Archive of Our Own

Trent is having a nightmare.

At least, Beard is pretty sure he’s having a nightmare.

He doesn’t know for certain, but— He’s pretty sure.

The thing is, Beard doesn’t sleep all that well. He mostly thinks he just doesn’t need that much sleep, which has been sort of a blessing in his life, if he’s being honest. More time to do what he wants to do.

It also means he wakes up at random times, already aware, feeling fairly well-rested, and tonight is one of those nights.

The bed he shares with Ted and Trent is warm, comfortable. At first, he nearly falls right back asleep; he’s still a bit drowsy, and he’s so comfortable, wrapped around Trent and held by Ted the way he is, sandwiched between them. It’s just about one of the best feelings there is, and he’s been discovering just how much he loves dissolving into it.

Then, though, it becomes clear why he woke up.

Ted is still fast asleep; he’s nearly like a backpack, clinging tight to Beard, holding close to him, arms around his chest and legs about his waist, clutching him close in his grasp as he sleeps, breathing evenly, deeply, calm and steady in his sleep, deep enough that he’s surpassed the snoring that Beard has long since gotten used to, coming from him. He is a reassuring weight, serene, untroubled, sleeping with his hands warm over Beard’s heart.

In front of him, though— something is wrong with Trent.

Usually, he’s a fairly calm sleeper. He doesn’t move around too much— not like Beard evidently does, often waking up tangled and halfway down the bed— but he will mumble, more often than not, talking in his sleep, sometimes nonsense and sometimes coherence, unable to stop his mouth from moving. If Beard had had to guess which of them would be the noisiest as they slept, he might’ve guessed Ted first, and himself second; the fact that Trent is the sleep-chattiest of them came to him as a welcome, funny sort of surprise.

Tonight, though, Trent isn’t just laying in his arms and talking about nothing while he sleeps.

Instead, Trent seems like he’s crying.

He’d been held tight in Beard’s arms while they slept, but Beard isn’t sleeping anymore. He’s quickly becoming aware that Trent is twitching, tears spilling hot down his cheeks, and he’s whimpering, and he’s shaking, and it takes Beard a long moment to realize why he woke up at all.

It’s because Trent is starting to tremble violently in his arms, damp with sweat and heart pounding and— and scared, he thinks. He sounds scared.

“No,” Trent mumbles, nearly-incoherent, before he’s repeating, “No, no, no— Don’t, please, don’t— don’t—”

He jerks in his arms, drawing Beard into full wakefulness. Ted keeps on sleeping behind him— but, then, Ted is a heavy sleeper, most of the time. Beard’s seen him sleep through alarm clocks, shouting, and— one time, memorably— an actual tornado siren going off outside. The only sounds that can jolt him awake, in Beard’s experience, are babies’ cries— usually Henry’s— and actual screaming.

Trent, too, keeps sleeping, though not half so peacefully as Ted.

“Please,” Trent repeats, over and over. “Please, please— please, don’t— please—”

Beard isn’t entirely sure what to do. He hasn’t been sharing a bed together with the two of them for that long, ultimately; he’s not sure what’s overstepping and what’s not, but—

—But Trent seems upset, and it’s hurting something deep in Beard’s chest to see and hear him this way.

He isn’t entirely sure what to do. He’s never encountered this before— not with Trent, anyway. He’s not sure if he’d want to be woken up, or to stay asleep; not sure if he wants to break out of the nightmare, or stay within it; not sure if he’d be embarrassed because of this, or grateful that Beard snapped him out of it.

Behind him, still sleeping, Ted continues to remain calm and blissfully unconscious.

In front of him, still sleeping, Trent starts to panic and rapidly hyperventilate.

Beard makes a judgment call and twists around to nudge at Ted, murmuring as quietly as he can, near his ear, “Hey. Hey. Ted. Wake up.”

At first, Ted keeps on sleeping; the more Beard pokes at him, though, he starts to wake up, brow furrowing and eyes squinting before he’s blinking at him, confused and creased and slipping towards consciousness.

“What?” Ted asks, though the word is more of a murmured smear than anything else.

Releasing Trent so he can turn more fully, Beard starts to tell him, “I think—”

The disappearance of Beard’s touch, though, seems to initiate something in Trent, even unconscious, triggering a full-body shake as his voice picks up, faster, harder, “Please, don’t— Don’t, please, please, please, please—”

Ted wakes up faster, hearing that; it usually takes him a few groggy minutes to push into wakefulness, but somewhere— around the time Henry was born, actually, Beard thinks— he started being able to jump from sleeping to awake in a heartbeat.

