He didn't know if he should stand or sit. What was the correct etiquette in a situation like this? Manners dictated procedure, the procedure of rising from your chair, stepping forwards, embracing or merely shaking hands, but the nervousness that shook his knees foretold that remaining seated was the safer option. He just didn't know. Like so many things now. He hadn't known whether to propose getting a bite to eat or merely having a drink. He'd struggled between suggesting they meet in a restaurant or a café. He'd been unsure if it was better to sit facing the door or away. In the end, he'd gone for a café-restaurant, positioned himself side on, unspecified if they would be eating and sat with heavy elbows on the table, sly glances in place of direct scanning of the entrance. Even now though, with all these decisions having been half made, he still couldn't decide the most important one of all. And that was if this was a good idea.

He'd spent hours in front of his email account, weighing up the pros and cons, imagining the eventualities, but in the end he'd initiated contact, held his breath for forty-eight hours and trembled once he received the reply. And this was how Dean found himself in the smart establishment on a side road in Hotten. The place was contemporary and sparse, white walls decorated with edgy planted flowers. It was the kind of place they'd dined in together many times before and, whilst not his companion's favoured type of location, it put Dean at ease. And Dean knew he needed what comfort he could find, because this wasn't going to be easy.

Every now and again, the door would open, the traffic noise slightly magnified, and his heart thudded. His whole body would tense. He'd flash his eyes towards the entrance, and then take a sip of water and rub his sweaty palms along his trouser legs once realising it was not the person he was expecting. He hated his nerves, didn't really understand the reason for them. In their place, he should be feeling anger, resentment and bitterness. And he had, he'd felt them all before. He'd sat in darkness as these feelings played on a loop, interspersed them with tears and pity. This was why he had arranged this, because it had been over six months of struggling through these emotions and he needed it to stop.

New York was amazing, a place of infinite possibilities, and he was living there surrounded by a wall of glass. Seeing, but not feeling, hearing, but not experiencing. Life needed to go on but it couldn't. Closure was required. So he'd sent that email and now, two weeks later, he was back in the United Kingdom, immersed in a cold February, re-connected with the British sense of humour, and driving on the left side of the road. All of these oh so familiar things that were also so alien. They all tugged him between familiarity and unease. And this was exactly how he felt when that door opened again. Because this time, it was his expected companion. It was Aaron Livesy.

His heart stopped and immediately, without further consideration, Dean had climbed to his feet. Aaron's eyes fell upon him almost instantly. There was a seconds look on his face and Dean could clearly see that he had been about to run out. He didn't, instead wavering before taking a step forward. This moment had re-played in Dean's mind hundreds of times. He'd pictured someone happy, remorseful, and indifferent. He'd imagined him in a suit, in his trademark socks tucked into tracksuit bottoms, and in casual jeans. He fantasied of a confident stroll over, hesitant steps, and simply watching without moving. Every variation had been thought out, every reaction had been practiced. But at no point had he ever thought he'd see Aaron as he was now. "Hi," a small, slightly croaky voice said as it reached him. He had gloved fists bunched up inside his black winter jacket's sleeves and dark blue jeans over boots. But none of this was remarkable. None of this generated a second look. What had was Aaron himself. It was because of his gaunt face and large staring eyes. It was because of his incredibly full beard. It was because of the way he pulled off his hat before quickly smoothing down his far too long, unruly hair. And then it was because of his too thin neck that was revealed as he loosened his scarf. Dean was dumbfounded for a second. "Hi, how are you?"

"I'm good, you?"

"Yeah, I'm good." This was the only answer Dean could muster as he awkwardly reached forward to embrace. There was that fantasy that everyone had about meeting their ex. The one where the other person looked like a mess, maybe they'd lost their job and were completely alone. Of course, this only worked if, on the flip side, you were thriving. And Dean couldn't say he was any different, because he had played out this scenario many times over. What had it included? Aaron regretting leaving him? Things not having worked out between him and that other man? Yes to all of the above. And he didn't know if any of this was now Aaron's reality, all he knew was that his ex-lover looked ill. Dean couldn't help his eyes sweeping over his frame, taking in every inch. He knew that Aaron was aware of the scrutiny, but Dean couldn't squash the honesty that his concern caused. "Are you well?" Both he and Aaron took their opposite seats, Aaron continuing to self-consciously smooth down his hair after pulling off his gloves. He unzipped his jacket, revealing a dark brown shirt. It was clearly his attempt to look smart. It failed, merely giving the look of a homeless man pulled from the streets, scrubbed up and sent on his way. "Yeah I'm well."

