Chapter Text
Rumi is not a stranger to the thought of death. How could she be, when her very birth is nothing but the prelude to her mother’s passing; when she has been training since the tender age of six to slay soul-reaping demons; when her only shield against those relentless hordes is her sword?
Still, for the most part, she tries not to dwell on it too hard. For the most part, she succeeds. It’s easy – easier – when she is in such good company. Why waste time mulling over her impending eternal rest when she can bask in Zoey’s boundless warmth, rest in Mira’s soothing shade?
And so, for those first few years, despite their many close brushes, Rumi manages to banish the specter of death to the back of her mind, until it becomes nothing but a starved, mewling little thought.
But then, on a dark, rainy February evening, that easily ignored, nearly forgotten thought is presented with a veritable feast – a still bleeding, barely beating, broken heart. As the years go by, the scavenger keeps gnawing at it, gorging itself on hurt, jealousy, and despair, growing plump with it, still hungering for more. It will not be content until all has been consumed, until its prey’s flesh has rotten away and only its sun-bleached bones remain.
And Rumi-
Rumi can’t wait.
On a cold February morning, Rumi wakes to a drowning Seoul. Safe within the confines of their new tower, she stares out the window and down into the flooded streets. The torrential rain came out of nowhere late last night, a news article informs her, a surprise guest determined to wreck the place and ruin some lives before going on its merry way. From her vantage point, Rumi thinks it’s doing one hell of a job, ropes of rain lashing out at anyone stupid or desperate enough to leave their home, thick coats rendered useless, umbrellas yanked out of tight grips and sent flying into the unknown.
The sight doesn’t stop her from shedding her sleep-warm pajamas and hopping into the shower, nor from completing the rest of her morning routine. She combs her hair, blows it dry, combs it again, braids it. Years of practice have considerably shortened the length of time spent on this ritual, and Rumi easily brushes off the glancing thought that her life might be the slightest bit easier if she only got a haircut.
The plush bathrobe is discarded for woolen pants and a thick turtleneck to her great chagrin. She’s always despised turtlenecks, resented the way they clung so needily to her throat, every careless swallow ending in a chokehold. Still, she surrenders to the scratchy embrace – this close to the album’s release, the last thing they need is for her to get a sore throat.
She glances at her phone screen for the time, noting, with not a hint of surprise, the lack of any messages or missed calls notifying her that the meeting had been canceled and her schedule cleared for the day. Her girls, at times, like to gently poke fun at Celine’s fondness for maxims, but Rumi, having been raised on them, knows better than to doubt the undeniable truth in her guardian’s words. And so, if there is one thing that Rumi, a huntress and idol both, knows, it’s that come hell or high waters, the show must go on.
She walks past one door, then another, steps light and careful until she reaches the cool tiles of the empty kitchen. She turns the kettle on, already filled with filtered water and set to her preferred temperature. Soon, the gentle rumbling of heating water fills the kitchen.
In the corner of her eye, a glint. The espresso machine, gleaming in the cold light of the early morning, reminds her of her duty. This one weighs as heavily as a feather on her shoulders.
Rumi turns the machine on, the way she does every morning she gets the chance to. She weighs some coffee beans, spritzes them, grinds them, tamps them, puts them in the portafilter. Twists it into place, grabs a cup, puts it under the spout, presses the button. Grabs the milk, pours some, warms it, steams it, pours it in the shot. Does her best attempt at a pretty – flower-swan-heart? – shape. A+ for effort. Each step – save that last one, but not for long, she swears – is accomplished with the kind of ease that can only come with countless repetitions. She likes that she cannot count how many times she has stood before this machine, once so intimidating with all its buttons to press and knobs to turn. But she had persevered, as she always does; this time, not because she had to, for the sake of the world’s salvation, but because she wanted to, for the sake of one girl’s fleeting pleasure. Her girl – one of them – and so, worth the time and effort, and the tears and the sweat, and, on one memorable occasion, yes, the blood. Her life might be ruled by ruthless routines and rituals, but this is a worthwhile one.
She is slowly stirring a spoonful of honey into her tea when she hears a door open and gently close. Soon enough, the shuffling of slippers on tiles. And then,
‘Hey.’ A hoarse, quiet voice, lower than usual, somehow.
Rumi smiles, Pavlov’s very best.
‘Hey.’
Rumi turns, and there she is, her reluctant early bird. Hair a nest, scowl poorly concealing a pout, glasses useless to such bleary eyes.
‘Here,’ Rumi says, the small word, the world’s tiniest love letter, hands steady as they offer up the cup of coffee.
‘Thanks.’
Their fingers brush; Rumi’s smile grows. Mira hunches over her cup, inhaling the rich, dark smell of her first coffee of the day. First of many, Rumi knows, and she feels the familiar little thrill of pride at knowing that she provides her girl with the most important one. She grabs her own steaming mug and joins Mira, leaning against the counter and each other. They stay just like that for a while, silent and warm, sipping and sighing. The honeyed ginger coats her tongue and slips down her throat, spreading heat like a swallowed sun.
It takes a few more sips for Mira to wake up, caffeine finding its rightful place in her bloodstream. When she does, she looks at Rumi and frowns.
‘What’s with the outfit?’
Rumi would blame the early hour for Mira’s blunt question, but she has known and loved her too long for that. She looks down at herself. The dark pants and cream turtleneck look a bit plain, sure, but then again, she was going for business casual, not runway ready, so.
‘What do you mean? What’s wrong with it? I think it looks just fine, don’t you?’
‘It does,’ Mira says, waving away Rumi’s budding worry. ‘I meant, why are you even dressed in the first place?’
‘Oh,’ Rumi nods, ‘I’ve got that meeting at 8. I told you about it last week, remember?’
Mira blinks, incredulous. Still fighting off the last of her sleepiness, she looks like a disgruntled owl.
‘That’s still on?’
It’s Rumi’s turn to be incredulous.
‘It’s the quarterly meeting. Of course, it’s still on.’
‘With this weather?’ Mira’s hand jerks toward the windows, and if Rumi were anyone else, she would have to admit that the rain striking hard and fast at the glass makes for a compelling argument. ‘Haven’t they heard of rescheduling? Or, like, video calls?’
But Rumi is already shaking her head.
‘It’s the quarterly meeting,’ she repeats. ‘You don’t have the quarterly meeting of a multi-million won company over Zoom, and it’s the only day that works for anyone involved, so.’
‘Well, if it’s that important, shouldn’t Zoey and I come with you?’
Rumi allows herself a single second to stare at the stubborn set of her jaw, her furrowed brow, before meeting her eyes.
‘Would you and Zoey want to come with me?’
The knowing question feels like a low blow, and maybe it is, the way Mira almost flinches. Rumi, already soft as butter, melts even further. It’s a bit of a sore spot for their fierce protector, she knows – caught between her undying allegiance to her dear leader and her profound distaste for any meeting lasting over fifteen minutes, Mira will always falter. They had tried, the year they debuted, her and Zoey both accompanying Rumi to dreadfully boring meetings in stuffy rooms that lasted all day. But after a while, Zoey’s leg would inevitably start to bounce, and people would inevitably frown in disapproval, and Mira would inevitably glare right back. It hadn’t been long before they had been asked, as politely as possible, not to come back. They had felt so guilty, Mira in particular, for leaving her to face the wolves alone, but Rumi had never blamed them for it. Still doesn’t.
