A little startled, you stop and turn to look questioningly up at them. Their free hands lift and meet in the same oddly stylized touch, effectively surrounding you. The movement carries the weight of ritual within it; for an irreverent moment you wonder if this is something that Viggo taught them. Then their fingers interlace and their hands move inward, running softly from your shoulders down your arms to rest on your hips, a strange, gentle duality of touch. In the space of a breath they move toward you, eclipsing starlight with their bodies. Orlando lifts his hands to cup your face, tilting your chin upward as Sean bends from behind you to brush his lips against your throat. Orlando makes no move toward you, only watching with something like Legolas’ intense focus, until you sigh and let your eyes drift shut. Then he leans forward and covers your mouth with his, the soft caress of his tongue on yours a dizzying echo of Sean’s tongue tracing softly just below your ear.

As Orlando moves his hands down to catch hold of your hips, pulling you against him, Sean slides his hands up, lightly brushing your breasts. His fingertips graze across your chest until they find the top button of your blouse. Slowly, deliberately, from one button to the next as if he were telling a rosary, he unbuttons your blouse and draws it open. His fingers skate maddeningly lightly over your skin as he slides the blouse down over your arms, dropping it into a pile at your feet. You kick off your heels and push them to the side.

Orlando drops to his knees in front of you and slides his hands under your skirt, nearly snagging your hose in his bracers. Muttering in annoyance, he unlaces them and pulls them off his wrists, tossing them impatiently to the side. Sean tilts your chin up and around, kissing you thoroughly as he unsnaps your bra and reaches underneath it to trace your nipples with his fingertips. While you are distracted with Sean, Orlando returns his attention to your clothes, hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your hose, and pulls hose and underwear deftly down and off. You reach up for Sean's bracers, fumbling a little as you try to open them blind.

Just as you have gotten them off, Orlando's mouth begins working its way up your thigh and you catch your breath, winding your fingers in Sean's hair as he bites gently at your throat. Sean presses tight against you, buckles and rock-hard erection digging into your back - and then Orlando's tongue is on you, inside you, alternating deep strokes and light flicking, and you think of Legolas walking on snow.

Sean smiles into the curve of your neck and lifts a hand to cover your mouth firmly. You reach a hand down to Orlando's head, sliding your fingers into his - Legolas' - hair, one of your fingertips brushing against a disconcertingly pointed ear. Sean's free hand roams over you, brushing teasingly, moving down to cover yours on Orlando's head and pull him closer, reaching in to stroke in slow, light circles while Orlando fucks you with his tongue. You tense, gasping against Sean's hand.

"That's right, lass, come for us," he breathes into your ear; and some small part of your mind retains just enough sanity to commend his forethought in clamping a hand over your mouth as your hand closes in a deathgrip on his wrist and you come with blinding force.

Orlando stands, shedding his overshirt and leaving the silver undertunic that he wore in Lothlorien. Sean reaches past you and slides a hand behind Orlando's neck, drawing him close. Their lips meet over your shoulder, tongues darting together, Sean tasting you on Orlando's mouth. The kiss surprises you a little: Orlando has never as long as you've known him expressed real sexual interest in another man.

You turn between them and address the problematic plethora of buckles, fastenings, and general complications in Sean's costume, silently calling down a murrain on all costume designers who don't make a priority of easy access. There are at least three layers above the waist alone, not counting the cloak, making you wonder aloud in exasperation if the buckles will open a portal to Hell if arranged just so.

"It's easier than it looks," Orlando laughs as he bends to kiss the back of your neck, reaching around you to help you open buckles. Sooner than you would have thought possible, the upper half of Sean's costume is piled on the floor at your feet, Orlando's silver tunic peeking out from between the layers of Boromir-wear.

"This would all be much easier," Orlando purrs, nibbling at your ear, "if we were on the floor."

Sean lifts his mouth from yours. "Floor's cold, Orli," he says huskily. "Come on, then, there's carpet over here." He bends to pick up Boromir's fortuitously wide cloak, brushing his mouth over your breast on the way back up.

The cloak is just wide enough to fit the three of you pressed very closely together, so close that half the time you aren't quite sure who's kissing whom, but you know for certain that the knee nudging your thighs apart from behind is Orlando's. Gracefully ceding the floor to the two of you, Sean reaches down to guide Orlando's cock into you, lifting his hand to ease his thumb into your mouth as you gasp. Orlando's hand is tight on your hip, pulling you back farther and angling deeper, and Sean slides upward so that you can take him in your mouth.

"Ah," Orlando says in your ear. "Yes. That's…" He trails off, utterly focused on what he's doing, going deeper into you than you thought was possible in this position, making your hand tighten on Sean's thigh as your tongue darts over the hard ridges of his cock. Sean sighs and laces his fingers in your hair, moving it back away from your neck; Orlando's mouth replaces it immediately. Orlando's hand reaches around to trail over your breasts, over Sean's thighs, one finger easing up to trace teasingly around your mouth, and then he quickens his pace. That increase in tempo sends a shudder through your body and into Sean's, and Sean begins moving his hips against your mouth and hand, desire and caution in precarious balance. His hand tightens in your hair.

You close your eyes, lost for who knows how long in the rhythm and the building energy, hands on you that are strong and sure from the sword and the bow, and you come hard again when Orlando sinks his teeth into your shoulder, with barely enough warning for you to move your head back away from Sean. Then Orlando pulls out of you, drawing an indignant protest that dies in your throat when he turns you onto your back, wraps your legs around his waist, and drives hard into you until his whole body tenses and shakes. You tilt your head back with a sigh of pleasure, arching a little against him, and the sound of his cries as he comes travels through you like electricity.

Orlando has no sooner started to get his breath back when Sean prods him in the shoulder and makes shooing motions with his hand. Laughing, Orlando moves off from you; Sean's mouth comes down on yours, not hard but urgent, his tongue exploring the inside of your mouth as he moves between your legs and slides inside you with one smooth stroke.

Orlando dips his head to circle a tongue slowly around your nipple, making you gasp. "Light a fire under it, the pair of you," he murmurs. "Sean's date's going to come looking for him soon."

"Shut up, elf-boy," Sean laughs, grabbing a handful of Legolas-hair and drawing Orlando up to kiss him soundly. You smile and lift your head to run your tongue over the base of Sean's throat, making him groan into Orlando's mouth. He lets go of Orlando and bends to kiss you, and you taste Orlando's mouth on him as Sean takes hold of your hips and pushes deep into you, one long stroke that sends you teetering close to the edge again. He stays there for a moment, rotating his hips slightly against you, then pulls back and now there is an urgency to his strokes that is more than just a pressing time constraint. Orlando moves closer, lowering his mouth to your breast again, teasing your nipple lightly with his teeth, and you have one hand in his hair and the other digging into Sean's back, but it is Sean's orgasm that finally sends you over the edge again, the way he thrusts deep and stays still, where Orlando kept moving through his.

For a moment none of you move. Then Sean eases off to the side with a contented sigh, running a hand absently over his face as though he's still getting used to the beard, and their hands stroke softly over your stomach and over each other.

You should get dressed, you know. It would be mortally embarrassing to have anyone walk in right now, and the ballroom doors are not locked. But you haven't finished your cigarette, and Sean and Orlando are warm and comfortable lying against you, and you've become distracted by looking for cloud-shapes in the drifts of smoke wafting through moonbeams. Orlando whistles a couple of bars of the Saturday Night Waltz, breath ruffling your hair, making you smile.

You still believe that Copland's treatment of Simple Gifts is a sin for which there is no absolution. But in your current state of floating contentment, you believe that you can put the whole business of Fanfare for the Common Man behind you.