Chapter Text
The thing that strikes Mira the most about the new Honmoon isn't the way that it looks, though it does look different—the vibrancy, the life, in the colors is far different than the previous near-uniform blue-magenta contrast. But the main difference, she thinks, is in the way it feels. Both of them feel—felt—feel alive, but the way they are alive is... the old one was wood, strong and stiff but yielding, able to bend if pushed, if needed, but difficult to shift, hard to press. This new one they've built—it's muscle. It bends and flexes even on its own, fluid and carefree, full not just of protection but of wonder.
They float down toward the stage, and Mira takes another moment to wonder at what they've built. She's never flown before—the old Honmoon could steer their falls, help them leap farther and faster and higher than any human, but this one is carrying them, cradling them. Taking away the last advantage any demons had over them—though that doesn't matter anymore, does it?
When they land, and Rumi stumbles, Mira doesn't think anything of it. They've all had an extremely long day, and Mira doesn't begrudge Rumi some exhaustion. But when Rumi doesn't straighten, and instead crushes her fingers around Mira's bicep, Mira is instantly on high alert.
The patterns are scrawled across Rumi's skin like fresh scars, coruscating in time with the new Honmoon in a way that makes Mira need to heave. It's Rumi, it's still Rumi, she reminds herself, but. But.
Mira looks at Zoey, and her heart seizes. Zoey—independent of everything—isn't looking at Rumi like she's betrayed them, though she has, or like she's everything they've been taught to hate, though she is. Zoey is looking at Rumi with wide, concerned eyes, like she is their friend, like she's in pain, like she needs their help. Which she is and does.
But nothing. Zoey's right. It is Rumi, whatever else she is, whatever else she's done. Rumi who has sacrificed everything, again and again, for the world, for Zoey, for Mira. The least Mira can do is be there for her.
Rumi and Zoey are the planners; Mira is a doer. But that doesn't mean she's stupid. If Rumi's a demon, now, and this new Honmoon is so strong, there's no telling what kind of effect it might be having on her. Do the scars hurt? Were the patterns... carved out of her, replaced with actual scars? Is the new Honmoon digging into her somehow? Leeching her, draining her?
"Rumi?" Mira whispers, her voice shaking.
Rumi waves her off. "I'm okay," she mumbles, pressing herself against Mira's shoulder. "'m just... tired."
Mira is almost prepared to let the matter drop, to take Rumi at her word, but then she glaces back at Zoey and sees the worry that has only intensified in her girlfriend's eyes. She knows Zoey won't ask, and she knows Zoey will go insane if she doesn't know. So instead, Mira places a hand on the Rumi's. "Are you sure?" she says.
Rumi's eyes flutter, and she looks away. "Get me off the stage, please?"
"Oh, yeah," Zoey says, reaching out and tugging on Rumi's other hand. "Lean on us, okay?"
Mira steps forward, carefully shrugging Rumi's arm over her shoulder as Zoey does the same. "We've got you."
Zoey takes a moment to wave to their cheering audience—oh right, the audience—as the sunlight begins to sink back into midnight. "Thank you for coming out!" she says. "Congrats to the Saja Boys on their win!"
Oh right, the Idol Awards. That was a thing that happened. Just a few hours ago, no less. Mira's glad at least one of them has the presence of mind to care about their public image, because right now the only thing Mira can think of to care about are her girls. "Rumi," she says, hardening her voice. Their leader isn't wiggling out of this. "You don't look so good."
Rumi sags a little as they pass behind the screen where Gwi-Ma had manifested, once they're out of line of sight of the crowd. "Haven't... slept," she mumbles.
"How long?" Zoey says, her eyes somehow growing wider.
Rumi winces. "A... few days?"
Mira stops mid-step, horrified. "Jesus, Rumi," she breathes. "What the hell have you been doing?"
Rumi shakes her head, the patterns on her face shimmering in the edges of the stage lights. "Can we go home?" she says. Mira notes that she's still not standing up straight. "I'll... nap in the car."
"Zoey and I walked here," Mira says. "Did you drive?"
Rumi glances at her, amber flashing briefly in her left eye. "No," she says in three voices at once.
The Honmoon bucks at her voice, crashing into Mira and Zoey, forcing them both to stumble.
Rumi's face craters. "S—sorry," she says, drawing into herself. "Accident."
Mira feels the bile rise in her throat. She'd promised herself not to judge, to give Rumi the space and understanding she needs, and now she's—too blunt, too aggressive. She doesn't know how to fix this. She opens her mouth, but she can't think of anything to say.
