Posted: September 2003
Title: The Actor Way
Author: Haleth
Type: RPS
Characters: Bloom/Depp
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: These are real people, but they're not real words. Well, they are real words, almost every one of them is in the dictionary. It just didn't happen. Well, I have no PROOF it didn't happen, but there's no proof it did happen. So you can get as existential as you like, just don't sue me.
Notes: The long awaited Birthday Present. Happy Birthday Lemur, you sexy talented love monkey you! Sort of a companion piece to The Pirate Way, but you don't have to have read it. The Pirate Way, I mean. You know what I mean. Oh, and I've never delved into RPS before. Hope I did it right.
Summary: Orlando is sunning himself. Johnny is fondling his instrument. (Get yer filthy mind out of the gutter, girl!)

*****

"Hey, Johnny."

Orlando lies on the deck of Johnny's boat in the full sun, all tanned lanky limbs and glistening deltoids. Johnny sits in the shade of the cabin, dark glasses and a hat keeping his eyes from hurting too much.

"Yeah, Orlando?"

"What d'you think about the real pirates?"

Johnny picks up his new guitar, bit of an old wreck actually, but the old man in the market claimed it was one of a kind. Hand made.

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, I mean, you did your research on them. Do you think they were poufs?"

Johnny runs his hand up the smooth, tapered neck of the guitar. It's not as wide at the top as a classical guitar, which is only fitting since the strings are steel, drawn tight like a bow.

"Poufs?"

"Y'know what I mean."

Orlando shifts, stretches his arms up over his head, as if he might slide off the edge of the boat and dive into the ocean. The colour-not-found-in-nature fabric of his swim trunks stretches against the curve of his ass. Accentuating it.

"Yeah. Well, I don't know if they were full-on gay, but I'm sure they used to enjoy each other's company."

"What, like if they were too long at sea, yeah?"

His toes are pointing. And even the bottoms of his feet are tanned.

"Something like that."

"No birds on a pirate ship then."

Johnny's fingertip traces over a scratch on the back of the guitar. It's etched in the rich nutmeg-stained wood, not as far as he can tell affecting the sound of the instrument. Gives it character. Shows how much it's lived.

"Not many."

"Pity."

Orlando scratches the small of his back, right below where a thin white line trails up over bumps and ridges. It's the only part of him that isn't tanned, it seems. As if someone had dribbled warm paraffin over his spine before setting Orlando out in the sun, and then they peeled it off when he was finished baking. Sort of like batik.

"And the ones who did go on the pirate ships, you wouldn't want to mess with them."

"Suppose not. Tough birds."

Johnny's fingernail slides into the scar on the back of the guitar and follows its path. It feels rough inside, maybe a little swollen. He should really clean it out and seal it to prevent too much moisture from seeping in. Pamper it.

"You could try, but you'd probably have an easier time with one of the fellows."

"Oh."

Orlando rolls over in slow motion. His hair follows him, slower, as if it wasn't quite part of him, brushing over his face as he settles back down on the towel. Squinting against the sun. He lifts his head, tightening already tight abs with the motion, and sweeps the curls together into one bunch, tucking them behind his neck as he lowers his head.

"Hate those extensions, eh?"

"It's strange, having them with me all the time. Can't take'em off the way I did the Legolas wig. Not that I miss the wig."

Orlando flicks a stray strand off his eyes.

"Or the ears."

"I'm quite happy to avoid all that glue, thanks muchly."

Johnny lets his fingers wander over the top curve of the guitar. It has a wide, deep body, which will produce a rich, resonant low end, once Johnny has restrung it.

"I don't mind the wig, though."

"What? *Your* wig?"

Orlando looks up at his co-star. Soft sun-bleached hair falling over the edge of his sunglasses now. He pictures the black dreads and braids and jewellery and ever-present scarf.

"Yeah, I like my wig. It has a sense of…"

"Style?"

Johnny flips the guitar over in his lap, caressing the strings. They're worn and dirty, a layer of grease and dust on the strings. He feels his fingers stretch, bend, settle into a chord. He couldn't say which chord. The low note is a F, so that's what it must be. Some sort of F.

"Well, I was going to say elegance, but I suppose style would cover it."

"Legolas was elegant."

Strums. The sound is muffled, muddy. But the potential is there.

"How about balls?"

"Balls?"

Orlando giggles. How could a grown man giggle and not look like a silly boy? There has to be a trick to it.

"Bravado?"

"Flamboyance?"

Another chord. Another strum. He won't even bother finger picking until he puts the new strings on. The sound is so dull it's as if it's delayed. He wants it to sing, bright and clear.

"Elan, more like."

"Are we doing a crossword?"

But with a rich resonant bottom end.

"Just having a day off s'all."

"Out to sea."

Orlando throws one arm up over his face to shade his eyes. He feels the hair on his legs prickling.

"Two pirates out on the ocean."

"No birds."

He wonders if the prickling means anything, but then he realizes there's a breeze, and it's blowing across him, lifting the hairs individually. He wriggles.

"Not comfortable?"

"Naw, I'm fine, mate."

But he has to shift his ass to get his trunks to stop pulling at the front.

"That'd be matey, wouldn't it?"

"To be very piratey, yeah, I suppose."

Johnny plays the first few bars to an old blues tune. Blues sound good on this guitar, even with the dirty strings.

"Very piratey. That's not a word."

"Naw, it's a way of life."

Johnny puts the guitar back into its battered case.

"Away from home all the time. Going off with a crew. Lots of men around."

"Not many birds."

No birds on the boat.

"Sort of like being an actor."

"Well, in action-type movies."

The boat rolls gently with the waves.

"Action. Yeah."

"That's the only kind I've done."

Johnny peers over the top of his shades. Orlando is peering back at him, through squinted eyes topped by a furrowed brow. It's bright.

"Action movies?"

"Mostly, yeah."

The sun glints off Orland's hair extensions.

"Not many birds?"

"Naw, too much action."

Orlando coughs.

"Well, that's the actor way."

"If you're going to do it properly."

Johnny grins and stretches his legs out in front of him, enjoying the rocking of the boat.

"Right."

"Hey, Johnny."

Orlando curls up to a sitting position, abs tight again.

"Yeah, Orlando?"

"What do you think about the real actors?"

*****

THE END

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