umbrellas in london (2/2), skandar/anna, r
Title: umbrellas in london (2/2)
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Skandar/Anna
Rating: R
Warnings: Real people
Summary: With a little editing, this could be the basis of one of those French films that Will gets all moony-eyed over. (Skandar's never understood quite why -- he doesn't have the patience that subtitles require.)
A/N: This felt a little unfinished before, so I've added a second part. :) 1/2 here.
After Paris, he might have some problems with sequencing.
It's just an issue of working out what order things happened in, and whether that one day was in August or September, or was it even earlier?
He's got the second kiss down, though, for one thing. He's pretty sure that it's one of the vital parts, alongside the build-up and the all-important first kiss.
It was actually still Paris. The morning after. (Maybe he'd have that pop up along the bottom of the screen. The name of the hotel, the time, and then 'the morning after'. A little over-dramatic, but it could work.) They were all eating breakfast, and Anna finished first, disappearing upstairs and saying she still had some packing to do. And it's not like he planned it, but, okay, he might have inhaled the rest of his cereal and followed her before anybody else finished eating.
He knocked on the door; she let him in.
She had a pair of red knickers in her hand, and quickly stuffed them into her suitcase when she thought he wasn't looking. And then she turned around and said, "Oh, Skandar. I didn't think this would ever happen."
He's lying again, that's not what she said. It just sounds better, because in reality, she sort of stammered a bit, laughing nervously and running her hands through her hair, and then she said, "Skandar, what -- I mean -- what is this?"
And he didn't actually know what the right answer to that was, so he just kissed her instead, and that seemed to work.
And oh -- oh, that kiss is so hard for him to describe.
It was nothing, but everything all at once. It was silence apart from her soft sigh against his mouth and the beating of his heart in his ears (and he'd want to keep it that way in the film, too, not put some stupid music over it and ruin the mood). And it was such a morning kiss, a fresh, cool, Paris summer morning kiss, the two of them all toothpaste and soap and breakfast, clothes crisp and wrinkled out of their suitcases. The sleep may as well still have been in his eyes. He had crisscrossing lines across his arms from laying on crumpled sheets. He had a droplet of orange juice drying on his jeans from where he'd spilled it in his hurry to get to her; she had toast crumbs on her cardigan.
Their foreheads rested together when it ended, and she smiled, slow, closed wet lips, and her face was so close that he couldn't focus, but he could see her eyes, blindingly blue and staring into his and that was kind of all that mattered.
Except for the fact that there was a noise coming from behind them that was Georgie unlocking the door.
He'd probably cut to another scene, here, because he's not sure if he'd be able to stand reliving the following hellish, flustered moments where the two of them leapt apart to opposite sides of the room and babbled at Georgie until she was looking at them like they were completely insane.
It's all getting a bit too cheesy-American-rom-com for his tastes, so maybe he'd heat things up with a sex scene or two. Those French movies love their sex scenes, after all, and he'd have to stay true to the genre.
They'd be the kind of sex scenes that you'd just have to watch alone (and re-watch, and re-watch, and...) because there's no way you'd be able to sit there staring at the screen and readjusting your trousers if there was someone else in the room. They'd be the kind of sex scenes that would make everybody in the cinema uncomfortable, but in a really good way. They'd make people need cold showers. They'd make people need cigarettes, even if they didn't smoke. Hell, they'd make people need smelling salts.
The thing is, he's not even exaggerating.
At least, not that much.
The first time should have been awkward, probably, looking back on it, but it wasn't, and he will be forever thankful for that. It didn't even seem like that big of a deal, more of a starting point, a teaser, a taster, there's-lots-more-where-that-came-from.
So maybe he'd make it like a montage -- yes, a montage, a flickering flashing montage, with the contrast up, and he'd have music for that, absolutely, something quick and hot and raw with a bassline that makes your heart beat faster --
Sheets tangled around ankles, skin all salt and sweaty and tinged pink, Anna's hair hanging over her face, sticking to her forehead, her lips plump and red and gasping -- toes curling, fists clenching, flashes of hip and thigh and hollow behind the knee, tendons tensed, knuckles whitened -- her legs wrapped around his back, her breasts pressed against his chest, his hand tangled in her hair as he comes and then, then he would make the scene bleed out into a hot white, filling the screen, the song ending with a sharp sound and leaving every viewer needing a little time alone.
