The golden youth sat upright, drenched with sweat, silken bedsheets coiled tightly round his muscular frame. His brothers held each other to keep from doubling over with laughter. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Morpheus glared at his fellow triplets.
“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” He hung his feet over the side of the bed and kicked his two brothers, who promptly fell.
“Yeah, it is,” assured Phobetor, wiping tears from his eyes as he struggled to disentagle his wings from those of his brother. “Right, man?”
The other god chuckled, brushing himself off as rose from the floor.
“Seriously guys, can’t you play a different joke every century of so?” Morpheus spread his own wings and dried himself with a snap of his fingers. “Give it a rest.”
Phantasos folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “But that’s just it, bro. The god of sleep can’t get a good night’s sleep… It’s just too good to pass up.”
“What makes you think I won’t do the same to you?” said Morpheus.
“Because you never have,” said Phobetor. “Face it. Nightmares are our specialty. You just don’t have it in you, dude.”
“What are you going to do? Throw poppies at us?” said Phantasmos, glancing at the vase next to the ivory bed.
Morpheus smirked. “Nope. I’ll do something better.”
His brothers exchanged a worried look.
“I’ll tell Uncle.”