Parachute

1.

I don't need a parachute

Baby if I've got you

Baby, if I've got you,

I don't need a parachute

You're gonna catch me

You're gonna catch me if I fall

Down, down, down

- "Parachute", by Ingrid Michaelson

8-8-8-8-8

"Alright, everyone! From the top!"

A shockwave jolts Troy Bolton. He's messed up the choreography. Again. Around him, he hears discontented mutters as everyone takes up their places from the start of the song. Glares score the side of his face and bore into the back of his head. The majority of the senior class didn't even want to get involved with the school musical, in the first place. Having to repeat the same number over and over because "The Basketball Guy", seems to have no idea what he's doing, these days, has to be endlessly frustrating for them.

"I'm sorry, guys," Troy says. It's all that he can say.

Martha Cox, the curly-haired brunette braniac-turned-former-head-cheerleader with a fondness for busting a move to hip-hop, rolls her eyes. She probably had the choreography for the entire show down weeks ago.

Sharpay Evans, the self-proclaimed theater queen of East High, pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head. It's her last show at the school and Troy is ruining it.

"I'm sorry," Troy says again. His voice sounds small and weak to his own ears, and he lowers his eyes to his feet, his heart heavy with shame.

"It's all right", a light voice assures him. A gentle hand touches his shoulder.

Troy raises his head to meet Ryan Evans's understanding blue eyes.

"Come on." Ryan nods toward a more private area of the auditorium, the back row, which is far away from inquisitive eyes and ears.

Troy allows Ryan to lead him there. As they make their way down the aisle, his gait feels slow and plodding, his feet like blocks of lead. He wonders how the blond boy can muster up the will to be so understanding. As a matter of fact, Ryan is exceptionally lenient, given that he is the show's choreographer, and it's his choreography that Troy is repeatedly screwing up with opening night only a few weeks away.

"East High Golden Boy", indeed.

He and Ryan sit down beside each other. Troy drags his hands down his face, and then runs his hand through his hair. A sizable part of him wants to set down roots right here in this seat, and simply give into the substantial melancholy that permeates what feels like every organ in his body. But, another, even larger part of him refuses to allow him to do that.

"Kelsi, start up the music from act two," Ms. Darbus instructs. As the tiny brunette girl obeys and quickly flips through her sheet music to the specified song, the bespectacled drama teacher sweeps across the stage, calling out, "Mr. Cross! What have I told you about the dangers of chewing gum in the theatre?"

"Troy."

Troy turns back to Ryan. His mind is a disorganized mess, anymore, but the petite blond with curvy hips, whom Troy can only describe as "hot", or "pretty", is easy for him to concentrate on.

"You've got the choreography." Ryan's eyes glow softly, and he gives Troy a bright, encouraging smile. "You know what you're doing, alright?"

A slight smile tugs at the corners of Troy's mouth. If Ryan says so, it has to be true. The weight on his chest lessens a little. "Yeah," he replies.

"I know that everyone is tensed up and stressed out," Ryan continues, "and my sister isn't exactly the most cooperative partner, but don't let that get to you, okay?

Troy nods, biting the inside of his mouth. He can't help that every time he dances or sings with Sharpay, he longs for fruit-scented waves of dark hair to replace the female Evans twin's signature vanilla-scented golden blonde, and olive skin, instead of lightly tanned arms and hands yanking him around, and a glittery pink mouth in a lightly tanned face spouting uncomfortably flirtatious phrases, one moment, and then snapping at him, the next. He misses the feeling of Gabriella's slight body in his arms. Her emotions are also volatile, at times, yes, and Troy often feels like he is struggling against a powerful, impossible current with how hard he has to work to please her and keep their relationship intact, but at least standing near her doesn't cause fear to clench his chest in a viselike grip, like it does around Sharpay.

But, Gabriella is at Stanford, pursuing an opportunity that Troy never could have denied her. And, Sharpay is her understudy for the musical. Sharpay isn't Gabriella, but she's talented enough to have already learned the choreography and the music for Gabriella's part.

Troy is the problem. Everyone knows it.

Onstage, Troy's best friend, Chad Danforth, and the rest of the retiring seniors from the basketball team execute their basketball-themed routine flawlessly.

Without their captain.

Troy swallows, his stomach twisting. "I don't know if I can do it, Ryan. I'm messing everything up. Everyone's pissed off…" He shakes his head. "Maybe you should just let Jimmie take my role over full-time, and make me the understudy, instead."

"Hey." Ryan's tone is firm and unwavering, but still far too gentle.

Troy wishes he could understand why. He looks into the performer's sky-colored eyes.

"You are Troy Bolton. There isn't a single person in the world that I would trust to play that part faithfully, but you." Ryan leans in a bit, his eyes reflecting the sincerity that fills his voice. "I'm sure that Ms. D and Kelsi would agree with me on that."

Troy feels his heart miss a beat. Up close, he can see the faint sheen in Ryan's lipstick, the adorable overbite that makes Ryan's smile so infectious, and that the blond boy's fair complexion is unblemished. Like porcelain. He feels that urge, the urge that has been there since he and Ryan became friends over summer vacation, to press his mouth against Ryan's.

"We're going to keep working at this, Troy, but just remember that you're you. And, you can do this." The conviction in Ryan's words is as encouraging and infectious as his smile.

It strengthens Troy's resolve. "Yeah," he agrees. He isn't going to let Ryan, or Kelsi, down. No matter how much not having Gabriella around makes him feel empty inside.

"You're our star." Ryan nudges Troy softly, affectionately. "The show can't go on without you." He says it as though it's something that he wishes were true, when they both know otherwise. The show will go on with or without Troy Bolton, come hell or high water, because that's how it works in the realm of show business.

But, Ryan doesn't seem to want it to.

"It won't," Troy promises.

A smile breaks out on Ryan's face. His eyes shine, and Troy is unable to stop himself from smiling back. "So… are you ready to get back onstage?"

"Yes, I am." Troy feels confidence, and maybe something else, warming his insides.

Ryan gets out of his seat and offers Troy a hand. Troy takes it without hesitation.

"Whatever moves you're struggling with, we'll work on after school," Ryan offers. He gives Troy's hand a light squeeze once the brunet former athlete is standing upright.

"Thank you, Ry," Troy says softly. He sidles in close to the blond, blush creeping into his cheeks as he tightens his own grip on Ryan's slender hand.

"For what?" Ryan blinks, faint surprise in his eyes.

For being so understanding. For being wonderful. For not getting mad at me. All of these options enter Troy's head. He winds up going with, "For being you."

It appears to be the right choice. Ryan ducks his head shyly and bites back a grin. Their hands remain enveloped in each other for a few seconds longer as they make their way toward the stage.

8-8-8-8-8

Troy manages to perform the choreography in his and "Gabriella's" big duet almost flawlessly. He just reminds himself to be, well, himself. He catches Ryan's eye and Ryan grins back at him. The trill of joy that courses through Troy is enough to get him through Sharpay's more forceful and over-the-top style of dancing.

Before he knows it, the bell has rung, signaling the end of free period.

While Troy moves out into the house of the auditorium to collect his belongings, Ryan catches up with him. "Great job," he says warmly.

Troy smiles.

"I saw an unmistakable improvement with the choreography in this-"

"Troy, Ryan, Kelsi," Ms. Darbus interjects, cutting Ryan off.

Exchanging a confused glance, Troy and Ryan make their way over to the drama instructor, joining Kelsi. The light in the composer's blue-green eyes is every bit as puzzled as both boys are.

Ms. Darbus lets out a hefty sigh. She removes her glasses, and her eyes meet Troy's directly. "I realize that the loss of Ms. Montez has proved an obstacle for all of us, but, you, Mr. Bolton…"

Troy swallows and straightens his spine.

