Fic: Out of the West

[v-angelique.livejournal.com]

Title: Out of the West
Author: Viktoria Angelique (v_angelique)
Pairing: HS/KU; HS/OB; HS/KU/OB
Rating: PG-13 + bad language
Disclaimer: Not. True.
Summary: A non-linear tale of the relationships between Harry, Karl, and Orlando set during and around filming. There may be some not-so-accurate details in this story, as I know a limited amount about Karl, Harry, and New Zealand, but I've been working on it a while and decided to post anyway. It is, after all, fiction.



1979. Dunedin.

Harry watched with keen eyes from the hills as the sun dropped below the waves far beyond. It was not so dramatic or majestic as in Fiji, where his parents sometimes vacationed and sent vague postcards in return to their children, but it was definite, measurable, rays and water and a sensation Harry knew. He knew this wind and these waves and this sunset just as he knew the road behind him and the rolling green hills that carpeted the landscape, the amazing vistas and the ordinary dairy farms and the vague sense of home. Home was far away, in Auckland, but on this evening Harry felt a strong sense of connection with his country, with something immeasurable and yet fiercely definable, a pleasant sensation. This evening felt somehow important.



September 1999. Auckland.

"Jacko's bringing in the out-of-towners," Harry commented, playing with the label of his beer bottle. They were sitting out on Karl's back veranda, a recent add-on, Harry's bare feet propped on a plastic lawn table.

"Yeah? This week?"

"Some of 'em," Harry confirmed. He'd had dinner with Pete and Fran the other night in Wellington, and the whole town was talking about The Lord of the Rings, half committed to its success and the other half trying to stay nonchalant in case it was a flop. Harry was glad to be back in Auckland, where things were pretty much as they'd always been. He was glad Karl was in town, too. He always felt grounded when he was around Karl.

"Anyone I'd know of?"

Harry shrugged. "Elijah Wood's cast as Frodo. You know, the American actor? Child star?"

Karl shrugged and took a pull from his beer. "Heard of him, yeah."

"Rest of 'em are unknowns, Brits mostly. Oh, but Sean Bean's playing Boromir. He's coming a little later."

"Sean Bean?" Karl whistled. "Impressive. Can't see him in Middle Earth, necessarily, but Jacko's got style at least."

Harry laughed and nudged Karl's foot with his own. "You just like the hard-arsed villain type. Twenty dollars says you've wanked to at least four of his films."

Karl rolled his eyes. "Three. Cough it up."

Harry grinned and nudged his hips forward a bit to get to his back pocket, slipped his wallet from it and held the twenty out. Karl leaned forward to take it, and then at the last second, Harry jerked his hand back a few centimetres, the bright green image of the queen held just out of reach. "What would it take for me to earn this back, sweetheart?"

Karl grunted and flicked his eyes unceremoniously to the decking at his feet. Harry grinned and slid gracefully out of his chair, landing on his knees and setting the beer bottle down out of kicking range.

"You're such a whore, Sinclair."

Harry laughed and pocketed the twenty, popping the button of Karl's fly with his other hand. "Not denying it."



February 1999. Outside Auckland.

"That's a wrap, then," Harry muttered, distracted. Willa let out a whoop of joy and squeezed past the cameraman, lighting guy, and Harry himself to emerge into the sunlight, leaving Karl in the cramped trailer rolling his eyes.

"You'd think she didn't want to kiss me."

Harry snorted and held out a hand to help Karl up as the two-man crew gingerly relocated their equipment. "That's so irrelevant it's in another bloody country, Karl."

"I'm bisexual!" Karl sniffed, indignant. "It could happen."

"Willa's married. And she wasn't my inspiration for the 'bondage and peaches,' I'll have you know."

"No?"

Harry grinned, slowly. "No."

"Kinky bastard," Karl replied with a broad grin, teeth flashing. Harry licked his lips deliberately and then turned to leave the trailer, knowing Karl would follow.



April 2000. Wellington.

"Urban speaking."

"Hello, stranger."

"Harry!" Karl grinned and tucked the phone between ear and shoulder as he rinsed his hands, sudsy from doing the dishes. "How's stardom?"

"Oh, yes, the son of Elendil's fame is almost unbearably tedious. I don't know what I'll ever do with all these plebeians running around…"

Karl snorted and flopped onto the couch, toeing off his shoes. "Seriously, what have you been up to?"

