Hey guys! I'm back again with a new little onesie! Okay, now some of you wanted me to write some more Troyella, and I would be delighted to do that, it's just my brain is stuck in that mode where it doesn't want to think of anything. So when it decides to co-operate, I shall do just that.

This is more of a descriptive oneshot. It took me quite a while before I was completely happy with it, so if you could please let me know what you think, then that would be lovely. I shall also explain it at the bottom if you don't fully understand what's going on.

Disclaimer: Not mine. I did ask, but sadly they refused.

Tiny rays of light peep through the crack in the curtains, casting ominous shadows into all four corners of the room as you enter into it. Situated directly in the centre of the barren living space is a single armchair, a fading maroon and fraying at the edges. What shocks you even more though is when you acknowledge the person sitting in it. You've seen him before, but not like this.

His face is old, withered. Each deep contour on his dying features portrays another story, another lie. His eyes have darkened, the once soft cobalt a steely grey, and the mischievous glint that resided there has been extinguished, hardened by years of hate, rage and loneliness. They're glazed over, the lack of emotion in them so apparent you needn't look close to know that this man is hollow. It's almost as if he were seeing nothing. His sandy brown tresses, the ones that you ran your own hands through once upon a time are now lined with silver, and the reality of it scares you to death.

You step closer, treading softly on the threadbare carpet so that you do not startle him, stopping directly in front of his frail figure. A single tear escapes and rolls down your cheek, although you're not entirely sure why. Perhaps it's anger. Perhaps it's guilt. You just don't know. Your eyes drift up his pathetic stance, drinking in the last of his existence.

His feet are cracked, a constant reminder of the last great war and his pallor flesh wastes away underneath his sweat-pant clad legs. Even though you cannot physically see it, you can guess. The stained wife-beater clearly shows his shoulders and arms, the bones jutting out in all different directions.

You reach out to touch his hands tentatively and once they've made contact, you can feel the calluses on them, some so defined they scratch at your own skin. You feel sick as you step back, recoiling your hand quickly as if you are afraid of contamination. The last thing you notice as you walk towards the open door is the mirror. It lays shattered on the grubby floor, stray beams of light reflecting onto the walls.

And suddenly, it all fits. The reason why he's let himself go so astray. You guess it was too surreal, too painful, to look into a mirror and not recognize the person staring back at you.

He is, was and always will be…a beautiful disaster.

Okay, so basically, this fic is about Troy and how he has let himself go over a certain period of time. It can be from whoever's point of view that you want, but it makes more sense in a way if it is from Gabriella's, because I don't think Chad would call Troy a 'Beautiful Disaster', do you?

Love You Lots, Zoie xxx