Chapter Text
In the face of adversity, Troy has always been one to alleviate.
Instead of dealing with his issues, he might say something like "Let's go on a roadtrip", and in this case, his roommate and best friend of two years is the type of person who replies with "Can I make the mixtape?"
So here they are in the car, and the road ahead looks endless, glimmering. It's hot, despite it being early spring and early morning. It has been hot for weeks on end.
Troy is dressed in basketball shorts and a white tank top, his sweaty wrist draped over the steering wheel. He prepared ahead, and only brought comfortable clothes, given he'll be driving most of if not all the time.
Abed sits next to him, tapping along to a Little Comets song. It's systematic, the tapping. It starts up with the chorus and ends before the bridge. After the song is over, Abed says—"I'll use that one in a soundtrack when I make it big."
They're going to Los Angeles. It'll take a few days, with three planned stops along the way. They haven't booked any hotels yet. Abed said they should do it as they go to adhere to the concept of spontaneity.
The idea of taking a roadtrip over spring break was Troy's idea, but the destination was Abed's. He visited LA once before, but the trip was short. He's been craving to see more. Despite, he simulated a whole existential crisis when he was there. It's been due time for him to go back.
Luckily, Troy can think of nothing more invigorating than visiting the movie capital of the world with Abed—constant references, jokes and hijinks seem promising, or so he hopes.
It's what they need right now. Abed, with his infinite calculations, might say that some levity is required for their dynamic to blossom. Troy is really not supposed to make these kinds of executive decisions in their story, but Abed has been playing along so far.
The landscape is mostly mountains at the moment. Troy tries to focus on driving. The last time he took a roadtrip was with his parents, right after junior year.
The two of them had already been on the cusp of their separation, constantly arguing while Troy sat quietly in the backseat. They'd gone around the country, visiting various colleges as they inquired about scholarships and tuition and programs. With every mile passed, Troy started seeing a clearer vision of his future. He'd graduate high school, become a professional football player, get loads of money and chicks, and live a worthy life. On paper, it sounded dope. He didn't understand why his stomach hurt so badly whenever he thought about it.
It didn't go as planned for him, and he sort of disappointed everyone in the process. Mainly his dad. He gets queasy thinking about it. But no matter, now he's here, at this point in his life, taking an entirely different kind of roadtrip. Just him and Abed for the upcoming week.
"There are 3,800 ghost towns in the US," Abed informs from the passenger seat. "Most are along the East and West coasts. The eastern states had many typical mining towns that shut down due to either a lack of demand or accidents. West has rural places that fell to the desert's natural forces and simply died out."
Troy listens intently. "Do you think we'll see any ghosts?" he wonders aloud.
"We might," Abed says, "Although it will probably just be the wind coincidentally blowing after a rightly timed insinuation of paranormal activity."
They're set to stop right over the state line coming into Utah. But they're not even halfway there yet.
"I vote we take our first gas station break in approximately two hours, but let's not be too specific and have the timing be somewhat organic," Abed says, which is the least believable thing ever. He probably already found a picturesque petrol pump along the route that fulfills his idea of a roadtrip trope.
Abed plans mostly everything, constantly trying to orchestrate moments that will make everything just a little more awesome. Troy is not like that at all, and he can't exactly identify if it's a bad thing or not. Lately he's come to the realization that he's kinda just been letting life happen to him.
After 45 songs and 170 miles, they fill up the car, entering the shop after.
"Should I get this?" Abed asks, holding up a gray cotton shirt that says 'The Gas Station In Carbondale Did Not Have Fresh Yams'.
Troy feels himself smile. "Definitely," he nods. He grabs for a pair of hokey sunglasses that are on sale.
"What about me?" he asks. "How do I look?"
"Like Tony Montana," Abed grins.
Troy takes them off quickly, remembering how Tony Montana was crazy and a jerk and a coke addict. Instead he picks up a pair of cat-eyes that are most definitely for ladies.
