The tip of the joint touched his lips, inhale and then an exhale, the smoke puff leaving his mouth as he leaned his head back, enjoying the relaxation-induced effects of the filled paper.

Everyone had their own hobbies and ways of tranquility. What was Hanta's? Simple.

Weed.

It wasn't every day he did it. Just on the stressed and frustrated filled days of life. Maybe even for a special occasion. But today? Absolute hell. Like he could feel the fire of pits on his back. The anxiety and torture of the exams.

It was so insufferable, excruciating, unendurable, and so, very grim.

Hanta exhaled, this time, no puff came out of his mouth. Instead, it was an exhale of relief. He looked over at your nervous form and almost felt pitiful. What type of friend would he be if he left you in this state of mind?

“You look like you're about to crack,” his eyes jaded and faded, heavy-lidded as they looked at yours. “You're not gonna tattletale on me, are you? Don't be so nervous.”

No reply from your side.

“Cmere,” he moved up over to your jittering body. He slightly towered over your sitting shadow, tilting your chin up as he brought the rolled paper to your lips. “It's like a cigarette. You know how those work. Except this might be less harmful. Just inhale through your mouth and blow out, let the magic do its thing.” He paused. “No pressure, alright? You don't have to…”