Interludes and Whispers: Tierce
interludes and whispers
Sidi dragged on his lead, almost wrenching Kris's arm off, and Kris wrenched
back. "Sit down, stupid dog," Kris said. "He's not here, okay?"
Orlando's front door swung open finally, Sidi threw himself through the door
and into the empty flat, barking loudly, and Kris let go of the lead with
relief.
"Ridiculous dog," he muttered to himself as he disarmed the security system,
and there was a crash from one of the bedrooms.
That wouldn't be good, but Kris had had to become impervious to the trail of
destruction the dog left behind him, purely to manage his own stress levels.
The place smelt bad, so Kris unlocked the kitchen window and pushed it open,
letting in a blast of freezing cold London air, disturbing the fine layer of
dust over everything. He'd have to arrange for a cleaner to come in
occasionally, for as long as the flat stood empty. Perhaps forever.
First task, take the rubbish out before Sidi got to it.
Rubbish disposed of, Kris pushed Sidi back indoors and started in on what
he'd actually been sent over to do: packing up some of Orlando's clothes and
belongings.
Orlando had a serried row of suitcases in one of the spare rooms, so Kris
dragged down the largest one and then opened the main closet in Orlando's
room. "Send my real clothes," Orlando had said on the phone, the sounds of
the final day of shooting loud behind him. "You know which ones."
Kris did. Most of the closet was working clothes: dark suits, fashionable
jeans, a pile of nondescript sweatshirts, single-colour shirts, narrow ties.
Behind the mountains of discarded scripts and clothing blocking the far
closet door, which Kris moved by shoving with his feet, were the real
clothes. Sidi burst out from under the bed, shoe in his mouth, just as Kris
opened that closet door, and Kris ignored him. Not his shoe, not his
problem.
Shirts that screamed in orange and lime. Board shorts down to the knees.
Cowboy boots, ruffles, spots and flowers. Somewhere in the world, a
publicist cried every time that closet door opened.
Kris chuckled at his own wit, and yanked a handful of shirts off their
hangers. He'd seen Orlando pack; there was no need to fold anything neatly.
* * *
The front door still stuck slightly, needing just that little bit extra push
before thudding open, crashing against the suitcase abandoned in the hall.
Henry shoved the suitcase across, clearing a path into Viggo's house.
Someone--his father--had left the lights on, so Henry flicked them off as he
went, stepping over tumbled canvases, around piles of printouts, shaking his
head in disbelief at the mess Viggo had left. He shouldn't be surprised, not
after so long.
His own room was relatively tidy, clothes jammed in the closet, bedding
dragged up in an attempt to make the bed at the end of his last visit, an oasis of calm in the
bewildering mess of the rest of the house. If Henry turned out to be an
anally retentive neatness freak, he knew exactly who to blame.
He wasn't actually there to collect his own stuff, though he did scoop up an
armful of his books and CDs. Viggo had emailed him, and amidst the usual
stream-of-consciousness rambles had been a request for Henry to find some of
Viggo's things and freight them to him.
Boxes of junk cluttered the hall, so Henry upended one of them, sending
books tumbling across the scratched wooden boards, then dragged the box into
Viggo's study.
The email, which Henry had printed out for reference, turned out to
translate to the top layer of mess on the worktable, so Henry settled for
scooping everything on the table into the box. Journals, printouts, letters,
bills, sketches, newspaper cuttings, enough to fill half the box. The space
left afterwards, Henry packed with boxes of photos, packs of proofs, bags of
negatives and rolls of undeveloped film.
He'd brought tape with him, sure that despite the huge amount of stuff
cluttering his father's house, he'd never manage to find any. What Henry
wasn't prepared for was the sense of longing and loss he was feeling. This
carton of ideas, more than any piece of furniture or suitcase of clothes,
meant that just as Henry had left home, Viggo was leaving too.
* * *
Getting out of the taxi into the bright sunshine was hard work. All of
Orlando's body was screaming at him that he needed sleep, and he suppressed
a yawn as he paid the taxi driver.
"Git yur cases," the driver said, and Orlando nodded and jammed his
sunglasses on tighter. It wasn't unbearably hot, not with the cool air
moving in across the bay, but the sun reflected painfully off the water and
the boat windows, almost blinding him despite his glasses.
He took his case, shouldered his pack, and walked down the jetty, the
suitcase wheels clattering over the wooden planking, seagulls swooping
around him, the smell of the ocean and the slap of waves against pylons and
boat hulls combining to lift him past jetlag and exhaustion.
He was going home, even though he'd never seen the house before.
The water taxi was a small speedboat, and Orlando had to help the pilot lift
his case down off the wharf. Then it was a jump and a scramble for him, and
the driver said, "Where you off to?"
The clipped vowel sounds made Orlando smile. Some of his favourite memories
in the world were of New Zealand; some of his favourite people were Kiwis.
"Pakihi Island," Orlando said, pulling a printout from his backpack and
reading it. "There's a jetty to the north of Te Tamuiti Point. Do you know
where that is?"
"Yep," the pilot said, unwinding the ropes that held the water taxi bobbing
beside the dock. "Is there some kind of gathering happening there?" he
asked. "You're the second person I've taken there today."
Orlando sat down on a bench at the back of the boat and took his knit hat
off, letting the spray from the boat slicing through the swell dampen his
hair. "No," he said, but he had to smile. Viggo was there already, and he
couldn't stop himself from grinning at the thought that he'd be seeing both
his lovers soon.
"How long does it take?" he called out as the boat picked up speed, moving
away from the jetty and city, slapping over the small waves.
"About an hour," the pilot called back.
An hour. After all the time he'd waited, the nights alone, the sad phone
calls, he'd see them both in an hour.
