A/N: What was supposed to be an exploration of asexuality turned, instead, into this monster of a fic. All I ask is that you keep and open mind while reading.
Warnings: ANGST. ALL THE GODDAMN ANGST. Also, somewhat unconventional sexual situations and some deeply flawed characters with a very unhealthy relationship.
Disclaimer: APH not mine.

It's a sick arrangement the three of them have, but Roderich wonders if he's the only one to see that. Gilbert certainly doesn't, and if Antonio does, he never mentions it.

"C'mon Roddy, open your eyes! Don't be such a spoilsport."

Roderich complies, turning his gaze to where Gilbert is sitting, perched next to him on the edge of the king sized bed. His toothy smile brightens when their eyes meet and Roderich cannot help but return the grin with a small smile of his own.

"He has a point, mi amigo," Antonio says as he hovers above him, fingers trailing up his sides. "It's much nicer when you keep your eyes open."

He nods, but does not turn to look at Antonio.

Roderich wants to believe that he has no idea how the three of them came to this arrangement, but he knows that would be a lie.

"I...I'm sorry Roddy but, I can't."

"You can't? You can't what? Can't go to bed with me?" Roderich cannot recall the last time he was this angry with Gilbert, but even now it is a distinctly different anger than what he is used to.

"You're trying to tell me that you love me but you won't have sex with me, and you expect me to believe you?"

Gilbert nods, looking more frightened than Roderich can ever remember.

"I'm not lying, you've got to believe me," he implores, hands held up protectively in front of him like a shield.

Roderich curses loudly, and when Gilbert looks back at him in horrified shock, his lungs clench dangerously and he storms off with a silent scream, not to be seen for the rest of the afternoon.

Roderich gasps when Antonio's tongue trails the shell of his ear and he closes his eyes instinctively.

"Roddy!" Gilbert whines, and Roderich turns to scold and scowl at him, but the words get stuck in his throat as Antonio slides his hands up his shirt and trails kisses down the expanse of his neck.

"It's okay to take these off now, then?" Antonio murmurs into his skin, and Roderich nods without thinking while Gilbert says nothing and simply watches, wide eyes taking in the spectacle before him without shame. There's rarely shame now; they've long since passed that stage.

Roderich keeps his eyes open and tangles his hands in the bed sheets as Antonio strips him, coarse fingertips wandering over the contours of his body.

"Always so beautiful," Antonio muses as he finally rids them both of the last of their clothing and presses their bodies together. Gilbert gives a hum of assent as he shifts on the bed and Roderich sighs and grasps at the small hairs at the base of Antonio's neck as he feels the Spaniard hot and throbbing against his inner thigh.

The hair is short enough to be Gilbert's, so Roderich lets his vision glaze over and pretends.

When Gilbert is out, Roderich seeks refuge at his piano. He closes his eyes and tries to black out the world as Beethoven and Mozart and Liszt blend into each other, a myriad of emotion he cannot hope to convey in words.

Today, he even plays Chopin, unleashing his senseless anger on the ivory keys as he does. Chopin never lasts long, though; he feels too guilty. Instead, he sits in front of the piano in silence, going through a mental list of all the pieces he knows and wondering why none of them are adequate to express his frustrations.

The discordant notes that echo in the large room as Roderich slams his hands down on the keys make him wince and he swears, standing up to pace restlessly by the window. He tries to pick up the violin – even Gilbert's flute – but they screech and wheeze in his hands, the music he draws from them harsh and jarring.

When Roderich turns, Gilbert is in the doorway. He does not know how long Gilbert has been standing there or what he has heard – whether it was the Chopin or the cacophonous piano chords or his frustrated fumbling with the violin – but in his irrational vindictiveness, he does not care.

Roderich feels guilty, but not guilty enough to speak, to utter those reassuring words he knows Gilbert wants to hear. Instead, they just stare at each other from across the room. Gilbert is the first to walk away.

