Archive of Our Own

Beneath the promise of new, humble, beginnings (numerous bright, glimmering, lights), the past crawls up Rumi’s spine and wraps its ugly tendrils around her exposed neck.

It is by no fault of her own, unless she considers being a conversationalist a fault— Casually continuing a discussion surrounding the last question an interviewer asked, directed specifically at Rumi, staring straight past her false lashes and deep into her soul: “The performance you three put on in Seoul was nothing short of mesmerizing; Rumi, how did it feel to fly around the stadium on a golden moon like that?”

The stunt the interviewer was referencing was nothing special, at least in Rumi’s humble opinion. Plenty of performers do things like that; it makes the audience feel more seen, more interacted with, as Bobby puts it, and Rumi really does love engaging with fans just as much as they love engaging with her.

(Not to mention, flying above thousands of people’s heads at mach speed is some of the most fun a girl can have without whipping out a pastel-colored sword.)

Still, Rumi’d brushed it off with a grin and a simple, “Aw, thanks! I mean, not to sound braggy, but it wasn’t anything particularly challenging. All of us are, I guess, acrobatically trained.”

Zoey had chimed in with a noise of agreement, bringing up the gymnastics lessons she’d taken with the girls when Huntrix first formed and getting interrupted by Mira before she could spill an embarrassing story involving chalk and latex.

Ever resilient, Zoey just rolled her eyes playfully while Mira wrapped up the conversation. “Out of the three of us, Rumi’s definitely got the most experience in gymnastics. And I mean, not to call her an adrenaline-junkie, but girl would benefit from a little more self-preservation.”

“Oh my god, right?!” Zoey touched Mira’s leg to get her attention. “Remember that show in Manila last year where Rumi fell out of her harness during the flying-stunt-thingamajig?!”

Rumi snickered and cut in with a defensive, but reassuring, “I was holding onto the bar! It was fine!”

“Your hands were so sore, you couldn’t hold the microphone during the next song,” Mira deadpanned.

In the quiet of that porcelain white-walled room, it was easy to forget they were being interviewed, that months had passed since Rumi stopped wearing turtlenecks, that their next tour was just around the corner, that this was the first of many press events to come.

What snapped Rumi back to attention was the interviewer laughing along with them before his laser-sharp focus fixed onto her once more. “So, what I’m hearing is that that was far from your first near-death experience.”

And Rumi froze.

It was strange. She’d gotten used to the bad dreams, the nights spent on the balcony looking up at the sky and shivering in the cold just to feel something other than pure melancholy, the mornings where the past would roll her over and over in its callused palms. She’d learned to accept the hot cocoa from Zoey and shuffle into the living room to watch horror movies when coaxed by Mira.

Never cover up, never hide, never change, never again, became the mantra playing on repeat inside her skull. There was a future— This was the future. And it wasn’t the one she’d been fighting for her entire life, but it was more than enough, and it had everything Rumi really wanted, deep down. She was accepted, and almost nobody had to get hurt for it to happen.

(Almost is a ball and chain wrapped around her ankle.)

Blinking at the wall, Rumi watched the room shift from the studio to the garden. The tree she still had to crane her neck to look up at, dead leaves falling in synchonosity, flowers wilting above the buried roots. She felt Zoey shifting at her side, heard Mira clear her throat, listened to the barely-there buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead, but—

Do what you should’ve done a long time ago.

“Rumi?”

Elsewhere, the sword sits heavily in her pattern-stricken hands. It was never supposed to go this far. Celine looks conflicted. Celine looks scared.

“Rumi, you good?”

Not scared. Terrified. Terrified of her. Celine’s considering it. She knows this is for the better, too, just like Zoey and Mira knew, too. Maybe it still is.

“Did I ask a bad question?”

The interviewer had a hand pointing vaguely at Rumi. He was looking at Zoey.

“Um, no, no, it’s okay!”

Zoey’s apologetic voice. Rumi glanced at her. Zoey’s hand was on her shoulder— her exposed shoulder, freely unafraid of the marks on them. Rumi subtly jerked away. Unperturbed, Zoey’s face lit up a little when she realized Rumi was staring at her.

“Oh! Hey, you okay?” Zoey asked, ducking to catch Rumi’s eye when the latter broke eye contact.

“What?” Rumi blurted out dumbly.

“Let’s just move on to the next question,” Mira asserted, and the interviewer smiled nervously and did exactly that. Rumi fiddled with the fabric of her skirt, wishing a hole would come out of the floor to swallow her up. Zoey and Mira just picked up her slack and carried the next conversation.

(Not that it mattered, because for the rest of the interview, the interviewer didn’t ask Rumi specifically a single question.)

Dinner is a timely affair following the interview.

Rumi’s hair is loosely braided down her back, courtesy of Zoey and Mira’s boredom during the car ride; her scalp is secretly grateful. Wisps of stray hair fall into her face and obscure her gaze out the window as the car pulls up to Sable & Silk.

The last time Rumi dined here was well over five years prior. She was cradling three trophies in her lap the night Huntrix won the Idol Awards, their first success of many. Zoey had passed out in Mira’s lap, Bobby was talking all of their ears off, and the guy driving the limo had long since shut the divider between the front seat and the back.

Quietly, Rumi was looking down at the proof of their success. Her patterns had not yet spread to splay across her collarbones. She thought about how they were going to make this last. Then, she thought about what she wanted for dinner. One thought was far more pertinent than the other.

Presently, she steps out of the car and politely closes the door behind her with her heel.

“Man, we haven’t been here in ages! I wonder why Bobby chose this place. Do y’think they still serve that big sushi platter? Ugh, I could inhale some sushi right now,” Zoey rambles while Mira holds open the door for them.

Rumi responds, “One can only hope,” before the hostess greets them with a warm, professional, smile, and a, “If you’d just follow me down this way to your table…”

They get a window seat. Rumi rests her chin in her palm and stares at the street. It’s dark outside— Well past seven-thirty. Sable & Silk closes in two hours. Rumi only recalls this because five years ago, they long overstayed their welcome.

