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"This has become impossible."
Marwood looked up, seeing his flatmate retreating from where he'd knocked the nails into the door. Withnail shivered, his face turned down into a grimace. "Freezing cold, and a bloody madman on the prowl outside with eels."
He was far, far too exhausted with the day's events to deal with this. Yawning as he did so, Marwood stood up, reaching for the lamp as he began to make his way out of the room. "Alright, you made your point. We pack up, we get out tomorrow."
Withnail loomed over his shoulder, a look of alarm flitting across his face. "What are you doing?"
" 'Going for a slash." Well… almost. He had half a mind to do something else in the meantime, with the scant time he'd have alone. He'd been stuck with his flatmate's bitter ranting the better part of three days, and had been too tired to deal with anything but. Having some time to myself may allow me to ease my anxieties in a more effective manner, he thought, unimpeded by Withnail's lingering sour presence.
"You can't—I can't get my boots on when they're hot."
"…I'll go alone." Wasn't that the obvious assumption? Marwood doubted the poacher would show up twice in one day, and as much as the presence of the man in the pub had unnerved him he had more pressing issues to resolve. Namely, getting his rocks off without Withnail unknowingly intercepting his every move.
"No you're not. You're not leaving me in here alone. Those," Withnail gestured with the shotgun, clutched tightly in his grasp, "are the kind of windows faces look in at."
"Alright, then I won't have a slash." The draughty bedroom it is, then. Fine. A shame, since the outhouse was somehow the warmest place out of the entire cottage, as counterintuitive as that seemed. He trudged out of the room, heading for the staircase as Withnail trailed on behind.
"And in both our interests I think we should sleep together tonight."
What—no. That's a useless precaution, a waste of time! Not to mention—Marwood strangled the irritation before it poured out of his mouth, but a part of it slipped through nonetheless. "Oh don't be ridiculous, he's not going to come up here in the dark."
"Of course he is! If he decides to come up here, and catches one of us unawares, he's got a much better chance of dealing with the other!"
Marwood sighed to himself as he reached the upstairs landing—no use reasoning with the bugger. He'd just knock down every explanation with an even more ludicrous excuse. He'd dealt with this before. Best to just shut this down before it got even more ridiculous.
"No," he uttered resolutely, and shut the door on Withnail's crestfallen face.
Finally.
Marwood let out a breath as he leaned back against the closed door, feeling the irritation leaking out of him. The underlying stress still remained, though, and he scurried over to the bed in the centre of the room, removing his sweater as he did so. As he sat down he slipped out of everything else, save underwear, and peeled back the cover.
Finally, some good peace and quiet—and time for myself.
He started out with his hand on his chest, scratching the skin there lightly with his fingernails. He could feel his breath slow and deepen, whilst his heartbeat seemed to speed up incrementally, the anticipation building in his veins. He shivered, and closed his eyes to shut out the gloom.
In his mind, he was back in the flat—several years back, though. That time when he was just about finished with RADA, and the celebrations descended on him in a wave of booze and drugs. Before his lack of expertise with dealing with the real world came flooding into view, back when everyone ignored his anxiousness, pinning it to the stress of coursework and exam performances rather than his adamant refusal to interact with others for any extended period of time. An unfortunate trait for someone treading the boards, which in hindsight is probably why they didn't mention it. Didn't want to embarrass him, or something to that extent.
Back then, there had been some interested suitors, like that girl from RADA who'd taken an interest to him. Or had it been that other school—Grant-Bellairs, was it? Or the one further west, possibly. Either way, one night he'd been slumped against the wall of the bathroom, hands tangled in her charcoal hair as she'd pressed against him, panting heavily at his collarbone.
His hands had wandered further down her body, down to her waist, and hers had too—slipping under the waist of his trousers, scrabbling at his hips with her blunt fingernails, leaving red streaks of brief pain across his skin.
Marwood's fingers moved further down his chest, circling around his hipbones as he remembered the way she'd sighed into his mouth, the faint odour of alcohol on both their breaths. The feeling of her breath against his lips had been almost addictive—almost but not exactly like a kiss, just close enough to bring a rush of electricity to his face and a flush on both their cheeks.
