Narcissus

Author: SweetThing

Chapter: 1 "When It Started"

Disclaimer: I don't own nothin'. ("Nnnnothin?! Ooh!" Heh, don't you just love Oklahoma?) Seriously though, I'm a dirt po' teenager.  The story's title and the lyrics come from a song off Alanis Morissette's awesome CD, Under Rug Swept, and the chapter title belongs to The Strokes, who also have a kick-ass CD, Is This It. Breakfast At Tiffany's and Dawson Leery aren't mine, either. 

Author's Note: Well, I've graduated from one-parters, and this is my attempt at a real, live, multi-chapter saga. Well, not really, but you get my point. Anyway, one big thing you need to know about this story: it's AU all the way. The following things never happened: Tristan and Summer never broke up right before Madeline's party in S1, and neither did Rory and Dean. Thus, the Piano Kiss?  Never happened either. Which means, any conversations about it are non-existent, as well. Also, Tristan and Rory's conversation in The Third Lorelai about him liking someone else didn't happen, and as well as him inviting Rory to the PJ Harvey concert. Rory and Dean broke up, for the first time, in They Shoot Gilmores, Don't They?. Everything in seasons two and three have happened, except: Tristan never left. Confused yet? Oh, and this chapter's in Rory's POV, but I'll be switching to Tristan's the next chapter, and then I'll switch again after that, and so on. Lastly, feedback is no enemy of mine. In fact, we're best friends.(lol)  I would love to know what you think.

Dedications: To Angeleyez, my bouncer (lol!) and wonderful beta, and Stew Pid, who finally got me to get up off my keyster and write again with her spectacular review.

Dear narcissus boy/I know you've never really apologized for anything/I know you've never really taken responsibility/I know you've never really listened to a woman

What am I doing here?

I knew I shouldn't have come to this function my grandparents term a "gathering" in the first place. The DeWitt's, people I've never met in my life, were throwing a house-warming party for themselves. My grandparents told me last week at one of our dinners (I guess when you're rich, you can do whatever you want) and according to my Grandma, I just had to attend with them.

"Yes, I insist you come with us. You're home all summer! And it's not like we get to see you nearly enough, what with—"

I cut her off before she could make a not-so-veiled remark about my mother keeping me from them. 

"Well, it's not like I don't want to spend time with you guys, it's just that I don't know if I'd have anyone to talk to, and—"

This time, I was the one being cut off, by my grandfather.

"Now that just isn't so, Rory. I believe I forgot to mention, many students from Yale are going to be there with their families, possibly even some of your acquaintances."

I snorted inwardly. Yeah, which ones? Bailey, my man-izing roommate who buys her clothes at the local thrift store, or Charlotte, one of my friends from World Economics, whose paying her way through college against the wishes of her mother and beer-slinging stepfather?

"And even if they aren't", he added with a wink, "Almost 11,000 students attend your University, you know. You never know who you could meet tonight who you would've never known existed otherwise".

His words were kind, engaging, like they always are. Yet, they stung. Because I know he was talking about guys, specifically. And the trouble is, I only want one particular guy.

Stephen McGarrity was, as far as I'm concerned, the love of my life. Cheesy as it sounds, I had this feeling from the moment I met him, at a terribly rowdy, Animal House cliché-style fraternity party Bailey dragged me to in the middle of our Freshman year.  She, of course, wanted to go to ogle the "men", and, not comprehending why I wouldn't want to go, made a deal with me: if I went with her tonight, she'd never ask me to go to one of these things again.

"C'mon, Ror, we'll be like jackals! They hunt in pairs." She exclaimed, running the flat iron through her highlighted red hair for the thousandth time.

"Oh God", I groaned, "Well, if you're going to quote 'Fraiser'…"

"Ha! I knew I'd get you. Let's go!" Bailey jumped up and led me to the door.

When we got there, it was almost just as I had imagined (which hardly ever happens with me): loud, over-crowded, horrible music, and an over-powering stench of what else?

"BOOZE! I need more booze over here!" shouted an extremely smashed, extremely rowdy guy I recognized from my American Studies class. He was one of the best students, too. Jeez. It's always common at my school, I learned quickly, to need a release every weekend after all the "rigorous studying" we do during the week But this was taking it to new levels.

