Archive of Our Own

The first time it happens she's three. Light bounces off every surface creating a sea of white that calls to her like a siren, sharp and beautiful, and entirely too much. Her skin suddenly feels too small for her body, uncomfortable, constraining, claustrophobic, and she has to get out, get it out. It makes her want to scream.

So she does.

For ten seconds it feels better, as if releasing the sound carves a space inside her that makes it easier to breathe. It's the first time that day she doesn't feel like she's drowning.

There's a sharp pain on her side, just underneath her ribs, sudden and startling. Her eyes adjust to the world around her, still too bright, still suffocating. Her father stands before her, commanding and unshakable — dissonance among iridescent woven light — wooden object gripped tightly between his fingers.

She's three when she learns that love comes with terms and conditions.

By the age of eight the pain beneath her ribs is constant; a reminder of their disappointment, of rules broken and expectations not met.

It becomes a part of her, held tenderly like a bird with clipped wings, something to nurse instead of fear; a sign of her existing as more than just a puppet.

The shimmering ocean of lights remains too, weaving itself through the air around her. She's learned the melody of its call, composed a song of her own as a response, something intrinsically hers — or perhaps theirs. She learns to find comfort in the way it shines brighter with every act of defiance, every decision she makes to fight back against those terms and conditions, even though she wants…

She wants to be held when she's sad. She wants to be comforted when she's hurt. She wants to feel like she matters. She wants to be loved.

Loved without rules, without threats, without surrendering everything she is and thinks and feels.

She wants so much it hurts.

Sometimes, during the darkest hours of the night, she sees

One night there are eyes shining back at her, wide and bright in the dark, and for the first time in years she is scared.

Scared that yet another safe harbour is taken away from her. Her father, her mother, her brother, now the shadow. The figure that has watched over during her most vulnerable hours for years, the only presence within these walls that doesn't ask more of her, that doesn't make caring for her a reward she has to earn.

She protects herself the only way she knows how, by screaming and fighting and plucking at the opalescent strings at the tips of her fingers like an instrument.

"You can't be here. Please," it comes out as nothing more than a shuddering breath. "Just go. Leave!"

A sob crashes through her, bouncing between her ribs like shattered glass.

"You don't belong here. You need to go!"

A flash of light, harsh and overexposed, and suddenly she's alone.

At seventeen her soul finds what it's been searching for her since the day she was born, and she finally understands the meaning of 'home'. Home is not a prison dressed up to look like a mansion, home is not a place that makes her scratch at her skin until she feels something that isn't shaped like apathy and disappointment, home is not a current that drags you deeper until all that's left in your lungs is pain and anger.

Home is the place where pink and blue and purple coalesce.

Home is Rumi and Zoey.

The sea of lights becomes a three-part melody, softer but stronger, louder but soothing, perfect and in tune; a symphony of darkness and harmony, jagged edges, and bright colours.

For the first time in fourteen years Mira feels like she can breathe.

"Our faults and fears must never be seen."

It becomes a mantra, the steady beat they guide themselves by in their hunter training and idol training that eventually follows them throughout their professional and personal lives.

It's ironic, Mira thinks, just how prevalent their faults and fears are at every turn, how visible they are to each other in everything they are, in everything they do.

Mira carries herself like she's wearing armor woven by nothing other than anger and shards of glass; closed off and unapproachable with a tongue that delivers sharp cutting words like the lash of a whip. It's the only way she knows how to navigate the world, how to keep herself alive, how to keep the puppet strings from latching on. The Honmoon shone brighter, steadier, the more she kept her family away, but now with them it flickers, threatening to burn out after every attempt.

Rumi and Zoey don't leave that day, or any day after that. They sit outside her door and wait for her, for the anger to die down, for the words she meant to say instead of lashing out, for her to feel safe. She learns to ask for forgiveness and mean it, she learns to share what she's feeling without directing it at them, she learns how to ask for what she wants and what it's like to receive comfort and love without needing to.

She also learns how to be there for them in the same way.

For Rumi, who always puts on a mask before asking for help, who takes on more than her shoulders can carry. She always kept them at arm's length — close, but not too close — using her relentless drive to plunge herself, and them, deeper into work. Pushing up deadlines and making last minute changes that disrupt their schedules more often than not, while somehow following up with everything in order to make sure the end result is perfect. Only perfect will seal the Honmoon.

Mira adapts, stays up with her to make sure she's taking breaks and not staying up too late on nights before an appearance, brings tea and food when Rumi forgets to eat, learns how to read Rumi's tells before she's about to spiral — the calm before a storm, a language she's well versed in now.

