❝ 𝙉𝙤 𝙇𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙃𝙪𝙢𝙖𝙣 ❞ LONG HIATUS

: ̗̀➛PLUM BLOSSOMS IN SNOW

"He was beneath the waves, a creature crawling the ocean."
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    The night is far bluer in the hours before a storm, deep grays and the occasional slash of periwinkle that embellishes the sky like an artist's brushstrokes.

It creates a thick haze that blankets the earth, acting as a filter that is capable of blocking out even the orange and crimson rays of the sunset that burn over Yokohama with the setting sun.

Now that it is obscured by wisps of hematite clouds and opal moonlight, the lingering aroma of petrichor is strong in the air and is adhering to the dew that frantically clings to the buzzcut grass of the yard.

When Oda pulls into his driveway, the sound of his car quiets down to a low rumble, and the windshield wipers make intermittent squeaking noises while he inhales the lingering warmth of cinnamon-scented car freshener.

He could ignore the small heap of black that was resting on his front porch. Walk right on by it, pour himself a fine glass of wine, and settle up with a good book to the soothing melody of raindrops descending on his window. And yet, as he rubs a calloused thumb over the fraying leather of his steering wheel he knows the path he's going to take. Even without his ability, he recognizes that shivering mound so out of place in a sea of white-picket-fences and blooming shrub bushes.

It is with a sigh that he turns the key in the ignition of the old beater of a car, thus turning off the vehicle and returning the neighborhood to its normal, middle-class level of calm. Far away from the gunfire that come from the port, the hustle and bustle of the city, and the shrill ringing of beggar's cans that resound throughout Suribachi. Here, in this little slice of suburbia, of normalcy and oaths, of tan coats and coffee shop conversations, a demon somehow found its way.

Oda smiles at the thought.

The picket fence opens with a groan of protest, white flakes of paint coming off on the redhead's hand though he briskly brushes it off on the side of his work pants. He ascends the concrete steps slowly, grateful for the awning that covers the front porch as he dips away from the rain, approaching the pile of black sat stoutly on his doorstep.

Only when he's close enough can he make out the faint aroma of liquor and...something else. A hint of sweat tinged with more that leaves his cheeks flushing a light pink, grateful that (Y/N) lies completely buried under Mori's coat on the porch.

The young girl sits directly in front of the door, back turned towards the cobblestone that juts from the side of the house, closing off the porch and leaving only one entrance. Because even with that filthy coat cloaking her features she refuses to leave her back exposed. Head turned towards the three steps that lead onto the concrete porch next to the old wicker rocking chair and its yellowing pillow.