A/N: Yayy, first BBM fic. I absolutely love this fandom already, don't get me started on how much I love the movie. Anyway, this based on a random challenge (from another fandom, but still :p), and I nicked the title from a Sigur Ros song, which I found was incredibly relevant to the fic, so I'll just slip the lyrics in (translated from Icelandic).

Starálfur

Blue night over the sky,
Blue night over me,
Disappeared out of the window.
Me with hands,
Hidden under my cheek,
I think about my day,
Today and yesterday.
I put on my blue nightgown,
Go straight to bed,
I pull the soft covers over,
Close my eyes,
I hide my head under the covers.
A little Elf stares at me,
Runs towards me but doesn't move,
From place – himself,
A staring Elf.
I open my eyes,
Take the crusts out,
Stretch myself and check (if I haven't),
Returned again and everything is okay,
Still there is something missing,
Like all the walls.

Ennis never went to the funeral. 'Nother thing for him to be sorry for in the whole list of things to be sorry for he'd somehow racked up in his life. Sorry he wasn't a better father to the girls, sorry he wasn't a better husband to Alma, sorry he didn't do right by Jack… Really, it all just came back to Jack. But then, what else was new?

Hell, it was why he was presently drinking his body weight in cheap whiskey and finishing one pack after another of Peter Jackson's.

'Look at you,' Jack should've been crowing (should've been there) 'You're fallin' apart, cowboy. Well, lucky you got me to put you right, huh?' Ennis could see his face as he said it, even. Sly, fucking smug (always smug), but with that underlying concern he always got in his big, bright eyes whenever he looked at Ennis' weathered face and hunkered-over posture. That look Ennis never resented, but shoulda, on sheer principle, but he didn't, 'cause Jack fuckin' Twist was the love of his life, and it makes him sick with guilt that he can only admit that after the bastard is dead.

Wet, warm tears dribble down the contours of his face. S'grown familiar, that feeling. His skin is drier than dirt, so it absorbs water like a sponge, he noticed. He noticed 'cause if he thinks about that, it takes his mind off… other things. Namely the thing that most sets him off.

He hung the blood-stained shirts on the inside of his cupboard, his little tribute to Jack, but every time he opens the door his eyes prickle like crazy. Story of most of his life, really, when it came to Jack Twist, Ennis had not a lick of sense. He should've folded 'em up, put 'em away, like he does most things, in the end. But he sat there, night after night, closet door open and taking up half the space in his little trailer and just looking at the shirts, thinking about Jack, thinking about, oh, everything.

He downed some more whisky, just about emptying the bottle, when Jack decided to step through his open closet door. His form flickered, like one of them old pictures he used to take Alma to watch, and he was watching Ennis mournfully.

Ennis blinked in disbelief. Jack came to him all the time, to be sure. In his dreams, in his head, but there was Jack standing there, large as life and twice as beautiful. He'd somehow donned the bloodstained shirts, and he looked about as young as the kid who played the harmonica, Jack, who'd kissed him wet and long with teeth and tongue and nothing forgiving (Jack, forgive me) in his hard mouth and stiff lips.

"Jack," he moaned, corners of his vision dimming, swirling like too much liquor, "Jackssyou… m'sorry, m'so sorry…"

He got up, and Jack look startled, before Ennis went crashing to the floor and everything went black. Of course, when he woke up everything'd be normal, no doubt about it. He'd gotten too drunk and his mind was making him see things he wanted to see, that was all. There's no way it coulda really been—

His eyes flicked open and Jack was squatted over him on his haunches. He jumped slightly, before his face split into one of his huge grins. Ennis made a grab for is neck, the thick, rough strands of his hair, anything. His arm sailed through like he was wading through ice-cold air. He almost cried out in disappointment, ignoring the splintering coldness in his hand that touching Jack'd caused.

Jack looked sad, "Already tried that, friend. I was trying to turn you on your side all night, but you wouldn't budge. Bet your throat hurt now, don't it?"

Like hell, but that wasn't the point. The point was Jack was here, and he didn't feel like he was dreaming, or hallushi-whating… seeing things or nothing like that. He pinched himself on the arm, hard.

"Don't do that," Jack insisted, "I'm here, warts and all, in the… well, not the flesh, but you can see me, right? I tell ya, I've been goin' crazy, no-one seein' me or talking to me. I'm dyin' for a drink."

"Who…" Ennis began, before thinking better of it, "You're not real. You can't be. You died."

Jack went back to looking sad, "That I did, friend. Shame about it, too, I was hopin'… fer lots of thing, but you know about most of 'em. Too late now," he added, looking slightly lost, before coming back to himself, and smiling brilliantly, "But now I'm here, and you can see me, so I reckon I'll do just fine in this situation."

Ennis finally remembered to breathe, and he even sat up, handing flying to his head where his hangover cursed up a storm in his brain. His hand flew to his head, but he found Jack's already there, resting just so, so the heat drained out of it and left his teeth chattering.

"Sorry, friend," Jack said, looking contrite, "I forget. You don't feel like nothing to me. Almost froze my Bobby's toes off just touching his hair the other day. It's crazy how it works like that, huh?"

He cleared his throat, "What's crazy is you being here at all."

