Chapter Text
Above all else, Mira is an observer.
Peripherals always active, attention never far from the two people that matter the most, whether at a movie premier or photoshoot or meet-and-greet: eyes bright, gaze narrowed. She knows she has an outward reputation - intimidating, quiet, a force to be reckoned with if she isn’t pleased. Unless safe at home with her family well in sight, she’s on the lookout.
A few months into belonging to HUNTR/X, Zoey had sheepishly admitted that she’d been lowkey terrified of her, right up until their inaugural outing as a trio for bubble tea during which Mira, content and comfy while momentarily away from the spotlight, had snort-laughed into her straw at Rumi’s dry comment on Celine’s newest assistant. She’d spilled down her sweater, and Zoey had giggled as Mira’s intimidating veneer had promptly shattered.
Rumi, conversely, had never once been perturbed. She’d always seen right through, from the very beginning.
All in all, though, out of the three of them, Mira prefers to hang back and suss vibes from a vantage point. It’s what makes her a natural choreographer, the lines and layouts of a routine forming in her mind long before she sets foot in a studio. She sees a vision and makes it happen, years of knowing how she and Zoey and Rumi move and breathe together sparking ideas, and when it’s time to workshop something new, to clean, to practice, she watches.
So she's not really sure how it happened. How she didn't notice.
The track ends on a final strong punch, silence ringing out through the studio in the aftermath. Mira peers across the scene before her.
It’s a full comeback show rehearsal, the girls plus ten backup dancers handpicked by Mira last month via a thorough audition process. The routine is done and dusted, so she’d given her spot up to the most polished understudy earlier in the day, choosing instead to stand to one side and make mental notes.
“Good,” she says, recalling Rumi’s wry note that morning about positive reinforcement. “Better. Zoey, scooch in a little closer.”
Panting, kneeling in her final pose, Zoey shuffles closer to Rumi’s leg. “Aren’t I gonna get stepped on?”
“You should be fine, Rumi’s coming back the other way at the end.” Mira cranes her neck. “Ji-won and Aimee, hands higher. Sharper angles, too.” They adjust. “Nice.” She folds her arms and scans the group. “Okay. Break for ten.”
Sighs and murmurs of relief fill the room as everyone drops their limbs, heads rolling on tense necks, wrists shaken out as dancers head for the side of the studio where bags and water bottles and towels await. Zoey takes a second to chat animatedly with one of the new crew members, a talented kid with short turquoise hair, and Rumi comes closer to take the bottle held in Mira’s outstretched hand.
“Thanks,” she murmurs. She uncaps the top and takes a long drink, wiping sweat from her temple at the same time. “Happy with it?”
“Sure.”
She huffs. “High praise.”
“Only the highest from me.”
“Uh huh.” She turns and leans gently back against the mirror. As she lifts her arm again to drink, Mira notes out of the corner of her eye how the silvery-purple marks across her forearms subtly catch the studio light. More curl at her collarbones and neck, one just kissing under her jawbone.
“I think she likes him,” Rumi comments with a small smile, nodding towards Zoey.
“Yeah?”
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “Might be nice for her.”
Humming in agreement, Mira follows her gaze.
Relationships, not surprisingly, haven't traditionally come easily with the idol-slash-demon-hunter job description. Fame aside, keeping monsters at bay over the years and staying fit enough to do so efficiently had eaten up a lot of their time, and while the tabloids had loved to speculate, HUNTR/X didn’t date. The job had been everything.
Now, with the new Honmoon secure and regular hunting calmed to the occasional clean up of wretched creatures stuck on the wrong side, there’s breathing room.
“What about you?” Rumi asks lowly, playfully. “Anyone catch your eye?” She’s nodding subtly over towards where a few of the female dancers review a tricky section. They’re all gorgeous, lean and talented, stylish in their sweats and crop-tops and sneakers.
Mira lifts a shoulder. “Haven’t thought much about it.”
Rumi accepts her deflection, rolling her shoulders, sweat damp skin brushing Mira’s arm. Mira closes her eyes for a moment and breathes through the rush in her chest.
She might not know how it happened, but she sure knows when it did.
In the moments after the final showdown with Gwi-Ma, they’d come back to each other, fractures aligned and fused with a new Honmoon, but the seams between them had still been fragile. The crowds had dissipated slowly after the surprise final performance of the Saja Boys - now confirmed to be a publicity stunt thanks to the careful work of Celine and the wily employees of Sunlight Entertainment - and the three of them had left the stage under the watchful eye of Bobby’s quickly summoned security team, escorted to discrete cars to take them home to regroup.
Rumi had been shivering, Mira remembers. Cheeks flushed with fading adrenaline and maybe a touch of shock, her patterns pulsing lightly along her legs and arms even as her hands clutched at her own biceps. Once alone in the car and sitting between her and Zoey, Mira hadn’t thought twice before grasping their hands. Zoey had gripped back, silent and still in awe as she’d watched the tendrils of the Honmoon dance beyond the car window, and Rumi had just exhaled and threaded cool fingers through Mira’s.
“We’re okay,” Mira had murmured after a moment, quiet and just to her.
There was more to it than that, she’d known then. They’d need time, and Mira had burned with questions - she needed to know what had happened on that stage during the botched performance of Golden, and she needed to know what had occurred afterwards before Gwi-Ma had poisoned her mind. Where Rumi had been, and what Jinu’s role had been.
What the entire story with Jinu was, in fact. Mira had watched him flame out of existence right in front of Rumi, a final sacrifice of sorts. In the back of the car taking them home, she hadn’t yet known what that meant for the woman beside her.
And then there was Rumi’s secret. Mira remembers sitting there, her best friends squeezing her hands, and thinking back on all the years that Rumi had been alone with it. Hiding, ashamed, frightened of judgement, and yet all the while never failing in her hunting, singing, her leading.
Beautiful on the inside and out, even more so now than ever for her raw honesty and marked skin.
Mira remembers her heart flipping over in her chest. She remembers the urge to scoop Rumi against her chest, to kiss her temple and cradle her gently, to give her all the safety and love that she’d always deserved, to stroke her hair back and to make a quip, just to hear her fight back a familiar endearing snort.
And she remembers fear coming fast on the heels of what it was she felt in that moment.
Now, she claps her hands to signal to the dancers, watches Rumi saunter back to center stage where she belongs, and shuts herself down.
“From the top,” she barks, nails digging into her own arms as she takes control of the room.
This, she can do. She can run a rehearsal and prepare for a concert series and take care of her crew. She can dance and sing and attend costume fittings, chat with Bobby about travel logistics, make sure that Rumi drinks enough water and Zoey gets enough sleep. She can work, improve, keep moving, and she’ll happily do all of this sunup to sundown every day instead of even beginning to think about approaching the fact that, when she wasn’t looking, she went and fell in love with one of her best friends.
The penthouse is quiet that night. Zoey is curled up on the couch with her headphones on, mouthing her way through random lyrics with a bedraggled notebook open on her knees, oblivious to the world. Mira’s been idly scrolling through her socials, noting which ones likely need some more attention soon, where she should post next, and Rumi’s upstairs.
She’s been upstairs a while.
Mira lets another fifteen minutes go by without her reappearance before unfolding from the couch, rolling the waistband of her sweats and heading upstairs in fuzzy-socked feet. At Rumi’s closed door, she knocks.
“You good?” she calls. “There’s leftovers for dinner.”
She knows Rumi sometimes likes a few hours of alone time, but she’ll usually give Mira and Zoey a heads up beforehand. She hadn’t said anything this evening.
Her voice comes delayed, distant. “I’m good.”
Mira sets her jaw. “You sure?”
Silence. Then,
“I need some advice.”
It’s dark inside her bedroom, Seoul’s twinkling lights flooding across carpeted flooring. Discarded workout clothes dot Rumi’s unmade bed, and the bathroom door is ajar. Mira finds her standing there with a towel wrapped tightly around herself, hair loose and damp down to her waist as she considers herself in the mirror with an unsure tilt to her lips.
“What’s up?” Mira asks lightly, leaning in the doorframe.
“Should I get contacts?”
