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‘I can’t see through yo’ fine ass whether it’s the day o’ night.’ Ennis’s voice emits gruff from behind the flap of the tent and Jack huffs.
It’s 7°°. The residue of dawn still bathes the ripples of Prune pigeon blue, cooling its hue to hoarfrost and rime, but the sunrise creeping through the conifer horizon tints the water somewhat gray. Even with the evermore Yellowstone clouded ceiling, the cotton earns its gilding iota with each tatter of ray the needles manage to tear and litter across all of Bighorns. It’s 7°° and Ennis stayed the night again.
‘Oh, it’s day, alright.—‘ Jack yawns in his stretching place beside the embered campfire and glides his gaze over the white and green slope. ‘—Woolies a’ready up at ‘a pine line, swirlin’ like damn springtails o’ worse. Ya better git, friend, pull ‘em propellers out their asses.’
The swarms of wool specks eating in grazing habits at the yarrow and clover, pulsing in hordes, aligning their shifting borders to BlueBell’s barking and bleating in their familiar E4’s. Dumb unsuspecting of two blue eyes with their own fixed on the woollen ass grazing before them in their scenic horizontal framing.
Jack always thought they looked like maggots from down here. Ennis always thought Jack looked like an ant from up there. Jack’s skin shivers goosebumps surface with yesterday’s residue brushing his denims, Ennis ignores how the word ‘friend’ sounds coming out of Jack’s mouth.
‘Well, ain’t you swell, tryin’ ta’ get rid ‘a me first thing in the mornin’.’
It’s only linen rustling of tent walls and the bedroll over the low rasp of Ennis’s mumble when he huffs his words in the smallest of breaths but Jack hears him; grins under his nose at the remark as he drags the blisters of his fingers over the dark circles under his squinting eyes. ‘Get rid ‘a you, get rid ‘a Aguirre, get rid ‘a that damn cat ‘n piss smell you duplify in that goddamn tent. Can’t get no sniff ‘a fresh air ‘round ‘ere with’ya observant ass.’
And he exaggerates through his teeth as those blistered fingers drop to his jean fly, undoing the zipper, because he knows Ennis sees right through it. He hears him finally untangling from the tent flaps and stagger to his feet with a groan and smiling, tracks the sounds of his boots muffled against the dirtfloor to the mudspace right behind his, sneaking up on him.
‘Yeah?’ The low rasp mumbles straight into Jack’s ear, shakes him in surprised shivers and a breath that smells of yesterday’s whiskey and cigarettes suddenly glides down the hunch of his naked torso in a huffed exhale.
‘Why you pissin’ in our fine breakfast clinker, then?’
Ennis mumbles into his neck and then is Jack’s hat being knocked off to the ground with the flick of Ennis’s index and Jack’s face lightening up in dilated pupils as it’s forged into something at most impish.
‘Oh, it’s on.’
Jack warns before darting Ennis’s already fleeting way and they’re chasing.
‘A’yea?’ Ennis goads and they’re running.
‘Come ‘ere you–‘
Racing with their boots sticking to the mudfloor and morning chill cutting their skin to goosebumps, letting the cold air scrape their throats in their high shrieks and taunts as their flesh every now and then collides.
‘What?’ Ennis baits with the plaid shirt in his fist thrashing in his boasting movements and the apples of his cheeks start aching when Jack’s palms minutely nudge his back. ‘What, huh?’ He chuckles into his giggling face once he gets close again and he knows they’re at their ripest.
Jack manages to touch Ennis’s belt hoops and Ennis pulls his wrist towards him in quick combat defense. Gripping, Tugging, grasping at straws of contact as their skin colors red in where they succeed, before Jack’s arms seize Ennis’s shoulder and Ennis clings onto his bicep, white-knuckled, twisting and turning in his vice grip.
And then they’re falling to the grassed ground, between the yarrows and clovers, with holds still locked in tight red markings and Jack landing on his back in defeat as Ennis crowds him by the widths of his leaning shoulders and a face that says too much, too quickly.
Jack grips at the planes of his shoulder blades, still laughing in false victory, inhaling the panting air Ennis exhaled and then Ennis’s lips are on his and the beige of his cowboy hat divides their inside world from the outside.
He kisses him on the same impulse he moves away with but Jack looks at him in that Jack-way and his blue pulls him in for another. And another, and another. Kissing him so hard the pecks turns into warm mutual breathing and then Jack’s whispering into his mouth;
‘Ennis.’
‘Jack.’
Licking the insides of their cheeks, tongues intertwined in communal liquids and palms that are spread over their ears to block out their surroundings fully, with shuddering breaths and sounds of spit, slicking the spaces their lips traced, replacing the rumbles of Prune and snorts of donkeys.
