Series: The Words Do Not Come

Part V: The Spring
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters—that honor goes to Ms. Proulx.
Author's Note: By the time I finish this fic, I will have no teeth left. That is all. Oh, and my Texas doesn't resemble the real one. :)

Part V: The Spring

Jack saddles the horses, determined that today is going to be the day. The natural optimism that has buoyed him through the choppy river rapids, navigating the waters of their interactions, bubbles to the surface once more. Despite the strangeness of it all, he knows that deep down if he could just stay out here with Ennis like this, he'd be a happy man. Nowhere else does he feel as alive.

"Let's git, cowboy. I want a do me a little huntin', and there's a spring that might be runnin' out there, too. I think it's the right time a year. Scrub a little a this grime off ourselves, hmm?"

Ennis rubs his horse's face, nuzzling him softly, and making soft nonsense noises in his throat. Jack quashes a pang of jealously, spurring his horse forward a bit to show he doesn't care, and looks to the sky, weather-eyed. He hears Ennis following behind him, and sets off at a brisk pace, eager to get going, to put the past few days behind them and find something better. There has to be something better. They wind their way through the land, skirting rock faces that bleed warm layers of color, vivid reds and yellow intermingling along the edges. As they enter the deeper foliage, Jack gets his gun ready, fingers thrumming with anticipation. The sun dapples the ground in speckled, translucent diamond-shapes and Jack is relieved to enter the peaceful silence of the trees; the air even feels lighter, less tense.

Jack senses a good spot to switch to foot, stops and tethers his horse. He takes off his black, weather-beaten Resistol, hands on his hips, scoping out the land. He looks over to Ennis briefly; Ennis stays on his horse, staring at nothing and everything. Jack could almost mistake him for someone else. He's wearing Jack's hat and clothes, and his face is cut in half by a sharp, triangular gash of a shadow. The vision sends an inexplicable shiver up his spine and he turns away, biting his lip. Walking slowly from the outside of his foot in, his breath slows and he sinks into the silence, letting his hearing scout out any potential prey. As the forest saturates him, he is able to let go of the tightness in his shoulders and neck, to breathe in and out, to be thoughtless and content.

After about twenty minutes of searching, he sees a rabbit foraging for food at the edge of a field, probably trying to soak up some heat after the recent cold spell. He slows his pace bit by bit as he approaches, raising the twenty gauge, simultaneously lowering his body. Getting the rabbit in his sights, he senses its innocence, its blissful ignorance. It has no idea that Jack holds its death in his hands, the mere twitch of a trigger, and no more. A strong pang hits him, constricting his throat, and he shoots, closing his eyes with the overwhelming wish for a return to ignorance.

He carries the rabbit back to his horse, face blank and empty. Kicking at the underbrush as he goes, he decides they'll just head back to camp and cook up the rabbit instead of lighting out for the spring. Not like Ennis will object one way or the other. But when he sees his horse, munching away happily at the foliage, he realizes he assumed too quickly. Ennis is nowhere in sight, but his horse's tracks are leading in the direction of the springs. Did he tell Ennis where they were? And more important, was Ennis listening?

"Well, shit in a bucket. Guess I got a follow him." Jack stows the rabbit in the small cooler in his saddlebag and follows the tracks. Through the brush and craggy path they lead unerringly to the spring. Now how in th'hell did he do that? Sneaky bugger. He tethers his horse next to Ennis's, turning the corner of the rock face to see that he's already taken full advantage of the water. Jack raises his eyebrow, walking quickly, leaving a trail of clothes behind him as he goes. He knows an opportunity when he walks into one. Ennis lays back, arms spread to his sides, head resting on his shoulder and lolling back. The bubbling water distorts his body below his chest, and he's been in long enough to start sweating a little, the steam matting and curling his hair against his head. Jack licks his lips in appreciation. Well if he ain't just Mr. Fuckin' GQ.

Jack slips into the water, moving his body just so to avoid touching Ennis. He's decided not to make the first move, but there's only so far he can push himself. As soon as he's settled against the rock, the liquid heat enclosing his body, and he closes his eyes, understanding the necessity of it. Jack's tongue is practically jumping out his mouth to taste the condensation gathering in the join between Ennis's ear and jaw-line; he clamps down on his lips, hard. Temptation comes in many different flavors and textures—Jack's is the iridescence of pure water and the flavor of a fresh mountain creek.

Inch by inch, he melts into the heat. By sheer force of will, he manages to stop thinking of Ennis and simply enjoy himself; he can practically feel his muscles uncoil from their tight clinching. As he begins to feel himself drowsing, he hears Ennis get out of the water. Keep your damn eyes closed, Twist. He repeats the phrase over and over in his mind but his eyelids creep up fraction by fraction, regardless. Ennis is stretched out in the sun, turned away from Jack, taut and wiry like a rope, the perfect mixture of soft lines and hard angularities. Jack's body moves with a will of its own, rising from the water so quickly that it spills over the edges of the spring, lapping on the rocky shore.

