Chapter Text
Rumi’s first introduction to death comes from Celine’s garden.
She’s six years old and drowning in the oversized overalls Celine fished out for her. Tiny feet shoved into sandals that flop against the dusty dirt path. It’s unbearably hot, but Rumi is determined, trudging along as she holds the tiny garden shovel with both hands.
Celine is stooped over a bed of roses, gloved hands carefully pressing at the fertile soil. She holds the stems gingerly, checks on the flat leaves surrounding each bud. Rumi watches her with rapt attention, wide gardening hat falling into her eyes as she memorizes every one of Celine’s actions. It’s the first time Celine has brought Rumi into the garden, and Rumi wants to make a good impression, to prove that she deserves to be here.
“This is how you water them,” Celine tells her softly, tipping a bright yellow watering can. Rumi is more fascinated by Celine’s eyes, the way they appear almost unguarded. She’s seen Celine express a wide array of emotions, but she’s never seen this one in particular. It’s like her eyes are hazy yet sharp, fondly watching the roses. Like old friends. Like something more. It reminds Rumi of the pictures she’s seen of Celine and her mother.
The expression claws at her heart. She imagines a rose sprouting in her chest, bright and beautiful, one that will draw that same gaze from Celine towards Rumi. She resolves to make it happen.
It’s in the corner of the flower bed where Rumi focuses on her project. A single rose, small but strong, sits near the raised wooden wall. She waters it meticulously, checks the surrounding area every day to ward off pests. The sun burns the back of her neck as she works but she ignores it, all of her attention on the little rose that grows a little taller and stronger with each passing day. Celine tends to the rest of the roses nearby, occasionally watching Rumi crouched over the ground with a smile, but her eyes are always far away.
It’s okay, though, Rumi thinks.
Because she’ll grow this rose and gift it to Celine and the woman’s eyes will finally stop seeing a mirage when Rumi smiles and see Rumi for herself, a child who only wants Celine to look at her the way she looks at her mother’s headstone, adorned with tulip and carnation and orchid bouquets all year-round.
Because Rumi is six and she doesn’t quite understand the meaning of the word love yet, but she can feel something dancing away from her clingy fingers each time Celine catches a glimpse of the faint purple markings snaking down her collarbone, so she prays, desperate as anything, for her rose to blossom and catch Celine’s attention and make her look (look at me) at Rumi.
Rumi prays, aches with a hope so tentative and fragile she doesn’t dare put it into words for fear it may shatter. But her wants are too much, she is too much, because despite the water and the protection and the care she gives her rose, the outermost petals flake away and the inner bud begins to curl in on itself. Rumi is frantic, ungloved fingers brushing against the soil to check that it’s still moist and rich with nutrients as it hosts the rose’s roots. She grips the thorny stem, ignoring the pinpricks of pain and lines of despair that drip down her arms, because the rose is turning hard and brittle and their color is seeping into Rumi’s patterns that are pulsing against her skin. Rumi holds that bright yellow watering can as she watches the rose silently. What more can she give? What does she have to give?
Still. Rumi hopes. Despite everything, she dares to hope. With a frenzy and a childish innocence, she lifts the watering can again.
Celine finds her just as the sun kisses the horizon goodbye, brows pulled together in concern as she rushes over to Rumi. Rumi is standing silently next to the drooped flower, its leaves drenched in water from Rumi’s last ditch attempt. Celine takes in glowing patterns shining behind the slightly torn shirt from the barbs, the shaking fists, and the glassy eyes that bore into the ground.
“Oh, you silly little child,” she breathes, concern tinting her words. “What did you do?”
What did you do?
Rumi’s eyes fall to the rose, dead and soaked with water. The proof of her love.
What has she done?
Celine crouches down by Rumi, pats the dirt off her knees, tucks her hair behind her ears. Her eyes linger on the purple glow emanating from Rumi, basking the crisp rose petals on the floor in a light magenta. She pulls Rumi in closer.
