Joe had pulled a chair towards him. He was sitting, leaning forward and keeping eye contact with Jackson. He was reaching out a hand to his arm to give him comfort. It didn't reach Jackson, who was now completely numb, from top to bottom, inside and out. The emotions and turbulence had left him empty and he didn't think he could remember how to interact. He watched Aaron's stretcher being lifted and the wheels extending out from beneath. The paramedics had placed an oxygen mask on his face and Aaron's expression was hidden behind it. Everyone was silent. The background noises of the village sounded louder than anything happening inside Dale Head.
The whole operation took too long. Excruciating minutes passed as the paramedics performed their tasks. Chastity and Paddy quietly arranged for her to go in the ambulance and Cain would drive Paddy. There was stiffness to all their words, slowness to their limbs. It relayed the disbelief that consumed everyone. If an outsider were to enter at that point, they would have surely left immediately, the tension being to dreadful a weight to bear. The strange thing was, Jackson thought, how no one seemed to be comforting anyone else. They had just witnessed something terrible together yet, other than from Joe, there was no sense of concern towards anyone. No arms circled one another. At no point did anyone utter the words 'are you alright?' Why was this? Could it have been because the appropriate focus was unclear? Which innocent bystander deserved consoling the most? There was, after all, a wealth of people to choose from. The best way to decide was to come up with a list of pros and cons for each individual. But then, as Jackson quickly realised, anyone who equals a deserving winner is knocked off the top spot by the next on the list. There's always one additional point, one extra observation, one more reason why you should feel sorrier for the next person. Best friend trumps the carer that inadvertently let slip about the explosive book. Ex-boyfriend trumps the best friend because his dreams have been shattered. Of course the Mother should definitely trump the ex-boyfriend. Any Mother with a mad man for a son deserved unconditional pity. Finally, you must not forget the current boyfriend, perhaps the most innocent bystander of them all. A guy who had flown thousands of miles to watch the man he loved unravel before his eyes. Say that this was the Olympics and the moment of ascending the podium had arrived, only there was no one appropriate for silver or bronze. These two awards came directly after gold, it indicated that the runners up were just behind, only a little out of reach and none the less just as deserving. Without a doubt though, the truth was that in this circumstance the winner was so far ahead that he alone should mount that platform. Because out of this little band of contestants, there was only one true winner. Dean. Or perhaps that should be one true loser. And it was only after looking at this with an objective eye that Jackson couldn't understand why no one had gone over to him, why that concern and consolation that everyone was definitely capable of had not been directed to the poor man. Maybe just like Jackson, they didn't have a clue what to say.
What exactly did Dean know? This was unsure. He was so quiet, with his arms wrapped around him, and his mouth slightly open. He'd retreated into the small corner of the room, seemingly not a part of the happenings in front of him. Dean knew about the book. Knew that Jackson and Aaron had once been lovers. Knew that they had an intrinsic past that coiled and wrapped with such intensity, and Jackson wondered if Dean could envisage it unravelling. What of the rest though? Jackson didn't know. He wanted the other man to leave, to go to the hospital. He wanted Dean to have everything explained by Paddy, to have his fears comforted by Chastity, for them to give reassurance. This is what he willed as Aaron was rolled out of the house. He willed for Paddy to put a soothing arm around Dean's shoulders and lead him to Cain's car. He willed for Chastity to turn around and tell Dean that Aaron needed him. Neither of these things happened. Instead their overwhelming concern was for Aaron as he was wheeled down the path. And Dean made no motion to move. So when they had finally left, five people remained. Sarah, Joe, Adam, himself and Dean. It was only then that every occupant turned a thought to the other man.
It was Adam who spoke out first. The always affable Adam, whose usual, kind, gentle smile had fallen to the wayside in exchange for a blank expression. He walked over and extended his hand clumsily in order to shake Dean's, "Dean?" they'd yet to have any kind of introduction and it made Jackson want to laugh. "I'm Adam," he said softly. It was a crazy action on Adam's part and one obviously born out of shock. What person in their right mind strolls up to someone to introduce themselves after the events just witnessed? Quite rightly the only response that Adam got was a stare at the hand, a narrowing of eye brows and a look of bewilderment. Adam slowly dropped his arm, "Are you OK?" It took a while before Dean found his voice, "No, not really." His eyes were wide with utter disbelief. They slowly moved around the room, taking in the detail, cataloguing. They looked at the papers that scattered the floor before moving on to that book that had been thrown so inelegantly at Jackson, and finally they fixed on Jackson. "Who are you?"
