AUTHOR: The Corruptor
RATING: PG (can’t remember if there are any bad words)
CHARACTERS / PAIRING: Tristan
SUMMARY: Tristan’s POV from the first few episodes
AUTHOR’S NOTE: If not a jerk, then a sensitive, vulnerable, sexy, HA sweetheart. I’ve taken the liberty to try to fill in some of his life and may have added several scenarios that were never mentioned or alluded to in the official GG universe. This wasn’t meant to be a series, and right now, it still isn’t. I may go back and write his POV on all the other Tristan episodes, but right now, I have lost inspiration and motivation for it. But you never know. If you don’t agree with this version of Tristan, then you shouldn’t be reading this.
DISCLAIMER: Tristan and some of the situations are owned by Amy S-P, the GG writers, and the WB… but if I had the opportunity, I could think of more uses to his character than what they’ve given him. That said, go to work, HA!

Where do you start when you’re not used to starting anywhere but at the top? How do you begin to analyze your life when you’re so used to having things work out in your favor? Why is it that there always has to be an epiphany - a revelation - that makes you realize that your life is crap? That just conforming, just doing what is expected of you… just being… is no longer enough. Why is it that it always only takes one unforeseen event… one person… to make us rethink our lives - when we’ve never opened ourselves enough to let any other event or person affect us so. Why does our mere existence have to be so complicated, so difficult… so unfulfilling? Especially when it’s not supposed to be that way. When the idea of being should come so easily. So simply.

Where do you start? At the beginning. Always at the beginning…

Life is simple. Straightforward. Easy. Or at least it’s supposed to be. For me. And maybe that’s the problem. Things don’t get too complicated when you’ve got the right last name, the right connections, and the right looks. As a trust fund baby, money has never been a problem. You don’t worry about what you have, and I’d be hard-pressed to list all the things I don’t have. So life has been simple up to now. Whatever I couldn’t get through my looks and charm and sex appeal, I could buy with money. Simple. What I want, I get. And even when I don’t want it, I still get it. No one’s stopped me or corrected me. And it’s been that way for most of my life. Of course, who am I kidding? It’s a push me - pull me society. People are amused by my bravado and exploits, and they in turn amuse me. It’s a manipulative world and so far, I’ve been lucky enough to come out on top every time. At least where the more important things are concerned.

I’ve never had to worry about grades, or girls, or my future. My path has already been laid out for me: an Ivy League school, a lofty position at the company, marriage to the “right” kind of girl, and 2.5 blonde-haired, blue eyed children. Not many people expect me to wander from that path, to buck tradition. Least of all me. But the simplicity of it all can be too much. Too overwhelming. Too sterile. Too boring. There’s no challenge being me - or at least, being the me that people see. It’s an act. We’re all actors; some of us are just better at it than others. We don’t let people see the real us -- the ones that are insecure and unsure about where they stand in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes it’s easier pretending to be what people expect us to be. Other times, it’s too exhausting keeping up the image. But most of the time, we get so caught up in our roles, in our act, that we forget what it is to be ourselves. To thyself be true - a credo no one here at this pompous school has ever lived up to… except maybe her. It’s a laugh, really. Our true selves, if we even remember what that is. Until you wake up one day to find yourself making millions in a job you hate, with friends you loathe who secretly care more about your money than you, married to a woman you feel at best indifferent to, and supporting good-looking children who are spoiled beyond belief but are your pride and joy only because they’ll carry on the family name. It’s sad. It’s disgusting. It’s pitiful. It’s obscene. And when you think too hard about it, life stops becoming so simple. It stops becoming something you manipulate, and instead, becomes something you’re manipulated by. And you just wish it would stop and leave you alone.

They say that behind every successful man, there is a great woman. I never thought much about success. Success to me was measured by those insignificant things that matter only if you were a rich, spoiled boy used to getting his own way, unaccustomed to rejection. Popularity, status, girls . . . these were the things that we cared most about because money had taken care of the rest of the mundane aspects of life. Being successful as a person -- a human -- would be the last of our priorities. But sometimes, all it takes is one person to remind ourselves that underneath the tough exterior and the flaws hidden by excessive wealth, we’re all vulnerable. We’re all just little kids playing in an adult world. Maybe all it does take is a good woman to make us want to change. To be the person we always were, but were afraid to be.

We’ve never held high expectations for love. Never expected it. Learned to do without from our parents, who had neither the time nor inclination to provide it. Because of that, we fend for ourselves, choosing to protect ourselves rather than learn to deal with others, to share with others, and to love others. As a result, we’re useless when it comes to forming genuine relationships. The simple act of forming friendships can also be a joke. Friends I’ve known for years wouldn’t hesitate to stab each other in the back if the price were right, or if it would amuse them. And I’d be kidding myself if I didn’t think that I wasn’t on the top of many of their lists. We treat each other as playthings… toys. Relationships are physical and emotional games we play. Those who don’t allow themselves to get hurt, win. Those who do were never meant to play it in the first place. Girls, boys, love, sex - used, reused, and abused to get at the ultimate goal, the only thing that’s ever really mattered to those who have practically everything else - power and control. And for me, amusement. Because I already had all those other things. And I was bored. When others are using you for your status and wealth, and there’s really nothing you can get from them in return, you turn to amusement and a different kind of game to entertain yourself.

