Chapter Text
"Is this going to change us?"
The question is quiet, barely louder than a whisper. Hushed words muffled by the sound of the fan that sits in the corner of their bedroom that would be lost to the world if Rumi couldn't feel the vibration of each syllable against the hand that rests on Zoey's back.
"What do you mean?"
"What happens if…" Zoey trails off as she takes in a shaky inhale.
She doesn't need to finish for Rumi to know the shapes and sounds that die on Zoey's tongue. Rumi had expected this, Zoey has never been the kind of person to let things go. She collects memories and feelings and thoughts—both good and bad—and hoards them like precious treasures in the cavity behind her ribcage. Keeping her battered heart company, she had said in jest once like it wasn't just another confession wrapped up in a superficial joke.
"It doesn't change anything." Rumi gently runs her hand along Zoey's spine, feeling the unsteady rise and fall of her lungs. "The surgery only dulls feelings in order to manage the disease, it doesn't remove them completely like the old procedure. They assured me that previously formed connections are maintained, but even if they weren't I would still choose you. I would still choose us."
"But—"
"Zoey," Rumi interrupts firmly. "I mean it. Plus, I'm not letting you get rid of me that easily."
"I don't want to get rid of you," Zoey whispers back. Honest and open in a way that makes Rumi's heart beat a little faster. "Who would get the wine glasses from the top shelf after my agonizing weekly check-ins with Min-ho if you're not around?"
There's a mix of joy and resilience that Zoey holds within her. It allows her to sculpt moments like these—moments that are a little fragile and scary—into something silly, unserious, coated in genuine fondness. Love and comfort in a space that feels safe. It's one of the things Rumi loves most about her.
Rumi mock gasps. She loops her arms around Zoey's waist tightly and pulls her in. "Is that all I am to you? Just long arms to reach high shelves?"
A loud laugh breaks out of Zoey as she kicks her feet to attempt, rather unsuccessfully, to get out of Rumi's grasp. "No!" she yelps, struggling to catch her breath as Rumi begins to bite playfully at her shoulders. "You're also my favourite pillow and my favourite person. Oh and my favourite shower fu—"
Effortlessly, Rumi flips Zoey onto her back, taking advantage of their new positions to climb on top of Zoey and silence her with a kiss.
"You're such a brat," she says with fond exasperation against Zoey's lips, revelling in the warmth of their bodies pressed together.
Zoey beams up at her, eyes wide and bright with unfettered joy. She nudges Rumi's nose with her own, an act that is just as much a declaration of love as any words could ever be. "You love me."
"Always," she replies easily.
Loving Zoey has always been exactly that: easy.
She leans in for another kiss. This time it's softer but heavy with meaning. Her lips move over Zoey's slowly and it reminds Rumi of the first time they kissed, slightly nervous and hesitant but still just as sweet. She had thought then that kissing Zoey felt right, like it was something she was meant to do—and wanted to do—for the rest of her life.
That feeling has changed. If anything, it has only intensified over the years.
"You'll be there?" Rumi asks once they break for air. She can hear the way her voice sounds, how it carries the nerves she's been holding onto all night. "When I wake up?"
Soft hands come up to cradle her face, gently directing her gaze to meet Zoey's eyes—earnest and full of love.
"Always."
Bergamot and blood orange with a gentle hint of vanilla. The scent lingers by the door, sweet and fresh and warm like a sunny summer day spent by the ocean. Like home.
Rumi leans her luggage against the wall by the entryway, careful to not cause a re-enactment of what Zoey calls her "Final Destination moment"—tripping over several of Rumi's suitcases while trying to make it out the door for a 5 a.m. call a couple of months ago. Thankfully the only casualty, aside from Zoey's dignity, was her favourite travel mug: a yellow tumbler with turtles and sharks wearing sunglasses.
Zoey's voice drifts in and out as Rumi toes off her shoes and changes into slippers. It makes her chuckle at herself, knowing that Zoey is likely walking from the door of her office to the window and back while talking with whatever co-worker has decided she doesn't actually get to enjoy her personal life after six on a Friday. Rumi understands, she does—they both work in the music industry (with Rumi also balancing a newly flourishing acting career) and she is well acquainted with the lack of "off the clock" hours. Every minute is precious when management is trying to push out the next big hit.