That’s what happens now, and Beard watches him jerk upright, holding himself propped up on one elbow, his other arm still held around Beard as he examines Trent on his other side.

Ted’s brow furrows, and he asks, “How long’s he been dreaming like that?”

“I don’t know,” Beard tells him. “A while. I woke up and he was already like this.”

He doesn’t need to be whispering as quiet as he is, he thinks; Trent’s voice is louder than either of theirs, right now. Trembling next to Beard, with panicked, desperate begging still continuously spilling from his lips, it looks like his sleep shirt— one of Beard’s own shirts, actually, filched so playfully last night, leaving Beard to sleep in just the pajama pants he still has on now, bare-chested otherwise— is clinging to his skin, darkened patches stuck to him with a cold sweat. His hair sticks to his face, too, clammy and overheated, and Beard can hear the way his breathing is going faster, faster, sucking in-and-out, in-and-out, in-and-out-and-in-and-out, more rapidly with every passing second.

“Shoot,” Ted mumbles, shifting to release Beard and push out of bed. He’s only wearing a pair of boxer-shorts, but he sleeps hot like a furnace. In his absence, Beard feels the cold rush in behind him, Ted’s warmth leaving with him; when he tracks him through the darkness, he can see him moving around the bed, stopping to crouch on Trent’s side.

“Should we wake him up?” Beard asks, still quiet. That’s what he used to do when it was Ted having bad dreams, even before they were together— just wake him up and hold him until he fell asleep again— but, then again, it’s been a long while since Ted’s had a bad nightmare like this.

“We gotta be careful,” Ted whispers. “He’s jumpy if you wake him up too fast while it’s still happening.”

So this isn’t new, so this is normal, so Trent has these terrifying sorts of nightmares with enough regularity that Ted knows some of what to do and what not to do. Beard watches the concern creasing Ted’s face as he looks Trent over, taking in his shaking and hyperventilating and panic; an instant later, he’s looking up at Beard again, and his expression looks as heartbroken as Beard is feeling right now.

Even if this isn’t entirely new to Ted, he still seems to realize how upsetting this is. It’s— To Beard, it’s even sort of strange, because Trent usually seems like he’s the least emotional of the three of them. Beard knows that he, personally, can come across as— stoic, or detached, or coolly composed, but inside feels like a riot at least half the time. Trent’s always seemed like he has himself together, like he’s collected himself, like he’s above most everything that might upset another person. He’s tough, but enthusiastic, and eager, and fairly easy-going; things just seem to roll off his back, never truly bothering him. The more he expresses himself to them, the more that notion of impenetrability has wriggled itself into Beard’s brain, shaping his understanding of the person Trent Crimm is.

This does not fit in quite so neatly.

When they first started doing this— when Ted first expressed to him that he wanted him this way, and that Trent did, too, and that they were hoping he’d want them in return like it wasn’t all Beard could think about wanting, most of the time— Ted had told Beard, “Sometimes Trent can get a little worked up,” and when Beard had pressed for elaboration, wanting to understand, he’d gotten, “Well— He’ll show you himself, I’m sure. He’s just got a little trouble inside,” and Beard had understood that, accepted it, replied, “Don’t we all,” and Ted had smiled a bit, and that had been that, at the time.

Beard wonders if this is a part of Trent’s trouble inside.

“I’m gonna go real slow and quiet,” Ted tells Beard. “Just— Be ready. He’s usually kind of upset afterwards.”

“Okay,” Beard replies. There’s nothing else to reply. It’s not like they can just go back to sleep, not like Beard could possibly just leave Trent like this— or leave Ted to deal with him alone. They’re doing this together, and that means all of this.

Hesitant, Ted reaches out, letting his hand find Trent’s shoulder. He’s curled up on himself, and he usually sleeps pretty balled-up, but this is a tight ball, hands pressed into his chest and legs drawn up and it looks almost painful, how much he’s compressed himself.

Ted runs his thumb over Trent’s cheek, soft and slow, and says, louder and more clearly, “Trent, honey?”

Nothing. Well— not nothing, because Trent’s still shaking, still sweating, still hyperventilating, still gasping out variants on, “No, please, don’t, please.” He doesn’t wake up, though.