"Sword practice. It's titillating, I assure you."

"Well you always did like holding long, hard, phallic objects," Karl replied with a smirk. "Learn any cool moves?"

"Bob's taught me a thing or two, yeah. Maybe we'll joust when I get back to Auckland."

"You're on. Perhaps a friendly wager?"

"Mm, is this a 'your arse or mine' sort of a bet, Urban?"

"Only kind I make."

"Excellent." Karl could practically hear Harry's grin. "So the principals just started their spring break, and there was a party last night…"

"Yeah? Any good?"

"A bit crazy, but I get the feeling that's the norm with these people. Went home with an… interesting young man, though."

"Harry, you dog," Karl teased. "And how was he?"

"Quite nice, but I actually have something else in mind for him."

"Oh?"

"I was thinking you would rather much like him. He's very earnest, Karl. Quite suggestible."

Karl grinned. "Harry Sinclair, are you corrupting the local virgins now? How positively evil of you. Peter will be so proud."

"Not local, even. This one's English. And I'm not method acting—I don’t think he's a virgin, exactly, and I was the perfect gentleman. He's just… innocent."

"Sounds delicious. Too bad he's in Wellington."

"Ah, well, about that. Might want to see if your old bedroom is still free at your parents' house…"

"Harry? What did you do?"

"Might have gotten you a job."

"On the project? Jesus, Harry, what's the role?"

Harry laughed. "Calm down, superstar. You don't have to take it—I don't want your agent killing me anymore than you want me locking you into a role you know nothing about. I just showed Jacko a clip of Price and made some suggestions…"

"And again, I say—what's the role?"

"He's prepared to offer you Eomer, the leader of the Rohirrim. The horse lords. It's a pretty big chunk of the second and third films…"

"Horse lords? Harry, you're making me very suspicious."

"They're quite kick-arse, I assure you. He's very noble…virile…"

"Well at least you didn't get me a part as an Elf. Then I really would have to kill you."

"I don't know; Elves aren't so bad. This bloke I've found for you—Orlando—he plays Legolas. He's very pretty."

"Yeah, exactly why I don't want to be an Elf. Fucking one, yeah, okay, we'll negotiate. Now why don't you tell me a bit more about your exploits with the young Orlando, Harry? I think you're holding out on me."

Harry grinned and Karl could imagine him getting himself comfortable, wherever he was. "All right, then. It was like this…"



Wednesday morning, 14 February, 2001. San Francisco.

"You brilliant, decadent, amazing bastard," Karl groaned happily, his voice heavy with sleep, as he emerged from underneath the duvet to find a rolling tray complete with all the makings of a glorious champagne brunch waiting for him next to the bed.

"Well it is Valentine's Day," Harry pointed out with a small smile, lifting a strawberry from the tray and slipping it between Karl's lips. "And I feel bad for making you share a room with me to penny pinch."

"Aw Harry, I didn't know you cared," Karl returned, smirking as he licked the strawberry juice from his lips. "Danielle still asleep?"

"Yeah. Got a few hours before our flight."

"Mmm. Planning to amuse me, then?"

"Planning to fuck you, Karl."

Karl purred deep in his throat and lazily lifted his arms over his head, grasping the bedposts. Harry grinned.



September 2000. Somewhere on the South Island.

When the hotel vending machine broke, one had to resort to desperate measures.

In this case, Karl drew the short straw, and so it was his duty to walk to the dairy several blocks away for crisps, biscuits, chocolate, and beer. Apparently, New Line had requested the minibars be locked after the last time a hobbit raiding party had descended upon a paid-for hotel room.

Harry was essentially crashing Karl's room in lieu of something better to do, and besides, he hadn't been to the South Island since filming Price last year and he liked it down there. So when Karl went, Harry went. And when Harry went, Orlando tagged along, which is how the three of them found themselves at the till together, clutching armfuls of snacks and sweets and beer, as the salesgirl openly gawked.

"You're Karl Urban! From Xena, eh?"

Karl looked a little embarrassed, shifting slightly from foot to foot as he handed her his items to ring up, but he gave her a winning smile that made her own grin impossibly wider. "Yeah, that's me."

"Wow, I'm just chuffed to meet you!" she exclaimed, popping her gum and waving her little handheld scanner haphazardly over the bags without actually looking at them.

