Work Text:
The first time Rumi asks for an outfit alteration, Bobby thinks exactly nothing of it.
Mostly because there's nothing, in his mind, to think about. He pulls the strings—gets the venues booked, makes sure they have the best staff on their team wherever they go, handles the networks and the social media accounts and the fans—and crunches the numbers, but these girls run the show. That had been made very clear to him during his second meeting with Celine Jang. His job, like hers, was to look after, and out for, them in the wild, unrelenting world of K-Pop stardom. Keep them together; keep them whole. Everything else—from the songs, to the choreography, to where they performed and when—was up to the trio, and them alone.
Jarringly different than the norms of an industry he'd only recently broken into, yet reasonable enough. Any minute reluctance he might have felt evaporated the first time he saw them rehearse. They were truly something special, and that spark of potential would be his privilege and joy to help fan into a flame.
So when, while Zoey and Mira are fawning over their own newest attire, Rumi quietly approaches to request in a hesitant, shy voice that the sleeves of her shirt be lengthened, he has the seamstress dialed before she even hands it to him.
As the weeks crawl into months, then into a full year since becoming HUNTR/X's manager, Bobby gets a feel for the ensemble: this quirky little bubble of a family he's joined. He learns their pre-show routines and favorite snacks; preferred colors and styles; the things that will pick them up when they're down and what'll only stress them out more when things go awry. That much—the stress—is his game, after all, and he has a terrible poker face, but he'll take everything that can be thrown their way and more before he lets it fall on them any harder than it has to.
Sometimes, though—
"I don't understand why you're getting so hung up on it. You've never been this modest before."
—there are things that make him wonder if he's succeeding.
Bobby is halfway down the hall when Mira storms by in a whirlwind, a frustrated hand pressed to her forehead, and disappears into her own room. He falters, forgetting the latest chart numbers on his phone in an instant. Confusion, congealed by worry, settles in his stomach. Disagreements, occasionally passionate, aren't new—the girls' distinct personalities have a tendency to clash every now and then—but...
He finds Zoey at Rumi's side, a hand on her shoulder. Both look up when he comes into view. Bobby tries for a smile.
"Hey. Everything okay?"
"Fine," Rumi says with a too-close-to-miserable shake of her head. "Just... trying to figure out what to wear for the album release party. I'm not really feeling any of the looks we've already got, but..."
Zoey finishes the thought, gently, "We've only got a week."
Their schedule catches up with him in an addled rush. That's right, they've got their big celebration of "How It's Done"—the album, not the song, he has to belatedly remind himself—next Friday.
Rumi fidgets. She looks small. Ashamed.
Resolve hardens in his chest, mental lists of people he can rely on in such a short time-frame consolidating in his mind with neon clarity. Bobby snorts and waves a hand dismissively.
"Week shmeek, that's plenty of time." He grins to their mirrored looks of surprise, setting a hand on his hip. "Got some ideas of what you'd wanna wear instead?"
Zoey gapes at him, but she's already started to smile too.
"Really?" she asks, overlapping with Rumi,
"Bobby, that's-... Y-You don't have to-"
His other hand comes up to forestall that protest.
"Anything for you girls," he says, and finds that he means it. "Besides. 'Impossible' is my middle name."
And there's no further objection after that. Zoey dives for her sketchbook, and Bobby sits across from them on the floor, and they launch into an impromptu design session. Mid-way through their brainstorming, Mira slips back into the room; leans on the door frame as the conversation pauses and doesn't meet Rumi's gaze for a long minute. When she finally does, it's to a pat of the carpet, softly inviting her to rejoin them. Reassurances are given, apologies made, and the excitement over new, last-minute getups is infectious.
By sunset, Bobby has the usual stack of sketches and notes and swatches. He hauls himself upright, cracks his back, and offers the girls a playful salute on the way to the door.
"I'm on it."
"Bobby?" comes Rumi's voice. She smiles up at him when he looks over his shoulder. "Thanks."
