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[ b i t t e r ] by kHo (v:1) He never wanted to be a product. Never. He didn´t even want to be on that fucking show, but he had to say it was probably for the best that he had been. Without 21 Jump Street he might not have ever had the chance to pursue the films he really wanted to make. It got his face out there, and in Hollywood that´s what really mattered. It helped, certainly, that he had some semblance of talent at what he was trying to do, but mostly it was the face. And here was this kid stealing his face. This boy with a minimal amount of talent, riding on his coattails. When he first came onto the scene, Johnny thought he resembled him slightly. Sure, yes, he´d say. He could see the resemblance. He was vaguely offended on his behalf even, when the trade papers labeled him ‘the young, scraggly Johnny Depp.´ He thought it wasn´t fair to compare them like that, that the kid should be judged on his own, not as someone´s unwitting doppelganger. If only he hadn´t started cultivating himself to look like him, Johnny probably would have continued to feel for him. If he hadn´t started shaving in the same pattern as him, and looking at the camera in the same way. If only he hadn´t so willingly welcomed the rumors that he looked like him. And now there´s this movie, and he´s already signed the contract, and he´s already made his plans, and now he´s stuck. The script was good, the director was better, and everything else fit into what he liked to do. Except for the fact that the part of his brother was being played by none other than his talentless limp-dick lookalike, Skeet Ulrich. And Skeet, seriously brother… get a real name. So every day he wakes up and groans into his pillow because it means another day of trying to not snarl at the kid who was actually pretty damn nice. He didn´t mean to be a dick, he didn´t want to be a dick, but something seemed to bring it out of him whenever Skeet smiled up at him with those puppy dog chocolate brown eyes that he wished were as big and doleful as Johnny´s. He watches him like a hawk, like he´s some low life creep thief who´s going to steal the set piece when no one´s looking. Sits back in his chair and idly nods as some tech guy prattles off lighting patterns and mark settings into his ear, his eyes sweeping over the room watching as Skeet floats around like he´s the happiest guy on earth. Watches him practice making doe eyes at the mirror and grumbles to himself that he always hated the expression ‘soulful eyes,´ but damnit, those were his soulful eyes! And then he bites his tongue before the bitter curses start pouring out because, honestly, Skeet is a nice kid. He´s kind, he´s polite, he always knows his lines, and he doesn´t fuck around. Somehow that´s even more annoying to Johnny though. The least the kid could do was be a twerp. He owed Johnny that much. He should have been a twerp so Johnny wouldn´t feel like such a shit for hating the kid. Though, the word ‘hate´ is a little overly strong. He wasn´t sure exactly what rubbed him the wrong way about Skeet Ulrich, other than the obvious reasons. Other than the copycatting of his looks. Johnny tried, he really did, to remind himself that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. By all counts, Johnny should be flattered as hell. He wasn´t though. Instead he wanted to rip Skeet´s face off and feed it to his dog. So it really all led up to this, and he knew it would come eventually. He tried to avoid it, tried to give off his infamous ‘get the fuck away from me´ vibes without being too much of an asshole. Skeet wouldn´t leave it alone though. Kept inviting him places. Out to dinner, out for a drink, out for a night on the town. ‘My treat,´ he´d say, with that big wide smile and those eyes twinkling at him. ‘Come on, Johnny. My treat.´ It really wasn´t a surprise at all when Skeet showed up at his hotel room on a day away from the set. He opened the door and his inner voice immediately said ‘ah, of course it´s him.