After the dream

I.

Troy Bolton moved out here, one thousand miles away from his parents, his childhood home, his best friend, everything he's ever known, to attend Berkeley University and be close to his girlfriend. Thirty-two point seven miles closer to her, to be precise.

His apartment is small, in a way that can strike him as claustrophobic when he glances up from his Calc. II homework, equations still whirling about his head, or comes up for air in the midst of studying Ayn Rand, and takes in the four walls surrounding him. Without pictures lining every other surface, like they did back home, and paned double doors adjacent to his bed that open to a spacious backyard, the place feels less… personable. Less welcoming. Almost kind of daunting.

Still, he does his best to make the space his own with his bedding from home, East High and basketball paraphernalia, acoustic guitar, and framed pictures of Gabriella.

It also helps that he sees Gabriella in person, even if it's only for a few hours a day.

In the evenings, after classes have let out for both of them, he'll drive thirty-two point seven miles, take her out for dinner or a movie, and lean in and wait for a chaste peck on the lips after he walks her back to her dorm on Stanford University's campus. Occasionally, they'll talk on the phone until her studies take priority, or her mom or best friend, Taylor McKessie, call her up on the other line, leading to her ending the call with Troy.

Sometimes, Gabriella giggles and tells Troy that he's "crazy" for moving out here. Sometimes, she seems distracted and nothing Troy says can quite recapture her attention. Sometimes, she tells him goodbye without the three words that part of Troy keeps waiting to hear her say, again. And, sometimes, there's nothing at all before she hangs up. Just a long, empty silence that makes Troy wonder, for the briefest of moments, if he made a mistake.

Troy ends every night the same way- reading until his vision blurs, then staring longingly at the picture of Gabriella wearing her powder blue sweater and a lovely smile as she sits on a table in East High's cafeteria, sitting on his nightstand. He'll flick off the lamp with the basketball base beside the picture, pull his quilt up over his shoulders, shift around to find a comfortable position, then drift off to sleep in a bed that he is the sole occupant of, as his girlfriend sleeps in a bed thirty-two point seven miles away.

.

Troy has had bad dreams since he was a kid; dreams about his dad chasing him down the street, yelling at him for something he did wrong. Dreams about monsters and other sorts of boogeymen pursuing him with the intent of doing him some unspeakable harm. He'd awaken from these dreams and go to his parents' bedroom, where he would be welcomed with open arms and comforted by soft words assuring him that monsters aren't real, and his dad loves him very much and would never hurt him.

As he got older, his fears changed, and the nightmares adapted to suit the changes.

He'd dream about the senior members of East High's basketball team, from when he first joined their ranks as a scrawny sophomore, cornering him and smashing his head into the tiled walls in East High's locker room until his skull cracked.

About coming onstage to sing his duet with Gabriella, in the winter musical, wearing nothing but his underwear, and the whole school laughing at him.

About Sharpay Evans, the self-proclaimed queen of East High's drama department, tying an absurdly long necktie around his neck and reeling him in as she gushed about their "compatibility", and how they were "meant for each other". Once he was close enough, his clothing would disappear, and Sharpay's hands would roam over his body, scalding his bare skin with each touch. She'd yank on the necktie, a leash, to choke him as he fought to escape.

Dreams of his friends replacing him because he was no good to them, anymore.

Of costing his teammates and the school the state championships.

Of Gabriella breaking up with him, again, and reminding him just how worthless, selfish, and stupid he is.

And, more recently, of one of his dearest friends, Ryan Evans, getting held down and beaten bloody while Troy is immobile, unable to so much as twitch a finger as Gabriella palms him through his pants.

In this dream, Gabriella will pop Troy's fly open and lower her head toward his disturbingly erect cock as Ryan's cries for help pierce Troy's ears and set his heart pounding with enough force to make him dizzy and sick to his stomach.

The aftermath of these hellish reveries brings no comforting words and soothing embraces. Troy's rapid breaths and heartbeat rattling his ribcage are his only reassurance that he's returned to reality and left the horrible images plaguing his sleep behind him.

.

When he has a nightmare for the first time in California, and awakens to darkened surroundings that are still unfamiliar to him, Troy's first instinct is to call Gabriella.

She isn't pleased, and reprimands him for disturbing her sleep when she has class in the morning. Troy opens his mouth to tell her why he called, that he's had another nightmare- they used to talk about his nightmares, in high school. She'd arc an eyebrow, one corner of her mouth twitching into a smile, and tell him "Your brain sounds like a pretty strange place, Wildcat"- but she cuts him off with an insistent, "I need to sleep, Troy."

Dismay washes over Troy. He fights to keep it out of his voice as he slaps on a smile and says, "You're right. I'm sorry. Talk to you tomorrow?"

Her hum in response is noncommittal, but it's better than a click followed by a dial tone; sounds that Troy is uncomfortably familiar with.

As he's lying back down, his room dead silent aside from the low hum of the central air system, he isn't sure why his familiarity with those sounds makes him uncomfortable.

.

The second time Troy has a nightmare, Gabriella instructs him, "Troy, go to bed", huffs out a breath, and hangs up the phone.

He decides then and there to never broach the subject with her again.

.

Troy leaves his apartment to grab some breakfast before his classes on a Wednesday morning. He's in the process of locking the door behind him when he catches a glimpse of a brightly colored hat and fair skin.

His heart skips a beat.

Ryan?

Whirling around, he meets the sight of what is, unmistakably, Ryan Evans standing across the hall from him.

Ryan's eyes are wide, as if he didn't expect to encounter Troy Bolton, of all people.

Statistically, and taking the enormous size of the state into account, the two of them bumping into each other, let alone ending up in the same apartment building is… crazy unlikely.

Troy tries not to think of fated lovers reuniting in a separate location from where they first met, as though destiny has brought them back together. He forces the thought that this is all too similar to Gabriella magically reappearing at East High on the first day back from winter break, out of his mind.

His eyes pour over Ryan, taking every inch of the smaller boy in almost hungrily. They sweep over Ryan's curve-hugging pants, his curvy hips, immaculately pressed, bright colored clothing, his soft features, the creamy porcelain of his skin, the bow of his very pink lips, the bits of blond hair sticking out from beneath the tilted brim of his hat…

Troy makes note of Ryan studying him with equal intensity, Ryan's blue eyes softening as they flit over his face, and his heart leaps into his throat.

He can't remember the last time Gabriella's gaze softened when she looked at him. It feels good to be regarded that way, to have someone be happy to see him.

He lets out a giddy laugh, because that's all he can manage, and it beats a sob, and, in an instant, he's traversed the hall and has Ryan in his arms.

Ryan makes a noise that sounds like a muffled cry of joy, and returns the embrace. His soft, smooth cheek rests in the crook of Troy's neck, he squeezes Troy's shoulder blades tightly but gently, and as Ryan's achingly familiar sweet scent wreathes around him, Troy thinks, for the first time, that California feels like home.

.

"I thought you were in New York," Troy says. He and Ryan are on their way down to the lobby of the apartment.

His mind is still whirling, unable to quite fathom that Ryan is actually here- among the palm trees, weird green drinks, and heat so intense, it distorts the air around them, causing people's images to waver like the mirages that deceive people wandering hopelessly through the desert, bereft of food and in search of water. Troy has to covertly dig his nails into the palm of his hand, just to make certain he isn't caught in a particularly lucid and enticing dream.

He feels his nails scraping his skin, and Ryan's image doesn't waver as he walks beside Troy, out through the doors and into the heat of the day, matching him step for step.

Troy takes an absurd level of comfort in this.

"I… I decided to skip college, and jump right into auditioning for a show." Ryan's voice betrays his doubts regarding this decision.