"You have a passion for being onstage," Ms. Darbus continues solemnly. "Yet, until Mr. Evans took you aside to give you a pep talk," her gaze shifts to Ryan, who looks briefly to Troy before lowering his eyes to the floor, "I saw no traces of that passion, today."

Guilt eating at his stomach, Troy slips his hands into his pockets. "I know, Ms. D. I'm sorry. I'm trying-"

She dismisses the apology with a shake of her head. "There is no need to apologize," she says, her voice holding a level of sympathy and understanding that Troy never would have expected from her. "Just keep working at it."

Troy nods. "I will," he responds firmly.

Ms. Darbus's stare encompasses all three of her students. She waits several moments, possibly pausing for dramatic effect, before declaring, "For the next six days, the auditorium will be available to the three of you in the evenings following after school rehearsals. Ryan, you will assist Troy with any moves that he struggles with. Kelsi, you will be on-hand if they need you."

"Yes, ma'am," Troy, Ryan, and Kelsi reply in unison.

"Ryan, I have notes for you to look over in regards to any alterations that need to be made to accommodate the casting change."

"Okay," Ryan says softly. He reaches out for the sheet of paper that the Drama teacher hands him.

Sliding her spectacles up the bridge of her nose, Ms. Darbus gathers up her playbook and clipboard and addresses Troy. "Tap into that reserve of passion and courage. You have a natural gift for performing. Don't let it go to waste."

A nerve has been struck within Troy. He can only manage a faint nod as Ms. Darbus departs.

"You okay there, Hoopsman?" Kelsi inquires.

Troy's gaze flicks from her to Ryan, who meets his stare with a concerned and questioning look. "I'm fine," he says, slapping on what he hopes is a convincing smile. "Come on." He wraps an arm around both of them, drawing the tiny composer and petite and curvy choreographer into him. "Let's go get lunch."

8-8-8-8-8

He just finishes jotting down answers to his homework assignment on the Cold War when his cellphone goes off. Troy recognizes the number on the caller id, and his heart leaps excitedly. "How was school?" He asks as he flips the phone open.

"Long. Pretty boring," Gabriella's soft, girlish voice replies with a giggle. "What I expected college to be."

"So um, hey," Troy starts when silence begins to settle in. He rubs at his neck, his heart rate picking up. He realizes that he's changing the subject, but he missed being able to talk to her about his day, about his future, about everything. "Rehearsals for the musical, today…"

"I really wish I could be there." Gabriella sighs wistfully. "There's a girl in my Pre-Law class who reminds me so much of Taylor. And, the food at Stanford isn't as good as the food served in the cafeteria at East High."

"Yeah, that so?" Troy asks quietly. He laughs, hoping that she can't tell from over the phone that his heart has just sunk down into the pit of his stomach for a reason that he can't quite fathom.

"This one boy who sits next to me in the lecture hall- he's so sweet." A playful giddiness creeps into Gabriella's voice. "He tells me little jokes to keep me from dozing off when the professor just goes on, and on, and on."

"That's really great, Gabriella." Troy is happy for her. He is. Gabriella is so intelligent, and bound to do amazing things. He's being selfish, getting upset because she has more important things going on in her life than him. He should be more supportive.

Besides, she might be one thousand fifty-three miles away physically, but her voice is right there, reverberating in his eardrums. At the moment, it's the closest that Troy can get to being with her, and he allows that to bring him some degree of comfort. Taking a breath, he pushes his feelings aside. "So, uh, what's your favorite class, so far?" He asks. This time, he's fully prepared to be the attentive, wholly supportive boyfriend that Gabriella needs.

8-8-8-8-8

Lips brush softly against his neck. "Wildcat", Gabriella's voice whispers softly, sensually. It's her nickname for him. It reminds him of the pedestal that he's been unwillingly placed on by his peers, but he doesn't question it. He never has. She only uses the nickname when she's being affectionate with him, after all.

Gabriella turns around, her long, dark waves of hair coming to rest on her bare, olive-tinted shoulder blades. Troy wraps his arms around her, holding her close, his chest pressed to her back.

Giggling, she escapes his embrace. She spins to face him and arches up on her toes, the ends of her white sundress sliding up, revealing her thighs. Before Troy knows it, her fingers have curled around tendrils of his hair, and she pulls him in. Her lips are on his. The kiss lasts for a few, brief moments.

Troy's heart races.

When Gabriella pulls away, he can taste the nearly forgotten flavor of her lipgloss on his lips. Troy moves forward, hoping to hold her again, but the landscape changes.

He finds his body pressed against pale, creamy skin. A particularly round, shapely butt grinds into his groin. Bliss and arousal jolt through Troy's body, stimulating every nerve. His heart hammers in his ears. "F-Fuck…!" He gasps.

That breathtakingly talented set of hips continues to grind against him, even as the figure in his arms whirls around, bringing him face to face with sky-colored eyes, pink lips, and a fair face that he isn't at all surprised to recognize as Ryan's.

"Teach me how to dance, Ryan," Troy grunts, his chest heaving as heat pools in his stomach.

Ryan bites his lip, and that urge to crush his mouth against Ryan's pretty pink one is almost overpowering. "You already know how. You're a natural, Troy," Ryan whispers, his words tantalizing. He leans in and his lips graze Troy's earlobe.

Need pierces Troy's chest and shoots directly into the area below his waistband. He groans, clinging to Ryan. Just like that, his hips jut forward, falling into perfect synch with the motion of Ryan's pelvis.

A high, joyous cry is ripped from Ryan's musical throat.

Troy thrusts again, spinning himself and Ryan into a wall of some kind. Once there, they pause for a moment, and stare into each other's eyes.

The desire and affection shining in Ryan's eyes is so intense, a lump forms in Troy's throat. He can't hold back, anymore. He moves in and places his mouth on the blond's, his heart swelling in his chest. Cool, slender hands rest on both sides of his face, and his heart feels like it's overflowing with emotion.

Suddenly, the shrill, ear-piercing chirp of his father's whistle crashes into Troy's eardrums. A basketball comes flying at him and Ryan from out of nowhere.

Troy pushes Ryan to the side, getting him out of the line of fire. Right as he prepares to duck, himself, however, his legs lock into place. The orange and black striped ball hurtles toward him. Troy can only close his eyes and brace for impact…

He forces his eyes open. He lies there, slowly reorienting himself with the state of consciousness and the placement of his limbs.

There aren't any basketballs headed for his face, propelled with enough force to leave a nasty welt.

There also isn't a warm body in the bed beside him. He feels a pang in his heart as the latter observation descends on his mind.

In the dark, he can just make out the picture of Gabriella in her powdered blue sweater sitting framed on his nightstand. Gabriella, his girlfriend.

Who is still one thousand miles away.

Slowly, Troy comes to the realization that his hand is surrounded by warmth and pressed against heated skin. The fabric of his boxers is slightly damp.

"Shit…" He whispers, extracting his appendage. He pushes himself into an upright position. His digital clock flashes '3:53 am', and he reminds himself that he'll have to be quick and quiet when he changes clothes.

8-8-8-8-8

"Troy! My man!"

Troy jumps as a hand slaps the area of his upper back right between his shoulder blades. His reaction causes his elbow to slam into his locker, which he was leaning against. Wincing at the sting enveloping his funny bone, he rubs at his bleary eyes and discerns that, while snug and warm in his jacket, he must have started to doze off. "Hey, Jimmie," he murmurs.

"So, your old man says I'm doing a great job. He might even consider putting me in the running for team captain, next year." Jimmie Zara, a scrawny, overzealous sophomore member of the basketball team, and Troy's understudy in the musical due to Jimmie's almost troublingly passionate case of hero worship for the older brunet athlete, bobs his head, wearing a proud smirk, as he speaks.