´ He was, though, a little surprised at the sincere and earnest look on Skeet´s face. He invited him in, because if this was gonna get ugly, the last thing he needed was some rat-faced reporter from a rag taking his picture. He closed the door, crossed his arms as he leaned against it, and raised one of those perfectly manicured eyebrows at him. “What, exactly, have I done to you,” Skeet asks, raising his own slightly less manicured eyebrow back. Johnny stifles a snicker and shrugs. “I´m not sure what you mean.” “This,” Skeet says, pointing between himself and Johnny. “This whatever, man. This vibe you give off in fucking spades.” Johnny frowns, kicking off the door and walking into the interior of his room to his bar. “And what vibe is that?” “The vibe of fuck you, Skeet. Fuck you, and get the fuck away from me, and fuck off.” Johnny feels a twinge of something crack into his gut but takes a deep breath and forces it away. Because fuck it all if this little chameleon is going to make him feel bad for just allowing himself to feel the way he can´t help but feel. “I don´t know what you´re talking--” “Bullshit,” Skeet yells, walking forward and pointing a finger in Johnny´s face. “What about keeping it real, huh? Isn´t that what Johnny Depp´s all about? Real, and honest, and not fake? Isn´t that why you got out of the Hollywood scene and moved to Paris? To break out of the fucking mold?!” Johnny eyebrows raise, and this time it wasn´t a calculated move. This time it´s more along the lines of shock at the kid´s balls. Imagine that, little wannabe Johnny has gumption. “What of it?” “So fucking tell me,” Skeet says, his voice fading off slightly into a low pleading tone. “I want to know if you´re just this much of a dick, or if it´s something I´ve done. Because if it´s something I´ve done, I´d like to apologize.” That thing ticks in Johnny´s gut again, and he doesn´t want to admit that it´s guilt. He looks at Skeet and has to admit to himself that even if he got that doleful look from Johnny himself, the kid can sure pull it off. “You haven´t done anything,” he says quietly, reaching over and picking up another glass, filling it with whiskey and handing it to him. Skeet takes the glass and looks at it for a moment, licking his lips. He raises his eyes to meet Johnny´s and he shakes his head. “Then I don´t get it.” Johnny sighs and walks around him. “No, why would you?” Skeet laughs, that bitter kind of ‘what the hell is that supposed to mean´ laugh and turns to look at Johnny. “Say it, alright? Because you´re not a dick, I know that. I know that because I can fucking tell. So it´s me, whether I meant to or not. So just fucking say it.” “Alright,” Johnny says, putting down his drink and grabbing Skeet´s chin in his fingers. “What´s this?” Skeet frowns and jerks his chin out of Johnny´s grip. “What´s what?” “This facial hair I see before me,” he says with a wry smile, gesturing with his fingers. “It seems so very oddly familiar.” Skeet´s hand rises to graze over the mustache and goatee. “What, cause it looks like yours?” “Uh… yah.” Skeet shrugs. “So?” Johnny´s eyes squint and he looks at Skeet as though he´s clearly lost his mind. “So? So you don´t think that´s fucking sick?” “That my fucking chin hair looks like yours,” Skeet asks, surprising Johnny by laughing. “Dude, this is not the Patented Johnny Depp Facial Hair. This is, ya know, actually a pretty popular look.” Johnny´s eyes roll in the back of his head and he lets out a dry huff of air. “Forget it,” he says, shaking his head and walking past Skeet. “No, fine,” Skeet says, facing him and raising his eyebrows. “I´ll cop to it. Yes, I did it on purpose. I emulated your look. We happen to be brothers in this movie, and me being the younger one, it´s not that unlikely that I would want to look like you.” Johnny´s laugh is hollow and devoid of humor. “Okay, for the movie, fine. But what about before? What about how through the years you´ve been steeling my look, my hairstyle, my quirks, my fucking persona.” “You conceited asshole,” Skeet says, any traces of humor now gone from his face. “I didn´t think you were like this.” “I´m not like this, man,” Johnny yelled, slamming his hand on the counter. “You think I like that this bothers me? You think I like the fact that I even give a shit?!” “And do you think I like the fact that nine times out of fucking ten, the reason I´m hired is because I look like you,” Skeet yelled, walking forward and coming to stop just in front of him. “You think I like the fact that I have to sculpt myself into a mini-fucking-you, because whether or not I have talent, I´m more likely to get the job if they think they can capitalize on the fact that I look like you?!” And there it is, there´s that thing again, beating it´s sharp little