And Zoey, who appeared to be on the verge of words when they first met, wanting so desperately to belong but held back by a symphony of what ifs, who buried herself so deeply into her notebooks there were days she didn't leave her room. Until one day those thoughts spilled out of lined pages that couldn't hold them in anymore and into the air between them, fast paced and indefinite, warm and bright, accompanied by a touch here and a hug there. It's still cautious, fragile at times, like she's scared that if the smile that's permanently affixed to her face falls everything will break around them.

It takes a little more effort for Mira to be what Zoey needs. It's not a chore or an imposition, but it requires for some of her expertly woven armour to come apart at the seams. Above all, Zoey finds comfort in physical contact, to hold and be held, and being present, to share what she loves while feeling like she's being heard, two things that Mira had walled herself from at a young age — because they never came, even when she asked and begged and cried. But just as she does with Rumi, she adapts; watching turtle videos for hours while sitting next to each other on the couch, a hand pressed lightly on her back when she's anxious, sharing in Zoey's joy when it bubbles out of her becomes infectious.

After the Idol Awards the mantra crumbles at their feet.

They had spent years sharing and understanding each other's faults, it wrapped around the fabric of their relationship like vines, strong, unbreakable, and undeniably beautiful.

It's their fears that almost shatter them. Years of love and companionship built on a shaky foundation made of lies, omissions, and things they're too afraid to admit.

Rumi gasps for air as she's torn from another nightmare. Two pairs of arms loop around her glowing body in the dark, a steady reminder that she's not alone, that she's loved — all of her, accompanied by comforting whispers that soothe her back dreamless sleep.

Zoey retreats into herself until she's a ghost of a memory. They find her on the balcony, body shaking with anxiety and violent sobs, and carry her back to bed, placing her gently between them — a pair of parentheses that promise to hold her words, her feelings, her colours. She's more than enough, she'll always be more than enough.

Mira wars with pushing them to leave or leaving herself, building walls so quickly it turns into a maze even she struggles to navigate. Fingers intertwine with hers, grounding and present, waiting for the fortress to crumble, waiting for her. They whisper affirmations reminding her that they'll stay, that she deserves this, that they're a family.

At twenty-five, Mira learns that the love they share is unconditional.

The front of the car collides with her side.

The smell of burned rubber permeates the warm summer air.

Her name, loud and panicked, is the last thing she hears before everything fades away.

In hindsight, she should have seen this coming. It always did.

At twenty-seven the pain beneath her ribs reminds her that love has consequences, they'd always made sure of that.

﹏

It was a warm summer day and her lips tasted like strawberry ice cream. Their hands fit together perfectly, she felt alive in a way she'd never felt before. It was love, maybe. One that she didn't have break herself for, one that was given freely.

The very next day Hye-jin pulls her into an empty classroom. Her family is moving away, suddenly, unexpectedly, she doesn't know why. Understanding dawns on Mira immediately, the phantom pain beneath her ribs blooming unbidden. She places a kiss on Hye-jin's forehead — a weak apology for something she doesn't have the strength to change — and walks away.

In the distance she hears broken sobs from two distinct voices. Before she can question it, darkness falls over her like a veil.

The sound of cicadas has never felt more ominous.

﹏

Dance isn't a person that can be bribed or manipulated or leave her behind. Ballet, unlike everything else her parents have forced upon her, is something she grows to love, something that makes her feel in control, something she can take pride in. She can finally express herself without punishment and it feels like freedom.

She doesn't get the lead role that season, a last minute change to the roster, they tell her. It happens again, and again, and again. Eventually, she's told she never had what it takes to be a ballerina. The lone tear running down her instructor's face is all she needs to know that it happened again; they found a way take it all away.

She practices every night regardless, doesn't allow her body to forget that love can be found in movement and sound.

Tonight when she practices, the rhythm feels strange — slow and steady, punctuated by a high pitched beep every 61 beats. She powers through it, finds a way to make it beautiful, to make it her own.

﹏

That night haunts her more than she'd ever care to admit. She's back in her childhood bedroom but this time

"You can't be here. Please." The words comes out her younger self just as she remembers, as nothing more than a shuddering breath followed by a heartbreaking sob. "Just go. Leave! You don't belong here. You need to go!"

﹏

"Rumi," a voice whispers next to her, burdened in equal measure by hope and fear. "She's awake."

She feels two hands slip into her own. One of Zoey's hands — soft and trembling — holds her left hand tenderly, while the other finds it's way to the 'Z' on her arm. Rumi's hands — strong and warm — envelop the other, holding her hand like she never intends to let it go, patterns pulsing in a soft shade of gold.

She had pushed them out of the way just in time. What she loved the most hadn't been taken away from her this time.

It never would again.

