Kismet

Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to the wonderful Annie Proulx.
Rating: T13
Feedback: Yes, thank you very much.
First Edition: 11 June 2006 on livejournal

Summary: A short fiction that has John Twist as the centre character. Contain mild sexual content.

John Twist stares at the man who stormed into the room with disdain. All these year he could not understand how his son has turned into Jack Twist; neither he nor his wife is particularly the vain and flippant type. Ironically, he has taken after the other person, the one buried so deep in John Twist’s memories that John can no longer recall how he had looked.

Jack throws himself down on the chair with a loud thud. The chair scraps backward along the wooden floor and screeched, seeking attention to the turmoil it has just been put through.

“Fuck him.” Jack is clearly incoherent with rage; his face a bright shade of crimson painful to the eyes. Of course everyone in this household knows who Jack was referring to: a certain Del Mar that has became the most mentioned name since 20 years ago. “Fuck Ennis Del Mar.”

Jack takes a deep breathe and launches into a monologue.

“Well, no more. I ain’t wait’in no more. Hell, strings of man was queuing up to work e ranch with me and I must gone and stuck myself with that arsehole. No more. I am gonna split with Lureen and come up with someone else…”

Naturally, John Twist hasn't taken the rambling to heart. This isn’t the first time, and hell would sooner freeze over if this is the last. He continues to stare at some point between his son and the bleak wall, and bristles for the umpteenth times at the irony of fate.

He thinks about a certain Del Mar he knew years ago, during his bull riding days. The Del Mar with shoulder length dirty blonde hair, twinkling eyes, and a quiet smirk. In those days, bull riding champion was either a Twist or a Del Mar, and that was how they knew each other: as rivals. John Twist did not have many friends. He was a stud trying to outrun his pack; he had no time to make friends. Only one day when he turned around, he saw another stud running alongside, a stud with blonde mane and ocean as his last name.

Threatened, John found the newcomer occupying his every waking thoughts. He found himself joining every rodeo that the other had participated.

The fateful night came when Del Mar stalked him into a dark alley and cornered him, mouthing, “stop stooping me around like a mare in heat, you freak..”

John Twist had been enraged. He shoved the young blond hard against the dusty alley wall and pressed himself against the toned body of his rival. “I ain't stooping no one, jerk. Try beating me in the next rodeo instead of stalkin' me like a coward for once.” He took a step back, spat hard on the dirt ground, and sauntered away. He didn't miss the glimmer in Del Mar's eyes as he walked away, nor the hardness between his legs. He tried hard to ignore both.

Thus when a strong force grapped him from behind he was caught off guard, and soon found Del Mar pinning him against the wall, a matching hardness against his own. A lustful smirk played on Del Mar's sensual lips, and he heard a whisper: “You have wanted this, haven't you, stud? Huh?”

John was flustered, and soon found the situation impossible. Their strength was about equal, and Del Mar's position gave him a certain advantage that he could not break away.

The blonde Del Mar moved his hips and their hardness ground together, suddenly John wasn't sure he wanted to break away anymore. He stared hard into his rival's eyes and was consumed with matching emotions: anger, frustration, lust, desires. He thrusted his hips back, savoured the sensations, and felt the tension built. A few quick thrusts found them climaxing at almost the same time; the slimy and wet spots on their jeans attesting their mutual pent up emotions. They had their stubbled face against each other's shoulder, feeling the hot breathe stirring their soft hair behind the ears. Del mar still had John's wrists in strong grips against the wall. Neither moved to break free for what seemed like eternity.

He was ninteen, the same age as Jack Twist when Jack came home with a pair of blood-stained shirts. He had snorted dismissively when he saw the pair of shirts in his son's closet. He could not understand why a man should do something so lame. He had never needed such a physical reminder.

Jack is coming down from his room now. After a reunion with his precious relic of sentiment, he is subdued and resigned. He now speaks quietly, “Mum, Dad, I, uh, I am gonna head back to Texas now.”

Mrs. John Twist smiles fondly at her son, “You take care now, send our love to Lureen and Bobby.” John remains silent, and stares stubbornly out of the window. “Defeated” is the only word that forms in his mind as his son leaves the house; defeated once by a certain Ennis Del Mar and failed to be the master of his life, defeated twice by Lureen, his rich wife, and failed to be the master of his house.

