Chapter Text
Mira was kind of an expert at reading people. She also hated lies. The two things went hand in hand, really, grown organically in a sterile household blanketed in false appearances. Despite years of distance and a new, chosen family separating her from childhood hurts, Mira could never shake the hypervigilance. She was always on the lookout for falsehoods, for outside threats. That was probably why she was hovering outside Rumi’s door at an ungodly hour, nursing suspicion and hurt.
Rumi was lying about something, as usual, and Mira was gearing up to finally confront her about it. Gently. Maybe. This was more impulse than reason, and Mira had left her phone and glasses behind in her haste. What was the point? Zoey was asleep, Mira’s insomnia-fueled texts left unread. Mira and Rumi were the only ones awake, and that really shouldn’t have her pacing in a cold sweat and fuzzy bear pajamas outside the door.
Something was different this time. Rumi had always kept Mira and Zoey at arm’s length, but this felt more serious than her usual distance. Her behavior recently had been tinged with something desperate, almost bordering panic. Rumi was breaking, and Mira just couldn’t understand why. They were all under pressure to seal the Honmoon, and yet Rumi had chosen now of all times to have some sort of secret crisis.
Mira was ready to barge into Rumi’s room and shake her until she finally just opened up for once, but the soft melody of their newest song stilled her hand.
“When your patterns start to show, I see a pain that lies below…”
Rumi’s voice was pensive, almost hurt, and this lyrical change might as well have been a cry for help. Mira wished she could drag Zoey in for emotional backup. Or blackmail, whichever would be more effective. Mira was not built for handling other people’s feelings, too prickly and quick to lash out, but she was stubborn enough to try.
Alright, step one of any good battle plan was to gather intelligence. Mira was starting to feel like a creep hovering outside Rumi’s door, so she leaned against the opposite wall as she put the clues together.
The joint signing today had been ridiculous and humiliating, but Rumi awkwardly cheering on the dumb lead singer of that dumb demon boy band had been what brought Mira to her door in the first place. She still felt secondhand embarrassment and a roiling in her gut she refused to acknowledge. Okay, so she didn’t have a great explanation for that one.
When Bobby and Zoey showed Rumi the new trending “Rujinu” ship, Rumi had scrunched her nose in that particular way that said she was more confused than anything. It was the same expression she wore when Zoey got a little too deep into turtle facts, and Mira snorted at the thought that Jinu might hold the romantic appeal of a turtle to Rumi.
Ugh, whatever. Mira didn’t feel any closer to an explanation. When had Rumi started acting weird? She seemed rattled since the Saja Boys had showed up on the scene. Mira was suddenly struck by Rumi’s lack of reaction to their first meeting, before they had even known they were demons. The boys were objectively and frustratingly attractive, yet Rumi had just rolled her eyes and called her and Zoey gross for their ogling. Alright. That might be something.
That wasn’t where the behavior started, though, was it? Rumi always had offbeat reactions, although she was usually better at hiding it.
Mira’s eyes narrowed as she thought about her and Zoey’s endless quest to get Rumi to join them in the bathhouse. With each refusal, Rumi would look at them with regret and true longing. It was obvious she wanted to go, but something more than modesty held her back. On a few occasions Rumi had turned a pleading look to Celine, before sighing and turning them down anyway. Once, Celine had responded by asking if Rumi thought it was appropriate.
Mira’s brain stuck on that last, ugly word. Appropriate. She turned over every interaction she had witnessed between Celine and Rumi and did not like the picture that formed. “Your faults and fears must never be seen,” was the common denominator, and Mira felt a bit sick as she considered it. Had Celine forbid Rumi from joining them in the bathhouse? Why? Something that might interfere with the Huntr/x image? Was it something Celine believed would shake the bond between the three of them?
Curating an image for the fans was one thing, but hiding from your loved ones? Convincing yourself that a part of you was wrong, that you needed to fix it before you were worthy of love? That mentality was a little too close to Mira’s dysfunctional family history for comfort.
The facts were this. Rumi had been hiding something about herself for a long time. Celine knew what it was, but she thought it shameful, inappropriate, something that needed to be kept from her most trusted friends. Something she believed would make them uncomfortable in the bathhouse of all places. She held no interest for even supernaturally attractive men. It finally clicked.
Rumi was gay.
Rumi was gay, and Celine had made her ashamed of it. That bitch.