* * *
The water taxi took off again, leaving Orlando and his suitcase alone on a
rickety jetty. He looked around the small bay, and at the lush green of the
surrounding small hills. The place wasn't uninhabited, he could make out the
roofs of a few buildings amongst the green, but there were no people in
sight.
He'd just taken out his phone when someone hallooed, and Karl appeared at
the entrance to a path up the slope, away from the beach.
Orlando dropped his backpack beside his suitcase and ran, along the
crumbling jetty and across the sand, colliding solidly with Karl, hugging
him wildly, face against his neck.
Karl laughed, wrapping arms around Orlando, swinging him around twice, then
setting him back on his feet again.
"Missed you," Karl said, his voice a rumble against Orlando's ear.
Orlando bit at the skin of Karl's neck, just to taste him again, and Karl
laughed and pulled back a little, so Orlando could see his face.
"Missed you too," Orlando said, and Karl smiled at him, making Orlando's
chest tighten a little. "Missed both of you unbearably. I can't wait to see
the house."
"It's a home," Karl said, and Orlando knew he was right.
It was their home.
The path under the trees led up stone steps, giant's steps, each two strides
across, hewn into the hillside. Karl dragged Orlando's suitcase roughly
behind him, and Orlando didn't care because it meant Karl's other hand was
available for holding.
"... no pool, but we can swim in the bay," Karl said, as the steps led onto
a sward of overgrown grass, surrounded by hibiscus trees, and a house. A
big, stone house, with a wooden decking leading down to the grass, and huge
picture windows.
Orlando turned to look behind them, where they had climbed the hillside, to
see the view that the windows would encompass.
The bay was glassy green, cream sand and a gentle white splash of wave. The
headland, across the bay, rose up dark and verdant with promise under a
perfectly blue sky. Orlando could see the triangle sails of yachts beyond
the headland, other islands in the distance, the buildings of Auckland a
faraway glimmer in the haze.
"Well?" Karl said.
"It's gorgeous," Orlando said. "I can't believe you found somewhere like
this."
Karl slid his arm around Orlando's shoulders and hugged him. "It's private,"
he said, his voice low, making its way under Orlando's skin, down his spine.
"C'mon inside."
A sliding door from the decking opened into the living room, but Karl
abandoned Orlando's luggage, took Orlando's hand and led him through the
kitchen and down a hall.
A bedroom door stood open, the room in shadow with wooden slatted blinds at
the windows, a fan circling overhead, stirring the warm air.
The bedding was rumpled, bunched and pulled over a figure. Viggo was asleep
on his side, arms wound around a pillow, legs stretched out to occupy most
of the large bed.
"You bastards didn't wait for me," Orlando hissed.
They had rules, and that was one of them. They only fucked when they were
all together. Orlando liked that rule, liked the feeling he was never
excluded just because he was always working. Other rules, about never
travelling together, made sense but he hated them. That one...
"Course we waited," Karl said, his voice quiet, his arms solid around
Orlando's chest, holding him close. "I just wanted to show you the room..."
Orlando closed his eyes and turned around inside Karl's embrace.
"Sorry," he whispered. "I'm just so fucking tired, and I missed you so much.
I just want to shower and go to sleep with both of you there."
The bathroom was tiled in dark green, cool and soothing, and Karl's hands
were gentle, lifting Orlando's t-shirt over his head and unbuttoning his
jeans.
"Shower with me?" Orlando whispered as Karl's hands slid across his skin,
tracing the point of his hip and the curve of his arse.
"I can do that," Karl said, his mouth moving against Orlando's ear.
They hugged, just for a moment, and Orlando could feel the muscles in Karl's
back were like steel bands, wound tight, and there was something desperate
about the embrace. Orlando had been kind of wrapped in his own loneliness,
stumbling through filming the last fucking Pirates movie, but Karl had been
here, moving into their house, all by himself too.
"Which wall is mine?" Orlando asked. "How are we dividing this place up?"
"What?" Karl asked, letting go of Orlando and shaking his head at him, the
beginnings of a smile tickling his lips.
"I figure if there're six surfaces in each room, four walls, floor and
ceiling, then we each must own two surfaces in each room."
"That wall is mine," Karl said, pointing at the wall where hooks ran in a
line down the length of the tiles, holding towels and robes for all three of
them. "Because I'm the one who fusses about towels being hung up. You can
have the mirror and basin wall."
"What about Viggo?" Orlando said, kicking his own jeans off, then pushing
his boxers down.
"He can have the ceiling," Karl said, and Orlando grabbed the belt loops of
Karl's jeans and tugged him closer. "So he can spend hours staring at it."
"He'll paint it," Orlando said, undoing the button of Karl's fly, then
easing the zip undone carefully.
Karl wouldn't have underwear on, not when they were all together again.
Karl's jeans slid down, over his thighs, and Orlando's breath caught at the
sight of Karl mostly naked and dragging a t-shirt over his head.
"Like he did the bedroom ceiling at the rented house in Wellington," Karl
agreed, tossing his t-shirt onto the floor and leaning into the shower
cubicle to start the water. It was a decent-sized shower, big enough for all
three of them at a squeeze.
In the shower, Orlando leant against Karl, washcloth in his hand, rubbing it
across Karl's belly while Karl's fingers traced the bumps of Orlando's
spine.
"Has it been bad?" Orlando asked, and Karl nodded.
"I'm sorry," Orlando said, lifting his face from Karl's shoulder to look at
him, blinking water out of his eyes.
"Just make sure you stay this time," Karl said.
"I'm here for good," Orlando said. "And so is Viggo."
Karl kissed him, brush and flutter of lips, and Orlando groaned and opened
his mouth. They'd each been through individual hells to get to where they
were, but that was over.
