In Pursuit of Happiness Ficlets- Talking With Ghosts
Title: In Pursuit of Happiness Ficlets: Talking With Ghosts
Author: Mia
Rating: R in places, but mostly pretty tame.
Pairing: Jack/Ennis, naturally, and brief Alma/Ennis.
Summary: Ennis-centric ficlets- see Author’s Note for a more rambling explanation :)
Warnings: References to het relationships- Ennis and Alma break up with each other, but rest assured there is no sex to get squicky about!
Disclaimer: Jack and Ennis are the fabulous creation of Annie Proulx. They don’t belong to me and I’m writing purely for fun, no money involved.
Feedback: I love, adore and cherish it!
Author’s Note: You guys, the unthinkable has happened: I have actually written something that I don’t feel like crushing into a tiny ball and stamping all over! Hooray! BUT, I must warn you, I still honestly don’t think it’s very good- there’s too much prose, it’s crazy-long (I had to break it into two- eeep), I’m more than a little rusty after seven months of nothingness, there are lots of original characters (which I know some people hate), a couple of scenes with Alma (whom I know some people also hate) and it’s not a chapter because it’s set partly before the main story but neither is it a ficlet because it’s bloody enormous and…just, ugh, I don’t know. I’m a little bit petrified that you won’t like it. It’s meant to chart Ennis’ journey as he comes to a place of acceptance and understanding about who he is, but I don’t think that really comes through either *sigh*
Anyway, enough of my boring writing neuroses. I want to apologise for the wait you guys have had between updates, and also say how grateful I am for your patience and support. If it weren’t for the knowledge that people here were still carrying a little hope that IPOH would one day return, my “block” might never have let up, and the story probably would have disappeared into the ether forever. So, to put it simply, thank you.
Love, Mia
P.S. A quick point of reference- Emmeline Pankhurst was a British suffragette in the nineteen hundreds, and is widely recognised as one of the key pioneers in enabling equal voting rights between men and women.
Talking With Ghosts.
21st July, 2007
Though the summer sun dazzles innocently through the wide-open canvas of his window, Ennis knows the instant he wakes up that things are not as they should be, as though some invisible hook has slid beneath the natural trajectory of his life and fractured it just so, pulled it subtly off-centre and left him with a world that is tilted like oddly broken wire. He sits up slowly and finds himself eye-to-eye with Alma, her toffee hair falling in torrents down around her shoulders, and though she smiles at him, the gentle shadow of tear tracks marked like tiny bruises down the perfect smoothness of her face tells him all he needs to know: today, something is very wrong.
“Is somebody hurt?” he asks cautiously.
“No, no. Everybody’s fine, I promise,” Alma replies softly, then, “Your mom let me in; I didn’t want to wake you. It’s still early.”
Ennis nods past this smokescreen of soundless chatter, gets out of bed slowly and goes over to her; where the light touches his skin, there is instant warmth, and the sky lying above them flutters unerringly, like a kind stranger has taken pity on the bare palette of night and replaced it with a flawless roll of blue velvet. Alma begins to cry again when he takes her hand, and Ennis sees this dawn visit for what it is, feels the dread building dangerously between them, and at last, says for her the words she cannot.
“We need to talk, don’t we?”
He holds her quietly through the worst of the tears, murmurs wordless comfort even whilst the low threat of nausea creeps in: it blooms toxically in his mind rather than his stomach, focused where the deep slash of disappointment is gradually peeling back open. Strange how easily old scars begin once more to bleed. Now that this final blow has unveiled itself from beyond the secret shield of silence that has been viciously present since the days took their first tentative footsteps against night, lengthened like rays of late sun, the air feels curiously frantic; there is not the sought sense of mild relief that he might have hoped for in his more daring moments. Ennis imagines this is a lot like playing roulette with a loaded gun- the expectation of the bullet cannot absolve its pain, nor the damage it leaves behind: love at sixteen was not meant to be so serious, but nor is its loss crafted to be kind.
“Ennis? Look, I want to explain this to you, to say sorry,” Alma chokes, “I know this is the wrong time because we’re meant to be going to this stupid party tonight, but I just...you’re not happy. I know you’re not. Ennis, I really care about you- and I mean that, I’m not just saying it to be polite- but I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one of us who thinks we’re better as friends. Like we were before.”
“No, you’re right,” Ennis sighs, then, “You’re not the one who has any reason to apologise for it, though.”
Alma shakes her head so fervently that Ennis feels the hot flash of her tears on his hand; his skin reacts minutely, as though it recognises her, and here, he knows, is where the separation anxiety kicks in, the long path of splitting each other down the middle and sewing up the tear where the other half once was. He loves Alma very much, even if it’s not in the right way, and though Ennis dislikes himself for that fact, he refuses to invalidate those feelings simply because they are not cut from the same tenuous cloth as all other romances: he will miss her, miss the togetherness, the comfort, the gentle, rhythmic ritual that underlines all relationships.
“No, I…don’t want this to be about blame; I don’t want it to be like that at all. It’s nobody’s fault. I don’t regret being with you, Ennis.”
Ennis smiles softly- he is glad, for he knows that if ever there were a woman he could have fallen in love with, wanted in all the right ways and been the right man for, it would have been Alma. He thinks of that briefly, the vague mist of possibilities now lost on a cold breeze- little children with blonde hair, her soft eyes, the sharp twist of DNA married together, all the things that might have been if he could just blot out the sweetly tugging voice in his mind that whispers not right, she’s not right, it’s not what you want- and sadness flashes through him with such intensity that for a moment, his vision is reduced down to the violent pinprick of pain threading through every boundary he has put up. If this is coming of age, Ennis thinks he could have done without it for a while.
“And tonight, I want you to come to the party; please. I know you’ll think it’s better if you don’t, but you have to be there,” Alma says, “Because we’re friends, right? And all my friends are going to this party. I don’t want you to stay home because of this, because of me.”
“I- I don’t- if,” Ennis begins, but his refusals fall flat, for here lies the deadly quiet in the roving eye of their storm; sweeter medicine than any bitter turf war could hope to be. “Okay. I mean, if it’s what you want, then I guess…I’ll be there.”
Before she leaves, Alma turns back on the doorstep and cups Ennis’ face in one slight hand; for a moment, he thinks that this is the last kiss, but instead she wraps him into her arms and they stand together silently, suspended, caught between the tides that rush in with the flood of stinging grief, and out with the loss of what once was. It is one of those tight, sincere embraces, a touch at the hands of goodbye, because there is nothing left that can be said with words, no secret treasures to seek from the sands that hold the finished script of their joining. For a moment, the blue sky up above flickers and becomes dark as Ennis stares at it, but it passes, fades into a dull bruise, a mere memory of pain rather than the raw truth of it, though he knows there will be more of that to come.
“You’re going to make someone so happy, Ennis. I just know you are,” Alma murmurs before she walks away.
It is the beginning of a very strange day.
*
Ennis, my man. I heard about you and Alma…That sucks, you know? I hope you’re doing okay, and that you’re still coming to the party tonight because I need you to help me clean up tomorrow morning before my parents get home. All right, I’m kidding; it would just be really cool if you’re there. Well, anyway. If you need something then, hey, you know where I am. Hope I see you later.
Hey Ennis, it’s Chase again. Sorry to keep calling you; it’s just I thought, do you want me to tell Alma not to come or something? Let me know.
Hey, it’s Isaac, just ringing to say I heard about everything. Hope you’re not taking it too bad; I mean, you’d been together for like…a year, or something? I’m so sorry, man; I hope you’re okay. But listen, Chase says there’s gonna be about eighty per cent girls at this party tonight so you should totally still come along. After all, you’re a free man now, right? Call me back whenever.
Okay, I hate leaving voicemail, but I guess it’s a time of need so here goes…Uh, hey Ennis, it’s Aaron, just checking in, making sure you haven’t hung yourself from the chandelier or some shit like that. Though I’m kinda starting to wonder if I should be kidding about it seeing as you’ve been on voicemail for like ten hours now. So, you know. When you get this, call me back. Later, man.
Ennis, it’s Ryan. Come out of your alpha cave and turn on the phone; we’re worried about you! I’m seriously gonna come over if you don’t call back soon. ’Kay, bye.
Ennis? Ennis, it’s me, Alma. Chase just called me; he says you’re not answering your phone. I told him you’re probably working out because I know you do that sometimes when you’re stressed. Are you stressed? I hope you’re not stressed. I was thinking about what I said earlier, about the party, and I’m sorry. I was being selfish- you don’t have to come if you don’t want to; I can handle our PR for the night. But I hope you’ll be there. I miss you. God, sorry. I don’t mean to be that girl, you know, the one who you break up with and then every time you see her, she won’t stop going on about how great the relationship was. Ignore me, okay? It’s just, I’m thinking about you. And if you don’t come tonight, then I want you to know that any rumours you hear tomorrow about me and whatever guy won’t be true. But then you probably would have guessed that. So, anyway, you should call Chase, okay? Okay, I lov- Okay. Bye.
*
Ennis deals well in sadness; for all the cards that have been given to him, it comes as no shock that many of them have ended as the bearers of some unique salt from his skin, sweat and tears his sole companions on the road that has led at last- over the years and through the long twine of soundless memories- to this moment. Yet now it is not the quickened pulse of sorrow that makes up the black elixir dancing its light shadow serenely through every thought, but instead the insurgent press of some other emotion that lingers just beyond the exhausted reach of Ennis’ mind, its taunting echo like the tails of kite strings floating over lonely fields. He toys with the abstract cocktail of letters for a while, trying to tease them into some semblance of language, a name for this limitless squeeze of tension, but for once the words will not come: they breathe and shift, willing tools for all other sources and yet in his power, worthless. At last, fatigue stretches welcomingly over his skin, and, eager for the heavy promise of peace that comes with sleep’s sweet signature, Ennis yields to it.
When he wakes up, he is not alone.
*
“I was starting to wonder if you were dead,” Pablo says conversationally. He glides over in the tightest jeans Ennis has ever seen and extends fluidly, panther-like, to embrace him; such greetings are so customary to his undiscriminating warmth that Ennis does not even blink, but merely reciprocates thoughtlessly. Perching back on the window seat, Pablo is radiant with the sun’s blessing; it blossoms the clear honey of his skin into rhapsody, and forms a perfect halo of light over a crop of dark curls that can only be described as angelic: fortunately, Ennis knows better than to buy into such poorly marketed false advertising, yet despite himself, he is smiling.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he says dryly, “I guess you’ve heard?”
Pablo’s green eyes sparkle incredulously; his laugh, fizzy as the casual glamour of morning champagne, rings out decadently over the delicate mess that has bloomed around him, potent as spring’s first flowers. Ennis learned many years ago that his best friend sadly equates the duration of his friendships with the entitlement he has to treat their houses as his own; thus, having known Ennis since their mothers met in prenatal classes, there now lies in amongst the constellations of crystals and beaded cushions that sit cupped by the window a river cascade of crisp square bags, good coffee and glossy magazines, their rifled pages gleaming up to play strange tricks with the dancing light.
“You guess I’ve heard?” Pablo repeats, “Sweetie, you need to switch your phone on. The only people who haven’t heard in the whole of Opal Falls are the deaf, the dead and your mother. And speaking of your mother…”
“God, let’s not; this day is going badly enough already,” Ennis mumbles, voice muffled as he enrobes himself carefully in the reassuring confines of his duvet.
“I assume she’s still being a bitch, then?”
“She’s not a bitch; she’s my mom,” Ennis replies automatically.
“Oh please, that’s some excuse. I saw her on the way in here; you know how much she gets to me. But just look, all the shit she puts you through and you still never say a bad word against her,” Pablo argues as he paces over the carpet’s plush; it breezes expressively, bent to his will. The small cherub that sits etched on his inner wrist floats towards Ennis as he stalks elegantly along; clutched in its minutely detailed hands, there blossoms a scroll, deftly scripted with the words: Ellis Garcia; the date of his birth lies beneath in Roman numerals. The pictures that are committed forever to Pablo’s skin weave a far gentler tale than the man to whom they belong would hope for; beneath the exterior, there lies an undivided softness.
“Pablo,” Ennis says gently, “I know you’re trying to rally my cause, I really do, but…things aren’t about to change. I mean, they haven’t for the past six years, so maybe it’s better to just- just let it be.”
Pablo fixes him with an assessing glance, sharp as the first touch of winter, and stretches decisively, the whole movement- from the jade jewel glitter of his eyes to the quick arch of his back- decidedly feline. Ennis thinks the model in him is more apparent in person than it is in the lustrous photographs he showcases from magazines; captured in stillness, he is dramatically misrepresented, in motion, he appeals even to the mere suggestion of art.
“Okay,” he says eventually, “I guess I didn’t come over to talk about your mom. How are you feeling about the whole…Alma thing?”