“Trent,” Ted repeats, raising his volume a little further. He rattles Trent’s shoulder, just a bit, jostling him slightly. “Trent, sweetheart, it’s me. It’s us. You’re not alone, we’re here. C’mon, wake up, it’s okay. We gotcha, we—”

Trent jerks with a rough inhale, breaking off mid-plea, and Beard witnesses from behind the exact moment where Trent jolts into consciousness, his eyes flying open and releasing streaks of tears down his cheeks.

He skitters back from Ted’s hand, seeming barely awake. In the process, he bumps backwards into Beard, and he twists, bewildered, brow furrowed and eyes blinking in the darkness, wide and owlish. His breathing hasn’t slowed any; he’s twitching, now, and he doesn’t seem to understand where he is or what’s going on for a long moment.

Beard can’t help himself, telling him, “It’s okay. You’re okay, Trent,” and reaching out, slow and steady, to stroke his hair back from his face, as tender as he can be. Trent flinches; Beard’s hand pauses in the air, then withdraws, fingers curling in on themselves.

Exhaling roughly, Trent stares at him with devastated confusion. He’s reminding Beard of a wild animal, like he and Ted have trapped a deer in their bed that’s trying to figure out how to run away without getting hurt in the process. It’s so unlike Trent that Beard frowns, wishing that he could try reaching out again; instead, he holds himself back from stroking his hair or taking his hand or anything else that might startle him into flinching all over again.

To his surprise, Trent bursts right back into tears. His face crumples, and that’s all the warning Beard has before he’s starting to cry in earnest, shaking, pulling back into himself, repeating, “Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Ted says, lifting himself to sit on the edge of the bed. Trent looks from Beard to him with a snap of his head, dark eyes bloodshot and silvered with tears. “You were just having a bad dream. It wasn’t real.”

Trent stares at him for a long moment before he asks, “Ted?”

“Yeah, honey, I’m right here,” Ted assures him. He reaches out, fingers lightly tracing the back of Trent’s hand. When he doesn’t pull away or flinch, this time, Ted takes his hand in his, interlocking their fingers, squeezing; Beard watches, unsure if he should do the same. “It was all just a dream. You’re awake now, alright? Nothing’s gonna hurt you here.”

For a long moment, Trent just keeps on staring at him. He’s still crying, chest hitching, tears pouring down his cheeks as his breath catches on every too-fast inhale-exhale. It takes a while before he turns to look at Beard, too, unable to stop shaking.

“I’m here,” Beard promises him. “You’re okay.” Trent’s free hand is clutched to his chest, twisted in his borrowed sweat-soaked shirt; his bare legs are pressed up towards his body, tangling himself up. Beard doesn’t have many other options except to reach out and settle his warm hand in the center of Trent’s back, and—

God, he can feel the way Trent’s heart is pounding. It’s rabbiting inside him, far too fast, thundering to push his pulse rapid-fire through his veins. But— At least he doesn’t flinch away, this time.

“Hey, man, it’s okay,” Beard repeats, rubbing a circle into his back, hoping it’ll help soothe him. “Whatever it was— it was just a bad dream. You’re okay now.”

Trent nods his head in a jerk, dropping his eyes away from both of them. His breathing doesn’t slow any, nor do his tears; he’s just staring into the middle distance now, and Beard wonders what he’s seeing, or imagining, or remembering. Whatever it is doesn’t look so good.

“I’m sorry,” Trent repeats, detached, distant, still too fast. “I’m j— I’m so sorry, I didn’t—” He makes a heartbreaking and heartbroken sort of noise, a sound that’s cut-off and choked before he gasps out, “Please, just— Don’t go, please, don’t— Don’t leave—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Ted stops him, folding one bent leg under himself on the edge of their big, soft bed. “Neither of us is leaving you, I can promise you that.” He evaluates Trent for a beat before he asks, “Is it alright if I hug you?”

Trent’s eyes finally move again, darting to meet Ted’s. He studies him for a bewildered second before he tells him, “You don’t want to touch me.”

It’s half-statement, half-question. Ted visibly fights back a frown, giving Trent a warm kind of almost-smile instead.

“Of course, I wanna touch you,” Ted insists. “I just love touching you. You give some of the best hugs I’ve ever gotten, you know that? And that’s the truth, I swear.”

