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The bed is a cage. The sheets slither about your ankles, up your knees until they pull you flush to the bed. They grate like liquid sandpaper, catching at the fine hairs along your inner thighs and hips. You cry out, kicking the duvet down to the end of the bed where it never stays, easily slithering back into and around the caverns that the sheets have carved. The pillow dips, swelling up around your ears like waves of heated marshmallow and you gasp, all the air in the room leaving in one sudden whoosh as you tumble onto the blissfully, painfully unyielding floor.
Maybe you could finally sleep here, you think, forehead butted up against the side table where the molding creases your brow. If you could only stop crying.
The creak of the door and then unjustifiably light footsteps. A creak and a suppressed groan as someone over a certain age drops to one knee.
“Hey, love,” the velvety rasp comes, flung fresh out of sleep and into concern. A large palm comes down on your bicep, squeezing and sweeping in turns. “Hey, it’s alright — come here, it’s alright.”
The other hand slips beneath your neck, helping to lift you to sitting. Fingers probe gently from temple to crown to nape lazily searching for injury. He must find none as he slips his thick forearms around your waist and pulls you snug into the convex of his torso.
“S’okay, baby, I’m here. You’re safe.”
He rocks you as best he can, the two of you half collapsed, sweeping his palms up and over your spine and shoulder blades.
“Another nightmare?”
You nod, snuffling into his dampening throat, his stubble scratching at your lips. He hums beneath you like a great exasperated bear, leaning his head more heavily against yours.
“Why didn’t you come find us, love?”
Your shoulders jerk in a sad charade of a shrug and he lets out a huff.
“You know you’re always welcome in our room — in our bed. You know that, yeah?”
You contract in on yourself, a half-aborted shrug, but he doesn’t quibble.
“Alright,” he murmurs, tightening his hold on you. “Let’s get back to bed before —“
“Greg?” It’s the voice of a little boy that never got the memo that he’d grown up. There’s a pair of bare feet in the sliver of light the door lets in, one resting sideways on top of the other. “Are you — are they — can you —“
“Yes, love,” he murmurs, the mirth half smothered but still warm. “We’re here — we’re coming to bed.”
“Mmmm okay, good,” Alex says, a not-so-little boy with his shuddering confidence. “Good. Yes. Crying, I heard —“ The last bit is almost a whine and it sends something rushing up into your throat.
“They’re alright, baby — I’ve got them. See?”
There’s no further warning for Greg lifting you into a bridal carry, swift and easy like a sack of potatoes. He turns to the door to present you to a very shadowy, very sleepy Alex.
“Mmmmmm,” Alex hums, running his fingers along your cheeks, swiping the tears away with sweet, clumsy strokes. “No more — that. We — hmm.” He interlocks his fingers between your toes like he’s taking your hand and begins to pull you and Greg back toward their bedroom. The sensation startles a giggle out of you and Alex gives a singular honk before muttering “no, not funny, too late in the — early.”
It’s only a handful of strides for Greg before you’re in their bedroom, Alex falling face first into the gargantuan mattress and patting the space next to him impatiently. Greg gingerly sets you down in the middle and Alex’s impossibly long arms immediately clamp themselves around your middle. You squeak as Greg hands you a glass of water, urging you to take a few sips before lying down. It isn’t easy, what with Alex boneless and unwilling to budge, but eventually Greg maneuvers you all under the duvet.
“C’mere,” he whispers, reaching out to deftly slide you (with Alex in tow) into his chest. His huge forearm lies across your middle, slotting in nicely beside Alex’s while his other hand strokes at your head again.
“You’re sure you’re alright? Are you dizzy?”
You shake your head, snuggling further so he has to tuck you under his chin. He lets out a husky chuckle, dropping a kiss to your temple.
“Wake me if that changes, kay? Gotta —“ a yawn fractures his sentence. “Check again in the morning.”
Alex hums at your back, curling around you to press his forehead into the top of your spine. He squeezes you further into himself only to find that because of Greg’s iron grip, he must instead come to you. One of his hands is half under your top, fingernails lightly scratching as if it were his own belly beneath them.
“Hmmmmluv you,” Alex vibrates more than says.
“Love you, my dears.” Greg murmurs. “Sweet dreams.”