Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ever since she was a child, Mira has been shaped by violence and anger.

Mira was never seen as the golden child - that title was given to her brother. Instead, she was always seen as the mistake, as the one who couldn’t get anything right, no matter how hard she tried.

And god, she tried.

She tried to be the perfect daughter, to get perfect grades and do all the right extra-curricular activities. Where she wanted to do hip hop, she took ballet classes because that’s what she thought her parents would’ve wanted, getting solos in her dance school’s performances.

Her parents came to her first recital, but left in the middle of intermission because her brother had something on. Mira doesn’t even remember now; she just remembers how she felt.

They never came to another ballet performance.

So Mira took up piano, because to be able to learn and read music and on such a classic instrument is a skill valuable for a woman of any age, at least that’s what her mother used to tell her.

And again, Mira was good at piano, but when she would practice it quietly in the front lounge room, her father would stumble over to her, whisky on his breath and a glassy look in his eyes, and would slam the cover down while she was playing, yelling at Mira to keep the noise down.

After the first time, she learnt from her mistakes, pulling her hands away with just enough time so that the heavy wood didn’t slam on her fingers.

Being the perfect daughter didn't work, so Mira took the opposite approach.

She rebelled.

Mira was fifteen when she had her first drink, seventeen when she tried drugs for the first time.

Any opportunity she had to let herself not feel like such a fucking disappointment, she took, accepting anything anyone offered her.

It got her in trouble with her family more than once.

The one thing Mira absolutely refused to do was smoke a cigarette.

(In the moment, she would laugh it off and joke with her friends that she hated the smell of tobacco, but every time she was asked, a small scar on her shoulder blade would burn as if her father was pressing a butt to her skin all over again.)

She would get into constant fights at school, she would dance until her muscles screamed and her feet bled, she would play piano until her blood smeared the ivory of the keys.

Violence and anger shaped Mira as a child, and were constant pillars for her as she grew into a teenager.

As soon as she turned eighteen, Mira left, leaving destruction in her wake as her parents both screamed at her that they never wanted to see her again.

Fine by her. She didn’t deserve a family anyway.

Mira spent time couch-hopping, doing whatever she could to get a fix just to forget.

It was a few months of sneaking into bars and getting into fights that Celine approached her.

Celine, whom Mira had known as one of the Sunlight Sisters (she didn’t live under a rock), had found her patching herself up after instigating a fight with two men. She didn’t have the upper hand by any means, but she at least managed to get a few good hits in.

Celine helped patch her up, offering to take her somewhere where she can help channel her pain and anger, only on the condition that she gets clean.

The first few months of training as a demon hunter were hell.

Closed off, angry, and dealing with withdrawal made Mira an awful person to be around, but Celine was patient, the closest thing to a mother Mira would get. Zoey always provided light in moments where Mira was convinced she was going to run away or get kicked out.

And then there was Rumi.

Rumi, who was precise and deliberate, where Mira was chaotic and reckless. Rumi, who constantly beat herself up over having to be the best. Who had killer vocals and even deadlier fighting skills, but would continuously put the needs of Mira and Zoey above her own.

Rumi, who was selfless to the point of detriment.

Mira can’t pinpoint exactly when it changes, but at some point, she came to genuinely care about Rumi and Zoey, seeing them less as just allies in both the music and hunting world, but seeing them as family.

She might not have deserved it, but she got this family.

So Mira became less reckless, looking after the two girls when they weren’t able to do so themselves.

Mira’s years of therapy helped her to become quite adept at reading people, so that’s what she would do, picking up when Rumi was pushing herself to the point of exhaustion, or when Zoey was verbally agreeing to something she didn’t actually want to do.

Huntr/x softened Mira’s edges, and everything turned to helping the girls find their place in the world and to sealing the Honmoon.

She learnt that Zoey needed words of encouragement to help her get out of an anxious spiral, and that Rumi sometimes needed a hand on her shoulder to pull her out of her own head.

Soft touches and gentle words soon became Mira’s normal, compensating for the violence and abuse she had endured her entire life.

Now, lies and isolation are what hurt Mira most; the idea that her bandmates - her family - might not trust her hurts more than anything she’s ever endured from her family.

Talking and getting things in the open are always the best way to go, even if being honest might mean hurting someone else. If someone hides their true intentions, if they can lie to you, it means they don’t trust you.

Mira never would’ve guessed in a million years that Rumi could have been hiding something so big from her since the day they met.

Not even that, but that right when Mira was starting to get worried about the Huntr/x leader, that Rumi would lie to her face about it and promise her that she wasn’t hiding anything.

Mira’s trust was shattered.

Not everything is about your insecurities, Mira.

Does it count as an insecurity if you were right the whole time?

Mira isn’t totally blameless in the crippling of the Golden Honmoon, however. The fact that her first instinct is to resort to violence against one of the only people who saw Mira for who she really is speaks volumes about her.

To be able to hold her Gok-Do to Rumi (a weapon that was chosen for Mira because of her innate instinct to protect Rumi and Zoey and to keep others away from them), even if hesitantly, is something that Mira will have to deal with her entire life.

She held her weapon to someone she loves . Maybe she isn’t so unlike her father after all.

You thought you had a family?

Since rebuilding the Honmoon, things have been easier. Rumi has promised no more lies, and Mira and Zoey believe her. They hand out again together, but Mira can’t help the distance she places between herself and the other members of Huntr/x.

She was capable of leaving Zoey when she needed her most, letting Zoey’s worst fears let her fall under the influence of Gwi-Ma. How could Mira have done that to their maknae?

It’s easy for Mira to fall into old habits of violence and anger, and even easier now to hide it behind a facade of diligence.

The new Honmoon isn’t perfect, and demons are still slipping through, so Mira often volunteers most to handle the situations, even sometimes going alone.

And if she fights recklessly against some low-level demons she knows she can defeat, well then that’s still productive, right?

Mira pretends that the demons get lucky and get a few hits in while she takes them out, she doesn’t admit that sometimes fighting without her weapon helps quieten the voices in her head screaming at her that she isn’t good enough to deserve a family.

Mira still smiles and laughs at all the right places, enough that Rumi and Zoey don’t suspect anything of her, but her reassuring words become less frequent, her comforting touches held with more restraint.

Isn’t it better to just let go, rather than feel something slip through your fingers like water?

She works harder when they train, pushing herself to the point of exhaustion, often having to bandage her knuckles for a day or two after a particularly gruesome session. She works on choreography every day, even while they’re supposed to be on hiatus.

Every single moment Mira is allowed to be alone with her thoughts, she does her damned best to quieten the noises in her head telling her she isn’t good enough for this family.

This time, she isn’t working on choreography, but rather an old ballet routine she had stored in her inventory since she was fourteen.

Tchaikovsky’s female variation of Pas de Deux is brutal, while the upbeat music masks the multiple spins and movements that are painful for even an experienced dancer to do over and over again.

The song is less than two minutes of brutal work.

For Mira, it’s peace.

She goes through the dance again and again and again, stripping off her loose top when it becomes weighed down with sweat so she’s in only her sports bra and shorts.

Sweat drips onto the hardwood floor, and she simply takes a towel to it, wiping it clean and taking a quick sip of water (not enough for the amount of effort she’s doing, but just half a mouthful) before playing the track again.

And again.

She’s lost count of how many times she’s gone through the routine when she feels a tweak in her left ankle as she comes out of a spin and she hisses, but still goes through the rest of the song.

The show must go on.

When she finally finishes, panting, she takes stock of herself in the full-length mirrors. She looks ragged; her hair, which was previously in a tight ponytail, now leaves long wispy pieces framing her face. Her brow is drenched with sweat, and her cheeks look blotchy. She hasn’t yet taken off her pointe shoes, but she’s certain her toes would be knobbled and bleeding.

Then she casts her eyes down to her ankle.

Already swollen and angry, Mira’s almost certain she’s sprained it of some kind. She pauses, letting her pants echo around the empty space before she drops to the floor less-than-gracefully, fiddling with the ribbon of her pointe shoes to get them off her feet.

True to her expectations, her toes are dusted in fresh and dried blood, not used to the brutal work she’s just put her feet through.

She stands up, wobbling slightly, before making her way to her towel and bag.

To the untrained eye, Mira doesn’t seem to be limping, but she’s gotten really good at hiding pain over the last decade, and can ignore the sharp pain that radiates from her ankle up her calf as she takes her steps.

She grabs her towel, drying the sweat off her face and tossing it, her shoes, and her top into her bag before she turns for the door.

Her eyes gaze upward and widen in mild surprise.

In the doorway stands Rumi.

“Mira,” Rumi greets carefully, concern wavering in her voice ever so slightly. Mira doesn’t know how much exactly she’s seen, but she’s definitely not going to be the first one to crack.

“Rumi,” Mira responds, a sharp nod of her head hopefully to make the waver and breathlessness in her voice. “I didn’t know you wanted to use the space. I’m all done now.”

Rumi looks from the bag to Mira, worrying her lower lip between her teeth as she folds her marked arms over her chest. Since they resealed the Honmoon, Rumi has been more confident in wearing sleeveless tops.

As she should, Mira agrees that her arms look good, especially with their iridescent coloring (she’s already thought of different light sequences they can use in concerts to complement Rumi’s patterns).

“Are you okay?” Rumi asks, not paying any attention to Mira’s last statement, as if she knows Mira’s just trying to deflect.

“Fine,” Mira pants, offering a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just needed to get some energy out, I figured ballet was a good way to do so.”

Rumi’s brow furrows, but she doesn’t speak on it. Mira knows what she’s thinking, though; Mira hasn’t done any ballet since a few months after Huntr/x was formed. She’s expressed her hatred for it for years, not offering much more information than the fact that it reminds her too much of the family she left behind.

Of the family she didn’t deserve.

Silence hangs in the air, weighing on the two like an imposing blanket, cutting their air supply as it settles down further on them. Selfishly, Mira wonders if Rumi’s noticed the distance she’s placed between them since the Idol Awards.

There’s almost a minute of silence before Mira breaks it, rocking on the balls of her feet. The sharp pain in her ankle reminds herself to cut it short before she hurts it further. Rumi frowns like she notices the stutter in her movement, though Mira doesn’t understand how she could’ve seen it.

“Right, well, I’ll see you back outside. Studio’s all yours,” Mira offers, walking quickly past Rumi to make her way out of the door.

“Mira,” Rumi interrupts Mira’s path, her hand snapping out to grab Mira’s forearm. There’s no strength behind it, but Mira stops as if she is hit by a truck, feeling the warmth from the other girl’s fingers warm her arm from the inside out. “Talk to me, I’m here.”

For half a second, Mira almost caves. One look into eyes she herself cannot lie to, and she’s scared she’s going to unravel right there and then. But she doesn’t deserve that; she doesn’t deserve Rumi’s pity or forgiveness.

She doesn’t deserve a family.

So she lets a mask slip on and offers a smile, tearing her arm away from Rumi’s grip (she ignores how cold her arm feels once Rumi’s no longer holding it). 

“There’s nothing to tell, I’m fine,” Mira counters, looking away from Rumi before the lavender-haired girl can try to poke through Mira’s words.

She continues to take steps to the door, stopping only once she’s at the threshold.

And she can’t help it, the simmering of long-held anger, but the spiteful part of her can't help but turn her head over her shoulder to look back at Rumi without really looking at Rumi and biting the shorter girl’s words back to her.

“ I promise .”

Chapter Text

It’s been three days since Rumi tried to confront Mira.

Mira shrugged it off, keeping distance between her and her bandmate. She still puts on an amused face when it calls for it; smirking in the right places, cooking breakfast and dinner for both Rumi and Zoey (they’ve been banned from the kitchen for years).

It doesn’t quite quell the sinking feeling in her gut - the one that tells her the other shoe is going to drop and everything’s going to fall apart.

Because even after everything, Mira doesn’t deserve the family she has now. She doesn’t deserve any family, really.

She deserves to be alone.

She’s not sure if the fact that she hasn’t told Zoey and Rumi about her ankle is due to the fact that she believes she should be left behind or just out of pure stubbornness.

Honestly, probably both.

And fuck, it still hurts like a bitch.

She’s lucky enough to have found an ankle strap that’s well hidden under long socks, and she’s confident enough in her gait and skill at hiding her expressions that the others haven’t picked up on it.

When she’s feeling particularly self-loathsome, she will go back to the dance studio and dance on it until she can barely stand; until her leg is screaming at her to take the weight off it.

The pain acts as her penance, warm and familiar, greeting her like an old friend.

Mira has enough self-awareness to know she’s probably slipping back into old habits.

Currently, the three of them are sprawled out on the couch, watching some movie Mira can’t name. Mira lounges back on the couch, scrolling on her phone with Zoey’s head in her lap, where the maknae is watching the television with rapt attention.

Rumi’s legs are tangled with Zoey’s, taking opportunities to glance at Mira every so often. Mira manages to ignore the lavender-haired girl.

Then they feel it.

A ripple in the Honmoon; the largest one since they sealed it, vibrating through their souls and leading them to the location of the newfound demons.

Since they created a new Honmoon, they feel the shifts a lot easier than they used to, as if the Honmoon itself is its own entity, wrapping around the trio and linking them all together, where only a whisper is needed instead of the yell of the Honmoon that the girls would register previously.

