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Written for RedCouchAddict's birthday *loves*

Deniz has never been very good at sharing. It's just not in him. Even when he was younger, when his mother wanted him to hand down some of his toys to his little brother, Deniz would balk, stubbornly hanging on to them, long past the point where he'd even want to play with them. It wasn't that he still wanted them. It was that they were his and he didn't want anyone else to have them.

When they were things that were his and that he did still want, though... well, the carnage was epic, and so were the tales about it, although he's never told any of them.

So when Marc's hands slip around Roman's chest from behind, fingers fanning wide to cover as much skin as possible, all Deniz wants to do – despite all he's agreed to, despite his iron resolve that he's going to be grown-up and open-minded and not such a bloody prude about this – is to smash the bastard's face in.

It's funny: He thought that Roman would be the glue that holds them together. Their common denominator, the glowing thread of shared love to connect them. Instead, literally and otherwise, Roman is between them, keeping them apart, and sometimes, bizarrely, Deniz feels like things might be easier if he weren't there at all. Except then they'd have no reason to try. But no matter how hard he struggles, he can never quite suppress the instinct to shove Marc aside, to glare and get up in his face and snarl, "Mine."

Like now, as Deniz stiffens, his own hands on Roman's sides, and Marc seems to sense it almost instantly. His hands are still on Roman's chest and he lifts his head to look at Deniz over Roman's shoulder, brow furrowed. He cocks one eyebrow in mute inquiry, and Deniz silently curses the open book that is his face, and the fact that someone who's only been in his life for a few months can read him so easily.

There are many things that are attractive, even beautiful, about Marc. His eyes, which shift in colour between shades of blue and grey and green; his hands, which are both large and elegant, long fingers sure and too damnably skilled; the way his mobile mouth tends to twitch lop-sidedly when he's amused; the way the muscles in his back bunch and roll when he's near orgasm. Deniz thought the fact that he finds the guy hot would be another thing that would make this easier, but in this, too, he's been mistaken. He doesn't know if he's too Turkish, or too young, or just too damn possessive, but whenever he trembles at the sure-fingered ministrations of those hands, whenever that firmly muscled body shudders in release beneath him, whenever he lets that mouth delve between his own lips, he can't help feeling like he's cheating. And no amount of rationalisation and stern self-reprimand can smooth over the deep-seated hurt at the knowledge that Roman – his Roman – doesn't feel the same.

Roman is sprawling back against Marc, leaning into his chest. His hands are on Deniz's bare hips, caressing them in familiar, soothing little circles, thumbs curling over his hipbones in that knowing way that makes him tingle and his cock swell. Roman's eyes are closed, long lashes resting against his cheekbones. Looking at his serene expression, at the easy way his head rests against Marc's shoulder, the way he rubs his cheek against the side of Marc's neck like a kitten, makes Deniz's own throat close over with a hot, throbbing kind of despair.

It's occurred to him to ask Roman to choose. Of course it has. But it becomes less of an option as time goes by, because he's deep into uncharted territory here. There are no certainties anymore, no guarantees, and he's no longer sure what Roman would do, no longer sure that he'd smile and kiss him and say, "Schatz, of course it's you. It's always been you."

Besides, he knows he would do anything to keep Roman's face looking like this, relaxed and content and untorn by impossible choices. It's why he's here, after all; why he is learning, every day, to do this dance of three without losing the rhythm or stepping on toes, even though all he really wants to do is to spin Roman into his arms and away, to put the width of the dance floor between them and Marc. But Roman would be sad. Roman might choose him if he had to but even if he did, he would miss Marc, and his face would do that thing where it goes a little distant, a little brittle and cold, his humour too sharp, and Deniz couldn't bear that.

So he's curled himself under, day after day, taming his instincts, growling at Marc only in bed where it's allowed, trying to forget that he doesn't really do sharing. He's not that given to introspection, but sometimes even he has to wonder what it means, this desperate need of turning himself inside out, reweaving the fabric of who he is just to keep Roman smiling. Sometimes he wonders when that fabric will rip and expose him for the faker he is.

Marc is still looking at him across Roman's shoulder, frowning slightly, his silent question unanswered. Deniz knows, when he makes up his mind to be fair about it, that it's not easy for Marc either. That Marc, too, is not a man used to sharing; that he'd probably rather have Roman to himself, given a choice. But the concessions seem to come easier to him, and Deniz can tell, if he's completely honest about it, that Marc does like him for himself. It shows mostly in small things: the way Marc strokes his hair, how he always makes sure to pick up some of his favourite things when he buys groceries; the way he smiles when he undresses Deniz with his eyes, appreciative and indulgent and hungry all at once; and how, that weekend when Roman was away at a trainers' seminar, Marc reached across the couch as he and Deniz were watching telly and took his hand, casually interlacing their fingers.

There are things he won't let Marc do – come in his mouth, top him twice in a row, kiss him too tenderly or too long – and they've noticed, of course. They've joked about it; Marc smiled and called him a dominant little brat, and Roman giggled and told the story of how Deniz used to keep orgasm tallies when they were first dating. Deniz laughed with them, let Marc ruffle his hair and Roman kiss him, and said something flippant and flirty – he doesn't even remember what – but he can't help wondering when it'll turn into a problem.

Between them, Roman stirs, perhaps noticing the slight shift of mood, and his eyes open, slightly hazy with pleasure. They've been exploring him leisurely, not hurrying things, just touching him, playing him in unconscious accord like a four-handed piece of piano music. They've trailed fingertips across the sensitive ridges of his ribs, followed the contours of his collarbones, fondled his buttocks and rolled his nipples between their fingers, and somehow, as if following some unwritten choreography, their hands never clashed on his skin, never hindered each other's path. Deniz knows that they're good at this and getting better, but somehow that doesn't make it easier. Not even a little, not even at all.

There's a flush high on Roman's cheekbones, and his lips are parted, his eyes shining under his tousled hair. He's so fucking beautiful that it makes Deniz ache and harden with helpless, furious love. Roman's eyes settle on his face, and the haze of desire lifts slightly, his gaze sharpening.

"Hey," he says softly, trailing a hand up from Deniz's hip to cup it around his cheek, thumb brushing his lower lip. "You okay?"

He's still leaning back against Marc, who's still looking at Deniz too, his expression calm and too perceptive. They look lovely and well-matched, graceful and familiar with one another. For a moment, Deniz wonders how the three of them look from the outside. Whether he fits around their muscles and angles the way they fit around each other's, or whether one could point and say, That one isn't right.

This could turn into one of the dangerous moments if he leaves their questions unanswered too long, so Deniz smiles, licking his lips, and takes a step closer to be skin to skin with Roman, feeling his erection press into his thigh. He brings his own hands up and wraps them around both of them, one cupping Roman's neck and tilting up his chin, the other sliding across Marc's shoulder and the warmth of his nape, his fingers stroking the soft hair there. Roman gives him an answering smile even though the question lingers in his eyes, and he feels Marc relax slightly under the caress of his hand, his shoulders dropping their cautious defence.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he breathes, before diving in to claim Roman's mouth the way he used to once upon a time, when that was easier than talking and pretty much the only answer that he had to give. Roman responds eagerly enough, tilting his head to accommodate him. Deniz can feel his hands on his face, caressing his cheeks, stroking his ears. The kiss melts him as surely as Roman's kisses always do; almost enough to welcome that other pair of larger hands as they settle gently and possessively on his hips. They pull him closer, trapping Roman's body firmly between them so he moans into Deniz's mouth in response. Deniz swallows the sound, kisses him harder, and thinks, eyes closed, that he'll have to get better, so much better at pretending he's okay with this.

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