Luckily, Zoey's there. She snakes her arms under Rumi's armpits and hugs upward, clinging onto Rumi's back like a reverse koala. "It's okay!" Zoey chirps, a little forced—Mira hopes Rumi doesn't notice. "We're sorry. It's just..." Zoey meets Mira's eyes with a small pout, as if to say, help please. "...new."
Mira kneels down in front of Rumi. "Hey," she says, letting her voice drop an octave to the husky one that gives Zoey the shivers and even tends to make Rumi a little red. Which... wow, okay, her patterns are turning pink, that's interesting. "It's not you. We're just jumpy."
Rumi nods, swallowing, her eyes wide and cheeks reddening. "R-right," she says. She looks down at her arms, at the white lines scrawled across them. "Not ashamed of this anymore." She sounds like she's trying to convince herself.
"Of course not," Mira says.
Rumi smiles, her too-wide, rounded pained smile, the one that looks like she's trying too hard. Then her knees give out.
Mira and Zoey don't talk the whole way home.
They'd assured Bobby that Rumi was fine, she'd just worked herself to exhaustion and needed some R&R at home. He'd ordered them a car—there hadn't been much on short notice, so they all drove home in the back of an Ubered SUV, Rumi sandwiched snoring between them in the middle seat. Bobby had been up front, sending unreadable glances back at them the whole way home, but neither of them had wanted to say anything in front of him—or the driver, for that matter.
They'd waved off Bobby's help, dragged Rumi all the way up to the penthouse themselves. He'd gotten off at his usual floor, after shooting them another look that Zoey can't quite figure out. He's usually so open, but right now Zoey's too exhausted to put in the effort to figure out what he's thinking. And she's—well, there are too many things bouncing around inside her brain. Her head's starting to hurt.
She knows she needs to go to bed. She knows both of them need to go to bed. But she sits at the kitchen counter, staring at the granite, stuck. There's something bugging her. Something she can't let go of.
"You coming to bed, Zoey?" Mira says. There's a shadow in her eyes, and she's clearly begging Zoey to say yes. But Zoey can't. She has to know.
"What do you think she asked for?"
Mira freezes.
Zoey isn't sure what to do with her fingers. They're moving, almost on their own, almost at the speed of the thoughts bouncing around her head. "She—she had to ask for something, right?" she says. "To get the patterns."
Mira squeezes her sinuses, sitting down at the barstool next to her. "I don't want to think about it," she grumbles. "I just—she's Rumi. Why does it matter?"
There's a wetness in Zoey's eyes, one she's trying desperately to ignore. She's not crying. She's not. But the next words come out ragged anyway. "Are—are we—" Her voice breaks. "Are we not enough?"
"Oh, Zoey," Mira says, and suddenly Zoey's head is held against Mira's chest, her shoulders wrapped in Mira's arms. "You did nothing wrong, okay?"
Zoey wants to believe that. She does. She wants to believe so badly that there was nothing she could have done differently, nothing she could have given Rumi that could have changed things.
But Rumi made a deal. The woman who had everything, who never seemed to want anything, who never asked anything of Mira and Zoey except their companionship and their work, had gone to the embodiment of evil and made a deal with it. What could she have possibly wanted, so badly that she turned against everything she believed in, everything they are?
"W-what did..." Zoey gasps, barely able to get the words out around the tightness in her throat. "W-was... did we—did we miss s-something?"
"Zoey, no," Mira murmurs, untangling Zoey's braids and brushing her hair with her fingers. "Don't think like that."
"You're thinking it too!" Zoey snaps, pulling out of her girlfriend's arms. "There—there had to have been signs! Something!"
Mira's face goes slack. "She's been... no." She shakes her head. "No, that doesn't—"
"Mira," Zoey warns, her voice flat with anger.
Mira steps back, covering her mouth with a fist. "After the tour ended," she says. "She pushed up the Golden release with no warning. She's—she's been acting... weird ever since."
Zoey slides off the barstool, stepping forward. Towering over Mira despite their heights, glowering. "Weird how."
Mira won't meet her eyes. She's staring at the crystal piano, as if Rumi will just appear at it, composing a new song, like everything's about to be normal. "...Desperate."
"For what?" Zoey says. "Mira..." She sinks to the marble floor, staring at nothing. "What did we miss?"
Mira swallows. "I—I don't know."