Chapter Text
“It’s a birthmark.”
The skeptical, almost disappointed look from the bathhouse manager is all too familiar to Bobby. He crosses his arms, matching the look with one he usually uses when demanding water and snacks for his girls. “Even if it wasn’t, your sign says ‘tattoos allowed’.”
The manager smiles in a way that some part of Bobby’s brain registers as a threat. “We make exceptions for overly large or disturbing tattoos. And that–”
He gestures at both of Bobby’s arms,
“– is an exception.”
“It’s a birthmark.”
“It’s purple.”
Bobby rubs his thumb over one of the jagged deep-and-dusty purple lines. They’re intricate and plentiful; they cover both his arms down just past his elbows, crossing his entire upper back, gradually thinning out as they wrap around to his front so that the only hint of them on his chest are two lines just above his ribs on either side that don’t quite manage to meet in the middle. He’s well aware of how they look— and how likely it is he’ll be believed. Still, he can’t just back down about it.
“Lots of birthmarks have discolored skin.”
The manager, unamused, motions with his hands like he’s gingerly sweeping away dust.
Bobby nods and shrugs at the same time, uncrossing his arms. “Fine. But just so you’re aware, I’ll probably complain to other people about this later today.”
The manager almost laughs. “What do you think this is, America? I won’t bend over backwards because of the threat of a bad review.”
Oh, Bobby wants to name drop the girls. He’s only human after all, pettiness isn’t something absent from him just because he doesn’t (usually) indulge it— but, that’d be using them to his advantage. Treating them like powerful objects instead of real people, dehumanizing them, and he utterly refuses to do that.
So instead he puts his clothes back on, forces himself to stop grinding his teeth in a close-lipped scowl, and gives the manager one last spiteful look as he leaves. The manager is infuriatingly unbothered, giving rise to a nasty habit of growling that Bobby’s had pretty much his whole life.
If he gets a small amount of satisfaction from the alarmed expression that briefly flashes across the manager’s face, well, nobody else has to know about that.
According to his mom, his dad has the same birthmark— kind of.
His dad had been a fling for her, so his mom didn’t know a whole lot to share with Bobby about the man. They’d only known each other for a week or so, and known was really too strong a word to apply to their relationship. She’d been a young Idol in training who was bending under the pressure, and he’d been a rebellion-enthusiastic assistant to a dance teacher of hers who disappeared just before she was told she wasn’t the right fit.
She often said her only real fond memories of that period of her life were Bobby’s father, and the time she got to meet the Sunlight Sisters just before being dropped when they switched to the same dance studio. She’d been okay with the brief but enjoyable affair— even when it turned out it’d have a very long-lasting impact on her life. Her only real regret was not being able to at least tell Bobby some substantial stories about his father.
What she could tell him was that his father also had purple jagged lines on his body, but they were in a different place and had a different arrangement. His dad’s had been mostly on his forearms and down his legs— Bobby’s birthmark had started as a small patch on the back of his left shoulder.
It had stayed like that for most of his life, actually, allowing him to be blissfully unbothered by it, until around when he hit puberty. Or, softly bumped into it, at least compared to some of (but at the time seemed and felt like most of) his peers.
He had the usual experience— suddenly scrutinizing his own body, his own personality, his own interests— and if he was his own worst critic than boy, did some of the people he went to school with fight to earn the title. And that was all bad enough, but on top of it all his little bothersome birthmark started spreading.
He knew birthmarks could change with age. His mom had mentioned it as a possibility a few times, even. But did it have to hit at the same time he was already feeling so insecure about everything else in his life? It was like the more he worried about it, the more it branched out, and sometimes it felt like someone or something was laughing about the whole situation from some plane of existence he wasn’t on and couldn’t (entirely) perceive.
His mom told him that sounded like anxiety.
So they went to a doctor, and the doctor had agreed.
“Sorry we’re late!” Rumi says as she runs in for soundcheck. Zoey is hopping up behind her, pulling one shoe on, and Mira is speed-walking to her place while hastily putting her hair back up into its ties.
“We got held up,” Mira says, nails catching on a knot in her hair. She almost rips a whole chunk out of her scalp as she scowls and yanks her hand right through.
Bobby wonders for a second if they mean ‘got held up’ literally, because being mugged and then fleeing would explain their appearances a little too well.
Zoey’s only got half her accessories on, Mira’s hair is so tangled it’s like she fell off a skyscraper during a windstorm, and Rumi’s face is red from incredibly rare breathlessness plus a drastic overapplication of blush.
Bobby, taking a deep breath, walks over to Mira and holds his hand out for a hair tie. She gives one over without hesitation. They move for her to sit on an equipment crate so he can actually access the top of her head and fix her hair for her. “Is everything okay?” he checks.
“Fine!” Rumi says, smiling way too widely— it’s the same kind of smile Bobby’s used with plenty of network heads, fake and forced and a little too big to be comfortably done or looked at by most people. She’s the only other person he knows who can pull it off— which also means they can both see right through each other when it’s used.
Despite his skeptical look at Rumi’s statement, Zoey backs it up with a nod as she pulls her bracelets out of her pocket and snaps them on. “It was just, uh— a train delay!”
Bobby frowns. “I thought I had a car sent over.” He pulls out his phone to check his messages while still using his other hand to work knots out of Mira’s hair.
“It… crashed,” Rumi says, and Zoey and Mira both give quick agreements.
Bobby’s hand drops out of Mira’s hair as his heart practically stops.
“Before getting to us!” Rumi adds hastily, looking a second away from sinking into the floor over the whole thing.
