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Ryland woke up with a twist in his gut. He sat up in bed, rubbing his knuckles against his racing heart. Something was wrong but what?
The last time he felt this wrong was when he and Colt were seventeen and Colt broke his arm during PE class. Apparently, playing football with the big, burly football guys was fun until one of the defensive linemen slams into you with the force of a freight train. The force was enough to send Colt back a few feet and land on his arm with all his weight and the football player's.
Ryland was in his biology class at the time and felt a jolt in his heart. For a moment, he was scared he somehow breathed wrong and was having a very premature heart attack. But the panic only intensified when all his brain could think was Colt Colt Colt.
He discreetly sent a text and didn't receive an answer, let alone a read receipt. He raised his hand to excuse himself for the restroom and bolted out of the room and down to the football field, which was a good five minute walk he turned into a two minute run. The sight he arrived to see was exactly as he feared.
Colt was sitting on the turf clutching his arm with a grimace. The defensive lineman who tackled him was apologetic, especially when the coach was laying into him about the no-tackle rule outside of practice and games. Ryland rushed to his brother, out of breath.
"'Scuse me," he panted. He pushed through the tiny crowd. "Move!"
He kneeled in front of Colt, trying to assess the damage but he couldn't see with Colt's hand in the way. The crowd thankfully started to disappear now that Ryland was there.
"Colt, can you move your hand? I need to look at it," he said.
Colt exhaled deeply before nodding, removing his hand. Outside, nothing looked wrong, but Ryland knew Colt wouldn't fake an injury like that. And his body wouldn't have had such a visceral reaction unless something was totally wrong.
"Where does it hurt the most?"
"Shit, everywhere—"
"Language," another coach chided. The twins sent him a glare.
Ryland focused on his arm. He raised his hand and very carefully poked near his shoulder. Not too much of a reaction. He continuously moved down until Colt let out a yelp and flinched back. Ryland's heart hurt seeing his brother in such pain.
"Yeah, think you might've broken your arm," Ryland said.
"No shit!" Colt bit out.
"Language!"
Again, the twins glared. But Colt was taking exaggerated breaths and was on the cusp on losing it. Ryland offered his hand, which Colt took and squeezed until he thought his fingers were gonna break.
"You'll be alright," Ryland said with a nod. "Think of all the cool signatures you'll get on your cast."
"You think Candy will sign it once she finds out how I broke it?"
"For sure. Maybe she'll even draw a little heart and a winky face."
Colt sighed, clearly trying his best not to cry even though Ryland could almost feel the pain he was going through. Some telepathy they had. "Dammit, we won't be able to swap places for the chem exam…"
"I'm gonna pretend like I didn't hear that," another coach said.
Ryland rolled his eyes, though he smiled and squeezed Colt's hand back.
Now, Ryland and Colt were thirty-three and something happened that woke him up from a deep sleep.
Ryland turned to look at his clock with a squint. Four twenty-two. He was supposed to be up in two hours to get ready for work but he would just call in for a family emergency. His heart couldn't slow down. He leaned over and fetched his cell phone from the nightstand. He tapped the screen, cringing at the sudden light. He turned on his lamp to compensate.
Ryland found Colt's contact and pressed call. He put it on speaker. Each ring that passed without an abrupt ending made his stomach churn.
"Your call has been forwarded—"
Ryland tried again, trying his hardest to not throw up even though his stomach wanted something to come back up.
"Your call has been forwarded—"
"C'mon, Colt."
Ring. Ring.
"Your call—"
Ryland let his cell phone fall onto the mattress. He buried his fingers in his hair, rocking himself back and forth. Colt's probably fine. He's probably sleeping.
His blood ran cold when a thought crossed his mind. Maybe he was having feelings about the wrong brother. Ryland looked at his bedside drawer where he kept a burner phone.
Courtland laid a small, sleek phone in the twins' outstretched hands. "If you ever need to reach me, call the number on these phones. They're already paid for."
Colt turned the device over in his hand. "Seriously? This is the only way we'll be able to talk to you?"
"It's either this or nothing."
"We can't even call to just… call?" Ryland said disappointedly.
"I don't like it either, but it's the best we can do until we figure something else out."
"Figure nothing out…" Colt muttered, turning his head away.
Courtland sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm just—"
"Trying to keep us safe. We know," Ryland finished for him. He leaned forward to hug Courtland. "Can't you say no?"
