maybe we need some time alone to regroup, and apply all the laws of attraction.
(baby, we need some time.)

- -

He couldn't even run. He hated it: he couldn't even run, though he desperately needed to. The ache in his chest wouldn't subside, and it was like a bullet had torn through his flesh.

Though, he figured that might have hurt a little less than a knife in between his shoulder blades.

Out of all the people that could have been pressing Sharpay up against a wall, it really just had to be Charlie motherfucking Duncan; of all the obnoxious pricks that went to East High, it couldn't be anyone but Charlie thieving Duncan with his tongue down her throat. Because, when he thought about it, it made all the sense in the world... after all, the guy did manage to steal both his girlfriend and his game, so really, what difference did a crush make?

Duncan, though, and all of his sliminess was to be expected. Troy had known from day one exactly what type of person he was, and he never disappointed. It was Sharpay that threw him. Just weeks ago she had fixed herself in his life after proclaiming how worthless his other friends were. She knew how much they had all hurt him by deserting him when he needed them the most. On their return flight just days ago, she was his sole confidante, intently listening as he admitted what he really felt when he saw Gabriella and Charlie in the hallway that day. But there she was, going behind his back to do the very same thing.

When he actually took the time to think about it, he supposed he should have been less surprised than he was. Her blatant personality transformation, though a bit off-putting at first, was inherently accepted because he wanted so desperately to believe that he had at least one ally in such a bitter, vicious war. As usual, he was proven incredibly wrong.

Troy bit his lip and shook away the hair in his face before fixing a mask of indifference and readying himself to leave the school. He had a childish urge to slam the door behind him, to alert the two of them to his presence, but he knew that it wouldn't help much, only provide a temporary satisfaction. No, no, he'd leave this one up to Karma, because it had a much more potent way of dealing with liars.

He expected cliche, for the weather to cry pathetic fallacy in the form of pounding rain and raging winds. The sun, however, remained fixed in the sky; for some reason he couldn't place, it reminded him of third grade, when everyone used to put sunglasses and smiles on their versions of a yellow blob. Crisp autumn air nipped at his cheeks as he sat on a curb in front of the school, but everything else was calm.

"Troy?" his father eventually called. It could have been seconds later, or even hours, he'd lost his grasp on time. "I've been looking for you. What are you doing out here?"

"Sorry, dad," he apologized woodenly. "I didn't mean to leave, I just couldn't stay in there anymore."

His father laughed genially and held out a hand to help him up. "That's understandable. Even I sometimes wonder how it is the locker room smells the same every day, even though the janitors are constantly cleaning it."

Troy attempted a smile, but failed miserably.

"So, anyway," his father continued with a shake of the head, perhaps picking up on his son's sour mood. "Did you see Sharpay? How did things go?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Troy? Did something happen?"

Troy glared, "You have no idea."

"What's happened, son? You can tell me."

"Maybe I don't want to fucking tell you! Huh, ever think of that one?"

"Hey, calm down. Don't take your anger out on me, Troy. I thought we'd talked about this."

Troy sighed, coming to a stop and letting go of one crutch to wearily run a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry dad, I know you didn't mean anything by it, and I'm sorry I snapped. It's not your fault, I just... I need some time. I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Okay. Let's go home, then. I can almost hear your mother's roast beef calling to me from here."

Troy tried to stay calm, he did, really, it was just extremely difficult. Just when he'd thought he had some semblance of self-control and self-adjustment, all of this bullshit had to come out of the woodwork to test his boundaries. It wasn't fair, if he was being honest with himself.

Breathing in deep, he tried to control his inner self (or some other nonsense he'd seen on a YouTube video). He didn't want to become a monster again; didn't ever want to see that look of absolutely unadulterated fury his eyes held not so long ago. Maybe, if he got back to thinking about karma, this was all some kind of cosmic test. He'd never considered himself big into astrology (or alternate religions, for that matter), but hell, he'd try anything once, especially if it was going to help him out of his funk.

If he thought about it that way, though, it made sense. It wasn't like he was the only person in the world to experience hardship. (Sure, maybe sometimes it was all too easy to give into teenage angst and forget about that key fact, but maybe it was time he started acknowledging it.) He was sure he wasn't the first kid to get caught up in his own drama, just like he was sure he wouldn't be the last. When looking at it objectively, everything he'd gone through lately had left an enormous imprint on him. Whether or not it was for the better was certainly still up the air, but it changed him. And maybe, just maybe, that's what life was really all about.

