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01.
“Imma leave my homework with Slumdog Millionaire over here.”
—Troy Barnes, S01E01: “Community”
His name is Troy.
Abed knows this because he pays close attention when Señor Chang takes attendance—not for any particular reason, other than being a keen observer of things by nature. He’s done it in every class since elementary school, because knowing everyone’s name seems important for some reason, even though 98 percent of them will never interact with him on any level. It’s just a force of habit.
“Troy Barnes,” Chang reads off the roll sheet, and from the back of the classroom comes a bored “here,” and Abed turns to see the guy he’d done a double take over while walking in just a few minutes ago, slumped down at his desk with his hand half-raised to indicate his presence. Abed’s heart skips a little bit.
Troy.
Abed tries to be pragmatic about his relationships—mainly due to the fact that he doesn’t have very many, and losing someone after forming an attachment really, really hurts. He does have feelings, despite what the rest of the world seems to think. So he’s careful about approaching people. He’s calculated, precise, practical. He doesn’t get his hopes up.
Or he tells himself not to, at least.
But seeing Troy is like something out of a movie. One of those cheesy moments where time slows down and music swells and the protagonist falls hard and fast and stupidly in love with a stranger. Something serendipitous.
Abed knows the difference between movies and reality… in theory. In practice, sometimes, it’s hard to separate the two. Like now, seeing Troy is driving his pragmatism away. He’s got soft, full, kissable lips and dark, pretty eyes and he’s just handsome, he’s so handsome that Abed’s ignoring all the red flags like the class ring and the letter jacket and the fact that he so, so clearly doesn’t want to be here. Facial expressions aren’t Abed’s strong suit, and even he can recognize that this guy is far from enthusiastic about being at Greendale.
But he likes him anyway. He more than likes him. He’s forming a crush, the kind that makes your pupils dilate and your palms sweat and your knees so weak that you might as well drop down and propose on the spot.
Crap.
That’s new. He’s never gone from boy, pretty to future husband so fast.
Or ever, actually.
He blinks hard and quickly turns to face the front of the classroom again, just in time to hear his name called. He nods and raises his hand before slumping down more in his seat, and very deliberately does not turn around again.
No matter how adamantly he stays facing forward, though, he doesn’t forget that the prettiest boy he’s ever seen is sitting just a few rows behind him.
And his name is Troy.
02.
“Abed… I love you.”
“I know.”
—Troy Barnes and Abed Nadir, S02E06: “Epidemiology”
Abed has it bad.
He knows that by now. He knows movie and TV tropes inside and out, and yet he never seems to stop falling into them anyway. First his lovable band of diverse, unlikely companions a la Breakfast Club, and now… this. Whatever this is.
The socially outcast bisexual nerd falling for the cool, extroverted, by-definition unattainable straight quarterback. Abed doesn’t think that’s fair. He has a friend for once in his life—a best friend, at that—but it can’t just be simple. He needs to have the world’s most devastating crush on him, too.
Something strange is happening.
Not the crush, he’s used to that by now. It’s the party that’s strange. Or… was strange? What happened is still unclear, but he stays close by Troy’s side as the paramedics patch them up, and they say something about roofies in the punch but Abed doesn’t know how that explains away the flesh wounds.
Troy stays close to him too, though. That’s what matters. He feels like he can’t let Troy out of his sight; like something terrible might happen if he does. When he closes his eyes, he hears ABBA and low, tortured groaning and he sees Troy above him, looking desperately at him from outside a little cement window and his lips move, but Abed can’t tell what he’s saying. Whatever it is, though, makes him feel like he wants to break down crying in joy or fear or maybe both—it’s a weirdly mixed bag.
He opens his eyes. He knows the flashback or delusion or waking nightmare or whatever it is ends with a dark, cold, dreadful feeling and he doesn’t want that right now. He just wants Troy.
He wants him forever. He wants to pull him in close and beg him to never leave, because he needs him and he loves him and either one of them could die at literally any time. His brain is being very insistent about that particular part of it for some reason—the Death of it all. He doesn’t know why.
