Summary: Marton didn't blame Harry for seducing Karl. He blamed Harry for having Karl.
Featuring: Harry Sinclair, Karl Urban, Marton Csokas
Original Story: Something To Pass The Time by eyebrowofdoom.
Notes: Thanks to cupiscent for the beta and words of support.
The knock on Marton's front door didn't come as a surprise. Truth be told, Marton had been expecting it. Had been expecting – anticipating – Karl's arrival, and the inevitable confrontation.
This was long overdue.
He held the door open. Karl brushed past him to stand in his living room, twisting elegant hands, hair already messy from those same hands running through it. He was still in his t-shirt and jeans from earlier. Marton watched, waited for Karl to make the first move. Patient. Silent. The air between them seemed weighted with possibility. With the regret they would both embrace.
"I should be pissed off," Karl finally stated.
"But you're not." Marton inched closer, closer still, drawn to Karl's heat like a moth to a flame. He'd never been able to resist. If that made him weak, so be it. "He doesn't deserve you."
"That's not for you to decide."
"I know." Marton slid his hands through Karl's hair. Fisted silky strands. Looked deep into Karl's eyes, daring him to move, to deny this. Karl simply stared back, mirroring Marton's earlier patience.
With a groan that sounded like defeat, felt like inevitability, Marton leaned in. Karl's lips were soft and sleek over his, conformed perfectly to Marton's lips like they'd been made for each other. Like destiny. Their breaths mingled. Their sighs mingled. It was perfect, and heartbreaking, liquid and slow and almost chaste. Then, Karl made a small noise deep in his throat and surged into the kiss. Their tongues tangled together as Karl pressed against him, slithering and dangerous. In a heartbeat, everything shifted from innocent to carnal.
In a heartbeat, history was rewritten.
"We can't," Karl panted, breaking the kiss.
Marton didn't let go of his hold on Karl's hair. "Yes. We can. Please." He wasn't above begging. For Karl, he would get on his knees. For Karl, he would crawl. "Please..."
Marton covered Karl's lips again, slanted his mouth over Karl's and held on. Muffled whatever half-hearted protest Karl'd been about to make. When he felt strong fingers curl around his shoulders, regret gave way to triumph.
This time, he was taking what should have been his.
The first time he'd seen Karl's smile, Marton had known.
He wasn't looking for anything or anyone. His last relationship had left him scarred enough that the idea of allowing someone else into his life – of dating and all of the requisite bullshit that came with it – was an anathema. Completely out of the realm of possibility. So it came as a surprise when he'd shown up for an audition and had gotten semi-hard from watching some random guy smile. The bloke wasn't even smiling at Marton – it was directed at some lissome blonde with very nice legs. But Marton reacted to it like it had been meant for him, and him alone. It was the sort of smile that invited dark and dirty thoughts. It was the sort of smile that imagined limitless possibilities. It was the sort of smile that changed lives.
He'd been distracted from his thoughts when a friend had flopped onto the chair next to him, dragged his attention from the smiling stranger and his sexy dimples and laughing eyes. Marton and his friend had both talked shop for a few minutes while going over lines. But Marton's gaze had been drawn back to that smile again and again. To the smile and the handsome face that framed it, and the loose, rangy body that seemed to have been sculpted by one of the great Renaissance artists of old.
Marton didn't learn Karl's name until a week later. But by then, it was too late.
"Let me," Marton whispered, mouthing at the soft skin under Karl's jaw. He tasted stubble, soap, arousal, all of it tangled and perfect. Karl was liquid fire in his arms, muscled and flawless and everything Marton wanted. Karl's skin pebbled under Marton's hands. His moans were incandescent music. Marton wanted more.
"Marton," Karl whispered, an affirmation, permission.
They would embrace their ruin together, with open arms and open eyes.
Marton let Karl push him down the hall and to the shadowed bedroom. He held his breath when Karl all but shoved him to the bed and crawled on top of him. The weight of him was a glorious invasion. When Karl straddled his hips and leaned down, his soft breath teased at Marton's lips. "Are you...should we...?"
"Yes," Marton murmured, for the both of them. This was inevitable. Fate. History rewriting itself with every shared breath. "Yes."
Karl drew his shirt over his head, bared sleek skin to Marton's greedy gaze. His chest was strong and wide, lightly furred, and his shoulders were granite, leading to arms that looked like marble and felt like sin. He was perfect.
"Marton," Karl whispered again, raw need tainting his voice.
Marton answered with a desperate kiss. Surged up, wrapped his arms around Karl's back, and took. Felt Karl's heart beating against his, jack-rabbit fast. Karl clutched at him, frantic and hungry. But his hunger was no match for Marton's. He'd waited so long.
New Zealand's film community was small enough that Marton had heard about Karl and Harry's relationship fairly early on. He knew exactly how it had happened, too, hadn't needed to hear the down and dirty details. He'd seen it before with Harry. He knew Harry'd directed Karl in a film, had taken a fancy to him, then had blatantly seduced him and kept him on a short leash like Karl was some sort of concubine or slave. Same verse, different day. History repeating itself in an inevitable cycle.
