Maybe Mica was being selfish, but he couldn't stop the accusations as they spat from his mouth like grease from a frying pan. If he was being honest with himself, and he wasn't, snapping felt nice. He had forgotten what it felt like to be this angry. When Thomas died, Mica  had become perpetually angry, constantly blaming Thomas's death for everything that felt out of his control. Eventually, he grew up; he learned better technics.  He smothered out his grief with mindless distractions, until he didn't feel anything at all and life hit a new normal. Being angry all the time, while somehow satisfying, was also exhausting.  Even now, his outburst left him feeling drained. Mica preferred a more laid back approach to problems. He took a deep breath, trying to regain that state of mind.<br/><br/>"No... No. Stay, don't go." His shoulders slumped, the blood slowly leaving his face. He ran a hand through his hair and gave a hard, baffled look at Thomas. He hesitated, then pointedly walked himself back to the couch and sat back down. "I'm sorry. Look, you can't just..." he struggled for words. He was never good at expressing himself. "This is a lot to take in."<br/><br/>Questions rolled through his head, and he couldn't focus in on one. It was all so overwhelming. He stared at the way the lamp reflected off the curve of the broken shot glass, using it to ground himself. He pulled words together bit by by. "How long do I even have you for?" He stomach lurched. He glanced up, panicked. "Oh God, is this some sort of 'last-chance conversations' shit? Is this it? I don't think I can take that. Don't do that to me, bro."<br/><br/>Mica had just gotten him back.  He couldn't wrap his head around what losing Thomas again would feel like.