Chapter Text
Rumi didn’t want to tell them about what she had asked Celine to do. There wasn’t really a point now that it was over. Rumi is fine. Totally fine- it was only a moment of weakness, with all of her faults and fears and worst nightmares all coming into reality at once. But everything is fine, now. The information would only hurt them.
But secrets were the reason everything happened the way it did. Betrayal, desperation, breaking. Breaking so completely she doesn’t know how she ever managed to drag herself back together.
So Rumi tells them.
They are properly horrified. Of course they are; what Rumi had asked of her adoptive mother was fucked up and selfish. Sure, in the moment, she truly thought the old hunter would have taken one look at her demonic features and finally done what she should have done when Rumi’s patterns first appeared she was trained to do, but Celine raised her.
How terribly cruel Rumi was to ask her to do it. She should have just done it herself.
There are tears and more apologies when she tells them, and Rumi has to reassure them several times that she’s never done anything like that before thoughts don’t count, it wasn’t their fault Rumi was already broken, she doesn’t want to die she just thinks she should never have been born, sometimes.
She’s relieved when it’s over and done with. It even, maybe, feels kind of good. Crying with them feels good. It’s worlds better than locking herself in her room, anyway, and smothering it behind her hand, alone.
So, she tells them, they cry, and it’s fine. They can go back to normal, and Rumi can forget the whole trying-to-off-herself thing, because she’s fine- they are fine Celine still hasn’t tried to call, but neither has Rumi, and that’s fine, too.
Rumi is in a good mood as she drags out a cutting board, placing the apple and oranges just to the side of it. She’s humming as she reaches absently for the block of knives, only for her hand to pass through air. She turns her full body to face the knife block, brow furrowing to find it empty, without a single knife sticking out of the block.
A glance into the sink shows none to be found, or even in the dish washer that Mira yells at them (cough Zoey cough) for putting her good knives into.
“Uh, guys?” Rumi says, brows furrowing in confusion as she pulls open the utensil drawer, even though no one has ever mistakenly put them there before, but she just has no idea where they would possibly be. “Where are all our knives?”
Two heads pop up quickly over the side of the couch, looking at Rumi, and then each other with faces painted in discomfort.
“Um, well,” Zoey starts hesitantly, fiddling with her fingers.
“We just thought it would be best to keep them out of reach for a while,” Mira says bluntly.
It occurs to Rumi far too slowly that this is because of what she told them. Of what she tried to do. And then she barks a disbelieving laugh. “If I wanted to do it, I wouldn’t use kitchen knives.” And then, because she’s dumb, and it just slips out, “Besides, hiding them is kind of pointless. I literally have a magical blade that I can summon out of thin air.”
That’s the wrong thing to say. She knows it is by the alarm on her friends’ faces as they sit up straighter and exchange wide-eyed horror. “I won’t! I wouldn’t,” she rushes out right after, hands up in placating surrender. “Seriously, girls, I’m good now. I promise.” What she had tried to do was a mistake. Like she still is, no matter how her patterns have changed.
Mira scoffs, and a shiver of dread tickles down her spine. “What?” Rumi asks quietly, bemused smile fading.
Mira shakes her head, hard, dismissive, lips pressed together like she hadn’t meant for the sound to escape and regrets it. “No, what?” Rumi presses, feeling her heart beat faster. It’s fine, it’s fine, they are fine, now.
“I just don’t know what to believe,” Mira grunts. “Because promises from you are kind of meaningless.”
Rumi flinches, hard. Her patterns burn, painful, from her neck to her wrists, and she feels unbearably exposed as a fuchsia glow flashes brightly along her marks, splitting the almost dormant scar like an open wound.
Guilt. Grief. Regret.
Liar.
Monst-
“Look,” Mira says, standing up from the couch and coming into the kitchen. One hand goes to the counter, the other to her exposed shoulder, and Rumi instinctively flinches away from the touch. Mira shouldn’t touch her. Not when she looks like this. “Rumi,” Mira pleads, “I know why you lied. I get it, now, I do. You just lie so easily, and I hate that I can’t tell when you do. And this, your life, is too important to take that risk of you looking in my face and telling me that you don’t want to die anymore, and it being a lie.”
