Chapter Text
The sun is a persistent, annoying intruder. It bleeds through the edges of the heavy, light-blocking curtains of the bedroom, marking a jagged line of gold across the grey duvet. Andrew doesn't move. He stays pinned under the weight of sleep and the even heavier weight of his own limbs.
It isn’t a leaden day, not yet. He can feel the weight of his own limbs, but they don’t feel like they’ve been replaced by concrete blocks. It’s a "grey" day—functional, manageable, quiet. The kind of day where the silence of the apartment is a soothing thing rather than a prison.
The apartment is quiet, the way he likes it. No Nicky humming pop songs in the kitchen, no Kevin pacing the floorboards while watching Exy replays on a tablet, no Aaron slamming the door on his way to a double shift at the hospital. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant, muffled sound of a neighbor’s car starting three floors down. It’s a large space, sprawling and open, but Andrew chose it specifically because it’s on the second floor. No high-rise views, no floor-to-ceiling windows that make floors look like they’re tilting on their axis. Just solid walls and a floor that don’t vibrate like cardboard when the wind blows.
Beside him, or more accurately, on top of his shins, a massive pile of white fur shifts. Sir, a Maine Coon mix with enough fur to carpet the entire living room twice over. He’s a walking cloud of spite and hunger. Sir lets out a low, demanding chirp and begins the slow, rhythmic march up Andrew’s legs.
"Get off," Andrew mumbles. His voice is a gravelly wreck, unused for at least twelve hours.
Sir ignores him. The cat reaches his chest and drops like a stone, all twenty pounds of him vibrating with a purr that feels like a localized earthquake. It’s grounding. The pressure on Andrew’s sternum forces him to take a deeper breath, pushing back the stagnant feeling in his lungs. He reaches out a hand—slowly, because his arm feels like it’s made of lead—and sinks his fingers into the thick ruff of fur behind the cat’s ears.
Sir leans into the touch, head-butting Andrew’s palm with enough force to be considered an assault.
"Stupid animal," Andrew says, but his hand stays where it is.
He lies there for another ten minutes, staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t push the cat away. He waits. Dealing with Sir is a game of patience that Andrew usually wins by virtue of being more stubborn than a feline.
Even then, Andrew doesn’t bother standing up just yet, the silence is something he’s not had the pleasure of having during his Uni years and now that he has it, he isn’t rushing to lose it. The Foxes are already a distant, nagging memory. They graduated years ago, scattering into their own lives like buckshot. Kevin is currently a star in the professional leagues, probably screaming at a rookie somewhere. Aaron is buried under medical textbooks and surgical masks, living a life of suburban stability with Katelyn that Andrew neither understands nor wants. Nicky is in Germany, living his loud, colorful life with Erik, sending "group" texts that Andrew stays muted on 90% of the time.
They still meet up. They still try. They still have those awkward dinners at Wymack and Abby’s place where the tension is so thick you could cut it with a dull knife. Without a common goal, the frantic and desperate energy of their college years, they are just a group of people who happened to survive the same car crash. They don't know how to talk to each other without looking for bruises or trying to inflict new ones.
Andrew finally pushes the cat off. Sir lets out a disgruntled noise and watches from the pillows as Andrew swings his legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cool under his feet. He stands up, waiting for the familiar wave of dizziness to pass. It’s off-season. No practice, no stadiums, no roaring crowds. Just the empty hours he has to fill before he can justify going back to sleep.
He makes his way to the kitchen. The apartment is clean, and not because Andrew is a perfectionist, but because he doesn't have enough energy to make a mess. When he looks down, Sir is waiting by the empty food bowl, looking like a victim of a great famine.
"You’re fat," Andrew tells him, reaching for the bag of expensive kibble.
Sir ignores the insult, diving into the bowl the second the pellets hit the ceramic. Andrew watches him for a moment before moving to the espresso machine. It was a gift from Bee, or maybe Nicky. He can’t remember. He just knows it makes the only thing that justifies being awake. He doesn't bother with breakfast; the idea of chewing feels like a chore. He just waits for the machine to hiss and groan, filling a mug with dark, bitter liquid.