Neither he nor Del Mar would have allowed that to happen. Although they never spoke much about life, John knew with a certainty beyond his comprehension that both of them shall remained the master of their respective life.

They had never spoken about such things. After their infrequent tyrst, often in the vast wilderness of the west, they would lie quietly beneath the blanket of starry night sky, a fag each in their mouth, and let the chilly breeze dried their exposed cocks. Although he had never tasted Del Mar's cum, he still remembers the scent: salty, musky, and strong, not unlike his own, yet totally different. Even now, when the face of Del Mar is merely a blur in his memories, he can still recall the scent vividly, anytime, anywhere.

He can also recall their conversations, utterly mundane and meaningless, as if the frivolity could relieve the heaviness of the situation. Only once did the question of future arose, and John still remembered the conversation, verbatim.

That was after another of their sexual ecapade. They were both lying on the sandy ground, limbs spread, their jeans down at their knees, and their shirts scrambled into an unsightly pile besides them. The night air was cold, yet John had felt warm lying beside Del Mar.

“I heard they was hiring a pair of ranch hand up north. Figure you and I can go as a pair.” Del Mar had said. John's heart skipped a beat, but he did not reply. He stared at the starry sky and wondered about the weather up north. He pictured himself and Del Mar in dirty fur coats, riding side by side, sharing a fag. He found his heart constricted painfully and the stars blurred into a patch of brightness; a dream so far above him that was untouchable. Yet, with a blink of the eyes, the brightness was gone. Each star was again separated; Lone, cold individuals dotting the prevalent, all encompassing darkness.

“Ma folks was expecting me back home to get married. There was a girl... I was supposed to be back by the end of the month...”

John fell silent, and couldn't finish his sentence. He didn't know what he wanted to say in any case. He felt Del Mar reached over and hugged his shoulders.

“Hey, that was good news. I am happy for yer.” John turned around, and saw in Del Mar's eyes a mixture of loneliness and resigned tenderness. Del Mar turned away, and laughed throatily, “I don't know when I'll get lucky and find a fine girl to settle down with me.”

For a moment, John thought he saw stars at the corner of Del Mar's eyes. That night, for the first and last time, John fell asleep in Del Mar's strong arms.

He never saw him again, since.

---

John stares at the young man sitting across the table, Ennis Del Mar, the man that was the source of his son's anguish and pain, hope and joy; the man that was so similar to him in so many ways.

He doesn't pay attention to what Ennis is saying, nor what he is replying. He looks into Ennis' eyes and sees the pain inside, and starts to wonder what had happened to the young men nowadays.

He remembers the day he received news about the car crash, where Del Mar had died along with his wife. He remembers staying out on the field, working the whole night. He remembers the bright starry night, and a familiar salty scent of cum filling the cold air. He remembers returning home the next day and lost his temper at his son when he found his son had again pissed all over the john.

He doesn't remember driving across the state and asking for Del Mar's ashes.

He glared at the stranger across the table, and spat hard into his cup. His Del Mar had long dirty blonde hair, and always a glimmer in his eyes. Ennis doesn't measure up. He can have the shirts.

As his wife and the stranger Ennis goes about retriving the shirts like some sort of secret mission, John shifted his gazed towards the open window. The bright noon sun makes him remembers a happy afternoon.

Del Mar had pushed him down on the ground and locked him in a tight grip. He had said, “One day, John, I swear I'll come back and get ya.” The bright noon sun had glared against the strong frame of Del Mar, creating a shadow that John could not peer through. John squinted his eyes, and saw tendrils of light stretching outward from the darkened figure, like flame.

As John listens to the fading engine of the leaving truck, he shuts his eyes, and sees the patch of blurred starlight, the flame encompassed figure, and everything in between.

He thinks about a word he and Del Mar learned from a wandering priest back in those days. Kismet, your inescapable fate.

Kismet, my inescapable fate.

Kismet, our inescapable fate.

For the first time in his life, he feels strangely connected to his dead son, the stranger called Ennis Del Mar, and the ocean of lonely souls floating in the vast, formless world.