Title: "All Of My Best Memories Are Lies" Pairing: Harry Sinclair/Karl Urban/Orlando Bloom Rating: NC-17 (language) Disclaimer: Lies, all lies. Summary: Wherein no one's really just in it for the sex, even though they can't remember how they got here in the first place. Notes: Written for the LOTR Remix 2009. Original fic was Genesis by Caro. Thanks to G for the beta and to Caro for letting me play around with her excellent fics. Karl wouldn't call himself a professional fraud, even if he does act for a living. After all, part of his job is to find the truth in any given moment, so that makes him a portrayer of a heightened version of the truth, if one were the sort to label things (which Karl mostly isn't, except in this case.) It certainly doesn't make him a liar any more than any storyteller is a liar. Which doesn't mean that he doesn't recognize that sometimes stretching the facts makes for a far more interesting reality. Harry would never say he exaggerates. Exaggerating, in his mind, implies that events need enhancement in order to have meaning. Sort of like breast implants, really, when everyone knows tits are tits and are always grand, no matter what the size, no enhancement needed (at least, in his opinion, and really, the world would be better off if he could just dictate his world view to the masses and be done with it.) So while Harry would say he's the master of embellishment, because embellishment is a fun hobby and keeps his skills sharp, the truth – like a set of tits – is fine enough all on its own. Orlando considers himself to be a judicious editor (and yes, he quite knows what judicious means, thank you, he's had a brilliant education, despite what some tossers would have you believe), not a liar. Lying just sounds so crass. Unpoetic. Editing the truth into a pleasing shape has a much better ring to it. And he's all about nice rings. Especially if they're cock-sized. And preferably ridged for his comfort and her pleasure, or however the saying goes. *** Karl hisses out a stream of smoke and passes the joint to Harry. It's their second one of the night, but no one's bothering to count. Just beyond the patio, he can see a group of fireflies flitting about the garden, each one emitting short buzzes of yellow-tinted light. It's pretty, in that ephemeral summer sort of way, makes him think possibly about running around the lawn and pretending to be an airplane and reliving his childhood or just acting childish. The air is so humid and thick that Karl half contemplates bringing a machete out to try and cut it to see if it would make things cooler. By tacit agreement, they'd wound up back at Karl's after work, mostly because he's got the bigger grill and makes the better steaks and, as Orlando'd helpfully pointed out, he's still got all that beer from his last barbeque and it would be a right shame to let it go to waste. That's Orlando in a nutshell. Ever the Samaritan. "Do you remember how we really met?" Karl asks, slumping even further down his chair. Not because he's lazy, but because Harry's calf is just out of reach, but if he slides down, he can sort of reach out and tickle the hairs with his foot. Moving the chair closer, of course, would require far too much effort. Far too hot for all that bother. "This is new," Harry says. Unlike Karl, he's not too lazy to scoot his chair in Karl's vicinity. But only because he's nice like that and not because he's secretly hoping that Karl's foot will wind up nestled in his crotch at some point. "I don't think we've gone the amnesia routine yet. Does this mean I get to play doctor and examine you?" Harry's leer is friendly enough, but Karl still feels the shiver down to his toes. "Only if Orlando dresses up as a nurse." "He'd look horrible in a skirt." "Not to mention the irony of him wearing white." "Truer words," Harry replies, nodding to concede the point. "And, of course I remember how we met." The tip of the joint glows bright red as he takes a drag. Karl spends a few rapt minutes staring longingly at the pucker of Harry's lips. Certain other parts of his anatomy also express an avid interest in Harry's mouth. Certain other parts of his anatomy are just as much of a slut as Orlando. "It hasn't been that long for all that it feels like forever," Harry adds, his voice rough and low from the smoke. It takes Karl a few precious moments to process the comment. He blames it on the heat. (Not, of course, on the pucker of Harry's lips or his body's very excited reaction. Or the excellent pot.) "I feel certain I should be insulted." Harry leans over and busses Karl's cheek in an affectionate swipe. "I meant it in the most romantic sense." Karl harrumphs softly. Like Harry would know romantic if it showed up with red roses and a bottle of wine and Mozart to seduce him on satin sheets. "So?" Karl drums his fingers on the arms of his chair. "How did we meet then?" Harry rocks his chair back on two legs, thighs bunching and flexing with the movement as he stares at the gardens in a thoughtful sort of manner. His hair, shorn close to his head, glints silver in the soft light coming from the kitchen. Karl thinks to himself that he's a damn lucky sort of bloke. "Well, it