Troy considers his words carefully before speaking. "That's a pretty bold move."

Ryan nods, but his face has blanched, eyes darkening with discouragement.

"But, hey," Troy goes on, hoping his voice is light, earnest, and sincere, "plenty of celebrities skipped college to go right after their dreams. If anyone can go the distance, Ry, I know you can." He wraps an arm around Ryan, pulling him in close and rubbing at his shoulder.

A wary smile breaks out on Ryan's face. "You're not just saying that, are you?"

"Cross my heart." Troy uses his free hand to trace an 'x' over the spot on his chest where his heart rests inside.

Beaming, Ryan ducks his head, his cheeks flaring pink. He leans into Troy, and Troy feels a response to Ryan's close proximity stir something inside of him.

"So… Do you have a way of commuting to and from your auditions?" Troy asks. He's fully prepared to offer up his services. Yeah, his truck isn't the most reliable vehicle out there, but the thought of Ryan having to depend on a stranger to transport him back and forth puts Troy more than a little on edge.

"I was thinking about hiring a cab, or an uber driver. Or, just taking the bus. That's what normal people do, right?" Ryan's tone is flat and humorless, nearly causing Troy to take the inquiry seriously, but Ryan smiles and gives Troy a light nudge. "I'm kidding."

And, Troy should have known. Ryan is not so used to the perks that come with living in the lap of luxury that he's unfamiliar with customs practiced by the lower class. Like taking a bus when no other mode of transportation is available.

Troy knows from firsthand experience that Ryan is, honestly, the closest possible thing to "normal", that the Evans family has to offer. He was always the most down to earth member of Troy's group of friends, as well, and these things make him appreciate Ryan all the more.

Troy nudges Ryan back, grinning, and Ryan laughs softly, a lovely sound that Troy wasn't aware just how much he missed.

Until now.

.

That same heart-melting smile, the sensation of being close to Ryan, and Ryan's musical laughter pop into Troy's head periodically while he's sitting in lecture halls, and listening to his theater teacher prattle on about Shakespeare. They cause a smile to tug at his lips, and his heart to feel like a weight has been lifted off of it.

.

Gabriella cancels their plans to meet up for dinner and a movie. She does this with the scarcest hint of an apology.

For a moment, panic seizes Troy's chest. He thinks back to the last time Gabriella bailed on plans that they had made, and the time before that, and, the time before that, and his stomach churns with sudden nausea. She isn't thinking about breaking up with him again, is she?

No. She… She can't.

He can still fix this.

Right?

Then, the intense panic subsides, giving way to a dull, heavy feeling that permeates every bone and nerve. Troy slumps onto his bed, his body leadened down, and stares up at the ceiling. He knows he should be handling this better. He's in college. He's an adult, now. He can't expect Gabriella to be available every time he wants to see her, especially when she's so busy acing all of her classes and rubbing elbows with the geniuses at Stanford.

But… this, spending every night alone, Gabriella pushing him away and withdrawing from him without even telling him why, wasn't what he moved out here for.

Troy rolls onto his side, and thinks about how he'll make things up to Gabriella. He'll reschedule their date, bring a picnic basket full of her favorite foods to her dorm room, maybe sing to her…

His eyes fall closed, and the last thought to cross his mind is him handing Ryan his red "BACK TO BACK STATE CHAMPS" t-shirt to wear over Ryan's dress shirt. Troy wanted Ryan to feel like he belonged among the other guests at the party held in celebration of the East High Wildcats' victory against the West High Knights in the state championships, and he didn't mind not donning their school's colors, for once. Especially if it meant making Ryan feel welcomed and accepted, and like the important part of the team that he was.

At least to me he was important, Troy tells himself. At least to me…

.

A knock at the door to his apartment pulls Troy from a sleep he doesn't recall falling into, and he stumbles out of bed and groggily moves to answer it. He's rubbing at his eye with the back of his hand when he pulls the door open to be greeted by Ryan's brilliant smile.

"Hey, neighbor."

"Hey." In spite of the sleep still clouding his vision, Troy smiles back, He can feel his heart stir faintly.

"Did I disturb you?" Ryan looks Troy up and down, his face beginning to adopt an apologetic expression. "I'm sorry."

"Nah, it's cool," Troy assures him. "I just laid down for a nap."

"Oh." Ryan seems to consider Troy's response before pressing gently, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Troy wonders if the fact that he was stood up is written all over his face. If even Ryan can see that he's just a great big screw-up that has no business being in the life of, let alone being in a relationship with, an amazing girl like Gabriella. He isn't entirely sure why- perhaps it's the sincere concern darkening Ryan's features, perhaps it's the fact that Ryan has never judged him for anything, or the fact that Ryan is right across the hall, so Troy sees no point in shutting him out, can't bear the idea of Ryan not being in his life- but Troy invites Ryan inside, and, once Ryan is seated on the tiny love seat in Troy's living room area, Troy lets it pour out of him.

"Gabriella… I-I don't know what it is, or what I did, but, she…" He swallows, a realization hitting the back of his throat. "She's pulling away from me."

Ryan is still, his brow-line creasing and lips pursing. Troy can't determine if the news has unnerved him, or if he knew, all along, that something like this would happen, and isn't sure how to break that to Troy. Maybe he's holding back from speaking candidly on the issue, unlike Chad did when he offered his two cents, out of respect for Troy's feelings.

Troy runs his hands through his hair. He can feel his stomach churning and a weight sitting on his chest, crushing it. "She doesn't want to talk to me, anymore, and she just canceled our plans to get dinner and see a movie." He thinks back on the flat, detached tone of voice Gabriella had used to break the news to him. How she barely let him get a word in edgewise before abruptly ending the call. A lump rises in his throat. "It's me, right? It-It has to be. I mean… I had to have done something, or I wouldn't keep losing her."

"Troy…" Ryan's eyes and his voice are full of such sadness, Troy thinks of it as almost palpable. Like a pressure weighing nearly as heavily on the room as Troy's insistent, overpowering fear that he just isn't good enough that perches on his back and, every so often, reaches over to squeeze his heart and yank at his stomach. "As far as I'm aware, you've only ever been an incredible boyfriend to Gabriella. You sent her off to Stanford with a smile on your face, even though it…" Ryan swallows and seems to brace himself, as though the act of dragging his next words out of his throat will be painful. "It hurt you, not having her around, and especially not being able to practice with her during rehearsals for the spring musical. It takes a lot of maturity to do something so selfless. Heck… Troy, you were willing to throw your entire future out the window for her."

It's Troy's turn to swallow, and as he does so, his stomach begins to twist with apprehension. He never thought of it as throwing his future out the window. He was just tired of being a jerk to his friends. The scholarship he could potentially get from performing with Sharpay in the talent show at Lava Springs ultimately wasn't as important to him as what his friends thought of him, and they welcomed him back into the group with open arms and smiling faces after he shot Sharpay and her assurances that the talent show could "change [his] life", down.

He got Gabriella back because he shot Sharpay and those assurances down.

Living in the present with Gabriella was more important than his future. That was the lesson he took away from that experience. That was what Gabriella had wanted him to realize, all along- making her happy should be his number one priority.

And, he's tried his best to always make her happy, to put her needs before his own, to be the boyfriend that someone as amazing and important as Gabriella deserves. But, no matter what he does, no matter how much effort he puts into their relationship, something always comes between them. One slip-up and she's gone.

Because Troy is never good enough, and never will be.

Troy's heart aches sharply, intensely, and tears sting his eyes.

