Chapter Text
When Celine asks to meet with Rumi not long after the Idol Awards, Rumi insists on going alone.
Mira and Zoey do not approve.
Their argument is simple:
As one, Mira and Zoey state, “She sucks.” In one of the most out-of-character sights Rumi has ever seen, the two of them are leaning over mostly intact breakfast bowls and staring Rumi down.
She crosses her arms. “You love her,” Rumi says flatly. “Both of you have hung on her every word for years. You do not think she ‘sucks’.” Her fingers provide sarcastic air quotes to match the girls’ quote.
“Well yeah, obviously, I’m like, a huge fan of the Sunlight Sisters,” rambles Zoey, “but that was before we found out–oh what was it, two weeks ago–that she knew you were half-demon and explicitly encouraged you never to tell us.”
Rolling her eyes, Rumi fishes a piece of tofu out of her bowl of kimchi jjigae and pops it into her mouth. She chews contemplatively, then says with her mouth half-full, “It’s sweet that you’re blaming her, but I’m the one who chose to follow that advice. I just don’t think it’s fair to put my bad decisions on Celine.”
“Rumi…” Mira starts to scold.
Rumi swallows and raises her hands placatingly. “That’s not me being self-deprecating, I swear! I really don’t think it’s fair. Celine has a lot of reasons for everything she taught me, even if some have turned out better than others. She’s…” Rumi takes another bite and taps her chopsticks on her chin as she thinks. She sighs. “...complicated,” she finishes lamely.
Leaning forward, Zoey meets Rumi’s eyes with an unsettling intensity. “You literally felt like it was okay to ask her to kill you.” Her lip wobbles a bit as she says it.
Before Zoey can start a blubberfest (like they haven’t already had at least one a day since the Idol Awards and two or more since Rumi fessed up about her post-Idol Awards visit to Celine), Rumi reaches across the table and pushes Zoey’s forehead with her chopsticks until the girl is seated properly once more.
Seizing an opportunity, Rumi stealthily snatches a piece of pork belly from Zoey’s jjigae bowl and slides it into her own. She takes a sip of barley tea. “I would like to point out that Celine, very specifically, did not kill me.”
“And that’s better?!” Mira exclaims.
Rumi furrows her brow. “...Yes?”
Groaning, Mira drops her head into her hands. “Ruuuumiiiii,” she whines, “why are you like this?”
“I think Celine is a big part of that answer,” Zoey says matter-of-factly. “Which is why you should not be going to meet with her alone!”
“You guys are dramatic,” Rumi grumbles, quietly extending her arm towards Mira’s bowl and a large piece of kimchi floating on top. Just as her chopsticks close around it, Mira whacks her hand and Rumi retreats with a yelp. Taking her face out of her palms and glaring, Mira draws the bowl in closer to her with a feigned growl.
Rumi shrugs and returns to munching her own kimchi. “Guys. It’s Celine. This is the woman who raised me. I’ll be fine.”
“Will you, though?” Mira’s tone is serious. Next to her, Zoey pokes around her bowl of jjigae and frowns.
Biting her lip, Rumi thinks on Mira’s question. For as much as she’s trying to appear cool and confident, there is a part of her (an unfortunately rather large part) that’s jittery at the prospect of meeting with Celine properly since becoming fully out with her demon patterns.
Is she scared? No. Celine wouldn’t hurt her.
Not even when Rumi begged her to.
Is she anxious?
Truth be told, yeah, she is. Rumi loves Celine, but ever since the Idol Awards, when she thinks on her relationship with Celine, she can’t help but feel like she ripped down a stage curtain to reveal a very different dynamic, one that had been hidden in the wings the whole time and is now thrust suddenly into the light, one that she has no idea how to direct.
“I should be,” Rumi reluctantly admits, setting down her chopsticks, “but it’s…it’s complicated.”
Zoey and Mira reach out in tandem to lace their fingers through Rumi’s own.
“If you really think you want to do this alone,” Zoey starts, “then we support you.”
“But if you need us at all–”
“For anything–”
“Then you call us, okay?” Mira’s stare bores holes into Rumi.
