Chapter Text
Hide your patterns.
Rumi could hear Celine’s voice ringing in her head over and over again, like the echo of an old tune playing on repeat in her mind. A shiver ran down her spine despite the sweat on her brow.
After Namsan Tower, she had slowly stopped hiding her body with long sleeves and turtlenecks — with the help of Zoey and Mira’s encouragement of course. At first it had been hard; it went against everything Celine had taught her growing up. Her patterns were proof she was part demon, the very thing they were sworn to destroy, and they’d be gone for good once they’d sealed the Honmoon.
Except that wasn’t how it went down.
So now here she was on stage, performing How It’s Done with Zoey and Mira, wearing their new revamped outfits: pearly white crop tops and bottoms with gold accents, each stylized a little differently to highlight each of the girls’ features; a golden rimmed skirt for Mira that left her long legs uncovered; tight, high-waisted shorts for Rumi with golden chains hanging from her side and, of course, for Zoey, her signature baggy pants with a gold print that mirrored subtly Rumi’s markings. Zoey had made a point of it — “you won’t be the only one with patterns anymore!”.
The crowd was roaring, lightsticks high in the air lighting up the venue like constellations, their fans screaming every lyric at the top of their lungs.
This was their first performance after their comeback, and all three of them had been waiting for this. They had taken a desperately needed hiatus after the events of the Idol Awards, during which they had taken a lot of time to process everything that had happened and mend the crumbling bridges of their relationship, with Rumi finally breaking her silence. They had even spent the first couple of days cuddled together on the couch, an indiscernible mess of limbs — Zoey had called it their “cuddle puddle” — the movie playing on the television the only thing that had lit up the room while Rumi slowly found the strength to open up about all the things she had kept bottled up inside, comforted by the familiar scent of takeout. Zoey had clung to her, stroking her back encouragingly while Mira had listened to her intently, giving her space to finally be herself around them in a way she had never allowed herself to be — or rather, had never been allowed to be.
After that, they had spent weeks coming up with new ideas for their big comeback song titled Together, practicing new and old choreographies, their energy practically bursting out of them: Zoey had basically been bouncing off the walls, running lyrics by them while Mira taught them their new “sick choreography that’ll shock everyone” – her words exactly. In the meantime, Rumi had come out publicly about her patterns during an interview: of course, the first question had been about the mysterious markings she was now covered in. A benign condition she’d had since she was a child that she no longer wished to cover up – that had been enough to satisfy the curious fans, who had been very supportive.
And now, it was finally time to show their fans that they were coming back stronger than ever – and they were. Zoey was spitting out her part of the song with a sharp tongue, reaching out for the crowd while the other two were keeping up with the choreography behind her. Mira was at the top of her game, her pink hair flying behind her in a mesmerizing way, hitting every move with precision, fluidity and grace.
But Rumi wasn’t there. Physically she was, of course, but her mind was miles away. She was hitting every note, smiling, meeting every cue, her ears were ringing from the powerful screams of the crowd cheering them on that should be invigorating her, and yet she could only hear one voice in her mind.
Hide your patterns.
She hadn’t been purposefully hiding them for weeks now, going out in public wearing t-shirts and lounging around the penthouse in a sports bra after rehearsals, but here on stage, it was different. She had crafted a persona, the idol. As the child of a former star, Celine had taught her from a young age that she had to be perfect — especially in public. She had to hit every note, smile, meet every cue, be polite, make it look effortless. This was her legacy, her duty.
Our faults and fears must never be seen.
Rumi had always done her best to make her proud and even now, after everything that had happened, a small part of her was still trying to meet Celine’s standards, even though they hadn’t talked since that night at the Jeju tree.
Hide your patterns.
Those words were engraved in the very fabric of her soul, having been repeated to her over and over again.
The bridge to How It’s Done came, and Rumi was now at the center of the stage, the harsh and blinding light of the spotlight on her, Zoey flanking her right and Mira to her left. She tried to focus, to push Celine’s echoing voice out of her head, to concentrate on their fans’ energy, on the Honmoon pulsing and undulating right in front of her, iridescent in the night and glowing with soft hues of blue and purple.
Hide your patterns. Our faults and fears must never be seen.
