Too Busted Up, Chapter 2: Mistakes We Made
Series: Too Busted Up
Chapter 2: Mistakes We Made
Date written: August 13, 29-31, September 1, 2006
Author: Sarah (sarful) and Sheera (trascedenza)
Pairing: Jack/Ennis
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4,522
Disclaimer: We don’t own these characters-that honor goes to Ms. Proulx.
Plot Summary: An AU that begins after they come down off the mountain and is inspired by those three very pivotal words from the film.
Author’s Note: We’d like to apologize for the long delay between updates. Half of the team (Sheera) went on a vacation so we decided to take a brief hiatus, but we hope that the it was worth the wait. Also, this chapter should clarify a lot more about how this AU will be unfolding. Thanks so much to everyone for the encouraging comments on our first chapter, we really appreciated them!
Current Chapters:
Chapter 1: Lines Are Drawn
Chapter 2: Mistakes We Made
Chapter 2: Mistakes We Made
April 1964
Truck barely made it into the drive, puttering and jerking under Ennis. Whole thing needed work, especially the transmission and shocks. Couldn’t afford to fix it, though. He was right back where he started, seemed like. Job didn’t pay enough for fixing cars, likely never would. Pulling the shift up until it hit “P,” Ennis pushed away thoughts of the Kearnys-they would have paid him enough, even given him an advance if he asked. But he wasn’t working for them anymore, wouldn’t be going back either. Jumping up, he slammed the door with more force than necessary; he was tempted to give it a good swift kick like he’d seen Jack do more times than he could count, but didn’t give in-wouldn’t do any good, and he wasn’t anything if he wasn’t practical.
Man could kill himself, always being so practical.
He stuffed the keys into his pocket, went around back to unhitch the horses. The roan, Granger, was acting up; he fussed under Ennis’s hand, walking in a strange side-step-skip. He’d checked Granger’s feet four times today and hadn’t found a problem yet. He’d have let it sit for the night and see if it would fix itself. Horses weren’t like people; they demanded solutions and if none were found, often it was more humane to kill them then let them keep suffering. One of the best and worst things about working with animals; they couldn’t take “no” for an answer. Leading them out back, he opened the fence and led them through, setting them out on their own. He checked their water, checked the lock on the gate, and headed for the house, mouth practically watering at the thought of a beer. Brushed his hands off on his jeans, wiping off the surface layer of dust, but the smell of the ranch still clung to him, no help for that-needed a shower but food and drink came first.
The house was little more than a fancy shack, covered with a thin grooved aluminum roof, whitewashed walls barely able to hold against the harsh winds and pattered with grit. The only spot of color was the blue kitchen curtains, two-fifty on sale at J.C. Penney, but even their color was dulled, leeched out by the incessant winds, howling and mournful at all hours of the day and night. He took off his jacket and red vest after he was in the door, hanging them on the rack he’d nailed into the wall first thing after he’d signed the lease, four months ago.
Could have been four years instead of four months, the way he estimated it, the time had passed so slow.
He tore his eyes away from the rack, grabbed the Bud out of the fridge, rolling it cold between his hands, liked the smooth feel of it. Sitting at the table, he sipped it slow. He could afford to; he knew he’d finish the pack or more before the night ended. But once he’d finished, he fidgeted, laced and unlaced his fingers, tapped his boots on the linoleum, a hollow and muffled sound. What to do now? He looked around the kitchen, heaved a sigh, got up and went to the bedroom, sat down on the bed and pulled off his boots. Unsnapping his shirt, he tossed it aside and lay back on the bed, out within seconds of hitting the sheets.
* * * * *
Jack emerges from the water pale as a ghost, skin blanched from the freezing lake, glowing and luminescent under the soft touch of the blue-laced moonlight, blurred at the edges, ethereal. Beautiful.
Ennis’s skin prickles under the cold kiss of the air, the smell of crushed grass wafts up and around him; his heart contracts so hard that he feels his whole chest cave in at the sight of Jack. His body speaks things he isn’t ready to say. Not yet, not now. So instead he smiles a lie, pain wrinkling the corners of his eyes. “Good ’n soaked, bud? C’mon over here.”
Jack lays beside him, leaning his cheek on his fist, places his left hand on Ennis’s chest. His heart pulses right into Jack’s palm. He looks away, closes his eyes. “It ain’t all it’s cracked up t’be, Jack.”
“Tol’ you.” Jack’s hand moves up to his cradle his cheek.
“Thought I’d never see you again.” Ennis mumbles, shutting his eyes tighter.
Jack leans closer, moves Ennis’s face back towards him. “Shh. I’m here.” Jack’s lips on his are a question, a question Ennis cannot answer. But as soon as his resolve weakens and he tries to find the sweet taste of those lips, they are gone, and he feels hot jungle air on his face.
Ennis opens his eyes to see Jack being dragged off by two soldiers, skin the color of dirt and faces inscrutable, their foreign mouths twisted into gruesome grins and their guns pointed straight into Jack’s neck. Jack is naked, snow-white skin flayed in crisscrosses of blood, whip-thin wounds dripping snaky vines of red down his body.
“Jack! Jack!” He does not resist his captors, and when he hears his name hope briefly blooms on his face, but it is quickly crushed when he meets Ennis’s eyes, replaced by a forlorn resignation and that puts the taste of poison in Ennis’s mouth, bitter and sickly sweet. By the time Ennis has stood up they are specks in the distance, far off in a jungle painted in coloring book hues, childish slashes of neon, lurid and obscene, grained like newspaper print.
He runs as fast as his legs will carry him, feet sticking in the garishly green grass and mud, running faster and faster until the jungle has melted into swirls of green and brown. Yet when he’s stopped, he is beside the lake once more.
A sob crawls up his throat, lodges there, sticking needles behind his eyes so he can’t see, can’t see Jack but he hears his voice. “Not feelin’ too good, Ennis, don’t think I’m goin’ a make it.”
