A/N: Salutations, everyone! As I'm typing up this Author's Note, the time is nearing eight-thirty pm on the night of December 26th. As I'm sure you all know, 2012 is drawing to a close. In five days time, we will be counting down, eagerly anticipating the arrival of 2013.
To help usher in the New Year, and all of the projects that I hope to finish, or even to start during that expanse of time, here is the first chapter of my newest story.
Disclaimer: Another year is coming to an end, and the unfortunate reality remains that I still have absolutely no claims of ownership to any characters or recognizable elements of the High School Musical universe. They're still © of Disney and Peter Baroscchini.
Warning: This advisory is just for you, my lovely Troyella lovers. If it's written by me, and it takes place in the High School Musical universe, expect to see slash. If that gets your panties in a bunch, perhaps you should click the back button to help iron things out.
Now, for the rest of you who choose to click on this story, and either know what you're in for, or don't skim past the warnings that I type for your convenience to inform you of what lies ahead in the text, onward we go!
Resilience Of Marshmallows
The crisp chill of the late autumn air is strong enough to infiltrate the layers of clothing that Ryan Evans wears. Although he was born and raised in the New England state of Rhode Island, he's resided in Albuquerque, New Mexico, for the past four years of his life. This was ample time for his body to become accustomed to the warmer temperatures natural to the southern region of the country. Upon relocating to New York City, New York, to attend Juilliard, the renowned and highly prestigious performing arts school, he made a note to stock up on attire more suited to the cooler climate.
Being rather small of stature and slender of build, however, he requires just a bit more than two shirts, a lined coat, gloves, and a hat, occasionally coupled with earmuffs, depending on whether or not the style of said hat can accommodate them, while traveling to and from Juilliard's campus.
He takes a deep breath, the expelled air puffing out in a faint cloud in front of him, and then enters one of the numerous Starbucks that line the corners of the bustling city's streets. The door closes behind him, muffling the sounds of the morning traffic.
Warm air greets him, and mellow atmospheric music plays over the speakers. The establishment is classy enough to warrant a feeling not unlike belonging. If Ryan blocks out his surroundings, he can almost pretend that he's lounging about his family's resort, or walking through the mall in Albuquerque, carrying bags filled with his sister, Sharpay's purchases from various stores, instead of being thousands of miles away from the people that he knows and loves.
A group of five or so people are gathered around the counter. Several other customers have chosen to take a seat while consuming their morning coffees and/or pastries.
Ryan pushes aside his brief pang of homesickness and anxiety. No one's staring at you, he instructs himself. Just walk up to the counter and wait in line. Act like you've done this before. As he approaches the counter, however, he stops, struck by intense familiarity upon catching a glimpse of the shaggy, side-swept brunette hair of one of the male baristas. He shakes off the ache in his chest, and his immediate thought regarding the identity of the brunette. He continues to move toward the counter, preparing to shrug the similarity off as a mere coincidence.
Then, the barista raises his head, giving Ryan a clear view of his unmistakable boyish smile and ocean blue eyes.
Ryan's heart leaps into his throat. Troy…?! He would recognize that sun-kissed face anywhere. The question of, What on earth is Troy Bolton doing here? immediately dominates his mind. When Ryan had last spoken to the brunette, Troy was due to set out for California to attend the University of Berkeley. Troy had chosen to attend that school as a means of being closer to Gabriella Montez, his, "Einsteinette", as Ryan had once dubbed her, girlfriend, whom accepted an early enrollment in the Freshman Honors program at Stanford University during the last month or so of their senior year of high school.
That Troy has, nearly a month into the school year, wound up on the opposite side of the continent from the person who he claimed, "inspires his heart", is very peculiar and unexpected, indeed.
It seems that Troy has recognized Ryan, as well. His brilliant blue eyes are locked on the smaller blond, and they widen ever so slightly. For a moment, his brows knit together, and he mouths, "Ryan…?", confusion evident in his features.
Ryan nods, throwing in a wave for good measure to affirm that it is, in fact, Ryan Evans standing in line at a Starbucks in New York City, a few feet away from Troy Bolton.
The confusion on Troy's face instantaneously dissipates, replaced by that smile that causes Ryan's heart to race as if he's just finished an expertly choreographed, rigorous song and dance routine.
