super rich kids
Tripp, Carter. 1981 words.
Pre-series.
For![]()
tahitianmoon!
Summary: Tripp wonders what that's like, to spit in the face of the plans someone made for you.
Note: Set a few years before the show, so Tripp is roughly twenty-two and Carter is about eighteen.
Tripp's not sure what Carter Baizen's doing here, because Carter Baizen never comes to these things.
His family is always invited, of course, and with exceptional hospitality since Grandfather and Judge Baizen had been at law school together. Tripp has never particularly liked the Judge, though that's at least in part out of wariness, since the man is so cold it's difficult to even offer him a hello without feeling cowed.
But Tripp is especially surprised because he'd heard Carter had just been kicked out of St. Jude's for some elaborate crime he's sure is half-false, though Nate had had an awed respect on his face as he recounted the gory details.
"You know that was wrong of course, if it's true," Tripp said, and Nate looked appropriately chided.
Tripp's never had much interest in Carter anyway.
Maureen and her friends are happily entertaining Blair and the other younger girls, bragging about sororities and all that kind of thing. If Tripp hears the word school ever again it'll be too soon, though he knows that for the rest of the night all he'll have to talk about is his graduation and his internship and law school coming up in the fall. He switches from champagne to scotch; that'll help.
At some point there's a slight commotion on the other side of the room and Tripp looks up to see Carter being hauled out of the room by his father, hand tight on Carter's upper arm. The Judge looks furious but Carter is laughing, unrepentant. Tripp's gaze follows back to where they'd come from – a group of other Harvard Law alums, the nearest and dearest, Carter's father's friends.
Tripp is honestly surprised they haven't sent Carter away to boarding school or military school, since he knows both have been threatened for years. And despite himself, perhaps out of boredom or curiosity, Tripp starts to drift towards the foyer where the Judge had led Carter. The quartet at the party blocks out any noise but the closer Tripp gets the clearer the hissed retribution is.
"– consistently an embarrassment, how do you think your mother –"
"She'd have to be sober to notice –"
"Stop it," said with such force it could not be ignored. "Either you clean yourself up and get yourself together or you can sit out the rest of the night like a child."
With a kind of gross, pointed dirtiness, Carter says, "I'll be a good boy, Daddy, I swear."
The Judge bangs back through the door unexpectedly, coming face to face with Tripp, who responds with an automatic grin.
"It you'd like, I'd be happy to look after him, your honor," Tripp says with what he hopes is playful charm, and he gives the older man a little salute for good measure. The Judge is flatly unamused.
"Fine, thank you, Skip," he says, brushing past. Because of course the man thinks his name is Skip, he's only known Tripp since he was born.
Tripp ducks into the room to find Carter perched on sideboard at the far end, lighting a cigarette. "You're not supposed to sm–" Tripp starts and then gives up. "Can I have one?"
Carter gestures him forward, then does what must be one of his moves: lighting two cigarettes at once before holding one out to Tripp. "Didn't realize you smoked," he says.
"Maureen doesn't like it, so I quit," Tripp says, and then takes a drag.
"I gotcha, buddy." Carter winks at him, which Tripp doesn't like very much. He did quit, only sometimes he gives in. Just every once in a while. Now and then.
"Your dad might be more terrifying than my grandfather," Tripp offers, leaning back against the table next to Carter. "And that's saying something."
"Nah, he's all bluster," Carter says. "I guess that's why he seems worse. But he's got no real power, at least over me, and that fuckin' kills him."
"I don't know," Tripp saying, glancing at him. Carter certainly seems wound up. He's also already moved on from this conversation, it seems, pulling a vial on a long chain up out of his shirt (unbuttoned at the collar, no tie) and unscrewing the top, doing a bump.
His eyes shut and he smiles and without opening them, he asks, "Do you want any?"
Tripp's own eyes widen. "No thank you." Then, "What did you say to them? You know, that made your father so angry."
