Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There had been good times, too, times he could be almost sure. Early on, in those first few years living together, blindly mapping out what was within bounds, what wasn’t. Those were the days he came close to just saying it, shouting it. Those days were gone, but not yet out of reach of memory.

Marwood clutched his legs to his chest, enveloped in his worn coat. He kept his face angled down at the floor, so as not to expose the skin of his neck to the cold air. “They said they were still going to see a few others, but that I as good as had it.”

“Brilliant,” Withnail hissed from where he was curled in front of the meager fire. “You just stumble in there–to an audition I told you about, and they hand you the part!”

“Come on, be a sport. Look on the bright side, at least we’ll be able to pay the heating bill,” Marwood told his knees.

“Sure, with your money.”

“You do want to survive the winter, don't you, Withnail?” Marwood resisted the urge to turn to face his belligerent flatmate, instead burrowing deeper into his coat, grateful he’d bought one that came almost to his ankles. It had seemed ridiculous at the time, a huge leather charity shop coat, but he’d correctly assumed that anything was possible in London, and had gone with his instincts.

Mustering more energy than seemed possible in the freezing flat, Withnail barked, “Not if you’re going to be stealing all my jobs!”

“Well, don’t count on it. There’s a sticking point.”

Underneath his coat and the ratty afghan tucked around his shoulders, Withnail visibly perked up. “A sticking point, you say?”

“Yeah. I have to dance.”

“No, you bloody well don’t. It was my audition, I should’ve known if it was a musical. And it most certainly is not.” He deflated slightly as he corrected Marwood.

“Listen, Withnail, I’ve read the script, and asked the director, and he said there’d be some sort of dance at the top of act two!”

Withnail flopped down to lay on his side, his stomach towards the fire, stretching his legs straight out like a cat between naps. “Don’t work yourself up, now, luvvie. It’s a fucking drawing room comedy. Shan’t be more than a brisk waltz. Nothing to it.”

“I have never and will never waltz. Briskly or otherwise. I simply can’t do it. Not in my disposition.” He accepted his fate of being humiliated at every performance and from there on, unemployable.

“Bollocks,” the Withnail-shaped lump nearly laughed. “Anyone can dance! It’s a natural state of being. And besides, any dance they’ll have you doing in such a chatty show will be the meaning of simplicity.”

“Believe me,” Marwood’s voice hitched, “I’ve tried.”

“Tell us about it.” Rising shakily from the floor, Withnail tugged his blanket closer around his shoulders, and began stumbling around the sitting room, looking for something, probably a bottle.

It wasn’t a particularly interesting story, and certainly not a proud memory. But, in that moment, there seemed no other option than to tell Withnail the truth. Maybe he would freeze to death, and this would be his last confession.

“I was… maybe fifteen years old. My school, St. Philomena’s, and the girl’s school down the road–I don’t remember what it was called, probably something to do with the Virgin–we had a dance. A rare occurrence, at an institution where the nuns told you that you’d get a girl pregnant touching her pants. Anyway, everyone showed up in their Sunday best, and sort of eyed each other with a great deal of suspicion.”

Withnail had found an ancient bottle of some sort of aperitif under the kitchen sink, but was still hunting for something.

“Eventually, they started playing some music, and a few people paired off and were dancing. This girl, she must’ve told me her name, but I don’t remember it, she dragged me out of the corner, and all of a sudden, we were dancing, too. No one really knew what we were doing, just sort of shaking ourselves about to the music. But then the music got slow. And she grabbed onto me and we were just swaying back and forth and I didn’t know what to do. She was so warm, and I could feel the skin of her hands and her arms, and it was too much.”

Pausing his rifling through the mess on the mantle, Withnail turned to look at Marwood, suddenly listening totally and completely.

“I… I started crying. I was dancing with her and I started crying, and then I left. And I never really felt inclined to dance again, so I never learned,” Marwood finished.