Ennis rubs roughly at his eyes, mouth still being eaten by the taste of poison. His vision clears and he sees Jack lying at the bank of the lake, half in the water, arms splayed out on either side. Ennis walks over slow, crouches down beside him, somehow scared to touch him. “Don’t say that, Jack. Not gonna make it without ya.”
“I’m sorry…” Jack’s face contorts, and he digs his hands into the muddy banks, trying to haul himself up, chest heaving and eyes rolling back into his head, skin covered in a layer of sweat that’s tinted with disease. Ennis looks down to see that the water is discolored where Jack has touched it, a black stain spreading out from his waist like an inky oil-slick, dark fingers veining into the blue.
“Sorry… Ennis…” Jack pushes one last time, falling back onto the mud with a sucking sound. His eyes close and he exhales a breath that sounds like dying, and Ennis finally throws himself down, buries his face in Jack’s neck, tries to hold the life in him. He refuses to look down and see that jagged edges of Jack, just a red pulpy mess where his legs should be.
Ennis’s scream could swallow the night whole.
* * * * *
“Ennis! Ennis, wake up!”
He blinked, sitting up rapidly, vision unclear for a few seconds, unable to see who was in front of him. “Wha’? ’S goin’ on?”
“You were havin’ one a those nightmares again.” Alma’s face was drawn, lips scrunched up tight, eyes narrowed. “Been drinkin’ too much, Ennis.” It should have been a question but wasn’t.
Ennis let his head fall forward, groaning and rubbed his neck, wound tight and painful. Could hardly look at her. “Must a had somethin’ bad for lunch.” The bed shifted under her weight when she sat next to him.
“Had somethin’ bad ever’ day this week?” The annoyance churned under her voice, bubbling around the edges of her words.
He didn’t say anything, just rolled his shoulders and ran his hand through his hair, sighed, hoping she would leave. He was surprised when he felt her thin arms wrap around his neck from behind, “Havin’ leftovers tonight. Won’t need to spend so much time cookin’.” Her mouth pressed close to his ear, breath tickling and warm, “Could make you feel better.”
He hunched his back, away from the heavy weight of her breasts, turned quickly keeping his eyes closed, blindly seeking her mouth to muffle her words, stifle her voice. They fell back onto the bed, Ennis pressing down on her, lips smashing up against hers, seeking resistance and fight and teeth and blood but she had nothing to offer but silky pliance, giving under him. He growled, worked his fingers up and under her blouse, stroking his thumb over her ribs, the only hardness he could find, pushed his leg between hers, jerking them wider apart. She made a soft noise of need, squirming, but he kept her down, yanked the skirt down her legs and slipped his hand under the cotton fibers, rough fingers catching on her wiry hairs, crossing the borders and trespassing, no invitation needed.
He shoved his lips down ever harder, ground his hips into hers, but he could not cross the no man’s land between them. She curled her hands around his face, had been trying to lessen the force of his attack, and he relented, no fight left. He dropped his head into the crook between her neck and shoulder, fingers doing the job his body had no desire to, and he closed off his ears to the sounds of her soft pleasure.
Somehow, those sounds were lethal, even moreso than the gunshots he heard in his sleep every night.
June 1964
Jack opened his eyes. He didn’t flinch or cringe away from the flow of water, letting it crash full into the delicate flesh of his eyes, stinging and harsh. His skin, his eyes, everything-needed to be clean. The soap was hard, rough, like it was full of sand, and he scraped it across his skin over and over, had to wash off the black, it was everywhere, on everything. Soaped, rinsed, soaped, rinsed. Over his shoulder, down his side, into his crotch-didn’t even stir under his touch-behind his knees, and up to his face, even ran it quickly over his eyes, face twitching as he did so, pushing his eyes up under the flow again to get out the suds.
“Fuckin’ dirty,” he muttered, words burbled and slurred by the water, decided to wash out his mouth, too. Tasted like shit. Had been tasting shit since he’d cleaned the latrines last week, couldn’t eat or drink it away. Soap had to be better than shit.
When the soap was a mere sliver between his fingers and his skin had pruned into white wrinkles, he pulled down on the crank and stopped the cascade.
“Fuckin’ dirty,” he said again, but his voice held no conviction. He grabbed his towel off the thin metal pipes that filled up the inside of the tent, the rickety silver shuddering when he yanked it down. Drying off perfunctorily, he shoved his clothes back on, sticking to the damp of his skin. No point in drying off when he’d be soaked again after an hour outside, never did know when the next rain was coming, except that it would be soon. He left the tent and squinted under the harsh glare of the sun, beating down a fierce heat that combated the chill of his shower.
“Twist! Your turn to do the latrines, sweetie pie.” He scowled when he saw ’Nesto approach, holding a shovel, shit-eating grin on his face. Jack wished he would.
“Aimin’ t’help me, friend?” Jack grabbed the shovel.
’Nesto cocked his head, looking closer at Jack’s face. “Fuck, Twist, you’re the only guy I know who can take a shower and come out of it lookin’ worse. What the fuck you do in there?” He grabbed Jack’s face and peering into his eyes. “You been holdin’ out on me? Looks like you been hittin’ some good shit.”
“Not yet.” Jack walked off into the direction of the latrines, calling back over his shoulder, “Don’t get started without me, neither.”
The shovel banged against his leg; the stench hit him well before he reached the latrines, curdling in his stomach. If he’d had any food in there it probably would have spoiled at the first whiff. He set the shovel down, grabbed the can of gas and started squirting it into the buckets, the foul brown colored in strange oily rainbows by the liquid.