She thinks it was all those hypotheticals, the, “Ohmigosh guys, how do we top this? How do we win again next year? I wonder how many more songs we can write before we run out of words. Okay, obviously, we won’t, but like, this is crazy! We haven’t even been a girl group for that long and we’re already breaking records! This is so exciting! Should we tell Bobby we wanna go on another tour?”

“Chill, Rumi, your food’s getting cold!”

A menu is pushed into Rumi’s hands by a sneaky Zoey. She winks at Rumi before burying her nose in her own menu. Rumi shrugs off her jacket and gives the first page a once-over.

“So, what’s the consensus on the sushi platter?” Mira asks, unfurling her silverware and draping the napkin over her lap. .

Zoey hums. “Well, either I can’t read, or they got rid of it. But this menu is, like, seven pages long, so bear with me!”

Mira snorts. Rumi skims over the drinks. 80% of it is alcohol. The other 20% is iced tea, coke, and water. Rumi swears Sable & Silk used to serve Shirley Temples. Looks like both Rumi and Zoey lost things tonight.

“No way!” Zoey taps the table excitedly. Mira raises a brow. “Page six, page six! Sushi platter! Yes!”

Nope, just Rumi.

“How much sushi are we talking?” Mira asks, and Zoey goes all the way down the list naming tons of sushi variants. They get to pick six of the twelve to be on the platter. Mira names two; Zoey coerces her into picking three, then chooses one of her own. Once finished, both girls glance at Rumi.

“What’s up?” Rumi innocently inquires. “You two can share a sushi platter.”

“You don’t want any?” Zoey asks, almost seeming a little confused. “But you love sushi! Mira and I already picked four, so… Guess whose turn it is!”

For some unknown reason, Rumi feels her face heating up. She tries to hide behind the menu. “Nah. Go wild, you two! I’ll just order miso or something. I’m not that hungry.”

Silence envelops the table, nothing but the muted chatter of other patrons and silverware clinking to fill the space. Rumi wants to disappear.

“Are you okay?” Zoey asks after several seconds have passed. The genuine worry in her tone makes Rumi’s stomach twist.

“Yeah, I’m great!” Rumi reassures with a laugh. “Seriously! I just forgot we had dinner plans tonight, and I ate a big lunch.”

Mira narrows her eyes subtly, but Zoey accepts the answer with a shrug. Luckily, she snags Mira’s attention again: “You get to pick two more! C’mon, before the waitress comes back over here!”

Dinner ends up being fun, Zoey’s infectious laughter carrying Mira and Rumi as they bounce from topic to topic and burn their tongues on the complementary appetizers. For once, they don’t talk about awards, or music, or demons— Just reminisce and build up their excitement for what's to come. Their next performance is, after all, just around the corner.

After the waitress has taken the check and Zoey has neatly packed the sushi into a to-go box, she excuses herself to the restroom to fix her lipstick. Mira and Rumi stand to follow her, but she insists they watch the food instead.

Which leaves the two of them sitting in almost-awkward silence.

Weird. Rumi hasn’t felt like this since she was surfing a subway train.

“Are we gonna talk about what happened earlier? In the interview?”

Mira’s arms are crossed. She’s leaning back into the booth, the leather nearly swallowing her shoulders. Rumi swallows and taps her fingers against the fancily-patterned tablecloth. Her nail polish is chipped; she keeps picking at it.

“Nothing happened,” Rumi responds, opting to study the sidewalk outside instead of Mira’s investigative gaze. “I guess I just… Kind of zoned out. I just need to get some more sleep tonight.”

“Sleep,” Mira repeats flatly. Rumi finally gathers up the courage to look at her, but Mira doesn’t look intense at all. The corners of her eyes are soft and crinkled. Like she’s trying to see through Rumi, straight past the thin wall that Rumi has carefully crafted; transparent enough that it almost isn’t there at all, but sturdy enough to protect her still. “Rumi, since when have you ever gotten enough sleep?”

Never, Rumi doesn’t blurt out. Instead, she sighs, shoulders dropping. “Mira, please don’t worry about me. I just got a little too into my head. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen in the next interview.”

Mira’s eyebrows raise. “Hold on, you think that’s what I’m worried about—?”

“O-kay!” Zoey sing-songs, practically materializing before them and tugging her jacket and purse out of the booth. “You guys ready to go? I need to change my pump. The battery keeps yelling at me.” She gestures vaguely to her insulin pump, which, as if on cue, begins beeping quietly. “Uuugh, I get it, I get it! Anyway—”

Zoey stills at the corner of the table, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. Rumi watches her expression fade into fear and it tears a hole in her heart.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes sincerely. “Was I interrupting you guys? Sorry. I can just, um… I can meet you guys back home—?”

“No, Zoey, you weren’t interrupting anything,” Mira assures, sliding out of the booth after Rumi.

Rumi shrugs her own jacket back on and places what she hopes is a comforting hand on Zoey’s shoulder. “C‘mon. Let’s get out of here.”

On the way out, Rumi thanks the waitress for her service, weaves through the tables carrying Zoey’s to-go boxes, and pretends the young busser in a suit and tie doesn’t have the same hairstyle as the demon Rumi watched dissipate before her eyes, all so she could live.

The slow beginnings of a dream drift through Rumi’s tired mind late into the night.

It begins the way most of her dreams do; with colors flashing behind her eyelids for the briefest moment before unfurling, focusing like a camera lens on greenery and goodness. A full garden beneath a healthy tree, a bright stage lit up by firecrackers and colorful smoke, a living room with the greatest gifts the universe has ever created sitting, respectively, to Rumi’s left and right.

Rumi’s largest qualm with her dreams, much like others, is how realistic they feel. Sitting together on the couch, Zoey fidgets the same way she does in real life whilst scrolling through Pinterest. Mira’s hair, mind of its own, brushes Rumi’s shoulder every time Mira stretches.