"This is the only way I can ensure your safety." Courtlan returned the embrace, running his hand over Ryland's hair. Ryland felt him drag Colt into the hug, though he could feel Colt sulking. "I love you both."
"Love you too…" Colt grumbled.
Courtland's line of work was… not the best. He took lives under orders from the government. It was a tough subject for Ryland because even though he knew the government couldn't be trusted, he never thought his brother would be doing their dirty work for them. Working from the shadows. Unable to see the twins unless given special permission to. In return, the government promised Courtland that the twins would live normal lives. They would go to school, college, join the workforce like any other people.
It was an opportunity Courtland refused to let fall down the drain for them.
But where did that leave Court? Alone, covered in blood with the weight of a pistol in his hand.
Ryland opened the drawer. This was an emergency, right? He could call and check on his brother for his own selfish reasons. He hadn't spoken with Court in… gosh, was it a few weeks already? He took the burner phone and flipped it open. He used the d-pad to hover over the only saved phone number. He hesitated.
What if he was wrong? What if he called and it was the worst time for Court? Worse, what if Court doesn't pick up?
He pressed the number and raised the phone to his ear.
It didn't ring twice before he picked up.
"Ry? What's wrong?" Courtland asked worriedly. Alayws so worried about the twins instead of himself.
Ryland's tongue darted out to wet his lips. His pulse raced in his ears. So many words, too slow of a mouth to spew them.
"Ryland? Answer me!"
He jolted. "S-sorry."
"Is everything okay? Are you hurt? Where are you?"
"I-I'm okay. I'm fine, I just… I woke up. It's the middle of the night."
Courtland was quiet for a second. Ryland could hear him taking deep, even breaths on the other line.
"You called me to tell me you woke up?"
"No—I mean, yeah—but I woke up because I have a really bad feeling. Something's wrong and I tried calling Colt but he didn't answer and then I tried you because I knew maybe you'd answer but I didn't know if you were hurt—"
"Hey hey hey, slow down. Take a deep breath. You're winding yourself into a panic. Breathe, Ry. Like this."
He heard his brother take exaggerated breaths. Ryland followed his example, though his gut twisted painfully again. He hissed.
"You're not hurt, are you?" Ryland asked with barely masked fear.
"No. I'm okay."
"Don't lie to me, Court, please."
"I promise you, Ry. I'm okay. I'm in a safehouse right now."
Ryland exhaled, his entire body thrumming with alarm. "I can't get ahold of Colt. Something's wrong, Court, I-I can feel it."
"What're you feeling?" Courtland questioned. Ryland could hear shuffling on the other end.
"Just… like there's a weight on my chest. Like I can't…. can't breathe. Stomach's twisted like a roller coaster ride."
"And it just came out of the blue?"
"Yeah."
"Are you able to get to his place?"
"Y-yeah, I think so."
"Okay, listen to me. When you get to Colt's place, check to see if it looks like someone broke in. Broken windows, doors, anything. If so, I want you to call the cops and tell them that you were going to wake Colt up for an early morning run. If not, then go check on him. Can you do that?"
Ryland nodded before smacking himself upside the head. "Got it."
"Be careful, Ry. Call me when you get there."
"I will."
Courtland hung up, and Ryland was out of bed in a minute. He was hopping on one foot to slip into a pair of socks. He slid into his converse and grabbed his keys from the trinket dish beside the door. He opened the door and ran down the hall of his apartment building. He'd never descended the stairs from the fourth floor as fast as he did that morning. Ryland was in his car and peeling out of the parking lot just after four fifty.
The drive to Colt's apartment building was silent. Tense. He gripped the steering wheel and stomped the gas. He went around ten above the posted speed limit but thankfully didn't run into any lingering cops. He didn't know how he didn't get pulled over because cops loved to sit on the street connecting their apartment buildings.
Ryland made it in record time, just about ten minutes. He spotted Colt's truck and parked in the empty spot beside it. Ryland didn't waste any time. He jumped out of his car, barely remembering to lock it before rushing up the stairs to the second floor. He stopped in front of the door with the golden numbers 231. He assessed the heavy door.
The handle was still intact. No wooden splinters or anything on the outside. He tried the handle. Locked. Ryland huffed with relief. No signs of a break-in so far, but he couldn't rule it out just yet. Ryland fumbled for the burner phone in his pocket, dialing the number again. Courtland picked up almost immediately.
