Dear Emmaline - Chapter 3
Title: Dear Emmaline
Author: Bud [cwby30]
Genre: au
Disclaimer: Brokeback Mountain and these characters (except the OCs) belong to Annie Proulx, Jake Gyllenhall, Heath Ledger and others. I'm just borrowing them for a short time. No disrespect intended. I do this for me for fun, and make no money off any of it.
Summary: A letter forces Ennis to rethink his relationship with Jack, and sends him on a trip to Lightning Flat, where he meets more than Jack's parents.
Author’s Note and/or Warnings: PG13 [M/M situation suggested]. Follow the links!! I appreciate all the comments.
Thanks again.
Bud
Chapter Three
After washing up, he slowly walked across the hall and hesitated before crossing the threshold into Jack’s little room. His hands trembled as he touched the desk, the carving of a horse, the dusty gun rack holding a Red Ryder BB gun, the shelf with old family pictures in frames. He sat in the chair and looked down the driveway and the gravel road beyond it, and thought of Jack sitting there, years on years, half his life before Ennis, half his life after, hoping and planning to be free of this place and follow his dreams, then hoping to make this place the place of his dreams. Jack would never be free of this place or his dreams, and over the last twenty years Ennis had made sure that his dreams would not be followed.
Turning away from the pain of those memories, his eyes ran over the contents of the open space that acted as a closet in the room. Shirts, jeans, belts, boots, some old some new. Recognizing the jacket Jack had worn last weekend, he walked over to touch it, pulled a sleeve to his nose, breathed in the smell of smoke, sage, dust, dirt, sweat, sex and all those other comforting scents of Jack. Letting go, he saw some blue cloth sticking out from a side cubby. Curious, he reached in and pulled it out. A shirt, actually two shirts, one inside the other, outside a blue chambray shirt with dirt on the sleeve, like Jack used to wear back in the days when…
Suddenly he felt light-headed. The dirt on the sleeve wasn’t dirt. The dirt was dried blood, his and Jack’s blood. The shirt inside was his shirt, carefully tucked inside Jack’s, held by Jack, protected by Jack. For the last twenty years. As he stood with the shirts in his grasp, he finally grasped what he meant to Jack, and finally admitted to himself what Jack meant to him.
All these years… all these years… I pushed him away, shot down and stomped on his dreams, the better idea he used to have… all these years…he always came back to me… all these years…he’s loved me… and… and I’ve loved him...
And that scene in the meadow on their last day twenty years ago popped out in front of him, jerking forward, each little bit like a separate picture, then all the pictures running together, like the old nickelodeon with the side handle back at Marshall’s drugstore in Sage. Then other scenes popped up. More pictures, running together, around him. Then postcards, his postcards, Jack’s postcards, they all became postcards. They all moved around him, wherever he looked, postcards of Jack, of his life with Jack, and of his life without Jack, good times and bad times, swirling around him, gathering speed and force, until he felt caught inside a tornado, but not moving himself, just caught, unable to go forward or backward, always the postcards, now more with Jack than without, now all with Jack, only with Jack, good times and bad times, until only one remained on all of the postcards swirling before him: Jack of last Sunday, Jack disappointed, Jack without the light in his eyes, Jack without hope. He looked down and found his feet rooted firmly in the soil of Wyoming, Jack swirling about him, Jack’s life revolving around him, tugging at him, asking him to move, but him unable to move, Jack always on the move, coming, going, beckoning, but him unable to move. Then Jack’s face on the postcards changed, now vacant, unmoving, contorted, broken, bloody, eyes empty and unseeing yet looking through him, all swirling around him, taunting him, haunting him, his worst fears realized.
He recoiled into himself, and hugged the shirts tighter, seeking comfort, finding some, but still unable to move.
What should I do? he howled into the whirlwind without making a sound. How can I fix this? What should I do?
You already know.
A wisp of a woman materialized before him, dressed in a dark long-sleeved dress that went down to the floor and up to her neck, gray hair pulled into bun in back, a heart-shaped silver locket hanging from a silver chain around her neck, inside the maelstrom with him yet unaffected by it, almost a part of it, looking right at him, stern, her lips pressed together. He looked back, unable to escape those blue eyes boring into his soul. Jack’s eyes! Her lips never moved, but he felt and heard every word she said, and he responded without making a sound.
