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"You have a visitor after the show tonight," is how Weiss greets her just before they start up their soundcheck, typing something furiously on her phone. Blake raises an eyebrow, lifts her guitar strap over her head and onto her shoulder. Lighting flickers above them, reds, whites, yellows.
"What, like a fan meet-and-greet?" she asks, plucking at a string. Sun glances up from where he's sitting on an amp, tuning his own guitar.
"I thought we were only doing that for the second show," he says.
"We are," Weiss says, and doesn't flinch at the sound of Ilia slamming down on her snare, tapping relentlessly on the hi-hat. "This is a special occasion."
Sun frowns. "Special for who?"
Weiss sighs, but Blake's looking at her expectantly, waiting for an explanation. She says, "I can't tell you who you're meeting. Legally. She's a fan, so I set this up as a...favor. For someone else."
"What?" Blake asks.
"I don't get it," Sun says.
Weiss lifts a hand to her temple. "Okay, look," she says, dropping her arm, and raises her voice to the band. "Ilia, stop, for like, one second, please--" Ilia lowers her drumsticks, sticks out her tongue "--this is important. Someone famous is a fan of your band. I have met this person a few times through a mutual...friend. I have set this up as a favor for said friend. I can't tell you their name because we can't risk it getting out, but they will be at the show tonight, and you will be meeting them afterward."
"Is this friend someone you're trying to seduce?" Blake asks with a wry grin, Sun sniggering in tune behind her. Somehow, Weiss is always so predictable.
"You are so tactless," Weiss hisses, eyes darting to Neptune, standing casually with his bass draped around his back.
"Aw, he's over it," Sun says, waving her concerns away. "When your girlfriend realizes she's a lesbian, you tend to move on pretty quickly."
"Yeah, c'mon, Weiss," Neptune says, smiling easily. "It's been long enough, right? I'm not into girls that aren't into me. This ship has sailed, baby."
"Jesus Christ," Weiss says, flushing from annoyance and not humiliation. One of the stagehands moves around her, fighting a laugh. "How did I ever date you?"
"Compulsory heterosexuality," Blake says helpfully.
"So," Ilia directs them back on track, "someone famous is a fan of us?"
"It shocked me as well," Weiss says. "Clearly, they're of poor taste."
"You manage us," Neptune points out.
"Aw, she loves us," Sun says, throwing an arm around her shoulders. His guitar digs into her side and she squirms away. "She just doesn't know how to show affection."
"I'm sure her seduction's gonna go really well, then," Ilia says as she focuses on her cymbal, adjusts the height.
The embarrassment's apparently too sharp an edge. "Ugh!" Weiss squeals, showing through her cracks. "I've had it with you! Musicians! Artists! I can't stand any of you!"
Even Blake laughs at her dramatic outburst, plucking mindlessly at her strings. "Okay, okay. We're behaving," she says. "Relax before you blow an artery or something."
"Is that even, like, possible?"
"It happened on that one episode of Grey's Anatomy."
Weiss breathes in and out steadily, trying to calm herself, ignoring their stupid, pointless conversation. She says lowly, dangerously, "You will have a few minutes to clean up after the show; you will all look somewhat presentable; and Sun, you will wear deodorant."
He raises his hands defensively. "Sheesh, chill out. Why are you so uptight all the time?"
"Someone has to be," she says. "Like anyone else could manage this mess."
"Look, we got it, Weiss," Neptune says, ever the calm in the face of a storm. "We'll be cool."
She meets his eyes across the stage, nods once. "Okay," she says. Well, she always could count on him. "Thanks."
Her phone buzzes. She glances down at the caller ID, turns away, answers in a low voice. Blake watches her walk off, unfazed, unassuming. It's always something with Weiss, estranged from her family, constantly defiant and rebellious, somehow well-intentioned along the way in spite of her faults.
Ilia catches her eye and shrugs; Neptune begins sneaking notes from his bass casually, absentmindedly. Well, Blake'll let her have this one.
--
"Any idea who it could be?" Blake asks Ilia in the wings before the show, scrolling through their phones.
Ilia shakes her head. "Nope," she says. "Not even a guess. Whoever it is slipped in right under the radar. I haven't checked our indirects, though." She proceeds to type into the Twitter search bar, apparently doing exactly that.
The backstage lights flicker as their cue, and then shut to a low dim; their stage manager calls, "Menagerie, on stage, lights in five - four--"
Ilia lets out a gasp, but Blake can't pick up what she says over the roar of the crowd, and then they're settling into position; the lights shoot on, colored strobe bursts flaring up around the room like fireworks. She comes in with the first note, Sun slamming down on the second, Ilia building on the crash cymbal; the crowd screams, chanting, singing along. It's blinding, overwhelming, and to Blake, it feels better than coming home.
--
Weiss sneaks her in the back along with the help of security. She skips the opening act, waits until five minutes before the show to even enter the building. Fortunately, Weiss says, the entrance is secluded enough that the paparazzi can't even get a good glimpse of it, let alone access it. Yang only shrugs, following her up a set of stairs to a balcony. She's long used to the flashes of cameras, the snapping photographs.
"You really came alone?" Weiss asks. "That's an unusual way to enjoy a concert. I thought you'd at least bring your assistant."
"I gave her the night off," Yang says. "And I'm not alone. You're here, right? What do you normally do during a show?"
"Panic," Weiss says. "Hope nothing goes wrong."
Yang laughs. "Well, tonight, you're gonna spend it with me," she says, tossing an arm lazily over Weiss's shoulders. "Think of it as networking."
Weiss sighs, but doesn't protest. She's probably one of the few people in the world who'd respond to a personal request from Yang with vague irritation. She says, "I suppose there's no point in arguing."
"Nope," Yang says, plopping down on a red velvet couch, rubbing the cushion. She glances around the space; there's a curtain hanging to her left, obscuring her from the sight of the other guests, and a bar sits along the wall behind her. Her view of the stage is at an angle, but she can still see perfectly; she's not fussed about being close when she'll get her own time with the band afterward. Fame has its perks.
"This is your private bar," Weiss continues. "They'll come up here when the show's over to unwind and have a few drinks."
"I get to go backstage, though, right?" Yang asks earnestly, looking up at her. "That's the coolest part."
"Like you even have to ask," Weiss says, rolling her eyes. She's long past façades. "You're you. You'll get whatever you want."
"See," Yang says, getting to her feet again and grinning, "this is why I like you. You tell it like it is without being afraid of hurting my feelings or whatever. Which is also why I'm letting you hit on my sister." She glances to the bartender. "Hey, can I get a - what're your ciders - Strongbow, please?" she asks, and the man nods, grabs a bottle from the fridge.
Weiss flushes furiously. "Oh my God," she says, more mortified at the observation than the fact that she's dismissing a world-famous movie star. "Is it really that obvious?"
"Yeah," Yang tells her, but the lights dim suddenly, cutting off whatever joke she'd been about to crack next; her stomach drops, flutters like it's trying to stay afloat in open water. She's not a regular with nerves. "Oh my God," she says, leaning against the railing, breathless.
"You really are a fan, aren't you?" Weiss asks, almost boredly conversational, Yang's excitement a vibrant contrast. "Why?"
The stage is awash in color again, and standing under the flashing lights, Yang can make out the outlines of four people: Sun on the left, Neptune on the right, Ilia in the back on the drums, and--
"Look at her," Yang says in Weiss's ear, pointing to Blake, front and center, wearing what looks like leather pants, black boots, and a white cropped t-shirt with a pattern Yang can't make out. "She's why. Holy shit."
Seeing Blake in-person has a curious effect on Yang, regardless of the distance - it's like her chest is struggling to spread itself open, like her heart has hands and is suddenly uncomfortable of where it is, where it's been forever. Something's not enough. She licks her lips, feels them dry; she focuses on Blake's, finds them inevitable.
Weiss allows the barest hint of a smile. "Oh, of course," she says flatly. "Blake Belladonna, every lesbian's hottest, most unobtainable fantasy."
"Except yours," Yang retorts, watching Blake's fingers strum deftly at her guitar, trying not to think about what else her hands can do. "You're not a very good lesbian."
"She's not my type," Weiss says.
"Jesus Christ," Yang says, enraptured as her voice kicks in with the music, sultry and low and sexy. "She's sure as fuck mine."
--
They play the perfect set, do two encores; there's nothing like L.A. crowds, something Neptune swears by and not just because he's biased. There's a camaraderie, he says. We all know this city. We know how it devours.
And here I thought I was the lyricist, Blake had replied at the time, but now - staring out at the sea of hands, the swaying bodies, the way people shout along like the music's their only lifeline, only echo of connection - Blake thinks she has to agree. The vibe's more tangible here; anything can happen, it says, but only if you choose to let it; oh, touch me or let me go.
Sun dumps a bottle of water over Neptune's head the second they're backstage, grappling him in a headlock; Weiss, who'd appeared at the end of the show, screeches at the two of them as Blake walks by, laughing. Sun replies by squirting water at her, and she flips him off, escaping to the tranquility of her dressing room. Ilia's already inside, running a wet towel across her face, her neck; she's changed into a different black muscle tee and her favorite pair of torn-up shorts, Timberlands laced up and a flannel around her waist. She hurriedly brushes her hair into a ponytail, clearly trying to stay on Weiss's good side.
"Good one tonight," she says.
"Yeah," Blake agrees. "Are you showering, or…?"
"Nah, I'm okay," she says, harried, hurriedly grabbing her bag. "Toweled off. It's all yours."
"Great, thanks," Blake says, but Ilia's already out the door, strangely frantic. Blake's still too wound up and thinks nothing of it.
--
Weiss has Yang wait until the space empties out a bit, fans lining up at the merch tables and piling through the exits, still chattering enthusiastically, singing bits of songs. Yang drains the last of her drink as Weiss comes into view from the stairs, beckoning her over. "Okay," she says. "Come on. It's clear enough."
Yang follows her obediently, adjusting her hat back on her head. Weiss tuts under her breath. "You have the gayest fashion sense," she says. "A snapback? Really? You must drive your stylist insane."
"We can't all be lipstick lesbians like you, princess," Yang says, grinning at her back. There's something so fun about Weiss; her novelty, maybe, or her complete lack of awareness for things so second-nature to Yang. She says whatever she wants as long as she deems it appropriate, her flair for dramatics rearing its head at the drop of pin. How she treats Yang like she's just another person, almost a friend, the importance coming not from her celebrity status but from being Ruby's older sister.
"So what are you?" Weiss asks, peeking carefully around the corner, just in case there are any stragglers; all she sees is the stage crew and continues, nodding politely at one of them.
"I'm whatever is between butch and femme," Yang answers breezily. "I don't mind dressing up once in awhile. Like, I'm not into suits or anything."
Weiss sighs for what feels like the tenth time. "It's called hipster."
"Hipsters stole their aesthetic from us," Yang says with conviction. "You're so uncultured, Weiss."
"Excuse me," Weiss says, clearly offended, leading her through the wings. "Sorry it took me until my early twenties to realize I wasn't into men."
"I'll make you a powerpoint," Yang says. "Get you up to speed on all the gay trends."
Weiss hits her with an eye-roll equal to the force of the world spinning, unable to contain her distaste for the current topic despite being the one to start it. She points out the band's instruments instead - Ilia's drums are in the middle of being packed up, and a stagehand walks by carrying Neptune's bass - before they round the corner and are immediately zeroed in on.
"There's the Ice Queen," a voice calls from in front of them, and Yang looks over Weiss's shoulder to find Sun with his arms spread wide, standing side-by-side with Ilia. "And our honored guest is--"
He starts the sentence as a joke, but his eyes widen comically when he realizes it's her behind Weiss; his jaw falls slack, words trailing off, not to be picked up again. There's the silence she's so familiar with, stunned and caught.
"Oh," Ilia says hoarsely. "Woah. It really is you."
"Hey," Yang says easily, tossing up a wave. She's used to this reaction. "Loved the show, guys. Thanks for hanging around to meet me."
"Yo, what!" Sun exclaims, face lighting up brighter than any stage. "This is dope! Yang Xiao Long?! Didn't you just win an Oscar?! And you're a fan of us?"
"I am," she says, smiling. Sun's energy is vibrant, simple to play off of, fit into. "I love your music."