Wait, did that mean Golden was Rumi’s coming out song? Rumi had spent months reworking it with Zoey, unusually invested in getting the relatively simple lyrics just right. “No more hiding, shining like I’m born to be?” Could it get any more obvious?
Mira considered all the things she wished someone had said to her teenage bisexual self years ago, back when she had been petrified in the spotlight of her family’s scrutiny. Honestly, she kinda wished someone had just bopped her on the head and told her, You’re bi, dipshit! The kind of easy acceptance she craved might have saved her years of seeking approval from people who would never give it. Old hurts bloomed as Mira thought about Rumi believing she had been born wrong. Tainted. That she might have been carrying this for over a decade.
Mira winced as she ran through the lyrics of Takedown in her head, replacing demons with hiding in the closet. No wonder Rumi was so conflicted. Singing about living a lie, unable to hide how hideous you are deep down? She was a moron for not seeing it sooner. Mira steadied her hands and knocked gently, interrupting Rumi’s musical moping.
“Rumi?” She called. She heard Rumi shuffle about, whispering to herself in a panic. Mira tried to tamp down her impatience, bracing for the conversation to come. She listened to the clatter of something falling as Rumi scurried back and forth in the room. What was taking her so long?
I can hear you in there, she almost said. But no, she was channeling healthy communication like a hack spirit medium from Zoey’s American ghost-hunting shows. Instead, she made her best attempt at gentling her voice. “Can we talk?” She sounded more like a frog croaking at gunpoint, but it would do.
She would be supportive. She would be accepting. She was ready for this.
Rumi finally opened the door, looking unfairly put together despite the frantic look in her eyes. She was buried in her usual soft layers of hoodies and turtlenecks and god knows what else. She fidgeted with her sleeve and eyed Mira with concern the longer she didn’t say anything.
“Mira? You okay?”
Mira forced herself to nod, a prickle of panic sliding down her spine. There was no way she was ready for this. Coming out was a huge deal! One that needed a gentle hand, which Mira decidedly did not have. Maybe she really should go wake up Zoey and let her handle the emotional fallout.
Rumi looked at her skeptically, then opened the door wider. She had the audacity to look at Mira like she was the one hiding things.
“Uh, alright. Did you… want to come in?”
Mira ran through a mental checklist of what Zoey would probably advise her to do as Rumi stared at her, wide-eyed. Be patient. Try to understand. No accusations. She bristled at the last one before realizing she was getting irritated at her own mental coaching.
“I mean, if you want me to come in, I can come in.” Mira shuffled into the room, the far side an enigma of blurry green plants lit by warm grow lights and the soft blues of the city below. She wished she had at least grabbed her glasses for this.
“I heard you singing,” Mira said, aiming for casual. “You sound good.” She pretended to be interested in the sparse decor on the shelves, the only thing close enough to see without squinting. Because Rumi apparently only knew how to decorate with plants, the sole item on the wall of shelves was the box of untouched tonics from Zoey’s quack doctor. Mira snorted at the peeling label that revealed ordinary juice pouches.
“Yeah, who would've thought? Those tonics actually work,” Rumi lied.
Mira looked incredulously between the full box in front of her and whatever the hell Rumi was doing on the other side of the room. Some sort of crab walking lunge? She better not be trying to make her own choreo again, not after what happened last time. Rumi’s unscripted dancing was an affront to the profession and a goddamn safety hazard.
Rumi could at least have the decency to make a good lie. How stupid did she think Mira was? No accusations, Mira chanted in her head. She forced herself to relax as she grabbed a paper that fluttered onto the ottoman at the foot of the bed, a victim of Rumi’s flailing. The lyrics of Takedown stared up at her, verses crossed out conspicuously in sparkly purple ink.
“You changed the lyrics?” Mira wanted to pat herself on the back for her impeccable neutrality. No accusations here, nope. Just patience and understanding.
“Oh, I just... Do you really think this is the right song to beat Gwi-Ma? It's so hateful,” Rumi replied, finally sounding like a real person.
Mira narrowed her eyes, biting back an automatic defense. She got that Rumi had a problem with it, but she had weeks to speak up. Why now, when the Idol Awards were days away? Changing the setlist now would be a freaking nightmare, even with Bobby’s miracle working behind the scenes. Rumi shifted under her stare, visibly uncomfortable with Mira’s uncharacteristic silence.
“Why doesn’t it resonate with you?” Mira felt like a vapid talk show host asking that, but at least it left the floor open for Rumi and her issues.