They’re keeping secrets. They don’t think they can trust you. They know you’re going to fail them, and you’ll be alone.
Bobby shakes his head a little and does the last loop-tie on Mira’s hair. “I’m not having a nervous breakdown,” he mumbles to himself, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his meds. “Everyone is here, safe, and totally ready to blow the fans’ minds. Stop visualizing otherwise.”
“Aww, Bobby!” Zoey gets her earrings in and winces apologetically. “We’re sorry we lead with like, the worst sounding parts of the story.”
“It’s not you girls,” he assures, waving his hand slightly in dismissal of the idea. They all hit him with skeptical glances, and he shrugs. “Okay, but, not more than I signed up for, anyway.”
Medication won’t change your fail— no, no wait don’t—
He pops his pills into his mouth and accepts a water bottle from Rumi. “Remember to text me the next time something delays you like that, okay? We can always push things a few minutes if we have to, but I want to know you three are safe!”
“Okay, Bobby,” they chorus before they crush him in a swift group hug. They pull away to actually Do The Soundcheck and Bobby watches with a proud smile, letting the sound of their voices sweep away the last little agitated grumblings of the cruel voice in his head. He allows himself a small laugh as it fades away entirely.
It is pretty funny that it panics like it’s self-aware when he takes his meds. He always gets a slight kick out of that.
It wasn’t just anxiety.
It was during that same doctor’s visit that Bobby learned it wasn’t normal to see blue glowing lines everywhere, on everything, always.
Nor was it normal to sometimes hear harsh whispering in your ears when no-one else was around you.
When he was a little kid the faint blue glow would act like a nightlight for him. When the shadows in his room started to whisper at him that he was alone, he was born just to fail, and he wouldn’t be missed when everyone realized it.
As a teen that voice— singular, which the doctor had been a little surprised about— got louder, but the blue glowing lines stayed the same. They stopped being a useful crutch against the whispers. It was silly, maybe, but Bobby grew a little resentful of them for that. Which… was also concerning to the doctor.
Bobby got put on antipsychotics and anti-anxiety medication after a few visits, and they actually worked pretty well.
He still saw little flashes at times, heard snippets of demeaning whispers, but not nearly often enough to worry about them day-to-day. It helped in school, too— it became way easier to pay attention during class, for one. He also started to feel more comfortable talking to people, connecting with people, even standing up to them— and for them, when a situation called for it.
In fact, he had a knack for standing up for others. It was surprisingly easy— he just took all the things he wished he could say to the voice, to the Idol industry people who’d mistreated his mom, to the stagnant blue lines, and molded that energy to fit whatever situation he found himself in that needed it. It carried him through highschool, slowly drowning out the shame and lack of self confidence over the years
By the time he moved on to higher education, his birthmark had settled down. It wasn’t ignorable or forgettable anymore— even with most of it easily being covered by a shirt, the pointed tips of the thick purple linework could still be seen with elbow-length sleeves.
Rumors had gone around his school that he’d gotten tattoos as some act of rebellion, which was so out of touch with reality that he just laughed every time he heard it. But when he left his old home and peers behind he started wearing jackets whenever he went out to avoid any more career-impacting set of rumors. And, to avoid dirty looks. He wanted a lasting career, and it just… wouldn’t work out, if he had to constantly try to convince people in job interviews that no, skin can be a dark dusty purple naturally, actually.
It was proven to be a good move when, before he was even middle-aged, he was hired to be the manager of a rapidly rising Idol group who quickly became so important to him that he’d do pretty much anything they asked him to, no questions asked.
Bobby is really over the contractors this venue went with. He doesn’t like to throw around words like incompetent, but he also doesn’t like when the safety of his girls is put into the hands of people who apparently have never seen their own equipment before.
“Hey, you can’t do that!” He feels like this is the millionth time he’s sprinted over to stop someone from accidentally creating a bomb by connecting the wrong things together.
The man who’d almost set up an actual disaster looks up at him with the worst attempt at a surprised expression he’s ever seen. “Oh, uh… oops?”
“Are you trying to kill the world’s most popular Idol group? Seriously, what is with you people?!”
The man’s brows quirk, pressing together for a moment as he looks Bobby in the eyes. “Have I met you before?”
“Nope, and we never will again, I am absolutely reporting your crew to your company.”
“... What?”
Bobby throws his arms up in half-defeat, turning and pushing a large speaker away from the impending catastrophe that is this crew’s terrible wiring management. He’s a little surprised when he doesn’t hear any— well, surprise. To put it simply, he’s stronger than he looks and he’s pretty much used to that being a whole thing if he shows it.
Not only does no-one in this crew seem particularly surprised— which is actually a refreshing change of pace if he’s being honest— they look almost disappointed when he’s done getting the equipment safely spaced out from each other.
He takes a deep breath, putting his hands up to the sides of his eyes and blocking out the brief flash of blue around him which only adds to his stress. “Vizualize, Bobby, vizualize. There’s not going to be a total collapse of the tour if we switch out crews! It’s a completely viable option, just go to the venue owner about it!”
He shivers a little, a cold feeling settling in his sternum, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He whips around to find the man he’d just moved everything away from looming over him, jaw practically unhinged, and eyes a shade of golden-yellow that screams to Bobby that it is time to take his meds.
He steps away, and the man’s slackjawed expression takes on a much more baffled look to it. Bobby openly scowls at him, and the man’s eyes widen with some kind of recognition— clearly, recognition he is about to be very fired. He closed his mouth, lifting a hand. “Wait, so you—”
“Hi Bobby!”