Her patterns were displayed so openly, visible on her bare arms, stomach and thighs. They had talked about this a lot: their new matching costumes were meant to be proof that she was finally accepting herself, all of herself. She thought she had been ready but now, on stage, wearing the mask of the idol persona she and Celine had crafted long ago, it felt wrong. Too wrong. She had stopped fighting them, trying to hide them, but still, she saw the iridescent markings covering her skin as unnatural. They were imperfections — a mistake, an aberration. And here, on stage, perfection was expected of her.
To everyone else, she was the same as always — the cocky, fearless leader with killer vocals — but behind her Mira and Zoey exchanged a glance: they saw Rumi’s stiff shoulders, and even though she hit that high note flawlessly, they noticed the way their leader’s eyes were looking at the crowd without really seeing it, eyes hazy and darting from one spot to another, overcompensating by hitting every move of their dance with too much intensity, a telltale sign of her discomfort.
The song ended, and Rumi retreated to the back of the stage. She stepped out of the spotlight, relieved, leaving space for Zoey and Mira to walk up to the front for the intro of their new song. She took a deep breath, trying to ground herself, bracing for the intensity of the upcoming moves. Mira hadn’t been kidding when she said she would step up her game for this song: the choreography she had come up with was electric, but so very exhausting. This was the last song of their set, and Rumi could feel her legs shaking from exertion and the burn in her arms. A beat, and she started moving along with her bandmates to the first few notes of their new single.
She felt it immediately.
Something was off. She knew every move by heart, her feet were gliding effortlessly across the stage to the beat of the song. She knew the tempo, could feel it in her veins; her movements were synced up to those of her bandmates like they were one entity, but something was definitely wrong. She looked Mira’s way, who was busy pulling off a particularly intricate move that involved dropping down to her knees, and then Zoey’s way. Their eyes met, and Zoey shot her a confused but concerned look, sensing the subtle shift in the way Rumi moved next to her.
Rumi kept going, now back to the front of the stage for her solo, standing in the intense light. She bent down towards the crowd, reaching for their fans’ outstretched hands as her voice filled the venue, steady and melodious. She backed up slightly for the upcoming beat drop, raised an arm towards the sky and spun around, her braid twirling around her like a ribbon of purple silk; that’s when it happened. As her foot came back down, it caught on her braid, making her lose her balance and stumble backwards into Mira. Thankfully, years of rehearsing countless dance moves and fighting actual demons had its perks: Mira caught her and steadied her. They both recovered quickly, immediately slipping back into the choreography in a somewhat seamless way. Mira turned towards her in-between lyrics, mouthing “you okay?” to her, to which Rumi replied with a subtle nod.
Except it didn’t just happen once. She tripped on it a second time about halfway through the song while the three of them were striding around the stage, switching positions back and forth. She started doing wider moves to prevent stumbling on her hair again, aiming to make the braid fly behind her, but the unusual intensity she put into her movements resulted in her whipping herself repeatedly in the arms and legs, leaving faint pinkish welts on her skin — along with a hit on poor Zoey’s cheek, who had gotten closer to her for one of their harmonies.
They ended the song huddled all three of them in their final pose, Rumi in the middle of them with an arm around Mira, Zoey clinging to her other side while all three of them held up an arm in the aur, doing finger hearts. The crowd went wild, chanting “HUNTR/X! HUNTR/X!”, completely oblivious to the struggle that was happening on stage. Zoey, Mira and Rumi lined up, holding hands and bowing, thanking their fans for their support.
As soon as they reached backstage, Rumi ran to her dressing room, brushing past a confused Bobby who tried handing her a water bottle. She heard Zoey and Mira calling out for her but didn’t stop to turn around.
She slammed the door and locked it behind her, her back immediately pressed against the wood. She slowly slid down the door, chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath – not even from exertion, but from the storm raging in her head, making the room spin dizzyingly.
She needed to get a hold of herself. She was an idol, damnit, she was born into the world of entertainment. She forced herself to suck air into her lungs, exhaling slowly.
Once Rumi got her breathing back under control, she tentatively got up on shaky legs and approached the body-length mirror on the opposite wall, taking in the sight. Her patterns were pulsing softly to the beat of the chanting of their fans outside, the marks lining her body and her face brighter than ever.