What he's saying only faintly registers with Troy. Not wanting to be rude, though, Troy comments, "That's wonderful."

"Yeah, I know." Jimmie breaks into a grin. "Anyway, what's up with you?"

"Hm?" Troy asks, shaking off the remaining bits of his disorientation.

"You were like, fallin' asleep, bro."

His stomach twisting with embarrassment that "Rocketman", of all people, caught him nodding off, Troy replies, "Nothing's up." Summoning up some amount of poise, he leans into Jimmie and says conspiratorially, "You know, my dad is really impressed by dedication." He pauses to glance at his bare wrist. He's never worn a watch, but, hopefully, that won't distract the younger boy from his words. "There's still time before homeroom. Why don't you go shoot some free-throws in the gym?"

His brown eyes lighting up excitedly, Jimmie heeds the advice. "Great idea, Troy! That's why your teammates voted you captain!" He lands another resounding smack in the exact same spot as earlier.

Just holding back a grunt of pain, Troy grits his teeth and plasters on a forced smile of acknowledgement.

Jimmie begins dashing off toward the gymnasium. Along the way, he passes a familiar slender blond with curvy hips and a hat perched on his head.

Troy's heart skips a beat at the sight of the immediately recognizable Ryan Evans.

The hyperactive sophomore, however, dashes right past Ryan without a second glance.

Looking faintly bemused at Jimmie's behavior, Ryan approaches Troy. His neatly groomed brows knit, and his eyes cloud with sympathy as he takes the older brunet in. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Troy nods. He doesn't have to force a smile for Ryan. "I just got a warm reception from Jimmie and his… enthusiasm," he jokes lightly.

Ryan chuckles. Together, he and Troy watch Jimmie until his baggy hooded sweat-jacket has disappeared around the corner. "He certainly is bursting with enthusiasm. But, he doesn't have the maturity to temper it, yet."

"Hm?" Troy blinks, slightly puzzled.

"Like you." Ryan nudges Troy playfully, and, Troy notices, very gently, as if he's making sure that he doesn't hurt him.

The considerate gesture and the impact of Ryan's words soften Troy's heart. He lets out a quiet laugh and murmurs, "Thanks". A smile tugs at Ryan's lips and lights up his eyes. It makes Troy feel safe confiding in the blond boy, "I didn't really sleep well, last night."

"Due to nightmares, or insomnia, or….?" Ryan asks, his smile vanishing instantly as concern knits his brows.

"A combination, I think."

"I'm sorry." Shifting his weight, Ryan bites the inside of his mouth. "I wish there was somewhere in the school you could go to take a nap before class."

"It's all right," Troy assures him. "I've gotta keep myself up, anyway."

"Well, in that case… here." Troy blinks curiously as Ryan hands him a nice, cold bottled water. "Something to recharge your electrolytes," Ryan explains, shuffling his feet and ducking his head.

Troy grins. "Thanks, Ry." He opens the lid and takes a long sip, letting the cool water rush down his throat, and, hopefully, wash away all traces of exhaustion.

8-8-8-8-8

Gabriella called him three times while he was in AP Calculus. Troy only realizes this when he checks his phone after class and sees three missed calls and a voice mail on the screen.

Heart hammering and his hands shaking, Troy ducks into the men's restroom and prepares himself to listen to the voice mail. He knows that Gabriella is going to be upset with him. Test or no test, he should have excused himself to take her call. He should have answered. Troy inhales and fights off a sudden surge of nausea as he hears his girlfriend's soft, girlish voice taking on that patronizing sneer that he's become much more acquainted with than he ever wanted to.

"You're not going to pick up the phone, Troy? Oh, I see. Apparently, whatever you have going on is obviously more important than me. I get it. That's cool. Whatever. Maybe, my new friend, Shawn, has time to listen to me."

Troy's heart drops into the pit of his stomach. "Damn it…!" He whispers. It's a struggle to gulp down the lump in his throat, and keep the hot tears of failure from stinging his eyes. No matter what he does, he can't seem to make Gabriella happy. He's a terrible boyfriend, a horrible person. He…! Frantically, Troy forces his trembling hands to dial her number into the keypad. "Pick up," he pleads as the call connects. "Please, pick up."

"Hello?" Gabriella murmurs into the speaker right before the fourth ring cuts off. Disinterest and irritation fill her voice.

"Gabriella…!" Troy's brain scrambles for words that he can use to appeal to her. To apologize. " I'm sorry I didn't answer your call. I-I was taking a Calculus test, and you know how the teachers here are about cell pho-"

"Troy, is this not going to work?"

"What? No!" Troy insists, begs. "This works. It's working out just fine! I just-"

"I need you to be there whenever I have to talk to you, and you weren't." Gabriella sounds like she's on the verge of tears, and Troy wants to punch himself, like he always does when he makes her cry. "I can't have my heart one thousand miles away at East High, while I'm at Stanford, Troy."

"I know," Troy says quietly.

"If this- if we are going to work, you have to be there when I need you."

"I know." Troy's voice cracks a little. It feels like a two ton weight has just plummeted from the sky and landed full force on his chest. "I'll be there," he assures her. "I'll answer your calls. I promise."

Gabriella lets out a long sigh and pauses.

As he waits for her to respond, Troy can hear other people chatting and their footfalls squeaking and clicking in the hallway as they pass by on their way to their next classes. He hopes that no one decides to stop in to do their business and catches East High's Primo Boy on the verge of an emotional meltdown, because he's a big fat screw-up who can't stop his perfect relationship from falling apart right in front of him.

"You better," Gabriella finally says. "I have to go to my next class. I'll call you later."

"Okay," Troy replies. There's a smile on his face, but the odd, heavy feeling in his chest doesn't seem to match it. "Gabriella, thank you so much for giving me another-"

The call is disconnected. She hung up.

Chance, Troy finishes mentally. He lingers in the bathroom for a minute, entirely unsure of what his emotions are doing. His stomach is churning like he might throw up. His heart is palpitating with a mixture of something that feels like relief, and, strangely enough, anxiety. Unrest. It takes a bit for him to steady himself.

By the time he does, he's late for his AP English class. Luckily enough, the teacher appears to be running late, too, so Troy is spared from receiving a scolding or a detention.

Ryan, who sits beside him in that class, immediately discerns that something is wrong. "What happened?" He asks as Troy drops into his seat. His voice is soft, gentle, and worried. It's such a sharp contrast to Gabriella's intonation that Troy's heart aches.

"I had a… um, phone call," Troy replies. He feels sick.

"Gabriella." It's more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah. She wasn't exactly in a good mood."

"Things… Things are rough between the two of you, huh?"

Troy can't lie to Ryan. Especially not when the performer has placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and can read him like an open book, anyway. He nods faintly. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong, Ryan. I just can't seem to make her happy."

Ryan is quiet. He opens his mouth briefly, as if searching for the right words, the words to cheer Troy up, or make him forget about Gabriella and his apparent inability to be the boyfriend that she wants, for the next forty-five minutes. No words come, though.

It occurs to Troy that if Ryan can't be optimistic about his and Gabriella's future together, then, maybe this won't work.

Ryan's eyes suddenly fall tentatively to Troy's lips.

A flash from Troy's dream fills his mind. He recalls the sensation of his lips on Ryan's, the softness, the taste, the way it felt to have Ryan in his arms. Troy's heart rate picks up, and he lowers his eyes to Ryan's lips, too. They're a tantalizing dark pink. Not glittery like Gabriella's, and they probably don't taste like her lip gloss. But, that's a good thing. Ryan isn't Gabriella, after all.