"You don't look it." This wasn't how he thought the conversation would begin. He imagined mostly small talk. Discussing New York, the weather. Asking how each other's family was. Him reminding Aaron that his sister's wedding is this weekend and that's the actual reason he'd come back and their meeting now was killing two birds with one stone. Instead, before they've even ordered anything, he'd found himself knee-deep in the thick of his overwhelming concern because, to see Aaron like this, so thin and frail, was truly shocking. "I'm fine," responded Aaron. Dean watched him grip the edge of the table, possibly drawing confidence from its solidity. Their eyes kind of met, "I'm alright." The reassurance obviously sounded hollow even to Aaron because something in him relented and he averted his gaze. "I've been in hospital recently."

"Why?"

"My bipolar." This stilled Dean. That was the last image he had of Aaron. Catatonic because he'd stopped taking his medication. Curled to one side in his hospital bed. Blinking rapidly and jerking. It haunted him even to this day. "Your bipolar?"

"Yeah." Apparently, ever since he'd known Aaron, he'd lived with this condition but was medicated so successfully throughout their entire relationship, that he had no idea. Looking back though, Dean could see it. There would be times when Aaron was so excitable. He'd plan long trips with friends and impulsively buy random, useless items and was incredibly fun. Other times, he'd be quiet, moody and defensive. He'd insisted that they stayed indoors. Be far less talkative and adventurous. But neither of these behaviours had been particularly strange or alarming. It was only when sided by one another that they elicited consideration. Dean thought that all Aaron had to do was retake his medication and he'd be back to his old self. The one thing he hadn't considered now was that Aaron would still be struggling with it.

Thirty-one days after flying back to Dubai, he'd received an email from Aaron, suggesting he was completely recovered. It had contained a heartfelt apology for keeping his past so secret and desperate remorse at everything that had happened. He'd explained that he'd been released from the psychiatric hospital after two weeks and had thanked him for sending his things to the UK. The email had been long and Dean had sat, tears streaming down his face as he scanned the subtext, searching for signs that maybe he'd been too hasty and too easily convinced. That maybe Aaron wanted him back. He found none.

"I don't understand, I thought you had recovered?" Aaron shrugged jerkily in response. "No, it's been harder to control. I've had to go back into hospital a few times."

"A few?"

"Yeah," Aaron shrugged again. His eyes remained fixed on the table top. He looked so small and delicate and weak. His fingers trembled. "This is the third time in the last six months," his voice lowered unsurely, "hopefully it will be the last."

"And the weight loss. Is that down to your bipolar?" The small nod from Aaron's head gave confirmation and he stared off for a second. "I don't eat when I'm manic, or sleep. I look a lot better now than I did and if I can stabilize my moods for long enough, I'm sure I'll look healthy again." There was a faint determination in Aaron's voice that Dean thought verged on anxiety and he had to resist the urge to reach over. "But you're not manic now?"

"No. I'm normal now, whatever that means." He shook his head slightly, "Anyway," Aaron blinked hard as if it was required before moving the conversation along, "enough about me. How are you? How's Dubai?" Dean straightened and paused, tilting his head unsurely, trying to work out if the question was a simple error. He spoke tentatively, "I'm in New York now… I told you in my email." Fear instantly jumped to Aaron's eyes, "You did?"

"Yeah." Slight panic froze Aaron for a second before he rubbed aggressively at his forehead. "I'm sorry," he sucked in a hard breath, "I'm sorry, I don't remember." He chewed on his bottom lip nervously and glanced around the room as if it contained the email somewhere and maybe he could have a quick read over. "I forget things so easily these days."

