Chapter Text
The first signs came quietly. Rumi never complained, never slowed down, but Zoey and Mira started to notice the tiny hesitations. A skipped step in dance practice, her voice coming in just a beat later than usual, the way she lingered by the water cooler with an empty bottle she never actually refilled.
“She’s just tired,” Mira whispered one evening as they watched Rumi push through another rehearsal, sweat clinging to her temples. But even Mira sounded unconvinced. Zoey frowned. Rumi had always been relentless, but now it looked less like dedication and more like something was dragging her down.
Over the next week, the habits grew clearer. Rumi would disappear for long stretches, returning with damp hair as though she had stood under cold water. She wore long sleeves even in the humid practice rooms, and sometimes her hands trembled when she tried to lace up her boots, and refused help when either Mira or Zoey offered.
Zoey finally caught on to the truth the night she woke up for water. She noticed the faint glow of the shared bathroom light under the door. The penthouse was silent otherwise. She hesitated, then pushed the door open to find Rumi curled up on the cold tile floor, arms wrapped tight around herself. Her cheek was pressed against the porcelain, strands of hair plastered to her face. She didn’t even startle when Zoey stepped inside, didn’t look. Her eyes were glued ahead, unfocused and glossy.
“Rumi?” Zoey whispered, “what are you doin’ in here?” as Zoey asked she knelt down, her knees hitting the cool tile.
Rumi’s eyes, blown wide, the hazel with gold that Zoey has grown to love is gone. In its place her pupil covering her iris. “It’s… cooler here,” Rumi murmured, voice so thin it barely carried. “Helps… slow it down.”
“Mira!” Zoey yells, Mira’s room was the farthest from the communal bathroom, but Zoey hoped that with her voice and the fear of finding Rumi, uncoordinated (such in a non - Rumi way) that the Honmoon carried the message to Mira.
Mira came running a moment later when she heard Zoey’s call. She froze in the doorway, the sight etching itself into her: Rumi, who was always fire and motion, reduced to a shivering shadow seeking relief from the heat of her own body.
Zoey knelt beside her, brushing the damp hair back. “You should’ve said something.”
Rumi tried to smile, but it crumpled before it formed. Zoey never realized how cute Rumi’s little canines were. The smile didn’t reach Rumi’s eyes. “Didn’t… want to stop.” Her eyes closed, “not yet.”
Mira crouched down too, her hand hovering before she finally rested it against Rumi’s shoulder. Mira felt the fever burning through Rumi’s sweatshirt even as she pressed herself against the freezing tile.
That was the moment they understood the vanishing acts, the long showers, the layers of clothing, it was all Rumi’s way of coping with something she couldn’t out-dance or out-sing. It wasn’t random. Something she had been hiding because that’s what Rumi did: she carried it alone, until her body gave her no choice.
And for the first time, Zoey and Mira realized just how fragile their unstoppable friend really was. She was harming herself. She had to, right?
Zoey’s hand was already under Rumi’s arm, trying to lift her off the bathroom tiles. Mira hovered close, her face pale with worry.
“Come on, Rumi. You can’t stay down here,” Zoey murmured, voice firm but gentle.
“I’m fine,” Rumi croaked, trying to push weakly against her, but her body betrayed her. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t even keep her arms steady.
“No, you’re not,” Mira said sharply. “You’re burning up. We’re not letting you keep hiding this.” Mira turned to Zoey as they were carrying Rumi. Both were (unconsciously) thinking the same thing: Rumi is harming herself. Over Rumi’s head, Mira mouthed ‘infection?’ and Zoey nodded.
Between the two of them, they half-carried her into the bedroom. Rumi slumped onto the bed, shivering despite the heat in her skin. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths.
Zoey exchanged a look with Mira. “She needs to cool down.”
That meant getting rid of the layers she’d been hiding in: oversized hoodie, long-sleeved turtleneck. Zoey reached for the hem of her hoodie. “Sorry, Ru. We have to.”
“No!” Rumi’s voice cracked, sudden panic sparking in her eyes. She tried to grab Zoey’s wrist, but her strength was gone. “Don’t. Please, don’t.”
Mira froze, confused. “Rumi, you’ll overheat like this. We’re not trying to hurt you.” Mira looked to Zoey for confirmation, but Zoey was staring at Rumi instead.
“You don’t understand,” Rumi gasped, shrinking back against the pillows as if their hands burned. Her hair clung damply to her face, and she clutched at the fabric like it was armor. “You can’t see.”
Zoey’s brow furrowed. “See what?” She slowly reached to rub soothing circles over Rumi’s hand that held her sweatshirt.
Rumi shook her head violently, eyes glistening. Her panic seemed to override her fever for a moment. “Just, don’t look. Please. I’ll… I’ll handle it.”
But her voice faltered, breath shuddering as if the fever itself was stripping away her ability to keep control.
