Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Oh, hold on, we can cross the street here,” Zoey pipes up, sliding her hand into Rumi’s and giving a slight tug to pull her back a step. 

Mira, who had been walking a pace behind on her phone, almost bumps right into them at the sudden stop. “Why would we–?” she looks up, tucking the phone back into her pocket, and cuts herself off. “Oh, yeah sure,” she finishes, placing a hand on Rumi’s shoulder now that she’s close enough to them again. 

At first, Rumi is a little lost in the sensation of Zoey suddenly holding her hand. (Zoey’s hands are always so warm, and sometimes a little clammy, which Rumi actually quite likes– which Mira makes fun of, because Rumi also likes Mira’s hands which run the complete opposite. Really Rumi just likes that it’s them.)  

Just as the girls are about to cross, Mira putting a gentle pressure on her shoulder now, Rumi snaps back to the moment and plants her feet firmer.

“Wait, what?” she asks, looking between the two. “Why would we do that? The boba place Zoey wanted is right there.” She gestures loosely in the direction they were already walking, accidentally using the hand threaded in Zoey’s, and pulls both their arms up. She grins a little sheepishly, tries to drop Zoey’s hand in apology, but Zoey doesn’t let go so Rumi just closes her hand around hers again. 

(Another thing Rumi likes about Zoey’s hands is that they’re a little bigger than her own– which she will not tell them, because Mira’s hands are smaller than Rumi’s, and she likes that too, so she already knows they would laugh about this just like the temperature thing.) 

“There’s a dog coming this way,” Mira says absently, like that answers the question perfectly. At the same time her hand slides down Rumi’s arm, settles around her elbow, and she presses closer while a rowdy group passes behind them. 

She kind of hates when they’re both touching her like this because it makes her feel a little slow; she leans back into Mira anyway. “A dog?” she asks, wildly confused as the girls try to once again pull Rumi onto the street. 

“Yep! A Pomeranian,” Zoey supplies. Rumi is pretty sure that, if it were possible, Zoey would have literal stars in her eyes. “Ohhh, they are so stinkin’ cute!” she squeals, more to herself now.

Rumi once again pushes back to stop them from crossing. “Don’t you want to say hi?” Rumi asks. Zoey loves animals, and she’s clearly excited by this one, so why would they leave? “And the boba?” 

Zoey gives her a puzzled look as if Rumi is being the confusing one. “We can cross again up ahead to get boba,” Zoey says– which makes literally no sense. “Because you’re afraid of dogs? So we’re avoiding them?” 

“Too late,” Mira says at the same time that Rumi sputters, “I'm not– what? I've never said that. I'm not afraid of dogs!” 

Right on cue, true to Mira’s words, Rumi can hear the unmistakable jangling of a dog’s leash and collar. Mira is pressed into her side now, like a barrier, which is ridiculous because it’s just a Pomeranian.

And she’s not afraid of dogs. That would be so stupid. She says it again, louder, when neither girl responds to her. “I'm not!” 

Zoey just smiles at her, fond, and lifts their conjoined hands between them. Rumi realizes, quite suddenly, that at some point she had tightened her hold into a death grip that must be hurting Zoey’s hand even if she’s said nothing. Rumi flushes a little red, and immediately yanks her hand out of Zoey’s, shoving it in her pocket. The force jostles her more firmly into Mira, who raises her second hand to Rumi’s other arm firmly holding her steadily in place. Embarrassingly, Rumi doesn’t move until the sound of metal on metal fades, and her body visibly loosens. 

“You were saying?” Mira asks dryly, teasing. Rumi steps away from her finally, and Mira drops her hands easily at the pull. Refusing to meet either of their eyes, she adjusts the hood on her head (part of her disguise), and resumes walking in the direction they were going in the first place.

“I'm not,” she mumbles. Behind her, she can hear Zoey giggling as the two start to follow after her again.

It’s not exactly dogs she has an issue with– it’s a little more complicated than that.  

🦴🦴🦴

When Rumi is young– maybe around seven– she sees a movie about a family who lives on a farm. Celine often puts a movie on for her in the evening, before bed, to give them both a chance to wind down (and sometimes to help familiarize Rumi with English, which she would need later). 

She remembers this one well– has seen it more than once. Most of the plot revolves around the family dog. At first he had been a nuisance– a stray that wouldn’t really go away. The family was already having trouble with each other, petty dramas and money struggles, so the dog was considered a pest on top of their frustrations. 

Eventually the family starts to see the merit in the dog; he barks at night when something edges near their livestock, he makes the children laugh, and somehow he helps bring back together the feuding parents. He ends up the center of their family, and Rumi remembers thinking about how helpful he’d been. Her favorite scene is when the grumpy dad lets the dog sleep in the house one night during a storm. 

During the climax of the movie, the dog gets into a fight with a fox who attacks one of the children in broad daylight; it’s brief and the dog wins and no one (other than the unfortunate fox) gets seriously hurt, but it's the scariest thing Rumi has watched in a movie so far. 

At least, that’s what she thinks until later, when the dog starts to get sick, and the family puts him down. It haunts her for days afterwards; she can’t wrap her mind around it. She lies in bed at night thinking about how much they loved that dog. Why didn’t they help him get better? Why did they just give up? 

He had been so scared, she remembers. That’s the part that really stuck with her. 

One day, when she can’t take it anymore, she knocks on the door to Celine’s office (never closed, always left a crack open, but it’s polite to knock). When she hears Celine’s acknowledging hum, Rumi pushes her way in. She almost never bothers Celine while she’s working, but this is starting to feel really important.

“Yes, Rumi?” Celine asks, reading through some documents on her desk. 

“Why did they hurt the dog?” Rumi asks, fidgeting with her fingers. 

“What?” Celine glances up in confusion. Then, placing the memory, “Oh, that movie we watched. It had rabies. You can’t cure rabies,” she explains, moving some paperwork into a drawer at her desk. She spins her chair around for a moment, takes out a new file from her cabinet, then rotates back to her desk to start on the new set of papers.

“But…they loved him,” Rumi says, like it’s the most simple thing in the world. “He was scared, and they were supposed to love him.” 

“It was aggressive,” Celine corrects, offhand, as she frowns at something that she’s read. 

Rumi remembers thinking that she isn’t sure she knows the difference; it had looked the same to her. 

(Is one more important than the other? Does the violence of lashing out in fear override the need for sympathy? She still thinks about it.)

“They loved him,” Rumi says again, stronger this time, like she’s stuck on this sole sentiment. (Which she is, of course, because at seven– or something close enough to it –it’s the big emotions she latches onto, not the nuance.) 

Something about the way she says it this time must fully catch Celine’s attention. She really looks at Rumi now, work forgotten, and whatever she sees is enough to soften her expression. 

“Oh sweet girl,” she breathes, pushing away from her desk again and holding her arms out. “Come here.” 

Rumi hurries around the desk and scrambles into her lap, Celine’s arms wrapping around her immediately to hold her in place. “I'm sorry this has been bothering you,” she says, gently pushing back some of Rumi’s hair and cradling her face. 

“Why did they do it?” Rumi asks again, even though she’s already been given an answer. If she keeps asking, maybe she can understand. 

“Sometimes,” Celine starts, speaking slowly, “the best thing we can do for the people that we love in life is to let them go.” 

This, too, will stick. 

🦴🦴🦴

Zoey has been messing with her since the Pomeranian incident. It seems like, before that moment, the girls had been assuming Rumi’s “fear” of dogs was a known factor amongst them, but now that Rumi has vehemently denied it they seem to have made it their mission to get her to admit to it. 

(Which she won’t, because she’s not afraid of just dogs. It's not that simple. How can she explain what she doesn’t understand either? Rumi knows nothing about her physical response is reasonable at all– it’s incredibly frustrating.)

The day after, Zoey had brought back a stuffed dog for her (not a Pomeranian, she couldn’t find one so quickly) and teased that Rumi could get rid of it if she didn’t like it. Rumi had made a point to carry it around the penthouse the entire day. (It’s still on her bed now.) 

After that, it was a new hoodie (for her constantly growing collection) with a litter of drawn puppies on the front.

Now, for the fourth time this week, Zoey is listing movies for them to watch that are all entirely focused on dogs; whatever she’s trying to do obviously isn’t working (Rumi can watch a dog movie, thank you very much), and Rumi doesn’t give her the satisfaction of looking away from her phone. 

Mira is endlessly amused by this, as she has been all week, and even throws in some of her own suggestions. 

“Okay, okay, wait, jokes aside,” Zoey starts, after her and Mira have finished laughing at the suggestion of putting on Beverly Hills Chihuahua. 

“So you admit this week has been a joke,” Rumi interrupts, finally looking at Zoey again. She tries to look a little admonishing, like she’s caught Zoey in the act of doing something wrong. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work.

“Yeah, obviously,” Zoey says, without any hesitation (which makes Mira snort). “Anyway, there’s actually a new sea documentary out we have to watch, so Rumi finally gets to have a break.” 

“I think you mean you have to watch,” Mira corrects, pretending her nails are way more interesting than Zoey squishing onto the couch beside her now, while Rumi grumbles under her breath about not needing a break from anything. 

“I said what I said.” She wiggles her way half onto Mira’s lap, trapping her and spreading her legs out to lay on Rumi’s lap as well. Rumi puts her phone down now and rests her hands on Zoey's shins, resigned to her fate for the rest of the evening. 

For the next hour or so their living room is filled with soothing ocean sounds and a somewhat droning voice narrating the sea–life. Rumi likes Zoey’s documentaries and animal videos because it’s the only time she feels her brain mostly shut off; even watching comedy movies she feels the need to follow the plot closely every time, but here there’s nothing for her to really keep track of. 

She jumps minutely as the sounds suddenly change to a raging storm, startling her out of her half-dozed state. The documentary crew struggles at sea, running around the boat in a panic, and Rumi wonders if this is scripted– surely they would have known about a storm beforehand. 

“You know,” Zoey starts conversationally, “I really thought as a kid that lightning strikes would be a bigger issue in my life. that and, like, falling anvils.” 

“Quick sand,” Mira adds.

“Rabies,” Zoey continues, solemn. 

Both Rumi and Mira give Zoey the strangest look– albeit likely for different reasons. 

“Rabies?” Mira asks, surprised. 

“Yeah, I don't know, American kids grow up with so many rabies awareness programs. It really felt like a bat was gonna come into my room and kill me one day.” Zoey waves her hands around as she talks, without much intent, above her– which in turn almost smacks Mira in the face twice. Mira grabs one of her hands and pulls it down to Zoey’s stomach, keeping it held there, and the motion automatically stills Zoey for now. “I'm pretty sure there’s less than 20 cases a year or something, I don't remember, but it’s really not a huge issue. Although I guess more common than lightning strikes, falling anvils, and quick sand?” she finishes. 

“Statistically, it’s fewer than ten,” Rumi corrects, absently, her mind a little stuck on Zoey bringing this up. It feels like an insane crossover that leaves the skin around her shoulder itchy. Unable to stop, words spill out in an attempt to– do something. “I don’t really know what that means though. One to ten is a wide range that falls under ‘fewer than ten’,” a familiar feeling of frustration creeps into her voice. “I would imagine the number is closer to ten because then they would probably lower the statistics, but is it, like, nine? six? Last year there were four reported cases in humans in the U.S.” 

