Inspred by "Auteur Theory" by scioscribe.
Fade in on the inside of a church: the altar of it, to be precise. Leading up to it is an aisle with small colorful petals thrown on it; standing in front of the altar is a couple and a priest. The couple is holding hands and smiling, an exact picture image of an average wedding on an average day. They're tiny; everything is tiny, as if the camera lens is a backwards telescope. The person holding the camera is not a part of this ceremony. It's voyeuristic, this shot; it's poignant in context.
It's unclear whether there are guests in this wedding; it's also unclear what the couple and the priest are saying, although that is much easier to guess. The long range lens is a blinder and the sound is muted: it's literal tunnel vision to elucidate thought, and that too is precise.
Precision is important.
It's snowing on the day that Troy gets married. Tiny flakes fly down outside the apartment windows, sparkling against the fluorescent light and blending in with the cold white sky above. The ones that land on the window glisten for a moment before melting; it's not cold enough for them to stick and grow into clumps of ice on the glass. There's not much of a buildup on the ground either, which makes the snow both decent for the necessary road travel later that day and creates a fairly interesting narrative for the storm. There's something interesting about snow that doesn't stick around, a little bit of futility in its journey and a little bit tenacious in its purpose. Or, at least, at four in the morning on the day of his best friend's wedding, it makes a much more interesting story than all of the rest of the cliché stuff swimming around in Abed's brain.
Abed hasn't slept, even though Troy's bachelor party was loud and exhausting. He's felt himself fade from slightly drunk to hungover in the past three hours since everyone else disbanded. Instead of sleeping, he's holding a cup of cheap black coffee and sitting rigidly on their couch in Apartment 303 (soon to be just his couch, since Annie's gone too, now). Troy's passed out next to him, still in his day clothes and curled up in a warm looking ball underneath a Star Wars blanket that used to be part of the fort that they lived in when the Casa de Trobed was still new. His hair is brushing against Abed's right elbow, moving slightly every time he takes a breath.
For the fourth time in twenty minutes, Abed turns his head towards the sleeping form leaning against him. Troy's always looked so empty in sleep, stripped bare of the emotions that engulf his active face and body in his waking hours. Sleep is the only time he's truly still, and it feels like an unspoken secret that Abed is one of very few that knows. He considers moving his hand to touch Troy, but can't figure out where would be appropriate. After mulling it over for a moment, he turns his head away to stare out of the window again. Tonight and the coming day are important for Troy, so he needs his rest. For Abed, it's best right now to stay an observer.
After a long time has passed, he gazes down into his now-lukewarm coffee, and wonders how many cups it will take to make his headache go away. He figures it's probably half as many as it takes to make heartbreak leave, which in movies is one cup, plus a date with your soulmate.
Abed doesn't have a date with his soulmate, so he just sips at his coffee and gives himself a mental pat on the back for making more than one cup in their . . .his oversized coffee maker. He runs his hand over his face and orients himself again. Staying in the moment is important in times of change, and technically Troy doesn't live here anymore. Their possessions are singular now, which wasn't weird until he lived with anyone, but now seems as foreign to him as if he had never had things of his own before he met Troy.
He can't remember a lot of things that he did before he met Troy.
The snow continues to fall, thicker and wetter and in big flakes now. The sky is still white; Abed wishes it would change to a grey-pink and signal the coming of the sun already. Precision is important, and the sky is reminding Abed of a feeling he's been having lately that he hasn't been able to pin down, the closest approximation of which is a memory of the time in high school when he dissected a sheep's well-preserved grey heart, the gaping aortas the same color of this relentless winter. But while this image is a fitting descriptor, the language isn't objective enough for him to grasp and hold on to it long enough to categorize and communicate it.
Troy's head stirs against his leg. Abed's eyes travel to his face; Troy's eyes flicker open. He yawns, and rolls onto his stomach, burying his eyes in Abed's thigh.
"Do I want to be awake?" he groans out quietly.
"Probably not. It's four thirty AM," says Abed. His voice is weak from lack of use, and he clears his throat, "Are you going to stay this way?"
"Not sure," says Troy, yawning again. "Weird dreams. Keys all over the floor. Empty room with two locks. Something was urgent and really scary, but I don't know what."
His left arm flops over his head into Abed's lap. He wiggles his fingers, and Abed laces them in his own. Abed sets his cup of coffee down on the table so that one hand is still free. Troy squeezes Abed's hand, and it's tighter than usual-possessive, maybe-and Abed swallows a bit of something that tastes like the sky. No- probably just lukewarm coffee and alcohol.
"Cold feet? You're right on schedule for those, if you want to go that route for your wedding. A little early, really, you should have all your nerves gone by the time it's time for you to wait at the end of the aisle. Maybe even long enough to start a short, solo road trip by yourself until a song that reminds you of your fiancé starts playing in the car and you realize you were making the right decision all along. You could dash back triumphantly in just the right amount of time, get prepared and look spiffy all while having been on an emotionally fulfilling adventure that changes your whole perspective on life," he suggests.
Troy shakes his head, brushing his nose against Abed's leg.
"Naw, I don't have cold feet. We have everything worked out right now. I think. Besides. . . well, a lot of stuff, but all couples have their problems."
He rolls over awkwardly onto his back, detangling his arm from Abed's hand and placing his head on Abed's lap. He smiles up at Abed sleepily, and invites Abed to hold hands with him again; Abed complies.
"Is this still acceptable even if you're almost married?" asks Abed. Troy gives him a confused look.
"I think so. I mean, I don't know why it wouldn't be. We've always touched each other and stuff before," says Troy.
"Things change when people get married," says Abed, because what he means to say can't be condensed into a sentence or a monologue. He wants to take out slides or video clips, point to them smiling and laughing and tumbling through their apartment and ask Troy if they're looking at the same thing, ask him if they're even allowed to be- well. Whatever people are always jealous of. Abed's not sure what the protocol is here, but he's weighed this over and over and he keeps coming back to the fact that their situation is pleasant, but not normal-and probably not meant to last.
"We won't," says Troy, after a moment. He's lying. "Have you slept at all, Abed?"
Abed shakes his head. Troy doesn't push it.
"It's snowing," says Abed, because it's important, even if he's not quite sure why.
"Is it sticking to the ground?" asks Troy.
"No," says Abed.
"That's too bad," says Troy. He closes his eyes again, and squeezes Abed's hand. Abed wonders if he knows why the snow is important, what it represents thematically, because Abed still can't figure it out, but Troy is asleep again before he can ask.
Abed nods, even though Troy can't see it.
"Yeah, it really is," he says. Outside the window, the sky gains small tinges of pink.
The couple kisses for a long time, turning smaller and smaller as the camera zooms out and tunnels in, and then the screen fades to black.
Credits roll. Their story is complete.