Title: I Can Dream

Author: Crimsonsenya

Rating: R/NC17

Pairing: Johnny Depp/Vincent Kartheiser, VK/Many others. All the other actors mentioned in this fic: Andy García, Orlando Bloom, David Boreanaz, James Marsters, Viggo Mortensen, Vin Diesel, Melanie Griffith, Antonio Banderas, Elijah Wood and Aaron Stanford.

Warnings: m/m sex, voyeurism, angst, some parts could be taken as bashing, but I love all the actors I mention.

A/N: This is utter tosh and wrong in so many ways, but I came up with the idea when I chatted with Luka. My first ever RPS piece.

Disclaimer: There's no actual connection with the people described in this fic. I don't claim to know anything about the sex life of the people described. This fic is purely lies, produced by my dirty imagination and intended for non-profit fun.

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The young man traced a slick path with his tongue across Johnny’s stomach. Soon those rosy lips would find their way around his cock and start sucking. Eager and wanton, cheeks hollowed and that stubble burning smooth skin. Johnny tangles the long auburn hair and strokes the young man's skull with hard fingertips. His hips jerk forward, faster and faster, until the lights behind his eyelids explode in painfully bright colours...

"Johnny, qu'est-ce que tu fais? Depeche-toi, your taxi is already waiting! You’re going to miss the plane." Vanessa taps the bathroom door urgently. Johnny rises from the tile floor, swipes his stomach with a towel and tucks his shirt into his jeans. A quick look in the mirror and there’s perhaps a short flash of guilt in his eyes, but when he opens the door, he smiles and gives his wife a deep loving kiss. Her heart-shaped face glows in the dim hallway and her lips are pouting. She doesn’t like goodbyes.

***********************************

Johnny assumed his position by the window and focused his binoculars. He’d just changed the lens to his Maxxum 7D digital camera and his new digital camcorder lay on the table within his reach. Vincent had just come home and he was now sitting by the table eating take-away Chinese with chopsticks. A script was spread open in front of him, but he seemed unable to concentrate. His eyes wandered around the kitchen, stopped at the fridge door and at the notes and pictures attached to it. Johnny could see them every time Vincent picked up something to eat. A few pictures of his family and various with different co-stars: Patrick Stewart, Melanie Griffith, David Boreanaz and a total of three photographs with him and Andy García. In the ones with Andy Vincent is laughing, his mouth wide open and his hair blown about his face. Andy looks at Vincent and smiles; his arms are comfortably wrapped around the younger man’s slim body.

Andy too was back in Tinseltown. It hadn't been difficult for Johnny to find that out, just a call to his personal assistant. Vincent throws the empty package in the garbage can. Johnny watches, how he slowly washes the couple of dirty mugs and glasses on the sink before he leaves for the bathroom. Johnny waits patiently, because he knows from experience that, soon, he will get more than a glimpse of that deliciously naked wet body.

They met for the first time at The Pirates premiere. Vincent knew Kirsten, who had become friends with Orlando, who’d arranged his friends on the VIP list. It had been over a year ago. Johnny remembered well, how his usually energetic co-star seemed to have lost his spark. Orlando had waved and posed to his hysterical fangirls, but the smile never reached his eyes and it was more akin to a grin of a clown than to a ravishing flash of an international heartthrob. The simple reason for Orlando’s melancholy was that Viggo hadn’t arrived at Disneyland to see him. Mr Artist probably had the opening of an exhibition in another part of the country, but that didn’t console Orlando the least bit and Johnny couldn’t but commiserate.

Johnny hadn't even known he was into men, not before he met Javier Bardem at the shooting of Before Night Falls. One more proof of the ironic nature of the universe: he found out he swung both ways while working in a film about a gay writer. Walking around in scarves and lipstick had been an unexpected liberating experience. Of course, when he looked back now, there had been signs, involving particularly his departed best friend River.

Vincent had been working hard for the last six months: he'd been back to that WB show, Angel, and shooting a movie at the same time. He’d also been back with his colleagues, also in the biblical sense. Johnny had witnessed, how David Boreanaz, the star of Angel had paid the young man a couple of visits. Vincent had also spent time with another co-actor, the bleached guy, whose name Johnny didn’t remember but who’d come by sometimes. He and Vincent practiced their lines and worked on their roles for about two hours until the older actor kissed Vincent lightly and lowered his hand tentatively to Vincent's crotch.

