Work Text:
It takes all of them.
Mira, to lay every brick, to build this temple of worship, to craft its intricacies. No one can build something so fine as she can. Her work is a testament to her strength, to building something safe for those that she loves.
Zoey, to mix the mortar, to fill in any cracks that were not often overlooked by Mira's careful eye. Carefully, lovingly. No brick ever layed by Mira would have shoddy mortar work, not while Zoey was breathing. Her work hums of delicacy, of loyalty.
Rumi, to charm their masses, to use her incredible gift to get them the adoration they so desperately needed. To keep them safe in this temple that they have all built with bruised knuckles and sore muscles.
But now, the sacristy is barren. No grand sermons, no new hymnals planned and spread lazily across the simple desk. Only the ripped vestments remain, discarded on the floor carelessly.
Do those that build the monument not seek to destroy it as well? They know all of its intricacies, confessions whispered into each perfectly carved stone, reverence in every motion of the mortar trowel.
Would you not seek to destroy everything you've ever loved?
~•~
Ryu Rumi died on a Sunday.
No….no that's not right…
What was it… Oh yes, she was found on a Sunday.
She died only hours after the Idol Awards.
Only hours after begging like a sinner for forgiveness on both knees. After presenting her own blade as one to be used in the name of sacrifice. Duty.
Isn't that what Hunters are? Protectors? If she was starting to crack, starting to lose it… she knew what demons could do. All of them did. She was not about to become that .
So when her manager, her mentor, her only real mother figure- no.
No, that part's not right.
Rumi had no mother figure- she had Celine. Celine, who was always careful to correct her when calling her mommy, always used a delicate hand when dusting the few pictures of Ryu Mi-yeong they had left.
So, when Celine outright refuses her call to duty? Her fine, polished, stained glass piece of a Hunter- a woman- shatters. The rainbow of fine shards placed perfectly, as always, right at her guardian's feet.
And then, without a word or even her own knowledge, she's running. Running towards the only place she knows will clear her head.
In the training room, where they had all learned to fight until the last breath.
Where Mira and Rumi had had their first-ever real argument- which Mira will still maintain to this day (with a very soft but sad smile) that if you don't want to be called nepo baby, don't be a nepo baby- and their first-ever real fight.
It was supervised by Celine, of course.
Zoey sat crying with her back against the wall, torn to absolute shreds that this was her fault and she should have just kept on moving like everything was fine.
But Zoey was not fine.
Rumi had caught her off balance, thinking Zoey would be able to block the upwards swing of the wooden training sword. Rumi wasn't wrong often, but these things happen, y'know?
The sickening crack of wood against teeth was still ringing in their ears as Zoey pressed her head against the training room floor. She could get up, right now, she could be fine, she could pretend she wasn't dizzy and she didn't taste blood and also- oh my god three of her teeth were cracked.
She could pretend; Zoey was good at pretending. But Mira…
Mira saw through her like air.
Their words were mixing fast, Korean into English then back again, circling each other like predators.
Mira always supposed you could beat the aggression out of someone; she wouldn't know, though. She didn't give them enough chances to get a good swing in.
The crack of wood against wood, sneakers squeaking noisily as they moved across the room in flashes. Rumi had agility, but speed was on Mira's side. Two swings- a swipe to the back of the legs and one solid hit to the chest- and Rumi was down.
And in that moment, as Mira pressed her foot down into Rumi's chest to keep her pinned down, as Rumi looked into Mira’s eyes, eyes that said - ’touch her like that again and I'll fucking kill you’ - Rumi felt like the wild dog she knew they saw her as.
A monster choked by the instinct to harm.
Rumi had always supposed- knew - that protecting the ones you loved always required an act of sacrifice. Even if it was simply being chewed out by your mo- by Celine.
So now, Rumi knelt. In the exact spot where Zoey bled from a wound inflicted by her hand. Where the youngest of them tried to joke through the tears that now she could have one vampire tooth (which Celine would deny her at the dentist's office, to Zoey's abject horror). She grins at the memory. Something soft, something real.
Something a little hard to understand, given the lack of teeth.
But girls like that- her girls - they don't need to live in fear of wild animals like her. Wild dogs- feral dogs- bite. And she could feel the wretched fangs she'd been cursed with start to grow.
As she kneels, she confesses.
Quiet, ordinary things.
She had once cheated on a math test, she lied about not drinking the last of Zoey’s really niche American sodas.
That she was in love. So hopelessly, helplessly, stupidly, achingly in love.
In the training room, it was always cold. In the training room, they had learned to fight to the last breath.
It's Mira who finds her first.
Still on both knees, head bowed.
Mira approached with caution. Rumi could lash out, summon her Saegom and fight dirty- the way demons do.
No- not Rumi. Rumi never ever fights dirty.
But this…this is… it's beyond dirty. It's gruesome, it's foul. Some sick people would dare to call it art.
Chest almost completely hollowed out, the bones of her ribs visible under the viscera, the congealed blood.
She had…
It's so strange. It's so, so strange. How human Rumi's heart looks as it sits, still clutched by her long stiffened fingers.
An offering to the three droplets of blood on the training room floor that had dried, long forgotten, years ago.
She had clawed her own heart out of her chest.
She had offered her girls everything she had in her final moments.
Her devotion, her duty, her love.
Stuck between a groan and a scream, it caught in her throat. A choked off plea of ‘please fucking move’ .
Mira couldn't let Zoey find Rumi like this.
But Zoey was always so fast.
Rumi always reminded her that Zoey was very, very fast.
So when the youngest of them rushes into the room at the sound, there is no time to react.
Mira needs desperately to fucking move, to get out of this fucking room and break anything she can get her hands on- demons, vases, windows, people- anything. But she can't.
Because Zoey… the noises coming from her are… they're almost inhuman. Long, wailing noises that almost sound like howling. Like a grieving dog mourning its pack-mate. Like a part of her has been ripped from her own chest and is clutched in her hands.
Because it has been.
And now Zoey so desperately wished that Mira could help her carve out her own heart, to place it back into the gaping cavity left in their sweet Rumi. To sew her back together again and have her wake up and pretend like everything was okay. Zoey could pretend; she was great at pretending.
~•~
Fact: All of Huntr/x’s songs are three-part harmonies.
Fact: Zoey will not sing for 4 months and 5 days. Mira doesn't bother with keeping track.
~•~
When it is time to bury Rumi, there is nothing they can do.
Everyone on their legal team is in shambles, their PR team is running on less than fumes, and their hair and makeup team can't keep packing on concealer like it's part of their faces.
They can't face anyone. They can hardly speak. They hardly even text each other.
Still, they find each other.
Every single day, they find each other.
Mira will physically pick Zoey up and bring her to the shower when she hasn't in days. Zoey will make Mira a cup of instant ramyeon and wordlessly set it in front of her when she knows Mira hasn’t fed herself.
Always sleep together.
Always leave space for Rumi.
When it is time to bury Rumi, there is nothing they can do.
They bury Rumi next to her mother, officially. In the same graveyard where they will be buried. Where they will go after they do their duty as Hunters.
And they have, haven't they? Right?
Unofficially, she's buried somewhere in Seoul.
Neither one of them cares to listen to where. They're not interested in playing to the cameras. Their grief is private. Personal. Something that gnaws at them until it feels like it's clawing its way out of their chests like a wild animal, carving a ragged hollow that they could crawl into and trick themselves into feeling something like safety.