"Dude!" Sun says enthusiastically. "I love your movies! We watch your shit on the bus all the time! This is so cool--"
Weiss interrupts with, "Where are Neptune and Blake?"
"I'm here," Neptune calls, stepping out of his dressing room, tucking his phone back into his pocket. He glances up at the group. "Oh, what the fu--"
"It's Yang Xiao Long!" Sun says again.
"I can see that," Neptune answers, shocked. "Dude, what?!"
Yang laughs, amazed to find it genuine. They're actually funnier in their response to her than what she usually gets; no meekness, no shyness. They're boisterous and wild and uncaring of their own appearances, like they know they're starstruck and they don't care at all. "Hey," she says.
"Oh, we're being rude," Ilia says, and extends a hand warmly. "Hey, I'm Ilia."
"Sun."
"Neptune," Neptune says, though it sounds like he almost forgets his own name. Yang shakes each of their hands in turn, surprised at the easy turn of her mouth. She counts it as a weight lifted.
"Nice to meet you," she says, and she actually means it.
"You know, you don't look like a movie star," Sun says as he examines her, stroking his chin. Neptune throws a hand up in front of his face dramatically.
"Ignore him," he tells her, "for he knows not what he says."
"No, thank you," Yang says, entertained by their theatrics. It's funnier coming from people who don't act for a living. "Honestly, that's kind of the goal, most of the time."
"Well, we don't have to stand awkwardly in the wings," Weiss says. "I'm going to check in with security. Sun, why don't you give Yang a quick tour while you wait for Blake - Neptune, Ilia, you can both go upstairs. Let's not crowd the crew while they're trying to clean up."
"Yes ma'am," Neptune says, saluting; Ilia follows him off-stage, punching his shoulder and whispering to him passionately, her poorly-contained elation finally spilling out of her.
Yang watches them walk off with a grin, and finally turns back to Sun, who's mirroring her expression.
"So," he says, spreading his arms, "this is backstage. I'd show you our instruments but I think they've been packed - you saw them? Great - this is the soundboard--" he shows her a device with multicolored flashing lights, various knobs and dials "--but I don't know how it works, so don't touch it. That's mine and Neptune's dressing room--" he leads her to an open door, and she glances in; it's a small room with a bathroom, obviously meant for quick changes and breaks rather than hanging out "--and the green room's here, between our room and the girls' room."
"Cool," Yang says, her sincerity unmasked; she doesn't spend a lot of time backstage at concerts and it's genuinely interesting to her. It's a life she doesn't live, hasn't even acted.
He pushes open the door to a wider space, filled with couches and a small kitchen, TV mounted on the wall. He points to a bowl sitting on the coffee table filled with snacks. "I think there are still some Oreos in the box if you want some."
Yang snickers. "I'm good," she says, "but thanks."
Sun shrugs harmlessly. "Wrong call," he jokes, but they move on. "So, what're your favorite songs of ours?"
"Oh, man." Yang exhales as she contemplates, though it doesn't take as much thought as she pretends it does. She's got to save some face. "I actually love your entire album, but my play count on 'Burning the Candle' is higher than I'd like to admit." She sticks her tongue against the inside of her cheek. "And 'First Step', 'Lessons Learned', and 'Painting the Town'…"
Sun laughs. "You really are a fan."
"I told you!" Yang says, gesturing in front of her, unable to contain her honesty. "I'm not, like, fucking with you or something - I love you guys. I listen to your album constantly. I'm obsessed with Blake's voice." The last sentence slips out accidentally, but she doesn't make anything of it; she'd heard Sun was dating her, hadn't found the proof. She should've asked Weiss about it.
"Aren't we all obsessed with Blake," he says dryly, and stops walking for a second, slipping his phone out of his back pocket; he raises an eyebrow at the message, glances over at Yang and points at a door. "I've gotta make a call real quick," he says, "but that's the next stop on Sun's Incredible Backstage Tour, so how about I meet you inside in a sec? It's a rehearsal space."
"Sure, no problem," Yang says, understanding the demands of fame. She walks towards the door; it's plain, unassuming, just like the rest of them. She rotates the handle, pushing inward, and steps inside without paying much attention.
And promptly stops in her tracks, the door swinging closed behind her.
Standing in front of her, with her back to Yang - her almost bare back - is Blake Belladonna.
--
The door opens as she's halfway through pulling her tan cardigan over her shoulders, adjusting her crop top. She sighs heavily, used to the interruption. "Sun," she starts irritatedly, "please learn how to knock, I've told you a million--" and turns around midway through, words falling out of her mouth and shattering there. She freezes in place, fingers still on the hem of her top.
Because it isn't Sun who'd barged into her dressing room without asking.
It's a woman, but it isn't just any woman; Blake recognizes her instantly, though there isn't a person alive who wouldn't. She's on the cover of every magazine, her face somewhere on a billboard just down Santa Monica Boulevard, lighting up the Sunset Strip. She's in a film Blake saw just last week with Ilia, both of them sighing wistfully every time she appeared in a scene, opened her mouth, turned her head. What Blake can't comprehend - what she can't reconcile - is why globally acclaimed movie star Yang Xiao Long is here.
The first thing Blake thinks is that the screen doesn't do her justice. She's unbelievably beautiful, almost unearthly, and Blake can't rationalize the sudden curling in the pit of her stomach or the way the air vacates her lungs; Yang's just standing there with her lips parted in awe and eyes somewhat wide, blonde hair spilling out from under her black-burgundy snapback, over her shoulders and down her back. She's wearing maroon skinny jeans with black Doc Martens, and a white shirt with a melting yin-yang print under a leather jacket. Her hands are shoved in her pockets, and she's just staring, entirely caught off-guard.
"Um," she says dumbly, still gazing blankly at Blake.
"Holy shit," Blake exhales, meeting her eyes.
It's not a variation of starstruck that holds Blake bound. It's that Blake's suddenly, incomprehensibly sure that she knows her, that she's met her a thousand times; not like seeing an old friend, but like an ex, maybe. There's a familiarity she can't explain, an intimacy. Her heart beats in her mouth, at the top of her spine, pounds against the curve of her thumb. Something unfolds in her, spreading and narrowing, and she's strangely off-balance as if the entire world has titled a degree without warning. Her heels are different inches. The sky isn't where she left it.
"Hi," Yang says breathlessly, looking like she's still trying to process what's going on.
"Hi," Blake says, inexplicably enthralled just sharing the same space.
"I'm sorry," Yang says, forcing the words out, "about - uh - Sun told me I should - um--"
"Sun does that," Blake says, because why would she possibly care about that when it's lead to this. "It's - it's fine."
The clarity seems to come back to Yang a little bit - her stare focuses, throat closing over a swallow. She slips her hands out of her pockets, lets them hang loose; Blake watches her knuckles flex, her fingers long and inviting. "Um," she says again. "We don't - do we - do we know each other? I mean - know each other, not just--"
"I don't know," Blake says, understanding her question perfectly and still not having the answer; she swears she's met Yang before, outside of films and magazines, like something old and achingly familiar, like music. She steps closer without realizing it. "Do we?"
"I don't know," Yang says, her eyes dropping to Blake's mouth for the briefest of moments, so quick Blake's convinced she's imagined it. "I, um - I feel like we've met before. Or something."
"So do I," Blake echoes, fingertips tingling. "But I - I wouldn't have forgotten you."
"Yeah," Yang says, and this time her stare follows the length of Blake's body, and Blake becomes immediately aware of how little she's wearing in comparison; white high-waisted shorts and black ankle boots, various necklaces dangling from her neck. "I wouldn't have, either."
Blake holds out her hand, fighting the urge to shiver without understanding why. Her bones ache like there's a storm; her skin's a conduit, electric and heavy. "Sorry," she says. "I'm Blake."
"I know," Yang says, but her fingers slip across her palm, curling around anyway. Blake's tongue darts out to wet her lips. "I'm Yang."
"I know," Blake says. She doesn't drop Yang's hand; her skin feels ashen and white-hot. "I'm a fan."
"So am I," Yang says, and finally smiles; it's sheepish, abashed as she continues, "obviously, as Weiss arranged this for me." She's trying to crack the intensity between them before they devolve entirely; Blake picks up on the move. It's necessary before they're nothing.
"It's always nice to meet a fan," she teases, stands straighter, allows her shoulders to drop. "I can probably pull some strings, you know, get you a guitar pick, or maybe even a signed photo. Definitely a t-shirt."
Yang laughs, and the thousand pounds of atmosphere finally loosens its knots. "Okay, shut up," she says, now almost too casual, grinning. "God, this is so - embarrassing. I'm never - I'm not usually in this position."
God, Blake's lungs seem to forget their purpose every time Yang smiles; is it oxygen, is it expansion, is it growth. "Used to being adored?" she asks, also grinning. "Rather than the other way around?"
"When you put it like that," Yang says, and finally releases Blake's hand, like she'd just realized she'd still been holding it. "I'm not used to being starstruck."
"Neither am I," Blake admits.
"Are you?"
"Yeah," she says. "I'm trying to hide it. How am I doing?"
"Really well," Yang assures her. "I couldn't even tell. Now I feel better knowing I'm not alone."
"Starstruck," Blake says the word again, holding it in her mouth. "Is that what this is?"
Yang quirks an eyebrow; it's not confusion, only a lack of alternatives. "I don't know," she says. "What else could it be?"
Blake isn't sure why she says it - her heart throbs the way bass does, blood pumping through her veins with a ring and a crash, guitar solos, drum lines - she's pushing herself forward from the inside out, there are steps to be taken, there are rules to be broken. Her lips curl into a dark smirk, danger-soaked, and she says, "I can think of a few things."
Well, she's a rock star; she's used to taking risks. Yang's lips part, any previous thought spilling out between them, lost and meaningless; oh, now there's a different story unfolding, there's too much insinuation. She looks like every risk Blake's ever wanted to take all rolled up into one. The opportunity throws itself at her. It's not the only thing.
"Oh," Yang says, and when her stare drops to Blake's mouth again, it anchors there. "So that's where this is going, huh?"
"If you want it to," Blake says, moving closer. Yang only watches, doesn't move, but the look in her eye, the glint of the light, the way her pupils swallow the lilac of her irises - there's a sunset and a void - she's aching, hungry. All according to plan. Whose, Blake's not quite sure.
"We just met," Yang says, not sounding at all like she means it.
"Doesn't feel like it."
"Don't you have a boyfriend?" she asks lowly, last-ditch efforts.
"No," Blake says, too high-strung to filter. "I broke up with him."
Yang blinks, apparently taken aback by the information. "When? Sun?"
"What?" Blake asks, her confusion somewhat ruining the moment. "No. I never dated Sun."
"Oh, really?" Yang asks, surprise clear. "He's always talking about his crush on you, and even just now--"
"Wait," Blake interrupts, entertained by the idea of Yang keeping track of their personal lives. "You follow our interviews?"
Yang flushes. "Shit," she says awkwardly, and rubs the back of her neck. "I wasn't gonna tell you that."
Blake laughs, steps into her space comfortably, emboldened. All they needed was a breaking point. Yang allows it, fingers reaching out and toying with a button on Blake's cardigan. "You're cute," Blake says coyly, though what she wants to say is more along the lines of you're everything. "Sun's crush on me was harmless and is now over, as far as I've heard."
"Well, good to know," Yang says. She straightens fully up the closer Blake comes, and it's then Blake finally notices how tall she is; Blake's in heels and Yang's still looking down at her. Blake bites her lip involuntarily, and Yang responds to the gesture, confidence taking her side. She says, "Any other competition I should know about?"
Blake murmurs, "Against you?" and her hand grasps at Yang's leather jacket. "There's no competition."
Don't you feel that? she thinks of asking. Tell me you feel that. Like you're in my soul.
"I don't have a lot of experience with rock stars," Yang says, runs her fingers down the length of Blake's cardigan, stops at the hem. It's distinctly exploratory, like she's internally cataloguing all the skin it's covering. "Are you all this forward?"
"I don't have a lot of experience with movie stars," Blake counters, obeys the implication. Yang's almost pressed against her now and it's addicting, the way her mouth dries out and her veins strike themselves a match underneath her skin, the nick of flint against steel. "Are you all this receptive?"
Yang laughs once, breathlessly. "Touché."
