**Trigger warning: Discussion and description of mania/depression and bipolar symptoms.


The Usual

Gabriella

"So let me get this straight," the voice on the line says to Zeke, "You're concerned because he won't stop working on his story?"

He clarifies, "That's the thing, I'm not even sure if he's working on it." He slowly pushes his bedroom door open just enough to spy on Troy sitting on the couch through the crack. His chestnut hair looks three shades darker from its grease, the whites of his eyes red and puffy from sleep deprivation while the blues icily glare at the laptop in front of him. "He's not typing or anything," Zeke quietly speaks, passing on his observations to Chad on the other end of the call. "I don't know if you can even consider it writing. He's just sitting there…staring at it. Not typing or moving at all. I mean, is this normal for writers? Is this a part of the whole 'creative process' or whatever?"

"I don't know, man! Do I seem like someone who has written a novel before?"

"I just want to know if I should be concerned or not. This isn't normal for him."

The line goes silent for a moment as Chad considers everything that Zeke has told him about their mutual best friend. Finally, he concludes, "I think that if he's acting so abnormal that you need concern me with it, you should address it with him."

"Alright, I'll talk to him." Zeke decides. "Thanks."

"And Zeke!" Zeke hears the voice yell at him just before he almost hits the end call button.

"Yeah?" He asks into the device, bringing it back up to his ear.

"Keep me updated, please."

"Okay." Zeke agrees, tapping the red circle on the phone's touchscreen, then gently tossing he device onto his bed. Anxiously rubbing his hand on top of his head, he departs the small bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him, and wanders into the living room. He stops in front of coffee table situated between himself and Troy on the couch. "Troy?"

"What is it?" Troy asks, his voice quiet and vacant.

"Are- are you okay, man?"

"I'm fine." Troy shrugs nonchalantly, still staring blankly at his laptop.

"I don't think you are, man. I honestly don't."

"What do you mean?" Troy finally brings his eyes up to meet Zeke's and immediately notices genuine concern written on his friend's face.

"You've just been sitting around, moping with your laptop for weeks now." Suddenly, a loud, angry banging on the door interrupts the two. "Hang on." He crosses the small living area to the front door. Unlatching the locks and opening the door, he finds himself confronted with a visibly angered blonde woman, hands placed firmly on her pink dress-covered hips.

"Where is he?" The blonde screeches, snatching the designer sunglasses from her face to allow Zeke to see the anger in her brown eyes.

"Who?" Zeke asks, putting his hands up on either side of him defensively.

"Move!" Sharpay pushes past Zeke and enters the apartment uninvited. She points out an accusing finger dramatically and screams at Troy, "You! What the hell have you been doing?"

"Writing," Troy answers plainly, attempting to level out her fury with his apathy.

"Then where the hell is my ending?"

"Um, it's not in existence yet?"

"Troy, it's been a month!" The anger in Sharpay's tone is quickly traded for frustration and disappointment as she continues, "A month! If you don't get your story finished, it's not going anywhere. I have deadlines. I made promises!"

"I'm aware of this, Sharpay!" Troy defends himself, thoroughly annoyed with her nagging. "I don't need you to come into my apartment screaming at me about stuff I already know I need to do!"

"Look, I'm only yelling because I care."

Zeke interjects, "That's a very particular way of showing it, don't you think?" Once she serves him a hateful glare, he mumbles, "Sorry," and backs away from her in fear.

"Troy, please." Sharpay looks back to Troy, her high heals tapping against the hard wood floors as she approaches his spot on the couch. "Finish your story."

"It's not that simple! God, you're mad at me like I've been choosing to be lazy this entire time. My inability to write is killing me more than it is anybody else."

"Why haven't you been able to write?"

"I don't know." Troy sighs, shutting his laptop close and moving it off to the side. Then he massages his temples in stress while saying, "It's personal, Sharpay."

"Then go see a psychiatrist!" Sharpay snaps, "Figure it out. You have one more month, Troy. I mean it, only one more. And you better have something to show from it. Understood?"

"Yes, Sharpay."

She places her massive designer sunglasses over her eyes again, "Fabulous. Tootles!"

"I knew it was crazy. That's the thing people don't get. Everyone thinks I was just being blindly impulsive, but the logical part of me knew it was a terrible idea," Troy admits, his head being held up by the armrest of the sofa while his legs stretch out the rest of the length and meet the opposite armrest. His hands folded over his stomach slowly rise and fall with his breathing. "However, a much bigger part of me told me it would be worth it. That giving up the comfort and familiarity of Albuquerque would somehow pay off. The uncertainty of New York City and pursuing writing was willing to bear. But now? Now I'm not sure about anything anymore." Troy was reluctant at first to talk with the psychiatrist, but from the moment he laid back into the plush, warm sofa, he shared more feelings with the doctor than he was aware he even had.

"It messes with me, honestly," Troy continues, his voice growing hoarse from the past half hour of endless talking. "It messes with who I think I am. Because one second I'm hopeful and popular Troy. Then out of nowhere I'm completely hopeless or numb. It's like…I don't know. It makes me feel like I'm crazy." There's a pause in the air as Troy glances over to trace the sound of the doctor furiously scribbling on her notepad.