Then he's touching that golden skin, digging his fingertips in, tasting it, meeting heat with heat, sliding up alongside him, and he's tentative, desperate but unsure, but Ennis is embracing him, and they twine, like the coils of a rope, fitting together in a weave of eros. Jack kissing and licking, devours the taste of his temptation, the sweet spring water mixing with the salt-leather-grass that is distinctly Ennis, moving down, to the center of his body, and he's moving his mouth over the pulsing velvet of Ennis's unspoken desire, taking and giving at the same time—taking in the passion, the pushing need, and giving it free rein, a place where it can burn fierce.

And they find synchronicity, the art in the push and pull, and Jack is trembling with the intensity of it, digging his nails into Ennis's hips, wanting more of him, always more—and then Ennis is groaning, nearing the precipice, his voice getting louder and louder—

—but then it becomes something else, cracking and breaking, the cry of a man shattered, and Jack takes Ennis in his arms, soaking up his sorrow, feeling it in the very depth of his bones, whispering meaningless nothings in his ear, and there is no resistance, just surrender. And although Ennis isn't speaking, his body and soul seem to be screaming out a refusal—no, no, no—and Jack wishes he could tell Ennis it's all right, but he doesn't know that it is.

The next day

Jack goes through the day in a stupor, making the appropriate motions at the appropriate time but not much else. He thinks maybe he left his will to live behind at that spring. Ennis's silence is like a black hole, pulling Jack in closer and closer, snatching the words and thoughts from his mind before they have time to properly form. Even the fact that Ennis is now occasionally stealing glances at him does not cheer him up. He can't even muster up the will to prepare them dinner; he's not the least bit hungry and doubts Ennis cares much either way. Ennis's return to his catatonia was swift and total right after they left the spring; they left its protective bubble behind and Jack doesn't know where to go from here.

As the night falls on the land, Jack pokes the fire, opening a bottle of whiskey. He knows it's a bad idea to drink on an empty stomach, does it anyway. The stars bite through the dusk, and Jack fixates on them, unable to look at Ennis. The void between them seems to have a palpable shape.

After his first four swigs hit him, his insides warm up, and the words start to fall from his mouth, clattering down, like the multi-colored marbles from a child's jar.

"Y'know, Ennis, I've been wonderin' lately if'n it was such a good idea to married so young. It ain't that I ain't happy with my marriage, don't get me wrong—but I worry about Bobby sometimes 'cause, well… Lureen and me are okay… but I 'member what it was like watchin' my ma and pa. They'd act like touchin' each other with a ten foot pole was too close, leastaways my dad would sometimes. And I always wished they was like other folks' parents, more friendly and kissy-like. I hope Bobby don't feel the same way 'bout us."

He takes another swig, exhaling hot vapor.

"Tell you what… I ain't been able to enjoy a single night with Lureen since we started meetin' again. That's the sad truth. Not that I been neglectin' her or nothin', but, well…aw, hell, you know what I mean. An' what kind a idea was havin' a kid with Lureen anyhow? I love the boy, but I don't know the first fuckin' thing 'bout bein' a daddy. Not that lots a folks haven't shared their views a what I ought a do, but I cain't pay them no mind, neither. And it ain't like I had lots a great examples a daddies growin' up, neither.

"Y'ever wonder what your kids think a you? You was talkin' 'bout people on the pavement knowin'…well, sometimes, I swear that boy knows all my secrets. He may not be the best in school, but as he gets older I wonder if he don't understand me better'n he ought. Got some fuckin' intuition or some shit goin' on, there."

Jack takes another long, forceful swallow.

"I ain't even sure what in th'hell I should do. I mean, here I am in the middle of bumfuck nowhere—oh, excuse me, Memories of Marty Hoo-Haw Park or some shit like that—talkin' like a coyote who's get his head stickin' out a his ass, when I ought a be home, workin' like any reg'lar decent man." He runs his hand over his face, grimacing. "Instead, here I am wonderin' to myself if'n it's so bad you ain't talkin' if you'll just fuck me silly while you do it." He barks out a laugh that doesn't contain even the smallest sliver of good humor. "What th'fuck is wrong with me, Ennis? Goddamn it." Jack polishes off the bottle, staring morosely into the fire, and he doesn't notice Ennis worrying at a hangnail, doesn't see the sudden clarity that comes into his eyes. Ennis's mouth opens and closes a few times, sentences aborting before they are created, but on the fourth try his voice comes out quiet and pebbly, stale from disuse, "Jack… How'd you get that bruise on your face?"

At first Jack doesn't react, and then he laughs so hard he cries.