In an instant, the three of them are up, rushing to their bedrooms to get changed into something more combat-appropriate. Mira’s grateful for the opportunity for distraction.

She goes through her wardrobe, throwing on a sweater and her glasses, and then puts on her trusty black cap.

She grabs the softest pair of shoes she can find, not wanting to tie them too tightly in case it her ankle swells again.

As usual, Rumi is waiting for her at the front door, and it only takes a few more seconds before Zoey stumbles in, the three falling into familiar habits.

Mira loves moments like this; it’s why she doesn’t deserve them.

And off they go.

They don’t pay attention to where they’re going, just allowing the pull of the Honmoon to lead them to where they need to go. Mira lets Rumi and Zoey lead the way on the rooftops, taking up the rear so she can keep an eye on her girls.

There they spot them; about twenty demons at a skate park, chasing after some poor kids.

Mira feels her shoulders tense as her fingers reach through the Honmoon and pull out her Gok-Do, using the pipes of the building to help lead her down onto ground level.

She hears a familiar battle cry and looks up to find Zoey and Rumi flying through the air, Zoey already sending her knives through the air.

If Mira notices the way Rumi looks at her with a questioning glance, as if asking why Mira isn’t jumping through the air with them, she doesn’t say so.

They still work in perfect synchronicity, the three of them moving through like a perfectly rehearsed choreography, slicing through the air and demons alike.

The pain still niggles in Mira’s left ankle, but she’s granted the leeway to focus on something else. This is good. She can transfer her pain and hurt onto these demons. She can channel that rage into something useful , something not self-destructive.

There’s only a few left when the largest one starts charging for Rumi while the lavender-haired girl has her back turned, but Mira is quicker.

She runs into the fray, using the reach of the Gok-Do to parry the demon’s claws away from Rumi with a shout from her lips, as she positions herself protectively between Rumi and the demon.

She pants, her shoulders rising and falling, as a grin spreads across her face. Her back is to Rumi, so she doesn’t know if the other girl has even noticed.

“Let’s dance,” Mira challenges.

The demon lets out a roar, and the two begin their clash, claws meeting blade as the two fight their way around each other.

This fight is less choreographed, more animalistic, as if Mira is taking on the characteristics of the demons as she fights. There’s a rawness to the battle, like how Mira’s been fighting lately when she’s on her own.

There’s no technique, only a want to hurt .

The demon swings its arm in a low sweep, and Mira easily does an aerial over the arm, cutting through the air like a blade herself.

Then she lands on her left foot. Fuck .

The wince is quiet, but she knows that her face betrays her for just a second, and she looks out of the corner of her eye to see Rumi watching her. Of course she is.

Still, Mira straightens her posture, countering with a low swing of her own to the back of the demon’s legs, knocking it on its back.

She twirls her weapon effortlessly, standing over it before she drives the blade through its heart, watching as the figure dissolves into red mist.

Mira pants, straightening up before looking over her shoulder, surprised to see that the others have dispatched all of the other demons and sealed the rip in the Honmoon.

Mira tilts her head and cracks her neck, letting her Gok-Do vanish back into the Honmoon.

Mira makes eye contact with Rumi, who’s looking at her with an odd expression. The leader opens her mouth, when Zoey claps and runs to Mira, breaking the spell between the two older girls.

“We slayed that!” Zoey announces enthusiastically, looping her arm around Mira’s with loud laughter. Mira can’t help but chuckle, falling into step with Zoey as she locks arms with Rumi on the other side.

The three walk in step, making their way back to the apartment.

Mira says all the right things, smiles and laughs when it’s expected of her, and even gives a genuine smile when Zoey tells her how badass her aerial was.

Rumi makes eye contact with Mira when Zoey sings her praises, but Mira tries to avoid the scrutinizing glance.

It takes longer to walk home than it did to get to the skate park; urgency no longer in the air for them.

They finally make it back to the apartment and break apart. Mira takes off her shoes (gently) before making her way to her bedroom to get changed out of her sweaty clothes.

She has her sweatshirt halfway over her head when she hears someone come into her room, and her door shuts with a quiet click.

“Here for the show?” Mira asks. While she’s not certain, she can take a pretty educated guess that it’s not their maknae that’s just come into her room.

She finally gets the sweatshirt off, and her eyes indeed fall upon Rumi, who has her arms folded across her chest and is watching Mira with a disapproving look.

While it’s never an expression Mira’s seen Rumi wear, it’s one she’s intimately familiar with. She knows how to be a disappointment to her family.

You thought you had a family?

There’s a beat of silence, as if they’re both waiting for the other to crack, before Rumi looks down at Mira’s foot.

“Take off your socks, Mira.”

Part of Mira wants to make a joke, something along the lines of not for free, but she knows better than to push Rumi’s buttons for too long, especially when it comes to the well-being of one of her bandmates.

Mira sighs, stepping back and sitting on her bed so she can sit down and take her socks off. The right foot is fine, but the ankle strap still covers the left.

Mira looks up at Rumi, whose throat bobs in a gulp as her arms begin to unfurl, softness and concern coating her features.

“Take that off too,”

“If you want to get me naked, there are more efficient things I can take off,” Mira deadpans, quirking an eyebrow.

Rumi’s eyes are pleading now, begging. “Mira, please .” Her voice breaks on the last word.

And Mira has plenty of self-control, but she can’t say no to Rumi, not when she’s looking at her like that .

She exhales long and slow through her nose, before slowly undoing the wrap around her ankle, wincing as she takes it off.

The ankle is angry and swollen, throbbing now that blood is flowing back into it. Mira does her best not to convey the pain she’s feeling, but it’s hard to ignore the blues and purples and now reds that show she’s probably restrained it or something.

Well, that’s just great.

Mira hears Rumi let out a gasp before she looks up, dragging her eyes to the source of the noise to find Rumi’s eyes wide open in shock. A pang of guilt makes its way through Mira’s chest. She never wanted to make Rumi upset. This is just something she can handle.

There’s no point dragging her best friends into a mess she made, especially when they’re just going to feel guilty of the fact that they don’t know how to fix it.

In a flash, Rumi is out of the door, and Mira lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. She takes the time to go over her injury a bit more carefully.

It’s certainly sprained, maybe even done something to her calf or Achilles, since she isn’t exactly good at keeping off it. Whatever she’s actually done, clearly ignoring it hasn’t been the best course of action for her.

It isn’t long before Rumi’s back in Mira’s room, holding an icepack and shutting the door once more behind her.

She makes her way over to Mira and kneels in front of her, sighing as she props up her own leg and gestures for Mira to put her foot up.

Mira sighs before acquiescing, letting her leg rest on Rumi’s.

Rumi greets the limb by gently pressing the ice pack to her skin, and Mira can’t help the sharp intake of breath as pressure is applied to her bruising. She can’t deny the relief that the cold floods her with.

There’s about a minute of silence where Rumi is carefully observing Mira’s ankle, and Mira is focused on Rumi before the older girl breaks it, speaking softly.

“You jumped in front of a demon for me,”

Mira’s brow creases in confusion, and she shrugs, not sure what that statement is supposed to imply. They’ve done it many times for each other; why would this seem to confuse Rumi? “You’d do the same for me.”

“But you’ve been hurt,” Rumi counters, as if this provides the answer to everything.

Mira’s still not following. “Okay, so?”

Rumi huffs, making eye contact with Mira finally, eyes shining like she has years' worth of lectures to give, but it’s taking all of her willpower not to say anything. “When did you hurt your ankle?”

Mira shrugs, a noncommittal noise humming in the back of her throat. “I don’t know, a couple of weeks, maybe.”

Mira watches as Rumi’s eyes cast back down to the ankle as she scoffs, fingers flexing around the ice pack like she’s trying to keep her cool. “It’s been since you did that ballet routine, hasn’t it?”

Fuck. Mira looks up to the ceiling, doing her best to avoid answering the question. She hates how badly Rumi can see through her lies and half-truths.

Why couldn’t Mira see through any of Rumi’s?

“Why didn’t you say anything? You’ve been in pain for weeks.”

“Because you didn’t need to know,” Mira bites, no venom in her tone, but she feels Rumi flinch all the same. She sighs, dragging her eyes from the ceiling back to the girl kneeling in front of her, biting her lip as if she’s trying to stop herself from falling into old habits of snapping and blaming blameless people.

She sighs. “I didn’t want to burden you with such a small thing, not when you have so much going on right now.”

“You being hurt is not a small thing, Mira,” Rumi retorts, pursing her lips slightly. “Zoey and I both care about you, and we can tell that you’re trying to pull away from us.”

Rumi sighs, casting her eyes downward as she shifts the ice pack to another spot on Mira’s ankle. Mira winces.

“Is it me ? Is it because I’m a…” Rumi trails off, scared to finish her sentence.

“No,” Mira says, firm. “I told you already that I don’t care that you are part demon. You’re still our Rumi.”

She sighs, running a hand through her hair. “It’s just a me thing right now. I’ll tell you when I’m ready, I’m just not there yet.”

Rumi purses her lips but nods in acknowledgement. She places the ice down and grabs the ankle strap, wrapping it around Mira’s foot gently but firmly. “You will tell me as soon as you’re ready though, right?”

Mira nods, wincing slightly at the contact. When Rumi is done wrapping, Mira offers a soft smile, holding out her pinky.

“You’ll be the first to know,”

Rumi watches the pinky carefully before wrapping it with her own, a gentle smile pulling at her own lips. “Good, because I can’t lose someone who means the world to me.”

She gently unlinks the fingers and pats Mira’s knee gently before taking a step back. “Come out when you’re ready, okay? I think we’re just going to order dumplings for dinner.”

Chapter Text

Dinner is quiet.

Mira has to appreciate that Rumi doesn’t mention anything about her ankle. Still, she notices the sideways glances as they eat, the sound of Zoey talking about a new turtle documentary she found filling the empty space.

Mira’s grateful for the distraction, asking Zoey about how this documentary differs from the last three she watched in the last month, and Zoey retorts that these are a different species of turtle, and there are significant changes to their behavior and lifestyles.

Mira just nods, smiling softly into her dinner before she excuses herself, blaming it on the exhaustion and standing up before heading to the sink and washing her dishes.

Rumi and Zoey turn to their own conversation as Mira turns in for the night.

It’s ten at night when the itchiness starts to bubble under Mira’s skin, her flesh crawling as if begging for some kind of distraction.

She feels her mind cloud over; sleep refusing to come so easily, and her limbs begin to twitch with restlessness.

She’s intimately familiar with this feeling, one she’s tamped down for so long.

She feels the craving to just go out, to dance, to be free .

She sits up, elbows perched on her shoulders as she tries to take deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth; an attempt to regulate herself and calm down the feeling of bugs crawling under her skin.

Her fingers flex, curling into fists before they relax, and she tosses her head back, staring up at the ceiling in resignation.

One night couldn’t hurt.

She stands up, going to her closet in the far corner, where most of her old clothing is stored. Part of her always kept it as a reminder of the girl she was and how far she’s come, but this time she actually dredges the memories back up, opting for a black crop top with horizontal rips down her sides and a pair of leather pants.

She pulls on a pair of red knee-high boots and moves to her makeup table.

Her makeup is kept simple, with sharp, dark eyeliner to accentuate her features and red lipstick. She keeps her contouring minimal, just enough that it’s separate enough from her everyday and onstage looks that it would be difficult for someone to notice her.

To complete the look, she pulls out her hair ties, allowing her long pink hair to cascade freely down her back. She then puts on a black cap, opting for her round frameless glasses to keep herself disguised just enough so that she won’t make headlines in the morning.

Then, with the practiced ease of someone who spent most of her childhood sneaking out, she ducks out of her room and out of the penthouse.

The streets of Seoul are quiet, nothing but the echo of her own footsteps and her heart thrumming in her ears to keep her company.

Part of her feels guilty for leaving Rumi and Zoey back at the apartment, but Mira needs a night where she can just not be herself, to mute the voices inside of her head telling her she doesn’t deserve her family.

She just needs one night where she can be .

She makes her way to an old club she used to frequent - tucked away in an alley known for its underground scene.

Her feet take her before she even registers where she is, as if her body knows what it wants before her mind catches up.

Once she’s inside, familiarity thrums inside her chest like the bass of the music, and she can’t tell where her heart ends and the rhythm begins.

She takes in a deep breath, inhaling the stale smell of alcohol, sweat, and weed.

And god , she’d be lying if she said she doesn’t miss this.

Her first stop is the bar, where she orders a few shots to dull the edges slightly. The bartender pours out three shots of tequila and places down a shaker of salt and some wedges of lemon. She downs the shots like they’re water, not bothering with the condiments before nodding her thanks.

A familiar beat starts building, and she resists the urge to laugh out loud. Some EDM version of Golden starts playing and stands up, making her way to the dance floor, where people begin cheering.

She’s still anonymous in the crowd, but she lets the rhythm take over her body, hips swaying to the beat.

Called a problem child, ‘cause I got too wild.

She was always the disappointment, the wild one, the one undeserving of any family she was part of. That much hasn’t actually changed. Not really.

Might as well embrace it for the night.

Her movements aren’t perfectly choreographed, but she lets her body move with the loud bass of the remix, arms raising as she feels the music flow through her, translating the sound to dance through her body.

