Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no money off of them.
Thanks to my betas, Max and Sheera, and to everyone who has lent me a little courage to help me send my baby out into the world like this. I did some reseach, but I'm no medical doctor. I know this story deals with serious themes, and I in no way intend to trivialize them by fictionalizing them. Honest and respectful feedback of any kind is welcomed.
Chapter 1: Hole Fillin'
Jack was the expert on Saturday evening. He knew the routine: the bear hug, one drink, food, more whiskey, the risin' up, then down and out with the rising call of the great horned owl. They were still on the whiskey, Saturday night, and serious talk was off-limits. Jack knew that. God, he knew it. But he remembered their last time together and the fight they'd had, just because Ennis had kept his bad news to the last day-- savin' up all the bad for the worst possible moments, in that way he had. Jack knew everything was gonna be different this week, but that was no call for puttin' this off seven whole days, even God hisself knew that. They were sittin' in Jack's striped lawn chairs 'round a roaring fire. Ennis leaned down out a his chair to stoke the fire in that first-night way, doin' anything to pretend Jack wasn't there. He knew, though. Jack knew Ennis was pretending. If he let himself believe Jack were really there, Ennis would have ended up on top of Jack in a pile-drivin' heap of man and campground dust. Ennis didn't like ta lose control like that, though Jack wouldn'ta complained none. Never happened, though. Jack's man had some holy routines.
Leanin' back in the chair, Jack took a big sip a whiskey, big enough to burn all the way down, and in his stomach. But what the hell did it matter now? The night he'd found out, he and Randall'd gotten so shit-faced they couldn't hardly get it up later. Randall had cried like a baby, and then outdrunk Jack, beatin' him at his favorite Texas game, and when he shoulda been playin' at his peak. One hell of a time.
He watched the firelight dance on Ennis's face. Better save some for 'im. Might need it more than me. He felt for Ennis, perhaps more than he had in years, wondering how his man would take the news, if Randall was practically fallin' apart. Lureen was alright. She was always alright. She didn't say it, but he could tell she was already plannin' a big vacation for next year. What the hell, I ain't jealous. Not of Lureen and her trip. Wish she'd go now and leave me be. Lureen didn't mean nothin' by it. She jus' knew she couldn't change the future, and Jack didn't blame her for that. She'd go on livin'. Ennis, though? Might hafta get another bottle out a night early.
This had ta be the hardest thing Jack ever said. Much harder than tellin' Randall, he had ta admit. Hadn't told his mama yet. Do that next week. But the moment the doc had shared those words, all technical yet somehow clear as day, and long before the meanin' a them had soaked into his brain, this was the moment he'd envisioned in his head: firelight, whiskey, Ennis, an' tryin' ta make his tongue move 'tween all them technical words to the truth of the matter. He'd been sick ta think on it. Still was. And fuck almighty, here it was.
"Friend, I gotta tell ya somethin', and it ain't any easier ta hear than it is ta say."
Ennis was sittin' back on his heels on the ground now, rearranging the rocks on the outside of the fire. No need-- fire wasn't goin' nowhere-- but that didn't never stop Ennis from solvin' problems as weren't even there. He looked up across the fire at Jack, golden curls seemed to be made of flames themselves, and Jack's nerve nearly burnt to brands in that fiery halo.
Ennis wasn't speakin', but the flames were workin' for him, the log-pile fallin' of a sudden into ashes and coals with flames tryin' to worm their way back ta some unburnt wood where they could do some good. Jack didn't wait ta see if they was able.
The fire just a reminder of dyin' and losin', Jack looked elsewhere for strength. None in the sky, none in his hands, took another swig of whiskey, but there weren't none in the bottle neither. The best he could do was Ennis's strong hands, salt of the earth, strong as stone. Ennis would move on; the man was made a stone, or so Jack told himself, knowin' no such thing. "Ennis... I ain't well."
"Mmm." Ennis nodded to the fire. "Do look like you lost a bit a weight there, bud. Wasn't gonna say nothin' since I thought maybe ya meant to..." He waved his hand in the air as if fishing for words.
"Mmm, no," Jack rubbed his fingers across his eyes. Shit this was hard. "I'm sick, Ennis."
"Some sorta stomach flu? I know a...a soup Alma used ta make for the girls? With garlic."
