There's a beauty to the roughness of Ennis' body that Jack thinks is worthy of some sort of drawing. It's not beauty in a girl-type way, because Ennis is the furthest thing from feminine. It's just a jolt of lightning that Jack always feels deep in his belly when he watches Ennis doing something, especially when the other man has no idea he's being watched. His body moves in rhythms that are owned only by himself—a dance Jack could never recreate if he tried.
Jack tried to tell Ennis once that he thought the man could stand to be some sort of model or something, but Ennis wouldn't hear it. Ennis didn't care about what people looked like so long as they were true people. He felt like pretty people were fake and didn't know a damned thing about what it was like to really work to survive. Jack wasn't exactly a good looking man, not like Ennis, but he was a hardworking man and he was a real man and that's why Ennis liked him.
But Jack spent more time thinking than doing and Ennis spent more time doing than thinking. Their paths crossed all the time, but their minds didn't mingle much at all. Jack liked things to be more abstract—he liked to look at the sunset and see the bond of colors as a beautiful thing. Ennis looked at the sunset and saw the coming of night and prepared for the chilling of the Wyoming air. He knew beauty and he appreciated it, but it was in no way that anyone else would ever understand. Sometimes, not even he understood.
"Jack used a like to talk a lot. He'd talk on and on even when what he was sayin didn't make no sense. He was a good man, never set out to do nobody wrong so long as nobody tried to do wrong by him. If I'd a seen him one more time before he—before the—"
Ennis talked about Jack in his sleep. Not aloud, but in his dreams where only he could hear. He wasn't talking to anyone, but to the scenery at Brokeback Mountain in general. He'd ride around on a horse and talk to the trees and the birds and the spots of grass where he knew that he'd had Jack in his arms once or twice.
It didn't make any sense to him and he never thought about it too much because dreams never made any sense anyway. But some nights when he got restless he'd get up and look out the window and he could hear Jack's voice whisper in his ear.
"Friend, that's a beautiful sight and you can't be sayin it's not."
Ennis would never look behind him because he wouldn't let his own mind play cruel tricks on him, but he'd lift one side of his lips, in a sort of half snarl, half smile and would whisper back.
"I ain't sayin no such thing, Jack."