Rumi does not know hate. Rumi does not know abandonment. Rumi knows care and protection, wrapped in the gentle embrace of Celine as she wipes the blood off Rumi’s skin with her own. But her sleeves are tugged down with urgency, Celine’s jacket draped over Rumi’s shoulders, right over the angry (another desperate kind of emotion) glow of her markings. And Rumi knows, she does not know love either, the selfless kind that comes in the form of gentle rain and plants roses that survive in the crevices of her chest.
Rumi cannot blame Celine for this. She is too busy. Her yellow watering can holds only enough water for the two headstones that shone in the sunlight behind the thicket of trees. Rumi knows it isn’t really Celine’s fault, isn’t really her decision to choose who her heart plants flowers for, but she hurts all the same.
Her markings are thorns, bramble bushes that mar her skin and stretch across the barren soil of her heart, preventing Celine from stepping too close to water the dusty ground. Oh, she tries. Sometimes, when Celine holds her tiny hand in public, casting a protective arm to shield Rumi from a swarm of reporters, Rumi can feel a couple droplets land amongst the dirt. Celine will hug her and Rumi will close her eyes and pretend and feel the promise of clouds, heavy with rain, in the distant sky. But in the end, the thorns seem to block Celine from getting close enough to do more to help.
Rumi is young, but she knows two things for certain.
One, is that she is to hide her markings at all times, for the safety of both Celine and herself.
And the second is that as long as she has these patterns, no flowers will ever grow for her.
***
“I’m just saying, I think the roses are kinda overdone.”
Zoey was sprawled across the couch, head dangling off the front of the cushions as her legs hook into the back of the pillows. She had her hand in a party sized bag of shrimp chips, tossing a couple in her mouth every so often as she watched Mira flip casually through a fashion magazine. The TV was on in the background, playing some David Attenborough documentary that no one was really paying attention to. Rumi was scrolling absentmindedly on her phone, occasionally looking up to marvel how Zoey seemed to look so casual in what was most definitely an uncomfortable position.
Mira sighed, letting the magazine dip slightly against her knees as she peered at Zoey over the bridge of her glasses. “That’s because you have the taste of a toddler.”
Zoey’s face wrinkled in annoyance. “Excuse you. First of all, no I do not because toddlers love roses.”
“So your taste is worse than a toddler’s,” Mira muttered dryly.
“And second of all,” Zoey continued, raising her voice over Mira’s jab. “It’s not poor taste to just want some variety. I mean, is it too much to want a bouquet of something other than roses every time? I think management could spend less time scheduling us early morning training and put a little effort into arranging some better bouquets, right?”
Mira snorted. “What would you prefer, your highness? Stalks of lavender?”
“No, lavender isn’t aesthetic enough,” Zoey hummed, taking Mira’s sarcasm into serious consideration. “They smell great, but they don’t work on their own.” She lifted her head, swinging her legs around to sit properly on the couch. Rumi stared at her phone a little harder, trying to ignore the flex of Zoey’s thighs as she folded her knees underneath her. She felt something tug, low in her stomach.
Fuck.
Mira shook her head fondly, letting the magazine drop fully to rest in her lap. “What do you propose then, little miss flower connoisseur?”
Zoey tapped her chin, seemingly deep in thought. Rumi admired the gentle crease between her eyebrows, pinched in contemplation. She could smell Zoey’s shampoo, vanilla and citrus, from here. Her sleep shirt was half falling off one shoulder, freckles exposed to the air. Rumi imagined pressing her lips to each one with only a moderate amount of guilt.
Then, Zoey turned to Rumi, eyes wide and expression inquisitive. Rumi immediately dropped her phone and matched Zoey’s expression, face silently asking what?
“What do you think, Ru? What’s your favorite flower?”
Rumi hesitated, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, missing how Zoey and Mira both caught the tiny action.
“I don’t know, I kind of like roses,” she admitted sheepishly, a small laugh rumbling through her throat when she saw Zoey’s face fall in mock disappointment as she flopped back against the couch.
“No! That’s so boring, Rumi. You gotta pick another one,” Zoey cried out dramatically, eyes screwing shut in frustration as she rolled around on the cushions. The laugh slipped past Rumi’s lips as she watched Zoey act out.
Then Zoey suddenly stopped, sitting back up as her head snapped towards Mira’s direction.
“What about you, Mira?”
