Chapter Text
It had been a long ride to Cumbria and Withnail had spent most of it ranting his head off. He and Marwood hadn't seen each other since September, so there was over three months' worth of everything to complain about.
The cottage at Crow Crag was as damp, cold and unwelcoming as every other December, but Marwood had already lit the fire and Withnail had opened the unfinished bottle of his Christmas whiskey. They expected to be reasonably warm soon enough. For the moment, though, the house hadn't quite warmed up yet - so they were still both wrapped in their coats and scarves, noses numb and teeth chattering.
“So... How does that new book of yours sell?” Withnail asked while pouring himself a large shot.
Marwood smiled and replied: “Hardly at all, to be perfectly honest.”
“No wonder nobody wants to read your drivel,” Withnail said with a teasing smirk and gulped down the whiskey. “Your obsession with synaesthesia and incomprehensible abstract metaphors is obscene.”
“So is your obsession with scotch,” Marwood retorted and gestured for the bottle. “Hand that over, thank you very much.” But he fell into a coughing fit before he even took a swig.
“Don't spit your germs into my booze, if you please," Withnail growled and snatched the bottle out of Marwood’s hand.
“Anyway... If sales were my primary concern,” Marwood continued when he stopped coughing, “I’d be writing novels about castration anxiety and midlife crisis.”
"You mean you aren’t?” Withnail smirked. “Come on… That whole passage about jet lag, pomegranates, clarinet-flavoured bourbon and screaming city lights was embarrassingly transparent.”
Marwood gestured for the bottle back but Withnail just nodded towards the cupboard. “Be civilized and fetch a glass, for chrissakes.”
“I got one but you confiscated it!” Marwood said - but nevertheless, he did as he was told. “You do realize that whenever you attempt to analyze my stories you wind up telling me more about yourself than you’ve intended to...” He returned to his armchair, grabbed the bottle and filled both his and Withnail’s glasses.
Withnail sighed and stretched like a cat, then hissed at the pervasive damp cold still lingering in the room - and collapsed back into a tangled knot of legs, arms, corduroy, wool, and cigarette smoke. “Would you believe it...We've survived another decade. And quite a revolting one, no less."
Marwood shook his head. "Not yet. There are still a few hours of 1989 left."
Withnail scoffed. "Let's just pretend it's midnight already..." He grinned and offered a toast: "To a delightful weekend in the country.”
"It's Monday tomorrow, you tool," Marwood replied. But he, too, raised his glass. “Chin chin. To Adrienne de la Touche!”
They downed the whiskey and Marwood immediately poured himself and Withnail another. “How long has it been?”
“Can’t remember, can’t be bothered to care. It’s a miracle I remember the fucking date,” Withnail murmured into his scotch before taking a small gulp. There was a hint of sadness in his voice that anyone but Marwood would have missed.
“Well, I suppose that’s why he made it the New Year’s Eve.”
It had in fact been 12 years since Montague H. Withnail had left for Crow Crag to spend his last Christmas and not to return. He was discovered on 3rd January by Mr Parkin - whom he’d asked to do some shopping and deliver it to the cottage on that date. He’d left a note dated 31st December and a very unsightly corpse. Apparently, he’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer early in November and spent his last two months arranging his death and funeral.
He left everything to Withnail. His final note to him read (among other things): “As undeserving as you are of it, there is nobody else I'd rather bequeath my earthly possessions to.”
Two years later Withnail invited Marwood to spend the New Year in Cumbria. It quickly became a tradition, and one they both were rather fond of.
“Vicious old bugger,” Marwood grinned and he took a sip from his glass. “Having poor Parkin, with his arthritic knees and knuckles, get all that stuff up here…”
Sniggering, Withnail started to count on his fingers: “Six cartons of milk, two bottles of vinegar, several bars of butter, two loaves of bread, three dozens of eggs, two jars of orange marmalade and two large bags of coal…”
Marwood looked up at the ceiling. “It’s something of a miracle that chandelier hook is still in there, isn’t it…”
Withnail snorted. “It’s quite surprising this whole fucking building didn’t collapse on top of him.”
“Putting on your best dressing gown and your prettiest lipstick, downing your last bottle of Margaux and swinging from the chandelier hook. What a way to go…” Marwood said, to himself rather than to Withnail, swirling the whiskey in his glass, eyes never leaving the large hook in the ceiling.
“Better than some vulgar little carcinoma, I wager,” Withnail remarked, increasingly annoyed by the morbid turn the conversation had taken. Why bring all that up now?
“Carcinoma is so embarrassingly middle-class isn't it…” Marwood said with an odd glint in his eyes.
“You would know, wouldn’t you,” said Withnail with a sneer as he poured himself another glass, emptying the bottle. Class struggle had been an ongoing joke between the two of them ever since Marwood had stopped voting Conservative.
Marwood didn’t say anything, he merely smiled.
It of course wouldn’t occur to Withnail to draw any connection between that strange little smile that didn’t quite reach his friend’s eyes, and Marwood's unrelenting cough. He simply wasn’t the kind of chap to notice such small things in other people. Yet there was something heavy and persistent about Marwood’s silence that felt like a cold stone in Withnail’s stomach. He tossed his whiskey down in a single gulp, but the cold wouldn’t go away.
“Cigarette?” He said and offered Marwood one from his pack (a very uncharacteristic gesture indeed) but even as he did so, he realized he actually hadn't seen Marwood smoke all day.
Marwood smiled but shook his head. “No, thanks. I quit.”