That's all the necessary answer needed; Blake smiles up at her, leans in, and Yang halts on an inhale, barrier in her lungs--
Sun throws the door wide open. "So how's it goin'?" he's saying, comprehension not as slick as his mouth. He's midway through "Are you fucking yet?" when he finally internalizes their intimate position and falters, jaw hanging open. "Uhhhh--"
Blake rolls her eyes with a graceful step back; Yang takes similar cues, hides her grin behind her hand. It's serious, but he doesn't need to know that yet. "Oh, don't look so scandalized," Blake tells him mildly. "You're the one who sent her in here while I was getting dressed."
"Yeah, but I didn't think it'd work!" he exclaims. "Shit, Yang, that's like - that's all it took? Her with her top off?"
"Shit," Yang says, her laughter on the verge of breaking. "This is so bad for my image. Oh, fuck."
"You're an actress," Blake says, gives her a subtle nod. "Act it off."
"Okay," Yang says unconvincingly. It's still in the room with them, and there's no avoiding that. "Sun, this isn't what it looks like."
He snickers. "It looks like you and Blake were about to make out," he says.
"She came onto me," Yang says, shoving her hands back into her pockets where they can't give her away. "I love your band and she used that knowledge to her advantage. I was overwhelmed. I mean, look at her - she's so hot."
"Uh-huh," Sun says. There's not a lot worth fooling here.
Yang stage-whispers, "I don't think it's working."
"Stop being so gay," Blake says in response.
He pauses, his expression making the slow crawl towards quizzical. "Have you guys, like, met before?" he asks.
"Maybe," Yang answers, dancing around the vague truth. "We're trying to figure that out."
He eyes them strangely a moment longer, but pushes past it when he realizes that's the only explanation he's gonna get. "Anyway," he says, "I guess I should've seen this coming. Blake's always horny after a show."
"Excuse me," Blake says, affronted. "I am not. And even if I was, you have no first-hand knowledge of that."
Yang laughs at the obvious denial lacing her voice. They're still standing so close together. "You know what you really aren't?" she asks rhetorically. "A good actress."
Blake's mouth opens. "Meaning?"
"Okay, ladies," Sun interrupts, "as entertaining as you two seem to be to each other, the bar's open for us upstairs, everyone's cleared out - that's the real text I got, Yang, sorry - and Weiss would probably have a stroke if she knew what was going on down here."
"Shit," Yang says. "Yeah, I'd rather not face that."
Blake waves him off. "Okay, we're coming," she says. "I swear. Two minutes."
"For real, Blake," he warns.
"Get out," she says cheerfully. "And don't tell anyone."
He turns and leaves, throwing them a glance back over his shoulder, shaking his head. The door shuts behind him, leaves them to their own influence. They shouldn't be trusted, but that's no longer their problem.
"This is all your fault," Blake says to her, grinning.
"Why, because I'm too gay?" Yang asks. "Jesus Christ. Look at you. And I thought you looked good on stage."
"Look at you," Blake says, and licks her bottom lip again. Yang sighs like she's trying not to groan. "Fuck. This is bad, right?"
"This is pretty bad," Yang admits, and Blake's hit an edge, mesmerized by the confession. "I - don't know. This sort of stuff doesn't happen to me. Usually I'm, like, cool, and I can play it off, but you--" she breaks off, gesturing helplessly. "I don't know. I don't know what it is about you. Even when I watched you perform, I was like--" she stops again, unable to properly convey the emotion; her inability to translate her feelings into words is somehow unbelievably endearing to Blake, who spends all her time doing precisely the opposite.
There's a dull pause; Yang's eyes fall back to her body with purpose, intent, and Blake feels the pathways of her veins, how they hammer and scald and burn.
"I just - I wanted you," she says, gives herself to quiet desire.
Blake lifts her hands, drags her fingernails along Yang's scalp, knots her fingers in her hair like she's waiting for Yang to tell her to stop; Yang doesn't say a word, just waits, eyelashes fluttering. Blake draws her head down, foreheads resting together, and holds there in a challenge. Break, she's saying. Kiss me like you know you want to.
In reality, she doesn't know which of them crosses the line first; maybe she arches her neck, maybe Yang tilts her head, maybe she pulls Yang's mouth against hers. Someone shifts, and Yang's lips are suddenly hovering dangerously above her own, and all Blake has to do is lean up--
Their mouths graze the barest amount, not even a kiss but a longing, Blake's entire body vibrating like the concert is still playing just underneath her feet; she inhales unsteadily, fingers curling tighter, and Yang sighs like she's giving up, her lips finding Blake's again solidly, steadily, slowly. It's the most sensual, torturous kiss Blake's ever had - barely a kiss, more of a mapping - she opens her mouth against Yang's, and then Yang's tongue caresses hers - Blake tugs her closer, and Yang's hands find her hips and hold, fingertips digging into skin--
"Fuck," Yang says when Blake breaks it off to breathe. "Um--"
That won't do, she's had enough of words - all she does is write and think about it - she kisses Yang again, desire and destruction slamming into her with such a force it's feral, needing more, wanting her, wanting to own her, belong to her, touch her. The sun consumes her heart, chest expanding with the space of the entire sky. Yang wraps her arms around Blake's waist, draws her in, hips pressed together; Blake's suddenly in possession of the knowledge that if they don't go upstairs now, she won't have the self-control to stop. It seems like a crime to pull away, like she's spent too much time there already, wherever that is - away.
She manages, miraculously. "Hm," Blake says when they part, Yang dazed and red-lipped. "What do you think?"
A beat of silence, a drum before the crash. "I think," Yang starts, swallows, starts again. "I think that I'm about to be in way over my head."
"Yeah," Blake says, and kisses her with a gaping, needy sort of hunger one last time. "Me, too."
--
It's more than what Yang hopes for, but not what she expects at all. Hope isn't even the right word, actually. Sillier things cross her mind, fate and familiarity and forever.
She sees Blake and it's not that clichéd of a moment, not like any movie she's ever starred in, not like any love scene she's ever filmed; the world doesn't stop, but spins faster, time choosing to pass them by. Like everything rotates around her and Blake's just standing there, unmoving, untouched. She's gorgeous. So gorgeous Yang forgets having ever seen another human being, if any even exist. She's finding it hard to believe the universe hasn't sucked itself in like a black hole, left the two of them alone in all the empty space.
The thing is that Yang knows her, somehow.
Every motion is so familiar - every turn of her voice leads like a staircase - she's taking inventory, cataloguing things she swears she's met before. It's so unparalleled of a feeling, so intense and strong that she gets the sense she's floundering, unable to be anything but embarrassingly honest despite her confusion. She can't even hear herself speak. It's an audition but worse, except--
Blake kisses her, or maybe she's the one with the eager mouth - it's all lost to anticipation, the building up and breaking down. And maybe Blake does this all the time. Maybe the adrenaline of live shows gets to her, digs under her skin, settles against her bones. Maybe it's like a drug and she needs the sensory overload, needs to be touched or kissed or fucked. Maybe Yang doesn't care either way.
She's wearing those hooded eyes, lips red; she wants Blake's top on the floor, wants her fingers working the button of her shorts, wants to snap her necklaces clean off.
She thinks she'll get the chance to.
--
They're miraculously put together by the time they make it upstairs; Yang decides to actually prove she can act and her charm flicks on like a switch, completely casual, entrancing, not just like she's used to being the center of attention but as if she enjoys it. She overflows charisma and it's almost intimidating to Blake, like Yang's just gone from Yang, adorable, hot, easily flustered movie star to Yang Xiao Long, award-winning, world-famous actress, leagues away from their own. All it does is make Blake want her more, want to unravel her one layer at a time until she's only bone, raw and vulnerable and undone. Until she's Blake's and Blake's alone.
"Aren't you hot?" Sun asks Yang, bewildered by her jacket.
She laughs. "Okay, Jersey," she says. "This is Los Angeles. If it's below seventy, it's cold."
"It's true," Weiss agrees reluctantly. "You haven't been here long enough, Sun. Give it time."
"I don't know," Blake says casually. "I'm feeling pretty hot, too, and I've lived here awhile."
Yang's fingers twitch, so miniscule of a motion Blake's sure nobody else has noticed. She cooly cocks an eyebrow, knowing that Yang sees it out of her peripheral.
"You need a drink," Sun says. Somehow he's still so oblivious. "Cool off a little."
"You're right," Blake says; oh, that's an opening she'd been waiting for. "Yang, would you like to join me? Since you're such a big fan?"
"Absolutely," Yang says seriously, playing along. "It's not often you get a moment alone with your idols."
"Shut up."
"You shut up."
Weiss eyes them oddly, pupils flicking fast. She'll pull it back. "Someone can get you a drink, Yang," she says, ever the hostess.
She's met with rejection. "Nah, it's cool," Yang says. "I hate having people like, do simple shit for me."
Blake only keeps her mouth quirked casually, walks over the bar with Yang trailing behind. She slips onto a stool and the bartender smiles at both of them. "Ladies," he says. "What can I get you? Great set, by the way."
"Thanks," Blake says sincerely, and glances over at Yang, resting her elbows on the bar. "Your pick, babe."
Yang's lips tilt; oh, they're playing that game. "Tequila shots," Yang says. "Best for shooting, not sipping. I'm not that classy. Six."
He nods once, turns around to grab the bottle and shot glasses. Blake says nonchalantly, "Tequila shots, huh?"
"That's right," Yang says cheerfully. "Problem with that?"
"Nope," Blake says, watching the bartender pour their shots with a shaky hand, giving away his nervousness. "Just wondering about your intentions."
Yang turns to face her, mouth curling into a full-blown smirk; her eyes almost look red under the colored lights, against the backdrop of velvet curtains, something animalistic and primal. Blake swallows to stop herself from snapping. Yang's an actress; she knows how to get what she wants better than most. "I loved your set, too," she says, drenched in threat.
"Thanks," Blake says, itching to run, run away, run closer.
"I can't wait to show you exactly what I was thinking about during it," she continues, and slams back one of the shots in a single, smooth motion, foregoing lime or salt. Blake just stares, caught up in the moment, in the way her tongue sweeps over her lips. Yang passes her a shot. "You're easier than you think you are."
Blake downs it, eyes closing against the burn in her throat. She miraculously doesn't choke, despite the fact that she rarely ever touches tequila; Yang's watching her appreciatively like she knows this, putting her to a test. Blake says, "We'll see about that."
--
"Didn't see that coming," Ilia says, sipping loudly at her margarita through a straw. "But I guess I probably should've."
"What?" Neptune asks, following her gaze. "Yang? Yeah, I was pretty surprised to hear she was this big a fan--"
"No, dumbass," Ilia says. "She's a lesbian - I mean, we all knew that - but she wants to fuck Blake. Like, first of all, get in line--"
Weiss chokes on her daiquiri. "What?"
"Dude," she says, misinterpreting Weiss's surprise. "It's so obvious."
"No, I'm aware," Weiss says. "I meant - how did you know that?"
"Look at her face. Damn. She's not even trying to hide it."
"I'm not getting it," Neptune says, squinting over at them. Yang passes Blake another shot, says something under her breath that none of them can decipher. Sun remains oddly quiet throughout the exchange, choosing to observe instead of gossip; he doesn't want to blow their cover until he's certain they've blown it themselves.
"Trust me," Ilia says. "I'm gay, too. I recognize the signs."
"I don't," Weiss says, also examining the scene cautiously. "I know you're right, but I'm not seeing them."
Ilia rolls her eyes. Weiss always takes the most convincing. "You're, like, new at this," she says. "Give it time, Weiss. You'll catch up."
"So is Blake into it?" Neptune asks, now more curious than anything. He doesn't have a place for judgment. "I mean, she's never interested in anyone. Not since…"
Ilia laughs. "Oh, she's into it," she says, leaning back against the couch. "Actually, she's way past that. I'm amazed they aren't doing body shots or something, like, mounting each other on the bar. Adam who?"
"This can't end well," Weiss says. "This was so not the point of the evening. I didn't think Blake would actually reciprocate."
Everyone turns to look at her; sometimes she's so stupid. "Let me get this straight," Sun says, finally inserting himself into the conversation. "You knew that Yang - Yang Xiao Long, voted Esquire's 'Sexiest Woman Alive' three years running - had a crush on Blake, and you thought that they'd meet, Yang would hit on her, and Blake would shoot her down?" His tone can't be more disbelieving. "Weiss."
