AN: I've been going through the HSM vault on my laptop, and finishing up any half done oneshots to get ideas out of my head. This one is different for me, so give it a chance and let me know what you think. Thanks to anyone who betaed.

Disclaimer: I do not own HSM.

Fall To Paradise

"Dark little heaven at the top of the stairs;

Take me like that, ruin it all, and build it again by the light in hall."

–One More Night, Stars

~*~

The door of the taxi is thrown open, the black interior matching the black of the midnight sky, and the solitary figure in the backseat stumbles out in a rush. She rummages in her purse, a pink oversized bag that she had grabbed on her way out the door in her hurried escape, and pulls out a fistful of dollar bills that she then thrusts at the driver of the amber coloured vehicle. He counts them slowly, mouthing the amounts to himself as she fidgets on the sidewalk. When he's satisfied, he gives her a disinterested nod that is cut short by her quick slam of the door. The sound echoes in the quiet street.

No one is about, despite it being a Friday night. The street is empty except for two students sitting on the stairs of the frat house across the street. She can see their dark silhouettes illuminated by the hall light visible through the screen door behind them. She hears laughter on the wind, but it comes from a place beyond where she stands, floating in on the air as she hesitates about coming here. There is a chill in the air and she realizes that in her haste, as she fled, she forgot a sweater and she shivers beneath the thin fabric of her dress. The bag on her shoulder vibrates, the sound more ominous than the mist rising from the grass along the pathway before her. She doesn't look for the caller, the anger in her blood that accompanied her in the taxi fading to sadness and betrayal now that she is alone again.

She lurches as her heel slips on the edge of the sidewalk, the sound of leather scraping against concrete sounding harsh to her ears. Wobbling slightly on the uneven ground, she straightens her rumpled outfit and tries to forget why she is wearing it. Throwing back her shoulders, she struggles to regain the part of her that clings to control, power and confidence. It's slipping and she still has a need for it. Sucking in a breath, she shakes out her hair and begins to walk towards the door that calls to her across the untamed lawn. Her pace quickens with every step, the desire burning in her heart unravelling the fragile control she is trying to exert. Her breath catches as the night rolls over her, and her eyes flick to the window on the upper floor with the lamp burning on the ledge.

Realization that he is home and still awake fuels the quiver in her gut and conquers the dilemma raging in her head. All of the scenarios in her imagination are doused as she bounds up the stairs, the heels of her shoes do not catch on the gaps in the steps like they tend to do and she is standing in front of the door with its fraternity symbol pressed into the wood. The door is not locked, she finds, and she lets herself in. Inside is as quiet as the street she has left behind.

Her phone vibrates again, more urgently and bitter although she knows that is impossible, and she grips the strap on her bag tighter as her steps become quicker, more frantic; the even click of her heels no longer a steady rhythm. She ignores the sound of the television in the room to her left and instead takes the staircase directly in front of her. Two steps at a time and she is panting on the first landing, the anxiety building in her chest decreasing her oxygen levels. At the second landing, she rips her heels off her feet. The clasp of one strap snaps, falling silently to the floor without her notice as she grips the railing and continues to launch herself to the third floor. She drops her shoes when the stairs end. The bag follows soon after, leaving her empty handed in front of his bedroom door.

Once she begins knocking on his door, she can't seem to stop. The pounding rattles the door in its frame, her insistency becoming frantic as her body registers how close he is. From the other side, she can hear a chair be shoved back, and soft footsteps of someone heavier than she cross the floor. Her hand instinctly grasps the doorknob in her free hand, shoving it open the moment the lock clicks open. He has stumbled back to allow her in, unsure why she's here and why she's crying. She doesn't notice her own tears as she stands before him, anxious to make the first move but knowing she no longer had control. Coming here means relinquishing it.

His large hand is hot on her trembling arm, goosebumps dotting the exposed flesh. In the mirror on the far side of the room, she sees herself and cringes. The dress was chosen for the night but not for him, it's sparkling trim inches above her knees, the matching neckline plunging without being tacky. Her blonde hair has tumbled from its pins during her ride in the cab and then her marathon up the stairs. She remembers the shoes in the hallway. He calls to her softly and she turns, brown eyes wide with expectation and pain.

"He was late," she whispers. "I waited and waited and waited, and he didn't even call."

"Sharpay?" God, she loves how he says her name. Like it is holy. He rolls the syllables with practiced ease. No one speaks to her like that.