Jack stood up, shaking his head, wide-eyed, "Not so, not so. There are billions of us, all over. S'fucking crazy. There are 'bout fifty in your garden as we're talkin'. They just wander around, bored with watching their families grow old and die. Some of 'em are crazy," he shuddered, before slapping his knee, laughing in delight, "Hot damn! I'm so damn happy you can see me, don't wanna be like one o' them folks out there, carrying on pleasant conversation with grains o' dust, I just…" He shook his head, chuckling, "Look at me, talkin' a blue streak and not letting you say nothing. I just been so lonely, since I died…"

Ennis looked up at him, imagining this is how it'd feel if he were looking up at God. If it were, them bible-thumpers mighta had something going for them in their mixed-up religion.

"You know I always loved you," he said quietly, wishing he had something more poetic to say, but glad he at least had the chance to say something, lest Jack disappear again.

Jack's features softened, but his eyes sparked. Ennis recognised the expression, and he was pretty sure both of them had to be of a hard, physical form for what usually followed.

"If'n I didn't before, I know now," Jack said roughly, fists clenched, "I love you too, more'n I can say. You made my life so much better, Ennis Del Mar, don't you ever forget it."

"I won't, I won't never forget anything about you Jack," he whispered, before his eyes rolled back in his head, and he passed out again.

"This is getting to be a bad habit of yours, bud," Jack said cheerfully when Ennis stirred awake. His back was hurting like crazy, but his headache was suspiciously absent.

He opened his eyes, saw Jack looming over him, and sighed, "That's it, Junior was right, I'm goin' crazy."

Jack looked slightly dismayed, "I thought you made your peace with the idea. You still think you're seeing things?"

"Well, there ain't no other explanation. You being here don't make any sense."

"Yeah, but I'm still here. Can't fix it, so you might as well stand it."

Ennis saw red, "Dammit, just leave me the fuck alone! Why can't you leave me in peace!"

Jack didn't disappear, just crossed his arms and looked pissed off and teary, "Way I figure it is I got the short end of the stick here, friend, so it ain't your business to be yelling at me so." He swiped at his eye, flicking the moisture away into nothing, "'Sides I… well, got nowhere else, do I?"

Out of habit, Ennis reached for him, to stroke the side of his neck. He drew his hand back with a short yell.

Jack was cold.

Living with Jack wasn't how he pictured it in the old days. For starters, fucking was out, especially since Jack had begged him to let him just try sucking him off, and Ennis had almost gotten frostbite on his dick. Killed the mood some. They could talk, which like always was still entertaining as heck, but if Jack stayed too long in one place, the room drained of heat and Ennis was left freezing, his breath fogging out. Ennis tried to hide it, but Jack, who'd taken to watching him closely for hours at a time, would notice and leave, feeling guilty as shit.

Ennis tried to stop him one time, but he just passed through him and Ennis' body was wracked with shivers for twenty minutes after.

When Jack left he felt the loneliness more'n ever, especially since he knew otherwise since Jack's spirit or something came back. He still went on odd jobs, fence-mending, sheep herding and the like, and Jack accompanied him every time, standing off to the side and cracking jokes, or just lying on some nearby grass and looking at him.

Soon the boss of the only constant job he'd had since spring five years back fired him, on account of thinking he was touched in the head when he saw Ennis talking to a fence post for ten minutes straight. Ennis was pissed, and he drove them both home without sharing words.

"'M going for a drink," he said quietly, implying the 'alone' part by slamming the door behind him. He drank all night, thinking of nothing but Jack's smell, Jack's taste, the grainy quality of his skin, the way his hard cock felt under the weight of a pair of jeans; hard, but ready to give under the pressure of Ennis' palm. The way he squirmed and quaked and moaned and cried. Jack, Jack, Jack.

He stumbled in at 2 am, skin sticky from the humidity of the night, specks of dust stuck to his hands and cheeks, which were flushed with drink and wanting. Jack was waiting for him, sprawled on his bed but not affecting it with weight, and looking at him with bright, glittering eyes.

Ennis toed off his boots with a slight growl, shucking off his shirt and jeans 'til he stood in front of Jack, completely naked, harder than he'd been in a long while. Jack nodded slightly, and Ennis crawled on the bed beside him. He began to stroke himself, eyes trained on Jack. Jack had his lips parted, just so, and he was staring hard at Ennis' hand, cock, face, eyes.

He wanted to take it slow, cool it off a little, but his hand was slick and tight and Jack was licking his lips, which turned crimson and bright under the assault. He moaned, low in his throat, and Jack reached out to touch his neck. It burned, his dick burned, everything burned, he screwed his eyes shut and came, letting a choked-off yell out through his bright blue lips.

He still dreams of Jack. In the dreams, he's in a meadow or something. The sun is bright, and he always think 'almost as bright as him', and he's there, atop Ennis. Not doing nothing, just laying on him, his warm weight comforting, his thighs draped over his, breathing long, warm breaths into his neck. They don't fuck, they don't speak. He just knows it's warm, slightly heavy, and he could lie here forever.

He wakes up, eyes wet with the loss, and Jack's there, trying to comfort him but not knowing how.

"Jack," he cries dimly, sick with it all, "Jack, where are you?"

Jack's eyes are wet too, and his tears fall into mid-air and disappear like nothing. "'M'here, cowboy, m'right here. I love ya."

Ennis can't say anything in reply, his teeth are chattering too hard, but he reaches out, hand trembling. Of course, he can't feel a thing.

But he's so cold.

Fin.