Archive of Our Own

Wider Water

A slow corrosion worked between Ennis and Alma, no real trouble, just widening water.

- Brokeback Mountain - Annie Proulx

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Shit!

One step led to two - faster - that led to twenty - faster still. And every one of them accompanied by the litany that repeated in his mind like a scratched record.

Stupid, stupid, stupid fuck! Ought a know better, ought a know better. Sure as hell ought a know better by now.

But he'd let himself fall into that trap anyway: hope - almost abandoned so many times - just didn't need much in the way of encouragement to spring up again, full grown and spreadin' its wings in the faintest glimmer of sunlight.

Only . . . there wasn't any sunlight. Not really. Just a silly reflection, glinting off the broken pieces of his own memories and comin' up cold and hard against the chiseled stone that was Ennis' face and the icy glitter in his eyes.

Thinkin' out loud was never gonna be a good idea when Ennis Del Mar was involved, as he'd never been much interested in sharin' thoughts.

Or anything else - except bodies. This body.

Jack stopped suddenly, as abruptly as if he'd slammed into a rock wall.

Could it be . . . was that really all there was? Was there nothing else? When all was said and done, was he just a convenient hole that happened to fit Ennis' cock just the way he wanted?

He almost staggered then - almost fell - and when he started moving again, he was no longer walking. It was a sprint now - a futile effort to outrun the mocking laughter erupting in his mind; a pause to duck into the tent, to retrieve a fresh bottle of booze - a painkiller - and he was running again.

Had t' git away now. Had t' run until he couldn't hear it no more.

Behind him, Ennis was muttering to himself as he waded into the stream to retrieve the cooking pot he'd dropped during his tirade about Jack's stupidity, but Jack really couldn't hear what he was saying. What was inside his head was way too loud to let him listen in on anything else.

An all-out sprint to the little clearing behind the tent, where the horses were tethered and munching on the first tender shoots of spring grass. It was still cold in the Big Horns, but the march of the seasons continued apace.

But something in Jack, something new and sharp and bright/hard as steel told him that this was a different kind of cold; the kind that would live in his bones for the rest of his life.

Not pausing to think about what he was doing or debate its wisdom, he grabbed his gear and saddled the bay mare that Ennis had always brought for him - blanket, saddle, cinch, bit, bridle, reins. He whispered the words as he went along, as if he might forget what to do or how to do it if he stopped talking.

And never mind the fact that he'd been saddling horses all his life. He'd been doing some other things all his life too - or so it seemed - and it appeared he hadn't really known how he should go about them either.

Springing into the saddle, almost like he had when he was just a sprout, and pounding off down the trail, enjoying the muffled ga-lopp, ga-lopp, ga-lopp of the hoofbeats, carrying him away, faster and faster - too fast for the narrow, twisting trail, but what the hell? What difference did it make?

What difference did anything make any more, now that his eyes were finally open?

Now that he had forced himself to take a big bite of truth and swallow it in one big gulp.

It ain't never gonna change. He ain't never gonna change, and I ain't never gonna be no more to him than a dirty little secret that he can fuck to his heart's content, whenever he decides t' take time out a his real life - the life that matters.

He might have heard a shout ring out behind him as he rode away - just his name and a curse or two - but he wasn't sure. Wasn't sure he cared, either.

Down the mountain he went, taking whichever trail caught his eye, not really knowing where he was going; only that he had to go somewhere, pausing now and then to take a long drag at the whiskey bottle, or to light a cigarette.

Away. That was the important word. He had to be away.

His eyes were bleak with despair when he realized that he had never before wanted or needed to be away from Ennis.

And now, he wasn't entirely sure that he wouldn't feel that way forever.

Was this . . . the end of it all? Could he just ride away, and keep on riding?

He'd been pushing forward for a long time when he paused at the lip of a small overlook and gazed out across a narrow valley, noting that the quality of the sunlight had shifted toward the beaten gold of late afternoon. He should be worried, he supposed, since he had no idea of where he was, or where he was going, or even how to go back . . . if he decided to go back, and he'd been gone long enough to be fairly sure that he couldn't find his way back to the campsite before darkness settled in.

He should be scared, but he found that he just couldn't dredge up enough energy to feel much of anything.

He rode on, shadows stretching out before him now, blending in with the creeping gloom of the great lodgepole pines and the black-emerald swatches of wild juniper. Off to the east, he spotted a circling of buzzards, and spared a minute to wonder what they were watching, what kind of poor creature was gasping its final breath before providing the great ugly birds with their next meal.

He might have called up a stray thought about the predatory nature of the circle of life, but he chose not to dwell upon it. It struck, at that moment, a little too close to the bone for comfort.

It was almost dusk when he came to the end of the trail - such as it was - and he sat there for a while, hands braced across the pommel of his saddle, and wondered if this had been his intended destination all along.

He didn't really think so, but what, after all, did he know? Maybe, sub-consciously, he'd been aiming for this place from the moment he'd climbed into the saddle, even though he was pretty sure he hadn't realized that it was anywhere nearby. Maybe he'd been looking for a path into the past, to a time when he'd still been able to believe in something beyond the moment.

It had been a long, long time since he'd been here, but it hadn't changed at all, and he found the sameness comforting somehow.

