Work Text:
After a trip out to the corner shop, Marwood once again situated himself in his cramped position on the sofa. He immediately curled up with his notebook and blunt pencil, briefly muttering something about "getting it all down" before it left him, or something like that. Withnail, continuously perplexed as he was by his flatmate's adamant recording of everything (particularly as that outing hadn't been all that eventful—just buying a pint of milk and a packet of fags), decided to let him be. Let the bastard scribble away until his hands were numb, if that's what kept him from breaking out in another bout of fear.
Ignoring Marwood's occasional murmuring as he wrote, Withnail found himself moving the chair further towards the window. There he bathed in the sunlight, lighting up a cigarette, watching the smoke curl out through the open latch and into the air outside. He also took note of the people passing by.
People-watching had become a habit of his—it passed the time well enough and prompted his imagination to conjure up sordid backstories for them, well-suited for publication in a pulp magazine. That woman crossing the road was a serial killer responsible for stranglings all over the country, the man hailing a cab had a history as a prestigious rent-boy of several MPs, the guy rounding the corner with the sunglasses was—
Withnail shook his head.
The guy looked familiar, tickling his brain somewhere under the lingering hangover from this morning. Sunglasses and longish hair, slightly matted and a dark brown. A short-sleeved shirt, half hidden under some floaty fabric that barely resembled a jacket; black trousers that didn't cover his ankles; a slight swagger in his step that hinted at overconfidence, and finally; a ratty duffel bag, clutched at his side. Withnail knew that look. The man was the spitting image of—
"Danny!" He yelled out the window as the man passed.
A scuffle of noise emanated from the sofa. This was quickly followed by a muffled curse of "Fuck! Withnail, you twat!"
Sparing a second to look once more out the window (the man hadn't reacted except to jump slightly, and so evidently wasn't Danny), Withnail turned around to see Marwood lying half on the sofa, half on the floor, his feet kicking frantically up in the air as he slid further down. Soon he was crumpled up on the ground between the sofa and the table, glaring up at his flatmate from behind the table leg.
"What," Withnail scoffed, "I wasn't that loud!"
"You could outcompete a foghorn!" Marwood struggled to flip himself over, getting his hands on the ground to lever himself up. As he did, his neck clipped the table corner, causing him to wince as the thump echoed around the room. Withnail only watched as Marwood froze, eyes pitiably wide.
"That sounded painful," he finally said, after Marwood had stayed there for over ten seconds.
"I'm fine, 's nothin'," Marwood replied, from behind grit teeth.
"Evidently it's something. Are you sure you haven't broken a vertebra or two?"
"Yes—'cause if I broke something I'd be screaming, wouldn't I?" Marwood started to move gingerly, pulling his body out from under the table and into a sitting position. "Just—I don't know. Twisted a muscle. Fractured a tendon. Stretched… something, a bit too much."
He then turned to face the table and hissed, bringing his shoulders up to his ears.
Withnail found himself moving forwards towards his flatmate, without any recollection of having decided to do so. He knelt down by Marwood and reached out—past his clenched shoulders and round to the back of his neck.
Again, Marwood froze.
"Withnail?"
"Mm?"
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Baking a cake." Withnail levelled Marwood with a stare. "What do you think I'm doing? Do you believe me truly incapable of wanting to help you?"
He continued to rub at Marwood's neck, small circles around his vertebrae, digging in slightly at the sides, but nothing seemed to yield.
Marwood was silent, his eyes scrutinising Withnail more with every second that passed. He was tense all over—too tense. It obviously wasn't helping his neck (or Withnail's attempts at soothing it) at all.
Finally Withnail snapped. "Sit up here, for god's sake." He slapped the sofa cushion with his free hand. "I can't get to your back from this angle."
Marwood winced again as he pulled himself onto the sofa, and then turned to the window so Withnail could settle facing his back. The sunlight caught up in his hair, turning it bronze, as Withnail carded his fingers through the waves to get to his neck.
"Okay." He hesitated a second, mind too caught up with the feeling of Marwood's hair under his hands to figure out how to proceed. "Where does it hurt?"
Marwood gestured with the arm that had been resting on the back of the sofa, waving it around near where his neck met his shoulder. "'round here. Do you even know what you're doing?"
"Hush. I'll manage—it's not like I'll kill you by giving a terrible massage."
His flatmate shuddered under his hands, and spat out "God! Don't give me those thoughts. You'd be the one to manage that, if it hasn't been done already. You'd find a nerve that nobody's documented before and accidentally nip it and suddenly my heart would stop pumping blood, or my brain would shut off, or—or… my eyes would explode—"
"—I'm not going to do that—"
"—You can't be sure though, can you?" Marwood huffed, frustrated by what was undoubtedly going to be a cycle of accusations and denials. "Just get it over with. If you do kill me, get a decent plot to bury me in."
Withnail, deciding to ignore that last sentence, began to knead whatever tendon had decided to seize up, just to the right side of Marwood's neck. It took what felt like hours, but eventually it softened under his fingers, and Marwood emitted a sigh of relief. Moving his hands over to the middle of his neck, Withnail watched Marwood as he began to slump forward. Soon his forehead was all but resting on the arm of the sofa, his hair brushing the cushion that nestled there. He gradually began to curl up there, slipping further away from Withnail's hands, and then let out a deep groan in satisfaction.
Withnail shot up from the sofa. Twisting his hands together in front of him, he chuckled as he evaded eye contact with Marwood's sudden look of confusion.
"I believe that's it, then." He swung his hands slightly from side to side, unsure exactly what move to make next.
Marwood didn't reply, staring blankly up at him.
"Are you—" Withnail stumbled over his words. "Can you—is that fine? Are you alright now?"
"Yeah. 'm fine." Marwood's eyes narrowed, and he raised his head off the armrest. "Are you?"
"Hmm?"
"Are you okay, I mean?"
"Yes! Yes," Withnail chuckled again, immediately hating the sound as it left his lips. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how you need to take better care. Of your neck, I mean. I doubt sitting scrunched up in a ball on there like that is doing any good. Maybe… maybe you should consider sitting by the window every once in a while? Sit up straight, stretch your tendons, get ship-shape—"
"—go eat some sugar?" Marwood's lips twitched. "That sort of thing?"
"Well, yes! If it keeps me from having to do—" he gestured in the direction of Marwood's neck "—that again. These hands are made for holding scripts, not for being a second-rate masseuse."
"Well I thought it was quite pleasant," Marwood murmured. He shuffled slightly as he rested his head back down on the sofa. "Thank you Withnail. I mean it."