A few songs in, she notices a few pairs of eyes watching her, not out of recognition, but something more. Admiration, perhaps. She makes eye contact with one of the women watching her and turns so she’s watching the girl over her shoulder, sending a wink her way as she makes her way back to the bar, the buzzing feeling under her skin finally starting to settle down.

She orders four shots, not turning when she feels people sitting on either side of her. She smiles to herself before looking up, passing the shots around as she holds up her own, tilting her head as they all clink glasses, slamming the shots on the bar before downing them.

They thank her, and she offers a flirty smile in return, shrugging as if it’s no big deal. It isn’t, really. She’s bought drinks for pretty women plenty of times before.

The one on her right, the one who she sent a wink to, smiles and leans in closer, breath ghosting the shell of Mira’s ear.

“Interested in something a little more exciting?”

Mira pulls back, raising an eyebrow and pursing her lips, encouraging the other girl to elaborate. The woman looks to make sure the bartender isn’t watching, her friends on Mira’s other side acting as lookouts, before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small bag of pills.

Mira licks her lips, recognizing the pills immediately, feeling that familiar tug at her gut. God, she hasn’t gotten high in so long.

“How much?” Mira asks, making eye contact with the woman.

The blonde (Mira takes too long to notice any defining feature about the person in front of her; she must be buzzed) smirks, leaning forward once more.

“For the whole bag, one hundred and fifty thousand, but for a pretty girl like you, I’ll give you half price and a kiss.”

And Mira knows she shouldn’t, that will only reinforce everything she’s beating herself up for, but there’s a part of her that just wants to forget. To forget about demons, to forget about the fact she doesn’t deserve the life she has, to forget about Zoey and Rumi , and to forget about the fucking pain in her left ankle.

So she nods, smiling, standing up and grabbing the blonde by the hand, pulling her to the bathroom. The other two follow, and Mira can’t help but be amused.

The door barely closes behind the four of them before Mira grabs the blonde by the lapel of her leather blazer, pulling her back for a searing kiss. She smells the alcohol on the other girl, the scent of marijuana rolling off her in waves.

The girl takes the kiss eagerly, setting her hands on Mira’s waist as she pushes the blonde so her back is pressed against the wall, tongue swiping over pink glossed lips to gain access to the other girl’s mouth.

She opens her mouth with a quiet moan, and Mira smirks into the kiss, tongue exploring before she eventually pulls away, looking at the other girl through her lashes before she smiles, turning to the mirror behind her and swiping away the smudged red lipstick before reapplying, barely showing a crack in her composure.

God, she misses the feeling of control .

The blonde chuckles before offering the whole back to Mira, and she pulls the money out of her pocket, goods trading hands before the pink-haired girl takes out one pill and lets it dissolve under her tongue.

The almost instant relief she feels once the tablet is all dissolved is inexplicable, as if she were a starving man presented with a roast for the first time.

She closes her eyes and lets the sensation of her high wash over her, taking in a deep breath before she opens her eyes once more, looking at the other two girls.

“I’m happy to kiss one of you for a bit of weed, too,” she offers, voice low and barely audible with the thumping bass shaking the walls of the bathroom.

One of the other girls steps forward and offers a vape pen, grinning as she holds it out to Mira.

“How about a dance?” she asks as Mira takes the pen and takes a long drag, expertise that was once dormant coming back out to play. She misses this.

Mira exhales low, the smoke mingling with the haze of the air before she nods, walking out of the bathroom with a sway of her hips and letting the other women follow her.

For the first time in a long time, Mira doesn’t think; she just feels . She feels the other girls’ hands on her body, she feels the music thumping through her body like a second heartbeat, she feels the haze of the drugs and the alcohol numbing her to anything that isn’t in the here and now. She feels the other girls’ lips on her own, down her neck, on her skin.

She feels her own lips doing the same, tasting salt and sweat and alcohol.

She feels free .

The songs and touches all blue together until she feels hands wrap around her wrist and pull her aside. She feels herself thrown out of her rhythm before her eyes focus and she’s looking down at--

-- Rumi.

Rumi, who’s staring up at her with glassy eyes, like she’s not sure if she’s going to cry or yell at Mira, but who ultimately sags in relief after finally finding the older girl.

Rumi pulls Mira out of the dance floor, out of the club and into the cold night air that prickles her skin like tiny needles.

“Mira, what the hell ? I have been looking everywhere for you,” Rumi starts, frustration causing the patterns under her hoodie to pulse with emotion. Mira can faintly register the faded lights under the fabric, they’re so beauti--

“Are you listening to me?”

She’s snapped out of her thoughts, shaking her head as she offers a half-assed smile. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“You’ve been gone for hours . Zoey’s been worried sick.”

Wait, that’s not right. Mira’s only been gone for an hour, two max.

“What time is it?”

Rumi scrunches her brow, squinting her eyes as if she’s trying to ascertain something from Mira. “It’s four in the morning, Mira.”

What the hell? Mira pulls her phone out from her back pocket to see that indeed her phone reads 04:17 am , along with several unread texts from Rumi and Zoey and many missed calls and voicemails.

Oh. Oops. Mira forgot that she tends to lose track of time when she’s out.

Mira purses her lips and Rumi does the same, still locked on with her scrutinizing gaze.

“Mira, are you high ?”

There’s a period of silence that feels like it stretches on for hours, but is probably only for a few seconds, before she shrugs at the girl in front of her. “I’m not not high.”

Rumi’s jaw drops slightly in disbelief before she pinches the bridge of her nose in agitation. “Oh my god , Mira. If Celine knew--”

“Celine’s not exactly winning Mentor of the Year , is she?”

That shuts Rumi up quickly, and Mira immediately regrets her words, both of them flashing back to the night of the Idol Awards, the moment Mira holds up her Gok-Do to Rumi, to Rumi going to visit Celine and asking her to end it all to save the Honmoon.

Mira bites her tongue so hard she tastes blood.

I don’t get to have a family.

The words start echoing in her head again, but reverberating in her skull like they’re all she can think. She shakes her head, placing a hand on Rumi’s shoulder gently, hesitantly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” she offers meekly. “I only had one tablet, I promise.”

Rumi’s eyes gaze down, possibly to inspect Mira’s ankle, she suspects, before making eye contact back with Mira. “Is that all you have?”

No . “Yes.” You fucking liar.

How can she expect Rumi to tell her the truth when she can’t even admit the truth about tonight?

The last time she lied about her drug usage, she was in the worst of her addiction. How can she lie to Rumi?

Rumi watches Mira carefully before nodding, letting out an exhale of breath. “Okay, as long as that’s all it was.”

Mira offers a sharp nod, holding her hands behind her back and crossing the fingers on her right hand. “It was.”

Rumi nods once more, offering her hand for Mira to take. Mira grabs it, her clammy hand finding solace in Rumi’s warm palm. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Home.

Home .

Mira doesn’t have a home.

When they make their way back to Mira’s room, Mira heads to the bathroom to brush her teeth and get changed, storing her bag in the bottom drawer of her bathroom vanity.

She comes out in her polar bear nightie, bare-faced and yawning, setting eyes on Rumi sitting on the edge of Mira’s bed, watching her carefully. Mira’s eyes flick to a glass of water on her nightstand, smiling softly at Rumi’s care.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Mira asks, making her way to the water and downing it easily before getting under her covers.

Rumi looks over her shoulder, as if wrestling with her own thoughts, before she sighs and climbs into the covers. Mira can’t help the soft smile as she wraps her arms around Rumi’s soft frame, letting her face burrow into the back of the other girl’s neck, breathing in her lavender-scented shampoo.

“Zoey’s gonna kill us when she wakes up to find us spooning,” Mira husks out, sleep already pulling on her features.

Rumi lets out a low chuckle, letting her hand grab one of Mira’s own, pulling Mira’s arm around her body tighter. “You can make it up to her tomorrow with pancakes.”

Chapter Text

Mira wakes to her arm wrapped around Rumi’s still-slumbering slender frame and the early morning sun peeking through her blinds. Mira, ever the early riser, is almost always the first person awake, usually followed by Rumi, while Zoey tends to sleep in more, often staying up late playing video games in her room.

Mira’s glad to realize that there is no pounding against her skull from the night before; there is only exhaustion weighing heavily in her bones. Nevertheless, she has things to do, and waking up will help her body settle into its familiar rhythm.

She yawns, squeezing Rumi gently and pressing a soft kiss on her forehead before slowly pulling away, stretching with a groan as she grabs the empty glass on her nightstand and pads her way into the kitchen.

She fills up her glass from the tap and takes a gulp, swishing it around in her mouth to get rid of the sour taste of last night's antics before spitting it in the kitchen sink. She downs the rest of the glass and grabs a pan, getting to work on making apology pancakes.

This morning, Mira has to go for a photoshoot and will be back before lunch, so she figures making some pancakes for Zoey and Rumi might help as an apology for sneaking out on them last night.

Mira sighs, mixing the batter together and spraying the pan before she turns on the stove.

Mira herself doesn’t care for sweet food for breakfast, but Zoey’s managed to sway Rumi into accepting pancakes and waffles as acceptable morning meals. Mira crinkles her nose at the thought. Gross. Mira has always preferred savory foods.

Still, she pours her love into the batter, into each flip of the pancake, into separating stacks based on their toppings - chocolate chip for Zoey and blueberries for Rumi.

She leaves both plates on the stove, so that hopefully they’d stay warm until they wake up (which likely won’t be for another few hours).

She makes her way to her bathroom, taking care to keep quiet so as not to wake Rumi, and showers quietly, washing away the sins of the night before. She steps out of the shower and into the bathroom and takes stock of her appearance.

Aside from lips that are still slightly swollen, she looks just as poised and stoic as usual. Perfect; she can work with this - it’s never a bad thing if Mira’s lips look plumper than usual for a photoshoot.

She does a subtle layer of makeup (they’ll add more to the base when she gets there) and gets changed into something simple.

As she grabs her stuff to leave, she ignores the pull to her bathroom drawer, where last night’s pills reside, as if calling out to her.

Mira acknowledges the pull but ignores it, not allowing the temptations of the night before to settle into her teeth during the daytime. She won’t let that happen to her again.

She doesn’t need them. She doesn’t need them. She doesn’t need them.

The photoshoot is going … fine .

Mira, the visual lead, can tell when she’s off, and she can feel it in the stiffness of her shoulders, in the way her expression doesn’t fully meet her eyes, in the way her posture is more rigid than it should be.

The stress is coming across in her posing, and she hates it.

Another click of the shutter, and Mira can’t help the huff of frustration that expels from her nose, annoyed at herself for acting this way.

The director, Seo-joon, notices and clears his throat.

Mira and Seo-joon have worked together on multiple projects before over the years, along with the photographer, Kira. The three work well together, understanding the way they all work, forming a cohesive unit over the last five or so years they’ve done projects together, and she knows they can feel something’s up.

Mira relaxes, straightening and cracking her neck. “Can I take ten? Just had a long night.”

Seo-joon nods, a sympathetic smile gracing his lips. “Of course. Get some fresh air.”

Mira nods with a grateful smile, ducking out of view before anyone can change their mind.

She exits the metal doors and finds herself in the alleyway. Taking in a deep breath before she leans against the brick wall, eyes closed as she attempts to steady her breathing.

Her eyes are still closed when she hears the doors open and shut once more, and she slowly opens them to reveal Kira rummaging through her pockets, a cigarette between her lips.

Kira finds a lighter and lights her cigarette, taking a drag before she pulls it out of her mouth, offering it to Mira.

Mira offers a tight smile but shakes her head, her shoulder blade burning with the memory.

The brunette brings the smoke back to her lips, taking another drag before looking up at Mira. “Big night, huh? Thought you were past all of that.” It’s not a judgmental statement, just an observation.

“Yeah,” Mira breathes, looking up at the cloudy sky as if it held the answer to unspoken questions, “so did I.”

They stand in silence for a moment before Kira breaks the easy quiet.

“Whatever happened last night, you seem tense. Here,” she rummages in her pocket once more, pulling out a small gummy candy.

Mira eyes it before she forces herself to meet Kira’s eyes. There it is: an apple offered to Eve, temptation in the form of a stupid gummy. She knows the answer, but has to ask anyway. “What is it?”

“Just a weed gummy,” Kira answers, shrugging her shoulders. “Obviously, I’m not going to force you if you don’t want to, but I know it helps me when I’m on stressful shoots.”

Mira can feel it; if she takes the edible offered towards her, this is going to lead to a slippery slope. Mira has never done things in halves at any point in her life. She would always have to be the best dancer, the best fighter. She needed to do everything perfectly, do everything right.

That extended to her addiction, as well.

She can brush off last night as just a momentary slip, a one-time thing that will never happen again. She was at a low point, desperate for something to numb the pain. Mira can try to justify it enough to herself, to Rumi .

But if she takes the offer presented in front of her right now? Mira knows there might not be any coming back from this.

You’re not strong enough to resist it.

Mira looks at the gummy for another few seconds before she sighs and nods, taking the gummy and popping it into her mouth. “Thank you,” she murmurs around the edible on her tongue before she chews and swallows it.

Kira nods, offering a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay to ask for things every once in a while, Mira. It doesn’t make you weak.”