"I don't know!" Weiss replies hotly, poor under attack. "Blake's usually so...disinterested."
"Geez," Sun says. He'll finally say what's true. "You really are a bad lesbian."
Ilia laughs again from the other end of the couch; Weiss scowls. "Hey!"
As they watch, Yang leans over, whispers something in Blake's ear; she giggles and Yang turns back to the bartender, but her eyes linger on Yang's face, lips still in a smile. None of them really need an explanation for that.
--
They're four shots in, still talking animatedly at the bar like they've forgotten the rest of the band exists; Yang's telling her about Ruby, something she rarely reveals - Rose? Blake asks, Like the pop singer? She's your sister? - and for some reason, Blake's now wearing her hat, and she looks ridiculously adorable in it. The room glitters, all the lights blurred. Yang says, undeniably tipsy, "So, do you always kiss your fans in your dressing room after a show?"
Blake snickers, bordering drunk; she's more of a lightweight than Yang is, something Yang'd predicted. She's smaller than she pretends to be. She says, "No," and then, whispering conspiratorially, "never."
"Never?" Yang asks, not expecting the answer. She doesn't like to place expectations too early; that's a sure way to a broken heart, not that her heart should even have a say at the moment. She won't pry that open any further.
"It's not really my thing," Blake admits, fingers mindlessly toying with the collar of her jacket. "I'm not a one-night stand kind of person. But I don't think I'm a good-at-relationships person, either."
Yang smiles genuinely. "Drunk oversharer," she observes. "I didn't expect that."
"It's you," Blake says, rocking forward on her stool. Her irises glimmer like the stage rush lives underneath her skin. "I look at you and I want to tell you things."
"So what kind of person are you, then?" Yang asks, swirling her straw around her blackberry-tequila-whatever concoction; it's too unimportant to waste time on.
Blake bites the inside of her lip, contemplating the question. She eyes Yang obviously, gaze lingering on her fingers, her lips, her hair; Yang's grin grows. Yeah, she thinks of saying; yeah, they're things that'll belong to you. She doesn't skip those steps. Blake says, "You tell me."
"Hm?"
"What's your type?" Blake turns it around on her. "You're attracted to me, so I want to know if I'm your type."
There's a jealous undertone Blake can't quite manage to keep out of her voice; it's a possessiveness Yang thinks she should mind, and instead wants more of. As long as it's both ways. "God, you're cute," she says, resting her chin in her hand. "You're gonna kill me."
Blake reaches out, fingers curling around the sleeve of Yang's jacket. She tugs once. "Answer me."
"Jesus," Yang says, but she's smiling. Blake takes Yang's drink with her other hand, lips wrapping around her straw. "You're more than my type."
"Mm," Blake hums, swallowing. "And what does that mean?"
"It means," Yang says, stretching out a boot to rest on the rung of Blake's stool, their knees brushing, "that I want to take you to dinner, and then home with me, and then to breakfast in the morning."
Blake sets her glass on the bar, condensation clinging to her fingertips, and slips off her seat, standing between Yang's legs. Yang watches her with a grin, hands coming to rest comfortably on Blake's lower back. Blake wraps her arms loosely around Yang's neck, meets her stare with an openness Yang's sure she doesn't reveal to anyone willingly. Definitely drunk. It's the alcohol, the atmosphere, the addiction.
"I know you," she says quietly, tone fading into seriousness. Their eyes meet the way a light shines in a dark room. "You feel that, right? It's not just me?" The confession forces a pause, as if something she'd spilled by accident, a drink, a river, a blush. "That sounds stupid. I'm a lyricist. I can do better, I promise."
An answer doesn't come immediately - Yang just sweeps her hair behind her ears, looking at her with a smile so real it leaks its own secrets; it's slightly lopsided, amused, like she doesn't express what she's expressing now very often, if even at all. She finally asks, "What's Weiss gonna do if I kiss you here?"
"Nothing, or I'll tell her to fuck off," Blake says passionately, and then stops, startled at herself. "Oh, I'm drunk."
It's too soon and it's there anyway. Yang laughs again, torn between amusement and adoration. "You are."
"Well," Blake reasons lowly, "then I have an excuse."
"For what?"
"For this," she says, and tilts her head, leans forward to kiss her; she catches Yang's bottom lip between her own, body settling comfortably with every inch. Yang smiles against her mouth, doesn't pull away - she lifts a hand to cup her jaw, runs her thumb along the line of it like a dull blade - the rest of the world's gone quiet, soft at the corners. She's reduced to only the tactile: Blake's nails scratching through her hair, tongue slipping across her lip, how she can't seem to be close enough.
"This is only enforcing negative lesbian stereotypes, you know," Ilia calls playfully from the couch, both feet now kicked up on the table, Sun hollering beside her. "You're moving too fast."
Blake flips her off without even glancing over. Ilia can't really blame her. She sure as fuck wouldn't care about anything else if either of them were kissing her.
"Hey, Max," Weiss addresses the bartender sternly, "if anything leaks here tonight, I swear I will sue you for every penny you're worth, and then some."
He holds up his hands, terrified to even look at the two girls making out in front of his bar. Like he wasn't already intimidated enough by the company.
And then Blake shifts hotly, turns open-mouthed; Yang's finding a lack of common sense on her tongue, alcohol impairing all their usual instincts: publicity versus privacy, impulse against reason. The band clearly doesn't count, she decides, and Weiss is probably ready to throw herself off the balcony, so there's nothing to hide from, no higher stakes. It's nice, actually. It's nice not having to pretend.
The kiss breaks with a giggle, Blake finally catching up with herself, and Yang buries her face in the crook of her neck.
"I'm drunk," she tells Weiss, her hold tightening on Yang just slightly. Yang smiles against her skin, Blake's cardigan now hanging off one shoulder.
"Drunk and in love," Sun says.
"Oh," Blake sighs, her hands rubbing absently up and down Yang's back, "it's too soon for that, but probably."
--
Every step she takes with Blake is a landslide. Blake's the kind of drunk with an incessant need for contact, the kind where she can't go two seconds without touching some part of Yang's body, where she hovers between seduction and sincerity, where she knows what she wants but sometimes she laughs a little too much to get it. She lays a hand against Yang's shoulder when she speaks, brushes her fingers against her neck, giggles with her face in Yang's hair. Yang billows into nothing but sunlight, weightless and warm, Blake dripping across her arms the way shadows melt; she's nestled with her back against Yang's chest, showing her something on her phone.
Yang takes the device out of her hands, chin resting on her shoulder. She swipes home and finds contacts, and adds in her own details without bothering to think twice about it. Blake's smile is obvious, her fingers instead resting against Yang's wrists, watching. Yang adds a yellow heart next to her name.
"You're so gay," Blake says, and turns around in her arms, eyes alight and burning. "Kiss me."
That's an easily indulgable request; Yang kisses her once, sweetly. It's too normalized for something that's only been around an hour or two. "You know how many times in the past year I've given out my phone number?" she asks. Blake shakes her head even though it'd been rhetorical. "Once. To Weiss."
"Well, I'm different," she says, rocks on the balls of her feet. "You have a crush on me."
Yang only smirks. "I've had a crush on you for awhile, sweetheart."
"My biggest fan," Blake says, plays coy and sarcastic. "Did I live up to your expectations?"
The honesty comes with a refreshing ease, something Blake draws from her as if tied around her finger. "Not at all," Yang says. "You blew right past them."
"You're looking at me and saying things. I thought that was what I did."
"Sorry. Didn't mean to steal your thunder or whatever."
Blake laughs, kisses Yang again as she does so, lightly, casually. There's a thoughtfulness that follows after. "You did, too," she finally says, slurs her words a bit. "My expectations were - were shattered."
"Oh, yeah?" Yang says, entertained. Now they're at a turning point. "What were yours like to begin with?"
"God, I don't know," Blake murmurs, eyes glued to her lips. She keeps falling closer. "I never thought I'd actually meet you. I thought you'd be more - you know. Above it all. Like, untouchable, or something."
"Sometimes I feel like I am," Yang admits, tilting her head into Blake's palm pressed against her cheek, thumb stroking her skin. "Like I'm too detached, you know? It's hard to - to get close to people."
It's a funny state of affairs, her words against the girl she's only just met curled in her arms. "Well, that makes sense," Blake reasons with a clarity that seems to only ever come from drunk people. "You're famous and beautiful, and you're like, amazing at what you do. People want things from you all the time, don't they?"
"Yeah."
"But not me," Blake continues, and pauses, backtracks. "I mean - I want things from you, but - things that you also want from me. Like - well - I probably shouldn't say them outloud."
Yang senses the shift coming, adjusts her body language, her grip around Blake's waist. "And what would those things be?" she prompts, challenging her to them.
Blake's eyes narrow, mouth curling into a smirk; her voice drops recklessly. Her veins are more courage than blood. "You on top of me, that's one," she murmurs, rising spectacularly to it. "You in my bed. You inside of me."
"Jesus Christ," Yang breathes out, brushing Blake's hair out of her face.
"Am I wrong?"
"No," she says. "No. Not at all."
"The bar's closing soon," Blake says. "It's two in the morning. Come home with me." Anything can happen, she's saying. You just have to let it. Touch me or let me go.
Yang knows exactly which option she's going to pick.
"Okay," she says.
--
"So you're gonna let this happen, huh?" Sun asks Weiss, double fisting Jack and Cokes; Neptune had decided he didn't want his anymore and opted for something fruity. He and Ilia are sitting in the armchairs across from them, now comparing Tinder matches. Weiss sighs, on her third daiquiri; she isn't one to mix her hard liquor.
"Like I could stop it," she says, waving a hand aimlessly. "I've never been able to control Blake. Not since she broke up with Adam, at the very least."
"Well, you can hardly blame her," Sun points out.
"I don't," Weiss says. "I understand her perfectly."
"And Yang?"
Weiss lifts and drops her shoulders, and in a rare display of her own definition of impropriety, she slouches back against the couch. "Yang's none of my business," she says. "Literally, I mean. Personally - I don't know." She examines them candidly, distantly. Yang's still sitting on her stool, Blake standing between her legs; Blake's got one arm wrapped around her shoulders, her other hand resting higher on Yang's chest, over her heart. She's smiling in a simple, tranquil sort of way, and it isn't just the alcohol; it's unguarded, genuine. They seem to be talking casually, like they're exes picking up right where they left off. There's a history there that shouldn't be. That's all Weiss can comprehend. "I imagine she's...lonely."
"Really?" Sun asks with a frown. "Her?"
The implication is clear: her, one of the most famous actresses in the world, constantly surrounded by press, by fans, by attention, by love. Weiss is reminded of her own childhood, of standing on a stage in front of a theater full of people, her family, her friends, and feeling the most alone she's ever felt. Of standing on a stage and hearing only the echo of her voice.
"Being adored and admired isn't the same thing as being accepted," Weiss says. "She's famous, but nobody knows her. It's the idea of her. The concept. Wouldn't you be lonely if that's all people had of you?"
Sun's quiet for a moment, considering her point. As he watches, Blake leans in, kisses Yang again. It's almost too intimate in its sincerity, and the truth is strangely on display, not on a stage but in the quiet corners of the room. "Blake knows her," he says.
Weiss looks over again, watches the way Blake murmurs something against Yang's mouth. "Blake's lonely, too."
"I know," Sun says, resigned.
"Does it bother you?" Weiss asks, rolling her head and glancing at him. "Are you really over her?"
He laughs easily. "I am," he says, no show behind it. "I guess I was kinda like - like what you just said. I loved the idea of her, but I didn't really know her. And now that I do, it's like - I dunno. I'm not for her."
"She's been through a lot," Weiss says.
"She's sad," Sun says. "I want her to be happy, and I don't care if it's not with me."
Weiss's head lolls back to center. Yang's smile is glaring in its authenticity; she's walked on red carpets for half her life, posed for photoshoot after photoshoot, been in Oscar-winning films year after year, and Weiss has never seen a smile from her like this; not in movies, not in pictures.
"Well, that's good," she says, "because it's not going to be."
Sun's taken aback by the bluntness, laughing loudly. "You're drunk," he says.
"Oops, sorry," Weiss says, sounding not sorry at all. "That was a little cruel, wasn't it?"
"This is why we call you the Ice Queen."
