This one-shot is very different from anything else I have written so far. I hope you guys will like it!
From twilight until the bright colors of sunrise, Troy Bolton felt like he could stay into his studio in the amount of a lifetime.
Art was his life.
Troy had surprised all of his loved ones on that fateful day when he took a pen and permanently signed his name to an art class at the community center. There, he had learned to love the feeling of holding a paintbrush, to crave for that perfection of transforming a plain piece of canvas, to ultimately a masterpiece of color and creation. He loved it, he craved it, he needed it. More so than a basketball, or a uniform, or an NBA playoff championship. And definitely more than a million-dollar Gatorade endorsement.
His studio consisted of stale air, various stained paintbrushes, and a small sink in the corner. Charcoal, brushes, pencils, and pads were few of the supplies that were atop onto all of the various furniture and locations of his home: a comfy upper floor basement of a loft in the Upper West Side of New York.
When he was 17, he would've imagined himself making millions of dollars, and a consistent celebrity and feature on ESPN, where he would have been making his father proud, shooting baskets and beating world records by athletic greats. He would have had possible homes in Los Angeles with an infinity pool or a penthouse apartment looking over all of Manhattan in New York, or possibly a sprawling beachside mansion in Miami. Instead, life threw him an unexpected curveball once he threw a backpack on and bought a one-way ticket to art school in New York City after a knee injury had indefinitely halted all dreams of professional basketball. It had broken the heart of his coaching father more than the actual athlete himself, but he relished in the thought of finally pursuing his dream before any others.
He certainly didn't end up as a rich and famous athlete, instead living a life as a struggling artist barely able to pay his bills. He could not afford the bare essentials in life, but nevertheless, he loved it, he loved the path that he had chosen to live his life.
The handsome artist happily breathed in this thought with a content smile on until glancing back at the model facing him, the sudden action turned his smile into an upset frown. Looking back at the large canvas, he was unsatisfied that it was empty and colorless, no idea or inspiration capturing force. Art was a powerful thing, it stroke you once it hit you, it couldn't be just thought of or studied like logic, the exact thing he was trying and attempting too hard to do.
It wasn't like she wasn't attractive or anything. With the most expressive brown eyes and an innocent, wide grin, she looked like a pop princess from a show stopping music video. But she wasn't any extraordinary to him.
In order for him to create art, he needed to be extra-inspired. Looking at her was just looking at her. He couldn't mix or play with colors, and no force was drawn. As she blinked, he sensed that she was now fidgety and impatient with anxiousness.
"I'm sorry," he finally apologized. "I just don't think this will be able to work out."
She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow and flipped her long blonde extensions. "You know, it's been 3 hours, and I haven't had an iced soy latte, and I am drenched in sweat because you have no air condition in this asylum. Along with that, you owe me tax money to get back to my apartment in Upper East Side Manhattan…."
She ranted on and on about her troubles in her short time in his studio, giving him enough energy to hurry her out of his loft, hand her a 50-dollar bill with a promise to deliver her given pay. He made a mental note to himself to find a good model himself and to kill Chad.
It was then he remembered to take out his terrible cell phone and call his "best friend." Speed dialing the number, he waited impatiently until finally, an excited Chad answered.
"Hey man, sorry. We just closed the gallery down. How did Sharpay do?"
"I didn't even paint, man. This girl, she has no depth, nothing extraordinary or mysterious to spark creativity. She has the emotional span of a fly."
He could hear Chad's bitter muttering on the other end. "Are you sure? I thought she would be killer. She was an actress in L.A. for a while, before moving here."
Troy rolled his eyes at his naiveness. "Thanks for trying. Man, I need something really special. It's either that or no electricity and water power for months. I might even have to consider moving in with you and living off Domino's."
Chad laughed. "You don't have to worry about that. Listen, I found this girl. I think she may be more your style….."
It was a stormy night when he heard delicate footsteps calmly walk in, contrasting with the crashing thunder and the lightning of the dark. He rolled his eyes at the thought of giving into Chad's persistence. She was supposed to "rock his world" or whatever. He couldn't believe he would have to use another 50-dollar bill and send another poor girl home at this weather. But at this rate, he was desperate, no matter what; Chad's stubborn self would never listen to Troy's refusals. As he turned around, his eyes widened and his mouth literally started to drool.
