I've recently discovered an obsession to High School Musical, and so I am going to try my best to write a oneshot about Troy and Gabriella (because they are, by far, my favorite couple).
As you may know, this is M-rated. I've never really written something like this before, and I'm going to try not to make it too graphic, but please tell me what you think!
We dance for laughter,
we dance for tears,
we dance for madness,
we dance for fears,
we dance for hopes,
we dance for screams,
we are the dancers,
we create the dreams.
- Author Unknown
Can I Have This Dance
She was a dreamer and a dancer, a writer of ballet under a spotlight. At night sometimes, if she couldn't sleep, and after the glass doors were closed and secured and the windows behind the shutters were black, she would bike over with her pointe shoes slung around her neck and enter through the back door, which was always unlocked. She would turn on the small lamp and pull her long thick tangled brown hair back up in a ponytail and tie the slippers onto her feet and just dance, improvisational choreography though it may be. It was her escape from life, her way to express all that was usually all wrapped up in complicated knots inside her brain. She would stay until her watch beeped for three in the morning, and then she would yank out the hair tie and unlace her shoes and flip off the lamp and leave.
When she slept, her dreams were of love. Love was what she wished for, hoped for, yearned for, as if the black, even-print letters on the soft paperback pages of an artfully surreal, carefully cared-for romance novel would rise up in a whirlwind of unspoken story to take her by the hand and pull her away into a fairytale. She was the fanciful one in school, the one who floated around the hallways as if half-oblivious to her surroundings, the one who worked harder than anyone could imagine and had a secret crush on the captain of the basketball team and only showed her real self when she was on stage.
Falling in love, though, was the painful reality that slashed gaping holes into her fantasies of red rose petals and candles and soft violin music. It was the truth that blotted out all the lies she had told herself about soul mates and eyes meeting in a crowded room full of faceless people. For both of them, falling in love was the hardest thing that they would ever experience, and yet it was all the more beautiful because of it.
In the dark, empty dance studio, as the stars opened their shining empty eyes and awoke from the dreams of the day, and as the road stretching away beyond the parking lot outside hummed with a single car puttering its lonely way home, she reached her hand out and clicked the lamp on. The soft glow illuminated the dusty, slipper-worn hardwood floor, her olive-skinned face, his light brown hair, as he watched in inquiring silence with his gaze fixated on her, on the practiced routine that she had perfected every night that sleep evaded her exhausted grasp. Her hands deftly tied the ribbony laces around her ankle, swept the chestnut mass back away from her face and secured it messily.
He was intrigued by her, and her flightful daydreams, and the effortless grace with which she danced. And in turn she had asked him to join her on this nighttime outing, because somehow she knew that he would understand that dancing, like basketball for him, was the getaway that she craved when the day weighed down heavily on her back. It had taken all her courage and clenched fists to let the question slip past her lips in a jumble of words, and he had understood and agreed, and ignored the cruel, teasing jeers and laughs from his teammates behind him, and because of that she had found her heart beating in erratic thankful pounds, for this unreachably popular jock to stoop to her level and agree to accompany her, out of kindness though it may have been.
They were both very, very quiet in the still nighttime.
"Gabriella?" he finally asked.
She stood swiftly, arching onto her toes easily, straightening her body out instinctively. Slowly, she stretched out her arms to the sides, not looking at him, avoiding his gaze, which she felt on her.
"Yes, Troy?" She relished saying his name.
His hesitation was clear in his voice, on his face which was so openly handsome and expressive. She longed to trail her fingers across the perfect features that were visible from the corner of her eye, the faultless nose, the chiseled cheekbones, the slightly parted lips. He stood awkwardly against the mirror that engulfed the front wall, hands in pockets, muscles subtly tensed.
"Dance for me?"
Her hair whipped her cheek as her surprised stare met his own embarrassed one.
She drowned in his eyes, falling into their endlessly blue-sky depths.
"Of course."
It became a sort of ritual for them, to meet at the studio at midnight, her on her rusty turquoise bike, him in his rattly white pickup. She was the performer and he was the audience. His basketball was something that she watched regularly, anyways, the screams and spirited loudness of the gym the one thing she endured, to see him play. But her dancing was saved for only him, now. She stopped auditioning for the school ballet, and even though he protested and refused to join her for three nights straight, he came back, like she knew he would.