“Hi, girls.” Bobby doesn’t break eye contact with the man as the tension in the room quadruples. Thankfully the man’s appearance is back to the reality of it, entirely human in coloring and otherwise, but there’s still a flash of blue lines around them that means Bobby can’t forget about taking that dose. “I need a second, I was just starting to explain that while we appreciate the attempt by the venue owner to take some pressure off by hiring a crew himself, we’ll be bringing in our own people for the rest of it.”
“... You should go tell him in person.” Rumi’s voice is clipped, and the man’s eyes snap away from Bobby’s to the girls behind him.
“Yeah. Leave us to check over the damage,” Zoey agrees. Bobby’s glad as always that it’s pretty much impossible to pull the wool over their eyes when it comes to making sure the shows run exactly how they need to— they may have a habit of adding wild stunts and last-minute changes, but they always do it safely.
“We can handle letting these guys go.” Mira’s voice is joined by the cracking of knuckles, a duo of sounds that send a chill up the spine of anyone who hears them together.
“You got it, girls.” Bobby, trusting entirely that they’ll call if they need him, turns on his heel and heads off to the venue owner’s office.
“Wait, but isn’t he—!”
He’s not entirely sure what cuts the man’s voice off, nor how the girls handle the overall firing— but when he gets back from taking his meds and having his ‘debate’ with the venue owner, the terrible crew are cleared out and their own people are already working hard on fixing things up.
“Now that’s what I like to see!” he exclaims, putting his hands on his hips and open-mouth grinning at how much better everything looks already.
Mira walks over, using his head as an armrest as she leans on him. “Thanks for making sure they didn’t ruin the show, Bobby.”
“Sorry you had to deal with them for that long,” Zoey adds, looking him over with an air of concern.
“They didn’t try to do anything to you, before we got here. Did they?” Rumi asks.
“Nothing except creep me out,” he says, sighing a little and making a motion like he’s flicking the whole situation away with his fingertips. “You girls have nothing to worry about right now but getting to the changing rooms. I’ve got things handled, I promise.“
“We know,” they chorus.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t double-check that you’re okay, though,” Rumi says as they all exit the actual stage area. “It’s a two-way street of protection, you know.”
The little part of him that’s always somewhat convinced of the exact opposite is blessedly smothered by his medication.
Bobby thinks it probably wouldn’t be a big deal if they knew. Even if they thought it was a tattoo, it’d probably be fine.
Mira likes tattoos, despite not wanting any of her own. Zoey, with her American upbringing, is always baffled by the prejudice against them when it comes up (though she doesn’t think all of them are great choices— whenever a fan shows off one of her face, or the band logo to her, or a huge one in a painful spot to get done, it’s pretty clear she’s not about it). Rumi—
Well, Bobby’s not sure how Rumi feels about them actually. He doesn’t think she’s much of a fan, but she doesn’t seem to hate them either.
So even if they mistook it for a tattoo at first, they’d all be fine with his birthmark. He thinks.
But he’s their manager. Their professional manager who must look professional to the people around them. He needs to maintain a level of respect in the industry, be regarded as generally trustworthy yet unwilling to compromise on his group’s value, and thought of as being able to uphold some pretty high standards for them (that he tries to find as much wiggle room in as possible). So he’s never in a situation where it benefits them to know, nor where it hurts them that they don’t.
And honestly, at this point he just hides it without thinking most of the time, anyways. There’s more important things to focus on.
Like trying to balance out how they want to achieve perfection, but need to acknowledge their very human limitations.
Zoey lays upside-down on the couch, legs crossed at the ankles as she stares into her lyric notebook like she’s trying to burn a hole through it. Mira is sitting on the ground, stabbing chunks of tofu in her soup like they’re personally responsible for all her problems past and especially present. Rumi is laying across the other couch, face-down in a throw pillow and so still she could be mistaken as dead if not for the low and continuous groan of frustration coming from her.
Bobby grimaces at the sight, slowly walking over to the counter with a box of snacks somewhat precariously balanced in his arms. “Heyyy, girls.”
He’s met with three very tired and upset “Hi Bobby”s.
“Creative block?”
Zoey lets out a growl/scream and throws her notebook. “There’s only so many songs I can write about hunting, darkness, and light!”
Bobby nods, not just to make her feel heard— honestly, he’s been wondering and waiting for when this would become an issue.
Which means he’s got some suggestions ready to go. “Maybe we could try a new theme for the next album?”
Mira rolls her eyes. “It’s literally in our name.”
“Okay, well, maybe… you could be hunting something other than demons?” he offers next. Especially not ones with disturbingly similar design motifs to my birthmark.
He knows it’s not on purpose— they’d have to know for it to be on purpose— but still. He wouldn’t hate a new artistic direction for a bit. “You could try hunting vampires.”
“We have,” Zoey says dejectedly, rolling over to still be upside down on the couch, but now her chin rests on the rug instead of her scalp. “Came up empty.”
“Because vampires don’t exist,” Mira mumbles, then presses her lips together and shrugs. “Uh, not that demons do, just that they’re…”
“A more widely applicable metaphor,” Rumi finishes, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “And way nastier.”
“Way way nastier,” Zoey agrees.
“The worst,” Mira deadpans.
“And I love that you three draw so much inspiration from wanting to fight what demons represent to people,” Bobby says genuinely, “But if it’s not providing inspiration anymore, I don’t think trying something new is a bad idea.”
“No,” Rumi says firmly, fully sitting up now. “We have to stay on track. We need to maintain focus no matter what.”
Her intensity is admirable as always— and in this moment, totally unhelpful. “Okay then… how about an actual break? The brain is a muscle, you can’t just train it forever without some rest time.”
