Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Okay, okay, lift it—“

“I’m lifting—“

“You need to go higher, it needs—“

“—It’s not gonna fit if we go any higher!”

“Okay, angle it, angle it to the side—“

“Which side?”

“Your side, Rumi! Angle it to the left!”

“Okay, okay, I’m about to lift it. I’m about to— one, two, three—“

“Easy, easy, easy, easy, easy—! Okay, stop, stop—“

“—I’m pulling—“

“Stop, stop, stop, stop—! Twist, just twist—!”

“I’m twisting it!”

“Okay— stop, just twist to your side, twist it— stop!”

Rumi looks over the branches, frustrated. “What do you want me to do?!”

Mira demonstrates by moving her arms and therefore moving the tree. “Just look down, just look at me— look at how I’m twisting it, look at— bend the branches if you have to! Just twist it like how I’m twisting it!”

“Okay, okay, one, two, three—!”

“No, no, no, no, no!”

“Fuck, it’s fucking bending—!”

“Just put it down! Just put it down! Just sit it down, just—“ Mira sits her end down. She huffs, hands on her hips. She makes a tch sound. “Yeah, just sit it down. Just— let’s just figure this out. Let’s just take a breather, and—“

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea, I think so,” Rumi wipes her brow. Then, looks at Zoey who’s sitting at the kitchen counter. “You were a real big help.”

She pops a couple gumdrops in her mouth. “I’m helping.”

“Yeah, by sitting there and eating all the Christmas candy—“

“—and looking cute while doing so.”

Zoey does a little pose: legs crossed and finger tap, tap, tapping on her cheek. Rumi frowns because she’s right.

Rumi doesn’t celebrate Christmas, neither does Mira. She remembers, vaguely, in her childhood, a small synthetic tree. It was barely decorated. There wasn’t even a gift underneath the tree. Celine seemed displeasured by it— emotional, perhaps?— and threw it out shortly thereafter. Rumi wonders why it was there to begin with.

Zoey keeps speaking of stockings and gumdrops and jolly elves and flying reindeer and hot chocolate and peppermint and red, green and blue— Santa Claus and traditions and roast dinners. She’s infatuated with it. They’re doing it for her.

(None of them acknowledge the elephant in the room. Zoey needs something positive to cling onto and Mira’s being eaten alive by helplessness.)

(Rumi feels bad. She always does. She shoves it down. It’s the least she can do. It’s Christmas and there’s high spirits. It’s easier to pretend everything is okay because how can you be depressed when you’re so so happy?)

Somehow, Mira managed to climb over the mountainous tree. Rumi and Zoey pretend as if they didn’t see her trip and fall while doing so. “I’m not made to do this type of work.”

Rumi raises an eyebrow. “You’re literally a demon hunter.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Mira waves her hand dismissively. “I hope you’re enjoying this Zoe, because I swear to god I’m not doing this again. I’m not doing this again, I swear.”

Zoey doesn’t bother looking up from her candies. “Oh hush, you’d do this every year if I asked.”

It’s true. Mira would do it again. She’d do it for a thousand Christmas’ if it made Zoey happy. She doesn’t like that weaponized against her. She huffs in faux annoyance.

“Is it normal to use real trees? In America, I mean?” Rumi asks, reexamining the tree predicament. It could be twisted and stuffed through but a couple branches are bound to break off. “Because this seems like a lot of work.”

“It is! That’s why it’s so fun,” Zoey says. “You’ve gotta keep up maintenance with it, but you’ve got a real tree! Like, a real, living tree! Isn’t that cool? Isn’t its essence so wonderfully Christmas?”

Rumi looks at all the pine needles littering the ground. “Yeah, just about.”

“Okay, the elevator won’t close and the tree is shedding, we’ve gotta get this thing in and on its stand or whatever—“

“Mira.” Rumi suddenly says. “Mira, don’t move.”

That makes her stiffen. “What?”

“Don’t panic,” Zoey puts up her hands like she’s calming a spooked animal. “Don’t freak out. But there’s a—“

Mira panics. She flails and swings around. She wipes herself off and rips off her jacket— her arm gets caught halfway through and she spins in a circle. She isn’t in sound mind.

“Get this fucking—!” She finally gets it off. She feels her skin shivering. “—thing off of me!”

Zoey tries not to giggle. She covers her mouth with her hand and looks away. Rumi scampers off towards her discarded jacket. “I told you not to panic!”

“There was something on me!” Mira shouts.

“You didn't even know what it was!”

“Centipede.” Rumi says.

“What?”

She’s crouched down near Mira’s jacket. She’s cupping something in her hands. “It was a centipede.”

“Oh my god—“

Rumi examines her catch. “Oh jeez, it’s a really fat one.”

Centipedes and spiders and scorpions were normal finds growing up on Jeju. Once, Celine challenged her to catch as many centipedes as possible in exchange for extra dessert. She wasn’t scared of them. But now, even in her hands, Rumi thinks it’s quite large.

Rumi smirks.

Mira’s skin is crawling. “Get that thing outta here, get it out— Rumi, I swear to god, don’t come towards me with that. Rumi.”

Rumi steps forward and Mira steps backwards. She takes the nearest object— a rolling pin— and shoves it in her girlfriend’s direction. “Rumi! Stop, stop, seriously, don’t, I’m gonna— I’m gonna take all your right shoes and throw them away.”

Rumi pouts. “You wouldn’t do that to your ruru, would you?”

“I’d do much worse. I’ll untune all your guitars.”

“Now that’s just evil.”

“We are in such Christmas spirit!” Zoey shouts.

Rumi grabs a cup and places the centipede underneath it. Mira scurries past with an ew. “This is Christmasy to you?”

“It’s nothing like a little yelling, it just adds to the atmosphere! Reminds me of Burbank,” Zoey smiles fondly. “Good times.”

“Okay, I’ve got it figured out,” Mira announces. Apparently, she’s reexamined the tree situation. “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna bend the branches forward, twist the tree to the left, then Rumi— Rumi, you’re gonna have to teleport behind the tree, then we’ll get it out. We’re making this a lot harder than it needs to be, okay?”

“Mira, are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure, I’m one hundred percent, it’s gonna slide out like—“ She snaps her fingers a couple times. “—like butter. Just like that, trust me.”

…

“Counterclockwise, Rumi! Twist it counterclockwise!”

“How can I twist it counterclockwise when you’re twisting it the other way?!”

“Counterclockwise from my side! Counterclockwise, uh, wait, hold on—“ Mira pauses, then: “—Oh, wait. You’re right, I was twisting it the wrong way.”

“I told you!”

“Okay on three, we’re gonna get this thing outta here, alright? You’re gonna push it as hard as you can. Okay, one, two, three—!”

“It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s—!”

“There we go! There we go! Yeah!” Mira exclaims. The tree slides into the hallway and completely decompresses. The elevator finally closes with a ding. “It’s in, we’ve got it!”

Zoey jumps for joy. Mira blushes, thinking: look at me, I’m so fucking smart, I’m the best; and it’s not just me saying it, my girlfriend’s saying it, too. Rumi feels like she can do anything.

