Title: When in Malta
Author: Lobelia; [email protected]
Website: http://www.geocities.com/lobelia321/
Pairing: Orlando Bloom / Brad Pitt; Orlando Bloom / Dominic Monaghan
Rating: R
Summary: Orli and Brad have a meal and discuss career options. The sun sets. Memories waft by.
Feedback: Yes, please, I would love feedback! Anything, even if it's only one line, one word!
Content/Warnings: RPS. One spoiler to do with the story of the Trojan wars. (If you want to read the fic without the spoiler, email me. I can X out that line and send you the story as an attachment.)
Spoilers: None.
Archive Rights: troy_rps LiveJournal community. My niche. Anyone else, please ask.
Disclaimers: This is a work of amateur fiction. I do not know these people. I am not making money. The events described in this story did not happen.

Author's Notes: Thanks to Jenn and Orlisbunny for providing Malta info. Thanks to Laz for flashing curls at me, without which. And thank you as ever to my febulous beta, Gabby Hope! Apologies to anyone who objects to the idiosyncratic direct-speech notation I've used in this fic. Just this once, eh?

I veer from canon once (heh, spot it if you can) and adhere to the recently disclosed news that Orlando is not a vegetarian after all; he has just sometimes avoided meat but not on principle. (I can't remember the url of the particular interview, sorry.)

I apologise but my browser is unable to display Maltese diacritics properly. In 'hobz biz-zeijt', the h has a slash through it and the z's have a dot above. In 'gbejniet', the g has a dot above.

For anybody who needs help in the name-dropping thicket: Other people mentioned in this story are Johnny Depp (with Orli in Pirates of the Caribbean), Jason Isaacs (with Orli in Black Hawk Down), Eric Bana (with Orli in Black Hawk Down and Troy), Ewan McGregor (with Orli in Black Hawk Down), Gwyneth Paltrow (with Brad in Se7en; also, former girlfriend of Brad), Julia Roberts (with Brad in The Mexican and Ocean's Eleven), Tabitha Wady (with Dom in Hetty Wainthropp Investigates, episode "The Astral Plane"), Ridley Scott (directed Orli in Black Hawk Down, directed Brad in Thelma and Louise), Geena Davis (with Brad in Thelma and Louise), Alan Cumming (with nobody in anything but rampant bisexual and delectable in X-Men and Spy Kids); Jennifer Aniston (of Friends fame and wife of Brad).

Pic to illustrate this fic.
-----

When in Malta

- Why do you do that? Leave the foam on? - asked Brad.

- Oh, this? - Orli gestured at his white moustache. - I don't know. I've always done it. I like the cool feeling on my skin. And the way it goes crinkly when it dries. And then... - He stuck out his tongue, all the way out, and swiped it from left to right. He curled it back in again, like a frog reeling in the fly, and grinned. - I like licking it off. - He looked at Brad.

- Right. Cool. - Brad lifted the glass to his mouth and sloshed foam against his lips. When he set the glass down again, there was foam all around his mouth, like a five-year-old's nutella beard. Orli laughed. Brad laughed. - Yeah, shit. I guess it requires patience, huh? -

Orli took another swig, covered his philtrum in foam again. He curled out his tongue, wiped it along the skin. He half-closed his eyes. He jutted his chin in Brad's direction.

Brad burst out laughing. - Shit, man. You crack me up. -

They were sitting at a little round table made of metal. It wobbled on bowed legs. Brad was drinking Blue Label. Orli was drinking Cisk lager. Local beers, stubby bottles, one with a yellow label, one blue. The sky was blue as well, although only just, because the sun was setting slowly and turning the horizon to pink. Their table was turning pink, too, and the dual solar reflections in Brad's sunglasses gleamed like the wild roses climbing up the hills of Malta.

Brad lifted his bottle by the neck and clinked it loosely against Orli's. - Chin-chin. -

- Yeah, - said Orli.

In the distance, a tanker crawled across the sea. The entire Mediterranean seemed spread out beneath them, from Sicily to Alexandria. An early-evening breeze caused the fringed umbrellas on the restaurant's terrace to flap. A tabby cat appeared next to an earthenware urn and started to lick its arse with its hind leg hoisted like the main mast on one of the Achaean boats.

Orli bent back his head and let the sun wash over his throat.

- You hungry at all? -

- Hm? - He brought his head back up. - Yeah. They do a really good hobz biz-zejt here. -

- Sorry, a what? -

Orli blinked and repeated, - Hobz biz-zeijt. You haven't had one of those? -

- Hobbz bizzidj? No. What is it when it's pronounceable? -

Orli laughed. - You'll see. We'll get two. And more beer. -

So he ordered, saying 'iva' and 'grazzi' to the waiter who stood, white napkin over threadbare arm, smiling at Orli with golden fillings. - You speak very good Maltese - the waiter said, and Orli laughed and said, - Le, le. No, I don't. -

But Brad seemed impressed. - Where the hell d'ya learn all that? - he asked as soon as the waiter had left.

Orli took another swig, did another lip coating, licked foam off, turned to Brad and smiled at the twin suns. - Just picked it up round the place. I know hardly anything. -

- Well, it's still more than I know. And this place, too. Amazing. And no paparazzi. How d'ya find it? -

- Oh. - Orli shrugged. - Just asked around. Actually... - He moved his chair closer to the table, metal legs scraping along cement. - It's something Jason told me about. -

- Jason? -

- Isaacs. From Black Hawk Down. When we were in Morocco. He said that the best thing to do when you're on location is to get to know someone from the local crew. Like a lighting guy or someone in catering. He said that they always know the best places. -

- Cool, - said Brad.

- When he told me that, I said, yeah, sure, uh-huh. You know. I thought, well, who knows when I'll be needing that particular bit of advice? I thought I wouldn't be on location again for... like never. But it's turned out to be massively useful because I've been all over in the last two years. You know what I still can't believe? -

- No. You got a smoke for me, man? -

Orli put two fingers into the breast pocket of his open shirt which he'd left unbuttoned over his T-shirt. The pocket bulged rectangularly, and Orli extracted a pack of Marlboros and a slimline lighter. He slid the pack across to Brad who wiped his hands on his thighs and picked out a cigarette. Brad held up a finger, testing for wind, then bent forward, away from the table. He cupped his hand around his cigarette and lit it. A curl of smoke made its acrid way up toward the tops of the cypress trees. Orli shook the pack, poured a cigarette onto his palm, shook the cigarette, clamped it between his lips, frowned in anticipation, shook the lighter and lit up.

