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Mickey doesn’t cry. He doesn’t cry because he’s a fucking Milkovich, and crying isn’t something a Milkovich does. But there’s no rule against blinking back the unwelcome moisture in his eyes, against curling into himself and forcing air through his throat and swallowing until he can breathe easily again.
Mickey doesn’t write letters to Ian. He doesn’t even think about writing letters, like some damn words on a page will bring Ian back to Chicago, back to him. He knows it’s too late for that. He doesn’t even have the fucking address of the camp where Ian is being turned into even more of a good soldier boy than he already was, and he refuses to walk up to the Gallaghers' house to see if they have the info. He only gets as far as the gate before going back home.
Mickey doesn’t hate himself. He may not have passed an English class, but he knows that hate isn’t a strong enough word for what he feels right now. Knowing that if he’d had the strength to get out a few more words, to choke something past the sudden lump in his throat - that if he’d done that maybe Ian wouldn’t have gone. Knowing that it's his own weakness that's caused all of this, his weakness alone.
Mickey doesn't hate himself. He fucking loathes himself.