After a long moment of silence broken only by the sound of Ryan shifting about, like he means to get up and comfort Troy, but isn't sure how to initiate such contact, or even if he should, Ryan says, so leniently it causes Troy's throat to tighten and the tears to blur his vision, "I just… You're a really, really good person, Troy. I know you would never do anything to hurt anyone. Sometimes you even put others before yourself to such an extent, that it worries me. Please-Please consider the idea that, just maybe, Gabriella is the problem. Not you."

The notion knocks Troy off-balance. Gabriella, the problem? There's… There's no way. Everyone loves Gabriella. She's amazing. She's perfect. She's a genius who got accepted into Stanford's Freshman Honors Program, for fuck's sake.

Gabriella always knows what's best, and she changed everyone at East High for the better, just by being in their lives. Troy is the screw-up, the idiot, the selfish asshole who can't do anything right, the disappoint-

He doesn't realize how this train of thought has impacted him until he feels Ryan's hand resting on his backside, between his shoulder blades. Ryan guides Troy into an embrace and Troy leans in, sobbing, much to his embarrassment, into the crook of Ryan's soft, sweet-smelling neck.

"I'm so sorry, Troy. I didn't mean to upset you." Ryan's body trembles slightly, and Troy can tell that he means it.

"I-" Troy takes a second to compose himself, to hopefully remove the quaver from his voice. "I know you didn't, Ry. Things are just…"

"Complicated?"

"Yeah."

"They shouldn't have to be." Ryan's voice is so soft, hardly more than a whisper, but Troy still makes out the words.

Part of Troy agrees with Ryan. He makes too much sense to disagree with.

Yet… Troy also knows that his relationship with Gabriella has never been effortless. He's had to fight for it, sometimes tooth and nail. A few sacrifices here and there to make things work is what relationships are about, right? Everything in life worth having is something that you have to fight for, and Troy was raised to be a fighter, a winner, a champ.

"Hey, um…" Ryan starts, diverting Troy's train of thought, guiding it down a new track. "I know I'm no substitute for Little Miss Doe Eyes, but… I'd watch a movie with you, and I'd make you dinner."

The weight eases off of Troy's chest enough to let a smile work its way across his face. "I'd love that." His heart, however, continues to ache, a dull, throbbing pain in the center of his chest. He rationalizes that he shouldn't, but he brushes his nose along the stretch of Ryan's creamy neck and breathes in the blond's scent, as if it might soothe the pain, somehow.

Spring water. Ryan smells of spring water with a faint hint of strawberry and clean linen fresh out of the dryer. It's appealing, perhaps even intoxicating, if Troy dares to employ such a description for someone who isn't his girl.

An infinitesimal part of him raises the idea that spring water smells better than tropical fruit, that breathing it in feels less like inhaling a nose full of dizzyingly sweet, addictive antifreeze...

When he realizes that he just associated Gabriella, his girlfriend, the person who inspires his heart, with poison, a crushing guilt slams into Troy's stomach.

.

The meal Ryan makes- chicken stir fry and green tea- is alarmingly delicious. It's the first genuine home-cooked meal Troy has had since relocating. Everything is cooked to perfection, the flavors tingle on his taste buds, and he can almost imagine that he's at home, eating food that his mom lovingly prepared for her boys.

Then, he thinks about the people he's left back in Albuquerque; his parents, Chad, envisions Gabriella sitting alone in her dorm room, tears glittering in her liquid brown eyes as her chest heaves with a sigh and she forces herself to focus on her studies for her Pre-Law courses.

He gulps the food down, and when it hits his stomach like a rock, he feels like such an asshole.

"You didn't have to do this for me, you know," he murmurs, poking at a piece of broccoli with the prongs of his fork.

Across the table, Ryan shrugs. He pushes a chunk of chicken into the soy sauce, coating it. "Of course I didn't have to. I wanted to."

Troy takes a sip of green tea and as the flavor seeps onto his tongue, his taste buds absorbing it with surprising eagerness, he glances around Ryan's apartment. The walls are a muted, off-white color. There's a small window set in the far wall of the main living area, and Troy can make out the dim, orange glow of a streetlight just pouring in through the glass. Several rows worth of books line the shelves of a short, wide, black bookcase, and a small stack of books and magazines is accumulating on a coffee table sitting in front of a sofa. A radio sits in one corner of the room, and Troy can imagine Ryan's hips swaying to a 90s alt. rock song as he prepares for the day ahead.

The thought that he could stay here forever shouldn't be occurring to Troy.

He looks back to Ryan, observes the grace with which Ryan lifts a forkful of noodles, chicken, and vegetables to his mouth, how Ryan chews the food almost daintily, and how his table manners are immaculate.

Ryan notices Troy staring, and a lovely flush fills his porcelain cheeks. "What are-" His voice comes out in a high squeak that Troy deems heart-meltingly endearing. Ryan clears his throat and tries again, "What are your classes at Berkeley like?"

As Troy informs Ryan that his professors are cool, if a little boring, sometimes, his basketball coach reminds him a little bit of his dad, his theater teacher almost makes him miss Ms. Darbus, and he's taking a psychology class as a minor, things he hasn't told Gabriella, that throbbing ache returns with a vengeance. It sharpens, becomes an acute longing.

Ryan assures Troy that all of these things are "so awesome", his eyes glowing, his wide, Ryan smile earnest, and Troy can almost slap a name on the ache engulfing his core.

.

Troy's dream, that night, is reliving Gabriella breaking up with him at Lava Springs, last summer, for the umpteenth time. Reliving her placing the 'T' pendant necklace that he bought for her with his accumulated allowances and birthday money, back into his hand, and running away from him. Severing their bond. Cutting his heart right down the middle.

Grief constricts Troy's throat, tears slipping down his cheeks as he watches Gabriella leave them, everything they've been through, everything they shared, him behind.

She doesn't look back. Not once.

His heart slams against his breastbone when he wakes up, and his body is leadened down with fear; that he's about to lose her again, because he's such a fuck-up, that he moved out here for nothing, that he'll never be good enough for anyone, or amount to anything.

Instinctively, he reaches for his cellphone on the nightstand, ready to scroll to Gabriella's name in his contacts. He needs to hear her voice. Even that would be enough. But, he knows he would be bothering her by calling, so he retracts his hand and runs it through his hair, instead.

I'm so stupid, Troy thinks. He wants to punch himself. His outside deserves to hurt as much as his insides. Swallowing, he tries to will his pulse to slow, and lies back down, pulling his quilt over his bare chest.

The numbers on his digital clock flash 4:54 AM.

He dreads going to class, later, knowing full-well that he's going to look like absolute hell.

As he closes his eyes, Troy's heart reaches out for Ryan, just across the hall. Ryan, who is probably curled up in his bed, sleeping soundly, his lovely features peaceful, his sleep free of anxiety-inducing, terrifying, fucked-up nightmares.

At least, Troy hopes that's the case. He doesn't want Ryan to have to relive every name ever spat at him in the hallways of East High, and every shove, fist to his face, knee to his stomach, and leg shooting out to trip him that he ever endured, every time he closes his eyes.

Folding his arms over his chest, Troy's last thought before sleep takes him, once more, is imagining soft, fair skin, pink lips, and golden hair taking up the vacant space beside him.

.

Just like he did the night of their senior prom, Troy waits for Gabriella outside of Stanford's campus. He perches up in the branches of the same tree, armed with a bouquet of roses and a picnic basket filled with margherita pizza and chocolate-covered strawberries. Feelings of apprehension eat at his stomach, just as they did the night he resolved to make the long, one thousand fifty-three mile drive from Albuquerque to the university, and right before he made the announcement that he was following Gabriella to college.

He gulps them back, trying to dismiss them. This is the right thing to do. He… loves Gabriella.

Doesn't he?