Mira huffs a low laugh before nodding, opening the doors and gesturing for Kira to go in before her, before letting the doors thunk shut behind them.

The edible quickly leaves its desired effect, and Mira’s a lot smoother with her posturing and poses throughout the photoshoot, able to take Seo-joon’s directions and making her own spin on them like she’s used to. This is why she’s the lead visual; she can visualize photoshoots before they ever make their way to fruition, using her mind’s eye to picture exactly how the framing and picture is going to turn out.

She’s always had an eye for this sort of stuff.

Once the photoshoot is done, she gets in her car and heads back home, not bothering to take off her makeup, back in the simple outfit she came to the shoot with.

She fumbles with her keys slightly, the gummy clearly not fully worn off, and finally makes her way into their penthouse.

Mira toes off her shoes gracefully, placing them on the shoe rack and her keys in the small bowl as she makes her way into the open living area.

Her hair is still done up in a high ponytail from the shoot, a contrast to her usual half-up pigtails, and her round glasses are perched on her nose, the makeup the only indicator that she’s even left the house, really.

She spots a familiar shock of purple hair lounging on the couch, some American show playing in the background.

“Hey,” Mira greets, sitting next to Rumi. “Zoey out?”

“She’s gone to the skate park,” Rumi hums, leaning her head on Mira’s shoulder in greeting. On instinct, as if this is a dance they’ve done thousands of times before (and they have), Mira wraps an arm around the shorter girl’s shoulders. “Thanks for the pancakes, by the way. I was only joking about it last night.”

“It’s okay,” Mira returns, letting the corners of her lips quirk before she tilts her head towards the television. “Who’s been voted off the island?”

“I’m watching Love is Blind , not Survivor .”

“Equally as savage, if you ask me.”

Rumi snorts, tearing her eyes away from the dramatic show to look up at Mira, eyes softening. “You look great.”

Mira rolls her eyes, letting out an amused huff through her nose before running her long fingers through Rumi’s hair, loose strands falling out of her braid. “Can I?”

It’s a routine the two have shared many times before, since they were training together under Celine. Rumi nods, repositioning herself so she’s sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the couch, as Mira swings her legs over the leader’s shoulders, her purple braid in her lap.

Mira gently undoes the hair tie holding the braid together, running her fingers through the tresses to pull the hair apart into soft, gentle curls. She vaguely registers Rumi humming in contentment, and she’s sure that if she were to look at the other girl, the half-demon’s eyes would be closed.

Mira undoes Rumi’s braid in silence, the television the only sound filling the air, until the braid is completely undone. It is only now that Rumi’s fingers dance over Mira’s left ankle, over the bandage that Mira had replaced earlier in the morning.

“How is it feeling?”

Mira pauses for just a second, but enough for Rumi to notice. “I haven’t noticed it as much today. I think icing it yesterday helped a lot, thank you.”

Rumi nods softly, and Mira grabs the first few pieces of lavender hair, sectioning it with practised ease before Rumi speaks up again. “Speaking of last night…”

Mira’s movements don’t freeze, but her mind stutters, her brain replaying the events that occurred last night. The women, the drugs, the alcohol, Rumi bringing her home. She lets herself gulp silently, desperate to have control over her voice when she speaks. “It was a one-time thing, just a way to blow off steam.”

Mira can feel the air shift between them, as if Rumi knows that there is more to what Mira’s telling her.

A cruel, selfish part of the back of Mira’s mind chastises Rumi for being upset about the same thing she’s berated Mira for before.

Her mind is suddenly taken back to a scene of them fighting demons and each other on the train.

Not everything is about your insecurities, Mira!

A long pause is drawn out, uncomfortable now, and Mira just uses all of her brainpower to distract herself with the mundane and intimate task of doing Rumi’s hair. She can get lost in lavender locks, letting her fingers guide her mind away from stresses and anxieties to just focus on a simple, repetitive task.

Sometimes, a reminder that her fingers can be capable of creating something beautiful, instead of just pain and destruction, means everything to her.

“Zoey told me what you told her after the Idol Awards.”

There it is .

This time, Mira’s fingers do still, halfway down the braid as her breath hitches.

I don’t get to have a family .

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

Mira blinks herself back to reality, only just noticing that Rumi is looking over her shoulder and up at Mira expectantly, her hand now gently curled around Mira’s calf in a comforting gesture.

Mira stays silent for a while, finishing off the braid before she plays with the end, not enough to fray it, but enough to provide a distraction.

“Mira,” Rumi presses gently, giving a gentle squeeze to bring Mira back to the present.

“That was just Gwi-Ma talking,” she deflects, looking everywhere but Rumi. “I know that’s not true.”

“Gwi-Ma preys on our insecurities, Mira.” Not everything is about your insecurities, Mira! “I know you felt that way with your parents, but surely you don’t feel out of place with us , right?”

Mira finally takes the moment to look at Rumi, ceasing her fidgeting for a moment. Rumi’s looking at her like she just kicked her puppy, and Mira instantly feels guilt roiling in her stomach. Okay, the gummy has definitely worn out now.

Rumi, who, despite her demon lineage, is a good person, looks at Mira like she’s hung the stars. Zoey, whose light rivals the sun, is constantly looking up to the two older women like they’re her family.

Mira doesn’t deserve that, because what is she?

All blood and violence and teeth.

They’re too good for Mira, they always have been.

Rumi turns entirely at Mira’s silence, patterned fingers wrapping around Mira’s wrist gently. “Talk to me, please,” Rumi begs.

Mira purses her lips, as if the words are dying on her tongue and she can’t speak them out loud. Talking about her feelings means admitting they’re real, and Mira can’t do that. She can’t stand the pity that the two will send her way when they know how she really feels about herself, when they learn why she puts absolutely everybody above herself.

How would they look at her when they learn she would light herself on fire just to keep the two of them warm?

“I feel like I destroy everything I touch,” Mira admits. While it’s not technically the secret she wants to reveal, it isn’t exactly a lie. “And it’s just a matter of time before the other shoe here drops, and I lose Zoey. Lose you again.”

Rumi’s brown eyes soften at Mira’s admission, pulling herself up so they’re resting next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, just taking in the warmth and presence of each other. Rumi’s hand finds Mira’s, and their pinkies intertwine, more than a pinky promise, but not quite a handhold.

“You’re not going to lose Zoey, Mira,” Rumi reassures. “And I’ll die before I risk losing you again.”

Mira worries her bottom lip between her teeth before she makes eye contact through her glasses and at Rumi, feeling like she’s Atlas holding the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Rumi reassures. “No matter what happens, I am always going to be by your side.”

Chapter Text

For as long as Mira can remember, cooking has always been an outlet.

It’s not like when she took up ballet and piano classes out of an initial desire to impress her parents, which she then diverged from, or like taking up martial arts and singing, where it was out of a desire to spite her parents.

Mira started cooking because she actually enjoys it.

It started when she was six or seven, sneaking downstairs into the chef’s kitchen (their house was of course big enough to have multiple kitchens, but all general meals were to be made out of sight -- it was only when the chefs were made to put on a show while her parents hosted certain company that they were to prepare the food upstairs) to watch her parents’ staff create.

She could’ve spent hours watching them in the kitchen, watching them pour all of their love into sometimes things as simple as a sandwich. The chefs taught her that food wasn’t just about sustenance; it’s about enjoyment, of love, of service, of taste.

After a few months of watching them every day, she was finally asked if she wanted to help.

It was a small task, whisking a few eggs with a fork, but she quickly learnt that even the smallest of tasks contributed to a flawless execution of a dish. Not an eggshell was to be left in the bowl; the yolks and whites had to be mixed perfectly, seasoned just right.

Mira was a quick learner, spending lots of time helping out and hanging out with the chefs in her free time. If she wasn’t at school, doing homework, or doing any extracurriculars, she was cooking with the chefs.

They were her friends; all she needed.

It didn’t take long for her parents to decide that they wanted to take that from her, demanding that Mira was not to mingle with ‘the help’.

So she was locked out, with the threat of termination looming over the heads of the cooks if they were to interact with her.

Mira was back to being alone.

When she first ran away, she would offer to cook for the people who were kind enough to take her in for the night, insisting that it was the least she could do to repay their kindness.

When she begged Celine to let her cook as a thank you for taking her in and mentoring her, she relented, even helping to teach Mira about some comfort foods she and Rumi used to enjoy.

When Zoey joined Huntr/x, Mira spent nearly a week looking up local cuisine from California so she could try and replicate some recipes, so that maybe Zoey wouldn’t feel so homesick.

The one time Rumi and Zoey insisted that they’d cook for Mira, they almost set fire to their kitchen, somehow leaving dry noodles on the stove and letting them catch fire, distracted by the furious chopping of vegetables.

Mira insisted that if she wasn’t cooking, they would order takeout.

The girls never argued.

Cooking was also useful because it could help with some of her more violent tendencies. She could imagine that a carrot was a demon as she carefully julienned the vegetable, which was rather therapeutic. It let her just focus on the sounds, smells, and taste of her actions, creating something rather than destroying something, for once.

Mira likes to think that if she had never been in the performing world, as a performer herself or choreographer, she’d want to be a chef.

Tonight, the girls are eating some homemade ramyeon with tteokbokki and kimchi. Zoey’s rambling about how good the pancakes were this morning, and whether can she make waffles tomorrow.

Mira chuckles, an affirmation on her tongue when her phone buzzes, chopsticks halfway to her lips.

She pauses, looking down at the flashing screen that sits between her and Rumi.

There is no contact information that displays, just a phone number, and Mira feels her blood turn to ice at the familiar number flashing on her screen.

She hasn’t called Mira in seven years. Why on Earth would she call now?

The phone eventually goes silent, and Mira lets out a sigh, finishing her bite and smiling softly at Rumi and Zoey, who are both looking at her with an expectant look.

“Wrong number, I guess?” Mira offers, shrugging.

As if on cue, because the universe hates her, the phone starts buzzing once more, the vibrations settling in Mira’s chest just a bass line that’s going just a little bit too hard. It fuels the anxiety in her chest, clawing its way up her throat like shattered glass.

You don’t get to have a family.

Mira makes an attempt to clear her throat, though it comes across as more of a cough, and snatches up the phone, standing up.

“I should take this,” she mumbles, not allowing Rumi and Zoey the space to answer before she storms her way to her room and lets the door shut with a resounding slam that echoes through the now silent penthouse.

Fingers trembling, she takes a deep breath from her nose before she unlocks her phone and answers the call.

“I should have known you’d find my number eventually,” she greets coolly.

The air is silent for a moment, and Mira can practically hear the other person seething on the other line. She can’t help the smug smile that graces her lips, attempting to overshadow some of the anxiety still building in her stomach.

“We raised you better than to greet your mother like that, Mira.”

Mira simply snorts in response, twirling part of her long bang around her finger. An anxious fidget. The room is still dark -- she hasn’t turned on the lights, but she makes her way to the bed, sitting on the edge of it, back rigid (as if lessons taken twenty years ago were seeping into her subconsciousness) as she takes the call in the dark.

“It’s been long enough since we last spoke that I assumed you no longer view me as your daughter,” Mira bites back, feeling like she’s a teenager doing anything she can to piss off her parents again.

If the last month has taught her anything, it’s that old habits die hard indeed.

“That may have been the case if you did not consistently disrespect the family’s reputation every chance you get,” Mira’s mother bites back coolly. Where Mira gets her temper from her father, she most certainly learnt how to argue from her mother.

“You signed the agreement,” Mira returns with a roll of her eyes. “I never mention my last name, I scrub all legal connection to you, and I stay emancipated. You shouldn’t have called me.”

“Do you think all evidence of you being our daughter disappears just because we signed contracts?” A scoff on the other end of the line, like Mira’s mother can’t believe she’s that stupid. Mira’s fingers clench around her phone, knuckles fading white. “There are still those in our circles who remember you; some even follow your… antics. You are in the spotlight, Mira. Anything you do can reflect on us.”

Mira’s fingers twitch, and her eyes flicker to her ensuite door. She could just open that drawer and take a pill. It would be so easy, and it would make this conversation much more bearable. “Is there a point to your call, or did you track down my number just so you could unload years of lectures bubbling in your chest?”

Mira hears a thump on the other end of the line and can’t help but feel a swell of satisfaction that blooms in her chest. Her mother must have pounded her desk in frustration. Good, let her get angry. Get angry and get on with it. She makes a mental note to get Bobby to organize another change of her number (she’s requested it enough times that he won’t question it anymore, but he knows she tries to avoid this exact situation. The deal was that her family was not to make contact with her, ever).

“The Idol Awards.” The words puncture her chest like her own Gok-Do. Mira immediately thinks back to everything that happened at the Awards. The demons impersonating her and Zoey, showing off Rumi’s patterns, Rumi rushing to them afterwards and her nonsensical babbling. She thinks about how the Honmoon started to tear, she thinks about how she made it worse by holding her weapon towards the chest of one of the very few people who have seen the worst of what Mira could be and stuck around anyway.

I knew it was too good to be true.

“You released a statement that the performance was not a public breakup, but rumors are still flying. Fans are still talking.” Mira’s mother continues, unaware of the turmoil roiling in her daughter’s mind.

