#9: FIC: wherein symbolism is derived from the most innocuous of items (or: Shirts), PG-13
Title: wherein symbolism is derived from the most innocuous of items (or: Shirts)
Pairing: Will/Skandar
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: “You’re insane.” “No,” says Ben fervently, “I’m just maddeningly astute.” - futurefic
Disclaimer: All not mine.
Notes: Thanks to forochel for the beta.
The first thing Georgie says to Skandar when she sees him at the London premiere of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is, “Oh God, your shirt,” and then, more knowingly, “Six months.”
“Six months what?” asks Skandar, nonplussed. “You’re looking very nice, by the way.”
“Thank you; don’t try to change the subject,” says Georgie briskly, pausing to pose for a handful of photographers. “And that’s six months of wallowing.”
“Don’t roll your eyes, it’s unbecoming,” he tells her. “And I’m not. Wallowing, that is.”
Georgie raises one eloquent eyebrow at him before wandering off, leaving Skandar to wonder when she'd mastered that look of utter skepticism.
“You don’t have to keep pretending,” says Georgie kindly, during the group shots. She curls an arm across his shoulders. “Anyone can see that that shirt is a distinct cry for help.”
“I happen to like it, thank you very much-”
“A lone voice in the wilderness,” Georgie continues blithely, “Startling villagers and seasoned huntsmen alike with its ragged wailing - ‘Help me! Help me!’“
“Oh shut it,” mutters Skandar, surreptitiously switching places with Will Poulter when they regroup.
“Sorry?” asks Will P, with some confusion.
“Nothing,” he grits out, trying not to glare venomously at Georgie while people are taking their photographs. “Didn’t say anything.”
“Your shirt’s kind of scary, by the way,” Will P ventures. It gives Skandar the perfect excuse to kick him in the shins.
He wears two identical black shirts for Paris and Prague. It still doesn't stop Anna from texting: what's with the shirts skan? i see those photos.
NOT WALLOWING, Skandar texts back, before viciously turning his phone to silent mode. It vibrates, half a minute later.
“Did Will say anything?” asks Anna the moment he answers. “Call you? Text?”
“He just popped by to ask if he could borrow my toothpaste,” Skandar replies icily.
“Not that Will. Our Will.”
Skandar realises that Anna is using her ‘dating war command’ voice, normally reserved for counselling during splotchy breakup crises.
“Right,” he says, after a pause. “What's going on?”
“Nothing. Just worried.”
“What on earth are you worrying about?” Skandar explodes. “And why are you speaking in sentence fragments?”
“Am I?” asks Anna, startled.
“Yes, you are, but that's not the point,” snaps Skandar. “What's going on?”
“Nothing,” Anna says soothingly, “Unless you want to talk about something.”
“Anna,” says Skandar, wondering if she has suddenly gone mad, “You called me.”
“To chat,” replies Anna unconvincingly.
“To chat?” Skandar repeats incredulously. “Typically, you don't even text your parents more than once a day if you're out of the country. I'm currently in Tokyo, in case you didn't realise.”
“Well,” says Anna, “to be completely honest-”
“Yes?”
“You were wearing two black shirts and I thought maybe it was because you missed Will, or something,” Anna tells him, “It sounds pretty silly, I suppose, but-”
“Glad you realised,” Skandar interrupts, horrified, “and no. No.”
“We really haven't seen Will for months, you know-”
“I have no idea,” says Skandar, “how best to convey the depth of my disgust to you. I will say, however, that it stretches fathoms. Fathoms.”
It pains him to do so, but he ends up asking Ben for advice.
“I'm thinking of white, for the premiere in LA. It's a pretty neutral colour,” Skandar says, “Or blue.”
“White's good,” Ben agrees, “I'm wearing white.”
“Nobody reads stuff into white, do they?” Skandar holds his shirt up rather doubtfully.
“Or stripes, perhaps?” offers Ben. “The perennial favourite of dour businessmen and History teachers alike.”
Skandar looks at him disbelievingly.