Mira shrugged, thumbing the corner of the pages on her legs. “Not really sure either. I don’t think about flowers that much.”
“Just pick one.”
Mira was silent for a couple of seconds before she met Zoey’s expectant gaze once more. “I like poppies.”
Rumi imagined a sea of poppies. They had less petals than roses, more spread out and open. Inviting. Rumi imagined Mira tending to a couple of poppies in a park, letting water drip from her bottle as she gazed at the strong buds. She could picture the soft smile on Mira’s face that was typically only reserved for the three of them, in the privacy of their home.
(Rumi liked poppies, she decided).
Zoey broke the silence, one eyebrow cocked high. “...Aren’t those the drug flowers?”
“Wha- Drug flowers?!” Mira sputtered indignantly. “What the fuck?”
“Like!” Zoey exclaimed, lifting her arms as she began chopping at the air with her hands before dropping her head to mimic a snorting sound. She looked ridiculous, and Rumi couldn’t help the sudden laughter that erupted from her.
God, she wanted her so bad.
“What the hell… are you doing lines of cocaine?” Mira questioned, her face twisted in pure confusion.
In return, Zoey pointed an accusing finger at the pink-haired girl, full of unfounded confidence. “Poppies are the drug flowers! I think they’re like, used in opium or something.”
Mira blinked rapidly, looking akin to an offended owl.
“So that means you’re a crackhead!” Zoey concluded flawlessly, emboldened by Rumi’s giggles to her side.
“That’s not how it- !” Mira sighed in frustration as she stood up, tossing her magazine at Zoey who dodged it easily, before making her way to the kitchen. “Well, what about you? What’s your favorite flower?”
Zoey met her scowl with a lopsided grin. “I like dandelions and sunflowers!”
How fitting. Rumi could see it so easily. Zoey twirling through fields of sunflowers, wisps of dandelion fuzz slipping through her outstretched fingers, her enthusiasm positively contagious. Rumi imagined herself next to Zoey, as shining and radiant as the sun itself. But her fingers didn’t burn Rumi’s skin when they curled around her bicep, slipping behind her neck to tug her around.
“That’s so basic,” Mira scoffed. Rumi caught her small grin as she turned her back to Zoey, who had puffed her cheek out in a pout.
“At least I’m not a druggie,” Zoey shot back easily, but her lips were twisting up with their own grin.
“I’ve never seen someone jump to conclusions as fast as you,” Mira quipped dryly. “Your legs don’t get tired?”
“Nope!” Zoey slapped her thigh in response for Mira to hear. Rumi’s eyes dropped against her will to watch the plush skin ripple gently. She felt the heat of lust coil again, accompanied with thorns of guilt that made her markings flare before she dimmed them.
“So you’re saying that if I searched you right now, I wouldn’t find a suspicious little plastic baggie of white powder. And you wouldn’t try to convince me that it’s just flour?” Zoey continued, clearly getting a kick out of spouting nonsense to try to rile Mira up.
Mira finally turned around, eyes narrowed at Zoey in a sharp glare. She let the silence drag on for a long moment as Zoey met her expression with a bright smile, unfettered.
Then Mira broke out into laughter, bright and easy, fingers clutching at the counter as her long pink hair swung behind her with the force of her giggles.
“You’re so ridiculous,” she murmured fondly and Rumi gazed at her, trying to ingrain every detail in her mind, the crinkle of Mira’s eyes, the glint of her teeth flashing above pink lips. The thought, I could really love you, flashed through her mind, and she pictured those words peeking through silently in Mira’s affection-filled words.
Then she saw Zoey’s grin melt into a full, stomach-clutching laugh, her own laughs ringing out in tandem with Mira’s. Rumi’s patterns flickered twice before she managed to wrangle them into neutrality, continuing to watch the dimples on Zoey’s cheek deepen as she dropped her head into her hands, shoulders continuing to shake from the force of her laughter.
Rumi stared. Imagined what the dimples would feel like against her lips. Thought, I think I really do love you. Then quickly, forcefully, shook her head as she joined in with their laughter, like it could flood the thought cleanly from her head.
