Chapter Text
Her entire life was built on hiding what separated her from humanity. She was a god among men. She knew that. She was something ethereal and beautiful and untouchable but still yearned and reached for. Her aunt had spent her entire childhood building and reinforcing that image, that armor for Rumi to wear. And there was a certain alluring magic to the performance. Something otherworldly that drew her again and again to the stage, to the thrill, to the cheering and the fans. It was ironic that what drew her back every time, fed her, made her feel whole was the pure humanity of her connection to her band mates and to her audiences.
She landed lightly on the roof of HUNTR/X Tower and rolled her shoulders, tucking in her wings daintily. The thin iridescent membranes folded with a slight rustle as they brushed over each other; and they dragged on the ground behind her like a sparkly dress train as she made her way down the stairs to the penthouse. Mira was in the kitchen, which already smelled like cinnamon and sugar when she opened the roof access door and stepped inside.
The group’s visual looked up from the coffee machine and shot her a smirk as she used a corner of her shirt to dab at the sweat on her forehead. “Looking good, little mayfly but you might want to hurry to the shower. Sounds like Zo’s up and moving already.”
Rumi winced and snuck as quickly and quietly as she could past their maknae’s bedroom door on her way to her own room. It wasn’t that she was hiding what she was, per se. She just hadn’t figured out how to explain it all to Zoey yet. Nevermind the fact that she’d had nearly six years around the younger girl already to figure it out. She just wasn’t sure it was the right time yet. She supposed it would make the most sense to wait and see if Zoey started to present changes. That was how it was usually done in the industry. She and Mira were just both special cases.
Okay so maybe she was kind of hiding it.
She stood in front of the mirror studying her reflection as she thought. With familiar fingers she traced the veins of pale iridescence that matched the patterns on her wings and spread over her whole body. She lifted her wings, letting them flutter slightly in the morning light as she examined them. She had four long, thin wing blades, like a dragonfly and they shimmered in the soft golden light filtering in through the windows.
She wondered idly when Zoey would begin to change, if she even would. They’d kept a close eye on her for years, watching and waiting but nothing ever seemed to change except for the growing sweet tooth, which wasn’t exactly a sign, but was common among most people like them. She and Mira had been growing more and more anxious. With the amount of fame and adoration and fans, it was a wonder that Zoey had not yet changed and all that energy had to go somewhere. Imo, her aunt Celine had quietly suggested that maybe their maknae would never change, never be like them. It wasn’t uncommon, especially with first generation public figures. The buildup of magic and adoration was rarely enough in first-gens to warrant any large biological changes or specific fey designations aside from smaller effects like delayed aging or an increased sweet tooth.
She shook her head and tore herself from the mirror. Too much worrying would only hurt, she reminded herself. She showered quickly and took the time to gently press and fold her damp wings so that they would be hidden under her shirt. She fastened the thin gold chain of her glamour amulet around her neck. It was a simple piece of magic built for her by her aunt that made her silvery patterns invisible to the human eye and even to most low-level fey. In the mirror, she now suddenly looked perfectly, mundanely human except for her long purple braid and — if she did say so herself — her striking beauty.
She returned to the kitchen and sat at the island just in time for Mira — now wearing headphones and tuning out most of the living world — to pull a tray of cinnamon rolls out of the oven. She watched as the pink-haired woman let the tray clatter onto the marble countertop before dancing across the kitchen for the bowl full of icing. She sat and stared with a soft smile on her face while the other fairy carefully wiggled a spatula under two fat cinnamon rolls, one after the other, and placed them in the center of two plates, one of which was promptly deposited in front of Rumi along with a kiss on the forehead.
She reached for it but heard a sharp, “Nope” from her girlfriend. She met Mira’s gaze with a pout to which the other girl responded, “Fine,” she drew out the ‘I’ sound like how Rumi did sometimes, “but don’t cry when you set your mouth on fire. You literally just watched me take them out of the oven.”
She huffed and slouched back into the chair, preparing to make a definitely well thought out and scathing remark when there was a shuffle of slippered feet in the hallway. Zoey appeared moments later in the entryway to the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and holding tightly to a stuffed turtle, with her black hair sticking straight up in a few places.
She was clearly barely awake and Rumi had to fight to hold in both a chuckle at her state and also her instinctive cooing over how cute the smaller girl was. She glanced over at Mira, whose instincts she knew were much stronger and harder to fight and saw the barest hint of smoke trailing up from between her girlfriend’s lips, throat bobbing in an effort to keep a low purr from spilling out, and pupils blown wide, their usual honey brown coloring only the thinnest ring around the black pools of adoration.
