Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In an unexpected twist of fate, Rumi falls first.

It hits her at the end of HUNTR/X's debut performance.

Amidst the screaming and cheering of a newly forming fanbase, amidst the whoops and thumbs-ups from the stage crew, amidst the thrumming instrumentals closing out the performance, Rumi stands on stage and stares.

She stares at Mira, at her wild grin, at her heaving chest, at her sweat-slicked hair, at her soft gaze, at her quiet confidence accompanying her every move.

She stares at Zoey, at her sparkling eyes, at her bouncing feet, at her exaggerated waving and loud reciprocal cheers, at her open awe, at her whole body vibrating in joy.

Rumi stares, and she falls.

For Mira.

For Zoey.

For both.

And as soon as she realizes this, she grabs her heart, shoves it deeper into her chest, and convinces herself that she’s so lucky just to have the two girls in her life, to get to love and cherish them like a friend, because even if she did like them differently, she couldn’t, not with the poisonous purple that twists like creeping vines down her shoulders. 

When she falls after their first tour, she shoves it down.

When she falls after their first Idol Awards, she shoves it down.

When she falls after every performance, and before, and during, she shoves it down.

When she starts falling every time she’s off the stage with them too, every time Mira tosses out a sarcastic comment or Zoey rambles on about a new animal fact, the shoving gets less and less effective.

After their fourth Idol Awards win, Rumi falls and doesn’t try to get back up. She takes her heart in her hands, glares at it, and concedes.

It pulses in her chest, full with a love so very distinct from friendship (it shares many of the same notes, but the harmonies layer in something unique and unexpected), and she finally lets it. Quietly, in small moments when she’s positive Zoey and Mira aren’t looking, she lets it fill her with a golden warmth.

Rumi’s content with that. 

Until the Honmoon turns gold, she’s content with loving her girls privately. And really, she’s surprised at how little it hurts to do so. Any aches she thought she’d feel, at knowing what her heart begged for and not being able to act on it, are few and far-between, soothed by the constant presence of Mira and Zoey just…being in her life.

Rumi’s happy, and that’s more than she’s ever expected to be.

Maybe someday, though. When the Honmoon turns golden.

Until then, she’ll wait.

---

Zoey and Mira are going to lose their minds if they have to keep waiting on Rumi to figure her shit out already.

Zoey’s like, 99% confident that Rumi likes them back.

Well, obviously she likes them, duh, that’s a given considering that the girls are together both on and off the stage on practically a 24/7 basis. 

It’s the whole does-she-like-them-romantically that Zoey’s specifically pretty confident in. (99%. Almost guaranteed, really.)

Zoey also really hates waiting.

As it turns out, so does Mira.

Mira.

Zoey sighs dreamily, propping her head in her hands and staring at nothing in particular as her mind works in overdrive.

Mira.

Zoey realized Mira loved her and Rumi in a GS25 convenience store at two in the morning. 

Decked to the nines in mismatched hoodies, hospital-grade face masks, and bucket hats pulled down over their ears, it was a relatively normal late night snack run for HUNTR/X. Zoey beelined immediately for the chocolate shelf, Rumi scooted off to grab ramyeon and chips, and Mira grabbed a basket for drinks. The store was empty apart from the tired and bemused sales clerk, which meant the girls could relax a little more than usual knowing that there were no fans around to comment on any potentially weird behaviors.

Zoey, grabbing one of each kind of chocolate cookie packs on the shelf, yanked her bucket hat off her head, flipped it upside down, and started dumping the stash inside in a perfectly not-weird solution to forgetting to grab a basket at the storefront less than five meters away. She mused over the chocolate bars as well, scrunched up her face in determination, walked two steps, then spun back to grab three, one for each of the girls.

Carrying her haul, Zoey skipped to the back of the store by the fridges full of drinks just as Rumi rounded the corner with her arms full of cheap noodles and chip bags. 

Zoey caught a glimpse of the basket in Mira’s hand, full of specific, carefully chosen drinks (all of their favorites) before Mira turned around, raised an eyebrow at both Zoey and Rumi, and popped a second basket from out the bottom of her current one. She held it out and snorted as Rumi sheepishly dumped her haul in the basket, then offered it to Zoey.

It was mundane. It was familiar. It was the look in Mira’s eyes, of not just amusement but overwhelming fondness at antics that she’d seen a hundred times already, antics that Zoey would’ve been chided for back home.

Huh. Mira loved them.

Zoey wondered if Mira’s own moment of realization was as dramatic as Zoey’s was, when she stopped to take a picture of a giant fish tank window in the Coex Aquarium (Rumi and Mira had surprised Zoey for her birthday), a window so big that it stretched from floor to ceiling, and froze as she looked through her camera lens to see Mira and Rumi pointing excitedly at a sea turtle. Their silhouettes, haloed in cerulean, already turning backwards to tell Zoey what they saw, had jumped straight out of a novel and stolen Zoey’s breath and heart in one split second.

She didn’t really care, though, how it happened for Mira. Only that it did.

It took a few days after for Zoey to work up the courage to speak to Mira, privately, while Rumi was at a solo shoot. She’d pulled Mira onto the couch, grabbed a chair from the kitchen, sat in front of her, leaned forward with steepled fingers, and stared.

Mira had started to look genuinely concerned when Zoey finally blurted it out, everything, dumping all of her thoughts and feelings into one giant rambling sentence until she ran out of breath, gasped, and waited for Mira’s reaction.

“No way,” Mira had murmured, hand over her heart. Zoey had held her breath, scared, until Mira broke into the biggest grin Zoey had ever seen and repeated, “No way.” A laugh bubbled free, and another, Mira unable to control them, and soon, Zoey and Mira were both in stitches together and so overwhelmingly happy.

They’d decided together not to do anything. Not yet. 

They were still missing one, after all.

So days passed, and apart from glances that shared a secret and the occasional brushes of light fingers that lingered a little more than they used to, nothing changed except the knowing.

Then weeks passed.

And months.

And Zoey is tired of it.

She wants Mira and Rumi sooo bad.

“Um.” Rumi clears her throat. “Are you…good?”

“Hm?” Zoey opens her eyes to a slowly swirling white liquid. Confused, she lifts her forehead from the glass’ edge where she’d apparently let herself fall in a dramatic slump of defeat, shrugs, and takes a big slurp of the milk tea through a wide paper straw. “Mmf, totally fine,” she says, voice muffled as she chews a tapioca pearl at the same time. “Just thinkin’.”

“About…?” Rumi probes.

“You,” Zoey answers bluntly. Rumi blinks and Zoey swears the tips of her ears are turning red. “And Mira,” Zoey adds. 

Mira raises an eyebrow. Knowing Mira, she’s completely aware of what Zoey’s teasing. To Zoey’s surprise, she doesn’t interrupt it.

“Um,” Rumi starts, “like…about what we’re doing today?”

It takes all of Zoey’s willpower not to bang her head on the table. “Yeah, Rumi,” she sighs, “what are we doing today?” 

Rumi snaps into focus in an instant and starts rattling off their schedule. Across the table, Mira smirks. Zoey sticks her tongue out in response. It’s not like Mira doesn’t also want this!

“…and after that, we’re done early and totally free for the evening!”

Both Zoey and Mira perk up. Their eyes meet in a shared thought.

“A free evening?” Mira says slowly. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Rumi glances between them, confused.

“Bathhouse!” Zoey and Mira crow in tandem. Excited, Zoey resists the urge to bounce in her seat as she starts rapidly talking. “We all have a free evening, it feels like it’s been ages since we started tour planning, which also means that we totally deserve this. Especially you, Rumi, you always work way too hard, the bathhouse will feel so nice and—"

Shifting in her chair, Rumi gives a weird laugh. “Oh! Uh, actually, I think I’m just going to use my evening to catch up on some rest. You know, get some R&R.”

Mira frowns. “Rumi, the bathhouse is R&R, you can’t get more rested or relaxed than that.”

“Come on, Rumi, you’ll love it, we promise!” Zoey insists, even as she feels her hope of a group bathhouse trip fading fast. 

“No thanks, I’m, you know, pretty worn out from the tour prep. I think I’ll just go to bed extra early tonight.”

Mira’s voice is quiet and calm. “Are you sure?”

Rumi nods. “Absolutely, yes. Thanks for the offer, though!” She grins broadly, and Zoey can’t help but think it looks a little forced, even though that doesn’t really make any sense.

“Okay. Well, get some rest tonight, then,” Mira says, standing up to take her dishes to the sink and lightly brushing Rumi’s shoulder as she passes. 

Disappointed, Zoey watches Rumi turn back to her breakfast stiffly and thoughtfully chews another pearl. 

Maybe the bathhouse is an opportunity for something different.

---

Zoey waits half a second after she and Mira sink into the warm water, reveling in the encompassing heat and steam, before launching into conversation:

“Mira, I want to tell her.”

Mira closes her eyes and leans her towel-covered head back against the edge of the bath. “I know,” she states. “I do too.”

“I think we’ve waited long enough and—you do?” Zoey’s ramble stops as she realizes what Mira’s said.

“Yeah,” admits Mira, “I do. It’s been months.”

“Not gonna lie, I thought you were being super patient about the whole thing.”

Mira lazily opens one eye. “I mean, sure, that’s been the goal. I want Rumi to come to us so we don’t scare her off.” She sighs. “But I’ll be real, I don’t think it’s ever going to happen if we don’t start it. You know how Rumi is.”

Groaning, Zoey submerges half her face below the water and huffs, sending a burst of air bubbles under the surface. Lifting up just enough so the water’s lapping at her chin, Zoey says, “I do, I really do. I think she likes us, like, romantically, I really think she does, 99% sure, but she’s always so cautious about everything.” Zoey pauses. “Well, everything with people,” she amends, thinking on Rumi’s reckless streak during demon hunts and her propensity to try literally anything placed in front of her at work (and listen, okay, the skateboarding shoot may have technically been Zoey’s idea, but she is not the one who encouraged Rumi to try a kickflip before she could even balance on a board). 

“What if she doesn’t, though?” Mira whispers uncertainly.

Zoey freezes.There’s the thought they’ve both been too scared to voice for a while now.

“I don’t want to make her uncomfortable.” Mira shifts. “Because if she doesn’t like us back—”

“She does, I know she does,” Zoey interjects.

“—because if she doesn’t, it could ruin everything.”

Laughing nervously, Zoey weakly argues, “Nooo, haha, Rumi wouldn’t let that change our relationship, she wouldn’t.”

“Zoey.” Mira opens her eyes. “Think about it. Imagine Rumi and I came to you and said we wanted to be in a relationship, and you didn’t want that.”

“I mean, I do, though, I really really do—”

“Just entertain it for a second, Zoey.”

Zoey scrunches her nose as she thinks.

She…doesn’t know what she’d do, actually. How she’d react. But she does know that it would change things in their relationship.

“...It would change things,” Zoey concedes reluctantly. “But it won’t with Rumi, I know it won’t, Mira. She’d never let it, but also, I just…I know she wants it too.” She takes a breath. “I’m sure of it.”

“It scares me,” Mira confesses, “but at this point, I can’t not take the risk, because I’m tired of waiting. I want her. I want you.”

Zoey’s breath catches in her throat. 

“I know we’re waiting for Rumi,” says Mira, “and I think that that’s been the right decision, but Zoey, I already have your answer, and if we can just get Rumi’s, no matter what it is, then we can finally act accordingly.”

Mira’s cheeks are flushed, and Zoey knows that, no matter how Mira may argue otherwise, it’s not from the steam.

Seeing Mira be so open, be so vulnerable, has Zoey just—“I want to kiss you so bad right now.”

Mira stares.

Zoey opens and closes her mouth like some kind of guppy fish. “I—ah—” She drops her head in her hands and whines. “I’m sorrrryyyy, I didn’t mean to blurt that out, it’s just, you’re literally being so attractive right now and—”

A finger on her mouth shuts Zoey up quickly.

Mira’s crossed the bath until she’s in front of Zoey. Her eyes roam over Zoey’s face before landing on her lips. Mira licks her own, then leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to the tip of Zoey’s nose.

“Zoey,” she rasps, “believe me, I want to do the same thing. So let’s tell Rumi soon, okay?”

“Yes, absolutely okay, sounds great!” Zoey nods quickly.

“Good.” Mira pulls away and Zoey bites back a whine. “Now, let’s come up with a plan.”

---

Mira and Zoey are just entering their penthouse, refreshed and determined, when the Honmoon ripples pink around them. They groan loudly. Mira thinks, Seriously?

A bedroom door at the end of the hallway slams open, the handle bouncing off the wall with a bang as Rumi, dressed in a hoodie and teddy bear train pajama pants, rushes out, hands frantically twisting her hair into a loose braid as she runs.

Startled, Rumi nearly misses a step when she sees Mira and Zoey, then switches to business mode: “Good, you’re back! We’ve gotta go.”

Mira and Zoey already know the drill.

Mira lets Rumi take point as all three of them pile in the elevator, stopping on the deserted second floor instead of the lobby level so they can cut through one of the empty offices and out its windows, one of their standard routes for sneaking off on nighttime patrols.

There’s always a certain thrill that pulses through Mira during hunts; tonight, it’s fueled both by adrenaline and by the sight of Rumi charging ahead of them, somehow still effortlessly graceful despite her sloppy braid and cartoon pajamas. To Rumi’s right, Zoey runs steadily, arms fanned out behind her as she bounds on light feet across the streets of Seoul.

Mira loves them.

She’s not actually sure when she figured it out; Zoey asked her, and had a moment of her own to reference, but Mira doesn’t have that. She thinks that one day, her heart simply decided without her, and sometime in the following weeks, her brain caught up.

Zoey and her were going to tell Rumi; they’d brainstormed all evening, cycling through elaborate date ideas before landing on simply picking their next movie night together, getting Rumi’s favorite snacks in advance, and just. Telling her.

Mira’s heart beats wilder as the fear and excitement of that decision meld with the fear and excitement of the hunt.

It's not that late at night yet, so there are people out, salarymen and women heading home after a late day at work, groups of friends passing a round of soju, neighborhood residents grabbing forgotten groceries, and more, but none of them think to look up and notice one of the world’s most famous idol groups racing across the rooftops.

The Honmoon tugs them towards an alley off a main road, dimly lit and a perfect hotbed for demons to spawn. 

They arrive just as the tear opens, a flood of smaller, colorful demons rushing out, swinging clubs and rusty blades.

As one, HUNTR/X summons their own weapons. Rumi calls out a casual, “'Golden' on three!” She glances back to Mira and Zoey for a split second with mirthful eyes. “Let’s get some harmony practice in!” Her loose braid whips around behind her head as she runs towards the roof, counting down, and dives off, twisting and striking in an instant.

Mira and Zoey are right behind. They share one glance with each other, both of their eyes sparkling with love and delight and, quite frankly, attraction at their leader, before leaping into the alley as well.

Zoey zips straight into the fray, a whirlwind with knives. She springs off the walls and spins in midair and somehow sends a nonstop barrage of shin-kal blades with deadly precision at as many demons as she can see.

Mira works her way in from the edges, the reach of her gok-do feeling more like an extension of her arm as she sweeps it down and carves it back upwards through demon flesh, the resistance giving way in seconds as the demons turn to dust at the blade’s mercy.

And Rumi’s in the dead center, where she always is.

Following her movements out of the corner of her eye, Mira sees Rumi weaving her way through the demons, crouching low to kick a demon’s legs out from under it then using a burst of energy to propel herself forward at the next group of demons. Her sword sings as Rumi does, soaring with the high notes—“up, up, up, it’s our moment” —that leave Mira and Zoey weak at the knees before dipping down to paint a figure eight in demon dust.

It’s an easy fight, these demons clearly desperate, inexperienced, or some combination of the two. Their blades and clubs whistle through the air but miss their marks, leaving them stumbling and vulnerable to each of the hunters’ swings.

There’s a minor hiccup right at the end that does cause Mira’s breath to catch, if only for a second. As the tear starts closing, a trio of larger demons breaks through, though certainly not larger than anything the girls are used to on a regular basis.

With rusty swords in hand, the trio roars and charges.

One chooses to charge Mira, who takes all of two seconds to duck under the wild swing and slam her gok-do through the demon’s chest. It grunts in surprise as it dissipates, leaving Mira to take her free weapon and turn it to help Zoey and Rumi.

The other two demons seem to be communicating as they run head-on. One garbles something to the other, who nods and peels right to flank Zoey. Zoey turns with it, keeping it in her line of sight as she primes her shin-kals.

Rumi bounces lightly on her feet in anticipation, sword raised and ready to slice as the last demon comes barreling at her. She swipes her sword and misses, her eyes betraying her surprise, as the demon feints left then pivots right, rushing for the distracted Zoey whose back is turned as she focuses on the other one.

The third demon raises its rusty sword high and slashes it down as Mira pushes off the street and starts to shove her gok-do forward to block the blow, if she can only get there fast enough.

She doesn’t need to.

A purple blur whizzes in front of the blade. Rumi’s saingeom shoves upwards and catches on the demon’s weapon, then snakes around its hilt to twist and pop the sword straight out of the demon’s hand. It can’t even react before Rumi’s saingeom is buried to the hilt in its neck.

It dusts in front of her as Zoey finishes off her own opponent simultaneously.

Mira catches herself mid-run, skidding to a halt next to her girls and scanning the perimeter. The air around them pops, all tension suddenly gone as the Honmoon burns brightly with the last notes of "Golden" and the absence of demons, sealing itself shut and melting back into its usual ripples of blue.

Well, this fight certainly ruined any of the cleaning Zoey and her did at the bathhouse, but she can’t help but relish in the excitement and the rush of success, all demons gone and not a single scra—

No, wait.

There’s a red line across Rumi’s cheek that wasn’t there before.

Mira blinks.

When the hell had Rumi gotten hit?

She replays the fight back in her head, doesn’t recall any example where Rumi was even remotely close to a demon’s weapon, and—oh. Mira knows. 

When Rumi had flung herself between the demon and Zoey without hesitation, the blade must’ve nicked her before Rumi finished the demon off.

Mira stares at the scratch of red as Zoey says something and Rumi laughs. 

She stares as they leisurely parkour their way back to their tower, she stares as they pile back in the elevator, and she stares as they enter their penthouse and flop bonelessly onto the couch.

Zoey’s giggling as Rumi says something silly that Mira doesn’t catch. Absentmindedly, Mira walks to the kitchen to grab their first aid kit from under the sink and silently walks back over, mind working overtime.

She kneels in front of Rumi and starts to clean the scratch, Rumi wincing at the disinfectant for a split second before continuing her chatter with Zoey.

It’s Zoey who pauses. “How did that demon even manage to land a hit on you, by the way?” 

Rumi shrugs. “I was a little slow on my parry—"

”She jumped in front of you when her demon feinted and charged at your back,” Mira says bluntly.

Gasping, Zoey says, “You took that scratch for me?”

Rumi ducks her head, embarrassed as Zoey gushes. “Rumi, you’re a literal hero. My knight in shining armor, riding in to take on the dastardly demon! Thank you for saving me!” Zoey swoons dramatically, struggling to keep in-character as she teases.

Beneath Mira’s fingers, Rumi’s cheeks glow red as she doesn’t play along and instead mumbles a quiet and genuine, “Always.”

…Okay, fuck the bathhouse plans.

Mira finishes cleaning the scratch, determining that it’s shallow and doesn’t need stitches. She places a large bandage on the scratch, pressing lightly but firmly to make sure it’s on.

Mira breathes shakily as she pulls back and deliberately catches Zoey’s eye.

The look on her face must say it all, because she’s met with two eyebrows raised in shock. Zoey jerks her head at Rumi and mouths “Now?!”

Mira nods.

Fuck waiting. 

“Rumi.” Mira’s voice is low and serious.

Rumi immediately picks up on the tone and sits up straight. Her eyes lock onto Mira’s in no slight amount of panic. “…Yes?” she asks tentatively.

Beckoning Zoey, Mira steps back a bit from the couch and drops cross-legged onto the ground. She needs this conversation to be face-to-face between all three of them, something that’s a little harder to pull off on the couch.

Zoey comes, uncharacteristically quiet, and sits next to Mira.

Rumi follows suit, glancing uneasily between the two of them as she finishes their triangle. “Is everything…okay?” she asks.

“Yes,” Mira reassures calmly, “it is. But there’s…something Zoey and I want to talk to you about.”

Confusion plays across Rumi’s features. “O…kay…?” Her brow is wrinkled and Mira just knows there are a million possibilities swirling in that overthinking brain of hers, probably none of them good.

Zoey adds, “We’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while, actually, we just wanted to give you the chance to tell us first.”

Rumi stiffens oddly. Something in her gaze shifts from bemusement to wariness. Her muscles are starting to tense, and Mira realizes that she needs to lock down whatever this reaction is fast. 

Placing a steady hand on Rumi’s knee, Mira says, “Hey. It’s nothing bad. Whatever you’re thinking, knock it off.” She pokes Rumi’s forehead.

Rumi blinks, seeming to relax at least a little. She worries her lip. “Then…what is it?”

Mira takes a deep breath. Zoey’s vibrating next to her, but she's thankfully following the one part of their bathhouse plan they can use here, which is Let Mira do the talking.

“Rumi. Zoey and I have known you for more than half a decade now.” Mira tries her best not to cough or stammer as the realization of what she’s about to do finally hits her. “A few months ago, Zoey came to me about something that…well, it surprised me a lot. She and I talked about it, and we decided to give you the chance to realize it yourself, but now, Zoey and I are done waiting.”

Mira hopes her cheeks aren’t red.

Rumi is blinking at them both owlishly. 

“We want you to know that this won’t change anything if you don’t want it to!” Zoey blurts out quickly. “You don’t have to treat us any differently if you don’t want to, and we promise we’ll treat you exactly the same too!”

That odd caution is back in Rumi’s eyes.

Before she can shrink away, Mira reaches out to grab her hand. Zoey, following Mira’s lead, does the same with Rumi’s other.

“This is—” Mira sucks air sharply between her teeth “—actually really hard to say, holy shit. Zoey, how did you just tell me?”

“Because I was right! And I knew it, too, just like I’m 98% sure I’m right this time too!”

“Did you bring it down a point?”

Zoey ignores Mira, clasping Rumi’s hand tightly in both of hers. “Rumi. We—okay actually, first, you need to for real relax, Mira meant it when she said it’s nothing bad. We’re actually hoping—” Zoey ducks her head, surprisingly shy “—that you think it’s really good.”

Rumi swallows dryly. “Can someone just say it already?” She’s still tense, bracing herself for some kind of bad news.

Mira takes one final inhale, summons every ounce of courage in her body, and forces out, “We love you.”

“I…do too?” Rumi answers, confused.

Zoey slaps her palm to her forehead. “Mira! Be more specific!”

“Right,” Mira mumbles, tongue thick, “right. Rumi. Zoey and I—we don’t love you.” 

Rumi flinches.

“Oh for the—” cries Zoey. “One more try Mira, or I’m breaking the plan and saying it myself.”

Now, Mira knows she’s red. “Fuck, sorry, I’ve never done this before,” she mutters, frustrated that she can’t keep her usual cool. “That’s not what I meant, I swear. I meant…”

Mira steels herself and closes her eyes, too scared to look. “I meant that we don’t just love you, Rumi. We’re in love with you.”

Silence.

No one says anything.

When Mira cracks open an eyelid, she’s met with a shell-shocked Rumi.

“Do you…have any questions?” Mira asks lamely.

Slowly, Rumi turns her head to look at Mira, and Zoey, and Mira, and Zoey.

In a strangled voice, Rumi asks, “Both of you?”

Mira feels her heart sink. “Both of us,” she whispers.

“…Rumi?” The way Zoey’s voice cracks nearly breaks Mira’s own heart.

Shit. Fuck. They should’ve waited. They shouldn’t’ve said anything at all. Mira pushed to tell Rumi tonight and now she’s ruined everything.

She can’t lose this family, she can’t, they’re everything to her, and—

Mira blinks.

Rumi’s face is gradually turning more and more red until she just about matches the shade of chili paste. She draws her knees to her chest and hugs them close and again chokes out, “…Both of you?”

“Yes, both of us.” The way Zoey answers it feels like a desperate plea.

Pulling her hood up, Rumi tightens the drawstrings around her scarlet face and keeps staring. A third time, she whispers, “Both of you?”

And then, before either of them can answer, she adds a disbelieving, breathless, hopeful, “For real?”

Mira’s heart does a flip.

Zoey bursts into a beaming smile. “Is that okay?” Zoey asks, vibrating.

Rumi gives a small nod.

“Are you interested in both of us?”

Another nod.

“Like, romantically?”

A nod.

“Like, you’re in love with us?”

“Yes, Zoey,” Rumi laughs hoarsely, “yes, yes, I—you’re both in love with me?”

“Yes!” Zoey exclaims, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yes,” Mira murmurs, as if it’s the most precious thing in the world. “Can...can you say it in a sentence, Rumi, so we know we're on exactly the same page?”

Rumi lifts her head so quickly, the hood falls back around her neck. “Yes, I’m in love with you, I didn’t—it never crossed my mind that you both—"

A gentle touch from Zoey on Rumi’s cheek, right on top of her bandage, promptly shuts her up.

“Hey Rumi,” Zoey starts to ask, leaning in, “can I kiss you? Because I’ve been waiting a really long time to kiss you.”

Rumi twists out of her position and lunges forward to meet Zoey halfway. Their lips lock, tentatively pressing. As Mira watches, she feels a giddiness burst forth in her chest, much the same as it did when Zoey first confessed to her. 

Zoey and Rumi are kissing, because they love each other. And they also love Mira, and Mira loves them, and—

Her thoughts are interrupted by Zoey’s mouth on hers, hot and impatient, muttering as she moves about just how long she’s been waiting to do this. Mira tangles her hand in her hair and yanks her closer, pressing their lips so tightly that Zoey can’t talk anymore, and it’s one piece of two that make up everything she’s ever wanted.

When Zoey pulls away, Mira mourns the loss of sensation before she opens her eyes to a stammering Rumi being shoved in her face by an eager Zoey. “One more!” Zoey declares through kiss-swollen lips.

Mira meets Rumi’s eyes. She leans forward slowly, hesitantly, not wanting to overwhelm Rumi anymore than she already is, and—

Rumi’s soft, and gentle, and Mira sinks into the feeling with a lightness in her chest. As she kisses Rumi, she holds out her hand, flexing her fingers in a grabbing motion. Zoey obliges happily. 

Hand holding Zoey’s tightly, Mira grins widely into Rumi’s mouth and feels her smile in response. Her other hand caresses the bandage on Rumi’s cheek, earning her a small hum.

Mira truly doesn’t know how she deserves this family of hers, but she’ll protect them from harm with every fiber of her being: her two beautiful girls.

---

And just like that, they’re girlfriends.

A week passes, and Rumi’s still not sure she believes it.

However happy she’d convinced herself she felt before is nothing compared to the overwhelming, blossoming warmth of knowing that Mira and Zoey love her in the same way she loves them.

They don’t have much time together, not with their world tour kicking off next week and more work on "Golden" to have it ready to go after their return, but right now, they’re all riding the high of just knowing.

In-between photo shoots, in between rehearsals and make-up and mic checks, they catch each other’s eyes and smile, or wink, or blow a kiss, and they know.

---

The patterns are spreading.

Rumi trembles in the dressing room after their first World Tour performance. She holds her arms out in front of her, shaking her head and muttering “no, no, no” as she sees the purple creeping past her elbows.

---

The HUNTR/X World Tour doesn’t give the girls a lot of time to themselves. Most evenings, they’re too exhausted from travel or performances to do anything but flop on their hotel beds.

Overall, sometimes Rumi doesn’t feel like anything’s changed.

And sometimes, in their precious free time, Mira and Zoey pin her up against a wall just minutes before they need to be ready for make-up and kiss her until she can’t breathe.

---

In another three stops, the patterns are all the way up to her wrists, writhing and wrong.

---

Halfway through the tour, they’ve got two performances in New York City and a full day of rest in-between them.

They’re curled in a pile in the hotel room, watching some movie Zoey insists is an American classic that Rumi really can’t understand (her English is passable at best, and these characters are talking way too fast for her to catch a word they’re saying), when Mira trails her fingers along Rumi’s thigh.

It escalates quickly,  to hot, peppered kisses and fervent touches and—

—a hand starts to push the hem of her shirt up and Rumi panics, practically leaping away and shoving Mira hard enough that she stumbles backwards before catching herself.

Rumi stares, horrified.

Mira apologizes, says it’s fine, says she shouldn’t have assumed. Zoey echoes her.

---

When it happens again, Rumi jerks back the same way. Shame coils in the pit of her stomach and wraps its clammy fingers around her shoulders and arms.

Mira and Zoey look at her so softly and tell her it’s okay. They’ll wait as long as she wants them to.

Until she’s ready.

---

Rumi is ready. 

She’s so ready.

But she can’t.

She can’t.

Not without them seeing the truth.

She can’t lose what they have now, what she has now.

Can’t risk it. Won’t.

She can do this—she can be selfless.

Just until they turn the Honmoon gold.

---

An idea starts to form.

It’s dumb. It’s risky.

It means lying to Mira and Zoey on another level than she has been.

(But she already has been, hasn’t she? So what’s the harm?)

liar

It’s a bad idea.

She can wait.

---

She can’t wait.

Rumi can’t lose what they have now, what she has now, but she also can’t take it anymore.

She wants them.

Rumi wants Mira and Zoey so badly, in whatever way, shape, or form that comes in.

For once in her life, Rumi wants to be selfish.

It’s the first week since the World Tour’s started that HUNTR/X is back in Seoul. They’re not performing yet, just taking a quick pause to finalize some studio work before the final leg of their tour across South Korea, but it’s nice to take a breather back in their home after so many weeks abroad.

Instead of heading towards the shower as planned, Rumi darts into her room the second evening of this week after recording finishing touches for "Golden’s" official release, scrubs off her make-up as fast as humanly—inhumanly?—possible, and shucks off her work clothes. Almost bolting to the closet, she hastily shoves on a plain turtle neck, an off-white hoodie, and sweatpants. She triplechecks her sleeves and the collar of her shirt, makes sure everything is snug and covering any signs of purple, and breathes shakily.

Her heart hammers in her chest as she creaks her bedroom door open and stands there for a moment, listening to the casual chatter of Mira and Zoey, both of whom are already sprawled out on the couch and relatively dressed down for the day (Mira more so than Zoey), their parts for the recording having wrapped a couple of hours before Rumi’s.

There’s some kind of animal clip compilation playing on mute on the tv, but Rumi only has eyes and ears for the two women she upholds as the most precious parts of her world. Gulping quietly, she feels her ears already heating and slaps both hands to her cheeks. 

What is she doing?

She can’t do this.

She can’t just waltz out into the living room and ask for this.

Logically, she knows Mira and Zoey have been willing for a while, and she knows that they’ll wait a while more, as long as Rumi needs. 

(What Rumi needs is for the Honmoon to turn gold.)

But she’s a demon, and a liar, and selfish.

She doesn’t want to wait.

She wants them.

Trembling, Rumi steels herself, straightens her back, and strides as casually as she can muster to the couch.

Mira and Zoey light up when they see her, as if it had been two years instead of two hours since she’d last seen them. “Rumi!” they greet, immediately parting to pat the middle cushion between them. 

“Come on, let’s relax,” orders Mira, wiggling backwards into the plush of the couch. Her polar bear pajama shirt rides up her thighs with the motion, and Rumi’s breath hitches. 

Zoey and Mira both sense something’s off when Rumi doesn’t take the proffered seat, choosing to stand and twist her hands together.

“You good?” Mira asks quietly, a note of concern threading through the question.

“Yeah Rumi, is something wrong? Did something not go well at the recording?” Zoey frowns. A little crinkle appears above her nose. Rumi thinks it may be one of the cutest things she’s ever seen.

Her eyes flit back and forth between them, between their worried looks, and she thinks of how they’d look at her if they knew and shoves that thought back into the recesses of her mind.

Starting to lean forward again, Mira makes it a scant few centimeters before Rumi’s face is suddenly in hers. Her startled gasp dies in her throat; Rumi can see Mira swallow. 

“Can I kiss you?” Rumi asks quietly.

Mira’s eyes widen, and she jolts her head up and down in a rapid nod.

That’s all Rumi needs. Angling her head, Rumi reaches a hand up behind Mira’s head and twists her fingers into the long pink hair and pulls her in abruptly, slotting their lips together and kissing Mira like she never has before.

Rumi moves as Mira does, matching each press of lips with her own, pushing Mira’s mouth against hers until she gasps for breath just to have it swallowed by Mira surging back against her. 

Stumbling forward, Rumi drops her weight, catching herself with one knee on the edge of the couch, the other leg stretched back to counterbalance. She leans in and presses and kisses and asks for more, pleads for more; Mira’s all too happy to provide. She shifts under Rumi and pushes back, pressing until Rumi breaks away.

Rumi gulps in breath after breath of air and stares at Mira’s disheveled hair, stunned expression, and swollen lips.

Turning her head, Rumi meets the gaze of a very red Zoey, her jaw hanging open, her eyes and pupils blown wide as saucers.

Rumi doesn’t even need to ask Zoey out loud—she just raises her eyebrows in question and knows Zoey well-enough that her subsequent squeak works as a proper yes. 

Before Rumi can move, Zoey comes to her in a blink, mouth on Rumi’s faster than expected, whining and excited, knocking their teeth together on accident before succeeding in gaining entry to Rumi’s mouth, licking and gasping. Rumi kisses her back with the same fervor, head turned sideways as she still looms over Mira, the knee balancing her weight pressed up against Mira’s thigh.

When Rumi pulls away this time, she looks at Mira and Zoey, who look back at her, dazed and curious, a singular question read easily in both of their faces.

Rumi flushes as if she hadn’t just tackled her girlfriends to the couch, bites her lip, and nods. Mira and Zoey shiver, but don’t speak; Rumi realizes they’re waiting on her to say it.

Swallowing, Rumi quietly says, “I think I’m ready now.”

Mira and Zoey don’t need any more permission than that.

They surge, Mira grabbing Rumi into another crushing kiss as Zoey peppers Rumi’s neck with the same treatment. Rumi sighs contentedly against Mira’s mouth at each ghost of Zoey’s lips on skin, and then Zoey’s hooked a finger around the collar of her turtleneck and Mira’s scrabbling for the hem of her hoodie and—

Rumi jerks backwards, away from their touches, flushed and panting.

Mira and Zoey immediately still. “Rumi,” Zoey says, “are you sure?”

“We don’t want to pressure you,” Mira adds, concerned.

There’s a tremble as Rumi takes a moment to collect herself, already longing for their touches once more but knowing that it’s an impossibility right now.

Someday, she thinks, someday, when I’m fixed, I can let them touch all of me.

But for now—

Rumi licks her lips and gives her prepared request:

“I want to touch you,” she whispers.

“Oh fuck yes,” Zoey says, lunging forward and yanking Rumi towards her.

With a yelp, Rumi loses her balance and falls directly onto Zoey’s stomach.

The wind leaves Zoey in a whoosh, and Rumi starts to blush for a new reason as Mira begins cackling behind them. “Smooth,” Mira snorts, “so smooth.”

Zoey regains her composure, leans her head around Rumi, and sticks her tongue out at Mira. Rumi starts to push herself up, only for Zoey’s strong arms to tug her back down so she’s lying flush on top of Zoey.

“Do me first,” Zoey says with a grin, nose-to-nose with Rumi. If Zoey catches on to how flustered Rumi is, she doesn’t let it show, her grin softening with encouragement. “You got this, Rumi!”

Rumi blinks. “Are you cheerleading for me?”

“Ummm…” Squinting her eyes, Zoey goes, “Nooooo?”

Groaning, Rumi hangs her head. “Zoey, that’s so embarrassing.”

“Okay, well, how about this!” She grabs Rumi’s hands in her own. “I’ll help you start!” she giggles, placing Rumi’s hands squarely on her chest. Impulsively, Rumi squeezes, and Zoey lets out a high-pitched, breathless laugh. “Okay, yeahyeahyeah, start there—actually, go under—actually—” She sits back up abruptly and knocks her forehead straight into Rumi’s.

Rumi and Zoey both hiss in pain as Mira’s cackle starts back up again. “Oh my god,” Mira chortles, “you two are dorks.”

“It’s our first time—all of ours, Mira, don’t act like it’s not—mistakes are totally normal and definitely not the fault of one Zoey in particular and—”

“Zoey,” Rumi interrupts, “with all due respect, can I go back to—?”

Zoey squeaks. Her face turns as red as Rumi’s sure hers is, and she immediately scrabbles at her T-shirt, pulling it in such a rush that when it’s halfway off, it catches, leaving her arms held in the air and head stuck in cloth.

“Need some help?” Mira asks cockily, and Rumi feels a rush of heat from the way she says it alone.

An indignant Zoey gives a muffled “No!” in response before Mira grabs the shirt and pulls it all the way off. 

Rumi freezes, and for as confident as Mira was acting a second ago, she freezes as well.

So does Zoey as soon as she notices them. “What?” she frowns. “Why are you both looking at me?”

Eyes softening even as they rake hungrily over Zoey’s toned stomach, her shoulders, her still hidden cleavage, Mira chuckles, “Zoey, why do you think?”

A little panicked, Zoey asks, “For real, do I have something on me?”

“Yes,” complains Rumi, pulling Zoey into a sudden embrace that quickly becomes apparent as less a hug and more a I-need-to-reach-behind-you-real-quick. Her fingers fumble for just a second on Zoey’s bra clasp, muttering “Why do you even still have this on?” before successfully unhooking it and tossing it aside.

Rumi leans back, inhales sharply, then slowly, gently, reaches her hands out to cup Zoey’s chest, one hand on each breast. They’re…well, Rumi’s felt her own before on the occasional late night, and Zoey’s don’t feel too much different. Soft, supple…In a comparison Rumi will never voice aloud, she also thinks squishable, like a marshmallow plushie.

She’s also drop-dead gorgeous.

And based on her expression, she is enjoying this. 

Rumi gently presses them, touching and teasing with nimble fingers, and Zoey’s subsequent moan has Rumi inhaling sharply and pressing her legs tighter together. 

The tip of her right index finger starts to circle the bud in the center of one breast, then joins with Rumi’s thumb to roll it slightly between her fingers. Zoey flinches, but her hooded expression tells Rumi that it was caused by something far from fear.

There’s the sound of rustling cloth behind Rumi, and she glances back from Zoey for what's supposed to be a brief second to see Mira shucking off her pajama shirt. Rumi’s jaw drops. 

Suddenly, Mira’s lithe, dancer’s body is on near full display as she languidly stretches in her last remaining piece of clothing before catching Rumi’s eye, winking, and yanking that down too, stepping out of it quickly.

She’s beautiful.

Mira’s beautiful and Rumi loves her and Zoey’s beautiful and Rumi loves her and Zoey’s also gaping at Mira now as if she hasn’t already seen her in the bathhouse before and gulping audibly before giving a quick wolf whistle and waggling her eyebrows.

Mira bursts out laughing, her slightly pink cheeks the only reveal that she’s not quite as unaffected by what they’re doing as she’s been pretending to be. “God, you’re so—”

“Hot?” Rumi supplies.

“Smokin’ hot?” Zoey waggles her eyebrows faster.

Actually flushing, Mira quickly steps over to them and mutters, “You’re only this cocky because you’ve still got clothes on.”

“Rumi’s taking her time,” drawls Zoey, grinning at Rumi’s instant flush. “And I’ll have you know, I don’t appreciate you interrupting her warm-up.”

Mira raises an eyebrow at Zoey, then comes up behind Rumi and leans close. “Is over the clothes okay with you?” she asks, voice raspy.

Whimpering, the idea of it more than Rumi had hoped for from this, given her limitations—

her lies, she’s lying to them

—Rumi focuses on Mira’s presence and says, “Yes. Please. Yes please.”

“Cool. Yeah, okay, cool.” Mira feigns nonchalance poorly as she clambers up on the couch right behind Rumi and presses forward. Her chest presses into Rumi’s back, and Rumi wishes desperately that she could feel it , more than just the pressure of it through the hoodie, but it also gives her a good reminder as to what—or who, rather—has been waiting patiently for Rumi.

Zoey’s giggling, Rumi’s guessing a bit out of nerves and a bit out of joy, and suddenly, all Rumi can think of is making Zoey happy, making Zoey feel good, how can she—

She lowers head down, down, down, and tentatively latches her mouth onto Zoey’s breast. Zoey gasps as Rumi scrapes her nipple gently with her teeth, then slowly begins to alternate between sucking and lavishing kisses across the pale skin as her hand plays with Zoey’s other breast, kneading and rubbing and twisting. Rumi pays close attention to every sound that Zoey makes and what causes it, focusing as if she’s learning a new choreography or saingeom move.

When Mira drapes her weight over Rumi, resting her chin on Rumi’s shoulder and snaking her hands around to grope Rumi’s chest through the cloth with the rushing excitement of a teenage boy, Rumi nearly chokes. It’s only Zoey’s continued noises, squeals and whimpers and whines, that keep her where she is, attentive to her task at hand even as her heart hammers with every pressured squeeze of Mira’s hands.

She wants to feel them.

Rumi wants to feel them, she wants to feel them, she wants to feel them, it’s not fair! She’s stuck wearing this stupid hoodie and this stupid turtleneck and Mira’s hands are making her feel things she’s never felt before but she can’t feel them, not fully.

Mira’s naked body is draped on Rumi’s back and her hands are on Rumi’s breasts and Rumi wants to feel them and she can’t, she can’t, she can’t, because she was born with these stupid patterns and she’s lying.

She whimpers in longing and throws herself into her task at hand, lavishing, kissing, worshipping. Rumi moans at Mira’s pressure and starts to move from Zoey’s trembling chest, letting her lips trail in between then down, pressing featherlight kisses to Zoey’s stomach and abdomen as Zoey twitches beneath her.

Before she reaches any lower, Mira’s hands drop from Rumi’s chest and appear in Rumi’s vision to hook around the edges of Zoey’s pajama pants and underwear simultaneously. “Shall we even the playing field?” Mira’s voice is husky, right in Rumi’s ear but loud enough for Zoey to catch too.

Zoey smirks uncertainly. “Yeah, I guess,” she sighs exaggeratedly, “if you just can’t handle being the only one then—ah!” 

At the teasing, any incentive for Mira to go slow vanishes, and her long arms, still wrapped partially around Rumi, pull the rest of Zoey’s clothing down in one go…Mostly one go. The pants get stuck around Zoey’s ankles and Rumi sits up and starts laughing as Zoey kicks her feet frantically.

“Oh my god, Zoey,” Mira huffs in humorous disbelief. “Here, let me—” She rolls off of Rumi and bends down to tug the last of Zoey’s clothing off her. 

“Guys,” Zoey says, “we are doing so great at sex right now.”

Rumi laughs harder. She throws her head back, her braid swaying freely after being trapped beneath Mira, and clutches her stomach. 

Snorting, Mira adds, “Totally. Top of the charts level sex, right here.”

Between giggles, Rumi adds, “HUNTR/X girls to—to the—world!”

“Rumi,” Zoey breathes, “you are so freaking cute.”

Her laughter dying in a strangled squeak, she meets the sparkling eyes of her girlfriends and smiles shyly back, as if a moment ago she wasn’t sandwiched between their naked bodies. Stammering, Rumi looks over them both and swallows and asks, “Can I…touch you?”

“Which one?” Mira raises her eyebrow.

In a breathy whisper, Rumi says, “You. If…if that’s okay.”

Mira’s eyes widen. She springs into action immediately, grabbing Rumi’s wrist in one hand and Zoey’s in the other. Muttering a quick, “We probably shouldn’t do this on the couch,” Mira guides the both of them with little resistance to her bedroom. 

Breathing hard, Mira sits heavily on the edge of the bed, her legs braced on the floor as she spreads them open.

Zoey wolf whistles again.

“I—” Mira clears her throat, nearly as pink as her hair. “I have a suggestion. Rumi, you can—please do whatever you want, in a second. But first, Zoey, I—” She clears her throat again, looking away. “I was thinking I might lean back on the bed, and you could maybe crawl over and, um, sit above me. Or something. If that's cool with you. Is that…okay?”

Zoey’s scrambling before Mira even finishes asking the question, hauling herself on the bed and coming up behind Mira to press her shoulders down until her back is lying flat on the comforter. “It is. So okay, Mira, you don’t even know.” Zoey almost trips over words as she gets on her knees and straddles Mira’s face. “Just, you know. Let me know when.”

“When,” Mira begs.

Rumi watches quietly as Zoey takes a deep breath, a hint of nerves overtaking her excitement. When Zoey catches Rumi's eye, Rumi smiles reassuringly. Zoey bites her lip and nods, then lowers herself onto Mira and lets out the loudest groan Rumi’s heard from her yet as Mira immediately latches onto Zoey with fervor. Zoey’s eyes are closed and mouth is open and constantly moaning, and the sounds of Mira devouring Zoey are new and hot and all of it pools straight between Rumi’s legs and also—

It pools into her heart, twisting and turning black with jealousy because Rumi wants that too, she wants to be on top of Mira, she wants someone to touch her and it hurts and—

And this is her first time having sex, and she’s doing it with her two favorite people in the world, and it’s not about Rumi right now, it’s about Zoey and it’s about Mira. Rumi wants to make sure they have the best night of their lives.

Reaching forward, Rumi falls to her knees between Mira’s legs and looks. Rumi’s eyes rove over the whole area, across Mira’s muscled thighs, her curls, her folds, wet and glistening, and Rumi touches her delicately, as if she’s made of glass; fragile and easily broken.

Mira’s hips twitch and Rumi hears Mira grunt beneath Zoey; Rumi’s impressed she even caught it with how loud Zoey’s become, her gasps and moans and whines filling the room. 

Rumi swallows and focuses on making sure Mira ends tonight as satisfied as she can feasibly be. Slowly, she trails her index finger through the wet. 

She’s gentle, teasing, and part of her delights in the way Mira’s hips seem to react to every little brush of Rumi’s fingertips. Yes, this Rumi can do. 

Rumi takes her time. Maybe it’s a need to warm up, like Zoey teased earlier, maybe it’s because she’s doing her best to shove down certain thoughts clamoring to be at the forefront of her mind, but maybe, it’s because Rumi’s, surprisingly, not nervous at all.

She’s embarrassed, she’s been embarrassed since she came home intending to spark all of this, but she’s warm and she’s happy and she’s comfortable. Mira and Zoey are familiar, and Rumi knows that she trusts them implicitly.

but they can’t trust Rumi, can they?

lies, liar, DEMON

Rumi slips her finger inside Mira and gasps in tandem with her. Mira’s warm and wet and alive, pulsing and gripping. Rumi pushes further, rewarded by both a groan from Mira and a moan from Zoey—a chain reaction, of sorts. 

Slowly, Rumi pulls her (nail-less, she came prepared) finger back out, then pushes it back in. She finds a rhythm, adagio, leisurely pushing in and pulling out. She makes sure every stroke caresses Mira’s walls with the gentleness of a goodbye kiss, and every touch she’s rewarded with Mira’s and Zoey’s sounds of satisfaction. 

Curious, after a few more strokes, Rumi decides to add a second finger. When she presses in, Mira’s hips buck in instant approval.

Rumi pulls out, in, out, in, and starts to go faster. She curls her fingers inside Mira, probing, searching, pulling out and back in again to search some more. Mira’s clearly receptive, but Rumi wants to do more, wants to make sure Mira wants for nothing.

On one particular curl, Mira nearly seizes, and Rumi grins wolfishly.

There it is.

She presses again, just to make sure, and Mira lets out a startled cry followed by a muffled “fuck, Rumi”. Zoey whines at the vibrations from Mira’s throat, bouncing slightly as she hovers in position. “Keep doing whatever you’re doing, Rumi,” Zoey gasps, “because oh my god.”

That’s her cue.

Rumi withdraws her fingers, checking for that sweet spot one more time, then thrusts them back in at the same place. She starts thrusting in earnest, curling her fingers with every stroke as Mira and Zoey continue to loudly let her know what a good job she’s doing. 

The sound of her fingers sliding in and out is slick and wet and Rumi bites her lip to keep herself from moaning as her thighs clench tighter. She pumps in and out steadily to an internal tempo of one of their new songs, curling and pressing for that same spot every time she does.

Rumi’s breath is ragged just from watching, watching Zoey, watching Mira, watching her fingers thrusting over and over again, and Rumi thinks on what else she can do to show her girls how much she loves them, cherishes them, worships them.

Leaning forward, Rumi closes her mouth around a peeking bundle of nerves, and Mira screams.

“Ruuuumiiiii,” Mira groans into Zoey, jerking her hips. Rumi presses them down with one hand, leaning her body weight into it, and starts to suck while her fingers keep pumping. Each slide of her hand seems to move faster as it moves in and out through progressively wetter folds.

Rumi revels in the taste, in the smell, in being entrenched in Mira body and soul. She imbues every lick, every swallow, with how much Mira means to her, and how much Zoey means to her, how Rumi can’t ever imagine a life without them—

they’ll find out. they’ll leave. they’ll attack her and hate her and leave her

Curling her fingers deep inside, Rumi buries herself in the taste of Mira as she unravels above Rumi, coming undone with an actual scream that brings Zoey to her own completion.

Rumi swallows and reluctantly pulls her fingers out from Mira’s fluttering grip on them. She stands to her feet and looks at her girls with a smile.

Zoey falls over onto the bed next to Mira and splays her arms out. Mira’s still lying on her back, face as smeared as Rumi’s is sure hers is, eyes glassy, hair wildly splayed below her. Her chest is heaving, sweat trickling down her neck, her chest, her abdomen.

Much the same, Zoey catches her breath, before beaming wildly and tossing double fist bumps in the air to yell, “My girlfriends and I just had seeex!”

Rumi and Mira blink, turn to stare at Zoey, and melt.

Groaning, Mira sits up, helping Zoey do the same. “Rumi,” Zoey’s saying as she gets up, “not like, right now, but sometime soon, I need you to do to me whatever you did to Mira, because like, Mira already felt amazing and then she was amazing amazing, you know?”

Zoey’s grin is sweet and kind, and no, Rumi doesn’t know.

She subtly adjusts how she stands to press her legs together, as if the pressure will do anything to help the pent-up, unreleased heat coiling between her thighs. 

“That was—Rumi, that was something. Wow.” Mira’s gaze is gentle, and Rumi’s so happy that her girls are satisfied. 

They bask for a moment in the afterglow, each of them watching the other softly, tenderly; Rumi’s thinking how she could possibly be this lucky, to have met two women so perfectly attuned to her that they’re practically soulmates.

Suddenly, Zoey gasps. “Rumi! Oh my god! What about you?!”

Mira’s breath hitches. “You didn’t—shit, Rumi, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think—”

Rumi smiles, as wide as she can, and hopes it doesn’t look too unnatural. “Oh,” she says, chuckling nervously, “I, um, I’m good. I finished too, just quieter than you guys.”

“But Rumi, we barely touched you…” Mira trails off.

Rubbing the back of her neck, Rumi shifts her weight, desperately trying to ignore the need still burning within her. “Seeing you two happy was all I needed, haha…”

Zoey coos, “Awww, Rumi you’re the sweetest!” She bounces off the bed, flings herself around Rumi’s shoulders, and plants a quick, sloppy kiss on Rumi’s lips. Pulling away, Zoey fake gags and goes, “Ewww, you taste like Mira.”

“I—excuse me?” Mira scowls, coming off the bed to loom menacingly over Zoey. 

Zoey shrugs. “Listen, I guess that’s just how it is, can’t control the—mmf!” Mira cuts her off with another kiss, deliberately smushing their faces together to rub some of Zoey’s mess back on the culprit.

Sputtering, Zoey goes, “Wait, okay, that was weird, that’s what I taste like?” She ponders it for a second. “...Actually I take back what I said about yours and mine, it’s kinda hot.”

Mira rolls her eyes and lightly shoves Zoey’s shoulder as she giggles.

Rumi clears her throat. “Thank you,” she murmurs, “for indulging me so suddenly.”

“Rumi, you can’t thank us for sex, that makes it feel like a favor,” Zoey says.

Mira flicks her in the forehead. “I think it’s very polite.” She steps to Rumi and pulls her in for a languid, lazy kiss. Rumi’s heart skips a beat and her body screams as she tastes both girls on Mira’s tongue. Pulling back, Mira smiles. “That was my thank you.” Looking down at herself, then to the bed, Mira sighs. “Why did I choose my bed, exactly?”

“Because you looove us,” Zoey teases.

Mira rolls her eyes. “Sure,” she says, the love implied in the softness of her voice. “Now, I’m gonna go take a shower, then run this down to the washing machine. I’d recommend you two shower as well.” When Zoey opens her mouth, Mira quickly adds, “Separately. I've got a lot of hair to wash and do not need you distracting me.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Zoey salutes, then bounces off to her shower. 

Rumi and Mira snicker as they hear a faint “wait, where’d I leave my clothes”, before Mira lightly taps Rumi on the nose and says, “You too. Shower. And actually maybe laundry too, since you chose to do this clothed.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Rumi imitates Zoey, her composure cracking almost immediately as Mira lets out a startled snort.

Rumi takes her leave, smiling at making her girls happy.

She’s satisfied.

This was good.

She enters her bathroom, locks the door, and starts stripping out of her clothes.

This was what she wanted.

She turns the shower on, undoes her braid, and steps in, avoiding looking in the mirror.

This was everything Rumi wanted.

Her hand reaches between her legs and slips two fingers inside immediately.

Rumi got to be with Mira and Zoey, her girlfriends. 

Her fingers pump messily, frantically.

Mira and Zoey are satisfied, and so’s Rumi.

The pumps become desperate.

This was her first time having sex, and it was everything she wanted it to be. Mira and Zoey were satisfied, and that’s all that matters. They were bare and open with Rumi, and that’s all that matters.

…

liar

Rumi comes quietly, her previously unoccupied hand over her mouth to muffle her cries. 

The ache still throbs uncomfortably between her thighs.

She lifts her head into the shower spray, lets the water wash down her face, and pretends that the droplets trailing down her cheeks couldn’t possibly be from anything else.

Chapter Text

Life. 

Is.

Great.

The sun is shining, they’re flying back to Seoul tonight for the final stop on their HUNTR/X World Tour, and the lead singer of HUNTR/X, the Rumi herself, is devouring the fuck out of Zoey’s pussy.

Zoey’s trying, like, a little bit to keep her voice down, a whine clawing in the back of her throat as she covers her mouth with both hands in a vain attempt to muffle any sounds, but like, Bobby booked them a suite, and she’s pretty confident that the bedroom they’re in isn’t sharing a wall with another guest’s, and Mira’s not gonna get up any time soon because she drank way too much soju last night, not that Zoey cares if Mira gets up or not (other than that she’s gonna be grumpy) and—

And Rumi is at the edge of the bed and between her legs, licking a broad stripe up and down Zoey, her nose brushing Zoey’s clit, and Zoey’s holding on, she’s trying, she’s trying so hard, she is. Rumi pushes her tongue inside Zoey, letting it drag along her walls and lap up every drop of Zoey’s essence. Rumi’s lips are moving as if she’s kissing Zoey’s mouth, fervent and forceful as her tongue pushes impossibly deeper.

Zoey’s trembling, and she’s holding her hands clamped down as tightly as she can over her mouth, but she can feel the swell in her lower body rising to a peak as Rumi kisses and sucks with the same diligence she tackles everything else in her life with.

A stuttered whine starts to break through, a sequence of repeated ahs that crescendo in volume as Zoey closes her eyes and tries to fight it a little longer—and then Rumi gently kisses her clit and Zoey’s cumming, fire spreading from head to toe as her hips jerk into Rumi’s mouth.

Rumi, a little more practiced now after several rounds since their one week hiatus in Seoul, has already clued in to what Zoey likes. She doesn’t stop as Zoey cries out—instead, she increases her speed, focusing her entire attention on Zoey’s clit now with purpose, her tongue laving each gush of cum, the act of cleaning it up only spurring Zoey on to a second wave of pleasure.

She whines, high-pitched and loud—fuck, that was really loud, wasn’t it—and Rumi chuckles, her breath tickling Zoey’s currently extremely sensitive cunt.

Mira grumbles and turns over on the bed next to Zoey.

Zoey gasps as she comes down from the new official best orgasm of her life (seriously, how does Rumi keep getting better?) and catches her breath, sitting up as Rumi pulls away and rocks back on her knees.

She smiles at Zoey as she casually licks what she can reach of Zoey’s wet on her face and swipes her pajama sleeve across the rest—Zoey’d be mildly grossed out if she didn’t know Rumi well enough to know that it was going straight in the washing machine after this.

There’s a glimmer in Rumi’s eyes as she peers at Zoey. “Was that good?”

“‘Was that’—Rumi, you can not be for real right now, ‘was that good’ she says after delivering the most mind-blowing sex of my life!”

Something oddly serious enters Rumi’s voice. “Are you happy?” she presses.

A little baffled, Zoey hauls herself forward so she can crawl to the edge of the bed and scrutinize Rumi. “Rumi. I am. So happy. You have—you have no idea how much, because there aren’t enough words in Korean or English to express it.” 

Zoey leans forward, reaching her arms out and making feeble grabby motions with her hands at Rumi. Rumi snorts and scoots to meet her, letting Zoey’s hands reach up to tangle in Rumi’s long, lavender hair and pull Rumi in for a searing kiss.

When Zoey pulls back for air, she raises an eyebrow. “Are you happy?” she asks.

Rumi smiles. There’s something weirdly guarded in her expression (which Zoey must clearly be imagining), but she beams when she says, “Yes , happier than ever! Especially knowing I have two beautiful girlfriends I get to make happy every single day.” And Zoey kisses her again, because how can she resist when Rumi’s positively glowing?

It’s Rumi who pulls away, sighing and saying, “I need to take a shower. And wash this shirt. I’ll catch you in a bit for breakfast, okay?” 

Zoey nods. She watches Rumi stand and stretch, then start to walk a little stiffly out of the room. 

On her way out, Rumi adds, “And make sure Mira’s not dead, we need her for tonight’s performance.”

A long, low groan comes from Mira’s sleeping form.

“Why are you guys even awake?”

Zoey cackles. “Good mooorning,” she sings.

Not once opening her eyes, Mira grabs her pillow and holds it over her ears. A muffled and disgruntled “shut up” only sends Zoey into a bigger fit of hysterics.

Really, what a great day.

---

Rumi bites her lip, forcing her jaw closed as she gives thanks to the hotel shower for being so high pressure and loud, enough that it swallows the sounds of Rumi’s frustration as she presses deeper.

Under the steaming water, Rumi shivers.

---

When Rumi’s finally finished her shower, dried and braided her hair, and dumped her pajamas in a hotel washing machine, she approaches the room door, yawning and stretching her jaw side to side. When she hears a faint but distinct moan through the thick hotel door, she freezes.

Whipping out her room key, she fumbles briefly with it before tapping it to the door and sliding inside as fast as possible, the moan’s volume doubling as soon as she enters. She slams the door shut, wincing and crossing her fingers that the hallway outside has been clear this whole time before she quickly walks to the bedroom and raises an eyebrow.

“Seriously?” Rumi asks. “This morning not enough?”

Zoey’s back in her same position as earlier, spread-eagled on the bed and glowing with sweat as Mira pistons her fingers in and out of Zoey wildly. “It—” Zoey’s voice wobbles on every word as Mira leans in aggressively enough to rock the bedframe “—was—so good—Ru—mi —but—this was—the only way—I could—get—Mira—out of bee-eed !”