“Guilty,” Ennis replies thoughtlessly, then startles at the realisation that this is the feeling that has been so cruelly eluding him; now it is finally christened, hot streaks of it spark through him like dry lightning.
You always knew, didn’t you, but you just let it go on, should have finished it months ago; shouldn’t even have started it-
“Guilty? Why would you feel guilty?” Pablo pauses. “Unless…”
“Unless what?” Ennis prompts. Blood rushes uncomfortably beneath his skin; how did he ever think he could hide this blackest of secrets from the boy who knew him before he was even old enough to speak of such things? Those bright lime eyes see under his very skin.
“Unless there’s anyone you haven’t told me about…”
Saved by the glittering scandal of infidelity, Ennis breathes a sigh of dizzy relief.
“Oh, right. My other girlfriend; how could I forget?” he teases unsteadily, then, “That’s an awful thing to do to someone, and besides, I was having enough trouble with one girl, let alone two.”
“Exactly. This is why relationships are a bad idea. I mean, I want to get married, find the girl of my dreams, the fire of my soul, all that fairytale stuff, I really do. But right now? No thank you. And that is why I don’t do the long-term thing.”
“You don’t do the long-term thing?” Ennis says incredulously, “Pablo, you don’t even do the relationship thing. You should try it. Aren’t you bored with sex yet?”
“Spoken like a true virgin,” Pablo cackles.
“Oh, of course. I should have known you’d have to bring that up eventually. Why do you always have to bring it up? Just because you’d rather have sex with any woman who’s unfortunate enough to have a pulse whilst in your immediate proximity than actually try talking to her, doesn’t mean I would too. And aren’t you supposed to be making me feel better? But no, what do you do? You come in here and tell me relationships are a waste of time and that, oh, by the way, my personal business is splashed all over the high school population like something out of a bad tabloid newspaper. Well, thank you so much for your input, Pablo, but if it’s all the same to you I think I was happier lying here by myself sleeping.”
Ennis pulls the duvet over his head with a flourish and tunnels into the cool quiet that lies in wait, a sort of sparkling silence falling in the wave of white that surrounds him. Behind his closed eyes, fireworks of light spiral and dance; they both know Pablo is no closer to leaving than he ever was, and they are both privately glad for it.
“We could carve it on your gravestone,” he says softly now, “Here lies Ennis del Mar; died age eighty-three. Rest in Virginity…”
“Shut up!” Ennis yells, volleying several of his cushions in the vague direction of Pablo’s head, “Why am I even friends with you?!”
“Because you might have noticed that whilst everyone else called you and said how terribly upset they were to hear you and Alma had broken up- which, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they were- I’m the one who actually got the fuck out of bed at nine-thirty on a Saturday morning, went and bought you your favourite banoffee muffins from that place ten miles out of town despite the fact that I am doing this entirely disgusting no-carbs thing at the moment, and then came to your house, let myself into your room and waited until you woke up so that you wouldn’t be by yourself in this most dark and difficult of times,” Pablo replies swiftly.
“Fine; you win. Can I have the muffins now?” Ennis asks wearily, sitting up. Pablo presses a large paper bag into one hand and a cardboard canister emblazoned with some expensive retail name into the other; the spice of strong coffee and sugar floats enchantingly upwards, lacing the air like a woman’s perfume.
“Now, about this party tonight…” Pablo says carefully.
“I’m not going. Too awkward. I’m no good at these things at the best of times, you know that.”
“Ennis, I didn’t ask you a question; in fact, quite on the contrary, I made a statement. And yes, for your information, you are going to the party. You’re my plus one,” Pablo beams.
“Hooray,” Ennis replies dejectedly.
“You should be honoured; at the risk of resorting to presumptive comments about members of the fairer sex, I would wager that I’m just as good a date as a girl, if not better.”
“I’m sure I won’t need to prompt you to find out why.”
“No, you won’t. First reason: unlike girls, I’m not afraid to ask you out which, seeing as you’re shy, is clearly a bonus point, as it saves you ten minutes of clearing your throat and mumbling next to my locker whilst you try to work up the confidence. Second reason: I won’t get pissed if you talk to girls but rather, applaud you. Third reason: like it or not, Western society dictates that in the wake of a relationship’s breakdown, one must not revert to watching re-runs of bad sitcoms in bed whilst eating vast portions of iced desserts, but instead get back out there and live again. Thus, by realising this and dragging you out the house, I am clearly proving myself to be the ideal other half. Fourth reason: I bought this pair of fabulous Alexander McQueen acid-washed bias-cut skinny jeans back with me from California and unlike a woman- albeit a stereotypical one- who would immediately wish to wear said jeans, I’m giving them to you. And the fifth reason why I am in fact a far superior match than members of the XY chromosome club is that unlike them, I always put out on the first date. Now, do we have any questions, because time is ticking on and we don’t want to be the last cowboys to arrive at the rodeo, do we?”
Despite himself, Ennis feels something uncoiling slowly inside him; it shrugs off the smothering blanket of emptiness and fills him up with a brand of bright warmth that he could swear he has not known in years: laughter. The sound of it in his own voice is pleasantly alien, a new terrain to which he is schooled to adapt.
“You are absurd,” he tells Pablo.
“As may be, but it made you smile. Even if it was, as usual, at the price of paying complete disregard to my own dignity,” Pablo says breezily, looking up from where he is now aggressively filing his nails with an emery board that seems to have flourished out of the thin air itself- only the petal-like fluttering of the towering bags that surround him speak of access and entry. “So, you get in the shower; I have to try and salvage an item of your clothing- and believe me, I use the term loosely- that can possibly do any semblance of justice to those jeans…”
“Pablo?” Ennis says, standing in the doorway.
“Yes?” Pablo replies, sighing long-sufferingly as he nimbly extracts several of Ennis’ best shirts from the maelstrom of his wardrobe and flings them gleefully behind him. They land in a bundle of luxurious dishevelment, soothed by the healing edge of his Midas’ touch as the room fills with misty golden light.
“Thanks for coming over.”
Pablo looks round at him sharply, pop-art eyes slanted in knowing disbelief, as though at any moment, he expects for another mild battle of wills to begin; for long measured seconds, he is silent, then at last he breaks into a smile so luminous that it rests the very sun herself at its mercy.
“Welcome, babe,” he replies, and winks.
*
Out on the veranda, the crushed-diamond stars seem a finger’s touch away, and the sky’s sultry ocean whispers of promise. Its flickering light rains down soft as scent to be tainted on sweet impact with the lilac gardens below by the tendrils of laughter that rise up, swell with the dark spill of wealth, and surrender into the half-life of echo once more. Beneath the murmuring breeze of honeysuckle flowers, girls lean in to drift the quirk of flame from lighters over thin cigarettes and let smoke blossom delicately, dancing its slender caress through hair that gleams in the moonlight like mist over water, whilst the low thrill of words that the right boy can bring to them plays bass line for a music of voices all trembling with the quick sting of innuendo and gauging dark tenor behind the cloaked veil of gossip.
Above all of this- the shifting gloss of groups as they rush and form, then drift into a foam of scattered figures all silhouetted in money; the sleek bar of elixirs poised to bewitch with the rosy light of enchantment anyone whose lips they touch; the velvet mystery of dusk lying beyond the short reach of the slim white candles that shimmer and burn with golden flare, and the shivers of excitement, the opal crush of bejewelled dresses and the endless, glimmering flower of a thousand eyes all filled with the eternal assurance that come morning, when the glamour has left like angels ascending to heaven, there will still be the heady expectation of a life spent bathed in such effortless, casual sophistication- there stands Ennis’ lone figure, glancing over this scene of shadowed elegance like a watchful God.
Quietly, he steps away and into the yearning hush of the room behind him; over on the dressing table, bottles of perfume arch and curve, displaying their feminine credentials proudly, but outside, the moon’s mournful glitter is filled with sudden joy at being freed from Ennis’ shadow: it floods onto the ground where he was standing in a misshapen spotlight, starkly empty. Clutched by a more dazzling pull of attention, Ennis does not notice, for the mirror flaunts its cool allure with the seamless ease of the well-rehearsed, moves him with the slick sway of light that bursts at its centre into fireworks of broken thoughts, each one embellished with the heat of his most scalding fear. The lingering voice that has been leaking a teardrop-trail of venom through him ever since the creeping doubts came sleekly to his door coils itself sinuously around the tight white bone of spine and delivers its paralysis guiltily; now there is nowhere else to look but into the poisonous core of the demon that lies inside.
“I’m so sick of you,” Ennis sighs softly, but finds that in the mirror’s fluid eye, there is only himself.
*
“I’ll have…whatever you feel like making, please,” Ennis says, too weary to make decisions as he sits up on one of the high silver chairs that stand studded like lonesome stars around the bar’s rich galaxy some minutes later. From above, the filtering of people to and from the bar appeared so light that it seemed as though a great butterfly was flitting to the nectar of some magnificent flower, yet when Ennis flowed at last into the creature’s vast wings, he found that flight was not quite so harmonious as it seemed in the secret idyll of his retreat: cupped gently in the welcoming globe of his peers’ hands, his name is the night’s buzz word, and like sweet litany, it flows and halts, a delicate thing to be tainted or treasured.
“No problem,” says the barman, then, “I think you’re the first person I’ve seen all evening who actually looks like they need a drink. Tough day?”
“I broke up with my girlfriend,” Ennis says flatly.
The amber eyes that flicker with momentary expression do not register shock at such a notion; the barman merely tumbles ice into a cocktail glass thoughtfully, letting the broken pieces of it glitter like the shards of crushed crystals. His name tag reads Xavier. The unusualness of it suits him well.
“I see,” Xavier says, “And how are you feeling about it?”
“I don’t know; I’m kind of…everywhere.” The words come with the simple ease of all conversations held between those who will never again cross paths; momentary bonds born out of the random turning of the winds. “I’m sad that it didn’t work out, but I’m not sad that we broke up. We needed to.”
“Because it wasn’t working out,” Xavier nods, “So, it’s none of my business, I know, but I have to ask- why did it go wrong?”
Ennis smiles, knowing the feeling well- the curious intimacy that embeds itself under the skin once the clock slips soundlessly past midnight; some sense of mild entitlement to pry beneath the veneer of others that comes as the shadows lengthen and the moon maintains its startle-bright reign over the world. His drink is minted green and wispy; the taste of it is soft and kind, but the malicious bite of alcohol sparkles just beneath and soothes the lingering edge of his nerves. Xavier, he thinks, will never know that this is the closest he has come to hallowed confession; he will never know that this moment yields the very ripest of his rotten fruit. Ennis meets the quiet fire of his eyes and tempers it with his own.
“It went wrong because I wasn’t really being myself. It went wrong because- because I was lying.”
“Everyone lies sometimes,” Xavier says lightly, though he looks at Ennis as though he has peered into the deepest reaches of his mind, “and you seem like a nice guy. I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it too much.”
Ennis smiles, but the anchor of anxiety is writ so clearly over his skin and captured so deftly in the cage of his mind, that he knows he is fooling no one.
“All right, listen,” Xavier sighs, leaning forward a little, “You probably don’t need pop psychology from a barman, let alone in the form of a lengthy childhood anecdote about growing flowers. But it just so happens that I think you and me might have had very similar experiences of pretending to be someone we aren’t, so I’d like to tell you it anyway.”
Thoughtlessly, Ennis’ eyes catch on the slim gold band twined around one of Xavier’s long fingers.
“Why do you assume that must be from a woman?” he asks Ennis plaintively.
“Your- your childhood anecdote,” Ennis murmurs, flushing, “I’d like to hear it.”
Xavier nods approvingly.
“My mom, she used to plant flowers all the time; it was like…a favourite hobby of hers, you know? And when I was little, I never understood how she could have faith that she would end up with roses and lilacs or whatever beautiful thing she was planting when the seeds she started out with were always so different, so…unimpressive. So she used to tell me that the seeds lie, and it’s only when the flowers are in bloom that you see the truth of what they are, of how perfect they are.” He studies Ennis carefully. “That always stayed with me, and it got me through a lot of hard times, because I realised that what she was saying to me…it doesn’t just apply to flowers. Sometimes it applies to certain people too. They take a while to bloom, and whilst they’re growing, they lie about who they are; people can’t see the truth of them. But the good thing about those certain people, you see…is that, in the end, they all bloom. And believe me, so will you.”
*
Beyond the sacred circle of candles that limn the garden with tiny orbs of light from one end to the next, there is only the darkness for company, and the limitless spiralling of Ennis’ own thoughts as they rise and fall, wandering souls in the deep valleys that lie like serpents between the dizzy promises of heaven and hell. Ahead of him, three ivory angels gaze benevolently on in mute greeting to those who pass them, and all is peaceful but for the serene fountain of water that soars up to the very skies in thick plumes, then relinquishes at once back into the bubbling mystery waiting always just beneath to decorate the angels with sparks of dancing droplets.