She did chuckle at that. It was plainly obvious to anyone with eyes how much Mira cared for her girls and in that moment, Rumi felt pang in the center of her chest, wishing she could kiss the younger woman the way she did Mira. But from what she had seen, Zoey had never expressed any interest in girls, much less her two best friends, so Rumi and Mira settled for what they could get. They both overheated with their maknae’s playful flirting, laughed too much at her jokes, and lavished the small girl with gentle, innocent touches at every opportunity.
She knew though, that even if Zoey ever did show even an ounce of interest for either of them, nothing could happen until they were completely honest. But it had been six years and they hadn’t said anything yet. And Zoey had presented no changes. And so it felt… terrifying to trust that Zoey wouldn’t panic on them or leave them or hate them for keeping these secrets for so long.
Glancing over at Mira, she caught the taller women’s eyes. They’d have to tell Zoey eventually. If not for their selfish reasoning of wanting a deeper relationship with the smaller girl, then for the slightly more altruistic desire for honesty within the friendship they already had. And if not for either of those reasons, then to get ahead of the fact that Mira had been suggesting they tell her for years — and was beginning to drop less and less subtle hints. Rumi was the one holding them back. It was just terrifying to trust.
She swallowed several times, trying to keep down the deep, resonant, purring trills that began their vibrations high in her chest. Zoey was so goddamn cute. Their maknae stood in the entryway to the kitchen in a fuzzy, massively oversized sweatshirt and short shorts with her hair sticking up, and her arms wrapped tightly around a well loved stuffed turtle. She had to burn through her vocal chords to keep the purring contained. She’d be fine; fast healing was absolutely a perk she benefitted from. She glanced over at her girlfriend, taking in both of her girls. She loved both of them so much.
She moved around the island and gently tugged Zoey further into the room before nudging her to sit in one of the tall chairs at the counter while she presented her with the other cinnamon roll and retrieved a brush. The songwriter’s wavy black hair was snarled badly and she tutted quietly as she got to work with the brush while the younger girl simply sat and breathed in the scent of warm sugar and cinnamon.
A deep feeling of satisfaction settled into her bones as she ran her fingers through the thick black hair. She could feel her girlfriend’s eyes on her and she leaned over to press another kiss against the soft purple locks in their tightly woven braid.
By the time Mira had finished with her hair, Zoey had almost fallen asleep twice more from the feather-light pressure and gentle tugging and the occasional scrape of nails across her scalp. She now sported two braids rolled up into space buns, her signature look. Before Mira could pull away completely, she leaned all the way back, forcing the taller girl to catch her as the chair tipped back dangerously.
“Thanks Mir,” she murmured sleepily, butting her head against the dancer’s collar.
“Don’t do that, good god, woman,” the pink haired girl complained, voice unusually hoarse, probably from the mildly panic-inducing need to catch her.
Zoey didn’t worry about it too much. She trusted her bandmates, her girls, almost instinctively. She’d known Mira would catch her. She always did.
She dug into her now cooled but still pleasantly warm cinnamon roll. It was heavenly. It tasted faintly of walnut in the pastry and vanilla in the icing and extra walnutty cinnamon in the center. The love that Mira always baked into her sweets was something that never failed to fill her chest with so much warmth. If her two bandmates weren’t already dating each other, she would have proposed to the lead dancer on the spot.
She was interrupted from her quiet reverie by Rumi’s coffee-warmed voice, “You’re not usually up this early, are you alright?”
She hummed back and nodded, not bothering to form words around the white-hot amp fuzz sound in her brain or the warm taste of sticky sweet cinnamon in her mouth.
The singer reached over and pressed nearly ice-cold hands to her forehead. “Zo, you’re burning up. Do we need to cancel the shoot? Are you sure you’re okay?”
She tilted her head and raised both eyebrows as she turned to look at Rumi. “I feel fine, mom. Just figured I should be up before we have to leave for the shoot.” In spite of her tone, she leaned into the touch as cool fingers moved to cradle her face, thumbs brushing gently across her cheeks as the purple-haired woman looked her over, worriedly.