It isn’t until the soft weight of Rumi’s hand lands on her slumped shoulder that Mira looks up and meets her eyes again.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rumi says, ‘I’m pretty sure they’ll just spend the whole time talking numbers and patting themselves on the back for how well the new album is coming along.’
‘Right, ‘cause all their emails asking what’s taking so long are so helpful. Really helps getting those creative juices flowing,’ Mira scoffs, rolling her eyes, just like Rumi thought she would. The best way to snap Mira out of those specific guilt spirals is to remind her just how insufferable the execs can be, she’s found. Still, she wrinkles her nose.
‘Creative juices, really?’
But Mira only smirks, a teasing glint brightening her eyes, previous torment well and truly forgotten in the face of her leader’s prissiness. She opens her mouth, likely to needle some more, a cat and her favorite mouse, when Rumi’s phone buzzes loudly on the granite countertop. A glance at the screen; a sigh.
‘Driver’s downstairs, I’ve got to go.’
It only takes a handful of seconds to put her mug in the dishwasher and gather her things, but Rumi would hold those precious seconds in a tight fist and never let go if she could. Sometimes, most times, she thinks it’s those small, quiet moments – the moments that will never make it on any schedule, tucked in-between brightly colored reminders of meetings, and training, and recording sessions – that make it all worth it – the hunting, the performing, the living.
But Rumi is the Honmoon’s eldest and ever dutiful daughter, and she has a job to do.
She steps out of the kitchen and into the hallway before she can be tempted to stay and linger in the simplicity of the moment, in the hope that Zoey might get up and join them, that they might all spend the day inside and together.
But the world is not so cruel, and soon, she hears the soft sound of footsteps following into hers. Mira slows to a stop next to her just as she is bending down to grab her shoes for the day – her current favorite sneaker, kind of chunky, but surprisingly comfortable.
‘Not these.’
Her fingers twitch, brushing against the scratchy mesh.
‘No?’ Her voice comes out quieter than she meant it to.
‘No.’ A lone, pale hand appears, a sleeve hikes up to reveal a slender wrist, fingers grasp onto a pair of knee-high boots. ‘These ones, instead. Trust me.’
And Rumi does, with her life, with Zoey’s – so what’s a pair of shoes, really? She takes the boots from her, notes how soft the black leather is, butter smooth, and supple, too. Rumi has seen these boots a lot these past few weeks, though ‘stared at’ might be more accurate. No wonder Prada let Mira keep them after that photoshoot – these boots are to Mira’s calves what wings are to an angel; separating them would have been an act worthy of Gwi-Ma himself.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t. They should fit you fine, and they go better with your outfit, too.’
Rumi, knowing better than to argue with that last part, toes her slippers off without a word. She doesn’t say anything about Mira’s startlingly small feet – for her size – either, because she knows that for some reason, her not-so-tiny dancer is somewhat self-conscious about them. It’s honestly kind of adorable, not that she will ever tell her – just another secret Rumi will take to her grave lest Mira kills her.
Her eyes catch on her socks, earthy green and patterned with snails – a gift from Zoey, a reminder to slow down, every once in a while. She smiles down at the silly-looking little cartoon snails and wriggles her toes happily, just once. Mira snorts, but doesn’t say anything – probably because it would be pretty hypocritical of her to say anything, considering she’s definitely got a drawer full of all the pun-y t-shirts Zoey’s gotten her over the years.
Rumi steps into the boots, zips them up. They do fit her fine, though she won’t be making a habit out of borrowing them, not with those heels. She looks to Mira for approval, and gets it in the shape of a slight nod and a small, subtle quirk of her lips. It feels better than any of the outrageous compliments she’s gotten over the years, strangers raving and gushing about doe eyes and luscious lips and gleaming hair.
She turns to the coats with warm cheeks and the hope Mira doesn’tnotice. Her hands feel clumsy, grabbing at the thick, heavy wool of her overcoat, but she manages to lift it from its hook without too much trouble. Mira reaches out before she can try to shrug it on.
‘Here,’ she says, and it’s not the first time Mira has helped her put her coat on, nor the second, or fifth, or even the tenth, but the brush of fingers against her nape, the hands smoothing down fabric on her shoulders, down her biceps – there’s no way Rumi could ever get used to it.
‘And here,’ Mira adds when Rumi turns around. She tries to blink the hearts out of her eyes and focus on what Mira is holding up. A couple of protein bars and a bright, round tangerine. Their last one of the season, unless Celine decides to pay them a surprise visit soon.
‘Thank you,’ she says. For the boots, for the snacks, for your help, for your love, she doesn’t say. She hopes she doesn’t have to.
The tangerine drops into her pocket and settles quietly against her side, a small, comforting weight. Her phone vibrates against her thigh, probably a gentle reminder from the driver. She smiles up at Mira, rueful, and calls up the elevator. The doors slide open soon, too soon, and Rumi is forced to say goodbye to Mira for the day.
‘Well, that’s me, then,’ she says, stepping inside.
‘Good luck with the execs,’ Mira teases, leaning against the wall, a smug vision of comfort in her fleece pajamas and slippers.
‘Good luck with the trainees,’ Rumi replies with a sweet smile.
‘Ugh, don’t remind me.’
Rumi’s smile softens, grows fonder, more honest.
‘Tell Zoey I said hi, and that I hope she has a nice day, will you?’
‘Will do.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
And the doors slid shut on Mira’s small wave and warm brown eyes.
Rumi has learned a long time ago that nothing good, nothing true, can come out of judging people based on their appearance. Take Zoey, for example, and how easy it is to let yourself be blinded by her eternally sunny disposition; how much easier it is to dismiss the things that quietly creep in its shade – her insecurities, her pride, her bloodlust, her past. All those things – and more, because Zoey will always be so much more than the sum of her remarkable parts – make up the very Zoey she knows and adores.
And take Mira, too, because why wouldn’t you? How quickly do people’s eyes dart away from her glares and glowers? How eager they are to glaze over her gentle hands and gentler heart? Good riddance, Rumi thinks. If a few sharp edges are enough to turn them away, then the cowards do not deserve to know her, to have her, her Mira, her sweet gestures and gossamer smiles.
As for Rumi- Well. The less is said.
All this to say that when Rumi had met Mr. Bum-soo over two years ago, mere weeks before their debut, she had made the conscious decision to not judge this particular book by its cover. He looks like he hasn’t smiled since the womb, Mira had said. He has the charisma of an applesauce, Zoey had agreed. So what? Rumi had replied.
Would it be nice for the man handling HUNTR/X’s social media presence to possess just an ounce of charm or personal appeal? Sure, but does he need it to be good at his job? Apparently not. That doesn’t make sitting through one of his infamous presentations any easier, though.
It doesn’t help that over half the room has given up all pretense of being interested, both in the presentation and in staying awake. Even Bobby, the poster child of active listening, seems fully checked out. Not that Rumi can blame him; she would too, if not for Celine’s absence.
Well, no, she wouldn’t. If Celine were here, Rumi’s eyes would be wide open, alert and attentive, spine straight as a ruler, not a hint of a slouch to be found. Still, a girl can dream, and this girl dreams of a world in which she allows herself to lay her head on the table and take a damn nap.
But duty calls, and in Celine’s absence, it is deafening.
