The new air they breathe is tentative; like the electric buzz after lightning storms, humming through the undercurrents of their conversations.
And just like a storm, Ennis is scared — not of storms, he'll be damned if he'll admit to that — but he swears, if Jack sends one more damn fox-eyed glance his way—
"Sorry, friend, my hand slipped," Jack apologises as they brush together while warming by the fire.
Ennis is about to swing a fist with how many times Jack's hand has 'slipped'.
He's been close to snapping like a taut rope, the last couple a days; and just like a taut rope, the fibres have been splitting one by one, day by day. Jack is like an invasive species, or those damn bears and coyotes that find their way everywhere that Ennis has gotta shoot to protect the sheep. He ain't never meant to be in Ennis's mind but somehow, he find him there — in the summer sky, in the aimless milling of sheep, in the hillside flowers, in the musk of pine and fir and dew-damp grass. Jack has become his routine — every day, he go up to the sheep, he thinks of coming home to dinner with Jack, then he comes down to the dinner, he thinks of sleeping under the blankets nestled up to Jack, then when he wakes and they ride together he wishes he had a way to cut himself open and to spill his love like a gutted fish. But that's something Jack's good at, not him. Shit, his life would be a goddamn fuckin pony ride if Jack wasn't in it. Damn you, Jack fuckin' Twist. I wish I knew how to quit you.
Ennis watches as a warm breeze threads its way through Jack's copper locks, wishing it were his fingers doing the same. The sky is dusty with bleeding colours and the clouds look like they've been ignited from the inside out; the birds are already starting to sing their lullabies, but Ennis doesn't feel tired.
They've both taken their fill of beans, lying seemingly contentedly against the logs. Ennis would have believed so if Jack's boot isn't jerking around all over the place, the fire nearly burning the soles right off; occasionally it bumps into Ennis's own boot.
He thwacks him back. "What's with that foot a yours?"
"Feelin twitchy."
Another bump. They both become still, letting their legs rest against each other. When had Jack moved so close?
He feels something thin and cold brush his hand. "It's awful cold," Jack says, and Ennis doesn't dare look down, keeps his eyes fixed like a lifeline on the dancing flames, on the cult-like shadows on the ground. But the hand persists and Ennis musters up the courage to seize it, and what the hell is Jack yappin about, both their palms are calloused and burning hot.
"I'm feelin the chill," he rasps.
"You got some warm hands."
He's so close Ennis can smell the bean-tinged breath and some invisible lasso draws his head closer. He can't stop his eyes from flickering to Jack's lips. "Oh, we're marchin off to hell," he hears Jack whisper and that's when he feels it — the unmistakable twang of his self-restraint snapping. He grabs Jack's shoulders and grapples them both to the ground.
He feels the sharpness of bark cut into his face, the mush of dirt in his nose, but he doesn't stop, he can't. They tumble over and around and over and into each other and he wants to feel every crevasse of Jack but the clothes are a thick barrier between them.
That gorgeous crooked mouth presses into his own and unlike their previous kisses, despite their roughness even now, it's soft and gentle and melting in his mouth like honey or chocolate. Ennis yields, he always yields to Jack, and it's wrong, so wrong. He threads his hands into his copper locks like the breeze he so envies. Relaxes into him. Hugs him tighter, screws his eyes shut. There's a storm in his brain, and the ships are going to capsize. Does he want an end or a forever? He doesn't choose what he wants, the world does, and the world says winter will come, people wake up, and that there's no way it would let them make it off Brokeback alive if someone ever saw what's between them.
"Damn you, Ennis. I can't quit you," he hears Jack breathe.
He swears he'll die if he sees Jack's expression, he's drowning in the insanity of his own mind and that's why his shield cracks open and shatters into a million pieces. "You should."
"Ennis…"
"You're a dream, Jack Twist," he says, his eyes screwed so tight it hurt and spots pierced his darkness. "I can't never have you… never…"
"Awh, Ennis, c'mere… c'mon… it's all right… it's all right…"
Ennis wants to shove him away, shout to the world and that he ain't no queer and Jack is being a girl and that he's not, but after everything they done and felt and touched he knows it will kill him to say it. So he just lets the tears fall, lets Jack brush them away.