It seemed weird, to get this sudden burst of enlightenment as he sat at the dining room table and shoveled dead animal into his mouth, but he wasn't complaining. He was still angry, sure, but dwelling on it wasn't going to get him anywhere. Besides, sitting and feeling sorry for himself--or worse, being a bit more proactive about his anger--would get him nowhere. Succumbing to them, to those people, gave them the upper hand, and he was having none of that.

For the first time in a long time he actually listened to the conversation going on around him--heard what his parents were saying and took part in a real discussion. Laughter rang throughout the room, accompanied by the clinks and clanks of utensils and glasses, and Troy couldn't help the surge of warmth that ran through him. He missed this--missed being a part of his own family--and when his mother asked him how his day went, he was honest.

xxx

When he awoke the next morning, Troy was at ease for what felt like the first time in his life. If he tried hard enough, he could forget the things that made him angry, and shift his focus instead to being a new Troy Bolton, a better Troy Bolton. And really, the future looked promising, despite all of its obstacles.

With both of his parents at work, and nothing better to do with his time, he began doing the quickly accumulating mountain of make-up homework. And, yeah, he was just a little bit annoyed at himself for missing so much school lately, when he knew how hard it was to get all of his work together. But hey, c'est la vie, and all that; besides, the English wasn't that hard, as they'd moved past poetry and onto a new novel, and all of his other classwork seemed easier once he reviewed the notes provided to him.

In just a couple of hours the once bulging pile of notebooks and textbooks was joined by a neat pile of handwritten work. Still feeling a surge of energy within him, Troy grabbed his crutches and began cleaning the room that'd he'd neglected again. Cleaning wasn't the easiest without constant, full use of his hands and arms, but he made due. In fact, he was balancing a basket of laundry fresh from the dryer, hopping back to his room on one leg, when his father got home.

"Troy." He smiled. "It's nice to see you up and moving."

Troy put the basket down and maintained balance against the wall. "Yeah, I got a little bored."

"You know, I was having a conversation with Mr. Matsui about the progress you've been making lately, and I think he's ready to let you back into school."

"Really?" He didn't expect the shock of excitement that ran through him. "That sounds great."

"Good. I'll pick you up during lunch tomorrow and you can stop in and have a chat with him. After that everything should be okay."

Troy nodded, picked up his basket, and made his way back to his room. Just as he sat himself next to the basket on his bed, preparing to fold the clothes within, two knocks sounded on his door and his father stepped in.

"Sorry, I almost forgot that there was something else I wanted to ask you."

"What's that?" Troy questioned, more nervous than he let on.

"I know this is a sensitive subject for you, but you still never told me what happened between you and Sharpay yesterday."

If asked, Troy would swear that the way his hands clenched to fists was involuntary. "I guess I just... I found out she wasn't who I thought she was. What it all came down to is she's just like everyone else."

"Did you two get into a fight?"

"No."

"Does she know you're mad at her?"

"No."

"I figured as much. She stopped by my office today and said she had come by yesterday, but we'd already left. I wasn't sure how we could have missed her."

"Did you give her the check?"

"No. Check your pants from yesterday, I'm pretty sure you still have it."

Troy sifted through the pile of darks until he found yesterdays jeans, reached in the left pocket and found the check.

"Oops."

"I don't want to push you, Troy, but why don't you bring that over to her? See if you can talk, work through your problems. It can't be as bad as you think it is."

Troy shrugged. "I'm not too sure about that."

"Be ready to leave in ten. I'll drive you over there. Trust me, Troy, you don't want to leave things uncertain between the two of you. If you're mad, I'm sure you have reason, but you should probably let Sharpay know why that is."

"Okay," he relented, letting out a heavy sigh. "I'll be down soon."

He could feel the emotions spark within him once more, but in an effort to suppress them, he continued calmly folding his clothes. Halves, quarters, eighths, sorted by type, all spread across his bed until there was barely any room for him to sit any more. His father's car sounded in the driveway, alerting him to the fact that he should be going, so with one last deep breath he grabbed the check and made his way downstairs.

It felt like facing his doom. Perhaps he was being a little melodramatic, but he couldn't help himself. The zen Troy Bolton was a new development, unready to be tested, especially so viciously. (He was sure Sharpay Evans could make a monk spit expletives like a truck driver in no time.)