The thought of it plagues him for the rest of the night. He can’t even focus on Marmaduke, especially not when Troy reaches across the couch and takes his hand, interlocking their fingers and holding on tight.
Please never let go, he wants to say. He looks down at their joined hands, like if he stares hard enough he could will Troy’s hand into holding his forever. But then he shakes it off like he always does because it’s a pointless, impossible pipe dream.
He just needs to appreciate what he has now, and that’s Troy’s hand in his. That’s good enough.
After all, he has no idea how long it’ll last.
03.
“This is gonna be the last thing we ever do together.”
“We can’t stop.”
—Abed Nadir and Troy Barnes, S03E14: “Pillows and Blankets”
It was a close call.
Maybe they should’ve seen it coming. His father has always told him, if something seems too good to be true, then it probably is. His friendship with Troy had never been tested, maybe that’s why it had to come to such a dramatic head. Anyway, he’s glad the war is over.
Sort of.
Friendship hats don’t fix everything. Despite what the rest of their group might think, they’re not children. They’d both gone too far, said things they can't unsay, and they can’t leave that unresolved. Leaving things unresolved was what led to this whole mess in the first place.
Annie is out, spending the night at Britta’s after telling them she was sure they probably wanted some time alone, and shooting them a look as she walked out the door that said work it out.
So they’re here. Showered and changed into boxers and t-shirts, because pajamas don’t hold a lot of appeal right now, and sitting together on the couch because neither does the blanket fort.
Abed doesn’t know where to even start, so he’s relieved when Troy speaks up first.
“You think I’m stupid,” he says in a tone Abed doesn’t recognize. It’s not one of his usual ones, almost like he’s making an effort to not show any emotion at all. That’s strange coming from him. Eerie, almost.
Abed’s eyes widen as he turns to face him. “No, I don’t. I don’t think you’re stupid at all.”
Troy sniffs and picks up a piece of paper, which Abed can tell has been smoothed out after having been crumpled. He knows right away what it is, and he braces himself.
“He’s insecure about his level of intelligence,” Troy reads. “How else am I supposed to take that?”
Abed sighs and idly scratches at his wrist. “You are insecure about it,” he says quietly. “You’re insecure about other people not thinking you’re smart, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. You’re the most emotionally intelligent person I’ve ever known.”
“Emotionally intelligent?” Troy asks, glancing down at the paper and then back up at Abed. “Or emotionally frail?”
Abed winces.
“I shouldn’t have written that,” he manages, his voice just barely above a whisper. It’s hard to get the words out, because this is the part he’s most ashamed of. “I got too caught up in the war metaphor. I told myself I was just being tactical, but I broke your trust, and… and that’s not okay. I knew it was wrong, that’s why I said you weren’t supposed to see it. And I’m really…” he pauses when a breath catches in his throat and gives himself a moment to let the panicky feeling pass before he continues, “ Really sorry.”
Troy nods. “I know.”
They sit there for a moment in uncertain silence, Troy’s knees hugged to his chest with his chin resting on top of them. Abed doesn’t know if he’s supposed to talk more—because he could, he could talk more, he could talk forever about how sorry he is and how much Troy means to him, he could go on and on about it. Troy won’t look him in the eye but he keeps watching him anyway, desperate for any recognizable social cue that’ll tell him what to do next.
Something does happen eventually. Troy’s eyes start watering, his lip quivers and then his face crumples until he’s dropping his head down to hide it in his hands, shoulders shaking.
“Troy…” Abed whispers brokenly, feeling lost at sea because sure, he’s seen Troy cry a thousand times, but he’s never been the reason behind it. He’s starting to feel desperate and helpless, his own eyes prickling with hot tears and a high pitched whine building in the back of his throat until he does the only thing he can think of to ground himself—reaches out and grabs both of Troy’s wrists, tugging him forward into his lap and throwing his arms around his waist. Troy moves easily, goes to him with no resistance at all, and just buries his face in Abed’s shoulder to cry some more.
“I’m sorry, Troy,” he says again, because he doesn’t have any other words, and squeezes him tighter. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll do anything to make it okay again, just tell me what you need. Please?”