The mini-rant eases the itching, mind a little more focused now on statistics she knows well, and how annoying she’s found this before. Is it so hard to give her exactly the information she wants? Somewhere during this her attention drifts forward, focusing on nothing, but when she doesn’t get an immediate response to this obvious issue, she looks at the girls again. 

Only to realize they’re both giving her their patented “that’s a little weird Rumi” face– which is when she also suddenly remembers that this is, in fact, a little weird and there’s no reason for her to be running rabies statistics. Her hands clench suddenly into fists in her lap, which actually just ends up being on Zoey’s legs, so she quickly unclenches them and just presses flat into the couch cushions. 

“Why do you know the details of American rabies?” Mira asks, a little bewildered.

Rumi leans most of her weight on her hands now, flustered, “Because…Zoey goes back to visit…” She knows this isn't the reasonable explanation that she wants it to be, but it is the truth and this whole interaction has left her too frazzled to come up with a convincing excuse.

The first time Zoey left, it took Rumi until her night routine to realize how much it worried her that she didn't know the exact risk Zoey was heading into (ignore the fact that Zoey had already spent over half her life there without issue). 

(That night had been difficult– going from the nonexistent rate in South Korea to the ten or so average there was scary, no matter how little sense it made. She'd stayed up, pacing in her room on and off, until she could call Zoey when she landed hours later. Embarrassingly, she didn't remember until she had her on the phone that Zoey was obviously just stepping into the airport now and, so far, was at zero risk of anything. The conversation had been awkward on Rumi's part, especially when Zoey had been concerned at the late hour for Rumi, but it did help her finally sleep that night regardless.) 

Zoey makes a curious humming sound, her free hand raised to her chin in thought, while Mira stares at Rumi the way she does when she’s trying to figure something out. She can tell Mira’s going to ask her something– something she knows she probably won’t have a good answer for –when a phone starts ringing on the table in front of them. 

Rumi leaps to her feet, throwing Zoey half onto the floor (“Hey!”) and nearly knocking over a glass of water, to grab the phone and hold it up. “Oh, you know I should really take this, but you guys keep watching! I'll be back– later! When I'm done!” 

Rumi scrambles to leave, nearly tripping over Zoey who’s picking herself up now, and very determinedly ignores Mira calling out, “That’s not even your phone!” 

She really hopes this isn't an important call.

🦴🦴🦴

Rumi spends a lot of time, as soon as she has free-range internet access, reading about rabies. She pretends it’s just a morbid curiosity attached to a silly childhood memory, and not a more compulsive desire to understand the disease intimately. The keystones are generally something like: 

• Rabies needs to be treated before you can see the symptoms– which is what makes it so dangerous. 
• Rabies spreads through bites or scratches from the infected– which is primarily wild animals or, depending on the country, stray dogs.
• It is, admittedly, a very rare disease in most places, as well as very easily preventable. 

Like a bedtime story, Rumi will spend most nights looking for the latest articles on rabies research, any recent cases in the world, and reminding herself of the warning signs.

 It's not until the first time Rumi meets a dog, some small yappy thing, that she realizes how insane this whole issue really is. She can’t control the way her body seizes up, the adrenaline she feels the entire time the dog is in the room, nor the way her hands shake for twenty minutes after. It's entirely irrational– the dog is obviously healthy, it didn’t go anywhere near her, and there hasn’t been a case of rabies in South Korea since 2014. 

Not a single part of her can really explain what even happened or what she was afraid of; all she knows is that, stupidly, the moment she saw it the only thing Rumi could think about was the memory of that dog. Aggressive, scared, and dying. 

(When she gets home that night, she soaks in the tub until it goes cold, changes with the lights off, and forces herself to lie in bed, every muscle tensed. She doesn’t search anything on her phone, but does recite, over and over, the early symptoms of rabies until she falls asleep.) 

As Rumi's patterns continue to spread over the years, her routine grows with them. Obsessively, she stands in front of the mirror every night and notes any change, regardless of how it makes her skin crawl. Her door remains locked more often than not, she spends more time withdrawn, and she starts to tolerate touch rather than seek it. 

(She shouldn’t allow it at all, the risk getting worse, but she can’t make herself truly stop. Just another shortcoming of hers, really.) 

As her wardrobe gets more and more layered, more paranoid, and the girls start to look at her like they’re trying to answer a question, Rumi will do something that makes her a little sick. She keeps a very small collection of more revealing shirts on hand, and, very rarely, she will wear them while covered in layers of make up. 

(This will make her sick for two reasons: one, it’s the most direct lie she tells them– there is no nuance in it. Two, when she looks at herself in the mirror like this, patterns gone, there is still no relief– only something missing.) 

🦴🦴🦴

Since learning the full truth about demons, Rumi doesn’t like when Celine leaves the house. 

“Do you have to go?” she asks, sitting on Celine’s bed; she’s watching her put jewelry on. Celine glances at Rumi behind her, through the mirror she’s using, and smiles reassuring. 

“Yes, but I will be back for dinner,” she says. 

“Promise?” Rumi asks, holding a finger out. 

Celine puts down whatever she’s holding and crosses the space between them. She wraps her pinky around Rumi’s and says, very seriously, “I promise. I only have one meeting, and then it’s straight back here.” She leans forward to kiss Rumi on the forehead before straightening up and pulling her hand back. 

Rumi is reluctant to let go but her grip is nothing against Celine’s so her hand drops in the empty space. “I have a very important question,” Celine says, walking back to her dresser. She gathers two necklaces in her hands and spins to show off both choices. “Which one? I need to look my best.” 

Rumi’s apprehension and disappointment are easily displaced by being given a task to do. She takes her job seriously and slides off Celine’s bed to get a closer look at the options. One has a simple blue rock on a gold rope while the second is a little more exciting; three ropes of white shiny balls tied together by a silver looking flower. 

“That one,” Rumi says finally, pointing to the blue gem. “It looks just like the Honmoon,” she explains with a toothy smile. Rumi has spent a lot of time lately watching the way the blue waves glimmer in and out of view.

She likes the Honmoon a lot; partially because it’s really pretty and it likes when she sings, shining so brightly she has to squint, but also because Celine can see it too, and she said it makes Rumi special. It feels like doing something right. She gets the same feeling when Celine smiles at her answer and puts away the second necklace. 

“Will you help me?” Celine asks, moving to sit on her bed. Rumi scrambles to climb up next to her, overjoyed at being included, and she pulls Celine’s hair carefully up in the way she’s been allowed to before. Celine ties the necklace around her neck and when she’s done, Rumi drops her hair and pets it down flat. Celine thanks her and Rumi beams. 

“Can I watch a movie while you’re gone?” Rumi asks, distracted enough now that she’s thinking of what she can do without Celine around. The last time she wanted to pick her favorite movie, Celine had suggested they watch a new one because Rumi had seen the other one more times than she could count. But if Celine wasn’t home…

“If you clean your room first,” Celine says. “and that does not mean hiding everything in your closet.” 

“I won’t!” Rumi promises, sliding off the bed again. She grabs Celine’s hand in both of hers and tugs with all her strength. “You have to go now!” Celine doesn’t budge. 

“Really excited to clean your room?” she asks, barely suppressing a laugh. 

“Yes,” Rumi says, impatient. 

“Okay, okay!” Celine stands now, careful to pull Rumi’s weight forward so she doesn’t fall over when Celine moves. “I wouldn't want to be late.” 

“Being late is rude,” Rumi agrees wisely, leading Celine through the house now. When they get to the front door, Rumi struggles to get Celine’s coat off its hook, jumping until she can knock it off. She gestures for Celine to crouch a little so Rumi can awkwardly help thread her arms through the sleeves, just like Celine does for her. 

“Thank you, Rumi,” Celine says, pulling her into a hug. Rumi preens under the praise. 

She likes being helpful. 

“Don't forget about your bedroom,” Celine reminds, a little stern, while pulling back and holding Rumi by the arms. “I will be checking when i get back.” 

When Celine finally closes the front door, Rumi moves to stare out the nearest window. She watches Celine get into their car and waves through the glass as the car pulls out. 

“Step one: bedroom,” Rumi says, peeling herself away once she can no longer see anything. She hurries straight to her bedroom and once she gets there, she stands in the doorway, hands on her hips like Celine often does, and scans around the room carefully. It's not that messy. 

She starts by making her bed, which mostly just means fixing her blanket to lie flat again and putting back one of the pillows that fell off in the night. Then she goes about collecting yesterday’s clothes and this morning’s pajamas that she had left on the floor; she dumps them in the hamper in her bathroom. Next is the collection of toys scattered about– stuffies back on her bed, building blocks back in their box, and some picture books that go back on her shelf. One of them, The Ocean Calls, catches her attention and instead of putting it away with the rest she goes to place it on her bed side table for Celine to read with her tonight. 

When she’s done, Rumi goes back to standing in her doorway again, hands back on her hips, and tries to examine the room the way she thinks Celine will. Her eye catches on something colorful peeking out from under her bedframe, so Rumi goes over, flat on her belly, and looks under; she winces at the collection hiding here, lost and forgotten.

Celine never said anything about hiding things under the bed. 

Rumi quietly straightens herself back up and fixes her blanket cover so it hangs more off the bed and hides the underside from sight. She can finish that another time. She really wants to watch her favorite movie before she runs out of time. Rumi skips towards the living room, humming happily to herself with a job (mostly) well done; the Honmoon reacts to her in the new way it has been, glowing a little brighter, and this too makes her feel warm. She finds the shelf that’s perfect for her height and scans the tapes sitting there until she finds the one she really wants– the one about the family, the farm, and the dog, which she has been diligently watching. She's very careful about sliding the tape out and pushing it into its player (which is one of her favorite parts, watching the way it suddenly gets sucked in). 

When the screen flashes with the starting logo, Rumi hurries to climb onto the couch and bundle herself into a cozy blanket cocoon. The opening scene, a large matted dog nosing around in some trash, starts to play and Rumi loses herself in it immediately, time passing like seconds. 

By the time the movie ends, screen fading out, the room is noticeably darker. The blanket has slipped off Rumi’s shoulders, and she finishes shoving it aside so she can slide off the couch; when she goes over to peek outside the window she’s surprised to see how dark it has gotten.

Celine still isn’t home. 

Rumi, unsure what to do with herself now, moves around the house turning on more lights to combat the growing dark before ending up back in front of the TV. Celine shouldn’t be much longer so she slides in a new VHS and bundles the blanket around her again; when Celine gets home Rumi can tell her all about the new movie and what she has learned. 

At some point during the movie, Rumi's belly starts growling; she's never really been hungry before, not like this, and the sound scares her a little. She turns up the TV louder, hoping to make this her focus, but the longer she sits there the less she can pay attention. Her focus keeps drifting towards the direction of the front door, expecting the jangle of keys in the lock, the sound of the knob turning. their door squeaks when it opens. Instead the house remains silent aside from the TV.

Celine is late. Rumi is hungry and tired and frustrated. She buries herself deeper into the couch and hugs a pillow to her chest, squeezing tight. 

Celine promised she would be home, and she’s not, and Rumi doesn’t know what to do with that. The longer she sits there, the angrier she gets. Promises can’t just be broken like that. She's never been so mad before.

So mad that she wants Celine to know, whenever she finally does show up. Rumi throws the pillow onto the floor, tears the blanket off her shoulder, and storms straight back to her bedroom. She doesn’t know what she’s doing until her eyes land on the book she had stupidly left out, like some baby, for Celine to read to her tonight. Rumi stomps over and shoves it off the table so aggressively that it falls to the floor split open. 

