Chapter Text
It began with an itch.
Most of Zoey's ideas start that way, and it's always a toss up whether it landed in her favor and netted them a new hit song to dominate the charts, or would have her fully face down on the studio floor—paralyzed with a dozen or more ideas all vying for her pen, her mind, her voice. A dozen or more ideas all wanting to become something finished, something shared, something to net her the validation she so craved. And there was the trap of any creation. No matter how earnest its conception, or wholesome its conceit, if there was no one else to share in it, what was ever the point of existing?
In the intermittent bursts of clarity, Zoey scribbled furiously in her notebooks, capturing stray lyrics flitting through her addled mind like trying to capture butterflies with a net with holes far too big to really hold them. But once she finally captured one, she clung to it, admired its patterns pulled at its chitin threads until she wove poetry to a phantom melody.
Then she would be overcome with the paralysis once more until the next burst.
This would persist for hours.
Rumi found Zoey in this spiral, with her laid flat on her back, her eyes closed in bliss with oversized noise cancelling headphones firmly over her ears. Her arms flailed through the air in mimicry of drumming—every motion a practiced one, almost feverishly so. Rumi hasn't any experience with percussive instruments, but even she could recognize the patterns, the control disguised as chaos.
She entered into the room, coming over to peer at Zoey's phone as it laid face up with the inspiring song on display. It wasn't one she recognized, but Zoey undoubtedly knows it frontwards and back. She crouched down, waiting for the song to be over, and watching the impromptu performance with fondness and contemplation in equal parts. An idea percolated, but still needing something of a confirmation, a direction in which to go.
When the last notes faded away, Zoey's arms fell unceremoniously to her sides, limp and spent with effort, and yet it didn't take long before her fingers were twitching for something else to do. She removed her headphones with a resigned sigh, her eyes still closed, however whatever haven she once found herself in faded like a dream.
Rumi knocked gently against the hardwood floor, loud enough to call attention without startling too badly.
Zoey's eyes finally peeled open and she turned to see Rumi kneeling there. "Hey, you."
"Hey yourself," Rumi smiled. "Are you okay?"
Zoey shrugged.
"Writers' block again?"
She shook her head, sighing. Then she pointed to the spread of notebooks she'd poured pounds of pencil lead and ink into.
Taking that as silent invitation, Rumi took up one of the books and flipped through its pages. Doodles and disjointed lyrics danced beneath her gaze, but it was far from a graceful one. The handwriting was rough, almost frantic in trying to get thoughts onto the page, one after the next in rapid fire succession.
Rumi's brows pinched together the more she read, however, and she looked down at Zoey inquisitively. "These are different from what you usually write."
Zoey shrugged again. "We don't have to use them. I just needed them out of my head." She exhaled, suddenly exhausted as she pressed her palms over her eyes. "Too many ideas, not enough outlets, you know?"
"Mm," Rumi hummed sympathetically. She stroked Zoey's hair, carding through to her short bangs to coax her hands away, then stroking along her temple as if she might coax the headache out of her through touch alone. "What do you need?"
Zoey snorted, a dry sound and it hurt to hear coming from her. "Other than a sledgehammer to my brain? Maybe something louder than my thoughts."
Rumi nodded along, the idea from earlier now taking more of shape now. From her back pocket, she took out her phone and pulled up a list of contacts. "Give me an hour," she said, moving to stand up.
Zoey looked at her curiously, first in confusion then she smiled in amusement. "What are you doing?"
"You'll see," Rumi assured with a secret smile before leaving the studio with her phone pressed against her ear.
As promised, Rumi came back an hour later bearing gifts of bubble tea and a crew of couriers carrying box after box from the front entrance and into their studio. Before Zoey could ask what it was, Rumi only pushed her back down into her seat by the shoulders and slid the bubble tea in front of her. "It's a surprise," she said, and left it at that with a cheeky wink.
