a/n ohmigosh this fandom is so 2008. whatever.
so there's this kid jacob and i've been trying to write troy/ryan slash since i happened upon his hsm stories a year ago. but then he quit writing fanfiction cos he's like a proper writer now. ah, well. you live you learn. after a year of throwing things at the wall something has finally stuck. but here's the thing. i'm not all that invested in this and if no one is reading it (as it is no longer 2008) i'm not going to bother, ya know? so if you're into it let me know. that would be pretty awesome.
and okay. is anyone else watching lucas grabeel in switched at birth? so freaking good. and he talks about testicles. i'm such a fanboy.
warnings slash, use of the french language without accents (i am quite lazy), mind games, shakespeare, mild language
Paper Bullets of the Mind - They
"I'm finding I'm somewhat different these days
tired of cliches, tired of old wives tales
there's not an aphorism made that can hold me back
why won't you hold me back like you used to do?"
- Tom Milsom "They"
"Tu es…" Troy stumbles over the words while his brain decides against supplying a noun. "Tu es un sac a douche," he says, triumphant.
"You are aware that you just called me a shower bag, oui?" Ryan shoots back.
"Shut up," Troy replies, scouring his French textbook.
"Tais toi," Ryan corrects softly.
"French is useless. I'm never going to France anyway." Troy puts on a spectacular glare and slams his book shut as if it has personally offended him. And maybe it has.
"C'est nul," Ryan corrects again, and sticks his tongue out for good measure. "You never know. Maybe one day you will be a famous NBA all star player and you have to travel to France for a tournament or an endorsement deal or…" Ryan trails off. He's only joking because knows better than to think Troy is even remotely interested in what he's saying.
"Or for fashion week," Troy responds with a shrug. Ryan raises his eyebrows but doesn't have to ask. "'Cos, ya know, hot girls, or whatever." His cheeks are stained with an unmistakable blush which is very cute, Ryan thinks.
"Of course," he agrees, "Tu as raison."
"Huh?" Troy says eloquently.
"You really are quite bad at this," Ryan concedes, since that was Troy's initial premise. In retaliation Troy crinkles the worksheet into a ball and tosses it at Ryan's head.
Ryan isn't supposed to be in Troy's beginning French class; he takes French IV after lunch. He had a free period in the middle of the day and Madame Lucie needed a student aide. The class is full of freshman, including the overeager Jimmie, so Ryan steps in as his partner for conversation exercises.
To save him from the freshman, of course.
Not because he's fascinated with the talented Adonis in front of him or his bizarre, exotic jock world. No.
"So what are you doing this weekend?" Troy asks, opening his book and refocusing his efforts. He is a good student, really.
"Qu'est-ce que tu fais pour le week-end?" Ryan translates back, assuming Troy is asking for help with the assignment.
"No, seriously." Troy laughs at the miscommunication, looks like he's about to smack Ryan on the shoulder like he would a real friend but refrains.
"Oh." Ryan considers the question. "Nothing really." It's depressing but that's the truth. "Sharpay wants us to do some dance workshop over in Santa Fe but I doubt our parents will let us."
"Why not?" Is he really interested or is he just avoiding French? Ryan can never tell.
"She's failing pre calc." Troy closes his book again and tosses it to the side.
"Ouch."
"I didn't want to go," Ryan finds himself saying. Troy just nods; dance class is not his thing. At a loss for what to say next Ryan reciprocates, asking what Troy is doing this weekend.
"Same old, same old. Hanging out with the guys, golf practice. There's a party tonight but Gabi's gonna be there so I probably shouldn't be." Oh right, Ryan had heard that East High's power couple parted ways over the summer but he isn't one to listen to gossip. They seem perfect for each other. The news shocks him.
"Sorry to hear about your break up," Ryan tries awkwardly. This is a tad too personal for their entirely impersonal relationship.
"It's all good, dude. For the best or whatever," Troy promises. He seems just as awkward which is comforting. "Besides," he continues, "love sucks, it sucks dirty balls." Troy stretches lazily like it's no big deal but Ryan can hear the anger behind the words. He's fluent in subtext.
