Work Text:
Death was a complex concept for children to grasp. Ennis retained this information; Alma mentioned it to him once, as if she found it fascinating or was considering such a vanishing act. He scoffed it off at the time, as he often did when she talked. She scoured as many first-year mother books as possible and preached them like gospel. That fact was the only one he retained in memory. He pondered his demise so many times, every time his body interlocked with Jack’s.
He had considered the possibility of his partner being the first to go, so he prayed to all the wrong Gods to be first. Now, he lay, bell-bottom grasped legs sprawled on the hardwood floor of his trailer shack. His boots scrambled for footing, but he always ended up in the same hunched-over kneel, like a delicate newborn wildlife blossoming into the cruel behemoth of a forest. The object of his attention was always out of reach. Its rich blue swayed in front of him, swirling, shimmering against the nullness of his room.
Scruffy sideburns cupped his cherub cheeks. His golden curls had flattened from the stickiness of dusty summer heat. Carnation patchiness filled in the gaps his freckles couldn’t reach. His fists pounded into the hollow underside of the wooden slats. He had always been independent. Jack was rarely around, so he coped. But it seemed like even standing was beyond his abilities.
His brain was full of warmth, seeping through his mouth with each pathetic heave of effort. He rocked back and forth until he sprung onto his scraped knees. His balled hands provided stability in his grovel. His limbs trembled under his weight. Sickness boiled in his throat, and his lips tightened over his teeth to keep himself from hurling out the remnants of shock.
His body rocked with his huffs. Saliva coated his tongue, scrunched back immaturely with the growing tension in his facial muscles. His body swung low with each propelling jolt. Every step forward threatened his collapse. He pushed himself forward, deeper into the closet, where he held what little still existed of Jack—what little he could still call his.
He flung himself to one side, employing his arm to cushion the impact as he tumbled. After a series of ungraceful rolls, he sat on the ground. His legs sprawled out in front of him, entirely powerless. He gazed at them, his thoughts oscillating between bewilderment and acknowledgment of his predicament. His head slammed back into the wall. The numbing buzz spreading from the injury cursed his eyes to squint. A heavy wheeze breezed through his chapped lips. His tongue rolled over the damage, willing it to mend, but no amount of effort could recover what was lost.
He didn’t come here without a purpose. In his conglomerate of thoughts, one found a home in his heart. His veins pumped for it, and he reached for a box deep in the corner of his closet with trembling hands. Its worn cardboard sides had been slightly dented from use. As he lifted it, the weight shifted unevenly, the papers inside rustling with a dry, papery crackle, turning against one another like leaves caught in a breeze. As his shaky grip lifted the box higher, the crayons shifted again, making a gentle thud as they tumbled to the other side, the sound muffled yet constant with every tiny movement.
It felt holy and burned into his skin like water on a sinner. He was no angel; he had no purpose in fiending over its contents, and still, he knocked over the top until the contents were undressed, nude, welcoming, and Quixotic. What he was addicted to was a different lust, One devoid of sexuality and rather a desire to fix.
Jack always wanted to fix it. That’s how he winded up lost in a sea of “could” and “should.” Two words Ennis repeated to himself when he couldn’t keep himself occupied.
He held himself back. If he were too eager, he’d be greedy. The intimacy found in nothingness left in the wake of Jack’s death. He sought remnants of affection that drove him mad. He put meaning onto every twitch of his fingers. As he lifted the paper, white as the clouds, the flutter of the paper brushed against his palm, almost weightless. He plummeted forward until his stomach slammed into the floor. The rebound worsened the nausea.
He leaned over and peeked over the edge of the box. His legs kicked behind him, the tip of his boots squeaking against the mildew-withered floor. He settled on a red ink pen. Jack used to write his postcards in a similar ink. Ennis asked him about it on one trip. All Jack could say was, “I like how it looks on the cardstock.”
He chuckled expectantly. Jack was charming, even when he didn’t mean to be. When he was gone, it felt as if he sucked the joy from the world. When Ennis regressed and Jack’s death felt more like a long hiatus, that whimsy returned. He had big dreams of staying in this pretend world. Without Jack, regressing was hard. He worked hard to get himself to sink, to feel with him again.
Deep in fabricated thought, he tapped the end of his pen against the corner of his mouth. He pressed the metallic edge to the paper. It sprawled out, leaking its rich burgundy onto the paper in spotty swishes–
Dear, Daddy
Too formal? He scribbled it out.
To Dada
He was now grinning, finally content with the opening. He swirled his pen around in his finger while his face rested in his hand. His fingers drummed on his cheeks. The handwriting was shaky and untrained, paralleled how many three-year-olds dotted their I’s and swooped their Ps.
I miss you. I miss your hugs. I miss the way you smell. I miss your eyes.
He looked up to the ceiling. He remembered his irises clear in the haze of memories—a beautiful blue. He had never seen the sea, despite Jack pestering him on if he did, and yet his eyes made him long for something he had never yet experienced.
My new best color is blue. I like blue. I am using red, you like red. Red and blue make purple
A smug expression contorted his grief-stricken face. He was proud of himself, he felt intelligent, and Jack would no doubt praise him for his knowledge.
There are birds outside. They made a nest. I like to feed them. I keep crust for the birds. I don’t like crust.
Jack would’ve already known that. Whenever they ventured to Brokeback, Jack did most of the cooking. He would see the edges of his slices. Often, he’d throw them to the bushes for wildlife or munch on them himself. Either or got a swell giggle from Ennis.
I saw a dog getting the mail. I like getting the mail for Dada. It was big and very fluffy. You would have liked it.
Ennis wasn’t fond of animals when regressed, especially nothing as big as the dogs Jack fawned over. He would complain about his lack of one, all because his wife had no intentions of caring for it and didn’t want dog fur to ruin her good suits. She was all business. That was always on my mind, according to the cowboy.
When will you be back?
The question felt strange to write. Enni’s body knew he’d never get an answer. He hung his head down low. A golden waterfall of locks concealed his eyes. He stitched his eyebrows together, worsening the headache he wore. He fought hard against his vertigo to remain small. To remain incompetent and disoriented and dizzy and free.
The shaking in his arms didn’t cease. He made attempts to write but scribbled it out with frustration. His docile waving legs turned into heavy thumps. He banged the edge of his fist into the floor.
Love dada.
….
XOXO
Tears flowed from his eyes like raindrops, forming a delicate cascade that gathered into dark rivulets, blurring his desperate pleas for Jack, for his dada. It was a plea for a man who no longer existed for the second time in his life. The paper he held wilted like a rose in winter as he leaned his forehead into the woeful elegy.
He lay still, waiting for the cries to fade away. His own sobs were weak, and he couldn't make a sound. There was no one around to hear or console him as he struggled with his soft, melodic whimpers that escaped from his heaving chest.
He tried to lift his head, but a mix of tears, saliva, and mucus ruined his efforts. He wiped his sleeve across his nose, smearing the red ink from his shirt onto the white plaid. His eyes widened, refusing to blink as the endless tears kept them moist. The initial shock gave way to seething anger. He crumpled the letter in his fists and hurled it to the corner of the room. He forced himself to stand, his legs trembling beneath him, unable to remain on the ground longer. He couldn't indulge in his illusions for a moment longer. He staggered out of the closet, leaving it slightly ajar; he never allowed it to close.
He’d never leave Jack alone.
He forgave Jack for not doing the same.