He slipped down from the saddle, a little unsteady, reeling just a bit, and moving with the exaggerated caution of a man who knows he's drunk enough to make some serious mistakes. Then he tethered the mare to a tree branch, far back from the drop-off before him, before moving forward and dropping to the ground, legs dangling over the edge of the promontory.

He took a long swig from the whiskey bottle - half-empty now - and allowed memory to take him.

How young had they been then?

Jesus! Just babies! Strippin' butt-naked, an' leapin' out into the water, water cold enough t' shrivel yer balls into little walnuts, but so hungry fer each other that even the cold couldn't stop the lust. Ennis, walkin' out a the water, with that big dick already standin' up and demandin' its due. Demandin' . . .

It hit him again. The reality of it.

Jesus! Is that really all I ever was? Is that all he ever saw in me?

Another swig of whiskey, as a freshet of wind lifted from the river's surface and wrapped him in a momentary swirl of mist.

He shivered then, and looked up toward the layers of clouds building in the Southwest, before turning to note the position of the sun. Low on the horizon now, spilling its crimson glow over the far peaks, and bloodying the underside of thick, ominous thunderheads.

Might rain tonight!

He shivered again, remembering that his rain gear was all still neatly packed up back in the tent, the tent that was somewhere up the mountain behind him . . . somewhere.

It occurred to him again that he really should be concerned; he should care.

But it was just too much trouble.

Another drink, another sigh.

Another memory - more fucking. The sweet slick glide of that perfect cock, burying itself in his ass, working him, sending him up and up, soaring into mindlessness, feeding his hunger, burning him, branding him.

Marking him as surely as if he'd been tattooed with a No Trespassing sign.

Why didn't I ever see it before? That it was jus' the sex fer him. That he never wanted nothin' but that.

Because he called me "Little Darlin"? Because he sometimes tol' me I was purty? Shit! He calls his horses "Little Darlin", and lots a things are purty . . . and Goddamn near useless.

He laughed then - laughed at himself and his own stupidity. Laughed on the outside, to drown out the ugly guffaws on the inside. Laughed at the pitiful assortment of broken dreams that seemed to be the accumulation of everything in his life.

Then he drank some more and watched the sun slip down past the horizon.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You want a live yer fuckin' miserable life, go right ahead. I was jus' thinkin' out loud."

"Y'er a real thinker there, Jack Fuckin' Twist. Got it all figgered out."

As the afternoon wore on, Ennis kept going over it in his mind, hearing the hateful words come out of his own mouth. That was bad enough.

But remembering the look in Jack's eyes . . . that was worse.

Jack, in his blue shirt and that red vest, and how the fuck was it that a man could wear that color, would choose to wear that color, and have it light up his whole face, and make them devil-blue eyes even bluer and that black hair even blacker? God damn, but he was still a beauty, even if he did refuse to shave off that fucking mustache, and even if Ennis did prefer him in a black hat rather than the fawn-colored one he was wearing these days. Of course, he never would have offered up an opinion on things like that; Jack already knew too well what Ennis thought about his looks and wasn't above using them good looks to get his way.

But what Ennis had seen in those blue eyes as Jack had walked away, that hadn't been so beautiful.

That had been . . . scary.

But not as scary as the feeling that washed over him when he realized that Jack had gone - really gone. Saddled up and rode away without looking back even once.

Ennis had yelled after him when he'd spotted horse and rider trotting away, shouting, "Git yer ass back here, Jack. Goddamn it!"

But Jack had continued on his way, spurring the horse to a gallop and disappearing around the first bend in the narrow trail as he plunged into the forest.

"Stupid shit!" Ennis had raged. "Where the fuck he thinks he's goin'?"

His first impulse had been to go chasing after the dumbass, but he had clamped down hard on that urge. He hadn't been the one talking crazy, about moving to Texas - shit like that. Why should he have to go running after the stupid fuck, begging him to come back, to play nice?

What the hell was Jack thinking?

But inside, down in the deep places where he never allowed himself to look, he knew exactly what Jack was thinking, and how badly he was hurting.

Most of the time, Jack was good at hiding the ache inside him, hiding it under bright grins and smart-ass remarks, camouflaging it with that never-silent mouth.

Most of the time.

But once in a while, usually when he was tired or sleepy or mindless from being fucked within an inch of his life, he'd let something slip out. Something small, something that might have gone unnoticed, if it didn't strike a familiar chord.

A half-formed breath, a partial word, a sighed syllable.

Ennis knew, because he buried the same deep pain inside himself. But he also knew that he was better at keeping things buried. He spoke less - a lot less - having learned early in life that silence covered a multitude of sins, and that was usually a source of comfort for him, knowing that most people had no idea of the thoughts and ideas - the secrets - that he held close to himself.

But if it pleased him that no one could look into his dark corners and figure out what was there, it also bothered him sometimes to realize that the same thing that kept him safe from the intrusion of strangers also served to lock Jack out and hold him forever at arm's length.

It was just safer that way, but it came with its own cost. He knew it made it worse for Jack.

So he fought off the impulse to go racing after someone who, in his view, already held way too much power over him. He couldn't give the dumbass what he wanted, and Jack never seemed to be willing to understand that the reason for his reluctance was that he couldn't bear the thought of what might happen to Jack if he ever gave in to the crazy notions.

