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1
It's the third place Yang's tried tonight. By now, there's a routine to it.
Park Bumblebee up outside. Stride through the doors like she belongs there. Ask for a drink. Pull up the picture on her scroll. Play it just right for an answer, lean in to the guys all conspiratorial, make sure her jacket's only half-fastened, laugh at bad jokes. Let them assume the things they assume.
Then get a no, anyway. A suggestion for where to try next, if she's lucky. Leave, move to the next place, rinse, repeat.
The vibes in this third place, though, seem different. It's smaller. A little quieter, maybe, less buzz in her bones. The lights are dim, less strobing. A bar more than a club.
Yang wends her way through to order a drink. It's a woman, behind the bar here. Short spiky hair and tattoos on her arms.
“Strawberry Sunrise,” she says. “Hold the ice.”
The woman looks her up and down critically. “Holding the alcohol, too.”
Yang grins, makes it dazzling bright, like she's not tired, flagging from so much time spent looking without results. Like she's not uncertain about what to do if she doesn't find Raven, and even more uncertain what she'll do if she finds her. “If you must.”
The woman half-rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch, like she's just a little amused.
She's done with the drink so fast Yang barely has time to be mesmerised by the fluid motions she makes it with, like it's an art. The guy in the last place almost slopped half of it out of the glass.
Yang fidgets with the umbrella. Leans into the charming precocious teenager thing, shifting closer to the counter. “Think you could help me with something?”
The woman half-frowns, brows crinkling. “Depends. If it's getting drunk, then you're on your own there, kid.”
Yang laughs. Swishes back a lock of hair. “Nothing like that. I'm looking for somebody. Got recommended this place.”
The woman does a muted sort of sigh. All her responses seem like that. Toned down. Eyebrows twitching up minutely, smile tucked into the corner of her mouth like a secret. There's something almost fascinating about it, that kind of subtlety. Yang has never been subtle; never really had the choice. Her whole being announces itself, from her body to her Semblance to her hair.
“You know we don't all know each other, right?”
Yang grins like she understands what that means. Pulls up the photo on her scroll, slides it across the bar. “Sure, but do you know her?”
The woman eyes the photo for a moment, then shakes her head. Yang swallows a groan of frustration. Swallows the part of her that wants to flop facedown on the bartop.
“Is there anyone else here who might? A boss, manager, whatever, someone I could ask.”
A shrug. “Dunno. I'm in the middle of my shift.”
Yang makes her eyes wide, blinks. “Please? It's important.”
Another quiet sigh, and then the woman says something to her colleague, shifts out from behind the bar. “I'll get the boss for you, but after that it's your business, okay?”
Yang nods. “Thank you. Really.”
A hand wave, a gruff, “yeah, whatever,” and she's vanishing through the crowd.
Yang sits at the bar. Fidgets with her scroll. Sips her drink. People-watches. Right by her, two women are shifting lazily to the music, arms around each other. A third, all shaved head and chunky boots, is throwing darts into a board with casual accuracy whilst a woman with long hair and bright lipstick cheers her on.
It dawns on Yang slowly that there aren't really any guys here. Certainly none like the other bars, taking up all the space.
She scans over the couples dancing, the people sitting and standing and leaning, drinking and chatting and playing pool. They're wearing long dresses and mascara, flannel shirts and combat boots, everything outside and in-between.
This place is different. Yang feels small and pathetic that it took her this long to realise why. Feels strange and buzzy, too. She's never been anywhere like this before. She's scared there's a neon sign over her head blaring doesn't belong, because she doesn't, does she– so why is there also this pull under her skin like familiarity, like recognition?
She watches the woman with the shaved head pull out a chair, grin as her companion takes up the darts, catch a blown kiss in her hand. Watches her sit with her legs splayed wide. There's ease in every line of her posture.
It calls like an echo: this faint bell-chime of knowledge. As if there's a piece of Yang here, somewhere, somehow.
The stranger catches her looking, then. Yang feels heat crawl into her face, nestle in her cheeks. She's stared too long.
