A/N- You knew I couldn't give it up just yet. -love- Desireé
…
They are breaking every rule they have instituted. His free hand on the small of her back; her fingers getting caught so deliberately in his unmanageable hair; all of it just screams their breach of contract. She breathes out, for the first time since he started the car, as his thumb brushes the waistline of her jeans and his mouth is close to hers.
"The world isn't really that bad," he murmurs, eyes locked with hers. "Not like you want to think it is."
Time stills for a minute as she looks down at the ground upon which they stand, in the cold nature outside of their cheap motel room. His palm is pressed up against the wall, supporting his weight as he leans toward her, and she holds his face with smooth hands, aware of the fact that this was going against everything she has forced herself to believe in. "Prove it," she replies, and finally graces him with her eyes again.
And then he kisses her, and she forgets where they are, and what time it is, and where they left the car, and when she is supposed to wake up from this warped fairytale that would no doubt end in an ugly, ugly way.
…
"God, I would kill for a cigarette right now."
His hands brandish the steering wheel, returning to the ten-and-two position before the car zigzags any longer. His lips part in reflection, and he sees in the rear view mirror his face become abnormally distorted with interest. "Do you smoke?"
She sticks her hand out over the windowsill of her side, waving it up and down like a rollercoaster. Wind whips between her fingers like the many rings she has thrown into her jewelry box before they left. Once in a while, when they hit a bump, she can hear her necklaces jingle inside her suitcase, which is packed away in the trunk. "No, I prefer to not smell like eau de tobacco, but everyone I know who smokes does it because it takes them away from everything and it's like a saving grace. After that heinous Fourth of July fiasco with my family, I just need something to suck on for the distraction."
At this, he raises an eyebrow, holding back a smirk, and her eyes widen. "Oh, ew, no, that is not what I meant."
His almost-smirk turns into an almost-frown, and she categorizes him as the type of guy to never give one hundred percent of his emotions. The one to let her fill in the rest of his smiles. Laughter. Tears. "You look horrified. Why is it so appalling that maybe that is what you meant?"
The highway in front of them is clear at this point, once they pass a broken down sixteen-wheeler. The driver waves a hand, attempting to catch a ride and make his way to the nearest gas station, but they have agreed on a no-hitchhiker policy. Silently, both have come on this trip with a mutual desire to be alone.
"It's appalling because that is most-definitely not what I meant, and also because you and I established before this whole thing that we would be strictly platonic."
This defeats him for a moment before he turns the radio off. "Okay, fine, you win. But you're so guarded now, after four years of theater. Miss Broadway Super Star is closed-legged and pouty, and you haven't criticized my, quote, 'jalopy of a vehicle', unquote, for over an hour. Something's on your mind."
"Troy Bolton," she squeaks, and then covers mouth with her hand. "I didn't mean to reveal that so quickly. But he's an asshole."
He looks straight ahead, an uncomfortable feeling settling in rather not-nicely. "Oh," he says. They aren't all that chummy anymore. He doesn't feel an obligation to defend Troy's reputation; it is summertime, graduation is over, and in the fall, they would be competing against one another on the court. Things have changed, but of course, Chad is still the same dutiful best friend as he says, "You know, Troy's not really that bad." And even as he tells Sharpay this, Chad knows it is far from true.
Great minds think alike. She snorts, and snuggles against the scratchy, cracked leather seat that gives them a little room to breathe. Normally, she would change the subject and once again condemn his car, but there is something about the way they fit perfectly, man and machine, that she decides to ignore its faded paint and grungy interior. Finally, she answers, "If you're into douchebaggery, being led on, promiscuity, and fug facial hair, then sure. He's not that bad."
Chad bursts out laughing and the car swerves again, but the open road reassures them. "So he's not a first-class gentleman—but, honestly, you've sort of drooled all over him all through high school. What's with the change of heart?"
In her head, she is grateful that he is asking. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Evans seemed slightly aware of their daughter's crappy-ass life toward the end of senior year, and Ryan was sweet with a hug but that was all. Sharpay props her two stiletto-adorned feet up on the dashboard and sighs, unsure of where to begin.