“It's true - the entire History department at King's College-”
“I mean, you're not serious - stripes?” Skandar cuts in, before groaning, “I can't believe I'm even discussing this with you.”
“Well, you are,” says Ben, the only person in the world who can possibly rival Will in stating the obvious.
“Yes,” Skandar grits out, “Though I'm not sure why.”
“Well-” Ben begins.
“That was a rhetorical question,” says Skandar dangerously.
Ben is braver than most. “Maybe you miss Will,” he suggests.
“Bloody hell, not you too,” mutters Skandar.
“Maybe you miss Will,” Ben says again, with increasing excitement, “And you're expressing your insecurity, doubt, and depression through your choice of shirts.”
“I don’t even talk about Will!”
“Precisely - it’s what you’re not saying. It’s all right, Skandar - we've all been through this,” Ben tells him, with a pat on the back that's supposed to be fortifying.
“You're insane.”
“No,” says Ben fervently, “I'm just maddeningly astute.”
They arrive at LA at seven in the evening, local time, which roughly translates to three in the morning back in London. Technically, the time difference doesn't quite matter to Skandar, who has travelled over so many time zones within the past three weeks that he has mastered the art of falling asleep as long as there's something to fall asleep on. He does, however, try to keep track; it makes him feel closer to home, that way.
He's quite prepared to go up to his hotel room and stumble into bed immediately after they've checked in, but Georgie lets out a delighted squeal when she glimpses someone just before the lift door closes.
His hair is cut rather strangely but he's wearing sunglasses and a particularly hideous scarf, so Skandar knows with one look that it's Will.
“Get the door open, get the door open,” Georgie says excitedly, jabbing at the button in vain. Skandar is irrationally thankful when the lift begins its stately ascent to the seventeenth floor.
“Wasn't that Will Moseley?” Will P says, from somewhere behind Georgie. Ben takes this as his cue to elbow Skandar knowingly in the ribs.
“White shirt, eh?”
“Shut up,” Skandar snaps, but Ben continues beaming at him.
“What's all this about a white shirt?” Georgie asks, as they reach the seventeenth floor.
Before Skandar can squeeze his way out, she closes the doors again and hits the 'G' button.
“You're not hiding away until we speak with Will,” says Georgie, voice firm.
“I can't believe you people!” Skandar explodes, “Would you just let me get to my room?”
There is a long silence. Then, a collective, “No.”
Skandar, speechless and outraged, finds that he can only glare at them.
The lift has just passed the tenth floor when Will P finally adds, “Actually, we couldn't, even if we wanted to.”
“You're all deranged, did I mention that?” Skandar tells him heatedly.
“No, really - I forgot to collect our room key.”
At first, Will seems perfectly contented to stand around in the hotel lobby talking excitedly to the others, as well as to shake hands with Michael and tell him in no uncertain terms how incredibly eager he is to see the film. It's only Will P's refusal to collect their room key card and Georgie's murderous don't-you-dare look that keeps Skandar from fleeing immediately.
He doesn't want to talk to Will; doesn't want to look casual and ask him how he's doing, to nod appreciatively and say, that's cool, at appropriate intervals while Will babbles on about what filming's been like. Instead, he sequesters himself in a far corner of the lobby and feigns sleep in an armchair, resolving to be extremely biting and witty if Will tries to speak with him, just to prove his point.
All possible plans are spectacularly derailed, however, the moment Skandar comes face-to-face with Will.
“It's you!” Will exclaims, evidently still the reigning king of stating the obvious.
“Yes, it is-” Skandar begins, attempting sarcasm, but Will is practically trembling with excitement as he gathers Skandar into a hug, somehow managing to crush Skandar's face into his shoulder despite the two of them being almost the same height. This is so familiar, so disarmingly Will, that Skandar's words come out all choked-up and genuine instead, much to his dismay.
He makes up for it by saying, “That's a horrible scarf you have on, by the way,” not particularly witty but satisfactorily disagreeable.
“I thought it had an interesting pattern,” says Will.
“How's LA?” Skandar asks, trying to sound casual.