Mira had once followed the patterns on her cheek with her finger, tracing them down to her shoulder, calling them beautiful in that soft, sincere voice she only took when reassuring her or Zoey about their insecurities. But to Rumi, they’d never be more than proof of her unfortunate lineage.
“Great. First I’m a demon, now I’m a glowstick” she grumbled, swiping a hand across her face, exasperated.
She looked down towards her legs, more specifically the middle of her calves where the tip of her braid used to brush her skin as it swayed, a good couple inches off the ground. Sure enough, it was now touching the floor, dragging slightly behind her. She hadn’t had her hair cut in a while, since before their hiatus. Since before… that night.
Rumi shut her eyes for a moment, the memory of kneeling down and looking up at Celine, holding her saingeom over her head for Celine to take as she begged her to kill her all too fresh in her mind. For a moment, it was like darkness engulfed her.
“Why couldn’t you love me?”
“I do!”
“All of me!”
Her eyes snapped open suddenly as she felt a ripple through the Honmoon, worried for a second that she had been the one to cause it.
“Rumi, we have to go!”
She turned around to the sound of Mira’s voice, muffled through the door but still carrying the urgency of her tone. Already reaching for the doorknob she shook her head, chasing the thoughts out of her mind. She had a duty to do, whatever issue she had now would have to wait.
She reached Zoey and Mira in an instant, the two of them running slightly ahead of her towards the building exit. Unlike Rumi, they had taken the short break they got after the show to change back into the clothes they were wearing when they got to the venue: comfortable, cute, but most importantly, discreet. Mira looked back over her shoulder and shot her a look, quickly slipping out of her coat and throwing it to Rumi.
“Can’t have anyone recognizing you while we’re beating demons’ faces in.”
The purple-haired girl clumsily caught it right before it hit her straight in the face, struggling to put on the black jacket that was clearly too long for her.
“Curse you and your long legs” she mumbled, sleeves hanging way past her wrists.
“What did you say?” Mira snarled, turning around with her eyes half lidded in a truly terrifying way.
“Thank you!”
The Honmoon kept pulsing softly around them, guiding them through the quiet streets of Seoul towards their goal. It led them to the outskirts of the city, towards the suburbs. There, the architecture was more traditional, the population less dense. It was dark out, the soft light of the moon illuminating the streets faintly in the absence of street lights. Good, Rumi thought. Fewer chances of being seen. The Honmoon pulsed one more time around them, harsh purple lines rippling urgently, warning them that they were close to their destination. Until finally they saw it: a pack of demons, hunched over and snarling at them. It wasn't a big one; Rumi counted six, but one single demon was enough to pose a threat to civilians.
“They’re uglier than I remember” Zoey chimed, her shin-kals appearing between her fingers.
“It’s because you got too used to drooling over the Saja Boys” Mira replied, reaching into the Homoon and pulling out her gok-do from its very fabric in a practiced manner before planting it into the ground, the blade ringing with an eerie sound.
“Like you weren’t staring at Abby’s abs any chance you got!” The black haired girl retorted, turning towards her taller bandmate, now insulted. Her fists clenched tightly to her sides in the adorable way they always did when she was upset – it was really hard to take her seriously.
Rumi cut the conversation short.
“Can we focus here?” She said as she outstretched her arm, threads of the Honmoon quickly forming the shape of a sword, the saingeom materializing in her hand. Her arm dropped slightly, clearly still not used to the size and weight of her new blade.
Zoey glanced at her with a sheepish look before shifting her gaze towards the saingeom, guilt flashing in her eyes.
“Sorry Rumi, I didn’t mean to bring up Ji-”
Rumi bolted towards the pack before the poor girl could finish her sentence, clearly not willing to have this conversation. Within a second, her blade was clashing against demon claws, sparks flying around her.
Zoey let out a resigned sigh before following Rumi into the fight, Mira close behind. Their leader had gotten better at opening up, but they both knew some subjects were still sore – they needed to let her come to them, or she ran away like a scared cat.
Rumi cut down the first demon, swinging wide across its chest. One of Zoey’s shin-kals flew a few inches in front of her eyes, hitting another monster that had approached Rumi’s blind spot right in-between the eyes, turning it into a pinkish mist that clung to her clothes. She felt the familiar presence of Mira’s back brushing against hers, covering her behinds, spinning her gok-do so fast the blade became a blur to repel two demons that had circled around them.