Celine had dug the grave.
Perfectly symmetrical, carved with calloused hands and sweat dripped into unblinking eyes.
Both girls stared into that pit, that hole , feeling as if they're suffocating.
No no no- Rumi can't go in there. She can't. How was she going to see her girls?
All of Mira’s instincts tell her to run. To go find something to break, to go start trouble, go fuck something up like she always fucking did.
Oh.
Oh .
Oh, this was her fault.
And she knows it's her fault. Celine shoveled dirt over Rumi's grave because Mira killed her.
Well, duh, brainless.
She knew that.
When it is time to bury Rumi, there is nothing left they can do.
Zoey can't keep pretending.
She can't cry anymore. All cried out. Nothing left in the brain.
Nothing left in the brain except Rumi.
How she takes her tea in the morning and at night. How she has- had, how she had a little spiral notebook full of coordinates for her really fancy telescope. How she brushed her teeth with that weird toothpaste that tastes like vanilla, because she said mint toothpaste tasted like mint ice cream and why would she want to do that- which would launch Mira into the vanilla toothpaste argument- which would send Zoey into giggle fits.
Nothing left in the brain except how Rumi smiled at home. Away from expectations or cameras. Nothing left in the brain except Rumi.
Part of her wishes she had asked Rumi to join her and Mira, but God if she had said no it would- but it would be fine.
Zoey could pretend; she's great at pretending.
Just like how she pretends not to have a panic attack as she latched onto Mira's arm as Celine pats down the dirt over their beloved leader.
When it is time to bury Rumi, there is nothing left that they can do.
Mira knew that pointing her woldo at Rumi was the wrong thing to do.
She was practically begging on her knees, almost screaming for help. From them. The people that she loved more than anything in the entire world.
And still, Mira raised her weapon.
Yes, she could argue that she was protecting Zoey. That's what she does: protects her girls. She's the tank, that's what they said, she's the one they get behind. So when someone who looked so much like their Rumi ran up on them with those familiar patterns, she’s almost ashamed to say she hesitated.
But Zoey can handle herself.
Rumi ca- could handle herself.
The only one not in control was Mira.
Over the last week, she had taken every glass plate in the penthouse and smashed them to bits. She had ripped a door from its hinges. She had even punched holes through walls.
The only one not in control was Mira.
They had always said she'd turn out like this.
Angry, unlikeable, just a plain bitch. Impulsive, aggressive, and wholly self-centered.
Fuck them for being right.
The only one not in control was Mira.
When Zoey comes to patch her up after every inevitable self-inflicted injury, there is nothing but tired reverence in her eyes. No words, no soft humming, no usual post-hunt humor. Just the sounds of bandages opening and the soft squeeze of fingers that means ‘you’re doing so well’ .
Because Zoey knows this is not her Mira.
Her Mira is somewhere six feet deep underground, searching desperately for Rumi to pull her back out so she can feel the sun on her skin.
Her Mira is intense, but controlled. Poised but deadly. Elegant but brutal. Her Mira was still searching for Rumi wherever Gwi-ma had taken her.
When Zoey comes to patch her up, her fingers are light. Not disgusted, just practiced. Each go around is getting quicker, an expert in Mira's self-torture, and an expert in patching her up.
Her Mira is grieving.
Her Mira is hurt.
And her Mira is missing a third of herself, too.
So when her Mira breaks the glass of the shower door with her fist, Zoey carefully picks the shards out of her knuckles as Mira sobs into her shoulder. And because Zoey is so desperate not to lose any more of herself, she crawls into bed with Mira and holds her.
When her Mira tucks her head against her chest to listen to her heart, they cry. Because there's a funny sort of heartbeat missing. One the honmoon mourns in that same, ragged, broken way.
A funny sort of heartbeat. One that thrummed sometimes three times. One that filled the gaps between theirs.
One from a heart that looked so incredibly human, clutched in finely manicured claws, offered to her girls in a silent confession.
In a final offering to their altar that she could never tell them she worshipped at.
Mira wakes up early.
Way too early.
And she wakes Zoey up, too.
“Let's go.” She says gently, too gently, as she shakes Zoey’s shoulder to stir her.
But she has forgotten.
Rumi shakes Zoey's shoulder to get her up. Mira always gently pats her thigh.
It's a simple miscalculation.
One that makes Mira want to launch herself from the balcony.
Because now she's watching Zoey sleepily squinting into the soft lamp light- because they cannot sleep in the dark, not anymore- and reaching her arms out. Making those soft, grabbing motions with her hands.
Her voice is hardly a whisper, but it echoes like a gunshot.
“ ‘umi?”
Of course.
This is always how Zoey could successfully guilt Rumi into five more minutes of cuddle time.
So Mira crawls into bed, shoes and jeans and coat and all, and lets Zoey hold her.
Because she didn't pat her thigh.
Zoey eventually gets up, with no urging from Mira this time, and picks whatever looks vaguely clean off her floor.
Zoey destroyed her room days after Rumi had… hoping maybe if Rumi saw what a mess it is that she would offer to body-double while she cleaned. Rumi knew how much it helped just having her in the room.
She'll have a clean room when the sun explodes, probably, Zoey's decided.
~•~
Fact: Zoey has always been a little forgetful when it comes to changing her sheets.
Fact: Zoey will not change her sheets for 9 months and 24 days. Those were the last sheets Rumi slept in.
~•~
It's mid-afternoon when Zoey has hit the place order button.
They were not hungry.
They hadn't eaten real food for nearly a month.
But they know Celine is probably just as worn out, if not more.
So they pick their food up, Zoey running in and out in less than thirty seconds, giving no one inside time to process that it's her.
Mira keeps driving.
The radio is silent.
All they hear is the wheels over the pavement.
They hadn't seen Celine since the funeral.
Weren't even sure she'd be at the estate, honestly.
But it's just as much their home as it is hers, especially now that it houses such a familiar ghost.
“Eat.” Mira shoves a box full of something she doesn't care to look at into Celine’s hands.
“Drink.” Zoey pushes a fizzy drink, one of Rumi's favorites, into an empty space in front of her.
The three of them sit in silence. Picking at food that would be delicious any other time.
It's a simple miscalculation.
Enough food for three people, their usual order.
Their usual order.
It makes the food sit in their throats, the need to choke only peculiarly tickling their chests.
Mira is itching her palms, swallowing from a bottle of water and crunching the plastic as she drinks, as if it offends her personally. The crease between her brows has been set for a while, and her teeth grind from the pressure of her jaw.
Zoey grabs her phone, tapping and scrolling wordlessly for a few minutes.
Usually, Celine would tell her to put it away at the table.
This was not a usual lunch.
The unbroken silence is suddenly filled with sound from Zoey's phone.
The sounds of some sort of photo shoot, both of the girls remember it. There are people talking, the sounds of tripods being moved, talk of lights being adjusted, and jewelry being changed.
“Dude, Mira- this is like the eighth necklace they've put on you.” The old Zoey chimes.
A sound of intense frustration from the old Mira. The shifting of a leather coat, the creak of a chair.
“Bro looks mad.” Rumi's voice. Saying some fucking stupid thing that Zoey had taught her.
But they all laugh. The girls all laugh.
It was three simple words, words that could take the fight right out of Mira because changing her necklace eight times certainly wasn't as bad as fighting literal demons.
