night symphony
phoebe and max thunderman

Thunder yells through glass doors rooted to the flooring above; lightening sizzles with laughter as it slides down into his bed. He hears what's in his head; his fears are loud. They're plastered on the walls circling him. And they come closeclosercloser. Sprinting, wild, wind and cackling trees that fall still rattles his skull. It's killing him, unravelling—first skin, then bone by bone.

God, it hurts his collapsing soul.

Legs tremble through blue, flannel sweatpants; extremities are abstract, feeling far and floating. Hands pull graham hair. The world is hazy, so cold, nearly gone. Cue hyperventilation; a pounding heart is more menacing animal at this point. Sweat slips neck, then abdominals. Burning eyes, salted face. He is struggling not to pull the tugging rope of thoughts.

Everything is erasing itself now. Lost.
Where am I? What do I do?
ImightdieletmedieamIdead.

Phoebe nearly slips through the space between the steps. Coming downstairs in just pyjamas and socks, she reckons, is a very bad idea when Thundersense is activated. Nonetheless, the hero-in-training makes her entrance to the lair quickly. Her twin brother is curled up in the corner of the bed, farthest from her; his duvet and quilt are residential on the ground, or at least they have been for a while. To tell that it shocked her tells the least. But given it initiated her Thundersense tells more than Max wants her to know.

She scoops them up, letting them pile how they do, to cover him. Pulling covers over him rouses him from his statuette state, causing him to push her off and her to work harder against. He's guarded now, a panicked look in his eyes, yet an attention the status of unregistered. Conspicuous quivers unsteady Max; unconscious sobs shatter elephant silences. Phoebe realises weather is the only thing he'll focus for. His hands will settle deeper into his scalp every time thunder breaks. If she blocks it, he scratches his face. She hates this.

She climbs next to him, locking her grasp on his painful resisting hands.
Warm breath envelopes the bed. Thunder bangs. He wants out, she doesn't give in. He thrashes, barely not squaring her jawline.

"Sh, Max—sh; you're okay…hey—it's Phoebe," while her hair tickles his shoulder blades exposed by his rumpled t-shirt.
Max takes her touch unexpectedly easy, exhales too laboured, "Pheebs, Pheebs…Phoebe! I can't make it stop. Please..p-please."
Her heart breaks, and maybe it's his vacuity, his crying.
"Please, nonononomakeitstop." The tears are soaking his face as she wastes time.
Max doesn't beg a reply, but she doesn't have one regardless.

Why hadn't he told me? It hurts; she'd never admit it to him. She knows her studies, too. It hits her, then. Clear. Clear as the facts are awaking in her mind. And, it's then that she understands why he never did. In her mind the words, 'anxiety attack,' seem disgusting. They are horrible. (The word-choice bellows for an improved description, while she warms Max inside out).

(Stay alive, Max).

Max eyes the Coca-Cola. Cherry-flavoured. The glass is thin, tall, and wide enough to fit Nora's swirled straw Phoebe's placed inside.
"You're so cold," she points out, no preamble.
All he does is nuzzle deeper into his blankets.
"Max," Phoebe blows heatbreath. After several quiet moments, she grabs Grizzly Gus, using telekinesis. "Maybe Grizzly Gus can help!" She pretends the stuffed friend drinks animatedly, with a closing 'no harm done'. Then, she guzzles the bears portion herself, positioning the animal to sit in between them.

(Gosh. Phoebe Thunderman is so fucking cute sometimes).

A pack of raindrops aggressively slap the roof, and Max shivers, stopping himself from reaching the drink completely. God, please make it stop. It stops his heartbeat, and his sister's well once she realises the weather's effect.

"Breathe, babe, breathe―sh, hold Gus…good, sh―" Max huffs a forced breath; Phoebe hasn't any time to wonder where the babe endearment came from, but he needs they need it spoken. "No, not like that, from your diaphragm. Sh, sh. You're alright. I promise, in, out; easy now."

Anxiety is ugly thing to give anyone, Phoebe realises locking freezing, sobbing Max to his bed. His fingers crawl his hair when she diminishes her hot breath and tremors kill him mercilessly when thunder clouds shatter and he cries like a child shamelessly losing his stamina. She quickly develops a method of blocking his head from coming up by pressing her forearm on his head, only to smear him all-encompassing cuddles if he quakes, whilst whispering hushing comforts in effort to calm him. It's a harsh cycle, one that takes its sweet time ending.

"Phoebe?"
"Max?"
"Pass me that soda?" There's an uncertainty in his tone—is he afraid of rejection?
Not that he'd admit it, but, he is—she's good, he's not, and they want each other. "Want me to hold your hand?"
"Can you, um, have Grizzly Gus, um, taste-test it again?"
"Sure," she grins a little too long.
"Thanks," he grabs her hand a little too fast.

The girl's body is sort of glued to his, slumped on the headboard. The boy's hand traces the outline of her fingers, almost as if they became the most pristine overnight. (Most people see that the Thunderman twins don't even know what personal space is, except them, really). He manages to drink a quarter of whatever in the glass before his nerves catch up to him again.

She shrieks, "Max!"
"Pheebs—oh God, make it stop—I need you."
"I know you do—look at me—I know, love," and she doesn't know the origin of that term either.

Phoebe doesn't know she is breaking some unspoken sibling line that is supposed exist, but doesn't, when she pulls her twin closer to her. Her right arm is curled on, and rubbing, his inconspicuously seen pelvic bone, his ass against her left leg. Max is well aware of their closeness, falling asleep easily tuned to her breaths trail down his spine. With a kiss to his creaseless forehead, Phoebe sings because he's not quite zoned out. "Sleep well, Maxy."

It's 2:18am when lightening cracks in the dark lair, and then, 2:19am when Max hears.

"Colour these," his sister says; his sketchbook of doodles is propped on her knees, which consequently are up towards her chest.
And he does; the coloured pencils she'd somehow had next to him already, "thanks."

Despite the occasionally tremor staring in his head and ending at the last of his toes, Max Thunderman is generally relaxed. His twin sister hands him the pencils. The air about the fifteen-year-old siblings heated up considerably, and they cooperate in the manner they couldn't when they worked at Mrs. Wong's.