Archive of Our Own ^beta

The few days after Gwi-Ma’s defeat were quiet, and peaceful.

They all needed time to recharge after that battle. To reconnect. To settle. They had cuddled together the night of the battle, falling asleep on Rumi’s large bed from exhaustion, without any word exchanged, without anything needing to be said.

There was an ease in the way Rumi curled into Mira’s arms, tentative and small, that reminded the redhead of a happier, simpler time in the past. Of soft, simmering sunrise filtering through the curtains, cautious and hesitant in its gentle embrace. Of when Rumi had yet to learn what walls were and Mira had taken great delight in being allowed to wander closer.

There was comfort in the way Zoey draped herself over both of them, face pressed tight into Rumi’s back and arm stretching over Mira’s shoulder to cocoon them into a tiny, secure bundle. Like an anchor tethering them to the ground, unwavering even in uncharted water. Sturdy and tight. Sometimes Mira wished it was tighter, though.

It had always been like this with her girls. Rumi, tentative yet unsettled. Zoey, reassuring yet not enough.

Among the three of them, Rumi is often the early bird. Her morning starts at half past five every day, almost religiously. But last night must have taken a toll on her, for when Mira blinks herself awake, groggily against the sunlight shining too bright out of Rumi’s large windows, her vision is suddenly filled with lilac it jolts Mira awake immediately.

Rumi’s hair, down from her normal braid and messy from the heap they are still in, catches the morning light like a halo. A safe haven. Something adjoins a fevered dream and a scorching wish. The sharp, biting contentment leaves Mira breathless, charged with a fear so blinding, so captivating, so bewitching at this godly hour.

She wants to touch her. She wants. But Mira’s hands start to tremble in the same reverberation as her throat. Tight and restrained. Uncontrolled. The moment of clarity hit, and Mira’s mind crumbles into itself. Yearning and panic weave together so tightly it hurts.

It feels surreal. It can’t be real. Rumi. Rumi. Here. She cannot be real.

Mira doesn’t like strong emotions. Intense ones. They make her feel out of sorts, unbalanced, unsure. She knows how panic works, the way her body reacts. Slowly, she untangles herself from Rumi’s light nuzzles into her neck (the action is so adorable it makes Mira’s heart want to growl and snarl and tear itself right out of her chest in a bloody mess), and Zoey’s vice grip around her shoulder (easier said than done, but Mira has had practice before).

She picks up a cardigan from a nearby chair and wraps it around herself. Her senses are instantly flooded with Rumi’s smell, Mira almost flinches on the spot. Her hands are still trembling slightly when she reaches for the doorknob. She doesn’t turn back, slipping away from the room into the cold shadows of the hallway.

One. In and out. Rumi’s room is on the far side of the penthouse. Two. In and out. Mira knows the way like the back of her hand. Three. In and out. It takes thirty-seven steps to reach her own room. Four. In and out. Their living room flooring is the same color as Rumi’s hair. Five. In and out. She likes toast for breakfast. Six. In and out. She doesn’t like milk first thing in the morning. Seven. In and out. There are three mugs on the kitchen counter. Eight…

By the time Mira reaches her room, the dead grip she has on the cardigan’s sleeves has loosened somewhat. Still tight, but not anxiety-inducing tight. She stares at the mirror in her bathroom, and watches her shoulders rise and fall with how her chest heaves. Slow, easy. Mira reminds herself, shutting her eyes firmly. Don’t grip the counter.

It’s okay. The cardigan is still wrapped firmly around her, its length barely reaching just above her hip. Mira takes comfort in that. It’s okay. She is here. She came back. She is going to stay.

Will she, though?

Mira refuses to chase that thought. It would be a problem for a future Mira down the line. Right now, as soon as her breathing has gotten back to normal and her heart won’t feel like bursting out of her chest when she looks at Rumi anymore, she is going to make breakfast for her girls. Toast for Rumi, and pancakes for Zoey, as always.

The dancer does not give Rumi back her cardigan. Not when Rumi shuffled shyly into the kitchen half an hour later, bashed in the gorgeous sunrise, an unsure smile on her lips. Not when Mira smiles back, just as tentatively, nods towards the kitchen island and watches how Rumi lights up like the sun. It is fitting, in a way, that it always hurts to stare too long at the sun. Something destined to be out of your reach.

The most fascinating thing about the sun, though, is its consistency. Its familiarity. Its never-ending light.

When Rumi settles into her stool, both hands on the counter and tilting her head just a bit to peer at Mira curiously, the redhead has to hold back a chuckle at the hopeful look in those eyes. Puppy, tired, mesmerizing eyes. Eyes that Rumi always makes in the rare mornings when Mira is awake before her. Bashful eyes that just know there is toast to be devoured later.

Mira is weak for those eyes. Sue her. Everyone is weak for Rumi’s eyes anyway.

It is familiar. And even when Rumi’s patterns simmer contentedly in the delicate light of a new day, the familiarity doesn’t dissolve.

Mira doesn’t even remember about the patterns. Maybe she should have paid more attention to them, last night and this morning. But it didn’t matter at the time. All she knew was that Rumi had left, disappeared from her life, and the family she had deluded herself into having had been shattered like smoke in the storms, burned and blazed until it turned to ash.

Rumi left, patterns and everything. And now she is here. Mira would take a patterned-Rumi over a non-Rumi in her life any day.

There are adjustments to be made, she knows that, to move forward with their lives. Tough conversations and harsh truths, both of which are neither her nor Rumi’s forte. God bless for Zoey, who had dragged them kicking and screaming through how many conflicts they had had in the past. Mira muses as she carefully pours the pancake batter into the pan, moving it around to form a turtle shape.

It doesn’t hurt anymore, looking at the patterns scattering around Rumi’s shoulders as the leader digs happily into her toast. Mira is never hurt when Rumi is happy and content. But there is a discomfort slowly settling into her bones, a malice that should not belong today, in this precious moment. An ache that prevents Mira from rounding the counter and just touch Rumi like she had done so many times in the past. Like she had done this morning, too, when reality had yet to crash down on her as the sun awoke from its slumber.

It doesn’t feel right, now, to touch Rumi so freely like before. Mira doesn’t know why, it is simply something she can feel in her bones, in every nerve, in the way those patterns form gradient curves around Rumi’s exquisite neck.

She doesn’t know why. But as Rumi shoots her a small smile, appreciative and almost sheepish, when she asks for a second serving, Mira wants to.

She wants to. So, so much.

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Mira likes to think of herself as the thinker of the group.

She likes to contemplate things. Abstract ideas, recondite concepts. It allows her creativity to bloom, flourish and forge unfettered. It allows for introspective space and unimagined thoughts. Scenarios she can think of and never let unfold. It calms her, grounds her, to have contingencies in place, to have her thoughts sorted out before she acts.

Rumi is always the type to act first, think later. It is not to say she is not considerate. No, the opposite of that. She is so well-versed in body language and subtle cues that she can tune in to the other person’s feelings on the spot, and act accordingly without even having to think about it.

Rumi can afford to be reckless with her actions, because Mira knows her heart. Her heart would never harm anyone. The sympathetic, soft, purring organ in desperate need of love and care it is.

She would like to think she knows Rumi’s heart pretty well. But, in light of recent developments, Mira wonders if there are things she has missed. If there are lies she had let herself be fooled by and truths she had let escape from her grasp.

“I’m not keeping anything from you, Mira.” Lie.

“Not everything is about your insecurities, Mira!” Truth.

Because, the truth is, both Rumi and Mira can be self-centered sometimes. Their defense mechanism is so extreme it leaves them almost blind to the people around them sometimes, when they feel like they are being threatened. Tunnel vision, Mira remembers her therapist told her before.

Tunnel, because it is dark, long, scary and feels like it can collapse onto itself at barely a moment’s notice. Claustrophobic. The feel of being buried alive, being suffocated to death. Screaming and shouting for a miracle that might never appear.

Although, Mira breathes out slowly to regain her composure, there is light at the end of the tunnel. When you’re stuck in a gloomy, lonesome place, the only way out is moving forward. One small, minuscule step at a time.

Looking at Rumi now, lounging on the couch with Zoey sitting next to her, both of them giggle at something on the latter’s phone, Mira’s lungs feel like they are submerged in water. The walls suddenly cave in from all sides, until everything she can see in her blurry vision is Rumi, unfairly beautiful in the dimly lit room. Patterns and all.

Tunnel. Her mind growls. Restless and unsure. Swelling until it feels too big to be submerged anymore. You’re my tunnel.

You’re suffocating me. You’re my respite. I can die for you. It is not such a terrifying thought.

The world slows to a crawling halt. Mira remembers someone had died for Rumi, already.

It has been a week since that night. Mira finds herself thinking about Jinu more and more often, when she allows her mind to wander.

They haven’t asked Rumi about that. About him. Not yet, when the wounds were still too tender, when Mira could see the conflict etched at the corner of Rumi’s smile, the lingering shadows tight around her shoulders. Zoey is curious, and Mira is a bit impatient. But they learned their lesson the last time they pushed Rumi too much, too soon.

Adjustments. Mira reasons with herself. There has to be an adjustment period. Even though her instincts are crying in anguish at being left out of Rumi’s thoughts, once more.

In the time it takes for Rumi to open up, Mira’s thoughts stray to Jinu again. In preparation for whatever Rumi is about to disclose.