The alleyway they were in was dark, the rooftops of the surrounding buildings preventing the moonlight from reaching them, making the soft glow emanating from the constellations that riddled their blades the only thing illuminating their surroundings. That, and Rumi’s patterns that were glowing an angry purple, along with the occasional pinkish flash of demons disintegrating.
They kept swinging, stabbing, slicing, pushing through the exhaustion in their limbs that lingered from their earlier performance.
“Rumi, on your right!”
Rumi went to spin around, but her foot landed straight on her braid, stopping her momentum and making her neck jerk backwards. She yelped in pain, but managed to use the sudden movement to her advantage, letting her knees drop to the ground with a loud thud and bending the rest of her torso back, barely avoiding the long demon claws that swiped at her. She caught herself on the ground with her free hand, using the one holding her weapon to pummel the demon now standing on top of her hard in the face, making it stumble back away from her. She used that half-second of confusion to bring her blade up, severing the monster’s neck, its head rolling on the ground before it disintegrated.
Behind her, Zoey was catching her breath, hands on her hips while Mira wiped the sweat from her brow, having done quick work on the rest of the pack. Rumi let the tip of her sword hit the pavement with a clang, the muscles in her arm tense and burning from the effort before she let the Honmoon take hold of her weapon once again. Her shoulders slumped, and for a second she let her hands shake from the weight of her exhaustion.
Mira looked Rumi’s way, noticing the way Rumi’s patterns were pulsing faster than usual, harsh hues of magenta and purple – not quite as vibrant and dark as that night at the Idol Awards, but not so far off. Zoey and her had learned to read them: they had quickly realized that the markings that ran across their leader’s skin often gave away her inner feelings, and right now Mira could tell something was bothering her.
The pink-haired woman reached out and softly put a hand on Rumi’s shoulder, who was facing away from her.
“Is everything okay?” Mira asked.
Rumi turned around, startled, her braid whipping Mira’s arm in the process. Her mind blanked, bringing her back to that time on the train months ago, when her world was unraveling.
“What are you hiding from us!?”
“Not everything is about your insecurities, Mira!”
But this time, Mira’s gaze was soft, steady, boring into Rumi’s stormy pupils. There was no anger, just concern, like she was searching for an answer in her eyes.
“Everything okay?” The taller girl repeated.
Our faults and fears must never be seen.
She didn’t mean to hide anything from them, really, not after everything they had been through together. She wasn’t the terrified girl who felt like she couldn’t rely on anyone anymore; she just needed to untangle her own thoughts first. She would talk to them soon, she promised herself mentally.
“Yeah, just a little tired” she lied, balling up her hands into fists to stop the tremble in her fingers. “Let’s go home, yeah?”
Mira watched her walk away, quiet suspicion etched onto her face, but didn’t press further. She knew it was useless; she would just have to trust that the work they had put into their relationship would pay off and that Rumi would come to them herself about whatever was bothering her.
Rumi hated how easily the lie came out of her mouth. Something she had learned from Celine, she supposed. A shiver ran down her spine at the realization.
The train ride back to the HUNTR/X tower was fairly silent, if not for the quiet but excited hush of Mira and Zoey rehashing the events of their show. They kindly left out the parts about Rumi’s struggles, which she was thankful for.
Back at the penthouse, Rumi quickly excused herself, saying she wanted to get some rest before their weekly sparring session the next morning. She did, however, take a couple extra seconds to taunt Mira, smugness written all over her features as she held up two fingers with her right hand, and with her left, made her thumb and index finger touch, forming a zero: this month, Mira hadn’t managed to defeat her yet, while Rumi had beaten her twice.
The pink-haired girl stared at her with daggers in her eyes, mumbling something menacingly that Rumi didn’t catch as she walked away.
Rumi let out a heavy sigh as she closed her bedroom door behind her, quickly crossing over to her private bathroom as she started taking apart her braid with practiced ease. While Zoey and Mira shared the same bathroom, Rumi having her own had been something Celine insisted on, hoping it would prevent the girls from ever finding out about their leader’s secret.
Maybe they’d understand?
No, Rumi. Nothing can change until your patterns are gone.
Celine’s cold, scolding voice was always there, somewhere in the back of her mind.