Both exhaled a few times in unison and watched the tanker progress across the picture book ocean.

- I still can't really believe that I'm here, that I'm doing all this, - Orli said. - You know? One minute I'm a student in London, and the next I'm in all these fantastic locations all over the world. -

- Wearing a mini skirt. - Brad winked.

- Yeah. Wearing a mini skirt! And having beer with the talented Mr Brad Pitt! -

- Stop it, Orli. Christ, you'll make me piss my pants. - Brad heaved with laughter. - You make me sound like something out of that movie, the one with Gwyn. -

- Talented Mr Ripley. -

- That's the one. But hey, we're just two guys, right? You and me both. And you're certainly the talented Mr Bloom. -

Orli grinned at nothing, at the sea or the horizon. He stretched out his legs and felt the nicotine rush in his blood. He felt good about himself, his body felt comfortable in its skin and bones, and that was partly the effect of the tobacco and partly the effect of Brad, Brad fucking Pitt, sitting on this terrace next to him and smiling and calling him 'talented Mr Bloom'.

- Yeah, - he finally said. - Here's to talent. -

They lifted their bottles and clinked them, then lifted their glasses and clinked them, too.

-----

- There's something in your eye. -

- Yeah? What? - Orli looked up into the light, tipping his head back. The neon lighting glared right into his brain so he shut his eyes.

- That's no good. - Dom knelt on the corner of Orli's chair, trying to peer into Orli's face. He steadied Orli's shoulder with one hand and put one finger on the bottom lip of Orli's left eye.

Orli blinked.

- No, don't shut it. Look up. Look at the ceiling. -

Dom licked his little finger and dabbed at the corner of Orli's eye.

Orli blinked furiously. His eye started to water. - Out, - he said, - it's out. -

They slumped back into their seats. Outside, cars zoomed past and splashed the pavement with mucky water. The puddles reflected fluorescent tubes. In the floor-to-ceiling window, they saw their own reflections, the reflections of rows of empty laminated tables and chairs, plus someone at the back of the place mopping the floor with hair pinned up under a paper hat. Dom lifted the top half of his bun and squeezed ketchup over his burger.

- Lovely, lovely, - he said. - Nothing like a greasy yucky double-cheeseburger to chase away the late-night nibblies. -

- Yeah, yucky's about right. -

Dom opened wide and shoved the burger in, spraying wilted lettuce and sesame seeds over the styrofoam box that stood in lieu of a plate. Ketchup squirted out of the other side of the bun and left stains in the creases between his fingers.

Orli was really only waiting, biding his time, keeping an inner weight pressing down on the bubble of his excitement. But smiling, smiling all the while.

- Dom. -

- Yeah? -

- I mean. Dom. -

- Yeah? What's up, mate? -

Orli laughed. He looked up at the ceiling. He looked at Dom. He looked out at the cars, wet grey shapes in a wet grey street. He laughed again.

- What, Orli? What? -

- Guess what? I have got... - Another laugh. - I have got a part in... - Breathless pause. - Black Hawk Down. -

- What hawk down? Hang on, is this that film? The one you were telling me about the other day? The one with the script? -

- Yes, yes, yes. - The yesses came out all flattened, squeezing themselves through the slit of Orli's grin. - I start work on it next year, straight after Rings, and it's going to be in Morocco and the States and all sorts of shit, and it's got Ewan McGregor in it as well, and it's going to be made by Ridley Scott. -

Dom lowered his burger. There was ketchup on his lower lip.

- Ridley fucking Scott! - crowed Orli.

Dom laughed. - Wow! - He laughed again. - That is fucking fantastic, mate. Fucking brilliant. -

- Shitshitshitshit! - said Orli, all the shits squeezing out after the yesses, one smile chasing the next. Orli could barely contain his face. Dom was laughing, and the rain was raining, and all the ketchup bottles on all the tables were dancing the tarantella.

- Fucking brilliant, - repeated Dom, and he was still laughing.

- I haven't told anyone, - said Orli. - They rang just now, just before I got you to come out with me. -

- Who are you going to play again? -

- This guy, Todd Blackburn. I told you the story, remember, when I first got the script? Get this: I fall out of a helicopter. -

- You die? -

Orli paused. - Shit, I can't remember. - He laughed. - I'll have to reread the bloody script. Die, live, who cares? I'm in a fucking Ridley-Scott movie! -

- Thelma and Louise! -

- Blade Runner! -

- Alien! -

- Shitshitshit, - said Orli again, threw his head back and laughed at the ceiling.

- Cheers, mate. No, really. Fantastic news. - Dom lifted his coke can, Orli lifted his, and they clinked and sipped. Orli grinned, Dom grinned. Dom said, - So is this going to be it? Your road to stardom? -

- Rubbish. It's only a bit part. -

- Yeah, but Ridley! War movie! And no wig, I take it? -

Orli laughed. - No, no wig. -

- And that has to be a good thing, right? - They lifted their cans again, clinked again, drank again. Dom tore a bite out of his burger and chewed.

- You know what Ian told me the other day? -

- Not the stage thing? -

- Yeah. - Orli laughed. - He said it would be a pity if I went on and made another movie after this. I should try out stage for a while longer before I go into the movies. -

- And are you going to? -

- No. - Orli laughed again, couldn't help it. Endless ribbons of laughter were unspooling themselves in his stomach and rising to the top like the fizz in his coke.

Dom laughed, too, as if infected. Bits of sesame lodged in the tomato sauce around his lips.

