An introspective piece into Andy's mind.
The warm liquid greeted him like a single streak of sunlight through the bedroom window, awakening his senses and ability to process his surroundings [Not just his physical ones]. He leaned further back into his chair, bringing his tired legs to his chest and rested the mug on his knees, silently enjoying the heat from the mug radiating through the fabric of his pants to his skin, sending tiny goosebumps down each leg, till he felt the last buzz evaporate from the tips of his toes. He brought the mug to his lips again, taking another sip before placing it back on his knees, the new heat restoring the buzz he had lost. He continues this cycle this the last bitter drop of caffeine dropped effortlessly on the lip of the mug, threatening to spill, like Andy's self-control.
He glances up, out the window, taking in the monotonous flow of the skyscrapers that adorned the city skies. Where'd they put all the clouds? Andy was in desperate need of a nice, white, fluffy one, shaped like the something that could call him a cab to anywhere away from his thoughts. His thoughts... his internal 8 inch plasma screen, showing reruns of unwanted memories and unfinished business.
He continues to look out the window, willingly allowing his mind to be erased by the intense similarity of the glass windows outside. Those glass windows that provided security and comfort to those who sought security and comfort inside of it. He catches a glimpse of himself as he searches the hundreds of windows, trying to find a loophole in its security system. But all he say was his reflection.
It's funny how you discover yourself when you're trying to discover someone else.
He discovered certain things about himself he soon wished he hadn't. As cliché as it sounded, he couldn't handle the truth. He had always thought he was normal. He liked to believe that there was nothing wrong with the small world he had created for himself. The world which put the simple laws of humanity and compassion to good use. Where misery escaped like criminals and arguments dissolved with claps on the back. Andy had never questioned the existence of his perfect reality, where only the good was the drawn, leaving the bad to melt halfway like shooting stars. But he had to face the truth:
Patrick did not belong to this world; Patrick Stump did not belong to Andy.
Andy had always watched from the sidelines, waiting, anticipating, wanting. He longed for realization to dawn on the shorter boy, for him to take the initiative, to plant the first kiss or seed. But Andy was never the garden. His affection for the little lead singer grew strong with every note, every word and every song. Even on stage he sat at the back, providing stability as their energetic bassist snagged everything from his fans to his love.
If you're ever read the poem 'Say not, the struggle naught availeth', well then, you'd do well never to mention it to Andrew Hurley.
He gave up on hope a long time ago.