A/N: This one goes out to Kira, for not only being the inspiration behind this but for also helping me see that she is the queen of reverse phycology. She's basically inviting people to ship Thundercest by bringing it to light all over the Twitter universe. Genius! Why didn't I think of that?! Words cannot express how much I appreciate her for giving me the ability to confide in my rebellious nature and write more for the fandom. I may or may not have gotten a little carried away with this one ;D
It's well past noon on a Saturday as the sun starts spilling into the lair. Max groans and rolls over to bury his head under his pillow, legs sprawled out hanging over the corners of his bed. Half of his brain feels like its drumming Metallica riffs against his skull while the other half is trying to remember just what the hell had happened last night?
He pulls back and tries to think, his mind a hazy mess, clouded with flashbacks that don't make any sense. Beer pong…Oyster complaining that he cheated (he did)…a rematch, but there was something else?
This arguably has to be one of the worse hangovers he's ever had. He wavers just a little once upright, feeling the effects of his drinking from the night before. Begrudgingly, he makes his way up his stairs and into the kitchen, his mouth dry and head in need of a couple pain killers.
Phoebe is sitting at the table, absentmindedly nibbling on a granola bar. Max feels queasy. He figures it's about half hangover and half grossed out by her choice of snacks. What a health nerd.
"Hey." He walked passed her to rummage through the fridge for a water bottle. "Do you know where mom keeps the aspirins?" His head is pounding and he grumbles a curse.
Just then, Phoebe scurries up out of her seat and stuff what was left of the nugget bar into her mouth. "Uh, T-third cabinet." In a blind hurry to leave, she bumps right into him.
They just stand there, neither moving, neither doing anything at this point. A feeling, something he can't place a finger on runs through him. Why does it feel like he's been in a situation similar to this before? A girl, with wavy brown hair –it's all confusing, lips moving, hands traveling, and the smell of cinnamon apple so present and, and... like water splashed on a painted canvas the rest fades into a blur.
He wouldn't have thought much about it, he'd been with tons of girls, but those thoughts didn't make his heart jump from last night into the next day.
And why does Phoebe look like that?
"Uh, earth to Dweebs?"
She continued to chew on the inside of her jaw, pulling her mouth to the side and stare anywhere but at him. He wasn't one for manners, but it's polite to look at the person when they are trying to talk to you. It's starting to bother him.
"Did we get into an argument or something…? Because you're acting even weirder than usual."
"N-no, I'm not –I was just on my way to go library at the study," She says in one breath and brushed passed him. She moves so fast it makes his mind dizzy and the front door slams closed.
Max would have ruled that as one of the many strange things Phoebe did on a regular basis but something felt strange.
He shrugged his shoulders and opened the cabinet she pointed out. It was full of all sorts of ridiculous supplements and vitamins for his dad. He quickly downed the medicine and was back into his room before his mother had the chance to come down and ask why he was popping pills in the first place.
With his headache now long gone, and the day practically over, he's wasting the rest of his time inattentively flipping through channels. He just couldn't stop thinking about that girl. He couldn't place a face and he had been so drunk out of his mind, he didn't even think to get a phone number.
He needed to see her again.
Clicks from the front door pull him away from his muddled thoughts and out comes an exhausted Phoebe from beyond it. He looks at her but doesn't say anything. She drops her book bag by the coat closet, but then she stops dead in her tracks.
"What are you doing here?" Phoebe looks down at him, with mistrust. No doubt he caught her off guard, but he wasn't doing anything obscenely offensive.
"I live here." He shrugs her off with such a public display of inquiry, that he's sure it should annoy her even more.
Subtly, it does.
"There's a Channing Tatum movie marathon going on right now and I called dibs on the TV two whole weeks ago. Move." Phoebe walks closer, but still puts a cautious amount of the distance between them.
"I was here first, you move." She's doing that thing where her mouth goes into a pout and he just knows he has two more chances to get her to back down.
"I spent the last five and a half hours studying at the library, so could you please give me the remote and go." She looks pissed. There's really no other way to describe it. She stands before him, scowl on her face, radiating fury from head to toe.
A scowl darkens her face when she notices the way his eyes just won't leave her, and she crosses her arms over her chest in irritation.
He stands to his full height, a smirk playing on his lips while crossing his arms over his chest, unconsciously mirroring her body language. "You see a 'nice' brother would do that, but you and I both know I love seeing you suffer."
"Of course," she takes the bait and she starts reaching for a pillow behind her back, "Why would I even think for a second that you could even be A. Decent. Human. Being." She starts hitting him in time with each stressed word that passes through her lips.
"Hey, Phoebe, quit it!" He lunges forward to grab both her arms to keep her from assaulting him.
But Phoebe isn't strong enough to carry both his and her weight and they fumble onto the couch. She presses her knees against his chest to keep him away while she still senselessly whacks at him, and he tries to yank the throw pillow out of her grip.
He manages to wrestle her weapon away and she unexpectedly lowers her knees, dropping Max on top of her. His forehead smacks loudly against the couch arm on his way down, and he groans a curse before burying his face in between her neck and shoulder. Her anger dies and is quickly replaced with concern because he's still groaning.