The action immediately loosens some of the tightness in her chest and, looking down at the book with its pages bent in on themselves, she feels a little better. Rumi goes to her bookshelf and starts to claw every book out, flinging each one onto the floor. When it’s empty she takes a step back, stares at all the bent pages scattered on the floor, and thinks, good. But not enough– she moves to her bed and tears every stuffie off; when she runs out she balls the blanket up and drops that onto the floor, too, for good measure. She's caught up in the motion of all of it now, the way her anger has honed in on this single focus. She kicks over her toy chest in the corner, likes the heavy sound of its thud, and continues to kick the spilled toys across the room. 

Rumi stands in the middle of her room, chest heaving, and surveys everything she’s done with a sort of sick satisfaction. She feels hot. The pit in her stomach remains, near painful, but her mind feels lighter. 

She gets startled by her stomach growling again; Rumi looks out her window, but it’s too dark now to see anything. Dinner should have been ages ago. She gives up on waiting and wanders to forage in the kitchen. 

Rumi always has access to snacks, easily within her reach, but she’s usually not supposed to eat too many (and definitely never before dinner). But Rumi is mad at Celine (she promised) so she tears open the cupboard and eats and eats and eats until there’s nothing left in her junk food stash. She makes sure to leave all of her trash on the table and floor, not bothering to clean anything up. 

Celine still isn’t home. 

Rumi glares at the front door. If Celine doesn’t want to come back then that’s fine. She goes back into the living room and force ejects the new movie she had abandoned; she drops it onto the floor and carefully presses back in her favorite tape even if she’s already watched it tonight. She doesn’t need to tell Celine anything new if she’s not going to bother being here to listen anyway. 

She presses the replay button twice and watches as the movie spins back rapidly; she recognizes each scene just as well in reverse and it brings her some comfort. When it’s done, she presses play and climbs back up onto the couch and cocoons herself in the blanket again. She turns the volume up even louder so it’s the only thing she can hear. 

The longer Rumi watches the movie, the more she watches the dog do everything good and right, the worse she starts to feel. By the time the dad begrudgingly accepts they will keep the dog, fairly early on, Rumi feels sick to her stomach. She turns the TV off entirely, pulls the blanket over her head, and scrunches up her face really tight so she won’t cry. 

She’s never been alone for so long before. Maybe she did something wrong and she’s being punished.

Rumi suddenly remembers the huge mess she’s made tonight all over the house and the regret hits her hard and fast. With a newfound sense of panic, Rumi leaps off the couch and runs to her bedroom again, sliding on the floor and crashing into her doorframe. She looks around the room with none of the satisfaction from earlier; the empty feeling in her has been replaced with such fullness that it aches. She’s horrified. How could she do this? 

Rumi hurries around her room, carefully putting everything back exactly where it belongs (the books, the toys, the stuffies). She even drags her hamper all the way to the laundry room for later. When she gets back she scans the room once more– then remembers, with shame, the things she left hiding under her bed the first time. She crawls under and pulls everything out until it's completely clear and then puts all of those items away as well. She doesn’t even feel any joy at finding her stuffed tiger that she had thought was lost. 

Once she’s sure she’s finished here, Rumi goes back to the kitchen and starts on the mess she’s made there; she collects all the trash lying about, sweeps up the crumbs, and goes as far as to wipe down all the counters. When she’s finished it looks as if she’s never even used the kitchen– except for all the missing snacks, but she can’t do anything about that except say that she’s sorry.

She really really is.

With nothing left to do, Rumi decides to wait for Celine to get home. She grabs the blanket from the couch and drags it over to make a nest on the floor and leans back against the wall, staring at the front door, so she can’t miss it. That awful, too-full, guilty feeling sits in her stomach still making her ill, and she’s trying very hard not to cry, and she’s so so tired. She tries very hard to stay awake, waiting, but her eyes are so heavy, drooping, until–

Rumi blinks awake, vision blurred, as she feels herself being lifted. It takes her a moment to remember, thoughts sleep-slow, but when she does, Rumi gasps and clutches Celine as tight as she can, burying her face in the crook of her neck. Something scratchy peeks out from under Celine’s collar. She wants to say something (ask where she was, beg for forgiveness, pretend she didn’t even care) but all she can manage are quiet little gasping sobs while Celine pulls her even closer. 

“Shh,” she murmurs, rubbing Rumi’s back with one hand. “It's okay, I'm here now, I'm so sorry,” she whispers into Rumi’s ear. 

Earlier, when Rumi had been so mad, all she had wanted was to yell at Celine. Now, cheeks tear-streaked and red, breath stuttered, all Rumi says is, “I missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” Celine says, walking Rumi into the living room. The movie is still playing, loud, where Rumi had abandoned it earlier; violent thunder crackles through from the on-going scene before Celine shuts the TV off. “Did you eat?” she asks, shifting Rumi’s weight now so she sits more on Celine’s hip and Celine can look at her better. Rumi still falls forward, burying her face into the side of Celine’s neck now. “Rumi?” Celine asks again when she doesn’t respond.

“My tummy hurts,” Rumi mumbles into her skin. She smells funny, sharp and unpleasant, in a way that reminds Rumi of when she scrapes her knees but she doesn’t care right now. 

Celine takes her to the kitchen and Rumi grips her fists tighter in Celine’s shirt where she clings while she listens to her opening and closing cabinets. “No wonder you feel sick,” Celine tsks. “You ate too many snacks at once, I believe.” 

“M’sorry,” Rumi whispers, squeezing her eyes tight. 

“No, that’s my fault,” Celine says, placing a kiss on the side of Rumi’s head. “I'm sorry, sweet girl. I didn't mean to be gone for so long.” 

Rumi doesn’t think any of that is true, but if she said that she would have to explain to Celine all the horrible things she did that made her sick, so she keeps her mouth shut instead. This makes her feel bad as well– she isn’t supposed to lie to Celine –but Rumi is just so so tired. It’s taking everything in her just to hold onto Celine as tight as she is. She struggles to fight off a yawn, mouth gaping against Celine’s collar, and loosens one of her hands to rub harshly at her eyes. 

“Yeah, me too,” Celine says, quiet, sounding just as tired. “Let's go to bed, okay? I'll make you anything you want for breakfast.” 

Celine carries Rumi around the house, turning off all the lights on their way to Rumi’s room. She has to talk Rumi through letting go of her so she can tuck her into bed. She kisses Rumi on the forehead again and wishes her sweet dreams. 

Just before she leaves, Celine pauses in the doorway and says, proud, “Your room looks beautiful, Rumi,” before closing the door behind her. 

The sound of the door clicking wakes Rumi more than anything else has so far, and she curls in on herself. She wishes she had asked Celine to stay, she doesn’t want to be left alone again, but she isn’t a baby anymore. Being in her room again reminds her of how it looked earlier, wrecked on purpose, and how even before that she had intentionally left things hidden under her bed. She grips the blanket around her tighter until it almost hurts.

She didn’t do anything good today to make Celine stay anyway. 

🦴🦴🦴

After a rabies exposure, the virus must travel to the brain before it can cause symptoms. Therefore, the incubation period may last for weeks to months depending on several factors such as location of the exposure site (in relation to the brain) and age; in extremely rare cases, it could be dormant for years.

Rumi thinks about this one frequently, lying in bed at night; the idea that you could be wasting away at any moment in your life. A poison in your veins with you none the wiser– like a ticking bomb just waiting to go off. 

You would need to get bit or scratched first, of course, and if you took the right precautions you would likely never know. And Rumi has never been bitten anyway. She’s fine. 

Absently, she scratches at her shoulder– skin tight. 

🦴🦴🦴

“5, 6, 7, 8!” Mira counts them in before Zoey and Rumi start the routine from the top. Their new “Golden” choreo looks lopsided with Mira standing off to the side watching them, but it’s the best way she can correct them. When they’re more confident in the routine’s structure later in the process, Mira will slot in with them, and they will work out the finer details; she doesn’t trust anyone else to work with them. 

“Golden”, so far, works around using a lot of delicate hand motions– something Mira had spent the better part of an hour drilling into Rumi for the first section of the performance. Zoey always picks up dancing more naturally than Rumi does, which, in the beginning, had been incredibly frustrating. The only thing Rumi hates more than being bad at something is wasting someone's time– which is how she felt with Mira (even though she never once complained to Rumi). 

Rumi tries to focus on the mirror-covered wall in front of her, the way her and Zoey reflect back, and the exact weaving motions of her hands. She takes the two steps back while Zoey moves up, framing Rumi with her arms, and she can see the grin on Zoey’s face, likely because Rumi hasn’t messed up yet.

Over two hours into practice and Rumi has gotten past the first seven seconds of the song and Zoey’s proud of her for it– great. She's careful to keep her face blank (she can work on the dance’s expressions later), always masking any frustration. 

She and Zoey shuffle around again, landing on the taped marks on the floor, placing them roughly where Mira wants them. There's a gap in the space between them now, large enough for Mira to fit in, so Rumi loses track of Zoey’s face, and focuses on herself again. Rumi is well accustomed to looking at herself in the mirror.

Given the throne I didn’t know (how) to believe 

They learn the dance moves without lyrics in the beginning, just the music backing, because Mira wants them to feel the timing, but Rumi knows “Golden” better than any song they’ve ever written. She has to. Rumi falls back again to her next marking, Zoey moving front center for her solo. Rumi avoids looking at her face this time, best she can, and focuses on her own arm movements again– this time a little more boxy than at the start. She can see sweat collecting by her forehead. She sees the carefully constructed blank expression on her face. Habit has her briefly think of what she can't see, sleeves long and carefully tight around her wrists. 

Called a problem child 

Zoey melts back near Rumi again, leaving the center open for Mira’s eventual part, and both of their movements turn sharper now– arms out straight, turns tight. Rumi has always admired the miniscule ways that Mira has translated each of them into their routines. She’s so focused on her own reflection, her eyes now, that she doesn’t realize how far she’s drifted off her mark until she kicks her leg out to the right (‘cause i got too wild) and hits a surface instead of air. 

“Whoa!” Zoey squeaks, hopping on her one foot to keep her balance until she can recover from her own kick. 

“Oh my gosh,” Rumi stammers, quickly moving to grab Zoey and help right her; the music cuts out in the background. “I'm so sorry,” she says, dropping to the floor, hands moving to Zoey’s thigh, and searching the mostly exposed skin for any marks Rumi's foot may have left behind.

“That’s fine,” Zoey responds, voice pitching a little weird in a way that does not reassure Rumi. When she looks up at Zoey she’s surprised at how flushed she looks. “I mean, I'm fine,” Zoey quickly adds, clearing her throat. 

Rumi is wondering if she should make Zoey take a break when she hears Mira poorly conceal a laugh as a cough and watches her push off the wall to join them now, carrying two reusable water bottles for them. Rumi can feel her face heat, embarrassed by her blunder that Mira clearly finds amusing, and her hands drop from Zoey to curl into themselves.  

“You sure, Zo?” Mira asks, smiling still. “I think I see–”

“All good!” Zoey shouts, a little too loud, cutting Mira’s question off and taking a stumbling step forward to snatch a water bottle (her own– cyan and covered in turtle stickers) from her. Looking at Rumi she adds, more genuine, “Seriously you barely touched me, I wouldn't have even noticed if I hadn't already been wobbling anyway.” 