Marton wondered if Harry had told Karl the same lies he'd told everyone else. If Harry'd promised Karl the same pleasures. If Harry'd been as patient, explained how things would be in that low, graveled voice that never rose, no matter what the provocation. Marton thought about Karl, with all of his passion and energy, and how it couldn't have been any match for Harry's brick wall inevitability and calm.
He also knew, with a sinking sense of despair, that Karl would have fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. Everyone did.
Karl greeted Marton warmly when he walked into the semi-crowded pub and sat across from them at the table. He looked happy, relieved, twin dimples showcasing a smile that still made Marton's heart race. Harry lifted a hand in greeting, but didn't look up from his crossword. A full glass of lager and a plate of chips were in front of him. Karl's fingers drummed against the tabletop in a steady beat as he lounged beside Harry.
"Up for a game of darts?" Marton asked, after a beat of heavy, awkward silence. He noticed Karl's glass was empty.
"Yeah, sure." Karl turned slightly in towards Harry. Harry didn't look up.
Karl drummed his fingers again. Nudged at Harry's shoulder. Harry moved slightly out of the way.
"I'm going to finish this." Harry pointed at the crossword. He still didn't look up. "Then my drink. You two go on."
Karl said nothing. Just sat there, head tilted, studying Harry from beneath beautifully shaggy hair. Marton couldn't read the expression in his eyes. He wanted to tell Karl he understood. He wanted to tell Harry he didn't.
"I'll let you know when I'm finished," Harry finally said.
"Alright." Karl turned away. He cocked his head towards Marton and offered a small smile. The warmth in it was muted, like the sun disappearing behind a wall of clouds. "Shall we?" He didn't wait for an answer. Just got up and crossed the room towards the dart board. Harry went back to his lager and chips and crossword like Karl had never been there.
Marton followed, his hands curling into impotent fists. This was déjà vu. History repeating itself in an unavoidable pattern. He wanted, with a fierce rage, to break the pattern to pieces and leave the pieces scattered on the ground.
"Off," Karl bit out, tugging at Marton's shirt. Marton sat up long enough to pull it off and tossed it aside. When Karl slid back down, thighs gripping his hips, Marton groaned at finally feeling skin on skin. No dream could compare to the sharp reality of Karl in his arms.
Karl's kiss sucked the oxygen from Marton's lungs. He ground down, thighs flexing, hips undulating, laced his fingers with Marton's to hold Marton in place. Not that Marton thought about moving.
Their chests rubbed together. Marton could feel how hard Karl was against him. He wanted more. Wanted Karl naked and panting and under him, over him, wanted to breathe in the heavy scent of arousal. Wanted Karl's cock inside him, his inside Karl, wanted the stretch and burn and possession. Wanted to be possessed. Wanted his mouth on Karl's cock and Karl's mouth on his cock, wanted to tongue Karl's balls and imprint the taste onto his very DNA. Wanted to gorge himself on Karl and only Karl, wanted, wanted...
Marton countered Karl's sword with his own, felt the clang of the metal all the way up his arm. "You're getting better," he remarked, slightly breathless. He shook his head, flinging droplets of sweat on the floor. The training room was empty except for the two of them.
Karl grinned, quick and light. "So keep up."
They moved across the room, gauging the other, exploiting weaknesses, assessing strengths. Karl moved with fluid grace, moved with a lightness of feet, moved like the heavy broadsword was an extension of his arms. Marton fought off every thrust and parry, sweat sliding along his forehead and shoulders. Karl was also sweat-slick and shirtless, skin gleaming in the light, distracting and beautiful. It took every bit of effort for Marton to concentrate on his footwork and on countering Karl's practiced movements.
When they went back to the bench after another half-hour, Marton tossed Karl a towel and a bottle of water. "Up for a few holes?"
Karl slicked his hair back from his forehead, rolled his shoulders. Flexed his hands. "Harry's picking me up at 5."
"Fuck Harry. I'll give you a lift." He tried to make the words light, teasing. Wasn't sure if he succeeded.
"He doesn't..." Karl stopped. His face disappeared momentarily when he tugged on his t-shirt. Marton watched in disappointment.
"He doesn't what?"
Karl shrugged. "You know."
Marton nodded. He did know. "Fuck Harry," he repeated, with a clear voice. He stared at Karl, unblinking, unmoving. Karl stared back in silence, bottom lip between his teeth. The air between them was charged. Weighted. Marton held his breath.
The sound of a horn broke the spell.
"I should...yeah," Karl said, the words taffy slow and just as thick. "Another time." His smile was apologetic as he gathered his things. As he left the room. Left Marton alone.
Marton watched from the window as Karl opened the passenger door. Harry was a looming presence in the driver's seat. He watched as they drove away, eyes narrowing to follow the trail of dust.
Marton traced the faint scar on Karl's chest, matted crisp hairs with his tongue. Circled Karl's nipples, worried the nubs between greedy teeth. Karl moaned beneath him. Arched his back in supplication. In demand.
