FIC: Who said practice makes perfect (Troy/Ryan)
Who said practice makes perfect
Troy/Ryan, requested by the ever fierce jayeboy. 1,071 words.
Troy can’t get this dancing routine thing. Ryan helps.
-
There’s only so much of this Troy can take.
He wants to take off, escape through the back exit right behind the stage, and call it a quits. Sharpay stomps her foot once again, her sharp heel echoing in the empty auditorium. “Again,” she demands, her manicured fingers grip his bicep, tug him forward, and set him in place.
The music rings around and around in a loop. He tries to get in sync with it, but he missteps. A frustrated breath leaves her lips but she plows through, her precise steps against his sloppy ones. Two, three, four--spin--two, three, four--spin--he bites his lip, willing himself not to mess this up because he thinks he’s finally got it. His eyes flick down, glancing at her face, but she doesn’t give anything away.
She’s a brutal perfectionist. He doesn’t know how she does it. His feet ache, and his body is soaked with sweat. This is worse than practice in the weeks before the championship game. Troy would take that--his father’s shouts echoing off the gymnasium walls, his muscles sore and his lungs burning as he runs drills across the gym--over this. But somehow, he finds himself not wanting to disappoint her in that same way he doesn’t want to disappoint his dad.
The song starts to replay. She lets go of him, and crosses the stage to turn the music off.
“Still needs work,” she says, clipped. “We have tomorrow.” Her lashes flutter when she looks up from the stereo, and watches him heave in a deep breath, grab a towel from the back of a nearby chair, and wipe the sweat off his forehead. Troy thinks she enjoys seeing him in pain. “Three o’clock, don’t be late,” her voice suddenly cheery, and her clutch bag under her arm, he gives her a wide-eyed look.
“But I have practice at-”
A ruffled rush of pink, she waves, “Toodles!” The click of her heels against the linoleum floor is the last thing he hears before the door slams shut behind her.
“Great,” he mutters, swinging the towel over his shoulder.
“Her bark is worse than her bite.” Troy practically jumps out of his skin at the sound of Ryan’s voice. He whips around, holding his chest, as he stares wildly at the blond boy.
Ryan gives him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you.” Suddenly, his eyes brighten at the sight of his dance shoes lined up neatly at the edge of the stage. “Thought I left these here,” he says to himself. Finding what he wanted, he turns to leave but then he hesitates when he looks at Troy--something passes over his face, his eyes soften. “How’s rehearsal going?”
“I suck,” Troy throws the towel off his shoulders in a huff, and it whips back on the chair.
Ryan watches him for a long moment, almost like he’s deciding on something before he says, “Well, let’s try this out then.” At first Troy doesn’t understand what Ryan means until he watches Ryan untie his shoes and slip on his dancing shoes right there in front of him.
“Oh,” Troy says dumbly. “But-I-you-” he stutters, not finding what he wants to say as Ryan ties his laces, neat and tight, before walking over to the stereo and pressing play.
“C’mere,” Ryan motions for him to come closer, and Troy glances out into the auditorium as if the sea of seats before them were filled with people. Ryan rolls his eyes, and the familiarity of being tugged by his bicep and set in place fills Troy with dread.
Ryan looks at him expectantly, large pale blue eyes waiting on him to lead. Troy fidgets, palms sweaty, he wipes them on the side of his pants before carefully placing one hand on Ryan’s hip, and raising his other hand to intertwine their fingers. “Do you know-?”
“I know all of the routines,” Ryan says patiently. Troy feels sort of stupid, because he knew that already. He's stalling, and Ryan knows it. He stiffens when Ryan draws closer, chest to chest. They start dancing.
Two, three, four--“Keep your back straight,” Ryan’s hand is warm at the small of his back, “It straightens your frame." Troy swallows thickly and nods as Ryan’s hand runs up his back, fingers gently pressing against his spine. Two, three, four--he spins Ryan around. Ryan falls perfectly into his arms, back to chest, Troy holds him there before spinning him back around.
“Good,” Ryan murmurs. Troy let’s his reassurance wash over him. He starts to relax. The music plays on, but this time Troy doesn’t focus so hard on counting, he feels the beats in the song, feels them as he goes into each step, and he breathes a little easier. Ryan smiles and Troy’s lips tug into a smile of his own.
They’re so close, Ryan’s cheek grazes his own, and Troy feels each breath Ryan makes. Suddenly, Ryan pulls him, and Troy follows, and they’re dancing, dancing all across the stage--Troy lets out a surprised breath, he wasn’t able to do this with Sharpay, glide across the stage so fast, so easily. Ryan gives him a mischievous look, and Troy grins. He whips Ryan around again, and winds his arms around him when he lands against him. He feels Ryan’s quiet laughter, and Troy’s grin brightens.
“You’ve got it,” Ryan says, “And you’re having fun,” he adds smugly.
Troy doesn’t deny it but he doesn’t say anything either, he just laughs, taking Ryan’s hand, and spinning him around again.
The song ends, and both of them are panting. “Thank you,” Troy says, wondering why he feels hollow when his hands slip away from Ryan’s.
Ryan inclines his hat with a smile, it's a silent “you’re quite welcome.”
Almost helplessly, Troy watches Ryan about to leave, and before he can help it, he blurts, "Can we do this again?"
Ryan turns around, one eyebrow arched in surprise.
"You're, uh, more gentle than Sharpay," Troy says quickly. Then he takes a moment to run his words over in his mind, and winces. More gentle? Really?
He's relieved when he hears Ryan's laughter. "Sure, no problem," he says, eyes alight with amusement. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."
