Scorpius sat there and watched Hugo leave, making no attempt to stop him, no attempt to run after him and beg him to come back. Pride, anger, frustration, and so many other things kept him sitting right there on the dilapidated couch.
He wouldn't be happy with his father, not for a long time. But he couldn't be happy with Hugo and his black and white expectations either. Scorpius couldn't do that. He couldn't fit the cookie-cut Hugo already had made out for him. How could he be happy always trying to be someone predetermined by the future? Scorpius couldn't.
Where was that cheap bottle of firewhiskey when he needed it?