“Goodness, that was a lot. Who knew it’d be that hard?”

“Well, good thing it’s over. Now we’ve just gotta find a place to sit it up.” Mira says. She approaches the furthest corner west. “I’m thinking in the corner near the kitchen, like, right next to the couch. Let’s get the tree stand and set this thing up.”

Rumi blinks.

“…What stand?”

Mira turns around slowly.

“The stand for the tree. The one they gave us after we chopped it down,” She explains. Then, she squints. “Rumi, you grabbed the stand before we left, right? You grabbed it before we drove two hours back home, right?”

Zoey looks between them. She stops chewing.

Rumi doesn’t say anything.

“Right?” Mira stresses.

Rumi scratches the back of her neck.

“… You’re never gonna believe this, Mira.”

…

“The cookies are fucked.”

“What?”

Mira removes the tray from the oven. “They’re fucked.”

The cookies— if you can call them that— are melted together into a tar-like substance that could vaguely be called food. Zoey and Rumi stand over it like they’re mourning.

“What happened?! We followed the recipe!” Zoey cries out. “We just wasted four cups of worth of flour!”

Rumi checks the recipe. “We used way too much better. It calls for one/fourth cup and we used two sticks.”

“How do you measure one/fourth with sticks of butter? It’s just ridiculous. It’s madness, actually.”

“Well maybe it is to you because you’re American.”

“Hey!”

Rumi tries scraping off the molten dough, but it’s already hardened in the short time it’s been resting and it’s impossible to get off the pan. She shrugs. They’ll have to buy a new one.

“I told you this would’ve been easier if we’d just gotten the premade—“

Zoey whips around. Mira raises her hands in surrender. “NO! That’s not the same! Is it even Christmas if there’s no fresh baked cookies? Don’t answer that because no, it isn’t.”

“It’s the sweaters. The aura shifted when we put them on. We’ve gotta—“

“No, no, you’re not getting out of wearing that, Rumi. We all agreed!”

“It itches!”

Zoey decided that in order to fully embrace the Christmas season, they’d have to dress it in Christmas fashion— ugly sweaters. Zoey wears one wrapped in (real) lights that requires a mini energy pack to light them. It seems dangerous but she doesn’t mind. Mira is an oversized elf complete with the drooping hat.

Rumi is Rudolph the nosed reindeer, of course.

She even has the antlers to match.

“Let’s start over,” Mira’s already measuring out the flour. “What’s the recipe? And read it correctly this time, thanks.”

“Okay, it’s—-“

Rumi’s phone rings. It’s an obnoxious ringtone. Zoey changed it to some outdated meme and Rumi hasn’t bothered to change it back.

“You’ve really gotta change that, Ru.”

Rumi answers and brings it to her head. “You’re the one who set?”

“I claim no bad energy,”

She rolls her eyes fondly. “Hello?”

“Hi, Rumi! It’s Bobby. How are you? How’s everything going?”

“Oh, hi Bobby. Things are.. they’re going, all right! I’m baking cookies with the girls. Y’know, Christmas and all.”

“I see, I see. I’m very sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to call and see if you’re available to talk at the office real quick? It’s urgent.”

“Oh, uh, sure. I’ll tell the girls—“

“No, no, Rumi, just you. This is private.”

Rumi raises an eyebrow.

“I understand. I’ll be there in a few.”

Zoey’s cracking eggs into the measured flour. “What’s Bobby want?”

“He wanted to speak with me in his office,” Rumi removes her apron. “He said it was urgent.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t say.” She heads towards the elevator. His office is only a few floors down. “I’m sure it won’t take long. I’ll be back as soon as possible, okay? Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“Trust me, we won’t.” Mira deadpans, realizing that Zoey’s read the recipe wrong yet again and added way too much baking powder.

…

Rumi pokes her head into the office. Though it’s Bobby’s, it’s rather barren. The wall is lined with Huntrix posters and there’s a couple synthetic plants. It’s impossibly clean and painfully white. The AC is on despite the cold weather. It reeks of disinfect.

“Hello?”

“Rumi, hi! Come in, come in,” Bobby ushers. “Would you like anything? We’ve got water, soda. A snack, maybe?”

She sits in a chair in front of his desk. “Water is fine, thank you.”

Bobby rushes towards his compartment fridge and hands her a bottle. “Also, big fan of the getup. Very jolly of you.”

Rumi realizes that she hadn’t taken off her Christmas gift patterned sweater and reindeer antlers. She doesn’t know if she cares to, really.

“It was Zoey’s idea.”

He nods. “Of course it was. If anyone was gonna do something like this, it’s her.”

“So, what’s up? Did something happen?”

“Okay, so, Rumi…” He folds his hands. He speaks casually, amicably but his tone holds seriousness.

“Your recent media appearances have established a pattern of behavior that’s causing concern amongst the fans. Now, I don’t know if you’re aware of this pattern or not— and in most cases, fan speculation is to be taken with a grain of salt— but if I’m being honest…”

He reaches underneath his desk and pulls out a folder. It’s thick with papers. He opens it but makes no effort to show Rumi the contents of the folder. Rumi finds it strange. Why even bring it up at all?

“You have been behaving a little erratically.”

Bobby admits. His voice is sympathetic yet twinged with a strange authority that Rumi’s never really heard before. Her mouth is tart. She takes a drink of water. It doesn’t help.

“Again, I don’t know if I’m misinterpreting… whatever, but it's causing unrest amongst the fans. We’ve covered up the Idol Awards incident well enough, we’ve scrubbed the Golden venue incident but, uh, there’s still been pictures floating around. There’s still audio. I think that’s the basis of the fans' concern.”

Rumi thinks back to that incident. Fainting on stage, disheveled, disoriented, surrounded by security…

She’d been so happy that night. That’s where everything spiraled. She presumes now, this is where it spirals again.

“In this folder are printouts of the concerns fans have held. Honestly, it’s pretty pointless to have printed them out but I wanted you to understand, Rumi— there’s thousands of emails.” He puts deep emphasis on the number. He looks at Rumi, digging, trying to understand something, anything. Rumi doesn’t look at him. She can’t. “I can’t stress enough that this is unusual, even for us.”

“The fans bought the publicity stunt angle for the Idol Awards but they’ve been glamouring about the venue incident. They’re unconvinced about the press statements we’ve put out. And Rumi…”

Bobby looks contemplative.

“I’m just wondering if there’s something going on that I don’t know about— not that you have to tell me! You’re entitled to your privacy, but it’s just…”

Rumi doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t look at him. She can’t. She won’t. She feels completely ashamed. This conversation feels volatile. It feels intrusive and unsafe. She swallows deeply. There’s glass in her throat.

Her patterns are purple.

If Bobby notices— which he absolutely did, there’s no way around it. Rumi wonders, vaguely, if anyone buys the whole tattoo coverup, or if Bobby knows a little more than she thinks— then he doesn’t say anything. Rumi is grateful. She can’t explain that to him.

The thought alone feels insurmountable.