So when Zoey turns to Rumi and furrows her brows and asks, “Rumi, what would we do if demons came back?” Rumi’s stomach drops the same way it would if this really were real.

In the dream, Rumi asks, “What?” and Zoey repeats the question like a robot. After some consideration, Rumi says, “That won’t happen. The Honmoon—”

“But if it stopped working?” Mira asks.

Rumi whips around to look at her. Her heart races. She can feel it pounding against her chest.

“Rumi, we would have to kill you,” Zoey says.

Like it’s trying to break out of her ribcage.

“Guys,” Rumi reasons nervously, “Where’s all this coming from? Why are you suddenly worried about it again?”

“Because of you, obviously,” Zoey answers with an eyeroll. The air between the two of them is suffocating. “Like, you can seal the Honmoon, but that’ll never change the fact that you’re half demon.”

“And that’s all we’ll ever see you as,” Mira chimes in.

Zoey nods. “‘Till you die. Maybe then, we’d feel kind of bad for you.”

“Yeah, maybe a little bit. But until then,” Mira quickly follows up, “you’ll just be that freak we keep around to make bank.”

“Still, would it kill you to cover up those ugly markings?” Zoey requests while Mira makes a quiet noise of agreement. “It’s a miracle people still want to support us when the face of Huntrix looks like that..”

“She’s right. Especially since they also all know it’s your fault,” Mira starts, “that those people died that night in the first place. But you wanted him dead, anyway, didn’t you? One less thing to worry about? ‘At least little old Rumi gets to keep chugging on,’ right?”

Not dead. Not dead. Rumi didn’t want him to die.

“Honestly, Rumi,” Zoey says, voice all low and sultry, now, a reassuring hand wrapped around Rumi’s shoulder. She speaks against her neck. “It would kind of be easier for Mira and I if you weren’t around anymore.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Mira jokes, and Zoey snickers. “Do what you should’ve done a long time ago, Rumi.”

Rumi swears she feels the vibration of Mira’s voice against her skin, wishes she could shove her off or beg for her forgiveness or do anything but sit here and keep permeating the still environment with her unwanted presence. Anything but this. She’ll take living over this. She’ll take consciousness. She’ll take the empty bedroom and the breezy draft.

Rumi wakes with a gasp.

Through her watery eyes, her bedroom forms around her. She forces herself to breathe against her blanket so the sounds of her hyperventilating don’t draw attention from Mira or Zoey. Everything burns. She grips her sheets with her hand, eyes squeezed shut, trying to ground herself. By now, she should be an expert at waking up from nightmares.

Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.

Rumi breathes. It comes out as a sob. She thinks, despite herself.

It’s not as though Rumi’s never considered it before.

Waking up with wetness staining her face, the room a maelstrom of all-consuming fuzziness, darkness closing in on her so rapidly, it feels like all the air has been seized from her lungs. Exhaustion, real exhaustion, settling on her shoulders and shifting uncomfortably the entire day. A lack of appetite earning concerned glances from friends and management while Rumi’s stomach flips over and over and over with nausea. All the days spent staring at the wall or ceiling while Zoey and Mira, too patient for their own good, tell her to take it easy.

It’d be easier than living. Of course it would be. Rumi’s considered it before.

Not enough times to warrant keeping a kitchen knife in her dresser drawer, but she’s locked herself in the bathroom and held the tip of the blade to one of the prominent patterns on her upper arm and wondered how it would feel to carve it out more than once. Hovered a hot curling wand over her thigh. Wondered if it would return the same shade of muted periwinkle, or heal as a strip of mostly-unmarred skin.

(She could never. She’s a piece of merchandise in Huntrix, not something to be physically altered in any sense; she couldn’t do that to Mira and Zoey. Nobody would ever see them the same way. She’d have to go back to wearing longsleeves and turtlenecks and refusing to visit the bath house. If she wants to be hurt, she has to make it count.)

But she’s considered it before.

On one of what Rumi has long since dubbed a ‘downer day,’ it rains hard enough for a car to hydroplane into the convenience store just down the road from the girls’ apartment. The police and ambulance sirens whir on so long, Rumi locks herself in her closet wrapped in a blanket with earmuffs on to block out the sound.

For entertainment, she’s decided to scroll through social media.

This is an action that Mira banned three years ago after Zoey fell during a show, sprained her ankle, and became the face of everybody’s Twitter timeline for a week. The fall, admittedly, was rather Looney Tunes-esque, and even Zoey giggled at a few posts, but when the real nasty stuff started showing up, Mira decided none of them were ever allowed to purposely look themself up online and fall down any sort of rabbithole again.

Rumi figures she’s exercised enough self-restraint.

@ethelkayyy22: huntr/x isn't coming to my state so i blocked their manager smh

@fnfgrl69: holup do people still listen to them? thought they lowkey fell off

@ethelkayyy22: this is NOT a safe space for you

@etiennesona: hiii does anyone know where rumi got this jacket from! :( i'm trying to make her costume for my concert next month [IMG.987615]

@cwbylkme: she said in this interview that a family friend made all the costumes for their seoul shows! you'll have to DIY it i fear

@livelaughtwice: wait i'm new here what are those pastel tattoos all over rumi? do they symbolize something to her?

@juliabridges: lol welcome to the club we've been asking this for months

@prfctblue: Isn't there a clip out there of Zoey explaining that they're birthmarks?

@juliabridges: ain't no WAY you just said rumi kang's weird pastel tattoos are BIRTHMARKS. ma'am they are PURPLE

@livelaughtwice: i think they're actually closer to periwinkle

@juliabridges: AND THAT MAKES THEM BIRTHMARK-COLORED?

@fnfgirl69: y'all they're literally just some ugly ass tattoos. plenty of celebrities go through phases like this. give it a few years and she'll be getting laser tattoo removal. boom, no more deformed stretch mark tattoos.