***
She rolled the words around in her mouth that night. Tasted the syllables, slipped the three words between her teeth, fast and sharp, like it would pull her heart less the quicker she said it. Wondered if they would ever feel any less out of place in between her jaws.
***
Mira showed up later that week with two bouquets tucked under her arms. Both were a mismatch of roses, poppies, dandelions, and sunflowers. To be honest, they were kind of ugly, all squished together in a jarring clash of colors and designs.
But Zoey’s face lit up as she pulled Mira in for a hug even as she teased Mira for trying to tuck the drug flowers in sneakily, like Zoey didn’t know what she was up to. Mira rolled her eyes in response but squeezed Zoey closer and longer than necessary before turning to Rumi.
Rumi was speechless as Mira placed a bouquet gently in her hands. She held them gingerly, like they would wither instantly in her arms. Looked up at Mira and whispered a quiet thank you, eyes brimming with something bright and unnamed.
Mira only nodded, smiling so sweetly as she reminded the two to not drown them with only the slightest pause in her breath, and Rumi felt a pang in her heart. It was another thorn, yes, but it was being ripped out. Tugged from the ground by Mira’s gloved hands. Her patterns flared bright with emotion before Rumi could get them under control, but neither of the other two girls flinched. They just kept smiling and holding her close.
Later that night, she dreamed of flowers that grew in the sky.
***
In her mind, Rumi is standing next to her mother. Their pinkies are interlocked. Mi-yeong smiles gently down at her.
Celine stands in front of the two of them. Her eyes graze over Rumi. Briefly. Celine is much more focused on the glow to Rumi’s left.
To her, Rumi is the moon. So when the sun sets and Rumi’s pinky falls to her side, Celine finally looks at Rumi because at the very least, the moon reflects the light of the sun.
Rumi will spend the rest of her life competing with a ghost. And she will never win, not even once.
***
When Rumi thought about it, which she rarely allowed herself to do, she realized it was a bigger problem than she ever imagined.
The issue wasn’t that she might be in love with more than one person, or that they were both girls. No, the guidelines of normalcy hadn’t really had much sway over her ever since Rumi started fighting demons from hell.
It was more so the fact that the two girls were Zoey and Mira . Zoey, who flitted around on her toes, light as a feather, with a blinding smile and a cheeky attitude that was always prodding, always poking at Rumi and making her feel alive . Mira, who moved as if the word grace was engrained in her very bones, her glare belieing her caring attitude, and sharp tongue that made Rumi feel like a masochist, always chasing for more. They made Rumi ache in the most unbearable of ways, their faces popping up in Rumi’s head late at night, when her hand was between her thighs and her toes were curled and she was falling apart, holding on to their names with her tongue like it was salvation.
Zoey. Mira.
She wondered what they would say if they saw her like this, a feral, desperate thing. Begging for attention. Shame curled in her stomach, an ugly sort of tendril that snaked through her body, as she dreamed of the girls who were far too good for her. And on nights she felt particularly bold, she dared to wonder whether they would try to step past the bramble that Celine never dared to, if they cared enough to try to water the heart of a girl who always stepped into shoes far too big for her to fill .
Rumi could almost believe it. They made it so easy to believe it.
When Mira gave her dry, almost sarcastic-sounding compliments but then watched her like a starving hawk for the rest of the day, Rumi tasted the poppies she talked about, bursting between her teeth. When Zoey settled comfortably in her lap without so much as a second glance towards the actual chairs around her, she thought of petals that coated her tongue in crimson, dulling the deep ache (of what if they wanted her too?) within her with their hazy sweetness. But then a sharp sting would bring her back, and Rumi would look in the mirror and see blood dripping from her bottom lip where her fangs had dug in, staining her chin with the wrong shade of red and reminding her where she was, what she was, and that she was here, she was still here, with patterns and thorns and nothing to give and everything to take.
All she did was take. Take from Zoey, from Mira. Take their kindness, their time, their affection.
And Rumi hated how easily she did it, too. Like she was just another mindless demon, taking from people without a second thought.
She hated it.
But then Zoey would laugh and Mira would smile so, so sweetly and Rumi found that she couldn’t help herself, either.
***
Rumi walks by Zoey’s room one night. There is a small gap between the door and the threshold, and Rumi peers in without thinking.