Along the marble edge of this showpiece, Pablo is lying stretched out with the cherubs’ wings curved protectively around him; slender wreaths of smoke from the cigarette that burns softly in his fingertips drift up over their eyes and crown their carved locks of hair before dissolving harmlessly away. Ennis sits down next to him and contents himself with studying the wild, arching chaos of stars thrown like lightning bolts overhead, filled with the reassurance that there is no cause yet for him to deal in words, nor any of the complexities that they bring, and sure enough, some moments later it is the polished tease of Pablo’s voice that rings out first.
“I made a lucky guess,” he says, almost to himself, then, “I thought you’d come to somewhere like this.”
“Only because I was looking for you,” Ennis grins.
“Well then; it’s your lucky guess, at least,” Pablo allows, sitting up and pushing an errant spill of inky curls back from his face. He draws gently on the last of the cigarette, and its ember burns a blushing shade of crimson as though flattered by his touch, dies down to ash like a wasted bride.
“Smoking, I see,” Ennis teases, “You must be drunk.”
“Surprisingly sober, actually. I must just be getting more daring,” Pablo replies, grinning wickedly as he looks back at the angels, “Maybe I could have found a better place to commit my sins, though.”
“A nice Catholic boy like you? I should think so,” Ennis agrees, and they both laugh. After a while, Pablo nudges their shoulders together and says gently, as though the words are those that he has been seeking to voice all along:
“C’mon, then. Out with it. And before you ask, “it” is whatever’s been worrying you all these weeks.”
Ennis stares at him with the blunt surprise of a cornered creature, but Pablo merely smiles.
“I know you like to imagine that just because I’m not always in town, I have no idea about how you’re really feeling,” he says, “but you know what? It takes more than a few thousand miles and pretend smiles to throw me off your trail; I was your friend before you even made it out the womb. Though admittedly, we probably weren’t on such close terms at that point, what with the limits of being in utero and all.”
Ennis breathes in quickly, but it is as though the air has been drained of oxygen and now exists devoid of all power; instantly, he recalls his fruitless attempts to bring some sign of his struggle over the long stretch of lost months: the stumble of barely-there words and slip of nerve as each time, the innate fear of exposure overcame him. He is not of the rare nature that speaks freely, and of all the men Ennis has ever met, he thinks that it is only the one who sits beside him now that truly is made in the image of such enchanted ways.
“How do you do it?” he whispers, “You do whatever you want, and you never care what other people think about it. How do you do it?”
“I don’t know,” Pablo answers thoughtfully, studying him, “I- I’m not stupid; I know how I must come across. Arrogant, obnoxious, your typical rich boy with too much money and not enough responsibility. But I’m not that way, even if I pretend to be sometimes. I try and do what I think is right, and- and if it all falls down on top of me, then I always know that…I tried. And at least I wasn’t out to hurt anyone; at least I did right by the people I love. Because everyone else- they don’t matter, not really. I think about the people who care about me, always, and I never let myself look back at the people who don’t. That’s how I do it.”
Ennis nods. Exhaustion washes over him in shuddering waves until he could drown in it, cast away in the endless, forbidden hallways of his own restless sleep, slashed as always by the vivid clutch of nightmares that glide in like unwelcome ghosts to haunt his dreams. How can he get past all the possibilities, all the expectations that stand in his path, sweet and fragile as spun sugar, clinging to the cusp of frozen air that surrenders only to let them shatter?
“Ennis? You know whatever’s wrong, I promise it’s not the way it seems in your head. You think I’ll hate you once you’ve told me; is that what you’re afraid of?”
“No. I’m afraid that once I’ve told you, you won’t think I’m the same person any more.” Ennis stops, cut off by the splintering of his voice as it cracks each word through with pain, like drops of blood fracturing the clean surface of water; reverse bleeding. It’s been so long since he came close to tears that the hot throbbing behind his eyes feels strange, an impostor of his own grief. “It’s just, you- you’re the only- the only stable thing I really have. I know it’s pathetic but- Caden’s gone and- and my parents might as well be, but you’re- you’re still here. And if that changes, then…then I...”
“Hey. Oh, hey. Don’t get upset,” Pablo says softly, wrapping an arm around the shaking frame of his shoulders so that their shadows merge together, Siamese against the black satin of the grass whilst he traces thoughtless comfort patterns in widening circles over the tense line of Ennis’ back. The kindness holds more power over him than any soft flame of cruelty; it threatens to kill, but contents with leaving him raw and open, fighting the reflex urge to run. “I’m not going anywhere, Ennis, you know that. Just tell me what’s been going on, ’kay?”
“Okay, I- I don’t know how to tell you…It was- this morning. This morning, when I was with Alma, she- she said something to me. S-she said, you’re going to make someone so happy, Ennis. I just know you are,” Ennis chokes, his heart beating so intensely behind the locked cage of bone that he can scarcely breathe. He pushes past the searing mist of shame and finds his voice, hidden away in the closed corners of his mind, mired with dust from long disuse in speaking the truth. “It was just a choice of words; I don’t think it really- really meant anything. But I keep thinking about it. How she said- how she said ‘someone.’ Not ‘some girl’. Someone.”
The soothing circuit of Pablo’s hand smoothing over his back does not stop; he exhales as if releasing a great weight from inside, then whispers:
“Some boy?”
Ennis nods slowly. The relief eases something deep inside of him, melts the brittle spell of its cover and finds the soft heart beneath: as it tips gracelessly, it yields a silent wellspring of tears; entirely unmerciful in their force, twin rivers of hot salt caress his face, and, lingering as the touch of a lover, wash through the scarlet stain marked in dazzling light on his soul until there is only bright clarity, burning from the inside out whilst his fear siphons away, dripping in saltwater bindings onto the dirty ground.
“God, you had me so fucking scared,” Pablo says, laughs softly, wraps his arms around him tight. “I’ve had all these crazy ideas about what might be wrong, thought you were about to tell me you’ve been doing God knows what; fuck. I mean, you’ve been so quiet all the time, lost in thought, acting like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin or something; I thought…but thank God you’re okay. Jesus Christ, Ennis. Christ. Don’t ever do that to me again; I’ll be a dead man by thirty. God. Thank fucking God you’re okay. You should have told me if you were worried, all these months; you must have been scared…”
“Still am,” Ennis says sadly, “I don’t know why…I mean, I never care if other people are gay; it doesn’t make me feel different about them. But now it’s me and I- I’m terrified.”
“Of course you are, anyone would be. It’s different when it’s you; it’s personal.” Pablo pauses, studying him carefully. “You know, I should have guessed. Now I’m looking at you, and I can really see you having a boyfriend.”
“I’m glad someone can, ‘cause I sure can’t. Who would date me? I’m not…I don’t know. Fun.”
“Pffft, boys don’t fall in love with fun, sweetie,” Pablo tells him airily, “And anyway, you’ve just been with someone for a year, who says you’re not dateable? Okay, so you don’t live to go out and get wasted- big deal; I mean, men don’t only exist on a Saturday night, you know. Besides, you have that safe thing about you, you always make people feel secure. That counts for something, Ennis. It counts for a lot.”
“You really see me…with someone?” Ennis asks hesitantly, “Because you don’t just have to say that to be kind…”
“Since when have I ever said things just to be kind? I said it because I mean it.”
“What’s he like?” Ennis murmurs, swirling his hands through the froth of water behind him; like a fizz of lace, it puffs fluid embellishment over his skin. “I mean, hypothetically…how do you see him being?”
“The guy you end up with? Oh…he’ll be…I don’t know, dark hair, tall…incredibly kind; that’s the most important thing. It’s what makes him attractive- not that he doesn’t look good, but part of it comes from the inside. You know, he’s one of those people who just lives for others, who loves to help them. He’ll be quiet; I can see you with someone quiet, but it’s only because he’s always thinking, and it doesn’t matter, because you know him so well that most of the time, there wouldn’t be any need for him to say it aloud anyway. He’ll have this kind of passion when he’s working on something- and he’s always working on something- or when he has an idea; he’ll be creative, I know that. An artist like you, maybe a writer…Your house will be full of papers, and pictures, and all these exotic things you picked up together when you went travelling, because he’ll love to travel with you. Plus there’ll be books, books everywhere. This guy, he’ll have that kind of wisdom about him, like he’s been all over the world and seen amazing sights…and when you meet him- I don’t know, I think you’ll meet him young, when he’s too young to have done that, but there’s all this potential right from the start. He understands people; he’d forgive anyone for anything. He can only see the good in you, even when you’re having those days where you just want to crawl back into bed. And he can always say exactly the right thing to make you smile.” Pablo pauses, then nods contentedly. “Yes. That’s the kind of man I see you with.”
Far off in the distance, the first birdsong rings out, and as Ennis looks upwards to find its source, he sees that the stars are blending away into a juniper strip of sky sketching in over the dappled edge of treetops; just beneath, there is a crest of early sun, shimmering gold over all that its trembling rays can touch to chase away the slight trace of cold. Even the stone angels, immutable as always, seem almost as though they long to lift their heads in welcome, to arch their wings in pursuit of the languid softness of dawn; bright with celestial envy, they watch on, as under the bold greeting of a fresh day, Ennis lives, and smiles with the knowledge that this is only the beginning.
17th November, 2008
The last refrains of autumn seem to breathe a softer last breath against Jack’s skin, stray golden rays folding over him until the shadows dance and flicker, interrupted by the light. All the concentration that Ennis has inside slips like water through his palms and leaves a sort of blessed emptiness; better space to categorise the soot-lines of Jack’s eyelashes, the warm blueberry sparkle of each iris as he speaks, whilst behind him, birds skim low over the horizon like stones skittering across the stillness of an ocean, and disappear beyond the pink shine of November in search of sunnier skies.
“Ennis. Ennis?”
“Mmm…uh, I mean, I’m listening,” Ennis says quickly, and forces his gaze to train unwillingly on the slant of numbers lying beneath the opulent sprawl of Jack’s hand, alabaster against the paper; his skin a luxury all of its own. Three afternoons spent like this- cradled in the beckon of evening’s touch, papers spread out like confetti over the blank face of the kitchen table whilst the occasional brush of their fingers makes them shiver in a way that has little to do with the icy cold piping in like blue smoke beneath the door- have done nothing to deter Jack on his earnest mission to unlock the fazing mystery of numbers for Ennis.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were failing Math earlier?” he asks evenly now.
“Because you have enough going on without spending every free hour of the day trying to teach me how to count above ten, that’s why. It’s okay. I’ll…you know, I’ll just get a tutor or something.”
“I don’t mind helping you; I want to,” Jack replies, “It’s just that if you’d told me sooner, we could have started sooner.”
Ennis makes a soft noise of assent, gently hesitant.
“It’s just…” Jack continues, “I don’t really understand why you’re holding back. We tell each other a lot of things, a lot of pretty intense things, but somehow you seem more worried about telling me you didn’t do great on a Calculus quiz than about anything else. Is it because I did well on it or something; are you embarrassed?”
“Yes,” Ennis sighs, “It’s not an ego thing; please don’t think that’s what it is. It’s just that it’s a little…intimidating…telling you about the Calculus quiz, because you’re some kind of modern-day Einstein and I’m...well. Not. It’s completely ridiculous; you don’t even have to tell me that.”
“Well, I want to tell you it anyway. Ennis, come on. I could care less about all of that stuff,” Jack tells him gently, “I’m not judging you; you know it.”
“Yeah, I do; I do know it. But it doesn’t change the fact that you could do the things you’re teaching me in your sleep. I mean, I’m not resenting you; I really like that you’re so smart. I’m just- I’m a perfectionist sometimes, I’m not good at being bad at things. I get insecure; it’s lame. And no matter how illogical and unreasonable I tell myself it is, it still makes me a little scared,” Ennis says, the words coming in a hot rush, “It makes me a little scared of what you’ll think.”
Outside the first stars bite into the sky’s tender skin, and Jack’s hand finds its way back to Ennis’, slips flesh to flesh and squeezes warmly, rhythmically, as if he might be able to imprint him with the proof of his love; channel it through the slow tide of blood until it takes shape, blooms, becomes tangible.
“Hey, do you wanna know a secret?” he asks gently.
Ennis nods, his eyes caught on the exact place where their hands lock together- they are hard to differentiate: only the soft shock of ivory against tan speaks of two different men; from all other lips, they are one.
“Okay. The reason you’ve never been inside my house…I know you’ve been wondering about it. I don’t know, I guess I’m scared too. Scared that you’ll see it and see how little I have and think it’s awful. Except it’s not really about you- you know I don’t have money, and you’ve never cared. It’s about me. I see how little I have and I think it’s awful, you know? I’m ashamed of it. I figure it’s the same thing with you and the Math. But Ennis, you don’t have to pretend when you’re with me. Do you see that?”