Mira waited for a response, but nothing came. Rumi avoided her eyes and plopped down on some sort of lumpy beanbag next to the bed, all jittering energy and avoidance. Mira’s herculean efforts to be gentle were apparently pointless, because Rumi had obviously started panicking anyway.
Fine. Fine! If Rumi wouldn’t broach it, then Mira would be less subtle. Fuck patience. She strode over to the edge of the bed next to Rumi and sat decisively, making it clear she wasn’t leaving until she got a proper conversation. Deciding that wasn’t dramatic enough to get the message through Rumi’s thick head, Mira sprawled across the blankets and leaned against the headboard, making herself comfortable. She raised a challenging eyebrow.
“Hits too close to home?” Mira rasped.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rumi sputtered, high and thin. What little Mira could see of her grin looked painful, more of a snarl stretched too wide over stupidly perfect white teeth. Rumi sat with military posture, uncomfortable and stiff.
Mira was sick of dancing around the lies. She figured they might as well get on the same page. “Rumi, it’s okay. You’re okay. I know.”
“You what?” Rumi’s voice cracked violently as she whipped around, amorphous chair sliding beneath her. Mira winced. Hopefully that didn’t ruin Rumi’s voice just as it was healing, only days before the Idol Awards. Too late to back out now, though.
“I know. And it’s okay.”
“Okay? Nothing about this is okay, Mira!” Rumi threw her hands up, mismatched sheets of paper and a black throw pillow tumbling gently to the ground. She leaned forward, gaze borderline feral and words low in her throat. “What is it that you think you know? How do you know?”
Some of the intimidation was lost as the seat beneath Rumi sank into the ground, leaving her sitting in a sad pile of discarded blankets and jackets. It was surprising an inflatable chair lasted as long as it did with all the pointy objects they handled on a daily basis.
Mira scooched down the bed until they were eye level. “You good?” she asked, trying not to laugh at the disgruntled look on her friend’s face.
“Mira.” Her name was a warning on Rumi’s lips. Mira felt a little off balance at this emotional rollercoaster. Had she been this dramatic when she was in the closet? Ugh, probably.
“We live together, duh. Did you think we wouldn’t notice? Do you think so little of us that we’d treat you differently?” Mira hated the defensive bite in her own words. Why was this so hard?
Rumi leaned forward, crowding her space. Mira tried not to retreat. Nervous sweat beaded on her neck. She really didn’t feel great about how this was going, but she could push through, for little Mira, who never got this support. For Rumi, who obviously needed it. For closeted gays everywhere.
“We?” Beneath the hurt and fear in Rumi’s voice, Mira sensed the barest hint of danger. “Zoey knows? For how long? You two didn’t say anything?”
“Well, no, I mean,” Mira backtracked. Rumi ran on one of two settings at any given moment: pure anxiety or deadly seriousness. Mira had no clue how to function when Rumi’s intensity was laser focused on her. She swallowed and tried again, words rushed. “I’m not sure if Zoey knows, but she’s the last person you’d need to worry about.”
Rumi eyed her as if weighing the sincerity of the words. She crossed her arms and legs, probably going for stern but really just looking uncomfortable on the floor.
“I haven’t said anything to her,” Mira continued. “I figured it out and wanted to talk to you.”
“And what exactly did you figure out?” Rumi hunched over, her arms folded tighter across her chest, long fingers wrapped in a death grip around her biceps.
“That’s not how it works, Rumi.” Mira wasn’t about to out Rumi, not even to herself. That was like the cardinal rule of queer. “It has to come from you, when you’re ready.”
“I need more than that.” Rumi’s strong voice melted into something softer, more fragile. “Please, Mira.”
Mira obliged, and only partially because she would absolutely follow Rumi into hell if she said her name like that.
“The best I can give you is that I know why you wear all of–” she gamely did not say your ‘Kim Possible Magical Girl’ wardrobe, cursing Zoey for the mental image of sequined turtleneck crop tops. She gestured broadly at Rumi’s shoulders, “–all of that.”
Rumi sagged, losing some of the fire in her eyes. She looked exhausted. Mira cautiously draped her arm over the edge of the bed, hand extended in an open invitation. Rumi eyed it like a viper waiting in the grass.
“So you figured it out?” Rumi said, still staring at her hand. “Just like that?” She sounded resigned. Bitter.
