Title: A Dying Wind
Completed: February 3, 2006
Disclaimer: Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist belong to Annie Proulx. I'm just borrowing them for a little while—hopefully I've done right by them. Anyway, it's all fiction, folks, and I'm not making a dime (no nickels or pennies either).
Author's Notes: My first attempt at BBM fic…because I just had to.
The wind drifted down from the North with frost-edged fingertips. Smelling of pungent pine and a crisp blend of icy river water, coffee-dark dirt and the bleached white scab rock of the high country, it swooped in and curled just up and over the worn corduroy collar of Ennis's coat.
And winds from the north always reminded him of Jack.
But, then again, it didn't really matter which direction the winds came from. Northerly, southerly, from the east or from the west…they all reminded him of Jack, and that was why—
Well, that was why Ennis always liked the feel of a cool breeze against his skin. It was why the wind at his back could tug his heart into a fit if he didn't make sure to take it in small doses. And it was why he'd often turn everything off in his trailer when the wind struck up all wild-like in the frigid winter months—just so he could hear it. Just so he could feel it rattle the tiny trailer into submission the way Jack'd shook up his heart and his whole life.
Ennis shifted on the hard ground, slouched a little against the log at his back and scraped the worn sole of his boot against a rock near the fire, notching his heel into a comfortable resting spot. One hand in his coat pocket and the other clasped 'round an unopened bottle of Old Rose whiskey, he pushed his thoughts away, wanting to wait just a little longer to entertain them.
Wanting to wait for darkness when it'd be easier to imagine…when it'd be easier to see Jack—maybe in the shadows over there where his horse stamped her foot and swished her tail near the thick-barked Lodgepoles. Or maybe on the knoll just over past the tent, just topping that rise where he'd found several of the craggy rocks that now ringed his campfire—
He pushed those thoughts away because he wanted to make sure he could give them his full and undivided attention when the time was right. He wanted to settle in and wallow in them. Wanted to let them drag him under, wanted to live them—hell, he wanted to die in them—but only when he was ready. Ennis never had been the hurrying kind, especially in matters of any more importance than getting that first cup of coffee every morning, and he sure wasn't about to start now.
For the moment then, he cast an unseeing glance around his campsite and thought instead about how there was no need for him to be sitting on the ground, no reason for him to be out here without a chair—hell, no reason for him to be out here period, chair or not.
No reason at all except that this was where he'd come to find Jack.
It was where he needed to find Jack.
Brokeback.
Brokeback—the name was like a lasso around his heart, causing the faithful beat to stutter briefly as every muscle, every nerve-ending, every drop of blood in Ennis's tired body ached for the time they'd spent there. Ached to go back, ached to feel the way he'd felt then…
…when it was just him and Jack.
When it was sheep grazing on the hillside, looking to Ennis some days like a wooly river, ebbing and flowing with the ever-watchful blue heelers nipping at their heels to keep them from spreading out too thin. When all he could see of Jack from his lonely vantage point was the occasional glimpse of dust-colored canvas, or the flicker of flame if it was high enough and the light was just right. When his days of long work were rewarded with a sly smile and those electric-blue eyes that sought him out the second he rode into camp—eyes that never failed to send a shock ricocheting through his insides every time he dug up the courage to look straight into them.
So simple, and yet it was everything—
Lonely days and white-hot nights—a time from so long ago it almost felt to Ennis like a story, or a legend, a fairy-tale even. It called to him from dusky dreams and on nights when he'd had too much to drink. Begged for his return, though really, when it came down to it, it was Ennis's longing for the past that circled his heart. He was the one calling to the mountain, not the other way around. For the times whose memories had sustained him, buoyed him all the many years without Jack, were long gone now—far and away gone, the memories fading now too, edges and definitions softening a little more with every passing day. And Ennis couldn't let that happen. Couldn't let those times be forgotten, not while he still breathed.
And so—
So he'd finally decided to come back here. Had always wanted to, but never had—and the place had haunted him, always flitting about in the dark corners of his mind, carving them out and shaping them, molding them in the mountain's image. Ennis knew he'd only ever be able to make the trip once—knew he didn't have it in him to do it any more than that.
And this was it.
The first and last time—alone anyway.
It was fitting, though, he'd convinced himself. The way it should be.
They'd never made it back in those twenty years they were together—apart, Ennis's heart argued stubbornly—but now…well, now Ennis was getting older. Now was the time. Jack's leaving had been a sudden and unexpected kind of shock—one he'd relived more times than he cared to count, one he grieved over and regretted every single day.