When Zoey was finally able to see for herself, she stood frozen in the doorway, slackjawed. It was a drum kit. A basic set up for beginners, but with plenty of space for attachments and customization as she saw fit. She looked to Rumi, for once utterly speechless.
In response, Rumi proudly held up the drum key dangling from a string and accompanied by a turtle keychain. "Go crazy," she said. "And don't forget ear protection."
Needless to say, Zoey was late for dinner, and seeing her face flush with exertion and the ghost of a relieved smile curled comfortably on her lips was worth more than gold.
It began with a hunt gone wrong.
Mira wasn't the type to fall into rookie mistakes like the one that ended up twisting her ankle, but it happened anyway and she ended up between Rumi and Zoey, her arms slung over each of their shoulders as they helped her home.
They patched one another up like a ritual. Cuts cleaned and bandaged, ice packs administered to aching joints, Mira's ankle wrapped tight and put on a pillow for elevation, and a nature documentary playing in the background to help them unwind. It worked, at least for the night.
The following morning, however, not so much.
She had to keep off her ankle for at least a few more days before she even attempt to walk, let alone do anything related to her actual job as Huntrix's lead dancer. Their connection to the Honmoon may still allow them more expedient recoveries compared to normal people, but they weren't invulnerable. Rest, ice, compresses, and elevation became the routine. And in that time, Mira laid miserable in her bed, or sat livid on the living room couch—a prisoner in her own body.
She was bored beyond belief and she couldn't move in the way that mattered most. She doubted that either Zoey or Rumi would even let her set foot in their private gym and she couldn't dance… She couldn't dance.
With a pair of crutches to keep her up, Mira went into the studio. Zoey's new drums sat inside, definitely used in the weeks since Rumi gifted it to her, and bearing new additions to its kit. When Mira first saw it, her first thought was gratefulness to the fact that the room was soundproofed. Her second was pure and unadulterated amusement as she teased Rumi, "You're spoiling her, don't you think?"
Rumi had only shrugged, an air of easy indifference if not for how she smiled up at her privately. "Would you like a turn?"
Mira nearly choked on her own spit. How could she say something like that so casually? "M'fine," she said, and Rumi blessedly left it at that.
She went over to the soundboard where she recognized Zoey's headphones resting where it kept a notebook open underneath it. Everything was still switched on though—Zoey must've just stepped out for a snack or something.
Mira propped the crutches against the chair and carefully took up the notebook. By the looks of it, it was a new song but the lyrics were… different. Not bad, per se, but definitely not the kind of sound Huntrix has firmly staked their popularity in.
She took up the headphones next, tentatively putting them on before pressing play on whatever Zoey was mixing. Immediately, she took note of the tempo; slow and synth heavy, almost trance-like as it flowed from one note to the next. Then came a piano and she could imagine the way Zoey's careful fingers moved over the keys. Finally, the percussion kicked in, though not ones from their collection of traps and snares they've used in the past. These were warm and organic drum hits. Zoey's drums.
Mira listened as the instrumental track continued on. Zoey apparently made ample progress on it. Is this how Zoey always spent their hiatuses? And here she thought that Rumi was the workaholic of the group.
She followed along with her eyes through the penned lyrics. Then she started humming the syllables, playing with their meter; where emphasis could land, where a note could drag, or where she could slant to keep on beat.
Before long, she was mouthing some of the words, her voice coming in soft, breathy whispers that wasn't quite singing, but just musical enough to be noticed and for color to blossom on her tongue.
"Mira!" Zoey exclaimed from the doorway. Mira yelped in fright and turned. Zoey stood there, a steaming cup of instant ramyeon in hand, and a grin on her face.
"We really should put a bell on you," Mira laughed breathlessly.
"I did knock; you're the one who was out of it," Zoey defended cheekily and without a hint of apology for nearly giving her a heart attack. She walked over, though, suddenly sober as she gestured with her chin to the headphones still over Mira's ears. "Did you like it?"