Zoey is sitting on the side of her bed, leaning over one of her notebooks as she scribbles furiously under the moonlight. Her shoulders are tense. Her fingers grip the paper so tightly it nearly tears. Crickets creaked quietly outside, the sound blending in with the scratching of Zoey’s pencil on the lined paper.
With her sharp vision, Rumi can see the contents of the page tipped towards the door. Her name is scrawled along the side, along with Mira’s. She sees the words flowers and smile and stupid a short distance away. She drags her vision along the edges of little hearts doodled in the margins.
Silently, she steps away. She does not think about what she saw.
It’s only a day later that she lets her mind guiltily wander back, when her fingers are dipping below her waistband once more. Zoey doodles hearts and stars and smiley faces everywhere she can, so Rumi knows it doesn’t mean anything, but it’s dark and no one’s around so she ignores the spikes in her chest and lets herself pretend over and over again until her back arches and her head rocks back silently and the blood in her mouth tastes like vanilla and citrus.
***
There are two things Rumi knows for certain.
One, is that she loves both Zoey and Mira. Completely and unequivocally. She falls to them under the law of gravitation, her love a universal constant in every timeline.
Two, is that she should not love Zoey and Mira. They do not feel the same, and even if they did, Rumi does not deserve them. She fears she will become like Celine, emulating the distant affection she grew up with. She fears they will notice the way she is locked behind a barricade of thorns she cannot control, peer between the shrubs and realize that Rumi’s heart is a desolate land with no poppies or dandelions or sunflowers waving in the wind.
***
Rumi never questioned why moths flew towards flames.
She understood why, in the ways she wrapped her arms around Zoey’s waist as the younger girl sat on her lap, keeping her there despite the deep ache it brought. It was her own personal form of torture, Rumi mused. Ever since Rumi and Mira had reassured Zoey that her habit was nothing to be ashamed of or break, the younger girl had completely tossed aside her reservations. It was both a blessing and a curse, a paradox that ripped Rumi’s heart apart in all the sweetest ways.
“This angle is so good,” Zoey was saying, holding up the phone for Rumi to watch too. Zoey had a fancam pulled up, one of their most recent performances playing on the screen. Rumi was the focal point, her face stern yet teasing in the close-up view.
Rumi flushed slightly, feeling the nape of her neck warm slightly. She had no problem with the attention from fans, but having Zoey so close, and commenting on her actions made her feel meek as a lamb.
“What angle?” Mira’s voice echoed through the living room from the kitchen as she prepared a quick lunch. Ramyeon was not the most efficient diet but it was certainly one of the tastiest, so Mira was simply pouring some hot water into the cup of noodles. Rumi looked up, watching as Mira’s eyes lingered for longer than necessary on the water as it drowned the ramyeon, a glassy look in her eyes.
“This angle of Rumi. It’s so hot,” Zoey called back, giggling at Rumi’s silent groan as the leader looked back towards the maknae and dropped her head into Zoey’s shoulder. Partly out of embarrassment, partly because she just wanted to drag Zoey closer, hold her in her arms and breathe her in and bite her and worship her and never let go.
Mira hummed back in response, snapping back to attention, and the sound of her footsteps growing louder as she made her way over to the entangled pair.
“Let me see.”
“Nooo,” Rumi grumbled into Zoey’s skin, her words muffled and unheeded by the latter, who moved her arm to display the video to Mira. Mira watched silently, letting out a low whistle at the beat drop, making Rumi’s ears tint harshly.
“Send me that,” Mira told Zoey as she walked back to the kitchen, who agreed easily. Rumi groaned again, wrapping her arms even tighter around Zoey, butterflies fluttering at the way the other girl eased closer willingly.
“Come on, Ru,” Zoey laughed, swatting the back of one of her shoulders. “Take the compliment!”
Rumi didn’t respond. Zoey reached around, grabbing Rumi by the ear to tug her reluctantly away from the rapper’s shoulder.
“Rumi. You know you’re like, one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen, right?”
A smile still teased at the corners of Zoey’s lips, but her expression was serious, as if she was pleading with Rumi to understand.