It would be awkward to direct, sure, but the end result could be really fucking worth it.
So, checklist.
Setting the scene with a glamorous movie premiere in Paris, a flash of thigh, a missing necklace, a kiss in a stairwell. Done.
Flashbacks -- he's a little fuzzy on those, unsure which things he wants to show and which things he wants to take to the grave, but generally, they work, giving the characters some background, some substance, letting the audience see how things got to be the way they are. Rum and pianos and rain -- perfect.
Kissing. Sex. More kissing. More sex. And then --
Anna coming round for tea with his parents.
He's not going to lie about this one, he's not going to dress it up and make it look like it went really well.
It was really awkward, and he'd keep it that way, because with a little work, it could go from "suicide-worthy" awkward to "endearing-slash-hilarious" awkward, and maybe he'd be able to bring back a bit of comedy.
The weird thing was, he never told his parents that he was dating her. They just magically knew, in that inexplicable way that parents know everything. What was even weirder was that they never talked about it, it was just sort of accepted. And that's why his Dad came into his room one evening and said something like, "Would you like to invite Anna round for dinner on Sunday?" as if it was some formal invitation, even though she'd come round countless times before for pizza and chips in front of the TV.
He'd go all out, he thinks, make his parents all posh and a little bit snobby (maybe he'd base them on Will's, although he'd never say so, because he does actually have a special place in his heart for Mr and Mrs M. and he wouldn't want them to get offended). He'd have the actor playing his Dad wear a ridiculous tuxedo or something, and the actress playing his Mum would wear a gown and pearls. Anna would look small and awkward turning up in jeans and a t-shirt, but it would be okay because Skandar himself wouldn't have made much of an effort either, and they would sit down together in the spotless living room for drinks, and snacks in silver dishes.
And over dinner -- which would be something neither of them would be able to identify, some kind of insanely expensive meat or fish, laid out on that fancy crockery like the stuff his Grandma has, possibly with servants standing nearby -- his parents would ask Anna questions about her degree and what her parents do for a living. They would call her Miss Popplewell, and she wouldn't know which knife to use, and he would shoot her apologetic glances behind his wine glass whenever he got the chance.
On second thought, perhaps that's a little over-the-top.
It's just a different version of what actually went on, though. His parents may not have dressed up and hired a cook, but they made much more of an effort than usual, his Dad slaving over the Sunday roast for most of the day and his Mum fussing about tablecloths and napkins and candlesticks. And he was confused for about three minutes, until he remembered the first time Soumaya brought a boyfriend home for tea, and the similarities between that and this were suddenly striking.
"She's come round tons of times before," he said, pointlessly, to his Mum, who was bustling around the kitchen. "I don't know why you're making such a big thing of it."
"Yes, dear," she replied, producing two bottles of wine seemingly from mid-air, "now, does Anna prefer red or white?"
It's hard to say exactly what the difference was between this evening and all the others. It just seemed like his parents were suddenly a lot more interested in Anna's life, not quite interrogating her, but certainly reeling off the questions until she was looking completely bemused. And when his Mum reached across the table to take Anna's hand in hers, and said "Please, dear, call me Zelfa," Skandar sort of wanted to sink his head down into his roast potatoes and stay there.
It was okay, though, because they went up to his room afterwards and giggled about it for the better part of an hour, and made out on his bed for the rest of the time, and that made up for everything.
And then, of course, it got to the point where they figured they should probably tell people. 'People' being Will and Georgie and Ben. They really didn't want it to be an announcement, but telling them all at once just made the most sense.
It was stupid, though. Just stupid. He let Anna do all the work, because he didn't really know what the hell he was doing. There was about half an hour in which the three of them were all messing around and not paying attention, and he'd cut that out, because it was frustrating enough the first time around. And then Anna finally managed to get them to listen (by yelling at the top of her voice, which did the trick) and then she just took Skandar's hand like it was no big deal and said "Skandar and I are going out."