“I have a team for that,” Mira manages to retort, though it comes out softer, more damaged. “If we’re handling it, why do you even care about the optics?”

“Your father has a crucial presentation next week--”

Mira doesn’t even let her mother finish her sentence. How dare she bring her father into this? “Fuck. You.” Mira snarls. “You want me to hold a press conference to clear things up so that he can look better for a presentation? Screw you and screw him. I’m no longer your puppet.”

“It turns out one of the people he’s presenting to has a daughter that’s… quite the fan.” If Mira loves the way her mother has to admit that there is something she’s doing right, she would never admit it. “All I ask is that you make a statement, that we meet up and go over what to say, and then you’ll never hear from us again.”

“And what do I get out of it?” Mira questions, not quite seeing what’s in it for her.

“If you won’t do it to help out your dear father,” Mira feels her insides turn to ice and her skin burn. “Then know that just as easily as you can influence our reputation, I can influence yours. I’m sure your fans wouldn’t want to see just how awful of a person their dear Mira is, right?”

Mira’s jaw clenches so tight that her teeth grind together and her temple aches.

“We will meet tomorrow at the restaurant you dropped me off at once for my eleventh birthday. If you are any later than eleven in the morning, the deal is off. I will meet with you once, and then I never want to hear from you again, am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Mira’s mother responds coolly.

“The booking will be under Nabi.” Mira finalizes. Before she can offer her mother space to respond, she hangs up.

Slender fingers clench around the phone like she’s trying to strangle it before she throws it against the wall with all her might, watching it as it dents the plaster and breaks, screen cracking and bending out of the body of the phone.

Now Bobby definitely needs to get her a new one.

She sits there in silence with nothing but her heavy breathing to permeate the air when there is a gentle knock on the door. Her head snaps up towards the door, as if she forgot other people existed in the universe.

“Mira? It’s Zoey,” the maknae pipes up gently, voice muffled by the wood distancing them. “We heard a bang. Can we come in?”

Mira nods before she realizes that no one is actually there to see her, so she silently gets up, walking to the door and opening it, her tall figure filling out the doorframe as she looks down at her two shorter bandmates. “Sorry. Come in.”

Both Rumi and Zoey watch her carefully as Mira steps aside and grants them entry into her room. Zoey takes note of the phone smashed on the floor while Rumi watches Mira carefully.

“That wasn’t just a random giving you a call, I’m guessing,” Zoey offers, trying to keep things light while allowing Mira to reveal what’s going on in her own space. Zoey always knows when to speak and when to give space to listen. Mira doesn’t think she tells Zoey she appreciates her for that enough.

Mira simply shakes her head, sitting back on the edge of her bed. One elbow rests on her knee, and she props her chin on her fist, letting subtle flexes crack each of her fingers.

One, two, three, fo- four didn’t crack. Five. Wrist.

Rumi sits next to Mira and places a hand on her bicep gently. Not to inhibit Mira’s movements, but just enough to know that she’s there. Zoey kneels down in front of Mira, not letting her downcast eyes serve as avoidance from the two.

“My mother called,” Mira finally admits after a minute, sighing. She feels Rumi’s grip on her tighten before relaxing slightly, and she watches Zoey run her tongue over her teeth, as if she’s biting back a string of profanities to hurl towards the damaged phone lying in the room, as if her mother were still on the line.

“What did she want?” Zoey asks gently, resting her hand on Mira’s free knee. She doesn’t flinch from the contact, but suddenly she feels hot, like all attention is on her. She doesn’t want that; she never wanted that. She just wants to be silent in the corner, protecting, being there as needed. She doesn’t need to be the centre of attention; Rumi and Zoey both have their own problems to deal with.

Still, she can’t lie to them and dismiss everything when she’s being so closely watched. “She heard about the ‘breakup’ at the Idol Awards. She wants me to release a statement.”

“Why?” Rumi asks gently.

“My father has a critical presentation coming up. Turns out they’re a fan of us. He wants this to go well.”

“Fuck your dad,” Zoey hisses. She raises her eyebrows at her own profanity. “Sorry,” she mumbles, a blush tinging her cheeks. “But you don’t owe him anything.”

Oh, if only she knew. If only they both knew how he used her as a punching bag after a night out. She never told the other girls about this, though. She never wanted them to see her as weak, as lesser. Still, Mira shakes her head, clearing her throat.

“She has threatened to go public about how I … used to be if I don’t agree.” Mira stumbles over her own words. Is it someone Mira used to be, or is it written in her DNA, just as anger and violence and a love for cooking are? She isn’t sure.

“It’s just one meeting tomorrow, and I'll release a statement. Then they agreed to leave me alone for good. I’ll never hear from them again.”

“Do you think this is a good idea?” Rumi asks. Mira finally tears her eyes away from Zoey to look at Rumi, still holding her arm like an unspoken promise between the two. I’m here. I’m keeping my promise.

Mira sighs, offering a weak attempt at laughter. “Probably not, but it’s my only option. It could probably do us good, making another official statement that we just experienced a misunderstanding on stage.”

Rumi nods, and Zoey squeezes Mira’s knee gently, both quiet reminders that they will be with her every step of the way.

I don’t get to have a family.

Chapter Text

Slender fingers drum against the table as she watches the clock tick ever closer to eleven. Mira sits at the booth with her pink hair up in a messy bun, held together by two chopsticks. Her golden-rimmed glasses perch atop her nose.

She’s dressed in a leather blazer and dark jeans, not wanting to dress up too much for the occasion while still maintaining some sense of decorum.

Rumi and Zoey threatened to hide in the restaurant, being there in case things went awry, but Mira assured them that she would be fine. She helped defeat a demon lord and his lackeys not long ago; she can handle her mother.

The inside of her blazer pocket burns against her chest with the weight of her small bag, where some tablets still reside. If it got to be too much, Mira always had a way to get through it.

Shame burns her cheeks and ears; she shouldn’t still need to chase numbness after all this time without it.

Mira’s always had a problem between feeling too much and not feeling at all; it’s something she’s tried to work on with her therapist — still a work in progress.

She feels the presence of her mother behind her before the older woman even has to announce herself, and she doesn’t grace her with the formality of turning around, simply sitting still as her mother walks around to the other side of the table, sitting down rigidly.

Where Mira sits with deliberate poor posture, her fingers halt, and suddenly she’s as still as a statue. In contrast, her mother sits upright — what years of posture conditioning will do to a person. 

The two mirror everything the other detests. Mira, the face of rebellion for her otherwise picture-perfect family (at least, to any outsider), threatening to tarnish the good name of everything her parents worked for.

Meanwhile, her mother sits, representing the very past that Mira tries so hard to escape. The stoicism, the desire to do anything for success, even if it means hurting those you love. The ability to sit by and simply watch as the people around you tore themselves apart to meet your expectations. 

Mira detests everything her mother represents, and she knows that her mother detests her for the same.

She watches as her mother’s jaw twitches, a slight indicator that she just might be as uncomfortable with this situation as Mira is. The thought brings her some satisfaction.

She pulls out a file from her leather bag, the two of them knowing that any form of formalities would be disingenuous. Her mother sets it on the table between them, perfectly manicured hands hovering for a moment before she pulls away. She straightens her back like there is an issue with her posture (there isn’t).

Mira glances down at the file in front of her before looking back up at her mother, gaze unwavering. She should be good at the withering stare; the subject of it is the one who taught her, after all. The older woman finally acquiesces, sighing quietly.

“You will find any talking points for your announcement in here. Your father and I decided on a few crucial points to make during your press conference,” she offers, nodding stiffly to the file for Mira to examine.

Mira lets her eyes squint in scrutiny before picking up the file, opening it and reading over the thought-out document carefully. She scoffs, her eyes falling on some of the talking points.

“You want me to discuss the importance of civil law reforms in Seoul?” Mira asks, mockery lacing her tone as she tries her best to hold back a sneer at the figure in front of her. She doesn’t do a very good job. “I can only presume this ties in with the presentation that my father desires to close.”

Another jaw twitch from her mother. God, Mira forgot how satisfying it is to rebel against the very people who tried to force her so hard to be what she wasn’t. To be her own self unabashedly is the best form of revenge. “He is presenting to some very significant people, and it would do us all well for him to succeed.”

“It would do you well,” Mira counters, closing the file and tossing it in the space between them. While the table isn’t large, the space between the two figures could span oceans. “I no longer depend on your husband’s success. I am emancipated, remember?”

The deliberate distance Mira creates when referring to her father earns herself another jaw twitch. “As I said over the phone, just because there are no longer any legal ties between us, it does not mean those within our circles are not aware of your dalliances.”

“Dalliances,” Mira repeats, laughter tinging her voice. “I have sold out multiple shows all over the world. I am amongst one of the top choreographers in the world. I am consistently approached for ambassadorship and for my services. I am in my prime, and you calling it merely a dalliance is evidence that you never valued my passions or my career.”

“Yes, your creative spark,” her mother retorts with a roll of her eyes as she folds her arms across her chest. “And just imagine what you would’ve been able to accomplish if you pursued your education and actually did something academic. You were a brilliant girl, Mira. You could’ve become anything, instead you became a—”

“—No matter what route I might have decided to take, Mother, it never would have been good enough for you. You made that perfectly clear from the second I was old enough to understand the meaning of disappointment.”

“Here you go, playing the victim for theatrics again,” her mother spits back, a crack in the perfect composure beginning to form. “If you were just more like your brother, maybe we wouldn’t have been so disappointed with you.”

Mira’s hand clenches into a fist under the table, her pocket burning. “To blame a child for not meeting impossible expectations is like blaming a penguin for not being able to walk without a waddle,” she mutters dangerously, voice wavering with fury ever so slightly.

Her mother blinks slightly, expression neutral but confusion hidden behind her dark eyes. Zoey is clearly rubbing off on Mira a bit too much.

Mira stands slowly, looking down at her mother before shoving her hands into her denim pockets. “I need to use the restroom.”

She doesn’t even allow her mother a moment to respond before she’s walking to the bathrooms at the back of the restaurant; her gait not revealing the anger radiating off the dancer’s form.

She slams her way through the door and leans against the sink,  taking deep breaths in through her nose as she watches herself in the mirror.

It’s truly amazing how much one can revert back to old ways when confronted with their past.

She should’ve just said no to her mother. Should’ve told her where to shove it and deal with the fallout as it may. It’s not worth having to go through decades-old arguments, and for what? So she can help the man who she grew up afraid to be alone with?

What sick, twisted irony.

I don’t get to have a family.

Mira takes a shaky breath, watching herself reach into her inner pocket as if it’s someone else taking control of her body. Maybe a teenaged Mira, who thrived on the feeling of numbness, who desired a lack of feeling.

Now it feels like the numbness is just a necessity, something she has to do. It’s somber, and she wishes she’s strong enough to resist the temptation.

Put Mira in front of dozens of demons, and she can defeat them without breaking a sweat. Put her in front of her own inner demons, and she’s weak.

If she’s too weak to help herself, how can she protect Zoey? How can she protect Rumi?

The pill sits in the palm of her hand, stark against her skin. She still doesn’t look at it directly, watching it through the barrier of the mirror in front of her, as if it doesn’t really exist.

She watches her reflection bring it to its lips and open its mouth. She watches as the tablet disappears and feels herself swallow in response.

No matter how much she tries to distance herself, there’s no escaping what she’s just done.

Shaky hands turn on the faucet and cup the running water. She brings the water to her mouth and takes a long sip to help swallow down the pill.

She shakes her hands out and adjusts her glasses, taking a deep breath as she watches the perfect stoic facade paint over her features.

She can do this.

She steps back into the restaurant, steps faltering as her booth comes into view.

There, sitting next to her mother, is the cause of many of her nightmares. The person she’s blamed for so many years for why she is the way she is (and while her therapist tells her she can’t blame him exclusively for everything that’s wrong with her, she can sure as hell blame him for many things, including passing down his temperament onto her).

Fury burns in her palms as she feels the Honmoon vibrate around her, as if it were preparing her for a fight.

Or maybe she’s just imagining it.

One thing’s for sure, Mira can recognize an ambush when she sees one.

She storms her way over to the booth, setting her jaw and watching as her father looks up to make eye contact with her.

Unfortunately, her temper is not all that she inherited from her father. He sits with a sharp jawline and scrutinizing eyes, like he’s calculating every scenario. Slender nose and thin lips mirror her own. Fortunately, that’s where the similarities end.

Except, Mira recognizes a familiar look in his eyes; one she’s seen in him many times and one that she saw in her own reflection not a minute ago.

“What is this?” Mira spits, grateful for at least the seclusion of the restaurant, not allowing any other patrons to view them if they tried. “Some sort of intimidation tactic?”

Her father clears his throat, looking up at her through his glasses. “What if I just wanted to see my only daughter? It’s been too long.”

A shudder ripples its way up her spine, but her expression remains neutral. “I would call you a liar,” she retorts, venom dripping with every syllable. “My deal was not made with you.”

Her gaze then snaps to meet her mother’s expression. “You set me up.”

“Your father wanted to see you, Mira,” her mother assures, but her words only serve to make her angrier. “But the motivations are genuine. He does, in fact, need your help.”

Mira’s tongue runs over her teeth hard enough that she can feel the copper taste of her own blood filling her mouth. Not everything is about your insecurities, Mira!