In school they barely acknowledged each other. He would meld into his posse of athletes and cheerleaders as comfortably as he always did, while she simply observed him in her periphery, the odd one out as she was used to, her dancing the only hint of what was inside. And by showing him her dancing, she opened herself up to him more than she ever had to anyone else.
One night, two months after they had begun these meetings, he stopped her in the midst of a step. "Gabriella."
Her questioning brown eyes turned towards his; she dropped her arms and relaxed slightly, still on her toes—how she kept up that pose, he had no idea. "Yes."
"Gabriella," he repeated, then he fidgeted slightly on the hard floor where he was sitting. "It's been two months since we started this."
Wary brown eyes now. "Yes."
His blue gaze met hers head-on, and she felt her heart flutter in her chest. He ran a hand through his hair and she watched his muscular body move. It was mesmerizing to see.
"Tell me about yourself," he said abruptly, and she froze for a moment, because herself was the only thing that she kept secret, more secret than her dancing and her crush on him and everything else that was locked away in that deeply protected vault nestled in the farthest corner of her mind.
She untensed her body, dropped elegantly to the floor. She did not move her eyes from his.
Slowly, she untied her shoes and scooted next to him—he shifted to allow her more space to sit.
"Myself?" she asked, to herself more than anyone.
Troy nodded. "Tell me. I don't know anything about you."
She hesitated, enough for him to notice. He smiled gently, and warmed her inside.
"What's your most favorite thing in the world?"
Gabriella laughed at that. "Me? Dancing, of course."
"Besides that." His fingers touched her arm.
The brush of his hand was enough for her to continue.
She stopped dancing at one-thirty in the morning then, and they would talk until three. She found out more about him than she had ever known before: he practiced basketball for two hours after school every day, he liked painting although he was bad at it, he wanted to major in literature in college, his truck was more important to him than any other car he had ever owned, fourteen was his jersey number because forty-one had already been taken when he joined the team, cheerleaders annoyed the hell out of him, he had lost his virginity at age fifteen—this made her blush like crazy—and he loved to sing. Upon hearing this last one, she grabbed his arm, ignoring the spark tingling down her own when their skin met, and begged him to sing for her. He complied eventually, and after that he would hum while she danced, his voice somehow making music out of the notes.
In return, she told him more than she had ever told anyone: she loved dancing because of its perfection and fluidity, science was the subject that interested her to no end, she hated her hair when it tangled, her favorite foods were mashed potatoes and sesame chicken, she had always coveted people with green eyes, she preferred bikes over cars, her older brother was twenty-four and attending grad school at Duke University, her father had left her family when she was two, she was still a virgin—she had only discharged this after much pleading and pouty-facing on his part—and her biggest dream was to fall in love.
At the last one, his eyes bored into her, through her, as if he could see right to the depths of her mind, and she blushed, the blood reddening her cheeks, and turned away quickly. "I'm sorry," she managed quietly through her humiliation. "That was embarrassing. I—I shouldn't have told you that."
Troy's hand burned into her arm, his grasp firm but yielding. "Gabriella. Gabriella, look at me."
Somehow she let her gaze drift upwards to snap onto his, and found that the blue irises were filled with tender understanding. He was smiling gently. "You shouldn't be embarrassed."
"I am." Shocked because she had admitted it, her head dropped down, and her knees were instinctively drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapping around them tightly. She rocked back and forth. "I am, Troy. I have all these fantasies, and they're about falling in love and having a happily ever after and finding soul mates and stupid stuff like that, and I'm embarrassed because even though I'm daydreaming about love, I've never even had my first kiss!"
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and her hands flew up to clamp over her lips, but it was already too late, and she collapsed onto her side, giving a groan.
"My God... did I really just tell you that?"
Troy was silent, and she feared the worst. She righted her body, and forced herself to look at him.
In the dim lamplight, he was half-silhouetted in darkness, and she could really see only his blue eyes, which so hypnotized her. He stared right at her, and she felt her cheeks heat up once more; she fidgeted, playing with her hands, under his intense scrutiny.
"Gabriella," he whispered, velvet-voiced.
And suddenly he was leaning forward, and his hand, rough from calluses, crept around to brush the back of her neck, and in a motion that was lighter than the brush of a feather against her skin he was tilting her head up. And his lips were pressing ever so gently against hers.
Before she could comprehend the world that was spinning around her and trailing yarns of intertwined confusion around her brain, he had pulled away, and those infuriatingly perfect eyes were on her once more.
