Work Text:
this love’s possessin’ me but
i don’t mind at all—
(it’s like supernatural)—
it’s takin’ over me, don’t wanna
fight the fall.
/
It’s really a lazy day, even though you’re working. Mira would stop you if she were here, but she’s not, so you check in on any department that looks like it might need your help. They never need your help, honestly. Celine and Bobby usually have it covered, but you also have ideas and efficiencies and maybe just a general word of encouragement for the terrified interns in legal.
You have offered many things and no one has ever taken you up on it.
“You’re wandering again.”
Zoey doesn’t pop her head into the hallway, so you join her in the studio. She’s been here for hours, working on an earworm that you can fully develop once the hiatus is over. Knowing her, the earworm is now segmented into a few abstract collections of sounds.
You lean over the back of her chair, quickly perusing what is already a dizzying demo, partial vocal tracks mixed in with blips of synths. Zoey smells like the room, or the room smells like her—the sweet remnants of her hair product , the stale air that hasn’t yet filtered out because she doesn’t like opening doors, fake cheese from her precious American snacks. You glance over to the cupboard where they’re kept and make a mental note to order more.
Zoey pulls you down out of your halfhearted lean, adjusting the both of you until your chin can rest on the top of her head without digging in.
“I feel restless,” you concede. “No one will let me bother them.”
“Bother me. Always bother me.” She reaches up blindly and scratches lightly at your temple.
“You’re doing stuff.”
Zoey shrugs. “Come do stuff with me. Or, watch me do stuff, which probably means we’re gonna do new stuff together, and you know that’s my favorite.”
You smile and press a kiss right above her eyebrow. You do know that’s her favorite; the only thing Zoey loves more than experiencing life is watching you and Mira experience life with her. You find it miraculous, the way Zoey pulls joy from even the most mundane task.
Once, she showed you a compilation of moments from movies and shows right before her favorite characters started crying. She’d edited it herself, creating split screens of each instance—the left half playing the scene like normal, and the right half zoomed in on whichever part of their face showed emotion first. Mostly it was the eyes, but every so often there was a flared nostril or the pull at the corner of a mouth.
Zoey made you restart the video, since you’d paused it the first time about fifteen seconds in to (politely) ask what the hell it was. She’d simply shushed you, dragged the progress bar back to the beginning, sat on your hands, and pressed play.
It was a strange thing to watch, at first—unconnected but very emotional moments, mostly from pieces of media you couldn’t name. But there was a gravity to it like the one Zoey carries with her, and you were almost on the edge of tears yourself by the time the video stopped. Zoey pulls you in: to things you would have rejected if she weren’t the one asking; to experiences that have changed your life, even in the smallest of ways. That’s what makes you cry sometimes, just out of the blue if you start to think about it too much—what you could have missed without Zoey next to you.
It’s been quiet for a while now, longer than Zoey usually likes to sit in silence. But you’re here, and she loves you.
“Looks like you’ve got a good start,” you murmur into her hair.
Zoey groans and wiggles in her chair. “I’m stuck, actually, but I don’t feel like walking away just yet.”
“Want a second set of eyes?”
“Only if they’re pretty and gold.”
You blush at that. You have a certain amount of control over your demon features, but you haven’t experimented much with them since the Idol Awards. It’s not that you’re scared of them, but—there’s a freedom that comes with existing in your demon. A month and a half is not enough time to make peace with that.
For Zoey, you can try a little.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, chasing the shine of freedom. It wants to take hold everywhere—in your teeth, your hands, your skin, your scalp. You shake all of those away until only your eyes are left, until you can bottle the glow like a firefly in a jar.
You open your eyes again and turn Zoey’s chair until she’s looking at you. You’re reminded of one of her first nights on Jeju, when Celine let the three of you take a break from training and enjoy the summer. The fireflies had been out in droves, blinking against the twilight sky, and it had taken no more than two minutes for Zoey to start crying. You were sure she would have seen some in the US, but apparently they don’t travel as far west as Los Angeles.
You were sixteen and so entranced by the wonder in Zoey’s eyes you felt stupid.
You shake your head one more time now, just in case there’s any stupid lingering.
“Hi,” Zoey grins, dopey and wide.
You can’t help grinning back. “Scoot over.”
She gets up entirely, twisting and craning her back until several things pop. You wince as you sit down, curling one knee up but leaving room on the cushion next to you. Zoey will come back.
You want her back right now, actually, but you can wait a little longer.
You get to work translating what she’s put together so far. You know songwriters and producers who take each song piece by piece, perfecting one section before they allow themselves to move onto the next. Then there are those who throw every idea they have onto a track and prune it until it’s ready for the radio.
Zoey is somewhere in the middle. It’s almost like she hears a song the way you might throw paint on a wall—vibrant swaths of sound, already where they need to be on the canvas, but disconnected from everything else. Zoey’s songs are impeccable, finished patches waiting for a needle and thread.
(You haven’t told her yet, but on nights like these, you’re very glad Celine taught you how to sew).
Zoey wriggles her way back into the chair as you work, clinging to your stomach and shoving her hands in the pocket of your hoodie. She just watches you, occasionally making appreciative humming sounds or inquisitive little chirps as you clean up the muddy bits. There aren’t really that many, but you know how to hear where she’s going. You and Zoey have always been able to direct a song toward what it’s supposed to be.
“That’s it,” she whispers after you’ve been tweaking things for about an hour. You pinch her hip and lean back, admiring the traces of both of you all over the screen.
Your average fan might not be able to look at this and make sense of anything, but you think you could parse it in your sleep. Layers of sound that Zoey leaves like ripples, droplets that fall so spherically into a pond you have to experience them multiple times before you can really admire them properly.
Zoey sweeps a lock of hair behind your ear. You kiss her until she starts to laugh.
“What’s that for?” she murmurs, her smile stretched wide across your lips.
“I don’t know,” you shrug, then you take the time to consider it. “No one really thinks the way you do. Writing songs with you makes me realize how lucky I am to watch you reshape the world.” You wink at her before the bravado disappears. “You’re a genius and I love you.”
Your name, when she says it, is barely a breath on her lips.
“Oh my god,” she groans loudly, hauling the both of you out of the chair and onto the floor. “Rumi!!! I want to live inside your skin!”
She settles for crawling under your hoodie instead, pressing insistent kisses to the dip between your collarbones.
You laugh and drag your phone out of your jeans pocket as it buzzes.
[21:37]
i’m upstairs with no one to cuddle :(
Zoey pokes her head next to yours as you send a selfie off to Mira. She joins you shortly after, finding a way to squeeze herself just as close as Zoey. She smells like whatever fancy perfume wanted her for a photoshoot, and all of you dissolve into giggles when someone burps.
Laughter billows and splashes its way across the room.
Maybe next time you can record it.