Rumi ducks her head, worries her lip, and nods. “I will,” she promises.
Satisfied, Mira and Zoey pull back.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Rumi picks her chopsticks back up to continue her breakfast. Across the table from her, Zoey scrunches her nose and makes a funny face.
“I could’ve sworn I had another piece of pork belly in here–” Zoey catches Rumi’s eye as Rumi shovels the stolen piece directly into her mouth, Mira cackling in the background.
“RUMI!”
---
“You sure about this, Rumi?” Bobby glances at her in the car seat next to him.
Rumi smiles back at him, tight-lipped and controlled.
“Yeah,” she breathes. “I’m sure.”
The vibrant, lively landscape of Seoul proper has long since faded into the monotony of dirt roads and dense woodlands. (Sure, they’re pretty when you explore deep enough into them, but Rumi prefers the urban junglescape of the big city any day.)
“Thanks again for driving me,” Rumi says. Part of her had contemplated teleporting, like she did the night of the Idol Awards, but so far that’s not a skillset that she feels confident in using at all, let alone to cover the fifty plus kilometer distance from the HUNTR/X penthouse to Celine’s residence.
“Anytime,” Bobby chirps, cheerful as ever. Even through the absolute PR nightmares the girls (Rumi) have put him through the past couple of months, he’s remained stalwart and attentive, an unending font of positivity that Rumi’s honestly a little envious of.
She hopes he handles it okay when they break the news about the whole demon hunting thing to him eventually (because Rumi’s tired of hiding it, and after everything he’s done for them, the man deserves the full truth). He can be a little prone to dramatics from time to time, but hey, that’s why he meshes with HUNTR/X as well he does.
The car turns onto a hidden off-road and chugs along up a dusty driveway that cuts through the woods until a clearing opens to reveal an old but well-maintained hanok, a traditional house that’s been inherited by each successive generation of demon hunters. Red pines encircle the grounds, stretching leafy limbs to the sky, centuries-old sentries to these hallowed grounds. A few stray sticks rustle in the midday breeze, trapped between giwa roof tiles. Past the hanok, the grounds become open, paved with dirt and knee-height stone walls that lead up a hill to a vast space covered in burial mounds. A few jolcham oaks shiver, the many ribbons tied on their branches stirring to life with every passing breath of wind.
Rumi’s childhood home.
Bobby pulls up to the building and turns the car off swiftly, as if he’s scared of disturbing the peace with engine noise any more than he already has.
He rolls down his window as Rumi hops out, getting her attention with a light brush on her elbow.
“I’ll be right outside,” he says, “in case you need anything.”
Rumi smiles. She knows that Bobby doesn’t really understand the ins and outs of her and Celine’s relationship, but she does know that he’s clocked enough of it to realize that her interactions with Celine aren’t always…positive. He doesn’t ever comment on it, but his insistence on driving her here in his beat-up sedan (which he refuses to give up, despite Rumi’s persistent offers to buy him a new one) and his simple reassurances are his ways of showing her that hey, he’s here for.
Squeezing his hand before stepping back, Rumi tells him, “Thank you, Bobby. I’ll keep that in mind.” She lets her eyes roam over his car one more time. “And you’re sure I can’t buy you a new–?”
“Uh, no,” Bobby argues, mock glaring as he leans his car seat back and grabs a novel from his bag. “If I wanted a new car, I’d buy one myself, thank you very much. That 3% you pay me is no joke.”
“Actually, we were talking about maybe upping it–”
“Would you go inside already?” Bobby scolds. (There’s no real bite to it, though; there never is.) “I’m at a really juicy part of this book and I won’t stand for your procrastinating tactics any longer.” He sniffs haughtily and flaps his hand. “Now go on, get!”
Rumi snorts. “You wound me, Bobby. Imagine what my fans would do if I revealed how you talk to me.”
Bobby gasps and whips his head towards her. “You wouldn’t–”
“No,” she laughs, “I wouldn’t.”
“Oh, just go already,” he grumbles, sticking out his tongue.
Grinning, Rumi sticks out her tongue right back at him. It’s easy to forget he’s her manager, sometimes, in the relaxing moments when he finally feels comfortable enough to act like a friend. “Okay, okay, I’m going!”