"I don't know what I'm doing anymore, you know?" She feels the tears now, her cheeks sting with the salt. "I keep trying but it's so hard. Why can't I let go?"

"You never did know when to give up," he jokes feebly, his eyes darting in the way that tells her he has no idea what to tell her. He doesn't want to lie and say everything will be okay because he doesn't want it to be. He hates this topic. He sees the tears too and rubs a hand over his face at his insensitivity. "Fuck, Pay, I didn't mean that."

"Yes, you did," she tells him, dashing a hand across her eyes and seeing as it comes away dirtied with ruined makeup. He never expects her to be perfect here. It makes him all the more inviting, and her all the more unfaithful for craving it. "I want what used to be when I met him at that party and I finally felt like someone got me, but he's not the person people think he is. I'm sick of it, Chad. He doesn't love me—he's incapable of it."

"Do you love him?" he asks, preparing himself to deflect her answer. To not let it sink into his skin like a barb.

"No." She says it like a secret, as if her heart is breaking in the process. He whips his gaze up to meet hers, but she has looked away. "I can't. Maybe I could have, if things were different; if he was different." Now she stares into his eyes, brown like her own but holding so much more expression. People have called her cold, but no one could say that about Chad. He was heat and warmth and sparks. "It still hurts though."

"Pay—." His mouth feels dry, his thought incomplete. They have a cycle. It's been occurring for months with no specific beginning. Lines have been made and crossed, his heart on hold and hers trying to decide.

"Just—." She too has a hard time finishing. "Just make it go away. I don't want to think about him."

Her eyes are pleading with him as he closes the distance between them. He is never able to deny her. Her hands slide up his chest, over the cotton of his black t-shirt that covers muscles hard from hours in the gym. He is no longer the gangly, awkward boy with too much confidence from high school; he has grown into himself, into a man and it makes her weak to recognize it. The t-shirt comes off and is tossed into the chair behind them. He is much taller than she and she's forced to tilt her head back to capture his mouth with hers, pulling strength from the passion he feeds her.

The room has grown hot and it pulses with charged air. Her hands have left his face and shoulders to fumble with the belt on his jeans, her blood roaring in her ears and urging her to hurry. He spins her around effortlessly, his hands trailing up from her hips to delicately undo the zipper of her dress. It is only a second that slows, but his gentleness disappears as she helps him wrench the thin fabric from her shoulders. It slides over her figure and pools at her feet. It is discarded as she pushes away from the wall, propelling him towards the bed as his hands grope to keep her as close as possible. His belt lies on the floor.

His lips have found the sensitive area beneath her jaw and they mark a trail down her neck and across her collar bone. They find the dip between her breasts and he is vaguely aware that she is wearing a shocking pink bra and matching panties. She notices that they clash with his green and blue striped boxers. Her mouth finds his again, her tongue sliding against the roof of his mouth as he sinks onto the edge of the bed and pulls her down beside him. Her hair runs untamed down her back, the strands like silk as they tickle his chest.

He is leaning over her, hands planted on the bed so that he can watch her face glow as he leans down to resume the kiss that is being replayed over and over between moments where his attention roams to other parts of her. Her hands are running up his sides, her nails taunting him as they press without leaving a mark. He grins, his face hanging over hers as she arches to undo the clip of her bra, and he admires her with a look that sweeps over her body. Her finger traces a tattoo on the left side of his chest. It is an intricate design of a Red Hawk, inked on in memory of a teammate killed in their junior year during basketball season. Loyalty was something he is teaching her, although she hasn't gotten it right yet.

He is not looking at her face anymore. His eyes are not roaming, they are narrowed. Focused. He has noticed the faint discolorations on a wrist and the opposite upper arm. They are recent, fresh and she looks nervous as he sits up and pulls her with him. She flinches in expectation but his touch is light and gentle like it always is. He is tense as his fingers trail along the slightly smaller handprints that have begun to appear on her skin. He looks down, eyes boring into hers.

"I thought you said he had stopped," he growls. She ducks her head, but his fingers on her chin do not let her. Humiliation taints her tears; oh, how far East High's Queen has fallen. His expression softens, but not his anger; it's not aimed at her. "You said he promised."

"You said his word means nothing," she reminds him. Her voice is quiet, ashamed. She focuses on his hand, gently massaging the inside of her wrist. "I got angry, when he showed up two hours late. He lost his temper." She looks up, and then casts her eyes downward again. "You know how he gets."