Her make-up was smudged, the corners of her eyelids drooping with oodles of black mascara, and her lips devoid of any lip gloss or lipstick, he slightly smiled at her innocence. However, his impression stopped once he caught sight of her tiny, knee-length, ultra tight black dress with her matching stiletto heels. She looked exhausted, especially since she was now soaking wet, her body from head to toe covered in droplets of rain water.
Though she had appeared a mess, a literal and true mess to every meaning, colors had started to form inside his head. Light and color and idea had mixed together and he now wanted and craved to reach for that canvas and draw every boundary and every millimeter of her face, her hands, her eyes, her head……
This was what he lived for….
He shook his head and laughed once he averted his focus back onto the anxious girl. He then held out a hand for her. "Come with me to the bathroom….."
She appeared out of his bathroom, ready an hour later. With his old East High T-shirt on, and her hair pulled up in a messy bun, he thought that no one could ever had looked so good in his old material until now. The wheels kept on turning in his imagination and she awkwardly sat down at the brown stool which faced where he was now sitting with his paints and brushes.
"What's your name?" he whispered out. He proceeded to gaze at her.
She gave him a tiny smile. "Gabriella. Gabriella Montez."
He blushed at her name. "Chad told me you were hot."
Her cheeks turned pink. "Was he right?"
He shook his head. "Nah. More like beautiful."
She stayed quiet as he silently drew the basics of her face, outlined every detail to which he could see. He could only hope that the world would admire her just as much as he had started to fall for her, right then and there.
With her perfectly tanned skin, long raven hair which cascaded past her shoulders, and bright smile and pearly teeth, sweats were sure enough to carry her natural beauty.
The stormy night calmed down and it had calmly turned to morning. Morning was an array of colors clouding all over the skies. She had politely requested to spend the night over and he had excitedly agreed back. He waited for her as he stared back at his almost-masterpiece with coffee and breakfast food on the tables.
She emerged out wearing the same clothing, except her hair was even more messy and her eyes were in need of energy.
"Here's for an extra boost," he handed her a mug as she happily sipped. She eagerly ate the rest of his breakfast until thanking him several times before putting back on her dress and heading out of the loft, with a promise of coming back later tonight to make more progress onto the painting.
"Wait!" She turned around, her eyes searching for what he wanted. "What is it," she anticipated?"
"Do you think, after work, you would want to grab a drink with me?"
She gazed into his piercing and exquisite cobalt eyes, shaggy brown hair, and boyish grin. She could've fallen for him, right then and there.
She could have chosen to love anyone in the world, but she decided to choose the struggling, baby-faced sweet, artist in a bare apartment far from Manhattan. She could have held him in her arms, if she could have, at that very moment, because she knew that out of all the handsome, eligible or wealthy men of the world, no one could look into her eyes like that or paint and define her just as magnificently as the genius of Troy Bolton. He could take all her pain away and draw it out, just because he could. This pressed her to accept.
"I wasn't supposed to be here," she revealed. As she drank the last remnants of her white wine, she stared back at the disturbing, large, and open skyscrapers and lights of the Big Apple. She looked back into that empty world of bustling and rushing people, of a world where she could have tried to fit into, but she didn't."
She told him of everything. She told him that she scrimped money bartending, of a life where men tried continuously to get her number, of a life which consisted of the same bare-tight uniform and routine, of a life where money became something so scarce, that she was on her bends and knees, and of a life which she had simply hated.
She then told him of times of happiness. One of where she had lived with her mother in a small town in Mexico, of food, light, dance, and music. Her family consisted of just her and her mother and a lot of her cousins where they had cooked and had sung together and days of sunshine had never ended. That was what she had craved for, he learned.
She had intended to move to New York to start a life in music, and so far, nothing had progressed. She told him, that once the painting was finished, she would be done and would immediately fly back to Mexico for an indefinite trip back, to proceed to a life that she had never stopped to miss. Once she had a bit more money, she would come home, for good.
"I'm lost," she finished after stopping her long chat about her life from the lights of Mexico to the streets of New York. "I wasn't meant to be here," he could sense tears in her eyes. "And frankly, I was trying to make myself a home in a place which I thought would be better, a home where I thought I could make for me, but I didn't. I realized that the place I belong, I didn't need to get out of all along. I'm going home…"
He saw her large grin and happy tears spilling out of her emotional eyes. He wanted to croak out that maybe it wasn't Mexico or her small apartment in New York that she belonged, but it was with him. She was meant to be his inspiration, was meant to create beautiful art with him, and that if he could just get her to stay, she could realize her need to stay.