A big, what Ryan can only describe as, "love drunk", smile breaks out on Ryan's own fair face. He could never restrain that involuntary upward tugging on the corners of his mouth in the presence of East High's Primo boy, in high school, and he certainly can't now.
Troy makes a move forward, his body language indicating that he's tempted to jump over the counter and envelope Ryan in his strong arms.
Ryan relives resting his head against the basketball player's neck for a few fleeting moments, Troy's hands on his backside… He can feel his breath hitch, and then he's brought back to reality by the voice of a customer inquiring about cream and sugar.
Troy blinks, having been distracted, as well, then nods understandingly. "Sure thing." He handles the request, his signature friendly smile not leaving his face, and bids the customer, a tired looking older woman, a, "Have a nice day, ma'am."
As another customer steps forward, Ryan shifts his weight from one leg to the other, chastising himself for growing impatient. But, all of his attempts at reasoning with himself fall short, because it suddenly feels like it's been years since he last heard Troy's voice, decades since he last stared into Troy's ocean colored eyes, and far too long since they last touched. Taking the next, "Have a nice day", and "Good morning, sir", as his cue, once he's certain that he won't be cutting in front of another patient, paying customer, Ryan moves as swiftly as he can, without appearing desperate, to usurp the currently vacant spot before Troy's position behind the counter. "Hey," he says softly, mindful to have composed himself a bit.
"Hey," Troy returns, his eyes glowing with the same inviting warmth that fills his voice.
Suddenly, Ryan finds himself feeling as though he no longer requires a hot beverage to stave off the cold. "H-How are you?" Up close, he can discern faint dark circles beneath the taller boy's eyes, evidence of more than one sleepless night. His curiosity is peaked, he won't deny that, yet, his heart lurches, as well.
"I'm good." Troy seems to take note of the concern painting Ryan's face. "Really", he adds. "Better than I have been in a while." His eyes cloud over.
Ryan searches Troy's face, his expression sympathetic. "Things didn't work out in California, huh?" He asks gently.
A heavy sigh passes from Troy's lips. His shoulders sag a little. "No. It wasn't like I hoped it would be."
Aware of a lump rising in his throat, Ryan forces himself to swallow his own intense sadness at seeing Troy in such a state. He chews the inside of his mouth pensively for a second or two. "I know it might be difficult, at first," he starts, adopting what he hopes to be a comforting lilt to his voice, "but forget about it. There's practically an entire country between you and whatever happened back there." He tilts his head, smiling brightly. "You're in New York, now! You can make a new life for yourself out here." Ryan's conviction in his own words lends strength to his voice. His personal insecurities about his future are displaced by his certainty that if anyone can make it in New York City, Troy Bolton can.
The misery that clouds Troy's eyes fades. Once more, a smile tugs up the corners of his full-lipped mouth. "You know, Ryan, it really is nice to have a familiar face here." He reaches out, his hand resting on the blond's shoulder. "Especially because it's you."
The combination of Troy's touch, and those veering on damning words, results in mingled heartache and bliss traversing Ryan's bodily circuitry at lightning speeds. The two of them lock eyes, and Ryan succumbs to the magnetic pull of those ocean colored pools framed by long, thick lashes. His train of thought is derailed, and a part of him barely dares to hope that just maybe, his eyes possess the same magnetism. That they have the same luring effect on Troy.
It's a customer clearing his throat that causes them to finally break the eye contact. Both of them flush, apologizing earnestly for being so rude and inconsiderate.
"I'll be right with you, sir!" Troy assures the man.
Ryan hopes that his heartbeat isn't audible.
Troy moves toward the beverage dispenser, picking up a paper cup along the way. "What did you want, Ryan?"
Ryan nearly has to bite his tongue to restrain himself from blurting out, "You". He bites down on his lip, instead, recalling his original intention for stopping in at the coffee shop. "Um, a hot chocolate, please."
Troy's smile returns. It's every bit as infectious as Ryan remembers. "Coming right up," he declares.
When Troy gives Ryan the hot chocolate, their hands meet for an instant, brushing against each other ever so gently. Sparks dance their way up Ryan's arms, just like they have every other time that his and Troy's hands have touched in the past. "Th-thank you." He searches the visage of the taller boy, a tiny part of him just hoping that Troy is as affected as he is. While Ryan's thoughts are focused elsewhere, the cup manages to slide right out of his grasp. "Oh no...!" He gasps, fumbling desperately to get a grip on the cardboard. He can already envision the lid popping off on impact with the ground, creating a mess that Troy will have to clean up, or the velocity causing the lid to come off in mid air, and sending the scalding hot chocolate splashing down Troy's front.
