Chapter Text
Andrew leaned quietly on the balcony of his apartment. His heart was now thumping slower and slower as he took another drag of his cigarette, before putting it out on the metal railing, and flicking it off into the dark alley below. His wired earphones rested in his ears, the small pulling whenever he moved reminded him of their presence. He didn't remember putting them in, but regardless he pressed the center button on the cord, and music began to play.
Up on his horse, up on his horse
Not gonna wake up here anymore
Listen one time, it's not the truth
It's just a story, I tell to you
He rubbed a palm in his eye as he exhaled, as images of black and white and blue flashed behind his eyes. A spiraling fractal of pixels and words and bones fighting through the smoke and the music and the cold to reach the forefront of his brain.
He hadn't noticed when tear fell down his other eye, onto the balcony railing with the black marks, and down into the dark and foggy alleyway below.
He didn't smoke before all this. It was another habit he picked up along the way-- along with the self isolation, the paranoia and the ugly-cry sessions; which were too often for his comfort.
Andrew was tired, and the cigarettes were an impromptu grasp for something resembling release.
He had picked up them up at the gas station next door; after the night he read Chris' patient file in the digital office-- after he had another meltdown standing in front of his computer, looking at himself standing in the grass in front of another well.
He let his chin rest against his palm, stability cradling him through his arm and to the railing it rested on.
He sat there for a moment, staring out at foggy San Jose, a familiar sight this early in the morning. A plane flew overhead, screaming into the night as it headed south towards SJC. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his music, the cars, and chirping of some lone cricket, desperately trying to survive the city.
Old friends, long forgotten
They all wait at the bottom
Of the ocean now has swallowed
The only thing that's left
Is us, so pardon the silence
That you're hearing is turning
Into a deafening, painful, shameful roar
Andrew gripped the railing with his other hand. He felt the tears coming fast, as years of resilience tried desperately to make it stop. A small part of him told him that he should not cry, because men did not. It ended with him doing a sort of restrained half sob, not releasing tension yet not holding it in.
He was weak. The song had reminded him of Chris, a familiar weakness of his that he hadn't wanted to think of since the CARNIVAL. He won’t get any answer from Chris now, that was for certain.
Leaning up and off the balcony, not unlike a wounded animal standing up to retreat, he stumbled back into his apartment. If he was to cry, it would not be somewhere others would see and hear.
The room was filthy, as it had gotten over the last six months. Clothes and still-packed boxes littered the carpet floor, alongside bags of snacks and bottles of water.
He closed the sliding door behind him, and collapsed against it. The back of his shirt slid down against the glass until he was sat against the floor. The tears fought to come, but few made it, whether by dehydration or persistence he was unsure.
He looked down at himself, and saw the plain forest green t-shirt; the one he always wore, which was now resting against a slight stomach he had put on. The shirt had little dark flecks over the surface by his neck and chest, from the currently drying drops of his misery.
He slowly stood up, feeling his mouth dry and his nose stuffy from the almost-cry. He was going to get a fresh drink and tissue now. He was capable.
He walked through the kitchen/living room, past the television he bought at goodwill, and the Xbox he had met Chris on.
He walked past the stove he hadn't touched since somewhere in those last six months.
He walked around the corner, and past the door that led into the hallway, and past the door to the bathroom.
He walked into his bedroom, where it was.
At first he had avoided looking at it, eyes darting away. First at his bed, which boasted the ironic Minecraft bedspread his brother had bought him, that he now used happily.
Second at his guitar, an old Gibson that leaned up against the wall next to his bedside table.
Third at his closet, where the rod he used to hang up his clothes had fell, and he had never put it back, instead just leaving them in the laundry basket unfolded. One for clean, one for dirty.
Fourth at his PC-
He stopped.
It was honestly a sight to behold, his desk was bowing in the middle, with a visible crack running through it. His monitor was leaning backwards against the wall behind it, with large shards of glass missing from it.
His keyboard was crushed, from when he had lifted his PC tower over his head screaming, and slammed it into the monitor and keyboard.
He remembered it vividly, god knows he didn't want to.
When he combined the bones like a fool.
When the wrong dark figure arrived to congratulate him.
When he pleaded for a second chance.
When the Pieces of SMILE arrived, and cornered him.
When he panicked, and-
With a sigh, pinched the bridge of his nose, and walked out of his room, and into the bathroom. First, he washed his face under the faucet. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His wavy, dirty-blonde hair, which once flowed down the sides of his face like a window curtain blowing in a draft, was now matted and greasy. His usual light-tan toned skin that used to shine in the sunlight was now pale, and covered in layers old dried sweat. The early formation of a mustache was crawling across his lips and off to the sides, as if it would fall off if he shook too hard. Lastly, his eyes, a sparkling mix of hazel-green, were now sunken, with bags underneath that sagged with the weight of his heart.
He looked away faster than a normal person would have, and quickly got back to the task at hand, for you see; going into the bathroom was a dual-purpose move.
He grabbed the broom from behind the door, and a trash bag from under the sink. Tools to begin sweeping and then bag up the expensive (and maybe haunted) hardware, and then throw it all out.
After all, maybe the cleaning would take his mind somewhere else.