“I put some pieces together.” Obviously. It’s not like it was subtle when you knew what to look for. “You’ve been acting weird lately, but I realized it was wasn’t new. You’ve been hiding something for a long time, and dealing with the Saja Boys just–” she considered how to word it, “–brought it to the surface.”
Rumi looked stricken, raw and exposed. Her silence more than anything told Mira she was on the right track.
“Celine–” Mira startled as the room blinked into darkness, now lit only by the cold blue of the city’s reflection.
“Plants, um, sorry,” Rumi stood abruptly. “The lights are on a timer, I can–”
Mira sat up and blindly reached for her hand, grasping her wrist beneath the wide sleeves of the hoodie. She worried they would never finish this conversation if Rumi walked away now, the moment between them stretching thin, unfinished.
“I don’t mind,” Mira said, keeping her tone light. “Not like I can see much anyway.”
“You don’t have your contacts?” Rumi hovered at the edge of the bed, unwilling to break Mira’s gentle hold.
“To sleep in? Gross, no.”
Rumi sighed and collapsed on the bed next to her. “You do it all the time on tour,” she teased gently.
“Not on purpose.” Mira’s face heated. She pretended she didn’t have any mushy feelings about Rumi noticing little things like that.
Rumi hummed. Her nervous pulse thrummed beneath Mira’s fingers. “You were at Celine,” she prompted reluctantly.
Mira slid her hand down to gently squeeze Rumi’s clammy palm. “Celine knows, and she told you not to tell us.”
“I’m sorry,” Rumi mumbled and stared at their joined hands like a lighthouse in a storm, her only hope of safe passage. “I wanted to. I didn’t know how, I couldn’t, I still don’t–” She curled in on herself, cradling Mira’s hand like a teddy bear.
“Don’t apologize. Not for that.” Mira looped her free hand around Rumi’s back, fierce and protective. “Celine can apologize for her own hangups.”
Rumi mouthed ‘hangups’ incredulously before glancing up.
“You shouldn’t feel ashamed of it.” Mira heard her own voice soften. Rumi seized in her grip as if trying to draw close and tear away at the same time.
“It’s always been a part of you.” Mira continued. She couldn’t stop the Lady Gaga reference that slipped out next, desperate for some levity. “Baby, you were born this way,” she sang, silly and off-key.
Rumi choked out a surprised laugh, and Mira preened. She felt her tough girl persona die an undignified death as she tried not to coo over Rumi hiding her face against her shoulder, flushed and giggling a bit hysterically.
Then Rumi’s laugh turned into a sob, and Mira flipped the fuck out internally. Rumi buried her head against her chest. For all Mira’s skill with choreography, she had no idea where to put her hands. She patted Rumi’s back awkwardly.
“You might not have told us about a part of you, but we know you,” She babbled, desperate to patch over the hurts she had unearthed. Rumi made a small noise of protest at her words, so Mira pulled her closer, trying to radiate sincerity through every pore. “When you’re ready to say it out loud, then we’ll just know a little bit more about the best friend we already love. We chose you, and you chose us, and that has to mean something. We wouldn’t turn our backs on you over–” she almost said something as small as this, but she reminded herself that it wasn’t small to Rumi. “–anything.” Nailed it. Mira was a master of emotional support.
“I don’t see how you couldn’t! Everything we– I–,” Rumi’s voice cracked again, and Mira nearly started crying herself as Rumi rocked backward out of her hold. Mira was absolutely not a master of emotional support. She had no idea what she was doing.
Rumi clutched at her own sleeve like a lifeline, as if reassuring herself it was still there. “Given everything, how could you not see me as a monster?”
Mira was going to fucking bury Celine. Zoey would help. Bobby would provide an alibi, no questions asked. A monster? For being gay? Mira had no idea Celine was that homophobic, how she managed to hide that kind of vitriol. Mira shook herself from faintly murderous thoughts to focus on the fraying girl in front of her.
“Rumi, look at me,” Mira said gently. Rumi slowly met her gaze, blinking back tears and searching Mira’s face. How was she a pretty crier? Her fucking shimmer eyeshadow wasn’t even smudged!
“Now listen closely.” Mira prayed she sounded as confident as she was pretending to be. What was she supposed to say now? She wanted to chew through the drywall to escape the conversation, but she kept her butt cemented to the bed. She refused to move a centimeter away from Rumi, lest it be read as rejection. Mira looked at her big, unfairly pretty eyes and steeled herself for the inevitable emotional vulnerability.
