"Blake Belladonna!"

She winces, tearing the phone away from her ear; the volume sparks an instant, Pavlovian flash of guilt, like she's ten years old again being scolded for climbing the large, disease-infested elm tree in their backyard. But it's the tone underneath that revels in the true intent of the call - stern, furious, outraged, and--

"I can't believe you didn't tell your own parents that you were dating a movie star!"

--Delightedly, wonderingly impressed.

She should've seen this coming.

"Um," Blake answers, worrying a short nail between her teeth. "It kind of - it happened pretty fast, and we - um - had to keep it quiet, you know? For...obvious reasons."

"Well, of course--" her mother waves the excuse away quickly "--but even so! Tell us everything, sweetheart. How long have you been together?"

"Six months." She's glad Yang isn't here to watch her have this conversation, flustered and embarrassed.

"And where did you meet?"

"She had Weiss set up a private meeting with us after a show."

"Wow." Kali sounds appropriately dazzled by it. "Look at you - so incredible you're capturing the attention of celebrities!"

"Mom." The instincts to validate are always there; Blake's career path had been a less than traditional choice in their family, but they'd supported her throughout every shitty dive bar and hole-in-the-wall music lounge regardless. Privately, she's convinced that her mom doesn't actually realize how successful her band is, stuck with the image of how they looked starting out at eighteen.

"Oh, I'm allowed to be proud of you!" Kali says. "And I know we can't really know Yang from her public appearances and movies, but she always seemed like such a nice girl. Really down-to-earth."

"She is," Blake says, smiling against her will. "You'd...you'd really love her."

"Quite a departure from your last relationship," her mother adds, as if she can't stop herself from getting the confirmation. It stings, even with the necessary context. She doesn't say it to hurt; she says it to be certain.

"Yeah," Blake answers, somber on principle. She gazes out the window of her own apartment, sees a vision of herself at twenty-two, wearing Neptune's too-big sweater and slowly putting her pieces back together. Sees her parents at her side, their eyes trained on her crumbling form and a lease agreement held in their hands. She blinks and it's gone. "I...I learned. And she's - she wouldn't. Ever."

Silence presses for a moment - Kali absorbs the words, looks for their cracks and cuts, hoping to discern the truth of them. Her voice is much gentler when she speaks again. "Okay," she says, tender like she's tucking Blake into bed. "Well, we'd love to meet her someday. Maybe we'll take a trip out for the holidays."

"That'd be nice," Blake says, leaning her forehead against the glass, fingertips leaving imprints. "I'd like that."

They speak for a few more minutes, and at the end of it, all Blake's left with is a bone-deep exhaustion and a sweltering triumph; she'd forgotten what it felt like to talk to people who held the weight of your entire history in their hands. But she's stronger now; she doesn't collapse under the pressure, doesn't grind herself into dust.

She's where she's supposed to be, with the people she's supposed to be with. She isn't enduring it anymore. She's free.

--

The fallout isn't what she expects. As in, strangely, it doesn't seem to exist.

Yang's unsurprised, unruffled; she's been out for years, but she's weathered through in spite of it, gorgeous enough for her straight audiences to overlook. If anything, the enemies Blake's gained are outrageously amusing: fans who'd fiercely believed Yang and Pyrrha had been in a secret relationship, only to have their hopes dashed.

She marvels about it to Ilia, who only gives her an odd look. "What'd you think was gonna happen?"

"I don't know," Blake says. All her ideas had always been so abstract - flooded cemeteries, coffin lids cracked and swinging off their hinges. The sky on fire, oxygen burning reds and greens and yellows. Blood spatter without a source. "I thought it'd - be different."

"It is." Ilia waits, but receives nothing further. "You're dating Yang Xiao Long. She's a world-famous movie star. People hate you for this, Blake. You're gonna get asked about her for the rest of your fucking life."

"Hm." She mulls it over, but can't find a light the rest of her life doesn't look good under, can't find a bad angle. She smiles as she turns away. "I think I'd be okay with that."

--

Weiss, unsurprisingly, is the one who puts it in perspective - she's always been able to overlook the bold, read the finer print underneath. Yes, they're everywhere; every gossip site runs an article, BuzzFeed creates a rough timeline complete with GIFs, and People has a short, cute feature - but somehow it's all surface-level and supportive. Somehow she's missing the underbelly, the dark dusty roads, the sinister and the threatening. Until Weiss.

It's only been a week since they've become public domain, a concept for the world to take and mold like clay. She's barely on social media anyway, and they're both still busy working. The band's preview to their executives is coming up; they've got at least three definitive singles, Sage and Fox had agreed confidently, and despite the long process to come, she's more comfortable with herself then she's ever been. Weiss works as their go-between, setting up their meetings; to the execs, Blake's publicity is only a sign of a brighter future, an upward climb.

Maybe Blake's too high in the atmosphere to see the ground. Maybe she's so used to being isolated that she barely recognizes she's doing it. Maybe she just doesn't want to know.

Weiss notices her composure during a rare work lunch. Yang's on-set, where she always is. Neptune and Sun are sitting close, debating between burgers and sandwiches. Ilia's staring into her coffee like it's a crystal ball. She's probably hungover, Blake thinks, and for once her thoughts don't turn inwards to herself after.

Until Weiss says, "I hope you know we're going to have to talk about this."

It's unexpected, even though it shouldn't be. She's their manager. Things touch her because that's her job. "This?"

"You," she says. "And Yang."

Blake blinks, mouth curling bemusedly. "Why?"

"Because this doesn't just impact you anymore," Weiss says. "It impacts the band. You aren't Blake Belladonna, lead singer of Menagerie. You're Yang Xiao Long's girlfriend and lead singer of Menagerie, Blake Belladonna."

"So?"

Weiss's mouth tightens, eyes on their way to slits. "Blake, you're getting death threats."

That's a point made; the silence seems to encompass the room. Blake says, "What?"

"I get why you've only seen the positive feedback," Weiss continues slowly, drumming her fingers across her menu once, almost a nervous tick. "It's...overwhelming. Yang has a - a passionate fanbase, and plenty of them have accepted you. But there are plenty of them who haven't."

She keeps her mouth calm, her throat dry. "Okay," she replies. "So what does this mean?"

"You have a connotation," Weiss says. "You're dating a woman - half the population still thinks bisexuals are a myth, so you're going to be fighting that battle more than you're used to. Not to mention they won't like it. They're going to comb through your history, everything you've ever done to prove you aren't good enough for her." That's the first thought that breaks through: history. The idea of hands bursting through soil, dragging her back - that's enough to light that wick of panic, the one she's been so good at batting out.

"Blake," Weiss says, quieter - Blake's fear must be visible, must be glowing like a flame, too. "People will use him. I can keep him from you professionally, but when people find out about him, I can't control that."

Control, that's what it always comes back to - what she's allowed to say, do, wear, write - whose hand she's allowed to who hold, whose lips she's allowed to kiss - can she even sing again with her throat raw and bloodied, with fingerprint-bruises standing out against her skin like a vibrant paint, like the art of suffering itself - there's a lot of red in the room, she distantly catalogues, bones like sand, skin like lead, her teeth are rattling in her skull--

"Weiss, knock it off," Sun interrupts, and the surprise from his sharp tone alone serves as a slow antidote to the poison she'd suddenly found herself submerged in. "I'm sorry, but come on - you know better than anyone how much he - he…" he trails off, sets his jaw, comes back steady. "You're freaking her out. I get you're trying to help, but you're - you're better than this." He manages a quick, forgiving glance towards Blake. "You don't need to be so...so cruel, to be taken seriously."

Nobody's ever heard him make a speech so impassioned, so emphatic. Weiss's expression pulls tight, anger on her tongue, nails lacquered with a murderous intent. Her gaze flickers to Blake and away, like she'd seen enough war in those few seconds. She wants to fight, that's the thing. It's Weiss. Some days, Blake isn't sure she knows how to do anything else.

Some, key word - and some is apparently not today.

She says, calm and cordial, "I apologize," but she isn't gentle about it. Sometimes that's the most they can ask of her. "I could have been more tactful."

"It's fine," Blake says, even though it isn't, and they all know it. She reaches underneath her ribcage, pulls out the words she's learned to tell herself - but they don't release with the usual fragility. They're pried out, messy and dirty, parts of herself still clinging to them. "I understand the risks, but it's my life, and it's none of his fucking business."

She catches Sun's eye again, and she's startled to see him smiling, full on display of something that looks a lot like pride.

--

Out of spite, out of defiance - perhaps she and Weiss are more similar than she'd realized - she posts a picture to Instagram ten minutes later of Yang with a smile on her face as she dozes off in the grass, and her caption is a single sunflower.

She doesn't feel guilty. She doesn't look over her shoulder. It's her right.

--

Of course, people are determined to ruin what they can't have, and their relationship is no different. Yang doesn't try to keep tabs on it, but Nora loves headline-hunting, combing gossip sites on early mornings and sending the dumbest articles she finds to her friends for the drama of it. They're always trashy, amusing, and entirely false.

"Listen to this," Yang snorts into her toast, sitting at her kitchen island in Blake's purple silk robe; Blake's beside her, wearing a black one. "Ladies' Woman? Yang Xiao Long seen out in West Hollywood with Mysterious Brunette!" She turns her phone around, deadpan to the point of disbelief; on her screen is the alleged offense, a picture of a woman talking to her while she holds a Starbucks drink in each hand. "A fan who asked me for a photo. And the name on both cups is yours."

"Jesus," Blake says, laughing despite herself - they'd developed the habit of using each other's names for their orders, as it helped avoid public recognition. Even when 'Yang' happened to be called out, it tended to get ignored if the patrons couldn't spot a tall blonde in the vicinity. "Is this what you deal with all the time?"

