Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

We are Hunters, voices strong.

Slaying demons with our song.

Fix the world and make it right.

When darkness finally meets the light.

Rumi’s fingers pass over the discolored patterns weaving across her skin with the tenderness of one probing a bruise with an unknown cause. One day it was there, no rhyme or reason, growing larger and larger.

The deep violet spiders across her skin, a lightning strike following along her seams, threatening to crack her body open completely. She can’t help but grimace as the pads of her fingers brush across the rise of a pattern across her collarbone, falling from the sheer cliff to spill down her sternum to disappear beneath her tank top.

A knock against the bathroom door startles Rumi from her thoughts, her body turning from the bathroom mirror to see Celine sliding through the door.

“Rumi.” Her voice is soft at first, a neutrality to it, like calling for her is a routine chore. But her demeanor shifts quickly as her eyes catch sight of the patterns dashed across Rumi’s upper torso, almost shimmering beneath the fluorescent light. Celine’s mouth puckers into a scowl, and she darts forward to pull the hoodie pooled at Rumi’s forearms back over her shoulders. “Stop looking at them. Paying them attention will only make it worse.”

Rumi flinches as Celine’s words are punctuated by the finality of her zipper being pulled up to her throat.

“They’re still spreading,” Rumi counters, her voice warbled with concern, with fear. There was still so much she didn’t know about these patterns, about what caused them to continue spreading no matter how hard she focused on her training, on banishing the evil of this world. “Are you sure this is the right time to find them?”

Celine’s hands smooth up the fabric covering Rumi’s arms, up to the soft curves of her cheeks, caressing Rumi’s face tenderly as her own expression slightly softens.

“We mustn't waste too much time waiting. The longer the Honmoon goes without proper reinforcement, the larger the threat of Gwi-ma’s resurgence becomes. Your patterns will continue to spread.” Celine’s hands move to Rumi’s hair, fussing with flyaways, straightening and tightening the top sections of her braid. “The world can only be properly protected when three voices join in harmony. You’re ready for this, Rumi. The world is ready for you.”

Rumi’s eyes fall, her vision blurring as she releases focus, allowing the world to become nothing but smudges of fuzzy color. Celine’s face, without sharp definition, becomes a mirage of softness and familiarity. One she can pretend is–

It’s been eighteen years since the Honmoon had resonated with powerful harmony.

It was finally time for Rumi to step into the role she was destined for.

Her shoulders square with determination. Rumi’s eyes sharpen and meet Celine’s gaze with confidence.

Celine’s expression lifts. Encouraged by the shift of demeanor, she nods firmly. “That’s my girl. I’ve already packed your things. We’ll be leaving shortly.”

Rumi grins. “Where are we going first?”

***

Their first stop was relatively close to home; the Seongdong District, bustling and alive with city life.

Celine ushers Rumi through busy traffic, past the mouth-watering smells of restaurants and street vendors and eye-catching street artists performing their craft as if the world was not walking past them at ten in the morning.

It was easy to get lost in the rushing crowds of people, in the sights and sounds so different from the life Rumi had grown accustomed to further up into the mountains. Colossal skyscrapers reach into the sky, nearly piercing the heavens themselves. Rumi couldn’t help but stare and gawk, curious about what could possibly happen within buildings so large.

The immensity of Seoul was both intoxicating and overwhelming, making Rumi feel especially small in comparison.

Three people alone were meant to protect all of this?

Rumi feels a tug at her elbow, now caught in Celine’s guiding hold as she maneuvers them through the throngs of people, past restaurants and down a quieter street. The two enter one of the buildings, the sign out front advertising it as a dance studio.

Immediately, the temperature inside hits Rumi like a wall of humidity. Despite the outdoor chill it feels uncomfortably warm. She can already feel small beads of sweat rising to the surface of her skin, but it’s nothing compared to what Rumi sees others inside must be suffering.

The building front opens up into a wide studio space, sleek hardwood floors bracketed on three sides by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Music echoes through the space from sets of large stereo speakers, shaking the floor with a hypnotic bassline which plunks along to mellow vocals. A crowd of people – at least twenty, ranging in age – bob their heads along to the song’s rhythm, some whistling and shouting praise to a set of four dancers in the center of the huddle.

Rumi watches the group begin dancing as the bass momentarily halts and the chorus of the song begins, compelling the dancers to move their bodies in motions more fluid than Rumi has ever seen.

The leading dancer – an impossibly tall girl, with a long, bright pink curtain of hair falling well past her shoulders. Her eyes are dark even beneath the fluorescent lights, holding a depth and concentration which keeps Rumi spellbound throughout the routine. The girl manages to move in ways both mechanical and loose, embodying a juxtaposition which makes her constantly stand out amidst the others, one moment popping and bouncing in perfect sync to the music, and the next flowing into a body roll as smooth as rolling fog.

어떤 말을 해도 like I don't even try

왜 그런지 물어봐도 아픈 너의 말만

How many times I say sorry

I'm sorry

How many times I say sorry

I'm sorry

It ain't know no better

Their routine ends with the group’s hands pressed together as if in prayer, their bodies still swaying to the tune, each performing a unique finishing flourish until the music fades and the crowd erupts with cheering.

“Seonbae!” Someone in the crowd calls out, their eyes glossy with unshed tears. “I can’t believe this was your last dance with us!”

“Don’t go yet!” Another calls out from the other side of the room.

A third adds, “One more for good measure!”

Rumi watches the pink-haired dancer chuckle as she presses a hand towel to the side of her neck.

“I’ve gotta head out,” She answers, her voice low and measured. “You’ll all see me again, just on a stage next time, so promise me you’ll come watch when you can.”

A chorus of voices reply, “WE WILL, MIRA!” followed by a plethora of crying noises as the dancer – Mira – retrieves a lone duffel bag and walks gracefully towards the exit, and Rumi.

“It’s good to see you again, Celine-nim,” Mira says, her voice a pleasant monotone as she greets Celine and Rumi with a polite bow.

Celine offers a professional smile.

“You as well, Mira. This is Rumi.” Her hands fall to Rumi’s shoulders, pulling her forward and into Mira’s focus. “She’ll be joining you as your leader and vocalist.”