“You two woke me up early,” Mira mutters darkly, pressing both kisses and gentle nips along Zoey’s thighs. She focuses on thrusting as deeply as possible. 

Rumi leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “Don’t drink more soju than you can handle the night before,” she retorts. “Also don’t bite any lower than that, you know our show outfits are short.”

“I know, Rumi,” Mira huffs, the effort of pulling in and out so roughly causing Mira to pant. She’s clearly growing tired, but instead of slowing, she redoubles her efforts as Zoey cries with each plunge.

Pushing the jealous knot in her chest out of sight, Rumi can’t help but smile as she watches them. She does her best to ignore the growing wetness between her legs—she certainly wasn’t planning on having to take care of herself again today, but she might have no choice—and lets her eyes rake over the sight of her girlfriends railing each other.

It’s hot, and it also makes Rumi so unbelievably happy.

Mira and Zoey are hers, and she is theirs. Maybe not necessarily in the way Rumi wants to be yet, but someday. And in the meantime, she intends to let them use her as they see fit.

coward. liar

Based on Mira’s thrusting, both into Zoey with one hand and into herself, now, with the other, and Zoey’s stuttering cries, Rumi knows they’re close. 

She watches and grins. “Think you’ll be able to handle the arm choreo tonight, Mira?”

“As well as—as Zoey will handle the dance steps,” she groans, twisting her fingers into herself as she starts to lean into slower, deeper pumps for Zoey. “Plus, you won’t—you won’t let us do it badly—will you?” Every other word is punctuated by the hitch of her breath.

“True,” Rumi says, biting her lip. “And maybe,” she teases, “if you do a good enough job, I can reward you both tonight.”

Zoey and Mira come together, moaning and gasping at Rumi’s offer.

“Do you—” Zoey pants “—mean it?”

“Sure,” Rumi says, “as long as you two can hit your marks perfectly, I’m all yours. But you might want to start by making yourselves presentable; we’re heading to a brief pre-flight rehearsal in two hours.”

“Two hours—shit ,” Mira hisses.

“I’ll order breakfast.” Rumi turns to the door, both to go order breakfast as promised and to quickly satisfy herself before Mira and Zoey finish showering, when she pauses and tosses out casually, “By the way, I could hear you both from the hall.”

Rumi snickers as Mira and Zoey turn beet-red, then dances out of the room.

“RUMI!”

---

As Mira and Zoey argue about whether they should watch a movie or play some new card game Zoey found in a comics shop that she swears has no complicated rules, Rumi settles into the private jet’s couch and leans her elbow on the top so she can prop her head up and view out the window.

Busan is already disappearing into the distance, bathed in afternoon light and, if Rumi looks close enough, flickering blue leylines, recently strengthened.

Their world tour is coming to an end with tonight’s performance, and it’s felt like a whirlwind from start to finish.

From Mira’s and Zoey’s initial confession to now, Rumi’s still not sure she’s properly sat down and processed everything. 

Her life has turned upside-down in a way she’s secretly longed for for years, but also, nothing has really changed. Mira still quips sarcastically and Zoey still shoves random Internet videos in her face and Rumi still guides them both, on stage and off, with a smile and with confidence. She's loved getting to see them grow, as idols and as hunters and as people, but she’s also grateful that they’re still the same duo she first met all those years ago.

Now, the main change is that Rumi gets to tell them, openly, just how much she loves them. Getting to be open about at least one of her secrets has felt like a mountain’s worth of weight lifted off her shoulders, knowing that she gets to tell them just how much they mean to her. Gets to show them just how much they mean to her.

She tries to show them with every action and word out of her mouth, tries to show them through random gifts and rehearsal check-ins and I love yous, tries to show them with her hands, her lips, her tongue, because she needs them to know how much they mean to her.

Rumi needs them to know, because the oppressing fear that it’ll all come crashing down around her looms menacingly silent over every move Rumi makes. 

Her patterns have always been at the back of her mind, a constant, unwelcome, but familiar presence that Rumi’s been saddled with her entire life. Lately, though, that presence has grown more and more encompassing, stretching clawed, purple fingers to dig into Rumi’s veins and pull all the worst parts of her to the surface for Mira and Zoey to see the moment Rumi slips up.

The sex makes it worse.

Rumi wants the sex, loves the sex, but it scares her. 

It scares her, because every time they do it, which is increasing in frequency as they continue to fall into each other, the familiarity of years of knowing each other making the transition to seeing and touching each other intimately surprisingly easy, Rumi feels them forming questions that she can’t answer.

The first time, with Rumi insisting on staying clothed, they don’t question it.

Nor the second, nor the third, but on the fourth, they ask again, if she’s sure she doesn’t want to join them, doesn’t want to receive, and Rumi had smiled and spun her narrative and taken care of herself in the post-session shower. 

There’s one thing she allows for herself, a self-indulgence that, done sparingly, Rumi thinks isn’t too risky, and that’s when she pulls Mira or Zoey on top of her and presses their knee directly to her center and grinds. Even through all her layers, knowing it’s them, seeing it’s them, focuses the heat inside her to a center point to such a degree that Rumi finally, for the first time, comes with her girls.

But she can’t do it often, because the way they glowed at her face of pleasure the first time they did this, the way they both immediately started talking about how, if this made Rumi so happy, then they’re so excited to one day show her this thing with their fingers or that thing with their mouths or even the thing that Zoey’s alluded to a few times that she'd ordered and sent to their penthouse, big and harnessed, had made Rumi pause, and realize she needed to put a stop to this now.

So Rumi had chuckled, and said “That’s sweet, but I don’t know if I’m that interested” and had done her best to ignore their crestfallen faces. “But Rumi,” they’d said, “you do so much for us, and we just want to return the favor.”

And Rumi had lied to them, “I don’t want that. I just want to take care of you.”

Plus, she does love taking care of them. She loves their taste and their feel and their noises, and none of that is a lie.

What is is the way she insists that it’s enough, because Rumi is selfish and she wants more. (The thought had crossed her mind, briefly, that she could take off her bottom layer, expose herself for them to love, but with the way her patterns have been spreading, she just...doesn't think she can take the risk.)

And every time that thought of more flits across her mind, her patterns whisper and laugh and tell her to give it up, that thought of more, because she knows that once Zoey and Mira find out they’ll hate her. 

If they find out, Rumi knows they’ll hate her, because she’d hate herself. She, a demon, has smiled through her teeth and lied to them and made love to them, met them at their most vulnerable in her most guarded. 

And once they hate her, they’ll leave her, and Rumi will be alone.

If Rumi’s lucky, maybe they’ll just kill her instead.

She doesn’t find a world without them worth living in anyway.

But maybe, if she can hide it just a little longer, they never have to know.

"Golden"’s the song to seal the Honmoon for good, Rumi’s sure of it.

All she has to do now is finish the world tour and hit launch.

Determined, she gets to her feet and starts grabbing their pre-show snacks to pile up on the table and shoves her current line of thought as deep down as she can so she can focus on being silly and light and free with her girls as they prep for their tour’s final stop.

As Rumi jokes with the girls, offhandedly mentioning that she bets she can deepthroat an entire kimbap and grinning at the way their eyes glaze, purple shackles chafe against her wrists.

---

Their final world tour performance is a rousing success, demon plane hijacking and all.

For the first time since they’ve been performing, Rumi sees gold.

Mira and Zoey hit all their marks perfectly, and Rumi rewards them as promised.

That night, too impatient to wait any longer, Rumi launches "Golden".

---

Mira and Zoey aren’t thrilled about Rumi announcing their new single with zero warning and weeks in advance, but when "Golden" immediately blows up the charts and Rumi apologizes sincerely, they suppose they can forgive her. (Given that Rumi’s particular method of apologizing was on her knees and between their thighs, it was an apology that was impossible not to accept.)

Rumi knocks it out of the park in rehearsal and absolutely smashes the vocals in the live performance, her voice soaring clear and strong as she belts, “Like I’m born to be!” and Mira and Zoey are so proud.

---

Rumi can feel it.

They’re so close to turning the Honmoon gold, she knows it. 

At the live performance tonight, there was another small ripple across the audience, and Rumi almost cried. She’s close, she’s so close.

The Idol Awards is where it’ll seal, Rumi knows. It’s the biggest stage they perform on every year, broadcast to millions and millions worldwide, and once it’s sealed, once the Honmoon’s finally sealed—

—she can give herself to her girls. All of her.

Rumi feels her throat close up as a few tears leak unexpectedly at the thought of finally being with Mira and Zoey without clothes, without lies, without this tearing, burning shame that a part of her fears will consume her before she gets that chance.

Wiping off her make-up, Rumi stares in her bathroom mirror a second, angling her head this way and that, checking anxiously for any peeking purple.

Okay. None she can see.

That’s good, that’s really good. Her patterns of shame stay coiled around her arms and her chest and—

Rumi freezes as she’s halfway through sliding off her pants.

No.

No no no.

Not again.

Snaking around the tops of her thighs and up to her hips are the jagged lines she’s so come to fear.

Rumi hastily grabs her pajama pants and jams them on, breathing heavily. She leans forward, bracing herself against the sink and staring blankly.

She needs to turn the Honmoon golden.

She needs to turn the Honmoon golden.

Trying to collect herself, Rumi scrubs her face clear of the last remaining bits of make-up, takes deep breaths, and heads to bed. She does her best to ignore the way her patterns feel like they’re openly mocking her, taking her shame and her desires and twisting it into cruel brands, as if to laugh at her and say, “Now why did you get your hopes up?”

Rumi softly tells Mira and Zoey that she’s tired tonight, and is gonna sleep in her own room.

They’re immediately understanding, sending her off to bed with good night kisses.

Being alone in her bed now feels like she’s drowning.

Rumi tosses and turns all night long, reaching and holding nothing but empty space.

---

The weeks leading up to the Idol Awards leave the girls exhausted, frustrated, and in at least Zoey’s case, horny. (Based on the way Mira slammed her against the bathroom wall yesterday during a ten minute break between planning the stage logistics of the Idol Awards performance and shoved Zoey’s fingers in her pants to ride them with no warning, or the way Rumi had slipped into Zoey’s dressing room to fingerbang the shit out of her after rehearsal, Zoey’s pretty confident she’s not the only one.)

But between all of the planning, the rehearsals, and the concerning increase in Honmoon tears, the girls are more likely to fall straight into bed these days than even entertain the possibility of fooling around. 

Zoey didn’t realize just how hard dating two K-pop idols was going to be. She mourns the loss of the hiatus they were supposed to have, but any time she feels like sighing about it, she glances at Rumi and caves. 

Rumi should’ve consulted her and Mira, yes, but they also understand, because Rumi’s now so close to the goal she’s been working towards her entire life. Zoey knows just how much turning the Honmoon gold means to Rumi, and hey, the faster they turn it gold, the faster they can stop being interrupted by demon appearances.

Like tonight, for example, when the three of them had had at least enough energy to sit on the couch and watch something together, a decently sized ripple seized all of their senses, and they rushed out of their warm and comfy cuddle pile.

Zoey’s so ready to kill some demons.

This time, they have to race halfway across town to Ichon Hangang Park, and Zoey’s already murderously swearing in her head that if they knock over a single one of those adorable pink penguin statues on the river’s edge, she’s gonna make them hurt.

They reach the treeline together, darting underneath the sprawling branches towards the pull of the tear and popping out into an open children’s playground. 

Oh absolutely not.

The demons are already loose, a set of bigger ones stomping through the sand, and Zoey has never been more grateful that this particular demon tear spawned so late at night; the park is empty, not a single family in sight at this hour.

Zoey bounds forward in a rush, taking note of Rumi’s countdown and humming the instrumentals to "How It’s Done" as she throws herself into the fray. The trees become her springboard, a place for her to land and leap off of every chance she gets. Her shin-kals thrum in her hands and she whips them into the air with ease, years of practice (and a little bit of Honmoon help) having honed her aim until it’s deadly.

A demon growls and lunges for her legs. She dances away, spearing the back of its head as it falls with one shin-kal as she tags another in the chest when it flies above her, knocked backwards by Mira’s sweeping gok-do.

Rumi’s tackling a few of the bigger ones, demons with a good meter or so on her, as if she’s almost bored. She lazily flicks her saingeom across the stomach of one, plunges it into another demon, then kicks off its hilt just before the demon dusts and swings her blade down on a third. 

If Zoey weren’t so focused on ducking around her own demons, she’s not embarrassed to admit that she’d be drooling by now.

She sends another shin-kal whizzing to bury itself in the eye of a demon that was trying to maneuver around Mira’s crowd-controlling reach and summons a couple more to throw at a pair of sneaky demons trying to head into the trees.

The fight goes on just like this, seconds passing like minutes, and what came easy at first is now starting to weigh on Zoey’s limbs. She’s already tired as it is from their grueling work schedule, and the fact that this rift hasn’t closed yet wouldn’t be too concerning if she were operating at peak functionality.

But she’s not, and she curses as she misses a throw and has to get up close to the demon instead, shoving a shin-kal under its chin before narrowly dodging another demon that prepped to lunge at her.

She chances a glance at the others, seeing that she’s not the only one who’s tired. Mira looks a little bit slower, her gok-do swinging with a little less force as she grits her teeth and dances through the demons, hacking and thrusting even as sweat forms on her brow.

Rumi—well, Rumi looks like she’s doing fine, actually, but Rumi always looks like she’s doing fine (and always is fine, at least as far as Zoey can tell—both emotionally and in her looks).

Then Zoey has to focus on her own battle, because there are a lot of demons around her, snarling and swiping with rusted blades and claws and all manner of very sharp objects all pointed directly at Zoey. Thankfully, she’s a lot better at pointing sharp objects, and her body snaps into dodges and parries reflexively after all her years of training.

At the end of one spin attack, Zoey sees a press of demons gather around Mira, who's fending them back until she stumbles. It’s an exhaustion-fueled mistake that costs her her balance for a split second, just enough for the demons to close the gap. 

Zoey wrestles with the ones in front of her, her heart thumping in her chest, wanting to go to Mira, needing to go to Mira, but Mira's already recovered, batting away the demons. 

There are still several circling her, though, her gok-do locked against a demon's scythe, when Zoey shouts a “Mira, look out!” as one of them seizes the opening and darts forward with a swing of its club while another swipes its blade down.

Both weapons halt before they can reach Mira as Rumi glides in between them and thrusts upwards, her saingeom catching the sword midair as Rumi's free arm braces like a shield against the club. Rumi grunts when the club slams into her arm but stands otherwise unyielding, then wastes no time in swinging her blade in a wide sweep to cut straight through both surprised demons.

There’s a couple more minutes of tense battle, the girls desperately humming to themselves in a bid for whatever energy the Honmoon can boost them with, and then at last, the tear’s sealed and done.

Zoey nearly bends in half the way she flops over, letting her arms and head hang loosely towards the ground as she groans. “I’m so tired,” she whines. 

“Me too,” Rumi agrees vehemently, a slight tremor to her voice. “This is so not the time for this nonsense.”

“Can we just sleep here? I don’t want to move.”

Chuckling, Rumi replies, “I don’t think you want to sleep in playground sand; who knows what horrors it’s seen.”

Zoey slowly rolls herself back into a standing position. She turns to Mira, about to ask her what Mira thinks is the nastiest thing this playground sand’s witnessed, when she catches Mira’s expression. 

Mira’s staring at Rumi. There’s a wrinkle of confusion in her forehead. 

It’s a weird expression for Mira to be making right this particular moment.

Rumi clocks it the same time as Zoey does. “Hey, Mira? Do I have something on me?” She checks herself over, patting the top of her clothes with one arm while the other hangs loosely. 

“No,” Mira says slowly, “it’s just. Are you okay?”

Rumi frowns. “What? Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You did take a pretty hard hit when you pulled that awesome move and totally saved Mira. Just like that time you took the scratch for me!” Zoey coos, “It’s so romantic,” and grins when she’s rewarded with a blush on Rumi’s cheeks.

Actually, maybe Rumi is as tired as her and Mira, because the blush seems to stand out a little bit more than usual, like her cheeks are extra pale tonight or something.

Mira still stares.

Rumi shifts uncomfortably. “Honestly, Mira, I’m fine. Here, I’ll prove it.” She grabs the shoulder of the arm that took the hit, then pinwheels it in a quick stretch, ducking her face as she does. “See?” she says a little breathlessly. “All good.”

Huh. She does look a little white, though. Maybe Rumi’s actually a bit sick? (Because Rumi’s not lying to them, that’d be crazy. Zoey doesn’t even find the idea worth entertaining.)

Mira’s voice is quiet when she says, “Rumi, this…this jumping in the way was sweet, when you got that scratch defending Zoey, but tonight it actually felt a little reckless.”

Scoffing, Rumi says, “What, I can’t defend my two sexy girlfriends?” She mimics the way Zoey waggles her eyebrows. It’d work better if her face wasn’t so pale.

“Rumi, you didn’t even give me a chance to defend myself. You can’t just throw yourself in front of everything that might potentially hit us.” There’s a note of worry in Mira’s tone.

Rumi gives a one-sided shrug. “I don’t see the big deal,” she argues.

“The big deal is that I love you, you idiot.” Mira softens. “I just…I don’t want to see you get hurt, okay? Especially not because of me.” She steps forward to cup Rumi’s cheek and press a gentle kiss to her lips. Pulling away, she says, “Promise me you’re okay?”

There’s a glint in Rumi’s eyes. “I promise,” she says.

Zoey races forward and flings her arms around them both in a giant hug, Rumi stiffening in surprise and letting out a soft gasp. “My girls,” Zoey gushes, “are the sweetest, bestest girlfriends in the world, and also, right this second, probably the stinkiest.”

Laughing at Rumi’s and Mira’s twinned expressions of indignation, Zoey skips away and calls, “Last one to the tower has to do the dishes!”

---

Rumi wouldn’t lie to her, right?

Mira watches Rumi the whole way back to the tower, watches her arm, and it just…something about it doesn’t look right. It’s hard to tell, given how thick the fabric of the hoodie Rumi’s wearing is, but there’s something off. There has been since Rumi blocked that club with it.

But then they get back to the tower, and Rumi catches Mira’s eye and waves good night with that same arm, and it feels weirdly purposeful.

…It’s just Rumi’s way of reassuring Mira.

Yeah. Mira watches Rumi head to her room. Yeah, that has to be it.

Rumi wouldn’t lie to her.

---

Rumi lets out a sharp, awful cry, and it’s only because of the towel she’s shoved in her mouth that no one comes sprinting in to check on her.

Trembling, she rolls her shoulder slowly and cries again, muffled and low.

It’s back in its proper place now, at least, so that’s progress, even if it feels like the nerves around her ball and socket joint are on fire. She’s experienced a dislocated shoulder once before, in a training session with Celine as a kid where she wrenched her arm the wrong way swinging at a straw dummy with full force. Celine had quickly raced to her side then, though, and steadily worked on keeping Rumi calm as she explained every step of what she was doing in a gentle, guiding voice. It had still hurt like crazy, when Celine reset it, but she’d immediately bundled Rumi up in blankets and drowned her in tea and her favorite snacks. In the end, Rumi had thought it wasn't even so bad in the first place.

But last time, she didn’t have to hide it, and she didn’t have to fix it alone.

Sweating, Rumi sits down hard on the edge of her bathtub. She’s trembling from head to toe, and her shoulder hurts. It hurts so bad.

It doesn’t help that Rumi messed up the first two times she’d tried to reset it, nor that she pinwheeled it in the park and waved goodnight to Mira with it, but those actions were necessary. Rumi couldn’t take the risk of them wanting to help her, because that would likely have involved taking her hoodie and shirt off, which would’ve revealed everything. (And it’s not like she would’ve won an argument on that one, no way.)

It was best they just never knew.

Rumi takes deep, shaky breaths as she sits, trying to calm her racing heart.

It’s fine. She’s fine. 

This isn’t the first time she’s treated injuries on her own anyway, after all.

But she’s a little irked at Mira. She gets it, she understands Mira doesn’t want to see her hurt, but also—

—how doesn’t Mira realize that she and Zoey are more important?

It’s sweet of Mira, to worry about her, it really is, but Rumi knows it’s because Mira doesn’t know the truth.

Rumi does. Rumi knows that she’s a hunter tainted with demon blood, and a coward, and a liar. So she knows the value of her life. 

She knows that, when weighted against Mira’s and Zoey’s, it doesn’t even tip the scale.

---

The Idol Awards get closer and closer.

Rumi survives on painkillers and hidden grimaces for the week after the dislocated shoulder, and all three of them run themselves ragged between every bit of prep and rehearsal imaginable.

This performance has to be perfect.

Rumi feels her chest tighten every time she thinks about it.

It’s soon.

For the first time in her life, she doesn’t quash the tentative hope rising in her chest, because finally, finally, this will all be over. 

Rumi will be free.

She practices harder than she ever has before, throws herself into their work with 200% energy, and it’s infectious enough that it starts to rub off on Mira and Zoey, spurring them to practice harder and work longer, to make sure this performance is perfection.

---

The days count down.

In the mornings, Mira and Zoey wake to Rumi practicing high notes in the kitchen.

At lunchtime, they see Rumi poring over stage directions, adding in her own little notes ideas, tweaking the staging until it’s perfect and then some more.

In the evenings, Rumi practices her choreo, running through her marks again and again until she’s drenched in sweat and exhausted.

At night, Rumi leads the charge against any demons who think it’s a good idea to cross the Honmoon.

Mira and Zoey don’t try to stop her. They know that one, she won’t listen, and two, that she knows what she’s capable of.

The Idol Awards arrive.

---

Everything’s good to go.

Mics are checked. Make-up’s done. Costumes are on. 

Outside, the host announces their name.

The crowd chants, “HUNTR/X, HUNTR/X!!”

Showtime.

---

Rumi flies over the audience, her purple braid trailing like a comet behind her. She has the attention of every person in the room.

Mira and Zoey watch Rumi with reverent awe.

She’s shining.

She’s glowing.

She’s golden.

---

When they get back to the penthouse, Rumi goes to her room and doesn’t say a word.

It was so close.

She was so close.

It was there.

Rumi sees it, replaying in her mind over and over and over again. Her, flying above the crowd, belting with the entirety of her being, exhilarated and anxious at the thought of finally being free. She reaches down as she soars, brushing the hands of some taller fans, smiling as she sees their hearts alight with HUNTR/X’s music, with Rumi’s voice.

And Mira’s and Zoey’s voices chime in with harmonies that are transcendent, and with each note that lifts out of Rumi’s and Mira’s and Zoey’s throats, that gold spreads farther and farther, tendrils of hope and love reaching to each other, threads prepared to weave a permanent safeguard for the world.

Rumi sings, her chest aching and hopeful, “You know that it’s our time, no fears, no lies, that’s who we’re born to be!” 

The final note echoes in the stadium, an A5 that Rumi’s poured her entire self into, mind and soul. The cheers of the crowd are deafening, a roaring thunder of applause and screams and—

—and the leylines, just as two tracks of gold are about to meet in the middle, fade.

They fade back into the Honmoon’s usual blue.

Mira and Zoey are whooping and shaking Rumi’s shoulders, faces filled with so much pride, beaming smiles meant exclusively for her.

Rumi’s knees wobble, and she fights not to drop to them on stage and sob as a talons of shame tear into her chest and strangle her heart.

“Did you see how close we got, Rumi, you’re amazing!” Zoey shouts in Rumi’s ear.

“Absolutely incredible,” Mira says, breathless.

Rumi smiles at them and nods and takes deep breaths and focuses on putting on a show, becoming the Rumi, lead singer of HUNTR/X. The mask slips on and stays on through the entirety of the night; through the host’s various announcements; through their official win, setting records in their name with an impossible five consecutive Idol Awards victories under their belt; through the drive back, Bobby volunteering to take them himself, chattering and flapping his hands excitedly as he proclaims his pride for them.

Her mind catches up to the present, where Rumi sits on the edge of her bed and hugs her knees to her chest and fights the urge to shatter into a million pieces.

Why didn’t it work?

How didn’t it work?

What is Rumi still doing wrong?

Is she still not good enough?

…Can she ever be good enough?

…Is it because of what she is?

Is she the reason the Honmoon’s not gold?

She digs her fingers into her standard post-performance robe, part of her wanting to rip straight through it, through the turtleneck below it, and into her skin, to tear the patterns off of her once and for all. 

Rumi wants to laugh and cry.

Of course. Of course.

Why would she—why did she think anything could change? Why did she think she deserved anything to change?

Because she doesn’t.

Not with who she is—a liar. A demon.

Her breaths start to stutter. She clutches her arms tighter, gripping with the hope that maybe, if she grabs hard enough, she can at least give herself a small taste of the pain she deserves and—

“Hey, superstar.” Mira’s voice is grounding, instantly snapping Rumi back to reality. She raises her head, confused as she sees Zoey and Mira both standing in her doorway wearing matching looks of concern. “What’s up? You don’t seem as jazzed as we thought you’d be.”

“Is everything okay, Rumi?” Zoey asks. “You just…you look upset.”

Rumi stares blankly at them. “Why…why wouldn’t I be?”

Frowning, Mira and Zoey step closer. “Rumi,” Mira starts, “what are you talking about?”

Clenching her hands even tighter around her arms, Rumi growls, “I failed. I failed us.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles from Zoey’s throat. “Wha- what? How did you reach that conclusion?”

Rumi closes her eyes as tears threaten to fall. “I wasn’t good enough.”

“Rumi,” says Mira, coming to perch on the edge of the bed with her, “you were perfect.”

“No.”

Zoey reinforces stubbornly, “Yes. Rumi, you—you were ethereal. Like a, like a goddess.”

“Please,” Rumi snorts.

Zoey sits down on Rumi’s other side and claps both hands on Rumi’s cheeks. Rumi blinks, startled. “Rumi. Rumi, beautiful love of my life, you are literally being so stupid right now.”

Rumi gapes. Whatever she’d been expecting Zoey to say was not that, and actually, she’s a little offended. “I’m not—”

“You totally are,” Mira interrupts, ignoring Rumi’s glare. “Because you’re somehow sitting here, beating yourself up for being the hunter whose voice has brought us the closest to the Golden Honmoon out of all of the generations of hunters.” Mira presses her own hands around Zoey’s, another layer holding Rumi in place. “And you think you weren’t good enough?”

“But—”

“We’ll try again.” Zoey’s grip is firm. “As many times as we need to. But I don’t think we’ll need many more. Rumi, if you—if you saw yourself out there tonight, you’d understand why Mira and I are having such a hard time believing you right now.” Her eyes crinkle, and she brings her forehead closer and closer until it’s touching Rumi’s. Rumi swallows, unable to look away from Zoey’s intent gaze. “You were—” Zoey’s voice dies in her throat. She scrunches her face like she’s about to cry. Rumi, guilty, opens her mouth to protest. She doesn’t manage a single sound before Zoey’s surged forward, using her hands to pull Rumi towards her as she melds her mouth to Rumi’s, kissing fiercely. 

Rumi doesn’t deserve this; she failed the world, she failed the Honmoon, and she failed them. But even as her brain screams at her, for failing, for lying, she instinctively pushes back, meeting Zoey just as forcefully. Rumi moves her lips desperately against Zoey’s, seeking that reassurance that she doesn’t think she deserves but so violently wants. 

In her periphery, Rumi barely catches Mira position herself shoulder-to-shoulder with Zoey and lean in. A slender palm lightly cups Rumi’s neck and holds her in place as Mira’s lips trace fluttering kisses along Rumi’s throat. Murmuring into Rumi’s skin, Mira finishes Zoey’s sentence with a breathless, “Radiant. Rumi, you were glowing.” She cautiously nips Rumi’s neck.

Rumi can’t hold back the moan that escapes her. Zoey swallows it whole-heartedly, pushing and prodding and promising with every push of her lips and tongue. Breathlessly, between kisses, Zoey asks, “Rumi, can we show you?”

Groaning in confusion, Rumi chases Zoey’s lips with the urgency of a tide chasing the moon, a bridge chasing a chorus, a half-demon chasing gold.

“Can we show you?” Mira echoes, clamping her teeth around Rumi’s neck, under her jaw, and waiting until Rumi makes a noise of approval before applying pressure. Rumi gasps into Zoey’s mouth at the feel of Mira biting and sucking. “Please,” Mira begs, working her tongue and teeth against the crescent divot in Rumi’s neck.

Zoey pants into Rumi’s mouth. “Please,” she gasps, “let us take care of you tonight.” She kisses harder, and Rumi can’t think of anything except the way Zoey’s and Mira’s lips and teeth feel, and she can’t formulate much of a response or even properly think about the question Zoey’s posed. She just wants more.

Rumi moans, low and long.

The vibrations of Mira’s laugh tickle Rumi’s throat. “Is that a yes?” Mira asks gleefully.

Sure, whatever, Rumi doesn’t care what they do right now, as long as they keep doing more of it. She presses desperately against Zoey, fisting her hands in the collar of Zoey’s shirt to yank her as close as physically possible.

Humming, Zoey starts to slow down, trading hungry kisses for languid, lingering ones. She removes her hands from Rumi’s cheeks and giggles at Rumi’s noise of complaint. Zoey presses her hands against Rumi’s shoulders and slowly starts to push her down. Rumi doesn’t protest; all she cares about is that Zoey and Mira don’t stop what they’re doing, not ever.

Rumi’s back hits the blanket on her bed. She pulls Zoey on top of her, determined not to let her go, lips still moving insatiably against Zoey’s.

Mira doesn’t follow her down, giving one final suck before pulling away. Rumi whines, dropping one hand from Zoey’s collar to grope blindly next to her. Laughing, Mira rasps, “One moment, Rumi, I promise.”

As she steps away, Rumi feels light and needy. Her whole body’s on fire, and she feels her hips buck upwards towards Zoey as Zoey straddles and kisses her still. 

Zoey starts to trail one of her hands downwards, her fingers crawling across Rumi’s chest, lightly groping Rumi through the fabric of her shirt and grinning into Rumi’s mouth as Rumi rewards her with a moan. She gently pushes the robe aside, letting her fingers continue their wandering, dancing lightly across Rumi’s stomach, her abs, and then slowly pressing them under the waistband of Rumi’s sweatpants, reaching for the heat that’s burning so fiercely, Rumi’s sure she’s going to go up in a blaze any second. Rumi moans again into Zoey’s mouth, appreciative and needy as she feels Zoey’s fingers lightly brush her curls—

Ice pours down Rumi’s spine.

She gasps, jolting away harshly from Zoey’s mouth and snaking a hand of hers to grab the one Zoey’s dipped partway into her pants. Rumi holds Zoey’s wrist in a vicelike grip as she stares, wild-eyed and panicked.

Zoey freezes. She doesn’t attempt to break free. “I—is this not okay?” she whispers, brow furrowed.

Rumi can’t speak. Her chest is heaving and her breaths are coming fast and shallow. 

She doesn’t know what to say. 

What does she say?

How does she explain a reaction like this?

She gulps in air, staring, unable to find any words of explanation. Her hand stays locked on Zoey’s wrist, holding it immobile. 

Then the room goes dark.

What—?

There’s a faint glow of light from the hallway, but the door to Rumi’s bedroom is now shut, and the overhead light’s been completely turned off.

Rumi can just barely see Zoey’s silhouette above her. She feels the bed dip as a new weight appears. Mira probes blindly for a second before her hand finds and cradles Rumi’s cheek. “Hey,” she murmurs, “take a deep breath for us.”

Trying, Rumi feels like her lungs are about to burst. Her breaths keep hitching, and all she can think about is the positioning of Zoey’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” Zoey says, her voice small. She tries to pull her hand away, but Rumi doesn’t let go. Part of her’s not sure why.

“Rumi,” Mira speaks, “hey, please breathe.” 

Rumi tries, she really does. She takes in a massive gulp of air, holds it, then lets it go in one big whoosh. She does it again a few more times, Mira softly tracing the contours of her jaw as she does so. 

“Better?” asks Mira.

Rumi doesn’t trust her voice right now, so all she manages is an “Mhm”.

“Okay,” Mira breathes, “okay. I think maybe we weren’t on the same page just now.”

Rumi almost laughs despite the tears pricking at her eyes.

“Rumi, I’m so sorry,” Zoey says again. Her voice is choked, and Rumi slams her eyes shut at the thought that she’s made Zoey cry.

“No,” Rumi rasps, “it’s—it’s okay, I just…” She just what? She just wants Zoey to touch her until she comes but she doesn’t want to let that happen because of the giant purple demon stripes twisting around her thighs? She wants Mira to eat her until she’s screaming so loud the lobby can hear but she can’t because then Mira will know that she’s a liar?

Mira caresses Rumi as she talks. “So. Zoey and I have been talking. We’ve noticed that you like to keep clothes on—” Rumi stiffens “—hey, hey, that’s totally fine, we’re not upset by that! But we’ve also noticed how much you’ve liked grinding the couple of times we’ve done it, and we just—we want you to let us take care of you. As a reward for tonight, and everything else. Just—just so you can decide if you’re interested or not.”

“We don’t want to pressure you.” Zoey’s voice is still so small. “When you didn’t say anything after I said ‘let’s take care of you tonight’, just kept kissing me, I thought that meant—I’m sorry, I should’ve made sure.” It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Rumi’s almost positive Zoey’s crying, and it makes her heart seize in her chest.

she really is a demon

“Rumi,” Zoey sniffles, “I don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable.”

Mira adds, only a slight trembling betraying her own concern, “We’d never do anything you’re not okay with. You just have to tell us, okay?”

Rumi isn’t uncomfortable, and that’s the problem.

Until she realized where exactly Zoey’s hand was leading, Rumi had been more turned on than she’d ever been before. (That’s a lie—figuring out where Zoey was reaching had only made Rumi more excited, until her brain caught up to her and screamed patterns in her ear.)

“So. We can’t see anything right now,” Mira says, “and we promise, we won’t take off your clothes or look anywhere near what’s underneath. But, if you’ll let us, at least this once, we’d love to take care of you, Rumi.” She’s earnest and sincere with every word.

Zoey adds, “After how much you give us, we just—we thought you might like to let us give to you. At least for tonight. A reward that you deserve, because you were amazing today.”

Rumi’s head is spinning.

She knows what she should answer.

She knows that she should politely decline them. She knows that she should leave, right now, and hide away in a cold shower with her fingers and the desperate promise of a golden Honmoon on the horizon.

But—

Zoey’s wrist is still clamped in her hand, which means that Zoey’s fingers are still lightly making contact with the skin just above her aching core, and Mira’s pressed up against her, her fingers absentmindedly stroking Rumi’s cheek, and all Rumi can think about is finally feeling those lithe hands on her breasts, squeezing and massaging, and—

“Okay,” Rumi agrees.

Stupidly.

Idiotically.

Longingly.

Desperately.

Rumi lets go of Zoey’s hand. Zoey gasps wetly, then says in such a way that Rumi can hear the smile on her face despite not being able to see it, “I’m going to make you feel so good.”

Given free rein, Zoey immediately dips her hand down Rumi’s underwear and pants and starts to impatiently run her fingers through the already slick folds.

Rumi moans, in a way she never has before.

She’s found that she’s rather quiet as she gives to her girls, as she makes them feel good, a counterbalance to Zoey’s very vocal cries and the sounds that consistently tear out of Mira’s throat. 

So she surprises herself just as much as she surprises Zoey and Mira, who both startle. Zoey giggles, slipping one finger inside Rumi impatiently, and asks in a falsely innocent voice, “Mm, do you like that?”

Rumi can’t answer. Her back is arching at the singular touch alone, her toes curling and her mouth falling open as the pressure of Zoey’s finger inside her leaves her gasping. 

And then, Zoey’s scooting back on the bed, repositioning to let Mira in closer. Mira leans over Rumi and kisses her, far more gently than the fervent makeout Rumi and Zoey were having a few minutes ago. She presses her lips oh so softly to Rumi’s own.

Then, she huffs out a wicked laugh against Rumi’s mouth and Rumi jerks as Mira’s hands slip under her shirt and crawl up to rest themselves on Rumi’s chest, each one palming a breast and instantly working them. Mira deliberately captures the next moan out of Rumi’s mouth in her own as she delicately traces circles around Rumi’s nipples, playfully teasing them and growing bolder with every upwards jolt of Rumi’s chest.

Mira’s hands are so soft, and supple, and Rumi’s been wanting to feel them for so long that she’s having a hard time believing this is real, that this is happening, and then she feels Zoey start to move.

Zoey doesn’t move slow or fast; she finds an in-between pace, steady and a tad impatient, and Rumi gasps with every controlled thrust, and again as Zoey’s lips kiss the tiny sliver of Rumi’s stomach that peeks through, her shirt being ever-so-slightly ridden up her body thanks to Mira’s hands. 

Every push of Zoey’s finger leaves her full, every pull leaves her empty and wanting achingly for more. She twists and moans under Mira’s and Zoey’s relentless assault, chest jolting and hips bucking involuntarily. 

She wants more.

She wants even more.

Rumi doesn’t realize she’s actually vocalized this thought until she catches Zoey’s and Mira’s laughter. Mira moves away from Rumi’s lips, kissing down her jaw and back to her previous handiwork on Rumi’s neck. “Hey Zoey,” Mira says, rolling Rumi’s nipples behind her thumbs and forefingers, “you heard her.” 

“Mhm, yep, sure did,” Zoey responds breathlessly. She adds a second finger a little too easily, much to Rumi’s chagrin, and curls, reaching, feeling every inch of Rumi’s walls, building an image to herself of what she’s not yet allowed to see. 

Without Mira to swallow the noise, the next time Rumi moans, it rips through her throat and fills the air, hanging for a second in the silence as if Rumi sang it deliberately.

Zoey whines and picks up the pace.

Laughing, Mira scrapes her teeth against that same bite mark from earlier. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” she murmurs, still playing diligently with Rumi’s breasts.

Rumi lets her head fall back, baring her neck for Mira to gain a better vantage, and no longer fights the stuttering keening that bursts forth with every thrust of Zoey’s fingers and rub of Mira’s palms.

This is—

—it’s everything Rumi’s wanted.

The joy she’s had from all previous instances of sex pales to the heady, overwhelming heat and fullness of what she’s experiencing right now. Like everything’s finally fallen into place, like she’s finally found her place, right here on this bed, beneath Mira and Zoey, arching and twisting and moaning and letting herself be touched, be wanted, be loved.

There’s a pressure building within her as Mira sucks the bite on Rumi’s neck and Zoey pumps faster into her. It builds with every brush of Zoey’s lips. It builds with every fondle of Mira’s hands. It builds and builds and builds with every thrust of Zoey’s fingers, faster and faster, squelching wetly and wantonly as Zoey focuses. Rumi can feel every ounce of Zoey’s concentration in the way she drives herself into Rumi, can tell she’s wrangled her normally chaotic thoughts into a singular focal point, and Mira alternates between hard grips and soft strokes, belying the gentleness she likes to keep hidden under her gruff exterior, and Rumi opens her mouth and her breath stutters as that pressure builds and—

—Rumi comes with a loud cry, her body spasming under the waves of pleasure rolling through her veins. She pants and stares upwards at the ceiling she can’t see in the dark of the room.

She’s never felt so good in her life.

they don’t know who she really is

Rumi shudders as Mira slides her hands out from under her shirt with one last teasing twist, pulling the hem down as well as she does so. Zoey drags her fingers out slowly, deliberately, until Rumi’s suddenly empty once again, and she feels tears welling in her eyes.

Because it’s over, and she knows, even as she feels Mira pull away to turn the lights back on, as she fights another groan when she hears Zoey noisily cleaning her fingers with a slurp, that Rumi should never have done this.

Now, she knows what she’s going to be missing, what she could have had all along and could have going forward if—

—if she wasn’t what she was.

Mira turns the lights on and promptly rolls her eyes at the way Zoey smirks around the fingers in her mouth, sucking them loudly before offering them out to Mira with a grin. “You can have a taste too, if you’d like,” Zoey teases, “I think there’s still a bit left—mmh.” She giggles as Mira crosses the room in a flash and shoves her tongue in Zoey’s mouth, and Rumi feels her cheeks flush at the thought of what, exactly, they’re tasting.

Pulling back, Mira gives Zoey a flippant “Thanks” before turning her eyes on Rumi and letting her gaze soften. “Hey,” she says quietly.

Rumi swallows, unsure of what to say as she fights to calm her still racing pulse.

“Soooo…?” Zoey asks, then freezes. “Wait—are you crying?! Oh my god, do not tell me it was that bad, I swear I was doing everything I like that you do to me and—”

Rumi touches her cheek. She feels the dampness of the tears that are, indeed, falling down, tears of joy and exhilaration—

—and shame and guilt for what she’s about to say.

Because she can’t let this happen again.

It’s too risky. She never should have allowed it this time, and already her legs tremble with phantom thrusts and her chest tingles with the ghost of Mira’s fingertips. 

Rumi puts on her best K-pop-idol-meeting-fans mask and laughs, confident and reassuring. “No, no, Zoey, it was great. You did wonderful.”

Zoey perks up. “Oh good, I didn’t mean to worry, and I was really only worrying a little bit because you, like, really seemed to enjoy it, but—”

“That she did,” Mira adds with a low chuckle. “So, what do you say, Rumi? Did you enjoy your reward? Can we reward you again sometime?”

Rumi looks between their hopeful faces and says lightly, “It was amazing, really! I feel great. But I think, if it’s okay, that I still prefer being on the giving end.”

Their faces drop. Mira hides hers a little better, but the disappointment’s visible in both. “You sure?” Mira asks quietly. “You would…you would tell us if you wanted something different, right?”

Grinning, Rumi laughs again and says, “What? Of course! I want to give. Always.”

“And,” Zoey starts softly, “you’re sure you don’t want us to return the favor?”

“Positive,” Rumi lies brightly. “Seeing you happy is what makes me happy.”

Zoey and Mira share a look.

“Okay,” they say together, a little unsure. 

“Sooo… is the crying because it was bad or…?”

Rumi snorts. “Never, Zoey,” she says, and allows herself one single truth: “It was incredible.”

Zoey smiles shyly. Mira lightly pecks Zoey’s cheek, then helps haul Rumi up to her feet and gives Rumi the same. She brushes a finger against the bruise already forming on Rumi’s neck; Rumi shivers at the touch. “You’ve got some longer turtlenecks, right?” Mira asks, sounding a little guilty. “I may have left this too high up.”

“Yeah,” Rumi says. She looks at Mira fondly. “I’ve got a few. And some pretty good concealer, just in case.”

“Mm, okay, good. Just checking. Not that we have to worry about press, for a bit, but, well…”

“But we still have to go out for demon hunts,” Zoey points out. “Those stupid, annoying demons! I just want them to be gone for good!”

Rumi closes her eyes. “'Golden' wasn’t enough,” she mumbles, thinking aloud, her mind back on her main mission, “so maybe…maybe we need a new song. All about getting rid of the demons, once and for all.”

“Huh.” Mira sounds curious. “Like a diss track?”

Already vibrating, Zoey muses, “I actually have a ton of demon insults ready to go in my notebooks, we can absolutely start from there and—”

“—and with them,” adds Mira, “maybe we can take down these demons for good.”

Rumi opens her eyes. “Takedown,” she contemplates, feeling the word on her tongue, “it’s a takedown.”

Mira and Zoey stare at her, then burst into fiendish grins. “Rumi, that might just work,” Mira says approvingly. “A takedown. I like it.”

“Yeah!” cheers Zoey. She throws her fists in the air. “Let’s send these disgusting demons back to the depths of hell where they belong!” 

There’s a twinge in Rumi’s chest.

Mira joins Zoey. “Yeah!” they cheer together. 

Two expectant faces look at Rumi, waiting for her to join in.

Rumi huffs, ignores the insidious echoes of demon, liar, DEMON bouncing in her skull, and shouts, “Yeah!” as loudly as she can.

As they head to their respective bathrooms to wind down for the night, the warmth that flooded Rumi’s veins earlier slowly ices in familiar fear.

No.

No, despite her failure, tonight was good.

She got to experience what she’s been wanting, and even if it was only the once, Rumi knows she plans to bask in the glow of it for months to come. She is not going to let her worries consume her, not tonight. She can allow herself one night to feel herself, to feel human.

So she tells her fears to shove it and focuses on what she knows to be true:

Tonight, everything was perfect.

Rumi’s heart is full.

Life is great.

.

.

.

liar

Chapter Text

“How about ‘so sweet, so easy on the eyes, but hideous on the inside’?” Zoey asks, chewing the tip of her pen as she thinks.

Mira lifts an eyebrow. “And what demons have you met, exactly, that fit that description?”

Pushing, Zoey argues, “No, no, see, the opening line is to make it relatable, right? Like, our fans can look at it and go ‘oh, that stupid disgusting ex of mine’ and then we get into the rest of the song.” She sticks out her tongue as she concentrates on her journal, jotting down random ideas as they come to her and scribbling out others that don’t fit. 

Mira’s always impressed at the way Zoey composes lyrics so easily. Half of them are off-the-cuff improvisations and the other half are carefully crafted phrases, ones where Zoey has meticulously chosen words based on sound, stress, and cadence, and it’s insane to Mira that she can rarely tell the difference.

There are a few strums of a guitar in the corner of their penthouse studio as Rumi closes her eyes and runs calloused fingers across the guitar strings, mumbling to herself. She plucks a quick chord, frowns, then tries another and frowns again.

Mira doesn’t feel useless during brainstorming sessions like this, per se, but her own propensity towards lyrics and melodies tends to come a little slower than it does with her girls. She prefers to find the underlying beat, to propel the song into something worth dancing to. Then, from there, Mira’s in her element, building a choreography to reflect the lyrics and spotlight her girls’ immense talent.

The notebook jostles up and down as Zoey bounces her leg beneath it, her pen moving in a constant frenzy, the scratching noise filling the gaps when Rumi’s not fiddling with the music.

Another chord plays, then several quick notes in a new rhythm. Mira fights the urge not to stare too long at the precision with which Rumi fingers the strings, plucking and strumming with the casual ease of years of practice. (Her mind flicks to the gutter for a second, and she tries to subtly clear her throat, crossing her legs.)

A line pops up in Mira’s head for the next lyric.

“Zoey, I’ve got one.”

Zoey’s head springs up, her pen freezing midair. She looks expectantly at Mira, and Rumi raises an eyebrow as well.

Mira says, “You want to lean into an ex theme, right? And like, exes hide their true colors until they’re close enough to strike, just like when demons pretend to be human. So hear me out: ‘whole life spreading lies, but you can’t hide’.”

“‘Baby, nice try,’” Rumi finishes. She keeps her head down, staring at the guitar in her hands.

Zoey and Mira snap their fingers in tandem. “That’s it,” Zoey crows, “that’s what I needed! Thanks, you two!” And then she’s back to writing with a vengeance.

The rest of the song starts to pour out from there, like Mira’s opened the floodgates and let loose all of the ideas Zoey’s had dammed up in her mind, waiting for the perfect song to build. 

Rumi focuses on her guitar as Mira and Zoey come together on lyrics. There’s an occasional discordant strum and annoyed huff in the corner, but Mira’s too focused on Zoey, the two of them bouncing off each other’s wordplay.

A true stanza starts to take shape, and the makings of an actual chorus. 

It’s sounding good. Mira taps along as Zoey tries the words, and experimentally knocks her knuckles in a particular beat against the wall, grinning along with Zoey as the two of them realize how well it meshes. The next time they try it, Zoey rapping the lyrics and Mira rapping her knuckles, an unusually aggressive acoustic guitar burrows its way in and out of the words, and Mira and Zoey turn to beam at Rumi.

“Takedown” is coming together, and whereas “Golden” was all about their stories, maybe that was too self-centered; maybe “Takedown” is the song they’ve needed this whole time, one directly linked to their fight. This has so much potential. Mira’s not as single-mindedly focused on turning the Honmoon gold as Rumi is, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want it, doesn’t mean she doesn’t desperately long for a world without demons, where citizens can roam the streets safely, and where Mira can spend her evenings doing what and who she wants. 

A new lyric drums in her ears. “How about ‘a demon with no feelings doesn’t deserve to live’,” Mira suggests.

Beaming, Zoey says, “‘It’s so obvious!’” She starts writing it down. “Mira, you’re a genius.”

Mira laughs. “Yeah, okay, sure. I like the sound of that.”

“Good, I didn’t wanna have to argue with you,” Zoey says, furiously jotting down extra notes.

Mira adjusts in her seat, twisting her spine and splaying her legs in a more comfortable position. She glances at Rumi. “Hear that,” Mira drawls, “I’m a genius.”

For an odd moment, Rumi doesn’t seem to hear her. She’s lost in her own head, and Mira would have thought it was on the music if it weren’t for the fact that Rumi’s got a white-knuckled grip on the neck of her guitar. 

Then, Rumi blinks. She looks at Mira and smiles. “Yeah,” she says, nodding. “I did hear. Good job.”

Mira’s brow raises. 

No teasing? Rumi is really distracted by this song, huh.

Well, Mira’s certainly not going to pass this opportunity by. “Hey Zoey, did you hear? Rumi agrees. Guess I need to quit HUNTR/X now and go save the world through science, or some shit.”

That gets a rise out of Rumi. “You can save the world now, by focusing more on songwriting and less on your newly-inflated ego, genius,” Rumi says, words lacking any actual bite to them.

“Oo, is the nepo baby jealous because that’s the one thing she can’t have handed to her?” Mira leans forward, showing teeth in her grin, suddenly determined to get Rumi out of her own head for a bit.

Snorting, Rumi slowly sets her guitar aside. “Okay, Miss It’s one banana, how much could it cost levels of rich, don’t you have a song to write?”

Mira stands, slowly stalking towards Rumi’s corner. “Don’t you?” she retorts, thinking of the way Rumi's fingers strummed her guitar strings.

Rumi scrambles to her feet, meeting Mira’s gaze with a fiery one of her own. “Hey Zoey,” Rumi calls, not breaking eye contact, “you good if Mira and I take a quick break?”

“Hm?” is Zoey’s only response, her attention solely on her notebook.

Smirking, Mira shrugs as she moves closer and says, “That sounded like a yes to me.”

Rumi's eyes smolder. Before she can make a single move, Mira's on her, shoving Rumi backwards until she slams up against the nearby wall, gasping as Mira wastes no time driving her knee up against Rumi's center. She captures Rumi's next gasp in a kiss and starts to rock up against Rumi.

Groaning, Rumi's hips jolt in response, grinding down on Mira's knee, matching every push forward with a push back of her own. She breaks the kiss and closes her eyes, mouth open and gasping as Mira drives upwards against her.

Unable to resist needling Rumi some more, Mira starts to nibble along her neck, from the edge of Rumi's collar and up towards her ear. Breathing hotly, Mira teases, “Wow, the workaholic's taking a break? You must really want this. Tell you what: if you admit I'm a genius, I'll give you whatever you ask.”

Rumi huffs. “Please,” she gasps, rolling her hips and her eyes, “as if you need the ego boost.” 

There's a definite thrill, Mira thinks, in getting their fearless leader relaxed and comfortable enough to banter, and an even bigger one at having her melting in Mira's touch. 

Since this started, this intimacy between the three of them that's somehow pulled from Mira's wildest dreams, it’s been so rare to get Rumi to take; which is a damn shame, because with the way she’s panting and hanging her head, flushed and grinding helplessly, Mira thinks Rumi takes so well.

Mira licks the shell of Rumi's ear and feels her shiver at the touch. “You know, it's okay to want this. Just call me a genius and I'm all yours.”

A half-laugh half-groan pries free from Rumi's mouth. Mira presses her knee in and feels it getting damp through the cloth. “Damn, Rumi,” Mira teases light-heartedly, “are you sure you're not interested in a repeat of your 'Golden' reward? You don’t need to be embarrassed–”

In the span of a second, Mira's unexpectedly jolted from her position as Rumi forcefully flips around and pins Mira against the wall, Mira's cheek squished up against it. She groans as Rumi shoves her hand in Mira's pants, hesitating only a second for Mira to nod feebly before she starts to aggressively play with Mira's folds. When Rumi's satisfied that Mira's ready (and Mira’s ashamed to admit just how fast she is), she thrusts two fingers in roughly and sets an instantly punishing pace.

Rumi's leaning into the back of Mira's neck with her other arm, holding her in place as she thrusts. There’s a tightness in her voice as Rumi mutters, “I said I wasn't interested.”

The force of Rumi's fucking has Mira practically begging in record time to cum. 

Thankfully, Rumi doesn’t draw anything out. She twists and curls her fingers as Mira can’t help but rock backwards onto them, and it doesn't take more than another minute of Rumi's brutal pace before Mira's coming undone.

“Fuck,” she hisses, trembling and instinctually bucking a few more times against the fingers Rumi's yet to remove. Pressing her forehead against the wall, Mira repeats, “Fuck.” 

The fingers inside her slowly press and touch, dragging out sensual strokes against her sensitive walls, and Mira moans again. When Rumi finally pulls out—although not without one last teasing circle on her clit—Mira catches her breath.

Bracing herself against the wall, Mira turns and readjusts her pants. She knows her face must be flushed, and is pleased to see that Rumi's is too.

Rumi's panting harshly, mouth hanging slightly open, and there’s something almost desperate pleading behind her eyes.

Mira frowns. Whatever banter she'd been about to fire off dies on her tongue. “Hey,” she asks cautiously, “are you good?”

Swallowing, Rumi's chest heaves. She doesn't answer, and Mira's frown deepens as Rumi looks at her through half-lidded, guarded eyes. Mira glances down, noting how tightly Rumi's pressing her legs together.

It's like she didn’t get off, isn't satisfied with what happened, and it baffles Mira. If she still needs to cum, all she has to do is ask. Rumi knows that, doesn’t she?

Mira swears, it's like sometimes Rumi doesn’t think she can ask or want for anything, and what had started as a mildly concerning quirk is now really starting to feel like something bigger.

No.

No, Mira’s reading too much into things again. She’s too suspicious of every little action; she’s been working on this. On taking what people say at face value, on trusting the people she cares about to be as open and honest with her as she is with them.

But she can check though, right? Just in case?

As Mira opens her mouth, an excited voice interrupts, gushing, “Guys guys guys, I've got it, I've cracked the bridge! So I came up with—”

Zoey pauses, notebook held forgotten as she looks back and forth between Mira and Rumi.

Her eyes narrow. “Wait…”

Mira and Rumi wear matching sheepish grins (and Rumi seems to be looking a little more composed after a few more deep breaths; Mira had to have been reading into things, then, mistaking Rumi's windedness for something else).

Zoey throws her head back and groans. “Seriously?”

Shrugging, Mira says, “You were busy.”

The look of sheer offense on Zoey's face brings Rumi and Mira to sudden, unexpected hysterics.

---

For as much as they’re hard at work on “Takedown”, HUNTR/X is finally, officially on break (with no surprise single for Rumi to launch without telling anyone).

Which means that they can take rare advantage of one of their tower’s best amenities: the pool!

Zoey bounds out of her bathroom in a rush, keeping her robe tied tight around her to conceal her swimsuit. She meets Rumi and Mira, already waiting patiently by the elevator, and chants, “Pool, pool, pool!”

“Pool, pool, pool!” Rumi and Mira echo, matching Zoey’s smile. 

“Let’s go, let’s go! What are you two waiting around for?”

“…You?” Rumi answers, perplexed.

Zoey sticks out her tongue and grabs Mira and Rumi, yanking them into the elevator as she excitedly repeats, “Gaja gaja gaja!” She’s practically bouncing on her feet, vibrating with impatience until the elevator doors slide open and she rushes out onto the floor. 

Technically, the pool’s always around for them to use; this whole floor is dedicated to various athletic facilities, but the girls mostly only have time to use the weight machines or dance studio around their crazy schedule.

Zoey darts through the main area and towards the patio door that will lead to the outdoor pool deck, and it’s moments like these that remind Zoey that she’s a little bit stupid rich now, and it’s fantastic. She grabs the door and holds it open with a grin, bowing low and sweeping her hand out as she says in a ridiculously put-on posh accent, “After you, ladies.”

Mira snorts as she walks past, refusing to look at Zoey’s ridiculous behavior.

Expecting much the same from Rumi, Zoey’s a little surprised when she raises her head to see Rumi let a genuine giggle slip, her cheeks slightly pinker than they were on the elevator. She slips out the door quickly, not meeting Zoey’s eyes.

Huh. Zoey immediately files that away. Note to self: Rumi likes it when I’m charming. Then, the allure of the pool calls her and Zoey’s off like a rocket. Before taking her robe off, she takes a moment to appreciate Rumi’s and Mira’s own outfits.

Mira’s in a simple, magenta one piece, snug enough that it leaves little to the imagination. It’s cut low, revealing a good swatch of her chest, and the color complements Mira’s hair flawlessly. With the way she gracefully moves towards the chairs with her long, lithe limbs, Zoey thinks she looks like a model that's walked off straight off a cover page.

Rumi, on the other hand, is in a HUNTR/X branded crop top, a new release in their merch line based on her World Tour outfit, but far cheaper and far more comfortable to wear around casually. There’s even a  Rrrrrrrumi printed on the chest to mimic the real patch, and the long yellow sleeves hug Rumi’s arms well enough that Zoey can clearly trace the sculpted muscles beneath. Her stomach flexes as she stretches, raising one arm up and holding it with the other, and the sight makes Zoey’s own stomach flip. And while Rumi’s not wearing a full bikini like Zoey was maybe sort of hoping for, she still more than appreciates the black booty shorts Rumi’s chosen instead. (Rumi’s claimed before that she’s ‘everyone’s type’ and outfits like this do well at highlighting exactly why Zoey’s never been able to argue against it.)

As Rumi starts to pull out sunscreen, Zoey goes to her designated deck chair and dramatically slides her robe off her shoulders. “Hey Zoey, do you want me to—” Rumi’s sentence dies in her throat. 

Zoey admits, it does do wonders for her ego that all she has to do is toss on a bikini to have Miss Everyone’s Type eating out of the palm of her hand. Admittedly, she had picked this very specific bikini not because of its plain, turquoise design, but because of just how little it properly covers.

“Uh.” Rumi looks like she’s short-circuited.

Mira raises an eyebrow and whistles. “Looking hot, Zoey.” Poking Rumi in the shoulder, Mira adds, “I think you broke her.”

Rumi swats Mira away. “No, it’s just—” she swallows “—you look really good, Zoey.” 

The way she says it, as if she hasn’t already seen and explored every centimeter of Zoey’s naked body, makes Zoey positively swoon.

Deciding to spare Rumi further, Zoey sits down and lets Rumi help apply sunscreen to her neck and back. Rumi’s hands are firm and strong as she works the sunscreen in, and Zoey, under the watchful eye of Mira, bites her lip and does her best not to make any untoward noises. (Mira had expressly forbidden any kind of shenanigans on the pool deck, citing that it was ‘unsanitary’ and ‘gross’, which like, Zoey vehemently disagrees with, but she’s not into the idea so much that it’s worth losing a Mira debate.)

When Rumi’s finished with Zoey, she moves to Mira and then to herself, slathering her face, stomach, and legs. Zoey watches greedily, especially when Rumi catches her eye and deliberately slows down the final rub into her legs, massaging it into her calves without looking away.

Okay, Zoey needs to cool off.

Like, right now.

Which she promptly does, with a giant running start into a cannonball and resultant splash so big it earns her an exasperated “ZOEY!” from Rumi and Mira alike. 

Zoey laughs, paddling in the pool as she sees Mira take off her glasses and head towards the actual steps to enter. Rumi finds a spot on the edge of the pool where she can sit and kick her legs, her normal go-to move. (She’s told them since they were just trainees under Celine that she’s not a big fan of swimming, and Zoey and Mira have respected it since.)