"How long would you say this has been occurring?" The doctor asks, her eyes still glued on her notes.

"I'm not sure. It would come in spurts in college, but I had it under control. Now I guess it's just been triggered by the big move. I'm scared of it, doctor. The thoughts it gives me."

"I understand the concern, Mr. Bolton." The doctor's big, emerald eyes peer at him empathetically from behind thin lenses. "If you could, let's go back to your happy moods. What behaviors do you exhibit?"

"I feel unstoppable." Troy glances to the dusty light fixture above in thought. "Eternal. I see myself as a God." He recalls, "I sleep around, I write for days, I solemnly need sleep. It's amazing really. I think I can do and be anything. It's…completely delusional."

"Okay," She elongates the word, buying herself time to continue the notes on her pad, "How does that contrast with your current mood?"

"Much less desirable to put it simply. It's the polar opposite. I just have no drive or ambition. I can't write. I sometimes have issues just getting out of bed entirely."

"I'm sorry to hear of your struggles, Troy. I truly am. From what I've gathered today, I'm confident with a mood disorder diagnosis. For treatment, I have a medication in mind that I'd like us to try."

"Hold on…" Troy brings his feet back down onto the rug-covered floor and sits up right. "Mood disorder?" Troy asks, puzzled.

"Yes." The doctor, uncrossing her legs and readjusting in her chair, explains, "Such as bipolar disorder."

"Oh." Troy replies, "Okay."

"I'm going to start you on a low dose antipsychotic called Olanzapine. Hopefully we see some results within the next few weeks. I want to set up another appointment with you a month from today for a check up, but if anything big comes up between now and then, please don't hesitate to call me. Alright?"

"Okay," Troy answers plainly, just trying to process the information.

"Wonderful meeting with you today, Mr. Bolton," The short, thin, greying woman stands, offering out a hand.

"You too. Thank you, doctor." With a gentle shake in farewell, Troy departs the office.

"I'm home!" Troy yells into the small apartment, finding Zeke with his ears covered by a pair of massive headphones, jaw lazily hanging open as he stares at the game on the TV.

"How'd it go?" Zeke asks suddenly.

"Great." Troy tosses the small bag from the pharmacy on the coffee table and spins around to fall into the couch next to Zeke.

"What's that?" Zeke uses his foot to point at the small paper bag as his hands are too busy with the controller.

"Oh, um, Olernzapam? Olumzepone? Something like that," Troy quickly rips open the stapled bag and takes out a small, translucent orange pill bottle. Staring down at the label, he reads, "Olanzapine!"

"Of course! Olanzapine!" Zeke begins sarcastically while making another kill in the game on the screen. "The one high school chemistry lecture I remember!" Zeke drops the tone and asks seriously, "What the hell is Olanzapine?"

"It's for my moods I suppose." He shrugs.

"Do you think it's going to work?"

"I sure as hell hope it will." Troy stands and begins to cross the living area towards the kitchen, "Want a drink?" He calls back to Zeke.

"No thanks, man. I actually have to get going," Zeke explains, turning off his gaming console and searching the small living area for his jacket. "Chef had a busy lunch so we have extra prep to do before the dinner rush."

"That sucks," Troy attempts to mask his disappointment and sound more understanding, "I guess I'll see you in the morning?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry." Zeke says, zipping up his jacket and sauntering over to the front door, "See ya!"

"Bye." Troy stands alone in the center of the small apartment on the thin, dusty rug, debating what to do with the rest of his day. When suddenly, a soft grumble sounds outside the window since a storm appears to be forming. Swinging on his jacket, Troy shuts the door snuggly behind him and departs the apartment complex, the bulky laptop case swung over his shoulder.

With the rain smacking onto the pavement harder and heavier with every passing moment, Troy quickly picks up his pace to a slight jog on his way to the café. Just as the water in his hood begins to soak into his hair, he finds shelter inside of the Falstaff Café.

Instead of the fragile and aged Ms. Falstaff there to greet him, a young, brown haired and brown eyed, petite girl looks at him expectantly from behind the counter.

"He wants a coffee." The aged voice he can only imagine belonging to Ms. Falstaff says form somewhere in the back.

"Okay." The girl pushes some buttons on the old register.

"Hey." Troy approaches the counter, glancing around to find Ms. Falstaff, until his eyes finally spot her from between the coffee pots and espresso machine, "How are you today, Ms. Falstaff?"

"Training," She says while nodding her head at the young girl just next to her. "This is Gabriella, she's going to start helping out around here since my niece is leaving the city soon."

"Well, nice to meet you, Gabriella." Troy says with a friendly smile, one that she doesn't return, but instead looks back at him blankly.

Gabriella says, "It'll be one fifty."

"Okay," Troy says, somewhat taken back by her unapproachable attitude.

"Thanks." Gabriella says monotonously as Troy lays the dollar bill and two quarters on the counter in between them. After tossing the cash into the register, she roughly sets the platter and cup of coffee on the counter between them with a clank.

Troy shakes off the young barista's rudeness and takes his usual seat towards the center of the herd of tables and chairs, determined to finally finish his story.


A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Do you think Troy will finish his story before the deadline? Why do you think he and Gabriella aren't vibing right away? I'd love to know what you think in a review.