"How's it looking?"
"Doors not broken in. About to use the spare key."
"Alright."
Ryland took his keyring and found the silver key Colt had gifted him when he got the apartment. He shakily put it into the lock and let himself in, kicking off his shoes on the entryway mat to the left. Colt was always talking about people tracking in unnecessary amounts of mud or dirt. Ryland carefully padded into the kitchen-living room area. Ryland made sure to lock the door behind him.
He studied the room. Nothing seemed out of place. The throw blanket on the back of the couch was still there, same as the pillows on the couch. None of the windows were open. He still checked them anyway, finding that they were locked.
"Ry?" Court's faint voice sounded.
Ryland put the phone to his ear. "No break-in. Everything looks fine. Going to check on him now."
"Keep me on the line."
Ryland started towards Colt's bedroom door, finding it cracked. A habit the both of them had from their childhood. Living under the supervision of the CIA, they thought the twins would want their own spaces. In a way, yes, Ryland liked having his own bookshelves and closet space and such, but there was that little part of him that missed sharing a room with Colt. He never had a door between his brother, separating them. They never liked to be separated.
He pushed the door open further. He stepped inside.
Colt was in bed. The comforter was pulled off of three of the corners, some parts of it pooling at Colt's feet. Colt's breathing echoed in the room—ragged and raspy. Ryland could see monlight reflecting off his sweat-soaked forehead. The wheezing breaths… it almost sounded like he was dying. Ryland quickly crouched at Colt's bedside, the twist in his gut loosening a bit now that he was there in person with him.
Ryland felt his forehead. Hot, feverish. He moved his foot only to bump into something. He glanced down to see an empty glass, though there were still droplets of water in it. Colt's hand was limp on the edge of the mattress. He'd tried to reach for it. Ryland tapped his brother's cheek.
"Hey, Colt. It's me. Wake up. Colt!"
Colt grumbled a little, moving his head to the side. Ryland lifted the phone to his ear again just in time to hear Courtland's horrified tone.
"—going on, Ry? Talk to me! What's happening?"
"I think he's sick, Court. I'm trying to wake him up. Colt!"
He slapped Colt's arm. He didn't stir. He slapped his cheek. That got his eyes to open. Colt's gaze was lost, bleary. His eyes were glossy. Every visible pore on his skin was sweating. He tried to sit up only to fall back onto his pillows. Colt blinked.
"Ryl…?" he slurred. God, did he sound awful. Stuffy and hoarse.
"Yeah, hey. It's me," Ryland said softly.
"What're you doin' here?"
"I had a bad feeling. I had to come see you. Good thing I did. You look terrible."
Coughs, heavy and wet, shook Colt's body. He continued to have a fit, and Ryland's heart broke even more. Colt hadn't been sick in a long time, but Ryland remembered what happened the last time he got sick. He'd been bedridden for four days. He coughed well into the night, keeping Ryland up, but it was his fault for trying to sleep in Colt's room to keep an eye on him. Colt had sniffled and cried in frustration because he couldn't sleep.
"I-I'll be right back. Just, here—" Ryland reached and helped his brother sit up to lean against the headboard, still coughing "—I'll be right back."
He quickly rushed into the kitchen. "Court, he's definitely sick. Can't tell what right now, but it looks like a really bad cold or flu."
"Okay. I'll pick up some stuff on the way there. I won't get there for a few hours, so just make sure he doesn't throw up on himself. Try to bring his temp down."
"Got it."
"I'll be there soon."
Ryland hung up and pocketed the phone. He made a cup of water, cringing at the sounds of Colt hacking in the bedroom. He grabbed a few NyQuil and returned to the room just as Colt's coughing subsided. Colt leaned against the pillows with a heavy sigh, humming.
"Here, you think you can take these?" Ryland asked as he offered the pills.
Colt looked at them as if they personally offended him. "Fuck that…"
"Colt. It'll help."
"I'll be f'n."
"You actively look like you're melting into a puddle. Don't tell me this is something where your body can just 'take it' because this isn't. Take the damn pills."
He practically shoved the cup into Colt's face, mustering up the best stern glare. Perks of being a teacher. Colt huffed, but he tentatively took the glass and pills with shaky hands. Ryland watched him swallow the pills, slightly worried that Colt would choke somehow. Ryland always hated being sick. He hated how his throat was feel like it was swollen or how his airways were blocked by a mix of mucus and post-nasal drip that only seemed to make him feel even more miserable. He could tell Colt was feeling the same, though he hid it below a layer of humor.
