Oliver leaned back, his limbs heavy, his thoughts slow. The second joint burned low between his fingers, its ember flickering like a distant star in the night. Smoke curled from his lips, dissipating into the cold air. The world around him felt distant—muted, softened at the edges.
His mind drifted. A hazy mix of memories and sensations, tangled together like threads unraveling in slow motion. He thought of Reina's warmth, Yuki's uncertain gaze, the strange weight of Yumi's voice when she told him not tonight.
Somewhere in the quiet of his high, his body moved on its own. His fingers dusted ash off his sleeve, his legs unfolding, his steps slow but steady. He didn't know why, but suddenly, he was walking back inside.
The air in the house was thick, heavier than before. The scent of incense lingered, mixed with something faintly metallic. The shadows stretched long beneath the dim hallway light.
He barely registered his feet moving up the stairs. The walls seemed closer than before, the silence deeper. His fingers brushed against the railing as he turned toward the end of the hallway.
Yumi's door.
He wasn't sure how he had ended up here. He wasn't sure if he had meant to come here.
But now he was standing before it, his fingers hovering over the door, his breath slow, unsteady.
For a long moment, he just stood there.
The weight in his chest shifted—something unspoken, something unacknowledged.
And then, almost unconsciously, his hand knocked against the door.
But there was only silence that greeted him.
—
Yumi stirred at the sound, her eyes fluttering open in the dim glow of the room. The weight of sleep still clung to her limbs, warmth wrapping around her like a cocoon. She shifted beneath the blankets, frowning slightly. The scent of fabric softener and something distinctly him surrounded her.
Oliver's hoodie.
She had fallen asleep wearing it.
The knock came again, a little more insistent this time. She pushed herself up, her body reluctant to leave the comfort of sleep. The air was cool against her skin as she sat up fully, her hair falling in messy waves around her face.
"Oliver?" Her voice came out soft, still thick with sleep.
"Yeah…" His voice was quiet, distant.
She blinked, rubbing at her eyes. "What do you want?"
The sound of bedsheets shifting filled the silence as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
"I… I don't know," Oliver admitted. His voice was slow, hesitant, like he was still figuring it out himself. "I guess I just wanted to talk."
Yumi hesitated for a few seconds before sighing. "Okay. But just for a little while."
The doorknob to her room moved, clearly Oliver trying to open it, but stopped. Locked.
"It's locked," Oliver said, sounding almost surprised.
"I'll open it," she muttered, pushing the blankets aside and standing up. The floor was cool beneath her bare feet as she padded toward the door.
As she turned the lock and pulled it open, she was immediately met with the sight of him—his hair tousled, his eyes unfocused, his open blazur, the shirt on display tightly hugging his body while a smug of lipstick on the collar that she had tried to ignore drawed her eyes . And then the scent hit her.
A sharp, unmistakable scent, lingering beneath the familiar warmth of his cologne mixed with two other distinct famine scent.
She frowned, brows furrowing as she leaned in slightly. "Oliver… have you been smoking?" she whisper-shouted, eyes widening.
Oliver looked at her, a mix of confusion and something else—something unreadable.
Before she could react, his hands came up, cupping her face gently, fingers brushing against her skin. And then, he leaned in.
The kiss was clumsy, unexpected—faintly tasting of smoke and something bittersweet.
Yumi froze. Her breath caught in her throat, her mind blank for half a second before reality slammed back into her.
She pushed him away, her hands pressing firmly against his chest.
"What are you doing?!" Her voice was a whisper, sharp and shaken. "That's… that's not okay."
Her heart pounded in her chest, breath uneven as she stared at him, searching his face for an explanation.
Oliver blinked slowly, as if her words took longer to reach him through the fog in his mind. His hands lingered in the air for a second before he let them fall, fingers curling slightly at his sides. His brows knitted together, confusion flickering in his dazed eyes.
"I… don't know," he admitted, voice quieter now, almost lost in the space between them.
Yumi's breath was still unsteady. The warmth of his lips lingered against hers, unwelcome and unfamiliar. Her fingers curled into fists as she took a step back, putting distance between them.
"You're high," she said, voice clipped, struggling to keep herself composed. "You don't know what you're doing."
Oliver exhaled, his shoulders rising and falling like he was trying to ground himself, but the weight in his gaze didn't fade. "Maybe," he murmured. "But I still—"
"Stop." Yumi's voice was firmer now, a thin edge of something else laced in it—something she wasn't sure she wanted to name. "You need to go back to your room. Sleep it off."