Sparks ignite beneath Roderich's skin as Antonio presses into him – his fingertips, his lips, the innocuous dips and curves of his body – the simple contact reducing him to an incoherent mess as his body surrenders and he lets his eyes slide shut, shuddering at the feel of a touch that, for once, is not his own.

For now, even guilt flees from Roderich's mind as he gives himself over to the pleasure – it's been too long, too long – and when Antonio hums against his chest he jerks and writhes in surprise as the sensation shoots straight through his bones and makes his ribs quiver, rattling the bars of his heartbeat's flimsy cage.

Coupled with an image of Gilbert looking down at him with a familiar smirk and an unfamiliar lust, his hands tracing the paths that Antonio's carve out before firmly cupping his ass, Roderich almost comes apart at the seams, hooking his knees about Antonio's hips and swallowing up his gasp of surprise in a needy, open-mouthed kiss.

Tongue pressed to Antonio's, Roderich cracks open an eye, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gilbert's focused, scarlet gaze, but all he can see are Antonio's lashes fanned across flushed, tanned cheeks and – off to the side – a pale hand splayed out lazily against dark sheets.

That small, quick glance ruins it for him a little. He shuts his eyes again.

Roderich wants to blame the Church. He wants to blame it for bringing up Gilbert the way it did, raising him on a diet of bloodlust and abstinence and hypocrisy. Roderich has never been a religious man, and blaming the Teutonic Knights for Gilbert's aversion to sex is just so easy. It's easy and it makes sense, and it gives him the faintest of hopes that eventually he'll be able to change Gilbert. He'll be able to fix him.

He only tells this to Gilbert once; he doesn't need to see the betrayed, heartbroken look on his face any more times than that.

Despite the fact that the two of them retreat to their respective corners of the house and do not speak for the rest of the day, Gilbert still crawls into bed with him, spooning up behind Roderich and murmuring assurances into his ear, warm breath ghosting over Roderich's exposed neck as he does. With a sigh, Roderich pulls Gilbert closer, putting his hands over where Gilbert's are, wrapped around his waist.

It's times like these that Roderich finds the most painful, and once Gilbert is fast asleep Roderich slips out of his embrace and makes his way downstairs to the piano room. Sometimes he succumbs to his hand and the desperate need for release; usually he cries.

Antonio's teeth graze the delicate skin on the inside of Roderich's thigh and he jolts, goose bumps shooting up his spine and pricking the fine hairs at the back of his neck as Antonio laughs into his skin, dragging his teeth across it once more.

"Ah! A-Antonio, don't-"

Roderich is interrupted by his own surprised moan, though; as Antonio finally stops teasing the sensitive skin of his inner thighs and his lips brush lightly over the head of his cock.

Roderich's eyes snap open at the sensation – too long, too long – and another loud moan escapes his treacherous lips before he can gather up enough control of his body to hastily cover it with a hand.

Gilbert leans forward, though, and grabs him by the wrist, his eyes looking down into Roderich's with a concentrated intensity that makes him shiver even as he feels his skin burning electric under the simple grasp of Gilbert's thin fingers.

"That's unfair," Gilbert says to him with a lopsided grin, and Antonio hums in agreement, a gesture Roderich can only answer with a gasp as the vibrations thrum about his member and spread like fire through his bloodstream.

It's more than Roderich can take, and, unable to control himself, he pulls his hand from Gilbert's grip and tugs him down, cutting off his next utterance with a sloppy, forceful kiss. It gets returned by surprised yet responsive lips, but when Roderich fists a hand in Gilbert's hair and tries to deepen the kiss – lost in the sensation of nails digging into his hips and Gilbert's lips on his own and a wicked tongue working the length of his erection – Gilbert flounders in his mouth, startled and desperate and frightened.

Roderich releases him and it takes everything he has to train his frustrated scream to a moan as he grapples with the sheets beneath him and digs angry heels into Antonio's back, trying hard to feel sorry at the way he gags in surprise around Roderich's length.

It's Gilbert who first brings up the idea, and initially Roderich thinks it is a misguided attempt at appeasing him, at making up for everything Gilbert cannot give him.