So they laugh, the old Mira giving a fond “Shut up, losers.”
Then the clip is over.
Then Zoey replays it one more time, her eyes glued to the screen.
“Bro looks mad.“ It was a simple, stupid phrase designated to take the piss out of Mira and let her know it was not that serious.
Especially when it came from Rumi.
Then, silence.
Silence for an incredibly upsetting amount of time. Because Zoey knows exactly how upset Mira still is.
Because she knows that particular phrase will always make Mira fold.
Because, just like always, Rumi is still right.
Bro does look mad.
They've eaten, not well, but they've eaten.
They shove the leftovers in the barren refrigerator. Just some leftover rice and some suspicious looking miso soup. So, Celine wasn't really eating.
The girls had sort of figured that.
They had only lost Rumi.
Celine was 0 for 2 on the Ryu family.
The girls wander around for a bit. Holding hands, brushing shoulders, feeling the crisp air on their faces.
This is Rumi's favorite weather.
The thought of it almost makes Mira gag. The sound of the wind-blown leaves makes Zoey want to clamp her hands over her ears, or maybe just rip them off entirely.
But they walk tall, tears stinging the corners of their eyes.
They hunt demons; they were going to let a little weather make them weak?
They are weak, that's the thing.
Because they weren't planning on making their way to the training room.
They just… arrived.
Pulled by some unseen force.
It makes Zoey half-crack a very sad smile.
“What the fuck are you smiling at?” Mira sounds bone-deep tired. Not angry or upset or anything, just… like she could sleep for the next 50 years.
“Y'know, Rumi used to tell me that when you just end up somewhere, a ghost was leading you.” Zoey's voice cracks at the end. “I dunno if she believed it, I think she just knew I was really into that kinda stuff.”
Mira stiffens at the words, clutching at Zoey's hand like a lifeline.
Okay, maybe that was the wrong thing to say.
Maybe they had spoken more today than they had in a very long time.
Maybe, Mira had decided this on about day 2, we should just do away with words entirely.
And maybe it's the wrong thing to do, to walk into this room.
But fuck it, who cares? Who cares about anything anymore.
Maybe, Zoey had decided on the first day, caring was the fastest way to getting your heart ripped out.
–
The way the room echoes is abysmal. Only the sounds of their occasional sniffles are heard.
The honmoon gives a mournful hum.
Its hunters have returned to their temple.
Its saints returned home.
They've not let go of each other, hands still clutched between them.
The air around them is thick with something, shame or grief or guilt or blame or-or- God, something, and they're almost choking on it.
It’s nearly enough to bring them to their knees.
But they don’t falter.
They can’t be weak, not when Rumi’s ghost so politely guided them here.
What if she sees them?
She can’t comfort them, can’t offer words of encouragement, and certainly can’t rub circles on Zoey’s back or run her thumb over Mira’s knuckles.
No, no, breaking down in front of Rumi’s ghost just won’t do.
It would just be plain rude.
And what if she sees the way Zoey runs her fingers over the old stains on the ground? How determined she is to commit the pattern of it to memory, how she clenches her teeth as she sucks in air between them as the tears start to spill over her cheeks?
And what if she sees the way Mira’s jaw tightens as she keeps putting her hand out to support Zoey, only to falter before it reaches her shoulder? How she’s trying so hard to find any words to comfort Zoey, or even herself, but finds nothing?
It would be embarrassing for everyone, including the ghost.
So, because Mira is lost for words or comforting actions, she does the only thing she can think of.
She summons her woldo.
She doesn’t know why.
Maybe just to see if she still can, see if the honmoon has forgiven its chosen.
For the first time in what feels like ages, the air around them vibrates with the energy of it. Its weight is familiar, comforting.
And its presence far too much for Zoey, who starts that god-awful howling wail at the sight.
And then, without a word or even her own knowledge, Mira's running.
Mira’s full tilt, running until her lungs ache and her head swims. Until she’s pulled, pulled impossibly hard by some invisible force telling her ‘ come find me’ .
She can hear Zoey still, or maybe she can’t; maybe it’s still ringing in her ears.
And suddenly, it’s not an invisible force.
It’s Rumi. And her voice.
Of course.
She was always so pulled by Rumi’s energy, always feeling eternally blessed to be able to see that smile, hear that laugh, to just… just exist with her.
Of course.
Did she think she could ever escape that? That Rumi would ever let her go? Even in death, Rumi still had that undeniable spark that made Mira feel as if she were one of the only people in the world.
‘Stop.’
And so Mira does. Because even in death, her leader's commands on the field are the final word.
But Rumi’s perfect voice doesn’t tell her what to do next. So, she does the only thing she can think of.
She drops onto all fours, heaving and choking in front of Ryu Rumi’s grave.
Of course.
Mira lets out something between a barking laugh and a sob.
She’d had a romantic notion a long time ago, back before she really knew how… how she felt about her girls. It was a fleeting thought; she didn’t even give it a chance to form, really.
She’d thought that maybe the three of them had met each other in every life.
They had to, loving them was just too easy.
Loving them was too fucking easy.
“I loved you.” Her voice sounds distant, hollow. “I love you, Rumi. Why didn’t you think-” She pounds the soft grave dirt with her fist once, pissed beyond anything in this world that she’s going to cry.
“Why didn’t you think we would trust you? Did you think- y’think we’d- we’d-” Her breath is coming in gasps, snot and drool starting to drip from her nose and mouth. “If you had just talked to us before- before- just s-s-s”
She lets herself sob, pressing her head into the dirt that’s damp with her own body fluids. She doesn’t care.
Rumi is down there, and she needs to be closer. Needs to claw her way into that simple white oak coffin and settle there, next to Rumi, because at her right hand is where Mira belongs.
The temple she has built with bloody knuckles and bone-deep scars is suddenly collapsing on her head.
The destruction has already taken her Rumi.
She can’t let it take her and Zoey, too.
“Just s-sat us down, honey. Brought Celine and- and sat us down.” Her voice still shakes, and she knows this is just the eye of the storm. “We were going to love you no matter what, you fucking idiot.” A laugh, frayed at all of its edges, finds its way out.
“We’re in love with you, Rumi. Me and Zoey both. I-” Her voice fails her, and then- she’s just screaming. Wordless, from the deepest parts of her chest. As loud as her vocal cords will let her, as long as they’ll let her.
A few deep breaths, a few silent moments before she can gather herself up.
“I shouldn’t have pulled my woldo on you- it was all so confusing, it was- they- they had already fooled us with Bobby- it-” She’s back to beating the ground with her fist, putting her weight into it.
It’s all excuses, like always.
Careful not to touch the grave dirt as her fists come down again and again and again.
She could’ve just taken a few seconds and listened to what Rumi was saying. Had a single rational thought, not jumped to conclusions, not jumped to aggression. Because now-
The sickening crunch sounds different every time her fist hits the ground.
She yelped at the first sound of it. Now? She just hits the ground harder, as if she’s making any progress.
Screaming, punching.
Boy, she really is exactly what they said she was going to be.
No wonder Rumi-
“Mira!” Zoey’s voice is raw but still loud, calling to her girlfriend from a few hundred feet away. Mira can hear two sets of feet sprinting at her.
‘Mira?’ There’s Rumi’s voice again, carried on the cooling autumn wind.
