Page 10 of We Were Never Lovers
“He’s a bloody weirdo,” Sean murmured to Lola.
He heard the distinct, rhythmic call of a couple of ringneck parrots—doomolok in their language. Out the back of Jack’s place, a cluster of enormous old trees flanked the rear wall and there, though he couldn’t see them, were the ringnecks. He was surprised to hear them this far into the city—they were everywhere back home and in the hills, but not so plentiful down here since urbanisation. As he slipped his eyes closed, his hand buried in Lola’s fur, his last thought before he drifted off was of his mum, there in the presence of the doomoloks, letting him know he was safe to let go and sleep.
4
The doorbell rang andSean groaned. He’d been at Jack’s place for a week and every day there were people coming and going. Doctor Harris. The people installing a temporary ramp at the front, the back, and a rail in the shower. The physio. Nurses. Jack hovered when they were around, but when it was just him and Sean, he’d get him sorted with food, pills, the bathroom, bed, whatever Sean needed physically, then disappear to somewhere else in the house. And Sean would eat, fall asleep, and wake up to find Jack sitting in the armchair near the couch, watching him, his smile holding the hint of hopefulness somebody else would be waking up, some other Sean, and when Sean scowled or, more increasingly, looked away with an uncomfortable frown, Jack would smile brightly, a fake smile, and each day that hopeful smile dimmed further.
“Any day now,” Harris said when he’d been over yesterday, clapping Sean on the back, Jack nodding firmly behind him. “It’strauma, Sean. Just the trauma. You’ve probably been feeling more agitated than usual as well?”
Sean didn’t know. He always felt agitated around Jack. But he’d been agitated around Ben, and Jayden when he’d visited, just more around Jack. “I guess.”
“All part of it,” Harris assured him. Made him promise to rest, to let the mind heal itself and it’d all come back. He’d reminded Jack not to overwhelm him with too much information, had said it in a way that made Sean think Jack had been given the same lecture at the hospital. But he didn’t want to ask. He just wanted to wake up one day and have this all make sense. And not need Jack to help him piss, shower, and get off the fucking toilet.
That first morning had almost been the end of it. Jack had knocked on his bedroom door—a room where Sean did indeed have clothes, framed pictures, footballs, the piles of shit he’d dragged from back home to the city in washing baskets when he’d played Colts for South Fremantle and then attended his first preseason training with Fremantle—and he’d searched his eyes carefully, not found what he was looking for, before he said, “Morning. Want me to take her?”
Sean raised his eyebrows.
“For a r-u-n,” Jack said.
“Whatever, man,” Sean replied coolly, his hand rubbing through Lola’s fur, her brown eyes alert on Sean like she was waiting for something.
“You usually take her,” Jack said.
“Oh.” Sean could picture it. He probably didn’t even need a lead since she was a kelpie—they’d hit the street and run straight for the beach, charge past the port, the wind and ocean spray hitting them as his feet kicked up sand and her paws dug in before him, her prints guiding his way before the ocean washed them away. He felt a pang. He wouldn’t be running again for a while. “Sorry, girl.”
“Can I get you sorted before I go?” Jack asked. But before Sean could reply, Jack had disappeared, mumbling about getting food, pain pills, and something to drink. It was a new behaviour. Sean had never noticed him do that to anyone else before; not that him and Sean talked at all beyond an as-needs basis. After Jack got traded back, that first day in the locker room he’d extended his hand, smiled warmly, nervous but excited, and Sean had looked at his hand and said, “Yeah, not gonna happen, eh.” And wandered off. Ben told him later Jack had looked blindsided, hurt. Like he didn’t know what it was about, the fucking faker. But he’d never done this—walked off, muttering to himself like some psych ward patient.
He came back with a gentle knock on the door. The breakfast he served was exactly what Sean liked—toast, lightly toasted with lots of butter, an omelette, a sliced orange, tomato juice and a black coffee. Sean looked at it and didn’t know what to say.
“Do you want me to give you a hand to get to the bathroom before I take her?” he asked.
Sean couldn’t think of anything worse—did Jack want to shake his dick for him as well? He didn’t want to think about Jack’s hand anywhere near his dick.
“No,” he snapped. “I reckon I can manage it.”
He couldn’t look up. He felt like an asshole—Jack had made him exactly what he liked and Sean was being unbelievably rude and yet, how dare Jack make him this, how dare he know what he liked. He could see Jack twisting his fingers, moving his socked feet on the floorboards, could feel him holding back what he wanted to say.
“Okay,” was all he said eventually. Then, “Lola, run?”
And she was launching herself off the bed, nails skittering on the floorboards, barks ricocheting off the walls, a soundtrack of ecstatic joy and Sean smiled; even if he had no memory of ever taking her, he wanted very badly to do it now.
“We’ll be quick,” Jack stuck his head in the door, smiled and then disappeared.
Thirty minutes later, Sean was struggling to get his wheelchair through the bathroom door and petrified he was going to piss himself. He needed to go backwards. He’d get himself lined up but with his ribs it was a struggle to keep it straight and he kept knocking into the doorframe. By the time Jack came in, calling his name from the direction of his room, Sean was holding his head in his hands and trying not to cry—furious tears, but tears all the same.
“Sean,” Jack gasped and rushed over to him. “What happened? Are you alright?”
“No, fuck, no, fuck off, you—”
Sean cut off and rubbed his eyes. Jack’s hands were on his biceps, squeezing. Sean shook his head. He fucking hated this, hated it so profoundly he knew he was about to howl with tears or tear Jack to pieces.
“Fuck you, fuck off I’m not fuckin’ alright, you goddamn fuckin’ poser, wanker, white boy piece of shit pretty boy with your dirty fuckin’ hits!”
Jack gripped him tighter. Sean dropped his hands and opened his eyes, met Jack’s looking back at him; he looked hurt, but he looked like he was willing to work around it.
“Do you need to use the toilet?” he asked evenly. He was covered in sweat, a lovely sheen over his face, matting his hair to his forehead and temples. This was the third time he could remember being this close to Jack and it kept having the same effect—derailing him, making him flustered, angry; and a tingling, a feeling he didn’t even want to fucking name, it made him want to push Jack down, to take him, to make him like it, to see him like it.
But for right now, he had a choice: piss himself in front of Jack or continue abusing him. If he pissed himself, Jack would have to help him clean up. He’d never live it down. It’d be the ammunition he’d been terrified of giving Jack since high school.