He takes the mug to the small table by the window—the one that looks out onto the street, not the skyline. He watches the morning traffic for a while. It’s mundane. Boring. Xhich is exactly what he needs. His phone buzzes on the counter. A text from Kevin, probably about a training regimen Andrew has no intention of following today. He leaves it there.
The "Mud" is lurking at the edges of his vision. He can feel the heaviness in his shoulders, the way his brain wants to spiral into the "what's the point" loop. He needs to move. If he stays in this chair, the apartment will swallow him whole.
He finishes the coffee, the caffeine doing nothing for his mood but at least giving his heart a reason to keep beating. He heads back to the bedroom to find clothes. He picks a black hoodie and a pair of jeans, something he wears more out of habit now a day rather than for what he used to consider his armor. He moves mechanically, the way he used to when he was on the medication, except now there’s no forced smile or chemical haze to blame it on. It’s just him. Just the way his brain is wired after years of being handled by people who didn't know how to do so.
He catches his reflection in the hallway mirror. He looks tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes, but the kind that’s etched into his face permenatly. Well, doesn’t change much from usual. His hair is a mess of blonde tufts, and his eyes look flat.
"Pathetic," he tells the reflection and the reflection doesn't bother arguing.
He goes to the closet near the front door. He pulls out his black jacket, the one with the deep pockets where he keeps his hands hidden. He checks for his keys, his wallet, his cigarettes and the folding knife he keeps tucked deepest in his pocket—habit is a hard thing to kill, even in a "safe" neighborhood. He stopped carying knives in his armbands about a year ago but the didn’t stop him from carrying a few on his person.
Sir is sitting by the door, watching him with those unblinking, judgmental green eyes.
"Don't look at me like that," Andrew says, tugging the jacket on. "I'll be back when I'm back."
The cat just blinks and starts licking a paw.
Andrew reaches for the doorknob. His hand hesitates for a split second. The world outside is loud, bright, and full of people who want things from him. But the apartment is starting to feel like a cage. He needs the sugar. He needs the walk. He needs to prove to himself that he can still navigate the world without falling into the dirt.
The stairs are a chore. Every step down the two flights of concrete and metal feels like a conscious but broken negotiation between his brain and his knees. By the time he pushes through the heavy fire door of the apartment complex and hits the sidewalk, the autumn air catches in his lungs, sharp and tasting of wet asphalt and car exhaust. It’s better than the stagnant air of his living room, but only marginally.
Andrew keeps his head down, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled just far enough forward to shield his periphery. He doesn't want to see the city; he just wants to get to the nearest Starbucks without being stoped, get his damn sugary massacre and that’ll be his day. Nothing more, nothing less. His hands are buried deep in his jacket pockets, fingers curling into a fist around his keys and continues to march forward.
He walks with a rhythm that is purely mechanical. He knows this route. Left at the corner, past the dry cleaners that always smell like scorched chemicals, through the small park where the pigeons are too fat and too brave. It’s the off-season, which means his body is currently a useless machine. No Exy to drain the restless, dark energy, no court to provide the structure his brain screams for. Professional Exy for Andrew is just a paycheck, a way to keep Kevin from vibrating out of his skin, and a way to ensure Aaron has enough money to pretend they come from a normal family. Beyond that, it's just noise.
He’s three blocks away from the café when he sees it. Or rather, he notices the lack of what used to be there.
There’s a storefront nestled between a high-end stationery shop and a hole-in-the-wall deli. It used to be a vacant space, windows coated in a layer of grime and "For Lease" signs yellowing in the sun. Now, the glass is clean. Too clean.
Andrew slows his pace. His internal map of the neighborhood, usually rigid and unchanging, twitches at the anomaly. A sign hangs above the door, dark wood with gold lettering that looks expensive but understated: The Archive.
He stops in front of the window. He tells himself he’s just checking his watch, but he’s staring. It’s a bookstore. The shelves inside are floor-to-ceiling, packed with enough paper to start a spectacular bonfire. It looks like a cavern made of ink and glue.