“Good, good,” says Will. He's practically glowing. “You'll love it here,” he continues, oblivious to the way Skandar is scowling.
Skandar takes in Will's still-familiar grin; takes in the way he's shifting his weight even as he speaks, and decides that he will not survive this encounter if he does not end it immediately.
“I should bring you guys around sometime, what's your schedule like-”
“Look, I'm going to bed now, all right?” Skandar says, abrupt and too-loud.
A look of surprise crosses Will's face. And then, after a pause, “Oh right, I'm sorry - must have been a long day,” he says amiably. “Shall I walk you up?”
“It's okay,” Skandar tells Will, turning away and heading for the lift. He catches a glimpse of himself in a decorative wall mirror; his face is pure misery.
“What's happened?” Will P asks, when Skandar stalks past him into the lift.
Skandar doesn't reply; just jabs the “DOOR CLOSE“ button viciously.
“Skandar-”
The problem is, really, that precisely nothing has happened - not before, and not now. He can still remember Will standing in the doorway of Skandar's house the day before they left for pickups in Playas de Rosarito. Back for a holiday? Skandar had asked, stupidly, venomously. Will had shrugged and entered the living room even as Skandar stood seething somewhere behind: that was Will; he made himself at home. No doubt he's made himself all kinds of at home over in LA, too, Skandar thinks, exiting at the seventeenth floor and making for his room.
Behind him, the second lift door opens.
“Skandar-” It's Will.
A small part of Skandar is fully aware that he's being very childish, but it doesn't stop him from saying, “Go away.”
“I just-”
“Go away,” he repeats, heading down the corridor.
Will follows. “Skandar, listen, stop-”
Skandar whips around angrily. “I don't want to talk, if that's what you're asking.”
“I just wanted to tell you,” says Will patiently, “that you forgot your room key card.”
Wordlessly, Skandar reaches over and takes it.
“Will passed it to me after you went up,” Will continues, as Skandar slots the card into the reader. “Will Poulter, that is,” he says, as if it needs clarifying.
Skandar pulls the card out too quickly; the lock beeps negative.
“I just wanted to know,” Will is saying, “If you're all right.”
“I’m great,” says Skandar, yanking the card out and trying again.
Will nods, but looks at him quite seriously. “Well, Georgie's been saying otherwise-”
“-Georgie embellishes,” Skandar counters.
Will shrugs. “True. But Anna-”
“Anna overreads text messages-”
“Also true. Ben-”
“Ben has issues.”
“Definitely.”
“In summary: I'm great,” repeats Skandar, fully aware that he's lying through his teeth. He pulls the card out and tries to open the door. It's still locked.
“You seem a bit put out,” Will says concernedly.
Skandar glares pointedly at the door. “I wonder why.”
“No, I mean, in general.” Will nudges him aside and gives it a try. “Like whenever I text you.”
“What gave you that impression?”
“Maybe the fact that you don't reply?”
Skandar doesn't say anything. Will looks at him for a long moment, before returning to the door.
“Maybe the key's faulty,” he says after another try. “We should-”
“I figured you were probably too busy canoodling in LA,” Skandar interrupts, regretting it almost instantly.
“Sorry?”
“That’s why I didn’t reply.”
“Wait,” Will looks at him incredulously. “Canoodling?”
“Yes. Canoodling,” Skandar repeats contemptuously. “Fooling around.”
“Who says canoodling any more?”
“I do,” says Skandar loudly. “But that's not the point.”
“Wait, how old are you - sixty?”
“That's not the point,” Skandar snaps.
“Is this what it's about?” Will asks. “Not a single word because you thought I was going to run off?”
“No,” says Skandar. “Yes. No. Well, you seemed likely to.”
“You're ridiculous.”
“Fuck off,” he snarls, trying to force the door open.
“Didn't you get the postcards?” Will asks.
“Yes, and half of them were about parties you went to,” Skandar retorts.
“And the Christmas present?”
“That hideous souvenir mug?”
“I was trying to be subtle!”
“What's so subtle about a mug that says, LA's City Lights?”
Will throws up his hands. “Can't you see?”