She doesn’t know that much about Jinu, the same as Zoey. They know he was a demon, the leader of a boy band whose main purpose was to steal all their fans and weaken the Honmoon. He was smug, judging from the few interactions between Huntrix and Saja Boys at award ceremonies and the few collab events Huntrix accidentally invited themselves to.

Mira’s impression of him remained the same. Pompous, egotistical, the most basic-looking of all the Saja boys. It was hatred at second sight to her, upon finding out he was a demon and his nefarious scheme. She couldn’t stand him, back then. She didn’t understand him, what was it about him that had captivated Rumi’s attention so devastatingly?

(She had asked Rumi, once. “And ‘Woo Jinu!’, what’s that about?”

She still doesn’t know if Rumi had lied about that, too.)

There are gaps in her knowledge, the transitions from when she saw Jinu and Rumi on stage together, polite smiles on their face and appropriate social distance between them, to him whispering his last words to a teary-eyed Rumi as he dissolved in front of her. Gaps, where there should be none, where there should be explanations and clarity. Where Mira should have paid more attention.

Was it her fault, to not notice the little things about Rumi’s strange behaviors (But she noticed! Oh how much she noticed and yet it was still not enough)? Or was it Rumi’s fault, then, to push everyone away so masterfully Mira never had the chance of catching even just a whisp of the truth, in the first place.

What did he do to make you let him in? Did he push you, too? Or did he coax you so gently and tenderly until you caved, folded, eager like a baby bird learning to fly, the taste of freedom addicting and maddening at the same time?

Did he make you feel like he was your tunnel, too? Like the only pillar you could lean on?

They had encountered countless demons before, so it was definitely not the patterns that set him apart. What was it about Jinu that marked him as special then? Someone worthy of trust? Someone who had slipped past the carefully carved walls to the other side where Mira had never even seen glimpses of?

Thinking about him hurts. Mira flips from resisting the urge to punch the walls in anger one moment and whimpering in sadness the next. It hurts, but it a necessary evil, because Mira is nothing but meticulous when it comes to the way she interacts with her bandmates. She needs to know what he means to Rumi, what he has done to bring her comfort, with the slightest hope that she can be that, too.

(She forgot to ask Rumi if the vocalist needed a reminisce of the past, an imposter of someone who had chosen to leave her instead of staying.)

Mira decides to go back to therapy, one day, on a free evening the three of them decided to watch a movie together. When Rumi’s head fell onto her shoulder so easily, almost effortlessly like it had always in the past. And Mira had flinched.

She flinched, violently enough to jolt Zoey who was resting her head in her lap. Rumi looked at her with those wide, startled eyes, mouth agape. Confusion quickly crystallized into hurt, before morphing into something else Mira could not decipher. Something desolating and aggrieved at the same time.

Rumi’s patterns flickered a violet shade, momentarily. The sight seared itself into the deepest corner of Mira’s mind. It would have been the most beautiful view the dancer had ever seen in her life, if not for the way her heart was hammering so irrationally in her chest.

“What happened??” Zoey exclaimed loudly, flinging herself upright, already on edge.

Rumi started to shrink into herself. But before she could retreat further, the other side of Mira’s instincts kicked in and she quickly reached out, gripping Rumi’s wrist in a vice grip. She was using too much force, she knew that. But the foolish part in her didn’t want to let go of the contact.

“It’s nothing. I was just surprised.” The dancer rushed out, sincere and apologetic. “Don’t go, please. I want you on me.”

Zoey snorted, somewhere next to them. But all Mira’s attention was focused on the small, shaky frown between Rumi’s eyebrows, hardening the refined features of her wonderfully stunning face. A moment passed in silence, a judgment made, and Rumi was sliding back into her side again, slowly and stiffly this time.

The new, unfamiliar, antagonizing caution aggravated Mira. Her heart broke, while she was just learning how to sew it back together.

She is going back to therapy. She is alright with letting the discomfort fester inside her own skin, her head and mind. But she would sooner die than allow the ache to cause pain in the people she cares about.

Not Rumi, definitely. Never Rumi.

---------------------------

She doesn’t tell her therapist about Rumi being a demon.

Not because she thinks he is going to tell anyone. No, he had signed a very tight NDA agreement that Bobby drafted for her at the beginning, after Huntrix had formed a few months and Mira was already so attached to the two other members of the group that she had asked Bobby for recommendations of a therapist.

(His eyes were kind, voice gentle. Mira almost preened at the proud look on his face.

This was the family she had chosen. She was going to put effort into keeping it. Nurturing it, making it last.)

She doesn’t tell the therapist, because she knows Rumi is not ready for other people to know about her. Not yet. Perhaps not ever, but Mira is alright with that. Rumi moves at her own pace, and the redhead has spent the majority of her life learning how to entwine her steps into that rhythm, too. A dance they are both well-versed in.

But lately, the pace has turned different. Unpredictable. Like a dissonant note in a song. She keeps messing up the steps, and she would like some help to figure out the appropriate pacing, tuning her tempo, guiding her foot placement. She doesn’t know where the ground ends and the endless sea begins anymore.

And then, her therapist asks, “When you dance, if you don’t know the steps, what would you do?”

The answer comes to her easily, instinctively. “I will make up new ones.”

She is the most gifted choreographer of the decade. It is a given fact. Mira is endlessly creative in coming up with new dance moves. It is not something she needs to think about, but knows within her bones.

Not with this, though.

“Of course,” The man opposite her laughs and shakes his head, expectantly, “But what about when you’re dancing in a group? In a pair? What would you do when you’re not the only one affected by your decision? What if the other person is a bit slower on the uptake and won’t be able to get your hint?”

Mira furrows her eyebrows. It goes against her nature, but in situations like that, there can only be one answer.

“Then I will let her move first. I can read the cues from there.” She is not going to force Rumi into a dance they both don’t know the steps to, which would undoubtedly make the purple-haired girl uncomfortable.

Her therapist looks at her, in that discerning way he always does. It makes Mira shift a little in her seat, sitting up straighter even when she doesn’t really have to. That was the perfect answer. She is a considerate person, she will let Rumi have the space to move first.

“Or, how about…” The tapping of his fingers against the clipboard is soothing. Its cadent beats. “You both just pause, take stock, and discuss the steps before you go. I do not recommend pushing your partner to lead if they don’t know the steps, too.”

Pause. Take stock. Discuss. In the whirlwind chaos of the last few weeks, neither of them had the time nor was in the right mental state for any of that.

---------------------------

Breathing becomes easier, as each day passes and Mira sees Rumi rise with the sun. Dawn on the horizon, and Rumi seems to become more settled as well.

She is not going away. Mira hopes she is never going to.

Something shifts in that time, as well.

Rumi has gone back to those long-sleeved shirts again.

It is maddening, the sight. Mira has seen the patterns, the part of Rumi she kept hidden away for eternity, and now she can’t bear not to look at them anymore.

There are still a few lines running across the vocalist’s face. She couldn’t hide that. But they are not enough. Mira is not satisfied with just a shadow of the truth. A figment of authenticity. She grumbles in frustration as Rumi stumbles into the kitchen the next day, long-sleeved covered to her fingertips again. Something dark and twisted rumbles inside her chest. Something that feels suspiciously like fear and insecurity clawing its way up her throat.

“Whoa dude! Watch the milk!” Zoey’s shriek breaks her out of her stupor. In her hazy state, Mira has squeezed the milk carton in her hand so hard it pops and spills everywhere. Her hand, Zoey’s face, the rapper’s phone, Rumi’s eggs and bacon waiting for her on the counter.

Mira blinks. Zoey starts frantically looking around for a piece of napkin, until a hand reaches out and settles around her jaw in a loose grip. Rumi is a vision from this angle, eyes soft and voice low as she tells Zoey to hold still. Their maknae happily settles on the spot and lets the other girl wipe the milk away from her face.

When those brown eyes turn to her, Mira almost forgets how to breathe.

“Need help?” There is a delicate note in Rumi’s voice. A note that she is intimately familiar with. A note that Rumi reserves for their most treasured songs, sacred spaces, and half-whispered words. A note at 2 am in the morning as they collapse on the floor in a tired mess and Zoey pleads with Rumi to sing for them, softly and ardently.

Mira had fallen asleep to those notes countless times before. The melody is engraved onto her ribs, in her soul. She would recognize Rumi’s special voice with just a half-syllable alone.

Yes. Mira wants to say. But someone else already beat her to it. “Pssssst! She doesn’t need help! She has no milk on her! Like, zilch! I’m the sole victim in this catastrophe! Eyes on me, Rumiiiiii.”

Zoey bats her eyelashes innocently. Mira goes from wanting to throttle her to wanting to build that personal in-house aquarium for her as Rumi turns and chuckles, amused and delighted. The redhead stares at the upturned corners of her lips, the tiniest thread of purple pattern running along her jaw to her ear, glowing like tiny, happy sparkles in the air. The bleak, twisted thing slowly uncurled its blackened claws around Mira’s heart.

It is contagious, that happy smile on her face. Like it’s a secret, a treasure, something to be protected and be proud of. It is contentment, in the way Rumi gently taps Zoey’s nose when the younger girl keeps whining playfully.

It is home. It is how a home should be.

And with them, Mira allows herself to just breathe.