Rumi gave a small nod to placate her, wanting to escape the conversation already and bury herself back into the sanctuary of Zoey’s neck. But Zoey held fast.
“Like, you’re not only stunning, but you’re graceful and stylish and caring. You’re like, the dream girlfr-”
Zoey cleared her throat, eyes flicking away momentarily before returning back to Rumi’s.
“The dream girl. The IT girl. You’re everything to Mira and I. You know that, right?”
Rumi was dying, was flying into the bright light of the fire that Zoey embodied. Burning. And dimly, she thought that death had never felt so sweet as she nodded for a second time.
“No, Rumi,” Zoey continued, staring at Rumi intently now. “I mean it. I’m serious. Tell me you understand.”
Rumi could tell, could see the truth behind her pupils. Her breath hitched. It only made it worse, the feeling of melting under Zoey’s watchful gaze.
Don’t look at me like that, she wanted to beg.
Like I’m worth something.
Like you could love me.
And the longer Zoey gazed at her with that soft, adoring expression, the more Rumi wanted to confess. To admit to being a fraud, to having nothing to offer to someone like Zoey. All the seeds she could plant – of hope, of care, of dreams and love – would only wither in the rocky terrain of Rumi’s heart.
Please.
Her fingers twitch only once before they settle tightly on Zoey’s hips. She pulls Zoey closer silently, burying her face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply.
“I understand,” she mumbled. Quiet. But with the tiniest string of desire threaded in.
Celine would be disappointed.
She’s still so weak. Still dares to hope.
A sunflower turning towards the sun in a desperate bid for attention, spreading its petals wide.
Rumi cursed herself in her mind as soon as the words left her mouth, the twinge of desperation in her voice. Pathetic. So pathetic, so pitiful and stupid.
I want you.
I want you to want me.
Can I want that? Am I allowed to?
Zoey pulled Rumi away slightly, and Rumi felt her heart drop, crack, as she was pulled from the warmth and comfort of the girl’s neck yet again.
But Zoey only brushed her thumb across Rumi’s cheek, slipping another hand around her shoulders as their foreheads met. She smiled and Rumi’s breath was taken away by the sight of Zoey’s eyes, glimmering with emotions Rumi hadn’t even dared to dream of, like she was telling Rumi you can, you’re allowed to.
And the sun turned towards the sunflower.
***
Zoey’s words don’t linger in Rumi’s head. They don’t bounce around her skull, settle in the gaps and slip between brain tissue to haunt her.
You’re everything to Mira and I.
Zoey’s eyes flash in her mind when she closes her eyes. Rumi tries to avoid the way they seem to follow her, trail across the purple brands on her skin, and ignore the way it makes her chest feel tight and light all at the same time. It’s too much.
She thinks of Mira, curled under the covers in bed. Watching Rumi’s fancam. Eyes tracking her every moment, memorizing the details of her markings spread across her skin. Rumi remembers Mira yanking her sleeves up, telling her she should flaunt her arms like it was a no-brainer. Like Rumi had nothing to hide.
You’re everything to Mira and I .
Rumi wonders if the two of them even see her patterns as the thorns she’s always visualized them as, or if they instead see vines, strong and beautiful and sturdy enough for them to swing across on and tumble into Rumi’s chest.
***
In her dreams, Celine hesitates for only a moment.
Rumi kneels, presents her sword to Celine, and begs her to end it. To do what should have been done a long time ago.
In her dreams, Celine takes the weapon.
She watches Rumi, sees the broken shards of her soul scatter around her. She looks at Rumi, not through her, and sees the extent to which her will has been broken, shattered by the rejection of the two other girls. Her girls. She sees Rumi for Rumi, and not for a ghost that she clings on to hopelessly.
In her dreams, Celine raises the sword.
It pauses at its peak. It’s not an easy thing, or a clean thing, to go through with. Celine’s lip trembles. In her ears, Mi-yeong begs for her to stop. Rumi begs for her to continue. For release.
In her dreams, Celine brings the blade down on her neck.
Because in Rumi’s dreams, Celine loves her enough to lose the moon too.