Troy recalls the sweet scent of Ryan's skin, the warm, comforting sensation of Ryan's arms draped across his backside, and fiddles with his sleeves, folding them around his elbows and refastening the cuffs. His leg jumps, unable to stay still with the anxiety charging him. He inhales through his nose and attempts to calm his racing pulse.

He waits.

Just like that night, students trickle out of the building with no sight of Gabriella's soft waves of dark hair and olive skin.

Troy doesn't let this faze him. He knows she'll be the last one out.

The sun sinks over the horizon, staining the surrounding sky with shades of orange and deep red. Like…

Not blood. Blood is an omen.

Like a cherry snowcone.

Troy glances at his bare wrist, his leg continuing to jolt. His stomach grumbles quietly, complaining about its emptiness. He hasn't eaten since breakfast, and he only picked at that. He just couldn't get anything down until he made things right.

As the first traces of indigo and purple begin to darken the sky, Troy finally sees her, and his heart seems to shoot up into his throat.

Gabriella emerges from the building, a faint smile on her lips. She's wearing her wine colored sundress, her shining waves of hair tied in a loose braid that rests on her bare shoulder. A gentle breeze rifles past, blowing several free strands around her face.

Troy's hand slips into his pocket, resting on his phone, ready to pull it out and place a call to Gabriella. When she answers, he'll playfully tell her to "look up", she'll see him, and her brown eyes will widen, her mouth opening in an incredulous smile. She'll tell him that he's "crazy", perhaps make another comment about his love of trees, and he'll jump down, gifts in hand. He'll offer her the roses, which she'll take, eyes gleaming softly, and he'll escort her to her "chariot". They'll drive off to the outskirts of town, and eat the pizza together while lying in the back of his truck and gazing at the stars.

Everything will be okay, again. They can even invite Ryan to their movie nights, and he can join them for dinner, maybe even sleepovers-

The sound of Gabriella's laughter shatters Troy's fantasy.

Another boy; tall, with dark hair, leans into Gabriella's petite form. A carefree smile is spread across his face, and Gabriella's, as well. His hand rests on Gabriella's arm, long fingers tracing the contours of her elbow.

Troy's jolting leg stills. His blood runs cold.

Gabriella doesn't pull back as the distance between her and the other guy lessens. She doesn't say, "Um, actually, I have a boyfriend".

There's a rock in Troy's throat, and a pain in his chest. Don't, he almost pleads.

Gabriella reaches out and tangles her fingers in tendrils of the thick, black hair on the back of the other guy's head. Just like she tangled her fingers in Troy's hair the night before she left for California. Eyes closing, she and the other guy seal off the remaining space between them. Her face connects with his, and his arms wrap around her, drawing their bodies together, fusing them, like the atomic particles in Gabriella's favorite school subject.

The universe isn't kind enough to have the other guy angle his body in a manner that obscures the… fusion from view.

Tears stinging his eyes, his throat so constricted, he can hardly breathe, Troy and his gifts drop from the tree. He lands hard enough to make a noise.

He wishes he would have fallen and broken his neck.

The other guy is the first to notice Troy. He turns around, mildly startled by the thud that accompanies Troy's landing.

Gabriella follows his line of sight, and when she spots her boyfriend- or is it ex, now?- she stays where she is, at the other guy- her new boyfriend-'s side.

"You…" It comes out as a barely there croak, and Troy can feel his tears beginning to spill over. He's sure he looks like the completely out of his depth idiot he really is, especially next to this tall, handsome, Stanford University student. "You couldn't tell me you'd found someone else?"

The other guy looks to Gabriella, his brows furrowed and brown eyes full of questions.

Gabriella meets his look, and appears almost exasperated with this entire situation. "Look, Troy…" she sighs.

Whatever it is, an explanation, an excuse, Troy doesn't want to hear it. He can't. He leaves the stupid bouquet and picnic basket, and drags his body back to his truck.

He feels every foot of that distance.

Thankfully, the pickup's engine splutters to life on the first try, and Troy tears out of the parking lot, his vision blurring with a fresh round of hot tears.

He should have known. He's never been good enough for Gabriella. What is he, after all? Her stupid, damaged, oversensitive, incompetent high school leftover. Why the fuck would Gabriella ever choose him when she has an entire sea of handsome Stanford boys who match her in intellect, and competence, and would never call her in the middle of the night to talk about their fucked-up nightmares…!

Troy punches the steering wheel once. Twice.

He contemplates driving through Death Valley and steering his truck into a bottomless ravine.

He considers veering into a pole.

Deep indigo swallows the last traces of red and orange in the sky.

Streetlights flick on.

Troy blows past every street sign. He can almost envision his heart as a mangled, pulpy mass, gushing blood with every labored beat as that kiss replays itself over and over in his head. He imagines clawing the bloody clump of muscle out of his chest, just to make the blood flow, the hurt seizing his entire body, stop.

Thirty-some miles down the road, he happens to notice that the gauge for his fuel tank is nearing 'E'. Hefting a sigh, he resists the urge to let his truck break down and leave him stranded to slowly, painfully die of starvation and dehydration, alone, and drives into the nearest gas station.

While he's refilling the tank, he wipes at his eyes and sucks in a shaky breath. If he didn't come back to the apartment complex, Ryan would worry about him. If he crashed his truck into a pole, Ryan, and Troy's parents, and Chad would be upset. He can't just quit on them. He-

Troy's thoughts are silenced as a voice reaches his ears.

"Hey. What are you-? Stop. No!"

Troy doesn't think. He doesn't have to. He takes off toward the source of the sound, near the back corner of the building, farthest away from the bright fluorescent lights illuminating the front of the structure.

A tall, gangly form is hunched over a familiar hatted figure with porcelain skin, blond hair, and blue eyes. Blue eyes stretched wide with panic. Fear.

White hot fury blazes through Troy. His jaw tensing, he surges forward and… his fist hits bone. He can feel the crunch under his knuckles. Breathing heavily, he stares at the man lying crumpled below him with a trickle of blood seeping out of his mouth, and a nauseous feeling swims through his insides. What am I…? A thick fog descends upon his mind. He feels detached from the situation, almost somnambulant.

None of this can actually be happening. Right?

Hands wrap around the crook of Troy's elbow, and he just processes a light, alto-tenor pitched voice calling to him. "Troy, come on. Hurry."

Ryan.

Troy's heart pulses with something faint that doesn't entirely feel like blood spurting from a gaping lesion in his chest. Dazed, he stumbles forward, more than happy to function on autopilot, if that's what he's doing, now, and let the rational party call the shots.

Sluggish, he pays for the gas at the meter, and once he and Ryan are piled in the cockpit of the truck, Troy peals out of the fuel station, speeding down the open road.

"Are you okay?" Ryan asks.

It occurs to Troy, through the sleep-like haze clouding his brain, that this is an odd question. Ryan is the one who just narrowly avoided being mugged, or sexually assaulted, or whatever that bastard was planning to do to him. Then, a flash of Gabriella's lips locked with that other guy's blindsides Troy, and his chest tightens. Alert enough to feel the pain pulsing in his center, another stab to his heart, he white-knuckles the steering wheel, almost choking on the gravel in his windpipe. "No," he replies, his voice thin, hoarse.

Ryan is silent, but Troy can feel his eyes on him. Soft, understanding.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ryan reaching over, and feels a gentle squeeze on his bicep. He breathes in to quell another sob, and it's less unsteady, this time.

"We don't have to talk about it until you're ready," Ryan says in a hushed, lilting intonation.

Troy lets his eyes leave the road long enough to look briefly at his passenger. Ryan's face is unblemished, completely clear of cuts and bruises. His shirt is wrinkled, and his hat sits slightly askew on his head, but his clothes are otherwise spotless. He's unsullied. Untainted. Relief floods Troy's ribcage, easing some of the pressure clamping down on his heart. "Thanks." The smallest trace of a smile tugs at his lips.