Apparently, Vincent had been toying with the other man for the previous two hours. Johnny recognized method acting and he could read body language just perfectly: quick glances between half shut eyelids, one-sided grins, the slight swaying of hips, Vincent’s hand that rested sensually on his own abs, the brushing of hair behind the ear, the leaning over the shoulder and pressing against the other man’s arm. Vincent laughed a lot and the blond man looked at his shoes, head bent. Johnny could only imagine all the little dirty ambiguities Vincent must have been uttering to the blond between their lines, as Johnny saw him squirm and adjust his position on the armchair. The two always ended up having sex, nothing fancy or especially steamy, some kissing, a handjob and the blond actor at the bottom. Vincent didn’t even invite the man to stay overnight.

Johnny watched as Vincent came out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips and answered the phone. He walked to the window and leaned his arm on the frame while he talked. His expression was determined, though his eyes drifted into the distance. Vincent’s flat was in the corner of the building, so he had a view over the rooftops of lower houses. His hair was soaking wet and drops of water gleamed on his bare upper body. Johnny snapped a few pictures before Vincent turned to leave the window. The towel fell to the floor and Johnny moaned at the sight of a taunt butt, which was even tighter than when Johnny saw it for the first time thanks to the intense training sessions Vincent had with Vin Diesel.

Indeed, with his looks of a cherub, the wide blue eyes and full rosy lips, Vincent was top boy almost every time, even to Vin Diesel, whom everybody probably considered one hardass motherfucker. Johnny and Vincent knew better. Vin took Vincent regularly to the same gym Johnny trained in when he was in town. Seeing Vincent sweat with bench presses and close grip chins always made Johnny throb hard, but he wasn't the only one. When Vincent did push-ups and Vin hovered over him pushing Vincent's back down with his hands to add intensity to the exercise, Johnny noticed the growing bulge in Vin's sweatpants too. Later those two usually grabbed a pizza and a couple of diet cokes and watched a movie at Vincent's flat. To the world Vin appeared to be all balls with his fast cars and roaring motor cycles, but Johnny got to see with an almost malicious delight, how the He-man kneeled before Vincent and let him fuck his mouth. After Vincent came for the first time, Vin obediently crouched on the bed and spread his legs with astounding pliability.

Vincent was dressed only in a pair of faded jeans when he changed the sheets of his king-size bed. The cover and pillows were arranged carefully and candles were placed on the nightstands. Then Vincent ironed his shirt. Having finished the task he went to the kitchen to put two bottles of Pinot Noir in the cooler. From this Johnny knew the young man would meet someone special tonight and he could make a pretty good guess on who that person was.

The young man answered to his cellular again and, after twenty minutes, Orlando appeared at Vincent’s door. The young men hugged for a long time and Vincent made some coffee, which they drank on the balcony smoking cigarettes. Sweet Orlando, he seemed sad and serious again and he kept fidgeting with the charms and tags hanging from his neck while he did most of the talking. Vincent looked pensive, he nodded every once in a while and, sometimes, he leaned over to squeeze Orlando’s thigh in a comforting gesture.

Orlando and Johnny had had fun while shooting the Pirates. He was a smart kid with an unparalleled eagerness to learn. Johnny chuckled to himself and looked at a couple of pictures on the wall. The flexibility and the gorgeous piece of ass had also been great assets. Johnny had actually dared to get involved with Orlando, because the boy’s heart already belonged irrevocably to another. Johnny had too much to loose that’s why he always had to think twice before grabbing young men and shoving them on the bed. He couldn’t risk jealous phone calls in the night to France or his old tricks being interviewed by the press. For God’s sake, Johnny had a wife and two kids.

Before he left, Orlando kissed Vincent on the cheek and Vincent ruffled Orlando’s curly hair. Vincent smoked one more cigarette and hurried to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He left the bathroom door open and Johnny could see in when he moved to look through the kitchen window. Vincent even shaved away his stubble and, thus, Johnny knew for certain he was going to see Andy. Finally, Vincent rushed to dress up, black slacks, a dark purple button down shirt and a matching tie with a lighter shade of violet. After standing for five minutes in front of the mirror just staring at himself Vincent tied his hair back. A few circles around the bedroom and Vincent let his hair loose. A glance at the clock on the desk and he tied his hair again.