***
Rumi jolted awake. Her cheeks were still wet. She couldn’t tell if it was out of relief that Celine’s own brand of desperation had given Rumi a second chance, or if it was from her mourning the absence of something she had never gotten. Maybe it was both. Maybe it didn’t matter. Neither could happen, anyways.
The quiet patter of footsteps caught her attention. She quickly wiped at her cheeks before looking up.
“I can hear you thinking from the living room.”
Zoey was standing in her doorway, the smallest of frowns etched on her perfect features.
Rumi raised an eyebrow. “That’s physically impossible.”
The younger girl stepped in, padding over silently towards the bed, where Rumi was laying on her side.
“We fight demons. Don’t tell me what’s physically impossible. Common reasoning is a suggestion,” Zoey retorted smoothly, sliding on the mattress and slipping closer to Rumi.
“You’re speaking nonsense again,” Rumi murmured, full of affection, as Zoey curled into her, back pressed against Rumi’s front until the purple-haired girl was solidly spooning the former.
“And you’re probably thinking nonsense. Again,” Zoey shot back, tugging at one of Rumi’s arms to wrap around her shoulder. “I told you already, the demons won’t have a chance to get you if you overthink and overwork yourself to death.”
There was a pause before Zoey continued, the agitation dropped from her words but concern still pressed deeply into her tone.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Rumi was silent for a moment. Glanced towards the door, which was still slightly ajar. She could’ve sworn she heard a quiet thump outside and saw a wisp of pink hair, but then Zoey was running a knuckle along her forearm and Rumi was chewing her lip in deep thought. Unsure what to say. Where would she start?
She could talk about the flowers Mira had given them. How she had put them into the biggest vase she could find, with just enough water to cover the base of the stems. That she secretly checked on them every night, thumb tracing soft circles on the leaves, feeling for any brittleness.
She could mention that she saw Zoey writing her name that night with hearts next to it, that she couldn’t help but imagine what if as she touched herself to the thought of having the younger girl under her the next night. That she had wanted it with a need so bad that she had felt her marks fizzle and burn against her skin, had nearly clawed crimson petals onto her skin with the primal desire she had felt.
She could whisper about Celine and her garden and the too-big overalls and tiny rose she had failed to nurture. The yellow watering can that always had too little when it came to her.
She could say all of that, or she could just say I think you two are too good for me but I want to love you anyways, if you’ll let me.
But old habits died hard, and her tongue dried out, pinned to the bottom of her mouth. Instead, what escaped the desert of her throat was a quiet,
“Maybe another time.”
Please wait for me.
Zoey didn’t respond. Her hand still lay on Rumi’s arm where it was wrapped around her shoulders. Rumi shifted ever so slightly, antsy, anxiety already gnawing at her.
Eventually though, Zoey just gave a soft sigh but Rumi didn’t feel the judgement or impatience line her exhale. “Okay. You know I’ll always be here for you. We will.”
Rumi felt her breath catch. Watched her wrist light up where Zoey was softly tracing the curve of her markings, like it was a work of art and not a shameful branding. She did it gently. Like coaxing a wounded animal from its shell. And Rumi felt her throat tighten again, her eyes welling up all over again. Burying her mouth against the top of Zoey’s head, she squeezed her arms around the smaller girl.
Her voice was thick as she choked out a small, “I know… thank you.” And she felt a small wave of pride at the words managing to leave her mouth, heavy with the weight of adoration.
Zoey simply hummed in response, seemingly satisfied for the moment as she settled further into the mattress and Rumi. Sinking into Rumi’s embrace with all the trust in the world, until the distance Rumi had always been accustomed to was gone, and Zoey was close, closer than she had ever dared to dream for. The latter watched, listening as her breaths slowly deepened and evened out, her thumb dropping from Rumi’s arm eventually as she fell asleep.
Rumi curled closer to Zoey and imagined carving a place out for the two of them in the pit of her chest. Wondered if it was still plantable after all these years. If poppies and dandelions and rows and rows of sunflowers would grow there. And she didn’t want to be too hopeful because she could still see blackened and dried rose petals clearly in her mind, but her hands were curled around Zoey’s waist and the rise and fall of her chest was warm and alive and Rumi so desperately wanted to believe that the flowers in her heart could be the same.