Visions of tire irons and what they could do to that creamy flesh, that beautiful face - that was the reality. The rest was just dreams, and Jack had to learn to deal with that, sooner or later.

Even if it meant he had to go through some tough times now and then. Better that than the alternative.

The afternoon wore on, and Ennis managed to keep busy. He even caught a couple of trout, and grinned when he thought of how he'd brag about his fishing prowess to his friend, who was every bit as bad at fishing as he was at hunting: that is to say, hopeless.

But his eyes were continually drawn back to the trail that Jack had taken, watching in vain for a glimpse of the bay mare's pale hide, or the flash of sunlight dappling a bright red vest.

Finally, feeling a bit peckish, he went into the tent to rummage for something to munch on, and stood for a minute staring at nothing, lost in thought. Then he came back to himself, and realized what he was staring at. Jack's coat, which he would need when the sun went down. It was already a lot cooler than it had been at midday, but not nearly as cold as it would be later.

He picked up the coat and, for just a moment, buried his face in its silky softness. Like most of Jack's things these days, it was expensive - feather light and filled with down - and it smelled of him, the aromatic blend of cigarette smoke, traces of the after-shave he favored when he wasn't roughing it in the wilderness, the sweet, pungent smell of wood smoke, and another scent - indefinable - which was simply, uniquely Jack.

Ennis looked at his watch - the watch that had been a hand-me-down from Jack when he'd gotten a new one as a Christmas gift from his rich wife, the watch with a stylized J.T. engraved on the underside of its case - and saw that it was after four already.

He went outside then and stood for a moment, looking down the mountain and then up at the sky.

Shit!

He really didn't like the look of the clouds piling up in the Southwest.

For a few minutes, he stood thinking, weighing his options. But, in the end, he knew he didn't really have any options. He couldn't not go looking for Jack. Maybe he was hurt, or maybe he'd gotten lost. Maybe . . .

He sighed, realizing that exploring a wealth of maybes wasn't going to do him or Jack any good.

Wrapping up a bundle containing Jack's coat and rain gear, and adding it to his own, he decided that he couldn't wait any longer. Daylight was burning fast, and he'd need light if he stood any chance of following Jack's trail. Like most ranch hands, he'd done his share of tracking in searching out lost steers, but he was no expert.

But he wouldn't let himself worry about that.

He'd find Jack. He'd find him, because not finding him just didn't bear thinking about.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was almost full dark by the time he rounded the final turn and found his prey sitting on the edge of a cliff ahead of him. Prey - as in the target of a search that had grown more and more impatient and resentful as the light had drained out of the sky and the adrenalin levels in his body rose higher and higher, spurred by fears he could not suppress.

How many times had he stopped for a moment, struck by the myriad answers to the simple question, "What if . . ."

By the time his quest ended, he was beyond angry, beyond enraged; he was stone-cold, white-hot furious, and to find Jack at the end of it, hunched into himself with his arms clasped tight against the growing chill, puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette - one of the "funny" ones that Jack always managed to pick up somewhere on the way up from Texas - provided the impetus to propel him into an uncontrollable urge to inflict damage, to punish.

Ennis leapt from his horse and strode forward, his hands reaching out, seemingly of their own volition, to wrap in the collar of that God-damned red vest and haul its hapless wearer to his feet.

"Stupid fuck. Stupid, stupid, stupid fuck," Ennis snarled, shaking Jack with every syllable, expecting him to cringe away or offer up instant, infinite apologies.

Neither of them would ever know who was more surprised when Jack, confused and disoriented but still nursing the massive hurt that had sent him racing away from his companion in the first place, planted both feet, clinched his fist, and drove it squarely into the jaw of his assailant.

Ennis Del Mar was much more accustomed to dealing out punishment than taking it, and when he went down, landing solidly on his ass, with drops of blood swelling from a cut lip, his reaction consisted of equal parts astonishment, outrage, and . . . a reluctant surge of pride. Angry or not; stupid or not; ass-over-elbows confused or not; this was his man. His man, for all time. And a tiny little voice in his mind dared to whisper that maybe, just maybe, he had been pushing for this reaction for all the years they had known each other. Maybe he had always known he deserved a dose of payback for all the times he'd dished it out, confidant in his knowledge that Jack, because of the love he was never allowed to speak or acknowledge, would just continue to take it, never striking back. Never looking to get even.

Until now.

"What the fuck did ya do that for?" he demanded, slowly picking himself up.

"Because," muttered Jack, eyes cold and glittering. "Because . . ." But he seemed to lose his train of thought as a fresh wind rose from the river, and he started to shiver.

"Brought yer coat," said Ennis, trying to edge closer slowly, so that Jack would not over-react.

Jack laughed, but there was a hard edge to it. "Good fer you. Gotta protect yer ass-ets, don't ya?"

"What are ya . . ."

"Ass-ets, Ennis. Don't ya git it. That's what I am, ain't it?"

Ennis sighed. "What ya are, Jack, is drunk."

"Gittin' there," Jack retorted. "Still workin' on it, but . . ."

"Not no more," Ennis said quickly. "Y'er done."

Jack struggled to stand straight, and even achieved it - more or less - except that his entire body seemed to tilt to his left, more with every breath. "Who died," he muttered, "and made you . . . whatever . . ."

"Come on, Jack," Ennis said finally, softly. "Gittin' cold out here, an' it's gonna rain soon. Let's git on home an' . . ."

