The crackling of flames fills the quiet night air with something comfortable, the sharp musk of smoke curling into Ennis's nostrils. Crickets chirp and the birds have gone to roost, and the fire makes the twigs stretch into flickering shapes on the ground.
He and Jack are pressed together on a damp log and Jack's wallet is out and he's telling stories about each of the photographs in it. They're as close together as he and Alma have been, but with Jack it just feels different, he don't know why.
"This one here, the mare threw me in two seconds flat, but my mama, she checked for bruises after I left the ring. Worth more than any belt buckle." He sweeps his thumb over her face fondly – the only photograph he ever got of his mama and him, he had said. He chuckles. "Me an my daddy, we both rodeo. But she don't say we're alike. Can't say I'm complainin."
Back on solid ground Ennis would be beaten dead if anyone caught him speaking ill of his own pa like that. But out here, there's something liberating about being out here in the open with not a goddamn soul around; Brokeback is their bubble, and he doesn't want to think about it ever ending. Maybe they can stay nineteen in summer forever, maybe he doesn't have to see Alma again…
Ain't gonna happen. Jack's turnin me.
He sneaks a glance. The fire sets Jack's jaw alight with a soft orange glow – accentuating its lovely, yet manly contours that Ennis secretly admires. "Sounds like one of a kind, your mama."
"Would like you to meet her one day." He reaches out, and Ennis freezes, heart hammering with hope or fear he don't have a damn clue, but Jack only grabs the bottle of beer behind him and takes a swig. He quickly covers up his disappointment – damn himself – as Jack takes a swig. He offers him some, which Ennis accepts. He has a feeling he needs to get drunk tonight.
Jack watches Ennis, whose face is flushed a handsome shade of red. He himself is pretty damn drunk. All night Jack made passes at his friend, a caress here and a palm on the back there… but Jack's starting to wonder if Ennis came out wrong, or if he's just boneheaded – with any other man, he's certain they would've been tussling on the ground already. As far as sinners go, Ennis was the black sheep of the lot.
"Mgh… gon… head back," Ennis slurs. "Sheep… coyotes… damnit…" As Jack watches his pitiful attempts to rise, he sighs, fed up.
Something brave – or maybe just the beer – makes him grab Ennis's hand, pull him back down. Before Ennis can spring back up in disgust he takes Ennis's arms and wraps them around his own torso. "Hold me, Ennis. Jus' hold me…"
Ennis goes full slack against Jack, resting his chin on his shoulder. "Little darlin…"
Jack pretends not to hear – it will only hurt when Ennis comes to him in the morning and says he mistook him for Alma and Jack was no less his little darlin than a mutt may be, but for now he lets himself slump back. Letting his own artless contentment sink in. "Ennis."