Skandar stares at him. “See what, the city lights?”
“No - yes, those too, but can't you see that I was trying to tell you that I missed you?”
“In what way,” says Skandar coldly, “Would giving someone a mug depicting the city skyline be a way of saying that you missed them?”
Will's practically shouting now. “That's because I wished you were here!”
They look at each other in stunned silence for a long moment.
“Oh,” says Skandar, just as Will says, “God, I can't believe I just said that.”
“Well I can,” says Skandar, but there's no bite in it. He feels terribly relieved, in fact; relieved and silly.
“You're one to talk - you said canoodling out loud,” Will retorts, before Skandar leans over and kisses him on the side of his nose. Granted, Skandar had been aiming for his mouth instead, but it has the same effect.
“Missed, sorry,” he mumbles, but Will's already pulling him closer by the front of his shirt.
“I can tell you're out of practice, young man,” he says, grinning rather wickedly.
“At what, canoodling?” Skandar asks, leaning in for another try.
It’s better than Skandar’s ever imagined, better than that almost-kiss they had back in New Zealand, because this is real; this is Will’s tongue sliding against his, Will’s fingers clutched in the fabric of his shirt, Will’s hand cupping his jaw.
They pull apart, only to see Georgie and Will P gaping silently at them.
“The room door couldn't be opened,” Will says hurriedly, by way of explanation, letting go of Skandar's shirt only as an afterthought. “So we, um... Well, it couldn't be opened.”
Georgie arches her eyebrow at them. “I’d be surprised if it could,” she says matter-of-factly, pulling Skandar's key card out of the reader and inserting her own, “Since this is my room.”
Will helps him pick out a tie for the LA premiere, since Skandar’s already chosen a shirt.
“Soumaya called me, by the way, when you weren’t answering your phone,” says Georgie, appearing at his elbow, with Will P hovering somewhere behind her. “She wanted to know if you were extending your stay. I told her you were.”
“Thanks,” Skandar tells her, waving uncomfortably at some photographers.
“Though Will P and I have really got to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“The white shirt is lovely and all,” Will P begins, slightly uncertainly, “But are those polar bears on your tie?”
Pairing: Will/Skandar
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: “You’re insane.” “No,” says Ben fervently, “I’m just maddeningly astute.” - futurefic
Disclaimer: All not mine.
Notes: Thanks to forochel for the beta.
The first thing Georgie says to Skandar when she sees him at the London premiere of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is, “Oh God, your shirt,” and then, more knowingly, “Six months.”
“Six months what?” asks Skandar, nonplussed. “You’re looking very nice, by the way.”
“Thank you; don’t try to change the subject,” says Georgie briskly, pausing to pose for a handful of photographers. “And that’s six months of wallowing.”
“Don’t roll your eyes, it’s unbecoming,” he tells her. “And I’m not. Wallowing, that is.”
Georgie raises one eloquent eyebrow at him before wandering off, leaving Skandar to wonder when she'd mastered that look of utter skepticism.
“You don’t have to keep pretending,” says Georgie kindly, during the group shots. She curls an arm across his shoulders. “Anyone can see that that shirt is a distinct cry for help.”
“I happen to like it, thank you very much-”
“A lone voice in the wilderness,” Georgie continues blithely, “Startling villagers and seasoned huntsmen alike with its ragged wailing - ‘Help me! Help me!’“
“Oh shut it,” mutters Skandar, surreptitiously switching places with Will Poulter when they regroup.
“Sorry?” asks Will P, with some confusion.
“Nothing,” he grits out, trying not to glare venomously at Georgie while people are taking their photographs. “Didn’t say anything.”
“Your shirt’s kind of scary, by the way,” Will P ventures. It gives Skandar the perfect excuse to kick him in the shins.
He wears two identical black shirts for Paris and Prague. It still doesn't stop Anna from texting: what's with the shirts skan? i see those photos.
NOT WALLOWING, Skandar texts back, before viciously turning his phone to silent mode. It vibrates, half a minute later.
“Did Will say anything?” asks Anna the moment he answers. “Call you? Text?”
