To Fall, To Fly
by dwilivia
Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm. For love is as strong as death, jealousy as cruel as the grave. Its flames are flames of fire, a most vehement flame. Many waters cannot quench love nor can the floods drown it.
Song of Solomon 8:6-7
The frayed edges of the gold laced card have been fingered over and over again more times than he can count in the past few days. He doesn't want to appear bothered or anything silly like that- but today he cannot help it.
He shoves his hands in his pockets as he stands, watching the white banners and ribbons as they wave gaily in the air. They are all tied to the cathedral's stone walls, alone with random bouquets of white roses and white dahlias and white daisies that seem to fill the air with a certain springtime scent.
He rubs his nose. It must be the hay fever acting up again.
Today, of all days, he is more alone than ever. His sister is out of town. But she sends her love in the form of a hefty cheque and a two-night stay at a luxurious hotel off the coast of Maine.
He is peeved. His hands are itchy. There seem to be women everywhere, in white and pearl and opal coloured dresses, with silver ribbons in their hair. He feels out of place in his black suit and contrasting opaque white silk tie, but he is quick to high-five a bridesmaid he met yesterday, a sixteen year old with braces and pretty blue eyes.
He smiles at everyone, because it is expected of him to be happy today. His smile seems permanent. He can't wipe it off.
In spite of custom, he wants to see her, and he knows just where to look. He'd overheard a couple of the older women gushing over her dress, her ring...
His stomach turns, but he swallows down every ounce of feeling in his body. He must not act upon his foolish impulses today. He must not lose control.
He finds his way, past beautifully adorned hallways and windows, to the white room where he knows she is inside. So he pushes the door open, but gently, so as not to frighten the ever-skirtish Janine, who does make up and hair.
His eyes rake the white room, which is draped with white sheets on every wall. It smells wonderfully like her, too. He touches the drapes lightly, only turning slightly to watch as Janine fusses about the bride.
She is beautiful today, even more so than she is on average days. But today is not an average day. Today, Gabriella Montez is getting married.
He is not mad- no, not in the least, because he figures marriage will be good for her. Even if the thought of the two of them together sickens him to his stomach.
She is happier, she is glowing. And she is ready to take on the name Bolton.
He watches her as the mascara is curled on, as the heating irons weave her hair into a intrinsic pattern that falls gently over her thin, tanned shoulders. Shoulders that he would, at this very moment, like to touch and hold.
He finally gathers the courage to siddle up to her side, half inspecting the artificial glitter in her hair, half watching the way her gown dips deep into her cleavage. They are a milky cream colour with a tinge of brown, and he smiles. He bends down, only to whisper his formal greeting.
Hello Gabriella.
She turns at his voice, her eyes wide with surprise and innocence (though he'd seen them laced with something far more sinister, he remembers, a couple of weeks ago). She gives him a faint smile, a short, dismissive blink, and he smiles his typical stage smile. One she recognises almost immediately.
The deep timbre of his voice gives her the shivers. She would like very much to touch his lips because they are always so soft and they always pour out the sweetest of words... the most inviting of temptations...
She stops thinking. She is getting married today. She must be happy. She must...
You look nice. His whispers are haunting and yet soothing. He is still bent with his lips to her ear, and she wants to turn her face so that she can tell him that she wants him... to leave.
But she cannot.
Her brown orbs swim with anxiety. She remembers the nights she has spent thinking about this, and she knows that she will be happy with her new married life. Because Troy Bolton is her only love. Troy is safe. Troy loves her.
You look happy. His underlying meaning is clear to her: he hates this. But what he wants is too impossible, too improbable. He wants her to take a risk. He wants her to fall. He wants her with him. But everyone else wants her with Troy Bolton.
Tell me, Gabriella, He's straightened up, and is now walking across the white-walled room. It is empty, like her heart, and she clutches the silk fabric of her skirt tightly because she feels so close to slipping off the edge. Because he has a tendency to make her feel in ways she wish she never could.
Tell me, He doesn't whisper anymore. He doesn't need to. Do all brides look the way you do?
Her stare is blank. She doesn't want to talk to him. So all she does is smile. I am happy. It is her first lie of the day, and she doesn't even know it yet.
Are you, now? It was more of a factual statement than anything, and his coy tone makes her blood boil. She is angry that he knows just how to get under her skin. She wishes he didn't know anything about her. But he does. He knows everything.
