Reality
Part 1/2
By Light Catastrophe
Rating: T
Pairing: Tryan
Summary: In reality, Ryan definitely does not have a sexy boyfriend. Or does he?
Warnings: slash, very minor and unintentional retard bashing, kissing
Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, and fortunately for you, I do not own HSM.
Babblings: I don't know about you all, but I am (scarily) excited HSM3. Some might say I'm too old to enjoy such a thing, but I beg to differ. Anyways, this little story popped into my head one day and I then decided it was time for another Tryan story. There will probably be more stories to come after the third movie's release, but until then, enjoy this!
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"I didn't know you played piano."
My fingers stop moving, music ending in a disharmonic, clashing chord – and I glance up at the toned, jersey-clad body leaning against the not-so-young, slightly out-of-tune instrument. The soft glow of the stage lights halo his hair, making his blue eyes seem all the brighter.
"Oh, yeah," I manage to say, nonchalantly waving my hand in mid-air. "You know, parents made me take lessons as a kid. I didn't know you were still around. I'm usually the last one here so I just play for awhile." My hand-waving stops awkwardly when I realize I'm babbling and he probably doesn't care.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he says then, the corners of his mouth lifting into a grin. "Practice just got over. I heard the music and was curious. You're really good, probably better than you realize."
"Thanks," I reply, shrugging it off and reaching for my bag. "I was actually about ready to head home. English homework is calling."
A slightly panicked look comes across his face and into his eyes. "Oh, yeah, that's due tomorrow, isn't it? Whatever would I do without you to remind me of these things, Ry?"
Ry? The only other person to ever call me by that name is my mom – much to my eternal mortification. Surprisingly, coming from his lips, though, I found myself coming to like the nickname.
"Would you like a ride?" he asks after a few moments of silence.
I run the other options quickly through my head and agree to his suggestion rather readily. As we walk down the deserted corridors together, I drink in everything about him: his eyes (so lovely), his hair (is it as soft as it looks?), his voice (melodic), his scent (sweat mixed with exotic cologne), his body (what would it feel like to have him against me?), his lips (the epitome of perfect pink).
He drives this old pickup, completely different from anything my family owned, or anyone else owned within at least a five bock radius of my house. We talk about mutual, unimportant things while he drives, but I don't really hear what he is saying – just listening to the sound of his voice.
When he drops me off, we smile and say goodbye.
And I found myself already looking forward to hello.
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"Hello, Ryan."
Troy dropped his bag onto the seat beside Ryan.
"Hey, Troy," Ryan replied, shutting his notebook and trying not to this about the test they'd be getting back that period; a test which he may or may not have failed for lack of being properly prepared. "How was your weekend?" It was a frivolous question, one to which he didn't expect a sincere or detailed answer; instead he assumed he'd receive a "fine" or "good". So he was slightly surprised when Troy said in a low voice so no one would eavesdrop:
"Gabby and I broke up."
Now Ryan and Troy weren't exactly the best of friends. Sure, Ryan had been accepted into their group, but that still didn't suddenly make him Troy's confident – until now, it seemed.
"What?!" Ryan whisper-yelled back at Troy. He had to have heard wrong, right? Troy and Gabriella had always been the perfect couple. They always danced the same dance, with only a few minor moments of stepping upon feet. With Ryan it always seemed as though he was dancing a tango while his partner danced a waltz: it never worked. But with Troy and Gabby, everything just… clicked. They were like adjacent puzzle pieces, yin and yang, alpha and omega – and etcetera. So for Troy to say he and she had broken up was like saying…
"The sky is falling!"
His head whipped around toward to doorway, eyes wide; the world really was ending.
Oh, wait: that was just one of the special needs kids, arms a-flailing, causing the usual loving chaos.
He let out a long sigh before meeting Troy's gaze again. Why was Troy looking at him so… expectantly? He couldn't do anything. He was Ryan, not God. And why did the jock not look nearly as depressed or sad as he should be? Hell, he looked just as wonderful and beautiful as he did on any other day of the week. (And though Ryan could admit that to himself in the close confines of his demented mind, he didn't plan on confessing it aloud to anyone anytime soon.)
"Why?" Ryan asked a few moments later when he had significantly collected his wits.
Troy shrugged noncommittally and broke out into a grin. "It was a mutual thing. No fighting or anything. We just decided that we are better apart."