Stretching her neck back and forth, she glances down at the pages covered with her own neat handwriting. Hopefully, her notes are detailed enough to satisfy Celine, though she knows it’s not a thorough summary of today’s presentations her guardian is after. Celine does everything for a reason; that includes missing important meetings. Because while she may not get to hear about a rise in engagement, new sales records, or possible brand deals, she gets the answer to a much more pressing question. In a valley without tigers, what will the rabbit do?
Rumi looks down, and the answer stares back, written in plain blue ink – a list of names, of rabbits who dared to dream they could ever reign supreme in Celine’s valley. Who fails to pay attention? Who treats their duties like mere formalities? In short, who in this room actually deserves to be here?
Celine won’t like how long the list still is, but Rumi is pleased to see that it is shorter than the previous one and the one before that. The next one, she knows, will be even shorter, and if it takes being a bit of a snitch to make sure of it, so be it. She will not let a handful of self-centered, too comfortable execs jeopardize Celine’s decades of hard work.
A rustle further down the table draws her eye. Mr. Jeong makes no attempt to hide his bored slouch, nor his obnoxious sighs whenever he checks his watch every few seconds. He certainly hadn’t seemed that concerned about punctuality this morning, waltzing into the meeting half an hour late the way he had. Rumi quietly underlines his name twice, then, upon hearing yet another sigh, circles it. There is being bored – an unfortunate and inevitable side-effect of listening to Mr. Bum-soo for any length of time exceeding thirty seconds – and there is being rude – an unforgivable flaw in Celine’s, and thus Rumi’s, eyes.
She tries to focus back on the presentation, but it’s not long before Mr. Bum-soo’s monotone and his white-grey-black presentation get the best of her. Should the man ever fall to Gwi-Ma’s magenta flames, she has no doubt he would pose a serious threat.
Her head jerks to the side, tenuous focus easily broken by a sudden smacking sound. She stares out the large windows and is met by the oppressive embrace of the February night, the raindrops pelting the large windows her only indication that it’s still pouring outside. As much as she dreads the thought of having to brave the heavy rain, the promise of home, warm and golden and waiting just for her, more than makes up for it. She just hopes the rain takes it leave before tomorrow comes, because they have plans, Rumi and her girls. There’s the food stall selling those viral bungeoppang Zoey’s been drooling over for weeks, and the cute little library Mira’s glanced at the last few times they’ve gone out. But if they wake up to gray skies and weeping clouds, they’ll spend the day sprawled on the couch and scrolling aimlessly. Either way, Rumi won’t complain, and neither will her girls, but it has been a while since they’ve ventured out of their sky-high tower and into the busy streets of their city.
She sighs – quietly. She shouldn’t have thought about them, about home. It only makes them seem that much farther when she is trapped in this room, fighting just to keep her eyes open.
‘- but as you can see, compared to last semester- Ah, my apologies, there seems to be an issue with the software.’
At the slight hint of emotion – namely, vague confusion – in Mr. Bum-soo’s voice, Rumi looks back at the screen-
And regrets it immediately.
Hiding most of the current slide, an error message flashes back at her. That’s not the issue.
The issue is that, seemingly overwhelmed by the sudden appearance of said error message, the presentation has shrunk back to the editing mode, and what should have been a snooze fest ends up being more of a snuff film. There, nestled at the bottom left of the screen, the current slide number smiles innocently at the rousing, horrified audience, while just beside it, the number of slides remaining looms, an ominous, malevolent shadow.
Somewhere in the room, someone sobs.
She doesn’t think it was her.
‘Kill me.’
Bobby glances at her from the corner of a wide, glistening eye.
Okay, that one was her.
But as their gazes cling to each other like drowning souls, she sees something shift in his brown eyes, a resolve that suits him so well. With a resolute nod and a straight back, Bobby, manager extraordinaire, appears.
Just as Mr. Bum-soo turns back to the audience with his best approximation of a satisfied smile, error message dismissed and crisis seemingly averted, Bobby stands up. With a deep bow, he interrupts an announcement that is sure to elicit some more tears.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr. Bum-soo, everyone, but the hour is getting late, and I’m afraid Miss Kang has quite the big day tomorrow. I’m sure we can all agree she deserves all the rest she can get for all her hard work.’
Her hero and savior flashes a winning smile to the room, and after a beat, Rumi hurries to follow suit. Their audience, however, makes no attempt to hide their own desperation and blatant envy. Still, however reluctantly, they mutter their agreement and farewells with half-hearted, too-shallow bows. Not that Rumi and Bobby care, too busy scrambling to grab their stuff and book it out of there. They back out of the room, apologies and ‘thank you’s falling from their lips, doing their best to look humbly grateful and not disgustingly relieved. Hopefully, Celine will understand.
They walk down the deserted hallway without a word, without a glance, eyes fixed to the elevators with unwavering determination, footsteps growing steadily faster as they get closer and closer to those stainless steel-y gates of heaven. Bobby presses the ‘open’ button with unnecessary relish, and few sounds have ever sounded so sweet as the quiet ding! that greets them.
‘After you,’ Bobby gestures, and Rumi grins at him, tired but true.
They stand together, arms gently brushing. As soon as the doors close before them, they deflate, twin sighs of exhausted relief escaping them. They glance at each other, then, and it would be impossible to stop the laughter bubbling up in their throats, so they don’t even try, letting the sweet sound fill the small cabin – a welcome change after a day filled with chatter and speeches.
‘Thank you, Bobby,’ she says, a tad breathless, ‘I thought it would never end.’
He shakes his head, chagrined.
‘Honestly, I should have gotten you out of there ages ago. We all know how Mr. Bum-soo’s presentations tend to go; I should have said something as soon as he opened his mouth. Before that, even.’
‘Still,’ she nudges him, just to get him to smile again, ‘Thank you. You really are the best manager a girl could ask for, you know?’
He blushes, cheeks bunching up with his bashful grin.
‘Aw, Rumi, stop it!’ A pause, then, ‘Well,’ and the look in his eyes as they meet hers is earnest as ever, ‘You and the girls are the best superstars a manager could ever ask for, you know?’
The corners of her eyes crinkle as she returns the warm smile. Not for the first time, certainly not for the last, Rumi finds herself immensely grateful that out of all the candidates up for the job, Celine picked sweet, lovely Bobby to take care of them.
The rest of the ride is silent, save for them humming along to the quiet, cheerful tune filling the elevator, a melody they both know by heart – HUNTR/X’s first song to hit platinum.
They spill out of the elevator and into the foyer. The artificial lights are bright, a stark contrast to the stormy night still brewing outside the glass walls. The reminder of how late it has gotten is enough to have her hold back a yawn. Rumi steps away while Bobby calls Ms. Chung to let her know they’re done for the day and ready to go home.
The tired, tired girl pulls her phone out of her bag and turns it back on. Only seconds later, it starts to buzz wildly and does not stop for a solid minute. She just stares, heart and smile growing bigger and bigger until it hurts. Notifications rain down her screen, one after the other, signed by two of the only people that matter. At last, the phone remains still. Ignoring the tingling in her hand stretching from the heel of her palm to the tip of her fingers, she opens the messaging app.