When Mira ambushes Zoey with a giant splash from behind, Rumi snorts, then falls to full-belly laughter as Zoey and Mira turn the one splash into a war of them.

That’s how the next couple of hours pass:

With chatting, smiling, splashing, and laughing. Sometimes, Zoey does something goofy, like acting like a sea animal and seeing if Rumi and Mira can guess what she is—and no, mollusk was not too hard of a pick, Zoey mimicked it perfectly—or she twirls in place or does lazy flips in the water or rambles for an entire ten minutes on the typical migration routes of sea turtles. There’s a pang in her heart, each time she realizes that she’s doing something weird or annoying, and then a flutter every time she looks to Mira and Rumi and sees nothing but tenderness and love in their eyes.

As the afternoon sun passes overhead, Zoey idly floats on the pool’s surface. She’s quiet for once, letting Mira and Rumi chat about some new book series they’ve both started. The water laps lightly against Zoey’s skin. She lifts her head and takes a moment to locate the source of the waves, tracing them back to where Rumi’s kicking her feet absentmindedly under the surface.

Rumi’s leaned forward, chin propped on her elbow which is, in turn, propped on her knee. She’s gesticulating about some plot thing or whatever when Zoey tilts her head as her eyes rake over Rumi’s legs.

“Have you been working on a new art project?” Zoey asks curiously. Rumi’s dabbled in painting occasionally in the past, mostly just of the plants on her balcony, and gets all embarrassed whenever Zoey and Mira bring it up, even though they insist it’s lovely (and it is! Maybe not art museum-worthy, but it’s done by Rumi). 

Baffled, Rumi turns towards Zoey, whatever she’d been saying trailing off at the interruption. “What?” 

Mira also raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve been painting again, right? Feels like it’s been forever since you’ve found the time!”

Swatting Rumi lightly, Mira teases, “You’ve been painting and haven’t thought to show us?”

Rumi blinks. “No, I—what makes you ask that?”

Zoey points casually at Rumi’s shorts and the tiniest splotch of color poking out from underneath. “You missed a spot of paint when you cleaned up! Ooo, is that purple? Are you painting a chrysanthemum?”

In a flash, Rumi’s hand is covering where Zoey’s pointing. Rumi starts laughing loudly. “How embarrassing! Silly me!” She’s smiling super wide. “Thanks for pointing that out Zoey, I’ll go get that cleaned up—actually, we’ve been out here for a while, I think I might call it a day here!” 

Rumi springs to her feet, and Zoey makes an apologetic noise. “Hey, sorry, I wasn’t trying to embarrass you, I—”

Waving her hands furiously in front of her, Rumi keeps smiling and says, “No, no, you didn’t! I just—can’t believe I missed a spot! Thanks for telling me!” She walks away quickly, leaving a wet trail of footprints behind.

“Well. Shoot,” Zoey mutters, “why can’t I ever keep my mouth shut?”

Mira’s touch on her chin pulls her attention. “None of that,” she says sternly. “I’m sure it’s fine. You know how she gets, sometimes, where she can’t accept anything less than absolutely flawless.”

Laughing nervously, Zoey says, “Right, you’re right. It was really small though, just a tiny bit peeking out the edge. Did you see it?”

Mira gives her a flat look and points at her glasses-less eyes.

“Oh, duh.” Zoey feels like an idiot. A little self-deprecatingly, she says, “I shouldn’t’ve said anything.”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Zoey. Has Rumi ever gotten mad at you for pointing out something helpful?”

Zoey breathes softly. “No. She hasn’t. You’re right.”

The sun shines brightly above, still high in the sky.

“Do you want to stay outside?” Mira asks quietly.

Biting her lip, Zoey nods. 

When Mira nonchalantly offers, “That’s cool, I was planning to stay out here a bit longer too,” Zoey feels her heart melt.

---

The next time Rumi sees Zoey, she makes sure to thank her profusely for telling her about the “spot she missed” while cleaning, and yeah, actually, she has been painting, does Zoey want to see it? And then Rumi pulls out the very hastily slapped together canvas of a chrysanthemum, a rushed product featuring old paints from the back of her closet and the guidance of a Youtube tutorial with 57 views, which she tells Zoey she’s so impressed she guessed, and Zoey coos over it and compliments it and hugs Rumi and says that she’s so glad Rumi’s not, like, mad at her, and Rumi chuckles awkwardly and says that no, she could never be.

And then when Zoey skips out to go show Mira the painting, Rumi clutches her chest and forces down the ragged gasps that are so dangerously close to the surface. It’s fine, she tells herself, it’s fine. Zoey believes her. Mira believes her.

Why wouldn’t they?

Why would they have any reason to suspect that the bit of purple they saw was actually the pattern of a demon?

Zoey comes back to Rumi’s room in a few minutes, dragging Mira along, and gestures for Mira to take the floor. Coughing lightly into her fist, Mira grumbles, “Your painting’s pretty, Rumi.”

“Oh. Thanks,” Rumi whispers. It’s really, really not, but the way Mira and Zoey show her such unequivocable support always makes the tips of her ears go warm. 

And then the Honmoon pulses a warning, and all three girls groan loudly.

---

A horde.

It’s a fucking horde.

Mira’s only seen this a handful of times, when the Honmoon tears and a massive rush of identical, faceless demons come pouring out, and it’s unfortunately always terrifying.

At least they’re easy to dispatch, but there’s just so many of them. 

Mira ducks around the bridge supports, using them both as cover and as a springboard, sometimes kicking off them and sometimes planting her gok-do in the old wood and swinging out with precise blows, using momentum to her advantage.

Her shoes are wet with river water, and there are splashes and grunts from both Zoey and Rumi as they focus.

Mira can hear Rumi trying to huff a few lines of “Takedown”, but even she sounds winded, her voice actually cracking once—something unheard of for Rumi. (Mira jots a mental note to check on that later.)

The wave just seems endless.

For every ten Mira spears, another ten take their place. For every dozen Rumi hacks through, a dozen more appear.

Only Zoey seems to be keeping pace with the horde to a degree, her fast, zippy style of combat lending itself very well to this particular situation. 

She’s practically flying all over the place, shin-kals whizzing out of her hands and reappearing within them in the same blink, demons dissipating around her left and right. Zoey slides under one rushing demon and dispatches it swiftly, and Mira realizes that Zoey’s positioning herself closer and closer to the tear in a way that Mira and Rumi have been struggling to.

Mira clears a swatch of her own demons and watches Zoey leap into the air, practically flying as she sends off a volley of shin-kals straight into the rift. Like she’s planted anchors of light, the Honmoon reaches out its translucent tendrils to hook around the shin-kals and sew itself shut.

Zoey’s whoop is cut off abruptly as one last demon springs out of the rift and knocks her off-balance, just enough so that her carefully calculated fall turns into an unanticipated landing where all of her weight comes bearing down on the one ankle she can maneuver into position.

When she lands on it, Mira sees the ankle twist and Zoey drop entirely to the ground, tumbling with a loud groan.

Trying to control her breathing as well as she possibly can, Mira flies through the rest of her demons as Rumi demolishes hers. She skids to a halt, dropping to her knees to examine Zoey’s ankle.

Zoey trembles under Mira’s fingers as they lightly probe the swollen ankle. Her face is white as a ghost. “Shit,” Mira swears under her breath. 

Rumi apparates at Mira’s side. “Zoey, are you—” She sees the ankle and winces. “Okay.” It’s always interesting to Mira, how quickly Rumi manages to flip a switch and turn off her emotions when she feels it’s necessary for the sake of others. Rumi starts to give orders. “Mira, hold her ankle off the ground and keep it steady. Don’t do anything else. I’m going to race back to the tower and bring one of the cars over.”

Despite the fear pulsing through her, Mira can’t help but breathlessly tease, “You? Driving? I thought we were trying to help Zoey.”

Zoey snorts weakly, even as she shakes in Mira’s grip and fights back another groan of pain.

Rumi’s already gone before Mira’s finished her sentence.

“Hang in there,” Mira whispers, cradling one half of her heart to her chest.

“I’m not… dying, Mira,” Zoey huffs. “Just…hurts like a bitch.”

Mira fights back a few tears. “I know, I know, I just—”

“You want to…protect us.” Zoey slowly attempts to waggle her eyebrows. “Because you looove us—”

“Shut up,” Mira says wetly.

---

It’s only a sprain, they determine.

A bad one, but there aren’t any broken bones. Zoey just has to stay off of it for a while.

Online, four months off the ankle and physical therapy are recommended.

Thankfully, the girls have the Honmoon’s magical energy to expedite things.

By the end of the week, Zoey’s almost a little bummed when she can walk again, because the way she’d had Rumi and Mira at her beck and call for anything Zoey needed or wanted was pretty great.

(So she maybe took advantage of it a tiny bit. But listen, her having full control of evening watches and dinner suggestions was important for her to have a quick recovery. So was getting princess-carried around the apartment. And having Mira or Rumi or both eat her pussy on command was vital. Life-restoring, really.)

When she makes a comment about maybe needing to sprain her other ankle, Rumi and Mira flatly tell her that next time, they’ll treat her the way an injured person is supposed to be treated, and she can suffer through her self-inflicted dry spell in silence.

Zoey gulps and promises it was totally just a joke.

---

Work on “Takedown” continues.

At this point, it’s almost done, almost perfect.

Zoey’s rather proud of her lyrical work. Hers and Mira’s, because Mira’s been a tour de force of songwriting this go around, taking the usual spot of Rumi.

Which is good, because Rumi seems a little stuck on this song. Any time Zoey asks for lyric suggestions, it’s like all of Rumi’s ideas fly out the window. (And Zoey knows she has them, has always been a necessary contributor in the past.) Instead, Rumi spends a lot of practices for “Takedown” fiddling with her guitar and working out the instrumentality of the piece.

Which is great, it’s just…something they normally do later, with their producers. It’s like Rumi has nothing to say about “Takedown”, despite it being her idea in the first place. 

Or at least like whatever she has to say can only come out in the strings of her guitar.

Problem is, Zoey can’t figure out what exactly that is.

---

Rumi rushes past the bathroom door, doing her best to ignore the sounds of wild pleasure filtering through the steady hiss of the shower.

It doesn’t bother her, nope, totally doesn’t.

Not at all.

Rumi’s fine. She takes care of her girls, and then she takes care of herself afterwards in her own, solitary showers. And really, it’s good they’re not in there with her, because who knows what kind of distractions Zoey and Mira would cook up when Rumi legitimately needs that full hour to maintain the health of her lengthy hair. 

There is one aspect of the shared shower, though, that maybe does bother Rumi a tiiiny bit, and it’s the one responsible for the clapping sounds she hears echoing in the hallway now.

That was a new addition.

Zoey and Mira had grabbed Rumi excitedly one evening last week, sat her down, and presented her with an unmarked box.

“Since you like being on top so much, we thought you might like this!” Zoey had been a mix of impatient and anxious as Rumi opened the gift.

Rumi set the box lid aside, stared at the strap and harness nestled within, and didn't…really know what to feel.

But Zoey was looking at her with such bright, hopeful eyes, so Rumi gave her a broad smile. “I—thank you. This is really thoughtful!”

“I got one too,” Mira added casually, a glint in her eyes that made Rumi weak in the knees. “Since apparently, Zoey wants us both to—”

Zoey slapped a hand across Mira's mouth, looking genuinely mortified.

“So?” Zoey asked, completely blowing past Mira's comment. “What do you say?”

Rumi could not picture herself wearing this. What was the point? It wasn't like she'd feel any of it herself. But they both looked so excited and—

Some of her reluctance must've slipped through her mask, because suddenly Zoey was gently touching her shoulder and saying, “Rumi, if you don’t like it, you can just tell us. I promise you won't hurt our feelings!”

Mira stayed silent and watched, something probing in her expression that made Rumi nervous.

Feeling caught, Rumi had decided to go with a sort of half-answer. “Thank you,” Rumi said, “I really appreciate it, and I want to make the both of you feel good, always, but…I might not be ready for this yet.”

When Zoey hugged her and pulled back, Rumi noted that she and Mira seemed almost proud—of what, Rumi has no idea.

“Okay, another question, then! Mira and I are really interested, and we think we’re both ready. We don’t want to bring it into our normal stuff and make you uncomfortable, so Mira suggested that if you weren't interested, and since you don't like showering with us anyway, would you be cool if we, like, used it in there?” Zoey worried her lip.

Snorting, even as she felt a pang at the shower comment, Rumi did her best to appear nonchalant and replied, “Go crazy.”

Zoey had squealed and Mira had smirked and tossed out “Oh we will” and that was that.

And Rumi's fine with it.

Really, she’s not interested at all.

Picturing herself wearing one of those just feels ridiculous.

There's a crescendo of moans and skin slapping against skin from through the shower door, and it's pretty apparent that Mira's taking full advantage of the one she'd bought for herself.

And Rumi envisions Mira with it, envisions how she must look right now as she slides in and out of Zoey, envisions the face of Zoey's pleasure as she takes Mira, envisions Mira on top of Rumi—

Rumi smacks her hands to her cheeks and tells herself to get a grip and goes to the gym to train, glad no one is there to ask her why her face is red before she's even started a single exercise. 

---

Mira really hates when demons try to pass as humans.

Partially because sometimes, it works.

There have absolutely been times where Mira’s genuinely believed that the thing in front of her was human, but each time, thankfully, it slipped up. The demons can’t ever seem to nail the behavior, and one quick glimpse at an exposed limb to check for patterns is all they ever really need.

The demon tonight is particularly pissing her off, though, because it’s picked someone she knows.

Hyeonsuk, the sweet grandma who’s worked overnights at the local convenience store every Sunday, Monday, and Wednesday since HUNTR/X first moved into their tower, is someone who at this point recognizes the girls on sight (they do a rather embarrassing amount of 2 AM snack runs, if Mira’s being honest). She’s never said a word though, always ringing them up at the register with a twinkle in her eyes and an occasional comment about liking HUNTR/X’s newest single.

And oh, this demon better thank Gwi-Ma that it didn’t do anything as stupid as harming Hyeonsuk; last Mira saw, she was idly flipping through a magazine at the register, unbothered.

It did, however, try to escape, tried to pretend to their faces that it was Hyeonsuk instead of a demon imposter. 

Mira runs it through with a snarl.

The actual audacity.

“You know,” Zoey comments, casually holding her hands behind her head, “it’s a good thing no demon’s been dumb enough to impersonate one of us, because man, if you got this mad over Hyeonsuk, then I don’t even wanna know what you’d do to the demon that tries that.”

Mira’s voice is cold. “Neither do they.”

---

On their very first runthrough of the completed “Takedown”, Rumi’s voice cracks.

All three of them pause.

Behind the glass of the studio booth, the producers and sound designers pause too.

Clearing her throat, Rumi says, “Again. From the top.”

They go again.

Rumi’s voice cracks in the same spot.

She frowns, confused. “What—?”

An assistant darts into the studio and hands Rumi a bottle of water, which she gratefully accepts. Taking a swig and ignoring the stares she knows Mira and Zoey are giving her, Rumi swallows.

“Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go again.”

She’s not ready.

Her voice cracks in the same exact spot.

What—?

Against Rumi’s protests, the producers call it a day, tell her to go home and rest her voice for a bit, and they can meet back up next week to try again.

That’s—

Rumi wants to argue against it, because the sooner they get “Takedown” out, the closer they get again to sealing the Honmoon once and for all, but she can’t, not when it’s her fault that the session gets cut short.

Mira and Zoey treat her to tea and honey in the penthouse, lots of it, until Rumi has to fend them off with a broom and a promise that she’s not going to sing any high notes until she’s better, she promises.

Even as she enters the bathroom, she’s frowning.

Rumi has never had problems with her voice.

Ever.

It’s the one part of her that she loves, because it is the one thing she has that she can bare to the world and cry, “See! See! I’m good! I will heal the world, I will heal myself! I can be good!”

When she pulls the zipper down her neck and glances in the mirror, she stumbles. Her hands catch and brace against the sink as she leans closer and stares into the mirror with horrified eyes.

On her neck are those horrific, creeping tendrils, twisting like an invasive vine up her throat.

Rumi touches it. Her throat bobs as she does so, and the purple remains.

It’s real.

A whine builds in the back of her throat as her breaths catch halfway up.

Rumi runs her fingers down her throat, checking over and over again that this is real and not just some sick, twisted nightmare. She runs them down her throat again, and again.

Her fingers start to crook. 

Rumi’s hands start to scrabble at the patterns.

She feels like she’s choking.

Rumi gasps and gasps, taking strangling breath after strangling breath as she stares wide-eyed in the mirror and claws at her throat until there is a criss-cross of scratches all across the purple tendrils, red leylines tearing Rumi open for the demon that lurks in the rift.

It takes some time, more than usual, for Rumi to slip her idol mask on.

When she’s confident it’s secure, she pulls up her collar to her chin, pads out to the living room, and slides onto the couch in-between Mira and Zoey, laughing as if her world isn’t crumbling around her.

---

There aren’t a lot of demons in this fight, but it’s no less challenging than normal; maybe more so, given the size of these things. What are they, ogres?

Each of their ugly mugs sprout large tusks and arrogant grins as they swipe and swat at the HUNTR/X trio. The girls use the terrain to their advantage, ducking in and out of the rows of the car park as they tackle these monstrously-sized demons.

Mira's incredibly grateful in fights like these that her weapon's a gok-do. There’s a significant reach disadvantage between larger demons and the girls, and Mira's gok-do almost nullifies it completely. It works wonders for crowd control in regular fights and here, it works wonders as the perfect deterrent to keep these brutes at arms-length.

Almost pressed together, Zoey, Mira, and Rumi bounce off of each other, instinctively following through with openings set by another, sliding behind each other’s backs to cover anyone in need, twisting around their own swirling blades with the implicit knowledge of where it's moving and the trust from years of practice that they will never feel or fear each other’s weapons.

They're down to three demons, all of the girls having given up singing for this fight as they gulp for breaths of air between blows. They’re moving as a unit, backs to each other as they attack.

Metal and glass crunch and crack as one of the demons picks up an entire car and swings it at all three girls faster than they can blink.

It's Rumi's quick thinking and reflexes that save them all.

She drops to the ground in a split second and sweeps her foot in a circle to catch Mira's and Zoey's ankles, knocking them off balance and sending them sprawling just in time for the car to whiz above their heads.

Before any of them can get up, one demon, lightning quick, grabs Rumi's extended leg and hauls her in the air. She lets out a startled yelp as she's suddenly upside-down and airborne.

Mira dispatches one of the remaining demons in a flourish as she stands and Zoey’s shin-kals fly at the demon holding Rumi.

It grins and swings her in front of the shin-kals. Gasping, Zoey twitches her fingers to pull on the cords of the Honmoon and yank them back just before they hit.

Rumi's eyes are blown wide in shock at the close call, and Mira growls and takes down the second demon in a burst of adrenaline to try and help Rumi, ignoring how her heart pounds and screams that's the closest they've come to losing Rumi yet.

Zoey’s trembling, new shin-kals in her hand that she’s hesitant to throw. She's searching wildly for an opening, and as Mira whips around to help, Rumi beats her to it.

Dangling in the demon's grip, Rumi suddenly propels herself with enough momentum to score a slash right across its chest. It roars.

Mira watches in slow motion as it lifts a struggling Rumi higher, swings her like a ragdoll, and slams her into a car. The metallic bang echoes loudly in the empty car park as Mira and Zoey scream and lunge forward together.

The demon’s dispatched in seconds.

Scrambling, Mira and Zoey race to Rumi. Mira’s heart is in her throat at the way Rumi's lying so still. The entirety of the car's hood is dented around her.

She can’t—

She can’t—

Mira won't let her.

Mira will never let her.

Mira and Zoey hover above Rumi, frantically checking her breath and pulse when two brown eyes open slowly and Rumi groans, long and low.

“Come on,” Zoey says tightly, “let's get you up. Can you make it back to the tower?”

Dazed, Rumi nods, letting Mira and Zoey each take an arm and sling it over their shoulders.

They make their way back, grateful that tonight they don’t have far to go. Rumi rests against her girls, sandwiched between them as she takes unsteady steps back to home.

Mira sees Rumi's still body in her mind's eye the whole way back and shudders.

---

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts it hurts it hurts

The world is spinning. Colors and shapes blur and twist into formless blobs. Rumi thinks she’s sitting up straight on their couch right now, but she’s honestly not completely sure.

The entirety of her left side is screaming. Every slight movement, every breath, leaves Rumi in a flash of blinding pain, and every time she holds still, she feels a beating, pulsing throb, an ache that feels less like an ache and more like being hit by a car.

…Apparently hitting a car hurts just as bad.

Rumi's already positive she's broken a rib or two. If she's lucky, that'll be all, but she’s certain that her entire left side is going to be one giant bruise for a while, even with magical Honmoon healing acceleration.

If there's one thing she's grateful for, it's that she’s not feeling the distinctively sharp sting of a laceration; which is good because there's no way Rumi can sew herself up in this state. Pain blooms from her left shoulder all the way down to her calves, and it. Really. Hurts.

Someone hands her an ice pack, and Rumi accepts it gratefully, using her non-injured right hand to press the pack against her ribs. She hisses at the cold, then quickly sinks into the numbing relief with a sigh.

Someone else holds out a cup of water with a straw. Rumi leans forward, gladly gulping it down as she realizes suddenly how parched she is.

With the ice and the water’s grounding help, Rumi starts to slowly recognize the familiar shapes of the penthouse. Seoul’s night sky is illuminated in the glow of skyscraper lights and street lamps through their massive windows, and the penthouse is empty save for Rumi and those two sets of hands.

When Rumi feels the couch cushions next to her shift under the pressure of her girls, she relaxes. Zoey gently adds her hands to Rumi’s to support the ice pack, and Mira tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind Rumi’s ear as she continues offering the glass of water.

Rumi’s heart melts.

Honestly, she still doesn’t really understand why they do this for her, why they love her so fiercely, but Rumi hopes, in moments like this, that they understand that she’d set her own soul alight for theirs in an instant if it meant protecting them. 

“How are you feeling?” Mira sounds rough, like she’s spent the past twenty minutes swallowing back tears. 

Better. Better for the ice and water or the placebo comfort of her girlfriends, Rumi’s not sure.

But also, better is relative and her whole side is pounding with pain and it actually still really sucks, now that Rumi’s thinking about it. She’s not even sure how well she’s going to be able to walk back to her bathroom and treat her injuries, but she supposes that’s a problem for future Rumi.

“Okay,” Rumi rasps instead, leaning her head down to take another gulp of water through the straw. 

Zoey speaks, and she clearly has been crying, which makes Rumi’s heart twinge. “Rumi, that hit was…” She shudders. “Now that you’re a little more ‘with us’ again, we’re gonna need you to let us take a look at—at everything.”

Rumi nods slowly. Yeah, sure, standard procedures.

Lifting her hands from the ice pack, Zoey’s fingers drift down to the hem of Rumi’s shirt. Cautiously, Zoey says, “I’m going to lift up your shirt now, okay?”

Makes sense. Rumi’ll patch herself up fully soon, but having Zoey and Mira check her over is—

Something they can’t do.

Swallowing, tossing on a smile, Rumi says, “Oh, thanks, but not necessary. The ice pack’s all I need, and I can keep the pressure on that myself.”

Rumi turns just slightly to angle herself towards Zoey and immediately stops as her body screams in protest and she feels a sudden rush of static in her ears. “I got this,” she adds as persuasively as possible.

Mira sets the water on a side table and slips off the couch to stand in front of Rumi. She leans down. There’s something scared in her expression.

More importantly, there’s also something dangerous.

“Rumi.” Mira stares. “You were slammed into a car.”

Rumi forces a lopsided grin. “It definitely dazed me,” she says, ignoring how every breath and movement of her chest feels like subsequent pummels. “But the ice pack and water were just what I needed. That, and I could probably use some sleep.” She laughs unconvincingly.

Mira stares. 

Rumi’s having a hard time reading what’s in her eyes.

“Rumi. We need to check your injury.”

Waving her right hand, still holding the ice pack, Rumi huffs, “I’m fine, Mira.”

“You—” Mira inhales sharply “—what are you doing right now?”

Sweating, Rumi answers, “…Telling you I’m fine?”

“Why are—why won’t you let us help you?”

“Because I’m fine?” She keeps her voice controlled, even, calm. Her ribs ache with every stretch.

“Don’t…don’t bullshit me, Rumi, what is this? Saying you’re fine after what Zoey and I saw, it…” Mira trails off. “It feels like you’re lying to us.”

With all the solemnity she can muster, Rumi meets Mira’s eyes. “Never,” she breathes, a lie that Rumi’s perfected. 

The silence that follows tells Rumi that Mira doesn’t believe her. Probably not Zoey either.

“We’re going to be sure and check you over, okay?” There’s a hardness to Mira’s voice, one that brooks no argument.

Okay.

Okay, Rumi needs to stop this.

She needs to stop this now.

How does she prove it?

How does she prove that she’s okay when she’s so clearly not?

There’s got to be something. Mira’s suspicious, and when Mira’s suspicious, she’s determined, and when Mira’s determined, she’s unstoppable. Add in the fact that all of this is stemming from Mira being concerned, from Mira thinking that Rumi is hurt, and Rumi knows she has to come up with something fast or—

—or this is it. Or Mira lifts her shirt and follows the injuries up until she sees Rumi’s patterns. Sees Rumi for what she really is.

And then it’s over, it’s over, they’re gone, her girls are gone, and Rumi will do anything to prevent that, to keep them by her side, no matter how much she’s hurting (because yes, every breath hurts, every move hurts, but Rumi knows how to tend to her injuries well enough alone; the pain she can handle).

Mira’s waiting, and Zoey’s waiting, and Mira’s tapping her foot and narrowing her eyes when Rumi has what is potentially one of her stupidest ideas to date, an idea that is going to hurt like hell and get her in so much trouble if she’s caught and also just might work.

Closing her eyes and inhaling sharply, Rumi drops her ice pack and lurches forward, grabbing a startled Mira by the collar of her shirt and holding her in place as she surges forward to kiss her.

Mira stumbles, making a surprised noise of protest. She opens her mouth and Rumi presses against it—don’t let her speak, don’t let her speak—and whimpers into the kiss as her body screams at her to stop moving, stop moving, stop moving.

“Is this proof enough?” questions Rumi between kisses.

“Rumi,” Mira gasps, “Rumi, we’re—knock it off— Rumi.” Exasperated, Mira grabs Rumi’s shoulders and tries to hold her away, even as Rumi pushes forward. Rumi leans in regardless, and oh, the pressure of Mira’s palm on her left shoulder sends another bloom of aching pain across Rumi’s chest.

It hurts.

Don’t let her speak.

“Rumi, we’re having a conver—” Mira stutters as Rumi takes her right hand and wrenches Mira’s grip off of one of her shoulders, just enough so that she can slide forward and capture her lips once again.

Zoey intervenes this time. She wraps her arms around Rumi’s chest and lightly holds her in place. “Rumi,” she scolds, “we know what you’re doing.”

Whining, Rumi asks, “And what am I doing?”

Mira licks her lips. “Distracting us.” She admits, “Rather successfully too.”

“But this doesn’t mean we’re not checking you—”

Rumi interrupts, twisting her head and squinting her eyes at the next burst of pain as she cranes her neck back to look at Zoey, “Checking me out? Be my guest.” She mimics Zoey’s silliest eyebrow waggle and earns an unexpected giggle out of her in return.

“Rumi, be serious.” Zoey tries to sound stern, but the laughter bubbling up in her throat at the ridiculousness of Rumi’s behavior undercuts any modicum of severity.

Good.

Rumi can be silly. She can be seductive. She can be distracting.

She just can’t be in pain.

Zoey’s grip loosens up enough that when Mira talks next, also trying to sound stern and say, “Rumi, we need to make sure that you’re ok—mmph!” Rumi’s cut her off with her lips once more.

“Wait, shit, sorry Mira!” Zoey doubles down on her Rumi hold. The pressure of it, as she yanks Rumi back, has Rumi seeing stars.

Panting, Rumi asks, “You just want to check if I’m okay, right?”

“Yes,” grits Mira, “that is, in fact, literally what we’re trying to do. Would you—oh my god, Rumi!” She lets out a startled shriek of laughter as Rumi uses her right hand, still holding Mira’s, to bring Mira’s fingers into her mouth. She raises an eyebrow as she casually licks them. Mira’s face starts turning red.

Mira snatches her hand back, flustered. “Rumi, we—”

“Need to check I’m okay, yeah,” Rumi says breathlessly, “and I’m showing you. I can show you so well if you let me go.”

Rumi can feel Zoey’s hold around her shoulders slacken. Swallowing, Zoey says, “Mira, if she’s acting like this, then—”

Twisting her neck—it hurts—Rumi pounces on Zoey’s weakening resolve. She presses her lips to Zoey’s, this time, open-mouthed and fervent. Zoey gasps against her, then gasps again as Rumi moves to lavishing kisses along Zoey’s nose, her jaw, the curve of her neck.

“Mira,” Zoey whines, “maybe we can just—ah , god, Rumi—let her show us the way she wants, I’d be—I’d be okay with that, personally.”

Rumi listens for Mira’s response as she continues plying Zoey’s neck for reactions, licking and nuzzling frantically to one, show just how okay she is, and two, distract herself from just how much she’s not. Eventually, Rumi hears Mira’s breath catch, and Rumi smiles into Zoey’s throat.

“This is so stupid,” Mira mutters, “but also really hot, fuck.” She taps Rumi’s cheek and Rumi turns. Mira doesn’t hesitate, diving into Rumi with lips and tongue, her fingers coming up to tangle in Rumi’s braid. 

Rumi focuses her attention back on Mira as Zoey bemoans the sudden lack of contact. Mira holds Rumi close, kissing her with the intensity of someone who can’t stand to let her go. When she pulls away, panting along with Rumi, she rolls her eyes and says ruefully, “You could’ve just lifted your shirt, dumbass.”

Be silly. Be flirty. 

Giving a cocky grin, Rumi huffs, “But where’s the fun in that?” Steeling herself, Rumi stands up from the couch and nearly buckles immediately as that searing pain lances through her. She lets out a long groan, then turns it into a huffing laugh as she lightly shoves Mira into a sitting position on the couch right next to Zoey. 

Her knees give out. She slams into the carpet in front of Mira and Zoey and gasps, and smiles again, desperately trying to show that these are gasps of excitement, and based on Mira’s and Zoey’s flushed faces, it’s actually working. 

Rumi scrabbles at the edge of Mira’s pants with her right hand, her left still hanging limply with the rest of the side that sets her ablaze with every move. Laughing gently, Mira helps her as Rumi whines, shoving her pants and underwear just enough past her hips that Rumi can grab and drag them down the rest of the way.

“You can’t just be normal, can y—fuck!” Mira groans loudly as Rumi dives into her center with a long swipe of her tongue. At the same time, Rumi reaches her hand out towards Zoey, groping blindly until Zoey guides her hand under the hem of her pants. Rumi reaches in with familiarity, fingers immediately probing and pressing.

Rumi sets about her task with gusto, kissing and sucking and nipping at Mira while pressing and pumping hurriedly into Zoey. Above her, she hears Zoey’s and Mira’s moans mingle and quiet, the smack of lips betraying that the two of them have found each other’s mouths as Rumi works them below.

The smell of Mira, the sound of her fingers in Zoey, the heady, charged atmosphere of sex, all combine to distract Rumi, give her focus, give her purpose.

She just wishes it was enough.

With every slight twitch of her body, Rumi feels that pain, again and again, over and over. She whimpers and whines and groans into Mira with every move as stars burst behind her eyelids.

It’s overwhelming, it’s all-consuming, it hurts in such a lingering, drawn-out way that Rumi can barely focus on what she’s doing. Each time she leans into Mira and Zoey, she feels the stretch of taut, bruised skin, feels the ache of cracked ribs with every gasping breath. 

Briefly, she thinks she’s going to pass out.

Instead, Rumi doubles down on her efforts, moaning helplessly against Mira’s folds, grateful that she can be so inconspicuously loud, that the current activity is serving its purpose in masking her pain.

Mira and Zoey are focused on each other, when Rumi takes a brief second to glance up, their hands under the other’s shirt and their mouths locked in focus, and Rumi continues sucking and thrusting fervently, because the faster she can make them come, the faster she can retreat to her room and figure out how not to die.

It’s such a stupid plan, and Rumi knows she’s even more stupidly lucky to have two women who trust her so implicitly that this plan could ever work.

The noises from Mira and Zoey start to stutter as their hips buck. Rumi drags her teeth across Mira’s clit and curls her fingers harshly into Zoey at the same time and is rewarded with dual cries of pleasure.

Rumi pulls away.

She pants as she stands ungracefully, withdrawing her fingers and mouth from Mira’s and Zoey’s warmths. 

Mira and Zoey start to catch their breath, eyes glazed.

Rumi doesn’t wait for them to finish. “I’m going to go clean up,” she chirps, casual, casual, casual. She nearly falls with her first step as agony strikes like lightning, then quickly stumbles away before Mira and Zoey are cognizant enough to comment.

The instant they can’t see her face, Rumi lets it contort in pain, gasping and heaving for breath as she slams into her bedroom door, bracing herself against it to get her inside, shutting it, and fumbling the lock with shaky fingers. 

Rumi just barely makes it to the bathroom and grabs her personal first aid kit before she falls again. Trembling, she unscrews a bottle of painkillers and dry swallows two, nearly choking before they slide down.

She lays on the tile, on her right side, her throbbing left side pointed upwards and free of any pressure. Her breaths are ragged, painful, uneven, and she knows she should get up, should properly check her injuries, but if she could just, if she could just stay here a minute more, then—

—she closes her eyes.

---

---

It takes hours of gargantuan effort, on and off throughout the night, for Rumi to properly assess her injuries, patch what she can (which isn’t a lot, because one giant bruise is truly the best way to describe it), and swallow painkillers as needed.

She spends the night on the bathroom floor.

---

It’s hard to wish for Rumi to be normal when she pulls out all the stops so suddenly. 

Last night at the forefront of her mind, Mira rubs her eyes and yawns. The thought of it sends a pulse of heat between Mira’s thighs at the mere thought, because wow does Rumi know what she’s doing down there.

Mira just wishes she wasn’t so weird about things, sometimes. 

It was hot, sure, to prove that she was okay with sex, and she certainly proved it, but Mira does think it would’ve been simpler to just let her look. It’s not like she and Zoey haven’t seen Rumi’s stomach plenty of times in her standard show crop tops, and Mira wouldn’t have had to doubt that Rumi might be lying. (She hates that, lately, she has been. Rumi has been nothing but honest and truthful and Mira has got to focus on keeping insecurities in the past.) 

There’s a part of Mira that does find it a little insane that Rumi bounced back so quickly after that hit—the image of Rumi again on the hood of the car, body still, flashes unbidden in Mira’s mind—but then again, Rumi’s always been resilient. Mira supposes a lifetime of hunter training will do that.

It unfortunately doesn’t dampen the sheer terror Mira feels, though, thinking on that moment, and how close she thought she'd come to losing Rumi. (What's worse, knowing now that Rumi wasn't that impacted by the hit, is the other life-threatening moment of that night, of Zoey's shin-kals bearing down on Rumi. Mira shudders—there's something in the thought of Rumi being pierced by the Honmoon's own weapons that sends bile to the back of her throat.)

The thoughts banish themselves instantly as Mira pads into the kitchen. She smiles softly at how immediately domestic Rumi looks, standing and supervising a pan of frying meat that Mira can’t identify quite yet, but leaves her mouth watering regardless.

Rumi’s effortlessly beautiful as she monitors the pan, no sign at all of having been slammed into a car the night before. She’s focused on her task, her brow furrowed, and the steam from the cooking breakfast licks up around Rumi’s jaw.

“Hey,” Mira greets, “good morning.” She takes a seat at the counter and watches Rumi, tracing the shifts of the hoodie’s fabric as Rumi moves and imagining the contours of Rumi’s back.

“Morning,” Rumi responds quietly. She keeps her eyes trained on the pan. 

Mira loves her.

Fuck, Mira loves her so much.

She also loves the little whirlwind of energy that appears to upset the kitchen balance a moment later. 

Watching fondly, Mira tracks Zoey as she bounds into the kitchen, gives Mira a quick peck, then tackles Rumi in a surprise hug. Rumi doesn’t return the hug, just laughs breathlessly.

Mira’s smile drops.

...What did she just see?

It almost seemed like, for a split second, as Zoey collided into Rumi, Rumi flinched. And, if Mira had heard correctly, there was a new, brief hiss that rent the air; not the sizzle of the stovetop but a noise of pain.

That…can’t be right.

Her mind narrows to a singular need—to disprove what she thinks she just witnessed.

Mira moves robotically, striding out of her seat and across the kitchen in five long steps. Without a single word of warning, she shoots her hand out like a viper’s strike to grasp the hem of Rumi’s shirt and pull it up.

Almost inhumanly fast, Rumi yanks it back down, whirling on Mira with a cross look that flees as soon as she sees her.

Mira’s jaw hangs open.

She’d barely gotten a glimpse before Rumi’s crazy reaction speed kicked in, but it was enough. 

All of Rumi’s side is mottled blue and black and red, like someone dumped cans of paint haphazardly on a canvas.

There’s no way.

There’s no way she was hiding this from them.

There’s no way she could have hid this from them.

Especially, after last night, when she’d gotten down on her knees with…a whimper. When she was more sensitive than usual, when she was making more noise than usual, when she was smiling more than usual.

When Mira knew, knew that she couldn’t be okay, but trusted Rumi anyway.

“Am I missing something?” Zoey asks. She’s pulled away from her surprise hug and is standing hesitantly to the side. 

“Show us.” Mira’s voice is dangerously low, a warning.

Rumi’s eyes blaze. “I’ve got nothing to show.”

“Show. Us.” 

Scoffing, Rumi bites, “Look, it's not my fault you clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

Mira's jaw clenches. “You can not be serious right now. This isn’t happening.”

Zoey glances between them with anxiety and something like recognition, like Mira and Rumi are playing out a scene she’s seen a dozen times before. “What?” she asks. “What's going on? What's happening?”

“Nothing,” reiterates Rumi, shrugging nonchalantly. “Mira’s grumpy because she’s mixing stuff up with some dream or something, I don’t know. Hey Mira, whenever you’re done being mad at me over nothing, let me know how much rice you want, I’m about to start prepping the bowls.”

She…

She's lying.

Rumi's lying to them, and it’s so fucking casual.

Not only is she lying, she's…

She's spinning it so that Mira looks like the liar.

Rumi…Rumi knows how that makes Mira feel. How her family treated her.

And now, one of the two people she loves the most in the world, who she’s given her heart, body, and soul to, is…

She's lying, and she's doing it so masterfully and normally that Zoey’s buying into it and a part of Mira is too.

How…how often has she done this?

Rumi's eyes glimmer as she moves away from the sizzling pan and starts to reach for bowls, and Mira's wishful thinking is that there’s a tinge of regret in there.

Zoey’s laughing nervously, “Okay, haha, I guess that makes sense. Well sheesh, you two, there’s no need to scare me like that so early in the morn—” She cuts off what she’s saying with a gasp as Mira, fueled by quiet anger and a desperate need to prove she’s not crazy, walks up to Rumi and shoves her. Not hard, no more than her playful standard, just enough force to wobble her on a normal day.

“Mira! What—”

Except Rumi doesn’t catch herself and shove back like she's done every other time.

Instead, she wheezes and drops to her knees, clutching her side. Her eyes look like they roll to the back of her head for a split second as she chokes on a muffled whine. Sweat beads across her brow in seconds as she hacks and gasps for air.

Zoey looks between them, horrified.

Panting and pale, Rumi lifts her eyes to meet Mira's own, the sting of betrayal and the overwhelming tide of pain swimming together deep within them.

Mira wants to growl and shout and scream that this is what happens when you lie about things, it doesn’t matter what the reason is, because Rumi could've injured herself more—hell, she probably already did, when she chose to fuck her girlfriends to distract them, who knows what she injured worse because she chose to lie and—

And Mira would've said all this right then and there if she didn’t see a third thing in Rumi’s eyes that doused every flame of anger in her body and turned her veins to ice.

Rumi's looking at Mira, and hidden behind her hurt and her indignation, is a third emotion, haunted and desperate:

Fear.

Chapter Text

The tragedy of Zoey’s parents is that they never stopped loving each other.

It just wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough to stop the screaming matches during the day, or the quiet, heated arguments conducted in secret whispers at night when they thought Zoey was asleep and couldn’t hear (she could). It wasn’t enough to stop the pettiness as they began to fight for Zoey’s attention like it was a finite prize to be won, like Zoey didn’t have enough room in her heart for them both. It wasn’t enough to keep them from making Zoey choose, in the end, because they couldn’t stand to be around the other for more than five minutes at a time.

Zoey still never fully chose; instead, she’d been on more transpacific flights than the flight attendants that worked them, spent days each year trapped onboard a flying, cramped metal tube in the sky, journalling to kill time as she spent all major breaks in Seoul and all of the school year in Burbank, because she couldn’t bear the thought of picking just one parent and what that’d do to the other one.

It occurred to Zoey, so many times growing up, that maybe, if she’d pushed hard enough, she could’ve found a way for them to make their love work, a way that meant they stayed together. She’d come up with arguments, beautifully worded, soliloquies that would highlight her parents’ love, would make them magically fall together once more. She’d come up with logistical reasons on why splitting was a bad idea, both financially and timewise, and actually if they stayed together then it’d be more beneficial to everyone in the long run. In the small print in the corner of her journals, Zoey came up with all the reasons why she didn’t want this, why this was bad for her, and didn’t they love her enough as their daughter not to put her through this? 

Zoey hates herself for never having the courage to say any of it.

Throughout all arguments and decisions, Zoey was never able to say her thoughts aloud. Instead, she’d nodded along and agreed with what was presented and did her best to please both of her parents in whatever way she could.

Being with HUNTR/X, Zoey’s learned that it’s okay to voice her thoughts, to give her opinions, that she’s allowed to say something even if it’s at the expense of unanimous harmony, that she doesn’t have to make herself small in order to please the people around her.

She’s gotten so much better about this. And in the past few months, since the beginning of their most recent world tour, Zoey’s felt more herself than she thinks she ever has in her entire life, has felt like she has a voice worth listening to.

Zoey hates herself for how quickly she reverts back to that familiar, strained silence as she stares at Rumi and Mira.

She’d been out in the kitchen for all of two minutes this morning before everything imploded, and now she’s stuck, slack-jawed and speechless, as she attempts to puzzle out any of what she’s witnessed.

First of all, before anything else, Zoey’s caught off-guard by Rumi.

Rumi, who’s slowly, creakily standing up, had fallen to the ground like gravity had doubled around her specifically. And even now, her face is white, and she’s sweating, and her brows are furrowed, and Zoey could swear that she looks like she’s in pain, but that also just doesn’t make any sense, because it’s not like she could’ve been injured overnight, and last night she was clearly fine—

—wasn’t she?

Zoey pauses.

Her eyes trace the set of Rumi’s jaw, the way her gaze skirts away from Mira, the curling of her arm around to clutch her side. 

The side she’d been slammed into the car with.

Zoey looks to Mira next.

Mira’s trembling and pale, almost as much as Rumi. Her lips are pursed and her eyes are narrowed and her nostrils are flaring as she clearly struggles to rein in whatever anger’s so clearly filled her being. 

Almost instinctively, like Mira’s really not even thinking about it, she holds out a hand to help Rumi up.

Rumi stares at it, midway to a stand. 

When she ignores it, Mira’s face tightens.

Without saying anything, Mira spins on her heel, walks to the fridge, and yanks out an ice pack. She slams the freezer door shut, then strides back to Rumi and shoves the ice pack in Rumi’s face.

Warily, Rumi takes it, holding it to her side as she leans away from Mira’s touch.

“Do you need anything else?” she asks quietly.

Rumi blinks. “No,” she says slowly. “I’m fine.”

According to the sudden blaze in Mira’s eyes, that was the wrong answer.

“You—” Mira’s cheeks are turning red. “I can’t believe you right now,” she mutters, stepping around Rumi to turn off the stove and transfer the cooking beef slices to a plate. 

Almost petulantly, Rumi argues, “I was going to get those.”

“In what—” Mira grinds her teeth “—in what condition?”

“The one where—”

Mira interrupts before Rumi can finish. “Actually, I don’t care. Go sit on the couch.”

Drawing herself up, Rumi squares her shoulders. “I was in the middle of cooking breakfast.”

Mira glares at her. “Go sit down,” she says in a low voice, “or Rumi, I swear to god, I will hold you down and strip off every piece of clothing you’re wearing—”

“Kinky.”

Mira looks like she’s about to throttle Rumi as she continues “—until there’s nothing left for you to hide in. Because maybe then you’ll be fucking honest about your injuries with us.”

With a shrug, Rumi turns towards the couch. “If you wanted to cook breakfast that badly, you could’ve just asked.”

Zoey’s baffled.

While Mira is visibly trembling with emotion, Rumi is acting almost bizarrely unaffected, like none of this tense interaction means anything; like it’s all some kind of game, or like she’s breezing through a variety show interview.

Zoey does notice, though, that Rumi keeps the ice pack when she goes to sit down on the couch.

Quietly, Zoey starts to grab bowls and fill them with rice, veggies, and seaweed. She starts adding gochujang (extra on Rumi’s) and holds them out to Mira for the beef slices. Mira doesn’t say anything back, but when Zoey brushes her elbow gently, she swears that Mira’s tense shoulders lower just a bit.

Grabbing chopsticks, Zoey walks to the couch and wordlessly hands Rumi her bowl, swapping it with the ice pack. She notices that Rumi takes the bowl with her right hand, then slides off the couch to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table. She sets the bowl down and then grabs the chopsticks, blowing idly before digging in. 

Not once does she use her left hand.

“Thanks, Zoey,” Rumi mumbles around a mouthful of food.

Zoey doesn’t know how to respond. The words stick in her throat, clumsy and ready to trip as soon as she lets them out; she finds it better not to try in the first place. She can’t help but glance at Rumi’s left side, at the way her arm hangs loosely, and she slowly walks forward to kneel next to Rumi. 

Lightly, Zoey presses the ice pack to Rumi’s side.

Rumi hisses around her bite, then transforms it partway through into a casual hum. “Thish ish delishush,” she says, as if she hadn’t just slipped and shown Zoey the horrifying truth:

She’s hurt. 

She’s hurt badly enough to hiss at an ice pack.

And if she’s hurting like this now, even after a night of Honmoon-aided healing, then—

Zoey swallows.

How could she have missed it?

She stares and stares at Rumi, who’s pointedly eating her breakfast with an averted gaze.

How could Zoey have let last night happen?

What signs did she miss?

She replays last night over in her head, and it’s like the memory is doused in the icy cold clarity of a mountain waterfall. 

How Rumi had started pushing for sex only after Zoey had started to lift up her shirt and Mira insisted on checking her.

How Rumi had been so vocal, whining into every touch.

How Rumi was so quickly breathless, despite arguably having the best endurance of all three of them.

How Rumi had specifically started kissing Zoey as soon as Zoey admitted she was into what was happening.

How Rumi had fallen to her knees in front of Zoey and Mira with a gasp.

How Rumi only used her tongue and her right hand to get Zoey and Mira off.

How Rumi had been so loud, whimpering and moaning at a volume to match Zoey’s.

How Rumi seemed impatient, bringing Zoey and Mira to completion much faster than usual.

How Rumi had retreated to her bedroom immediately afterwards and didn’t come out for the rest of the night.

How did Zoey miss this?

Watching Rumi eat, her long braid cascading down her back as she hunches closer to the bowl, Zoey feels scared, and a little bit sick. She thinks of how she sat on this same couch last night and moaned into Mira and bucked her hips with glee as Rumi’s expert fingers brought Zoey immense pleasure, and Zoey wonders how much pain it had brought Rumi instead.

For the first time since they were trainees, Zoey feels like she has no idea what Rumi’s capable of.

Mira comes to sit on the couch next to Zoey. It feels a little awkward, them sitting higher up while Rumi sits on the ground; it’s almost like they’re supervising her, like a child.

Rumi keeps her back turned as she eats, but the hunch in her shoulders becoming ever-so-slightly more pronounced gives away that she’s clocked Mira’s position.

Say something, Zoey thinks.

Her traitorous brain won’t let her.

After a minute, Mira sighs. “Rumi,” she starts, sharp eyes following every twitch in Rumi’s body, “I’m sorry. For pushing you.”

Rumi shrugs. “‘s fine,” she grumbles around a large bite, “‘s not like it hurt much.”

Mira’s face tightens. “‘Not like’—Rumi, you collapsed to the ground.”

She shrugs again, mouth full of rice.

“You—” Mira’s voice is shaky. “Rumi, I hurt you.”

“No, you didn’t. I’m fine.”

“You’re…” There’s sheer disbelief playing across Mira’s features. “Rumi, what is this?”

Tilting her head to show she’s listening without turning around, Rumi asks, “What is what?”

“You can’t keep pretending as if everything’s okay. I saw, Rumi. I saw what’s under your shirt.” Rumi stiffens. “Your entire side was purple.”

Zoey watches, as intrigued as she is upset, at how Rumi’s breath hitches and she draws inwards.

“Is it really that bad?” Zoey asks quietly, the first sentence she’s been able to utter since she waltzed in this morning and triggered a minefield.

Mira nods. “I saw. It’s like she’s covered in one giant bruise, which she still won’t let us look at.”

The tiniest bit of tension leaves Rumi’s shoulders. “I’ve already treated myself,” she says quietly. “It’s an ice-pack-and-time kind of fix, no big deal.”

Scathingly, Mira bites, “And what about last night?”

“Last night?” Rumi finally turns. She gives Mira a toothy grin. “It was fun, wasn’t it?” 

Mira and Zoey stare.

It’s the same smile Rumi gives to the cameras, one filled with confidence that borders arrogance, that belies the knowledge that she’s a star and she knows it; she uses it in music videos, in fan meet-and-greets, in interviews, in concerts.

She never uses it with Mira and Zoey.

Not waiting for an answer, Rumi turns back to her food and keeps eating. She seems a little stiffer, a little more uncomfortable, but Zoey’s no longer confident that she can tell those things at a glance anymore.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mira whispers.

Rumi’s shoulders raise a bit, and her back straightens, but she keeps her face turned away and eats.

Mira looks like she’s not sure if she should be laughing or crying right now. “I can’t—I can’t—what am I supposed to do here?” She brings trembling hands up to her face, staring first at them and then pleadingly at Zoey, who shrugs helplessly.

Almost sullenly, Rumi mutters, “You don’t have to do anything.”

Something washes over Mira’s expression. With a steely gaze boring holes in the back of Rumi’s head, Mira says, “I am so fucking mad at you right now.”

Rumi pauses chewing.

“Of all the—of all the stupid stunts you’ve pulled—and Rumi, you’ve pulled a lot—this is, hands-down, number one.”

Ducking her head, Rumi asks, “Why?”

“You hid an injury from us, a massive one, and then proceeded to lie to our faces about it. Last night, you tricked us, manipulated us, you—” her voice drops to a whisper “—used us.”

“I didn’t do anything either of you two didn’t want,” asserts Rumi quietly. “I would never.”

Mira starts to laugh. It’s sardonic and bitter. “No?” Mira spits. “Are you sure about that?”

Rumi whips her head around at last to glare at Mira. “Yes,” she emphasizes.

Mira meets Rumi’s glare with a fierce one of her own. Frigidly, she says, “I don’t want to be fucked by you if you’re hurting yourself to do it.” Mira looms over Rumi, who averts her eyes. “Do you think I want that? Do you think Zoey wants that? How do you think we feel, huh, knowing now that you deliberately distracted us with sex at your own expense?”

Rumi doesn’t answer.

“Do you think that feels good?” Mira’s volume rises. “Do you think I care anymore about how good you ate me out, knowing now that you were hurting yourself to do it?”

Rumi's shoulders are up to her ears. She stares at the floor. Muttering, Rumi says, “It didn’t hurt.”

Scoffing loudly, Mira gestures to the ice pack Zoey’s still pressing to Rumi’s side. “Then why did you fall earlier and why do you need that right now?”

Rumi's voice is tight. “I'm a little sore.”

“A little—” Mira scowls. “That’s the worst part of this, Rumi. That you lied. That you’re still lying.” She sinks back down on the couch, breathing harshly. “You even…you tried to convince me that I was imagining things, and that—fuck, Rumi.” Zoey sees tears starting to sting at the corners of Mira’s eyes. 

Mira swallows. “I just—how could you do that? How many times have you done that?” Rubbing the back of her hand across her face, Mira’s voice breaks. “Why do I feel like I can’t trust you anymore?”

At that, Rumi slowly stands. She positions herself in front of Mira and extends her right hand. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, smiling politely, “you’re right. That was dumb. I won’t do it again. You can trust me.”

Zoey notices that Rumi doesn’t answer a single of Mira’s questions.

Mira’s crying now, openly. She doesn’t take Rumi’s hand. “Why,” she chokes, “can’t I believe you anymore?”

Something behind Rumi’s eyes cracks; something in Zoey’s chest does too.

“You can,” Rumi insists, a note of desperation leaking through her mask. “You can.” A note of desperation, and also, if Zoey’s reading it right, a note of fear.

Mira catches it too. She stares into Rumi’s brown eyes as if she’s transfixed. She whispers, “What are you so afraid of?”

Rumi’s not quick enough to hide the subtle way her body flinches.

She smiles wider, reaches out her hand to cup Mira’s cheek. “Nothing,” she murmurs, leaning her lips in to meet Mira’s.

Mira shoves a palm in front of Rumi’s face to block her. “Don’t,” Mira commands shakily. Rumi looks hurt, like a kicked puppy, but Mira ignores her. “Don’t touch me.”

Without another word, Mira abruptly stands from the couch and stalks to her bedroom, leaving Zoey and a frozen Rumi. 

A slight whimper leaks from Rumi’s throat. She turns to Zoey pleadingly.

Be honest, Zoey thinks.

Take a side, Zoey thinks.

Hold to what you believe, Zoey thinks.

What does she believe, exactly?

The same as Mira does, Zoey thinks. That she can’t believe Rumi right now.

Rumi needs to know this, needs to understand this, needs to learn from this, needs to realize that her actions have consequences.

Instead, she holds out her arms, and Rumi falls into them, crying, and Zoey thinks of how Mira deserves the same but instead she’s alone, and how she’s only one Zoey but she’s going to split herself in two as needed to make sure both parties stay happy.

Zoey hates herself for still not having the courage to say what needs to be said.

---

As if ripped from her childhood memories, it goes like this:

Rumi and Mira don’t speak to each other.

The mornings are cold and empty. Zoey wakes in her own bed and in her own bedroom. She walks to the still kitchen and grabs an imported box of Fruity Pebbles and eats her cereal alone. 

Rumi and Mira come out when it’s time for work, but there hasn’t been a lot of work, not with Rumi’s vocal issues.

She still can’t sing “Takedown”.

Every time she misses a note, Zoey sees Mira’s eyes narrow.

The producers call to postpone another week. They’re surprisingly understanding, and Zoey thinks it’s because HUNTR/X is still fresh off a giant wave of new content. No one had really been expecting them to push a new song this soon anyway.

If anyone at the studio notices how curt Rumi and Mira are with each other, no one comments.

The evenings are much like the mornings: cold and empty.

No food is made—it’s been nothing but takeout the past week, eaten separately in their respective rooms, except for Zoey, who stubbornly sits on the couch by herself.

There are no movie nights, no cuddle piles, no laughter, no sex.

Occasionally, when Rumi or Mira pops out into the living room and find only Zoey, they walk over and kiss her gently, longingly, and Zoey wants to yell and scream at them to “stop this, please, talk to each other” but then they smile at her tenderly and all Zoey can think of is how to keep that smile there a little longer, by any means necessary, and she swallows her thoughts for another time.

---

Rumi tries to talk to Mira, she really does.

Every time, Mira shuts her down.

It makes Rumi want to tear her hair out.

She’s apologized. She’s promised not to do it again. What more does Mira want?

maybe she wants you to mean what you say

maybe she knows any promise you make is worthless

maybe she knows what you are

liar

---

Just because they’re fighting, doesn't mean demon attacks have magically paused in the meantime.

Rumi doesn’t sing in battle this time, silently darting between demons and flicking her saingeom left and right. A week into this tension and Rumi’s mostly healed, like her injury that sparked all of this never happened in the first place.

Zoey frowns when she sees, out the corner of her eye, Rumi stumble.

She realizes why in the next second as Mira swerves in front of the demons pressing in on Rumi and dispatches them swiftly, far more in Rumi’s space than normal.

Then Mira swivels on her heel and steps away, and Zoey recognizes with a gulp the flare of temper in Rumi’s eyes.

---

With Mira out at an extended choreography set, Zoey and Rumi are alone in the apartment.

Zoey’s sitting at her desk, chewing the tip of her pencil, when there’s a soft knock on her door. She swivels in her chair. “Come in.”

Surprised, Zoey sees Rumi slip in casually, shutting the door behind her. 

“Hey Rumi, what’s—mmph!” Blinking, Zoey freezes for a second before instinctually sinking into the sudden kiss. She pulls away briefly. “Rumi, everything goo-ood?” She squeaks as Rumi turns to lavishing kisses along Zoey’s jaw, then down her neck, then down to her collarbone. Rumi sinks lower and lower, her hands running up and down Zoey’s chest, across her ribs, her stomach, the curve of her hips.

Rumi hooks her fingers into the top of Zoey’s pants and looks up at Zoey questioningly.

Zoey, knowing full well she’s red in the face, and also knowing full well that letting Rumi fuck her in the middle of their relationship’s blow-up is not a, like, great idea, still whispers, “Please.” Because dammit, it’s been over a week and a half, and since the three of them had started dating, Zoey hasn’t gone this long without being touched. And now that she’s experienced what her girls have to offer, her own fingers just really don’t cut it anymore.

Grinning, Rumi quickly strips Zoey’s bottom layers of clothing, helping guide Zoey’s legs all the way out, and then settles at the foot of Zoey’s desk and in-between Zoey’s thighs. She presses slow kisses along Zoey’s thighs instead of diving straight in. Zoey shudders.

She’s missed this. 

Zoey’s only had this for a few months and having it taken away from her, even for as short of a time as it’s been, has been torture.

And this still isn’t what it should be, because there’s a certain third member conspicuously absent.

Zoey wishes that Rumi and Mira would just make up already. She’s sick and tired of it, she doesn’t care anymore about what Rumi did, she just wants Rumi to promise never to do it again and Mira to apologize and then they can just. Go back to the way things are supposed to be.

Actually…maybe Zoey can take advantage of this. Maybe she can finally try and talk to Rumi about everything, make some progress.

Hot breath tickles Zoey’s soaked opening, and she almost moans from that alone. “Nngh, Rumi,” she says, gripping the armrests of her chair, “can we—ah—can we talk?”

Rumi slowly nuzzles her face in Zoey’s cunt, peppering soft kisses along the outside. “About?” hums Rumi.

Zoey swallows. “About Mira.”

Rumi hums again, then lazily licks a stripe through Zoey’s increasing wetness. “Don’t wanna,” she mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

“Rumi—”

“Why?” She sucks gently. 

Zoey has to catch her breath a second, bracing on the armrests. “To—to resolve this—this whole thing.”