Marton savored the broken sound. Savored the sound of his name on Karl's lips. He moved lower. Flicked at the buttons of Karl's jeans, pushed them off long, muscular legs. Karl's entire body was flushed with arousal. His cock was beautifully curved, hard and leaking pre-come. Marton bent, took the head in his mouth. The taste was musky, sharp. Addictive. Karl moaned again, held onto Marton's shoulders, digging crescents into sensitive skin. Marton welcomed the pain. Welcomed the marks.
He started to move, grafting his own history onto the map of Karl's body, staking his own claim with every bob of his head.
Karl's leg bounced against Harry's in rhythmic time to the song playing over the speakers. They were seated together on a bench in Viggo's back yard, after an evening of excellent lamb chops and even more excellent port. Marton stood in the shadows of the kitchen, full glass forgotten in his hand, and watched them through the open window.
"Karl." Harry stilled Karl's leg, large hand covering his knee. "Stop."
Karl's eyes flashed with some emotion Marton couldn't read, but he stilled. Tilted his head to study Harry, baring the graceful line of his neck to Marton's secret gaze.
"Too much energy?" Harry asked, genial attitude masking the all-but-transparent condescension under the surface. Marton was deeply familiar with that tone of voice. Knew it intimately.
"Maybe," Karl shrugged. He seemed to shrink into himself, disappearing atom by atom into the inertia that was Harry's center.
"You should work some of it off," Harry said, lightly.
"Yeah, alright." Karl leaned in, brushed at Harry's lips. Harry didn't move, merely accepted the kiss as his due. Karl kept his smile even as he stood, made his way to the darkened kitchen. He stopped when he saw Marton.
"Slumming in the dark?" he asked, amused, gesturing at Marton's glass.
Marton shook his head. He cast a sideways glance at Karl, forced himself into stillness. If he moved...
"You shouldn't let him," he started, then stopped when Karl's eyes flashed.
"Don't." The retort was whip-fast, crackled along Marton's skin. He could almost taste the change in the air. Taste Karl's energy, his power, in the too-large space between them.
"Why not?" He wanted to push Karl, push boundaries.
Karl sighed. Gathered himself. He tugged at his t-shirt. "It's comfortable between us. That's all."
Comfortable, to Marton, was just another word for inertia. "He takes you for granted."
Marton cut him off with a wave of his hand. "You know I'm right." He felt reckless, dangerous, fed off of Karl's energy like it was sustenance. Emotions shimmered under the surface, waiting.
Viggo stepped into the room, cigar tip glowing dull red in the dark from between his lips. "We drinking in here?" he asked, looking around.
"No," Marton replied, keeping his eyes on Karl. He set his glass on the counter, untouched. "I'm headed home."
He could feel the weight of Karl's stare, of Karl's heat, on him the entire walk back to his place.
"Can I...?" Karl asked, pushing Marton's thighs apart with lube-slick hands. His voice trembled. His body trembled above Marton's as he waited for Marton's answer.
"Yes," Marton whispered, voice raw and shaking, body open and ready. "God yes."
Karl lined up, pushed his cock into Marton's ass, hard and deep. Marton rode the jagged wave of pain, clutched tight to Karl's shoulders. Karl stilled, waited. Marton pushed up, wrapped his legs around Karl's to hold him in place. The razor-sharp burn gave way to even more painful pleasure. "Move," Marton begged. "Please."
With a smile that broke all restraint, Karl obliged.
Harry followed Marton into the men's room, leaned against the door with his bulky body to prevent anyone else from getting in. Marton knew it was really to prevent him from leaving.
"I heard you," Harry said, conversational tone belying the steel underneath. "That night at Viggo's."
"And?" Marton unzipped and stood at the urinal. He and Harry were long since past politeness between them.
"It's not your business."
Marton flushed and went to the sink to wash his hands. He studied Harry through the mirror's reflection. Studied the t-shirt emphasizing strong shoulders and a barrel-like chest. The tree-trunk thighs displayed in a pair of shorts. Harry's face was immobile, placid. The picture of calm. Always the picture of calm.
"You treat him like a child," he said, and turned. Leaned against the sink, arms nonchalantly crossed.
"It's not your business," Harry replied, enunciating each word with patience. "He's not yours."
"He's not yours, either." More than anything, Marton wanted those words to be true. He wanted, just once, to break Harry's implacable sense of composure. Of control. He wanted to know that Harry felt. "No matter what you tell yourself."
Harry tilted his head, looked at Marton like Marton was a question he didn't quite understand. "Are you jealous, is that it?"
Marton could feel the crushing weight of history pressing down on him. He wouldn't let this happen again. He would write his own fate. "I left you, not the other way around."
Harry didn't move. "Stay away from him."
Marton's smile was a jagged slash of irony. The weight left him in a rush of endorphins and purpose. He knew what he had to do. "No."
Marton's fingers danced a crooked line up Karl's spine. The bedroom reeked of sweat and the sticky-sweet smell of come. He mouthed at Karl's jaw, reveled in Karl's spent cock nestled between them and the dead weight of Karl's body over his.
Karl moaned, tilted his head. "This won't change anything."
"Yes, it will," Marton whispered, pulling back long enough to look into Karl's eyes. Long enough for Karl to see. They would create their own beginning. They would create their own fate.
Karl didn't answer.