Based on the sheer amount of dead-eyed celebrities sadly smoking cigarettes now populating their group chat, Zoey hasn’t made as much progress on the new song as she’d hoped. Rumi chews on her lip, trying not to worry too much, not yet. She has no doubt that Zoey, with all her talent and daring and determination, will get the song done, nor does she doubt that it will be yet another show-stopper. But she also knows that behind the memes, the exaggerated groans and dramatic flailing, Zoey is getting frustrated. She always does when that perfect rhyme, that brutal read, or that infectious chorus remains just out of reach. And with the tentative deadline looming near, the sleepless nights and endless writing sessions have only multiplied.
Rumi has tried to tell her to slow down, to breathe and get some rest, but all that got her were some terribly incredulous looks, which, fair, Rumi supposes. Being a self-aware hypocrite does little to soothe her need to make life just a tad easier for her girls, though.
Speaking of which, her other girl’s day hasn’t been all rainbow and sunshine either, it seems. Mira’s growing frustration with the new dancers does not manifest itself through memes and blurry gifs, but rather, an overuse of punctuation and new messages. And Rumi knows Mira, knows her to be an exacting teacher who expects her students to give it their all and despises any kind of slacking off in her studio – Zoey and Rumi certainly aren’t exceptions to the rule.
But she also knows that Mira would never ask of anyone what she herself wouldn’t be willing to give, that she is reasonable, and patient, and ready to nurture anyone’s talent as long as they put in the work.
These new dancers, it seems, are not willing to put in said work.
She looks out the glass walls and considers her options. Rumi does not particularly enjoy turning her considerable influence against young, bright-eyed dancers, does not like to view anyone as expendable and replaceable, but if this industry has taught her anything, it’s that unfortunately, most people are. Not only does Mira deserve the best, she needs it – they need it. Not to be too dramatic or anything, but the fate of the world very much depends on it. She’ll talk with Mira before she does anything about it, of course, and should they get the chop, she’ll try to put in, if not a good one, at least a word for them with Celine. Sunlight Entertainment, after all, prides itself on its more humane treatment of its artists, despite some of the executives’ occasional grumblings.
Fortunately, not all the messages are cause for concern. Mira, having seen Zoey’s pleas for help disguised as obscure memes, had apparently joined her in the studio, offering her services as a sounding board. Based on the long radio silence that has followed, the plan worked. That’s the beauty of coming in threes, she thinks, smile soft and pleased, they never have to be alone.
Then, an hour ago, the messages had started again. Questions about whether she was almost done with the meeting, how long the board was planning on keeping her, and when she would be home, whether or not she had eaten lunch, and what she wanted for dinner. Threats against the board members’ safety, a promise to wait for her so they could all eat together.
Only seconds ago, she was frowning in worry. Now, she couldn’t stop smiling if she tried. Years of training together, fighting together, performing together, living together, and somehow, she’s still surprised by how easily they manage it, make her go from one to the other, then back again. Sometimes, she feels like the world’s most sensitive puppet. She doesn’t mind, though, not really, not when theirs are the most trustworthy of hands.
Bobby sighs, and after two years working side by side, she knows that whatever he says next, she won’t like it. She turns to him. He offers her a wan smile, going for reassuring, but the tired set of his eyes betrays him before he can even open his mouth.
‘Well,’ he starts, ‘good news, bad news. Good news is, Ms. Chung is only a couple of blocks away. Bad news is, with all this rain, traffic is even worse than usual, and she says it’ll probably take her at least twenty minutes to get here, so.’
He shrugs, helpless in a way he rarely is, especially when it comes to getting one of his girls back to his other girls – when it comes to getting Rumi away from work and back home. But even he can’t tame Seoul’s outrageous traffic, and he lets himself sink into a fancy chair, settling while he waits, defeated and tired and probably yearning for his own bed.
Rumi stares for a moment. If it takes twenty minutes for Ms. Chung to clear a few blocks, how long to make it back home? Thirty minutes? Forty? So, an hour overall, probably more, before she gets back to her warm home and her hungry girls. That won’t do. She opens the messaging app again.
‘That’s okay,’ she says, eyes fixed on her phone as she sends the text, ‘I’ll just walk home, then.’
Poor Bobby, who looks like he had been on the verge of falling asleep, jerks in his seat.
‘Walking?’ He stares aghast, first at her, then out into the stormy night. ‘In this weather?’
‘I have an umbrella.’ And she does, digging it out of her bag and holding up the flimsy-looking thing with a winsome smile.
He stares some more, waiting for her smile to waver. It does not, and neither does she.
‘But the rain…,’ he weakly mutters.
And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or maybe it’s the realization that Rumi’s dead serious, or maybe he’s finally accepted the fact that his charges are just a bit insane like that. Whatever the reason might be, he relents pretty quickly. Smart man. She loves him so.
‘Alright,’ he sighs, head hanging low. Rumi feels sorry for him, she does, but her girls are waiting, and they both know where her priorities lie. ‘But please, please, be careful. Don’t slip, don’t fall,’ another glance out the glass walls, another pained wince. ‘Don’t drown.’ Then, as if struck by the sudden realization of her mortality: ‘Oh my god, please, do not die, Rumi!’
‘I won’t,’ she says, tone as placating as she can get it to be.
‘And send me a text as soon as you get home!’
‘I will.’
She tries not to run toward the exit, because Celine’s taught her better than that, but it’s a near thing, she will admit.
‘And tell the girls I love them!’
‘Aw, you know they love you, too, Bobby! But yes, yes, I’ll tell them. Good night, Bobby.’
‘Good night, Rumi. I love you!’
‘Love you, too, Bobby!’
She turns back one last time to tell him so, while the security guard patiently holds the door open for her. Rumi gives him a grateful smile, even as a rush of cold wind barges in through the opening and slaps her across the face.
‘And don’t die!’
She waves back one last time as she steps out of the building and into the raging night.
These boots, Rumi soon decides, were not made for walking. Coupled with the sleek pavement, it’s a miracle she’s still standing. Still, despite the increasing risk of bruised knees and twisted ankles, her yearning for home grows stronger with every hurried step.
She turns left and walks a handful of meters before she realizes she’s going the wrong way. She sighs as she turns back, and the sound is threaded with frustration, yes, with the unnecessary delay, with the added time wasted under the cold, whipping rain, but it quickly gets forgotten at the thought of just where her footsteps were leading her so mindlessly.
Their old apartment. Her first home away from home. The new tower is nice – more than nice, obviously, ridiculously nice, really – and Rumi is grateful, of course, and honored, and humbled, too, but, well. It’s no small three-bedroom, scratched floors, perpetually broken elevator in the heart of Jung-gu, is all.
She’ll get used to the change, she knows – she always does.
The rest of the journey back home goes without a hitch, and she’s almost there, just one more block to go, when she sees it. Out of the corner of her eye, a neon sign calls her name. She pauses. Looks. Hesitates. She’s so close! Honestly, there’s really no need for her to- Ah, but Zoey did say- And hadn’t Mira just told her that-
The automatic doors hiss and snicker as they let her through.
Well, at least she’s out of the rain.
They’ve only been to this store a few times, and only ever in disguise, but whether it’s because of the late hour or the constant lullaby of rainfall, the cashier’s barely open eyes don’t seem to register Rumi’s presence. She still tucks her braid under her coat, though, just in case.
Her turtleneck grows damp where her plait lies, and the lights are harsh, and the floors are sticky under her shoes and make a gross noise like someone chewing gum right in her ear. Her lips curl, and her shoulders hunch at all the heinous, extra stimuli, but nevertheless, she perseveres. She’s here on a mission, now. A self-imposed one, sure, but a mission nonetheless.