Mood bright, Rumi walks up the stone path to the entranceway and taps loudly on the wooden door frame before sliding it open and cautiously calling out, “Celine?”
“I’m in here.” Celine’s voice calls from a few rooms down, audible through the thin paper and wood walls. “I’ve put some hot water on for tea–your usual?”
“Yes, please,” Rumi answers. She shucks off her shoes at the door and grabs her house slippers from the rack where they’ve always been, as long as Rumi could remember. The slippers are simple except for the quilted patterning of golden Honmoon lines on the arch that covers the front of her foot and leaves her toes and heels bare. Celine had sewn this particular pattern in as a gift, when Rumi first summoned her saingeom, and a promise, that once the Honmoon was golden, Rumi could finally be free.
Glancing at the guest slippers, Rumi sighs. She doesn’t particularly want to deal with Celine asking why she’s not wearing her gifted ones, even if a miniscule shiver runs down her spine at the wavy lines of gold.
Rumi walks into the main hallway. The wooden floor creaks despite the lightness of her steps. She draws the sleeves of her sweater (purple, knitted, a gift from a fan) down around her wrists absentmindedly as she passes through a few sliding doors and into the kitchen.
Before Celine can say a word, Rumi grabs a tray and sets it up with two cups, small bowls, and spoons. She reaches around Celine to open a cabinet and grab a jar of honey and packet of sugar, exactly where she knew they’d be. Celine hums her approval as Rumi fills one bowl each with honey and sugar and places them back in the cabinet just as Celine moves the handheld pot to the tray as well.
Rumi picks it up with a nod, inhaling deeply to properly take in the aroma of omija-cha (the five flavor tea is one of her favorites). She takes the tray into an adjacent sitting room and sets it down on the low table before seating herself cross-legged on a floor cushion. Her back is ramrod straight, posture absolutely perfect.
Celine takes an extra moment in the kitchen, longer than Rumi’s used to, but before she can get up and check if she needs help, Celine’s elegantly seated herself across from Rumi and placed a small plate and napkins next to the tea pot. Rumi’s mouth waters as she sees several choco pies stacked neatly on top.
The corners of Celine’s eyes crinkle, betraying her joy at Rumi’s delight even as the rest of her face remains calm and composed. She pours the tea and scoops a spoonful of honey into it while Rumi, unable to hold back, grabs a choco pie and bites straight into it. (Rumi would like to point out that she did not shove it entirely into her mouth, which is an already impressive display of restraint.)
Neither one speaks.
Rumi swallows her bite, takes the proffered tea wordlessly from Celine and drinks. It’s a little sweeter than she’d like, the amount of honey a preference of her child self specifically, but the gesture is sweet. Her gaze wanders out the window, to the surrounding grounds.
Everything about this moment is pulling her straight back to her childhood, to the many tranquil moments she had growing up in Celine’s company, to the comfort and safety she’d always felt here, even amidst flimsy paper walls.
And then her gaze lingers on the dirt path to the burial mounds, and she remembers how, not even half a month ago, she got down on her knees and begged the woman in front of her to kill her.
That same woman who still can’t seem to properly look at her.
Rumi had thought about using that one concealer (the one she’d used in the past to cover up her marks for occasional promos) to hide the patterns stretching greedy tendrils across her face, had thought about grabbing a pair of gloves to match her sweater, despite the weather being more summer than fall, despite the sweat already trickling down her back from the sweater alone.
(She doesn’t think she could’ve worn that even if she wanted to, though. Not if the way her girls had argued about her wearing the sweater alone was any indication.)
There’s an odd tension in Rumi’s chest.
What is she supposed to say here?
Did she ever have a plan? Or was she just hoping Celine would take the lead?
A naive hope. Celine has never dealt with confrontation head-on. Even now, even though there’s clearly a part of her that’s happy that Rumi is happy, she can’t seem to last more than a second of looking at Rumi before her eyes slide to the side.
Chewing her lip, Rumi watches Celine sip her tea and mirror Rumi’s earlier pose, glancing out the window.