@livelaughtwice: i mean. they're not the prettiest ig but you didn't have to say all that damn lmao

@fnfgrl69: if her fans don't want me making fun of her ugly tats then she should start covering up again like she did for the first six years of her career!

Rumi knows she should put her phone down. Maybe go for a walk. Earbuds in, outdoor sound drowned out. Stick her nose in the convenience store’s business from a respectable distance. At least for once, the focus wouldn’t be on her.

Instead, she types ‘Rumi’ and ‘tattoo’ into the search bar. Thousands of results pop up.

Hey guys when did rumi get her tattoos done?! i don't see them in any old performances

maybe she got them done when she was younger and just kept them covered up until recently? TBF she's always wearing pretty modest clothes

you guys are so nosy. just appreciate their music and leave her alone.

i thought rumi's tattoos were stretch marks for the longest time. didn't even question the colors or placements lol.

i mean in all fairness they're pretty light. kinda difficult to see and whatnot.

y'allll i don't even wanna think about how long it must've taken for rumi's tats to heal

lol why do you think huntr/x took a hiatus?

NO WAY THEY TOOK A BREAK SO RUMI COULD GET UGLY TATTOOS BRO

stg she's always holding back that group one way or another. remember when she bailed on a performance and zoey and mira had to publicly apologize to ten thousand fans?

maybe leave her the fuck alone? it was one time and you have no idea what she was going through.

i'm just saying... no need to get aggressive? lol

The phone is shut off with a click.

Rumi takes off the earmuffs and unfurls from the cocoon the blanket formed around her. The warm air from the heating system makes her shiver as she stands and stretches, but the shakes continue to rattle her body long after she’s set foot in the kitchen.

Smells like cinnamon.

“You’re awake!” Zoey has a spot of flour on her cheek. Bowls and various baking ingredients are scattered across their counter. She whirls around to look at the clock, then glances back at Rumi. It’s half past three in the afternoon. “Sorry about the mess. I’ll clean it up later! I just got bored. Mira went for a walk or something. Between you and me, I think she’s just fiending for gossip about that crash down the road. Eugh. Hope everyone’s okay…”

Rumi hasn’t moved. Zoey blinks.

“Sorry! I’m talking your ear off. What’s up?”

“No, Zoey, you’re—” Rumi runs a hand through her hair. She forgot to put it up. The back of her neck itches. “I’m sorry. Just…”

Zoey snorts. “Still waking up?”

“Sure,” Rumi laughs lightly, entering the kitchen and sliding into a seat at the counter. “What’re you making?”

“Well, it started as cinnamon rolls, but then I was like, what if I made cinnamon-roll-chocolate-chip-cookie… Things. So now it’s, um. It’s uh. It’s something, alright!” Rumi raises a brow; really? “Hey. It’ll be edible! And delicious!”

That gets an authentic laugh out of Rumi. She stretches her palm across the cool countertop. “Oh, I know it will be. Need any help?”

“Mmm, not really. I already tossed it in the oven. I’ve been messing around on my phone,” Zoey explains, holding up her phone between a precarious thumb and pointer. She looks down at Rumi’s hand on the counter and frowns. “Did your nail polish already chip off?”

Rumi retracts her hand instinctively, studying the nails. It’s worse than chipped polish. They’ve been bitten down, ripped up, cuticles torn. Proof of a new poor habit. Rumi entwines her hands, fingers hidden. They’re so cold. “I— I didn’t… Really notice.”

There’s a moment where it seems like Zoey’s going to say something Rumi knows she won’t like. A standoff. Rumi doesn’t consider herself too harsh of an authoritarian, but it doesn’t take more than prolonged eye contact to make Zoey break and look at the floor.

“It’s cool! You should make an appointment at the salon. We could all go have a girls day! It’d be fun.” She smiles warmly. Rumi nods and smiles back. If it’s weaker, Zoey doesn’t point it out.

Rumi quickly decides to shift the subject to their rapidly approaching tour. “Do you know how Mira’s choreography is coming along?”

“Oh, Rumi. You’re not even ready for the final moves. It’s. Awesome.” Zoey sighs and rests her elbows on the counter, chin in her palms. “Honestly, everything’s set. I mean, I finished my lyrics— And I showed you, right? The other day? I did do that, right?” Rumi nods. She did. “Okay, cool! Unless you’ve got a problem with it?”

“Not at all. It’s perfect, Zoey. You’re amazing.” She means it.

Zoey’s entire face melts and morphs into one huge smile. Her pupils twinkle with gratitude. “Okay, so— Great! Everything’s comin’ up Huntrix! We’re gonna kick ass these next few months, have a two-second break ‘cause somehow you’re still a workaholic, anddddd rinse and repeat! Woo!”

Rumi snorts. “I’ll let that last bit slide. Because I guess you’re not wrong. But, yeah. Everything’s coming up Huntrix.”

A celebratory noise comes out of Zoey’s mouth and makes Rumi giggle again. Zoey checks the oven timer and is left unsatisfied by the double-digit number still sprawled in red.

And before Rumi can suggest they clean up a bit, Zoey grabs a dirty spoon, turns on the sink, and blurts out, “Can I ask you something?”

Rumi slides out of the chair and comes around the counter. She takes the now-clean spoon from Zoey and dries it off with a towel. A system’s been set up. “Of course. You okay?”

Zoey’s shoulders are shaking. “Are you?”

Not this again.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Rumi retorts. She takes another clean spoon from Zoey. Droplets of warmth cling to her fingertips.

“That night at Sable & Silk, when I interrupted you and Mira…” The jetstream of water is a welcome white noise. Rumi patiently listens. “You two aren’t fighting, right?”

“Wh—? Oh, Zoey. No. No, of course not.”

“Okay… I just— Y’know, I dunno!” A bowl clatters in the sink. Rumi watches batter mix with water and turn a murky shade of tan. “What were you talking about, then? If— If it’s okay for me to ask?”