"Oh, sorry." She mumbles, breathlessly and her hand is at the nape of his neck, fingers curling in his hair.
"Jesus, Pheebs." He gets a hand under himself to push off her body and he uses the other to rub his temples, flinching at the contact. "I'm okay. But I think my headache is coming back."
When his gaze finally finds hers, heat spreads across his face. Everything about her is delicate and feminine. He can't help but find himself staring at her, never noticing until now the contrast in her features from his own. From her slightly darker brown hair to her milk chocolate colored eyes, the obviously present smell of - what was it – apple or maybe it was cinnamon?
Wait, what?
It takes more than a second of their muted admiring to be interrupted for Phoebe to finally unfreeze, for her brain to work again and for the horror of reality read clear on her face, she starts shoving at his shoulders.
"Get off." She sounds desperate, like she - unknowingly to him - is pleading for forgiveness. Max doesn't get it.
"Phoebe, what's wrong-"
"Nothing is right, just please Max, let me go."
Wordlessly, he pushed his body entirely off of hers, and she's up quickly. There was pain and confliction in her eyes, and he had this obscure feeling of wanting nothing more than to take it away. "Phoebe, wait. If I said or did anything yesterday…my bad, okay."
She slowly nodded, before storming up the stairs into her room, but new and bewildering emotions were beginning to take hold of him.
When Phoebe didn't come down for dinner, Max knew something had to be really wrong.
He walks into her room about an hour after their parents have gone to bed. She's standing inside her closet, moving so frantically and haphazardly stuffing things into her duffle bag that he's sure she doesn't know he's watching her.
Max announces his presence with a generic question, "You're leaving?"
"Spending the night at Cherry's." She won't look at him. There's anger in her voice, a defiant tilt to her chin. "I'm busy in case you hadn't noticed."
"I wanted to, y'know, talk about what happened downstairs." He moves towards her, she steps backward. "Look, Phoebe, I know you're angry-"
"No, you don't know," she says. "You have no idea what I'm going through." There's fury in her eyes, making them bright. Disappointment is there too (at him? Maybe herself?). Honestly, this was getting to be annoying.
The accusations are enough to make him snap, and he feels the anger boil over without warning, without deliberation. "Well maybe if you would just tell me what the hell is going on, I'd understand."
But instead, Phoebe chooses to ignore him, looking off in the distance. "You were so drunk," she mutters aloud but mostly to herself. "You were acting like such an idiot –then you said, and then I -we..." She doesn't finish, she only pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth.
It makes Max desperate and seize her by the shoulders. "What, what did I say? What did I do?!"
"…You kissed me."
Phoebe turns away from him, and she doesn't need to say anymore, because the memories come flooding back in a whir. The girl he had been with – the absolute frenzy of passion thrown into their kisses, the wavering push and pull between lust and love, God help him it was all with Phoebe.
"Oh."
It's all he has.
But it hurts, deep down in his soul, it hurts like hell. He doesn't know how to respond to this. Max only knows that he's suddenly so aware of Phoebe, of Phoebe being someone more to him than what he's known his entire life.
He feels something open up inside himself, pumping in his veins and pounding recklessly against his chest. Alive. This is the feeling –sober or not – that had brought him here. He just didn't see it until now.
"Do you, uh, do you blame me?" Of course, he knows she doesn't, she's been walking around carrying in around all day. But still, he needs the confirmation.
"I blame myself, I couldn't stop us." She takes a deep breath. "I wasn't the one who was out of their mind."
"But I kissed you first, didn't I," he pulls on her hands until her arms are no longer wrapped around herself and she's standing directly in front of him. "I saw the perfect opportunity to do something about how I felt and I took it, right?"
I was drunk, but I wanted to do it.
"...Max," Phoebe cuts herself off when his thumbs stroke the underside of her jaw.
"Would you stop us this time?" Guilt washes over him, enough to make his stomach twist into what feels like twelve different knots in discomfort.
"No, I wouldn't." She tells him, and everything in her heart comes through right now in her eyes, her wounded eyes.
The light of her desk lamp casts a shadow on her face, making her look all kinds of right at the wrong time. He brings his mouth down on hers. He gives in and every emotion that he was sure to bury deep inside him comes soaring to the surface like a loose gasket.
Her eyes flutter shut and he abandons all thoughts, no more questions, only feelings. His lips boldly open under hers and her warm tongue slides into his mouth. Then her hand comes up to grab the back of his neck and he holds her into the kiss refusing to let her go.
It's the same drugging effect from last night, only this time he's alert and the memories of this pale in comparison to the real. Action, reaction, and imitation. That was the extent of their kisses. If Max slanted his mouth against hers, Phoebe would copy with little to no hesitation.
"This is so wrong." Max mumbles against her mouth and if she heard him right, it wasn't enough to make her pull away.
"I know," It's a short, curt response before their mouths are tangled again. It just wasn't going to be enough to make them stop. These feelings between them burned deeper than even the strongest dose of liquor.
In one swift motion, he turns them both around, yanking her sharply with him towards her bed.
There's no drunkenness to blur these moments and make for the perfect scapegoat.