"You couldn't shower quietly, could you?" a voice said behind Orlando. Ams
slid around him from behind, and Viggo stepped into the shower, so that
Orlando was squeezed between his lovers.
Karl lifted his mouth from Orlando's, smiling, and Orlando stumbled around
in the shower, water streaming over his face, to wrap himself around Viggo.
It was some kind of heaven, to go from Karl's gentle kisses to a
full-mouthed encounter with Viggo, then to have Viggo break the kiss and
lean across him to kiss Karl, while Karl's cock rode the crack of Orlando's
arse, and someone's hand cradled Orlando's balls.
Viggo's mouth was back on Orlando's, and Orlando stopped wondering whose
hand was where, just focused on the feel of Viggo's cock in his hand and the
grind of Karl's body against his skin.
"Are we going to fuck in here?" Karl asked, and the flow of water stopped
suddenly as someone turned the taps off, leaving Orlando's groaning suddenly
loud in the silence.
"Think Orli has started already," Viggo said, his teasing belied by the
steel length of his cock in Orlando's hand.
Viggo was as into it as he was, and Karl was shoving his cock, every
delicious inch of it, so hard against Orlando's arse that any moment, he was
just going to slide on in, and Orlando wasn't going to stop him.
"Remember last time..." Karl gasped, his mouth burning against Orlando's
shoulder, and fuck, the head of his cock eased inside, no lube, riding the
sweat of their bodies.
No glass wall on the shower, not like there had been at the hotel in New
York, but Orlando was going to need to lie down, preferably before Karl was
all the fucking way inside.
"Bedroom," Viggo said decisively, and he was gone, leaving Orlando
shuddering, clutching onto the shower taps for support, eyes closed, mouth
gasping. Karl's hands, so huge and strong, wrapped around Orlando's ribs,
holding him upright.
Towelling wiped gently across his face, and Viggo said, "Orli, babe, think
you can move?"
"Not with a fucking huge cock shoved in my arse," Orlando said, opening his
eyes to find Viggo back in front of him, towel in hand.
Karl, his voice tight, said, "Damn, I was hoping you hadn't noticed."
Then the pressure and burn were gone, and Orlando found himself able to
breathe again.
"Bedroom," Orlando said, as Karl stepped out of the shower and took a towel
off a hook. "Where there's some fucking lube!" he called out at Karl's
retreating back.
Orlando took the towel from Viggo, then touched his cheek gently, pressing
fingertips against the lined skin. "Fuck, I've missed you," he whispered.
"You too," Viggo said.
There was loud groaning from the bedroom, accompanied by thudding of
furniture and squeaking of springs, and Viggo said, "Think that might be a
hint from Karl that we're taking too long."
The bed was wider than it was long, the bedding smelt new, and it was heaven
to crawl across it to collapse down beside Karl, close enough for Orlando to
lean across and slide Karl's cock into his mouth.
Karl's fingers threaded into Orlando's hair, where it clung wetly to his
neck, and Karl groaned deeply, rocking his hips, pushing himself deeper into
Orlando's throat.
Hands touched Orlando's arse, spreading his cheeks, and something soft and
wet slid across his arsehole, soothing where Karl's cock had rubbed him,
lingering, swirling and slipping.
Orlando spread his legs and tried to keep his hips still, but the crinkle of
the new sheet against his cock was like fire, and the feeling of Viggo's
tongue pressing into his body was irresistible.
"Lube?" Karl asked, and something whizzed through the air over Orlando's
head to thud into the bedding, but he wasn't about to open his eyes to check
what it was. There were other, far more responsible, people there, who
weren't actually trying to think while Viggo's tongue was in their arse.
Karl's hands lifted Orlando's head, easing his mouth off, then the amazing
feeling of the tongue on Orlando's arse stopped, and hands lifted him,
rolling him onto his side, lifting him up the bed.
Orlando stopped trying to control anything, there was no point when the
three of them were together. It wasn't about equal time, or not leaving
anyone out, and he had to trust that, and them. It was about giving as much
of himself as he could, letting himself feel as much as was humanly
possible, soaking up the feel and taste and sound of them both, so there was
no room for loneliness anymore.
Someone--he could tell it was Viggo by the grunting--slid into him, slick
with lube, hot and deep, making Orlando grab randomly at pillows and sheets.
Then a mouth pushed down his cock, and logic said it had to be Karl's, but
logic also said many things that Orlando didn't actually believe, so he left
the identification of the ownership of the mouth open in his mind, content
to thrash around on the bed, yelling and moaning.
Hands on his arms, hips, thighs, grounding him, the tightness building and
building, hanging onto the feeling of Viggo coming, then a brief moment of
respite while the pair of them clambered across him, managing not to knee
him or break the bed.
Then Viggo kissed him, one of his impatient, burning kisses, and Karl slid
into Orlando, cock like steel, pushing all the way in.
Every single moment of creeping sadness was worthwhile, every time he'd
listened to Karl trying not to cry long distance, every night spent alone,
none of that mattered.
Viggo wrenched his mouth off Orlando's, then dived down the bed, so that
Orlando could only grab at his hair, then he was sucking Orlando, sweet and
hard. It felt so fucking fantastic that it hurt, making Orlando's body
shudder, then the unbearable tightness peaked, and he fell to pieces, held
by both of them.
Jet lag, which Orlando had conveniently forgotten about, hit him hard in the
aftermath of coming, so that all he could do was slump forward onto the
sheets, riding the grind of Karl's cock while Viggo stroked his shoulder and
arm and kissed his forehead.
Being held, secure between both of his lovers, Karl's weight a reassuring
pressure against Orlando's back as he leant across to kiss Viggo, their
entwined hands a clump on Orlando's hip, was as good as it could possibly
be.
