Jack's wringing out his clothes in the stream, jeans hiked up to his knees and boots off, drying on the sizzling bank-stones. Ennis stands near, sun heating up the wet spots on his back and water massaging pleasantly around his feet.
He doesn't believe in no big guy 'cause he's sure to rot in hell if he does, but — if there is some kind of life-and-death courthouse out there, Ennis must have done some real good in his past life to be here now, in this warm river looking at the vast expanse of Jack's back. Lean from hard work, haunch muscled and thick, spine and hips slightly twisted, kissed with bruises from bucking bulls. Ennis wants to suck on them, make more, watch as Jack's face contorts in bliss.
God, he prays for the first time in his life, I owe you much for makin such a damn beauty.
Everything about him is as perfect, from his easy laugh to his twinkling eyes to his quiet determination loud-ass bitching whenever somethin go wrong, because Jack aims for rightness, for perfection. Ennis wants to soak and bathe in his light, wants to sit on a sunning rock and watch him wring out clothes with those nimble, dextrous hands for the rest of the day, or maybe the whole week.
But suddenly Jack spins around and sprays him with water. "Do I got a leech on my backside or somethin?" He teases.
Ennis coughs, feeling red creep up his neck. Turns away, scratches at his neck. "Uh, no. Don't see nothin."
In truth, Jack isn't as confident as he makes himself out to be. In truth, he has never felt so wanted before.
He knows by straightforward observation that he has a better face and figure than most men; he sometimes catches people a little intoxicated by him on dance floors and bulls alike. But after they get to talking with him he spots the disinterest in their eyes and they excuse themselves to use the loo or get a drink or whatever and they never come back. Even his own pa don't want him back.
Ennis himself is, he suspects, quite the opposite – no one would bat an eye if he were to enter a room full a silent folks, but it's how long the gaze can be kept that matters. And Ennis is an enigma, a silent, dark and powerful force that people around him are sucked into – and Jack's one of them.
There are many things that make up Ennis Del Mar: a square face and jaw, an already-receding hairline, perpetually stubble-less, deep-set eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat, worry-lines framed with blond curls always growing slightly past the nape. Jack likes it long. He suspects that's why Ennis keeps it that way despite irritatedly scratching at said nape day in and day out. And day in and day out Jack has to hide his smirk behind a well-planned cough.
Ennis rarely blesses him with a full-fledged, tooth-showing grin – it's usually a quirk at the corner of his lip, reigned back like all his other actions – but when he does, his face dimples wonderfully and it's so infectious like a little boy's, the one he was maybe before he was saw what he did, and it makes Jack reflect it right back like it's a rule of the universe, as much as water reflects the sky and mirrors reflect a room.
Ennis moves easy out in the middle of nowhere, around trees and streams and sky and birds and rain and mud and horses. It's like the earth claimed him as her own child, made him a part of her. Then there's the quick anger of him, the stiffness with which he bears himself and his heart, locked tight with the key thrown down a well, the wild horse in him reigned back by fear.
All of these things make up Ennis Del Mar, and Jack loves every bit of him.
"Hey, Ennis," Jack calls.
"What?" Ennis doesn't pause in his vigorous clothes-scrubbing, crouching by the riverbank.
Jack walks up to him, river dripping down his haired shins, and wraps his naked arms around his neck. "Nothin," he mirrors wryly.
"Miss you too, Jack," Ennis chuckles and to Jack's surprise, he leans in for a kiss — unlike the others, it's soft and gentle and melting in his mouth like dripping honey or creamy chocolate. It's just them and it's daytime summer.
They have all the time in the world.