“You’re high,” her father mutters, as if he has the right to be disappointed with her. Fucking hypocrite. “I was hoping your transgressions would’ve faded with your age.”

Mira lets out a scoff, rolling her eyes as she folds her arms across her chest. “Yeah, well, it takes one to fucking know one, doesn’t it?”

“Enough,” her mother interrupts sternly. “You will show your father respect. Do not speak to him that way.”

“I will show him respect when he earns it,” Mira counters, leaning to get into her mother’s face, completely ignoring the presence of her father beside her.

“While I have grown accustomed to not expecting much from you, Mira, I certainly hope that you will prove me wrong in this scenario,” the older woman continues. “Knowing your current situation proves that it’s all the more dire if I followed through on my threat.”

She’s so fucking sick of people telling her what she can and cannot do, or what she can and cannot know. It makes her want to punch a wall until her bones break and her knuckles bleed.

“I will hold a press conference,” Mira replies, low and cold. “But I will do it my way. And if any of you even try to break our previous agreement and get in contact with me, I will have an entire legal team ready to completely dismantle your whole life.”

Mira straightens up, running her hands over the lapel of her blazer, as if it were creased. It’s not. She knows that, and they know that; it’s simply a show of power.

“You talk of my reputation as if it’s something I should be afraid of you ruining. Understand that your reputation is just as much at stake. I will destroy you if you come near me or my band ever again.”

She watches her parents’ expressions. Her father’s one of complete fury, and her mother’s one of outraged shock. Neither speaks, though, and Mira knows it’s because they know she’s right. They have more to lose than she does.

Her fingers wrap around her opposite hand, cracking her knuckles out of an old habit to relieve tension, not breaking eye contact with her father. If he reads the gesture as a threat, that’s up to him.

Without another word, Mira turns on her heel and storms out of the building.

She may have gotten her anger issues from her father, but she learnt how to threaten from her mother.

Mira barges through the door, kicking off her boots and placing them perfectly on the shoe rack before she huffs in frustration, shrugging out of her blazer and draping it over one arm, making her way towards her room.

She doesn’t bother changing completely, just takes the bag out of her pocket when she’s in the safety of her own walls and places it back in its hiding spot in her ensuite before putting the jacket away.

She opens her door to find Rumi and Zoey standing in front of her, both watching her with expectant expressions. The sight of them in front of her so suddenly almost startles her.

“How did it go?” Rumi asks carefully, watching Mira carefully as if she’s trying to find the answer in the dancer’s expression.

“As well as expected,” Mira mumbles, pushing past the two to head towards the kitchen.

She needs a drink.

Her bandmates follow her, waiting for further explanation without wanting to push too hard. She’s grateful, at least, that they know when to push and when to let Mira speak of her own accord.

She doesn’t deserve them.

She spends a minute rummaging through the fridge before she finds a bottle of lychee soju, opening the cap and taking a swig directly from the bottle.

She closes the fridge door, turning to the other two who are standing across the island bench, watching with unusual expressions on their faces.

“I’m still going to make a statement,” Mira clarifies. “But it’s on my own terms. And I made it clear that if they try to contact any of us ever again, I will make them regret it.”

“You threatened her?” Rumi asks, concern marring her voice. Mira can’t look Rumi in the eyes right now; she’s already been on the receiving end of enough disappointment for one day.

She moves her way through the kitchen and silently into the living area, where a marine documentary is paused on the television. She sits down on the couch, stretching her tense limbs for the first time all day as she takes another swig from the bottle.

“She cornered me with my father,” Mira explains, as if it holds all of the answers.

It doesn’t, of course. Rumi and Zoey only know that she has an awful relationship with her parents, but in particular, her father. They know she applied for emancipation as soon as she could afford legal counsel to do so, but Mira never gave them the finer details.

Why burden her new family with the antics of her old one?

Well, maybe she deserves neither.

Perhaps it’s the combination of drugs and alcohol in her system, but the bottle in her hand transforms into her Gok-Do for a split second, crimson dripping off its shimmering blade.

Her jaw tenses and she closes her eyes, taking another swig before she opens them. Rumi stands in front of her, and she flinches ever so slightly at the sudden appearance,  Zoey standing next to her. It's like for a second she forgot she wasn't the only one in the apartment, and she's brought back to a stark reality.

“Are you okay, Mir?” Rumi asks gently, squatting down so they’re level with each other.

A low hum is breathed through Mira’s nose as she takes one more swig, ignoring the look that Rumi and Zoey share between them.

“They’re not going to come near us again,” Mira promises, to herself as much as to the two in front of her. “I won’t fucking let them.”

Chapter Text

The documentary plays into the afternoon and the girls surround Mira, comforting her without words, without smother. Zoey sits with her head in Mira’s lap while Rumi leans into her side, their palms resting together while their fingers are interlocked.

She notices the glances Rumi sends her way every time she reaches for her soju, but tries her hardest to ignore them.

Instead, she focuses on Rumi’s bare arm, the way the patterns snake their way up her arm and disappear under Rumi’s tank top. She brings her right hand to patterned flesh, letting her fingers run softly up and down the skin, tracing each pattern with reverence.

She’s not sure if it’s a trick of the light or in Mira’s head, but she’s so sure that Rumi’s patterns shimmer in response to the touch.

She’s mesmerised by the movement of light, eyes fixated on the way the patterns pulse in response to Mira’s touches. A gentle draw of breath pulls her focus up to meet Rumi’s eyes, looking down to meet her gaze softly. Rumi’s looking at her so vulnerably, like she’s a book that Mira is lucky enough to get the chance to read.

Mira honors it graciously.

“They’re beautiful, you know,” Mira whispers, careful not to disturb the peace between the three of them. Mira isn’t even sure whether Zoey’s asleep or not, but Mira won’t dare herself to break this moment.

Mira watches as Rumi closes her eyes as if she’s letting Mira’s words settle over her like a comforting blanket. Mira watches the internal turmoil as Rumi fights over whether to believe her words or not.

Rumi can believe or disbelieve her all she wants, Mira thinks. She speaks true.

She offers a small smile to their leader before she drags her focus back down to her fingers tracing patterns over shimmering skin.

Then she sees red.

At first, she thinks it’s a trick of the light, a reflection of something, and she blinks a few times to try to dispel the color invading her vision.

But it doesn’t go away.

Her right hand is smeared in crimson blood—almost dripping in it, yet there is not a wound on Mira or Rumi to be seen.

Mira’s breath hitches as her eyes dart around desperately to find the source of the blood.

Panicked eyes look back up to search Rumi’s face, but she only finds confusion behind Rumi’s expression, the previous peace gone.

“You okay, Mir?”

Pink eyebrows furrow in their own confusion before she looks back down, only to find the blood that previously stained her hand gone.

She must be seeing things.

Mira stands quickly, to the commentary of Zoey groaning as her head is snapped up from the movement.

“Ow! Mira, what the hey?” Zoey mumbles, grumbling as she watches Mira through half-closed lids.

“Sorry,” Mira offers meekly, grabbing the now-empty bottle of soju like it's excuse provided a lifeline for her. “Need to toss this before I forget.”

Before any of the others can say anything, Mira has disappeared into the kitchen, putting the empty bottle in the recycling bin. She then makes her way over to the sink and washes her hands, checking, double-checking, and then triple-checking that there is not, in fact, any blood staining her hands.

So she is imagining things.

She wipes her hands dry, pinching the bridge of her nose with a sigh.

“Everything alright?” Rumi asks from the couch, and Mira opens her eyes to see both Rumi and Zoey peering over their shoulders to watch Mira carefully, as if she’s something that will shatter in front of them.

She’s not going to break, she thinks with a grit of her teeth. She’s the one supposed to be protecting them, not the other way around.

Otherwise, what good is she to the group?

“I’m fine,” Mira responds, words clipped. “It’s been a long day, I think I’m just going to have an early one.”

Rumi and Zoey both look to the clock, betraying to Mira that it’s only five in the evening. Fuck. Great.

For all their graciousness (and probably thanks to the fact that they know Mira’s still rattled from the meeting with her parents), they don’t say anything, and instead watch as Mira slowly pads off to her room, mumbling a quick goodnight and getting a chorus of goodnights back.

Mira doesn’t dare look over her shoulder; she thinks it will kill her if she turns, and Zoey and Rumi are talking about her—about how pathetic she is and how laughable that she can’t even handle one meeting with her parents.

Her shower takes longer than usual; she decides to wash everything three times over. She scrubs her hair more times than she needs and exfoliates her skin until it’s almost bleeding raw. It’s probably close to half past six by the time she fully gets out of her shower and changes into her pyjamas.

Mira finally settles herself into her bed, eyes affixed to her ceiling as the memories from the day come flooding back to her.

The fact that her mother would even dare to ambush her with her father—the very man who would haunt Mira every time she closed her eyes for years—was despicable. Oh, how she wishes she could take all the violence and anger she’s fostered and learnt over the years and direct it at the family that caused her torment over the years.

If she’s so quick to want to hurt people she’s supposed to love, does that make her any better than her parents?

Probably not.

I don’t get to have a family.

How long before she turns that anger and resentment on Rumi and Zoey?

How long until she hurts her new family to the point of no return?

Hasn’t she done that already?

She thinks about pushing Rumi too far, thinks about their fight on the train, thinks about when she held her weapon to the purple-haired leader after the Idol Awards.

Could she have hurt Rumi if it came down to it? Is she really that much like her father?

Then she thinks about how easily she was able to walk away from Zoey, to leave her all alone when things got to be too hard.

Life is all about fight or flight—unfortunately, Mira’s gotten a little bit too good at both.

“I knew it was too good to be true.”

“Mira, n—”

Rumi’s plea is silenced by a gurgle at the back of the girl’s throat, wide eyes looking up at Mira.

Mira looks at Rumi, then to where the blade of her Gok-Do disappears into the half-demon’s chest.

Rumi doesn’t disappear into a puff of red dust as demons usually do. Instead, blood begins to pool from the wound and bubble past her lips as she starts to cough.

“Rumi!”

Mira just keeps her eyes locked on Rumi as she feels Zoey run past her and grab Rumi as her knees buckle and she collapses to the ground, weapon still embedded in her ribcage.

Mira looks down at her hands holding the handle and flexes her fingers, before yanking the blade from Rumi and letting it disappear back into the Honmoon.

The threads of the Honmoon pulse as Mira watches Rumi die in front of her, still as a statue. They begin to turn gray and weave their way around the three of them, as if settling over Rumi as she lies bleeding out on the floor, Zoey holding her and crying.

Mira doesn’t even react, still watching the scene unfold in front of her slowly. Watching the last of her family dissipate before her very eyes.

“You did this,” Zoey croaks, tears running down her cheeks as she looks up to Mira, hatred and disappointment tearing through the pink-haired girl like knives.

Mira knows this look. She’s been on the receiving end many times before.

“How could you do this to the only people who love you? The only people who truly care about you?” Zoey’s lips move, but it’s not Zoey speaking. Instead, it’s a twisted version of Mira’s own voice, exactly like how Gwi-Ma spoke to her, voicing her own insecurities.

Mira doesn’t respond, doesn’t really do anything, until she feels a hand clasping down on her shoulder.

She knows who’s behind her before she turns around, but does it anyway, slowly looking over her shoulder to find the dark silhouettes of her parents and older brother.

Their figures are cloaked in shadow, but their eyes glow yellow, and their smiles are fanged and blinding, much like those of a demon.

“You’re just like your father,” the voice echoes around her. It’s not coming from any particular figure—it’s coming from inside her. “Destined to destroy those you love. How long before they eventually decide you’re no longer worth the pain you cause them, Mira? How long before they finally decide you’re no longer worth keeping around?”

She’s still frozen. She can’t move, she can’t speak. The voices are right, after all.

“When will you finally realize that you will never deserve a family?”

Mira sits bolt upright in bed, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead as her breaths heave her chest up and down.

There is a faint glow in her room, and she looks down to find her Gok-Do still in her hand. She startles at the sight of the very thing that pungled its way through someone she loves. Horrified, she sends it back into the Honmoon before she gets out of her bed, rubbing her hands across her face.

She needs to see Rumi. She has to make sure she’s okay.

She quietly pads her way to Rumi’s room, taking care to ensure that she isn’t making a sound.

Rumi’s door is closed but not latched, and Mira’s able to open the door ever so slightly to check in on the older girl.

She watches Rumi tucked in bed, waiting with bated breath for something, anything to indicate that Rumi’s alive and well. Thankfully, the singer eventually lets out a single snore, rolling in her sleep as she mumbles something before the tendrils of sleep take over once more.

Mira lets out a long breath in relief before she makes her way back to her own room, moving to her ensuite and letting her tap run for a bit while she tries to get ahold of her bearings once more.

She looks at herself in the mirror; ragged, pale and sweaty, and heaves a sigh. She looks like she hasn’t seen proper rest in weeks.

She cups her hands under the sink and splashes the cool water over her face, letting it wake her up from the throes of her nightmare.

She killed Rumi.

Sure, it was just a dream, but how far off was that dream from reality? Mira indeed held her weapon to Rumi when things got too hard. She knows she’s perfectly capable of hurting those she loves.

Is she really sure that she won’t hurt Rumi and Zoey, given enough time?