Trent huffs, but he doesn’t argue against him. After a long moment, he allows, “Alright,” and Ted moves in closer, climbing all the way up back into bed, pulling Trent into his arms.

This has an unexpected effect in that Trent seems to start crying harder, but— Beard wonders if it’s sort of like cleaning out a wound, if it has to hurt a little more before it can start healing up and getting better.

Ted just shushes him, quiet and calm, rubbing his back with one hand as the other reaches up to stroke through his hair. He makes eye contact with Beard over his shoulder; he doesn’t need to say or do anything to beckon him closer. They’ve gotten excellent at communicating in silence over the years.

Beard just murmurs, “Hey, I’m right behind you,” to give Trent fair warning before he’s wrapping himself around him, hugging him tight, sandwiching Trent between himself and Ted.

It’s like he dissolves into their arms, shuddering like a leaf in the wind, just barely hanging on. Beard holds him tight from behind, feeling his heartbeat thunder through his back. He buries his face at the nape of Trent’s neck and clings to him. In front, Ted holds him just as tight, hand now stroking near his other shoulder, the other still wrapped in his hair, shushing him, speaking softly to him, promising him that they’re here, and that he’s alright, and that nobody is going anywhere.

In the darkness, turned away from the digital clock on the nightstand, it’s impossible to tell how much time passes before Trent starts to slow down, but it takes much longer than Beard is expecting. More than a few minutes go by before his tears begin to quiet.

Though he’s unable to see Trent’s face, Beard reaches up and uses muscle-memory to find Trent’s cheeks, sweeping the tears away. More follow, still, but he just keeps doing it, tears dripping down his wrist as he shushes him, too, and tells him, “You’re okay,” when Ted’s voice cracks from repetition.

It takes a little while longer still before Trent’s tears stop altogether. He’s still trembling, but his heartbeat is slowing, and he’s not shaking quite so violently anymore.

“That’s it,” Ted coaxes him. He withdraws just enough to kiss Trent on the cheek before he asks him, “You want something to drink? Something hot?”

Trent hesitates before he says, “I d— I’ve taken up enough of your time, you should both get back to sleep, I’m so sorry—”

“Hey, now,” Ted stops him. “Now, how am I gonna get a wink of sleep knowing you’re laying over here without any of your dirty leaf juice, hm?”

A huff of a wet laugh slips from Trent. “You’ll sleep fine.”

“Agree to disagree.” Ted kisses his cheek again, tells him, “I wanna make it. Beard likes it, too, don’t you?”

“Yeah, please,” Beard agrees. He would’ve agreed to drink something out of the garbage disposal if it meant Trent would accept them taking care of him right now.

Trent hesitates for a beat longer before he allows, “Alright.”

“Alright, then, I’ll be right back,” Ted promises him, squeezing him one last time before he’s standing. “Don’t y’all go too far, now. I don’t wanna be a Lennon-McCartney hit and go across the universe trying to find the two of you.”

“Stretch,” Beard accuses him, and Ted laughs.

“See you soon,” Ted says, leaving the room just as he is, striding on out in nothing but his boxer-shorts. Beard wonders what he’d do when it was just the two of them— if Trent would go with him, if he was comfortable leaving him alone— 

—But, it’s not just the two of them, not anymore. It’s the three of them; Ted can leave and trust that Trent won’t be all by himself while he’s gone. They can work together in this.

And, for a moment, it is just Beard and Trent, alone and in silence together. There’s a second where Beard isn’t sure what to do, daunted by being put in charge of the situation in here— and then he remembers this is Trent, and he knows Trent. This isn’t some stranger he has to comfort. He knows him; he loves him.

“Hey,” Beard says, and Trent shifts in his arms, tipping his head. “Wanna take a quick shower? See if we can beat him?”

Even from behind, Beard can see the slight curve of Trent’s smile, the way his features shift with it. “Is it a race, then?”

“It is if we beat him,” Beard replies. “If we don’t, then it was never a race at all. He doesn’t need to know he won.”

Trent considers this for a moment before he apparently decides a shower is preferable to laying back down in his sweat-damp t-shirt and underwear. He acquiesces with a quiet, “If that’s alright,” and Beard kisses his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t have suggested it if it weren’t,” he tells him.

He doesn’t release Trent all the way to leave bed. He does disentangle them from their tight hold, but he keeps his hand on Trent’s arm, gliding down to take his hand and tug him upwards with him, the two of them stumbling to their feet together, still sleep-stiff compared to Ted.

