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Ennis and Jack slot together like the hollows of spoons; Ennis’s chest concave and Jack’s barreled. Ennis’s high arch nearly missed the downturn nub of his partner’s. The sick tart of morning breath pinched his nostrils. Heavy hand and heavy heart, he grabbed for Jack’s shirt, denim and worn from the scratchy humidity, and the rebellious jolt of bulls into sand pits. His nailbed pressed into the uneven cut of his nails, which remained dirty from vigorous farm work, and was only cleaned when the rest of him molted. Their hearts alternated beats, ticking like a metronome, excluding the rubato in Ennis’s from Jack’s Adam apple quivering.
Ennis squinted as the rolling tide of boxy sun blanketed his slim face. His eyebrows twitched under the strain. His teeth parted, hungry, yearning– he licked the crescent of his pearly yellows to soothe the urges. He knew he couldn’t control himself, so why did he try? Why must he argue with instincts? Jack’s fingers pushed down on his tongue, and they both seemed confused, but Ennis played with the sensation, and Jack kept a consistent pressure despite the dream-like delirium thick in his demeanor.
“It’s early.” Ennis had already known. Jack looked to the windowsill. The air was cool and damp, with tiny droplets of moisture that clung to Wyoming grass, making everything feel slightly. There’s a faint halo south of the muted navy trying to break through. If he squinted, just enough, he could trick himself into seeing stars again.
Jack quickly realized the cause of the unexpected disruption to their schedule. His boy wasn’t great at hiding his demons. Ennis squirmed against his stocky stature, his pelvis slamming into his to lift his stomach, with about a centimeter of leeway between them. His teeth held his knuckles in place. His legs stretched, then curled back in, feet flexing and relaxing. Occasionally, he’d give a small wiggle, like a shiver running through him. His breathing is a touch uneven and got caught on the mountain range of stubble they both sported.
How long would Ennis writhe in agony?
That peeved Jack, eating at the back of his brain while witnessing his little boy squirm about. He grasped the small of his back until his balance tumbled. Their abdomens slammed together, and Ennis chomped down to burden the ripping pain, followed by an aftertaste of desperation. He licked the red grooves with surety the pain would ease under the caring laps of his tongue.
The more Jack watched, the more a peculiar sense of responsibility settled over him. He nudged his shoulder, “Does someone have to use the bathroom?”
The words were quiet, steady, and yet they sent a shiver through Ennis, something dark and tender all at once, making him want to curl up further, seeking the persistent comfort of Jack’s presence. He buried his face into Jack’s neck, the steady warmth there a fragile haven. The question was repeated, yet its meaning seemed to dissolve, overshadowed by the quiet, almost hypnotic rhythm of Jack’s voice, the gentle pulse at his throat. The words no longer mattered, and yet they lingered in the air, impossibly hard to escape.
He nudged Ennis again, his touch tender, a silent promise of his intentions, and a guiding hand to extend his silent offering. Arms aloft, with matutinal trembles edging Jack on, Ennis perfectly depicted grace. Jack felt sick with Eudaemonia and the golden mop snug in his nape felt undeserved. He coughed into the hollow of his fist.
Jack held his hamstrings between worn fingers. The hardly existent thigh plush teased his purlicue. Ennis’s long legs locked into place prematurely, folding beside Jack’s hips to keep his ground. Around the jagged protrusion of bone and subtle rolls of flesh from years of binge drinking and improper nutrition, he coddled his shoulder blade and the small of his back. Eagerness made him sloppy. His body anchored down and provided Jack with the leverage to sit up.
Grunts slipped through the humid air of quickened breaths, shared between the hollow space between them. Ennis’s mouth, heavy with concern, slid over Jack’s jugular and swiveled to catch his jaw in the affection. Jack’s lips curled back, barring rabbit teeth, and waited for Ennis to reach his ear to whisper in his own, “We’re getting up now, lamb…C’mon…”
Ennis protests of “no” were offset by Jack’s oppositional coos. His legs latched onto his waist, and his arms scrambled for his neck. His cheek rested upon his bicep, mourning the loss of his crook. Jack’s arms, as sinewy as the day they met, encircled Ennis. Each blinked slower than the last, the edges of the room blurred, and the light flickered faintly through the haze. So often, he’d find himself slipping, his weight shifting lower until Jack would have to bounce him back up. The cadance of Jack’s hot breath echoed through his body, and he fought against the urge to drift.
The sudden flash of fluorescent gold bathroom light sparkled in his heady eyes, the ring of forest amongst the landslide of hazel prominent. His pupils tightened, redialating after catching a passing gazing at Jack settling him down on the hardwood. He looked to the illuminated door frame, then back to his partner, whose lopsided smile was directly copied from Ennis.
His lips drew taut over his teeth and he placed his index knuckle between his teeth, lips grazing the skin with a strange obligation. Ennis lingered, feeling the brush of Jack’s fingers skimming just close enough to almost touch. He waited, heart thudding with a steady patience until those fingers finally found his, and for his tugging to lead him into the room Jack lit between Ennis’s patches of sleepy-induced incomprehension. He tilted his head, and Jack nodded, a silent agreement shafted between their gazes. He muffled a whine.