“First, you are not a monster.” Good start, keep up the momentum. “Anyone who told you that is a fucking moron.” Mira would fight anyone who disagreed. “You mean so much to me, to us, and I wish you could see yourself how I– how we do,” Mira said, pouring out her feelings. Platonically, of course. Just a gal being a pal. "It’s a part of you. It always has been, and it could never make us love you less.”
Mira cheered mentally for bringing it home.
Rumi looked at her like she expected her to take it back, like one wrong word just might shatter her. Mira tilted her chin up defiantly, annoyed her loyalty was being questioned and determined to overwrite all the dumb shit Celine must have filled her head with.
“Really?” Rumi’s strangled question was almost lost under her nervous fidgeting, and she looked ready to flee face first through the glass balcony door.
“Yes,” Mira gruffed.
“Even though I’m–” Rumi practically choked on the next word, and Mira was about three seconds from crying if the tears in Rumi’s eyes spilled over again.
“You don’t have to say it out loud if you’re not ready. But yes. No matter what.” Mira honestly wanted to hear Rumi say it and finally have everything out in the open, but she also knew she could wait now that things had finally been acknowledged. She had been waiting years, what harm was a few more weeks?
“No, no, I should,” Rumi continued, voice shaking. Her fingers played nervously with her sleeve. “You deserve to–”
“When you’re ready,” Mira insisted. This girl, seriously. If she wouldn’t look out for herself, then Mira would. They sat in silence for a few moments, Rumi staring intently at her own hands and Mira trying to get her heart rate back under control.
A steely look crossed Rumi’s face, and she grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “fuck it,” but that was impossible. Surely Mira heard it wrong. Since when did Rumi curse? Had Mira misstepped? Would Rumi close off even further, pretend this never happened? Mira didn’t think she could go back to ignoring the tension between them, to deflecting with snide humor and pulling Rumi into Zoey’s antics just to get her to laugh, to finally relax for once, leaving all the lies unchallenged.
Rumi stood stiffly from the bed as Mira descended into an internal crisis. Mira just knew that was the end of the conversation. She had pushed too hard, confronted Rumi before she was ready. Mira pushed too hard, just like she always did. She heard the unexpected whisper of fabric hitting the ground and snapped out of her spiral, apology dying on her lips. Mira looked at Rumi’s somewhat blurry form, and choked on air when it finally registered what was happening.
Rumi had shucked off her oversized hoodie and was actively wrestling out of her stupid crop top turtle neck. What. What?
The top followed the hoodie onto the floor, leaving Rumi heaving in nothing but her pajama pants and a sports bra. Mira idly wondered if this was some sort of divine punishment for being an asshole in her daily life. Maybe she should be meaner, just in case. Mira squinted, trying to make sense of Rumi’s expression in the dim light, trying to understand what the fuck was going on. Of all the times to forget her glasses, it had to be this one.
Mira leaned forward as Rumi took a decisive step toward her, and holy hell, when did Rumi get such cut abs? She looked like a freaking statue, taut muscles lovingly carved into the marble planes of her stomach and highlighted in sharp relief by the dim purple-blue glow of the room. Mira wheezed. Zoey had once called Mira an equal opportunity navel gazer during a rap battle, and Mira cringed internally at how right she had been. She needed to channel friendly thoughts, and that was not helped by ridiculous abs painted in neon bisexual pride colors like a parade float.
This was not how you come out to people, Rumi!
Mira finally tore her eyes from Rumi’s abs, intent on looking her in the face at the least, but she froze when she finally registered the source of the glow. For the first time, Mira saw Rumi’s bare shoulders. Markings twisted across her skin like vines, a bruised purple that lit up in flickering streaks, pulsating in a familiar rhythm that set Mira on edge. It was almost like Rumi had–
Oh.
What the fuck.
Mira’s hand twitched in an instinctive motion, countless drills and years of training demanding she summon her weapon. Her heart pounded in her ears. She felt more than heard the oddly discordant hum of the Honmoon as she resisted pulling her woldo from its threads.
On paper, on stone, especially on skin, Celine had taught them to strike immediately, to eradicate what she called the literal manifestation of evil on whatever surface held them. Mira felt dizzy as she realized Celine had taught all of them, including Rumi, that hunters killed everything with patterns, that they deserved to die, despite knowing what was branded on Rumi’s skin. On the child Celine raised.