It had pained her, witnessing her bandmates sharing this intimate bond she could never be a part of. Most days, they would get ready together, walking into their shared bathroom with sky high piles of clothes on their arms, changing in and out of outfits together, giving each other advice and doing each other’s makeup until both were satisfied with their looks. The bathroom would fill with giggles, excited shrieks, and laughter and all Rumi could do was listen to them and watch from a distance, declining their invites with a longing look in her eyes.
Now it was just a habit for her to keep using her own bathroom, even though she had started joining them to get ready in the morning or before events. A small part of her was still glad she didn’t have to share a counter and sink with Zoey, who had the habit of emptying all of her makeup all over the counter and leaving it to sit there.
She stepped into the shower, long locks of soft lilac pooling at her feet. She was tired. Rumi let out a humorless chuckle: tired didn’t even begin to cover it.
Their show had been exhausting, sure. Twenty-one songs in a row, all with complex choreographies, followed by some demon slaying would do that to you. But that wasn’t what was wearing her down, not really.
She was still recovering from Jinu’s loss, trying to process exactly what she had felt towards him, his betrayal, and what his sacrifice meant to her. She hadn’t loved him, not really; with time, she had realized that whatever she had felt for him had been more some sort of infatuation for someone who had known exactly what she so desperately wanted to hear from… anyone. And that someone had just so happened to be Jinu, who bore the same patterns she did, making her feel like he was the only one who could understand. But in the end, he had manipulated her, used her, humiliated her — publicly. She was grateful for his sacrifice of course, and despite everything she still had fond memories of him, but his memory was tainted. Her desire to save him hadn’t changed, however the betrayal sat deep in her guts, like a stone that somehow got heavier each passing day. In truth, she no longer knew if her desire to save him had been real, or if she had just wanted to prove that she could be saved at all.
Was that what it had been like, between her mother and father? Had he just been some demon who had known how to draw out her mother’s insecurities, her own shame and had taken advantage of it? Was Rumi just the result of a demon’s ulterior motives, the same way Jinu had used her to serve himself? That question was on her mind a lot lately, but she didn’t know if she could truly trust the only person who could give her that answer. Or if she wanted to hear it from her, really.
Celine and her hadn’t talked since that day. One call, one text. That was all Rumi had gotten from her. She was glad she wasn’t harassing her, that she didn’t have to hide and run from yet another thing. But somewhere it hurt, too, that Celine didn’t bother putting any more effort into trying to contact her. She was the person who had raised her, after all. Shouldn’t Rumi mean something more to her?
She had never dared believe that Celine saw her as a daughter. Sure, she had loved her in her own way, being her beloved late best friend's child and all, but not like a daughter. For as long as she could remember, Rumi had tried to be everything Celine wanted her to be, to make her proud, to close the distance she subtly kept between them. To the world, Celine was a Saint, the perfect adoptive mother who had taken her in. It wasn’t completely wrong; she had taught her everything Rumi knew, had homeschooled her, trained her, put a bandaid over her injured knee that time she fell off a swing. But she couldn’t remember being held after her nightmares, her knee being kissed better, being taught how to ride a bike. To her, she was a legacy, an investment, a successor. A demon.
Rumi turned on the water, soaking her hair, making it look like a purple waterfall cascading down her shoulders. The dimly lit room filled with steam, fogging up her vision. She let the scalding hot water run down her pattern-riddled body like it could burn away her shame and her sins, the droplets blurring the lines between her markings and her skin.
Cover those up.
Instinctively, Rumi’s arms wrapped around herself, her fingers pressing into her flesh.
One thing Celine had done, though, was take care of her hair. Her first memory was of the older woman combing gently through it, out by the Jeju tree.
Celine’s fingers were soft against her scalp as she worked out the parts of her braid. Rumi was on her knees, humming the melody of one of the Sunlight Sisters’ songs while Celine was sitting behind her, her legs in a criss-cross position around Rumi’s small body.
“Your mother loved braiding her hair. She said it made her look pretty.”
Rumi could hear the sorrow, the longing in her voice. She turned her head around, small sparkly eyes boring into glassy ones.
“Do you think mommy would have liked me with a braid?”
At that, Celine’s eyes softened, tears threatening to spill. She softly brushed Rumi’s cheek, tucking a strand of hair that had caught on her eyelashes behind her ear in the process.