"Pay, why do you let him?" He rubs his temples with his fingers, exhaustion weighing heavily on him. She keeps running to him, to this place, and every time he fixes it the only way they know how. In the morning she will go home to the flowers that will most likely be there. In a few days, she'll be back. "You need to get out."

"He scares me," she says in a timid voice. It is rare that she admits that fact, even to him.

Beneath his hands, she quivers and he drags her to him. His lips are in her hair and on her shoulder, between her breasts and just above her navel. The pace has quickened to a frenzy so that every third kiss misses its mark but he is accomplishing his goal in spite of it. He wants all of her covered in him to blot out the bruises that mar her skin. She lies down, the rumpled unmade bed sheets beneath her, and pulls him down on top of her. They melt together. Her panties are lost amongst the bedding. His boxers are on the floor. The wind from his open window brushes against the back of his neck and he shivers involuntarily, maybe from the chill or maybe from her touch as her fingers graze his thigh.

He is everywhere around her, in her. She is lost in him. His hands press against her hips but he won't leave marks. He is always careful to leave her unblemished; he has since their first night together and the bruises had been black, stretching up her back. She buries her face in his neck, whispering in his ear as he pushes her to oblivion and forgetting. She feels it building and the whispers become harsh as her breath turns ragged. Dragging air through clenched teeth, she lets her head fall back onto the pillow and arches her back. She's not ready and he slows, pacing himself.

Knowing it is peaking makes her want to draw it out, but she can't. Her desire and ecstasy override the need to remain in the moment and she digs her nails in his back. He will bear the evidence tomorrow. Blood tips her white manicured nails. Her eyes connect with his, the connection burning through them both. He watches as she matches his rhythm and in a single, drawn out gasp of pain and astonishment, they reach their climax. Her fingers release his hair from her grip. His hands slide off her hips. She turns her head towards him, a smile tugging her lips with the languid kiss he gives her before rolling off and dragging his arm over her stomach, resting his hand upon the smooth valley between her ribs and navel. His palm burns her soft skin and she presses along the side of his body for warmth. Their legs remain entangled.

A hand caresses his face, a thumb smoothes his cheek and follows the strength of his jaw. She is watching as he catches his breath. Her hand lays over his that rests against her middle. Her chest rises quickly, sweat glistening on her forehead and along her collarbone. He longs to kiss it, taste it. He knows it tastes sweet like peaches. The blankets have been knocked off the bed, the single cotton sheet twisted under them. He leans over her, pulling a quilt from the floor and settling it over them as the air cools. The tension dissipates. Blood slows.

Their hearts beat in time, mirroring the other. She can feel it beneath her hand that traces the lines of his tattoo with her finger. His hand is under her head, cradling it as they share a pillow. The house creaks along its ancient boards. She can practically hear the paint peeling. She remembers the first time they ran into each other after high school. He was on the front lawn in his swim trunks holding a hose during Pledge Week. They exchanged insults. Now he is her best friend, lover and addiction.

She feels him shift beside her, stretching and flexing like a cat. A sound of pleasure escapes his mouth and she grins. He gives her an amused look before sliding out from beneath the blanket. He picks up the bedding that lies on the floor, straightening it as he pulls it up to cover her and the spot he has left vacant. He goes to the hall and retrieves her bag and shoes, locks the door. The lamp on the desk is flipped off, plunging the room into darkness. Outside, the streetlights reflect off the damp asphalt. She can hear voices as people approach the house from the sidewalk. The mattress dips as he slides under the sheets. His feet are cold and she curls her toes.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, his fingers play with the ends of her hair as they spill over her shoulder.

"I'm thinking I could stay here forever." She lifts heavy lashes to see the contours of his face lit by the streetlamps. He doesn't say anything and she's afraid to push for an answer. She thinks she may know it.

"You're always safe here." He tells her the same thing every time, even if there are no bruises.

"I know." It is why she comes. Not the only reason, but the one she prefers to cling to. More than that could spell their undoing for they don't know more than what they are now.

Silence lapses, seeping peacefully into the corners of the room and sliding up the walls. Her breath evens out as she lies in his arms, her exhalations tickling his bare chest. He continues to rub his hand along her hip, dipping in relaxing motion along the curve of her pelvic bone. She sleeps and he contemplates what is coming as the moon cycles towards morning. His eyes are heavy, fluttering as he fights sleep to cling to the moment. There will be another, their separation never lasts long, but he is anxious about their unpredictability. He thinks one day, she'll break.

Together they sleep.