Mira blinks. “What?” She looks into the mirror at familiar brown eyes. “Are you having issues seeing or something?”
“No, no.” Rumi waves her off. “I mean for the colour. You know, for when it- when I-” She cuts off with a small wince. “You know.”
Mira does know. It’s rare since that night at Namsan Tower, but it’s there. When Rumi laughs a little harder, sings a little louder, when she frustrates herself; a golden glow takes over her left iris.
“No,” Mira says immediately.
Rumi frowns. “No?”
“You don’t need contacts.”
Mouth twisting, Rumi looks back at herself. She turns her head from side to side, peering, judging.
“I don’t know,” she says. “It just seems like a lot to have to explain. New tattoos, new eye colour…”
“Who cares?” Mira cuts in defensively. “It’s nobody’s business. This is you, and you don’t have to apologize for it. Or hide it. Not ever again.”
Rumi gazes back at her via the mirror. Emotions flit across her face - uncertainty, fear, courage, determination. Briefly open and vulnerable. Mira aches for her.
The moment dissipates with a sigh, tension momentarily released from bare shoulders.
“Zoey’s okay?”
“Yeah. She’s chilling.”
“Okay.” Rumi clasps her towel more tightly. “I’ll be down in a sec.”
“Sure,” Mira relents. Gently yet clearly dismissed, she sees herself out.
She heads to the kitchen once she’s downstairs and sets the kettle to boil. A fresh batch of barley tea always goes down well in this household, which she soon puts aside to steep fully as she takes three cups down from the nearest cupboard. Zoey wanders over after a while, followed closely by Rumi, pink-faced from a recent scrub and in a long t-shirt and pajama pants set sporting cheeky cat faces. Her hair hangs loose, still a little damp and waving naturally under its own weight.
Mira turns away and busies herself pouring tea.
Cute, her brain blares. She’s so fucking cute.
For one brief, tortuous second, she lets herself fantasize. She imagines taking tea over to Rumi and sitting next to her, kissing her cheek, putting a comforting hand on her leg as she hums and enjoys the warmth. She imagines Zoey rolling her eyes at them fondly and imagines the promise of not having to go to bed alone.
She takes a sip a little too soon, letting the burn yank her back to reality before turning to place the two remaining drinks in front of her companions where they sit at the island, side by side.
“Thanks, babe,” Zoey enthuses, making grabby hands. Rumi just nods, gratitude evident in tired eyes as she wraps her palms around the cup and inhales to savour the familiar scent.
A quiet moment between the three of them is nice. As their tea slowly disappears, Mira does her best to set aside her anxiety, just for a second, and to relish the company she’s blessed to have. To feel lucky. To not stress about which love belongs where, and to just feel the love that’s there.
“Big day tomorrow,” she eventually murmurs.
“Big fun day,” Zoey corrects.
“Sure, if eight hours straight of tech and lighting sounds fun,” Rumi says around a yawn.
“It’s always fun with you guys,” Zoey counters like it’s obvious.
“Yeah.” Rumi smiles at each of them. “It is.”
“Sappy,” Mira accuses them gently. She sets her empty cup in the sink. “Let’s keep it fun by getting a proper night’s sleep.”
“Okay, mom.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“See if I ever do anything nice for you two ever again.”
Together, amidst giggles and playful shoves and arms around shoulders, they turn in for the night.
Tech day starts out hot. The sun beats down even at 7:30 in the morning as Mira gets out of the car near the loading bay of Sangam Stadium, the backstage door looming. She flicks her sunglasses down onto her nose and scans the scene. It’s busy, semis parked in a line with their back ends open and spilling set pieces, PAs and stagehands flitting about.
An iced coffee finds its way into her hand which she drinks gratefully, following behind Rumi and Zoey as Bobby takes the lead into the belly of the beast. She hopes the caffeine will rid her of lingering fatigue; she’d woken up from a dream in the early hours.
A nightmare, really. She’d been fighting, the scene flickering between the bathhouse, the train, the plane, a random street, an unnamed alleyway. The demons had come faster than she could keep track of, her blade swinging in efficient circles as she fought back the horde, Zoey’s enthusiastic cries sounding nearby, and she remembers wondering which position Rumi had taken-
Mira had whipped around, sensing danger at her six, stabbing forwards instinctively-
There was Rumi. Slumped over, skin pulsing pink and purple, her hair a mess, her costume top stained dark red, and Mira’s wol-do stuck fast between her ribs.
She’d opened her mouth, brows slanted, reaching for Mira-
Mira had woken in a sweat and been unable to fall back asleep for the last hour before her alarm went off. So much for taking on tech day rested and fresh.
Even now as she follows the girls into the area, she has a hard time throwing off that awful mental image. She blinks hard behind her glasses and instead peels her eyes to the sway of real Rumi’s shoulders as she walks in step with Zoey across the massive floor space that will see thousands of fans stomping and yelling in a week’s time.
“Hey.” Rumi stops just ahead. “You good?”
Mira blows out a breath, shaking herself out of her funk. “I’m fine, just tired.”
“Didn’t sleep well?”
“Weird dreams.” Mira drops her bag down beside Zoey and unzips the sweater she’d thrown on earlier, shrugging it off. She gives a small smile, reassuring. “I’m good, promise. Let’s do this.”
After a short pause, Rumi nods before turning and waving Bobby down to get a copy of the day’s production schedule.
The first few hours are set aside for lighting cues. Mira spends a lot of time standing on various spots of the stage, repeating the same step over and over so the audiovisual team can nail down transitions, then loitering around while Zoey and Rumi do the same. Rumi spends the most time on her feet with the biggest list of changes to cue up on her solo sections, which Mira doesn’t envy at all, instead taking the free time to chime in here and there for suggestions on the lighting combos that best complement her original artistic visions.
They then start running the setlist after a quick fifteen minutes to warm up, opening with How It’s Done before running into a selection of tracks from their first few albums - Threefold, Next To You, Highlights - and a handful of newer releases - Fragile, ‘Round The World, and, of course, Golden.
The lineup is back to back fire choreography from the start. Mira sweats up a storm, never willing to give less than a hundred percent even if the only audience they have are Bobby and the crew, until a break comes for Rumi’s tender rendition of Fragile. Her voice echoes hauntingly around the empty stadium, clear and pure, the Honmoon pulsing gently as she lays down the lyrics of the first song they’d written together after Gwi-Ma’s defeat.
Goosebumps rise along Mira’s arms where she stands at the edge of the stage with Zoey to listen.
“Gets me every time,” Zoey mutters.
Mira just nods.
They pick it up again with Spitfire, Zoey’s original signature track. Mira and Rumi dance back-up and sing harmonies for Zoey’s star moment, pride rising in Mira’s chest as she watches her take over. The routine for this one had been choreographed long before the Saja Boys fiasco, so it’s pure muscle memory for the three of them as they go through the motions of sliding into place at the end of the first chorus, Mira behind, Zoey below, and Rumi falling back into a trust-fall-roundhouse-kick move with Mira’s support as Zoey slides ahead to take center stage for the next solo verse.
Mira tenses her core as Rumi steps into her, linking their arms. She’s ready for her, except-
Rumi suddenly hesitates in dropping her weight back. They don’t connect smoothly, but she still hops up to get her legs out of Zoey’s way, and they end up stumbling sideways, Mira’s arms too tangled to catch her before Rumi rolls out of her grasp and hits the deck. She catches herself with one hand and goes down hard, grunting with surprise.
“Fuck,” Mira blurts. She raises her hands in a T gesture to the audio crew: “Timeout!”
The music cuts, and Mira kneels down to where Rumi still sits. She looks winded.
“You okay?” Mira asks quickly, quietly. She catches assistants coming running.
“Yeah,” Rumi breathes. “Sorry. I screwed up.”
“Don’t worry about it. Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head, taking Mira’s hand to stand. She shakes out her legs. “Don’t think so. Might have bruised my ass.” She then rubs her wrist, the one she’d fallen on. “Ouch.”
Mira looks about. “Do we have ice?” A stagehand puts a fresh icepack in her hand. “Great. Thanks.”
Rumi hisses at the first touch of it to her skin.
“Typical,” she grumbles. “With less than a week to go.”