---------------------------

The long-sleeves stay. They grate on Mira’s nerves to no end.

Like now, as the purple-haired girl knocks lightly on her open door, drawing Mira’s attention from the balcony. “Can I come in?”

They have an open-door policy in the penhouse. That whenever their doors are opened, it means they are in a content mood enough for either of the other two to barge into the room impromptu. Zoey takes the most advantage of that, both by leaving her door open at almost every hour of the day and bursting into Mira’s room every chance she gets.

Rumi’s door was never opened. Mira always had to knock. And Zoey sometimes made those whiny, surly sounds from the outside so obnoxiously it made Rumi laugh and go to open the door for her.

Mira nods and inclines her head toward the balcony. Rumi comes towards her. It takes exactly ten steps for Rumi to cross her room. Thirteen, if she is unsure. Seven, if she is angry or frustrated with Mira.

Today is a thirteen day.

Rumi rubs her sleeves as she gets closer, almost absentmindedly. Mira’s fingers dig hard into her palm, body tight with restraint so she won’t just pounce forward and rip those goddame long sleeves to pieces right on the spot.

The vocalist comes to a stop next to her side, watchful eyes and a hesitant smile. Mira shuffles the tiniest step closer, almost by instinct. Rumi’s pretty smile widens at that, light dimple on display. Mira is blindsided by the heartbreaking sight.

Something is wrong with me. She had never felt like this with Rumi before, when Rumi was still half a person and Mira didn’t even know there was another half of her to want. But now she knows, and she has been hyperaware of Rumi ever since. Everywhere.

In her mind, her thoughts, her dreams and nightmares. The way her lungs hurt from laughing along with them too hard on the couch. The way her fingers tremble when they reach for the hem of Rumi’s shirt. Mira catches herself before they can make contact.

If Rumi noticed, she didn’t show any reaction to it. There is only a soft murmur instead, “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Mira whispers back, just as quietly. When she draws back from staring at the orange sun setting at the horizon from afar, Rumi is already watching her with a contemplative look in those eyes she adores so much.

“It suits you.” A spark of something unnamed flashes in her smile, too quick for Mira to catch. “The light. Scarlet sunset is a good color on you. It’s beautiful.”

The unexpected compliment throws Mira off balance. She blinks owlishly and stares at Rumi, waiting to see if she will elaborate further. When Rumi only blinks back, wordless and expectant. Mira lets out a light chuckle, surprised but pleased.

She has been called beautiful many times before. Gorgeous, alluring, handsome, appealing, attractive, and all other synonyms of the words. She is Huntrix’s visual, being beautiful is kind of in her job description.

But when it comes from Rumi, Mira doesn’t really know how to react. It makes her self-conscious, but just the right amount. Enough to duck her head bashfully, but not enough for her to withdraw from Rumi’s personal space out of embarrassment.

“What do you mean by ‘the light’? I’m beautiful in every light and you know it.” A light jab, because it is easy with Rumi. Like this, it feels like they were younger again, that one time they almost broke each other’s nose in a brawl while they were trainees and Celine forced them to sit down and compliment each other for an hour non-stop.

Mira has struggled with her feelings over all things Rumi-related for the past week. It angered her, scared her, confused her. But here, in this moment, when Rumi is actually here, the dancer finds the words easier to say than she had imagined.

Her presence is calming. Now that Mira doesn’t think she is going to leave. Not anymore.

Rumi lets go of her shirt sleeves, eyes playful and bright. The small, secretive smile doesn’t leave her face. “Of course, my bad. I’m sure our fans will kill me on the spot for daring to imply you’re only beautiful under one light.”

No, they won’t. Mira’s eyes trace the light purple pattern curving along her neck downward before disappearing into the neckline of the long sweatshirt. They are too busy being fascinated with you for that. Begging for a scrap of your attention. Like I did. Like I do.

But someone else already had all your attention, didn’t he?

The sudden, intrusive thought erupted like cold water down her spine. Biting and merciless. Mira clenches her jaw tightly, in frustration. She hates this part about herself. Hate that she can’t just be content with Rumi for one minute without letting her thoughts spiral. Hate that the insecurities about herself, the place she holds in Rumi’s life, can manifest out of nowhere, unannounced like this.

The redhead leans back, away from Rumi’s reach, and Rumi is already peeking at her with that confused puppy look in her eyes. It’s the look she always uses when she expects Mira to pay close attention to her. Close. Dangerous. Mira thinks even Rumi doesn’t understand how dangerous her eyes can be. How quickly it can unravel the redhead.

(Or perhaps Rumi knows. She knows how easily it is for Mira to just fold immediately whenever she does that.)

Mira coughs slightly, trying to regain her composure. “Okay, is there anything I can help you with, pretty girl? Or are you just here to flatter me then?”

Rumi flushes just a shade darker than the sunset behind them.

“I just…. want to check in,” Rumi’s hands wringing together. A nervous tick. She starts to pull on her shirt sleeves again. This time, Mira reaches out and touches her hands, soft but firm. An encouragement. The purple-haired girl turns her palm to hold onto Mira’s finger instead.

It is cute. It is grounding.

“You seem… agitated this morning.” Rumi is trying really hard to look into her eyes, but Mira can tell she is starting to lose her resolve. “Uhh… not just this morning. Kinda a while now… And I was wondering if it was because of… me?”

She withdraws her hand before Mira’s brain can catch up with what is happening.

“I know we haven’t really talked about it… But I thought… No, it’s my fault to assume… I should have known you guys don’t like seeing them…. God, even I don’t like looking at them… But I hoped….”

She is not looking at Mira anymore, eyes darting around in nervousness. The redhead misses both the eye contact and the physical one.

Call it dancer’s instincts, but every time she sees Rumi about to fall (on stage, down the stairs, randomly tripping over a piece of Zoey’s legos in the living room), Mira’s body acts on itself. One hand wraps around her waist to draw the smaller girl closer. Rumi goes limp in her arm right away. Mira spares a moment to think about how she is probably not the only one in desperate need of physical contact now, after all that had happened.

“Slow down, tiger.” Mira breathes, deliberately. Buying some time to make sense of the situation. Rumi is quiet, too quiet now, against her shoulder. Mira gently nudges her temple, “Hey, take a breath. Tell me again, more slowly this time.”

She can feel Rumi draw in a shuddering breath, similar to the way she squares her shoulders before any of their performances. In preparation. On guard, but trying to let them down.

Mira rubs a small, reassuring circular pattern on Rumi’s hip the way she knows Rumi relishes. Once, twice, before letting her go. The close proximity is making her head spin, and something tells her she needs all her wits for the conversation about to unfold.

Rumi looks up at her after a moment. Shoulders tight. Jaw set. Chin up. Hands clasped behind her back. The picture of composure. All business-like. Mira almost bristles at the sight, if not for the tantalizing silver of insecurity in those familiar brown orbs.

Mira knows that look. She practically invented it herself.

“I’m sorry that you have to see my patterns.” The vocalist’s voice is slow, rough, like gravel, like something pulled from the darkest place of her chest. “Even just for a few days. Still, I will take care to make sure you don’t have to see them anymore.”

When the words register inside her brain, Mira has to do a double-take at Rumi to confirm it’s really coming from the purple-haired girl’s mouth.

“What! No! I’m not mad at you about the patterns! Gosh, what the heck?!” Mira has to nip that one in the bud right away. “Well, maybe I do, but not for the reason you’re thinking!”

Rumi’s composure crumbles at the edge. Mira seethes at herself upon the slightest crack. Calm down, do not raise voice. You can never raise your voice at them. That’s not what you do. You’re not your father.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, taking in a long breath. A calming technique she has taught herself. Rumi knows that, because when Mira opens her eyes again, Rumi is already staring at the ground like a kid who misbehaved.

Silence stretches. Disquieted. Anxious.

“I don’t want you to hide your patterns, Rumi. That is the opposite of what I want.” I want you, all of you. “Your demon side. You have been hiding that from us our whole lives. Now that we know, and instead of talking to us about it, you decide to go back to covering them up again. Like nothing happened!” She tries to keep her voice even, but it’s really hard to do so.

“Why do you do that?! Even now, Zoey and I don’t deserve your trust?! Is it so easy to just dismiss our feelings like that?! Throw us aside?! Do you even want us around anymore?!....”

“That’s not what I want!” Rumi shouts back, broken voice and teary eyes. “But I don’t know how to talk about it. And you! You look at me like you want to make them go away!”

No, that’s not true. I look at you like I want the pain in your voice and the shadows weighing down your shoulders to go away. I look at you like it hurts to look at you, and I don’t understand why.

Mira stands, frozen. Aghast. Terrified. Ashamed. She watches, still like a statue, as the muscles at Rumi’s jaw twitch in aggression. Tremble with effort to hold back tears.

She never likes seeing her girl cry. Mira would sooner jump off a cliff than be the cause of those tears.

“I don’t want to hide them anymore…” Soft, a thread away from cracking. “You and Zoey know now. I don’t want to hide anymore… But you just…”

Not everything is about your insecurities. A truth, even when Mira didn’t understand the full weight of it yet.

She is self-centered. Egotistical, pompous. Spent too much time in her own head to the point of losing her surroundings.

