Tierce
Recipient:slashfairy
Author: chaosmanor
Pairing: Viggo/Karl/Orlando
Rating: NC-17
Summary: tierce, noun: one of three equal parts of a divisible whole
Author's Note: betaed by crimson_bride
---
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 green 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.
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