Carter shrugs. "I don't know, whatever," he says. "I'm always saying something I shouldn't." He looks at Tripp with eyes that only now seem bloodshot, though the tiredness etched in his face is days old. He's younger than Tripp by a handful of years but he carries himself like he's lived three times as long. He closes up the vial of coke and drops it back under his shirt, cigarette stuck between his fingers the whole time. A little ash cascades onto his lapel. "He was making plans for me in front of them like it was anything that was actually gonna happen and, well, I've never liked that much."
Tripp wonders what that's like, to spit in the face of the plans someone made for you.
"Well, you know all about it, don't you?" Carter continues. At Tripp's confusion, he extends his hand and offers pompously, "Carter Spencer Baizen, the second."
"Ah," Tripp says with understanding as he reaches out to take the proffered hand, "William Turner Vanderbilt, the third." They both huff a private little laugh and Tripp goes, "Carter Spencer, that's an interesting array of sounds."
"Fuck right," Carter says. "A name so shitty they had to use it twice."
It sounds like someone might be coming into the room so they escape through a side door out into the main hall. The entire Vanderbilt compound is just doors and hallways and rooms and passages, all built on top of each other like a maze. Tripp hated this place growing up. He was terrified of it. Even now he doesn’t really know his way around, he's just better at swallowing his fear.
"Should I be leaving breadcrumbs?" Carter asks.
"It's probably best if you don't," Tripp tells him.
Carter expresses a desire for pot, so Tripp leads him to the second library, where he keeps his stash in a hollowed-out copy of The Old Man and the Sea. Carter pokes around the books while Tripp rolls the joint, does some more coke, and starts reading dramatically aloud from King Lear until Tripp takes the book away and replaces it with the weed.
"So tell me," Carter says. "How's married life treating you?"
"We're not even engaged yet."
That makes Carter laugh. "Ah, see, yet," he says.
Tripp rolls his eyes. "Maureen's great."
"I'll bet." Carter sprawls back across one of the library desk, heedless of anything on it. "She's pretty, though, I'll give her that. And girls like that are good in bed. Real pent-up. They got a lot to prove."
Tripp gives an involuntary, horrified laugh. "Jeez," he says. "Can you maybe not say things like that about my girlfriend, or any women?"
Carter grins at him, a sneaky sort of grin. "Sorry, boy scout. Am I wrong?"
Tripp has never thought to categorize Maureen like that; they get on pretty well and he's never had any complaints – on that front, at least. "I'm a satisfied man."
"You know," Carter says, "I know it's, like, written in stone that thou shalt wed another little WASP such as yourself and birth two and half perfect WASP children with her, but I always thought you were gay." He lifts the joint to his lips. "Like super gay."
"As opposed to regular-strength gay," Tripp says wryly, reaching to take the joint back.
"Mm," Carter agrees.
Tripp takes a seat at the desk, looking at Carter's profile. "And what made you think that?"
"Probably because you're so goddamn uptight," Carter says. "And because I've fucked a lot of guys like you."
"Oh really?" Tripp says mildly.
"Yup," Carter says. "Good little rich boys always likes to slum it with me."
"You used to be a good little rich boy yourself," Tripp tells him. Up until the time Carter went spectacularly off the rails, maybe a year or so ago, maybe longer, he'd had a well-cultivated image, like most of them did. Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth, at least not around company. But he'd always had a sleaziness, a smarmy quality, like a salesman. Even as a young kid. They'd half-known each other since forever, but Tripp thinks the first time they really spoke, he'd been eighteen and Carter was fourteen and Tripp had felt like he had to check for his wallet afterwards, that it could have been lifted that fast by that slick kid.
"I liked to dress up as one," Carter says. "But I'm one of those ones you toss back if you can – the bad egg."
"It seems like you don't exactly mind it," Tripp says.
Carter tilts towards him with another smile. "We all got parts to play, huh, golden boy?"
Tripp chafes a little under that epithet. "That's not really fair."
"Why not? It's what you are. Perfect little William Vanderbilt the third, picking up where the father failed to leave off." Carter ticks things off on his fingers as he goes. "The fucking – fucking whatever it was, that academy in Andover, Yale undergrad, internships with every firm that owes Daddy a favor, a pre-pre engagement with whoever it was they picked out for you, you've never been in trouble in your whole goddamn life, and – what is it, Harvard Law or Yale?"