"Oh, don't worry," Yang says ominously. "She sent me one about you, too."

"Me?"

Yang scrolls a little further, taps at her screen, and slides her phone over again. Her expression doesn't betray a thing. Blake glances down, finds--

Actress Yang Xiao Long's "Girlfriend" Blake Belladonna Caught In Cozy Canoodle with…

It trails off; she clicks the link, scrolls to the photo, and promptly chokes on her tea.

Instead of performing the Heimlich as Blake's coughing up both lungs and a kidney, Yang only laughs hysterically; it's a picture of Weiss, of all fucking people, pulling her in for an awkward hug after their lunch meeting days prior.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Blake finally gasps out, dropping Yang's phone on the counter. The urge to gag doesn't quite surface, but it's close. "Weiss? Her?"

"Weiss is cute," Yang says with a straight face. "Punk-rock Weiss, with her beautiful white hair and business-casual attire, who walks in heels like she makes a living doing it. I can see it."

"Sounds like you're the one with the thing for Weiss," Blake shoots back, wiping her mouth with a napkin. "Weiss. I'd rather die."

There's something charming about the way Yang lets her expressions shine through - she could act off an apocalypse, but when it's the two of them alone it's like she's forgotten how. Everything drips out of her, whether appropriate or not, and Blake loves her for it.

In this instance, she tugs her mouth into a grimace, hint of disgust resting beneath her bottom lip, and it's so fucking rude. "I'd rather die," Yang echoes flatly, taking her phone back. "She's pretty or whatever, but she's the opposite of my type."

"Clearly," Blake points out, "as I'm right here."

Yang shoots her an odd look, a cross between confusion and embarrassment. "Oh, uh - I was talking about Pyrrha."

"I hate you."

"Woah. I'm gonna call TMZ and tell them we were spotted arguing."

Blake puts her face in her hands, her smile winning out. Whatever spell they're under, she theorizes, it's looking impossible to break.

--

"Hey, dumbass," Nebula greets brightly on an early Monday morning in late August, traipsing into the hair-and-makeup trailer. "I hear Blake dumped you this weekend. Saw that in the National Enquirer as I was checking out at Ralph's. That's rough."

Yang smirks, glancing up from her phone where she's texting the girl in question. A Starbucks cup (caramel macchiato) rests on the vanity in front of her, and their makeup artists flits around her face with a brush. "Yeah," she plays along. "I'm, like, heartbroken."

"I can tell." Nebula takes her own chair, setting her own drink (chai latte) on the counter. "How's the break-up sex? Good?"

"You're so annoying," Yang says, but her eye-roll's friendly enough to not be misinterpreted. "Why are you in such a cheerful mood, anyway?"

"Some of us are getting laid by girls we're still dating, Yang."

"I'm going to kill you."

"Oh, threats to my life," Nebula says. "We're close, huh?"

"No."

"Great. Wanna go out this weekend?" The invitation takes a minute to sink in. "Dew and I were thinking of going to The Peppermint Club in WeHo."

It sounds familiar; she's never been herself, but she's almost positive Nora and Pyrrha have - Nora's been everywhere. She loves a good party, and even more than that, loves being the one with the experience to direct the rest of them. "Is that, like, that sixties music lounge?"

"Yep," Nebula says. "We were thinking Saturday night?"

"I'll ask Blake," Yang answers, typing out the text; it's definitely something she'd like, but Yang's not going to make decisions for her. She presses send, moves on to other topics while she waits. "Excited for our kiss next week?"

"Super excited," she says, so dry she may as well be in drought. "My dreams are finally coming true. Can't wait until Autumn gives me a note telling me my top lip is out of position."

"I loved last week when she told me I was holding your hand wrong."

"Haven't you heard?" she says, and quotes their director, "'Love is carefully choreographed, Yang.'"

Even the team laughs; Yang's phone lights up, vibrating, and Blake's picture takes up her lockscreen - she's on-stage with smoke dusting her, background of blues and purples and her guitar held in her hands like a gun - and there, that's fate, how she's written I'd love to, and I love you too - Yang thinks of the night they met, thinks of empty theatres and tinted windows, thinks of back doors and alleyways, thinks of public crowds and closeness, and thinks--

Carefully choreographed. She'd never phrase it that way herself, but there's a transparency and a truth to it, in the end.

--

It's the first time they're photographed as a couple, which, in itself, is both terrifying and exhilarating. Yang almost doesn't take her hand as they're lead into the venue, but the flashing lights, the desperate calling of their names - YangYangYangBlakeBlakeBlake - is easily enough to overwhelm, though she doesn't show it. She hadn't thought it'd affect her, hearing them called together as if chain-linked, bound; she reaches back, intertwines Blake's fingers with hers.

Blake only smiles, tiny at the corner of her mouth, and Yang realizes: here's one experience they don't share. They're opposing ends of the same spectrum; Yang, who's never had anything to hide, and Blake, finally out of hiding.

It's not bad, Yang decides as they make it past the doorway and the yelling dies behind them. It's just annoying.

Nebula and her girlfriend Dew are already there, as well as their dedicated host for bottle service; Blake actually seems impressed as she glances around, though in her haughty, bored way - not out of ego, but of defense; she's learned to keep her reactions muted. They never know who's watching.

The interior is a mix of velvet and geometric, various shades of red and dull orange; they're seated closed to the stage, which is oddly designed but charming: the right half boasts a chair and sofa facing a knick-knack wall of sixties objects, a globe, a telephone, something that looks like an astronaut's helmet - like they'd preserved a living room from the era and built the rest of the lounge around it. The instruments taking up the other half almost look out of place in comparison.

They greet each other lazily, not bothering to hug; Yang and Nebula spend far too much time together and anything more than a head nod would be ridiculous. Nebula eyes Blake's outfit appreciatively as they sit down; her black, long-sleeved, collared shirt is entirely sheer, bra tastefully visible underneath, tucked into high-waisted denim shorts, black tights disappearing into her ankle boots.

"Who's playing?" Yang asks, who'd half-assed her own look with black ripped jeans and a loose grey shirt. That's the nice thing about a lounge - she doesn't have dress up.

"No idea," Nebula says, giving a nod to the host on a thousand-dollar bottle of Dom Perignon. "A few different artists are in the lineup, I think."

"Oh, fresh faces," Yang says, breezily goes for the jab; she takes every opportunity she can get. Blake picks up on the tone immediately, one eyebrow quirking to a point. "Love it. I'm all about supporting the up-and-coming."

"Is that what you're doing with me?" she deadpans dryly. "Advancing my career?"

"Well I wasn't gonna tell you that until your album dropped," Yang says, sarcastically sighs after. "Way to ruin the surprise."

Blake grins, adjusting her hair over her collar, and the look she levels Yang with next is enough to suck the breath out of the entire room. "Babe," she says, "I think we both know who got the better end of the deal here."

"In case that wasn't clear," Nebula chimes in, Dew laughing beside her, "that's you, Yang."

"As you so helpfully love to remind me," Yang says, and she's smiling. It's said as a joke, but that doesn't make it any less honest.

--

The benefits outweigh the risks, that's what Blake decides throughout the night - Yang with an arm around her, kissing her when she wants without resorting to longing looks, smiles that aren't soaked in secrecy - she can't believe she'd lived before this, can't believe they managed six months darting behind walls, painting themselves shadow. Can't believe they survived without love like water, drowning the room.

The music is good, is all Blake'll say later. She'll have shots, glasses of inordinately expensive wine. She won't remember much - Yang's laugh, Nebula's dry insults, Dew catching her eye as if to say oh, actors. But the music is good.

--

Those are paparazzi pictures Yang saves to her camera roll when they drop a day later.

"You're so weird." Blake rolls her eyes, stretched out across the couch and watching a rerun of Saturday Night Live with a bowl of fresh strawberries resting on her stomach.

"You look hot," Yang says, spreading two fingers against her phone screen. "They must've photoshopped them, because compared to what I'm seeing now--"

"Shut up," Blake laughs, and narrows her gaze playfully. "Are you zooming in on my ass?"

"Absolutely not," Yang says, straight-faced, but they've been together long enough for Blake to know when she's lying. There's a sentiment to that she can't quite put her finger on, only that it settles warmly in her chest and releases like sunlight.

--

Colton Jones @laxbro1745 · Aug 29

@blakebelladonna You should be with a Man like you were before. What you are doing it wrong. Sex should be with a man and a woman

yang xiao long liked

Blake Belladonna @blakebelladonna · Aug 29

Replying to @laxbro1745

both at once? every time? sounds like a lot of work. best of luck to you on your threesome-only lifestyle.

winter came @game_ofhoes · Aug 29

Replying to @blakebelladonna @laxbro1745

LMAOOOO BRUH

chrissy @yangsabs · Aug 29

Replying to @blakebelladonna @laxbro1745

ok i was on the fence about her but this is gjfdkbsjfdkgjsdf

kate turning 21 @coastedkate · Aug 29

Replying to @blakebelladonna @laxbro1745

blake belladonna im in love with you please snap me in half

--

For the first time, Yang chalks it up to inexperience.

She and Nebula finally have their beautiful romantic climax - there's a war won, there's a self-discovery and a sacrifice and a saving - but in its entirety, it turns out to be much stranger than she thought it'd be, than it's ever been before.

It's not because the scenes are shot out of order - they almost always are - and thanks to scheduling, they wind up acting out their first meeting right before their love scene; that's a familiar challenge, and one she's encountered previously. No, what's unnerving is that Yang's never had to kiss someone with her mind so thoroughly occupied by someone else, knowing what all-encompassing love actually feels like, tastes like, how it folds and curves and shudders.