"Whoa! Careful…!" With reaction time that would probably make Spiderman envious, Troy leaps over the counter, and quickly and almost effortlessly catches the cup before any of the things that Ryan is dreading can occur.
Ryan places a hand to his chest, over top of his pounding heart. He's overcome by relief and admiration.
Troy's gaze moves from the cup, to Ryan, to the other customers, who are now staring at them, perplexed, and perhaps a bit awestruck, and then back to the cup. "It's, uh, it's hot." He steps back, flushing and rubbing at the back of his neck. The way that his bicep bulges as his arm bends and flexes doesn't escape Ryan's notice.
"Thank you, Troy." Ryan can feel his heart rate beginning to return to normal. He decides that he's had enough excitement for so early in the morning. However, the pulse-altering events are not quite done with, yet. He glances at his watch, and his heart gives an unwelcome jolt. The corner of his mouth twitches as he looks up. "Troy, I've got to go."
"O-okay." Troy blinks.
"I'll-I'll see you later." Ryan nods, and clutching his cup of hot chocolate firmly, he dashes off, carefully dodging around the other customers still waiting in line, and the occupied tables located near the door.
Ryan arrives exactly five minutes and thirty-three seconds late to his first class of the day. He accepts his deserved lecture, and quickly ascertains the exercise his peers are involved in, so that he can catch up. While he begins stretching, his phone vibrates with an incoming message. He chastises himself, You're already late, and now you're going to break one of the chief rules of theater etiquette?
Yet, the enticement, the temptation to at least peek at the message, is far too strong to resist. Particularly when he takes the potential identity of the sender into account.
He waits until his instructor's back is turned before daring to break the rules, just this one time. It's like someone has injected a dose of pure joy right into his veins when he reads the text from, who else, but Troy Bolton.
Hey. Uh, you rushed out, so I don't know if i forgot to tell u, but, have a great day. :)
Ryan texts back: Thanks. You, too. His fingers tap the keypad rapid-fire style. He envisions that delighted smile making its way across Troy's face when Troy takes in the words contained in his text.
He and Troy continue to text back and forth during the few free moments that they are provided with throughout the day. Ryan breezes through all of his classes, the harsh glares from narrowed eyes, and upturned noses, that he's more than used to being on the receiving end of, scarcely register in his mind. Troy Bolton is in the same city. After Troy's shift at one of the hundreds of Starbucks that line the streets of New York City, ends, he's going to be meeting up with Ryan for dinner.
Suddenly, Ryan Evans's freshman year of college is shaping up to hold more promise than he could have imagined it would.
"Are you sure you don't wanna go out?" Troy prompts. He places his key in the lock and turns it, his movements stiff.
It occurs to Ryan that his companion might not exactly be proud of his current circumstantial place of residence. Especially since Troy has extended an invitation to the apartment to someone of such wealthy origins. "It's up to you, but staying in is fine with me," Ryan offers, his voice full and certain. The last thing that he wants is for Troy to feel ashamed, or uncomfortable.
"Alright." Troy draws the word out just enough for Ryan to pick up on the wariness in his inflection. "Just a heads up, though. I'm not exactly finished moving in."
"That's okay." Ryan flashes Troy a reassuring smile, then shuffles his feet.
The door comes open, revealing a small floor-space. A pile of boxes, some of them partially open, sits in one corner. There are several instances where the white plaster shows through on the otherwise drab gray walls. At the far end, the front room bisects into a second chamber, where a mattress sits on a thin, and most likely, worn and rusted, metal frame. The bed appears to be the only piece of furniture in the apartment.
Ryan chews the inside of his lower lip, unable to stop himself from feeling a twinge of pity at Troy's living situation. Still, he is aware that things could always be worse. And, he's seen enough of those before and after home makeover shows to know that a lot can be done, even with minimal floor-space to work with.
From beside Ryan, Troy unleashes a weighty sigh. "What do you think?"
"It needs some work, but it's really not bad," Ryan says brightly.
His words encourage a slight smile to appear on Troy's face. Troy crosses the threshold, directing Ryan to follow him with a motion of his head. "I've been busy with finding work. So, I haven't really had the time to get this place feeling like home," he explains as he takes his jacket off and drapes it over the back of a chair in an area that looks to be his kitchen.