Tripp purses his lips and says stiffly, "Yale."
"Point made."
"Look, you don't know me that well –"
"Seems like I know you extremely well."
"All those – those facts don't explain me any better than it could explain you if I brought up your rap sheet."
Carter laughs, pleased, and pushes up so he's sitting, legs hanging on either side of Tripp's. "Actually I think my list of crimes would sum me up pretty well."
Tripp rolls his eyes, feeling a little huffy. He really doesn't like Carter very much at all. "You're oversimplifying everything. People are more than the places they go or the mistakes they make."
"That's real interesting, Congressman," Carter says. "And if that goes well, Mr. President, right?"
Tripp frowns at him. Carter hadn't listened to a word he said. "I should get back to the party," he says, getting up. "Excuse me."
But standing has brought them into very close proximity. Carter lays a hand gently on Tripp's chest, then curls his fingers loosely around Tripp's tie. "Now, now," he says softly. "I didn't mean to make you all upset. It's just some teasing."
"You're a little close," Tripp says.
"I was just sitting here, babe," Carter says. "Not my fault you got pulled into my web."
Tripp sighs in some annoyance but Carter responds with a smile, shifting so he's even closer, and he kisses Trip lightly – right at the corner of his mouth, not on his lips.
"What are you doing?" Tripp says.
"Don't play stupid," Carter murmurs. "We both know why two people slink away from a party."
Tripp could argue that but he's kind of exhausted by Carter already, so instead he kisses him, hand on Carter's stubble-rough cheek. Carter laughs a little, pressing so close he's practically off the desk. One arm goes around Tripp's neck but the other snakes down to cup him through his trousers, a startlingly fast move.
"Shit," Tripp says, and Carter laughs again, then slides off the desk to his knees. He pushes Tripp back into the chair and then his hands are on Tripp's belt.
"If you're gonna go into politics," Carter says, "You should probably get used to being blown under a desk."
Tripp, Carter. 1981 words.
Pre-series.
For
tahitianmoon!Summary: Tripp wonders what that's like, to spit in the face of the plans someone made for you.
Note: Set a few years before the show, so Tripp is roughly twenty-two and Carter is about eighteen.
Tripp's not sure what Carter Baizen's doing here, because Carter Baizen never comes to these things.
His family is always invited, of course, and with exceptional hospitality since Grandfather and Judge Baizen had been at law school together. Tripp has never particularly liked the Judge, though that's at least in part out of wariness, since the man is so cold it's difficult to even offer him a hello without feeling cowed.
But Tripp is especially surprised because he'd heard Carter had just been kicked out of St. Jude's for some elaborate crime he's sure is half-false, though Nate had had an awed respect on his face as he recounted the gory details.
"You know that was wrong of course, if it's true," Tripp said, and Nate looked appropriately chided.
Tripp's never had much interest in Carter anyway.
Maureen and her friends are happily entertaining Blair and the other younger girls, bragging about sororities and all that kind of thing. If Tripp hears the word school ever again it'll be too soon, though he knows that for the rest of the night all he'll have to talk about is his graduation and his internship and law school coming up in the fall. He switches from champagne to scotch; that'll help.
At some point there's a slight commotion on the other side of the room and Tripp looks up to see Carter being hauled out of the room by his father, hand tight on Carter's upper arm. The Judge looks furious but Carter is laughing, unrepentant. Tripp's gaze follows back to where they'd come from – a group of other Harvard Law alums, the nearest and dearest, Carter's father's friends.
Tripp is honestly surprised they haven't sent Carter away to boarding school or military school, since he knows both have been threatened for years. And despite himself, perhaps out of boredom or curiosity, Tripp starts to drift towards the foyer where the Judge had led Carter. The quartet at the party blocks out any noise but the closer Tripp gets the clearer the hissed retribution is.
"– consistently an embarrassment, how do you think your mother –"
"She'd have to be sober to notice –"
"Stop it," said with such force it could not be ignored. "Either you clean yourself up and get yourself together or you can sit out the rest of the night like a child."