In general, life has been kind to me. Everyone wants to either be with me, or be me. And that’s fine. I let them think that I love being the center of attention. That all my exploits are done for their amusement. I let them think I have the perfect life, and I keep the rest of the sordid details out of the spotlight. Those are for me to deal with, and for me to digest and come to terms with when I let down the façade. When I’m alone. It’s an unspoken deal. During the day, we all get to play the arrogant, rich hotshots people expect us to be. And at night, we get to repent for it, faced with the stark naked truth of just how flawed our lives really are when the doors to our expensive manors are closed, and it’s just us with our thoughts and our families. It’s enough to make us human. It’s enough to remind us of who we really are. The problem is, we spend so much time in show mode that we’ve forgotten what it’s like to be ourselves. We’ve forgotten who we really are. When we’re at home, instead of facing the truth, we turn the other cheek and pretend we don’t know what’s really going on. We learn to grow a thick skin. And in reality, it doesn’t matter. We’ve gotten so used to our roles that no one expects anything else. And it becomes irritating when we can’t be that person anymore. When we’re jarred back to our real selves, the selves we’ve lost all hold on. It’s aggravating. It’s uncomfortable. It’s unnerving.

When you’re in public, the mask automatically comes up. It’s become a reflex. And when you do let down your guard, it’s only because you were caught by surprise. Like the time my grandfather became ill. I had been pulled out of class, startled, though trying not to show it. And then I had spent the next few days out of school, alternating between my grandfather’s hospital room -- where I played the dutiful grandson - and home, tiptoeing around as if lost in a misplaced and mistimed wake. It was a downtime, not having to worry about keeping up the act. Not having to ignore my parents and pretend like there was no awkwardness or tension or dissension between the two of them, and getting a respite from having to pretend to be the perfect child with the perfect life. Even though the act sometimes crops up in the confines of my immediate family life. My parents believe they have raised the perfect child, and in a way, I can’t let them down. It’s easier to be around my grandparents. Though I can honestly say that I do love my parents, the truer affections are held for my grandfather.

And when he recovered and I went back to school, only the teachers would ask after him. But more out of respect for who he was, and who I was, than from any real concern. My friends would welcome me back from my mini-vacation, because that’s all it really was to them. They wouldn’t ask me about my grandfather, or whether I had been scared or worried, or how I felt. And I wouldn’t tell them anyway. We’d go back to being concerned with only that that affected us. We’d forget about family and parents because sometimes, they forgot about us, too. And because in a school where almost half the population had parental problems, family messes just weren’t all that interesting or unique anymore.

But new girls were interesting; with the level of interest always being directly proportional to how pretty and/or how innocent they looked at first impression. And it was a great way to welcome me back. Growing up in Hartford, and going to a prestigious school that was located nearby, we ended up going to school with the same people. I knew almost half the student population at school, the majority of them having grown up with me, some since birth, and had gone through the same educational track as I did. And most of them I was friends with. Still, it got boring seeing the same people every day, having to choose from the same girls all the time. Knowing that they weren’t interesting at all.

On my first day back, I was late for class. It didn’t matter. I hardly paid attention in any of my classes. They were boring, tedious. And I could practically coast through them with good grades so none of the teachers really bothered me about it. Besides, I was a DuGrey, and that seemed to be enough of an excuse. Had I actually applied myself, I might have been able to blow away the school and leave them in my wake. But I didn’t care about things like that. As I made small talk with Mr. Remmy, I didn’t see her even though she was sitting near the front of the class. I could, however, feel eyes on me, which usually happened wherever I called attention to myself. And I knew that while most of those eyes would belong to friends happy to see me back because I had taken the entertainment with me, the majority of the looks would be from girls. Girls I’ve dated; girls I haven’t. Girls I’ve flirted with; girls I hadn’t. As I went to take my seat, I finally saw her. I can’t say whether my heart fluttered or if I felt something towards her right then. She was only a curiosity -- something that was obviously out of place, out of her league. I didn’t have any intention of being a bully. She was just a mere oddity, and I was, so far, indifferent to her. But there was something exciting about her. Not who she was, but the fact that she was new, and I was bored. It thrilled me, being able to play the game once again. Being able to tease on what was obviously her inexperience. She was pretty. She was innocent. But what it really came down to was this: I was bored and she was new. I really didn’t have anything planned except to see if I could win her over. Play the game. Succeed. Because that was what I did. And when it was over, I’d move on because playing the game meant no real attachments would be made. No real emotional exchanges. No real feelings. At least for me. For her . . . well, that would be her problem. Those who played into the game deserved what they got. And so far, no one had been my equal. It looked easy. Another effortless conquest that I could drag out for a while just for fun. It really would be too easy. But, of course, I was wrong.

I’ve never known what it’s like to fall in love. Maybe I still don’t. Maybe all those feelings and emotions coursing through my body aren’t anything at all, but an awakening. Because finally, someone had the guts to stand up to me, to put me back in my place. Someone who not only saw that they could be my equal, but in many ways was my superior. Maybe I’ll never know. And that is what’s driving me slowly insane. I’m being denied the opportunity to see if it’s real because I’ve proven myself to be a jerk unworthy of it. Never mind that it really is all just an act. And the more I’m denied, the stronger the feelings get. The stronger the urge. Until I’m almost certain I’ll just explode from the rejection and do something that will totally out me as some kind of fake. That my act will be exposed and even then, with the real me left hanging out there… vulnerable… I still wouldn’t be worthy of the chance with her. With love. Who knew one little girl -- a poor little nobody -- could have such an affect on me. It’s not fair. It’s not right. No one should have that kind of control. Especially over me. No one.