If Zoey found out about this, she would kill her. Literally. Kill her for making Rumi’s self-hatred resurface. Break every single one of her bones for every flinch Rumi makes when they are not looking. Strangle her until she cannot breathe the same way Rumi had silently been suffocating this entire time.

Zoey will kill her for this, if Mira does not kill herself first.

Rumi’s arms are crossed in front of her chest now, defensive and guarded. But all Mira sees is how she looks smaller like this. Like a hedgehog, coiled so tightly and shooting its spikes blindly when feeling threatened. The image tugs, insistently and urgently, at her heartstrings.

Mira holds up a hand in a placating manner and slowly, slowly places it above one of Rumi’s. A silent question in her eyes. Request for permission. Rumi’s harsh glare takes a few seconds to soften, and then her rigid posture loosens up just enough for Mira to take her hand and squeeze.

The purple-haired girl squeezes back. Mira smiles.

“I guess we both just suck at talking, then.” Mira meets her eyes and sees nothing but her own reflection in dark, stormy brown orbs. It makes her a little lightheaded. “I want to ask about them. I do. But I don’t want to push you too much, like last time.”

Flying too close to the sun, and be burned. Such was the fate of the infamous Icarus. Mira wonders what the future holds for her, too.

“Rumi, listen to me. Don’t try to decipher me from my actions alone. I can’t be trusted to convey my feelings through them properly. That’s why no one ever invited me to star in their movies.” Rumi choked out a laugh, small yet lovely all the same.

“I need you to listen to my words, okay? I do not hate your patterns. I do not hate seeing them. And I do not think you should go back to wearing clothes to hide them, alright?”

The vocalist’s breathing is even. Steady. Mira can feel it in the way the air vibrates around them. Her own heart quickens its pace to catch up with Rumi’s.

“I admit. It is…. disorienting sometimes, when I look at them.” When Rumi jerks and moves to withdraw her hand, Mira doesn’t let her. “But it is because I’m not used to them. Both Zoey and I. Rumi, love, you have known you’re half demon your whole life. We just found out a few weeks ago. Please, allow us some time to get used to it, okay?”

“Okay”. Rumi nods, once. Twice. Mira listens closely for any sign of alleviated stress or discomfort. She finds none, and the relief washes over her like a comfort blanket. “Time. Yeah, I can do that.”

“And no more hiding yourself behind evasive actions and baggy clothes.”

“And no more hiding myself.” Rumi repeats, dutifully. A shadow of doubt crosses over her expression, the residual of a storm passed. “But then… would you… I mean, will you…”

Mira tilts her head to the side, curious and vigilant.

“Will you stay, then? Even if… you don’t like that part of me?”

Stay? That’s an absurd question. She has always been by Rumi’s side. It had been Rumi’s choice to walk away from them, to turn away when things got hard. It had been Rumi’s decision to keep them out, evade and mislead them towards somewhere so far away Mira almost forgot her way back home.

Rumi doesn’t get to ask that. Mira is the one who is afraid of her leaving them. The one longing for the people she loves to stay. For eternity.

But maybe, just maybe, they don’t have to be alone in their hope and fear. This time around.

“Only if you would stay, too.”

When the happy glint in Rumi’s eyes twinkles like fireflies in the backdrop of twilight, Mira suddenly has the strangest urge to just kiss her senselessly right there.

She files that thought away for later.

It still hurts to look at this girl for too long, but at least the pain is more manageable now.

---------------------------

They have sealed the barrier between their worlds and the demon-lord’s world with the new Honmoon. Bright, strong, and steady. Impenetrable. There is no way to break through it.

However, that means there are still some strays left here, on this side of the world. The human side. Strays that, unfortunately, were on the wrong side of the line when the new Honmoon was forged.

It’s already near midnight when it happens. A shuddering ripple rings through the air, the Honmoon’s call for help, for protection. Pink light floods the room, alarmingly urgent. Mira already springs up from her bed before the ripple turns into a low rumble in the air, slipping into a loose sweatshirt and her comfort sneakers. A murmured curse on her lips.

She meets up with the other two at the door. Zoey, determined and unwavering. Rumi, perfectly neutral. Mira cannot read any clues from her facial expressions, nor her posture.

She doesn’t know what Rumi is gonna do this time.

Mira makes sure to keep Rumi in her close periphery, as they jump and parkour through rooftops and walls toward where the Honmoon is directing them. It is not a far distance away. Mira likes watching her like this, hair down from her usual long braid and in a loose ponytail instead. It is casual, approachable. The fans have never seen Rumi without her signature braid, or Zoey without her buns.

This is something that belongs to her, and only her.

The unease coiled tight in her chest is appeased, for now.

There are not a lot of them. The demons. Barely a dozen. They find them in a dead-end alley, growling and snarling dangerously as soon as the creatures register the newcomers. Mira’s instincts lock in, a sharp grin on her face, the gok-do is a familiar weight in her hands. The Honmoon hums soothingly into her ears.

This. This is what they have been doing their entire life. Chasing demons, banishing them. Saving souls. To Mira, it is easier than breathing. Almost as easy as dancing. It is engraved, branded, sealed inside her mind, deep-rooted inside her heart, and tingles along every fibre of the taut muscles on her arm as it swings the gok-do in a high arc. In this type of close quarters, she can take down five of them with just a single strike. Swift, and concise.

The headlight above their heads flashes. A flickering, dying ray of light. Darkness and luminescence blend together into a deadly gray canvas. The patterns in front of her flare an angry, defensive shade of violet. Shining like a beacon. Like a cry for help. Like amethyst on too-pale skin.

It is an image she can never get out of her head. It is in her nightmares. It haunts her daydreams. It is incapacitating.

Noise. There is so much noise around her. Loud, chaotic, metallic. Destruction. Shouts and screams. Like the sound of an energetic, hyped audience. Like the sound of people murmuring in confusion. Like muffled water. Like the sound of hasty steps stumbling down the stage towards a temporary respite. Like the sound of a dying, overarching, poisonous spotlight.

Mira can’t move. Her feet refuse to move. The gok-do is a blazing fire in her hands and in her throat. The dancer drops it because it burns. It burns and sears imprints into her shaking hands.

How can she ever come back from that?

“MIRA!” Zoey’s loud bark draws her back to the present. Its sharpness strikes like a spear hurling amidst the fog. Or perhaps a skin-kai, as two familiar shapes whirl past her face to impale the demons around her. They vaporize immediately into ash.

A swinging slice thunders down like lightning, not from Mira’s hands but she recognizes it all the same. The tip of Rumi’s new sword arches in the same curvature as her gok-do does. It had been a rejoice the first time Mira saw it. Now, it is horrifying to watch that decapitates a demon’s head. Mira sees the pattern running along its neck get severed into broken, faded lines, just a millisecond before the demon disintegrates. But it is a millisecond too long.

Mira looks up, and Rumi is right in front of her. Muted, colorless patterns shivering a tentative unsure in the dark. Mira wants them to be sure. She needs them to be sure. She needs them to be tangible and not broken. Not severed. Not away. She needs them to be smooth and alive.

“Are you okay?” Her hand is already on Rumi’s neck before the words are out of her mouth. Hovering, lightly touching. There is an urgent need to feel that pattern there, the thin one just above Rumi’s pulse. It is hammering. It is maddening. It is wild and throbbing. It is everything Mira needs.

Smooth. Protected. Unharmed. Rumi looks at her like she has grown another head. “What?! I should be the one asking you that! What the heck happened??”

“Babe, you just zoned out during a fight.” Zoey steps closer to wraps her arm around Mira’s waist. “That never happened before. Rumi, sure. But not you. Is something the matter?”

Under two pairs of attentive, imploring eyes, Mira feels trapped. Irrationally so. They are her bandmates, her friends, her soulmates. She should not feel any negative emotions when she is with them. But she does, frustratingly so. She doesn’t want to talk about it yet, not when the feelings are still too raw and she is not sure her words won’t cut like knives where she doesn’t want them to.

Was this how Rumi felt, too? When Mira pushed and pushed and trapped her in a corner when she was not ready? Until she was left with no other choice but to lash out?

“It’s nothing serious. I got distracted.” Mira shakes her head and whispers. It is not a lie. She will never lie to her girls. “I don’t think I can talk about it now, though. Maybe in the morning?”

Rumi doesn’t push. She is always so in-tune with other people’s emotions it is remarkably impressive. There is concern in the way Zoey’s fingers tighten protectively around her waist, but she relents as well. “Okay. First thing in the morning.”

The dancer laughs tiredly, and nods. They travel the way back to their penthouse, Mira’s mind on autopilot the entire time, trying to get her breathing under control.

They pass fifty-two lampposts on their way back. Mira counts with the rhythm of her breaths.

Exhaustion does not pull her back to sleep, that night.

The smell of smoke clings to her, even though Mira had taken a very long, calming shower before crawling into bed. Purple stripes flash behind her eyelids. The Honmoon sings into her ears, mesmerizing, tempting. Honeyed lullaby. Thin, illuminated lines weave into a net. A shield. A trap.

The Honmoon gets rid of everything that has patterns.

Would it have taken Rumi with it, too?

The thought makes Mira bolt upright in her bed. She stumbles toward the door, bated breath and too restless mind. Impulses. Pulses. Pulsing.

Pause. Take stock.

Protected. Unharmed. That pulse was strong beneath her fingertips. Wild beats, but yielding into the touch so easily. Metled affection and trust.