Ryan shakes his head lightly; a wordless, Don't mention it.

Per Ryan's suggestion, they stop at the first fast food joint they encounter. It's a Dairy Queen.

"Order whatever you want," Ryan says. "I'm covering the tab."

"Are you sure?" Troy asks, the fog around his brain beginning to lift. Just because Ryan is rich, that doesn't make it okay for Troy to keep imposing on him.

Troy's stomach, however, has different ideas. It picks that moment to gurgle audibly, reminding Troy, once again, that he hasn't put anything into it for hours, and the pizza he intended to eat is probably being devoured by Gabriella and her new… man.

"Positive," Ryan assures him firmly. "Come on. I know you have to be hungry."

Troy meets Ryan's eyes with his own, sees the plea in the depths of those baby blues, and caves.

.

"What were you doing outside of that gas station?" Troy asks, picking up a handful of french fries from the tray sitting in Ryan's lap.

"Long story. I had an audition at a playhouse in the vicinity. My damn uber driver," Ryan pauses to eat a few fries, himself, "was a no-show. I guess, in a lapse of judgment, I decided it would be a novel idea to bring hitchhiking back into fashion."

Troy swallows. He reaches over to grab his drink from the cup holder. "That guy. What was he…?"

"He wanted to mug me. He figured, based on the way I was dressed, that I had money on me."

Troy sips at his drink and his eyes flick over Ryan's slim-fitting jeans, shining dress shoes, probably freshly polished, cotton dress shirt, tilted hat… He's sure they all came with a price tag sporting a large numerical value, but they're not the only giveaways that Ryan is a product of an opulent upbringing. The way you carry yourself, your flawless complexion, soft skin… How small you are. "You could have called me," he says softly, the carbonation in his Sierra Mist, and maybe something else, making his eyes water.

"I thought you were busy." Ryan's eyes are fixed on the floor. He sounds… apologetic.

Troy checks the road and, assured that they're in no immediate danger, takes one hand off the steering wheel to replace his drink and grab at Ryan's shoulder. He rubs the lean muscle under the thin fabric of Ryan's shirt, tracing tiny circles with the pad of his thumb. "He didn't hurt you, did he, Ry?"

"No. You got there just in time. You're…" Ryan lifts his head and gives a soft laugh. A smile tugs at his lips, and his eyes, tinted gray by the streetlights they pass, teem with affection. "You're a real knight in shining armor, Troy."

Troy's cheeks flare with warmth. "Rusted armor, maybe," he murmurs, reflecting on the condition of his hand-me-down pickup. "Chipped." Like the vehicle's paint job.

"But, still beautiful."

The air in the truck is suddenly thicker, heavier. Troy feels the floor of the cockpit shift beneath his feet. Beautiful. He thinks about pressing his mouth to Ryan's, taking Ryan's glossy pink bottom lip between his teeth and nibbling on it, littering kisses along the stretch of Ryan's creamy neck that he sobbed into, the previous night. He imagines Ryan's lovely, talented hands splayed across his chest, massaging the flushed, sensitive skin over his pectorals, Ryan's mouth on the shell of his ear, whispering that word and sending shivers down his spine.

Beautiful.

Troy has a faint memory of Gabriella telling him that he looked "handsome", on prom night. Right after she called him "crazy". "Do you think I'm crazy?" The question just slips out. He hears himself prompting it before he can consider the strangeness of such an inquiry.

"I don't see you trying to hitchhike while dressed like the poster boy for twinks everywhere."

Troy has to divert his eyes from the road to shoot Ryan an incredulous look. Ryan meets the look, his face so serious, Troy can't help but release the laughter that bubbles up in his throat.

.

Two partially eaten Blizzards- a Royal Oreo and a Royal Rocky Road Brownie- sit on Ryan's coffee table.

Troy is reclined on Ryan's sofa, only half-cognizant of the black and white movie playing on the TV. "You spoil me, Ry," he murmurs, his eyes falling closed. His body and brain are ready to shut down, for the night, and with a full stomach and the peaceful atmosphere of Ryan's dwelling, he can barely keep himself from sinking into the welcomed tide of exhaustion lapping at his consciousness.

"You deserve to be spoiled," Ryan says. As he rejoins Troy on the sofa, Troy leans in and rests his head against Ryan's shoulder. The cotton of Ryan's dress shirt is soft against his cheek.

"I'm so glad I got to you in time," Troy says. His voice is thick, far away from his own ears.

"Me, too." Ryan's voice has a just detectable quaver to it.

"I'm sorry I keep imposing on you."

"Troy, it's okay. Really. I…" Ryan pauses, and, when he speaks again, there's an intensity backing his words with an origin that Troy almost thinks he can put a label on. If he could just get closer, fall into the skies in Ryan's eyes, take Ryan up to his treehouse, feed him chocolate-covered strawberries because his hair smells like them… "I offered."

Troy can feel Ryan's fingers tentatively combing through his hair, stroking it, and he nuzzles into Ryan's shoulder, wishing the barriers between their flesh were non-existent. "Please don't leave me," he whispers, lifting his sleep-heavy limbs to wrap them around Ryan's lithe torso. As if this, alone, could keep Ryan anchored to his side.

He just registers a watery but adamant, "I won't. I promise", before he breathes in and lets the tide carry him off.

.

Troy awakes with a start, several hours later, to a dark room. The TV is off, the trash from his and Ryan's meal disposed of. A fleece blanket has been wrapped around Troy, and several pillows have been placed against the armrest of the sofa, where his head had been mere moments ago.

His panic subsides when he discerns a familiar head of tousled blond hair and Ryan's soft features only a few feet away from him. Ryan is curled up on top of a quilt on the floor. The blanket over top of him is tucked around his shoulders, his chest rising and falling gently beneath it, his eyes closed and expression tranquil.

A book lays open, face down, beside him.

Troy's heart twists. A sad sort of smile tugs at his lips. He settles back down on the sofa and pulls the ultra soft blanket Ryan gave him up to his chest. Tucking one arm under his head, he stretches out his free limb, brushing his fingertips against the tufts of Ryan's blond hair within his reach.

The ache has returned, gripping his core in its viselike hold, but he has an inkling that he finally understands the reason for its existence. "Thank you," he whispers to wonderful, life-saving, beautiful Ryan. As he closes his eyes to drift back off, Troy knows that, if he could, he'd press his lips to Ryan's forehead and give him a tender kiss. To thank him. To wish him goodnight. To…

.

A light nudge accompanies the voice calling out to him. "Troy. Hey. Rise and shine."

Troy opens his bleary eyes to find Ryan in front of him.

"I didn't know what time you had to be up for your classes, so…" Ryan provides, sheepish.

"Thanks," Troy murmurs. He pushes himself into an upright position and rubs at his eyes. While wiping crust away from his left eye with his knuckle, he makes out a smile quirking the corners of Ryan's mouth. "What?"

"Nothing. Just.." Ryan purses his lips, clamping down on his burgeoning grin. He reaches out like he intends to run his fingers through Troy's hair, but drops his arm to his side, letting it hit off of his hip, instead. "You're, um. You're adorable."

Troy realizes that he must have serious bed-head, and heat fills his cheeks. Not as adorable as you are, he thinks, but refrains from saying it aloud. "Can I-" he starts to ask, but changes his mind halfway. "I should get going."

"Right." Ryan's expression clouds, all traces of a smile vanishing.

