A/N: So, I'm coming back. Not today, not tomorrow, but I will be. Now, if anyone has gotten to know me enough, they realize my cringing nature at songfics. And I think I should correct myself on that statement: putting blocks of lyrics in the middle of a story in italicized or whatever annoys me. So, to put my money where my mouth is, I constructed - dramatic sigh - a songfic without blocks of lyrics. I did incorporate a few lines and added meat to a few others, but I didn't add the block of text that annoys me so much. I guess my point is that I do see the appeal of songfics, because music is amazing and brings about emotions and stories in the form of sound. But, as I noticed while I wrote this, I did not do the song justice. Music is the auditory form of visual art – there's a million words and emotions that come to mind when you see it/hear it, and it gives you something new to think about every time you look/listen to it. And although these very aspects are acknowledged and understandable to everyone, it can never be relayed in words to someone whose never seen/heard it. It's something that has to be experienced. So perhaps my opinion of songfics hasn't changed, even though I set about this one-shot to do just that.
Personal goal of fic: To write a bit more opaquely. I tend to spell things out for the reader. If it invokes thought, then I've done my job.
Plot and inspiration derives from the song, The Rescue by Tyler Ward. Thank you to the months of having to do pliés to this song that made me think of the idea in the first place.
The Rescue
New York didn't look so much like the land of opportunity when it was raining. Even at the stroke of dawn, the city woke in a foul mood, stirring the clouds into a giant ashtray, only to dump its remains by mid-morning. By now, though, the rain was coming steady, highlighting that each towering skyscraper wasn't a striking figure that glimmered in the sun, but was rather a monster of metal that resembled every other gray item in its surroundings. Every other aspect was just as dull: puddles formed in every inconvenient location, the city dwellers were more irritable than ever in their umbrellas and coats, and traffic was even more annoying now that the threat of water being splashed up was added. In its entirety, it held no potential value for the foreign prospect. And Troy Bolton was not an exception as he meandered the damp and pooling sidewalks, the hood of his windbreaker pulled over his head, trying to block out the rain. His jeans, along with the bangs that poked out of his only shelter, were already suffering, proof of his current problem.
Waiting was starting to tire on him, for his arm was starting to ache as he continued to keep it up, hoping it would finally catch someone's attention. He'd always been a restless person, and not only did it show in his personality and spontaneous behavior, but it even came down to the way his feet shuffled back and forth in a pacing manner in order to avoid boredom during the inevitable wait. Every so often, a hopeful expression graced his youthful features whenever a car would come in his direction, only to be disappointed when the vehicle didn't yield. A moment always passed where his arm would lower in that displeasure, only to be reminded of his task yet again. In the minutes that felt like hours, he stood hopelessly in the rain, only comforted by the thought that he'd be leaving the city soon. He missed home – and the ability to drive himself out of situations like these! He'd nearly deemed the cause lost when a yellow cabby finally pulled to the curb. He flopped down into the cheap polyester seat, only to realize he wasn't the only passenger. Casting a subtle glance to his companion, he recognized the pale face of his former high school classmate. There was no light about him today, though, for beyond the theater make-up and hollowed form carved by evident insomnia and malnutrition, Ryan held no light of his former optimism.
After informing the driver of his destination, Troy turned to his old schoolmate, unsure of what he was supposed to say. They hadn't seen each other since high school and they'd never been especially close, but there was that weird bond of being acquainted that made him feel like he should say something. Finally, he mustered the ability to comment on Ryan's sullen appearance with the simple whisper, "Are you okay?" Ryan didn't even change his focus from the back of the driver's seat as he nodded his response. Troy accepted this answer, even though he was aware it wasn't.
The brunette sat back in his seat, trying to contemplate whatever happened to the Evans boy. He didn't especially care, but now that he was confronted with a man quite different from the one he knew, it was all that could occupy his thoughts. Even the little things seemed out of character: the hoodie was too dark and plain in resemblance to the perfectly orchestrated outfits that he used to flaunt; his music was plugged into earbuds and not the stereo; there was no smile when that used to be all he had; and his shoes were battered and beaten and unlike the polished Vuitton pair. Pure details, and yet they seemed to change everything. Did he even enjoy theater anymore? It seemed that none of the surfacing questions were going to be resolved, for neither said anything to the other throughout the entire trip. Even as the car pulled over to a rather dingy part of town, they didn't even wish each other goodbye.
Despite the lack of communication, Troy still took the moment or so to watch Ryan disappear into one of the rickety buildings, ever so curious of what haunted him. Not that it should matter; it was most likely that they'd never see each other again. Yet again, out of eight million, three hundred ninety-one thousand, eight hundred eighty-one people, what were the odds that they even met here in the first place? Troy turned away from the window once the taxi started moving again, trying to hopelessly understand what he just witnessed and why he even cared. Perhaps it was the fact that they were high school classmates and that he'd have the same thoughts and concerns if it were anybody else. Or maybe it was because, at the very root, he'd hope someone would have the same concern for him if the roles were reversed.
It was hard to focus on anything. Even the gravity seemed upside down in that he felt suctioned to the floor even though he was standing. Or at least, he thought he was. It was hard to tell when some objects seemed to pop out at him and others constantly moved or duplicated. Nothing could just stay still. His head also throbbed, and his own body weight was a heavy anchor, trying to pull him ever closer to that disgusting linoleum floor. He closed his own eyes a moment, feeling the world close in on him just for a second, slowly rocking him to a sleep that never came. He then opened his eyes to find everything muffled and blurred until he realized he was only staring at one thing: an eye. He remained captivated by the image, even when it grew to a face. He knew that face. It was the one he went to when he sought comfort, even when it was same one that caused his discomfort. He loved that face, and yet he shuddered in front of it. He couldn't even explain why, and so he had isolated himself to this upside down world. Suctioned to the floor, with no means to find the ceiling.