Compared to the cowed Celine who showed up at the girls’ penthouse a week ago, wanting to talk to Rumi about the night of the Idol Awards–and unintentionally sparking the outing of Rumi’s request to Mira and Zoey–this Celine is serene. Calm. Complacent. Composed.
Only the very slight twitch of her finger tapping lightly against the side of her tea cup gives any indication otherwise.
Rumi decides to start with something familiar. “Thank you for the tea and the snacks,” she says politely. She cradles her cup in her palm and sips.
“Of course.” Celine’s eyes glance off Rumi’s face yet again, unable to linger more than a second or two. She casually asks, “How are things going? Are promotions for Comeback coming along well?”
“Mm,” Rumi hums, “pretty well. We’ve already finished a photo shoot of my new look and rolled it out to the public as promo material.” She watches Celine carefully.
Celine freezes subtly. Her hand trembles ever-so-slightly as she takes another sip. “...I see.”
“You know, there’s been a surprisingly large positive outgrowth from the new material’s premiere. Bobby helped us spin the angle that my patterns–” Rumi notes Celine’s tiny wince “--are tattoos meant to cover up and spin off of old scars from a childhood accident. We chose not to elaborate, but we’re stealthily swaying the narrative towards a bad fall out of a tree.” Rumi idly traces the patterns on her left hand with her right. “The right ‘leaks’ work wonders, as do the scars I’ve picked up from demon fights over the years–they do look an awful lot like the work of branches, in a certain light.”
Rumi watches Celine carefully, notes her pursed lips and furrowed brows.
Against her better judgment, Rumi continues. “A lot of fans have come forward with their own stories of various scars. It’s their way of showing support for my ‘drastic’ decision to tattoo my entire body.” Celine doesn’t look away from the window. “Obviously, I couldn’t have just gotten tattoos like this overnight, so Bobby’s helped us explain that away with having covered them up as I got them until they were all done. He’s been a godsend, and he doesn’t even really know the truth about my patterns.”
Celine exhales thinly through her nose.
“I…I don’t like them, but I do think I like being open with them,” Rumi pushes. “Like I can finally be me, for the first time.”
A taut whisper responds: “You should’ve covered them back up.”
Rumi stills.
Silence blankets them, tense and heavy.
“Really?” Rumi mutters, setting her cup down. “That’s what you’re going with, even now? Would covering them all up make it easier for you to finally look at me?”
Celine flinches. She turns blazing eyes on Rumi, who swallows thickly. “They’re supposed to be gone,” Celine says. “Not–not flaunted for the whole world to see.”
“What else would you have me do?” Rumi argues. Her chest feels tight. “They’re not gone. We sealed the Honmoon and they’re still here.”
“Maybe if you’d sealed it properly–”
Rumi flings her hands up in the air. “There it is! I knew it!”
“Do not take that tone with me–” Celine starts.
“I knew you wouldn’t accept the new Honmoon, even after everything we did. I did.”
Celine snaps, “And what did you do, Rumi? Destroy hundreds of years of work in one night?”
Reeling as if she’d been slapped, Rumi glares. “I did what I was supposed to. I defeated Gwi-Ma and sealed the Honmoon. I don’t care if it’s not golden, it works!”
“For how long?” Celine bristles. “For a month? A year? We have no idea how strong this new Honmoon of yours actually is, we don’t know the damage it could cause.”
“Then we watch it!” argues Rumi, slapping a hand down on the table hard enough to cause the tea cups to rattle. “We monitor it, like we’ve already been doing for years!”
Celine clenches her fists in her lap and, Rumi notes, still doesn’t look at her for more than a few seconds. “But you shouldn’t have to,” she contends, “you wouldn’t have to, if you’d just made the Honmoon golden like you were supposed to!”
“I–”
Interrupting, Celine pushes, “I raised you better than that! I raised you to always do the right thing, to always do your duty!”
“I’ve done my duty,” Rumi growls, “more than you did yours.”
All of the breath in Celine’s body leaves her with a loud gasp. Her whole person seems to deflate, caving in on itself.
The anger boiling inside Rumi instantly freezes over. She bites her lip and starts to reach for Celine’s hand.