"In the beginning of junior year, Troy Bolton was on my To Do List—literally—and I did not have a skanky, British mini-me running around and trying to steal my spotlight. I also thought I was going to be a shoe-in for my top choices of colleges, but you see how well that worked out. Now Troy Bolton is a little pig-whipped shoelace dragging behind Gabriella Montez on their way to happy California!" —here she puts on a high voice and shimmies her hands dramatically— "And fat-ass Tiara Gold is going to ruin East High's theater rep next year, and my brother is walking—no, wait, he's running away to Julliard. With Kelsi. And he's not looking back, and I'm stuck here."
Hands wilting down to the six-and-four position of the wheel, Chad glances at the blonde, who he would have never guessed to go on a post-graduation road trip with him, not for a second. "Stuck here, with me," he reminds her, smiling.
"And now," she continues, stomach growling, "I'm hungry and tired and it's only the middle of July but in two months we'll be at U of A, living it up in a crappy little dorm, and none of this will mean anything. Everything I've worked toward: my parents' approval; my relationship with Ryan; my goal for success. It has all gone to crap."
Her attitude is so bitter, and in retrospect she realizes she will have him to thank for being that saving grace, the one she assumed cigarettes would be. The kind that her mother used to insist she didn't deserve. Chad drums his fingers on his thigh and says, "U of A will be good for us. Just think how cool we'll be when we go back to visit East High. We'll be famous alumni."
She smiles smugly, when really there is nothing to be smug about. "No offense, Danforth, but ever single lower classman last year idolized Troy and Gabriella, not either of us," she points out, turning to look at him, but her eyes have glazed over in a fit of reminiscence. Sharpay sniffs and tugs on the sleeve of his shirt absently, and she says out loud, her voice rather vacant, "He's the reason I'm so closed up. Zeke and I never got to second base, because I kept waiting around for that jackass Troy Bolton, thinking he'd come to his senses once Gabriella's new girl charm wore off. Once again, Sharpay Evans is so, so good at predicting the future."
A line of trailers, silver and old-timey in the glint of the desert sun, passes them as Chad pulls over to the side of the road, and kills the engine. He glimpses at Sharpay, and smiles painfully before replying, "I know, they're a little nauseating, but Troy's not as bad as you think, Evans. He just really got into Gabriella. You know, true love and all that bullshit, Shakespeare crap. They both fell for it."
She blinked at him, flabbergasted. "You're defending him?"
"Yeah, why not?"
"He—he broke your rule! Guy code! Bros before hoes." He laughs at the way at the way it sounds coming from her, and she indignantly continues, "Whatever happened to that? You guys always had the plan to go together, to the dream school, because you're best friends and you made a pact! But then he ditches you for Gabriella?" She grinds her teeth and peers down at the listless color of her skin. Pale, pale, pale.
All of the sudden, something clicks for Chad. Eureka. "Troy and I have been best friends since, I don't know, forever? And we've gone through fights and drama and all sorts of awkward crap that I personally would have liked to skip, but we got through it anyway, together. Us against the world. And now that he's gone, it's like I have an entire half of me missing. What hurts the most is that he didn't leave for himself, he left for a girl. Gabriella. She's sweet, but I felt that I was entitled to something, you know?"
She is crestfallen, so infinitely desolate. And he understands why.
"When I found out Troy was planning to go to Berkeley, after all the times we had talked about being the all-star college ball players in Albuquerque," he says to her, and his eyes are focused on her hands, which have crumbled in her lap, "I felt betrayed, and worthless, and awful all at the same time. I kept wondering what I had done to make him forget about everything we had agreed to. I tortured myself for days, wondering how I was going to function without my best friend. And then the worst part was that I didn't have anyone to blame, not myself, not Troy, not even Gabriella. Things just happen, and they happened. This happened. You and I? We happened."
The wind has quieted, and she feels her hair hang lifelessly around her cheekbones. Sharpay inhales and her breath catches, and she shakes for a moment. After a while, she unbuckles her seatbelt, and this gives her a little more freedom. "Ryan just has everything happen to him. He doesn't have to work for it. And now, he gets to go to our dream school, the one we planned to attend together, with Miss Kelsi Nielsen, piano player extraordinaire!" she cries, and faces him. He moves slightly closer, preparing for the breakdown that he knows is coming.
