Part VIII: Dozy

Jack unbuttons his shirt, the dark blue one he always wears for company. The nightcap he had with L.D. (which turned into four servings of scotch) starts to warm him, makes him feel a little better about everything. He loves the feeling, craves it sometimes; a couple of times he's even gone into work slightly buzzed, but never bad enough to get caught.

He always wants a drink now that Ennis is around.

Discarding his bolo tie on one of the maroon chairs that screams of a woman's touch, he runs his hand through his hair, pulls up his pants a bit, and knocks a gentle rap rap on the guest room door. A few moments pass, no movement, and Jack turns to leave just as the door cracks open. Ennis swings it wide when he sees who it is and walks, feet full of lead, back to the bed. From all appearances, he has been lying there all day and night—sheets rumpled, pillows shaped to the contours of his head.

Jack wants to shake him, rattle him so hard that the words of confession fall out, strewn about the floor for Jack to peruse at his leisure. He wants to shake him until he promises that he'll never do this kind of thing to Jack again, that he'll stay this time, and as long as they're together everything will be okay.

But he has learned over the years that his silence is just as important as Ennis's.

So he closes the door, turning the lock with a swift snick, and sits on the bed, resisting the urge to neaten it. Too many years of Lureen pestering him to make the bed, make the bed. He places his hand on Ennis's back, fabric cool against his liquor-warmed blood, and moves his hand in lazy, directionless circles. Sensing no resistance, he shifts, and begins to knead the tight-knit shoulders, knuckles digging into the points of tension, working his thumb hard into the ropy bunches of muscle. Ennis leans into it, sounds of relief humming under his breath, and the coiled lines in his face loosen.

He removes the shirt without a murmur of protest from Ennis, following suit with his own, and sits back against the headboard, motioning for Ennis to sit between his splayed legs. A flicker of hesitance plays across his face, but he moves in, lying back onto Jack's chest. Within seconds, their breathing moves in time, in matching in and out matching out; Jack's fingers move with confidence, every drop of strain that leaches from the aching muscles a small triumph. They communicate with the rasp of a fingernail on a scalp, vibrations of pleasure, of wanting, the whisper-promise of skin against skin, a nose investigating an ear, a tongue leaving a crackling trail of statement on a neck, palm on knee, elbow cradled in elbow, fingers woven together, unbreakable.

In this place, for them, time does not exist. It trickles by, unhurried, and the pressures of every day living drop away; expectations and restrictions and disappointments become so much meaningless jargon. They sink into an embrace that demands nothing, ticking by the seconds in the flow of blood through veins, the passage of two rhythms beating counterpoint; an embrace that asks only for the unspoken words of a heart's truth. Feather-light, they drowse, Jack's arms around Ennis, not in confinement, but release; and they slip into a sleep that soothes, calms—holds them as a mother would her child, secure against the world.

It is what it is, and they are what they are—nothing more, nothing less.

As the moon rises higher and the clock chimes three, Jack blinks, smiling to see Ennis still fast asleep. He knows he should be worried about making excuses to Lureen about coming to bed so late, or figuring out how to stop L.D. from harassing Ennis, but all he can do is grin from ear to ear with the fact that he is here. Ennis came to him; he trusts him. Anything else now is just icing on the cake.

Ennis, probably sensing Jack's train of thought, opens his eyes, the shade of hazelnut in the moonlight—his expression, for once, is clear and pain-free. "'ey, cowboy," he slurs, mouth clogged with sleep.

"Hey, yourself."

Jack trails one finger over the stubble-covered cheeks, tracing the beautiful angularity, overwhelmed by this peace, by his lover's presence—he is so intoxicated with relief and hope that he can't pretend any more, he can't be something he is not. He hears words leave his mouth before he can stop them,

"Ennis, whatever happened… you know I still love you."

He knows, knows it was the wrong thing to say. He almost slapps his hand over his mouth, but after a second's consideration, his fists clench, nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms. It was the God's honest truth and he's not going to apologize for it, whether Ennis likes it or not.

He does not.

His face stiffens as he digests the words, and before Jack can blink, he is facing away, hunched in defense. "You don't know nothin' about it." His voice filters through a screen of hostility, distorted, coming in from a million miles away.

And Jack wants it back so badly he can almost taste it, he wants to ask Ennis if they can just please rewind five seconds, you know you can't take a damn thing I say seriously, Ennis, but instead he's yelling so loud he can barely understand himself, cracking down the middle and exposing everything he's tried to keep hidden, "That's 'cause you won't TELL me nothin', you sonofabitch! Who the fuck you think y'are, anyway, huh? Comin' here, disruptin' my life, and then tellin' me that I don't know nothin' about it. I see how it is. You just get to call all the fuckin' shots, don'tcha?"

Ennis's face twists, and the words fight their way past his throat, barely escaping, "I don't deserve this, Jack."

"Well, whyn't you go ahead'n call this shot, Ennis. Looks like your sorry ass don't need me around, so I'll be in New Mexico for the next two days and you can just figure out what in th'fuck you want to do. I'll leave you be just like you always fuckin' wanted." It's all he can do not to shake the whole house when he slams the door; it's all he can do not collapse in a heap on the floor, broken by the enormity of his rejection.

He'll have to ask L.D. if there's a conference he can attend.

Jack leaves early in the morning, when the sun is still flirting with the mountaintops, teasing the darkness away. He drives with the determination of a man running from a situation he cannot face or change and with the familiarity of a man who has tried innumerable times to go after what he wants. His car hurtles down the freeway, a statement of fact: I had to leave.

I had to.

He's not convinced, but he's already committed. His memory did serve him correctly—there is a conference going on in New Mexico that he had told L.D. he couldn't attend once Ennis arrived. It was a little bit of trouble to re-book, but with a little fast-talking on the phone he worked everything out. He'll be staying in a pretty cheap motel, but it's not like he's never done that before.

He tries not to think about it.

"Mr. Twist, would y'like some'a my coffee? Looks like you forgot yours." Nero holds out the thermos, smiling a little bit too big and too friendly for this early in the morning.

"Thanks, Nero. Don't mind if'n I do." He holds out his right hand, one eye on the road, and Nero hands it off to him—their fingers are in contact for a fraction of a second too long. Jack drinks the coffee carefully, hands trembling a warning.

Shit.

It happened again, just like so many times before. You can't count all the times on two hands; your life has been built on miscommunications. The words got mangled on the way out, and what you actually meant to say didn't enter into the conversation at all.

You wanted to tell him you don't deserve his love. You wanted to tell him you don't deserve him.

You wanted to tell him he has every right to kick you out. That he should.

You think about where you would go. Can't go back there, can never go back there—and you begin to remember. You push your fists into your eyes, refusing the truth of it, refusing to let it happen again. It plays like an endless reel in your mind, a constant companion underneath the surface thoughts. The tinny sound of the woman's voice, ringing words into your ears that burned like acid; the sickening realization that it was all your fault, all your fault.

It was all your fault.

The sounds and images blur, too much, too much, can't take the pain, can't take it, it burns, burrowing deeper and deeper inside. It writhes inside you, a monster of your own making, and you have to kill it, kill this thing growing inside you.

You deserve to die.

And, looking up, you remember the razor in the bathroom.