn’t bothered to take it off, which revealed that he was still closed off with the idea of sharing his innermost thoughts. But at least his casual attire suggested that he wasn’t as uptight or as serious as the man had initially assumed due to the prep school uniform. In fact, he seemed like any other ordinary teenage boy -- large inheritance and amazing reservoir of charm notwithstanding.

“So do you want to talk?” He had to start the conversation or else Tristan would have been more than content to sit there silently for the rest of the session. “Tristan?”

Tristan sighed imperceptibly, and put the paperweight down on the end table. He shrugged and placed his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker. Closing off. But he offered a bright and almost genuine and good-humored smile. The other man had a feeling that this sincere smile was closer to the real Tristan DuGrey than the one he had seen earlier and so far. And he was almost positive that hardly anyone at his school ever saw this Tristan. It was a shame really, because the young man seemed more at ease like this than he had when trying to sustain his image. The softer side suited him much better.

“Sure, why not,” he agreed easily, nonchalantly, gallantly.

“What would you like to talk about today?”

Another shrug. “Whatever.” Laid-back. At least he was being receptive.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself.”

The boy flinched slightly and seemed to hesitate, immediately unsure if this was how he wanted to spend the next hour. “Okay,” he agreed, slowly. “What do you want to know?” There was suspicion and caution.

“Well, how are you in school?” he threw out, starting slow and innocently.

Tristan smiled slightly. “Pretty good. I’m in the top five percent of my class. I’ve never really had to work too hard for it, so I guess I’m lucky about that. The teachers love me.”

“What about friends?”

“I’ve got lots of those. I’ve known most of the guys for years. Everyone at that school pretty much grew up with everyone else.” So far he had only provided simple and brief answers. Answers that any boy could have rattled off without any thought. Answers that did not offer any insight into what made Tristan DuGrey tick.

“And girls?”

Tristan hesitated for a beat and his observer took note of it for later. The charming grin returned. “I get my share.” He shrugged. “I guess they tend to want me more than I’ve really had any use for them. It’s silly really, the way they throw themselves at me sometimes. It’s kind of a game for some of them.”

“For some?” he quirked a brow, quizzically. “But not for all?” Tristan had delineated the two types of girls, and that had been interesting.

Tristan shook his head. “It takes two to play the game. There’s no point in playing if the other one isn’t in it.”

“Or if they don’t know the rules?” He already knew about the relationship games kids like Tristan played. Games they learned from their parents. And he knew what the boy would not admit. The main principle behind the game was this: everyone was fair game. Those who knew the game and abided by the rules, won; those who didn’t, got hurt. It didn’t matter if they wanted to play or not.

“Or that.”

“And how are you at the game?”

Tristan chuckled, but not out of conceit. More out of the fact that he had to ask, that he didn’t already know. “How do you think?”

He had to smile. The boy could be cocky, but at least he was obvious about it. He didn’t try to hide it. And the more he was blatantly obvious about it, the more the man was beginning to think that it was only a ruse, used to keep strangers at bay from knowing his true feelings and thoughts. But even this was only a small aspect of the boy’s personality. There was someone very worthwhile trying to get to the surface, but he had repressed it for some reason or other. Worthiness… niceness… those were weakness in their manipulative world, and he couldn’t open himself up to that, not when he had a reputation to keep. “I think you’re nothing but gentlemanly when it comes to those girls you like who don’t play the game.”

The smile faded a notch, as if Tristan hadn’t wanted that little part of him to be known. But then, he recovered and the smirk grew. “Most girls play the game,” he threw out, trying to bait his companion.

His companion returned the grin. Friendly. They were discussing the young man, but the young man seemed to be turning the tables on him and teasing him. “You don’t have to try to charm me. We’re just having an honest talk.”

Tristan raised an amused brow, as if just now learning that his charm could be used as a weapon, a diversion tactic. “Shooting the breeze?”

He chuckled. “Yes.” He paused, turning serious. “Is this how you shoot the breeze with your friends?”

The grin faded completely to a wry, self-deprecating smile. “We discuss girls, yes.”

“But not like this,” he prompted.

“No. Not like this,” he revealed, the faint smile still lingering. He knew the man understood what he was saying. In front of friends, Tristan could never get away with discussing girls in anything other than a cavalier fashion.