- How about you, Dom? Aren't you going to try for the big scripts and the big names? -

Dom swallowed. - Nah. You know me. That's not really me. -

- Well. It's not really me, either. But I want it to be me. -

Dom looked at him. - It's you all right, Orli. It is you. -

Orli blinked. - Well, it's you, too. It's all of us. Could be. After Rings. -

Dom shook his head. - No, it's you, especially. And you can do it, too. -

Was it the coke on an empty stomach, because his own burger continued to rest untouched in its styrofoam box? Was it the excitement of Ridley and hawks and Morocco? Was it the rain and the light and the smell of pine floor-cleaner mixed in with stale gravy and the lack of a cigarette? Or why else did Dom's eyes spark like plugs, and why else did the dots of light in Dom's pupils whir like rotor blades in the night?

Dom's lips were red with ketchup.

Orli reached out and wiped his finger along Dom's lower lip. - You're such a pig, - he said. Then he licked his own finger.

Dom looked at him, stuck out his tongue.

And Orli was high, high as a fucking kite, and his ribcage full to bursting, and his balls like tight hard limes between his legs.

Without a further thought, Orli half-got up, leaned over the table, grabbed Dom by the ears, more or less, and kissed him full on his ketchuppy, yucky mouth.

-----

- Have you done much stage, Brad? -

- Stage? As in Broadway? Why? -

- Oh, I was just thinking. About something Ian once told me. -

- Ian who? -

- McKellen. You know, Gandalf. -

- Oh yeah. -

The shadows were lengthening, and the light turned from pink to something more golden. A woman's laugh rose from the valley below, the bark of a dog, and a lone lizard darted along the low wall next to their table.

- Ian told me that it would be a pity if I abandoned stage work. That I shouldn't be tempted by the lure of movies. -

Brad burst out laughing and choked on his cigarette smoke. Orli leaned over and bashed him on the back, with a flat palm between the shoulder blades. Brad's back warm and alive underneath his cotton shirt.

- Thanks. But shit, man. You really shouldn't listen to those old geezers too much. Listen... - Brad leaned forward, elbow on table, cigarette earnestly pointing. - When I was starting out in Hollywood, everyone was always giving me advice. Especially the old geezers. Thing is, they're hung up on stuff that's not relevant now. Stage as the big ole training ground and all that. Plus, I'll tell you what, half the time they're just jealous of new talent. Movies are the training ground. -

- Yeah? Really? -

Brad pursed his lips and tapped ash into the aluminium ashtray in the centre of their table. - I mean, your friend Ian, he's a sir and all that, right? But what sort of roles does that get him in the movies? Wizards? Evil sci-fi guys? -

Orli laughed. - Careful. I was an elf, remember? -

- Yeah, so what, I was a fucking vampire. But you're at the beginning of your career. You don't wanna be an elf forever. What you want, man, is romantic leads. If you get to play the romantic lead coupla times, then you can do anything you want after. If you just stick to sci-fi weirdos, well, that's what you'll be forever, some weirdo extra. -

Orli nodded. Orli inhaled. Orli frowned at the sunset.

- You wanna get to kiss the girl, that's what you want. -

Orli frowned some more, then he leaned back. Let an exhaust line of smoke putter into the wind.

- Well, kissing the girl's always nice. - He thought for a moment before deciding to switch grounds. - Though it can't compete with kissing for real, can it? - Smiled carefully. Smiled at Brad.

But Brad didn't seem to have noticed. - The secret with screen kissing, - he was saying, - is that there is no secret. You lean in, you poke out that tongue. - He poked out his tongue and leaned into Orli. - You plant the old lips on the old lips, and hey presto. Of course, once you start, you gotta pull that tongue back in. - Brad's tongue disappeared again. - Otherwise: gross. I once kissed... Well, it was Geena, actually. In Thelma. -

- Oh right. - Orli swallowed. - You were so cool in that. -

- And she kissed with tongue. That's pornography, not movies. -

- Right, - said Orli. Looked at Brad. Winked at Brad and licked his now-foamless top lip.

Brad laughed. - Screen kissing, eh. What a scream. Thing is you want to stay professional about it. Not mess about with it. With Geena: things got messy. More ways'n one. And you don't want that. -

- Oh no. -

Orli had reached the filter and stubbed his cigarette out into Brad's soft mound of ash, in the middle of the battered ashtray. Strands of sun, like forgotten lengths of spaghetti, lay down across the table. In the distance, the horizon turned smudged.

Somewhere, at the back of Orli's head, waves thundered to shore.

-----

- Listen, - Dom said, - what about screen kissing? Screen kissing's fun. -

Orli, only half-dressed, with his shirt unbuttoned and his trainers unlaced, leaned back against the rocks and saluted the New Zealand sky with his bottle of Tooheys. - Yup. Here's to screen kissing. -

They drank, with the surf accompanying their glugs, and Dom said, - So what was your first screen kiss, then? -

- Midsomer Murders. - Orli turned to Dom and jutted forward his chin. - 'You know what I like about you?' - Then, in a preternaturally squeaky voice: - 'Don't ever change.' - And back to tenor: - 'Your generosity.' -

Dom kicked his feet and cried, - You remember the fucking lines? Orli, you sad sod! -

Orli giggled. - Yeah? How about you? Come on. Give us your first kiss. -

Dom put on a serious expression, commenced to speak, burst out laughing, composed himself via beer swig.

Put on a serious expression, said, - 'Can I...' -, burst out laughing again and rolled off his rock into the sand.

- Come on, you daft bugger! Get it out, man! -

- Okay, okay. - Dom assumed his serious expression. Went 'ahem'. Bottom-shuffled into position next to Orli and looked at Orli with moon eyes. - 'Can I kiss you?' -

Orli sucked in his lips but the laughter drained out of the corners of his eyes.

Squeaky-voiced Dom: - 'I might like it.' - Bass-voiced Dom: - 'Okay then.' -

And quick as a fiddler, Dom leaned in and planted his lips on Orli's lips.

The wind did not ruffle their hair because there wasn't much to ruffle.

Dom took his lips away and took a swig of beer. - And there you have it. Of course, there was a lot more hair involved. -

- Hair? - Orli sounded blank. Also slightly discomposed by just having had Dom's lips on his own.

- The girl? Tabitha? She had long hair. Long dark curly hair. And it was blowing all over my face and into my mouth. They had this wind machine. This was on Wainthropp. -

- I used to have long curly hair. - Not that this was relevant. Necessarily. But what to say? Suddenly, Orli wished his hair was long again so that it would blow all over Dom's face and into Dom's mouth.

