Work Text:
Contrary to popular belief, Mira hates working.
Not that she hates her job, her public one or her private one. It’s all great being a savior to so many people, adored and loved, seen and praised for things she had never thought would ever be accepted thanks to her so-called ‘family’. The demons and their ash and goo are not totally ideal for her or her skin or her shockingly expensive clothes, but the fulfillment of duty and safety promised for all are more than enough reward.
However, that’s probably because she likes it. It’s like that over-said saying: Find a job you enjoy doing, and you will never have to work a day in your life. Well, that person probably didn’t have to dazzle on stage, do a split 52 times in a night, and slay demons in the shadows of alleys, but hey. Still applies, she supposes.
But the actual motions of work: the drive, the time crunches, the compulsory focus and dedication needed? Those have always felt like a chore to Mira when she can consciously feel it. Whenever it’s something she’s passionate about, or strangely, something Rumi or Zoey are passionate about, the motivation becomes so easy, so necessary, like it’s the only thing she has ever needed to accomplish in her life. Rumi once pointed out how Mira made more of a fuss about obtaining game tickets that she hadn’t even cared about twenty seconds prior until she saw how dismayed Rumi looked at not getting a chance to go.
She had cut schedules, researched possibilities, stared down every salesman until the tickets magically fell at their feet. It had been all too easy then, and weirdly, she had been so satisfied, almost ecstatic, at the warm look Rumi gave her in the end, followed by an even warmer hug.
(Mira hadn’t been used to hugs like that, where she actually felt them, felt the love inside the arms radiating into her soul, making her feel like maybe there are things worth living for.)
But now? When she has to do some shit that makes her soul want to fly out her skin, feeling caged by the mere monotony of the task? Yeah, she can feel her insides shut down at the thought.
Mira tips her head back and bores her eyes into the ceiling of the kitchen, pushing every mental muscle she possesses to figure out some way to end this lyric. Dreams like shards / Turn them into stars / Something something scars??
Mira releases a snarl of exasperation and flings her pen at the wall. Centimeters from the kitchen door frame. At Rumi’s eye level.
“Oh!” Rumi gasps out, freezing stiff like she’s been zapped.
Mira’s stomach flips. “Whoops. My bad.” It sounds like a lazy response, riding on a half-hearted sigh. But Rumi just brushes it off, saunters into the room with a fond half-laugh. She understands. Mira doesn’t need to posture for her.
It’s startingly comforting.
“Still stuck on the lyrics?” Rumi asks, sliding a leg over the empty chair in front of Mira. In her hands is a bag of something ultra-healthy that they’re allowed according to the guidelines of their tour diet. Mira tries to ignore the urge to eat her weight in noodles. The kitchen is devoid of such temptations, shiny alabaster that gleams in the morning sunlight.
“I don’t know how Zoey does it 24/7.” Mira interlaces her fingers through themselves and cracks her knuckles. The sound snaps satisfactorily. “Then again, it’s kinda like her second superpower.”
“Or maybe her first,” agrees Rumi.
Mira studies Rumi, the gentle expression on her face. It’s so... sweet, genuine. The same fondness from before shimmers in Rumi's eyes, then her smile, which falters when she catches Mira staring at her. “What?” she says, a little flustered.
“Nothing,” Mira dismisses, because if she keeps thinking about it, she will fall down a rabbit hole of suspicion like she normally does when people show an iota of niceness around her.
Who can blame her? Her family wasn’t nice, and they’re, like, the one group where it’s supposed to be a requirement.
(It is both comforting and disturbing how many examples she has encountered that disproves that belief.)
“What seems to be holding you back?”
The question catches Mira off guard. Why would she phrase it that way? “Trying to figure out how to make it make sense without sounding like I’m just trying to rhyme,” explains Mira with a shrug of one shoulder.
It’s not the only issue. Whenever Mira thinks she’s got something to jot down, she doubts herself, doubts the truth weighing in the words. That prickling she feels when she’s about to be seen, about to expose something about herself that others will notice and in turn chip away at the enigma she appears to be. This twisted self-preservation has been gripping at her, holding her back. Lyrics only hit when they erupt from the heart, but Mira thinks that she had been a little too successful in numbing her own.
It also doesn’t help that sometimes lyrics just flow out of the three of them at certain moments and Mira just wishes it was like that all the time, but that seems to emerge when the three of them connect, which is scary enough in thought, but most of the time, it happens faster than Mira can catch it.
The guilt afterwards feels terribly unjustified. It shouldn't have to feel terrifying to open up.
She looks at Rumi, and the urge to throw all that guilt out the window returns.
“Can I?” Rumi asks after a bite from the snack bag. Her hand hovers over the paper.
“Sure, whatever,” Mira concedes with a wave of her hand, like it doesn’t matter to her. Then three seconds later, watching Rumi’s eyes dance over the paper and its words, she’s ready to fling herself into some inferno. Why is she being so quiet? Has she always been so unexpressive? What is—
“I like it,” Rumi praises with an impressed nod of her head.
“Of course you do,” Mira replies more nonchalantly than she feels.
“If you can’t finish it, I can always—”
“I can. It’s just...” Mira doesn’t know how to say it, which seems to be the initial problem spreading to other parts of her life now. Great. “I guess I can’t find the rest of it.”
Rumi looks at her, really looks at her, and it takes everything in Mira not to look away, to shut out the shuddering feeling of weirdness at Rumi’s golden eyes surveying her.
“I’m sure you’ll find it,” Rumi says at last, smiling. She places the paper back on the table. “And when you do, I can’t wait to hear it.” For a moment, it seems that that’s all she has to say. Then she peers up at Mira again. “Just know... I want to hear it. Whatever you have to say, I want to hear it.”
From anyone else, Mira would have instantly deemed those words as a trap. But the alarm doesn’t sound when she hears this from Rumi.
Mira can’t help it. She smiles. A real one. Dangerously real.
“Well, you’re lucky I’m good under pressure.”