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I've hoarded / your name in my mouth for months. My throat / is a beehive pitched in the river. Look! / Look how long this love can hold its breath.
YOUR LOVE FINDS ITS WAY BACK, Sierra DeMulder
Abed, throughout his last two years at Greendale, makes a home movie. It’s buried deep within his files, so that no one finds it; it’s important to him, for some reason, to keep it private. He opens it up, sometimes, in part as a homage just for himself—he sits in the dark and lets it play and pretends it’s just a movie reference.
It goes like this:
“Abed!” Troy whirls towards the camera, swatting at it. The corners of his eyes are wrinkled as he smiles; the frame jolts as Abed presumably maneuvers the camera to avoid Troy’s hands. The image of Troy is shaky and blurry, but he’s laughing, shirtless and in boxers. “What are you doing? I’m not even wearing a shirt!”
“Stop doing that,” orders Abed. “I’m filming a day in our life.”
“Can you wait for me to fix the AC first? It’s too hot in here and I want to put on pants.” Troy glances down at himself, looking a little abashed.
“No. This is part of our day. If they make you leave again,” Abed says, from behind the camera, “I want to be able to remember what it was like spending the whole day with you.”
Troy’s expression drops suddenly, goofy smile turning into a slight frown. His eyes flick lower, but to what is unclear; his gaze lands on something past the camera. He scratches at the back of his neck uncomfortably, making a move forward (presumably to touch Abed), but the camera backs up in sync with him. “Hey, man,” he says softly, “I’m not going to leave you ever again. I missed you too much.”
Abed, off-screen, takes a shaky breath.
The scene changes: It’s Troy, younger than in the scene before. “What are you doing?” he asks, cocking his head, and by the question it can be assumed this is one of the first times Abed’s filmed him. He strikes a pose nonetheless, humoring Abed; he’s in a ratty old red sweatshirt and sagging jeans. As he dances for the camera, he repeats himself: “What’re you doing?”
“Britta gave me a camera,” replies Abed’s voice. Troy nods. “I’m testing something.”
“Cool. You wanna see me do a trick?”
The film cuts to Troy balancing two bean bags, stacked, on his head. He’s in another outfit, indicating it’s another day. “Check this out, Abed,” he says, grinning as he places another on his head. The stack wobbles as Troy struggles to stay straight, and eventually tumbles onto the ground as Troy’s expression falls.
The film cuts again, this time to a scene of Troy doing the Egyptian walk at the hospital. It’s obviously taken from the documentary Abed made for Pierce in their second year at Greendale. It’s only a few seconds long.
Another cut, where Troy’s practicing dance in the Dreamatorium. He does a spin, and then his gazes lands on the camera, where his expression suddenly turns shy. “You’re filming again?” he says, but it’s incredibly fond. “You need me to do a role for you? I’ve been practicing my Russian accent.”
“No,” says Abed’s voice from beyond the frame. “This is good.”
“Cool,” says Troy, giving him another thumbs up.
“Cool cool cool,” agrees Abed’s disembodied voice.
The film cuts again, this time with Abed and Troy both in the scene. By the steadiness of the footage, it can be assumed that the camera has been placed somewhere; it’s possible it’s one of the hidden ones Abed’s placed around Greendale, since Troy does not acknowledge it, even though Abed glances at it occasionally. They’re in a dark room, and they’re chatting about something in low voices.
After a moment, Troy pauses, then throws his arms around Abed. “Thanks, man,” he says more loudly, and his voice is wet with tears.
The screen goes black, and then slowly something is uncovered from the lens. It looks like Abed’s sweatshirt; it’s day, and the sky is bright and blue. “Blorgons,” Troy is saying on a park bench in a bad English accent. He shakes his head, and tries again: “Blorg- ons ,” he says, shifting the emphasis. “ Blor- gons. Blorgons?”
He looks up and spots Abed, grinning. “Abed!” he says, and the camera jostles as he moves towards it and past it, presumably to hug Abed.
He pulls back, and his face is blurry in frame, until he notices the camera and backs up a little more. “I can’t figure out a Reggie accent,” he sighs. “Will you show me tonight?”
“Sure,” says Abed’s voice from behind the camera. “My dorm?”
“Yeah,” says Troy. “I’ll bring popcorn.”
“Cool. Cool cool cool.”
Annie catches him a couple times as he’s watching it in his room—Troy’s old room—curled up against an octopus plushie Britta got him when she went to the aquarium. (“It’s good to have something to hug,” she’d told him. “Plus, octopi change colors, and you like to pretend to be different people.” She’d frowned. “That’s an imperfect metaphor.”
“Technically, it should be octopuses,” he’d said, but he’d taken it anyway.)
Annie never says anything about it, except maybe for the occasional, “Uh, Abed?” when she needs him for something else.
He appreciates that.
The film continues: Troy and Abed are curled up in front of the camera. This must be one of the cameras hidden around the apartment for B-roll when Abed’s making some kind of documentary, since it’s so perfectly framing the couch, but neither are looking directly at it. Some kind of film seems to be playing in the background, quiet and muffled, and it’s assumed that’s what Troy and Abed are watching.
Slowly, Troy begins to nod off, tucking his head into Abed, using Abed’s head as a pillow.
Abed blinks down at him for a moment, smiles, and continues watching.
The scene changes: it’s Troy again, this time in his pyjamas. “Abed!” he says, as he comes into view; presumably, Abed and his camera have just walked in the door.
Another cut. “Abed!” cries Troy happily towards the camera. He’s in his tiger costume from the Halloween they were Calvin and Hobbes.
“Abed!” says Troy in his mustard paintball gear as the camera turns the corner. “Are you gonna make a documentary about paintball?”
