Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author Note: Warning, contains depiction of a polygamous relationship. The title is a lyric from the song 'Summer Sunshine' by The Corrs.

LIKE NOBODY ELSE

Seth could literally stare at him for hours. And why not, he had the time. There was Roman, in the pool, lying out on a shiny blue air mattress – a friend of a friend had hooked them up with a place that needed house-sitting for a few weeks and thank fuck, there was a swimming pool in the backyard. Somehow, Roman's broad strong frame, clad only in boxer-brief swimming shorts, wasn't sinking and every inch of him glistened with sun oil. His hair was wet and he wore sunglasses with Day-Glo yellow frames, they belonged to Dean.

Seth didn't just want to watch him…

He sauntered out from the shadows to crouch at the pool's edge. The air was thick with the smell of sun oil and chlorine and that Roman aroma that Seth just wanted to lick right off his skin.

"I pretty much want to eat you or drown you," he called out, everything that was rattling around his brain spurting out in one sentence.

Roman's only reaction was to smirk just a little. God, yes, Seth was salivating, especially when Roman's reply was a low tar-black rumble.

"Who says you can't do both?"

A muscular arm shot out from the air mattress and grabbed a handful of Seth's shirt. He only had time to think oh shit! and oh fuck yes before he was pulled into the pool head first. Seth welcomed the water's embrace; it was too fucking hot anyway, and stripped off his sodden shirt. He was grinning as he surfaced, anticipating and predatory. Roman's smirk had only grown.

Seth swam closer enough to grab hold of the edge of Roman's air mattress and made his grin feral and fucking starving. "Who fucking says, right?"

Then he pulled and Roman could have stayed afloat, because he had a weight and strength advantage, but instead he let Seth overturn him into the water. They had the exact same idea; Seth wrapped eager arms around Roman's neck and Roman grasped his waist. Then their mouths joined and they sank beneath the water's surface, together, desperate for the other's lips and hands, a raw, frenetic, utterly compelling water ballet. They didn't come up for air for some time, they didn't need to.

The phone call didn't sound good. Roman stretched out his left leg, trying to get his bruised hamstring comfortable, and took a handful of salted pretzels from the nearby bowl. Dean sat beside him, a hand heavy and possessive on Roman's knee.

"Fuck!"

The noise was like a whipcrack. Then there was silence. From Seth, that was never a good sign. Eventually, there was the sound of footsteps heading upstairs. Roman was tense, he could feel that Dean was too, but neither of them moved. It was as frustrating as fuck, but they'd learned that when Seth went silent and stiff, talking to him helped nobody.

Roman twitched; one of his keenest instincts was always to fight, though it had only ever been for himself or blood relatives until recently. Seth was hurting and Roman wanted to fix that. Instead, he pressed closer to Dean and felt Dean's corded muscles slowly start to relax. The air was filled with the overwhelmingly disgusting smell of the fried onion chunks that Dean had stuffed in with his cheeseburger.

Dean smirked and took an enormous bite of his dinner. "You kiss this mouth by choice."

Roman snorted – translation: And I might not now, by choice – and ate his way through the bowl of pretzels. Whatever was on TV was wallpaper, but it helped fill the silence. Dean's hand alternately flexed and tensed on Roman's knee. They didn't talk about Seth.

Eventually – when the sun had kamakazied below the horizon – Seth walked slowly back downstairs. His eyes were hollow and the smirky brash fight that he usually wore had completely disappeared. Roman's throat convulsed but he didn't say a word. Instead, he made room on the couch. Seth immediately curled up next to him. His face was hidden from view, but every other part of him reached for Dean and Roman. Dean's hand quickly tangled in Seth's hair, as Seth ran fingers almost desperately along Dean's neck and jaw, like he was memorizing and relearning Dean's contours. Roman wrapped a massive arm around Seth and was more than happy to let the smaller man practically crawl on top of him. It was good to feel that weight again.

Dean hummed something under his breath, a deliberate choice of tune, and nibbled on Seth's fingers whenever they came within range. Roman kept a firm grip on them both. There were no questions asked, as the minutes became hours and the three figures stayed rooted together on the couch. When Seth eventually released a silent scattering of defiant tears, Roman and Dean kissed them away.

Dean had always loved what the world termed 'junk food'. He loved burgers and hotdogs from the worst-looking streetcarts and greasy fries by the bucketload. Basically he loved everything that a wrestler should stay away from if they wanted to keep in in-ring shape. Dean didn't give a fuck. He'd always eaten that kind of junk with his sisters - the comfort of cheese from a can, the stickiness of barbeque sauce and slaw. It was the best kind of hazy childhood delight, good memories rammed between the sterile stink of hospitals and too much noise in his ears.

Roman could be particular about what he ate. He liked vegetables – honeyed, braised, and sweeter than dessert – but he didn't care for vegetable soup and there were certain brands of ketchup that he point-blank refused to touch. He wouldn't say why he didn't like coffee cake, but Dean stared down anyone who tried to offer it and Seth had been known to snarl.

Seth ate a lot of rice cakes. He had a high metabolism and seemed to live on the kind of low-fat lines that were always featuring in infomericals. But he never resisted the baked goods aisle either and if they passed through a 7-Eleven, it was guaranteed that he'd walk out with pockets full of Reeses and Herseys. Whenever anybody pointed out the weird anomaly of his polar-opposite eating habits, he would smirk; usually displaying poppy seeds or nut flecks stuck between his teeth, and say balance.