“Wanted this,” he whispered, squeezing the can hard. “Wanted to come here.” Stirred it up, jerked the shovel hard into the bucket. “Serving my goddamned country.” Slammed the wooden door, next bucket. “All this fuckin’ jungle.” His face twisted into pure disgust when some of the filth spilled over the edges. “Never thought I’d miss the smell a horse shit,” he laughed at himself, a little wild, moved to the last bucket. The sticky heat clung in all his crevices, the putrid smell polluting his pores. He worked quickly, pulling the metal buckets out of their wooden homes and tossed matches in rapid-fire succession, scattering flames behind him.
The acrid smoke clouded the air, stinging his eyes, but he didn’t even blink until he couldn’t stand it anymore, tears pooling at the back of he eyes and threatening to spill forth. “Serving my fuckin’ country.” He leaned down, picked up the shovel, wiping it off on the ground. The words came out as the barest whisper, like a prayer whispered in sleep. “Might come. He still might come.” He stayed until the smoke had cleared, head tilted back to hold in the grief he wouldn’t let loose, and the gray giving way to blue, blue so bright he figured it’s what heaven would look like. But heaven no longer beheld brown, brown eyes only a memory now.
* * * * *
Jack escaped the tent, whiskey bottle in hand. It was hot no matter where he went but he’d rather be alone, couldn’t stand the chatter in the tents right now, worse than the insects buzzing around his ears. He went to the hole he’d dug the previous night, slumped into it; liked the smell of the dirt. Reminded him of Brokeback. Propping his feet up on the sand bags, he opened the bottle and gulped at the neck like a man dying of thirst, warm liquid burning his tongue, gums, and throat. In his haste it dribbled onto his face, making his skin damp and sticky, but as the warmth spread it eroded his will to wipe it off. He drank sporadically and stared at the sky, giving his bloodshot eyes a rest, tracking the progress of the swollen sun across the crystal-cut blue.
As the whiskey started to flow through his blood his muscles gave way under its spell, easing just a bit, and he drank faster. It didn’t go down like water just yet, but a few more gulps and it be easier, he knew. The bottle had a familiar heft and weight in his hand, and with every breath the slackness ate away at his body further. His head flopped back and he smiled a little, sun blurred like yellow paint on a lake, déjà vu; seemed everything in this foreign land was a déjà vu for what he’d left behind. The smell of resin seemed to overlay the sharp scent of alcohol, piquant and fresh. His smile stretched full and he was careful not too inhale too deep; he knew it wouldn’t stay if he did.
The sun wasted away, consumed in blazing orange and murderous red, and let the moon ring its time; Jack wasted away like the sun, consumed in the wash of whiskey and fire of intoxication. When he closed his eyes he could imagine himself sitting next to Ennis around the fire. He strained his ear for the sound of a heel on dirt, the cackle of log eaten by flames, the quiet sounds Ennis made when he thought Jack wasn’t listening, smacking his lips over beans, fucking beans. It was almost too much.
The stars took the place of the sun the next time he’d opened his eyes, as if the whole sky had shifting in one fell move when he’d blinked. But he closed his eyes again; he didn’t want to know their secret, and gripped his bottle tight although he was too weak to bring it to his lips again. Pine redolent in the air, sky overflowing with those same goddamned stars, and when he closed his eyes, hell if he couldn’t see that smile that got him better than any liquor ever could.
“Twist!” ’Nesto’s voice interrupted the divinity of his moment as surely as a hammer shattering glass. Jack’s eyes shot open to see ’Nesto hovering above him, swaying on his feet, hard to see in the low light because of his dark skin, eyes like black holes. “Am I goin’ to have to do somethin’ about this drinkin’ problem of yours?” His words were slurred and spittle showered down on Jack.
“Don’t gotta call me Twist, got a first name y’know,” Jack slurred back, both of them taking their sweet time to enunciate all the syllables and failing anyway.
“Twist, fuck, Jack-” ’Nesto stumbled forward, caught by a fit of laughter before he could get anything else out, and he tripped on his own feet, falling into Jack’s lap.
“Get off’a me,” Jack said blandly, tried to care, but couldn’t, trying to push him off but he was too weak and couldn’t get his limbs to obey him. ’Nesto just laughed and laughed and laughed, “Never catch me, Twist, too fast for you!,” and then passed out, a dead weight across Jack’s lap.
Jack tried to squeeze out from under him but couldn’t, getting dizzy in the process, hating that it felt good to have a body on him. He laid his head down on ’Nesto’s warm back, breathed in the scent that was tangy male and cheap army detergent. All the gifts of the whiskey were gone, all he had was this. “Wanted this,” he choked out, words muffled in the fabric, but he knew saying it didn’t make it true.
He grabbed a handful of ’Nesto’s shirt, bunched the fabric in his fist, burying his face and under the cover of darkness, deprived of the only comfort he had, came forth his greatest fear, more truth in these words whispered below breath than he’d spoken since January. “Don’t think he’s comin’. Don’t think he’s comin’.”
And when the tears came this time, he had no will left to fight them.
August 1963
Jack fumbled with the key, hands trembling so hard he couldn’t get it to line up with the hole.
“Stupid bitchin’ key!” he yelled, jamming it harder against the round brass.
Ennis leaned against the wall next to him, watching Jack’s struggle with a barely suppressed smile, although his voice was droll. “Might work better you turn it right side up, Jack.”
Jack mumbled something completely vile and indecipherable and fiddled with the key some more until Ennis’s control cracked and he grabbed at it. “Gimme that, dumbass!” He shoved Jack out of the way and crouched down, holding the key in both hands and carefully examining the door like it was a Dead Sea Scroll before he slid it in. A triumphant smile lit up his face when the door finally swung open, and he looked over at Jack smugly, but he just snorted and gestured grandly for Ennis to enter.
But when they were in the cheap motel room, reeking of semen and layered infidelities, and the snapping electricity between them seemed to pause midair. This wasn’t their mountain, full of quiet and a hundred miles of private, wasn’t their tent. This wasn’t comfortable or easy, and brought glaring into the light the fact that neither of them knew what the hell they were doing here.