"This ain't yer home," Jack bellowed suddenly, his face suddenly tight and grim. "I ain't yer home."

Ennis froze, hearing the desolation in those few words and realizing, finally, what Jack was saying.

Forgetting caution, forgetting everything except the hurt he heard in that desperate voice, Ennis leapt forward and wrapped his arms around Jack's shoulders, just in time to keep him from falling flat on his face. "Yes, you are," he whispered, his lips soft against Jack's temple. "You are m' home."

But Jack wasn't ready to concede defeat yet, wasn't yet able to release the ache in his heart. "Just a convenient place fer you to stick yer cock," he said finally, his shivering increasing to violent tremors.

Again, Ennis went still, the words driving into him like the blade of a knife. Was this the result of the lessons he'd been trying to teach Jack through all these years? Was this the message he'd sent, in place of what he'd meant to say? Could Jack really believe . . .

As much as he wanted to argue, to grab Jack and shake this bitter misconception out of him, a flicker of lightening in the looming sky suggested that there was no time, that keeping Jack safe was more important - for the moment - than easing his pain.

"Come on, Little Darlin'," Ennis said finally, gently. "We gotta get back t' camp. Storm's comin' up fast."

Jack said nothing for a while, lifting his head to try to orient himself. "You go," he said finally, barely whispering. "Don't think I can ride." Then he paused and looked straight into Ennis' eyes. "An' it don't matter none anyway. Jus' . . . leave me, an' go."

"Cain't do that," Ennis answered, mustering up a tight smile. "Cain't leave ya here."

"Why not?" Jack's voice had settled some, the truculence draining out of it slowly, but he was still hanging on to his anger as a shield against the hurt he could not dissipate, so that now he sounded like a petulant child.

"Because I need ya with me," Ennis said simply, softly. "The night's too long, when y'er not around."

But Jack was shaking his head. "Told ya. Cain't ride. Don't think I can stay in the saddle, so you jus' . . . take the horses and go back, an' I'll . . . "

"What? You'll what?"

"Stay here," came the whispered response. Jack was swaying now, barely able to stay on his feet. "I'll jus' stay here. Ride it out."

"You'd freeze, Jack. Y'er fergittin' how cold it gits here at night."

"Don' matter."

With an impatient snort, Ennis leapt forward and pulled Jack against him. "It matters t' me. Ya'll ride with me."

For a moment, Jack stiffened, as if he meant to resist any effort to force his cooperation, but then he abruptly went limp and passive and allowed Ennis to help him into his expensive parka and urge him back away from the edge of the promontory. But then, Ennis paused for a minute, lost in remembering when they'd been here last, all those long years ago.

Jack had been so young, so beautiful . . . so full of hope.

And now, Ennis realized, as a deep ache settled around his heart, he had pushed his young lover to the end of that particular rope, and he wondered why he didn't feel some kind of triumph, in that he had finally succeeded in destroying the last vestige of that impossible dream.

So how was it, he mused as he guided Jack to where his big stallion waited and hefted him into the saddle, that there was no sense of victory in his heart? There was only a vast aching emptiness, giving rise to the single tear that welled in his eye as he collected Jack's mare and climbed into the saddle and wrapped his arms around his now quiet companion to begin the long trek home.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The trip back up the mountain, through the darkness and the onset of torrents of driving rain that caught them when they were only half way to the campsite, was a nightmare for Ennis, testing his strength, his reflexes, his always-challenged eyesight, and his patience. In addition, Jack, who had fallen into a fitful doze once Ennis had settled behind him in the saddle, roused himself periodically, to argue that Ennis should just leave him there in the forest, that he was more trouble than he was worth.

And every word was like a blade driven into Ennis' heart as he realized how blind he'd been, and how much damage he'd inflicted.

But how could he have done otherwise, he asked himself, as he struggled through the storm, clasping Jack against his chest. How could he risk allowing Jack to build up his hopes, knowing that the concept of keeping his mouth shut and his aspirations to himself was as foreign to Jack Twist as practicing yoga was to Ennis? How could he let Jack risk life and limb to hold on to a dream?

Cain't do it. Cain't take th' chance a him windin' up in a filthy ditch somewhere, bloody and beaten into a lump a flesh. Jus' . . . cain't.

But if he continued to behave as he had in the past, would Jack be able to withstand the despair that was building up in him, more with every passing year? What if the measures Ennis had taken wound up costing him the very thing that he could not stand to lose? What if . . .

Thunder crashed and the rain fell harder, and Ennis had never felt more lost, even though he knew exactly where he was.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The wind was howling like a wild thing well before they reached the campsite, and Ennis feared that it might have taken the tent and wrecked the camp, so it was with a huge sense of relief that he found the nylon dome still standing, its door still zipped and protected against the tempest. There would be no fire, of course; not on this wild night. But the bedding would be dry and downy soft, and Ennis was grateful, for once, for Jack's propensity for purchasing new sleeping bags and camping equipment every year or so and always making sure that they were the best money could buy.