“It’s not.” She shouldn’t have told them the truth. She worried them. She really worried them. Rumi takes a step back with a shaky breath. “I don’t want to die.” She never really did, even kneeling before Celine. She just wanted to stop breaking everything that ever gave her purpose- the only things that ever gave her purpose. “I’m fine.” Except maybe she’s not. So she reverts back to her normal way of being fine, fine, not fine. “But I think I’m going to pass on movie night tonight. You guys have fun, though.”
“Rumi,” Mira frowns.
Rumi winces, knowing retreating isn’t going to convince them that she’s not lying. So she bares a little bit more of the truth. Even that much is painful. “I just… need some space.”
Zoey, who followed Mira into the kitchen, puts her hand on Mira’s bicep, as if to hold her back and offer comfort in equal measure. “Okay, Rumi,” she says for them both. “But if you change your mind, we would really love it if you came back out to join us.”
Rumi abandons the fruit on the counter and slips off toward her room with her head ducked in shame. Her patterns pulse that familiar, sickening, pink, and the first thing she does when she gets to her room is pull on a hoodie, and then sweatpants.
It used to be enough to cover up the reminders. But they are on her face, now, too, and the faint glow illuminates the dark room, pulsing with her heart. Even when she closes her eyes, she can still see the glow beyond her eyelids.
She thought isolating herself would be enough to get back control of her emotions. Wrestle her guilt and shame back into that feeling of resignation acceptance she felt just a short couple days ago, on stage, hand in hand with her girls and patterns on display for the world to see.
But the longer she sits curled up on the floor beside her bed, the more that familiar and dark dread thickens and congeals in her chest. She’s doing it again. She’s pushing them away. And it aches. They are just out there beyond her door and she misses them.
And she abruptly realizes that she doesn’t have to.
If you change your mind, we would really love it if you came back out to join us.
Her legs unfold from her chest, and she stands, already stiff from however long she was on the floor for, and strides to the door. They look up as soon as she appears in the living area, like they were just waiting for her, and relief softens their faces and shoulders.
Mira wordlessly opens up the blanket between them, and Rumi crawls into the space with aching gratitude. And as they lean into her, and turn their attention back to the TV, she feels the burn in her patterns finally start to ebb.
She notices, the next morning, that the knives are back in their usual block. She huffs at the sight in amusement, trailing her fingers along the handles before moving to the sink to wash the dishes leftover from last night. She really wouldn’t have considered using them. They all know the best way to kill a demon is with their starlight weapons.
………………
Rumi moves through the sequence of moves for what must be the hundredth time, muscles burning and sweat tracing down the curve of her spine.
It’s the first time she’s pulled her sword from the honmoon since the Idle Awards, which has been very stupid of her. They don’t know what this new honmoon means for them, or for the demons, and she should be ready.
She’s fought with her saingeom since she first pulled it from the honmoon at eight years old. Her new chilseong-geom is strange. Foreign. The weight, the way it curves. It should feel natural in her hand- an extension of herself. She should recognize it in her soul.
She should at the very least recognize the soul that was given to her to shape it. Jinu’s sacrifice.
The tip of her sword falters mid swing, and the unfamiliar weight carries her off balance. Her foot stumbles, and she draws to a full stop, breathing heavily.
She never quite put it together before- how Hunters and Demons are similar. She should have. Souls are literally what power the honmoon. She saw it at every concert, bright beautiful things that ignite into something strong and resilient, feeding into the honmoon and powering it.
It’s their own souls that they use and draw on for their weapons.
But this one currently in her hand wasn’t shaped entirely out of her own soul.
Rumi shakily strides over to one of the benches and collapses down onto it in trembling exhaustion. She drags her new weapon closer, lifting and turning it so she can view the entire, unfamiliar length of it.
