A/N: Once more, I'm not really certain where this story came from. I had the idea to write a drabble, of sorts, where Ryan declines Gabriella's "offer" to choreograph an act in the Lava Springs talent show for the Wildcats, but, me being me, it snowballed into this canon-divergence/character study.
Let me know what you guys think. Feedback is always welcome and immensely, tremendously appreciated.
Nonnegotiable
#
"I know what you can do, Ryan. So, why not do it for us?" Gabriella Montez's hand rests on Ryan Evans's shoulder as she looks to him, biting at her lower lip, brown doe eyes wide and pleading.
Ryan lifts his eyes from her to the surrounding circle of Wildcats. They cast expectant stares his way, and he can almost imagine what Troy Bolton must have felt like in the group discussion Ryan overheard, the other day, with a wall of eyes staring him down, waiting for his compliance and agreement: vulnerable, exposed, like a piece of prey seconds from being pounced on.
He thinks of how, while he was striking up a surprisingly effortless bond with Troy, the conspicuously absent leader of the group and the one undeniably deserving of the title of East High's Primo Boy, during rehearsals for the winter musical, the rest of them- sans Kelsi Nielsen, the Drama Club's introverted composer, and Martha Cox, who had yet to officially join the group's ranks- were making not-so-quiet jabs at him and his sister, and even at Troy, for bothering to speak to him in the first place.
Yes, Sharpay isn't exactly topping the list of Ryan's favorite people, at the moment, but she's his sister. From day one, she has always had his back, even when he had no one else to turn to. These Wildcats, who tout the virtues of friendship and togetherness, but turned on one of their own and ousted him from the group at the drop of a hat, are, essentially, asking him to betray her. His best friend.
"No thanks." The words leave his mouth before he really has time to consider his phrasing.
He hears the murmurs of discontentment ascend from the group, and the pleading eyes morph into steely glares.
"Come on, Ryan," Gabriella insists. "When will you ever get another opportunity like this?"
Ryan shakes her hand off of his shoulder and takes a step back. "I appreciate the offer, but… I know where my loyalties lie. I'm not so sure you guys do."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Chad Danforth scoffs, taking an all too menacing step forward.
Rather than chance his luck and risk his face becoming acquainted with Chad's fists, Ryan turns around and begins the lengthy hike from the softball field, back to the country club.
Gabriella's words about him possibly never getting another chance to show people what he can really do leave a sour taste in his mouth and a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. But… if they were willing to boot Troy from the group, simply because the brunet golden boy was concerned enough about his future to be proactive and try to secure a scholarship for himself, even after Troy managed to convince the ever high-strung manager, Mr. Fulton, to hire on all of them, Then they were just going to use and discard me, too.
.
Just as Ryan figured, Troy, loyal to a fault as always, rushed to the softball field as soon as his practice ended, only to find it completely deserted. The only signs that the Wildcats were ever there, to begin with, are the discarded soda cans and red and white striped paper trays for hot dogs and french fries that are spilling out of the trashcans nearby.
Troy slams his fist against the chain-link wiring of the batter's cage, causing the entire structure to wobble visibly and audibly, and rests his head against it. Dismay comes off of him in waves.
After a brief internal schism over whether or not he should approach Troy, or just head back to the resort and spend the rest of the night riddled with anxiety over his cowardice and how hurt Troy looks, Ryan bites at his lower lip and steps out of the shadows. "Are you okay?"
Troy jumps and turns to face his addressee, his eyes wide. Once he takes in the smaller boy, he relaxes slightly. "Er, hey, Ryan. I was just…" He tugs at the pull-over baseball shirt he clearly put on in a hurry. It's identical to the one Ryan saw Chad wearing, earlier.
Ryan feels his heart twisting. "Looking for your friends?" He asks.
"Yeah. I was supposed to… They were…" Troy lets out a sigh. His hair is still damp with sweat from his likely intense game with the college guys at the University of Albuquerque. His posture is slumped and his eyes are glazed, void of their usual luster. He looks exhausted.
Ryan shifts his weight, uncertain how to handle this particular situation. Regardless of his personal feelings, regardless of the friendliness and warmth that Troy has shown him since rehearsals for the winter musical, he and Troy are not what anyone would call "friends". He isn't even sure how Troy would handle Sharpay's "poodle" reaching out to him. But… "The game wasn't anything that special, I'm sure," he ventures timidly. "And, it wasn't as important as what you were doing."
Troy looks up. A hint of luster returns to his eyes as they spark with incredulity, and something that looks like optimism. "You… You really think so?"
"Of course!" Ryan throws his hands up for emphasis. "You're playing opposite college guys. Those are the big leagues. Your friends were playing a softball game for the staff at Lava Springs. That's nothing. It's-It's playground stuff."
Troy's mouth twitches at the corners, and he swallows. "Chad…" he says slowly. "He was upset that I didn't ask for him and the rest of the guys to be included in the practice."
Ryan recalls how quick "Chad and the guys" were to accuse Troy of "bailing" on them in front of an outsider to their little posse. "Let him be mad," he says, shrugging.
"But, they…" Troy slumps back against the batter's cage.
Heart sinking, Ryan considers leaving Troy be. He's obviously making things worse by opening his big, stupid mouth. He's so awful at social interaction. That's why he always stayed quiet and trusted Sharpay to…
Ryan's jaw clenches. He forces his anxiety, his fear down, and moves to join Troy against the batter's cage. "Sometimes, you have to do what's best for you, no matter what anyone else thinks."
"Is the scholarship worth losing my friends over?" Ryan can't tell if the question is aimed at him, or if Troy is talking to himself.
"I can't answer that for you." Oh, how he wishes he could. He hates seeing Troy this distressed and run-down. "But…" Ryan feels Troy shift beside him. "I think if they were really your friends, they would support you on this."
"Even Gabriella… she thinks I'm intentionally missing dates. That I'm…"
Ryan longs to tell Troy that Gabriella is just a girl; that there are billions of them out there, some just as manipulative and cloying and fake as Gabriella is, some whom would treat Troy like a prince and shower him in endless love.
Just like he would.
He doesn't even allow the words to form on his tongue. That's a line that he won't cross tonight. Or, maybe ever.
Instead, he asks, "When's the last time you had something to eat?"
Troy glances from his feet, to Ryan. He runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to fix it. He only succeeds at mussing it more, something Ryan finds heart-wrenchingly adorable. "Hours ago. I'm starving," he replies quietly.
Ryan allows a smile to slip onto his face. "Me, too."
For the first time that evening, a hint of a smile works its way across Troy's visage, as well.
.
Troy polishes off his cheeseburger- he eats it with Swiss cheese, a fact that Ryan stores away in the event that it might be useful, in the future- while Ryan sips at a strawberry smoothie and picks at the basket of french fries the two of them opted to share.
"So, what were you doing, hanging around the softball field?" Troy asks. There isn't a trace of accusation in his tone or expression. There's no unspoken "you have no business being within fifty feet of an arena devoted to sports", or a direct "did your sister send you to spy on me?" Just a sincere question.
"I um…" Ryan picks up a french fry and fiddles with it, twisting it between his fingers. Squeezing it, flattening it. "I used to play, when I was younger." He recalls his father's wide grin as Vance Evans guided him out onto the field, in Newport, Rhode Island, and slid a mitt onto his small, white hand. He thinks back to the fateful game that put an end to his short-lived career in baseball, to coming home, tears stinging his eyes, and pitching his mitt into the trash.