It's almost unsettling - or it would be, if she weren't so good at her job. Nebula's objectively attractive, and they do have chemistry, and their characters' love story is something she wants to do justice to; but someone else's lips on hers has never felt so wrong, so out of place and inappropriate.

Not according to their director - Autumn gives them a wide grin and a thumbs up after calling cut, but the minute they start setting up for their next take, Nebula lets her mouth fall. Background shifts around them; the green screen hangs wide behind, taking up the wall.

Nebula says, "Dude, that was fucking weird. Way weirder than rehearsals."

Well, one of them had to say it.

Yang snorts over a laugh. "I know. Was it everything you dreamed it would be?"

"No," Nebula says, grimacing. "It was much worse. Did you even brush your teeth?"

"I had some gum."

"You're such an asshole."

The A.D. points out something on the screen, gestures to the two of them, and Autumn nods in agreement. Yang's smile grows, a vision forming. "We're about to get a note," she says. Autumn slips her headphones off. "Wanna bet on it? Twenty?"

"Tongue," Nebula says immediately.

"Hand placement," Yang decides instead.

A few hours later and Nebula's slapping a twenty into Yang's hand, grumbling in annoyance. They'd kissed so many times they'd actually grown desensitized to it, relaxed and comfortable, and it'd secretly been a blessing in disguise - their work almost certainly benefited from the ease in atmosphere, in expectation.

"I'm assuming you'll take Blake to the premiere in, like, a year or whatever," Nebula says. "I'm sure she'll love it."

"She will," Yang says, and fondly rolls her eyes. "She loves the book. She'll be thrilled when we kiss."

She slams her trailer door, backpack over her shoulder. Nebula lets out a laugh, shaking her head at the revelation; her smile is soft, like she's giving up on teasing. "Well, then," she says, "I hope we make her proud."

"I hope we do, too," Yang agrees, too quiet and genuine, and they walk off towards the gate as the night spreads open around them. Nebula lets her have it without a remark, and Yang finds herself hoping they make it to a sequel.

--

The band sits in while the entire album plays for the execs, who listen diligently and make notes, sometimes comments if they feel strongly enough to interrupt the music for it. Ozpin himself attends the session - he'd done it for their first album, too, but Blake had always chalked that up to wanting to see the proof of purchase; they'd been a very high-risk, but ultimately high-reward pickup for the label. And apparently he'd wanted to do it again.

They end up being fans of exactly the songs Fox and Sage say they'll be - 'Lighting the Fire', 'Uncovered', and 'Alone Together' - but they also see the merit in the album as a whole. Blake hides her grin behind her hand as they exchange glances over the track Taking Control; she sneaks a look at Ozpin, and maybe she imagines it, but she swears the corners of his mouth quirk. For a brief, shining moment, it's like an inside joke, the bare bones of a conversation that needs to be contextualized while she has the room.

The last track ends, and before anyone can speak, she meets Ozpin's stare directly. "I never would've written this when you found me," she says bluntly, hopes he understands what she's truly trying to tell him: thank you. "I never would've written any of this."

She's never been able to put it succinctly into words despite them being simple and small. Gratitude doesn't say enough, that's the problem. Those two words - they're so simple and small, they've become nothing close to the magnitude they need to fill.

"I've had dealings with White Fang in the past," he'd said at the time, two years ago or just over. "Adam Taurus is the new CEO, is he not?"

Her voice had matched her lips, cracking and on the verge of blood. "He is."

Sun had wanted to put his hand on her back, to hold her in his arms, to shield her from the worst - I'm sorry, I don't believe this will work, and I can't take a risk with a chasm this wide - but Ozpin had only regarded her for a moment, regarded all of them, and then pressed his spacebar, signaling play on a song from their E.P.. It'd rolled out of his speakers, her own voice nearly unrecognizable.

He'd let it play for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. "I don't agree with his methods," he'd said candidly. "But I can't deny his ear for talent, and Menagerie, you do indeed have it."

It'd felt like a fever dream, induced by heat and lack of sleep. It'd felt like a rope being thrown down to the bottom of a well. It'd felt like hope, and she hadn't had that for a long, long time.

Now, he holds her stare with the same respect she's offered him, and his smile, no matter how small, is most definitely real.

"I won't deny it's quite a departure, Miss Belladonna," he says, "but it's a delightfully provocative one, and I think the recent audience you've gained will certainly appreciate it."

--

"How'd it go?" Yang whispers into the phone, and there's no way she's supposed to be taking calls on set. Blake pictures her holed up in a corner, probably near craft services, surreptitiously talking into a water bottle. "I've been thinking about you all day. I mean, I normally do, but this is a big deal, right?"

"I was trying to leave you a voicemail, Yang," Blake says, but the smile's evident in her voice. "Aren't you going to get in trouble?"

"No," Yang says, wavering on confidence. "Um, probably not. It's - look, I have like, five minutes, so talk fast."

The laughter bubbles up her throat instead, and then something unfamiliar: sharpness in the corners of her eyes, and a sting, the blurring of vision. Nothing falls, but it's there, and that's evidence enough.

"I've never had so many good things in my life at once," she says, and she swears she's breaking apart, finally rearranging herself into the person she'd always meant to become.

--

They loved it, she tells Yang. Now the there's a lot left to the in-house publicist, who'll devise a schedule for release dates, as well as send out advanced copies of the album itself to blogs, magazines, publications.

She's standing on the sidewalk, down the street from the record label, outside of a Starbucks. She'd left the building and needed to walk - Ilia had uncharacteristically wrapped her in a hug, said I'm so proud of you, and you're so far from where you've been; we all are - and it'd unlocked something inside of her, a deep recess of a darker time she'd carefully kept compartmentalized. Three years ago, Ilia coming to the door of the apartment she'd shared with Adam and being turned away. Believing Blake's poor excuses for her bruises, almost as if she hadn't wanted to know. Until suddenly she'd stopped; stopped believing and started fighting.

You don't deserve this, Blake, is what Ilia had whispered then, and Blake had known exactly what she'd meant.

I love you, Blake remembers telling her. I'm sorry it isn't the way you want me to. I'm sorry it couldn't have been you.

Yeah, Ilia had whispered, tears in her eyes. Yeah, me too.

"Blake?" Yang's voice says. "Blake? Hello?"

"Sorry," Blake says. "I was - I spaced out."

"Oh, no," Yang says dramatically. "It's finally happened. Your head's so big you're floating away."

"You're a moron," Blake says, but she's still smiling. "No, I just - I was just thinking, you know, how far we've come. Not just me. Everyone. Ilia, Sun, Neptune - I - they fought hard for me. And I owe this to them, just as much as I do you."

The tone Yang comes back with is almost unbearably gentle, understanding. "You're going to write a song for them, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Blake says, and the words unravel themselves like ribbons in her head. "I am."

"I think that'll be--" There's a rustling on the other end, and a loud voice, yelling in the background; Yang curses under her breath, lets out a string of a sentence without so much as a pause. "Loveyoufucksorrygottogobye."

The call beeps. Blake can only laugh; the sun's out, the weather eighty and perfect from where she's standing on the sidewalk, underneath a tree. She's never seen such a gorgeous shade of blue drenching the sky. Los Angeles - it used to be so far from home, and now it's the only one she thinks of.

She decides today's a beautiful day to walk into Starbucks and use her own name.

--

Weiss stops Sun from following Blake as she walks off down the street, phone in her hand and tapping away before bringing it to her ear. He glances oddly at her, allowing himself to be held back.

He waits. She chews on her tongue, saying nothing.

"Uh, Weiss," he finally broaches, "I'm, like, flattered or whatever, but you aren't really my type."

She blinks. Slow to comprehend, but quicker to react, and she smacks him upside the head, frown burrowing into her face out of sheer disgust. "I'm trying to figure out how to tell you something important," she hisses, tips of her ears red in anger. "And it isn't about my feelings."

"Who - Blake?" he puts together, lowering his voice. "What about her?"

She returns to her habits for a moment and anxiety gnaws in the pit of his stomach, like a creature with teeth catching against his insides. She's troubled, that's what he starts to understand. Whatever it is, something has seriously fucked with her head, and now she's dumping it on him.

Finally, she releases her bottom lip, red and vibrant against the contrast of her hair. An inhale, and then: "Adam knows, Sun, and he isn't happy."

Adam. It's enough for flashbacks, even without being the one to live bearing the brunt of his anger. Blake, purpling under her eyes like bruises, so thin he spent months terrified he'd touch her and she'd snap clean in half. Blake, turning away without answers to any of his questions, unable to smile like she couldn't remember how. Blake, crossing her arms over her body like holding her bones together. "What?" he whispers, staring blankly at her.

"I still have a few friends over at his label," she says, and she's speaking fast. "I - they told me he - he holed himself up in his office when the news broke. Cancelled meetings, wouldn't see clients. And in the days following, he's just - he's been angry."

"Is he," Sun starts, swallows, dry and sharp in his throat, "a threat? Do we - do we need to do something?"

"We can't." Weiss is as matter-of-fact as she's always been, in spite of her obviously distress. "You know there's nothing we can do. But we just - we need to be aware. I don't know how to tell her. I don't know if I should."

"Don't." The firm, steady tone is surprising, and she stops to listen. "She's - Weiss, look at her. She's happy. Finally. It's been so long since we've seen her like this - like herself. If we tell her about Adam, I mean - what good is it gonna do? She knows what he's like. She knows."

Her lip slips back into her mouth, a sign his words have made an impact. It's another moment of silence, before--"Alright."

"Alright?"

"Fine." She drops her arms to her sides, fists to steel. "You're right - it's probably best we don't send her spiraling into panic. But I'm increasing security for any upcoming public appearances."

