Work Text:
Mira is in a good mood.
That’s how it starts.
She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, phone balanced on her knee, a towel wrapped around her hair. The pink has dulled to a gentler shade while it dries. Roots are coming in. Not bad yet. Manageable.
She scrolls through her calendar, humming under her breath.
A month since the Idol Award madness. A month since the world nearly ended and then… didn’t. Long enough for routines to return. Long enough for maintenance to matter again.
Her finger pauses over a free square.
Mira smiles to herself, already picturing it. A shared session. Bleach fumes and loud music and Rumi pretending to be casual about how close they’ve gotten. Mira can already hear herself complaining dramatically, milking the suffering for attention.
She hops down and steps into the hallway.
Rumi is sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by Lego pieces, brow furrowed in intense concentration. Her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, recently cut, shorter, easier to manage.
Mira opens her mouth.
Hey, my roots are coming in. Want to book a dye day together?
Then she stops.
Her eyes snag on Rumi’s hair. Not the color – she’s seen that a thousand times – but on the absence of something.
No line.
No fade.
No telltale edge where purple gives way to whatever color existed before bleach erased it.
Just purple.
All the way down.
Mira blinks once.
Twice.
Something in her chest shifts.
Rumi’s hair isn’t maintained.
It simply is.
“Your hair is purple,” Mira says.
Rumi looks up, frowning slightly. “Yes?”
Mira stands there, towel still damp against her shoulders, phone warm in her hand. Her thoughts begin lining up in a way she doesn’t like.
Bleach every six weeks.
Sometimes four, when schedules were brutal.
Scalp burning. Conditioner masks. Ice packs pressed to skin. Warnings about breakage she pretended not to hear.
Mira’s jaw tightens.
“Your hair,” she says again, slower now, sharper. “Is. Purple.”
From the couch, Zoey looks up from TikTok, head tilting. “Is this brand-new information or are we spiraling today?”
“You don’t need dye sessions,” Mira snaps, the words tumbling over each other now. “Your hair is purple. You’ve never done a dye session with me because… because your hair is purple.”
Rumi blinks.
Then her jaw drops slightly.
Then she smiles, sheepish and warm, a faint blush blooming across her cheeks. “Oh. Oh, Mira, yeah.” Her hand lifts to her ponytail, fingers curling absently around it. Her untouched, unbleached, infuriatingly perfect purple hair. “It’s natural. I mean. Demon physiology?”
The room goes very quiet.
Mira stares at her.
Not angry. Not exactly.
“Princess,” Mira says, voice dangerously calm, “you are telling me that while I have been suffering through bleach and dye sessions… you’ve just been. Purple.”
Rumi doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.
She shrugs, easy and unapologetic. The faint bluish-white patterns along her skin shimmer just slightly, catching the light like they’re enjoying this. “Yeah?”
Mira stares at her.
She wants to bleach Rumi’s hair on principle alone. Just once. Just to see what happens. To prove a point to the universe. To fairness. To God.
She wants to drag her into the training room and spar until Rumi understands. Until demon physiology feels a little less smug.
Mira’s hands curl into fists at her sides.
“This,” she says, gesturing vaguely at Rumi’s head, “is a hate crime.”
Zoey snorts from the couch.
Mira points at Rumi like she’s presenting evidence to a jury that has already betrayed her.
“I should get to spank you,” she declares. “Just. For fairness.”
Zoey chokes on her drink.
Rumi blinks again. “I… don’t think that’s how fairness works?”
“That’s easy for you to say, Naturally Purple,” Mira snaps. “Some of us have sacrificed our scalps to the Color Gods. Some of us have endured patch tests and fumes and that one time my hair smelled like regret for three days.”
She paces. Two steps. Turns sharply.
“I have scheduled my life around bleach recovery,” Mira continues. “I have canceled plans. I have worn hats indoors. I have Googled ‘is this amount of burning normal’ at three in the morning.”
Rumi’s mouth opens, then closes. “I didn’t–”
“And you,” Mira barrels on, pointing again, “wake up. Shower. Exist. Demon genetics do a little wiggle. Boom. Iconic.”
Zoey raises a finger. “For the record, this is the funniest thing that has happened all week.”
Mira spins on her. “You stay out of this, Switzerland.”
Rumi pushes herself to her feet, hands up like she’s approaching a feral animal. “Okay, okay. I get it. It’s unfair.”
“Do you?” Mira demands. “Because I am this close,” she pinches her fingers together, “to making you sit in a salon chair for six hours just so the universe learns a lesson.”
Rumi winces. “Six hours?”
“Minimum.”
“That seems–”
“–character building,” Mira finishes firmly.
There’s a beat.
Then Rumi, cautiously: “I can… sit with you next time? Even if I don’t need it?”
Mira freezes.
Her anger stutters, confused by the sudden lack of target. She exhales hard, rubbing her face with both hands.
“That’s worse,” she mutters. “That’s pity-adjacent.”
Rumi huffs a laugh despite herself. “I’ll bring snacks?”
Mira drops her hands, glares at her, then finally groans.
“I hate you,” she says, entirely without heat. “And your stupid, painless, blessed-by-hell hair.”
Rumi smiles, small and careful. “You love me.”
Mira sighs, defeated but still dramatic. “Unfortunately. Yes. I want to be mad for at least five more minutes. Don’t take that from me.”
From the couch, Zoey lifts her phone again. “I’m tweeting ‘internal group conflict caused by hair genetics.’”
Mira points at her without looking. “I will end you.”
But she’s smiling.
Just a little.