Rumi’s tongue dives inside Zoey for a brief second and she tenses. Then, Rumi pulls back out. She says, muffled, almost petulantly, “That’s on Mira to figure out.”

“You don’t—you don’t think you can do something—instead?”

Grumbling, Rumi kisses Zoey’s center languidly and answers, “Like what? I’m not the one refusing to talk. And I’m not the one disrupting our battle flow. I just—” Rumi buries her face into Zoey, sending vibrations through her core “—I just don’t understand her issue.”

Zoey takes a deep gulp of air and blows a piece of hair out of her face. She pokes Rumi in the forehead. Scowling, Rumi lifts her head up briefly, mouth glistening. “You absolutely do,” Zoey states, “so stop pretending like you don’t.”

Absentmindedly licking her lips, Rumi looks away. “I—look, I’m sorry about hiding the injury. It was dumb. But I’m fine now, and I chose to have sex with you both, and I swear it didn’t hurt that bad. If anything, you two were a welcome distraction.” 

“Rumi—”

“And I’ve told Mira that I won’t do it again.” Rumi uses a finger to idly tease Zoey’s clit as she clenches her jaw sullenly. “She’s the one who won’t believe me.”

Zoey stifles a groan. “And you—you are telling the truth, right, Rumi? You haven’t—fuck—you haven’t lied about anything else, right?”

Rumi meets Zoey’s gaze with an intense one of her own.

“I promise,” Rumi says, “that I’m not hiding any injuries from you right now.” Then she leans back down and dives into Zoey with fervor, and Zoey slips into a haze of Rumi’s lips, tongue, and breath.

She forgets about pressing Rumi for answers as she presses Rumi against her instead, hands tangled in Rumi’s braid and gasping as her hips buck and warmth flushes through her.

It’s only afterwards, after Rumi kisses her fondly and ducks out to grab a convenience store dinner, that Zoey thinks about how little Rumi’s answer matched the question.

---

Rumi actually snaps at Mira during the next demon fight.

Zoey always keeps an eye on the two of them, just as they keep an eye on her and each other, which means she catches the instant Mira steps directly in front of Rumi as a demon swings downwards, halting and dusting halfway through as Mira’s gok-do runs it through.

Rumi’s saingeom, mid-swing, jerks to the side as Rumi frantically course-corrects in order to avoid hitting Mira. Practically growling, Rumi nearly shoves Mira aside with her shoulder as she brushes past her. “Get out of my way, Mira.”

Mira doesn’t budge. She glances at Rumi, but doesn’t say anything.

Rumi peels away to go after another group of demons, but makes it all of two meters before she’s tripped right over Mira, who’s practically on top of her once more.

Ducking under one demon’s club, Rumi flips the hilt of her saingeom and thrusts it backwards into another, snapping, “Mira! Clear some space! Do you want to get hurt?”

It’s quiet, but Zoey catches Mira’s “No, but if I do, at least I know I won’t try to deal with it alone.” 

“You—” Rumi scoffs even as she casually grabs a demon by the wrist and whirls it around into Mira’s gok-do. “It’s been ten days, Mira, when will you let this go?”

The blade of Mira’s gok-do whistles above Rumi’s head and cleaves an approaching demon in two. “You’re an idiot,” she mutters.

Rumi squawks as she holds out a leg to trip one demon into another. “And you’re a—a—” She falters.

Mira dances around Rumi, pivots as she sweeps her blade, and says mockingly, “A what, Rumi?”

Making an exasperated noise, Rumi leans her back against Mira and braces with her arms, lifting both her legs in an expert kick. With an expression that Zoey recognizes means I’m not doing this right now, Rumi firmly says, “Focus. We’ve got a fight to win.”

They clean up the rest of the demons in silence.

---

Zoey leans backwards into Mira with a breathless sigh, letting her head fall onto Mira’s shoulders as Mira’s long arms encircle her. Mira presses a featherlight kiss on her brow as her fingers dance delicately beneath fabric across Zoey’s cunt. The bed creaks under them as Zoey shifts and presses herself further against Mira’s chest, biting her lip. 

Mira rests her chin on Zoey’s shoulders and turns so that when she speaks, her breath tickles Zoey’s ear. “I missed this.”

Mira’s fingers are leisurely playing with Zoey’s folds. Zoey sighs. “I missed this too,” she admits, “so much.” Mira presses another kiss to Zoey’s brow. Hesitantly, Zoey asks, “When are you going to talk to Rumi again?”

Stiffening, Mira pulls away slightly. “I’ll talk to Rumi when she recognizes what the hell she did wrong,” she snaps. She pushes a finger inside Zoey.

Zoey’s breath hitches. “Mira…she wasn’t trying to hurt us.”

There’s a startled note in Mira’s reply. “Are you taking her side?”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” Zoey insists quickly. “I just—I want this fight to be over. I hate how tense everything’s been. I hate that I can’t be in the same room with my two favorite people anymore.” She exhales shakily as Mira curls her fingers. “She’s tried talking to you, but you keep shutting her down, and I just—she wasn’t trying to hurt us, Mira.”

“No,” grumbles Mira, “she just hurt herself.”

Zoey’s breaths become more rapid at every brush of Mira’s fingertips inside her, even as she focuses the rest of her attention on the current conversation. “So why is not talking to her the play?”

“Because.” Mira huffs. “Because I just—aren’t you pissed? Doesn’t it make you angry?” She inhales deeply. “Zoey, we hurt her. I hurt her. I let her convince me she was fine, let her go down on me, and then the next morning, I got so desperate to prove I wasn’t crazy that I hurt her again. On purpose. I can’t—doesn’t it bother you?”

“Of course it bothers me,” Zoey says sharply. “It sucks. She’s stupid. I keep thinking back to that night, to every noise she made, and wondering how the hell I didn’t see it. But Mira, you also can’t be mad at her forever.”

“Watch me.”

“Or mad at yourself forever.” Zoey’s read on Mira is confirmed accurate when Mira flinches. Mira’s strokes pick up speed. “Don’t think I don’t see how you two keep looking at each other when the other’s turned away, by the way. But I also can’t stand this tension, this loneliness, and just—nngh—look. Rumi can be stupid and love us at the same time. Just like you can be mad and still love her. Don’t you miss her?”

Mira thrusts sharply into Zoey until Zoey gasps and trembles in her arms. Leaning her head in, Mira admits, “Of course I do, Zoey. Every day.” She takes a shaky breath. “Zoey, this whole thing—it scares me. Why would she lie to that extent about an injury? Has she done it before? Is—is anything else a lie?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “...Does she even still want me?”

Zoey twists around, reluctantly pulling Mira’s hand from her pants so she can straddle Mira and face her head-on. She presses their foreheads together and gently wipes a tear from the corner of Mira’s eye. Mira’s lip wobbles. “I hurt her,” she whispers again. 

Pressing a kiss to Mira’s cheek, Zoey says softly, “Both of you made a mistake. Just talk to her about it, okay? I’ve…I’ve seen what happens if you let this stuff fester, and I can’t—I can’t lose this, Mira, I can’t lose what we have, I can’t—”

Mira quiets her with a kiss. “You won’t,” she breathes, “you won’t ever lose us. I promise. And you’re right. I can—I can talk to her. I just might need a few more days.” 

Zoey nods. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

Thinking, Zoey adds, “You should also probably lay off protecting her in fights, by the way. It’s super pissing her off.”

Mira winces. “Yeah, I—that’s been part of the intent, if I’m being honest.”

“Mira.”

“That and she’s just so reckless sometimes, and now I’m worried about her getting hurt and hiding it again, and what if I do something that hurts her again—Zoey, I can’t hurt her again, I can’t, I can’t stop thinking about it, I can’t stop seeing how she fell to the floor.”

Zoey grabs Mira’s chin and forces her to meet Zoey’s gaze. “Then tell her that.”

Mira takes a shuddering breath and nods.

Softening, Zoey says, “Please. I want my girls back.” 

She lets her weight drop onto Mira suddenly, earning a surprised oof before she snuggles in closer, latching herself around Mira like a baby sloth. “Doesn’t have to be today,” murmurs Zoey, “especially since I’m sure Rumi’s going to be exhausted when she gets back from that magazine shoot. But just—can you promise me one more time that you’ll talk to her soon?”

“Yeah,” Mira breathes, “I can.” She pauses. “But what if she does something else stupid—”

“Mira.”

---

Mira’s running away, she knows that.

It’s hardly like she’s the only one of their trio who does it.

She keeps thinking of the way Rumi looked at her that morning, on her knees.

With fear.

Was she scared of something? Was she scared of Mira and Zoey learning something?

…Was she scared of Mira?

Three days have passed since she had that conversation with Zoey.

Mira needs to talk to Rumi.

---

It’s not working.

Her voice isn’t working.

They’ve postponed “Takedown”’s recording session again, this time indefinitely until Rumi’s voice gets better.

But how is it supposed to get better if it’s the one thing that can heal it?

“When your patterns start to show,” she sings quietly, angrily, “‘it makes the hatred wanna grow out of my veins.’” It almost feels as if her patterns pulse for a second, flaring hot and molten under her skin. 

“‘I don’t think you’re ready for the—’” Rumi coughs and touches her throat and growls. 

Why?

Why now? 

When she’s so close?

WHY?!

The smallest ripple of pink bursts forth from Rumi as she snarls, and she freezes. 

No no no, not more things, there can’t be even more—

The patterns are already all over her arms, her shoulders, her chest, her throat, her thighs, and recently, spiraling down her left side atop the faint, yellowing bruises from the car park. 

Rumi’s running out of time.

She grabs the sheet music for “Takedown” and flings it off her bed with a frustrated shout, the papers scattering and fluttering to the ground. Grabbing a pillow, Rumi buries her face inside it and screams.

What is she going to do?

How is she supposed to have hope when her one avenue to freedom has been gated and padlocked by the same chains she’s worn her entire life?

How can she have a life with Zoey and Mira if she can’t fix herself?

she misses Mira so much

There’s a quiet knock on her door. Someone awkwardly clears their throat. “Hey, Rumi,” says the low voice, “do you think we could talk?”

yes

“Not now, Mira.”

“...Okay.”

---

Zoey doesn’t know how to fix this.

It’s been two weeks. Two weeks.

Two weeks of her two favorite people circling each other warily, mistrusting, hiding, running away.

Just like her parents.

And just like then, Zoey’s sitting quietly and trying to please both sides. All she’s doing is uselessly nudging them in a direction and biting back her actual thoughts and she hates herself for it.

---

Another fight.

Just like she has been, Mira hovers around Rumi, too close for Rumi’s comfort. Rumi’s clearly trying to skirt away from her, running along the fence of the old boatyard nearby and keeping it to her back. Mira follows closely behind.

Zoey tosses a shin-kal at a water demon rising from the lake and does her best to pay attention to the demons as she keeps an eye on Mira and Rumi.

When a group comes out of the shoreline in tandem, Zoey’s attention is pulled completely to them. She sends out a flurry of shin-kals and dodges claw swipes with ease.

As Zoey finishes, she hears a loud bang and turns, startled.

All of the demons are gone, and so all Zoey sees now is Mira, butt of her staff slammed into a junked boat, cornering a furious Rumi between one long arm and her gok-do.

”What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mira shouts.

Rumi’s eyes blaze, some fierce, unspoken answer flashing within them. She tries to squirm away but Mira blocks her exit. 

“We don’t do this.” She leans in closer, practically snarling. “We. Don’t. Do. This.” She punctuates each word with a jab to Rumi’s chest.

Ducking suddenly out of Mira’s reach, Rumi argues, “It was going to get away!”

“That doesn’t mean you go running after it on your own!”

“I had it handled,” Rumi snaps, “which you’d realize if you trusted me again.”

“Trusted—and what a winning strategy you’ve picked, huh, to win my trust back? Hurling yourself into a forest to chase an unknown demon? A forest where we can’t even see where you are?”

Zoey’s chest tightens.

“I’m doing my duty—”

“You’re being reckless!”

“And you’re not? I’m surprised I haven’t stabbed you yet, the way you keep cutting into my space!”

“You won’t, I won’t, and clearly someone has to keep an eye on you from now on!”

“Keep an eye—as if I haven’t been doing this since I could walk—”

“Get over yourself. Extra training doesn’t make you invincible— ”

“Shut up.” Zoey’s voice is barely even a whisper, but it’s enough to make Rumi and Mira freeze in place, words dying in their throats. “Just. Shut up.” They stare at Zoey as if she’s grown two heads and a turtle shell. Exhaustedly, Zoey mutters, “Let’s just. Get back to the tower.”

Mutely, Rumi and Mira nod.

Zoey tries not to cry.

---

Now, instead of a frigid silence in their penthouse, it’s a nervous one. Zoey can tell Rumi and Mira are both walking on eggshells around her, and she’s going to actually lose it.

She can’t believe she allowed herself, for even a second, to entertain the idea that Rumi and Mira could solve this on their own.

Truly, Zoey is this close to losing it on them entirely.

She’s scared, and angry, and pent-up, and when she tries to tear up one of her journals in rage, she can’t even do that right.

By day three, Zoey says “fuck it” and corners Mira while Rumi’s out.

---

When Rumi walks in through the penthouse door, she stares.

Mira, strap buried halfway into Zoey, stares back.

When Mira sees the normally unflappable Rumi’s face start to turn bright red, she gives a feral grin, some petty part of her wanting to pay Rumi back somehow for that stunt she pulled by the lake and for refusing Mira’s offers to talk (even if yeah, she’d been refusing Rumi’s for well over a week). She meets Rumi’s eyes and rolls her hips, slowly, tauntingly, and—

With a yelp, Mira’s dumped unceremoniously on the floor, narrowly avoiding banging her head on the coffee table as the strap leaves Zoey with a pop.

Rumi lets out a startled bark of laughter. When she catches Zoey’s eye, the smirk is wiped from her face instantly.

Zoey, who’s standing up from the couch, cuts an intimidating figure with her hands on her hips and eyes narrowed despite the absence of clothing on her bottom half. “Uh, no,” Zoey says, “I’m not doing this. We’re not doing this.”

Bemused, Mira sits up on the floor. She sees Rumi’s eyes linger on the strap for an instant before darting away.

“Doing…what?” Rumi asks cautiously.

“This!” Zoey gestures wildly. “This whole childish nonsense—Mira, I saw the look you shot at Rumi, don’t act confused! I’m done! I won’t be Nice Zoey anymore, I don’t care.” She glares at both of them in turn. “Talk. To. Each. Other. I’m gonna go to my room and finish what Mira started, and by the time I’m done, I expect you both to act like normal adults again. Clear?”

Mira and Rumi nod, too stunned to speak.

“Good.” Zoey stomps away furiously, leaving Rumi and Mira alone.

Well.

Mira supposes it was only a matter of time before Zoey blew up at them; she’s only surprised it took this long. Almost sheepishly, she looks at Rumi, then gets up with a groan. “You heard her,” Mira says, trying her best to sound casual. “We’re overdue for a talk. Come sit.”

Rumi raises an eyebrow, staring distastefully at the couch. “We have beds, you know,” she comments drily, setting her bag down by the door and coming to perch all the way on the far end of the couch from Mira. She’s back from a costume consultation, which means her actual work outfit consists of one of her typical comfortable oversized hoodies and sweat pants so she can change easily in and out of them.

Mira flops down on the couch as well. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” She runs a hand through her hair, steeling herself. “So…” She stops as she sees Rumi still staring in consternation. “What?”

Rumi points between Mira’s legs. “Can you…take that off?”

“Oh.” Mira’s cheeks warm, and she hastily scrambles out of the harness and unthinkingly sets it on the coffee table, earning her another distasteful look. As she finds her own sweatpants from earlier, she tugs them on and mumbles, “I’ll clean that up later.”

“With—”

“With disinfectant, yes.”

Mira settles herself back on the couch and observes Rumi. Rumi’s rigid, back straight and stiff and seated so far forward it looks like she might slip off the edge.  

She looks about as uncomfortable as Mira feels right now.

Mira lets her eyes trace Rumi’s clenched jawline, the curve of her throat half-hidden by the collar of one of Rumi’s staple turtlenecks, the slender fingers fidgeting in her lap that Mira knows intimately well now. She lingers on Rumi’s lips, then follows the folds of the hoodie, the way its large size means it hangs just a little further past Rumi’s wrists, the bagginess masking what Mira knows is one of Korea’s most killer bodies, if ever Rumi decides to show more of it.

Ever the professional (though Mira is questioning that descriptor for Rumi more and more every day), Rumi clears her throat. “Zoey’s right,” she starts, worrying her lip, “we need to talk.”

Mira adjusts her position so that one leg is up and the other drapes off the side of the couch. She leans forward. “Agreed. Do you want to go first, or—”

Shrugging, Rumi says, “Sure.” She tugs the sleeves of her hoodie down absentmindedly. “I—I’m sorry, Mira. I shouldn’t’ve lied. And I definitely shouldn’t have put you and Zoey in that…position that I put you in. I’ve thought about how I’d feel if the positions were reversed, and I’d be furious too. You have my apologies.” She gives Mira a small smile.

Mira sits with the apology a moment.

If she’s being honest, it feels…rehearsed. “Rumi, do you even understand why I was—am, let’s be real—mad in the first place?”

Rumi frowns. “…For lying?”

Snorting, Mira says, “It went a little bit more than lying, Rumi.”

“But that was the crux of it, right? Lying about an injury? I won’t do it again. Promise.” There’s a gleam in Rumi’s eyes.

Mira blinks at Rumi. Slowly, she drawls, “Is that it? Is that really all you got from this?”

Shuffling, Rumi says, “I mean, yeah? It’s not—I’m not lying about anything else.” 

Disbelieving, Mira pinches the bridge of her nose. She’s grateful that right now, she’s less angry and more exasperated, but she’s not sure how long she’ll stay like that if Rumi’s answers stay like this.

“Rumi,” Mira starts, unable to stop a bit of annoyance leaking through, “it’s the lying, but it’s not just the lying. It’s that, even when you got caught, you kept insisting. Rumi, that’s actual gaslighting. You know, the shit my parents and brother pulled every time I thought I did something good, something praiseworthy. I’d feel so proud, like an idiot, and then they’d pull the rug back out and tell me that I was making stuff up, that I was imagining things. The same thing you told me.”

Rumi winces. “Mira, I—”

“Hang on.” Mira holds up a hand. “I’m not done. Just—let me get this out, okay?”

Nodding, Rumi promises, “Okay.”

“When you told me that, it—it got to me. And then I did something I shouldn’t have, and that’s push you. I don’t—a part of me knew that it would hurt you, if I was right, but in that moment, I was so desperate to prove that I wasn’t making things up, and I didn’t register the consequences until you dropped to the fucking floor.”

Rumi tries to protest, “It really wasn’t that—”

“Rumi.” Mira gives a warning glare. Her voice is tight. “If you try to lie to me again right now, I’m walking out of this room and not talking to you for another month, do you understand?”

Rumi nods feebly.

“I was angry. I’m still angry. But I should—fuck, Rumi, I hurt you. And that’s the other thing—because you hid your injury, we couldn’t help you. Instead, you tricked us, me and Zoey both, into sex, so not only did we not help you, we hurt you. Rumi, you—you put us in a position where we hurt you. Do you—do you not get how guilty we feel?”

Shaking her head, Rumi argues, “But that’s on me, not you guys, I know you wouldn’t hurt me.” Her voice wavers for an instant; a faraway look flickers in her eyes. 

Mira studies Rumi. “That’s not the point, Rumi. You can’t control whether or not we feel guilty, because even if you were the one who lied, Zoey and I have talked about how much we fucked up in not realizing, in not seeing the signs. I keep—Rumi, I keep thinking back, over and over, and feeling like an idiot.” She glares at Rumi before Rumi can try to interrupt again. “You used us, you used what we have together, the thing we do where we’re most open, and you lied to us, and we hurt you. Don’t you—don’t you get it?”

Rumi hugs her knees to her chest. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to make you guys feel bad, I swear, I just—”

“Just what? Why were you so determined to hide that from us? That’s the other thing—it just doesn’t make any sense to me, Rumi.”

“I—” Rumi takes a deep breath. “That’s…hard for me to talk about.”

Mira watches her carefully. 

“You were right,” Rumi whispers, “what you said that morning. I am afraid of something. I don’t—I don’t know that—”

“Rumi,” Mira murmurs, “please. Whatever it is, let me and Zoey help you. You’re our family. Let us protect you.”

Hands fisting the fabric of her pants, Rumi takes a shuddering breath, and then another. “I—I—it’s—” She stands slowly, walking towards Mira. “Can it wait?” she asks softly. 

Mira’s quiet. “For how long?”

“Soon.” Rumi steps in front of Mira. “I promise. And I’m sorry. For lying. For tricking you. All of it.”

Reaching up, Mira trails her hand along Rumi’s cheek. Rumi closes her eyes and leans into the touch, and Mira’s anger washes away beneath a profound ache, for whatever’s bothering Rumi enough that she’s so nervous, so scared. “I’m sorry too,” Mira says sincerely. “For pushing you. For running away when you wanted to talk.” She pauses. “For…getting in your space in fights.”

Rumi makes a noise of mock offense. “I knew you were doing that on purpose!”

“A little, yeah,” Mira admits ruefully, “partially because you’ve been stressing me the fuck out in fights lately and also partially to piss you off.”

Sullenly, Rumi says, “It really worked.”

Mira snorts.

Hesitantly, Rumi takes a seat beside Mira, holding Mira’s hand to her cheek the whole time. She looks at her, unwavering. Rumi asks, “Do you still feel like you can’t trust me anymore?”

Mira has to think for a moment.

Rumi’s lied. She’s manipulated. She’s hiding something. She’s getting progressively more reckless in fights. 

But also, she’s Rumi.

“No,” Mira breathes, “I don’t.”

Rumi leans closer. “Do you trust me right now?”

“Are you hiding any injuries?” Mira’s starting to feel breathless under Rumi’s weighted gaze.

Rumi shakes her head slowly. “No.”

Mira swallows. “Good.”

With that, the floodgates finally open, and Mira falls into Rumi, yanking her in for a fierce and desperate kiss, hands scrabbling to stroke Rumi’s braid, her cheeks, her throat. Rumi meets her with the same zeal, mouth opening and melding and pushing Mira back fiercely.

“I missed you,” Mira whispers between kisses, “I missed you so much.”

Whimpering, Rumi presses harder. “Me too,” she admits, fisting her hands around the collar of Mira’s shirt and yanking her as if the two of them weren’t already as close as physically possible. Mira’s breath stutters against Rumi’s lips as Rumi slips her hands under her shirt, running them along the muscles of Mira’s back.

Mira kisses again and again and again, refusing to reach for air until her lungs are burning, then gasping and diving back in. 

This is Rumi, Rumi, Rumi, and she is Mira’s just as Mira is hers, just as both of them are Zoey’s and she is theirs, and Mira trusts them implicitly.

Heat pools unexpectedly quickly in Mira’s core. She lavishes more kisses against Rumi’s lips, hot and hurried, and loses herself in the images of Rumi taking care of her again, of Rumi between her thighs, of Rumi above her, thrusting—

Without meaning too, Mira moans, “Please, Rumi, I want you, everything, let me feel you, let me take your—”

She stops herself abruptly.

No, no, Rumi had expressly not been ready for that, just keep kissing her and—

It’s too late. Rumi stills, pulling away from Mira and studying her with an unreadable expression. Her eyes flick to the strap and harness on the table, then back to a flushed Mira.

“Ignore that,” Mira gulps, breathing heavy, “I don’t—I’m not—I’m not gonna say I’m not interested, but Rumi, all I care about right now is you. Touch me however you want, please.”

Rumi’s eyes flicker back and forth again. After a beat, she says quietly, “I can wear it.”

Mira’s already shaking her head. “No, Rumi, you said you weren’t ready, I don’t need—”

There’s something charged in the air as Rumi extends a hand and curls it around one of the loops of the harness. “I’m ready.” She looks at Mira solemnly. “Please. After the way I messed up, just…just let me make you happy.”

“Rumi—”

“I want to,” Rumi murmurs. “And you said you’d trust me now, right?”

Mira nods slowly.

“So trust me. Take off your clothes while I put this on, okay?”

Mira nods again. As she strips, she watches Rumi fumble a bit with the harness, loosening it to slip over her baggy sweatpants and then securing it in position. It’s a little garish, bright purple in hue, but it pairs nicely with Rumi’s hair (which had been Zoey’s thought process in the first place). Mira hadn’t even realized Zoey had grabbed the one meant for Rumi when she’d rushed off as soon as she recognized the direction their conversation earlier was headed in. 

For some reason, Mira can feel herself blush under Rumi’s intense gaze. It’s not as if Rumi hasn’t seen everything many times over, but the two week absence of this, of intimacy with Rumi, sets Mira’s heart aflutter like it’s their first time all over again.

Rumi stands awkwardly once she finishes tightening the harness. There’s a wrinkle of confusion in her brow when she moves closer to Mira as the strap sways, but then she’s closed the distance between them and hauled Mira up for another searing kiss. “So,” Rumi murmurs, “how do you want me to do this?”

Mira swallows. 

“Do we need, uh…lubricant, or…?”

Snorting, Mira says, “We should, yeah, but I have a better method.” She slowly sinks to her knees and meets the strap at eye level. “Zoey’s already made a mess of this anyway, so I can just—” She leans forward, opens her mouth, and pulls the tip of the strap inside.

She hasn’t exactly done this before, has just watched Zoey eagerly, so she pictures the zeal with which Zoey tackles this task and mimics it, drawing her tongue along the shaft and lapping up the remains of its earlier usage. 

Bobbing her head lightly, Mira pushes down further then pulls back, sucking with quite frankly ludicrous noises. She looks up, to see if Rumi’s enjoying the image of her on her knees as much as Mira enjoys Zoey, and for a split second thinks Rumi’s frowning before she meets Mira’s gaze with a soft smile. 

“Oh, good, you actually figured things out.”

Mira chokes, pulling off the strap abruptly as she and Rumi whip their heads around to see Zoey standing nearby, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Zoey—” Mira starts.

“Nuh uh,” interrupts Zoey, “not yet. I absolutely have words for you both, but right now, I haven’t had the two of you together in weeks, and Rumi’s wearing a strap, and I want in.”

Mira grins, wide and genuine. “Okay,” she breathes, “sounds great.” Then, she casually gropes the strap as she stands and wickedly adds, “But I get Rumi first.”

Zoey snickers. “As long as you don’t break her before she gets to me, be my guest.” She starts shucking off her shirt, and Mira notes that, from the continued lack of clothes on her bottom half, Zoey was most likely hoping for this exact outcome.

Impatiently, Mira grabs a fistful of Rumi’s hoodie and yanks Rumi down to the couch with her, pulling her on top and maneuvering the strap between her open legs. Rumi squeaks, face bright red.

Mira smiles and kisses the corner of Rumi’s mouth. “I’m ready whenever you are,” she says, guiding the tip to her entrance. 

Slowly, almost painfully so, Rumi pushes the strap past Mira’s entrance. Immediately, Mira groans. It’s a stretch she’s not well-versed in, significantly larger than the two fingers that have become the girls’ defaults with each other. When Rumi pauses instantly, Mira huffs, “I’m good, I’m good. Keep going.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Rumi.” Mira bites back another groan as Rumi starts to sink in cautiously, little by little. Squirming reflexively, Mira lets out a gasp when she feels Rumi’s sweats up against her thighs, the strap buried all the way to the hilt. 

It’s a new feeling, this overwhelming fullness, and all Mira can think is that it’s Rumi above her, it’s Rumi inside her. 

When Rumi doesn’t move, Mira gently shifts her hips. “Please move,” she whispers. 

Rumi, startled, nods. “I—okay, yeah, yes.” 

She drags the strap back out, painstakingly slow, then rolls it back in at the same speed. Gentle, teasing, Mira feels her breath hitch with each movement as Rumi carefully pulls out and pushes in. Rumi’s face is scrunched, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration, and it’s adorable.

It’s also way too slow.

Mira’s going to combust if Rumi doesn’t pick up the pace.

The couch shifts next to them as Zoey flops down, stripped naked, and lays a teasing hand on Mira’s shoulder. “How’s it feel?” she asks Mira lightly.

Rumi diligently rolls her hips, slow and steady, bottoming all the way before gradually pulling back out. She’s biting her lip, focused, and also very much listening to the two of them.

“It’s great,” breathes Mira, earning her a small smile from Rumi, “but—”

“Buuuuut…?” Zoey stretches the word with a wide grin, eyes sparkling in a way that tells Mira she knows exactly what Mira’s going to say.

Rumi slows even further, watching. “Is it too much?” she asks, nervous.

Mira laughs airily. “No, Rumi, in fact, it’s kind of the opposite.” 

Rumi’s head tilts.

“I want you to go harder. I won’t break, Rumi.”

“...And you’re not afraid that I will?” Rumi hovers over Mira, meeting her eyes. “You trust me?” She punctuates it with another push in, all the way.

“Yes.” Mira gently tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind Rumi’s ear. “I do. All of you. I’m not afraid that you’ll break—I want you to let loose. I want you to take me down—ah!”

Rumi’s pace picks up instantly. Languid rolls of her hips turn into punctuated thrusts as she snaps into Mira. Mira shudders, delighted, beneath the sudden onslaught of pleasure as Rumi fucks her, properly.

There’s a giggle next to them. “She sure is taking you down, huh,” Zoey laughs. Her own hand reaches to play with herself as she gets a mischievous glint in her eyes. “‘So sweet, so easy on the eyes,’” she sings suddenly.

Mira laughs. Rumi’s pace stutters.

Joining in, Mira adds, “‘But hideous on the inside!’” The words hitch every time Rumi pumps into her. 

Zoey warbles, “‘Whole life spreading lies—’”

“‘—but you can’t hide—’”

“‘—baby nice try!’” Mira and Zoey burst into giggles as they sing, something absurd about them practicing their newest single while Zoey touches herself to the sight of Rumi railing the shit out of Mira.

They continue, grinning and laughing.

“‘I’m ‘bout to switch up these vibes—’”

“‘—I finally opened my eyes—’”

In tandem: “‘It’s time to kick you straight back into the night!’”

Mira meets Zoey’s eyes, gasping as Rumi thrusts deeper into her. As one, the two of them turn to Rumi expectantly.

It’s cute, Mira thinks, how focused Rumi is right now. There’s a slight crease in her brow, and she’s looking past Mira, concentrating on some imaginary point in the distance as she fucks. 

“Your turn, Rumi!” Zoey sings, playing with her clit as she watches, her chest heaving slightly.

Rumi blinks. Her pace falters again for a split second before she ups it, moving faster. She nods slowly and bites her lip. Quietly, she sings, “‘Cause I see your real face—and it’s ugly as sin. Time to put you in your place—’” She closes her eyes and pumps faster. “‘—’cause you’re rotten within. When your patterns start to show—’” her breath catches “‘—it makes the hatred wanna grow out of my veins.’” She slams into Mira on the last word.

Laughing, Mira and Zoey crow, “‘I don’t think you’re ready for the takedown!’”

Rumi, breathless, sings, “‘Break you into pieces in the world of pain, ‘cause you’re all the same.’”

“‘Yeah, it’s a takedown!’”

Rumi drops to her elbows and lets her head fall into the crook of Mira’s neck, burying her face as she thrusts roughly. Each stroke of the strap inside Mira brings her closer and closer to the edge, pleasure building and twisting in her core.

Muffled, Rumi quietly sings, “‘A demon with no feelings don’t deserve to live…’” She ramps up her pace even further, crashing her hips into Mira’s own until Mira cums with a cry, body trembling. 

Rumi starts to slow. Her breath catches against Mira’s skin as Mira pants. 

Lips grazing Mira’s neck, Rumi breathes, “‘It’s so obvious.’”

Mira catches her breath. She looks over at Zoey, who’s grinning wildly. 

“Hey Rumi—” is all the warning Rumi gets before Zoey tackles her. Rumi braces herself against the hit, stumbling and jerking the strap inside Mira. Mira gasps, sensitive, and laughs, lightly pushing Rumi off of her.

Blinking, Rumi takes the cue to pull out and startles as Zoey’s face appears within centimeters from her own. “‘I’mma gear up,’” teases Zoey, “‘and take you down.’”

Mira cackles as Zoey yanks a slightly out-of-it Rumi towards her. She faceplants into the couch, lifts her cheeks in the air, and begs, “Me next, please.” Pausing, she turns her head to check Rumi over. “Unless you’re too tired—?”

Rumi shakes her head and smiles. It’s wide and a little unnatural, but also that’s just part of Rumi’s charm. “No,” she pants, “I’m good. I can keep going. How do—”

“Fast,” Zoey interrupts, “I’m so ready, I promise.”

Huffing, Rumi lines up the strap and plunges in with no hesitation. Zoey squeals in delight.

Mira, still catching her breath, takes a move out of Zoey’s playbook and starts to idly finger herself as she watches the two of them.

Rumi tackles the task at hand with the same zeal she tackles everything, and Zoey moans and whines beneath her at every thrust, rocking backwards in an attempt to match Rumi’s pace. Rumi, above her, smiles and laughs airily and all Mira can think is how grateful she is that finally, finally, Rumi’s letting herself open up.

---

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mira had shouted at the lake (and whispered during that first, awful confrontation).

Nothing, Rumi had wanted to say.

Everything, she thought instead.

Rumi’s abs burn. She thrusts into Zoey as quickly as her body allows, snapping her hips into Zoey’s over and over again, watching the strap pump in and out and imagines the clench of Zoey’s walls around it.

Oh, you’re the master of illusion

Rumi smiles. She laughs. She fucks Zoey with fervor, with speed, rough and hard, and every time she pushes in she feels the strap-on, just barely, rubbing against the space between her thighs. But the sweatpants block most of the feel, and all Rumi’s left with is a vague sense of unfulfilling pressure. She plows into Zoey, watches Zoey writhe and moan, and doesn’t feel a thing.

나를 속이려 하지마

Mira knows Rumi was never mad about the push, right? Zoey knows that Rumi doesn’t blame her for not knowing Rumi was hurt, right? They know that Rumi’s primary responsibility in fights is to keep them both safe, right?

Rumi taking a graze on the cheek for Zoey, Rumi taking the hit on her shoulder for Mira, Rumi making herself vulnerable enough to be grabbed for her girls not to be hit by a car, Rumi lying to them about how much it hurt because she can’t bear the thought of them hurting because of her, Rumi chasing a demon down in the woods on her own

They both know that any pain Rumi feels is her own fault, right?

because she’s not good enough for them

because she’s a liar

because she’s a coward

because she’s a demon

Look at all the masses that you’re foolin’

Rumi’s fooling them, right? She has to be, because Mira’s mouth is parted and her fingers are slipping through her folds and Zoey’s face is buried in a couch cushion as she cries out with every thrust.

Because they both look immeasurably happy, which means they believe Rumi.

She wishes she could have felt Mira, she wishes she could feel Zoey, she wishes that she was sharing in their pleasure instead of spectating it, instead of chasing her own helplessly through fabric and lies.

But they’ll turn on you soon, so how?

Because they’d kill her if they knew the truth.

If they knew what was actually fucking them frantically into the couch.

Rumi impossibly picks up her pace.

Zoey is a mewling, howling mess beneath her as Rumi drops to rest her weight on her forearms and pounds Zoey harder.

How can you sleep or live with yourself?

Rumi rests her forehead on the back of Zoey’s neck and gasps sharply.

Zoey’s body tenses, then suddenly Zoey’s screaming beneath her, hips bucking back into Rumi.

The sound of Zoey’s pleasure feels almost far away, like Rumi’s across the room, or through a wall, or underwater, or in a dream.

She doesn’t dream much anymore.

A broken soul trapped in the nastiest shell

She doesn’t slow down. The friction against her own clit is enough to tease her but not enough for any sense of satisfaction, a constant reminder of what she doesn’t have, what she can’t have, what she’s not allowed to have.

Rumi gasps, her breaths feeling caught in her throat.

She ruts into Zoey, frantic, hurried, chasing chasing chasing—

Zoey squirms and cries beneath her, moaning “please Rumi oh my god” as Rumi thrusts in time with the choked hiccups in her chest until—

Mira’s hand on her shoulder pulls her out of her haze momentarily.

“Rumi,” Mira says, a little confused, “Rumi, Zoey’s had enough, okay?”

Rumi blinks.

She stutters, slows, stops.

Beneath her, Zoey is limp and gasping and flushed. Sweat beads across her back and her arms and her neck, and when Rumi suddenly pulls out, she groans loudly.

Turning herself over to look at the two of them, Zoey catches her breath and sprawls in a boneless heap and says, “Holy. Fuck.”

영혼없는 네 목숨을 귾으러

Rumi pants. Her chest is heaving as she struggles to catch her breath.

“Whoa. You good?” Mira’s brow furrows in concern.

“Yeah,” Rumi gasps, “just—I’m just—”

Her lungs are on fire. Everything around her feels hazy.

“Just need—to catch—my breath.”

Mira’s voice is faraway as she says, “Hey, don’t push yourself. You killed it, Rumi, so don’t be afraid to let your body rest.”

And watch you die

Rumi swallows. Her tongue is dry, her throat is dry, her mind and her mouth are stuffed with cotton and there’s a faint high-pitched ringing in the distance.

“Gonna—cool off—in shower—catch—my breath—”

Zoey laughs. “Good idea,” she says, words slurring a bit as she fans her reddened cheeks. 

“If you need anything, Rumi, just let us—”

Rumi beams at them. Her tongue is thick as she assures between heaving gasps, “No—I’m great—that was—great—but I need—a second—” She laughs breathlessly and jokes, “That’s—a killer—workout.”

At that, Mira softens with a snort. “I’m sure it was. Okay, loser, go shower.”

Nodding rapidly, Rumi scrambles at the harness and yanks it off, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor as she ducks out with a smile and a wave and retreats to the safety of her bathroom, as she’s done so often before.

When the door to her bedroom is shut and the door to her bathroom is locked, Rumi stumbles against the sink and gasps raggedly for air.

It’s like she can’t breathe, like her body’s on fire, but then the rest of the world feels like it’s submerged in the ocean, muffled and distant except for the pounding of her pulse in her ears and that incessant ringing.

They don’t know.

They don’t know.

They can’t know.

“Takedown” was a coincidence.

They didn’t know about her.

That wasn’t sung to her.

Maybe it should’ve been.

The whole song’s meant for her, after all.

They can’t know.

They can’t.

She has to prove it to them, though, just in case. 

Confirm she’s not a demon, without a shadow of a doubt. 

(But why? For how long? She’s running out of time, she knows she is, just like she’s running out of air with every strangled gasp.)

The patterns pulse faintly and Rumi almost throws up.

No, no, stop—she hates it, it’s like they feed off of her shame, like they find whatever Rumi’s most nervous about and sink their claws into her skin at any sign of weakness (shame about sex with Zoey and Mira leading to patterns on her thighs, shame about “Takedown” leading to patterns on her throat, shame about hiding her injury leading to patterns down her side).

She’s running out of places on her body that she can reasonably hide.

Her chest still heaving, mind still spinning, she braces herself against the countertop with one hand and clutches her face with the other. She lets her eyes drift frantically around the room—briefly, they alight on her concealer, the special kind Celine bought her for certain promotions and photoshoots.

Then, something in the mirror catches her attention. A flashing image, just a few seconds.

Trembling, Rumi stares at her reflection.

It stares back at her, a purple clawed hand covering all of her features with the exception of a singular, yellow eye peeking through.

You can try but you can’t hide

---

---

Mira and Zoey have just finished cleaning up, both themselves and the couch, swapping out the ruined cushions with the spare set Rumi had insisted they get as soon as couch cuddle piles started turning into more, when Rumi pops back out.

Mira gives a low whistle under her breath as Zoey gives a less subtle “Wow, hot”.

Rumi smiles. She tucks her loosely braided post-shower hair behind her shoulders with a casual flip and walks towards the couch. She’s wearing a clean set of sweats and a standard turtleneck, but for what feels like the first time in ages, this particular turtleneck is sleeveless, and she’s got her arms bare for them to see.

It’s a treat, honestly. Mira’s not sure she’s shown them off since the three of them entered a relationship. Greedily, she traces the curve of Rumi’s biceps, her shoulders, the veins in her forearms, enjoying the rare opportunity to properly ogle her girlfriend.

Rumi sits down, resting her hands lightly on her knees and leaning forward. Mira gives her a small nod of encouragement and Zoey watches carefully, her own promised unspoken words to the two of them waiting for the right moment.

“So,” she says softly, “I promised an explanation. A real one. A proper one.” 

Rumi looks between Mira and Zoey, her eyes an odd combination of soft and sharp. 

Crossing her bare arms, Rumi swears, “No more lies.”

Chapter Text

“I have patterns.”

The air in the room goes deathly still.

Mira and Zoey stare, wide-eyed, disbelieving. 

As Rumi withers under their stares, they slowly stand up and advance towards her, positioning on each side.

As one, Mira and Zoey take Rumi’s arms and swipe, taking a swatch of concealer off in one go to reveal the twisting purple stripes that have plagued Rumi from the moment she was born.

They take in her patterns, expressions unreadable.

Mira’s morphs first, her mouth twisting and eyes narrowing in complete and utter revulsion. Zoey follows behind a beat later, disgust written in the scrunch of her nose and furrow in her brows.

“So you’re a demon,” Mira says matter-of-factly.

Zoey adds, “Gross! But hey, thanks for telling us! You know what we have to do now, right?”

Rumi’s breath catches as Mira and Zoey summon their weapons. The blades aim at Rumi’s throat, and she turns to run but finds she’s fixed in place, that she can’t move a single muscle as Mira and Zoey advance on her, their light-spun weapons glinting as they raise and—

Gasping, Rumi wakes in her bed. She flings the covers off and stumbles to the bathroom, dropping in front of the toilet and dry heaving until she can catch her breath.

That’s not how it happened.

That’s not how it went.

They still don’t know.

They will never know.

Everything’s fine.

Rumi still has time.

She just needs to fix her voice and sing “Takedown” and turn the Honmoon gold and then she’ll finally be free and they’ll never have to know and—

And maybe, she can be with them. Maybe someday, she can be deserving of them.

Rumi’s not stupid.

She knows what she’s doing is wrong, she knows that she’s hurting Mira and Zoey, she knows that she’s single-handedly unraveling their relationship and frantically spooling it back before she’s caught with the threads hanging limp in her clawed, demon hands.

That flash she saw, in the mirror—Rumi’s still not convinced she didn’t imagine it, that glimpse of claws and purple and gold, but she remembers it feeling so real in that moment. It took several minutes of struggling to breathe and calm down before she could look in the mirror again, and the second time, she saw nothing but her usual self, despite everything.

Rumi rinses her mouth, spits, and blearily climbs back in bed.

That’s another thing she can’t have—the privilege of falling asleep and waking up beside Zoey and Mira. Apart from impromptu couch cuddle piles, Rumi’s started retreating to her room every night, ever since the car park. (Even before, she’d only allowed herself to share their bed occasionally, especially when they were all stuck in hotels together during their tour, but now that they’ve returned, Rumi keeps finding it more and more risky as her patterns spread. Her pajama shirt riding up a month ago wouldn’t have exposed anything—now, it’d reveal her completely.)

She runs her hands over her face and takes a shuddering breath.

They don’t know.

They still don’t know.

It’s fine.

Everything’s fine.

Rumi closes her eyes and lets the conversation from earlier replay in her mind.

---

“So,” Rumi says softly, “I promised an explanation. A real one. A proper one.” Looking between Mira and Zoey, she crosses her arms. 

“No more lies,” she lies, watching them as they watch her.

Mira and Zoey sit patiently, their legs brushing as they position themselves side-by-side and facing Rumi. It feels a little bit like an interrogation, which Rumi supposes isn’t unwarranted, but this is one of those instances where she feels the gap between them.

Sometimes, when Rumi looks at Mira and Zoey, at the way they slot perfectly together, she wonders why she ever thought it was okay to selfishly carve a space for herself. 

She thinks on where to begin with what she’s rehearsed and absentmindedly starts to grip her arms before she catches herself and forces herself to relax. The concealer is good, great even, but it’s not foolproof. It certainly won’t come off in a single wipe of her hand, but Rumi doesn’t need to let her nervous fiddling be her undoing either.

First thing’s first: grovel. Rumi’s apologized already but she knows she needs to do it again, to do it effectively, if she wants this to work.

Drawing her shoulders back and straightening her spine, Rumi breathes deeply and says, “I’m sorry. I know I’ve said it already, but I want to say it again.” She pauses and looks at Zoey. “To both of you.”

Mira waits quietly while Zoey nods and gestures for Rumi to go on.

“I’ve been stressing you both out, hurting you, and it’s—it’s not okay, I know that, but I want to at least…explain why? If you’ll let me.”

“Go on,” says Mira, voice low.

“It—it goes back to the Honmoon. To not turning it gold, during the Idol Awards. I was so sure of that performance, that we would finally seal the Honmoon for good, and when it didn’t work, I just—I felt like a failure.” Rumi keeps her gaze fixed on them both, solemn and outwardly honest.

“You guys know how much it means to me, but it’s—it’s not really about how much it means to me, but how much it means to Celine. And,” Rumi exhales, “to my mom.”

Fidgeting, Rumi continues, “It wasn’t something Celine did on purpose, by the way. She trained me to do my duty, just like she trained you two to do yours. But when I was growing up, she’d mention how important it was, not just for her, or me, or the people of Korea, but for Miyeong. My mother.

“And I just—I started to think, over the years, that I have to meet their expectations as quickly as possible, because I owed it to Celine, for raising me, and to my mom, for dying for me. And when the Idol Awards performance didn’t work, it just—it all started rushing out.

“So I started pushing myself harder. In fights especially. Because the fights feel like they’ve been getting harder: more demons, bigger demons, smarter demons. And I started to get in my own head about you both getting hurt, and I thought, I’d rather be the one getting hurt than either of you. 

“Because that’s—” Rumi pauses and glances to Mira. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she breathes, “of losing you.” And it’s not a lie, for once. Just for this moment, Rumi allows them to hear only truth from her lips, because all of her fears, every single one, trace back to losing Zoey and Mira.

Something she can’t do.

Something she refuses to do.

There’s a softness in Mira’s and Zoey’s eyes as they listen. When Rumi falls silent, they glance at each other, deciding wordlessly who should speak first.

They settle on Mira. “That explains…some things, so thank you. But, Rumi, I still don’t understand why you lied about your injuries. That’s the part I keep circling back to, over and over. I know you’ve apologized, I do, but I still don’t get it.”

Rumi feels both Mira and Zoey studying her intensely as she worries her lip and concocts a response. She’s thought of this one, too, but it’s definitely flimsier than her other excuse. Rumi begins, “I—I get in my own head, sometimes.” She plays with her hands in her lap. “After the car park, I—I knew that you two would feel guilty. Would feel worried. And I just—I didn’t want to worry you. So I thought maybe, if you just thought I was fine, then it’d be no big deal.”

“That’s so stupid,” Zoey mutters. 

Rumi blinks at her, startled.

Zoey narrows her eyes back. “Don’t act surprised, Rumi, you know I have words for the two of you. And we’ll get to those. But for real, that was your reason?”

Opening and closing her mouth, Rumi stammers, “I mean—yeah? It was kinda gnarly, to be honest, so I just thought, well, if I don’t show you—”

Mira groans, holding her head in her hands. “Zoey’s right,” she grumbles, “that is so stupid.”

Rumi bristles. “Okay, look, you wanted an explanation, there it is!”

Leaning forward, Zoey stares intensely. “Tell me that was the only time you’ve done something like this.”

Chest swelling with a deep breath, Rumi meets Zoey’s eyes calmly. “It was the only time I’ve done something like this.”

Zoey searches, her eyes flitting over Rumi’s face for any sign of a lie, before she leans back, satisfied. Rumi subtly lets out the breath she’s been holding. 

“And your brilliant idea to distract us,” Mira chimes in, “was sex. I’ve already told you how I feel about that, but Zoey wasn’t there, so let’s go over it again. Just to make sure you properly understand.”

Rumi sinks into the couch, sullen. It takes everything in her not to reach for sleeves she’s not wearing.

Mira raises an eyebrow, then shakes her head. “Zoey, I’ll repeat what I told Rumi earlier, then you add anything else you feel needs to be said, okay?”

Zoey nods.

“So. Your main goal was to make us ‘not worry’, but to achieve that, you crossed lines. Major lines. Relationship-ending lines.”

Inhaling sharply, Rumi sits up. Her eyes go wide.

Mira holds up her hand. “We’re not ending anything, Rumi, take a breath.” She shares an exasperated look with Zoey. “If we were planning to break up with you, do you really think we’d have let you rail us into the couch a couple of hours ago?”

Rumi slowly shakes her head. The image of them singing “Takedown” to her, laughing and having fun, floats through Rumi’s mind unbidden for a split second, along with the longing ache left between her legs. (The ache is still there, actually, though Rumi’s ignoring it. She couldn’t bear to touch herself earlier, not after what she’d seen in the mirror.)

“Also like,” Zoey says, “we’d probably wait to do it until we can walk  properly again, because Rumi, uh, wow.” 

A slightly dreamy look crosses Zoey’s face as Rumi blinks. 

Oh, okay, good, they really enjoyed it.

Rumi had made them both happy, which makes Rumi happy, even if her heart twists at the thought of wearing the strap again (her abs hurt, she couldn’t feel anything, and she’d never been left more unsatisfied). But she’ll do it again anytime her girls ask, she knows that now.

“Zoey,” Mira admonishes.

“Right, yes, refocusing.”

“Rumi.” Mira’s eyes are unreadable. “In trying to make us ‘not worry’, you actively had us hurt you, and then you double-downed on your lies so hard when you were caught that you resorted to gaslighting.” Her shoulders rise and fall with several deep breaths. “I get the pressure from Celine, I get the pressure from your mom, and thank you for sharing that. But you need to promise us, right now, that you will never do something like this again, or—” Mira swallows, then gives Rumi a hard look “—or you will lose me.”

“Me too,” says Zoey quietly. “I won’t do that again.”

Rumi fights the panic swelling in her chest. 

Nonono, she can’t lose them, she can’t she can’t she can’t, don’t they understand that they are Rumi’s everything, that she would rather fall on her saingeom than lose them?

She quells it as best she can, though Rumi’s sure her resulting smile is strained. “I promise,” she says, voice shaking. “I promise. Never again.”

“No more hiding injuries,” Zoey says.

“I promise.”

“No more running off in fights,” Mira adds.

“I promise.”

“No more taking hits for us,” Zoey continues.

“I promise.”

“No more lies,” Mira says.

“...I promise.” Rumi looks between the two of them, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. “There are no more lies between us,” she says resolutely, looking them both in the eyes. She itches to scratch at the patterns under her concealer.

Mira and Zoey take Rumi in, really and truly, searching and searching until they finally seem satisfied with what they see.

Mira takes a breath. “Okay. Okay, good.”

Silence falls, for just a moment, as all three of them process.

Then, Zoey breaks it. “My turn now?”

Wincing, Mira says, “Yeah, your turn.” Rumi winces as well in preparation.

Zoey inhales loudly. “Okay, so, I said I needed to talk to you two. And I do. I—” Groaning, she leans into Mira. “I’ve never actually done this before,” she mutters, “but I think—I think, with you two, I can. So here goes.”

Drawing in another deep breath, Zoey starts, “These past two weeks have sucked. Like, sucked. You both know how I grew up, and the whole deal with the divorce, and watching you two fight felt like I was ten all over again. I hate what led to that, and we just talked about that so I’m not gonna, but I also hated how—how immature you two became. The silent treatment, the arguing during demon fights, the petty looks. And I hate that I was caught in-between, that it felt like whatever I said didn’t matter.” She balls her hands into fists, clutching the hem of her shirt. “That clearly I didn’t understand what was going on and just wanted the fighting to stop because I’m Zoey and I’m nice and I hate conflict.

“And yeah, okay, I do! I do hate it! But I hate being treated as this voiceless third wheel too! I talked to both of you—both of you—about ways to fix this mess, and instead, you both ignored what I had to say, and that—” Zoey sniffs “—that hurt, because you two have never made me feel that way before.” She rubs her eyes as Rumi desperately fights the urge to grab her in a hug. “I know we were all hurting, I know why everyone was mad, but I just—you two always listen to what I have to say, you’re the only people who ever have, and when you didn’t, it felt like I was back home all over again, and I—I don’t want to feel that way again.” 

Tears are falling freely down her face as Zoey looks between Mira and Rumi. “Promise me?”

Mira’s face is tight and drawn and she looks like she’s about to cry too. “I promise,” she chokes.

Rumi aches as her eyes follow the path of Zoey’s tears down her cheeks. Softly, Rumi says, “I promise.”

Zoey sniffles. “I’m scared of losing you both too.” She wipes her sleeve across her nose.

Very quietly, Mira says, “Me too.”

Rumi’s heart swells, for just an instant, knowing that Mira and Zoey feel the same as her.

And then it freezes in her chest as she remembers that they don’t know, that they wouldn’t be saying any of this if they did.

Not if they knew what Rumi actually was.

Not if they knew that every promise Rumi had just made them was a complete and utter lie.

Shoving that thought down, Rumi looks between Mira and Zoey. Hesitantly, she asks, “Are we…okay?”

Zoey bites her lip. “I—I think so. Mira?”

Softly, Mira says, “I’d like to be.”

Unexpectedly, a giddiness blooms in Rumi’s chest. “So can we…go back to how things were?”

Mira rolls her eyes fondly. “Yeah.” She reaches her arms out and beckons. “C’mere, Rumi.”

Rumi doesn’t waste a second as she flings herself in-between Mira and Zoey, wrapping one arm around each girl as she buries her face in their shoulders. They each return the hug, holding tightly. Rumi hears Zoey fighting back giggles through her tears, and hears Mira exhaling fondly.

The giddiness in Rumi’s chest spreads further, down her limbs, up her spine. It bubbles, and Rumi almost wants to laugh in sheer relief.

It’s okay.

They’re okay.

Everything can go back to normal.

They trust her again.

She still has time.

Thoughtlessly, Rumi breathes, “Please don’t leave me.”

Zoey and Mira tighten their embrace. Someone’s hand reaches up to cradle the back of Rumi’s head. “Why do you think we’d leave you?” Zoey whispers.

Breath catching, Rumi asks, “Because what if…what if I’m not what you think I am?”

Mira snorts. “Oh, are you secretly smart?”

“Mira!” There’s a whap behind her that makes Rumi chuckle, knowing full well the sound of Zoey giving a chiding slap to Mira’s arm. “...Rumi?”

Rumi swallows. She buries further into their shoulders. “What if I’m…not the perfect leader—”

Both Mira and Zoey snort this time. “Please, Rumi,” says Mira, “we’ve known that for years.”

Giggling, Zoey adds, “Do you really think we thought that? We’ve literally seen you bawl like a baby ten minutes into a documentary about meerkats because one was, and I quote, ‘being mean’.”

Petulantly, Rumi defends, “It was, though.”

She shudders as Zoey and Mira both guide Rumi away from them until she can see their faces once more. “Rumi,” Mira says seriously, “we have never expected you to be perfect. We love you.”

“I just—” Rumi hangs her head. She’s not sure why she’s pushing this, not when she’s so successfully deterred them once again from the truth. 

Switching topics, Rumi mumbles, “I’m really, really sorry. If—if I can make it up to you both, with anything, just…”

Zoey muses. “You do kinda owe us, huh. Actually, both of you owe me.” She grins devilishly and licks her lips. “Okay, Rumi, so now that you’re comfortable with a strap, I’ve had this one scenario in mind where—so look, it goes like this. Mira in front of me, you behind, me in the middle taking both of your—”

Mira’s hand on Zoey’s mouth abruptly halts her ramble. “Maybe another time, Zoey?”

Protesting, Zoey knocks Mira’s hand away. “I wasn’t saying right now! I don’t think I’d survive that, or you, not after the way Rumi laid into us earlier.”

Rumi can feel her face turning red.

“But just, you know, as a future treat—”

“Alright!”

“Speaking of treats,” Zoey continues, “Rumi! You’ve got your arms out! Any special occasion?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

Rumi’s smile freezes on her face. “No,” she says, cheeks stretching, “no particular reason.”

I need to convince you.

“Just wanted to show off a little.”

I need to make myself unquestionable.

“Felt like you two might appreciate it.”

I don’t have patterns. I’m not a demon. I’m normal. I’m good. 

“Oh, we definitely do.” Mira grins.

You don’t suspect. I’m making sure you never suspect.

“I swear, if I was capable of walking, I’d probably be climbing all over you right now, Rumi.” Zoey eyes her arms in wonder.

You will never look at patterns and think of me. 

Rumi laughs. “Thanks, you two.”

You will never know.

“Now. Anyone down for a movie night?”

I’ll erase them.

“Oh my gosh, yes! I have such a backlog of turtle videos, hang on—”

I’ll fix them.

“Boooring,” Mira teases.

I’ll fix myself.

“I’ll grab the snacks,” Rumi says as Zoey and Mira hobble to their feet to find the remote and start bickering on whether or not they should watch turtle videos or a polar bear documentary.

You will never know.

---

They cuddle together, all three piled on top of each other, limbs askew, cookie crumbs everywhere.

Rumi sinks into Mira’s and Zoey’s warmth, content.

Holding the remote loftily out of Zoey’s reach, Mira switches the TV to the polar bear documentary.

“No fair,” Zoey whines.

“Uh, yes fair, it’s my turn to pick the animal documentary.”

“Why polar bears? What do you even know about them?” pouts Zoey.

Mira gestures at her pajama top. “Uh, they’re cute and deadly, duh.”

The intro to the documentary starts to play. Zoey gives up and flops back down with a grumble.

Mira settles in once more, and Rumi nuzzles into them both, craving as much contact as she’s able to have.

After a minute, Zoey blurts out, “Did you know that polar bear’s fur isn’t actually white?”

Rumi snorts as Mira goes still.

“...The fuck do you mean it’s not white?”

you will never know

---

Before Rumi and Zoey can dart off to their respective sections in the convenience store, Mira grabs each of their shoulders and holds them in place firmly.

She gives them a glare, lets go, and quickly grabs and drops a basket into each of their hands before taking one for herself and heading to the drink section as usual.

Rumi and Zoey share a look and giggle.

you will never know

---

“Oh, come on!” Mira growls, slapping the machine.

Zoey laughs. “Awww, it’s okay Mira, really!”

“No.” Mira digs in her pockets as Rumi watches with a grin. “No, I am getting you this stupid turtle plushie.”

Angrily jamming another coin into the claw machine, Mira grabs the control stick again as Rumi and Zoey cheer her on.

you will never know

---

Rumi latches her teeth onto Zoey’s bare shoulder as she ruts into her from behind.

Mira matches pace in front of Zoey, grunting.

Zoey, sandwiched between them, cries and squeals in delight.

you will never know

---

“So like, get this, Bobby swoops out of nowhere and starts chewing this guy out—”

“Bobby? Like, our Bobby?” Mira asks in disbelief.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zoey says, “because apparently some higher-up wanted us to do a last minute schedule change, and Bobby laid into this poor assistant.”

“Where were we?” Rumi questions.

“Dressing room still, I think—no, make-up, it was make-up for sure. So anyway, Bobby says—”

you will never know

---

Rumi breathes in Mira’s heady scent. She slowly dips her tongue inside, licking it dutifully around wet, pulsing walls.

Mira’s thighs press against Rumi’s head, and she hums.

Rumi shudders as Zoey leans over her, pushes a thigh aside, and presses hot, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw before nibbling on the shell of her ear.