Mira’s heart twisted. She understood then, it wasn’t just about modesty or pride. It was about the scars. The ones Rumi had never let them glimpse, always hidden beneath fabric and excuses. The markings that tied her to something darker, something she clearly believed would change the way they saw her. At least thats what Mira thought.
Zoey’s hand hovered at the edge of the hoodie. She swallowed hard, then met Rumi’s frantic eyes. “You’re sick, Rumi. You can hate us later, but right now? We’re not letting you burn yourself out. Literally.” Zoey humorously laughed.
She nodded once to Mira, and together they gently but firmly pulled the hoodie upward. Rumi thrashed weakly, eyes wide and wet, whispering broken pleas for them to stop . And then the fabric came away, revealing the faint shimmer of inhuman patterns swirling across her skin, dark, jagged lines that seemed to pulse faintly beneath the fever’s glow.
Mira’s breath caught. Zoey froze, hoodie in her hands.
Rumi turned her face away, trembling. “Now you know,” she whispered, voice cracking with shame. “Now you’ll see me as they do.” The Honmoon rippled and swayed. Not unlike when a tear was happening, but as it grew, it seemed like an ocean. It started strong and weakened. Mira and Zoey had never seen it before. The Honmoon tears were devastating and compact, this was just…a wave.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Mira sat beside Rumi, pulling the damp strands of hair back from her face with infinite care. “I don’t care what’s on your skin,” she said softly. “You’re still Rumi. Our Rumi. I’m upset that you kept this from us.” When Rumi hid within herself, Mira expanded, “Not the patterns themself-”
“Yeah. Patterns or not, you’re stuck with us. So quit fighting, and let us take care of you.” Zoey draped a cool cloth over her forehead, her expression steady
Rumi blinked up at them, stunned. Her body still shook, but the fight bled out of her shoulders. For once, she let herself sink into their care, even if the fear of being seen still lingered in her eyes.
* * * * *
When Rumi’s eyes fluttered open, the room was dim. The fever haze had lifted just enough that she could tell night had passed into morning. Her throat was raw, her skin sticky with sweat, and for one blissful moment, she forgot.
Then she felt it, the air against her bare arms, the absence of her protective layers. Her stomach dropped.
She jerked upright, panic flooding back, tugging instinctively at the blanket to cover herself. Her eyes darted wildly across the room. She half-expected emptiness, Zoey and Mira gone, leaving her with the truth exposed.
But they weren’t gone.
Zoey was slouched in a chair beside the bed, chin tilted against her hand, fast asleep but with her other hand resting lightly near Rumi’s wrist, as if she had fallen asleep guarding her. Mira was on the floor, curled with a pillow, her posture tight even in sleep, like she’d only allowed herself to rest once she was sure Rumi would be okay.
The sight made Rumi’s chest ache in a way the fever never could.
She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, heart pounding. The patterns still shimmered faintly along her skin, no longer hidden. They’d seen. They knew. And still, they stayed.
Her breath caught in her throat, trembling. “Why…?” The word was barely a whisper, but it was enough to stir Mira awake.
Mira blinked groggily, then straightened when she saw Rumi sitting up. “You’re awake.” Relief washed over her face. She pushed up onto her knees and reached for the glass of water with a little pink straw on the nightstand. “Here, drink.” She handed it to Rumi with infinite care. The little pink straw slipped with the slight rotation of the cup.
Rumi took the cup with twin shaking hands, unable to meet her eyes. “You should’ve left. Both of you should have.” Rumi whispered, scared to awaken Zoey.
Zoey stirred at that, her head snapping up. She rubbed her eyes, then leaned forward, gaze locking on Rumi. “Why would we leave?”
“Because you saw.” Rumi’s grip tightened around the glass. “The patterns. What I am. You don’t understand; people don’t stay when they know. They can’t. I-”
Silence stretched, heavy and trembling. Rumi couldn’t look up. She braced herself for the disgust, the pity, the distance.
Instead, Zoey reached across and gently tugged the blanket down just far enough to place her hand over Rumi’s forearm, directly against the dark, purple, jagged lines twisting across her skin. She then lifted Rumi’s hair and found a little scar from when Rumi was a baby.
“Looks like you’re still Rumi to me,” Zoey said simply.
Mira’s voice followed, steady and warm: “We’re not them. We don’t care what’s marked on you. You’re ours. That’s what matters.”
Rumi’s throat closed, tears stinging at her fever, weary eyes. She tried to speak, to argue, but the words dissolved into a quiet, shaking sob she couldn’t swallow back.
Zoey didn’t flinch. Mira didn’t pull away. They just held their ground, letting Rumi finally break without fear of being abandoned. For the first time, Rumi let herself believe, just maybe, that the patterns didn’t have to mean she was alone. The rest of the day was filled with repeats of this conversation. Rumi was growing more tired and would wake up and forget that the prior conversations happened.