Part X: Intersections

"We're here, time t'wake up."

"Whaaa…?" Jack opens one eye, squinting. "I thought we was drinkin'."

Nero pats him on the shoulder, "That was 'bout an hour ago, boss-man. I'ma get us a room, now, be raiht back."

Jack rubs his eyes, groggy-drunk, and looks outside, taking inventory. They're at the Shady Lane Inn, just like he'd planned for. He never did get a chance to explain to Nero that the reservation was for two different rooms, but now the clerk would do the job for him. It was the right choice, Twist. Don't let the beer make you think otherwise. Shaking his head a little, thoughts flowing slowly like water thick with sediment, he pulls the keys out of the ignition and gets out of the car to grab his bag from the trunk.

"Got the key, here's ya copy."

Jack nearly jumps out of his skin at Nero's approach, "Boy, I'ma have t'put a fuckin' bell on you or somethin', my heart cain't take all this strain."

Nero smiles, "Ain't the first one to tell me so, doubt you be the last. Let's jes' say that ya learn to walk real quiet in a house full a six brothahs who beat on ya reg'lar like."

"Well, no need t'sneak 'round me, don't got no aims on beatin' you." He looks at the key in his hand, examining it slowly and then looking at the one in Nero's hand. "We got the same key?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, they tol' me at the desk that we got separate rooms, but I thought it were a mistake. An' I think that gettin' two rooms would go over the budget L.D. gave us, anyhow."

"…oh." Jack's mind was becoming more and more clear every second in the cool night air, much to his chagrin, but there was nothing he could say to that particular brand of monetary logic.

"Should I go 'n get another room? I'm sorry, I weren't tryin' a mess up ya plans or nothin'…"

"No, no problem at all. I was just tryin' a get us some halfway decent rooms, but sure 'nough L.D. had other plans. I don't snore or nothin' and I can sleep through a freight train so it'll be okay."

"If ya sure…"

Jack nods, grabbing the bags out of the trunk and closing up the car. The "inn" is hardly a step above a motel, covered in grey paint that may have once been white, metal handrails flimsy and shaking under their hands as they go up the concrete stairs. Jack prefers this to the sticky heat, the strains of foreign guitar chords in the air and the melodious language that rolls in his ears like accusations. He resists the pull of that place, the temptation to sink into the anonymity and never emerge; at least here, he is accountable, and in a strange way, he belongs.

At least that's what he keeps telling himself.

He opens the door, tosses his things onto the bed and heads for the bathroom. A cold shower will help him in more than one way. He locks the door, checking it twice, and turns on the water full blast, discarding his clothes as quickly as he can get them off. He knows the more he thinks about it the worse it will be; as soon as he has his socks off, he's in, "Hoo, doggie," muscles spasming when the water hits them, skin pulling taut. He soaps up quickly, rubbing the goose pimples that are sprinkled across his arms to get his circulation going until he adjusts to the temperature.

After a few minutes, without thinking, his hand moves over his cock, white with suds, gripping tight and stroking up and down in long, smooth strokes. He pictures Ennis on their last trip, smiling that you'll-never-know-what-I'm-thinking smile, callused fingertips sliding along Jack's hips and pulling him closer by the belt loops of his jeans, You needin' it, cowboy? Need it bad?, and Jack comes into his hand, his body answering the question his mind tried to forget: Yes, Ennis, I need you.

The question is, do you need me?

Jack rinses off; the shower has sobered him up, as he was hoping, but it did nothing to ease the ache that is now his constant companion. Shivering violently, he towels off and gets dressed, not bothering with the pleasantries of shaving or brushing his hair. He pauses before returning to the bedroom. If I'm lucky he'll be asleep. He opens the door to see Nero reclining on his bed, perusing a catalogue, casual as can be. Never was one to trust nothin' to luck, guess there weren't no reason for me to start now.

He sits on the bed, facing the opposite wall. He takes off his watch and rings and puts them on the nightstand, and then rubs his neck, stretching it from side to side until he hears the popping sound he's looking for. He winces as he squeezes the muscles, knotted and gnarled, an old rodeo injury that never quite healed right. He jumps about a mile high when he feels Nero's hand on his shoulder, "Whoa there! Didn't mean t'scare ya again. I was jes' wonderin' if you was feelin' alright after all that beer we had. Ya looked a mite unsettled in the car."