Ennis sat down on the bed, careful like, putting his hands under his legs and not even removing his jacket. “You got a plan, Jack?”
Jack put his hands on his hips, kicked his foot on the stale carpet, looked around the room. “Didn’t get much farther’n this.” He looked at Ennis, licking his lips nervously. “Wishin’ you hadn’t come?”
“Well…” Ennis scooted back on the bed, taking a deep breath. “Had to.”
Jack’s expression opened a little more. “Had to?”
“I-thought I was goin’ puke up my guts on the side a the road back there. Tried real hard to, came on me real sudden, thought maybe it was somethin’ I ate. I had t’keep walkin’ even though I ain’t never felt so bad in my life, weren’t no help for it.”
Ennis picked at his nail with his teeth, distorting his words so that Jack had to strain to hear, “But then there you was.”
Jack’s eyebrows knitted on his forehead at first, but his face went through a series of metamorphic shifts from confused to doubtful to hopeful in mere seconds. “…and there I was.”
Ennis lowered his hand, droll once more. “Gonna repeat everythin’ I say, huh?”
Jack smiled, big and goofy, and started laughing, soft at first but it rapidly escalated, louder and louder, until he was holding his stomach and doubling over. Ennis tried to resist it, that contagious pealing laughter, but it danced all around him, tickling at the corners of his mouth and flooding in his ears, so that when he tried to say What’s so funny? it came out instead as a series of choked snickers. He put his fist over his mouth but pretty soon he was right there with Jack, both of them laughing long and hard and wiping tears from their eyes, sides aching so good.
Turned out they didn’t need the mountain, after all.
* * * * *
Ennis’s head slammed into the headboard hard enough for him to see stars, “Fuck! Be careful Jack!,” but the apology was worth the pain, Jack’s mouth devouring his, tongue burning hot with the whiskey they couldn’t afford, nails scraping hard on his back. He ground his hips into the air, cock aching to be free from his jeans, needing Jack’s touch, but he found no relief. Jack rose for air, grinning like a fool, and pushed Ennis down onto the bed, growling don’t you fuckin’ move a muscle while he ripped Ennis’s clothes off, belt humming with velocity and the snaps of their shirts sounding like popcorn. When Ennis was stripped bare, he sat back, admiring his handiwork, eyes staring at his cock, twitching under Jack’s scrutiny, tip sheening with need, and moving up his skin, flushed with desire, until their gazes met, dark and light, and Jack leaned over him, chest heaving and lips parted. Ennis struggled under his hold, needing to feel Jack, to touch him, but his hold was firm, and he smiled, running his tongue across his lower lip, “What’cha wantin’, Ennis? Hmm?”
Ennis growled a threat, trying to wrestle his arms from under Jack, still clothed, but he pinned Ennis down with his knees, leaning back. Staring straight into Ennis’s eyes, he undid one button at a time, revealing the fine down of hair on his skin, beautiful even in the dim fluorescents of the room. He let it fall onto his elbows, fingers running along the waistband of his jeans, twining lightly into the trail of black that continued past sight, breathing more heavily as he undid the fly, the metallic tines of the zipper descending the only sound in the room.
“Like it, Ennis? Want more?” Jack said, slipping his hand deeper into his jeans, hand rubbing along the length of his cock, head falling back and neck arching when he pulled it out. Ennis’s mouth went dry as he watched Jack’s fingers slide up and down the length, as he groaned deep in his throat, “God, Ennis, so fucking hot,” and Ennis bucked up against him, hating him and wanting him so badly that he started to see red, a sound like a whimper fell off the tip of his tongue before he could stop it.
“Fuckin’ hate you,” Ennis said, grinding his teeth on his weakness, secretly loving it, hotter than he’d ever been in his life and on the verge of coming at the sight of Jack running his fingers over himself, so sure and confident and utterly in control. Jack slowed his hand down as he began to tremble, jumping off the bed quickly and shucking his pants, rubbing up on Ennis like a cat as he crawled over him, mouth teasing along his stomach, his nipples, but never giving satisfaction, light nips and licks. He kissed Ennis hard and quick, barely enough to leave a taste, and sat back up, propped on Ennis’s thighs, digging his fingers hard into Ennis’s hips, cocks sliding against each other. He rubbed into the thatch of rough, curled hair, eliciting moans of gratitude, and slipped his fingers around both of them, rubbing the hard lengths of them together, slipping his thumb into the slits and drawing out the slick wet to heat the friction.
“Gonna… don’t wanna shoot…” Jack just increased the tempo, grinding his hips in time, and Ennis bunched the sheet in his hands, “fuck you, Jack.”
Jack’s hands stopped moving and he looked up, eyelids dropped to half-mast and lip curled enticingly. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, adjusting positions, and plunged himself onto Ennis’s cock in one sure and swift move, opened to the hilt and crying out with the bliss-agony of it. Jack rode him mercilessly, hands braced against his bent knees and head arched back, mouth open in a silent scream.
Ennis, with his last rational thoughts, brought his hand up and took care of Jack, only able to do so because of long practice, driven to the brink of madness at the sight of Jack in front of him.
“Christ, Ennis… Jesus fucking Christ…”
They approached the brink together, bodies humming with a tight tension that threatened to snap them in two if they didn’t free it, sweat trailing in the crooks of necks and pooling at the base of Jack’s spine, the room full of incoherent grunts and groans. They moved wildly against each other, finding a rhythm that beat like the pulse of the forest even in this dank motel room, and Jack’s left hand snaked around, fingers interlacing with Ennis’s, and together they cried out, convulsing and falling onto the bed, a pile of limbs and confusion.
But even when they had readjusted to go to sleep, wiped themselves down sloppily, their hands did not let go, their fingers did not unlace.