was when you were playing a drummer and I was playing your roadie-lover and fiction became fact...ow, fuck me, mate!" The chair drops with a thud as Harry rubs his bruised arm. Karl drops his fist. The corners of his lips turn up. "Honestly, I am not letting you near Bernard's stash of romance novels again if that's the best you can come up with." "Alright, fine," Harry grumbles, but without heat. "You haven't got any rhythm anyway; I don't know what I was thinking." (To be completely fair, which isn't something Harry is very often, because where's the fun in that, and speaking of rhythm, Karl is truly grace incarnate on the back of a horse. And there was that one time when he'd dragged Harry to some bar that had been having what they'd called a Texas Hootenanny, which had featured line dancing. Oddly enough, watching Karl do-si-do around a crowded dance floor like he'd been born to it had been somewhat of a turn on. Alright, fine, a total turn on. So much so that Harry hadn't been able to wait until they'd gotten back home to drag Karl someplace that had a flat surface. Karl's shirt and Harry's shorts hadn't survived the evening, and Orlando had yelled at them for going dancing without him, but it had been worth it. For the most part, though, Harry stands by his original statement. Unless Karl's horizontal, he's the whitest white boy ever.) "You really don't remember, do you?" Karl asks, narrowing his eyes. "Well, no, but that's not important, is it? The beginnings of things, I mean." Harry mops at his forehead with the hem of his shirt. He thinks he should shuck it and be done with the whole thing. Karl, in addition to being fantastically, beautifully bare-chested, also looks a fuck of a lot cooler than Harry feels at the moment. "We're together now, that's the important bit." "And you call me quixotic." But Harry can tell by the way Karl's eyes soften that he's touched. "I'm just a big softie at heart." "Mate, I've seen every inch of you and the only soft thing about you is your head," Orlando states, wandering out on the patio. He's wearing nothing except a cast-off pair of Karl's shorts that threaten to slide off narrow hips. Both Karl and Harry take a moment to appreciate the picture. Orlando may not be as buff as Karl, but he's very well put together, Harry thinks. Must be all those miles of golden skin just begging to be touched. (Neither of them will admit that they're both praying very hard for the shorts to head south.) "Was that a compliment?" Harry pokes at Karl's chest. Mostly to cop a feel, naturally. "Well?" "I doubt it," Karl answers, then turns to Orlando. "Do you?" "As often as possible where the two of you are concerned," Orlando leers, and drops comfortably onto one of the more rickety chairs. He stretches long legs, looking a little like a relaxed cat. "No, I mean, do you remember how we met?" Karl clarifies. Harry has no idea why he's still on about it when there are far better things he could be distracted by. Like Orlando's legs. Or his own chest, still bare and beautiful and far too temptingly close. "What, you and me?" Orlando asks, with a frown, as he takes the offered joint. "Hello, my memory's not that bad, thank you. It wasn't that long ago." "No, I mean met." "Ah, in the Biblical sense, I follow." Orlando taps his chin, makes a thoughtful sort of humming sound around a stream of smoke. "Was it after that day of surfing when it started to rain and we were in your car all drenched and wearing nothing except towels and grins?" "No, that was much later." "Wait, that actually happened?" Orlando straightens up. "I thought I'd made that up to scandalize Bean." "One of my most precious memories and you thought it was a story." Karl shakes his head sadly. Harry has to admire the restraint in the gesture. "My tender feelings may never recover." "Of course I remember, I do, I just thought...well, never mind what I thought." Orlando waves a hand in a vague sort of movement. "So, not the first time, then?" "Definitely not." Karl takes another hit off the joint, then passes it back to Orlando, who takes the world's longest toke. Harry has to admire the lung capacity. (He already admires Orlando's lack of gag reflex with a fervent sort of devotion.) "And not to completely derail my own subject, but this is some really good shit," Karl adds, blowing a smoke ring. Harry appreciates the perfect 'o' of both the ring and Karl's lips. He takes the joint with a grin. "Nothing but the very best for my boys." "Oh, is that what we are?" Karl asks, with a lift of his eyebrow. "Aren't you?" Harry counters. "I can be, sure," Orlando shrugs. "If it gets me laid later, I can be whatever you want." Karl shakes his head. "And you wonder why I call you One Track." "I don't wonder at all." Orlando rearranges himself so he can lay his head on Karl's shoulder. "Besides, you like me easy." Karl lifts a hand to run his fingers through Orlando's hair. "That I do." (Orlando would never admit it, not even on pain of tickling, but he tends to like the easy, slow times the best. Oh, sure, give him a good, hard fuck any day of the week, especially if he's the one doing the fucking, but there's something about slow that appeals to