Above her, Mira moans.

you will never know

---

“Okay seriously, how do you do this all by yourself?”

Rumi laughs. “A lot of practice. Celine taught me when I was little, and I’ve been doing it my whole life ever since.”

Mira makes a noise of frustration. “Shit. I lost my place.” She holds up two separate bundles of purple hair. “Zoey, do you—now I know that’s not a braid.”

Stiffening, Rumi tries to look behind her. “Wait. What is she doing instead?” Zoey giggles mischievously. Panicked, Rumi asks, “No, for real, what is she doing?”

you will never know

---

The night sky glows with the lights of Seoul.

Rumi should go back to her room to sleep.

Instead, she doesn’t dare move. Laid out on either side of her, both Zoey and Mira are completely asleep, their heads on Rumi’s lap.

Gently, she caresses them, trailing her fingers down their cheeks, along their jaws, across their lips. 

Her breath catches in her throat.

Rumi loves them.

Rumi loves them, she loves them, she loves them.

If she could freeze this moment, could bottle it up and pull it out whenever she was feeling down, Rumi thinks she might not even care if she ever fixes herself.

Her heart is full, and she’s happy.

Rumi’s so, so happy.

you will never know

---

There’s something weird about this rift.

Zoey, Rumi, and Mira, decked in casual hoodies and sweats, stand in the open area, confused.

They’re in the yard area of a giant shipping complex, dozens of large, hangar-size warehouses sprawling across the area. The paths between the buildings narrow to alleys, and properties are separated by signs, gates, walls, or simply chainlink wire fences. The air stings with sea salt and fish, and the ocean rises and swells in the background, a dull, ever-present roar.

The night sky is dark but the area itself still has lights, some on standalone posts and others on the sides of the buildings themselves. 

It’s completely devoid of demons.

Zoey’s baffled, and she knows Rumi and Mira are too.

The Honmoon had led them here, exactly, so where was the rift?

Honestly, Zoey’s just fine with it being a mistake. Maybe the Honmoon got it wrong? 

It’d be pretty great to go back to the tower and continue catching up on all the couch time they’d missed while they were feuding. 

Also, fighting wouldn’t be ideal here anyway, because there’s still a decent-sized group of maybe twenty or more dock workers milling about by one of the warehouses.

Zoey fidgets. “I’m not the only one not seeing any demons, right?”

“No,” Mira says, glancing around warily, “you’re not.”

Rumi’s head is on a swivel. “There has to be some here,” she mutters, “the Honmoon is never wrong.”

“Should we split up and look around?” Zoey asks.

Mira looks at her sharply. “And risk getting ambushed when we’re alone?”

“Good point, good point,” Zoey concedes, raising her hands in placation. “Then where should we look around? And what do we even look for?”

Tense, Mira’s hands twitch like she wants to summon her gok-do, but a glance at the dock workers makes her think better of it. “We look for anything with patterns,” Mira says. “We know that’s the one thing demons can’t disgui—” She freezes, then whips her head to look at the dock workers.

Zoey and Rumi follow her gaze and stiffen. “You don’t think—” Rumi starts when an unfamiliar voice speaks from a nearby alley.

“Are you ladies lost?” a man, dressed as the other dock workers, asks. He’s got on a long-sleeve work shirt and vest, along with a tool belt filled with, well, tools.

Immediately putting on a smile, Rumi bows slightly. “Yes, I think we made a wrong turn! So sorry! Do you think you could help us find the main road?”

The man nods. “Sure thing,” he says, waving for them to follow him as he starts down the alley. “Now, how did you three end up here in the first place?” He smiles at them, wide and toothy.

Rumi starts to answer the question with some vague excuse, but Zoey’s attention catches on his tool belt. She narrows her eyes. 

Does he have…five separate hammers?

Casually, Zoey interrupts whatever Rumi was saying to ask, “Hey, what is it you do here?”

The man strolls along, hands in his pockets. “Oh, this and that. We watch the factories, all that good stuff.”

Mira frowns, her hands slowly angling on either side of her body. “Factories, huh?” she asks lightly. “You guys make stuff here?”

“Oh, all kinds of things!” The man rubs the back of his neck. “Just follow me now, I’ll take you girls where you need to go.”

Zoey speeds up until she’s matching the man’s stride. “Hey,” she chirps brightly, “do you use your five hammers when you’re in the warehouse-disguised factories, or did you just raid a construction closet?”

The man’s smile starts to slip. “What do you—”

“Ooo, you know something!” Zoey smiles. “I’ve heard that when people hoard a lot of the same object, it’s a symptom of an underlying pattern.” Quick as a whip, she grabs the man’s wrist and yanks his sleeve up to reveal crawling purple lines.

Snarling, the newly-revealed demon leaps back and roars, “Get them!”

With their own set of answering roars, the dock workers from earlier surge around both entrances of the alleyway, transforming as they do, clothes ripping as several grow in size, their skin shifting to various colors of the spectrum, greens and reds and blues. 

There’s a shnnng sound as Mira and Rumi summon their blades and leap into the fray with a shout. Zoey’s already got several shin-kals in her hand when the demon she’d revealed grabs her wrist in turn. It grins wickedly at her as it grows in size, larger and larger until it’s easily two, maybe two and a half, Zoeys tall.

Zoey twists and stabs one of her shin-kals straight through its hand.

Howling, it rears back, dropping Zoey who promptly slides into a battle stance, shin-kals fanned out in each hand. 

There’s no singing for this fight, just like their past few, as the alley comes alive with the clangs of metal and the banging thuds of clubs on concrete. Based on the harsh pants Zoey can already hear, and the quick glimpse she allows herself to the side, it’s obvious that Mira and Rumi already have their hands full.

Zoey narrowly dodges as a new demon rears up and swipes at her, then quickly ducks again as two more demons flank her, sickles held wickedly at the ready. Zoey fires off a couple of shin-kals but to her dismay, the large demon, their ringleader, bares its teeth and swats them from the air.

Oh. That’s horrifying.

Like they’re working together, the three small demons and one ringleader surround Zoey, closing off as many means of escape as possible. She feels trapped, searching wildly for some way to gain more space or higher ground.

Narrowly dancing out of the way of a smaller demon, she wields her shin-kals grasped in her hands like knives and pops out her fists, one two, jabbing the shin-kals straight into the smaller demon’s neck. It dissolves into dust.

Zoey barely has time to celebrate her victory before the wham of a club resounds and she feels herself propelled forward, back suddenly aching at the impact of the ringleader’s weapon—where did it even get that club from? Was it pulling weapons out of the rift like the girls pulled their weapons out of the Honmoon?

Righting herself, Zoey drops to the floor and sticks her leg out to catch the ankle of another demon, hooking and pulling so it falls. Not wasting a moment, Zoey leaps on top of it and jams a shin-kal under its chin, twisting until it dusts like the first. 

She hears Rumi and Mira holding their own, and she focuses on the last small demon along with the ringleader in front of her.

With two gone, now Zoey can properly start to distance herself, give her range to properly fire her shin-kals from. She begins to back up when the smaller demon leaps unexpectedly at her, head-on, mouth full of fangs falling open. 

Reflexively, Zoey fires off all of the shin-kals in her hand.

When the smaller demon dissipates into a cloud of dust, Zoey has only a split second to register the ringleader cutting straight through it, who’s used the distraction to close the gap and is now nearly in her face. 

Zoey has one moment to think, her brain whirling. She sees it start to lift its giant club and yells to the Honmoon for more shin-kals. The instant she feels the familiar touch of their blades, she lobs them straight at the hand holding the club. 

The ringleader drops it with a roar, but doesn’t stop. Instead, it swings its other arm and grabs Zoey’s shoulder in an iron grip, lifting her off the ground as if she weighs no more than feather.

Roaring, it rears its arm back and thrusts it forward.

The ground spins beneath Zoey as she realizes abruptly that she’s flying through the air. She quickly tries to twist her body, but a concrete warehouse wall is approaching fast. Like, really fast.

“Shit—”

Everything goes dark.

---

Rumi’s so surrounded that Mira couldn’t butt in even if she wanted to.

She swears there aren’t that many, but the way they’re moving in tandem, circling, watching, leaping at openings together: it’s exhausting, and Rumi’s not sure when she’s last felt this pressured in a demon fight.

Part of Rumi wants to call for the Honmoon’s aid in song, but instead she’s unable to break her concentration, gritting her teeth and weaving amongst demon claws and blades and teeth, dancing a line between danger and defeat. 

In the throng, she can’t see Mira or Zoey, and it’s setting her nerves on fire.

Rumi’s supposed to be watching them.

She’s supposed to be protecting them.

That’s her job.

Every fight, Rumi watches them. It’s how she knows to react the way she does, to cut in front of blows; she doesn’t particularly want to take hits, but she can’t have Zoey or Mira taking them instead. 

They don’t deserve it.

And maybe Rumi doesn’t, either.

But when a tradeoff has to be made, and Rumi’s able to control who makes it, well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?

Let the mistake get hurt.

It wasn’t supposed to exist anyway.

Around her, she hears the ragged sounds of breathing, hissing, roaring, of sharp things scraping on sharp things scraping on concrete and metal and steel and skin. 

She parries one demon, ducks, tosses her saingeom to her other hand and flips it backwards, thrusts, flips the hilt again, draws a crescent shape with the blade, spins on her heel, grabs another demon, spears it on starlight’s edge.

Move, dodge, hit, move, dodge, hit, move, dodge, hit.

Protect.

Protect protect protect.

She needs to be able to see Zoey. She needs to be able to see Mira. 

Three demons are dusted.

The crowd finally starts to thin.

Rumi gets a good look around the area at last.

She and Mira both have managed to fight their way out of the alley and into the open concrete yard, but the alley entrance is still close.

Mira’s stalwart and strong, whirling her gok-do in a devastating circle to counter and attack the demons around her. She expertly keeps them in her range, too close for them to flee, too far for them to attack. They try anyway, but the gok-do whirls and whams into any that do.

Where’s Zoey?

Rumi expertly finishes off another demon, the numbers around her dwindling fast at long last, and she cranes her neck to search.

Where’s Zoey?

Rumi needs to know where she is, needs to make sure she’s safe, needs to—

Something hurtles out of the alley.

It takes a second for Rumi to register, and it’s a second too long, a second she could’ve done something, anything, and—

THUD.

The impact sound is dull, swallowed by the concrete.

Rumi sees red.

She deals with the last two demons in front of her instantly, snatching one by the throat, hurling it into the other, and thrusting her blade through both simultaneously.

She doesn’t even see them disappear before she’s scrambling towards the warehouse wall and Zoey’s body lying limp at the foot of it.

Mira roars, strangled with rage. As Rumi sprints for the wall, she sees Mira finishing off the demons around her in a frenzy.

Sliding on her knees, Rumi flips Zoey, frantic, checking first for pulse and breath and letting out a choked noise of relief when she finds both. She runs her hand over the crown of Zoey’s head, feels black hair matted with blood beneath her fingertips, and takes a shaky breath.

Gently, Rumi lays Zoey flat on the ground, face up, as Mira comes flying over. “Is she okay?” Mira demands, face taut. “How bad is it?”

As Mira starts to pat all along Zoey’s body, Rumi takes back her hands and stares at the red painting them. The world around her seems to narrow.

She hears Mira’s worried mutters, she hears Zoey’s frail breaths, and she hears—

—laughter.

Rumi slowly twists her head, looking back down the alley.

The large demon, the leader, is flashing a giant mouthful of fangs as it throws back its head and roars with merriment, clutching its belly. When it catches Rumi watching, it grins wider, then turns around and flees.

Rumi doesn’t even realize she’s halfway to standing when she feels a hand clamp around her wrist.

She turns to see that Mira’s staring at her, haunted. “What are you doing?” Mira asks, voice tight.

Rumi lightly tugs at Mira’s vicelike grip. “I’m going to kill that demon,” she says darkly.

“By yourself?” Mira stares. 

Rumi tugs again. “Yes.”

“After what it did to Zoey?”

“Exactly.”

“And what about Zoey?”

With a dignified air, Rumi commands, “Stay with her. Make sure she’s okay.” When Mira still doesn’t let go, she frowns. “Mira. Let go.”

Quietly, shaking her head, Mira says, “We’re not doing this. We’re not doing this again. Not right now, we can’t—” She stops. Mira meets Rumi’s eyes with wet ones of her own. “Stay,” Mira pleads.

“Zoey’s hurt,” Rumi snaps. 

“So stay.”

“And let the demon get away? I’m wasting time, Mira!”

“Wait. Be patient. We’ll get it together, Rumi, when Zoey’s okay, we’ll—”

“It’s getting away!” Rumi snarls, actively struggling to yank her hand out of Mira’s. 

“So what?” sputters Mira.

“It hurt her! And I won’t let it hurt her or you ever again!” Rumi’s shouting now, yanking her hand with enough force it topples Mira’s balance. Mira brings her other hand up to wrap around Rumi’s wrist.

Mira yells back, “It’s dangerous, Rumi, we fucking talked about this, you promised! You can’t just keep throwing yourself into danger!”

Rumi grunts, using her free hand to scrabble desperately at Mira’s forceful hold. “Let me go—”

Muscles straining, Mira argues, “Rumi, it could kill you—”

“Who cares?!” Rumi explodes.

Stunned, Mira’s grip slackens just enough for Rumi to yank herself free. She stumbles backwards several steps and turns to leave.

Mira’s terrified voice halts her, for just a second. “Rumi,” Mira chokes, “if you make me choose right now, I swear on the Honmoon—”

Rumi pauses, turning to Mira and blinking at her, baffled.

What is she even talking about?

Rumi would never make Mira choose between her and Zoey, isn’t that obvious?

“I would—I would never—I’m not making you choose, Mira.”

“Then what the hell do you call this?” Mira yells hoarsely.

Rumi meets Mira’s heated gaze, frowning at the tears falling. “I’m not making you choose anything,” insists Rumi quietly. “Help Zoey.”

Dropping into a runner’s stance, not looking back over her shoulder, Rumi states, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world: “I’m not even an option.”

Rumi ignores Mira’s screams and sprints in the direction of the demon.

---

“RUMI!”

Mira grabs her hair and pulls and howls, loud and cracked and raw.

“FUUUUCK!”

She tears her gaze away from where Rumi had run off and cradles Zoey’s head in her lap. Mira frantically rips at her pants, tearing off a strip from her right knee down to her ankle.

Quickly, trembling, she wraps the fabric around Zoey’s bleeding head wound. She lets her head hang, tears falling freely onto Zoey’s cheeks. “Zoey please, I need you right now, I need you, please wake up.”

In the distance, there’s the rattling of metal and a loud bang, and Mira flinches.

How could—

How could Rumi make her choose?

How could she do that to Mira?

And why—why didn’t she even consider herself an option?

Every promise Rumi’s made, every time she’s looked them in the eyes and sworn that she’ll be better, it’s all—

It’s all still a fucking lie.

And now Mira might lose her over it.

The worst part, though, is that a part of Rumi was right.

Mira has to stay with Zoey, because it’s Zoey and she’s hurt and she’s unconscious, and no, no it isn’t a fucking choice, because Mira will protect and take care of her girls with her dying breath and one of them is knocked out and bleeding in front of her. Of course she couldn’t choose to go with Rumi.

But the more she thinks of it, the more she realizes that she didn’t make the choice, not the way she’d thought, not the way Rumi had implied.

It’s not that Mira chose to stay with Zoey.

It’s that Rumi chose to leave.

---

Down the alley, out into the main road.

Rumi scans the area, looking for any sign—

There. A different alley, between two more warehouses further down the dock. A trashcan has been knocked over. An old apple is still rolling slowly across the ground.

Rumi bolts straight over, glowering, her saingeom gripped tightly in her hand.

She won’t let this demon leave alive, not after what it did to Zoey.

No, Rumi will personally kill it, will send it back to the depths where it belongs.

Racing into the alley, Rumi slows to scan again as she cuts through into another open area. 

It’s a giant rectangular yard; the side to Rumi’s left is a high stone wall, blocking the view from where Rumi knows Mira and Zoey are. Perpendicular to the stone wall is the alley entrance, and the actual ocean, lapping at the docks across from her. To Rumi’s right is a large, chainlink fence.

The fence is ripped open, a hole busted through, framed by jagged wired metal. On the other side, attempting the same on a new fence, is the demon.

Good. 

Dropping to a crouch, Rumi slips through the first fence without a sound. 

She sidles up to several metal shipping containers, hugging the side of them as she approaches. The demon is large, so Rumi needs to be wary of its reach and power. Judging by the size of the club in its hand and the distance and force with which it’d thrown Zoey, this particular demon is strong.

Its free hand is ripping into the metal, claws tearing and muscles straining as it pulls.

Silently, Rumi steps behind it and lifts her saingeom.

The blade hums in her hands.

The demon turns around, reaching instinctively for its club as Rumi swipes her saingeom down, swearing as it bites into the demon’s arm instead of its chest. 

It doesn’t bother nursing the wound, looking relatively unaffected as it takes its club and slams it into the ground exactly where Rumi was standing a split second before she jumped away.

Just as Rumi whips her saingeom back at the demon, it lifts the club with momentum, swinging it at Rumi who just barely catches and reroutes it with her blade. She only has a second to catch her breath when the demon presses forward, swiping its claws and clipping a few stray purple hairs. 

Dropping low, Rumi springs from the ground, launching herself and her saingeom upwards towards the demon. It bats Rumi out of the air. She lands, rolling several times before she can catch her breath.

As the club slams down centimeters from her face, her eyes fly open and she flips herself to the side just in time. The club narrowly misses her once again as Rumi, bracing her soles on the ground, uses her core to propel herself back to her feet; its momentum carries it into a nearby shipping container with a loud bang.

She blinks, growling, as the demon starts to maneuver backwards, watching her closely as it backs up towards a farther alley, one over from where Rumi had entered. 

Rumi lunges forward, shouting. 

It raises its club. Rumi ducks into a roll beneath it and cries as, instead of the slow club she was anticipating, a quick set of claws rakes across her back. 

Hissing, Rumi whirls and faces the demon, now on its other side at the entrance to the alley.

The demon returns the hiss, then charges forward, mouth open and fangs bared. Rumi prepares for another dodge, startled, and just barely sidesteps the demon. It rushes past her and into the alley proper.

Her saingeom sings in her hand as she chases it, bounding off a dumpster and high into the air, soaring right over its head to cut its escape off once more. She’s just landed when it swipes at her again, the claws catching her sleeve this time, ripping three large holes in it.

It’s smart.

It’s smart and it’s fast and its claws sting; Rumi can feel the blood congealing on her back and arm already, can see it staining her white hoodie red. Every movement stretches her skin and pulls at the claw marks, sending spikes of pain lancing through Rumi’s nerves.

Rumi gulps for air as she dances away from another strike, and another. She tries to close the distance between them, but the demon makes use of its longer reach to keep her at bay with claws and club alike.

She pushes it back even still.

Her saingeom whirling wildly in her hands, she zips around the demon, jabbing, pressing, looking for any possible openings and taking advantage of even the smallest one. The demon retreats backwards, back out of the alley towards that open concrete yard.

It’s almost at the yard entry way once more when Rumi twirls and misses a step, stumbling in her landing.

That’s all the demon needs.

Roaring, its purple patterns flaring, its claws flash out and dig into Rumi’s shoulder. She yelps as the demon lifts her like it must’ve lifted Zoey and hurls her with all its might.

She’s airborne for all of two seconds before the breath whooshes out of her as she slams into the chainlink fence with a loud rattle. 

The fence, as flexible as it is, provides a softer landing than Rumi expected, even if the jagged edges where the demon had been ripping through are tearing into her hoodie and poking the small of her back.

Rumi sees the demon about to flee once more and tries to run after it, but flounders as her hoodie yanks her right back against the fence, caught on the loose metal. 

The demon realizes she’s immobile the same time Rumi does.

Whipping around, it sees an opportunity and takes it, charging full tilt.

Rumi scrambles, her hands frantically reaching behind her to untangle the hoodie from the metal as the demon bears down on her fast, grinning, laughing—

The cloth tears but doesn’t budge. Rumi claws at it faster, desperately, as the demon gets closer and closer and closer—

With a sudden breath, Rumi raises her hands and lets her body weight fall to the ground, slipping out of the hoodie just in time to avoid the inevitable clobbering of the club as it bursts through the fence where she had been just a moment ago.

Panting, Rumi holds her saingeom out and circles the demon warily.

It turns to face her and pauses, eyes widening.

Rumi follows its gaze and swears:

Without her hoodie, she’s left in nothing but a sleeveless turtleneck that leaves her arms bare for the world to see, her own purple patterns flaring wildly.

Shit.

There’s no time to think about it, though, as the demon’s eyes narrow.

The two circle each other cautiously, scanning every movement of every limb, every twitch of every muscle, watching, waiting.

Rumi’s saingeom hums, slightly vibrating in her palms, as she holds it with both hands out in front of her, tracing the demon’s movements with the tip of her sword. She feels the sting in her back, the slashes on her arms, the breeze on her skin. She licks her lips, focusing, as her feet glide across the ground, light and steady.

The demon has its club in both hands as well now. It holds it up, resting on its shoulders like a batter preparing a swing. Its large, lumbering steps shake the ground as it circles, baring its fangs in that same toothy, mocking grin Rumi saw after it had flung Zoey.

Zoey.

Zoey, who’s lying unconscious and bleeding in another yard.

Mira.

Mira, who’s scared and desperate for her girls.

And Rumi.

Rumi, who will ensure that this demon will not touch a hair on either of her girls’ heads ever again, who will make sure that she protects them with every ounce of strength in her limbs, every breath in her body, every beat of her heart.

Her vision narrows, darkens, until there’s a tunnel of black leading up to a singular focal point: the demon.

Rumi takes a deep breath.

The demon braces itself.

With a shout and an answering roar, Rumi and the demon raise their weapons and charge.

---

Mira sobs when Zoey finally opens her eyes.

Realistically, Mira knows it can’t have been more than five minutes, but the noises in the distance have receded, and now Mira has no way to tell where Rumi is or how she’s doing or if she’s even still alive and thank the Honmoon that Zoey is.

Zoey looks up at Mira, dazed and bleary-eyed. Absentmindedly, she reaches up a hand to probe at the cloth on her head and hisses.

“Don’t—don’t touch it, idiot,” Mira chokes, pulling Zoey’s hand away.

Slowly, Zoey sits up with a groan. “What—what happened?”

“Your skull had a head-on collision with concrete.”

Zoey snickers. “‘Head-on’, that’s clever—” She stops with a wince.

Mira looks unamused. She knows how her face must look: streaked in tears and splotched in red. It’s a wonder that Zoey still manages to find humor in a situation like this.

Looking around, Zoey asks, “Where’s Rumi?”

Wiping her nose, Mira grinds her teeth. “I don’t know. She—she ran off, Zoey, after that big demon, all on her own.”

The small smile on Zoey’s face is wiped off in an instant. “She what?” whispers Zoey, horrified.

Mira can only nod.

“But she—but she promised—”

“Don’t I fucking know it.”

“Mira, we have to find her, we have to help her, we—” 

Mira silences Zoey with a finger to her lips. “Agreed,” she says quietly, “but I need to know, and I need you to be honest: can you handle it?”

Zoey’s face scrunches, and Mira knows she’s thinking hard.

Finally, Zoey firmly says, “Yes. I’m a little woozy, and I’m definitely bruised as fuck, but I can already feel my adrenaline kicking back in, and Rumi needs us.”

“Are you sure—”

“I’ve had concussions before,” Zoey interrupts, “and honestly, I think this is just a bad, bloody bump. You know how head wounds are. I’ll be okay, I swear.”

Mira nods resolutely. “Okay.” She gives Zoey her hands and hauls her to her feet, righting Zoey when she wobbles.

Watching Zoey carefully, Mira sees just how quickly she rights herself, and the fire blazing in her eyes, and realizes that yeah, Zoey’s coming with, and there’s no one capable of stopping her.

They move quickly.

Through the alley, out to the main road. Mira and Zoey spot the knocked over trashcan at the same time, both of them quietly moving towards it and down the corresponding alley.

They step out into a separate concrete yard.

Mira and Zoey gasp.

Across the yard, over by a metal fence, is the demon.

It stands in an empty-handed pose that screams triumph, that screams victor, and Mira almost wants to throw up then and there.

Its back is turned to them, its chest heaving, its arms flaring with a network of poisonous violet marking it clearly for what it is:

A monster.

There’s no sign of anyone else, just this horrifying demon, and Mira feels her heart sink.

It can’t have—

There’s no way—

Rumi couldn’t have lost.

Mira can’t accept that.

She won’t accept that.

Rumi’s alive, she has to be.

But she’s probably injured somewhere nearby, and Mira and Zoey need to help her.

Mira’s nostrils flare as she stares at the demon.

It hurt Zoey.

It hurt Rumi.

But honestly, what it’s doing right now tips Mira over the edge, sends rage flushing through her system, sends a burning desire to wipe it off the face of the planet.

Because, on top of everything else it’s already done, the demon—

—the demon is wearing Rumi’s face.

Mira has never been angrier; her blood boils, bubbling in her veins and lighting every nerve ending in her body on fire with one singular goal:

Kill it.

At Zoey’s small whimper next to her, Mira flicks a quiet finger out, pointing to Zoey, then to the right, then to herself and to the left: a simple flanking maneuver. Zoey nods, body vibrating like a bowstring drawn seconds before loosing an arrow.

The demon hasn’t seen them yet. It’s now struggling with a hoodie—Rumi’s hoodie—caught on the chainlink fence. Mira swallows down the bile that rises the instant she sees the splashes of red painting the white cloth.

She nods to Zoey and they both move as one, weapons drawn, quietly positioning themselves for the best drop on this demon. At the same time, Mira’s eyes flick all over the area, across the dumpsters and trash bags lining the alley wall, across the iron sewage grates and faded concrete, looking desperately for any glimpse of Rumi.

Nothing so far.

Just this imposter who’s dared to steal Rumi’s face.

Too bad it couldn’t slip Rumi’s hoodie on in time: its arms, laced in hideous, purple patterns, are bare for the world to see, screaming its identity before it even has a chance to pretend to be something else.

Mira’s close enough now to hear its grunts as it struggles to twist the hoodie off jagged metal. It’s clearly in a hurry, but unfortunately for the demon, it wasn’t fast enough in putting its disguise together.

Gripping her gok-do tightly and nodding at Zoey approaching from the other side, Mira takes a breath and lunges.

As if it has some kind of supernatural sixth sense, the demon whirls around with a gasp and drops to the floor, rolling and springing back up to face Mira and Zoey head-on.

It stares at them, already rattled.

Good.

The shock on its face morphs to fear.

“Mira, Zoey, wait—” Its words are cut off as it leaps to the side again, narrowly dodging Mira’s sweeping blade. “No, wait—” Mira slashes again. “I can expl—”

“Zoey, check for clues! The faster we know where she is, the faster we can help her!” Mira commands. She swings again, a quick upper thrust into the air that once more narrowly misses the demon.

What is this thing, a wind demon or something?

Mira’s eyes narrow as it keeps trying to talk to her.

“Listen—” It ducks under the gok-do, wide-eyed. “Please—” When Mira feints and drags her gok-do backwards, it escapes by a hair.

“Mira, wait—” Swing.

“I’m not—” Slash.

“It’s me—” Stab.

“I’m Rumi!” it shouts, jumping on top of the dumpster. Its hand twitches at its side, like it’s trying to grab something. Mira hones in on the movement and swings at it immediately.

Zoey’s voice, panicked, calls from the fence. “Mira, there’s a lot of blood on this!” When Mira risks a quick glance at Zoey, she sees Zoey wearing a horrified expression, looking from the hoodie and back to the demon, its arms and hands streaked in blood. 

It sends Mira into a frenzy.

The demon scrambles away as Mira presses, wielding her gok-do with the lithe grace of a cat and the speed of a viper. Her weapon’s a blur in her hands, and all she can think of, over and over and over again, is Rumi Rumi Rumi where’s Rumi, and then she looks at this disgusting demon groveling and pleading with Rumi’s face, and she sees red.

“Please,” the demon is saying, its hand still frantically twitching, but Mira refuses to let it summon whatever it’s trying to, targeting it with focus anytime she sees the odd movement.

The demon’s braid whips behind it as it continues dodging and weaving. There’s a desperation starting to leak through in its movements, though, an exhaustion.

Good.

Mira will take any advantage she can get.

The demon’s still speaking, whining pathetically, “Mira—Mira please—it’s me—”

“If you tell us what you did with Rumi, maybe I’ll make this quick,” Mira growls. She jabs forward and the demon catches the gok-do’s staff mid-swing. 

“I’m Rumi—” It stumbles backwards as Mira throws all her weight behind her staff and shoves it at the demon. Letting go, it rolls out of the way of another swing.

“Rumi doesn’t have patterns,” Mira spits. The way it insists it’s Rumi, as if Mira would ever be fooled, as if Mira hadn’t seen Rumi’s bare arms just days ago, as if Rumi would ever be something so disgusting as a demon. “But you are a monster.”

Flinching hard, it draws inwards. Its arms are scuffed from the number of times it’s hit the ground and popped back up. It’s gasping, and Mira almost scoffs at the fact that it’s taking its masquerade seriously enough to produce tears.

It’d be impressive if it wasn’t so sickening.

Adrenaline fuels every swing of her gok-do, adrenaline and fear. All she can picture is Rumi, alone, bleeding out in an alley while Mira wastes time with this fucking imposter who just won’t die—

A shin-kal whizzes past Mira and slices the demon’s cheek. It stumbles, clutching the graze with wide eyes. There’s something almost haunted in the way it looks at the two of them.

“I found a trail!” Zoey says breathlessly, volleying a batch of  shin-kals at the demon. It escapes a few, but it can’t dodge them all—one lodges in its thigh and it gasps loudly. “Down that alley—there are marks of a scuffle. Rumi has to be down there!”

Mira nods grimly. “Good. Let’s take care of this demon and go get our girl.”

The demon pants, its chest heaving with stuttering breaths. Something in its expression changes as it watches them.

Wordlessly, Mira and Zoey attack.

Where the demon had been faring well enough to fend off one attacker, the addition of a second suddenly puts it on the extreme defensive. Searching for anything it can use, it scrabbles at random items on the ground and tosses them wildly at the girls. 

“Please,” it begs, “I’ll leave, I promise—” Mira’s gok-do lands an actual cut this time, across its patterned arm.

It chokes, springing backwards sloppily, eyes darting frantically around the alley. “I’ll leave,” it pleads, “I’ll leave I’ll leave I’ll leave I swear—”

Mira casually flicks her gok-do to knock a thrown can out of the air. The demon keeps backing away into the alley, clearly looking for an opportunity to run, but Mira positions herself at one alley exit and Zoey, in a blur, runs along the wall and soars into position on the other side, lobbing another flurry of shin-kals at the shaking demon.

“You’ll never see me again,” whispers the demon hoarsely, “I promise, I swear, I’ll leave, I’ll leave I’ll leave just let me go please please please I’ll leave—”

Mira catches Zoey’s eye and nods. She presses in on the snivelling demon. It raises clawed hands, jolting as it sees them, then maneuvers itself out of the way once more.

“I’m sorry,” it cries, “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I lied, I’m sorry I wasn’t good, I tried so hard to be, I swear—”

With a wide sweep, Mira advances on the demon, angling her gok-do up in the air. The demon preemptively moves and Mira smirks. Something in the demon’s eyes flickers with panic, almost like it recognizes what’s about to happen next, but it’s too late.

Mira feints, switching the trajectory of her gok-do mid-swing as Zoey’s shin-kals soar low and true to target from behind, sinking into the demon’s ankles. It keens, its knees starting to fold, but before it can buckle, Mira’s moving with a new momentum.

Her gok-do slams into the demon, hard enough to pierce it clean through its chest and pin it to the alley wall.

All of its breath leaves the demon in a quiet whoosh when the blade hits. It stares, stunned, at the weapon wedged in its center, Mira’s aim straight and true. A trembling hand reaches up to try and touch the starlight blade, the demon itself looking almost transfixed.

Its hand falls as its strength ebbs.

Mira lets go of the gok-do; it stays ramrod straight, embedded in the demon and the wall behind it. She lets herself take in a big gulp of air, relief flooding her system.

When she looks at the demon, straight into its eyes, one brown and one now a smoldering gold, she sees fear, and then horror, and then resignation. It starts to sag on the blade.

Mira’s about to say something, about to grab her gok-do and go sprinting down the nearby alley to search for Rumi, when Zoey’s breath hitches next to her.

Concerned, Mira turns to see Zoey’s brow wrinkled in thought, her mouth slightly hanging open as she stares at the demon. “Why—” Zoey’s voice is hesitant “—why isn’t it disappearing?”

Mira blinks. What?

Zoey begins to shake. “Why isn’t it disappearing?” she asks again, eyes locked on the pinned demon.

Confused, Mira looks back at the demon, at the blood pooling around the gok-do’s blade and cascading down its chest. 

The demon stares back at them like it's incapable of looking at anything else. 

There’s a lace of panic in Zoey’s voice as she asks again, “Mira, why isn’t it disappearing?”

Shaking her head, Mira says, “Come on, Zoey, focus, we need to find Ru—”

“Mira, why isn’t it disappearing?”

Mira meets the demon’s gaze.

The light behind its eyes starts to dim. It flicks them back and forth between Mira and Zoey, like it’s searching, like it's committing the girls to memory.

The blood keeps flowing from its chest—

The blood.

The demon’s blood.

But they don’t—

Zoey, full body trembling, lets out a choked shout: “Why isn’t she disappearing?”

Mira turns white.

She opens and closes her mouth.

…

…

…no.

No.

No.

The demon wheezes, capturing Mira’s and Zoey’s attention with a wet cough. It opens its mouth, barely, and tries to talk. A croak comes out. 

It keeps trying.

It sucks in air harshly; its chest stutters around the blade piercing it.

Finally, it speaks.

“I’m…sorry,” the demon whispers, air whistling in its throat, blood trickling over its lips. The corner of its mouth twitches, straining, until a tiny fang peeks through a lopsided smile. 

Mira’s breaths start coming in short, rapid bursts. She feels her chest thumping as she stares at the demon with wide eyes and pursed lips and drawn cheeks. A choked sound claws its way out of Zoey’s throat, but Mira’s attention is on the end of her gok-do’s blade.

Through half-lidded eyes, Rumi murmurs, “I love you.”

When her shoulders slump and her head lolls forward, listless, Mira drops to the ground and retches. Next to her, Zoey screams.

.
.
.
.
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Chapter Text

Rumi smiles a lot.

Rumi smiles when Mira and Zoey confess their feelings.

Rumi smiles when they hug her close. 

Rumi smiles when Mira holds her hand.

Rumi smiles when Zoey pecks her cheek.

Rumi smiles in a manner that lights up an entire stadium, that fills Mira’s and Zoey’s hearts with golden warmth and leaves them feeling glowing and breathless, that makes everyone who bears witness to it feel seen and loved, that holds a special space for Mira and Zoey, that’s awkward and weird and hers, that grows biggest when it responds to the happiness of others.

And—

Rumi smiles when she dies.

---

Mira’s chest and stomach heave. The cold concrete bites deep into her knees and her palms. She gasps and gasps for air, ragged and desperate. 

Her lungs are on fire.

She feels like she’s choking.

Another rush of bile spits up her throat and splatters on the ground.

She’s drenched in sweat and shivering.

There’s a high-pitched sound ringing in her ears that won’t stop.

Raising her head, trembling, Mira realizes the sound is Zoey.

Zoey’s mouth is open in a loud, continuous wail. She’s rushing forward, scrabbling at clothes, at skin, at hair, that same ear-splitting sound tearing from her throat. “No no no no nononoNO!” She desperately cups the ██m██’s head, patting its her cheeks. Zoey’s thumbs dig into soft skin—

████ laughs as Mira licks her thumb and forcefully wipes away a stubborn sriracha stripe on their flawless leader’s cheek

—and she holds the slumped head upright even as it lolls forward in gravity’s grip. The ██m██’s braid hangs off a shoulder, dangling almost eerily still. 

Zoey’s still screaming.

“Look at me look at me LOOK AT ME PLEASE LOOK AT ME lookatmelookatmelookatmepleaseplease PLEASE—”

Mira’s breath catches when she realizes ████ is in the doorway, arms crossed, looking at Mira and Zoey run through their choreo with soft eyes

Zoey’s hands are in constant motion, reaching beneath ██m█’s chin and behind the ears and cradling ██m█’s jaw as she brings her face in close, so close, and continues to plead. “Please please, I know you can hear me I know it I know just open your eyes okay? Just look at me please ██m█ look at me I just need you to look at me please look at me—”

A sob chokes its way up Zoey’s throat. 

“It’s gonna be okay I promise I promise, just open your eyes and look at me, okay, it’s gonna be okay—”

“Shhhh,” █um█ reassures, propping Mira against one shoulder as Zoey takes the other, “I’ve got you, we’ve got you. It’s going to be okay. Deep breaths, Mira, alright? We’ll fix you up in no time.”

There are tears cascading down Zoey’s face as she lets her hands fall slack, for just a moment. █um█’s head drops and Zoey screams again, bunching her fingers in the ruined fabric of a turtleneck and letting her own head hang, staring at the bloodied mess of █umi’s chest and opening her mouth to wail again and again.

Mira slowly starts to stand. Her gaze is trained on the glassy, faraway look in two hooded brown eyes and a parted mouth, lips stained red.

“One more!” Zoey declares through kiss-swollen lips

Mira meets █umi’s eyes. She leans forward slowly, hesitantly, not wanting to overwhelm █umi anymore than she already is, and—

█umi’s soft, and gentle, and Mira sinks into the feeling with a lightness in her chest

She takes a small step forward, staring.

“...Rumi?” Mira whimpers.

Rumi doesn’t answer.

Mira’s gok-do is still in place, still buried in both the wall and the dead center of Rumi’s chest. Two glimmers at Rumi’s feet distract Mira for a brief second—Zoey’s shin-kals—before she returns her focus to her partners, one crying and one unnaturally still.

Trembling, Mira reaches out to touch the staff of her gok-do.

She flinches as Zoey whips around and grabs Mira’s hand, pushing it and Mira back suddenly. “No!” Zoey shrieks. “Nonono you can’t just take it out, you can’t you can’t she’s going to bleed out, don’t touch it—”

“Zoey,” Mira whispers, eyes stinging, “Zoey, it’s…it’s through…oh, god—”

Mira turns away and heaves again, unbidden. Nothing’s left to come out.

“No, Mira, no, no listen we can—we can fix this, we have to follow our training, we—we’ll take it out when we’re ready to stitch her up and—”

Zoey’s crying and crying and crying. 

Mira doesn’t know what to do.

but Rumi would

Swallowing, Mira walks robotically towards Rumi. She braces her hands under Rumi’s arms and ignores the way Zoey tugs desperately and begs.

Mira dissipates her gok-do.

She grunts as all of Rumi’s weight drops into her hands.

Rumi feels limp.

Lifeless.

Cold.

Zoey’s shaking Mira’s shoulder and screaming in her ear (“MIRA PLEASE SHE’LL BLEED OUT”) as Mira gently lays Rumi down on the ground and stares.

Rumi stares back, brown eyes blank and dull.

Even as Zoey drops to her knees and frantically shoves Rumi’s torn hoodie against the hole in Rumi’s chest and keens, loud and shrill and broken, Mira’s eyes don’t break from Rumi.

She sees the way the white hoodie soaks up the red until all of the fabric is colored, feels the warm, sticky scarlet painting her own hands and arms and neck. 

Shakily, Mira presses a finger to the inside of Rumi’s wrist, pointedly ignoring the purple that coils just above it—

how long has Rumi been a demon

NOT NOW.

—and waits.

She swallows, her tears falling thick and fast, her chest stuttering.

After a minute, Mira still doesn’t feel anything.

Not a thing.

Mira looks into Rumi’s eyes once more and breaks.

Oh.

Oh god.

Oh please no.

This isn’t happening.

She wants to wake up.

She wants to wake up so badly.

This is a dream.

A bad dream.

A nightmare.

Please let her wake up.

Mira wants to wake up now.

Zoey screeches and begs and scrabbles at Rumi’s face and neck and chest.

Please let me wake up.

I want to wake up.

Please let this be a dream.

Zoey’s cries fade to sobs and sniffles and muttered pleas, repeated over and over and over again as she hunches over Rumi.

Rumi, who’s—

—dead.

She’s dead.

Rumi’s dead.

And Mira—

Mira turns to the side and heaves again.

Blood continues to pool sluggishly from Rumi’s chest.

From the hole that Mira put there.

Because Mira killed her.

Mira killed Rumi.

Rumi Rumi Rumi RumiRumiRumiRUMI

love of Mira’s life

Mira’s imagined Rumi in red before, in indulgent fantasies of the future; a swooping red hanbok, detailed and luxurious, meant for a bride

Mira will never be able to look at red the same again.

She rocks back on her heels, mouth ajar. The salt of tears drips across her lips and onto her tongue as she hiccups, her arms curling around herself.

Hinging forward, Mira bends until her face is level with the ground, fists her hands into her hair, and screams.

---

When Mira screams next to her, Zoey barely flinches.

She’s still begging, words falling from her lips so fast she’s not even really sure what she’s saying anymore, just that she needs to keep talking, needs to keep trying, needs to keep giving a reason for Rumi to respond, to talk back to her, to look at her.

Rumi won’t look at her.

She keeps staring into the distance with dim, unfocused eyes, and it’s wrong, it’s wrong, Rumi’s eyes sparkle and shimmer and glow and they make Zoey so weak at the knees that she wants to melt and they watch over Zoey and guide her and soften during her rambles and crinkle during her jokes and they shine all the time because they are so full of life and—

—it’s not fucking fair.

How did Zoey miss this?

How did Zoey miss it how did she miss it how does she miss everything this is her fault her fault HER FAULT

Stupid stupid STUPID

Couldn’t spot when Rumi was lying

Couldn’t spot when Rumi was hurt

Couldn’t spot when Rumi was begging and pleading for her life oh god

she begged

she begged

And Zoey couldn’t tell the fucking difference

And now she’s—

Rumi’s gone.

NO.

“Please,” Zoey begs, bringing her forehead to Rumi’s. Her tears drip and fall onto Rumi’s slack face and slowly roll down cooling cheeks.

“Please, Rumi, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry—”

Rumi, begging, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I lied, I’m sorry I wasn’t good, I tried so hard to be, I swear—”

And instead of listening, Zoey speared her ankles with shin-kals and opened her for attack and now she’s dead dead dead Rumi’s dead RUMI’S DEAD

Fisting her hands into Rumi’s torn shirt, staining her hands and arms in red, Zoey sees a flicker of blue out of the corner of her eyes—

—the Honmoon—

—wait, maybe—

“Fix her,” Zoey whispers, her nose brushing Rumi’s. “Fix her. FIX HER.” Her volume grows. “FIX HER. I KNOW YOU CAN FIX HER SO FIX HER, PLEASE.”

Mira’s screaming has turned into hoarse shouts behind her.

“FIX HER,” cries Zoey, “fix her fix her FIX HER YOU CAN’T HAVE HER! YOU CAN’T HAVE HER YOU CAN’T YOU CAN’T SHE’S OURS GIVE HER BACK! GIVE HER BACK GIVE HER BACK FIXHERFIXHERFIXHER—”

Cerulean leylines tremble in Zoey’s periphery. She nearly falls over herself as she lunges for the nearest strands and twists her fingers into them until her whole hand is tangled in threads. 

Knocking the hoodie away and taking the threads, Zoey grabs them and pulls them and shoves them downwards into Rumi’s chest.

The threads unravel back to their proper place.

No.

No. No, Zoey won’t accept this.

She yanks a fistful of thread once again and hurls it at Rumi’s chest. “FIX HER!” she screams.

Another handful, another shove.

“FIX HER!”

Again.

“GIVE HER BACK!”

Again.

“FIX. HER.”

“Please,” Mira rasps, jolting Zoey for a split second.

Mira crawls to Rumi’s other side, then dips her hand into the blue cords of the Honmoon and twists. “Please fix her,” she begs, then shoves her fistful downwards in a mirror of Zoey.

A pulse of blue, then nothing.

Rumi lies unmoving, still.

Her chest is dark.

Zoey glances at Mira, and Mira nods.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The Honmoon snaps back to form every time, the blue lines of light shimmering.

“Fix her,” Mira pleads.

Thread, pull, shove.

“Fix her,” Zoey cries.

Thread, pull, shove.

“FIX HER!” they scream.

Thread, pull, shove.

“GIVE HER BACK!”

When they pull again, the threads pull back, jerking Mira and Zoey out of their repetition.

The blue thrums in their hands, vibrating. 

The vibrations sink into their skin, dive through their blood, travel up their bones and into their skulls, a hum that builds and builds until—

Echoing, a reverberation pounds inside their heads and rumbles, I will try.

Then:

Sing.

Zoey and Mira only need a single glance and a wide-eyed nod.

“We are hunters, voices strong,” Mira softly sings.

“Healing demons with our song,” Zoey improvises wetly.

Then, together, crescendoing, “Fix the world and make it right.”

Both of them pull the Honmoon threads once more, wrapping and clutching the cords in their fingers until their hands are nearly impossible to see beneath the bright, shimmering cerulean.

Zoey reaches her thread-covered hand to meet Mira’s in the space above Rumi’s chest. They tangle their fingers and cords together, pulling the threads of the Honmoon taut around them, encircling the trio in light. 

Zoey and Mira share a desperate, wild look above their glowing, intertwined hands.

Loud, belting, throwing every single ounce of their voices into the ancient melody, they sing—

“When darkness finally meets the light!”

—and thrust, slamming their conjoined hands into Rumi’s chest.

Their breaths catch.

The blue leylines leap from their fingers and sink into the open cavity.

Rumi’s chest begins to glow; a brilliant, blinding blue, then gold, then white, almost iridescent.

Within the light, with the light, the Honmoon weaves.

Zoey and Mira weep.

“Please,” they whisper, hands still held tightly together.

“We love her.”

The iridescence glows brighter, and brighter, and brighter.

Another vibration hums in their bones and rings in their ears:

So do I.

The light in Rumi’s chest begins to dim. 

The darkness of the alley in the night returns.

Zoey and Mira stare with bated breath.

Please.

Please.

Please.

There’s still a gaping slash cutting Rumi open, leaking blood. Whatever the Honmoon did, it couldn’t fix everything.

But was it enough?

Zoey and Mira can’t breathe.

Please.

Please.

Please.

Please.

Give Rumi back to us.

We won’t ever let her go again.

We need her.

She’s ours.

We’re hers.

We are three.

Without her, we are incomplete.

Without her, we are lost.

Without her, we are voiceless.

But with her—

We are whole.

We are found.

We SING.

They watch and hold each other and wait.

A moment.

Another.

Then—

Rumi’s chest hitches.

Zoey and Mira sob.

---

Celine is preparing for bed when the phone rings.

Glancing at the caller ID, she frowns.

Zoey?

…Not Rumi?

That’s…unusual.

She perches on the edge of her bed, brow furrowed, and swipes, holding the phone to her ear.

“Zoey?” she asks quietly.

There’s not an immediate response.

What there is though, is a lot of noise.

There’s the steady thrum of a car motor and the whistle of wind through open windows. Brakes screech for a second as someone lays on a horn—Mira, it sounds like, based on the “FUCKING MOVE YOU PIECE OF SHIT”.

Zoey and Mira are bickering in-between Mira’s curses at the road.

“Mira, if you don’t go faster, I will climb into your lap and do it myself—”

“Not when you’re halfway concussed you’re not!” 

“I drove the car to the alley in the first place—”

“—only because you’re the one who knew how to hotwire it! Fucking American.”

“That’s a Burbank thing, excuse y—hey hey hey floor it the light’s yellow—”

Celine’s brow creases further. “…Girls?”

Zoey shrieks. “Celine! Fuck, I forgot—Celine, we’re sorry, we’re so sorry, we’ll fix it, we’ll fix everything—”

“Slow down,” Celine says, a note of concern trickling through. “Sorry for what? I don’t understand.”

“Sorry for everything, all of it, it’s our fault but we’re going to make it okay, we promise we promise—”

“Zoey, breathe. Mira, can you—”

A loud sustained honk cuts Celine off.

She frowns, standing and moving towards her dresser.

“Girls, will someone please tell me what’s—”

On the other end of the line, Zoey starts to hiccup and cry—or maybe she’s been crying from the start. 

“We’ll fix it, we swear, we’re so so sorry—”

A hint of impatience leaking through, Celine pinches her nose and says exasperatedly, “Put Rumi on, please.”

What Celine expects is a frantic and chaotic passing off of the phone.

What she gets is silence.

The other end of the line is deathly quiet.

Celine starts to pull out clothes, something heavy settling in the pit of her stomach. “Girls,” she orders uncertainly, “please put Rumi on.”

More silence.

Then, breaking it, two choked sobs.

“We’re sorry,” whispers Zoey, broken, “we’re so sorry.”

Celine feels her veins ice.

“…Please put Rumi on,” she says one more time, an edge of desperation tinging each word as she grabs a bag from her closet and begins to frantically shove items inside it.

“We can’t,” Mira says wetly through gritted teeth, “but we’ll fix it. We swear. We’re so, so sorry.”

Celine struggles to control her breathing as the weight of what’s going on settles atop her like a stone, threatening to sink her deep underwater, deep until all light is gone and only darkness keeps her company.

She refuses to think anymore about it.

Can’t.

“I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there soon.”

When two more sobs break through, Celine hangs up on Zoey with trembling fingers.

As she leaves, she passes by a photo frame of her and a young Rumi, decked out in teddy bear merch, smiling and beaming up at Celine like she thinks Celine is her whole world.

In the photo, Celine smiles back in a way that says, “I know that you are mine.”

(…Did she ever tell Rumi that out loud?)

Celine tosses her bag into her car, slams the door, and steps on the gas, ignoring the slow droplets rolling down her cheeks.

---

Mira punches in the access code to the parking garage beneath the tower so aggressively the enter key breaks. She doesn’t care, speeding into the garage as the gate lifts. 

She brakes harshly directly in front of the exclusive penthouse elevator. The dingy sedan Zoey stole from the docks screeches as it comes to an abrupt stop. 

Before the car has even fully stopped moving, the back door slams open as Zoey bursts out and turns. Mira races out of the driver’s seat to help secure Rumi in a steady hold.

Together, they carry her delicately to the elevator. Mira fumbles for the penthouse keycard and taps it when they enter, one hand supporting Rumi the whole time. She jams the button to their penthouse; when she pulls away, she grits her teeth at the leftover smear of blood.

The elevator begins to ascend.

Rumi is cold.

She’s so cold.

Mira shivers as she grips Rumi tighter, her arms brushing Zoey’s. 

It’s only the miniscule rise and fall of Rumi’s mangled chest that lets Mira and Zoey know that she’s alive.

Whatever the Honmoon healed, it was enough to bring Rumi back from the dead, to repair the most vital parts of her, but she’s still very much in danger, especially if she keeps bleeding like this.

The elevator dings.

Mira and Zoey stumble out, immediately beelining for the couch.

They toss several cushions on the ground and lay Rumi gently atop them, and then Zoey bolts for the nearest suture kit, along with everything necessary for an emergency blood transfusion.

Mira takes a deep, shaky breath. She rests her palm on Rumi’s clammy forehead, brushing damp hair from her face. Her eyes flick to Rumi’s arms for a split second, and her brain tries to yell at her—

—and she tells it to shut up and sends those thoughts away.

Not right now.

Not yet.

Mira can deal with that later.

She can yell at Rumi about that later.

She just…needs Rumi to be alive for her to yell at.

(why yell at her when you’ve already gutted her like a fish, when you’ve so callously killed the woman you swore to protect)

Zoey’s back, hands scrubbed, immediately dropping to Rumi’s side and opening the transfusion kit first. As hunters, they’ve prepared one for each of themselves, complete with stored blood bags, a rapid infuser, and an IV. Zoey begins to hook Rumi up quickly.

Mira wishes they didn’t have to do this, that they could just take Rumi to a hospital.

But a hospital wouldn’t understand, would waste time; they’d want to know why Rumi looked like she’d been speared and what happened and when and where and there’s nothing they can truly do anyway that Mira and Zoey can’t do here in the penthouse with their training (and Celine on the way).

As Zoey wraps the transfusion set-up, she opens the suture kit and digs for what she needs. Mira slowly unwraps the sodden hoodie from around Rumi’s chest. She tosses it aside, fighting the urge to be sick. The stench of blood is almost certainly overwhelming, but Mira thinks she’s numb to it at this point—after all, she’s been coated in Rumi’s blood for the better part of half an hour.

With the hoodie gone, it’s just the short-sleeve turtleneck and whatever undergarment Rumi prefers that remain.

“Do you have—” Mira’s barely held her hand out before Zoey’s slapped a pair of trauma shears on her palm. She nods her thanks as Zoey starts to organize and prep the needle and thread, opening up alcohol wipes for sterilization.

Mira’s hand shakes as she brings the shears to the bottom hem of Rumi’s shirt. She’s helping Rumi, she just has to cut with the blade—

it wasn’t easy, sliding a gok-do through Rumi’s chest; there was resistance, but Mira had leveraged her momentum and her strength and nailed the move in one go

The shears drop.

Mira gasps, her other hand coming up to grasp her wrist and hold it still.

“Mira,” Zoey warns, “cut the clothes, now.”

How can she trust Mira with a blade around Rumi?

How can Mira ever be trusted with a blade again?

How can—

CLAP.

Mira jolts violently backwards as two palms slap together deafeningly just centimeters from her face.

Zoey pulls her hands back and shoots a red-rimmed glare. “I get it, Mira, I get it, but we don’t have time. Cut off her fucking shirt, NOW.”

Startled at the harshness in Zoey’s voice, Mira swallows and nods.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, picks up the shears once more, sets them at the shirt’s hem, and cuts.

The fabric is damp and matted in a combination of old and fresh blood. Mira cuts carefully, so carefully, up the shirt, over Rumi’s stomach to the hole that her gok-do had created earlier. She meticulously takes the shears up to Rumi’s neck, going extra slow on the high turtleneck collar.

Then, Mira sets the shears aside and begins to peel the sticky, crusted garment off of Rumi’s silent, still body.

As the shirt finally comes off, Mira’s eyes widen.

The patterns aren’t just on Rumi’s arms, they’re—

—they’re everywhere.

The purple laces all across her chest, up her throat, down the left side of her stomach, twisting and mocking Mira with each trail. A demon, her mind whispers traitorously, you fucked a demon. You love a demon. 

Mira takes a deep shuddering breath and pinches the back of her hand.

Fighting a tremor, Mira grabs the shears one more time to snip and peel off Rumi’s bra, leaving her chest fully exposed.

Fuck. Mira almost wants to laugh, but she fears if she starts, she’ll be inconsolable within moments.

It’s just—

It’s funny, in a twisted sort of way.

How long has Mira been dreaming about getting Rumi’s shirt off?

…She might throw up again.

Zoey grabs Mira’s chin and yanks her until they’re face-to-face. “Look at me,” Zoey hisses, “I need you. I need you right now. Rumi needs you. We can both break down later—and believe me, I will—but we have a second chance here, to fix Rumi, and I need you to make sure we don’t blow it.” Her nose is red and crusted in dried snot and her eyes are bloodshot and wide.

Mira nods.

“Okay.” Zoey’s voice is shaky. “Okay. Then, here.” She takes the shears from Mira’s hand and swaps them with latex gloves and tissue forceps. “I’ll—I’ll sew, okay, I’ve always been better at it, but Mira, this—this is—” Zoey swallows a sob as she glances at Mira. “This is big, and I can’t—I can’t handle having to hold her closed by myself and stitch her up at the same time, so please.”

Inhaling deeply, Mira shoves the gloves on and clenches the forceps tightly as Zoey disinfects the wound with iodine, checks that the thread is tied around the needle, puts it into the needle driver, then bends over to begin.

Mira’s not sure how long it takes.

A second.

A minute.

An hour.

She does her best to keep her hands steady as she holds Rumi’s chest closed and lets Zoey sew Rumi back up, stitch by stitch, like Rumi’s an old teddy bear in need of repair instead of a real, breathing person. 

(And she is still breathing, somehow, miraculously, though it’s so weak Mira has to stare at Rumi’s chest for seconds until she’s positive it’s moving.)

Zoey sticks her tongue out as she concentrates. 

Finally, she finishes, clipping the last thread.

Then, she and Mira carefully flip Rumi over and gasp all over again.

Rumi’s back is somehow worse, because in addition to the puncture, there are four claw marks raked across the skin.

Because Rumi had fought and killed the big demon for them.

To protect Mira and Zoey.

And they thanked her with her worst nightmare.

“I’ll get more thread,” Zoey says faintly, standing and stumbling to go find another suture kit as quickly as possible.

Mira’s hand hovers above Rumi’s back.

She’s not even sure where Rumi is, underneath the explosion of purple and red lacing all over her skin.

Zoey returns, Mira grabs her forceps, and they set to work once more.

After the better part of two hours, Mira and Zoey finally sit back on their heels.

Rumi is deathly pale on the cushions, and Mira finds her gaze skirts over her and away any time she tries to truly look.

Truly looking means acknowledging that Rumi, her Rumi, is currently one foot in the grave, a reluctant corpse, a patchwork monster straight from the pages of Frankenstein.

Together, Zoey and Mira stitched up both sides of Rumi’s impalement wound, the cut on her cheek, the claw marks across her back and a few more on her arm, another cut on said arm, a puncture in her thigh, and the deep perforations in the backs of both ankles.

The fact that, after everything the Honmoon did, all of this is left over, punches the wind out of Mira. 

Rumi had died.

She still might.

Mira glances at her again.

Rumi’s just…so still.

Her braid is limp, shoved to the side. Her chest is bare and stitched and bandaged, cleaned as best as Mira and Zoey were able (they’ll throw those towels out later; they’ll never be able to look at them again, let alone use them). 

And—

Her patterns pop, purple poking out from around the various plastered bandages.

Mira takes off her gloves, tosses them to the floor carelessly, and moves to the couch. She sits down heavily on one of the remaining cushions, spreads her legs, leans forward, and stares at Rumi.

Zoey stays kneeling beside Rumi, gently brushing her hair.

Now that they’ve done all they can for Rumi, now that she’s finally a step away from death’s door, everything floods Mira’s brain at once.

Rumi’s a demon.

A demon.

Shell-shocked, Mira blurts, “We’re saving a demon.”

Zoey stiffens. She turns to look at Mira incredulously. “...We’re saving Rumi.”

“Who’s a demon,” Mira repeats. She doesn’t know why she’s focusing on this so suddenly, but the abrupt insistence of the patterns’ presence worms its way into her thoughts.

“What—”

“She’s a demon, Zoey.”

“She’s Rumi.”

And she is Rumi, but Rumi’s a demon, and Mira—

Mira clings to that fact, stupidly, desperately, because then she doesn’t need to fully face what she’s done. Not yet.

Looking at Zoey blankly, Mira says, “We’re dating a demon.”

Zoey bristles. “Mira, what—”

“We fucked a demon. We let a demon fuck us.”

“MIRA! What is your problem?!” Zoey snaps. “None of that—that was Rumi.”

Mira’s jaw tightens. “And how much of that was real?”

Zoey lurches like she’s been struck. “What?” she whispers, stunned.

Mira presses, “How—how much of it was real? Was any of it real?”