When he gets off the phone with one of their local procurement stylists (and only after thanking her profusely about a million more times than was likely necessary), and everything has a chance to settle, Bobby finds that the worry hasn't left. He tells himself it's nothing; a change in preference, a matter of comfort. Neither scream of a deeper problem. It's silly to get hung up on it.
Except that that's his job. Keep the girls together. Keep them alright. Above water. And everything that comes afterward makes it seem more and more like Rumi is barely treading.
She hides it well, because of course she does. She's been trained to. Bobby knows that. A public-facing life is one led wearing a mask, and constantly walked on eggshells. Reticence takes her over slowly, in the downtime in between, but only when neither Zoey, nor Mira are around to notice. She's up earlier. Practices harder, and longer. The girls had always been dedicated, but this is almost something else. Like she's racing against something that none of them can see.
It's not tough to spot that she's quietest when she's with Celine, sitting in attentively on scheduling sessions and performance reviews and budget meetings. That, at least, Bobby can understand. His own parents had been the same: kind, but firm, and there had been a time when he would have done anything to earn their approval. Celine is never disapproving, or particularly harsh, yet there's a tinge of that something there too, and he can't help but feel like maybe she already knows about whatever it is that has Rumi so desperate.
Then, on the afternoon before HUNTR/X's fifth anniversary, she makes a proposal at one of their professionally-labelled "all hands" meetings that has each of them sitting up straight in an instant. The girls trade looks of shock-tempered giddiness.
"A world tour?"
Celine smiles. "I think it's time."
And there are no more chances to worry. There are stop and set lists to curate, performance spaces to find, promotional marketing to create. So, so many phone calls, and emails; enough connections made and conversations had to make his head spin. The girls bury themselves in their own preparations, and the crossover between responsibilities tests them in a way that only proves how well they all work together. There's hardly any downtime, but it's barely felt. And Bobby's so proud, he could burst.
Then, all too soon, they're on their first flight.
They ping-pong in a blur from Tokyo, to Manila, to Sydney—the latter only because Zoey insists up and down that, "No one ever goes to Australia for their first tour!" and Bobby doesn't have the heart to explain the logistical nightmare. It turns out to be a good crowd, and a great show. Two days of breathing room, a bajillion pictures of a helicopter ride over the Australian outback, and they're off again, this time to cross the Pacific.
There's a hiccup in Vancouver.
It's a simple miscommunication, somewhere along the lines, but he ends up arguing with a stubborn, crotchety facilities manager for an hour to get Rumi her own dressing room. The genuine threat to move venues does the trick. The girls are idols, top of the charts, and that particular embarrassment is one usually avoided in their favor. He thinks that that's the end of it.
Were it ever so easy.
As their third North American crowd gathers, he dons his blacks, and heads for the stage. Zoey and Mira are waiting in the wings. The air is more tense than it should be, so Bobby goes for levity.
"Hey hey! Ready to get this show on the road?"
The girls exchange an anxious look. After a moment, Mira asks, "Have you seen Rumi?"
He frowns. Rumi is always the first one ready.
"She's not out yet?" he replies, a little dumbly. Gives his head a shake a second later as he clues in properly, and smiles. "Lemme go check on her. No stress, plenty of time. We've still got..."
He swipes open his phone.
Oh.
5:29pm glares back at him like he's an idiot. Showtime is in an hour and a half.
Bobby stuffs the device back into his pocket, nodding as he tries and fails to keep his voice from coming out as a humiliatingly distressed squeak. "Yeah. Yeah, plenty of time."
He shoots the girls a thumbs up and promptly hurries back the way he came. In the cooler air of the venue's bustling lower hallways, he makes an attempt at a deep breath. It was fine. They were fine, everything would be fine, Rumi probably just hadn't noticed the time either. And if something was up, if she wasn't feeling well, they could reschedule. Shift a few things around. Not the end of the world.
By the time Bobby finds himself in front of the dressing room door, he's satisfied with his lack of a nervous breakdown. He knocks.