Ennis stares minutely at his failed paper, blood red crosses adorning the neat script like roses over a twisted trellis, cross-hatched with the marks of his own confusion, and then up into Jack’s eyes, which blaze fiercely, sparkling stars of light that flutter in the open heart of his gaze. He nods- for there is nothing else that can be done against the sweet honey glare of Jack’s belief in him- and kisses his hand, slips the comforting warmth of him over to settle on his lap, one arm curling around Ennis’ shoulders with all the instinct of a child’s first breath. Below the soft cotton of his t-shirt, he can hear the welcoming throb of Jack’s heart keeping time whilst the slumbering sun moodily sketches their shadows out on the pale floor, casting them as two halves of a broken whole. Deep beneath the surface, their tide lines and scars are like the mild, unassuming fractures of broken china, but Ennis knows of all the dark hidden places where he should be too damaged to slot against anyone properly; yet here, on this cold afternoon with the trees shedding gold leaves like teardrops and Jack’s heat easing his lost nerves into born-again strength, it is only too clear that they fit together perfectly.
“I see,” he whispers, “I see.”
*
“So? How’d you do this time? Did you get a better grade?” Jack asks before Ennis has so much as taken a seat.
It is Friday, and, mindful of the attendants that stand poised nearby to silence them, they dare to trade hushed whispers in the school library’s regal silence. The dusty echo of pages turning makes a low chorus akin to that of little birds, and with each flicker of speech against his ear, Ennis can feel a dark pool of happiness welling up inside him, his mind spinning with the heady rush of having someone to engage in such secretive, intimate behaviour with. Jack’s voice is perhaps half as beautiful as the dazzle of his smile, sweet with the teeming lustre of wisdom, planted long ago and now set to blossom. His fingertips trace lingeringly over Ennis’ wrist, as though such a slight caress can account for what seems to have been an open lifetime of wanting, but they both realise that it does not, and the air, alive with their speech, crackles nonetheless with the soft pulse of longing.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbles.
Jack raises one delicately arched eyebrow and says nothing, his eyes dancing with amusement whilst Ennis feigns casual ignorance. Thirty seconds elapse before he breaks like a storm’s first lightning.
“Fine; I’ll tell you. It was bad.”
“How bad?” Jack asks him, the sun’s aura spreading around him like pale honey through the window’s unforgiving eye. Ennis wonders why the light always seems to trail Jack so eagerly, a wandering apprentice; whether it sees the brightness inside him and responds in kind. He thinks so.
“I got another D,” he says quietly.
“Oh, Ennis...”
Jack’s blue eyes soften and wilt beatifically, violet shrinking into the sapphire to make a picture of untarnished empathy, the kind squeeze of his hand on Ennis’ wrist like a mother’s embrace on the end of a child’s cry.
“No, no. That look,” Ennis says, pointing, “that look right there, the heartbreaking one you’re doing right now. You are not allowed to give me that look.”
“Oh…sorry,” Jack mumbles, blinking to trace the slight coils of concern away from his gaze, “It’s just that I can’t understand; I mean, you’ve been getting so much better. Maybe you just panicked in the exam?”
“I…well, yeah, I probably did, but even then…” Ennis falters, “Look, I know I haven’t always been the most enthusiastic Mathematical protégé, but I always had faith that if anyone could help me, you could. And you did help me, you helped me a lot and I’m really grateful. But that was a re-take of a paper I’ve already done once before and somehow I still messed it up. Jack, even if I’m panicking, I’m hopeless.”
“That’s not true. Panicking can really affect your concentration,” Jack replies guilelessly.
Ennis thinks back to the exam and a scoop of fear white washes through him, leaving the slate of his mind clear and distant, numbers falling into a dark ravine with no hope of extrication.
“I may have felt a little shaky,” he allows.
“And were you feeling nauseous, short of breath…?” Jack enquires earnestly.
Ennis’ gentle smile attains an almost celestial quality, and the slight shift from solemn to playful is subtle as the earth’s turning, but written so clearly in the curve of those lips that it is almost touchable; a subtle scent to be picked up only by Jack.
“Doctor Twist, you’re going to make a very cute Med student some day.”
“Don’t avoid the question,” Jack says in reply, though the desire to smile rises in him like a paper lantern ascending through the sky, its bright petals of colour a cluster of stars on a lonely landscape. No one has ever complimented him before in the way that Ennis does: with silver and gold sparks of kindness that nod to the attributes Jack is unaware he possesses as though they are too present to ignore, as though they are a matter of fact rather than of sweet opinion. Sometimes when Jack is speaking, if he were to look into Ennis’ eyes at the right moment, he might see that the loveliest light is focused on him at the centre of each pupil, like he is the core of some magical universe that glitters and blooms, gliding through the night’s necrotic procession with a scythe’s silent grace.
“Okay, okay. I wasn’t having trouble breathing; no nausea either. Trouble thinking, though, I definitely had that one.”
The bell’s sudden low cry signals the stark end of his and Jack’s lone time together, but though Ennis is intensely aware of the sudden rush of students as they move through the tables like chess pieces on some giant board game, he is soaked through with distraction by the perfect cupid of Jack’s lips as he smiles.
“Your brain is too busy processing all of your anxiety to concentrate on the quiz. You need more practice, so that you won’t even get nervous about it in the first place,” he says with bright optimism as he stands up from their rickety little table, “I’ll come to yours later and we can go over it some more. And also, when did you say you have to take the paper again by?”
“I didn’t,” Ennis says morosely, “But since you ask, it’s any time before the end of next week. After that I automatically get a fail. Do they really expect me to pass with that kind of pressure?”
“You’ll pass,” Jack says soothingly as he presses armfuls of books into his bag, smiling with the warmth of someone who knows of the calm that comes from hard rain outside and deep faith beneath the bone. He squeezes Ennis’ hand secretly beneath the table, then walks away a little before he stops and turns with a look of such gentle conviction on his face that Ennis is at a loss to doubt him. “Ennis?”
He looks up at Jack slowly, drinking him in from the slim line of his hips to the deep raven of his hair, for he knows that is the way to bring the flush that he so loves to the surface, shining like ruby jewels over the flawless canvas of skin.
“Everything’s going to be just fine,” Jack says knowingly, and slips away into the faded quiet of a shelf of books, their slender pages as fragile as the trio of scarlet leaves that fall delicately to the earth just beyond the window, suspended in a secret amber of promise.
*
The next week passes in a haze of such fervent studying that when Ennis swings open the heavy oak doors to the Falls’ library on Saturday, he stops for long moments to gratefully register the sweep of perfect silence, letting it banish the cold, urgent whisper of numbers beneath his skin to some other more willing host. He can sense Jack almost instantly- there is something pliable and warm about the air around him, as though a new element has been added to it entirely, yet when Ennis turns a slow gaze from one end of the room to the other, he sees no flash of electric blue or shadow of raven hair. This is perhaps, secretly, his favourite pursuit: finding Jack hidden away amongst the low swarm of dusty shelves, cataloguing books reverently with his artist’s hands, his promised presence only intensified by the hum of anticipation during his absence.
Today, Jack is hard to discover- at last, Ennis walks to the front desk, leans over it curiously, and finds himself peering into the brilliant green eyes of a tiny, cherubic baby girl, who is sitting up in the precarious way of all small children, as though she might at any moment yield herself onto the soft pastels of the play-mat beneath her, coppery hair set in sweet shock against it. Jack is sitting cross-legged next to her, his hand cupped gently along her back whilst he reads aloud quietly; even from his high vantage point, Ennis can see that the little girl is far more enchanted by Jack than by the book itself: she nudges it insistently out of the way and clambers onto his lap triumphantly, settling with a soft thump.
“Is there anything we need to talk about, Jack?” Ennis asks, smiling. Jack does not startle at his voice, but looks up at him with amusement flickering clear and strong in his gaze as Ennis nods towards the cornucopia of toys that sit scattered like autumn leaves over the floor. “Because I’m starting to get a little worried over here.”
“She’s not mine,” Jack laughs, then gestures towards a door across from them, its glass stained with dark jewel colours that craft the shape of three books lined against one another. “It’s the Book Club today. Her mom brought her in, asked if I wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on her whilst she’s in there. Her name’s Emmeline.”
Jack stands up carefully, balancing his small charge on one hip, and it occurs to Ennis how rarely he hears the rich heat of his laughter, sees the smile lighting up Jack’s kind eyes like a sudden rush of flames in the night, embers burning long and gold. He reaches out his hand and tickles Emmeline under her chin; she gurgles elatedly and rests her head on Jack’s shoulder as though exhausted by her own simple happiness; for a moment, Ennis thinks how good it is to be a child, how all is right with the world for those first pure, crystalline years spent held securely in the nest of new life.
“Hey there, Ms. Pankhurst,” Ennis smiles, tugging one of her curls gently as he flicks over the quiet chaos of books stacked on the desk. Emmeline smiles back at him innocently, then plunges her thumb into the soft sea anemone of her sunrise-pink mouth.
“You know, I do think she’s got a little of that pioneering fire in her, but I guess she’s working on it for now,” Jack grins, “Oh, hey, did you want to take any of these books out? I get confused about which ones are for other people and which ones are mine.”
“I don’t wanna take any books out,” Ennis says, “But since we’re on the subject of taking things out, I do have my eye on this particular librarian, if you can help me with that at all. It’s just that I got my exam results back and…”
“Third time lucky?” Jack asks eagerly, eyes wide and hopeful, blush glowing on his face from Ennis’ words. It makes his chest ache somehow, to see the concern marked bright in another person’s eyes, to know that he is no longer the sole carer of himself, but instead the receiver of shared custody.
“Very lucky,” he tells Jack, “I got an A.”
“Ennis, that’s so good! You see? I knew you could do it!” Jack says excitedly, embracing him with his free arm whilst Emmeline sits between them giggling melodically, as if in congratulations. “We have to celebrate!”
“You know I really didn’t do anything,” Ennis says, “It was all down to you. I don’t think I’ve thanked you enough for that yet.”
“You don’t have to thank me; it was nothing.”
“Well it still meant a lot to me,” Ennis says sincerely, “So like you said, we should celebrate. Or at the very least go home and burn my Calculus textbook.”
“Recreational arson? Sounds good. Give me two hours,” Jack teases him happily. Emmeline catches sight of her stroller and stretches towards it; he relents instantly and lies her down in there with his trademark tenderness, as though she could shatter at any second. The sound of her breathing begins to even out to a low purr, eyelashes set in slim crescents that mar the cottony white curve of each cheek only with another brand of beauty.
“I can pick you up,” Ennis offers, “Save you the walk; it’s freezing out there. Plus I like how you always fall asleep in the car. I’m taking it as a compliment to my driving.”
“So you should be,” Jack agrees, smiling shyly at hearing something only Ennis knows being voiced aloud: namely, that he is always soothed by the soft unfamiliar rocking of the car, by the shadows that rove over the velvety blackness until at last, a thousand shades of dark light roll him gently beneath the tide of wakefulness; yet most of all- and this, perhaps, is unrecognised even by the man who looks at him now with eyes full of knowledge- it is the deep, even glide of Ennis’ breathing, the constant warmth of his body, that makes Jack’s eyes close, or else the heat of his hand with its bracelet of driver’s tan just above, unexpected and resting softly, lingeringly on bare skin; the unique chemistry of Ennis’ blood that fuels every touch with electricity. The thought that he will be woken from the softest sleep he has ever known in the same way that he always is, with murmuring kisses and whispers pressed to the skin of his neck, sends a low thrill climbing up Jack’s spine, every nerve chasing the sensation just for the pleasure of knowing its soft burn once more, and he leans forward, intensely aware of the deserted library exerting its false pull of privacy against the warning thrum of speech from beyond the nearby door. Yet just as their lips brush together, so lightly it is almost as though the very air itself has bestowed a forbidden kiss upon he and Ennis both, there is an echo of laughter from behind the stained glass that suffuses them with a kind of desperate control, temporary reasoning brought back from the edge of a precipice so darkly thrilling that Jack has never once regretted yielding himself to it.
“You should go,” he murmurs reluctantly.
“I have to go,” Ennis agrees, “or else I have to kiss you right here.”
They slip apart breathlessly, Jack’s eyes fluttering closed when Ennis runs his fingertip in the slightest shiver over each lid, and staying closed as he traces the seductive crimson of his bitten mouth, the tender heat of his face, until finally there is a bright cold breeze, then only the library’s hush and stillness.
“Ennis…” he breathes wistfully, as though uttering his name might mean he does not have to be gone until the clock has ticked round, slow as it always is when they are apart, but it seems that a fragment of Ennis remains behind: within Jack’s shaking hand there now lies a crinkled shell of paper, washed in from the ocean of his heart, and when he unfolds it falteringly, he finds written there in flourishing script the one word which can make him smile, for it reads simply, Later.