As the night wore on, most of the people became the same: either horribly drunk or horribly obnoxious, or both. (Or, I suppose they could've been obnoxious because they were drunk; I'll never really know). That is, until I stumbled upon a kindred soul. Beer didn't sit well with me, so I had been filling up on soda. Around my fifth red cup, I really needed to go to the bathroom.

After being directed to the facilities, I approached the door. I hesitated a split second before knocking once, then twice.

"Hello? Anyone in there?"

I listened intently, putting my ear to the door. I didn't hear a thing. As far as I knew, the bathroom was free. So, I turned the doorknob, expecting nothing.

And saw that not only was someone very much in the bathroom, but that they were actually going to the bathroom. And that someone? Was a guy.

We screamed in perfect sync with each other.

"Oh my God, oh my God, I am so sorry—I—just, just thought that—"

"I know, I know—I must not have heard you knocking, it's completely my fault", he stuttered as he zipped and buttoned and whatever else he needed to do while I faced the hallway, my face as red as the paint on the walls.

When he had finished, he went over to the sink and began washing his hands, after reassuring me that it was indeed all right to turn around. I waited, more than a little uncomfortable. Despite all this, I still really had to go.

"So", this guy began, "It just occurred to me—we've been through so much together already, and we haven't even been properly introduced." He put out his now clean hand. "Steve McGarrity. Well, Stephen if you want to get technical. And you are..?"

I giggled slightly at his comment before accepting his handshake.

"Rory Gilmore. Lorelai, really, but everyone calls me Rory."

"Nice to meet you, Rory-Lorelai-Really Gilmore."

"Same here", I said through my smile, "You know, I am really sorry about that. I wouldn't have come in, except I didn't hear anything, and I just kind of figured that nobody was in there, which I mean doesn't give me any right to---"

Oh lord. Why the hell was I rambling so much? It's not like he was that good-looking. Sure, he had the tall build, broad shoulders, (but not bulky), disheveled dark hair, etc. He also had these passionate eyes, a frosty gray-green, that made it look like he was seeing everything for the first time. But no, I was so not rambling over him. The last thing I felt ready for then was another relationship. It was right after midterms, but I still had hardly any interest in starting anything up with someone.

"It's alright", he chuckled,  "It must have been the music blasting down there that threw us off. I feel like I'm the only one here who's cringing at it."

"Same here!" I replied, "Except, that may be because we might be the only two here who are sober."

"You could be right," he agreed, "So, do I sense another serious music fan here?"

"That you do," I grinned, "My friend and I are completely obsessed with finding new bands, making fun of people who like mainstream; we have been for years…you name it, we have it."

We started exiting the bathroom as he said,

"I see. Have you been to DeadBeats, then?"

"That's an understatement. I practically lived there the first few weekends here!"

He returned my earlier grin. "I think our bathroom meeting may have been kismet. Who knew that I'd find the only other sane person here when I went to take a piss?"

I laughed whole-heartedly, no longer nervous. "Very eloquently put."

"Well, I am a Yale student, aren't I?" he said good-naturedly.

By the end of the night, our conversation evolved from music to movies, to Yale to life in general. It turned out he had also been brought there against his will, by his best friend, Brian. He asked for my phone number, saying Brian had a friend in a great new band that was playing at some club I can't remember the name of now, and did I want to go with them? I can still recall my first thought.

Do I?!

Yes, I was so giddy (I think that's the word), that suddenly I was sixteen again, making sure I transferred his number carefully from my hand (yeah, he actually touched my hand! I was pathetic) to a piece of paper when I got back to the dorm, and making sure my cell phone had enough batteries in case he called while I was in class or out somewhere. I was officially smitten.

After that first date, we embarked on an amazing relationship that would've lasted two years this January. He was so patient about everything. He's one of those guys that are so willing, so open and loving; that all you want to do is make them as happy as possible. It was that aspect of his personality that drew me to Steve in the first place. We'd have our fights, of course, but sooner or later, one of us would always cave. He would show up at the dorm with flowers or another corny-but-it's-ok-because-I-love-him present; or I would end up calling him to apologize. But besides that, I thought we were happy. I thought we could get through anything together.