With a kind of gross, pointed dirtiness, Carter says, "I'll be a good boy, Daddy, I swear."
The Judge bangs back through the door unexpectedly, coming face to face with Tripp, who responds with an automatic grin.
"It you'd like, I'd be happy to look after him, your honor," Tripp says with what he hopes is playful charm, and he gives the older man a little salute for good measure. The Judge is flatly unamused.
"Fine, thank you, Skip," he says, brushing past. Because of course the man thinks his name is Skip, he's only known Tripp since he was born.
Tripp ducks into the room to find Carter perched on sideboard at the far end, lighting a cigarette. "You're not supposed to sm–" Tripp starts and then gives up. "Can I have one?"
Carter gestures him forward, then does what must be one of his moves: lighting two cigarettes at once before holding one out to Tripp. "Didn't realize you smoked," he says.
"Maureen doesn't like it, so I quit," Tripp says, and then takes a drag.
"I gotcha, buddy." Carter winks at him, which Tripp doesn't like very much. He did quit, only sometimes he gives in. Just every once in a while. Now and then.
"Your dad might be more terrifying than my grandfather," Tripp offers, leaning back against the table next to Carter. "And that's saying something."
"Nah, he's all bluster," Carter says. "I guess that's why he seems worse. But he's got no real power, at least over me, and that fuckin' kills him."
"I don't know," Tripp saying, glancing at him. Carter certainly seems wound up. He's also already moved on from this conversation, it seems, pulling a vial on a long chain up out of his shirt (unbuttoned at the collar, no tie) and unscrewing the top, doing a bump.
His eyes shut and he smiles and without opening them, he asks, "Do you want any?"
Tripp's own eyes widen. "No thank you." Then, "What did you say to them? You know, that made your father so angry."
Carter shrugs. "I don't know, whatever," he says. "I'm always saying something I shouldn't." He looks at Tripp with eyes that only now seem bloodshot, though the tiredness etched in his face is days old. He's younger than Tripp by a handful of years but he carries himself like he's lived three times as long. He closes up the vial of coke and drops it back under his shirt, cigarette stuck between his fingers the whole time. A little ash cascades onto his lapel. "He was making plans for me in front of them like it was anything that was actually gonna happen and, well, I've never liked that much."
Tripp wonders what that's like, to spit in the face of the plans someone made for you.
"Well, you know all about it, don't you?" Carter continues. At Tripp's confusion, he extends his hand and offers pompously, "Carter Spencer Baizen, the second."
"Ah," Tripp says with understanding as he reaches out to take the proffered hand, "William Turner Vanderbilt, the third." They both huff a private little laugh and Tripp goes, "Carter Spencer, that's an interesting array of sounds."
"Fuck right," Carter says. "A name so shitty they had to use it twice."
It sounds like someone might be coming into the room so they escape through a side door out into the main hall. The entire Vanderbilt compound is just doors and hallways and rooms and passages, all built on top of each other like a maze. Tripp hated this place growing up. He was terrified of it. Even now he doesn’t really know his way around, he's just better at swallowing his fear.
"Should I be leaving breadcrumbs?" Carter asks.
"It's probably best if you don't," Tripp tells him.
Carter expresses a desire for pot, so Tripp leads him to the second library, where he keeps his stash in a hollowed-out copy of The Old Man and the Sea. Carter pokes around the books while Tripp rolls the joint, does some more coke, and starts reading dramatically aloud from King Lear until Tripp takes the book away and replaces it with the weed.
"So tell me," Carter says. "How's married life treating you?"
"We're not even engaged yet."
That makes Carter laugh. "Ah, see, yet," he says.
Tripp rolls his eyes. "Maureen's great."
"I'll bet." Carter sprawls back across one of the library desk, heedless of anything on it. "She's pretty, though, I'll give her that. And girls like that are good in bed. Real pent-up. They got a lot to prove."
Tripp gives an involuntary, horrified laugh. "Jeez," he says. "Can you maybe not say things like that about my girlfriend, or any women?"
