Jack's world crumbles on a sunny day with slow-moving clouds and the looming of winter on the horizon.

He and Ennis were out in the open and Aguirre had come on his horse. Faster than Jack could breathe Ennis had shoved himself away and pulled grabbed his .30-.30 from the saddlebag but before he could even point the damn thing there was a sickening, thunderlike crack and Ennis had crumpled like wet paper and Aguirre had lowered his pistol and spat at Ennis's bleeding body. "He's damn lucky I didn't blow his head off with a shotgun," he'd said. "I ought a shoot you too. Fuckin queers." And he rode off.

The shooting wasn't the bad part. It was the silence that came after and the remorseless look Aguirre had given them.

Shaking him had not been enough. Staunching the bleeding with strips of his own shirt had not been enough. Cradling his head in his hands and whispering prayers to his mama's God every night had not been enough.

Jack hadn't any idea what to do with someone who was shot. If he was a miss, he'd know how to fix him, would be trained the way mothers were to take care of their little boys and girls, but the truth of it was — and although it made Jack nauseous just to admit it to himself — he wasn't. All he ever done was nothing, and all he ever could do was get Ennis shot again.

Jack has never been more afraid. He did what he could with the medical supplies, dousing the wound at Ennis's side with alcohol and pushing through despite his repressed screams, wrapped it up in a swathe of bandages and put him to sleep. But that could only get him so far and Jack knows that Ennis needs a hospital. But he doesn't trust himself to move him or leave him for the half-day it would take to get down there and the even longer time it would take to get back up with a team. Anything could happen, if the day was any indication.

Ennis's condition only gets worse. Jack puts on a brave face for the snatched moments that Ennis is awake. But he just stares blankly into nothing, some cosmos that Jack can't see. Maybe God. But no, of course not, that would mean he's dying and he isn't and he won't if Jack's still in the world to stop it.

Damn Aguirre to hell. Damn him to hell. Damn him, damn him, damn him, he shouts to no one, but he knows it's futile because men like Aguirre, they'll be going to heaven for protecting the world from folks like him and Ennis.

That night, when Jack has swaddled them both in blankets in the darkness, watching the beads of sweat gather on Ennis's forehead and the crimson in his side that just didn't seem to stop consuming the cloth Jack kept feeding it… Ennis stirs. Jack sits up like a stepped-on plank, all his senses on full alert, fear gnawing at his heart. "Ennis. Ennis, I'm here. You feelin all right?"

Ennis blinks his eyes. His pupils are blown monstrously wide. "J-Jack?" His voice comes out in a hoarse, barely audible rasp, so faint from fear or exhaustion that Jack has to touch his ears to Ennis's lips to hear. The dryness, the dull pain in his throat is palpable.

He brushes Ennis's curls back softly. "Everythin's goin a be all right."

He blinks again. "I can't see."

Jack's heart has already stopped by then, but he calmly rises, trying not to sway. "It's 'cause it's night time," he lies. "I'll get you some water." He goes over and grabs the bottle – he's boiled it over the fire hours before – and hands it to Ennis. But his hands are shaking so much water spills and Ennis doesn't even curse, which means something is seriously crooked, so Jack takes it and tips it back into Ennis's lips slowly. Escaping droplets trickle down a struggling throat. "That feel better?"

Ennis just moves his head slightly. Jack can't tell if it's a nod or a shake, so he tips the bottle to his lips again, making sure not to drown him.

"We'll fix this," Jack says, swallowing his rising panic, along with bile. "I… I can get you down. We'll go to a nurse. Someone who knows a damn thing…"

Ennis croaks – a scratched broken record, the slow groan of a tree as it's cut down – and it makes Jack want to throw up. But suddenly Ennis lunges forward with the last of his strength, and Jack can almost hear a clock ticking. "Jack," he says, a wildness in his blank eyes, "Listen a me… You come down there an' they'll know. Aguirre, he ain't lettin you leave without being poked full a holes." His breathing comes in shallow, heavy pants, heaving with effort. "Now, this is what you got a do… leave me here. Go down by youself. You don't want a be draggin a dead weight like me. We ain't got no life together. No life, you hear me?"

He nudges Jack's hand with his little finger, a cruelly miniscule piece of comfort. Jack seizes it like a lifeline.

"No," he says wildly, shaking his head. "No, no, there's a way to fix this. Stop talkin like you want a die, you asshole!"

Ennis sits up. Jack tries to be gentle in pushing him back down, but Ennis has no such qualms. "What're we goin a do if we get down from Brokeback, huh?" He says harshly. "Bullets. They'll rip us full a holes. We'll be dead. You want a be dead, Jack Twist? You ever thought 'bout that, what it's like bein dead?" He closes his eyes. "Maybe it's better to die here. With you, under the stars, way the hell out in the middle a nowhere… though I can't see shit, I can hear you at the least…"

"You ain't yourself," Jack says angrily. "Maybe I like havin you alive, you ever thought about that?"

Ennis's expression thaws when he feels Jack's tears dripping on his face. "I-I'm real sorry, darlin. Really. But if you can't fix it, you got a stand it." He leans forward. "Get yourself off this mountain, Jack. Please."

Those are his last words before he falls still, and Jack almost thinks he has died until he sees the shallow rise and dip of his chest.

"It's real hard to love you, Ennis," He whispers and lies down. He spends the night burning holes into Ennis with his eyes.