She holds out her hand to help Rumi off the floor, but Rumi ignores it, getting to her feet herself and brushing her pants off. If Zoey is offended she doesn’t know, refusing to meet anyone's face right now. 

“That was a really good run,” Mira says finally, trying to rebalance the room's energy, maybe. 

“I kicked Zoey,” Rumi corrects, focusing somewhere in the mirrors behind Mira still. “Which means my marking was also obviously off before that, by a lot.” She can’t stop some of her frustration from leaking in towards the end. 

She hates when they both do this; pity her. She knows when she fucks things up, and she doesn’t need them to coddle her like a child. She highly doubts Zoey had ever been off balance (she’s a natural in her body just like Mira) and that was barely a run at all (even if it is, technically, the farthest they’d gone today without interruption). 

“Rumi, it’s day one,” Mira says. “Who cares how well you do, this day is always just about vibing it out. You know that. You guys did great.” Rumi finally looks at her and sees Mira’s confusion, like Rumi is the one not making sense. She tries to pass her the second bottle (purple, covered in star stickers), but Rumi ignores her outstretched offer (and Mira’s disappointment). 

“Zoey did great,” Rumi corrects her again, growing more annoyed. They don’t understand how important this is– how important “Golden" is. she can not be babied, not this time. “I wasted time. We've barely nailed forty seconds of the routine, don’t handle me with gloves.” 

Part of her can tell she might be overreacting, but once she starts slipping it’s hard to pull back again; she’s always been a mess, difficult to clean up after. 

 “Rumi…” Zoey starts on her side, voice too soft. It only adds to her nerves; a kindness she doesn’t deserve, unsettling her. Past Mira, in the mirrors, she can see Zoey reach to touch her left shoulder, where her skin is starting to itch, and Rumi carefully curves her body away just in time. (She ignores this disappointment too.) 

“What are you talking about?” Mira asks before Zoey can finish. Rumi can tell Mira is losing some of her patience, likely because Rumi has rebuffed them both now (water still hanging between them), and she thinks good. “When have I ever done that?”

She knows she’s offended Mira, the implication that she would ever be anything less than genuine with them, and she should stop– should apologize. But all Rumi can do is think about how two hours has culminated into forty seconds, how there are still over two minutes of dance left, which roughly translates into fourteen hours to learn it if she doesn’t get worse, which– okay that’s not that bad, but she could get worse, and everything about “Golden” has to be more than good; it has to be perfect. She has to be–. 

“Rumi?” Mira asks, pulling her so abruptly out of her head that Rumi automatically flicks her attention to actually looking at Mira. She's lost the growing edge in her voice now, concern on her face winning out (Rumi must have spaced out for too long), and the idea that Mira could just collect herself like that while Rumi is spinning out pisses her off suddenly. 

“You don’t get it,” she snaps, nearly a snarl. “Neither of you could ever get it.” She feels awful for saying it, for including Zoey too who isn’t even talking, but she can’t claw it back in either; this doesn’t feel like her, but it is. 

(Is this aggression or fear? Does it matter?)

“Maybe we could if you would ever talk to us,” Mira says, more under her breath, but Rumi hears her loud and clear.

She can’t stand to be in this room anymore; she pivots on her heel, ready to leave, when Mira grabs her wrist and the momentum jerks Rumi’s body to half face her. The motion spins her towards the mirrored wall again, and she works to avoid her reflection now, staring somewhere around Mira's sneakers. 

“You're dehydrated, and it’s elevating your anxiety,” Mira deadpans, like she’s over this conversation as well (even as she pushes the water into Rumi’s hand). “Take this.” 

Something about that scratches somewhere in Rumi’s mind, and she accepts the bottle this time, grip so tight her fingers are going white. Without a word, she storms out of the room, the door accidentally slamming shut behind her as she immediately collapses her weight against it. Rumi drinks half the bottle in one go, briefly considers going back in (even turns the knob), realizes that she has no right, and pushes away. She will apologize later, after she’s sat in her own misery, which serves her right. 

🦴🦴🦴

Water spills over onto expensive tile, tub full to the brim, as Rumi’s shiver disturbs the surface. With a heavy sigh, she finally gives up on her absurdly long soak and heaves herself up; the water sloshes over in waves now at her abrupt movement, flooding the bathroom, but she doesn’t care. That's a problem for later (ideally when she isn’t freezing and her fingers aren’t so wrinkled they look unreal). 

She goes through the process of wrapping her hair and drying off most of the water on her skin, before dropping the towel to the floor; halfheartedly she soaks up the worst of the water by the door so she can leave into her bedroom. 

It’s no warmer here, balcony door left open earlier by accident, but she can’t dress yet; instead she finds the large standing mirror in the furthest corner of her room. As always, it takes a moment for her gaze to actually focus (eyes or mind unwilling) but once it does, she trails a finger across the patterns on her shoulder, across her collarbone, the few starting to creep down her ribcage. 

(How far has it spread? Is she worse today than she was yesterday?

How long does she have?)

Eventually she pulls away, wraps herself in too many layers for sleep, and tucks herself in feeling all the worse for her examination– never better. She lies in bed, muscles tensed, fists in her sheets, and cycles through her memory. 

Weakness, fever, headaches. 

Discomfort , prickling, or an itching sensation at the site of the bite.

Anxiety, insomnia, agitation…

She goes on until she slips under. 

🦴🦴🦴

“Whoa, careful,” Zoey says, gripping Rumi’s arms more firmly as she stumbles. She helps lower Rumi onto the couch (their couch?) before taking a step back, hand on her hip now. “Stay here, okay?” Zoey says firmly, pointing a finger at Rumi. “I'll be right back.” 

Rumi salutes at her (or tries and kind of ends up chopping her forehead); she’s not sure why Zoey is using that tone, but she doesn’t want to disappoint. Rumi can stay. Zoey hesitates, like she doesn’t believe her, before she finally disappears. 

Not fair. Rumi can stay.

She looks around the room, blinking slowly. she doesn’t really remember getting here; just Zoey and Mira holding her hands earlier, at the– dentist? She holds her hands up in front of her now, fingers spread, and she’s disappointed that they’re empty. 

Where did Mira go? Maybe she should find her. Rumi starts to stand, before suddenly snapping herself back down. 

Stay. Stupid.

She forces her body to stay very still, muscles tense, hands fisted, teeth– ow. Clenching her jaw hurts. Rumi raises one of her hands delicately to her lips and it pulls away wet, fingers coated in slobber and– blood? She's aware, quite suddenly, at how full her mouth feels and Rumi paws at it less carefully now, pulling out a wad of something soaked in red spit. 

“Oh, you’ve made a bit of a mess, huh?” Zoey chuckles, suddenly standing in front of Rumi again; she startles, dropping the gauze, but Zoey catches it before it can ruin the couch. She seems to debate for a second before just dropping it onto the coffee table and wiping her hand on her jeans, unbothered. “That's okay. Can I help?” Zoey asks sweetly, holding up a cloth. 

Rumi touches her face again and realizes she’s covered in drool; she thinks she should be embarrassed, maybe. She nods her head instead, too aggressive, and feels a little dizzy after. 

“Thank you,” Zoey says, smiling at her. She turns to dip the cloth in a bowl of water that’s on the table now (as well as an ice pack?). 

Rumi thinks I like when you smile at me like that; she would agree to a lot of things if that’s all it took. 

When Zoey turns back her face looks a little pink, but Rumi doesn’t have much time to question it because Zoey takes her hand (the one Rumi had been probing her mouth with) and carefully starts to clean her fingers, which proves to be very distracting. Once she’s done, she cleans the cloth out in the bowl again then comes back to cradle Rumi’s face in one hand, holding her still. Rumi tries to smile at her, a little dopey, but her face doesn’t really feel right. 

It's when Zoey finally lifts the cloth to her other cheek and starts to wipe at her skin that Rumi understands what the problem is. Her entire body tenses at once, and she sucks in a sharp breath– which unexpectedly sends a flood of spit to the back of her throat, resulting in a choking coughing fit. 

“What happened?” 

She can hear Mira ask somewhere beside her; someone's hand smooths along her back, but she barely feels it. Something is horribly wrong. 

Rumi can’t feel her face. 

She forces herself to swallow, finally understanding how much her mouth has filled with saliva, and grimaces at the taste– metallic and disgusting. It nearly makes her gag and the idea of gagging because of swallowing scares her so bad that Rumi makes herself swallow again and again even when her mouth is dry, just to prove that she can. 

(Hypersalvation, dysphagia, hydrophobia…)

She needs–.

“Here.” Zoey presses a warm glass of water into Rumi’s hands and she drinks clumsily; without being able to feel much, water dribbles everywhere, making more of a mess. When the glass is empty Zoey takes it back from her. Rumi wants more– even if just to have it near. 

“Better?” Mira asks. She's sitting beside Rumi on the couch and it’s been her hand rubbing circles on her back. Rumi nods once before changing her mind and shaking it which makes her dizzy again. 

(Her mind feels so fuzzy now that she’s actively thinking– that’s part of it isn’t it? She’s trying so hard to remember.)

Rumi tries to grope at her face again, searching for the wound, but both Mira and Zoey reach for her immediately. 

“Hey, don’t do that,” Mira says, both of them pulling Rumi’s hands back to her lap. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Tears well up in Rumi’s eyes, fear and frustration starting to overwhelm her, and she can feel her mouth filling again, but she’s struggling to swallow against her short, panicked breaths– which makes it worse –so she almost chokes again. 

When her coughing subsides, and she opens her eyes, she’s staring at Zoey, who is kneeling in front of her now, very carefully holding Rumi’s face in her hands. She can feel Mira’s arm wrapped securely around her with her other hand holding Rumi by her elbow. 

“Slow down,” Zoey says. “You're okay. Breathe." 

Mira adjusts so she can better look at Rumi while still holding her. “What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t want to die,” Rumi cries. 

Zoey and Mira look between each other, then back to her, completely bewildered. “Why do you think you’re going to die?” Mira asks her.  

“‘Cause I got bit,” Rumi moans pitifully. She moves a hand to her paralyzed cheek, over where Zoey’s rests. 

Both Zoey and Mira look relieved now, which kind of offends Rumi because she thought they would be more upset for her, and Zoey lets go of her face to sit back. 

“You didn’t get bit, silly,” Zoey explains, reaching for the washcloth again. “You got your wisdom teeth removed.” She waits until Rumi nods again before going back to washing her face. 

“They took my teeth?” she whispers, a little horrified but mostly relieved she’s not infected. 

While Zoey giggles, Mira asks, “Why did you think something bit you? Does it hurt?” 

“Nerve damage might cause tingling, pain or numbness where you were bitten,” Rumi quotes, head lolling onto Mira's shoulder when Zoey is done with her. “Furious type also includes excessive drool, hyper…hyperventilating, uhmm…” she trails off. There's more, she knows there is, but Mira’s hand has drifted to her hair now and it feels nice. 

Rumi’s eyes drift close. She can feel the couch dip as Zoey climbs on beside her and something is pressed against her cheek; Rumi sighs in relief at the cold she feels. 

“What is that about?” Zoey asks, pulling one of Rumi’s hands into her lap to hold. 

“Mmm,” Rumi hums, distracted by Zoey’s hand in hers, Mira’s hand scratching her head, and a sleepy fog starting to settle over her. “I don’t think I'm supposed to talk about this.” 