Rumi can’t help but flinch beneath Celine’s touch, her eyes rising high to meet Mira’s expectant – and surprisingly tall – gaze. She feels small and childish at this moment, unable to control her urge to blurt out, “Wow, you’re really tall.”

The miniscule smile on Mira’s face folds quickly into the expanse of her deadpan expression, one brow raised in question, or perhaps a slight challenge.

“Is that a problem?”

Realizing what she’s said wasn’t just in her head, Rumi’s face quickly flushes a dark shade of pink, and she stammers to correct herself.

“N-No, no!” Her voice jumps half an octave, hands a blur as they attempt to dissipate the smoke of her ill-mannered words. “Just – Just a friendly observation.”

Mira’s eyes rove over Rumi’s form, over her nondescript outfit of muted colors and a large hoodie which was definitely too warm for the weather. She found it hard to believe this person capable of having the confidence to lead a group to exceed the standards of a former Sunlight Sister, yet as she was so apt to prove to others… Talent lay in the most unexpected of places at times.

“Good,” Mira murmurs, reaching into her duffel to retrieve a pair of gold-framed glasses. “At least one of us needs to have stage presence.”

Rumi’s face grows ever hotter, bulging eyes threatening to pop from their sockets as she watches Mira side-step her on the way to the door.

She gawks, sputters like a child running in place, “I-I have stage presence!”

Celine presses a calming hand to Rumi’s back, guiding her and Mira outside the dance studio.

“Let’s not be hasty. You’ll both have plenty of time to get to know one another on the flight.”

Rumi huffs, giving Mira one last attempt at a withering glance – unsuccessful, and given back to her tenfold – before turning her attention back to Celine.

“Where are we going?”

“California.”

Chapter Text

Mira’s been through the phase of her life where she tried to fit herself into a shape she didn’t belong in.

Growing up had been one uncomfortable experience after another; put in situations where noise grated on her every nerve, sparking pain across her skin as if razor wire was wrapped tightly around each appendage. The uncomfortable blanket of eyes watching her every move. One moment praised for her accomplishments, the next belittled and exiled for being too much.

Too loud. Too sensitive. Too emotional. Too annoying.

Left alone in a room full of hollow awards, fleeting acknowledgements of her talents, her interests. There was a brief moment of her life where Mira thought if she contorted herself enough, learned to control the maelstrom of her temper and emotions, kept the immensity of her feelings inside a box beneath her bed, maybe her parents would look at her the way they used to.

Before autistic became an adjective.

Her face, now a smooth plane devoid of emotion. Eyes dulled, mouth pulled into a perfectly simple line. Only showing enough, never to the fullest extent.

A blank facade hid the roiling tempest that was every feeling Mira had ever felt, practiced to a level of perfection so profound it never came off again.

Mira was calm, cool and collected always, not even a twitch to betray what she was feeling beneath the surface.

It was suffocating, and still not what her parents wanted.

In some ways the masking made their relationship worse than before; instead of always showing how she felt, no one could tell the difference between Mira’s happiness or sadness, her excitement, her anger, her annoyance. Birthdays and holidays became an unbearable experience – for her parents because they became embarrassed by their daughter’s lack of acceptable emotional response, for Mira because she had forgotten how to connect with people on an emotional level, how to convey to them that she was happy, she wasn’t being sarcastic when her tone held no excited inflection.

Then there was her brother.

Mira watched coolly as her parents looked at him as if he built the world.

Every small milestone of his was to be celebrated, building up his ego from the time he could walk, to the day he learned he could have his way without consequence, to the first wicked grin he cast over his shoulder to Mira when she was blamed for impeding on his peace.

Their parents built him an effigy of devotion with their excuses, their vitriolic complaints which measured her to a standard made of her brother’s stature, and Mira came to realize she would never fit into the shape they expected her to.

It was so cliche to admit her freedom found her on the dance floor, objectively, Mira knew. Yet there was no other way to describe the elation which came from her body’s response to rhythm, an outlet to easily express what she found difficult to portray with her voice, her expressions.

There was nothing to overthink when she was dancing – only smooth, calculated movements paired with the flow of heavy bass, a kick drum beat synchronizing to her heart’s own thu-thump, thu-thump. In the places people saw her as an immovable rock Mira would flow like water, a roll from her shoulders through her torso, down to the drop of her knees into solid wood floors. It didn’t matter how bruised her knees became, so long as she could feel so intensely, so intimately for the first time in years.

Her parents hadn’t cared to listen to her achievements by that point, so when Mira received a proposal no one in their right mind would ever refuse, she took it without so much as a glance back.

In twelve hours, they would be landing in Los Angeles, California to complete Celine’s proposed trio.

In the last hour and forty-five minutes, Rumi hadn’t stopped glancing at Mira in five minute intervals.

Maybe it was the perceived nonchalance in her slumped posture, one leg pulled up against her chest, foot planted on the seat while the other stretched out long in front of her, intruding on Rumi’s own foot space.

Maybe it was the way her own eyes didn’t stray from the phone in her hand, thumb lazily scrolling through social media feeds, watching soundless videos posted by choreographers and dancers she follows as her mind falls into habit and counts their steps. Her head bobbing to an imaginary beat. The noise cancelling headphones muffling and muting the various noises around them.

One, and two, and three, and four.

Maybe it’s the fact that Celine had excused herself for a nap at the other end of their private jet, no longer hovering over Rumi’s shoulders to watch her behavior.

Now five, six, seven, eight.

“Are you staring because you’re trying to figure out what to say,” Mira begins suddenly, her eyes flickering up just in time to catch the flinch of Rumi’s shoulders. “Or because you think I look angry?”

Shit.

Rumi doesn’t need a mirror to know she blushes immediately, caught like a child sneaking treats after bedtime.

“Huh?” She murmurs, drawing her broad shoulders inward to appear smaller. “N-No, what? Uh… Neither?”

Mira raises a brow.

Rumi’s resolve snaps quickly, her head hanging as she forces a mirthless chuckle. “Both?”

She watches as the taller girl slowly exhales through her nose, eyes closing gently behind the soft sheen of her glasses as she appears to compose herself.

“I’m not angry,” Mira affirms, though Rumi thinks the monotone contradicts her. “This is just– My face.”