Bobby makes a tut sound with his tongue. “Rumi, just— forget I’m your manager for a second here, okay? You know you can talk to me about anything, right? Anything at all?”

Rumi nods stiffly.

“And you know that I care about your wellbeing, and that I’ll do anything to help you or any of the girls, right?”

She nods.

“Okay, okay—I want you to know that, Rumi. I need you to know that.” He pauses, then, rubs the bridge of his nose in frustration. It seems more targeted at himself than anything. “Look, I don’t want to push or anything, but if something is bothering you, please, please don’t hesitate to reach out. There’s resources for you, there’s plenty of people that wanna help. I wanna help! That’s why I’m here.”

Rumi doesn’t know if it’s the paranoia or if Bobby is implying something else. It’s possible he’s simply referring to the current situation but his words are minced with something indescribable. Hurt? Longsuffering? She doesn’t know.

Bobby doesn’t tend to push. If it’s for their wellbeing, sure, he’ll ask and see if there’s anything he can do. But if they refuse downright, he keeps it at that: an open offer. Right now, he’s practically imploring her to seek her. And again, Rumi doesn't know if it’s because of fan involvement or if he senses something deeper.

Maybe because there is something deeper. It’s been something deeper for about six months now. Rumi is tired of lying.

She thinks if she doesn’t say this now, she’ll never have the confidence to say it again.

Rumi looks at him, ugly sweater and reindeer antlers and all, and says: “Y’know, I haven’t been doing too hot, actually.”

Understatement of the century.

Bobby doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t know if he doesn’t know what to say or if he’s looking expectantly— continue, he must’ve been implying.

“I’m trying not to be shitty for the holidays so I’ve been ignoring it.”

“It?”

“Everything.” I’m checked out, really.

“I understand. Thank you for talking to me— what can I do to help? Maybe a trip to take your mind off things? Should I extend the hiatus?”

“I think I should get back to work.”

Bobby smiles. “Hmm?”

“I should get back to work,” Rumi repeats. “I need to do something. I need to— what about a holiday song? I don’t know how well it’ll do in Korea but we could capture the international market—“

“Huntrix is still allowed to do photoshoots and meet and greets, but I really wouldn’t recommend any performances and new releases— and honestly, I don’t know if I’d even allow that.” Bobby says. “You’re on break, Rumi. You should relax a little!”

“Work is relaxing to me. I just need to work, y’know? I just need to fill my days with… I need to work.”

“I totally get it, but I think you really, really overwork yourself and I think you’re a little emotional these days—“

Rumi blinks. “Emotional?”

“—From my perspective! I don’t mean to offend, I’m just saying, there’s—“ Bobby carefully reconsiders his words. It’s something about his tone she doesn’t like. It’s like he knows something she doesn’t. “The hiatus is indefinite for a reason. It's there to give you time to recover and regain your bearings. You’ve had a rough few months, Rumi, it really wouldn’t hurt—“

You’ve had a rough few months and you need time to recover. You, you, you. What is he talking about? What is he saying? Why is everyone around her always talking in circles and riddles and rhymes? Does he know about the attempt? Does he know about the intervention?

They told him. They told him behind her back. Those snakes. Those—

“What did they tell you?”

Bobby looks taken aback. “Excuse me?”

Rumi stands abruptly. The chair slides backwards with an ear-piercing scrape.

“Mira and Zoey, what did they tell you?” She reiterates. She leans over his desk. “What did they tell you? What did they say?!”

Bobby put his hands up in surrender. He looks every shade of shocked.

“…I don’t know if they were supposed to tell me anything, but they haven’t, so I’m sorry. I— I really don’t know what you’re referring to.”

A beat. Rumi shrinks into herself. What is she doing? She’s standing here screaming like a banshee at Bobby of all people. Her face reddens. She picks the chair up and sits. One deep breath, two, three, and she’s well enough.

“I’m sorry, Bobby. I’m sorry for shouting.” She murmurs.

He recovers relatively quickly. “Hey, it’s water under the bridge. Don’t worry about it.” His expression melts into softness. “But you do realize that that really didn’t help squash the worries I’ve had, do you?”

She frowns.

“…I’m realizing that now, yes.”

“Look, Mira and Zoey haven’t told me anything about your personal life. The only thing they’ve told me about is that if one of them is out of commission, then all of them are out of commission. I haven’t been told anything else.”

The explanation brings her the slightest comfort.

“And— switching back to my managerial position here— your wellbeing comes first. I don’t recommend you going back onstage and I won’t allow it. I’m sorry, but it’s not happening. Not unless all of Huntrix consent to it.”

Rumi relents, defeated. “I understand.”

“I’ll handle the fans and the media, just— please take care of yourself, Rumi. I care about you, everyone cares about you. I don’t want you hurting yourself.” Through overworking, is what he’s saying. Rumi still can’t help but feel his words are double-sided.

She rubs her eyes. She wasn't crying, but she felt like she needed to do something with her hands. “Right… right, you’re right, I’ll— I’ll take it easy.”

“You want me to book you guys a spa day? I can totally book you guys a spa day. Private theater? Hotpot?”

Rumi stands and walks towards the door. She isn’t satisfied but she’d quite like this conversation to end eventually. “I’m good, I’m good. Thank you.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure. Well, actually, no— I’ll think about the hotpot. Thank you, Bobby.”

“It’s no problem. Get some rest, okay? Enjoy yourself.” Bobby waves. “Oh! And happy holidays!”

…

Rumi walks into the penthouse. There’s music coming elsewhere— presumably Zoey’s room. It sounds festive enough. They’re talking. She hears them. The music is just loud enough to cover the conversation. Rumi wonders if it’s intentional or not.

The living room is nice. It’s decorated thoroughly. There isn’t an inch left uncovered by tinsel, lights and trinkets. It isn’t overwhelming, it’s just enough. It isn’t a perfectionists’ dream but it isn’t haphazard. It’s well-strung together, lovingly arranged with red, blues and greens. It’s familiar. Oh! That’s what it is. Familiar.

There’s cookies on the counter. They’re for her, aren’t they? Rumi picks one up— they’re still warm— and takes a bite. She hums. They’re white chocolate macadamia nut. Her eyebrows furrow. That’s one of her favorites.

Rumi is the only one who likes that combination. Mira goes on and on about how disgusting white chocolate is and Zoey isn’t a fan of peanuts in general. But when she left, they were making chocolate chip cookies; it isn’t as if Bobby’s office is across town. It’s literally downstairs.

Had Mira and Zoey known she was leaving and hurried and prepared her favorite cookie?

Rumi takes another bite. It’s soft but crispy around the edges. That’s just how she likes them. They’ve even remembered her cookie wellness preference.

She takes the plate and sits at the dining table. The Christmas music fades into nothingness and another plays. While Rumi can’t understand the English lyrics all that well, it sounds sultry, provocative, yet calm and comforting. It feels like Christmas.

Rumi stares off. There’s an elf on the shelf. Who put that elf on the shelf? It’s right by the flour, where one wouldn’t instantly see it. Who put that there? Was it Zoey? Of course it was Zoey. She shouldn’t have thought otherwise. It’s got a reindeer companion. How ridiculous. Its beady eyes are staring into her soul.