"Go to sleep," Karl whispered, and Orlando closed his eyes, too tired to
resist. "We'll be here when you wake up."
* * *
Orlando's suitcase and Viggo's carton were delivered at the same time, by a
bad-tempered postal worker, who had to make two trips with a trolley up the
rough steps to the house to bring both items. Orlando's suitcase was wrapped
around with extra strapping, the delivery address attached twice in Kris's
neat handwriting. Viggo's box was bound around and around with packing tape,
the address a barely legible scrawl, and it took the three of them and a
kitchen knife to get it open.
The contents exploded out, across the living room on the polished board
floor, and Viggo dropped to his knees and grabbed a leather-bound journal,
making crooning noises.
Karl and Orlando exchanged significant glances over Viggo's head, then
Orlando picked up a box of photos and took the lid off.
There were photos of Karl and him there, from the trip to New York in the
middle of the year. The two of them asleep; Karl shaving, with Viggo and his
camera visible in the reflections in the mirror; Orlando, wearing only his
shirt, hunting for something in his luggage.
Viggo looked up, a scrap of paper covered in scribble in his hand. "Do you
like them?" he asked.
Karl kissed the side of Orlando's head gently, and nodded. Orlando said,
"They're gorgeous, but weren't you worried about Henry seeing them when he
packed up your stuff?"
Viggo looked down at the scribble and shrugged. "It's not like he doesn't
know how I feel, and I suspect he actually packed this carton with his eyes
closed, just in case."
Something about his voice was tight, but he shook his head and smiled when
Karl leant across and touched his shoulder. "I'm okay, really. We need to be
here; Karl is the one of us with a young child."
"Doesn't mean I don't appreciate what you've given up," Karl said.
Viggo and Karl tumbled backwards, arms wrapped around each other, neatly
avoiding the edge of the couch, so that Viggo's head settled on Karl's
chest. Orlando pulled his knees up and rested his chin on his knees, smiling
at his lovers embracing. They were together now, and they were going to stay
that way, at least for a while.
* * *
Orlando woke to an empty bed on Christmas morning. He hadn't expected Karl
to be there; Karl had left at the crack of dawn, to catch a ferry to the
mainland and go and see his family, especially his son. Viggo, however, was
as much of a sloth as Orlando, a characteristic that further endeared him to
Orlando. The world needed more people who appreciated the value of a nap.
The light in the hallway was horribly bright, where someone had
thoughtlessly opened the curtains, but Orlando's sunglasses were in the mess
on the kitchen table, and he jammed them on his nose. The door to the deck
stood open, so Orlando snagged one of Karl's sarongs off the back of the
couch and wrapped it around himself, then stepped out into the summer sun.
It was another gorgeous day, sky purest blue, all the way across to the bank
of white clouds in the east, promising an afternoon thunderstorm to make the
air cool and wet, with rolling booms that would cover the sounds of their
pleasure, the thud and squeak and groan of the three of them.
Viggo, improbably dressed in a pair of Hawaiian-print board shorts and a
baseball cap, was pushing a hand mower backwards and forwards across the
wild grass, and Orlando couldn't tell where he'd done, because the mower
didn't seem to be touching the ankle-deep lawn.
"Coffee's on," Viggo called. "But you've been asleep for so long, it must be
beer o'clock already."
Viggo smelt of fresh cut grass, sweat and love, when he abandoned the mower
in the shade of the hibiscus and climbed onto the deck to hug Orlando.
They kissed, and some of Karl was rubbing off on Viggo, or perhaps he was
still mellow from the night before, because his mouth was gentle.
"I need at least one mug of coffee before beer," Orlando said.
"Traditionalist," Viggo teased.
"Wanna go for a swim after I've had coffee and you've had beer?" Orlando
asked.
"Love to," Viggo said, and the pair of them stepped back into the cool shade
of their house. "Can't spend all afternoon getting sunburned though; one of
us has to be responsible and cook some dinner."
"What are we having?" Orlando asked, leaning across the kitchen counter to
snag a mug off the row of hooks above the stove, then pouring himself coffee
from the flask in the coffee dripper.
"I'm thinking fish with bananas," Viggo said, opening the fridge to hand
Orlando a carton of milk, and then rummaging around in the crisper drawer.
"With salad, and a coconut dressing."
Viggo's cooking was always experimental, something Orlando had became
accustomed to. Besides, if it was dreadful, Karl could cook too, and in ways
that neither set fire to the house, used illegal ingredients, nor gave
anyone food poisoning.
Viggo took a beer out of the fridge and popped the top off, kicking the
fridge door closed with his bare foot.
"Karl's back," he said, and they both turned to watch Karl walk in from the
deck, tinsel wound around his neck, sunglasses pushed up into his dark hair.
"Beer o'clock?" he asked, and Viggo took another beer out of the fridge and
handed it across to Karl, who wrapped an arm around Orlando's waist and
hugged him, then kissed Viggo quickly.
"Orlando's just woken up," Viggo said, pointing at Orlando with his beer.
"I'm still running on West Coast time," Orlando said. "Or London time, or
something."
"Did we wear you out?" Karl murmured, leaning close enough to Orlando's neck
that his breath ruffled Orlando's hair, then pressing his icy beer bottle
against Orlando's back, making him shriek.
"Best Christmas present ever," Orlando said, squirming away from Karl, who
was laughing at him.
"Could be true," Viggo said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and
sliding an arm around Orlando's waist, pulling him back into a three-way
embrace.
Orlando leant his head back on Karl's shoulder and closed his eyes
contentedly. He didn't care if both of them poured cold beer over him,
really. He didn't care much about anything, not if he could sleep between
the two of them every night.
written a year ago for slashfairy, as part of slashababy.