Rumi doesn’t know what to say to that.

She picks up another spoon and doesn’t ask Zoey why the hell she needed three spoons for one bowl of batter. Dries it off with the towel. Pink and periwinkle peek out from beneath the sleeve of her hoodie and fizzle in and out with light, glowing, dying, glowing, dying.

Zoey hands her a knife.

“Uh, if I’m remembering right? She was just wondering why I didn’t want any of your guys’ sushi.”

Rumi carefully wipes the silver clean.

“Oh. You said you weren’t hungry or something.”

Each individual divot of the blade.

“Yeah. I mean, you know how it can be. We all wanna keep eachother fed. She was just making sure I was okay.”

A piece of cardboard is stuck to the knife. Zoey must’ve used it to cut open the cinnamon roll container. Maybe some of the raw dough. Rumi uses what remains of a fingernail to try to scrape it off.

“Yeah! I’m glad you guys are fine, though.”

Zoey goes to hand her a bowl. She sets it down instead. Rumi can feel her staring.

“Do you need some help?” she asks.

Rumi shakes her head. “Just… Stubborn…”

The elevator chimes and signals Mira’s return. Rumi looks up just in time to miss the cardboard coming off the knife and the tip of her finger blossoming in red pain.

“Rumi!” Zoey shuts the sink off and grabs her hand. “You’re bleeding!”

“Oops?” Rumi replies. Zoey keeps holding her hand. She uses her free one to dig under the sink and find the first-aid kit.

Awkwardly, Rumi smiles and waves with her other hand at Mira, who is holding a drink carrier.

Mira slides on a pair of slippers and approaches the counter, setting down the drinks. She squints at Rumi’s hand. “What happened?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Rumi sheepishly explains. “Just nicked myself doing dishes.”

Mira opens her mouth to say something, but the first-aid kit slamming on the counter renders her silent. Zoey huffs a breath and sets Rumi’s hand down on the counter, finger facing upwards. She leans in close and inspects. Rumi blinks.

“Hmm…”

“Zoey,” Mira starts. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m making sure it doesn’t need stitches!” Zoey reasons.

Rumi rolls her eyes after making sure Zoey won’t see it and grabs a small band-aid out of the first-aid kit. “I promise, I’ll live, Zoey. It’s not even bleeding anymore.”

“Still, at least clean it first,” Mira chimes in, coming around the counter and reaching around Zoey to turn the sink back on. She tests the temperature with her own hand before reaching for Rumi’s. Rumi doesn’t fight it as Mira carefully lathers soap on her hand, gently dries it with a towel, and opens a band-aid. Zoey gets the honor of wrapping the Hello Kitty band-aid around Rumi’s finger.

Behind them, the oven sings its song of completion. Zoey claps excitedly.

“They’re done, they’re done! Who wants one?!”

Some mysterious warm drink is pushed toward Rumi by Mira. Rumi takes a sip. Tastes like caramel. She says a quick thanks to Mira, who waves her off with a small smile.

“We’re definitely trying your cinnamon rolls,” Mira assures, taking a seat at the counter.

“Actually, they’re like… Cinnamon roll… Things.”

“Cinnamon amalgamations?” Rumi offers.

“I like that,” Mira says thoughtfully.

Cinnamon amalgamations are served on clean plates. Rumi enjoys it. Zoey extremely enjoys it. Mira tells Zoey she’s outdone herself. Rumi’s sure the couch is covered in crumbs by the time Zoey sits down to eat her third one, but they keep a vacuum in the hall closet for a reason, she supposes.

As day shifts into night, Rumi decides to actually be the responsible one and finish doing the dishes. Zoey offered to do them— “It was my mess in the first place!”— but Rumi saw the way her eyes drooped as she yawned and reassured her she would handle it.

The bandaid has slipped off her finger by the time she’s done washing and putting away the bowls. Mira’s still sitting on the couch. She was on her phone last time Rumi looked at her; now, she’s just leaning back with her eyes closed.

Rumi moves on to the silverware. Heat pulses in her finger as she picks the knife up and gives it a second rinse, just to ensure her blood didn’t get on it. She doesn’t blink. Eyes the patterns on her bare skin, sleeves rolled up. She dries off the knife and places it in the drawer.

When she glances back at the living room, Mira is looking at her.

Neither say a word.

The night before the first performance of their latest tour, Rumi steps out of the shower at well past midnight.

Her skin has been rubbed raw. Rumi tries to see it as well-loved, but it feels as though she spent an hour beneath a steady stream of boiling water and has little to prove for it. Clean, shaved, skin, sure. Sweet-scented hair— Alright. Her mouth tastes like toothpaste and her towel smells of detergent.

Lotion is lathered over her palms. Rumi hesitates over her arm.

With one finger, she traces the thin pattern that runs over her elbow. She draws out the diamond-shaped curves on her wrist. Fills in the small empty caverns on her thigh that form where patterns overlap. Her nails are freshly done. She pinches her skin until it hurts. It turns white for white-hot, but it never lasts; the same shade of periwinkle returns unpermeated.

Rumi stares into the mirror and wonders how they can look at her and not start swinging.

“I think we should change our outfits.”

Backstage, staring into their own respective mirrors at the vanities, Zoey and Mira turn to give Rumi the excuse me? look at the same time. In his chair in the corner, Bobby looks up from his phone and raises a very concerned eyebrow.

“Rumi, go get some fresh air.” Mira continues putting on her lip liner. “Then you can come back and talk nonsense.”

“Um, you three are actually on in fifteen minutes,” Bobby points out. “Would not recommend going for a walk right about now, unless you plan on coming back smack-dab in the middle of Golden.”

Rumi flops down onto a comfortable, fluffy, white, stool. These pre-show conversations are some of her favorites they have. Real history book type of stuff. Currently, though, Rumi’s too bothered to think about any of that for a single moment.