“Because you have an image and reputation to keep at school. And you can’t come off as anything close to a nice guy, a gentleman.”

“It’s not how it works,” he agreed. And now Tristan seemed uncomfortable.

“Is that why you have no one to talk to? No one to talk to about what’s really bothering you?”

“What’s bothering me is that sometimes I wish they would leave me alone, and they don’t.”

“Who? Your parents?” The slightly disgusted look on the boy’s face answered this question in the negative. No, the boy’s parents were probably the only ones who did leave him alone, whether he wanted it or not. “Your friends?” he tried again.

He gave a half-shrug. “Sometimes. They look to me to be the lady-killer, the womanizer. And sometimes I’m not interested in doing it. There are more important things in life than being that.”

“Like what?”

“Like… what are you, my career counselor?” And that effectively ended that branch of the conversation.

“And girls? Do you wish they would leave you alone sometimes?”

“Sure. I don’t come running every time a girl dangles the possibility of sex in front of me. I’m not some kind of pervert.” Tristan seemed to find this portrait of himself amusing, but did not laugh or even exhibit any form of a smile.

“But you don’t say any of this to anyone? You don’t share your feelings about this with anyone.”

Tristan’s hands came out of his pockets and were placed at his sides. He tried not to squirm under the intense gaze. “There’s a code to follow. Conduct, rules, a method. It’s all about power and control. The image you put up is what they see, what you control. Misdirection is key. To be yourself is opening yourself up to…”

“Pain?” He looked almost sympathetic. Because it was obvious that Tristan wanted to be true to himself, but didn’t know where to begin. The boy was scared of being hurt, of feeling pain. Emotions were so much easier to control if one didn’t have to worry about those.

“Maybe,” he skirted, evasively.

“And you feel uncomfortable talking to your friends about this?”

“Friends?” Tristan looked thoughtful, as if he were trying to decide the meaning of the word. “If you can call them that. Real friendships aren’t so high on the priority list, you know. They look towards me for leadership. They make me the center of attention. I’m responsible for taking the lead, for amusing them, for setting the standard.”

“And you’d rather not be that person? Because that’s what it sounds like to me.”

“I don’t know. I don’t mind most of the time. It just makes me feel so dirty sometimes,” he hedged. “And believe me, there are tons of guys who would love to have the honors. I could probably name a handful of them who would love to see me fall flat on my face.”

“So you’re not untouchable.”

Nothing.

“Tristan?” he prompted, not sure whether the boy had heard him or not.

He had. He just didn’t want to be lulled by a false sense of security into admitting something he would rather not. “No. I’m not.” There was a hint of regret in the admission.

“But you once were,” he prompted.

“I guess I once thought I was,” Tristan admitted. The distinction seemed to be of importance. He glanced away, looking back at the paperweight, suddenly wary of what had passed from his lips.

“What changed?” They were finally getting there. To what made Tristan, Tristan.

Tristan swallowed and refused to meet his eye. “I don’t know,” he lied, easily. “A lot of things. Maybe nothing.” He tried to cover up his uneasiness, but knew he was failing miserably.

He knew the young man was lying. Could see it in the way his body tensed and how he suddenly became quiet, contrite. “Are you lying to me?”

Tristan offered a wry grin. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I’ve had experience with teenage boys who come from wealthy families, who don’t know what they want. Or would much rather not admit that they know exactly what they want. Especially when it doesn’t correspond with what they should want, and what people expect of them. So they hide it behind charm and lies. So are you lying to me? Because if you are, it doesn’t really matter to me, it just delays the process. Or are you just lying to yourself?”

Tristan didn’t hesitate. “I’m not lying.” But he was deliberately not specific in answering who he wasn’t lying to.

The other man knew that that statement in itself was already a half-life and a half-truth. He did not push it. “What is making you miserable?”

“What makes you think I’m miserable,” Tristan countered, haughtily, trying to regain control of the situation. He could charm and manipulate almost anyone, and it was important to be in charge again. Even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Even if it meant closing himself off again.

“Because you’ve been pretty open so far. And it seems as if I touched a nerve.”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m not.”