Rumi is alive. The Honmoon didn’t take her away. Each day, Mira keeps finding out all the different ways she could have lost Rumi without even knowing. Without her permission.

Did Rumi know? That the Honmoon wouldn’t touch her? Was she given assurance of her own safety? Did she even care about her own safety? Did anyone care about her safety? What if the Honmoon was a liar, too?

Did Jinu know? Did he care enough about it?

Mira starts pacing around her bedroom, all these thoughts swimming around in a tangled mess inside her head. Restlessly. Impatiently. Like an animal inside a cage. A wounded animal.

(“Why do you and Zoey keep calling me ‘tiger’?” Rumi flopped down on the couch, a petulant pout on her lips. “Do I look that much like one?”

Mira and Zoey missed the well-hidden, slight panic note in her voice. Blissfully oblivious. Ignorant.

“Nope. That’s because you go “rawh! rawh! rawh!!!!” about things, duh.” Zoey stretched out leisurely on the couch, finger poking into Rumi’s tummy teasingly.

“What!!” The vocalist jumps up, affronted. Zoey pouted. Mira snorted. “No, I don’t!”

“Yeah, you do.” The glare Rumi shot her was hard enough to cut through steel, but Mira’s smirk only widened.

A finger jabbed into her face. “You! You go “rawh! rawh! rawh!!!!” about things too! More than me, even!”

The dancer leaned back to get a better look at Rumi’s outraged face. She was beautiful when she was furious. Probably why Mira loved to push her buttons too much sometimes. “Welllll, I don’t oppose to being called ‘tiger’ from you, gorgeous.”

That was the day Mira found out Rumi was stunning when she was flustered, too.)

One of the main reasons they chose the penthouse in this particular building was because of the large, floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room.

A view, it is. The entirety of Seoul beneath them, stretching towards the horizon in well-lit blocks and patterns. The Han river is a vision under the moonlight, winding beneath bridges and curving gently along the shore, tethered between streetlights and skyscrapers. It adds structure to the whole composition. Mira likes structure. She likes looking at them.

There is the Honmoon, too. Layering above the earth with thin, parallel, curving lines. A musical score. A different type of composition.

Sometimes, when Mira has trouble sleeping, she would come out here, in the living room, listening to the quiet sound of a sleepy Seoul around. It is soothing, in a way. Being surrounded by people, yet with a sky-high wall separating her and them. It allows her the privacy. It allows her the space. It allows her to take in the beauty of untainted silence.

Today, though, the Honmoon draws all of her attention. A sea of blue and pink and every color she doesn’t know the name of in between. The old Honmoon had been gold. Golden. This new one was forged in the spectrum of sky light and hellfire.

She sees Huntrix’s color in the sapphire. She sees Saja Boys’ hue in the pastel shade. The reminder aches.

Soft, careful footsteps pad on the floor. Mira’s instincts are instantly on guard, but they retreat into the subconscious easily when she realizes who is stepping closer.

She would recognize Rumi everywhere. In a crowd of screaming people. In a horde of demons with too-pale skin. She could recognize the one who has her heart even in her dying breath.

Mira exhales, as the realization sinks in. Slowly, and steadily.

Rumi comes to stand next to her at the window. The dancer doesn’t need to turn around to know Rumi looks devastatingly beautiful like that, a vision awashed between an ocean of azure fire and threads of silvery moonlight.

Her heartbeats slow down. Like it recognizes its missing piece and is trying its best not to scare the other half away. Gently, she reminds herself. Don’t be brash.

“The Honmoon is intact.” Mira says, something to fill in the awaiting silence.

“It is.” She can feel Rumi’s eyes on her now.

“There are still demons on this side.”

“There are.”

“You didn’t die.”

The quiet way Rumi gasp a small “what?” borders on a remembrance of Mira’s childlike dreams.

Inhale. Exhale. “The Honmoon gets rid of everything that has patterns.” Mira recites, like a mantra. “Rumi, did you ever think it would have taken you, too?”

She still doesn’t turn to look at her yet, but she can see Rumi’s reflection in the glass. Torn. Troubled. Trying.

“No… I guess I never thought about that.” Of course. “Celine said the Honmoon would make my marks disappear, and I believed it. It was… the only thing I could believe in. The only hope I had.”

All of this, and the one person Rumi puts the most blind trust in has always been Celine.

“And also…. I think I just dissociated myself from them.” That has Mira turn to her in surprise. Rumi frowns as she continues. “Like, I have the patterns on my skin, but they were not a part of me. They did not make me who I was. They were just…. there, like accessories. They had no bearing on my soul, how the Honmoon would interpret it. I would not be seen as a demon…”

“We don’t know that, Rumi.” Mira intercepts, impatience and temper quickly rising. Fear. She doesn’t deal well with fear. “The Honmoon works in mysterious, shady ways. It’s not like it goes around asking demons to check a tickbox for citizenship in hell!”

“I know, I know.” Rumi quickly pats her arm in a soothing manner. Up and down, firm pressure to abate Mira’s ruffled feathers. “It’s something I just realized now, when you asked me. I’m not saying it was the entire reason. I am saying I don’t know why I did that, and that explanation is perhaps how my brain rationalized everything.”

Mira huffs, low and displeased. “It bothers me a lot. To know that you could have died if the Honmoon chose to. And that is Honmoon we chose to weave, too. You could have died on our hands, Rumi. And we would never know why!”

“But I did not.” A squeeze on her biceps. “Mira, I did not. I’m alright. Not a single scratch on me. I’m here, I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You better not! I’m going to chase you to the end of the earth this time if I have to!”

Rumi’s eyebrows rise in surprise. Quick, before the small smile on her face blooms into happiness for a reason Mira doesn’t understand. That was a threat. What Mira just said was a threat. Rumi should not look this pleased and content in the face of a threat.

She is confusing, this girl. Rumi has this special talent that she can make Mira so mad with rage one second but turn fond and mushy immediately the next. It is not good for her heart, but her heart has chosen her anyway.

She frowns, puzzled. But Rumi does not elaborate on that. Instead, she asks, “Is that why you froze earlier? Did the demons… remind you too much of me?”

No, not you. They reminded me of how ignorant I was. They reminded me of what I still don’t know about you.

“Not exactly…” Mira sighs and rubs her temple. She spares a few moments to gather her thoughts. She promised them morning, and now it’s three in the morning, which has already given Mira time to cool off and calm down.

“I looked at them, and I saw the patterns.” Words are hard, but Mira is nothing but stubborn. She makes an effort for her family. “I remembered your patterns, that night. Then I remembered that one time you stopped and talked with a demon, too. I know, now, that you’re reluctant to kill them. My weapon…. It feels wrong now. Ever since that night…”

Her throat threatens to clamp down on her. Sharp intakes of air. Mira shakes her head and has to grit the next few words out of her teeth. “But demons are demons. I have been taught that my whole life. They steal souls and hurt people. That was what my hunter’s instincts told me. That was what had been ingrained in my blood. And now, everything is just… confusing, Rumi. I don’t know what to do with demons anymore.”

Rumi pauses, too. Seemingly take stock of the situation. The silent pleading look Mira is sure to be blatant on her face now.

“The demons we encountered today, they were not sentient.” The purple-haired girl exhales, light and patient. Opened. “It’s easy with non-sentient demons. They don’t feel compassion, so it’s kill on sight for me.”

Guidance. Guidance into a world Mira doesn’t know exists. Hasn’t been allowed entrance until now.

“There are different types of demons?” Mira asks, almost in awe.

Rumi hums, “From what I gathered, yeah. Remember the ones on our plane before the last concert of the tour? Those were sentient. They could communicate. Had thoughts, feelings. Capable of compassion. Those are the ones I tend to tread carefully around now.”

“Was Jinu one of the sentient ones, too?” The question comes out of Mira without her permission, before she can react and swallow it back.

The name rings like a collision. Like sharp nails on a chalkboard. Like metal against metal. Like burning flesh.

Like buried feelings.

Rumi flinches. Mira’s heart clenches violently at the sight. She remembers Rumi’s new blade. How it curves just like her own but forged from his dying wish over Rumi’s freedom instead.

I know he gave up his soul for you. I could have given up my soul for you, too. But you wouldn’t let me!

“…Yeah, yeah he was.” The vocalist’s voice is small, somewhere far away. Helpless, tired, and forlorn. Mira hates how those emotions cloud over Rumi’s voice, the sound she loves more than anything in the world.

This is already too much for a 3 a.m. conversation. Mira doesn’t really know if she wants to do this, opening this next can of worms. She wants to, though. She wants to understand that part of Rumi she didn’t get to before. The secrets the love of her life had shared with another. The insecurities, fears, how Rumi must have felt in that moment.

She wants to be on that other side of Rumi’s walls, too.

Maybe once she dies, she will go to hell for her greed. One of the seven deadly sins. It is alright, though. Mira figures she would probably end up in hell one way or another anyway.

“Can I ask about him?” At least Mira is coherent enough to ask permission first, this time, before she pushes. Her therapist would be proud. His work has finally yielded some results.

“Yes. Sure.” Rumi nods, arms crossed over her chest. Mira misses her hand on her. “What do you want to know?”