She lets her instincts guide her until she stands before an absurdly wide array of snacks, bold colors, and bolder claims clamoring for her attention, promising never-before-seen flavors and death to all taste buds everywhere. She grabs a few fan favorites and some of the more bizarre, unfamiliar ones, just because Zoey’s sure to get a kick out of them – deep-fried pickle mayo Cheetos? Really? Why? – and Mira might actually enjoy those ‘Extremely hot stuff’, ‘Try if you dare!’, ‘You legally can’t sue us!’ chips, the weirdo. Juggling an armful of crinkling, noisy bags, she makes her way to her final destination, and what she sees there almost makes her believe that maybe she wasn’t cursed in the womb.
There, nestled among the rows of empty, metal shelves, lies a single carton of eggs. Admittedly, she stares for a little while, but come on. This type of thing never happens to her. Now, some might think that a rising international star and certified national treasure claiming to be unlucky is in poor taste, and they might even have a point, but Rumi would argue that, at least in her case, that has nothing to do with luck. But this right here? Ridiculous as it might sound, this feels like a sign. God, Rumi can’t wait to make egg drop soup for her girls with these. Somehow, she just knows it will be the best they’ve ever had.
With a quick thought to any poor sucker who might come here looking for eggs and have to leave empty-handed, she snatches the carton off the shelf and hurries over to the cash register.
An umbrella tucked against her cheek and plastic bags slapping against her thighs, she once again sets out for the tower, somehow more eager than ever to come home.
-------
The hallway is dark when the elevator’s doors slide open, and Rumi trips over Zoey’s discarded shoes as soon as she steps out.
Home, sweet home.
The bags rustle as she sets them down, and with freed hands and an exhausted smile, she puts Zoey’s shoes in their rightful place, wriggles out of the boots with a sigh of relief, and sloughs off her coat and all her worries of the day. Her eyes stray to the end of the hallway and the soothing light waiting for her there, just around the corner. The homesick little moth gathers up her offerings and steps forward.
As she grows closer, the nutty smell of sesame oil scents the air. Her stomach perks up like a dog; growls like one, too. She doubts it’ll be anything too elaborate; the girls had sounded way too tired for that. It doesn’t matter, though. Rumi would be more than happy to shovel plain warm rice into her mouth until her tummy hurts.
The idea of food quickly gets shoved to the wayside, though, as soon as the sound of too quiet murmurs reaches her ears. The Honmoon stirs, oh-so gentle. Her smile grows. Her ever-silent footsteps quicken.
She leaves the cool darkness of the hallway, trades it gratefully for the golden warmth of the living room, and it feels like the sun itself has come down from up high to greet her after her long journey home. For one single, breathless moment, all she can see, all she can feel is golden.
That is, before she sees it. Them.
She doesn’t understand what it is exactly that she’s seeing, at first. The scene, after all, is familiar enough. Her girls, together on the couch. Zoey, looking over the back of the couch, greeting her, glad to see her after a long day spent apart. And Zoey is facing her, and she does look eager, only-
She’s not looking at her. She’s not looking at anything, really, eyes shut, face halfway buried in a beloved mane of pink hair, only a few shades darker than Zoey’s freckled cheeks.
She stares at that hair, draped over the back of the couch like a trail of blood, a corpse dragged across a snowy plain, until a gasp steals her attention away again. Her eyes flick back to the side, back to Zoey and her shiny, parted lips, panting so loudly, it takes Rumi a second to hear the other sounds, those quick, slick, wet sounds-
And Rumi knows these sounds, recognizes them from lonely nights lying in an empty bed, dreaming about the day her nights won’t be so lonely, her bed not so empty, her own lips parted around the shape of two well-worn names.
‘Mi-Mira!’ That’s one of them. ‘I’m- I’m-!’
‘Fuck, Zoey,’ Ah, and there’s the other one. ‘Come on, baby, one more, you can give me one more, just let go for me.’
And Rumi does. The bags slip from limp fingers, fall to the ground with a dull thump! and a sharp-
Crack!
My heart, thinks Rumi faintly, then-
The eggs.
Then-
‘Rumi!’
‘What?’
But Zoey doesn’t answer Mira because now, she’s finally looking at Rumi, eyes wide and filling with- horror? Is that what that is? Rumi doesn’t know, doesn’t know anything anymore, only that the eggs are broken, and she doesn’t want to be here anymore, and the eggs are broken, and she wants to leave, please-
‘I- I’m sorry,’ she starts, words tripping out of her mouth aimlessly, ‘so sorry, I didn’t-’
Didn’t what, exactly? Didn’t know? Didn’t want to know? Didn’t want to see?
Her flailing for words is interrupted by Zoey standing up, hands reaching for her, until they both realize she’s shirtless. Rumi only catches a glimpse of freckled shoulders, freckled collarbones, freckled breasts-
Her eyes snap down to the bags and their spilled guts. She thinks Zoey might have yelped, might be rambling through her own set of apologies, but the words are lost, swept up in the blood rushing in her ears.
Her cheeks burn; so do her eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeats. ‘I’ll just-’
Her gaze snags on a piece of carton, turning soggy and gross in places. She latches onto the sight with the strength of a drowning woman.
‘I’ll go and- get some more, and you guys can just-’ She takes a step back. ‘-do,’ then another, ‘whatever.’ And another, and does not stop, even when Zoey stops her frantic search for her shirt to look at her.
‘What? No! Rumi, don’t go! We can just- just talk about it, right, Mira? Mira!’
Rumi doesn’t stay to hear Mira’s answer – if she even has one – because she has to go get some new eggs, because she broke the ones they did have, and the store will be closing soon, so she has to go, now, right now, now, nownownownow!
Darkness welcomes her back with open arms as she stumbles down the hallway, almost trips twice, but keeps standing, even when she twists her ankle, shoving her feet in her sneakers.
She slaps her hand against the elevator’s button, again and again, until the doors open for her.
‘Rumi, wait!’
But Rumi won’t, Rumi can’t, and she jabs her finger at the first-floor button so hard her nail breaks. The doors start to shut just as Zoey lurches into view, eyes wide and looking terrified. Rumi’s lips jerk and writhe, try to form a reassuring smile, the ghost of a reflex, a knee-jerk need to ease their fear. Zoey doesn’t look reassured. Neither does Mira, a few steps behind; she doesn’t look like anything Rumi can decipher, not now, not tonight. It doesn’t matter, though. The doors close, and she is alone.
The security guard and the concierge – and she knows their names, of course, she does, she says it every day, makes sure to look them in the eye while she does it, too, it’s just been a long day, is all – try to stop her. It’s still raining, Miss Kang, they tell her. Where is your umbrella? Your coat? It’s getting late. Are you okay? You look-
She thanks them for their concern, doesn’t dare try to go for a smile again, though. She’s okay, she assures them, just forgot something at the store, won’t take her long, should be back in a few minutes, don’t worry. They offer to do it for her. She refuses; aims for gentle, lands on strained instead. They hum, then haw, then let her go. The security guard still gets her to take his umbrella, not that it makes much of a difference.
