Oh, thinks Rumi, as she looks down at Mira’s 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.
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.
It's okay. Rumi loves a challenge.
She's just finished covering everything when there’s a frantic knock on the door.
“Rumi,” her own voice says urgently. Fuck, that's weird. “Rumi? Are you in there? Are you okay?”
“I'm okay!” she calls in Mira’s lovely, luxurious voice. Fucking weird. But also nice. “You can come in.”
Rumi's body spills into the room, with Mira’s 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. It’s—kinda nice.
Rumi laughs. It sounds so good in Mira’s voice. “Hi. I'm okay. You okay?”
Mira nods against Rumi's neck, and Rumi feels an inappropriate surge of delight at being taller. “You run so fucking hot,” Mira grumbles, still holding on tight. “How are you not dying in these sleeves?”
Rumi takes a breath. The patterns are on her. They're in her. They're a mark of her inhumanity, her inherent corruption.
No matter her current form, they shouldn't be on Mira.
Rumi forces herself to laugh again. “Sorry. I guess I have weird temperature regulation. Wanna grab something from here?”
Mira lets her go with clear reluctance. Rumi feels guiltily gratified.
“You used to have normal summer shit too,” Mira complains as she raids her own closet.
“Yeah, I donated them, sorry.”
“Hm.” Mira shoots her an assessing look. “Can I..?” She gestures at herself.
“Oh! Yes, of course! Let me—should I turn around?”
Mira’s look turns condescending. “It’s your fucking body.”
Rumi makes herself laugh again. “Haha. Right.” She doesn't look away as Mira peels Rumi's sleep shirt off Rumi's body.
Except—it isn't. Rumi’s body. It has never looked like that, not ever. Smooth and clear and unmarked. Human, human, human.
So much more right, under Mira’s stewardship.
“That's better,” Mira says quietly as she pulls on a cropped top, and Rumi can't help privately agreeing.
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