"Rumi? You in there?"
Waits. Knocks again. No response.
He's turning aside, racking his brain for where else she might have gone, when he hears it. A whisper of sound, so quiet it's nearly lost to the walls, quick and fevered and bordering on manic.
"Fix th-the... make it-... right..."
And that's Rumi's voice, but it's wrong, staggered by sharp hiccups. The gnawing worry, set aside for months, comes back with a cold, stomach-knotting vengeance. Bobby raps with a heavier hand.
"Rumi? Are you okay?"
Still nothing. She's stopped muttering.
"What's going on?" Silence. Uncertainty teeters precariously on fear. "Mira and Zoey are ready upstairs. Do you want me to ask them to come-"
"No!"
The force of her sudden shout, even through the door, has him taking a step back. Her following words trip over themselves, but are softer; restrained.
"No, I-... I'm fine. I'll be out in a minute."
If it had been some years ago, he might have left it at that, because the girls could (still can, a good 99% of the time) take care of themselves. Now, he sets a hand on the doorknob.
"Can I come in?"
Another pause, albeit brief, and her voice is hushed and shaky.
"Yeah. It's open."
She's sitting in a chair in the corner, in the harsh, pale spill of light from the vanity mirror, still in her white robe. Her jacket—part of the outfit for tonight's performance—is clutched in her lap in a crumpled river of dark blue. She doesn't look up, but she wipes at her chin with the heel of her palm. Bobby's heart soundly breaks.
"Hey," he starts gently, and shuts the door behind him. "What's wrong?"
Rumi spreads the fabric across her knees, and he can see it plainly. It's been torn, the stitching slashed along the shoulder seam with a precision that immediately gives away intent.
"It's ruined."
She sounds about two breaths away from crying anew, so he decidedly doesn't have time for the anger and disgust that churn a bitter bile in his throat. He'll deal with whoever did this (and oh, he already has a good idea) later. In the present moment, he crosses the room and crouches to get a better look at the damage, putting an appraising hand to his chin.
"No, no, it's not so bad. I'm sure they've got some stuff to patch it up with around here somewhere. We can finish removing the sleeve, maybe turn it into a vest-"
Rumi recoils.
"No, it has to cover-" She's loud again; not a yell, but close. Catches herself, wide-eyed, and breathes; too shallow and too quick. "I-I mean, it has to be long. Please, Bobby, I can't wear it on stage like this."
He doesn't understand. Right up until he thinks he might.
Long sleeves. A separate dressing room. The quiet withdrawal.
Like the room has abruptly tilted, the realization—the maybe—nearly bowls him over. He can't find words. Rumi sniffles.
Feeling winded, wondering why he hadn't realized it sooner, he nods. Questions can wait, too. Right this second, for this problem, she needs a solution. Bobby's good at those.
"Okay. Okay, let me..." His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. Stands. "Let me see what I can do. We've got time. I'll be right back."
Once he's out in the hallway, and the door is closed, he buries his face in his hands and tries, himself, to breathe calmly. What could he do? Get Mira and Zoey? Call Celine? The former doesn't sound like a great option, even as he thinks it—she's plainly kept it from them—and what could the latter do from half a world away? Besides, he's not even sure. He's jumping to conclusions, no matter if that conclusion makes a sickening degree of sense.
Here and now. He has to deal with here and now, first.
He texts Zoey.
Needed a breather. Take half.
Weaving his way through the last-minute preparations of their crew, he manages to find the door to the venue's wardrobe. The key he'd been given mercifully lets him in without a fuss, and he sets about searching for a needle and thread. A spot fix, he can absolutely handle himself; maybe even with a little bit of pick-me-up flair.
His quest successfully ends amongst a sea of wooden drawers, neatly labelled. Hands shaking, he picks a shade close enough to the vibrant pink accents of Zoey's own outfit and Mira's hair.