Rumi’s nervous fidgeting was the only thing that stilled Mira’s hand, her accusations dying in her throat. Rumi reached to tug down sleeves that were no longer there, and Mira’s heart broke all over again when she realized that this wasn’t just an imposter wearing Rumi’s face. This was Rumi, small and terrified and honest in a way Mira suspected she had never been with anyone.
Rumi looked ready to bolt at the slightest movement, gasping breath audible in the brittle air. Mira wanted to recoil, she wanted to reach for her. She choked on angry words, warring with her own feelings of betrayal. Her head screamed that of course it had been to good to be true, of course they had never been family, not really. Not with something this big festering between them.
Mira knew she had never deserved it, not when she could so easily expose these lies, tear Rumi’s world apart with careless words. Mira had always been good at reading people and even better at cutting them to the core, no matter how hard she tried not to.
Mira felt her own breath come back in shallow starts. Something fundamental had broken between them, but maybe it had always been broken. Maybe they needed to finally set the bone, or maybe they needed to burn it to the ground and build something stronger. That had always been more Mira’s style, anyway. Rumi was too important for anything less.
The silence stretched.
Say something, you idiot!
Rumi practically vibrated, her patterns pulsating an ethereal glow in time to her anxious heartbeat. Mira was mesmerized by the play of light cast on Rumi’s face, lies and truth now laid bare on her shoulders.
Say anything!
“I thought you were gay.”
You fool!
Mira could feel a furious blush spread across her face as Rumi gaped at her, patterns dimming like a dying ember. Mira cleared her throat and tried again, aiming for her usual nonchalance. “So, patterns?”
“Wait, Mira, what–”
“And they glow, pretty fancy.” Fancy? Fancy? What was wrong with her?
Rumi looked lost, her gaze landing everywhere except on Mira. “They, um, don’t usually.” Usually. Implying there was a usual for having demonic patterns etched onto human skin. Rumi wrapped her arms around herself, as if she could cover up the markings that sprawled from collar to wrist. “How are you not freaking out?”
Mira was though. God, was she freaking out. She thought she was being a good friend, putting her own insecurities aside to help a baby gay take the first steps of navigating messy feelings. Instead, Mira had barged in like a big dumb idiot, forced Rumi to reveal her deepest secrets, then humiliated herself immediately. Mira was glad she finally had some answers, and boy did a whole lot more of Rumi’s nonsense make sense now, but she really wanted sink into the ground and pretend she didn’t just shove her whole goddamn foot in her mouth at the first opportunity.
“No matter what,” Mira blurted out when her brain finally caught up. “Love you no matter what.” Her usual dry eloquence was nowhere to be found. Mira hoped the dim lighting might hide her flushed cheeks, humiliated at her inability to control her mouth tonight.
Rumi’s eyes softened as she straightened nervously. She watched Mira carefully, relaxing in increments as Mira continued to look at her steadily despite her fluster. “Yeah?” Rumi whispered shakily. “Love you too. Always.”
And if that didn’t just melt Mira’s heart into a puddle of goo. She looked at the exhausted cant of Rumi’s shoulders, the fatigue in her face and the shine of remnant tears in her eyes. Questions could wait for tomorrow, Mira decided. She didn’t know if the hardest part was over, but she was glad for the chance at a fresh start.
Rumi sighed, and the weight of the ordeal went with it, a fleeting breath on the wind. “Now what?”
“Now, I think it’s time for bed,” Mira said, finding herself sinking into the sinfully soft blankets and too tired to deal with any more revelations. She smiled when Rumi yawned as if on cue. “We haven’t been getting nearly enough sleep.”
“I’ll be so glad when the Idol Awards are over.” Rumi grinned, finally sounding more like her usual self. “Couch for a month.”
“At least,” Mira grumbled into the pillow. “You owe us for the Golden release. Make it up to us with a trip to the bathhouse.”
Rumi stayed quiet, and Mira worried she overstepped again. Then, softly, she heard, “I’d like that.”
Mira eyed Rumi as she started to gather up the discarded blankets and jackets on the floor. She hadn’t asked her to leave. Mira and Zoey had never really needed permission for impromptu sleepovers, but things felt delicate and new and more than a little raw.
“Do you want me to stay?” Mira asked carefully. “It’s okay if you need space.”
“You don’t have to,” Rumi responded, a little too quickly.