"Gilbert, you don't have to do this. What we have is fine. It's okay, I'm fine with this." Even though it's a lie, it needs to be said.

Gilbert shuffles his feet and wrings his hands and Roderich can't help but frown because it looks so unusual. He loves Gilbert. This he knows very well. But this Gilbert standing in front of him now, he does not like. This is not the Gilbert that Roderich knows and that scares him.

"I'm not asking because I think I have to. I'm asking 'cause I want it. I want to see you when you have sex." Roderich feels his cheeks color in embarrassment, but he does not look away.

"I want to see you, all of you. You're mine, aren't you?" He nods without a second thought.

"Then…please…"

Roderich gives in. He's always been weak to that tone of voice.

Roderich shudders as a cold, slick hand settles on his hip, and another slides over his entrance so gingerly that he swears he can feel every excited tremor of Antonio's callused fingers as they ghost over his flushed skin.

He does his best to not think, trying to drown himself in the simple pleasure as he keeps Gilbert's name on his tongue and his warmth on his skin and his intense gaze in the throbbing hollow of his chest. He's good at that – at feeling pleasure; he's getting better at the pretending, too.

Roderich squirms when Antonio prods at his entrance with two slippery fingers, and Antonio murmurs an unnecessary apology. It's not painful. It's barely uncomfortable, but Roderich knows Antonio well enough to know that he's always apologetically gentle at first. He honestly wishes he didn't.

"A-Antonio…hurry, please…" Roderich pleads, voice straining, and for once Antonio doesn't answer with a carefree laugh; he simply pushes his fingers deeper, probing and stretching until he finds what he is looking for and Roderich's toes curl and he arches up off the bed with a loud moan that he knows he'd be ashamed of if he weren't so preoccupied.

Roderich snaps his eyes shut and swears he can see stars as he reaches out to clutch at the sheets with one hand, the other drawing deep red welts across Antonio's back as he removes his fingers from Roderich's hole and gives his own hard-on a few preparatory strokes before positioning himself.

In his lust-hazed fumbling with the sheets, Roderich's fingers find Gilbert's and he latches onto them, desperate for Gilbert, for an anchor, and finding both in the scorching brush of his inviting, open palm.

Through half-lidded eyes, Roderich sees the adoration in the tilt of Gilbert's head, the color dusting his cheeks, and teeth that gnaw at his bottom lip. Then, he hooks his fingers in the spaces between Gilbert's, hooks his ankles around Antonio's waist and feels his whole body tremble in lust – too long, too long – as Antonio takes him, the both of them groaning in a shared satisfaction.

Gilbert has two conditions; it cannot be Elizaveta, and it cannot be his brother. Elizaveta, Roderich understands. The marriage. The complexity of their collective relationship. The fact that she is a woman and that sex with her would be fundamentally different than what it could ever be with Gilbert. It's easy to see his reasons and Roderich agrees. It can't be her.

Ludwig, though, he does not understand and honestly, he is disappointed. The two of them are so alike – their broad shoulders, the structure of their features, the way their hair feels between his fingers– that Roderich thinks maybe, with Ludwig, he'd be able to pretend. He thinks maybe he could push Ludwig into being a little less serious and a little less careful and then it would be just like how he'd imagined sex with Gilbert would be like.

When Roderich asks, though, all he receives are averted eyes and an evasive answer about family and awkwardness and 'but he's my little brother, Roderich!'

He doesn't push the issue further.

Antonio runs a hand through Roderich's tousled hair and groans deep in the back of his throat as he pulls him into a fervent, bruising kiss, murmuring incomprehensible blasphemies against his lips and rocking against him in a quick, steady rhythm.

It's with a sharp gasp that Roderich breaks for air as a subtle shift in the angle of Antonio's hips has him more directly hitting his prostate and more firmly grazing his tender inner thighs, making him dizzy, delirious with an overload of pure sensation.

Antonio rolls his hips, grinding their bodies together before hiking one of Roderich's thighs over his shoulder and turning his body toward Gilbert with a low moan. A garbled cry of surprise and ecstasy leaves Roderich's lips as he is spread wide, and he looks up at Gilbert, who is gazing upon him with concentrated, reverent eyes.

