Chapter Text
Orlando pulled out a script from a large brown padded envelope his agent had sent him, a big fluorescent pink Post-It note with the words “This looks like a good one!” on the title sheet.
Well, he might as well look at it. After all, he was bored and it was too bloody hot—even worse than Morocco-to do anything. At least there it was a dry heat. He snorted at the cliché, but the dripping humidity of Kentucky was slowly killing him. He never thought he’d miss the cool rain and overcast days of London, but then again, even too much of a good thing was bad, as his mum was fond of saying.
He flipped the title sheet over and read the detailed note from his agent. Danny Boyle was directing, which caused his heart rate to rise considerably in excitement. Trainspotting and 28 Days Later were a couple of Orlando’s all time faves. And, dear god, Cillian Murphy, star of 28 Days Later, had signed on as well, making him even more excited about the project. But what blew Orlando away was that they’d specifically asked for him to be on the project.
He took a deep calming breath and flipped to the summary and character sheet for his role.
”Jamie Hopkins – the cheerful and foul-mouthed, baby-faced bartender in a rough East-end pub, who loves to chat up the patrons but keeps a bobby’s billy club close at hand.”
Orlando pursed his lips at the “baby-faced” part, but he read on.
Cillian Murphy was slated to play Danny Cleary, ”the Irish tough he befriends, who inadvertently embroils him in a drug-running scheme to Spain that turns deadly.”
Orlando scratched his temple. Sounds pretty tame for a Boyle project… he thought.
Was it all a contretemps—an unfortunate situation—or was Jamie being used…?”
Orlando settled in the armchair with his feet up on the wide footstool, a tall glass of ice-choked cola beside him, and began to read.
~~~
Orlando was thrilled to be in London again; thrilled to be able to sleep in his own house, instead of a hotel room, thrilled to be able to see his mum and sister for longer than a weekend.
He’d immediately called his agent that same night, from Kentucky, to sign him on to Danny Boyle’s project. At the moment, he wasn’t thinking of how this film would further his career. The fact that he would be filming in London for three months, be able to go home every night, hang out at the pub with his old mates, and eat his mum’s cooking, was enough for him. Well, yes, of course, this was an amazing project, with lots of scenes that would stretch and challenge his acting abilities, but that’s what agents and managers were paid to find for him.
He lay on his bed, in his house, and stretched his arms and legs, tight from the long flight, and groaned happily. He hadn’t told anyone yet he was home, or the phone would already be ringing off the hook from family and friends requiring his immediate appearance. He wanted to relax and rest up, something he’d done very little of in the last year.
He felt a twinge of guilt, especially about not telling Mum, but he figured he deserved some peace and quiet. No one wanting something from him, whether it was to show up on set, or a little girl asking for an autograph.
He patted his hand across the mattress until he found what he sought, bringing it up to his face to look at. The script, no longer pristine, was dog-eared and had whole sections underlined, notes and questions all over it, in the margins and on the backs of the sheets. He had marked up all the character points in the script because if Orlando knew anything, it was East-end boys. If he had to drag Danny Boyle to an East-end pub to see the real thing, he would.
Contemplating his character and his possible back-story, Orlando fell dead asleep, still fully clothed, only to be jerked awake the next morning by his cell phone in his jeans’ pocket.
~~~
Orlando was early. He was always bloody early. He sat at the long table, sipping a cup of hot tea—real British tea, not some anemic American version of tea, or worse, iced—and flipped through his ratty script. There was a notepad and a sharp pencil at his elbow, which he made immediate use of, writing down the questions and suggestions he had, so he wouldn’t be fumbling to find them later.
“Jaysus, you look bloody prepared. I’m scared of you,” a heavily Irish-accented voice grumbled, startling Orlando from his concentration.
He looked up into sea-green eyes and a mischievous smile. “Orlando Bloom, right?” he continued, holding out his hand for a shake. Orlando stared for a moment, awestruck by the man’s beauty. His shiny black hair intensified the paleness of his skin and made his eyes luminous. How could someone look better in person than on screen?
“Ye-es,” Orlando finally replied, almost adding ‘How did you know?’ He took hold of the other man’s hand and shook it tentatively, which was unlike him. “Cillian Murphy. You were brilliant in 28 Days, mate. I love that damn movie.”
Cillian grinned and the room suddenly seemed much brighter. “Thanks, mate. It was brilliant making it. I had a blast.” He looked around at the people straggling into the room and leaned forward conspiratorially, causing an unexpected shiver to go down Orlando’s spine. “I’m impressed with you, mate. Playing Legolas, man—you had no real lines, but fuck if I could keep my eyes off you when you were onscreen.” He nodded quite seriously and then winked, and Orlando’s cheeks heated up in embarrassment and pleasure and—something else. Thankfully, there was no time to make a reply, even if he could think of one, as the director had finally made it in and the meeting started.
~~~
They finally got down to the business of doing a run-through, after the intros were made and Boyle had made the requisite welcoming speech. As with Boyle's other films, the main cast was pretty small, with Cillian and Orlando’s characters having most of the lines. Suddenly Orlando felt everyone’s eyes on him and he started to get The Cold Sweats as he called them: the rush of adrenalin that usually accompanied one of his headlong charges into danger.
