A/N:Another wonderful prompt for Enemies to Lovers Week!
Pairing: Llewyn Davis x F! Reader
Warnings: 18 + for language, implied sex, nothing explicit, hypothermia, enemies to lovers, happy ending).
Word Count:3.2K
New York City, 1961
The crowd cheers your name, and you stand slowly soaking in the serotonin. Your guitar, faded and old, clutched tightly in your hand, lips curved up in a smile and a bow of your head in gratitude. This was why you’d decided to become a musician. Not the money, or the glory, a hope that someday someone out there would remember your name, no. No, you loved the music and sharing that with a crowd full of people.
You step out of the light, and the owner comes up to announce the next act, people stopping you along the way to the back of the bar with a handshake or a slap on the back. It wasn’t always like this. You’d had your fair share of drunks slurring hate, overzealous men with wandering hands, or the stinging rejection of a silent room after a set. But when it was good, oh, it was fucking good.
The leather of the stool is cracked, and when you slid onto it, you can feel it peel back with age. “What’ll it be, kid?” the owner, Pappy, you believe his name was, smiles, “hell of a show tonight; this one’s on the house.”
“Thank you,” you smile, “uh gin and tonic, please.” He places the drink in front of you and goes down to fill some more orders on the other side of the bar; the seat beside you creaks, and you turn, a beautiful pair of brown eyes meet you, and your heart skips a beat.
“You know he only is nice because he wants to fuck you,” you watch him take a sip of the amber liquid, tossing it back quickly. “I play in here almost every week and get the same reaction from the crowd and nothing, not a fucking free drink in sight.”
“You’re a musician?” you ask, taking a sip and watching as he turns to look at you with a nod.
“Llewyn Davis,” he holds out his hand, covered in moth-eaten fingerless gloves, for you to shake, “ain’t you ever heard of me?”
“I can’t say that I have,” you resume holding your drink, “what kind of music do you play?”
“The only kind that matters,” he scoffs, “I saw your set, that your first time?”
“No, I just came to New York from Chicago; I was starting to burn out over there, so I thought I’d try my luck in the big apple.”
He chuckles dryly, “you’re gonna need it.”
“What?”
“Luck. Everybody in this city wants something, and no one is good enough to make it past the scraps they toss into the gutter each week. At least you got something going for you,” he nods his head over at you, “that pussy will come in handy when you’re starving.”
“Excuse me?” you sit up straighter, “are you insinuating that I’m not good enough to be a musician and I’ll end up being a prostitute?”
He shrugs, “I’ve seen it happen before. Pretty girl, big dreams and a guitar comes to the big city to make something of herself but can’t cut it.” He stands, tossing a couple of bills, barely enough to cover his drink on the bar. “You want some advice?” he doesn’t wait for you to answer, “go back home, get married, have some babies. New York is going to eat you up alive.”
He walks out, and you can’t stop the rush of anger that surges through your veins at his cold dismissal of your career and music. “Don’t let him get to you,” Pappy comes back over and puts the bills into the register, taking the glass to clean, “he’s an asshole.”
“What’s his problem?” you look at the door that Llewyn just retreated out.
“Eh, he’s got a chip on his shoulder, more like a boulder. He wants to be a musician, and other than that, he has no other goal, no job, girlfriend, home, nothing. Hell, if he didn’t have any friends, he’d be dead a long time ago.” He laughs, wiping a rag through the glass and putting it on the counter, “can I get you another one?”
“No, thanks,” you shake your head, sliding off the stool, “thanks for letting me play, uhm same time next week?”
He goes to the basket over in the corner and counts out your share, bringing it back to you, “sounds good to me; we’ll see how you do, kid.”
Inside Llewyn Davis Written and directed by Joel and Ethan Coen USA, 2013
Watched (at the Phoenix Picturehouse, Oxford) on 25th January 2014 First viewing
I loved this film. It’s funny and poignant in about equal measure. One moment (at a dinner party – you’ll know which bit I mean if you’ve seen it) got the biggest laugh I’ve ever heard from a cinema audience.
Also, it’s disturbingly true to my own feelings about being a musician. In fact it makes me feel like a bit of an asshole when I think of how much I identified with Llewyn Davis, especially his disdainful reaction to the audience singing along at gigs.
The images and moods of Inside Llewyn Davis will linger with me for a good long while, I’m sure.