Through fluttering vision and wavering perception, Roderich can make out the blush on Gilbert's cheeks and the ghost of an affectionate smile on his lips. He brings Gilbert's hand to his face, and where his cool palm should logically provide a tonic for the near-unbearable heat, it only sears Roderich's skin further because it is Gilbert, and they way they are now, Gilbert's touch will always burn hot against his deprived body.

"G-Gil…" Neither Gilbert nor Antonio call him out on his slip, and Antonio shifts his hips yet again, pulling Roderich's other knee up over his shoulder and arching over him, eyes glazed with lust.

Roderich, in turn, lets his eyes drift over the defining lines of Gilbert's broad shoulders as they peek out from the black tank top stretched tight across his chest, the sharp contrast only serving to highlight something Roderich can't place, but still greatly desires.

And then Roderich's gaze falls lower, and resentment and disappointment claw their way up his throat. Gilbert's not hard. Just like the last time, and the time before that, and countless times prior, Gilbert is not hard, and Roderich doesn't know why he keeps expecting and hoping and wanting but he does, and he is rewarded with ice-cold guilt and blistering frustration warring somewhere in his stomach as he snaps his hand away from a confused Gilbert and wonders how long the scratches he's leaving on Antonio's back will last.

"Antonio," Gilbert suggests.

Roderich thinks of the seventeenth century and the tarnished gold band he has tucked away in the back of his desk drawer and refuses.

The fact of the matter remains, though. They are running out of options. With a grimace, Roderich flatly turns down Gilbert's proposal of Mathias, and when Roderich suggests Ivan as a half-joke, they don't speak for a week.

At one point, they decide on Berwald, but the first time they approach him, Gilbert gets cold feet and spends the entire World Conference brooding in one of the empty rooms while Roderich is forced to sit through the conference with Berwald at his elbow and an uncomfortable silence about their tense frames.

The second time, Roderich steps forth and tries to explain their situation, only to have Berwald stare at him in mute confusion and Gilbert nervously trod on his toes on the way out of the Swede's house. The next day, Gilbert has changed his mind and Berwald is no longer an option. He says it's for Tino's sake and though Roderich knows it's a lie, he doesn't question it. It's the least he can do, he figures.

Some time later, they almost end up with Arthur. They both like him for their various reasons and neither of them can find a reason to say no, but when they do bring him to bed, he spends twenty minutes trying to convince Gilbert to join in before Roderich throws him out, quietly seething with indignation and jealousy.

"Fine," Roderich relents. "Antonio is fine."

Antonio bucks up into him with a grunt, and Roderich tenses as the sensation rolls over his skin like slowly crawling electricity. He grasps at Antonio's shoulders – blunt nails struggling to find purchase on the bronzed skin – and Antonio curses under his breath.

"Calmado, mi alondra," Antonio breathes into his ear, and the old pet name makes Roderich squirm in Antonio's grasp, an uncomfortable, guilty flare of arousal shooting up his spine as he remembers warm, sleepless Hapsburg nights and then thinks not of Gilbert, but of Lovino. Volatile, insecure Lovino.

Roderich wonders what the beloved henchman has to say about their arrangement. He wonders if the boy even knows of it. He supposes it doesn't much matter, though. Fidelity is something none of them are very good at – living for centuries has ensured that – and it is no secret that Lovino spends more than the occasional night sprawled out beneath his lusty cousin on dark, warm Grecian beaches.

This knowledge, though, does nothing to ease the shame churning beneath his skin, and Roderich screws his eyes shut, trying to picture Gilbert crouching over him with his hands firmly gripping Roderich's hips and his brows drawn together in earnest concentration.

Antonio curses in Spanish – 'joder, Roderich, yo me corro'– and shatters the illusion.