“Do you….” Jack didn’t finish, and instead, “Yeah, alright.” He blew a puff of air, but his lips remained tight, and with nowhere to go, it lingered in his cheeks until, with a reluctant sigh, it finally slipped free. He stretched back, a hand across his back dimples as leverage. His eyes went wide, a flash of surprise passing through them like a sudden storm, before they narrowed. Ennis’s breath hitched in his throat, pushed down by a gulp, thinned lips blubbering, staring across to the brunette mid-stretch.
If he wasn’t nonverbal before, the awestruck ensured it.
Jack’s thumb caressed the hairs standing on end. His eyebrows raised and his classic smirk sent Ennis’s ogle to the wooden floor. Huh. Strange choice for a bathroom.
A dark shadow hung overhead. He looked straight ahead, to willfully ignore the hands prying at his button, and then his fly. Jack grasped the tip of his tongue between his prominent buck teeth. His blue eyes dulled under his eyelids. He couldn’t tell when he blinked, it all blended through the squint. He tilted his head back, tendons tensing, lips pursing, and chin scrunching, with a jingle of belt hitting the tile.
Jack grabbed his biceps with a firm, almost commanding grip, guiding him forward with a steady pull. He steered Ennis toward the potty, the urgency in his touch leaving no room for protest. Ennis, with no choice, scuttled to the side. Jack pushed down on his acromion, and he plopped down onto the porcelain. A flush kept him from looking head on. what his peripheral caught was enough to make his breath hitch—Jack’s expression, a tender arch in his eyebrows, his eyes glistening with something unspoken, something that wasn’t just the dim light.
His pout trembled. His hands reached for Jack’s shirt, and he was happy to lend it. His hand cradled the back of his blonde. Long crass fingers worked through the night induced tangles. He looked to the mirror opposite him, catching a glimpse of his flushed face, and Jack’s jean shirt, ruffled by his fingers, the fabric moving with the smallest of gestures. Jack noticed where his gaze had landed. He glanced back, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Ennis, caught in the moment, smiled back, keeping his bucked teeth on display; Ennis’s favorite feature of his.
“It’s alright…. Let it out. I’m here…” He murmured. It was reassurance he didn’t know he needed until a familiar hiss hit his ears. The bathroom smelt of sharp pine and an indistinct clean, all Jack’s doing. Ennis let water work it’s magic. Jack preferred the dramatics, partially because he grew up affording it. Bull fighting was all presentation, and he rationed smell was part of the pseudonym.
“There we go, kiddo… Atta boy…” The mole, balancing on his left cheek, bounced with his verbal reassurance.
…Or was it on his right cheek?
Ennis’s eyes creaked open. The room remained dull, and he couldn’t discern if it was rainy or still nighttime. He caught nothing but white popcorn ceiling, half decorated by a shot light that came with the trailer. His hands remained helpless by his side, clutching the now wettened sheet, getting cold the more he laid there.
Despite the dead weight filling his chest, he rolled to his side, and coped with the sudden surge of wet on his thigh. He ran his hand over his face, fingers pulling the age plagued skin. His eyebrows furrowed, jerking, while his eyes squeezed shut. Warm rain hit freckle to freckle, dropping to the pillow at the peak of his bridge.
What started as small choked cries tumbled and grew into full body wails into his pillow, forming another wet patch into his bed dressing. The room was bitter, and he couldn’t smell anything aside from ammonia and mildew. He slurped through his teeth as to not get saliva on the pillow case, but it was in vain with how messed the bed already was.
His eyes refused to open, he refused to move from the soiled bedsheets. His hand covered his eyes, enforcing darkness. He grasped the fading ghost of comfort one last time, of Jack, hunched over him, balancing on his shoulders. And like Jack, it faded faster than it stayed. Yet he fought for it, fought like Jack fought for him, for the life he fantasized about months after his passing. He let himself wallow in his filth, in his own urine, for Jack perished in worse. His last moments smelling the hot Texas sun, pungent manure, and iron. If he could smell at all. He hoped his nose was busted first so his last scent was the morning flowers laced with raindrops.
He sat up, reason finally coercing him to change. His body felt hollow, like a shell controlled by something omnipotent, and he was watching it all from the window. He wiggled on new boxers, after throwing the other on the bed. His head rolled back, alongside his eyes, to keep more tears from falling at a familiar chime of metal. He flicked it, just to reminisce on the clank, often on an egotistical bull-rider buckle.
A new, unironed and only somewhat washed, shirt dawned on his shoulders. His hands fumbled with the buttons, clumsy and irresponsible. Fully buttoned, a hole remained lonely. He masked his whine with a forced, manly scoff, and he shoved the hem into his jeans to hide the mistake he refused to correct. He stomped his heel into the floor, part way to get his clanky leather boots on, and part way to force his annoyance out of his body.
His greying eyelashes did little to shield him from the rising sun. Though the light struggled to pierce through the heavy clouds, casting a dull glow, it was enough to stir a tension in Ennis. Already overwhelmed, the quiet brightness felt like too much—a soft but insistent weight that pressed against his pupils. No wind circulated through his room, like it was too scared to aggravate him further.
He tottered to the kitchen, but not before glancing to the bloodied shirts he kept wedged between his laundry. He turned on the tap, watching as water poured into his only metal pot, the sound especially loud in the silence. He placed it on the stove and flicked on the gas, the faint hiss filling the room. It was a relief, smelling something that wasn’t piss. He’d count his small victories. As he stood there, staring at his reflection in the simmering, greyed water.
All he could see was himself this time.