Chapter 2: Mistakes We Made
Date written: August 13, 29-31, September 1, 2006
Author: Sarah (sarful) and Sheera (trascedenza)
Pairing: Jack/Ennis
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 4,522
Disclaimer: We don’t own these characters-that honor goes to Ms. Proulx.
Plot Summary: An AU that begins after they come down off the mountain and is inspired by those three very pivotal words from the film.
Author’s Note: We’d like to apologize for the long delay between updates. Half of the team (Sheera) went on a vacation so we decided to take a brief hiatus, but we hope that the it was worth the wait. Also, this chapter should clarify a lot more about how this AU will be unfolding. Thanks so much to everyone for the encouraging comments on our first chapter, we really appreciated them!
Current Chapters:
Chapter 1: Lines Are Drawn
Chapter 2: Mistakes We Made
Chapter 2: Mistakes We Made
April 1964
Truck barely made it into the drive, puttering and jerking under Ennis. Whole thing needed work, especially the transmission and shocks. Couldn’t afford to fix it, though. He was right back where he started, seemed like. Job didn’t pay enough for fixing cars, likely never would. Pulling the shift up until it hit “P,” Ennis pushed away thoughts of the Kearnys-they would have paid him enough, even given him an advance if he asked. But he wasn’t working for them anymore, wouldn’t be going back either. Jumping up, he slammed the door with more force than necessary; he was tempted to give it a good swift kick like he’d seen Jack do more times than he could count, but didn’t give in-wouldn’t do any good, and he wasn’t anything if he wasn’t practical.
Man could kill himself, always being so practical.
He stuffed the keys into his pocket, went around back to unhitch the horses. The roan, Granger, was acting up; he fussed under Ennis’s hand, walking in a strange side-step-skip. He’d checked Granger’s feet four times today and hadn’t found a problem yet. He’d have let it sit for the night and see if it would fix itself. Horses weren’t like people; they demanded solutions and if none were found, often it was more humane to kill them then let them keep suffering. One of the best and worst things about working with animals; they couldn’t take “no” for an answer. Leading them out back, he opened the fence and led them through, setting them out on their own. He checked their water, checked the lock on the gate, and headed for the house, mouth practically watering at the thought of a beer. Brushed his hands off on his jeans, wiping off the surface layer of dust, but the smell of the ranch still clung to him, no help for that-needed a shower but food and drink came first.
The house was little more than a fancy shack, covered with a thin grooved aluminum roof, whitewashed walls barely able to hold against the harsh winds and pattered with grit. The only spot of color was the blue kitchen curtains, two-fifty on sale at J.C. Penney, but even their color was dulled, leeched out by the incessant winds, howling and mournful at all hours of the day and night. He took off his jacket and red vest after he was in the door, hanging them on the rack he’d nailed into the wall first thing after he’d signed the lease, four months ago.
Could have been four years instead of four months, the way he estimated it, the time had passed so slow.
He tore his eyes away from the rack, grabbed the Bud out of the fridge, rolling it cold between his hands, liked the smooth feel of it. Sitting at the table, he sipped it slow. He could afford to; he knew he’d finish the pack or more before the night ended. But once he’d finished, he fidgeted, laced and unlaced his fingers, tapped his boots on the linoleum, a hollow and muffled sound. What to do now? He looked around the kitchen, heaved a sigh, got up and went to the bedroom, sat down on the bed and pulled off his boots. Unsnapping his shirt, he tossed it aside and lay back on the bed, out within seconds of hitting the sheets.
* * * * *
Jack emerges from the water pale as a ghost, skin blanched from the freezing lake, glowing and luminescent under the soft touch of the blue-laced moonlight, blurred at the edges, ethereal. Beautiful.
Ennis’s skin prickles under the cold kiss of the air, the smell of crushed grass wafts up and around him; his heart contracts so hard that he feels his whole chest cave in at the sight of Jack. His body speaks things he isn’t ready to say. Not yet, not now. So instead he smiles a lie, pain wrinkling the corners of his eyes. “Good ’n soaked, bud? C’mon over here.”
Jack lays beside him, leaning his cheek on his fist, places his left hand on Ennis’s chest. His heart pulses right into Jack’s palm. He looks away, closes his eyes. “It ain’t all it’s cracked up t’be, Jack.”
“Tol’ you.” Jack’s hand moves up to his cradle his cheek.
“Thought I’d never see you again.” Ennis mumbles, shutting his eyes tighter.
Jack leans closer, moves Ennis’s face back towards him. “Shh. I’m here.” Jack’s lips on his are a question, a question Ennis cannot answer. But as soon as his resolve weakens and he tries to find the sweet taste of those lips, they are gone, and he feels hot jungle air on his face.
Ennis opens his eyes to see Jack being dragged off by two soldiers, skin the color of dirt and faces inscrutable, their foreign mouths twisted into gruesome grins and their guns pointed straight into Jack’s neck. Jack is naked, snow-white skin flayed in crisscrosses of blood, whip-thin wounds dripping snaky vines of red down his body.
“Jack! Jack!” He does not resist his captors, and when he hears his name hope briefly blooms on his face, but it is quickly crushed when he meets Ennis’s eyes, replaced by a forlorn resignation and that puts the taste of poison in Ennis’s mouth, bitter and sickly sweet. By the time Ennis has stood up they are specks in the distance, far off in a jungle painted in coloring book hues, childish slashes of neon, lurid and obscene, grained like newspaper print.
He runs as fast as his legs will carry him, feet sticking in the garishly green grass and mud, running faster and faster until the jungle has melted into swirls of green and brown. Yet when he’s stopped, he is beside the lake once more.
A sob crawls up his throat, lodges there, sticking needles behind his eyes so he can’t see, can’t see Jack but he hears his voice. “Not feelin’ too good, Ennis, don’t think I’m goin’ a make it.”