An emptiness settles into Troy's bones and muscle tissue. He doesn't want to leave the warmth of Ryan's blanket, the comfort of Ryan's sofa, the safety of his little apartment, Ryan, but, he carefully tosses the blanket aside and forces himself onto his feet. Cold air hits a stretch of his stomach that has been exposed by his crumpled up shirt.

Ryan's eyes are immediately riveted on the section of skin, and Troy is almost overcome with the desire to grab Ryan's hand and press it against his abdomen, let it cool his flesh, which seems to be getting steadily hotter with every passing second.

"Thank you so much for the food and for… everything," he just manages.

His voice is like a thunderclap that jolts Ryan back to reality. Ryan rips his eyes away from Troy's stomach, his cheeks deep pink. "It-It was no trouble at all. Really."

Troy pauses, searching Ryan's eyes for something… Permission, maybe, to want him this badly, even though he just got out of a relationship, and you're not supposed to want someone else so soon after catching your now ex-girlfriend sucking face with a hot stranger. Reciprocation of the desire surging through his body and threatening to dominate his senses. "I would have been really lost without you, last night."

Ryan's Adam's apple dips as he swallows, and his eyes darken. "I'm right here if you need anything," he says softly.

"I know," Troy whispers. Right as he's about to move toward the door, he takes a detour and sweeps Ryan into a tight hug. He crushes their chests together, and his heart seems to splutter with relief when Ryan lifts his arms and requites the hug, fingers pressing into Troy's shoulder blades as if he never wants to let go. Ryan's chin rests in the crook of Troy's neck, and it's so natural, so easy…

Until their pelvises knock together.

"I'm so- Shit." Troy backs away, his face blazing.

"Wai-" Ryan starts.

"I'm sorry, Ryan. I-I need to-" Troy doesn't finish his sentence. He rushes out of Ryan's apartment door and across the hall. Hand shaking, he fishes his key out of his pocket and jams it into the lock. Once the door to his own apartment is shut behind him, he slumps against the back of it.

He stares down at the bulge filling out the front of his pants, and hates himself. Hates himself for not being good enough for Gabriella, and for dragging Ryan into his bullshit. His mess. His-

He tries to will the manifestation of his desire away, to no avail. As he rips his jeans open, resigned, and slips his hand into his boxers, he curses himself. With every rough, careless motion of his hand, he wishes he would have driven into a pole.

"I'm such a fucking idiot," he breathes.

.

"Um, helloooo."

Blinking, Troy becomes aware of a girl sitting inches away from him. She's brunette, with streaks of pink shot through her dark brown hair, gray eyes, and penciled-in eyebrows. "Hey," he greets her. His head is foggy, as if just waking from a dream, and he glances past her face at the room around them, trying to figure out where he is.

"I've been sitting here for like five minutes, trying to ask you out."

"Huh?" Her words fall on semi-deaf ears as Troy processes his surroundings. It looks like he's in English class. The room buzzes with the sounds of his classmates engaging each other in conversation.

He recalls his English classes at East High. He and Ryan were assigned seats next to each other, and became partners for every project by default. Ryan was also the go-to guy for reading passages from Shakespeare, the author Troy personally struggled the most with. Ryan would slip effortlessly into the characters' personas, his voice full and strong as he delivered monologues and soliloquies alike in his lilting, theater-y cadence. Watching, listening to him was mesmerizing, and it almost helped Troy to understand what the plays with their centuries out of fashion language were trying to communicate to their audience.

"You know." The girl's chair squeaks against the floor as she stands up, drawing Troy's attention. When she gathers her purse, her bracelets clink together, and her eyes are cold, her upper-lip curled in irritation, maybe even disgust. "You're hot as fuck, but you're so not worth the trouble."

The words shouldn't, but they cut into Troy like knives. He's hit with the memory of Gabriella telling him that she wasn't going to do the callbacks because of the horrible things he said about her. The hurt darkening Ryan's eyes when Troy snapped at him, that summer at Lava Springs. Fury and pain clouding Chad's eyes every time he challenged Troy about sidelining him and their friends. The T-pendant necklace sitting in the palm of Troy's hand as Gabriella climbed into her mom's mini van and drove out of his life, because he ruined her summer. The humiliation Troy caused overzealous sophomore, Jimmie Zara, by stealing his clothes and forcing Jimmie to chase him through East High with nothing but a thin white towel to preserve his dignity. Sharpay's insistence that Troy was holding Gabriella back from something as amazing as Stanford. Gabriella informing him that she couldn't follow through on their plan for her to fly in and attend the prom with him, because it would hurt her too much, her muttered "I'm sorry", before her end of the line went dead, Gabriella ordering him to "go to bed". Popping a fucking boner on Ryan…

And, now… this.

Troy digs his nails into his thighs, and wishes with all of his might that he would disappear out of everyone's lives.

.

The remainder of that school day passes by in a gray haze, Troy only partially absorbing the material in his classes. He skips lunch, and when he tries to listen to music to take his mind off of the chaotic mess swirling around inside of him, every song conjures thoughts of Gabriella or Ryan until his heart is left aching.

He ignores a Skype call from Chad to avoid burdening him with his nonsense, and to focus on his out of class assignments, but winds up rereading the same paragraph at least ten times.

What the hell am I doing? He stops to ask himself in the middle of basketball practice.

"Bolton, look out!"

Too late to heed the warning, Troy turns around and is smacked upside the head by a stray basketball. It ricochets off his skull with enough force to knock him on his ass. His coach rushes over to help him to his feet, and though the man's brows are crinkled with concern, all Troy can imagine is the shame and disappointment he would have had to face from his dad.

His body leadened down, numb, hollow, Troy trudges out to his truck, at the end of the day, and braces himself for the engine to stall. For a solid three minutes that feel every bit like twenty, Troy struggles to get the vehicle to start, and eventually has to get out and mess with the damn radiator cap.

By the time he gets back to the apartment complex, he wants to sink into a deep sleep and never wake up again.

Ryan is sitting in the lobby, wringing his hands, when Troy walks in through the front doors. He jumps to his feet, and Troy halts in his tracks.

"Ryan, I-" Troy starts. Then, everything overflows. He crumples, tears stinging his eyes, his voice breaking. With the way he ran out, this morning, Ryan must have thought- "I'm so sorry. I'm such a moron."

"You are not a moron," Ryan insists. He crosses over and takes Troy into an embrace. His close proximity, being held in Ryan's lean arms, even though he didn't think he deserved to be held by anyone ever again, is enough to coax the first sob out of Troy's throat.

Wrapping his arms about Ryan's petite form, Troy just manages to stifle a whimper as another sob escapes him.

Ryan strokes through Troy's hair and rubs at his back until Troy's cries have subsided to quiet sniffling. "But, there's obviously something wrong," he says, his voice free of derision, annoyance, disgust. There's nothing in his tone but an earnest desire to help. To console. To maybe even collect the shattered pieces with sharp edges sifting about in Troy's chest, and cement them back together. "Do you think you might be ready to talk about it, now?"

Troy presses his cheek to Ryan's temple, uncaring that the side of Ryan's hat is poking his head. "Yeah." He nods firmly, sniffling.

Ryan continues to caress Troy's scalp, sending pleasant tingles across the span of it and down Troy's spine.

Troy melts, unraveling, going slack in Ryan's hands, and, for the second time, he thinks he could stay here forever.

.

Ryan puts a tea kettle on. "Is grilled cheese okay?" He asks, pulling a skillet out of a cupboard overlooking his stove.

"How do you always know when I need to eat?" Troy sets down the glass of ice water Ryan handed him as soon as they entered his apartment. It's near half-empty. Troy was surprisingly dehydrated.

"Call it a hunch." Ryan's inflection is cheery, but there's a solemn, reticent undertone to his words, and Troy is sure a frown is pulling at the corners of Ryan's mouth.