Oh, how she wishes her name didn’t sound like a prayer from Rumi’s lips.
Mira stops punching, looking up at the inscription of Rumi’s name in the stone that Celine had so delicately carved. Just as Celine had for her- for Ryu Mi-yeong.
She’s running out of time here.
“I’ll fix it.” Mira’s voice is low, mumbled. This was her final private conversation with Rumi, after all. “I promise, by the time we find our way back to each other, I’ll have it fixed. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was a coward. I’ll make sure Zoey is well taken care of. I’ll fix it, then next time- next life, it’ll be easier.”
They’ve reached her now, Zoey and Celine both, just as a ghost of wind catches her cheek in a way that fools her into thinking her cheek is being held.
“Sorry, Mir, I didn’t- I couldn’t-” Zoey is stumbling over her words as she takes in the state of her girlfriend. “I-I was running everywhere calling for you, I couldn’t find you and I was-” She’s dropped to her knees in front of Mira, wrapping her arms around the other girl's shoulders.
Celine kneels behind Mira, a respectful distance between them.
Mira hates how she wants to turn her head and growl, bare her teeth, and snap at Celine. As if she’s a wild animal protecting her pack.
As if she’s protecting Rumi’s- as if she’s protecting Rumi from her.
Celine’s voice is strained, reserved. “Zoey was afraid you’d hurt yourself.”
Mira can feel Zoey nod her head against her shoulder, taking in deep, shaky breaths. She sits back on her heels, dragging Zoey up with her.
“I was too.” Celine says it in a softer way, almost convincing.
This is what breaks whatever is left of Mira.
She breaks out of Zoey’s tight grip as she falls backwards, head landing hard on Celine’s thighs.
She and Celine were never what you’d call ‘friendly’, really.
Not after all the arguments, all the being-a-shitty-teenager, the burden she just knows she was on her technical legal guardian.
But Mira has to watch the last of what she’d built up collapse, so she can rebuild it, brick by brick, with a tempered fury tomorrow.
So she lays her head on Celine, letting the other woman stroke her arms, rub her chest.
It was as if she were soothing a toddler.
When it’s clear that the last of Mira’s fight is gone, Celine carries her all the way back to the estate.
And as Mira tucks her head into the crook of Celine’s neck, feeling the muscles in the other woman's body pulled taut, she catches the faintest whiff of lychee soju on her breath.
Huh.
Mira blacks out as she watches the sun setting over her mentor's shoulder, wondering if that’s where Rumi got her preference of drink from.
~•~
Fact: Mira will never admit that it was love at first sight.
Fact: Mira has a pocket-sized journal dedicated to writing down fleeting thoughts about Rumi. She keeps it on her always.
~•~
It was so strange how much Zoey felt like a child again.
She watched Celine pick Mira up off the ground like it was nothing, carrying her like the parent of an exhausted child, while Zoey followed along.
She remembers the way she clutched at a tiny part of Celine’s untucked shirttail, trailing after them while she tried not to whimper and cry.
Because Zoey is not going to make this harder for Celine.
Zoey is going to be a very put-together adult about this because she is not a child.
But that’s hard when she’s shaking so much she can hardly fill the kettle with water.
It’s hard when she keeps looking at Mira, who is so thoroughly passed out on the couch that she looks so much younger.
So much younger.
When she remembers that they’re only in their twenties. Remembers that they were supposed to have so much time together.
And now… Now Rumi will be 24 forever.
Now, in a few short months, Mira will be the oldest.
A punched-out whine in the back of her throat has the older woman looking up from the kitchen table.
She is not going to make this harder for Celine.
There’s a warmth in her eyes, an understanding.
So when Celine turns in her chair and opens her arms, it’s all Zoey can do not to drop the kettle and launch herself right into them.
Zoey makes careful motions, trying to be quiet for Mira. The kettle is set back on the counter softly, and she flicks her wrist up slightly when turning the sink off because she remembers the handle squeaks at certain angles.
And yeah, it's extremely weird to admit this while she's deep in this fucking pit, but she's trying to contain herself.
It's ridiculous, the thought of it makes her queasy, and she feels a biting sense of shame right at the front of her mind.
It's ridiculous, the woman she idolized for years is offering her lap up to comfort Zoey, the woman she had a secret account to thirst post about in high school was right here in the kitchen with her, giving Zoey the extremely rare opportunity that she knew very, very few people are afforded.
It's so ridiculous that Zoey starts giggling.
No, not really giggling, that's not right.
More like…like choked off laughter, tight and uneasy. Like a joke at a funeral.
Celine doesn't flinch at the sound. Probably expecting it.
It's Zoey, after all.
A little unpredictable, but also very predictable. A girl who has a notebook for everything, and sometimes everything but in a different color, just in case.
A girl who has a plan for everything.
Well, a plan for everything, except Rumi dying.
So Zoey settles in the older woman's lap, knees pulled to her chest, her face buried in Celine’s neck.
And Zoey smells the faint notes of lychee soju on her breath.
Huh.
So that's who Rumi gets it from.
Not that Rumi ever drank drank, but occasionally she would order a small bottle of the stuff and sip it for the entire night.
Now it's got Zoey thinking that maybe Rumi wasn't really interested in the drink itself. Maybe she just wanted that familiar smell so close that she could literally taste it. Something close to comfort. Or something close to close to comfort.
Oh, Rumi.
She was saying everything, screaming it, with no words at all.
The most polished, pristine, put-together woman Zoey had ever met… reduced to sipping soju alone on rainy nights, because she just couldn't open up.
She was made to feel like she couldn't talk to them.
“Did you know?” Zoey's voice sounds like it comes from the sink drain. Hers, but so far away, so small.
Celine tenses at her words; the arms wrapped around her are almost a vice.
Well, that answers Zoey’s question.
“We would have loved her anyway, y'know? You were there plenty of times, you could have sat us down and-”
“It's not that simple, Zoey.” Celine cuts her off smoothly, precisely.
But Celine always forgets that under that sweet, goofy exterior is a quick mind and even quicker tongue.
“No, it really is that simple. Mira and I trust you- well we did, not so sure about that anymore. I'll check when she wakes up.” Her words are measured, carefully chosen. “It really is that simple, Celine. We would have done anything for Rumi. Anything. And that includes being sat down and told, ‘look, Rumi is half demon, her mom made some choices.’ ”
Zoey can feel both of their hearts beating faster; being pressed so close together was always a tactic she was happy to employ to get her points across.
“Like, yeah, it sucks, we're supposed to kill demons. But Rumi can't help the fact that she's her father's daughter. Do you think she would've picked being a demon? Especially with all the shit you drilled into our heads about how we had to kill every last one, how they deserved to suffer? Honestly, if I was Rumi in that kind of situation, I would've been begging for a lobotomy at every turn.”
Zoey's words hang in the air, so heavy that she feels like the world might collapse around her.
And her world already has, so fuck it, why not let everyone else feel it, too.
No.
No, that's not Zoey.
Her mortar work is filled with reverence and devotion, not words of hate and venom.
“Sorry, I just-”
“Don't apologize.” Celine’s voice vibrates through her chest, and Zoey feels like it rattles her heart. “You have nothing to apologize for. Neither of you.”
The older woman's shoulders sag, her head dropping so her cheek is pressed against Zoey's forehead.
And they stay like that for a long time.