Elf on the shelf, tinsel, reindeers. Santa Claus, jingle bells, red, blue and green.

Rumi chokes on a sob.

She covers her face. Her breath is shaky and her shoulders are shuddering. Her cries deliberate momentarily, she uncovers her face and glances towards the cookies. It isn’t so much sobbing as it is weeping.

Rumi doesn’t know why she’s crying.

She takes another bite.

She thinks, through the tears, that they could use some milk.

“Rumi?”

Rumi stops moving. Zoey and Mira are standing at the end of the kitchen. What is she supposed to say? To do? This doesn’t look good. She’s sitting there crying and eating cookies. It’s embarrassing if anything.

Rumi wipes away her tears. She steels herself, ignores the shakiness of her breath and the tremble in her hands. She swallows thickly and smiles.

“Hey, girls, hey,” Her voice is quiet— if she speaks any louder, it’ll break. “I see you’ve finished the cookies. Thank you for making macadamia. They’re my favorite.”

Mira nods. “Yeah, yeah, of course, no problem,” She pauses, then. “Are you… okay?”

Rumi looks like she doesn’t know how to respond for a moment. She blinks rapidly, shakes her head. “Yes, yes, I’m okay, love, I’m okay. I’ve just… I've talked to Bobby.”

“What did he want?” Zoey asks, pulling a chair beside Rumi. She goes to hold her hands but Rumi instinctively pulls away, wiping her face, covering her face.

“It wasn’t anything too urgent, just some social media stuff. It's okay.”

Mira presses. “Social media stuff? What kind of social media—“

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” Her voice is tight. “it’s okay. It wasn’t anything important. It wasn’t anything.”

Mira sneaks behind her. Long, slender arms wrap around her shoulders and Rumi feels them shudder. Don’t cry, she tells herself, don’t you dare break further.

“It’s something if it’s bothering you,” She speaks so softly in that voice that’s only reserved for them. “You can tell us.”

Zoey rubs her thigh. Mira plants a kiss on the top of Rumi’s ear. Rumi shakes her head.

“No, no, I can’t, I can’t, I…” the breath she releases is shaky. “I don’t want to ruin everything."

Zoey frowns. “Christmas? No, you wouldn’t—“

“No, no, I can’t talk about it. I can’t. Not right now,” Rumi insists. “Not right now.”

It’s quiet.

“Okay,” Mira eventually says. She doesn’t sound satisfied. “Okay, yeah, of course. I understand.”

“I’ll talk about it later, I promise—“

“We know, Rumi,” Zoey unintentionally interrupts. She squeezes her thigh. “We know.”

Rumi doesn’t like this. She wants to but she can’t.

“Let’s go out,” She abruptly stands. Her voice is suddenly rejuvenated. Mira steps backwards. They’re both taken aback. “Let’s go do something— the tree could use more ornaments, yeah? We could use some stuff for dinner, too, I think. Let’s do that, let’s— let’s take back the day, okay? The day isn’t over, this didn’t ruin anything…”

Zoey’s eyebrows furrow. “It didn’t, Rumi. We promise it didn’t.”

Rumi stands with her hands folded in front of her. “Mira, Zoey, will you go out with me?” She says. “To the store, I mean.”

They exchange looks. The current song ends and another begins.

“Uh, sure, sure, yeah, I’ll indulge you.” Indulge? That’s an odd word. Rumi wouldn’t say it’s indulgement, yeah? What’s Mira talking about? Rumi stares at her. Mira stares back.

“We’re gonna go get dressed—“ She motions towards the bedrooms.

“Yeah, yeah, you go, I’ll just—“ Rumi sits back down casually. Her leg jitters. “Wait here.”

It’s quiet. They want to say something. They don’t. They retreat to their respective bedrooms. They’ll have this talk later.

…

Shopping is one of the few things Rumi still finds enjoyment in.

To her, it’s mindless. All you’ve got to do is look around and pick it up and buy it. It’s simple and there’s hundreds, thousands of things to look at. It’s distracting in the best way. Zoey and Mira seem to agree but for different reasons.

Zoey and Rumi are wandering around the Christmas section. Mira’s on the other side of the store searching for ingredients for dinner. Zoey’s been complaining about the commercialization of Christmas for the past twenty minutes.

“There’s a reason holiday decorations from the 80s and 90s still hold up—They’re made with love—handmade, mind you— and they’ve got this aura of coziness about it. Why the HELL— excuse me, sorry, we’re in the Christmas section— why on earth would I want a cheaply made, LED reindeer to sit in my living room around my rustic fireplace? It doesn’t make sense. It’s ridiculous. It’s just lunacy.”

Rumi’s listening, nodding along. Sometimes she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. That’s okay. She likes listening to Zoey, anyway.

They’re walking and they’re holding hands. Rumi doesn’t like public affection. At least, not overt affection. Zoey understands. But still, she holds her hand. Rumi doesn’t know why. It’s comforting this way. It feels less likely to be approached.

They haven’t been outside much throughout their hiatus. Their fans are restless. The hotpot social media post didn’t exactly help. They’ve been clamoring for updates specifically regarding Rumi because apparently her behavior is “concerning” and “worrisome.”

It also doesn’t help that she’s cut half her hair off.

It also doesn’t help that there’s someone following them.

Okay, Rumi doesn’t know if they’re necessarily following her, exactly. There’s just coincidentally been the same two men trailing behind them. They’ve been shopping. They’ve got a cart. But they’ve been talking. She doesn’t know what they’re talking about. They’re in her general direction. One has a bag slung over his shoulder.

She feels paranoid. She is being overdramatic, presumably. If Zoey didn’t notice anything and Zoey is very, very perceptive, then it’s probably okay.

“—Rumi? Are you listening? Hellooo, Rumi?”

Rumi blinks. “Huh?”

“I said how do you feel about being Rudolph for the Christmas pictures?”

Christmas pictures? Who said anything about Christmas pictures? If she’s Rudolph, who’s Santa?

“Uh, yeah, sure,” She says absentmindedly. “Do I have to paint my nose red?”

Zoey looks at her and laughs as if that’s negotiable.

Rumi focuses on the shopping aspect of the trip. Christmas decorations. Ornaments, tinsel, red, blue, green. Think of Christmas and Zoey’s smiling face. Think of decorating the tree they’ve worked so hard to lug in. Think about going home. Think about—

Wait, she thinks, what’s this?

Rumi squints at the ornaments. Pink, purple and black. They’ve got little accessories— microphones, songbooks and a guitar— and it’s poorly painted and clearly 3D printed on a whim. The resemblance is unmistakable. It’s them. It’s Huntrix.

They’re labeled under Superstar Pop Idol ornaments in an effort to avoid copyright infringement. The art on the box is artificially generated and shows little cartoon spoofs of them.

She thinks, no matter how long they’ve been in the public eye, it’s still weird seeing merchandise of yourself.

Rumi’s nose wrinkles.

“Oh my god, they trapped us inside ornaments. How crazy, how scandalous.” Zoey gasps rather dramatically. “How will Huntrix ever escape this one?”