To the day his heart was broken for the first time.
The white potato filling oozes out of the crisp golden skin encasing it.
"Are you okay?" Troy's voice startles Ryan, causing him to jump.
He'd almost forgotten that the other boy was there. Ryan peers up, his eyes locking on Troy's, and his heart misses a beat.
Troy's eyes, already a bright, entrancing cerulean, are intensified by the overwhelmingly blue color scheme of the Lava Springs kitchen. They're lovely, and enticing, and Ryan wants to fall into them and get swept away.
The temptation to repress his emotions, to retract them and bury them deep in his ribcage, never to be expelled into the world outside of his body, is still there, sounding in the back of Ryan's mind like warning bells. But, as he looks into those striking blue eyes, his desire to get closer to Troy, who, even with his hair dyed dark and cut short, and his skin slathered in an orange spray tan that reminds Ryan of the hue coating Sharpay's skin to an uncomfortable degree, is still the most beautiful person in the entire state of New Mexico, washes back over him.
Troy's brows knit. His mouth falls into a frown. "Ryan?" He prompts, his inflection concerned, gentle.
"I just…" Ryan exhales and lowers his walls enough to allow Troy a peek at what lies behind them. "Baseball was something that I did for my dad. It-It wasn't really me. Where I belonged."
Troy nods, his brows furrowing and his mouth becoming a straight line as he contemplates the information that has just been divulged to him. "You know," he says slowly, "the fact that you played ball, and that you're probably still really good at it, is awesome. I'd totally be willing to watch you play, some time, if you're ever up for it."
Ryan's heart flutters; a pair of wings beating against the hollow, restrictive cavity of his chest, longing to break free and fill that cavity with feelings. All of the feelings that threaten to overpower Ryan every second that he isn't forcing them back.
"Bu-ut…" Troy reaches across the table and removes the mutilated french fry from Ryan's grasp, setting it on the table and, to Ryan's surprise, replacing it with his own warm, strong, callused hand. "What you do onstage is, in my opinion, way cooler than anything someone else made you feel like you had to do."
"Seriously?" Ryan just gets out over what feels like his heart constricting his throat.
"Completely serious." Troy gives Ryan's hand a squeeze, grinning softly, then nods to the fry basket. "Now, you better eat some of those fries before I finish all of them."
Laughter escaping him, Ryan grabs a french fry and bites into it.
.
Ryan sees Troy off. He's expecting them to part ways with nothing more than a handshake, a gesture that keeps their relationship, if one can even call it that, both platonic and firmly in the confines of tonight.
Instead, Troy lingers, biting at his lower lip as his eyes pan down Ryan's body. "Thank you, uh…" He clears his throat. "Thank you for being there for me, Ryan."
"Hey." Ryan shuffles his feet and throws his hand up, palm facing Troy. "Keeping you company was my pleasure."
Troy gives him a soft smile and seems almost… shy.
Headlights gleam outside of the country club, momentarily blinding Ryan, and a horn bleats.
Troy turns around and cranes his neck to peer out the windows. He squints against the glare of the headlights. "That's my dad." He shifts his duffle bag up higher on his shoulder and murmurs,"Can't wait to get home and get a shower."
Ryan bites at his own lower lip, warring with himself to keep images of a nude Troy rubbing body wash along the stretch of his biceps and torso as water from a shower head cascades over him, from dominating his thoughts.
"See you tomorrow?" Troy asks, ejecting Ryan from his fantasy and right smack into the real world. Where the real Troy is standing right in front of him, the look in his eyes and his posture what Ryan can only describe as cautiously optimistic.
Cautiously optimistic; words Ryan never imagined would be used in conjunction with Troy Bolton, especially not as adjectives for Troy's current emotional state after asking the lesser half of the Evans twins, Sharpay's… "poodle", if he would see him tomorrow.
Ryan allows a cautiously optimistic smile to make its way onto his own face, and promises, "You know it."
.
The club talent show is an event that Ryan had been looking forward to. He knew it wouldn't be as exciting as the East High winter musical- which Sharpay wrote off as a debacle- but Ryan lives for the moments when he can escape his life, the role that he has been handed, and cease being Sharpay's poodle, her sidekick, her shadow, and become his own person. Be recognized for his own talents and abilities. Be "Ryan Evans" without a "Sharpay and" preceding his name. The prospect of being onstage, once more, without the concern that Gabriella would worm her way in and steal the spotlight as well as Troy's attention, while Ryan is left standing on the sidelines, watching on with a twisting sensation of nausea eating at his insides, was a thrilling one.
Even though he wasn't exactly leaping for joy over the number Sharpay had chosen for them to perform.
A Hawaiian-themed song about a princess whose Prince Charming has been turned into a fish, featuring Sharpay as the "Pineapple Princess Tiki", and Ryan multitasking as a tiki warrior clad in a monstrosity of a costume with abhorrently tacky blinking lights, the sequin-covered fish, and the prince.
It was an interesting call, to say the least. Interesting, read: "highly questionable", and "potentially mortifying".
However, the talent show is now a no-go, since Sharpay unceremoniously booted Ryan from their act, and decided to sing a "duet" with Troy.
Ryan imagines that the artist listing for that track on the jacket of a hypothetical album for the talent show would read "Sharpay Evans & The Sharpettes (featuring Troy Bolton)", rather than "Sharpay Evans & Troy Bolton". Because heaven forbid anyone else hog Sharpay's coveted spotlight. Especially someone who could give her a run for her money.
Ryan would much rather hear Troy sing solo. Just that lovely, enticing baritone with all of the passion and gusto backing it. No Gabriella and her ridiculously high soprano that wavers between insufferably saccharine and ear-piercing caterwaul, and no Sharpay and her overbearing stage presence. Just Troy executing Swayze-esque maneuvers while clad in a form-fitting black jumpsuit, or illuminating the stage in a white suit and blue dress shirt that amplify the magnetizing, unearthly hue of his eyes, as Ryan enters from the back of the audience and crosses toward the stage, hand outstretched…
Pausing in his roundabout trek back to the resort, Ryan stands on the bridge overlooking the manmade river that cuts through the golf course. He gazes out over the green, remembers Troy's golfing form that was so impressive, it had Ryan's father ready to declare the brunet boy his son in-law on the spot. So ready, that he unquestioningly blackmailed Troy into "promising" to sing with Sharpay.
Daddy's "Princess". The favorite.
Ryan grips at the iron railings on the bridge until his knuckles turn white.
His inkling that his voice would blend beautifully with Troy's will have to remain just that.
.
As he's sitting on the outskirts of a gathering of Sharpay and her gal pals, Emma, Jackie, and Lea, Ryan sips absently at a cocktail and considers the possibility that he's a masochist.
He listens to the raucous giggling bubbling up from the girls' throats as they discuss the scent of the head lifeguard, Javier's, skin, and how amazing Zeke Baylor's chocolate chip cookies are. He can hear Sharpay getting progressively more tipsy as she downs glass after glass of Long Island Iced Tea, her giddy laughter becoming less controlled and restrained with every drink.