“Why did you tell him about your patterns?” That is the immediate response. Mira had gone nearly insane trying to ask herself that multiple times before. “Why him… and not me? Us? What have I done… to make you feel like you had to hide?”

Rumi’s arms uncross, and she is back to pulling at Mira’s shirt sleeve again. Wide eyes, a sense of urgency in her movement. Her words are clear, even if the tempo is almost frantic. “No. Mira, I didn’t tell him. That was never my intention. He just… He just saw them, one day. At the bathhouse, when we were fighting. He saw and then he just knew.”

“I didn’t choose him over you guys.” The purple-haired girl’s voice is firm now. Demanding. “Mira, you can’t say that about me. I didn’t choose to do that.”

In a fight, huh? How lucky Jinu must have been, to be in one fight with you and have the chance granted to him? How many times had we fought together in the past, Rumi? How many times had I patched you up afterwards? Why did the patterns elude me so?

“But you still chose to work with him in secret! Instead of letting us into the loop too!”

“Because it was easier!” Rumi steps closer as she senses Mira getting irritated again, “All my life, Mira, I have been told to keep them a secret. To make sure they stay a secret. But he knew, not because I chose to tell him, but purely by accident. Something that was not my choice! It meant I didn’t have to feel guilty about it!”

Mira listens with rapt attention. Hooked. Captivated. Shaking.

Rumi runs a hand through her messy hair and sighs, “Being with him is… freeing, in that sense. I didn’t have to keep my words and behaviors in check anymore, because he already knew. Once it started, it became easier with time, to let him know other things about me.”

“I know about your patterns now, too.” Mira whimpers. Begging for a scrap of attention. “You don’t have to feel guilty with me too. I already know. And I like them.”

Rumi chuckles lightly. The sound tickles like wet grass after a storm. Her hand moves up to curl around Mira’s nape, scratching slowly. That is Mira’s weak spot, no one ever knows about it. She is taller than most people in Korea, no one ever had the impulse to just reach up, weave through her long hair (which she always let down as a protective shield), and touch her nape.

No one knows. But Rumi does. She had learnt how to do that since they were younger. Since they were still the same height. Since the first time she realized how effective it was to shut down pointless arguments between them.

“I know. And it’s easier to breathe with you, too.” Mira shuffles closer, like putty in her hand. Rumi’s amusement is evident on her face. “Do you see me running for the hills when you ask about me now, Mira? Nope. I’m still here, trying to talk with you about myself. I do not want to hide anymore. You have got to believe that.”

The patterns on her shoulders simmer a content blue, left exposed by Rumi’s tank top. Like an invitation. A promise. Mira’s eyes are fixated on the sight as she gives a small nod.

“When Jinu… died for me. He died, and it was hard to breathe again.”

“I could have died for you, too.” The dancer closes her eyes and whispers. Small. Terrified. In a sacred prayer to a god she doesn’t even know she worships.

Rumi hums thoughtfully. Eyes as sharp as a predator’s bore into Mira’s own as the words glide over her ear, “But can you live for me, instead?”

“I have been doing some self-reflection, too.” The grip on Mira’s nape tightens just the tiniest bit. It makes her dizzy. “What Jinu did… doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t need someone to die for me, who chose to leave instead of trying to stay. So…. please never do that. Mira, will you stay with me instead?”

She understands. Jinu whirled into their lives with a dramatic flair, swooped past Rumi’s walls scarily fast, gave her understanding, gave her companionship. Showed her what hope should be like, the light at the end of the tunnel, what the future had in store for them.

But he left. He chose to. Mira would never do that. Leaving Rumi behind.

“I will. Always. Even when you start getting annoyed at my presence, I will still stay.”

The patterns on Rumi’s shoulders seem to settle at that, not burning as brightly as before. They are faint now, content.

“So… tell me, are those all the things that kept you up at this hour?” She can hear the concern in Rumi’s voice, though it is laced with a hint of hazy sleepiness now. “You know I worry.”

She is beautiful. Barefeet, rumpled shirts, hair loose. Unguarded and so, so close.

She is not hers. Not yet. But still Mira wants.

“Yeah.” Mira draws herself up straighter. Rumi blinks at the sudden movement. “And also, I think I’m in love with you.”

The hand on her nape halts, immediately. Mira clenches her jaw. She doesn’t take the words back because Rumi deserves honesty.

She flexes her fingers, they are becoming too stiff. “I’m not saying that to push you into anything. I’m not. I simply want you to know something about myself, too. Something that is a part of me.”

Rumi only looks at her, as seconds stretch into minutes. Mira doesn’t cower. She is not ashamed of the way she feels. She wants Rumi to understand that as well.

After what feels like an eternity has passed, the purple-haired girl finally breathes, “Okay.” One single exhale.

“Okay?” Mira parrots, dubious yet relieved.

Rumi nods. The movement is rough and jerky. “Yeah, it’s… okay. I just… It’s okay, we will figure it out together.”

Together does sound nice. Mira smiles, until Rumi’s stiff posture melts into its previous relaxed state the dancer takes solace in. A smile to meet her own. Mira’s heart is the most content it has ever been in her life.

Rumi lets go of her and steps back, repose in those brown eyes now. “You should go to sleep now.”

“As should you.”

“Yes, I’m going.” She gives her an awkward, small wave with a murmured “Good night”, before pivoting on her heels towards the other side of the penthouse.

“Good night,” Mira whispers after her retreating back.

(On her way back to her own room, Mira passes Zoey’s open door. She quietly slides into the brunette’s bed, clinging to the other girl’s back. She feels content. She feels scared. Like falling freely without knowing where the ground is.

Zoey doesn’t move a muscle, dead to the world. The familiarity is soothing.

When the sun wakes up, their maknae does not show any sign of surprise at finding Mira in her bed. The redhead talks to her about the demons, her confusion, her indecisiveness. First thing in the morning, like she promised.

Zoey gives her hugs. A lot of hugs. And freely given reassuring words, too.

She doesn’t tell Zoey about being in love.

Not yet.)

---------------------------

Day by day, things start to settle into a calm normalcy for them again.

Officially, to the world, Huntrix is on a three-month hiatus. By the end of the first month, they started to get too restless from doing nothing.

Mira could only flip through a certain number of trash magazines before boredom overtook her mind. Zoey finally ran out of turtle documentaries to watch by the twenty-eighth day of their vacation. And the only indicator Rumi was even in hiatus mode was that her vocal warm-up started an hour later into the day than normal.

Soon enough, they gravitated towards their normal routine, like fish towards the sea. A new song is in the process. Maybe even a full comeback album. They have time on their side, now that there is no deadline looming above their heads, no finish line to race towards anymore.

Rumi seems more settled into her skin now, too.

There is gentle humming in the kitchen in the morning, when Mira stumbles into the kitchen, blurry-eyed without glasses, only to be met with the sight of a barefoot Rumi, fresh from a shower, moving effortlessly amidst pots and pans like it’s a dance she knows by heart. The patterns on her shoulders catch the morning rays just so, simmering happily like siren songs carried through the ocean waves.

It is unfair. Mira’s sleepy mind stretches to a halt as she stares, wordlessly. It is unfair, that such a marvelous sight had been hidden away for that long. Such beauty deserves the light of a summer solstice day.

Zoey nudges her out of the way, yawning as she slides onto the kitchen stool and blissfully accepts the plate of food Rumi gives. Light chatters float easily, followed by quiet giggles. Mira thinks it’s unfair. She wants those eyes on her, too.

When Mira flops into her stool with a haughty flourish, more loudly than she normally does, Rumi beams at her so unrestrainedly the redhead forgets what she is even irritated about, while Zoey has strategically moved any milk carton present away from her reach.

They have a recording session at the studio today. Just a demo, Bobby insisted. They are not allowed to release anything before their three-month hiatus is over, he had affirmed. Mira watched in amusement as even Rumi’s puppy eyes didn’t seem to work this time, and gained a newfound respect for their manager for holding firm against such a lethal weapon.

If it were Mira, she would have folded in two seconds flat. Not that Rumi needs to know.

They are in the studio booth today. Rumi’s domain. Zoey’s too, because she controls the lyrics and sets the pacing for their songs. Mira’s expertise spans somewhere else. At the moment, the dancer is content with leaning against the far wall and watching the two girls in their natural habitats.

Zoey is creative. Rumi is experimental. She sometimes likes to bounce away from the set register to venture into another one. Lower. Higher. Playing around until the puzzles finally fit and the notes fall into place. It is what sounds right, to them, which marks the final piece as complete.

Mira remembers another song, too. Sang in a lower register than what they had agreed upon.

“A demon with no feelings don’t deserve to live. It’s so obvious...”

Too much space. Unfilled notes. That hesitant, breathless pause was not in the plan. The jarring line had drawn Mira’s attention at the time, baffled and confused.

She understands now.

Mira pushes herself off the wall and steps closer, eyes fixed on Rumi singing softly inside the booth. It’s a ballad this time. Her eyes chase the light vibration along the singer’s throat, sharply and eagerly like a hawk, searching for any sign of an unwanted, uncontrollable tremble tumbling out like a dissonant note she has yet to understand but knows it won’t fit anyway.

Her hands are clenched into fists. Flexing, tensing. Agitated.

She wants to do something. She needs to do something. Something to ease away that memory of a too-low voice on top of a moving train.

Mira already has an idea of how she can do that.