“Technically it’s superstar pop idols, so we don’t have to worry about any of that.” Rumi murmurs. “Can’t believe they’ve stolen our likeness for bad Christmas ornaments.”

“They literally look nothing like us,” She’s mesmerized. “I’m gonna buy ‘em.”

“Seriously?”

“Mira would love these. You know she likes stupid shit like this and it looks like the charms on her norigae.” Zoey looks at the lopsided, poorly painted smiles of the ornaments. “Well, kinda.”

“But look at it! They’ve smushed your face in and they forgot my patterns.”

“I dunno…” She points at the label in the corner of the box. Sold together. Do not separate. “I’d say they’re pretty accurate.”

Rumi looks her way. She smiles.

…

“These are so shit,” Mira declares upon seeing the knockoff ornaments. “I love it.”

Zoey nudges Rumi. “I told you!”

“It just feels unethical.” Rumi reasons, amused. “Like, it just feels wrong on every level.”

“It’s only unethical if you make it unethical,” Mira says. Whatever that means. “They’re going on the tree front and center, so it’s the first thing you see.”

Rumi scratches her neck, tugs her hood further onto her head. “This is a hell you can’t really replicate.”

They’re walking through a park. It isn’t very crowded. It’s large enough that the amount of people evenly distribute themselves. Mira is carrying all the bags— she insisted, even when offered help— but she’s regretting parking so far. It’s starting to make her hands hurt.

“We should’ve hired a chauffeur,” she complains. Her breath is frothy in the cold. “Bobby’s gonna have a heart attack knowing we’re just walking around all naked.”

Naked = without security. Rumi huffs in amusement. “I wouldn’t describe it like that.”

“We’re naked, we’ve got no protection,” Mira’s voice softens in playfulness. “We’re super popular Kpop Idols and we’re out here all alone like kicked puppies.”

“You’re the only kicked puppy here. Look at your hands, they’re shaking holding all those bags.”

“No they’re not.” Yes, they are.

Rumi smiles. She takes a bag out of Mira’s hand and lessens the pressure. She smiles gratefully. “Thanks.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Their company issued car is in the distance. The snow crunches beneath their feet. Mira looks at Rumi. She wants to say something. Rumi knows she wants to say something. She hopes Mira doesn’t. It’s a strange silence. It isn't awkward or uncomfortable. Just strange.

Rumi opens her mouth—

Something collides with the back of her head. Both Rumi and Mira are taken aback.

“Ouch,” She says, more out of shock than anything. She turns around. “Zoey?”

No wonder she’s been suspiciously quiet. She’s been rolling snowballs. Zoey reels backwards and throws another. “Think fast.”

It hits Rumi’s chest. “Hey, what—!”

“Can’t dodge a snowball? And you’re supposed to be our leader? We’re screwed.” Zoey taunts.

The air stills. Mira’s head snaps between Zoey’s horrified realization and Rumi’s undereadable neutrality. She thinks, goddamn it, Zoey, too far.

Zoey knows. She backtracks immediately. “Rumi, hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“

A snowball promptly collides with her face.

Zoey stumbles backwards in surprise. She sputters and wipes away the snow.

Rumi is smiling. It’s a genuine, eye crinkling smile. In her hand is another snowball and Zoey thinks that smile could melt it.

“Call yourself the fastest and can’t dodge a snowball?”

She reels backwards and launches it right at Zoey’s kidney. It’s scary accuracy. She’s made a big mistake.

“Ow!” Zoey squeals, then giggles. Rumi throws another one right at her shoulder. “Hey! No! Stop!”

“You started this!” Rumi’s already crouched down to scoop more. “I’m finishing it!”

Zoey instinctively ducks and scrambles away. She giggles, rolls her own snowball, and yelps whenever it falls apart mid-throw. Mira— having abandoned their shopping bags on the ground— chides her poor craftsmanship, forming her own snowball and rolling it forward; the basis of a snowman.

The snowball fight continues and Rumi’s laughing. She’s laughing. She’s enjoying herself. It feels genuine. When’s the last time that’s happened? When’s the last time she enjoyed herself? Since…?

Well, it’s best not to think about that right now.

After Rumi snipes Zoey for the seventh consecutive time, she decides no, enough is enough, and tackles Rumi to the ground. They land in a heap of limbs and giggles. Zoey realizes that their position is a little precarious— she’s practically straddling Rumi— and they’re in the middle of the park, but to her, none of that matters.

All that matters is Rumi, her smile, and just how beautiful it looks.

The moment doesn’t last long. Mira dumps snow on their heads and they both sputter. Rumi takes this as an opportunity to shove Zoey off, revenge for the tackle. Zoey shakes her hair free of snow similar to how a dog would.

“Sorry to interrupt your romcom moment but we’re kinda in public,” Mira deadpans. Her expression tells a different story. It’s pure, unadulterated love. “Wanna help me finish the snowman?”

The three of them make quick work. They roll two more snowballs into progressively smaller chunks and stack. Zoey places sticks for arms and Rumi is confident about the acorn eye placement. (“I’m really good at this sorta thing!”)

All in all, it’s slightly lopsided, and the bottom is a little too heavyset, but it’s theirs and it’s amazing. Zoey names him Snowy.

Mira rubs her chin. “Something isn’t right,” she reaches into one of the shopping bags, pulls out a carrot, and shoves it in his face. “Much better.”

“He’s so handsome!” Zoey says, arm tangled around each of her girlfriends. “What a guy!”

Honeydew light falls on the park. The dying light gives everything a sense of warmth, and Rumi’s face looks just a little warmer than usual.

…

…

Wait.

Rumi glances over. Towards the tree in the distance. Two men loitering. They’re looking in their general direction. It seems too direct and too focused to be coincidental, and they should’ve been long abandoned at the supermarket they visited.

“Is that them?” Rumi murmurs, disbelieving. “Those guys from earlier?”

The two men don’t seem to acknowledge that she is clearly looking at them. One is holding a camera and the other a notepad. That bag. Rumi recognizes it now. It’s a camera bag.

Paparazzi.

“What guys?” Mira asks. She’d like to believe that she’s more perceptive than her counterparts but currently, it must’ve rang false.

“Have they been following us?” Rumi says, speaking to herself more than anything. “Have they followed us?”

“Who?”

“They’ve been following us, they've been following us this whole time,” She begins towards them. It’s a slow, steady trudge that progresses with each step. “They must think I’m dumb. They must think I’m fucking stupid!”

She rushes forward. The photographer stumbles backwards, offguard, while his partner scrampers away. The photographer sputters, “Wait, wait, Rumi, we’re just—“ and is shoved onto the ground.

Rumi grabs his collar. He looks confused, bewildered— most importantly, hungry for the outburst. “What are you doing, huh? What’re you doing? Is this some kind of game you’re playing? You think this is some kind of game?”

The photographer doesn’t say anything, just looks at her open-mouthed, like he can’t believe it. She shoves him again, lifts him up by the collar in a freakish display of strength. She doesn’t know if it’s from pure adrenaline or her training or some strange demon thing she doesn’t know about.