This is Celine, for crying out loud. Celine, who’s done everything for her.
Everything except love her wholly, no exceptions
“I’m…I’m sorry,” Rumi mutters, finally grasping Celine’s hand limply in her own. Celine doesn’t fight it. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have asked you that.”
Celine finally, finally looks at Rumi.
“You asked me to kill you,” she says, voice breaking. “I can’t–I couldn’t–Rumi, I could never.” Celine raises Rumi’s hand in hers, cradles it gently to her cheek. “How could you ask that of me–?”
A million thoughts swirl in Rumi’s mind.
How could she ask that of Celine?
Easily. She was only doing what she’d been taught to do, after all. Only thinking what she’d been taught to think.
Rumi grew up knowing she was a mistake.
Celine is the one who taught her why.
Instead, though, Rumi meekly says, “I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you,” Celine murmurs, pressing a light kiss to Rumi’s hand. Rumi notices that it’s placed deliberately between two pattern lines. “Please don’t ever ask that of me again.”
“I won’t,” Rumi promises.
She means it, she’s pretty sure.
She just also feels weirdly empty.
“Here,” Celine starts, “eat some more.” She removes her hand from Rumi’s and replaces it with another choco pie.
Absent-mindedly, Rumi begins to eat, watching Celine as she fiddles with refilling their tea cups before rocking back to rest her weight on her heels. To Rumi’s chagrin, Celine’s gaze is averted once more, apart from swift glances to check that she’s eating.
And just like that, the room is quiet once more.
It used to comfort Rumi, how fast Celine could forgive her and move on when she said something wrong.
Now, the silence is suffocating. It reaches demon claws around her throat and squeezes until Rumi chokes on every word bubbling to the surface.
“Rumi.” Celine’s voice cuts the air like a Honmoon-powered blade. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”
“...It’s okay.” This time, it’s Rumi’s turn to look away from Celine.
Celine sighs. “It shouldn’t be. I’ve…done a lot of things I shouldn’t have in raising you. I just–” When Rumi raises her head, she jolts when she meets Celine’s eyes. Celine is pointedly staring her down. She reaches a hand to caress Rumi’s cheeks, and Rumi can’t help but lean into it, half-lidded eyes trained on Celine.
“I wanted to heal you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, Rumi.”
Rumi nuzzles Celine’s hand even as her heart breaks. “But what if I don’t need to be healed?” she whispers.
“Oh, Rumi,” murmurs Celine, tucking a strand of purple hair back into place in its braid. “Don’t give up. We can still find a way to fix this, I know we can.”
Rumi’s chest aches.
She pulls away.
“Celine…” Rumi opens her eyes fully. “Celine, I can’t be fixed.”
Celine frowns. “Yes, you can. We just–we have to figure out another way, but I promise you, I won’t stop looking–”
In a small voice, Rumi asks, “What if I don’t need fixing?”
“That’s your demon side talking, Rumi, pay it no mind, we’ll get rid of it, I promise. Together. We’ll fix you.”
In an even smaller voice, Rumi asks, “What if I don’t want to be?”
Celine stills. “...What?” She blinks at Rumi.
“Celine, I–I’ve been thinking. A lot. And talking with Mira and Zoey, and they’re saying the same thing. Maybe it’s…okay that I’m–” she gestures at herself “-this.”
Vehemently shaking her head, Celine’s brow wrinkles. “Why would they–I taught them that–no, nevermind, it doesn’t matter. Rumi. You know better than anyone that demons are irredeemable monsters, but you still have hope, we can–”
“Was my dad a monster?”
The room chills.
Celine pauses mid-sentence. Her jaw drops.
Rumi juts out her chin mulishly. “Was my dad a monster?” she repeats.
Stunned, Celine’s mouth opens and closes a handful of times before she can speak. When she does, though, all that comes out is a strangled, “What?”
“My dad,” presses Rumi. “Was he an ‘irredeemable monster’?”
“We’re not talking about your father,” Celine says harshly.
“Why not?” Rumi argues.
“It’s not relevant.”