“Shit happens.”
Zoey bounces up. “Hey, smooth guys. Are we alive?”
“Yeah, it’s nothing,” Rumi replies with an easy smile. “It’s almost lunchtime, right? Let’s break early, give the crew extra time for pyro set up.”
She slips away and hops down off the stage to go talk to the production manager, an announcement soon following to clear the stage area. Mira and Zoey follow after her and head over to where they’ve left their stuff - water, sweaters, towels, snacks, all the tech day necessities - over at the edge of the stadium floor space. Mira sits with a huff and stretches her legs out, wiggling her toes in her rehearsal sneakers while leaning back against the barrier as she watches Rumi talk with Bobby over by the temporary tech table set up in front of the stage.
A wrapper winkles - Zoey digs into a protein bar.
“What happened up there?” she asks with her mouth half full.
“The lift was weird,” Mira says. “I almost dropped her.”
“Has that ever happened before?”
“No, but… To be fair, we haven’t rehearsed this one in a while.”
Zoey lifts a shoulder. “You guys are usually solid. I’m sure it was a fluke.”
Mira hums, thinking, watching Rumi from afar. Without context, she looks the same as she has for every other rehearsal day they’ve had in the past five to six years: hair braided in a loose approximation of her stage style, baggy sweats, chunky sneakers meant to emulate the weight of her stage footwear, and a tank top tucked under into her sports bra to keep her cool in the early summer heat, and-
Oh. That’s what it is.
It’s hot today. They’ve been working hard for hours without the luxury of indoor AC, and Rumi isn’t wearing long sleeves. Mira wracks her brains, and she quickly comes to the conclusion that they haven’t ever rehearsed or performed said lift before while Rumi’s arms were bare.
Mira replays the moment, the linking their arms together before verse two, and realizes what had felt different.
Skin to skin.
“Yeah,” she echoes belatedly. “Probably just a fluke.”
They’re quiet with fatigue when the elevator deposits them at the penthouse long after dinner time has passed. Once inside with the outer world sealed away, they part ways for quiet time after the day’s events. Zoey beelines for the kitchen while Mira and Rumi both disappear to their rooms. Alone, Mira flops on her bed and groans quietly as her lower back aches and releases.
It’s funny the difference a few years makes. When just starting out, her energy and ability to bounce back had been boundless. She’s still in shape and ready for anything now, years on, but she notes how recovery takes longer. How proper warmups and cooldowns matter more, and how she’s only ever an unlucky ankle twist away from her career ending.
With all of this in mind, she peels herself off her mattress and heads for the bathroom to run a warm bath, leaving sweaty workout clothes in a trail behind her. The water cradles her tired body. Hair wound on top of her head, she sinks down almost to nose level with the water and closes her eyes.
She’s not sure how long has gone by when her phone buzzes gently where she’d left it on the folded towel waiting for her. Fifteen minutes, it turns out.
zo (10:20pm)
want sop
zo (10:20pm)
*soup
zo (10:20pm)
there’s sooooooup
me (10:21pm)
Duh
With a sigh, she sits and goes through a quick wash routine before standing to dry herself off, leaving the tub to drain and heading to find something clean to wear for bed.
Downstairs, Zoey and Rumi are curled on the couch already with steaming bowls held in sweater-pawed hands. Their legs are entwined, heads together as Zoey shows Rumi her latest stream of two-second videos - Mira’s heart clenches at the sight.
“Better have left some for me,” she calls on her way behind the kitchen island.
“Duh,” Zoey echoes her earlier text. “Hush. There’s possums.”
A bowl of simple reheated tofu stew in the crook of her arm, Mira takes a spot across from them. “Hairless cats, turtles, now possums. What’s next, raccoons?”
“No,” Zoey scoffs. “Anteaters, obviously.”
“Yeah, Mira,” Rumi chimes in. “Obviously.”
“My bad.”
The stew is satisfying: salty and homey, one of Rumi’s standards made a day or so ago. With Zoey’s videos and Rumi’s semi-interested hums as quiet background noise, Mira folds her knees in and enjoys the respite as she finishes.
It’s a little bit later on, their bowls stacked on the coffee table to be taken back to the kitchen, when Zoey sits up, jostling Rumi slightly.
“Sorry,” she says, bouncing up to stand. “Dad’s calling.”
Without another word, she scampers off. In her wake, Mira stands to gather the dishes, and she makes it as far as opening the dishwasher when a frustrated huff finds its way to her ears. She pauses first to load in the bowls, then straightening and glancing back towards the living room area.
Rumi still sits where Zoey had left her with her hair down around her shoulders, having mostly air-dried since her shower, and she has her arms raised over her head as she parts it for the beginnings of a braid. Except she sighs and drops her arms again with a soft groan.
“What’s up?” Mira drawls, enjoying the small scowl on Rumi’s face when she twists around.
“My arms are tired,” she says with a pout.
“Aw. It must be so hard holding up the microphone for all those solos, hm?”
Mira’s teasing - she knows it’s from hanging on to the aerial hoop for five consecutive lighting tests for the chorus of Golden.
“Shut up,” Rumi grumbles without any actual ire. Mira watches as she tries again, managing the first twist. She gives up.
“Miraaa.”
“Yes?”
She peeks over the edge of the couch. “Help.”
With a soft eye roll, Mira walks over, sliding over the sofa’s back to plop down behind her. “Give it here.” Rumi hands her a wide-tooth comb and folds her legs, settling in, and Mira gets to work.
Braiding Rumi’s hair is second nature after all these years. These locks are as much of a HUNTR/X staple as the music, and Rumi has always kept them long. She can do it herself, but Celine had often styled it for her in the earlier days, both Mira and Zoey picking up the skill during those quiet evenings after long days of intense training pre-debut.
On stage, Rumi favours a secure dragon braid. For sleep, however, a softer french style suffices. Mira starts by gathering her hair behind her back, tucking it behind her ears and smoothing it down, combing through small tangles with care as she goes. She doesn’t miss Rumi’s small sigh of comfort, and it makes Mira smile to herself.
“How’s the wrist?” she asks after quiet minutes pass. She’s got the first few passes of the braid down, now in the rhythm of it.
“It’s fine,” Rumi replies after a second. “I’ll ice it again before going to bed.”
“Good call.”
Silence falls again, broken only by the soft shush of hair slipping through Mira’s hands.
“I’m nervous,” Rumi says suddenly.
Mira keeps braiding carefully, eyes on the back of her head. “What about?”
“The tour. The first one since… everything.” She picks at her pajama pants. “I’m worried I’ve changed, somehow. That they’ll all notice I’m not the same. That I’m not…”
“Not what?”
Instead of answering, Rumi just shakes her head. Mira lets her be for a moment, quietly asking for an elastic and tying off the end of the braid when Rumi hands her one over her shoulder.
“You are, by the way,” Mira tells her.
A small frown gracing her face, Rumi twists around.
“Different,” Mira clarifies. “In a good way,” she adds before Rumi’s face can fall.
“...yeah?”
“Promise.”
Rumi nods thoughtfully, gaze slipping out towards the windows of the apartment. Mira watches her intently for a moment while she’s allowed, following the reflection of the city in dark eyes, the way her nose naturally tilts.
“You said you had weird dreams,” Rumi then says. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Now Mira’s the one to harbour anxiety, crossing her arms over her stomach.
“You can tell me,” Rumi gently prompts. “I won’t be upset if it was about me.”
Mira exhales. “It was. But not in the way you think.” She steels herself, guilt clogging her throat. “I dreamed that I hurt you.” She swallows. “I still feel bad, you know?”
Sadly and with understanding, Rumi takes one of her hands and squeezes it.
They’ve talked this all through since Namsan Tower. Several times, in fact, and it hadn’t been pretty. Mira thinks back to late nights clutched to each other on this very couch, exhausted and uncertain, pained voices layering over one another along with hot tears of grief and guilt coming in unstoppable waves. She remembers sobbing against Rumi’s temple, trying to atone for raising her weapon but not knowing where to begin as Rumi had cried with her and apologized again and again to both her and Zoey for withholding her truth for so long.
Months on, it’s easier. But it’s still here.