- Oh yeah? - Dom giggled. - Well, come on then. Be the girl. -

- How do the lines go again? -

- Who cares? Improvise 'em. -

So Orli took a swig -- swig, swig, swirl beer around mouth, rinse and swallow --, sat up straight, imagined his hair grown back, tried to focus his eyes on Dom.

- 'Can I kiss yer?' - Dom's accent was somehow Lancashire-fied and his expression deadpan. Orli took one look at the deadness of it and collapsed into the sand.

- Hopeless. Audition failed. - Dom inserted bottle neck into mouth cavity and let the beer glug down his throat. Orli watched his Adam's apple bob. The bottle went 'chunk' as it hit the ground. Empty.

- 'Again, again.' - This was Orli as Tinky Winky.

This time it was Dom who collapsed. Slid onto his back, held his stomach.

- Anyway... - Orli feeling brave. Orli being Noo-noo. - That was such a chaste kiss, that Wainthropp kiss. Mine, on the other hand, was decadent. -

- Oh yeah? -

- Oh yeah. - Orli let imaginary locks fall into Dom's face from above. Dom's face in the shade with Orli's head as the umbrella. - 'You know what I like about you?' - All husky now.

- 'My... generosity?' -

- Dolt. That's my line. -

But Orli kissed him, anyway. He made his lips soft and let them fall, just gently tip, onto Dom's mouth. And then he hovered. His arm was strained with holding his torso at just this 45 degree angle. His lips rested on Dom's -- top lip on top lip, bottom lip on bottom lip. Tongue in between but well-hidden behind teeth.

There was wind somewhere, and beer, and the crash of breakers on the shore at the back of their heads.

Orli closed his eyes. All the sounds became louder.

Crash of waves. Hiss of wind among the dune grasses. The faraway sound of open spaces.

Dom's breath within the tiny closed space of their kiss.

Then Dom's lips moved. Against Orli's hovering lips.

- I thought it was supposed to be such a decadent kiss, - Dom's lips said.

- You wanker. - But Orli didn't break away. Nor did he open his eyes. - You wanker, - he said again. But it came out very softly, with his lips barely moving. A ventriloquist's 'wanker'. And Dom's buttons just touching his belly, where Orli's shirt hung open. Two hard circles against Orli's skin.

Suddenly, Dom's arms were around him, he fell onto Dom, Dom's tongue was between his teeth, Dom's head moved around in furious abandon, twice, thrice, Dom's arms pulled him into a sand roll, and then Dom fell back, opened his mouth and laughed and laughed.

Orli blinked.

Orli laughed, too.

- You're the wanker, mate. Where's more beer? - said Dom, still hiccuping with laughter.

- 'Try sex scene next?' - squeaked Orli, taking refuge in Tinky Winky.

- Piss off, wanker. - Dom grabbed Orli's bottle, sucked out beer, looked at Orli.

His mouth said, 'Piss off', but his eyes said, 'Hell, why not?'

-----

The waiter came... - Skuzi - ...and cleared away the bottles. Rearranged the cardboard coasters and the glasses, placed new beers and two plates on the table. He started to say things to Orli but Orli had to laugh and say, - Le, le, my Maltese isn't that good. Sorry. But tell me, mate, how do you say 'beer'? -

The waiter stood up straight. He plucked at his napkin but his mouth grinned and with trilling r's he told Orli about the coves up the coast and how he used to dive off one particular cliff near Bugibba when he was a schoolboy. - We called it Pigeon Cliff. It looks like bird. - - Really? - said Orli, and talked about clay pigeon shooting in Canterbury.

On the plates, crunchy, oil-drenched pieces of bread made themselves into part of the scene. The aroma from the herbs and tomatoes that had been rubbed into the crust mixed and mingled with the scent of crushed thyme coming off the hillside.

The waiter flashed his fillings one last time, motioned with his chin at some new customers, high heels crunching along the gravel of the path, and left.

- Well, - said Brad. - You really do get on with the locals. -

Orli shrugged. - Yeah. Just like I told you. They know the best places. -

Brad opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it again. Smiled, looked at his plate. - This looks fantastic. Well, enjoy. -

Minutes passed to the sound of chewing, the spraying of crumbs, the sucking in of lips and the twitter of sparrows in the eaves of the taverna's red-tiled roof.

- Tell me, - Brad said after a while. - Tell me about Hawk. What's... - He coughed. - What's Ewan like to work with? -

Orli, still absurdly pleased to be asked such questions, to be asked, to know stuff that Brad didn't know -- Brad Pitt! ordinary blond bloke, shaded, guarded, laughing with Orli on a terrace in the hills of Malta --, Orli replied,

- Oh, he's brilliant. He is really, really talented. A real pro. -

- That so? How? -

Orli fudged the bit about not knowing Ewan all that well, really, not half as well as he knew Jason, for example, or for that matter, Eric, and moved smoothly on,

- Brad, when you say how people get stuck in sci-fi roles -- well, Ewan's the perfect example of a guy who can do sci-fi but who can do anything else he wants to as well. He's not just some sci-fi weirdo. What about Trainspotting? He was awesome. -

- Yeah. - Brad sounded cautious, and Orli suddenly wondered if enthusing over other actors only worked with Brad if Brad himself had been in a movie with them at some point.

- Ask Eric, - Orli said. That was a good thing to say because Eric was also awesome but not to Brad. To Brad, Eric was harmless, Eric was a banter-friend, Eric was the perfect foil.

Orli swallowed a caper. He looked at Brad, and then he looked at the puddles of olive oil on his plate, and then he thought about how Brad wasn't Johnny, Johnny whose eyes lit up at the mention of anybody, anybody at all. - Eric Bana? Fuck! Chopper Read! And Geoffrey? Is that Geoffrey Rush? And Cate Blanchett? Cool, man! -

- Still. - Brad slurped more beer. - That wig. And that light sabre. -

Orli burst out laughing. - I had a wig, mate! And a bow and arrow! -

- And now a pretty mini skirt. -

Orli blinked and shot a sideways glance at Brad. - Yeah, - he said slowly. - Pretty. You look gorgeous in yours, too. -

Brad laughed. He wiped oily fingers on his paper napkin. - Shit, man, you crack me up. Let's drink to skirts. -

- To skirts. -

Orli blew a kiss at Brad but Brad was busy drinking and then picking up his bread, fingers spread across the length of it, elbows out.