Jack's laugh came out more bitter than he wanted. "Nope." This was a bitch already without fightin' the fuckin' stomach flu, too. It wasn't like Ennis ta keep talking, but Jack knew he looked worse than Ennis was letting on. He was probably worried, had ta be. Better get this out fast, like pullin' off a band-aid, though no kind a band-aid could fix this one up.
"Doctors say I got some kinda cancer. In my kidney." There. It was done. This had been about the point where Randall'd started hittin' walls.
Jack met Ennis's eyes, feeling some courage stir within. He'd told a bunch of people already, but this was Ennis's first time hearing. Might be that Ennis needed his help now, of all things.
Ennis's dark eyes swam open, pupils dilated, and he sat back slowly on the ground opposite Jack, fire between them, sparks aflyin'. It wasn't the reaction Jack'd been expecting. Until Ennis's fell back onto the cold ground, his breath comin' hard, and he squeezed out a "Christ, Jack," from a rib cage that, from the sound of it, was tryin' a squeeze the life outta him.
Jack held strong, waitin' to see what Ennis would do. When Ennis's sobs started sudden and heavy, Jack couldn't just sit no more. He tried to pass the bottle across the inferno, but Ennis had gone blind, and even Jack couldn't tell what done it-grief, fury, somethin' else. His man weren't one to lay it out there. "Ennis... Ennisss," Jack tried, the name sizzling between his lips. "Goddamn it, 's alright. Ain't dyin'." He stood, moved three, four steps around the fire, and knelt next to the man whose sobs had turned into some sort a hushed keening, like chokin' on a harmonica. Ennis was tryin' a stop the sound, only making his breath come harder, his chest heaving in and out: weakness written all over a strong cowboy.
Jack leaned forward, not touchin' Ennis except for a whiskey bottle to the shoulder, snatched silent but firm. Ennis seemed to find some strength in the bottom a that bottle, sure enough, 'cause he used it to push Jack away from him. "Ain't funny, Jack."
"And I sure as hell ain't jokin'. Friend, this'd be one god-awful game ta play just ta make you drink my cheap whiskey." Jack's breath halted, not knowing what to expect now, thinking maybe a punch was in order for him. Hadn't been on the receivin' end of Ennis's right hook since the day they came down off a that mountain, but this didn' feel too differnt. Didn't never return there, still fallin' from those high plains. Jack didn't care to look down, not sure how close they were to the bottom; reckoned he knew, though. Didn't know if they were arrestin' the fall tonight, or takin' a detour off a higher cliff, or what. Maybe nothin'. Probably nothin', with Ennis. Just continue with life like it was. I'm stuck with what I got here. The words mocked him.
"Doc's gonna fix it, bud," Jack said to a stone-cold and silent Ennis, no punch landing, not that he was aware of, leastways.
"Oh yeah?" Ennis grunted, lookin' more angry than uncertain.
"Yeah, sure." Jack picked up a nearby kindlin' stick and tossed it into the fire, just to see it burn. "Just gonna..." threw another stick, "cut it out."
"Tha's all?"
"Man can live with one kidney. Have ta piss more or somethin'. I dunno. Maybe less. Think you could stand ta watch me piss less, Ennis?" It was a sorry excuse for a joke, but Ennis took it as a good one, noddin,' with a expression that mighta been a smile or grimace. Jack was offering an escape route, and Ennis was gladly accepting, always ready n' willin' for a good escape from a bad situation.
"Here, lemme at that." Jack swiped for the whiskey bottle.
Ennis held it away from Jack's reach.
"What in the hell, Ennis?"
"'S shit for yer health."
"An' you ain't my doctor."
"So why's it my job ta make sure you don't fuck yerself up, huh?"
Jack knew the answer to that, but Ennis wasn't really asking. Never would.
Ennis looked down, drew another ball of whiskey from the bottle and rolled it down into his gullet, pulled himself off the ground and went silent to the tent. Jack let him be for a little while, didn't know if he was meant to follow. If they didn't fuck tonight it'd be a first. Guessed he was in for a lot of them now. He'd lied a Ennis before, way you lie ta a child 'bout puttin' down their dog, not wantin' ta deal with tellin' them the truth. But he had a open up another bottle of whiskey and swallow hard to make the guilt glide down far 'nough he didn't taste it no more. Might not even be lyin', though, and no sense in tastin' the punishment before comittin' the crime.
