Rating- PG
Content- Just a little kissing
Summery- Tristan's POV during 'The Kiss'
Disclaimer- I do not own any of the listed TV shows or songs.
Feedback- Please! I would love to know what you think was good and what needs improvement.


by Canela

I remember when I used to play the piano. Any young man should play an
instrument, my parents agreed. So for seven years, I would practice at least
fifteen minutes a night. When I entered Chilton, schoolwork and an active
social life made it impossible to stay up to par. Sitting at Madeline's grand
piano, though, I wish I had kept it up, as my fingers stumble over the first
few notes of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, my recital piece just two
years ago.

Enter Rory. She floats in, like violas into a second movement. She looks so
out of place, innocent surrounded by all of us jaded aristocrats, and I swear
that she has a book in her purse.

I know she saw Summer and me. Although she's not the type to pour alcohol
over a wound, I can't help but expect her to deliver the coup-de-grace. I
guess I'm a jaded aristocrat too.

She makes small talk. It's crazy, beating around the bush like this. She asks
me about our biology test. She got a B+, she tells me. When I sound
exasperated, she changes to Spanish. No, Senorita, for once I don't want to
talk. Not even to you.

Then she does talk about 'the incident'. Turns out she was dumped also. I
pry, and discover it was just yesterday. She should be worse off then me,
since I'm kind of a pro at this dating thing, and I know she's not. She seems
fine though, maybe her eyes a little less bright than usual. She tells me he
just didn't want to date her anymore. He is an idiot. A dunce. A moron. He
is every adjective for foolishness that the pompous school we attend has
taught me to use.

I'm sad for her actually, because I know he made her happy. In those same
moments though, that I tell her she's odd, and she takes it as the compliment
it is, I see a glimmer of hope. I want to be her boyfriend. No, more than
that. I want to know her secrets. I want to teach her to play the treble part
of 'Heart and Soul' on the piano. I want to burn her favorite foods when I
try to cook them for her.

My heart races faster than Korskakov's 'Flight of the Bumble Bee' as we look
at each other across the bench. Her eyes shift downward and she leans her
head slightly to the side. I take this as an invitation and move toward her
slowly, giving her time to move.

She doesn't. Our lips touch and Vivaldi's 'Nulla in Mundo Pax Sincera' starts
to ring through my head. It's beautiful and I just want to stay here, kissing
her and being together, making our own music.

Suddenly she pulls away. I immediately apologize, and my heart wrenches as
her face turns to panic and she starts to cry. Anything Beethoven will work
here, the icing on my sardonic soundtrack of the night.

She grabs her purse and runs away. I want to follow her, but I know it won't
change anything. She doesn't need me. I turn back to the piano and lay my
fingers back on the keys. They stretch across an octave. Surprisingly, they
move with ease up and down a scale, knowing exactly what to do.