Sidi dragged on his lead, almost wrenching Kris's arm off, and Kris wrenched
back. "Sit down, stupid dog," Kris said. "He's not here, okay?"
Orlando's front door swung open finally, Sidi threw himself through the door
and into the empty flat, barking loudly, and Kris let go of the lead with
relief.
"Ridiculous dog," he muttered to himself as he disarmed the security system,
and there was a crash from one of the bedrooms.
That wouldn't be good, but Kris had had to become impervious to the trail of
destruction the dog left behind him, purely to manage his own stress levels.
The place smelt bad, so Kris unlocked the kitchen window and pushed it open,
letting in a blast of freezing cold London air, disturbing the fine layer of
dust over everything. He'd have to arrange for a cleaner to come in
occasionally, for as long as the flat stood empty. Perhaps forever.
First task, take the rubbish out before Sidi got to it.
Rubbish disposed of, Kris pushed Sidi back indoors and started in on what
he'd actually been sent over to do: packing up some of Orlando's clothes and
belongings.
Orlando had a serried row of suitcases in one of the spare rooms, so Kris
dragged down the largest one and then opened the main closet in Orlando's
room. "Send my real clothes," Orlando had said on the phone, the sounds of
the final day of shooting loud behind him. "You know which ones."
Kris did. Most of the closet was working clothes: dark suits, fashionable
jeans, a pile of nondescript sweatshirts, single-colour shirts, narrow ties.
Behind the mountains of discarded scripts and clothing blocking the far
closet door, which Kris moved by shoving with his feet, were the real
clothes. Sidi burst out from under the bed, shoe in his mouth, just as Kris
opened that closet door, and Kris ignored him. Not his shoe, not his
problem.
Shirts that screamed in orange and lime. Board shorts down to the knees.
Cowboy boots, ruffles, spots and flowers. Somewhere in the world, a
publicist cried every time that closet door opened.
Kris chuckled at his own wit, and yanked a handful of shirts off their
hangers. He'd seen Orlando pack; there was no need to fold anything neatly.
* * *
The front door still stuck slightly, needing just that little bit extra push
before thudding open, crashing against the suitcase abandoned in the hall.
Henry shoved the suitcase across, clearing a path into Viggo's house.
Someone--his father--had left the lights on, so Henry flicked them off as he
went, stepping over tumbled canvases, around piles of printouts, shaking his
head in disbelief at the mess Viggo had left. He shouldn't be surprised, not
after so long.
His own room was relatively tidy, clothes jammed in the closet, bedding
dragged up in an attempt to make the bed at the end of his last visit, an oasis of calm in the
bewildering mess of the rest of the house. If Henry turned out to be an
anally retentive neatness freak, he knew exactly who to blame.
He wasn't actually there to collect his own stuff, though he did scoop up an
armful of his books and CDs. Viggo had emailed him, and amidst the usual
stream-of-consciousness rambles had been a request for Henry to find some of
Viggo's things and freight them to him.
Boxes of junk cluttered the hall, so Henry upended one of them, sending
books tumbling across the scratched wooden boards, then dragged the box into
Viggo's study.
The email, which Henry had printed out for reference, turned out to
translate to the top layer of mess on the worktable, so Henry settled for
scooping everything on the table into the box. Journals, printouts, letters,
bills, sketches, newspaper cuttings, enough to fill half the box. The space
left afterwards, Henry packed with boxes of photos, packs of proofs, bags of
negatives and rolls of undeveloped film.
He'd brought tape with him, sure that despite the huge amount of stuff
cluttering his father's house, he'd never manage to find any. What Henry
wasn't prepared for was the sense of longing and loss he was feeling. This
carton of ideas, more than any piece of furniture or suitcase of clothes,
meant that just as Henry had left home, Viggo was leaving too.
* * *
Getting out of the taxi into the bright sunshine was hard work. All of
Orlando's body was screaming at him that he needed sleep, and he suppressed
a yawn as he paid the taxi driver.
"Git yur cases," the driver said, and Orlando nodded and jammed his
sunglasses on tighter. It wasn't unbearably hot, not with the cool air
moving in across the bay, but the sun reflected painfully off the water and
the boat windows, almost blinding him despite his glasses.
He took his case, shouldered his pack, and walked down the jetty, the
suitcase wheels clattering over the wooden planking, seagulls swooping
around him, the smell of the ocean and the slap of waves against pylons and
boat hulls combining to lift him past jetlag and exhaustion.
He was going home, even though he'd never seen the house before.
The water taxi was a small speedboat, and Orlando had to help the pilot lift
his case down off the wharf. Then it was a jump and a scramble for him, and
the driver said, "Where you off to?"
The clipped vowel sounds made Orlando smile. Some of his favourite memories
in the world were of New Zealand; some of his favourite people were Kiwis.
"Pakihi Island," Orlando said, pulling a printout from his backpack and
reading it. "There's a jetty to the north of Te Tamuiti Point. Do you know
where that is?"
"Yep," the pilot said, unwinding the ropes that held the water taxi bobbing
beside the dock. "Is there some kind of gathering happening there?" he
asked. "You're the second person I've taken there today."
Orlando sat down on a bench at the back of the boat and took his knit hat
off, letting the spray from the boat slicing through the swell dampen his
hair. "No," he said, but he had to smile. Viggo was there already, and he
couldn't stop himself from grinning at the thought that he'd be seeing both
his lovers soon.
"How long does it take?" he called out as the boat picked up speed, moving
away from the jetty and city, slapping over the small waves.
"About an hour," the pilot called back.
An hour. After all the time he'd waited, the nights alone, the sad phone
calls, he'd see them both in an hour.