"Good," Sun says, following Blake's trek down the street with a solemn, intense stare. "Whatever it takes, Weiss."

It's one of the few things they agree on. One of the few things they always have.

--

Early September forces a conversation Yang's been both elated for and dreading. Being out is one thing; going out is another thing entirely. She broaches the topic after Glynda texts, asking details for her guests; it's the Emmys. They're not letting anyone just wander in.

"So," she says, when they're tucked together in bed after a long day of filming, recording. Blake rests her book flat across her stomach, recognizing significance when she hears it. "The Emmys are coming up."

Her mouth quirks. "They are," she agrees.

"Um," Yang says.

"What is this, an invitation to the fucking prom?" Blake says, mildly rolls her eyes. She fingers the page of her book, picks it back up. "Jesus, Yang. Yes, I'll go to the Emmys with you."

"There'll be a lot of cameras," Yang warns, just to be sure. She raises a single finger as she does so. "And, you know, interviewers. They'll probably try to talk to you."

"Cameras?" Blake repeats, and she sounds absolutely scandalized. "At the Emmy Awards? Oh, fuck. I didn't see that coming. You're right - I shouldn't go." She doesn't even glance up from her book.

"Great," Yang says, beaming, taking the brutal evisceration as the acceptance it is. "I love you."

It's the declaration that shifts her walls, dampens her wit, her sarcasm - she flits her eyes to Yang's over the cover, lips curled quietly at the corners. "I love you, too," she says, and returns to her words. Sometimes it's all that needs to be said: just the two of them knowing that love is there.

For a moment, they're content with silence; and then Blake adds, "As if I'd let you go to the Emmys looking drop-dead gorgeous without me. You'd get hit on all night. I'm doing you a favor."

"Hm," Yang replies nonchalantly, keeps her face straight and her lips reading wicked. "I'm sure there's some way I can repay you."

"I'm sure there is," Blake says, just as inconsequential.

(Yang slips a hand up her thigh, finds her warm and wet; Blake makes a slight noise of surprise in her throat, and Yang readjusts, covers Blake's mouth with her other hand.

"Shh," she says quietly, cruelly. "We aren't alone in this house anymore, Belladonna, so you'd better save your voice.")

--

Considering it's their red carpet debut, Blake can't get away with styling herself; Yang's team is generously (hint: forcefully) thrust upon her, and she's finally left at Coco's mercy, who couldn't be more thrilled with the circumstance. Ruby peaks her head in and laughs - she and Weiss get to skip the royal treatment, and they aren't jealous in the slightest.

"You aren't technically supposed to be interviewed, Blake," Coco says, who's been in the industry long enough to know all of its rules. "I'm sure Yang's told you that already, but just in case - you're wearing Dior. Yang, you're in Vera Wang. Memorize it."

"Done. Calvin Klein."

"Tom Ford."

Coco puts her face in her hands. "Two of you," she says flatly. "One was bad enough. Now there's two of you thinking you're funny."

"Excuse you," Yang says, affronted, but holds carefully still as Velvet meticulously curls her hair. "We're hysterical. I'm waiting for Netflix to call about a comedy special."

"You'll be waiting a long time," Scarlet says, working on Blake's foundation. "Sweetheart, you've got incredible skin."

"I suppose I can live with that," Blake sighs. "No stand-up, but great skin."

"That's the spirit," he encourages.

"I'm in hell," Coco says dramatically. "This is what literal, actual hell is like. Yang, you're gonna get asked about your dress and stupidly reply, 'Blake Belladonna.'"

"Oh, now that's comedy," Blake says. "Good one, Coco."

"I love all of you to death," Velvet interrupts, noticing the telltale shift of Yang's jaw, "but Yang, if you open your mouth one more time, I'm going to burn your ear off. Please. Blake won't love you if you're asymmetrical like that."

"It's true," Blake agrees. "I'm only with you for your pretty face."

"What about my talent?" Yang asks, violating the exact rule she'd just been given.

"Your what?"

"I have an Oscar on my mantle," she says. "I have two Golden Globes."

"Lips together," Scarlet says without leaving room for an answer, picking up the lip liner and throwing Velvet a wink over his shoulder. She smiles in response, and Yang's curls fall perfectly over her shoulder, exactly the way they're meant to.

--

This time, they're both receiving the red carpet walkthrough - Blake'll go with her to the photo pit, Glynda explains, and then step back, allow Yang her own moment for her nomination. She pauses as she finishes, before adding reluctantly, "It's likely they'll want individuals of you, too, Blake."

"Okay," she says, sounding far more confident than she feels; Yang takes her hand, subtly links their fingers together. Yang's always been the one to see straight through her. "I'll be fine."

"I know," Yang says. "I'm nervous for me."

"You?" Blake asks, disbelief coating every letter. "Babe, you look - you look--"

Otherworldly, is all she can think to say, and even that's not right: the dress she's wearing is off-white and made of a flowing, airy material, a train skirt that cuts open at the front of the waist and reveals the shorter slip underneath, hanging just about mid-thigh. Beadwork covers the sides of the bodice, and there's a deep dip down her chest, cleavage visible but tasteful. Her hair spirals in perfect, beautiful waves, and she's--

"Hot?" Yang provides helpfully. "Stunning? Gorgeous? The most outrageously sexy woman you've ever seen in your life?"

"Well," Blake says, "all four, until you opened your mouth."

Yang throws back her head and laughs, and somewhere cameras are already snapping. Blake hopes they capture this precise, exact moment; the awe probably still fading from Blake's face and the love present on Yang's, the light, the brilliance.

She squeezes Blake's hand. "Funny," she says, shining too brightly to be mistaken as anything other than the star she is. "I feel the same way about you."

--

It's pandemonium. Glynda's speech doesn't prepare her for that.

The minute they reach the pit, their names are called with such a heightened tone of desperation that after a solid minute of it - YangBlakeYangBlakeYangYangBlake - they cease to mean anything at all. But her arm around Yang's waist and Yang's fingers comfortable on her hip keep the both of them grounded, together. They smile blindingly, looking just as in love as every magazine is going to make them out to be, and not nearly enough for the truth of it.

In the middle of the chaos - Overhereplease,YangoverhereBlakeoverhere - Yang glances to her, smile losing teeth, becoming soft and intimate. Her lips press together, a delicate curl up at the corners; Blake can't help but mirror it, pressure fading from her cheeks and tenderness taking over. Yang's eyes never stray from hers despite the trail they'd taken earlier that afternoon, cataloguing every inch of Blake's body in her dress - black, long-sleeved, sheer fabric covering the length of her sternum and allowing a glimpse of the curve of her breasts; Yang's stare had dropped with her jaw - but now she's past that. They both are.

Now she gazes into Yang's eyes, and despite her enduring allure, her natural elegance, all Blake can really think about is--

Yang moves first, leans in and puts her lips to Blake's ear. "I wish we were at home in sweatpants, watching true crime documentaries," she says, swiping the image directly from Blake's mind.

Her smile is so brazenly authentic that there isn't a soul who'll see these pictures later and doubt that love exists; this is a bold validation, a statement in itself. So Blake tells her, "I'm in love with you."

Another laugh, and then a pull inward; their moment is closing as they're running out of time. With the line of her mouth so gentle it could be classified as a vulnerability, she says, "I was fine before I met you, but damn, if it isn't better with you here."

--

As designated, Blake hangs back in the crowd with Weiss and Ruby while Yang gives interviews, but that doesn't stop her from having an impact.

Everyone has a comment to make, whether it's a question or a joke or a casual statement - several simply want to know what it's like, walking the carpet with a partner for the first time; many just congratulate her, because Blake's gorgeous and talented and successful and of course that's what matters to these people - but only one gets a legitimate response, purely because the inquiry itself is so insanely ridiculous that she can't hold back.

"Was it a strange thing for her to get used to?" the interviewer asks - he's a man, that's the first mistake, probably thinks he's being flattering rather than creepy - "I mean, everybody wants you. Was she ever worried about that, especially when you had to keep it a secret?"

She feels her brain knocking itself out in protest as it attempts to comprehend what's being asked of her. It's like he's just dropped a coded message during a war, expects her to decipher it in the blink of an eye. Worried. Worried--

"Are you kidding?" she responds, almost as a demand. She glances at Blake over her shoulder, her eyes widening comically; Blake's standing with her clutch in her hand, effortlessly beautiful - she doesn't realize it, but half the people who walk by keep slowing down to stare. "Have you seen her? She, like, owns me."

Glynda's hand wraps around her elbow, signaling time's up; she thanks the interviewer and prepares to move down the line, still snickering quietly to herself. Glynda's apparently waiting for someone in particular, though; she gestures Blake to follow, guides them behind E! News to wait their turn.

"What's so funny?" Blake asks.

"That last guy," Yang says. "He was like - 'was Blake ever worried about you cheating on her?' but in a subtler way--" Blake's already laughing "--I know, it was so fucking stupid. I was like, have you looked at her?" She tosses Blake a furtive glance, trails her body from her eyes to her heels, lowers her voice with the risk. "Of course, the image I had in mind was of you a little less dressed than you are currently, but--"

"Shut up." Blake's grin is too wide to match the remark. "You don't have to finish that thought. I'm pretty sure I know where it was headed."

"I'll show you later."

Glynda's gesturing Yang forward again, purposefully ignoring the flirtatious things they're murmuring to each other. Blake nods her on, slant of her mouth now losing its innocence. "I'll look forward to it," she says, and Yang swears she sees straight through Blake's dress, through her skin and muscle, down into her bones.

