Work Text:
.: Everything Will Be Okay :.
Andy Fowler thought he had his whole life figured out. At least with music. He's been doing this for a long time, now. He knew connections, the right thing to say, how to handle social media.
The only problem was... well, he wasn't happy. He should be. Shouldn't he?
He felt he was always exhausted, never satisfied, and something bad always happened. Even though RoadTrip ended, he left the manager, he could never fully escape it. The tagged photos, the history of it, the memories that seemed to follow along like a dark cloud hovering everywhere he went. He couldn't escape the past unless he had, like, serious amnesia.
Honestly, Andy sort of wanted to forget it all. He wasn't sure if that was a horrible thought.
He sometimes wanted to be normal, but that was never going to happen. He couldn't have that, not when there were still people expecting him to do things, and, fuck, he never asked for the constant drama, pressure, and expectations. Why couldn't he just be him, and that was enough?
It was no use in complaining—life went on, as always. He didn't want to dwell too much. If he did, he would be trapped in a miasma of despair, and he already had trouble getting himself out of that before.
Andy liked the idea that there was at least one person out there who liked him, flaws and all, but he was beginning to doubt that. Maybe he should have said stuff, never said stuff, but whatever. He always fucked things up, no surprise there.
He wasn't depressed. He didn't feel that total numbness, anymore. It was like there was a sharp pang, the melancholy in his chest, where it craved for love. Not artificial, or infatuation, or whatever. He genuinely wanted someone to love him. He didn't care who, if it was heshethey, or just anyone.
He swore softly, the memories flooding to his brain, unwanted. A sob bubbled in his throat, burning from the refusal to break down.
Hate, disgust, anger, fear, shame, these were all incredibly familiar and overwhelming emotions to him, he became too good at hiding them. That was part of keeping up appearances, pretending everything was fine, so he'd finally start believing it, too.
Even in his bedroom, with the familiar walls, the placement of furniture, it wasn't a place he felt totally safe. He once had a safe place, but that became ruined for him.
He forced himself to breathe.
He supposed those were red flags from the start. He decided to ignore them. After all, he reasoned, there was no point in getting anyone angry.
He found it difficult to always act happy, enthusiastic, like everything was okay, and he was slowly fading away, nothing familiar to him anymore.
He supposed that's why he stuck for as long as he did, why he never questioned and followed what people said. To feel something other than hopelessness and exhaustion, to chase after something he didn't even know what, as long as he could belong. He was never the type to be so confident as he seemed online. It was like he had to be a certain type to fit the mould, while offline he would have so many worries and insecurities that plagued him to no end. What if this was the end? What if he was gone? What if fans no longer cared?
It was difficult, since the split, for everyone.
Andy didn't know what to say.
It was one thing to join in, but he didn't want to lose that part. Especially since a person was the one who did things, helped him to get where he was, who also—
Well, Andy was placed in the fucking middle. It was not so much about the question of loyalty, or trust—those two were words he always disliked. The way they were used on him too many times, twisted to do one's bidding, to make him feel guilty, like he was ungrateful or owed somebody something.
God, he was damaged. It wasn't like anyone could notice or rescue him. And how could they? Nothing could erase his past, one day he was going to lose his mind. He wouldn't be able to stand the pity or the wave of shame, humiliation, that he couldn't even protect himself, be smart enough.
He could still remember the bruises he found on his hips the next day, the pain when he walked, the metallic taste of blood when he bit his lip, trying not to make any sound. The feeling of being even more uncomfortable in his skin, the way he's never been able to feel completely clean. All he wanted to do was scream and cry and break down, and instead, he chose silence. Silence was like a safety net; the darkest depths of his mind were secrets hung suspended, and at least no one could take that away from him. Once the story was out, it was no longer his. Anyone could say anything. That terrified him.
It seemed stupid to tell someone. It happened awhile ago, there was no evidence, and would anyone honestly believe him?
A part of him still wanted to protect the person. He convinced himself it didn't happen. So if he believed this, then it didn't happen. Itdidn'thappen. Everythingwillbeokay.
Yes, he wanted to forget it all. But days like this, where his anxiety got so bad, he couldn't help but let the memories sink in, and he has to remember to breathe, breathe, until he can actually act like everything's normal.