him. Especially if it's Karl slowing the pace. Karl knows how to draw out every ounce of pleasure from every encounter until Orlando's entire being is one big gigantic nerve-ending. Which doesn't sound very sexy, but, it truly is. Orlando's utter crap with metaphors or similes or what have you, but he definitely appreciates that Karl knows how to play his body like a finely tuned instrument.) "Right, I think I remember when it was," Orlando says, after a few minutes of being petted. Any minute now, he thinks he might start to purr in earnest. "We first did the deed after that one party when I'd been teasing you all night and you dragged me to the loo and ordered me to my knees." Karl's forehead wrinkles in confusion. "I don't think that ever happened." "What, the teasing bit or the sucking off bit? Because I'm pretty certain that was definitely my mouth on your cock this morning." "And a lovely way to begin the morning it was," Karl replies, with a waggle of his eyebrows, "but it's not what I'm talking about." "And you're certain you never ordered me to suck you off?" Orlando asks, still slightly confused. "Didn't say that," Karl replies. "Just that I've never done it as retaliation for you teasing me all night. I mean, you're not any good at it, first off. You get too horny, then the clothes start flying off." When the man had a point, the man had a point. "I am a man of simple tastes," Orlando shrugs, not at all repentant. What would be the point in denying it? (Simple hadn't been exactly the first thing Karl'd thought of when he'd first met Orlando. Easy, yes please, with a side of give me more on top. It was hard not to rhapsodize over a bloke that was so enthusiastic about getting his mouth on your prick at every available opportunity, and Karl's never been the stupid sort. So, yeah, that makes Orlando loose. But there's a helluva lot more to him than a great mouth. The first thing Karl'd thought had been that Orlando had to be one of the smartest people he'd ever met. Which is easily overlooked, given that most people are too busy ogling the delectable package to get to the far more interesting center. There's a tendency to underestimate Orlando's brains. Which is a shame, except when Karl gets to watch Orlando eviscerate someone with a few well-chosen words, because then it's pure foreplay. Nothing turns Karl on faster than the combination of smarts with a killer body.) Harry nudges at Orlando's knee. "You remember our first time, though, right?" Orlando rakes a hand through his hair to give himself an extra minute to think. "Was it when I bent you over the bonnet of your car and fucked your brains out after an argument?" he ventures. Has a nice sound to it. Bound to be a bit of truth in there somewhere. "Don't think so, no, but I'd be up for that. Sounds like fun," Harry replies, rubbing at his sandpaper chin. Orlando has a vivid mental image of straddling Harry's lap and nuzzling his neck. "Angry make-up sex on a car, check." Hell, Orlando's all for practicing right now. There's an empty car in Karl's drive that's just going to waste. "You certain that never happened?" "I think that was one you told to Dom," Harry says. "And it was me and Harry, not you and Harry," Karl adds, scratching at his chest. Orlando's distracted enough by it that he loses his train of thought, all aboard. Shame it's not a real memory, Orlando thinks. He really does like the sound of it. "Damn, now I feel gypped. All of my best memories are outright mendacious. Although I don't suppose you two have..." Orlando's hips lift from the chair as he mimes a lewd sex act. "Sorry, no angry sex on cars for us, either," Karl says, and he does, indeed, look rather put out that they hadn't tried it. Harry taps Karl's knee. "We need to work on that." Karl wets a finger and puts a mark in the air. "I'll put it on the list." (Of course, what Harry and Karl aren't saying is that they really don't fight. Not because they don't love the makeup sex after arguments because, really, who doesn't like great makeup sex, but because they're both so quick to get angry and so quick to forgive that most of the time they're done fighting before they've properly started. It drives Orlando mental, of course. He loves to nurse a good grudge, just to see how long he can make someone grovel, and because wallowing's a great way to pass the time when he's not having sex. But Karl and Harry refuse to play along. They're constantly yelling and tossing things about, but they're rarely ever mad for more than about five minutes. Rather unsportsmanlike. But then, no one's perfect. Not even them.) "So, why the interest, anyway?" Orlando asks, tilting his head back to stretch his neck. Last time he falls asleep sitting up. Cricks for days, man, and not even from doing anything naughty or fun. "I mean, in our first times?" "Curious," Karl shrugs. He spends another minute fumbling with the lighter to re-light the joint. "Wanted to know if any of us could remember how it all really started." Orlando raises his hand like he's back in a classroom. "I feel comfortable saying there was definitely hot, but awkward sex involved." "Considering you're not the most coordinated person