"Balls," Ryan agrees. "I-ran-ten-miles-in-skin-tight-pleather dirty balls." Thankfully, this elicits a snort and a chuckle from his French partner. "What are you doing instead?" Ryan inquires further.
Troy opens his mouth to answer but Lucie calls the class to attention before he can. The two exchange and eye roll at Madame's excessive enthusiasm before Ryan returns to his spot at the back of the classroom.
This is how it is between them: tentative friends inside the walls of classroom 204, strangers once the bell rings. Senior year started over a month ago and nothing has changed. Sometimes they dance around the topic of hanging out "or something" but nothing sticks. After the way his twin treated Troy and his friends over the summer he isn't surprised.
Fifty minutes a day is fine with him anyway.
"Je suis stupide," Troy says with a dramatic sigh. Five minutes before the bell and he's standing at Ryan's desk at the back of the room. The freshman huddle at the door like sheep.
"Need help?" Ryan asks almost impishly. Troy nods and Ryan translates the homework instructions. Their fingers brush against each other when he hands the paper back and electricity jolts down Ryan's spine. Maybe Troy felt it too because instead of gushing thanks like usual he just stares at the floor and the speckled tile design.
Saved by the bell, Troy rushes off to his jock table while Ryan finds solace in the theatre annex. Communications cease until Monday morning. Ryan has always liked routine.
Ryan presses the white earbuds of his headphones further into his ears but it doesn't help. Still, the screaming coming from downstairs permeates his brain. Once again, his parents have said no to one of Sharpay's many demands and she isn't taking it very well.
His Top 40 playlist muffles the individual sounds which is nice but the white noise still annoys him. The argument is always the same and Ryan could probably repeat it verbatim. Sharpay has never been a good student or good with the word no. To make matters worse her lung capacity is only rivalled by that of their mother's.
Being at home is fun.
To kill time he logs onto Facebook and scrolls through the wall posts. Nothing is happening, it never is. That so many people find it necessary to publicize their miserable lives baffles him. He has hundreds of virtual friends but he's still alone. Surely he can't be the only one to realize this.
Suddenly a friend request pops up. Troy Bolton would like to be his friend. Automatically he clicks the confirm button.
He clicks onto his own profile to make sure nothing offensive stands out, nothing that could ruin their fragile almost-friendship more than his existence already does.
The profile picture is from drama camp last summer; it's one of the few times he wasn't decked out in pink or gold to match his sister. In jeans and a t-shirt he looks completely casual and non-offensive. He likes Shakespeare plays, Sofia Coppola movies and Broadway soundtracks, there's nothing he can change about that.
His bio says next to nothing, so no worries there. Rarely does he post anything on his wall or anyone else's, good. There is only one glaring problem.
Interested in: Men.
It isn't as though no one knows. He's been "out" since his junior year but most people of Troy's status don't care enough about him to notice. Maybe that's why Troy still talks to him.
Then he remembers that he doesn't care. If it bothers him their friendship wasn't going to get very far anyway. Before cynical outrage can fully take shape Troy instant messages him.
Hey, it says. Ryan exhales a long, shaky breath.
Hey yourself, he types and hits enter. Was that too forward? He hopes Troy doesn't think that was flirting. Dear god.
How's it goin? It doesn't take a neurosurgeon to know that Troy doesn't really want to know 'how it is going' for Ryan. Sucky, if he's being honest.
Really great, he lies sarcastically, what about you?
Not so great, Troy types. The sentiment is punctuated by an emoticon hieroglyphic; colon end parenthesis.
Oh no, what's wrong? Ryan looks away from the screen when he hears footsteps stomping up the stairs. And his night was going so well.
"Ryan!" Sharpay screeches, throwing open his bedroom door. "Talk to mother!" She grabs his hand and drags him down the stairs.
"You love Ryan," Sharpay whines. "You would say yes to him, wouldn't you?" she says accusingly. Sweet to sour in two-point-five.
"Ryan doesn't fail his math tests even when we hire very expensive math tutors for him!" Actually Ryan doesn't need a math tutor. He's very good with numbers. Much to his twin's dismay.