Troy's heart urges him to, Do it. A voice in the back of his head, however, reminds him that he's Gabriella's boyfriend. Being with her sometimes feels like navigating a minefield. She laughs at things that aren't funny, makes Troy pay for and set up all of their dates, criticizes him when he fails to make anything but perfect grades, even if she kept him up too late to do his homework, looks at him with disapproval far more often than warmth, and now, for the third time in their year and nearly five month long relationship, she's probably contemplating breaking up with him.

But, she's still his girlfriend. The girl who knows him better than anyone else, who has seen the real him behind his image as the Wildcat basketball star. Gabriella is the reason that he ventured outside of his clique and discovered that he actually enjoys singing and dancing and being onstage. She was his first kiss. They're the "perfect couple". They're "meant to be". He can't just break up with her. That would be quitting out on his first relationship. Troy Bolton, East High's superstar, doesn't quit. He doesn't screw up. He has to win. He has to always be the best at everything he does.

Besides, Troy reminds himself, I don't deserve Ryan. He's too good. Too nice. Too certain of who he is, what he wants, and where he's going. I don't know any of that. I'm a mess. A fucking walking train-wreck…. And, I'd wind up being nothing but a disappointment to him, too. His chest constricts and a painful ache seizes it. This time, he's not sure that he's going to be able to fight the tears back.

"Troy?" The English teacher, Mrs. Cardellini, calls, having finally arrived. "Are you all right? Do you need to go see the nurse?"

Yes, Mrs. Cardellini, I'm fine. No, Mrs. Cardellini… I'm really not. I'm not okay. Both answers cross Troy's mind, but he doesn't speak. He can't. Even when Ryan leaves his chair and draws him into an embrace. Even when he buries his face in Ryan's dress shirt and clings to him like his life depends on it. Even when Ryan inevitably has to let go, so the lesson can begin, and Troy feels like something vital is being ripped away from him.

Twenty minutes into the class period, however, Troy and Ryan are reading The Catcher In The Rye, and pointing out lines that act as subtext to imply that Holden Caulfield is a closeted homosexual, for fun. Troy can't help but break into a smile as Ryan highlights Holden's extensive comments on the "sexiness", of his male roommate, and the scene where Holden hires a prostitute and merely speaks to her, expressing no sexual interest in her whatsoever. "That does sound pretty gay," Troy is finally able to say.

"That's what I've been thinking for years," Ryan concurs delightedly. "But," his smile slips a little from his face, the light leaving his eyes. His voice takes on a note of disappointment. "You know how people are. No girl wants a guy that they find attractive to turn out to be batting for the other team."

A thought registers in Troy's mind. One that makes him smirk cheerfully with what feels like it might be an epiphany. "It's good news for the guys who might be attracted to him, though," he says. He gives Ryan a light, playful nudge. Perhaps, for emphasis.

Confusion quirks Ryan's brows and the corners of his mouth for just a few seconds before he gets the intended message. He nudges Troy back, unable to conceal the wide grin that dominates his face.

Joy floods Troy's chest, erasing his doubts, his anxieties. His head finds its way onto Ryan's shoulder. It's warm, and sturdy enough to make him feel safe there. A significant part of him wants things to stay this way forever, wants the future to not come along and change everything. The future is a big, frightening place, and without Ryan at his side, he's not sure if he'll be able to make it.

So, he focuses on the last thirty minutes of this class, and plans to store every moment of the next couple of weeks before graduation that he spends with Ryan, away, where he can hold onto them forever.

8-8-8-8-8

"Mom! Dad! I'm home!" Troy announces as he plops his book bag onto one of the chairs in the kitchen.

"In here, Troy," his father, East High's basketball coach and physical education teacher, answers him. Troy follows his dad's voice to his parents' bedroom, where he finds his father standing up, holding a stack of envelopes in his hand. The light in the senior Bolton's gray eyes is harsh, and Troy feels his stomach clench with the desire to duck into his own bedroom and hide. "A college in Phoenix, universities in California, Pittsburgh, New York…" Coach Bolton raises his eyes to look at his son. "We only discussed you going to U of A, Troy. What's all this?"

"Every kid in high school gets letters from colleges all over the country, dad. Not just me," Troy answers, trying to avoid looking into his father's eyes.

"Yeah, but you never told me about all these. What's going on?" Coach Bolton lets out a strained sort of laugh. "I mean, are you looking at other schools, or-?!"

Troy's stomach churns as he asks, "Yeah. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?" He doesn't want to have to deal with this, right now.

"Come on, bud. We've talked about you going to U of A-"

-ever since you were a little kid, Troy finishes mentally, in time with his father. "I know," he murmurs.

"U of A is a darned good school. You can get discovered by important people there, Troy."

"I know, dad. But, maybe I don't want to limit myself to just one school."

"Is this because of Gabriella?"

Her name causes an almost paralyzing ache to pierce Troy's chest. He really does think he's going to be sick. He finds the strength to shoot his father a desperate, incredulous look. Don't do this, dad. Please.

Luckily, his mother's voice fills the hall, saving both of them from having to continue the conversation. "Boys?! I'm home. Jack, I need help starting dinner!"

Jack Bolton hesitates.

Troy's phone goes off a second later. It's Gabriella. Troy feels dazed and light-headed as he fumbles to answer her call, just like he promised. "Hey, Gabriella. How was your day?"

"Troy, we need to talk."

It feels more like a dream than reality as Troy makes his way to his bedroom and she tells him that the distance is too much to handle. That she can't be a "little adult", and come down to attend the prom with him, and be present for her graduation, despite that being their plan from the time Troy gave her his blessing to go to Stanford.

Or, in reality: he gave her his blessing to move on and leave him behind.

Troy doesn't even have the strength to cry as she decides for both of them, again, that it's over. That they're over, and everything between them might as well amount to nothing.

She hangs up without a "goodbye".

For some reason, Troy checks the duration of the call. It lasted about thirty-five seconds. Pauses included.

He has enough time to consider that funny in a really spiteful sense, that a year and nearly five months could come to an end in less than forty seconds, before his mind blanks.

8-8-8-8-8

A soft, familiar hand, touches his forehead.

Opening his eyes, Troy can just make out waves of dark hair. "Gabriella?" He implores, his voice thin and weak.

"It's me, honey," his mom replies.

Troy's heart sinks, but, he's still happy to see her. At the moment, all he wants is for his mother to magically fix everything, the way that moms do.

"You don't feel feverish," Mrs. Bolton murmurs, both to herself and her son. "Did you not eat well at school?"

Troy tries to think back to earlier that day, and recollect the items on the lunch menu. "I don't think so," he replies shakily. His vision adjusts, and he becomes aware that he's laying in his bed. He doesn't remember getting there. "What happened?"

"You got a phone call from Gabriella," his mother informs him. "Not even a minute later, your dad and I heard a loud thud from your room, and came running to see what the noise was. We found you sprawled out on the floor, unconscious."

It all comes rushing back. The phone call. The break-up… Troy knew it was going to hurt. It was going to emotionally devastate him to lose her again. But… Shit. I can't believe I passed out. "I'm sorry," he says softly.

"Don't apologize. Just take it easy, okay?" His mother brushes his hair out of his eyes and smooths out the quilt that's been draped over him. "We're having tacos for dinner, tonight. I'll let you know when they're done."

"Okay." That actually sounds really good, even if Troy's not sure that he'll be able to stomach eating anything for a while.

As his mother exits his bedroom, she flicks off the main light, leaving only the dim golden glow of the lamp on Troy's nightstand, and the traces of sunlight shining through the curtains, to illuminate the room.

That picture of Gabriella in her powder blue sweater, the first picture that he ever took of her, smiles at Troy. In the dim light, her once warm, inviting expression appears off-putting and mocking. She's reminding him that he failed. That she's finally cut him out of her life, and is now free to move onto greener pastures. His head swims and his stomach lurches.