Apparently, I was wrong. Or under the influence of some rampant delusion. Because exactly two months, two weeks, and five days ago (but I really haven't been keeping track of it, honestly), the man I thought I'd be with for the rest of my life, whom I had shared everything with, told me he wasn't sure if he loved me anymore. The guy I had been with in the most intimate way possible informed me that we needed some "time" to "be without each other", that his feelings for me had changed. That he needed to find himself before he could be with anyone.

In other words, a load of bull designed to let me down easy, as the saying goes. I was devastated. I couldn't believe that a person as unique as Steve was dumping me in the most clichéd way possible. I couldn't get my mind around the fact that he had, actually, fallen out of love with me.

"Maybe what we have goes beyond romantic love and all that, Ror," he said, trying to console me. Please. Who is he, Dawson Leery? The fact was he didn't want to be with me anymore. And I wasn't used to that. Ever since I entered the "dating world", all the boys, to be blunt, had always wanted me. Sure, Dean had broken up with me, but that didn't hurt as much as the fact that I had strung him along for so long. And I'll be frank, I deserved it.

But with Stephen, it was so different. I had never felt this way about a guy before. The way I felt for him was so…mature. We seemed so right together, and it was mind-boggling to think that his feelings for me had faded all of a sudden, when I was sure that he felt the same way about me. Wrong again, Gilmore.

Anyway, after that, I went through the ritual Mourning Period taught to me by my mother so many years ago. I managed to finish my finals and get through my sophomore year, despite my "personal problems", as they were referred to by one of my professors. And now, it's summer break (thank God), and here I am, at an exceptionally boring and stuffy party, where I know no one, except for a few faces I've seen around campus.

And I am miserable. My grandparents don't seem to notice, though, as they chat up Dean Fellows, the head of admissions, about my academic achievements at Yale so far. Oh joy. You would think I'd like being praised by all these people, but after so many years it gets old, and you wonder why they're complimenting you in the first place. Yes, I get good grades, but I mean—I'm not exactly a rocket scientist. Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered that my friends and family think so much of me, but it just seems silly to be going on about how I aced my latest test when people here are taking double majors and studying to be astrophysicists. So when Grandpa says,

"…And, she took Advanced European Culture, a challenge for any junior, this year, as a sophomore! And not only did she pass, she went out with a B+! We're so proud of her hard work."

I smile, nod, and accept the comment as gracefully as possible.

"Well, I do work hard, but really, Grandpa, I'm sure Dean Fellows is tired of hearing all about me", I blush in spite of myself.

The Dean chuckles. "Nonsense, Rory. Your grandparents have a lot to be proud of. I knew accepting you would not be a mistake from the get-go. I'm very glad to hear you've been proving me right the past two years."

"Thank you," I smile easily, "Now if you would all excuse me for a moment?"

"Of course, of course", Fellows waves me off, "Mingle, have fun. You lucked out with this party. At the last one it was just us stuffy old folks, you know."

For some reason, this causes both my grandfather and the Dean to burst into hysterics. Grandma has a wary look about her that says, "Oh Lord. It's the wine." I pull her aside slightly.

"Wow, they seem to be having a good time."

"Either that or Margaret's bought that awful Merlot blend again. He hasn't had three glasses yet, and just look at the way they're carrying on! I'm inclined to believe it's the former." She sighs apprehensively and puts a hand to her forehead. She suddenly looks back at me, as if noticing me for the first time.

"Oh, but Harris is right! Go off, have fun. Do you need something?" she inquiries.

"Actually…do you happen to know where the bathroom is in the house?" I reply.

"Oh, of course. James has been giving a tour of their 'grand estate' all night", she says, obviously holding back an eye roll.  I'm again reminded of the social conduct of the wealthy.

"Just take a left right when you walk in, and you'll see the door. You can't miss it", she smiles.

"Thanks, Grandma. I won't be long." I say, and start to walk across the lavish back yard towards the house. I open the sliding glass door easily, and step inside.

The house really is beautiful, despite Grandma's earlier comments. It's big, airy, crisp white paint covering every wall as far as the eye can see. To the right, there is a grand looking staircase, winding half around to the upstairs bedrooms. The furniture is polished oak, which has been washed out, so it looks lighter. Pictures of ancient relatives and beautiful, elegant locations painted in bold, sweeping colors dot the walls with perfect spacing between them. I stand there for a moment, in awe that people actually live in houses like this, despite my years of having dinner every week with my grandparents. I almost forget why I've come in here in the first place.