The frustrated pacing across the living room ended in Vincent sinking on the couch and staying still for an hour while he watched CSI. After the show, he compared the time on his wristwatch to the time on the clock of the wall. Vincent strode to the fridge and popped a beer. He sipped his drink browsing through the script on the counter. It was half past eleven when the phone finally rang. Vincent bounced to the window and tried to peek down on the street while he answered, but, slowly, Vincent’s shoulders slumped and he started to run his fingers through his slicked back hair, messing it up. When the call ended Vincent turned his back to the window as he slid onto the floor, out of Johnny’s sight.

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David called him when he came home from the rehearsals, but Vince refused to meet the guy tonight, because he already had plans. Besides, he wasn’t in the mood for kinkiness. David had played his character’s father, but in the bedroom David was the one to scream like a horny little schoolboy.

“Daddy, please, let me come! Yes, Daddy, more!” David panted and Vince tried to dodge the 220 lbs pounding against him while brutally fisting the star of Angel to his climax. There were just some things you couldn’t ask your wife to do or she simply wasn’t enough. Vince knew it perfectly well. Why else would Andy keep sleeping with him?

Patrick Stewart had opened his eyes. All his life Vince had been able to play with women, his mother and sisters, the actors and crew on the various film sets. With a lost little smile and batting of eyelashes or the brushing of an unruly strand of hair behind his ear, he could get women to act out his every whim, but with Patrick he’d realized for the first time that he could hold power over most men too. On the set of The Masterminds John Abrahams had also given him his first male kiss. But, all in all, he hadn’t been sure he preferred men, he ‘d even dated girls, until he met Andy.

Like in the beginning of Genesis, where God divided the darkness from the light, his life had been split in two the day he and Andy started working on The Unsaid. Wasn’t it an ironic coincidence that the whole movie was about secrets when both their lives had been entwined in a web of lies? Everything had started with simple admiration and mentoring. Then one evening, during the last week of shooting Andy had walked into Vince’s trailer with a bottle of wine.

“I should have known that the rain was a bad omen.” Andy told him later when he had once again tried to break off with Vince. “The rain gathers in brooks, the brooks turn into rivers and the rivers run to the sea and, Vincente, the sea never rests.” Vince remembered how, that night, their bodies had become one fluid motion and his skin had melted under Andy’s touch. Affairs like theirs were supposed to end with the wrapping party. The hugs, goodbyes, tears and exchanged phone numbers, Vince had bade farewells so many times already. The world of filmmaking was tangible for an actor as long as the shooting took place and then everybody moved on to the world of expectation, hoping for the next gig, but this once, Vince had said no.

In a city full of pretending, performances and masquerades, Vince had refused to give up on the only person he felt more real than the ground beneath his feet, but for Andy he was the illusion. Vince was words on the computer screen and an echo on the voice mail. He was the dancing satyr in Andy’s erotic nightmares, the seducing Dionysus behind his intoxicated haze.

“Veneno” Andy called him. “You’re poison running in my veins”, Andy hissed into his ear when he plunged on Vince. The words stung like flaming arrows aimed at his heart, but Vince dug his heels harder on Andy’s back and clawed frantically on Andy’s shoulders, and Andy thrust in deep and desperate as his hot mouth claimed Vince again and again. Afterwards they lay completely spent in a tangle of limbs and sheets that smelled like spice and incense, Andy’s expensive aftershave. “Te quiero”, Andy said and pressed a kiss on Vince’s hair.

“I love you too –por siempre.” The last word got usually muffled into Andy’s chest.

Vince came out of the bathroom and walked to the window. Andy had arrived yesterday to L.A. and they were supposed to meet tonight. Vince knew Johnny was in town too. At the moment, there were no curtains in the apartment opposite to his. It meant that Johnny was watching. Vince turned and let his towel drop.

“Let the bastard have his fun.” he grinned to himself.

Vince had lived in this flat for three years and in the first two the blinds had been constantly closed in the other flat. After The Pirates of the Caribbean premiere the blinds had been lifted every now and then, but still, after dark the lights were never on. Orlando had mentioned him twice that he had thought he’d seen Johnny enter the building next door, and Vince almost couldn’t believe his eyes those couple of times when he’d noticed the famous actor too.