Gabriella Montez; his first kiss, his first relationship, his ex-girlfriend.

Troy turns the picture away from him and flops back against his mattress where he buries his head under the blankets.

I feel like the guy in the Beatles' song, "Yesterday", he thinks as he waits for his stomach to settle and his head to stop throbbing.

8-8-8-8-8

There's a voice in the back of your mind, one that's supposed to tell you when you have a stupid idea, an idea that will wind up mortifying you, or is doomed to go terribly, horrendously wrong. Somewhere down the line, Troy learned how to block this voice out. Just this particular voice, unfortunately, not the other ones that constantly battle one another for dominance and control over the direction that he's meant to take next.

His ability to block this voice out is probably why he sneaks out of the house, after dinner, climbs into his truck, and, armed only with a Google Maps search result he printed out in the school library, and his fully charged cell phone, he peels off toward California.

Gabriella doesn't answer when he calls to touch base with her, but that's all right. I'll just surprise her, Troy tells himself, his stomach knotting with enough force to make him queasy. He's not going to lie down and let her slip through his fingers. Maybe, he can convince her that they can make this work. Graduation is only a few weeks away, then he can move out to California, too, to make things easier for her.

Yeah. Yeah. That's what he'll do.

Troy resolves this in the first ten minutes. Three hours go by with only the radio to keep him company as he approaches the border between New Mexico and Nevada. The drive is long, lonely, and extensively long. Outside the windows, the sky grows dark, and Troy almost wishes that he would have asked Chad, or even Ryan to join him. Some company would be both of great reassurance, and would offer assistance in keeping him alert, as his head still feels fuzzy. But, he shakes the grogginess off. A bruised finger or two didn't prevent him from leading his teammates to victory in their final game of the season, and losing consciousness won't stop him from trying to be good enough for Gabriella.

The song, "Shattered", by OAR comes on, and when Troy hears the line about "turning the car around", doubt settles heavily in the pit of his stomach and clenches his chest. Was this a bad idea? He questions himself, anxiously chewing at the inside of his mouth.

Twenty minutes later, he hears it. The shakiness, the spluttering. There's his answer.

"No. No no no no no. Come on," he pleads with the truck's engine. "Don't do this. Please…! Shit." The headlights, his only source of illumination on this stretch of desert road, aside from the stars in the sky, go out. The purr of the engine ceases. Then, the dashboard lights shut off.

It's dark. It's cold, because the heater conked out, too. Troy is alone and stranded. He's fucked up. Again.

Troy inhales slowly, steadily. He hears what sounds like the rattling of a snake's tail somewhere nearby, and wishes he was home, safe in his warm bed. "Shit, I'd actually be grateful to get the U of A lecture from my dad, right now," he mutters to himself with a dry laugh. A feeling of lightheadedness swamps his brain. Right now, he would probably be getting ready to turn in for the night, if he was back at the house. And, his parents wouldn't be discovering that he's gone, panicking, and desperately phoning everyone they know to try to figure out where he went. Running his hands through his hair, he smacks his head into the dashboard. "I'm stupid. I'm so fucking stupid…!"

He'd always heard about guys that were willing to do dumb things for a girl- cut their hair, or spike it up and put frosted blond on the tips, get beaten up by bigger, tougher, meaner guys because it turns out that the girl is actually into abusive assholes who ditch class to smoke weed in the bathroom, wear ridiculous looking clothes in imitation of some douchey fad, utterly humiliate themselves by attempting to serenade the girl with an "original song" played on an acoustic guitar… He never thought that he was one of those guys. Evidently, though, that's one more thing he was wrong about.

Forcing himself upright, he pulls out his cell phone and scrolls to Gabriella's name. She picks up on the third ring, and the intensity of the burst of hope in Troy's chest hurts. "Gabriella…!"

"Troy, why are you calling me?" Based on her inflection, alone, her mood is indeterminable. All that Troy can ascertain is that she doesn't sound particularly happy.

"I'm on my way to see you," Troy says. He feels oddly like a child about to be scolded for drawing on the walls, or flushing an expensive piece of jewelry down the toilet.

Gabriella sighs. "Troy, earlier, that phone call was me saying goodbye. I love you, Wildcat, but I can't do this. I have class in the morning, and a new life here, and…." She pauses and sniffles. "So, stop making this difficult for me."

Her words are like a knife to the gut. "Gabriella, I…!" Troy tries, hot tears of failure burning his eyes.

"Don't call me anymore." She says it in a near whisper, but the reverberation of that statement in Troy's skull is deafening.

Troy's throat constricts painfully. He is unable to say a single thing as her end of the line goes silent, or as the dial tone beeps away in his ears. As he ends the call, he wants to lay back in the driver's seat, give up, and go to sleep. Hell, he wouldn't even mind getting bitten by a rattlesnake, or devoured by a coyote, at this point. But… My parents, and Chad, the guys, Kels, and Ryan… They'd miss me. With a tiny bit of renewed strength at that thought, he picks up the phone and makes one more call.

8-8-8-8-8

It's two a.m. when Jack Bolton pulls his sleek minivan into the Boltons' driveway.

Troy couldn't quite believe it when he stirred, goosebumps prickling the hair on his chilled skin, took in the cockpit of his truck, and squinted out the window, right into the blinding glare of a pair of taillights.

After vowing to pay his father back for the tow truck expenses, the three hour and twenty minute drive home was almost unbearably silent. As he shuts the engine off, Jack Bolton turns to his son, and Troy jumps at the sudden sound of speech. "Do we need to have a talk with the school counselor? …'Cause it doesn't look like you're handling this situation with Gabriella very well."

"No, dad. Everything's fine." Troy hopes that he at least sounds like he believes that.

"You know…" His dad purses his lips and grips the steering wheel. "Bein' in a relationship… it's not always easy." His gray eyes slide to Troy. "But, it shouldn't be that difficult to get a girl that likes you to come and see you. I know she has big things going on in her life, but if Gabriella was serious about makin' things work between the two of you, she'd at least come down to go to the prom with you."

"Yeah… I don't know, dad," Troy admits softly. He's immensely relieved that his father isn't angry at him, yet, the gravity of the sentiment in the senior Bolton's advice hits him pretty hard, all the same. "I wish things were that simple with Gabriella."

His dad is at a loss for words. He seems to want to offer Troy condolences, or say something reassuring and uplifting. Instead, he waits until they're getting out of the vehicle to tell Troy, "You get to bed, okay?"

Troy simply nods and murmurs, looking into his father's eyes, "Thanks for going to get me."

Coach Bolton holds his son's gaze. Concern, and something that is uncomfortably close to helplessness, darken his eyes. "Yeah," he says quietly.

Troy enters his room, slips out of his clothes, and throws on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a sleeveless undershirt. He then nestles in beneath his quilt and switches the lamp on his nightstand off, immersing his room in darkness. With no distractions, he can't stop his mind from recalling everything that Gabriella said. And, a lump rises in his throat. Why did she tell me she loves me if she's just going to keep saying "goodbye"?

8-8-8-8-8

Troy doesn't tell anyone about the break-up. Not his parents, not even his best friend. It's not as though he doesn't want someone to confide in. Talking about your problems is good, it's healthy. He's known that since middle school. No, the fact is, he just doesn't want to be any more of a burden to the people he cares about.

He doesn't want to go to school, either, but he makes himself get out of bed, eat half of the Eggo waffle his mother toasted for him, and brush his teeth. He has obligations to fulfill. He is not going to let Ryan and Kelsi down. Gabriella may have left him, and it feels vaguely like a chunk of his heart was torn away when she hung up the phone, but the sun still rose in the sky, and life is still carrying on. Just like in that song about Jack and Dianne.