The screaming match from earlier continues but now Ryan has a front row seat. Not that he asked for it. He's more of an example, a totem, than a participating party here. He wishes he could go back upstairs. But when he tries to make his escape angry claws pull him back to his doom.
Their father, who was avoiding the fight in his office, finally comes out to end the racket as it is interrupting his work. Sharpay still can't go and she's grounded for the rest of the night. How utterly terrifying but at least Ryan is free to return to his room.
Twelve messages from Troy since he left, he feels oddly accomplished. All of Troy's friends went to that party and left him alone for the night. He feels alone and sad.
Is Ryan there?
Hello?
What, he's not allowed to complain?
Come on. It's not that bad.
Will Ryan answer if he complains in French?
Et cetera.
Ryan is touched though he reminds himself it's only because all of Troy's real friends are busy.
Sorry, Sharpay needed me. And sorry your friends left you alone.
At least I still have you.
Always. The sentiment feels too serious, too quickly so Ryan adds a funny happy face involving the letter 'P' to make it more lighthearted. He contemplates adding an 'lol' but that would be too much, he decides.
Their conversation continues well into the wee hours of the morning even though they don't really talk about anything. When two people hardly know each other the conversation can run on angst and small talk alone. Around three they both decide it's time to call it a night.
Ryan can't remember the last time he had a better one.
Although they Evans Twins are not allowed to go to Santa Fe this weekend it's still Saturday and that means they will spend a good five hours at the dance studio. Their Saturdays have been reserved for dance rehearsal for as long as either of them can remember. Still, little dramas plague their morning.
After four hours of sleep Ryan rolls out of bed, exhausted. Not even coffee and a cold shower rouse him so he stumbles through the morning half asleep. Sharpay can't find her pointe shoes, the tan ones for recital. They are out of yogurt and carrots so they leave the house starving. Sharpay forgot to put gas in her car and feigns a panic attack because the car is obviously going to blow up halfway there.
Not that he's a mechanics expert but Ryan is fairly certain that what she is suggesting is a physical impossibility.
Ryan drives so Sharpay can continue her mental episode in the back. She finds the missing shoes under the seat.
Even with all the fuss they are a good fifteen minutes early. Younger students scatter as the Evans twins make their entrance. Ryan is instantly accosted by Becca and Emily and dragged off to gossip. Sharpay disappears into the dressing room to collect her own posse.
This place is practically Ryan's second home. He loves the polished hardwood floors, the wall to wall mirrors and the metal bar that circles the room. He even loves the humid stench of sweat and feet mixed with the sweet tang of hairspray. The Sawyer School of Dance, the one place he isn't consumed with self-doubt and the need to fit in. This is where he belongs.
Becca and Emily chat about the director's daughter Juliet, they hear she has her own show on Broadway now. Ryan laughs because he knows it isn't true and focuses on elastic of his ballet shoes.
"Ohmigosh, she's only like, ten though. What about school and stuff? Do you think she's, like, getting paid for it? Like paid to dance, wow." Becca is a little dim, even by Ryan's standards and he wishes she would shut up. He's almost certain that Juliet or her mother or one of the members of her massive extended family is somewhere in their general vicinity.
"No okay, it's like on Disney. They have personal tutors and stuff. Right, Ryan?" His mother was on Broadway so if anyone would know it would be him. He just shrugs, too exhausted to deal with this.
"But like, she was here all summer. For the modeling workshop?" Becca seems very confused. Ryan needs coffee.
"It's just what I heard, Becca. Geez, I'm not like, a Juliet expert or anything." There is a bit of resentment in this statement. Juliet used to idolize Emily when she was younger. Then she grew up, became a ballet prodigy and didn't need Juliet to carry her around anymore.
"If anyone deserves it it's totally her. Have you seen her? It's like she has no bones at all. Pure rubber or something."
"Everyone has seen her," Emily huffs. Ryan extends his legs in front of himself and forces his nose to his knees in an effort to block out their conversation. It isn't working.