“C’mon,” Beard says with a tug at his hand, drawing him into the master bath off their bedroom. Trent goes easily, allowing Beard to pull him along as he goes to the shower and turns the hot water on one-handed, keeping the fingers of his other hand interlocked with Trent’s the entire time. Once Beard tests the water and finds it starting to blaze with heat, just how Trent likes it, and the bathroom is starting to fill with steam, he walks them backwards and pulls Trent’s shirt up and off over his head, tossing it into the laundry basket in the corner.

“I’m sorry about your shirt,” Trent apologizes. He looks so vulnerable like this, especially as Trent kneels to tug his underwear down, too, tossing the thin, soft shred of purple fabric into the laundry, as well.

“I sweat in everything I own,” Beard replies. “Don’t worry about it.” He pauses, then tugs off his own pajama pants, leaving him just as naked as Trent. “Hey. Now we match.”

Trent snorts a tiny little laugh of a sound. “It’s not quite the same.”

“Nah.” Beard brushes a thumb over Trent’s hip. “Close enough, though.”

“Close enough,” Trent echoes, allowing Beard to draw him towards the shower and into it.

They’ve showered together before, but this feels like a different kind of intimacy, a deeper one that they haven’t yet explored with one another. This isn’t just showering together because they have a time crunch in the morning and need to share, or showering together because they want to get their hands on one another while they’re wet and slippery and Trent ends up on his knees in front of him, pressed into the no-slip bath-mat underneath them. This is showering together to take actual, proper care of each other, and Beard likes the way it feels, even if he regrets the necessity of it.

“Tilt,” Beard instructs him, and Trent does as told, shifting under the hot spray and tilting his head into the stream. Sweat washes away, the water sluicing down through his hair, over his face, cascading over his shoulders and down his back. He shines in the wet heat, and Beard presses a kiss to the bony curve of one shoulder before reaching for Trent’s shampoo.

He’s joined him often enough in the mornings— and watched him even more, and listened to him discuss his routines in relative depth— to know what he’s doing. He knows the pattern of shampoo and conditioner that he uses; he knows the soap he likes best; he knows what to wash his face with.

He knows to run his fingers through Trent’s hair, soft and gentle, to work out the tangles while he’s still soaking wet.

He doesn’t know what to do when tears start to fall again, silent this time, while he’s rinsing the last of the conditioner and soap from Trent’s hair and body.

“Hey,” Beard murmurs, and Trent shakes his head. “Yeah, okay.”

The final bubbles wash away. Beard takes Trent into his arms. He smells warm, now, and citrusy, and sweet; he melts against Beard’s chest, tucking his face into his throat, and Beard holds him under the water, letting him cry out whatever he needs to cry out.

After a couple minutes of this, Trent mumbles, “I love you,” into Beard’s wet skin.

Beard shifts just enough to kiss his temple, slick from the spray. “Love you more.”

Trent huffs again. His grip on Beard tightens for a long beat before he withdraws; he turns his face into the water, washing away the remnants of the tears, cleansing himself of evidence before he twists to turn the knob and end the shower himself.

When the water is stopped, they can both easily hear whistling in their adjoining bedroom. Their eyes meet, Trent’s brow furrowing slightly.

“Not a race, then,” Beard says, and Trent’s expression eases into a small smile instead. “C’mon. Before you start to get cold.”

He coaxes Trent from the shower, scrubs him down himself with a towel before he pats himself dry with the same one. Snagging Trent’s comb on the way back to their bedroom, he heads straight for one of their dressers; the top row is Trent’s, and he digs through it before coming up with a new pair of underwear for him. From another drawer, he withdraws another of his own t-shirts, old and worn and reading SOCCER beneath an image of an American football; he tugs open yet another drawer to pull out a pair of Ted’s joggers, soft and short.

While Beard works at the dresser, Trent watches Ted as he tucks a new sheet around the edge of their mattress. The covers he’s just stripped off the bed are in a heap in the corner, waiting to be washed; the new ones he’s put on are clean, soft, and Trent is staring at him with a blush on his cheeks, naked in the middle of their room.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, apparently unable to stop apologizing. It’s really not like him; he’s not much of an apologizer, in Beard’s experiences with him, unless he truly believes he’s done something genuinely wrong. Even then, he’s one-and-done, rather than repeating his apologies over and over.

