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Withnail noticed the moment I got home, despite what must have been a near-full bottle of wine dulling his vision. But then again, it probably wasn't all that difficult to notice such a sudden, blatant change.
"What the fuck did you do?"
His voice was broken, like the edge of a smashed bottle—harsh, brittle, tearing into the skin. Ringing with anger, yet the look on his face was one of pure shock.
I flinched—well, what else was I supposed to do? All at once I couldn't bear the way he was staring at me, the way his eyes kept flicking back between my hair and my guarded expression. I tried to avoid his gaze, tilting my chin up almost like a dismissal. Trying to pretend my heart wasn't palpitating will all the vigour of an engine. Trying to act like—no, being the soldier I was destined to play, even though my stomach had been lurching at the thought ever since I auditioned.
I stood in the same position, straight-backed and eyes averted, as he unfurled from his hunched position and ambled over to me. He reached out—I didn't stop him, as much as my mind screamed at me to do so—and his long, clammy fingers slid across my cheek, cradling it as his mouth turned down in a grimace.
"Why?"
His voice sounded so small, so unexpectedly pitiful, that I almost laughed. Almost. If only my eyes were dry enough themselves to warrant it. My heart was being wrenched apart, and Withnail's reaction had only furthered the ache that had been festering in me for days.
The thing is: I did want the job. I did want the role, the chance to showcase my talent, to grace the stage and act for all I was worth.
There was a difference, though, between the occasional side roles I'd been given in small productions and pantomimes throughout the years, and the leading part of a several-week run. The main difference being that in smaller parts, the scrutiny wasn't on you. The directors, the stage managers, your fellow actors—none of them care who or what you were, as long as you can get in costume, and milk a reaction out of the audience. They didn't even mind who wore what costume, as long as the acting was decent, and so when the revelation that struck me between the unending haze of smoke and bottles came along, that assurance finally urged me to act on it.
I took that fact entirely for granted. I'd grown my hair out, tried out for roles that only a few years ago would have made me recoil with an inexplicable twinge in my stomach. I'd come out of my shell, even if only whilst in the theatre. The occasionally wolf-whistle or stinging comment from the audience was nothing in comparison to the calmness I'd felt when I looked in the mirror between my scenes, for once not seeing a rattled oik with too many bottles down him, but a woman with a warm expression and a relaxed smile, the look of hesitant recognition reflected in her eyes.
Withnail had picked up on it, sooner than I'd thought he would. It seems I'll always underestimate his perception, usually to my chagrin—but in this case, it was a lifesaver. He'd embraced my joy with open arms, dragging me around to places I'd been too scared to enter alone out of misplaced alienation. He'd helped me grow out my hair: having dealt with it much longer in his youth, and all the trials that went with it, he'd been more than understanding at my initial frustrations at how it tangled and snagged if left for more than a couple of hours.
One day, he'd sat me down, and attempted (not without significant eye-rolling at my 'incompetence' at keeping still) to plait it, to make it a bit easier to deal with. My hair had still been on the short side, so barely half of it fit into the braid anyway, but it kept it out the way, and made it slightly more wavy at the ends. The added bonus of it all was that Withnail took to doing it every few days, running his fingers through my hair to partition it, causing me to shiver at each brush of a nail across my scalp. It had become routine, something to expect—or look forward to, even.
But now—
Now, Withnail's fingers scrabbled over the sides of my face, trying to grasp for hair that no longer curled round my ears. Mouth downturned like a tragic mask, his vacant stare seemed to see right through me, looking down into me whilst ignoring my stoic act.
In that second, I was struck with a blinding hatred for him. How dare he care for me like this, after the way he'd been the entire time in the cottage? We'd both known I'd likely get the job (although the precise role hadn't been known to us), and yet he'd been more insolent than usual whilst on holiday, seemingly unable to prioritise my safety over his luxury. He'd lied to Monty, exposed me to risk—and now he had the gall to cry over me? How dare he, how dare he?
Despite my anger, I folded myself into his outstretched arms, and wept.
What felt like hours later, but must have been only a few minutes, Withnail pulled my face away from his shoulder to look me in the eye. His were red-rimmed—a perfect set to match mine—although the sorrow seemed to have evaporated from his face, replaced with a fierce determination.
"Don't you dare forget," he seethed. "I know you want to. I know you think burying yourself will make it all the more easier, all the more bearable."
"It will. It will, Withnail." I laughed, devoid of humour. "It could never last, anyway."
"That's where you're wrong," he hissed, nails digging into my cheeks. "It will last, only you'll be too afraid to confront it. It'll fester in you until you become ashamed of yourself. Don't you bloody dare do that."
I couldn't promise him that. God knows how much I wanted to, I really did. But with the thought of moving away, moving hundreds of miles away from all I'd known, everyone I'd met, even Withnail (as much as I now loathed to say I cared about him) struck weakness within me. It might not be easier, but it would be convenient. And how I craved convenience in this moment.
So instead of replying, I again buried my face in his shoulder, willing my tears to dry even as my heart broke further.