The stranger grins. Tips her head to Yang in a nod. It's small and firm, like acknowledgement, like familiarity. Like she's recognising Yang, too.
The feeling curls into her chest, swells. Rises steadily up into her throat. Half-warmth, half something a little like fear. And there's a bite to it, too, an aftertaste like jealousy. The tip of the woman's chin, the easy sprawl of her body. She looks like she belongs in her own skin so completely that nothing could ever shake her out of it. Like every piece of her fits perfectly together. Like she never stares in the mirror and isn't sure what to make of the person staring back.
The feeling burns through Yang, the embers of it smouldering between her ribs: she wants that.
It's not as if she hates what she sees in the mirror. She doesn't hate her clothes, her body. Even the way they move her through the world, the ways people see her... she doesn't hate that. Hates the people for it, sometimes, but she's learned how to work with it, how to use their assumptions to her advantage.
Yang doesn't hate herself. At least, not for those things. She's not uncomfortable in her skin. Not really. But that ease, that surety... the burn settles, but the ember still flickers, yearning shaded in dull orange and low heat.
The bartender comes back, another person following behind her. Long braids and muscular arms, tank top and low-slung pants, a thick chain necklace round their neck, fingers loaded with rings. There's a coiled readiness in the way they walk, simmering under their skin like they could have any threat floored in seconds. And yet there's still that same ease that hums through most of the people here: that comfort, that belonging.
Yang straightens her back. Sets her drink down and turns with the scroll ready in her hand.
“Hey, kid.” The boss leans against the bar top next to her, tilts their head in appraisal. “I heard you were looking for someone.”
Yang swallows. Almost stumbles over the, “yeah.” Holds the scroll out.
They study it intently for a moment. Zoom in, then shrug fluidly. “Sorry, never seen her.”
Yang deflates minutely. Can't hide the sag in her shoulders. It's late, she's tired. There are too many tangled feelings in her chest.
The boss (Owner? Manager?) takes another look at her. Takes pity, maybe, and Yang can't decide if she feels small or held by it. “Listen, if you're looking for information, you might wanna try Junior's. All kinds of folks are in and out of there.”
Yang nods, manages a grin. “Thanks.” She swallows the last of her drink, sets it back on the bar and stands to leave.
“Hey.”
Yang turns back.
“Be careful in there, kid.”
Her grin's real, this time. She adjusts Ember Celica on her wrists. “Trust me, I'll be fine.”
They grin back. Tip their chin at her, too. Something in her thrills, fucking sings at it. “Good luck.”
Yang nods back, the mimicry feeling strange and natural all at once. Turns and wends her way through the patrons, out of the door.
It's getting late. Ruby messages, asking where she is, and Yang resolves to head to Junior's tomorrow night.
She tries to settle into the familiar thrill of Bumblebee's engines, the rush of wind through her hair, but that other feeling's still there. That quieter rush, that little ache inside her.
She thinks about the bar the whole way home.
2
It's evening, her first day off the ship into Anima, and Yang's tired. Thirsty, too, which she tells herself is the draw of the place. She only brought the one water bottle. Hasn't been able to refill it since the boat.
And then this town. It's the biggest one she's been through, its clustered buildings and hints of nightlife all converging on this place. A bar with a glowing sign that's on the fritz, and people going in and out, and Yang's not naïve and seventeen anymore. She watches the clientele and recognises it for the place that it is.
She understands, now, sort of: why it felt so familiar before, even though the strangeness. Understands (maybe, halfway, almost–), because she watches the way some of them move, watches the nods and the stances and the way they sit, the way they take up space, maps it onto her own body. It clicks into place better this time. Because she's older. Because she gets it. Because she's dressed more like them, too.
Because– she reaches into her pocket, left-handed. Feels for the bottle cap. Tells herself for the hundredth time it's ridiculous to keep it. That thousands of people drink Sunflower Pop. Tries to sever the link, the thoughts that want to surface.
(Because there's a girl she might never see again, and an ache low in her heart.)