Despite his best efforts to block that section off, bar access to it, his mind wanders, once more, to earlier that day, when Sharpay dropped the bombshell that she was going to be singing a love song with Troy in the talent show. Ryan's heart had plummeted into his stomach, the after-effects rippling through his body with enough force to render him unsteady on his feet.
Troy's name coming out of Emma's mouth is what pulls Ryan back into the present.
"He and I are totally skin-tone compatible," Sharpay gushes. A smirk stretches across her face and her eyelids droop, hooding her eyes. She seems about ready to topple over.
Heat flashing through his insides, Ryan's jaw sets. He realizes that a part of him is anticipating his sister, at the very least, pitching forward enough to wipe the infuriating cat-that-caught-the-canary grin off of her face.
"It's only a matter of time before Troy realizes we're meant to sing together," Sharpay says, her words slurring together. "His place is on my arm, you know. I am East High's Primo Girl. And, I always get what I want."
The other girls titter with agreement.
Ryan feels bile, hot, acidic, hit the back of his throat. He bites at the inside of his cheek hard enough to break the skin. Although he believes rather strongly that Sharpay deserves to have vomit splatter her rhinestone encrusted sandals- she has nine pairs in different colors, for fuck's sake- he abandons his chaise and makes a swift exeunt from the scene.
Predictably, none of the girls call after him, or even acknowledge that he's gone.
.
Ryan wants to have a diva tantrum. He wants the freedom to be able to kick and scream at the top of his lungs. To have people scrambling to placate him. If he's going to be dismissed as nothing more than an extension of, or accessory to Sharpay, he should be able to act like her. He should be able to march up to her, eyes blazing with hellish fury, and demand, "Why Troy?"
But he knows exactly "why Troy", and he also knows that, despite his best efforts, the fire in his eyes would be doused by sadness and bewilderment, and his voice would crack and quaver as sobs threaten to break the surface and overwhelm him.
Because he's not Sharpay.
He's just her brother, her "poodle", that fades into the background, even when he's wearing pastel colored shirts and matching hats.
Strolling aimlessly about the premises of what should be his turf, but has felt like Sharpay's, since their arrival, Ryan twirls his duck keychain through his fingers, and recalls how Troy's hand felt in his grasp. Warm. Lightly callused. It was nice. Really nice, and more than he ever could have hoped for.
He should be satisfied. He shouldn't ask for more.
But…
"Namaste, Ryan."
Ryan pauses in his tracks and whirls around to see Noah, the curly haired yoga instructor at the country club. "Hey," he greets the man, heat filling his cheeks.
"Your center is off-balance. Would you like to breathe with me?"
Ryan considers the implications of the question and imagines that, in another universe, such a query might lead to Noah slamming him against a wall and ravishing him with his lips, teeth, and large, steady hands. While he wouldn't be entirely opposed to that, he then considers the amount of alcohol swimming in his own bloodstream, how he has caught more than one glimpse of the waistline of Troy's boxers, thanks to the fashion that Troy wears his jeans, how Troy's shirts have started to stretch snug across his chest and arms, and the fabric bunches up when Troy flexes the probably just as beautiful and enticing as the rest of him muscles on his back. The luster that illuminates Troy's ridiculously blue eyes, Troy's heart-ensnaring smile and perfect white teeth, the way Troy held Ryan's hand just a few hours ago, Troy… and he shoves all thoughts of the yoga instructor, no matter how titillating, out of his head. "Actually, I was thinking about getting out of here. Getting some fresh air to clear my head."
"A moonlit drive." Noah nods knowingly, as if he has direct insight into Ryan's thoughts. "Very zen."
If Ryan didn't know Noah better- or, at all- he'd assume, as he supposes many people already do, that the man indulges in a specific plant between and outside of his classes. "Erm, yeah. Zen."
"Shall I chauffeur you, then?" Noah asks.
Ryan supposes his parents might take issue with a grown man driving their sixteen year-old son off of the premises and aimlessly about the city of Albuquerque… provided they even noticed his absence.
He's almost certain they wouldn't.
"Sure," he replies.
.
Noah's car smells like incense and has an odd assortment of "peace and love" keychains dangling from its dashboard mirror. Much like Sharpay, whose reckless driving is a prime example of her complete lack of impulse control, Noah's driving style is reflective of his personality. Which, in his case, is laid back, leisurely, responsible. He drives like someone who has time to spare to stop and take in the scenery, enjoy the show. Not someone who is attempting to flee and relies on the show to be his simultaneous sanctuary, and getaway car.
The brim of Ryan's hat is pressed to the glass of the passenger side window when Ryan sees it; his outlet, his getaway car, his sanctuary.
Just outside of a local theater sits an advertisement, announcing the dates and times of auditions for a production of Pippin.
His heart leaps promptly into his throat. Can he really do this? He's never performed without Sharpay. The one and only time he auditioned for something without her right beside him was when he went out for Little League, and… To say that outing did not end well would be an understatement. Massively so.
As nerves and doubt begin to close in on him, causing his legs to quiver and his stomach to feel like it's doing somersaults in a tumble dryer, Troy's words from earlier that evening reenter Ryan's head. "What you do onstage is, in my opinion, way cooler than anything that someone else made you feel like you had to do."
Troy follows his heart. That's what lead him to East High's auditorium, to earning a callback, to impressing the entire student body with his voice and natural stage presence, to tearing the status quo at East High asunder.
Ryan has never had the courage to follow his heart. But… Perhaps, following the lead of their high school's Absolute Primo Boy will give him the strength to start.
.
The mounting tension between Troy and Chad reaches its apex while Ryan is mentally running over choreography and lyrics.
Ryan hears a muffled crash, alarmed gasps coming from the kitchen, and despite him no longer having any desire to "keep an eye on those Wildcats", as his sister ordered, he rushes into the room. He finds the group gaping at Troy, who is slumped on the floor, the right side of his face already reddened and swelling with the beginnings of a nasty welt, and Chad staring down at Troy, his jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, and eyes wide.
It doesn't require Gabriella's absurdly high IQ level to put two and two together.
Ryan drops to the ground at Troy's side.
Troy's eyes flicker from his best friend to Ryan. The ocean at the center of his irises is turbulent, wracked with such disquiet, such intense sadness, Ryan has to swallow and brace himself so as not to be swept away.
"Come on," he says softly. He offers Troy his hand and, the muscles in his jaw tightening, Troy takes it, clasping onto the appendage like it's his one and only lifeline. Ryan wraps an arm around Troy's backside. Together, they climb to their feet.
As they pass through, Ryan ignores the stares of the Wildcats and only briefly acknowledges Chad and Taylor McKessie speaking in not-so-hushed voices in a corner of the room near the sinks.
"I didn't mean to," Chad insists, his fury ebbing to reveal a shakiness almost akin to panic and, perhaps, remorse. "I didn't. O-Okay?"
Ryan gauges Troy's reaction to the curly-haired athlete's admission in his peripheral.
Troy keeps his gaze trained on the ground, but his eyes gleam, the blue of the kitchen's color scheme amplifying their naturally unearthly hue like it did the previous night. Only, today, it's a deep-rooted melancholy setting Troy's eyes alight.
Ryan maneuvers Troy into the dining room. Troy sinks into a chair with an emission of a noise that's somewhere between grateful and doleful.
