One-Shots [Boboiboy]

For Him

"Oh, come on. You can't be the only one who didn't realize, right?" Solar demanded, stabbing a finger at the sitting priest. He crossed his arms, exasperated. "You lived with him your whole life. If anyone should know, it's you!"

Thunderstorm glowered, his eye and fingers twitching. If it wasn't for Blaze standing behind him, holding a rolling pin like a knife, daring him to try something stupid, Thunderstorm would have committed arson with a side of genocide. He brought himself to sigh, an exhausted groan that's seen on his being many times in the past.

Thunderstorm slung his bag over his shoulder, turning to the exit. Except his mood was evidently fouled, anger lingering in every crevice of his features. He left to the door, but Thorn blocked his path.

"Sore loser?" Solar taunted, pushing his glasses further up his nose. Thunderstorm wanted to shove it up his ass. "You're just petty because we found out something you didn't. From your best friend, nonetheless."

Knowing the lightning elemental, he would have lashed out, and a literal storm would be brewing in the living room. Instead, Thunderstorm roughly shoved Thorn to aside, and swung the door wide open. Previously, in the dark, they couldn't see his face because of the nature of his cap and the dim lights of the room. As the sun poured into the space, bathing them in a heavenly glow—

Thunderstorm's face was streaked in tears, his eyes clouded with grief.

"I know," he snapped, shocking them still. He clenched the bag strap tighter, his knuckles turning white as his voice cracked. "Cyclone's been dead for years. I knew."

The slammed the door in their faces, leaving them in a darker setting. Solar blinked, his glasses dropping, skeptical as he turned to Cyclone who sat peacefully on the sofa.

The horns in his hair suddenly didn't look cool at all.

* * *

In an empty class came a loud crash. In an instant, a row of tables and chairs were abruptly knocked over, the culprit being a foot and a pissed teacher.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Quake snapped, grabbing Thunderstorm's collar in anger. The older man didn't resist, just staring back at his friend with dead eyes. It infuriated Quake, but at the same time, it sparked concern. An emotion he hadn't felt for years. "You keep him around the house like some lost puppy! Now that Solar and the others know, how are we supposed to explain it to them?"

"He's still Cyclone!" Thunderstorm spat. He raised his hand to grab Quake's wrist, but a Barbarian's strength outclassed a Necromancer's. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pry the adult's wrist off his collar. "He knows who we are! I just need more time to find the right ritual!"

Even as he said it, they knew it was impossible. Necromancers were considered the lowest rank in the whole caste system, because their magic was dirty and they danced with the devil. Only slaves would resort to such petty ranks, but Thunderstorm, one of noble blood, joined their clause. It brought surprise to other Necromancers and nobles alike, so he was the outcast.

And yet he never gave up his blood magic. In fact, he continued to study it. But with such limited information—most necromancers didn't know how to read or write—and little comrades, a powerful ritual could never be found or exist.

Quake released Thunderstorm, but it was from shock. His eyes were wide as he stared at the red-eyed mage. "No," he spat, as if his touch were poison. "You can't be serious." His gaze turned steely. "It's a pipe dream. It's time to grow up and let that impostor go to hell, literally."

"I'm not sending Cyclone to hell!" Thunderstorm scowled. "He's done nothing wrong!"

"He did nothing wrong? What about the time he, I don't know—made a deal with a blasted ghoul?"

"IT'S A MISUNDERSTANDING!"

Quake slammed his fist into the wall. "If it was, he wouldn't have turned into a martyr!"

Thunderstorm fell quiet.

"Listen, Thunder. Only people who made deals with ghouls are turned into martyrs after death. They're sentenced to soul shattering so they can never reincarnate. For eternity." Quake ignored Thunderstorm's sullen glare as he nailed the history into his head. It was a chapter they'd learned at school when they were thirteen; it was the first and most important thing they ever learned. "He knew what he was getting into." Cyclone had been by their side then, before he turned traitor. He even got full marks in the physical test, where they were pit up with a controlled ghoul to train their temptations. Cyclone had refused in a heartbeat.

So why...?

Exams were only exams, right? Real life was different. Reality was always crueler. Cyclone can't be so stupid that he fell to a ghoul's siren song—to give into his own temptations so easily. Cyclone was a promising priest, picking up complicated spells with only a glance. Like Thunderstorm, he was a prodigy. Perhaps at times even surpassing him. If he was serious, he could defeat everyone in class without breaking a sweat, but he didn't.

Thunderstorm's mind was riddled with puzzles. Cyclone's magic aura was strong enough to ward off any weaker ghouls, so that ghoul must be strong if it could approach him. Even so, when did it happen? Thunderstorm was always by his side.

"You need to make up your mind soon," Quake snarled, already rearranging the tables and chairs. They still had students to teach, but there were only a measly handful of students in Thunderstorm's class who barely cared about personal hygiene. The Necromancer class was never popular. "You need to move on with your life. You're delaying the inevitable, and now you've dragged the others into our mess."

Our mess. Not yours.

Thunderstorm sighed in exasperation, and nodded. Though, he was lying to Quake and perhaps to himself.

Martyrs could never survive without human flesh for too long, and Cyclone's been around since they were 15. Thunderstorm didn't want to know how he stayed alive, and he's never received any news about missing bodies or severed limbs.

"Move on," Quake told him, more of a warning. He waved the younger adult goodbye as he departed to his class, to find the tables defaced and the board shattered. Probably done by his own students or students from another class. It didn't matter.

Sighing, he placed his palm on the wall, which was sticky with a smell of honey. Muttering a quick chant under his breath, the classroom repaired itself like breezes working to help him. The familiarity of the spell struck him as bittersweet—it'd been his go-to spell whenever he accidentally destroyed something. It reminded him of his time as an Elementalist.

Elementalists were the highest amongst the castes, yet he'd given this position up for the dark arts of necromancy.

The breeze was usually clear, filled with a scent of home, but ever since he delved into necromancy, it smelled acidic, like acids in swamps, killing the fish and melting tree roots.

It was the price of necromancy.