Orlando, standing behind him, offloaded his own purchases next, and turned to her with an equally wide smile. "I'm Orlando Bloom," he announced.

She looked a bit bewildered for a moment, using a monumental effort apparently to tear her eyes from Karl, and then replied after a long pause. "I'm Gina Darby," she offered, holding out her hand as one would to any complete stranger, and Harry had to try very hard not to laugh at Orlando's crestfallen expression.

"It's all right, kid," he offered as they split the carrier bags between them, Karl hanging back to autograph his receipt for Gina. "Better luck next time."

By the time they got back to the hotel, though, all was apparently forgotten, and Orlando was in a good mood. They dropped the bags off in the rooms of those who'd requested sustenance—Viggo, Ian, Miranda, Bernard, and Phillippa, it so happened—and then continued on to their own suites. At least, that was the plan.

"All right, boys," Orlando interjected with a slightly evil grin, stopping Karl and Harry in the hallway beneath a faintly flickering light before they continued on past Orlando's suite to their own. He ran his hand through the row of spikes masquerading as hair and they stood up at all angles, yet somehow he managed to remain unfathomably beautiful. "You want to fuck me. I know you want to fuck me. So let's get on with the party, hmm?"

Karl and Harry stared at each other for a moment, disbelieving, and then made a silent decision. Orlando's door slammed behind them with a resounding thud.



One week earlier. Queenstown.

"Orlando, this is my friend Karl," Harry introduced, standing in the lobby of a hotel holding one of Karl's bags over his shoulder. "The one I told you about."

Karl watched as Orlando's eyes did a definite up-and-down before he extended a hand to shake, a slow grin forming. "Very nice to meet you, mate."

"Charmed, I'm sure," Orlando muttered, a little distracted by trying to figure out the man who was sizing him up a bit like a piece of meat, putting Harry at his back now. They circled him slowly like descending predators, not overtly, but still marking out a territory. Orlando shifted nervously, but he was clearly intrigued.

"Where are you from again, Orlando?"

"Canterbury."

"How long have you been acting?"

"I was at Guildhall before this."

"Have a girlfriend?"

Orlando raised an eyebrow, and then turned slightly at the waist to meet Karl's eyes straight on. "No."

Karl grinned. "Good thing."

Harry smirked, and they both left Orlando to ponder that assessment.



2000. Dunedin.

Harry wasn't quite sure why he had brought the young man here, except for the fact that the idealist in Harry saw something in Orlando, the bright eyes and fresh exuberance of youth. He wanted to show Orlando what he had seen that evening, twenty-one years ago.

And so they drove up into the hills at sunset, and they sat looking over Dunedin city and the water beyond. For a moment it was silent, peaceful. Harry spider-walked the fingers of one hand over to Orlando's, and he squeezed it gently.

"It's a nice view," Orlando commented amiably, before his ankle started to tap just slightly, the fingers of his free hand fidgeting in a controlled twitch that made Harry wonder if Orlando had every considered taking up the drums.

Harry nodded, his eyes still trained on the sun, sinking below the water.

"Might be nice for hang gliding."

Harry gave Orlando a sidelong glance, and then went back to watching, trying to remember the feeling of that night, the pride for his home that had in some small way inspired him as a director, given him the ideas that would later become Price and more latent ideas as well, simmering in some little productive cranny of his brain.

"Want to go look at the city now? I hear there's a university there. Might be some good bars."

Harry sighed, and nodded, getting to his feet before the sun completed its descent, and turning his back on the view. Another time, then.



27 June, 2003. Los Angeles.

"Bloom."

"Orlando, mate, how are you?"

"Erm… sorry, who's this?"

Harry paused a moment before responding. "It's Harry, Orli. Harry Sinclair."

"Oh, Harry, hi, what can I do for you?"

Harry frowned at Orlando's tone—distant, almost a little cool. "Well I'm in town and I heard you've got a film premiering. Thought you might like to have dinner… dessert."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

"Right, Harry, um, I'd love to, really, but I've got this thing, you know, and some interviews… I would like to, you know, set up some time to meet with you, but maybe you could give my agent a call sometime…? I've got to ring off, mate, I'm sorry, catch up with you later."

Harry frowned. "Yeah, okay Orli. Congratulations. You have a good one."

"Will do. Bye."