“It was just a dream,” Rumi whispers, giving Mira’s hand a small shake.
“I just can’t stand the thought of hurting you.”
“I know.”
“Seriously, I can’t-”
But Mira has to stop herself. Her feelings bubble up inside of her, desperately wanting out as Rumi sits so close to her with earnest eyes staring right back.
“I know,” Rumi repeats.
I wish you really did know, Mira thinks defeatedly.
Instead, she manages a watery smile and rolls out her neck. “We should sleep. It’s been a long day.”
Rumi studies her for a second. In the pause, Mira fights back nervousness and does her best to appear neutral. Maybe Rumi can see past her deflection - she’s known her for almost a decade now, and sometimes Mira isn’t sure if they can truly hide anything from each other anymore.
Whether she sees anything or not, though, Rumi relents.
“Okay. See you in the morning.”
“Yeah. See you.”
With her proverbial tail tucked between her legs, Mira retreats to the stairs and up to her room for the night.
Their schedules remain just as packed leading up to the opening show, even more so with a rude awakening at quarter to five one morning a week out - a ripple in the Honmoon wrenches the three of them from sleep and has them hailing a discrete car over to Seoul Forest Park. A few minor demons crouch around a garbage can being weird and demon-y, and it takes less than five minutes to send them back to where they belong. Zoey does most of the work from afar, slinging her blades and taking out half of the sorry gathering before Rumi and Mira run ahead.
Still, she gets to take at least one vicious swing. It feels cathartic.
In the aftermath, Rumi surveys the scene with pursed lips. “We’re gonna have to be careful to keep up with sparring,” she says.
Zoey quirks an eyebrow. “Were we too slow?”
“No, I’m just thinking ahead.”
“To what?” Mira asks.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Anything could happen. We should be ready, always.”
It’s a typical Rumi move: barely enjoy the win, stress about the next shoe dropping. Sometimes Mira finds it easier to just agree.
“We can make time,” she says. “Maybe not this week in particular.”
Rolling her shoulders, Rumi nods at her. Zoey takes that moment to fish her phone out from a zipped pocket and groan.
“It’s not even six,” she pouts. “I want another three hours of sleep, minimum.”
Mira also wants three hours of sleep. However;
“You can have one,” Rumi counters. “Stage call is eight-thirty.”
With an impressively world-weary sigh, Zoey tosses her blades back into the Honmoon. “Why can’t demons respect the stage call time? I’m gonna track down the car.” She springs into a jog across the park, Rumi and Mira following behind at a more leisurely pace.
A quick look around tells her that they’re still alone, no early morning joggers out and about just yet, so she takes a moment to enjoy the weight of her weapon in her hand. She likes the familiar strength of the staff under her palm, how she can twirl it in lazy circles and know exactly where it’ll go. It’s been a part of her for so long now, since she was fifteen. A lifetime, really.
Rumi also hasn’t relinquished her blade just yet. When they come to a bench near a secluded driveway, Zoey nearby on a call with their driver, she sits and rests the saingeom across her lap. Mira takes a moment to trace the shape of it with her eyes - the widened body of it, and the elegant curve at the end. Heavier with more than just increased mass.
Mira must be some kind of masochist.
“Do you miss him?” she asks, sitting down.
Rumi doesn’t answer for a long while. Her fingers curl around the hilt.
“It’s complicated,” Rumi replies carefully.
Mira waits. Birds chirp to each other overhead as the city wakes.
“I think he showed up at a difficult time,” she eventually continues. “And also at a time when I really needed someone to see me.” She exhales slowly. “What he did for me was his choice, for better or worse. I can accept that now.”
I would have seen you, Mira thinks. We both would have.
She stays quiet.
“Do I miss him, though?” Rumi asks herself, echoing the original question while gazing out along the trees. “I don’t think so. But I do think about him, and I do think he had an important role in getting us to where we are now.”
“He’s a part of you,” Mira murmurs, nodding down at the blade.
“In a way. He’s definitely gone, but… his strength is there.”
“His soul.”
“Yeah.”
It’s an unbearably intimate thought. Mira recalls the flow of gentle blue as Jinu had given himself up, his essence flowing freely, a selfless gift. Hunters’ weapons are expressions of their inner selves at the deepest level, places only the Honmoon can see and reflect, and Rumi’s has changed. She has changed.
And Mira still loves her.
“I don’t think he was all bad,” Mira says quietly. “He helped you, and he saved you. I can’t be angry at him for that.”
Gratitude clear in her expression, Rumi looks at her. “Thanks,” she whispers.
Mira just nudges her shoulder and for a moment, all is settled. The threads of the Honmoon sway between them, calm and soothing, blending with the gentle rippling of leaves all around.
“Of course, he made fun of your pajama pants. That, I cannot forgive.”
Rumi laughs. “To be fair, they’re pretty bad. You can’t honestly say you like them.”
“They’re adorable, and you like them: therefore, I like them. Anyone who says anything else can suck it.”
Rumi’s smile is small and happy. “You’re such a loser.”
“Takes one to know one.”
With a content sigh, Rumi accepts the jab and nods before lifting up her weapon and letting it dissolve away with a practiced flick of her wrist. Zoey has wandered closer.
“Two minutes,” she reports.
Rumi stands with a nod, the moment coming to a close.
They do manage to fall back asleep in a pile on the couch when once home. It’s nice, quiet and soothing to have the weight of Zoey and Rumi’s heads on her shoulders as they snooze, sunlight spilling in and warming Mira’s feet where she rests them on the coffee table.
Unfortunately, the sleepy peace of the early morning doesn’t last. Someone’s alarm blares at exactly seven o’clock, and K-pop duty calls.
Showers, breakfast, rehearsal clothes quickly packed; they make it to the stadium five minutes early. It’s cooler today, busier too - Mira spots their backup dancers grouped together and warming up. With cues set the day before, the morning’s plan is a full run with lighting and effects, so she takes charge, directing everyone requiring a solid warmup to the stage. With Rumi and Zoey just off her shoulders, the dancers fanning out behind her, she leads them through her usual routine, the arena filling her field of vision and music from her portable speaker thudding. This, truly, is her happy place.
They wrap up with ten minutes to spare on stage, and Mira is about to suggest running the first chorus of ‘Round the World when a hand catches her elbow.
“Over here,” Rumi says brusquely, walking a few steps away, suddenly tearing off her sweater and tossing it to the side. A tank top remains. She turns when Mira gets closer, presenting her back, reaching her hands out.
“Uh.”
“The lift. Let’s try it.”
Her bare elbows and forearms catch the stage lights. Mira hesitates.
“We can change the choreo, you know,” she tentatively offers.
“I know,” Rumi bites out, frustrated. “But I shouldn’t- It’s you, it’s fine.” She shakes her head. “Mir-”
“I’m not touching you if you don’t want me to. Wear the sweater, it’s fine.”
Tense, Rumi looks back at her with a twisted expression.
“I don’t want to wear it,” she insists. “Can we just do it? Please?” comes out a little softer, weaker.
Mira folds.
“Okay,” she says evenly, bracing her forearms in front of her. “On three.” Rumi turns back around. “One. Two. Three-”
She sways backwards, arms linking with Mira’s smoothly, and launches up into a high round kick that clears the ground by a few feet. Mira takes her weight easily, trying hard to ignore the soft heat of skin against her own before setting her back down. Rumi withdraws and straightens up with a surprised look, one hand cradling her opposite elbow.
“There,” Mira murmurs. “Easy.”
“Easy,” Rumi echoes.
“You good?”
She nods. And then nods again, more strongly. “Yeah. Yes.”
That’s my girl.
Clearing her throat, Mira raises her voice to the group at large. “Form up - let’s run ‘Round the World from the end of verse one.”
Dancers mill around getting into position, and Mira gives Rumi one last nod before taking her own spot and counting in the beat.
The runthrough goes smoothly over the rest of the morning, well enough that Mira starts to feel suspicious, recalling that well-known omen of a bad rehearsal leading to a good opening night, but they still have a few days. Plenty of time for a good fuck up or two to really solidify things.