Oh! Bathroom, right. My bladder reminds me. I take a left, and, just as Grandma said, I immediately see a door.

When I've finished up in the washroom, I'm almost reluctant to go back outside. Okay, fine, the last thing I feel like doing right now is going back out there. Out there with adults I don't know, classmates I hardly see, and the same types of conversations, over and over, as if someone pressed the "repeat" button on a CD player. Plus, my feet are killing me. Damn strappy heels. Fit for summer? Yeah, I don't think so. I have the blisters to prove it. Ugh!

Then again….Dean Fellows and Grandma (and Grandpa, through his laughter) did say I should mingle, and have fun. Who says I can't do that inside? The house seems deserted, but you never know. I decide to take my own personal tour of the house. The DeWitts are close friends of Grandma and Grandpa. Plus, nobody will miss me for at least an hour. I start off down a slightly narrow hallway, opposite the bathroom. The wall is faux-finished a light peach, the elegant paintings continuing to fill the walls. After a few feet, I come across a plain wooden door. Hmm. Well, curiosity killed the cat, right? I ignore this and turn the knob…

…And find a simple, clean, TV room (well, that's what us non-rich people call it), with a deep blue striped couch, a slightly ornate coffee table, and a home entertainment system that would make any tech-geek drool. There's a huge television, a VCR, DVD player, and a very expensive-looking stereo, with too many buttons to count. This, I think, must be a family room of some sort. I peruse the room once more. The TV looks so inviting. I could hide out in here, at least for a while, until I'm forced to go back for fear of my grandparents worrying about me. Yes, I decide. That's what I'll do.

I take off my white, strappy sandals, which were clearly made in hell, designed to torture the evil sinning women, and flop down as best I can in my gauzy, knee-length skirt and blouse. Lorelai had bought the skirt for me on one of our shopping extravaganzas, you can tell by the floral pattern, set against a perfect yellow. I find the remote in an instant, and turn on the television.

After a bit of surfing through the one-hundred-and-thirty-one channels, I finally settle on a movie. Breakfast At Tiffany's has just started, it turns out, on one of those "classic movie" channels. I toss the remote on the other side of the sofa, content. I love this movie. My mother only likes watching it to make fun of the male lead, but I really like it: the story, the actors. It's one of those films that really just make you feel good after watching it. Oh God. I sound like some sappy critic. I've watched way too many movies for my own good. Oh, well. I fix my attention to the screen.

*

Almost two hours later, I am almost bawling. I sniff as the final scene starts up, blatantly fake rain pouring down in sheets as Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard share that famous screen-kiss everyone's seen a thousand times. I wipe my eyes. I never cry at movies like this. Why the hell am I so weepy?

Oh who am I kidding? I already know. Steve. It's been more than two months since we broke up, and I'm still thinking about him. I still can't see myself with anyone else. His name still sets off a flood of emotions whenever it enters my thoughts, and I'm still crying over what could've been! God! I'm pathetic. I want this feeling to be gone. I want to move on! It's never been this hard before. New tears roll down my cheeks, angry ones this time. I wipe them away defiantly. Whatever happens, I will get over Steve McGarrity, and---

A noise interrupts my thoughts.

"Is anyone in---oh! Sorry",

"Oh no, that's alright, I—",

Wait a minute. That voice. Oh, dear God. I immediately steel myself and then, slowly turn around to see if I am correct in my assumption.

Shit.

I quickly get over the shock.

"Hello, Tristan", I say as evenly as I can. There is no way in hell I'm letting him see me like I just was.

"Well, well. Didn't expect to see you here, Rory", he replies, half sincerely, half sneering like the crude jackass he is.

"Likewise", I say, my voice cold, "Except I was more hoping that I wouldn't see you here. Or anywhere, for that matter."

"Oh, you wound me. You don't know how much it hurts me to be disliked by my inferior," he replies, setting his empty wine glass on the table.

I roll my eyes. If he thinks this is affecting me at all, he's delusional. As if money matters to me in the least. Tristan DuGrey has irritated me constantly with his insults, crude remarks, and extremely vulgar suggestiveness ever since my sophomore year of high school. Even after that year, when we had almost no classes together, he'd be right behind me whenever we were forced to be in the same room, finding new ways to annoy me; as every other girl practically drooled over him. This is the lesser of several evils with him for me.