- Ewan's okay, - Orli said after a moment. - I didn't get to know him all that well, actually. -

- Ah. - Brad wiped his lips with the napkin.

- Ridley, though. Ridley was awesome. -

- Oh yeah, - Brad agreed quickly. - Ridley's amazing. I loved working with Ridley, and I'd love to work with him again. -

A tinny version of Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries erupted onto the terrace and made the tabby cat jump.

- Shit. My cell. - Brad, his mouth full of bread, patted his pockets -- shirt, jeans, coat hanging over the back of the chair. He pulled out a silver Motorola. He stared at the display, swallowed, mouthed - The wife! - at Orli, pressed the button and clamped the phone to his ear.

- Jenn? - He stood up, pointed at the phone, pulled up his eyebrows at Orli and walked away. - That so? You're doing what? - The rest of the conversation faded as Brad rounded the side of the building and disappeared behind the wisteria.

Orli stayed in his chair. He let beer dry on his lips, ate some more hobz biz-zeijt, mixed foam with oil and tomato in his mouth. Birds chirped in the cypress trees. A breeze ruffled Orli's curls and the fur at the back of the cat's nape. At the next table, a woman lifted a wine glass and Orli could see the veins in the crook of her elbow.

If Orli screwed up his eyes, he could just about make out the Fort in the distance, with tiny Trojan columns and parapets casting long shadows. Even further away was the beach, with the two-eyed trireme resting on its flank.

Orli thought about being here, being on Malta, having beer and supper with Brad Pitt, thought about how normal it all seemed, and how normal Brad was, just a guy, but at the same time how awesome, how warrior-like when he bestrode that beach, when he stood, legs planted wide apart, in front of the Scaean Gate and yelled for bitter revenge, and thought about the arrow that Orli had loosed into Brad's heel only this morning, take after take.

A memory brushed his table lightly. No strings attached to it, so no need to hide. Orli let the memory wash through him. He let it ripple between his ribs, settle around his heart, shiver into the tips of his fingers. He even allowed it to pluck at his penis, just a tiny bit, just a little wake-up nudge.

Enough, though, to make him start at Brad's return.

-----

- So, - said Dom, sly as a fish, with his hand around Orli's wrist as slippery, difficult to remember why or what with -- oh yes, salad sauce, and the perspiration on the flanks of a vodka bottle, straight from the freezer to the table. - Let's see whether this works. - He closed his eyes and assumed an attitude of exaggerated concentration. Dropped his voice into bass and drawled, - What have we here? A pulse rate of a mere 5 over 100? Are you a man or a corpse, mate? -

Orli, tumbler in one hand, lettuce leaf in the other, laughed. - Let me eat, - he said, - give me my salad. - But his wrist remained entrapped, and Dom only rolled his eyes -- eyeballs swivelling against his closed lids -- and intoned, - Quiet, Mr Bloom. I must have quiet... absolute silence for... - a sudden shout - THE RAISING OF THE PULSE!!! -

Orlando jumped, and Dom, eyes open now, laughed wildly. He was still grasping Orli's wrist and counted. - Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three... That did the trick. Racing now! -

- You dirty wanker. You totally scared the shit out of me. -

- That was the idea, dimbrain. Say 'boo' and get the pulse going. -

- I thought that was for curing hiccups. -

- It's multi-purpose. And wow, just check out that pulse rate. Hey! -

Orli lifted his clasped wrist to his face, twisted his chin around Dom's fingers and grabbed the lettuce leaf with his lips. He caught the stem end of it and crunched, with one oil drop landing on his cheek and the feathery parts of the leaf fanning out around his mouth.

- I didn't say you could have that. - Dom's face close to his, Dom's mouth around the ends of the lettuce. The sharp tug of lettuce, pulling through Orli's teeth, sliding across his tongue. Being pulled and tugged out by Dom.

In his surprise, Orli opened his mouth and let Dom pull the entire thing out, stem and all. Dom was grinning so hard, he could hardly chew straight. He had to tip back his head to let the leaf flop into his mouth in its entirety. His hand was still on Orli's pulse.

Even Orli could now feel the increase in speed. He could almost feel Dom's heartbeat as well, like an echo of his own.

- Interesting, - said Dom.

- Yeah. Isn't it? -

- Very. -

- Hm. Yeah. -

- What else...? -

Dom's hand left Orli's wrist. For a second, Orli's wrist, slippery, bereft of skin, hovered in the air, then it jumped, Orli's hand jumped, Orli's whole body jumped, more, much more than before. Because Dom's hand was on his crotch.

- What? - said Dom.

- What what? - said Orli.

- What what what? -

- Yeah. -

- Yeah what? -

- The... the something. The pulse. -

Dom took his hand away. He moved away altogether. He picked up his glass and poured the entire contents down his throat. He bent his head back and laughed so loud that Orli jumped again, Orli seemed to have been jumpstarted by something, into something -- but Dom's laugh was frayed around the edges.

Before this moment, Orli hadn't even noticed that Dom's laugh had edges.

- Wanker, - he said to Dom. Somehow, his own voice seemed to have acquired edges as well.

- Takes one, - said Dom and raised his empty glass to Orli.

Orli pursed his lips. He lifted his own glass and drained it. He put it down on the carpet. He said, - You stole my lettuce. -

- Plenty more. -

- Yeah. - And with that 'yeah', Orli leaned across and put his hand, the one with the slippery wrist, right on Dom's groin.

His hand landed somewhere to the left of what was unmistakably Dom's cock. Orli could feel the soft warmth of Dom's cock against the edge of his palm. He could also feel a pulse there, a quick ferret of a pulse, blink, here now, gone again, and back again.

Orli shifted his hand so that it covered Dom's cock.

Dom said nothing. Orli said nothing. Orli didn't look up. He only looked at his own hand on Dom's groin.

After a while, Orli's hand didn't cover all of Dom's cock any longer.