“Nothing,” Troy chokes out. Abed frowns, but then Troy pulls back, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. His face is still wet with tears. “I don’t need you to do anything, Abed,” he explains. “I know you know that it was wrong and I forgive you. It’s just…”
He hiccups and purses his lips together, like he needs another moment before he can speak again.
“I can’t believe I said what I said to you,” he finally manages. “It was so, so wrong, and I fucking… I hate myself for it.”
“Oh. Troy,” Abed sighs, the I forgive you lifting a partial weight off his shoulders, “It’s—”
“Don’t say it’s okay,” Troy cuts him off with a fast shake of his head. He’s getting choked up again, but this time he doesn’t stop. “It’s not. I said exactly what I knew was gonna hurt you the most.”
Abed nods a little bit, because those words do still sting a lot. But he’s also not naive.
“You were upset,” he tells him. “It was a heat of the moment thing. And the stuff you said… wasn’t wrong.”
Troy looks absolutely devastated.
“It wasn’t,” Abed insists. “You were my first friend. You are patient with me in a way no one else is. And I do have mental issues.”
He looks down in between them because looking at Troy’s face is too hard.
“Everyone in my life has always wanted to shape me into something I’m not. Like they thought… if they could force me to face reality enough, then I’d turn normal. Except for you. You never did that. You accepted me the way I am.”
Troy sniffles softly and Abed looks up again. “And I love you for that,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I should expect you to never hold me accountable for anything.”
Troy tilts his head to the side. “You love me?”
Of course. As a friend.
...Is what he could say, is what he probably would say in any other situation. But he’s already raw and vulnerable and laid bare in every other way, and Troy isn’t pulling away from him. He’s still in his lap, still with his arms around Abed’s shoulders, still looking at him intently.
So he nods.
“Thank god,” Troy whispers. “I love you, too.”
Then they’re kissing, and it’s everything Abed’s ever wanted.
Actually, it’s so much more. Troy’s lips are soft and warm and eager against his, his body settled comfortably on Abed’s lap and his hands cupping his face so gently, holding him like he’s the most precious thing in the world, and he just wants to cry.
He breathes out shakily when their lips part and Troy’s forehead rests gently against his own. He blinks and looks into those dark, beautiful eyes he’s had memorized for years now and he sees his future; he sees something he’s terrified to lose; he sees—
No. No, he can’t think about any of that right now. He can’t think about forever, not after he’s just so narrowly avoided losing the best thing in his life. He forces his racing thoughts to the back of his mind and tips his head up to catch Troy’s lips in another kiss.
This is what he has right now, and it’s perfect. The future can wait.
04.
“It’s a photo where two people are fused together, like the Inspector and Reggie were bonded for eternity in episode 704.”
—Troy Barnes, S04E03: “Conventions of Space and Time”
“That,” Troy breathes, his cheek pressed to Abed’s chest as he tangles their legs together, “Was so awesome.” His eyes are closed, face flushed and content, which means Abed can’t help but smile, too, as he wraps his arms around him.
“Are you talking about InspectiCon?” He asks, pressing a kiss to Troy’s forehead, “Or the sex we just had, or both?”
“Both,” Troy answers immediately. “Definitely both.”
Abed agrees wholeheartedly. He may not like this hotel bed as much as he likes their bed at home, with its soft sheets and meticulously arranged pillows that smell like both of their shampoos and colognes and fabric softener, but this is nice too. There’s nothing like really fucking it out in a hotel bed without having to worry about washing out cum or lube stains the next day, or awkward encounters with their neighbors in the hall if they’re accidentally too loud.
It’s just nice. It’s a nice little vacation. A decently comfortable, impersonal, liminal space for them to just exist in together, alone, for a while.
He rolls his head to the side and glances at their bedside table, a warm wash of contentment flooding his chest when he sees their gluon photo propped up against the lamp.
Bonded together for eternity.
That’s what it means and he knows Troy knows that’s what it means, too. He’d dragged Abed over to the photo booth pretty much the second they set foot in the convention.