Marwood found his other hand on his face, brushing his lips lightly as if to recall the feeling.
He couldn't remember it solidly after that point, whatever drugs he'd taken having finally kicked in at that moment, but the rest came in flashes of light, sound and touches—his hand dragging down further, slipping his fingers into her underwear at some point, him laying down in the grimy bath as she'd settled on top of him, the way her lips had dragged down over his chest, over his stomach, over his hips, over his thighs, before settling at the junction between his leg and his groin. He'd groaned then, and he groaned now, remembering it, recalling the feeling of her curtains of dark hair pooling at his waist, and the way her watery grey eyes had looked up at him, bleary with exertion but somehow clear at the same time. She'd been drunk, and so had he, so it had been strange seeing such clarity in her eyes at that point. Maybe he'd muttered something audacious in the heat of the moment. She'd probably been shocked at whatever he'd said, because he remembered her giggling impishly, recalled the way her breath had tickled the hairs on his thigh as she'd pulled his trousers further downwards.
Marwood's right hand moved down from his chest, brushed against the same place her breath had been, and he felt a shiver run through his entire body. God, this was amazing—the stress of the holiday seeping away, to be replaced by a growing warm feeling spreading throughout him, his muscles relaxing as he melted into the bed. He turned over onto his side, reached down with his left hand and wrapped it around his cock, imagining his fingers were the chapped lips of the girl back in the flat. His breath came out in stutters, a mixture of a sigh and a groan, as he began to move his hand back and forth, the momentum building to some still far-off crescendo—
The door slid open with a slight hiss, and Marwood stopped in his tracks. Stopped breathing even—just clenched his eyes tightly shut, pretending to be asleep, as a pair of footsteps echoed at the doorway.
Silence, for a moment, then—
"What's the matter with you?"
Withnail. It's fucking Withnail. Marwood felt a stone drop in his stomach at the realisation. Jesus, what if it he'd entered even a fraction of a second earlier, had caught me in the act? The stone seemed to clatter further downwards, twisting up his intestines at that thought. Then again, Withnail was more than preferable to the poacher seeing this, seeing him in a moment of vulnerability—unconsciously bearing his throat, which would have been sliced though as easily as a knife through butter.
"What are you laughing at?"
Relief coursed through him—Withnail hadn't noticed then. He'd mistaken his stuttering sighs for laughter. A hilarious dream, perhaps, or the midnight mutterings of a madman? Marwood decided to go for the former.
"I was dreaming." Saying this, he turned over to face his flatmate, who was wearing pyjamas (for once), and who was still looming near the door handle with a candle… and the shotgun.
Doing so, he discreetly pulled his waistband back up, hoping Withnail didn't see the adjustment partially hidden by the covers. "What do you want?"
" 'Frightened the piss out of me." Withnail lowered the candle onto the bedside table as he moved closer. "Move over! Let me in."
Let him in? Oh God—he wants to sleep in here, Marwood's mind realised as Withnail slipped under the cover, bringing the shotgun up and bracing it over both their chests. He squirmed slightly, pressing up against the weight bearing down on him. Getting Withnail out of here would be nigh on impossible, he should know after years of living with the bastard. He should give in to his flatmate, be selfless and let him stay the night, but the insistent squirming in his stomach reminded him of how he'd much prefer to be alone at that moment. Irritation once again flared up in him, and he snapped.
"Oh, this is ridiculous! I'll have to sleep in your bed—"
"I'll have to come with you then!" Withnail's face was set in a determined scowl, with wide eyes that swivelled towards him as soon as he voiced his dissent. Marwood echoed his expression as he stared back, refusing to back down.
"Ugh—will you get out?"
"…No."
"Right. Then I'll move."
Marwood managed to dislodge the shotgun just enough to scramble out the side of the bed, re-orienting himself to face the door just as Withnail leaped from the covers. They stood, facing each other, equal expressions of stubbornness set into their faces. Marwood felt a thrill of nerves run through him, and he silently begged don't look down as their eyes locked on each other.
