Jack's Mountain--a (large) drabble
Whenever Jack got tired of waiting for the next no-fishing trip, whenever he felt that his shoulders might finally give in and sink completely under the weight of all those miles he still had to drive before he and Ennis could hold each other again, whenever he looked up from his desk at work and saw nothing golden gleaming in his future except an endless line of whiskeys, each one trembling in its lonely glass-
then he would close his eyes and summon up the one image that could always bring Ennis back to him.
The mountain.
But not just Brokeback, not just the rocky heights starred with purple flowers and a glittering campfire. Not just the welcoming earth that had cradled their early friendship, those long conversations in the smoky twilight, their first pained grapplings in the billowing tent, the tenderness they’d finally found together on its slopes. Even the bright burst of fists and tears brought on by a too-sudden parting. All the time, the mountain’s earth had held them in a rough yet gentle palm. Like a friend. Like a brother. Like everything they’d never had.
No, to Jack the mountain meant much more.
It was Ennis’s back, turned to him in sleep, the curve of his right arm resting just so along his hip, his body moving almost imperceptibly with his breathing. The smooth, bare expanse of skin that met Jack’s fingers like a prayer.
It was Ennis’s chest when he lay on his back looking up at Jack, a teasing smile playing across his lips. Jack would brush his own lips across the taut flesh of Ennis’s stomach, then kiss his way upward until he reached the firmly muscled chest. He knew every peak and valley of the ribs and pecs, knew how to feather his tongue across the stiff nipples until the mountain groaned and sighed; its granite shape melted beneath his touch.
It was Ennis’s legs, bent at the knee to allow Jack free access to his hidden realms. Those knobby peaks and dark, furred valleys.
It was Ennis’s ass, two perfect sculpted globes inviting the breathless adventurer to scale their summits and nudge down into the secret ravine.
To Jack the mountain meant all these things and more.
It was also Ennis’s stubborn unwillingness to consider a life with Jack, his unrelenting insistence that they continue to meet only “way the hell out in the middle of nowhere,” even though that nowhere was the only place Jack knew how to find.
Jack spent a lot of time with his eyes closed.
then he would close his eyes and summon up the one image that could always bring Ennis back to him.
The mountain.
But not just Brokeback, not just the rocky heights starred with purple flowers and a glittering campfire. Not just the welcoming earth that had cradled their early friendship, those long conversations in the smoky twilight, their first pained grapplings in the billowing tent, the tenderness they’d finally found together on its slopes. Even the bright burst of fists and tears brought on by a too-sudden parting. All the time, the mountain’s earth had held them in a rough yet gentle palm. Like a friend. Like a brother. Like everything they’d never had.
No, to Jack the mountain meant much more.
It was Ennis’s back, turned to him in sleep, the curve of his right arm resting just so along his hip, his body moving almost imperceptibly with his breathing. The smooth, bare expanse of skin that met Jack’s fingers like a prayer.
It was Ennis’s chest when he lay on his back looking up at Jack, a teasing smile playing across his lips. Jack would brush his own lips across the taut flesh of Ennis’s stomach, then kiss his way upward until he reached the firmly muscled chest. He knew every peak and valley of the ribs and pecs, knew how to feather his tongue across the stiff nipples until the mountain groaned and sighed; its granite shape melted beneath his touch.
It was Ennis’s legs, bent at the knee to allow Jack free access to his hidden realms. Those knobby peaks and dark, furred valleys.
It was Ennis’s ass, two perfect sculpted globes inviting the breathless adventurer to scale their summits and nudge down into the secret ravine.
To Jack the mountain meant all these things and more.
It was also Ennis’s stubborn unwillingness to consider a life with Jack, his unrelenting insistence that they continue to meet only “way the hell out in the middle of nowhere,” even though that nowhere was the only place Jack knew how to find.
Jack spent a lot of time with his eyes closed.