Troy gets to his dresser, though, and it suddenly feels like foreign territory. Plaid, sweaters, black, blue, red, white, khaki, navy, green...

Gabriella's voice swirls about his brain. "Nice tie. Your shoes don't match, though!"

"Khaki shorts with that shirt? Really, Troy?"

"Purple really isn't your color, Wildcat."

"Troy, please don't wear something that looks bad. Not when you're out in public with me."

This is wrong. That's wrong. Everything is wrong. Troy digs furiously through his drawers, looking for complementary colors, matching patterns, anything that won't make him look stupid. If Gabriella was here, he tells himself miserably, she would know what to do. She'd tell me what to wear.

Nothing seems to work. His mind is a chaotic disaster. He has no idea whether red goes with purple, or plaid and stripes can be worn together, he's completely at a loss.

As he throws his last t-shirt onto the floor, his legs buckle, unable to hold his body weight up, anymore.

"Troy, your dad is heading out the door. You're going to be late for-" Mrs. Bolton cuts herself off. From where she stands at the entrance to Troy's room, she takes in the mess; clothes tossed into haphazard piles all over the floor and the bed, and her teenaged son falling apart in the middle of it all. "Troy, what is this?"

After a lengthy pause where his insides squirm with self-loathing, Troy chokes out, "I don't know what to wear."

8-8-8-8-8

Unsurprisingly, Ryan appears to surmise what happened, either from the look on his face, Troy supposes, or the aura that he's giving off. Regardless, Ryan pauses at Troy's desk in homeroom, distracting Troy from staring at Gabriella's empty seat. "You look good, Troy," he says with his brilliant Ryan smile.

It doesn't feel like words thrown out there just to provide the recipient with a temporary burst of confidence. With Ryan, every compliment he addresses to Troy feels one-hundred percent genuine. This one inspires a faint smile to tug at the corners of Troy's mouth. "Really?"

"Really, really."

As warm blush creeps across Troy's face, he has to laugh at the stupidity of his outburst, earlier this morning. In the end, he wound up tugging on a white t-shirt, a blue and black plaid over-shirt, and a pair of black jeans.

Ryan arcs an eyebrow, perplexed at Troy's reaction.

Troy motions for the smaller boy to move in closer so he can relay to him, "You know, Ry, my mom actually picked this out for me."

"Oh! Well, hey." Ryan recovers from his surprise and says with an earnest smile, "Your mom has great taste."

"I'll be sure to let her know." Troy grins as he watches Ryan walk back to his own desk.

8-8-8-8-8

Classes drag on sluggishly, the rest of the day; merging together into a drawn-out blur. For everyone around him, it's business as usual, so Troy forces himself to pretend that there is nothing out of the ordinary going on on his end, as well.

He is able to pull this off better than he anticipated… until rehearsals for the musical start during free period.

A friend like you, Sharpay vocalizes. She twirls around in a Gabriella-esque fashion and points to Troy from her position on the makeshift balcony, for emphasis.

Always makes it easy, Troy sings with her. He walks toward the stage, hoping that he's at least feigning some semblance of the happiness that the Troy Bolton that he's playing in the show- the Troy Bolton who is still happily dating Gabriella Montez- feels during this song.

I know that you get me

Every time

Troy's gaze flicks to Ryan, who gives him a gently encouraging smile from backstage.

Through every up,

Through every down

You know I'll always

Be around

Through anything,

You can count on meeeeeee!

Sharpay's sugary sweet vocals morph into an ear-splitting shriek as a backdrop comes crashing down behind her.

Troy cringes, his heart racing.

Kelsi jumps up from her seat behind the piano in the orchestra pit.

Ryan's eyes stretch wide, his hands cupped over the bridge of his nose in horror.

Zeke Baylor rushes to the blonde theater queen's aid, and she swoons into his arms.

"It's sabotage!" Sharpay cries out. "Someone is trying to get rid of me before my final show at this school!"

Chad Danforth and his girlfriend, Taylor McKessie, roll their eyes, both of them sporting matching expressions of disgust.

Ms. Darbus sweeps across the stage and begins lecturing the stage crew on the importance of "memorizing the cues to send out certain props and backdrops, so as not to jeopardize the safety of the cast".

"It'll get better," Kelsi assures a crestfallen Troy as everyone files out of the auditorium. She wraps an arm around him in a sort of half-hug. "You'll see."

At lunch, Ryan chips in, "You're doing great, Troy. You and my sister started to sound really good, together."

"You think so?"

Ryan nods. His blue eyes glow sincerely. "Don't worry about the incident, today," he says, touching Troy's shoulder reassuringly. "In theater, it's sort of a good thing for everything that can possibly go wrong to, you know, go wrong, before opening night. That way, there's less of a chance of something happening to ruin the show."

"No kidding." Troy smiles slightly between bites of his food.

Ryan gives another sagely nod. "There's a reason we call the final week leading up to the show, 'Hell Week'".

"I've never heard a more fitting title," Troy expresses, only partially joking.

Hearing the final school bell ring brings on a relief akin to having a truck load of bricks lifted off of his shoulders for Troy. Maybe, he allows himself to hope as he slides the straps of his book bag on, the last few weeks of the school year will just meld together, passing by in a blur, and I'll only remember spending time with Ryan.

8-8-8-8-8

That evening, Troy is hyper-conscious of the pictures of Gabriella in his bedroom. They're physical evidence of what he let slip through his fingers. Her smiling face seems to jeer him, Why didn't you fight for me? Why did you let me go so easily, Troy?

I didn't mean to. I tried…! I…! Troy assures her, assures himself. But, it doesn't seem to be enough for either of them. With shaking hands and an unsteady pulse, Troy takes out his cellphone and dials Gabriella's number.

He can't just give up. He's not supposed to be a failure.

After the first ring, someone answers only to immediately hang up.

Troy doesn't know what he was expecting. He tosses his phone across the room and flops down onto his bed. Grief resurges with the force of a blow to the chest, and it feels as though she's broken up with him all over again. As he closes his eyes, Troy wishes he could wake up and find himself living someone else's life.

When he reopens his eyes, the room is dark, and for an instant, he believes that he's legitimately become someone else.

Then, his mother calls for him to come and get his dinner.

8-8-8-8-8

The conversations in the cafeteria all blend into each other, becoming an incoherent buzz. From his isolated table, Troy makes out the voices of Chad Danforth, Zeke Baylor, and Jason Cross, his friends and former teammates on the basketball team. He doesn't enjoy eavesdropping, it makes him feel sort of scummy, but he zeroes in on their exchange, figuring that the topic is harmless.

"Gabriella's probably hitting it off big time with the brains up at Stanford," Chad says while squirting a packet of ketchup onto his french fries.

Zeke and Jason enthusiastically input with their agreement.

Troy really doesn't want to hear this, but now that he's heard Gabriella's name, he can't tune them out. Especially not when Zeke quips, "Yeah, but are we talkin' about the brains in their heads, or the brains in their pants?"

Boisterous laughter ascends from their table.

Troy pitches his bagged lunch into the nearest trashcan and leaves the cafeteria as quickly as his legs can carry him.

8-8-8-8-8

East High's rooftop garden wasn't exactly the best place to go if he wanted to avoid thinking about Gabriella, Troy realizes in retrospect as he stands among the exotic plant life.

He invited Gabriella up here, his junior year. He shared this place with her, and while sitting side by side, they confided in each other how it felt to be alienated from your peers via being placed on a pedestal, or dubbed a "freaky genius girl", due to only one aspect of their social appearances. Together, they agreed to do the school musical, because they wanted to break free of their schoolmates' perceptions of them.

Troy and Gabriella once had so much in common.

At least, Troy thought they did.

Now, she's one-thousand miles away, and might well be talking Stoichiometry and advanced conjugations of the language of l'amor with some freaky genius boy named Shawn, while he…

"Troy?" Ryan's light voice causes Troy's heart to skip a beat.

