"No more beans," Ennis says gruffly, reluctantly. He's not like Jack; he isn't much good at complaining. But, oh well.
The wind carries the wish-wash of music, a staccato tango that gets Ennis thinking of long legs and heads thrown back to glance at chandeliers. Specifically, Jack's long legs which carried a wonderful weight in the haunch.
"Hm." The bandy-legged Basque raised a brow. "I tell you, every time. Don't never order soup. Them boxes are–"
"Real bad to pack, I know," Ennis huffs. "Look… I ain't never goin back with beans, alright? So do me a favour here, just pack them boxes a soup."
"Soup, I gotcha. That all?"
The music drifts off into something dreamy and ethereal, and Jack invades the haze of his mind again. This time, his tousled copper hair Ennis has just run his hands through and the shameless, unrestrained curve of his lips, so unlike the quirk of his own.
Yes, thank you, his mind says, but his mouth betrays him: "How much for that radio?"
Jack whoops. "Haven't heard a sound like that in weeks! What a find, you lucky son of a bitch!" Ennis might just be the love of his life.
They had eaten stew and beans as normal, but after dinner Ennis had lifted back the cloth on one of the crates to reveal a radio.
"I'm lucky in how I don't have to hear that harmonica a yours no more."
Jack laughs and shoves him playfully. "Hey now, it got flattened when that mare threw me. 'Sides, you got a nice raspy voice. What I don't do, you do." Ennis smiles back shyly and Jack turns shy too. You got a nice everythin, is what he don't say.
It had taken a bit of effort to set the radio up in a place where it would get a decent signal, but after a few crackly attempts they finally succeeded in strapping it to the top of a young sapling where it's now blaring news.
"Ennis, you look like you're stickin your head out for one of them guillotines," Jack chides. "Is the weather report so interestin?"
Ennis grunts, "Well, we don't heard from the outside in weeks."
"We're out in the weather right now." The sun is sinking behind the huge green mass that is Brokeback Mountain, leaving pink and orange to wash the sky and shadow to bathe their camp like ink. A slight breeze murmurs, coolly refreshing, and Jack moves on to start the fire.
They go about their duties quietly but suddenly the news reporter is cut off by a lottery and then by some folk music then by dozy blues. Jack turns to find Ennis at the radio, looking at him. "What about the weather?" He says stupidly, because Ennis can't be doing what thinks he's doing, he can't because he often can't even face him properly—
Ennis shakes his head, moves tentatively toward him, but stops with the now-alive fire flickering a shallow breadth between them. "C'mere, rodeo. Dance with me?"
Jack nearly falls into his arms, but seizes his hand instead. "You bet."
The dance is slow but he swears, his heart has never beat this fast. They're two men equal, and no outsider can interfere. Jack's hand is clasped with Ennis's, his other arm circling his waist, Ennis mirroring. For a moment they forget everything but the comfort they share. For a moment it feels like they're in love.
Minutes or hours pass before Ennis says his goodnights and goes back up to the sheep. But although he should be feeling tired, Jack can't sleep. His mind keeps going back to how Ennis was the one who opened his pockets for that radio, Ennis was the one who invited him to dance and Jack didn't have to lift a finger.
He wishes Ennis could be like this, always…