It took the whole drive to the shoot for her to realize they should have taken Zoey’s temperature. It was too late now, though, so they’d just have to keep an eye on her. Mira hovered over her for the entire photoshoot. She was worried, sue her. Just because she couldn’t actually feel the temperature difference on Zoey didn’t mean she missed the way the writer was swaying on her feet between shots or the way she seemed to take extra effort to listen to the photographer’s instructions and still needed adjustments called out. To anyone else, it might have just looked like their maknae was distracted, but Mira knew full well that even while distracted, Zoey should have been able to hit every single one of the poses with ease.
Evidently, their manager had noticed too, because as they shifted gears to take a break for lunch, Bobby bustled over to them.
“Girls! How are we feeling today?” he started diplomatically.
His smile softened when all three of them smiled widely and chorused back their typical, “Hi Bobby!”
“We’re doing alright today,” Rumi answered for all of them, “Though maybe a little distracted. I checked the red calendar this morning because something felt off and it looks like all three of us have synced up this month and are due within the week.”
Their manager nodded thoughtfully, fishing out his phone from his pocket. “Noted. I will have tampons and chocolate on standby!”
“You’re the best, Bobby.” The three of them were not, in fact, in sync this month, but it provided a decent cover story. She stood back as the other two chatted with Bobby and quietly sent him a text. He’d be discreet. He always was. She got her confirmation when he met her eyes over Rumi’s shoulder.
The rest of the shoot was mostly uneventful — though Mira did pull the photographer aside to ask for personal copies of a few of the photos — and they returned to the penthouse late in the evening. She wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch or her bed with a book and one or both of her treasures. However when Rumi’s phone rang with one of Zoey’s old vine ringtones, she knew that was unlikely to happen.
Weather update: it’s raining rocks from outer space. Weather update: it’s raining rocks from outer space. Weather update: it’s raining rocks from outer space.
“Rumi, she’s not gonna stop calling. Do you want me to answer?”
Her girlfriend sighed but slid the green accept button across the screen and pressed the phone against her ear. “Hi Imo, how are you?”
She winced with Rumi as Celine’s voice crackled on the other side, sending a static charge through the room. “Rumi, now is not the time for niceties. Did you not feel the ward crumbling all day? There’s a crack at the shrine and if you two don’t come help me rebuild this barrier, there’s going to be an absolute infestation of imps and gremlins and low-level dokkaebi.”
Yeah, Mira was definitely not getting that couch time.
“I’ll get Zoey settled,” she whispered and pressed her lips to the stress lines on Rumi’s forehead.
The penthouse felt oddly quiet even with all three of them there. She poked her head into several rooms, trying to follow Zoey’s faint ocean breeze scent until she finally found her in their ‘Idea Room’ as the rapper called it. She was slumped forward, leaning her forehead against the keys of the keyboard, wearing a pair of the biggest, thickest headphones Mira had ever seen. She tapped the smaller girl’s shoulder to get her attention, only to find her fast asleep.
Settling her would be easier than expected, she decided, lifting carefully and walking towards Zoey’s room. Opening the door, she was met with the sweet, salty scent of blue-green waves mixed with the girl’s usual perfume and in the overwhelming strength of the smell, she lost her focus for a moment. And then Zoey stirred in her arms and she quickly moved her onto the bed, pulling blankets up gently around freckles and loose black hair.
She wished, for a moment, that she could feel the warmth that she knew was just on the surface of their skin. She’d been told that warmth, especially from others, was pleasant and grounding. She smoothed dark hair away from the lyricist’s eyes. She’d just have to settle for their softness and their reactions and the way their voices made her feel giddy like a kid with ice cream.
Rumi interrupted her thoughts with a quiet tap on the doorframe and a whispered, “you ready?”
She nodded and they both left the penthouse, pulling glowing iron weapons from the umbrella stand as they stepped into the elevator.
Turf wars were nothing new. She sliced through the mindless hordes of barely conscious, almost sentient, definitely malevolent magic flying at her as Celine and Rumi drew patterns, tied ribbons, and lit candles in the dirt under the tree behind her. This was by far the largest breach in their wards they had seen in centuries, according to Celine. She wished desperately that she had someone else with her, but almost every single other benevolent celebrity was out of the country, so she hunkered down and danced through the combat as best as she could.
Two imps managed to wriggle their way past her guard only to find out exactly what kind of heritage she had when she charred them with a breath. “I hope you two are almost done, back there. I could use a hand,” she called over her shoulder as three more one-legged creatures slipped past her. She spun with her woldo, allowing the momentum of her swings carry her as she lopped off their heads and returned to the rest of the crowd. Not a single fairy or streak of stray magic was going to make it past her. Not when half of her hoard was on the line.