“Hey, you got a sec?” That night finds the redhead standing in front of Zoey’s room. The door is open, so Mira takes the liberty and ventures closer.

Zoey looks up and beams when Mira sits down on her bed. She carelessly throws her headphones to the side, “Yeah, what’s up? Anything for my favorite bestest bestfriend in the world!”

The corners of Mira’s lips twitch, in amusement. “I’m gonna tell Rumi you said that.”

Zoey gaps, springing upright on the bed, “Snitch! But just so you know, Rumi is my most favorite turtle in the world! You don’t even come close to that!”

“Turtle?”

“Those turtlenecks, man.” The rapper kicks her on the shin, like it’s obvious. It is, Mira admits.

The redhead chuckles, fingers lightly tapping on Zoey’s calf, in a familiar, thoughtful pattern. Zoey, sensing she is in a more contemplative mood than usual, shifts closer to offer her support. She knows Mira doesn’t like to be pushed into talking. She needs to be coaxed, to be allowed space. To appear to be in control of herself.

“….I want to change the lyrics of Takedown.” Mira says, after a few minutes of silence. “Now that we know what Rumi is, those words… they don’t sound right anymore.”

These lyrics are too hateful, Rumi had said. They were. Because they were meant to spread hatred around like poison in their veins. Malice. Cruelty. Mira can’t even imagine how hurt it must have been for Rumi to even hear those words, let alone sing them out loud herself.

There were all non-verbal cues, back then, of how discomfort Rumi was. Mira paid attention, of course she did, but that revelation was never even a possible explanation for the vocalist’s strange behavior back then. Even in her wildest imagination Mira had never come close to a fragmented figment of the truth.

Zoey gaps again, and starts swatting Mira on the shoulder repeatedly. Urgently. Eagerly. The redhead leans backwards, but those attacks keep following her movement. “What?” She demands, browns furrowed.

The maknae crawls away, hopping towards her desk and almost trips on the blanket tangled around her ankle. Mira watches as Zoey rummages through her drawers in a frenzy, like she is on the last duty on earth, before the rapper lets out a victorious “whoop” and produces two notebooks.

“Buddy!” She grins, brightly and gleefully, “I have been thinking the same too! And I already have an idea!”

Zoey doesn’t have an idea. She has twenty-seven of them. Something like fondness swells in Mira’s heart, and appreciation. She doesn’t know what she had done in her past lives, to deserve Zoey in this one. Probably saved the entire galaxy or something.

“Okay, how about this? ‘So sweet so easy on the eyes, but idiot on the inside.’ Cause that’s Rumi alright.”

Mira props herself on a forearm lazily, watches as Zoey mumbles lyrics too fast for her to catch. It is endearing.

“What would I even do without you in my life, Zo?” It’s a hypothetical question. Mira doesn’t really want to imagine that.

Zoey shrugs, without missing a beat, “You and Rumi would have stabbed each other to death a long time ago.” It is said so seriously Mira has to bark out a laugh, then a chuckle.

“Yeah,” She acquiesces, fond. So fond. “Yeah, I guess we would have.”

The little project takes them three days. They were lucky it was Takedown, and not Golden where Mira and Zoey each have exactly two lines. It would be a pain to redistribute the lines and lower the keys, too.

They sing the new version to Rumi in their private studio at home. As the first few notes hit, their leader cannot hide the wince fast enough to escape Mira’s close stare and starts averting her eyes around nervously.

It is mesmerizing, watching the way Rumi uncurls herself as the song progresses. Slowly, carefully. Words of affirmation have her blinking in confusion. Remarks of bravery cajole her out of the shadowy spot. Praises of kindness get her hooked. Terms of endearment have her flustered. Declarations of affection bring quiet tears to the corners of her eyes.

It is captivating. It is heartbreaking. Mira stops as Zoey immediately bounces over and wraps herself around Rumi like a koala, when the latter starts sniffling in the middle of the song. Rumi clings to Zoey like she is her lifeline. Mira wraps her arms around them both, in a protective bundle, and lets the tears fall into Rumi’s temple. And a kiss, too.

They don’t get to finish the song that day. But they record and send it to Rumi the day afterwards. When Mira passes Rumi’s ajar door in the evening, she can hear it playing on repeat inside the room. Small, soft, constant. Like a blanket. Like a lullaby. Like a secret.

Mira wants to tell her it doesn’t need to be a secret. But Rumi has the right to find comfort in any way she is familiar with.

---------------------------

Mira’s room is the closest to the main area of the penthouse. Rumi got the one farthest on the other side, and Zoey wanted the other end because she loved her peaceful beauty sleep in the morning.

And Mira was never one to deny her bandmates anything.

That close proximity allows Mira to discern unusual noise in the middle of the night. Blended in almost flawlessly with a sleepy Seoul beneath their feet, but Mira has always had sharp ears. Trained from listening to the whispered anger and restrained disappointment through a layer of closed doors.

She puts on her slippers and goes out the hallway, following the quiet noise. Rumi is sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a bundle in her favorite blanket. Small, almost swallowed into the silhouette of their too-large couch. Derby the blue tiger snoring lightly at her feet, the picture of perfect contentment. Some random reality show playing on the TV.

Rumi doesn’t like to be seen as small. In public, at least. She always favors jackets with pronounced shoulder pads, just because they make her appear bigger, larger-than-life. Someone who is in control. Someone who is strong enough to shoulder the burden of the entire world alone.

But here, in their home, at the sacred hour of the night where no one is nearby to shatter that façade, Rumi can just let herself be. Jacket-free and lax shoulders. When Mira sits down next to her, close enough to touch, the purple-haired girl only blinks and offers a sleepy smile, “Hi.”

She doesn’t huff. Doesn’t puff. Doesn’t pull herself up straight like a lightstick waiting to be snapped. And Mira considers herself the luckiest person in the world.

“Hi.” Mira smiles, quietly so as not to disturb the tranquility of Rumi’s peace, “Couldn’t sleep?”

Rumi only shrugs, wordlessly. Mira turns to the TV, whatever horrendous series they are showing on the screen. She can’t see very well without her glasses, so the redhead has to squint a little bit at the subtitles at the bottom of the screen.

A weight drops on her lap, sudden, but not unfamiliar. Mira looks down to see Rumi peer up at her, head in Mira’s lap, brown eyes attentive and searching. The hint of sleepiness is still there, but there is something else too. Something cautious. Something measuring. Something that feels like a test.

Mira doesn’t flinch. Not this time. Not anymore, at Rumi’s touch.

She weaves her fingers through lavender locks, slowly, carefully, almost reverently. Rumi’s hums, and the dancer cannot distinguish if it was Derby’s mellow purring she is hearing, or Rumi’s. Perhaps both.

Pleased, Mira turns back to the TV, squinting as she tries to catch the name of the show again. She can feel Rumi’s half-lidded eyes still linger on her, but they don’t scare her as much as she had thought.

It’s alright. They are safe. Rumi is here. Mira is content. There is nothing for her to push. They have all the time in the world.

Mira reaches around for the remote, trying to dim the brightness so her eyes won’t hurt too much when morning comes. The faux sense of peace shatters, as Rumi speaks up, lowly but so very clearly.

“I sang with Jinu once, before.”

The dancer almost drops the remote.

Her other hand pauses in its ministration.

“I met up with him sometimes.” Rumi continues to murmur, absentmindedly, “Most of the time we would just talk. I told him about my past. He told me about his, even though some part of it was a lie.”

Mira doesn’t want to look. She doesn’t look down. Because she is afraid of what she would find in Rumi’s eyes.

“You know my mother. She was a hunter.” One of Rumi’s hands curls into the redhead’s shirt, pulling slightly. Mira doesn’t look down. “But my father, he was a demon. That is why I have the patterns on me.”

A hunter, who fell in love with a demon. Mira wants to laugh as tears sting in her eyes. Of course.

“Jinu and I had a plan. I was gonna seal the Honmoon that night, the Idol Award. And he was supposed to keep the Saja Boys off our backs, ensuring there was no trouble. But well, that was another lie, I guess. I don’t really know where his truths and lies intertwine anymore.”

Please stop talking. Mira wants to beg.

She whispers, instead, “Why are you telling me this?” Something in her broke. Maybe her voice. Probably her heart.

She can feel Rumi’s frown even before she sees it. Hesitant and dazed. The syllables are not as clear and sure as before, “…Didn’t you ask about him before? And about me? I thought you would want to know.”

Deft fingers grip her chin, holding loosely and wiping the droplet of water there. “Hey… why are you crying?”

“I don’t know.” I do, but I’m not about to tell you that.

Rumi pulls, more surely this time. Mira is forced to look at her, into eyes that are too bright, too soft to be breaking her heart so calmly like this.

“Mira, look at me.” The purple-haired girl is beautiful from every single angle. “Did I… Should I not have said that? I just… Mira, I swear I just wanted you to know things about me. Why I did what I did. I told him about my past, and now I want you to know too. I do want you to know everything…”

It is stupid. Here is Rumi, making efforts. While Mira keeps spiraling into her own insecurities without control. She hates this part of herself. Especially when it is hindering her ability to perceive Rumi’s soothing, reassuring words.

“Okay.” The redhead takes in some calming breaths. Inhales, exhales. Listen to the words. Don’t fall into the assumptions, the self-doubt. Rumi sometimes understands her better than herself. Mira has kept zero secrets from her, since the very beginning.