“Guys, c’mon— Hear me out,” Rumi reasons. Zoey turns in her seat to offer a smile and her full attention. Mira nearly pokes her eyeball out with an eyeliner pencil. Whatever. Good enough. “It’s our first night back on tour. Why not, y’know… A little blast from the past! We can wear our jackets!”

The jackets in question are not from the terrible, awful, no-good, Honmoon-sealing night— Rumi doesn’t know if she could wear those again without being reminded of how it felt to have it ripped off her pale flesh. They’re from 2022, and they wore them during their third Idol Awards. They’re a perfect shade of baby blue with a golden fringe.

The full outfit also covers everything, from Rumi’s pattern-stricken collarbones to the spindly vines of purple-pink on her legs. Meaning there’ll be nothing to talk about online aside from their music and dancing, which Rumi already knows will be up to par.

She never wants to read about her “tattoos” ever again.

Upon pulling the outfits out of her duffel, Zoey’s nose scrunches up. Mira sucks in a breath through her teeth. Bobby is looking at his phone again.

“Dude, you still have those?” Mira asks.

“I have everything we’ve ever worn!” Rumi laughs. “Come on… They’re cute! Let’s wear ‘em!”

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a no from me,” Mira instantly shuts down. Rumi rolls her eyes. “Rumi, we’ve been wearing these outfits—” Mira gestures to her outfit, which is sparkly, pink, and consists of a crop-top and skirt— “during rehearsals for the past two weeks and you haven’t had a single complaint. Why suddenly switch it up?”

Bobby perks up. “Rumi, is there something wrong with the material? Because I can have the stylist remake it before your next show tomorrow night. Just say the word.”

Rumi chews the inside of her cheek. No. There’s nothing wrong with the outfit. Just something very wrong with me.

“I mean…!” Everybody looks at Zoey. She shrugs, setting down her tube of lip gloss. “Um, if it’ll make Rumi more comfortable… I really don’t mind?”

“Really?” Rumi asks, placing her hands over her heart.

The three of them look at Mira. A very displeased Mira, whose arms are crossed. A very displeased Mira, whose arms are crossed, and who is giving in with an exaggerated sigh and a groan. “Alright, alright, whatever. When I sweat right out of this outfit, though, I’m blaming you, Rumi.”

Thank you, Rumi mouths to Zoey, who just grins and winks.

Their first real performance on tour since their hiatus is nothing short of exhilarating.

Sixty-thousand fans. Endless noise, never a moment of quiet. Her name, Mira’s name, Zoey’s name being chanted over and over. Lights flickering in and out. The music is a palpable creature, its heartbeat clear beneath her feet, and Rumi’s brain gets to turn off for the first time in months, nothing on her mind but the muscle memory she’s spent her entire life developing.

With a microphone in her hand, Rumi is weightless, and she’d almost forgotten that her passion for music did, in fact, exist before her passion for demon slaying. There’s none of that, now, though— A perfect shade of gold has long since consumed their universe.

There’s nothing to keep fighting for.

“Can you help me get this thing off?” Mira yells in Rumi’s ear over the crowd between songs.

Heat rises and colored smoke surrounds Rumi as she helps Mira shrug off her jacket, then Zoey. They toss them far back enough to no longer be a concern. When Zoey places her hand on Rumi’s shoulder, she shakes her head.

There’s not enough time to study the confusion on her face before Rumi’s in-ears start playing a familiar beat on a metronome.

When the hour and a half ends, Rumi’s sweating, Zoey is holding on to her like a lifeline, and Mira is initiating their bowing. The fans scream. Rumi catches as many words as she can: Huntrix, we love you, Rumi, Zoey, Mira.

Bobby’s voice cuts in through Rumi’s in-ear: “Perfect, girls, perfect! Magnificent! Get down here!”

And the platform sinks to take them down.

Usually, Rumi doesn’t mind a bit of pampering beneath the stage, but tonight, her body aches like a crumbling chasm and she wants nothing more than to throw herself in bed and do it all over again tomorrow. At the very least, they’re still in Seoul, which means no hotel rooms for another four days— Just the comfort of their apartment.

Zoey helps Rumi get her hair out of its usual heavy braid. Rumi stuffs most of her hair into the pocket of her coat. It’s cold beneath the stage, the air conditioning working overtime. Mira’s puffy pink jacket practically swallows her whole. It makes Rumi snort when she sneaks a glance.

Once enough fans have left the stadium to make it safe for them to leave, they make their way back to the elevator, where, in the midst of casual conversation, Zoey gasps.

“Oh my gosh,” she starts. “Guys, don’t hate me.”

“What is it?” Mira asks at the same time Rumi says, “Hey, we won’t hate you.”

Zoey’s digging through her purse like a maniac. “They must’ve forgotten to grab one of my pouches out of the dressing room. Like, the one with some of my important emergency insulin stuff?” she explains. “Aughhh! I’m sorry. I need to grab it! I’ll be quick, I swear!”

Mira waves it off. “Don’t sweat it. Bobby hasn’t even called the cab yet.”

“Yeah, take your time,” Rumi reassures. “Do you want us to go with you?”

“No! You guys should sit down and chill!” Zoey insists, bouncing on her heels. “Okay, I’ll be right back!”

With that, she takes off like a torpedo and disappears down the hall, her footsteps echoing the entire way. It’s just Mira and Rumi, now.

Rumi’s getting déjà vu. Before she can joke about it, however, Mira speaks.

“Hey.”

Mira taps her foot against the wall she’s leaning against. Beside her, Rumi straightens her spine and meets her eye with slightly raised eyebrows. Mira opens her mouth— Then closes it. She fumbles with her phone before shoving it, and both of her hands, into her pockets.

“I know if I ask, you’re gonna dance around the question instead of giving me a solid answer,” Mira begins. Rumi furrows her brows at her; a response rests on the tip of her tongue, but Mira continues. “But I’m gonna ask it anyway, and I’m gonna hope that you trust me enough to tell the truth.”

Rumi swallows. The response goes down her throat and fizzles out.