ever...ow!" Harry rubs his arm for the second time. The bruise is now bigger. Orlando just raises an eyebrow, and accepts the joint from Karl. "Sod off, I'm plenty coordinated." "If you say so." "Haven't heard you complaining when I've got my cock up your arse." Karl just groans. He can't take the two of them anywhere. Hell, most of the time, he can barely get them dressed. (He steadfastly ignores the fact that he would be naked all day long if it was legal to leave the house sans clothes.) "Honestly, I'm saddled with sex-starved toddlers," he says, sighing his most put-upon sigh. He's practiced it to the art of perfection. "I resent the implication that I'm starved for sex when we're always having it." "What Harry said," Orlando adds, with a bright, but somewhat hazy, grin. "I'll leave you two to your prurience, then." Karl stands, stretches his back. All of the colors around him are the perfect shade of fuzzy. "Anyone want another while I'm up?" Both Harry and Orlando raise their hands. Karl tries to contain his shock. He wanders back inside, wondering if they still have any twisties to snack on. "You really do remember, don't you?" Orlando asks, as soon as Karl's out of earshot. "Absolutely," Harry grins. "You honestly think I'd ever forget anything as momentous as my first time with either of you?" Orlando leans in. His breath is smoky-sweet. His stage whisper is conspiratorial. "What was it like, then? I mean, for real, not fucking about." "What, with Karl?" Harry holds a hand to his heart and gives a great, soulful Sigh of Supreme Satisfaction. "Gloriously drunk and marathon-like on account of how he couldn't come because of the drink." "Marathon?" Orlando frowns. That doesn't sound right at all. He's not that stoned. "With Karl drunk?" Most of the time when Karl drank, he was all fumbling kisses and fast, hard handjobs that were brilliant, don't get Orlando wrong, but there was precious little that was marathon about them. "Alright, maybe I'm stretching it a little." "Thought as much." "But it was pretty spectacular," Harry adds, with a decisive nod, and blows nicely shaped smoke ring. Better than Gandalf, he is. "And us?" Orlando asks, genuinely curious. Harry turns Orlando's arm to rake his nails along the soft skin at his pulse. "Well, you've still got the magic hands, don't you?" "You do remember," Orlando says, slightly breathless. Not that he thinks anyone would blame him. Not with the way Harry's just stroking his wrist. "I'm not just a pretty face," Harry smiles, and leans in. "No, of course not," Orlando murmurs, and closes the small distance between them. (Of course, that's precisely what Harry'd thought the first time he'd seen Orlando. Gorgeous, gorgeous face, and the body to match. About two seconds later, Harry's praying to every god he can think of that the gorgeous face and equally gorgeous body have a gorgeous brain to go along with it. Because it would be just Harry's luck to stumble upon someone young and beautiful and talented, but with rocks for brains. Harry's well aware that the universe has a sense of humor. A sick one. But, after five minutes in Orlando's company, Harry's willing to concede that maybe he'd just been building up the karma points. It's not until he's got both Karl and Orlando naked with him on a bed that he realizes what he's really done is won the goddamn lottery.) Orlando smiles when they finally come up for air. He's not certain if he's woozy from the kiss or the pot, decides it's almost the same thing. "Drunken, not-quite marathon sex, hmm? Must be a trend for Karl." "Do tell." Harry's lips are still buzzing from Orlando's kiss. "Well, it's not like I'm likely to forget the first time Karl shoved his hand down my trousers, am I?" "He does tend to get frisky when he's had a few," Harry agrees, with a lusty sigh. He does a lot of that when he thinks about Karl's hands. He does a lot of that when he thinks about Karl's everything, come to think on it. "Who does what?" Karl asks, walking back onto the patio. He holds up three bottles in triumph like he's just come back from the wars. He's also holding an unopened bag of crisps. He's pretty much Harry's favorite person right now. "You, getting friendly after a few," Harry says, snagging one with a kiss to Karl's free hand in thanks. "Which led Harry and I to thinking about drunken, marathon sex." Karl brushes a kiss to Orlando's lips as he sits down. "I could watch that." Orlando pokes Karl's chest. And also cops a feel, Harry's happy to notice. He's trained Orlando well, if he does say so himself. "You do realize you're the star of the production, yes?" "Am I getting residuals?" "Is that a code-word for face shots?" Orlando asks, with a cheeky grin. Harry barks out a laugh. Karl just groans. "And you wonder why I drink." The truth is what you make of it. At least, in the Gospel According To Orlando. Truth is a dish best served sparingly. That is, if you listen to Harry. But both of them will, more often than not, defer to Karl for the final word on the subject: The truth is like really great sex – the variations are endless and always fun, so enjoy it for what it is. If you enjoyed this fic, please leave feedback here. Thanks!