"Hey." Troy raises his hand in a half-hearted wave.

"So, I heard what Zeke said, and…" Ryan starts.

"Yeah, I know. Gabriella's getting good and acquainted with the pelvic regions of the geniuses at Stanford. Also, yeah, I'm a growing boy, and I need to eat." Troy falls into a seat on the bench, making certain not to accidentally bump into any of the potted plants set up around him, and drops his gaze into his lap. His stomach picks that moment to growl, demanding that food find a way into it, but his throat feels far too tight to swallow anything, even in liquid form.

"I wasn't going to say that at all. But, you're right."

Troy stiffens, biting the inside of his mouth to brace himself. Ryan isn't-

"You do need to eat."

Troy's eyes flick up guiltily. Ryan is one of the last people alive who would degrade him, mock him, like that. Ryan is also one of the last people alive he should be copping an attitude with. "Ry, I'm sorry. I-" he starts.

"Forget it." Ryan shrugs off both the apology and the very brief tension between them like it's second nature to him. "You've got more important things to concern yourself with than what she's up to," he adds in a low voice. He shuffles his feet in a way that Troy has always found endearingly awkward and holds out a tray of food containing a fruit cup, a sandwich, a carton of white milk, and a chocolate chip cookie. Soft encouragement lights up his eyes, and Troy can't refuse him even if he wanted to.

Troy takes the tray. "Thank you, Ry," he conveys, hoping that his eyes hold a even a fraction of the warmth spreading throughout his body.

Ryan brushes off the expression of gratitude for his deed. "Don't mention it." He swings his arms before tucking them behind his back and looking around. It's evident that he feels out of place. "Maybe, I should-"

Troy shakes his head. "Sit," he says around a mouthful of ham, turkey, cheese, and lettuce on white bread, scooting aside to make room for the other boy.

Ryan does as Troy instructs him to.

Silence settles between them. Troy notes that it isn't the thick, distinctly uncomfortable silence that used to stretch on when he and Gabriella couldn't think of anything to say to each other. Ryan is simply waiting patiently while Troy puts some much needed fuel into his otherwise empty stomach. He seems to alternate between eyeing the plants, watching Troy, and getting lost in his own thoughts.

Troy stares out past the greenhouse, at the expanse of the rooftop, and feels his throat constrict with the memory of himself and Gabriella twirling across that very area. She skipped class, one day, several months ago, to teach him how to dance so he wouldn't make a fool of himself at the prom. "She's everywhere," he murmurs.

"Hm?" Ryan turns to Troy, giving the brunette his undivided attention.

"Gabriella," Troy replies. He peels the flaps of the milk carton open and takes a sip from it as frustration clenches his abdomen. "People talk about her at school, there are pictures of her in my locker, she's in the show we're doing, this garden is filled with memories of her, there are pictures of her all over my bedroom…" He pauses and shakes his head incredulously. "It's like she's everywhere I go, Ryan."

His forehead creasing, Ryan chews the inside of his mouth in concern and deliberation. "Then, maybe you need to go somewhere that doesn't make you think about her. A "Gabriella-free", zone," he proposes.

The words feel like a light at the end of a tunnel. "Did you have somewhere in particular in mind?" Troy asks, leaning into Ryan just a bit.

"Um… well…" Pink colors Ryan's fair face. "I'd really lo-like if you, I-I mean…"

Troy gives the blond an encouraging nod. He can't help but smile at the fact that, even though Ryan struggles to communicate with people, at times, he's never allowed that to deter him from trying to get close to others.

Ryan successfully recovers his poise. "It-It gets kind of lonely, puttering about a huge mansion all day." A very slight flirtatious flutter of his eyelashes accompanies his words.

Troy takes hold of Ryan's hand. "It would be my honor to keep you company."

"It would be my honor to have your company." Ryan's eyes shine with affection.

Troy's heart feels the lightest it's felt in weeks. Ryan is going to provide him with a reprieve, an escape, and he's going to get to spend time with the sweet, insightful, quirky, beautiful, talented blond boy, in the process. Maybe, his wish to become someone else is coming true.

At the same time, both boys seem to realize that they're still holding hands. Blushing, they simultaneously pull away. "So, um, you… you actually heard what Zeke said?" Troy asks.

Ryan nods and rolls his eyes in a repulsed fashion. "Yeah, I did. I hope you won't take offense to my saying so, but your friends are assholes, Troy."

Troy is somewhat unnerved by the statement, but can't bring himself to deny it. Perhaps that's because some part of him, however minuscule, has known that his friends aren't exactly the greatest people since his junior year, when they actively tried to dissuade him from participating in the callback audition for the winter musical and nearly destroyed his budding relationship with Gabriella, simply because they felt that winning a basketball game and maintaining the status quo that jocks were "too cool", to interact with skaters, brainiacs, and drama geeks, was more important than their friend's happiness. The other times that they got upset with him, though, such as during their summer vacation, when he was trying to increase his chances of getting a scholarship to U of A, or laughed at him, like when his name was called as the fourth contender for a scholarship to Juilliard… Their anger was entirely my fault, and them laughing was all in good fun… Right? Troy tries to reason with himself.

But, really, if the guy who has to deal with Sharpay Evans on a daily basis deems someone an "asshole", who is Troy Bolton to question him?

"Not all of my friends are assholes, Ry," Troy says softly. He touches his forehead to Ryan's, knocking the smaller boy's hat slightly askew. Ryan takes the hint and breaks into a grin that Troy eagerly reciprocates. As Ryan fixes the angle of his hat, Troy wraps an arm around him, drawing him into his chest.

8-8-8-8-8

When he arrives for their private after school rehearsal, Ryan beckons Troy, who is sitting at the back of the auditorium, to follow him to the stage. "We're going to do something a little… different, today."

His curiosity piqued, Troy slips his hands into his jeans pockets and falls into step behind him.

"I have a song that I'd like to work on with you." Troy must have subconsciously pulled a face, or something, because Ryan hastily assures him, "Don't worry. It's not from the musical."

Ryan ascends the stairs onto the stage and briefly disappears. He emerges seconds later, wheeling out the big stereo system from backstage, and it suddenly occurs to Troy that a certain tiny brunette composer is nowhere to be seen. "Where's Kels?"

"Her mom needed her to run some errands," Ryan replies. "She apologized profusely, but I gave her the go ahead. She's working herself ragged, rearranging the songs to suit my sister's vocal style." His voice brims with sympathy as he hooks his Ipod up to the speaker and grabs the stereo's remote control.

"Geez," Troy winces.

"Bu-uut, anyway…" Ryan walks back downstage. He holds out a hand, and Troy helps him, easily lowering his lightweight body onto the floor in the orchestra pit. It doesn't escape his notice that the male half of the Evans twins feels more natural and… right in his arms than his sister ever has. Once he's situated himself, a lightly flushed Ryan pulls a sheet of lyrics out of his messenger bag, and sets it on the piano. He then proceeds to take a seat behind the instrument. "I um, I think this exercise will be cathartic for you."

"'Cathartic'," Troy echoes, his brows furrowed with intrigue. "Well, can't hurt to try, huh?" He says with a shrug.

Ryan smiles, as if thrilled by Troy's willingness. He points the remote at the stereo, and a track with a gripping guitar intro pours out of the speakers. Putting his hands to the keys, Ryan plays along as he sings, his pitch-perfect light alto-tenor soulful, and just a touch embittered:

You could change your life-

If you wanna

You could change your clothes-

If you wanna

If you change your mind,

Well, that's the way it goes

But, I'm gonna keep your jeans

And, your old flat hat-

'Cause I wanna

They look good on me

You're never gonna get them back

His fingers move daintily across the keys and his vocal dynamic increases gently.

