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It's not quite like the fabled "weight lifting from one's chest" feeling, being hugged by Britta in the empty study room: Troy's head is still reeling with things he hasn't found the words for yet and isn't even sure yet that he wants to say if he could, but still he's glad of her arms forgiving and comforting him. Not like a weight lifting off but more like a cushion or a quilt that's heavy in a good way, a safe way. He keeps an inch's distance between their chests because she aced her test on body language and he knows that his pulse is a worse liar than he is and he doesn't want it speaking for him. That way, he knows the choice is all on him when he finally wills his mouth to say "Hey, can we talk some more?" It's murmured quietly and mostly into her shoulder but she hears it; she pulls back from the hug and smiles, looking a little apprehensive but nodding anyway in the direction of the gray couch that doesn't face the corridor window.
They sit angled towards each other but mostly apart, the way it's done when talking to one's ex-but-more-importantly-friend as opposed to a therapist. Troy wishes he could tell which of the two he'd prefer; maybe the detachment would make this easier, but the intimacy is what he has and he can't waste brain space speculating about how something different would be easier, cause that'd also mean letting today's entire lesson fly over his head. Britta's not hurrying him along or looking impatient, but it's been two minutes and Troy hasn't said anything, so she's the one to start.
"I don't want to make you uncomfortable. If you're not ready to talk you're under no pressure. But you're also not under any pressure to filter yourself, so you can tell me anything and I promise I'll be glad you told me. Even if–"
Troy's heart jumps and it probably shows because Britta stops. He's not sure he could handle hearing any guesses, let alone the correct one. Finding the words to do this himself is the only way.
"Thanks Britta." He draws what little air he can into his lungs. "I'm sorry for not being stra… upfront early enough. There's a lot of things I'm sorry for. Getting distracted, trying too hard and not enough at the same time, using Twitter while you were trying to sleep, and I… I haven't been able to be honest about why with anyone."
"Not even Abed?" Britta asks. She's leaning forward a little and Troy wishes they could hug again because he feels like he's gonna sink into the floor without someone to hold onto. He settles for the armrest on the couch.
"Definitely not Abed, I mean unless he knows which he could but I have no idea and I don't even know if it'd be good or bad that he knew." Troy swallows. He's absolutely not going to cry because this isn't funny. "Everything else today had to be completely not about him but so much of this actually is about him that I wouldn't even know how to begin to explain it if he wanted to know…" Troy stops again and shakes his head; he's talking about the wrong thing first, he should start over. Britta reaches over and takes Troy's hand that had been getting clammy against the armrest. She holds it differently than she used to, sandwiching it between both of her hands like she's protecting it, and it definitely helps, anchors him. His stomach settles a bit.
"I should start here first," he says, hopefully a little less shaky now. "I've always kinda… I mean I've always liked girls, but there was always other stuff too, like when I was packing for a trip when I was little and Mom said I could only bring one comic book but I couldn't decide because I wanted to be Spider-Man but marry Batman, you know? And she got pretty mad so I figured I should just try to stop. High school really made me want to stop. But whenever I thought I had it always came back." Britta's got a vise-grip on his hand now and she's looking at him in a way that makes him feel really guilty for dumping all this on her today of all days. He probably shouldn't even be thinking the word 'dumping.' "I promise I meant this to be for your peace of mind, I don't want to throw myself a pity party–"
"Don't worry about it, I'm okay and this is helping, it puts things in perspective. Caring goes both ways and it means a lot that you're opening up to me about this." She bites her lip and Troy knows that no matter what she says next he'll be riding out this rollercoaster of a conversation in good company even if his brain did kind of fizzle out when the phrase 'goes both ways' came up. "So when we first got together, were you… still trying to stop?"
"Kind of? Yeah? I thought giving us a shot wouldn't hurt anything and it might even work out, but yeah."
"You mentioned Abed before," Britta says slowly, hesitantly. Coincidentally Troy picks that moment to become engrossed in the informative blurbs about fife drums on the banner behind him. "Troy?"
Troy sighs. "I know, I'm sorry. I wish I could have figured it out in a better way. But I really, really like him, Britta. I thought maybe I could make myself, y'know, not, but it didn't work and I wasn't being fair to you." Britta makes the 'just a pinch' gesture but she's smiling when she does it.
"Do you want to be with him then? Could you see yourself with him?"
Troy feels his face fall, and knows for sure because Britta's looking at him like a three-legged kitten again. "That's two different answers. Like, I know he dates… people, but he never talks about them, I can't tell if he likes guys or not. And I dragged him into this whole breakup thing without giving him the whole story." Troy kind of wants to lie down, but that'd be pushing therapy territory and this is way too much of a friend conversation to make the change. But right now he's trying to get all the images of all the different reasons Abed could reject him out of the looping circuit of stuff in his brain and it's not working, so he rubs his eyes until all he can see are bright spots.
"But you care enough that you want to try. I mean I dunno," Britta says, shrugging, "but I think we were worth a fair shot, even if just as a learning experience. Er, not that either of us as individuals should be reduced to that but you know what I mean. Telling Abed you're bisexual could be a good first step, if you want to work up to it. There's no way he'd stop being your friend."
Troy manages a grin because yeah, that's true. Part of him wonders if Abed ever managed to guess from the way he'd always get quiet and fidgety when they get to the part of Sin City where Clive Owen debuts as Dwight McCarthy, or some of the things that he'd just say sometimes without stopping himself because his mouth and brain are too close together. He's pretty cool with Abed knowing if that turns out to be the case, but knowing whether or not Abed knows is part of that and he'll have to make it happen somehow.
When he looks at Britta she's steadily gripping his hand again, offering a smile that's kind but also a little terrifying because Troy gets the feeling that every motivational speech ever is lying in wait to spring from it. But that's alright.
"Hey, Britta?" He extricates his hand, she 'hm?'s softly at it. "Thank you. Seriously."
And they're hugging again, Britta leaning across the couch to reach him before they reposition and re-attempt while standing. This one's more of a bear hug and it's distinctly a lot like getting wrung out; it's even kind of literal since Troy's misty-eyed when they pull apart.
"So, you sure you're gonna be okay?"
"Yeah," Britta says. "I am. Don't worry, I think we're both in better places now than we were before. And your honesty helped a lot with that, more than you think, so thank you." She sits back down, and Troy follows. "Right now though," she says, grabbing Troy's phone from his backpack, "I'm gonna make sure that you're okay."
Troy swallows; he's looking at his phone that Britta's just handed him. "You want me to call Abed?"
"If you want. You could text him, meet him at home, or, if you're not ready, you don't have to do anything. I can hang around and do the moral support thing, whatever you decide."
Troy nods, and while his thumb hovers over his list of contacts, he pauses, and dares just once, just for a moment, to imagine the possibilities that could open up from finally committing to the right thing.