Climbing into the cold, dark tent well after the owl had finished appetizer and main course, Jack wasn't expecting anything in particular, least of all the whimpering noises he hadn't heard since Bobby'd fallen off his bike as a boy. Ennis was sound asleep, but that weren't enough to stop the sense of fallin' for that man. As dead tired and weak as he felt, Jack stroked Ennis's golden-grey hair until he felt the whimperin' stop, frown etched deep under his mustache. Then Jack stroked a while longer, here an' there, wherever his hands or mouth were wantin', bringin' other whimperin' sounds. They were comin' down out of the skies themselves, it seemed, fallin', fallin' like everything else.
"Goddamn," Jack muttered against the warmth of Ennis's thigh.
"Meant it 'bout the doctor?" Ennis asked, full awake now, no choice in that, clinging to whatever of Jack he could reach, in this case a hip, and Jack felt the firm grip through his entire body. Jack leaned his head up, but the tent was too dark for an image ta form; the sliver moon had yet ta risen. Ennis was was askin' for truth, it seemed.
"Surgery's week after next, soon as I visit my ma."
"Hmm." Ennis's head nodded against Jack's inner thigh, and Jack knew he couldn't just let that be. Didn't reckon he owed Ennis much, but that sure's hell had never stopped him from givin' it ta Ennis before. Any man with his tear stains streakin' Jack Twist's inner thigh deserved the truth, and this wasn't even any man. This was Ennis. Deserved the truth the day he was born, just for being Ennis, no tears or inner thigh required (but given anyway, goddamn. More than once Jack thought back to the nights on Brokeback he'd stroked himself to sleep at the thoughts of Ennis, knowin' beyond all ability, more'n he believed in God above, that man wouldn't never be his. Jack Twist had learned young he didn't know nothin' 'bout knowin'.)
Ennis did deserve the truth, but Ennis deserved the happiness too. They was always one or the other. What kind a life were they leadin' that the two never did fit. Nothin' never fit. Like Jack an' Ennis, don't fit in any real world made a real people, just in fantasy lands that existed 'tween sex and the risin' crescent moon.
Jack fumbled in the dark for his smokes, kickin' Ennis in the head by accident.
"Hey now." Ennis's tone was more tender than usual.
Jack laughed down inta his belly, findin' the pack and lighting two smokes. Ennis uncoiled full-length onto his back, staring at the overhead vent of Jack's fancy tent, and Jack turned to follow his gaze after passin' him the smoke, head to ankle both. They hadn't put no rain fly up yet, an' the stars were clear like livin' fire, lightin' up a world only they knew.
"Ennis, tell you what..." Cigarette smoke leaked like a ghost into the tent air, uncoiling from Jack's mouth. "Doctor don't think it's so simple."
"How's'at?" Ennis's voice sounded thickened already, warning written all over his barely-a-word.
"They take out my kidney, mebbe it'll all be fine. Can't find no cancer nowhere else right now. But the doctor, Myers's his name-- he says it looks pretty bad. Shows up somewhere else, won't be so easy ta just cut out." Jack took a long, unsteady drag. "Have ta do the chemo and mebbe radiation anyway? Tell you what, that shit scares the bejesus outta me, Ennis." Ennis gripped his shin, firm-on-firm. "I just don't know what the hell ta think." Jack's voice faded from the tent with a sigh and a drag.
Ennis lifted himself up and shifted so he was lying behind Jack, who was busy shivering with sweat and November cold. Soon Ennis was warming him the way Ennis knew best, body an' blanket. He was strokin' the whimperin' out of Jack, though it were whimperin' invisible, inside only, and that's where the strokin' was, too. But then, Ennis always did cut to the chase, knew how to stroke on the inside where no one else had seen nor felt, not even Randall. Jus' knew the path ta that hole gapin' inside Jack that only he could fill, no instruction manual needed. Jack hadn't even known how badly he was needin' it, but he snatched his first peaceful sleep in weeks wrapped in those weather-worn arms.
