happy birthday to Andrew Minyard, who suffered and fought and tried and trusted and promised and loved and lived against all odds.
happy birthday to Andrew Minyard, who claims his Exy career is all a begrudging farce, but can only just about hide his satisfaction at being the very best goalie in the league.
happy birthday to Andrew Minyard, who spoils his cats rotten and complains every single day about their bratty tendencies, as though it is not entirely fault of his own for giving them the princess treatment.
happy birthday to Andrew Minyard, who struggled navigating friendships beyond trades and deals, but watches every single one of Kevin’s matches without fail, and sends Renee silly postcards all the way to the peace-corps, and buys the Boyd-Wilds children an obscene amount of candy, and watches shitty reality television with Allison whenever she comes to stay.
happy birthday to Andrew Minyard, who has been let down by adults of authority his entire life, but barbecues under the summer sun with Wymack, and taste-tests festive hot cocoa with Bee, and darts out of the kitchen when Abby chides him for snacking on the cranberry sauce before thanksgiving dinner.
happy birthday to Andrew Minyard, who once flinched at the sentiment of family, but drinks pretend tea with Aaron and Katelyn’s twins, and took on the role of best man at their wedding, and now fully understands what it means to have and to be a brother.
happy birthday to Andrew Minyard, who never had a reliable legal guardian, but one day looks Nicky in the eye and offers him a simple thanks–there is no provided context, but Nicky tears up because he knows.
happy birthday to Andrew Minyard, who once believed he was too corrosive and jagged and broken a puzzle piece to fit into any jigsaw, and yet, inexplicably, slotted perfectly beside Neil. Andrew thinks soulmates are bullshit, but he can’t help but muse over what a divinity born fucking wonder Neil is.
happy birthday to Andrew Minyard, who learnt to trust and to confess and to allow himself to be seen. who bared every raw inch of himself because he wanted to and isn’t that fucking something.
happy birthday to Andrew Minyard, who takes every inch of tenderness and affection and care and love he is offered with cautious hope and slowly but surely begins to realise that his place in the world is not, and never will be, a mistake. that he is deserving and he belongs and he is worth every inch of bizarre, brilliant goodness he encounters.