A/N: I'm still alive! I've been busy working on another story that I shall be posting, hopefully, quite soon. In the meantime, I hope this will tide my readers over.

Warnings: Slash, language

Certainty

I stare at you, analyzing every inch of your pale, slightly flushed face, your soft, full red lips.

Her skin complexion is dark. Her lips are pink.

I stroke the side of your face tenderly with my knuckle, always marveling at the softness of it.

Her face isn't this soft. It never was.

Your eyes, so clear, the color of the summer sky, stare calmly right into the depths of y very existence. I see the truth reflected there on their surface, the truth of who I am. Reality has never been as substantial, as tangible, as tolerable as when I look into your eyes.

In her eyes, I see the lies, the expectations, the standards of everyone else that I fail to meet reflected on those pools of liquid brown.

Heh. Call me a liar, but I can't tell her the truth. I can't tell anyone. My father, my friends, the people that worship me. I'm drowning in their lies with no escape but you.

And you always look so miserable. I wonder if how I perceive you is how you perceive me. When you look at me, is my gaze vacant, hollow and listless? Do I appear dead to the world?

They call me a god, but I'm far from holy.

My eyes lock on you and feeling them burn into your skin, you turn to me and I'm trapped in that lustrous piercing stare, pinned from across the room.

There's a touch on my shoulder. "Troy, you okay, man?"

I turn to my best and closest friend, blinking to restore life to my gaze. Drink in hand, I give him a nod. Am I okay? I don't know myself, but I can't bring his mood down on my account, can I? That wouldn't be fair.

"You don't seem like yourself tonight, dude."

How am I supposed to be myself when I'm not even sure who that is? Troy Bolton: son, teammate, captain, basketball god, golden boy, boyfriend, best friend, LIAR. Is that who I am? A liar? Huh. I find my stare once again glued to you, analyzing the all-too-attractive way you've intentionally left the top three buttons of your dress shirt undone and have no shirt underneath of it, exposing your creamy flesh to me.

When she reveals her flesh to me, I feel waves of nausea assault my stomach. When you do that, the room suddenly becomes too hot and the floor shifts beneath me.

"Have you seen Gabriella? I heard she was looking for you."

Reluctantly I tear my gaze away from where you sit, half empty wine glass in hand, isolated from the mass of bodies on the main floor. Why aren't you under a spotlight, shining bright for everyone to see? Why aren't you dancing? Dancing for me, for yourself? You dance so majestically, beautifully, contorting your body so gracefully in serpentine movements that entrance me.

I don't care that she's looking for me. I want you. But I turn to him, my friend, and feign some shred of emotion in the form of a shrug.

This serves to satisfy him. He gives me a last searching look and then turns away, setting out to find his girl in this crowded mass of teenaged bodies dancing wildly to the pulsating beat of exotic music. I guess we can owe the chaos to your sister. She always throws the wildest parties. I watch him go for a moment, hoping and praying that he took my apathy for a sign of intoxication. I'm just weak like that I suppose.

Again, I shift my focus to you. Your eyes gleam softly, filled with longing that you've concealed for a time greater than you care to think on. "I need you," you say. "I need to feel you, smell you, be with you…"

My heart gives a not unpleasant lurch as you shift your weight. I need you too. I need to smell your sweet misty aroma wreathing about me. I need to feel your body against mine, your soft gelled blond hair underneath my chin. You're a drug and I'm addicted. And no rehabilitation center can keep me from getting my fix. I swig down the alcohol, letting it burn my throat and lower my inhibitions. With a burst of courage and testosterone, I maneuver through the sea, parting the tide, ignoring the nameless, faceless greetings of giddy, drunken adolescents. I'm intent on one thing alone.

You see the intensity of my eyes and stare calmly back as always, facing my choice with a single question; "Are you sure about this?"

And for once, I know the answer. Honesty steers me to you and although you've been drinking as well it has not dimmed the clarity of your eyes. I pull you into my arms and kiss you beneath the epilepsy inducing flashes of the strobe lights. We lean into each other, groaning with passionate abandon. The lean muscle of your chest against my sculpted torso feels so right, so fucking right.

