Work Text:
Hiatus ended in three days, and it was entirely too late for the girls to still be awake.
Mira glanced from where she had been scrolling on Twitter for the past hour to finally look at the time. It was quickly approaching midnight, 23:49 blinking back at her like it was mocking her. She knew she should have fixed her sleep schedule days ago. Zoey was out doing... something, she hadn't really been listening when the maknae bounded out the door after dinner. Usually at this hour Mira would be cozied up in her room, either already asleep or well on her way there while a drama she had seen a thousand times played on her TV. She set her phone away and rubbed at her dry eyes. The penthouse was eerily quiet when she was the only one around. She reached up to run a hand through her hair. Oh, right. That's why she was still up. She was waiting on Rumi.
Rumi, who had clearly gotten caught up with something. Or fallen asleep.
Mira sighed before dragging herself off the couch and making her way towards Rumi's room. The door was shut and she could hear lo-fi music coming from inside. She knocked twice before opening the door anyway.
Rumi sat at her desk, only one lamp illuminating several sketchbook pages and sheets of costume designs she had been spending hours laboring over. Her tablet set propped up against the wall with Pinterest pulled open on different shiny fabrics. Mira cleared her throat and Rumi startled like she hadn’t even heard the knock on the door.
"Hey," she said, fingers twirling a pencil like she was being pulled four ways at once. "What’s up?”
Mira frowned, but leaned against the door frame casually. "You said you would do my hair," she replied. She flipped it over her shoulder, as if to demonstrate how bad it looked. It didn't actually look that bad at all, but she could feel how grown out it was. They had a performance in three days, after all. "I asked you like, last week. And six hours ago.”
"”Oh!” Rumi’s eyes lit up as if she had just remembered. "I’m sorry, Mira.” Her eyes scanned over the desk before landing on the clock on her phone. “It’s getting pretty late… how about tomorrow?”
Mira sighed. She instantly felt her chest tighten and her cheeks get hot. Rumi was right. She shouldn’t have waited so late to ask. She just… thought Rumi would remember. "Okay..." She looked at the piles of papers spread across Rumi's desk, all different variations on the costume set for their next round of promo. She was doing actually useful work, she didn’t need to be distracted with Mira’s dumb cosmetics. If Rumi responded, she didn't hear her. She slipped out of the room silently.
Mira wasn't sure where her feet were taking her. She walked down the hall with one hand on the wall, eyes trained on the floor while she hummed to try to ground herself. When she finally looked up, her reflection in the bathroom mirror stared back. She bit her lip as tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. Her roots had grown out horribly, pink fading off her real hair, but the worst part was how she was becoming acutely aware of the way rows of beads holding her extensions in itched. Why am I crying? Mira thought, wiping at her face with her palms angrily. It was fine, she was fine, Rumi just forgot. She just forgot her promise, and she would get to it. She would always get to it. Mira was important, just not as important as her work. She understood. She did, really.
Her hand moved from her face, finding its way to the rows of beads sewed into her hair. They weren't tight anymore. How long had it been? Six weeks? Eight? She didn't know. Her fingernail parted the hair above one of the beads, giving an experimental tug downwards. It didn't give right away, but it was loose. She kept pulling, wincing at the burn on her scalp, until the fake pink finally came free. The kanekalon took a chunk of her real hair with it as it fell to the counter. Mira stared at the hair. The tears rushed back in the longer it laid there, mocking her. Rumi doesn't want to take care of you anymore. You're not a baby, just do it yourself like every other functional adult. It's already stupid that you can't handle a salon.
Mira choked on a sob and went for the next bead.
It took longer than it would have if Rumi were doing it. Rumi would have used oil and hair pliers to free each bead gently, all while playing some bizarre playlist of Zoey’s favorite American songs. She had taken to listening to rap to ‘pump her up,’ as she called it. Mira wouldn’t have minded as long as she got to spend time with Rumi, but instead here she was, clawing out each lock of hair like it had personally offended her. As she pulled, she felt strands of her fried, bleached hair snapping too, leaving her scalp red and irritated. By the time she had gotten all the way around her head, she was crying too hard to see her reflection in the mirror.
When the last of the extensions were out and littering the floor, Mira sunk down into the mess. You’re too high maintenance, the voice in her head told her. Mira sobbed into her hands.
It could have been minutes or hours before the knock came. Mira didn’t know. All she knew is that she was dizzy.
"Mira, are you in there?!” Weak, muffled cries responded from behind the door. There was a moment where Rumi hesitated before calling again. "Can I come in?" she asked.
Mira didn't verbally respond, but after a second, the door handle moved and then slowly opened. She wasn't standing on the other side of it. Instead, she stayed on her knees on the tile floor, surrounded by an upsetting amount of pink hair.
Rumi tentatively stepped in. Mira whimpered as Rumi took in the wefts of pink hair all over the floor, and the dancer in the middle of it all. Her hair- or, rather, what was left of her hair- was a mess. Mira knew she looked more homeless than idol, worse than when Celine and Rumi found her five years ago.
"Mira..." Rumi got down on the floor in front of her. "What did you do?”