As Ryan is combing his brain for the proper words to begin to ask Troy what the hell just transpired and if he's all right, the soft clicking of shoes on the floor behind them draws his attention.
Kelsi enters the room. With a glance at Ryan, she approaches Troy, handing him what appears to be a washrag wrapped around a cluster of ice cubes.
Troy takes the washrag with a small, strained smile, and presses it to his face.
"Chad started it?" Ryan asks though he already knows the answer.
Troy gives the faintest of nods. The closest approximation of "sad puppy-dog eyes" that Ryan has ever seen on a human being is Troy's eyes at that moment.
He feels his heart twist in response. "He was angry about your promotion?"
"I missed a two-on-two game, as well as the staff softball game, yesterday." Troy's voice is steeped in self-loathing. "They think I've turned into a jerk with new shoes," he says softly.
Beside him, Kelsi shifts with obvious discomfort, but makes no move to speak.
"Please." Ryan snorts. "If anyone around here is a 'jerk with new shoes', it's a certain blonde with delusions of being a princess."
Kelsi's mouth twitches with barely stifled laughter, and Troy cracks a genuine smile.
Ryan feels an odd sense of accomplishment tug at his insides. In all honesty, he, Troy, and Kelsi could form a coalition-The Tyrannized By Sharpay Club. Sure, the acronym (TTBS) needs a little work, but…
Troy leans forward. He shifts his makeshift icepack around, seemingly to get a better view of Ryan as he fixes his gaze on him.
Ryan's heart leaps into his throat.
"When I asked if I'd see you tomorrow," Troy begins, a wry smile pulling at his lips. "I was sort of hoping it would be under… slightly different circumstances."
Kelsi appears to take this as her cue to exit the scene.
"Just getting to see you at all is something special for me," Ryan promises. He stoops to inspect Chad's "handiwork". Troy lowers the ice-press to allow him to do so.
"I was never there for you, after…" Troy cuts himself off, but Ryan knows exactly what he's referring to.
Ryan still has bruises darkening the white skin on his abdomen. Bruises from fists, open hands, knees… and always of relative strangers. Never from someone he considered his best friend. He thinks the latter scenario would leave more of a lasting sting, even if the best friend is forgiven.
It's easy, after all, to understand hateful attacks orchestrated by a stranger. You're not supposed to harm the ones you love. Not intentionally.
"It's okay," Ryan says, his eyes scanning the unsightly blotch marring Troy's face. As he predicted, Chad's jealousy and rage are going to leave a nasty welt. He wishes he could run his fingers over the splotch while it's still an angry red and erase it from Troy's skin. "I never really expected you to be, you know?"
"Still… " Troy is resolute, determination radiating from him in that way that won the admiration of the entire student body- including Ryan, who honestly couldn't care less about basketball- during their sophomore year, when Troy made starting varsity. The first sophomore in East High's history to bear that mantle. "Next year, if anyone gives you a hard time-"
Ryan's heart skips a beat. "Thanks."
"I'm the one who should be thanking you." Troy grabs Ryan's wrist so suddenly, it catches Ryan off-guard. "I… I keep going on about my friends, and, Ryan, you…" Troy's eyes, so intent, so serious, search Ryan's face. His hand slides down to grip Ryan's, once more, and Ryan feels himself continuing to lower his walls, certain that, one day, Troy will slip past the reserves, past the stronghold, and gain unfettered access to the soft, mushy, fragile core that lies within. He already has a foothold there. "You just-"
Just…?
Unable to quite say whatever it was he meant to say, Troy shrinks into himself, and Ryan can feel himself following suite. Troy settles for, "Just… thanks. For last night, today, and any of the ways you're going to save my ass in the future."
His heart still beating too fast, still affected, Ryan lets himself get lost in Troy's eyes, the curl of his long black eyelashes, the curves of his cheekbones, the shape of his mouth, the way his dark bangs fall into his eyes and locks of his hair wing out over his ears. He thinks Troy is more beautiful, in a boyish way, than any icon of the silver screen. Inside, and out.
And, he'll never understand how Gabriella can be so…
"Anytime," he murmurs, forcing a small smile onto his face.
He knows it's sadder than he wanted it to be when he sees his sadness reflected back at him in the depths of Troy's eyes.
.
News travels fast among a summer staff comprised almost entirely of gossipy high school students. For once, Ryan isn't the last to know when something relatively major has transpired.
Martha Cox waves Ryan over to join her and Kelsi, just before their shift starts.
Ryan has to point inquiringly at himself before accepting the invitation, just to make absolute certain the brunette girl wasn't signaling to someone else behind him. Once he's approached the girls, Martha grabs his arm. "We thought you should hear it from us, before Sharpay finds out and tries to make a move," she says.
"Pardon?"
"Gabriella quit and broke up with Troy, last night."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. All she told Taylor was that Troy had changed, and things weren't working out, here, the way she wanted them to."
Kelsi's expression is wistful, as if she was a firsthand witness to the destruction of True Love itself. "I didn't think Sharpay could actually tear them apart."
Ryan, on the other hand, has a hunch that Troy and Gabriella's relationship would have dissolved, with or without his sister's interference.
Yes. He was "spying", again, but it was for a good cause. He got to see with his own two eyes that Gabriella never even asked if Troy was okay after seeing the horrible, angry bruise marring Troy's face. She just stared at him, her expression void of sympathy, or affection, or any of the things a person is supposed to show their significant other after said significant other was decked in the face by their jealousy-stricken best friend.
It was almost like Gabriella thought Troy deserved a fist to the face.
Frankly, Ryan could not be more elated that Gabriella has exited Troy's life of her own volition.
Of course… the issue of how Gabriella's exit stage right has affected Troy remains. And, even though he's never quite liked Gabriella, never understood what Troy saw in her, how Gabriella could be so apathetic toward Troy's problems and completely ignorant to how lucky she is that she's the one at his side… Ryan feels a tiny twinge of pity somewhere deep within when he thinks of the tears Troy shed, the previous night. Troy's heart shattering as he had to watch the girl who was supposed to be his everything slip right through his fingers and leave him behind.
.
Music flows through Ryan's veins, thicker than blood. It guides, drives, and propels him across the floor as he configures his body into pirouettes, rolls his hips, launches himself into a grand jeté. Every movement is akin to shaking off shackles, and Sharpay isn't here to rein him back in right when his limbs are about to break free of the glittering pink restraints.
Beads of sweat roll down his face and neck, dripping into his t-shirt, and his lungs burn, but he's never felt so free. He strikes his finishing pose before the wall of mirrors in the Rec Room, and, just past his own reflection, catches sight of dark hair, golden skin, and blue eyes fixed on him. His heart jumps, executing a grand jeté of its own.
Troy lifts his hands from the pockets of his pants- he's in street clothes, so he must be on break- to give Ryan a soft round of applause. "Bravo!" He calls, smiling brightly.
A reflexive grin breaks out on Ryan's face. Turning to face the actual Troy, he crosses his legs and dips into a low bow.
"What's the occasion?" Troy asks.
Ryan stands upright and crosses over to switch off his musical accompaniment, then to the piano in the corner of the room to retrieve his towel. "A local community theater is putting on a production of Pippin."
Troy's brows elevate.