“I know I don’t have to.” Mira rolled her eyes. This was familiar territory now. “I asked if you wanted me to.”
Rumi moved over to her wardrobe, close enough now for Mira to see the tense set of her bare shoulders. She started rummaging, probably looking for sleep clothes.
“Yeah,” the admission slipped past Rumi’s teeth. She hunched over, as if ashamed for needing comfort and reassurance. As if it was a failing to need help carrying the weight of the world. Fuchsia light threaded through her patterns like a beacon, a temporary flash in the night.
“You don’t have to cover them,” Mira found herself saying. “You can if you want, but like. Just know that you don’t have to.”
“I don’t know how to not hide them.” Rumi sagged over an open drawer, clutching a shirt tightly. “My whole life has revolved around keeping them covered, trying to fix this so no one would have to know.”
Mira felt queasy at the word fix. That was a dangerous, poisonous word, and not one she had the brainpower to address tonight. She would definitely need backup for that one. Tomorrow, maybe.
“But I know,” Mira said instead. Mischief bubbled in her chest. “Besides,” she drawled, “you seem pretty comfortable strutting around half-naked.”
“Mira!” Rumi cried, scandalized. “I do not strut!”
“That’s the part you have a problem with?”
Rumi was laughing now, real and relieved. “I’m going to ignore that and get ready for bed.”
“Yeah, you better run.” Mira grinned. “Go ahead and strut on out of here.”
“You keep your eyes off my strut, you menace,” Rumi said as she slipped out the door.
“I wouldn't if I had my glasses!” Mira called after her.
“I don't even know what that means!” drifted from the hallway, and Mira collapsed back in the bed, laughter fading. She made herself comfortable under the blankets and waited for Rumi to come back, pushing her racing thoughts into a box for later. Mira was a little worried Rumi would run off into the night, but she eventually returned and slipped into bed.
“Brought your spare glasses,” Rumi murmured, passing them over. Their fingers brushed. Mira set her frames on the nightstand next to the fattest succulent she had ever seen, feeling warm and mushy.
Mira rolled back over and let herself really look at Rumi in the dim light. She melted a little at the sight of her wearing a faded t-shirt, arms bare in a visible sign of trust. It was one of the dorky novelty tees with plant puns she and Zoey were constantly foisting on her, this one reading 'rooting for you' in awful bubble font with a cartoon radish smiling underneath. They had never seen Rumi wearing one, but the way she lit up at each new terrible pun was reason enough to keep giving them. The fabric was soft with wear, and something unraveled in Mira’s chest at the sight.
Mira placed a hesitant hand on Rumi’s arm, carefully letting her fingers splay across those impossible patterns. She had never stopped to look at any demon’s patterns closely, too focused on her duty as a Hunter. They didn’t feel any different from the rest of her skin, like she imagined they might. They didn’t sear with heat or twist away from her fingers like worms. They simply existed. They looped and swirled, adorning Rumi’s skin, permanent and fierce as a tiger’s stripes.
They fit you, she didn’t say. Rumi would take it the wrong way, as confirmation that she was everything they had been taught to hate. “I’m glad you’re here,” Mira said instead, because she was apparently still a huge sap.
“Me too,” Rumi said shyly. “Hey, Mira?”
“Yeah?” she replied, feeling the soft pull of sleep.
Rumi covered the hand on her arm, giving it a soft squeeze. “Thanks.”
“‘Course,” Mira mumbled, too tired to care about wording things just right. “Anything for you.”
“Charmer,” Rumi accused lightly, sounding too awake for the hour.
“Are we good?” Mira asked sleepily.
“I should be asking you that.” Rumi shuffled closer, still holding her hand gently. “But yeah. We’re good.”
Mira yawned, and Rumi huffed a quiet laugh. “Go to sleep. We both need it.”
Mira curled into the warmth, letting her emotional and physical exhaustion wash over her. “We’ll talk tomorrow?” she asked, hating the idea they might go back to ignoring the giant demon elephant in the room.
“Yeah,” Rumi promised. “Tomorrow.”
That was enough. Tomorrow they would need to bring Zoey into the loop and apparently rewrite Takedown, and that was on top of choreo practice, demon hunting, and possibly plotting Celine’s downfall. Tomorrow would dig up more hurts before they could even begin to think about healing. There were questions unanswered and difficult conversations ahead, but they could wait. For now they slept, wrapped in soft blankets and each other.