Ennis rubs roughly at his eyes, mouth still being eaten by the taste of poison. His vision clears and he sees Jack lying at the bank of the lake, half in the water, arms splayed out on either side. Ennis walks over slow, crouches down beside him, somehow scared to touch him. “Don’t say that, Jack. Not gonna make it without ya.”
“I’m sorry…” Jack’s face contorts, and he digs his hands into the muddy banks, trying to haul himself up, chest heaving and eyes rolling back into his head, skin covered in a layer of sweat that’s tinted with disease. Ennis looks down to see that the water is discolored where Jack has touched it, a black stain spreading out from his waist like an inky oil-slick, dark fingers veining into the blue.
“Sorry… Ennis…” Jack pushes one last time, falling back onto the mud with a sucking sound. His eyes close and he exhales a breath that sounds like dying, and Ennis finally throws himself down, buries his face in Jack’s neck, tries to hold the life in him. He refuses to look down and see that jagged edges of Jack, just a red pulpy mess where his legs should be.
Ennis’s scream could swallow the night whole.
* * * * *
“Ennis! Ennis, wake up!”
He blinked, sitting up rapidly, vision unclear for a few seconds, unable to see who was in front of him. “Wha’? ’S goin’ on?”
“You were havin’ one a those nightmares again.” Alma’s face was drawn, lips scrunched up tight, eyes narrowed. “Been drinkin’ too much, Ennis.” It should have been a question but wasn’t.
Ennis let his head fall forward, groaning and rubbed his neck, wound tight and painful. Could hardly look at her. “Must a had somethin’ bad for lunch.” The bed shifted under her weight when she sat next to him.
“Had somethin’ bad ever’ day this week?” The annoyance churned under her voice, bubbling around the edges of her words.
He didn’t say anything, just rolled his shoulders and ran his hand through his hair, sighed, hoping she would leave. He was surprised when he felt her thin arms wrap around his neck from behind, “Havin’ leftovers tonight. Won’t need to spend so much time cookin’.” Her mouth pressed close to his ear, breath tickling and warm, “Could make you feel better.”
He hunched his back, away from the heavy weight of her breasts, turned quickly keeping his eyes closed, blindly seeking her mouth to muffle her words, stifle her voice. They fell back onto the bed, Ennis pressing down on her, lips smashing up against hers, seeking resistance and fight and teeth and blood but she had nothing to offer but silky pliance, giving under him. He growled, worked his fingers up and under her blouse, stroking his thumb over her ribs, the only hardness he could find, pushed his leg between hers, jerking them wider apart. She made a soft noise of need, squirming, but he kept her down, yanked the skirt down her legs and slipped his hand under the cotton fibers, rough fingers catching on her wiry hairs, crossing the borders and trespassing, no invitation needed.
He shoved his lips down ever harder, ground his hips into hers, but he could not cross the no man’s land between them. She curled her hands around his face, had been trying to lessen the force of his attack, and he relented, no fight left. He dropped his head into the crook between her neck and shoulder, fingers doing the job his body had no desire to, and he closed off his ears to the sounds of her soft pleasure.
Somehow, those sounds were lethal, even moreso than the gunshots he heard in his sleep every night.
June 1964
Jack opened his eyes. He didn’t flinch or cringe away from the flow of water, letting it crash full into the delicate flesh of his eyes, stinging and harsh. His skin, his eyes, everything-needed to be clean. The soap was hard, rough, like it was full of sand, and he scraped it across his skin over and over, had to wash off the black, it was everywhere, on everything. Soaped, rinsed, soaped, rinsed. Over his shoulder, down his side, into his crotch-didn’t even stir under his touch-behind his knees, and up to his face, even ran it quickly over his eyes, face twitching as he did so, pushing his eyes up under the flow again to get out the suds.
“Fuckin’ dirty,” he muttered, words burbled and slurred by the water, decided to wash out his mouth, too. Tasted like shit. Had been tasting shit since he’d cleaned the latrines last week, couldn’t eat or drink it away. Soap had to be better than shit.
When the soap was a mere sliver between his fingers and his skin had pruned into white wrinkles, he pulled down on the crank and stopped the cascade.
“Fuckin’ dirty,” he said again, but his voice held no conviction. He grabbed his towel off the thin metal pipes that filled up the inside of the tent, the rickety silver shuddering when he yanked it down. Drying off perfunctorily, he shoved his clothes back on, sticking to the damp of his skin. No point in drying off when he’d be soaked again after an hour outside, never did know when the next rain was coming, except that it would be soon. He left the tent and squinted under the harsh glare of the sun, beating down a fierce heat that combated the chill of his shower.
“Twist! Your turn to do the latrines, sweetie pie.” He scowled when he saw ’Nesto approach, holding a shovel, shit-eating grin on his face. Jack wished he would.
“Aimin’ t’help me, friend?” Jack grabbed the shovel.
’Nesto cocked his head, looking closer at Jack’s face. “Fuck, Twist, you’re the only guy I know who can take a shower and come out of it lookin’ worse. What the fuck you do in there?” He grabbed Jack’s face and peering into his eyes. “You been holdin’ out on me? Looks like you been hittin’ some good shit.”
“Not yet.” Jack walked off into the direction of the latrines, calling back over his shoulder, “Don’t get started without me, neither.”
The shovel banged against his leg; the stench hit him well before he reached the latrines, curdling in his stomach. If he’d had any food in there it probably would have spoiled at the first whiff. He set the shovel down, grabbed the can of gas and started squirting it into the buckets, the foul brown colored in strange oily rainbows by the liquid.