She swallows, squares her shoulders and resolves to stop hovering by Bumblebee like some kind of spy. She's caught a glance or two, standing here frozen. A quick look of concern that flickers away when they take her in, shrug, turn towards the door.
Yang feels something small and conflicted crawl up her throat, at the thought that she's so obvious. That they could take one look and read her uncertainty for what it is.
Curled fists. She misses the catharsis of it on her right. Misses the solid feeling of fingers curling into flesh. But there's something she's learning to love, too, about the fluid curve of metal. About the soft sound it makes.
She doesn't love the chafing, though. Shifts the arm in its socket as she walks through the door, trying to be subtle. It's her own fault, probably, for not taking it off enough, but it lessens the phantom pains, helps her feel more balanced. (And maybe she's still a little afraid to be looked at; maybe metal still garners fewer glances than absence.)
The place is smaller than the bar back in Vale, but the energy's similar, in a way. Sort of dim, almost cosy. This ease weaving through the air. Easy laughter, easy postures, easy flirting. Like everyone's come here to exhale.
Yang's not sure if she's exhaling or not. There's something about it that calls to her. Something that digs into her bones, whispers there. Something like home.
There's also something that aches. She sees a couple standing ahead of her at the bar, a woman with long dark hair leaning into her partner's shoulder, and–
It's not that she wants Blake here with her, not really. Not that she's picturing her. Not that she's thinking about her last time in a bar, clinking Sunflower Pop bottles, listening to Blake ramble about the books she loves– It's not that she thinks about her arm round Blake's waist, Blake's fingers curled through hers–
It's just... it's just that she looks around her, at this place and its newness and its familiarity, and she yearns to tell Blake about it. To have her partner back at her side, someone she could talk to about anything and everything, talk just to hear the rise and fall of her voice, talk–
And what did she share with you? whispers something small and vicious. It echoes red in her mind. Wields a cruel blade. Phantom pain flickers. Yang tries not to wince at it, as the dark-haired woman orders, as her partner scoops up both their drinks. How much was she hiding? How much did it really mean, when she left you behind so easily–
“Alright?” the bartender asks. Yang snaps back to where she is, curls her shaking hand at her side. “What can I get you?” A grin, a glance. She's beautiful, Yang thinks. Black hair curling round her cheeks, shining dark brown eyes. (Somewhere, gold flickers. Somewhere, she sees cat ears and the soft loop of a bow.)
Yang swallows the feelings rising in her throat. Glances at the chalkboard menu. At the taps, the bottles behind the bar. Beer, sake, soda. She sees Sunflower Pop and tries not to wince. Tries not to reach for her pocket.
“Virgin Strawberry Sunrise,” she says, because the bartender's eyes are expectant, and the familiar drink makes her think of summertime and Ruby. Of something safer than the ache.
The bartender nods. “You got it.”
She finds a stool at the corner of the bar, where it's dimmer, fewer people. Curls both hands around her glass to lift it. She's still afraid of the tremors. Afraid of her right arm not doing what she wants, afraid of the smashing of glass and the splinter of memories through her skull.
She drinks slowly, watches. Tries to look observant but not too curious. Not too desperate. Tries not to look like she's searching for fragments of herself everywhere she goes. Like she's not a sister without her sister, a team member without her team, a fighter without her partner; like she's not still relearning her own body, like she's not trying to fit wants into the patchwork of herself that she's only just started acknowledging.
(Like she doesn't wish Blake was here with her. Like she doesn't hate herself for the wishing–)
“All alone tonight?”
Yang almost starts. Turns from where her gaze has gone unfocused on the people dancing. There's someone standing to her left, resting a hand lightly on the bartop. She looks about Yang's age, a few years younger than most of the people here. Dark brown hair curls down her back; her eyes are the deep blue of a clear sky at dusk. She's wearing a black top that's cut to show her midriff, a short, dark red skirt, earrings that sparkle. The lights shimmer off the gloss on her lips.
Yang realises she's staring. Feels her cheeks heat and affects a casual pose. “Oh– uh– yeah. Alone. I'm alone.”
Smooth, Yang. Congratulations.
