#(or. something)

The day after the Idol Awards, Mira woke up first.

She rolled away from the warmth of the bodies around her, searching around until she nearly knocks her glasses off the coffee table, and jammed them blearily onto her face.

She rolled back over.

It took approximately two seconds for her to remember what had happened the night before.

It took approximately one and a half seconds for her to process the patterns, jump to her feet, and summon her gokdo.

Mira proceeded to run to the kitchen sink and vomit until she was dry heaving.

She’d drawn her weapon on Rumi. Again.

I don't get to have a family.

Slowly, Mira sank to the floor, tangling her fingers into her hair and digging her nails into her scalp.

That was where Zoey and Rumi found her, eventually.

//

Rumi wasn't a demon. Rumi wasn't a threat. Rumi was her leader-best friend-soulmate-partner-family.

Mira knew those things.

Her heart still stopped when she saw Rumi out of the corner of her eye. Her fingers still twitched instinctively—habitually.

It was a habit. And habits could be broken.

"Hey," Rumi said softly. Like she didn't want to spook Mira.

Just the way she used to back when they were kids, and she was still a fucking ghost who didn't know how to make noise before she'd come around a corner, and—don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it—Mira had smacked her right in the face for startling her.

"Hey," Mira said. "Nice shirt."

Rumi raised her eyebrows, amused, tugging a little on the tank top. "It's Zoey's."

She forced an awkward smile. "I know. You'd look good in some of mine, too."

"Yeah," Rumi said. Her eyes were warm. Mira felt like a disgusting liar. "You've said so before."

//

Zoey hesitated. Mira doubted any of the staff noticed, but she did. And she knew Rumi did.

They were all too professional to look stiffer for the next shot, Zoey's hand settled on Rumi's bare skin rather than her sleeve, but it was there.

It felt disgustingly good not to be the only one. It just felt disgusting, how pathetic they were, unable to stop hurting Rumi.

Mira could feel it trembling under her skin as they kept going with the shoot, even as she played the perfect puppet.

And then the director smiled and he said, "Now maybe we try some with the jacket? Before we lose this light?"

Rumi stiffened. Mira doubted any of the staff noticed, but she did. And she knew Zoey did.

"I know I get cold easily," she said, warmly joking, utter bullshit, "but I didn't think you'd have issues with my goosebumps in the shot."

"Oh, no, I think he meant me!" Zoey added, wide-eyed and cheerful, the barest hint of a threat in her smile. "I saw them pulling one earlier that went with this top, right?"

"I, uh, yes, of course," the director said. "That's exactly what I meant."

And Rumi, their stalwart defender, relaxed a little for once. No asshole would be trying to talk around making her cover up her "skin condition" today.

//

Rumi breathed slow against Mira's shoulder, mostly asleep as the "interesting" part of the credits faded to black, replaced by the less aesthetically formatted scroll.

As the light from the television dimmed, contrast shifted over her patterns, making them look almost purple in the light.

Mira hummed softly and whispered, "Don't move."

Rumi didn't—which was good, because Zoey was half on top of her, and if she'd startled, then Mira's whispering would've been for nothing.

(It was a fifty-fifty chance when Rumi fell asleep around them these days. Far better than the way it had been before, when she'd only fall asleep outside of her own room when she was completely exhausted, and Mira and Zoey would spend the whole time trying not to make a sound for fear of watching Rumi heave to her feet, sputter something incoherent about manners, and race off to her own bed.)

Mira fished her phone out from where it had slipped between the couch cushions, opening up the camera and switching the flash off. She didn't bother repeating the instruction to hold still as the shutter took one, two, three seconds—the point was the colors anyway, not the focus.

She turned her phone back off, trusting herself to remember what she'd been thinking and save the picture to the right folder in the morning.

"Is it bedtime?" Rumi mumbled sleepily.

"Probably," Mira said. "But I'm pretty comfortable here."

That roused Zoey, predictably. "Our couch is not for sleeping!"

Rumi snorted, sharing a bemused look with Mira before they allowed themselves to be tugged up to help with the necessary cleanup—getting the television turned off, removing bowls from where they might get tripped over in the morning—and shuffled out of the living room.

"Bed! Bed! Bed! Bed!" they chanted softly, and it was almost without thinking that they all ended up in Zoey's room.

Mira wrapped herself around Rumi, tugging her down in between them.

"You're cold," Rumi grumbled.

Mira smugly tucked her chin closer to Rumi's shoulder. "And you're warm. Thanks."

"Thermodynamic equilibrium!" Zoey whisper-shouted with a grin, and wrapped herself around Rumi from the other side, which was just the kind of suffocating pressure Rumi apparently enjoyed at night.

Mira was very glad to have a complementary middle spoon of a partner.

Rumi sighed, and Mira tangled their fingers together so she could drag her hand up for a kiss right before she leaned over and kissed Zoey's cheek.

"Love you both," she said, something in her still fearful and embarrassed at saying it out loud.

But Rumi and Zoey never got tired of hearing it, and their smiles were enough to make it so, so worth it.

It was after, as they were drifting off to sleep, that Mira realized what she'd done—saved a picture with purple patterns, demon patterns, without thinking about it anything but colors.

Because they were Rumi's, not a threat's.

Mira fell asleep smiling.