It pulls a more genuine laugh from Rumi. She’s unsure if she should have indulged in the urge, but when Mira doesn’t reel with offense, even letting the corner of her lip twitch upwards, Rumi feels her torso relax.

“I’m sorry,” Rumi replies, her voice calmer, more sincere than Mira had heard it since they met. “I’m not the most, uh… Social person. Or the best with words.”

Mira chuffs, and her eyes roll back to her phone screen to resume her scrolling. “Welcome to the club.”

Silence encompasses them again, for another two minutes before Rumi’s found her voice.

“What are you listening to?”

Mira locks her phone, pulls it down towards her lap to give Rumi her undivided attention. She must have looked annoyed while doing it, because Rumi begins to falter again.

She’s so unsure of herself, trying to find the right place to step then automatically assuming it’s wrong before Mira can react. Mira remembers that feeling, that isolation.

“Sorry,” Rumi repeats, forcing her eyes away from Mira as she pushes back into her seat like she wants to disappear into the cushion. “I just thought – It might be good to see what kind of music you like, what you draw inspiration from.”

Mira calmly cuts in with, “I’m not listening to anything.”

“Oh.” Rumi’s head tilts curiously, index finger pointing to her own ear. “But your headphones…?”

“Noise cancelling,” Mira replies. She slides her propped foot off her seat, back down to the floor. “Sound gets overwhelming when I’m out in public. Makes me wanna rip my skin off.”

The description makes Rumi visibly cringe, but she recovers quicker than Mira would have expected, her smile coming much easier to her face.

“Ouch. Though, I think I can relate to that.” Her fingers drift beneath the cuff of her hoodie sleeve, pushing it up slightly with her knuckles, then thinking better of it. It falls back against her skin, a suffocating shroud. “Not necessarily because of sound, but just… In general.”

Mira lifts her brows, trying to make her expression seem more open, inviting. “Why’s that?”

Again, Rumi’s shoulders turn inward, her torso beginning to condense out of habit.

She counted herself lucky, having not been public about her transition and taking steps early on in her childhood to keep the worst of puberty from affecting her, both physically and mentally. Rumi didn’t have to face degradation at the hands of intolerant people headfirst, but that didn’t negate the damage of seeing it happen around her.

And it certainly didn’t help that Celine wanted to keep that part of her buried along with her patterns.

Our faults and fears must never be seen, Celine would say, for the strength and protection of the Honmoon.

Was it so wrong to embrace a piece of herself that made her happy?

Was it wrong to want that?

Rumi attempts to shrug off the insecurity, disguise it with a mirthless laugh.

“You know how idol culture can be,” She says, her fingers absently twirling the end of her braid. “The whole world’s eyes are on you, expecting you to look and act a certain way. Knowing we’re about to dive head-first into that, willingly. Sometimes it makes me feel like… A stranger in my own skin. Like I’m not supposed to be there.”

The right answer wrapped in the wrong reason. That was true enough to not count as a lie, right?

Mira’s answer is a mic drop, the loud crackle of feedback and static. “Fuck ‘em.”

Rumi feels like she gets whiplash from the speed her head turns to look at her.

“What?”

The dancer shrugs. “Whoever makes you feel that way, fuck ‘em. We’re too good to be trying to fit inside whatever boxes other people say we should be in. That kind of stuff only holds you back, paints you to look like someone you aren’t.”

The words sizzle in Rumi’s mouth like a fizzy drink. Startling if you don’t know what you’re sipping, yet refreshing.

It makes her smile, the thought of Celine’s hands on her shoulders dissipating as Rumi takes in Mira fully again, and also for the first time.

“I like that,” Rumi nods. “A little brash, but… Mira, I like your energy.”

Mira laughs, a genuine smile cracking the blank slate of her expression. “You might regret saying that later.”

Chapter Text

It had shocked Rumi to look at her phone upon landing and see the date jump backwards a day. Leaving Seoul at 11AM on a Saturday had them landing in Los Angeles at 7PM on Friday, and despite having slept for a time on the plane it was still 3AM in Korea. The jetlag was going to suck.

By the time Rumi, Mira and Celine have exited the airport and gotten to their rental car, the sky is filled with the bright orange haze of sunset, casting the city of Los Angeles in even more color than it already had. Palm trees pass by their car windows, towering, swaying in the breeze off the rolling waves of the Pacific.

Rumi takes in the sights with a childish awe, something Mira can’t help but smile at. There was a spark of innocence in Rumi’s eyes that Mira was coming to admire, even in the short time she’d known her. The dancer slumps down in the backseat, knees pressed into the driver’s seat in front of her as she lazily watches Rumi in the front seat, and the passing sights as they drive down the highway.

“Wait, where are we going?” Rumi turns her head to Celine as their car takes an exit, the sign indicating they were driving away from the city.

Celine’s eyes don’t leave the road, slightly narrowed in concentration. “Your next member isn’t in Los Angeles,” She answers calmly. “She lives in a place called Burbank. Not very far.”

Mira tilts her head, lays it against the window. “I can understand how you scouted me, but how’d you find someone capable here all the way from Seoul?”

“Her mother is an old family friend,” Celine says, her eyes briefly finding Mira’s in the rearview mirror. “After divorcing her husband she returned home to Seoul, but he and her daughter stayed in California.”

Rumi raises a brow curiously. “What makes you think she’ll want to leave?”

“Her ideas are too large for a place like this, and her heart is looking for something more.”

***

The half hour drive brings them to a less populated street, concrete walls and signs filled with colorful graffiti art and murals, corner stores serving their final customers before turning off their lights for the night. Despite the emptier street, the three could still hear the steady, pervasive sound of music and enthusiastic muffled shouts as they exited the car.

Celine had brought them to the outside of an old skatepark, overtaken by a crowd of people all moving in tandem, their bodies controlled by the beat of a drum and waves of guitar and bass. Rumi recognizes the slight static of a microphone and one voice being amplified over the crowd as they pass through the chain link fence surrounding the park.

Swaths of people populate the skate park, many lingering around the large bowl and ramps in the center, others sitting on the edges of half pipes, legs swinging in time with the music as they look towards a performer standing on the top of a particularly tall ramp. They alternate between singing and rapping, words flowing effortlessly, rising with the song’s crescendo.

