Happy birthday, _jules_! Thanks to synecdochic for the readover and the title.
Royale
"And who're you wearing?"
JC opens his mouth to answer, but before he can say a word, an arm drapes over his shoulders and a hand pokes familiarly in his side.
"He's wearing Armani, and wearing it well."
Orlando's smooth, sure voice is pitched a little lower than normal, and JC recognizes the timbre. It's the same one Lance used back in the day, to turn the focus on the interviewer, practically compelling her to flush happily and reshuffle her question cards. But Orlando's tone isn't directed at the slightly-agog Melissa Rivers - it's directed at him. He ducks forward, but he can't hide his smile.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Orlando Bloom, who is nominated for Best Supporting Actor tonight-" Melissa rolls with the punches, JC has to give her that. "Is it Armani, JC?"
"It's Armani," he agrees, and Orlando's fingers have stopped poking and now rest fitfully against his side, his hand somehow having found its way under JC's suit jacket, five soft points of pressure burning through his shirt.
"Now we'd heard that you actually spent a lot of time on the set of the new James Bond, JC, to write the song for which you're nominated tonight. Did you have to get a feel for the location to capture the true spirit of the movie," Melissa asks, leaning in like it's confidential and not live to 68 countries, and also like she's eager to get Orlando by himself in front of the camera, "or did you just have to see Orlando in action?"
"Well, it always helps, you know, to vibe with the environment that you're trying to recreate musically, because you're trying to translate something visual into something audible, and you know, uh, particularly for a movie like 'Casino Royale', where it's all in Morocco and it's this whole other world, you have to keep in mind, you're trying to get this whole other experience to people, what you're trying to convey, hey-" JC twists; Orlando's poked him again, withdrawing his hand, and he pats JC on the chest with his other arm still heavy around JC's shoulders.
"A Bond theme song isn't just a theme song, you know." Orlando tugs on JC's lapel. "It's a footnote in history."
"The continuation of tradition."
"Exactly," Orlando laughs, and Melissa echoes it, her laughter twinging with impatience. JC tries to move away, still smiling, but Orlando's arm holds him still.
"'Casino Royale' is nominated for eight Academy Awards this evening, a record for any James Bond movie, so that's another footnote in history," Melissa tells the folks at home. "Gentlemen, how do you feel about your chances?"
"Oh well, really, I mean, it's an honor just to be nominated." He winces as the words leave his mouth.
"Just to be performing, right?" Melissa says with a smirk, "for your second time here at the Oscars?"
"Yeah, I mean-"
"Well, it is an honor to be nominated," Orlando steps in, "and I, for one, am very thankful that the fine people at the Academy keep inviting me here."
"I think you'll be welcome any time you want to be here." Melissa's eyes suddenly dart to the side, where Gwyneth Paltrow is fast approaching. She looks back to them; Orlando laughs softly, and she sighs with the acknowledgement of defeat as they start to move away. "And who are you wearing tonight, Orlando?" she throws out as he crooks his arm to drag JC up the carpet with him.
"It's Armani too," he calls back over his shoulder, one last parting grin at the camera, and JC is pulled up the steps, past the last bank of media, all of whom he imagines snarling as Orlando moves them past without so much as stopping for a pose.
"You can go back out there, man," he tells Orlando once they're inside the Kodak. "You probably should."
Orlando snags two flutes of pale champagne from a tray that floats by. He hands one to JC as he hastily swallows down the contents of his own. "Cheers," and he hands the empty glass back to the impassive server, careening into JC's personal space.
"You should go on back," JC repeats, taking a careful sip of champagne, not feeling anywhere near as casual as he hopes he looks, with Orlando's mouth just inches from his. "The press, man, they love you."
"Do they?" Orlando's breath is hot and sweet on JC's face. "Can't they wait to love me 'til after we sweep this thing?" He leans in even more, and JC takes an involuntary step back. "Or would you rather wait?"
"It's just a few hours, man-"
"Four at the fewest."
"-And there's the thing, the party, at-"
"The bathroom's just over there," Orlando murmurs right into JC's ear, and wow, JC can feel the etching on the crystal in his hand, that's sharp, that's fine, like the stab of want that courses through him like a flash-flood. "C'mon mate, drink up."
The bubbles dance their way up into JC's head as he swallows, light crispness on his tongue and Orlando's eyes on his throat. Orlando lifts his hand like he's going to touch him, then abruptly drops his palm to JC's chest and pushes gently. "Go on," he urges, "like that bar in Marrakech, remember?"
JC remembers: dust motes drifting on the shafts of warm, orange, cat-eyed light that slotted in through the half-shuttered windows, the deep blue of the afternoon sky beyond. The heavy, sweet smoke from the hookahs, and the muttered laughter of the local crew, the clink of glasses, and the way Orlando's hand rested on JC's thigh under the table as they reclined against the plump, scratchy cushions. Inspiration, JC had said, comes from experience, you know, your life and what you do, what you see, what you think you might see, or whatever, that's all it is.
You're the oddest guy, Orlando had said, drawing the flat of his palm up, and up higher, until JC was thrumming with the air and the tension. Keep talking. Tell me more. JC had talked until he ran out of words, until his hands lost the ability to express what he meant, and when he had sagged back against the pillows, nearly trembling from Orlando's touch, Orlando had risen, tilted his head, threaded both their ways past the bar to the back, and all the while, the smoke swirled translucent red-golden-amber.
"Come on," Orlando urges, hand skating down JC's arm to catch his wrist, tugging before the next wave of red-carpet arrivals pushes past the glass doors. "Come on," Orlando begs, and JC can still smell the tobacco smoke clinging to the curls of his hair, thinks maybe there's another song in there besides the one he's going to sing tonight.
Just a few steps to the men's room, and if they hurry, they'll be left alone, and Orlando's pushing at his jacket, skimming it off with eager, hungry hands, and JC arches up and thinks If the jackets get switched, it's all good, both Armani, same fucking suit and then Orlando's tongue swipes sweet and dirty along his jaw, and JC's not thinking much of anything.