Zoey absentmindedly runs a finger along the hem of her own jacket cuffs, playing with the two top buttons of Celine's fancy shirt.
“I was in love with her. In every way.” Her confession is whispered. It feels as if the words were so fragile that they needed to be held in both hands, like her heart couldn't bear the weight of keeping them inside anymore, if they touched any solid surface they would shatter. “We both were.”
Zoey can feel Celine's cheek twitch, like she almost smiled. “I know. I saw those little heart doodles you would make in some of your unused drafts, Ryu Zoey.”
And now, she is going to make it very hard for Celine.
Zoey shifts from having her knees pulled up to her chest to straddling her mentor, an awkward position with her tiptoes barely touching the floor.
The collar of Celine’s shirt is immediately wet with Zoey’s tears, and she can only guess that the mystery goo slowly soaking through to her shoulder is snot.
She breathes through clenched teeth, gripping the front of the older woman's shirt with both hands.
She isn’t going to scream or cry out or any of that.
She’s not going to have Mira wake up because of her.
“Did you ever hold her like this?” Zoey hisses through her teeth, her tears hot over the corner of her lip. “Or were you too disgusted? Did you ever try to comfort her? Did you-’
“Zoey.” Celine’s voice is low, a warning.
Zoey’s legs shake as she tries to keep her position, her whole body trembling from the tears. “No, I touched Rumi constantly. I held her hand, I leaned on her shoulders, I put my head in her lap, I-I-I-”
Celine’s arms tighten around her, giving her an anchor, rocking her slightly. It’s a kindness that Zoey doesn’t think she deserves.
“Celine, I was in love with her! I couldn’t fucking tell her!” She makes a small, slightly amused tsk sound. Reduced to stage whispers in a kitchen that was so familiar but so strange, it was like one of her shitty American rom-coms. What a fucking joke. “I couldn’t tell her because I was fucking scared! I don’t give a damn that Rumi was half demon, I give a fuck that she’s dead because we didn’t understand!”
There’s a very, very long silence. Heavy. Thick. Solid as oak.
By the time the silence is broken, Zoey’s eyelids are drooping. Her sniffles are coming infrequently, and the hands that gripped Celine’s shirt so aggressively that there are nail marks embedded in the fabric are loose now.
Completely exhausted.
“I did hold her like this. When she was little, before… before her patterns started to present.” The other woman's words hardly make it to Zoey’s ears. Quiet, embarrassed. Ashamed . “I wish I had done it more.”
Zoey puts up no fight when she feels Celine shift her arms under her, carrying her like a busy mom would, like she weighed nothing.
She’s only vaguely aware that they pass Mira, still asleep on the couch.
She’s not all the way there when Celine unties her shoes for her and takes them off.
She passes out as her head hits a pillow, feeling the warmth of a blanket being pulled up to her chin.
She wishes she hadn’t made it so hard on Celine.
~•~
Fact: Kang Celine was never really a drinker.
Fact: Lychee soju was always Ryu Mi-Yeong’s drink of choice.
~•~
The hot water hitting her face doesn't invigorate her like she thought it would.
If anything, it just makes her more exhausted.
A shower always helps; except when it doesn't.
Because it has become agonizingly obvious to Celine that she has fucked this situation, these girls , beyond repair.
She turns the water up higher, hoping the pain of scalding water might center her. Starts scrubbing her shoulders and neck from where she became Zoey’s tissue. Cleaning dirt from under her nails from scooping Mira off the ground.
The gritty dirt takes her back to the day they buried Rumi.
It was all she could do to dig something so perfect.
It was the least she could do to create something so perfect. It was her contrition, it was her penance.
Something so perfect for the girl who excelled in everything from sword-play to singing to keeping house plants. Something so regrettably beautiful for the shining example of what a leader should be.
Celine doesn't know exactly when she ends up on her knees, but she does. Her hair becomes a wet curtain, sticking to her face at strange points, but she doesn't care to unstick it. She's not sure she can take much of the world outside of this shower.
She can't focus on much of anything except the girls.
The way that Mira looked up at her when she gathered her from the couch, eyes only slightly open. Her mouth was set to say something, but as soon as she saw it was Celine, she just closed her eyes and quietly leaned heavily on her again.
The way that the girls immediately folded into each other when she put Mira in bed, as if even in sleep, they were drawn to each other.
Celine almost smiles when she remembers how the honmoon hummed at their closeness, as if it were enough that they had each other still.
Celine knows from experience it's not enough.
But she's content they have each other to hold through this storm.
She retches, clutching her stomach as her soju makes a reappearance.
She can't keep doing this, keep drinking like this every night like it was normal.
What happens if the girls need her on a hunt? If they just couldn't function as a duo in combat? If they come to her broken and bleeding, and her hands can't stop shaking enough to patch them up?
All of this was something she would have to think through when her head, her world, stopped spinning.
Zoey wakes before Mira does, sleepily grasping under the bed for a first aid kit.
She never thought it was strange that Celine made them keep first aid kits under there; in their line of work, it was crucial. Get them somewhere comfortable, in case they pass out, and patch them up.
Beds and sheets can be replaced, people can’t.
She blinks the sleep from her eyes as she finds the kit, carefully wiggling out of Mira’s hold. Zoey sighs fondly, seeing that Mira was holding her so tightly with her hurt hand. Always ready to put her well-being last if it meant her girls were okay.
The desk chair Zoey finds rolls smoothly and quietly, which gives her a little satisfaction.
She would have to play doctor from the edge of the bed- the edge of Rumi’s old bed.
Bracing for the wave of sadness, Zoey is confused at the stirring in her chest. Not grief or hurt or even disappointment.
It felt like warmth.
How many times in their training had she sat on the edges of their beds and helped fix her girls up? Everything from minor cuts to gashes that needed stitches, which Mira will still maintain to this day that she’s the best at giving, even if they both still secretly agree that Rumi holds that particular honor.
Zoey’s smile is real when she remembers the day that Rumi had very uncharacteristically fallen from the tallest tree on the estate, which they had all climbed, despite Celine’s wishes.
She had dislocated her shoulder, which was definitely better than any alternative, and begged Zoey in particular to set it back before Celine came around.
She wants to laugh at the memory of Mira grumbling something about not being the go-to doctor, but still moved behind Rumi to let her lay her head in her lap. Mira was terrible at hiding her adoration for them.
She wants to dive back into that memory and live in it.
Live in the moment when she took Rumi’s hand and started to reset her shoulder, just chatting on about their schedule for the day, wondering what they should all cook for dinner.
Her palm still tingles when she thinks about how she took Rumi’s cheek into her hand and said, “There we go, pretty girl. All done.” with such warmth that she was sure that Rumi could see her through to the core.
No, she can't go back and live in it. Not with Rumi in pain like she was, even though she hid it with a practiced sort of grace.
It is enough to remember.
Zoey comes back to as she's putting the finishing wrapping on Mira's hand.
Huh.
She hadn't gone full autopilot like that in a while, but it seems that Mira is still asleep, so she must not have been too rough on her.
Once the wrappings are done, Zoey isn't content to hop back into bed. She checks her nearly dead phone, seeing 10:32 on its screen.
Any other time, she'd be welcoming the opportunity to get a few more minutes of sleep, but this feels…different.
A rare opportunity to explore the room that their leader only let them into a handful of times, usually just to grab something and go.
Now, Zoey could really look .