Troy thinks back to their senior year, to Ryan offering him cookies, candies, even half of his lunch, as Troy spent the better half of two weeks in a near-catatonic state after Gabriella's departure for California. His heart stirs with yearning. "Grilled cheese sounds great. Thank you."

Ryan smiles to show that he's heard, then prepares the skillet. As he's slicing the cheese, he hums to himself. The melody is vaguely familiar, soothing.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Troy asks.

"You can butter some bread and set it on the skillet, if you please."

Eager to assist the person who has repeatedly gone out of his way for him, to do something right, for once, Troy all but leaps to his feet. He takes four slices of bread from the breadbox on Ryan's kitchen counter. He rummages through the fridge and pulls out a tiny container of butter, then removes a butter knife from Ryan's silverware drawer. Crossing to the stove, he spreads butter across both sides of each slice, then carefully lays two of them on top of the oiled up skillet.

Ryan joins him and places one cheese slice on each piece of bread. With a soft smile, he encourages Troy to stack a second piece of bread on top. As the sandwiches begin to sizzle away, Ryan says, "They shouldn't take too long."

"Yeah."

Ryan gives Troy a light, affectionate nudge, and rubs the small of his back. "Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I'll bring the tea in a minute."

"Awesome." Troy nods. He grabs his glass off of the kitchen table and situates himself on Ryan's sofa. He crosses and uncrosses his legs and picks at his fingernails before settling on skimming one of the books on the coffee table.

Which is back in its spot in front of the sofa.

Troy tries not to linger too long on what it could possibly mean that Ryan moved the coffee table in order to lay so close to him, last night… and how this thought makes his chest tighten.

He's reading an odd fairytale about a wicked step-mother who has casted spells on every body of water her fleeing step-children encounter, ensuring that one drink would turn one of the children into an animal who would promptly devour their sibling, when Ryan arrives with two steaming mugs of tea, and two plates of grilled cheese sandwiches.

Troy sets the book aside and accepts his mug and plate with a grateful smile.

"Careful. It's still hot," Ryan advises. It's unnecessary, but Troy can't help smiling to himself. It really is adorable how Ryan dotes on him.

He just wishes Ryan didn't have to devote so much time to looking after someone who should be a fully competent and capable adult.

Ryan takes a cautious sip from his mug; very light blue, and covered in a design that looks to be a bowler hat, cane, and gloves doing jazz hands.

"Nice mug," Troy says.

"Thank you." Pink colors Ryan's cheeks, again, and Troy wants to tell him that he's beautiful.

Instead, he remembers what he's here for. He takes a bite out of his sandwich while it's still warm, and while he can still get it down. He lets himself revel in the taste of it for a few fleeting moments, acknowledges that he had a small hand in making something so good, and, steeling his nerves, he gulps the food down around the lump already constricting his throat. "I drove to Stanford, the other night. I told myself that I had to make things right with Gabriella. I made sure to get all of her favorite foods- margherita pizza, chocolate-covered strawberries…" A wry smile pulls at his mouth. "I even bought a bouquet of roses. It was cheesy and stupid, but I just wanted everything to be perfect, you know?" His eyes flick to Ryan, who watches on, brows beginning to draw together.

He lays a hand on Troy's knee, offering quiet encouragement for him to continue.

Troy scrapes remnants of bread off of his teeth with his tongue, and grabs hold of Ryan's hand, squeezing it for comfort, reassurance, motivation to get this off of his chest. It comes out as hardly more than a whisper. "She was kissing another guy."

Ryan's gaze hardens, taking on an unsettling iciness. His jaw sets. Shaking his head, he runs his thumb over Troy's knuckles and says, his voice uncharacteristically harsh, "Fuck her. She may be an Einsteinette, but she's also a selfish, inconsiderate bitch who has no idea what, and more importantly, who she callously discarded."

Hearing someone call Gabriella a "bitch", astonishingly doesn't bother Troy as much as he thought it would. As much as it might have in high school. "The guy was hot," he says quietly.

If Ryan is surprised by this, his face betrays nothing but a slight arcing of his eyebrow.

"And a genius," Troy goes on, unsure if he's stating this as an objective fact, or using the statement as an excuse for Gabriella's actions. People's affections don't stray unless something better comes along, and a tall, handsome Stanford University student is going to appeal to anyone over a short, messed up…

"You're no slouch, yourself." Ryan's grip on Troy's hand tightens. His eyes flare with a sudden intensity that melts the earlier iciness and replaces it with something simultaneously softer, and more vehement. "Aside from the fact that you're incredibly, ludicrously, undeniably attractive, Berkeley doesn't exactly have a reputation as a school for dummies."

Troy lowers his eyes to his lap.

Ryan leans in, ducking his head to find Troy's eyes with his own. The soft pools of sky blue set in his fair face are warm, earnest, sincere, and, perhaps there's a bit of desperation there, as well, for his words to register. "Do you have any idea how many girls, and guys, would kill for a sweet, selfless, intelligent, versatile, and romantic boyfriend who shows up at their university to surprise them with a bouquet of roses and their favorite foods?" When Troy's expression remains blank, reflecting the void gaping beneath the surface, Ryan presses, insists, "Troy, you have never been the problem."

"Really?"

"Yes. Seriously."

Troy searches Ryan's face for any trace of dishonesty. He takes in the sensation of Ryan's hand entwined with his own and resting on his knee, the smoothness of Ryan's skin. He has no reason to believe that Ryan is lying, or embellishing for the sake of kissing his ass, like so many of their peers at East High, but… "Do you legitimately think I'm all of those things?"

"Of course I do." Ryan's voice is soft. The tinge of desperation in his eyes sharpens, causing a crease in his brow line, and Troy's stomach twists. He hates that he's making Ryan, wonderful, sweet, if a bit awkward, smart and adorably eccentric, insanely talented and bound to be a star Ryan, worry about him. "Hey. Why don't you finish eating, and then we can walk across the hall and grab whatever you need for an overnight stay. I-If you want to, that is."

Troy lets the tip of his nose brush Ryan's in a faint ghost of a touch. He peers into Ryan's eyes, smiling softly, and squeezes his hand, hoping to communicate to him that Ryan's invitation has just alleviated so much of the tension on Troy's chest. "I'd love to. Thank you."

.

Tendrils of Troy's hair curl against the back of his neck, heavy and still damp. Freshly showered and clothed in a thin t-shirt and boxers, Troy leans forward on the sofa in Ryan's apartment and pours over his Calc. II homework. In his peripheral vision, he can make out Ryan studying a copy of Othello that has multiple slips of paper poking out of its pages. Occasionally, Ryan seems to squint at a particular passage and hold the book closer to his face, and Troy almost wonders if…

He's about to put the pause on computing derivatives and ask the question perched on the tip of his tongue, when Ryan sets the book aside and stretches.

"How goes the Calculus?" Ryan asks.

"Numbers are surprisingly easy to understand, even off the basketball court."

"Maybe for you. I can count a beat, and keep track of the numbers associated with each musical note- quarter, half, sixteenth- but higher mathematics are a foreign language to me."

"Says the guy who ranked at the top of our AP English class all year, while also studying French and Spanish."

"Oh Dios mío. Comment vous me flattez," Ryan remarks, touching his hand to his chest.

"Yeah." Troy feels an amused smile play on his lips. "I have no idea what you just said."

"Well…" Ryan crosses over to the sofa, and Troy can see his pajama pants riding low on his waist beneath the hem of his t-shirt. "I can't make heads or tails of…" Ryan squats down and scans the screen of Troy's laptop. "That."

