Chapter Text
The house smells a little bit like coffee, pancakes, and syrup, and a whole lot like home.
The golden sunlight slants in lazily through the blinds, warming them in divisions. Mira sways in the kitchen, rocking low sweatpants and a messy bun with a careless grace, finishing off the last of the batter—trying to swirl it into the skillet with artistic pizzazz that amounts to nothing because it pools into a perfectly flat surface. In the living room, Zoey hooks her legs over the end of the couch, hair splayed out beneath her, still bleary-eyed and playing her Switch upside down, the soft ambience of Breath of the Wild tinkling from its tiny speakers.
Rumi sits at the kitchen island with her knees tucked to her chest, coffee cup steaming with warm swirls. She smiles with soft exasperation down at her phone, her oversized tee’s sleeve hanging off one shoulder and braid mussed from a late morning start.
Rumi snorts out loud, shaking her head.
“What’s funny?” Zoey calls out, smiling instinctually from the sound without looking up from her Switch.
“Just Jinu being stupid again,” Rumi says, fingers still flying across the screen.
She stops to accept the bite of buttery goodness that Mira offers her from the stack of pancakes already cooling, teeth closing gently around the fork and pulling off it with a lick of her lips. Mira bangs her knee into the island and curses, garnering a concerned glance that she waves away.
Rumi continues after swallowing, “He’s campaigning to get me out of the house.”
“Not a bad idea, even if it’s Jinroo’s.” Mira concedes as she returns to the stove, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk and lock of her hair falling from her bun. Rumi is certain that Mira will never, not once in her life, say his name right, even when he’s not present to hear it. Rumi doesn’t understand what beef they have against the other and she’s not sure she wants to. “Want to get up to something? We can go watch that movie Zoey’s been itching to see—Zoey, what’s it called?”
“Shell’s Up!” Zoey squeals from the couch, rolling over onto her stomach to beam at them eagerly. Her Switch is lost underneath her, music muffled in a plaintive cry. “Oh, can we, can we, Rumi? Pleaseeee!”
“Sure, but that’s not what he meant,” Rumi laughs softly.
Zoey stops kicking her feet, curiosity stilling her. “What do you mean?”
“Yeah, what?” Mira follows up, sliding the pancakes onto the last plate as she swings around to raise her brow at Rumi.
“He wants me to go to a mixer with him,” Rumi complains. “Meet people.”
“Like—” Zoey starts hesitantly.
“To hook up?” Mira finishes, eyes narrow and flashing to Zoey.
Rumi nods solemnly, sending a final message to Jinu that was basically a nicely wrapped “suck it up, buttercup” and sets her phone down to focus on the conversation in front of her. “Yeah. Apparently, me being single is a crime.”
Zoey pulls herself up onto her knees, staring at Rumi intensely. “I mean…”
“Do you want to date?” Mira cuts her off before Zoey can continue.
“Come on, guys,” Lifting her mug like it’s the only lifeline between her and the pitfalls of delving into her romantic endeavors (or lack of), Rumi groans. “I don’t want to think about it, especially not before I’ve finished my coffee.”
Mira presses her elbows onto the island with careful nonchalance, crossing her ankles and leaning forward. “We won’t judge if you’ve changed your mind,” she says, speaking to Rumi, but Rumi notices that her gaze is set on Zoey. “About dating. We’ll support you no matter what, you know?”
At Mira’s heartfelt declaration, posed like a casual comment, Rumi softens. “Awww, you guys. You know I’d do the same for you,” she giggles, looking between them—
But Mira and Zoey are having a conversation with their eyes alone, in a language she’s not privy to.
When did that happen?
“Really?” Zoey asks softly. “You’d support us?”
Rumi’s smile falters, brow furrowing. “I mean, yeah… Why are you asking?”
Mira clears her throat. “Well. I think we’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you, but—uh.”
Zoey drops the bomb.
“We’redating.”
Rumi blinks, off-kilter, trying to parse through whatever Zoey blurted out. “Sorry, what was that?”
Zoey looks mortified, face glowing red as her gaze bounces between Rumi and Mira, and Mira clears her throat.
“She said we’re dating,” Mira repeats, face even but voice wavering, just a touch. “Zoey and I,” she adds, like she needed to clarify.
And it’s a bit like ice water pouring down Rumi’s back on a sunny day. A shock to the system. A shift in outlook.
Her heart gives a sudden lurch.
She smiles before anything else can catch up with her, because she’s happy for them, she knows this intrinsically, immediately. She’s seen the lingering glances, the prolonged brushes of skin on skin in passing, the friendly teasing that grew charged with intent, implications.
It makes sense. It was bound to happen.
They fit.
So why does it hurt?
Rumi sets down her cup, some distant part of her afraid she’ll drop it.
“Really?” she asks, voice soft, like she’s afraid speaking too loud will break something.
(Her heart, maybe.)
Mira and Zoey glance at each other nervously, then back to her.
“Yeah,” Mira gets out, swallowing subtly in the way Rumi always notices when she’s on edge, when Mira’s afraid of coming on too strong and is holding herself back. “We are.”