“I’ve been putting this off way too long, anyways,” Ted tells him, throwing blankets back over the massive expanse of their bed. “There we go. Shave my head and call me Mr. Clean, why don’t you?”

“Don’t,” Beard says, and Trent smiles again. “Here.”

Trent accepts the clothes passed to him. For a moment, he just stands there; then, he says, “You don’t have to—”

“They’re yours,” Beard stops him, before he can get started. “I’ll help.”

He takes a knee, withdrawing the slip of Trent’s new rosy-pink underwear from his hands and tapping his ankle until he lifts his foot and steps into it, first one and then the other.

Ted joins them after a moment, helping pull Trent’s borrowed t-shirt over his head, down his arms, over his chest, past his stomach. At his feet, Beard helps him into stepping into the short shorts, pulling them up until he and Ted meet in Trent’s middle.

“You want something?” Ted asks Beard. He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s turning, digging through their drawers before he turns up with a pair of his own sweatpants and one of Trent’s t-shirts. The Golden Girls look back out at him, faded into the fabric, and Beard smiles a little as he tugs his new clothes on. “And I got your terrible dirt water right over here.”

Ted coaxes Trent back into bed, fitting him in the middle this time. Beard takes up both of the steaming mugs as he goes, climbing in right beside them, Trent sandwiched between himself and Ted. He can tell which mug is Trent’s, even in the darkness; his own is stronger, and Trent’s is more like sugared milk with a splash of tea, and he hands over his hot drink once he’s sure he’s tucked-in and stable and steady.

For a few minutes, that’s all there is: the three of them, tucked up under their covers once more, and Trent and Beard quietly drinking from their mugs, and Ted leaning against their pillows and their new pillowcases, observing them in quiet.

Then, once Trent’s about halfway through his tea, Ted asks, “You wanna talk about it?”

Trent looks down into his mug. He’s silent for long enough that Beard’s starting to think he’s not going to speak at all; it’s almost a surprise when Trent tells them, “It’s silly. It was just a bad dream.”

“Seemed like it was bothering you pretty bad,” Ted comments, halfway between casual and concerned. “You don’t gotta talk about it if you don’t wanna, I won’t make you. But sometimes it helps to let it out when we get all shaken up. Can of Coke style.”

Beard huffs a laugh he can’t hold back, and watches Trent smile in the direction of his mug. It’s only a flicker, there-and-gone, but— still, it’s something.

“Whatever you want,” Beard adds. “No pressure. Except the Coke can.”

Trent stays quiet for another few moments.

Then, he says, “I don’t remember much,” and Ted meets Beard’s eyes just past Trent, another silent communication passing between them. “Just— I was—” He exhales, and it’s shuddering again, a soft breaking in his words.

In tandem, Ted and Beard put a hand each on his shoulders. Trent flickers another smile; it broadens a bit when Ted and Beard say, “Jinx,” at the same time.

“I love you,” Trent says, voice low. He has this grit to his voice when he talks like this that Beard, in all honesty, cannot get enough of.

“I love you, too,” Beard tells him, a beat before Ted echoes, “Love you, too, sweetheart.” He rubs Trent’s back, adds, “That’s why we don’t want you to be hurting.”

Beard can’t help but juxtapose this entire thing with his relationship with Jane. She wasn’t the comforting kind; a fair few of the bad dreams he had while he was with her were because of her. When he woke up from them, he didn’t want her to be the one comforting him, since she was the one causing it— and he didn’t get it anyway, and he wouldn’t have even if he did want it.

At first, he’d just thought they weren’t entirely right for each other. It took time— and some help, and a fuckton of love and encouragement from Ted and Trent both, as well as work with his lovely new therapist— to process that she was actively bad for him, that having fun some of the time didn’t make up for the way she was abusing him the rest of the time. Sometimes even during the fun times, even, until it was all just a— a tangled mess that made him dread and fear even being near her, by the end.

Never would they have had anything like this, and he probably shouldn’t compare, but— He will anyway, because this is just so much better. He’s safe here, and actually loved, and he knows that, if he— or Trent, or Ted— wakes up from a nightmare, they have each other. They’ll comfort each other. They’ll protect each other. They mean something to one another.

They can be vulnerable here, together. They’re safe in that, safe with each other, safe together. It felt like Jane wanted him to hurt, and— here, Ted’s right; they don’t want each other to be hurting.