Ryan hesitates. He doesn't want to appear more awkward than he can help, but all of his knowledge of etiquette dictates that the back of a chair is no place for one's jacket. He begins shrugging out of his own coat, despite this.
"So, Ryan, would you like Chinese, or ramen, or…?" Troy pauses in his rummaging through the almost bare cupboards, to look over his shoulder.
After considering the fact that Troy has just worked a full shift, Ryan deems expecting the former basketball star to cook for the both of them, to be cruel and unnecessary. "Chinese take out is fine with me," he affirms with a bright smile.
"Great." The smile that Troy gives Ryan in return lets Ryan know that he's made the right choice.
While they wait for the food to arrive, Ryan prompts, "How was your day?"
"Alright," Troy replies, his fingers rhythmically tapping the table top. "A few of the customers were sort of short-tempered, but it wasn't too bad, for my first day."
"Good. That's great!" Something about Troy, be it the just audible scratchiness to his voice, or the dark circles underlining his eyes that Ryan noticed earlier, indicates that there's more to be explained. When Troy is good and ready to provide an explanation, that is. For now, Ryan perceives the former superstar of East High School as being in need of a serious morale boosting.
Ryan acknowledges that he is no expert in the delicate art of cheering other people up. By the same token, however, he knows without a doubt that he's willing to do everything in his power to put a smile back on Troy Bolton's face that reaches Troy's breathtaking ocean blue eyes. "I'm really happy that things are working out for you, here," Ryan says.
"Thanks." Troy smiles softly, his cheeks flushing. He sits up straighter, his eyes widening. A thought seems to cross his mind. "Hey, Ryan."
"Yes?"
"Do you wanna go sit in the bedroom?"
Ryan's heart leaps up into his throat. He can feel his own face heating up. His eyes fall sheepishly to the floor.
Apparently aware of the side effects of his phrasing, Troy hastily adds, "I-I mean, it's more comfortable than standing around in the kitchen."
"Yeah. Okay." Swallowing, Ryan ignores the way his heart rate is still too fast, and prepares to follow Troy. He takes a moment to finish removing his own coat, fold it neatly as possible, and set it on the seat of the chair that is currently acting as Troy's coatrack.
They settle onto the bed. The frame creaks under their weight, much as Ryan expected it would, but the mattress is a great deal softer than he anticipated. Good, he notes. That's good. Troy needs something comfortable to relax on.
"So, how was your day, Ryan?" Troy asks, placing his hands in his lap.
"Great." Ryan all but beams. "It helped that it got off to a fantastic start!" He keeps his eyes on the brunette, employing a slightly elevated brow to ensure that Troy gets the intended message.
Sure enough, a bashful grin works its way across Troy's face. "You know, it's really great to have someone be happy to see me."
Ryan's stomach drops at the underlying melancholy in Troy's inflection. "Of course I am!" He replies, more than a bit confused. "Why wouldn't someone be happy to see you?"
Troy's gaze gradually lowers to where his hands rest in his lap. He shifts uncomfortably.
Ryan's shoulder jerks with the reflex to reach out. He mentally chastises himself, wishing that he could retract his question and regretting his phrasing. He was raised to have more tact than this. "Troy…" he starts.
Troy shakes his head faintly. Whatever the cause of his upset, Ryan is not to blame. "Gabriella, she…" He swallows audibly. Tears well up, shining in his eyes, misting them, before spilling over. "She… cheated on me," he chokes out. His hands ball up into fists, and his lower lip quavers. "I-I wasn't good enough for her, I guess."
"She cheated on you?" The thought is equal parts unfathomable, because betraying someone who holds a level of trust in you is an absolutely repugnant act in Ryan's eyes. And, yet, sickeningly enough, it also makes a great deal of sense. Gabriella never seemed to comprehend how incredibly fortunate she was to be the recipient of Troy's affections. Nor did she ever appear to have the amount of devotion to Troy that Troy had to her. Ryan can still recall the coy smiles and fluttering eyelashes that she had directed at him, during the summer of their junior year of high school.
These flirtatious gestures hadn't escaped Troy's notice, either, but he was so devoted to Gabriella…
"I had to leave, Ryan. I couldn't bear to stay at Berkeley, anymore, knowing that the main reason I was there didn't want anything to do with me." Troy's voice is tight, and it cracks slightly under the weight of the emotions pouring out of him. "Gabriella found someone smarter, better than me. And, I was just disposable to her, afterwards."