* * *
The water taxi took off again, leaving Orlando and his suitcase alone on a
rickety jetty. He looked around the small bay, and at the lush green of the
surrounding small hills. The place wasn't uninhabited, he could make out the
roofs of a few buildings amongst the green, but there were no people in
sight.
He'd just taken out his phone when someone hallooed, and Karl appeared at
the entrance to a path up the slope, away from the beach.
Orlando dropped his backpack beside his suitcase and ran, along the
crumbling jetty and across the sand, colliding solidly with Karl, hugging
him wildly, face against his neck.
Karl laughed, wrapping arms around Orlando, swinging him around twice, then
setting him back on his feet again.
"Missed you," Karl said, his voice a rumble against Orlando's ear.
Orlando bit at the skin of Karl's neck, just to taste him again, and Karl
laughed and pulled back a little, so Orlando could see his face.
"Missed you too," Orlando said, and Karl smiled at him, making Orlando's
chest tighten a little. "Missed both of you unbearably. I can't wait to see
the house."
"It's a home," Karl said, and Orlando knew he was right.
It was their home.
The path under the trees led up stone steps, giant's steps, each two strides
across, hewn into the hillside. Karl dragged Orlando's suitcase roughly
behind him, and Orlando didn't care because it meant Karl's other hand was
available for holding.
"... no pool, but we can swim in the bay," Karl said, as the steps led onto
a sward of overgrown grass, surrounded by hibiscus trees, and a house. A
big, stone house, with a wooden decking leading down to the grass, and huge
picture windows.
Orlando turned to look behind them, where they had climbed the hillside, to
see the view that the windows would encompass.
The bay was glassy green, cream sand and a gentle white splash of wave. The
headland, across the bay, rose up dark and verdant with promise under a
perfectly blue sky. Orlando could see the triangle sails of yachts beyond
the headland, other islands in the distance, the buildings of Auckland a
faraway glimmer in the haze.
"Well?" Karl said.
"It's gorgeous," Orlando said. "I can't believe you found somewhere like
this."
Karl slid his arm around Orlando's shoulders and hugged him. "It's private,"
he said, his voice low, making its way under Orlando's skin, down his spine.
"C'mon inside."
A sliding door from the decking opened into the living room, but Karl
abandoned Orlando's luggage, took Orlando's hand and led him through the
kitchen and down a hall.
A bedroom door stood open, the room in shadow with wooden slatted blinds at
the windows, a fan circling overhead, stirring the warm air.
The bedding was rumpled, bunched and pulled over a figure. Viggo was asleep
on his side, arms wound around a pillow, legs stretched out to occupy most
of the large bed.
"You bastards didn't wait for me," Orlando hissed.
They had rules, and that was one of them. They only fucked when they were
all together. Orlando liked that rule, liked the feeling he was never
excluded just because he was always working. Other rules, about never
travelling together, made sense but he hated them. That one...
"Course we waited," Karl said, his voice quiet, his arms solid around
Orlando's chest, holding him close. "I just wanted to show you the room..."
Orlando closed his eyes and turned around inside Karl's embrace.
"Sorry," he whispered. "I'm just so fucking tired, and I missed you so much.
I just want to shower and go to sleep with both of you there."
The bathroom was tiled in dark green, cool and soothing, and Karl's hands
were gentle, lifting Orlando's t-shirt over his head and unbuttoning his
jeans.
"Shower with me?" Orlando whispered as Karl's hands slid across his skin,
tracing the point of his hip and the curve of his arse.
"I can do that," Karl said, his mouth moving against Orlando's ear.
They hugged, just for a moment, and Orlando could feel the muscles in Karl's
back were like steel bands, wound tight, and there was something desperate
about the embrace. Orlando had been kind of wrapped in his own loneliness,
stumbling through filming the last fucking Pirates movie, but Karl had been
here, moving into their house, all by himself too.
"Which wall is mine?" Orlando asked. "How are we dividing this place up?"
"What?" Karl asked, letting go of Orlando and shaking his head at him, the
beginnings of a smile tickling his lips.
"I figure if there're six surfaces in each room, four walls, floor and
ceiling, then we each must own two surfaces in each room."
"That wall is mine," Karl said, pointing at the wall where hooks ran in a
line down the length of the tiles, holding towels and robes for all three of
them. "Because I'm the one who fusses about towels being hung up. You can
have the mirror and basin wall."
"What about Viggo?" Orlando said, kicking his own jeans off, then pushing
his boxers down.
"He can have the ceiling," Karl said, and Orlando grabbed the belt loops of
Karl's jeans and tugged him closer. "So he can spend hours staring at it."
"He'll paint it," Orlando said, undoing the button of Karl's fly, then
easing the zip undone carefully.
Karl wouldn't have underwear on, not when they were all together again.
Karl's jeans slid down, over his thighs, and Orlando's breath caught at the
sight of Karl mostly naked and dragging a t-shirt over his head.
"Like he did the bedroom ceiling at the rented house in Wellington," Karl
agreed, tossing his t-shirt onto the floor and leaning into the shower
cubicle to start the water. It was a decent-sized shower, big enough for all
three of them at a squeeze.
In the shower, Orlando leant against Karl, washcloth in his hand, rubbing it
across Karl's belly while Karl's fingers traced the bumps of Orlando's
spine.
"Has it been bad?" Orlando asked, and Karl nodded.
"I'm sorry," Orlando said, lifting his face from Karl's shoulder to look at
him, blinking water out of his eyes.
"Just make sure you stay this time," Karl said.
"I'm here for good," Orlando said. "And so is Viggo."
Karl kissed him, brush and flutter of lips, and Orlando groaned and opened
his mouth. They'd each been through individual hells to get to where they
were, but that was over.