“Wanted this,” he whispered, squeezing the can hard. “Wanted to come here.” Stirred it up, jerked the shovel hard into the bucket. “Serving my goddamned country.” Slammed the wooden door, next bucket. “All this fuckin’ jungle.” His face twisted into pure disgust when some of the filth spilled over the edges. “Never thought I’d miss the smell a horse shit,” he laughed at himself, a little wild, moved to the last bucket. The sticky heat clung in all his crevices, the putrid smell polluting his pores. He worked quickly, pulling the metal buckets out of their wooden homes and tossed matches in rapid-fire succession, scattering flames behind him.
The acrid smoke clouded the air, stinging his eyes, but he didn’t even blink until he couldn’t stand it anymore, tears pooling at the back of he eyes and threatening to spill forth. “Serving my fuckin’ country.” He leaned down, picked up the shovel, wiping it off on the ground. The words came out as the barest whisper, like a prayer whispered in sleep. “Might come. He still might come.” He stayed until the smoke had cleared, head tilted back to hold in the grief he wouldn’t let loose, and the gray giving way to blue, blue so bright he figured it’s what heaven would look like. But heaven no longer beheld brown, brown eyes only a memory now.
* * * * *
Jack escaped the tent, whiskey bottle in hand. It was hot no matter where he went but he’d rather be alone, couldn’t stand the chatter in the tents right now, worse than the insects buzzing around his ears. He went to the hole he’d dug the previous night, slumped into it; liked the smell of the dirt. Reminded him of Brokeback. Propping his feet up on the sand bags, he opened the bottle and gulped at the neck like a man dying of thirst, warm liquid burning his tongue, gums, and throat. In his haste it dribbled onto his face, making his skin damp and sticky, but as the warmth spread it eroded his will to wipe it off. He drank sporadically and stared at the sky, giving his bloodshot eyes a rest, tracking the progress of the swollen sun across the crystal-cut blue.
As the whiskey started to flow through his blood his muscles gave way under its spell, easing just a bit, and he drank faster. It didn’t go down like water just yet, but a few more gulps and it be easier, he knew. The bottle had a familiar heft and weight in his hand, and with every breath the slackness ate away at his body further. His head flopped back and he smiled a little, sun blurred like yellow paint on a lake, déjà vu; seemed everything in this foreign land was a déjà vu for what he’d left behind. The smell of resin seemed to overlay the sharp scent of alcohol, piquant and fresh. His smile stretched full and he was careful not too inhale too deep; he knew it wouldn’t stay if he did.
The sun wasted away, consumed in blazing orange and murderous red, and let the moon ring its time; Jack wasted away like the sun, consumed in the wash of whiskey and fire of intoxication. When he closed his eyes he could imagine himself sitting next to Ennis around the fire. He strained his ear for the sound of a heel on dirt, the cackle of log eaten by flames, the quiet sounds Ennis made when he thought Jack wasn’t listening, smacking his lips over beans, fucking beans. It was almost too much.
The stars took the place of the sun the next time he’d opened his eyes, as if the whole sky had shifting in one fell move when he’d blinked. But he closed his eyes again; he didn’t want to know their secret, and gripped his bottle tight although he was too weak to bring it to his lips again. Pine redolent in the air, sky overflowing with those same goddamned stars, and when he closed his eyes, hell if he couldn’t see that smile that got him better than any liquor ever could.
“Twist!” ’Nesto’s voice interrupted the divinity of his moment as surely as a hammer shattering glass. Jack’s eyes shot open to see ’Nesto hovering above him, swaying on his feet, hard to see in the low light because of his dark skin, eyes like black holes. “Am I goin’ to have to do somethin’ about this drinkin’ problem of yours?” His words were slurred and spittle showered down on Jack.
“Don’t gotta call me Twist, got a first name y’know,” Jack slurred back, both of them taking their sweet time to enunciate all the syllables and failing anyway.
“Twist, fuck, Jack-” ’Nesto stumbled forward, caught by a fit of laughter before he could get anything else out, and he tripped on his own feet, falling into Jack’s lap.
“Get off’a me,” Jack said blandly, tried to care, but couldn’t, trying to push him off but he was too weak and couldn’t get his limbs to obey him. ’Nesto just laughed and laughed and laughed, “Never catch me, Twist, too fast for you!,” and then passed out, a dead weight across Jack’s lap.
Jack tried to squeeze out from under him but couldn’t, getting dizzy in the process, hating that it felt good to have a body on him. He laid his head down on ’Nesto’s warm back, breathed in the scent that was tangy male and cheap army detergent. All the gifts of the whiskey were gone, all he had was this. “Wanted this,” he choked out, words muffled in the fabric, but he knew saying it didn’t make it true.
He grabbed a handful of ’Nesto’s shirt, bunched the fabric in his fist, burying his face and under the cover of darkness, deprived of the only comfort he had, came forth his greatest fear, more truth in these words whispered below breath than he’d spoken since January. “Don’t think he’s comin’. Don’t think he’s comin’.”
And when the tears came this time, he had no will left to fight them.
August 1963
Jack fumbled with the key, hands trembling so hard he couldn’t get it to line up with the hole.
“Stupid bitchin’ key!” he yelled, jamming it harder against the round brass.
Ennis leaned against the wall next to him, watching Jack’s struggle with a barely suppressed smile, although his voice was droll. “Might work better you turn it right side up, Jack.”
Jack mumbled something completely vile and indecipherable and fiddled with the key some more until Ennis’s control cracked and he grabbed at it. “Gimme that, dumbass!” He shoved Jack out of the way and crouched down, holding the key in both hands and carefully examining the door like it was a Dead Sea Scroll before he slid it in. A triumphant smile lit up his face when the door finally swung open, and he looked over at Jack smugly, but he just snorted and gestured grandly for Ennis to enter.
But when they were in the cheap motel room, reeking of semen and layered infidelities, and the snapping electricity between them seemed to pause midair. This wasn’t their mountain, full of quiet and a hundred miles of private, wasn’t their tent. This wasn’t comfortable or easy, and brought glaring into the light the fact that neither of them knew what the hell they were doing here.