But how can I?
How can you not? What are you afraid of?
What if …
What if what? What are you afraid of?
What if it’s too late? What if he don’t…he don’t…
Doesn’t love you any more?
NO… NO…Don’t say that!
Why not? What are you afraid of?
Because…because I love him and he has to still love me… see, the shirts!!
Then you already know what you should do.
I know, but…
But what? What more are you afraid of?
What if… what if it’s too late and I lose him…
What if it isn’t, and you don’t, and you still lose him?
I can’t lose him, no! I can’t! But…
But what? What do you fear the most?
What if I do, and someone finds out, and…he ends up… like Earl…because of me! I couldn’t stand it!
Then fix it!
If I try to, I could lose him forever, and I can’t lose him, not to no tire irons, no!
You will if you don’t try! They will if you don’t try! Could you stand it forever, no Jack forever, lose him forever, because you didn’t try? Death is forever. Forever!
No… NO…
Then you know what to do.
Yes! I know! I KNOW WHAT TO DO!!
Then what are you waiting for? If you really want it, you gotta do something about it! Fix it! Face your worst fear! Stop wishing like a beggar, mount up, grab those reins and ride! Do it! Fix it!
And just as suddenly as it started, the maelstrom stopped. The postcards tumbled down around him, like spent leaves in late September, each disappearing in a spark as it touched the worn planks of the wood floor. The wisp of a woman dissembled like smoke from a dying fire rising through the pines. Once again he stood alone in Jack’s room.
Do it! Fix it! echoed in his mind.
Exhausted and dizzy, Ennis stumbled backwards and fell onto the bed, eyes now closed, still clutching the shirts.
“I know, I will, I know, I will,” he murmured over and over, his new personal life-determining mantra, until he slipped into dreamless unconsciousness.
tbc
Chapter 4: http://cwby30.livejournal.com/33085.html
Author: Bud [cwby30]
Genre: au
Disclaimer: Brokeback Mountain and these characters (except the OCs) belong to Annie Proulx, Jake Gyllenhall, Heath Ledger and others. I'm just borrowing them for a short time. No disrespect intended. I do this for me for fun, and make no money off any of it.
Summary: A letter forces Ennis to rethink his relationship with Jack, and sends him on a trip to Lightning Flat, where he meets more than Jack's parents.
Author’s Note and/or Warnings: PG13 [M/M situation suggested]. Follow the links!! I appreciate all the comments.
Thanks again.
Bud
Chapter Three
After washing up, he slowly walked across the hall and hesitated before crossing the threshold into Jack’s little room. His hands trembled as he touched the desk, the carving of a horse, the dusty gun rack holding a Red Ryder BB gun, the shelf with old family pictures in frames. He sat in the chair and looked down the driveway and the gravel road beyond it, and thought of Jack sitting there, years on years, half his life before Ennis, half his life after, hoping and planning to be free of this place and follow his dreams, then hoping to make this place the place of his dreams. Jack would never be free of this place or his dreams, and over the last twenty years Ennis had made sure that his dreams would not be followed.
Turning away from the pain of those memories, his eyes ran over the contents of the open space that acted as a closet in the room. Shirts, jeans, belts, boots, some old some new. Recognizing the jacket Jack had worn last weekend, he walked over to touch it, pulled a sleeve to his nose, breathed in the smell of smoke, sage, dust, dirt, sweat, sex and all those other comforting scents of Jack. Letting go, he saw some blue cloth sticking out from a side cubby. Curious, he reached in and pulled it out. A shirt, actually two shirts, one inside the other, outside a blue chambray shirt with dirt on the sleeve, like Jack used to wear back in the days when…
Suddenly he felt light-headed. The dirt on the sleeve wasn’t dirt. The dirt was dried blood, his and Jack’s blood. The shirt inside was his shirt, carefully tucked inside Jack’s, held by Jack, protected by Jack. For the last twenty years. As he stood with the shirts in his grasp, he finally grasped what he meant to Jack, and finally admitted to himself what Jack meant to him.