Weiss can't find it in her to argue. "That's fair," she says, sighing, and Sun sinks into the cushions, still snickering. He rests his head against her shoulder, also a little drunk, happy to observe. She doesn't push him off, deciding to allow it.
"Oh, that's cute," Neptune says, and holds up his phone, taking a picture. "Aw. I love this. I'm posting this on Instagram after I decide who to message back."
"Let me see," Weiss demands, holding out her hand.
"What, the picture?" he says, turning his phone around.
"No," she says. "Your Tinder matches. I have an excellent judge of character."
Ilia stops him and says, "No, dude, she doesn't. She's not into Blake or Yang. They're like, the two lesbian-crush archetypes."
Neptune snickers, opening the app, handing Weiss his phone anyway. "Nah, it's cool," he says, and smiles at her. "I trust her."
Weiss smiles back, sentimentality taking over. She thinks of the way he held her when she told him, how he let her cry in his arms, didn't judge her, wasn't upset, wasn't angry. Blake's laugh rings out from the bar; Sun's weight against her is warm, comfortable. Ilia's grinning at her, lighthearted. She realizes, right then, that she does actually like these people.
"You know," she says blithely, swiping through some girl's photos, "I suppose there are worse guys I could've dated."
--
Yang tips the bartender an extra thousand dollars, despite the private event already being paid for. He stares at her with his jaw hanging open and can't speak. Blake smirks, takes Yang's hand in her own; Weiss only tuts under her breath, signing for the bill.
Blake somehow makes it steadily down the stairs with her bag slung over her shoulder, Yang hovering behind her the entire time; she rolls her eyes when she notices and says, "I'm not that drunk."
"Yes you are," Sun chimes in from the back. "I've never seen you like this."
She arches her neck, turning back to find his eyes. "Like what?" she asks.
"Like you don't know," he says dismissively, not bothering to publically call her out. She harrumphs under her breath and doesn't push it further. Yang laces their fingers together again, smiling, staring straight ahead like it's something she wants to keep to herself.
"Miss Xiao Long," the security officer by the exit greets, inclining his head as if he'd thought of bowing and stopped himself. "Your car is waiting for you."
"Thanks," she says politely, and for some reason seeing other people treat Yang like she's royalty only turns Blake on more. She grips Yang's hand a little tighter, not that it's necessary; Yang's already wrapped around her finger. She knows it, too. They all know it. Blake takes a pride in that she probably shouldn't.
"This was amazing, you guys," Yang gushes, and the sincerity in her voice is apparent, not that any of them would be able to tell if it weren't. "Seriously, Weiss, thanks for setting this up for me. I had a great time."
"Please don't phrase it like that," Weiss says, lips pulling into a grimace. "This was networking, like you said."
"She still feels dumb because she basically set you both up," Sun explains helpfully.
Yang snickers, delighted by the revelation. "What, you were surprised by this?"
"I didn't think Blake would be into you like that," Weiss defends again, a little too tired to really care about her shortcomings anymore.
Blake smirks, steps up to Yang's side, and suddenly they look like the two most intimidating people Weiss has ever seen; she blinks against the whiplash, trying to figure out what shifted between one second and the next. They're both towering over her, but people usually do; it's the change in atmosphere, not electric but smoldering, like something's erupting in front of her, a seismic shift in the universe. Yang's expression slants inward, like dusting off a sign and finding the word caution, and the curl of Blake's mouth has never flashed so red, the brilliant glare of warning lights. And they're stunning.
"Weiss," Blake says, "you're really--"
"I know," Weiss interrupts, finally understanding, looking at them clearly as if for the first time. She'd never seen it, never had the need to, never thought about Yang's lips or Blake's fingers, never thought about the true allure underneath their façades, dark and sultry and beckoning. And she still doesn't, her mind already occupied with various shades of red and a more overt sense of innocence, unknowing; she just recognizes the sex appeal. "You're both so fucking beautiful, and I'm not a very good lesbian."
Yang pulls her in for a one-armed hug. "You're fine," she says. "Better my sister than me."
"Or me," Blake tacks on.
"Your sister?" Sun says. "That's who you're trying to seduce?"
"You have a sister?" Ilia asks, confused.
She only winks, doesn't say anything more. She continues with her goodbyes, bro-hugs both Sun and Neptune, and she and Ilia give each other a nod; Ilia's not really the hugging type. "I'm sure I'll see you around," Yang says, and follows Blake out the back, who barely manages a wave. Not that it matters; she sees these people every day.
"So?" Blake asks, fingers intertwining with Yang's again, sliding against her side in the cool night air. "Where's your stretch limo?"
She gets a snicker in response, and then Yang nudges her shoulder gently with her own. "Yeah, right."
"I'm kidding," Blake says. "I know that's not you."
Yang glances over at her, leading her to a black car idling in the shadows, windows deeply tinted. "Do you?"
"Of course," Blake says, mildly amused. "Like you'd willingly draw that kind of attention to yourself."
She falters on the door handle, her smile going soft. She pulls it open, waits for Blake to get inside first, and scoots in beside her. She asks, "What's your address?"
Blake obediently recites it to the driver, who only nods and starts the engine. Yang's phone connects to the sound system automatically and plays whatever she'd been playing on the way here, which happens to be--
Blake's own voice comes echoing through the speakers and she laughs loudly, Yang's cheeks and neck burning in embarrassment; blood eats up her skin, flushes her red. "Oh, Jesus Christ," she says, hurriedly pressing pause.
"God," Blake breathes out, curls her fingers in Yang's hair and kisses her. She tastes like tequila and strawberries, a fresh hint of spring. "You - you're so--"
"I know, I know," Yang says, shuddering with her hand resting on Blake's thigh. Blake kisses better than Yang acts, like something she could win awards for. "I'm pathetic."
"No," Blake says, "you're hot. I bet one of your movies is still in my Blu-Ray player."
"Which one?"
"Probably Known By Its Song," Blake says, biting the inside of her lip. "Or The Spring Maiden."
"You follow the Maiden series?" Yang asks, strangely enchanted by the information. "Really?"
"I saw Downfall with Ilia last week," she confesses. "I love Pyrrha Nikos, but, you know, I'd rather look at you. Pyrrha's not really my type. Plus, I hate Cinder Fall," she adds before she can stop herself, and quickly studies Yang's expression to make sure she hadn't missed the mark; Yang only smirks wider. "I think she's overrated as an actress."
"She's a huge bitch," Yang agrees, much to Blake's relief. "We all hate her. Pyrrha'll get a kick out of this."
"Don't tell her I said she wasn't my type," Blake says. "She's very pretty."
Yang laughs again, nods in confirmation. "So what'd you think?" she probes. It'd kind of split the audience, due to a bold cliffhanger. "Did you like it?"
"Depends," Blake says, glancing out the window as the car turns onto Fountain Ave. "Is Pyrrha's character really dead?"
"I can't tell you that," Yang teases. "I signed an NDA."
Blake's lips curve. She looks like some dark and winding road, threat at every turn. "I'll eat you out," she murmurs, straight-faced, and Yang's heart nearly flings itself out of her chest, up her throat, thick against her tongue. Their driver doesn't bat an eye. Blake thinks Yang must pay him a lot of money for a total lack of reaction and grins. "You're so easy."
"Weren't you going to do that anyway?" Yang asks, and pulls her bottom lip into her mouth with her teeth, still a little struck. That game's won and over. "No. Pyrrha's not really dead."
"I knew it," Blake says, resuming the conversation. "Then, yes, I loved it."
"Jesus Christ," Yang says lowly, extremely aware of her hand on Blake's bare thigh. "Is this what you're really fucking me for? Movie spoilers?"
"Oh, absolutely," Blake says. "This was my plan from the beginning."
"So what am I getting out of this?"
"Me. Isn't that enough?"
"No."
"No?"
"Nope," Yang says. "I want a song."
"A song, huh." Blake sounds vaguely charmed by the request.
"Yeah," Yang decides, a wistfulness to the joke; she won't deny the dream. She drops her voice. "Seems only fair, after all. I make you cum, you sing about me." Blake throws her a dirty look, torn between aroused and amused. "Hey, you started it."
The car rolls to a halt in front of a nice block of lavish-looking apartments just before the hills, overlooking West Hollywood. Blake opens the garage for the driver - it isn't a busy night, but just on the off-chance they're seen, better to be safe - and gets out at the elevators, Yang following; no need to wait, she tells the driver, who backs out behind them.
The space is nicer than Yang thought it'd be, knowing musicians don't always make the best money their first few years; it's upscale, modern, polished. And West Hollywood isn't inexpensive.
Blake finally allows a grin to spread across her mouth, swipes her key fob and presses the button for the eighth floor. "Show me how good you are in bed, and then we'll see if I'm struck with the inspiration to write about it," she resumes their banter. "You're a lot of talk."
"I'm a lot of show, too," Yang says, voice like a bullet, waiting for the doors to close. Blake feels herself slipping. Yang's an actress, but somehow, Blake doesn't think she's lying.
And she's right. Yang steps up, presses her back against the wall - she's so tall, Blake comprehends vaguely again, her heart pounding so hard she's afraid her bones will splinter against the force of it - and smirks again, one hand on Blake's hip, the other gripping Blake's chin. She's also so fucking cocky, even if it's partly for show, and all Blake can think is that the devil is real, and probably looks a lot like her.
She grasps Yang's shirt in her hands, lips parting. Yang dips her head, meets her mouth with a purpose, tongue darting out and in, and then she shifts her lips to her cheek, her jaw. The elevator dings.
"You're so impatient," Blake says, lightly pushing her away. She has Yang wound up and over - she'll take it back - not wrapped around her finger but around her voice, her smile, her eyes. Blake digs her keys out of her bag and proceeds to struggle with the lock, the metal clinking off the edges.
"Nice try," Yang says as it finally slots into place, "but you're still drunk."
"I was doing pretty well until then, though," Blake says, dropping her bag next to her entryway table. Yang stops, takes it in; her spacious living room, her kitchen, her dining room table, the hall leading to at least three other rooms - Blake lives in the penthouse.
"Okay," Yang says, tugging her to a halt, awed and impressed, "explain. I know musicians don't make enough to afford this off a single album. Are you secretly a millionaire? Are you with the mob?"
Blake laughs, her hands sliding underneath Yang's jacket and pushing it over her shoulders, down her arms. "No," she says. "Well, a little."
"You're a little with the mob?" Yang giggles dumbly at her own joke. There's no pressure even as she's being undressed; it's so different than anything she's experienced before, so novel and new. Blake simply standing in front of her is enough.
"No," Blake says, absently slipping her fingers underneath the hem of Yang's shirt as she talks like a distraction. "I'm not a millionaire. My parents both come from old money, though, and they used to be pretty famous politicians - activists. They've written books since then, lecture at schools." They're details Yang already knows; Blake grew up outside of D.C. Fame's funny like that. "I used to live in a shitty apartment in Fairfax, but--" she stops, bites the inside of her cheek, looks at Yang contemplatively, mysteriously, like there's a debate she's having with her own tongue.
Yang says, "You can tell me," and pulls her closer. It's comforting, safe. Like she understands that whatever Blake's on the verge of saying is something she never says at all. "I know this isn't you."
Blake's conflicted expression deepens, but solidifies, somehow. "I had to move somewhere with...better security," she reveals slowly, and her heart beats uncomfortably, an automatic reaction to the memory. She's still so full of splintered doorways and broken windows, no matter how much time has passed. The glass is always shattered on the floor. The footsteps always echo, menacing.
Yang's eyebrows raise. "Oh," she says, instantly getting the implication. She probably knows about the need for good security better than most.
"Yeah," Blake says, clears her throat quietly before the tears can build. "I, um - I didn't want to move, and I don't like accepting my parents' charity. I think I've worked hard to get where I am without it. But - in this instance--"
"You didn't have a choice," Yang finishes, her thumbs rubbing small circles against Blake's lower back gently. "No, I get it. I don't like - think less of you, or something."
"I didn't think you would," Blake says, and rests her arms around Yang's shoulders again. "But I didn't know if - if I was ready to talk about it."
"Okay," Yang says, and smiles easily. "So we won't talk about it."
Blake brushes her bangs away from her eyes with a candid touch, palm coming to rest against her cheek. "You're right, though," she says softly. "This isn't me."
"Oh, wait 'til you see my place," Yang tells her, grimacing. "It's awful. Ruby and I don't need ninety percent of that space. But it's just like, something all the actors do, so...I don't know. I guess the privacy's nice."