A moment's hesitation, then he was diving back to the covers—but Withnail was too fast, slipping in before he could claim the bed all to himself. The gun was once again pressed against his front, and he contended with it, managing to slip his hands underneath and lever it up from his chest.
He realised right then that there was no way Withnail would budge from his side that night. Frustration tore its way up his throat—fucking impossible, just like him to be so bloody inconvenient. He tried to get his voice to settle into a more reasonable tone, and he stated his final ultimatum.
"Alright," he gritted out, "you can stay—but the gun doesn't."
The answer, with hindsight, was obvious: "No!"
Marwood grappled with the shotgun further, intending to tear it from his adversary's hands, as Withnail shouted, "I have to keep the gun, I intend to remain awake 'til morning!"
"This is my bed," Marwood struggled out, "and I demand precedence!"
"No!"
"Give it here!"
Someone's hand slipped at that moment—he wasn't sure whose—and the nose of the shotgun flipped up into the air as the world exploded around him. A shower of white dust coated his face as he spluttered in shock. Withnail had loaded the gun. What the fuck was he thinking? Putting in a bullet and bringing it to bed?
A split-second of incoherence, and then he realised he'd buried his face in Withnail's shoulder, breath heaving as he coughed up the fragments of ruptured ceiling. That wasn't all of it, though—he'd tucked his entire body against Withnail's, seeking out whatever meagre protection he could. That meant that Withnail could feel all of him, every inch of his body, pressed against his side. There was no chance of Marwood hiding his embarrassing, still-persistent state of arousal.
There was a lurch in his stomach, like it had taken a jump off the side of the mountain the cottage was on, plunging into the ice-cold lake below. How he wished he could disappear in that moment, or at least pretend that this wasn't happening, but even the feeling of his shame swirled almost pleasingly in his gut. It was awful to admit to himself that this predicament wasn't making his arousal flag—in fact he could feel himself getting harder. Pressing further into Withnail's side. He trembled, mortified at himself, and at what Withnail would probably be thinking in that moment. God, he'd think he was perverted, a freak of a man who got hard from wrestling away a shotgun from his male flatmate. Maybe he'd kick him out the bed, out the cottage even—he'd damn well try kick him out the flat when they got back from their holiday, Marwood was certain of it.
Or maybe Withnail would jump to the correct conclusion that he was already working up this state before he'd entered the room? That would surely be worse, wouldn't it? Withnail would be struck by the self-consciousness of a man out of his depth, and treat him even more harshly for it. Maybe he'd strand Marwood out here, too embarrassed to face the misunderstanding on his part. Marwood would be forced to stay out here, poaching his own eels, forever deprived of companionship out of pure consolidated shame, forever isolated from the chance of hereafter stepping onto the stage. He'd be ruined, destitute.
That terrible thought spurred him into action, although his precise reasons for this were still lost in the haze of his mind. He yanked the shotgun out of Withnail's grip, half-rolling out of bed. Withnail was too slow to react, and Marwood stomped over to the window, hurling the gun out over the ledge. It clipped the pane, making a large crack reverberate through the still air of the night as it—and a chunk of the glass—plummeted down towards the earth below.
Marwood should have worried about the property damage he'd just dealt, but in that moment he couldn't care less. Twin streams of humiliation and frustration were coursing through his head, combining to bring forth a surge of anger through his veins. He snapped back round to Withnail, gritting out "Fuck you—bastard!" as he made his way to storming out the room.
Withnail seemed unfazed by his outburst. In fact, he'd sat up some time between Marwood climbing out of the bed and him turning round to face him again, and his expression was—what was it? The bastard was grinning, for Chrissake, wide enough that it distorted his usual cadaverous expression into one of some… some sick and twisted facsimile of joy. Marwood stopped in his tracks, halfway to the door, frozen by the horror that coalesced in his stomach. Was Withnail mocking him? Was this hilarious to him? He'd just humiliated himself in front of his closest confidante, and the bastard had the gall to laugh at him, even without a single decibel of sound?