The bed she had peeled herself from is surrounded by shelves, little cubbies that hold everything from small trinkets to a glass cup full of guitar picks to books.
So, so many books.
Sketch books, journals, fantasy books, sci-fi. Anything and everything.
Even in the duller light from the blackout curtains, Zoey can tell there were a few favorites. Worn and cracked spines, dulled and muted colors from being held so often, and little sticky annotations coming from a few.
She scans over them a few times, seeing if maybe a book might catch her fancy to pass the time until Mira wakes up.
Her heart stutters as she realizes that only two of the shelves are labeled with scraps of notebook paper, facing so that only Rumi would be able to see.
One reading <3 Zoey’s favorites :)
The other <3 Mira's favorites :p
Oh.
And they are her favorites.
Books on deep-sea aquatic creatures, a thicker book on the daily lives and habits of Spartans in ancient Greece, and a cookbook she had learned from as a little kid (which Mira insisted that they buy, for research purposes).
And a book she should never have given Rumi, in hindsight. A book about someone who was so beautiful until they weren't, scarred and burned, someone who just couldn't open up until they could, until their confidant walked straight into the ocean never to be seen again.
Zoey picks it up, the dust feeling velvety on her fingers. She thumbs through the annotations, not shocked in the least to find that the blue stickies are labeled with broken hearts or sad faces, and this book is full of them.
She can feel something start to tighten in her throat, making it harder to swallow.
And she isn't going to cry today, she's decided, so she sets that book down and opts for one off an unlabeled shelf.
A pretty looking, well-worn thing whose summary tells of a forbidden love between a princess and her guard- oh Rumi, what a classic trope.
The thought makes Zoey chuckle, eyes flitting to Mira to be sure she’s still resting.
Not really sure she was committed to starting the book, she could at least see what some of these stickies were about, see what Rumi found important or interesting enough to note.
A pink marker with a heart deems something romantic; being taught fighting stances, offering a hand to help in dismounting a horse, a quiet moment stolen away under the tallest tree.
The last, in particular, has three stickies, all covered in hearts, and one very small happy face. And because Zoey is nosey by nature, she squints harder, because there's a date written inside one of those hearts.
She grabs her phone and zooms in, praying the battery will hold through her examination.
Zoey's heart jumps, feeling like she's done a marathon.
Oh…
She flips the page, shaking her head and trying to focus on another marker, but that's significantly harder with the sound of her heart in her ears.
She calms herself, somehow soothed by the notion that the green notes were Rumi being absolutely livid about fictional politics.
Zoey keeps flipping and flipping, eased by the handwriting and doodles.
A piece of paper slotted in between the pages has her curious; maybe it was just a bookmark.
Zoey reads the paragraph that's marked in both pink and green overlapping notes. It describes how one of the spies employed by the king is actually a double agent- Zoey rolls her eyes, how cliche, but she digresses- who has been sent to kidnap the princess as a ransom. He's almost successful at it, too, until the princess’s noble guard bursts into the room and puts himself between them.
She sighs, turning the marking paper over absentmindedly in her fingers.
Oh, Rumi.
A sucker for the classics, it seems.
The scrap paper isn't scrap paper; it's got a little drawing on it. Zoey runs her fingers over it without taking in the image, still reading the harrowing encounter.
When she's done reading the somewhat predictable, but she begrudgingly admits, no less romantic scene, she finally looks at the sketch.
Three sets of sneakers and legs that stop just below the knee.
Strange.
Zoey looks harder at the paper, like it could just tell her what it is telepathically.
Well, one set is her sneakers; she recognizes those old, worn-out shoes from her training days from miles away.
The persons to the right of her are waaaaaay less dingy, but still worn from tough hunts and tougher runs. Zoey thinks they've gotta be Mira's, it's got that specific tread she likes.
The last pair is set in the background, smaller, stance still wide, but you could tell they were caught off guard.
Zoey hums. Rumi was great at conveying actions through drawing. At least this one, anyway.
Clean, high-topped, laced all the way up. With the same tread that Mira likes.
And Zoey knows this, because she was there the day Mira bought them as a peace offering after slicing the top of Rumi's foot open with her woldo.
It was Mira and Zoey, positioned in front of an off-guard Rumi. Protecting her.
Rumi had drawn out her own little scene as she read, no doubt imagining her girls as-
A whine, small and hopefully quiet, holds in her throat.
And she isn't going to cry today, she's decided, so she sets that book down and opts to sit quietly in her little doctor's chair, watching the soft rise and fall of Mira's chest.
When Mira wakes up, a small analog clock on the wall reads 11:47 am .
She blinks a few times, realizing it's almost noon and Zoey of all people is up before her.
Any other day, it might be a cause for comment, but today, she has to start rebuilding.
“Whatcha got, Zo?” Her voice is still affected by sleep, raspy.
Zoey has her legs up in her chair, crossed with a sketchbook situated in her lap.
She smiles at her girlfriend, her fingertips light on the paper as she keeps her little secret.
“C’mon, no secrets.” Mira almost whines. Because she doesn't want any secrets ever again.
But the words aren't heavy, there's no pressure or power in them. It's a simple suggestion, one she knows Zoey will accept.
Still, Zoey smiles her crooked little grin for a few more moments, savoring the unspoken words that she and Rumi have seemed to share for only a few minutes.
“Rumi is one hell of an artist.” Is.
And Zoey doesn't bother to change her wording, because the feeling of Rumi is so heavy in this room, it's almost as if she's there.
She flips the book around, showing Mira an image that makes her chest ache.
It's a very detailed sketch of two knights, whose armor and weapons have had such love put into their shape, standing guard in front of a throne that holds a faceless princess.
It feels like the heat licks up her spine at the realization that she and Zoey are the knights. Care put into every freckle lovingly placed on Zoey's face and the gentle raise of her eyebrows, the attention put into the slight snarling curl of Mira’s lip.
It was like Rumi had been studying every single crease and quirk of their faces silently for years.
She runs a single finger over the faceless princess, a dull ache thrumming through her ribs and filling up her ears.
Oh, but she isn't going to cry today; she's done enough of that, and her throat and head would thank her for a break.
“Damn, she made me look good. Jaw could be a little sharper, though.” Mira chuckles.
It almost feels as if the air itself groans, like Rumi had walked in on them looking at her sketchbook.
The honmoon gives a faint little hum.
Zoey laughs, “Guess someone doesn't like us looking.” She leans back a bit in the chair, her voice hitting the ceiling with a gentle, “Sorry, Rums, you made us hot.”
They both laugh.
And it feels so strange.
Because how can they laugh when Rumi is gone?
How can they talk about her like she's with them and not feel like their guts are turning inside out?
Once the soft laughter has settled over them like a light blanket, they get close to each other.
Zoey leans onto the bed with her elbows, face inches from Mira, who has herself propped up.
“I'm sorry, Zo-” Mira starts, but is cut off.
“No sorries. You've got nothing to be sorry for.” Zoey squeezes her hand, thumb lightly brushing her knuckles. It's comforting, simple, and Mira knows that she means every word. “ But if you still feel like apologizing, you can figure out what we do with Celine.”
Mira raises her eyebrows, silently asking for an explanation. She watches Zoey run the words through her head a few times, painstakingly finding the right phrasing. Finding the most gentle way to ease Mira into a shared disappointment.