The memories, though, they slipped away little by little, one sheep at a time. And having lost Jack the way he had, having spent the last god knows how long without him, Ennis couldn't bear the thought of losing the memories, too.
Found him here once, he thought, catching sight of the sliver of crescent moon rising over the jagged line of mountain peaks off in the distance. Maybe I can find him here again.
Flickering firelight caught his eye and he reached his hand out of his pocket to grab at a piece of deadwood piled nearby. Tossed it in and watched it succumb to the hungry flames, thinking, as he watched the surge of glowing orange, about what it meant to give in…
…and about why he hadn't been able to when it really came down to it, even though he'd owed it to Jack—and to himself—and even though giving in would've likely been the best thing he ever could've done.
But bygones are bygones, he thought with the grudging acceptance he'd managed to screw up over the years. And wishful whispers spilled out to fan the flames as Ennis couldn't hold back the thought that'd plagued him for so long. "And sometimes we run out of chances t' do up the things we left undone…."
Sensing the bottle in his hand was more than willing to put out, he broke the seal and unscrewed the cap before drawing in a shaky breath and taking a measured drink. Didn't even wince as the alcohol bit back—blanketed his tongue in a flat and all-too-familiar warmth, singed a trail down his throat and burned its way on down.
Another drink, a little longer than the first, and he focused on the fire 'til the flames blurred into nothing more than a soft yellowy haze.
Tendrils of smoke wisped steadily upwards, suffused with ruddy highlights from amber flames. The sound of a coyote rose from off in the distance, and Ennis let the sights and sounds of the night take him back. Back to the early days and Jack, back to a time when things were simpler—better—than they'd ever been.
Back to that second night. Back to sitting in front of the fire the way he was doing just now. And back to the glimpse he'd caught of Jack as he undressed inside the tent—oh fuck, that'd got him hard. That and the realization that Jack was waiting for him, wanting him…and that he'd wanted Jack in that minute more than he'd ever wanted anything in his entire life.
Another swig of the whiskey. Calloused fingertips slipped down the neck of the bottle and Ennis let his hand slide over corduroy and denim down to the ground, smooth glass settling easily into the dirt and resting gently against curled fingers.
He felt the wind smoothing softly along his jacket, heard it whistle across the top of the bottle and then he shivered as it rushed satiny-cool over weathered knuckles, reminding him of—
Jack's fingers curving around his wrist, thumb drawing slow, reassuring circles on the back of his hand.
Wanting to die, wanting to fly—the tender contact igniting his skin on fire, Ennis felt his insides curling in on themselves. And when Jack took his hat from him and there was nothing left between them, Ennis felt, for the first time in his life, like he was home.
Jack was his home.
And he wasn't sure he could look up, wasn't sure he could meet those blue eyes and what he was afraid he might see there—thought he might melt under their searing heat—but he couldn't not…and so he looked. Raised his eyes slowly as Jack caressed the side of his face, and he believed him, grabbed hold of the words like they'd come from god himself when Jack whispered, "It's alright…it's alright…it's alright."
And, oh fuck, it'd been more than alright. It'd been home and heaven and the sweetest sense of belonging he'd ever felt. A soul-sweeping connection and understanding all wrapped up in blue eyes and strong arms, and he'd wanted that night to last forever….
Wanted time to stop right there when he was lying in Jack Twist's arms, Jack staring down at him with a look on his face that could only mean one thing—
That look—oh god.
He hadn't said it, though. Hadn't said the words, and at the time Ennis'd been grateful. He'd been relieved, confused, caught up in the moment and the feeling, and now—
Fuck, now he wished Jack'd said it. Wished he'd said it so he could remember it and hold onto it.
But even then Jack knew better.
He was a people person, Jack—could read people better than they could read themselves most times, and there wasn't anyone he studied harder than Ennis. Knew better than to push him right then, and he didn't—just held him close and kissed all his reservations away. Fingers brushing over his cheeks and threading back into his hair, he ground his hips into Ennis's—made him feel his love even if he didn't say the words.
"'Course, saying the words might'a gotten him clocked one," Ennis admitted to Old Rose before lifting the bottle to his lips and tipping it back for another long drink.
And up above the sky shone velvet black with crystalline starshine—like the light in Jack's eyes….
The wind whipped up a little. Caught the tent flap—old canvas, just like the one they'd had up here so many years ago. There was a sharp, cracking noise as the sturdy fabric snapped in a whirling gust. A bit of dust stirred up between the tent and the fire, but settled back to the ground just as quickly as it'd risen.
And all was calm.