“Something’s up with you, and you’re refusing to talk about it. And that would be fine, ‘cause your business is your business or whatever— If it wasn’t killing you to not talk about it. And trust me, Rumi, it is killing you.”

The sounds of the crowd fizzling out make Rumi nervous. Nothing to hide behind. Nowhere to run to. They’re the only people in the world right now, in the stuffy air beneath this stage. “What are you asking me, Mira?”

And Mira says, “I’m asking you if you’re okay.”

It’s a conscious effort not to instantly say, I’m fine. Rumi tenses. Mira’s not one to back down from anything. Rumi knows that.

“I’m okay,” Rumi says slowly. “Seriously, Mira. I don’t see why you two are so concerned about me in the first place. I— I get that you’re my friends, but I haven’t done anything to warrant this.” Rumi forces herself to relax her shoulders and shuffle closer to Mira, look her in the eye. “Mira, I’m fine.”

Mira’s expression doesn’t move an inch for the longest moment. Rumi listens to the footsteps above them and the chatter of assistants outside the door. The silence down here, still, is deafening.

“You know what? No.”

Rumi blinks. “‘No’?” she repeats.

“No,” Mira says again, and crosses her arms. “No. I’m not taking it for an answer this time.”

Okay, Rumi thinks. She tries to think of something else, but draws a blank. Sweat pools on her forehead. What the hell am I supposed to say?

“Rumi, you promised you wouldn’t lie anymore,” Mira continues. “That’s all I’m asking for. Just the truth. Just— Tell me what’s been eating at you! You know, you’re hurting the people around you, too, man!”

It feels like a knife being driven through her heart. Rumi’s face scrunches up with confusion, with digust. “Excuse me?”

“All Zoey talks about anymore is how you’re not eating, and you’re not sleeping, and you’re losing color in your face, and she never sees you in short-sleeves anymore, and you don’t do anything for yourself! And it’s scaring me, too! We can’t be a team if you don’t trust us like a team does—”

“Of course I trust you guys!” Rumi reasons, because she does, she does, she just knows they can’t take another burden after what the past few months did to them.

“I thought you did, but clearly, something’s changed between that night a few months ago and this moment, and if you don’t tell us what it is, we can’t help you!”

Rumi digs her fingernails into her fist. She is not an angry person. Frustration tears at her psyche and rips her up. She can feel some sort of outburst building up inside of her. “I don’t need your help, Mira! I don’t need anyone’s help!” she snaps.

Mira is silent. She leans back slightly, eyes wide with shock.

I didn’t mean it, Rumi instantly wants to say. It’s the right thing to say. It’s the truthful thing to say. She can follow it up with a composed, I’m sorry, Mira, but I really am fine. Please stop worrying about me.

Rumi waits for the shakiness to subside. She just needs a few more seconds. For the sob to stop bobbing in her throat and the tears to stop building in her eyes. She just needs a moment.

“Rumi,” Mira says softly, the way one might say please.

The dam breaks.

Everything’s blurred colors and the sound of steel clanging as Rumi manages a choked, “I’m sorry,” and nothing else. She shoves her face into her hands. Tears soak her palms. Her uneven breathing echoes back into her ears, amplified, and she’s so overwhelmed with the desire to run, it might be her next course of action.

But her legs are shaking and Mira closes the distance between them before she has time to do anything but wrap her arms around her in response. Like she’s a lifeline. Mira smells like cherries and lavender shampoo, sounds like a lullaby whispering in her ear, “It’s okay, Rumi. You’ll be okay. I’m here.”

“It’s not,” Rumi argues, squeezing her eyes shut. Mira runs her hand through her long hair, smoothes out the tangles and the waves, the same soothing motions she always does when Rumi’s stressed. “I’m broken.”

“You’re not broken, Rumi,” Mira responds as firmly as one might assure a kicked puppy. “You are so important to us, you know that? You’re important to everyone. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.”

Rumi clutches Mira’s puffy jacket a little tighter, that same frustration coming back to bite her. “How can you—?” Her breath catches. “You can’t just— There’s no way you actually—”

Mira’s other hand moves to Rumi’s upper back. She makes circles with her palm. Soothing, grounding. “Shh. Breathe, Rumi. Then you can try and argue with me.”

Rumi focuses on the way Mira’s own shoulders rise and fall subtly with each deep breath and tries to follow along. It’s the most patience Rumi’s ever seen Mira exercise.

Once she’s matched the pattern, she lets her exhausted body slump. Mira sinks to the ground with her, holds her like she’s feather-light, keeps her secured in her shoulder. Rumi feels Mira’s earring tickle the top of her head. She keeps her eyes shut.

“I’m not ashamed,” Rumi says quietly. “Really. Not anymore. I just…”

Mira rubs her arm. Rumi stares down at Mira’s pretty skirt and ridiculous boots stretched out in front of her. This is who they are.

She likes who they are.

“I begged Celine to kill me,” Rumi confesses.

She can feel Mira tense up. There’s a jitter in the rhythmic way she comforts her. “What?”

It’s like admitting to a murder.

“The night we sealed the Honmoon,” Rumi explains, and swallows down the second round of tears she can feel forming. “I asked Celine to kill me. I handed her my sword, I– I kneeled at that tree. I told her, ‘Do what you should’ve done a long time ago.’”

Mira takes a deep breath. Exhales. Rumi can feel the air and the expansion of her diaphragm. If she were to die at this exact moment in time, she wouldn’t mind.

“And I meant it, Mira,” Rumi whispers when the silence goes on too long. “Sometimes, I just… I don’t know.” A pause. Mira’s nails scratching lightly at her arm, nerves lighting up. Rumi knows she’s just keeping her grounded. Her mascara-stained eyelids shut heavily. “Maybe if I’d died that night, things would be simpler.”

“‘Simpler’?” Mira repeats, her confused, exasperated, voice a jarring injunction. “Rumi— God, Rumi. You have no idea.”