“Actually the brain is an organ.” Zoey slides all the way off the couch, ending up right next to Mira on the floor. “And it’s made up of so much water it’s basically like jello.”
Bobby nods, because it is an interesting fact even if it’s a deflection from the actual topic at hand. “Still, a break wouldn’t hurt. We’re in a lull between releases right now anyway, fans are still riding the high of the last album, the label isn’t expecting any new demos for a while…”
Mira nods slowly as Bobby lists his reasons. “I mean… I’m down.” She looks down at Zoey, who gives a thumbs-up. They and Bobby look at Rumi.
Rumi rubs her arms, nails catching on the bunching fabric of her sweatshirt. She closes her eyes for a moment, thinking, really considering it…
“… How about you guys take a break, and I'll just… power through? We're close to a breakthrough, I know it."
Mira and Zoey groan, throwing their heads back. Bobby takes a tentative step forward, slightly lifting his hand. "Are you sure? A few days won't ruin your career."
Rumi runs her hands over her arms, looking at the floor. When she forces herself to look at Zoey and Mira she's hit with wide, pleading eyes from both. When she looks at Bobby for a reprieve, she's instead caught in his stare of deep and very concerned care. She hugs herself again, looking away.
"… Okay, okay," she relents. "Just a few days!"
Zoey, Mira, and Bobby all cheer. Phew.
For a second there Bobby felt like he was failing her, and that'd be… basically the worst thing in the world, to him. Even his meds wouldn't be able to stop that spiral.
The first time the girls had debuted a surprise special effects sequence during a show, Bobby's heart had fallen straight through the stage floor and into the core of the earth. Not because the details of the markings were so similar that they had to have seen his own— well, not entirely — but because of what those markings were being used as an identifier for.
What he’d heard them say about demons. What the demons represented to them. What the demons deserved.
Even if he’d never heard them talk like that, it… still didn't feel great to see his girls 'killing' people who had such a minor yet matching detail to himself.
When they'd met up with him after the show under the stage, he'd plastered on a smile and spouted praises before carefully asking how they came up with those costumes.
They'd shared a look he couldn't decipher, and for a moment he had the thought that it was, in fact, because of him.
Then Rumi said they'd based it off folklore and spiritual beliefs Celine had taught her as a child. It was a relief, in a way, though it did carry some implications he decided he just didn’t want to look into as long as he could avoid it. Instead he focused on making sure their after-show care routine went well, and reworking what he’d previously thought Rumi’s childhood must’ve been like.
He hadn't really known Celine was spiritual in that way, but… on reflection it made sense. She’d moved out to a remote area after leaving the spotlight to raise Rumi, the girls had a habit of collecting good luck trinkets and trophies they must’ve picked up from her, their tendencies to follow specific and detailed pre-show rituals like the ever-important ramyeon.
Plus, Celine herself always felt… significant, almost unreachable, ethereal even. She had the sort of stoic grace of a woman who could look a monster in the eyes and intimidate it into doing her dishes if she put her mind to it. The few times Bobby had actually met her face-to-face, it had felt like meeting a being more than a person.
The idea of her seeing his birthmark and reacting… some unfavorable way, was just about the most intimidating and gut-churning idea to ever enter his mind.
He tried not to think about it ever again, even if he knew the most she could do would be to fire him about it. Though he did end up buying a few thicker jackets after that.
He looks at the delivery person through tired eyes, expression flat as they shamelessly oggle his arms. The one time he falls asleep waiting for delivery, it's in short sleeves and while they have someone new on the job. Great.
"Did those hurt to get?"
Bobby blinks, only half-processing the question. "Sorry?"
"The—" the delivery person gestures to his arms.
"It's a birthmark, actually."
"… A… purple, one?"
"Can I please have my food?"
The delivery person slowly hands it over like they're afraid Bobby might bite. Honestly? In situations like this, when he’s in a mood like this? Sometimes he's tempted.
He used to chew straight through hoodie strings when he was young, and no pencil in his possession was ever safe— which actually resulted in him accidentally blunting down his frontmost adult teeth and wearing the enamel off of them way too early. Now he uses an enamel-repairing toothpaste and tries not to chew on things he shouldn't, to the great relief of his backstage badges and great disappointment of his repressed fidgety urges.
"Nice apartment," they say in a very, very poorly concealed suspicion-laden voice.
"I'm not a criminal, I'm not an American witness protection transplant, and I'm not somebody's secret hook-up," Bobby lists flatly, because honestly— he's just too tired for this right now. He'd been subjected to his least favorite recurring dream right before the doorbell rang, one that's just a jumbled mess of someone hissing how Useless and Alone he is at him while a dizzying array of dancing pinks and purples consume his vision, and simply put it's hard to shake the bad mood that puts him in. Especially when it's combined with being a little hangry.
"I'm an Idol manager, I'm paid really well, and it, is, a, birthmark."
The delivery person still looks skeptical.
Bobby thinks about the American films where they just hand a huge tip to the person at the door and that puts interactions like this to an end. He wonders if he should take a chance on them accepting something like that— but somebody who finds tattoos as earning of caution as this person does probably adheres to the usual 'tipping is rude' mentality too.
"Who do you manage?" they ask as he checks the state of his order right in front of them, just to be a little petty.
"Hunter/x."
"Ha! … Are you serious?”
He gestures to the wall of proudly displayed tour stop posters behind him, interspersed with photos of him and the girls at each according show.
The delivery person gapes in awe for a second, but then they shake it off. They don’t even have the decency to be bashful or awkward. Instead, they confidently say “So did they model those demons they put into shows after you, or—"
"Have a safe ride back!"