Ennis took a deep breath and blew it out slowly in a long-suffering sigh.
"Friend, I hear ya'," he whispered quietly, thoughtfully. "Won't be much longer…."
And it gusted, the wind. Brushed along his cheekbone and kissed his forehead, and when it caught the brim of his hat, he grabbed quickly at the battered felt and shoved it firmly down on his head. To no avail, though, as the draft swirled across his eyelashes anyway until he closed his eyes to its persistent sting. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and blamed the smidgen of wetness he found in the corners of his eyes on old Brokeback's surly charm.
It was a full minute of staring into the fire before Ennis could gather his thoughts—a small slice of eternity in which he saw not the flames, but the sexy curve of Jack's lips instead. The familiar lines of collarbones and ribs and hips under pale skin lapped at the fringes of his recollection—that and the piercing blue color that was his favorite color on Earth, a color he couldn't even put name to and that he didn't believe existed anywhere now except in his mind and maybe a few photographs if Lureen'd bothered to keep any.
And he remembered getting lost in that blue the day they'd left the mountain.
Remembered that last day up here together—how he'd felt like a blade'd been twisted in his gut when Jack told him Aguirre wanted them to bring the herd down. And how he'd sat up on that knoll, knee-deep in the lush, long-bladed grass, stomach twisting and roiling at the thought of leaving the mountain…at leaving Jack.
He remembered too, how Jack'd come to try and cheer him up and how it'd ended with that punch—that punch he'd regretted the moment he'd thrown it.
He'd left Jack up there on the knoll—told himself he could up and leave Jack any fuckin' time he wanted to, even though he knew deep down it was the thinnest and most precarious of lies…and even though he thought his heart was going to beat straight out of his chest as he stalked back down to what was left of their camp, wanting only to change his shirt and drown his overwhelming anxiety in what was left of their cheap whiskey.
He'd tossed his shirt angrily over a tree branch and rummaged through the packs Jack had put together earlier to find the bottle he was looking for.
Didn't pay any attention when Jack walked up behind him, sitting down on an old withered tree stump six paces away.
But he could feel those eyes on him—could feel them burning like the rays of the sun across his back, waves of heat pulling him closer, and he'd turned, bottle in hand and walked over to him. Didn't look down, but he didn't have to—Jack stood up and met his eyes full-bore as the distance between them was cut so short a half-starved grasshopper would have had trouble squeezing through.
Dark lashes descended almost in slow motion as breathtaking blue drifted down to sweep across his bare chest, and Ennis shivered. Saw the tip of Jack's tongue skim slowly across that full bottom lip and the bottle slipped out of his hand, making a sloshy-dull sound as it landed in a years-old carpet of pine needles and thirsty dirt.
Ennis thought he should say something, but he didn't know what and the words just wouldn't come—not until Jack raised those soul-shattering eyes to his again, and then he muttered, "What're you looking at, huh?" Couldn't keep a twinge of bitterness from edging his words all dense and raw and definitely not what he wished he'd said.
But everything was moving in a direction Ennis couldn't control, and all he knew was that he just wanted this—this leaving the mountain—not to be happening. All he wanted to do was stay up here where things were simple and uncomplicated…where they were good and right…and where there was Jack.
Jack sighed softly and moved his hands tentatively in between them—had to take a step back to do it—and ran his fingertips slowly down the center of Ennis's bare chest, eyes flicking back and forth, alternately meeting Ennis's gaze and following the motion of his hands.
And Ennis shivered—shivered at the way Jack looked at him like he'd never seen anything quite so amazing. Shivered at the sparks shooting through his insides as Jack's fingers moved delicately over his skin, smoothing and soothing and so tantalizingly sure….
Skin brushing over skin—in no hurry, calloused fingertips moved out to his sides along the paths of his ribs and now lower…lower until they came to rest at the boundary marked out by worn denim and the supple leather of Ennis's belt.
"Jus' lookin' at you, Cowboy," Jack murmured softly, closing the fingers of one hand over the metal of Ennis's belt buckle and giving the leather a teasing tug with the other.
Ennis felt a twitch in his groin as the ghosts of those moments hovered just within mindsight. Took another long drink from Old Rose and clutched the bottle as he dove back in before the memory had a chance to distort and disappear as so many others of them already had—
He reached down lightning-fast and grabbed Jack's wrists in an iron grip, but at the reassuring look on Jack's face he faltered and let go. Felt his pulse pound and his heart race as Jack worked the buckle free, undid button and zipper and sank to the ground as he clasped his hands 'round stiff flesh.
