A/N: TW for discussion of abuse.
Most of James's rationalizations for children "becoming" gay are, unfortunately, common. Enjoy, I guess.
Fuck this.
Yang is strongly tempted to walk out now, information be damned. If she can't do that, she's not going to have a decent outlet for her anger, and she's going to end up snapping Glynda's stupid whip over her knee, telling her exactly what she thinks, and punching a few holes in the wall for good measure. Yang isn't subtle when she gets angry.
"Are you all right?" Ren asks, approaching her and sitting down on the floor beside her.
"Oh, yes, I've never been better. What the fuck do you think?"
To his credit, Ren simply sighs and pats her shoulder consolingly.
"Yang, I know this isn't particularly enjoyable, but look on the bright side. You've explained what you're here to do, and it's a very noble decision to suffer for others."
"Nobility isn't going to make me feel better. Punching someone in the eye will."
"Think of yourself like a martyr," Ren intones. "They suffered and died for their cause and never once did they raise a hand even to defend themselves."
"That's victim talk. We're not victims. We're, I don't know, nobly restraining ourselves because it would be beneath us to care about Glynda."
Ren smiles.
"If that's how you choose to view your time here, and that's how you get through, I support you."
"But I'm a filthy homosexual destroying the American family! How can you possibly support me?"
And, just like that, Yang's okay. Well, okay is a strong term. But if she's okay enough to make jokes, she's okay enough to survive in here.
…
Group therapy. Because they need to find the root of their psychological issues before beginning to heal.
Blake settles into the corner, as far away from James and his clipboard as she can get. She's next to a small window that has been painted a pale blue, but she can still see outlines through it. Glynda is outside with a watering can, painstakingly dampening each plastic flower.
"Yang. Care to share any ideas you've had about your root?"
Yang shrugs.
"Shit, I don't know. Girls are pretty."
She winks at Blake, the way she's been doing all day. Blake ignores her. She'll do her best to get out of here alive, which means playing along and not standing out.
"That attitude is not helpful to yourself or to any of us. Think. Were there any events in your early childhood that may have given you – unconventional ideas of male and female roles?"
Yang winces. Her cocky demeanor lessens slightly, and she glances around before mumbling,
"My mom walked out on us when I was a kid."
"Perfect!" James exclaims. "Your mother deserting her position made you subconsciously believe that motherhood is not sacred, and you turned to lesbianism to fill the void that a lack of a mother figure left in your life."
These theories are suspiciously Oedipal, not to mention nonsensical. Blake has family tragedy aplenty that she doesn't feel like talking about, so she'll make something up.
"Sun, root?"
"Born in France," Sun says immediately. Hilarious.
"Of course. Exposure to such a culture of depravity and greed at a young age would cause symptoms."
Sun's eyebrows knit together, then he shrugs.
"Whatever you say. You're the one who says he's a psychologist."
James ignores the slight and turns to Ruby.
"Your root?"
"My mother died when I was young, and I was left with no positive female role models, and thus assumed the traditional role of a man," Ruby says instantly. She's prepared.
"Excellent," James says curtly, and makes a note on his clipboard. "Samuel."
"Wait, who's – never mind," Ruby says.
"My mother let me play in her clothes when I was little," Nora says. "I loved it, and I realized that it wasn't just dress-up when I was older. It felt right."
"That's enough. Exposure to needless femininity at an early age encouraged depravity, clearly. Ren, your root?"
"My mother got married in pants," Ren says quietly, and even Blake has to suppress a smile.
"Of course, of course. A typical way to get confused about societal roles. Pyrrha?"
Pyrrha is still visibly uncomfortable at being here, more so than the others.
"Well, I've been in sports from a young age," she begins, "and, after each practice, we'd change together. I'd see their – bodies."
"Pyrrha, that's not a root, that's what children do after sports," James says. He looks just as bored of this mockery of a therapy session as the rest of them.
"I can't think of anything else," Pyrrha insists.
James sighs.
"We'll move on. Jaune, there's a note that you grew up with seven sisters. Undoubtedly confusing to you, and likely what led to homosexuality. Blake?"
Just make something up about your mother not hugging you enough when you were a child, or you accidentally picked up a toy for the wrong gender once and it turned you gay.
"Oh, there's another note on the chart. History of abuse by romantic partner, which undoubtedly made you scared of men and made you turn to lesbianism to find a facsimile of true emotional connection."
He shouldn't have brought that up.
Blake doesn't like to talk about that history.
She'd been desperate to get out of the house for once in her life. He'd been everything she'd wanted. He'd been rebellious and charismatic and to her young and naïve self, everything. She'd thought she was an adult, old enough to make her own decisions, and she'd been wrong.
He was too charismatic. They didn't believe her until she showed them the bruises across her throat. He never went to prison, because he was still young and had so much potential and the jury didn't want to ruin his life.
"Blake? You okay?"
Yang is looking at her, worry in her eyes. Blake realizes her fingers have fastened themselves in the arms of the chair and torn it open.
"I'm fine," she says. "I should go."
She runs.
She finds a spot tucked under the pink picket fence that surrounds the property, mostly hidden from prying eyes. The perfectly manicured grass trails off, replaced by crabgrass and mallow. Blake tries to calm her breathing.
Yang finds her an hour or so later and smiles uncomfortably.
"Hey. Glad I found you. Are you sure things are okay?"
"I'm fine," Blake says again, huddling deeper into the corner. Hell, maybe it wasn't even that bad, like some people said. At least he cared, he cared so much, he was too protective. Maybe it's normal. Maybe she should have expected it.
Yang extends one hand to tentatively pat Blake's shoulder. Her smile is gone.
"I get it," she says. "I don't like to talk about my mom. I remember a lot about her, more than you'd expect. I remember she was always the tough one, the fiery one. I remember her practicing her martial arts in the living room and me trying to join in, and she would be so proud of me because I was a fighter."
Blake nods. Yang is a fighter; she's seen that.
"And when she left, I thought – I thought it was my fault. I thought I'd been too weak, and I had to be stronger, but I was – I was so weak." Yang breaks down in sobs and Blake pulls her into an embrace without thinking.
"Thank you," Yang whispers, voice rough. "I don't talk about it, because I have to be the strong one, still. I have to keep protecting Ruby. But being here, things are all wrong, and I can't be strong enough to save you from this."
Blake isn't sure when it switched to her comforting Yang and not the other way around.
"Yang, you don't need to do this alone," she says. "We're here to fight for you. I'm here to help you."
They stay there for a long time, talking quietly, and Blake is all right.