It scares her. I love Troy. She doesn't know if she is trying to convince him or herself. You should be happy for us. She looks up at him; a first.
He smiles and brushes a knuckle at the corner of his mouth- a blatantly sexual gesture, if he meant anything by it. But he doesn't say anything else, and with a swift pivot that he's picked up from dance, he leaves the white room.
Gabriella doesn't know whether to be glad that he's gone, or to sink in despair.
She doesn't see him until later. Fifteen minutes before she's due down the aisle.
He is twirling a daisy between his forefinger and thumb, looking out the French windows that line the cathedral wall. Her clicking heels distract him for a moment, and he turns to look at her. She almost smiles, because those piercing blue eyes used to be a picture of warmth and strength. Now they are but a hostile sheet of ice.
He blames her for it, she knows.
One of the carefully arraged curls that pile atop her head tumble down, and he frowns at it. She brushes it away impatiently, before letting her gaze fall on him. She is standing too closely, but she cares not. She wishes she could right things between them. But she can't.
They're alone again, and she can feel her heart race. She wants to believe that it is due to her anger because she can't forget him and because he just won't go away. She would like to think that she is nervous because marriage is a big step. She tells herself that the ring on her finger is the one she's wanted since her second year of high school.
But she lies to herself all the time.
His eyes scrutinise her face. He watches her eyes as they roam his face, and he wonders why he likes the way they dart to and fro. Or the way the light catches their shine and illuminates the brown to bring out the hues in them- the spectrum of oak, of cinnamon, of the barest hint of mauve. His hands reach around to lightly rest on her back, and with that, he gently brings her body to lightly touch his.
She releases the breath she's been holding when his fingers relax their hold on her. She's still pressed too near him, and she's ever so tentative. She's about to be married. But she wants this. She wants all of this... again.
His eyes darken, and his breathing's gone all deep. Her pulse quickens- she thinks this might be it. That he might finally snap and kiss her like he's wanted to this whole past week.
But he doesn't. In fact, as he leans toward her, he stops in mid-air, as though being assaulted by an unseen conscience. His lips brush her cheek in a friendly kiss, and he releases her.
She barely has time to catch her breath before he gives her nothing more than a small nod of the head and leaves her to the loneliness of the cathedral hallway.
He tells himself that it's good for her. This whole being married thing- it would make her happy. And if it makes her happy- it would make him happy, too.
Or so he thinks.
He slips into his seat after his brief last encounter with Gabriella. It would be the last time he could ever wish she was his.
The wedding march plays, and as customary, he stands with the rest of the guests. A flower girl proceeds, littering petals everywhere. He recognises her, a distant cousin of Gabriella's. The little girl waves to no one in particular, and he feels compelled to wave back.
The petals leave the same light fragrace of springtime, and his stomach suddenly knots when the ring bearer approaches. Two rings catch the sunlight and the glint blinds him temporarily. He thinks it is an exaggeration on his part, and he blames his sudden urge to throw up on the lobster he had at the bachelor party last night.
He had gone to that traitorous party reluctantly. He'd dragged his feet there. He even lied and told Troy how he thought that the wedding would be absolutely perfect. No complications whatsoever. They had a drink each, and then the strippers came (even though Troy protested), and he basically shoved his hands down his pockets and tried not to think about anything. Even when the strippers tried to undress him and touch him in uncomfortable places...
A coughing sound woke him from his reverie. He turns, but it is only an old relation of Troy's. Nothing more.
He is imagining things. The ring boy stepps stiffly past him, and he focuses his attention on the newest arrival on the scene. The bride herself.
She looks happy- he had to give her credit for that. She doesn't walk- she glides over the petal-scattered aisle, her face touched up with all that, in his opinion, unnecessary make up. He is, however, grateful for her veil. At least it makes it easier to look at her because he can't see her face too clearly.
His stomach hurt, but he still watches her bravely. He could do this. He could get through this stupid ceremony and afterward, drink himself into a stupor. Chad, or someone would be sure to take him back. Or Kelsi. He could always rely on Kelsi.
It is right about three seconds before Gabriella steps just next to his seat that he realises he has an aisle seat. He groans mentally.
She steps right beside him, only half a head shorter in her heels, and his insides clench while he prays that she doesn't turn to smile at him.
But she does. Her warm brown eyes, surprisingly moist, turn to look at him. A tear slips down her cheek, and all the old ladies behind him sigh. They think she's crying because she's happy. But he thinks otherwise.