Her urging for long sleeves. A separate dressing room. The quiet withdrawal, thinking she isn't seen.
Shy of having a particularly embarrassing tattoo, he can't seem to grasp any other explanation. Still, he hopes that he's wrong.
When he returns, he knocks again for good measure, and does his best to be upbeat as he steps into the dressing room once more.
"Guess what I found," he says, waving the spool with a smile. He holds out a hand for the damaged garment. "Let's get you back in action."
She blinks owlishly, looking stunned, and hands it to him without question.
Silence falls. It's not exactly comfortable, but Bobby is focused; sitting in the room's extra seat, diligently tugging the needle through and through. Beyond the door, the muffled pre-show hustle continues. Every now and then, Rumi glances up at him like she's waiting for him to ask. At length, he does.
"So," he begins, for lack of anything better. Her wince is slight, but it's there. "Do you wanna tell me what this is actually about?"
Rumi's shoulders curl inward, making her seem tiny. She stares at the floor.
"I know Celine's a bit of a perfectionist with you girls. She means well—we both do, but if you're..." He winces, because there's no good way to phrase that. Restarts instead. "Rumi, if you're hurting, you can tell me. You know that, right?"
She peers at him quizzically for a moment or two, not quite seeming to get it. Then, her eyes go wide, and she's sitting up straighter, and shaking her head vehemently.
"It's not like that. I'm not- No, Bobby. It's nothing like that. I promise."
She rolls up enough of her sleeves to show her wrists. They're clean. Whole.
"See?"
Relief crashes into him so hard that he could cry.
Trying to keep it together, he lets out a wet huff and momentarily sets down the needle to run a hand through his hair. Rumi gives a bewildered, watery smile, somewhere between looking touched and horrified.
"I'm okay. It's just..."
Her smile fades. She tugs the sleeves down, and her gaze skitters away.
"There are some parts of me that I'm not... happy with. That I'd rather not be seen. Not until I like them. Not until I like... all of me." She looks back like she's expecting to be scolded, this time. "Does that make sense?"
"It does."
Bobby still doesn't like it, even if it's better than the alternative, because his girls are brilliant and beautiful just the way they are, but he also understands. There's no harsher critic than the mirror, especially with a lifestyle like theirs.
They sit in renewed quiet. Rumi blows her nose, and drinks some water, and pops open her pocket mirror to fix her makeup. She half-sings, half-hums one of their set-list songs under her breath—a bright and brazen tune they named "Louder". Finally, with a snip of thread, Bobby rises from the chair and offers a triumphant,
"Tada!"
It's not professional quality, but the sleeve is affixed without obvious signs that anything happened and, to his eyes, at least, the little swirls of pink pop nicely. His halmeoni might have even been impressed. For one night, it'll do, and they can send it to be properly mended in the morning.
"What do you think?"
Rumi stands, and takes it gingerly.
"It's perfect. Thank you."
Bobby gives a shrug, utterly failing at feinting nonchalance, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Then sets them on his hips. Then jerks a thumb toward the door and manages a mostly-coherent, "I'll go let Zoey and Mira know... something, I guess..."
And then he gives in, because it needs to be said, and she needs to hear it. "Listen. Even if I kinda jumped to the worst-case scenario, I meant it. If you ever need to talk, about anything at all, I'm here." He puts a hand on her shoulder and smiles, as warmly as he can. "I've got your backs. Always. Okay?"
"I know." Rumi steps forward. Her arms come up, and he meets the hug halfway. "Love you, Bobby."
"Love you, too. All of you." She huffs what might be a laugh, and clings tighter. When he moves back and takes a moment to look her over, she seems more like herself.
"Now. Good?"
Rumi nods; once, and firm. "Good."
Outside, everything is still normal. Someone calls out a reminder of half-to-show. Before heading for the stairs, Bobby pauses long enough to hastily thumb a memo into his phone.
Only long sleeves for Rumi!!
One last deep breath, and he gets moving.
"Alright, everyone, let's make it happen!"