Orli took his other hand, moved his other hand to Dom's fly, took hold of the zipper tag, pulled and tugged it down, and when he got to the button at the top, there were Dom's hands, helping him, and the oil on Dom's fingers sliding along the oil on his own fingers.

Their combined breaths made an enclosed space for two. Orli's pulse was so loud it reverberated through his skull and brain and through the backs of his retinas.

Orli put his hand on Dom's underwear. Dom was wearing boxershorts, chequered boxershorts, a thin-lipped criss-cross pattern of interlocking green-and-blue stripes. Almost a tartan, not quite, though. The waist was elasticated, and the top of the fly had a round plastic button on it, but just for decoration because it couldn't be opened -- and why would underwear manufacturers put a button on for decoration? -- so the only way to get at what was inside, to grasp hold of -- although, actually, in fact, oh yes, the top was above the waistband, Dom had outgrown his boxers, and Orli's pulse raced. The only way to get inside was to slip one's hand in, leaving tiny droplets on the criss-crossed fabric -- oil? sweat? or were those droplets not from Orli's hand at all? --, slip it right in, familiar enough, a very familiar movement, done it hundreds of times, just not from this angle.

Dom's cock was hard. Hard and hot. The very fact of Dom's hard and hot cock short-circuited Orli's jumpstarted body. He closed his eyes.

-----

- That was Jennifer. - Brad looked at his phone, pressed a key and slipped it back into his sports coat.

Orli, startled, willed his penis to soften. - I gathered that, - he said. He cleared his throat. He rearranged his legs.

Brad looked blond and luminous in the bronze light pouring off the sunset. His sunglasses flashed and his cheeks were flushed with -- what? Husbandly delight?

Brad laughed and sat down. - Yeah. - He stretched his arms above his head. - Let me tell you something, man. It is fantastic to be married. No, really. It is a fucking ball. -

Yes. Husbandly delight. - Good news, then? -

Brad lifted his bottle and stopped short when he realised it was empty. - It's always good news with Jenn. Always. - He stayed like that, with the bottle held between thumb and forefinger, his eyes trained on a spot in the distance. His jaw jutted forward in a little private smile. Then he shook himself and bent down to his bread.

Nothing happened for a while, just the crunch of crusts and the waiter moving like a ferry from table to table, gathering up dishes and distributing small cut-glass vases with candles in them, lighting each wick with a practised wrist-flick and a Bic. The air turned blue. The wind smelled of pine needles and sage.

A red-breasted bird landed on the parapet. Its eyes were black and round, like boiled capers. It made hoppety movements, sideways, like a crab, head cocked. Orli picked up stray crumbs from the pool of oil on his plate and flicked them at the bird. First, in the direction of the bird, near its twig-like feet. Then, closer, laying a Hansel trail along the wall. Finally, Orli placed a crumb at the edge of the table and watched the bird step uncertainly from foot to foot.

Orli licked the oil off his fingers.

Brad started flicking crumbs of his own. For a few minutes, they didn't say anything, just watched the bird. Orli took two cigarettes out of his packet, stuck both between clamped lips, ducked and cupped and lit them against the fluttering wind. Without a word, he passed one of them to Brad.

Their post-prandial smoke dispersed companionably.

Orli rounded his mouth and formed a wobbly ring. Brad grinned and sent a ring of his own after it. So Orli blew another one, and Brad blew another one, and they both blew rings into the perspex evening.

- This is nice, - said Brad.

- Yeah. - Orli twisted to look at the hills behind and Venus above.

- No. - Brad gestured with his cigarette. - I mean, this. You and me. You're cool to hang with. -

- Is it? - said Orli. - I mean, am I? -

The bird, emboldened by who-knows-what, made a reckless leap and landed on the table, with a shiver of its nape feathers. Orli smiled.

- Yeah. We can just sit, you know. Not always with the yadda-yadda. Just sit and... enjoy. -

Orli put a crumb on his finger and laid his arm on the table, wrist facing skyward. He tried not to smile but couldn't help it. - Yeah. -

- And, of course, sharing the fags. Fucking fantastic! -

The last smoke ring wavered. Its contours lost their edge. It turned invisible against the same-hued background.

- So many damn puritans going on and on about it, - continued Brad. - Julia and me, both times, in Mexican and in Ocean's, we always had to sneak round to her trailer for a smoke. Or hide behind the reflector umbrellas. Ridiculous, really. -

- Julia Roberts? - Orli swallowed air. - She smokes? -

- Oh yeah. Chimney. -

- I'd like to be in a movie with her then, definitely. - Laughed as he said that. The thought of being in a movie with Julia fucking Roberts making Orli's testicles tighten.

- That's what you need to do. Get in a movie with a real big star, a lady. Get to kiss her. Bingo. Career made. -

- Yeah. - Breath, smoke and the aftertaste of capsicum all in Orli's mouth and the smell of tamarisk in his nostrils.

The bird was on the table, pecking at Orli's finger. Orli's skin gave under its tiny beak marks. The crumb rolled off, and the down on the bird's belly crushed Orli's finger.

Then it flew up, around and landed back on the wall.

Orli laughed.

Brad laughed, too. He looked at the lit end of his cigarette. He put the filter back between his lips. He took hold of the left corner of his sunglasses and pulled them off with a crosswise motion, folding them and palming them in one smooth movement. 'Like a movie star,' thought Orli and touched his own sunshades.

- So, speaking of Ewan -, Brad said, and Orli tried to remember whether they had in fact been speaking of Ewan and when that had been, and he also wondered at the odd tone in Brad's voice, a quick tone but at the same time wary, a cautiously reckless tone. - How did you find working with Ridley? -

It seemed to Orli that he had answered this question already, over half an hour ago. But he smiled and said, - Ridley? Great. He's fantastic. -

- D'ya think so? -

- Oh yeah. He's awesome. Okay. I mean, Hawk was nothing like Thelma and Louise, obviously. I was hardly in it. You must have worked much more closely with... I mean, I was mostly working with the second crew. -

Brad moved his sunglasses from one hand to the next. He chewed on his cigarette as if it were Eastwood's cheroot. The twin suns, kissing the horizon, had transferred themselves onto his pupils, side-by-side suns, like orbs from an alien planetary system.