“It’s entirely relevant!” shouts Rumi. She flings an arm wide and gestures wildly. “Because you’ve never told me anything about him! I always just assumed! But now–now I don’t know anymore! Because part of me thinks maybe, maybe there’s a chance he wasn’t! Maybe he was just like Jinu–”
“Who?”
Rumi’s tongue ties in knots. She gulps.
Narrowing her eyes, Celine’s voice becomes dangerously low. “Jinu, as in the demon that led the Saja Boys?”
A choking cough wracks Rumi’s throat.
It’s all the answer Celine needs.
“You–” Celine’s breathing grows heavy. “Did you meet with him? Did you meet with a demon?”
Rumi fumbles to find words.
None come.
Celine starts to stand, towering over Rumi. “You met with a demon,” she says in disbelief. “Is he–is he why you’re okay with–with this–” she waves at Rumi’s patterns “–now? Did you–you didn’t–?”
There’s a haunted familiarity in Celine’s expression.
“Don’t tell me you loved–”
“No!” Rumi shouts, finally finding her voice. “But I did trust him! I cared about him!”
Aghast, Celine chokes, “About a demon?”
“And,” Rumi continues, “he cared about me! He wasn’t an irredeemable monster, he gave up his life for me!”
Celine looks like she’s about to be sick.
It finally dawns on Rumi why.
Before Rumi can speak, Celine mumbles and clutches her head, falling back into a crouch, “No, no, not again, please, I won’t go through this again–”
“Celine–”
“Miyeong, what have you done–”
“Celine–”
“What have you asked me to do–”
“CELINE–”
“Why must I still be forced to choose–”
“CELINE!”
Both Rumi and Celine gasp as the Honmoon ripples, pink waves rolling into the distance, gone as swift as they came.
Rumi can’t see herself, but she feels the claws on her fingertips, notes the way her vision blurs and doesn’t quite match the way it should. She takes a shuddering breath and ignores the changes.
“Celine,” Rumi repeats for the fifth time, voice soft. A fang pokes into her bottom lip as she attempts a reassuring smile, spreads both arms wide in a display of harmlessness. In a gentle, coaxing tone, Rumi breathes, “I’m not my mother.”
Celine stares wide-eyed, gaze flicking up and down as she takes in the entirety of Rumi’s appearance. Rumi feels a flicker of hope bloom as she holds her breath.
Abruptly, Celine’s face turns to stone.
The fire of Rumi’s hope dies to ashes in her chest.
“No,” Celine says coldly, “you most certainly are not.”
---
“I think it’s time,” the prince whispered sultrily, “to find out what’s underneath all that armor.” His fingers glide across the breastplate’s buckle and–
There’s a knock on the window.
Bobby yelps and flings his book at the windshield. It rebounds and hits him square in the face before falling back into his lap.
Moaning, he clutches his nose–god, he hopes it’s not broken–and plasters a smile across his face. “Heyyy, Rumi–” he starts, then catches sight of her.
His smile drops.
“...Rumi?” he asks tentatively.
Rumi blinks. Her eyes are trained on him, but she looks like she’s focused on something a thousand kilometers away.
He didn’t hear her coming at all, which doesn’t surprise him all that much, because each of his girls can move with the poise of a cat when they want to, but it does surprise him that Rumi didn’t alert him out of courtesy like she normally does.
“I’m ready to go back,” she says stiffly.
Bobby blinks.
That was…it?
No greeting? No “Hi Bobbyyy”?
Bobby only realizes he’s been staring when Rumi breaks into a random smile. Her show smile. She’s also standing by the door to the backseat, not the front. “No shotgun on the way back? I promise I’ll let you pick the music.”
Rumi shakes her head. “I’m fine. Just a little tired. I’d rather sit in the back, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah, sure thing.” Bobby unlocks the backseat and watches through the rearview mirror as Rumi slides in gracefully and fastens her seatbelt. “Um,” Bobby says, “give me a second to look up the directions back again, okay?”
Humming her acknowledgment, Rumi turns to look out the window with that faraway gaze in her eyes.
Bobby whips out his phone and starts frantically typing.
Rumi's Angels
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This fiction uses, and is about, custom styling. There's fallback in some places, but if you have work skins disabled you likely won't get much out of this.