“She knew, Mira. She knew the whole time, obviously. And, honestly…” There's disappointment in her eyes, edged by the barest hint of anger. “Honestly, I don't know if I can forgive her.”
Now that one throws Mira.
Zoey could forgive almost anything . Really.
One time, Mira and Rumi had accidentally erased years' worth of Zoey’s side projects, like 10 years worth of side projects, from her computer. It was a completely honest mistake, one they both apologized for on their hands and knees for hours. Still, Zoey just gave them her crooked little smile and said it was no big thing, happens to the best of us. Even if she did get her silly little revenge in.
Mira thinks about it fondly, her lips curling slightly, remembering how Zoey would drop “One of you will betray me” so casually into group chats or easy conversations at the slightest perceived inconvenience after that. How she and Rumi picked it up unironically, parroting the phrase when a necklace was borrowed or the last energy drink taken.
So, for Zoey not to forgive? This is big.
“Mira, would you still love her if you knew she was a demon? Like, if Celine just told us, ‘hey, Rumi’s mom was a monster fucker, but her daughter isn’t feral,’ would you still love her?”
Mira’s mouth quirks a bit at Zoey’s phrasing. Only Zoey could slot the phrase ‘monster fucker’ into a conversation like this and have it make sense.
The honmoon hums at the thought of it, almost like an agreement.
The silence stretches as Zoey gives her the space to form her thoughts, simply thumbing through the sketchbook as Mira thinks.
Zoey makes small noises at the art, small hums of admiration or surprise.
She shakes Mira from her thoughts, showing her two adjoining pages.
One is a spread dedicated to the singular time Zoey said -completely unseriously, in passing- they should’ve said she was from Texas instead of California, that she could have had a whole cowboy persona to play with. It’s simply Zoey in a cowboy hat, a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled high and unbuttoned to her stomach, a large belt buckle that they could tell was etched with the Huntr/x logo. Smaller doodles around her have Zoey riding bulls with her hat flying off, her pitching hay, or her hand feeding cows with a soft expression.
The strokes of her pen told them exactly what Rumi thought about the youngest of them.
Soft, but undeniably handsome. Beautiful but not afraid to get dirty. Hands on.
The second page has sprays of neon colors, accents of bright greens and pinks set against a sea of greys and blacks. A band poster, with Mira its focal point, surrounded by Zoey on drums and Rumi set far to the back on lead guitar.
The bass she plays, one decorated with a few stickers, secured by a bright yellow strap that declares police line do not cross. Poised in front of a mic stand, leaning into it with a posture that suggests she knows she owns that stage and her presence is a gift to the crowd. The outfit she wears is one that Mira still owns, the crop top showing the soft curves of muscle.
The way Rumi has drawn and redrawn the crease between Mira’s eyebrows prickles of a soft frustration, as if she couldn’t get it just right, but lets them know just what Rumi thought about their shield.
Tough but elegant. Arrogant but with that spark of adoration. Dominant, inevitable.
Mira gently takes the sketchbook from Zoey, resting her hurt hand on the edge of the bed and hoping her girlfriend will reach out.
Zoey does, of course. Her steady hand brushes over the bandages, careful not to upset Mira’s fractured hand.
Mira furrows her eyebrows, setting her jaw as she turns the page back to the princess and her knights, then back to the band poster. Flipping back and forth four times before turning to Zoey, her eyes stinging.
“Of course I would have loved her, I still love her. She-” Her voice cracks as she angles the book towards Zoey, pointing, “She can’t draw her own face, Zo. She couldn’t look at herself long enough to give herself anything . I couldn't do anything but love a girl like that.”
Zoey’s shoulders sag as she realizes that Mira is right.
Rumi was right there, between her girls, completely faceless, while Zoey could count every freckle placed by Rumi’s hand. Mira could see the careful shading of her eyes from the stage lights, like Rumi was trying to get across how beautiful they were in the light.
“We trained for years to handle demons, Zoey. Rumi wasn’t like that. And even if she was-” Mira’s eyes focus on something far ahead of her. “Well, even if she did get bad, who’s better trained to handle her than us?”
Handle her .
Something in the way that Mira says it has it settle in the air like a mist, clinging to them.
“Mm, doesn’t that just sound romantic.” Zoey deapans. “What would we do, train her like an attack dog? She’s a person, Mir, not a weapon. I’m not sure I could do something like that.”
Mira considers this for a few seconds before slowly putting her sentence together. “No, more like… More like, we could handle anything she throws at us. If she attacked us, it’s two on one, so that’s already a disadvantage. Not that I think she would have, I think she would run and hide before she hurt us.”
The weight of Mira’s assumption feels like the foundation of her temple is cracking all over again.
Because that’s exactly what Rumi did.
“I think…” Zoey starts before Mira can dig herself too deep into her self-hatred for not seeing the signs sooner, “I think we could’ve done it. Rumi never scared me. I think her being half-demon is actually pretty sick.” She says with a shrug.
Mira scoffs. “Yeah, because you’re a monster fucker, too.” Ruffling Zoey’s hair with her free hand. “We could’ve handled her, Zoey. Anything she threw at us.”
The honmoon hums again, but in a peculiar way.
One that the girls haven’t felt since before they became a group, still separated by space and situations they couldn’t control, but still hummed along with the melody anyway.
The almost mournful little tune that Rumi would mumble to herself when she was afraid, the one Celine soothed her with as a child.
We are hunters, voices strong,
Slaying demons with our song.
Both of the girls shiver, the notes caring that unmistakable softness of Rumi’s voice.
They meet each other's eyes, gleaming with tears, the unspoken agreement of ‘no tears’ tethering them to the focus of breathing.
Mira closes the sketchbook, placing it gently on the bed next to her, and stands.
Her clothes are still filthy from snot and dirt and everything else, her jeans have new tears in them, but she doesn’t care.
She reaches out for Zoey’s hand silently, ready to face what lurks beyond Rumi’s bedroom together, happy for the warmth of their fingers laced so carefully.
They’ll never say it out loud, but Rumi was always the best at giving stitches.
Mira doesn’t mind if she’s held together by threads anymore.
Zoey doesn't care if the threading stings or comes at awkward angles.
As long as the stitching is that soft lavender color.
The table holds a few pastries that had, no doubt, been there since morning, and two energy drinks.
Celine didn’t expect the girls to wake up early, truthfully.
She had only just removed the drinks from the fridge when the girls padded into the kitchen, hand in hand.
The silence is still as pond water. The creak of a chair rings like a gunshot as Mira readjusts herself to sit taller, her face set in something utterly unreadable.
Celine was used to that face, set hard into something that would make you guess and guess and guess what Mira was thinking, only to be wrong.
The girls sit side by side, motionless.
No reaching for food or drinks, no raised eyebrows, not even Zoey’s usual bouncing knee.
Just staring.
Waiting.
Celine finally breaks the silence with something neutral, “I hope you don’t mind that I ran into town to get a few things.” She gestures to the table, the two atrocious energy drinks that she has no clue how the girls stomach.
Silence.
Stillness.
Something simmering below the surface, sticky and hot, like jam being reduced and reduced until it was no longer recognizable.
Grief turned to rage turned to hesitance.
“It was what was best for everyone; it made things easier if you didn’t know.”
The silence seems to stiffen, something rigid, almost physical.
“It did. It made it easier. Our faults and fears must never be seen.” Celine’s voice cracks slightly. Anyone not in tune with her would have passed over it.