“Yes. I think she would have.”
Ever since then, the dark haired woman had been the one cutting, styling and maintaining Rumi’s hair, until she was old enough to do it herself. Even then, while she no longer sat down every morning to do her hair for her, she had been the only one Rumi allowed to approach her hair with scissors. With time, as her patterns grew along with her, Celine had been a lot more reluctant to touch her, but she had never stopped taking care of her long locks for her, sometimes coming to the tower at Rumi’s request solely for a hair cut. While Zoey and Mira had their own stylists, Rumi refused for anyone else to cut hers, holding on tight to that last piece of physical affection Celine didn’t shy away from.
But now, they weren’t on speaking terms, the tension heavy between them from the tragic events that took place at the Jeju tree, and her hair was becoming an issue. Rumi had noticed it was getting too long, of course, but she was reluctant to have it cut by someone else. It felt so… final. Like she’d be letting go of the last thing that linked them together. Like she’d be letting go of the last bit of hope she had that Celine truly loved her.
What was it that she had told Jinu?
That’s the thing about hope. Nobody else gets to decide if you feel it. That choice belongs to you.
Suddenly, she felt like she was suffocating. The steam from the shower was too much, her skin felt raw. She felt exposed.
She got out of the shower and loosely braided her hair — not her usual braid, just a half-assed version of it so that her hair wouldn’t tangle up while she slept. She looked herself over in the mirror: she looked horrible. She was pretty, of course, but there were dark circles under her eyes, the same ones that had been following her for days, and her eyes were glazed over, as if they were empty. Lifeless.
Rumi shook her head. She was too exhausted to figure out what to do with her hair at the moment. She threw on her favorite pajamas — teddy bears and choo choo trains — and let herself fall backwards onto her queen sized bed, arms stretched out on both sides with her legs dangling off the bed.
She could feel the relief on her body all the way into her bones. She would’ve fallen asleep right then and there, had it not been from the soft knock on her door.
“Rumi?”
Zoey’s voice came through the door, sounding small, like maybe she was scared to disturb her.
“Come in, Zo” Rumi said, lifting her head off the mattress with her eyes barely open.
The smaller girl came in, clad in her green turtle jammies. With the dim light of the hallway seeping into the room, she could tell that her dark hair was still in her signature buns, but they were looser now, hair sticking out from them in places. She was holding her ridiculously gigantic axolotl squishmallow that she refused to sleep without.
“I started watching a horror movie but I got scared and I’m pretty sure Mira’s hiding under my bed with a knife to make me have a heart attack. Can I sleep with you?”
Rumi gave her a tired, lopsided smile, patting the space next to her on the plush mattress. She took the time to lift herself up and slip under the covers properly, her back to Zoey while the maknae quickly padded over to the other side of the bed behind Rumi, huffing as she threw her squishmallow onto the bed.
She knew Zoey was lying, of course, because Zoey loved horror, but that was one of the few lies she was thankful for; she didn’t feel like being alone tonight – not that she’d ever ask for any of the girls’ help, though. For weeks after Rumi had told them that she had asked Celine to end her that night, both Mira and Zoey had refused to let her out of their sight for a second. Every night, they would come up with reasons for them to stay in her room or for her to sleep in theirs. They probably knew that she knew what they were doing, but honestly neither of the girls cared, as long as Rumi was safe.
She felt the bed dip slightly as Zoey settled behind her, kicking her feet in the blanket and fighting the sheets to tuck in her plushie properly until she settled down, the two girls feet apart.
It wasn’t long before Rumi felt her stir, moving closer to her until she could feel the heat of the younger girl’s body against her skin, not quite touching but close enough that her presence was undeniable. She liked that about Zoey. No matter how touchy and bubbly she was, she always seemed to sense the exact amount of contact that Rumi needed when she was at her most vulnerable.
Soon enough, Zoey’s loud snores echoed around the room, interrupted only for a second by happy mumbles when Derpy phased through the Honmoon into the bed, laying his head onto the sleeping girl’s lap, who resumed her snoring immediately after.
Rumi felt her mind slip away, drifting into sleep. But this time, a lazy smile was pulling at her lips, Celine’s voice in her mind long forgotten.