It doesn't mean that she likes it, however. They're both workaholics, and there are days Rumi is willing to wager that Zoey's people pleasing tendencies makes her more of a workaholic than she is, but she knows what kinds of calls come in on Friday evenings.
Useless ones, for the most part.
More often than not it's some mid-level manager trying to prove that they don't clock off the moment the official work day is over, and for some reason Zoey is their favourite person to call.
Well, not some reason. Rumi has a feeling that it's likely because Zoey is willing to pick up her work phone at any time so long as they're not busy and she cares about her clients succeeding.
And that's exactly why Rumi finds her pacing back and forth next to her desk, phone pressed to her ear with one hand while she spins a pencil like a tiny baton with the other.
"…and if we need to do—" Zoey coughs, dry and loud. It's more of a hack than anything else. Rumi catches the spots of blue and red that litter the tissue that Zoey tosses into the garbage can behind her. "Sorry. If we need to do that on—no, no, it's probably just a cold."
Rumi winces at the words. Leaning further into the door frame, she takes a deep breath to try and get rid of the sticky tar and sharp thorns that cling to the lining of her stomach.
Because it's not "probably just a cold".
Zoey knows it's not. Rumi knows it's not. But it's the lie that Zoey has committed to.
A secret best kept under wraps and out of the light of day for Rumi's benefit more than anyone else's. Yet it had been Zoey who had suggested it, had fought for it, had been adamant about it. After all, what does it say when South Korea's best-selling KPop Soloist has a long term partner who still suffers from symptoms?
"It's your reputation I would be tarnishing, Rumi!" Zoey had yelled, voice raw from the hours they had spent going back and forth on the topic. "I don't give a fuck about mine anymore. There's nothing left for me after Mira— after she—"
Rumi had conceded then, Zoey's black mascara tainting the shoulder of her shirt as she ran her hands through long, dark hair.
Zoey was right—she gave up her career as an idol shortly after Mira left, adamant that she didn't want to do it if it wasn't the three of them. When Celine couldn't change her mind, she offered to help her find a position in the music industry which she politely refused. It didn't take long for her to find something anyway. Zoey was known by producers around the industry, having worked with more than a handful of them for various HUNTR/X singles. Being the annoying one that didn't know how to let go of her creations had perks in the long run, she had joked as if she hadn't spent countless hours during their earlier years battling the anxiety that came with being thought of as "too much".
She had refused to get the surgery, unlike Rumi. Scared that it would somehow take whatever was still left of Mira away from her, like the flowers themselves were a sign that whatever was left of their friendship still existed within her.
When Mira had mentioned that she'd gotten the surgery in an interview a few years back, Zoey stood up from their couch abruptly, leaving behind nothing more than a broken sob, and locked herself in their bathroom for the rest of the night.
The damage from the disease damaged her vocal chords irreparably. She could still sing, beautifully so, but her voice was lower and carried with it a scratchier quality. Not exactly KPop Idol material. Not that it mattered too much after she stepped away from the stage lights. Not that it mattered when she still struggled to write something for herself and not one of her clients.
So she lied. Constantly. To co-workers, employers, the industry, the media. Saying that she had a weak immune system and was prone to catching colds, hoping no one would care too much to look into the fact that it was usually worse when Rumi wasn't in Seoul.
It was already unusual enough for one of South Korea's most well-known couples in the spotlight to be queer that opening up a conversation about polyamory was not even on the table. Celine had cautioned that they were lucky to be "accepted" (more like tolerated), likely due to their prior success and her position in the industry, but to have no illusions about the fact that Dispatch and the media would descend upon them like starved vultures if they knew about Zoey's condition.
The headlines would be brutal and never ending, causing a media storm Rumi knows she might survive but is worried Zoey would drown under.
Is Ryu Rumi Not Enough for Lee Zoey?
Possible Infidelity Scandal as Lee Zoey is Seen Coughing Up Flowers.
Has Seoul's Music Industry Power Couple Lying to Us About Their Love?
"As I was saying earlier—" Zoey's words pull her slowly out of her thoughts, helping her breathe easier. Helping her swallow the bile back down. "—if we need to do that on the third week instead of the second we can make it work."