"Oh, uh," Mira stammered and set the headphones down along with the notebook. "Sorry, I should've asked first."
"It's okay," Zoey smiled, before adding sheepishly, "I was actually going to show you anyway. I, uh, was hoping, maybe, that you might help me out with it?"
"Help with what?"
"Well," Zoey drawled and came up beside her to pluck the headphones up and put them around her own neck, "you'll notice that I don't have any vocals on the track."
Mira scoffed, ignoring that little flutter in her chest. "Shouldn't you be getting Rumi in on this then? Come to think of it, what is this song for anyway? It doesn't sound like anything else that we're putting on the new album."
Zoey shrugged, unmoored by the blatant attempt at deflection. "Just something for fun, I guess. And yeah I could ask Rumi, but I'm asking you," she said earnestly.
"I've never been on main vocals before…" Mira said, half confession and half warning.
Zoey peered up at her, eyes wide and pleading. "Please? Just one take?"
Mira sighed deeply through her nose. Then her eyes found the notebook and the lyrics—raw and undefined and missing their voice. Well, it wasn't as if she had anything else to do anyway.
"Fine," she sighed and held up a finger, "one take."
"Yay! That's the spirit!" Zoey cheered and was about to push her into the sound booth before remembering her ankle. She helped Mira with her crutches instead, and held the door open for her.
Once Mira was settled behind the mic, Zoey called through the speakers, "Just do what comes natural, okay? Don't over think it."
"That's terrible direction and you know it," Mira countered, flashing her a smirk as she settled another pair of headphones over her ears.
"I do know it. But I just want to see something."
"And what's that," Mira challenged.
Zoey paused, chewing her bottom lip. Then, "I wanna see how you hear it."
They stared at one another through the glass, bewildered at having spoken the words as much as having heard it at all.
Zoey blinked out of it first and hurriedly began the instrumental track. Mira's gaze lingered on her a little while longer as the synths and the piano and the gentle drum beats filled her thoughts with Zoey.
She counted the two measures. Then, she sang.
The lyrics were… primal. Explicit metaphor and unguarded shame. Mira sang it like a long excuse and a cry for help that had lost its own meaning.
Mira wasn't the type to record with her eyes closed. The high octane swagger that it took to pull off fiery rap verses and the very principle of being the lead dancer demanded her full attention at all times. And yet here… she couldn't pinpoint when she had even closed them. Maybe somewhere between the second verse and the chorus she was suddenly surrendering to the memory of years she'd rather forget. The memory of the years themselves—memory, insofar, of yes they happened.
Her voice had fallen deeper, long and even haunted as the piano serenaded with sonorous repose, like a soft place to land once she'd finished enduring the storm of unfettered desire, the kind that leaves one aimless and desperate. Her body knows its hungered grin like the old wound that it was.
Then, the song ended. No fanfare, no fading notes, it simply ended. Then again, it was in its early development stages. She couldn't fault it for that; couldn't fault Zoey for that.
Zoey. These were her words… From what depths of her mind did these take their shape?
She exhaled, her throat parched, and removes the headphones. She looked over to the window, and for a moment she almost didn't recognize Zoey standing there on the other side. Her gaze were glassy, shining with blatant ardor as bright as the pink in her cheeks.
A long time ago, her favorite dance instructor once told her that art—the ones capable of enduring the erosion of time, were both windows to inner worlds, as well as mirrors reflected back at their makers.
Mira swallowed, suddenly shy, "How was that?"
"Beautiful…" Zoey's voice cracked through the booth speakers.
Mira blushed as well, and didn't even attempt to hide it. Instead her focus drew in solely to ask, "Zoey?"
"Y-Yeah?"
"Where did these lyrics come from?" What is this part of you being reflected back at me?
"Magic," she was all she said, and waggled her fingers like a magician after a performance.
Though Mira had expected an answer of profound weight and wisdom, the one she got is so unabashedly Zoey that she couldn't find it in herself to be anything less than satisfied.