Bobby closes the door in their face.
He doesn't feel good about it. … Okay, maybe he does, just a little. He doesn't feel good about that, though. Still, it's a clear reminder he should just buy more long-sleeved shirts to relax in instead of short-sleeved ones so that this never happens again.
Model the demons after you—
It feels like when he was in highschool, when that sensation of something laughing at him followed his every step. He’ll be happy for this to, hopefully, be the last ever instance of that comparison. If he’s lucky, it’ll be the last time he feels like something is laughing at him, too.
Bobby had learned that his antipsychotic meds didn't work so well during concerts very early on— in fact, it was during the first concert he ever managed for the girls.
Up to that point he'd gone years with only brief glimpses of the blue lines— or pink, sometimes, but whichever color the hallucinations were he didn't want them equally. And wonderfully, blissfully, he'd forgotten just how intense they could be in full.
He'd been doing fine . His nerves had felt frayed but not disintegrating, he'd been watching them perform from the wings of the stage (because they weren't selling out gigantic arenas quite yet), he’d been gleefully copying the choreo along with them, and then it all just… flooded in.
The glowing blue dots all over the crowd was a new one, as well as the blue glow on his own chest, for some reason there were none on the girls but when did hallucinations follow reason anyway?
He'd also never hallucinated the lines… pulsing, before. So much new imagery, so much new intensity, all of it appearing from one heartbeat to the next— he'd actually dropped his clipboard over how sudden the full-force impact of it was. He’ll never forget the way it sounded as it clattered on the ground, a soft thunk of wood against concrete warped to almost sound like it hit against the lid of a not-quite-empty container. He couldn't bring himself to pick it back up, couldn’t even look at it to consider the act, because it'd mean getting too close to something that felt too really there when he knew it wasn't.
He hurriedly took his meds. They usually worked pretty quickly. They didn’t work at all.
He tried running away.
He didn’t decide to run away, exactly, he just… did. But it was pointless, because what he was running from was Everywhere. Of course it was, it was in his own head, why wouldn't it be? Blue and lines and pulsing and the nagging feeling of something watching him drown.
Without really knowing how he got there he’d ended up in the back parking area for equipment trucks, sitting on some left-out speaker crate, head between his knees and eyes tightly shut. He just sat there, breathing, trying to ignore the faint but building whispers that shouldn’t have been able to get to him through the medication. He kept his head down, falling into a sort of uncomfortable but stable rhythm.
Until someone bumped into him while sprinting past.
He actually never found who that person was. He looked up just in time to see nothing but their back and watched as they just kept springing and then— well, seemingly disappeared.
Bobby had stared at the spot they'd been for what, to his half-present state of mind, could’ve been hours. In reality it was only a few seconds.
I think I need to ask about upping my dosage, he’d thought.
And then a hand had gently landed on his shoulder, and while he felt startled internally there was enough of a disconnect between his mind and his body that it didn’t so much as twitch at the sudden touch. Three voices, slightly fried from singing, spoke with soft but palpable concern. Asking if he was okay, why he was back here, did something happen?
He'd almost played it off. Almost said he was fine and just checking something, took a pause to sit because he’d been standing all day while things were prepped. It would’ve been easy. It probably would’ve been more appropriate for a manager-talent relationship.
But then Zoey had handed him his clipboard, and admitted they thought something awful might've happened.
The looks on their faces… equal parts fury and worry, a sort of violence in their eyes, countered by concern…
Screw professionalism. Even if this got him fired, he had to tell them the truth.
So he'd admitted he was on medications for anxiety… and psychosis. That the psychosis had acted up, and he had run without even really thinking about it.
He didn't go into details on his history with the issue because he didn’t feel ready— and thankfully it seemed like they could tell, because they didn't ask— but he assured them he’d do his best to make sure it never interrupted his professional responsibilities again. That it just, caught him off guard this time.
He'd expected some trepidation about his continuing as their manager. Even with how much they cared about him. It was such a complicated, potentially calamitous potential problem for a manager to have, no matter how good he was at other parts of the job.
They didn’t even have a moment of trepidation.
Instead, he got pulled into a group hug tight enough to bruise and assured that if it ever happened again, he could just go wait it out in the dressing rooms. Rumi even promised to leave hers unlocked during showtimes if he really needed it.
He told them he didn't, for a few reasons. One, that an episode like that wouldn't knock him so off-kilter again, if he even had another one. Two, he’d be talking to his doctor about ways to prevent this sort of thing in the future. And three, that leaving doors unlocked was kind of a terrible idea security-wise.
The girls had assured him they could handle it if that happened, though, and were very firm in their insistence about it. Which he’d later find out was some very justified confidence— apparently Celine had a little martial arts training included in the usual Idol preparations— so to settle the matter he agreed to it and just, tried his best to ensure only well-intentioned people got hired as much as possible.
And he did that very well whenever it was in his power to.
He didn’t do it perfectly.
Bobby is walking at a brisk pace down the hallway of the venue underbelly, breathing deeply and trying not to scratch up his phone screen with his somewhat frantic, slightly shaky tapping. He usually doesn't let personal grooming get away from him on tours— not when he's well-known enough by the fanbase that his pictures usually end up posted online during shows and reflect on the Hunter/x brand as a whole— but he lost his nail trimmers in the last bus swap and just hasn't had time to buy new ones and god, is it annoying how fast his nails grow. And how pointed they grow in, too— maybe that’s the desired shape for some people, and he’d gladly trade it with any one of them if it meant less snags in his sleeves and scratches on his screens.