“Okay?” Rumi’s fingers trace a line along her jaw, light and constant pressure. Grounding.

Okay. When Mira’s breathing has gotten back to normal, somewhat, she starts to rewind the conversation and take stock, slowly. Filling in the gaps in her understanding of the entire situation.

Rumi’s father was a demon. So apparently being a demon is genetic. They would have to note that down as a possible explanation why there were new demons keep coming out of nowhere.

Rumi had a plan with Jinu. They were definitely in cahoots, Mira already knew that. But Rumi had never turned back on them. She wasn’t working for the sake of the demon lord. She wanted the golden Honmoon, too. She would have never abandoned them.

She sang with Jinu, once.

Mira wonders if it was different. Something unlike the plethora of songs she and Rumi had sung together. Professional, in recording sessions. Messy and cheeky, during brainstorming time. Soft, when one of them was sleepy or exhausted. Calming, before the opening of a big show. Apologetic, after a particularly loud fight.

Rumi expresses her feelings through music. Mira learnt how to speak her language. She has every flavor, every shade, every single syllable of Rumi’s different songs engraved in the deepest corner of her heart. Songs that span across years of being in each other’s lives, of familiarity. Of home. Of finding their way back to each other. Of moving forward.

It is okay, then. Rumi can keep that one song just for herself. Mira is at ease with whatever brings Rumi solace.

She shakes her head and smiles. So silly. Rumi smiles at her, too. The silliest.

“Were you…” Rumi’s fingers retreat, back to their uncertain shell as hesitance glazed over her voice at the question, “Are you… jealous?” She spoke around the word like the taste of novelty was strange to her. Strange and wholly new.

Jealous. It is a new word for Mira too. She has never known that, or at least, she assumes it is not this thing sitting tightly inside her chest. Like vice around her throat and yet like freedom at the same time. Out of chains. Jealous is such a negative word. Mira would like to think that whatever she is feeling is a positive thing.

And so, she shakes her head and grumbles. “No… Or at least, I don’t think so?”

Rumi hums, in acceptance. Playful mirth sparkles in her eyes so serenely Mira forgets to breathe for a second. “Uh huh… It must be hard for you, then. Cause, you know, I’m everyone’s type.”

The dancer snorts and moves to shove the half-demon off her lap, feigning annoyance. Rumi only giggles and turns to burrow into Mira’s stomach further, refusing to let go.

Silence settles after the laughers have quieted down. Mira moves to trace her fingers along the soft line on Rumi’s jaw, curving into the gentle slope of her neck. Rumi’s features are soft at the edges, a fact that had grated on the purple-haired girl’s nerves in the beginning of their career, because they impeded the tough image Rumi tried to convey. Their leader sometimes glared at Mira’s more angular lines with envy. While Mira just could not fathom where that irrational wish for a harden exterior came from.

She knows, now.

“Is it, really?” The words are mumbled into the fabric of her pajama pants, so quiet that they could have slipped away from Mira’s grasp if she was not careful enough to keep a tight hold on them, “Hard? Being in love with me?”

No. It is the opposite of hard. It is easier than breathing. Than existing. It is everything Mira doesn’t even know she needs yet still learns to want anyway.

“No, Rumi. It is not hard.” She starts scratching lightly under the girl’s ear, gets the purring going, “It is the only thing that makes sense to me. Everything else is hard.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm, okay.” The thin strips of purple on her neck start dimming after that, even out, melted into a faint opaque gray. Like the fuzz of a baby rabbit, intimate and vulnerable. Unguarded.

Mira keeps up the motion of her fingers quietly, in tandem with Rumi’s slow heartbeats. Fighting back yawns, she tucks the blanket around Rumi more securely, before going back to flipping through the channels aimlessly.

(Zoey finds them together on the couch the next morning and wails about not having been invited to an impromptu sleepover. Mira evades her question while Rumi only smiles sheepishly.)

---------------------------

Mira comes home with a tiger plushie one day.

It was an impulse purchase. She was at the mall running an errand when she caught sight of it. Yellow eyes, black stripes. The softest fur she had ever touched. Mira didn’t understand how they could manufacture that kind of texture. The fluffiness.

Rumi is only a little surprised, when she gives it to her later in the evening.

“For me?” She asks, hands hovering over the tiger like she is afraid it might bite her. Or it might crumble in her too callous palms.

“Yeah.” Mira nudges the tiger closer. Rumi’s fingers touch the fur, tentatively at first, pressing with more pressure into the plush. Squeezing curiously.

Delight illuminates her face like snowflakes in the wind. Something precious, something cultivated. Elegant and exquisite. Something that might cause Mira’s heart to melt, at the sight.

 “Thank you.” The vocalist rubs the tiger’s ear adoringly and smiles. Mira can only nod and tries not to stare too intensely at the sun.

Rumi doesn’t ask why. What the occasion is. Mira hopes it’s because she knows she doesn’t have to. That she knows there is no condition, no strings attached to the gesture. That she deserves to know joy without pressure.

You have to tell her that. She stares at the tiger, hard. It just looks unimpressed, with those big, innocent, unblinking eyes. You have to tell her that, if I can’t find the words to.

Their three-month hiatus is almost over. They have agreed to do a full comeback album as a thank you to their fans. For the patience. The support they give unconditionally through every single milestone of Huntrix’s journey.

A full album requires focus, perseverance, and determination. That is why they are still here, congregated in their private in-house studio, brainstorming through different lyrics for the last song on the album.

Zoey is scribbling in her notebooks, lightning fast with that chicken scrawl Mira and Rumi won’t be able to decipher later. Rumi is in the corner, absentmindedly strumming on the guitar, trying to find the right melody to go on. The dancer next to her side, lazily playing with the water bottle in her hand.

She is here to make sure Rumi stays hydrated, as the girl has the tendency to forget about her well-being sometimes, when she gets too lost in music.

She is just about to turn and ask Zoey if the rapper wants some water too, when a weight drops onto her shoulder.

“Oh…” The soft exclamation seems to have drawn Zoey’s attention anyway. Rumi has fallen asleep, limbs going slack, guitar still in her lap. Mira and Zoey exchange a look with each other. This has happened before, but very rarely. Usually, Rumi would herd them all back to their rooms when it got too late in the evening.

Mira finds the clock on the wall. It’s only nine.

“Do you think.. she has been getting nightmares again?” Zoey asks, small and sad. Unsure.

Mira frowns. She doesn’t want that to be the truth. Rumi seems like she is doing much better these days. She talks about her nightmares with Mira, sometimes. Not all of them, though, Mira knows.

“Let’s just hope she is exhausted from her second run today. I will ask her in the morning.”

Zoey starts to save their progress onto the computer and unplugs the instruments. Meanwhile, Mira pries the guitar out of Rumi’s grip and sets it aside, next to the water bottle. She shifts, one arm around Rumi’s back and the other below her knees before lifting her up. Gently, so as not to disturb her slumber.

Mira nods to Zoey, “I’m gonna bring her up.” Her arms tighten to bring Rumi closer, more securely snugged into her chest. Precious cargo and all.

Zoey smiles. All teasing mirth. “Alright. But you know you have to tell me what is going on soon, right?”

Of course. Nothing gets past Zoey. She knows both of them too well. Mira only heaves a sigh, “Yeah, yeah. Tomorrow.”

It’s only a short distance to Rumi’s room. Derby is already at the foot of her bed, purring and waiting. It sits up and wanders closer when Mira walks through the door, sniffing curiously at Rumi bundled in her arms.

The dancer sets Rumi on her bed, slowly and surely. But when Mira tries to straighten up, Rumi’s arms loop around her neck. Tight. Holding her in place. Face buried into her neck.

“Rumi?” Mira murmurs as fingers claw into fists at the material of her shirt, on her shoulder blades, “Rumi, hey, it’s just me.”

“…Mira?”  Hazy recognition laced Rumi’s tiny voice, heavy with sleep. The fists tighten for a second before going lax again, mellow in a placid hold instead.

The redhead pats her back, soothingly. Switching between drawing circles on her back and scratching lightly. She starts humming the notes of Takedown, too. Low and slow, like a lullaby. Like a balm. Like comfort wrapped with love and care. Like safety.

Rumi’s breathing evens out, after a few minutes. Mira tries to shift both of them into a more comfortable position, but then the arms around her shoulders tighten up again.

“Can you… tell me again? That… part of you you wanted me to know?”

It sounds like a plea. Like reassurance. Like a new beginning.

Mira nuzzles her temple. Soft, delicate. A whisper in the night, “I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

And then.

“Thank you.” The exhale sounds like broken glasses. Like jagged edges trying to weld together. Like a baby deer learning how to walk before it runs.

“For what, dummy?” Mira rasps, breathlessly. “Being in love with you?”

“Yes…” Rumi’s breath tingles on her neck, a welcome sensation. It sends shivers down her spine. “I just… thank you…”

Mira finally rolls over to get more comfortable, pulling the purple-haired girl into her arms. Rumi leans into the momentum easily, eyes already closed in exhaustion.

What a silly thing, to thank someone for that. Mira thinks as she starts patting Rumi’s back again, luring the other girl back to the sleep she clearly needs. But if that makes you happy, I guess I can say that every day from now on, too.