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It's about two weeks into the mandated hiatus, mid lunch, that Zoey calls for a very important and serious announcement. The weight of it is lost on the hot sauce on her cheek and her tiger onesie. But the other two sit at the kitchen counter with her and attempt to appear as solemn as the situation calls, pulling serious faces through their contained laughter.
“I have rented a car! Or, well, Bobby did it for me. But I've got it! I'm taking it out for a drive tonight.”
Now, Rumi is used to this. The confusion, feeling like she's walked into the middle of a conversation she wasn't a part of and is playing catch up; those kinds of things happen when you avoid your best friends or any kind of intimacy for the better part of a decade. The familiar guilt bubbles up and she pushes it back underwater with the ease of experience.
What she isn't used to is turning to Mira and finding her just as lost as herself. The bewildered look on her face would be hilarious if it weren't so strange that even she wasn't privy to this detail about Zoey. And Rumi braces herself, because this is minimal and inconsequential but it's still something hidden, something untold, and it puts her on edge. Her marks itch, a reminder of her own secrets.
“What? When? You have a license?” Mira is always blunt but the clear disbelief in her voice is louder than anything, except for Zoey’s clear amusement.
“Don't sound so surprised! I'm an independent woman, I need my freedom! I got it ages ago, when I was trying to be a fully fledged adult unlike you two, license-less children.”
The jab takes all the wind out of Rumi's stressed out sails. “Hey! I didn't even say anything, why am I catching strays?”
And Mira’s face is priceless because she's not the diplomatic type, so those two start to wrestle right there on the table, then on the couch, and then before Rumi knows what's happening they're already fiercely competing on Mario Kart. Trusting that would keep them busy and relatively peaceful for the foreseeable future, a relieved Rumi retreats to her room, missing the longing look Zoey throws her way.
They don't hear about Zoey’s escapades again for a while, but every couple of mornings Rumi can notice she's stayed up late. She doesn't look sleepless per se, but worn, tired in that way that settles deep in your bones. Rumi worries, but something keeps her from prodding, from poking her head where she hasn't been called. ‘I can't tell your truths from your lies’ echoes in her head, in her chest, and so she lets it go.
Another week passes, and there's a second lunch announcement. Mira and Rumi brace for another information bomb they cannot foresee.
Because the truth of the matter is that hiding a driver's license isn't the end of the world, it's probably lowest in the list of things that would be a bad idea not to share, and yet. And yet. It has somehow become Rumi’s Damocles sword, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Mira to remind them all about how long she had hidden herself from them.
There is a chasm she hasn't been able to breach with the dancer since the day it all went down. With either of her friends really, but Zoey has been clearly trying to keep the peace, and while Mira isn't as difficult of a person as she claims, she's still very raw and vulnerable and volatile.
Rumi is working on it, sort of. Totally not avoiding them, just planning her approach, making sure not to upset anyone any further. ‘Atonement mode’, she calls it, not stewing in her own misery and self pity. She hopes it will all boil over soon before she explodes and does something embarrassing. What a joke of a leader.
Zoey breaks her out of her spiral with a soft question, deceptively casual. “Would you go on a drive with me sometime?”
Rumi feels more than sees Mira tense up, hears her hand tighten around her chopsticks, the ramyeon slipping from her grip. A driver's license isn't the end of the world but Rumi is starting to think there are things unsaid between Mira and Zoey too, bridges uncrossed, threads unspooled. She's used to missing things, but wonders if she should've been paying more attention this whole time.
“Sorry, Zo. Motion sickness is a bitch. I really wouldn't be good company.” And Mira, for all her bluntness and simmering conflict, at least has the decency to pretend she's sad about missing out.
It's not a full fledged lie either, one too many incidents in tour buses have proven it true. But it's in the tone. It's in how she avoids their eyes, it's in the stiffness of her spine as she finishes her food. And it’s lampshaded by Zoey’s heartbroken gaze, because she has never had a poker face to speak of. It stirs an urge in Rumi's chest, one she had felt before.