Pulling into the Evans' half-circle driveway, Troy tried to let his father's grin and "good luck" give him comfort, but it was to no avail. There was no way he was ready for this. Absolutely no way in hell that he could remain calm when the mere thought of her was enough to send his mind into a frenzy.

Unfortunately enough, neither Mrs. Evans nor Mr. Evans answered the door. After ringing the doorbell thrice, an energetic redhead that Troy vaguely recalled as being Ryan's girlfriend threw the door open. Without saying a word, she tilted her head and examined him toe-to-head, then shrugged and walked away.

He wasn't entirely sure what to make of the situation, but being that she left the door open, he figured he might as well go in and get this over with. Continuing his deep breathing exercises all the way to Sharpay's room helped slightly, but when he saw that bright pink door he began having second thoughts. Before they were enough to drive him running back to the car (despite his ACL), he knocked rapidly on the painted wood.

"Come in!" Sharpay's voice called out. For the first time in awhile it sounded nothing but shrill to him.

Cautiously, he shuffled in and saw her splayed across her bed, magazine held up in front of her.

"Oh! Hey Troy, what's up?"

"Nothing," he said quite monotonously. "I just came to give you the check. I guess you missed me yesterday."

"Yeah, I guess." She tilted her head. "I'm not really sure how, though, since I was right outside the gym."

Troy scoffed. "It sure is a mystery."

Placing her magazine on the thick duvet, Sharpay swung her legs over the bed and stood before him. He swallowed nervously.

"Are you okay, Troy? You seem a little... I don't know, mad? Sad? Something."

"I'm fine. Here, just take the check. I really have to go."

She took it from his outstretched hands. "You don't want to hang out for a bit? I haven't seen you in a couple days."

"Honestly Sharpay, I can't even be in the same room as you right now. Tell your parents thanks for everything, but I really do have to go."

"Whoa whoa whoa. What's wrong with you? What did I do to you?"

"I'm not stupid. Don't fucking stand there and act innocent, like you don't know what I'm talking about."

"But I don't!" she said in response, voice rising dangerously.

"So you're going to deny that you made out with Charlie Duncan?"

She froze all motion, even her heart seemed to stop beating. "Troy, it wasn't what it--"

"Save the shit, you fucking slut." So much for zen and balance and breathing. He'd tried, he really did, but there was way too much anger coursing through his veins to stay bottled.

"EXCUSE ME?" she roared.

His eyes were cold and dark as he stared at her. "You heard me."

He raised a hand to cover his quickly reddening cheek, right where a Sharpay-sized hand print was forming. She had never slapped someone before, but he deserved it. "Don't ever talk to me again, Bolton."

He laughed shortly at her use of his last name. "Never again would be too soon, Evans."

Just as he was exiting the room she spat out, "You like to think you're so different from them, don't you? What, because you've hurt your poor little knee now you know what it's like to be an outsider? Newsflash Troy, you're just like every single one of them."

And with those words she made her grand exit, stage right. He shouldn't have expected anything less.

But even though he was angry at her, he had to admire her tenacity, her unyielding dramatic flair. So preoccupied--as always--with the scene's overall design, it didn't even seem to phase her that she was walking out of her own room. Heaving a dramatic sigh of his own, Troy left the Evans' home to sit through a very silent car-ride.

He couldn't bring himself to care, or to find any meaning in what she'd said. She was so wrong, about everything, and he was over it. There were some people who changed themselves as they saw the world, but she wasn't one of them; passing judgement was Sharpay Evans' favorite pastime, so he wasn't about to take anything she said to heart. Besides, he'd be back in school soon, he didn't need her half-assed pity anymore.

When he got home, he went immediately to his room and passed out on his bed, thoroughly exhausted.

xxx

Sitting in the slightly worn chair, staring at the gleaming name plate before him, Troy was struck with the unsettling feeling of déjà vu. It hadn't been too long ago that he sat in the same seat in the same spot with similar feelings of dread and anxiety coursing his veins. So much had happened since he last sat here, though, and he supposed that was what made all the difference.

Letting his gaze wander from wall to wall, ceiling to floor, he spotted a file folder sitting out on the desk in front of him. It was partially covered by that day's edition of the Albuquerque Journal, but the name "Bolton, Troy" was clearly discernible. His hands shook slightly; it couldn't really be his permanent record, could it? It was certainly thick enough, but how could Matsui just leave it out in the open like that? Didn't the principal fear said subject would get a little snoop happy?