“Jesus! That’s sad.” Withnail finally held up his prize, which he’d dug out from under half a deck of playing cards and a handful of postcards of Taormina. It was a gray transistor radio the size and shape of a brick.

“What are you going to do with that?” Marwood asked warily.

“You are learning to dance! Not for the sake of your professional success, of course, but because I can’t in good conscience let you go on with this ridiculous phobia.”

A sour feeling gathered in Marwood’s stomach. “It’s not a phobia. I’m not scared.”

“Prove it!” Withnail crowed, and thrust out his hand to Marwood.

Reluctantly, Marwood reached out from the depths of his coat and took the proffered hand. He unfolded his legs and stood, unsure, the cold air nudging in at his neck and wrists and ankles. Withnail’s hands were cold, too, but in the places their skin made contact, a gradual warmth was building.

“Alright, up we come,” murmured Withnail, mostly to himself. With the radio in one hand and the other now on the small of Marwood’s back, he steered the two of them around the couch and to the open floor. Placing the radio on the table, he turned from Marwood for a moment, leaving him stranded in the middle of the room, cold, standing alone. He flicked the dial on, and picked through various volumes of static and faint, unrecognizable voice.

He stopped on the first song he found, a sweet melody Marwood didn’t recognize.

“Summertime,” a man sang, “and the living is easy.”

As Withnail came towards him, Marwood felt as if he was shrinking, as if his flatmate, his friend, was towering over him, blotting out the sun.

“Fish are jumping, oh, and the cotton is high,” the song continued.

More gently than seemed possible, Withnail put one of his hands in Marwood’s, and placed the other on Marwood’s hip. It only seemed natural for Marwood to place his unoccupied hand on Withnail’s shoulder.

“Your daddy’s rich, and your ma’s good-looking,”

He couldn’t bear to face those eyes. He rested his head on Withnail’s chest. If he was to freeze to death, right now wouldn’t be a bad time to go. It was much easier with someone else leading, much less to worry about.

“So hush, little baby, don’t you cry.”

Withnail’s chin resting on top of his head. Withnail’s hand in his. Withnail’s feet moving slowly back and forth, guiding his, leading the way. Withnail’s heart, beating, warm, filling the room with bloody comfort.

It was so much, so much. One of them was humming along to the second verse, and the vibration filled both of their hollow chests. For the second time in his life, Marwood was dancing and crying, and for the first, he didn’t run away.

Chapter Text

“Time, gents,” the landlord announced, with no little malice. It was past time, really, and the poor man had been attempting to wipe down the bar for five minutes, hindered by Withnail and Marwood’s presence slumped across it.

“Jus’... jus’ give us a pint fr’ the road.” Withnail clutched the edge of the bar and looked at the landlord, eyes pathetically glistening.

“Time,” he glowered.

Marwood’s body felt like it had been gone over with a warm iron. He felt like he could melt right off the barstool and puddle on the floor. Making a conscious effort to retrieve his spine, he brought himself to his feet. He went to tug on Withnail’s sleeve, to get his attention, but lost his footing, and found himself clutching at his friend’s back to stay upright. The sudden movement set the whole room spinning like a flipped coin.

Marwood rested his forehead on Withnail’s shoulder. “Right! Very well! I know when I’m not wanted!” Withnail jerked himself up off the bar and up from his stool. The best Marwood could do was hold on for dear life, wrapping his arms around Withnail’s waist, his head still limp, leaning against him.

“C’mon… c’mon,” Marwood mumbled into Withnail’s coat. “We hafta go.” He leaned his whole body weight towards the door, tugging Withnail’s waist. They both tripped backward, catching themselves on the doorframe. Without ceremony, Marwood pulled the door open, and they fell out onto the street.

On their asses in the uneven road, they looked up at the face of the Mother Black Cap, gazing dumbly through the light mist. Above them, less stars than usual poked through occasional breaks in the wooly cloud cover. The damp air was cool on Marwood’s face, and, for the first time in the past hour, he didn’t feel on the verge of vomiting. Looking over at Withnail, he found the other man inspecting the sky, brow slightly furrowed, as if straining to hear its voice.

