Title: Jam and Ketchup
Pairings: Billy/Orlando, Ian/Dom, unrequited Dom/Billy
Rating: PG-13, for language
Summary: All Ian wanted was breakfast. Remix of tuuli1109's Take The Hint.
Warnings: Bad clothing. Aspersions cast on Orlando's extracurricular activities and cleanliness. Or, none.
Disclaimer: Not true, and no disrespect intended to anyone named or portrayed herein.
Feedback: Better than breakfast.

Disclaimer: The author makes no claims or inferences to reality or truthfulness. Moreover, this story is based upon the work of another author and recognises their creation.

Slowing to a walk, he surveyed his too-tight tee shirt with renewed dismay. Pepe le Pew playing violin. And matching tracksuit bottoms ending at least three inches above his bony ankles. He groaned inwardly. And here he'd thought that two hours of listening to Dom moan about being hopelessly in love with his utterly straight best friend last night would be the worst thing to happen to him all week. But his borrowed headband (bright yellow? he'd have to teach the lad a thing or two about fashion, clearly; gay men had an image to uphold, after all) and tee shirt were obviously conspiring to prove him wrong.

He'd only bought the dear boy a drink to distract him; the shag had been a bonus. He could've done without the crying afterward, though. Young men were entirely too emotional.

His stomach grumbled irritably. Right, food then. He'd be damned if he'd go into downtown Wellington looking like this, however, and his house was still a half-hour's walk away. Now, who had Dom mentioned living nearby? He thought for a moment. Orlando, of course. Come to think of it, he probably ought to have started the night with him anyway, if he'd wanted a quick shag. A sodding poofter if he ever met one, and not the crying-and-falling-in-love sort, either. More like the yours-for-a-smile, don't-mind-the-line-at-the-door sort. He knew the type. He might've been the type once, but that was many long years ago now.

Ian filed the consideration away for future reference. Right now, he wouldn't care if Orlando shagged the entire cast twice and topped it off with an orc orgy, so long as he had a better-stocked refrigerator than Dom's.

The erstwhile elf looked unforgivably cheerful when he came to the door. "I'm sorry, Ian. I'd love to have you in, but I've got Billy in my bed and we're really not up for guests."

It might've been more believable without the accompanying smirk.

"Back to this, I see," Ian muttered. The younger members of the cast had amused themselves for months trying to make him believe in their supposed trysts and affairs. It was like having his own soap opera delivered right to his makeup trailer. They had only missed one important point so far as he could see, which was that he didn't bloody well care.

The irony of the fact that Orlando was claiming to have Billy in his bed -- considering how many times Ian had heard the name last night, all in the context of "never" and "sex with boys" -- didn't escape him, but he'd always been much better at appreciating irony on a full stomach. Still, he thought absently, it might've been funnier if Orli'd chosen Dom himself as his alleged bedmate. He wasn't quite sure whether he might've called him on it or not.

"No, really," Orlando was saying, the very picture of wide-eyed innocence. "I'd ask you to come inside and have breakfast with me, but Billy really is sleeping in my bed."

"Then why don't you wake him up?" Ian retorted, hunger making him irritable. He didn't really care if Orlando had the entire Wellington footie team in his bed, or merely hadn't tidied his kitchen in ages, or whatever he was trying to hide. He just really, really wanted a nice plate of bacon and eggs.

Orlando blustered something about days off and alarm clocks and possibly another shag before lunch, but Ian wasn't listening as he pushed past his host and followed his nose to the kitchen. Which really was in need of tidying-up, but nothing to be ashamed of, certainly.

"Do you have anything other than jam and ketchup in your fridge?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound quite as desperate as he felt.

A quiet snicker -- one that sounded distinctly Scottish, if a snicker could do so -- made him stop dead in his tracks. "Did you...did you hear that?" He had the sudden, sneaking suspicion that crow might be all he would get to eat for breakfast here.

"Um." Orlando coughed, obviously struggling to contain his laughter. "That would be Billy giggling at your...hairband."

He turned around slowly, dreading what he might find.

"Hi." Billy's grin matched Orlando's as the two snuggled shamelessly, hands wandering, completely unrepentant. Perhaps even a bit triumphant. Bastards.

Ian sighed inwardly, recognising defeat. There was nothing for it but honourable retreat. With a great show of dignity, he nodded and smiled politely at his young castmates before turning and making his exeunt, loftily ignoring the giggles that followed in his wake.

There might be more tears shed chez Dominic over his friends' tryst, Ian mused philosophically, as he started back the way he'd come, but surely the news that the object of his affections did indeed partake of the male gender -- and most enthusiastically, from all appearances -- should be enough to make Dom quite grateful. And Ian, in turn, would allow the younger man to express his gratitude by taking Ian to a very large, very expensive brunch -- immediately, if possible.

Sans jam and ketchup, if you please.