Oh, thinks Rumi, as she looks down at Miraās long, perfect, delicate forearm, marred by twisted purple lines. So it isn't just the way she was born. She should've known. This taint is just her.Ā
Mira thankfully has plenty of long sleeves in her closet; she runs cold. But of course, there are no high collars. Mira has such an elegant neck; there's no reason for her to hide it. Rumi has to rummage through the winter closet for a sufficiently light scarf. It's going to be a challenge in this heat.Ā
It's okay. Rumi loves a challenge.Ā
She's just finished covering everything when thereās a frantic knock on the door.Ā
āRumi,ā her own voice says urgently. Fuck, that's weird. āRumi? Are you in there? Are you okay?ā
āI'm okay!ā she calls in Miraās lovely, luxurious voice. Fucking weird. But also nice. āYou can come in.ā
Rumi's body spills into the room, with Miraās effortless feline grace. The relief is crystal clear in her own face. And then Rumi is being swept up and squeezed firmly in her own arms. Itāsākinda nice.Ā
Rumi laughs. It sounds so good in Miraās voice. āHi. I'm okay. You okay?ā
Mira nods against Rumi's neck, and Rumi feels an inappropriate surge of delight at being taller. āYou run so fucking hot,ā Mira grumbles, still holding on tight. āHow are you not dying in these sleeves?ā
Rumi takes a breath. The patterns are on her. They're in her. They're a mark of her inhumanity, her inherent corruption.Ā
No matter her current form, they shouldn't be on Mira.Ā
Rumi forces herself to laugh again. āSorry. I guess I have weird temperature regulation. Wanna grab something from here?ā
Mira lets her go with clear reluctance. Rumi feels guiltily gratified.Ā
āYou used to have normal summer shit too,ā Mira complains as she raids her own closet.Ā
āYeah, I donated them, sorry.ā
āHm.ā Mira shoots her an assessing look. āCan I..?ā She gestures at herself.Ā
āOh! Yes, of course! Let meāshould I turn around?ā
Miraās look turns condescending. āItās your fucking body.ā
Rumi makes herself laugh again. āHaha. Right.ā She doesn't look away as Mira peels Rumi's sleep shirt off Rumi's body.Ā
Exceptāit isn't. Rumiās body. It has never looked like that, not ever. Smooth and clear and unmarked. Human, human, human.
So much more right, under Miraās stewardship.Ā
āThat's better,ā Mira says quietly as she pulls on a cropped top, and Rumi can't help privately agreeing.Ā