The roots binding him in his frozen state broke in an instant when, upon seeing Withnail's eyebrows wiggle in amusement, rage gripped hold of him once more. "You think this is funny?" he found himself almost shouting, in a hoarse voice, on the verge of tears. "Is this just a fucking joke to you? I've just disgraced myself in front of you, and all you think to do it laugh at it all. How dare you? How dare you, With—"
The sob finally broke free, and he clapped his hand over his mouth as if that could reel it back in. It couldn't, though—Withnail had already heard it, that much couldn't be reversed, no matter if anyone else had heard it. Marwood could already see the grin falling off his face, expression falling into one that could almost be concern, if Withnail was even human enough to claim such emotion. They locked eyes once again, and Withnail made some short nodding movement, a jerk of his head that signalled come here. Marwood's last vestiges of composure crumbled to rubble in that one split second. Legs trembling, he stumbled back over to the bed, half-collapsing next to his flatmate.
A moment's silence, then: "oh, fuck it," from Withnail, and his spider-like arms enclosed Marwood with startling quickness. His palms skidded purposefully across Marwood's chest, angling down his stomach in a way that made his gut twist itself into knots almost immediately. Marwood flinched, and just held himself back from slapping Withnail's arms away. He squirmed his way out the web of limbs designed to keep him there like some helpless prey.
Turning back to Withnail, he hissed, "What the fuck was that for?"
"You want to get off." A factual statement couldn't possible be simultaneously as simple and perplexing as this, and yet Withnail with his infinite ability had found exactly that. Marwood was sure the look on his face was pure confusion, because Withnail raised his eyes to (what was left of) the ceiling, and sighed with the strength only a trained actor could muster.
"The problem here, the issue that's preventing us from sharing a bed in order to provide safety for both of us, is that you wanted to get off. Was that it? Was that the entire reason you shut the door in my face?"
"Well, also the fact your plan was redundant. He's not coming back tonight Withnail, that would be ridiculous," Marwood said, with a slight tremor in his voice. "And I know I'm paranoid, but that's some other level, a whole-other-planet level!"
"Regardless of whether you think it's a feasible a poacher, a man trained in capturing and stealing animals, could find it worthwhile or easy to break into a house or not, we must and shall sleep together tonight! What if you were in fact proven wrong, and I woke up to find you… find you dismembered and strewn all over the room? And even then, I probably won't wake up to see it, because the same will—"
"Shut up, Withnail." Marwood managed to stop himself yelling, but his patience was wearing thin. "That still doesn't explain why the fuck you decided manhandling me just now was a good idea."
"You want to get off," Withnail repeated, with an incline of his head, "and I prevented you from doing so. Thus it seems reasonable that I should offer some compensation."
Marwood felt the sudden urge to brace himself against the bedroom wall. He managed to prevent himself from doing so, though, and perched on the edge of the bed, ready to scarper at a moment's notice. All the while his mind was running a hundred miles an hour. Withnail couldn't be implying what he seems he is. Surely not. That would be—that would be outrageous. Dangerous, even! At its best, a complete faux pas, and at its worst—a dalliance with homosexuality.
He made sure his voice was level before he replied, "Whatever the fuck d'you mean?" He winced at the croaking in his voice, the slight mincing of his words in his panic.
His flatmate seemed to understand in an instant. Withnail raised his arms half in surrender, half to reach out to him again. "Of course though—if that's not what you want!"
"Why would I ever want it?" Marwood felt on the verge of shouting again. Did Withnail still think this was some sort of joke?
Withnail rolled his eyes, as if Marwood was missing some sort of point to his ridiculous idea. "It's not a question of whether or not you want it. It's a question if what you deserve. I barged in on you and caught you unawares—that's my fault, and you deserve recompense. Anything you do right now will be on me, not you! Look—you're still at least a bit hard, aren't you?" He gestured down at Marwood's crotch.
Marwood swivelled his hips, twisting his body away from Withnail. "Don't—stop looking. You're not helping."