"Hand it over."

A flash of pink pulses across Rumi's patterns, teasing and bright. "No."

"Rumi, if you know what's good for you, you'll hand me the box."

"You'll have to catch me first."

Laughter echoes through the entryway of the beach house, the sound of heels on hardwood maps Rumi's trajectory towards the living room where she uses the couch as a barrier between them.

"Rumi…"

"Mira…"

"Give. Me. The. Box."

"It's hard to take you seriously when you look at me like a lovesick puppy, Mira." The mischievous grin on Rumi's face tells her all she needs to know.

One: she's utterly fucked because Rumi's right, she does look at her like a lovesick puppy, and it does make her entirely empty threats less effective. Who can really blame her when the woman in front of her is dressed in a short form-fitting black dress with sheer sleeves, medium length hair pulled back into a high ponytail.

Two: Rumi's not going to let the box go without making her work for it.

"You're at a disadvantage," she says smoothly, ignoring the allegation she knows she can't counter. "I took my shoes off."

Rumi falters for a second, confusion evident in her face. "So?"

Mira leaps onto the couch in one swift motion, runs steadily over the cushions, and uses her momentum to pin Rumi down beneath her.

"So," laughter bubbles out of her, loud and unrestrained. She lowers her face closer to Rumi's, their noses almost touching and she can see Rumi's pupils dilating. Her voice softens and deepens, a tried and true tactic she knows will affect the woman beneath her. "I can run on the couch efficiently without my heels digging into the cushions and throwing off my balance, something you didn't account for."

Rumi's breath hitches. Mira can see her patterns change from a muted pink to muted gold, and she knows she could get lost in the view in front of her.

"Um… what are you guys doing?"

Just like that, the spell is broken. Rumi and Mira's heads snap towards Zoey so quickly they both catch the hungry look that passes over her face at seeing Mira — clad in a sheer floral corset and tight suit pants, short hair down and ruffled — on top of Rumi — who's already short dress has moved up a few inches under Mira's hips.

Rumi recovers quickly, and before Mira can say anything the box is flying across the room. "Zoey, catch!"

Zoey catches the small box effortlessly, reflexes honed by years of training, and she quickly turns it around in her hands, shaking it lightly. "What's in here?"

Mira pulls herself off Rumi, sprinting towards Zoey at an alarming speed.

"Zoey, run!" Rumi yells from behind her, bright and full of barely restrained laughter. It's a sound she could get used to, Mira thinks to herself, as she chases Zoey towards the staircase.

Despite the floor length emerald green dress, Zoey takes the stairs two at at a time, putting considerable distance between them.

"The fact that you can do that in that dress is both aggravating and ridiculously hot," she grunts as she tries to catch up.

"The thigh slip helps!" Zoey giggles as she books it to the bedroom, clutching the box against her chest.

When she finally catches up, Zoey throws herself unceremoniously onto the bed face down, box trapped underneath her body.

"What are you going to do now?" She asks smugly as she turns her head to look at her, hair falling haphazardly over her side cut.

She looks beautiful, cheeks flushed, eyes glinting with joy the way only Zoey's eyes can. It makes Mira's heart beat a little faster.

She places her hands on Zoey's waist gently, thumbs running over her sides slowly before grinning and putting a little more pressure on her fingers.

"No tickling! No tickling!" Zoey yelps beneath her, wriggling in an attempt to kick her off. "Rumi, help! She's using unapproved battle tactics!"

Mira feels the bed dip, and suddenly two strong arms pull her onto her back, hands pinned above her head as Rumi moves to straddle her.

"What's so important that you had to resort to tickling, Mir-" Zoey's laughter is replaced by soft inhale. "Oh."

Zoey, now kneeling on the bed, turns to face them. Three identical rings sit on the palm of her hand — thin double bands, braided together at the top, with three small diamonds each.

Mira watches both their faces carefully as they move to look at the rings on Zoey's hand and then her.

"Mira?" Rumi soft voice breaks the silence.

"I was going to ask you after dinner tonight, out in the patio. I even had Bobby set up some extra fairy lights on trees, and get some champagne. But then, you found the box and…" she tugs one of her hands free from Rumi's weakening grip to gesture at the scene around them with a smile on her face.

"Wait, really?" Mira throws Zoey a questioning glance, not entirely sure what part she wants clarification on. "You want to…"

"If you'll have me," she replies sheepishly.

Their replies overlap, a little watery and emotional, but undeniably happy. "I can't imagine a life without the two of you." "You're all I've ever wanted, both of you."

At twenty-eight, long after the bruises under her ribs have healed and the phantom pains have subsided, Mira knows without a doubt that love, their love, is unconditional and forever.