"I, uh…" Ryan dabs at his neck with the towel, mopping up as much sweat as he can manage. His bloodstream surges with pulses of nervous energy. He hopes he doesn't reek. "I have an audition tomorrow."
"Seriously?" Troy's eyes sparkle, and he sounds so genuinely delighted, Ryan's nervousness recedes, transfiguring into a burst of excitement that fizzes through him in a manner akin to a sugar rush.
"Yeah," he affirms, smiling.
"That's so awesome, Ryan."
Ryan could bask in the glow from Troy's megawatt smile, free of the fear that his fellow country club members or East High classmates would see his pale, oddly shaped body and have to gulp down vomit, or rush off to pour bleach into their eyes.
The brilliance of Troy's smile dims, however, melancholy creeping back in to cloud his features. "I'm sorry about your talent show."
"Sharpay's faux-pas, not yours. You have nothing to apologize for."
Troy tries to smile, but seems to remain unconvinced of his lack of wrongdoings. He rubs at the back of his neck and asks, "How do you do it?" At Ryan's perplexed look, he elucidates, "Performing with Sharpay. You make it look so easy, but it's like a waking nightmare- all of that pink, and pyrotechnics going off way too close to people. I mean, I saw how she treated you during…" He visibly struggles to extract the right wording.
"'Humuhumu'?" Ryan offers.
Unfortunately, the title of the song doesn't appear to abate Troy's confusion. If anything, judging by his befuddled expression, it adds onto it. "Yeah, uh… How she treated you during 'Humuhumu' wasn't okay, and I'm really sorry you have to deal with that."
"Troy, it's really-" Ryan starts.
Troy throws up a hand to stop him. "I found out that she needs to exert a lot more force to shove me over." His words are accompanied by a laugh most likely intended to take the punch out of them, but it quickly dissolves, leaving him looking sad and completely drained.
Ryan's insides twist with empathy. Troy's bruise stands out against his skin in a garish manner. It's darkened to a washed-out purple with sickly shades of green and yellow mixed in. Altogether, it's as if an unappealing blotch has been sloppily and carelessly smeared onto a gorgeous painting of a sunset composed of vibrant oranges and golds.
He can imagine the amount of makeup Sharpay must cake onto Troy's face to conceal the imperfection, how having Sharpay hovering about and touching all over him must be suffocating, even unbearable for Troy. And, she shoves him over, on top of it?
Without taking a moment to reconsider, Ryan lays a consolatory hand on the uninjured side of Troy's face.
Troy leans into the touch as if he's been starved for it, and Ryan feels his breath hitch.
But, he presses on, determined to keep his voice, full, strong, and quaver-free. "You don't have to sing with her. Forget the promise you were blackmailed into giving. Our dad is on the board of directors at U of A. I can just talk to him and see if he can work out a scholarship deal for you."
Troy's eyes widen. Ryan can feel a muscle in his jaw flex under his palm. "Isn't that cheating?"
The smile that tugs at Ryan's lips is dry and sardonic. "Moral integrity isn't exactly my family's strong suit."
"No. I-I meant to say…I-" Troy pauses and swallows. "You would really do that for me, Ryan?" He asks, incredulous.
Ryan nods and lets his self-control lapse just long enough for him to caress the ridge of Troy's cheekbone with his thumb. The action sends a shiver down Troy's spine, and Ryan feels heat trickling into the region just below his stomach. A twinge of guilt promptly settles in, eating at him for crossing boundaries and being so pompous as to relish it.
Disgusting.
He half-expects Troy to pull away and distance himself, to maybe even shout, "No thanks", fear and repulsion twisting his beautiful features, before backing out of the room to never speak to Ryan again.
"There's no catch. Honest," he promises. He's unable to keep the quaver out of his voice, this time, his stomach rocked with a sensation akin to seasickness. Vertigo, perhaps. But his eyes remain locked on the ocean-colored pools set in Troy's face.
Instead of crushing Ryan's hopes of anything blossoming between them and grinding them into the dust beneath his feet, Troy asks, "Are you sure you're an Evans?"
The question catches Ryan off-guard. His stomach jolts, his heart launching into his larynx. For so long, he's been waiting for someone to distinguish him from his sister, to recognize him as his own separate entity. And, now, Troy Bolton is…!
Troy lets out a soft chuckle, and places his hand over top of Ryan's where it sits on his face. Easily, suavely, he maneuvers the appendage down to his waistline and into his grip, his fingers threading through Ryan's. "Thank you. Seriously."
Ryan's heart feels like it's pounding against his uvula.
"What time is your audition, Ry?"
Ry. "F-Five. Tomorrow."
"I learned a little something about not making promises that I can't keep, but… I will absolutely be there." Troy's eyes shine with candor, and Ryan stokes the flames of the obnoxious hope that always flares in his chest where Troy is concerned. Troy's foothold in Ryan's mushy, fragile interior has become Troy's entire body ducking and dodging past all defensive measures.
At the smile that breaks out on Ryan's face, Troy taps the brim of Ryan's hat, beaming. "Break a leg," he says, just like he did before the curtain opened on Twinkle Towne's opening night. "And, don't be afraid to remind your dad that you exist, and your feelings matter, too."
A nod and a very soft, barely audible, "I will", is all Ryan can manage. There's no oxygen left in his lungs, and his heart has swollen to three times its normal size. Figuratively, he hopes. But, the literal wouldn't be so bad, if the last thing he got to see before the swelling of one of his vital organs resulted in said organ's failure, was Troy smiling at him while only inches away, his unearthly blue eyes bright with joy and encouragement.
.
"Dad?"
Vance Evans assumes the putting position, his grip on his club tight. "Yes, son?" His gaze is intent as he studies the hole ten or so feet in front of him.
"Singing with Sharpay isn't exactly working out for Troy."
"Is that so? I've heard everything was working out spectacularly."
Chewing at the inside of his mouth, Ryan shifts his weight from his right to his left foot, and fiddles with a pocket on the bag of golf clubs. "Troy has a lot on his plate, already. He's the Junior Golf Pro, he practices basketball with the U of A guys… "
"The ability to multitask is a valuable skill for any resume. Troy's future employers will see how he handled his employment at Lava Springs, and be thrilled to welcome him onto their workforce. Not to mention college applications. Think of all he's doing for his future." Vance grins, pleased with his own explanation; a businessman confident he's won a negotiation. But, he never lifts his gaze from the tiny white golfball.
A golfball specially monogrammed with his initials.
It reminds Ryan of someone. Someone who can persuade "daddy" to give her whatever her heart desires with a wobbling protrusion of her lower lip, and a stamp of her foot if the former method yields no results.
Ryan recalls Troy's advice, and a rush of determination shoots through his veins. He chews at the interior of his lower lip, resolving to stand his ground until he gets what he wants, for a change. "Dad, Troy's girlfriend broke up with him and quit her job because Sharpay can't keep her hands to herself."
It's not entirely accurate. Gabriella's reasons for abandoning Troy, and her post, had less to do with Sharpay sexually harassing her boyfriend, and much more to do with Gabriella's own general inability to be satisfied by anything Troy does.
But, it gets Vance's attention. The man raises his eyes from his previous preoccupation and turns to Ryan, surprise etched into the leathery crinkles around his features. "I suppose Princess does have a bit of an issue with taking 'no' for an answer," he admits, mostly to himself.