Then again, this was Troy Bolton. The faculty would probably leave him unsupervised with the Prom Committee's cash box and expect he'd do nothing but whistle while he waited. His fingers nearly itched to grab hold of it, to see what had been written about him B.I. Were they worried? Did they now know he helped plan that prank against Duncan? He would be applying to college soon, he had a right to be worried about what his recommendations would look like. (At least, that's how he rationalized it in his head.)

He had sat fully forward, fingers poised to brush the newspaper to the side when he realized he was doing nothing but making excuses for himself. He'd tried rebellion--he'd had alcohol and marijuana and gotten into fights--but it didn't taste as sweet as he thought it would. None of that was the real Troy Bolton. He had limits, he knew, like everyone else, but he also had morals.

He fell back into the chair with a sigh.

Maybe it was a good thing to get his conscience back at that moment, because not thirty seconds later Principal Matsui strolled through the doorway.

"Sorry for keeping you waiting, Troy."

Troy turned at the sound of his Principal's voice. "Oh, it's no problem, Mr. Matsui."

The typical Q&A followed. (How are you doing? Oh, fine, sir, thanks for asking.) Troy took the asinine questions in stride, though, because at least he was prepared for these ones. His palms began sweating in anticipation of the questions concerning his fight with Chad. Those, well they were a little more personal, a little more psychologically-produced.

"Well, Troy, thanks for catching up with me. I'll see you in school tomorrow, then?"

Troy raised his eyebrows. "Tomorrow? Um, okay."

To say he wasn't expecting that was an understatement. There was no inquisition--no demands of the how or why--just idle chit chat. Troy wasn't a conspiracy theorist, wasn't paranoid, but he couldn't help but think this weird treatment was why he (and the rest of the Wildcats, at that) didn't worry about the consequences. His best friend had him against a locker in plain sight of the entire school, and neither of them had seemed at all concerned about suspension, or even expulsion, though fighting (especially on school grounds) definitely warranted it.

Well, maybe he'd take to calling the principal "Boss" Matsui of the corrupt East High Machine.

xxx

Steady, steady, steady, was the mantra repeating in his head. One foot after another and he was already a good mile or so from his house. But he wasn't there just yet, so he prayed for a miracle and plowed on.

East High was lit up just as it was for every other basketball game he remembered. The glow spilled out onto the dark night, painting the black pavement with a splash of yellow and his heart started beating like mad. The game had already began, he knew, but he wasn't particularly in the mood for small talk and had the foresight to stall himself purposely to prevent it. He heard the squeaking of sneakers on the gym floor and his mind filled with the images of himself out there. Maybe, just maybe, he would be out there soon, mesmerizing the crowd with his jump shot. His desire was palpable.

Throngs of people packed the room, filling the bleachers and trickling out into the hallway, but they were all faces unfamiliar. He scanned the room, desperate for anything to assure him that he was in the right place--one glance of a bedazzled Sidekick or a mass of dark curled hair or a signature hat or a rolling book bag. There was none.

Noah and Sharpay weren't at their table front-and-center, rather three weasely looking kids were crushed against each other and fighting for control over the mic. The court was void of the players he'd trained with since elementary school, the crowd missing any semblance of a familiar classmate. If the basketball players hadn't been wearing the red and white Wildcats jerseys he might have thought he was in the wrong school.

A jersey encased in glass, back proudly displaying outwards, hung on the wall--though loomed seemed like a better word. It screamed at him: failure, has-been, never-was. It said Duncan on the back.

When had time sped up, he wondered. When had he become the ghost of a little boy listening to the echoes of what might have been his future?

The room started spinning, the colors blurring, and eventually it shattered. All that was left were shards in his hand.

He squeezed them tight, watching apathetically as crimson slid down his hand.

Then he awoke. The birds were singing outside of his window, and light seeped in through gaps in the blinds. He sat still and listened intently, wondering what exactly the loud gasping sound in his room was. He felt his chest, and realized it was himself. His breath was coming out in heavy pants, and his heart was pulsing wildly. He found it sort of funny that he felt genuine fear in the morning of such a bright and sunny day.

Maybe he could lie to himself, but that didn't mean he would believe any of it.

Anyways, I took a bit of a break to go on college visits, fill out scholarship crap, take APs, and of course go to the amazingness that is Bamboozle, but I'm baaaack again. Next chapter should be up relatively quickly. As in, whenever inspiration strikes.

Review if you'd like, darlings. I love hearing from you : )

chapter title/lyrics credit: baby i said fight, fight! - saving litchfield