Mira’s hand stills at that and Rumi almost whines (or maybe she does because Mira resumes her movements pretty quickly). “Why not?” she asks. 

Rumi thinks, I don’t want you to see what's in my head or under my skin. 

(Zoey squeezes her hand tight.) 

Rumi says, low and genuine, “I'm so tired.” 

The last thing she hears is Mira telling her she can sleep. 

(Much later, Rumi will wake up mortified. Mira’s shoulder will be covered in her slobber and blood, Zoey’s hand numb from holding an icepack to her face, and she won’t remember much of the day, but she will assume she was awful to take care of. She will give countless apologies they don’t ask for.

When Zoey helps her to her room– a gesture that is both unnecessary and sweet –she will tell Rumi, uncharacteristically shy, that she likes her smile too which is a little confusing.)

🦴🦴🦴

Rabies is classified into two different forms: furious rabies and paralytic rabies. The end result is the same for both, different only in presentation and process.

Furious rabies is generally what people first associate with rabies; it starts with flu-like symptoms– weakness, fever– and discomfort at the bite site. From there, the disease only escalates with heightened anxieties, insomnia, agitation (which leads to delirium and hallucinations), and in severe cases hydrophobia, aerophobia, and seizures. It’s vastly disturbing to watch– an uncontrollable fear driven aggression that makes you unrecognizable. Within days this will lead to death due to respiratory failure. 

In cases concerning paralytic rabies, the process is more drawn out and much less dramatic. Sometimes referred to as dumb rabies, this form is much rarer, covering only about 20% of human cases. Same as furious rabies, it usually starts with headaches and a fever– an itchy or tingling feeling at the bite site. The paralysis spreads from the muscles nearest the wound until it covers most of the body; patients usually remain lucid right up until they lapse into an extended coma which ends in death. 

(Rumi thinks, something wicked runs through my blood.) 

She knows which she would choose.

🦴🦴🦴

As soon as she’s inside, Rumi is already fumbling to rip her boots off. She should have left sooner, but Zoey and Mira were having so much fun. She was having fun. Right up until she couldn’t feel her toes or fingers anymore, and it was all she could think about. It didn't matter if she knew, logically, that everyone was feeling numb because it was -6ºc, and they had been playing in the snow for ages. 

She stumbles on one foot, unable to undo her laces with her gloved hands, but not having the patience or immediate understanding to just take them off. Mira catches her before she can actually fall over, steadying her with a tight grip on her biceps.

“Easy,” she murmurs, pulling Rumi to lean against her. 

Zoey ends up on the floor by her feet, gloves gone, carefully undoing Rumi’s laces for her. There's no space for Rumi to feel embarrassed by her own incapability, a frantic urgency thrumming under her skin instead. It doesn’t take Zoey long to move onto the second boot and when both are off she leans over to place them neatly on the shoe rack– the same spot Rumi always uses –even though her own are scattered somewhere by the entrance still. 

“Socks? They’re a little damp,” she asks after, hands hovering by Rumi’s pant leg. When Rumi nods, she carefully peels off one then the other. Once done, Zoey stands up again, unceremoniously shrugs her own coat onto the floor, and says she’ll be right back. 

With both feet firmly on the ground, Rumi starts to feel marginally more centered, still cold-numb but better able to feel without thick soles in the way. Mira drops her hands from Rumi’s arms to tug off her gloves for her, trusting Rumi to stand on her own now; she does the same with Rumi’s jacket. Unlike Zoey, she takes a moment to hang both hers and Rumi’s on a hook before going to collect Zoey’s as well with an eyeroll directed at Rumi. 

While Mira starts to undo her own boots, Rumi stands there, single-focused, staring at her hands while clenching and unclenching her fingers. She still can’t feel them the way she wants to, but watching them move helps. She looks down past them and wiggles her toes against the hard floor for a similar effect. Nothing is wrong. She's fine.

“C’mon,” Mira says, uncurling one of Rumi’s fists and tugging her further inside. It doesn't really add any warmth, Mira’s hands are as cold as her own, but seeing that she can lace her fingers with Mira’s helps as well. She's led to their couch where Mira makes her sit down and drapes a fluffy blanket– Zoey’s, she thinks –over her shoulders. 

“Sorry,” Mira says, holding Rumi’s hands between her own once she joins her. “We didn’t realize how long we were outside or how cold it got. I know you…” she trails off, and Rumi knows that Mira is trying to navigate the minefield of what they can and can’t talk about with her, difficult as she is. “You don’t love being cold,” is what Mira lands on. 

She doesn’t know what else Mira might have said, what kinds of things the two may have pieced together over the years, and later she will probably stress about it, but for now her mind has given up just enough space for some shame to leak in. They shouldn’t ever be sorry for anything. 

"Don't be,” Rumi says, staring at their hands warming together. They're always doing things for her; she should really be doing more for them. She vows to spend time later tonight thinking of more ways she can lighten their workload this week, even while she greedily takes the little warmth Mira has to offer right now. “I'm being weird again,” she says, and she hates that she feels like she’s pouting; she’s not a child. Regrettably, she finally pulls her hands away and folds them into the blanket around her. 

“You can be weird,” Zoey says, reappearing by vaulting over the back of the couch, landing half on Rumi and jolting her out of her head. “I'm weird all the time. I like when you’re weird. We like seeing you,” she adds, softer, and before Rumi can think about that too much, Zoey very intentionally shoves intensely fluffy socks into Rumi’s lap. “Delivery!”

 Rumi takes the socks and the clumsy effort of letting her escape the too-sincere comment, grateful for both. Zoey pulls apart her blanket cocoon and tucks herself in next to Rumi, draping it back over both of them. 

“I'm gonna make hot drinks,” Mira says, pulling herself back off the couch. “Any requests?” she asks, stretching her long arms above her. Zoey darts forward, stretching over Rumi, to jab Mira’s stomach where her shirt rises with the pull; Mira immediately folds in on herself with a grunt, swiping at Zoey’s hands, but she’s already hidden herself back in the safety of the blanket with a devious smirk.

“Nevermind,” Mira says, staring pointedly at Rumi now. “The kitchen is open to Rumi only.” 

Rumi says, “Hot chocolate, please” at the same time Zoey starts begging, “No wait, I'm sorry! Mira! Please?” her pleading falls on deaf ears as Mira replies to Rumi only before walking away.

“You'll share with me, right?” Zoey asks, batting her eyes. 

Rumi pretends to think about it while she pulls on the socks Zoey had brought out– incredibly soft, Rumi should ask where she got them –and when she’s done she tucks her feet up under her. “Maybe,” she settles on, already knowing she would give Zoey, or Mira, anything they asked for. 

Almost anything. 

Zoey takes one of Rumi’s hands under the blanket and squeezes once. She asks, in the same careful tone Mira was using before, “Better?” 

Rumi takes a moment to catalog her body; she isn’t numb anymore in the way that makes her panic. Her fingers and toes are starting to tingle in that hot, stinging way they do when your body moves from one extreme temperature to the other– like something is trying to push out of her skin. This isn’t exactly as reassuring as she would like, being a step above numb, but it also burns the faster she warms and that she can take comfort in. 

“Yes,” she decides, and means it. 

When Mira comes back not much later, Zoey has turned the TV on to some random drama they aren’t really watching. She comes back with a tray that includes not two but three drinks, one of which is Zoey’s favorite tea, which Zoey wisely does not comment on. 

Rumi cups the warm drink in her hands and when she swallows, the hot liquid is like a soothing balm running through her veins. The heat settles nicely in her throat and, for the first time since being outside, she feels like she can really breathe again. She didn’t realize how tense she had been until everything in her loosens now and she slides down the couch a little, slouching.

With the adrenaline having finally faded, Rumi is exhausted; she leans her head against Mira’s shoulder and her eyes slip closed. Mira and Zoey are having some conversation around her, but the actual words aren’t being absorbed. She likes the sound though and is content to listen. 

For now she lets herself be a little selfish; she’ll take their gentle care, undeserving as she is, and later she can worry about how to pay them back tenfold. She will.

🦴🦴🦴

The first time Rumi gets hurt in training– beyond the inevitable scrapes and bruises –Celine kind of freaks out. She drops her staff to the ground and rushes to Rumi, falling to her knees where Rumi has stumbled into the dirt. Rumi is a little too dazed to react right away, lying there still and staring up at the clouds until Celine’s face blocks her view– her hands hover like she doesn’t know where to touch. It takes Rumi another minute to realize she’s being spoken to.

“-umi? Can you hear me?” 

Rumi finally blinks back into focus and, with awareness, comes a sharp pain that has a hiss escaping between her teeth. The sound seems to release something in Celine too, because she grabs at Rumi’s shoulders now, carefully easing her to sit up. It's this motion that makes Rumi realize she isn’t breathing properly– her nose feels full and when she tries to take in a gasping breath through her mouth she gags, body curling in on itself.

 The taste of metal coats her tongue as she spits blood into the dirt, finally taking in air again with her throat clear. Distantly she can feel a hand rubbing her back– Celine, she reminds herself, no one else is here –until Rumi’s breathing slows again, back to a normal pace. She still can’t breathe through her nose and when Rumi lifts a hand to touch she winces, gasping at the immediate pain again. Her hand comes away red and when she looks she can see she’s still dripping into the dirt. Ridiculously, her first thought is that she’s making a mess– she starts reaching a hand down to shuffle the dirt and bury the blood when Celine shifts in front of her more. 

“It looks like it could be broken,” Celine says with a grim expression likely only readable to Rumi herself. She doesn’t touch Rumi’s face, but she does grab her by the shoulders– both of them –briefly before pulling away again. “Stay here,” she says, standing up now, “and don’t tilt your head back. I'll be quick.” She hesitates for a second, looking over Rumi again, before speed walking towards the house. 

Rumi is still making a mess of the ground (head wounds bleed a lot, she remembers somewhere in the back of her mind) but she’s a little stuck staring at her covered shoulder that Celine had been touching. They both know what lurks underneath, but for a second Celine had– forgotten? Or simply not cared. 

When Celine comes back, gone only for minutes, she presses a hand towel to Rumi’s face and asks her to hold it there; she helps Rumi to her feet– one hand on her shoulder, another by her elbow to balance her. Rumi doesn’t really need the help (it hurts, but she’s always been good with pain) but Celine is holding her and– well, Rumi thinks, it’s been a while. So she plays a little dizzy. 

Celine had gone inside to get her phone, wallet, and keys, so she ushers Rumi into the car now; she even reaches over to carefully buckle Rumi’s seatbelt for her, which she’s far too old for at fourteen, but Rumi says nothing. She continues to say nothing the entire ride, even though she thinks she should say something to comfort Celine who keeps glancing at her. 

I'm fine, or It doesn’t hurt more than it should. She thinks if she opens her mouth the only thing that will come out is, Are you worried about me? so she doesn’t. She doesn’t want to lose Celine looking at her. 

When Celine parks outside the emergency room, Rumi still does nothing– curious, hopeful. Celine walks around the car and opens her door, unbuckles her seat, and helps pull her out, same as she put her in. She guides Rumi inside, sits her in a chair, and goes to speak at the front desk. The entire time Rumi keeps thinking about how much Celine has touched her today. 

