Archive of Our Own ^beta

back when troy’s dad used to like him, they’d sit like this. exactly like this. 

there’d be lights, the warm kind, dim and personal, above them, and they’d each clutch a mug and drink coffee at eleven pm. troy remembers the feeling of his quilt around his shoulders. 

the mugs were typically less novel than the ones troy and abed are holding now. one of them had a faded mickey mouse on it, another had a green tree and “greendale environmentalists” on it. that was their extent of crazy. 

they’d sit for a while, sometimes silent, but most of the time they talked. they talked until troy’s head drooped and he felt his eyelids getting a little heavy and he’d just murmur a goodnight and lean back and fall into the warmth.

things changed after troy’s mom and dad stopped sleeping in the same bed. she took the guest room down the hall and she’d still smile at troy’s dad, but in her own sort of way. it never went to her eyes. 

and then those hideouts at eleven became weirder and weirder. before everything happened, troy considered those nights to be an escape from his life, the chance to be a kid. he was too busy traveling to competitions and earning paper plate “best in the class” awards to watch cartoons and eat sweets. this was the chance to escape the locker room banter about him being too short and the purple discoloration on his legs from injuries and ice baths.

and then one day, his dad brought two shooters– a jameson and a jack daniels. he grinned and handed the darker one to troy, twisting off the jameson’s cap with his teeth. “c’mon son, it tastes good,” he murmured with that warm, comforting smile.

he only poured a sliver of whiskey in. 

so troy did too.

his hand only got heavier from there. until he was bringing a 750 ml of scotch and troy didn’t know what to say so he took it. and then things got worse from there.

and, to be honest, troy blocks out the night he really let things get out of his hands. where he was an idiot and he should’ve known and he hates himself for that night so badly, so much . 

and they were on the drive home from the hospital, and troy was in the backseat, staring at his reflection in the window. he was still wearing the socks. the baby blue socks with rubbery spots on the bottoms of the feet. the same blue as his quilt, but very– very, very different. it didn’t even feel right to compare them. 

he lifted his arm to look at where they stuck needles in him and told him there was something seriously wrong with his head, the spot coated by a white pad of gauze. i can’t have something wrong with me, he had thought. even if i do and i can’t help it.

and so he lied.

about everything.

blatant lies, horrid lies about “faking it, just as a prank”, “i was joking when i wrote that note, ignore it.” “the guys made me do it.” 

“tell me about what you live for, troy,” the psychiatrist lady told him, voice cold and interrogative. and he stared at the ceiling, which was white, just like the walls.

he sighed, choking down the urge to sob. he hated lying, and he still does, especially when it makes his chest constrict like he's gonna vomit. “my family, i love them so much.” another lie. he would’ve wanted to live if it was for his family. it’s not for them.

his dad drove around the roundabout thirty-two times, waiting until he got the call to come get troy. troy knows this because his dad always brought it up. constantly. and the ambulance bill.

“so,” his dad hissed. “you’re suicidal.”

“no– i’m not–”

and then a sigh. “things have been hard, troy. you don’t have to lie to me.”

silence. deadly silence.

more window-staring. “you know what your name means?"

like some indie film bullshit, where the dad drops earth-shattering wisdom on his son, through something symbolic and frankly ridiculous.  like his name.

"it means ‘soldier’. when we named you, me and your mother were so excited. we thought the name was perfect for our strong, brave son.”

strong, brave.

“i guess i’m just disappointed to find out that you’re not the strong son i once had.”

when troy’s back to earth, he feels his head swimming with something really really painful. purple dots color his vision and he’s wet all over– the collar of his pajama shirt is soaked. he wants to curl up really small and forget he told abed all of this.

because abed’s sitting there in front of him, head tilted sideways. “can i touch you?” he asks, his voice a hair less analytical than it’s been before. like he’s going soft. troy wants to crawl into abed’s lap and bury his face in his neck and say thank you, thank you for existing.

instead he nods, and abed crawls across the floor of the fort, cupping troy’s face with a steady hand and looking him in the eye. 

“of course you’re strong,” he murmurs, other hand reaching back to massage slow circles into troy’s lower back, his shoulders, up to his neck. “it’s the first thing anyone notices about you.”

troy hiccups and then he realizes he’s still sobbing uncontrollably and he wants to die a little (again, he thinks bitterly). “not in that way, i don’t think. mentally. emotionally.”

“that’s what i mean.”

“no, you don’t.”

abed’s hand tightens on troy’s jaw. “that’s what i mean,” he repeats, voice harder but with no rancor. 

“you’re sure?” troy asks, and then he feels himself drooping over to his left side at the relaxing pressure, begging for sleep. 

abed manages a smile. “yes. i’m sure.” 

“i’m sleepy.”

“i see that,” he hums. “we need to talk about this in the morning, okay?”

“okay.”

“okay. i love you,” abed tells him, his voice so easy and casual, and troy’s eyelids are closing and opening slowly as he attempts to stay awake. “sleep. it’s okay. i’ll get you into bed.”

i love you , troy says, and he knows he’s just thinking it but he really needs abed to know that he loves him, loves him so, so, so much. so much more than he’s ever loved anyone or anything. even butt stuff. butt stuff doesn’t hold a candle to abed.

if troy has to ever say what he lives for again, he’ll know what to say. 

(himself, because that’s the textbook answer.)

(a lot of things that aren't himself, too.)

(a lot of those other things are abed.)