A/N: While going through my old writing folders, I came across a handful of preludes for stories that never got written. I thought they were decent so I put them together in the form of a small fic. This fandom will always have a soft spot in my heart despite the fact I've moved onto other fandoms. It's so nice to write about a canon couple. Enjoy.
PRELUDES
The coffee was pungent in his mouth and, for once, he was grateful for Alma's minimal skills with making breakfast. Ennis wasn't one for heavy meals and the sharp, metallic taste of the coffee kept his stomach level.
"Want eggs or sumthin'?" Alma half-smiled at him across the table, her thin fingers tapping gently on the faded wood. The very same fingers that had pushed away his from boundaries best left alone. "No…Ennis, no, you know I can't, we can't, not until…."
"Uh," he took another sip from the mug, "no…coffee's fine."
"Oh, alright." She returned to her greasy eggs.
Ennis looked at her, the woman he was to marry come November. After this summer job, after he had a decent amount of money to support her…what? What was going to happen? He didn't know. Truth be told, he was downright nervous and unsure about the whole thing. Maybe it was the sex or lack of, more like. He'd grown up with his sister and brother who, as far as he knew, had lost their virginity before marriage and didn't care much what he did with his as long as the receiving end was of the opposite sex and he didn't get her pregnant. It was yet another unspoken rule of the del Mar household.
Alma Beers was a whole different story; her parents, vigilant Methodists, made it very clear to a nineteen year old Ennis what his intentions could and could not be, and he'd better damn well follow through.
No sex until marriage.
He'd been courting her for a little less than fifteen months and they were engaged. In a small town word got around pretty fast and the date was set: November 11th, 1963. After the job up on that mountain, after he had a handful of cash to support his bride.
He loved her, he supposed. He wasn't exactly a man of experience when it came to the subject and the birds-and-bee-talk he'd received from a half-drunk K.E. del Mar wasn't something he liked to mull over. Alma fared well up north and down south, he decided, eying the curvaceous figure under the flannel shirt. Round face, full lips, big brown eyes. She wasn't fussy with things like makeup and perfume. She was well-mannered enough and Christian enough. She smoked but heck, who didn't? She'd be a good wife, cook and clean for him, and give him children. That was enough for K.E. so it was enough for Ennis.
"When are ye comin' back?" Alma's voice broke the uncomfortable silence that had settled between them.
"Hm?"
"From this job of yers, on a mountain or somethin'."
"Yep. Brokeback." Another sip.
"Where's that?"
"Signal." Another sip.
"How ye gettin' there? K.E. lendin' his car or somethin'?"
"Uh, no…hitchhiking, probably."
"Oh, oh okay. Ye got everythin'?"
'Jesus woman, ye sound like my mother.' "Yep."
"Good."
"Yep."
"Take care of yourself, ye hear?"
"Yes, m'am."
If she heard the sarcasm, she didn't let on. They finished the rest of their meal in silence. For the years to come, even if the coffee got better and the eggs were decent, the silence would remain, deafening over the sound of children and then the breathing of a man aged before his time. But now their fingers met in hesitant brushes like their eyes and for a few moments, Ennis thought there was something there.
Later, in the silence of his trailer, he'd remember another sort of hesitance, strong fingers tracing the jut of his ribs, a trail of fire on his skin. He'd remember yearning and then kissing him in broad daylight. He'd remember the blood on their lips and the promises, and pressing a finger against those lips because silence was easier to bear.
Slipping the leather under the clasp of the shiny rodeo buckle didn't feel as good as it did the first time. Then again, nothing ever did feel as good or bad as the first time; like that shot of whiskey at age twelve. His throat had burned like hell and the tears swam to his eyes but he knew what his Daddy would do if he cried in front of all those people 'like a fuckin' pansie'. They were over at Uncle Harold's, all the men playing poker and smoking and drinking. He didn't cry - he threw up all over the table. Uncle Harold didn't snarl at him like his Daddy did, just cleaned him up and gave him a reassuring pat on the back. Because he knew his older brother's temper and the belt that awaited Jack when he got home.
Jack never thought he'd touch whiskey again, not after that particular whipping and the angry welts it left across his back. But there it was - the bottle he'd bought the day before, tucked into the rucksack along with two shirts, a pair of jeans, a change of drawers, a razor and a rusty metal cup.