But then he saw the waiter deliver their check and the lights beginning to dim down and the servers flipping the chairs, and Gabriella fidgeting to retrieve her purse and check her wallet for enough tax money, that it was closing time, that it was not enough time to say anything. There was not enough time to say anything back at all.
It was weeks later when their masterpiece was completed and it was the opening of his new exhibit at Chad's gallery. Newspapers had raved of the great "Troy Bolton." They vowed of paintings and drawings of promise, of ones which conveyed themes that which even great literature could not define.
Troy had gained a few attentions from the people of New York. Chad had orchestrated a grand opening, and champagne glasses were cleaned and shined, and the glass ceilings and walls of the small gallery beamed of his hard work. Newspaper critics, art lovers, and culture geeks of the city gathered to view and to auction off to buy his work. They opened their mouths in awe and pointed at the perspective of the new discovery of Chad Danforth. It was then that he had been asked several questions and been gathered around by several people, people to he knew of great caliber in the art work. It was his day, but all he could focus on was if the exquisite, mocha-skinned girl had arrived yet.
It was then, a half-hour later, that she had calmly walked in. With a black trench coat, she took it off, and revealed a satin, red dress. Her hair was wrapped in a side ponytail, and she wore a little more make-up than usual. Attention had transitioned on her once she entered the party. They whispered of how beautiful she is, of how Troy had discovered her. But no one had paid more attention to her, than he did.
She sauntered over to where their painting was, once he had finally reached over to where she was. It had taken him long work and effort, but the idea was finished. It was set of Gabriella looking lost, in a long, one-shouldered, delicate white and lace dress. Her hair was long loose and free and she was in a field of weeds and wildflowers, looking like she was desperate for a way, but behind her was, a pathway that led to a collage of the Mexican flag, of brightness, of music, of flamenco dancing, of a happy Mexican village behind the confused and dawdling girl.
It was based on their conversation on that long and hallowed night where he realized that what he had needed was her.
"They say that this was the best part of the whole exhibit," he said after a few silent moments. "All thanks to you."
She looked at the picture with kind content and she reached for his hand. "No, it wasn't me. It was everything in this whole museum that gave you what you deserve, Troy. You created everything from that ingenious mind of yours." She put a hand to her heart. "I'm going to miss you, Bolton."
Chemistry blinded Troy. "You look nice. It's the first time I haven't seen you in that black dress."
She giggled, and put his hand back. He longed for her to hold it back again. "No, I decided to look all dolled up tonight. I'm celebrating on two occasions. I have a flight back to Mexico City in 3 hours, and then I'm taking a car back to where my mom is."
"Is there a way that I can make you stay?" he asked. His eyes begged for an answer, and he reached back for her hand.
"Is there a way that I can tell you that I can give you everything you need and that I could be your home?"
Gabriella's eyes filled with tears as his cobalt eyes swam with emotion. Her mouth opened to say "yes," at that instant. At that minute, she thought of them holding each other, his arms wrapped around hers at his studio, of their wedding, where he would lift up her veil and softly kiss her, with her mother's tears in the back, of her sitting down to paint every inch of her face again, of their kids rolling and running and chasing each other in their backyard. She thought of the beautiful life they could construct together, she thought of that out of all the men in the world, she would have chosen him, until she reminisced back to the gallery, to the bustling people and their pointing fingers at Troy. She thought of him in his studio, without her, continuing to paint something exquisite, she thought of him visiting Paris and Monet, and finding inspiration everywhere. She thought of her fitting into his life somewhere between the lines, here in New York, accepting him and his art, and she thought of her spending time at home, alone in New York, looking back at the skylights, her heart empty and heavy in her hands.
And as she thought of this and back to his confused expression, she remembered that she was simply just a painting and a model, and that she didn't fit into his life here, that they were two worlds apart in a city that was big enough to carry 8 million people, but not enough to carry Gabriella's world and Troy's world at the same time. She thought of this as she shook her head and regretfully replied no.
"Sometimes the greatest art is of tragedy, longing, and love, Troy. Maybe I was just that, and that painting on the wall was all that we had together."
With that, she remembered art had no happy endings, and what she and Troy had was none, either. She kissed his cheek, grabbed her coat, and opened the door, to a sky that was starting to rain. Gabriella took one last look at his pleading face. She could have come back, she could have begged him to forget her words and be with her forever, but remembered that all she was, was an art, was a painting. She decided that his world was of color, and hers, her world consisted of nothing at all.