But Mira’s eyes narrow slightly, Zoey's jaw sets.
And still, silence.
“Do you think it was easy?” Her voice is almost a whisper, maybe hoping the girls would lean in to hear. They don’t. “I raised her, trained her, taught her how to be strong.” The way Celine says it is almost like she’s trying to convince herself.
Zoey shifts in her chair, adjusting her position so that she leans against the table, mouth hidden behind folded hands. Silent. Staring.
And in the unbearable weight of it all- the silence, the mourning, the hangover- Celine finally feels her eyes stinging.
Crying is not to be made a show of in her eyes; something she has to sit with herself, taking deep, shuddering breaths until she inevitably finds her way to the familiar bottom of the soju bottle.
This time is no different, only now, her proteges sit in front of her as unmoving as solid marble. Watching, waiting.
Her tears fall hot over her cheeks, some of them landing on her crisp dress shirt, others finding their way onto her thighs and making the softest pat when they land.
Mira and Zoey still keep their quiet vigil, eyes unblinking, bodies still.
“It was different. She was different. She was such a smart girl, she… she knew the risks.”
Celine has no clue how long she sits, crying until her head is pounding and her mouth is dry. The sandpaper that was once her tongue aching for a familiar flavor that she has to keep denying herself, because now she has two reasons to stay sober.
Two reasons that sit so agonizingly still that she's not even sure they're real anymore.
Maybe they're just hallucinations brought on by her first sober hours in recent memory.
Her girls were probably still in Rumi's old bed, holding Rumi's old bear, breathing in the familiar scent of their leader on Rumi's old sheets.
The hallucination that claims Zoey’s face finally turns her head, eyebrows raised. A wordless exchange with the spectre that has Mira's resting bitch face down cold.
Seconds of eye contact before the smaller girl sets her mouth in a sad smile.
Celine jumps at the sound of a chair scraping backwards on the wood floor, watching Zoey move behind her and feeling arms curl around her.
Mira moves slowly, as if she's afraid she'll spook the wild animal that sits in front of her should she move too fast. She's left the room before Celine can say a word.
Great, now the other two-thirds of Huntr/x has been split because of her.
Because of her selfish act of crying.
Because she's weak.
Because-
Mira returns, quietly taking her seat once again, pushing a box of tissues across the table with her injured hand. The other arm is stretched across the table, palm up.
An offer.
An anchor.
Celine takes both, mopping her eyes with the soft tissue and blowing her nose briefly.
Mira's hand is warm, soft. It gently grips Celine's in a way that tells her, ‘we know you fucked up, you know you fucked up, but now what can we do?’
Zoey doesn't move, her arms wrapped around Celine from behind.
It always surprises the older woman that these girls- her hunters - are so solid. So steady.
They even fell apart with an almost practiced grace.
The thought makes her grimace.
She taught them how to hunt, how to be idols, how to look good and interact with fans while doing both when it was clear to her they ran on fumes half the time.
So how could she not feel her chest tighten when she thinks about Mira pounding the ground and hurting no one but herself? How can she not feel her shoulders grow heavy at the thought of Zoey still finding the space in her overactive mind to be quiet so Mira could rest?
The world looks so distorted through the bottom of her crystal glass. All distorted light beams and far away faces.
When Zoey finally speaks, her voice is small, as if speaking any louder might split the world in two again.
“You can't keep deciding what's good for everyone else. You did it for Rumi, you did it for us.” Zoey touches her temple to the back of Celine's head, angling her mouth so her voice drifts just a bit. “We love Rumi. Still. Even after learning she was a demon.”
Mira's voice is ice, smooth and cold. “You didn't respect us or Rumi enough to let us know. We trusted you enough, respected and loved Rumi enough, that had you told us, we would have been fine with it.”
“More than fine.” Zoey's voice comes as fire, crackling through her throat as if she may cry again. “She was our whole world. Our sunshine. She-” Her voice breaks.
“She was gravity and air. A force in motion. The tides rolling in and out.” Mira finishes when Zoey can't.
It's at this exact moment that Celine realizes that these girls had decided years ago that they would die for Rumi.
That nothing in the world could stop them from loving her, nothing could stop them from putting themselves in danger for her.
That the two of them had carefully placed their own hearts between Rumi's teeth and trusted her not to bear down, not to be the wild dog Celine saw her as, because to them, Rumi was the center of the universe.
“It's got to stop. Right now.” Mira's voice is firm, commanding. “From now on, we're involved in every decision, idol or otherwise.”
Celine takes this in, Mira squeezing her hand still, Zoey starting to sway a bit.
They weren't just going to let her fade into the background. Weren't just going to let her go to bed soaked every night just to wake up and stay just sober enough to get through the day.
They weren't going to let her fail again.
The honmoon hums it's mournful dirge again, Rumi's soft voice still carried through it's energy.
Fix the world and make it right,
When the darkness meets the light.
“Sorry, Rumi.” Zoey says, staring into the distance as if looking for her.
“Sorry, Rumi.” Mira says, eyes flitting up and away as if searching for her.
Celine's head pounds as she remembers that no one in their right mind would call to a wild dog, much less apologize.
Her voice is barely a whisper, a prayer; “I'm sorry, Rumi.”
This is how they rebuild their temple.
Mira laying the stone, the foundation of the group.
Declaring each Sunday a day of rest, just like when they were in training.
Zoey mixing the mortar, gluing them back together. Declaring each Sunday to be a designated dinner day. If they are together once a week, at least she knows they ate once this week.
Celine, a simple parishioner. Offering her work as penance. If she kept them afloat in the industry, maybe they still have a shot to fix the honmoon.
Maybe the temple doesn't collapse. Maybe it's just in a state of extreme disrepair.
And when Celine starts confessing her sins, begging on both knees to be forgiven, both girls pause briefly.
Eventually, she is absolved, her contrition borne from the guilt of years of secrecy.
The honmoon still rings with its hymns, the voice that rings clear through to their bones still clear and perfect.
It bolsters their work, both Mira and Zoey.
When they falter, when the stone is too heavy or the mortar too thin, when the storm rolls through and they have to momentarily abandon their efforts, she's always there, reminding them;
We are hunters voices strong,
Slaying demons with our song.
The confessions whispered into the stone carry more weight now, more sorrow, but still full of reverence.
The foundation tells of a love lost, two souls still searching, still lamenting for their lost heartbeat.
There are days when Mira simply cannot pick up the stone, when she believes it's all just a waste, that nobody would worship in this temple except she and Zoey.
Zoey will always take the stone with gentle hands, delicately placing them as Mira looks on.
There are days when Zoey cannot look at the trowel, the sight of it making her stomach churn, the thought of picking it up making her skin prickle.
Mira will always take the trowel in her bruised hands, happy to tend to mortar and stone at once.
The sacristy remains empty, and will for a while. They must decide who will lead their sermons now, after all.
Hymnals are planned, not at the desk, but under the largest tree on Celine's estate.
Those that build the monument seek to destroy it, yes.
But they also seek to rebuild it.
Rebuild it in a new image.
A new temple, built with cracked teeth and bloody knuckles.
A fine temple, emblazoned with a simple stained glass piece of the girl with the lavender hair.
A temple where neither girl would be ashamed to admit that they worshipped at the feet of their leader, that they offer their hearts to her every day at the altar of their love.