“Of course it was!” argues Zoey, but Mira sees a glimpse of uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “You heard what Rumi said—”

“That she loves us?” Mira retorts. “That she’s sorry? Sorry doesn’t fix making a deal with Gwi-Ma!” She feels her cheeks heat up and her voice raise. “How long has she been hiding this? How could she go against everything we know, against humanity, and make a deal with him?”

Face drawn, Zoey purses her lips. “We don’t know that,” she says quietly. “We don’t know that. What if it’s something else? She didn’t—she didn’t disappear like other demons so what if she’s—she’s different, somehow?”

There’s a cursedly familiar anger rising in Mira, and she embraces it for the first time in years; it’s the only thing capable now of drowning out the guilt other pesky emotion swelling within her. “She lied to us,” Mira pushes, “she lied to us about everything. She fucked us without us knowing who she really was!”

Standing up suddenly, Zoey balls her hands into fists and glares at Mira. In a tight voice, she bites, “And what do you want me to do about that? Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I’m not bothered that I can’t tell if everything, everything, we had with her was all a giant lie?” Her volume rises. “Do you think I’m not grossed out at the thought that I’ve potentially been having sex with a demon who was just using us?”

Zoey moves in front of Mira, looming over her, glowering. She says sharply, “But Mira, right now, I don’t give a shit. All I care about is making sure Rumi’s even alive for us to be mad at, considering earlier tonight we—we—we—you—”

“Don’t put this all on me,” Mira snarls, even as that other, unwanted emotion surges at Zoey’s words. Mira lets her anger push it back down. “Don’t act like you didn’t have a hand in this.”

“Shut up,” Zoey whispers, holding her hands over her ears, “shut up shut up shut up shut up! I’m not doing this right now!”

Mira rises as well, grabbing Zoey’s wrists and pulling her hands from head. “You don’t get to hide from this! You don’t get to hide from the fact that we did this to Rumi, together! And maybe—maybe, because Rumi’s a demon, maybe we actually did our duty—”

“I’m hiding?” retorts Zoey in disbelief. “I’m hiding? You’re the one hiding!”

“From what?”

“From the possibility that she’s innocent.”

“Wha—”

“I think,” Zoey continues, “that you’re angry right now because you’re looking so desperately for an excuse, to prove that what you did—FUCK, what we did—was right.” 

Looking balefully at Mira, Zoey’s voice drops low. “Do you really want that? Do you really want to believe that the Rumi we knew was a lie?”

Mira inhales sharply.

“Just so you don’t have to feel guilty?”

Mira opens and closes her mouth.

“Because you are. We are. I don’t—I don’t know why Rumi has patterns, I don’t understand why she would have ever made a deal with Gwi-Ma, or when, but Mira, if I have to choose between a clear conscience and everything having been a lie or the knowledge that we killed our literal soulmate, then fuck. I’d rather be a demon with Rumi than a hunter without.”

Lip wobbling, Zoey stares at Mira with watery eyes. “I’d rather everything be real.”

Stunned, Mira doesn’t know how to respond.

That’s—

That’s not why—

That’s not why Mira’s angry—

She’s angry because Rumi’s a demon—

And, and, and she did what she was supposed to do.

(Then why did you beg for her? Why did you get on your knees and plead with the Honmoon to give her back?)

Mira scrabbles desperately at the fraying threads of rage.

Don’t go, she pleads, I need you.

As Zoey huffs and sits back down next to Rumi, Mira clings desperately to the last strands of comforting anger, because without them, that other emotion will surge and take hold, the one that’s been preying on Mira since she learned the feel of a blade in Rumi’s chest, and Mira knows if she lets that wave crash, then she’s going under and never coming back up.

---

Zoey’s grateful when the elevator dings, signalling Celine’s arrival, because she’s dancing on a razor’s edge, one misstep away from plunging into the yawning abyss below her. (The fall is inevitable, she knows it is, any time she dares to think about this evening, well and truly, but just. She needs to hold on just a little longer.)

Glancing to the side, reassuring herself that Rumi’s still breathing (and she will think about Rumi properly later), a thought hits Zoey and she freezes.

Zoey gasps sharply and hurls herself towards the elevator hallway. Mira, having clearly registered the same thing, is at her side.

(Zoey will think about Mira later, too, but she knows Mira, in a way she’s terrified to admit she doesn’t know Rumi anymore. She knows why Mira’s snapping and aggressive and short-fused; because it’s comforting, it's a blanket, it's a safeguard against the acknowledgment of her actual actions. She’s already seen the waves of guilt fighting to the surface in Mira, and knows the rage is only a temporary balm.)

But right now, there’s a bigger problem.

Celine.

Celine, who doesn’t know that Rumi’s a demon.

Oh. Oh god. They’d called her, but what if—what if Celine tries to finish the job? What if Celine doesn’t listen to them? What if—

The elevator doors open and Zoey and Mira position themselves to block the hallway.

Celine rushes out and stumbles to a halt. She drops her bag to the floor and Zoey inhales in surprise as she takes in Celine’s barely put-together look; no make-up, hair halfway brushed, eyes wild.

Celine looks between them both, eyes widening at the red painting their clothes and skin, gaze piercing. “Where’s Rumi?” She starts to step forward, but Zoey holds out her hands.

“Look, Celine,” Zoey starts, “there’s something you should know, before you go in—”

“She’s a demon,” Mira drops bluntly.

Inhaling sharply, Celine’s eyes flit back and forth between the two of them. Her jaw opens and closes like she’s going to say something but keeps thinking better of it.

Zoey’s brows furrow.

Hold on.

Mira beats her to it. “Wait,” she breathes, “you already know. Don’t you?”

Celine purses her lips. Her cheeks are sallow and drawn.

Mira’s face darkens. “Show us your arm. Show us you didn’t make a deal with him too.” She tries to grab Celine’s sleeve, but Celine jerks away.

Wide-eyed, Celine keeps looking beyond the both of them, distracted even as she answers in a confused voice, “Deal? With who?”

Celine tries to push past Mira, but Mira shoves her back.

Zoey tries to intervene. “Okay, let’s take a second, we—”

“Have you two planned this the whole time?” Mira whispers. “Has this whole time—has everything—has none of it been real?”

Shaking her head, Zoey tugs Mira’s sleeve. “Nono, Mira, don’t say that, it was real, I know it was real, don’t—”

“Move, both of you.” Celine’s voice slices the air like a shin-kal in delicate skin knife. “Let me see my daughter.” She starts to move around when a blade at her throat halts her.

Zoey’s jaw drops as Mira holds her gok-do to Celine’s neck. (Zoey notes that her hands are trembling.) “Not until you answer us,” Mira grits out. “Not until we know you’re not one of them.”

“Not one of what?” questions Celine, her focus still beyond this confrontation. There’s a warning in her next words. “Mira, if you don’t let me pass…” 

There’s a sparkle and brief sound of crackling, popping starlight as Celine reaches into the Honmoon and pulls out a blade of her own, a simple hwando, like an old military sword of the past. She levels it at Mira’s gok-do, brings their blades to touch.

Zoey shoves both weapons aside and steps in-between the two of them, frantic. She faces Mira and pleads, “Enough. Stop it. Let her see Rumi. Then she can explain.” She looks at the wan expression on Mira’s face and does her best to convey her sheer longing for Mira to step down.

Mira glances at Zoey, biting her lip, and relaxes her arms, the gok-do disappearing once more.

Celine immediately shoves past them both and runs into the main penthouse living room.

When a sudden, muffled gasp rends the air, Zoey and Mira flinch.

---

Celine sits next to Rumi, stricken. She squeezes Rumi’s hand tightly in her own, crying silently as she strokes Rumi’s pale skin gently.

Zoey and Mira perch on the couch, watching quietly.

The tension is palpable, looming, thick.

Celine can’t seem to look at them, not after Mira clammed up and left Zoey to flounder through a muddled explanation as well as she could.

Part of Zoey wants to flee, feels that this scene in front of her, a mother desperately clinging to her limp daughter, is simply too intimate for her to lurk and bear witness to, especially knowing that she’s the cause.

(Sure, Zoey knows Mira’s blaming herself, but it was Zoey who turned the tide of the fight, Zoey who made Rumi switch from explanations to pleas, Zoey who perfectly set Rumi up for the final blow.)

Next to her, Mira is grinding her teeth, her jaw clenched. Zoey recognizes the taut anger in Mira’s lowered brow and narrowed eyes, and she recognizes the barely suppressed fear in the way an unrelenting tremor passes through Mira’s limbs.

Taking a deep breath through her nose, Mira’s the first one to cut the quiet: “How long have you known she’s a demon?”

Celine runs the back of her hand across Rumi’s cheek, her knuckles lightly pressing the ghastly white of Rumi’s skin. “Her whole life,” she admits quietly.

Zoey blinks, confused.

Mira starts to laugh, bitter and cold. “Bullshit. We’ve seen Rumi without the patterns before, we saw her arms just last week.”

Celine murmurs, “It’s concealer. High-end.”

Rolling her eyes, Mira continues, “Sure, okay, whatever. But you’re also telling me that Rumi, what, made a deal with Gwi-Ma as a baby?”

Frowning, Celine finally glances towards them. “Rumi has never made a deal with Gwi-Ma. Would never.”

“She has patterns,” Mira spits. There’s an edge of desperation in her tone.

Celine stares at Mira blankly. “She was born with them.” Her gaze is faraway. “Her mother was Miyeong, but her father was a demon.”

Mira flinches. She starts to tremble. Choked, she asks in a small voice, “...She didn’t make a deal? She wasn’t tricking us?”

Zoey feels her own breath catch in her throat as Celine shakes her head slowly.

“No,” says Celine quietly, “Rumi would never. She’d trade her life for you two, isn’t that obvious?”

Zoey feels Mira’s hand latch tight around her wrist and squeeze. Pinpricks appear at the corner of Zoey’s eyes as her vision blurs.

Simply, Celine states, “She loves you.”

The dam breaks.

Mira deflates entirely, drops her head into her lap, and wails, grief-stricken and shameful.

Zoey’s shoulders shake and she sniffs as another river of tears pours down her face. 

“She loves us,” Zoey whispers, horrified, “and we killed her.”

Mira’s arms wrap around herself as she cries, hiccuping and deafening.

Zoey looks at Rumi, white and bare and bloodied and empty, and bawls.

Celine watches them with an unreadable expression, holds Rumi’s hand in her own, and offers no comfort.

---

It won’t come out.

The blood won’t come out.

Mira scrubs at her hands violently, harder and harder, until the skin is pink and scraped and glistening, but she still sees the red coating and clogging every pore.

Her throat hurts.

It’s hoarse and raw, stinging when she swallows.

The mirror in front of her is fogging as the shower warms up.

Her hands are still fucking red.

Mira’s mind echoes with Rumi’s voice.

“Always.”

“Yes, I’m in love with you, I didn’t—it never crossed my mind that you both—”

“Can I kiss you?”

“I think I’m ready now.”

“Thank you for indulging me so suddenly.”

“It was incredible.”

Mira grits her teeth and spritzes more soap and scrapes harder, deeper.

“You were right, what you said that morning. I am afraid of something. I don’t—I don’t know that—”

“Please. After the way I messed up, just…just let me make you happy.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of; of losing you.”

The water rushes in the faucet and the shower the same way her own blood rushes in her ears even as Rumi's stains her hands a darker and darker red.

“Because what if…what if I’m not what you think I am?”

A whimper dies in the back of her throat.

“Who cares?!” 

“I would—I would never—I’m not making you choose, Mira.”

“I’m not even an option.”

Mira closes her eyes and scrunches her face and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs.

“Mira—Mira please—it’s me—”

“You’ll never see me again—”

She bites her lip so hard it bleeds.

“I promise, I swear, I’ll leave, I’ll leave I’ll leave just let me go please please please I’ll leave—”

“I’m sorry!”

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I lied, I’m sorry I wasn’t good, I tried so hard to be, I swear—”

Her chest stutters, her breath catching.

“I love you.”

Mira punches the mirror.

The glass fractures.

A couple of shards bite into her knuckles, stinging.

Mira stares at them, and at the fresh blood, this time her own, dripping through her fingers.

The bathroom door creaks open.

Two arms reach around Mira’s waist and turn her slowly.

Mira meets Zoey’s eyes with a lost expression.

Zoey doesn’t say anything.

Gently, she pricks the glass out of Mira’s hand. She sets the shards on the counter, then runs the hand under the water to clean it.

Zoey’s eyes are as wet as Mira’s.

Tenderly, Zoey starts to pull Mira’s shirt off. Mira lets her, staring weakly and cooperating as needed as Zoey strips the rest of Mira’s clothing, then her own.

Zoey pulls Mira’s hand into the shower. She grabs the soap and starts to tenderly rub it across Mira’s arms, her hands, her neck, her chest—rubs away any remaining spot of red.

Her fingers card through Mira’s long hair, lathering with shampoo and conditioner and rinsing until it’s clean and fresh.

Mira reaches for the soap, looks at Zoey in mute understanding, and begins to wipe Zoey down in the same way, across the fresh bruises on Zoey’s chest and away from the bandage wrap on her head, scrubbing any remnants of red from their skin.

At some point, Mira wraps her arms around Zoey, or Zoey wraps her arms around her, and they rest their heads on each other’s shoulders and cling to each other in a tight embrace beneath the shower’s spray.

Eventually, the water washing down the drain runs clear.

---

Under Celine’s careful supervision, they move Rumi from the couch cushions on the floor to her bed. Propping her up with pillows, they tuck her in with the utmost care.

Rumi’s breathing is shallow and ragged. Her chest, wrapped in layers of gauze thick enough to rival a quilt, moves faintly up and down; the only true sign of life on her otherwise pallid form.

Celine’s sentences to them are short and clipped.

Zoey can tell she’s some sort of mix of angry and sad and scared, and Zoey can’t exactly blame her.

With Mira and Zoey both having showered and changed into clean clothes, Celine politely excuses herself to the guest suite one floor down. (Zoey’s not really sure why she’s pretending that she’s not going to come back up in an hour and spend the night with Mira and Zoey, sitting vigil by Rumi’s side.)

Zoey finishes dragging in an armchair from another room, large enough for both her and Mira to wedge together on the seat. She faces it towards Rumi and climbs on, curling up as Mira sits next to her with a blanket in hand.

Mira drapes the blanket over their legs, then lays a hand on the freshly-changed bandage around Zoey’s head.

“‘m fine,” Zoey mumbles, batting Mira’s hand away half-heartedly.

“Sure,” breathes Mira, “I just…I needed to make sure.” 

Zoey glances at her. She pokes Mira’s cheek lightly. “I’m here,” she whispers, “I’m okay.”

Swallowing a choked laugh, Mira says, “At least one of you is.” Her eyes flick to Rumi.

Shoulders hunched, Zoey sniffs. “What if she never wakes up?”

Mira tenses. “I—” Anything placating Mira can say dies at the tip of her tongue. Instead, she whispers helplessly, “I don’t know.”

Zoey burrows into Mira’s side, crying softly. “We killed her, Mira. We killed her.”

There are tears streaming down Mira’s cheeks as well. “I know. Fuck. I know. Zoey, she—she begged us to listen, and instead we, we—” Mira glances at her trembling hands. She chokes, “She was so scared, Zoey. Did you see her face? She was so fucking scared. Even if she wakes up—”

“When,” Zoey corrects forcefully, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as Mira, “when.”

“—when she wakes up, what—what comes next? How do we face her? How do I face her?” Mira’s whole body is shaking. “Zoey, I—I ran her through. She was begging and crying and I fucking killed her.”

“I should’ve known,” mutters Zoey, “I should’ve figured it out, I should’ve realized something was up. I don’t—I don’t know how I missed it, and now all I can see is the way she stared at us when she died. She—she was scared, but she also—Mira, I think part of her expected it.” Zoey squeezes her eyes shut. “Like she knew this would happen.”

Mira doesn’t say anything, for a moment.

Then: “It explains everything, doesn’t it.”

Zoey swallows. “The—?”

“Yeah.” Curling her fingers around Zoey and tugging her closer, Mira breathes, “Everything. Every crazy, stupid thing she’s done, it’s all—it was all to hide her patterns, wasn’t it?”

Thinking back, Zoey opens her eyes and stares at Mira, then at Rumi. “Everything,” she whispers. “The injuries she hid—”

“—not letting us check them—”

“—never going swimming—”

“—the long-sleeve shirts—”

“—the hoodies—”

“—not joining us in the shower—”

“—never taking her clothes off—”

“—lying, over and over again.” Mira rubs the bridge of her nose. 

Zoey worries her lip. “But what about how she got the injuries?”

Mira’s gaze remains transfixed on Rumi. “Now that,” she murmurs, “I think has just always been Rumi.”

Zoey wraps her arm around Mira’s and rests her head on Mira’s shoulder. “But why?” mutters Zoey. “I get protecting us, but why be so reckless in the first place?”

Mira doesn’t answer right away. Zoey glances at her—based on Mira’s furrowed brow, she’s thinking hard about something.

With a sigh, Mira says, “You—you were unconscious, Zoey, when she said this. But right before—before everything, tonight, when she went to chase the demon, I—I yelled at her, to stop, that it was dangerous, that she could die. And her response was—fuck, her response was ‘who cares?’.”

Zoey flinches, jerking upright and whipping her neck to stare at a crestfallen Mira.

Mira’s eyes are watery. “And then—and then I yelled again, I asked her, how could she make me choose between her and you, and she—Zoey, she was so confused. Like my question didn’t make any sense.” Swallowing thickly, Mira continues, “She said that she’d never make me choose between you and her, because she wasn’t even an option.”

“Not a—!” gasps Zoey, jaw dropping. “What?!” she starts to shriek before slapping a hand over her mouth. “What?!” she hisses.

Mira just nods. 

“But that’s—but that’s—”

“Stupid,” Mira laughs breathlessly through her tears, “yeah. I know.” Her expression starts to waver. “Zoey,” she chokes, turning to meet Zoey’s eyes and repeating an earlier question, “how are we ever supposed to face her again?”

Zoey wants to say something encouraging, and hopeful, and naive.

Instead, she buries her face in Mira’s chest and mutters, “I don’t know.”

---

Celine returns and takes up residence in a different chair across the room, nodding curtly at Mira and Zoey as she does.

Mira and Zoey huddle beneath the blanket, curled around each other, barely able to sleep.

On the bed, Rumi’s chest rises and falls.

---

Zoey and Mira sit tensely at the kitchen counter as Celine walks Bobby inside, giving a subdued “Hi Bobby” at his entrance.

His eyes are darting around in confusion and panic, and his jacket and shirt are stained with sweat. 

“Uh, girls,” he says, chuckling nervously, “um, I understand that something is like, going on, but uh, why, why did you prank the poor security guards with the whole uh, fake blood and weird car bit, because let me tell you, that took some real hand-waving and several paycheck bonuses this morning. Like, it seems like a crazy prank! So maybe just, uh, clean it up next time before someone who’s not in on the joke finds it?”

Wincing, Zoey murmurs, “That’s not…”

Celine’s clipped voice cuts her off. “Thank you, Bobby, for handling that. We called you here for your expertise, and you’ve proven invaluable as always. But we find it prudent now to—”

“Cut the shit,” Mira mutters. 

Bobby and Zoey gape as Celine snaps her jaw shut.

“Let’s just tell him the fucking truth.”

Anxiously, Bobby tugs at his collar. “The…truth?”

Shaking her head, Celine says, “Mira, we called him here to brainstorm the upcoming PR necessities, not to divulge company secrets—”

“‘Company secrets’—okay, yeah, sure,” Mira snorts. “Call it whatever you want. Bobby deserves the truth. And the faster he knows, the faster you can go watch over Rumi, because it’s obvious how much you want to be in there with her.”

Celine inhales sharply. “I—” There’s something scathing at the tip of her tongue.

Then suddenly, the fire in her eyes extinguishes, and she lets her shoulders drop. “You’re right,” she concedes, “you’re right. This—this isn’t the time for this. I—I don’t care, about the secrets. Tell him what you’d like.”

“Um, speaking of Rumi,” Bobby starts hesitantly, “where, exactly, is she?”

All three women in the room cast their eyes downwards.

Bobby’s brow furrows, and his grin gets awkwardly wider. “Okay, that’s—that’s a weird response, haha, but for real, where’s Rumi?”

Zoey takes a shuddering breath. “Bobby, you…probably don’t want to see her right now.”

“What?” He frowns. “What does that mean? Is something wrong? Is she sick? Did she overwork herself again? I swear that girl—”

“No, there was…” Zoey bites her lip. “There was an…accident.”

“Accident?”

Celine lightly guides his shoulder. “I’ll show him,” she tells Zoey and Mira quietly. “Then he can come back out to you two for answers.”

Shaking from head to toe, Bobby cautiously follows Celine towards the bedrooms.

Zoey and Mira close their eyes in anticipation.

It still doesn’t stop them from flinching at Bobby’s strangled, “RUMI?!”

Several minutes pass.

Then, shell-shocked, face drained of color, Bobby shuffles into the kitchen. He sits down across from Mira and Zoey and stares at them blankly.

“What,” he whispers, “what happened? And why isn’t she in a hospital?”

“She—it’s complicated,” Mira mumbles. “Hospitals wouldn’t…be the best move for her. They wouldn’t know how to treat her.”

“How to—Mira, they’re trained professionals!” Bobby’s voice is so high-pitched it’s almost a screech. 

“Not for demon hunters,” Zoey says quietly.

Bobby freezes. A million expressions seem to flicker across his face at once.

“...I’m sorry, what?”

“Or half-demons,” adds Mira, biting the inside of her lip. “The three of us are demon hunters and Rumi’s part-demon.”

A beat.

A clock in the kitchen ticks in the silence.

A clouded look crosses Bobby’s face. “I don’t…I don’t think this is an appropriate time to be funny.” His voice quavers with hurt.

“We’re not,” whispers Zoey. “We’re not trying to be funny. It’s the truth.”

“The—what?” Bobby scoffs, wounded. “I’m sorry, you’re telling me you three, acclaimed idol group HUNTR/X, are masquerading as demon hunters in your free time? And that demons are real? Look, I love you girls, but this—this isn’t funny, okay, I—uhhhhh…” Bobby trails off and his eyes widen in shock as Zoey plucks a starlight shin-kal from a Honmoon thread and lays it on the counter in front of him.

“...What?” The word is filled with an equal mixture of confusion and awe.

He looks back and forth between the shin-kal and Zoey and Mira, who’s sitting with her arms crossed and pointedly looking away. Zoey frowns at that, but doesn’t say anything.

Swallowing, Bobby says, “So…Rumi got attacked by a demon?”

“Not, uh, not exactly.” Zoey shifts in her seat. “We, um, we didn’t—we didn’t know until—we didn’t know until last night that—that Rumi was—and so we—we—”

Mira stands abruptly, knocking her chair over and speedwalking out of the room.

Zoey closes her eyes sympathetically as the sound of Mira throwing up echoes faintly from the bathroom.

Bobby looks like he might be sick himself. “You know what,” he whispers, “I don’t think I want to know.”

Smiling grimly, Zoey agrees, “Yeah, that—that might be best.”

“Just—just be honest with me real quick, okay?” Bobby takes a deep breath. “Is—is she gonna be okay?”

Zoey stares.

Shuffling, Bobby continues, “I don’t—I don’t care about anything else, okay? I don’t care who’s guilty about what or whatever. Just tell me. Will Rumi be okay?”

“I—I—” Zoey’s breaths turn shallow and rapid. “I—yes, yes, she will be, I know it.”

“...Do you?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” insists Zoey. “Rumi will come back to us.”

Bobby’s silent for a moment. He looks at Zoey closely before speaking. “...Do you think she’ll want to?”

Bobby might as well have punched Zoey in the stomach.

Her jaw hangs open. She looks at him, stunned.

Sighing, Bobby squares his shoulders. “Sorry, that—I’ll take care of everything, okay? I’ll handle it. Just. Make sure Rumi wakes up, okay?”

Zoey nods mutely as Bobby wipes his face with his jacket sleeve and turns to go.

“Bye Bobby,” she whispers.

He glances back at her with a soft smile. “Just make sure, okay?”

Zoey nods again.

---

There’s an official press release a day later:

HUNTR/X TO TAKE INDEFINITE HIATUS DUE TO FAMILY EMERGENCY

Online forums and social media posts are instantly flooded with well-wishes and sympathies.

Zoey and Mira shut off their socials feeds after a day.

---

As the days pass, Celine hangs around.

She’s a weirdly steadying presence, staying calm and urging them to eat meals as needed. 

Mira and Zoey pretend that they don’t notice her red eyes and nose, or the way her hands shake when she changes Rumi’s sheets.

---

Rumi doesn’t wake up.

---

Bobby visits often.

Each time, he brings flowers for Rumi and snacks for everyone. 

Some days, he spends hours sitting by Rumi’s bedside, chatting about some new industry thing that Zoey and Mira never pay attention to but Rumi always does.

---

Mira and Zoey try the next two demon hunts on their own before Celine steps in.

“Stop,” Celine orders quietly. “I won’t have you two killing yourselves before Rumi wakes up.”

“But we thought you were mad at us.”

“At you?” Celine blinks, something in her expression crumpling. “No,” she whispers, “I’m not mad at you.”

Mira and Zoey think they recognize the same intimate feeling that’s been drowning them since that night in Celine’s own eyes.

“Plus,” Celine says, cracking an awkward smile, “Rumi would kill me if anything happened to you two.”

From then on, they all hunt together, trading off as needed to make sure someone stays with Rumi at all times and bandaging each other’s cuts and scrapes.

---

Mira doesn’t eat much.

Zoey and Celine both start to hound her, but the more time passes, the more she begins to shut down, throwing herself into the dance studio and practicing for hours until she’s on the brink of collapse.

---

Zoey hates staying still.

She flits around the penthouse, always needing something to do, finding any small task possible and tackling it with fervor.

The moment she stops moving, for even a second, she feels like she’s going to drown.

---

One day, Zoey opens her journal to scribble some lyrics, flips through the pages, and stops.

Her mouth parts.

She looks at the lyrics on the page.

Oh.

Oh.

She’s going to be sick.

This whole time, they—

No wonder Rumi couldn’t—

Oh my god they sang it to her face.

Zoey flashes back to watching Rumi thrust vigorously into Mira, to the way her eyes seemed faraway, to the way Zoey and Mira had laughed and joked as they sang about taking down demons, about—

They’d coaxed Rumi to sing.

What lines had she sung?

It was, it was—

Zoey bolts to a trash can and heaves.

“A demon with no feelings don’t deserve to live, it’s so obvious.”

Rumi thought it was about her.

Rumi thought the whole song was about her.

Biting back a scream, Zoey grabs her journal and begins to tear out any pages she can find with references to “Takedown”. 

She’s halfway through ripping a third page into tiny shreds when a hand catches her wrist.

Baffled, Mira leans over Zoey. “Hey,” she says quietly, “since when do you rip pages out of your journal? I’m sure it’s—”

Zoey shoves a torn page in Mira’s face.

When Mira reads it, her eyes widen and she sits down hard.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh.”

Without another word, Mira tears the paper in half.

Together, they shred every piece of “Takedown” they can find.

---

A month passes.

The thought creeps into everyone’s minds, unwelcome and unbidden.

What if Rumi never wakes up?

Her wounds have been closing, slowly but surely.

But her pallor remains that sickly pale, and her eyes have not opened once.

---

Mira and Zoey spend every night in Rumi’s bedroom.

The first few were tucked in that armchair, but eventually, they bought futons to set up inside. (Two—one for Celine, and a larger one for themselves.)

Mira and Zoey fold into each other every night, clutching at any grounding contact, crying into each other’s necks, holding each other whenever a nightmare jolts one of them awake with a scream.

---

Often, they have to guide each other through showers, showing again and again that there is no red lingering on their skin.

It becomes almost ritual, washing each other’s hair. 

It’s soothing and intimate; the only intimacy they’ll dare to allow each other. Anything beyond that simply feels…wrong.

---

One evening, Zoey plunks herself exhaustedly into a chair and props her chin in her palm. She and Mira returned from a hunt about an hour ago; Celine’s left to grab food.

“Rumi,” she starts, “you would not believe the fight we just had, it was—”

Zoey raises her eyes and meets startled brown ones.

Rumi stares at Zoey.

Zoey’s jaw drops. 

Immediately, she jumps to her feet and reaches forward to Rumi and—

Rumi flinches.

“Hey Zoey, Celine’s asking us if we want—”

Mira walks into the room, wringing her hair with a towel as she looks to Zoey expectantly, sees Rumi, and freezes.

Rumi’s chest stutters; she gasps, choking on air and flinging herself backwards on the bed. Immediately, the shock of the movement jolts Rumi’s body and she whimpers loudly, clutching her chest as she tries to scramble away. 

Her eyes are flooded with panic. With fear.

A broken noise escapes Mira’s lips.

Zoey’s heart shatters.

Chapter Text

Rumi’s nervous about meeting her parents for the first time.

Her fear ebbs with her energy; the tide of acceptance washes it gently away as Rumi memorizes every etching of Zoey’s and Mira’s faces, mapping their visages in fading ink, tattooing them fleetingly to the backs of her eyelids.

It’s a shame Rumi can’t introduce Zoey and Mira to her parents when she finally sees them. She likes to think her parents would love Rumi’s girls as much as she does.

Oh. 

Mira and Zoey look hurt.

Rumi would sigh if she could.

Of course she’s hurt them again.

Rumi’s always known this would happen, but they didn’t.

She really should apologize one more time before she goes.

It’s harder to do than she expects. She takes several seconds to gather enough breath to speak. “I’m…sorry,” she manages. There’s something thick and viscous crawling up her throat and past her lips. Her chest feels airy.

Mira and Zoey don’t look well. Are they sick?

No. They’re just frozen.

Out the corner of her eye, Rumi thinks she sees two spectral figures waving, waiting for her.

She’ll leave in a moment.

She just needs to say goodbye first.

Mira and Zoey blur in her vision.

It’s odd, how much effort it takes to curl her mouth into a smile when so much of her feels weightless, like she’s floating in space attached to a tether about to snap.

It’s getting kind of cold.

She can’t leave without telling them one more time.

Her breath hisses between her teeth, rattling as she pushes three final words out: “I love you.”

Wow, does she feel heavy.

Rumi sees the two figures waving in the distance, but even as she feels darkness slip across her vision and an odd emptiness fill her limbs, she keeps her gaze trained on Zoey and Mira.

Can’t she look at them a little longer?

Does she have to leave yet?

Selfishly, Rumi hopes they don’t hate her nearly so much as she loves them.

(they don’t)

(she dies anyway)

---

Where is she?

Is she in her bed?

How did she get here?

What’s going on?

The sun flounces in, chattering and bright.

Rumi stares into its golden rays.

The sun reaches towards her and she fears how it burns.

---

Rumi just needs them to listen for one second.

Just one.

But Mira is bearing down on her, dark and furious, gok-do a targeted tornado. 

Shoot.

Shoot, shoot, how does Rumi convince them it’s her, SHOOT.

They can tell.

They have to be able to tell.

But Mira only has eyes for the patterns on Rumi’s arms, and the more Rumi pleads, the less Mira seems inclined to listen.

“Rumi doesn’t have patterns.”

Oh.

Rumi did her job too well.

They can’t—they don’t even consider it a possibility.

Should she laugh? It’s funny, isn’t it?

“But you are a monster.”

…ah. That hurts a little too much to laugh at.

Mira’s right though, isn’t she?

monster, coward, demon, liar

too good of a liar

Rumi wove and wove and wove, an intricate, thorough thread that ran through every single interaction she’s had with Zoey and Mira. She sat at a liar’s loom from the instant they’d first met, setting the warp and adding layer after layer of deceit, then taking those strands and pinching and twisting them together into rope.

From day one, Rumi wove herself a perfect noose; now, she feels Mira and Zoey slip it around her neck.

---

The moon hangs in the doorway as the sun abruptly halts.

Rumi can’t look at them.

They blaze, and she recalls the agony of their touch.

She needs to go, she needs to leave; she tries to move and falls over.

Her chest hurts.

---

In another life, where Rumi is a little less selfish, she thinks she’d like the idea of dying.

But in this life, where Rumi has had a tangible glimpse of an impossible dream? She doesn’t want to.

Is that too selfish?

Not wanting to die?

She begs for it anyway.

“I’ll leave,” she says, over and over.

She doesn’t want to leave, of course she doesn’t. Even the idea of leaving them cleaves her in two.

But she also doesn’t want to die.

“Please,” she begs.

Mira and Zoey press harder.

Rumi’s scared.

She’s also tired.

She’s tired of fighting, she’s tired of chasing demons, and she’s tired of lying.

And she’s physically exhausted on top of all of that, up against two trained hunters.

Maybe once upon a time, Rumi could knock them both flat. 

But that was years ago, and Rumi was young and cocky and strong.

Now, she is older and scared and weak.

And she knows enough to recognize that this is no longer a fight she can walk away from.

(She really, really doesn’t want to die.)

Rumi apologizes.

She’d like to apologize for everything, but she simply has too many things to be sorry for. She picks two:

“I’m sorry I lied” is one.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t good” is the other.

She means them both equally.

She wishes she had time to say the rest:

“I’m sorry for using the hot water”

“I’m sorry for forgetting to take out the trash”

“I’m sorry for falling asleep during your favorite movie”

“I’m sorry for pushing you through our break”

“I'm sorry for releasing ‘Golden’ early”

“I'm sorry for making you cry”

“I’m sorry for causing you pain”

“I’m sorry for being wrong”

“I’m sorry for loving you wrong”

“I’m sorry for letting you love me”

“I’m sorry I’m not fast enough to escape”

“I’m sorry that I’m scared”

“I’m sorry that I don’t want to die”

Rumi recognizes the move’s set-up after it’s too late. She sees the trajectory of Mira’s gok-do, hears the whistle of Zoey’s shin-kals, and knows her time is up.

Twin spots of pain flare in her ankles.

She lets out one cry, briefly, before Mira’s gok-do shoves through her chest.

“I’m sorry for making you kill me”

.

.

.

“Please don’t blame yourselves”

---

The sun and moon bear witness as she scrabbles at the dying star expanding in her chest.

They orbit closer and Rumi shrinks away once more.

She doesn't want to hurt again.

Away, she has to get away.

---

Colors ripple around her without warning to break the darkness; blue, gold, white, pink. 

She’s cold, then hot, then cold, then hot. Her chest is burning and freezing simultaneously. 

There’s something almost apologetic about the force that thrusts into her chest and knits her back together.

Starlight bursts in her heart, her lungs, her chest, her blood.

Rumi doesn’t want to die.

Right?

Wait it hurts it hurts so much what—

She changes her mind.

Rumi wants to die.

Rumi wants to die what is this why is she feeling this please what—

Needles of ice sew her shut with molten thread.

Why isn’t she dead?

Rumi wants to scream. 

Can’t do that.

Rumi wants to run.

Can’t do that.

Rumi wants to open her eyes.

Can’t do that.

Rumi wants to die.

Not allowed to do that.

It’s excruciating. It’s agony. Pain rips through every fiber of her being as she is woven back together.

Rumi wants to die.

No.

Rumi wants to die.

No.

Please.

No.

Make it stop.

Can’t.

Rumi wants to die.

No.

Rumi wants to sleep.

…Yes.

---

The sun and the moon step closer still, and Rumi feels the tug of their gravity.

But she remembers the pain of their orbit, carries it deep in her chest.

She wants to leave.

She tries to move.

The star bursts in her rib cage.

When her vision turns into a moonless night, she embraces it.

---

Mira wants to run.

It’s taking everything in Mira not to run right now.

…What the fuck was that.

Rumi had looked at them and then—

Panic. Fear.

She was scared.

She was scared of Zoey.

She was scared of Mira.

Mira wants to run, far far away, to an ocean shore or mountain peak or icy crevasse, somewhere where she can’t hurt Rumi ever again. 

Horribly, thankfully, Rumi’s scrambling has knocked herself unconscious once more.

Mira takes a shaky breath and moves towards the bed. With trembling hands, she picks Rumi up and lays her properly on the bed once more, uncurling her from her pained, fetal position and tucking her in with the utmost care, like she will shatter Rumi’s fragility if she makes a single mistake.

She’s crying silently as she positions Rumi’s braid—

“—like this,” Celine says gently. “Yes, you’ve got it.”

“I don’t understand how she maintains all of this,” Zoey mutters.

Mira shrugs. “A real mystery.”

“Oh, you are not one to talk.”

“My hair’s not even close,” Mira retorts. 

Celine hums as she crosses two bundles of recently-washed purple hair. “It’s sweet of you two to want to learn.”

“Well, yeah.” Mira shifts, her leg starting to fall asleep. “The braid is, like, Rumi’s thing.”

“She got it from Miyeong, right?” Zoey asks.

Nodding slowly, Celine doesn’t answer right away, her gaze faraway. Finally, she says, “At first, yes. I wanted her to see pictures of her mother early on, and she took to the braid immediately. I…always worried that it was only because of her mother, but over the years, I think she’s made it her own.”

“That’s true,” muses Zoey, carefully following Celine’s example with the braid, her tongue sticking slightly out in concentration. She seems determined not to mess anything up. “It doesn’t scream Miyeong anymore—it just screams Rumi.”

“Well.” Celine finishes tucking in the final hairs. “Thank you both for your help.”

“Of course.” Mira gently caresses Rumi’s pale cheek. “We want to make sure she feels like herself when she wakes up.”

Mira doesn’t comment on the way Celine’s eyes darken at the word ‘when’, and Celine doesn’t comment on why they do.

—and reaches out to touch Rumi’s cheek, before the flashing image of Rumi’s wide, panicked eyes halts Mira partway there.

Mira pulls her hand away and steps entirely back from Rumi.

When she finally turns, she sees Zoey holding her hand over her mouth and hiccuping quietly into her palm. “She woke up,” Zoey whispers, “so I should be happy, right? We should be happy, right?”

Not bothering to wipe away her own tears, Mira bites her tongue and leaves without looking back.

---

When Celine arrives with food—three heaping bowls of bulgogi in plastic takeout containers—she sees Mira and Zoey huddled together quietly on a shared cushion of their new couch (dark purple, same size, a gift facilitated by Bobby shortly after his first visit; a two-part gift that involved giving the new and removing the old; to his credit, he only threw up once at the bloodstains). 

They look distraught.

Celine wishes she knew what to say in these moments.

She wishes she knew how to be kind.

She wishes she knew how to be a mother. 

She wishes Miyeong was here instead.

Above all, Celine wishes she wasn’t such a coward.

She’s sat in this penthouse for a month, spending every day with the two women who love her daughter (she should never have called her that, she doesn’t have the right) Rumi, watched their heartbreak and sorrow and guilt, and clutched the truth tightly to her chest.

Celine could assuage all of their guilt in an instant if she told them, but she doesn’t. 

coward, liar

this is your fault

Quietly, Celine pads to the kitchen, pulls out the bowls and utensils, stacks them, and walks to the couch. She wordlessly hands a bowl and chopsticks to Zoey and Mira apiece, then takes her own and sits two cushions down, eying them.

They’ll speak when they’re ready.

Zoey bravely breaks the silence, as she so often does. She nudges a piece of beef with her chopsticks and says, “Rumi woke up.”

Stiffening, Celine’s hand pauses halfway to her mouth. She sets her chopsticks and bowl down. “...What?” 

“Rumi woke up,” Zoey repeats. She’s looking downwards as she faces Celine. 

Mira’s not looking at all.

There are a million questions in Celine’s mind, and a million nerves in her body screaming at her to get up, go, run to Rumi’s bedroom and see for herself, but if Zoey and Mira are out here, then Celine’s already missed her chance.

She mulls over the proper follow-up question as she forces herself to stay still, then settles on the simplest. “What happened?”

Still looking away, Mira is haunted as she says, “She saw us.” Her jaw is clenched tight. The wood of the chopsticks creaks in her grip.

Celine does not know nearly as many things about Rumi as she wishes she did, but she knows a few.

One of those things she does know is that Rumi lights up at every mention of Mira and Zoey, let alone when she sees them. (Celine has come to find out during this past month, in relief, that Rumi’s growing feelings towards the two were reciprocated. It’s a privilege Celine was never afforded; had never earned.) Whenever Rumi has come to visit on her own, the floodgates open the instant Mira and Zoey come up in conversation, and Celine is hard-pressed to get Rumi to stop gushing about them in order to move on to a new topic.

Rumi loves them, of that, Celine has no doubt.

But—

The way Zoey and Mira look now, downcast, wounded, scared, makes Celine pause.

“...And what else?”

Zoey’s lip wobbles as she furiously wipes away tears and shoves a piece of bulgogi in her mouth. Through bites, she mumbles, “She got scared.” Chew, swallow. “She got so scared she tried to run away and knocked herself out again.”

Oh.

Celine winces without meaning to; she’s not sure that could have gone worse.

“I see,” Celine states. “How is she now?” She works to keep her voice clinical, emotionless. (Her faults and fears must never be seen.)

“Sleeping.” Zoey pokes at her bulgogi. “We—Mira and I—were talking, and we don’t…think we should be in there, anymore.” She looks like she’s on the verge of another round of tears; her breaths are shaky. “Right now, we…scare her. You don’t.”

In a low voice, Celine says, “While I’m happy to watch over Rumi, why are you so certain she’ll react the same way again?”

Zoey stares blankly at Celine. Mira turns for the first time to do the same.

“Because we killed her,” Mira answers bluntly, ignoring Celine’s slight flinch. “We hunted her down while she was begging for her life and speared her on our blades and killed her. Who in their right minds wouldn’t be scared of us?” Her eyes are blazing. Her lips curl to show teeth. “We’re monsters, Celine; the last thing we need to do now is lurk under Rumi’s bed.”

Zoey recoils at Mira’s speech, her jaw falling open. But for perhaps one of the first times ever, the lyricist doesn’t have any words.

Celine does. “You are not monsters.” Her tone is clipped and short; it brooks no argument. (Celine knows monsters.)

Mira argues anyway. “Yes, we are. Celine, I don’t even understand how you’ve been able to stomach being around us this past month, after what we did! Don’t sit there and act like you, what, forgive us, as if that’s possible.”

“Rumi would.” 

Mira stills.

“Rumi will.”

The rest, that Celine can’t forgive them because it’s not their fault, because she knows the identity of the actual monster, goes unspoken. (If a dog bites, who is to blame? The dog, or the one who trained it to do so?) 

Eyes shimmering, Mira glares at Celine and whispers hoarsely, “You don’t know that.”

Before Celine can say another word, Mira stands, strides towards the elevator, and vanishes behind closing doors.

“I do,” Celine says quietly, too little too late for the one who needs to hear it most. At least one person who needs it listens. 

Zoey looks at her, hopeful. “You really believe that?”

“Yes.”

Celine does not know nearly as many things about Rumi as she wishes, but above all else, she knows this:

Rumi loves Zoey and Mira unconditionally.

(But then again, Celine has never truly worried about Rumi’s love for others.)

(Only the one person Rumi always leaves out.)

---

When Rumi wakes up again, she aches.

Her chest aches, her ankles ache, her back aches, and her heart aches (like it’s missing two pieces). 

The first thing she sees is muted red sunlight, illuminating the dust mites in the air and falling at the foot of Rumi’s bed.

The second thing she sees is Celine.

The third thing she sees is—

—oh. 

There’s no one else.

Why would there be? Why should there be?

The third thing she sees is empty space.

Rumi closes her eyes before Celine can realize she’s awake.

In a few breaths, she isn’t.

---

The third time Rumi wakes, it’s the middle of the night, and Celine jolts, her head snapping up from where it had been drooping onto her chest. She immediately straightens, rolling her shoulders and moving to sit on the edge of the chair as she flips on a lamp.

“...Rumi?” Celine asks quietly.

She watches Rumi carefully as Rumi slowly raises her head. Rumi’s eyes flick around the room, alighting on the window, on Celine, and finally, on the doorway. 

Something that Rumi sees—or doesn’t—has her stretching her lips thin. 

“How are you feeling?” It’s a careful question; Rumi needs caution right now.

Rumi frowns. She shifts against the propped pillows behind her and winces. Her hand comes up to curl uncertainly against her chest. She opens her mouth, but whatever she was going to say dies in her throat as her eyes widen. She stares at her uncovered arms.

Oh, f—

Celine lunges forward just as Rumi nearly flings herself off the bed in a mad scramble of panic. “Rumi, Rumi listen, it’s okay—” Celine says, grabbing Rumi’s wrists and forcibly pinning her back to the mattress. Rumi squirms in her grip as Celine repeats, “It’s okay, Rumi, they know, they know, there’s nothing to hide—Rumi, enough.”

At Celine’s stern scolding, Rumi stills immediately. She looks up at Celine with wide, erratic eyes. “They know,” repeats Celine, quieter. “Stop fighting. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Celine watches Rumi carefully, carefully, until whatever blaze of panic that consumed her extinguishes to ash. Pulling back, Celine releases Rumi’s wrists and sighs. “Let me ask again. How are you feeling?”

Brow furrowing, catching her breath, Rumi seems to give the answer an odd amount of thought.

At last, she opens her mouth to speak. “—eungh—” She touches her throat in confusion as all that comes out is a strangled, indecipherable noise. Rumi clears her throat, tries again, and gets the same result.

Celine leans forward and swipes the bottle of water and whiteboard she’d prepped earlier. “Here,” she says calmly, unscrewing the lid and passing the bottle to Rumi first.

Rumi guzzles the water greedily, then hands it back and swipes the back of her hand across her mouth. She tries to speak again, but her voice croaks.

Celine passes her the whiteboard and a marker. “Try this,” she says, not unkindly. “I thought this might be a possibility.”

Rumi takes the whiteboard and uncaps the marker. She looks to Celine to signal she’s ready.

For a third time, Celine asks, “How are you feeling?”

Rumi spins the marker in her hand, then writes, Fine.

Celine frowns.

“Tell the truth, Rumi.”

Rolling her eyes, Rumi taps the board, then underlines her answer. Fine.

Celine pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes. Why she’d expected any other answer from Rumi is truly beyond her.

“We both know that’s not true,” Celine says at last, “so when the time comes, I’ll need you to be honest. But for right now, I’m sure you have questions. Let me do what I can to answer.”

Rumi plays with the marker cap, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger on her left hand as she starts to write a question with her right. She flips the whiteboard around when she’s done. How long?

“Around a month.”

Rumi freezes. Celine can almost see the thoughts flying a kilometer a minute behind her eyes. “HUNTR/X is on indefinite hiatus,” Celine supplies, trying to guess some of Rumi’s thoughts as best she can. “Bobby’s been taking care of everything.”

The tension in Rumi’s shoulders relaxes the slightest bit.

Then, Rumi glances around the room, and the tension returns.

Wiping off the first question, Rumi starts to write another, then stops. She stares at it for several seconds, long enough for Celine to crane her head and see Where are— before Rumi’s erased it furiously.

She writes a different question instead.

Why am I here?

Celine, puzzled, tilts her head. “In your room? Because we thought it was the most comfortable place for you to wake up in.”

Before Celine’s even finished her answer, Rumi is shaking her head, her braid swaying back and forth with the motion. She points to the sign again, then circles the last word, here.

“A hospital isn’t a good idea for you, given your…condition—” Rumi flinches and Celine keeps her faults and fears from being seen “—and by this point, you might as well have been discharged anyway. We’ve set up an IV intermittently as needed.”

Rumi shakes her head again. She taps the word here another time.

Celine pauses. “I’m…not understanding.”

Huffing, Rumi smears the word here with the side of her hand, then scribbles a new one that has Celine inhaling sharply.

The question on Rumi’s board now reads, Why am I alive?

Rumi’s eyes blaze, and Celine feels herself cowing beneath their stare. Rumi taps her board again, refusing to look away.

Swallowing, Celine says, “Because Mira and Zo—”

Rumi’s furious tapping interrupts Celine. 

Why am I alive?

There’s something almost angry in Rumi’s expression, and Celine feels her chest tighten. What…why can’t she understand what Rumi’s telling her? Why can’t she ever understand what Rumi needs?

Why is she asking this question over and over again?

“I’m sorry, Rumi, I don’t—”

Tap tap tap tap.

“Rumi, please, I’m not sure what you—”

Taptaptaptaptap.

“I don’t understand—”

Snarling silently, Rumi erases the board and writes something new.

A sentence, this time.

You were right.

Celine pales as Rumi holds the board up.

You were right.

“No, Rumi, that’s not—I wasn’t—I—” She reaches out to take Rumi’s hand. 

Rumi shies away, staring, something unreadable behind her eyes.

Suddenly, she writes more, hiding the board until she’s done. Then, with no warning, she flips it, and Celine’s breath catches in her throat.

You were right, the board still reads.Then, underneath:

I messed up.

I’m wrong.

Why am I still here?

No, no, Celine has to stop whatever is happening, has to fix this, fix Rumi, but her mind can’t seem to catch up with what needs to be done, and the whole time she’s frozen and calculating, she sees Rumi’s eyes grow narrower and narrower.

“Rumi—”

Rumi flings the whiteboard across the room. Despite her weak state, the throw is hard enough for the whiteboard to make a decisive crack as it hits the opposite wall. Tossing the marker for good measure, Rumi slumps into her bed and yanks her comforter up until the barest tuft of purple hair pokes out.

She could not be clearer if she’d written it out on the board: 

This conversation is over.

Using the chair to stabilize herself as she rises on unsteady legs, Celine leaves the room.

---

At breakfast the next morning, Zoey only has the energy to pour herself a bowl of imported American cereal before sitting at the kitchen counter. 

Last night was the first time Zoey and Mira had slept away from Rumi since—since everything, and it was most definitely not restful. They’d stayed in Mira’s room, because it was closer, and held each other tightly through the night (but not so tightly that a third couldn’t worm her way in). 

Zoey dreams of the alley.

(She does most nights these days.)

In her dreams, her head is often clear, and strong, and she feels powerful. She feels like a true hunter. These nights are the nights that stray from reality, where Zoey was never flung into a wall and Rumi never ran off, and instead, all three of them work in tandem to achieve a flawless victory. Rumi turns towards Zoey with the dopiest smile, exhilarated at the win, and kisses her so fiercely she melts at the knees.

In her nightmares, she plays out her memories exactly as they are. 

She’s still not sure which one she likes least.

This morning, Zoey doesn’t remember which version of the dream she had last night, only that it’s left her extra tired and anxious.

She keeps thinking about yesterday. Zoey’s not even sure that Rumi recognized them, to be honest, and is clinging to that last strand of hope as tightly as possible. But it didn’t make it hurt any less, to see Rumi flinch and scramble away and hurt herself yet again and—

Well, this time isn’t really Rumi’s fault.

(Zoey has been singing a request to the Honmoon every night, to make sure that Rumi will still be able to walk when she wakes up. Now that she has, Zoey can only wait and hope it worked.)

Mira comes in sometime after Zoey, grabbing a singular frozen egg bread and tossing it on a plate to heat up. She looks as bad as Zoey feels, but for Mira, whose lifestyle is defined by being stylish, it’s somehow worse. Mira’s hair is barely brushed, she’s still in her pajamas, and her glasses are jammed askew on her face.

(It doesn’t feel very long ago when mornings began with kisses and laughter and hugs and the wafting smell of warm food on the stove.)

Now, the kitchen feels cold, and instead of hugs, Zoey greets Mira with a quiet “good morning”. Mira glances at Zoey and mumbles “‘morning” back at her, then glances away again.

Zoey takes a deep breath, trying not to bend the metal of the spoon clenched tight in her fist. This is maybe the fifth word she’s gotten out of Mira since yesterday, and Zoey’s patience is running thin. 

After Mira stormed out, Celine left to go be with Rumi and Zoey was left on her own, for hours, with nothing to do. She tried to write, but it was hopeless. She tried to train, but it was hopeless. She tried to dance, and to sing, and to clean, and to read, and none of it—none of it—was good enough, because Zoey only really wanted two things, and right now, neither of them wanted her.

And now it’s morning, and apart from a grunted “good night”, Mira won’t fucking talk and she won’t fucking look, and Zoey knows Mira’s just going to get worse, because of course Zoey’s noticed how little Mira’s been eating, of course Zoey’s noticed Mira’s long hours in the dance studio and the unsteadiness of her feet when she returns.

Zoey bites her tongue and then bites back a scream, because also, for all that she’s sitting here watching Mira self-destruct, she isn’t saying anything either. She thought she was better, she thought she could finally be open and honest and loud and true with her girls, and now she feels quiet.

But also, who cares? Talking hasn’t been very much fun lately anyway.

---

Mira swallows another bite of egg bread like it’s a chore (because it kinda feels like one at the moment). She can’t remember if this brand is good or not, and she can’t tell because it might as well be sawdust for all she registers of the taste.

She’s not even sure she can finish this much, if she’s being honest.

“Rumi!” Mira snorts, playfully grabbing the bag of chips. “You’re gonna choke, stop!” She’s laughing now as Rumi grins and stuffs another crab chip in her mouth. Rumi’s cheeks are so puffed she looks like a chipmunk, and Zoey’s already completely lost it in the corner, rolling and squealing in delight. Mira rolls her eyes and shoves a few chips from the stolen bag in her own mouth, chewing open-mouthed and spraying crumbs when Rumi somehow swallows everything, and she marvels at how Rumi and Zoey can make something as normal as eating feel so fun and so right.

She chances a quick glance at Zoey and—ah, yeah, Zoey’s mad. Mira would know that eyebrow scrunch anywhere.

Mira should apologize. She should, she knows it, but she also doesn’t think what she said yesterday was wrong. She wants it to be wrong, so so badly, but it’s not; at least, not fully. Mira was wrong on only one thing: the pronoun she used.

Because the truth isn’t “we are monsters”. 

It’s simply “I am a monster”. 

Mira’s thought about it a lot, over the past month.

And she’s come to the conclusion that Zoey, who was near-concussed, just woken up from unconsciousness, and scared, cannot be blamed for setting up a killing blow for Mira, not when Mira was the one rushing in and swinging desperately to kill Rumi without listening, without giving her a chance.

(Every night, Mira hears how Rumi begged and pleaded for her life.)

No.

Everything is Mira’s fault.

It’s as simple as that.

“This is my fault.”

Mira almost leaps out of her seat at Celine’s quiet admission; Zoey actually does, flailing her arms and nearly falling to the ground until she catches herself on the counter at the last second.

Fighting not to choke, Mira turns and raises an eyebrow immediately at the haggard look on Celine’s face. It’s off-putting on a woman who prides herself on being put-together, and then Mira thinks on what could have Celine looking like this, and her heart pangs at the knowledge that it must do with Rumi.

“…What are you talking about?” Zoey asks, confused. She cocks her head at Celine in a way that’s always reminded Mira of a puppy.

Celine stands silently before both of them. She draws her shawl tighter around her shoulders with slender, shaking fingers and takes a deep breath through her nose. She closes her eyes to collect her thoughts for just a moment; when they open again, they flare with an obvious guilt so strong it almost sends Mira reeling.

“It’s my fault,” Celine says again, exhaustion in every line of her face. “All of this.” 

Mira and Zoey stare blankly at her.

“And last night made it very apparent to me that I’m not who Rumi needs right now.”

Zoey frowns. “Celine, I’m sorry, can you…explain? I don’t really get it.”

Mira nods her agreement.

With a shuddering breath, Celine starts, “This. Everything. What happened. I’m who told Rumi to hide. If I hadn’t done that, then—”

Something smolders in Mira’s chest. “That’s your big admission?”

Celine stops. She meets Mira’s gaze, perplexed. 

Oh, for the— “Celine, we’re not stupid. That was kind of obvious, don’t you think?”

Celine opens and closes her mouth, at a loss for words.

“You think you can, what, come in here and magically erase our guilt? Is that what this is?”

“I—”

“You’re who told Rumi to hide, sure. You also taught us, all three of us, how awful demons were and that we should kill them on sight, and I’m sure that did wonders for Rumi’s mental state growing up.” Mira grips the edge of the counter to center herself. “So congrats, I guess, welcome to the club. We’ve all fucked Rumi up together, woohoo!”

Zoey’s cheeks are pinched. Mira can see the gears whirring in her head, can tell that Zoey is desperately working up the nerve to speak, and Mira should open the floor to her, should give her space to air her thoughts, but Mira should do a lot of things (like not kill her lover) and unfortunately, she can’t seem to do any of them right now.

“But you did not tell Rumi to keep lying to our faces, over and over and over again. Rumi’s a big girl, Celine, if she really wanted to tell us, she would’ve. You don’t—you don’t even know the shit she pulled, don’t come in here acting like you can take responsibility for what you don’t even know about.”

“…I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What are you—?”

“Did you train her to hide her injuries?” Mira snaps, taking Celine’s immediately affronted face as an answer. Mira presses, “Did you train her to take hits for us? Did you train her to hide every aspect of herself at the expense of herself?” 

Celine is shaking her head. “Mira, let me—”

Mira cuts her off explosively. “Did you train her to run off in battle? Did you train her to smile when she’s in pain? Did you train her to fuck us with a broken body and pretend afterwards that nothing was wrong?!”

Zoey’s breath hitches, and Mira doesn’t dare turn and accept that she’s just made Zoey cry.

Celine is stricken, her face white.

Mira should stop.

God, Mira should stop.

She doesn’t.

“We sang ‘Takedown’ to her, did you know that? Zoey and I laughed and had fun while Rumi railed the shit out of us and sang about how it’s so obvious that she doesn’t deserve to live! Rumi lied, and lied, and lied, and it was her own fault! But at the end of it all, at the end of everything, I get it,” Mira snarls, “because the one fucking time she told the truth, I ran my gok-do through her chest and pinned her to an alley wall.

“And she had the gall to tell us, as she died, that she loves us. Us. Me. Because it was my blade, Celine! I don’t give a shit what you told Rumi to do, I don’t give a shit what Rumi chose to do, it was my blade! It’s my fault! And you don’t get to take that away from me!”

Mira growls, crumpling the remains of her egg bread in her fist. The crumbs scatter across the counter. She stands quickly and strides to Celine, glaring at her. “Rumi needs you,” snaps Mira, “and she needs Zoey. And the last thing any of us need is you finally deciding to pull some weird savior complex like that’ll magically fix the last month. You’re guilty about Rumi? Congrats. Get in line. But don’t—don’t pull this shit like it’ll fix everything. Shut up about it. Help Rumi. Be there for her.”

“And what are you going to do?” Zoey asks quietly, voice tight. 

Mira flinches.

“Will you be there for her too?”

Mira turns to glare at Zoey. “I want what’s best for Rumi. I want Rumi to have what she needs. And we all know that that isn’t—shouldn’t be—me.”

Facing Celine once more, Mira adds, “If you’re really sorry, tell Rumi that. Make sure she has someone in her life besides Zoey that she can turn to.”

“And what if she wants that someone to be you?” Celine questions.

Mira glances at Zoey once more, sees her pale and trembling and furious and scared, and Mira laughs hollowly. “Then she’s an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

---

Zoey screams into her pillow.

Fuck Mira! Fuck her fuck her fuck her! 

She doesn’t get to decide who’s at fault! She doesn’t get to ignore how Zoey feels! She doesn’t get to run away from Rumi!

Zoey wants to grab Mira and shake her and yell at her and hold her and let her finally let herself begin to heal, but also that’s impossible when Zoey hasn’t begun to heal and Celine is Celine and Rumi only just barely woke up and panicked when she saw Zoey and Mira and apparently also had a fit with a whiteboard in the middle of the night?

Zoey needs to see her.

Zoey needs to see Rumi.