Kirsten had introduced him to Orlando two years ago and they’d become friends, even if Orlando travelled a lot with the film crews. Orlando was probably the most sympathetic guy he’d ever met. Witty, thoughtful, always smiling with a hint of candour Hollywood hadn’t destroyed yet, and his heart was completely lost too. Orlando was the only one, who knew about Andy and in return Vince knew about him and Viggo. They went surfing and fencing together, trying to have as much fun as possible. Sometimes, when they came back from the beach and they had beer and watched the Discovery Channel’s nature documents, Orlando’s happy mood changed as if somebody had put off the only candle lighting the room and Vince could feel a cold grasp in his own heart. Those times, Vince groped for Orlando’s hand and they kissed languorously as if they could erase memories of other more passionate lips. Their hands wandered to pull off shirts and unzip slacks; their mouths explored smooth skin and sought something to fill the void. Afterwards, they slept peacefully, Vince’s arm curled around his friend.

At the Pirates premiere, Vince and Kirsten had watched Johnny’s performance mouths open and popcorn forgotten and when Vince got past the accessories, braids, posturing and smudged eyeliner, he was completely struck by the sheer sex appeal of him. At the after-party, Vince had almost choked on his drink when an abrupt voice had asked him, what the hell he was drinking. Vince glanced in turns at his green drink, garnished with a red mermaid, and at the most bizarre looking man in a brown pinstripe suit and a beige hat, until the realization dawned that this guy was the same person, who’d acted Captain Jack Sparrow and who’d made Vince all hot and bothered just three hours before. Vince had simply flushed red in embarrassment, before he’s been able to reply.

“It’s a mojito –mint leaves, sugar, rum and soda. Hemingway liked it.”

“Do you?” Johnny asked and raised Vince’s glass to smell the beverage. Johnny’s mouth turned into an enigmatic smile.

“No, I don’t.” Vince answered, eyes focused on the tattoo on Johnny’s finger, three boxes like phone doodles.

“I guess this party’s pretty lame, huh?” Johnny put the glass back on the table. “Shouldn’t you be dancing with the models?” Johnny asked, sliding his gaze down Vince’s body. He nodded slightly before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

Back in L.A. Vince had searched the net on info and having found out that Johnny lived in France with his family, he’d mentally smacked himself.

“Fucking great, just one more married guy. Forget about him.” And Vince had, until he’d seen Johnny again at the gym. No signs of recognition from his part, but Vince felt a pair of eyes on his back when he trained with Vin, who kept making passes on him.

The Hugo Boss suit and shirt Vince was going to wear tonight to his date with Andy had been expensive, but it had been worth every dime. Vince was positive he looked hot in it, actually, Orlando had been the one to convince Vince to buy it in the first place and his friend surely knew how to make people drool. Vince had worn the same clothes at the Once upon a Time in Mexico premiere in New York, where he’d been safely ensconced under the arm Andy had casually swung over Vince’s shoulders. There he’d also been properly introduced to Mr Depp.

“Hi, Johnny. Amazing job with your role. By the way, this is Vincent Kartheiser. We shot a movie together a few years back.” Such a polite way to explain, who he was –no one–, and to stop Johnny from blurting out that he’d never heard of Vince. An impassive look straight in Vince’s eyes and an impersonal handshake and Vince had been off with Andy.

However, when they were leaving and Vince had kissed Melanie goodbye and Antonio had let his lips linger on Vince’s cheeks a little longer than necessary, Vince had turned his head and seen Johnny’s gaze across the room. Later, when they had arrived at Vince’s hotel Andy had taken Vince’s face between his hands and kissed him long and hard in the back of the limo.

“You were beautiful tonight. Caliente. I love to see you smile, mi Vincente.” Andy had said and his words had brushed off the memory of Johnny for that night.

Shaven and fresh, Vince felt oddly exposed and vulnerable when he saw his reflection in the bedroom mirror. But Andy took him only to the finest restaurants, where you couldn’t enter in sneakers and army pants, wearing two week’s worth of stubble. It was all right to go out with Andy in public; to the world they were friends and colleagues. Luckily, to a Cuban hugging and kissing another male on the cheek were completely acceptable and innocent demonstrations of affection. They sat opposite to each other discussing trivial matters and listening to conga, but Vince’s eyes burned of a hunger the smoked salmon on the designer plate couldn’t appease and his mouth thirsted for something else than the chardonnay poured in his glass.

Vince was ready to go and nervous as hell. He’d tried to memorize his latest script, but the words kept dancing on the pages. His phone rang finally and Vince answered, his heart pounding in his chest, anxious as a teenager waiting for his prom date. Andy’s voice was rasp and worried. His youngest daughter had been in an accident and he would have to fly home to Miami immediately, but he would come back to L.A. in a fortnight.