"Juliet Sawyer does not have her own show," Sharpay snaps, sashaying toward them. "Now disperse," she demands with a wave of her hand. The two girls squeak disapproval but lope off anyway. Ryan groans and rolls his neck.
"Rude much?" With a loud thwack a water bottle collides with Ryan's shoulder. He's torn between nursing the wound and guzzling the offered beverage.
"Drink," Sharpay decides for him. "You look awful." And he feels awful. Lack of sleep coupled with nausea and dehydration. "We do not function well on weird sleeping patterns," Sharpay says, voicing his exact thoughts. "What kept you up so late?"
Ryan shrugs. For one reason or another the truth would displease her. A lot. And that is not something he can deal with right now. "School?"
"Whatever. Liar." Before they can get too far into the is-he-isn't-he conversation their instructor Miss Stephanie calls them into class. Sharpay goes in first, taking her usual spot at the front of the bar. Ryan files in with Becca and Emily where they take their place in the corner of the room.
This class, their life at the studio could almost be a metaphor for their declining relationship, Ryan thinks distractedly. Before the thought gets too much traction bland piano music pipes up and Miss Stephanie is barking directions.
"We'll start with plies, ladies and gentlemen." Why she needs to tell them this is beyond Ryan, they start the same way every class. He sighs. "First position, demi and stretch, demi and stretch. Full grande plie and return. Port de brah forward, port de brah back. The same in first, second, third and fifth. Sharpay, would you demonstrate?"
"Not with that stick up her ass," Emily hisses in his ear. The three of them snort to hide laughter.
"Something to say, Emily?" Miss Stephanie asks, pausing the music. In tandem, twenty heads whip around to stare at them. It's slightly unnerving.
Becca shakes her head frantically. "No, ma'am." Miss Stephanie and Sharpay share matching glares. Evil glares, with the promise of a truly gruelling two hours. As the music starts back up Ryan glances at the clock. Four hours fifty-five minutes left.
After ballet boot camp his day is a downhill slide.
It isn't that he hates ballet but it's clearly Sharpay's thing. She is, after all, built for it with her long extremities and manic energy. By contrast Ryan is better suited for modern and has a talent for tap. Also, he is always happy to put healthy distance between himself and his overbearing sister.
Speaking of which, class is finally over and she is making her way towards him, obviously furious for some reason or another.
"Do you have practice for The Battle today?" she snaps. Oh. That's why. Ryan had been cast in this years big competition number and Sharpay had not. She is accepting it with the grace and humility for which she is known.
"Um, no. Thursdays." Sharpay flicks an imaginary hair, as her real hair is pulled back in a bun. Of course she knew that already, having been in several similar competition numbers in years past. It is another one of her useless power plays meant to show him how insignificant it is, he is.
This isn't how he wants to spend his time, tied up in mind games that don't matter. He calculates what to say next, what will get him what he wants without her knowing he's getting it.
"Well now you know," is passive and Sharpay would see it as a victory.
"It's the same as last week and the week before that," would make him sound whiney, like he needs her to remember.
"You've been in it before," commits him to the game she's trying to play.
"You'd know if you were in it," is just mean and opens the door for her to fight back. Ryan doesn't need the headache.
Finally he settles for a shrug and a mumbled "yeah," as he digs around in his colossal bag for the right tap shoes. It doesn't take long for her to get bored and wonder off. Ryan continues to stare, determined, into his bag until he's sure she's gone.
"Tu es un sac a douche," he mumbles under his breath, allowing the silly insult now that she's gone. He loves that he has an inside joke with someone who isn't his twin no matter how one sided it is. His amusement is a great distraction from certain other angry people.
Eventually he looks up to see said angry person holding court with Courtney and Amanda Rose, two of her ballet diva friends. They leave the studio, probably for the Starbucks up the street. Ryan's stomach churns with jealousy. Unlike them he actually has another class and can't run off at the first sign of caffeine withdrawal.
Whatever. He cracks the top of his water bottle and lets the cold liquid fill his mouth. Endorphins pumping, he's almost positive that he can barrel though the exhaustion and make it the rest of the day. He pulls his tap shoes on and clips his way down the hall.
Only three hours left.