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Marwood could hear Withnail's feet thundering up the stairs, most likely heading for the living room. The sound passed him in the bathroom and carried on further upwards, accompanied by out-of-breath sounds and the occasional bumping into the banister. Sounds like he's already a bit out of it, Marwood thought. That wasn't great for him lying low—Withnail would be searching any second now for the usual audience to his drunken performances.
Already Marwood could vaguely hear Withnail come to a halt somewhere upstairs, probably in confusion as he registered the emptiness of the room. Would he see the abandoned book on the floor, the cover thrown half off the sofa, the lamp still shining on the table next to it?
Evidently so. Withnail's feet began to patter ever closer as he traced his path back through the flat. His voice, hoarse slightly from whatever smoking and drunken shouting he'd been doing, called Marwood's name, first in bafflement, then with a hint of panic as Marwood refused to reply. His voice got louder as he pounded back down the stairs, throwing open the door to both Marwood's and his own (like Marwood would ever be caught sneaking around in there) rooms with such force that the frames groaned worryingly. There was a brief moment as Withnail took in each room before he moved onto the next. Finally, the only room left was the bathroom.
Marwood tried to draw himself as small as he could into the bathtub, but even he realised that it would conceal nothing about his situation.
Surprisingly, there was a moment of hesitation. Marwood expected Withnail to come barging in, something he had done many a time. Apparently not today though. Was the bastard actually worried he would intrude in on something? The harried way he'd stormed back down the stairs after seeing the state of the living room would suggest he wanted to check in on Marwood. Had he finally developed a sense of consideration and cordiality? In all honesty, if Marwood could summon any thoughts apart from his fear of the door opening, he would have been impressed.
A knock came at the door, along with a voice, intoning "…are you in there?"
Marwood didn't reply, and instead chose to hold his breath, as daft as that seemed. If he could somehow convince Withnail that he wasn't on here then he might believe he wasn't in the flat at all, and leave Marwood to sort out this situation alone.
"I said, are you in there?"
Then again, Withnail had seen the state of his things on the sofa. That threw a screw in that plan.
"You daft bastard, I asked if you were in there? Have you fallen asleep in the bath again? Do you want to risk drowning?"
Marwood almost laughed. As if that could even happen.
Withnail rapped his knuckles on the door again, far more impatiently. Marwood decided now would be the best time to start talking, even if just to stop the thundering of Withnail's hand against the flimsy barrier.
"'m in here." His voice was scratchy, kind of thin-sounding, just like it always did when he was overcome with panic. Which was just great—Withnail would know for sure that something was up, now.
"Finally, he speaks! And gives the most obvious answer possible. Why are you squirreled away in there, anyway? Did you—" here Withnail paused for a second, re-evaluating Marwood's reply. "Did you get your 'fear', again?"
This time, Marwood did laugh. Not nearly as hoarse than Withnail's voice, but still quite thin, as if he was still catching his breath.
"Something like that. Yeah."
A silence from the other side of the door, before Withnail asked quietly, "Can I come in?"
"No," he replied, a little too fast to not be suspicious.
"Why not?" Came Withnail's haughty reply, before his voice softened, almost wheedling. "I have—look, fuck, I bought you something. Something sugary, and I know that will help you calm down, from experience. And yes, I bought it because I wanted to…" his voice trailed off.
Marwood suddenly sat up taller in the bath, sloshing the water around. His hands gripped the sides. "Wanted to what? With'?"
"I wanted to apologise, you fool! Now say I can come in before I throw the food down the stairs."
"No, wait!"
"Enough is enough. I'm coming in whether you like it or not. Cover yourself up, or do whatever you need to, but do it quickly!" This was accompanied by a scrabble at the doorknob, Withnail obviously struggling to open it with whatever he was carrying. Marwood drew up closer to his body again, knowing that it would be pointless.
At this point, the door was flung open, revealing Withnail in all his sozzled glory. He stumbled in, still clutching the doorknob, with a small paper bag tucked under his arm and a wine bottle in his other hand.
That wine bottle was promptly dropped to the floor as Withnail took in the view. Marwood followed it as it knocked against the wooden floor, miraculously without smashing, and rolled until it disappeared somewhere on the other side of the toilet, leaving behind a thin trail of crimson.
His attention was drawn away from it when he heard Withnail's delayed cry of shock.
"It's not what it looks like!" Wonderful. A truly perfect way to solve this, Marwood's thoughts screamed, and he winced to himself.
Withnail's gaze shot up from where it was resting near Marwood's knees (or approximately thereabouts) up to his face. A scowl darkened his features as he registered the statement.
"And what, pray tell, do you think this looks like to me?"
Marwood couldn't help but wince a second time. He hadn't exactly thought this situation through in much detail, and his plans on this rarely got past the hide it all from Withnail stage, something he had just failed spectacularly at.
"I'm asking sincerely, if you're wondering. Because," Withnail's voice crept higher, "I have no bloody clue what I'm looking at."
"Then don't look," Marwood found himself snapping.
Withnail's face darkened again. "I beg your pardon."
His voice began to tremor as he replied. "If you're confused or, I don't know, disgusted," he found himself spitting venomously, "then maybe you should leave. I'm too sick and tired of—of hiding it. I don't even know why I do. It's just—" he cut himself off, unable to explain the overwhelming pressure that was building in his head, his throat, his chest.
The room fell silent. Marwood could feel Withnail's eyes tracking his every movement, every tremble as he lay in the rapidly cooling water. Which part of him disgusted his flatmate the most? He wrapped his arms around himself, chin resting on what would usually be his knees. Was it his monstrosity, a perfect distortion of the human form? Was it his cowardice, the fact he had kept it secret for so long? Or was it his hypocrisy, the fact that he tried so very hard to distance himself from anything abnormal, and yet couldn't escape it in himself?