Spitfire goes fine, lift included, and she would almost call herself relaxed when, as Rumi’s first few notes of Fragile ring out, Zoey nudges Mira’s arm with her elbow.
“Hey, is that…?”
Mira glances out across the milling PAs, stage techs, dancers. “Who?”
“The photographer on the right, in the second row.” Zoey has an uncertain tone. “Is that Ji-an?”
Mira freezes, towel still held to the back of her sweaty neck. She looks again and eventually spots a woman way out in the second row as Zoey had said. She has a camera currently held up in front of her face and a press lanyard around her neck, clearly invited for some magazine or TV segment to take photos of tour prep, and Mira is wracking her brains because last she knew, her ex-girlfriend was working aboard for a destination wedding photography company.
“Uh,” she says. The woman finally lowers her camera to check her settings, uncovering her face. “Yup.”
Zoey nods slowly. “Did you know she’d be here?”
“Nope,” Mira says, already moving.
She has a few moments to spare before Rumi is done belting, so she makes her way down and across the mostly empty floor to the first rows of seats, giving an awkward wave as Ji-an notices her coming. At least there’s no one else in the immediate vicinity to watch Mira retread her romantic past - small mercies.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hi.” Ji-an smiles. “I kind of hoped you’d find me. Now I’ll feel like less of a creep taking pictures of you all day.”
Mira shrugs. “All good, part of the job.” She pauses. “Is this your job? The tour?”
She shakes her head. “No, you have someone else hired for backstage photography. He’s a buddy of mine, he’s just out sick for the day. He asked me to help out.”
As she answers, Mira takes her in. She’s still as Mira remembers from the nine or so months they’d dated two years ago - pretty, toned, a few tattoos running down capable arms. Her hair’s shorter now but still chopped haphazardly like she couldn’t care less.
To date, Ji-an is still the one and only romantic relationship Mira has managed to sustain since becoming an idol.
“Sure, yeah. I hope it isn’t too weird.”
Ji-an gives her what could be a gentle look. “It’s not weird.” She holds Mira’s gaze for a moment. “You look good up there, you know. You all do.”
“Thanks.”
“I like the new material.”
Mira is not blushing. “Thanks,” she says again, quieter. Behind her, the last notes of Fragile echo out, and she resists the urge to shake herself.
It didn’t end on bad terms, not really. They’d met at a solo fashion shoot of Mira’s, exchanging numbers and going from there. With Mira not being officially out and Ji-an not wanting the scrutiny of the press and fans, they’d kept it low key: no dates to formal events, no soft-launching instagram posts, just lowkey hangouts dressed down to avoid suspicion and the odd night spent together in Ji-an’s studio apartment. It had been nice. Normal even.
Slowly, though, she’d grown tired of trying to fit in around the idol lifestyle, so they’d eventually agreed to call it quits.
“Hey. Do you have any free time this week?”
Mira tilts her head.
“Not like that,” Ji-an continues with an easy smile. “Just to catch up.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Mira glances out across the stands, thinking. “Thursday? Dinner?”
“Works for me.”
“Cool,” Mira says. Internally, she’s wondering when she’d last spent social time with anyone who wasn’t Zoey or Rumi.
“Sounds like a plan. Uh.” Sheepish, Ji-an lifts her chin. “I think you’re being summoned.”
Turning fully, Mira catches Rumi in the distance standing at the stage’s edge, beckoning with a slightly impatient wave. “Looks like it. See you later?”
“Sure thing.”
Head buzzing, Mira starts up a jog back to where she’s supposed to be.
They have a break in the late afternoon, just enough time to return home and recharge before a talk show appearance scheduled for a late night slot. It’s really the last thing Mira feels like doing - looking human and being polite on camera - but it’s important press ahead of the tour and she’d never do anything to undermine the hard work of everyone involved.
So, here she finds herself: in a makeup chair backstage of a television studio once again. Zoey chats a mile a minute on her left, and Rumi’s quiet on her right as a makeup artist draws eyeliner across her lids, perfectly still and obedient.
Eyeshadow and highlighter applied, Mira’s artist gives an approving nod and clears out. She instantly sags in her chair and stretches out her legs. “I need caffeine,” she mutters.
“You’d be awake all night,” Zoey says with a snort.
“Better than falling asleep during a live broadcast.”
“But think of the memes, Mira.”
“Oh, I am.” She drops her head back and closes her eyes, angling for a few minutes of a snooze while she still can.
They’re one of three celebrity appearances scheduled this particular night. An actress goes first, fresh of a popular new drama, followed by some finance influencer big on social media. Then, it’s their turn. The audience perks up and makes a lot of noise for them, which is always gratifying, and the interview kicks off just like any other. Rumi fields most of the questions, sometimes throwing a few to Mira or Zoey if the query hits on dance or lyrics. There are at least two silly ones - what would your dream pet be? If you could choose a superpower to have, which one would you pick? Mira answers with guinea pig and immortality, because why the fuck not. She always picks randomly.
Honestly, she’s bored. The interviewer has a big, smarmy smile that she finds annoying. At least she already has a reputation for occasionally suffering from RBF, so she doesn’t worry too hard about schooling her features as she lounges in the corner of the sofa, legs long and lazily crossed.
Towards the end of their segment, their host looks once again to Rumi, making Mira hopeful that this is the last question.
“Rumi,” he starts. “There’s been a lot of speculation online ever since the Idol Awards performance of Golden. I’m curious - are they a part of a new era for HUNTR/X? Perhaps a taste of a more edgy artistic direction?”
A pause ensues. Mira exchanges a curious look with Zoey across their also clearly confused leader.
“I’m sorry,” Rumi starts with a bemused smile. “Are you referring to our new series of singles? They could definitely-”
“No, sorry, I was referring to your tattoos.”
She goes still in Mira’s peripheral view. Subtly, Mira glances past the right camera to where Bobby wrings his hands anxiously. This must not be a part of the original interview plan.
Rumi clears her throat lightly. “Right. Uh. It’s… more of a personal matter. I’d rather focus on the tour, if we can-”
“It’s a bold change for an idol,” he interrupts again. “Full sleeves, face included. Was there pushback from the label on that decision? Is there a message of self expression you’d like to share with your fans?”
Fucking hell, Mira thinks.
“Not, uh, not really,” Rumi tries. “I mean - yes! Of course, we always want to encourage the message of being yourself. Um. This just isn’t-”
“Your mentor and founder, Celine - what was her reaction?”
Behind her leg, hidden from cameras, Rumi’s nails dig into the sofa. Her mouth opens but nothing comes out, and Mira can see the guy watching her like a cat stalking a bird, bringing his microphone closer again to his stupid smile-
“Enough,” Mira cuts in.
The studio goes quiet.
“Rumi is entitled to privacy about her personal decisions,” she says, staring him down from where she still leans against the armrest. “We are more than prepared to discuss our music or the tour or anything else related to our professional lives, but this topic is finished. Let’s move on.”
He appears at a momentary loss for words. Good.
“Of course,” he backtracks, flustered. “Apologies. We can move on. Zoey, you recently collaborated with Martin Garrix on his new summer anthem. How was…”
Mira zones him out as Zoey takes the attention in a practiced shift in her posture. With the spotlight momentarily elsewhere, though still hyperaware of rolling cameras, Mira turns her head and murmurs close to Rumi’s ear, “You good?”
Rumi gives her a quick look. A quick nod. Satisfied for now, Mira nods back, and they get on with the job.
Zoey's birthday marks the end of the brief period during which Mira is three years older than her and the old lady jokes come fast and furious. Rumi is always spared despite being another six months older than Mira is, something Mira doesn’t hesitate to complain about at Zoey’s annual teasing.
Unlike Rumi, who will easily forget her own birthday if not for a calendar reminder, and Mira, who doesn’t crave extra attention on a day historically kind of depressing thanks to her family, Zoey loves to plan a party. This year's event is to take place at a rooftop club, and no matter how much Mira reminds their youngest member that they need to conserve energy for the tour kickoff, she knows it’s going to be a late night.