Carter grins at him, a sneaky sort of grin. "Sorry, boy scout. Am I wrong?"
Tripp has never thought to categorize Maureen like that; they get on pretty well and he's never had any complaints – on that front, at least. "I'm a satisfied man."
"You know," Carter says, "I know it's, like, written in stone that thou shalt wed another little WASP such as yourself and birth two and half perfect WASP children with her, but I always thought you were gay." He lifts the joint to his lips. "Like super gay."
"As opposed to regular-strength gay," Tripp says wryly, reaching to take the joint back.
"Mm," Carter agrees.
Tripp takes a seat at the desk, looking at Carter's profile. "And what made you think that?"
"Probably because you're so goddamn uptight," Carter says. "And because I've fucked a lot of guys like you."
"Oh really?" Tripp says mildly.
"Yup," Carter says. "Good little rich boys always likes to slum it with me."
"You used to be a good little rich boy yourself," Tripp tells him. Up until the time Carter went spectacularly off the rails, maybe a year or so ago, maybe longer, he'd had a well-cultivated image, like most of them did. Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth, at least not around company. But he'd always had a sleaziness, a smarmy quality, like a salesman. Even as a young kid. They'd half-known each other since forever, but Tripp thinks the first time they really spoke, he'd been eighteen and Carter was fourteen and Tripp had felt like he had to check for his wallet afterwards, that it could have been lifted that fast by that slick kid.
"I liked to dress up as one," Carter says. "But I'm one of those ones you toss back if you can – the bad egg."
"It seems like you don't exactly mind it," Tripp says.
Carter tilts towards him with another smile. "We all got parts to play, huh, golden boy?"
Tripp chafes a little under that epithet. "That's not really fair."
"Why not? It's what you are. Perfect little William Vanderbilt the third, picking up where the father failed to leave off." Carter ticks things off on his fingers as he goes. "The fucking – fucking whatever it was, that academy in Andover, Yale undergrad, internships with every firm that owes Daddy a favor, a pre-pre engagement with whoever it was they picked out for you, you've never been in trouble in your whole goddamn life, and – what is it, Harvard Law or Yale?"
Tripp purses his lips and says stiffly, "Yale."
"Point made."
"Look, you don't know me that well –"
"Seems like I know you extremely well."
"All those – those facts don't explain me any better than it could explain you if I brought up your rap sheet."
Carter laughs, pleased, and pushes up so he's sitting, legs hanging on either side of Tripp's. "Actually I think my list of crimes would sum me up pretty well."
Tripp rolls his eyes, feeling a little huffy. He really doesn't like Carter very much at all. "You're oversimplifying everything. People are more than the places they go or the mistakes they make."
"That's real interesting, Congressman," Carter says. "And if that goes well, Mr. President, right?"
Tripp frowns at him. Carter hadn't listened to a word he said. "I should get back to the party," he says, getting up. "Excuse me."
But standing has brought them into very close proximity. Carter lays a hand gently on Tripp's chest, then curls his fingers loosely around Tripp's tie. "Now, now," he says softly. "I didn't mean to make you all upset. It's just some teasing."
"You're a little close," Tripp says.
"I was just sitting here, babe," Carter says. "Not my fault you got pulled into my web."
Tripp sighs in some annoyance but Carter responds with a smile, shifting so he's even closer, and he kisses Trip lightly – right at the corner of his mouth, not on his lips.
"What are you doing?" Tripp says.
"Don't play stupid," Carter murmurs. "We both know why two people slink away from a party."
Tripp could argue that but he's kind of exhausted by Carter already, so instead he kisses him, hand on Carter's stubble-rough cheek. Carter laughs a little, pressing so close he's practically off the desk. One arm goes around Tripp's neck but the other snakes down to cup him through his trousers, a startlingly fast move.
"Shit," Tripp says, and Carter laughs again, then slides off the desk to his knees. He pushes Tripp back into the chair and then his hands are on Tripp's belt.
"If you're gonna go into politics," Carter says, "You should probably get used to being blown under a desk."