“No,” says Abed off-screen. “Just wanted to film this moment.”
The film cuts again. “Abed!” says Troy, in the familiar way, this time in his normal clothes at Greendale.
Rapidfire, cut after cut of Troy saying Abed’s name again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and–
That first scene again: “Hey, man,” Troy says softly, like he’s confessing something, “I’m not going to leave you ever again. I missed you too much.”
They ask him to play it at the funeral. “I know you have a video about him,” insists Annie. “It’d be good to honor his memory.”
“He’s not dead,” Abed says stubbornly.
“Abed–” she sighs, and rubs her temples. Her eyes are round and soft and sad, she seems like she doesn't really want to be arguing with him. Abed’s not sure why she is arguing with him when she doesn’t want to. Jeff behind her gives him a look, the kind a main character gives a supporting character when they realize the supporting character is too far gone to save: Abed’s a lost cause.
“Abed, I know it’s hard,” says Britta in her therapist voice.
Abed shakes his head. “You don’t understand. He’s not dead.”
“Well,” Annie grits out, trying to sound positive, but even Abed can tell her cheeriness is forced, “We waited a year, and he hasn’t come back. I know it’s hard, but can you maybe play your movie for everyone else who lost hope? Please?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” says Abed.
“You can at least write a eulogy,” Jeff says. Annie and Britta give him matching looks Abed can’t decipher. Based on the situation, he figures it’s a social cue to remind him how fragile they think Abed is. “Please,” he adds.
Abed shrugs.
He ends up playing the movie.
(He cuts out the thirty seconds of Troy saying Abed’s name over and over again and adds some scenes of Troy interacting with the other study group members. If Annie notices the film is different, she doesn’t mention it.)
And the film continues: A room, blurry and dark. From the vantage point of the hidden camera, low groans can be heard, and you can just barely make out the shapes of Troy and Abed, one shirtless, the other in a black latex suit, which can be assumed to be Abed’s Halloween costume from the Halloween they forgot.
ABBA plays in the background, faint and warped enough that you can only tell it’s ABBA if you were listening for it.
“I love you,” says Troy above Abed. His expression is impossible to make out from this distance.
“I know,” says Abed, and then there is screaming.
The film cuts. It’s Troy and Abed again, doing their handshake, two beats over their hearts in time with their clapping hands.
Another cut, this time of the two of them facing the camera. “Hello from Fluffytown!” Troy says, aiming to impersonate a newscaster, but he breaks down halfway through and giggles into Abed’s shoulder. Abed looks down at Troy, face neutral, and then a smile slowly forms on his face.
The only other person who sees the whole thing is Troy, a month after he comes back. He catches Abed watching it, mouthing Troy’s words along with it, and asks what it is.
Abed slams the computer closed. “Have you seen Moonlight ?” he asks, instead.
“No. Wait, the one about that kid and he grows up and it’s gay?”
“Yeah, that one. We should rewatch it if it’s fuzzy; it’s a really good movie. Anyway, in an interview, Trevante Rhodes—who plays adult Chiron—said something about love on a scale of one to ten. He said usually people find a six or a seven, like Shirley and Andre before they got divorced a second time. But Kevin is Chiron’s ten, according to Rhodes: that’s why Chiron can never settle for anyone else, as indicated by the line ‘You’re the only man who’s ever touched me.’ I thought about it a lot, and I think you’re my ten. I tried settling for a six, Rachel, but it wasn’t right. I think I would have forgiven you no matter what you did. I don’t think there’s anyone else out there for me.”
Troy stares at him for a long time. “I don’t understand.”
“I made a movie,” says Abed. “A home movie. About you.” He frowns. “It’s loosely based on the missing lover footage trope.”
“Oh,” says Troy, quiet. “Because I was missing.”
“Yeah,” says Abed, and opens his laptop again. “Want to see it?”
“Yeah,” says Troy. “Yeah.”
And the film continues: “I’m gonna miss you,” says Troy, staring down at his duffel bag. He looks up, and for a moment looks startled by the presence of a camera. “You’re filming?”
“Yeah,” says Abed, out of frame. “I might make a movie out of this.”
“Cool,” replies Troy, giving him a thumbs up. Abed’s blurry thumbs up can also be seen on screen.
“Cool cool cool,” agrees Abed’s voice.
The camera unfocuses for a moment, and then refocuses. Troy is crying.
When the film finishes, Abed glances towards Troy, and sees something written in his face that Abed’s been denying for a long time: this film is a love letter, in the only way Abed knows how to write one.
Troy sniffles, and wipes at his eyes, which are wet. “Abed,” he says, soft. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”
“Cool,” whispers Abed, as Troy grabs his face in his hands and leans forward. The next few “cool”s are swallowed by the gentle press of Troy’s lips to Abed’s, and Abed hums contentedly.
It’s a quick kiss; when they break away, Troy says, “You’re my ten, too,” rapidly, and then chews on his lip. “I met some other people along the way. But it wasn’t the same.”
Abed quirks his head, and smiles. “It wasn’t the same,” he echoes, and he isn’t sure if he’s processing or agreeing with the sentiment. He pauses, then studies Troy for a moment, head tilted as he thinks. “That’s why you forgave me even though I was being a bad friend after you came back to Greendale.”
“No,” says Troy. “I forgave you because you were mad at me and kept trying anyway.” He takes Abed’s hand. “And because I know if I did the same thing, you’d forgive me.”
“Oh,” says Abed. “Oh.”
He kisses him again.
The film ends with one last scene: Troy’s in the apartment. He looks back at the camera and sighs, shakes his head, and shuts the door to his room.
“Troy,” calls Abed quietly off-screen, but there’s no response.