The city is still weeping. Seoul’s tears wear her colors well, bold and neon-bright, licking the slick asphalt, gathering in shallow puddles Rumi disturbs with dragging steps. But even as she walks into pools of reds and greens and yellows, her shoes only seem to get grayer, her toes colder. Rumi doesn’t care, can barely see or feel any of it. What would it change if she did, anyway? She still has to go to the store, still has to get new eggs, still has to fix this mess-
The doors slide open. The lights are still too bright, the floors still too sticky, the cashier still sleepy, and why wouldn’t he be? It’s not like anything big happened in his life in the past- what, ten, fifteen minutes? Not like his whole world just ended with a breathy whimper, a low murmur-
Where did they keep the eggs already? Nevermind, she remembers, of course, she does, she was here not even twenty minutes ago, it’s been a long day, is all, and look, she just needs to walk past the snacks, past the drinks, and the dairy products, and there they are, those long metal shelves.
Those long, empty, metal shelves.
Ah.
Who’s the poor sucker now?
She chokes on a laugh. It is a wet, ugly sound. It twists and turns into a sob. It isn’t any prettier. Neither are the ones that follow. Gasping breaths that shake up her lungs, her entire frame. Her guts twist violently, her mouth fills with drool, her nose with snot. She can’t breathe. She’s going to be sick. She’s going to die.
(Please, please, let her die.)
Her fingers claw and clutch at her chest, as if she could ever hold this many broken pieces together with her bare hands. As if all those shards aren’t three blocks away, lying on the floor of a penthouse amid crushed chips and cracked eggs. The thought, she realizes too late, is a key. It turns in the lock. The floodgates open.
Zoey and Mira. Mira and Zoey. Together. Fucking on the couch. Our couch.
Her mind catches on that last part, the thought a barbed wire that won’t be ignored, but Rumi cannot bring herself to touch. Still, it scratches and bites at hers as she skirts past, and keeps a piece of Rumi she’ll never get back. But soon, other thoughts bare their teeth and lick their lips, ready to devour.
When did it start? Were they ever going to tell me? Why didn’t they?
And on any other day, the hypocrisy of it all would swallow her whole, but tonight, the thoughts are faster:
Is that what they were doing while the meeting was running late? While I was coming home to them? While I was standing right here, buying eggs and thinking about them?
Were they happy I wasn’t there?
This one digs its teeth deeper than any other, rips another sob out of her.
All this time… were the rabbits just waiting for the tiger to go away?
She falls into a crouch. She would have preferred falling to her knees, longs for the harsh smack of round bones against the ground, the promise of bruises. Instead, she digs the heels of her palms in her eyes until it hurts, and her cheeks are smeared with tears. She doesn’t ever want to get up.
And she shouldn’t have to, right? She just saw her girls- no, the girls – and how long has she been walking around thinking that they were hers like some kind of stupid fucking idiot? – the girls she’s loved since she first learned of their existence, the girls she’s been in love with for the past two years, fucking on their couch. Our couch. Shouldn’t she get to stay there, crouched in this shitty store with its too-bright lights and sticky floors forever if she wants to? Would that really be so bad?
Would anyone miss her?
But what is there to miss, really?
A pretty face, a lovely voice? A good killer, a bossy leader? A bad friend, a worse daughter? Or maybe just a demon. A silly, greedy beast who thought she deserved to be loved the way she craves so shamefully. That’s all she’s ever been, even as a kid.
‘Um, excuse me? I-I’m so sorry to bother you, but are you Rumi from HUNTR/X?’
Rumi freezes.
No. Please, God, the Honmoon, whatever or whoever is in charge- Not tonight.
But Rumi should know by now that her pleas, no matter how earnest, will always fall on deaf ears.
What was it again, about things coming in threes?
She breathes, allows herself one last moment in the soothing darkness of her own trembling hands, and looks up with a smile.
‘Oh my god!’ And she tries to take solace in how the girl’s face lights up at the mere sight of her, she does, but- ‘It really is you! I thought it was – because of the hair, you know? – but then I thought, no way, no way! What would the Rumi from HUNTR/X be doing in a convenience store this late at night, be for real, Woo-ri! But it is you!’ And maybe the stars in her eyes have finally dulled enough to take Rumi in, because here comes the dreaded question: ‘Are- are you okay? It’s just- you look a bit…’
‘Oh, yes, yes, sorry!’ She finally straightens up, wiping under her eyes with slow, measured movements, careful not to irritate the skin any further. ‘It’s just-,’ she laughs, a soft exhale that sounds just chagrined enough. ‘God, this is so embarrassing, but I realized we were out of eggs, came here, and-’ she waves at the empty shelves with a sheepish sweep of her arm. ‘It’s silly, but I guess it’s just been a long day, you know?’
The girl nods, hard enough to almost send her glasses flying.
‘Right, right, I know exactly what you mean! Like when you’re already so done with your day, and then, there’s just that one tiny little thing that finishes you off, and ugh! So annoying, happens to me all the time.’
She almost breathes a sigh of relief at the girl’s earnest sympathy. Rumi doesn’t think she’s too likely to spread rumors about the crazy idol she found mid-breakdown in the dairy aisle, but it never hurts to ask.
‘Say- Woo-ri, was it?’ At the wide-eyed nod she received, Rumi’s smile softens, turns a bit more genuine as she tilts her head. ‘Would you mind if we kept this just between the two of us?’ She joins her hands, brings them up to pouting lips, a picture of rueful vulnerability. ‘I’d really, really appreciate it.’
‘Oh, for sure! Don’t worry, Rumi-nim, your secret’s safe with me, I swear on my entire family’s head! Anything for you!’
‘Ah, well, I don’t know that that’s necessary, but- Thank you, Woo-ri, that’s very kind of you. Is there anything I could do for you in return?’
‘No way!’ Another violent headshake. Rumi is starting to fear for this girl’s poor vertebrae. ‘Or, I mean, since you’re offering…’
‘I am.’
‘Would you mind-,’ and Woo-ri starts fumbling with her phone, and Rumi feels dread percolating in her stomach at the thought of posing for a picture, of it finding its way onto social media despite the girl’s promise. She only relaxes when she sees Woo-ri’s just trying to get her phone out of its case. A familiar, clearly well-loved photocard finally emerges. ‘-signing this, please?’
She stares back at her own printed face as it is thrust toward her, held between two unsteady hands. She barely recognizes herself – the glint in her eye, the proud set of her brow, the curve of her lips. That’s not who she is, not right now, not tonight, maybe not ever again. But it is who she needs to be. Because Rumi has made a vow – to the Honmoon, to the fans, to Celine, to her the girls, hasn’t she? And so she has to keep it, doesn’t she? Has to get up, has to move forward; can’t give up until she’s golden. In the meantime-
‘I’d be honored.’
She grabs the card and a pen – both damp with sweat – and makes sure not to smear the ink all over her perfect, frozen face.
‘Thank you, Rumi-nim. I’ll cherish this with my life.’
On any other day, she would be flattered by the obvious devotion in the girl’s voice. Tonight, it only feels like one more heavy weight on her shoulders.
‘No, thank you for your kindness and your support. I hope we can meet again.’
‘Me, too, Rumi-nim!’
Rumi tries not to squirm at the prolonged, breathless eye-contact. She lets it go on for two, three seconds before taking a step back.
‘Well, thanks again, and get home safe.’
‘You, too! Goodnight! Oh, and goodnight to Zoey-nim and Mira-nim, too!’
