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It comes to a head eventually, after about five rounds in at a pub next to Euston station.
Marwood was finally back from Manchester—a decision he'd startled Withnail with in a sudden letter only a week prior—after several months, the play having run its course. Withnail hadn't truly expected him back then, if ever really, so naturally had taken him up on the offer of going for a drink or two, as soon as possible to him arriving back in London. That meant the place just across the street from the station, where they'd been huddled up for the past three or so hours, catching up on each other's lives.
Marwood's stories had been the more interesting by far—exploring new places, meeting new people, rushing around Manchester after his new frenetic colleagues on the hunt for a new set designer (the old one having got up and quit three days into the job for no apparent reason), being invited to the wildest after-parties… it all seemed rather exciting. Yet Withnail couldn't see any particular inkling of enjoyment in Marwood's eyes as he recounted those tales. More just a blankness, like he wasn't entirely sure that they'd actually happened to him, rather someone else.
Of course Marwood asked him how life in London had been. Well, there wasn't much Withnail could tell him, really. Danny had moved into more legitimate business—marketing, actually, after Presumin' Ed's toy idea caught on with a couple of investors. The job didn't seem that far away from what Danny had been doing previously anyway, and so he slipped into it as quickly as he might a pair of shoes scrounged off a couple of out-of-work actors.
Marwood had laughed at that, face brightening, a contrast the way his face had been scrunched up into a frown beforehand. Nodding at Withnail encouragingly, he had been quick to ask, "And yourself?"
Himself? Withnail had been suddenly stuck on what to say. Then again, there wasn't much to say regarding what he'd done those past few months. He shuddered at having to explain to Marwood how deep he'd spiralled after his flatmate had left, how he'd spent weeks shutting himself away, so much so that even their neighbour had come calling for him, how he'd drowned himself even further in immaterial indulgences until nothing had seemed the slightest bit worth it anymore. How he'd finally snapped out of it only seconds from pouring the last of the wine down his gullet, along with an accompanying round from a shotgun.
So he didn't say any of that. Instead he'd shrugged and brushed off the question with a slight sneer, and Marwood's face had immediately reverted back to a frown.
"It's generally considered polite to share how you've been—"
Withnail had sniffed at that. "It's generally considered polite not to pry, I'm pretty sure."
"Well, I just want to know how you are—surely I'm allowed to know that?"
"I wouldn't say you are, no. You forfeited that right when you stopped talking to me for several months—not even a single bloody letter—" Withnail pursed his lips, trying to contain the rest of his ire.
Marwood opened his mouth, faltered, then closed it again. He then continued to do this, seemingly unaware that it made him look like a particularly startled fish. Eventually he grumbled something low and incoherent, turning back to his pint.
The glum mood lasted most of the next few rounds, until the fifth—Marwood's eyes were drooping, likely from the tiresome journey and the less-than-ideal reunion weighing on his mind.
Withnail himself was faltering slightly over his drink, the alcohol finally breaking through his tolerance, when he tuned into Marwood's mumbling.
"With'—"
His voice slurred slightly as he spoke, a confused mixture of exhaustion and alcohol. Withnail could barely hear it anyway, as buried as Marwood's mouth was in his own coat sleeve. Marwood shuffled himself so that he wasn't facing the wood of the bar, and tried again.
"Withnail—" he stopped once more.
Withnail found himself sighing, and thought about snapping 'just get it out', before mercifully holding his tongue. Getting acerbic in this moment probably wouldn't endear Marwood back to him in any way, rather push him back to Manchester or whatever far-flung city he found himself a job in next.
Instead, he waited. He watched as Marwood seemed to struggle for a second, before he mumbled again.
"I lied."
Withnail's eyes snapped back to his hunched figure, suddenly alert with confusion. "I beg your pardon?"
"I lied—Manchester wasn't fun. No fun at all." Marwood sniffed, looking down at the swirls he was slowly tracing on the bar in front of him. " 's not the same. Also—soon as I got up there, I quit the show."
"You quit?" With mounting horror Withnail stared at his ex-flatmate. "Bollocks! You were practically jumping for a role in that play—how could you have quit?"