The blade, as always, is warm to the touch. There’s always been a feeling of comfort when she holds her blade. A reassurance. Like the honmoon is reaching out and setting a hand on her shoulder and saying ‘I see you. I chose you. You are not a mistake.’
Jinu gave Rumi his soul. She is holding his soul. Is he aware? Is he in pain? She wanted so badly to save him, but instead he saved her. Hunters use souls to power the honmoon, they ignite them and guide them, but they don’t possess them. Never possess them- not any except their own. Yet a soul not her own rests in her hand. Warm. Comforting. Is it because she’s a demon, that she can use it- hold onto it- possess it?
Jinu has a beautiful soul. Her eyes trace over the etchings of his blade. The glow, so similar to demon patterns, but softer. Bright. A ceremonial blade made for spiritual protection.
She wishes she could have saved him. She should have saved him. Even if that meant that it was her that-
“You’ve been staring at that for far too long.”
Rumi yelps, almost dropping the sword as her head snaps up to see Mira by her shoulder, a towel wrapped around her neck and a scowl on her face.
She had come into the gym not too long after Rumi had, and been on the treadmill for the past twenty minutes with her ear buds in. She hadn’t noticed the squeaking rattle of it, along with the steady beat of her feet, stop.
“I’m not-” Rumi sputters, surprised and feeling caught for a brief moment before she realizes she wasn’t doing anything wrong, and she snaps, “I was just admiring the new design!”
“You were looking at it longingly,” Mira says dryly, but the clench of her hands crossed over her biceps reveals her tension.
“I was not,” Rumi retorts, pushing herself to her feet and back toward the center of the room. Break is over. She needs to get used to her new weapon. Her soul or not, it’s hers now. She stole it. He gave it to her.
“Did you love him?”
The question startles her into stillness, a creeping unease slipping over her skin. Mira didn’t have judgement in her voice. It sounded curious. Hesitant. Careful. Like it would be okay if Rumi said yes. “I don’t know,” Rumi answers as honestly as she’s able, eyes directed at the ground and not the weapon dangling at her side. Warm. Comforting. She searches for something to say. Honest, she recalls. Be honest.
She doesn’t turn to face Mira. “He was the first person that saw my patterns that didn’t flinch away.” The only other person to see them, up to that point, had been Celine, who could never bring herself to look at them longer than it took to ensure they were covered up. “He saw them, and didn’t see a mistake. Just… me.” She doesn’t know if she loved him. If she couldn’t even love herself as a demon, how could she love him? That’s contradicting. She would have to alter her entire world view. Even then, she’d still probably find an excuse for why hatred for herself would be justified as opposed to hating him. “I wanted to save him.”
Rumi finally turns, peeking up at her friend to see her reaction. She sets her jaw, bracing for anger, but Mira only looks… grieved. Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly, searching for something to say - the right thing to say - and Rumi turns away before she can find it.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” It doesn’t matter now.
“Wait,” Mira says, stepping forward and catching her wrist. “You’re not a mistake. You know you’re not a mistake, right?”
Meeting Mira’s eyes in surprise again, she feels it. That wave of warmth and aching longing that she felt last time she heard those words. ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a mistake.’ Except it’s Mira saying it this time. Mira, who knows what demons are, who hated demons as emphatically as Rumi has. Who saw her patterns, saw her claws, and raised her gok-do at her. And who then embraced her an hour later, pleading tearful apologies that she was wrong.
Then, Rumi blinks and comes back to herself, pulling her hand away. Honest. Be honest. She feels her face pinch. “What else can you call a half-demon child, born from a demon hunter, Mira?” she scoffs tiredly.
The answer comes quick, blurted without hesitation, or maybe just without filter. “A miracle.”
It takes Rumi a moment to process. Then her patterns burn.
She bolts, racing blindly toward the door, unconsciously dismissing her weapon as she yanks her sweatshirt off the bench and on as she skips the elevator to stumble up the stairs.