Jack tries, tries so hard not to look up, but his neck moves of its own accord, everything he wants blazing across his face, Nero's eyes hot and half-lidded, riveted on him, and when Jack licks his lips, he makes a low growling sound and kisses Jack, fingers tangling in his hair. Nero presses against him and they fall onto the bed, breath fevered and hands grappling. Jack feels himself drowning in hot want, hears the blood roaring in his ears, and he can almost forget the twinge of pain that stirs in his gut—

"God, I've wanted you t'fuck me since th'second I saw ya."

The spell is broken with Nero's words whispered in husky desperation; he senses the shift in mood, pulls back and looks questioningly at Jack. Jack moves away, sitting against the heardboard, breaking eye contact. "I'm… I'm sorry. I… cain't." Even if he doesn't need me, I'm still goin' a be there. Cain't be no other way between us.

Nero shifts, sitting beside Jack. He is silent for a moment, adjusting some buttons that came loose, and asks quietly, "He's got ya that bad, hmm?"

Jack looks at him, mouth hanging open. "I…" He shuts it, at a loss for words.

Nero nods. "Ya seem like a good guy, Jack, which is why I'ma tell ya this." He unbuttons the shirt he was fixing seconds ago, slipping it off his back. Jack inhales sharply when he sees the fine network of scars, white with age, tracing a story of abuse across Nero's skin.

"Who in th'hell…?"

"T'ain't a story fit for sharin'. But… there's a lotta reasons I don't go back to Alabama no more… this is one a them."

Nero pulls his shirt back on, facing Jack once more. "You seem like a real loyal fella, and that's us'lly a good thing. But I can tell ya that sometimes… it don't always pay off to be loyal. Jes' be careful 'bout what ya gettin' yerself into. Hate t'see ya get hurt."

He stands, grabbing his things, "I'ma get mahself another room now. I'll see ya in the mornin', Jack."

Bobby tentatively opens his eyes, feeling more confident because he can hear now that Ennis is laughing. He scrunches his face up at the scene before him: Ennis is on the bed, head leaned back, laughing—but not a happy kind of laugh, and the tears streaming down his face belie the sound.

"Shit!" Bobby exclaims, and quickly puts his hand over his mouth, so shocked at the sight of blood on Ennis's arms that he forgets himself. Ennis stops laughing abruptly and looks at Bobby, confused.

His voice is raw. "What're you doin' here?"

Bobby, knees bent and arms raised as if he's going to bolt any second says, "Uhh… I just came in here to get a magnifyin' glass, Mr. Ennis sir."

This does nothing to clear up Ennis's confusion, and he almost wants to laugh at the deer-in-the-headlights expression on Bobby's face, but then he looks down and sees his blood everywhere. His fatherly instincts kick in and he grabs the razor off the bed and bolts to the bathroom, saying to Bobby as he washes his hands, "You want a sit down? I'll be right out." Time for some damage control.

The cuts on his wrists, shallow but bloody, continue to leak red, and he takes two of the pristine white towels off the rack and ties them clumsily around his arms. He can take care of it later. Wiping off his tear-streaked face, he goes back into the bedroom, feeling sick at the sight of Bobby poised in a chair, practically humming with discomfort.

"How you doin', Bobby?" Ennis asks gently, sitting on the bed once more, facing him. "I… uh. I didn't mean a scare you, I, uh, had myself a accident while I was shaving."

"You okay now?" Bobby said in a small voice, eyes on the towels.

"Yeah, yeah, 'm fine."

There is an awkward silence. Bobby shifts in his chair, glancing at the door. Should a listened to mamma and minded my manners.

Ennis's gut twists with guilt. He takes a deep breath, and approaches the chair, crouching next to Bobby. "So what were you goin' a do with the magnifyin' glass, 'xactly? Goin' a kill yourself some ants?"

"Yeah! How did you know?" Bobby leans forward, eminently more comfortable with this topic.

"Well, I must say that I was quite the ant killer in my day. Must a fried a least a zillion a the little buggers, maybe even two."

"Wow, can you show me? I thought Paul was lyin' a me, but if you done it, it must be true."

Ennis smiles.

"You bet."