Read on: http://hit-the-hay-65.livejournal.com/12721.html#cutid1
Author: Mia
Rating: R in places, but mostly pretty tame.
Pairing: Jack/Ennis, naturally, and brief Alma/Ennis.
Summary: Ennis-centric ficlets- see Author’s Note for a more rambling explanation :)
Warnings: References to het relationships- Ennis and Alma break up with each other, but rest assured there is no sex to get squicky about!
Disclaimer: Jack and Ennis are the fabulous creation of Annie Proulx. They don’t belong to me and I’m writing purely for fun, no money involved.
Feedback: I love, adore and cherish it!
Author’s Note: You guys, the unthinkable has happened: I have actually written something that I don’t feel like crushing into a tiny ball and stamping all over! Hooray! BUT, I must warn you, I still honestly don’t think it’s very good- there’s too much prose, it’s crazy-long (I had to break it into two- eeep), I’m more than a little rusty after seven months of nothingness, there are lots of original characters (which I know some people hate), a couple of scenes with Alma (whom I know some people also hate) and it’s not a chapter because it’s set partly before the main story but neither is it a ficlet because it’s bloody enormous and…just, ugh, I don’t know. I’m a little bit petrified that you won’t like it. It’s meant to chart Ennis’ journey as he comes to a place of acceptance and understanding about who he is, but I don’t think that really comes through either *sigh*
Anyway, enough of my boring writing neuroses. I want to apologise for the wait you guys have had between updates, and also say how grateful I am for your patience and support. If it weren’t for the knowledge that people here were still carrying a little hope that IPOH would one day return, my “block” might never have let up, and the story probably would have disappeared into the ether forever. So, to put it simply, thank you.
Love, Mia
P.S. A quick point of reference- Emmeline Pankhurst was a British suffragette in the nineteen hundreds, and is widely recognised as one of the key pioneers in enabling equal voting rights between men and women.
Talking With Ghosts.
21st July, 2007
Though the summer sun dazzles innocently through the wide-open canvas of his window, Ennis knows the instant he wakes up that things are not as they should be, as though some invisible hook has slid beneath the natural trajectory of his life and fractured it just so, pulled it subtly off-centre and left him with a world that is tilted like oddly broken wire. He sits up slowly and finds himself eye-to-eye with Alma, her toffee hair falling in torrents down around her shoulders, and though she smiles at him, the gentle shadow of tear tracks marked like tiny bruises down the perfect smoothness of her face tells him all he needs to know: today, something is very wrong.
“Is somebody hurt?” he asks cautiously.
“No, no. Everybody’s fine, I promise,” Alma replies softly, then, “Your mom let me in; I didn’t want to wake you. It’s still early.”
Ennis nods past this smokescreen of soundless chatter, gets out of bed slowly and goes over to her; where the light touches his skin, there is instant warmth, and the sky lying above them flutters unerringly, like a kind stranger has taken pity on the bare palette of night and replaced it with a flawless roll of blue velvet. Alma begins to cry again when he takes her hand, and Ennis sees this dawn visit for what it is, feels the dread building dangerously between them, and at last, says for her the words she cannot.
“We need to talk, don’t we?”
He holds her quietly through the worst of the tears, murmurs wordless comfort even whilst the low threat of nausea creeps in: it blooms toxically in his mind rather than his stomach, focused where the deep slash of disappointment is gradually peeling back open. Strange how easily old scars begin once more to bleed. Now that this final blow has unveiled itself from beyond the secret shield of silence that has been viciously present since the days took their first tentative footsteps against night, lengthened like rays of late sun, the air feels curiously frantic; there is not the sought sense of mild relief that he might have hoped for in his more daring moments. Ennis imagines this is a lot like playing roulette with a loaded gun- the expectation of the bullet cannot absolve its pain, nor the damage it leaves behind: love at sixteen was not meant to be so serious, but nor is its loss crafted to be kind.
“Ennis? Look, I want to explain this to you, to say sorry,” Alma chokes, “I know this is the wrong time because we’re meant to be going to this stupid party tonight, but I just...you’re not happy. I know you’re not. Ennis, I really care about you- and I mean that, I’m not just saying it to be polite- but I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one of us who thinks we’re better as friends. Like we were before.”
“No, you’re right,” Ennis sighs, then, “You’re not the one who has any reason to apologise for it, though.”
Alma shakes her head so fervently that Ennis feels the hot flash of her tears on his hand; his skin reacts minutely, as though it recognises her, and here, he knows, is where the separation anxiety kicks in, the long path of splitting each other down the middle and sewing up the tear where the other half once was. He loves Alma very much, even if it’s not in the right way, and though Ennis dislikes himself for that fact, he refuses to invalidate those feelings simply because they are not cut from the same tenuous cloth as all other romances: he will miss her, miss the togetherness, the comfort, the gentle, rhythmic ritual that underlines all relationships.
“No, I…don’t want this to be about blame; I don’t want it to be like that at all. It’s nobody’s fault. I don’t regret being with you, Ennis.”
Ennis smiles softly- he is glad, for he knows that if ever there were a woman he could have fallen in love with, wanted in all the right ways and been the right man for, it would have been Alma. He thinks of that briefly, the vague mist of possibilities now lost on a cold breeze- little children with blonde hair, her soft eyes, the sharp twist of DNA married together, all the things that might have been if he could just blot out the sweetly tugging voice in his mind that whispers not right, she’s not right, it’s not what you want- and sadness flashes through him with such intensity that for a moment, his vision is reduced down to the violent pinprick of pain threading through every boundary he has put up. If this is coming of age, Ennis thinks he could have done without it for a while.
“And tonight, I want you to come to the party; please. I know you’ll think it’s better if you don’t, but you have to be there,” Alma says, “Because we’re friends, right? And all my friends are going to this party. I don’t want you to stay home because of this, because of me.”
“I- I don’t- if,” Ennis begins, but his refusals fall flat, for here lies the deadly quiet in the roving eye of their storm; sweeter medicine than any bitter turf war could hope to be. “Okay. I mean, if it’s what you want, then I guess…I’ll be there.”
Before she leaves, Alma turns back on the doorstep and cups Ennis’ face in one slight hand; for a moment, he thinks that this is the last kiss, but instead she wraps him into her arms and they stand together silently, suspended, caught between the tides that rush in with the flood of stinging grief, and out with the loss of what once was. It is one of those tight, sincere embraces, a touch at the hands of goodbye, because there is nothing left that can be said with words, no secret treasures to seek from the sands that hold the finished script of their joining. For a moment, the blue sky up above flickers and becomes dark as Ennis stares at it, but it passes, fades into a dull bruise, a mere memory of pain rather than the raw truth of it, though he knows there will be more of that to come.
“You’re going to make someone so happy, Ennis. I just know you are,” Alma murmurs before she walks away.
It is the beginning of a very strange day.
*
Ennis, my man. I heard about you and Alma…That sucks, you know? I hope you’re doing okay, and that you’re still coming to the party tonight because I need you to help me clean up tomorrow morning before my parents get home. All right, I’m kidding; it would just be really cool if you’re there. Well, anyway. If you need something then, hey, you know where I am. Hope I see you later.
Hey Ennis, it’s Chase again. Sorry to keep calling you; it’s just I thought, do you want me to tell Alma not to come or something? Let me know.
Hey, it’s Isaac, just ringing to say I heard about everything. Hope you’re not taking it too bad; I mean, you’d been together for like…a year, or something? I’m so sorry, man; I hope you’re okay. But listen, Chase says there’s gonna be about eighty per cent girls at this party tonight so you should totally still come along. After all, you’re a free man now, right? Call me back whenever.
Okay, I hate leaving voicemail, but I guess it’s a time of need so here goes…Uh, hey Ennis, it’s Aaron, just checking in, making sure you haven’t hung yourself from the chandelier or some shit like that. Though I’m kinda starting to wonder if I should be kidding about it seeing as you’ve been on voicemail for like ten hours now. So, you know. When you get this, call me back. Later, man.
Ennis, it’s Ryan. Come out of your alpha cave and turn on the phone; we’re worried about you! I’m seriously gonna come over if you don’t call back soon. ’Kay, bye.
Ennis? Ennis, it’s me, Alma. Chase just called me; he says you’re not answering your phone. I told him you’re probably working out because I know you do that sometimes when you’re stressed. Are you stressed? I hope you’re not stressed. I was thinking about what I said earlier, about the party, and I’m sorry. I was being selfish- you don’t have to come if you don’t want to; I can handle our PR for the night. But I hope you’ll be there. I miss you. God, sorry. I don’t mean to be that girl, you know, the one who you break up with and then every time you see her, she won’t stop going on about how great the relationship was. Ignore me, okay? It’s just, I’m thinking about you. And if you don’t come tonight, then I want you to know that any rumours you hear tomorrow about me and whatever guy won’t be true. But then you probably would have guessed that. So, anyway, you should call Chase, okay? Okay, I lov- Okay. Bye.
*
Ennis deals well in sadness; for all the cards that have been given to him, it comes as no shock that many of them have ended as the bearers of some unique salt from his skin, sweat and tears his sole companions on the road that has led at last- over the years and through the long twine of soundless memories- to this moment. Yet now it is not the quickened pulse of sorrow that makes up the black elixir dancing its light shadow serenely through every thought, but instead the insurgent press of some other emotion that lingers just beyond the exhausted reach of Ennis’ mind, its taunting echo like the tails of kite strings floating over lonely fields. He toys with the abstract cocktail of letters for a while, trying to tease them into some semblance of language, a name for this limitless squeeze of tension, but for once the words will not come: they breathe and shift, willing tools for all other sources and yet in his power, worthless. At last, fatigue stretches welcomingly over his skin, and, eager for the heavy promise of peace that comes with sleep’s sweet signature, Ennis yields to it.
When he wakes up, he is not alone.
*
“I was starting to wonder if you were dead,” Pablo says conversationally. He glides over in the tightest jeans Ennis has ever seen and extends fluidly, panther-like, to embrace him; such greetings are so customary to his undiscriminating warmth that Ennis does not even blink, but merely reciprocates thoughtlessly. Perching back on the window seat, Pablo is radiant with the sun’s blessing; it blossoms the clear honey of his skin into rhapsody, and forms a perfect halo of light over a crop of dark curls that can only be described as angelic: fortunately, Ennis knows better than to buy into such poorly marketed false advertising, yet despite himself, he is smiling.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he says dryly, “I guess you’ve heard?”
Pablo’s green eyes sparkle incredulously; his laugh, fizzy as the casual glamour of morning champagne, rings out decadently over the delicate mess that has bloomed around him, potent as spring’s first flowers. Ennis learned many years ago that his best friend sadly equates the duration of his friendships with the entitlement he has to treat their houses as his own; thus, having known Ennis since their mothers met in prenatal classes, there now lies in amongst the constellations of crystals and beaded cushions that sit cupped by the window a river cascade of crisp square bags, good coffee and glossy magazines, their rifled pages gleaming up to play strange tricks with the dancing light.
“You guess I’ve heard?” Pablo repeats, “Sweetie, you need to switch your phone on. The only people who haven’t heard in the whole of Opal Falls are the deaf, the dead and your mother. And speaking of your mother…”
“God, let’s not; this day is going badly enough already,” Ennis mumbles, voice muffled as he enrobes himself carefully in the reassuring confines of his duvet.
“I assume she’s still being a bitch, then?”
“She’s not a bitch; she’s my mom,” Ennis replies automatically.
“Oh please, that’s some excuse. I saw her on the way in here; you know how much she gets to me. But just look, all the shit she puts you through and you still never say a bad word against her,” Pablo argues as he paces over the carpet’s plush; it breezes expressively, bent to his will. The small cherub that sits etched on his inner wrist floats towards Ennis as he stalks elegantly along; clutched in its minutely detailed hands, there blossoms a scroll, deftly scripted with the words: Ellis Garcia; the date of his birth lies beneath in Roman numerals. The pictures that are committed forever to Pablo’s skin weave a far gentler tale than the man to whom they belong would hope for; beneath the exterior, there lies an undivided softness.
“Pablo,” Ennis says gently, “I know you’re trying to rally my cause, I really do, but…things aren’t about to change. I mean, they haven’t for the past six years, so maybe it’s better to just- just let it be.”
Pablo fixes him with an assessing glance, sharp as the first touch of winter, and stretches decisively, the whole movement- from the jade jewel glitter of his eyes to the quick arch of his back- decidedly feline. Ennis thinks the model in him is more apparent in person than it is in the lustrous photographs he showcases from magazines; captured in stillness, he is dramatically misrepresented, in motion, he appeals even to the mere suggestion of art.
“Okay,” he says eventually, “I guess I didn’t come over to talk about your mom. How are you feeling about the whole…Alma thing?”
“Guilty,” Ennis replies thoughtlessly, then startles at the realisation that this is the feeling that has been so cruelly eluding him; now it is finally christened, hot streaks of it spark through him like dry lightning.