Ben didn't really seem to care. He was the first to speak, though, saying "Going out where?" and then, "Oh! Right. Con...gratulations?" in a questioning sort of tone like he didn't really know how he was supposed to react and that seemed like the safest option.
Will looked kind of freaked out by the whole thing and it took him more than a month to get used to the idea. The thing that bothered him the most, he told Skandar later, was that neither of them told him about it when it first started. He didn't understand why they'd kept it secret, didn't like being left out of the loop like that, and it still makes Skandar feel guilty. Georgie was similar, but more in the way that she actually refused to believe it and was convinced it was all some kind of strange joke they were playing.
"Of course they find it weird," said Anna after everybody had left. "We're their best friends, they've known us for ages. It's going to throw off the balance for a while."
Always a logical explanation coming from Anna, of course, and Skandar had to admit that it made sense. He really didn't like it, but, like most of these things, it got better.
He doesn't know, yet, how the film would end, but he's okay with that. It means there's still more to come, and that can only be a good thing.
"What are you doing?" asks Anna. She pads across the bedroom wearing his t-shirt and a pair of stripy kneesocks, one of which has fallen down around her ankle. It's the night before he leaves for Mexico to start filming The Voyage Of The Dawntreader, so it's their last night together for a long time.
She clambers back into her single bed with him, nudging him aside with her elbow to make more room, and he smiles, turning towards her.
"I was imagining what it would be like if this whole thing was a movie," he admits, glancing down embarrassedly. "One of those pretentious French ones that Will likes."
"What whole thing?" she asks him, puzzled, shuffling down under the covers beside him.
"Us."
She breaks into a grin, and then into laughter. "Are you serious?" she asks. She flicks him on the nose. "You are an utter hopeless romantic, Skandar Keynes."
She's going to regret that, he thinks, as he starts in with the most thorough tickle attack ever made, and she squeals and giggles and thrashes against the bed, trying to fight him off. But really, he can't let an accusation like that go ignored.
And it's not his fault, anyway.
After all, how is a romance ever going to get made if one isn't a little bit of a romantic?
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Skandar/Anna
Rating: R
Warnings: Real people
Summary: With a little editing, this could be the basis of one of those French films that Will gets all moony-eyed over. (Skandar's never understood quite why -- he doesn't have the patience that subtitles require.)
A/N: This felt a little unfinished before, so I've added a second part. :) 1/2 here.
After Paris, he might have some problems with sequencing.
It's just an issue of working out what order things happened in, and whether that one day was in August or September, or was it even earlier?
He's got the second kiss down, though, for one thing. He's pretty sure that it's one of the vital parts, alongside the build-up and the all-important first kiss.
It was actually still Paris. The morning after. (Maybe he'd have that pop up along the bottom of the screen. The name of the hotel, the time, and then 'the morning after'. A little over-dramatic, but it could work.) They were all eating breakfast, and Anna finished first, disappearing upstairs and saying she still had some packing to do. And it's not like he planned it, but, okay, he might have inhaled the rest of his cereal and followed her before anybody else finished eating.
He knocked on the door; she let him in.
She had a pair of red knickers in her hand, and quickly stuffed them into her suitcase when she thought he wasn't looking. And then she turned around and said, "Oh, Skandar. I didn't think this would ever happen."
He's lying again, that's not what she said. It just sounds better, because in reality, she sort of stammered a bit, laughing nervously and running her hands through her hair, and then she said, "Skandar, what -- I mean -- what is this?"
And he didn't actually know what the right answer to that was, so he just kissed her instead, and that seemed to work.
And oh -- oh, that kiss is so hard for him to describe.
It was nothing, but everything all at once. It was silence apart from her soft sigh against his mouth and the beating of his heart in his ears (and he'd want to keep it that way in the film, too, not put some stupid music over it and ruin the mood). And it was such a morning kiss, a fresh, cool, Paris summer morning kiss, the two of them all toothpaste and soap and breakfast, clothes crisp and wrinkled out of their suitcases. The sleep may as well still have been in his eyes. He had crisscrossing lines across his arms from laying on crumpled sheets. He had a droplet of orange juice drying on his jeans from where he'd spilled it in his hurry to get to her; she had toast crumbs on her cardigan.