“I think you are.” He waited. Tristan did not contradict him, hadn’t found it necessary to deign him a response. “It’s not your parents. It’s not your education. You seem to have a rather firm grasp and control over that. It’s not your friends. You seem to understand the rules to that game. So what is it? I’m thinking before today you were pretty happy playing the game, keeping up the act. A guy’s guy. A ladies’ man. And now you look miserable. The game isn’t enough anymore, is it? It’s shallow and cheap. It’s worthless and meaningless. What changed? Something must have happened to you. Something must have made you want to give it up. Throw every rule you’ve followed these past few years out the window.”

“It’s just your normal, everyday, teenage angst,” Tristan replied, vaguely.

“Is it a girl?”

Tristan glanced at him disdainfully. “Why is the standard response always have to be about a girl. Why is it that whenever anything bothers a guy, it has to automatically be because of a girl.”

The boy seemed to have lost respect for him, for even suggesting an answer and solution as trite as the one he had given, had attributed to his moroseness. But he was sure that it was, in fact, the answer. Because Tristan had initially refused to discuss school. And then once he had, he had steered clear of the girl topic, refusing to discuss that subject with anything close to seriousness. “Because it usually does,” he replied, simply, matching Tristan’s nonchalance.

Tristan glanced away. When he turned back, he seemed upset, but angrier with himself than with the other man for having suggested it. “It’s her.” He emphasized the pronoun. There was no disdain or bitterness towards this “her,” only contemplation and reflection. And resignation.

There was silence as the man digested this information. Only the sound of the grandfather clock ticking off the seconds in the background punctuated the silence. The man took a deep breath. For once, he wished that Tristan had been right. That the problem hadn’t involved a girl. “Tell me about her,” he said, quietly, almost inaudibly. He wasn’t sure if Tristan had heard. But the boy had. He heard everything that had anything to do with her.

“She makes me crazy. What right does she have to do that? She’s a nobody.”

He watched as Tristan stood and began pacing in front of the couch. His jaw was clenched, his fist balled, and he paced without really seeing where he was going.

“You don’t really mean that,” he chided gently.

Tristan paused in mid-step, biting his lip. “No. No, I don’t. She’s not a nobody. She was, but she’s not anymore. But either way, she has this incredible way of driving me absolutely crazy. I’d hate her if I didn’t…” Want her? Need her? Like her so much? Love her? He stopped in mid-sentence, seemingly catching himself before he could reveal something he had yet to admit to himself.

For the boy’s sake, the other man pretended not to have heard. “Is it because she won’t play the game? Won’t follow the rules?”

Tristan thought about this for a few minutes, but he already knew the answer. “She hates the game. And because of that, she hates me.” He stopped again, frustrated. “No, she doesn’t hate me. Not really.”

The man took a deep breath. “Why don’t we start at the beginning?”

Tristan ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier than it had been a few minutes ago. “She was new. And that made her interesting. See, pretty much everyone at Chilton grew up together, went to school together for years. It was almost like everyone became your sibling. It’s hard to develop romantic inclinations towards someone you’ve watched grow up.” He glanced at the floor and sighed. “She was different. And not because she didn’t have money. Because she kind of does. But money isn’t an issue. It never was with her.”

“So she was new and interesting. And she caught your attention. And you tried to play the game with her,” he concluded.

“I guess I came on too strong, preying on her innocence. It was fun.” He looked embarrassed at this admission. The other man didn’t say anything, wouldn’t judge him for it. “Her resistance. Her annoyance with me. Her frustration with me. It was different because no other girl did that. She didn’t roll over at my feet. So I made her miserable because sparring with her gave me such a rush. It made me happy. Is that wrong? To want to get a rise out of her because I enjoyed being surprised by what would come out of her mouth? And because I liked the way she made me feel when she called me on it?”

“There are better ways to let a girl know you like her,” he pointed out.

Tristan frowned. “I didn’t like her. Not in that way. Not initially. She was a…” He couldn’t seem to find the right word to describe what she had been. Or rather, he didn’t want to admit it. Because doing so would make him out to be a bigger asshole than he thought he had a right to be.

“Conquest?” He provided the word for him.

Tristan glanced at him sharply, pained. “Yeah,” he admitted, quietly. “That.”

“When did it change?”