The ride back is silent.
Bobby tries three unique conversation openers, two awful puns, and four separate HUNTR/X songs in an attempt to get Rumi to say or sing something. When all he gets back in response are disinterested hums or nothing at all, he gives up before they’re even halfway home.
When he parks the car, Rumi doesn’t talk.
When the security guard waves hello, Rumi doesn’t talk.
When he calls the elevator, Rumi doesn’t talk.
Bobby’s sweating through his shirt by the time the elevator dings to signal their arrival at the top floor. He inputs the entrance code to the penthouse and holds the door open for Rumi, who gives him a small “Thank you” as she enters.
As he shuts the door behind him, he hears Zoey and Mira greet the two of them enthusiastically.
Very enthusiastically.
Bobby winces a bit at their lack of subtlety as they chorus in unison, “Hey Rumi! Hi Bobbyyyy!”
“Heyyyy girls,” Bobby drawls nervously, tugging his collar. He glances back and forth between Rumi and the rest of HUNTR/X, who are standing awkwardly in the kitchen. On the counter, there’s a massive pile of snacks, from ramyeon to kimbap to convenience store crab chips.
“Rumi!” Zoey calls excitedly. “We’re going to have a movie night, and because Mira and I couldn’t decide on one, you get to be the tie breaker! And we prepped with loads of snacks.” She gestures to the haul.
Mira’s voice is almost sickly sweet as she says, “And you can totally eat now, if you want, we don’t have to wait to start the movie.”
Bobby’s heart melts watching them. It’s a solid tactic, really. Food is always a reliable method of grabbing Rumi’s (or, really, any member of HUNTR/X’s) attention.
Zoey and Mira are looking at Rumi hopefully. Their grins are a little too wide and their stances are a little too leaned in to be natural, but the care oozing from their pores is absolutely real.
It’s a simple, but brilliant plan to cheer up Rumi, Bobby thinks. Flawless, really.
“I’m not hungry,” Rumi says quietly.
The room stills.
“W-what do you mean?” Zoey asks nervously, awkward smile stretching further.
Rumi glances at the pile of food in the kitchen for a brief second before her attention turns to the hallway that leads to their bedrooms. She starts to shuffle forward, shoulders drooping as if she’s utterly exhausted, but that can’t be right, because she’s had this whole day off, Bobby made sure of it.
“Rumi,” Mira calls. Her voice is quiet but firm. “Come eat with us and tell us about your day.” It’s not a request.
Pausing, Rumi turns to Mira. Her face is nearly expressionless, but there’s the barest glimpse of a silent plea shimmering in her eyes. “Mira,” she breathes, “I’ll talk later. I promise. But right now…” She chews her lip and slumps. “I’m just really tired.”
“Okay,” Zoey says, “well, let’s do a big cuddle pile! I’ll grab a bunch of my plushies and you’ll get your bear and–”
“I’d like to be alone.” Rumi’s tone is flat. It brooks no argument.
At Mira’s and Zoey’s frozen faces, the edges around Rumi’s eyes soften. “Please,” she whispers.
Swallowing, Mira stares. “Okay,” she agrees.
Zoey nods slowly as well.
Rumi blinks, then beelines for her bedroom.
As she enters her bedroom, Bobby catches a quick glimpse of her pulling her hood up.
With loud, shaky breaths, Zoey and Mira both collapse into nearby counter chairs, their faces stricken.
“Bobby,” Zoey asks, voice thick, "what happened?”
Mira runs her palm down her face and groans. “What did Celine say?”
Looking back and forth between the two of them, he brushes the tears prickling at the edges of his vision and says in quiet defeat, “I wish I knew.”
---
Rumi stops briefly at one of her closets to grab and slip on a mask and pair of gloves, then shoves the rest of her braid into her hood and pulls the drawstrings tight around her face. She glances in the mirror, cringes as she still sees a couple of patterns poking out, and pulls the hood down farther.
She crawls onto the bed and curls up, pressing her knees to her chest.
The rest of the conversation with Celine replays in her mind, looping over and over again.
---
“I’m not my mother.”
“No,” Celine says coldly, “you most certainly are not.”