"Now you have," he murmured, and then he was gone.
She was in love with him—there was no way she could deny that, no way that she could tell herself that no, she wasn't, any longer. And after he kissed her, he stopped coming, and she would turn up at the studio with no one but her own breathing to keep her company, and she would just cry. Sob into her hands because she loved him and he would not return.
She quit dancing, because she realized that it was all him, all him who made her keep going, it was him who she now knew she enjoyed opening her heart up to, and just as she had figured that out—he had left.
The ghost of his kiss was still on her lips, her first kiss, and somehow, it made her cry harder.
She was rocking back and forth on the dusty wooden floor, her hair scraped back into the messy ponytail, the silent tears running down her cheeks, when she heard it.
The rattling of an old white stained pickup.
Her eyes flew open wide, she straightened and slowly picked herself up.
The studio door creaked, and she saw his dark, tall, lean form on the threshold.
"Troy?" she choked out.
In four quick strides he was holding her in his arms, she was curled up against his chest, and he was crushing her to him, so tightly that she couldn't breathe, but the security she felt made her sigh and relax into him further.
"Troy."
"Gabriella." Her name, so lovingly and caringly spoken, a whisper of hope in the dark.
She turned her face up towards his and reached up and kissed him, on an impulse. Millions of questions in that kiss, and he responded by wrapping one arm around her waist and placing the other on the back of her head and pulling her closer, ever so closer, and she weaved her hands into his hair and hoped he would never let go.
They fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and broke apart, gasping for air, before their lips found each other once more, hungrily devouring the taste of the other, the smell, fingers digging into scalps and twining around necks and waists, in a passionate embrace which left them both panting.
He drew back slightly, his lips slightly parted and his features alight with lust, and then kissed her once more, his breath and mouth trailing down her cheek, the side of her neck, and reaching her collarbone, and she moaned and brought him back up to see her, and lost herself in those fathomless blue eyes like she always did. And then she was on fire, as they kissed, and kissed, and kissed.
She was a virgin, and he knew, and as he made his slow, careful, arduous way down her body, she didn't care anymore, because this was Troy and he would never, ever hurt her. And yet when his hands caressed her breasts and throughout her spread feelings she had never experienced before, she froze a little, and pulled back, and stopped for just a moment.
His lips were on hers before she knew it, and murmuring sweet apologies into her mouth, and they gave her the strength she knew she needed, and he continued his teasing, dragging touches and kisses all over her, the sensations dragging sounds she didn't know she could make from deep within her. And when he unbuttoned his shirt, she marveled at his beautiful body and ran her fingers down his chest and was ridiculously pleased when he moaned her name; he must have done this more than enough times to build up his self control, and yet—
She was distracted when he began to divest her of her clothing, and then she began to do the same for him, slipping his shirt off his shoulders, fingers fumbling at his belt. His hands slid her tank top over her head, her yoga pants down her legs. When they were finally both bare, she looked at him in the lamplight and gasped at his beauty and his perfection, and he kissed her soft and sweet and long and hard.
When they joined, finally, she gasped at the union, and as he broke through her, she screamed quietly—he stilled inside of her and brushed away the tears running down her cheeks, and whispered "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you" until the pain had lessened enough for him to continue.
As his movements quickened, her breath caught and she looked up at him—his blue eyes were dark and clouded with desire, locked on her face, his expression one of utmost rapture. Somehow the pain and the pleasure were mingling, becoming one, and as he continued to move she felt herself tightening, and suddenly she exploded, a million bursts of light and stars and fireworks flying away on rainbow wings—
"Gabriella..." The breathy name—her name—expelled from his mouth, a begging, pleading sound, almost. "Gabriella... look at... me..."
She did, and their gazes met, and suddenly Troy gave a long, loud moan and upturned his face, and she watched him, the look of awe in his face at his release, and he gripped her tightly as it happened, and his lips met hers in a passionate kiss.
"I love you," she whispered after they had broken apart. She looked away.
"Gabriella." His gentle hand forced her to see him again, those gorgeous blue eyes. "I love you too."
The tears fell unbidden from her lashes, and she cried.
Falling in love is never easy.
They found it was all right, though, in the end.
This is real, this is me
I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be now
Gonna let the light shine on me
Now I've found who I am
There's no way to hold it in
No more hiding who I wanna be
This is me
-This is Me by Demi Lovato