"Please. Everyone knows you not only waste your family's money that you brag so much about, but many a guy at Yale has seen exactly what you spend it on," I say, full of ammunition for his next attack. "And besides, I do recall our grandfathers having golf dates set up for the rest of the summer. They're pretty chummy." I add just for laughs.

"Yes," he says mock thoughtfully, walking around the couch before plopping down on it, "Well, you've got me there. Speaking of grandfathers though, I do remember seeing yours out on the patio about an hour ago, singing an unforgettable rendition of "The Yale Fight Song" with several of his fellow colleagues. He seems to have developed quite a taste for the wine."

I glare at him. Here we go. Round 12,475.

"As opposed to your father, who's been the topic of conversation at my grandparents' dinner table almost every week with his adultery escapades? Let's think about that, Tristan." I shoot back.

He looks surprised, but recovers quickly.

"You don't know shit about my father, Rory, except what your gossip-loving grandmother hears through the grape vine," he says with conviction. "My father is a hard-working, dedicated man who—"

I cut in abruptly.  I 've heard enough. He wants to play fake Daddy's Advocate? Fine.

"Oh yeah, so that must be why the rumor is that he and his partner both work overtime every weekend. And why his secretary calls at all hours of the day. Or wait, that's what my grandmother was talking about, so it must not be true, right?"

He, oddly enough, doesn't miss a beat. "I'd rather have him as a father than some Neanderthal who works at a diner for a living."

 "Excuse me? First of all, the only Neanderthal here is you. And second, not that I have to answer to you, but Luke, my stepfather, owns a diner. My dad lives in Boston."

"Whatever. I'm a Neanderthal; you're a spoiled virgin princess who can do no wrong. It's all relative in the end, isn't it?" he grins wickedly.

"Please. I didn't get into a top school because daddy pulled some strings. I'm also not the one who has a new car for every season. And since I'm not throwing myself at every guy, that automatically means I'm the Virgin Mother, right? But then, if I actually were in an intimate relationship right now, I'd be a slut. Wow, a girl just can't win with you, can she?" I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I don't even know why I'm bothering with this. We're not teenagers anymore. But ever since high school, we've clashed horribly whenever we coerce. Maybe it's my emotional state right now, but something inside me won't let him win.

He seems to ignore my jabs at his college acceptance, and jumps on the thing he thinks will irritate me the most.

"Wait a minute…just what are you implying, Mary? Or should I say, Mary Magdalene? I may have to change my beloved name for you permanently. Are you saying what I think you're saying?" His fake innocence is nauseating.

This induces another eye-roll. "Yeah, like I'd relay my sex life, or lack thereof, to you of all people."

"You don't have to say anything. I can see it all now. Roses, candlelight--" he pauses for a moment to turn his head obnoxiously towards my face, before continuing in a dramatic, romantic tone, "Champagne. Mood music playing softly in the background. Tell me, Rory, did he hold you afterwards?"

That's it. Tears form behind my eyes, and I hate him for it. Hate him. My voice rising, I spit,

"You know, what, Tristan? As vile as you are, I would think even you'd be able to understand when you've gone too far. As a matter of fact, I was recently in a relationship, but whether or not involved sex is none of your business. And it's over now, but I would really appreciate if you didn't use it as a pawn in our little game. Can you agree to that, or do I have to write down so you can comprehend it better?"

He's noticed my eyes are watery, I can tell. His gaze is fixed on the block windows behind us as he says,

"Yeah, alright, fine. Whatever."

I sigh, emotionally drained. "Thank you. God."

There is a beyond awkward silence between us as I pick at the fabric on the couch, and he suddenly becomes fascinated by one of the paintings on the wall. To say I'm surprised is an understatement when he says,

"You know, I really didn't…didn't mean to make you cry. It was just—I was angry, and it came out before I knew what I was saying. So, that really wasn't my intent."

I look over at him. His eyes are full of something I've never seen before—remorse. There's also a sadness tinting the sparkling blue that I didn't notice at first. I get the feeling it's never been there previously. I decide he is sincere.

