Chapter Text
Troy’s been driving through Los Angeles for about four hours now. It’s been a steady stream of traffic and driving past chatting pedestrians for what feels like the world's most anxiety-inducing eternity.
Normally Troy has difficulty focusing, but today his mind is firmly anchored to the task of driving, and nothing in the world could tear his hands off the steering wheel.
As the hours pass by, the sky darkens, the moon comes out from it’s hiding place, and the number of folks on the street lessens by the minute, Troy pulls into a middle-class neighborhood, and he can’t help but feel some stress when he starts to consider what he’s about to do.
Actually, scratch that. It would be much more appropriate to say that he feels a mountain of stress, stress that is slowly building with every second and clawing at his stomach and creating a kind of wound that can’t be healed, at least not with anything physical.
As he drives closer to the house he had been imagining ever since he tracked down the address, his eyes squint so he can get a really good look at it. The home is slightly dinghy in regards to the chipped paint of the house’s surface, and the grass on the front lawn looks like it hasn't been cut in a month or so.
Troy pulls into the driveway, and a large part of him is still in disbelief that he’s actually here. He had always planned on coming back, but he had never envisioned what it would feel like to be in this driveway, near this house.
He parks the car, purses his lips, and opens them again to take a deep breath, hoping it might release some of the tension.
It doesn’t.
Troy gets out of his car and walks towards the house, his body tensing up by the moment. He walks up to the front door, still not completely believing he’s finally here, and rings the doorbell.
At first, there’s no response.
For a horrible second, Troy thinks he might have gotten the wrong address, that he drove all this way only for a cold and cruel disappointment, but to his relief, he hears footsteps that gradually grow closer and closer.
The door is opened.
A man stands behind it with his hand on the doorknob, his thumb rubbing the brass surface.
Troy feels a sudden jolt that cuts straight to the core. He’s looking at the person he’s been thinking of returning to for the last three years, and it’s terrifying. It’s funny, he thinks, how time always seems to stop at the exact moments you want it to speed up, to skip to the moment when all the awkwardness is over and happiness can start again. He’s almost certain that the wind has stopped blowing.
Why shouldn’t it?
What’s taking place right now is far more important than the weather.
Troy takes in the features of the man standing in front of him. This person looks familiar in so many ways, yet the map of his face has been skewed, if only a little. He looks older.
That's not to say he’s middle-aged or anything along those lines, but he’s clearly a few steps away from the young and wide-eyed college kid he was when they first met. Troy realizes his friend must be approaching his thirties, and he can’t help but feel like he’s missed out on something he can never even try to get back.
This person’s face has just a hint of stubble, and his eyes are sunken and weak. Troy can see that there’s a kind of exhaustion in those eyes, and that’s what scares him the most.
Troy smiles, maybe as a greeting, maybe to break the tension, and holds up his hand as if to encourage a high five.
“Abed?”
The man’s glassy eyes widen.
“It’s me, buddy.”