"Troy… I-I'm so sorry." Swallowing the lump in his own throat, Ryan scoots in. At the back of his mind, it registers that he's waiting for a signal, a cue to act.
Troy shakes his head again. "You don't need to apologize, Ryan. It just-" Several tears slide down his face and drop onto the leg of his jeans, leaving tiny wet spots on the dark blue denim. "It really sucks. I don't even know what I'm doing, anymore!" Fresh tears well up. He raises his hand to wipe them away.
That's when it hits Ryan. Real life doesn't always provide cues. Sometimes, one just has to do what feels right, to improvise, and hope for the best possible outcome. He doesn't give himself the opportunity for hesitating, or second-guessing his next course of action. Silently, he lifts his arms up, and draws Troy into an embrace.
Slowly, the tension leaves Troy's muscles. It takes a second or two, and then his long eyelashes, still wet, tickle Ryan's neck, inciting a reaction of his pilomotor reflex. Troy's warm, damp cheek rests in the crook of Ryan's neck, amplifying the sensation of goosebumps that breaks out all over Ryan's petite body. "That's okay," Ryan murmurs soothingly, gently rubbing Troy's back.
"I should have had things figured out months before graduation. I shouldn't have waited 'til the last minute." Troy's inflection hardens. It's tinged with bitterness, shame, and regret.
"Not everyone has everything figured out in high school, Troy." Ryan pauses for a second. He thinks of Sharpay, and how she had spent her entire high school career brimming with confidence that bordered on arrogance, believing that she was destined for stardom after college. The college that she was set on attending in her grand plan was Juilliard. She roped Ryan into a ridiculous scheme that Ryan would prefer to forget the details of, to ensure that she would obtain a scholarship to the performing arts university, only for that scheme to fall by the wayside as their senior prom, the spring musical, and graduation loomed closer.
By the time they were set to graduate, it was Kelsi Nielsen, the drama club's composer, who wound up receiving the coveted scholarship. Ryan, much to his own astonishment, was also extended a special scholarship for his choreography. Sharpay had to adjust to this massive oversight on her part, and thus fell back on attending the University of Albuquerque, and assisting their former drama teacher, Ms. Darbus, with instructing the East High drama club. Fortunately for Sharpay, this was a decision that still benefitted her, as she managed to incur a rivalry with a London schoolgirl sophomore during the musical; a girl whom went by the name of Tiara Gold, and whom Ryan mistrusted from the moment he was first introduced to her.
A week before classes were set to begin at U of A, however, Sharpay approached their father, pleading with pouty lips to take a year off in order to, "find herself".
"Trust me," Ryan continues, a dry smile on his lips. "You're not the only one who's confused on what to do next."
Troy releases a heavy sigh. "You're right. I… I just need to take things one day at a time, for now."
"Yes. That's a wonderful idea." Ryan hopes that Troy can hear the smile in his voice. His chest is alleviated of a great weight. Taking things one day at a time is precisely what Troy needs to do to begin getting back on his feet. And, also, this, holding Troy close like this, feels incredibly, heart-stirringly right. It feels even more right, in a way that almost takes Ryan's breath away, when Troy wraps his arms around Ryan.
For a moment, the room is silent. The only sounds permeating the air are the sounds of Ryan and Troy's breathing, occasionally joined by a few sniffling noises from Troy.
Ryan's heart twists with dread at the prospect of breaking the oddly comfortable, given the information that Troy has just disclosed, silence between them. But, he must do just that, in order to affirm that Troy will be okay. "I wish I would have brought stuff to make tea," he pipes up. "It works wonders for calming the nerves."
A chuckle escapes Troy. "Thanks for the offer, Ry, but…" He leans forward, tightening the embrace.
Ry. Ryan can feel the blood pulsing in his temples.
"This is enough," Troy finishes.
Ryan lets out a soft sigh. His heart is beating against Troy's chest and his own. Troy is relaxed in his arms, probably more relaxed than he's been in far too long. Yes, Ryan agrees mentally. For now, at least, this is enough.
After Ryan helps Troy wash, dry, and put away the dishes, he thanks Troy for the meal, and for having him over.
Anxiously, Troy walks Ryan to the door. "I'll walk you home," he offers.