The other girl grins. “Lucky me.” She holds out her right hand, nails painted silver. Yang takes it. Feels the faint pressure of her grip and watches twilight eyes flicker briefly over her prosthesis. Her shoulders tense, but the stranger doesn't tug her hand away. Doesn't keep staring. “I'm Océane.”
“Yang,” Yang says back.
(Something small and broken whispers echoes of a dormitory, a girl reading by candlelight, that reticent gaze: Blake.
Well, Blake, I'm Yang, Ruby's older sister–)
“You're new in town, right, Yang?” Her mouth curls around the name like she's tasting it, testing it out.
Yang nods. “Just passing through. I'm leaving tomorrow.”
Océane twists her lips regretfully. “That's too bad.” She slides into the stool beside Yang. Turns towards her. Their knees press together. “Wanna make the most of tonight?” She smiles, slow and deliberate. There's a twinkle of something playful in her eyes.
And it's– it's not as if there's no dart of heat, no curiosity. No little thrill tingling over Yang's skin that a woman could see her here and choose her to speak to, to lean in close. That someone could look at her with interest that isn't the skin-crawling kind. That isn't the leering older guys.
It's not as if Océane isn't beautiful. It's not as if Yang might not be interested, couldn't be interested. She's still piecing it together, but there's that whispered rightness about this place, these people, the way she dresses, whatever it is that Océane sees in her.
And yet. There's that aching absence in her. Océane's hair is the wrong shade, her eyes evening-soft and not sun-bright. She moves with an open confidence that's beautiful, grins wide and shining. But Yang thinks of reserve. Thinks of the slow quirk of a harder-earned smile, tucked away like a secret.
That thing chokes her, curls around her throat. Locks fingers deep into her heart and digs in.
It's not as if she loves Blake.
No, that's wrong. Of course she loves Blake.
It's not as if she's in love with her.
It's just– (It's just that pull, that yearn, the magnetic draw of her. It's just that they clicked like they'd always been meant to be by each other's sides.)
And Yang realises she's frozen again, locked tight.
Océane's eyes flicker over her. Her smile softens. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry,” Yang says, and she's not even sure what she's apologising for. “I...”
A fluid shrug, her grin so easy. “There's no pressure. Sorry if I came on too strong.”
Yang shakes her head. “No, it's not that, I just–”
She swallows. Sifts through her truths for something palatable. Something that's not like cracking her ribs open and bearing her heart. I'm just so new to this. I don't know how I fit in here. I'm still trying to make a home out of my body. I still have nightmares most nights. I lost people. I lost pieces of me. There's a girl in my head who won't leave.
All the truths are too raw. She reaches for cliché instead. “I'm just not in the right place.”
Océane nods. “I get it. I had a bad break-up a couple of years ago. Felt the same way.”
“It wasn't a break-up,” Yang blurts, and wants to vanish. Wants to find somewhere small and dark to curl in around the ache in her chest and never be seen again.
Océane's grin tilts. “Didn't say yours was. I was just saying I get the feeling. Even if the reason's different.” She leans in. “If you want to elaborate on the not-break-up, though... I've been told I'm a good listener.”
And Yang shrugs, like the weight of it can just slide off her shoulders. Like it doesn't taste bitter in her mouth. “My partner left. That's all.” Hasty, stumbling– “I mean, fighting partner. We weren't– she's my best friend. Was. Is. I don't know.”
Océane nods. There's something too understanding in her eyes. Yang feels raw. Feels like her skin's been scraped away. She feels understood in a way that nags, itches. The urge to hide gets stronger. The urge to slap on a grin, make a joke or a pun or showboat somehow, get back to the ease of lighthearted facade: I'm Yang, let's fight.
“Sorry. Sounds rough. D'you want to talk about her?”
Yang imagines it: trying to explain everything Blake is, to this person she's never met before. Wonders how she'd begin to find the words.
She shrugs. Shakes her head and half-smiles. “You don't wanna hear that stuff.”
“Can I buy you another drink, at least?”
