The darkness danced lightly at his fingertips, carrying a cool sensation. Gradually, his fingers went numb, as if he could feel the devil's breath flowing softly by his ear. The entire space seemed to solidify around him.
"Ronan…"
After a brief silence, Ollie spoke up cautiously, trying to say something. But before he could finish, a sharp ring shattered the quiet.
Ding-a-ling! Ding-a-ling!
The alarm blared, making the bed and the whole room shake. Ollie jolted in fright and tumbled right off the bed.
Thud!
Ronan heard a dull crash. Startled first by the alarm and then by the impact, he bolted upright. In the dim light, he saw a figure groaning on the floor. Flipping on the bedside lamp, he found Ollie curled up in a heap.
"Ollie, you okay?"
His pupils darted as he assessed the scene, quickly piecing it together. Then a burst of laughter escaped him.
"Hahaha!"
Seeing Ollie—a big, burly guy—squished between the beds with no room to move was just too funny. Even the bed shifted with his struggles. The sight was so absurdly comical it hit Ronan hard.
Though he was genuinely worried about Ollie, his rational side urged him to check on him—and he did—but the laughter wouldn't stop. It rumbled wildly in his chest.
Ollie clutched the back of his head, struggling to sit up. But the bed couldn't handle his weight and slid back with a whoosh. He plopped down again, sprawled on his back, which only made Ronan's laughter explode even more.
Ollie started laughing too, despite his initial embarrassment. He looked at Ronan helplessly. "Didn't we say we'd never walk alone?"
Ronan couldn't even speak, just pointed at himself with a look that said, Yeah, I'm right here with you!
Ollie felt a little stifled.
Knock, knock, knock!
The door swung open, and Cliff burst in like a tornado. The door quivered like dry autumn leaves as his nagging voice tore through the room.
"I've been hearing you two making a racket for ages, and you still haven't gotten ready! Hurry up, wash up, and get moving—we're leaving soon! What if we hit traffic and miss the flight?"
Ollie muttered, "Traffic at this hour?"
Cliff's glare could've sliced through steel. Ollie mimed zipping his mouth shut, and the room filled with Cliff's voice again, rushing Ronan and Ollie to pack up and get going.
Judging by Cliff's mix of anxiety and adrenaline, he and Maxim probably hadn't slept either. They were running on fumes. Even Alice had barely rested, dozing off for maybe forty minutes before dragging herself up.
The drive to the airport was smooth—usually a thirty-minute trip took less than twenty. They checked in early, and even the drum kit's air transport, which they'd worried about, went off without a hitch. At the gate, the band waited nearly two hours, restless and bored, before finally boarding.
Settling into business class, Ronan felt a flicker of excitement.
In his past life, he'd rarely flown, and those few times were always in economy. Business class was a new, almost giddy experience for him.
But a sleepless night wasn't doing him any favors. The long wait at the gate had drained him, and exhaustion crept in. Not long after sitting down, without even taking in the details, he drifted into a hazy sleep, finally letting go.
He woke up when the meal service started, wolfing down the food like a storm before pulling the blanket back over himself and passing out again.
Half-dreaming, he stirred when the second meal came around, feeling a bit more alive. Blinking awake, he studied the tray in front of him. A flight attendant's friendly voice chimed in, "Would you like champagne or red wine?"
Rubbing sleepy eyes, Ronan smiled and declined. Then he heard Ollie order a red wine beside him. Turning, he flinched at Ollie's bloodshot eyes. "God, Ollie, don't tell me you haven't slept this whole time?"
Ollie downed the wine in one gulp, then spun toward Ronan with an excited grin, ignoring the question. He handed over a notebook, his tiredness and gloom replaced by barely contained energy.
It was a 16K sketchbook with a black cover, plastered with state stickers in a messy but charming way. The edges were frayed, showing years of wear. Inside, scattered scribbles and notes filled the pages.
This was Ollie's creative journal, the source of many One Day Kings songs. But since the Scooter mess, he hadn't touched it much—maybe flipped it open now and then, but never added anything.
Until today.
Ollie tried to pass it to Ronan, but Ronan waved it off politely, gesturing at his tray. "I'm about to eat. You should too, or you won't have the energy for this afternoon's rehearsal."
Ollie nodded absently, flipping open the sketchbook. He leaned over, practically begging for attention, like a dog wagging its tail for its owner. "Look, I jotted down some inspiration fragments earlier. How about I read them to you? Tell me what you think?"
Ronan spread butter on his bread slowly, like an artist painting with a knife, glancing at Ollie. "Music?"
"No, lyrics." Ollie shook his head, completely ignoring his own food.
Ollie, who usually cherished every bite, had forgotten his meal entirely. Ronan gave Ollie's untouched tray a pitying look but turned back to him, nodding to show he was listening.