Zoey needs to understand how Rumi feels.

even if she really doesn’t want to know

It’s noon now, and Zoey decides in a flash how to properly approach Rumi. “Sorry I speared your ankles and helped kill you” seems like an inappropriate opener, but ramyeon, on the other hand, will work no question.

A few minutes later, Zoey stands in front of the door to Rumi’s bedroom with a steaming cup of Rumi’s superstar flavored ramyeon and a hesitant, bleeding heart.

She knocks gently.

Celine’s voice drifts out after a moment. “Come in.” There’s an uncertainty in Celine’s tone that tells Zoey exactly what she needs to know; Zoey gulps and opens the door.

As Zoey inferred from Celine, Rumi’s sitting upright and awake. To Zoey’s surprise though, she’s got a journal in her lap and is writing with a shaky hand, hunched over. 

When Zoey enters, it takes Rumi a second to notice.

Rumi glances briefly at the sound, returns to whatever she was writing, then stiffens. Suddenly, she slams her journal shut, sets it aside, and lunges for her whiteboard and marker on the nightstand nearby; then, gripping them both in her hands, she looks desperately at Zoey.

Zoey’s breathless when their eyes meet.

Rumi—isn’t reacting like she hates her. Or that she's scared.

Instead, there’s a hopeful glimmer that Zoey’s missed so badly she wants to break down and cry at the sight of it. The corners of Rumi’s mouth start to twitch, and her eyes flit all over Zoey’s face in a millisecond, then to the door and—

Her expression crashes.

In an instant, Rumi’s face has hardened to unreadable stone.

Zoey fights back a whimper.

“Um, hey, Rumi,” starts Zoey tentatively, taking a few steps over to the bed, tensing as she waits for Rumi to flinch.

At least that doesn’t come.

Rumi stares at Zoey, and Zoey can’t read any of what’s behind her eyes, and it scares her.

Celine coughs lightly, then says, “I’ll make my lunch. I’ll be back in a bit.” Then, awkwardly, she walks out, and it reminds Zoey so intrinsically of Rumi that she wants to cry (not that she hasn’t been doing more than enough of that lately).

And then it’s the two of them, and Zoey hasn’t felt this awkward around Rumi since they first met all those years ago, and Zoey was convinced her chattering was annoying—

“Sorry,” Zoey trails off, “I get a little carried away sometimes. You probably don’t want to hear me prattle on about animal facts, I—”

“Huh?” Rumi pauses, watering can in hand. “What are you talking about?”

“Look, I know I ramble and—”

“Yeah, it’s cool?”

Zoey’s jaw drops. “...What?”

Rumi flashes her a blinding smile. “You’re really smart! Everything you say is so interesting. I like listening to you.”

Feeling her cheeks redden, Zoey whispers, “...Oh.” 

Maybe, just maybe, Zoey might actually find a place here.

—except this time, Zoey doesn’t know what to say, and Rumi doesn’t smile.

Zoey stiffly extends her arm towards Rumi, ramyeon in hand. “I, um. Made you some ramyeon?”

Rumi keeps staring, and Zoey wants to crawl in her closet and cry, because she can’t figure out what Rumi’s feeling.

Wordlessly, Rumi takes the ramyeon. She sets it tenderly on the table by her bedside, then grabs her whiteboard and marker. She writes a quick sentence and shows Zoey.

Thanks. I’ll eat it later.

“Thanks.”

The first thing Rumi says to the girl who killed her is “thanks”.

Zoey fights back another round of tears. “Sure,” she whispers, “anything. Anything for you, Rumi.” She swallows a sob, then says thickly, “Hey, Rumi, I’m—”

Rumi’s already scribbled something on her board and flipped it.

Stop.

Zoey blinks. “No, please, let me—”

Rumi taps the board aggressively. 

“Rumi, I need to say this—”

Rumi circles Stop.

“I—”

Rumi draws a few arrows and taps it every time Zoey tries to speak.

Frustrated, Zoey rushes out, “Why won’t you let me speak?”

Looping script fills the board in an instant: 

I’m not interested.

…Oh. Zoey bites her lip and takes a deep breath to try futilely to prevent the tears welling in her eyes from falling.

Rumi glances at Zoey and something shifts in her expression. She quickly erases her board and writes something new. I mean that I don’t want to hear your apology.

An unintentional breath of relief ekes out through Zoey’s teeth. Oh.

But wait. Why not? She voices it out loud too.

Rumi keeps her face neutral as she adds, It’s unnecessary.

“It’s un—Rumi, we—we ki—we—”

Taptaptaptaptaptap. There’s something almost frantic in the way Rumi taps the board.

“Rumi. Please let me say this. It’s—”

Taptaptaptap.

“It is necess—”

TAPTAPTAPTAPTAP.

“Rumi!” Zoey’s pitch rises sharply. “Stop! Why—why wouldn’t I apologize?!” She ups her volume to be heard over the tapping. “I’m sorry, Rumi! I’m sorry! For everything! For—oh my god, would you stop?!”

Zoey slaps her hands over her ears and glares at Rumi as Rumi continues smacking the tip of the marker against the board. “I deserve to speak!” Zoey snaps. 

Rumi’s marker stills. She looks away, almost cowed.

Glaring, Zoey mutters, “I swear, Rumi, you’re acting like it’s no big deal that you died.” In a stupid, feeble attempt at humor, Zoey jokes, “You didn’t want to, did you?” 

Zoey’s weak smile freezes on her face as Rumi’s shoulders stiffen.

…What?

In a softer voice, Zoey asks a question before she can think better of it. “Did you want to die?”

Silence.

Rumi fiddles with her marker.

It’s Zoey’s turn to stare now.

She didn’t…she didn’t actually mean that question. She doesn’t want an answer to that question.

(She’s not sure which answer is worse.)

Slowly, Rumi erases her previous sentence and writes a new one. She holds it away from Zoey, reading it with a blank face. 

Then, her shoulders drop, and she flips the board.

Which answer will hurt you less?

Zoey sucks in a shaky breath and staggers backwards.

And at that, at that, Rumi smiles, bitter and knowing.

Zoey runs.

---

…Of course Rumi scared her away.

She sets the board aside and drops her head in her hands.

Zoey was here, she was actually willing to see Rumi, and Rumi chased her out instead.

In a way, though, it makes things easier in the long run.

---

“Zoey’s going to come by in a little bit.”

Rumi whips her head around. 

Celine raises an eyebrow. “You heard me. Zoey’s going to come by in a little bit.”

With the board, Rumi asks, Why?

“Because that girl isn’t as easily scared away as you think.” 

Rumi flinches. She should be.

“...Why?”

Biting her lip, Rumi writes, Because I’m a demon. And a liar.

Celine moves to stand beside Rumi’s bed, her hand resting lightly on the bedside table. “Only one of those is true, and unfortunately, you’re not the only one.”

Rumi’s brows furrow. She cocks her head.

Celine picks up the cooled cup of ramyeon and hands it and the pair of chopsticks Zoey had brought to Rumi. “Eat. Please.”

Nodding reluctantly, Rumi takes the ramyeon and starts to slurp. She hates to admit it, but she is rather hungry.

Celine eyes her, then begins.

And for the first time since she’s woken up, Rumi listens.

---

New routines are created throughout the next two weeks.

---

Routine: Rumi may not want to see Zoey, but Zoey visits Rumi anyway.

---

Zoey’s talking too much.

She must be, she knows she is, she always is.

But Rumi won’t say anything back, so what else is Zoey supposed to do?

She’s not going to sit in silence; she can’t sit in silence.

So she visits Rumi, every day, and talks.

Luckily, Zoey is really really good at talking too much, and so she fills the air of the room with chatter about anything and everything, from miscellaneous animal facts to industry gossip to world politics to anecdotes from her most recent trip to the convenience store. 

Throughout all of it, every word, Zoey watches Rumi, hoping, begging, for any kind of laugh or smile or something, something to show Zoey that there’s still a chance that Rumi cares for her.

Rumi’s expression is set and unreadable.

It’s pushy, Zoey knows, to keep flinging herself into the air of someone who doesn’t want to share it, to keep trying futilely in the hopes that she can somehow make Rumi magically fall in love with her again, but why would Rumi love the girl who killed her?

…Why did Rumi ever love Zoey in the first place?

Zoey feels like the protagonist of a cliche romantic ‘80s American movie, one where the most average guy in the world pesters the most beautiful girl over and over and over again to fall in love with him. And in the movies, somehow it works, but Zoey’s never really understood why. Why would someone so gorgeous, so out of his league, ever fall in love with him? Especially not when he’s loud, and annoying, and can’t take a hint despite the girl telling him she wasn’t interested.

…Did the girls ever say yes but not mean it? Did they ever agree, and then secretly resent the guy for the rest of their lives together? Did they only give in because his constant wooing was becoming too unbearable to stand?

Zoey wants to hear Rumi’s voice, even if it’s to tell her to ‘go away’ or that she’s ‘not interested’. She’d give anything to hear it again. 

But she can’t even annoy Rumi into writing, let alone talking when her voice returns (which it will soon, Zoey's positive).

She can’t get any emotion out of Rumi.

Just that same confused glance behind Zoey every time she enters, and then the flicker of pain in her eyes before she shuts her face down into a neutral smile and leans back against her pillows.

Zoey doesn’t deserve any different, even if it still hurts.

She wishes she were normal enough to take the hint and leave Rumi alone.

But she just…can’t. Not until Rumi says it herself.

---

Routine: Rumi works.

---

Rumi wheezes. The barest whisper of a sound slips past her lips and those stupid fangs that haven’t disappeared completely. Her vocal chords crack, rusted cables that creak and groan with the sigh of wind.

Perhaps one of the most frustrating things about waking up from a month-long coma after being painfully and magically sewn back to life is that, on top of everything else, Rumi can’t even sing.

The one thing that proves she’s good is gone, far more so than the paltry rasps she was dealing with during “Takedown” recordings.

And she needs to finish “Takedown”. Has to. Wants to.

But she also needs to create something, make music, and there’s an odd melody floating in the back of her skull that she wants to put to paper. So by her first morning properly awake, she has a notebook and pencil, and by the second, she has her guitar.

Rumi scribbles a few measures of music, strumming them on her guitar to test the melody that’s been bothering her.

She should be trying to practice “Takedown”, she knows that, but she can’t exactly sing it right now, and she certainly can’t dance it. Not without being able to walk properly again.

Rumi sees the guilt in Zoey’s eyes whenever she comes to visit and Rumi’s working with Celine on standing upright again. There are real and phantom pains combined that lance through Rumi’s ankles and bloom like lightning across her calves and up her thighs whenever she puts a modicum of weight on them, and Rumi thinks sometimes about the way they bit deep into her tendon.

She can never look Zoey in the eyes when she has those thoughts, though, because—

No. No, Rumi’s not going to get mad right now. She’s not.

Instead, she quickly fixes an out-of-tune string, then returns to writing.

---

Routine: Mira hides.

---

Mira misses a step for the first time in years and tumbles to the floor. With a resounding smack, her shin takes the brunt of the impact and she hisses as she quickly slides into a sit on the dance studio floor, hugging her knee to her chest and massaging clammy palms up and down her calf.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

She can’t even dance right anymore?

What the fuck is there left that Mira’s good for?

God. She doesn’t—she doesn’t even understand why she’s practicing choreography in the first place.

It’s not like there’s ever going to be another show again.

It’s not like HUNTR/X didn’t disband the instant its lead visual speared its lead singer like meat on a street stall skewer. 

What would the headlines of that look like?

HUNTR/X VISUAL GOES ON VIOLENT RAMPAGE

HUNTR/X VISUAL KILLS BELOVED POPSTAR ROYALTY, RYU RUMI

HUNTR/X VISUAL FLIES INTO BLIND RAGE, 1 CASUALTY

████ MIRA PROVES DISAPPOINTMENT ONCE AND FOR ALL

“We always knew this would happen,” says ████ █████, the lead visual’s elder brother. “Our parents did their best, but we always knew there was something deeply wrong with her. It’s tragic, really. I feel deeply for Ryu Rumi, forced to work with Mira in the first place—to tolerate her behavior for years and be rewarded with death for her endeavors. It’s…really, it’s such a tragedy. Mira was always prone to lashing out as a child, but truly, we never anticipated anything quite like this. 

“When Mira was younger, you know, she had this tendency to lie for attention. She was always unfortunately a jealous girl; she’d often take praise meant for me and twist it in her head until she thought the words were for her instead. When my parents and I gently broke the truth to her, she’d pout and fall into hysterics and accuse us of being liars.

“She’d claim we promised her outings or treats or rewards; soon enough, she came home from school claiming she’d been told this or that by the teacher, or that her dance instructor had said she ‘excelled’, that she was a ‘prodigy’. Wild exaggerations. It broke our hearts to have to constantly remind her of the truth, and sadly, she never did seem to grasp it.

“When she got older, she stopped telling us her lies for a little bit and started picking fights. She had a nose for trouble, always, and would come home with scrapes on her knuckles and bruises on her cheek. It horrified us. We did everything we could to set her back on the right path, but she fell back onto her lies as quickly as she'd left them, claiming she’d stepped in to help someone smaller and weaker.

“We fretted, when she was somehow accepted to train with HUNTR/X, but, you know, they’re clearly…frivolous with their group member choices; I imagine Ryu Rumi had full say, and you know how girls are at their age, so confident they know everything. But if she wanted to pick a liar and an incomplete Korean, who were we to say no?

“We only wish we had. Maybe then we could’ve spared Ryu Rumi from this tragic fate. She was so talented, too, a true loss to the entertainment world. A shame; if they’d lost Mira instead, she would have been so much more easily replaceable.

“The ████ family offers our most sincere condolences. We pray that Mira faces proper justice for her wanton violence.”

The worst part is that Mira is angry.

She’s angry at Zoey, for pretending everything’s somehow going to be okay.

She’s angry at Celine, for refusing to talk about anything she doesn’t deem relevant.

She’s angry at herself for everything.

And—

She’s angry at Rumi.

How fucked up is that?

---

Routine: Rumi relearns how to walk. 

---

Celine can see the fury in Rumi’s eyes every time she tries and fails to rest her weight on her feet without tipping over at the ankles.

When did her little girl Rumi become so angry?

Supporting Rumi’s weight, Celine holds her arms still as Rumi braces against them and tries yet again to stand, and fails yet again to do so.

With every subsequent failure, Rumi huffs, and her eyes blaze.

There’s something Rumi’s not saying.

Celine’s realized it since that very first night, when Rumi threw the whiteboard and Celine had to face the understanding that she had no idea what Rumi wanted.

And Celine sees it, in every frustrated wheeze when Rumi lifts herself out of bed and onto the wheeled office chair they’ve designated as Rumi’s until further notice (they have a wheelchair, purchased immediately and now collecting dust in a closet because the instant Rumi saw it, she balked so hard she nearly fell off the bed). 

Celine sees it in the way Rumi does nothing but fiddle with her guitar and journal all day long, trying desperately to sing and screaming silently when she can’t.

Celine sees it in the way Rumi grimaces when Celine helps her get dressed, and the way she insists on long sleeves and turtlenecks still, as if there’s a single person left in the apartment who doesn’t know about her patterns.

And of course, Celine saw it when she talked with Rumi the day after she woke up; not about everything, no, Celine’s too much of a coward for that. But she did tell Rumi about Zoey’s and Mira’s response, after That Night, about their desperation, about their love. 

For the first few minutes of that talk, Celine had felt hope rising and rising in her chest that maybe things would be okay.

Then, Celine foolishly mentioned the girls’ guilt, and Rumi shut down with the speed of someone flicking a power switch. 

Now, Rumi doesn’t talk about them at all. Won’t listen to Celine. Barely allows Celine to help her practice bearing weight on her ankles (and thank goodness for Honmoon-aided healing, because Celine thinks that in another few days, Rumi will be walking once more.)

Rumi won’t speak to Celine much either.

Or to Zoey.

(But Celine suspects that, for as little as Rumi appears to listen to Celine, she’s simply incapable of doing the same to Zoey.)

(Rumi never asks about Mira.)

---

Routine: Zoey and Mira sleep in their own rooms.

---

Self-explanatory.

---

Routine: Bobby visits.

---

The first time he sees Rumi actually awake, he breaks down into full, snotty sobs.

Rumi stiffens as he flings his arms around her and pulls her into a surprisingly gentle hug, then immediately jumps back.

“Sorry!” Bobby squeaks. “Inappropriate, I know! Don’t tell the label! I just—”

Rumi feels her lips start to twitch, and for the first time since waking, part of her wants to smile.

Instead, she reaches for her board and writes: Hi Bobby

He sobs again, and promises to visit every day with snacks and news.

(He does.)

---

Routine: Demon hunts continue.

---

Celine and her two blades are a whirlwind through demons in a way that makes it appear like she’s never stopped hunting them.

When she takes charge naturally now that Rumi’s awake and they can afford all three to go on hunts, Mira and Zoey fall in line without meaning to.

They can’t help it.

(The way she leads is familiar, and sometimes, the girls turn at an order and expect someone else.)

---

Routine: Zoey visits anyway.

---

Multiple times a day.

Sometimes with food, sometimes with social media reels, sometimes with her notebook.

Every time, Zoey sees Rumi go through that same cycle—her eyes flicker, she looks at the door, she shuts down.

At first, Zoey truly thought Rumi was ignoring her completely.

Then, one afternoon, a week into this new, uncharted normal, Zoey fumbles a turtle fact, curses herself out, and freezes as Rumi smiles.

It’s brief, so brief, and gone in an instant, but Zoey knows she saw it.

Something in her chest lightens.

Rumi’s listening.

(At least someone is.)

---

Routine: Mira hides.

---

Mira still hasn’t seen Rumi.

She can’t.

She can’t she can’t she can’t.

If she sees Rumi, she will lose control of every single emotion vibrating in her chest, will let it all whoosh out in a typhoon of guilt and fear and anger.

Because she killed Rumi.

Because she’s scared that Rumi hates her (that she’s scared of Mira).

Because she’s angry at Rumi too, because if Rumi had just told them the truth from the start, then they wouldn’t be in this mess at all.

Instead, Rumi lied.

Over. And over. And over again.

Rumi lied about everything.

She had looked Mira and Zoey in the face, over and over for years, and lied.

These patterns, they—how fucking hard was it to just explain what a half-demon was? 

One conversation. That’s it.

(Would Mira have been okay with that, though? Would Mira have believed it? She didn’t believe Rumi, after all, when Rumi begged for her life.)

(When Rumi finally told the truth, for the first time ever, Mira killed her. It’s as simple as that.)

her parents always said she acted like a monster

Mira thinks the worst part is that Rumi lied so easily.

She still remembers the morning after the car park, after the sex—which must have hurt Rumi so much more than Mira even realized—when Rumi had smiled wide and insisted that Mira was being ridiculous. Even then, even as she began to realize, a part of Mira still blindly trusted Rumi, because Rumi’s lying was impeccable.

she wonders if, when all a person does is lie, everything they say sounds like the truth

…No, actually, Rumi lying so easily isn’t the worst part.

The worst part is that Mira doesn’t know what she’s allowed to believe anymore.

Like love.

Did Rumi ever really love them?

Because Mira did. Does. Mira still loves Rumi so much it makes her bones ache, and she wants to see Rumi so badly, wants to talk to her, touch her, make sure she’s real and alive, but if Mira sees that same panic again, that same fear, from the woman she loves, she just—

She doesn’t think she’s strong enough to bear it.

…No, that’s not right.

She knows she isn’t.

Mira doesn’t eat lunch.

---

Routine: They all cry.

---

Routine: They all cry separately.

---

Routine: Rumi doesn’t ask about Mira.

---

Routine: Celine stays.

---

Routine: Rumi stands.

---

Routine: It’s all my my my my fault.

---

Routine: Zoey and Celine talk.

---

Routine: Mira doesn’t.

---

Routine: After a week, Rumi does. (She chooses not to share this yet.)

---

Routine: Zoey visits anyway.

---

Routine: Mira hides.

---

Routine: Rumi walks. (Celine leaves a cane by her nightstand.)

---

Routine: I don’t deserve ████’s forgiveness.

---

Routine: Zoey visits anyway.

---

Rumi’s listening, but she’s also withdrawing.

Zoey sees it in each visit, the way Rumi starts to shrink a little further into herself. (Zoey’s noticed it happens immediately after Rumi glances at the door, and she has a sinking suspicion of why that is.)

Zoey should say something about it, should push, but all that’s gotten her is a rift between herself and the two most important people in her life.

She pushes Mira and gets a lonely bed and fifteen words a day or less in passing conversation.

She pushes Rumi and gets blank stares and looming silences.

Honestly, if it weren’t for Celine’s brand of awkward, fumbling help, Zoey thinks she’d have gone insane. (Celine has been the strangest source of comfort; for a woman whose entire reputation and demeanor hinges around being a stoic, methodical mentor, she’s spent the last two weeks acting a whole lot more like a mom. One who’s still learning the ropes, but a mom nonetheless.)

Two weeks since Rumi woke up, Zoey knocks quietly and slips into Rumi’s bedroom, resisting the urge to sneak over and peek at whatever Rumi’s writing.

Rumi follows her usual routine: the glance up at Zoey, the faint flicker, the glance at the door, the shut down.

“Hey Rumi,” Zoey greets, “do you need anything?”

Zoey expects a typical shake of Rumi’s head, but today, Rumi does something a little bit different.

Rumi grabs her whiteboard, every movement looking heavy and weighed by exhaustion, and writes, I’m tired.

“That’s okay! Just tell me if you do need anything!” Zoey puts on a bright smile and launches into some new rabbit hole theory she’d found herself digging into online, unraveling where it originated from and why it’s actually completely implausible.

Zoey knows that, even if Rumi is listening, she probably doesn’t care—can’t care, because the person doing the rambling is the person who helped kill her—but Zoey goes on and on anyway, because it helps her pretend, for just a few minutes, that maybe things will return to normal.

When Rumi suddenly starts to write on her whiteboard, Zoey trails off.

Rumi, looking unbelievably weary, asks her, Why are you here?

Zoey crumples instantly. “I—I’m sorry,” she mumbles, all of her worries vying to flood out first, “I’ve just been coming in here and talking your ear off about random things and forcing you to listen and—”

“You don’t. Have to do this.”

The raspy voice, one Zoey hasn’t heard in over a month and a half, not since it begged for its life and whispered “I love you”, stops Zoey mid-sentence. Her eyes widen as she slams the brakes on the words tumbling out of her mouth.

Jaw dropped open, Zoey stares at Rumi, who caps the marker, fiddles with it, and doesn’t open it again. “You—what?” Zoey whispers. Then, Rumi’s actual words catch up with her. “Wait. I what?”

“You don’t,” whispers Rumi, “have to do this.”

“Do what?” Zoey doesn’t understand. Rumi’s talking and Zoey wants to focus on that so badly but Rumi’s words are far more confusing.

Rumi fists her hands into her sheets. Her chin points downwards and away. “...Pretend.”

Zoey doesn’t understand. “Pretend about what?”

Taking a quick, stuttering breath, Rumi says, “Pretend that everything’s okay.”

Zoey almost rushes out of her seat then and there. She catches herself, sputtering, “I—I know it’s not okay, but I just—I thought maybe—” Her tongue trips over itself, clumsy and thick. “—if you don’t…if you don’t want me here, I understand. I’ll—I’ll go.”

she doesn’t understand she doesn’t want to go what is happening

Rumi finally turns to look at Zoey, expression as unreadable as ever. It scares Zoey, how little she seems to understand what Rumi’s thinking.

Finally, something softens around the corners of Rumi’s eyes. “Don’t force yourself, Zoey.” Hearing Rumi say her name after so long, like this, punctures Zoey as effectively as any shin-kals. “Please.”

“...What?” Zoey feels like she’s going insane, like Rumi’s playing a prank on her that she’s not in on it yet. “Don’t force myself to do what?”

Rumi exhales slowly, controlled. “To spend time with me,” she murmurs. “You…don’t have to.”

Zoey laughs, sharp and abrasive and in sheer disbelief. “Don’t have to—no one is forcing me to come see you, Rumi!”

There’s the slightest tick in Rumi’s cheek as she bites her tongue and stares at the opposite wall that betrays the faintest hint of what Rumi’s actually feeling. She remains silent.

“I don’t understand,” presses Zoey, “Rumi. Explain.”

Rumi’s jaw clenches and she squeezes her eyes shut. “This whole. Being nice thing. It’s sweet, but Zoey please.” To Zoey’s horror, tears well beneath Rumi’s eyelids. Rumi speaks so softly, Zoey has to lean forward to hear. “Don’t play with my hopes like this.”

Zoey is baffled, and she can feel her heart hammering faster and faster in her chest, spikes of anxiety pulsing with each new word from Rumi. “Play with—Rumi, what are you talking about?” 

Rumi seems just as confused, opening her eyes and furrowing her brows to look at Zoey. “You visiting,” she chokes out, “it’s just. Making it harder on me.” She bites her lip. “...When I leave.”

The spikes of anxiety twist into an iron grip that seizes Zoey’s heart and squeezes. In a shrill, panicked voice, Zoey asks, “You’re leaving?! What do you mean? Why would you leave?” Then, brokenly: “...Do you want to leave?”

A whimper pries loose from Rumi’s throat despite her obvious efforts to suppress it. “Of course not,” Rumi whispers, raw and fierce, “but you and Mira deserve your home back.”

Zoey still, still doesn’t understand. Nothing Rumi’s saying makes sense. “Rumi,” she says, “do you think we don’t want you here?”

Rumi’s next words smash the walls of confusion with startling clarity: 

“Mira doesn't."

Zoey gasps. “What, no, nonono, Rumi!” She waves her hands frantically. “Mira wants you here so badly!”

Rumi looks at Zoey sharply. “...Then why hasn’t she come to visit?”

The words land like blows. Zoey startles, fumbling, “That’s—it’s because—”

But Rumi’s already nodding along, glassy-eyed and resigned. “Yeah,” she mutters, “I thought so. Please…please leave.”

Zoey swallows, her jaw opening and shutting as hot tears spill freely across her cheeks and lips. 

Rumi turns her head, refusing to look at Zoey.

Trembling, Zoey stands and walks briskly out of the room.

---

Mira’s hiding in the dance studio, as she so often is, when she hears a furious pounding of steps barreling towards the entryway.

Freezing, Mira tenses in horror as Zoey flies through the door, eyes blazing in a way that Mira’s not sure she’s ever seen.

“Wha—” 

Mira doesn’t even get a chance to finish as Zoey reaches up, grabs her shoulders, and slams her against the studio’s mirrored wall. The glass creaks beneath Mira’s back as she gasps, the wind so abruptly knocked out of her.

Zoey’s grip is steel, locking Mira in place as Zoey leans in until their faces are nearly touching and shouts, “You need to fucking see her!” She’s practically snarling, something wild and distraught in her wide eyes.

Flinching, Mira struggles weakly against Zoey’s hold, turning her cheek. “Zoey,” she breathes, “I can’t. I can’t. You know why. I can’t.”

Because she can’t, she can’t, she can’t, it’s her fault her blade her fault her blade—

“You’re a fucking coward,” Zoey hisses. Mira recoils. “Do you know what Rumi thinks,” pushes Zoey, “about you not having come to visit her once?”

Mira cowers, unable to answer out loud as her mind supplies one anyway.

Rumi thinks she’s a monster, obviously.

Mira knows this already. She does not need to be slammed against a mirror to know this!

Zoey’s voice is sharp and scathing. “She thinks you don’t want her here.”

Wait.

What?

Mira jerks against Zoey’s hold.

“She thinks she needs to leave!”

No, that’s—

For her safety, maybe, that makes sense, but not because Mira doesn’t—

“Mira.” Zoey’s crying—from the looks of things, she has been long before she entered the room—and there’s a dangerous venom in her words. “Mira, if you don’t go and talk to her, and she leaves us, then—” Zoey digs her fingers into Mira’s shoulders. 

Mira barely feels them. All she can focus on is the rising panic in her chest and the cutting words from Zoey’s mouth.

“—then I’m leaving too.”

Mira feels faint.

“And,” Zoey continues, snarling, “you can sit in this empty penthouse moping by yourself and knowing it’s because you were too fucking scared to talk to Rumi!”

When Zoey lets go suddenly, Mira’s knees buckle. She drops to the wooden floor, kneeling and staring up at Zoey.

No.

No no no.

Zoey doesn’t mean that, she can’t, she—

There’s a mulish set to Zoey’s jaw.

She does.

She does.

Mira can’t talk to Rumi, she can’t face Rumi’s fear and judgment, but she—she doesn’t want Rumi to leave! 

God, she’s so fucking selfish.

After everything Mira’s done, after how much better Zoey and Rumi deserve, Mira still can’t stand the idea of losing them.

Zoey spins on the balls of her feet and stalks out.

Mira whimpers.

---

Rumi digs the heels of her hands into her eyes.

Why, why, why did she say something?

Zoey didn’t deserve that.

Zoey hasn’t deserved any of how Rumi’s treated her. (And neither has Mira.)

Why can’t Rumi be anything other than a demon for once in her life?

An anger starts to swirl in her chest, planted by recent starlight, and Rumi thins her lips and quashes it down. (It’s an anger of truth, but Rumi also knows all it will bring is pain, something she’s apparently very good at bringing unaided anyway.)

Rumi’s healing quickly; was pretty much already healed after the Honmoon’s intervention—

it hurts it hurts it hurts so bad

—and a month of unconsciousness.

She’s finally able to walk, albeit across the room at most, and her chest no longer pangs with any movement, just sudden, sharp ones. The scratch on her cheek is almost nonexistent, and the skin on her back pulls taut and uncomfortable, but not painfully so.

Her arms—

Rumi grimaces. She actually wishes they’d been hurt worse, because then maybe they could cover up her patterns just a little bit more, but the claw marks and grazes are fading like the mark on her cheek. There’s still a light twinge in her thigh when she moves it, but that’s fading each day as well.

All Rumi needs is a little more time, and then she can follow through on what she’s already revealed to Zoey, Celine’s advice be damned.

“If you leave them, you will never forgive yourself.”

Rumi sneers. I don’t care about that, she writes.

“If you leave them, they will never forget you.”

That has Rumi pausing. She writes, They will move on.

Celine taps Rumi’s chin gently and forces their eyes to meet. 

“No,” Celine says, pained and quiet, “they won’t.”

It doesn’t matter. It’s what’s for the best.

The truth is out, everything’s imploded in Rumi’s face, and she can’t bear to be around them, openly, as the cowardliarmonster demon she actually is.

The door to her room flies open, and Rumi jolts upright, her head whipping to look and—

Her breath catches.

In the doorway, sweat glistening on her neck, red-faced and panicked, arms braced on both ends of the doorframe, is Mira.

A whine catches in Rumi’s throat and she shoves it back down.

No no no, she can’t do this, she can’t handle this right now.

she’s just going to hurt, again and again

Mira stares wild-eyed at Rumi, haunted and desperate, then strides forward until she’s at the edge of the bed and drops to her knees, refusing to break eye contact.

Hands fisting the comforter, Mira chokes, “Don’t leave.”

Cold clarity trickles down Rumi’s spine.

…What?

“Don’t leave,” Mira pleads. She starts to reach for Rumi unthinkingly. Something breaks behind her eyes. Despondently, she promises, “I can still fix it!”

Rumi quivers as Mira’s hand extends towards her, towards her patterns. 

What?

What?

What is happening?

This isn’t true.

Mira hates her.

That’s why she hasn’t visited.

Zoey hates her too, but she’s too polite to not try to hide it.

So why is Mira here, kneeling, begging, for Rumi not to leave?

It doesn’t make any sense.

After everything Rumi’s done, after everything Rumi is, it doesn’t make any sense.

The seconds drag as Mira watches with fierce eyes through her tears, and Rumi shrinks under Mira’s unwavering gaze.

“I can still fix it,” whispers Mira. “Please. Let me try. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Rumi, I’m sorry for everything, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, but I’m too selfish and I don’t want you to leave, please don’t leave!”

“Wha—” Rumi’s so, so confused. “You—I’m leaving for you.”

“Please don’t leave.”

“Why—don’t you want me to?”

Mira growls, “Never. Never, Rumi, never.”

“But I—”

“But you?” interrupts Mira incredulously. “There is—there is no way you’re about to—Rumi. I don’t understand. Why don’t you hate us?”

Rumi blinks. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as her breaths catch over and over against the lump in her throat. In a strangled voice, she asks, “Why don’t you hate me?”

Two gasps respond to her question, one from the bedside and one from the doorway where Zoey now stands, hand to her mouth. 

“Why would we—” Zoey starts.

Lips curling, one of those stupid fangs poking through, Rumi interrupts, “No, really. Why don’t you hate me? Because you should! I thought you did! I don’t understand!” She gestures wildly at a shell-shocked Mira and then to Zoey. “I thought you did, until just now, and I don’t understand!”

Mira murmurs, “I get me, but Zoey visits you every day.”

“Because she’s nice?” Rumi snaps, a slight crack in her words from disuse.

“Because I love you!” Zoey retaliates, coming forward to stand next to Mira and hover over the bed. “Because I love you, Rumi! Why on earth would you think it was for anything else?”

Rumi claws the sheets below her. “Uh, because I’m a demon?”

“Half-demon,” Mira corrects forcefully.

Annoyed, Rumi glares at Mira. “So? What’s the difference? I have patterns. That was enough for you two, wasn’t it?”

Mira and Zoey both suck in deep breaths, faces paling and reeling backwards as if Rumi had physically slapped them herself.

This.

This is what Rumi knew she was going to do.

She’s hurt them again again again.

Grunting, Rumi kicks off her sheets and starts crawling towards the opposite edge of the bed, muttering, “This! This is why you should hate me! All I do is hurt you!”

Someone tries to speak, maybe to refute what Rumi’s said, but she doesn’t turn around as she swings her legs off the bed and she doesn’t bother letting them finish. “It doesn’t make any sense! I’m a demon! I’ve hurt you! I lied to you both, over and over and over again!” she rants, wobbling to her feet, grabbing her cane, and stumbling until she plants the butt of it against the carpeted floor.

Keeping her head down, Rumi starts to walk around the bed. “I lied,” she growls, “so many times. I promised you both I wasn’t, and every single time was a lie. And the worst part is, part of me still wants to! I want to lie to you both and tell you I hate you because maybe finally, finally, you’ll understand why it’s best that I leave!”

Rumi’s almost to the door when Mira and Zoey appear in front of her, standing side-by-side resolutely and blocking the frame.

Rumi tries to shove past them, but they immediately block her. “Why?!” The question tears from her throat. “Why won’t you let me leave?”

“Do you want to leave?” Zoey asks softly.

Flinching away, Rumi ignores her. “I ruined everything. Everything. I hurt you both because I’m a liar and a demon and a coward who was too selfish to let you both go and too scared to want to die!”

Tears are streaming down Mira’s and Zoey’s faces. Both of them are trying to talk, but Rumi’s not listening.

She tries, unsuccessfully, to scramble past them again.

Mira and Zoey block her resolutely, strong and stalwart and unbending.

It’s not fair.

It’s not fair, they should let her leave, it’s what’s for the best, why won’t they let her leave, why—

“WHY DID YOU SAVE ME?!” Rumi screams, slapping her palms against their shoulders. “Everything is my fault! I don’t deserve to live! It’s so obvious, right?! I’m a demon!”

Through cascading tears, Mira and Zoey scream back, “We don’t care!”

Rumi pants, lips twitching and chest throbbing. “You should!” She hangs her head and pushes them feebly again and again, but Zoey and Mira are unbudging sentries. “You should hate me!”

“And you should hate us,” Zoey spits.

Mira commands sharply, “Hate us. Do it.”

“I—” Rumi starts to cry. “I can’t do that,” she whispers. “Don’t ask me to do that.”

“Then understand why we can’t either,” Zoey says vehemently.

Rumi rests her forehead against their shoulders as her pushes get weaker. “Just leave me,” she hiccups. “It’ll be easiest.”

When four arms encircle Rumi, trapping her in the middle of a determined embrace, she bites back the sobs fighting for release.

“Damn it, Rumi,” Mira mutters wetly,  “you’re ours.”

“And,” swears Zoey, “we’re not letting you go again.”

blue threads hum with the echoes of a promise fulfilled

“You can’t get rid of us.”

“You won’t get rid of us.”

“...Do you want to get rid of us?”

Rumi can’t keep her cries in anymore. They stutter out of her, keening and pained. “No,” Rumi bawls, “never.”

“Then—” Zoey starts.

“Rumi—” Mira says.

The two of them together ask, “What do you want?”

What does Rumi want?

That’s—

That’s not allowed.

Rumi wants so many things, but every time she’s wanted, it’s brought pain and hurt.

Rumi’s too wrong to want.

But—

She does.

She does want.

Rumi is a selfish creature, and she wants. Desperately.

Is it okay to want?

After everything she’s done?

It’s not.

It’s definitely not.

But—

—she wants anyway.

Through stuttering wails, Rumi admits, “You. I want you.”

Zoey and Mira hug her so tightly she fears she’ll never want to leave.

“Hey, Rumi,” Mira murmurs, resting her head atop Rumi’s own, “are you telling the truth?”

Rumi stills.

“Let’s make it simple,” Zoey proposes. “One word. Truth or lie. We say a sentence, you answer.”

Rumi nods against their chests.

“Okay. Truth or lie.”

Mira states quietly, “You want us.”

Rumi holds the thread of lies she’s spent so many years spinning; years and years of work, of making sure that she would never be discovered, that she would never have to live through her worst nightmare.

Except she did.

And now it’s over.

Rumi carefully, achingly, begins to unravel the first thread.

“Truth.”

---

It starts small.

Mira and Zoey start turning the inane questions into statements first.

“You want cereal for breakfast,” Zoey says.

Rumi, at the table for the first time in a month and a half, wrinkles her nose. “Lie.”

Mira huffs, and Zoey gives a small smile.

---

“You want to share your kimbap.”

“Lie.”

---

“You want to watch reels with me.”

“Truth.”

---

“You want us to help you get dressed.”

“...Truth.”

---

“You want us to leave.”

“Lie.”

---

“You want us to stay.”

“Truth.”

---

When Zoey and Mira start to sleep in Rumi’s bed, limbs tangled around her as she lies sandwiched in the middle, Celine quietly moves to the guest bedroom officially. 

She asks, a few days into this—whatever this is, that Rumi and Mira and Zoey are doing—if Rumi is ready for her to leave.

Rumi blinks at Celine, twitching nervously. 

Celine pauses, then rephrases. 

“You’re ready for me to leave.”

Rumi fidgets. “...Lie.”

Something in Celine softens. “Okay.”

---

On the first night in a shared bed with fewer and fewer secrets left between them, Zoey quietly says, “You’re okay if I touch your patterns.”

Rumi, lying quietly between Zoey and Mira, feels her breath hitch.

Her patterns?

Zoey wants to touch her patterns?

…Why?

…Is Rumi okay with that?

She’s not actually sure she knows.

So she picks the answer she thinks will make Zoey happiest and murmurs, “Truth.”

The instant Zoey’s fingers trail across her arm, lightly tracing the patterns on biceps that are visible, for once, thanks to her now accessible wardrobe of short sleeve shirts, Rumi tenses.

Zoey catches it and stills her hand immediately.

Mira, on Rumi’s other side, turns away from her phone to watch.

There’s a warning note in Zoey’s voice as she repeats, “You’re okay if I touch your patterns.”

Rumi worries her lip between her teeth, glances at Zoey’s fierce gaze, and slumps. “Lie,” she admits.

Zoey pulls away, scrutinizing Rumi.

“I wasn’t lying,” Rumi says softly, “I just—wasn’t sure.”

Zoey narrows her eyes but doesn’t press.

---

Time passes.

Rumi stresses every time Zoey and Mira have to leave on a demon hunt, and breathes a sigh of relief every time they return unscathed. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, a particular warmth starts to return to the penthouse.

It appears in small huffs of laughter and shy smiles and light touches.

Then, in cooked meals and shared time and celebrations of tiny victories.

(When Rumi walks across the penthouse unaided, Mira, Zoey, and Celine cry.)

---

Not everything is okay.

There are conversations yet to be had, ones that Rumi and Mira and Zoey need to have (and, Rumi thinks, one with Celine as well), but none of the women, Rumi in particular, are willing to broach them yet. 

All four of them are in silent agreement that now is for new beginnings.

---

Touch on Rumi’s bare skin is hard.

Zoey and Mira pick up on this quickly, even though Rumi wishes they didn’t.

They set a clear rule in place: no improper touching until all conversations are had.

---

Rumi spends a lot of time working on that one melody that won’t leave her head.

On a random evening, left behind during a demon hunt, Rumi begins to come up with lyrics, and the song takes proper shape.

---

It’s been over a month since Rumi woke up, and despite all of the positives and growth, there are still numerous pockets of sadness and grief and guilt, pockets that won’t vanish until they have those conversations they’re not ready for yet.

There’s one particular sadness, though, that’s bothering Rumi more than the others.

It’s the one that belongs to Mira and Zoey, the weight of guilt that’s settled on their shoulders until Rumi’s ready to actually, truly talk about everything.

Rumi’s not ready to talk about everything yet.

But maybe—

—maybe there’s something she can do.

One evening, as the three of them pile into bed, Rumi in her natural middle spot, Rumi catches a flicker of that guilt and sorrow in Mira’s eyes and decides now’s her chance to chase it off.

Propping herself up with one arm, Rumi taps Mira on the cheek, turns Mira’s head towards her, and kisses her.

Rumi’s hand starts to wander down Mira’s stomach when she’s suddenly shoved backwards.

Mira stares at Rumi in horror. There’s a hitched gasp from Zoey on Rumi’s other side.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Mira asks, stunned.

Rumi opens and closes her mouth. “I—I just—I’m sorry, you just—you looked sad, and I wanted to apologize again and—I just want to make the both of you happy again.”

There’s a long silence.

Mira and Zoey slowly sit up and pull Rumi up as well, until they’re all sitting cross-legged on the bed and facing each other.

Rumi doesn’t understand the dawning terror on both of their faces. (Yes, she broke the rule they set, but it’s really not that big of a deal.)

“Rumi,” Mira asks in a tight voice, “what are you talking about?”

Zoey inhales loudly. Her eyes widen. There’s a note of hysteria in Zoey’s voice as she says, “Wait. Wait. Both of us? What about you?”

Rumi winces.

Zoey’s pitch rises. “Does it make you happy?”

Rumi freezes.

Does it—

It definitely does.

Totally.

Rumi loves having sex with Mira and Zoey, loves—

—no. She loves the idea of what it could be, when she can finally allow herself to take what she wants and leave as satisfied as she leaves Mira and Zoey, but she…no, she can’t admit that. She can’t.

“Yes—” Rumi says, glancing away.

“Don’t you lie to us right now, Rumi,” Zoey snaps shrilly, “don’t you dare.”

Mira’s eyes harden. “You’re happy with the sex we’ve had in the past,” she says quietly.

Rumi squirms under two intense stares.

This will hurt them.

It’ll hurt them.

She can’t.

Just one more lie.

“Tru—” Rumi starts, then looks at Mira and Zoey, really looks at them.

Mira, whose jaw is clenched, Zoey, who’s biting her tongue, both of them, eyes flickering in love and fear and—

—and they deserve the truth.

No matter how much it hurts.

Hanging her head, Rumi mumbles, “...Lie.”

Mira breathes in harshly as Zoey swallows a sob.

“You want to have sex with us in the future,” Zoey asks, voice shaking. There’s a note of desperation; not in the idea of Zoey never having Rumi herself, but in the hope that Rumi wasn’t completely unhappy during their moments of intimacy.

Rumi’s head shoots up. “Truth, please, truth,” she pleads.

Zoey lets out a breath, and she and Mira share a look.

Mira presses, gaze hard, “You’re ready for sex with us right now.”

Rumi thinks of them touching her patterns and her skin crawls.

“...Lie.”

Softly, Zoey says, “You trust us to wait for you.”

Swallowing, Rumi nods, eyes glimmering. “Truth,” she says firmly.

Then, Rumi thinks of something. She abruptly crawls across the bed to the nightstand and grabs her journal, flipping to the page she wants. 

Mira and Zoey stare at her, confused.

Fidgeting, Rumi nervously says, “I—I’m sorry. You just—you looked sad, and I wanted to do something to cheer you up, and I went about it the wrong way.”

“Which is something we will be discussing,” Mira says, voice hard.

“Right,” Rumi mumbles, “right. That’s—yeah, I know. Not now, though, okay?”

Zoey quietly agrees, “Okay. So. What do you want to show us?”

Clutching the journal tightly, Rumi thumbs the corner of the page. “I do trust you. There’s—there’s a lot that I’m still not ready to discuss. But—” Rumi hesitantly holds the journal out “—maybe I can help you understand a little bit better?”

Zoey and Mira take the journal gently as Rumi nearly falls off the bed in her haste to grab her guitar. She scrambles back onto the bed and settles into position.

“I’ve been working on a new song,” Rumi admits. “Do you…” She glances away and clears her throat, fidgeting.

Mira and Zoey wait for her. (They always will.)

Finally, tentatively, Rumi finishes, “...want to hear what it sounds like?”

Chapter Text

In an unexpected twist of fate, Rumi lives.

(Now where does she go from here?)

---

monster, coward, demon, liar

monster

monster

monster

---

The stories go like this.

Once, there was a monster—

—a being of pure evil—

—who preyed on the weak—

—and stalked in the shadows—

—with clawed hands—

—and yellow eyes—

—and purple patterns.

Once, there was a monster.

---

“You’re okay if I touch your patterns.”

Rumi pauses, her journal still open to her work-in-progress lyrics to “What It Sounds Like” that she’s finished showing Mira and Zoey for the first time. (She hadn’t intended to pull it out right away, but after she fumbled earlier with her attempt to make Mira happy—and a part of her is finally understanding why maybe that wasn’t okay—she wanted to show the lyrics she’s been putting to paper the last few weeks, lyrics simply too big and too important for her to selfishly trap in solitude a minute longer, lyrics that speak better than any whiteboard or even her own voice.)

The last time Zoey asked this, Rumi had lied, but it was a lie of uncertainty.

This time, Rumi takes a moment to fully picture it.

The three of them are sitting on the bed together (Rumi cross-legged, Mira one knee up, Zoey sprawled out with her head propped in her hand). Zoey’s watching Rumi carefully, and so is Mira; it’s something Rumi’s grown unfortunately used to in the past couple of weeks. 

(Is it really that new, though? Mira and Zoey have always watched Rumi.)

Rumi pictures Zoey’s fingers lightly trailing her patterns and shivers.

Part of the shiver is good; desire and want intermingled.

The other shiver is fear.

It’s—these are her patterns. The horrid, cursed marks that Rumi’s borne her entire life, that she’s spent her entire life seeking to destroy remove.

If Rumi says “truth”, Zoey will oh so delicately run her fingers along each purple thread, and Rumi wants to feel that touch, she wants it so desperately, but…

They’re not…supposed to be touched delicately.

It’s wrong.

They’re wrong.

she’s wrong

“...Lie.”

Is it though? Does Rumi really not want this?

Why can’t she even tell the truth from a lie in her own head?

It’s a miracle Zoey and Mira are still talking to her, still—

“You’re spiraling.”

Mira’s blunt words jar Rumi from her thoughts.

“I—uh, what?” Rumi blinks.

Mira angles her head. “You’re spiraling. You get this look in your eyes, like the world’s about to end, and I suppose it makes a little bit more sense now than your average anxiety, but it’s still spiraling.”

“Was it because of what I asked?” Zoey’s gaze is sharp. When Rumi fidgets, Zoey slowly sits up. “It’s because of what I asked.”

Rumi hates that this whole thing, this “truth” and “lie” bit has been so effective for her, because sometimes—like right now, for instance—it is really annoying. Reluctantly, Rumi mumbles, “Truth.”

“Can I ask why? Is that okay? That’s—”

“You don’t need to keep rephrasing for this, it’s fine,” Rumi interrupts.

Zoey pauses. She looks slightly stung, and Rumi wants to curl up into a ball and hide away forever, because how does she keep doing this—

“I’m sorry.” Rumi says it quickly before Mira can scold her. “I—I know why you’re doing it, I appreciate it, but I promise I’ll be honest for this, okay? Will you trust me?”

Zoey worries her lip, glancing around the room like she’s searching the air for answers. Mira keeps a steadfast, unwavering gaze on Rumi. Finally, Zoey says, “Yes. That’s…a harder question to answer than it should be, Rumi, after everything, but yes, I will.”

“Okay.” Rumi takes a breath. “I think it’s mostly just. I don’t really understand why you want to touch them.” She idly presses her thumb into a particularly wide mark on her forearm. “They’re not…things you’re supposed to want to touch, right?”

“...Why not?” Zoey asks quietly.

Rumi fights the urge to roll her eyes at the obvious question. “Because they’re patterns? You know, what lets us know if what we’re fighting is a demon? Only monsters have these.”

Mira flinches suddenly.

Startled, Rumi and Zoey both stare at her.

There’s a tightness in Mira’s face, and a breath that catches in her throat.

What did Rumi say this time? She’s only saying the truth? So why is Mira—

“Rumi doesn’t have patterns,” Mira spits, and the words flay Rumi in a way she wishes wasn’t metaphorical, because then maybe she’d be free. “But you,” Mira continues, eyes filled with rage and hate and disgust when just earlier today they were filled with love and love and love, “are a monster.”

Oh.

Oh, no, wait, Rumi didn’t mean to—

“Mira, that wasn’t meant to bring up—”

Mira locks onto Rumi so suddenly Rumi’s jaw clacks shut without meaning to.

“Wasn’t meant to bring up what, Rumi?” Mira’s voice is deathly calm. “What I said to you? What could have been one of the last things I ever said to you?”

“Mira, it’s fine, it’s—”

“Rumi, fucking stop.”

Rumi gapes.

“I can’t—I can’t deal with you saying ‘it’s fine’ a single more time, because I don’t believe that has ever been a true statement from you in your life.” Mira glares.

Wrinkling her nose in offense, Rumi protests, “Okay, no, it’s not always a lie—”

“You’re fine. Right now. You’re fine with the fact that I called you a monster, to your face, a minute before I—I—”

Rumi’s eyes narrow. “We’re not discussing that yet,” she says firmly, her standard leader tone slipping in.

“Fine,” Mira mutters, “not yet. But you didn’t give me a truth or lie, Rumi. You’re fine with the fact that I called you a monster.”

Of course Rumi is.

It’s the truth.

She is a monster.

She has the patterns to prove it.

And it definitely didn’t rip her world apart to hear Mira call her that. 

She—

Does it count as a lie if she tells it to herself too?

What’s the point of telling the truth if all it does is hurt? 

Why can’t Rumi just keep lying, keep sparing Mira and Zoey from whatever pain she’s able to, just a little bit longer, just a little bit of forever?

They know her too well.

Mira and Zoey both are searching every twitch of Rumi’s lips and cheeks and eyes.

If she lies, they’ll know, and Rumi thinks that might almost be worse.

“Lie,” Rumi admits finally. “But I don’t exactly disagree with it.”

“Why not?” Zoey slowly reaches out a hand and taps the back of Rumi’s. Rumi raises an eyebrow and moves her hand closer in acknowledgment; Zoey lightly flips it upside down and threads her fingers between Rumi’s. “Why don’t you disagree with it?”

“Because I have patterns,” Rumi says simply. States. It is that simple.

“Exactly how many souls have you stolen again?” Zoey asks casually.

“Um. None?” Rumi furrows her brow. “Obviously?”

“Cool, cool,” hums Zoey, “and why do we hunt demons, again?”

“To…kill them? Because they’re evil?”

“Rumi.” Zoey rolls her eyes. “Work with me here. What exactly makes them evil?”

“The stealing souls thing—Zoey, I was literally raised on this.”

“Right, yes, so—if you haven’t done that, why are you a monster?” Zoey gives Rumi’s hand a squeeze.

Rumi bites her lip. “That’s—” Because she has patterns. Obviously.

It’s not like she hasn’t thought about the exact point Zoey’s making, but with Rumi, she was born like this, a ticking timebomb, and maybe she hasn’t stolen someone’s soul, but she could someday, and isn’t that potential alone enough to justify her classification?

“You’re not,” Mira says firmly, suddenly, “you’re not. Rumi, you are not a monster. I was wrong. No, don’t you open your mouth and try to argue that, Rumi, I swear on the Honmoon—”

Zoey giggles at Mira’s scolding and Rumi’s immediate pout, and it’s like the air in the room lightens in an instant. 

It’s an odd thing to lighten at, Rumi thinks, because she wants to argue, and Mira’s genuinely annoyed and Zoey’s definitely not thrilled, even if she’s let a small laugh escape, but—

If Rumi argues, it’ll sour the mood again, Rumi knows it.

And…why does she want to argue it again?

“Rumi,” Zoey interrupts her thoughts, giving their intertwined hands another squeeze, “can I touch your patterns?”

Rumi stiffens.

Mira swallows. “Can I touch them as well?”

Opening and closing her mouth slowly, Rumi nervously says, “That’s not how the ‘truth or lie’ thing works.”

“It’s not,” Zoey replies, “but I’m asking something different. I’m asking if you’ll let me, and I trust that if it’s too much, you’ll tell me to stop.”

“I trust you too,” breathes Mira, and Rumi finds it hard to meet their eyes and face the love she’s so certain she doesn’t deserve.

They want to touch her patterns.

Her awful, horrible patterns.

Hers.

Her.

“Okay,” Rumi whispers, holding her arms out. “Just a little bit.”

Cautiously, Zoey and Mira reach forward in tandem, both of them taking a single finger each and running it very lightly across a purple stripe on Rumi’s forearm.

Rumi shudders, and they still.

It’s wrong, right?

Because these make her a monster.

Except that’s not what Mira and Zoey think.

If anything, their touch is almost reverent. There is awe in their eyes, mixed with trepidation and concern and that drowning, all-encompassing love, and what on earth makes Rumi think she’s more correct than her girls (has that ever been the case)?

It’s weird, her skin is crawling, Rumi wants to vibrate and pull away and pull closer and feel more and—

“I’m okay. Truth.”

Mira and Zoey keep their hands in place.

It’s a start.

---

Like everything else they’ve been doing with Rumi, the increments are small.

First, it’s light brushes against Rumi’s arms as they pass by her in the hall, or when she’s leaving the bathroom, or when she gets up from the couch to grab a snack. Then, it’s lingering touches during cuddles, when they’re all bunched together on the couch in a pile, something inane flickering on the TV while they melt into each other, a fierce desperation to be near, always, humming quietly in every move they make.

Then, a little bolder: in the kitchen, where Rumi’s insisted on making breakfast for the first time in so long because Mira and Zoey just don’t know how to make scallion pancakes quite right; Mira approaches and runs her palm lightly down Rumi’s bicep, giving a little squeeze for good measure. Rumi coughs, face turning red as she glances at Mira, and there’s a very brief flicker, just for an instant, of feeling two hands dig into blossoming bruises and an overwhelming sense of pain and panic, but Mira’s open, soft gaze and parted lips and oh-so-gentle touch pry the memory from Rumi’s mind, whisper an ardent apology to it, and let it go. 

Rumi’s more than happy to rewrite it with a new one.

At one point, it’s the pool, a venture with the joint goal of one, letting Rumi continue to build strength back up in weakened muscles and two, pool time. 

Rumi’s not ready for a full bikini yet—she contemplates it for a moment, even starts to put one on, before a glance in the mirror reminds her that she is marked in more than just patterns now, and the vertical line on her chest is a conversation yet to be had—so she opts for a skin-tight crop top; though her chest is covered, her arms and stomach are on full display, and she does feel bold enough to wear a rather revealing bottom half, one that hugs her hips but leaves her thighs and legs exposed, purple and all.

When Rumi slips soundlessly into the pool, Zoey and Mira stare, jaws dropped.

The realization hits them as Rumi sheepishly smiles, ignoring the heaviness of water logging her braid. 

“The patterns really are why you didn’t go swimming?” Mira asks, mildly in shock.

“Yeah,” Rumi answers, rubbing the back of her neck and leaning up against the side of the pool, her feet kicking idly below her. “It always felt too risky.”

Zoey squints at Rumi. “I—oh! Oh! Oh my god! It wasn’t paint, was it?!”

Rumi squirms. “...That time you pointed out the purple beneath my shorts?” Zoey nods. “...No, it wasn’t.”

“But you had a painting and—Rumi. Did you—you didn’t.”

Looking away nervously, Rumi starts to sweat.

“Did you actually paint an entire picture because of that?”

“Um.” Rumi scrunches her face. 

“Rumi. You painted an entire picture because I spotted one of your patterns.”

“...Truth.”

In disbelief, Zoey asks, “How did you even make one that fast?”

Shrugging, Rumi lets herself sink into the water until her chin is at the surface. Mumbling, she admits, “I looked up a tutorial and just. Went as fast as I could....Might've accidentally drank the paint water once or twice in my rush.”

Zoey snorts, which turns into snickering, which turns into her keeling over as she laughs, full-bellied and loud, and even Mira grins and chuckles at that as Rumi ducks her head under the surface and groans.

---

Rumi still keeps a towel wrapped around her chest, knotted and slung like a shawl around her shoulders and top half, but she stands otherwise bare for the very first time in front of Mira and Zoey in the private bathhouse.

Her patterns are on display more than they’ve ever been before, and Rumi braces herself for the disgust, for the venom, for the hate, for the—

“Wow,” Zoey says, eyes sparkling.

“You’re beautiful,” Mira breathes.

Rumi feels the tips of her ears warm.

This feels almost normal. 

She feels like she’s just…Rumi.

(And what she doesn’t feel like, for perhaps the first time in this state, with her patterns on full display, is a monster.)

---

Once, there was a girl.

---

monster 

---

monster, coward, demon, liar

coward

coward

coward

---

The stories go like this.

Once, there were three heroes.

Two of them were the bravest in all the land, mighty and fierce and beloved.

The third one, despite her mask, was not any of those things; least of all, brave.

Whenever times grew tough, she hid away, beneath her mask, her lies, her facade, and pretended that she was good and righteous and true, just like the other two. (She liked to lie to herself that such a thing was possible.)

However, as time passed, the cowardly third’s desperation to hide became more and more apparent, and so each day she found a new way to do so, no matter the cost. She kept her fears hidden, her faults vaulted away, even as her cowardice began to hurt the other two heroes around her.

Eventually, as is so often the case, what the third was fleeing caught up to her, and she had nowhere left to run.

As is also often the case, when the worst came to pass, the third had to live with the consequences herself.

---

With Mira and Zoey having gone to the record label to pitch their beginning draft of “What It Sounds Like”—and as much as Rumi wanted to be there, she’s still walking a little too slow for them to pass off as nothing—Rumi’s surprised to find the aroma of omija-cha wafting from the kitchen as she finally leaves her room for the morning.

Curious, Rumi leans into her cane (she’ll practice without it later, but in the mornings, when she wakes up to aching ankles and a pang in her chest, the cane is nice) and makes her way out into the main area of the penthouse.

Celine is already preparing a tray with two cups when she spots Rumi. A small smile forms instantly, and Rumi feels her legs tremble. (She thinks of something Mira and Zoey told her recently that Celine said, something Rumi’s been too scared to bring up—maybe this morning she’ll finally find the courage.) 

“Good morning,” Celine says lightly, picking up the tray and gesturing to the couch. “Would you have tea with me?”

“I’d love to,” Rumi replies, voice quiet. She makes her way to the couch, sitting heavily on a cushion as Celine sets her tray on the nearby table and lifts one steaming cup. 