Who was he? Good question. He was a man, a tetraplegic, a teacher, an author. He was a man who had gone through some terrible things. But mostly he was a man who loved Aaron Livesy more than any other possible thing in the world. What did this mean, anything, nothing? How was he meant to answer this question? He couldn't and so, instead, he just stared. "Who are you to Aaron?" Twenty-four hours ago, he could have answered that. They were lovers, reunited, partners, in every sense of the word. And maybe if this had been asked twenty-four hours ago, Jackson would have been able to compose a response. It would have been full of sorrow and regret but, at least, it would have been sure. Dean looked at him, his eyes burrowing deeply, seemingly trying to comprehend, "he said 'I love you,' he said 'You hurt me. I love you so much but you hurt me every time." Jackson couldn't answer. He didn't know anymore, the certainty had left him. Maybe if it had been twenty-four hours ago, then he would have fought, would have replied with strength. Dean unfolded his arms and pushed himself further into the room, his eyes were blotchy from his earlier tears, his mouth seemed to struggle to form his questions. "Have you been together, since he's been back?" Jackson could have denied everything, should have even. But then that would require skill, the ability to formulate an alternative truth. To then think on the spot and weave and create. Jackson the author didn't have a problem with this. Jackson the man struggling to comprehend couldn't conjure the lie. His answer came out barely audible, "Yes."
"What did you do together?" They laughed, cried, argued, fought, whispered, delighted, fretted, lay so close together, made plans, shared oxygen. And Jackson could have listed each of these things but he didn't dare to utter one. "Have you been intimate?" Jackson's eyes tightly shut. He heard Dean take another step closer. "Have you kissed him?" He looked back up and felt suspended in the bright headlight that was Dean's stare. Cold shock clouded his judgment. It ruined his ability to conceal the truth. "We slept together."
"Slept together?" Dean was nearer now and Jackson watched his eyes widen, "as in, you slept in the same bed?" His body took on a tremble, it distorted Dean's outline. Should Jackson say it? Did he have to say it? A sickly feeling rose in his throat. The edges of the room darkened and the only form he could see was Dean's. Finally he breathed out a response, "We had sex."
"Sex?" Dean snorted. A half-formed disbelieving smile almost graced his face. His eyes wildly scanned up and down Jackson's frame. "How can you have sex? I thought you couldn't move."
"Aaron did all the moving." The laugh that followed was startling. It wasn't small or discreet, it didn't trickle from Dean's lips. It boomed out of him. It was hoarse and rough and verging on hysterical. He folded over before straightening. "I can't even get an erection out of him and here you are telling me that you've had sex. And it was Aaron doing all the work!" This was horrible, it was too much. Jackson wanted to press his hands tightly to his ears, close his eyes and scream. He wanted to drown every one of his senses, cut them off from the world. "We never have sex, me and Aaron," Dean said, speaking softly. "He doesn't have a sex drive. I can remember every time since we've been together." He paused and made a show of counting on his fingers. "Not even once a month and we've been together for two years. I must really love him, huh?" Jackson swallowed. "So, go on then, how many times in the last week have you and he had sex?" Jackson froze. "How many?" This wasn't right. Why was he here now, finding himself in this situation? Dean took another step closer, "How many?"
"Three."
"Three!" More laughter escaped Dean. He shook his head, wielding a glare as if it were a sword, "You can't even move but you can still get him off more than me!" They just stared at each other. Dean's nostrils flared slightly, "Did Aaron tell you all about me?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, talk about that guy who he won't let fuck him."
"No, of course not."
"Find it funny that he shrugged me off whenever my hand slid inside his trouser leg?"
"I didn't know."
"Did you laugh at me?"
"No."
"Of course you did. You must have thought I was a right fool!" Jackson suddenly came to life. This was irrelevant. It had already been established that Aaron was bipolar. That he'd stopped taking his pills. The knowledge weighed Jackson down, rooted him. It had caused his world to crash. Jackson found his voice. "No, you want to know what a fool looks like? It looks like me!" Dean stopped sharply. Jackson had his attention. "I thought I had him back, I thought we were together. All those times we kissed and made love and lay together. And you know what? I thought it was for keeps this time." His voice cracked, "But it wasn't. None of it was real. Aaron stopped taking his pills before any of this started. Apparently, they'd changed his medication before he'd even got on the plane!" Tears trailed Jackson's cheeks. "I don't know why you and Aaron weren't having sex, maybe it was because of his medication? That's possible, isn't it? Medication can lower libido!" He choked slightly and gasped around his cries, "All I know is that nothing means anything anymore!" Jackson sobbed and in front of him, Dean's image blurred before focusing. The other man was frozen. He just stared but Jackson couldn't tell what impression, if any, his words had made.
Dean spoke softly, "I didn't even know he was bipolar."
"Neither did I, until this morning." That comment threw Dean, he raised his eyes, his face scrunched up in confusion. "So you see, I'm not special, Dean. Aaron felt he could trust me no more than you. I only found out because his Mother told me." Dean glanced vacantly to the other occupants in the room, the ones that had remained silent. He shifted uncomfortably on the spot. His fingers outstretched absently by his sides. Jackson didn't know what he was thinking and, most of all, he didn't care. He was too exhausted now. He was tired. He just wanted to lie down and ignore the world. He wanted to sleep through any further drama. Then, for that second, he wanted not to wake up again. He was feeling all this and so, when Dean finally turned around and left, he did nothing to stop him.