There had been an incident a couple years back, some late night rehearsal where copious amounts of takeout were involved. Rumi can still remember sitting with her back to the mirror, antsy as she always was about catching even a peek of her patterns. Mira was in the middle of perfecting a move, laser focused in that way she always was when dancing, when Zoey dropped the question. “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”
Utterly ridiculous, so much so that Mira didn't even seem to think before dropping a deadpan “No” without much fanfare. And Rumi had chuckled at the nonplussed dancer, until it had caught in her throat when she turned and saw that look on Zoey’s face; like she had just offered up her heart only to have it slapped out of her hands. It strikes her then that the question was wrapped in foil, hiding rotten fear within it. ‘Would you still love me no matter what? Would I still mean something to you if I was nothing?’
And it's so sad she has to ask like this, indirectly and hidden behind what seems like a joke, so Rumi stands and flicks a gobsmacked Mira on the forehead, and runs to a misty eyed Zoey’s side to assure her that yes, of course they'd love her still. Mira catches on quickly then and joins, and they all come up with some plan Rumi can't even remember in the impossible case any of them ever got turned into worms. Utterly nonsensical.
But for once, Zoey’s pain and insecurities had been out in the open. How much harm had their demon hunter training done that they couldn't properly confide in one another? That they had to hide their flaws behind thinly veiled words? Rumi’s heart aches to soothe Zoey, because she can see her own pain reflected.
She sees it again that night, backstage. ‘I can't tell your truths from your lies’, she had said, and that's a pain she hopes to never relive. A despair so deep she had almost-
When Mira leaves the kitchen, Rumi clears her throat and pretends her patterns don't flicker along, stuttery and pathetic. Pretends Zoey's eyes don't zero in on her, on whatever attempt at words she is making.
“I'll go with you, if you'll have me.”
And oh, the way Zoey absolutely beams, like the sun itself is in her smile. Rumi thinks she'd fight Gwi-ma all over again just to protect that joy.
Zoey leaps into her leader to hug the soul out of her. “Yes! Definitely! Can it be tonight? I'll take you tonight! Don't worry about anything, I have it all handled!” She’s practically vibrating by the time she leaves to gather snacks, leaving Rumi to mentally prepare for what she has agreed to do. Bridging the gap with Mira can hold for another night.
At the end of the day it's still a Zoey plan, and so Rumi adjusts accordingly. Her expectations are set, her emotional support hoodie firmly in place, and she can almost see the interior of the vehicle already. Endless snacks, loud stereo, information dumps about the most niche subjects; the Zoey special. She finds herself looking forward to it, fondness blooming in her chest at the thought of those starry eyes.
The car sits deep within the tower’s guts, hidden under a tarp and unassuming to the point Rumi forgets the brand and model the moment she slips inside it. It's nothing luxurious or flashy, made to fulfill its simple purpose of transportation, and Zoey in her casual clothes and carrying a plastic bag of snacks looks right at home in it. An oversized shirt, sweatpants, comfy socks; the ultimate relaxation outfit.
Her eyes take in Rumi’s pajama pants and linger on her hoodie for just a second too long. The leader tries to think nothing of it. No words are shared as they exit the tower and drive off into the night, only a complicit smile that eases any lingering tension.
Rumi isn't sure what to make of the ambiance, of the quiet that permeates them both. The bright lights and loud crowds of late night Seoul pass them by, like glimpses from another world piercing through the security of the vehicle. It's like being underwater, the muffled sounds of life alien and so far away.
This is the most relaxed Rumi has seen Zoey and it washes over her, the calm contagious. Her delicate yet confident hold on the wheel speaks of familiarity, experience, and there's the faintest trace of a smile on her lips while her eyes remain focused on the path ahead. She expertly weaves in between the traffic, and soon enough she's taken them out of the city and towards a highway, dimly lit and bracketed by greenery and distant mountains.
There's the bag of snacks as well as others scattered around the car, some unopened, some old packages, likely from previous drives, but opening one would make an awful lot of noise. It would break whatever bubble they’ve been put in, and Rumi finds herself oddly reluctant to disturb it. It strikes her then that that the stereo is off, and all she can hear is the wind rushing past them and the soft hum of the engine.