"I'm gonna get to see your place, am I?" Blake asks, resuming her quest to peel each layer off Yang one at a time. She slips Yang's jacket fully down her back; Yang allows it, lets it hang and fall to the floor.
"If you want," she says casually. "I have a pool and spa. The view at night's really - really beautiful." She raises her hands back to Blake's hips, fingers hooking through her belt loops, tugs her closer. The heat returns to them, breathes in their blood. When Yang kisses her again she lets her tongue do most of the work, lets sensuality take the place of sentimentality; it leaves her free, wrought with only wanting. Sex is always good for forgetting, even just for a night, but with Yang there's a promise of more, a vision for repair: the windows are open and filtering sun, the doorframe without the crack of a fist and painted over. All around her is space she created herself, untouched by the things she destroyed when she ran away. And Yang. Yang.
"Yeah," Blake utters as she pulls away, surprised to find herself unsteady in the face of too many good things. "I think I'd like that."
--
Blake takes her to bed and it's already more than a one-night stand; Yang touches her like she knows her, like she's kissed Blake's body before and remembers every angle, remembers where to put her hands, where to press for pressure - the indent of Blake's hip, the arc of her collarbone, the dip of her lower back. Yang slips her tongue against her cunt, wraps her mouth around Blake's clit and sucks - Blake knots her fingers tightly in Yang's hair, grinds her hips - it feels so good, she says again and again, like she'd forgotten it even could. It feels good. Yang doesn't miss the weight of the accidental importance. Yang crawls over her with her chin wet and stares wordlessly, sadness curiously poking out behind her eyes.
Blake's too caught up to think about the revelations; she wants it to be her turn, wants Yang to be hers - there's something about the way Yang looks underneath her, blonde hair scattered over her pillows, lips parted, hands clutching at her sheets that renders her immeasurable. Yang's beautiful. She's more than that. Blake'll write a song about this, one day, about how she looks with her spine arching against deep purple and moonlight glittering in her hair, her mouth red like the blood pooling underneath her skin from the bruises of Blake's teeth. Blake tugs her head back sharply, exposing her neck, and Yang gasps, sound dying in her throat, fingertips digging and dragging down Blake's back. She doesn't leave scars. Blake can't remember the last time she was touched and left without them.
She opens the window after, allows the cool night air to permeate the room, street mostly noiseless below. Yang rests on her back with the sheet pooling around her hips, looking beautifully wicked, hair mused and lips swollen, eyelids fluttering. Blake lies on her stomach, her head in her arms, and lets herself feel peace, feel silence; Yang's body is inches away, heat exuding from her skin. Blake lets that be enough.
"Before," Yang murmurs, because four in the morning isn't a time for hesitation. "You said - you said it felt good."
"What a strange way to start off a brag," Blake says.
"No," Yang says, reaches out, skims her fingers gently along Blake's shoulder blade. "You said it like it wasn't supposed to feel good, or something."
Blake observes her quietly, intimately, too long past the point of vaults and keys and locks. She says plainly, "I forgot," having no other way to frame it.
"Like you were…" Yang trails off, face betraying no other hint of emotion, but Blake picks up on the implication.
"Not - not exactly," she murmurs, and exhales, props herself up onto her side. Yang follows her movements, watching, waiting, hand falling to her hip. It's soft, cautious, careful, like Yang's touching something old and beautiful, an antique or a sculpture. Something not quite breakable, but has already withstood enough. She thinks of Adam, thinks of him grabbing her arm, pulling at her hair, fingerprints bruising around her neck. "My ex was - controlling," she says. She's not sure why she's telling Yang any of this. "And angry, and aggressive. Things went his way or not at all. It just...most days, it felt like a job."
"Did he hit you?" Yang asks. The pressure of her fingers doesn't change, still the same light caress. Her entire expression opens softly, like she knows there's no reason for her to be angry, knows that anger isn't anything Blake needs more of.
"Not until I tried to leave," Blake says quietly. "It took me...a few months. He was more...rough, than anything else, like - like I was a possession. But when I tried to leave, he...he lost it, said he'd kill me for betraying him." She examines Yang's features distantly; her lips aren't thin, her eyes still tender. She looks like the opposite of him - like safety, compassion - and that alone floods Blake with an entirely different kind of fear, falling without bracing for impact because there won't be one. She asks, "Are you mad?"
It doesn't come out quite right, the time of the morning and the fading alcohol somewhat impeding her words; Yang's mouth quirks at a corner, getting the meaning. "Yeah," she admits. "I'm mad."
"Why?"
"Beyond the obvious?" Yang asks. Blake nods, gestures her on. Yang says, "It's stupid. It doesn't make sense."
"Most of this doesn't," Blake says vaguely.
"I feel like I should've protected you," she confesses, and Blake's hit with the barely-controllable urge to kiss her again, press her back against the sheets and fuck the emotion out of her, like it's too heavy, too soon. Like she's afraid of how badly she wants to curl against Yang and just cry. Yang continues, "I know it's crazy. I didn't even know you then. But it's just how I feel."
Blake cups her cheek and kisses her once, poignantly; she rests their foreheads together, doesn't open her eyes. She says, "It's okay." And then, without understanding why she says it: "It's okay that you didn't this time."
"Hopefully there won't be a next," Yang says, and grins, laying back down. "I'd hate to have to throw my life on the line for a girl I barely know who happens to be incredible in bed."
"Barely know, huh," Blake repeats, hiding her sarcasm. To her, it's like Yang's woven herself suddenly and irrevocably throughout Blake's entire life; all her past memories should be reworked, rewired. Yang should be in everything.
Maybe it's stronger for her, Blake thinks. Maybe Yang's curious and nothing more, like a faint light flickering in distant fog.
Until--
"Well, what am I supposed to say?" Yang asks rhetorically. "'A girl I know through some bizarre cosmic energy'? My publicist is really not gonna roll with that."
"You do feel it," Blake says, the relief instantaneous and unmasked.
Yang furrows an eyebrow as if bemused by the reaction, but clears over the second following. "Oh," she laughs. "Blake, I've never had a one-night stand in my life. I've never even, like, slept with someone on a first date, let alone made out with them five minutes after meeting." She pauses. "Not that that's, like, a bad thing if you're into it, but--"
"No," Blake denies. "It's definitely not my thing. And after Adam - my ex - I haven't really...I don't like being touched."
The conversation stills at the admission. There's something between them that shouldn't be, or something that should but is impossible, and it's all too much for Blake to wrap her head around, too much to comprehend; maybe they just are, and she should learn to embrace it rather than peel it away one layer at a time, down to skin, nerve, bone. Maybe there are things she doesn't need to understand as long as they're good for her.
"I'm not gonna say it," Yang murmurs. But I can touch you. You like it when it I touch you. "It's crazy."
"It's too early for this," Blake agrees, and shuts her eyes, her head falling back into her arms. Yang wraps an arm around her waist, draws closer with a hum, body pressed against her side. She's content to let it lie, her smile fading into sleep and her breath evening out. Blake's heart beats steadily, and it's not what she remembers, not the same pattern as when Adam's fingers were clenched around it - tightening, crushing, holding on - no, no; this time, her heart beats and it feels like letting go.
--
She wakes up in the afterlife.
Or, at least, she's convinced she does, because reality has never felt so much like hell.
It can't be any later than seven, according to the light peeking through the curtains. Yang's already awake, scrolling on her phone. She hadn't tried to sneak out or leave early; the morning had come without regret. Blake can't find it in her to appreciate that fact now, but then again, Yang isn't one to say things she doesn't mean. Her intentions have always been clear.
"Holy shit," Blake whispers, arm thrown over her eyes. "I think I might die. I think I might be dead right now."
Yang's mouth quirks like she's trying to stop herself from laughing at Blake's obvious misery. "I think you'll make it," she says, careful to keep her voice low, but can't resist teasing. "You're a rock star. Don't you do shit like this all the time?"
"Shut up," Blake breathes out. "I don't normally drink tequila."
"Oh, yeah?" Yang says, her fingers now splayed over Blake's stomach, phone forgotten beside her. "What is your drink of choice, exactly?"
"Whiskey."
Yang actually snorts quietly. "Figures," she says, hand creeping lower. "It suits you."
Blake smiles despite herself. "This is what I get for trying to impress a hot girl."
"Well, consider me impressed."
"Shut up," Blake says again, back to feeling like she might vomit. "Me being disgustingly hungover is not impressive."
An amused hum takes the place of a response as she drags the sheet slowly down Blake's body, waiting a sign to stop; she doesn't get one and it dips low on Blake's waist, gives her space, gives her time, gives her opportunity. Yang shifts onto her knees, bends over, lets her lips hover just above Blake's skin, the dip between her breasts.
"I think I know a cure," Yang murmurs, mouth brushing against her nipple. Blake arches her spine automatically. "If you're interested."
Blake peeks down at her from underneath her arm, teeth tugging her bottom lip into her mouth. "It's possible," she says, already finding relief from her headache at the tantalizing image in front of her. Yang's hand curls against the inside of her thigh, gently guides her legs open. "I'm willing to try anything."
Her grin sweeps broad as she slides onto her stomach, fingers trailing over Blake's hips, short nails digging in and scratching down - there's the warmth of breath, meeting the inside of her thigh - and then Yang's tongue darts to her clit, slowly, teasingly; Blake strains against her, begging for more, for a flatter tongue and a faster pace.
By the time Yang finally acquiesces, after pinning her thighs to the bed and bringing her to an edge so strong she she can only writhe against her mouth and mewl, helpless, she's entirely forgotten the pain she's in.
--
When Blake wakes again, it's with a dry mouth and slightly less nausea, and about three hours later.
This time, Yang's the one asleep, peaceful with her arms shoved under her pillow and her head turned towards Blake. She isn't even an ugly sleeper, Blake thinks distantly, mouth soft. She isn't an ugly crier, either; that Blake knows from her movies. Yang's just unfairly gorgeous, like it lives in her blood, soaks through her skin.
She reaches out, rubs a hand absently up and down her back. "Hey," she whispers. "Wake up."
Yang's eyelids flutter open instantly, her body already uncurling as if straightening a coil. Her spine stretches, shoulder blades gliding as she moves. She says hoarsely, "What time is it?"
"I think about ten."
"Oh, cool," Yang says, sighing. "I'm glad it's Saturday."
"I'd have thought someone like you would have a constant flood of obligations," Blake says, wondering how many people have ever been granted the opportunity to see Yang like this. Somewhere she knows the answer, knows it's not many at all.
"I do," Yang says nonchalantly, the sun peppering patterns across her face, building her into diamond. "But I'd rather be with you."
--
It's a sweet sentiment until Yang's agent calls as they're staring blankly into Blake's pantry, trying to decide what to have for breakfast; Yang only sighs, swipes up on her phone with a teasing wink before she speaks.
"Cancel all my appointments," Yang says into the phone with a flourish. "I've met a girl."
A girl; it's so blasé when it shouldn't be. She sneaks another peek at Blake, her hair pulled up into a loose ponytail, her purple silk robe, all her skin left uncovered--
"I'm your agent, Yang, not your assistant," the woman says exhaustedly. Blake covers a laugh with her hand; artists, Weiss always says, you're all so dramatic. Clearly that trend breaches borders. "I'm calling about scripts, though I'm very happy for you and your love life. Please inform your publicist."
Yang points to a box of some sugary cereal, waits for Blake's nod, and takes it off the shelf. They're a little too hungover for proper cooking. Blake barely looks like she can stand, though Yang remembers holding her thighs down and her hips shifting against Yang's mouth, and maybe that's for an entirely different reason. "Anything good?" she asks, presses the phone between her ear and her shoulder.
"A psychological thriller I think you'll like the premise of, Jaune Arc's attached to the project already as the male lead - there's a biopic of an award-winning journalist that's sure to be a hit with the Academy, so I recommend you take a look at it - and an adaptation of a best-seller called 'Out of Fire'. It's some kind of popular, queer, steampunk action-romance."
"I've read it," Blake says, taking the orange juice and a box of unopened strawberries out of her refrigerator. "It's really good."
"I'll look over all three," Yang says, though internally resists the urge to shout I'll do it after hearing Blake's praise. It's too early - both literally and figuratively - to be so whipped. "I trust your judgment."