“And you all better not get jealous,” the singer calls out suddenly, pointing up to the top of a half pipe where someone stands ready to drop in on a skateboard. “When my girl Zoey starts gettin’ zealous!”

Another microphone comes to life with the puff of a confident “HAH!” as the girl on the half pipe drops, hurtling down the curve of the ramp and up the other side. Even at a speed Rumi thinks is dizzying, she begins to rap her own verse as her board peaks and flies past the ramp’s opposite lip. The crowd sitting on the edge all sound off dramatically, far enough from her tricks to be relatively safe but still loving the drama of her approach.

Yeah, two sides of a coin but I’m still riding that edge

My feet stuck tripping on the ridges, like falling over a ledge

But I’m finding bridges to the gaps and filling up the divide

Think you should hold on tight, we’re gonna go for a ride!

The girl effortlessly exits the half pipe with a kickflip and rides further into the park as the crowd parts for her, their cheering pulling her lips into a fiendish grin while her verse continues into a mixture of rap and song. She rides up the slope of a ramp, then hops up to grind the length of a rail down the other side, never stuttering even as her board lands hard against the concrete.

Rumi and Mira both are mesmerized by the performance, by the sheer skill needed to continuously rap while riding a moving board, still keeping a casualness to her riding that suggests the girl also wasn’t sure of what trick she’d pull off next. The amount of brain power and coordination she shows off makes excitement swell in Rumi’s chest. They needed this girl as part of their group.

Celine must see it in the girls’ expressions, because she speaks with an almost smug satisfaction when she says, “I told you.”

The performance comes to a halt as the girl jumps and exits the bowl, riding up to the trio before skidding to a stop mere inches from them. Her chest heaves with gasping breaths as her eyes meet Rumi’s, Mira’s, and then Celine’s, an adrenaline-fueled gleam in them that suggests she’s just as pumped up as the crowd around them.

She’s smaller than her energy at the top of the half pipe made her seem, only coming up Rumi’s shoulder as she releases an excited gasp.

“Oh my God!” She exclaims, claiming Celine’s hand before she’s even offered it and shaking the limb wildly. Her cheeks flush a vivid shade of pink, though it’s difficult to know if it’s due to emotion or exertion. “I thought you were going to meet me back home, not here! I would have worn something nicer.”

Celine manages to chuckle fondly at the greeting. “How could I pass up the opportunity to have your group members witness your skill first-hand?”

Zoey’s gaze snaps to Rumi and Mira like a predator catching sight of raw meat, her eyes wide and full of excitement, body tense with potential energy ready to spring her the length of a football field at least. Mira can tell the smaller girl wants to spring onto her and Rumi, but notes a small hint of restraint in the way her arms begin to move and then stiffen.

“Hey!” Zoey’s voice is a jovial chime, out of place in the industrial concrete skatepark where rough and tumble characters shoot daggers with their eyes, shank ribs with jagged words. Rumi and Mira watch her bounce on her toes. “Rumi, Mira! My name’s Zoey. Are you guys cool with hugs? I’m kind of big on hugs.”

Rumi immediately finds her behavior endearing, her smile soft and growing as her eyes flicker to Mira. She raises a questioning brow to the dancer, who answers with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders.

“Sure,” Rumi answers, opening her arms slightly.

Then she’s jolted by the sheer force of a pair of arms wrapping around her waist, squeezing so tightly Rumi feels her feet leave the ground.

“Oh God,” She wheezes. This girl is strong.

Mira is next, clutched around her middle as Rumi sways on her feet. Zoey isn’t able to lift her due to the height difference and a lack of leverage, but Mira still grunts in surprise.

A string of giggles flows from Zoey’s mouth as she steps back from the two, her expression slightly scrunched in an apologetic wince.

“Sorry. I’m just – Agh, I can’t tell you how exciting this is!” She pivots and steps down on the end of her abandoned skateboard, popping it into the air to catch it without so much as a glance. “Are we gonna celebrate? This feels like something to celebrate, the three of us all coming together for the first time.” Suddenly, Zoey gasps. “We should get some Korean BBQ! Oh my gosh, I know a little place nearby that’s absolutely to die for.”

Celine’s expression becomes more serious, her arms gently crossing over chest. “We have a hotel reservation to make and an early flight home tomorrow. There’s room service we can order–”

Rumi watches Zoey’s expression falter; it’s incredibly slight and easily missed, a miniscule twitch at the corner of her lips, a glimmer fading from her eyes, but Rumi sees. She’s been dismissed enough times in her life to recognize the hidden disappointment.

She cuts in with, “But I’m sure we can make a little exception! C’mon, Celine, even luxury hotel room service doesn’t compare to the comforts of Korean BBQ.”

Celine gives Rumi a challenging look and opens her mouth to argue, but Mira joins in as well.

“Not to completely throw a wrench in your plans, Celine, but I would kill for some spicy beef bulgogi right now.”

Mira lays a hand over Zoey’s shoulder casually, looming over her with a smirk that’s almost intimidating, yet Zoey’s glee only brightens at the show of friendly intimacy. Her own hand reaches up to lay against Mira’s as she begins to bounce on her toes.

Rumi, deciding to take her pleading up another notch, rushes to flank Zoey’s opposite side, also throwing an arm around Zoey's other shoulder so the three could directly look at Celine together. She puts on her best puppy eyes, smiling in the way she always used to when asking for silly indulgences.

“Please, Auntie?”

Celine balks at the three, eyes flickering quickly between them, her contempt slowly dissolving until she releases a heavy sigh.

“Alright,” She responds, touching fingers to her temple. “Fine.”

The girls cry out together, “YES!”

Chapter Text

Walking into this small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant feels like encountering a comfort Rumi hadn’t been aware she was missing.

The walls and floors are of an unassuming color combination, the well-used beige paint and dull, ruddy carpet with fibers curled so tightly around themselves they might as well have been straw – but the warmth and liveliness of the place comes from the surrounding decor.