Ennis sat down on the bed, careful like, putting his hands under his legs and not even removing his jacket. “You got a plan, Jack?”
Jack put his hands on his hips, kicked his foot on the stale carpet, looked around the room. “Didn’t get much farther’n this.” He looked at Ennis, licking his lips nervously. “Wishin’ you hadn’t come?”
“Well…” Ennis scooted back on the bed, taking a deep breath. “Had to.”
Jack’s expression opened a little more. “Had to?”
“I-thought I was goin’ puke up my guts on the side a the road back there. Tried real hard to, came on me real sudden, thought maybe it was somethin’ I ate. I had t’keep walkin’ even though I ain’t never felt so bad in my life, weren’t no help for it.”
Ennis picked at his nail with his teeth, distorting his words so that Jack had to strain to hear, “But then there you was.”
Jack’s eyebrows knitted on his forehead at first, but his face went through a series of metamorphic shifts from confused to doubtful to hopeful in mere seconds. “…and there I was.”
Ennis lowered his hand, droll once more. “Gonna repeat everythin’ I say, huh?”
Jack smiled, big and goofy, and started laughing, soft at first but it rapidly escalated, louder and louder, until he was holding his stomach and doubling over. Ennis tried to resist it, that contagious pealing laughter, but it danced all around him, tickling at the corners of his mouth and flooding in his ears, so that when he tried to say What’s so funny? it came out instead as a series of choked snickers. He put his fist over his mouth but pretty soon he was right there with Jack, both of them laughing long and hard and wiping tears from their eyes, sides aching so good.
Turned out they didn’t need the mountain, after all.
* * * * *
Ennis’s head slammed into the headboard hard enough for him to see stars, “Fuck! Be careful Jack!,” but the apology was worth the pain, Jack’s mouth devouring his, tongue burning hot with the whiskey they couldn’t afford, nails scraping hard on his back. He ground his hips into the air, cock aching to be free from his jeans, needing Jack’s touch, but he found no relief. Jack rose for air, grinning like a fool, and pushed Ennis down onto the bed, growling don’t you fuckin’ move a muscle while he ripped Ennis’s clothes off, belt humming with velocity and the snaps of their shirts sounding like popcorn. When Ennis was stripped bare, he sat back, admiring his handiwork, eyes staring at his cock, twitching under Jack’s scrutiny, tip sheening with need, and moving up his skin, flushed with desire, until their gazes met, dark and light, and Jack leaned over him, chest heaving and lips parted. Ennis struggled under his hold, needing to feel Jack, to touch him, but his hold was firm, and he smiled, running his tongue across his lower lip, “What’cha wantin’, Ennis? Hmm?”
Ennis growled a threat, trying to wrestle his arms from under Jack, still clothed, but he pinned Ennis down with his knees, leaning back. Staring straight into Ennis’s eyes, he undid one button at a time, revealing the fine down of hair on his skin, beautiful even in the dim fluorescents of the room. He let it fall onto his elbows, fingers running along the waistband of his jeans, twining lightly into the trail of black that continued past sight, breathing more heavily as he undid the fly, the metallic tines of the zipper descending the only sound in the room.
“Like it, Ennis? Want more?” Jack said, slipping his hand deeper into his jeans, hand rubbing along the length of his cock, head falling back and neck arching when he pulled it out. Ennis’s mouth went dry as he watched Jack’s fingers slide up and down the length, as he groaned deep in his throat, “God, Ennis, so fucking hot,” and Ennis bucked up against him, hating him and wanting him so badly that he started to see red, a sound like a whimper fell off the tip of his tongue before he could stop it.
“Fuckin’ hate you,” Ennis said, grinding his teeth on his weakness, secretly loving it, hotter than he’d ever been in his life and on the verge of coming at the sight of Jack running his fingers over himself, so sure and confident and utterly in control. Jack slowed his hand down as he began to tremble, jumping off the bed quickly and shucking his pants, rubbing up on Ennis like a cat as he crawled over him, mouth teasing along his stomach, his nipples, but never giving satisfaction, light nips and licks. He kissed Ennis hard and quick, barely enough to leave a taste, and sat back up, propped on Ennis’s thighs, digging his fingers hard into Ennis’s hips, cocks sliding against each other. He rubbed into the thatch of rough, curled hair, eliciting moans of gratitude, and slipped his fingers around both of them, rubbing the hard lengths of them together, slipping his thumb into the slits and drawing out the slick wet to heat the friction.
“Gonna… don’t wanna shoot…” Jack just increased the tempo, grinding his hips in time, and Ennis bunched the sheet in his hands, “fuck you, Jack.”
Jack’s hands stopped moving and he looked up, eyelids dropped to half-mast and lip curled enticingly. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, adjusting positions, and plunged himself onto Ennis’s cock in one sure and swift move, opened to the hilt and crying out with the bliss-agony of it. Jack rode him mercilessly, hands braced against his bent knees and head arched back, mouth open in a silent scream.
Ennis, with his last rational thoughts, brought his hand up and took care of Jack, only able to do so because of long practice, driven to the brink of madness at the sight of Jack in front of him.
“Christ, Ennis… Jesus fucking Christ…”
They approached the brink together, bodies humming with a tight tension that threatened to snap them in two if they didn’t free it, sweat trailing in the crooks of necks and pooling at the base of Jack’s spine, the room full of incoherent grunts and groans. They moved wildly against each other, finding a rhythm that beat like the pulse of the forest even in this dank motel room, and Jack’s left hand snaked around, fingers interlacing with Ennis’s, and together they cried out, convulsing and falling onto the bed, a pile of limbs and confusion.
But even when they had readjusted to go to sleep, wiped themselves down sloppily, their hands did not let go, their fingers did not unlace.