Harry stared at the phone for a moment, and then shrugged and dialled another number.

"Hello?"

"Vig, hey, it's Harry. I'm in town for a few days. Fancy grabbing a bite?"



December 2000. South Island.

Karl, Harry, and Orlando tumbled into the hotel room like a row of dominoes, all a bit inebriated, all laughing like a pack of hyenas—or at least a pack of hobbits. Karl loosened his tie and threw it blindly in the corner, grabbed Harry by the collar and tugged him backwards, to Karl's chest. They kissed, heatedly, for a long moment before Karl pulled away, biting at Harry's lips.

"Gonna fuck you tonight, old man," he murmured, and Harry growled, tugged him in again for another hard kiss while Orlando looked on in shock.

"You let him fuck you?" he finally exclaimed, his fingers fumbling to lock the door as he toed off his shoes.

"Yes…" Harry agreed, and Karl smirked.

"Oh yeah, he does."

Orlando watched them silently for a moment, each half holding the other up, each unabashedly staring their younger cast mate down. "Seriously??"

Karl frowned, and Harry quickly pressed his mouth to Karl's shoulder to keep from laughing out loud.

"Why is that so hard to believe?" Karl muttered, as Harry snickered into the fabric of his shirt.

"I just… I mean… it's Harry!"

Harry looked up, grinning.

"Could I…" Orlando trailed off, blushing to the roots of his hair, looking for all the world innocent even though Harry had fucked him numerous times by now, as had Karl, often with Harry watching.

"Could you what?" Karl asked, crystal clear but smiling mischievously, wanting to hear Orlando say the words.

"You know… fuck him."

Harry sucked in a breath.

"Well I don't see why not," Karl answered for him, smile still on his lips, pushing Harry slightly towards Orlando. "Though you'll owe me one."

"Anything," Orlando agreed hastily, and Harry grinned at his eagerness, tugging him in by the belt loops.

"C'mere, love," he murmured, and Orlando fell into the kiss enthusiastically, stumbling towards the bed. Harry smiled into Orlando's lips when the younger man growled in frustration, kissing back harder when Harry pushed him down by the shoulders, and finally rolling Harry until Orlando had him pinned between his thighs, holding Harry's wrists over his head.

"I'm supposed to be running the show here," Orlando reminded him, a bit petulantly, and Harry just grinned, shrugging as much as he could with his forearms held to the mattress.

"So run it."

Sitting on the corner of the bed, Karl smirked.



November 2002. Wellington.

"What do you reckon Orlando's doing right now?"

Karl frowned and picked at the label of his beer. "Fucking Johnny Depp?"

Harry laughed out loud, tipping his head back, causing a couple of heads to turn their way. Harry was well on his way to plastered, but that was all right. They knew this pub. People were good here, wouldn't turn around and sell the story to the papers the next day. This was New Zealand, not LA, and besides, Karl wasn't all that well known anyway, not comparatively. After Lord of the Rings, Welly wasn't easily fazed by the odd celebrity out getting trolleyed.

"Remember that time, right before we wrapped? The last time?"

"Oh fuck, Harry, not now," Karl groaned, pressing the flat of his hand to the fly of his jeans under the table, trying to ward off the inevitable.

"You were fucking gorgeous that night," Harry continued, heedless of Karl's warning, leaning forward across the table so that they were much too close to each other, his eyes sparkling and his lips dripping with promise. "I can't wipe the image from my brain, even a couple of years later—watching the two of you from my back, watching you fuck him while he fucked me, and damnit Karl, he was fucking sneering, fucking snarling… he grew up a little that night, didn't he?"

Karl's hand snapped out, and Harry didn't even see it move, didn't notice a thing until he was drawn forward with a fistful of his shirt collar in Karl's hand, the colour of Karl's irises completely absorbed by the black of his pupils, swallowing everything in the dim light of the pub. "Go get in the car. Push the passenger's seat back. I want you on your bloody knees by the time I've paid the tab."

Harry gulped and nodded. Oh hell fucking yes.



June 2003. Outside Los Angeles.

"Christ, Vig, trust you to find the most fucking amazing burgers in the world, and they're not even real meat."

Viggo laughed and took a bite of his own, nodding in thanks to the waitress as she brought them fresh beers. "I'm a carnivore, Harry, so don't give me the credit. Orlando took me here once. He swears by them."

