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Thunder - ragged breaths of long dead gods that struck the winds in their wheezy laughs and set them running across the lands - she hated every little bit of it! The rain that came with it as a package deal was fine, she'd even found a sense of comfort in it, opening the window and smelling the freshness. But thunder! Oh that pesky thing! Her stomach churned at the first hints of it.
And this time, just like any other, she clambered out of her small bed, the nightdress slipping off her shoulder, and made her way right out the door. With the banging rhythm of raindrop waltzes, she scurried over to his room. Pressing her ear against the thin door, she knocked. Each sound - lighter than a sparrow's feather, yet her quiet song did not wake him.
She tried again, louder now, a smidge of fear and irritation playing with her fingers. Reddening knuckles hit the wood for what seemed to be the hundredth time when the door swung open, a heavy presence looming. She slipped past his sleepy figure, worn by the day's work and the uncomfortable mattress. Her hands glided along his waist as she found her way through the entrance.
"Not even a greeting? Where have your manners gone?" He asked, rubbing his eyes. She huffed, settling down on his bed. "My 'hellos' ended by the twentieth knock." A turn of the head, nose arched up to the ceiling like an annoyed cat. He closed the door, and leaning against it softly shook away the comforting hands of slumber "What's the matter at three thirty in the morning?"
And then he heard it.
Booming like a rabid dog, thunder rolled up above. It shook his insides like a boiling pot. Her face contorted, a bit ghastly now. He swallowed down a coo, easing back towards his bed. "So the thunder's got you scared?" He asked, a drop of slyness in his throat. She kept silent, crossing her arms as if standing in a market line.
He sat down next to her, no space left for the night, and in the sleepy darkness she leaned on him with all her might. "It's frightening." She whispered, shaking just barely. He tensed, suddenly overwhelmed by her presence. He swore that she'd hear his heart's awkward pitter-patter as it banged and raged against his chest, begging to be let out and held by her delicate hands.
He sighed, drooping one arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer. "Why so?" He asked, staring at the top of her head. "It's just too loud. I can't hear anything else besides it." She whined into his nightshirt, burrowing deep into his side. The fabric was soft, pillowy to the touch. She leaned, smoldering her face with it. It wasn't often he'd let her do this, but faced with another thundering rumble, he eased and calmed his mind. 'It's only for tonight. It's alright'
He gently ran his hand across her bare forearm, glazing over sun kissed skin and the tiniest of moles. He'd count them if the night let him, drawing tiny patterns into her skin. But the thunder kept rumbling and their surroundings were still dark, so he kept her close and tried to pay the feeling no mind.
Sitting there like two hens, they listened to the storm that rang outside. "Who do you think's angry?" He asked, cutting their awkward silence in half. "What a bizarre question." She whispered in between his ribs. "You do often tell me I am made of bizarreness." He chuckled, deep but hollow unlike the thunder. She sighed, moving away from his embrace. "I think it's your line mister!" She pressed her long index finger against his nose.
With a strike of lightning flashing just beyond the window, he shuddered, followed by the loud thunder. And for the first time, he understands her fear. She grabbed onto his arm, velvet red nails digging into the scratched skin. "I'm sorry." She murmurs into the night, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.
He nodded, uncaring whether she picks up on it. "Lay down and I'lll make you some tea. It might help you sleep." He whispered, gently maneuvering her into the heap of sheets. Putting up a silent rebellion, she tugs on his arm, accidentally pressing ever deeper into the skin.
He yelps, meek but painful. "Ah! I'm so sorry." She tatters, sinking into his thick blanket. "Don't worry." He murmured, freeing himself from her hold. She whines, just for a moment, like a hungry cat before swaddling herself in the soft sheets and occupying the northeast corner of his bed.
He sighed, shuffling through drawers until his fingers strike the right packets. One cup, two. The kettle wheezed on his desk, bumbling and growling from its old age. He picked it up effortlessly, carefully filling the cups just as they like. Half a cup for him and ¾ for her. She always complains about her poor hot drink consumption after all.
Swerving through several piles of old clothes, he set the two cups on the floor, just below the mattress and climbed in. She turned to face him, parting open her nest of sheets. He slots in perfectly into her embrace, playing into her unusual wishes. She'd always loved touching him, and to some degree he could understand why. But this much? No, she'd never asked for something like this.
Yet it came so naturally to them. Almost like a law of nature. His head rested against her collarbone, sharp but comfortable. She played with his hair, carding her long fingers through it in wave-like motions. "My sister used to do this. Every time I'd get scared, she made me lay down just like this and would braid my hair." She explained, uncannily open and a tad melancholic. This strange reminiscence scared him into a chuckle.
"My hair's a little too short for braids." He covered his wavering voice with a fake cough, pulling up his knees. "I can make do with this." She giggled, pinching his hair in tiny heaps. "Maybe you should grow it out, I bet you'd look good." She suggested, the same charming bubbliness that always follows her returning to her voice.
"Hm. Maybe I will." He sighed, easing into her touch. The smell of mint and dried oranges clung to his walls as hot tea fumed from under them. "Did you pick up some new bags?" She asked, tasting the air like a serpent. "Yea. Just last night while you were already in bed." He nodded, closing his eyes.
Her touch felt like the comfort of a forest floor enveloping a body for the first time in its life. Hard but moldable, just perfect for his curves and divvets. She hummed, moving her hands to his jaw. He listened to her breaths, feeling each heave of her rigid chest. "The thunder's gone…" A meek whisper escaped his dry mouth. He was already drifting off.
She nodded, drawing lines against his warm cheeks. "So it has. So it has."