After a while, Withnail spoke. “A cigarette, would you?”

With great effort, Marwood managed to pat down a few of the most likely pockets, and eventually came out with an empty packet. “All out, sorry.”

“Fabulous.” Withnail groaned, and made a move to stand. “Where to next?” He glanced around, like he expected an off-licence to spring up out of the ground.

“Now–now shouldn’t we be getting home?” Another drink would surely kill Marwood.

“Nons’nse. Th’night’s barely begun.” Somewhere, a clock struck one.

“With’, we’re out of cigarettes, down to our last–” he pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket, but couldn’t get his eyes to register their values, “–our last few pence. I’d like my bed now, please.”

Now standing, but only tenuously, Withnail assented. “If that’s what you’d like, I s’pose we must, your Highness.”

Gripping Withnail’s wrist, Marwood tried to haul himself up. He got his feet under him, but stumbled, and almost pulled both of them back down. Arms around each other for balance, the two men started off in what was hopefully the direction of the flat.

In what seemed like moments, they were in the middle of Regent’s Park. Feet tapping across the pavement, it felt as if the night had swallowed all but their shoes. The night air bit their noses, and the insides of their throats, but a pleasant drunken glow hung about them that seemed impossible to dispel.

Way down deep in his stomach, Marwood felt warm. He walked in step with Withnail, matching his footfalls to the other man’s. Every so often, their shoulders would bump together, and the contact would fire off a little zing that shot through Marwood’s heart. He moved a little closer to his friend, so that their elbows touched and their forearms ran parallel.

“Even the wolves are asleep,” Marwood murmured, peering through the fences.

“No,” Withnail said, just to be contrary, “they sleep during the day. I’ve seen them. They must be awake now, just… somewhere else.”

“Can’t they sleep during the day and night?” Marwood played along, letting Withnail be the expert.

“Of course not. When would they get things done?” He scolded.

Marwood couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Get things done? What, like going to the bank and down the shops?” He imagined wolves in ties. Wolves clocking into work. Wolves cashing paychecks. Withnail forged ahead.

“Of course not. Probably… hunting. Why should I know what wolves do?” Admitting defeat, and no longer the know-it-all, Withnail decided to drop the thread of conversation.

But Marwood continued to muse, “There’s a word for it. They only wake up in the evening, and in the morning,” he was dredging up vocabulary from a time when his chief concern was the schedules of wild animals. “Pustule… it sounds like pustule.”

“You’re spouting nonsense, darling, you’ve finally lost your mind.”

Marwood stopped to shout triumphantly at the misty sky, “Crepuscular!”

Withnail grabbed Marwood’s hand, and pulled him along. As they walked homeward, their arms twined together and Marwood leaned into Withnail, and looked up at him and felt the moonlight reflect off his face.

Miraculously, they found themselves home with minimal injury. Still hand in hand, they bumped the doorframe stepping inside and knocked against each other ascending the stairs. Only once they were well inside the sitting room did Withnail disentangle himself, and crash down on the sofa.

“We need a nightcap,” he slurred.

“We’ve had a nightcap,” Marwood yawned, thinking pleasant soft thoughts of his bed, “and a pint afterward. We need t’go t’bed.”

His red-rimmed eyes shining, Withnail only said, “There’s a half a bottle of vermouth by the window. At least bring it to me. I could be dead come morning.”

There were, indeed, a few mouthfuls left in the elegant green bottle, and Marwood found himself not in bed, but yet again leaning on his flatmate, drinking. Each time he blinked he had to force his eyelids open again. Consciousness was like a weight on his back. At some point, he took off his glasses–at least, someone took them off, because they were no longer on his face–and the alcohol soaked blur that the world had become lost a little more of its definition.

The last thing he saw was the vague outline of their figures slumped on the couch, reflected in the mirror over the mantle. The last thing he felt was Withnail’s hand slipping back into his.