He’s pretty sure he’s never felt happier than this exact moment, when Troy draws his attention back by pressing his lips to Abed’s jawline, and Abed turns his head and catches Troy’s gaze and he just feels safe and secure and not afraid, no nagging thoughts in the back of his mind about how he should enjoy this while it lasts, before Troy inevitably leaves. Because he’s not going to.
“What’re you thinking about?” Troy asks, his lips still lingering, brushing little kisses over his cheek and temple in a way that feels so good Abed can barely focus on listening.
“Oh. Nothing,” he says idly. “Just like… how I love you. For all time.”
He usually wouldn’t say something so bold, but in the moment, it feels too right. Troy smiles and presses a soft kiss to his lips.
“And all space?” He asks, and Abed’s heart just beats faster.
“Yeah,” he nods and lets Troy kiss him again. “And all space.”
And he really, really means it.
05.
“It’s not a game for me, Troy. I’m seeing real lava because you’re leaving; it’s embarrassing.”
—Abed Nadir, S05E05: “Geothermal Escapism”
He doesn’t have the heart to tell anyone that he’s not really a clone.
Of course, they all know it anyway, but he’s not supposed to know. He’s supposed to be Abed, the friend who breaks from reality when it gets too overwhelming. The friend whose childish fantasy whims are awfully convenient when the alternative is one of those breakdowns so ugly that no one wants, much less knows how, to clean up after it.
So he’s supposed to be Clone Abed.
He’s Clone Abed for Troy, so that he won’t be worried he’s leaving behind a broken shell of a friend. He’s Clone Abed for Britta, because she really tried her best and she should get to feel like she did something right. He’s Clone Abed for Jeff and Annie and Shirley, so that they’ll hopefully stop giving him such sorry looks. Because he can’t stand the worrying, he can’t stand the pity, he just can’t. He can’t stand any of it.
It’d be nice if he could be Clone Abed for himself, too, but it’s not working that way this time. These emotions are too big and heavy to flee from, like shackles on his ankles keeping him firmly, solidly, painfully grounded in reality. There’s no escape.
He watches the Childish Tycoon pull slowly out of the Greendale parking lot and Troy looks back at him, still clutching the straps of his backpack like a little kid on their very first day of school—scared but ready, determined to take on the rest of the world because it’s finally the right time.
It’s the right time.
For Troy.
It’s Troy’s time.
He runs the simulation: In his mind, he breaks down and runs after the boat, falls to his knees and begs no, please stay, i love you, please don’t leave, i love you, you were supposed to be the one person who never left me, and i love you i love you i love you—
And he’s yanked out of the simulation when Jeff’s hand claps down on his shoulder, just as the boat turns out of the parking lot and Troy disappears out of sight, and Abed struggles to breathe in enough air with the gaping, empty hole now taking up most of the space in his chest.
A copious amount of people are going to tell him over the next few days: If you love something, let it go. And if it doesn’t come back, it was never truly yours to begin with. As if some proverb will patch him up and send him well on his way after losing his boyfriend, best friend, soulmate to the wonders of the world beyond Greendale, Colorado, never to return.
Troy didn’t promise to come back.
So Abed doesn’t expect him to.
And he knows Troy would’ve stayed in a heartbeat if he asked him, that’s the hardest part of it all, but he knows he can’t do that. He loves him too much to make him stay.
He lets him go.
+ 01.
“By the way, when I cloned you, I had to patch some missing parts of your DNA with genes from a homing pigeon. You may notice side effects, like a compulsion to come back.”
—Abed Nadir, S05E05: “Geothermal Escapism”
LA at dawn is nice.
Abed isn’t exactly an early riser, unless he has to be. And making it in Hollywood does mean, unfortunately, that he sometimes has to be. The chaos and unpredictability of the film industry has done a real number on his strict routines and regimens and well, adapting isn’t the easiest thing for him, but it’s something he can live with now.
He’s growing up.
The sky is beginning to turn pale hues of yellow and orange as his cab winds through the city, everything just a little sleepy and subdued, and he rests his head against the window as he watches it go by. He’s exhausted himself, a slight headache throbbing behind his eyes from the lack of sleep and traveling-induced sensory overload. He encouragingly reminds himself that he’s in the homestretch. Before long, the cab pulls up to his building and he thanks the driver, heaves his bags ungracefully out of the trunk and heads inside.