They had never talked about the arrangement, of course; that would have meant acknowledging that there was an arrangement. So, for years, Ennis had provided the horses for their packing trips, and Jack had provided most everything else: camping gear, provisions, park fees, booze, and the little extras he always managed to pull out of his hat to surprise Ennis - a powerful little transistor radio one summer, or a compact portable grill, maybe, or, one year when the holidays were getting close, a box full of homemade fudge, and, one cold, wet winter, an inflatable air mattress to cushion the frozen ground. It was a one-sided agreement, of course, but it allowed Ennis to accept the largesse of Jack's generosity without having to humble himself to do so, and it suited them both.

But Ennis had always known the truth, even if they never spoke of it. In a material sense, life had been kind to Jack Twist and less than kind to Ennis Del Mar. Yet, together, they managed to maintain equal footing.

Nevertheless, on this night, Ennis was tempted to speak up and acknowledge (to God, at least) that he was grateful that Jack had married a rich woman. Otherwise, they'd have both been in for a miserable night.

With rough urgency, he maneuvered his stallion as close as possible to the tent and dismounted quickly, dragging Jack down with him, and manhandling him into the tent. He paused just long enough to remove Jack's soaking coat and outer clothing, brush a hasty kiss against the nape of his neck, and push him into the waiting softness of their joined bedrolls, before hurrying back out into the storm to see to the horses. No matter how weary or frazzled, a cowboy always took care of his animals; it was sometimes a thankless duty, but there was never any thought of shirking it.

As he performed the necessary chores, there was one brief moment of resentment, as he maneuvered Jack's saddle into place under the protection of a roped-down tarp, but it was gone almost before it formed. The important thing, he conceded, was that Jack was safe, tucked up cozy in the tent, and waiting for him to . . .

He paused and blinked. To . . . what? To prove that what Jack had been thinking, what he obviously believed . . . was right?

He resumed his chores more slowly, ignoring the downpour around him and the rumble of the storm, and trying to settle the confusion in his mind.

What could he do? Could he ease the pain Jack was enduring, without endangering the cover that he'd created through the years? And if he couldn't, which would he choose to salvage? His safety and Jack's? Or the spirit of the young man he loved?

He blinked again. Oh, yes. Though he almost never admitted it, even to himself, he knew full well that what he felt for Jack was love - had always been love.

So what did he save? Jack's life (and his own) . . . or Jack's heart?

When he finally made his way back to the tent, cold and sodden and almost exhausted, he still hadn't come up with a definitive answer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It should have been cozy, he thought. The sound of raindrops splatting against the curve of the tent's roof when the howl of the wind settled finally to a softer moaning and the tumbling rush of the stream subsided to a steady gurgle, accented by the occasional bright splash of a freshet breaking against an upthrust stone, and the throaty baritone roar of thunder gradually receded to a distant rumble; it should have been cozy.

He had managed to discard his soggy underwear and socks, and crawl into the cocoon of the conjoined sleeping bags, nestling into the sueded softness of flannel-covered down, pausing only to switch on a battery-powered lantern - a beacon in the stormy night to light the way for Ennis - before burying himself in thick, fragrant darkness.

It should have been cozy, but it was only cold and silent, and the fragrance called to mind too many things that he dared not allow himself to dwell on at that moment.

Jack burrowed deeper into the tumbled covers, desperately seeking solace and warmth, but knowing in his heart that the cold was more than skin-deep, that nothing around him, nothing he could wriggle into, was going to make any difference.

He listened and imagined that he could hear Ennis seeing to the horses above the voice of the tempest, leading them to the shelter of the tiny clearing and removing tack, tethering them and making sure they were secure and safe, before hefting saddles and gear to his shoulders to stow it safely beneath canvas.

Cleaning up Jack's mess.

Paying for Jack's services.

Paying for his whore.

Jack flinched away from the thought, but could not put it from his mind.

He moved then, pulling the soft cover away from his face so that he could stare up into the shadows overhead. It was easier that way, he realized. When his eyes were closed, he saw too much, envisioned too many memories.

His eyes were hot, scratchy, and he wondered if allowing himself to cry - just a little - might make him feel better. Tears had never come easily to him, not since he'd learned as a very little boy that there was nothing to be gained from allowing them to fall, but he thought that anything might be better than this awful rasping dryness. Then he caught himself, realizing that feeling better wasn't the issue. He wouldn't cry in front of Ennis; he never cried in front of Ennis. It was a matter of pride, which, he admitted, was probably pretty stupid, all things considered. But he'd held on to that tiny spark of self-respect through all the long years, and he wasn't about to let it go now.

Especially, said a little voice in his mind, when it might be the only thing you have left.

Ennis was gone for a long time, and Jack wondered briefly if he should dig out some dry clothes and go out into the storm to look for him. But in the end, he remained where he was, in the realization that he was too drunk to be of any real help, and Ennis was more than capable of handling anything that needed handling. Tonight, and always.

When he finally heard the sound of boots drawing near, splashing through mud and ground water, he rolled onto his side, with his face turned away from the tent's entrance, determined to give Ennis the opportunity to do whatever he might wish, to doff dripping clothes and dry himself and seek the comfort of his bedroll and the solace of sleep, if that's what he chose.

Thus, he went deathly still, feigning sleep, when Ennis stooped to enter the tent, pausing to remove his boots just inside the doorway before discarding his rain gear and peeling out of his coat. Then he went to his knees to take off his shirt and undershirt, before shifting to shuck out of his jeans, cussing under his breath the whole time. His breathing was hoarse and labored, and the whole tent quivered from the force of his trembling as he grabbed a towel to wipe himself down.