Rumi tries to focus on Zoey, here in front of her, wearing loose fitted cargo pants that fall just below her hip bones and that one white tank top she has five of. Her hair is down and the ends are curled, likely meaning that she had it up in a braided bun for most of the day—not two these days, just the one—before pulling it loose the moment she crossed the threshold of their apartment.
She misses the days when there were two.
A bittersweet taste remains on the tip of her tongue as she pushes herself away from the door frame and walks further into the office, lured by the comfort of Zoey's perfume on warm skin.
"Yes, the single will be—" Zoey sucks in a breath of surprise the moment Rumi's fingers dig into the soft skin of her hips. "—done by then."
Dark hair hits Rumi's cheeks and nose as Zoey whips her head around to look behind her. Her eyes are wide with shock and her face flips between several emotions—fear, bewilderment, joy, adoration—before settling on a chastising look Rumi knows all too well.
It isn't stern by any measure, just a gentle downward tug of her eyebrows and a small frown. Adorable is the word Rumi would use to describe it, much to Zoey's dismay, but it's hard not to find it endearing when those big brown eyes shine back at her with delight.
"Zoey?"
With a panicked laugh, Zoey answers the concerned voice on the other side of the line. "Sorry! There's a spider!"
Rumi chokes back a laugh and presses her face into the crook of Zoey's neck at the disbelieving "a spider?" reply that comes through the speaker.
"Yep! You know me and my arachnophobia!" Zoey giggles again, sounding more panicked than she did before and playfully swatting at Rumi's right hand as it dips below the hem of her tank top.
She has every intention to let Zoey finish her phone call, she does, until another cough rattles through her small frame and Rumi can feel the way Zoey's lungs constrict under the gentle press of her hands. So she starts placing soft kisses along freckled shoulders, leaving behind the indent of teeth over her favourite clusters, and makes her way to Zoey's neck.
Ever the professional, Zoey does her best to sound unaffected between almost inaudible gasps. "Mhm, yeah, that time frame works for me."
Or she attempts to, anyway, until Rumi sinks her teeth into that one spot right below her ear and swipes her tongue to soothe the quickly reddening skin, causing her to yelp inelegantly into the phone.
"Sor— It's— I'm—" Zoey stumbles over the word before landing on, "Spider! Sung-min, I really need to deal with this spider before I lose it again and spend the rest of the night trying to find it between all my stacks of paper. I'll call you back tomorrow morning okay? Sure, yeah, pencil me in for noon. Okay bye!"
"Spider, huh?" Rumi laughs.
"I don't think saying that my hot girlfriend is trying to feel me up after being gone for two weeks would be very professional." She relaxes into Rumi's hold with a pleased sigh, letting her body lean against Rumi's fully and tilting her neck to give her better access.
Rumi hums happily, brushing her lips over Zoey's pulse point. "But then how would they know you have a hot girlfriend?"
"Jagiya, I don't think anyone needs a reminder that I'm dating the other half of Seoul's Power Couple of the Year. In fact, they'd probably prefer I don't remind them so they can remain blissfully in denial that you are, in fact, off the market."
Another laugh rings out of Rumi at that. There definitely are more than a handful of people, mostly men, that ask her out every time she shows up to events by herself.
"It's hard being everyone's type," she replies with a long, suffering sigh that would surely win her an award.
"Yeah, yeah," Zoey teases, tightening her hold on Rumi's arms as they wrap around her waist.
She could live here, Rumi thinks. In this exact moment, body protectively curled around Zoey's, surrounded by nothing other than the sound of her girlfriend's soft humming as she moves both of them side to side in a gentle sway.
"You've been coughing a lot this week," Rumi observes after Zoey tries to swallow down a smaller cough.
She had noticed the shift sometime on Tuesday, after Zoey had mentioned seeing an ad for the latest Honeysuckle product—vodka, or something along those lines. An odd choice in her opinion, not that anyone was asking her of all people. She did her best to ignore it, or tried to anyway. The onslaught of ads, billboards, and overall chatter that overtook her every day life now that the newest trend had dropped made it a little hard to keep it entirely out of sight or out of mind.