--

It's Weiss's suspicious behavior that finally breaks through Blake's sensory overload, gives her something to focus on with an answer: she keeps taking these long looks down the carpet, searching every face in the crowd, the color of every woman's hair. She's strangely on edge, shifting her weight between feet more often than normal, pulling her hand-mirror out of her clutch and examining her lipstick. She looks flawless - she always does; Weiss doesn't leave the house with a hair out of place on a regular day, and the Emmys create a vision of her straight out of a magazine - and Blake can't quite figure out where the nerves are coming from, what the anxious influence on her habits is, until:

"Pyrrha!" Ruby exclaims, glancing past Blake's head and beaming.

The way Weiss turns is deliberately graceful, paced - she locks eyes with Blake as she does so, her faint blush standing out against her fair skin, lips snapped together as if she's afraid of what might fall out between them - and then she moves on, shifts into a polite smile. But it's too late. Blake's seen enough.

"Hello again," Pyrrha greets sincerely, smiling as she pulls Ruby into a hug first, followed by Blake, and finally, Weiss; it's impossible to refuse without giving it a connotation of difference. Weiss still has to stand on her toes to reach Pyrrha's shoulder, but both of Pyrrha's arms wrap around her neck before pulling away. Blake watches her fingers ghost the line of Weiss's shoulder blade, the trail of goosebumps that follows.

It's incredibly, unbelievably awkward in its intimacy, especially when said intimacy shouldn't even be there to begin with.

Blake's seen Pyrrha's movies, knows how incredible of an actress she is - but what she apparently can't act off is the state of confusion touching Weiss always seems to leave her in. It's so achingly familiar it's like Blake's seeing herself six months ago, staring at Yang in the doorway of her dressing room.

"Where's Jaune?" Ruby asks, either willfully ignorant or gracefully sidestepping. "You came together, right?"

"Yes," Pyrrha says, doesn't look at Weiss as she does so. "He's at the start of the line with his publicist."

"Yang's almost done," Ruby provides helpfully, since Blake doesn't actually know how to tell yet. "She'll be glad to see you. You know how much she hates award shows."

It's the opening Pyrrha's waiting for; they need to overcome the odd tension still lingering in the air, the elephant in the room far too big to ignore that they're attempting to ignore anyway. She turns on Blake, smile teasing. "Oh, I bet she's enjoying this one," she says, raises an eyebrow knowingly. "You're here. How was the pit?"

"Hell," Blake says, but she's smiling, too.

-

Yang finally rejoins them ten minutes later, stepping up to Blake's side, and it's times like this when her talent becomes most obvious, truly deserves its nominations - she doesn't even blink at the ticking bomb between Weiss and Pyrrha, every passing second like the countdown to an explosion. They can't avoid it forever. They can barely avoid it for a night.

But it's lighter with Yang there, easier; a few other friends of theirs pass by and greet them, co-stars and familiar faces - Pyrrha and Yang are forced to play nice with Cinder for a solid thirty seconds until she deliberately ignores Blake's introduction, an act that Yang considers a cardinal sin, and they close their talk on her rather abruptly - and then they part ways, leaving Pyrrha to wait for Jaune as they head inside.

What follows is so Hollywood of a moment, Blake finds it hard to believe it isn't choreographed - Weiss shoots a short, poignant look over her shoulder, and even in the chaos of the crowd, Blake knows she catches Pyrrha's eye like she's the centerpoint of the carpet itself.

She faces forward again, her spine straight, chin up. It's been a long time. She's used to not getting what she wants.

Ruby and Weiss are sitting further back in the theatre among other guests, friends, and family; Blake and Yang are sitting somewhat closer to the front, a few seats away from the aisle. The stage is drenched in various shades of gold, what looks like beaded curtains hanging floor-to-ceiling on both sides, glimmering underneath the lights; large half-spherical shapes stretch behind, creating a type of archway. It's ostentatious in its grandeur, glamorous, glittering. Being a recent Oscar and Golden Globe winner apparently makes Yang a target, a worthy possibility for the category she's nominated in.

"But It won't be me," she whispers confidently, something Blake merely rolls her eyes at. For someone so valued in her field, she never seems to give her worth a consistency. "Seriously! It's a big show, but Maria Calavera is almost definitely gonna get it for Reaper. She was incredible."

"You're incredible, too," Blake says, because in her opinion, Yang's the last person who should sell herself short, and she doesn't mind convincing her of that. Objectively, she's accomplished more by twenty-five than most people have in a lifetime.

"You're biased," Yang replies, softening anyway. The row behind them starts to fill out, and she leans closer as to not be overheard. "Honestly, babe - I don't care if I win. Tonight's already perfect. You're here."

The lights dim in warning - they'll be live soon, airing across the country; they'll be panned to in the audience, their reactions on full display at the whim of the production crew. They'll be photos and YouTube videos and gifs. They'll be everywhere.

"Thanks," Yang says suddenly, moments before the show starts; sometimes it's like they share a wavelength, a radio frequency where their thoughts spill and overlap. "Thanks for coming, I mean. I know it's overwhelming."

"Nah," Blake says, and takes her hand, squeezing once; Yang intertwines their fingers, doesn't let her pull away, not that she would've tried. "I'm with you. I can handle anything."

--

The two of them actually get a reference in the opening monologue - Our newest It-Couple is here, the woman says; Yang Xiao Long and her girlfriend Blake Belladonna are in attendance tonight, an appearance Hollywood is no doubt heralding as a bold and political statement, but something I personally call being gay and smarter than ninety percent of the people here - which they don't see coming, and fortunately their laughter is genuine in response; Hollywood's all about their diversity angle these days. Well, they'll play their parts. At least it hadn't been offensive.

But it's a long night. A long, long night.

During the breaks, plenty of people approach them - congratulating Yang on various performances, catching up after multiple projects apart, or simply saying hello - she isn't completely out of her league here, surrounded by plenty of movie stars who'd opted for roles on prestigious television shows for a few seasons. It's kind of becoming the thing to do, she explains lowly to Blake; it's the Golden Age of television or whatever.

And it's also the reason Yang expects to lose her category, which she does - Maria Calavera, an older legend in the industry who'd made a triumphant return after a long absence, takes it to thunderous applause. Yang actually whistles, genuinely thrilled for her; they'd worked on a film together years ago, and though they'd originally butted heads, she'd helped put Yang in her place, make her see perspective. It was a moment of true growth, and she'd always attributed some of her continuous level head to Maria's advice then.

"I'd thank my fellow nominees, but you'll probably see them again next year, and the year after that, and the year after that," she drawls, full of high-pitched, teasing lilts. "So I won't! They'll be back. I might kick it right here, and this award will be my final legacy!" She cackles madly.

"She's kind of nuts," Yang whispers, but with a fond tone. "I love her to death. No pun intended."

Her speech concludes, and she almost walks off stage in the wrong direction. Everyone claps politely and laughs. Blake leans in and says, "The next time you're here, you're going to win. And I'm going to be sitting next to you, telling you 'I told you so.'"

Yang presses a single kiss to her mouth, brief but soft. "I look forward to it."

--

The two of them skip the afterparties; Pyrrha and Jaune, who'd also lost his category and, like Yang, hadn't been surprised by it, take Ruby and Weiss to the Netflix one. Yang isn't sure if it's because Ruby actually wants to go, or because she wants to give them some time alone. Either way, she's grateful for it, because--

Blake slips into the car, the slit of her dress exposing her leg to her upper thigh, bare and inviting and the perfect place for Yang to put her mouth, suck until she leaves a mark. She thinks of traveling further up, thinks of finding her lingerie, thinks of cupping her warmth underneath it.

"Don't even think about it," Blake says, staring out the window as they pull away, her lips crooked at a corner.

"I'm thinking about it," Yang says.

"You're always thinking about it."

"So are you," she retaliates, rests her hand on Blake's thigh. Blake, to her credit - far too used to Yang's games, and far too good at playing directly into them - only smirks wider, lets it overtake teeth. "Nice try, Belladonna, but I know you spent half the show thinking about being underneath me."

She shifts away from the window, tilts her neck, hair falling over her shoulder. It's hard to separate her from the lights beyond the tinted window, something gleaming out of darkness. "When we get home," she says, and home has been Yang's house for months now, "I want you to fuck me like you'd won."

"I did win," Yang says, catches Blake's chin in her hand and kissing her. "I'm going home with you."

--

Strangely (or not-so-strangely, but Weiss is too sober too early to pretend she knows any better), Pyrrha disappears after half an hour, wanders her way into an empty corner of the garden. Jaune's too busy with his friends and co-stars to really notice - they've been together for awhile, anyway, and they've lost the need to constantly keep track of one another. That's the comfort of familiarity, he jokes. You just stop wondering where they've gone.

He's wrong. Anyone who's ever been in love is aware of it. Weiss isn't sure if she's ever been in love, but she knows he's wrong regardless.

She hasn't stopped wondering, that's the thing. It's an instinct of hers; to know. She touches one hand to Ruby's shoulder, mojito held in her other. "Hey," she says quietly. "I'll be right back."

Ruby sets her mouth, lines hard but understanding. "Okay," she says. Troubled. She should be. "Um - just - be careful."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Weiss answers, lying like it's a right of hers, a title passed through bloodlines and birth. "I'd just like a little air."

"Okay." Ruby chews on her bottom lip, but ultimately keeps her warnings to herself. She's thinking them so loudly it's like she's said them anyway.

Part of the garden reads as an art exhibit; it's a large oak tree from which various intricately crafted birdhouses hang, ranging from steampunk to modern, from one that looks woven out of grass to another that appears to be made entirely of diamond. It's where she finds Pyrrha, staring at each piece in turn for long periods of time before moving to the next, like she's recreating their carvings in her brain. Maybe it's how she commits things to memory: lets them hurt her first.

"Hello," Weiss says softly, careful of startling her.