At least not today,

Not today

Not today

'Cause…!

The next set of lyrics directly impacts Troy's heart.

If it's over,

Let it go and,

Come tomorrow, it will seem

So yesterday, so yesterday

I'm just a bird that's already flown away

Ryan looks to Troy, and he seems to be pleading with him;

Laugh it off

And let it go, and

When you wake up, it will seem

So yesterday, so yesterday

Haven't you heard that I'm gonna be okay?

He nods invitingly toward the sheet of lyrics. Troy takes this as a signal to move in closer.

As Ryan finishes his verse with a soft, triumphant sort of laugh and an affirmation of, Okay, Troy would have been content to just stand back and listen to Ryan's lovely, lilting voice, but he licks at his upper lip and clears his throat. He does his best to match his voice to the notes sounding from the piano, letting the emotions that drive the words come from his heart. His legs shake as his subconscious conjures an image of Gabriella, and he addresses the lyrics to her.

You could say you're bored-

If you wanna

You could act real tough-

If you wanna

You could say you're torn,

But I've heard enough

Thank you,

You made my mind up

For me

When you started to

Ignore me

Can you see a single tear?

It isn't gonna happen here

At least, not today

Not today

Not today

With Ryan beside him, smiling proudly and encouraging him, Troy's confidence increases. Suddenly, the passion that seemed to have left him begins to reemerge and backs up his singing. The break-up wasn't entirely his fault. Gabriella… she made him feel like nothing he did was ever good enough, like he wasn't worth the effort, like he was expendable, in her eyes.

And, for those reasons, maybe it is time to accept that it's over- officially, totally- and to let her go.

'Cause

Together, Troy and Ryan sing through the chorus, Ryan providing a harmony to Troy's melody. Troy no longer needs to read the sheet of lyrics. The words are coming directly from his heart.

If it's over,

Let it go and,

Come tomorrow, it will seem

So yesterday, so yesterday

I'm just a bird that's already flown away

Laugh it off,

And let it go and,

When you wake up, it will seem

So yesterday, so yesterday

Haven't you heard that I'm gonna be okay?

Ryan thrums out several sweeping chords on the piano, then abandons the instrument to follow Troy onto the stage as Troy continues to sing to an imaginary Gabriella;

If you're over me, he sings, climbing over the railing and landing on the makeshift balcony.

I'm already over you

If it's all been done, Ryan agrees.

What is left to do?

He moves behind the paned-glass door and opens it. With an enticing pivot of his hips, he joins Troy on the stage.

How can you hang up

If the line is dead?

Troy insists, adrenaline coursing through his veins, invigorating him;

If you wanna walk, He grips the railing with both hands and jumps several paces toward center stage.

I'm a step ahead

Ryan moves to the rail and mimics Troy's movement with ease, bringing himself closer to the former athlete.

If you're movin' on,

I'm already gone Troy takes another several steps away from the Gabriella in his mind's eye, and she abruptly vanishes.

If the light is off, Ryan starts, arcing another graceful jump toward Troy.

Then it isn't on, Troy finishes with him, and suddenly, they're face to face. Troy stares into Ryan's sky colored eyes. Ryan raises one of his brows, a proud smile illuminating his face, as if he intends for Troy to comprehend something, and that's when Troy realizes what transpired.

He's just executed the very choreography that he has been grappling with for the last week perfectly.

Ryan was right, all along.

Grinning, Troy takes one more step into Ryan and resumes singing softly; At least, not today

Not today, Ryan vocalizes at a mezzo piano dynamic. He steps into Troy, too.

Not today, they finish together. His heart racing, Troy closes his eyes and touches his nose to Ryan's. When Ryan not only doesn't pull away, but also nuzzles his nose tenderly against Troy's, a burst of happiness floods every centimeter of Troy's body.

I love you, Ryan, he admits to himself. Fuck, I love you so much….!

Troy reopens his eyes to find Ryan's eyes shining with that affection that fills Troy with a sense of empowerment that seems to reach every nerve-ending in his body. Exchanging a glance with each other, the boys spring away from the edge of the balcony, and move back toward the doors. They sing with gusto, their voices blending seamlessly into one another.

Cause…!

If it's over,

Let it go and,

They link hands, and execute the next maneuver that Troy struggled to perfect. With each movement, Troy can hear Ryan's light voice reciting the instructions; "Walk, walk walk. Jump in. Around the world, and… spin out."

Come tomorrow, it will seem

So yesterday, so yesterday

I'm just a bird that's already flown away

On "flown away", Troy spins Ryan out effortlessly. Ryan stops himself-mid-spin to look to Troy. He beams at the taller boy, marking down another flawless execution. Joy and self-confidence swell in Troy's chest uninhibited. There's no Gabriella to tell him that every other step he's making is another mistake worthy of scathing criticism and penalization, and the guys aren't there to laugh at him.

It's just him, Troy, free of all of the pressures that often feel like they're smothering him, Ryan, one of the best friends that he's ever had, the boy who never stopped believing in him and never gave up on him, even when Troy had given up on himself, and the music. Troy feels capable of doing or being anything,and that old spark, the one that drew him to the stage in the first place, has at last been reignited.

Troy takes hold of Ryan's hand, and, while Ryan gives Troy a questioning look very briefly, he follows without hesitation as Troy dashes off of the balcony, backstage, and then out of the auditorium altogether. They run down the hallways of an empty school, their footfalls almost matching their voices in volume.

Laugh it off,

And let it go and,

When you wake up, it will seem

So yesterday, so yesterday

Haven't you heard?

Letting his regained confidence fuel him, Troy opens his locker. "You're so yesterday," he informs the picture of Gabriella before tearing it down.

So yesterday

So yesterday

So yesterday, he sings as Ryan backs him up with:

If it's over,

Let it go and,

Come tomorrow, it will seem

So yesterday, so yesterday

You're just a bird that's already flown away

Troy takes in the picture of Gabriella, her liquid brown eyes that could either brighten his day, or mercilessly cut him down with one look, her waves of sweet-smelling, shining dark hair that felt so soft when they brushed against his chin, the smile that once felt like his reason for living…

You're

So

Yesterday

So yesterday

So yesterday, he tells her, believing it more with every repetition of the phrase.

Ryan backs him up readily, his voice sonorous and wholeheartedly supportive:

Laugh it off,

And, let it go and,

When you wake up, it will seem

So yesterday, so yesterday

Drawing in a breath to steel himself, Troy balls the picture of Gabriella up. He clenches it tightly, not because he wants to hold onto it, to her, he acknowledges, but because he isn't afraid, anymore. He makes his way over to a trashcan several feet away.

Ryan nods supportively. "Go for it", his eyes say.

Haven't you heard that I'm gonna be okay? Troy vocalizes, his voice soft, but his conviction in those words unwavering. He holds the picture over the trash barrel and lets go.

It's done.

At least, for today.

Newly energized, Troy runs back to Ryan and envelops the petite boy in his arms, hugging him tightly. Ryan returns the embrace, his hands coming up to squeeze Troy's shoulder blades. It feels like two puzzle pieces have at long last interlocked. Ryan's sweet, borderline intoxicating scent fills Troy's nose, and Troy plants a kiss on Ryan's soft, smooth cheek. "Thank you, Ryan," he whispers into the crook of Ryan's creamy neck. "You really are easier to dance with than she is."

It takes a second, but Ryan melts into Troy's arms, pressing his head against the taller boy's cheek. His hat is nearly knocked off of his head, but he doesn't appear to care. "It's nothing at all. Really," he replies, his voice husky and just slightly unsteady.

Troy detects something in Ryan's intonation, and it makes him wish that for just a sliver in time, he wouldn't ever have to let go.