Jack had to remind himself to breathe.

The bedrolls were king-sized, of course, to allow plenty of room for what Jack always called "extra-curricular activities", but, zipped together as they were, a certain amount of contact between the two occupants was almost unavoidable.

Almost.

But Ennis was very careful, as he eased himself into the softness of their bedding, to leave Jack plenty of space.

Then he switched off the battery-powered lantern and settled on his back, bringing the covers up to his chin, but leaving one bare arm free, just as he did every night. It was a habit that went back to childhood.

The silence inside the tent was thick and heavy - almost smothering - as the storm outside continued to dissipate, subsiding finally to a soft, sibilant rain.

Minutes passed, filled with carefully controlled breathing and absolute stillness and the soundless thunder of measured heartbeats and abject misery.

"Jack?" Barely a whisper.

A long pause, emphasized by the distant mournful call of a nightbird. "Yeah?"

"Y'all right?"

"Uh, huh." Just a half-grunt, not even a real word.

More silence, more heartbeats.

"Ennis?" A sigh almost lost in the darkness.

"Whut?" Mumbled, quick, but gentle enough.

"I'm sorry."

Ennis turned then, shifting around to face Jack, although the thick shadows within the tent made it impossible for him to see anything except the contrast between ebony hair and fair skin. "Sorry fer whut?"

A deep breath and more silence. "Fer fuckin' up . . . agin. Fer makin' you have t' come after me. Ya know. White knight Ennis, ridin' t' rescue the dumb shithead. As usual."

Ennis brought a trembling hand up to rub at his eyes and the headache stirring behind them. "Is that how ya really see it, Jack? Is that how ya see me, an' yerself?"

The breath was deeper this time, and slightly unsteady. "How else should I see it?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ennis closed his eyes and knew. Knew that he couldn't think this through, couldn't plot it out in his mind and figure out which way to turn and what to say.

Knew that he just had to let it happen, as it would.

Firmly, without hesitation, he reached out and wrapped his arm around Jack's body and pulled him close, cuddling that warm, supple flesh against his chest and placing his mouth against the velvet softness at the nape of the neck. "Ya want me t' tell ya how ya ought a see it?" He kept his voice soft, barely audible, so that Jack would be forced to pay attention to make out the words. "Okay. Then here's how ya ought a see it."

Still moving firmly, allowing no resistance, he turned Jack toward him and positioned him so that they were nose to nose and eye to eye and mouth to mouth.

"Ya ought a see . . . that I'm nothin' without ya. That y'er my life, Jack Fuckin' Twist. That every day I spend away from ya is a day I die a little bit. That's how ya ought a see it, cause that's how it is."

But Jack was going stiff and unyielding in his arms, and trembling under a fresh onslaught of some kind of fierce emotion. He opened his mouth to speak, but what came from his mouth was not words; it was a bitter, ugly snort of laughter. "What's a matter, Ennis?" he finally managed to say. "Afraid ya ain't gonna git yer piece a ass?"

Then he turned his face away, and his voice fell off to a whisper, almost lost in the darkness. "Ain't never turned ya down before. Reckon it's way too late t' start now."

Ennis went rigid, knowing that the awful agony contained in those words would have sent him to his knees if he'd been standing. He paused, and looked for the right answer - trying to figure out if there even was a right answer - before realizing that there was no way to control this, to force the issue. Knowing that there was only speaking from the heart, and making Jack understand it.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled Jack back to face him, looking directly into his eyes and waiting until Jack was ready to do the same.

"Now you listen a me," he said finally, very gently. "You could tell me - right now - that ya never wanted me t' touch ya again. Never. An' I'd let ya have it yer way. Ain't gonna lie and say that I'd want it that way, but if that's what it would take t' make ya know how much ya mean t' me, then that's what I'd do. An' I'd still come find ya, out here in the backside a nowhere, whenever you was willin' t' come, jus' t' sit by yer side and be with ya. No matter what."

"Stop!" It was a desperate plea. "Please, just . . . stop. I never wanted a make ya feel like ya had a say things ya don't mean. An' I still don't. You can just . . . "

"Jack?" Sharper now. Impatient.

"What?"

"Jus' shut the fuck up, an' listen. I'm tryin' t' tell ya . . . that y'er my life, my everything. I love you, Jack Twist. God fergive me, but I do, an' I reckon ain't nothin' ever gonna change that."

Jack's eyes were suddenly huge, and it seemed, for a moment, that there was no air in the tent for him to draw into his lungs. "What . . . did you say?" he gasped, certain that he must have been daydreaming, lost in a fantasy.

Ennis smiled. "Ya heard me, Dumbass, an' ya needn't go thinkin' that I'm gonna start spoutin' poetry an' shit like that." He paused then, and traced Jack's lips with a tender finger. "Sayin' it don't come easy t' me. You gotta know that. But not sayin' it don't mean I ain't feelin' it."

Jack was trembling again, eyes wide and shimmering in the darkness. "Ya really . . ."

Ennis pulled him closer, leaning down to caress that luscious mouth with the tip of his tongue. "I really," he answered, "an' I'm fixin' t'prove it to ya."