Her pause is miniscule, and she doesn't even turn. It confirms more than it rejects. "Hi, Weiss."

"Why are you out here?" she asks bluntly, and that's the alcohol speaking. She'd meant to be patient and calm and cool; she'd meant to be someone worthy of the truth, not someone who demands it like she does to everybody else. "I'm sorry. You don't have to answer that."

Pyrrha's mouth trips up, like taking a wrong turn. "It's okay," she says, tone so gentle Weiss thinks it could pass as one of the homes dangling around them. "I don't mind telling you."

But she doesn't say anything further, just waits. One of the houses must have a windchime; a bell rings from higher above, blowing with the breeze expected of a warm September night. It's empty where they are, leaves them alone to the fairy lights and ambiance. Pyrrha still hasn't looked at her, attention held to the sharp edges of sheet metal meant to make up a room, tracing a thumb over a ridge.

And Weiss understands. She always understands, even when she doesn't want to. "That's the problem, isn't it?" she says, and the indifference has only ever been an accessory, something to put on and wear. "You don't mind telling me."

Finally, faced with the confrontation, she turns around, lets her arm fall loosely by her side. Weiss wonders if that's something she's learned, or something she's managed to maintain - tenderness in the face of fear. She's fully smiling as she meets Weiss's eyes, but it's bittersweet, almost resentful. "Yes," she says. "That's the problem."

"You don't love him."

"I don't know what I feel."

"You don't have to lie to me," Weiss says quietly, takes a step closer. It's all defeated, though, like they both know exactly where this is going and they're determined to hurt themselves with it anyway.

Pyrrha doesn't get angry with her for the remark, not that Weiss had predicted she would - she's only pained, body tensionless and regretful. "I don't think I know what love is," she says, wistful as if secret. "I thought I did, but now, I - I'm not so sure."

Another pause; Weiss moves past her to stand beside her, posture not to fight but to explain. She gazes aimlessly up the pieces in the tree, wonders if any of them feel lived-in, wonders if people can feel that way, too. "I think you'd know."

"Yeah," Pyrrha murmurs. "Yeah, I was afraid of that answer."

"You aren't with him anymore, are you."

It isn't a question, but it's still expecting. "No," she says, blinking tears out of her eyes that aren't there. "I'm not, but we - didn't want it to impact his night."

"I'm sorry," Weiss says, rests a hand against her shoulder, fingers spreading open. "I...know what it's like. To let yourself down."

Pyrrha's head tilts, eyelashes sinking low, stare darting to Weiss's hand. Weiss can feel her breath against her knuckles, can see the outline of her lips - and suddenly they're a possibility, they're a path, they're the particles of the universe splitting into a world in which Weiss kisses her, links their fingers, whispers foolish romantic nonsense about destiny - her red hair's in a high ponytail, swings long and curls over her spine, matches the shade of her dress - Weiss loosens her fingers, trails her hand up, cups Pyrrha's cheek--

It doesn't even cross Pyrrha's mind to stop her, and that, in itself, is knowing.

She dips her head, captures Weiss's mouth with her own, just to feel what it's like. Just to feel anything at all.

Weiss swears it's an eternity, swears it's a second until Pyrrha pulls away, and then Weiss drags her back in like the tide to the moon, submerged in silver - she parts her lips, catches Pyrrha's bottom one between them, sucks gently - Pyrrha's arms loop around her waist, clutch her desperate and close for the few moments they're allowed to intertwine before that splinter universe cracks off and dismantles, leaves them nowhere and alone.

They're both a little drunk, a little unsteady. But it still feels right, and that's the worst part.

"I'm sorry," Pyrrha says, breaking them apart, but her breath against Weiss's mouth is a kiss unto itself. "I can't. I can't. Not now."

"You don't have to apologize," Weiss says, sinking back onto her feet. She keeps her eyelids shut, lets the details burrow so hard they hurt. "I know."

But she thumbs Pyrrha's bottom lip after, brushes it with the affection of something melancholically sentimental, and tries to pinpoint where she learned to be so gentle, where her instincts changed from rebellion to acceptance.

And then she thinks of Blake, thinks of her smile flourishing under sunlight, thinks of her voice and its endurance, thinks of her strength and her forgiveness and her growth. And she thinks of Yang, thinks of her hands and how she uses them as hospitals, thinks of her love and its transparency, thinks of her reckless, relentless appreciation for life.

And she thinks of Ruby. Thinks of her kindness, her sincerity, her authenticity. How she loved Weiss in every way possible other than the one she needed, and it still, somehow, was enough.

She knows exactly where she learned it. And she knows things don't have to hurt to be remembered.

--

The house is monstrously dark and dangerously inviting, full of flat, even surfaces. Yang doesn't need to hear her say it to read her mind - she's thinking in angles, getting bent over and wrecked. She's hot beneath her dress, eager with her hands. But that's a different line, one Yang isn't planning on following.

"Take off your underwear and nothing else," she instructs quietly upon reaching their bedroom. "Go lie down. On your back."

It's not the night to disobey, not the mood for power play - Blake desperately wants whatever Yang is planning on giving her, wants to be writhing and wet, wants to be fucked and full - she waits, watches Yang tug her lingerie down her legs, watches her buckle the harness instead--

Yang slips her hands underneath Blake's thighs, drags her to the edge of the bed, and that's as fast as it gets; she takes her time hiking Blake's dress up her legs, fingers following the slit of it like an exploration, every inch of skin revealed like the hunt for treasure marked on a map. Blake only watches, arms resting by her head, hair spread out behind her, pulse quickening with her breath.

Yang slowly curls her fingers around the skirt of her own dress, pulls it up; neither of them speak, just staring at each other, but she can see the rhythm of Blake's heartbeat in her chest, how her fingers half-twitch into a fist. Yang doesn't stop there, lifts over the dildo and harness, lets Blake see the reward and the resolution; she feels her cunt clench around nothing, desperate for it inside of her, and Yang dips a hand to her clit, rubs her fingers down, gets them drenched in a matter of seconds.

"Baby," she murmurs, eyes trained on Blake's cunt. "You're soaking."

"I know," Blake exhales unsteadily, stomach taut and body trembling. "Fuck me. Please."

Her fingers grip Blake's thighs, holding her legs in place; they lock around her waist, and Blake's spine curves off the mattress as Yang pumps into her, drives deep and slow; Blake's neck arches with the rest of her, throat exposed and unable to swallow breath, hands grasping at nothing. All she can think is that there's something torturously dirty about it - Yang's dress pulled above the harness, thrusting into her, both of them still in their heels - and it leaves her thoughtless, speechless, sightless. She almost can't look, the eye contact more intense than the way Yang's fucking her, and Yang averts her gaze as if following along - she drops to watch the dildo sinking into Blake's cunt, inch by inch and agonizing, easing gradually out before the repetition of it all.

Yang, she thinks of begging, but it's too heavy to speak, and Blake's somehow building anyway - "Yang," she lets drop from her lips, repeats it like a hymn, like a chorus, "Yang, fuck, Yang," -

Yang's fingers wrap around her wrists, pinning them to the mattress, and recklessness replaces the measurement, the deliberacy. Blake's body trembles, spasms with every thrust. "I love you," Yang murmurs against her ear, bending over her and enveloping her in gold, hair like a curtain, dress glittering in the moonlight dripping through the window; "I love you," Yang murmurs, taking effort to be gentle with her words when what she's doing to Blake isn't.

"I love you," Yang murmurs, cracking through a pant, a sentiment Blake can't return until a long time after she's come down, when she finally finds her voice again.

--

It's as successful a debut as it possibly could've been, they learn the next day; not only did they look great together, but they looked great separately, and that's the most important thing to the media. Even against Yang, Blake holds her own, a hand on her hip and her dark lips full without a pout. Every individual photo of her is black magic. Not a single soul can glance at her pictures and question her right to be there, be there with Yang.

And they don't. They find other ways to challenge her.

Yang's only on social media to post a designated partnership photo, thank her sponsors from the night previously, when it pops up in her notifications. She has them all muted, but recently she's found it enjoyable to see what her fans are saying about her girlfriend. Normally it's a lot of keysmashing and requests that sound violent on the surface, but are almost definitely meant to signify sexual frustration - like please rearrange my intestines or rip all of my bones out of my body. But this one's a little different, and so easily targetable.

"Some dumbass on Twitter thinks we have an unhealthy relationship because I said you own me in that interview," Yang tells her, propped up with an elbow on her pillow. "What d'you think - engage?"

"Link me," Blake says, opening her own app. She's still stretched out naked underneath the sheets, eyeliner smudged in a line beneath her eyes and hair mussed.

Nick @Blackjacked28 · 1h

.@blakebelladonna @yangxiaolong You have an unhealthy relationship. Nobody should 'own" anyone.

Blake Belladonna @blakebelladonna · 5m

Replying to @Blackjacked28 @yangxiaolong

finally someone gets it...we're parasitic. she leeches me for music

yang xiao long @yangxiaolong · 4m

Replying to @blakebelladonna @Blackjacked28

excuse me do i not give you free publicity? i mean i took you to the emmys. this is mutualism baby

Blake Belladonna @blakebelladonna · 4m

Replying to @yangxiaolong @Blackjacked28

it's so hot when you talk about science to me. biology 101 from your freshman year at NYU is finally paying off

yang xiao long @yangxiaolong · 2m

Replying to @blakebelladonna @Blackjacked28

we're like the oxpecker and the rhinoceros...the bee and the flower...want me to read you this wikipedia article? i know you can't read

Blake Belladonna @blakebelladonna · now

Replying to @yangxiaolong @Blackjacked28

just so everyone's aware, she is currently reading the wikipedia article for mutualism out loud to me

yang xiao long @yangxiaolong · now

Replying to @blakebelladonna @Blackjacked28

knowledge is power

--

Another week, another wrap party.