All these years… all these years… I pushed him away, shot down and stomped on his dreams, the better idea he used to have… all these years…he always came back to me… all these years…he’s loved me… and… and I’ve loved him...
And that scene in the meadow on their last day twenty years ago popped out in front of him, jerking forward, each little bit like a separate picture, then all the pictures running together, like the old nickelodeon with the side handle back at Marshall’s drugstore in Sage. Then other scenes popped up. More pictures, running together, around him. Then postcards, his postcards, Jack’s postcards, they all became postcards. They all moved around him, wherever he looked, postcards of Jack, of his life with Jack, and of his life without Jack, good times and bad times, swirling around him, gathering speed and force, until he felt caught inside a tornado, but not moving himself, just caught, unable to go forward or backward, always the postcards, now more with Jack than without, now all with Jack, only with Jack, good times and bad times, until only one remained on all of the postcards swirling before him: Jack of last Sunday, Jack disappointed, Jack without the light in his eyes, Jack without hope. He looked down and found his feet rooted firmly in the soil of Wyoming, Jack swirling about him, Jack’s life revolving around him, tugging at him, asking him to move, but him unable to move, Jack always on the move, coming, going, beckoning, but him unable to move. Then Jack’s face on the postcards changed, now vacant, unmoving, contorted, broken, bloody, eyes empty and unseeing yet looking through him, all swirling around him, taunting him, haunting him, his worst fears realized.
He recoiled into himself, and hugged the shirts tighter, seeking comfort, finding some, but still unable to move.
What should I do? he howled into the whirlwind without making a sound. How can I fix this? What should I do?
You already know.
A wisp of a woman materialized before him, dressed in a dark long-sleeved dress that went down to the floor and up to her neck, gray hair pulled into bun in back, a heart-shaped silver locket hanging from a silver chain around her neck, inside the maelstrom with him yet unaffected by it, almost a part of it, looking right at him, stern, her lips pressed together. He looked back, unable to escape those blue eyes boring into his soul. Jack’s eyes! Her lips never moved, but he felt and heard every word she said, and he responded without making a sound.
But how can I?
How can you not? What are you afraid of?
What if …
What if what? What are you afraid of?
What if it’s too late? What if he don’t…he don’t…
Doesn’t love you any more?
NO… NO…Don’t say that!
Why not? What are you afraid of?
Because…because I love him and he has to still love me… see, the shirts!!
Then you already know what you should do.
I know, but…
But what? What more are you afraid of?
What if… what if it’s too late and I lose him…
What if it isn’t, and you don’t, and you still lose him?
I can’t lose him, no! I can’t! But…
But what? What do you fear the most?
What if I do, and someone finds out, and…he ends up… like Earl…because of me! I couldn’t stand it!
Then fix it!
If I try to, I could lose him forever, and I can’t lose him, not to no tire irons, no!
You will if you don’t try! They will if you don’t try! Could you stand it forever, no Jack forever, lose him forever, because you didn’t try? Death is forever. Forever!
No… NO…
Then you know what to do.
Yes! I know! I KNOW WHAT TO DO!!
Then what are you waiting for? If you really want it, you gotta do something about it! Fix it! Face your worst fear! Stop wishing like a beggar, mount up, grab those reins and ride! Do it! Fix it!
And just as suddenly as it started, the maelstrom stopped. The postcards tumbled down around him, like spent leaves in late September, each disappearing in a spark as it touched the worn planks of the wood floor. The wisp of a woman dissembled like smoke from a dying fire rising through the pines. Once again he stood alone in Jack’s room.
Do it! Fix it! echoed in his mind.
Exhausted and dizzy, Ennis stumbled backwards and fell onto the bed, eyes now closed, still clutching the shirts.
“I know, I will, I know, I will,” he murmured over and over, his new personal life-determining mantra, until he slipped into dreamless unconsciousness.
tbc
Chapter 4: http://cwby30.livejournal.com/33085.html