Pictures and tapestries find homes on the walls wherever possible, colorful scripts and depictions of Korean folklore and architecture woven into fabric with dazzling threads, catching light the way precious stones do. The photos range from professionally printed three-by-fives to aged polaroids, introducing customers to the life experiences of those who had built a dream for themselves in the pages of their lives. Luscious landscapes, wide smiles and earnest embraces. Even small TV screens have found themselves hung amongst the establishment’s history, softly playing a rotation of popular Korean music videos. All of it makes Rumi smile softly as she, Celine and the girls are gently ushered into a booth at the far corner of the restaurant.

The yearning in her chest feels both foreign and familiar. Something Rumi had misplaced, coming across it again by chance.

Rumi finds herself sitting between Celine and Zoey once the elderly owner greets and seats them. Mira takes the end seat across from Celine, poised like a guard, intimidatingly tall and imposing even as she reclines against the plush booth.

The owner speaks to Zoey with a jovial lilt to her voice, apparently excited to see Zoey here with company rather than alone. They ping-pong conversation like old friends, tongues flitting between English and Korean as easy as breathing, Zoey making the woman laugh with an inside joke the others pretend to understand with their own reserved chuckles.

Once their food begins to arrive, Mira arches a brow at Zoey in question.

“Sounds like you’re popular around here.”

“Oh yeah,” Zoey nods quickly, nibbling on a wedge of pepper. “I usually come here after school. Do homework, writing, all that stuff.” She leans against Rumi’s shoulder suddenly, pushing up her cheeks with her palms as she adds, “Everyone here loves me and my adorable, pinchable cheeks.”

Rumi smiles awkwardly, slightly leaning away from the physical contact while trying not to show it. Her eyes dart to Celine as she mouths the word, ‘School?’

Celine only offers her a shrug, while Mira smirks against a tofu cube.

“Imagine still being in school,” She teases dryly. “Couldn’t be me.”

Zoey pouts, her annoyance cartoonishly exaggerated. “I’m only two years younger than you guys!”

“Awww,” Mira’s smile is subtle, teasing but also surprisingly genuine as she slots her chin into the palm of her hand. She leans her weight against her elbow on the table and levels her gaze on Zoey, pinning her there. “You’ll be our adorable little maknae.”

Zoey’s entire face steadily blooms a vibrant crimson, but it’s difficult to tell if it’s from annoyance or embarrassment.

She picks up the pair of chopsticks in front of her, brandishing them like tiny daggers in Mira’s face. “Maknae or not, I can still rap circles around you.”

“We’ll see who circles who when we start choreo practice.”

Something in Rumi’s chest constricts, a knot tightening as thoughts begin to overwhelm her mind. Before she realizes, her hands are pressing into Celine’s shoulder, almost shoving her out of the booth just as she’s picked up a piece of beef tongue to grill.

“Celine, would you come to the bathroom with me?” Rumi manages to ask through her measured exhale, a grin tightened across her face. “I think my braid is coming undone.”

They barely manage to close the door behind them before Rumi is groaning loudly into her palms, pacing five steps across the tiled floor before rounding back to Celine.

“You didn’t tell me one of them was younger!”

Celine’s brows furrow. Once again Rumi finds herself hitting a wall, trying to decipher the expression on her face. Disdain, confusion, pity.

“Two years isn’t a large difference, Rumi.”

“She’s a child!” Rumi counters, hostility rising. “Not only do you want her fighting demons, you want her to get involved in idol culture at sixteen?! You know how dangerous that can be.”

“You’re all children!” Celine’s voice echoes through the bathroom. Both of them flinch at the sound, but where Rumi begins to shrink, Celine now looms. Remorse enters her gaze but she doesn’t back down from the assertion. “We’re running out of time, Rumi. The Honmoon destabilizes more each day that passes without the harmony to strengthen its protection against the demons. More tears open, more people disappear the longer we wait.”

Rumi’s entire body coils tight into itself. She wishes Celine wouldn’t do this to her – place the guilt on her shoulders like it was hers to bear. Her mind starts to retreat further into itself, the muffled sound of music playing across the restaurant speakers growing more distant the longer she withdraws from the shame, the guilt, the burden of this life.

Celine watches one of Rumi’s hands burrow beneath the long sleeve of her shirt. She sighs, and reaches forward to cup Rumi’s cheek.

“And the further your patterns spread –”

“I know,” Rumi’s voice answers clinically. She retreats from the chill of Celine’s hand, petulant. “I just don’t know…” She breathes deeply, then exhales. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to protect them.”

Celine’s brows pinch together. Sympathetic. Disappointed. Rumi doesn’t know the difference anymore.

“You don’t need to know,” She answers, her hand retreating, bitten for trying to soothe. “You just need to be ready to do whatever it takes. Your faults and fears must never be seen.”

Before Rumi can answer, Celine turns and pushes through the bathroom door, the restaurant music filtering in louder for a moment until it swings shut again, and Rumi is alone.

Rumi doesn’t linger. She isn’t allowed that luxury.

After a moment of deep breathing, she follows Celine back into the vibrant colors and sounds of the restaurant, back to their booth where she watches Mira effortlessly scoop an entire plate of sliced pork out of Zoey’s grasp with one hand.

“Oh, c’mon!” Zoey pouts as she crosses her arms.

“I’m not letting you dump the entire plate on the grill,” Mira argues, picking up a piece with tongs and placing it on the grill. The meat sizzles loudly. She looks up over the rim of her glasses as Rumi and Celine return, her eyes lingering on Rumi’s face a second longer than necessary. Observing. Calculating. She sets the plate down closer to Rumi, a peace offering. “You good, Rumi?”

Rumi answers too quickly. “Yeah. All good.” She picks out an assortment of meat, placing them across from Mira’s to cook. “Thanks for saving our grill from a mountain of pork. Looks like we’ll need to teach our maknae some manners.”

She reaches over and pinches Zoey’s cheek between her fingers, giggling as the girl begins to squirm in her seat.

“Aw, man,” Zoey laments, trying to scrub the embarrassed flush from her face. “I’m not gonna survive either of you. Celine, pull the trigger.”

All three of them watch Celine – patient, measured – take an uninterested sip of her drink.

“I’m doing no such thing.”

The girls groan simultaneously.

“Talk about a vibe killer,” Mira mumbles.

A lull settles over the table. There’s only the sound of grilling meats and low music surrounding them.

Until Zoey straightens up, her eyes drawn to one of the nearby TVs.