Ryan waves at him, and Troy waves back, feeling much more hopeful than he has in a while.
Troy/Ryan, requested by the ever fierce jayeboy. 1,071 words.
Troy can’t get this dancing routine thing. Ryan helps.
-
There’s only so much of this Troy can take.
He wants to take off, escape through the back exit right behind the stage, and call it a quits. Sharpay stomps her foot once again, her sharp heel echoing in the empty auditorium. “Again,” she demands, her manicured fingers grip his bicep, tug him forward, and set him in place.
The music rings around and around in a loop. He tries to get in sync with it, but he missteps. A frustrated breath leaves her lips but she plows through, her precise steps against his sloppy ones. Two, three, four--spin--two, three, four--spin--he bites his lip, willing himself not to mess this up because he thinks he’s finally got it. His eyes flick down, glancing at her face, but she doesn’t give anything away.
She’s a brutal perfectionist. He doesn’t know how she does it. His feet ache, and his body is soaked with sweat. This is worse than practice in the weeks before the championship game. Troy would take that--his father’s shouts echoing off the gymnasium walls, his muscles sore and his lungs burning as he runs drills across the gym--over this. But somehow, he finds himself not wanting to disappoint her in that same way he doesn’t want to disappoint his dad.
The song starts to replay. She lets go of him, and crosses the stage to turn the music off.
“Still needs work,” she says, clipped. “We have tomorrow.” Her lashes flutter when she looks up from the stereo, and watches him heave in a deep breath, grab a towel from the back of a nearby chair, and wipe the sweat off his forehead. Troy thinks she enjoys seeing him in pain. “Three o’clock, don’t be late,” her voice suddenly cheery, and her clutch bag under her arm, he gives her a wide-eyed look.
“But I have practice at-”
A ruffled rush of pink, she waves, “Toodles!” The click of her heels against the linoleum floor is the last thing he hears before the door slams shut behind her.
“Great,” he mutters, swinging the towel over his shoulder.
“Her bark is worse than her bite.” Troy practically jumps out of his skin at the sound of Ryan’s voice. He whips around, holding his chest, as he stares wildly at the blond boy.
Ryan gives him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you.” Suddenly, his eyes brighten at the sight of his dance shoes lined up neatly at the edge of the stage. “Thought I left these here,” he says to himself. Finding what he wanted, he turns to leave but then he hesitates when he looks at Troy--something passes over his face, his eyes soften. “How’s rehearsal going?”
“I suck,” Troy throws the towel off his shoulders in a huff, and it whips back on the chair.
Ryan watches him for a long moment, almost like he’s deciding on something before he says, “Well, let’s try this out then.” At first Troy doesn’t understand what Ryan means until he watches Ryan untie his shoes and slip on his dancing shoes right there in front of him.
“Oh,” Troy says dumbly. “But-I-you-” he stutters, not finding what he wants to say as Ryan ties his laces, neat and tight, before walking over to the stereo and pressing play.
“C’mere,” Ryan motions for him to come closer, and Troy glances out into the auditorium as if the sea of seats before them were filled with people. Ryan rolls his eyes, and the familiarity of being tugged by his bicep and set in place fills Troy with dread.
Ryan looks at him expectantly, large pale blue eyes waiting on him to lead. Troy fidgets, palms sweaty, he wipes them on the side of his pants before carefully placing one hand on Ryan’s hip, and raising his other hand to intertwine their fingers. “Do you know-?”
“I know all of the routines,” Ryan says patiently. Troy feels sort of stupid, because he knew that already. He's stalling, and Ryan knows it. He stiffens when Ryan draws closer, chest to chest. They start dancing.
Two, three, four--“Keep your back straight,” Ryan’s hand is warm at the small of his back, “It straightens your frame." Troy swallows thickly and nods as Ryan’s hand runs up his back, fingers gently pressing against his spine. Two, three, four--he spins Ryan around. Ryan falls perfectly into his arms, back to chest, Troy holds him there before spinning him back around.
“Good,” Ryan murmurs. Troy let’s his reassurance wash over him. He starts to relax. The music plays on, but this time Troy doesn’t focus so hard on counting, he feels the beats in the song, feels them as he goes into each step, and he breathes a little easier. Ryan smiles and Troy’s lips tug into a smile of his own.
They’re so close, Ryan’s cheek grazes his own, and Troy feels each breath Ryan makes. Suddenly, Ryan pulls him, and Troy follows, and they’re dancing, dancing all across the stage--Troy lets out a surprised breath, he wasn’t able to do this with Sharpay, glide across the stage so fast, so easily. Ryan gives him a mischievous look, and Troy grins. He whips Ryan around again, and winds his arms around him when he lands against him. He feels Ryan’s quiet laughter, and Troy’s grin brightens.
“You’ve got it,” Ryan says, “And you’re having fun,” he adds smugly.
Troy doesn’t deny it but he doesn’t say anything either, he just laughs, taking Ryan’s hand, and spinning him around again.
The song ends, and both of them are panting. “Thank you,” Troy says, wondering why he feels hollow when his hands slip away from Ryan’s.
Ryan inclines his hat with a smile, it's a silent “you’re quite welcome.”
Almost helplessly, Troy watches Ryan about to leave, and before he can help it, he blurts, "Can we do this again?"
Ryan turns around, one eyebrow arched in surprise.
"You're, uh, more gentle than Sharpay," Troy says quickly. Then he takes a moment to run his words over in his mind, and winces. More gentle? Really?
He's relieved when he hears Ryan's laughter. "Sure, no problem," he says, eyes alight with amusement. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."
Ryan waves at him, and Troy waves back, feeling much more hopeful than he has in a while.