Beard can’t help but shift a little closer to Trent and Ted, thinking about that.

The scars ache, but— he’s not bleeding anymore. And he likes his bandages a whole lot.

“It’s ridiculous,” Trent tells them, like it’s a warning. “It was just— It was nonsense, really. I was just—” He hesitates, then says, “I felt so small. And you were both—” He frowns, staring down into his mug. “It wasn’t real.”

“Nah, it wasn’t,” Ted agrees. “Sure wasn’t really me. Willis?”

“Nope,” Beard echoes. “I was out here.”

“Yup, so was I. So, wasn’t really us,” Ted tells Trent. “Just made-up brain-us.”

Trent nods. He pauses for a long moment before he says, “I know you’d never hurt me,” and the words make goosebumps break out all over Beard’s skin, even underneath his new pajamas and the covers. All at once, he’s wondering why Trent might dream of that, what fears he harbors, what memories linger, what lives inside of him that makes him think the people who say they love him might want to hurt him. “And I know… I know you love me.”

“Good,” Beard says. “I do love you. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“We love you, we’d never hurt you on purpose, honey,” Ted assures Trent. “I promise you. And if we ever did, we’d make it right right quick.”

Trent nods again, a jerky sort of movement.

It takes another few beats before he adds, “Just…” He exhales, shaky, and says, “It’s unfair of me to ask you not to leave me. For one thing, I sound like a child— and, you know, for another, that’s not a fair promise. I could do something awful, or you could stop loving me, or— I don’t know. You might have to leave me someday.”

“I’ve certainly got no plans to,” Ted tells him. Beard knows Ted, knows his voice, knows him all the way through, and he can hear the tremor under his words. “I got absolutely no intentions of leaving you. And I definitely am never gonna raise a hand to you, not ever, no matter what. Neither of us will, I promise you. And I— Well, I like being with you, darling. I love you. Both of us love you.”

“But you might not,” Trent continues, and the words start to spill out. “I might do something horrible, and you’d be right to leave me, and I just— I don’t want to do anything bad like that, I really don’t. I try so hard not to. I can’t ask you to promise me not to leave, because you might have to leave, you might have to go h—”

He stops, like he’s slammed into a verbal wall, and exhales a long, shuddering breath. Beard can hear the words he isn’t saying practically as clearly as the words he is.

“Hey,” Beard says, and Trent’s head tilts in his direction, though he doesn’t look up at him. Ted’s eyes meet Beard’s, though, even if Trent’s don’t, and he tells them both, “This is home.”

Trent pulls his lower lip into his mouth; Beard can see him bite at it for a hard moment before his eyes close and a couple of tears slip down his cheeks, falling from his chin. They just barely miss dripping into his tea.

“This is my home,” Beard repeats, firmer this time. “Right here. If I’m going anywhere, you’re coming with me. Both of you.”

Trent’s eyes stay closed; tears continue to slip down. “I know that— I know that I’m—” He sucks in a breath, wet and rough, and tells them, “You have so much outside of me.”

“And we got even more inside of you,” Ted says, and Trent huffs. Beard can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a scoff; he thinks it might be somewhere in between. “Inside of this, I mean. I got no plans of leaving any of this. This is just about the most goddamned happy I’ve ever been, and I mean that. I am not leaving you. Not either of you. If we go anywhere, we’re going together.”

“That’s not fair of me to ask,” Trent says, voice low, back into a whisper. “It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is you having all these sad dreams about things that are never gonna happen,” Ted tells him. “We got no plans to hurt you, or leave you, or do anything but love you for— I’m thinking forever. What’re you thinking, Willis?”

“Yeah, you read my mind,” Beard agrees. “I was thinking forever, too.” He shrugs, knocking Trent’s shoulder with his own. “If you want.”

Trent’s expression flickers again. He seems to be wrestling with something internally before he tells them, “I just don’t want this to end. I don’t— I don’t want to ruin this. And I don’t want you to go.”

Beard reaches out, taking the mug of tea from Trent’s hands without a word. Trent’s confused expression is visible in his peripheral as he puts both his and Trent’s mugs aside on the nightstand beside his— current— side of the bed, but it’s only so there’s nothing that can spill when Beard turns back to him and tugs him into his arms.