“Hey,” She calls out, waving one hand over the table at Celine while the other points to the video that just started playing. “They’re playing Sunlight Sisters!”

All of their heads turn towards the TV, now catching sight of an iconic music video they all know by heart.

Rumi and Mira both smile softly, while Zoey nearly begins bouncing in her seat.

“Ugh, I listened to this song constantly when it came out!” Her shoulders begin to bob rhythmically, matching with the video’s choreography as Zoey begins to sing the pre-chorus. “I ain’t gonna bite, come on over!”

Celine’s expression tightens a fraction. “Oh, Zoey. Not so —”

Mira interrupts, dropping elegantly into her lower register. “I know you wanna move a little closer.”

Rumi struggles to stifle an amused giggle as Celine’s composure begins to crack. Her eyes flicker towards the elders across the room, a little embarrassed, but even Celine can’t stifle the smile creeping across her face.

“Mira.” Her stern tone ripples with amusement.

The final nail in the coffin comes on the tail end of Zoey and Mira’s harmonizing note, when Rumi jumps into the final line of the pre-chorus and completes their melody.

“I got a plan to get you with me!”

Celine’s head fully drops into her hands, shoulders slightly shaking with a resigned chuckle as the girls launch into the chorus together, singing together like they’d been doing it their entire lives.

I got you on my radar, soon you’re gonna be with me

My strategy, strategy will get ya, get ya, baby!

Winning is my trademark, soon you’ll never wanna leave

My strategy, strategy will get ya, get ya, baby!

The final note of the chorus rings out beautifully, vibrating from each of their chests with unmistakable power.

All around them – barely perceptible – they all witness a ripple of light shudder outward from their table, traveling across the walls and floor of the restaurant. Their singing halts abruptly as the trio look across their bodies, across each other as excitement swells in each of their souls.

Mira raises a brow. “Did you guys…?”

“See that?” Zoey finishes for her, hands clumsily grabbing for both Mira and Rumi’s wrists.

“The Honmoon responded,” Rumi murmurs, almost to herself, in awe as her gaze looks towards Celine, seeking something. Guidance? Approval?

Celine nods, her air of restraint and composure easing back for a moment as she looks at the girls with genuine pride.

“The power of harmony is a compelling force.”

Chapter Text

Exhaustion starts to seep into Mira and Rumi’s bones as they draw closer and closer to their hotel rooms. Over twelve hours on a flight from Seoul was finally beginning to wear on them as the excitement of Zoey’s performance and their impromptu introduction to the Honmoon ebbed away like the retreat of waves.

Zoey seems to have an abundance of energy, even after a tearful stop at her childhood home to retrieve her bags for the flight back to Korea. Rumi and Mira couldn’t help feeling awkward standing on the sidewalk outside the duplex, watching a relationship neither had ever experienced unfold with the easy flow of a sitcom script. They’d both gone quiet in the car even as Zoey excitedly pointed out landmarks and memorable places around the city, Mira at least attempting to nod and hum her acknowledgement while Rumi was content to watch the scenery parallax across the window.

She’d never seen so many people in one place, even in the darkening hours of night, the streets lined in colors Rumi hadn’t ever considered before. It was so different from the spacious mountain range where Celine had raised her in calm solitude, beautiful in ways she had no words for yet.

Even half-dazing, Rumi was amazed at the possibilities the world could hold. Everything that unfolded before her showed a new path, a new avenue to explore, to express, to build from. Like a sprouting seed, there was hope and warmth growing inside her chest.

It was terrifying as much as it was beautiful.

“Oh, sweet merciful God,” Mira’s voice rasped with exhaustion as the four shuffled into the hotel room. She didn’t even stop to take a look around the room before simply face planting into one of the two beds in the center of the room, releasing a groan that sounded more akin to a pack of demons vacating the Underworld. “I’m so tired.”

Rumi chuckles, looking over her shoulder as she helps Zoey and Celine drag their bags across the threshold.

“Looks like we found Mira’s first weakness.”

Zoey giggles, biting her cheek as Mira glares over her shoulder. The menacing look is greatly diminished by the plush pillow she hugs tightly to her chest.

“I’m an Earth sign,” Mira grumbles. “Luxury and comfort calls to me.”

Celine makes her way quietly to a door inside the room, opening it to an adjoining room with two additional beds. She looks over to Rumi expectantly.

“Mira and Zoey, you’ll both sleep in here. Rumi and I will be right next door. We have an early start tomorrow, so be sure you get to sleep on time.”

Mira raises a thumb without looking back, mumbling something about already being halfway there. Zoey gives a stiff salute, addressing Celine as ‘Ma’am’ in the worst military sergeant impression Rumi has ever heard.

Rumi raises a hand hesitantly, her fingers slowly curling into her palm as she calls out, “Uhm – Celine, I’m gonna stay up a bit longer.”

Celine raises a questioning brow. “Rumi.”

“Just another hour or two,” Rumi rushes to assure her, gesturing sheepishly to the other two girls in the room. “You did just throw us all together at once. It’d be nice to get to know each other a bit before we start training. Y’know… Girl talk?”

They hold each other’s gaze wordlessly for an agonizing fifteen seconds, Rumi’s lips drawn into a hopeful, pleading smile as Celine’s face remains coolly intrigued, questioning faintly. The elder’s eyes briefly flicker to the slowly bouncing form of Zoey standing a few feet behind Rumi, her hands balled into fists as if she were slowly cheering, then to Mira who’s now sat up and holding her pillow like a comfort item.

Celine’s expression softens, a chuckle pulled from her lips as she shakes her head somewhat fondly.

“Alright,” She murmurs, pointing a finger at each girl in turn as they begin to react with excitement. “I don’t want to hear any complaints when we’re getting up tomorrow.”

Zoey claps her hands together excitedly as Rumi nods, barely able to contain the grin spreading across her face.

“Yes, Celine!” The three sing in unison.

The moment the door shuts, Zoey hops into the air with a giddy cheer, practically clicking her heels together at the idea of a quality bonding moment.

“Speaking of girl talk and stuff like that, I made you two gifts!”

Both Rumi and Mira perk up at Zoey’s words, Rumi turning sharply just as Mira’s back straightens up from the bed like a knock-off horror movie monster.

“Gifts?”