The thought panics her, sends tremors through her hands as she tries desperately to still them.

She can’t go back to sleep again, not now, when she can be so easily plunged right back into the nightmare she left.

When will you finally realize that you will never deserve a family?

Great, one more mantra to repeat in her head.

Unless she quietens it.

Mira’s lips purse as her eyes involuntarily flicker down to her drawer, where the final two pills sit in a small bag.

It’s just to help her clear her mind and get some sleep.

She’s not addicted, or anything.

She just needs a bit of calm.

Fingers open the drawer before she gives herself a second to backtrack. She just needs the voices in her head to quieten a little bit. She places the second-to-last pill in the palm of her hand and watches it carefully, as if it’s going to magically grow legs and hop out of her hand, telling her that it’s a mistake and that she shouldn’t need to take pills to feel better about herself.

She pops it into her mouth and washes it down with the water from the faucet before she can psych herself out any more than she already has.

She twists her neck, letting it pop twice before rolling her shoulders back and straightening her posture.

Tea. Tea should be next. A nice chamomile would help soothe her enough to go back to sleep.

She checks the alarm clock on her bedside table when she walks back into her room.

Four in the morning. Oh.

She makes her way to the kitchen and begins steeping herself some tea, letting the kettle boil as she prepares her mug, thankful that they have an electric kettle so that no one will be woken by the whistling of a stove kettle.

Once the switch flicks, she pours herself the tea and holds the cup gingerly, letting the aroma fill her up before deciding she should probably get rid of some of the excess energy.

That will help her sleep better.

She makes her way down to the dance studio, mug still in hand, and places it on the small table as she plays an easy warm-up playlist.

She tests out her ankle a bit and stretches it. It certainly feels better, and she’s careful enough to make sure she won’t do anything to hurt it further.

She’s not stupid or trying to hurt herself; she just needs an outlet for all of the energy currently buzzing under her skin.

Confident that she can make it through a few songs freshly warm and without hurting her ankle further, she begins to go through some routines.

First, she goes through some Huntr/x songs, then she works on some other songs she’s choreographed, then she just puts a random playlist on and lets herself feel through the rhythms of the music, getting out all of her energy and anxiety as she expresses herself through movement.

This is good; this is a productive way to get all of her feelings out, one that doesn’t involve stabbing your best friend through the chest for lying to you, or abandoning your other best friend when things begin to get dicey.

This is a healthy way to let go of the conversation from the day before, when Mira came face-to-face with her own abusers and had to put herself through a civil conversation with them just to appease the threat of going public with her own fuck ups.

If she wasn’t such a terrible person, Mira may have been able to avoid all of this altogether, really. So it’s all her own fault.

But she isn’t thinking about that now, of course, she’s thinking of the absolutely healthy ways she’s coping with everything right now.

And she’s definitely not thinking about how it took a pill to calm her down enough that she’s able to deal with her problems calmly and efficiently.

Mira’s fine, really.

She’s stilled by a ripple throughout the Honmoon, feeling a familiar tug to the streets of Seoul.

She stops, turns off the music, and makes her way upstairs, taking a quick glance at the wall clock. It reads eight in the morning.

The mug of chamomile lay on the table, untouched and cold.

Chapter Text

Rumi and Zoey are waiting for Mira in the kitchen when she returns to the penthouse. Mira can only imagine she’s quite the sight; sweaty and panting, yet still in her pajamas.

They both look at her curiously, and Mira’s eyebrows raise in confusion, letting her eyes drift over to the wall clock.

9 in the morning. What the fuck? When did she lose all of that time?

“You okay, Mir?” Zoey offers, eyebrows pinching as she takes in Mira’s demeanor as she looks at the clock. Oh god, does Zoey think she’s crazy right now?

“Yeah,” Mira responds, almost too quickly, not really convincingly. She looks back at Rumi and Zoey, offering a small smile. “Couldn’t sleep, so thought I’d dance out some energy. Just lost track of time.”

She looks over to Rumi, ignoring how her vision flashes between a concerned Rumi with iridescent patterns and a crying Rumi with glowing pink patterns.

Mira, n—

“I’m fine.”

Rumi nods slowly, stoic gaze watching her carefully as if she’s some equation she needs to figure out. “Alright, let’s gear up.”

Mira doesn’t give either of them a second to get another word in. She heads straight to her room and gets changed into a pair of leggings and a baggy jumper. She puts on a pair of chunky sneakers and puts her hair up into a high ponytail, slipping her glasses on before walking back out to the kitchen.

Her girls are all donned in similar gear.

“Mira, your ankle good to go?” Rumi asks softly, turning her head to take in Mira once more.

Mira can’t help but grin. “Never been stronger.”

They leap across rooftops, letting the Honmoon lead them to the source of the demons. True to her word, Mira’s ankle no longer bugs her as they leap across streets.

(Mira’s not sure if it’s because she’s actually getting better now that she’s been resting it, or if it’s the pill, but she doesn’t really care. She’s not in pain. She can be useful to the team. She can have worth. That’s what matters.)

They finally spot a few straggling demons in an alleyway, following a trio of teenage girls.

Rumi and Zoey start to pull their weapons out of the Honmoon, but Mira’s already leaping off the building, one of the demons coming dangerously close to one of the girls.

She tilts her hips slightly to the side and lands a well-aimed side kick into the demon’s head, using its momentum to flip over it and throw it back into the alley where it came from.

Hopefully, the younger girls didn’t hear anything.

Mira chances a glance over her shoulder, but the unknowing girls are still giggling, showing each other something on their phones. Phew.

She turns her attention back to the demon she just launched, noticing how it has at least a foot on her in height. Whatever. She’s dealt with worse.

She feels Rumi and Zoey land not far from her, focusing their attention and weapons on the other demons as she stands up straight, curling her hands into fists and bringing them in front of her face into a fighting stance.

“Trying to kill me without your weapon, little hunter?” The demon mocks, tilting its head to the side as mangled teeth are pulled into a wild grin.

Mira offers a wide grin back. “I don’t need a weapon to send you back to where you came from.”

The truth is, Mira’s not sure that she could summon her Gok-Do right now even if she wanted. Since this morning, every time she thinks of the weapon that she has for so long considered an extension of her, she can’t help but picture it embedded in her best friend’s chest, blood dripping down the blade, the handle, her hands.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Like she said, she doesn’t need her weapon to kick this demon’s ass.

The two begin running at each other at the same time, but Mira is coordinated, whereas the demon simply relies on brute strength. They swing high, which Mira easily weaves through before leaning in and throwing a low hook at its ribcage.

It lets out a grunt of pain, but Mira quickly follows it up with a left uppercut to the jaw before it has a chance to retaliate.

It reminds her of the fist fights she used to get into when she was younger. From the fights against bullies in the hallways to the bar fights against men who didn’t know when to shut their mouths or stop gawking at women. The demon in front of her is just like the men she’s beaten down.

Except now she’s stronger, better, faster.

Now she knows how to fucking defend herself.

And for a moment—just a moment—she lets herself imagine her father’s head on this demon’s body.

She has never hit her father back, no matter how much he might have deserved it; she never wanted to cross that line.

But a demon in front of her? She has no trouble projecting her daddy issues onto them.

She lets her veins burn with the anger that twenty-four years of dealing with her family have given her. She lets the violence take over, just for a minute, because it’s just a demon.

It’s something that she can attack and fight and kill with no consequences. She can let the violence and anger embedded in her DNA loose.

There aren’t any consequences here. She can be as brutal as she fucking wants.

A demon with no feelings don’t deserve to live.

(Rumi doesn’t count, of course. She’s a half-demon and definitely has feelings. The one in front of her, though? Nope.)

She brings her hands up on either side of the demon’s face, letting her thumbs dig into their eyes sharply.

She doesn’t know if it’s the demon or her yelling into the dark of the night. Maybe both?

Maybe it’s neither, and someone is calling out her name instead.

She grins once more, pulling the demon’s skull towards her and slamming her head into the bridge of its nose.

She lets it pull away with a shout, stumbling backwards as she wipes at her mouth, still grinning as she follows it.

She doesn’t run; she doesn’t need to. She knows she has the demon right where she wants it.

It’s time to kick you straight back into the night.

She manages to pin the cowering demon to the wall, smile still sharp and wide as she swings her leg up in a crescent kick and brings it down hard against the skull of the demon, letting the threads of the Honmoon open up on impact and swallow it whole.

Gone.

Oh, part of her has missed this. Missed the feeling of being invincible, even when she wasn’t. Now, though, she’s pretty fucking close to it. She’s defeated a demon lord, for fuck’s sake. What’s a scummy demon left on this side of the Honmoon?

So what if she plays with her food a bit before she eats it? It’s not like she’s hurting anyone.

She feels a strong hand grab her bicep and pull, and she turns quickly, hand raised in a fist to hit the next demon coming for her.

But there’s no demon.

They’re all gone.

It’s just Rumi.

And it’s Rumi and she’s looking at her and Mira n— and her Gok-Do is sticking out of her chest and she’s bleeding and Zoey’s calling out You did this You did this You did this and she’s no better than her family and she just stuck a blade into the woman she loves and she just destroyed the only family she has left and why does she destroy everything she—

“Mira.”

She blinks, lowering her hand as she takes in Rumi in front of her.

Rumi’s fine.

Rumi’s fine.

“You okay?” Rumi asks, letting her hand stay on Mira’s bicep. Each digit feels both grounding and electrifying against her skin, as if she can allow the spark between flesh to help ground her in this moment. Rumi’s fine, Mira didn’t destroy everything.

“Yeah,” Mira sighs, letting her sag her shoulders as she takes in the real sight of Rumi in front of her. Rumi’s fine. She’s fine. She’s not hurt. They’re fine.

Rumi looks at Mira carefully, like she’s trying to unravel a ball of yarn with nothing but her gaze. She clicks her tongue against her teeth before averting her gaze, making eye contact with Zoey, who comes in to join them.

Mira didn’t even realize the demons were all gone.

“Come on,” Rumi offers, hand never wavering from Mira’s arm. “Let’s go home.”

“Okay,” Rumi sighs, closing Mira’s bedroom door behind her and turning to Mira, who’s already sitting on her bed. “What the hell is going on, Mira?”

Mira opens her mouth, closes it, and turns her gaze to her hands, trembling slightly.

When they got home, Rumi and Zoey shared a look, whatever that means, and Zoey hurried off to her room, leaving Rumi and Mira alone. The leader then dragged Mira into her room without a word.

After nearly a minute of silence, Rumi sighs, walking so she’s standing right in front of Mira and folding her arms across her chest.

Rumi’s tired; Mira can see it in her posture. In the way her shoulders sag, in the way her hair has started to fall out of its braid, in the way she has dark circles under her eyes.

That can’t be because of Mira though, right? Because Mira has been fine. No one was supposed to know she hasn’t been fine.

Mira gulps, averting her gaze back to her hands. The hands that are now bruised and grazed at the knuckles. Mira had shrugged off any care for it when it was offered on the way back home. She doesn’t need it; it’s just a bit of bruising.

She’ll be fine, she doesn’t even feel it.

Rumi felt it when she stabbed her weapon through her chest, though.

Wait—Mira didn’t do that.

Fuck, she’s getting a headache. Maybe she needs another pill.

Her eyes squint at the daylight filtering in through her curtains that’s suddenly too bright, and Rumi exhales, kneeling so she’s right in front of Mira.

“I’m going to ask you something,” Rumi begins, “and I need you to be honest with me, okay?”

Of course Mira is going to be honest with her. Lying to the people she loves is Rumi’s thing, not Mira’s (wait, that’s not fair to Rumi).

“Are you high right now?”

Oh. Fuck.

Mira purses her lips, rubbing her fingertips over her cheekbones, as if the pressure to her sinuses can magically relieve the new headache that’s just been brought on. There’s no escaping this.

She nods softly, almost imperceptible, but Rumi notices.

She always notices.

“Don’t tell Celine,” Mira whispers.

Because yeah, Mira is definitely mad at Celine for what she’s put Rumi through, but there is no denying how much Celine loves and cares for the three of them, even if she’s made some mistakes along the way.

If it weren’t for Celine, Mira would have definitely OD’ed on a stranger’s couch years ago.

She owes Celine everything.

Celine can’t know she’s relapsing—she can’t disappoint the closest thing she has to a real mother.

“Oh, Mira,” Rumi murmurs softly, sitting down next to Mira on her bed. She feels the weight of the bed shift and immediately feels Rumi’s arms envelop her in a hug. Mira sinks into it, letting the tension of the past few weeks leave her body, even if just for a moment.

God, she feels so weak.

“What are you on?” Rumi asks gently, followed immediately by a press of lips to Mira’s hair. It’s a comforting gesture, has been for years. Mira lets it warm her from the inside.

“I dunno,” Mira admits softly. “A pill. I think it’s E.”

“E?” Rumi repeats, a confused lilt to her tone.

Mira suppresses the urge to snort in amusement. This is definitely not the time for it, but she adores how naive Rumi can be with this sort of stuff. “Ecstasy, I think.”

Mira feels Rumi nod against her skin, letting her fingers graze up and down Mira’s arm comfortingly. God, she feels so warm.

“Is there any more?” Rumi presses.

