[random zoerumis - drunken confessions in the snow]
“Rumi, you’re—you’re drunk!”
Zoey is red from laughter; Rumi is red from a bit too much soju. It’s snowing as they walk home, side-by-side with clumsy steps that crunch beneath them, but it’s difficult to feel cold with Rumi’s hand wrapped around hers and her lopsided grin, so warm and smitten, chasing away the chill at the tips of her ears.
“And you’re ever so pretty.” Rumi says factually, with an ease that makes Zoey grow redder still. “I have—uh—” Rumi stumbles over nothing, pitching forward a little.
“Oh, boy.” Zoey catches her, biting back a smile. “Careful, baby.”
“I have—” Rumi stammers again, her hands curling into the sleeves of Zoey’s jacket, then she stops when she tilts her head up, because: “Oh.” She’s looking at Zoey’s eyes—then steals a glance down to her lips. “I got distracted.”
“I’m sure,” Zoey huffs out a laugh. “The next time Bobby tries to goad you into matching shots with him I am carrying you over my shoulder and walking out of the bar.”
“And cute.” Zoey gives her a little boop on the nose. “Let’s go home, yeah? Mira’s got hot chocolate ready.”
Then Rumi blurts out: “I have a confession.”
That gives Zoey pause. She raises an eyebrow.
“Another secret,” Rumi begins, words sluggish, though the doting look on her face washes away any worry that might have creeped up. Rumi reaches up to fix Zoey’s beanie. “Kept for more than a decade.”
Zoey blinks at her. “If I had nickel… I’d have two.”
“Just a saying, jagi.” Zoey says more carefully now, draping her arms loosely around Rumi’s shoulders. They’ve stopped beneath one of the street lamps, and under the light like this, Rumi’s ruddy red cheeks and striking eyes are indescribably beautiful. “What is it?”
“They’re my favorite,” Rumi looks so conflicted as she says it—and Zoey is—
“Oh my god.” Light, delighted laughter begins bubbling in Zoey’s chest and out into the frigid night. Rumi pouts as she places her hands on her waist. “Oh my god—this whole time? You’d always let me have every single one!”
“But they’re you’re favorite,” Rumi’s head falls onto Zoey’s shoulders and she can’t help but snuggle into Rumi’s warmth; to press her nose and laughter into the side of her head as they sway together—until Rumi’s laughing too.
She’s sweet. She’s so sweet—and has been for years and years and years and Zoey wants to pick her up and wrap her in a little blanket and feed her a million little green gummy bears—and maybe some electrolytes for that headache she’ll inevitably have tomorrow, and—
“We can share,” Zoey finally pulls back so she can cup Rumi’s cheeks, warm from the drinks, or the cold, or the adorable blush. Who’s to say. “All I ask is one thing.”
“Anything for gummy bears,” Rumi laughs; brushes their noses together.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Rumi leans in.
And there it is, beneath the taste of liquor—something sweet; something tender.
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