“He just popped by to ask if he could borrow my toothpaste,” Skandar replies icily.
“Not that Will. Our Will.”
Skandar realises that Anna is using her ‘dating war command’ voice, normally reserved for counselling during splotchy breakup crises.
“Right,” he says, after a pause. “What's going on?”
“Nothing. Just worried.”
“What on earth are you worrying about?” Skandar explodes. “And why are you speaking in sentence fragments?”
“Am I?” asks Anna, startled.
“Yes, you are, but that's not the point,” snaps Skandar. “What's going on?”
“Nothing,” Anna says soothingly, “Unless you want to talk about something.”
“Anna,” says Skandar, wondering if she has suddenly gone mad, “You called me.”
“To chat,” replies Anna unconvincingly.
“To chat?” Skandar repeats incredulously. “Typically, you don't even text your parents more than once a day if you're out of the country. I'm currently in Tokyo, in case you didn't realise.”
“Well,” says Anna, “to be completely honest-”
“Yes?”
“You were wearing two black shirts and I thought maybe it was because you missed Will, or something,” Anna tells him, “It sounds pretty silly, I suppose, but-”
“Glad you realised,” Skandar interrupts, horrified, “and no. No.”
“We really haven't seen Will for months, you know-”
“I have no idea,” says Skandar, “how best to convey the depth of my disgust to you. I will say, however, that it stretches fathoms. Fathoms.”
It pains him to do so, but he ends up asking Ben for advice.
“I'm thinking of white, for the premiere in LA. It's a pretty neutral colour,” Skandar says, “Or blue.”
“White's good,” Ben agrees, “I'm wearing white.”
“Nobody reads stuff into white, do they?” Skandar holds his shirt up rather doubtfully.
“Or stripes, perhaps?” offers Ben. “The perennial favourite of dour businessmen and History teachers alike.”
Skandar looks at him disbelievingly.
“It's true - the entire History department at King's College-”
“I mean, you're not serious - stripes?” Skandar cuts in, before groaning, “I can't believe I'm even discussing this with you.”
“Well, you are,” says Ben, the only person in the world who can possibly rival Will in stating the obvious.
“Yes,” Skandar grits out, “Though I'm not sure why.”
“Well-” Ben begins.
“That was a rhetorical question,” says Skandar dangerously.
Ben is braver than most. “Maybe you miss Will,” he suggests.
“Bloody hell, not you too,” mutters Skandar.
“Maybe you miss Will,” Ben says again, with increasing excitement, “And you're expressing your insecurity, doubt, and depression through your choice of shirts.”
“I don’t even talk about Will!”
“Precisely - it’s what you’re not saying. It’s all right, Skandar - we've all been through this,” Ben tells him, with a pat on the back that's supposed to be fortifying.
“You're insane.”
“No,” says Ben fervently, “I'm just maddeningly astute.”
They arrive at LA at seven in the evening, local time, which roughly translates to three in the morning back in London. Technically, the time difference doesn't quite matter to Skandar, who has travelled over so many time zones within the past three weeks that he has mastered the art of falling asleep as long as there's something to fall asleep on. He does, however, try to keep track; it makes him feel closer to home, that way.
He's quite prepared to go up to his hotel room and stumble into bed immediately after they've checked in, but Georgie lets out a delighted squeal when she glimpses someone just before the lift door closes.
His hair is cut rather strangely but he's wearing sunglasses and a particularly hideous scarf, so Skandar knows with one look that it's Will.
“Get the door open, get the door open,” Georgie says excitedly, jabbing at the button in vain. Skandar is irrationally thankful when the lift begins its stately ascent to the seventeenth floor.
“Wasn't that Will Moseley?” Will P says, from somewhere behind Georgie. Ben takes this as his cue to elbow Skandar knowingly in the ribs.
“White shirt, eh?”
“Shut up,” Skandar snaps, but Ben continues beaming at him.
“What's all this about a white shirt?” Georgie asks, as they reach the seventeenth floor.
Before Skandar can squeeze his way out, she closes the doors again and hits the 'G' button.
