After that, the rest of the day was a blur. After lunch, Quake taught Thunderstorm how to do simple chores such as cleaning the dishes, sweeping the floor, making pastries, and cooking dinner. Fortunately, Thunderstorm hadn't broken more than five plates and had yet to burn the kitchen down, even if there were several close calls that involved roasted chicken that had been reduced to charcoal.
Thunderstorm hadn't a clue of what to feel, as she'd never been guided so gently, taught with such patience. No matter how many times she screwed up, Quake would shrug with a phrase let's try that again and forgave her for her mishaps. As she helped laid dinner onto the dining table, her fingers curling around the plates to avoid being burned by the dishes' heat, the door's knob rattled, jolting her senses.
The plate in her hands dropped, but Quake swept in and caught it before a disaster struck, patting her shoulder gently as she set the plate down, comforting her. She knew what it was like to be offset by every minor detail, the traumas of war, the fears of the battle. Her hand never left Thunderstorm's shoulder, as they both were the products of war. The men's hand shook when the burst of fireworks boomed in the sky; their unparalleled paranoia when someone knocks at the door, any moment might be their last, any second could be the end.
The door opened, and Cyclone burst through the entrance, screaming bloody murder, running up the stairs and into his room, then promptly slamming the door shut. Ice then walked into the house, a deathly aura trailing her, and she followed Cyclone's path upstairs, which screaming soon ensued.
Quake and Thunderstorm stared at the onslaught above. They couldn't see what was happening, but the voices were suffice, as crashing and doors slamming echoed through, with the shattering of ice and the crash of a bookshelf, which Thunderstorm assumed to be Solar's. The crash of a body bellowed, and more screaming came after.
"They're supposed to be adults, but they act like thirteen," Quake grumbled, letting go of Thunderstorm's shoulder to shut the door. The hinges were hanging by a thread, and required fixing. She tapped her finger on the metal, causing white to slowly fill in the fissures of the iron and the walls, the small action faint but noticeable.
Thunderstorm leaned over, mesmerized by the act of healing, even if it was a mere wall and door; she never understood the concepts of the elemental powers, and she was only taught to destroy. Quake had created many wonderful things—even if those golems undeniably destroyed half the city—that Thunderstorm could never fathom.
When Quake was done, the hinges and the wall appeared to never have been damaged, perhaps looking newer with a fresh coat of paint. She turned to Thunderstorm, a faint smile on her lips, but there was more to it; a murderous aura dedicated to punishing the sinners, the soundless urge to kill. It wasn't directed towards Thunderstorm, but someone else.
Dinner was eaten in silence, where Ice snuck death glares at Cyclone, for which she elaborated, had destroyed her computer by dropping it into the gutter, therefore also decimating her months' worth of work. She might be able to recover it from her online backup, but there was no telling how many reviews and editing she was forced to redo.
Even without Ice and Cyclone's debacle, Thunderstorm didn't feel very comfortable. She squirmed in her seat, hands gripping the sides of her wooden chair, her head hung as low as possible as she could. All her life, she was used to eating alone, but now? She was sitting with a bunch of people that she barely knew, who were treating her like she was already one of their own, like they'd known her for her whole life. She closed her eyes, trying to push the anxiety back to the depths of her mind, but a firm hand fell on her head instead, ruffling her hair gently.
It was Solar. Despite looking freshly awoken and grumpy, his hair a raccoon's nest from his rude awakening (courtesy of Ice and Cyclone), he smiled at her to comfort her, which admittedly, eased her nerves.
"Look, you're perfectly welcome here," Solar said, breaking the silence. The clatter of utensils on plates hummed as Quake had stopped eating, and turning to Thunderstorm instead. "Besides, some of us know what you're going through. Just stick around, okay?"
In her shock, Thunderstorm nodded, though her face was burning and her ears buzzing, the blood rushing up to her neck. Was she blushing? Again? Oh for heaven's sake, it's the millionth time—why?
"Quit your flirting, you narcissist," Ice deadpanned, her exasperated tone jabbing straight into Solar's ego.
"I was not flirting!" Solar released his hand from Thunderstorm's head, pointing an accusing finger at the ice manipulator instead.
"Could've fooled me."
"Listen here you—"
They were arguing, but Thunderstorm had tuned them out, her hand making its way up to her messy hair, the fading warmth of Solar's palm lingering. She dazed off, questioning herself and her emotions, then her finger felt the tip of a charred mess, then remembered what happened to her hair. She'd sliced it off when she was facing off with Quake... what was she thinking? They could be laughing at her mess of a hair, they could be judging her hair, worthy of a rat's nest.
Her hair was uneven, the singed ends so disturbingly cremated that she must look like a defective, walking broomstick. She gripped her hair, screaming inside in distress, but someone shook her shoulder, snapping her out of her spiraling trance of agony and self-doubt.
"Your hair has nothing to do with anything," Quake said motherly, tucking bits of hair behind Thunderstorm's ear. Her fingers belonged to someone who battled, someone who worked all day in night, but they weren't the slightest bit calloused; yet they felt aged, experienced in spite of the smooth surface.
What did Solar say? Elementals have enhanced healing. Thunderstorm had unconsciously done it once in her hysterical state, but the others—they were in full control of their abilities. They knew what was going on, and they were in control. Was that why their skin looks flawless, without a blemish? Or was this to disguise their secret identities?
Could she do this too? If she became beautiful, would society accept her? Would Blaze and Thorn accept her?
Would they?
"Cy, think you could work with this?" Quake turned to the wind manipulator, spinning Thunderstorm around.
Cyclone stopped eating, acknowledging Quake's question. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he shrugged and set his utensils down to his plate.
"I'll see what I can do, though I already have an idea."
Quake nodded. "Thanks. She's all yours after this." She turned to Thunderstorm, who was already thinking of ways that he could kill her with his powers, including suffocation, death by fall, or a case of rabid pigs. "Relax. He won't hurt you."
Thunderstorm pursed her lip. "What is—"
Quake winked, a grin playing on her expression. "You're getting a makeover."
YOU ARE READING
How To Be Me (boboiboy galaxy)
Fanfiction"You say you want to save people, but you can't even save yourself." Thunderstorm looked down to her hands, but all she could see was red.