He's kept his nails pretty in check, thankfully, by chewing them off out of stress, but that's not exactly a helpful solution because it just has them going between overgrown harsh points to too-short jagged edges. Not to mention they’re unusually tough— some kind of keratin surplus or something, he thinks— which just isn’t great for his already struggling enamel.
He’s got pretty good reason to be stress-gnawing, though. It's twenty minutes until the girls have to be onstage, and Zoey and Mira are getting the last of their prep done in the main area.
While Rumi is still in her room.
It always takes a little longer for her to get out of the dressing area— Zoey and Mira help each other into their costumes, after all, while Rumi gets into what can sometimes be some pretty layered, elaborate looks, all on her own.
But she's never this delayed.
In his steadily increasing not- not- panic, Bobby just barely dodges a collision with somebody walking quite quickly down the hall. He's not sure who this person is, just that the badge is the one they gave out to some of the local contractors and they are not helping his mood, so he barely glances at them and swallows down a habitual growl. He’s starting to feel— what’s Zoey call it? Overstimulated, and it’s making the gnawing worse and further fraying the thin tether on his self-control.
The guy doesn’t even apologize, or stop, or glance to make sure he didn’t hurt Bobby, he just keeps going and Bobby huffs, gritting his teeth as he keeps walking—
He pauses.
The hairs on his neck stand up. Briefly, just for a moment, those overlaying lines flash in his vision with a tremor that just about matches how destabilized he feels right now too. He turns, mouth open to tell the person to stop for a moment— just to see the legs of the young man disappearing around a corner.
… Something's not right about this.
He picks up the pace, jogging to Rumi's room and tamping down his own stress so he has room to take on some of hers. When he gets there the door is closed, but he doesn't need to press his ear to the door to hear panicked panting. It’s such a ragged, desperate, pained sound that for a second he can’t even think beyond He Failed Her and He Has To Protect Her.
He runs a hand through his hair, finally sacrificing the badge around his neck to a need for stabilizing chomps until he can choke out one word—
"Rumi?!"
The startled exhale he hears tells him two things. One, that Rumi is on the cusp of an anxiety attack (not unlike himself), and two, that this venue really needs thicker walls and doors because he absolutely shouldn’t be able to hear her breathing this clearly. Maybe it's just the adrenaline, but he feels like it’s not.
“Okay, okay, Breathe, Bobby, visualize,” he mumbles to himself as quietly as possible. “Visualize that it’s a problem you can solve. There’s not a total emergency, nerves are just high. You’re here for Rumi, and she needs you. Visualize you’re what she needs.”
She needs someone who’s not panicking, not gnawing on anything he can get ahold of. She needs someone who’s steady, and strong, and capable of shouldering whatever the problem is.
He can do that. He can be that. For his girls.
This time his voice is calmer, lower, softer. "Rumi, what happened?"
"It— it's fine," she says with a shaky voice. He can easily picture her holding her throat, pressing her thumbs into it to try and keep it steady by force. "I had my robe and jacket by the door and just looked away to, to— can you see my jacket out there, at all?"
"Um." Bobby spins around in a circle, looking all over the hall. "I don't think so, maybe it—"
Wait.
… Wait.
The person who bumped him earlier. They had had something in their arms.
"Just a second, Rumi. Try to calm down, we’ll get this sorted out. Remember, deep breaths" he says with as sweet and steady a voice as he can muster. He takes a few steps away from the door and pulls the walkie-talkie out of his pocket, hissing into it with a much less friendly voice that’s about half barely swallowed anger and half disturbingly icy calm.
"Have security on the lookout for a young man with a local contractor's badge, about Mira's height, brown hair and eyes with a pair of green glasses on. If he's carrying anything in his arms confiscate it immediately, he might've stolen Rumi's jacket piece."
He waits for a confirmation from the security staff before tucking the walkie away again and going back to Rumi's door. He takes a second to make sure his voice can be its usual soft tone again before speaking. "Okay, the situation is being handled, but right now… Rumi, why was your door unlocked?"
"I thought I did lock it. I remember locking it."
"Are you sure? I know you girls still don't lock them sometimes in case I—"
"I'm sure! I leave it unlocked when I leave, not while I'm in here!"
"Okay. Okay, I believe you. Are the jacket and robe all that's missing?"
"I think so."
Phew. If it was any more he might’ve blacked out. “Are you ready other than the jacket?"
"… Mostly."
"What else do you need to do?"
"I— I pulled my hair out of its braid by accident." Pulled at it in stress.
Bobby nods. That’s something he can handle with ease. That’s fixable. "Can I come in to help you get it back in place?"
"NO!"
Bobby reels back from the door quickly enough to slip a little, barely catching himself before he falls. Something about the tone of her scream went straight past every thinking part of him, piercing just the reactionary. What reaction, he’ll never know, because so many of them happen at once that he just freezes.
He decides to blame his already heightened nerves for that. His body think he’s running from something, or hiding, responding like he just came face-to-face with a predator and not someone he cares about who’s just scared.
"… No," comes Rumi's voice again, quieter and almost choked. "I don't have anything to cover and I— I can’t—"
Bobby's taking off his jacket before he can consider the consequences.
"If you crack open the door I'll toss my jacket in for you to wear."
He's actually worried about this a lot, lately.
When the girls started, Rumi's signature look was an asymmetrical shirt. Her left shoulder was always covered, but it wasn’t in a concerning way, it was just style. She had a particular look she liked, and Bobby didn’t think anything of it.
And then she started covering more.
Her left shoulder became her shoulder and bicep.