He spread his arms like he was saying see, I'm fine, and set the glass on his nightstand. "Wha… time is it?"
Ryland checked his phone. Yikes. Yeah, he needed to call the school. "It's five thirty."
"You're gonna be late…"
"I'm not going to school today. I'm staying here."
Colt shot him a tired but stern look. "I'm a grownup, Ry," he said, his voice nasally as all hell. "I can take care of myself."
"Yeah, no. You can barely sit up. I'm staying here." Ryland blinked sluggishly. Now that he could see Colt he felt a lot better, the dire pit in his gut finally going away and leaving him in a slump. He climbed onto the other side of the bed. Colt insisted on having a king size bed even if it was just himself. He did always toss and turn a bit. Ryland got comfortable, lying down and pulling the sheets up to his shoulders. "Go back to bed. The meds will kick in in a bit."
"Bossy," Colt muttered before sliding to lie on his back.
"Wake me up if you need anything."
"'Kay."
They both knew he wouldn't wake him up.
Colt could barely sleep after Ryland's sudden arrival.
He tried, he really did, and when he finally drifted off he was so relieved he could cry in his sleep unprompted. He had fallen asleep earlier that night with a slight cough and a slightly elevated temperature, but Colt honestly thought he'd be fine. He didn't think he was getting sick—he just thought he needed to invest in a better box fan.
And then he woke up to Ryland basically breaking into his apartment and force feeding him pills. He wasn't complaining because unfortunately, his brother was right. He could barely sit up. His muscles felt like someone had torn them apart and taped them back together. Any movement aggrivated them and he didn't feel like moving even if his stomach hurt like a bitch and he couldn't stop sweating.
And then Ryland made himself right at home and promptly fell asleep. At least he remembered to take his shoes off by the door.
Colt drifted in and out of sleep, seemingly waking from the slightest sound; whether it be Ryland's breathing or some sort of creak, or rustle of the trees outside, he felt like he was blinking awake every few minutes. It was driving him insane. Still, he would slowly turn over and try to fall back asleep. He felt the minute the meds kicked in because, thankfully, he drifted off without a hitch.
When he woke up, his curtains were closed, but he could see slivers of sunlight peeking through. He was breathing through an open mouth. He prepared himself for ultimate pain as he tried to swallow. Yup, that really hurt. Whoever the hell invented a sore throat was getting a fat knuckle sandwich from Colt.
He was still sweating, though he saw a little bowl with a rag beside it on his nightstand. He felt on the mattress to find Ryland had left. Colt could hear subtle clattering from the kitchen like someone was trying to make food but not make any noise. He rubbed his eyes, groaning at the throbbing pain behind his skull. He quickly stopped making noise as it only aggrivated his already sore throat. Great, now he effectively couldn't talk. Or, he wouldn't even try because it'd only cause more pain.
Colt sat up with great effort. Whatever Ryland gave him, he needed a second dose right away. He was so tired but he knew his cruel body wouldn't let him fall back asleep that easily. His head felt like someone was taking a jackhammer to it, and his stomach was hurting again, and he was so hot but cold at the same time, and he was hungry—
The bedroom door creaked open and in stepped Courtland.
Courtland.
His older brother that was usually MIA because of his stupid job with the CIA. Doing their dirty work. He stood in the doorway as if he weren't on some countries' top-secret most wanted lists, as if he didn't use those hands that gently cradled a bowl for harm. Colt didn't like Court's job, especially because he never knew if his brother was safe or not. Some days, he expected a dude in a fancy suit to appear on his doorstep with a death certificate and address to pick up Court's ashes.
Last Colt spoke to him, he was going into another mission. What was he doing home?
"Hey," his brother said in that soft tone he held for the twins. Like a parent. Court had been forced into that position a long time ago and he never let the label fade. "How're you feeling?"
Colt shook his head very slowly to not aggrivate his head further. Courtland sighed and stepped further into the room, kneeling beside his bed like Ryland did the night before.
"Yeah, you were always hit hardest whenever the icky colds or flu made their rounds at school. I'm not really surprised. How about some broth?"