It wasn't a surprise that Zoey's cough had increased in frequency since then, getting harsher and a little deeper like there was something constantly blocking her airways that she couldn't quite get out. And there was, there had been for years. Whenever reminders of her filter into their personal or professional lives the build up in her lungs get worse, flowers growing so quickly—so insistently—that Rumi thinks it should be studied.
Zoey tries to not let the strain and drain it takes on her system show, always avoiding becoming an inconvenience at all costs even if that hinders her health even further. She could have called, asked Rumi to come home earlier or booked a trip out to Busan herself for a couple of days. But she didn't, and won't, and after all these years Rumi has learned not to get her hopes up when it comes to this. Out of the two of them, Zoey out-stubborns Rumi any day when it comes to this.
"Mm, I guess," Zoey says noncommittally and Rumi knows better than to push any further.
"You know," she offers instead, dipping the tone of her voice to make her intentions abundantly clear, "I hear there is something we can do about that cough."
There's a half laugh, half hum that vibrates at the base of Zoey's throat. "Oh, yeah?"
She doesn't waste any time. Not here, not now, not when she's been waiting three weeks to trace her fingers—and tongue—over the constellations that live between the peaks of Zoey's hips.
It takes no time at all to get Zoey exactly where Rumi wants her—on her back against the soft silk sheets of their bed with her shirt pulled off.
She's wearing that one bra that always makes Rumi lose her mind: black with little embroidered roses. There's something about the delicate lace, how it layers on top of Zoey's skin, making her look almost ethereal.
Zoey is beautiful, she's always been beautiful, but there's something about the way she looks in this particular matching set that makes heat boil between the apex of Rumi's thighs.
"Please tell me you're wearing the underwear too," she growls, tugging at the waistband of Zoey's cargo pants only to see that yes, she is wearing the matching underwear too.
Zoey threads her fingers through Rumi's hair and pulls her in, kissing her, biting her, claiming her with every nip and lick and whine that falls from her lips.
It doesn't take long before Zoey's putty under her hands, bucking her hips and panting her name like it's the only thing keeping her tethered to this plane of existence.
"Fuck, Ru, please," she whines. It's needy and whiny and so incredibly desperate that Rumi gives her exactly what she wants.
"You okay?" Rumi asks after they've both come down, tangled in each other's limbs and reveling in the warmth—in the presence—of each other.
"Yeah," Zoey says softly, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips. "Just missed you."
"I missed you too, Zo."
Rumi holds on a little tighter when Zoey starts to squirm against her. In part to hear Zoey whine out her name playfully—a sound that always makes her stomach flip and heart melt—but also because she's not quite ready to let her go just yet.
"Where are you going, nae sarang?" Rumi asks, letting her girlfriend wiggle free from her grasp.
"Notebook! Just thought of something!"
Reaching a hand over the quickly cooling sheets on Zoey's side of the bed, Rumi laughs, watching with fondness as Zoey darts out of their room completely naked, tangled hair swaying behind her with every hurried step.
"You better not be writing about our sex life for your clients' lyrics!"
"Ryu Rumi! I would never!" Zoey mock gasps from the other room before devolving into a fit of devilish cackling.
Rolling her eyes, because Rumi knows that's a lie—she and every other citizen of South Korea had definitely heard the lyrics about being coloured with a purple scent and being spread across the sky—and Zoey has no qualms about using their intimate moments for inspiration, she turns over towards her nightstand and reaches out for her phone.
One new message.
She runs her thumbs over her screen and taps on Bobby's name only to feel the oxygen be sucked right out of her lungs.
Static fills her mind, nestling itself in every corner until all Rumi can hear is the low hum of electricity and her own laboured breathing as she tries to smother the cold, prickly sensation that creeps up her chest.
"…and then …about …do …sound better?" Zoey's voice filters in and out between every other strained gasp.
"Rumi?" The sound of her name makes her head snap in Zoey's direction.
She stares at her for a second, phone trembling in her hand. Her mouth feels dry (has it always been this dry?) as she wills her jaw to open.
"Bobby just messaged," she manages eventually, words trickling out slowly like they're stuck to her throat. "Mira. My new co-star is Mira."
The static thrumming in her ears is replaced by the sharp clatter of a pen hitting the hardwood floor.