He looked up from his notes to see Cillian grinning at him, giving him a surreptitious thumbs-up and a wink. Orlando locked eyes with him, his heart leaping into a gallop, and played to an appreciative audience of one.
Scene after scene, picked by Boyle himself, Orlando and Cillian went at it, eyes boring into each other, the sparks visceral. He’d had this sort of eye connection before, with Viggo in Rings, and Eric in Troy, something he couldn’t identify—or didn’t want to. The intensity was—almost—sexual. It was something he couldn’t understand and it frightened him. He liked girls, after all, not boys…men… whatever. But Orlando found himself watching Cillian’s lips move, forming the words, his tongue peeking from behind white teeth to lick pink lips, a sensual dance that made him feel lightheaded and confused.
“Bloody hell,” Boyle muttered, grinning like a fiend. “Do I know what I’m doing or what?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “Right. Let’s take a break. We’ll do these other poor sods in a bit.”
Orlando sat back in his chair with a whoosh of exhaled breath, and then took a swig from his water bottle. Some people got up to use the facilities or grab a smoke, but most stayed to confer with Boyle. Cillian caught his eye and motioned to the door with his head and got up. Orlando followed him out, a bit apprehensive.
Cillian leaned his back against the wall, knee bent and his dirty trainer pressing up against the wall as well. He lighted a ciggie and offered Orlando the pack.
“Thanks, mate, but I’m trying to quit,” Orlando told him.
Cillian looked at him in disbelief, then shrugged and stuffed the pack back in his shirt pocket. “Suit yourself. Listen, that was pretty hot and wild in there. I could tell Boyle’s impressed with you.”
“Really?” Orlando asked, quite ingenuously, making Cillian laugh.
“Really,” he answered, quite seriously. “And he doesn’t give out compliments easily. But he’s a great director to work for. Likes actors, so he gives us a lot of headroom to be creative. In fact he wants you and me to ‘bond.’ Like real mates, you know? Hang out and pub crawl, get in scraps, live the life that Jamie Hopkins and Danny Cleary would.”
Orlando opened his mouth to say Fuck, I’m dead. But instead his snark instinct took over and he said, “I’m not a method actor.”
Cillian let out a whoop of laughter and Boyle’s voice came from behind them. “I know you aren’t, lad.” Both men immediately turned toward him. He’d been peeking from the slightly open door, then slipped out into the hall with them. He grinned at them. “That was before I saw that you two have It, that elusive pot of gold we film makers call chemistry.”
He put his arms around both men and led them down the hall. “What’s life all about lads?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Sex and power. Money’s just a tool to get those two things. The manipulation of those two in varying degrees is what makes the world go round… It’s what excites the masses the most…”
Orlando glanced at Cillian, who looked like he’d heard this speech before. He personally didn’t like to think about things that way, but it made for a twisted sort of logic. They’d reached the end of the hall and Boyle turned them around.
“…and boys, you have that. Both of you. Not just individual sex appeal… I’m talking about your chemistry together. Raw sex. I could almost smell it. It will drive everyone mad with lust.”
Orlando’s mouth gaped and he stared at Boyle in shock at the voicing of his own fears and confusion. Cillian howled with laughter. “Danny, you’ve scared the shit out of him!”
Boyle let go of Cillian to place both hands on Orlando’s shoulders. He stared into Orlando’s eyes with a calculating look. “You don’t see it, do you, lad?” he whispered.
“See what?” Orlando croaked, terrified the man would just come out and say it.
Boyle didn’t answer for a moment, searching Orlando’s wide panicked eyes. “Maybe you do, but …” He shook his head as if amused and turned to Cillian. “You’ll show him, yes?” he asked.
It was Cillian’s turn to give Orlando a calculating stare, softened by a humor-cocked eyebrow. “If he’ll let me.”
Boyle snorted. “Just be gentle, will you? I don’t want the lad to go crying to his agent.”
Not sure if he was making a joke or not, Orlando stiffened but decided to ignore the insult altogether.
“Mr. Boyle,” he said in his most professional tone of voice. “I was wondering if we could speak about my ideas on Jamie’s character?”
Boyle smiled like a shark and opened the conference door. “Absolutely. That’s next on the agenda. After you,” he added, waving both men in before him.
~~~
Orlando lay in bed much later that night, belly happily full with Mum’s good food, and stared at the ceiling, analyzing every look, every movement, every word spoken by both Boyle and Cillian. He finally gave up, not being able to give unequivocal meaning to any of it.
Besides, he realized finally. It really has nothing to do with them but everything to do with me.
Indeed. The struggle was his alone. Boyle just wanted to make an excellent movie, by whatever means he was able. And Boyle was known for his guerilla tactics. He didn’t make “comfortable” movies. He made movies that made people squirm and look at things in a different light. And he expected the same ruthlessness from his actors. Cillian was obviously well acquainted with the man’s methods, and had a grittiness and honesty himself that didn’t shy away from using assault methods to get the job done.
And they obviously expected the same from him.
So just what am I afraid of?
~~~