A low moan made its way past Ennis's lips as Jack stroked him firmly, purposefully, asking without words as it were for permission.
And when he looked down at the man on his knees in front of him, those blue eyes soaking him up and hiding nothing, pleading with Ennis to let him do this, Ennis didn't feel powerful or in control.
He just felt helpless and…and known.
Found, even as he was lost in swirling blue.
And all he could do was nod. The slightest motion, and Jack read his acceptance as easily as if it'd been the label on one of those bottles of whiskey they'd passed back and forth so many times.
There was a brief pause as Jack tipped his hat off his head and placed it soundlessly on the stump behind him. Ennis would've sworn the entire world had stopped for that moment, and then…
…then it was so blindingly hot-wet-warm as Jack took him deep in his mouth, moaning softly and working his tongue over Ennis in a way that had him panting and tangling his fingers into dark hair in a matter of seconds.
Jagged heat streaking through him, Ennis held still as he could. Gasped as he felt his insides tightening up in response to Jack's motions, and Jack read his body—found just the right rhythm to start that quickening-spiraling feeling in Ennis's gut, the muscles in his stomach and legs threatening to give out.
And Ennis came quickly—so fucking hard—groaning loudly as he shuddered and shook under Jack's attentions.
Squeezed his eyes shut tight to reality closing immediately in again—didn't open them 'til Jack stood up. And over the purple mark forming on Jack's cheek and the hundred shades of green pulsing-living-breathing all around them, all Ennis could see, the one color that seemed to define his whole life in that very moment, was the heart-stopping blue of Jack's eyes—a blue he knew he'd never ever be able to forget.
And he never had. It was the one thing he could call up without fail even on days when everything else—the words they'd said to each other and the places they'd been—slipped just outside his memory's reach. On those days when he could remember nothing else, all he had to do was close his eyes and search his heart, and his every sense would fill with that shade of blue that always meant everything-and-only Jack.
Jarred from his thoughts by the sound of a contented nicker from the hobbled mare, Ennis breathed in a sharp breath and nursed the bottle a bit, feeling sweet alcohol and memory-induced warmth spreading through him.
Hadn't felt so warm since…well, since Jack, really, and he'd been wanting to feel this way for so long now—since the day they'd left the mountain, matter of fact.
And Jack…
…with that bruise on his cheek—never did say anything when Ennis pulled his jeans up and fastened the buckle. Didn't say nothin' at all. Just let the corners of his mouth pull up into the hint of a smile, then turned and grabbed his hat before mumbling something about getting out of there before nightfall.
And though Ennis was growing tired now, his mind skipped surefooted along silver-edged stones to the bittersweet memory that was forever tied to that bruise—to the weekend he and Jack'd spent over at Rock Creek up there north of Two Forks.
The time he'd admitted to Jack what he knew to be the truth about that last afternoon on Brokeback Mountain.
He remembered the sound of the river nearby, the swishy-gurgling sound it made that he could hear even from the tent. And he remembered how Jack had looked at him, amusement turning to unchecked appreciation when Ennis'd told him how it hadn't taken him all that long to figure out that he'd been acting like a selfish, spoiled child, sitting up on that knoll all alone in their last stretch of time up there on Brokeback. How he'd basically thrown a tantrum just as soon as he'd ridden up and Jack'd told him Aguirre wanted them to pack it up and come on down. Yeah, that hadn't taken all that long at all, he'd told Jack. But it'd taken him nine years to figure out why he'd thrown the punch.
Saw Jack's raised eyebrow when the words fell between them, and he felt the familiar tightening in his chest when Jack looked away as he slid a little closer to Ennis in the tent.
"So why'd ya' throw it then," Jack finally asked, turning slowly to fix those knowing eyes—hopeful eyes—on Ennis's.
Raised his hand and swiped at his cheek as if he meant to soothe still-bruised flesh, and Ennis winced, moved closer. Close enough to feel Jack's shoulder against his own and then he shifted in the blankets and turned. Faced the man who'd deserved the truth so many years ago, just about losing his nerve in the face of the angel who'd born his fury that day the way angels are supposed to do such things—with serenity and grace, and the ready forgiveness of all heaven.
Looked down and gathered up his nerve, raising his eyes to meet Jack's at the gentle pressure of insistent fingertips under his chin.
"Why'd ya' do it then, Ennis?" Jack probed gently, running his thumb across Ennis's lips before letting his hand fall back to his lap.
