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It had started as an invitation one afternoon, when the sky was grey and looking to get worse, Llewyn had his guitar case in hand and was looking sorry for himself, curly hair flattened against his head from the downpour outside. You had been nursing a drink at the bar, had waved him over with a friendly smile and was about to get the barman’s attention to pour your friend a drink too when he shook his head and slumped into the barstool next to you. It was then you realised he had only come into The Gaslight cafe to hide from the weather, to warm up in the heat of your body next to his. He was shivering but trying to hide it, swallowing down the lump in his throat that seemed to be permanently stuck there since the death of his best friend.
You didn’t want to seem like you were pitying him, you knew he hated that, so you had invited him back to your apartment for a hot drink, just until the weather turned to something manageable, until he felt better within himself and with enough warmth inside him to face the walk to the Gorfein’s. You made him a coffee in your biggest mug, whacked up the heating to the highest setting and gave him a towel to dry off.
You offered him that whenever he looked like he needed it, and when he realised you were doing it because you cared and not because you felt sorry for him he eventually accepted without complaint.
And then you found an excuse to invite him for a hot drink when it was a special occasion; a trip to a coffee shop when it was his birthday (with a sandwich and slice of cake), swapping it out for a few beers on your birthday, hot cocoa at yours to celebrate Christmas (and a gift or two).
One evening you were walking home from work when something made you pause outside The Gaslight. The figure in the alley way, sat in the muck, head in between his legs was Llewyn. You rushed over to kneel in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder to alert him to your presence. He slowly looked up, a dull, lifeless look on his face even when he realised it was you. You wordlessly pulled him up, resting half his weight on your shoulder as you guided him to your apartment.
You pointed him in the direction of your bathroom when you got him through the door, telling him where your towels and soap was. You guessed he hadn’t had an accident, that someone had done this to him, but you also knew how vulnerable he was but would never admit it. You needed him safe and clean before you started asking questions, lest he freak out and leave.
Whilst he was showering you grabbed his mug, the largest one you had and only used for him, and made him hot cocoa. It was comforting, sweet, homely and would fill his stomach as well as relax him. Maybe it would encourage him to stay the night.
You sat the drink on your coffee table and walked over to your record player in the corner of the living room, choosing some soft, slow folk music so the atmosphere wasn’t silent and awkward when you and Llewyn spoke.
When he eventually emerged from the bathroom he was wearing only his vest and boxer shorts, the rest of his clothes dirty and wet from the alley. The bruises on his face were growing darker but at least the dried blood was gone. He sat next to you on your small couch and you pointed to the cocoa to indicate it was his. He shot you a grateful smile and winced when the hot liquid touched his split lip.
“What happened Llewyn?” You asked, crossing your legs and facing him on the couch. He focused on the mug in his lap, his fingers idly running along the “Merry Christmas” engraved on the side. He wasn’t going to answer, you realised, so you tried a different approach. “What would you have done if I hadn’t have spotted you?”
“Nothing,” he replied bitterly, harshly, spitting the words as though they were poison in his mouth.
“Why?” You asked angry and confused, but also knowing the answer and not wanting to hear it.
“Because I deserved it.” There it was. Your breath hitched at his words, the self hatred radiating off him overwhelming you. You swallowed back the tears threatening to spill, determined to be strong for your friend.
“You’re wrong. No one deserves this,” you gestured to his injuries, but he wasn’t listening, you could be screaming the words at him and he still wouldn’t believe them.
“I was an asshole. They got their revenge.” He spoke matter of factly, shrugging his shoulders in defeat. He sipped his drink again, glancing in your direction when you didn’t speak. “Thank you.”
“What for?” You asked, equally defeated from the conversation.
“Letting me clean myself up. The drink is nice.”
“Assholes don’t say thank you, do they?” You asked, voice dripping with sarcasm and raising an eyebrow as if to prove a point. Llewyn scoffed.
“I don’t want to be an asshole to you. It’s just…” Llewyn let out a huff of frustration, placing the drink back on the coffee table so he could mirror your position on the couch, “life fucking sucks. And the only way I know how to react to life sucking is to take it out on the people who suck. Except,” he looked regretful then, guilt flooding his features as he remembered what he had done, “I took it out of someone who really didn’t deserve it last night, and her husband beat me up for it.”
You took a deep breath, nodding in understanding at his situation and reaching over to catch his hand and hold it on top of your knee.
“I get it. And, okay, maybe you shouldn’t have done what you did. But you also shouldn’t have been beaten up for it and left in an alleyway to die,” you squeezed his hand which made him look up and nod. “Stay tonight.” It wasn’t a question, and Llewyn was too tired and hurt to argue, instead wordlessly squeezing your hand in thanks.
You weren’t going to push him, this delicate man would need baby steps if you were going to help him find some self respect, some self belief that you knew he deserved.