"What's this one for?"
"I just liked the design."
"What about this one?"
"It's a 3."
Johnny gave Orlando an isn't-that-obvious look.
"No, really?"
Orlando playfully pushed Johnny.
"Why 3?"
"Why not?"
"But why 3 rather than...than four hundred and sixty two?"
"Because that would look stupid."
"And 3?"
"9?"
"Excuse me?"
Johnny took Orlando's right hand, extending his arm and pushing the shirt sleeve further up Orlando's arm.
"Isn't this meant to be a 9?"
"Yes, but at least it has a meaning. It's not random."
Orlando raised his eyebrows at Johnny, who finally released him, letting Orlando roll his sleeve back down again. Johnny sat back in the sofa, watching Orlando meticulously fix his shirt. As silence fell in the room, voices from outside drifted in the through the open window; voices of various crew members moving equipment, frantically searching for other crew members. It seemed that lunch break was the busiest time on set. For everyone except Johnny and Orlando.
"Are you going to get any more?"
"Don't know. Probably. It's addictive, you know? Well, maybe not."
"I do."
Johnny met Orlando's gaze.
"The first one hurts a bit, but I knew I'd get another one eventually. Just didn't know what I wanted to get."
"Another one?"
"Yeah, that's my second one."
In the few months that they had worked together, Johnny could only remember seeing the elvish script marked on Orlando's tanned skin; it wasn't that he hadn't looked, he sure as hell had, but now he was intrigued.
"So am I going to have to beg or are you going to tell me?"
The tiniest of smirks crept onto Johnny's face, an almost playful look emerging in his eyes. Standing up, Orlando tugged the ends of his shirt from the confines of his jeans, lifting the edges to reveal a sun shining beneath his naval. Sitting forward, and slipping into his Jack Sparrow drawl, Johnny admired the permanent image on Orlando's torso.
"That's interesting. Very interesting."
Orlando couldn't suppress the smile spreading across his face. There was something about Jack Sparrow that everyone on set loved. For Orlando, there were so many things, the accent and attitude being two of his favourite qualities that Johnny brought to life daily. And now he watched Johnny moving towards the edge of the sofa, very closely eyeing the sun imprinted on his skin.
"May I?"
The words surprised Orlando, who had realised he'd been staring. Not just looking, staring. Watching intently. Call it what you will, but he was becoming fascinated by Johnny's fascination.
The first rough finger sweeping across the sun on his stomach shocked him, made him start. The second, accompanied by a deep stare, made him shiver. Dark, charcoal eyes stared up at Orlando as a dirty thumb rubbed firmly across soft skin; Orlando watched, mesmerised as Johnny moved even closer, his finger now tracing the outline of the sun. Slowly exhaling, Johnny purposefully let the warmed air hit Orlando's skin, taking pleasure as the hand still holding the crumpled shirt up shook slightly. Another deep, dark stare. Orlando found it hard to breathe; there was plenty of air, just not getting to his lungs.
He swallowed as Johnny moved yet closer to him, incapable of suppressing a gasp as damp lips pressed against his stomach. His hands involuntarily clenched as he felt moist heat against him. Johnny, gently holding Orlando's hips, sucked lightly on the stained skin, teasing it between his teeth and lips. His eyes falling shut, Orlando's hands rested over Johnny's; he was convinced he could feel Johnny grin against his stomach. Licking. Sucking. Teasing. Orlando could feel his pulse race with the adrenaline brought on by the actions of this man sitting in front of him; never, in his wildest dreams, would Orlando ever have considered anything like this happening. Not really happening.
Three loud knocks on the door dropped him from his dream into a pool of reality. One where he found it difficult to swim, his breathing still uncontrolled. Johnny paused, lips an inch away from Orlando, listening intently to the outside world.
"On set in five!"
Orlando didn't know who the hell was calling them, he also didn't give a fuck. Johnny grinned up at him.
"Not a problem!"
Standing up, Johnny was mere inches from Orlando, who still stood with the edges of his shirt held limply in his hands. He didn't get the chance to say anything, do anything, search those soulful eyes for something, some explanation, before Johnny turned and made his way out. Pausing in the doorway, Johnny threw him one of those I'm-good-and-I-know-it smiles;
"Nice tattoo."