"We have video footage of all of East High's Drama Club productions, including the one Troy was in, and you've seen him play. That's enough to sway the opinions of the other directors in Troy's favor, right?" Ryan holds his father's gaze, his stomach knotting with the intense hope squirming through his insides.
A gradual smile plays on Vance's lips. After a beat, he remarks, "Son, did I ever tell you you'd make terrific negotiator?"
Ryan almost liquefies with relief.
His game abandoned, Vance retrieves his ball and crosses to Ryan's side where he grabs hold of the brim of the cap perched on Ryan's head and straightens it out. "Come on." As Ryan reaches up to correct the tilt of his headwear- he loves his father, but he will never appreciate the man's insistence on "fixing" his hats- Vance drapes his arm around Ryan's shoulders and steers him toward the club. "Let's see what we can arrange for your friend."
.
As much as he's ecstatic to have relieved Troy of his reluctant duty, for reasons both selfless, and not quite as, Ryan doesn't want to leave Sharpay floundering helplessly when the curtain opens on her act. The club talent show means a great deal to their entire family, after all.
It's decided that Sharpay will be performing with an esteemed member of the University of Albuquerque's theater department. Ryan makes a point of selecting the most handsome boy with a tenor range; the range that enables him to sing in Sharpay's key without employing a potentially humiliating falsetto.
He's certain Sharpay won't be too terribly keen on having the rug yanked out from under her, but she employed the same dirty tactic on him, and giving Sharpay a taste of her own medicine when she needs it wouldn't be the most heinous of crimes.
Besides, Ryan is sure (or hoping) that Sharpay will let bygones be bygones the moment she meets the French boy he's chosen for her to collaborate with.
.
He wasn't expecting it, or, rather, he tried to convince himself not to get his hopes up, but right before Ryan is about to take the first step of the routine for his audition, he notices Troy slipping in through the double doors at the back of the house and taking a chair in the last row.
Ryan fights back the grin threatening to consume his face, and throws himself into the routine. There's a new, intense zeal singing through his veins as he executes each carefully calibrated step, each maneuver he's refined through years and years of practice. His voice fills the room and he hopes the look crossing the face of the production's director is something along the lines of impressed.
When he finishes, panting lightly, the director takes down notes and asks for his contact information. But, even that victory feels second tier next to Troy shooting to his feet and pointing proudly at Ryan, a dazzling grin dominating his face.
.
Ryan's affinity for sweets is shamefully persuasive. Against his better judgement, he finds himself headed to the Lava Springs kitchen in search of cookies, or pastries, or even ice cream to celebrate his small step toward establishing himself as his own person. He assures himself that the walk there and back will make up for the calories he's going to be heaping onto his waistline, but he knows he's going to have to fall back on less savory methods of expelling the excess from his body.
It will double as a form of punishment for his poor decision-making skills.
He halts in his tracks at the sight of Troy's familiar dark hair and broad backside. The athlete is scrubbing at an orange splotch on one of the counters, lost in his own world as he works his well-muscled arm furiously along the marble.
A few months prior, Ryan would have turned tail and fled to the safety of his room, his heart thundering and sweet tooth unabated. Now, tearing his gaze away from the faint rippling of Troy's tanned flesh, he clears his throat and calls out, "Late night?"
Troy jolts, but a smile is working its way across his countenance as he turns to face him. "Mr. Fulton was looking pretty run down, earlier, so I thought I'd lighten his load a little."
"You know you're not on kitchen duty, anymore." Ryan gestures toward Troy's navy blue polo, khaki dress slacks, and polished black Italian dress shoes- one variant of the uniform offered to the golf pros.
"Yeah." Troy lifts his still damp and suds covered hand toward the back of his neck. "I know." There's more that he's not sharing, but Ryan lets it slide, for now.
He walks over to the sink, trying not to sway his hips more than necessary, and prepares his own sponge. He can feel Troy's gaze fixed on him as he finds a spot on the surface nearest the brunet and begins scouring away. Once the spot has vanished, he shoots Troy a smirk. "At least one Evans knows the value of good old fashioned elbow grease, huh?"
Troy grins, laughing softly. "I never doubted you." He walks back to the sink to wet his sponge, then resumes scrubbing. "So, what brings you to the kitchen at this hour?"
"Truthfully?" Ryan finds another spot and scrapes at it with his fingernail when it proves trickier to remove than expected. "I was in the mood for ice cream. But, I need to lose weight, so it's really not- "
He feels rather than sees Troy freeze.
"What do you mean by 'lose weight'?" Troy asks. There's a note of alarm backing the question, and Ryan almost wishes he hadn't said anything.
But… it should be obvious. It's glaringly, disgustingly evident to Ryan every time he catches a glimpse of his nude form in the mirror, before and after showering. "I'm… I'm not exactly a size zero," he murmurs, trying to provide some levity by tacking on a laugh. It comes out shaky and weak.
"Neither am I." The incredulity flooding Troy's features is replaced by acute solicitude. "Ryan, you're not fat."
Memories of pinching the surplus skin on his stomach, his thighs, his hips after watching his mother do the same and lament the triple digit number on the scale storm Ryan's brain, and he scrubs harder, trying to force them out. He's so caught up in his task, in trying to ease his racing pulse, he almost jumps out of his skin as a warm hand touches his hipbone.
Troy's familiar fingers pinch ever so gently at the skin covering the ridge of bone. Ryan turns to observe Troy's features, once again expecting to see them contort with repulsion as he squeezes a handful of fat and lard. Intensity does pour from Troy's inhumanly blue eyes, and Ryan swallows as he suddenly recognizes its source.
It's not repulsion. It's on the complete opposite end of the spectrum.
Heat surges through Ryan as if bidden by the look in Troy's eyes, pooling in his stomach. He can hear his heart hammering, feel the blood filling his face and coloring it. He almost aches as Troy breathes, "Can't even pinch an inch."
Troy's long black eyelashes veil his eyes. His warm breath ghosts across Ryan's face, the heat of his sculpted body emanating through their clothes, and Ryan's heart almost stops when he realizes that, if he just leaned in a bit more, he could-
"Ryan!" Sharpay's voice peals out.
Troy and Ryan jolt as though they've been scalded, and Troy turns to the countertop, pretending to scrub at the stain Ryan failed to eliminate. His presence is an enormous comfort as Sharpay stalks toward them, brown eyes glinting.
His heart still in his throat, Ryan braces himself for another argument. He's come to realize that he loathes fighting with Sharpay. The bond between them is thicker than any blood. He isn't just feuding with his best friend. He's fighting a part of himself, and seeing the pain tearing at his insides reflected in Sharpay's features made every stupid disagreement they've had, this summer, that much more excruciating.
"Quentin was your idea," Sharpay begins.
Ryan doesn't answer her right away.
Sharpay's gaze flickers to Troy, who, to his credit, manages to resolutely keep his eyes lowered, even while moving to Ryan's other side to attack the stains on another surface. His hand brushes against Ryan's backside as he passes, and Ryan remembers how to breathe, again.
"Only you and the girls know about my weakness for foreign boys."
Ryan rises to his full height. "It worked out, then?"