You always knew, didn’t you, but you just let it go on, should have finished it months ago; shouldn’t even have started it-
“Guilty? Why would you feel guilty?” Pablo pauses. “Unless…”
“Unless what?” Ennis prompts. Blood rushes uncomfortably beneath his skin; how did he ever think he could hide this blackest of secrets from the boy who knew him before he was even old enough to speak of such things? Those bright lime eyes see under his very skin.
“Unless there’s anyone you haven’t told me about…”
Saved by the glittering scandal of infidelity, Ennis breathes a sigh of dizzy relief.
“Oh, right. My other girlfriend; how could I forget?” he teases unsteadily, then, “That’s an awful thing to do to someone, and besides, I was having enough trouble with one girl, let alone two.”
“Exactly. This is why relationships are a bad idea. I mean, I want to get married, find the girl of my dreams, the fire of my soul, all that fairytale stuff, I really do. But right now? No thank you. And that is why I don’t do the long-term thing.”
“You don’t do the long-term thing?” Ennis says incredulously, “Pablo, you don’t even do the relationship thing. You should try it. Aren’t you bored with sex yet?”
“Spoken like a true virgin,” Pablo cackles.
“Oh, of course. I should have known you’d have to bring that up eventually. Why do you always have to bring it up? Just because you’d rather have sex with any woman who’s unfortunate enough to have a pulse whilst in your immediate proximity than actually try talking to her, doesn’t mean I would too. And aren’t you supposed to be making me feel better? But no, what do you do? You come in here and tell me relationships are a waste of time and that, oh, by the way, my personal business is splashed all over the high school population like something out of a bad tabloid newspaper. Well, thank you so much for your input, Pablo, but if it’s all the same to you I think I was happier lying here by myself sleeping.”
Ennis pulls the duvet over his head with a flourish and tunnels into the cool quiet that lies in wait, a sort of sparkling silence falling in the wave of white that surrounds him. Behind his closed eyes, fireworks of light spiral and dance; they both know Pablo is no closer to leaving than he ever was, and they are both privately glad for it.
“We could carve it on your gravestone,” he says softly now, “Here lies Ennis del Mar; died age eighty-three. Rest in Virginity…”
“Shut up!” Ennis yells, volleying several of his cushions in the vague direction of Pablo’s head, “Why am I even friends with you?!”
“Because you might have noticed that whilst everyone else called you and said how terribly upset they were to hear you and Alma had broken up- which, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they were- I’m the one who actually got the fuck out of bed at nine-thirty on a Saturday morning, went and bought you your favourite banoffee muffins from that place ten miles out of town despite the fact that I am doing this entirely disgusting no-carbs thing at the moment, and then came to your house, let myself into your room and waited until you woke up so that you wouldn’t be by yourself in this most dark and difficult of times,” Pablo replies swiftly.
“Fine; you win. Can I have the muffins now?” Ennis asks wearily, sitting up. Pablo presses a large paper bag into one hand and a cardboard canister emblazoned with some expensive retail name into the other; the spice of strong coffee and sugar floats enchantingly upwards, lacing the air like a woman’s perfume.
“Now, about this party tonight…” Pablo says carefully.
“I’m not going. Too awkward. I’m no good at these things at the best of times, you know that.”
“Ennis, I didn’t ask you a question; in fact, quite on the contrary, I made a statement. And yes, for your information, you are going to the party. You’re my plus one,” Pablo beams.
“Hooray,” Ennis replies dejectedly.
“You should be honoured; at the risk of resorting to presumptive comments about members of the fairer sex, I would wager that I’m just as good a date as a girl, if not better.”
“I’m sure I won’t need to prompt you to find out why.”
“No, you won’t. First reason: unlike girls, I’m not afraid to ask you out which, seeing as you’re shy, is clearly a bonus point, as it saves you ten minutes of clearing your throat and mumbling next to my locker whilst you try to work up the confidence. Second reason: I won’t get pissed if you talk to girls but rather, applaud you. Third reason: like it or not, Western society dictates that in the wake of a relationship’s breakdown, one must not revert to watching re-runs of bad sitcoms in bed whilst eating vast portions of iced desserts, but instead get back out there and live again. Thus, by realising this and dragging you out the house, I am clearly proving myself to be the ideal other half. Fourth reason: I bought this pair of fabulous Alexander McQueen acid-washed bias-cut skinny jeans back with me from California and unlike a woman- albeit a stereotypical one- who would immediately wish to wear said jeans, I’m giving them to you. And the fifth reason why I am in fact a far superior match than members of the XY chromosome club is that unlike them, I always put out on the first date. Now, do we have any questions, because time is ticking on and we don’t want to be the last cowboys to arrive at the rodeo, do we?”
Despite himself, Ennis feels something uncoiling slowly inside him; it shrugs off the smothering blanket of emptiness and fills him up with a brand of bright warmth that he could swear he has not known in years: laughter. The sound of it in his own voice is pleasantly alien, a new terrain to which he is schooled to adapt.
“You are absurd,” he tells Pablo.
“As may be, but it made you smile. Even if it was, as usual, at the price of paying complete disregard to my own dignity,” Pablo says breezily, looking up from where he is now aggressively filing his nails with an emery board that seems to have flourished out of the thin air itself- only the petal-like fluttering of the towering bags that surround him speak of access and entry. “So, you get in the shower; I have to try and salvage an item of your clothing- and believe me, I use the term loosely- that can possibly do any semblance of justice to those jeans…”
“Pablo?” Ennis says, standing in the doorway.
“Yes?” Pablo replies, sighing long-sufferingly as he nimbly extracts several of Ennis’ best shirts from the maelstrom of his wardrobe and flings them gleefully behind him. They land in a bundle of luxurious dishevelment, soothed by the healing edge of his Midas’ touch as the room fills with misty golden light.
“Thanks for coming over.”
Pablo looks round at him sharply, pop-art eyes slanted in knowing disbelief, as though at any moment, he expects for another mild battle of wills to begin; for long measured seconds, he is silent, then at last he breaks into a smile so luminous that it rests the very sun herself at its mercy.
“Welcome, babe,” he replies, and winks.
*
Out on the veranda, the crushed-diamond stars seem a finger’s touch away, and the sky’s sultry ocean whispers of promise. Its flickering light rains down soft as scent to be tainted on sweet impact with the lilac gardens below by the tendrils of laughter that rise up, swell with the dark spill of wealth, and surrender into the half-life of echo once more. Beneath the murmuring breeze of honeysuckle flowers, girls lean in to drift the quirk of flame from lighters over thin cigarettes and let smoke blossom delicately, dancing its slender caress through hair that gleams in the moonlight like mist over water, whilst the low thrill of words that the right boy can bring to them plays bass line for a music of voices all trembling with the quick sting of innuendo and gauging dark tenor behind the cloaked veil of gossip.
Above all of this- the shifting gloss of groups as they rush and form, then drift into a foam of scattered figures all silhouetted in money; the sleek bar of elixirs poised to bewitch with the rosy light of enchantment anyone whose lips they touch; the velvet mystery of dusk lying beyond the short reach of the slim white candles that shimmer and burn with golden flare, and the shivers of excitement, the opal crush of bejewelled dresses and the endless, glimmering flower of a thousand eyes all filled with the eternal assurance that come morning, when the glamour has left like angels ascending to heaven, there will still be the heady expectation of a life spent bathed in such effortless, casual sophistication- there stands Ennis’ lone figure, glancing over this scene of shadowed elegance like a watchful God.
Quietly, he steps away and into the yearning hush of the room behind him; over on the dressing table, bottles of perfume arch and curve, displaying their feminine credentials proudly, but outside, the moon’s mournful glitter is filled with sudden joy at being freed from Ennis’ shadow: it floods onto the ground where he was standing in a misshapen spotlight, starkly empty. Clutched by a more dazzling pull of attention, Ennis does not notice, for the mirror flaunts its cool allure with the seamless ease of the well-rehearsed, moves him with the slick sway of light that bursts at its centre into fireworks of broken thoughts, each one embellished with the heat of his most scalding fear. The lingering voice that has been leaking a teardrop-trail of venom through him ever since the creeping doubts came sleekly to his door coils itself sinuously around the tight white bone of spine and delivers its paralysis guiltily; now there is nowhere else to look but into the poisonous core of the demon that lies inside.
“I’m so sick of you,” Ennis sighs softly, but finds that in the mirror’s fluid eye, there is only himself.
*
“I’ll have…whatever you feel like making, please,” Ennis says, too weary to make decisions as he sits up on one of the high silver chairs that stand studded like lonesome stars around the bar’s rich galaxy some minutes later. From above, the filtering of people to and from the bar appeared so light that it seemed as though a great butterfly was flitting to the nectar of some magnificent flower, yet when Ennis flowed at last into the creature’s vast wings, he found that flight was not quite so harmonious as it seemed in the secret idyll of his retreat: cupped gently in the welcoming globe of his peers’ hands, his name is the night’s buzz word, and like sweet litany, it flows and halts, a delicate thing to be tainted or treasured.
“No problem,” says the barman, then, “I think you’re the first person I’ve seen all evening who actually looks like they need a drink. Tough day?”
“I broke up with my girlfriend,” Ennis says flatly.
The amber eyes that flicker with momentary expression do not register shock at such a notion; the barman merely tumbles ice into a cocktail glass thoughtfully, letting the broken pieces of it glitter like the shards of crushed crystals. His name tag reads Xavier. The unusualness of it suits him well.
“I see,” Xavier says, “And how are you feeling about it?”
“I don’t know; I’m kind of…everywhere.” The words come with the simple ease of all conversations held between those who will never again cross paths; momentary bonds born out of the random turning of the winds. “I’m sad that it didn’t work out, but I’m not sad that we broke up. We needed to.”
“Because it wasn’t working out,” Xavier nods, “So, it’s none of my business, I know, but I have to ask- why did it go wrong?”
Ennis smiles, knowing the feeling well- the curious intimacy that embeds itself under the skin once the clock slips soundlessly past midnight; some sense of mild entitlement to pry beneath the veneer of others that comes as the shadows lengthen and the moon maintains its startle-bright reign over the world. His drink is minted green and wispy; the taste of it is soft and kind, but the malicious bite of alcohol sparkles just beneath and soothes the lingering edge of his nerves. Xavier, he thinks, will never know that this is the closest he has come to hallowed confession; he will never know that this moment yields the very ripest of his rotten fruit. Ennis meets the quiet fire of his eyes and tempers it with his own.
“It went wrong because I wasn’t really being myself. It went wrong because- because I was lying.”
“Everyone lies sometimes,” Xavier says lightly, though he looks at Ennis as though he has peered into the deepest reaches of his mind, “and you seem like a nice guy. I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it too much.”
Ennis smiles, but the anchor of anxiety is writ so clearly over his skin and captured so deftly in the cage of his mind, that he knows he is fooling no one.
“All right, listen,” Xavier sighs, leaning forward a little, “You probably don’t need pop psychology from a barman, let alone in the form of a lengthy childhood anecdote about growing flowers. But it just so happens that I think you and me might have had very similar experiences of pretending to be someone we aren’t, so I’d like to tell you it anyway.”
Thoughtlessly, Ennis’ eyes catch on the slim gold band twined around one of Xavier’s long fingers.
“Why do you assume that must be from a woman?” he asks Ennis plaintively.
“Your- your childhood anecdote,” Ennis murmurs, flushing, “I’d like to hear it.”
Xavier nods approvingly.
“My mom, she used to plant flowers all the time; it was like…a favourite hobby of hers, you know? And when I was little, I never understood how she could have faith that she would end up with roses and lilacs or whatever beautiful thing she was planting when the seeds she started out with were always so different, so…unimpressive. So she used to tell me that the seeds lie, and it’s only when the flowers are in bloom that you see the truth of what they are, of how perfect they are.” He studies Ennis carefully. “That always stayed with me, and it got me through a lot of hard times, because I realised that what she was saying to me…it doesn’t just apply to flowers. Sometimes it applies to certain people too. They take a while to bloom, and whilst they’re growing, they lie about who they are; people can’t see the truth of them. But the good thing about those certain people, you see…is that, in the end, they all bloom. And believe me, so will you.”
*
Beyond the sacred circle of candles that limn the garden with tiny orbs of light from one end to the next, there is only the darkness for company, and the limitless spiralling of Ennis’ own thoughts as they rise and fall, wandering souls in the deep valleys that lie like serpents between the dizzy promises of heaven and hell. Ahead of him, three ivory angels gaze benevolently on in mute greeting to those who pass them, and all is peaceful but for the serene fountain of water that soars up to the very skies in thick plumes, then relinquishes at once back into the bubbling mystery waiting always just beneath to decorate the angels with sparks of dancing droplets.