“I understand. Give your wife my regards. ” Vincent croaked, tears of disappointment almost bursting from the corners of his eyes and the words clinging painfully to his throat. For a long time the only sounds heard in his flat were the humming of the fridge and the ticking of the clock on his wall.

Having changed his clothes swiftly to something more appropriate for Orlando and Elijah’s party, Vince headed to the beach. Clutching a Heineken in one hand he extended the other to the young man Orlando introduced to him.

“Vince, meet Aaron Stanford. He was in Xmen2. You remember?” Vince flashed out his most charming smile as he felt pleasant shivers in his groin, caused by the ice blue eyes that stared back at him.

“I loved you in Tadpole.” Vince moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue and held onto Aaron’s hand longer than needed while gazing intensely at his compelling eyes. Aaron flushed noticeably as his gaze turned to the waves splashing on the sand.

“Thanks, Vincent. I saw you at the Sundance festival.” Aaron glanced back at him now, smiling coyly. Damn, the guy had the most luscious mouth Vincent couldn’t wait to feel tasting his cock.

Before Vince had left his flat to drive down to the beach he had looked out the window. The glass had felt cold under his feverish cheek. The lights were out and the blinds were up in the apartment opposite to him. If Johnny watched Vince, he’d be there now. Nobody moved in the darkness of the flat, but the neon lights of the city lit the skyline mocking Vince’s solitude

Next day, Vince would curl around himself, his chin on his knees, on the slippery tile floor of his bathroom. There, where nobody could see him, he’d scream and shout and punch the wall under the spray of lukewarm water. He’d be lonely and desolate, tired of the constant waiting for his dreams to come true, for his heart to be whole again, tired of the fact that the best he achieved was not sleeping alone. He had no proof that somebody watched him. He could have imagined the whole stalking thing just to appease his deranged mind with the thought that somebody cared about what happened to him. Vince had seen enough movies starring Johnny Depp to admit that the guy was one of the most brilliant actors he’d ever met. Johnny was happy and successful with his family and career. Why would he follow anyone, and Vince of all people?

.

************************************

Johnny saw the screen of his own cellular flicker when Vincent ended his phone call. Vanessa had probably left him a message. Vincent’s flat was completely still until the young man rose up from the floor. His strands of hair almost covered his face as he leaned his cheek on the smooth surface of glass to look out at the colourful lights of the city by night. Such a young and beautiful face shouldn’t reflect that much exhaustion, sorrow and resignation. But Johnny wasn’t being honest if he didn’t admit that Vincent’s desperation had exactly been what had drawn Johnny to him in the first place. Heart bleeding but still smiling among all the self-assured narcissistic megalomaniacs that inhabited Hollywood, Vincent was like a forgotten white-sanded beach in an island full of vulgar tourist resorts. Something brisk and unblemished that Johnny yearned to touch and explore, but couldn’t, because he lived in a high marble tower that was a prison, nonetheless its glimmer.

Vincent left his flat and Johnny fell asleep after calling his wife. No, he wasn’t cheating on her. Vincent would never take Johnny to his home and strip Johnny’s clothes like that guy’s, whom he had brought to his bedroom at five am after having been rejected by Andy. Vincent would never slip his hand under Johnny’s waistband to caress his hardness or arch his neck back while Johnny lapped up the velvety skin of Vincent’s hipbones and shaft. Vincent would never open himself to Johnny like he’d seen Vincent do to Andy, nor even impale Johnny like he did to his latest trick. The stranger straddled Vincent and kept bouncing up and down, slamming himself on Vincent’s cock as Vincent’s delicate fingers stroked his shaft and thigh until he splattered on Vincent’s abs. Johnny would never stay asleep with Vincent, their limbs entwined and his hands resting on the small bump, where Vincent’s back ended and his rimmed butt began.

No, Johnny would stay in his dark apartment across the street, making observations and taking photographs nobody would see beside himself. Then after a few days, he would fly back to France, to his everyday life with acting, shooting and playing with his kids in the park. But when the dark hollow feeling in his chest became unbearable again, he would pay a new visit to L.A. just to see, how Vincent was doing, because that boy’s was wounded and scarred and because the thought that Johnny’s heart wasn’t the only one with an aching hole in it was addictively comforting.

The End