“Hey!” Zoey pulls on her shoulders. “Rumi, stop! Let him go!”

People are staring. They’re staring and they’re recording. They’re talking amongst themselves. A few stragglers seem to contemplate intervening but they’re clueless as to how to approach the situation. To Rumi, they’re simply blobs and shapes. A headless beast.

“Stop following me! Stop fucking following me!” She screams. His partner yells, “Kun-woo!” but doesn’t attempt to help. “Leave me alone! Don’t come near me! Don’t you dare come near me! Don’t you dare!”

“Rumi, stop! Come on, come on, let’s go!”

“And take your—“ She hurls the camera and it shatters on impact with the concrete. “—fucking camera!”

“You don’t do that to people! You’re not supposed to do that to people!” She isn’t shouting at anyone in particular, just— the crowd. The amalgamation. “You have no idea what I’ve been going through! You have no idea— you’ve got no right to judge me!”

“That’s enough, Rumi, that’s enough!” Mira hooks her arm around Rumi’s and drags her away. “Come on, come on, in the car!”

She begrudgingly relents, practically throwing herself into the passenger seat. Mira steps on the gas and speeds off. They should’ve had a personal driver. They know they should’ve had a personal chauffeur. It was customary for a reason. But— whether or not it’s hopeful ignorance or just pure stupidity— they thought maybe this time, this one time, they’d be okay.

Apparently not.

Zoey’s already on the phone with Bobby. She’s frantic and Bobby isn’t any better. He’s loud on the receiver; worried shouts of what’s the situation? and where are you? and are you guys safe? and Rumi did what?!

Rumi wants to shout I didn’t do anything! I defended myself! But she doesn’t want to risk sounding more unstable than she already is. She breathes deep, heaving breaths. One, two, three. It doesn’t work. She wants to scream. She won’t.

Her patterns are purple. The iridescent they’re usually flushed have long since disappeared.

Mira hasn’t said anything. Her gaze is regulated to the road and the front and side mirrors. Rumi glances over and can’t make out her expression. It isn’t neutral, but it isn’t angered, either. It’s tense, but not necessarily stressed. Rumi doesn’t know what she’s thinking.

It’s quiet. Her phone is buzzing. The internet is breaking. She’s trending worldwide. The bigwigs probably want her dead. Bobby’s hair is graying. Celine is somewhere shaking her head. Zoey asks “did you have to break his camera?” and Mira looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

Rumi pulls out her phone and opens Twitter.

stream golden! @ryurumiofficial

ABSOLUTE TRAVISTY at SEUNGGAM PARK!!!! SHIT REPORTERS (KYS) HARASS ME (GREATEST OF ALL TIMEand it’s not just me saying it other people say it!) and I’m building snowmen!!!!CAMERAS ARE EVERYWHERE. cameras record you and that’s suddenly okay? cameras? hahahaha!! right! A

stream golden! @ryurumiofficial

CLASSIC PAPARAZZI. USING MY LIKENESS AT A VERY DISTRESSING TIME FOR RECOGNITION. UTTERLY DISGRACEFUL SHIT HAPPENING AT SEUNGGAM PARK.

stream golden! @ryurumiofficial

All my fans at seunngam park. Kill those guys. I’m not joking. Everyone kill those guys

“Are you tweeting?” Mira asks. Her tense expression is replaced with incredulity, then anger, then incredulity again.

Rumi doesn’t say anything.

She sticks out her hand. “Give me the phone now.”

Rumi shields away. “No.”

She reaches over. “Give me the phone!”

“No!”

stream golden! @ryurumiofficial

JAJBSN*~%^| KANSB:$:8)/ab

“Give me the fucking phone!” Mira growls. She’s promptly met with Rumi’s hand shoving her face away. Zoey looks mystified in the backseat. “Grab it! Zoey, grab it!”

Zoey— who’s still on the phone with Bobby— lunges forward and tries prying the cellphone out of Rumi’s fingers and she protests and squirms.

“Stop! Let go—!”

Bobby’s yelling something: scandals, scandals, scandals! Girls, girls, girls! Keep peace, keep peace!

“Rumi, just give us the phone!” Zoey struggles. “Why is she so freakishly strong?”

stream golden! @ryurumiofficial

&:&:723KbshsusuGWEYQ …

There’s horns honking. The phone finally slips from Rumi’s hand. She barks, “What are you doing?!” The Honmoon ripples. Zoey has butterfingers and drops the cellphone. Bobby’s in her ear— what’s happening?! Girls, please just let me know what’s going on!

Mira’s heartbeat is in her ears. She’s stopped at a green light. The car behind her honks. She presses the gas pedal, the car jerks forward—

“Woah, woah, Mira, watch out!”

The brakes screech. The car abruptly stops. She almost, almost collides with the car in front of her. If anything, it lightly scrapes the back license plate. Rumi grips the overhead passenger handle to steady herself. Everyone goes quiet.

Bobby cuts through the silence. He isn’t on speaker but the girls can hear clearly: “What was that? Is everything okay? Zoey, someone— answer me, please!”

Mira doesn’t say anything. She tries schooling her face back into neutrality but can’t. She stares at Rumi and Rumi doesn’t look at her. She stares straight forward. She closes her eyes and stares forward.

Zoey glances at Mira in the rear view mirror. She expects rage. She doesn’t see it. Mira is smiling. It’s the ghost of a smile. Her eyes are steely. There’s tears in them.

Mira points a finger in Rumi’s direction. “You,” she chuckles and it’s humorless. “You are unbelieveable.”

She reverses and pulls into the next lane.

Rumi swallows thickly.

Zoey doesn’t say anything. Rumi definitely doesn’t say anything. A moment passes.

Zoey presses the phone to her ear. “Can I call you back, Bobby?”

Chapter Text

When they enter the apartment, Bobby’s already inside. He pockets his phone that’s currently raging and tentatively greets them.

“Girls,” He breathes out. “I’m so glad you made it home safe.”

Bobby doesn’t ask if everything’s okay because it isn’t. It clearly isn’t. He isn’t stupid. They’re worse for wear— especially Rumi, who’s being practically puppeteered to stay upright— and asking if they’re doing okay isn’t something that’s needed.

Mira adjusts her glasses. “We’re sorry, Bobby. We didn’t mean to make you worry. Things got—“

“Hey, hey, don’t worry about that, okay? I’m just glad you’re all here where it’s safe.” Bobby says. His phone says otherwise. “I boosted security in the penthouse. Any floor above the thirty-fourth requires a keycard, so they’ll patrol the floors below. They’ll let me know if anything suspicious happens and they’ll keep everyone safe.”

He put emphasis on the safety features. Rumi catches on. He’s trying to comfort her.

“What about the posts? What about—“

“They’ve been deleted, don’t worry about it.”

“Bobby…” Mira trails off.

“Please, girls; I’ve got everything figured out. It’s under control. Please, please don’t worry about it.” He sounds exasperated. He runs his fingers through his hair. “But… I do recommend staying off social media for the foreseeable future.”

