A/N: This is a (very) short one-shot, set after Jack and Ennis part following that first summer on Brokeback Mountain. The usual disclaimers apply, and any feedback would be much appreciated.

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Broken

by Arien Star

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“Guess I’ll see you ’round.”

A nod; a small, tight-lipped smile. Then Ennis Del Mar turns away, hefts his pack over his shoulder and starts off down the road, alone. He hears the door of Jack’s truck slam behind him, hears that heap-of-shit engine rattle to life.

Turn. Turn around, you coward, you fuckin’ yellow-bellied bastard.

With a juddering jolt and a spew of dust, the truck pulls out onto the road.

Still time. Stop, goddammit. Dump the bag. Go after him. You really gonna let him drive away? You really gonna keep walking in the wrong direction?

His steps slow for a brief moment. He can’t, he can’t.

Think of that queer rancher, ol’ Earl. That fly-blown corpse goin’ stiff in the sun. You want that happening to you? You want that happening to Jack? Think of Alma, waiting for you back home, wedding dress all picked out. Don’t you falter, boy. You got a bus to catch.

There’s a knife in his guts. A real physical pain, there, in the pit of his stomach. Like something’s being gouged out of him. He hooks his thumbs into his belt to stop his hands shaking; his goddamn teeth’d crack if he clenched his jaw any harder. He realizes he can’t hear the engine anymore.

Step. Step. Step. Keep walkin’. You’ve gone and dug your grave now, Ennis Del Mar. Time to lay down in it. Ain’t nothing else for it.

He stares down at the road, the brim of his hat low across his eyes. Dust already cakes his boots.

Didn’t even shake his hand. Didn’t even touch him. Couldn’t. If you looked him properly in those eyes of his, you’d never be able to look away, and that’s God’s own truth.

The dusty town squats silently around him. The shuttered windows of the shop-fronts seem to follow him like eyes as he paces steadily down the road.

Jack. Christ, Jack.

He lunges into a dim little alleyway and crouches down. He’s going to heave. The knife twists and bile rises in his throat. He opens his mouth but sobs come out instead, dry and choked and hacking, the sounds of a dying animal. He falls forward against the wall and presses his forearms to it, head hanging, shoulders heaving.

A man stops and peers down at him, bewildered.

“Fuck are you lookin’ at?” Ennis snarls, and the man hurries on his way.

A broken man. That’s what he’s looking at, Ennis Del Mar.

A goddamn broken man.

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A/N: Just follow the arrow ;)

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