"They're pretty dead-set on you for the last one," her agent says. "They're not asking for an audition. They'd give you the part."
Yang raises her eyebrows, exchanges a glance with Blake, whose expression reads adorably impressed. Yang bites her smile into her mouth. "I'll take that into consideration," she says. "Thanks."
"Is that, like, a big deal?" Blake asks as Yang hangs up, passing her a bowl. "That they're just offering you the part?"
"Yeah," Yang says candidly, not ashamed of ego. There's a reason she's one of the highest-paid actresses in Hollywood at the moment. "It usually means they either had me in mind when the project started, or they think the source material isn't well-known enough and want star power."
"Wow," Blake says, running her strawberries under the faucet. "Well, it was a pretty popular book - I think there's gonna be a sequel - so the first option sounds likely."
"And you liked it?"
"Yeah." She pauses, examines Yang up and down as she dries her hands. "I can see it, actually."
"See what?"
"You as the main character," Blake says, tilting her head. Yang's skin simmers warm despite the lack of sun, direct heat. There's something in Blake's eyes. "You fit her - the description of her, I mean. And she's a lesbian, too, so - it'd probably be nice, like, not having to kiss any men."
"That's definitely a bonus," Yang allows, gaze dropping to Blake's bowl as she settles at the dining room table. "That's all you're eating?"
"If I don't just like, eat fruit, I swear I'm gonna die," Blake says unapologetically, lips wrapping around the end of one and biting down. The juice spills over her fingers, but there's a time and a place, and Yang slips past it. "Tequila. It's poisoned me."
Yang laughs, sits down next to her, spoon clanking against the side of the bowl. "I never get to eat shit like this," she says, poking at a marshmallow. "And I don't think a girl who drinks whiskey is allowed to say she's been poisoned by tequila."
The kettle clicks off; Yang hadn't even noticed it'd been on. Blake gets up again, takes two mugs out of her cabinet. "I'm more refined than you," she jabs harmlessly, and it's fortunate her back is turned or Yang would've had to work to hide her adoring gaze. "Tea?"
"Not a coffee person, either?"
"Only when I don't have another choice," she says mildly. "I won't say no to a Starbucks frappuccino."
"That's a universal weakness," Yang says. "English Breakfast is fine, if you have it."
"Sugar? Milk?"
"Three sugars, no milk."
Blake sighs. "That's almost offensive."
"Okay, tea snob--"
"Oh, shut up."
The mocking outrage of Yang's gasp is only amplified by her spoon clattering as it hits the porcelain. "Excuse me?" she says. "Did you just tell Esquire's 'Sexist Woman Alive' three years running to shut up?"
Blake can't stop her shoulders from shaking, even if she keeps her laughter soundless. "I sure did," she says cheerfully, turns and passes Yang her mug, slipping back into her seat at the table. "I don't mind actively shutting her up, either, if she'd like to continue running her mouth."
"I can think of a few other things I'd like to do with my mouth, actually." She says it so smoothly Blake doesn't process it at first, choking on her tea when she does. Her hips throb; she's probably still wet.
Blake glances at her over the rim. So, she's not all talk, not even close. "Service top, huh?" she finally pegs, takes another sip.
"Not always," Yang says, lips dangerous at a corner, "but with you - for now - yes." She leans forward, both arms pressing against the wood, and her irises find apocalypse in the sky. "You're so hot when you cum." Her voice drops to a murmur. "And you taste incredible."
"Jesus, Christ," Blake exhales, drawn into her eyes, shiver working its way up her spine. "I'm - can't you - wait? Just, for like, five minutes."
Yang pulls back, settles herself into something lighter, nonthreatening. Her smile blooms easily. "Anything for you, baby."
It's said as a flirtatious joke, but Blake sort of wants to hear Yang call her that every day for the rest of her life. Her mind runs blank like it's out of canvas. There's a river rushing the rest of her thought away. Yang - Yang Xiao Long - is sitting at her kitchen table, drinking tea and eating shitty cereal and hitting on her. Calling her baby.
"I have an idea," Blake says. Oh, she's got a lot of ideas - nothing this beautiful has ever saturated anywhere she's lived; she hopes the air is listening, hope the walls are soaking it in - but there's only one consuming her, one at the beginning of every other.
Yang raises an eyebrow, pausing as she lifts her spoon to her mouth. "Yeah?"
"You like me, right?" Blake asks, keeps her tone steady even if her uncertainty fuels the words themselves. She knows, but she doesn't know. Some things she still needs to hear said aloud. Sometimes his voice is still stronger than her own.
The laughter that leaves Yang's mouth is equal parts disbelief and amusement. "Uh, yeah," she says, entertained. "I definitely...'like' you." She quotes the word with her free hand.
Blake rolls her eyes, waves it away. "Okay, asshole," she says, and Yang almost chokes, coughing once on the milk in her throat. Blake only pushes on, unperturbed. "I'm asking because I would've looked stupid if, you know, suddenly the sun's up and you got what you came for."
"I would've left hours ago," Yang reasons. "I mean, not that I have any sort of - precedent, or anything, but like - I wouldn't have hung around until you woke up to be like, 'well, it's been a blast.'"
"Okay, fine. Anyway, my point is, I - I like you." It's a little quieter than she means it to be, a little more real. "I want to see you again. After this. When you leave."
"Blake Belladonna," Yang says, but she's turned inwards, masking shy. "Are you asking me out on a date?"
"No," Blake says dryly, and fortunately manages to keep the blush from her face. "I'm asking you out on a lot of dates. Plural."
Yang seems more impressed by the forwardness than anything else. "What, like, we go to dinner and you pretend you don't put out until the fifth date or something? You kiss me on the cheek and say 'we should definitely do this again sometime'?"
"Jesus," Blake says, laughing. "Yes. Like that. And I don't put out until the fifth date--"
"Clearly--"
"--so if you're interested, at least know what you're in for."
Yang wraps her lips around the spoon again. "Uh huh," she says, releasing it with a pop, obviously unconcerned. "I actually don't put out until the seventh, so."
"Oh, is that so."
"Yeah."
"I'm sure."
"I'm not lying."
They could probably do this all morning, Blake realizes; stare into each other's eyes, bouncing dumbly back-and-forth - and so she does the only thing she can think of that involves their mouths, shuts the both of them up: she wraps her fingers around the back of Yang's neck, drags her in for a kiss, eyelids fluttering. She tastes like sugar and a hint of mint, the kind of kiss you expect from a Saturday morning, dew on grass and cool sunlight filtering through trees.
"You're bad at this dating thing," Yang says, grinning widely. "You're not supposed to kiss me until the end of the night."
"Oops," Blake says, not at all apologetic. "Okay. Starting now."
"Or," Yang murmurs suddenly, her hand dropping to rest on Blake's thigh, "maybe we can start it...later."
Blake quirks one eyebrow, hopes the challenge is enough to cover the desert of her mouth. "Really?" she says.
"You said wait five minutes." Yang's voice is low, her thumb brushing bare skin just below the hem of Blake's robe. "You don't understand. You're - you're gorgeous. I'll do anything you'll let me."
It's a relinquishment that probably shouldn't drop as easily as it does, but there's no flash of regret, not that there should be - as quick as Yang is to acquiesce, she also has no problems taking what she wants - she slips onto her knees, tugs Blake's hips forward until she's on the edge of the chair, unravels the loose knot of her robe. Blake foot hits the floor, legs spreading automatically, one of them shaking against the expectation, weight of holding herself up. She aches in a good way, muscles deliciously sore and stretching. She drops a hand to the top of Yang's head, brushes through her bangs; the rest of her hair sits gathered in a messy bun.
The angle is the most enticing thing about it; Blake looks down, watches her glance up with her pupils swallowing the lilac of irises, tongue flicking out of her arrogant, sexy smirk. So, okay, maybe Yang has a few good ideas - maybe more than a few - maybe all of them, she admits to herself, toes curling against the wood and her jaw dropping in a gasp.
"Okay," Yang says afterwards, tongue sweeping across her bottom lip, back of her hand wiping her chin. "Starting now."
--
Blake has another show that night and Yang actually does have prior obligations; she kisses Blake goodbye and her hair smells like Blake's shampoo. There's something to be said, here, but Blake isn't sure what it is, doesn't even know where to begin. She loves it, loves knowing Yang's going to be out all day with Blake's scent following her, not like a ghost but a longing. Yang holds her gaze as they wait for the elevator, smile crinkling her eyes.
It's the same venue; Blake arrives a few minutes before soundcheck, backpack over her shoulder. The opening act's just wrapping up their practice. Ilia's twirling her drumsticks off in the wings, waiting disinterestedly; Sun and Neptune are probably in the green room, watching some sports game that neither of them actually understand. It's easy to get bored on the road.
"Hey," Blake says.
Ilia takes one look at her and drops a drumstick. "Oh my God," she says. "The sex was that good?"
She can't be that changed after a single night; she settles with an eye-roll, lips curved against her will. Lesbians, she thinks. They just know these things.
But she doesn't keep the details to herself - not all of them, at least - she's been replaying it for hours now and she's still not sure of how many times she came, Yang's fingers working inside of her, mouth in a carnal smirk. Ilia listens with with wide eyes tied to the poorly-covered hickey on her neck and a jaw halfway to the floor.
"She ate you out at your dining room table?" Ilia repeats, other drumstick clattering to the ground. "Holy shit. That's hot."
"I know," Blake says, keeping herself in check. Fortunately it's hard to get worked up when she's actively talking to someone else about it. "So, to answer your earlier question - yes. The sex was that good."
"Are you gonna see her again?"
She thinks of how Yang had kissed her goodbye before walking out the door, not like forever but for now, future possibility brimming in her smile. "Yeah," she says, allows herself the certainty. "I am."
--
Personally, Blake marks it down as one of their best shows yet. The crowd shouts themselves hoarse, singing every word of every song; two different girls throw sports bras on stage, and one has ilia written on a cup in sharpie. Everyone raises their phone flashlights for Burning the Candle; someone up front has an app that turns their display into a lighter. Lost myself to you, not in, I'd like to think I'm finding me again. Something about the line finally rings true.
She's digging through her bag for a fresh shirt when she feels her phone vibrate, buried somewhere under her light denim jacket. She pulls it out, taps the home button--
The yellow heart gives it away before the name, renders her breathless. hey, Yang's texted. great show tonight
She raises a single eyebrow, hummingbirds beating anxiously in her chest; she's momentarily hit with a spasm of fear that Yang's shown up to this performance, too, now waiting somewhere out of sight. how would you even know that?
Yang's next three messages come one after another - she's apparently the type of texter who hits enter between every thought - but her explanation both unravels the knot in Blake's stomach and ties it tighter, sends her into contradiction.
i stalked the instagram tag ;)
you looked good. like really good
like 'i want to say things i cant say in case my phone gets hacked' good
It's so normal, so modern, so - so cute. Blake almost hates herself for thinking that - it's unsophisticated, soft - but it's the only word she can settle on without diving too deep. There are things she won't admit to yet.
that's cute, she says. it felt like a good show. wish you'd been here for it.
me too. wouldve been more fun than what i was doing
She's still texting Yang when she steps out to meet the rest of the band, Weiss shepherding them to their table up front where they'll be signing autographs. Sun notices the dumb grin stretching across her face as she walks beside him and smacks the back of her head.
"How's the love of your life?" he sing-songs. Right, so he's not totally oblivious - that, or she's smiling more than he's used to.
"Shut the fuck up," she counters, pressing send. He only laughs, hands linked around the back of his head.
what are you doing tomorrow?
Yang's reply comes quick. you.
--
Blake makes the drive over the hill mid-afternoon, meets her in the Valley at a surprisingly busy neighborhood cafe called Aroma. Yang waits in her car until Blake texts her here, standing on the corner of the street.
"Hey," a voice says from behind her, and her heart rate spikes automatically like she's just taken a shot - a shot of whiskey, a shot of a bullet. She turns around, tries not to trip over her own feet and miraculously succeeds.
Yang's hair is up in a loose bun under a backwards black snapback, aviators covering her eyes. She's dressed so simply Blake wouldn't pick her out of crowd for it - white t-shirt; tight, ripped denim jeans; flannel tied around her waist. Her sneakers are white with black stripes.
"Jesus," Blake says, smile unwiring, observing her from underneath her own sunglasses. "You're such a dyke."