Mira stiffens. She can tell Rumi about the pill—she really shouldn’t be lying. But what if she needs it? What if something happens, like her parents call her again, or her ankle gets too sore, or she has another nightmare about killing someone she loves and she can’t make the voices go away or get rid of the buzzing under her skin or—

No, she has to deflect.

“I dreamt I killed you.” Well, that’s not exactly what Mira wanted to say to deflect Rumi’s question, but it sure gets the job done. She feels Rumi stiffen in response. “At the Idol Awards. I dream I stabbed you.”

She feels Rumi exhale a shaky breath before she pulls out of the embrace, tilting Mira’s chin up so they’re making eye contact. Mira can’t hide from Rumi’s dark brown eyes anymore.

Oh, how she can get lost in those eyes.

Rumi brings her hands up to cup Mira’s face and gently wipes away at tears dropping down her cheek. That’s weird. When did she start crying?

“Is that why you didn’t want to summon your weapon today?”

Mira nods, sniffling. “I keep seeing flashes. My Gok-Do in your chest, your blood on my hands. It was easier if I didn’t summon it.”

Rumi hums in acknowledgement. She doesn’t quite understand, but she gets it, kinda. “I’m here,” she assures, grabbing one of Mira’s hands and placing it on her chest, letting Mira feel the steady heartbeat underneath. “I’m still alive.”

Mira looks at her hand, feeling the echo of Rumi’s heartbeat in her own ears, taking over her own heartbeat. All that’s in her head is RumiRumiRumi.

Rumi’s alive. She’s here, she’s breathing.

Mira’s breath hitches in her throat, and she looks up, sharp eyes making eye contact with soft, concerned eyes.

And Mira uses her other hand to cup the back of Rumi’s neck, one hand still on her heart, and pulls her in for an Earth-shattering kiss.

Chapter Text

Mira didn’t know genuine love until she met Ryu Rumi.

She never really thought she was capable of it.

Sure, she had girlfriends in the past, but she always considered herself too damaged, too broken to love someone the way they deserved to be loved.

All past girlfriends were more fleeting than genuine, mostly to escape something rather than head towards something. Sometimes it was to escape her family, sometimes to escape the voices in her head, sometimes herself.

When Celine took her in and she met Rumi for the first time, Mira didn’t know what to do with her kindness.

She knows she was an absolute bitch when they first met (she could blame it on the withdrawal that was contingent on her staying at the compound with Celine, but she knows there are a lot more complicated layers to her attitude towards people, towards Rumi, back then). Still, Rumi never faltered, never stopped offering her generosity to Mira.

Of course, Rumi knew the implications of the Honmoon choosing Mira better than she did, and Mira didn’t fully understand exactly what she was getting into before Celine took her in, but taking Celine up on her offer (not that she had a choice, really, since the Honmoon is what makes the decision and Mira had to get on board with that) still remains to this day one of the best things Mira’s ever done.

Over time, Mira softened her jagged edges, letting Rumi in slowly, and Rumi did the same. They would talk often, telling each other about gentle things like favorite foods and old aspirations. Neither of them got too deep into talking about their families (Mira knew that Rumi’s mother was a Sunlight Sister who died when Rumi was young, but she never pressed further than that), and both of them were okay with that.

In addition to Celine’s brutal training sessions, Rumi would take extra time out of her day to help mold Mira’s anger and violence into something useful in a fight. She would help Mira become efficient, accurate, brutal. Mira’s fight IQ became something to be reckoned with, calculating a fight and her odds before anyone even took a step towards her.

Mira’s protectiveness of Rumi is what led to the Honmoon choosing a Gok-Do for her eventually, being able to be the protective sentinel while still delivering brutal blow after brutal blow.

In turn, Mira would help Rumi with her dance techniques. While Rumi was by no means a bad dancer, Mira could see things in Rumi’s lines that even Celine didn’t always pick up on. Late nights in front of mirrors led to sweaty moments of Mira correcting Rumi’s form over and over again, performing slight adjustments to help Rumi translate the music into a visual.

Mira would always offer water afterwards and would cook Rumi’s favorite food for dinner, since she knows she can get quite critical when it came to technique.

Rumi never minded.

After particularly rough training sessions, or small missions where the two of them would hunt small gatherings of demons with Celine’s supervision, the two would patch each other up gently, tending to each other with care and attention that neither had shown anyone else.

It helped teach Mira that she was capable of healing just as well as she was capable of hurting. Fire and venom weren’t something born into her veins; it was something she learnt from years with her family and on her own, but it was something she could unlearn, too.

The venom always dripped away when Mira focused all her energy into patching Rumi up, never noticing how Rumi looked at her like she hung the stars.

Rumi saw a side to Mira that no one ever had before, and she didn’t flinch away.

Mira also saw a side to Rumi that even Celine hadn’t; a sillier side, one where Rumi didn’t have to be so perfect all the time.

Mira noticed quickly how, when Rumi had a song in her head, she would bounce on the balls of her feet, humming along to the melody while creating the subtlest of choreography. It was the only way the other girl could get a song out of her head. Mira always found it incredibly endearing.

Looking back, Mira thinks it was sometime here that she began to fall head over heels for Rumi.

Sure, the two kept secrets from each other, but they never focused on what wasn’t shared, only what was.

Mira never told Rumi that her father had raised his hand against her, and Rumi never told Mira about her patterns.

And Mira knows now that it’s because of the patterns, but once they began to spread, Rumi was more careful with what wounds Mira would tend to and what she would deal with herself. Mira noticed — she always noticed — but she never minded. 

Everyone was entitled to her own space, and Mira assumed that with the responsibilities of a leader pushed harder and harder onto Rumi as time went on, she simply didn’t want to show too many signs of weakness. Mira could understand that, in some ways.

One night, after a brutal session filled with hours of vocal practice, dance training, and finally combat maneuvers, Mira found Rumi on the rooftop, knees hugged to her chest, staring out into the Honmoon.

They’d been working together as a duo for months, and Mira had gotten proficient at reading both the Honmoon and Rumi. She sat down next to Rumi wordlessly, letting Rumi have a second to herself before she spoke.

“Tradition says that three hunters will seal the Honmoon,” Rumi began, eyes peeling away from the Honmoon to look over at Mira.

Mira knew what that meant; she knew it meant the dynamic would change. They would no longer be Rumi and Mira, who bickered like a married couple and always patched themselves up after, a duo that could read each other’s attack before they even made them. They knew each other almost better than they knew themselves.

A third was going to eventually join them when the Honmoon decided they were ready, and it was possible that everything would be changing once that happened.

Mira sat silent for a moment, thinking, before she reached out her hand and placed it next to Rumi’s on the ground, hooking her pinky around Rumi’s gently.

“No matter what happens, we’re not going to let a new person change how we are with each other,” Mira confirmed, nodding once as Rumi looked into her eyes softly, curiosity and an unreadable expression in wide brown eyes.

“You promise?” Rumi had asked, pinky squeezing tight against Mira’s.

“Yeah,” Mira breathed, a soft smile on her lips. “I promise.”

Kissing Rumi isn’t like anything Mira’s ever experienced. It’s like every cell is on fire, like her own skin is pulsing and vibrating with the sensation of having the woman she loves on her own lips.

Rumi gasps into the kiss at first, surprised by the sudden intent, but she melts into the kiss quickly, moving her hands so her fingers are just barely touching Mira’s cheeks, feeling the electricity of the near-touch set fire to her nerve endings.

And Rumi’s kissing her, she’s actually kissing Mira.

Mira’s kissing Rumi and Rumi’s kissing Mira back and everything feels so right and true and it’s like Mira’s been drowning all her life and Rumi is a fresh gulp of air right after Mira was convinced she was going to die.

Rumi is here and kissing her and—

Mira pulls apart to change angles, but then suddenly Rumi pulls back just out of reach, eyes wide as a finger drifts in front of Mira’s lips so she’s physically stopping her from coming any closer.

Oh.

Did Mira read this all wrong?

“Mira,” Rumi begins, out of breath and barely above a whisper. Wide brown eyes flick between every inch of Mira’s face, like she’s trying to solve something that she doesn’t quite understand yet.

But what is there to solve? Mira’s here bearing her heart on a silver platter for Rumi, admitting that she’s absolutely smitten with the leader, and she’s trying to show that right now.

Rumi takes her lower lip between her teeth, a myriad of emotions flashing over her face before she settles on something that just reveals something… sad.

“Are you just kissing me because you’re high?” Rumi asks, insecurity marring her features and turning them into something Rumi isn’t.

Because Mira knows Rumi’s confidence. She knows that Rumi is confident enough in her body (sans patterns, until recently) and her personality that she could theoretically get anyone she wants. Rumi always pushed that sort of conversation aside, blaming it on the fact that she’s simply too busy to be thinking about anything on a romantic scale like that.

Mira knows all of Rumi’s jokes and flirting on stage, that she’s everyone’s type, and the easy grin she has on camera. She knows Rumi isn’t insecure when talking about people who have crushes on her, so why does she seem so nervous now?

This is a different Rumi entirely, one who is scared of the answer Mira might give her.

Mira’s heart absolutely breaks for Rumi. Fuck, if she weren’t high, then Rumi wouldn’t be so insecure about Mira’s admission.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She’s ruined it all.

I knew it was too good to be true.

And the realization that she might have fucked this up as quickly as she acknowledged it makes Mira want to tear her own skin off and run away and never have to face Rumi and her insecure expression ever again, but Mira knows that Rumi needs reassurance right now, and she’s all too happy to give it to her.

“What? Rumi, no,” Mira shakes her head, like doing so will physically tear Rumi’s insecurities out of her own head. Her fingers flex, one hand still on the back of Rumi’s neck and the other resting over her heart. “I’ve been in love with you for years. This isn’t just something I’m doing because I’m on something.”

Mira used to be so good at pushing down her feelings for Rumi, at telling herself that she just cares a lot about her, that she loves her, but not in that way—because isn’t that normal for people who are supernaturally connected through the Honmoon? To love each other?

(Mira knows even that’s not true, though, because while she loves Zoey with all of her heart, this feeling with Rumi is a whole different beast entirely.)

But now it’s the most important thing that she tells Rumi exactly how much she means to her.

Rumi deserves that, at least.

“Please, Rumi,” Mira implores, letting go of the back of the other girl’s neck and reaching for her hand. “What do I have to do to prove to you that I’m serious?”

Rumi breaks eye contact then, staring down at the floor. It’s here that Mira decides that she would do anything to prove to Rumi that she’s worth loving; that Mira loves her with her entire being.

Her free hand picks at a loose thread on her shorts before she takes in a deep breath through her nose, looking back up at Mira carefully.

“You could get clean again.”

Mira feels her entire world shift on its axis, and suddenly she feels nauseous. A huge part of her wants to get defensive, wants to stand on her feet and yell at Rumi that that’s not fair, that you don’t know what I’m going through and not everyone can be as perfect as you.

But a quieter, stronger voice in her head, honed by years of therapy and self-awareness, whispers she has every right to ask that of you, when she thinks you’re so high you’ll admit to anything.

Mira breathes in deeply, pulling her hands away to press the heels of her palms into her eyes, hard enough so stars and colors burst and fragment behind her eyelids.

“Okay,” she breathes, pulling her hands away and nodding, looking up to make eye contact with Rumi, who’s gone back to watching her intently. “Okay, I’ll get clean again.”

She feels like it’s a promise that’s easier said than done, but she’s done it once before, right? And she’s not as bad now as she was back then.

Back then, she was doing anything to get a fix, but this time she’s just been doing it to help numb the hurt.

Rumi’s breath hitches as she nods, taking Mira’s hands in both of her own, the patterns on her hands shimmering with the movement. “I know you’re going through a lot right now with your family and your nightmares, and you don’t have to tell me everything right away, but I want you to turn to me or Zoey when you’re hurting. Instead of the drugs. Please?”

And how can Mira deny that? Too scared to speak around the lump that’s slowly growing in her throat, Mira nods. “Okay, I can try to do that.”

Rumi offers a soft smile at that. They both know that things won’t change overnight, but at least Mira’s receptive to trying to get better. She nods gently.

“Okay, great. I just want to ask you one more thing, okay?”

Mira knows what’s coming, but she nods anyway.

“Can I have the last of the pills?”

Mira breathes out a low breath through pursed lips. She can’t help the tug that tells her to lie, to tell Rumi there aren’t any more, but she’s already deflected that question once tonight, and if she wants to prove to Rumi that she really loves her, she needs to be honest with her. Slowly, Mira gets up and makes her way to her ensuite, opening the drawer where her lifeline sits and grabbing the bag containing the final pill.

She clutches the bag tight, knuckles white and hand shaking, before she turns and makes her way to Rumi, holding it out for the other girl to take.

Rumi takes the bag with reverence, as if she wasn’t sure whether Mira would actually go through with it.

Mira considers this some sort of evidence of her feelings, at least a first step. An I’m willing to trust you so bad that I will get rid of the only thing that’s been keeping me sane for weeks to prove to you that it’s not controlling me.

Rumi inhales, standing as she takes in Mira gently. One hand cups Mira’s cheek softly as she gets on the balls of her feet and presses a quick but gentle kiss to Mira’s lips.

“I love you too, you know?” Rumi murmurs with a soft smile. “I will help you get through this, I promise.”