Her tone was soft, but it still made Mira flinch away. What did she do? It was all a blur. She slowly lifted her head. Now Rumi could see how the tear tracks stained her face and the way leftover mascara was smudged all around her eyes. Rumi reached a hand out to caress her cheek as if Mira were some wild animal. Her hair looked like she had lost a fight with a flamethrower, curling around her face and breaking off without any effort at all. When she finally made eye contact with Rumi, all she could do was start sobbing all over again. Words wouldn't come no matter how hard she tried to form them.
Rumi didn’t hesitate this time before throwing her arms around her in a tight hug. She started out rubbing her back, then slowly moved her hand up Mira's neck to her scalp, gently rubbing her hair and cringing internally as she felt the bare patches.
"It's okay," she whispered. "It's gonna be okay.”
Mira cried harder and fully leaned into the touch. You should be angry at her. She should be angry at you. She melted against Rumi almost immediately, burying her face in her shoulder and surely soaking her soft hoodie with tears. She expected the leader to push her away for ruining her things, but instead Rumi kept holding her and rubbing her head, all the while gently rocking her back and forth.
"I'm sorry," Rumi said against the top of her head.
Mira stiffened. Why was she sorry? She sniffled as she slowly ran out of tears to cry and her body slumped in exhaustion despite her brain screaming at her not to. “Why?” she finally croaked.
Rumi seemed just as confused as Mira. “Why? Why am I sorry?? Because I didn’t make time for you like I promised. I let you down…” She moved her hand down to softly stroke Mira’s cheek. “Whatever your head is telling you is wrong, do you hear me?” Mira noted her lighter tone, a desperate attempt from the leader to cheer her up. Suddenly it felt like they were teenagers again, like Mira was the angriest girl in the world with too many voices in her head and Rumi was sitting on the sidelines, desperate to fix her. Now they were older. Now Rumi knew what to say. Now Mira had gotten better at feeling positive feelings and shoving that voice down.
Better, but not good. All that effort and she was still crying on the bathroom floor after a tantrum. She was pathetic.
Mira shrugged after a moment. All at once, the lights were too bright, her head hurt inside and out, and she was so tired. She didn’t have the words to fight back and convince Rumi that the situation was her fault. Instead she just nuzzled closer into her hoodie. It was so soft.
Rumi kept running her fingers through Mira's hair, like she was subtly assessing the damage. Mira knew what she was doing but she couldn’t push her away. She winced as her fingers trailed over each bare patch.
"We'll fix it," she said, breaking the quiet Mira felt she belonged in. "In the morning, okay? First thing, as soon as you’re ready. I’ll get your roots done and put in your new hair and you’ll be all ready for the stage. Good as new.” She fluffed what was left of Mira’s hair.
Something in Mira's chest fluttered at that idea. She nodded hesitantly as her hands gripped Rumi's hoodie with the last scraps of her strength.
Rumi lit up, and maybe that made relenting worth it. "Good. Now, bed?” Mira immediately nodded and reached up to wrap her arms around the leader’s neck. Rumi lifted her up easily. On any other day, Mira would probably have been blushy about it. Tonight she was too tired, so she simply relaxed into her arms and let herself be carried to her bedroom. Rumi carefully laid her down and tucked her in like she was precious, smoothing her hair out of her face and wiping the last of the tears off her face with her sleeve. After a moment, she climbed into bed next to her.
It didn’t take any time for Mira to find her way back into her arms.
Mira made a soft, noncommittal hum as she turned her face into Rumi's shoulder. Rumi instantly frowned, like she knew what she was thinking before even Mira did.
"Mimi, look at me," she said. "It is okay that you need help. Don't blame yourself for it, okay? I like doing your hair. I love that you're girly and high maintenance," she teased softly.
Mira struggled to raise her head. Her brown eyes were bloodshot and her face was pale, cheeks red and wet from all the crying. She bit her lip, unwilling to believe Rumi fully. She didn't hold eye contact for very long before she put her head back down on Rumi's chest. At this angle she could hear her heartbeat, and it was almost enough to put her to sleep.
“That’s a good girl,” Rumi said softly, rubbing circles into her shoulder blades. Mira suppressed a squeak at the praise, and she swore to the Honmoon she saw Rumi smirking. “Go to sleep, I’ve got you.”
Mira didn’t need Rumi to tell her twice.
BONUS:
Zoey tiptoed into the penthouse with all the grace of a ballerina ninja. Well, as much tiptoeing as one could do coming off an elevator. She moved around the darkened rooms like a cat, kicking off her shoes and finding herself suddenly very sleepy as she returned from her night out. She was prepared to brush her teeth, put on pajamas, and pass out for several hours until she woke up to Rumi’s tea and Mira’s cooking. Nothing could get between her and her bed. She moved towards the hall bathroom on muscle memory, feeling along the wall with her hand. Her eyes hadn’t quite adjusted to the dark, but the bathroom itself was much darker than any of the common rooms with their big windows.
She took one step onto the tile before springing backwards. She threw her hand over her mouth to muffle a scream while summoning her shin-kals with her other hand. “Why is it slick?” she whispered to herself, wondering if maybe those would be her last words. The glow emanating from the weapon bounced around the room, reflecting off… pink?
She reached for the bathroom light switch, still refusing to put her feet over the threshold.
It took a second for the scene to register. Then:
“WHO SCALPED MIRA?!?!”