The effects continued to wear off though; for some of the objects ceased to move and he was aware that he was in the kitchenette of the apartment. Aspects of the real world were coming back, causing his limbs to jitter and shake in response. He remained fixated on his partner's face, even when he came closer and his entire body quaked for God or any other higher power to bring this to closure. Every muscle tightened, even his nails bit into the countertop so as to keep his balance from toppling.
Not that it did him much good. His body swiveled and the room spun as he landed on his hands and knees, which trembled to keep his core aloft. His frame shook and wobbled as he released a sob without tears. Incapable of voicing himself out loud or defending himself, he could only petition silently to his Maker: I cannot take this anymore…and I know that what I'm waiting for is so much bigger, so much better – get me out! – please deliver!
A violent sound erupted as wood slammed against the wall, his own name being spoken out loud in alarm as Troy was revealed in the doorway. Ryan looked up, stupefied by his presence. Troy didn't even hesitate, but instead moved with an authority and a look on his face that held a sort of justified anger to it. However, Ryan's confounded expression didn't originate from this rather rough exterior, but instead from that fleeting moment in between when Troy's face painted an expression of slight sorrow and apprehension at the sight of him. He only paused in his gait when he reached Ryan's form, stooping low enough so he could offer the blonde his hand. Ryan only stared at the outstretched palm, unable to accept the gesture. Rebuffed, Troy left him to himself as he then approached Ryan's aggressor.
With his body still shaking, Ryan picked himself off the floor and leaned against a wall that blocked him from seeing the conflict, his head so disoriented that he struggled with finding a technique that would soothe his spiked adrenaline levels. His breathing constricted as he tried to comprehend what was happening. Troy, a person he'd assumed would only remain in his high school memories, was not only the man he chanced to meet in a taxi a few days ago, but was now in his apartment, acting in his defense. He paused mid-thought – he couldn't decipher the rationale. He wasn't even sure what he was supposed to do about it. With no logic to guide him, he sat there feeling the same as he had for the last several years – helpless.
Ryan remained quiet, not wanting to direct attention and still trying to understand how to cope with everything that was going on. To assess himself, he recognized that he was overwhelmed but awake, his cheek still pulsating from his newest infliction. Troy was here, but he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do about that. He should help – that would be a strong thing to do – but he couldn't even muster the power to stand up. Weak, that was the term he'd deemed himself. That's why he couldn't do anything, escape from any of this – it was his own vulnerability. He pulled his knees to his chin, trying to comfort himself from this fact, even though it was pointless. Stuck in his head, surrounded by different thoughts that wanted to swallow him whole, he hardly noticed that another presence had crouched down to where he was curled up some time later. It took him a few additional seconds to blink out of his trance, only to look up and meet the troubled expression Ryan had encountered on that rainy afternoon. Although his hair wasn't dripping with rain and he wasn't wearing the windbreaker now, Ryan felt his own anxiety decrease at Troy's sincerity, even noting the small laceration on his lower lip that signified the brunette's troubles.
Afraid that he might be startled, Troy spoke to him as softly as he could, "Hey…it's over now. You okay?" Ryan didn't break eye contact with him as he slowly nodded, trying to process that he wasn't in danger. Troy smiled, relieved, before he offered Ryan his hand for the second time. His hesitation was apparent before he decided to reach out from his contracted stature, his fingers shaking before they finally clasped the open palm.
His face flushed out to his ears as he was pushed closer for pictures, which were being taken by his sister. He'd dressed simply in a tight V-necked shirt, dark jeans, and a matching scarf, only to find that Troy and Sharpay had blown his milestone out of proportion by insisting on several hundred pictures each as well as cake and coffee at the small complex of a house Ryan now called home in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Troy wrapped his arm around him – getting about as snug as they could – before they brought their faces closer so the camera could get a good shot of them. Afterwards, Troy pecked his cheek, basking in his own happiness. Ryan looked good; his face was vibrant and full of life, his body strong and in good health, and even his posture resembled his newfound confidence. Troy delighted in the contrast to the man he'd found three years ago, and was ever thankful to the recovery that helped him become the person he was now.
Ryan turned to Troy, but before he could remark, Sharpay had already shoved him out of the way, making sure she got a picture with her brother before they left the clinic forever. After she accomplished this when she deemed the umpteenth photo good enough, the three piled into Troy's Chevy to meet the guests waiting for them at the house. Sharpay made up most of the conversation, although Ryan made the point several times over that a party was a bit extravagant. Each time, Troy brushed it off and pointed out that he was clearly enjoying every second of attention. His menial jibes were then followed by a teasing smile.
By the time they arrived at the house, the two-dozen or so people who'd been invited were already there. A natural butterfly at social occasions, Sharpay hardly let the vehicle stop before she was out the door, greeting the first people in her sight. Troy turned the car off and looked over at Ryan, who was lost in his own world.
"Hey," he said, gently shaking his shoulder. "Are you okay?" Ryan turned back to him, snapped out of his previous musings and now intrigued by Troy's question. His mouth opened, ready to explain the simplicities and complexities behind his words, but he paused. So instead, he smiled, squeezed his hand, and replied most assuredly, "I'm wonderful."