“Made?”

“Oh, it’s really not that big of a deal,” Zoey begins with a slight wave, a shy titter bubbling from her easy smile. “I’ve always been sorta crafty, so I thought: hey, why not?”

With the focus and tenacity of an Olympic weight lifter Zoey squats and scoops her overstuffed backpack from the floor, grunting with effort as she fully tosses it onto the second bed. It bounces comically high and splits open when it finally lands, a plethora of notebooks spewing from inside like innards.

And there are a ton of them.

Large ones, small ones, spiral notebooks, composition notebooks, even half-crumpled yellow pads with pages hanging on by a single perforated notch and a prayer. Nearly every surface of every book was written or drawn on, blank spaces filled with colorful cartoon stickers or glittery shapes.

How all of it managed to fit into one backpack was unclear, probably couldn’t be anything short of magic.

Entranced as Mira and Rumi were by the volume of the contents, neither of them miss the way Zoey’s shoulders tense, the way her laughter stiffens.

“Crap,” Zoey says quickly, not quite under her breath as her hands flutter about the cacophony spilling across her bed. “D-Don’t mind all this, it’s — It’s nothing.”

“A whole library just spilled out of your backpack,” Mira says, just enough tease in her voice to sound casual. She tosses her pillow behind her, forgotten as she scoots to the edge of the bed for a better look. “Kind of the opposite of nothing.”

Rumi starts to reach for one of the nearest notebooks without thinking, a bright blue spiral notebook doodled on with faded glitter ink, Zoey’s name written across it a number of times in various styles of typography.

Zoey snatches it before Rumi can even touch the cover, pulls it close to her chest with inhuman speed. “Don’t!”

Rumi and Mira flinch.

Zoey stands backed up against the bed, her body imposed between both of them and her pile of notebooks. Just a moment ago she had looked so excited and carefree, a smile never leaving her face, but now she could barely meet either of their questioning gazes.

Rumi is the first to break the tense silence, her fingers curling into her palm, shameful.

“Sorry,” She murmurs earnestly, cradling her hand against her chest. “I should have asked first.”

“No, it’s –” Zoey stumbles over her words, anxiously carding one hand through her hair. “It’s not like I don’t want to show you. I just don’t want you to think it’s… Weird.”

It’s the way the word curls off her tongue that makes Mira’s entire body tense, the way it drips with disdain and resignation that makes Rumi’s brow furrow. Zoey looks so much smaller in this light, gripping onto her notebook with an almost guilty sadness, like she was ashamed for finding joy in the blank pages.

“We just got recruited to be the next generation of demon hunters,” Mira’s voice comes out measured, weighted, but there’s a hidden softness in her eyes that Zoey can see between the rocky cliffs of her words. A beacon, a lighthouse on the cliff face, the guiding light that says ‘this is the way home, just follow me.’ “On top of being popstars, and you think some notebooks will make you weird?”

Rumi’s voice snaps, “Mira!” A wire she hadn’t told Mira to cut, even though she doesn’t necessarily disagree.

But Zoey doesn’t sink.

She smiles. Something small, with room still to bloom, but gradually she unfurls again as Mira turns to Rumi with shrugging shoulders.

“Look, I’m not wrong,” Mira stresses her words, pointing between the three of them in a triangle shaped motion. “Whatever’s happening here is a lot weirder than whatever’s in all those notebooks. You’re totally thinking it too.”

“Well, you don’t have to say it so bluntly,” Rumi counters, arms folding across her chest.

“You’re gonna have to get used to it, Princess.”

Zoey scoots between them just as Rumi’s face flushes bright pink, a comeback on the tip of her tongue.

“Hey, we don’t have to argue about it,” She says. Her eyes flicker between the two of them once more before Zoey releases a calm breath. Her arms unfold and offer the worn blue notebook to Rumi, soft, vulnerable, careful.

Rumi hesitates, but takes the book softly in her hands, traces over the scribbles across the cover as Zoey picks another from the pile to give to Mira.

Every page they flip through is filled to bursting with more words than either thought could fit onto a piece of paper. Words, drawings, stickers – a collage of thoughts and feelings arranged into chaotic rhythms that both made sense and didn’t. Short ideas listed in bullet points, paragraphs of poetry, simple ideas broken down to their core components and used to build entire structures in verse.

Every color of the rainbow found a home on the pages of Zoey’s notebooks – In pencil, pen, marker, crayon. Whatever she could reasonably get her hands on was used in some way to express every thought that came across her mind.

“I always had a lot of ideas about a lot of things growing up,” Zoey murmurs into the quiet, watching Rumi and Mira’s expressions with a mix of anxiety and hopefulness. “I mean, almost every minute of every day it’s like —- PEW, new idea, new idea, new idea!” She makes motions with her hands, fingers expanding on either side of her temple like explosions.

“I would talk to anybody who would listen, drawing and writing down anything and everything, making rocket ships and castles out of cardboard in my backyard. Playing make-believe, because in my imagination I could be anything I wanted to be.” Her eyes shimmer slightly, a hand reaching up to wrap around her other arm, self-soothing. “And eventually – it started being too much for everyone. So, I started keeping notebooks. All the things no one wanted to see or hear anymore…”

She gestures awkwardly between them, to the notebooks in their hands, a clumsy laugh tripping out of her mouth on instinct.

“It’s all in there.”

The silence after was heavy.

Rumi could almost feel herself crying just from the descriptions alone. The idea that someone else could be so surrounded in a place bursting with life and still feel so alone…

Mira was the first to speak up.

“Some of these would work really well with a choreo routine.”

She says it so simply, so matter-of-factly it makes both Rumi and Zoey startle.

“Really?”

Mira lowers the book, her gaze flicking between the two like they were the ones not making sense. “I’m serious. The flow is really good, and the word choice gives me some good ideas for movement. You can pair the words with some eye-catching moves and it gives the song more power.”

“She has a good point,” Rumi adds after a moment, reading over a passage again. She taps the words on the page in a rhythm, counting, hearing the potential in her mind. “You could make some great vocal runs with these, too. Pair it with the right beat, the right melodies, it’s catchy and unique!”

The two look back to Zoey with encouraging smiles.

Her face is covered in tears and snot, looking more like a traumatized toy chihuahua than a teenage girl.