Plants didn't talk. They had plenty of attitude, but they didn't talk. Dean hefted a sack of fertilizer, pouring more onto the flowerbed that ran parallel to the property's driveway. Vegetables were his preference, but putting down such literal long-term roots was a bad idea. Seth had bought him a couple of tomato plants for a recent birthday, he'd bedded them down in deep pots for easy transport and they grew quietly and fruitfully in one of the properties that the Shield circled back pretty frequently. No tomatoes tasted sweeter.

Flowers looked best in the ground. Once they were picked, they were dead. They might not be Dean's first choice, but he appreciated hidden meanings. You could have an entire conversation just by exchanging planters. So the windowbox right by the front door was full of laurels, a white and pink prettiness that hid a boast of ambition and renown. The flame-shades of begonias spilled out of a bed, as clear a warning that could be given without skywriting. Bird's-foot trefoil grew high in a corner, yellow and sprawling and spitting revenge. The bachelor's buttons were his favorite touch, because it was so gleefully viciously ironic, a 'fuck you' to all passers-by.

Dean smirked at the sun and got his hands dirty.

Seth liked climbing trees. He'd walk until he found a decent one with plenty of strong branches before swinging up and climbing to a good height. He rested his back against the trunk and yanked his iPod out of his pocket. He had uncomplicated undemanding nature wrapped around him, fresh air in his lungs, and the perfectness of The Wonder Years blasting away. And at times like this, if he was lucky, everything else just seeped out of him; the phone calls, the song that still wouldn't leave him alone. Sometimes.

Dean could climb trees just as well as Seth. He rarely climbed when Seth was making his solo trips though and he never climbed for pleasure – unlike Seth, he had plans that needed a fresh perspective and a good climb often provided that. He'd also been known to use this fresh perspective as the perfect place from which to pelt Roman and Seth with whatever was on hand.

Every day, Roman put his body through a series of brutal outdoor exercises (wind sprints and football drills, amongst other muscle-burners), and that was after he'd hit the free weights. Once he was done, he often sat braced against a tree trunk, chest heaving and eyes closed as he tipped a water bottle over his head. He only sat under trees that were occupied but he didn't start any conversations. He was there, that was all.

Seth pressed his earbuds in until his skin hurt.

Dinner had arrived. Clad only in worn jean cut-offs, Roman unpacked the takeout crate, a greasy odor immediately filling the kitchen. The weather was hot and the steam from the food wasn't helping. Roman opened a beer and took a long swallow before pressing the cool bottle to his skin. He was used to the season's usual heat, but this current spell was managing to tip him over the edge.

He loaded up a plate and took a seat at the table, sideways on. He was on his second mouthful of egg-fried rice when Dean wandered in, completely naked. The Day-Glo frames of his sunglasses were pushed up past his forehead and his expression was slightly pinched. He was in the middle of puzzling something out. Roman threw him a bag of prawn crackers and settled back to fully appreciate the view. Dean was flushed and glistening from the heat and entirely unselfconscious.

To most people, it was exhibitionism and another example of Dean flipping the finger at society's declared limits, but Roman saw what else was there. Dean was choosing to be completely physically vulnerable. It was all about trust.

Dean swiped Roman's beer and drained half the bottle, wiping his mouth clean after. Roman licked at a droplet that was escaping down the chilly glass. Dean unashamedly watched, Roman pulled back to just as unashamedly watch Dean's body react. Watching was only enough for so long though. By the time Roman had finished chewing his mouthful of Kung Pao, Dean was straddling his lap. He fed Roman prawn crackers and ate pork, chicken, and three different kinds of sauce. Roman ran a hand down Dean's warm back and thought yes, this is dinner.

Without warning, Dean dived forward and pried open Roman's mouth with his tongue. His kisses were scented with crispy batter and cracker dust. His fingers dug past Roman's hair, scraping scalp and always pushing for more. Dean never stopped being hungry. Seth was the same. Roman licked at the taste of Dean's mouth, he wasn't fasting either.

Dean pulled back long enough to drop a tiny shrimp past Roman's lips, then he shoved a hand down Roman's shorts. Roman loosed a punched-out breath. Dean's grip was sure and firm and he twisted on the upstroke in exactly the right way. Roman groaned and pulled Dean closer so that he could work a wicked mark onto the neck so temptingly displayed right in front of him.

There was a thoroughly pleased noise from the doorway and Seth strolled in to snatch the sunglasses away from Dean, pressing kisses to both of them. He was fresh from the pool, his frayed green shorts soaked through, every other part of him bare and wet. There was a bright orange Popsicle in his hand; his tongue matched it in color. His other hand briefly scratched at his shoulder; he'd been talking for weeks now about getting a tattoo there.

"Mmm..."

None of them made a crack about dessert, but they all thought it, loud and clear.

Seth left the Popsicle melting in a discarded glass and dug into the sweet and sour sauce, which led to vivid fingerprints across Roman's broad chest and Dean's neck and cheeks. By the time the muggy late afternoon heat had mellowed into pleasant sated cool evening; all three of them had orange tongues.

-the end