Mickey very firmly didn’t look at you, though he recognised the sound of your footsteps joining him on the rooftop before he even saw you.

He pulled the trigger on the gun again, hitting the teddy bear he had tied to a chair dead in the head.

He didn’t want to talk to you. Well, he did, but he couldn’t bring himself to. You could see through him, you always did, and he didn’t want to look at your face and see the wounds his dad left on you. He couldn’t be gay. He couldn’t want this.