“You're not hiding away until we speak with Will,” says Georgie, voice firm.
“I can't believe you people!” Skandar explodes, “Would you just let me get to my room?”
There is a long silence. Then, a collective, “No.”
Skandar, speechless and outraged, finds that he can only glare at them.
The lift has just passed the tenth floor when Will P finally adds, “Actually, we couldn't, even if we wanted to.”
“You're all deranged, did I mention that?” Skandar tells him heatedly.
“No, really - I forgot to collect our room key.”
At first, Will seems perfectly contented to stand around in the hotel lobby talking excitedly to the others, as well as to shake hands with Michael and tell him in no uncertain terms how incredibly eager he is to see the film. It's only Will P's refusal to collect their room key card and Georgie's murderous don't-you-dare look that keeps Skandar from fleeing immediately.
He doesn't want to talk to Will; doesn't want to look casual and ask him how he's doing, to nod appreciatively and say, that's cool, at appropriate intervals while Will babbles on about what filming's been like. Instead, he sequesters himself in a far corner of the lobby and feigns sleep in an armchair, resolving to be extremely biting and witty if Will tries to speak with him, just to prove his point.
All possible plans are spectacularly derailed, however, the moment Skandar comes face-to-face with Will.
“It's you!” Will exclaims, evidently still the reigning king of stating the obvious.
“Yes, it is-” Skandar begins, attempting sarcasm, but Will is practically trembling with excitement as he gathers Skandar into a hug, somehow managing to crush Skandar's face into his shoulder despite the two of them being almost the same height. This is so familiar, so disarmingly Will, that Skandar's words come out all choked-up and genuine instead, much to his dismay.
He makes up for it by saying, “That's a horrible scarf you have on, by the way,” not particularly witty but satisfactorily disagreeable.
“I thought it had an interesting pattern,” says Will.
“How's LA?” Skandar asks, trying to sound casual.
“Good, good,” says Will. He's practically glowing. “You'll love it here,” he continues, oblivious to the way Skandar is scowling.
Skandar takes in Will's still-familiar grin; takes in the way he's shifting his weight even as he speaks, and decides that he will not survive this encounter if he does not end it immediately.
“I should bring you guys around sometime, what's your schedule like-”
“Look, I'm going to bed now, all right?” Skandar says, abrupt and too-loud.
A look of surprise crosses Will's face. And then, after a pause, “Oh right, I'm sorry - must have been a long day,” he says amiably. “Shall I walk you up?”
“It's okay,” Skandar tells Will, turning away and heading for the lift. He catches a glimpse of himself in a decorative wall mirror; his face is pure misery.
“What's happened?” Will P asks, when Skandar stalks past him into the lift.
Skandar doesn't reply; just jabs the “DOOR CLOSE“ button viciously.
“Skandar-”
The problem is, really, that precisely nothing has happened - not before, and not now. He can still remember Will standing in the doorway of Skandar's house the day before they left for pickups in Playas de Rosarito. Back for a holiday? Skandar had asked, stupidly, venomously. Will had shrugged and entered the living room even as Skandar stood seething somewhere behind: that was Will; he made himself at home. No doubt he's made himself all kinds of at home over in LA, too, Skandar thinks, exiting at the seventeenth floor and making for his room.
Behind him, the second lift door opens.
“Skandar-” It's Will.
A small part of Skandar is fully aware that he's being very childish, but it doesn't stop him from saying, “Go away.”
“I just-”
“Go away,” he repeats, heading down the corridor.
Will follows. “Skandar, listen, stop-”
Skandar whips around angrily. “I don't want to talk, if that's what you're asking.”
“I just wanted to tell you,” says Will patiently, “that you forgot your room key card.”
Wordlessly, Skandar reaches over and takes it.
“Will passed it to me after you went up,” Will continues, as Skandar slots the card into the reader. “Will Poulter, that is,” he says, as if it needs clarifying.
Skandar pulls the card out too quickly; the lock beeps negative.
“I just wanted to know,” Will is saying, “If you're all right.”
“I’m great,” says Skandar, yanking the card out and trying again.