The morning of, the three of them pass lazy hours together as Zoey fields calls from parents, friends, anyone close enough to have her personal number. She also spends a solid half hour crafting an instagram post, finally settling on a shot of them from not long after their debut performance - a mirror selfie taken backstage, Rumi and Mira huddled around her, grins wide, makeup a little smudged and hair damp with sweat just after leaving the crowd behind.
best girls ever, happy bday to me, is the caption. Mira takes two minutes just to look at the photo, throat aching with pride and affection.
“I’m old,” Zoey moans as the unhinged yet loving comments from fans come pouring in. “I’m old and full of emotions.”
Rumi ruffles her hair. “Don’t worry. Mira’s always gonna be older.”
“Just wait until the backache starts,” Mira advises wisely.
“Girl, it’s already a permanent feature,” Zoey grumbles, making Rumi laugh once, light this morning like she hasn’t seemed in a long while.
They do have a few hours of work to do before it’s party time. One last group costume for the tour needs a final fitting: pieces for the penultimate performance of Swing before the planned encore of Golden.
Swing is a sexier song, one of the new ones. At Rumi's request, Mira had intentionally choreographed the group sections a little slower, more impactful, leaning further into hip sways and arched backs, and she definitely loves the final product with the lighting included, red and intense. She’s been super curious about the costumes. They’ve seen concept sketches but their construction had been delayed.
A car takes them across the city to the designer’s studio after lunchtime. Long time friend of the group, Myeong Na-rae has created many looks for them before, so Mira isn’t nervous about whether she’ll like what’s been made. She might be nervous about what ‘HUNTR/X but make it hotter’ means with regards to the Rumi situation, but she’s determined not to panic until she has a reason to.
Upon entering Na-rae’s studio, she probably definitely has a reason to.
“Holy shit,” Zoey exclaims gleefully once she’s in the door. “Best. Birthday present. Ever!”
“Wow,” Rumi tacks on, wide-eyed and pleased.
Mira just stares.
Na-rae has three mannequins prepared for them, each one dressed up in the new ensembles. Everything is black and mixed combinations of straps, mesh, and structured fabric, accents in silver via O-rings and studs, the vibe hitting somewhere between BDSM rave bunny and mountain climber couture. Their bottoms are parachute pants of netting, which is similar enough to looks worn before, but the tops are something else. Zoey’s is a mesh bustier made almost entirely of zippers sewn together. Mira’s is what looks like a cropped corset with nylon cord for off-the-shoulder straps, and Rumi’s-
It’s a patent pleather bralette with a wide strap that cuts up the mannequin’s chest to what could arguably be called a collar, more straps crisscrossing where Rumi’s waist will be. It looks dangerous.
It looks sexy.
It also looks like more skin than Mira has ever recalled her showing on stage before, and she almost wants to ask Rumi if she’s okay with it, except that when she turns, their leader is already giving Na-rae a quick hug, saying, “Absolutely perfect. Those additions look great, thank you so much for doing this on such short notice.”
Na-rae preens. “If you girls are ready, there are a few last adjustments to make.”
With an excited bounce, Zoey meets Na-rae at her mannequin, taking each piece in her arms as they come off the model. Rumi goes to retrieve her outfit by herself, Mira trailing after.
“These are different,” she comments idly.
“Are they?” Rumi carefully rolls her pants and reaches to unbuckle the pieces of the harness. “I feel like we’ve worn similar stuff before.”
“Maybe, but…”
Ready for one of the curtained changerooms, Rumi smiles. “A little adventure never hurt anybody.” And she slinks off, leaving Mira wordless and rooted to the spot. She watches her girls giggle together, comparing costume pieces, before sighing and turning towards her own body double.
“Is there anything you don’t like?” Na-rae asks earnestly from not far off her shoulder.
“Not at all,” Mira replies with a friendly smile. A lot of work has gone into these looks - she can appreciate the vision and effort. “They’re perfect.”
Ten minutes later sees them standing shoulder to shoulder on the raised, well-lit photography platform of the studio in typical formation - Mira on Rumi’s left, Zoey on the right - while Na-rae and Bobby scrutinize them as a trio.
“Hmm,” Na-rae says thoughtfully. “Can you loosen the waist ties a little?” They follow through obediently until the pants sit lower on their hips. “Yes. Much better.”
Bobby gives an enthusiastic thumbs up. “Very chic, super cool. These are going to look totally fire onstage.”
“Sick,” Zoey says, striking a pose.
“We love them,” Rumi says earnestly.
After a moment to restart her brain after accidentally glancing down and to her right, Mira belatedly adds, “Yep. Great. Good stuff.”
Regardless of her own internal breakdown over the structured curves covering Rumi’s chest and the cinch of straps around her waist, the designs are objectively excellent. Mira does feel cool, and she knows she’ll appreciate the airyness of the pants once she’s almost at the end of a full show. Combined with the lineup of costumes planned for the tour, the fans are in for some new treats.
She wills her eyes forwards as Rumi grins and gives Bobby and Na-rae two dorky thumbs up.
They split up for the rest of the day - Rumi to touch base with Celine, Zoey to check out her party venue ahead of time, and Mira back home for a quick nap before prepping for the evening. The alone time is refreshing, like it always is. They’re always together and she never complains about that, but sometimes a few hours to reset by herself does wonders.
When she wakes up, she feels more settled. Normal. She can do this.
The other girls are back already, and she finds them making a mess in the shared walk-in closet, Rumi fiddling with the buckle of a shoe while wearing an entirely different one on her other foot and Zoey making a snow angel in a pile of discarded clothes.
“That’s Prada,” Mira sniffs, picking up a stray blouse and dusting it off.
“You’re Prada.”
“Not until next season, according to my contract.” She glances around. “What’s going on? Did we run out of shit to wear?”
“Zoey is imposing a last minute theme,” Rumi grumbles.
“It is not last minute, you two just didn’t read the invitation.”
“We didn’t get invitations.”
“Because you live with me!”
“Anyway.” Rumi ignores her. “She wants ‘2000’s realness’.”
Mira quickly wracks her brain. She definitely has a low-rise mini skirt and jacket combo somewhere, something priceless off a 1999 Chanel runway. Done.
“I can do that,” she says. “When are we heading out?”
“Like eight?” Zoey guesses. “We can eat first and then go.” She then snickers. “Rumi will join later.”
Mira slides open one of the closet doors reserved for her own pieces. “Why’s that?”
Rumi mumbles something unintelligible.
“Didn’t catch that, princess,” Mira throws over her shoulder.
“She has to stay until Bobby comes over with some paperwork,” Zoey says gleefully.
“Like contract stuff?” Mira asks with a frown.
“Even better.”
“It’s no big deal!” Rumi defends herself. “It’s just a passport.”
Slowly, Mira twists around. She stares.
“‘Just a passport’”? she echoes.
Rumi stares defiantly back.
“Hold on,” Mira says, turning fully, pointing a hangar in her direction. “Did Ryu Rumi, trained from birth to hunt demons and to be Korea’s foremost idol, owner of four separate subscription calendar apps and two battery-backup alarm clocks, forget to renew her passport?”
“She did!” Zoey laughs from the floor.
“It’s not like I haven’t had other things on my mind recently,” Rumi mutters.
“We were in Japan just last year,” Mira points out.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t expired then!”
Snorting, Mira turns back to her clothes, sifting through. “Incredible. Was Celine annoyed?”
“So annoyed.”
“Sounds like you’ll just have to make a late grand entrance then.” Aha - she finds the pleated skirt and blazer, and she already knows just the pair of tall boots to finish the look off. “More important right now: what do you guys want for dinner?”
The distraction from Rumi’s embarrassment works as Zoey sits up enthusiastically with five ideas already on the tip of her tongue.
She and Zoey end up leaving for the event at nine, only a little fashionably late and leaving Rumi sulking at the kitchen island with Bobby and her papers not yet arrived. Mira only makes fun of her a little bit before taking Zoey downstairs to yet another birthday treat, a sleek limo waiting to take her into the spotlight.
Outside the lobby of the venue, some press is gathered as well as handfuls of guests milling around. Mira happily has her picture taken a few times under the watchful eye of some security personnel before deciding she’s had enough and leaving Zoey to soak up the well-deserved attention. Inside the lobby are some familiar faces waiting by a pair of shining elevator doors; their tour dancers. She greets them all with friendly hugs, accepting compliments on her clothes and giving the same in return, and once they’ve all piled the elevator, she ends up standing next to Leo, the kid with blue-green hair that Zoey seems increasingly sweet on. He holds a small gift bag.
