e_delmar | (no subject)

What do you do when ~~your b-~~ ~~the guy you l-~~ ~~the guy you're fucking~~ your friend and you get into a fight? You get yourself good and fucking trashed. It's a long held tradition, and Ennis don't see no reason to change it now. That would be going against the natural fucking order of things, wouldn't it? So shit if Ennis don't just get himself a few bottles of whiskey and slowly - or not so slowly - and surely works his way through them. He almost made it all the way through, too, but that sixth time he got up to piss he couldn't stand too good and figured he ought to go back to the room before he passed out in the middle of the fucking bar. Room. Room bed. Bed soft room soft room good.

There's some loud cursing as Ennis fiddles with the lock, and a few bangs on the door before he manages to swing it open, a loud crash as it hits the wall on the other side, and another loud crash as Ennis trips over something - possibly the floor - and goes sprawling onto his knees. That ain't so bad, though, because that way he can move around without falling. The room's dark, and he can't find his own nose in this fucking place and if he could only find the bed, all would be well with the world.

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Jack pushes the prodding finger away, shaking his head, though his other hand stays warm on Ennis' back.

"Yeah, that's me. All that whiskey and you still ain't come to your senses, huh?"

"Left 'em back home."

Though most would argue he never had them in the first place. Damn fool, after all, to get caught up with Jack Fucking Twist. Damn fool to let him get away. Damn fool's Ennis Del Mar and ain't nobody (even him) gonna argue it.

"What'm I sensing?"

"Seems like you don't need 'em much, anyway."

Jack's thumb moves absently over the muscles of Ennis' shoulder, and he figures that when Ennis is fall-over drunk is probably not the time to try and explain himself.

"Hell, it don't matter, does it?"

"Sometimes seems nothing does."

And hell if this isn't a time for him to get maudlin. He closes his eyes and leans back a bit, slowly, waiting for Jack's hand to move with him.

Jack's arm relaxes, lets Ennis lean back, and though Jack doesn't lean with him, the bed dips and creaks a bit when he shifts to watch Ennis. His expression is impossible to see above the dim white shape of his undershirt.

"Hey now, that's the whiskey talkin'. What've I told you 'bout shuttin' that bastard up, huh?" He pauses, rubs at the back of his neck.

"Stuff matters."

Ennis lays back and shifts uncomfortably in his work clothes.

"Yeah. Stuff like tractors and rings and wifes and birthdays and it don't."

And it's possible he's not even sure what he's on about now, if he knew to start with.

"Birthdays, huh?"

There's a connection somewhere. Jack knows there is. The problem is that he'd have to get himself hammered on what seems like a pint of whiskey in order to find it.

Ennis waves his hand around and grunts, trying to wipe it away, wipe the words away.

"Don't matter."

He says it stubbornly, as if making a point.

"Guess not."

They've never really mattered to Jack, anyway, though they matter to Lureen a great deal.

"Think I ain't quite followin' you, bud," he says, apologetically. It's a side effect of not being shitfaced.

"You do."

He nods his head, and if it's a bit wobbly, perhaps that's only to be expected.

Jack pauses.

"I do, huh?"

He wonders--briefly, because he doesn't like wondering about it--whether he's ever mattered to anyone before, and clears his throat, looking down.

"Mmmm."

He rolls to his side, wary of the moving bed, and reaches out with another finger to poke Jack. Jack who matters, Jack who follows, Jack.

Jack catches his hand--Ennis moves awful slow and clumsy when he's drunk--and pushes it lightly away. He runs his own hand over Ennis' side, resting it at his waist, and grins a little.

"You ain't gonna be in any kind a shape for chores tomorrow, bud."

"Will. Be up with the sun."

Maybe. If the sun rises at noon.

There's a low rumble of a laugh, and Jack's hand is steady on Ennis' waist, his thumb moving back and forth.

"Sure, and pigs'll fly."

"Saw it inna paper. Enquirer."

His eyes fall softly shut, and he leans into Jack's hand, Jack's heat, Jack.

"I'll believe it when I see it."

Jack shifts, leans down till he's propped up on one elbow, more on a level with Ennis. His hand slides slowly along Ennis' side, soothing.

Ennis yawns, his breath slowing, his body relaxing, and opens his eyes once more to look at Jack. Sleepy and drunk and wide, the skin around them crinkles as he smiles, before they close again. And if, in his sleep, he mutters something that sounds like "sorry," well, maybe it's because something doesn't not matter quite so much as he thought.