Out of Fire finishes production, has an emotional last day of filming and a cake to cut. Both Nebula and Yang make a short speech, and then the director herself, citing the entire cast and crew as a pleasure to work with. Blake's allowed to attend this one, wearing yet another designer dress and holding Yang by the jaw, both of them downing cocktail after cocktail - palomas for Yang, whiskey sours for Blake - and she thinks she's finally understanding the truth of Hollywood's darker side, all its dastardly allure and unavoidable dead ends.

It's glamor, sure, but it's also power. It's money. It's cocaine.

She's sure that if Yang were a slightly different person, they'd have events like this every week, only they'd be more private, paid off. Hidden in high-class establishments and executives' backyards. There's always a party, Yang'd told her once, and they're so easy to get addicted to, easy to revolve a lifestyle around. Snort it through a hundred dollar bill and fuck whatever touches you next.

That's what happens when you're young and talented and beautiful, Yang says, shrugging over her glass. Her mouth is a sign of that almost, the danger she could've become. Either everybody wants to die for you, or kill you themselves.

--

For the band, it's a return to album cover art, photo shoots, and release dates. Yang's heading into her usual, auditions and talk shows and fractured availability.

'Alone Together' gets a green light for September twenty-ninth, just in time for eligibility into next year's Grammys, though the album itself won't be eligible until the year following that. Sun posts a mysterious photo - a blown-up fraction of their album cover - to the band's Instagram, their outlines awash in purples and pinks, with just the date 9.25 as the caption. For about ten minutes, Yang changes her Twitter name to pre-order alone together on itunes and posts a screenshot of her own pre-order; the tweet itself is captured and spread approximately a thousand times before she deletes it.

She hadn't really needed to, she says later, but she'd wanted Blake's success to feel earned rather than shared.

"And what if it flops?" Blake asks.

"Impossible." She says it with such certainty that Blake can't even muster up the resolve needed to argue.

--

It's the state of the industry; ever-changing and quickly evolving, something's always breaking out. Gossip, new talent, scandal - pick a day.

Pyrrha texts her first, before she gets the chance to hear the news from other sources.

Jaune and I broke up, she says. It was mutual. We were both so busy, and we just...stopped missing each other.

Blake's resting with her head on Yang's chest, reading the messages as they roll in. Neither of them have much to say about it; it's not as if they hadn't seen it coming.

"I think something happened," Yang murmurs into her hair, free hand scratching lightly against her scalp. "Something with Weiss."

"Yeah," Blake responds, voice just as low. They can't disturb the silence with somebody else's secrets. "She won't talk about it, but...I think so, too."

"Why not?"

"Weiss is nothing if not pragmatic," Blake says. "She won't share something she doesn't consider hers."

"I'm not mad at Pyrrha for not telling me," Yang continues, and sighs, sets her chin against the top of Blake's head. "I don't know what I would've done if I'd been seeing someone when I met you."

"I do," Blake says, and they both take a moment to read Pyrrha's latest text: I don't know how to explain what I feel, only that it's there. "You would've done exactly what she's doing now. And it would've been just as hard to explain."

Lips against her hair, and a happiness they'd found that should've been fleeting and wasn't. Certainty and souls and a sky with clouds in the shapes of flowers, blooming. They'd faced a different kind of obstacle to overcome, and now only a clear path forward stretches out in front of them.

"They'll get there," Yang closes, content with who she is and what she's holding in her arms. It's hard to imagine what she was before it, without it. "At least, I hope they do."

--

'Alone Together' debuts at number two, an achievement she finds out about only when she wakes up the morning of the twenty-ninth to Yang's mouth wrapping around her clit.

"Told you," Yang says, smile as sweet as the way Blake tastes against her tongue.

--

buy alone together on itunes @b_belladonna · 1h

she sounds so different omg not like the vibe like its still menagerie but like….idk how to explain it im obsessed

stream alone together on spotify @themonkeyking · 1h

Replying to @b_belladonna

no i know what u mean it's like...just lighter or something?

buy alone together on itunes @b_belladonna · 1h

Replying to @themonkeyking

yeah! like i feel like she even SOUNDS happy singing

stream alone together on spotify @themonkeyking · 1h

Replying to @b_belladonna

yea i was listening to btc before this and it's so obvious

court @the1ast1augh · 1h

Replying to @themonkeyking @b_belladonna

Well I think when u go from an abusive relationship to a healthy one the change is going to be pretty noticeable lol

buy alone together on itunes @b_belladonna · 1h

Replying to @the1ast1augh @themonkeyking

wait court what are you talking about

court @the1ast1augh · 1h

Replying to @themonkeyking @b_belladonna

Dude she used to date the head of white fang and he like beat the shit out of her. It's not like common knowledge but like I think most of her fans from that period of time know. That's literally what BTC is about

stream alone together on spotify @themonkeyking · 1h

Replying to @the1ast1augh @b_belladonna

holy shit WHAT how is he not IN PRISON

court @the1ast1augh · 1h

Replying to @themonkeyking @b_belladonna

Idk from what I understand she just wanted to move on with her life

stream alone together on spotify @themonkeyking · 1h

Replying to @the1ast1augh @b_belladonna

omg this explains so much….yang's like interview about her movie months ago where she went off about domestic abuse. wtffffff god well i'm glad she's out of that jesus

[Show additional replies, including those that may contain sensitive content Show]

Will @ProWill24 · 1h

Replying to @the1ast1augh @themonkeyking @b_belladonna

She probably deserved it. Fucking slut

--

They have time to relish in their success; their next single isn't slated to drop until November. Just as Yang's public appearances are starting to dial down, Blake's are the opposite - with an album release date set for late January, the band's at the part of the process where they're sent out on interviews, prepping coverage in advance or generating early excitement.

And, she learns from Weiss, everyone wants to talk to them. It isn't hard to figure out why.

'Alone Together' doesn't even try to hide who it's about, and it's apparently something that gives her both leverage and credit. They want to hear about her inspiration, her writing process, her time in the recording studio. Where does she get her influence, how does the band manage to maintain its unique sound. And her relationship. All of them are dying for a taste of her relationship, and she can actually see the clickbait headlines forming as they talk to her.

She tolerates it. Even thinks it's a little funny.

The most memorable one is for AltPress - it includes a small cover shoot, more authentic than styled; they're allowed to wear their own clothes, and Blake shows up in one of Yang's leather jackets over a grey t-shirt with aviators hanging from the collar, french-tucked into black, ripped jeans. And boots. She wouldn't be caught dead without boots, she says, grinning into her hot tea.

"Yeah," Sun says, "but only because you're so tiny without them. We'd crush you accidentally."

"Shut up, asshole," she says.

"Yang probably has to avoid stepping on you daily."

"I'm going to kill you."

The interviewer laughs. They're seated across two couches in a large studio space, with the interviewer in an armchair across from them; they haven't technically gotten started, and so she doesn't feel bad about their brief reprieve from professionalism. The first sign he's a good interviewer is that he doesn't hear the name Yang and immediately jump into a line of questioning; he merely pushes on, following his predetermined notes.

So, first of all, congratulations on your successful single release - number two! Is that a new record for you?

BELLADONNA: Yeah.

VASILIAS: I think 'Burning the Candle' only got to five.

WUKONG: Only, he says. [Laughs.]

AMITOLA: [Laughs.] He's making us sound pretentious and ungrateful. Five was amazing.

BELLADONNA: No, five was incredible. We never expected that, so two is even more unbelievable.

It's a pretty distinct departure from the vibe of your last album.

BELLADONNA: I think that's a good thing. As long as we're still recognizable.

WUKONG: I think we are, but [Laughs] I guess I'm probably not the best judge of that.

BELLADONNA: Yeah, it's just that we're in a different place in our lives. Our first album was really raw, just in every sense of the word. And I wouldn't necessarily call us polished now, but I think we're--

AMITOLA: --Better. Honestly. I think we're just better than we were then. Better at our instruments, better at like, knowing who we are and following through with that.

WUKONG: Yeah, that sounds kind of weird, but I think she's right. [Laughs.] Like, I think we've just become better with experience. Because now we've been out here for a few years, we've been in the industry, we've worked for what we have.

Can we expect the rest of the album to follow a similar pattern?

VASILIAS: Depends on what you mean.

In tone, style, subject matter.

BELLADONNA: [Laughs.] I think we experiment a little bit more with the first two, but the subject matter is definitely consistent.

VASILIAS: Yeah, Blake wrote more outside of the box than she normally does. Like, the music itself is different because of the subject matter. I mean, obviously they aren't all sort of sultry and upbeat or however you define 'Alone Together', but they aren't heavy the way I think some of the songs on our last album were.

BELLADONNA: Some of them are heavy in a different way. More hopeful than hopeless, I guess I'd say.

WUKONG: Yeah, totally.

Okay, I'd like to preface this by stating that I literally wrote down 'do not ask about Yang Xiao Long' in my notes [Laughter] but it seems like she played a pretty significant role in your work.

BELLADONNA: [Laughs.] Honestly, that's fair. I don't really talk about her publicly, which I guess seems weird considering I wrote basically an entire album about her--

AMITOLA: [Sarcastic tone] Yeah, totally subtle. [Laughs.]

BELLADONNA: I was like, [Laughs] nobody will ever know I'm writing about my incredibly famous girlfriend, so don't ask me about it. But now that seems kind of stupid.

WUKONG: It's because you're stupid.

BELLADONNA: Thanks, jackass.

WUKONG: I mean, you're wearing her jacket.

VASILIAS: I think he had an actual question for you to answer.