“Honey?”

“Just a little bit.” 

Celine hums, taking a spoonful and plopping it into Rumi’s cup, stirring briskly before passing the cup over. Rumi accepts it gratefully, and the cup feels warm with tea and familiarity.

Once Celine’s prepared her own cup and leaned back on the couch, blowing the tea before taking a sip, she glances at Rumi and says, “You’re recovering well.”

“I am.” As well as one can recover from death, Rumi supposes, but that’s been a topic none of them have been comfortable broaching. 

And then they sit in silence, unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air between them.

(This is normal, though. Rumi and Celine have always been like this.)

Rumi has so much she wants to ask Celine, so much that’s been simmering at the surface for her entire life, but she’s scared. She’s always so scared when it comes to Celine, and she shouldn’t be, but she is. (She’s such a coward.)

“I’m sorry.” Celine’s quiet utterance shatters Rumi’s thoughts.

Rumi stares at Celine blankly. 

Out of every possible thing Rumi expected Celine might’ve said next, that was bottom of the list.

“For…what?” asks Rumi cautiously.

Celine sips her tea, a sheen in her eyes as she lets them blatantly rake over Rumi’s bare arms and midriff. One hand unwraps itself from the cup of tea and starts to reach across the gap between the two of them before hanging uncertainly in the air halfway to Rumi. Swallowing, Celine pulls her hand back and uses it to instead tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “For a lot of things,” she breathes. “For so many things.”

Rumi fights the tremble in her own hands. (She sees it anyway in the ripples on the scarlet tea’s surface.)

Rumi wants to ask, so badly, but she’s too scared to.

There’s a certain fear in Celine’s posture as well, but also something determined. “May I list them, Rumi? These are things I fear you’ve deserved to hear for a long time, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Rumi taps the side of her cup anxiously and bites the inside of her cheek. She looks to Celine pleadingly.

Celine smiles softly. “You’re willing to listen to me list the many things I’m sorry for.”

“Truth.”

(It’d be a bit hypocritical of Rumi to say otherwise, anyway; she’s got her own list of unspoken apologies, after all.)

Inhaling and exhaling as if she’s preparing to meditate instead of list a lifelong’s worth of apologies, Celine sets her shoulders squarely and meets Rumi’s eyes. “I’m sorry for telling you to keep your patterns a secret. That—that needs to be said first, more than anything else, because Rumi, if I’d simply—if we’d told Zoey and Mira the truth, from the start, then none of this would’ve happened and—”

“I could have told them,” Rumi interrupts pointedly. 

Celine stills.

“I thought about it. A lot. From the moment we moved into the penthouse, I thought about telling them. You weren’t living with us anymore, couldn’t tell me what to do, but every time I even contemplated it, I’d just get so…scared.” Rumi wipes a spot of tea clinging to the corner of her mouth. “And maybe that’s because of what you taught us, but Celine, I also—I also don’t disagree. We’ve had enough close calls in our hunts with demons disguised as humans that I can’t imagine how things would’ve turned out if the truth about patterns wasn’t ingrained so deeply into us during our training.”

“I should have told them,” Celine insists, voice tight. “Forget the training. I don’t care about the training, Rumi, I care that I almost lost you. I—” she falters, swallowing thickly “—I did lose you, Rumi. Mira, Zoey, and the Honmoon brought you back, but, though I didn’t know it, I walked a world without you in it, and I will never walk that world again, do you understand me, Rumi?”

Rumi startles as she sees tears welling the corners of Celine’s eyes—has she ever seen that before? 

(She has. On Rumi’s birthday but shed for someone else, she has.)

“I can’t lose you.” Celine’s words are thick. “Rumi, I—I’m sorry, because I don’t think I’ve told you, properly, but you—you know that you are my world, right?” There’s a desperation in the question.

Did Rumi know that?

Her cheeks are damp, and she absentmindedly brings a hand up to probe them, blinking when she realizes she’s touching tears.

Did Rumi know that?

Rumi thinks on beaming up at Celine as a kid, on Celine smiling and taking her on exciting “adventures”—Rumi’s favorite was the teddy bear museum on Jeju Island, and she wonders if that silly picture that she insisted Celine frame of herself wearing teddy bear ears and a shirt is still collecting dust somewhere in Celine’s home. 

Did Rumi know that?

Celine used to flinch, sometimes, in training, when Rumi swung her staff a little too hard or showed a little too much excitement. Rumi would see Celine’s eyes flick to her shoulders in those instances, and she knew that Celine was scared, and why, and of course it hurt, but it’s not Celine’s fault Rumi was born wrong; she just had to keep trying her best to be good, to be right, then maybe Celine would love her—

Did Rumi know that?

Has Celine loved her this whole time?

Her? Not the ghost of Miyeong, but Rumi?

What Zoey and Mira told Rumi echoes in her mind, about what Celine had said when she burst into the apartment that awful night.

Rumi’s so scared to ask that question, though, because she’s not sure she can handle the answer.

Maybe she needs to ask it anyway.

“Celine,” Rumi rasps, “I have a question for you, actually.”

Celine’s face is drawn, stricken at her question not being answered and answered all the same, because Rumi’s silence was more than enough of a response.

“Ask.” Celine’s voice is quiet and firm. She stiffens as if she’s bracing for a blow.

“When you first came here, the night I—the night I died, Mira and Zoey told me you said something. A phrase.”

Celine’s brow furrows, confused.

“They told me you said ‘Let me see my daughter’.”

Gasping sharply, Celine’s eyes go wide. 

“Is that true?” Rumi watches Celine carefully. “Did you really say that?”

“...I did.”

Rumi leans forward, eyes glinting. “Did you mean it?”

Celine hangs her head. “Yes,” she whispers. 

“Are you…ashamed of that?” Rumi asks, confused and hurt.

“No,” answers Celine fiercely, “no. I’m ashamed of myself, because Rumi, what right do I have to call you that? I’m not—”

“I don’t care about her,” Rumi interrupts. She stares unflinchingly at a shocked Celine. “I want to hear you say it, right now. Tell me what you want to call me.”

“I—I—” It’s jarring, when a woman so well-spoken as Celine loses her words. 

“Please.”

Barely even a whisper, Celine says, “I want to call you my daughter.”

Rumi nods, and something curls in her chest, different from the pain she’s been adjusting to the past month; this something is warm, and curls itself beneath her rib cage and around her heart like a cat to a hearth. 

Through her tears, Rumi smiles. “I think I’d like that.”

Celine sets her tea cup down, trembling, and Rumi mirrors her. “Really?” Celine breathes. “You’re sure? After everything I’ve—”

“Actually,” interrupts Rumi, “I have one condition.”

“Anything.”

“You can call me your daughter only if I get to call you my mom.”

With an abrupt sob, Celine flings her arms around Rumi and pulls her into a tight embrace, and Rumi gasps and laughs wetly and wraps her arms around Celine in turn. “I still have so many more apologies to list,” Celine murmurs breathlessly.

Rumi nuzzles into Celine’s neck. “Can they wait?”

“Yes. If you want them to.”

“I do.”

Clinging to each other, both women cry and cry and cry, and their earlier fear dissipates like smoke in the wind.

---

Once, there was a woman. 

---

coward

---

monster, coward, demon, liar

demon

demon

demon

---

The stories go like this.

Once, there were demons and demon hunters.

Maybe there still are.

Of the many paths one can choose, the path of demons and the path of demon hunters are of special note.

A demon chooses evil.

A hunter chooses good.

A demon chooses wrong.

A hunter chooses right.

A demon kills.

A hunter saves.

Except—

Once upon a time, a demon was born. 

It did not choose this.

It wanted to be good.

It wanted to be right.

It wanted to save.

But it was a demon.

It lived like a demon, though it tried so hard not to.

And when the hunters came, it died like one too.

---

Stretching, Rumi twists her waist and rolls her shoulders and asks casually, “So! I know I’m still not at 100%, but when do you guys want to start working on ‘Takedown’ again?”

When there’s no answer, Rumi pauses her warm-up and glances in the dance studio mirrors (one of which has a few cracks? Rumi’s been too scared to ask) to see Zoey’s and Mira’s faces both drained of all color.

In tandem, they both emphatically declare, “No.”

Weird.

Rumi turns to face them, puzzled. “No to working on it right now or…?”

In a tense voice, Mira says, “Rumi. We’re dropping that song.”

What? 

“What? Why? It’s finished, and we worked so hard on it, Zoey in particular—”

“I don’t want to do it anymore,” Zoey cuts in, eyes wide. There’s something anxious flitting behind her eyes.

“Takedown” isn’t exactly Rumi’s favorite song, but why would they cut it? Yes, plans for “What It Sounds Like” are moving forward smoothly, but “Takedown” is still a well-written and well-composed song, even if the lyrics do maybe sting a bit.

“Rumi,” Mira asks cautiously, “tell me you know why we’re taking it out.”

Rumi blinks, tilting her head. Oh, maybe this is because of the lyrics. “Oh! I see! Because you think the lyrics will bother me? I know they’re not about me, really, it’s fine—”

“Do you?” Zoey’s voice is taut. “Do you know that? Because Rumi, when we made up, and Mira and I started singing ‘Takedown’, how exactly did that make you feel?”

How did that—

Rumi tenses immediately.

she remembers thrusting and chasing and not being able to breathe and singing breathlessly, hopelessly, Mira and Zoey laughing while Rumi sang about how it was so obvious she demons didn’t deserve to live, while she gulped for air and drowned instead

Rumi smiles. 

It feels strained, and probably looks it too.

They don’t need to talk about this.

This will only hurt Mira and Zoey (and isn’t it infuriating, how often Rumi’s come to think this excuse? how her own lies have led to this?) and all Rumi feels like she’s done the past weeks is hurt them and it’s getting a little hard to breathe right now, actually, like the breaths sucking past her teeth and into her lungs are subpar, not enough, and—

“You’re thinking of lying to us right now.” Zoey looks sad as she says this.

Rumi’s smile stays frozen in place.

It’s just—it’s just to protect—they don’t need to know how Rumi felt during that—and really, wasn’t Rumi just overreacting at the time anyway? It’s not like she hadn’t been singing those lyrics dozens of times over anyway, why does it matter if she ended up singing them to Mira and Zoey in the middle of sex, where Rumi was already doing something she maybe didn’t actually want to do and chasing pleasure that remained too far out of reach and her abs were burning and her lungs were on fire and—

Mira repeats, with the softness of a kind soul approaching a wounded animal, “You’re thinking of lying to us right now.”

She doesn’t sound mad, just. Careful.

Rumi’s smile wavers.

Slowly, she lets it drop.

“Truth,” Rumi whimpers, hanging her head remorsefully.

“...That’s why,” Zoey says, stepping closer and laying a gentle hand on Rumi’s shoulder. Mira does the same on the other side. “That’s why we’re not doing it. Please don’t ever ask us again, okay?”

Rumi nods slowly, her tongue too thick to fumble with words.

“And,” Mira adds, extending an index finger and placing it beneath Rumi’s chin, lifting her head until Rumi’s eye-to-eye with Mira, “I know we’re still not talking about all of it yet, but now, right now, I need to know that if you are ever uncomfortable like that again, you will tell us. You will tell us.” Her eyes bore holes into Rumi’s own.

Swallowing dryly, Rumi says hoarsely, “Truth.”

Zoey echoes Mira. “You will tell us.”

Rumi repeats her answer. “Truth.”

“Good,” Mira whispers, then pulls away and claps her hands. “I have some brand-new choreo for us to take a look at, actually, and Rumi the instant I see you wince, you are sitting and watching, do you understand me? Good. So anyway, first move goes like—”

---

It’s maybe two months since Rumi woke up that she suggests sparring for the first time. 

Zoey squints at the suggestion, draped upside down on the couch, clearly thinking it over, while Mira looks at Rumi aghast.

“No,” Mira states, crossing her arms.

Rumi shoots her a look of disbelief. “No? Mira, I’ve been walking without a cane for a couple of weeks now, I’ve been doing short stints of choreo successfully, I think it’s time I started sparring. The sooner I get better, the sooner I get back out there and help you two with the demons!”

“Celine is helping us,” Mira retorts.

A little exasperated, Rumi argues, “I have to start again at some point! I’ll be fine.”

“Stop saying that,” Mira hisses fiercely.

Rumi recoils, nearly falling backwards into a couch cushion. “What? Stop saying what?”

“That you’re fine!” Mira stands abruptly and starts pacing. “You say that about everything, Rumi! Everything! And it never is!”

Scoffing, Rumi rolls her eyes. “Okay, but I mean this one. I will be fine. It’s sparring! We’ve done it dozens of times! What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

Mira stares at Rumi, haunted, and whispers, “I hurt you again. That’s the worst thing that can happen, Rumi.”

Rumi feels the words like a blow to her chest.

There’s a shuffle as Zoey flips rightside up and watches the conversation closely.

“But you won’t,” murmurs Rumi, “I know you won’t.”

Mira keeps staring, a storm behind her brown eyes.

“Why don’t we start small?” Zoey proposes quietly. “Training dummies and drills only. No staffs. Would that be okay with both of you?”

Rumi nods.

Mira, jaw tight, nods as well.

“Okay!” Zoey claps her hands together. “Why don’t we start now?”

---

Sparring is tentative, cautious, maybe overly so.

After a week, Rumi finally manages to convince Mira and Zoey to switch to staffs and actual mock fights.

When Mira accidentally whaps the back of Rumi’s calf, used to Rumi’s older, more agile speed, the session halts abruptly. (There’s not even a bruise, but Mira can’t stop apologizing; it’s only when Zoey and Rumi drag her to her bedroom and sandwich her in-between them that she finally calms.)

After three weeks, Rumi’s speed is approaching what it used to be. (She does still watch ankle rolls closely, though, and does her best to be honest at least some of the time when her chest pulls and aches.)

After a month, Rumi insists on a real hunt.

---

The trio are setting up a rooftop ambush on a group of small demons mingling in a back alleyway, sniffing for unfortunate passersby, when they summon their weapons.

Rumi starts to whisper instructions, perched at the edge of the rooftop and peeking down below: “I’ll count us down from three, and then we’ll start from the main chorus for ‘What It Sounds Like’ as we jump. Not too many of them, so I’ll block the entryway in case any try to run, and let you two tackle the main group. Are we rea—Mira? Zoey?”

When Rumi turns to glance behind her, her chest seizes.

Mira and Zoey have their weapons summoned, blades pointed in Rumi’s direction.

slashing, cutting, Rumi needs to dodge and get out of the way, get out of the way! their blades hurt, they hurt so so much, and then there are two flashes, blinding, and one final blow that rends Rumi in two

Rumi blinks, trembling, as Mira and Zoey drop their weapons to the ground with a quiet clink.

Mira and Zoey stare at Rumi in horror, shaking their heads and backing away, one step, then another.

Rumi stands slowly, arms outstretched. Her patterns are covered tonight beneath a typical hoodie. “It’s me,” she whispers, fighting to still her own hands, “I’m here, I’m right here. I’m not going away, okay?”

Zoey brings a hand to her mouth to cover a sob. “Sorry,” she chokes, “sorry Rumi, I know we need to focus, I just—it just—seeing you and then holding our—”

Rumi approaches them in swift strides, not letting either girl flee, and flings an arm around each of their necks, pulling them in close.

Mira quakes in Rumi’s grip as Rumi murmurs, “I’m almost ready to talk about everything, okay? Soon. I promise. But right now, we have some demons to hunt. And I trust you both to have my back, okay?”

It’s been a while since Rumi’s had the chance to truly be leader again.

Mira and Zoey cling to her tightly for a second and nod, faces set. 

They still wait for Rumi to create a bit of distance before they pick up their weapons once more, then watch her expectantly.

Rumi counts down silently, mouthing, “Three, two, one—”

With a burst of movement, the three girls soar into the alleyway, soundless for only a brief moment before a three-part harmony graces the night. 

Singing, Rumi smiles as she ducks under one demon’s wild swing and feels the Honmoon wrap its threads around her and bolster her strength as she cleaves it into two puffs of vanishing smoke. The threads pulse with every word Rumi sings, and her voice feels strong and clear.

Rumi keeps her distance as planned, letting Zoey and Mira tear their way through the crowd, letting their voices rise fearlessly into the night, and around them, the Honmoon hums an accompaniment, filling their veins with buzzing energy and, oddly, pulsing a near iridescent color at a few moments when HUNTR/X’s harmonies intertwine with the darkness.

HUNTR/X’s first concert in months is a private one for themselves and a captivated audience of night sky stars, and when they finish, Rumi casually rolling up her sleeves to cool off, her patterns dark in the dim light, there is not a single demon to be found.

---

Once, there was a person.

---

demon

---

monster, coward, demon, liar

liar

liar

liar

---

The stories go like this.

Once, there were two doors.

One door told only truths.

One door told only lies.

One door hid danger; the other, safety.

In order to pass, a traveler was allowed one question, and one question only, to determine which door was safe.

(There is a correct question.)

(There’s also an unexpected one.)

Two travelers arrive at the same time, one bright and bubbly, the other tall and lithe. They are still given only one question, because it’s only fair.

The doors wait, curious if two travelers can pose the correct question.

They pose a new one instead.

“Why do you lie?”

“I do not lie,” both doors say.

But one thinks a little bit more. Why does it lie?

Does it lie to protect the travelers? Does it lie to protect itself, and the danger it hides within? Does it lie because it has to? Does it lie because it wants to? Does it lie because it is a liar? Does it lie because it cannot tell the truth?

…Can it tell the truth?

Is that allowed?

Will it be hated for its deception? Will it be accepted for what it’s done? Who will open it now? Who would ever open a door that held such dangers?

The two travelers have not moved towards either door.

They are patient, watching, curious.

Why?

Why ask this question? What do they gain? 

…Do they care?

Why do you lie?

The second time for this question,

and the first time with the truth,

the lying door answers, “I’m not sure. Can you help me learn?”

---

“‘Nothing but the truth now,’” Rumi murmurs, her guitar strumming coming to an abrupt halt. When Mira and Zoey lift their heads, curious, Rumi feels goosebumps prickle across her bare arms—something she’s still getting used to, and working to do so more and more each day.

“The first lyrics.” Rumi idly thumbs a guitar string, a lonely note twanging softly in the otherwise silent studio. 

Mira and Zoey—Zoey in the swivel chair by the keyboard and Mira atop the green round one—share a look, and Rumi hates that that’s a thing they do, but also accepts it, because she knows that, unlike her, Mira and Zoey will tell the truth, unprompted.

“The first lyrics,” Rumi repeats softly. “I want to make them true. I’m ready to make them true.”

Mira sits up slowly. “You mean—you’re ready to talk? About everything?”

Biting her lip, Rumi flicks another string, then twists a tuning key. “Yes.”

Zoey jumps in. “You’re ready to talk,” she says rather than asks, watching Rumi closely.

Rumi shuts her eyes for a moment, feels familiar panic leaping in her chest and clawing at her throat, hears that gnawing, scratching whisper at the back of her head telling her to lie, lie, lie, protect them from the truth. 

But Rumi meant what she wrote: “Nothing but the truth now.” 

And it’s what she owes Mira and Zoey more than anything else. 

(Even if it’s going to hurt. And oh, is it going to hurt.)

Rumi opens her eyes and meets Zoey’s. “Truth.”

Zoey grips the edge of her keyboard, knuckles tight. Mira takes a shuddering breath. “We have a lot to talk about,” Mira says quietly.

“I know.” Rumi resists the urge to pluck another string.

“It’s not going to be fun to talk about.”

Wincing, Rumi says, “I…didn’t think it would be.”

“We’re going to be mad at some things.”

“...Yeah. I know.”

“But,” Zoey adds, “we won’t yell at you. Okay? Do you trust us?”

“Always,” Rumi breathes, eyes flickering over the serious faces of her girls. “Always.” She runs her hand down the guitar’s neck, feeling the cool wood beneath her palm. “Ask me. Anything. I’ll answer it all.”

Zoey fidgets. “There’s…so much, I’m not sure where to start.”

“I am,” Mira murmurs. Rumi inclines her head to show she’s listening. “I want to start with the worst of it. Get it out of the way.”

Grimacing, Rumi asks, “Uh, and what, um, was the worst of it?”

“Tell me.” Mira’s mouth is set squarely; she doesn’t look angry, but there’s a tightness in the pull of her cheeks and clench of her jaw. 

Rumi thinks.

What would Mira consider the worst?

Rumi knows Mira’s past, and how her family treated her, so probably—

“After the car park?”

Mira’s lips purse. “Yeah,” she says. “That’s one of them. The other big one that comes to mind, immediately, because I’ve been wondering about it for the past three months, is that day when we—when we made up, and you waltzed out into the main room with bare arms.”

Ah.

Rumi accidentally strums a discordant note as her hand slips. A sharp inhale of air hisses through Zoey’s teeth.

Yeah.

That.

Rumi swallows. “Which one first?” she asks quietly.

“Arms. I think I understand the car park, as annoyed as I am about it. The arms, I don’t. How did you—” Mira gestures at the patterns wrapped around Rumi’s arms “—how did you even hide this?”

“Um.” Rumi takes a shaky breath. “Concealer. I’ve—mentioned it, before.”

“But both of your arms? Every part of them?”

Zoey’s voice comes into the mix with a third question. “Have you done that before?”

Shoulders up to her ears, Rumi fights down the red she knows is blazing in her cheeks. “I’ve done it before, yeah,” she admits. “Not a lot. The patterns didn’t reach that far, for a while. Just my shoulders and chest. So during the occasional ad campaign or promo shoot, when necessary, I’d use the concealer.”

“So why then? Why after we made up? You could’ve just come out with a hoodie, like always. The concealer on top of everything else was shitty, Rumi.”

“I—I needed to make sure,” Rumi whispers. “That you knew I wasn’t a demon. I’m sorry. I was—I was—” She pauses, feeling for the words, knowing that they’re going to hurt even if Mira and Zoey have an inkling of this already. “I was scared. After you started singing ‘Takedown’. I was so worried that you knew, somehow, even though I couldn’t figure out how. When we, uh, finished, I was…honestly, completely panicked. I just needed something to assure me, to assure you, that I wasn’t a demon.”

“You’re not,” Mira states fervently. “You know that, right?”

“I—” Rumi pauses. “Yeah, actually, I think I do.”

Zoey nods. “Good. And on the topic of our make-up sex, I know where I want to start.” Her voice is strong and confident, and Rumi would believe that Zoey wasn’t bothered by this conversation if it weren’t for the way her eyes water and her hands shake. “Sex. All of it. Rumi, I—it’s been killing me, since you first mentioned it. Can you—can you explain? Please. I need to—” Zoey sucks in a breath of air sharply “—I need to know. How you really felt.”

Rumi drums her fingers on her guitar, the hollow inside reverberating softly with each tap. She chews the inside of her cheek.

She’s been dreading a lot of this conversation, and this is a big part of why.

Well. There’s always the beginning.

“I love you both, you know that, right?”

Mira and Zoey nod solemnly. “We know. And we do too.”

“So much, Rumi.”

“I—when we first got together, I wanted to be with you. In every way. I—I asked for the sex, remember?”

“Our first time?” Zoey mumbles, startled. “Why are you bringing up—Rumi, no.” She gasps softly. 

Mira’s lips draw thin. Her hands clench into fists.

Rumi takes in a shuddering breath. “I wanted it, I promise. I like touching you both, tasting you, making you happy, I really, really do. But…” She closes her eyes. “But it was never enough,” she admits hoarsely. “I would—I would finish myself in the shower, after each time. I just felt so needy, I guess, and maybe a little bit—a little jealous. I chose to give, I wanted to give, I’m happy to give, really, I am! I just. Want a little more.”

Dropping her head to the guitar in her lap, Rumi continues in the tense silence of the room. “After the Idol Awards, when you turned the lights off and—god, it was so fucking good.” Even with her face as hidden away as it is, Rumi doesn’t need to see to hear Zoey and Mira jolt at the unexpected swear from Rumi of all people. (She needed it in this instance, though. No other word worked as well.)

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted, I think. Receiving. Taking. That feels so wrong to ask for though, doesn’t it? To take?”

“No.” Mira’s moved close enough that she can tuck a strand of hair behind Rumi’s ear. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Rumi, it’s—it’s for all of us, you know? I don’t want to have sex with you and Mira and be the only one satisfied. I want all of us to be happy.”

“Was that all of it?” The question is hesitant, which is a word that never does fit Mira quite right. “That you couldn’t get off? Was there ever anything you really didn’t like?”

Rumi tenses.

The room goes silent once more.

How does Rumi answer this?

…With the truth. No matter how bad it is.

“Yes,” Rumi rasps, “there was. The, uh, the strap. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all. I—” She ignores the pinpricks in her eyes, squeezing them shut even tighter. “I hated it,” she confesses brokenly, “because I couldn’t feel anything, and it just made my abs hurt, and then you started singing ‘Takedown’ and I—I—I was so scared, and jealous, and tired, and I wanted to make you both happy and you were, but I didn’t even get to feel anything that time, and all I wanted was to switch places, or at least have something in me, too, or—”

Zoey and Mira wrap Rumi in a hug as she fights back a sob. “It’s my own fault,” she whispers, “because I didn’t tell you. I never told you. And I know you’re both going to feel guilty, but you shouldn’t, because how could you have known? I lied, and took advantage of you both, and—”

“—and we still love you, Rumi.” Zoey presses a kiss to Rumi’s forehead. “All of you.”

Mira caresses Rumi’s braid and back behind her ear. “Thank you,” she says simply, “for being honest with us. For telling us the truth.” She pauses, then adds, “Everything you’ve said has been honest.”

Rumi shivers under their touches. “Truth.”

“Perfect,” Zoey says wetly, her voice betraying her own tears. “Next time, if you want a next time, we’ll do it right.”

“I do,” Rumi murmurs, “I very much do.”

“Good.” Mira places a soft kiss to Rumi’s temple. “So do we. But we have time. We’ll wait.”

“I know.” Rumi relaxes into the both of them, letting her body fall slack until it's propped up by theirs on either side of her. “I know you will.”

Then, finally:

“Truth.”

---

Once, there was a liar who learned to tell the truth.

---

liar

---

monster          coward         demon       liar

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rewrite

In an unexpected twist of fate, Rumi falls first.

(...is it?)

Rumi’s happy, and that’s more than she’s ever expected to be.

(is that okay?)

Until then, she’ll wait.

(can she?)

They’d decided together not to do anything. Not yet. 

(they were still missing one, after all.)

Fuck waiting. 

(they will always wait)

And just like that, they’re girlfriends.

(they’re so much more)

Overall, sometimes Rumi doesn’t feel like anything’s changed.

(everything’s changed.)

They’ll wait as long as she wants them to.

(until she’s ready.)

For once in her life, Rumi wants to be selfish.

(she already has been. she will be again. and maybe, that’s okay.)

What is she doing?

She can’t do this.

She can’t just waltz out into the living room and ask for this.

Logically, she knows Mira and Zoey have been willing for a while, and she knows that they’ll wait a while forever more, as long as Rumi needs. 

Trembling, Rumi steels herself, straightens her back, and strides as casually as she can muster to the couch.

Mira and Zoey light up when they see her, as if it had been two years instead of two hours since she’d last seen them, during their official meeting with the label to solidify “What It Sounds Like” and discuss ideas for an upcoming comeback concert. “Rumi!” they greet, immediately parting to pat the middle cushion between them. 

“Come on, let’s relax,” orders Mira, wiggling backwards into the plush of the couch. Her polar bear pajama shirt rides up her thighs with the motion, and Rumi’s breath hitches. 

Zoey and Mira both sense something’s off when Rumi doesn’t take the proffered seat, choosing to stand and twist her hands together.

“Are you okay?” Mira asks quietly, a note of familiar concern threading through the question.

“Rumi, is something wrong?” Zoey frowns. A little crinkle appears above her nose. Rumi thinks it may be one of the cutest things she’s ever seen.

Her eyes flit back and forth between them, between their worried looks, and she thinks of how they know now, and are still here, and she clings to that thought, pulls it to the forefront of her mind and calls to it for courage.

Starting to lean forward again, Mira makes it a scant few centimeters before Rumi’s face is suddenly in hers. Her startled gasp dies in her throat; Rumi can see Mira swallow. 

“Can I kiss you?” Rumi asks quietly.

Not counting the impromptu and ill-advised attempt to make Mira happy a month ago, it’s been over three months since they’d last kissed, and now, with the air finally cleared, Rumi’s ready to try again.

To start over.

To rewrite.

Mira eyes Rumi sharply. “You’re ready for this.”

“Truth,” Rumi says sincerely. “As long as you both are too.” She glances at Zoey as well, who’s watching with rapt attention.

“I’m ready,” Zoey murmurs, “although I should probably make a quick note to leave on the door for Celine, just in case, if we’re—if we’re really doing this.”

Rumi finds Mira staring at her intensely. “Are you ready?” Rumi asks quietly. “Do you still…want me?”

Immediately, Mira’s face twists into a scowl, and she grabs the collar of Rumi’s shirt and yanks her into a fierce kiss. Rumi sinks into it, eager and longing, like she’s finally coming home at last.

Mira pulls back after a few moments, face already flushed. “Yes, Rumi, I still want you,” she breathes.

“Great,” Rumi says, “great. But first, I—I want to check something. Make sure it’s okay.” She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, a short-sleeve crop top, the patterns lacing her arms and side prominent. “I—I’d like to take my clothes off. All of them.”

“We’d love that, Rumi,” Zoey answers softly.

“That’s—I know, I know you would, who wouldn’t, but that’s not what I’m—” Rumi reaches up and grips at her chest, right in the center. “I’m worried about this. You guys will see.”

Mira stills. Rumi watches Mira’s eyes lock directly onto Rumi’s hand and the implication beneath it. Mira takes a steadying breath and says, “I’ll be okay.” Then, cheekily: “Truth.”

Fighting a grin, Rumi nods her head. “Okay. Then I guess we’re doing this.”

“Let me make that sign, hold on!” Zoey leaps up and darts off to find tape, paper, and a pen.

“Meet you in my room,” Mira calls, and chuckles at Rumi’s raised eyebrow. “Felt it only fair that I be stuck on clean-up duty if we’re doing this right. Plus, maybe I like my bed best and I’m secretly hoping I can trap you two there with me for the night.”

Rumi catches Mira’s lips again quickly, gently, her teeth scraping Mira’s bottom lip before she pulls away. “That sounds amazing,” Rumi answers honestly. She interlaces her fingers in Mira’s, guiding Mira unnecessarily to her feet and tugging her along to the bedroom, a shy smile flickering across her face.

It’s okay to want this, right?

Rumi’s allowed to have this, right?

She’s not being too selfish again, is she?

When she glances back and sees Mira’s tender gaze as she lets herself be guided willingly to her own room, Rumi takes a breath and shoves down the voices in her head and thinks no, no, this is okay.

Rumi fumbles with the door before flinging it open. She’s about to say something when Mira’s hand on her cheek turns her, and suddenly they’re kissing again, hungrily, Mira’s lips and tongue moving frantically against Rumi’s, searching, seeking, devouring. Rumi nearly falls backwards until Mira grabs her hips to steady her, then pins her against a wall, mouth still moving forcefully against Rumi’s.

A whine comes from the doorway as Zoey comments, “It’s not fair that you guys are starting without me!”

Mira grunts in acknowledgment, but Rumi, guilty, breaks Mira’s kiss with a gasp and lurches forward to Zoey, covering Zoey's mouth with her own. Zoey squeaks in surprise, then melts into Rumi’s lips, matching Rumi eagerly. Their hands find each other, Rumi tangling hers in Zoey’s hair as Zoey runs hers below Rumi’s shirt; Rumi shivers as Zoey’s palms glide across the bare skin of her stomach.

Zoey giggles into Rumi’s mouth as Rumi twitches beneath her touch. “Oh, you’re sensitive,” she teases against Rumi’s lips. Zoey lets her hands wander farther up Rumi’s body, and Rumi fights the urge to already start moaning, because each brush of Zoey’s skin is electric and burning, lighting Rumi’s nerves on fire as easily as a spark to kindling.

Rumi has to catch her breath a moment, excited and nervous anticipation roiling in her stomach, and Zoey takes the momentary pause to lift her own pajama shirt off her head, tossing it gracelessly to the ground to reveal her chest, heaving and hypnotizing. Rumi’s mouth goes dry, and then dryer when she glances to the side to see Mira’s already done the same and is just finishing sliding off her underwear for good measure.

Rumi wants to touch them, she feels the urge itching beneath her skin. It’s been so long since she’s tasted either of them, or felt their warmth and heat and slick, and she aches for it. But the pressure in her core is already aching as well, and the idea alone that this time, Rumi will not need to take care of herself afterwards, sends a pulse straight between her legs; she can already feel how damp she is, and if she were with anyone else, maybe she’d feel embarrassed, but all she can think now is how happy it will make Zoey and Mira, knowing how much Rumi so desperately wants them.

In a blink, Zoey’s also shucked off the rest of her clothes, and now it’s just Rumi, like it has been; guarded and unseen.

Rumi wants them, she wants them, she feels Zoey’s fingers curl around the hem of her shirt and—

That familiar, learned panic sets in.

She jerks away without meaning to, and Zoey’s hands drop instantly.

Rumi gasps. “No, no, wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re ready to have sex with us right now,” Mira cuts in calmly, her gaze sharp and focused.

Gulping, Rumi nods. “Truth. I promise. I just—sorry, it was habit. How about we start with the bottom clothes first?”

Zoey signals her agreement, quickly switching gears to hooking her fingers into Rumi’s pants this time, pulling them and her underwear down in one fell swoop and guiding them off Rumi’s legs entirely.

Then, Zoey’s pushing Rumi back against Mira’s bed, her lips finding Rumi’s once more as her hands venture lower, pressing and squeezing the inside of Rumi’s thighs. Rumi sits on the edge of the bed with a groan, spreading her legs eagerly; when one of Zoey’s fingers begins to dance over Rumi’s opening, she whines into Zoey’s mouth and rolls her hips forward.

Mira’s own slender fingers start to caress Rumi’s cheek, her jaw, the contours of her throat, and then, in a low, quiet voice, Mira says, “Zoey, you go first. I’ll stay up here and give Rumi all the attention she deserves.”

Zoey follows directions instantly, pulling back and dropping to her knees at the edge of the bed in a position of worship, Rumi’s core slick and bare before her. Mira takes Zoey’s place, draping herself over Rumi, straddling Rumi’s stomach and bending over to press light kisses to Rumi’s jaw.

Rumi’s shirt rides up a bit, and she feels her face turn red when Mira settles herself properly atop Rumi. Rumi feels just how wet Mira is as she slides forward across Rumi’s abs and braces herself on her forearms so that her breasts press up against Rumi’s own through the remaining, flimsy barrier between them, and her breath puffs hot and heavy as Mira trails her way from Rumi’s jaw to her throat.

When Mira pauses a moment, Rumi meets her eyes. They’re concentrated and intense and fierce; they’re also tender and apologetic and enamored. Rumi licks her lips, but before she can say anything, a wet tongue presses into her center and her back arches wildly, a loud moan spilling unbidden from her throat.

Oh, oh wow, this is—this is—

Zoey is slow and methodical as she swipes her tongue along Rumi’s folds, and Rumi finds her hands reaching to grip and twist the bedsheets as her head falls backwards with a gasp. Each swipe is a jolt of sheer pleasure through Rumi, and while a part of her wants to be mad that this is what she’s been denying herself for so long, she can’t, because she has it now.

The next time Rumi moans, Mira moves her lips to Rumi’s throat and starts to nip in a weird pattern—oh, she’s following the pattern on Rumi’s throat, isn’t she? Rumi whines as Zoey slips her tongue all the way inside, and the vibrations of Mira’s laughter echo against Rumi’s throat.

Rumi’s legs twitch as she fights to keep her hips from bucking into Zoey’s mouth, and she tries not to move beneath the teasing scrape of Mira’s teeth, and—

Mira reaches her hands up under Rumi’s shirt, each one palming a breast, and Rumi squirms, her mouth falling open in a harsh pant as Mira kneads each one carefully, and in a way, it’s just like that night after the Idol Awards, but now Mira and Zoey know about Rumi, she doesn’t have to hide, they know about—

There’s a moment where one of Mira’s hands ghosts along the raised skin in the center of Rumi’s chest, and Mira pauses.

Rumi swallows another moan as Zoey licks fervently inside her and raises hooded eyes to watch Mira closely.

Mira’s expression is closed off, her nostrils flaring and her lips pursed, and Rumi exhales shakily and raises a hand to cup Mira’s cheek and turn her. Mira leans into Rumi’s touch and meets her eyes. “You’re ready for me to take my shirt off,” Rumi murmurs.

Mira bites her lip, then drops her face into the crook of Rumi’s neck even as her other hand begins to circle and play with Rumi’s nipple. “Lie,” Mira says. “I’m not. I thought I was, but—”

“Another—nngh, Zoey—another time, okay?”

Rumi pants and smiles, and Mira slowly pulls back and nods. “Another time,” she promises. Then both her hands are moving in vigorous tandem once more, squeezing and groping, and Rumi’s chest arches into the touch.

When Zoey slips a finger inside as she continues eating Rumi out, Rumi lets out a high-pitched, embarrassing squeal, and grumbles as both Zoey and Mira laugh. “You’re so cute, Rumi,” Mira teases, kissing the corner of Rumi’s lips and idly rolling her hips into Rumi’s abs.

Rumi gasps and groans again as Mira starts to grind casually on Rumi’s stomach while Zoey pushes a finger steadily in and out of Rumi’s center, even as she languidly licks and swipes at Rumi’s insides.

The instant Zoey finds what she’s looking for with her finger—and she knows, because Rumi cries out, startled—she speeds up, seeking that spot over and over again as Rumi’s moans turn into stuttered cries, repeated endlessly with each thrust and curl.

With no warning, Zoey withdraws her tongue, adds a second finger, and latches her mouth to Rumi’s clit, and Rumi’s cries turn into wails, loud and high-pitched and excited and overwhelmed. She needs to do something with her hands, her mouth, and so she wraps her arms around Mira’s neck and yanks her down into a searing kiss that muffles, but doesn’t stop, the crescendo building in Rumi’s throat and body.

Panting, Mira grinds faster, and her slick is hot and arousing and Rumi feels her climax start to build beneath the onslaught of lips and fingers and Mira and Zoey; and oh, does this climax feel nothing like the ones she’s built to in the shower. It’s on a scale a hundred times larger, pleasure more than anything she’d ever dreamed, and it coils and readies itself as Zoey thrusts and Mira grinds and both of them lavish open-mouthed kisses and—

Rumi cries, loud and long, as she comes, writhing beneath them and bucking helplessly into their touch.

This is everything Rumi’s wanted. 

Finally, this is what she wants.

And it is so, so good.

Rumi starts to actually cry, tears leaking as she smiles, broad and wide, and Mira freezes and panics for a second before she realizes that these are happy tears, elated tears.

Zoey gives a few more licks against Rumi’s overstimulated folds, eliciting a few more twitches and groans until she finally pulls out, her face popping up from behind Mira and beaming.

Mira bites her lip and starts to grind faster, the sound of her center on Rumi’s skin slick and obscene, and when Zoey clambers up onto the bed and presses her used fingers against Mira’s lips, Mira latches onto them, sucks, and comes undone, trembling above Rumi as she makes a mess of Rumi’s stomach.

Rumi reaches a hand out towards Zoey, a grabbing motion, needy and petulant, and Zoey laughs and answers the beckon. “Yes, Rumi?” Zoey asks in a lilted voice, pulling her fingers from Mira’s mouth. “Something I can help you with?”

Rumi doesn’t answer. She’s still fighting to catch her breath, so instead, she lunges her arm out and hooks it around Zoey’s waist, pulling her in close before withdrawing her arm, only to use it instead to reach in between Zoey’s legs and immediately enter with little resistance. 

Zoey whines, surprised, and closes her eyes and drives herself onto Rumi’s fingers as Rumi thrusts them roughly inside her. In another moment, Zoey’s joined her girls in the throes of pleasure, shaking and shuddering as she rides her high and moaning when Rumi pulls her fingers away.

Mira and Zoey flop bonelessly on either side of Rumi. She smiles and cries, and when they both press kisses against each cheek, she smiles and cries harder.

“Thank you,” Rumi whispers.

“Didn’t we go over this before?” Zoey asks mirthfully. “No thanking after sex, it’s not a favor!”

“And I believe I said it was rather polite,” Mira chimes in. 

Rumi swallows, her chest and heart rate finally slowing, and gathers the courage to ask for an actual favor from the both of them. A simple one.

“Can this—” Rumi pauses, unsure, until Mira and Zoey lift their heads and give her their undivided attention with loving eyes “—can this be our first time?” Rumi asks softly. “Can we just—rewrite it?”

“I’d like that,” Mira breathes.

Zoey hums, “I’m always down for a rewrite. It’s an important part of the songwriting process, after all. And I think I like this draft much better.”

“Thank you,” Rumi murmurs, her eyes starting to drift closed, “for not leaving. For fighting for me. For loving me. For staying.”

Mira and Zoey nuzzle closer into Rumi, whispering some kind of assurances, but a fog of sleep and exhaustion and pleasure is already building in Rumi’s mind, and she doesn’t hear any of them.

Instead, she repeats again, “I love you both. So much. Forever. Truth.”

---

When “What It Sounds Like” is finally ready, produced, and recorded, they give the okay for an official announcement.

Within minutes, social media is going crazy at the following headline:

HUNTR/X ANNOUNCES RETURN FROM EXTENDED HIATUS WITH FREE PUBLIC CONCERT HOSTED AT NAMSAN TOWER

There’s a similar buzz within the penthouse as they practice their choreo and harmonies to perfection.

For some reason, this concert feels different.

“What It Sounds Like” feels different.

(And every time Rumi sings it, not a single note cracks.)

---

A week before the concert, as the three of them catch their breath atop Zoey’s bed, chests heaving, skin flushed, bare except for a crop top that Rumi’s fiddling with anxiously, Rumi asks, “Could we try something new tonight?”

“Sure.” Mira sits up, combing her fingers through her mane of long hair. “Keeping the braid in is really not a bad idea, huh,” she comments idly, eying Rumi’s contained purple locks.

“It’s handy,” Rumi responds, then glances at Zoey. “Zoey, are you okay if we try something new?”

Zoey flaps a hand. “I’ll leave that to you two, I think. Having both of you go down on me is incredible, and I don’t think I can handle anything else,” she chuckles. “But I’ll happily watch the show!” She waggles her eyebrows in that goofy way of hers, and Rumi wonders when the last time she saw Zoey pull that move was.

(Things are finally, truly, feeling right between them like before. Better, actually.)

“So. What’s this new thing you have in mind?”

Rumi fidgets. “I want to try, um. Could you…can we use the strap?”

Mira and Zoey still.

“Not—not me using it. You asked what I want and I…really don’t want that. But I think I’d really, really like to feel it.” Scratching at her temple awkwardly, Rumi waits for a response.

Zoey stays silent, watching Mira, while Mira tenses her jaw.

“Are you sure?” whispers Mira at last. “I don’t want to remind you of—”

“You won’t,” Rumi insists. “And—there’s one other thing I’d like to ask.”

Mira angles her head, listening.

“I—I’d really like to take my shirt off. I want to be fully vulnerable with you both. Is that something you think you’re ready to handle, Mira?”

There are flashes in Mira’s eyes, a distant look that clouds her vision; something similar happens in Zoey’s eyes. Rumi takes note, but pushes anyway. “Please. For me.”

Swallowing dryly, Mira says, “Let me get the strap first. Then let’s talk.” 

She’s gone for all of a minute at most; Zoey and Rumi sit awkwardly in silence until her return.

Mira quietly slips the harness on, tightening and adjusting. She’s brought out a pink strap; not the one Rumi used months ago (and it’s weird, Rumi thinks, that part of her loosens in relief, and the other part wishes they could rewrite those memories instead too). 

Then, Mira wraps her hands around Rumi’s waist and tugs her towards the edge of the bed until her legs are draped off the side, straddling Mira. Zoey scoots closer, sitting cross-legged next to Rumi and reaching a hand to the collar of Rumi’s shirt. 

“Should we take this off now?” Zoey questions quietly, tugging the lavender crop top lightly.

Mira clenches her jaw, and Rumi hates the way pain flashes behind her pupils, but also: it’s time. It’s past time. Rumi wants this, wants them to see, and then to look past it anyway.

Lithe fingers gingerly gather the hem of Rumi’s shirt and lift. From the collar, Zoey starts to pull, slipping Rumi’s braid through. Rumi, for her part, raises her arms as needed and quietly lets them do the rest.

And then—

That’s it.

There’s nothing left on Rumi.

Nothing for her to hide behind.

Just her.

Mira and Zoey stare, eyes wide, pupils blown, breaths harsh. 

Rumi worries for a moment if it’s too much, if the scar is too ugly, too painful, or her patterns are actually—

“You’re so pretty, Rumi,” Zoey says breathlessly, eyes raking over every centimeter of Rumi’s chest. 

Mira doesn’t say or do anything. 

Rumi wishes she would.

So Rumi makes a decision for Mira. She reaches forward, clasps Mira’s hands in her own, and tugs them until they’re held right over the thick, ridged scar on her chest.

It’s an ugly thing. Rumi’s seen it in the mirror enough times now, run her fingers over the discolored skin, felt the coarse regrowth beneath her palms, but also it’s—it’s a reminder. A reminder of what she’s done in the past, and the second chance she’s earned to do better now.

“There’s still one last thing we haven’t talked about,” Rumi says quietly, feeling Mira tremble in her grasp. “This.” She presses Mira’s hands down and lets them go. They stay hovering above the thick, vertical line, quivering as Mira’s lip wobbles.

Rumi turns to Zoey and grabs her hands too. Zoey lets her do so, tearing up as Rumi places Zoey’s hands next to Mira’s. 

There are four hands now atop the jagged scar on Rumi’s chest, which rises and falls with every nervous breath Rumi takes as the seconds pass in silence.

Zoey and Mira don’t seem to know what to say. 

Both of them are staring shell-shocked, crying silently, shaking.

Rumi worries her lip. “Thank you,” she says simply.

They jerk in tandem.

“...What?”

“Thank you,” Rumi repeats, placing her hands on the backs of theirs and firmly pressing, shivering as their palms finally touch her scar. “For bringing me back.”

“Rumi, we—I—” Mira starts, choking.

“But you fixed it,” Rumi argues stubbornly. “You didn’t give up. You fought for me. You—you wanted me.”

Zoey gasps, “Of course!” at the same time as Mira sputters, “Always, Rumi.”

“It…it hurt, you know,” Rumi admits softly.

Mira and Zoey flinch.

“Not the—sorry, not that part,” Rumi says with a wince. “Well, that part too, yes. But honestly, all I could think about when you—when you stabbed me, was how sorry I was. That I put you both in that position in the first place.”

“Ru—”

Rumi holds up a hand to quickly silence them.

“What hurt more, actually, was coming back.”

A confused silence meets her words.

“I didn’t understand what was happening. Everything was black, and then suddenly there were colors and this thread; I don’t know how to explain it, but the Honmoon wove me back together, and it hurt. I—in that moment, I did want to die.” Rumi takes a deep breath. “But I think I’d go through that, again and again, every single time, if it led me back to you two.”

Rumi’s crying now too, though not as bad as Zoey’s and Mira’s sobs.

“I love you. I love you Zoey. I love you Mira. And I forgive you.”

The floodgates break, and suddenly Mira and Zoey are draped on top of Rumi, clutching her tightly, their hands touching and stroking and feeling and learning, learning this new expanse of skin, of Rumi, that they’ve never seen before. Their hands roam across her chest, across her scar, then across her back and the twin scar there, and they’re crying and sobbing how they’re sorry, they’re so sorry, and Rumi pulls them close and kisses each of their temples and smiles shyly.

“I forgive you,” she repeats for good measure. “Truth.”

The touches start to change after a minute.

The light caresses and strokes start to turn into harder, desperate, hungrier groping, and soon Zoey’s seated herself behind Rumi, pulling Rumi’s back flush against her chest and kissing down her neck. Her hands snake around from behind and tweak Rumi’s nipples, and she gasps as heat and the reminder of what exactly she’d asked for tonight in the first place set her body aflame anew.

Mira trails her hands down, down, until they’re palming Rumi’s thighs and spreading them open wide. She casually skims a finger across Rumi’s folds, and Rumi rewards her with a sharp inhale and needy groan.

“You’re still so wet,” Mira murmurs, mesmerized. “Do you want me to just push in? Can you take that?”

Rumi bobs her head up and down quickly, chest spasming under Zoey’s touches.

“Okay.” There’s something breathless and excited in Mira’s voice as she lines the tip of the strap up to Rumi’s entrance. “Tell me when.”

“When,” whines Rumi.

The immediate stretch of the strap pressing inside Rumi has her jerking her hips off the bed and inhaling sharply. She feels so instantly full, in a way that’s the exact same as the feel of Mira’s and Zoey’s fingers and tongue, but also different. It’s hard to say if she likes it any more or less, but oh, does she like it.

Mira takes her time, pushing a small bit in at a time as Rumi pants and leans her head back against Zoey. She bites her lip and groans loudly when she feels skin and looks down to see Mira seated fully inside her at last.

The stretch is immense.

It’s overwhelming, and all-encompassing, and Rumi definitely needs another moment or two to catch her breath, something Mira gives her happily.

And then Rumi’s used to it, and a hunger pulses through her. She wants more.

Rumi jogs her hips against Mira, meeting her gaze and raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Huffing, Mira takes the cue and slowly, achingly, drags the strap back out until just the tip remains inside, and Rumi moans, because wait, no, come back—

Then the strap enters her once more, languid and relaxed, and Rumi shudders.

Mira rolls her hips, all the way in, all the way out, taking her time with careful, deliberate motions as Rumi squirms. Every drag of the strap inside Rumi, against her walls, sets some new part of her ablaze, and it’s wonderful.

Rumi wonders what it’d feel like if Mira went faster.

(The thought alone sends another flush to her cheek and another pulse of slick to her core.)

Testing the waters, Rumi thrusts forward to meet Mira the next time she slides in. Mira halts, looking at Rumi with an unreadable expression.

Rumi jogs her hips on the strap and pouts.

Mira’s face, red and tear-stained from earlier, splits slowly into a smile.

Rumi nestles back into Zoey further, her hands gripping Zoey’s thighs straddling her in preparation as Mira slides all the way out, then snaps her hips forward suddenly, aggressively, and Rumi almost comes right then and there.

Jaw falling open, Rumi moans loudly and does nothing to stifle the noise as Mira picks up the pace from a crawl to a constant, drumming series of thrusts. Zoey licks the sweat from Rumi’s shoulder blade as Rumi tries to hold herself steady, each pump of Mira’s strap sending Rumi rocking backwards against Zoey’s chest.

The pace is diligent and ruthless.

Each drag out and slam in has Rumi starting to see stars. The dying one inside her chest starts to ache at the jostling pressure, but Rumi pays it no mind; she thinks her chest will ache for a while to come, but the pleasure of this moment overpowers any slight discomfort in an instant.

Mira pounds into Rumi, grunting and concentrating, her brows furrowed as she looks down like she’s studying the way Rumi’s hips bounce back against her own. Rumi’s moans have turned into breathless cries now, staccato and repeated “ah”s that rise in volume with each thrust.

Zoey laughs in her ear, twisting her nipples and murmuring, “Does that feel good, Rumi?”

Barely able to speak, Rumi settles for nodding rapidly instead, and Zoey laughs harder. Mira pistons in and out continuously as Zoey tugs Rumi closer, telling her, “I’ve got you. Mira’s got you. You’re happy right now.”

“Tru-u-u—” Rumi can’t even answer, the force of Mira’s thrusts too fast and deep for her to manage anything else, but Zoey seems to understand.

She presses more kisses along Rumi’s neck and says, “So are we, Rumi. We’re so happy. You make us so happy.”

Rumi whines.

“You protect us. You watch out for us. You guide us. You take care of us. You love us. And we love you too.”

Forceful, rapid thrusts push further Rumi up against Zoey’s chest, and Rumi writhes and sighs and moans and cries, because she’s so full and so happy; Zoey’s hands are still kneading her breasts and Mira’s jackhammering into her, faster and faster and deeper and deeper until Rumi’s shuddering and close.

Mira leans forward as she continues to slam into Rumi, splaying her palm across the scar on Rumi’s chest and meeting Rumi’s eyes. Zoey mimics the motion.

Almost wondrously, Mira presses the scar lightly, like she’s checking, just in case, that that’s all it is: nothing more.

Rumi twists, sandwiched between Zoey and Mira, that pleasure building and building as Zoey kneads and Mira ruts into her harder, hips slamming together, and—

“Come for me, Rumi,” Mira commands quietly.

Rumi does.

The subsequent wave overtakes her, wracking every centimeter of her body as she jerks and writhes between them, gasping and loudly crying out.

When Mira pulls out, Rumi shivers helplessly, suddenly empty. She almost asks for more until Mira quickly shucks off the harness and lays casually atop of Rumi, officially creating what Zoey’s jokingly called a “Rumi sandwich”, and Rumi laughs as she catches her breath.

Mira tucks her head into the crook of Rumi’s neck, burying it and inhaling deeply as Rumi recovers. “We forgive you too, you know that, right?” Mira mutters uncertainly, Zoey adding a quick agreement.

“I do,” Rumi assures. “Truth. Complete and utter truth.”

Safe between both of her girls, bare and open and satisfied, and Rumi can think of no place in the world she’d rather be.

---

Under the stage lights, beneath the view of thousands of eyes, vibrating with pulsing bass and synth, HUNTR/X shines.

The moment they step on stage, their first public appearance in months, the crowd erupts into a wild roar. Fans scream and hug and cheer and shout, and Rumi feels herself grinning exuberantly, their energy pouring from the seats up to the stage before a single girl has even begun to sing.

Then the first full notes of “How It’s Done” kick off, and the concert has officially begun.

Rumi finds herself falling into the rhythms and harmony with ease. HUNTR/X’s outfits, white and gold, shimmer beneath the stage lights, and Rumi, in a sleeveless top, feels a chilling thrill at the thought of her patterns being on full display for the first time ever.

The crowd doesn’t know the significance: instead, they whoop and shout and cheer, holding aloft hand-made signs declaring things like “welcome back!” and “we love you HUNTR/X!” along with specific bias signs (Rumi feels a pleased jolt every time she sees ones for Zoey and Mira); funnily enough, there are even a few shipper signs, as is often the case, and Rumi remembers in surprise that no, the general public has no idea about how she feels about her girls, how they feel about each other.

It seems almost impossible though.

How could they not know?

Surely it’s written in every pore on Rumi’s face each time she catches a glimpse of them. It shocks her that she can still sing, with how Mira and Zoey steal her breath by simply existing, let alone how they run the stage.

“How It’s Done” comes to a close with thunderous applause.

Rumi speaks into the headset as a quick introduction to the show. She’s barely paying attention to what she says, something about this being HUNTR/X’s official apology for their sudden hiatus and how HUNTR/X wants to show the fans just how important they are, because she keeps finding her gaze caught on the way Zoey’s and Mira’s skin shines and the way their lips curl into wide smiles.

Then the next song kicks in, and they’re off once more.

Rumi finds herself staring at Mira, at her wild grin and heaving chest, at her sweat-slicked hair and soft gaze, at her quiet confidence accompanying her every move, and Rumi’s reminded over and over again of why she fell in love with Mira in the first place.

Another song.

Rumi finds herself staring at Zoey, at her sparkling eyes and her bouncing feet, at her exaggerated waving and her loud reciprocal cheers, at her open awe and her whole body vibrating in joy, and Rumi’s reminded over and over again of why she fell in love with Zoey in the first place.

Next song.

Rumi dances between them, feels their fingers brush lightly against her elbow. She flashes them a cocky grin as she dances to the middle of the stage and right up to the edge, reaching her hands out to the audience and belting wildly, letting their screams of delight fuel her every move. The Honmoon pulses as the fans reach forward, and Rumi’s eyes widen.

Another song, and another.

Mira grabs a flower from a fan and kisses it before handing it back with a wink.

Rumi reaches for high-fives and fist bumps, stretching to reach as far back as she can without falling into the audience.

Zoey breaks protocol and actually jumps off the stage, laughing mischievously as she races down an aisle in the front, security shouting in a panic as she zips around, delivers a few hugs, somehow takes a selfie, and darts back, too fast to get caught by anyone. When she reaches the stage again, Mira and Rumi are red-faced with laughter.

Rumi borrows a fan’s phone, waving into it and passing it around between Mira and Zoey, singing and grinning into the camera before passing it back right before “Golden” kicks up.

And then “Golden” starts, and Rumi thinks back to the Idol Awards, to a similar crowd, to her rousing success of a performance and her utter failure as a demon hunter.

For some reason, though, it doesn’t seem to bother her right now.

Her patterns pulse lightly, and the Honmoon glows above the crowd.

Rumi belts, high and loud, throwing every bit of power she has in her voice into the high notes, and Mira and Zoey flank her, their harmonies layering into something utterly their own.

The Honmoon pulses.

When the lights dim, Rumi starts to speak before any music can play.

She catches confused glances from Mira and Zoey and the stagehands and ignores them.

“Thank you, all of you, for sharing this evening with us! We love you, Seoul!” The crowd cheers in response. Rumi continues, “Now, to close everything out, we—that is, Zoey, Mira, and I—have written a new song we’d like to debut right here and now.”

Rumi waits again for the roars to subside.

“Though I won’t share details, you know that we’ve been gone for a while. These past few months have been rough, to say the least.” Mira and Zoey take deep breaths to Rumi’s side. “But even in the darkest of moments, I’ve been lucky enough to have two people beside me every step of the way, who have my heart undivided. They’ve accepted me for every messy part of myself, everything I’d thought was wrong. They’ve looked past my lies and pried the truth from me kicking and screaming into the light, and I’m a better person for it.

“These words—this is my truth. My heart. So, Seoul, if you don’t mind—I’d like to share with you all exactly what it sounds like.”

Rumi signals for the sound crew to switch on the backing track. When she turns, Mira and Zoey are staring at her with dropped jaws and shimmering eyes. 

Winking, Rumi covers her mic for a second and mouths, “Let’s give them a show!”

Mira and Zoey nod resolutely, switching into performance mode.

Rumi begins, acapella, with that one line that had to be fought for so desperately over the past few months:

“Nothing but the truth now”

Every lyric Rumi sings hits home; it’s one thing to write them, another to produce them, and yet another entirely to admit to an entire stadium full of people the worst of what she came from, what she’s ashamed of, how her head and heart twisted and divided over the past few months (over her entire life).

Then:

“I don’t know why I didn’t trust you to be on my side”

And Rumi’s not alone anymore.

Zoey’s and Mira’s voices find her, intertwining. They reach out to her and she reaches back; they sing their respective solo verses, each written themselves to match Rumi’s newfound honesty with a rawness of their own.

The second verse builds.

The Honmoon ripples, more than Rumi’s ever seen.

The words fall from Rumi’s lips, each a deliberate, aimed blade tearing through every insecurity and defense she’s put in place over the years; then, tearing at that scratching, gnawing voice that’s haunted her every step.

“So we were cowards,” Rumi sings, puffing her chest, “so we were liars—so we’re not heroes—we’re still survivors!”

“But dive in the fire,” Mira harmonizes, reaching out to grasp Rumi’s shoulders.

Zoey does the same from the other side, her voice soaring as she adds, “—and I’ll be right here by your side!”