Author's Note: Takes place very shortly after, or during, the final bits of High School Musical 2. I cut it a bit shorter than I wanted to, so there may be sequels or alternate versions. Who knows?
Disclaimer: I own none of these characters. The words are part of a commonwealth. All that it is mine in this piece is the presentation of these borrowed words and characters.
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"Smooth ride," Chad comments.
"Yeah, it is," Ryan replies, grinning broadly, flicking his eyes over to Chad momentarily before reconcentrating on the road.
The car settles into near silence, the hum of the motor masked by modern technology. Chad bites his lip lightly, eyes roving around the familiar New Mexico surroundings whizzing past. He's not sure what to say to Ryan. They don't really share any interests. Ryan does theatre, Chad plays basketball; Ryan dances, Chad doesn't; Ryan probably likes show tunes, Chad prefers rhythm and blues.
"I've almost got enough to buy my own. Who'd'a thought I'd be such a knockout waiter, huh?" Chad jokes, left arm flinching once as Ryan gives a vague laugh in response, halting smoothly at a four-way stop. Chad felt the urge to give Ryan a playful punch in the arm, but it just didn't seem natural; they'd been friends for a little over three weeks, now, and that kind of thing was reserved for...well, tighter kids, like Jason, Zeke, Troy, and the rest of the basketball team. It's a jock thing, Chad concludes, and Ryan's not the sporty type.
Except...
"You never did tell me where you got all your mad baseball skills," Chad blurts casually, leaning back a little in the Italian leather seats and spreading his legs a bit further.
"Well, I played Little League back in Rhode Island---" Ryan starts, squeaking under his second yellow light.
"Yeah, yeah, you've said that. But that was like, what, ten years ago or something---how'd you stay so good?" Chad asks, genuinely intrigued, suddenly sitting up straight again, and taking in every mannerism that belongs to one Ryan Evans. He's driving with one hand---his left---with his legs primly pinned together underneath the steering wheel. His right hand gesticulates in the air as Ryan scrambles to come up with a coherent answer.
"I just...play with myself a lot," Ryan admits to a stunned Chad, who looks as if he's got a chipmunk residing in his jaws. Ryan glances at him quizzically as he rounds a curve, and Chad loses it, breaking down into baritone guffaws.
"I'm...I'm sorry, dude," Chad manages after a few bars of laughter, aware that Ryan's unaware of what he implied, "It's just...you...said you...'play with yourself a lot,'" Chad ekes out in between chortles. Ryan's eyes widen to the breadth of Goliath doing jazz hands, cheeks redder than cardinals.
"I didn't mean it like that! I don't...I mean, I do...but not..." Ryan stammers, eventually giving in to he hilarity of the situation and laughing as well, punctuating Chad's guffaws with staccato bursts of joy, his tenor harmonizing with Chad's baritone to create a din neither really wants to end. Eventually, though, it subsides, and silence reigns for measure after measure as both of them struggle to find something to discuss.
"Your house is the next right?" asks Ryan at last.
"Oh, yeah, Farland Street," Chad responds. It's his turn to get a little rosy as Ryan pulls into Chad's driveway. The garbage still hasn't been picked up and one of the rain gutters obviously looks like its day in the sun passed long ago. His dull, brown one-story hovel, in short, embarrassed him in front of this trendy, high-flying...friend...sitting next to him.
"It's not much, but it's home," Chad says, his tone simple and factual but belying an undercurrent of a threat, almost waiting for Ryan to make some snide remark. He is rebuffed by the fact, however, that Ryan is not the carbon copy of his snottier sister, Sharpay, because Ryan seems...
Fascinated.
Blue eyes wide, face nearly pressed up against the windshield, it's as if Ryan has found the road to El Dorado right in front of his very face. Chad stares at him for a moment, convinced that Ryan's off in his own little world. It's not anything new to see Ryan daydreaming a bit---it happened a lot when he either A) didn't understand something, B) was bored, or C) a girl within range bent over to tie her shoe or pick up a dropped object---but rather the new thing was that there was a D) criterion to add to the list: Ryan was in awe.
