Work Text:
The fluorescent lights of the Greendale library hum with a low-voltage anxiety as February 14th reaches its peak. For seventy-two hours, Troy Barnes and Abed Nadir have engaged in the "Gentleman’s Gauntlet"—a series of choreographed romantic gestures involving interpretive dance, dioramas of classic cinema dates, and a shared Google Doc of compliments—all directed at Mariah, the student librarian with the vintage card-catalog aesthetic.
Mariah stands behind the circulation desk, looking between the two of them. Troy is wearing a cardigan he thinks makes him look "academic-sexy," while Abed is holding a perfectly wrapped box of artisanal chocolates he selected because they look like the ones from Forrest Gump.
"Troy," Mariah says, her voice echoing in the quiet stacks. "I think... I’d like to go to the dance with you."
Troy’s face lights up for exactly one point five seconds. It’s a reflexive surge of victory, the high school quarterback within him taking a phantom snap. But then he looks to his left. Abed stands perfectly still, his expression a neutral mask of cinematic acceptance, though he’s blinking slightly faster than usual.
"Wait, really?" Troy asks, stepping forward. He leans over the desk, but his brow furrows. "Wait. Why me? Like, specifically, what didn't you like about Abed? Was it the chocolates? Because those are high-end. They’ve got sea salt. It’s a sophisticated flavor profile, Mariah."
Mariah laughs, a light, dismissive sound that grates against the silence. "No, Troy, it’s not the chocolates. It’s just... you’re normal. He’s... you know. He’s a lot. He’s a little weird, right?"
The air in the library shifts. Troy’s posture stiffens, the cardigan suddenly feeling like a betrayal. "Weird?" he repeats, his voice dropping an octave. "You think he’s weird because he has a creative brain that functions like a high-speed fiber-optic network while yours is basically a dial-up modem? Abed isn't 'weird.' He’s a protagonist. And if you can’t see the character arc he’s been working on for the last three days, then you’re just a guest star with no lines."
Troy doesn't wait for a rebuttal. He grabs the artisanal chocolates from Abed’s hand. "We’re over. This relationship was a limited series, and it just got canceled. Let’s go, Abed."
They march out of the library, Troy’s stride fueled by a righteous, jittery anger. They burst into the cafeteria, which has been transformed into a pink-and-red nightmare for the Valentine’s Day dance. In the corner, Britta is aggressively making out with a girl named Page in what appears to be a desperate attempt to prove her own progressive credentials, but Troy doesn't even blink. He leads Abed toward the center of the gym floor. The DJ plays a slow, mid-tempo ballad. Troy turns to Abed, his expression softening into something raw and sincere.
"She wasn't the one, man," Troy says, his voice barely audible over the music. "She didn't get the bit. If you don't get the bit, you don't get the heart."
Abed nods slowly, processing the metadata of the moment. "The casting was off. The chemistry reads were deceptive."
"Listen," Troy says, stepping closer as they begin to sway instinctively. "There's someone out there for us. People who like sea salt chocolates and niche pop-culture references. We're a package deal. Like Batman and Robin, but if Robin was also kind of a genius and Batman was better at crying."
Abed looks at him, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Happy Valentine's Day, Troy."
Troy pulls him into a firm, grounding hug. "It is now."
Across the room, Mariah walks past, heading for the punch bowl. She stops, staring at them—two best friends swaying in a rhythmic, platonic embrace in the middle of a crowded dance floor. She gives them a look of pure, confused judgment. Troy catches her eye over Abed’s shoulder. He doesn't let go.
He just pulls Abed closer and mutters, "Ignore her. She’s a background extra. We’re the stars."