Oliver searched her face, something unspoken passing between them in the dim hallway light. For a brief moment, it looked like he was going to argue, but then he simply let out a slow breath and ran a hand through his hair.
"Okay," he said finally, voice almost defeated.
Yumi hesitated, watching as he took a step back. The scent of smoke and lingering warmth of his presence clung to the air.
"…Go," she repeated, softer this time.
Oliver nodded once, turned, and walked away.
Yumi stood frozen in place until the sound of his footsteps faded down the hallway. Then, slowly, she closed the door and leaned against it, pressing a hand to her lips as if trying to erase the ghost of his touch.
Her heart was still racing.
And she hated that.
—
(Oliver's POV)
Oliver's steps were slow, uneven as he moved down the dim hallway. The world still felt distant, sounds muted beneath the lingering haze in his mind. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.
'What the hell was that?'
His lips still tingled faintly from the contact, the taste of smoke and something bittersweet lingering. But it wasn't the kiss itself that unsettled him—it was the fact that he had done it without thinking. His body had moved before his mind could catch up, guided by some dull, instinctual impulse buried beneath the fog.
And Yumi… she had pushed him away. Hard.
Oliver let out a slow breath, his fingers flexing at his sides as he walked into the bathroom. He turned on the light, the white glow buzzing faintly, too sharp against his already-dulled senses. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror—his disheveled hair, the slight flush to his skin, the smudge of lipstick still faint on his collar.
He grimaced and reached up, undoing the buttons of his blazer before shrugging it off. The fabric slid from his shoulders, heavy with the weight of the night. His shirt followed, the scent of perfume and weed clinging to it like a ghost.
Reaching forward, he turned the shower knob, letting the water rush out in a steady stream. He tested the temperature, then stepped inside, closing his eyes as the warmth hit his skin. The sensation was grounding, washing away the remnants of the night's tension.
What the hell is wrong with me?
His forehead rested against the cool tile as he let the water run over him. His thoughts were still sluggish, but beneath the haze, something sharp gnawed at him—a restless unease, a feeling that had been creeping in for a while now.
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was something deeper, something he wanted to bury away.
But either way, tonight had proven one thing—he really was beginning to suck at hiding his degeneracy.
After a long moment, he exhaled and reached for the soap, scrubbing away the remnants of the night. The scent of smoke faded, replaced by the clean, familiar scent of his body wash. He lingered under the water longer than necessary, letting the heat soak into his muscles before finally shutting it off.
Stepping out, he grabbed a towel, running it over his hair before wrapping it loosely around his waist. Droplets of water trailed down his back as he wiped a hand over the mirror, clearing a space in the condensation. His reflection stared back, clearer now—but there was still something distant in his own eyes, something unreadable.
Shaking his head, he turned away, grabbing his school bag as he left the bathroom. His footsteps were quiet as he padded back to his room, closing the door behind him. He let the towel drop, pulling a clean pair of boxers from the dresser before slipping them on.
For a moment, he stood still, staring at nothing, his mind caught between the past and the present. Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned toward his desk, a single thought pressing forward.
The dream ritual.
His gaze flicked to his bag. Sitting at his desk, he unzipped it and pulled out the stack of printouts Ren had given him earlier in the day. Strange symbols, old texts, diagrams carefully copied and annotated. The ritual itself seemed simple enough—preparation, focus, intent. But now, he was beginning to suspect it did far more than just heighten brain activity.
Grabbing his notebook, he flipped to an empty page, then reached for the scissors in his desk drawer. With careful precision, he cut out the first symbol printed on the special thin paper. His hands were steadier now, the simple, repetitive action pulling him away from the noise in his head.
Next, he reached into his bag, pulling out his pencil case. He took out a pen and a glue stick, then turned the red-inked pattern over before writing a single Japanese character beneath it. Afterward, he glued the red-inked section onto the page.
生 (Life).
He pressed the page down firmly, smoothing out any wrinkles before reaching for another—a half-drawn design in green ink. Carefully, he placed it over the first and wrote another kanji on top.
死 (Death).
Finally, he lifted a third, almost translucent sheet, aligning it precisely with the others before sealing them together with one last word.
夢 (Dream).
Straightening his back, he studied the completed pattern—a fusion of three symbols merging into one through the layered pages.
Under his breath, he began to chant:
"Life flows into death, death returns to dreams."
"The dream shapes the living, the living are born again."
"In sleep, the cycle turns. In waking, it is sealed."
He stared at the image for a long moment before quietly placing his utensils back in their places. Rising from his chair, he moved toward his neatly made bed, slipping his notebook beneath his pillow before climbing in.
As his eyes drifted shut, sleep pulled him under.