The penthouse is never this quiet, she realizes. There’s always music, footsteps, animal videos or sizzling food. There’s running water and chatter and Bobby and laughter. It’s not an awful environment but it can be overwhelming, and this is certainly a change of air, perhaps for the better. It makes her wonder if Zoey, eternally energetic and bouncing all over the place, has been on these drives to get away from all that. If she needed to take a break.
Rumi thinks she needs a break as well. Her building anxiety has never felt further away.
The only words so far come unprompted but soft from the driver’s seat, and don't pierce through the calm they've covered themselves in. “Do you want to go anywhere in particular?”
“Anywhere you want. I'm just along for the ride.” Rumi’s smile is sincere, and her gaze is fond when she sees it mirrored on Zoey's uncharacteristically pensive expression. It's a new side she doesn't mind seeing more often.
They don't talk after, and Rumi takes in the scenery, the nature she isn't used to seeing anymore, not since her days in the shrine. Melancholy blooms in her chest, that familiarity of her childhood forever tainted by her last confrontation with Celine; the memory of her mother's grave, linked to the mistake of her being. And yet she yearns for those old times, for a simpler life.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.” And because she's afraid of how easy it feels to lie again, she adds. “The past.”
Zoey doesn't seem satisfied, but doesn't seem entirely disappointed either. Frustrated, resigned perhaps, they emotions all over her face and Rumi’s stomach drops. She hadn’t meant to, but years upon years of building walls make it hard not to fall back into old patterns.
Her gaze is back to the road, no other option available but to give Zoey a modicum of space, and then a sign catches her eye. And another. And she wants to jump out of the car.
They're on the way to the shrine.
They’re swallowed by the darkness of an underpass, and for an infinitesimal moment, Rumi thinks about coming clean. Pouring her chest out, her soul, or what she feels is left of it. Something pushes on her ribcage, threatens to break free, and she realizes it’s her aching heart, the part of her wishing to reach out and connect with her friends like before. That yearns to be comforted, to show her pain so they’d soothe it. That selfish, narcissistic, greedy part of her that seems to scream ‘I’m here! Look at me! Love me!’.
But there is a glow, faint at first, then stronger, and her panicked eyes dart down to the jagged marks covering every inch of her skin. She prays and hopes and dreads before glancing at Zoey, only to notice the driver look back and widen her eyes. Rumi looks in the rearview mirror and can’t help but gasp, a single golden ring staring right back. All words catch in her throat, and then they’re out of the dark, illuminated once more by the streetlamps and the moon.
“Rumi.”
She barely feels her mouth moving, the phrases she’s uttered since she was young clawing their way up her throat like instinct. “I’ll control it, won’t happen again.” Celine would not be proud, but mollified. Rumi wants to scream or cry. Her patterns shimmer and she instead wants to crawl out of her skin.
The silence is back, but not like the comforting blanket from before; it’s a lead weight, suffocating and noxious. It’s wrong, Zoey feels it and hates it and wants to hate Rumi too for ruining it, but if Zoey’s hurt is all over her face, Rumi’s is in her voice. In that otherworldly baritone under her melodic voice, in that barely present tremble, in ragged breaths. And Zoey can’t hate her, not fully, even if Rumi is stupidly drowning in a puddle, chaining herself to the bottom of it.
“I traveled a lot when I was young, you know? Between Burbank and Seoul, between my parents. I spent so much time waiting for flights and aboard planes. And then I’d be anywhere without being able to connect. I’m too American here,” and her eyes wander briefly to the empty ramyeon cup in its holder, the cartoon hamburger mocking her, “but I’m too Asian back in the States. Too much, not enough.”
A pause, a shuddering breath, and then a melancholic smile. “But the drives to and from the airport are some of my favorite memories. I’d sit in the back of a car just like this one, with my headphones, looking out the window, and just writing whatever came to mind. So many songs came out of those trips.” Her hands tighten on the steering wheel, her gaze still fixed upon the empty road. “I wanted to share that with you. Both of you. I want us to be able to share things like that, Rumi.”