"I'm not supposed to be helping. I'm apologising, is all. Anyway, you are—you're flagging a bit, but you're still interested, aren't you?"
Drawing a deep breath in, Marwood pivoted back round to Withnail and glared at him with all the irritation he could muster. Withnail looked back, unfazed, the traces of a baleful smile still clinging to the corners of his lips, a perfect picture of innocence. Marwood couldn't hold back the scowl that set in to his face.
"Fine—say I was interested in getting off. Say I was angry, and really fucking humiliated, and I wanted to blame you for interrupting me earlier and refusing to leave me alone. If all that were true, why should I not just get up and leave right now?"
Withnail's smile wavered, but he forced it back onto his face. "Well, you'd be depriving yourself of the chance to get back at me."
"Get back at you?"
"Yes—I wanted to share a room with you. In setting out my plan I managed to inconvenience you, albeit unknowingly. I was inconsiderate and brash," Withnail raised his shoulders in a mock shrug, "you should want to make me regret it."
"Regret it?" Marwood paused. That made some sort of sense—in Withnail's usual convoluted way. It was appealing. Not sexually, of course, it wasn't like that at all—just more in the sense it was getting justice, getting his own over Withnail. Demanding whatever willingness for obedience existed in him, testing how far he would go to prove his remorse, that kind of thing. It wasn't sexual if it was just plain dishing out fairness, was it? Furthermore—and this was the kicker—it couldn't be homosexual if it wasn't sexual, if neither of them were truly deriving pleasure from it. Only simple satisfaction of a task well done.
"…Okay."
"Okay?" Withnail's smile disintegrated into a look of shock, like he wasn't been sure that argument would fully persuade him, before a sly grin shuck back on his face. "Okay. So how would you—"
"On the floor."
"—I beg your pardon?"
"Get on the floor." Marwood clicked his fingers and pointed downwards, at the space in front of him. He felt his voice tremor slightly as he breathed out. "On your knees."
"But—"
"With', I really, really don't think I can ask again, I'm panicking as it already is." He turned his eyes back to Withnail, hoping they conveyed some sort of sternness that he wasn't actually feeling. "Just do it. Please. For once, just listen to me."
Withnail fell silent, his incredulous expression melting into one of steady neutrality. He lowered himself onto the ground, barely reacting as his long limbs cracked with the movement, and shuffled over so he crouched just in between Marwood's spread knees. He peered up at Marwood, still expressionless, as he placed his clammy hands on top of both Marwood's thighs.
Marwood's breath shook at the sudden cold on his legs, feeling a counteracting heat rush through his body. He was certain his cock twitched, and he felt slightly faint at the thought of Withnail's completely unhindered view of his reaction. He shouldn't be able to see him like this, open and vulnerable and literally jumping for any kind of contact. It was humiliating in a way that dwarfed what had happened before, when his state had first been uncovered—mostly because now, Withnail would be sure he was the one doing this to him.
A few seconds passed, then he realised that Withnail had frozen there, hands still on Marwood's legs, gazing up at him. Awaiting further instructions, it seemed. Marwood wasn't sure he'd be able to direct him the entire way—but at least he could try and get the bastard started at something. He solidified his face into something he hoped bordered on stern, and reached down to Withnail's mouth, brushing his thumb along his lips and pushing in slightly.
Withnail's mouth opened enough to let his thumb slide in, and Marwood held back his breath as the warmth of saliva wrapped around it. He hooked his thumb behind Withnail's teeth, prising his mouth open further until it hung wide open, exposing his tongue to Marwood's view. Withnail was still staring up at him, with that same neutral intensity behind slightly-closed eyelids—Marwood found himself compelled to speak in that moment, to test that this wasn't some horrible, obscene fever dream.
"Now, then," he began and then paused for a second, calculating, closing his eyes briefly before prising them open again. "I want you to get my waistband. Pull it all the way down."