They aren’t left to wait long at all; in a private examination room, a doctor pokes and prods at Rumi’s face after giving her painkillers. Eventually, the bleeding stops and she’s given an icepack. She thinks the doctor talks to her, but she isn’t really listening, entirely focused on the way Celine paces a little in the back of the room. She's never seen Celine pace before. 

She doesn’t know how long they're there; Celine and the doctor talk back and forth a bit (she catches fractured not broken at one point) and by the end of it Rumi is simply sent back home with instructions to keep it easy and take medication as needed. 

On the walk back to the car, Rumi is much more aware of the dull ache spreading across her entire face. Celine is no longer guiding her– relieved, Rumi guesses, that she isn’t seriously hurt –and she doesn’t open Rumi’s door either. Stupidly, it takes Rumi a moment to catch up to this change again, Celine’s own door slamming shut before Rumi scrambles to open hers and slide in. She fumbles to put her seatbelt on, wrong hand keeping the ice to her face, and feels a little mortified she was hoping for anything else. She's too old to be babied. Celine doesn’t glance at her while she drives. 

When they get back to the house and the engine cuts, Rumi rushes to unclip herself (not wanting to make the same mistake twice), but she’s interrupted by Celine’s hand covering hers over the buckle. Rumi freezes, ice pack pressed a little too hard against her cheek, and looks up at Celine (who is looking more so through Rumi’s window than at her). 

“Celine?” she says, when the moment goes a little too long. Using her tongue to talk again reminds her of how metallic her mouth is, and she focuses on not pulling a face. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Celine finally says, unsteady; after a beat, she looks Rumi in the eyes and adds, “You know that, right?” 

Her expression, more conflicted than Rumi has ever seen, even including earlier today, makes Rumi respond immediately. She drops the icepack and uses her cold hand to cover Celine’s, pressing her own uncomfortably into the buckle. “I know.” 

She does not tack on the ways it was her own fault (she should have blocked, or ducked, or generally been faster); surprisingly, she doesn’t think Celine would want that right now. Instead Rumi just tries to smile at her, but it hurts, and she worries it might look wrong on her face so she drops it just as fast. Celine holds her gaze for another silent minute before something in her relaxes (in turn making Rumi breathe again as well); she nods at the ice pack in Rumi’s lap while pulling her hand away from Rumi's to take the keys out of the engine. 

“Put that back on,” she says, voice clear, eyes forward. “It will help reduce the swelling, and you will feel better sooner.” Once Rumi has done what she’s asked, Celine leaves the car. 

Rumi watches until Celine disappears inside before finally unbuckling and getting out herself. She skips the front door, walks around the side, and continues until she reaches where they had been training. She finds the spot where her blood has pooled– worse looking than it really was, but not as bad as she thought she remembered –and kicks the dirt around with her sneaker until the evidence is buried. She collects the abandoned staffs as well and returns them back to their proper place. When Celine comes out here later, Rumi doesn’t want to leave anything behind to make her feel guilty. 

Only once Rumi is satisfied that all looks normal again does she go back inside; going in the backdoor brings her past the kitchen where Celine is chopping something at the counter. Rumi peeks in at the sound, sees a variety of pots and pans already set on the stove, and continues on to her room fighting another smile that hurts.  

Closing her bedroom door, Rumi puts the icepack aside just long enough for her to change. When she crosses to look at the full-length mirror in the corner of her room, she grimaces (regretfully, painfully) at the sight of her shirt– covered in more blood than she realized. No wonder she scared concerned Celine. 

Rumi carefully peels the crusting tee over her head and tosses it into the small trash can by her desk. Usually she would avoid looking at herself much until her evening assessment, but she does so now, examining the damage to her face in her reflection; it’s not pretty at all. The swelling is already clear around her nose and the skin around her right eye is turning purple-black. It will look worse before it gets better. She thinks she should feel sad about this maybe, or worried, but mostly she feels kind of satisfied– like something looks sufficiently right about this. For once, she doesn’t linger or obsess; Rumi simply nods once at her reflection and leaves to find clean clothes and wash her face and mouth. 

Rumi doesn’t usually bother Celine in the kitchen– or while she’s busy with anything, really –but today feels different enough that she thinks she could. On her way out of her room, she lingers by her ice pack, takes one look at the mirror, and leaves it behind. 

She's careful not to make much noise going into the kitchen in case she does end up interrupting; instead she spends the first minute or two just leaning in the doorway and watching. The room smells like her favorite comfort soup (Celine hasn’t made this since she was still a child having nightmares). She gets caught when Celine turns to get something out of the fridge and sees her, pausing to study Rumi for a moment. 

“Can I help?” Rumi finally asks, wanting to be useful if she’s going to be in the way. 

“Where is your ice pack?” Celine asks instead, gesturing for Rumi to sit at the table.

Rumi touches her cheek intentionally, moves to sit as told, and looks back at Celine with half a shrug. “It melted,” she lies as easily as she tugs her sleeves down throughout a day. 

Celine rummages around in the freezer for a moment before pulling out one of their many (and better) icepacks, pressing it into Rumi’s hand after. “You can sit,” Celine says, turning her attention back to the stove now, “and keep that pressed on.”  

It’s not a dismissal and while Rumi would prefer to help, she happily settles for doing what’s asked. They don’t talk but the natural sounds of two people existing in a room together is more conversation than they usually have these days. 

It's nice. 

Dinner is a similarly quiet affair, Celine allowing Rumi to leave the ice pack on the table while she eats after Rumi makes an exaggerated humorous attempt at eating with it pressed against her cheek, using the wrong hands. Despite the day's events, Rumi feels lighter than she usually does. When they finish, Celine doesn’t let her help clean up either– insisting her hands should be busy with the ice again –but doesn’t send her away either so Rumi continues to sit. 

(She thinks, maybe she isn’t the only one enjoying the company; Celine, who is the most efficient person Rumi knows, takes twice as long to clean the kitchen than she should. This, too, is nice.) 

Finally, Celine sends her off to bed with a goodnight and a fresh ice pack, which Rumi promptly abandons on her side table with the first one. She doesn’t bother with her mirror again and gets straight into bed, suddenly exhausted. 

She doesn’t look up anything to read on her phone, she doesn’t recite anything in her head, and she doesn’t think about what her body is doing. Rumi simply goes to sleep. 

🦴🦴🦴

Rumi often thinks of herself as something sinister; as if her patterns do more to define her than anything else. It's part of why she never does anything in half measures– like she can make up for the rest of it. 

It's a conflicting way to live. She knows there is something deeply wrong about her, she always has, but she knows just as well that she is one of the most beloved idols in the world. She knows, objectively and personally, that she’s attractive just as she knows she’s a disgusting demon in disguise. She may as well have claws the way her hands curl into themselves and cut, but she has never felt more human than curled on the couch with Zoey (who is more inclined to forgo personal space). 

Which is why, sometimes, she gets stuck on her reflection. She will stand in front of her mirror, naked and shivering, tracing the purple venom under her skin, and she will see…

Well. A girl. Scarred, maybe, in a way, but certainly not the hulking beast she expects. There's a disconnect in her brain. 

She’ll stand there staring and staring and staring, trying to find the disfigured parts of her that she knows are hidden somewhere. Something so rotten inside could never hide for long. She'll find it one way or another. 

🦴🦴🦴

Rumi knows every single medical clinic in the city by heart. She hasn’t been to any of them, of course, but she could get to the nearest one at any point, regardless of where they are. Just in case she needs– just in case. 

All of that to say, she has no idea where Zoey has just taken them. Which really does not bode well for this whole trip, but they’re already here, and she already knew they weren’t going to find a fix for her voice; she’s never been above humoring Zoey.

“Yep,” Mira drawls, while they stand outside the front door. She gives the building a critical once-over, very clearly unimpressed. “About as legit as I expected.” 

(Rumi is not the only one who is prone to humoring Zoey. They should maybe work on that.) 

“Earthy and herby…” Rumi stalls, trying to find the upside. In Zoey's defense, this does technically fit the brief description she had given of the place. “Smells legit to me,” Rumi finishes, just for the way it makes Zoey squeal and latch onto her at the approval. 

She's been having a hard time letting go of last night, but Zoey’s cheek pressed to hers helps chase away some of the cold she’s been harboring, however brief. She lets Zoey take her hand (warmth still blooming) and pull her inside while Mira pretends to complain behind them. 

(The appointment is useless and does nothing but get under Rumi’s skin in the end. She sends the girls to wait outside because the entire interaction leaves her on edge, and she needs time to collect herself.)

🦴🦴🦴

Rumi stares at her reflection, as compulsive as always; her attention is pulled away from the choking patterns inching along her throat to study the aftermath of the bathhouse along her face. 

Her fingers trace the purpling bruise under her eye with more pressure than needed. She has to refrain from picking at the scratches already healing over along her cheek and forehead, but absently chews at the scab forming on the corner of her lip. 

She’ll heal faster than Mira and Zoey anyway, and tomorrow she will be covered in makeup again to hide whatever's left. For now, she just presses a little harder and takes some sick satisfaction in her wince. 

🦴🦴🦴

  “Those tonics actually work.” Lie. 

“I was playing him up! to psych him out!” Lie.

“Mira, I'm not keeping anything from you. I promise.” Lie– the stupid tiger, sitting right there. Lie– her stupid, whatever, with Jinu. Lie– every single thing she’s ever fucking said to them.

“Yeah. Eternal suffering. Sounds fun.” Fun? No. Deserved? Maybe. 

By the time Mira leaves Rumi’s room, she thinks she might throw up. She needs to get out. 

🦴🦴🦴

A cold bath, a critical examination, and hours spent reciting until the sun rises.  

🦴🦴🦴

“Seriously, what is your problem?” Mira scoffs, swinging her gok-do between words, but her focus remains entirely on Rumi.

It makes her skin feel tight. 

“I told you, the song it’s-” 

Mira doesn’t care for whatever argument she might try to string together, cutting her off immediately. “I'm not talking about the song, I'm talking about you!” she argues, tone raising with her frustration. “Why are you questioning everything we stand for when we’re so close to sealing the Honmoon? What are you not telling us, Rumi?” 

Rumi turns to look at Mira, distraught. Of course she still wants the Honmoon sealed. Of course, of course. That's not what– she doesn’t want–. 

Zoey starts to pay attention now, too, and the both of them are looking at her so intently she has to look away again, fumbling for anything to say, to help them understand. She just needs time. “I– I…” 

Mira cuts her off again, shouting, “What are you hiding from us?” 

And Rumi should be able to handle this. She's prepared a million lies for every moment of any day for most of her life. She should be able to handle this– except Mira touches her. She grabs Rumi’s shoulder, right where the patterns crawl, and yanks her around. For a second Rumi feels more out of control than she’s ever felt, just one second, but that’s all she needs to really sink her teeth in. 

“Not everything is about your insecurities, Mira!” 

🦴🦴🦴

When she stares in the mirror tonight– body still dripping, skin raised from the chill –she gets stuck on the patch of skin around her shoulder, scratched raw in stark red lines. It hasn't stopped itching all evening. She needs to get out. 

🦴🦴🦴

Lights cutting suddenly, before clicking back on, oozing a blood-red.

Takedown? 

“So sweet, so easy on the eyes.” 

Muscle memory kicking in. Heart racing. 

“Whole Life spreading lies, baby nice try.”

This isn’t right.  Continuing without real control, her body not her own right now.