Now was the time for Ryan to quirk an eyebrow. Better apart? What in the world were they smoking? He wasn't going to question Troy's logic, though; it wasn't his place to say anything. He didn't have a chance to, anyway, before the other boy asked him how his weekend was.
"Oh, well, you know, nothing significant and/or life-changing happened. I just hung out with my parents. They decided to undertake redoing their master bedroom. And they decided to hire me as their interior decorator."
"You do that kind of stuff?" Troy asked. "That's really cool. I'm the last person my parents would come to for that sort of advice. My room is boring."
Ryan's mind replayed the few times he'd been in Troy's room and he realized the reason Troy's parents wouldn't come to him: his room had to artistry to it whatsoever; it was adorned with trophies and ribbons and homework and not much else.
"I could help you with that sometime, if you wanted," Ryan's mouth offered before he could tell his brain not to. "We could paint it and stuff."
Troy's eyes immediately brightened and he nodded his head just as the bell rang. "I'd like that a lot."
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Ryan's eyes fluttered open as he awakened from another flashback dream. He didn't know why, but that scene of Troy coming to him after basketball practice couldn't seem to leave him alone. Nothing had happened; they hadn't exchanged confessions of undying love (and it was unlikely they ever would). And yet, still, Ryan felt as though he was supposed to get something out of the confrontation.
He rubbed his eyes, messy blonde hair falling into his face, and calmly turned off the alarm clock. It was early, too early; he really needed to buy a new clock, one that actually worked. His eyelids closed again and he snuggled back deeper into the confines of his warm, downy blankets.
It had been two weeks since he made his offer to Troy, and the jock still hadn't brought it up again. They'd talked since then, every day actually, more than usual, but it felt as though something was holding both of them back.
Half an hour later, Ryan wearily trod into the bathroom to take a shower and wake himself up.
When he hopped into his sister's bright pink car awhile later, the first thing she said to him (which was the first thing she'd said to him everyone morning for the past couple weeks) was, "I still can't believe Troy and Gabriella broke up."
Ryan, for his part, still couldn't believe Sharpay hadn't put the moves on Troy yet. Maybe she finally realized he was never going to like her. In fact, Ryan had several ongoing theories about Troy, and the first of which was that he didn't care for girls in a sexual way at all. It was still a theory though; nothing could be proven – yet.
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"Ryan."
Ryan turned to face of the voice, but as he did so, he ended up running into someone with a heaping lunch tray and knocking it all to the floor. He rapidly apologized to the small freshman, who looked as though he was about to burst into tears, and helped him pick it up while handing the kid some money to buy another.
And then he looked up at Troy Bolton who, amazingly enough as it may sound, had found that whole scene wildly amusing, because he held a hand over his mouth and was fighting off a fit off giggles (or laughs, because jocks, apparently, do not giggle). At first, Ryan wanted to cry out that it was definitely not funny, but then he realized that it actually was funny. As soon as he came to this realization, he couldn't hold back his laughter and soon the both of them were in hysterics and half the cafeteria was staring at them as though they'd lost their minds.
It took a few minutes for them to regain control of their oratory skills, but they did eventually manage to do it. Troy grabbed Ryan's arm and dragged him out of the lunch room, away from lustful eyes. "I'm really glad I witnessed that event," Troy said, leaning against the outside wall of the school.
"Why?" asked the blonde, leaning next to Troy. "Don't you already have enough things to laugh at me about?"
"I can never laugh enough," Troy replied, grinning deviously.
"That's definitely reassuring."
"Well, if you'd like, I could give you a chance to redeem yourself?"
"How?" asked Ryan, eyebrows rising to hide under his fringe of soft blonde bangs.
"Does your offer still stand?"
Ryan thought for a moment about what in the world Troy was talking about when he suddenly remembered. "You want me to help you redo your room?"
"Yeah," he said. "I've finally decided that it needs more pizzazz. I was thinking maybe we could start tonight, you know, pick out colors and stuff. And you could stay for dinner and maybe spend the night since it's a Friday. You know my parents love you."
It was true. Ryan had only been over to Troy's house a handful of times, mostly just when they were working on homework, but both Troy's parents seemed to like him, mush to both Troy and Ryan's surprise and delight.