"Don't worry, it's fine," Dean replied reassuringly. And now he could see it, he could see the emotional fragility as well as the physical. Aaron let out a small, shaky laugh and leant his head in his hands, "No one wants a nutcase for a boyfriend. I can't even remember things like a simple email. It's amazing that I even turned up at the right place. See, you had a lucky escape."

And there it was, less than five minutes into this meeting and Aaron had inadvertently given Dean the opening that he needed. The opening to push through the big, imminent weight that had borne down on Dean for the last six months. "If you'd have given me a chance, you'd have seen that I would never have cared about your illness." Aaron's face coiled instantly to apprehension and he leant back, but Dean had to continue. Even now, he wasn't sure of the point of them being here together, like this. He didn't know what the outcome of them talking would be. But there were so many things left unsaid, so many questions not even voiced and they whirled around Dean's mind, slowly drowning him, leaving him a man stalled at a moment in time. He leant forwards, sliding his arms across the table top, trying to close this distance. "Why did you never tell me?"

Aaron swallowed hard. He pulled at his coat sleeves, dragging them down once again over his knuckles and he could clearly be seen psyching himself up. "It wasn't you," he pursed his lips together, his eyes darting back and forth, alternating between meeting Dean's and avoiding. "I mean it wasn't anything you did. It's just that I've never been very good at being open. And I was dealing with it so it didn't seem important."

"Yeah, you're right, it wasn't important because you were dealing with it. But to not even have been told…" Dean trailed off for a moment, "Aaron, I had no idea."

"I'm sorry." That small answer was all he seemed able to say and Dean wanted to feel so angry about it, but he wasn't sure of the point. By all accounts, maybe he got the better deal by not knowing. After all, he'd seen the full extent of Aaron's bipolar disorder, watched him manically scream and cry, seen how out of control it left him. And that was only once. To hear that within just six short months Aaron had been in this state three times conjured horrifying images, foresaw a future wracked with complications and uncertainty. But even whilst thinking this, Dean knew that it wouldn't have made any difference. Because he had loved Aaron. It was that simple. "I wouldn't have cared," He reiterated once more, with emphasis, and Aaron lowered his head.

"So how's New York then?" He didn't miss the complete side sweep of that statement and halted, looking around for someone to come and take their order. The conversation was already tense and Dean needed to hide behind the safety that stopping to take a swig of his coffee would provide. All the waiters were busy. "It's OK. I took that job after all." That job. The one that he had flown over to arrange so that he and Aaron could live in a country that didn't persecute homosexuals. So that they could be free to marry and live together without hiding who they were. Aaron stared at the table top, not missing the history behind that sentence. "Dubai was full of memories of you and me together. I couldn't handle it, so I left." Aaron chattered his teeth "you must hate me," he said quietly.

"Sometimes." It was honesty and the only thing Dean knew for sure was that he was going to be honest today. "You broke my heart." There was no response. "I had our whole future mapped out. I thought we were going to be together forever." A pair of modern designed salt and pepper pots sat at the edge of the table, holding Aaron's attention. "Did you ever really love me?"

The response came out small and half formed, "Yes."

Dean snorted bitterly, "just not as much as you loved him, huh?" He'd never actually heard the words from Aaron. Instead, all those months ago, it was Chastity Dingle who spoke of the unconditional love he had for another man. He'd listened as she told him he was wasting his time hanging around and that evening, as his life fell apart, he'd climbed onto a plane. For every day since then, he'd feared that he'd made a massive mistake, and OK, so this was the reason he was here, now. He needed to actually hear it. Deep down, he hoped she was wrong. "Are you together?" He dreaded the answer. Aaron folded his arms tightly, his hands still hidden beneath his sleeves. Then came the slight, barely noticeable nod. Dean promised himself that he wasn't going to cry because it had been six months, six damn months. "Are you happy?"

For a moment, it seemed as if Aaron wasn't going to reply. He took a deep breath and straightened. "My life's not exactly a bed of roses at the moment, but..." he barely raised his eyes, "yes, I am."

"So, no regrets?"