“I'm about to switch up these vibes–”

One shove, cutting her off, another, palms pressed roughly against her shoulders. She starts to itch and cower, the way her girls circle her like she’s an animal. 

“Please! Stop!” 

Stripped of the only camouflage she has, curling into herself. 

“We see what you are.” “You’re a demon. A mistake.”

A single broken scream, like the damaged creature she is. 

🦴🦴🦴

An uncontrollable fear-driven aggression that makes you unrecognizable. Something wicked in her blood. 

🦴🦴🦴

“You're a demon, just like me. all we get to do is live with our pain, our misery. That's all we deserve.” 

Jinu disappears in a puff of dark pink smoke, leaving Rumi truly alone for the first time in a very long time. All she can do for a moment is just stand there, waiting, and pray (despite everything) that he might come back– that this moment isn’t all she’s destined for. Because if Jinu isn’t who she thought…if he can’t…what hope is there for her? 

He doesn’t come back. He doesn’t come back and the Honmoon is trembling– no, disintegrating around Rumi on all sides –and Jinu isn’t coming back and Zoey and Mira have seen what she really is and turned her away because the Honmoon is dying and it’s her fault, and this is exactly what Rumi deserves, isn’t it?

All of these years spent pretending she isn’t dangerous are coming back to bite them now; the thought might make her laugh if it didn’t make her so sick. She watches the fading sickly glow of the Honmoon, the way it shreds where she steps; she’s spent her entire life obsessed with warning signs and ignored the most obvious of them all. 

(She recalls, suddenly, being seven– or something close to it – and Celine classifying a rabid dog’s aggression where she saw fear. She thinks of being twenty-four, more scared than she’s ever been, and Mira pointing her gok-do at her while her own voice destroys their life’s work. 

She finally understands that the difference has never mattered.)

Rumi thinks of the patterns crawling along her skin, the itch spreading across her entire body now, and thinks it’s always been too late. 

🦴🦴🦴

“Sometimes,” Celine had said, “the best thing we can do for the people that we love in life is to let them go.”

Rumi remembers. 

🦴🦴🦴

A slow, lucid paralysis. She knows which she would choose.

🦴🦴🦴

The sound of Rumi’s teacup clattering back onto the table might make her wince if she wasn’t so good at schooling her features. (which– she’s working on that! but maybe not right now. not here, anyway.) It's not so much that it’s particularly loud, but more so that her and Celine have been sitting in a dead silence for what feels like hours (minutes) and she didn’t mean to be the one to interrupt it. 

Well. Might as well say something now. 

She takes an unnecessarily deep breath to prepare, except, when she goes to speak, nothing actually comes out; so really she just braces, then opens and closes her mouth once, twice– nothing. Her breath leaves her all at once again. 

Embarrassing. 

Fortunately, Celine isn’t even looking at her; instead, she seems rather focused on a specific spot on the table which Rumi realizes, when she follows, is at her phone. 

Rumi always silences it before meetings, so, naturally, she had before walking in here as well, but looking at it now she can see the screen keeps flashing with notifications from her group chat. She won’t read any of it now, but knowing they are blowing her phone up just because they know she’s here makes her smile until she remembers this is a little rude, actually, and distracting so she flips the phone over and moves it further down the table at the same time.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, having found an easy topic to grasp. “It’s just the girls having fun.” 

“Ah,” Celine murmurs, question answered. She relaxes back into her seat and sips her own tea. “How are they doing?”

“Good,” Rumi supplies, comfortable in her favorite topic. “They’re enjoying being on break, Zoey especially…I'm honestly not sure she slept last night,” Rumi adds with a quiet laugh. 

She’d woken up early, a streak of sun on her pillow after forgetting to draw her curtain last night, and when she’d walked past Zoey’s room (door open) she’d heard swearing. Curiosity made her peek and she had spent probably too long just leaning on the doorframe watching Zoey die a lot in whatever game she was still on– something with guns and cartoon characters. 

She’s pulled out of the memory by Celine speaking again. “And how are you? Since…” She trails off, voice unsure from the start, eyes drifting more behind Rumi than at her. 

They’ve never been good at this; Rumi thinks even without the patterns they would never have learned how to do this. She doesn’t blame Celine for looking away this time and her own gaze goes back to her tea cup. She picks it up again just to have something to do with her hands; the liquid inside sloshes a little with her unsteady hands. 

“Good,” she says automatically, quickly. She grips tighter, willing it to not spill over. She wishes it were a cup of water instead and briefly considers asking for one, but she doesn’t want to feel like she’s running away either. She settles for taking a sip, forcing herself to look at Celine again, and is surprised to see she’s already being watched now.

She recognizes the disbelieving eye from both her childhood and also Mira, who most definitely learned it from Celine. (This is a fact that Rumi keeps to herself because she knows Mira would vehemently deny it anyway.) The similarity makes it feel less probing and more caring, albeit the topic is uncomfortable either way. 

“Better,” she amends, since being more honest is kind of her whole thing right now. “It’s, uhm, a work in progress. I guess.” The unsurety in her tone makes her feel immature and embarrassed. 

Celine nods and takes a sip of her drink again; Rumi realizes Celine, like her, has been cradling the teacup all this time rather than putting it down. 

Oh, she thinks. Celine is just as nervous about today as she is. Maybe even more. 

“How have you been?” Rumi asks, careful. to anyone else, Celine looks like she’s just thinking of how to answer; recalling what she’s been doing lately, maybe. To Rumi, she can see how off guard she’s caught her– like she really didn’t expect Rumi to ask, and now she doesn’t know what’s right to say. 

“I've been in the garden,” Celine says finally, just when Rumi thinks she might not answer at all. 

Rumi blinks in surprise, then quickly schools her face. as far as she’s aware, Celine hasn’t really done much with plants since most of her time had been taken over with managing the girls and finishing their more intensive training as they grew. She isn’t sure she remembers the last time they knelt in the dirt together, side by side, doling out quiet careful care to their shared garden. 

She hadn’t known, whenever that had been, that it would have been the last time. She regrets that she can’t remember when it was. When exactly did her and Celine really lose each other? It was before the idol awards, even if Rumi hadn’t realized that until then, but was it there? The last time they cared for something together? Or even further back? 

Is that what Celine’s looking for in the garden now?

Rumi has spent too much time lost in this thought to give a reply, so the two sit in continued silence, sipping their cooling drinks cupped in their warmer hands, until there’s nothing left to drink. Neither of them move to refresh their cups from the pot so finally Rumi offers to help clean. They both move to the sink together and Rumi dries the cups and the pot after Celine scrubs; it reminds Rumi of being younger, standing on a stool, always wanting to be helpful. 

When they finish, the two stand awkwardly in the kitchen by the sink for what feels like a very long time but likely isn’t. Rumi finally caves and pulls out her phone– that she’d pocketed when they moved –to check the time. Instead, she’s met with a barrage of…200 notifications. Give or take. 

What on earth are they doing? 

She must react visibly because Celine says, almost amused, “Is the penthouse on fire?” 

“Of course not,” Rumi says, automatically, because they wouldn’t do that. Then, after three more messages rapidly come in, “Probably not. I should get going though,” she continues, honestly just looking forward to catching up on the group chat now. 

“We have plans for movies tonight– oh, actually,” Rumi pauses, thinking of her movie assignment. “Do you still have the movies we used to watch when I was younger?” 

“I believe so…I don’t see why I would have gotten rid of them, they’re most likely still in storage. We can go look?” she offers. 

It takes some time to sort through the many boxes; Rumi had no idea Celine kept so much of their lives in here. Thankfully, Rumi does find the old VHS about the farm and Celine also finds the VHS player and insists Rumi take that as well, since they definitely don’t have that in their penthouse. 

With both items secured in a spare tote bag, Celine escorts Rumi back to the front door where her hired car is waiting outside. They both give somewhat awkward goodbyes, just as unsure as their greetings had been, and Rumi stands on the porch outside for a beat too long before finally turning to leave. 

“Rumi,” Celine says suddenly, reaching out to touch her arm to stop her from walking away. She drops her hand as soon as Rumi turns around. 

(Less like she didn’t want to have any contact though, and more like she looked unsure about overstepping; Rumi both appreciates that and wishes it didn’t have to be the case.) 

“Do you still want…”

“No.” Rumi cuts her off immediately, unwilling to hear exactly where that sentence was going. “No,” she says again, less impulsive, with more thought. “No, I don’t.” 

Celine looks immensely relieved and more relaxed than she has all evening, for a brief moment, before she masks it again with her casual calm. She looks like she has something else to say, or ask, but after a few seconds of silence, all that comes out is, “Good. That's good.” 

Rumi gives a tight nod, relieved it wasn’t another question and anxious to get back home. “I should really…” she half turns away, gesturing towards where her car is waiting for her. Which isn’t really an issue of course, they pay them enough to wait as long as they have to, but both Rumi and Celine have always been strict about manners so it’s a good enough excuse. 

“Of course,” Celine says, taking a step back inside. Rumi hadn’t even fully realized that Celine had followed her through the doorway in the first place. 

It makes her feel a little warm inside and the white-knuckled grip on her tote bag loosens. Despite her own words, she hesitates to leave now, lingering. She thinks of some random day in the garden, years ago, being a last moment and letting it slip away without any understanding of what was getting lost. How easy it is for something to become a last moment without anyone even realizing. 

“Thank you,” she says finally, lifting the tote bag a little. “For these, and the tea.”

For not making the last conversation a last moment. 

Celine waves a hand, dismissing the notion. “You’re always welcome to anything here, Rumi,” she says, like it’s a simple fact. “This will always be your home.” 

Rumi can tell Celine means this because she won’t really look at her again, instead staring somewhere just above Rumi’s shoulder, maybe at the car. She's embarrassed, Rumi realizes, to say something that should have been so obvious but clearly had gotten lost somewhere between them. 

🦴🦴🦴

“Really guys?” Rumi says as soon as the elevator doors slide open. Both Zoey and Mira are exactly where she had assumed they would be– cozied up on the couch –and she holds her phone up to face them and waves it a little. “300 messages?”

“Wow, reading the whole time and not responding? Were you just stalking us?” Mira responds, hand to her chest, faking insult; at the same time Zoey throws her hands up and shouts, “Rumiii!!! You’re home!” while almost punching Mira in the process. 

“I was enjoying the show,” Rumi says, smiling and pocketing the phone. 

“Watcha got there?” Zoey asks cheerfully, shuffling around on the couch to rest her chin in her hands on the back of it.

“Boba?” Rumi answers, voice pitching in confusion. She holds the drink tray a little higher, like an obvious offering. (Two bobas– milk tea for Mira, matcha for Zoey, and a mostly empty water for Rumi). 

“I think she means the bag you didn't leave with, dummy,” Mira says, gesturing towards Rumi’s borrowed tote. 

“Oh!” Rumi slides the bag off her shoulder, clearly excited. “My movie assignment!” she beams. 

Zoey climbs over the back of the couch, Mira grumbling beside her as she once again has to dodge flailing limbs, and bounces over to take the drinks from Rumi. She kisses her loudly on the cheek with an exaggerated, “mwah!” While she's there, Rumi proudly pulls the bag open and shows off inside where the VHS sits along with the video player. 

“You know we could have just found whatever movie online right? You didn't have to stop and buy it somewhere. We were just gonna look up ours,” Mira says, looking both amused and endeared by Rumi’s efforts. 