Withnail took in Marwood's shivering form for a few more seconds before asking, surprisingly hesitantly, "So, how did this happen? It's not because of…" he inclined his head upwards slightly, and to the side.
Marwood frowned, not getting the gesture. The terror in his mind dissipated into confusion, fading just as quickly as it had appeared.
Withnail huffed, and inclined his head more forcefully upwards, nodding as he did so. He flicked his eyes up in the direction of where the kitchen would be, almost directly above them.
"I'm asking if it has anything to do with what happened earlier," he sighed, when Marwood continued to show his confusion.
"Earlier—what?"
"Yes, earlier!"
"You're asking me if what happened earlier—what happened being you being an absolute wanker and storming out over nothing as usual—" he grinned at Withnail's grimace "—you're asking if that argument turned me into… into this?"
A brief silence fell over the room, before Marwood erupted, unable to contain his mirth.
"Well," Withnail said, baffled, over Marwood's sudden hoots of laughter, "it's a remarkable coincidence if not."
"And how'd you reckon you being your usual inhospitable self made me be like this?"
Withnail shrugged stiffly, not meeting Marwood's eye. "Stress, most likely."
Marwood's laughter quietened down, but the smile still remained on his face. "With', I—"
"Don't you dare say something ridiculous like 'I'm always stressed', because you and I both know that's not true. Actually, if you say that—" he shook the paper bag he was still holding at Marwood "—I'll throw this into the kitchen sink before you even catch a glimpse of what it is, and it'll be lost to all human comprehension before midday. How does that sound?"
"Like a massive bloody overreaction. Like something a wanker would do, at that. Just give me the bag and stop being a twat and, I don't know," Marwood rambled, "just piss off and let me sulk."
Withnail's face went as expressionless as a rock within a second. He prodded the air in Marwood's direction, and exclaimed tightly, "We're not doing this again. We're not bringing it up, right when I'm in the middle of apologising."
"Apologising?" Marwood feigned surprise. "I've heard no apology from you."
"Oh, shut up." Withnail chucked the paper bag at Marwood, whose face broke into a grin. "Shut up and just eat it."
Another silence fell across the room, this one a lot more peaceful. Withnail stood leaning against the doorway, far calmer than he had been, and watched as Marwood devoured the shortbread with all the precision of a drunken darts game.
"I don't think I've ever seen a shortbread be torn asunder," he finally scoffed, and rolled his eyes at Marwood's responding look of outrage. "My apologies, is it uncouth to point it out? Oh Grandma, what sharp, needle-shaped, fish-like teeth you have—" he dodged out the way as the screwed-up paper bag was lobbed at his head.
Marwood grinned, chastisingly. "Well it's not very tactful, is it? I'm sure it's considered rude to point things out like that."
"Well, I'm actually more curious than disgusted, if that helps."
"No, that doesn't help at all." Marwood shot Withnail a mock-scandalised look. "And your curiosity isn't going to get you anywhere. If anything, I'm more confused than you are."
"That can't be true. It's you it's happened to! Look, just tell me how it happened, at least—"
"I don't know, Withnail, I honestly don't know." Marwood felt his voice grow wearier by the second. "It's no use asking questions I don't have the answer to, even after two decades of dealing with this shit. My family don't know why either, before you think of getting out to the telephone box and ringing up my father for information."
"So your family do know about it, then?"
"It would be hard for them not to, in all honesty." Marwood looked down at himself, voice the quietest it had been in weeks. "No idea why it happens, but apparently it's a family affliction. My granddad on my mother's side was exactly the same. Put a lot of strain on him, the poor thing, at the end. He st—he stopped being able to breathe. On land, I mean. Something to do with too much oxygen, apparently. Like that makes any kind of sense."
That'll be me eventually, his mind offered up, unprompted, and he shivered.
Marwood looked up again, to see Withnail studying him with an inscrutable expression, arms crossed across his chest. His eyes were slightly unfocused, likely from whatever alcohol he'd been and had while out the flat, and his face was drawn into a slight frown as he looked down at his roommate.
Marwood didn't like that expression, not one jot. He hesitated, before saying, far from the forceful manner he intended: "Don't tell anyone. Please. I really don't want to explain to anyone else. It's too much, knowing anyone could see me like this."
Withnail's expression melted, and re-solidified into something, if not sympathetic, at least a bit more understanding. "Fine. I'll keep this between us." Another expression jumped across his face, and he asked, "Would you like to formally seal the deal? With a handshake, of course, I'm not writing out a bloody contract for this."
Marwood snickered, slightly taken aback by the abruptness, but not entirely surprised. "Of course. Sure."
Withnail walked over, and held out his hand hesitantly. Marwood grasped it, digits curling around the back of Withnail's palm under a thin layer of webbing.
Withnail laughed, intrigued. "Your hands are as clammy as always. The only difference now is that they're fucking freezing!" His eyes widened in wonder. "Do you have cold blood when you're like this?"
Marwood squeezed Withnail's hand lightly, then let go. "I haven't the faintest idea. Now, let me rest for a bit. I'll be back upstairs in a couple of hours or so."
Withnail stood up, turned to the door, and walked halfway there, before turning round suddenly.
"Actually… would it be imposing on you that much if I stayed?"
"Absolutely, yeah. Piss off, you'll see me later anyway." He waved Withnail off as he left the room.
Right before the door closed, he caught a flash of Withnail's shrewd smile.