"Don't worry about it", I say, "I really wasn't crying over you anyway. Do you think I'd waste my tears on a cretin like you?" I jab, sadly.

He half-smiles with the same sort of sadness, suddenly understanding.

"Was it the…relationship you mentioned?" he's extremely hesitant, obviously not wanting to pry (for once), or set me off again.

"Give him a prize, Johnny!  Yeah, that was it," I explain tiredly. I'm exhausted. The hurt over Steve is weighing me down, not to mention the emotional energy wasted on swapping insults with him.

"For what it's worth, and I realize it's about nothing to you, but…I'm sorry. I know you'd never thought words like this would ever come out of my mouth, but I was just in a situation like that myself, so, I understand how you feel." He says with slight reluctance, yet I hear true compassion I his voice. Wow. He's really starting to scare me.

I manage to keep my half-hearted laugh down. "Seriously? You, Tristan DuGrey, womanizer of the East Coast, were in an honest-to-God relationship. Wonders never cease."

"Hey!" he suddenly gets defensive, "I was never exactly a womanizer. They came to me. Who was I to stop it?" Then he sees my look.

"Oh, fine. Yes, Charisse was my first real relationship, alright? I wanted to marry her. I wanted---I wanted to take care of her, I guess. And she dumped me. No, not only that, she cheated on me, with a guy named Brice. Who the hell names their kid Brice?"

What he doesn't realize is that while he's been rambling on, I'm in tears. Again. Because one night, very late, Steve had said almost the exact same thing to me.  

"Do you really think that there's one person out there, for everyone? Like, how everyone says it's "predestined" and all that? Do you believe it?" I asked him as we lay on my bed in the dorm.  We really had to get dressed soon, otherwise Bailey, already testy because she hates her boss at the bookstore where she works, would barge in, and start yelling that I was the one who instated the "No Sex in The Dorm" rule, and now here I was breaking it.

"I don't know, honestly," He replied, yawning. "But sometimes…it's silly, but I think it may be you. I mean, I've never been with somebody like you. There's times when I just think—this is it, you know? I get this feeling that—I could see myself with you for the rest of my life.  I want to be able to take care of you. It's sappy, I know," he shook his head a little, as if to clear away the "sappiness" of his words.

I smiled lazily.

"That's not sappy!" And then, for some reason, I started to laugh, overcome with happiness. His expression was one of mock hurt.

"Hey! You think that's funny?" he joked. I was still laughing.

"No! No, seriously, it's not sappy at all. It's really sweet," I confessed sincerely, before another fit of giggles overcame me. This time, he began to laugh as well.

The memory washes over me in a flood, before I can stop it. Too bad that turned out to be a load of crap. Too bad he doesn't love me anymore. Too bad he—

That's when my tears go from "welling" to actually falling, slowly drifting down my face as if in mourning. Tristan, meanwhile, is still going on about Charisse, or whatever her name is.

"…Thought she felt the same way, you know? I thought it was real. Apparently, I was wrong." He sighs, finishing. Then suddenly, he sees me again. He looks slightly taken aback.

"Oh, God, what did I say now? Oh jeez. I'm sorry, really, I—"

"No, no, you didn't say anything", I manage to say despite my state, "It's just…my ex. I keep thinking about him. And I really shouldn't be at this point. I just feel so…"

"Pathetic?" he finishes for me.

"Exactly! How did you…?" I search his face for an answer.

"Like I said—I've been there. Recently," he says softly.

Another silence falls. I wipe away the tears as best I can.

He tries, bumbling, to break it.

"Listen, I know you probably feel like shit now, but it will get better…I mean, it's got to right? That's the thing that keeps me going. You'll be fine, I'll be fine—" He puts an extremely cautious hand on my shoulder, as a new tear falls. I take little notice of it.

Until it begins to move. Down my bare arm, slowly.

"We'll both be…just fine…" Tristan trails off.

His hand continues to slide up my arm, and then back again. It slowly becomes much more than an attempted friendly gesture. Up, back. I look up at him. His eyes are different again. That tint is back, and there is something in them I can feel, because I somehow feel the same thing. Need. His hand feels good. Oh Jesus, did I just think that? What's going on? I just haven't felt this in so long. Too long, it seems like. My body relaxes a little. Up, back.

My eyes close involuntarily.

Up, back.

And then he's kissing me.