Colt once again struggled to push himself into a sitting position, having to accept a helping hand from Court with embarassment. He didn't know why it was so bad this time. Usually he could manage on his own after taking some medicine and giving himself much needed rest, but whatever this was, it seemed hellbent on kicking him while he was down.
Courtland picked up the bowl. "You gonna be able to eat?"
Colt sent him a determined glare.
"Okay, my bad."
He handed the bowl over into Colt's still shaky hands. His body wracked with chills, though he was hot as fuck. He lowered the bowl to sit in his lap for a moment, wondering if the steaming broth would only make him sweat more. Probably. But he was hungry and the broth would probably be the only thing he could stomach for a while.
Colt's fingers wrapped loosely around the spoon. Courtland watched him intently. Colt's sarcasm couldn't be stopped by a sore throat, though.
"Gonna—" he cut himself off to cough, feeling something like a mix of spit and snot try and crawl back up his throat "—keep watching me?"
"Yeah, 'cause if you're gonna eat, I'd want you to eat all of that."
"Bossy…"
"Stubborn."
Colt picked up the spoon and ignored the way his arm trembled. He blew a bit on the broth and put the spoon in his mouth. Chicken noodle soup during a cold or flu was always the best, but Colt liked the broth even more. It was simple, warm, and felt like some sort of magical remedy as it slid to his stomach.
"Ry said he gave you some NyQuil somewhere near five thirty. You'll be due for some more in about an hour. The soup should help you for now."
An hour? He really slept for a good five or six hours? He certainly didn't feel like it. He felt like he could sleep for three days straight. Still, as he worked on slowly—oh so slowly for his poor stomach—working through the broth, Courtland kept talking.
"Ry called me in the middle of the night saying he had a bad feeling that woke him up. And I haven't heard him talk about a feeling like that since you broke your arm in high school, so we both thought the worst," Courtland said as he moved from the floor to sit on the edge of the mattress. "He rushed over here and I found a ride. A plane, believe it or not. I think that's the fastest I've ever traveled. Gave the guy an extra hundred to punch it."
Colt managed a tired smile as he continued to eat.
"But when I got here, you guys were asleep. Figured I'd get something simple for you to eat. Ry's outside probably sleeping on the couch. He looked like shit."
"Racoon," Colt rasped with a grin.
"The eyebags, right?" Court agreed, gesturing to his eyes with a smile.
Colt nodded.
"Yeah…"
The spoon fell from Colt's shaky fingers, clanging against the ceramic bowl. The ringing caused the migraine to flare up. Colt grimaced at the throbbing behind his eyes which only grew worse with his change of expression.
"You okay?" Court questioned with furrowed brows. He put the back of his hand against Colt's forehead. "You're still warm. Fuck it, you're getting that medicine now."
Court exited the room as Colt tried and failed to pick the spoon up again. Why did his body hate him so much? He couldn't even pick up a spoon he was so ill. And while the broth was nice and smooth, he could almost feel it sitting in a puddle in his stomach. It was disgusting and the more he thought about it, the more his body felt compelled to toss it back up. He sat as still as a statue, scared that his body would hold true to its threats and force the broth back the way it came.
Colt let his hand hover above his stomach as if it would soothe his body's distress. He watched Ryland step into the doorway with wild hair and bleary eyes, his glasses hanging from one ear and resting just below his chin.
"How's it going?" his twin asked groggily. He studied Colt. "Not good?"
He shook his head again. Ryland carefully crawled on the mattress to sit in front of him, his hands reaching out and gently feeling around Colt's neck. His fingers were freezing compared to Colt's clammy skin.
"Yeah, you might have a sore throat. I can make some tea. Maybe it'll help?"
Colt shook his head. No tea. He wasn't too big of a tea guy, more coffee.
"I'll get you to like tea one of these days."
Colt glared a difinitive no.
Courtland returned with a glass of ice water and three pills in his hand. He sat beside Ryland on the bed, swapping the empty broth bowl with the glass. "Alright, you know the drill."
Colt sighed wistfully as he struggled to take the pills. God, he really took being healthy for granted. He couldn't imagine what it was like just twenty-four hours ago when his throat was itchy but not sore and scratchy like sandpaper. He couldn't imagine what it was like to have nostrils he could breathe out of. Funnily enough, he only thought about his health like this when he was sick.
He swallowed the last pill with great difficulty, feeling his stomach protesting at more liquid. He carefully laid back against the pillows, trying not to jostle himself too much.