A pinched heart, a tight smile, a quick retreat, and she is free. Free to go back to the penthouse and endure.
What else is there for her to do?
If Rumi never has to hear the quiet ding! of elevator doors opening again, she will die a happy woman.
Well, no, she won’t. But still, she’d appreciate it.
The sight that immediately greets her is somewhat expected, but no less upsetting. Was it really too much to hope that Zoey and Mira would just call it a day and go to bed - probably the same one? Rumi is starting to understand that yes, it was, and that she should just quit hoping, period. On the bright side, it seems Zoey’s found her shirt. Rumi supposes she should start counting her blessings instead of hoping.
She hesitates for a moment before stepping out of the elevator, tempted to just let the doors close again and take her away, but she’s already run away once tonight, she can’t do it again, can she? So she steps out and stands as tall as all the weights on her shoulders will allow. They straighten, too – always so in sync. Zoey’s hand falls from her mouth, the skin around her thumb an angry red, a painful habit she hasn’t indulged in years. Should it make her feel better, Rumi wonders, to know they have felt the heavy blow of tonight’s events as well? Maybe it does, but she feels too numb to know for sure. Really, she just wants to go to bed. Looks like she’s got to get her heart broken some more before she can, though.
Zoey takes a hesitant step forward, like she’s worried that Rumi will- what? Lash out? Ignore her? Run away again? It’s okay, Rumi wants to say, but it’s not, so she doesn’t. Mira stays put, still staring.
When was the last time they were this quiet, the three of them, this tense? She honestly can’t remember.
She startles at Zoey’s soft gasp.
‘Rumi, you’re soaked.’
Rumi is well aware of that fact, but she still wishes Zoey hadn’t pointed it out. Now, all she can focus on is the way the wool of her pants sticks to her thighs, how her turtleneck has somehow gotten even tighter.
‘You should go change,’ Zoey gently says. Rumi only nods. ‘And then,’ Zoey continues, uncomfortable but less so than determined, unfortunately, ‘we should talk.’
Right. She doesn’t look at either of them as she passes by, just trudges down the hallway. The floor of the living room is bare, her mess cleaned up. She doesn’t stop until she makes it to her room, and even then, she doesn’t allow herself to linger, resists the urge to lean against the door, or god forbid, sit on the bed. She turns on the lights, despite her itching eyes, and strips out of her sopping outfit with relish. She stares at the sopping wet socks for a second more before she dumps them in the laundry hamper.
On go the fluffy sweatpants, the thick hoodie; out goes Rumi, ready to get this over with.
The rumbling of the kettle dies down just as she enters the living room. So do Mira and Zoey’s quiet murmurs.
For a brief moment, they just stare at each other, until Zoey’s need to fill uncomfortable silences kicks in.
‘We were just making you some tea to warm you up. You must be cold, still,’ she says, and Rumi isn’t sure if the worried look in her eyes is for her well-being or the looming conversation. She tries not to focus on the ‘we’ and ‘you’s of it all, too; doesn’t quite succeed.
‘Chrysanthemum okay?’
‘Chrysanthemum’s fine. Thanks.’
A beat, then-
‘You hungry?’ Somehow, Mira’s voice sounds even lower than this morning, all sleep-rough and 7 am-quiet. Was that really only a few hours ago? ‘Rice should still be warm, but I can make something else if you want.’
And Rumi is hungry, when isn’t she? But tonight, she doesn’t think anything will be able to slide past the lump in her throat; even the tea might be pushing it, but she’ll take drowning in sweet flowers over choking on warm rice.
‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘I’m not that hungry.’
Mira nods, and Zoey starts to stir the honeyed mixture in the hot water that much more vigorously, spoon harshly clinking against the mug over and over again, until she seems to remember how much Rumi dislikes that sound. With a cringing look of apology, she stops and hands the mug over to Rumi like a peace offering. The ceramic feels scorching against her freezing palms. She clutches it tighter.
‘Should we go sit on the couch? Or,’ Zoey winces. ‘I guess the kitchen’s better, right? But, I mean, whatever you prefer, Rumi. Your choice.’
Of course it is. So what will it be? The couch she can’t even bring herself to look at right now? Or the kitchen meant for quiet mornings and shared meals? Leader’s choice.
She sits at the counter in lieu of an answer. The kitchen might as well get used to awkward silences and tense conversations; Rumi’s got a feeling it will be seeing a lot of those in the foreseeable future.
Zoey and Mira follow suit. Rumi stares into her tea instead of their shuffling.
It’s a recent acquisition, the mug, a late Christmas gift from Zoey and Mira, a souvenir brought back from California.
‘Rumi...’
Her thumb traces the grizzly bear’s giant grin, lingers on the ‘I love you bear-y much!’ floating next to his goofy face.
It looks so stupid.
‘I- We’re so sorry.’
Bears really aren’t, though. Stupid, that is.
‘You should never have had to find out about this like… that.’
They have one of the biggest brain-to-body ratios when it comes to land mammals. They have an extraordinary memory, and their sense of observation is really impressive, too.
For her sixth birthday, Rumi had begged Celine to let her be a bear.
She had become a hunter, instead.
‘We meant to tell you, we really did, but…’
‘But what?’
Zoey looks startled at the interruption. Rumi’s not sure why. That’s the one billion-won question, isn’t it?
Zoey and Mira got together.
They didn’t tell Rumi.
Why?
They exchange a look, the two of them – Mira and Zoey – and it’s a familiar sight. The heartbreak that comes with it is not. She doesn’t know what that look means, can’t even begin to discern all the nuances. She’s starting to understand that maybe she never really did.
‘Well… We did try, at first. We really did!’ Zoey looks at her with wide, beseeching eyes, desperate to be believed. Rumi’s not sure she does. ‘But there was never a good time, you know? I mean, we’ve been so busy and stressed and tired with the new album, and we just didn’t want to add on that.’ Another shared, loaded look, heavy with a meaning just out of Rumi’s reach. ‘Mostly, though, I guess we were just…’
‘Scared,’ Mira says, and she looks it, too. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell, but Rumi can. Can’t tell when they’re in love – or not –, but can tell when they’re scared. Great.
‘Of what?’
‘Of this. Of you shutting us out and running away-’
Rumi bristles.
‘I’m sorry, did you want me to just stand there and watch?’
‘What? No!’
‘Then what was I supposed to do, exactly?’
‘I-’ Mira slides her glasses off to better pinch the bridge of her nose, and Rumi feels a petty, pleased little thrill at the look of frustration written so plainly on that handsome face of hers. ‘I’m not good at this.’
No, you’re not, Rumi doesn’t say, but only because Zoey gets there first. From her lips, though, the words don’t sound nearly as harsh. Buried under all the weariness, her fondness for her lover – because that’s what they are now, right? Lovers? – glints like the most precious of treasures. Her arm shifts, and Rumi doesn’t need to have X-ray vision to know they’re holding hands under the table.
She looks away. Lifts the mug to her mouth. Burns her tongue.
Bites it anyway.
‘What we meant is that we were worried you wouldn’t react well to the news – which is perfectly understandable! Especially with the way you found out about it, which, again, we’re so sorry about what happened. We just didn’t want you to think that this changes anything about us.’
A broad circle with her hand to encompass all three of them, as if before tonight, ‘us’ could mean anything else.
‘Doesn’t it, though?’
