frozen (Andre!)

[Deleted]

Three weeks, four days, sixteen hours, twenty-three minutes, seven seconds. That was how long ago Andrew's emotions ran dry. This happened each and every time he was separated from his husband. He turned into a living, breathing, robot. Without Andre, Andrew went numb. He would get up each morning, plaster on a smile he didn't mean, greet Davey, Elena, and the kids, made breakfast, and go to work. He was able to hold conversations, and even take care of his children. But on the inside, he didn't feel much.

He should have asked Andre to turn the military down. When he told him that he was being asked to train, Andrew felt panicked. He had wnted to cry, wanted to take hold of his hands and beg him not to go. He might have listened, had Andrew actually done it. But he didn't. Instead, he had given a gentle, polite smile, called him his war hero, and helped him pack. He had watched him go with dignity. And then he had gone home and sobbed, clutching his husband's photo. That was the last time he felt anything.

Even when the massacre happened, and his niece was murdered, it hadn't processed completely. He had gone to Emma's funeral, shook the hands of friends who came to give condolences, without fully understanding what he was doing. It hasn't hit him yet, he heard them say, and they were right. It was like he was on auto-pilot.

Tonight was different, however. Tonight, for the first time in three weeks, the house was empty. Tonight, Elena was working. Zeneida and Natasha were at a rehearsal for the Wizard of Oz at the community theater, where Natasha was playing Glinda and Zee was watching. Isaac was out, attempting to take three girls on three different dates at the same time. Ashleigh was at a friend's house. And who knew where Davey was?

Tonight, old episodes of Days of Passion were on TV. Tonight, he was pinned to the couch with a bowl of popcorn, a bottle of gin, and the framed picture of Andre that he had been sleeping with since the man left was hugged close to his chest. And tonight, with the liquor in his system and a Damon King marathon on tv, he was able to cry.

For a man who detested alcohol, Andrew was drinking his gin as if it were water. The more he drank, though, the sleepier he became. After drinking a small portion of the bottle, Andrew drowsily dropped the bottle, spilling the remainder on the carpet, as the bowl of popcorn fell off his lap and landed upside down beside the bottle. His head, suddenly feeling heavy, landed hard on the arm rest. And there, he fell asleep, Andre's picture tucked under his arm, remote loosely held in his hand, with the marathon still running.