[ b i t t e r ]
by kHo
(v:2)

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.”

Johnny´s sneer feels ugly even to him, but it doesn´t stop him from using it. “Do you think you could actually be me, Skeet,” he says, walking forward and poking a finger into his chest. “You think you could actually pull it off?”

Skeet glares at him, backing up as Johnny advances still. “I´m not trying to be you--”

Johnny laughs and puts his hands on Skeet´s chest, shoving him into the wall behind him. “You can´t, you know. You could never pull it off.”

Skeet´s eyes flash as he tries to get out of Johnny´s grasp to no avail. “Fuck you. Let me fucking go.”

“So the question is,” Johnny says, leaning in so close he can taste the whiskey flavored breath as Skeet breathes. “Are you that deluded, or is there another reason.”

“Fucking let me…”

“I see you watching me, ya know,” Johnny says, grabbing Skeet´s hands roughly and pinning them to the wall. “How I eat. How I sit. How I smoke my cigarettes.” He smiles as Skeet seems to give up, instead sinking back into the wall. “So really it´s one of two things. You´re either studying me so you can steal my personal habits as well… or you want to fuck me.”

Skeet´s breath catches at that, his eyes flicking quickly to Johnny´s face. “What the hell…”

“So which is it, huh Ulrich,” Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow and leaning his body against Skeet´s. “You wanna be me, or you wanna fuck me?”

“You´re twisted, man,” Skeet growls out.

Johnny´s grin widens as he catches that flicker of something racing through Skeet´s eyes. “I´ve hit on something, haven´t I,” he says in his quietest voice, letting go of Skeet´s arm with one hand and running it down Skeet´s leg and back up the inseam. “Hmm,” he hums. “Seems you´re hard, Skeet. I do believe I´ve hot on something indeed.”

“Let me go,” Skeet hisses, but Johnny thinks maybe that´s more to do with how he´s squeezing his cock between his fingers than anything else.

“I have a better idea,” Johnny says, his grin wide as he descends on the kid´s mouth, latching onto it with his teeth and biting just this shy of hard enough to draw blood. “Yeah, that´s better,” he says, not giving Skeet the chance to protest before covering his mouth with his, his fingers splaying over Skeet´s throat as he roughly shoves his tongue between his lips.

He knew he was right when he heard Skeet grunt into his mouth when he squeezed his cock again, bucking his hips against Johnny´s hand. He laughs at Skeet´s whimper of protest when he lifts his hand to unbutton his jeans and ignores him because he knows he doesn´t mean it. He´s no longer pinning his wrists to the wall and if the kid really wanted to get away, Johnny would step aside without hesitation.

“Are you studying my techniques now, Skeet,” Johnny hisses into his ear, grazing his teeth across his neck as he wraps his fingers around Skeet´s dick. “Noting how I´m taking it slowly, pulling not that hard just yet. Getting you prepared, because when I really get you going, you´re not gonna be able to walk out of here for hours.”

He growls with heady lust as Skeet groans, becoming even harder in his hand. He starts to quicken the pace and before long Skeet is lost in the feel of it. He´ll never be able to steal this, Johnny thinks to himself. He´ll never touch himself like I´m touching him. He´ll never feel anything quite like this, because there´s only so many things you can truly imitate.

He doesn´t realize how much he himself is getting out of it until Skeet is coming in his hand and he feels himself break. He sinks his teeth into Skeet´s neck as his body shudders in the wake of his own orgasm and a cloudy mist of satiation filters through his brain. When he´s able to think again he feels Skeet´s mouth on his neck and he allows himself to enjoy it for a moment before pulling back.

“Not exactly alike then,” he says with a smirk, reaching up and tucking a piece of Skeet´s hair back.

Skeet looks at him, his eyes clouded with confusion. “What?”

Johnny´s grin widens. “You´re circumcised,” he says. “So, you´re not exactly like me.”

Skeet raises an eyebrow at him, his face completely devoid of emotion. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “I checked. No such thing as uncircumcision.”

Johnny´s forced to admit it: the kid´s actually pretty damn good at what he does.

If he hadn´t known better, he´d have thought that deadpan delivery was his own.

He has to admit he´s impressed too.

But not out loud.

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