Rory cried openly as he walked home. He didn't care that it was the middle of the morning. He didn't care that runners and families with strollers gave him wide berths as they passed him. He didn't care that by the time he got back to his house, his eyes were red and puffy and his shirt damp where he'd wiped at his face.

He was done caring. It hurt too much to care, to try, to put himself out there again and again, and be rejected again and again.

The stupidest thing, Rory thought to himself as he fumbled with his key in the door, unlocking it only after several tries, was that Milo did love him. He was sure of it.

Milo hadn't been good at saying it, but Rory had seen it.

He'd seen it in the way Milo had asked to see him again, the morning after their second night together, all wild-eyed and scared, like Milo couldn't believe he was hearing himself ask that. He'd seen it in the way Milo had looked at him when Rory had arrived on his doorstep each Friday night, his eyes crinkling slightly, like he didn't even realize he was smiling as he inclined his head to kiss Rory.

He'd seen in the way Milo had slipped his arm around Rory at the wedding, giving him strength because he knew Rory needed it, in the way Milo had kissed him outside the reading, as the snow swirled down around him, fierce and dirty and apologetic, in full view of everyone else.

He'd seen it, felt it in the way Milo held in him in the morning, when he thought Rory was still asleep, running his hand through Rory's hair so gently, so tenderly, that Rory thought his heart might break.

Rory finally got the door open, storming into the living room.

"Holy shit, dude, you okay?"

Andy was sitting on the couch, playing some game, and he looked up in alarm.

"No, I'm not," Rory managed to get out as he went into his room and threw himself down on his bed. A moment later, he heard a knock and his door opened.

"Is it okay if I come in?" Andy asked.

Rory made a snuffly, non-committal noise into his pillow. A moment later, the mattress sunk as Andy sat down beside him.

"Did… something happen with Milo?" Andy asked. Rory rolled over, his face burning with shame.

"Yeah," he said, his voice thick. "You were right. I was a fucking idiot."

Rory pulled himself up into a sitting position, wiping his face impatiently with the back of his hand. Andy was clearly very freaked out by all this raw emotion, but Rory appreciated that he was still here, willing to listen.

"What happened?" Andy prompted.

"I thought… God, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud, but I thought I could fix him," Rory said grimly. "Like, duh, Rory. He kept telling me over and over that he didn't want a relationship and I just kept pushing and—"

"Slow down," Andy said. "It's not your fault—"

"It is, though," Rory insisted miserably. He drew a deep breath. "I think the hardest part is that… I really could see him changing. Like, he was working at it."

"Working at what?" Andy asked.

"Everything," Rory said. "He started going to therapy, he quit smoking, he quit drinking—he got way more… affectionate, and I could tell he was really making an effort. To show me he cared."

"Wait—but then why—"

Rory ran his hand through his hair, replying the awful conversation from that morning again.

"I asked him to move with me," Rory said. "To California."

"And he said no?"

"He freaked out," Rory said. "It was like… I dunno, it was like watching him go back in time to this winter. I could practically see the walls go up, you know?"

Rory stopped for a moment, taking another breath to steady himself. Andy reached out and awkwardly patted him on the arm.

"I just… really thought things would work out," Rory said at last.

"Did he end things?" Andy asked.

Rory let out a dry, dark laugh.

"I don't even know. I guess. I'm tired, though. I'm tired of being the only who fights for our relationship."

Andy made a soft, sympathetic noise.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Rory looked sadly at the wall by his desk. There was a little drawing tacked to the wall, a silly doodle of a dog on a skateboard, wearing a scarf and smoking a cigarette, that Milo had drawn. Rory had stolen it. He found it under Milo's couch one morning—it had fallen out of a notebook and been forgotten. He'd liked having something of Milo's in his room.

"Yeah," Rory said, his voice heavy. "Me too."