She heard a relieved sounding, “Done!” from behind her right as the gap in their ward began to weave itself back together. The magical amalgamations pouring through slowed to a trickle as Rumi’s sword was carried into the melee and then to a complete stop. They tiredly mopped up the last of the wild-magic creatures before turning to face Celine. The old lightning general sighed as she leaned against a staff. “That should hold. We will need more than just you girls to permanently repair it, but this is a decent patch-job. ISAC is coming up soon, so maybe it can wait until then. I will coordinate with the other elders. But Rumi, the honmoon ward is connected to you more than any other celebrity in Korea, how did you not notice it crumbling?”
The purple-haired fairy shrank in on herself, though from Mira’s perspective, Celine seemed more worried than upset. “I’m sorry, Imo, I should have noticed. But nothing felt different.”
The old woman frowned. “Your mother’s life force is the core of this ward. The only thing I can think of that would block that connection…” she trailed off and Mira reached for Rumi, slinging an arm across her shoulders.
Her girlfriend’s wings fluttered slightly in surprise at the contact before she leaned into the touch. She was shivering, Mira noticed, but her sweatshirt was discarded somewhere that she couldn’t see at the minute and selfishly, Mira wanted to keep Rumi there, pressed against her side for even just a few moments longer. She knew she ran warm, compared to most people, so she was glad to be able to offer the heat that she herself could not feel.
“I will consult the old books, to see if I can find out why your connection is blocked.”
They both nodded, bowed, and left.
She woke up alone in her room. Her mouth was dry and tasted like salt, and she could tell she had a fever from the way she felt like she was freezing and also on fire. Her head felt like it was full of cotton, black spots were dancing in her vision, and her bones ached. She rolled over under the covers, trying to get away from the pool of sweat soaked into her sheets. It was dark outside and the penthouse sounded quiet. Not sleepy quiet, though, empty quiet.
She rolled out of bed and tripped, landing hard on the ground. It was cold. So cold out of bed. Her teeth chattered loudly against her skull, churning the soup of her brain uncomfortably. Bathroom. She rushed for the toilet or the tub or the sink, she didn’t care which. She just felt horrendously nauseous as she folded over what appeared to be the toilet and emptied her stomach.
With a groan, she leaned back against the wall behind her, feeling the cold from the tile of the bathroom floor seeping into her legs through her thick sweatpants. Maybe a shower would help.
She pulled herself up unsteadily and flipped on the bathroom light. She flushed the toilet and stripped before stepping under the stream of hot water. She shivered through the shower, even with the water on the highest heat setting until she felt clean enough to get out.
Brushed teeth and a fresh set of thick pajamas later, she realized her bed was still wet with sweat; so she retrieved Arnold, her threadbare stuffed turtle, and stumbled out to the couch, where she raided the spare blanket stash and woozily set up a nest for herself. Sleep came unexpectedly swiftly.
The apartment smelled like salt when they came back. Not just salt, but something sweet underneath, vaguely floral. It smelled like how she would describe the color of waves. Blue-green and refreshingly salty, with the smell of hot sand right behind it. But right then, the scent was so strong she could have sworn she was standing on a boat in the middle of the ocean. She glanced at Mira. If it smelled this strong to her, she could only imagine how overpowering it would be for the dragon.
Mira was taking fast, shallow breaths, eyes wide, pupils narrowed to slits like a cat’s eyes, and the outlines of golden scales beginning to glow beneath her skin. Rumi lifted a hand and gently tugged on her sleeve.
“What is it?” she whispered.
Mira didn’t move except for the rise and fall of her chest for a few moments before she finally breathed a single word. “Zoey.”
Zoey? A bolt of white-hot panic flashed through her. What did she mean, ‘Zoey’? But she didn’t get a chance to ask before Mira was gone from her side and kneeling next to the couch.
She approached much more slowly, realizing that the pile of blankets taking up a solid half the couch was their maknae. Mira was gently inspecting, touching, reassuring herself that the young woman seemed mostly fine. “Ru, can you take her temperature? You said it was elevated this morning. I don’t see anything wrong with her. She just smells like… Rumi, she smells like magic.”
She met Mira’s gaze, wide-eyed. “I’m calling Imo. Right now. Does the magic at least-”
“The magic is hers. Undeniably. When did it build up this much?”
The phone rang three times before her aunt picked up. “Imo, it’s happening.”