Andy's restless energy after Ronnie's news.
His thin form flitted around the kitchen, washing and drying dishes before packing them away, going through the cupboards and the fridge and making his grocery list. He swept the floot before moving in to the living room, dusting off the couch cushions, neatly refolding the afghan that lay tossed over the back of the armchair, straightening the objects on top the coffee table, replacing stray books and CD's onto the shelves. Even by doing all this, it was still not enough to burn off that excess energy, nor did it make enough time go by.
Andy moved into the small laundry room, placing cleaners and detergents back onto thier rightful shleves, removing the now dry towel and Ronnie-sized garments from the dryer, taking them back to the living room, where the singer folded them, before depositing the towel into the small linen closet, and tip toeing into his room to put Ronnie's now-folded clothes at the foot of the bed.
But yet, after he was done with all this, which surely should have left him at least a little tired, the young singer couldn't help but notice it was barely past 5 in the morning, and he was no less tired. Andy heaved an annoyed sigh. He wanted to get some sleep, and he knew for a fact he couldn't sleep this wound up. So he tried unwinding.
First, he tried to read, something light and entertaining, but even so, his eyes could not focus on the words on the page in front of him. He kept reading the same line over and over before he caught himself. So, Andy opted to write instead.
But between his hands being so fucking shaky and jittery from energy, his thoughts hopping around like frogs, and general mental constipation, he couldn't get a single drop of ink onto the page. This left the paper to be crumpled into the wastebasket, and the pen thrown out the window in disgust. "Stupid mother fucking pen." Andy muttered as he threw the small, offending piece of plastic out the window.
Then, our brave Andy gave up, and walked into his room, plopping his scrawny arse into the very comfy sattelite chair located next to his bed, which contained a loudly snoring ROnnie. Wanting to do something to occupy his hands, Andy decided to do his tried and trusted stress relief of knitting.
Andy's knitting had left most of his friends and family with a deluge of itchy scarves, and misshapen hats and ugly socks. It meant him and his Grandmas and great-aunts were the best of buddies, swapping patterns and stories. While it may have left him with a bit of an outcast, it had been there, right next to his singing and writing. At least his mom liked the itchy scarves, Ashley used his butt-ugly socks without having to be threathened with removal of his porn stash, and Chuppy accepted the horridly misshapen hats with a nod and a 'Thanks bro!'
Nnoitra: No, Andy sure as fuck aint gonna be yer goddamn sock buddie cuz Ronnie needs ta get clean!
Me: Tell the fucker go take a shower then, before I throw him in the washing machine.
Nnoitra: No, as in he needs to stop doing drugs.
Me: Then tell him to give the wacky tobacky back to Bob Marley.
Nnoitra: Dafuq? are you or are you not the author?
Me: Authoress. I don't stand and piss. And I have no clue. Am I?"
Me: You'll knock out whatever brain cells you have left.
So anyways, knitting was just not doing it for Andy. Color work was getting messed up, ribbing going awry, knitting in the round, he kept dropping the tiny, slippery needles and getting tangled into the wires, cabling he kept forgetting to put the stitches back where they belong, and he kept dropping stitches. He must've started, and ripped out, at least 2 dozen projects that night, leaving the singer more frustrated.
Finally, he gave up, opting to just sit and stare at the still snoring Ronnie in a most creepy way.
Hurrah for Creeper Andy!