Will nods, but looks at him quite seriously. “Well, Georgie's been saying otherwise-”
“-Georgie embellishes,” Skandar counters.
Will shrugs. “True. But Anna-”
“Anna overreads text messages-”
“Also true. Ben-”
“Ben has issues.”
“Definitely.”
“In summary: I'm great,” repeats Skandar, fully aware that he's lying through his teeth. He pulls the card out and tries to open the door. It's still locked.
“You seem a bit put out,” Will says concernedly.
Skandar glares pointedly at the door. “I wonder why.”
“No, I mean, in general.” Will nudges him aside and gives it a try. “Like whenever I text you.”
“What gave you that impression?”
“Maybe the fact that you don't reply?”
Skandar doesn't say anything. Will looks at him for a long moment, before returning to the door.
“Maybe the key's faulty,” he says after another try. “We should-”
“I figured you were probably too busy canoodling in LA,” Skandar interrupts, regretting it almost instantly.
“Sorry?”
“That’s why I didn’t reply.”
“Wait,” Will looks at him incredulously. “Canoodling?”
“Yes. Canoodling,” Skandar repeats contemptuously. “Fooling around.”
“Who says canoodling any more?”
“I do,” says Skandar loudly. “But that's not the point.”
“Wait, how old are you - sixty?”
“That's not the point,” Skandar snaps.
“Is this what it's about?” Will asks. “Not a single word because you thought I was going to run off?”
“No,” says Skandar. “Yes. No. Well, you seemed likely to.”
“You're ridiculous.”
“Fuck off,” he snarls, trying to force the door open.
“Didn't you get the postcards?” Will asks.
“Yes, and half of them were about parties you went to,” Skandar retorts.
“And the Christmas present?”
“That hideous souvenir mug?”
“I was trying to be subtle!”
“What's so subtle about a mug that says, LA's City Lights?”
Will throws up his hands. “Can't you see?”
Skandar stares at him. “See what, the city lights?”
“No - yes, those too, but can't you see that I was trying to tell you that I missed you?”
“In what way,” says Skandar coldly, “Would giving someone a mug depicting the city skyline be a way of saying that you missed them?”
Will's practically shouting now. “That's because I wished you were here!”
They look at each other in stunned silence for a long moment.
“Oh,” says Skandar, just as Will says, “God, I can't believe I just said that.”
“Well I can,” says Skandar, but there's no bite in it. He feels terribly relieved, in fact; relieved and silly.
“You're one to talk - you said canoodling out loud,” Will retorts, before Skandar leans over and kisses him on the side of his nose. Granted, Skandar had been aiming for his mouth instead, but it has the same effect.
“Missed, sorry,” he mumbles, but Will's already pulling him closer by the front of his shirt.
“I can tell you're out of practice, young man,” he says, grinning rather wickedly.
“At what, canoodling?” Skandar asks, leaning in for another try.
It’s better than Skandar’s ever imagined, better than that almost-kiss they had back in New Zealand, because this is real; this is Will’s tongue sliding against his, Will’s fingers clutched in the fabric of his shirt, Will’s hand cupping his jaw.
They pull apart, only to see Georgie and Will P gaping silently at them.
“The room door couldn't be opened,” Will says hurriedly, by way of explanation, letting go of Skandar's shirt only as an afterthought. “So we, um... Well, it couldn't be opened.”
Georgie arches her eyebrow at them. “I’d be surprised if it could,” she says matter-of-factly, pulling Skandar's key card out of the reader and inserting her own, “Since this is my room.”
Will helps him pick out a tie for the LA premiere, since Skandar’s already chosen a shirt.
“Soumaya called me, by the way, when you weren’t answering your phone,” says Georgie, appearing at his elbow, with Will P hovering somewhere behind her. “She wanted to know if you were extending your stay. I told her you were.”
“Thanks,” Skandar tells her, waving uncomfortably at some photographers.
“Though Will P and I have really got to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“The white shirt is lovely and all,” Will P begins, slightly uncertainly, “But are those polar bears on your tie?”