Harry nodded, silent for a moment, but it wasn't uncomfortable. He liked that about Viggo, the easiness of an exchange with the man—once you got to know his eccentricities. Harry was the same way, and it suited him.

"How are you?" Viggo asked, his eyes serious and searching. Harry took a moment to consider, a long pull of his beer, and then nodded to himself.

"Good, actually. I'm good."

"It doesn't bother you, that he didn't invite you?" Viggo asked carefully. "I just thought… you and he and Karl, you were close…"

Harry shrugged, cutting off the train of thought. "He comes to you in his own time, doesn't he? It doesn't bother me. Besides," he added with a little grin. "I taught him everything he knows."

Viggo raised an eyebrow, and then lifted his bottle, clinking it to Harry's. Harry smiled as he drank.



March 2002. Auckland.

"Come to Cannes with me."

Harry imagined Karl's little grin on the other end of the line, that goofy expression he so loved to capture on film. He twisted the tassels of a throw pillow between his fingers and answered with a grin of his own.

"France? Are you serious?"

"Yeah, come on. We'll sneak away for a few days. It'll be grand."

Karl snorted. "Of course you want to sneak away, Harry. It's you."

"Hey, I'm serious, you fucker. I've got a little hotel suite in Bordeaux with your name on it…"

Karl paused, and Harry grinned again as he imagined the look on Karl's face. He could write a whole film scripted entirely on the variance in Karl's facial expressions as he imagined them from a thousand kilometres away.

"Aw, Harry, you shouldn't have."

Harry laughed at the glib response and shook his head, though Karl couldn't see it. "You'll be there, then?"

"With bells on."



August 2003. Auckland.

"I miss the kid," Harry admitted, leaning back in his chair so that he could rest his heels up on the veranda's railing. The sunset was dramatic, and the wind was blowing fiercely, making him glad for the buzz cut as Karl's hair kept blowing into his face and sticking to his beer-moistened lips. They sat side by side, with half a metre's space in between them, facing the hills beyond Karl's house.

"Yeah, but he's not the kid anymore," Karl responded, mildly, a maturity in his tone that made Harry irrationally proud. "He's never going to be the kid anymore. Orli's just…different. You can't hold onto him. We had him for a moment, and then we let him fly." Karl paused for a moment and turned his head, flashing Harry his most charming smile. "Might happen to you, Sin."

Harry laughed and shook his head immediately, his free hand shifting from his own lap to Karl's, squeezing a strong thigh through denim. "You're the one who's famous."

Karl frowned and shook his head. "But I'm never going to do that to you."

Harry grinned and returned his gaze to the sun fading behind the hills in ever-duller tones of pink, sinking beyond the shadowy slopes of muted grey-green. "I know."



March 1999. South Island.

"What are you two, anyway?" Danielle asked. The lighting techs were adjusting something for the shot, and Harry and Karl were cupping Styrofoam coffee cups in their hands to defend against the cool morning, their breath mingling visible in the early light between them.

Harry turned to her with an unreadable grin, noting her stance and the way she raised her hand to scratch the back of her head. He'd have to use that.

"We're friends," he replied, simply, and she gave him a disbelieving look.

"I'm not stupid, you know."

Karl laughed and pushed Danielle's shoulder teasingly with his fist. "We're friends who fuck, then. It's not a big deal."

She laughed and shook her head. "I guess it isn't, then."



Dunedin. 2009.

Harry was nervous, but he didn't need to be. The grass was warm where they sat, side by side, watching the sun's rays dim and simultaneously brighten into colours discernible by the naked eye, brilliant sweeps of orange and pink. Karl's hand found his instinctively, and the pad of Karl's thumb traced the web of skin between Harry's own thumb and index finger. He lay his head slowly on Karl's shoulder—vulnerable. Karl smiled, and his thumb never ceased its quiet back-and-forth sweep. Thirty years, and Harry wasn't young anymore, but it didn't matter. He had his place in the world. Karl's breath was warm against his near-naked scalp. Harry smiled.


Auckland. 1997.

"Harry, this is my friend Karl. Karl, my director, Harry Sinclair."

Harry smiled and stuck out his hand. This one had potential, didn't he?

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

Karl grinned, and the mischief in his eyes confirmed Harry's first impression. "The pleasure's all mine."