At first he thought, or maybe hoped, it was the great horned owl and a cigarette lighter that woke him, but it was the lark and the burning day, and he didn't understand how he could mistake the fact. The bedroll next to him was stark naked, and Jack wouldn't even have conceived of pretendin' he didn't feel a wave of disappointment down to all the holes he had, including both that had been filled by Ennis last night, the one not physical. It ached more than the other, but it was an ache seldom filled, and he clamored into his dirty clothes and staggered from the dawn tent.
The fire was roarin', and Ennis was toiling around it. He didn't even acknowledge Jack, but he sure as hell was humming a little under his breath. Jack thought his face might explode, and was pretty glad no one was watching him smile. Sometimes he was embarrassed by his smiles, always feelin' like people thought they had some fishy meanin', but with Ennis he didn't never hold back a smile. Not never, no matter what it might earn him. Held back those painful truths, though. Jack was of a mind to let 'em out, too, this week. It was a thought to erase the boldest smile, and it worked as well on his.
Ennis spun around, handing a blue-and-white-flecked camp plate to Jack, overflowin' with eggs, a stone biscuit, bacon, grits, and home fries. "Jesus, Ennis." It was all Jack could say.
"Gotta put some weight back on."
"Yeah, well, all this'll give me diarrhea, and then some fun I'll be this week."
Ennis shrugged. "Risk I'll take."
Jack pointed playfully at him, moving to sit down by the fire. "You don't mean that, friend."
Ennis shrugged again, but all he said was, "you feelin' strong enough ta ride?"
"Ain't dead yet." Jack winced at his words, immediately regretting them. "Yeah, I c'n ride."
"Got somethin' ta show you."
Jack started shoveling food into his mouth, and had to admit it was pretty tasty and hit some spot. Ennis was all about hittin' the right ones this trip, it seemed. Jack was mighty grateful for that. Especially that one hole couldn't nothin' else fill, and Ennis didn't often try. He sometimes did it without tryin', but the times he was tryin' were somethin' else. Jack's mind flickered to that dozy embrace years before, the first time that hole had filled to the brim and overflowin', and without even knowin' he was doin' it, his hand reached out to brush Ennis's leg where the jeans hugged the knee.
"You bringin' some other fella up here, learnin' the sights?" Jack winced once again at his own words. Damn he was on a hell-bent roll this a.m., lettin' all his own hurtin' secrets spill in jabs at Ennis.
Ennis shrugged. "'Member not the last time we was here, but the time before? I went off, n', well, I'll show ya." He didn't move away from Jack's touch for a moment, reachin' down ta tap Jack on the shoulder, gentle-like, like the lark song, before headin' off ta saddle up the horses. Both of 'em. Jack's too.
Jack's energy failed him before he finished the meal, tryin' to fool them both 'bout how crappy he felt, though he didn't think it was the cancer. He just really hadn't been eatin' well with nerves, nor sleepin' well with restless nights, and it was nothin' one night and one breakfast could undo. Ennis didn't ask, didn't say nothin', didn't poke fun, just silently rolled a stump next to Rufus, his grey-black gelding, as a makeshift mounting block for a man as had never needed nor used one. Jack was grateful Ennis didn't watch him mount. That lanky trunk of muscle swung himself up onto Olive, the flea-bitten grey mare who had foaled Rufus years ago, like it was no more effort than breathin'. Jack envied Ennis the strength and flexibility that had been his own not long ago. Told himself it wasn't nothin' a couple of Ennis's over-the-top meals and hole-fillin' sleeps couldn't fix in no time. Jack wouldn't be usin' that stump tomorrow, regardless. Even a dyin' man had ta have his pride. And Jack weren't dyin'. Not no time soon, leastways.
The ride was bumpy, but Rufus was gentle, though he'd taken a likin' to trotting up hills that Jack's full stomach didn't appreciate, but weren't nothin' he couldn't handle. He started by followin' Ennis close, but that never lasted long, Ennis findin' any little reason to slow up Olive, Jack lookin' for reasons to spur on Rufus. Before long, and neither would admit how, but both knew, their knees were brushin'. Ennis was always lookin' Jack's direction. Jack sometimes snuck looks back under dark eyelashes, but Ennis would just smile, or press his lips to keep from smilin', same exact thing to Jack, since what mattered was the emotions behind those lips.
