And now we see his side of the whole thing. The beginning, I mean. Yeah.

Mmhmm. Oh yes, Rachel, I usually stay away from song fics, too, so I'm glad that you like mine!

Disclaimer: Huh? You mean it has the possibility of...no? dammit.

I wake alone, in a woman's room I hardly know.
I wake alone- and pretend that I am finally home.
The room is littered with her books and notebooks.
I imagine what they say, like, 'Shoo fly, don't bother me,'


The sheets are silk. There are silk sheets on the bed, which has a silk comforter, and he's lying naked underneath them. Chad Danforth is naked under silk sheets, a silk comforter, on an unfamiliar bed. It takes him a few seconds to catch up with that thought. Okay. So he's in someone else's bed. The bedside lamp is on beside him, and by it he can see that it's five in the morning. Someone's taking a shower in the bathroom.

He looks around, and notes the disorganized stacks of books littering the beige carpet. Beige. Who has beige carpets when they're in high school? "Broadway Musicals of the 1940's," he mutters to himself, reading off the spine of the nearest book.

He slumps back, and stares up at the ceiling, noticing that it's covered in posters. It's filled with musicals, darker than the pale cream walls. "Wicked," he says to himself. And then he knows whose room he's in.

And I can hardly get myself out of her bed.
for fear of never lying in this bed again.
Oh Christ, I'm not that desperate. Oh no- oh God- I am.


He wants to get up, he wants to throw off the covers and run out, leave immediately, he wants to just get away from this place, but he can't. He can't bring himself to get out of the bed. A few seconds later, when the panic of fear has calmed, he sets his mind on remembering last night. There was alcohol, obviously. The pain radiating from his brain makes that obvious. And...and a fight. He remembers yelling.

Yelling. With—at. Taylor. Was it Taylor? Yes. He remembers something about arrogance. Something about basketball. Or maybe that's just him talking through his hangover. Maybe just fighting in general. Maybe just the final realization that they're over now, and that it's never going to change.

But how has he ended up here?

How'd I end up here to begin with? I don't know.
Why do I start what I can't finish?
Oh please, don't barrage me with questions to all those ugly answers.
My ego's like my stomach- it keeps shitting what I feed it.
But maybe I don't want to finish anything anymore..
maybe I can wait in bed 'til she comes home. And whispers.


And then...there was vodka. Probably. The inside of his mouth feels like glue has been poured in it. He feels low.

Low. Low, low, low. And dear god, out of ALL the people possible for this to happen with.

The shower turns off, and he swallows, hard. Was she sober last night? Probably. Damn.

Judgment, thy name is...

Sharpay Evans walks out of the steaming bathroom, toweling off her hair. He fights hard not to notice that she only has a robe on, and not a very tightly tied—damn it. She doesn't start when she sees that he's awake.

"You should have been gone by now," she says flippantly. He licks his lips.

"I don't have any clothes," he says, stupidly. She points, a bit angry, at the foot of the bed, where his jeans and shoes are folded. He still has to ask, though, "Did we...um. Did I..."

"You were too smashed to be able to..." she smirks. "perform. Of course, that's just a theater term." He grimaces. "But you did throw up all over your t-shirt, and ruin my Louis Vuitton bag in the process. I washed the salvageable bits for you." He sits up, making sure that the soft fabric settles around his waist. Sharpay flashes one more evil smile, before anticipating his next question. "Boxers were not one of the salvageable."


"you're in my web now - I've come to wrap you up tight 'til it's time to bite down."


"Oh god," he moans, rubbing his eyes in despair. He stops for a second. "Why did you—"

"Because you ruined my handbag and you broke up with Taylor and were hitting on me, and you were stinking drunk, and by the way, you talk in your sleep," she hisses. Sharpay takes up the jeans and jabs them in his face. He gulps.

"I do not." Then the full outburst hits him. "Did we actually break up?" She rolls her eyes.

"Yes, you did. And by Monday, all the melodrama will be over, and you'll be back together, so put the damn jeans on and get. Out. Of. My room."

I wake alone in a woman's room I hardly know.
I wake alone – and pretend that I am finally home.


He leaves quickly, because she's about to slash his face with a CD (Original Cast Recording of Avenue Q, he sees, the horror fixing every gruesome detail in his mind). But he shows back up on her doorstep a few minutes later, and as she raises her eyebrows, prepared to slam something in his face that isn't made of wood, he kisses her, impulsively, and his mouth doesn't feel like glue anymore.

She slaps him. "What are you doing, Danforth?"

"I'm saying thank you. I'm not going to tell you during school, am I?" he whispers, his arrogance sliding back under his skin.

"Just saying it would be sufficient," Sharpay snaps. "And you have a girlfriend, Don Juan."

"Not anymore." He tries to kiss her again, but she warily leans out of the way. "Oh come on, I'm trying to say sorry, too."

"For what?"

"Well, to use a theater term..."

And he's in her room again, admiring the posters on the ceiling. To an extent. Well. Admiring something.

Home

Ah, beautiful, beautiful symbolism. Maybe.

This song is called "The Recluse" It's by Cursive. Which is pretty freaking awesome, too.

Review.