Then both shoulders. Both biceps. Both arms down to the wrists, then her throat—
He hadn't asked, whenever she told him she needed to make the sleeves longer, cover more up. He couldn't bring himself to despite his growing concerns, because the look in her eyes was so hollow and haunted every time. But god, he's wanted to ask. He’s wanted to ask so badly that he’d gone to Celine about it, just wanting to know if Rumi was okay.
Celine had said she would be.
Not is, just would be.
That same day Bobby had talked to his doctor about increasing the dose of his anxiety meds a bit. The two facts were very much related.
Now, he's surprising himself by how steady the hand that holds his jacket out towards the door is.
There’s a lot that could go wrong from this. Not just from whatever the girls believe about birthmarks like his, either. There’s the public perception aspect of things. Some companies don't allow any of their employees— talent or otherwise— to have tattoos, and while it's not a tattoo it does look like one, so if someone else with bad intentions passed a hiring check and saw him right now and took a picture…
The door cracks open, and as promised Bobby looks away as he tosses his jacket in. There's a bit of shuffling, and then steps backing up from the door. "I'm sorry, Bobby."
Bobby eases the door open just enough to slip inside the room, closing it gently behind him. He locks it, giving the lock a glare like he's daring it to be picked or otherwise bypassed again. "It's okay, Rumi. Let's just focus on getting you ready and—"
A sharp intake of breath interrupts him, and he realizes belatedly that, right. It wasn’t just her reaction he had to worry about— but it was the one he was guaranteed to have to deal with.
He swallows and turns around.
She's got his jacket wrapped very tightly around her, arms not in the sleeves— they're too short for her— but tucked away into the body of the jacket. She's staring, wide-eyed and pale, at his arms. He rubs his hands over them, skin prickling under her— he could almost call it horrified— gaze.
He clears his throat, and her eyes snap up to meet his. He tries for a smile and really, really fails. "So, before you think I'm a lot cooler than I actually am, it's not tattoos."
Rumi takes a step back, fingers twitching where they tightly clutch the fabric of his jacket around her. "You have patterns."
"Actually, it's a birthmark." Bobby goes to the vanity and grabs the comb, half-used box of bobby pins, and hairspray. He gives his hands a second to stop shaking, lingering at the table. It’s not about the birthmark— the birthmark is part of it, sure, but it’s just about the sheer amount of things compounding right now. One domino toppling over the other and he feels laughed at again. He forces a lightness into his voice. "I know, I know, 'How can a birthmark be purple.' It's—"
"Patterns."
Bobby pauses. Her voice is so… hollow. He looks up into the vanity mirror, eyes meeting Rumi's in the reflection. "Rumi? Are you okay?"
Her hands twitch again like they're about to drop the jacket. "How… do you have…"
"Rumi?"
"Turn around and look at me."
He does, without even a moment of hesitation, brows creasing with worry as he takes a step closer.
She takes a matching step back, staring him in the eyes with a tight, pained expression.
But it softens out as she stares. First into confusion, then disbelief, and finally into… sympathy. "How did you get those?"
She says it like she already knows. Or, suspects, maybe. He had expected questions if something ever led to the girls seeing his birthmark, but not… this. Bobby can’t quite wrap his head around what’s happening at this point, feeling some amount of disconnect from himself. It’s not a bad feeling— it’s helpful, even, allowing his heart to stop racing and responses to narrow down to this one conversation.
"Um, my mom says my dad had something like it. Hey, you need to sit down. You're shaking."
Rumi jerks back when he tries to lay a hand on her shoulder, and he pulls back too. Her eyes trail over his arms again, pupils shrinking with panic at… something she sees on his left arm. He thinks it itches, but he can’t quite give himself the directive to look and check.
"Your dad had these?"
… Oh. It jars something loose in his head, or maybe makes something click back into place. He crashes back into being fully present within himself, back into the actual present as it is.
This isn’t a world-ending situation. This is just a conversation between two anxiety-charged people. There’s nothing happening here but a missing jacket, some insecurities, and…
“Is this about the spiritual beliefs that inspired the demon costumes?” He knows it is. How can he fix that? “ If it is I can one-hundred-percent assure you I will get any bad-luck warding charms or tools you girls want!”
"The demon costumes," Rumi breathes, nails digging into the jacket fabric with enough force to tear. "You don't know anything about the patterns on the demons?"
It’s easier to be calm now, to be steady. He knows what’s happening, mostly, and the only part that really matters is calming Rumi down enough that he can fix her hair and she can relax while he does it. "I'm not very spiritual myself, but like I said—"
"Did they start out smaller than this? Just a little patch somewhere?"
Bobby's breath hitches for a moment. It knocks him off-balance, he just found that balance.
Rumi takes that as an answer.
Her eyes water. Her mouth opens and closes while searching for words, and her hands flex like she's not sure if she wants to fling the jacket away and disappear into it at the exact same time.
And then something hardens in her expression, a fiery determination that's more familiar on her face than the panic had been. "I won't tell anyone," she promises, a fierceness to the words. "Not even Mira and Zoey."
"Oh, um, thank you for the gesture." Bobby suddenly doesn’t actually care about that. Something about how strongly Rumi is reacting is just… putting a new perspective on things.
It’s just a birthmark.
She’s reacting like it’s a curse.
"But it's not that big a deal—"
"It is." The conviction in her statement makes him snap his mouth shut. Celine may not be Rumi's birth mother, but right now with the look in Rumi's eyes, you'd never guess they weren't blood. "But I promise, nobody will ever know."
"… Okay." Bobby's not sure what else to say. Rumi's looking at him like he's on death row and she's ready to fight the world about it, and somehow it's making him feel less like he he was right to be hiding his birthmark this whole time and more like he should've prodded into those 'spiritual beliefs' Celine had, like he should’ve sat them down a long time ago and explained why sometimes, a mark is just a mark.