If Brokeback was anything like last year, he was going to need that whiskey.
'It gets so lonely up there. No one to talk to 'cept myself and the fuckin' sheep.'
"Jackie, y'ready?" Ma hollered from the kitchen. He was going to miss her loud and boisterous voice, so very similar to the one he possessed.
"Yeah, 'm ready." He gave his room one last look-over. 'With the money I make 'm gonna buy a new bed.' After that growth spurt a few years ago, his feet dangled off the end and it creaked and groaned if he moved. It was old as him, if not older. He loved the damn thing. It was a place of comfort and refuge after his Daddy's beatings, second only to his mother. And maybe her cherry cake.
When he joined his Ma in the kitchen, she was furiously kneading dough on the counter, her arms and face smeared with flour. Jack couldn't help but laugh and pulled her into a hug from behind.
"Jaaack," she whined, "this ain't the best time t'be hugging me. I gotta finish makin' this bread for yer Pa."
"Ya look like a ghost."
"Well, ain't ya a gentleman."
"'m gonna miss you, Ma," he pressed his lips to her hair, soft and dark, and wound his arms tighter around her.
"Stop holdin' yer ma like a goddamned child," growled John Twist Sr., wiping his hands on his overalls before taking off his boots. Jack's jaw tightened but he felt his mother squirm out of his embrace and he stepped back to lean against the counter. Her eyes, a blue paler than his, were downcast in apology.
Breakfast was a quiet affair as it always was when John was at the table. Jack hardly looked up from his eggs and bacon, lips twitching, fighting the smile as he looked down at their arrangement – a smiling face. 'Ma.' He glanced up, meeting her eyes, and they both grinned at each other like kids sharing a dirty joke.
"What are ye smilin' at, boy?" John's sharp voice cut the moment short.
"Nothin'."
"Can't hear ye, speak up."
"Nothin', alright?"
"Don't get mouthy with me, yer still livin' under my roof." He turned to his wife who was giving Jack the wide-eyed 'don't-push-it' look. "And what the hell are you doin' smilin' right back? Jesus, Lucy, yer encouragin' it."
"Encouragin' what? Smilin'?" Jack snapped. He could take his Daddy's blows and degrading comments but when it started on his Ma, he couldn't stand it. "Just 'cause you can't do it don't mean us normal folk can't."
"What'd you say? Speak up – yer mutterin' like some girl."
Jack slammed his fist onto the table, dropping his fork. "Y'heard what I said, you sunavabitch."
"Jack!" This was Lucy, her lips in a tight line. "I won't have ya talkin' 'bout yer daddy that way and not with that language. Y'want me to wash yer mouth out with soap?"
"That'd teach him a fuckin' lesson."
"John!"
"Maybe yer the one that needs a fuckin' piece of soap down yer fuckin' throat."
"Jack!"
Breakfast fell once again to silence before Twist Sr. spoke again albeit in a quieter tone.
"…so yer goin' up to Brokeback again, huh?"
"Yep."
"Don't let them sheep die again, like last year. Givin' us Twists a bad name."
"That wasn't my fault – not like I can control the weather or somethin'. And I thought ye hated Agguire, anyway."
"Damn right I do. Old sunavabitch cheated me outta some money a couple years ago…just don't want him thinkin' all of us is rodeo fuckups."
Jack opened his mouth to argue but he caught the look his mother threw him, and returned to jabbing at his eggs with his fork. The fuckin' sheep were better than Ol' Man Twist any day. As he glared at his breakfast, Jack didn't think of calloused hands cradling his face or thin lips nervously smiling at him across a can of beans. Such things would come later as would the burn in his chest which he'd credit to whiskey and not the soft-spoken cowboy who'd pummelled his heart time and time again. Jack Twist was too young for regret and bitterness so he squeezed his Ma's hand under the table and thought of packing his parka to ward off the chill in the lonely mountains. There weren't thoughts of a lean, wiry body against his, the hummingbird's pace of a heart against his own, two lonely bodies sharing heat in the only way they knew how.
I wish I knew how to quit you.
(I couldn't do it. I never could.)
A/N: It's a bit choppy but it's old stuff, I admit. Please let me know what you think.