#i said paul mxgan bad kissing rights

[eightdoctor]

“you look bloody stupid with that haircut,” was what withnail had said when marwood came back, trembling and damp from sweat and rain.

withnail knew marwood would come back. in fact, he had already poured the man a glass of wine in a chipped mug, its ceramic glaze yellowed and peeling, the rim still stained with coffee. it had been the only cup he could extract from the fetid mass of mold and cookware and matter that lay in the sink.

withnail knew marwood would come back because he didn’t know what he would do if he didn’t. drink the wine in the mug, probably, as well as the antifreeze marwood left behind in his toolbox, and some lighter fluid—if he could scrounge some up—and maybe even gasoline if that particular cocktail hadn’t sufficiently killed him by then.

it wasn’t like withnail was dependent on marwood, because he wasn’t, thank you very much. it was more like marwood was the last thing barring withnail from drunkenly wandering into a gully of utter destitution, depression, and despondency. the man was the last thing he lived for, really, because there wasn’t much else worth this hideousness, and their earlier goodbyes had—at the time—been final.

marwood put his bag down, throwing his hat violently atop it in one swift, frustrated movement. withnail followed him with his eyes but didn’t comment.

“i poured you a drink,” he says, and smiles, and hopes he isn’t coming off as too desperate. 

marwood runs his hands through his hair, gripping at it as if he had forgotten it wasn’t long, then rubs urgently at his forehead, the shadow of his hands disguising the dark lines of his scrunched up eyes. his mouth was wrenched in a deep grimace.

withnail realizes that marwood is quite close to crying.

“stupid, stupid, stupid!” marwood says, each repetition of the word louder than the one prior. with one last exclamation, he punches the wall, then pulls back and shakes out his fist. he shouts a very colorful string of words that withnail does naught but blink at.

“part not good enough, then?” withnail asks, because he doesn’t know how to say ‘are you alright?’ like a normal fucking person, apparently.

“shut up, withnail!” marwood says, his voice thick and choked and laced with contempt. “if you must know, i—” marwood cuts off mid sentence and turns and stalks into the kitchen, his shoulders tense as he begins rummaging through the cabinet. he pulls out a napkin and dabs it on his fist, and withnail finally notices the blood smeared on the wall.

“you what?” he asks levelly. (as levelly as one can after a two bottles-and-a-half of wine, that is).

marwood sits heavily on the sofa, reaches past the mug of wine and grabs the bottle. he drinks a good portion of it before taking a breath. “nerves,” is all he offers before taking another sip. “fat lot of good they are. i got too bloody nervous and couldn’t even leave the train.”

withnail says nothing.

“the worst part is,” marwood muses, “is i don’t even fucking know why! my brain couldn’t think of anything but the part, and the future, and ‘what if i mess up?’, and the flat, and you, and i just couldn’t do it.” he rubs furiously at his eyes, which are red-rimmed for reasons, withnail suspects, other than the usual culprits of drugs and exhaustion.

withnail, selfish as he is, only focused on one particular aspect of that sentence. “me?”

marwood looks away. “it doesn’t matter,” he says gruffly.

“i believe it does, rather,” withnail comments, moving from the armchair onto the sofa on the cushion opposite marwood. marwood sips the last dregs of wine from the bottle and then stares at it, devastated by its emptiness. withnail hands him the mug.

“you bastard,” marwood replies, “you fucking bastard.”

withnail feels the beginnings of hope—hope that had been quashed and squandered when marwood left that morning—start to unfurl once again in his stomach. hope that had been sustained by elongated glances and calling each other lovey and the times when withnail would stumble intoxicated as all get-out into marwood’s bed and marwood didn’t even push him out or protest.

the truth is, withnail is loathe—and scared, quite scared—to admit, is that withnail is rather fond of marwood, in the way that is less than acceptable by a major portion of society. and there had been something in marwood’s voice when he’d said “and you” that hinted that the feeling very well may be mutual.

“i think,” withnail says, his voice slurring slightly, “i think you should tell me.”

marwood sighed and buried his face in his hands. “tell you what, withnail?” he says, voice muffled behind his palms.

“why you gave up your part for me.”

“i didn’t—“ marwood begins, then cuts himself off. “christ,” he says under his breath. there’s a moment where they’re both silent, where withnail is staring at marwood and marwood is staring at his lap, and the only sound in the apartment is from water running through the overhead pipes. the man downstairs must be taking a bath.

there’s a sharp intake of breath to withnail’s left, and he looks over to see marwood bouncing one leg incessantly, like an engine chugging along, propelled by nerves rather than steam. “fuck it,” marwood whispers, “not like it can get any worse, can it?” he says it manically — and, in withnail’s opinion, delusionally.

he’s about to state this opinion out loud when marwood turns to look at him and withnail is sufficiently shut up. his mouth closes with a click.

the thing about marwood’s eyes, withnail has realized, and realizes now, and will most definitely keep realizing from this point on, is that they’re quite beautiful in a way withnail can’t stand. they’re a pale green like sea glass, like marbles or sage, and their paleness is exacerbated by the dark rim of marwood’s eyelids, which are more often than not bloodshot. right now they shine with frustration. tears. withnail chooses not to look at them and instead stares at marwood’s lips. this is not much better.

silence settles again. fizzed with tension ready to pop like champagne. marwood pontificates on what to say next. withnail waits, his breath held fast in his throat.

and then, marwood speaks: “ah, damn it to hell.” before grabbing the lapels of withnail’s tweed coat and pulling him forward until their lips are smashed together in a way that’s so haphazard withnail thinks at first it might just be an accident they ended up like this. a few seconds pass and withnail realizes it’s quite possible marwood is just a terrible kisser.

withnail, in past moments of simultaneous self-aggrandizement and self-loathing, knew that he both would and would never know what it was like to kiss marwood—much like he knew he both would and wouldn’t be successful. it was usually difficult to pull a straight conclusion out of his drug-addled, depression-riddled, arrogance-muddled cocktail of a brain, but he’s glad to know at least one of his prophesies came true.

when they separate, withnail opens his eyes, realizing belatedly that they had closed. marwood is looking intently at him, expecting him to probably push him off the couch and storm out or something. withnail does none of these things—in fact, he does almost nothing at all.

“i’ll have you know i still think you look bloody stupid with that haircut. but do that again.”

#found this in my drafts and decieded to finish it. what ever. #also i just finished watchin it again and i emo #w&i #withnail and i #is this a fix it fic or a ruin it fic? idk but i want them to be togetjer FUCK #i said paul mxgan bad kissing rights #my writing #// #suicide ment #long post #bad post