The lights are off.
Andrew glares at the darkened interior. It’s nearly eleven in the morning on a Tuesday. Whoever owns this place is either incredibly lazy or spectacularly bad at business. Through the glass, he can see the faint outlines of armchairs that look like they’ve seen better decades and a long, dark counter at the back. There isn't a single "Open" sign in sight.
'Idiots', Andrew thinks.
He stands there for a full minute, his gaze tracing the spines of the books on display in the window. They aren't the flashy, neon-colored bestsellers you’d find at a mall. They are old. Leather-bound, cloth-covered, some with titles he doesn't recognize. It’s a place for people who want to disappear into someone else’s thoughts.
He imagines the owner: some pretentious old man with a cardigan and a pipe, probably sleeping in the back because he forgot to set up his alarm.
A movement catches his eye—a shadow shifting in the back of the store, near the counter. It’s too dark to see clearly, but for a second, Andrew thinks he sees the silhouette of someone but the shadow vanishes into the stacks just as fast as it first appeared.
Andrew doesn't linger. He doesn't care about people, and he certainly doesn't care about a business owner who can’t find a light switch. He turns away, his boots clicking sharply on the pavement as he resumes his trek toward the café across the street.
The café is the opposite of the bookstore. It’s bright, loud, and smells like a chemical spill of hazelnut syrup and burnt milk. Andrew hates it, but they are the only place that doesn't judge him for ordering a drink that is essentially liquid diabetes.
The girl behind the counter looks like she’s about nineteen. She has a nose ring and a look of permanent exhaustion that Andrew almost respects.
"Large mocha, extra chocolate, four shots of vanilla, and whipped cream," Andrew says. His voice is flat, leaving no room for conversation.
The girl doesn't even blink. She’s seen him before. "Five eighty-five."
He pays in cash, ignoring the tip jar. He waits at the end of the counter, his back to the wall, watching the door. A group of college students in the corner are laughing too loud. The sound grates against his nerves like sandpaper. He feels the "Mud" trying to pull at his heels again, the overwhelming urge to just walk out and keep walking until he hits the ocean.
When his drink is ready, he takes it without a word. The cup is hot enough to sting his palm through the cardboard sleeve. Good. He needs the heat to remind him he’s still connected to his nerves.
He steps back out onto the sidewalk, the cold air hitting him again. He takes a sip of the mocha. It’s cloyingly sweet, thick enough to coat his throat and bypass the bitterness in his mouth.
He looks back across the street at The Archive. It’s still dark. Still silent. It looks like a tomb in the middle of a busy city.
Most people would be annoyed by a closed shop. Andrew finds it almost fascinating. That people manage to dig up the motivation to open up a store only for it to stay closed.
He starts walking back toward his apartment, but his eyes linger on the bookstore’s window until he turns the corner. He’ll come back tomorrow. Not for a book—he has plenty of those gathering dust at home—but because he wants to see if the idiot in the dark ever finds the lights.
As he reaches the park, he feels a slight vibration in his pocket. He pulls out his phone.
Nicky: Hey! Erik and I were thinking of flying in for a surprise weekend in two weeks! Group dinner at Wymack's? Kevin says you're ignoring his calls. Don't be a grump!
Andrew stares at the screen until it goes dark. He doesn't reply. The thought of a group dinner—the forced small talk, Matt’s overly loud cheering, Dan’s pitying glances, Aaron’s stiff silence—makes the coffee turn sour in his stomach.
He shoves the phone back into his pocket and tilts his head back, watching a grey cloud drift slowly across the patch of sky between the buildings.
He needs a place to sit that isn't his apartment and isn't a café full of screaming teenagers.
He thinks of the dark bookstore again. The quiet of it. The way the shadows seemed to swallow the noise of the street.
Tomorrow, he decides. If the door is unlocked, he’s going in. If not, he’ll just find a different way to waste the day.
He finishes his coffee and tosses the empty cup into a trash can with a precision that would make Kevin proud. He heads home, Sir is waiting, and the "Mud" is still there, but at least now he has a destination for the morning.