They remain in the silent standstill for just a few moments before Rumi moves to sit on the stool at the vanity, leaning her whole body so she can press the lowering lever without exposing her arms. Her hands shake but her voice is steady as she says "Are you still okay with helping with my hair?"
"Of course!” Bobby, flooded with relief, gets to work quickly. He’s familiar with the process— when there's a hair emergency and the stylists aren't prepared, the girls know he always is. He works quickly and methodically, humming to himself as he does. After a minute, Rumi joins in. Together they both relax, slowly, slipping into a comfortable state of being.
Then Rumi looks into the mirror, lifting her head a bit. Bobby adjusts his work accordingly as Rumi tenses, steeling herself for something, and— "Was your dad… good, to your mom?"
Bobby's hand pause for just a second before going back to work with the same easy confidence. "I think so. They weren't ever really together , but she's never talked badly about him."
Rumi nods a little, slightly messing up the braid, but Bobby just smoothes it back out. They lapse back into the quiet humming for a while, until Bobby is just about finished with the braid and a knock comes from the door.
"We found the jacket!" Zoey's voice is too bright. Bobby feels the looming presence of a future PR cover-up. If Mira is out there too—
"And your robe." And, there she is.
They definitely found and confronted the thief themselves.
And there's basically no way that guy could've been prepared for them. The kind of strength built with the intense daily choreography training these girls do, plus being actually nourished and fed enough to retain the muscles? Bobby's pretty sure they could knock teeth out if they wanted to, and he knows they definitely wanted to in this case.
Rumi's eyes widen in panic, and she looks between Bobby and herself. "They can't see those!" she hisses, using her head to gesture at his arms.
"Okay, it'll be okay." Bobby goes to the door. He feels settled. The weight of secrecy is off his shoulders— literally, with his jacket being on Rumi’s— and now it just seems silly that it’s a secret at all. "Could you just toss them in through the crack? Rumi's feeling a little overwhelmed."
"Oh, hey Bobby!" Zoey's voice softens to a less bloodthirsty kind of glee. "Sure thing!"
Bobby cracks the door open and the clothes thwump against the ground. "Thanks, girls! Please tell me he was able to walk away on his own two legs?"
"Limp away," Mira corrects, a slight proud lilt to her flat tone. She’s smirking, no doubt about it.
"We kicked him in the shins, that's it," Zoey assures. "Well, and slapped him for going into her room. And kneed him in the gut for almost ruining the show. But that's it!"
"… Thanks for being honest, girls." He eases the door closed and starts weighing how likely it is the thief will try to press charges against them as he holds the jacket out for Rumi to take. She stares at it, nails digging holes into his own jacket again. Her eyes flick up to his, heavy with an emotion he can't quite figure out.
"… Can you turn around first?" she asks softly.
Bobby does so without question, keeping his arm out.
He feels the weight of her very decorated and elaborate costume piece lift, just to be replaced with the much lighter, thinner feel of his uninteresting gray jacket. He slips it back on unthinkingly, and waits for her to tap his shoulder before turning around.
As soon as he does she yanks him into a hug tight enough to choke him a little. She's crouching so that the hug is actually a hug, not a headlock, and she's pinned his arms to his sides too much for him to hug back.
"Rumi? Are you okay?" How many times has he asked that in the last fifteen minutes? How many times in all the years he’s known her? How many times has he gotten a real answer?
"I will be." She pulls away and stands up straight, squaring her shoulders. "And… don't worry, about the pa— birthmark, because—"
"You won't tell, I know. I trust you." Even though she's honestly a lot more determined to hide it than he is at this point. He’s almost itching to tell the other girls, actually, because this much fear surrounding it isn’t normal.
"No, because— of a surprise I'm working on. I don't know when it'll be ready, but… it'll be great, for everyone." She grins. "We can all go on vacation once it's done. Somewhere warm and sunny, with a beach."
There's a weight to her words. Something more than just heavy . It’s something wistful and crushing all at once, something that makes Bobby's heart twist. "Rumi—"
"We gotta get onstage!" Zoey and Mira zip into the room, grabbing Rumi by the hand and pulling her away. She only stumbles for a moment before gaining a foothold to hold pace with them, and then they're gone.
Bobby lingers in the room. He glances at the vanity mirror, shrugging his jacket off down to his elbows and looking at his, as Rumi called the, 'patterns.' He feels a little dizzy, the whole interaction from start to finish having taken hours and seconds and really only fifteen or so minutes. So much just happened, all at once, all in sequence, all so major . It was like suddenly his life switched over to a different channel, from a semi-comedy program about an Idol manager with a minor yet embarrassing secret to one of those poorly-lit mystery dramas his mom loves and he can't quite follow the plot of.
He needs to look into the beliefs the girls have. Should he ask Celine?
The thought alone sends a bolt of terror-shocked adrenaline through him, and he sucks in a breath as his jaw clenches in instinct and his back teeth tear up the sides of his tongue. It’s a bad idea anyway— the girls are so cagey about it all, he thinks it’s possible Celine told them not to share about it with anyone.
But he can manage. He'll just look it up on his own.
Because some things are starting to slot into place, and he has a suspicion about Rumi now that, if he’s right…
He doesn’t even know what he’ll do if he’s right, actually. Beyond holding her and crying before definitely getting fired for yelling at his boss. If, he’s right in what he’s beginning to suspect.
If.
He shrugs his jacket back up and pulls out his phone, typing 'Demons + Patterns + Folklore' into the search bar.