Withnail's eyes widened in what looked like glee, and he rushed to it, skidding his hands further up Marwood's legs to reach his waist. Marwood's stomach jolted as he felt each individual path of his cold fingers sliding upwards before the reached their destination, hooking themselves into the bunched fabric of his waistband and pulling back down. He shifted himself slightly off the bed, feeling the clothing sliding off his hips and down his legs before he took his seat again, fully exposed to the draughty room, and exposed more than he ever remembered being in front of his flatmate. At the present moment, Withnail was distracted with the fabric dragging down Marwood's calves—but any second now he'd look up, probably start laughing in that infuriating way of his when he saw the flush of embarrassment spread across his chest. Or he'd pull away at the last moment, jeering that this had all been some sort of practical joke, some insidious way to see how far he could stretch Marwood's gullibility.
It didn't turn out that way. Instead, Withnail unhooked the underwear from around his ankles, and threw it to the side as he turned his gaze back up to Marwood, his face setting into a look of pure determination. Marwood's breath hitched as he unhooked his thumb from Withnail's jaw, slowly pulling it out to run across his bottom lip, towards the corner of his mouth. His fingers still trailed under Withnail's chin, and he pulled him forwards, watching as his mouth was brought closer and closer to Marwood's groin.
A flicker of eye contact between them, and suddenly Withnail's heated breath was on his cock, followed swiftly by his dry lips. Marwood squirmed, surprised by the spontaneous wave of arousal that washed over him. Temporarily losing control of his thoughts, he grabbed the back of Withnail's head, sinking his fingers into his dark hair, tangling them up until he was practically pulling at the roots.
Withnail let out a short gasp of air, and dove closer, wrapping his mouth fully around Marwood. The wetness of his tongue on the underside, tracing along a vein as he took it deeper, made Marwood's hips stutter forwards without him meaning to. Withnail choked, temporarily overwhelmed, and pulled backwards off his cock to shoot Marwood with an irritated glare.
"I'm aware this is an apology," he stated, wrapping his hand around the base and stroking as he talked, "but don't you dare test your liberties—otherwise I'll leave you in this sorry state and head for my own room."
"You wouldn't," Marwood gasped. His chest was heaving as he felt his orgasm crest the horizon, brought ever closer by Withnail's deft fingers around him. A pressure was mounting somewhere behind his spine, making it difficult to sit in one place, sit still like a statue whilst Withnail's eyes bored into his. "You're forgetting about the poacher."
"Hmm? Oh yes, him." Withnail's voice took on an air of bemusement. "He might arrive any time. That reminds me—we should get this over and done with. 'Don't want to get ambushed whilst still in the act, do we?"
"You—you fucking bastard," Marwood stuttered out. "Don't you dare stop now."
Withnail screwed up his eyebrows in befuddlement. "What bollocks do you think I was implying? No, I meant it in the way that we should hasten the pace." A blinding grin manifested on his face. "Like this." With that, he dove down again, engulfing him with his lips and his mouth and his sweet, velvet tongue, punching the breath out of Marwood's chest as he did so.
Marwood's head lolled backwards as he leaned back against the bed-sheet, staring uncomprehendingly at the damaged ceiling above him. The plaster that had fallen down still littered the bed, scratching at his shoulders, but he didn't notice, all his focus on the few points of contact between him and Withnail.
He gasped as Withnail's fingers dug into his hips, burning with the intensity of the pressure. He was close, so so close. Some part of him felt like sobbing—it was almost torturous, the fact that it had taken this long.
He couldn't help himself from looking down his body, looking to where Withnail still knelt. His face was currently hidden by his dark brush of hair, which had fallen forward over his forehead and eyes. Marwood trembled as he contemplated twisting his hand further into Withnail's hair, pulling it back so he could see those shining grey eyes, possibly brimming with tears from the strain of keeping this up. At that thought, Marwood's heart jolted unexpectedly, and he had the frantic urge to wipe away the wetness in Withnail's eyes, cleaning up his face so he could go back to his unflappable composure. Wipe the tears away with his hands, or maybe his lips, pressing a bruising kiss into Withnail's cheek—
Marwood's gut twisted one final time, and a strangled cry tore from his lips as he felt himself tip over the edge. It may have contained a word, or even a name, but he couldn't make it out as a persistent ringing noise filled his ears. He wasn't sure if Withnail moved his mouth away in time, or if he swallowed it down, but he could feel, just above the buzzing sensation in all of his limbs, the wet slide of lips and tongue over his groin before the scratchy fabric of the cover dried it all off.