- A funny thing happened on Thelma. - But Brad wasn't laughing. He put his glasses on the table and turned to look Orli straight in his spec-hidden eyes. - Ridley hit on me. -

Smoke pooled at the back of Orli's throat.

- You're joking, - he said.

There was a sudden blur. The tabby cat landed in perfect silence in front of the table, on the low wall. The bird made a Tweety-sound, gave a terrified flutter and sped off, a brown shuttlecock against the lengthening shadows. Only the cat remained on the parapet. Its ears twitched. Its tail lashed from side to side. It looked after the bird, then it sat down and licked its left forepaw as if nothing had happened.

In a way, nothing had.

The cat was right.

- Did you, - said Orli, - do anything with him, then? With Ridley? -

- Do anything? Are you kidding? I'm a married man. -

- But... you weren't, then. Married. -

- No. But... I'm not a faggot. - Brad's hand a fist over his sunglasses. His sunglasses a tangle of angles amid crumbs.

- Right. - Ash dropped on Orli's thumb. He flicked it onto his plate. There it lay, soaking into the oil. Featherweights on a sea of slick.

- Everything all right? - The waiter smiled at Orli. He started piling plates. - More beer? -

- No. - Brad spoke without looking up. - Not for me, no. I'd like coffee, though. With milk. You, Orli? -

Orli ordered coffee, too. This time he didn't talk about pigeon shooting.

As soon as the waiter had retreated to the next-but-one table, where a couple had arrived, pearl necklace and summer-coloured tie, Orli shifted in his chair and, taking care not to look at Brad, taking care to fix his eyes on his own fingers around the filter, noticing that his fingernails needed filing, that there was a moon growing at the base of his right thumb, he asked again, - So you didn't do anything? -

- No. No, of course not. But it was damn embarrassing. -

- Hm. -

- I mean, - Brad leaned forward, - I was actually rather worried. I thought it might damage, you know... That was my first big role, after all. I thought maybe that's what you had to do. Sleep with the big guy. -

- That's too bad, man. - Orli looked at the noncommittal sea.

- Don't... - Brad started pulling at the edge of his lip. - Don't get the wrong idea here. I'm not a homophobe or anything. Live and let live. And all that. It wasn't about that. It was the power thing. He was the big cheese, ya know. And for a moment there I thought I had to go along. - He leaned back.

- So did you not even want to? Just a little bit? - Orli still staring out at the horizon, now shipless. Just a thin blue line between two deeper blues. - Just to see what it was like? -

- No. Course not. - Brad pulled at his lip again. - Okay, maybe for a minute there. - A laugh sputtered and stopped before it had a chance to get going. - But no. And turned out I didn't have to. He was totally cool about it. But it had me weirded out for a bit. But there you go. I didn't have to, and here I am. -

- Here you are. -

- Yeah. - Brad put his glasses back on. - And here you are, too. -

- Here I am, too. But only because I slept my way to the top, you know! -

Brad burst out laughing. - Shit, Orli, man. You are such a blast. You're okay, man. - He looked relieved. - But he... - Cough. - He never tried that on you? -

- No. - Orli made a tragic face. Laughed. Opted for melodrama. - Oh, where did I go wrong? - Ash flew across the table, puffed by zephyrean breaths.

Brad laughed an answering laugh. - Yeah, shit. Still, at the time... Though maybe I should just be flattered, right? -

- Sure you should be. Proves how irresistible you are. -

Orli blew Brad a kiss. Brad laughed, shook his head, shook his hair, shook his left wrist. Didn't blow a kiss back, though. But smiled, with eyes half-closed. Like a panther. No, more like one of those blond cougars, coiling their tails around branches in trees.

-----

Dom made no sound at all. What his face looked like, Orli couldn't tell, because Orli hadn't dared to look up, for whatever misplaced, unwhispered reason. Later, he wished he had looked. He wished he'd collected that memory. Pick up memory, pass 'go', don't look back.

But at the time all he thought he could cope with was the sight of his own hands around Dom's cock, one hand pushing down the boxers and steadying Dom at the base, the other hand working up and down, up and down, only index and thumb to begin with, a tentative ring, but full fist soon after. Dom's cock was hard in his palm, and moist around the top. Orli using his thumb to spread the moisture on each upstroke. Orli concentrating on the mechanics of it, the ups, the downs, the spreads, losing his rhythm only once or twice.

That's all he touched of Dom's, just Dom's cock.

Dom didn't touch him, either. Dom's hands were somewhere on the couch, or over Dom's face, or pressed to Dom's chest.

And Dom didn't make a sound.

Orli could tell Dom was going to come a split second before the jism rose out of its slit. It was like feeling the tightening of his own balls, the twinge at the base, in that inner place between cock and belly. Then there it was: Dom's cum, creamy and warm, mixed in with the moisture that was already there. Orli gasped at the sight of it, couldn't help gasping. His head was underwater. His eyes stung with the sight of Dom's cum. He wanted to dip his tongue into the white puddle, curl himself around the top of Dom's cock, crawl into the slit at the top of Dom's cock and disappear. But all he did was to keep going, slowly, waiting between each stroke, until the last drop had made its way out and until Dom made a deep bleating sound with the back of his throat.

Orli heard the sound and felt it himself, a shivering echo down his own throat. At some point he'd have to look up, but he eked out the moment. He kept one hand on Dom and the other scrabbled in his back pocket where, miracle of miracles, he found a hankie, clean, crease-crossed, crumpled up. Orli shook it out and wrapped it round the top of Dom's cock, wiped his own hand on the outside. Dom's cock inside, Orli's hand outside, bum-warmed cotton in between.

On impulse, Orli bent down and put his mouth around the hankie. Dom's softening cock was muffled inside the fabric, a furry texture of fibre in Orli's mouth, and Orli's saliva all wet around the dryness of the cotton.

Dom sighed.

Orli still didn't look up, even now. And when he did finally look at Dom, a bit later on, it was down, not up.

Which was the most astounding part of that memory. Which was the part Orli thought best left unremembered. Mostly. Because when he did call it back to mind, it was almost too much. It was a memory that gripped him as softly and as insistently as Dom's mouth had gripped Orli's cock.