"D'you...want to come in and, uh, hang out or something?" Chad offers, recovering his manners at last. After all, Ryan drove him home; it was the least he could do, his mother---whose car, he noticed, was absent---would say. Of course, Ryan wasn't going to agree, it was just like offering the dieting Aunt Tessie some cookies when she stopped in to visit. It was polite, so you did it, even if you already knew that the answer was going to be...
"...Sure," Ryan accepts after a few moments of thought, checking that the car is in park before turning it off. A slightly gobsmacked Chad ambles out of the ritzy ride before striding as casually as possible to his front door, backpack slung loosely over his right shoulder. Ryan shuts his car door with a quiet firmness, following Chad, running his hand along the wooden porch in reverence.
After a quick fumble in his pocket for his keys, Chad swings open the screen door, which Ryan catches in confusion. Chad unlocks the door, steps inside, and Ryan follows.
He stops short in the entryway, breath ripped away from him with just one glance at the interior. The tasteful, royal blue wallpaper peels in spots, and just above the slightly dusty side table where Chad dumps his keys a swirling vortex of green crayon lies drawn onto the wall. A coat rack with various brightly colored pegs hangs slightly unlevel to his right, where several jackets nearly ten years demodee rest. A ceiling fan with a triad of lights housed in a chipped and jagged semisphere of glass spins lightly above him.
To Ryan, the room looks like paradise.
"Could you get the screen door?" Chad interrupts, flinging his backpack down on the flumpy, plaid-patterned couch. Ryan turns, and, after a moment of confusion, shuts the front door. He then discards his designer flip-flops next to Chad's red-and-white Nikes and shuffles into the kitchen, where he finds Chad rummaging around in the refrigerator.
"You hungry?" he asks, setting a container of some unknown orange substance on the island. Ryan cocks his head sideways slightly, bright orange cap holding his hair steady as he furrows his brow, trying to discern what in the world that stuff was. In the end, he shrugs, both in response and at whatever being lives inside the plastic box in front of him.
"Pop this in the micro, will you?" Chad directs, head still in the refrigerator, right arm flailing backwards to tap at the plastic container. With trepidation, Ryan steps forward, head shifting to the side and cringing as if he's about to pick up a time bomb. He gently lifts the container off of the island, and, holding it as if it were his partner in his very first dancing class, he turns, trying to find the "micro." After a moment of indecision, the light bulb goes off and Ryan realizes that Chad must have meant the microwave. He moves with assured steps towards the miniature white box, forgetting the time bomb in his hands for a moment. Once he arrives there, however, he once again finds himself lost in a state of confusion. His head cocks sideways again as he reads the various buttons, finally finding the large, ivory 'PUSH TO OPEN' one at the bottom of the montage. He pushes it with his right hand, balancing the lidded...whatever...with his left. The door to the microwave springs open, its speed catching Ryan by surprise, and he nearly fumbles the container before his right hand reflexively moves to counterbalance the tipping object. With everything safe and sound once more, Ryan puts the container, lid and all, inside the microwave and shuts the door. He waits for about seven seconds, then pushes the large button again to fling open the door once more, removes the ice cold container, and proudly turns to set it on the island, only to be met by a chipmunk-cheeked Chad again.
"Dude. Have you ever used a microwave before?" he asks, eyes glinting merrily at Ryan's confusion.
"I've seen it done before," Ryan says, shaking his head in reply, "But usually the cooks at home take care of all of the meals and things, so I never really had to use it before."
"Must be nice," mutters Chad, chipmunks deflating as if Ryan's car had just turned them into roadkill. He sets the styrofoam box in his hands down on the island and picks up the container, nimbly working off the plastic blue lid with one hand. Ryan watches as Chad sets the dish into the microwave, setting the timer to 2:17 and pressing the green 'START' button. He steps back, examining the rotating dish through the foggy window, shifting his weight as he crosses his arms.
"What's in here?" Ryan asks, trying to open the styrofoam box, diverting the subject to one he knows they both share, being A) male and B) teenagers: food.