He reaches out to clasp her face in the palm of his hand, but stops halfway. The whole room seems to freeze, and Gabriella, who isn't mortified or anything but sad, just looks at him. And so he puts his hand on her bare shoulder, gives her a gentle squeeze, while the whole room breathes a sigh of relief. But it's all just his imagination.
He turns to look at Troy, who looks elated. His two best friends who are wonderfully supportive of each other.
Or so he is decieved.
Gabriella's tearing ceases while he drops his hand from her shoulder. And so she walks on, slowly, one step at a time, while he watches, quietly, one breath at a time.
During the ceremony, throughout their vows, their pledges, the priests' sermon, she only turns to look at him once, with the look at scares him. It's a look that tells him he could've stopped this. That he could've had her. If only he tried just a tad bit harder... if only he pushed her just a little more...
But then she says I do. And then it's all sealed and all his longing, his emotional wrestling is put at rest. For the moment.
She's crying again. He likes to think she is finally happy, as does she.
But Troy's hand doesn't feel right in hers. His ring weighs an awful lot. She feels her makeup running even though it's perfect just the way Janine put it on a couple of hours ago.
She feels herself slowly slipping off the edge again, and she avoid's Ryan's cold stare, while he avoids the crowd's approval and glee.
And when they are finally dismissed for the tea reception, he heads toward the makeshift bar outside the church, ready for the alcoholic buzz to completely take over his head and his heart.
But he finds himself grabbed violently by the arm and pulled into an empty room. He finds himself face to face with the wife. Not a bride anymore. She's a wife now.
But her eyes are laced with something more precarious than he's ever seen them. Her grip on his arm is determined as ever. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair is in disarray, and when he drawls, They'll be wondering where you've gone off to. , she merely presses him fiercely into the stone cold wall and meshes her lips with his.
It's wild, hurried, a torrent of over-feeling and over-wanting. Her fingers slip into his blonde hair while he grabs randomly at her dress, willing it to come apart so that he can touch skin instead of silk.
He finds himself hot in his own skin, and it is dangerous. Her lips are roughly seeking, her tongue dancing around his, while her body is pressed hard against him. He cannot surpress this feeling. But his conscience will not allow it.
Reluctantly, he releases her. He lets her go. He pushes her away from him, willing all this feeling to just go away.
Gabriella nods like she understands, and her hair is messed up and her eye make up is smuged a little underneath, but she looks lovely. So lovely.
He avoids looking at her while she runs a hand down his arm- not seductively, but rather like she's finished with him, like she's making a memory, and she hikes up her floor-length skirt and walks out of the stone cold room.
Ryan leans against one of the stone walls and presses his cheek against the rough surface. He closes his eyes, shoves his hands back in his pockets and imagines the gin and tonic he will be having to help him forget this all.
But instead, his imagination gives way to words and phrases he should've said to Gabriella before she became Mrs Bolton.
He would've said you look beautiful in that dress.
Or I will miss you.
I will miss your arms around me,
your lavender bath salts that always clog up the sink,
I will remember your Christmas solo at the park last year,
and your fabulous beef pie recipe.
He would've told her,
I've never met anyone like you,
who sings and dances and laughs like you do...
I've never had the guts to tell you,
but I think you're amazing and sweet.
And if it had been any other way,
I would've wanted you for my own.
But he hadn't said any of it. And as he leaves the room to head for that gin and tonic he'd been dreaming about earlier, one single thought assaulted him that made him stop in his tracks.
I love Gabriella Montez and I wish I had told her earlier.
But he would forget. He had to- it was the only way.
Later, gin in hand, with Jason as his drinking partner, all he feels is the very distinct buzz of alcohol flooding his system.
Ryan Evans didn't know it yet, but later tonight, while he is crashing at Jason's place because he would be too depressed to go home, he'd be unable to sleep and would resort to sitting outside at the fire escape of the apartment, watching the stars sparkle in their place, feeling like he's slowly slipping off the brink of something important...
While Gabriella Bolton would toss and turn after making love with her husband, who is sound asleep by her side, with her blanket crushed between her fingers because she, too, feels like she is slipping over the edge again.
Note:
Just a little something to get me back into the writing mood. Was inspired by a wedding fic I read a couple of days ago. Felt like it should happen between Ryella. Anyway, just to let you know, I won't be writing for quite a while because my exams are coming and they sure are a bitch.
I love you all. Thank you for reading. Your reviews make everything worthwhile.
love,
dwilivia