Zoey perks up as soon as she bursts through the door, sitting up from her lazy sprawl over the couch. “Hey, Rumi, what-”
“I’m fine,” she chokes out without stopping her desperate scramble for her bedroom. There’s no way that she’ll believe it, she knows. Especially when the door accidentally slams in her hurry to get the lock flipped into place before the sob bursts out of her squeezing throat.
The violence of if folds her in half as she stumbles blindly away from the door so her sorrow isn’t as audible to the hallway.
She doesn’t know why she’s crying right now. Why that answer makes her feel so much grief, but it grips her around the throat and stabs claws into her chest and won’t let go no matter how much she gasps for air.
She’s unsurprised when a knock comes at her door within a couple minutes. “Rumi..? Rumi, I’m sorry for pressing.” It’s Mira. Of course it is- of course she’d follow when Rumi bolted like that, over something so stupid.
A miracle.
Rumi smothers another sob the best she can with her hand. It hurts. Fuck, it hurts. “Please, can you come out? Or- just- let us in? You shouldn’t be alone right now.” Because they don’t believe Rumi when she says she’s fine, which- okay maybe she’s not right now, but she’s not going to do anything.
The doorknob rattles when she doesn’t respond. “Rumi…?” Zoey’s voice, shaky and scared. “We don’t have to talk. We can just sit quietly together- I promise, I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet.” No, no- she never wants Zoey to temper herself she hates herself for making her think she needs to.
“Rumi, seriously, unlock this door. You’re scaring us.” And Mira does sound scared, her voice wavering as she tries to keep it flat.
Rumi slowly releases the painful grip she has on her mouth, panting and waiting for another hitching cry to try and slip past, but she’s moved on to hyperventilating, so, there’s that. “Guys, seriously, I’m fine,” she chokes out. “I’m not going to- do anything. Just give me some space.”
The silence on the other side is long and drawn out, and she wonders absently as she tries to get her breathing under control, if they are going to try and break her door down. The room spins with her lack of sufficient oxygen.
Then, Zoey says quietly, “Okay…” The door groans as she hears two bodies lean against it and slide down until they are sitting on the floor of the hallway. They don’t leave. They just… stay.
She gulps down more air, hands shaking as she lifts them to wipe her face. As she calms more, she crawls back across the room, not trusting her legs to hold her yet, and hesitates just before the shadows outlining their two bodies.
Then Rumi slowly leans her shoulder, then forehead, into the door as well.
They sit like that for a while, just breathing. Existing. At some point, Rumi shifts again to lean her back against it fully. And the longer Rumi sits against the door, with them just on the other side, the wider that distance begins to feel.
Until it’s gaping. And Rumi reaches up to unlock it. As it snicks, the door creaks again as her two friends on the other side hastily sit up. When she tugs it open, they look at her in the dark of her room, patterns dimming but still pulsing with pink, discontent light, and drag her into their arms with matching relieved sighs.
As soon as her face is buried in the front of someone’s- she doesn’t know whose and doesn’t care- shirt, the weight that has settled heavy in her chest lifts the slightest bit.
………………
Rumi shoves out onto the rooftop, uncaring as the metal door slams against its frame and hangs open. She only cares about the rush of cold air that hits her heated skin, and floods ice into her burning lungs.
She stumbles further onto the roof, yanking open some of the buttons around her throat so she can open her airways even more.
She can’t breathe. She hates that she can’t breathe, like her patterns are choking her once more and stopping her voice before she ever manages to sing a note. It’s terribly familiar, and she hates it. She’s fine, she’s supposed to be fine.
But apparently all it takes is one careless comment during an interview, and her head is spinning again.
She makes it to the edge of the roof and stops hard as her toes just breach over the edge. The city stretches out wide beneath her. Glowing neon lights from buildings and honking cars. It feels far away, but…
She feels the rush of her pulse- the heat of shame and anger- shift as she stands there, staring out at the city she’s spent her whole life determined to protect. And she did it. Somehow, they won even after she broke it. The honmoon shivers, too, a kaleidoscope of color draped over the earth like a safety blanket, so bright she doesn’t know how the rest of the world can’t sense it. She broke it, but she also fixed it. But still, so many lives were lost in the process.