Antonio agrees with an easy smile and for a moment Roderich resents him for it, resents him for the ease by which he can give his answer, as if he and Gilbert had not spent many a silent hour hashing and rehashing the decision in their heads before finally stepping foot in front of him with the most intimate corners of their souls bared, open and raw for Antonio's simple viewing pleasure.

"Anything for my friend," Antonio says as he claps Gilbert on the back, and the smile that Gilbert returns is so radiant that Roderich almost drops the handkerchief that he is anxiously wringing between his fingers in surprise. He has not seen that smile in a long time and a warm shiver starts in his palms, glides up his arms, and settles in his chest at the sight. For the first time, Roderich feels no misgivings about their situation or their decision and he removes the distance between himself and the two old friends, walking towards them and putting a hand on each of their arms. He turns to Antonio with a warm 'thank you.'

"No need to thank me," Antonio laughs breezily, slipping his arm out of Roderich's grasp and instead wrapping it around his shoulders. "Most people don't receive such wonderful second chances. I'd be a fool to pass this up."

Roderich thinks of Gilbert, and of the seventeenth century and of how he doesn't want any second chances, just a first with the one who's been in his heart for centuries.

Then, he thinks of Gilbert's radiant smile and caves. Anything for that smile.

Roderich lets Antonio collapse next to him as he arches against the rumpled sheets, stroking himself off with Gilbert's name a mantra on his lips and then cumming messily over his fingers and his stomach with Gilbert's touch and his gaze seared into his memory.

Exhausted, Roderich does not even bother protesting when Antonio takes him gently by the wrist and begins to clean the mess on his hand with his tongue, or when Gilbert lays a kiss to his temple before taking off his tank top and using it clean Roderich's stomach. Instead, he simply lies there as the two of them talk over him, the actual exchange escaping him as he sighs heavily and lets his eyes slide shut.

When they are done, Gilbert runs slim, callused fingers through his hair while Antonio chatters contentedly as he pulls on his clothes. Gilbert gets up to walk Antonio to the door – Antonio never stays afterward, it's their rule – and through a cracked eyelid Roderich can see him wave with a tiny smile.

By the time they descend down the stairs to the foyer, Roderich has found enough energy to sit up, then to stand, and he makes his way to the room's conjoining bathroom, closing the door behind him; it will be at least a few minutes until Gilbert comes back upstairs.

In those few minutes, Roderich turns to the full-length mirror hanging off the back of the door, and in the harsh florescent lighting of the bathroom, he feels impossibly dirty. His lips are red and swollen, and his hair is plastered to his forehead with a thin layer of sweat. A couple red splotches cover his neck, and the bruise Antonio bit into his thigh is already showing a gross, purplish tint.

He bites his quivering lip and eyes his reflection with disgust. The sweat, the bruises, the cum dribbling down his thighs. Not Gilbert, not Gilbert, not Gilbert. Already weak in the knees, Roderich falls against the treacherous mirror and sinks down in front of it with a choked sob, resentment and anguish bubbling up in his throat as he resists the urge the pound on the fragile glass and shatter the filthy reflection with his shaking fists.

Footsteps coming up the stairs startle him and Roderich stares down his reflection, finding slight comfort in the fact that, though he still finds his state disgusting – not Gilbert, not Gilbert, not Gilbert – his eyes no longer look red or swollen and he can easily answer Gilbert's knocking on the door without his voice shaking.

"It's open, come in," is his only response, though, and when Gilbert rushes in and almost steps on him kneeling there by the door, he knows he's been seen through and Gilbert crouches in front of him worried and confused and babbling incoherently. Roderich silences him with two fingers on his lips and an exhausted smile.

"I'm tired, Gilbert. Take me to bed?"

Gilbert obliges immediately, lifting Roderich off the cold tile floor and bringing him to the bed they had just vacated. His touch is soft and warm as he curls himself around Roderich and pulls the sheets loosely around the both of him, and for once Roderich does not feel guilt or discomfort as he presses his back to Gilbert's bare chest. This time he is too tired to feel conflicted and for that, at least, he thinks as he drifts off to sleep, he is thankful.

Any reviews would be muchly appreciated. :]