poisoned tip into Johnny´s gut. Guilt, the little three headed monster that eats you alive till you can´t breathe anymore. He opens his mouth to say something snarky back, because being snarky is easier than admitting you know you´re being a dick. Nothing comes, and instead he shakes his head. “Is that really true?” Skeet shrugs and nods, looking away slightly and stepping over to Johnny´s couch. “Mostly.” Johnny leans against the bar and looks at the kid, studying him. “Meaning?” “Meaning, yeah, that happens, and yeah, that is why I get hired,” Skeet said, looking down as he fiddle with his hands. “But, that´s not all of it. There´s the other thing.” Johnny nods, reaching into his pocket and grabbing a cigarette. “Which is?” “You´re Johnny fucking Depp,” Skeet says with a laugh. Johnny´s eyebrows punch together as he lights his cigarette. “I don´t--” “So I do it on purpose,” Skeet says. “So I want to be like you, so what? Isn´t that just about the biggest compliment someone can give you? Telling you they so admire you that they want to be you?” The smoke filtering down his lungs tastes like vomit and Johnny wonders for a moment if it´s not going to come back up. He swallows and looks at the ground, digging his toes into the carpet because that´s easier than facing Skeet at that moment. “Yeah, I guess it is.” Skeet sighs and that somehow seems to pull at Johnny´s guts even more, that pointed sword of guilt digging even deeper. “I´m sorry, alright,” Skeet says softly. “I didn´t mean to piss you off.” “No,” Johnny says, shaking his head. “I didn´t--” “This was a bad idea,” Skeet says, laughing and standing up, holding up a hand to silence Johnny. “Listen, I understand. I get it. I can´t say I blame you, either. I just want you to know that it wasn´t to… piss you off, or to disrespect you. Quite the opposite in fact.” He holds out his hand for Johnny to shake and smiles at him. “No hard feelings, and you´ll go your way and I´ll go my way, okay?” “No,” Johnny says, bypassing his hand and stepping closer to him. “No, because that´s not fair.” Skeet´s eyes flicker with worry and he cringes back slightly. “Listen, I said I was sorry--” “No,” Johnny says, smiling and putting a hand on Skeet´s shoulder. “That´s not what I´m saying. What I´m saying is that it took a lot of balls for you to confront me like that, and I appreciate that. And I´m saying that it took even more for you to admit to me what you did, and I appreciate that too.” He took a deep breath and his smile widened. “But mainly, I´m saying that I´m sorry, and that I´ve been a dick.” Skeet´s smile is wide and it makes Johnny laugh and feel the need to apologize even more because it shouldn´t have even come up. Skeet shouldn´t have needed him to apologize because he never should have felt that way to begin with. It was supposed to a kiss on the forehead, a gesture that there truly were no hard feelings. It was his forehead he aims for, but it was his lips he kisses. He would have pulled back immediately and apologized except Skeet´s hand flutters up to his shirt and takes hold of it in a hard fist. He steps back slightly and then is propelled quickly to the wall behind him, grunting as Skeet´s teeth grazed and nipped his lips. His initial instinct to pull back flies out the window and he tilts his head forward and licks at Skeet´s lips till they part. He winds his long fingers in Skeet´s hair and thinks to himself that at least his hair is longer than Skeet´s. He laughs at himself for a moment but it´s cut short by a hand sliding down his torso and immediately into his pants. He barely has time to think that Skeet seems to have as little faith in foreplay as he does before he´s breaking the kiss to moan as he hits his head against the wall. It´s hard, and fast, and quick, and they´re both breathing harshly by the time Johnny comes and Skeet follows quickly thereafter. Johnny leans his head against the wall and his arms come up to Skeet´s shoulders as he leans against him, a smile ghosting his lips. “Not exactly alike,” he said softly, lifting Skeet´s head and smirking at him. Skeet´s eyebrows push together in confusion. “Huh?” “You´re circumcised,” Johnny says, his smile widening. “So you´re not exactly like me.” Skeet´s smirk matches Johnny´s and for once it doesn´t seem to matter. “I know. I checked. Can´t do uncircumcisions.”
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