Rumi breathes in harshly through her nose, stricken. She curls hands into fists, ignoring where the claws of one dig into her palms. The sting is grounding.
She sees Celine’s gaze flicking across her pulsing patterns, her clawed hand, her eye that she knows must be glowing bright and golden. “What do you see,” Rumi asks before she can think better of it, “when you look at me?”
Celine flinches.
“Do you see my mother? The beautiful, unstoppable Sunlight Sister? The one stupid enough to fall in love with a demon?”
Celine’s face contorts.
“Do you see the demon? The demon whose name I don’t even know? The demon who was so irredeemable that he stole a hunter’s heart?”
Rumi’s ragged breaths are quiet compared to the loud, shaky ones Celine is fighting to draw in and out of her lungs.
“What do you see, Celine?” Rumi asks harshly. “Because I know it’s never been me.”
“That’s not true!” Celine refutes with a gasp. She stands up so harshly she knocks over what remains of her omija-cha. The tea spills onto the table and wood below, an unsettling scarlet stain blooming across the surfaces.
Neither of them move to clean it up.
“That’s not true,” Celine repeats. “I do see you.”
“Do you?” Rumi growls. “Do you really?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then if you could see all of me, why couldn’t you love me?”
“Rumi,” Celine pleads, “we went over this that night, don’t you remember?”
Gasping affrontedly, Rumi clutches a hand to her chest. “Do I–do you remember? Do you remember, just moments after I begged you to kill me that, that I begged for an answer on why you couldn’t love all of me?”
Celine babbles, “I do, I do remember, I remember telling you that I loved you, because I do, Rumi, I do!”
“NO!” Rumi roars, clutching her head. “You told me to hide!”
“Rumi–”
“Why couldn’t you love all of me?!”
“I wanted to!” Celine shouts. There are tears staining her cheeks, smearing her pristine makeup. “I wanted to love all of you, I-I tried so hard to! But I didn’t know what you would even grow up to be, if I’d wake up one day and discover you’d-you’d taken a human’s soul, devoured it, and then I’d have to-I’d have to–”
Rumi’s chest empties like she’s been punched in the gut. “You know I’d never do that,” she whispers, hurt, “you know that, Celine. Haven’t I-haven’t I always been good, haven’t I always done everything you asked of me? How-how could you not know that?”
“I couldn’t know anything,” Celine cries, “because you were unprecedented! I’d never heard of a child being born to a demon and a human before, let alone knew how to raise one!”
“But you knew me!” argues Rumi, fighting back choked laughter. “You did raise me! How could you not know how hard I tried to make sure I did everything right? Why couldn't I do anything right?”
“Because everything about your existence is wrong.”
Rumi recoils, stumbling backwards and snaking her arms around her stomach as if she’s been pierced by a blade. She stares in horror at Celine.
Celine gapes back at her, wide-eyed and stricken.
“...I know that.” The words are distant in Rumi’s ears as she speaks them. “You’ve taught me that. Every day of my life.”
There’s some kind of realization dawning on Celine’s face.
Rumi doesn’t care.
When Celine tries to say something, Rumi cuts her off. “I’m a demon,” she states quietly. “I’m wrong.”
“Rumi, wait–”
“I’m a mistake,” Rumi snarls. Her shoulders shake as a sardonic laugh bubbles out of her throat. Even as bitterness clogs her veins, she’s surprised to feel her demon features fading. She glances impassively past Celine, at the puddle of red still slowly spreading on the floor.
“It’s a shame,” murmurs Rumi, “that I’m a mistake we were both too cowardly to erase.”
She starts to walk out.
Behind her, she hears Celine scrambling to follow, hears the pleas and cries even though the blood pulsing in her ears blocks any actual words from registering.
Rumi pauses without looking behind her.
“Don’t follow me,” she says flatly.
As an afterthought, because this is Celine’s home, after all, Rumi courteously adds, “Please.”
She leaves without turning around.
Celine doesn’t follow.
---
In bed, Rumi takes a shuddering breath.
The hallway light outside betrays Mira’s and Zoey’s shadows lurking just past her bedroom door.
Rumi curls into a ball and closes her eyes.