The kiss started out slow and easy, almost like they were new to each other and exploring unfamiliar territory. Tender and very sweet, before growing deeper and surer as Ennis eased Jack over on his back and arranged himself on top, fitting their two bodies together as perfectly as pieces of a matching puzzle. Jack was still boneless and breathless, allowing Ennis to set the pace and lead the way, until a sudden, guttural groan from deep in Ennis' body served to pull him out of his lethargy, and he surged upward, molding his body against the one that covered him, and opening his mouth to allow that skilled tongue easier access.

It went on and on, until both needed to pull away, to draw breath, but the respite was brief, as Ennis immediately began to explore all the secret places and the best-loved spots of the wondrous feast laid out before him. The hollows of the throat, the swell of muscle, the sweet dark nubs, and the swirls of soft hair that led fingers and lips toward the treasure at the end of the dark rainbow.

Down he shifted, his mouth nibbling and tracing over every inch of sweet, golden skin, as Jack writhed beneath him, and tried, repeatedly, to maneuver himself into position to give as good as he was getting, but Ennis was having none of it, single-mindedly using his sinewy strength and the leverage gained from his position to keep Jack exactly where he wanted him.

"Ennis, I . . ." desperate, struggling to breathe as Ennis moved lower.

"Hush, now." There was a smile in the soft rumble of the voice. "Tryin' t' prove a point here."

"Ya don't gotta . . . prove nothin'."

"I know, Darlin'." Softer still, and filled with something new, something Jack had never heard in that voice before. "But I want a love ya, like I never did before. Will ya let me do that?"

Jack groaned, completely unable to come up with a coherent answer, as that incredibly hot, moist, talented mouth descended on him, a strong tongue wrapping around the head of his cock that was hard enough to chop wood with - harder, he was sure, than it had ever been before.

Ennis had done this before, once in a while, but it had never been his own idea, and he had never been terribly enthusiastic about it, but now, it seemed, he had developed a taste for the flavor, the essence of Jack Twist, and was nursing like a hungry baby at its mothers breast. At the same time, he thrust his hand into the dark warmth between Jack's legs, seeking the puckered entrance that had always been his gateway to paradise.

Still moving gently, but with greater urgency, he twisted his hand to insert one finger into that dark opening; then two, as Jack, losing the last trace of his control, began to thrust upward, burying his fingers in Ennis' damp curls and fucking that incredible mouth, no longer able to resist the compulsion.

He felt the pressure building at his core - a white-hot, molten force that would continue to grow until it burst forth, flooding through his blood stream like a raging stream of lava, stronger and wilder than any ability to restrain it . . . and he tried t' warn Ennis, in an old familiar way.

"Gun's . . . goin' . . . off."

But Ennis just held on tighter, and twisted his fingers, seeking and finding that sweet, sublime little nub at the base of Jack's passage, and stroking quick and hard.

And Jack exploded . . . and fell into the center of a star.

When he regained some semblance of consciousness, he was surprised to find that he remained in one piece, and that Ennis was lapping up the last of his cum, and making a contented humming noise, as if the taste was beyond anything he'd ever tasted before.

"Ummmm! Like sweet cream . . . an' burnt sugar."

Ennis had always loved burnt sugar.

"Jesus Christ!" Jack breathed, still unable to catch his breath, but moving just enough to nuzzle closer to his love, and to revel in the deep, dark chuckle that was rumbling in Ennis' chest.

"Convinced?" Again, just a murmur.

Jack tried to say that he was way beyond thinking, but all that came out, in a semi-squeak, was, "I dunno what . . ."

And Ennis was up on his elbow, wearin' a roguish grin. "Still not sure, huh? Well, I think I kin fix that."

"No," Jack breathed. "It's not that. It's . . ."

But words failed him then, as they'd never failed him before, as he saw Ennis dig two fingers into the jar of Vaseline that they always kept handy and reach back to insert them into his own opening, his face set in concentration and determination, but no pain or uncertainty.

Then he scooped up more of the slick substance, and proceeded to roll forward to stroke it onto the length of Jack's cock, which, given the magnitude of his previous orgasm, should have been limp and boneless, but wasn't.

Ennis laughed softly. "That's my boy," he said gently. "Always ready fer another round."

But Jack was not going to allow Ennis to do this, to do something that he didn't really want to do, just to prove a point.

"Stop!" he said, trying to catch his breath and speak firmly as those strong, rough fingers pumped his stirring flesh. "I don't want ya t' do this . . . jus' cause ya think ya gotta prove somethin' t' me."

But a steady hand moved to cover his mouth and still his protest. "Don't ya think it's past time?"

"But . . ." muffled, but determined.

Ennis moved in, mouth devouring and hungry, before moving back and making his demand. "Ya better fuck me, Jack Twist. An' right fuckin' now."

For the space of a heartbeat, Jack tried to resist; tried to be strong enough to turn away.

Tried . . . and failed.

But nothing on God's green earth would compel him to shove his way into that tight, virgin passage and take what he wanted, regardless of the cost to his partner.

So it was that Ennis Del Mar's first time - the first time of very few, actually - was a wonder of gentleness and whispered endearments, of pleasure given as much as taken, and of desire quenched in shuddering gasps and words never spoken before, and only rarely spoken afterwards.

Jack's second orgasm of that night was like the rising of the sun on a spring morning, a flood of lovely light and a welling glow of pure joy.