"I suppose so," Ryan said. "My night's free to do pretty much anything. And your mom makes the best food."
"Better than your personal chef?" asked Troy, teasingly, a smirk on his face.
"Much better," Ryan replied, punching Troy in the arm.
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After school, Ryan met Troy by his truck and they drove to the nearest hardware store to pick out a color for Troy's bedroom.
"What about blue?" Troy asked, holding up a darker shade of blue.
"Troy," Ryan rolled his eyes, "Blue is so '90s. Do you not remember the horrid blue furniture and carpet? Trust me; you don't even want to go there."
His point was proven when Troy visibly winced.
The arguing ensued for a little while longer until Ryan came upon the perfect color. "I like this one," he said. It was a warm red color, beautiful and not too bold. And most of all, it fir Troy to a T. He loved it. They paid for the paint and then made a stop at a large department store where they argued again over accessories and furniture and ways to save money and still make things look cool (Ryan won most of the time) and they finally had a plan.
It was nearly dinnertime when they arrived at the Bolton's house and a sweet, sweet aroma drifted into Ryan's sensitive nose. He had already darted into the kitchen before Troy had time to close the front door. "Mrs. Bolton," he said, giving the woman a hug and peeking over her shoulder and whatever scrumptious meal was being cooked on the stove.
Troy's mother laughed at Ryan's enthusiasm. "It's good to see you. Troy should invite you over more often."
"I agree," said Troy, walking into the room and shrugging off his sweatshirt. "You always cook the best meals when you know Ryan is going to be around."
"It's because Ryan appreciates me," she smiled.
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"Troy," Ryan protested, "I really don't have a problem sleeping on the floor and I'm certainly not going to kick you out of your bed."
Their bodies lay stretched out on the carpet of his bedroom, close enough to reach out and touch one another. Even though they were fighting, Ryan could see the smile in his friend's eyes. They had this same argument every time he slept over. Ryan always won, of course, but that didn't deter Troy from trying again the next time.
An old clock, rooms away, rang in the early hour and the blonde had to stifle a yawn. They had been so caught up in planning what they going to do tomorrow, the time and sleep escaped them– until Troy brought up the subject again.
"Fine," he said, leaning a little closer to Ryan's face. "What do you say we compromise and we both sleep in the bed?"
Ryan coughed, and tried to stop the spread of warmth cause by Troy's words.
"I mean," Troy went on to explain, "the bed is big enough that we wouldn't have to touch or anything. And then we could both be comfortable."
For Ryan, being with Troy was like walking on a tightrope without any experience: he couldn't help but fall. He didn't want to, but it wasn't entirely unexpected. So, although he knew it wouldn't be good for his teenaged, hormonal body, he nodded his consent. He was tired, and he didn't want to argue anymore.
Troy grinned and stood up to had Ryan his extra pair of sleep-pants. Ryan blushed and hurriedly excused himself to go to the bathroom. Once there, he examined himself in the mirror: the pants were too large, slipping off his hips; his eyes had dark spots beneath them from lack of sleep; his hair was too flat. Overall, he thought, he didn't exactly ooze sexiness. Not that it mattered. They were just going to bed and Ryan didn't care if Troy thought him sexy, right?
Right.
With one last look at himself, he tiptoed back across the hallway and into his friend's room. Troy was already in the bed, looking as though he was ready to turn of the lights. "Come on, Ry. I'm tired."
Ry.
He'd said it again and Ryan couldn't stop his heart from leaping into his chest. On the outside, however, he remained as cool and calm as always as he climbed into Troy's bed, making sure to keep a reasonable distance between them.
Darkness enveloped them. Ryan tried to slow his breathing and concentrate on getting to sleep. After several long, long minutes of silence, Troy's voice broke through the blackness: "Ryan?"
"Yeah?" he replied.
And then soft, warm lips were brushing against his own, like a whisper; a promise. Ryan dared not open his eyes for fear that it was a dream, a horrible unreality.
Then it was over and Troy whispered, "Good night, Ryan."
Ryan brought his hand up to his face, tracing his fingers over his lips, remembering this moment. And in his mind he took out a plain, ordinary box, full of his most important memories, and tucked this new one safely inside.
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Babblings: Don't worry: this story does have a second part to it. I wouldn't be so cruel as to leave you hanging like that. Please review and alert yourself so you can see part two. I love you all!