"And I get nothing? I get my mother's smarmy attitude and my father's impassive credit card, and a failed attempt at the perfect relationship with Troy 'Goofy-Looking-Loves-Gabriella' Bolton," she seethes. He is patient.
"You know you like Troy. Whether or not he accepted your, um, advances—you know he's a good guy," Chad says gently.
When she bursts into tears, he is at the ready, although somewhat surprised with himself. Chad Danforth is not that kind of guy, and he never has been. Taylor was pleasant, but saw her college career much more important than a relationship. And any other girl he had ever slept with either went nameless or disappeared from his phone contacts list sooner or later. As Sharpay weeps against his shoulder, he knows she is different.
The motel room they get is ridiculously ugly and the blanket on the bed is itchy. She retrieves a pack of cigarettes from the front desk, and lights one with a match outside their "county suite". Chad sees her and makes a face. "Oh, shut up," she says, but there is no biting tone in her voice.
"You look like you know what you're doing," he says through the smoke, squinting a bit as his eyes burn.
"I tried it once in sophomore year," she coughs, and waves the fumes away from their faces. Chad reaches for the stick in her hand and snuffs it on the ground with the toe of his sneaker. She allows him this authority and leans back against the wall.
Their proximity is laughably close. She smells like a mix of smog and cherries, her favorite perfume flavor. He smells like what she imagines an auto shop would reek of. The scratchy polish on her fingernails disappears beneath the curls of his hair, and his thumb smudges a fictitious tattoo beneath her belly button.
"The world isn't really that bad. Not like you want to think it is."
"Prove it."
A moment, a beat, a time, an eternity, before his lips are on hers and nostalgia explodes inside them.
…
Without his best friend, Chad Danforth is secretly afraid. He is afraid to become old news, with no Troy Bolton key chain to dangle off of his backpack. When he falls asleep next to Sharpay in the scratchy sheets of the motel bed, he forces himself to forget every clandestine fear in his head, because he really shouldn't need to worry. Chad does not need Troy in order to survive, in order to do anything. He is fine all on his own.
Without her twin brother, Sharpay Evans is secretly afraid. She is afraid of losing touch with the world, because as much as she hates to admit it she needs those jazz squares. Those tacky fedoras. Those dance numbers that quite frankly made them look like they were on mushrooms. Next to a sleeping Chad, Sharpay nestles on top of the measly pillow that comes with the motel room, and smacks her papaya-flavored lip-gloss for confidence. She ignores the separation anxiety; she does not need Ryan, or Julliard, or anyone else. She is perfectly capable of making it on her own.
And, as their chests rise and fall and his snoring dissipates and her talking in her sleep dies away, both Chad and Sharpay inch closer and closer to one another. It is subconscious, of course, and in the morning she'll squeal and smack his arm while he laughs and pulls on the boxer shorts she had insisted come off the night before. Sex doesn't mean a lot to either of them—just another part of the day. But they silently think to themselves in their dreams that sex has suddenly changed; it is no longer a whatever, or a simple-minded talent.
In the wafting cigarette smoke, she was pretty, pale and skinny but still beautiful to him. And in the same cigarette smoke, his smile was welcoming and delicious and mischievous. The jalopy waits for them outside the motel room, old and rusty, and in their dreams, they are told that they will be fine without a best friend or a twin, and maybe that they can manage with each other.
The matchbox and cigarettes on the nightstand somehow get pushed behind the dresser, and will be forgotten. She remembers in the morning that they are not her saving grace, and never can be. He thinks she tastes just fine without the tobacco.
Once in a while, she'll fish around for a cigarette, just to remember the way he kissed her that night. And as always, he will tell her she doesn't need to, because he can lay his lips on hers, and brush the fictitious tattoo beneath her belly button with his thumb. She will indefinitely laugh, and smile as her fingers catch in his hair. The cigarette smoke will always wither away around them, like marginalia immortalizing their road-trip romance.