Courtland took the glass from him and set it on the nightstand. He grabbed the rag, dipped it in the water bowl and started dabbing away the sweat from Colt's forehead. Colt raised an arm in meek protest. The water was cold, almost too cold, and it did nothing but send shivers through his body.
"You're still warm," Court said as if that explained everything. It did. Colt was just being childish.
"Cold…" Colt huffed.
"Yeah, that's the point."
"You're hot and cold? Maybe it's a flu…" Ryland said thoughtfully.
"Not a—" a cough wracked his chest "—medical doctor."
"I've been dealing with you being sick our entire lives. It's always either been the cold or flu, or maybe a stomach bug. It's just about ruling them out. No degree needed for that."
Colt huffed again to show distaste for the answer even if he knew Ryland was right. Ryland rolled his eyes.
"Whatever. Your body still needs to recover. Needs more energy, which means you're going back to sleep."
"Can't complain 'bout that," Colt said gruffly.
"Come on, back under the covers you go," Courtland ushered.
Colt felt his face flush even more, embarassed. "You don't have to stay. Either of you. You've got things to do and, frankly, this pampering is embarassing."
"What's wrong with a bit of pampering? It's just us making sure you're taken care of," Court argued half-heartedly. He lifted the blankets further up Colt's chest, making sure they were snug around him like a burrito.
"Court—"
Ryland cut him off by once again claiming the space beside him. "Dude, what kind of mattress is this? It's so comfy…" he muttered as he slid under the covers.
"Ry, get out, I'm gonna get you sick," Colt protested with a well-timed cough.
"Don't care. I'm already comfortable. I could use a few days off from school."
"You only have so much sick leave—"
Court seemed to want a bit of the action, too, as he came up to rest on Colt's other side. He made sure the blankets covered all three of them, his arm resting behind Colt's head and fingers brushing through Ryland's hair.
"This bed is really comfy," Court commented absentmindedly. "Memory foam? Have you tried a water bed before? That shit's crazy."
"Don't you have a job to do?" Colt asked.
"Yeah, and it's called taking care of my family."
"But I'm fine—"
"No, you're not, so stop saying it. Is it so bad to have to lean on us every once in a while?" Court asked softly. Colt hesitantly met his gaze, finding nothing but concern and love. "You don't have to put up the big shot stunt guy act with us, Colt. We're family. We'll take care of you like you take care of us."
Ryland was already asleep, soft snores escaping his nostrils. Colt looked at him to realize he still had his glasses hanging from his ear. Colt took them and folded the legs (jeez, Ry needed a new pair, and he needed to stop wearing them the wrong way), handing them to Court to put on the nightstand.
Court was right. Both of his brothers were right. Like always.
Colt put up the "big shot stunt guy" act because that's who he is. He's a hotshot stunt man. He gets shit done and it's badass almost every single time. He was always expected to take the hits, to endure, because it was his job. He could be flung through a building and it wouldn't have compared to how miserable he felt lying in bed, coughing and wishing his throat didn't exist with how sore it was.
He knew he could take care of himself. He had been for years. Except whenever he got sick, he always knew he had his brothers to rely on. It never made it any easier on him to come to terms with the fact that he wasn't some invincible movie character, but a human being with the immune system of a seven year old. Colt tried to keep himself afloat, but sometimes it wasn't enough.
It was hard for him to let himself be cared for. He found it easiest when he was the one doing the caring for his brothers.
Courtland slid until their sides were pressed together, a comforting weight. "Stop thinking so much. Go to bed. We'll be here."
"You'll get sick—"
"Neither of us care. We have stronger immune systems, anyway, so it'll be harder for us to get whatever you have." Courtland rested his head atop Colt's. "Rest."
For how keen his body felt on keeping him awake, it seemed to take Court's words into consideration. He sunk into the pillows, his mattress. The blankets didn't feel overwhelmingly hot even with two other people pressed against him. It felt comforting, like a fire on a cold winter's night. The shivers that overtook his body quickly subsided and his eyelids grew heavier with every blink. Even Ryland's snores were like a sign for his body to shut down. Court's arm rested over his chest, holding the twins in a loose grip as he, too, began to fall into slumber.
Colt didn't wake up at all during the day, or the night that he slept through. It was dreamless, knowing that his brothers were there to catch him if he fell. He loved them so much, it was painful. He wouldn't have it any other way.