“It’s… recent,” Zoey adds shyly, biting her lip, unable to keep her eyes on Rumi too long before having to reset her nerves by glancing elsewhere. “We wanted to tell you right away—but we were—”
“Nervous,” Mira admits.
Rumi softens (fractures), and lets her smile grow wider, hiding part of it by taking a sip of her suddenly lukewarm coffee. “Well. About time.”
She laughs when they gape at her, hard enough that she feels her lungs struggle by the end of it, breath shallow even when the last giggle peters out.
“You—you knew?” Zoey gasps. “That we were dating?”
Mira leans back with crossed arms. “No way. I can’t believe it,” she refutes gruffly, but her red ears don’t allow her tone to have the impact she wants.
Shaking her head, Rumi sets her cup down and props her head up with a fist to her cheek, elbow resting on the island as she sits. Smugly, she says, “It’s not that I knew you were together, it’s that I knew it was inevitable. You guys are sooo obvious.”
For some reason, they go quiet, giving her a funny look.
“Really?” Zoey asks after a beat, voice pitched a little too high. There’s something to her expression that seems searching, or maybe pleading.
“You’re kidding,” Mira drones—her gaze narrowed in on Rumi, piercing, like she’s trying to peel back a layer of Rumi’s skin to see if she’s hiding anything underneath.
Rumi shifts under the pressure, not sure where it’s coming from. “Dead serious. There’s only so many times Zoey can straddle you on the couch before even I clue into it, you know.”
They have the decency to look abashed, but Zoey tries to protest: “I do it to you too!”
Rumi rolls her eyes, huffing another short, shallow laugh. “Yes, but I’m me. I know you don’t mean it that way. Anyways, there’s also the way that Mira’s always putting her hand on your thigh, or feeding you, or walking on the shoulder nearest to the road—you know, obvious girlfriend things.”
And Zoey opens her mouth—
Clamps it shut.
Looks a bit like she’s steaming, but not from embarrassment—maybe something closer to frustration.
Mira’s shoulders slump in something like defeat and she rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “Right. So obvious, right?”
Rumi looks between the two of them. Smiles again. “You guys are so weird. I’m expecting a ton of couple selfies soon, by the way.”
She gets the feeling she’s missing something when they only sigh, loud, exasperated.
Later, after they’ve stewed in whatever silly, petulant mood that has them moping around, they lock her down into a binge marathon. Zoey brings the snacks, Mira picks the movie, and Rumi tucks them in.
She makes sure to sit on the end of the couch, rather than the middle like usual, to give them space to just be—and it’s good that she does, because it’s like they can finally breathe. Everything about them seems lighter, now that they’re free to be open with their affection for each other. Mira’s edges soften, and Zoey folds into her, both tangling their hands together under the heavy blanket Rumi threw over them. The way Mira rests her chin on Zoey’s head, her eyes relaxing into a contented slant, and how Zoey smiles, not big, for once, but secretive, like she’s clutching something precious to her chest that she doesn’t want to share—
(There’s something unfurling in Rumi’s chest—)
It's beautiful. They’re beautiful.
She’s so happy for them.
The day flies by without fanfare, with a comfort that announces itself quietly, settling into Rumi’s ribs with a warmth that’s nearly tangible. Zoey and Mira’s banter fills the room like her favorite soundtrack she wants to play on repeat always. When her chest tightens at the murmur of soft words she couldn’t catch, Rumi sips her tea. When somehow they still find the time to turn to Rumi, to bring her into their space with a crooked smile and glittering eyes, she’s breathless.
That night, after they’ve gone through their routine—Rumi cleaning up the remnants of their war against snacks, Zoey washing the dishes, and Mira folding away the blankets and taking out the trash—they part with soft words and plans for tomorrow after work.
Mira and Zoey slip down the hallway.
Rumi hears the click of one door—only one—as she heads alone to hers.
The warmth that had suffused her seems to disappear when she shuts herself in. Nothing feels right in a way that eludes her; the shadows seem pale, the moonlight through her curtains, dull. The bed is perfectly made, everything organized to a tee, like she usually prefers—but right now, it only reminds her that she is alone. That her room looks more like something from a furniture catalogue than something lived in.
When had it started feeling like that?
She slips into her bathroom to brush her teeth, feeling off, but she doesn’t look any different in the mirror.
There’s something tight about her ribs though, a subtle squeeze when she breathes. Anxiety, maybe—another bad day on the way. But she knows it’s not from what lies underneath her tattoos, the ink turning her pain into something easier to look at, so she’s not sure why—
Rumi spits into the sink, then coughs as she feels something follow it. Looks down, befuddled, at what sits innocently in the mess of her used toothpaste.
The white foam can’t hide the red petal curling shyly inwards, delicate veins like glass visible along the edges.
Something blue sits in the cradle of it—another petal?
With a bewildered blink and all the intelligence of someone trying to convince themselves it was a one-off, Rumi washes it down the sink.
Maybe Mira tried to do something different with the pancakes, Rumi thinks when she finally buries her face into her pillow, letting sleep help her forget the ache in her chest.