My hands slide down to rest on the outward curve of your hips, and I clench the fabric of your too tight white slacks as you tongue is granted access to my mouth. My neck arches and I let out a groan that is swallowed by the noise of the room.

"Je ton amor, Troy," you whisper, those beautiful eyes of your blissfully closed, flashes of red, purple and blue parading across the fabric that hides your lower half away.

I may not be all knowing, but I know your language. I was with you, singing along as you gave your all, tantalizingly whispering the phrases that were repeated throughout the song, which is itself almost as addicting as you.

People call Lady Gaga a hermaphrodite.

You shrug it off, saying that something like gender or sexuality shouldn't be an impediment on success in the music industry because you know how that kind of prejudice feels. And god how I hate the people that do those ignorant, ignoble, humiliating and unbelievably horrible things to you. I HATE them.

And I know you hate them just as much, those eyes of yours hardening into ice when they whisper about us.

Perhaps my lies are finally falling through and the truth is letting itself be known to all of my senseless worshippers.

I hold you tight and god damn me if I let go because you're everything I've ever wanted. "I want your love, too, Ry," I whisper, gently swaying us so that our movements stand out from those of our peers.

You smile that mind-numbingly beautiful smile. "Way to fight conformity, huh?"

The warmth and love behind your words melts my innards. I grin stupidly, unable to match your eloquence. "Anything for you." I'm the king of romantic clichés.

We soon find ourselves on your bed ripping each other's clothing off to sate the need that fills us, fills us to the point of bursting.

We leave everyone behind us and the world spinning turbulently on its axis. I make love to you, pride rushing into me, swelling in my chest every time you scream my name, relishing the way it sounds when it comes from your rose petal lips. Our loving continues into the morning, long after the dancers have left, the music has stopped and our bodies have retired.

The gleam of sunlight against my closed eyelids rouses me from my dreamless sleep. You're there next to me, where you belong, your all-knowing eyes peacefully shut in slumber. I behold the majesty of your bare shoulders, envisioning the wonders beneath the blankets that now conceal you from all but me. I smile, my heart swelling with joy and I don't care if it explodes.

The lavender walls that greet me are nothing new. I've been here so many times, but waking up next to you makes everything that much more appealing.

I stroke your cheek softly, feeling the muscles twitch and seeing a receptive movement under your eyelids.

Who thought a boy could look so fucking beautiful?

The stillness is shattered by a techno pop melody: "Miracle" by Cascada, whose singer seems to have more of a manly appearance than Lady Gaga, but there are no rumors seeking to thwart her status as a two-hit wonder. I don't even need to look at the phone, the programmed ring tone gives the identity of the caller away.

You open your eyes and wrinkle your nose, none too pleased with the song choice. "God, that talentless shrew?" You groan.

I stifle laughter as you sit up. The obnoxious melody continues to play, but catering to the shrill voice awaiting me on the other end is not on my day's to do list.

And you recognize this, your eyes glimmering softly, but still, you need reassurance, you require a shred of solid evidence because you can't trust your own intuition. You're afraid of your feelings betraying you. "Are you going to answer that?"

Immediately I know response. And the confident decisiveness from last night is back at my disposal without the aid of alcohol. I know who I am, thanks to you. "No," I answer and wrap my arms snug around you. Your head is pressed against my chest and I can feel your glistening white smile radiating on my flesh. I'm sobered by the intrinsic emotional value of the moment. Yet, I'm also intoxicated with pure unbridled bliss.

"I love you Ryan." I take a deep inhalation of the scent of strawberries in your blond hair. I let the sweet aroma fill my nostrils, removing the scent of tropical fruit that is the signature of her dark oily curls.

"I love you, too." The obnoxious techno pop dies off. You're everything: all that I see hear, feel and smell. All thoughts of her and them, the people hell bent on keeping us apart leave me in your company. The world is you and me and I know without a doubt that this is what I want.