“For Zoey?” Mira guesses.
He shifts. “Yeah. I was visiting my parents last week, and… I know there isn’t really I could get her that she doesn’t already have, but I thought a piece of home might be nice.”
He’s glancing up at Mira as if searching for approval. She pushes down her instinct to be territorial.
“Good idea. She’ll like that.”
To her vague amusement, Leo visibly exhales, looking as if he’s just passed her gruelling audition process for a second time.
At the penthouse level, the elevator opens up onto a dimly lit club scene. Mira’s never been to this one, and it doesn’t necessarily stand out despite looking expensive and exclusive, tropical plants and gold accents included. At least, because this is for Zoey, the crowd doesn’t look too pretentious. Most guests are dressed in well-curated ‘90s and 2000s street clothes, whereas a few match Mira’s runway vibe. Only a few boring suits to be spotted.
As a tray of champagne flutes passes by, Mira snags one, and dives in.
The first half hour slips by. Zoey makes a bubbly appearance to hoots and hollers, momentarily taking over a microphone at the DJ both to make a short greeting and get the party rolling. Old school hip hop music starts up with a group quickly gathering to dance, but Mira doesn’t head over to join quite yet. Instead she makes her rounds amongst the guests she wants to touch base with: other songwriters, choreographers, music producers, the kinds of professional friends she keeps in mind for various projects.
A little later on just as she finishes a conversation, another rumble sounds through the crowd signaling a high profile arrival. Mira glances over her shoulder towards the entranceway.
Damn.
Rumi looks incredible.
She’s in a silver-grey bandage dress and cropped black jacket with her hair straight and pulled in a high ponytail. She’s hot, of course, but what gets Mira’s attention is the details. In the past, public events had always been underscored with the possibility of needing to dip and take care of a demon problem, making stable shoes and minimal, secure jewelry the smart choices. Tonight, Rumi wears earrings that dangle almost to her collarbones, bracelets and rings, and high heels that make her legs look a million miles long. Tonight, Rumi looks every inch the polished idol she is.
She’s swarmed as she enters the room by promoters, dancers, other singers they know, friends of Zoey’s - she handles the attention with grace and warm smiles, taking selfies and giving out polite hugs. After a moment, there’s an excited shriek and Zoey zooms over, almost jumping into Rumi’s arms.
Rumi’s leg muscles flex under the added weight. Mira takes a sip of her second drink to cool herself down.
“You’re heeeeere,” Zoey cries, dragging Rumi with her over to the bar where Mira stands. “We’re all here! I’m so happy, I love you guys so much.”
Tipsy Zoey is a riot. Mira only grumbles a little as she’s tugged into an enthusiastic group hug, catching a whiff of sultry perfume off Rumi’s collarbones before they break apart.
“So,” she drawls to cover her internal panic, “can we go on tour now? Are you allowed to leave the country?”
Rumi rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’ll have it in two days.”
“You’re so silly for forgetting, Roo,” Zoey giggles. “C’mon, I wanna show you something.”
As she’s tugged away, she looks to Mira for help.
“You go,” Mira says with a grin. “It’s her day. I’m still saying hello to people.”
With a huff, Rumi lets herself be dragged away and they disappear into the crowd.
As is her nature, Mira sticks to the edge of the room and observes as the party really gets going. She catches a glimpse of purple hair and familiar space buns here and there, and she’s happy to partially keep tabs while catching up with a few modelling friends from a campaign they’d walked together a year or so ago. Bobby also finds her at some point, sharing a hug and a quip about the passport situation. She asks him if Celine plans on making an appearance.
“Unlikely,” he tells her with a sigh. “You girls matter to her a lot, but the ball remains in Rumi’s court.”
To his knowledge, Celine and Rumi had a personal falling out around the time of the Saja Boys. They talk HUNTR/X business but not much else.
“As it should be,” is all Mira says.
The manager of a recently-debuted group grabs his attention, and then Zoey is right in front of Mira once again.
“Hey, having fun?”
“So much fun,” Zoey sighs, cheeks flushed. “I’m so thirsty.”
Without a thought, Mira turns and waves a bartender closer, asking for two iced waters, and she’s about to ask Zoey whether she’s received any cool presents from any certain nice boys when she happens to glance over to the adjacent bartop. In the midst of people sitting on stools and chatting and trying to order, Rumi stands there talking to some guy in a slick suit who is, in Mira’s opinion, way too close to her. Rumi’s expression is politely interested. Maybe some DJ or wannabe idol is trying to chat her up.
“What is taking so looooong?” Zoey sings, bouncing on Mira’s right. Mira glances down; the glasses have been poured already and left for her to take.
“Nothing. Here.”
She hands Zoey hers and they knock them back together.
“Much better,” Zoey rasps after. “We gotta dance. Where’s Rumi?”
Schooling her face, Mira jerks her chin. “Talking to someone over there.”
“Talking to who?” Zoey leans around and peers over Mira’s shoulder. “Ooooh. D’you know who that is?”
“Should I?”
“Don’t you watch all the Tik Toks I send you?” She groans. “Whatever. He’s producing some new dating show, it’s all over my algorithm. Celebrities mingling with regular folk, but like, it’s kept secret.”
Mira blinks. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“Maybe he wants Rumi to be on it,” Zoey muses.
“Rumi? On a dating show?” Mira suddenly wants to laugh. Or throw up.
“It could be fun.”
“She’d never.”
Compelled to check, however, Mira twists around to see what’s going on. They’re still talking and Rumi has a new drink that he must have bought her, and she’s laughing at something. Mira’s gut clenches; the water churns in her stomach.
Stop talking to him, she thinks. Talk to me.
When she turns back around, Zoey is staring at her, wide eyed.
“Mira,” she says.
“What,” Mira replies flatly.
“Mira.”
“What!”
Zoey tilts her head. “Are you jealous?”
“Because I’m not being offered a spot on some stupid show?” Mira laughs, short and abrupt. “Not likely.”
“No, not of Rumi,” Zoey presses on. “Of him.”
Deep breath. She can brush this off.
“No,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “No, it’s not- What is there to be jealous about?”
“I dunno, you tell me.”
Mira desperately needs something in her hands, another drink or a weapon or something. Anxiety bubbling up her throat, she shakes her head. She can’t meet Zoey’s eye, casting about for something, anything to say that will throw Zoey off the scent, and she really wishes she hadn’t had that last shot earlier, her stomach brewing with the beginnings of true nausea-
“Hey,” Zoey says, hand gentle on Mira’s elbow. “Let’s go outside for a sec.”
Feet on autopilot, Mira lets herself be tugged away from the bar and towards the large sliding door. Zoey opens it for them and closes it after Mira before heading over to the patio’s edge where the balcony overlooks Seoul at night. She leans there, gazing out. Mira joins her, and between them, the cool night air hangs heavy with inevitability.
Finally, Zoey exhales and nudges Mira’s shoulder.
“I wanna be super clear,” she starts, “and I also really don’t wanna overstep. But, like. You know I’d be okay with it, right? I need you to know that.”
“Zo-”
“I’m serious.” She fixes Mira with a look, earnest in that unique Zoey way. “Us three, we’re forever. I super believe that. And I think that it wouldn’t be all that crazy if…” She shrugs. “If some things shifted a bit.”
Mira blows out a breath, clutching the railing more tightly. “I have no idea what to do.”
“I get that,” Zoey says quietly. She turns around and leans back again, gazing through the club windows.
“I have no idea if she- If she’s even-”
Zoey sighs in agreement. “Yeah.”
It’s hard to get a read on Rumi, is the thing. Romantically, sexually, and however else, she’s always been pretty private. She’s never spoken about having crushes on celebrities or entertaining feelings for any particular gender, and while she’s always indulged Zoey and Mira on those nights when the drinks flow freely and they gossip about the kinds of fun, private things that would set the tabloids on fire, she hasn’t ever offered up much of her own perspective. And they’ve never pushed. Mira had always figured she’d find her own way in her own time regarding relationships, if she ever chose to, and that had been that at the time.