A collective nod. It’s quiet. The atmosphere is unbearable. It’s the equivalent of a clinical retreat. They’ve reached a boiling point: they’ve got to address the situation— they’ve got to address the Rumi problem.

Bobby is looking at her. He’s smiling and it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He steps forward and opens his arms. A wordless invitation.

Rumi rests her head against his shoulder. He squeezes her tightly. Her eyes burn. She closes them. A moment later, another pair of arms wrap around them. Then another. Zoey and Mira. They don’t speak. They’ve got nothing to say.

A sniffle, two, three. She can’t discern who it’s coming from.

Eventually they break away. Bobby gives her a few sturdy pats between the shoulderblades. He gestures towards the table and Rumi nods, yeah, sure. The conversation is inevitable. She’d rather be anywhere but here, anywhere at all.

She briefly considers teleporting, but what’ll that do besides… what? Annoy everyone? It’s happening either way. It’s not anything worth fighting.

Zoey— who’s been otherwise quiet— busies herself in the kitchen. She looks through cabinets, ignores the way the tinsel draped around the doors wrinkles and strains, and retrieves a kettle, mugs.

“Do you want something to drink?” She directs towards Bobby. “Water, or…?”

“Water is fine, thank you—“

“We’ve got tea. Do you want tea? Hibiscus, it’ll warm you up.”

“Actually yeah, that sounds good. Thank you.”

“There’s candies and cookies in the container. I think we’ve got chocolates in the fridge. Actually, what about hot chocolate? I can make you some—

“Zoey, it’s okay, I’m fine with the tea! You don’t have to go out of your way—“

“It isn’t out of my way, it’s actually pretty simple—“

Mira steps forward. “Zoey, hey, you—“

There’s shuffling. Zoey whispers, please just let me have this and Mira doesn’t say anything else. She comes and sits besides Rumi. Her expression is strained.

There isn’t anything said. Bobby is glancing between them and his cellphone that’s raging. His face is contemplative. Undoubtedly, he’s planning his approach. His girls are like startled animals. One wrong thing and he’ll scare them away.

“You’re all worse for wear,” He eventually says. “We need to talk, but… should I come back later?”

Mira and Zoey protest, waving hands dismissively, frantically.

“No, no, no, we’re fine—“

“No, no, stay, you don’t have to go—“

“Let’s just, y’know, let’s just—“

“I’m making the hot chocolate. It won’t take long, it won’t take long at all—!”

“Girls, hey, hey,” Bobby placates. “It’s okay, I won’t leave. I’ll stay right here, okay? We’ll talk and— sorry, phone call, I can’t ignore this one. I’m sorry. I’ll make it quick.”

He answers. He barely says “hello” before screaming blares through. It’s loud and the phone isn’t even on speaker. He says okay, okay, yes I understand and no, I don’t know what happened exactly but I’ll get the details and get back to you before he hangs up abruptly.

A whisk scraps against a metal pot. Bobby gets another phone call, then another, then another. Apologies, blanketed statements and interruptions. Chocolate chopped on a cutting board. Another phone call. Mira staring at her hands. Rumi staring into nothingness.

Another call and Bobby finally puts his foot down— no, we’re not doing this. The company is releasing PR statements while we figure out the situation, please do not— and then he clams up, shuts his mouth, and murmurs a really? I see, thank you before hanging up.

The muted flicker of flames on the stovetop. Rumi spares a glance. Bobby’s expression is steeled. There’s a level of seriousness Rumi’s never, ever seen from him. She doesn’t look again. She closes her eyes.

A deep breath. “Rumi—“

The tea kettle whistles.

“Who’s ready for tea?” Zoey asks, abandoning the milk momentarily. Mira stands to help— “Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ll get it, it’s fine, I’ll get it.”

She prepares three cups even if only Bobby asked for tea. She delivers them, ignores the way a steaming droplet splashes on her hand, and nurses the stovetop mixture.

None of them drink the tea.

Bobby merely uses it to warm his hands. He clears his voice. His voice is quiet. “Rumi, do you know what you’ve done?”

She doesn’t respond. Bobby reconsiders his approach.

“Do you understand the magnitude of what you’ve done?”

Whisk scraping against a pot. Mira’s fingers drumming against the table.

“I’m not asking you this to scare you. I’m asking you this because I’m worried that you aren’t of sound mind and that you don’t understand the full extent of what’s currently happening.”

Rumi shakes her head pensively. “I was defending myself. I was defending myself from the paparazzi.”

Bobby frowns. He hates this. He hates this so much.

“They weren’t paparazzi.”

Everyone snaps their head towards him. Rumi’s stomach drops to the floor. Bobby takes a large swallow of tea, perhaps to distract himself, perhaps something else.

“They were tourists. We located them and spoke with them. We were able to extract the pictures from their camera. They’re just— they were taking pictures of the scenery. There’s a few offhanded captures of you all but they’re unfocused and bleeding into the background—“

“They were— they were looking at me, they were— they were staring. They had a camera—“

“Taking pictures, Rumi, please understand—“

“They were following me, they were— they were following me in the store, they were there, I saw them—“

“The supermarket and the park weren’t that far apart, it was just a coincidence, Rumi. Just a coincidence, okay?”

“I’m not dangerous,” Rumi says abruptly. “I’m— I’m not violent.”

“You’re not, we know you’re not, this was just a… really, really bad moment.” Bobby says. “This isn’t indicative of anything.”

It is. It’s indicative of everything. This is the worst case scenario: publicly exposing yourself and tarnishing the reputation you’ve worked so hard to maintain.

Absent-mindedly, she thinks, oh no, I’m being ground up in the machine.

Then, a realization. I am the machine.

Mira rubs at her eyes underneath her glasses. Then, she leaves her hands there— she slumps forward, elbows propped up, and hands covering her face, and Rumi wonders if it’s from frustration, shame, distress, or a combination of the three.

Whisk scraping against a pot.

“I’ve ruined everything.”

Bobby looks sympathetic. “The situation is bad, yes.”

“I thought they were paparazzi.”

“I know, I know…”

“What was I thinking?”

“Do you remember our talk from earlier?” Bobby parrots. “The offer still stands. You can always talk to us and if you don’t want to, hey, that’s okay, too— there’s excellent mental health services just downstairs. I can book you an appointment—“

“No,” Rumi snaps. “Uh, I’m— no, no, just—“

Mira’s hands slam against the table. It startles Rumi and Bobby, but Zoey, still whisking, doesn’t even flinch.

“Are you kidding me? Did you just say—“ her hands card through her hair, against her eyes, anything, everything. “—no?”

“Mira, please, I know emotions are high—“

“You can’t say no! There isn’t anymore room for no’s! Not after you attack bystanders, not after a suicide attempt!”

“A what?” Bobby asks, scandalous. “Rumi, is that— is that true?”

“You’ve got to work with us, Rumi, please!” Mira furiously rubs her eyes. They’re red, misty. “I know you’re trying, I know you’re trying so hard, but we are too! This is an input output thing— you do your part and we’ll do ours!”

“Is this why you’ve been extending the hiatus? Rumi, when did this happen?”