Some indeterminate time later, Withnail collapsed onto the bed next to him, sinking down into the duvet with a world-weary sigh. Always so melodramatic, Marwood thought, but he thought if anything deserved an emphatic sigh, it was probably what had just happened. But then again, what exactly had happened? It had gone far beyond anything Marwood had imagined they'd end up doing, although he wasn't sure if him not predicting this was a good thing or not. He'd always thought having Withnail as a flatmate would lead somewhere, probably somewhere he'd regret going. Never had he thought it would end up with Withnail on his knees in front of him, bringing him to completion.
That being said… Marwood glanced over at Withnail, furrowing his brow to try and clear his vision. It was blurry, both by the gloom and by the post-sex wave of tiredness taking its toll on him—and my terrible vision, definitely need my prescription upped—so his flatmate was little more than a smudge in his eyesight. Looking down, Marwood couldn't tell if Withnail was hard or not. It seemed just plain rude not to offer a hand in return, so he opened his mouth to speak.
"You—don't you want me to deal with you?"
"What? Oh—no, no, of course not. I'm not in the right mood, anyhow."
"…Oh." Marwood shuffled, feeling disoriented by the sudden feeling that washed through him. Was it disappointment? That would fit the closest, but that didn't make sense—this hadn't meant to be a mutual, well, dealing-with. Only a way to sort out the humiliation Withnail had incurred on him earlier.
But it hasn't turned out that way, has it? He shivered at the way his inner voice sneered at him. You'll let this memory stagnate in your mind, tainting every thought of Withnail. Soon before you know it you'll find yourself lusting after his mouth again, maybe even more of him—
He shut down that part of his mind by turning to Withnail, a watery smile permeating his face. His eyesight was returning, bit by bit, and all of a sudden he noticed the tension in Withnail's whole body, making him look as stiff as a corpse on an autopsy table.
"With', what is it—"
"Shh!" Withnail reached over and slapped his hand over Marwood's mouth, as fast as lightning. Before Marwood could squirm away and spit out his frustration, he carried on, "I can hear someone outside the cottage!"
Marwood pulled Withnail's hand away. "What? No, you must be imagin—"
A cracking of broken glass permeated the air around them. Marwood froze. Withnail seemed to reach absolute zero by comparison, every muscle in his body going completely rigid.
A breath, and then: "We need to move—my room. We can lock it shut."
Nodding, Marwood slipped off the bed, scrabbling around for his underwear. I refuse to die naked, some hysterical part of his mind was shouting, and he pulled them on, darting over to where Withnail was already lingering by the door. Grabbing his flatmate by the arm, he pulled Withnail through the doorway and across the hall. To safety, hopefully, but one could never be too sure. He heard another small crashing sound downstairs, and gripped Withnail's hand tighter, watching him scrabble to put the key in the lock. When it finally twisted, they both turned around to frantically survey the room.
"The bed," Withnail hissed, and Marwood sprinted over there, yanking back the cover. Sliding under, he was very nearly knocked unconscious by Withnail barrelling in after him. Their limbs twisted into some ungodly amalgamation as Marwood struggled to pull the cover over them, panicking at the pounding of footsteps up the rickety stairs.
A hand jiggled at the door-handle, and soon came the scratching of something in the lock.
"Oh God, he's a lockpick as well as a poacher," moaned Withnail somewhere within the vicinity of Marwood's right armpit.
Marwood didn't reply. He simply tugged the cover harder, finally sliding it over the lengths of both their bodies, burying them under the lumpy blanket. Screwing his eyes up as tight as he could, he silently prayed, asking for forgiveness through the quickest and least painful death possible…