"Chicken wings," Chad responds, clipping his consonants sharply as the microwave hums away.
"Chicken wings? Never had them," Ryan responds flippantly. Chad whirls, a move Ryan takes in with a dance instructor's appealing gaze. "I don't dance?" Yeah, right.
"You've never had a chicken wing?" Chad repeats, incredulous, eyebrows extending to the ceiling.
"No, I don't think so," Ryan affirms, removing one of the wings from the box. He gripped it daintily with his thumb and forefinger, head revolving around it as if to try and figure out how to eat this otherworldly anomaly.
"Dude, you don't know what you've been missing! Eat one, they're great cold!" Chad insists, waving his hand to Ryan, anticipating the result. Ryan looks at Chad, then at the chicken wing between his fingers, then at Chad again, who waves once more in encouragement. Shrugging, Ryan swings the wing up and tries to eat the topmost bulge of meat. His teeth collide with the knuckle of bone along with chicken, and Chad chuckles.
"Like this," he instructs, sweeping around the island and picking up one of the wings. He holds it up, positioned like corn on the cob between his hands, and rampages through it like a starved man, creating a mess of barbecue sauce on his face.
"C'mon, get your hands dirty," wheedles Chad to Ryan's expression of shock mingled with a touch of distaste. Ryan obliges, positions the wing awkwardly between his hands as he saw Chad do, and neatly nibbles at the wing, managing to rip off a tiny chunk of chicken along with the skin. He chews slowly, thoughtfully, and swallows, closing his eyes as the food goes down. Chad, expectant, wipes his mouth off hastily as he awaits Ryan's judgment.
The microwave beeps shrilly, bringing Ryan back to reality.
"Well?" Chad asks, crossing to the microwave and removing the steaming dish therein.
"Mmmph," Ryan responds, attacking the chicken wing with ferocity. Chad grins and laughs as he gingerly slaps the dish onto the island. Ryan dumps the meatless remains of his wing into the styrofoam box, looking around for something with which to wipe his hands (and face).
"Paper towels are on the counter, next to Mom's pill boxes," Chad directs as he heads to the cupboard to grab two plates. Ryan spins, finds the paper towels, and neatly rips one off, daintily and thoroughly cleaning his face and hands.
"What's she take them for? If you don't mind my asking," Ryan added, turning to lean against the counter, continuing to dab at his hands with the paper towel.
"Heart disease. It's really minor, though. Totally under control," Chad pontificates, dolloping out some sort of orange pasta that Ryan had never seen before onto his plate, "Go ahead and make yours, man, I'm done," he adds, turning and opening a drawer behind him.
"Um...what is this?" Ryan asks, and again Chad whirls, eyebrows shooting even higher than before.
"You've gotta be kidding me. You've never heard of macaroni and cheese?" he asks, a fork in each hand.
"I've heard of it, but I've never had it," Ryan admits, taking the proferred fork and spooning some macaroni and cheese onto his plate tenatively.
"Did you make this?" Ryan asks as he follows Chad into the living room, where he was slightly surprised when Chad sat down, expecting to head to a dining room.
"The wings? Nah, those are from Janey's. The mac and cheese? You betcha," Chad says, grinning as he forks some into his mouth. The grin fades when he notices Ryan bent over the plate on his lap, hands clasped. Chad peers at him, forkful of macaroni and cheese halfway to his mouth. Ryan's mouth moves quickly, but no sound issues. His blue eyes are hidden behind tightly squeezed eyelids. His plate lies motionless on his lap, the chicken wings neatly separated from the elliptical pile of pasta. Chad laughs soundlessly to himself. He may be the most fashion-conscious guy Chad knows, and he may like dancing far more than any straight guy probably should, but one thing is for sure: Ryan Evans is one weird dude he wants to get to know.
"Amen," whispers Ryan.
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Author's Note: As I said earlier, I may continue this in another one-shot that can function as a standalone. Please hit the review button and tell me anything you'd like about the story. All comments are appreciated.