“I don’t want to go,” Beard tells him, letting him feel the words rumble up from his chest, starting beside his heart and moving from his insides to Trent’s, to Ted’s. “I want to be here. I’m safe here. And happy.” He kisses Trent’s shoulder, adds, “I love you. I mean that.”

“Can I just say ditto?” Ted asks, shuffling in on Trent’s other side to wrap his arms around them. His fingertips brush Beard’s arms; they fold in closer, a pretzel of limbs, tangling up until they’re all holding each other. “‘Cause, ditto. This is my happy place, right here. I am not leaving this behind, and I’m not leaving either of you behind. Anywhere I go, you go, and anywhere you go, I go.”

“I trust you,” Beard tells them.

Trent nods; his damp hair brushes along Beard’s face, and Beard inhales, taking in lungfuls of his scent, his warmth, him.

“I trust you both,” Trent promises them. “I do, I— I just—” He hesitates before confessing, “I don’t trust me.”

“Well,” Ted tells him, “I do. We do—”

“Yup,” Beard adds.

“Yup, see?” Ted kisses Trent’s cheek, and Trent smiles again. “We trust you, and you trust us, and— Well, that just makes a whole bunch of trust, doesn’t it? So, we’ll be just fine.”

Trent exhales, tells them, “I’m so sorry. I know— I know you love me. I trust you. I’m just— I’m being ridiculous.”

“You can’t control your dreams,” Ted tells him.

“If you want to try,” Beard suggests, “we can work on that.”

“Oh, you did do that lucid dreaming kick for a while, didn’t you?” Ted asks.

“Sure did,” Beard replies. “Doesn’t work every time, but it’s fun when it does.”

Trent clings tighter to them, tells them, “God, I love you both so much.”

“Love you,” Ted and Beard say nearly perfectly in sync, and Trent laughs again, wet and sharp, as he’s burrowing in deeper between them.

They stay there for a long moment before Beard murmurs, “C’mere,” and coaxes Trent around into his lap. He takes up the comb he set on the bedside table, runs his fingers along Trent’s damp hair, then starts to comb through it so he can braid it back for him before he goes back to sleep.

In front of him, Ted plays with Trent’s fingers, tells him, “I’m sorry your head’s making mischief on you like that. I can promise you, though, we ain’t going anywhere. And that’s a promise.”

“Pinky-swear,” Beard adds, and Ted hooks Trent’s pinky with his own.

“Thank you,” Trent replies. “And— I mean, for all of this, just— thank you. I know it was just a nightmare, but—”

“They can hurt real bad, too. Bad enough to feel real,” Ted says. “And don’t I know it.”

“Heads are messy places,” Beard agrees, starting to plait Trent’s combed, thick hair into a loose, neat braid. “Never be afraid to tell us what’s going on in yours.”

“We’ll do the same thing with you,” Ted tells him.

“Okay,” Trent says. He takes a deep breath, then repeats, “Okay. Thank you.”

“No need,” Beard tells him.

“We love you, darling,” Ted tells him. “I just— Y’know, I just love both of you so gosh-darned much, I could pop.”

“Well, don’t do that,” Beard says, and Trent laughs between them. “We’re not surgeons.”

“I bet you could pull it off,” Ted insists. “Couple of geniuses, right here, hanging out in my bed with me.”

“Mm.” Beard kisses Trent’s shoulder, eyes meeting Ted’s in the darkness.

Trent relaxes in Beard’s arms, between the two of them. He braids his hair until he reaches the end; he tugs an elastic off their bedside table to tie it off before they maneuver Trent between them, laying back down, ensconced between the covers together, warm and comfortable and safe.

On Trent’s right, Beard wraps himself around him, Trent’s back to his chest, his arms wound tight about him, hand placed over his heart. In front of him, Ted faces Trent, holding him just as close; they’re a knot, together, inextricable, hands interlocking and arms brushing together and legs weaving into one another’s until they can’t be separated.

“If you have another bad dream,” Ted murmurs into Trent’s hair, “we’ll be right here.”

“Even if you don’t,” Beard adds. “We’ll still be here.”

“Good,” Trent says, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Good.” After a beat, he adds on another, “I love you,” and Ted and Beard echo the sentiment in kind, and, once Trent’s already asleep and Ted’s snoring in both of their faces, Beard falls asleep again just like that, woven into them, feeling lungs breathing and hearts beating and hands stroking, comfortable and safe and warm and trusting and loved, and loved, and loved.