And Rumi’s heart squeezes, because she already forgot the car’s brand and model, and she can’t believe she’s ever made her friend feel like she can’t tell her about her life. Her joys and pains. She can’t believe she’s been so shallow, and she wants to apologize, but Zoey’s eyes meet hers in the rearview mirror, and they’re furious. “I don’t need apologies or repentment, or any martyrdom. I want to know my friend.”
So Rumi speaks.
“If you keep driving towards the shrine I’m going to puke or jump off the car.”
Zoey swerves violently, making a likely prohibited U-turn in a thankfully empty highway. Rumi slams against the passenger door, just as nauseous as before but with her inner turmoil slowly receding.
“Any other requests?” Zoey’s hands are still held tightly against the wheel, trying to look severe, but there’s a manic look in her eye that betrays how much she enjoyed pulling that stunt.
Like a stolen breath the thought is pulled out of her mouth against her better judgement. “I wish Celine could look me in the eye.” It pours out like rain, like an open wound, one left to heal wrong. “I wish my mother hadn’t made the mistakes she did. I wish I had a backbone, maybe then I would have told you sooner.”
She can’t look Zoey’s way, doesn’t even want to think about what expression she could be carrying; it would take the wind out of her sails, urge her to reach out and pretend like she didn’t mean any of it. But she does, she cares, she’s cared way too much for years and if setting her bloody heart on the dashboard of a rented car is what it takes to mend her relationship with her friends, then so be it.
Her forehead presses against the cold window, and she can see her swirling patterns faintly glowing in her reflection. “She’s never been the affectionate type, but I get why she’s so conflicted, with my mother and all. I don’t blame her.” And the truth is that she doesn’t, because even after everything, Celine is still the closest thing she’s had to a parental figure. “I like to think she doesn’t hate me. Maybe I’m projecting.”
By the end her voice is barely a whisper, like a wish spoken into the condensation on the window. Neither speaks for a while, just letting the soft hum of the engine and rush of other cars passing by envelop them. Zoey realizes she is woefully unprepared for this, however long it took her to even set up this ride, this time alone. Mira had bailed, but it might have been for the better. She doubts Rumi would have opened up like this with both breathing down her neck.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think she hates you. She’s just really uptight, you know?” Zoey half shrugs, trying to think back on all her interactions with Celine, to that severe curve to her brow and the shadows over her eyes. “Well, you do know her better than I do.”
“I suppose.” The car falls back into the soft quiet from before, and Zoey smiles faintly. Progress. “She wouldn’t kill me when I asked, I guess that’s something.”
For the second time in the night, the car swerved abruptly, this time to avoid a motorcycle and pull up on the side of the road. Zoey’s hands tremble from the force with which she’s gripping the wheel, and both her and Rumi are propelled forward by the momentum of a sudden press of breaks. Thank god for seatbelts. “Jesus, Rumi! A warning?!”
“You wanted me to talk and share!” Rumi isn’t doing any better, untangling her hoodie strings from the seatbelt is an attempt to keep herself from choking. What a stupid way to die, after everything else. It frustrates her, and for the first time since self determining her ‘atonement mode’, she finds herself well and truly irritated. “Is this not the sharing and talking you wanted?!”
“‘She wouldn't kill me’, she says, with the calmest expression and voice! I sure would hope our mentor wouldn't!” Zoey is flabbergasted, thrown off, horrified and disbelieving all at once. “Why on earth would that even be on the table?! How could you ask her that?!”
“Why are you so surprised?! You and Mira looked just about ready to do it yourselves!”
And oh, the silence is deafening. Because they hadn't talked and now they are and everything is on the table. And Zoey doesn't even know what her own face is doing nor does she care, because Rumi looks like she'll actually throw up now. Like when they saw her patterns the first time, like a cornered animal begging for her life.
Zoey reaches out over the center console and Rumi flinches, a single golden eye darting to her open hand. “I didn't- I'm sorry, I didn't mean it.” And the anger from before evaporates, but she will not stop looking at Zoey's hands, like she’s waiting for those shin-kal to materialize. Something fragile cracks in Zoey’s chest.