A giggle emanated from Marwood. "I just… freaked out. Too much—too much change at one time. I missed London, daft as that sounds." He paused. "I missed you."
There was a moment, or perhaps two, where Withnail was certain the air had been stolen right out of his lungs then and there. He sat, transfixed, as Marwood's eyes kept flickering between him and the glass on the bar, most likely fretting over where to place his attention after that… confession, of a sort.
"…We should go now." Breath finally returned to him, Withnail uttered the first statement that arose in his mind.
Marwood nodded, head bobbing with absolute certainty. "Hmm. Yes. Um—" He hesitated. "I haven't got a place—"
"Don't be ridiculous," Withnail retorted, slapping the bar stool as he slid off it. "You can stay with me. You're always welcome, luvvie."
"…Thanks." Marwood's mouth twisted into a slight smile. He leaned his head on Withnail's shoulder with a definite sigh and closed his eyes.
Withnail froze.
Just his luck. Within seconds it seemed Marwood was out like a light, and—Withnail checked the battered watch on his ex-flatmate's wrist—the next (and last) bus home was due in only three minutes. There was no chance he'd rouse Marwood in time, since the bastard was practically snoring already. He'd have to resort to more extreme measures to get him out of the pub and up the road. Well, a tad more humiliating than extreme, but if he had to stoop to that level he'd not resign himself to it without a significant grumble before, during, and a long while afterwards.
Sliding his ex-(re?)-flatmate off the bar stool, he reached his arms around Marwood and hauled him onto his back, yanking his arms over Withnail's shoulders until Marwood's face was buried in his neck. Christ, the fucker was heavy when he was conked out. Withnail had forgotten how difficult it was in the past few months of not having to haul him around as much. Granted, it had often been the other way round, Withnail collapsed over his flatmate's shoulders as they staggered, sozzled almost to the point of blindness, back to the flat from whatever pub they'd found themselves at—but it hadn't been that way every time. Marwood had been the recipient of a helping shoulder in many occurrences, usually after an audition rejection, or when a pub confrontation left him quivering in his boots, unable to walk ten feet without collapsing into a pile of nerves. In those situations Withnail had often surprised himself with his willingness to lend a hand—but then had remembered why he enjoyed it so much whenever his flatmate sank into his side, burning hot like a bonfire with his body heat, warding off the late-evening chill that nipped at their skin.
Withnail grinned shamelessly at those memories, flowering with nostalgia under the tender hands of time, before dragging Marwood out of the pub door and out onto the street.
The cool evening air of midsummer hit him as soon as he stepped out the door. June had been pleasantly warm this year, and far sunnier than he'd anticipated. Nearing ten o'clock as it was, the last rays of sunlight still dug their fingers in on the horizon, painting the sky a murky shade of which a precise name couldn't come to his mind. Straight above, though, the sky was fading into a brownish-black, the lights of the city preventing it was reaching pitch darkness, despite the lateness of the hour.
Luckily for Withnail, it meant he could see the number on the front of the bus pulling up to the stop just up the road. His bus. Their bus. Fuck! Scurrying closer, as fast as he could with his ex-flatmate slung over his shoulders, he managed to stick out his arm just before the bus pulled away, trying not to let Marwood's leg slip down his side in the process.
Finally, after paying what seemed like an outrageous fare—shouldn't he really only need to pay for one ticket if one of them was unconscious? Marwood was practically luggage with how asleep he was—and a brief kerfuffle over the the logistics of pouring Marwood into the seat nearest the window, Withnail finally sat down as the bus pulled away.
Marwood was still fast asleep, and once again his body slumped onto Withnail. Eventually his full weight was pressed against Withnail's side, grown-out curls fanning out over his coat shoulder.
Withnail watched as he shifted slightly with every breath, sliding further into Withnail's space. A bright, feathery feeling filled him—wonder? Love? Hope? He wasn't exactly sure, but it made him want to shake Marwood awake, to tell him how relieved Withnail was to have him back.
But then again, he thought as he looked down at Marwood's curled-up form, best not to wake him. Instead, he glanced around at the near-empty bus before placing a quick kiss to Marwood's temple.
Mumbling a quick "I missed you too," into Marwood's hair, he settled himself against the rexine seat and watched the buildings trundle by.