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faretheeoscar · 11 hours ago

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“he looks like a cold, sleepy angel in his fingerless gloves, shirt, and pants” that’s my Llewyn 😭😭😭 it gives me such cute aggression!!!!!

Oh how I love so much these two together Rally!! You are a genius for feeding this delusion of them as a thing! I’ll always thank you for that.

Raaah I’m yearning for my boys again 😩😩😩😩

Sidney & Llewyn

Summary: Sidney Brustein and Llewyn Davis are sad, emotional men and should be a couple.

Contents: Sidney x Llewyn, fluff, a bit of 60s language (use of ‘queer’ as a term for gay, but not in a derogatory way, ~1.7k)

note: This one's for @faretheeoscar . It wouldn't exist without her. 💗

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Sidney Brustein stands outside in the drizzly, cold rain. He opens a fresh pack of cigarettes, sets one between his lips. Before he lights up, he pushes his hair back out of the way. His dark curls are already wet, clumped together generously in the fading light in the alley behind Walden Pond, his now-failing business.

When he’d first opened it, not far from he and Iris’s place in Greenwich Village, Sid had never felt happier. His own place to listen to records, have a drink, and talk with like-minded people.

He’d been pretty sure it wouldn’t be successful, but he hadn’t thought it would go tits up so fucking fast.

He knew he’d make more money if he’d just call it a night club, entice customers who come downtown on a Saturday night and pretend to be something they’re not. If he stopped giving away free drinks to his friends.

But if he stopped doing things exactly as he liked, then what was the point?

Sidney doesn’t mind compromising, or at least that’s what he tells himself. There’s just something inside of him. When people start giving him well-meaning advice, his own resolve becomes stronger. His path forward is clearer.

Okay. Fine. He doesn’t like to compromise.

Still, he's tired of fighting so hard for millimeters of moral high ground that might not matter anyway.

He sits down on the empty crates and smokes in silence.

Before she’d left, Iris had said he should ‘get real.’ To Sidney, his ideals had been ‘real.’ The only real things in the world. She was the one who’d sold out.

She seems happier now, probably a facade, but probably better than living in misery.

Sometimes Sidney wonders, though- if you tell yourself you’re happy for long enough, maybe it becomes true.

The street’s still bustling and Sidney people watches from the shadows. He’s surprised when a bundled-up figure, guitar case in hand, turns down the alley and gives him a nod.

“You Sidney?” the man asks, one hand gripping the scarf around his neck, his New York accent as thick as the chip on his shoulder.

Sidney sizes him up. Doesn’t look like a square. Sad aura, though. Like he’s trying to hide behind his messy hair and full beard.

“Yeah.” He squints. “You look familiar. I think I’ve seen you around.”

“Llewyn Davis,” he almost whispers, like he doesn’t want to say it out loud.

Sidney’s eyes widen. “Holy shit, man. I dig your music,” he holds out his hand with a big smile. “I love ‘Inside Llewyn Davis.’ I played it here once.”

Llewyn’s momentarily stunned, shakes Sid’s hand. “Wow. That’s shocking.”

Sidney laughs, puts his hand around Llewyn’s shoulder. “Let me pour you a drink.”

“That’d be good, thanks,” Llewyn says. He glances in the back doorway Sidney’s left open. “You let people go up sometimes?”

“Like, to really play music? I never had anyone interested, that I was interested in saying yes to,” Sidney says as he flicks his cigarette butt into a puddle.

“I’m interested,” Llewyn says. He glances around uncomfortably. “You don’t have to pay me. I’m probably quitting soon anyway. Just trying to get it out one, last time.”

“Well, this place doesn’t make any money and only my friends ever show up. So, maybe our shit luck will cancel each other out,” Sidney says hopefully.

They walk inside the dark, quiet space. Sid flips on the overhead lights and they throw low, yellowy light onto the tables. “How about a drink and a sandwich to start with?”

Llewyn smiles. A soft, tense expression. “You got coffee?”

Sidney nods.

Llewyn sets down his guitar case and works on untangling himself from his layers of clothes.

Sidney wonders how a guy with an undershirt, two flannels, a jacket, and a scarf, can still manage to look so cold. Probably the holes in his shoes.

Iris would’ve given him a look for even thinking about taking this guy in, but Iris is at her sister’s. Had insisted on taking a break from their marriage.

Sidney figures this is still his place for another few weeks. If he wants to give a guy a chance, then no one’s around to stop him.

He walks behind the counter and turns on the percolator and little electric burner he’d brought from home.

“This is a nice place. I’ve seen a lot of shitty clubs. This isn’t one of ‘em,” Llewyn says, picking up his guitar case and setting it on one of little tables.

Sidney takes a couple of mugs from a shelf, watches Llewyn’s fingers undo the latches on his case. The simple movement stirs his heart.

“It’s not supposed to be a night club,” Sidney says, "and didn’t you hear? I’m closing.”