So she freezes, retreats slowly, and takes a deep breath. “But you did, didn't you? Mean it.” She's misty eyed but her voice is steady, with grim acceptance lacing her words.
And the worst part is that Rumi did in fact mean it. Because she knows she deserved it, she knows she can't blame them for reacting the way they did. But fuck, it hurt! Her worst fears confirmed, materialized, out in the open and stabbing her tender heart. Her selfish, lying heart. “I lied to you, both of you. You were well within your rights.”
“You lied, yes, and I’m still mad! But it was you. No matter what you look like, it's always been you. We shouldn't have-”
“We have a duty and I've been trampling all over it since the moment I was born!” The anger is back, the pain, the fear, the warring feelings in her head. She’s angry at Celine, at her mother, at Mira and Zoey, but most of all she’s angry at herself. For crying so much, for caring so much, for even existing. “You were terrified of me and I was losing myself, and I thought Celine could fix it! But she refused and now I have to live with that. With myself.”
Zoey takes her by the wrist, putting her patterns to the light, watching the way they shimmer and shift under the flickering streetlight. She ignores her leader’s resistance, because she knows Rumi has the strength to pull away if she wanted to, but Zoey trusts her. And she wants her to know it, wants to show her implicit faith; while she doesn’t trust Rumi not to lie again, she’s still willing to put her life in her hands. She’s always been.
She pulls Rumi’s hand closer, traces the jagged edges of her patterns with her thumb, watches the light ripple over them like waves. She can feel the faint tremble in her leader’s usually steady hands. “And do you still think that would help? That you need something to be corrected?”
Her golden eye shines in the dark of the car, in the shadows of the night, but not with the malice of demons. “I barely know myself anymore.” There’s fear and unshed tears and uncertainty, and there’s the barely there glint of defiance. “But there’s no point in hiding this now, and I’m certain it can’t be undone. I didn't want to change, but it’s just what I am now.”
“What you are,” Zoey starts, as she brings her lips to the calloused hand in hers, “is Rumi. You’re our leader, one of my best friends and the one who gave me a place to belong. Somewhere without an unreachable bar. You told me I was more than enough, and I believed you. I still do.” Her breath gently caresses the glowing patterns with all the weight of a declaration. “Won’t you let me be that for you? Won’t you let me convince you there is nothing to fix?”
All the fight leaves Rumi’s body, it wilts and eases out, leaves behind the exhaustion of tightly wound muscles, of a worn out soul; but a soul is left nonetheless. “How can you say that? How can you still be here after everything?” Because she cannot understand, cannot fathom that anyone would stay in spite of her flaws, in spite of her mistakes; her mother couldn't and Celine only did it for the late memory of her friend.
“I told you before, didn't I? I always have your back. I just needed to understand.” Because there was Zoey, lonely and lost, finding a beacon in a group, finding an anchor in the shape of a girl barely older than her, with a look in her eyes that said ‘I don't know where I belong, so let's all belong together’.
They crash together over the center console, and it's awkward and uncomfortable and the seatbelt digs into Zoey's side, but there's nowhere else she'd rather be than holding and being held by Rumi. She basks in the faint rhythmic glow of her patterns, like a stuttering heartbeat getting its bearings, and imagines herself falling asleep to it, to the melody of her leader’s soul.
She wonders if now that healing is on its way, now that there are things out in the open, if she can let her heart finally hope.
The drive back to the penthouse, back home, feels like a dream. No more words are exchanged, only caring glances, secretive smiles, the occasional brush of hands whenever Zoey reaches over. And not all is perfect yet, the sting of lies and fear and hints of darker thoughts still hangs over their heads, but it's not the daunting task it was before. It seems manageable, and Rumi allows herself to bask in this dream for as long as possible.
Mira is long asleep by the time they arrive and go off to their respective rooms. Both hesitate at their doors, and Zoey leaps into Rumi’s arms one last time for the night, like a seal punctuating all that transpired. And Rumi melts into it, breathes her in, feels the warmth seep into her bones, into her soul. It takes all her self control not to beg her to stay the night, to never let her go again.
A little regret, on both sides. Hushed good nights. The best sleep they've had in months.