Now, she burns equally with curiosity and guilt over the whole thing.
“I don’t want to mess up,” Mira says quietly, staring down into her glass. “Not with her.”
Zoey nudges her with an elbow. “You won’t.”
Mira wishes she shared in that confidence.
“Hey,” she says casually, reaching for a change of topic. “How’s it going with Mr Green Hair?”
“Leo?” Zoey feigns a nonchalant shrug, rolling with the shift in conversation. “He’s cool. We chat.”
Mira peers at her skeptically. “That’s it?”
Zoey manages to stay chill for approximately three seconds.
Then,
“Mira, he’s soooo cool and funny. He’s from LA, which is crazy. We could’ve, like, walked past each other or something while growing up. Anyway, he gets it, the whole American-vs-Korean heritage thing, and he got me all this cute stuff all the way from Cali! And he’s such a good dancer too, have you seen? And that hair? Super neat. We text a lot now. I mean, when we’re not hanging backstage or something, which is gonna be a lot more soon once we hit the road. I don’t think I have a crush, but I also don’t not have a crush, but sometimes I get kinda distracted if-” She blinks, snapping her mouth shut.
Then she groans. “I’m catching feelings. This is the worst.”
“Cheers to that,” Mira sighs. “Seriously, though. I’m happy for you.”
“Yeah.” She goes quiet, serious for a moment. “Things have really changed, huh? It was just us and the mission for so long. Now…” She gestures out vaguely. “You know, I don’t think I ever really thought much about the future beyond closing the Honmoon. I knew we’d do it, but. Now we’re here, and it’s like: what now?”
Heart aching, Mira puts an arm around her shoulders and shakes her a bit.
“It’s weird,” she agrees, “but at the end of the day, it’s still us three. That’s not gonna change.”
Her voice is small: “Promise?”
“I promise.”
She leans closer, resting her head against Mira’s, and for a long, content moment, they watch the club scene, flashes of light washing over them as the bass throbs away through the floor.
“So,” Zoey suddenly says, sly. “Ruuumi.”
Mira doesn’t have the energy to fight her. “Yeah.”
“Gay.”
“I cannot deny the allegations.”
Zoey giggles before straightening up and nodding sagely. “It makes sense to me. Man, what a power couple. The fans would go crazy.”
Mira grimaces. “If we didn’t break apart in the process.”
“We wouldn’t.”
“We could.”
“We won’t. Us three until the end, remember?”
A small part of Mira really wants to beg Zoey to promise her that in return, to promise that their family is forever and something she doesn’t have to fear losing the way she secretly does when she lies awake in the night-
With almost supernatural timing, Rumi chooses that exact moment to push open the sliding glass door and step outside. Not immediately noticing them, she takes a deep breath in the quiet, eyes skyward.
“Yo, Rumi-nator,” Zoey calls out before Mira can stop her.
“It’s hot in there,” Rumi complains, coming closer. Her jacket is long gone, cheeks flushed with alcohol and exertion, smelling just a little of clean sweat when she joins them and leans back next to Mira.
“I'm dying to know,” Zoey starts, teasing. “Are we in the presence of a star participant of Love Is Blind: South Korea, or whatever they decide to call it?”
Rumi barks out a laugh. “Fuck, no. Can you imagine?”
“I can imagine you shooting everyone down and crushing dreams left, right, and center,” Zoey offers. Mira silently agrees.
“They just wanted the publicity,” Rumi elaborates with a shrug. “Being publicly single and, quote, approaching thirty, unquote, makes me the ideal celebrity candidate.”
Mira’s shoulders loosen. Poking fun is safe. “What, no dreams of a big white puffy dress?” she chimes in with a smirk. “No desire to settle down with a nice, steady man?”
Rumi shudders. “Nightmare fuel.”
“Amen,” Zoey echoes solemnly.
“Anyway, I think he left,” Rumi tacks on.
Good, Mira thinks.
Zoey’s phone suddenly pings, and she jumps up upon checking. “Oh! Casey just got here - later!” She zooms off without a backward glance.
“Who is Casey?” Mira asks to the suddenly much emptier patio at large.
“I think she’s a friend from high school,” Rumi offers. “Zoey sometimes mentions a Casey who made it big with streaming.”
“Video games?”
“Something like that.”
They lapse into silence. Mira doesn’t trust herself to open her mouth without a safe conversation topic to latch onto.
“Are you okay?” Rumi asks.
Definitely not a safe conversation topic.
“Sure,” Mira manages. “Why?”
Rumi shrugs. “You seem quiet.”
“This is more Zoey’s scene than mine.”
“Fair. But… there isn’t anything on your mind?”
It’s reminiscent of the conversation they’d had in Rumi’s room pre-Idol Awards. One of them curious and concerned, the other a master of deflection. Mira hates the role reversal. After Gwi-Ma, they’d all fiercely promised to never lie to each other ever again about anything important.
But she’s not brave enough.
“Nothing major,” she replies, hoping she sounds reassuring. “Tour coming up, long days, the usual.”
She feels Rumi’s eyes on the side of her face like a heat lamp, and she doesn’t last long before glancing back at her, finding her ethereal in the low light of the patio, club lights flashing in her eyes.
“We should find Zoey,” Mira blurts out.
Rumi looks unconvinced, waiting a beat before relenting with a nod.
“Sure. Let’s head back in.”
She leads the way indoors and to the dance floor, Mira trailing after through the throng of bodies until they find Zoey in the midst of a circle of tour dancers, jumping around and clearly having a great time. While she and another shorter woman who must be Casey engage in some kind of dance off, Rumi laughs, tension from the patio seemingly forgotten, and catches the beat by hitting a gentle side to side bounce.
She’s pretty much Mira’s height in those heels, which is doing things to Mira’s attention span. She means to focus on Zoey, but she can’t stop herself from sneaking looks and catching light reflecting off of highlighted cheekbones and eyelids powdered with glitter. In that moment, a few drinks in with the music infusing her body and fresh off her confession to Zoey, Mira wants with a forceful pang that punches her in the gut.
She wants Rumi.
She wants to slip an arm around her waist and tug her closer, chest to chest, to feel as she winds her arms around Mira’s neck and smiles and dances with her, uncaring of those around who might be watching. Mira wants to kiss her pretty lips and whisper in her ear that she looks beautiful and that she wants to take her home and lay her out and-
Zoey catches her eye, an inquisitive tilt to her chin. With what she’s sure is a strained smile, Mira throws her a thumbs up and tries to shake the fantasy off.
The tracks come one after another endlessly, blended smoothly by the DJ. Another drink finds its way into Mira’s hand and she keeps dancing as she finishes it, using the bass to keep her mind clear, focusing only on moving her body to the beat as the party continues around her.
She would almost call herself relaxed when it happens.
Some annoyance of a guy steps backwards and barges right into Rumi, rudely knocking her off balance. Packed in as they are on the dancefloor, she flails and starts to fall, Mira instinctively scooping her up by her waist and grabbing her wrist. Over Rumi’s shoulder, she gives said asshole some lethal stink eye - he slinks away with a muttered apology.
“You okay?” she almost has to shout over the music.
Rumi nods, straightening and standing up again in the circle of Mira’s arm. Mira still has her wrist, and they’re hip to hip, close. Now would be the time to let her go since she’s clearly fine, except;
They lock eyes.
Breathless with proximity, with the heat of her, Mira lingers just a second too long. Her gaze dips down, and back up. Just a flash.
Rumi’s eyes widen.
Fuck.
Mira knows the damage is done before anything happens, even before Rumi tenses and steps back, turning towards Zoey once again and avoiding eye contact. Mira knows that in one brief moment, she’s ruined the best thing she’s ever had, the connection that binds the three of them, and that it happened because she couldn’t control herself. Because she was weak.
She can’t be here. She turns on her heel and weaves her way off the dancefloor towards the exit, hot tears pricking her eyes, and she doesn’t dare turn around until the elevator doors shut behind her.
In the sudden silence, her ears ring. Her lower lip trembles.
Fuck.