Sucking at each other’s tongues in their own battle for the throne and losing to the noises strengthening in volume as their hands start missing compass of what’s north and south and incarcerate lips as above and hands as below. Fingers that knead at any flesh they can find because Ennis’s teeth dig into Jack’s lip to push down and Jack’s fingers grasp at Ennis’s ribs to pull up when he crawls his way in between Jack’s spread thighs.
And Jack’s grasping up when Ennis rolls over to his back to crease the grass blades into and the hemisphere switches its annual seasons. Jack climbs Ennis up by his red-marked handmade ladder and the teeth and the hands and the lips hoist their flag at their black-eyed summit that makes the air Jack inhales too low in oxygen.
Then is Jack grinding his hips into Ennis’s pelvis and they’re groaning;
‘Fuck.’
‘What ‘am doin’’
‘No, fuck—‘ Jack scoffs; ‘—I need ta’ piss, for real.’ Whining, still kissing Ennis. He’s struggling to move away, pulling the lip flesh with his teeth before letting go; ‘Shit, just– gimme a sec.’
Standing, staggering with hands balancing on Ennis’s chest and stomach and when he’s straightening up his knees tremble by centimetres he steps between the warmth and the cold.
But the urine in his bladder is warm too and pressing to the walls of his insides so he places his feet wide apart with his tiptoes in the ember ashes and lets the pivot of his head go under the quiver of his eyelashes and a blissed out curve to his open mouth.
Ignoring the pain of the boiling liquid gushing through the violent hard of his dick and letting his head fall back in catharsis because Ennis is right there and waiting, projected on the insides of his eyelids and he’s there when he opens them and turns his head dumb smiling.
There, when Jack tucks himself back into his underpants, –sprawled on his back like he left him, arms behind his head, watching and the folds of his underwear so low on his blonde happy trail and washed out jeans down to his tights with fly and dark brown belt undone like he left it too. Exposing the vast of his torso sculpted by each dipping and rising of breath and its deep line reading ‘v’ shape to the whole of Bighorns and the white of the fabric stretching sheer over the outline of his unattended half-hard cock too.
There, when Jack drops to his knees and puts his hands to the cold dew on the grass blades to crawl back towards him across the mudfloor, smirking and squinting jokingly and not jokingly at all as Ennis watches him over the tops of his cheeks he grinning carves with dimples.
‘Pfft, Rodeo’ He’s whistling and Jack doesn’t know cold from warm no more. ‘Comin’ in on’a silver platter served fer me, huh, Twist?’
Hands already reaching before touching again, caging Ennis by spread palms, Jack’s humming his way across and the exhales bounce back off of the stark skin to meet his face, warm and humid.
‘Mm a full course meal a’ lamb shanks ‘n wine sauce.’
‘Yeah?—‘ Ennis mutters low in his throat, ‘—’n then what?’
Hands and hands everywhere;
‘Creamy mashed potatoes.’
‘Hm, don’t you say.’
‘’N sautéed spinach.’
And Jack’s inhaling what Ennis exhales and the words get saturated as the hands clutch at skinfolds and Ennis doesn’t notice he’s growling into Jack’s moist mouth when his grip forces it open;
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
The last syllable gets dissolved somewhere between the low moan and hissing when Jack’s teeth draw blood from Ennis and it’s all hands and mouths and high-pitched sounds before Jack’s being rolled over into the grass again and the belt buckle clanging floods his eardrums ringing as the chill of the air hits his skin and blankets in goosebumps.
Ennis scrambles in the now disposed-of jean pockets for their half-empty container, sitting on the backs of his heels and then it’s the stick of honey slicking Jack’s entrance and Jack’s forearm bending over his squinting eyelids at the pain when it’s pressed agonizing inside, slow like he’s taught Ennis to do.
He grasps at his arm that’s inside and finally lets all the disgusting noises he’s been holding seep through his clenched teeth because Ennis twists his wrist around and he’s losing the cool of the grass blades under.
‘Ennis.’
‘Jack.’
Groaning, with his hand clenching bruises in Ennis’s tricep and two fingers glazing his insides with honey. Ennis bends down to lick the sound off with a drag of his tongue over Jack’s glistening teeth and then he’s getting bit again because Jack likes how the iron tastes in their spit. He curls his fingers and Jack throws his head back into the mud.
‘Fuck! God. Ennis, just—’
So Ennis pulls them out honey-dripping and doesn’t pause before bringing them to Jack’s mouth to be licked off, clean like he’s taught Jack to do.
Slicking himself with what he’s missed, the foreskin tugged over the raging head by tightest of grips and vein envelopes across four white knuckles, hoisting Jack’s pelvis up to hover above his thighs with knees circled tight around his torso and then he’s lining himself up with black eyes pierced into blues and pushing in.
Jack’s eyes are tight-shut and teeth clenched and Ennis’s lungs are burning with all the air he doesn’t realize he’s holding until he’s stopping midway to catch it and Jack’s jaw drops ajar with the highest of whines seeping through his glinting canines. Gasping and panting as he keeps his head dipped back to lather the hairs Ennis’s hands have disheveled in the dew on the grass blades, and grasping at anything and everything with desperate fingers for some kind of mercy grounding.