Hundreds of people.
Her heart thunders, now, not because of the rude questions she received in the studio beneath her, but because of the height that wouldn’t kill her as long as she reached for the honmoon, and her blood cools with the wind touching the back of her neck and every expanse of exposed skin trying to urge her one more step forward.
She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes.
She shouldn’t let it bother her- the interviewer downstairs and the hot stage lights she grew up under. She’s known all her life not to listen to the negative comments about her body, or criticisms from people hiding behind screens or in front of screens trying to get the most views- most clout- most humiliation at another’s expense.
But those comments have never been about her patterns before - things she’s felt shame for since before she was old enough to know why she should be ashamed.
Fuck, it’s hard. She presses her palms into her eye sockets until she sees stars and takes another breath. She’s not scared of falling, even if her heartbeat does kick off every time she sways. She’s fallen from farther heights. She could always catch herself if she wanted to on the honmoon’s threads.
“Rumi!” a voice gasps behind her, loud and coated in terror, and Rumi jerks in surprise, stumbling an instinctive step back so she doesn’t tip the wrong way. “Get off that ledge right now!” Zoey demands harshly.
Rumi’s shoulders hitch toward her ears as she whirls to face her maknae, first in shock, then in exasperation. “I was just getting some fresh air!” she snaps.
She doesn’t mean to. She just… she wasn’t going to do anything! She’s getting so tired of both of her girls walking on egg shells around her, and practically breaking her door down every time she feels a negative emotion. And it’s not like she can hide those emotions, because her stupid patterns give her away even when she covers them up.
“On the edge of the roof?!” Zoey grouses, face flushed. “You know what kind of people seek out a high roof ledge to stand on when they are upset? Suicidal people!”
Rumi groans, letting her feet carry her back into the middle of the roof, because she knows she scared her. She scared both of them the moment she told them what she asked Celine to do, and they haven’t stopped being scared since. Her patterns echo a mournfully soft purple glow, which she doesn’t bother trying to hide.
There’s no point. So she just lets her forehead come down to rest on Zoey’s shoulder as soon as the younger girl throws herself at her.
“I’m okay,” she says softly, brushing a comforting hand down her arm and breathing in her cocoa butter body scrub and vanilla bean perfume. “Even when I’m not, I won’t do something like that again. I wouldn’t. I never wanted you to be scared like this.”
“Of course, we’re scared, Rumi. And I’m sorry if we’re going overprotective mode right now, but it’s your life, and you’re our world. Me and Mira’s.” Zoey shrugs helplessly and she nuzzles into Rumi’s chest. “We’ll calm down eventually,” she mumbles. They stand there for a long couple of minutes, pressed against each other in regret and longing. Then Zoey sighs and pulls back. “We should go before Mira runs out of things in the dressing room to smash and tries to smash that guy’s face instead.”
Rumi snorts, eyes widening as she imagines that very real possibility. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s punched one of their interviewers in the face. That was the last time anyone has been brave enough to bring up Mira’s family - because she did it on live TV. “Yeah, we should go,” Rumi agrees quickly.
Her skin still prickles as she makes her way back down toward the studio, and she really wishes she had one of her hoodies she can pull over her exposed arms, but they came from the penthouse already dressed.
As they make their way down the steps, she feels a light weight drop onto her shoulders, and looks toward Zoey, who gently guides Rumi’s braid out from under the collar of her jacket that she had just wrapped around her.
Zoey offers a crooked, soft smile as she takes her hand again, and it doesn’t feel like she’s telling Rumi to hide- to cover up. It feels like she’s shielding her, because she knows that when Rumi is having a bad time, she craves the layers like they can protect her.
When Zoey brushes her thumb over the back of Rumi’s hand, absently following one of the lines of her patterns, she feels only warmth.