“Please, my goodness, let’s not talk about this!”

“Is that your catchphrase? “Let’s not talk about this”, “let’s not talk about that”—“

“I don’t want to hear about it! I don’t even want to think about it! I just want it all to stop!”

A sniffle. Then another, then another. The whisking continues. Rumi’s upset fizzles away. Bobby looks distraught. Mira looks regretful.

“I’m sorry,” Zoey says, weeping convulsively. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

The heat is turned off. Hot chocolate— overmixed, scorched and bubbling— is poured into mugs. Her hands are quivering so badly it spills over the rim repeatedly. She delivers the drinks, mumbles sorry, I forgot the whipped cream, and grabs that, too.

She decides no, this isn’t enough, and takes the rest of the chocolate and a handheld grater. Mira takes her hands and gingerly removes the chocolate, the grater— Zoey weakly protests, her eyes glances between the mugs, the stovetop, Mira, Bobby, and only when they land on Rumi does she completely break down.

Rumi opens her eyes and stares.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t stand from her seat. She doesn’t even approach them. She sits and stares, makes a face, watches as heaving, harrowing sobs tear through Zoey. Eventually, she breaks from Mira’s arms and heads off to the backrooms.

Mira is lost. She doesn’t know what to say. She leaves too— presumably to chase after Zoey— and Rumi feels…

Bobby, thoroughly grief-stricken, swallows deeply, and focuses on what he could possibly say to ease the situation.

Sitting at the table, Rumi looks at her surroundings; Christmas tree, reindeers, red, blue and green, and she wonders, when did everything get so bad?

…

Bobby’s left. The executives are beating on him. He promised he’d be back— quickly! He exclaimed before rushing out— but it’s been hours, the sun’s set, and there’s no sign of him returning.

Celine has called her no less than a dozen times. The news inevitably reached her, being CEO and all. Rumi didn’t answer. And when Mira knocked on her own bedroom door— because Rumi isn’t allowed in her own, not with a balcony— and told her that Celine’s been calling her, she doesn’t answer that, either.

Rumi, standing near the wall, head resting against it, feels conflicted.

Threads of light weave themselves out of nothingness. A moment passes, her saingeom summons itself and, rather through reflexes or pure instinctive nature, she catches it before it clatters to the ground. The man inside looks appreciative.

“Hey, pea brain,” Jinu greets. “How’s it going?”

Rumi looks at him. He knows the answer.

“So, have you finally found your answer?”

She resists the urge to groan. Everyone, everyone, always speaking in circles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The answer to your question,” Jinu reiterates. “You asked “should I stay?” that night. Do you know the answer?”

That night at Celine’s compound, lounging in a kiddie pool contemplating life. Watermelon slices, ants, the stars…

Rumi knows the answer. “I don’t like it.”

“When you’ve been deadset on one thing for years, it’s hard to suddenly shift your goals,” Rumi frowns. What is this guy, a fucking philsopher? “But, if I’m honest, I can’t understand how you don’t see what I see.”

“And what is it you see?”

“I see people who’ll scorch the earth if it means you believed for even a second that you’re loved by them.” He states. “This girls’ll do anything for you.”

“But why?!” Rumi shouts, stepping dangerously close to her saingeom. “Why try so hard? Why haven’t they given up? Haven’t they realized that I’m a lost cause? What is my life even worth to them?!”

Jinu finds her whole line of reasoning impossible to believe. “What’s their lives worth to you?”

Rumi wants to snap stop talking in riddles, stop trying to psyche me out! But finds herself unable to respond. She stares at Jinu, patterns flared and all, and for once, she doesn’t have a rebuttal.

The answer is obvious, isn’t it?

Tight on her face, torn between conflicting choices, or realizing that there’s no choice, or that there’s only ever been one chance, Rumi closes her eyes, takes a deep breathe, and goes—

“My goodness.”

She sits down. Her saingeom comes closer. Jinu, reflective in the blade, eyes her. He watches as something snaps in her eyes. He doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t point it out. The moment is quiet, fragile, if he says anything it’ll surely break.

Abruptly she stands. Rumi murmurs something so quietly Jinu can’t hear. Then, she leaves the room.

“…You’re welcome!” Jinu calls after her.

…

Zoey doesn’t know what to say when Rumi suddenly steps into her room and closes the door.

The lights are off. There’s only a desktop lamp illuminating the space and Zoey, vaguely, understands how intrusive that feels. Rumi is like an apparition standing there. She lingers near the door, near the darkness, and watches her, almost inquisitively, as if she doesn’t know why she’s here. Had she heard her weeping?

Zoey sits up. Rumi watches her. She doesn’t bother saying anything. What would she even say? I’m sorry? There isn’t anything to apologize for, isn’t it?

No, Zoey doesn’t fault Rumi for this— none of this. That’s just a thing that happens, isn’t it?

Rumi swallows. She’s looking at the floor now. “Hi, Zo.”

Zoey smiles, pretends like she isn’t hurt. “Hey, Ruru.”

She’s in an introspective mood. She says nothing for several moments.

“I’m sorry if I scared you earlier.” She takes a step forward. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay.”

It’s a lie. Zoey isn’t okay. She feels helpless.

“Lonely?” Rumi asks.

Zoey doesn’t say anything. Rumi looks down and sighs. Quietly, she admits—

“I am.”

Circling, coming around her, watching, contemplating. Her demeanor— unwavering— feels foreign yet familiar. The Rumi of old. This is the woman Zoey loves. She feels like cornered prey.

“I love Mira and I love you. I love you two so much. Sometimes, I look at the both of you and it makes me question everything.”

Zoey wonders what that everything meant. Did she mean suicidality? Or the concept of existing itself?

Rumi’s eyes evaluate hers. The arch of her path narrows; she’s closer now. Her face is tortured.

“Why can’t I let something good happen to me for once? Why is that? What stage of self-loathing is this?”

It’s quiet. Zoey realizes— in muted surprise— that there’s a lucidity behind Rumi’s actions, her words. Its clarity. It’s as if she’s finally, finally had an epiphany. A breakthrough.

“Sabotage.” Zoey says. “It’s something called self-sabotage.”

Rumi slows to consider her.

“What am I doing? I know it’s wrong. I know I’m stunting myself. But I can’t help it, these feelings.” she muses. “Something’s got to happen. Something’s got to give.”

They’re close. Zoey stands and closes the gap. Her hands grasp Rumi’s biceps, then shoulders, then face, as if she didn’t, she’d disappear.

“I don’t want it to be you.” She whispers, desperate. “It can’t be you.”

Rumi’s hands glide up to meet Zoey’s. Her patterns, purple, twinged with orange, flash. Finally, her eyes meet hers. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Stay.” Zoey says with conviction. “You don’t have to do anything else. Please, just stay.”

Rumi thinks about it in silence. Then slowly nods to herself.

“Okay.” She murmurs. “I’ll stay.”

Zoey lets out a quiet breath. She looks relieved but hesitant. It’s too good to be true. She plants a kiss on Rumi’s cheek and lets it linger.