Tristan started pacing again. For some reason, he was restless, couldn’t sit still. And the older man did nothing to stop him. He was sharing, after all. “I don’t know. I can’t pinpoint it. I can’t tell you if it was with a look or a specific word, or even a moment. All I knew was that all of a sudden, she was always on my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She got under my skin and I let her. I was in too deep before I realized it. And I can’t turn back no matter how hard I try. And I’m not even sure I want to, if I could.”

“Did you try to tell her?” his companion asked, as if it had all been that simple. But he hadn’t been there. Hadn’t seen what Tristan had done to her. Wouldn’t understand that even if he did tell her, there was no way to guarantee that she wouldn’t laugh in his face. That it wouldn’t just end up being worse than how things stood now.

“I tried to ask her to the Chilton winter formal.”

“What happened?” he asked, quietly, respectfully.

Tristan offered a self-effacing smirk. “My reputation and actions preceded me. I guess what they say about first impressions really is true.”

“Tristan.” He had noticed this about the boy. He tried so hard to keep up the image that he passed off in the halls of Chilton. But as his comfort level rose with the other man, his self-deprecating humor began to show itself. It was odd coming from a self-proclaimed hotshot like Tristan.

Tristan didn’t need to be warned. “I went to ask her, practically with my heart on my sleeve, and she turned me down. Rejected me cold. I suppose I deserved it. And I guess she didn’t really believe the offer to be sincere. But still. She shot me down, telling me that there was no possible way she would ever go out with me, unless she had some massive head injury, and probably not even then.”

“And how did that make you feel?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Tristan gave him a knowing look, silently tsking him for employing the trite question. His companion smiled back in agreement. “It made me feel like crap,” Tristan admitted. “It stung, and it made me feel bitter. Towards her. And it made me want to knock her down from whatever high road she thought she was on, compared to me. And I didn’t want to feel that way. Not to her. Not about her.” He sighed. “I guess I kind of knew something was going on with me. Because of her. I never had to worry about girls turning me down before. And her rejection hurt like hell.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely, seeing how hurt the boy had become.

Tristan offered another wry smile. “Don’t be. Because it gets better. You haven’t heard how I fell flat on my face and completely humiliated myself in front of the entire school.” There was a self-mocking sarcasm there.

“I wouldn’t expect a hurt sixteen year old boy to react in any way other than stupid.”

There was a hint of teasing, and Tristan appreciated that. “I saw them.”

“Who?” he asked curiously.

“Her and her boyfriend.” The word “boyfriend” rolled off his tongue with a sour aftertaste, and was said with a great deal of sarcasm, as if saying the actual name would have given the other boy undue respect. Respect and honor he did not deserve. “At the dance. I couldn’t stop watching them. Seeing them happy,” he admitted, angry with himself, remembering his loss of control.

“Because you wanted to be him. In his place. With her,” he concluded.

Tristan met his eyes for a minute, not saying anything. He didn’t have to. The pain, the adoration, the longing and wistfulness were all plainly sketched on his face. “He had her on this pedestal. The way he was looking at her. And I understand that because I think in a way, even though I wouldn’t admit it at the time, so did I.”

“But you don’t anymore,” he finished for him.

Tristan shook his head. “No. Because she’s a real person. She has flaws like the rest of us, and that’s what makes her so perfect.”

“So how did you fall flat on your face?” he inquired. He was almost saddened to hear that Tristan had failed to win the girl over. From what he had shared so far, Tristan had imparted a more mature and worldly understanding of the girl than he had thought possible coming from a boy like him. Or rather, from the attitude and image that boys like him exuded.

Tristan looked up at the ceiling. “She was looking at him like he was some god or something.” He furrowed his brow and looked at his hands, as if not really seeing them. “So I wanted to take him down a couple of notches, show that he was human and he wasn’t good enough. I tried to goad him into a fight.”

“Did it work?” He knew it hadn’t. Because boys like Tristan didn’t do fights. They were more likely to fight with words than with fists, unless properly provoked. But knowing Tristan these past few weeks, he knew that the boy would have had no qualms entering into a fistfight and even holding his own. Because boys like Tristan were passionate. And passion often got the best of them.

Tristan didn’t even have to think about it. “No,” he replied, bluntly.