"Only of what I put you through." But what had Dean been put through? He still didn't know. He knew the outcome, understood that he was alone and his life, as he knew it, was over. But he was still clueless over the individual events, couldn't track the actions that eventually got him to this place. "So tell me what happened. I need to hear it."

"What do you mean?"

Dean gritted his teeth, it helped to school the tears that he knew wanted to fall. "We were engaged, I had proposed and you said yes. So what happened… tell me, please."

Aaron's jaw moved but no words were formed. He looked to be weighing up the pros and cons of talking. And then he spoke, shakily. "My medication was changed." He took a deep breath and continued, a little braver, "I wasn't honest with how well the previous stuff regulated my moods. I thought it would be fine when the Doctor suggested swapping it. Almost straight away, I was lifted, but not manic, probably just on a slow climb. I was doing all the usual stuff I did in that state. Rampantly want to do things, emailing family. I think I emailed everyone in England that I knew and somehow it got back to…" Aaron paused, "to him."

"For some reason, he emailed me, wanting to initiate contact, and there it was. The life that I'd left behind. And it made me think of everything I'd just committed to, and I had loved him so much. So I got on the plane."

"Had you planned on getting back together?"

"Dean…"

Pleading tinged his voice, he widened his eyes at Aaron, "I need to hear this."

"Not when I'd left, but once I'd arrived…"

"You realised how much you loved him." Dean felt the tide of sickness and he closed his eyes against the reply. "Pretty much. But by then, my new medication was making me really sick. I stopped taking it and everything got a whole lot more complicated."

"I know, I was there. Do you remember?"

"Yeah." He looked away, pained for a second. "Flashes anyway. I remember you turning up and me being frantic. I remember screaming at you."

"You screamed a lot."

A humourless laugh escaped Aaron, "that's what I do when I'm manic." They both fell silent and the volume of the establishment seemed to suddenly rise, as if it granted the other occupants permission to engage in their own conversation. Dean looked around uneasily. He'd picked a public space because he hadn't wanted today to descend into hysterics and so far, he thought they'd managed it. Only just. "So when you came to from your catatonic state…?" Aaron shuddered out his reply, barely daring to respond, but the absent smile was clear, "he was there."

This was it, the answer that Dean sought. Right there, laid out across the table top. Stark and in his face, and diluted with nothing, and absolutely no chance for misinterpretation. Trembling took over his body. He looked at anything that wasn't Aaron. Resentment beamed lasers from his eyes. Heavy breaths wanted to turn into cries.

"Excuse the wait, are you ready to order?"

Dean blinked. Above him was a Middle-European man in a black shirt and trousers, and a crisp white apron. His accent was incredibly thick and he bent slightly over, pencil poised in hand, ready to write. Dean's eyes fell on Aaron. He had got what he'd needed, the truth, like a harsh reality slapping him fully in the face. His eyes barely stared away the tears that wanted to fall. Anger urged him to walk away and never think of the name Aaron Livesy again. Aaron was perched on the end of his chair. The stresses of their conversation made him look far more ill than when he first got here. He was gazing back at Dean, his eyes wide and swallowing heavily. The desperate apology in his expression created tension in his entire frame, causing him to rock.

After long moments, Dean eventually spoke, his words quiet, "did you want a coffee?" Relief flooded Aaron and he nodded minutely.

"Two black coffees please."

The waiter looked between them, slightly perplexed, clearly sensing the tension. He scribbled down the order, "thank you." Once he left, Aaron cleared his throat, he ducked his head. "Do you think you'll ever be able to forgive me?"

"At the moment, it feels like you've ruined my life."

"At the moment?"

His eyes settled once again on Aaron. "At the moment."

He'd long since abandoned marking his students work, instead alternating between staring at the wall clock and checking his mobile. The anxiety was making it difficult to concentrate and the last half an hour had been spent without any form of productivity. He didn't know what was more worrying. His partner meeting the person or the fact that his partner was out alone. It had been less than three weeks since leaving the psychiatric hospital. And they were still going through the motions of recovery. It wasn't like this was new to any of them now. Each time they'd supported him, encouraged him to get out of bed. Helped him with the tiniest decisions, like what to wear, and when to eat. And because of that time, given him a piece of paper with his address written on, just in case he forgot where he lived again. He sighed heavily, tempted to call. It had been over two hours now and he couldn't imagine what they had to say that could take so long. He prayed that the pair had fallen into the comfortable conversation of two old friends reminiscing and not into shouting and recriminations.

