It Could Be Like This, Just Like This Always

by ONEcinder

It's the summer of 1963, and two certain cowboys have never fallen harder. Ennis isn't sure when they crossed the line from physical into romantic into possibly even emotional, but he's not sure if he minds it at all. (Crossposting on ao3, it's ahead there!)

1. Only Cold I Caught Was You

Ennis Del Mar wakes before five, wind whistling through the tent and whipping up the flaps, sending a pleasant shiver up his neck like fingers tiptoeing across his skin. He blinks away the morning tears and glances over to where Jack is lying slumped beside him. He's sprawled out across Ennis's chest, fingers curled at his neck; Ennis pays careful attention to the straight, slender ridge of his nose, the fullness of his lower lip, the trail of fair hair on his forearm, the naked fuzz above his mouth that indicated his youth. Tried to imprint every pore of his face in his memory.

Another gust of wind rocks the tent, and the gentle, rhythmic rise-and-fall of Jack's sternum is disrupted with a shudder. Ennis takes one last, long look at him and shoves off the blankets – only to hear a sleepy murmur: "Mm… where'ya goin, cowboy?"

"Gon make breakfast," Ennis replies gruffly. "I got four hours ridin up ahead a me. It's late out already."

"Well, I don't feel no sun on my eyes." He hears the rustle of blankets and suddenly something with Jack's pine and fresh grass musk is draped across his shoulders, enveloping him in a warm embrace. Jack's breath becomes physical in the air and caresses his ear like the east wind itself. "Don't go catchin a cold now."

Ennis freezes for a split second but pulls himself together, shrugging the jacket back off. Only cold I ever caught was you, always plaguin me, makin me feel things I otherwise wouldn't… shouldn't. "Don't need no jacket." Hesitating for a brief second, he adds without looking, "Don't want you catchin a cold either."

He thinks he hears a brief hitch in Jack's breath, maybe from pleasure or surprise or maybe he's just kidding himself, but he leaves the tent, breathes in the crisp air. The sun hasn't yet made its way up from behind the mountains, and he can still smell traces of the campfire smoke.

It's the coldest morning in all of summer and Jack's jeans-jacket is still back in the tent snuggled up against him where Ennis wishes he could be and it's so dark he can't see his own hand two feet in front of him. He's never felt more warm.