On that undefinable, mad June night in New Zealand.

And afterwards, Dom had crawled up the length of Orli's body, hand over hand, until he landed in Orli's lap and until Dom's face was right in front of him and well within reach, and Dom's mouth, wet with spit and cum, landed on Orli's own mouth.

This time they kissed for real.

Definitely not for the screen this time. No excessive movement of the jaws, no spasming of the lips to simulate passion, no chaste screen withdrawal of the tongue. Just a quiet space, full of their nostril breaths, and in the centre of the space Dom's tongue, thick and soft in Orli's mouth. It wasn't on the exterior. It wasn't a kiss to be seen. It was a kiss to be felt just between the two of them. An intimate, private kiss. Their intimate, private tongues hidden inside their cheeks, and nobody else could know of Dom's tongue sliding along the insides of Orli's upper lip and of Orli's tongue all but foundering on the cliffs of Dom's teeth.

-----

Orli pulled smoke into himself. The tobacco burnt its way down into his lungs. He took another drag, inhaled deeply, sucked the feel-good fog further in and all the way into his bloodstream. He looked at the cat on the low wall. Its tail flicked, from left to right and back. The rest of the cat was very still, except for one ear which twitched in time with the tail.

- Maybe, - Orli said, - you could have gone along with it. Just to see if Ridley was going to go through with it. To see how far he was actually prepared to go. -

- Yeah, shit! Except then I'd also be testing how far I'd be prepared to go. -

'And how far is that? Just out of curiosity,' Orli wanted to say.

But didn't.

- But I should have, right? I shoulda grabbed him by the short'n'curlies, right? Shoulda got down on my knees and... -

- God, stop, stop! - Orli willed himself to laugh. His cigarette shook. - Man, I won't be able to get that image out of my head now. -

In fact, it hadn't taken Brad's words to get that image into Orli's head. That image of a blond head between Orli's thighs. 'Ridley's thighs,' Orli corrected himself mentally. And adjusted the image.

And thinking again, like a CD on repeat, 'How far, Brad? How far?' He looked at Brad obliquely, blew another smoke ring, watched it drift away.

- Tell you what, though. - Brad veered to seriousness, pulling his lips apart into a hyphen. But he was interrupted by the waiter.

- Everything okay? - The waiter bore coffee things on a round metal tray. He placed the cups before them, Orli's cup first, spoons tinkling in their saucers. He added a milk jug and a pot filled with irregularly shaped brown and white sugar lumps.

- Grazzi, - said Orli. - Tell me - Putting a hand on the waiter's sleeve. - Is this the best coffee in Malta? -

The waiter laughed and shifted feet. - Yes, yes, absolute. The best coffee is here! But second-best you can try my brother's place. In Valletta. I will give you address. Best café in Malta. And excellent gbejniet. -

- That sounds brilliant. -

All the while there was Brad, looking on. Stirring his coffee. Smiling but not saying anything.

- Tell me what? - said Orli, once the waiter had gone.

Brad looked blank.

- You were going to tell me something. -

- Oh. Yeah, right. - Brad took one last drag and stubbed his cigarette out in the saucer of his coffee. He lifted the cup and took a slurping sip. - One thing you don't wanna get into. The faggot thing. I know that's not a fashionable thing to say but that's the one thing that'll really kill you off for the movies. -

Orli gave a short laugh. - What? How? -

- I know there are plenty of actors... Your mate Ian McKellen, and whatsisname, Alan Cumming. But look at the roles they get. I mean, that's just what I was saying before. They are not lead material. They don't get the girl. They don't kiss the girl. Do you see them kissing the girl? -

- Well. It's not all about kissing the girl. -

- Yeah, but do you want that kinda role all your life? They won't give you the good roles if you're known as a guy kisser. I mean, who'll believe that? Fag kisses girl. Or that's what they figure, anyhow. -

- Well, - said Orli. Wondering about Hollywood paranoia. He took his spoon and stirred. He stirred the coffee round and round, although he didn't take milk or sugar. He was just stirring. Thinking, 'Not very far. Not very far at all.'

- But who's 'they'? - he finally said.

- I dunno. The powers that be. The producers. The whole damn machinery. -

- But. Hollywood's not all there is. A friend... A good friend of mine thinks that you can do without Hollywood altogether. That it's fun, why not, but that the real choices are outside of Hollywood. -

- Huh, - said Brad.

- He says you can basically do what you want and as much of it as you can get if you don't care about that whole Hollywood crap. -

- Well, I don't know your friend or what roles she's getting... -

- He. -

- He. And I'll be the last to say that there isn't a lot of crap in Hollywood. But it's the only thing. When all's said and done, it's the only thing that matters, and it's the only place you'll get those really good roles, and if you get enough of them, and only them, you can decide just what you want, too. Who's the friend? -

- Dom Monaghan. - He added, - From Rings. -

And that's when the sun set. It fell right into the horizon, in fast-forward motion. Both of the suns in Brad's glasses mimicked the fall. Going, going, blue everywhere.

- Right. Played one of those hobbits? -

Orli nodded. He was still stirring the coffee, stirring it into tepidity. Staring at Brad's falling suns.

- Well, that's my point. You don't hear much of him these days, do you? No offense. -

- No. I don't, - said Orli, knowing that he was answering a different question, that this wasn't what Brad had meant, but it suddenly occurred to him that no, he hadn't heard from Dom in months, not since L. A., really. And then only briefly, in a rustling hurry, heads dizzy with premiere fever and Dom's eyes too bright, too manic, as if wired to a generator. His own eyes, too, probably. Drunk on the buzz. Drunk on the crowds.

- I mean, yeah sure, you can go the indie route, - said Brad. - But it's not what I want. And it's not what you want either, is it? -

Orli reached his hand out across the table, towards the cat on the wall. He made mouse-like squeaks with his lips. The cat looked up and stretched its neck lazily towards him. It let itself be scratched behind the ears and around the scruff of its surprisingly strong, furry neck.

- No,- Orli said. - It isn't. -

-----

The End.

7 August 2003

All original parts of this story: © Lobelia

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