Along the marble edge of this showpiece, Pablo is lying stretched out with the cherubs’ wings curved protectively around him; slender wreaths of smoke from the cigarette that burns softly in his fingertips drift up over their eyes and crown their carved locks of hair before dissolving harmlessly away. Ennis sits down next to him and contents himself with studying the wild, arching chaos of stars thrown like lightning bolts overhead, filled with the reassurance that there is no cause yet for him to deal in words, nor any of the complexities that they bring, and sure enough, some moments later it is the polished tease of Pablo’s voice that rings out first.
“I made a lucky guess,” he says, almost to himself, then, “I thought you’d come to somewhere like this.”
“Only because I was looking for you,” Ennis grins.
“Well then; it’s your lucky guess, at least,” Pablo allows, sitting up and pushing an errant spill of inky curls back from his face. He draws gently on the last of the cigarette, and its ember burns a blushing shade of crimson as though flattered by his touch, dies down to ash like a wasted bride.
“Smoking, I see,” Ennis teases, “You must be drunk.”
“Surprisingly sober, actually. I must just be getting more daring,” Pablo replies, grinning wickedly as he looks back at the angels, “Maybe I could have found a better place to commit my sins, though.”
“A nice Catholic boy like you? I should think so,” Ennis agrees, and they both laugh. After a while, Pablo nudges their shoulders together and says gently, as though the words are those that he has been seeking to voice all along:
“C’mon, then. Out with it. And before you ask, “it” is whatever’s been worrying you all these weeks.”
Ennis stares at him with the blunt surprise of a cornered creature, but Pablo merely smiles.
“I know you like to imagine that just because I’m not always in town, I have no idea about how you’re really feeling,” he says, “but you know what? It takes more than a few thousand miles and pretend smiles to throw me off your trail; I was your friend before you even made it out the womb. Though admittedly, we probably weren’t on such close terms at that point, what with the limits of being in utero and all.”
Ennis breathes in quickly, but it is as though the air has been drained of oxygen and now exists devoid of all power; instantly, he recalls his fruitless attempts to bring some sign of his struggle over the long stretch of lost months: the stumble of barely-there words and slip of nerve as each time, the innate fear of exposure overcame him. He is not of the rare nature that speaks freely, and of all the men Ennis has ever met, he thinks that it is only the one who sits beside him now that truly is made in the image of such enchanted ways.
“How do you do it?” he whispers, “You do whatever you want, and you never care what other people think about it. How do you do it?”
“I don’t know,” Pablo answers thoughtfully, studying him, “I- I’m not stupid; I know how I must come across. Arrogant, obnoxious, your typical rich boy with too much money and not enough responsibility. But I’m not that way, even if I pretend to be sometimes. I try and do what I think is right, and- and if it all falls down on top of me, then I always know that…I tried. And at least I wasn’t out to hurt anyone; at least I did right by the people I love. Because everyone else- they don’t matter, not really. I think about the people who care about me, always, and I never let myself look back at the people who don’t. That’s how I do it.”
Ennis nods. Exhaustion washes over him in shuddering waves until he could drown in it, cast away in the endless, forbidden hallways of his own restless sleep, slashed as always by the vivid clutch of nightmares that glide in like unwelcome ghosts to haunt his dreams. How can he get past all the possibilities, all the expectations that stand in his path, sweet and fragile as spun sugar, clinging to the cusp of frozen air that surrenders only to let them shatter?
“Ennis? You know whatever’s wrong, I promise it’s not the way it seems in your head. You think I’ll hate you once you’ve told me; is that what you’re afraid of?”
“No. I’m afraid that once I’ve told you, you won’t think I’m the same person any more.” Ennis stops, cut off by the splintering of his voice as it cracks each word through with pain, like drops of blood fracturing the clean surface of water; reverse bleeding. It’s been so long since he came close to tears that the hot throbbing behind his eyes feels strange, an impostor of his own grief. “It’s just, you- you’re the only- the only stable thing I really have. I know it’s pathetic but- Caden’s gone and- and my parents might as well be, but you’re- you’re still here. And if that changes, then…then I...”
“Hey. Oh, hey. Don’t get upset,” Pablo says softly, wrapping an arm around the shaking frame of his shoulders so that their shadows merge together, Siamese against the black satin of the grass whilst he traces thoughtless comfort patterns in widening circles over the tense line of Ennis’ back. The kindness holds more power over him than any soft flame of cruelty; it threatens to kill, but contents with leaving him raw and open, fighting the reflex urge to run. “I’m not going anywhere, Ennis, you know that. Just tell me what’s been going on, ’kay?”
“Okay, I- I don’t know how to tell you…It was- this morning. This morning, when I was with Alma, she- she said something to me. S-she said, you’re going to make someone so happy, Ennis. I just know you are,” Ennis chokes, his heart beating so intensely behind the locked cage of bone that he can scarcely breathe. He pushes past the searing mist of shame and finds his voice, hidden away in the closed corners of his mind, mired with dust from long disuse in speaking the truth. “It was just a choice of words; I don’t think it really- really meant anything. But I keep thinking about it. How she said- how she said ‘someone.’ Not ‘some girl’. Someone.”
The soothing circuit of Pablo’s hand smoothing over his back does not stop; he exhales as if releasing a great weight from inside, then whispers:
“Some boy?”
Ennis nods slowly. The relief eases something deep inside of him, melts the brittle spell of its cover and finds the soft heart beneath: as it tips gracelessly, it yields a silent wellspring of tears; entirely unmerciful in their force, twin rivers of hot salt caress his face, and, lingering as the touch of a lover, wash through the scarlet stain marked in dazzling light on his soul until there is only bright clarity, burning from the inside out whilst his fear siphons away, dripping in saltwater bindings onto the dirty ground.
“God, you had me so fucking scared,” Pablo says, laughs softly, wraps his arms around him tight. “I’ve had all these crazy ideas about what might be wrong, thought you were about to tell me you’ve been doing God knows what; fuck. I mean, you’ve been so quiet all the time, lost in thought, acting like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin or something; I thought…but thank God you’re okay. Jesus Christ, Ennis. Christ. Don’t ever do that to me again; I’ll be a dead man by thirty. God. Thank fucking God you’re okay. You should have told me if you were worried, all these months; you must have been scared…”
“Still am,” Ennis says sadly, “I don’t know why…I mean, I never care if other people are gay; it doesn’t make me feel different about them. But now it’s me and I- I’m terrified.”
“Of course you are, anyone would be. It’s different when it’s you; it’s personal.” Pablo pauses, studying him carefully. “You know, I should have guessed. Now I’m looking at you, and I can really see you having a boyfriend.”
“I’m glad someone can, ‘cause I sure can’t. Who would date me? I’m not…I don’t know. Fun.”
“Pffft, boys don’t fall in love with fun, sweetie,” Pablo tells him airily, “And anyway, you’ve just been with someone for a year, who says you’re not dateable? Okay, so you don’t live to go out and get wasted- big deal; I mean, men don’t only exist on a Saturday night, you know. Besides, you have that safe thing about you, you always make people feel secure. That counts for something, Ennis. It counts for a lot.”
“You really see me…with someone?” Ennis asks hesitantly, “Because you don’t just have to say that to be kind…”
“Since when have I ever said things just to be kind? I said it because I mean it.”
“What’s he like?” Ennis murmurs, swirling his hands through the froth of water behind him; like a fizz of lace, it puffs fluid embellishment over his skin. “I mean, hypothetically…how do you see him being?”
“The guy you end up with? Oh…he’ll be…I don’t know, dark hair, tall…incredibly kind; that’s the most important thing. It’s what makes him attractive- not that he doesn’t look good, but part of it comes from the inside. You know, he’s one of those people who just lives for others, who loves to help them. He’ll be quiet; I can see you with someone quiet, but it’s only because he’s always thinking, and it doesn’t matter, because you know him so well that most of the time, there wouldn’t be any need for him to say it aloud anyway. He’ll have this kind of passion when he’s working on something- and he’s always working on something- or when he has an idea; he’ll be creative, I know that. An artist like you, maybe a writer…Your house will be full of papers, and pictures, and all these exotic things you picked up together when you went travelling, because he’ll love to travel with you. Plus there’ll be books, books everywhere. This guy, he’ll have that kind of wisdom about him, like he’s been all over the world and seen amazing sights…and when you meet him- I don’t know, I think you’ll meet him young, when he’s too young to have done that, but there’s all this potential right from the start. He understands people; he’d forgive anyone for anything. He can only see the good in you, even when you’re having those days where you just want to crawl back into bed. And he can always say exactly the right thing to make you smile.” Pablo pauses, then nods contentedly. “Yes. That’s the kind of man I see you with.”
Far off in the distance, the first birdsong rings out, and as Ennis looks upwards to find its source, he sees that the stars are blending away into a juniper strip of sky sketching in over the dappled edge of treetops; just beneath, there is a crest of early sun, shimmering gold over all that its trembling rays can touch to chase away the slight trace of cold. Even the stone angels, immutable as always, seem almost as though they long to lift their heads in welcome, to arch their wings in pursuit of the languid softness of dawn; bright with celestial envy, they watch on, as under the bold greeting of a fresh day, Ennis lives, and smiles with the knowledge that this is only the beginning.
17th November, 2008
The last refrains of autumn seem to breathe a softer last breath against Jack’s skin, stray golden rays folding over him until the shadows dance and flicker, interrupted by the light. All the concentration that Ennis has inside slips like water through his palms and leaves a sort of blessed emptiness; better space to categorise the soot-lines of Jack’s eyelashes, the warm blueberry sparkle of each iris as he speaks, whilst behind him, birds skim low over the horizon like stones skittering across the stillness of an ocean, and disappear beyond the pink shine of November in search of sunnier skies.
“Ennis. Ennis?”
“Mmm…uh, I mean, I’m listening,” Ennis says quickly, and forces his gaze to train unwillingly on the slant of numbers lying beneath the opulent sprawl of Jack’s hand, alabaster against the paper; his skin a luxury all of its own. Three afternoons spent like this- cradled in the beckon of evening’s touch, papers spread out like confetti over the blank face of the kitchen table whilst the occasional brush of their fingers makes them shiver in a way that has little to do with the icy cold piping in like blue smoke beneath the door- have done nothing to deter Jack on his earnest mission to unlock the fazing mystery of numbers for Ennis.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were failing Math earlier?” he asks evenly now.
“Because you have enough going on without spending every free hour of the day trying to teach me how to count above ten, that’s why. It’s okay. I’ll…you know, I’ll just get a tutor or something.”
“I don’t mind helping you; I want to,” Jack replies, “It’s just that if you’d told me sooner, we could have started sooner.”
Ennis makes a soft noise of assent, gently hesitant.
“It’s just…” Jack continues, “I don’t really understand why you’re holding back. We tell each other a lot of things, a lot of pretty intense things, but somehow you seem more worried about telling me you didn’t do great on a Calculus quiz than about anything else. Is it because I did well on it or something; are you embarrassed?”
“Yes,” Ennis sighs, “It’s not an ego thing; please don’t think that’s what it is. It’s just that it’s a little…intimidating…telling you about the Calculus quiz, because you’re some kind of modern-day Einstein and I’m...well. Not. It’s completely ridiculous; you don’t even have to tell me that.”
“Well, I want to tell you it anyway. Ennis, come on. I could care less about all of that stuff,” Jack tells him gently, “I’m not judging you; you know it.”
“Yeah, I do; I do know it. But it doesn’t change the fact that you could do the things you’re teaching me in your sleep. I mean, I’m not resenting you; I really like that you’re so smart. I’m just- I’m a perfectionist sometimes, I’m not good at being bad at things. I get insecure; it’s lame. And no matter how illogical and unreasonable I tell myself it is, it still makes me a little scared,” Ennis says, the words coming in a hot rush, “It makes me a little scared of what you’ll think.”
Outside the first stars bite into the sky’s tender skin, and Jack’s hand finds its way back to Ennis’, slips flesh to flesh and squeezes warmly, rhythmically, as if he might be able to imprint him with the proof of his love; channel it through the slow tide of blood until it takes shape, blooms, becomes tangible.
“Hey, do you wanna know a secret?” he asks gently.
Ennis nods, his eyes caught on the exact place where their hands lock together- they are hard to differentiate: only the soft shock of ivory against tan speaks of two different men; from all other lips, they are one.
“Okay. The reason you’ve never been inside my house…I know you’ve been wondering about it. I don’t know, I guess I’m scared too. Scared that you’ll see it and see how little I have and think it’s awful. Except it’s not really about you- you know I don’t have money, and you’ve never cared. It’s about me. I see how little I have and I think it’s awful, you know? I’m ashamed of it. I figure it’s the same thing with you and the Math. But Ennis, you don’t have to pretend when you’re with me. Do you see that?”