Yang grins at her. Appreciates the ease with which she lets the subject go. “Sure.”
They talk a little longer. Yang keeps it light, and Océane doesn't pry, doesn't push for more.
Her friend comes to find her eventually, giddy and swaying on her feet. Océane apologises, stands up to help her.
“Good to meet you, Yang,” she says. There's still that sparkle in her eyes. “I hope things work out.” And then, that tilting grin: “If you're ever back in town, come find me.”
Yang nods. “Thanks. Do you need a hand or anything?”
A head shake, a final grin, and then she's gone, her friend's arm slung around her shoulder.
Yang swallows the last dregs from her glass. Goes back to watching the patrons, still with that quiet ache.
An older couple stand at the pool table. One of them's taking shots, flexing her arms in a cracked leather jacket. Her partner watches. Laughs with her head tipped back, silver-streaked hair flowing down.
Yang watches them and yearns. Feels that spark of possibility, that ember of reflection. Sees herself one day: older, broader-shouldered, at home in her skin, smile lines crinkling her face. Sees someone watching her, laughing at her jokes. Grinning as she bows and holds open the door.
Tells herself it means nothing that the picture's not complete without wondering how Blake will look one day.
She leaves feeling half-lost and half-home. Leaves with the ache still tugging in her chest.
3
It takes them a while to find the bar.
Yang's still not used to Vacuo and its labyrinthine streets. The maze of narrow alleyways interspersed with broader thoroughfares, the face of the city changing regularly with the weather and the Grimm attacks. Coco told her where to find this place, but she was vague, with the ease of cool remove and enough familiarity with the neighbourhood to have forgotten how hard it is to memorise.
“I think it was this way?” Yang suggests, pointing them right.
Blake grins at her. Swings their linked hands playfully. “You're lost, aren't you?”
“Never,” Yang denies, grinning back at her.
“Well,” Blake leans in, conspiratorial and close. Yang feels her heart strain at her ribcage, overflowing. She wonders if it's possible to get used to Blake. “If you were, I might have overheard Coco say it was left of the Weeping Wall if you approach from Shade.”
Yang nudges her. “You weren't supposed to be listening.”
Blake shrugs. “Cat ears, remember? Not my fault.” She flicks the ears in question innocently. “Anyway, you're not exactly the quietest person I know.”
“I can be quiet,” Yang argues. “Subtle, even.”
Blake laughs. “Whatever you say.”
Yang glares at her, then brings their clasped hands to her lips, drops a kiss on the back of Blake's, because– she doesn't know, exactly. Something about being able to exist with her. Being able to fall into the ease of their old banter without the secrets, without the unspoken feelings simmering between them. Something about being able to joke with her and hold her hand all at once. The old friendship and the old feelings and the new spokenness of them: all layered over each other, translucent, pieces melding into one.
They've circled back on themselves another several times by the time they find the bar (though admittedly fewer than they had before Blake took pity and admitted she had some idea of the way).
The sun's finally done vanishing as they make it through the door, the chill of the desert night setting in. Yang's grateful for the warm air that greets them inside the bar.
She looks around. They garner some glances. Eyes that pick them out as not being locals; some that recognise them, probably, from fighting off Grimm around the city. But there's nothing hostile in the looks, not here. And Yang– Yang looks back at the people. Looks at the community that she finally feels able to call hers, with that recognition of something shared.
She watches Blake watch them, too. Sees something familiar in her eyes, something wide and new as dawn. She thinks she must've looked like that, the first time. (Blake says she's never been to a place like this. Side effect of going straight from the White Fang to Beacon, exacerbated by introversion, “but I'd like to go with you,” and Yang had started planning this right that second.)
Blake is stunning with it, the same way she is with everything. Yang's heart carves out a new space for Blake like this, just a little wonderstruck, a thin tension in her shoulders relaxing. Like she feels the way they fit. Like the two of them are clicking into place here, together.
Yang grins as she watches Blake watch. Bobs a joking bow when Blake turns back to her. “Care for a drink, my lady?”