"Well, it was, uh," Ennis began, not sure how to put the words together so they made sense. Fuck, words had never been his strong suit—that was Jack's territory. Alma's. Junior's and even Francine's, but not his, never his. How could he tell Jack he'd thrown the punch because he'd wanted Jack to feel him after they'd walked away from each other later that day? How could he tell him he'd wanted to leave a mark and that he hadn't realized, in his uncertainty and youthful inexperience, that he'd already made one on Jack's heart that would last far longer than any bruise?
"It was…."
Jack reached out and laid his hand on Ennis's arm—"If you don't wanna say it, Ennis, I think I—"
"No, I do wanna say it," Ennis interrupted gruffly, knowing if he didn't say it now, he might never….
Jack nodded and drew in a long breath, content to let Ennis take his time.
"It was just…I wanted t' make some kind of mark on you, Jack, you know? And I guess I didn't know any better way t' do it—I wanted t' know you weren't going to forget everything just as soon as we went our separate ways at Aguirre's trailer that afternoon."
His heart clenched at the look on Jack's face, but he had to finish—
"It weren't right, Jack, and I'm sorry 'bout that—more sorry than you can ever know—but I didn't know how else t' make sure you'd have t' think about me…at least for a few more days after we'd left the mountain behind."
And he didn't know what he'd thought would come of his admission, but he certainly never expected to see the look he saw on Jack's face, 'cause in the history of the world no other look could ever have so clearly exemplified bittersweet.
And Jack was speechless—no small feat—but Ennis didn't care, 'cause it meant he didn't have to shut him up when he leaned over and brushed his lips across Jack's. A tender kiss that turned hotter, sweeter, deeper as Jack opened his mouth to let Ennis in.
Strong hands made their way up Ennis's chest and he took Jack's face between his fingers as he kissed him—pushed him backwards into the blankets and pressed his body into Jack's warm embrace, into the only home he'd ever know….
Showed Jack with his body what he could never tell him with words, and Ennis'd tucked it away in memory as one of the few times he'd ever felt whole—and every last fucking one of those times had been with Jack, damn it.
Heart swelling with the overwhelming feeling of loss—a feeling he'd survived every day since he'd got the postcard with red-stamped letters telling him Jack was gone—Ennis drew in a shaky breath and felt a kinship with the dying flames of the fire as the wind struck up again with a sudden force. The draft picked up a few stray embers and whipped them into gauzy sparks before dropping them, seemingly by design, back into the pit of ashes and charred, blackened bits of pine from where they'd come.
And Ennis knew.
The bottle almost empty, he relaxed into the mossy wood at his back. Tried to picture Jack's face, but it wouldn't come, and he closed his eyes and tipped his chin to his chest, thinking, I swear, Jack—thinking about all the things he'd swear to Jack right now if he were sharing this fire and his tent and this night with him.
Ennis thought about all the time they'd lost and what he'd trade for a single minute—everything, goddamnit—and how Jack had always been willing to trade everything….
All along Jack always made it clear what he wanted, Ennis reminded himself.
He felt the wind ghost his cheek and he opened his eyes—chased the sting of unshed tears away with the back of his hand. And the first pang swept through his heart so softly he almost didn't notice—wouldn't have if he hadn't been prepared for it, if he hadn't been expecting it.
But he'd known before even coming up here….
Ennis sucked in a sharp breath as his heart clenched up again, swore he could feel it beating wildly, all out of rhythm even as his body tried to convince him it wasn't beating at all.
And before long it wasn't.
The bottle fell to the dirt, and Ennis couldn't stop the fleeting vision from that last afternoon with Jack up on Brokeback—the way the bottle'd come to rest on its side when he dropped it, various shades of brown and green visible through the clear glass and amber liquid.
This time he never saw how the bottle landed, his body sagging against the log and falling still as he focused at the very end on a sudden shadowy movement inside the tent.
Like something out of one of the many dreams he'd had over the years, the flap pulled back and Jack leaned out—a shock of dark hair and lightly tanned skin…blue eyes and that searingly sweet smile.
He looked for all the world like it was the summer of '63, and though the whole thing felt like a dream, Ennis knew with quiet certainty that this was where he was supposed to be marching off to Hell.
Instead he rose shakily to his feet and walked calmly toward the tent and Jack's outstretched hand. And if it's Hell, he thought happily, I sure don't mind.
Three more steps, then two and then one.
"It's about time there, Friend," Jack said, clasping his hand warm in Ennis's and pulling him into the tent and into his arms. Loving hands rode up Ennis's back, and soft whispers tickled his ear—"It's about time you came and found me here on ole' Brokeback, wouldn't you say?"
And Ennis could only agree…it damn sure was.