Mira encircles her arms around Rumi like she’s a teddy bear she wants to hold near and dear forever. Rumi lets her. She figures she owes her that much.

“I know none of this alone is enough to make you think otherwise,” Mira begins, “but believe me when I say, there’s not a universe out there that doesn’t have a Rumi and is better for it. And I’ll tell you that however many times I need to before you believe it. You hear me?”

Rumi nods sheepishly against her neck.

“How long have you been feeling like this?”

“Um.” Rumi blinks. “Not long. I swear. I guess— Not talking about it just made it build up. And then the tour and the interviews were stressing me out, and I— You guys were dealing with enough. I didn’t want to pile onto that.”

Through Mira’s shirt, Rumi swears she can feel her heartbeat. They’re leaning against the wall, now, Rumi practically enveloping her like a baby koala. Mira doesn’t seem to mind one bit.

“Do you remember our first show in Singapore?” Mira suddenly brings up. “The one where Zoey had that terrible panic attack because the stylist lost her costume and she thought we were gonna kick her out?”

The memory is a distant one, but Rumi nods, anyway, because yes, she does remember that. It ended in a strikingly similar way to this conversation: with a group of girls on the floor, limbs entangled and words of affirmation exchanged tenfold.

“What did you tell her that night?”

Rumi shifts a little. This is gonna be one hell of a ‘gotcha’ moment. “’Zoey, you couldn’t burden us if you tried’.”

“And what did she say when I forgot our costumes in Amsterdam and you guys had to fly all the way back with me?”

“...The same thing.”

“Can you guess what I’m about to tell you?”

Rumi smiles. Maybe Mira can feel the curve of her mouth. Either way, Mira says, “Rumi, we love you. We want you to depend on us. We’re in this together. Everything. Alright? You’re not a burden in the slightest.”

Pretending like she isn’t tearing up again, Rumi quietly answers, “Okay.”

“If you’re feeling that way, don’t lock yourself away and pretend like everything’s fine.” Mira sighs. “We’re always around. Like, literally always. So, you know. Talk to us.”

“I will,” Rumi promises. A beat. “I… Thank you, Mira.”

Mira doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Rumi just basks in her presence. She can’t remember the last time somebody hugged her for this long.

“For the record, Rumi…” Mira’s voice draws Rumi’s attention once more. She hums to show she’s listening. “If she had killed you? I don’t know if I’d have been able to forgive anyone. Including myself.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Mira—” Rumi quickly says.

“Then it wasn’t yours, either.”

Rumi shuts her mouth. This is not an argument she’s going to win— Against Mira, she rarely wins any.

On the cold floor beneath the stage of a sold-out show, smooshed into Mira’s shoulder, warmth blossoming all across her body, Rumi thinks she should’ve known, really.

Autumn’s gentlest breeze washes over Rumi’s freezing hands as she places them against green grass.

A leaf lands to her left. She picks it up, crushes it in her palm, and watches some pieces flit away whilst others slot themselves into the patterns on her skin. Transfixed, she tries molding them perfectly against her pale digits. For the most part, the lines in her palms turn them into itty-bitty pieces.

“Rumi.”

Jolting slightly, Rumi wipes her hands on her jeans. She stands, her spine protesting the movement, and lets out a deep breath. In a teal cardigan and her usual white longsleeve, she stands before Rumi.

“Celine,” Rumi says. The name feels foreign on her tongue. “Hi. I’m sorry, I… I should’ve told you I was coming—”

“None of that,” Celine interrupts gently. She steps closer, closer, closer, until she’s close enough to place a hand on Rumi’s upper arm, to tuck loose hair behind her ear. Celine keeps her hands clasped in front of her. “I’m glad you came, Rumi.”

Rumi nods. She looks away. Down further in the field, the dandelions are growing nicely. As a child, Rumi used to pick weeds in the early hours of summer mornings, before the heat became overbearing, making up sweet songs about the sunflowers and the roses. Celine’s watchful eye ensured Rumi’s scraped knees and elbows never went untreated.

Rumi wishes any other memory came to mind. Wishes something to talk about came to mind. She was prepared for this to be awkward— It’s been months, after all, but—

“Are you doing better?”

Celine’s eyes are impossibly soft. Her head is tilted slightly. Wanting sits clearly in her expression. Rumi bites her lip, closes her mouth, and tries to think of an honest answer.

“Yes,” she finally settles on. “I just— I wanted to say that I’m sorry. For everything that’s happened. For not visiting you at all. I…”

Celine hums. “Good. Then it is my turn.” Questioning, Rumi waits, grass crunching under her boot. “I am so sorry, too, Rumi. I cannot say it enough times to make up for the way I treated you your whole life, but… I am glad you decided to visit me. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to tell you.”

Rumi’s speechless for a long while. Eventually, she says, “Anytime.”

They walk around. Celine shows her the new stepping stones up to the tree, the koi in the pond down the dirt path, the blue jays perched on the apple trees. Proof of the world continuing to spin around and around and around despite it all.

Rumi talks about the tour. The excitement surrounding it. The unease. The Honmoon, its strength impenetrable. Music, god, she loves music. It’s worth it all, for more than just the barrier between this world and the other hellish landscape.

Eventually, the sun begins to set in the distant sky, and Rumi follows Celine back on the familiar path past the tree, down the stepping stones, through the gate, back toward the road.

“I’ll visit with the girls again soon, okay?” Rumi promises with a giggle. Celine smiles and nods.

When she pulls Rumi in for a hug, she doesn’t flinch away when she pulls back and takes her in, palms on her arms, adoration deep within her eyes.

“You really are doing alright?” Celine asks.

And Rumi says Yes, because Zoey’s waiting in the car, because Mira stayed up until three in the morning with her the night prior, because the world is in the palm of her hand and she wants it to stay there, wants to breathe all the oxygen it’ll allow her to inhale, because she’s alive and wouldn’t have it any other way.