“Yeah, I heard. ‘S why I’m here. Figured a guy who’s closing his place, and a guy who’s quitting music, what could go wrong, you know?”

Sidney grins. “I like you. You’re an honest guy. But I guess folk music’ll do that to you.”

Llewyn looks away from the compliment. Sid pours coffee for both of them, watching Llewyn take out his guitar, run his fingertips along the strings in some habitual way that Sid finds fascinating.

With a resigned look, Llewyn sits down, settles his guitar in his lap comfortably.

“What do you want to hear?” he asks.

Sidney frowns. “What d’you mean?”

Irritation flashes across Llewyn’s face. “No one just lets someone play. Especially folk music. You want me to play for you first, right? Before you let me go up tonight?”

Sidney takes the coffee over to the little table. He can practically feel the cold in Llewyn’s fingertips. Who wears fingerless gloves on a day like this? Someone with no other choice.

Sid rotates the mug’s handle so the it’s closer to Llewyn.

“You put your soul into your music,” Sid says. “I’d never ask someone for a piece of their soul, just for a lousy cup of coffee. As for tonight, your music’ll be an improvement. Trust me.”

Reluctantly, Llewyn sets the guitar back down in its case. He wraps both hands around the hot cup. His shoulders relax and he sits back in his chair.

This is exactly why Sidney opened this place. So someone exactly like Llewyn could walk in. Someone brilliant. Under-appreciated. An artist living for his ideals, who deserves a free drink and some conversation.

“I wasn’t meant to be a capitalist,” Sidney says thoughtfully.

“I wasn’t meant to live in a capitalist society.” Llewyn raises his mug to tap against Sid’s. He looks Sid over, like he’s seeing him for the first time. “So, what’s your problem here? The money or the wife?”

“Both, actually. You a married man, Llewyn?”

He sighs from deep in his gut. “I’m a grumpy folk musician with 25 cents in my pocket. Drove away all my friends. All I got is my integrity and my music. No one gives a shit about either of those. Sometimes I don’t think I do either. You think anybody’d want to marry this?”

Sidney shrugs, smiles. “If I found someone, anyone can.”

“Yeah, well, you’re an idealist. Women love that. I’m,” Llewyn pauses before he sighs into his coffee, “I’m just tired.”

“I know that feeling,” Sidney says quietly.

Weirdly, unbelievably, Llewyn thinks that Sid does understand. What it’s like to fight and fight, only to find out that all of the angst and stubbornness are stones in your pockets, dragging you down to the bottom of the Hudson. But it’s too late. You’ve sewn the tops of your pockets shut and you’ll never not be drowning ever again.

Sidney lays his hand on top of Llewyn’s.

“Why don’t you get some shut-eye? So you’re not to tired tonight,” Sid says gently. “I have a couch in my office. It’s not the most comfortable-“

Llewyn laughs. Usually when he laughs, there’s nothing funny about it. This time, though, something about Sidney’s kindness strikes him, even if it is only the irony that makes him chuckle. “I’m used to it. Trust me.”

“Heat’s busted, though,” Sidney says, standing up and leading Llewyn to a little side room behind the bar.

“I’m used to the cold, too,” Llewyn says, wiping a hand over his face.

He’s so tired he can’t think anymore.

Sidney opens the door to his office and he can practically see his breath.

“Shit,” he says. “I can’t let you sleep in here, Llewyn. You’ll freeze.”

“Better than the street. Which is where I’d’ve been sleeping if you hadn’t let me in.”

Llewyn unlaces his shoes and toes them off, lies down. He’d taken off his layers back in the main room and he looks like a cold, sleepy angel in his fingerless gloves, shirt, and pants. Sidney shakes out the blanket he keeps in the office, but hesitates before he lays it over Llewyn.

Struck by the strangest urge, he lies down next to Llewyn on the narrow couch. The other man’s already mostly asleep, arms folded over his torso protectively.

Even with Iris, Sidney’s never felt protective. Sometimes he has trouble even sympathizing with her.

In Llewyn, he feels a kinship. A pull.

Sidney drapes the blanket over both of them, smiling as Llewyn shuffles a little closer to the warmth of Sid’s body.

“I’m not a queer,” Sidney says quietly as he lies his head down next to Llewyn.

“I’m not either,” Llewyn says, his sock feet against Sidney’s ankles, soaking in the warmth. “Not that I have anything against them.”

“I accept queers,” Sidney says.

The corner of Llewyn’s mouth raises. “Me too.”

Sidney feels a stirring in his pants and tries desperately not to get an erection. It’s not even that the moment is sexual. It’s not about that, not yet at least.

He hasn’t felt this close to anyone, maybe ever.

Llewyn’s arms uncross and one finds its way around Sidney’s ribcage, draped comfortably. Sid returns the gesture, settling in for a nap.

I am happy, Sidney tells himself. It sounds true. Someday, it will be, he’s sure of it.