"How about now?"
Abed wiggles his eyebrows. "More like, 'how about meow?'"
Troy snorts dryly. "Nice."
"You look like Louise, from the 1991 Ridley Scott road-trip classic 'Thelma and Louise'."
"Does that make you Thelma?"
"I always figured it was the other way around," Abed shrugs, "But sure."
He buys Troy the sunglasses, which sends Troy into a weird fever pitch. He feels dizzy, and doesn't understand why these small things Abed sometimes does for him make his stomach flip. It's probably nothing to do with him. It might just be the heat. It's probably the heat, and if it's not, then it's still easier to think it is.
Outside, they rest their arms on the car roof, staring out at the dry land. The sun is rising in the air, and a few beads of sweat are forming along Abed's forehead. Troy is pretty sure he's in a similar state.
"Troy," Abed speaks, "Stand over there with your sunglasses on, with the mountains as your backdrop."
He opens the trunk and rummages around in his bag until he retrieves something. Holding it up, he wiggles his eyebrows. "I brought a Polaroid camera."
It's one of those old ones. Troy wonders where Abed got it, but then again, Abed is always showing up with the coolest objects and trinkets, seemingly having made them appear out of nowhere. It can be pretty jealousy-inducing, how extensive his side adventures are.
"Thelma and Louise," Troy says breathlessly. Abed nods, satisfied.
He directs Troy as he stands, his hand making small circling motions, threading the air, while he crafts the perfect image. He peers through the viewfinder for a while, instructing Troy to make tiny adjustments to his pose, before snapping the photo.
"Looks good," he says, handing the camera over to Troy before sticking the picture in the pocket of his jean shorts. "Now me."
Holding up the camera, Troy looks at Abed discreetly. He's standing in front of the worn-down gas station and starts to take something from his flannel pocket. It turns out to be a carton of smokes, which he sometimes carries for the occasion. Troy feels his chest flutter as Abed sticks the cigarette in his mouth and lights it, smirking a little. He looks like James Dean through the lens of the old camera.
"Go ahead," Abed says impatiently, around a drag. Troy quickly clicks, his fingers slightly shaking.
"You might be committing too hard," he tells Abed, flapping around the Polaroid in order to let it dry. Abed takes another drag, leaning back his head as he blows smoke into the air.
"I'm allowing myself to indulge. Everyone gets one perfect roadtrip in their lifetime," he shrugs, "I figure this is ours."
When they're back in the car, Abed sticks the two pictures to the dashboard. As the road continues, he writes diligently in his notebook while Troy drives, the AC cranked up all the way. Sometimes, Troy dares to look over at him, watching him sit quietly, his brows wound tightly together, focusing on the blank pages before him.
"Eyes on the road," Abed will say without ever looking up, when it turns out Troy has been staring for too long. And that keeps happening. It's happened three times already, and they're only a couple hundred miles in.
Of course, Troy is embarrassed. That's obvious. But he can't seem to help himself, and the real reason he even came up with the idea for a roadtrip is because he thought it might fix things.
The two of them are fresh off a fight. It was only a few weeks ago that him and Abed were split up into pillow and blanket. Now everything is supposed to be fine again, but instead it's been a very strange brand of weird. They can't drift off in the same bed anymore, something that used to happen all the time, a silent comfort both of them enjoyed without ever discussing it. Now they flinch as they touch on accident and stare at each other for too long.
And Troy fixes things, it's his nature, a necessity for him to exist. And he and Abed are nothing like Troy's parents, they don't fight, not usually, and they wouldn't separate. That can't happen, Troy won't let it.
So Abed is next to him, drawing a map, an Orange Soda at hand, constantly humming. LCD Soundsystem plays as they chase the horizon, the air dusty and the sky a wide stretch of blue. Troy's hands are tight on the wheel, his eyes focused, and whatever's going to happen these upcoming days, he's dead set on fixing things.