"You couldn't shower quietly, could you?" a voice said behind Orlando. Ams
slid around him from behind, and Viggo stepped into the shower, so that
Orlando was squeezed between his lovers.
Karl lifted his mouth from Orlando's, smiling, and Orlando stumbled around
in the shower, water streaming over his face, to wrap himself around Viggo.
It was some kind of heaven, to go from Karl's gentle kisses to a
full-mouthed encounter with Viggo, then to have Viggo break the kiss and
lean across him to kiss Karl, while Karl's cock rode the crack of Orlando's
arse, and someone's hand cradled Orlando's balls.
Viggo's mouth was back on Orlando's, and Orlando stopped wondering whose
hand was where, just focused on the feel of Viggo's cock in his hand and the
grind of Karl's body against his skin.
"Are we going to fuck in here?" Karl asked, and the flow of water stopped
suddenly as someone turned the taps off, leaving Orlando's groaning suddenly
loud in the silence.
"Think Orli has started already," Viggo said, his teasing belied by the
steel length of his cock in Orlando's hand.
Viggo was as into it as he was, and Karl was shoving his cock, every
delicious inch of it, so hard against Orlando's arse that any moment, he was
just going to slide on in, and Orlando wasn't going to stop him.
"Remember last time..." Karl gasped, his mouth burning against Orlando's
shoulder, and fuck, the head of his cock eased inside, no lube, riding the
sweat of their bodies.
No glass wall on the shower, not like there had been at the hotel in New
York, but Orlando was going to need to lie down, preferably before Karl was
all the fucking way inside.
"Bedroom," Viggo said decisively, and he was gone, leaving Orlando
shuddering, clutching onto the shower taps for support, eyes closed, mouth
gasping. Karl's hands, so huge and strong, wrapped around Orlando's ribs,
holding him upright.
Towelling wiped gently across his face, and Viggo said, "Orli, babe, think
you can move?"
"Not with a fucking huge cock shoved in my arse," Orlando said, opening his
eyes to find Viggo back in front of him, towel in hand.
Karl, his voice tight, said, "Damn, I was hoping you hadn't noticed."
Then the pressure and burn were gone, and Orlando found himself able to
breathe again.
"Bedroom," Orlando said, as Karl stepped out of the shower and took a towel
off a hook. "Where there's some fucking lube!" he called out at Karl's
retreating back.
Orlando took the towel from Viggo, then touched his cheek gently, pressing
fingertips against the lined skin. "Fuck, I've missed you," he whispered.
"You too," Viggo said.
There was loud groaning from the bedroom, accompanied by thudding of
furniture and squeaking of springs, and Viggo said, "Think that might be a
hint from Karl that we're taking too long."
The bed was wider than it was long, the bedding smelt new, and it was heaven
to crawl across it to collapse down beside Karl, close enough for Orlando to
lean across and slide Karl's cock into his mouth.
Karl's fingers threaded into Orlando's hair, where it clung wetly to his
neck, and Karl groaned deeply, rocking his hips, pushing himself deeper into
Orlando's throat.
Hands touched Orlando's arse, spreading his cheeks, and something soft and
wet slid across his arsehole, soothing where Karl's cock had rubbed him,
lingering, swirling and slipping.
Orlando spread his legs and tried to keep his hips still, but the crinkle of
the new sheet against his cock was like fire, and the feeling of Viggo's
tongue pressing into his body was irresistible.
"Lube?" Karl asked, and something whizzed through the air over Orlando's
head to thud into the bedding, but he wasn't about to open his eyes to check
what it was. There were other, far more responsible, people there, who
weren't actually trying to think while Viggo's tongue was in their arse.
Karl's hands lifted Orlando's head, easing his mouth off, then the amazing
feeling of the tongue on Orlando's arse stopped, and hands lifted him,
rolling him onto his side, lifting him up the bed.
Orlando stopped trying to control anything, there was no point when the
three of them were together. It wasn't about equal time, or not leaving
anyone out, and he had to trust that, and them. It was about giving as much
of himself as he could, letting himself feel as much as was humanly
possible, soaking up the feel and taste and sound of them both, so there was
no room for loneliness anymore.
Someone--he could tell it was Viggo by the grunting--slid into him, slick
with lube, hot and deep, making Orlando grab randomly at pillows and sheets.
Then a mouth pushed down his cock, and logic said it had to be Karl's, but
logic also said many things that Orlando didn't actually believe, so he left
the identification of the ownership of the mouth open in his mind, content
to thrash around on the bed, yelling and moaning.
Hands on his arms, hips, thighs, grounding him, the tightness building and
building, hanging onto the feeling of Viggo coming, then a brief moment of
respite while the pair of them clambered across him, managing not to knee
him or break the bed.
Then Viggo kissed him, one of his impatient, burning kisses, and Karl slid
into Orlando, cock like steel, pushing all the way in.
Every single moment of creeping sadness was worthwhile, every time he'd
listened to Karl trying not to cry long distance, every night spent alone,
none of that mattered.
Viggo wrenched his mouth off Orlando's, then dived down the bed, so that
Orlando could only grab at his hair, then he was sucking Orlando, sweet and
hard. It felt so fucking fantastic that it hurt, making Orlando's body
shudder, then the unbearable tightness peaked, and he fell to pieces, held
by both of them.
Jet lag, which Orlando had conveniently forgotten about, hit him hard in the
aftermath of coming, so that all he could do was slump forward onto the
sheets, riding the grind of Karl's cock while Viggo stroked his shoulder and
arm and kissed his forehead.
Being held, secure between both of his lovers, Karl's weight a reassuring
pressure against Orlando's back as he leant across to kiss Viggo, their
entwined hands a clump on Orlando's hip, was as good as it could possibly
be.