‘Of course not! Just because Mira and I are-
‘Girlfriends.’
‘-dating.’ Rumi is one more look away from closing her eyes for the rest of this nightmare of a conversation. ‘Girlfriends who date, it doesn’t mean we care any less about the group, or the mission, or you. The fact that there’s a- a MiraandZoey, doesn’t change anything about MiraandZoeyandRumi. Nothing needs to change.’
Maybe if she says it one more time, she’ll be able to convince at least one of them. But it won’t be Rumi, and from the looks of it, it won’t be Mira either.
Mira, with her pinched lips and runaway eyes.
Maybe that’s why Rumi asks her and not Zoey.
‘How long?’
Mira doesn’t even pretend to be confused by the question.
‘Two months.’ She tilts her head to the side, hair sliding over her shoulder, then, ‘One month and twenty-six days.’
Rumi does the math. It doesn’t take her very long.
‘New Year’s.’
Mira nods, eyes finally meeting hers, dark and careful.
Rumi’s gaze drops back down to her mug, to that silly-looking bear and that stupid, stupid pun.
The mug is a gift, from Zoey and Mira, brought back from California.
They had spent just over a week there, visiting Zoey’s father in Burbank while Rumi stayed behind in Seoul. She remembers that week well: December 24th to January 1st. The longest she’d been apart from them, the both of them, at the same time.
They really were just waiting to be alone, huh?
‘We weren’t planning on it happening,’ Zoey says, shrugs, ‘It just... did.’
‘And then it kept on happening.’
‘Yeah.’
The thought of sinking into her cold mattress and being smothered to death by her thick comforter has never been more appealing. And yet, as lovely as the thought of her dark bedroom might be, she knows there is one more question that needs to be asked, not by the girl with the broken heart, but by the leader of the heartbreakers.
Rumi pushes the mug away; tries to shove the hurt feelings and the urge to cry along with it, too – they won’t do her any good for this next part. She breathes in and out. Straightens her shoulders. Looks at the lyricist and the choreographer, the Shin-kal wielder and the Gok-do bearer. Her bandmates. Her sisters-in-arm. Her best friends. In these ways, and no others, they’re hers. And Rumi, for all her flaws, takes care of what is hers. Even when it hurts like hell.
‘Alright.’ Mira and Zoey straighten, sensing the quiet shift. ‘Does anyone know about you two?’
‘Aside from you? No.’
‘Not your father?’ Rumi asks anyway. ‘Your mom? Any of your cousins?’
‘No, no,’ Zoey shakes her head. ‘Just you. We weren’t going to tell anyone until we told you.’
‘Okay.’ Rumi nods, doesn’t comment on just how she found out. ‘We’ll need to arrange a meeting with HR, but that can wait until you’ve talked to Bobby and Celine. They’ll want to know as soon as possible. After that, the publicists will want to have a word with you – the board, too-’
‘Is that really necessary?’ Zoey interrupts. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know we have to tell Bobby and Celine, but- do we really have to tell everyone? Can’t this stay between the three of us? Or- five of us, I guess.’
‘You signed a contract, remember? That no-dating clause isn’t just for show. Better you disclose it first than them finding out about it some other way.’
‘Sure, but it’s not like we’re dating some stranger that’ll go straight to the press if we break up, and we know better than to go public about it, so really, what do they care?’
And Rumi doesn’t point out the obvious, that an in-group romance isn’t much better, that it is, if anything, significantly riskier, and thus, to be avoided at all costs. That if they ever were to break up, the band would not survive. Neither would the world.
‘You’re two-thirds of a band worth almost fifty billion won, Zoey,’ she reminds her instead. ‘Trust me, they’ll care.’
Zoey’s shoulders slump in resignation. She looks so small like this.
‘What if they try to break us up?’ Mira asks. The forced calm of her voice does little to hide the tense set of her shoulders, the dread lurking in her eyes. ‘Say they tell us we can’t be together. What then?’
Zoey’s poor thumb gets reacquainted with her teeth.
‘They wouldn’t do that, would they?’
‘They might,’ Mira insists.
‘They won’t,’ Rumi says.
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I won’t let them.’
The look they share with her now, at least, she understands. Relief and gratitude in equal measures, born from knowing that these are not empty words, a hollow attempt at placating them. This is a promise, an oath sworn not just by the leader of HUNTR/X, but by the leader of the Honmoon’s chosen protectors.
‘Thank you.’
The words are heartfelt. Rumi can’t offer any of her own in response.
To the board, to Celine, even, she will say it’s because it would only make things worse, that forbidding two people in love from being together while making them live and work together would be a nightmare for everyone involved.
To herself, she can admit she simply loves them too much to put them through something like this.
She downs her tea in a few long swallows. The exhaustion of the day rushes back like a wave, recedes, and leaves nothing behind.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘I don’t know about you, but it’s been a long day. I’m gonna call it a night. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She stands up from her seat, limbs all stiff.
‘Rumi.’
Mira’s hand – the one not currently holding Zoey’s – comes to rest on her arm. She stares down at it silently.
‘It’s true, you know. What she said,’ she adds with a toss of her head toward her girlfriend. ‘Zoey’s still Zoey, I’m still Mira, and you’re still our Rumi, and that will never change.’
Rumi stares at the rare treat that is this sweet, gentle smile, and tries not to cry.
Kill me.
‘She’s right,’ Zoey nods, never one to be left out. Her own toothy grin is not as rare, but just as lovely. ‘You know what they say, besties before ladies!’
She huffs a laugh.
Kill me.
‘Right. Going to bed, now. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.
‘Goodnight, sleep tight!’
A silent wave back will have to suffice. She has nothing left to give.
The bedroom door closes behind her.
She doesn’t bother turning on the light. She doesn’t wash her face or brush her teeth, either. She takes her hair out of its braid and sets it free instead of gathering it back in a loose plait the way she does every night.
She’ll regret all of this in the morning, probably. Add it to the pile. God knows it’ll be in good company.
For now, she crawls into bed and lets herself be the heartbroken girl that she is. The tears come fast. She doesn’t move to wipe them away; she knows more would take their place. Her breath leaves her in wet, warm puffs, lungs shivering with shallow heaves.
Rumi does not sleep that night. She does not find refuge in sweet dreams and half-remembered, happier times, nor does she get to lose herself in nightmares so awful she’d wake up happy to be Rumi, just as she is.
Instead, she lies in her cold, lonely bed, stares at her ceiling, and grieves. Grieves for the girl she was just this morning, this evening, even. The girl whose only wish was to come home. To be with the girls she loved more than anything, more than she should, more than she was allowed to. But she just couldn’t help herself, could she?
Rumi doesn’t blame her. They are impossible not to love, these two girls. Even now. Even with the taste of salt on her lips. Even with the gaping hole in her chest. She knows all too well that one does not get to see Zoey’s freckled cheeks bunch up in a dimpled smile, witness Mira’s brown eyes grow amber in the dawning light, and retain sole ownership of their own heart.
Her only mistake had been to think that they could ever feel the same. That the only thing keeping them apart was her patterns. That once they were gone, they could be together, finally, as they’d always been meant to be.
And while mistakes are human, Rumi is not. She does not get to shrug them off, not when they cling to her shoulders so tightly, digging their claws in, dragging her down, down to meet her true kin.
That night, Rumi doesn’t sleep. She doesn’t dream. She burns.