Yang laughs, doesn't lean in for a kiss, won't cross any lines. "I know," she says, beginning to walk down the street. "But it helps in public - people don't expect me to dress like this. Why d'you think celebrities always get caught by fans at the grocery store in like, beat-up Converse?"
"Good point," Blake says. They pass an ice-cream shop with a rainbow flag hanging in the window. A man sits out front with a dog who wags its tail happily at them. In another life, Blake takes her hand. "I'd never really thought about it."
"Besides," Yang says lowly as they get in line in front of the cafe, "I'm always being styled for shit. It's nice to just feel like - you know, more like me."
"I think you look good," Blake says, careful to keep her voice down. "You're not gonna catch me complaining."
Yang's mouth tilts at a corner. "I didn't think I would," she says in response, flaring a hint of ego. She glances over; Blake sees the side-eye behind her sunglasses. "You look good."
"Thanks," Blake says, pulling a menu from the bucket beside the door and hoping it hides her blush. Yang steps close to her under the guise of sharing - there are never enough menus, she sighs dramatically, ignoring the fact that there are three more - and presses against her side, chin angled over her shoulder to read. A few other people are doing the same thing, chatting idly; actually, Blake thinks as she vaguely stares around, half the people here look like they could be famous. Maybe they are. She wouldn't really know how to tell.
They order; she reaches for her wallet but Yang tuts under her breath, hands the man a fifty. "I have more money than I even know what to do with," she whispers, slipping a twenty into the tip jar. "Let me spend it on you."
Blake doesn't make a show of it, but her blood fills all the vulnerable space underneath her skin; the back of her neck, her cheeks, her chest. She can't hide that, and she thinks Yang likes it, anyway, if the curve of her mouth is anything less than a dead giveaway.
"I thought I was the one who asked you out," is all she says, keeps up appearances. Yang only shrugs and tosses her a wink over the rim of her sunglasses.
"I'm never really recognized here," she says, moving on, leading Blake around the back with their number in her hand. "I mean - I am, but it's a local spot, and locals don't really like bothering celebrities."
"Why?" Blake asks. "I noticed that, too, but I thought I just wasn't famous enough or something."
"I think it's just the culture," Yang shrugs, spotting an open table near the fence, tucked between a few ferns, vines creeping up the wood. "It's uncool. It's something tourists do."
"Makes sense." Blake takes the seat facing the rest of the garden, letting Yang have a semblance of privacy; Yang follows with a smile that suggests she understands the gesture and is grateful for it. The number comes to rest in the middle of their table. "And the paparazzi?"
"Well, it's not like they actually stake out my house," Yang explains, slipping off her aviators and hanging them loosely around her collar. "In reality, they usually have to get tipped off that I'm going somewhere, or they have to get lucky." She sips at her lemonade. "Sometimes it's an inside thing - like, to keep me in the press and relevant, or whatever."
"Oh, I see," Blake says, resting her chin in her palm; it's more interesting than she'd thought it'd be, learning the curve of Yang's fame. "So you can get away undetected, if you really want to."
"Obviously," Yang points out with a grin, "or this would be making headlines."
"I'd definitely prefer to stay out of those."
"You and me both." Her phone lights up with a message beside her; she peeks automatically, turns the device over a second later. "Sorry," she apologizes, smiling sheepishly. "Bad habits. How many weeks of your tour are left?"
"Only two," Blake says. Oh, modern love; her phone's on Do Not Disturb. "We're just going up the coast and then we're done."
"Do you like touring? Ruby's in love with it."
"Most of the time," she says. "It's exhilarating, but exhausting."
"I bet."
There's a momentary pause while a server spots their number, drops their food off at the table; behind Yang, there's a man talking about a script he's working on, networks he's pitching it to. It's L.A.. They're all searching for the same thing.
"How'd you discover us, anyway?" Blake asks, starting with her french fries.
Yang rolls her eyes like it'd been a stupid question. "Oh, come on. Like there's a lesbian alive who doesn't know you."
Blake finds herself laughing. "You make me sound like some kind of queer icon."
"You are," Yang says. "In music, anyway. As far as I'm concerned."
"Okay, but really."
"Spotify," she gives up easily, stealing one of Blake's fries. "Burning the Candle kept appearing in my playlist suggestions. It's still my favorite song of yours."
For some reason, the information knocks the wind out of her; she pictures Yang with her earphones in, eyelids shut, quietly absorbing the lyrics to the point of memorization. She wonders how Yang feels hearing her voice, wonders if it's the same way Blake feels watching her on-screen.
"It's my favorite off the album," she confesses, and it releases heavier than it should; she expects the ground to crack, the table to shake. There's more to reveal - it's about him, she thinks, it's about me, it's about when chains break, it's about when bruises heal - but she meets Yang's gaze, lilac of her irises softer than her smile, and Yang knows. Somehow, she knows.
She offers, "I always thought it was the most honest," and allows her stare to wander. Maybe she senses she's holding too much in her eyes. "Sometimes...I don't know. It's weird to look back and see how much you've survived."
It hits Blake powerfully, the sky crouching down and sitting on her chest. There's so much space it's crushing her. She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, bites down; it's been so long since she's cried about it and yet the tears threaten to spill anyway, the muscle in her throat locking up. She digs in her teeth to the point of pain, and it's not the place, not the time, but something's telling her she needs this, this catharsis, relief of absolution.
"Yeah," she says. The sun's both overhead and in front of her, burning into her pupils. "Yeah, it is."
"Hey," Yang says gently, reaches out, skims her fingers across the back of Blake's hand before pulling back. It's all so risky. "We don't have to talk about it."
"I want to," Blake says hoarsely. Things build and pour and she can't stop them. "But it's - it's not just like, what I told you on Friday. It's a lot of things." She finally manages to glance up, almost surprised to see Yang's still there. She thinks of running away like it's something she deserves. "We just met, and I don't want to be work."
Yang blinks, crevice appearing between her eyebrows, mouth tucking into a brief frown before leveling out. There's too much fracturing, nuance, but it's hard to know where to start when digging up a graveyard.
"First of all," she says, "I think we should stop saying we just met. I mean, I know it's like, insane or whatever, but it's obviously not true." She gets a smile out of Blake at that, and her own takes growth in response. She pauses before her next sentence, crafting the words on her tongue. "Secondly - you can't - you're not gonna scare me off, okay? I know what it's like to have things you don't talk about. I know they're a burden to you. But they're not to me."
She thinks of her life like a soundtrack - here's a moment for a score, for a song; maybe Yang's on the other end, thinking of it like a script - here's a line, here's a marker - they're what romance wishes itself to be, they're what Hollywood can't ever get right. Films are never this human and messy. They're never this honest, never this raw, never say a perfect thing at an unexpected time.
"If I could," Blake murmurs, picking up her panini, "I'd kiss you right now."
Yang pops a grape into her mouth, senses the moment closing. "If I could," she says, "I'd let you."
--
They don't push their luck; they stay for about an hour and a half, secrecy still intact. Everyone's so busy looking important they don't bother to notice the actually important people. Yang shrugs at the observation as they get up to leave. "That's just how it is here," she says. "It's a blessing."
"Should I do that?" Blake says. "Will it turn you on if I pretend you're like, just some nobody?"
Yang snickers. "You can try it," she says with a lowered voice, eyes glinting. "I don't mind fucking you until you remember."
Blake stops briefly, forgets how to put one foot in front of the other. "Jesus," she says, cracking. "Who are you again?"
"Walk me to my car," Yang says nonchalantly. "I have tinted windows."
She's parked on a side street; it's a residential neighborhood, and there aren't a lot of people out. The risk, though constant, remains minimal. They traipse down the sidewalk, broken by thick tree roots, passing plenty of nicer cars - there's a flashy Audi, and brand-new BMW - and then--
"A Tesla," Blake snorts as Yang unlocks the vehicle. It's black, shiny, and it'd be totally inconspicuous if it wasn't - well - a Tesla. "This is truly how the other half lives."
Yang laughs. "I bought it for my sister," she says, grabbing the handle. "She's like, a geek for technology. Plus, I'm saving the environment or whatever. It's my civic duty. Shut up and get in."
It's like she's back in high school - she slips into the backseat, Yang shutting the door behind her, and the sound hits like a cue, a snap, Yang's fingers threading through her hair, mouths colliding with the pressure of holding back; Blake hadn't realized how difficult it'd been, staring at her across a table for hours but unable to do anything about it, and now - now--
"I know this is annoying," Yang whispers, breaking the kiss, "but--"
"It's kind of hot," Blake interrupts, stare hooking around Yang's mouth, her lips red. She kisses her again, desperate and undone. "Sneaking around with you."
"Really?" Yang says. Her palm slips lower, rests against Blake's neck. It doesn't send her flinching, and it's a first; she's so used to the response of fear, used to flight winning over fight, but Yang touches her and all she's wrought with is hunger - she hadn't thought it possible to be turned on by safety, and yet - the revelation overcomes her more than the actual tension between them--
She shoves Yang back against the seat, straddles her waist; her jeans are tight enough that their creases dig against her skin, and Yang's fingers fall to her hips - if only she'd work the button and the zipper, if only she'd drag them off one leg at a time, if only she'd touch her where she wants it most - Yang sucks on her bottom lip, drags it between her teeth, and Blake can't cover a gasp fast enough--
Yang pulls away slightly, panting; her hat's fallen off to the side, hair mussed underneath. Her eyes are as astronomical as they've always been, harnessing some deep-space grandeur, stars and galaxies and an altered sense of gravity; Blake's drawn to them, imagines staring at her forever, wonders if she'd even notice the time pass.
"You," Yang says, smile lopsided and fond. "You're gonna get me in trouble one day. I just know it."
--
Yang's back at work the next day, and Blake's back on the road; they text each other every available second, mostly dictated by Yang's schedule, as she isn't supposed to have her phone on set. She reaches for it between scenes, shooting quick messages and smiling at her screen.
"Yang Xiao Long," a voice exclaims from behind her, and a hand stretches into view, pointing at her phone. "And how long were you going to keep this from me?"
Yang grins, shuts the screen off. "As long as possible," she says as Nora collapses in her own chair labeled Valkyrie. "Forever, if I could've managed it."
Nora leans close, quiets. There's a mischief sparkling in her eye. "Did you meet someone?"
"Yeah," Yang says. In truth, she's been dying to talk about it. "I don't know if you know her, though."
"She's famous?" Nora pulls a face. Someone calls ten from the director's tent where they're rewatching the previous shot. "Please tell me it's not Emerald--"
"Ugh, gross, no fucking way - I just said you might not know her--"
"Okay, so, who?" Nora waves her on impatiently. She's never had the self-control.
"Do you know Menagerie?" Yang asks, opening her camera roll. She'd taken about a hundred pictures of the show, twenty more while they'd been drunk at the bar, and snapped one or two of Blake from brunch the day previously. "They're like, an alternative rock band--"
"Wait," Nora says, nearly falls out of her chair when her foot slips off the nook. "Does Pyrrha listen to them?"
"Yeah. Pretty sure everyone remotely gay does."
"They have that, like, really hot lead singer?"
Yang's grin grows. "Yeah," she says slyly, and emphasizes, "Really hot lead singer."
"No," Nora gasps, waving a hand for her phone. "Let's see. If it's who I think it is--" Yang flashes the screen at her, starts swiping through her photos "--holy shit, yes! Pyrrha totally used to have a crush on her when their album first dropped, like eight months ago or something--"
"I told you," Yang says, swelling pride. "Everyone remotely gay has a crush on her."
"How'd you meet her? Did anything happen?"
Five, someone calls. Yang stops, finger hovering over a photo of Blake from yesterday at the cafe, chin in her palm and smile curling at the corner of her mouth, hair spilling over her shoulders the way night twists through mountains. "Her band's manager is into my little sister - I saw the show Friday night and met them all afterward. I went home with her."
"Oh my God," Nora says dramatically, a hand over her heart. "You slept with her? Wait. When's this picture from?"
"Yesterday. We went out for brunch."
Nora's stare drops from Yang's expression to the picture, softens, releases the act. "You really like her, huh?" she says, but it's rhetorical; she already knows the answer. She traces over every detail, taking it in. "She's beautiful."
"Yeah," Yang says, ribs tight around her heart, because if she lets it go it'll run. "Yeah, she is."