But it was also the final surge of his strength, as he fell from the pinnacle of happiness into the sweet warmth of slumber, trying to hold on to the memories of the night, and the solace of remembered words - words he had longed for through all the long years, words that provided the assurance that he clutched to his heart like a symbol of need answered. But in the end, he was too weary and exhausted, had absorbed too much and extended too far, and the precious trace of reassurance slipped from his fingers like a dark, silky ribbon that fluttered into the darkness just beyond his reach.

For his part, Ennis stayed awake for a time, fingers stroking easy through the thick velvet of Jack's hair as he listened to the soft rhythm of his lover's breathing.

He had done it; he had made his choice and done what he had to do, to salvage the spirit and the heart of the man he loved.

But the fear lived still, deep beneath his determination to give Jack what he needed, so the new day that was only hours away now would see a return to normalcy. He had relaxed his guard in the dark anonymity of the stormy night, but it would be back in place tomorrow. Jack had understood his meaning; he was sure of that, and he would also understand that it was something that could only happen rarely, if ever again.

It was, after all, Jack's life that was at stake, as well as his own.

He slept finally, in the conviction that he had given Jack what he needed, and that there would be no necessity to give it again.

As much as Jack might prefer otherwise, once would have to be enough.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Jack stirred and opened his eyes, Ennis was no longer at his side, which was normal. A cushy life with an office job had trained the primary salesman of Newsome Farm Equipment to sleep until well after sun-up, and he saw no reason to change that habit, even in the wild country of Wyoming.

He squinted out into the morning, and saw that it was going to be a beautiful day, the kind of fresh-washed pristine day that often followed a stormy night in the Big Horns.

He turned his head, and moaned against the sharp intrusive pangs of a headache, the kind a fella usually got from spending too much time in a bottle.

Hung-over again. It was a condition he had become very familiar with in the last few years, though it was not so common during his treks into the wilderness with Ennis.

Ennis . . . he rubbed his forehead with a trembling hand, and tried to remember the happenings of the previous night.

Tried to remember and managed to retrieve some things.

Some real sweet things, like that incredible mouth devouring him, and sending him streaking into a climax that was more like a nuclear meltdown than any ordinary orgasm.

Like long, wet kisses, and hot skin to skin, and . . .

His eyes grew wide, and he ignored the flash of pain that flared in his head. Had he really . . .

Tentatively, he reached back, exploring his own backside, and found it mostly un-tender. No throbbing, no soreness, none of the discomfort he usually endured after one of their marathon nights in the tent.

So had he really . . .

"Mornin', Dumbass," said a voice, threaded with laughter, from the doorway. "Gonna sleep all day?"

Jack stretched, and stifled a moan. "Might."

Ennis stuck his head through the tent entrance, and his eyes were soft with sympathy. "Got coffee fer ya, an' aspirin."

"My hero," mumbled Jack, trying to sound grateful but only managing borderline grumpy.

"Come on out a there. Ya'll feel better once ya git something hot in yer stomach, and some fresh air in yer lungs. It's a beautiful mornin'."

"Jesus Christ! In case ya don't remember, I hate people that 'r cheerful in the morning."

Ennis crawled further into the tent, and pulled Jack up into a sitting position, before leaning forward to drop a quick, loving kiss on his mouth. "Come on, Grump. I'll make ya feel better. I promise."

Jack sighed, and let his head fall forward against Ennis' shoulder. "You always do."

Ennis smiled, and allowed himself a quick moment of triumph. Jack understood; he had gotten the message, working up the will and the courage to send it again wouldn't be necessary.

"Git up, Darlin'. I'll be waitin' fer ya."

With another kiss, Ennis moved away and crawled back out into the morning. Jack sank back into the warmth of the bedding and lay still for a minute, smiling when he heard Ennis humming a snatch of song. He always liked it when Ennis hummed; it brought back precious old memories.

Memories.

He stirred around then, pawing through his duffle to retrieve fresh clothes, while being careful to hold his head very still to avoid aggravating his headache.

All in all, he thought, it had been worth it. Even the headache wasn't such an awful price to pay for the night he and Ennis had shared.

He didn't remember it all, of course, but he remembered enough.

He had one leg in his jeans, and was hopping to insert the other, when he was struck by a thought that sent him to his knees. A thought that he was almost afraid to examine too closely.

But he knew he could not avoid it; he had to think about this, to consider it thoroughly.

So he sat for a moment, lost in thought, and sifting through memories, struggling to determine what was real and what was fantasy.

Then, finally, he sighed, and continued to get dressed, chiding himself for his foolishness.

He knew now - knew what had really happened and knew what he had dreamed, out of desperation.

The lovemaking, the incredible orgasm, the whispered endearments - all real.

But the most precious of all the words spoken - the ones he had spent a lifetime waiting to hear . . .

Only a dream.

There was some distance between what he wanted to believe, and what he was able to believe, and he had to accept that he could not afford to console himself with bits of fantasy. Some things he remembered clearly; others he would never remember; but some things a man just knew; things that came easy to the mind, but not so easy to the heart.

He checked his boots and found them still too damp to wear, so he went to the entrance to walk out in his sock-feet, making sure that his face reflected nothing of the sad certainty of his thoughts, and the truth that he could not bring himself to ignore.

Those words - and the passion that drove them - were nothing more than a product of his own imagination

Just . . . wishful thinking.

The End.