It was so damn patronizing, was the worst thing. Ford had been thinking about this almost endlessly since he'd first seen the news in the paper on Saturday so he'd had ample time to determine which part was the worst part, though admittedly he'd changed his opinion several times. On Saturday the worst part had seemed to be that Macnair had invited him in the first place, because he had to have already been at least planning on proposing to someone — it didn't happen overnight, deciding to get married. He certainly shouldn't have told Ford to stay afterwards, or to come back Wednesday evening to do the same thing. What was the point of fucking cuddling and kissing afterwards if he was actually interested in someone else? Why nibble Ford's lower lip and whisper mine? So that was the worst part of it: setting it up like that, giving Ford all of these false starts, when he knew it was destined to end so abruptly.
By Sunday Ford had convinced himself that it wasn't really Macnair's fault for setting him up with expectations, but his own fault for having them. Obviously Macnair didn't like him, couldn't like him. Asking him to stay the night afterwards was just a pretense, maybe politeness; maybe he'd been hoping Ford would turn him down and it was only Ford's own inexperience that had seen him staying through to the morning, because he couldn't take a hint and leave when he was supposed to. Maybe it was just getting off, to Macnair, and it had been stupid for Ford to ever think otherwise. At that point the worst thing shifted — it wasn't anything Macnair had done when they'd been together, but rather what he hadn't done since. They'd had plans to see each other on Monday, and after the news broke it seemed like the very least Macnair could have done to cancel them himself, rather than just ignoring everything and hoping Ford was smart enough to pick up on the hint this time.
That was why he'd sent the letter, right before dinner; Ford felt wronged and he wanted Macnair to feel a little guilty about it, even if he didn't care about Ford or his feelings or his expectations at all. It had never once occurred to Ford, until Macnair's return letter, that their meeting might not have been canceled. And that, of course, immediately became the worst thing. Why would he want to see Macnair, after that? Why would he want to talk to him about what had just happened? He didn't need someone to let him down gently (or rather, it might have been nice but it was a week too late). He didn't need an explanation of how little Macnair cared about anything they'd done last week or how fucking in love he was with this girl Ford barely remembered from school. He certainly didn't want to hear a word about how great she was, or about Macnair's plans, or any stupid shit like that. But he'd agreed to go, after much deliberation. He'd agreed mostly because of the sheer audacity of it. If Macnair was going to be so utterly unashamed about all of this, part of Ford wanted to show up and tell him exactly what a fucking ass he was, although of course he knew that wasn't what was going to happen when he went. Macnair was going to pull some patronizing, stupid lines and Ford was going to sit there and nod and say yeah, sure, I get it, good luck to you and your fiancée and then go home feeling like shit about it.
So needless to say he was in a bad mood, and he supposed it must have been obvious, because Lestrange was asking about work as though he expected Ford to tell him the Ministry had collapsed today. "No," he admitted, shifting in his chair and flicking his thumb angrily against the stem of his wine glass. "It's not a work thing. Sorry." He considered leaving it there, but there was still a vague question in the air, so he added dourly, "I'm supposed to meet someone after this and I don't really want to."
By Sunday Ford had convinced himself that it wasn't really Macnair's fault for setting him up with expectations, but his own fault for having them. Obviously Macnair didn't like him, couldn't like him. Asking him to stay the night afterwards was just a pretense, maybe politeness; maybe he'd been hoping Ford would turn him down and it was only Ford's own inexperience that had seen him staying through to the morning, because he couldn't take a hint and leave when he was supposed to. Maybe it was just getting off, to Macnair, and it had been stupid for Ford to ever think otherwise. At that point the worst thing shifted — it wasn't anything Macnair had done when they'd been together, but rather what he hadn't done since. They'd had plans to see each other on Monday, and after the news broke it seemed like the very least Macnair could have done to cancel them himself, rather than just ignoring everything and hoping Ford was smart enough to pick up on the hint this time.
That was why he'd sent the letter, right before dinner; Ford felt wronged and he wanted Macnair to feel a little guilty about it, even if he didn't care about Ford or his feelings or his expectations at all. It had never once occurred to Ford, until Macnair's return letter, that their meeting might not have been canceled. And that, of course, immediately became the worst thing. Why would he want to see Macnair, after that? Why would he want to talk to him about what had just happened? He didn't need someone to let him down gently (or rather, it might have been nice but it was a week too late). He didn't need an explanation of how little Macnair cared about anything they'd done last week or how fucking in love he was with this girl Ford barely remembered from school. He certainly didn't want to hear a word about how great she was, or about Macnair's plans, or any stupid shit like that. But he'd agreed to go, after much deliberation. He'd agreed mostly because of the sheer audacity of it. If Macnair was going to be so utterly unashamed about all of this, part of Ford wanted to show up and tell him exactly what a fucking ass he was, although of course he knew that wasn't what was going to happen when he went. Macnair was going to pull some patronizing, stupid lines and Ford was going to sit there and nod and say yeah, sure, I get it, good luck to you and your fiancée and then go home feeling like shit about it.
So needless to say he was in a bad mood, and he supposed it must have been obvious, because Lestrange was asking about work as though he expected Ford to tell him the Ministry had collapsed today. "No," he admitted, shifting in his chair and flicking his thumb angrily against the stem of his wine glass. "It's not a work thing. Sorry." He considered leaving it there, but there was still a vague question in the air, so he added dourly, "I'm supposed to meet someone after this and I don't really want to."
Set by Lady!