Ennis stares minutely at his failed paper, blood red crosses adorning the neat script like roses over a twisted trellis, cross-hatched with the marks of his own confusion, and then up into Jack’s eyes, which blaze fiercely, sparkling stars of light that flutter in the open heart of his gaze. He nods- for there is nothing else that can be done against the sweet honey glare of Jack’s belief in him- and kisses his hand, slips the comforting warmth of him over to settle on his lap, one arm curling around Ennis’ shoulders with all the instinct of a child’s first breath. Below the soft cotton of his t-shirt, he can hear the welcoming throb of Jack’s heart keeping time whilst the slumbering sun moodily sketches their shadows out on the pale floor, casting them as two halves of a broken whole. Deep beneath the surface, their tide lines and scars are like the mild, unassuming fractures of broken china, but Ennis knows of all the dark hidden places where he should be too damaged to slot against anyone properly; yet here, on this cold afternoon with the trees shedding gold leaves like teardrops and Jack’s heat easing his lost nerves into born-again strength, it is only too clear that they fit together perfectly.
“I see,” he whispers, “I see.”
*
“So? How’d you do this time? Did you get a better grade?” Jack asks before Ennis has so much as taken a seat.
It is Friday, and, mindful of the attendants that stand poised nearby to silence them, they dare to trade hushed whispers in the school library’s regal silence. The dusty echo of pages turning makes a low chorus akin to that of little birds, and with each flicker of speech against his ear, Ennis can feel a dark pool of happiness welling up inside him, his mind spinning with the heady rush of having someone to engage in such secretive, intimate behaviour with. Jack’s voice is perhaps half as beautiful as the dazzle of his smile, sweet with the teeming lustre of wisdom, planted long ago and now set to blossom. His fingertips trace lingeringly over Ennis’ wrist, as though such a slight caress can account for what seems to have been an open lifetime of wanting, but they both realise that it does not, and the air, alive with their speech, crackles nonetheless with the soft pulse of longing.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbles.
Jack raises one delicately arched eyebrow and says nothing, his eyes dancing with amusement whilst Ennis feigns casual ignorance. Thirty seconds elapse before he breaks like a storm’s first lightning.
“Fine; I’ll tell you. It was bad.”
“How bad?” Jack asks him, the sun’s aura spreading around him like pale honey through the window’s unforgiving eye. Ennis wonders why the light always seems to trail Jack so eagerly, a wandering apprentice; whether it sees the brightness inside him and responds in kind. He thinks so.
“I got another D,” he says quietly.
“Oh, Ennis...”
Jack’s blue eyes soften and wilt beatifically, violet shrinking into the sapphire to make a picture of untarnished empathy, the kind squeeze of his hand on Ennis’ wrist like a mother’s embrace on the end of a child’s cry.
“No, no. That look,” Ennis says, pointing, “that look right there, the heartbreaking one you’re doing right now. You are not allowed to give me that look.”
“Oh…sorry,” Jack mumbles, blinking to trace the slight coils of concern away from his gaze, “It’s just that I can’t understand; I mean, you’ve been getting so much better. Maybe you just panicked in the exam?”
“I…well, yeah, I probably did, but even then…” Ennis falters, “Look, I know I haven’t always been the most enthusiastic Mathematical protégé, but I always had faith that if anyone could help me, you could. And you did help me, you helped me a lot and I’m really grateful. But that was a re-take of a paper I’ve already done once before and somehow I still messed it up. Jack, even if I’m panicking, I’m hopeless.”
“That’s not true. Panicking can really affect your concentration,” Jack replies guilelessly.
Ennis thinks back to the exam and a scoop of fear white washes through him, leaving the slate of his mind clear and distant, numbers falling into a dark ravine with no hope of extrication.
“I may have felt a little shaky,” he allows.
“And were you feeling nauseous, short of breath…?” Jack enquires earnestly.
Ennis’ gentle smile attains an almost celestial quality, and the slight shift from solemn to playful is subtle as the earth’s turning, but written so clearly in the curve of those lips that it is almost touchable; a subtle scent to be picked up only by Jack.
“Doctor Twist, you’re going to make a very cute Med student some day.”
“Don’t avoid the question,” Jack says in reply, though the desire to smile rises in him like a paper lantern ascending through the sky, its bright petals of colour a cluster of stars on a lonely landscape. No one has ever complimented him before in the way that Ennis does: with silver and gold sparks of kindness that nod to the attributes Jack is unaware he possesses as though they are too present to ignore, as though they are a matter of fact rather than of sweet opinion. Sometimes when Jack is speaking, if he were to look into Ennis’ eyes at the right moment, he might see that the loveliest light is focused on him at the centre of each pupil, like he is the core of some magical universe that glitters and blooms, gliding through the night’s necrotic procession with a scythe’s silent grace.
“Okay, okay. I wasn’t having trouble breathing; no nausea either. Trouble thinking, though, I definitely had that one.”
The bell’s sudden low cry signals the stark end of his and Jack’s lone time together, but though Ennis is intensely aware of the sudden rush of students as they move through the tables like chess pieces on some giant board game, he is soaked through with distraction by the perfect cupid of Jack’s lips as he smiles.
“Your brain is too busy processing all of your anxiety to concentrate on the quiz. You need more practice, so that you won’t even get nervous about it in the first place,” he says with bright optimism as he stands up from their rickety little table, “I’ll come to yours later and we can go over it some more. And also, when did you say you have to take the paper again by?”
“I didn’t,” Ennis says morosely, “But since you ask, it’s any time before the end of next week. After that I automatically get a fail. Do they really expect me to pass with that kind of pressure?”
“You’ll pass,” Jack says soothingly as he presses armfuls of books into his bag, smiling with the warmth of someone who knows of the calm that comes from hard rain outside and deep faith beneath the bone. He squeezes Ennis’ hand secretly beneath the table, then walks away a little before he stops and turns with a look of such gentle conviction on his face that Ennis is at a loss to doubt him. “Ennis?”
He looks up at Jack slowly, drinking him in from the slim line of his hips to the deep raven of his hair, for he knows that is the way to bring the flush that he so loves to the surface, shining like ruby jewels over the flawless canvas of skin.
“Everything’s going to be just fine,” Jack says knowingly, and slips away into the faded quiet of a shelf of books, their slender pages as fragile as the trio of scarlet leaves that fall delicately to the earth just beyond the window, suspended in a secret amber of promise.
*
The next week passes in a haze of such fervent studying that when Ennis swings open the heavy oak doors to the Falls’ library on Saturday, he stops for long moments to gratefully register the sweep of perfect silence, letting it banish the cold, urgent whisper of numbers beneath his skin to some other more willing host. He can sense Jack almost instantly- there is something pliable and warm about the air around him, as though a new element has been added to it entirely, yet when Ennis turns a slow gaze from one end of the room to the other, he sees no flash of electric blue or shadow of raven hair. This is perhaps, secretly, his favourite pursuit: finding Jack hidden away amongst the low swarm of dusty shelves, cataloguing books reverently with his artist’s hands, his promised presence only intensified by the hum of anticipation during his absence.
Today, Jack is hard to discover- at last, Ennis walks to the front desk, leans over it curiously, and finds himself peering into the brilliant green eyes of a tiny, cherubic baby girl, who is sitting up in the precarious way of all small children, as though she might at any moment yield herself onto the soft pastels of the play-mat beneath her, coppery hair set in sweet shock against it. Jack is sitting cross-legged next to her, his hand cupped gently along her back whilst he reads aloud quietly; even from his high vantage point, Ennis can see that the little girl is far more enchanted by Jack than by the book itself: she nudges it insistently out of the way and clambers onto his lap triumphantly, settling with a soft thump.
“Is there anything we need to talk about, Jack?” Ennis asks, smiling. Jack does not startle at his voice, but looks up at him with amusement flickering clear and strong in his gaze as Ennis nods towards the cornucopia of toys that sit scattered like autumn leaves over the floor. “Because I’m starting to get a little worried over here.”
“She’s not mine,” Jack laughs, then gestures towards a door across from them, its glass stained with dark jewel colours that craft the shape of three books lined against one another. “It’s the Book Club today. Her mom brought her in, asked if I wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on her whilst she’s in there. Her name’s Emmeline.”
Jack stands up carefully, balancing his small charge on one hip, and it occurs to Ennis how rarely he hears the rich heat of his laughter, sees the smile lighting up Jack’s kind eyes like a sudden rush of flames in the night, embers burning long and gold. He reaches out his hand and tickles Emmeline under her chin; she gurgles elatedly and rests her head on Jack’s shoulder as though exhausted by her own simple happiness; for a moment, Ennis thinks how good it is to be a child, how all is right with the world for those first pure, crystalline years spent held securely in the nest of new life.
“Hey there, Ms. Pankhurst,” Ennis smiles, tugging one of her curls gently as he flicks over the quiet chaos of books stacked on the desk. Emmeline smiles back at him innocently, then plunges her thumb into the soft sea anemone of her sunrise-pink mouth.
“You know, I do think she’s got a little of that pioneering fire in her, but I guess she’s working on it for now,” Jack grins, “Oh, hey, did you want to take any of these books out? I get confused about which ones are for other people and which ones are mine.”
“I don’t wanna take any books out,” Ennis says, “But since we’re on the subject of taking things out, I do have my eye on this particular librarian, if you can help me with that at all. It’s just that I got my exam results back and…”
“Third time lucky?” Jack asks eagerly, eyes wide and hopeful, blush glowing on his face from Ennis’ words. It makes his chest ache somehow, to see the concern marked bright in another person’s eyes, to know that he is no longer the sole carer of himself, but instead the receiver of shared custody.
“Very lucky,” he tells Jack, “I got an A.”
“Ennis, that’s so good! You see? I knew you could do it!” Jack says excitedly, embracing him with his free arm whilst Emmeline sits between them giggling melodically, as if in congratulations. “We have to celebrate!”
“You know I really didn’t do anything,” Ennis says, “It was all down to you. I don’t think I’ve thanked you enough for that yet.”
“You don’t have to thank me; it was nothing.”
“Well it still meant a lot to me,” Ennis says sincerely, “So like you said, we should celebrate. Or at the very least go home and burn my Calculus textbook.”
“Recreational arson? Sounds good. Give me two hours,” Jack teases him happily. Emmeline catches sight of her stroller and stretches towards it; he relents instantly and lies her down in there with his trademark tenderness, as though she could shatter at any second. The sound of her breathing begins to even out to a low purr, eyelashes set in slim crescents that mar the cottony white curve of each cheek only with another brand of beauty.
“I can pick you up,” Ennis offers, “Save you the walk; it’s freezing out there. Plus I like how you always fall asleep in the car. I’m taking it as a compliment to my driving.”
“So you should be,” Jack agrees, smiling shyly at hearing something only Ennis knows being voiced aloud: namely, that he is always soothed by the soft unfamiliar rocking of the car, by the shadows that rove over the velvety blackness until at last, a thousand shades of dark light roll him gently beneath the tide of wakefulness; yet most of all- and this, perhaps, is unrecognised even by the man who looks at him now with eyes full of knowledge- it is the deep, even glide of Ennis’ breathing, the constant warmth of his body, that makes Jack’s eyes close, or else the heat of his hand with its bracelet of driver’s tan just above, unexpected and resting softly, lingeringly on bare skin; the unique chemistry of Ennis’ blood that fuels every touch with electricity. The thought that he will be woken from the softest sleep he has ever known in the same way that he always is, with murmuring kisses and whispers pressed to the skin of his neck, sends a low thrill climbing up Jack’s spine, every nerve chasing the sensation just for the pleasure of knowing its soft burn once more, and he leans forward, intensely aware of the deserted library exerting its false pull of privacy against the warning thrum of speech from beyond the nearby door. Yet just as their lips brush together, so lightly it is almost as though the very air itself has bestowed a forbidden kiss upon he and Ennis both, there is an echo of laughter from behind the stained glass that suffuses them with a kind of desperate control, temporary reasoning brought back from the edge of a precipice so darkly thrilling that Jack has never once regretted yielding himself to it.
“You should go,” he murmurs reluctantly.
“I have to go,” Ennis agrees, “or else I have to kiss you right here.”
They slip apart breathlessly, Jack’s eyes fluttering closed when Ennis runs his fingertip in the slightest shiver over each lid, and staying closed as he traces the seductive crimson of his bitten mouth, the tender heat of his face, until finally there is a bright cold breeze, then only the library’s hush and stillness.
“Ennis…” he breathes wistfully, as though uttering his name might mean he does not have to be gone until the clock has ticked round, slow as it always is when they are apart, but it seems that a fragment of Ennis remains behind: within Jack’s shaking hand there now lies a crinkled shell of paper, washed in from the ocean of his heart, and when he unfolds it falteringly, he finds written there in flourishing script the one word which can make him smile, for it reads simply, Later.
Read on: http://hit-the-hay-65.livejournal.com/12721.html#cutid1