“Welcome back, Mr. Nadir,” the concierge greets him as he enters the lobby. Abed gives him a smile and a polite nod as he buzzes him up to his apartment. He makes a mental note to go back down and visit the desk later. Thomas always has a thousand questions for him when he comes back from filming on location; Abed just doesn’t exactly have the energy to answer them right now—or do any thinking in general, really. Besides, he’s eager to get upstairs.
The apartment is dim and quiet as expected in a way that’s softly, comfortingly familiar. He toes his shoes off once he’s shut the door, abandoning his larger suitcase to deal with later before heading off to the bedroom with his backpack and carry-on. He tilts his head in confusion when he sees the door already open and frowns a little when he walks in to see the bed empty and unmade.
...Huh.
That's disappointing, if he's being honest with himself. But he supposes it's also his own fault, coming home unannounced like this.
A shower always helps him feel better after a tiring trip, so he grabs a couple toiletries from his backpack, pops a couple Tylenol tablets for his headache and then heads to the ensuite. He lets out an audible sound of relief stepping under the hot water spray, already feeling a million times more at home as LA city water and his familiar shampoo and soap washes away the airports and the planes and the hotels until he’s finally clean, reacclimated to his natural habitat. It’s not until he’s out of the shower, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt and toweling some of the excess wetness out of his hair that he hears the front door open. That makes him pause and smile to himself before walking out to stand by the bed. He hears a jingle of keys and some shuffling around, and it’s only a matter of seconds before—
“Abed?” A small, excited gasp comes from the front hallway, meaning his suitcase has been spotted and then there’s the sound of eager footsteps running towards the bedroom.
Troy appears in the doorway, slightly breathless and his eyes sparkling with joy. “Abed!”
His brief stop gives Abed just enough time to toss his hair towel onto the floor before Troy runs at him, colliding them in such a forceful hug that he immediately falls back on the bed with a delighted laugh. Troy’s legs are wrapped tightly around his hips and his hands braced on either side of Abed’s head as he covers him in kisses, every little inch of his face that he can get to.
“Mm, I missed you too,” Abed mumbles teasingly once their lips meet in an actual kiss. He hugs Troy as close to him as he possibly can and returns each of his kisses with equal enthusiasm, and soaks in how every single one is full to bursting with I missed you and I love you and welcome home.
With how much Abed travels for work, plus that whole round-the-world trip thing on Troy’s part, they’re no strangers to reunion kisses, but that doesn’t mean the buzz ever wears off. Like everything else with Troy, it just gets better and better each time.
“I was out on the boat, I thought you weren’t getting in until this afternoon,” Troy says once the excitement dies down, kisses growing slower and lazier as they stay wrapped up in each other. “Weren’t you? I swear, it’s on my calendar, I was gonna pick you up at the airport and everyth—”
Abed cuts him off by covering Troy’s mouth gently with his own again. “I got an earlier flight,” he explains. “Missed you too much.”
He feels Troy smile into their next kiss because he knows that's not really the case. They can survive without each other, live independently for extended periods of time, miss each other without feeling like only half a person. They did it.
Troy always comes back. And so does he.
And just because they can live without each other doesn’t mean they want to.
That, Abed thinks, is what he always needed to know. That real love isn’t desperate or forced. That real love chooses you over and over again. Easily, willingly, always.
That’s why it comes so naturally later, when he’s not really even thinking about it. After there’s dinner and movies and popcorn and sex, and he’s half-asleep and a little too warm with Troy’s body draped over his—which he absolutely won’t be moving. When his head is calm and his heart is full and something clicks.
“Hey, Troy,” he whispers, “...Marry me?”
For something that’s been building since the first time he laid eyes on him, it doesn’t feel high-stakes or earth shattering in the least. He knows, even before Troy’s eyes glimmer as he looks at him, what his answer is going to be.
That doesn’t make it any less satisfying to hear, though—whispered against his lips with a smile and a flurry of kisses to come.
“I thought you'd never ask.”