Blake gives that little you're ridiculous head shake. Smiles her secret slow-quirking smile. “Sure.” And then, her eyes bright: “Do you think they sell Sunflower Pop?”
Yang feels her grin fade soft. Remembers the ache in her chest. Remembers the sharp ridges of the cap in her pocket. Heads up to the bar whilst Blake chooses where to sit.
There's a woman with a ponytail and rolled-up shirt sleeves, standing with her elbows resting on the bartop, keys clipped to her belt loop. She glances at Yang. Dips her chin in a nod, that acknowledgement that thrills with newness yet rings with familiarity. Yang nods back. Tries to tone down her half-starstruck smile, some child inside her bouncing at the recognition, uncurling scrappy fists like the world's less hard, for a moment.
The bartender turns to her, then, grin as neon-bright as her hair. Turns out they do sell a Sunflower Pop equivalent.
Yang grips cold bottles and weaves her way between bodies. Predictably, Blake's chosen a corner, but they can see most of the bar from there, and Yang would sit under the table if that was what made Blake happy. Also on the ceiling, or straight back out on the street, or– anywhere, really.
She hands Blake her drink, leaving fingerprints smudged on the damp glass. Refrigeration must be a priority in the daytime heat.
“They didn't have the same brand,” she says, half-shrugs. “But I have it on bartender authority it's the same drink.”
Blake grins. “Oh, didn't you know? I exclusively drink name-brand. Sorry.”
“Seems a little Weiss of you.” Yang considers for a moment. Taps her chin in faux-thought. “Wait, I forgot you were a princess.”
Blake laughs, shaking her head. “Inaccurate.”
“Little bit accurate.”
“Not even slightly.”
“Okay, Your Highness. Whatever you say.”
Blake swats her arm. “Drink your soda.”
Yang salutes. “Whatever Her Majesty wills.”
They spend the evening like that, laughing and clinking pop bottles, Blake's fingers curling round Yang's on the table top.
The woman from earlier turns from the dart board a couple of hours in, her high score still in place. Takes a few steps closer. “Hey, kid. Want a game?” She flashes a rueful grin at their questioning looks. “My usual crowd isn't here tonight. Come try your hand.”
Yang grins. Raises both, catches the stranger's eyes take in the difference between them. “Which one?”
The woman shrugs, unfazed. “Whatever you like.”
Yang glances at Blake. “Wanna play?”
Blake tilts her head with a smile. “I've had enough target practice this week. Make it a win for me, though.”
Yang nods. Rolls her shoulders like she's heading into a battle. Takes the dart in her right hand, thanks hours of training and practise for the accuracy she can get with her prosthesis.
She makes a show of it. Bows to Blake and courts applause with every high score. Blake meets her halfway, claps and smiles; blows a kiss when Yang scores a bulls-eye. Yang almost trips over at that, but manages to style out her flail like she's catching the kiss instead. She thinks they might be one of those insufferable couples. She can't bring herself to care.
She wins by a thread. Shakes her opponent's hand, then goes back to Blake like a hero home from slaying Grimm. “You saw that, right?”
Blake stands. Presses a kiss to her lips. “Extraordinary. You only missed the board once.”
“I was looking at you,” Yang protests. Wraps her arms around Blake's waist and tries to hide her smile.
Blake smirks. “When aren't you?”
“And how would you know, unless you're looking back?”
Blake kisses her again. Yang thinks she's trying to shut her up. Decides she doesn't really care.
It's like an exhale, kissing in this place. Finally feeling at home in her own skin, surrounded by other people who get it, people who look and dress and act and love just a bit like her.
She thinks of being seventeen and scared, eighteen and heartsick, looking round a place like this. Thinks of watching the patrons half-afraid, yearning for their ease to be hers. Yearning for someone by her side to take in the newness with her.
Stands here with Blake, and– it's still new. She still has more to learn, to see, to know. Will still spend the years unearthing new pieces of herself.
But the place feels like hers. Her skin feels like hers.
She slides her hand through Blake's and their fingers fit like puzzle pieces. She looks at the walls around the two of them, and thinks they fit there just the same.