Troy follows Ryan's line of sight to the function. "If it's any consolation, Ry," he assures him, jostling his shoulder lightly, "you'll never need to. Most people will never need to."

"Thank goodness for that. One of life's small mercies."

Troy bites back a laugh. Chad earned a reputation as the class clown for his antics, but Ryan's snark never fails to send amusement fizzing through Troy's insides.

"Anyway," Ryan goes on, cheeks flushing a faint pink. "I, um… While you were in the shower, I put something together for you."

Brows elevated, Troy watches Ryan stand up and traverse the floor to retrieve his light blue MacBook Pro. Ryan swipes his fingers across the laptop's mousepad and opens the Itunes application. "Call it cheesy and stupid," Troy doesn't miss the fact that his own descriptions for his actions, the previous night, are being recycled, "but I've always felt that music can aid in the healing process, and I think a little catharsis would be really good for you."

Troy doesn't comment. He just watches and listens intently. When the sound of an acoustic guitar flows out of the laptop's speakers, accompanying Adele's rich voice, he's prepared to shake his head and return to his Calculus homework. No music, however powerful the singer's voice, can seal up the wounds Gabriella has carved into his heart.

But, with the second repetition of;

Send my love to

Your new lover

Treat her better

He's hanging onto every word, something inside restructuring itself from the ground up, fortifying. Gabriella did set him free.

The track transitions into the upbeat "Gonna Get Over You", by Sara Bareilles and Troy's swaying, almost subconsciously, his foot tapping to the infectious beat.

Ryan prances into the kitchen on feet as light as air, and Troy can smell chocolate chip cookie dough and hear Ryan's lilting alto-tenor singing along. Ryan shoots Troy a soft, encouraging smile from where he stands at the counter, and part of Troy aches to get on his feet, to let the music flood his muscle tissue and guide his body across the floor. Shake every last trace of Gabriella's nuclear fusion with another man, of their relationship, out of his system as he dances his way to a new beginning, to a reset button.

To Ryan.

The words to Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone", are lured out of his throat, raw emotion- anger, betrayal, heartache, relief- backing each syllable, before Troy even realizes that he's singing along.

Cee Lo Green's "Fuck You", has Ryan and Troy belting the lyrics, grins on their faces as they declare each "Fuck her, too", and it is liberating. By the time they get to the ridiculously cheesy, "I Will Survive", the incredible, appetizing smell of the chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven fills the apartment, and Ryan is dancing around the main room, rocking his hips to the disco beat, and Troy is on his feet right beside him, melodramatically tossing his hair and laughing as he twirls and moonwalks across the floor. He's sure he looks like an idiot, but he can't find it in himself to care. Not now, not here, not with Ryan.

Ryan offers Troy his hand and Troy takes it, two-stepping with him around the coffee table, then spinning him out. With every repetition of the chorus, Troy feels more and more like he will be okay, that he will survive. And, the intense sparkle illuminating Ryan's eyes as he watches Troy empower himself, only reinforces that sentiment.

.

Troy accepts the invitation to share Ryan's bed without any hesitation. He rationalizes that it's easier on Ryan than moving the coffee table and sleeping on the floor beside the sofa.

For the first time, when he awakens from a nightmare, his body coated with cold sweat, clothes sticking to his skin, and heart hammering against his breastbone, there's a warm body sleeping soundly beside Troy, lulling him back to sleep with the sounds of tranquil breathing.

A warm body with skin that glows alabaster in the moonlight, and golden hair.

Eyes already falling closed, once more, Troy settles back down beside Ryan and makes himself comfortable, snuggling into the petite blond's backside. His nose finds a spot on the back of Ryan's neck, just below his hairline, to rest against, and he breathes in, letting himself drift back off with the scent of clean linen and strawberries filling his nostrils.

.

Ryan burns the "Rebirth- or Getting Over Your Adulterous Ex" playlist onto a disc for Troy.

Troy takes it with a grateful smile and kiss to Ryan's cheek. A kiss that makes Ryan blush and touch a hand to the area Troy's mouth made contact with in an impossibly adorable way.

Troy listens to the entire playlist on repeat until scar tissue forms over the wounds incised on his heart.

Though, he's pretty sure the bundle of chocolate chip cookies Ryan handed him is also aiding in the healing process.

.

Loud, digitally produced chimes fill Troy's apartment.

Troy sets aside the barbels he was doing curls with, and moves to where his laptop sits on his bed. He answers the Skype call on its second ring. "Hey, Chad."

"What's going on over there, man? I heard from Taylor that Gabriella's running around with some brain in her Pre-Law class."

"You know… " Troy ignores the faint sting Chad's tactless phrasing inflicts on his core. "You were right. Gabriella was one step ahead, and I just wasn't seeing the bigger picture." He can feel Chad's questioning gaze trained on him through the screen, even though he hasn't selected the video chat option.

"She cheated on you," Chad finally says, surprise evident in his tone.

Troy scratches at the back of his neck. "Yeah," he affirms quietly.

"That… That fucking sucks."

"Yeah." It's barely discernible, and Troy wonders if Chad can even hear him as he gives a despondent shrug. He catches sight of the CD sitting on the nightstand; the title printed in Ryan's neat handwriting, and a feeling of warmth pushes out the thick, heavy melancholy. "I'm just lucky Ryan is here to-"

"Wait. Evans is there? Didn't he get a scholarship to that Juilliard school?"

Troy wishes Chad would quit referring to Ryan by his last name. It's demeaning. "Yes, Ryan is here." He isn't sure how much to divulge to a third party, so he settles for the succinct, "He decided to just jump right into auditioning for a show."

After a moment of near unsettling silence, during which Troy braces himself to defend Ryan's decision, Ryan, himself, if it comes to it, Chad lets out a faint laugh. "That sounds like something you would do, Hoops."

Troy's heart gives a pang as the observation resonates. "You think so?"

"Come on." The warmth in Chad's tone is like a friendly jostle to Troy's shoulders. "Who knows you better than I do? With the way you two were practically attached at the hip, last year, I'm not surprised you're rubbing off on each other. Just… don't start wearing sparkly hats on me."

Troy smirks. "I don't know. I think the hats are growing on me." He and Ryan rubbing off on each other… He doubts Chad has even considered the alternate meaning of that statement. The very appealing alternate meaning.

"Whatever, asshole. I'm whooping your ass when Berkeley plays against U of A, next month." There's no barb, no sting to Chad's words. Just the amicable competitiveness that makes Chad such an asset when they're playing for the same team, and a worthy challenger when they're pitted against one another.

"Looking forward to it, buddy." Troy considers gushing to Chad about how amazing a chef Ryan is, how Ryan's cookies could easily put Zeke's to shame, how he never would have survived the last couple of days without Ryan…

Instead, he listens to Chad go on and on about his acclimation to U of A, how Taylor is thriving at Yale in her Honors Political Science courses, and lets his mind drift to Chad's planned visit to Berkeley, in a few weeks. Troy is going to make sure to include Ryan in all of their escapades, and make absolute certain Chad gets to sample at least one of Ryan's culinary creations. He wouldn't miss the surprise lighting up Chad's face, and the grudging respect for the boy Chad once derided as an "overgrown show dog", stealing into his features, for the world.

.

A/N: This story was inspired by an "imagine your OTP" prompt on Tumblr. Wouldn't you know, somehow, it's become so massive, I've opted to split it into two parts.

I'm sort of in love with the idea of Ryan heading to California, after graduation, as opposed to New York. I wish more authors would explore that avenue and all of the limitless potential for Tryan it brings. But, alas… you guys have seen the state of creative output involving Troy/Ryan. It's… not good.

I hope that all of my dear readers will rejoin me in the second part of this story. Until then, take care.