Sour Grapes of Wrath

                                    

                                          
There was silence for the rest of the ride home; neither one being able to think of anything else to say. Mickey darted nervous and uncertain glances at his passenger the entire time. Ian had fallen silent and sullen again, and stared out the window for the duration of the trip, trying desperately to act as if Mickey Milkovich never existed. When the car parked across from the apartment building, Ian was outside and across the street before Mickey even had a chance to kill the engine.
                          
Mickey made it to the elevator in time to see its doors slide closed in front of Ian, who leaned in the elevator, his eyes downcast. Mickey sighed heavily and hit the button. This was exactly what he had been afraid of; that the minute he was finally forced to say no, that everything would end. He understood the way things were—if you can't give someone what they want, there really wasn't much incentive for them to put up with you. He had hoped that somehow it would have been different with Ian; that they could keep something, anything, going once he had made his position clear. Obviously that wasn't going to be the case. He should have expected it, but it still stung.
                          
He knocked on Ian's locked door and received no response, so he knocked again. He couldn't even hear Ian moving around in there, and he imagined Ian sitting on the bed, glaring at the door with that defiant jut of his chin. He knocked again, despite knowing that he should leave, that he should let the chips fall where they may, let sleeping dogs lie, all that trite shit. He should let this thing between them fizzle along with the heavy risk their mutual attraction created. He should let Ian go. Instead, he knocked again.
                          
Mickey jumped back a little, startled by Ian suddenly yanking the door open. The other man filled the doorway and glared at him impassively, and a tense silence stretched between them.
                          
"What?" Ian said tersely, "I'm not in the mood for the safety check shit tonight."
                          
Mickey's shoulders slumped a little under the weight of it all. "So that's it then?" he asked quietly, searching Ian's face, "we can't bang so we're just nothing now? There isn't anything else here?"
                          
Ian felt like screaming, because of course on what was one of the worst nights of his life, there was always a way for him to feel that much worse. Now he felt like a heel, as if he was a shallow, petulant brat that was throwing a tantrum because he hadn't gotten what he wanted. But what was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to deal with any of this? They couldn't be together—not in the way either of them wanted—and the realization and fatalism of it all had knocked the wind right out of him.
                          
So what now? How was he supposed to stay close to Mickey, feeling the way he felt and knowing it was hopeless? He had never felt this way about anyone, and every instinct in his body said to chase this feeling, to pursue Mickey until he was completely his. Instead, it was the same old song. Nothing was in his control, not his love life, not his mental health, nothing. This was another prime example of him being unable to seize and shape his own destiny, and Ian didn't think it had ever felt this devastating.
                          
He turned away from Mickey and went to sit on the bed, leaving the door open. His hangover would be brutal in the morning. He was fucked up and heartbroken and he could find no way out of it. He buried his face in his hands and groaned, but then looked up blearily at the sound of Mickey stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
                          
"I don't want to be your friend," Ian admitted, but hastily added to his admission when he saw Mickey's face fall, "but, yeah, I don't want to be nothing either."
                          
"Yeah, same," Mickey fidgeted uncomfortably, "but we can make it work, right? Maybe we can dial things back for a bit, cool off and ease back into it?"
                          
Ian wasn't even close to being that optimistic. He had the sinking feeling that if he didn't distance himself and make a clean break; he'd be suffering under Mickey's thrall forever. The conflict in his head was intense. A small part of him wanted to accept the reality of the situation, while another part just wanted to cut a run—maybe the Peace Corps this time, since going back to the army was out. The overwhelming feeling though was to figure out this mess, convince Mickey that they had to at least try to make it work somehow. The sad apprehension on Mickey's face managed to handily defeat all those impulses at once. He couldn't stay away from Mickey, he couldn't run away either, and he certainly couldn't force Mickey's hand when his fears were so valid. Ian sighed and got to his feet.