"Go to sleep," Karl whispered, and Orlando closed his eyes, too tired to
resist. "We'll be here when you wake up."
* * *
Orlando's suitcase and Viggo's carton were delivered at the same time, by a
bad-tempered postal worker, who had to make two trips with a trolley up the
rough steps to the house to bring both items. Orlando's suitcase was wrapped
around with extra strapping, the delivery address attached twice in Kris's
neat handwriting. Viggo's box was bound around and around with packing tape,
the address a barely legible scrawl, and it took the three of them and a
kitchen knife to get it open.
The contents exploded out, across the living room on the polished board
floor, and Viggo dropped to his knees and grabbed a leather-bound journal,
making crooning noises.
Karl and Orlando exchanged significant glances over Viggo's head, then
Orlando picked up a box of photos and took the lid off.
There were photos of Karl and him there, from the trip to New York in the
middle of the year. The two of them asleep; Karl shaving, with Viggo and his
camera visible in the reflections in the mirror; Orlando, wearing only his
shirt, hunting for something in his luggage.
Viggo looked up, a scrap of paper covered in scribble in his hand. "Do you
like them?" he asked.
Karl kissed the side of Orlando's head gently, and nodded. Orlando said,
"They're gorgeous, but weren't you worried about Henry seeing them when he
packed up your stuff?"
Viggo looked down at the scribble and shrugged. "It's not like he doesn't
know how I feel, and I suspect he actually packed this carton with his eyes
closed, just in case."
Something about his voice was tight, but he shook his head and smiled when
Karl leant across and touched his shoulder. "I'm okay, really. We need to be
here; Karl is the one of us with a young child."
"Doesn't mean I don't appreciate what you've given up," Karl said.
Viggo and Karl tumbled backwards, arms wrapped around each other, neatly
avoiding the edge of the couch, so that Viggo's head settled on Karl's
chest. Orlando pulled his knees up and rested his chin on his knees, smiling
at his lovers embracing. They were together now, and they were going to stay
that way, at least for a while.
* * *
Orlando woke to an empty bed on Christmas morning. He hadn't expected Karl
to be there; Karl had left at the crack of dawn, to catch a ferry to the
mainland and go and see his family, especially his son. Viggo, however, was
as much of a sloth as Orlando, a characteristic that further endeared him to
Orlando. The world needed more people who appreciated the value of a nap.
The light in the hallway was horribly bright, where someone had
thoughtlessly opened the curtains, but Orlando's sunglasses were in the mess
on the kitchen table, and he jammed them on his nose. The door to the deck
stood open, so Orlando snagged one of Karl's sarongs off the back of the
couch and wrapped it around himself, then stepped out into the summer sun.
It was another gorgeous day, sky purest blue, all the way across to the bank
of white clouds in the east, promising an afternoon thunderstorm to make the
air cool and wet, with rolling booms that would cover the sounds of their
pleasure, the thud and squeak and groan of the three of them.
Viggo, improbably dressed in a pair of Hawaiian-print board shorts and a
baseball cap, was pushing a hand mower backwards and forwards across the
wild grass, and Orlando couldn't tell where he'd done, because the mower
didn't seem to be touching the ankle-deep lawn.
"Coffee's on," Viggo called. "But you've been asleep for so long, it must be
beer o'clock already."
Viggo smelt of fresh cut grass, sweat and love, when he abandoned the mower
in the shade of the hibiscus and climbed onto the deck to hug Orlando.
They kissed, and some of Karl was rubbing off on Viggo, or perhaps he was
still mellow from the night before, because his mouth was gentle.
"I need at least one mug of coffee before beer," Orlando said.
"Traditionalist," Viggo teased.
"Wanna go for a swim after I've had coffee and you've had beer?" Orlando
asked.
"Love to," Viggo said, and the pair of them stepped back into the cool shade
of their house. "Can't spend all afternoon getting sunburned though; one of
us has to be responsible and cook some dinner."
"What are we having?" Orlando asked, leaning across the kitchen counter to
snag a mug off the row of hooks above the stove, then pouring himself coffee
from the flask in the coffee dripper.
"I'm thinking fish with bananas," Viggo said, opening the fridge to hand
Orlando a carton of milk, and then rummaging around in the crisper drawer.
"With salad, and a coconut dressing."
Viggo's cooking was always experimental, something Orlando had became
accustomed to. Besides, if it was dreadful, Karl could cook too, and in ways
that neither set fire to the house, used illegal ingredients, nor gave
anyone food poisoning.
Viggo took a beer out of the fridge and popped the top off, kicking the
fridge door closed with his bare foot.
"Karl's back," he said, and they both turned to watch Karl walk in from the
deck, tinsel wound around his neck, sunglasses pushed up into his dark hair.
"Beer o'clock?" he asked, and Viggo took another beer out of the fridge and
handed it across to Karl, who wrapped an arm around Orlando's waist and
hugged him, then kissed Viggo quickly.
"Orlando's just woken up," Viggo said, pointing at Orlando with his beer.
"I'm still running on West Coast time," Orlando said. "Or London time, or
something."
"Did we wear you out?" Karl murmured, leaning close enough to Orlando's neck
that his breath ruffled Orlando's hair, then pressing his icy beer bottle
against Orlando's back, making him shriek.
"Best Christmas present ever," Orlando said, squirming away from Karl, who
was laughing at him.
"Could be true," Viggo said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and
sliding an arm around Orlando's waist, pulling him back into a three-way
embrace.
Orlando leant his head back on Karl's shoulder and closed his eyes
contentedly. He didn't care if both of them poured cold beer over him,
really. He didn't care much about anything, not if he could sleep between
the two of them every night.
written a year ago for slashfairy, as part of slashababy.