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Withnail fumbles with the wine glasses in his hands, desperate to seize a few final moments with Marwood. He's smiling, but it doesn't show in his eyes. In fact, if you covered his ridiculous, overcompensating, toothy grin, his expression would resemble that of someone about to break down into tears.
“I can’t Withnail, I've got to walk to the station or I'll be late.”
“There's always time for a drink.”
Marwood smiles both fondly and sadly. “No, I don't have the time.”
Marwood tries to gently push past Withnail to get to the door, but Withnail sets both wine glasses down on the table and steps in front of him, his hands shaking against Marwood’s chest. Marwood stares at him, surprised at the display of emotion.
“Please, you can’t leave, you can’t.” Withnail’s voice is soft and pleading.
In contrast, Marwood's voice raises slightly for the first time. “Withnail, I swear, I’ve really got to catch–”
Then Withnail kisses him.
His hands are cupping Marwood’s face, but that's not what's keeping Marwood in place.
When Withnail pulls away, Marwood is still staring at him. Withnail stares back, that same desperate look in his eyes. Then Marwood pushes past Withnail, not so gently this time, and rushes out the door, slamming it behind him. Withnail is left alone, staring blankly at the shut door.
Eventually, he takes the bottle meant for both of them and sits on the couch, bottle in hand. He sobs.
A year later, on Christmas Eve, Marwood briskly walks down what appears to be a barren London sidewalk. It's cold outside. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his gray woolen jacket, and the lower half of his face is buried in a paisley scarf. He detests the way he’s feeling. He hates the stupid, gray London weather. He hates how no one is around to distract him from hating himself. Even in the busiest city in the country, there isn’t enough noise in the world to drown out his thoughts.
Finally, he comes face to face with the old, dilapidated apartment building that he used to call home for so long. Not anymore. As he stares at it, he feels a weird sort of detachment from his previous life. Though it has only been one year, Marwood feels as if he’s been gone forever. Yet, he supposes it’s still home to him. Not the place itself but rather the person that resides there. His life has changed so much since Withnail is no longer part of it, and if he’s being honest, he aches for the ease of his past life. He aches for someone to come home to at the end of the day. He aches for someone that he can talk to without niceties or bullshitting.
He knocks on the door.
After a long while, Withnail answers, showing no surprise at the sight of his friend. He just stares at the shivering figure in front of him and huffs. Marwood's head is down, and whether that's due to the cold or the cowardice cannot be determined.
Withnail is clearly pissed– in both senses of the word– but leaves the door open and sits on the sofa without a word. Marwood shows himself in, shutting the door behind him. He takes the place on the sofa beside Withnail, and they sit in uncomfortable silence.
Marwood takes a look around the flat.
"I see you've cleaned up," Marwood observes.
Withnail scoffs. "Yeah, landed a couple of gigs too."
"Oh, well, that's great, what–"
"You leave me with nothing, you know. No goodbye, not even so much as an acknowledgement that I still exist to you. Do you even think about me? Because I think about you all the fucking time. I drink and I fucking drink, but I can't stop fucking thinking!"
Despite the sudden shift in conversation, Marwood is not surprised in the slightest.
Marwood lowers his gaze to the ground in shame. He looks exhausted and weary– the year they'd been apart clearly hasn't treated him well.
"I did, Withnail. Every day."
"So why?"
Withnail doesn't need to finish the question for Marwood to understand– why did you leave me like that? Marwood has had a lot of time to think about it, and he has no trouble answering.
"Cowardice," he replies simply.
Withnail lets out a mirthless laugh. "Something we're both quite familiar with, I suppose."
"No– I mean yes, but this time it was no fault of yours." Marwood pauses and chuckles. "And would you believe I hated you for the longest time after that day?"
Withnail's eyebrows raise.
"I resented you for waiting so long, Withnail. I thought, 'Well maybe if he'd done that sooner, I would have had a reason to stay' as if that would be any less my own fault. As if fleeing wasn't a choice of my own. Just excuses to distract myself from the fact that, in the end, I was a fucking coward."
Marwood looks utterly broken, and Withnail can't help but have sympathy for the man beside him. He was too tired to be angry anymore.
"But you came back– that's something."
"Yes, I suppose it is. I think I'd have done us both a major disservice if I didn’t."
There’s silence for a moment, then Withnail grins. It lights up his whole face. And Marwood, almost reflexively, grins back at him.