The trail took a little dip through the trees, around a bend, and through a tiny stream bed. The horses stepped over some roots, Olive givin' a little trip. They clamored up a small hill, rocks stickin' out a dry dirt, Rufus trotting like an idiot, and stumblin' toward the top.
"Tell you what, Ennis, these horses might as well have fryin' pans for feet. Don't got no clue where they are."
"Better'n the horses you brought," Ennis answered with a smile. Jack smiled back at that, and the trail evened out into a grassy field, trees seemed 'bout a mile away on all other sides 'cept one, and that one seemed like the side dropped away, a straight fall down to the Wyomin' plains and the woe that lived there. Ennis spurred Olive ta a soft canter, but Rufus wouldn't do more'n that fastest trot Jack ever rode in his life, and he felt he was 'bout to come apart into a million pieces by the time they neared the overlook.
Jack didn't need a be told. Ennis was watchin' his expression with intention, but Jack was looking dead ahead. He dismounted without any trouble, feelin' suddenly nineteen again. He put his hands on his hips, shifting from foot to foot for a second. He felt Ennis's soft brown eyes takin' him in, and it would be a lie to say he didn't square off his shoulders and maybe flex a muscle or two for that man's vision.
"Holy fuck, you saw this last time?"
"Yup."
"Wasn't thinkin' a telling me?"
"Just did." Ennis was shifting from foot to foot, too, still watching Jack under a tawny hat brim.
The edge of the mountain really did roll off, a steep hill, rocky in places, grassy in places, to the plains below. Those woeful Wyomin' plains that stretched northwest between the mound a Earth he was standin' on, feelin' hardly a mountain by comparison, and the great sooty bulk a that mountain he would a known in his sleep. Slabs of somber malachite were risin' up to give a howdy to its sons across what musta been at least a hundred miles of woe. Jack had a wonder whether tumbling off this face would a brought him to rest at the base of that rocky body. Thinkin' on a life lived and ended on the end of an IV leash, in a stinkin' hospital bed, his hair fallin' out, or worse, his knees felt weak and he cursed himself for even bein' here and not there-- for ever agreein' to be here and not there. For ever agreein' to any of this campin' shit in the first place, Alma and Junior and Francine be damned. 'Cause they was all fine, and who the hell knew whether he would be fine or not.
But Jack caught his thoughts. He was a natural optimist, and couldn't fail himself now. Everything would be fine, and if he ever got a chance a go campin' with Ennis del Mar again, he was goin' a settle on Brokeback Mountain or no mountain at all. He didn't need to swear it to himself, 'cause he'd already decided, and decision was always stronger than promises.
"Whaddya ya think, huh?"
"It's somethin', Ennis, real somethin'." An' he meant it too, his whole life carved in stone. The part that mattered now, anyway. He knew he had a start sharing truths instead of soothing words with Ennis, before the buzzer came with the lark, but thinkin' now on Lureen and Randall, and even Bobby, the whole rest of his life paled like a pebble, like them stones back on the trail what'd tripped up the horses, like none a that existed. Just this-his hard breath, Ennis drinkin' eyes, the grass singin' a whispering sound, a hundred miles a woe, flowery meadows, the endless wind, and that huge black mass of mountain that might as well have been heaven and hell rolled into one, and more sacred. Sure to fuckin' hell Randall could never understand this thing, and seemed like a sacrilege to be lookin' across at Brokeback n' even thinkin' on Randall, like the times he'd passed a borin' church sermon by imaginin' Ennis's curve of hip as the muscles in it bucked into Jack, not even carin' who might notice the inappropriate bulge on his way outta the church. Lureen'd been alright with his final declaration that he couldn't go to church no more. Didn't sit right with him ta be thinkin' on Lureen now neither.
The silence stretched on, and Ennis shifted again. "Yeah, well, I thought..." Ennis didn't say any more. A beat passed, two, and Jack crossed the six, seven steps to Ennis, starting the week over at bear hug, an' skippin' straight to the risin' up. Jack didn' spare a beat, not hardly a minute a neckin', 'fore his hands were workin' buttons n' buckles. An' they was down and out to the lark call: a Sunday routine more sacred than church, but unspeakably so in the light of the towering dark.