Their foreheads rested together when it ended, and she smiled, slow, closed wet lips, and her face was so close that he couldn't focus, but he could see her eyes, blindingly blue and staring into his and that was kind of all that mattered.
Except for the fact that there was a noise coming from behind them that was Georgie unlocking the door.
He'd probably cut to another scene, here, because he's not sure if he'd be able to stand reliving the following hellish, flustered moments where the two of them leapt apart to opposite sides of the room and babbled at Georgie until she was looking at them like they were completely insane.
It's all getting a bit too cheesy-American-rom-com for his tastes, so maybe he'd heat things up with a sex scene or two. Those French movies love their sex scenes, after all, and he'd have to stay true to the genre.
They'd be the kind of sex scenes that you'd just have to watch alone (and re-watch, and re-watch, and...) because there's no way you'd be able to sit there staring at the screen and readjusting your trousers if there was someone else in the room. They'd be the kind of sex scenes that would make everybody in the cinema uncomfortable, but in a really good way. They'd make people need cold showers. They'd make people need cigarettes, even if they didn't smoke. Hell, they'd make people need smelling salts.
The thing is, he's not even exaggerating.
At least, not that much.
The first time should have been awkward, probably, looking back on it, but it wasn't, and he will be forever thankful for that. It didn't even seem like that big of a deal, more of a starting point, a teaser, a taster, there's-lots-more-where-that-came-from.
So maybe he'd make it like a montage -- yes, a montage, a flickering flashing montage, with the contrast up, and he'd have music for that, absolutely, something quick and hot and raw with a bassline that makes your heart beat faster --
Sheets tangled around ankles, skin all salt and sweaty and tinged pink, Anna's hair hanging over her face, sticking to her forehead, her lips plump and red and gasping -- toes curling, fists clenching, flashes of hip and thigh and hollow behind the knee, tendons tensed, knuckles whitened -- her legs wrapped around his back, her breasts pressed against his chest, his hand tangled in her hair as he comes and then, then he would make the scene bleed out into a hot white, filling the screen, the song ending with a sharp sound and leaving every viewer needing a little time alone.
It would be awkward to direct, sure, but the end result could be really fucking worth it.
So, checklist.
Setting the scene with a glamorous movie premiere in Paris, a flash of thigh, a missing necklace, a kiss in a stairwell. Done.
Flashbacks -- he's a little fuzzy on those, unsure which things he wants to show and which things he wants to take to the grave, but generally, they work, giving the characters some background, some substance, letting the audience see how things got to be the way they are. Rum and pianos and rain -- perfect.
Kissing. Sex. More kissing. More sex. And then --
Anna coming round for tea with his parents.
He's not going to lie about this one, he's not going to dress it up and make it look like it went really well.
It was really awkward, and he'd keep it that way, because with a little work, it could go from "suicide-worthy" awkward to "endearing-slash-hilarious" awkward, and maybe he'd be able to bring back a bit of comedy.
The weird thing was, he never told his parents that he was dating her. They just magically knew, in that inexplicable way that parents know everything. What was even weirder was that they never talked about it, it was just sort of accepted. And that's why his Dad came into his room one evening and said something like, "Would you like to invite Anna round for dinner on Sunday?" as if it was some formal invitation, even though she'd come round countless times before for pizza and chips in front of the TV.
He'd go all out, he thinks, make his parents all posh and a little bit snobby (maybe he'd base them on Will's, although he'd never say so, because he does actually have a special place in his heart for Mr and Mrs M. and he wouldn't want them to get offended). He'd have the actor playing his Dad wear a ridiculous tuxedo or something, and the actress playing his Mum would wear a gown and pearls. Anna would look small and awkward turning up in jeans and a t-shirt, but it would be okay because Skandar himself wouldn't have made much of an effort either, and they would sit down together in the spotless living room for drinks, and snacks in silver dishes.