Sharpay's eyes soften and she smiles at him for the first time in weeks. "We were amazing."
Ryan returns the smile. The tension gnawing at his stomach begins to subside. "I knew you would be."
"I heard about your audition from mother, who found out from her yoga instructor. I have something for you."
Ryan tilts his head, puzzled, as Sharpay pulls something out from behind her back. He takes in the signature sparkling pink star and can't stop himself from gasping. Loudly. Uncomfortably, distressingly loudly. "Shar… That's- !"
"Quentin and I were amazing because of you. You picked him out, Ry. And, you got the lead in a show, all on your own. You…" She extends the Star Dazzle trophy to him, her eyes damp. "You deserve this a lot more than I do."
Ryan covers his mouth, completely awestruck. He never in a million years imagined that… ! Near light-headed with giddiness, he contemplates pinching himself, just to make certain he isn't dreaming.
He looks to Troy, who has abandoned his attempt at playing "oblivious bystander", and is beaming, his eyes glowing.
"Go on," he mouths.
Dazed, Ryan moves out from behind the counter and accepts the award with a shaking hand. It's his. It's finally his. He runs his hands timidly over the shining metallic base, half of him afraid of leaving smudges, the other half scared that the trophy might shatter under his touch. "D-Do-" He stammers, recovering his tongue. "Do you really mean it?"
Sharpay lets out a laugh and smiles so sincerely. "Of course I do!"
The words have barely left her mouth before Ryan sweeps her into an embrace. He feels her arms wind around him as she reciprocates the hug, her smile against his neck, and he could laugh out of sheer relief.
"Thank you," he whispers into her soft, vanilla-scented hair.
"Thank you," she replies.
Simultaneously, they break the hug and step back from each other. Sharpay regards Ryan with warmth as she smoothes out her dress and brushes her hair back into place, and he fixes his hat, and Ryan feels the part of him that was cleaved in half by her betrayal beginning to mend.
Sharpay's expression then shifts, sobering. "I guess I owe you an apology, Troy," she declares.
Ryan can't ignore the way Troy flinches at the sound of his name being uttered by the blonde girl. He bites at his lip, wanting to reach out a comforting hand and assure Troy that he'd never let his sister have her way with him, but Troy stands his ground, even as the color begins to drain from his face.
"We're not quite as compatible as I thought."
Troy makes a discernible effort to withhold a caustic retort that Ryan imagines would be along the lines of, "No shit". "Yeah." He breaks into an uneasy smile. "Not quite."
Sharpay regards him cooly. Her eyes pass over Ryan, one thin, arched eyebrow quirking ever so slightly, like she's beginning to put the pieces together. Then, with a faint nod, she turns smoothly on her heels and prepares to exeunt.
"Shar, wait!" Ryan calls so suddenly, he surprises himself.
She whirls around, eyes swimming with questions and something that looks like… hope.
Ryan traces a point of the star decorating the top of the trophy- his trophy -and asks, "Would you like to join us for ice cream?"
Sharpay beams and her body practically radiates glee as she dashes over to the freezer. "I have Chef Michael keep a private stash of cookies and cream at the back, just for special occasions."
A feeling of warmth washes over Ryan. It isn't often that he expresses it aloud, but he really is proud to call Sharpay his sister.
Most of the time.
He throws a reassuring grin Troy's way and, together, they toss their sponges into the sink.
.
Although the scholarship is practically a done-deal, Troy is still out on the court during his breaks, dribbling and firing off shot after shot.
Ryan is no expert, of course, but from where he's sitting, Troy's shooting form is masterful, elegant, always has struck him as such. Which might be why he pilfered a poster of Troy off of the wall at East High when no one was looking.
"You could give it a try, you know," Troy calls out, assuming his dunking stance.
Ryan raises his gaze from his newest piece of summer reading material, "The Outsiders", by S.E. Hinton. He lowers his sunglasses and peers over the tinted lenses. "Mm, it's probably for the best that I don't."
"Come on. I could teach you." Troy flashes Ryan an inviting smile, throws in a hint of a pleading look with those ever-alluring eyes, and it's so tempting to sweep all memories of basketballs "accidentally" flying at and, in some cases, hitting off of his head during gym class and in the hallways at school, under a figurative rug.
Tempting, but…
Ryan settles back into his chaise on the sidelines. Out of range of errant balls. Safe. "I think I'll leave the sports to the pros."
Looking as though he's trodden on a mine hidden in plain sight, Troy freezes. "Shit. Ryan, I'm sorry. I-"
Ryan shifts, trying not to showcase his discomfort. He hates how Troy feels a need to apologize for everything. How someone instilled that need in him, probably via glares that bored right into his skin, silent treatments, passive-aggressive quips, and other forms of emotional abuse that could rival the biggest, meatiest fist slamming into Ryan's abdomen. "You don't need to apologize for something other people did," he says gently.
"I know. I'm-" Ryan looks at Troy and he's positive the ache in his chest is broadcasting itself to him by way of his face, because the automatic apology dies on Troy's tongue. Instead, Troy fumbles briefly before asking, "'Pros', huh?" He just barely smiles, lets out a pft of laughter, and shakes his head. He fires off another shot, and the ball perches precariously on the rim before toppling off and landing in his waiting hands. "You think I'm really good enough to go professional?"
Sensing the gravity of this question, the complete incredulity backing it and putting a just audible quaver in Troy's voice, Ryan pulls himself upright. He removes his sunglasses to address Troy directly.
No more barriers.
"Yes. Of course I do." He fixes Troy in an intent stare, hoping his honesty will get through to him. "If playing professionally is what you want you want to do."
"Yeah?" Troy's expression is contemplative, even slightly conflicted.
It crosses Ryan's mind that no one has ever tacked on, "if that's what you want", when addressing Troy, and he pictures a strained relationship with Troy's coach and father, in the days ahead.
If there will be days ahead, of course.
"Yeah. Really. You're… " Setting the book aside, he swings his legs over the side of the chaise and perches on the edge, ready to be on his feet in an instant, if need be. "You're amazing, Troy. At everything you set your mind to."
Troy's eyes search Ryan's as the words sink in, then move lower, roaming over the length of his body. His stare is just intense enough to make Ryan's stomach clench with desire, and flood his every nook and cranny with the thick, agonizing, wonderful weight of love.
Ryan isn't sure approximately when the distance between their bodies began to decrease, but when Troy is only about a foot away, basketball just barely resting in his grasp, entrancing eyes veiled by his eyelashes, Ryan's breath hitches, his pulse drumming in his temples, against his breastbone.
He wants, more than ever before, to…
"Hey, Tiger Woods. You take a break from teaching kids to teach Evans how to play ball?"
Chad's voice is as jarring as a splash of ice water.
Troy's eyes close, his body tensing.
Ryan scarcely dares draw a breath, wishing he could teleport himself and Troy to his room at the resort, the probably empty Bolton household… Anywhere but under the prying, judgmental gazes of three jocks would be preferable.
"I don't know. It kind of looked like they were about to kiss, to me," Jason Cross remarks, sounding perplexed, as usual.
His observation goes seemingly ignored, a scoff from Chad being the only acknowledgement of it.
"We noticed that someone cleaned up the kitchen, last night, and you were the only one who didn't leave at the end of his shift," Zeke begins almost meekly.