A turn of a handle was heard and Jackson Walsh activated his wheelchair, twisting to face the door just in time to see Aaron Livesy stepping through. He felt overwhelming relief, "Hi."

Aaron was paused in the entrance, silent, devoid of expression, and Jackson raised an eyebrow at him. "Are you OK, I was worried?"

"Yeah." He watched Aaron fumble as he pulled off his gloves and scarf. Grab at his hat to throw on the table. Unzip his coat and hang it up. Beneath all that was his pale, far too slim boyfriend, wearing an oversized brown shirt and jeans, belt buckled tightly around his waist. He'd ironed that shirt frantically this morning after realising what a mess he looked. Jackson had told him he looked great. Aaron had wished that he'd thought about it earlier and got a haircut and had a shave. He'd said, "I need not to look like a crazy person."

"So how did it go?"

Aaron sat down heavily on the sofa, "OK." This was all Jackson was getting for now, he could tell. His boyfriend needed decompression time, a chance to reflect and comprehend. In spite of the weight of the situation, Jackson couldn't help his inappropriate smile. He loved how well he knew all Aaron's personality traits, marvelled that he was an extension of the other man. Or was it the other way round?

"You look tired." Aaron had swiped a hand over his face and sighed heavily, "Yeah, I am."

"So, why don't I forget marking this work and let's go and have a lie down together. We could order pizza tonight?"

The answer came heavily, exhaustion causing the word to loose cohesion, "OK."

They made their way upstairs, Aaron closely behind the stair lift, disconnecting the wheelchair and then following Jackson to the bedroom. He'd just started once again helping with some of Jackson's care. He'd cooked beans on toast for them both recently and the other day he went to the village shop for supplies alone. All this was an incredibly big deal for Aaron, benchmarks indicating that things were going in the right direction. And they all prayed that this time the doctors had his medication right. That hopefully his next manic episode would be manageable without hospitalisation.

Once in bed, Aaron had immediately moved to rest his head against Jackson's chest. The older man was slightly propped up and able to look down at his boyfriend. The pair of them lay without saying a word, their breaths unifying in the quietness of the room. He could see Aaron gently circling his finger against his side and he smiled.

They'd had a long discussion about going to see Dean. Jackson had thought Aaron wouldn't be able to cope. He'd worried that it was too soon after coming back from hospital. He felt fearful that he hadn't quite regained the capacity to deal with any type of confrontation, because even now, sometimes, he struggled to handle conversation, let alone a full blown argument. Despite this, Jackson had supported the decision to go, even when he decided to do it alone. Because, for six months, it had eaten Aaron alive. His treatment of Dean consumed him with guilt. On quieter days, he merely brooded, when manic, he was hysterical, convinced that this was an indication of true evil within himself.

"Are you ready to talk to me now?" He heard Aaron sigh deeply, his entire body visibly relaxing and, without seeing, he knew that Aaron had closed his eyes. "That was awful," he finally said.

"Was he horrible to you?"

"No, Dean doesn't have a horrible bone in his body." Jackson pressed his lips to Aaron's crown. "So why did he want to see you?"

"I think it was about finally getting some answers…"

"…Closure?"

"Yeah."

"Just like what you needed, huh?"

"Yeah." They lapsed into silence again. This was what being with Aaron was like at times. You just had to wait.

"I caused him so much pain." His boyfriend sniffed hard and tears could be heard bubbling up. Jackson willed his arms to move, wanting to wrap them protectively. As if psychic, Aaron reached for one of Jackson's hands, pulling the entire arm across his back. After another long pause, he spoke. "Dean is a good man." It was said in a small sad voice. "He would have made me happy," Jackson waited, knowing what was coming next before Aaron even opened his mouth to speak, "but he's not you, Jackson, he's not you."

The End

Thank you to my most fantastical beta-reader Sylvain. Who always goes above and beyond.