Then Ennis withdraws inchmeal two centimeters before thrusting back in to the halt and Jack’s fingers are knuckle-deep in the wet dirt under. He lets out a groan open-mouthed and face scrunched so erotic and Ennis doesn’t have the power to resist withdrawing and thrusting right back in just to experience that sight again.
‘Fuck!’
He sets up a thorough pace and Jack cannot contain any of the noises Ennis forces out of his throat when the girth of his cock coerces the muscle tissue around to burn like it does. Smoulder in the stretch and pressure of grazing the surface of the walls and make the smoke pollute his insides with the nastiest of desires to burn him whole and leave only a bleached skeleton of what he was before he fell at the world’s feet and turned into a sole beggar.
Because he’s begging.
‘Gah– Ennis, please—‘
And begging,
‘Please, fuck– please.’
pathetic and desperate through his teeth for the fire to grow and melt the skin that traps him. Remove the last layer that separates him from what lies beneath Ennis’s outside and see into him like he does into him, when he obliges and fucks into him more and deeper.
Grasping at the flesh of his hips, relenting the pleas, and lifting them up to meet his thrusts halfway and knock the polluted air straight out of his gasping lungs.
Ennis fucks him like he’s meat and the shapes of the grass blades and clovers engrave into the flush skin of Jack’s back with each propel up the muddy grassbed. They’re groaning and cursing and touching and Jack doesn’t mind because Ennis is right there. Right here. Inside.
Groaning the same groans he huffs when his axe catches on timber, cursing the same curses he uses when Prune steals their cookware, touches the same white-knuckled grips he touches when Cigar Butt jerks at sparrows flying off of bushes.
Ennis , that makes him breakfast and supper. Ennis , that likes to keep to himself most of the time. Ennis , that handles the flock’s clumsy lambs so gentle and thorough. Ennis , that never much initiates nothing. Ennis , that is so composed and proper;
Groaning, cursing, whimpering into Jack’s ear as his white-knuckled grips color Jack’s skin the same shade of green as the grass blades his thrusts propel him into do, initiating so many thoughts into Jack’s head to violently swirl and scream that he feels he might die.
But then those white knuckles glide under Jack’s shoulder blades and he’s pulled into his trembling lap and Ennis’s next thrust in the new angle fucks the thoughts into pure white static. Enlisting tides of needles up Jack’s back he keeps scraping in dirt trails from underneath his fingernails and Jack can’t do nothing but give out his throat to the most pathetic noises.
Digging his fingers into Ennis’s shoulders as he envelopes them whole with his chin submerged in the salty sweat gathered in his clavicle and thighs convulsing in time with every metric movement around the margin of Ennis’s jerking torso, they’re groaning and cursing and touching;
‘Fuck!’
‘Mhpff– God—‘
‘Fuck me, Ennis’
And,
‘Jack’
‘Ennis’
‘Jack’
‘Ennis’
and Ennis latches his fingers onto the fat on Jack’s ass with the thick skin overflowing in ricochet folds, jiggling before sustaining it in place and fucking up into the contracting heat six more times and falling to the dew of the grass as they both cum in spasms of white and grey flickering over their eyelids.
They lay there like that for a while; still intertwined and breathless as Ennis’s weight comfortably suffocates Jack just a little, burying him in the mud at final with limbs sprawled around and over each other, persevering the moment into gentle cryosleep as the cockrow chill freezes their sweat layer into thin frost and then Ennis pulls out, spilling his cum all over Jack’s thighs and forces himself up to his feet.
He stumbles as he makes his way to the deserted campfire with his softening cock swinging in the morning air and a stark white ass turned to where Jack’s still lying, watching him from under the forearm that bends over his blinking eyes, and a face that’s creeping up with an amused smile. Taking him in as he squats down to the rocks and splint pile, fishing out a cigarette before shoveling with the ash and embers and starts laying down bundles of tinder and kindling.
And then is Jack pushing himself up to stand too, with buckling knees and wide spread ankles, wobbly walking to the river with his cupping palms gathering its freezing water and bringing it to pour down his hot skin to wash the stick of their mixed cum off of the insides of his thighs and butthole, feeling how the trouts and riverweed skim in between the biting wild currents grazing his calves.
Smiling and keen in their own separate places with Ennis’s gaze heavy on where Jack’s skin glistens, lathered shiny in Prune water, stuck on the five discoid green and blue marks imprinted on its violent red flush shaped into the clearest handprint as he sucks on the filter of his Chesterfield and lets the smoke slip through the gaps of his teeth, parting in the smuggest of simpers, matching Jack’s amused smirk that he tucks blithe under the bow of his head all too much aware of the stare of his black eyes.
‘Goddamn.’
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