“I didn’t stop anywhere,” Rumi says, pulling the tape out now that she has free hands. “Well, other than to get the drinks. This is the copy I grew up with,” Rumi explains. She points to a clearly stained corner of the paper case, slightly torn. “See? This is where I spilled on it once.” She frowns, remembering the knocked over cup, and adds, "I wasn't allowed snacks in front of the TV again for a while.” 

Then, a little cautiously, "I borrowed it from Celine.” 

“How did that go?” Zoey asks, trying too hard to look casual as she hands Mira her boba. 

She looks almost as nervous as Rumi imagines she looked leaving earlier– even though neither of them looked nervous at all when she left. She realizes they must have been pretending for her which might have made her annoyed in the past but makes her kind of warm now. 

Mira raises an eyebrow when Rumi doesn’t respond right away, distracted from the original question, and asks, “Was it bad?” She sounds casual when she asks, but Rumi can see the way her boba cup starts to crumple. Before Mira can make a mess, Rumi hurries to correct.

“No, no,” she says, raising both hands, placating. “It was…fine.” Then, remembering she’s not really supposed to use “fine” as a descriptor anymore, she stumbles, “Er, sorry. It was…”

“It’s okay,” Mira interrupts when Rumi stalls again. “It can be complicated. Do you want to talk about it?” Her cup is no longer in danger of exploding, which is a relief. 

Rumi’s shoulders sag a little, not having realized she was tensing up. “No?” she says, like a question, and when neither of them stop staring at her, she says again, stronger, “Later, I might. Right now I just want…” she trails off, unfamiliar with this part. Not the wanting– god she knows wanting –but the asking. They both give her patience, which helps, and she finishes with, “Just to be here.” 

This seems to be a more than satisfactory answer for them based on their smiles and Mira invites Rumi onto the couch by patting the cushion beside her. Zoey shouts something about snacks while running off towards their kitchen, followed shortly by a yelp as she almost trips over– well probably nothing, knowing her. It makes Rumi laugh and the tightness in her skin continues to fade. 

“Can I see?” Mira asks, gesturing to Rumi’s tape, still clutched in her hand. She nods and hands it over as she sits. Mira handles the video with a weird sort of care that really isn’t necessary– it’s not going to break –but touches Rumi regardless. 

“What’s it about?” Mira asks, studying the cover photo (which is mostly just grassy hills with the small image of a dog far in the distance). 

“A family coming together mostly,” Rumi says, suddenly a little embarrassed and shy. “Because of their dog. It’s nothing special really…I don’t know. I watched it a lot when I was young– like, weekly.” 

“Well, I'm looking forward to it,” Zoey says, reappearing in front of them with a mountain of very carefully balanced movie snacks. Mostly balanced. Rumi quickly darts a hand out to catch a slipping bowl. 

Zoey arranges everything on the table in front of them with a very specific purpose– they always leave this part to her –before joining them on the couch. She squishes herself right up against Rumi’s empty side, effectively trapping her between them.

This is rapidly becoming Rumi’s favorite spot to be lately. 

“Although,” Zoey says, picking up the bag from where Rumi has left it by her feet and searching inside, “gonna be honest babe, I don’t think we can use this on our TV right now. It’s pretty old school…maybe if I got some adapters? We could order the parts and watch it next time, if you’d like?” 

“Uh,” Rumi says, turning a little red. “I didn't think about that. Sorry.” Her hands fold together on her lap and she wishes Mira wasn’t holding the VHS right now, so she had something better to do with them.

Mira gives her a mock stern look– Rumi isn’t supposed to apologize for things she didn’t actually do wrong anymore –and says, “Don’t be. I like that you brought this. I like that we get to look at it.” 

It’s a weird thing for her to say, Rumi thinks, until she realizes she can’t really remember the last personal thing she shared with them. Honestly, she doesn’t think she even really has many personal things to share. Does this even count, really? Technically, it’s Celine’s. Why did Rumi bother with the effort of bringing them? She’s going to have to return both tape and player at some point. 

Oh, Rumi thinks. Maybe that’s why. 

She squirms in her seat a little, not wanting to think about this right now, and Zoey readjusts her weight on Rumi’s shoulder, likely assuming she’s uncomfortable. (So now she regrets that as well.) “We don’t have to wait,” she says, just wanting to put everything back on track. “Who’s movie is first?” 

“Yours, duh,” Zoey says. “You had me at dog. Wait,” Zoey says urgently, sitting up straight and twisting to look at Rumi. “All this time your favorite movie was about a dog?”

“Childhood movie,” Rumi corrects, confused. “And yes?”

“Why didn’t you just say that when Zoey was trying to torture you for a week?” Mira asks. When Rumi turns to look at her, she’s clearly amused. “Ages ago, when we thought you were afraid of dogs,” she clarifies. “Zoey did like, a whole week of dog media.”

“I was not trying to torture,” Zoey says, aghast. “I was looking for a confession!” 

Rumi feels a little like a ping pong ball looking back and forth between them. “I didn't think about it, I guess,” she says. “I only thought of it again when Zoey gave us this movie assignment last week.” 

“Genuinely,” Zoey interrupts, “where is the remote. Sorry, you were talking, but it’s literally not here.” 

“Genuinely,” Mira repeats, leaning around Rumi to stare blank-faced at Zoey, “you literally just had it before Rumi walked in.” 

By the time they finally find the remote (all three of them getting up to search together– Mira grumbling at Zoey, Zoey blaming Rumi for getting her boba –only to find it in the kitchen), Rumi is buzzing with a kind of quiet excitement. She hasn’t watched this movie in years, since she was little. 

While they watch, it’s as if she’s never stopped. She still has most scenes memorized and gets a sort of light thrill whenever she can mentally quote a line before it’s delivered. It feels almost comforting to meet the family again. 

She spends as much time watching Zoey and Mira as she does watching the movie. When the two children get into a squabble, early on, and it ends with them in the pigs mud sty, Zoey laughs, and it feels like approval to Rumi. Mira’s dry commentary on the father makes her smile. 

Most importantly, they both love the dog. 

“I wish they were nicer to him,” Zoey complains, somewhere around the middle. The parents are finally back in the groove of their relationship, having worked out most of their issues, and the movie has been hitting all its highest notes. 

“What do you mean?” Rumi asks. At some point Zoey had switched positions, and now she’s sprawled across both of their laps; she’s holding one of Rumi’s hands and idly playing with her fingers (which has been a little distracting but very pleasant). “They love him,” she adds, like Zoey is missing that part.

“They don’t even let him stay inside,” Zoey says. “If you guys let me have a dog, they would be in my bed every night.” 

“Don't even think about it,” Mira says, tugging on a stand of Zoey’s hair. 

“Oh,” Rumi says, smiling, “just wait. That was my favorite part.”  On screen the parents kiss, for the first time in the movie, and the way it’s framed you can see the dog outside the kitchen window chasing around one of the kids. It's the kind of thing you notice the second time around– how whenever something good happens, he’s always in the background like that. 

It doesn’t take too much longer until they get there. Rumi sits up a little straighter from where she’d started to slip down the couch and her grip tightens a little in Zoey’s hand. 

It starts with the storm; thunder, lightning, trees bending over. The dog is curled up on a haystack that’s soaking up the pooling water, his coat already drenched. The barn door swings open, slamming violently against the wall with the force of the wind. A flashlight temporarily blinds the camera’s view and, when it adjusts, it’s the father in the doorway shining it on the hay. 

“Well, c’mon,” he grunts, barely audible through the rain. The dog’s ears perk regardless, and he immediately bounds over, happy to see someone again. He's always so happy to see them. The father brings the dog inside where the kids work together– with giggles and joy, unfamiliar at the start of the movie but a frequent occurrence now –to dry him off. Later, they sneak him into their room and argue over whose bed he will share. In the end all three of them end up in a pile on the floor, surrounded by pillows and blankets. 

In the morning– bright blue sky, not a cloud in sight. The dog is returned to the barn. 

“What!” Zoey exclaims, throwing her hands up, including Rumi’s. This time, both Mira and Rumi have to dodge. “They’re not even letting him stay!? That's your favorite part? It was just one night.” 

Rumi thinks of a not quite broken nose, a hand pressed over hers in a still car, and two people cradling lukewarm cups of tea. She says, entirely focused on the screen, “Sometimes it’s nice to be warm for just one night. That could be enough.” 

The longer the movie plays, the less commentary Zoey has; Rumi can see her genuine investment clear on her face. When it gets to the climax of the movie, Zoey has shifted again. She's sitting on the floor now, between them, pillow hugged to her chest. Rumi has shifted to laying down on the couch, her feet in Mira’s lap, so she can better watch both of them and the movie. 

Older now, with a lot more understanding than she had then, it’s clear to Rumi that the fox is sick as soon as it appears; foam coating its lips, stumbling on half paralyzed back legs, an unusually bold approach in an animal that should run from conflict. Zoey sits with bated breath as it clearly stalks the children playing in the fields, she inhales sharply when it springs, and Rumi can see the way the pillow folds in half under Zoey’s grip when the dog leaps between them.

When Rumi checks for Mira’s response (generally less expressive, more interested in after-movie discussions), she’s startled to see Mira already staring at her. She wants to ask what’s wrong, but Zoey yelps loudly, pulling both of their attention back to the movie where the fox has sunk its teeth in. 

Rumi rubs at her shoulder habitually.

She holds her breath with Zoey, watches the dog shake it off. The parents run out now, the father with his shotgun, and in seconds it’s all over. She feels a little bad at Zoey’s relief; even Mira, who had gripped Rumi’s ankle, relaxes again. 

The movie moves quickly from there; Rumi knows they’ve hit all the main points and it's closing out. She can see all the signs so clearly now, the way the dog deteriorates, can see how the father had known it was happening the whole time and watches the dog more closely than he ever had before. She can see his sorrow now, in a way she couldn’t when she was younger.

(She thinks a little bit of Celine.) 

When it becomes clear to everyone what’s happening, Zoey wiggles her way back onto the couch. She makes Rumi sit up again and squeezes between them, claiming emotional support. She trades out her pillow for Rumi’s arm. Rumi feels a little bad when Zoey cries as the dog dies and when she goes to wrap her free arm around her, she notices even Mira’s eyes are glassy. 

The final scene is a close shot of a clumsy, handmade grave under a tree. While the credits roll over the screen, the camera pulls away, straight out, until all you can see are green grassy fields and a spot of the headstone in the distance. 

“That's your favorite childhood movie?” Zoey wails.

“It's the most memorable to me!”

“You said you watched this every week?” Mira asks. She's taken her glasses off to wipe her eyes properly. While Rumi confirms, she tries to figure out if Mira is squinting at her because of her glasses being off or because she’s trying to figure something out.

“Until I started training anyway,” Rumi adds on. “I didn’t have much time to watch anything then between that and…” she trails off, the end of her sentence being something along the lines of when she started to get into her rabies research. 

“This explains so much about you,” Mira interrupts, bringing her hands up to rub at her temple now. “If you had just shown us this sooner, things would have been so much easier.”

“What?” Rumi says, nervous, feeling a little defensive. “What are you talking about? It’s just a movie.”

“Oh my God,” Zoey whispers between them, uncovering her face from where she'd been scrubbing at her tears. She looks at Rumi like she’s just had a stroke of genius, same as Mira apparently, and says, “You’re the dog.”

Yeah, that’s a long conversation.