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Yang had never been one for death, it was always so devastating, lonely, just another way for people to leave you; but seeing Blake, eyes narrowed, her fingers curled around Gambol Shroud and shoulders heaving with each intake of air; she was dangerous, enticing. She leapt from one enemy to the next with such gracefulness, body fluid in her actions, absolute with her intent that Yang couldn’t stop herself from staring, couldn’t halt the shallow inhale that burned her lungs and made her heart tremble.
Blake was death incarnate and maybe, if this was how it would happen, staring into those golden eyes, Yang doesn’t think she would mind dying.
“Yang!”
The force with which she ducks down is enough to make her eyes squeeze shut as a nerve makes itself known in her neck, tight and taught in a place it shouldn’t be and Yang grits her teeth as she rounds on the next grimm, eyes glaring red and fist locked, her voice echoing as her knuckles connect with the beasts face, crushing it into the earth beneath her feet. It flakes away like nothing, remains scattering and fading like the ghost of a touch, a memory that’s too old to fully remember, the edges burned and frayed.
Her shoulders are tense and her neck screams each time she so much as twitches, but she ignores it, pushes it away and clenches her fist just that little bit tighter. She can feel the flames in her hair, flickering at the edges and snapping with controlled fury, a slither as to how much power is coursing through her bones.
“I think that’s all of them for now.”
Blake’s voice breaks through to her, after a beat, pushes past the haze of pain that’s clouded her mind and it’s not until she feels warmth curling around her shoulder does she calm down, fingers squeezing, a silent question as to if she’s okay.
Lilac meets gold and she knows the smile she gives is pathetic, knows that Blake won’t buy it for a second; It’s too strained, her face too tight and immediately Blake is there, hands touching her everywhere, eyes wide and her voice, her sweet, sweet voice is frantic and shaking.
Ruby is the first to see the commotion and rose petals fill the air as she rushes over, fear gripping onto her the way wet leaves stick to window panes.
“What happened?! Yang? What’s going on?”
She tries to shake her head, to wave off their concerns but the action only makes it worse and her voice catches in her gasp as white shoots up into her temple, behind her eyes, curls around her neck like hands and burns.
“I’m fine,” she’s panting and her eyes shut, maybe if she squeezes them hard enough the ache in her neck will go away. Maybe a lot of things would go away. “It’s just a nerve in my neck. I swear I’m fine.”
Blake’s hands find her shoulders again and she forces her eyes to part in order to stare into the sea of gold, to get lost in Blake’s orbit. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” she says, already feeling the pull of gravity to her, “I’m sure.”
———
It’s hours later when they return to the inn, the sun has already dropped low into the mountains, the sky an array of reds, pinks and purples, bleeding and overlapping each other like watercolour as the world begins to settle.
The first thing Yang does is disappear to her room, she’d been quiet along the trek back, lingering behind the group, fruitlessly rubbing at the back of her neck. She stands under the spray of the water for longer than she probably should, breathes in the steam and feels her muscles pop and relax as the droplets roll down her body, content the same way a cat is lying in the sun, the wind quiet as it touches the world, kisses the trees.
Blake is waiting for her when she comes out, pants hanging off of her hips and hair damp, water clinging to the strands the same way moss does to the grass in the mornings, soaking into the cotton of her shirt.
They don’t say anything to each other as they make eye contact, their exchange beyond the need of words as Yang walks over to her, settles between her legs and leans into her chest. She sighs as deft fingers knead into the base of her neck, her shoulders. They creep up and under the fabric to work the inner corners of her blades, the divots of her spine. A particularly tight muscle pops and the sound that escapes her dances along the line of a moan and a hum, her neck slowly lolling to the side as Blake works the soreness away, making it come undone.
The pounding in her neck is starting to unravel, the nerve calming in its severity and Yang sighs again as it melts away, a sweet release flooding her system. She jolts the smallest amount in surprise as warm lips touch the base of her neck, hot breath caressing her, seeps into her like a life force.
“You scared me today.” Blake is so quiet, fragile with the softness of left over fear, the tips of her fingers are now sliding up and down the length of her arms, running along the muscles with such delicacy, such love that the tiny hairs on Yang’s body stand on end, goosebumps appearing all over her skin.
“I know,” her words feel heavy in her mouth, weighing on her tongue as exhaustion settles into her bones like an old friend. “I’m sorry.”
What little natural light that was streaming into the room through the windows is now gone as the final rays of the sun fade away completely, the sky now dark, clouds forming overhead as thunder calls out from the distance. The only light in the room is a lone candle by the bedside, it’s orange glow a strong contrast to the greys and blacks outside, water streaking down the glass as the wind picks up, rattles the trees, and unsettles the grass; forces the rain against the window as the world drowns the earth in its sorrow.
Blake presses another kiss to Yang’s neck, leaves her shaking and Blake has half a mind to think that the world outside is matching her, mirroring how she is feeling on the inside, how they both are feeling.
“Don’t be sorry.” It’s mumbled, buried in the blonde locks that have swayed back to rest between Yang’s shoulders from when Blake had brushed them aside, but Yang can hear it clearly, can feel it in her heart. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
They grow silent after that, Blake’s cheek resting against Yang’s back and Yang playing with the fingers that are spread across her stomach. The tips draw nonsensical shapes and patterns along the veins, stroking between the knuckles.
It’s like the brewing storm outside doesn’t even exist anymore.