Zoey sniffs loudly, blinking through thick globs of tears. “Really?”

Oh no.

“Uh–” Mira opens her mouth, closes it. She looks over at Rumi in her periphery and squints thoughtfully, then reaches over to shove at the girl’s shoulder. “Damn. Way to make her cry, Rumi.”

“Huh?!” Rumi rounds on Mira quickly, indignant. “Wh– You complimented her first! I was being polite!”

Mira turns her nose up, wearing an exaggerated grimace. “I just said it would work with a dance. You’re the one who brought up singing and being catchy.”

The way her lips quiver nearly gives away her charade; a flicker in composure that says, this is the only way to comfort I know. Rumi sees it, sees the soft center of Mira hiding between the cracks of armor she’s built up. It makes her audibly huff, a warmth she isn’t quite familiar with growing inside her chest, one that makes her smile despite herself.

“Oh,” Rumi counters, her voice smooth. “So the one concerned with stage presence doesn’t want to take the blame?”

That brings the barest hint of a flush to Mira’s face.

“That’s completely different from making someone cry.”

Suddenly, Zoey surges forward and locks her arms dangerously tight around both Rumi and Mira, squeezing them into an embrace that forces every molecule of air to vacate their bodies in an instant. The two of them wheeze painfully, protesting for only a moment before their bodies go limp.

“You guys are the best,” Zoey giggles.

***

For as quick as she may have been to cry over praise, Zoey was equally quick at regaining her composure. The tears and snot disappear almost immediately from her face as her mind regains clarity and she remembers what she had grabbed her backpack for in the first place.

“Oh!” Zoey calls out suddenly, clapping. “That’s right, your presents!”

Mira smirks as she watches Zoey pretty much dive headfirst into the bag. “You were serious about that?”

Zoey pops her head out, eyes narrowing. “I’m always serious about presents.”

After she descends back into the bag like a loony tunes villain, Zoey presents Rumi and Mira each with a folded bundle, slightly wrinkled from the storage but no less full of warmth.

Rumi unrolls hers and finds a soft t-shirt in her hands, dyed with varying shades of purple to create an eye-catching tie-dye look. She flips the shirt over and back, enamored by the colorful pulse rippling across the surface.

“You made these?” Rumi asks, looking over the collar of the shirt at Zoey. Her eyes glisten with emotion, the gesture making her entire body feel like a wet noodle. “That’s so sweet! Mira, isn’t it—”

Rumi looks over at Mira.

She’s already wearing her own shirt, a wonderful splash of pink hues struck across the soft white cotton.

Mira approaches Zoey and holds the younger girl’s face in both hands, leaning down to peer deeply into her questioning eyes.

“If anyone ever gives you trouble,” She says coolly. “You come to me. Understand?”

Zoey doesn’t know what to say, but she nods anyway, and Mira seems happy with that.

The night begins to settle afterwards, the girls helping Zoey repack her notebooks into her backpack for the morning flight back to Seoul.

As the sound of the zipper finally falls quiet, Zoey sets it on the ground with a huff, then throws herself back into a sitting position on the bed.

“I think there’s one last thing I should let you both know before, uh… Before it’s too late for me to back out.”

Rumi’s stomach drops a little, like she’s missed a step on the stairs.

“Back out?” Mira questions.

“Well,” Zoey attempts to start, but her words fall quiet. It almost looks like she’s straining, her face scrunched into a frankly painful looking expression before she forcefully blows a raspberry in the air. “I don’t wanna make either of you uncomfortable, so you should know up front that I’m not… Straight.”

“Oh.” The word leaves Rumi’s mouth before she can think of catching it.

Mira props herself up on her elbow to keep better eye contact with Zoey, who begins to wiggle in place as she explains.

“I mean, I do like boys,” Zoey tacks on hastily. “But I also like girls. And I know that makes some people uncomfortable, so –” Her shrug is purposely exaggerated, her body itself making a joke to cover an emotional vulnerability. “Now you know before there’s been any, like, hardcore commitment.”

Rumi’s attention is drawn to Mira as she exhales loudly through her nose, a half-hearted attempt to disguise amusement.

“I thought you were gonna tell us you collect other people’s baby teeth for fun.”

“Mira, that’s disgusting.” Rumi’s face scrunches at the thought. Who does that?

“You can’t tell me you didn’t expect something way more out there,” Mira shoots back, flopping onto her back. “Besides, same. The Bi thing, I mean. I wasn’t gonna bring it up since you two didn’t give off a homophobic vibe, but if we’re gonna share I might as well.”

The way Zoey’s shoulders immediately lift makes Rumi’s heart clench.

Rumi shyly raises her own hand, wiggling each finger as she adds, “Sounds like we’re three-for-three there.”

“Oh my God,” Zoey’s grin sharpens. “Are we pulling an NSYNC?!”

The way Mira immediately cackles makes Rumi feel like she’s missing a joke.

“A what?”

The two of them look at her incredulously.

Mira deadpans, “Please don’t tell me you don’t know NSYNC.”

“No, I know NSYNC. Like, the band.” Rumi’s brow furrows, like she’s attempting to solve complex algebra. “But what does that have to do with being bisexual?”

Zoey hauls herself to her feet on the bed, slightly bouncing as she breaks into song and dance. “I wanna see you out that door. Baby, bye, bye, bye!”

She grins at Rumi like she’d recited the secrets of the universe, but Rumi was still completely clueless.

“I’m lost.”

“It’s a meme,” Mira adds. “People on the internet like to change the spelling of ‘bye’ to B-I. Like bisexual.”

“Ohhh,” It’s still a bit shaky, but now Rumi wasn’t as confused. “Sorry, I’m not really familiar with stuff on the internet.”

Zoey gasps like she’d been shot. She immediately jumps from the bed and lands with a thud next to Rumi, grabbing her by the shoulders with an intense seriousness in her face.

“Rumi, we have a lot of work to do.”

The rest of the night was long, filled with a countless number of memes, videos, rick-rolls and plain weird images Rumi could never have imagined before tonight.

She never made it back to her room with Celine. The trio eventually fell asleep together mid-internet adventure, leaning against one another, faces lit only by the light of the TV across the room.

Rumi had never slept so soundly.