And over dinner -- which would be something neither of them would be able to identify, some kind of insanely expensive meat or fish, laid out on that fancy crockery like the stuff his Grandma has, possibly with servants standing nearby -- his parents would ask Anna questions about her degree and what her parents do for a living. They would call her Miss Popplewell, and she wouldn't know which knife to use, and he would shoot her apologetic glances behind his wine glass whenever he got the chance.
On second thought, perhaps that's a little over-the-top.
It's just a different version of what actually went on, though. His parents may not have dressed up and hired a cook, but they made much more of an effort than usual, his Dad slaving over the Sunday roast for most of the day and his Mum fussing about tablecloths and napkins and candlesticks. And he was confused for about three minutes, until he remembered the first time Soumaya brought a boyfriend home for tea, and the similarities between that and this were suddenly striking.
"She's come round tons of times before," he said, pointlessly, to his Mum, who was bustling around the kitchen. "I don't know why you're making such a big thing of it."
"Yes, dear," she replied, producing two bottles of wine seemingly from mid-air, "now, does Anna prefer red or white?"
It's hard to say exactly what the difference was between this evening and all the others. It just seemed like his parents were suddenly a lot more interested in Anna's life, not quite interrogating her, but certainly reeling off the questions until she was looking completely bemused. And when his Mum reached across the table to take Anna's hand in hers, and said "Please, dear, call me Zelfa," Skandar sort of wanted to sink his head down into his roast potatoes and stay there.
It was okay, though, because they went up to his room afterwards and giggled about it for the better part of an hour, and made out on his bed for the rest of the time, and that made up for everything.
And then, of course, it got to the point where they figured they should probably tell people. 'People' being Will and Georgie and Ben. They really didn't want it to be an announcement, but telling them all at once just made the most sense.
It was stupid, though. Just stupid. He let Anna do all the work, because he didn't really know what the hell he was doing. There was about half an hour in which the three of them were all messing around and not paying attention, and he'd cut that out, because it was frustrating enough the first time around. And then Anna finally managed to get them to listen (by yelling at the top of her voice, which did the trick) and then she just took Skandar's hand like it was no big deal and said "Skandar and I are going out."
Ben didn't really seem to care. He was the first to speak, though, saying "Going out where?" and then, "Oh! Right. Con...gratulations?" in a questioning sort of tone like he didn't really know how he was supposed to react and that seemed like the safest option.
Will looked kind of freaked out by the whole thing and it took him more than a month to get used to the idea. The thing that bothered him the most, he told Skandar later, was that neither of them told him about it when it first started. He didn't understand why they'd kept it secret, didn't like being left out of the loop like that, and it still makes Skandar feel guilty. Georgie was similar, but more in the way that she actually refused to believe it and was convinced it was all some kind of strange joke they were playing.
"Of course they find it weird," said Anna after everybody had left. "We're their best friends, they've known us for ages. It's going to throw off the balance for a while."
Always a logical explanation coming from Anna, of course, and Skandar had to admit that it made sense. He really didn't like it, but, like most of these things, it got better.
He doesn't know, yet, how the film would end, but he's okay with that. It means there's still more to come, and that can only be a good thing.
"What are you doing?" asks Anna. She pads across the bedroom wearing his t-shirt and a pair of stripy kneesocks, one of which has fallen down around her ankle. It's the night before he leaves for Mexico to start filming The Voyage Of The Dawntreader, so it's their last night together for a long time.
She clambers back into her single bed with him, nudging him aside with her elbow to make more room, and he smiles, turning towards her.
"I was imagining what it would be like if this whole thing was a movie," he admits, glancing down embarrassedly. "One of those pretentious French ones that Will likes."
"What whole thing?" she asks him, puzzled, shuffling down under the covers beside him.
"Us."
She breaks into a grin, and then into laughter. "Are you serious?" she asks. She flicks him on the nose. "You are an utter hopeless romantic, Skandar Keynes."
She's going to regret that, he thinks, as he starts in with the most thorough tickle attack ever made, and she squeals and giggles and thrashes against the bed, trying to fight him off. But really, he can't let an accusation like that go ignored.
And it's not his fault, anyway.
After all, how is a romance ever going to get made if one isn't a little bit of a romantic?