Troy's eyes flutter open.
A-ha, Ryan thinks. He knew there was another reason for Troy opting to stay after hours and scrub the countertops. He catches Troy's eye and Troy's gaze flits from him, to the three basketball players.
Ryan can practically see the tension between Troy and Chad, like a rope drawn taut, as they stare each other down. He reaches out and touches the tips of Troy's fingers with his own, reminding him that he's here, that he supports him.
Troy swallows. "Look, man, I-"
"I'm sorry."
The apology comes as just as much a surprise to Zeke, Jason, and Ryan as it does to its addressee.
"I guess I was more than a little jealous of the special treatment you were getting, and I let my emotions get the best of me." Chad toys with the basketball he's almost never seen without- like a security blanket, Ryan muses- and his brow-line creases, his eyes clouding with remorse. "I never should have punched you."
Troy rubs at the mostly faded bruise on his cheek reflexively, then shrugs. "We did more damage to each other in our scuffles growing up."
Chad's lips quirk into a fond smile. "First day of Kindergarten."
"We were both missing one of our front teeth." Troy's muscles relax, and he lets out an easy laugh.
Zeke and Jason trade a glance, smiles working their way across their faces, and Ryan smiles to himself.
"For the record," Chad says, "I looked way less like a dork than you."
Troy agrees, "Your hair deflected attention away from your mouth."
They chuckle, and Ryan can just about see the tension melting away and the frayed edges of the cord representing the friendship between the two boys knitting themselves back together.
When the laughter dies out, Troy's expression shifts, his smile slipping from his face and his eyes moist. He swallows hard, then moves forward, opening his arms for a hug like he's anticipating rejection. Chad accepts, however, drawing Troy in and patting his back.
Ryan lets himself breathe and settles back into his chaise, crossing his legs at the ankles. He returns to his book, readying to turn onto the next page, when he hears Chad whispering conspiratorially, "You still owe us an explanation of whatever you've got going on with Evans."
Troy's eyes are on Ryan, looking for help that Ryan is at a loss to provide. Then, Troy declares, "And you guys will get one… after the two-on-two game I promised you."
"Alright," Jason draws out, turning with a grin to a beaming Zeke.
Chad gives Troy a friendly, approving clap on the shoulder, and Troy's face is engulfed by his megawatt smile.
Ryan couldn't be happier for him if he tried.
.
During a staff break, Ryan strolls into the kitchen to find Kelsi treating a stack of plates like a disc spinner, and Martha grooving to music only she can hear.
Arcing an eyebrow at the curious, and amusing, sight, he clears his throat to announce his presence.
The girls jump like they've been scalded.
"I didn't know there was a party going on in here," he says, leaning against one of the food carts.
Martha exchanges a glance with Kelsi, then breaks into a smile. "Then you're missing out. We definitely know how to get the party started, don't we Kels?"
Kelsi breaks into an unabashed smile, and the contrast between this version of her, the Kelsi out from under Sharpay's immaculately manicured thumb, and the Kelsi that cows to Sharpay's demands, is immediately striking.
Sort of like, Ryan supposes, the difference between who he was, last school year, and who he is, now.
A testament to that difference wanders in and snakes his toned arms about Ryan's midsection. "Mr. Evans, there's a special order awaiting you in the dining room," that testament's velvety tenor-baritone croons into his ear.
Delighted shivers dancing on every nerve-ending, Ryan can't bite back his own unabashed smile. A smile that Kelsi and Martha acknowledge with a knowing look and suggestive giggles, respectively.
Ryan's face blazes. "I'll… I'll see you girls around," he just manages to get out as an insistent Troy thankfully herds him out the door.
"No need to hurry!" Martha calls after them, her words laced with amusement.
"Special order, huh?" Ryan queries, his brow arcing even as the corners of his mouth pull continue to pull into an unabashed smile. His question is answered without words as he sees a large plate of his favorite dish, grilled chicken salad with slices of mango, sitting on a table.
Troy leaves his side to pour sparkling strawberry-flavored water into two wine glasses.
Ryan's jaw drops open and he gapes, at the sight, the fact that this is actually happening. He sees Troy pull out a chair for him, like the gentleman Troy is, and has to will his legs to move forward and his body to plop down into the seat. "Troy, this is…"
"I know it's not much," Troy begins, pulling up the chair across from Ryan, "but I got Zeke to make the chicken salad. I helped cut up the mango slices. Do you like it?" He asks, rubbing bashfully at the back of his neck.
Ryan finally regains control of his motor functions as tears mist his eyes. He reaches across the table and takes Troy's hand, running his thumb over Troy's knuckles. His heart swells with affection as he sees the tiny pink line scored across Troy's second finger, no doubt the result of his labor of love. "I love it." "I love you", he almost adds, but, that can wait.
One day at a time, and all that.
Troy breaks into a shy smile, clearly elated, and tucks into his side of the plate.
Ryan takes this as a cue to pick up his own fork. About mid-way through the meal, Ryan notices Troy fidgeting restlessly and glances up at him, curious.
"Actually, there is one more thing." Troy rummages in the back pocket of his uniform pants and extracts two slips of paper that Ryan immediately recognizes as tickets.
He almost inhales the lettuce leaf he's in the process of chewing.
"You were talking about wanting to see that ballet, and I figured, since you'll have the night off, tomorrow-"
Ryan forgets all decorum, all thoroughly ingrained etiquette for dining halls and dinner tables, and hurls himself out of his seat and to Troy's end of the table, enveloping Troy in a tight hug and nearly bowling him over. "Thank you!" He almost squeals. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
It's not until Troy laughs softly that Ryan remembers himself and, letting out an embarrassed laugh of his own, relinquishes his grip.
"Erm, that is, uh…" He tries to smooth out the end of his shirt to recover some degree of poise.
Troy takes his hand and Ryan follows the appendage to Troy's face and glowing blue eyes. "I'm so proud of you," Troy says.
Ryan ducks his head. The intensity of that stare is overwhelming, but in the best way. It's like the adoring audience he's always coveted wrapped up in one breathtaking, heart-meltingly wonderful package. "You know, at the start of the summer, I told Sharpay that 'everything changes'." He meets Troy's eyes with his own and takes a daring step forward, minimizing the distance between them. "I never imagined they could change so much for the better."
Troy's eyes teem with affection, and pride, and so many other emotions Ryan can't think to apply a name to. Ryan isn't thinking about much of anything, actually, as his lips greet Troy's at last, and find they're just as soft and incredible as his brain always imagined they were.
Troy's arms twining around Ryan's waist, and Ryan getting to feel those biceps flexing against him as Troy holds him snug and safe, is really just the icing on an exquisite fourteen tier cake.
As they break off, Troy looks him over, contented smile lighting up his face.
Ryan would rank that right at the very top of his list of achievements, this summer. Winning a Star Dazzle Award is special and all, but what can really compete with being the cause of such an arresting smile?
He walks back to his side of the table and lifts his glass. He could say 'Here's to us', or 'Here's to the present'. But, there's something much more befitting of them and their situation that comes to mind. "Here's to the future."
Troy reaches across the table and clinks his glass against Ryan's, his eyes sparkling with optimism that Ryan wants to nurse and feed forever.
That much is nonnegotiable.
"Here's to the future."