Hiding

First time he saw it he snorted something unpleasant out of his nose. Couldn't figure out what it was for; had those nice caps now, what'd he need that thing for? Got used to it, though, didn't make no comments; weren't his place. Wasn't Jack's wife.

Long after Jack was gone that he understood what it had been there for. In his dreams, Jack laughed like a coyote howling at the moon, smiled radiant and burning, not a hair on his face, because that's why he grew it; didn't have any smiles left, not for Ennis, not for no one.

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Knowing

"…nothin' never come to my hand the right way."

Ennis grumbled, pulled him closer. He didn't have no answer. No surprise. Jack'd run out of answers years ago.

Not that Randall had one, neither. LaShawn had his balls wrapped up so tight even makin one trip up to Lightning Flat was like tryin to hog-tie a wild boar one-handed. Man was dreamin.

Jack knew a lot about dreamin. Hated knowin. Worst fuckin thing Ennis'd ever taught him.

But gettin even closer, fingers diggin in hard and scuffin on the dirt, he remembered the best thing Ennis taught him.

Mountains move, alright. Just slow, and don't wait for no man.

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Intrusion

It is a holy moment.

The sliding, slick and slippery, a friction that ignites nerve endings, trembling through the thin barriers of skin into the deeper muscle, lighting fires along the sinews and tracing tendons in outlines of burning. They can only hear the sounds of ragged breath, drawn against each other, chests pushing in opposition to the rhythm of their fervency. The blankets and pillows lay on the floor, soldiers fallen to the battle of lust, while the bed creaks in time with their movements.

The urgency is mounting, bodies pressed closer and closer, legs entangled—just a little more, just a little more—fingers digging red imprints into shoulders, plunging so deep into the warmth, needing it, wanting to be engulfed in it forever, always looking for that moment of overload when the world fades and only the body speaks. They skirt the edge, razor sharp and delicious, and he finds it, the unspoken desire that pushes him into the oblivion. Lips meet lips reluctantly in the dark, stifling the cries that come with release; he swallows the sounds, tasting like sorrow, and they drive away the images of dark hair, eyelashes that belong on no man—another night, far in the reaches of the past where Ennis first touched that unexpected joy that still bleeds from his bones and haunts his dreams. He can feel nothing of Jack beneath him, soft where he craves hard, woman where he craves man.

…the moment of Alma Junior's conception.