Ryan politely declines. "Thank you, Troy. I really appreciate the offer, but, I'll be all right."
Troy's brows knit. "You sure?"
Ryan nods, utilizing a bright, confident smile, for good measure. "Positive."
Troy gives a hesitant nod. The beginnings of a smile erode the anxiety in his features. "Okay."
Ignoring the sinking sensation that accompanies his suspicion that Troy has smiled more today than he has in weeks, Ryan places a gentle hand on Troy's shoulder. "Why don't you go on ahead to bed? You've worked hard, today, and you deserve a decent night's sleep."
"Yeah. I guess I do." Troy stifles a yawn. "Everything that's gone on in the past few weeks has been pretty exhausting."
Ryan realizes that he's lingering, that Troy is lingering. It crosses Ryan's mind that this empty space, this short interlude, is usually the lead in to a good night kiss before a pair officially parts ways. At least, it would be the lead in to a good night kiss… if Troy and I were actually dating. Before his mind can blank, Ryan lets his hand fall from Troy's shoulder, and then swings his other arm up and lightly claps his hands together. "Well, I'd better get on my way." He takes a step toward the hallway outside, his eyes meeting Troy's. "Thank you again for the lovely meal, and for letting me have the pleasure of your company."
"Oh, no problem, Ryan." A pleasant shade of pink colors Troy's cheeks. "I had a great time tonight, too. This was really… nice."
Had it been someone like Troy's best friend, the much more stereotypical, and, before Ryan won him over, thoroughly more intimidating jock, Chad Danforth, who made such a comment, Ryan might have interpreted the small pause preceding, "nice", as a forced cover up to the speaker's honest opinion. Because it's Troy, however, Ryan has no doubts about his sincerity. The petite male blushes. "Yeah. It was really nice."
"Yeah…" Troy slides his hands into his jeans pockets. "So, I'll see you tomorrow?"
Ryan's heart misses a beat. He can feel his knees quivering with sheer delight. "Yeah. Absolutely!"
"Awesome."
The rush of warm, tingly, fizzy feelings that floods Ryan when Troy calls after him to, "Be careful out there, okay?", renders the blond momentarily oblivious to the dangers of New York City streets after the sun has gone down. He wanders down the sidewalk, his mind taking up temporary residence in a fantasy of himself and Troy dancing together, their fingers interlaced, and their pelvises touching. The contact sends heated sparks up along Ryan's body. His and Troy's eyes are locked, and when Troy begins gradually leaning in until the freckles that dot the bridge of his nose are discernible, there's no Sharpay to rudely push between them and demand her, "turn", with Troy. And, there's no Gabriella to…
Gabriella.
Ryan halts.
"I wasn't good enough for her, I guess." He can still hear Troy's voice breaking with a just audible sob. All at once, he is aware of the skin-prickling low temperature. Wrapping his coat tighter around his body, in the sparse hope that the fabric still bears some of the warmth from the inside of Troy's apartment, he peers up into the blinding gleam of a pair of headlights. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the glare, he recognizes the rapidly approaching vehicle as a taxi cab.
There's no time for Ryan to delve into his memory banks in the hopes of extracting information on how to properly hail a cab. He uses one hand to clench his coat close to his body, and throws the other arm up in a frantic wave, calling out, "Hey! Taxi!", and hopes for the best. Thankfully, this shamefully novice technique actually works. Ryan fills the driver, an older man whose obvious five o'clock shadow is still visible, despite half of his face being veiled by shadows, in on the address of his apartment.
As the cab sets off for its destination, the driver is quiet, probably tired after a long day, leaving Ryan alone with his thoughts. These thoughts are centered on a distraught Troy Bolton. Troy's relationship with Gabriella, and their subsequent break-up, has dealt Troy an undeniable and hefty blow. The lively sparkle that Ryan adored has vanished from the former athlete's eyes.
Ryan stares out the window, watching skyscrapers and other towering, tightly packed buildings flash by. They're in a city infamously known for being made of cold, unfeeling metal, mortar, and concrete. As long as Troy is caught up in this state of post-break-up melancholia, this city will eat him alive. He swallows hard, fear clutching his chest at the prospect. No. He expels any negative thoughts on the matter from his mind. Troy is going to recover. He's going to get set on the right track toward the happy ending that he deserves.
Ryan Evans is going to see to it himself.