BELLADONNA: Oh, right. [Laughs.] Yeah, she did. I think that's universal, though; you're inspired by people in your life who've changed you, whether for better or for worse. Our last album was for worse. And this album is for better.

There's something very poetic about that. I like it.

BELLADONNA: Thanks.

So, tell me about your favorite tracks off the album…

--

It's published near the end of October. Yang frames it and hangs it on her wall.

--

Ruby's birthday is Halloween, so of course it's a costume party. Just as it is every year.

"And she holds a contest," Yang says, scrolling through a Google list of creative ideas for couples. She's stretched out on top of her bed, chin in her hand. "Some of her friends get super into it, so I never win. I've kind of given up on it, honestly."

"That's fine with me," Blake says, strolling aimlessly through Yang's closet, waiting for a stroke of inspiration to strike. "I'd prefer to put in as little effort as possible."

"I love that about you."

"I know you do."

So it's perfect, in theory; they're automatic invitees by association, and they won't dress like they're anything more. This, Yang says, is Ruby's thing - her friends, her party, her penchant for the technical behind the gaudy. She appreciates the skill of costuming, makeup, performance.

But it's not so perfect when Ruby sees what they're wearing the night of the party.

"What the fuck," she says, eyes comically blowing out of her skull, "are the two of you doing?"

Blake points to the fluffy black ears protruding from the top of her head and says, "I'm a cat." Her nose is even cutely painted in, undoubtedly by Yang, with whiskers on her cheeks to match. She's dressed in all black otherwise.

"Blake," Ruby moans, physically pained by the lack of imagination; for a moment Blake's convinced she might pass out just for the dramatics of it. "How could you!" She rounds on her sister. "And you!"

Too much of the wig's black hair is curling over her face; Yang keeps brushing it out of the way, tucking it behind her ears. There's a children's toy guitar hanging from one shoulder, and she's wearing tight black jeans, her cleavage spilling out of a white blouse that obviously doesn't belong to her.

"I'm Blake Belladonna," she says, and fingers the blue button of the four 'notes' available. A rocking guitar solo plays from its built-in speakers. She pretends to play along, even headbanging for part of the song, which almost sends her wig flying off.

"Oh my God," Ruby whispers, horrified while Blake leans against the wall beside her, in inconsolable hysterics. Yang straightens her hair, grins like she's never been so pleased with herself. "Oh my God!"

"I think we should win," Yang tells her earnestly.

Blake laughs so hard she has to excuse herself to fix her eyeliner, and by the time she returns, Ruby's abandoned Yang for her guests in the yard; you know, she snarks, the ones I actually invited, who appreciate my love of the holiday.

They spend the rest of the night doing shots of Fireball in the kitchen (a tradition, Yang explains, though can't seem to remember where it'd began), watching the guests outside drinking morgue-a-ritas and caramel apple cocktails from the bar, eating eyeball tacos and witch fingers. Weiss pops in to join them, once or twice, doing her own shots without saying much, and even when she's sufficiently drunk she keeps her conflict to herself. Pyrrha isn't there. They let it be.

There's a ghost rigged from the roof to a tree in the corner of the yard, and it's wired to fly by the gate every twenty minutes, shocking whoever's unlucky enough to be standing beneath it - but from their vantage point safe inside, the occasional haunting seems nothing more than an amusingly bad gimmick.

--

Their second single, 'Lighting the Fire', releases mid-November and coincides with a talk show Yang's scheduled for post Out of Fire - it's both to keep her relevant and add to early buzz for the film, though it won't be out of post-production for another few months, and likely won't see a premiere until late the following year. Her future projects aren't quite ready to be talked about; she's got a callback lined up for the biopic she'd been sent the morning after she'd met Blake, though the casting director had told her agent it was merely a formality.

"All of this fire," Yang laughs, reading Billboard's overwhelmingly positive review of the song. "There's no way I'm not gonna get asked about you tomorrow."

"Can't you like, forbid me or whatever?" Blake asks lazily, stretched out on her stomach, long red lines like war paint down her back. She's going to start releasing singles just for the wake-up calls alone. "As a topic of conversation, I mean."

"We could," Yang says, scrolling, but pauses over a picture of Blake on stage from the band's last tour, holding the microphone in both hands. "But that's usually saved for a scandal - like, unless something really bad happened, we probably wouldn't make you an off-limits topic."

"That's fair." She turns her head, catches her own face on Yang's laptop screen and grins into her pillow. She can hear the questions posed, can hear Yang's voice steady over answers, and no interviewer is ever going to get what they want from her, from either of them: yes, it's love. But it's a love she'll spend the rest of her life trying to capture in words, like fireflies in a mason jar. She'll fail every time. They just don't belong there.

--

Blake ends up accompanying her last-minute; Yang's persuasive when she wants to be. In this instance, all she has to do is put on a strapless dress with her legs bare and heels on, black overcoat draped across her shoulders, and asks, "D'you wanna come?"

"Yes," Blake says with a dry throat, hopes the double entendre is just as persuasive as Yang's outfit. "I do. Want to come. Absolutely."

But Yang only laughs, extends a hand to her; she's sitting cross-legged on their hastily-made bed, staring like she's watching her own private movie. "Slut," Yang teases harmlessly, and it breaks Blake's grin wide open. "Me fucking you daily has really given you a one-track mind, huh?"

"No," Blake says, taking her hand, allowing Yang to nudge her off the bed. Their height difference becomes instantly apparent, and Blake grimaces on instinct, Yang's mouth twisting the opposite direction. Showing that much skin should be classified as a murder weapon, in Blake's opinion, though the sharp point of her heels actually might be. She acquiesces, "Maybe. Do I need to change?"

"Nah," Yang says, eyeing the fraying tears in Blake's tight jeans like she'd rather rip them straight off. "You're green-room ready, baby."

--

Yang texts Glynda about the added company, though she doesn't seem particularly surprised by it anyway. Neither does anyone else in the crew, though they're excited by her presence; the host actually introduces himself before the taping starts, and he's more genuine than Blake expects, tells them he has a daughter in college who just came out to him; he always knew, though, he says.

"She had a few too many pictures of you on her wall," he drawls, and Yang laughs, delighted by the revelation.

"Your daughter and I have that in common," Blake deadpans, and the joke lands perfectly; even Glynda cracks a smile, one corner of her mouth upturned.

"Now she's into both of you," he says. "Actually, I think that's why she told us."

"We'll sign something for her," Yang promises, her fingers resting against Blake's wrist, blood warm underneath her fingertips, and he can't thank them enough.

--

That's what it's about, Yang says softly to her after, watching him tuck the note into an inside jacket pocket. Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it, and then people tell me things like that, and I know it is.

--

The taping's quick; Blake watches from backstage, chewing mindlessly on carrots and waiting to hear her own name. It doesn't take long; they reminisce about Yang's last appearance on the show, her awards season, and then it's a little more personal before talking about her upcoming projects.

"So, really, Yang," the host starts, posture almost too easy-going and relaxed, "let's be honest--"

"Oh, no--"

"--for anyone watching who doesn't know, you're dating the lead singer of alternative rock band Menagerie, Blake Belladonna."

"Oh, that's it?" she asks. "Yeah, we can talk about that. When you opened with 'let's be honest,' I thought you were gonna ask me about, I don't know, the state of the country or something."

"No, that's after," he jokes, patting his desk absentmindedly.

"Great." Her smile blossoms brilliantly; she's impossible not to be charmed by. Sirens, incubi. Other creatures gorgeous and deadly.

He continues, "Her second single just released, and I think it's common knowledge now that any she referred to in her lyrics is you, is that right?"

"Well I hope so, or we're gonna need to have a talk," she drawls, and the audience laughs with her. "Yes, I'm, uh - like, it's not as if she name-drops me, though I would've loved that"--more laughter--"but there are...a lot of pronouns in her songs. And a lot of them are me. Let's say that."

He loves it, eats it up. "So what's it like having an album written about you?"

"It sucks," she deadpans and the audience laughs again, but she backtracks with a smile - running sarcasm doesn't always hold up as well on talk shows. "It's incredible, obviously. Menagerie's been my favorite band since their debut, so - I mean, yeah, it's pretty mind-blowing."

"Did you know in advance?" the host asks. "Or did she surprise you with it?"

"She surprised me," Yang says, and strangely, she doesn't feel the same need to hold back that usually overtakes her - she wants to share more, wants to tell everyone how much love is there, what it does, what it looks like. "It was actually - on my birthday, back in the summer. It was one of the first rough copies, but after my birthday party, she like - she dragged me into the living room and gave it to me, and we listened to it together."

The audience awww's at that - some woman in the first row literally has a hand over her heart, and several younger girls are nearly vibrating in their seats. The host shares in the emotion with them. "That's sweet, that's so sweet," he says, and Yang's comfortable with the knowledge that he's authentically invested. "And you'd been together only for a short time then, though, right? Six months? Were you sort of - I mean, isn't that a lot of pressure?"

Yang actually giggles, like there's a joke she's about to let the audience in on; somehow she makes it seem intimate, close, rather than a presentation to the world. She confesses, "I asked her to write me a song the night I met her, so if anything - I think she rose to the challenge spectacularly."

It's the closing the host is waiting for; there's more murmurings of adoration, smattered applause, and then he says, "She absolutely did, she absolutely did. So, now, Yang, tell me about Out of Fire…"

--

December to January sees a slightly hectic schedule; Yang's secured the part for the currently-untitled biopic about an award-winning journalist, and the band's shooting their music video for 'Alone Together'. Though the concept team suggests taking advantage of the fact that the girl it's written about is an accessible, world-famous actress, it just feels wrong to utilize her that way, and Yang agrees.

Maybe down the line, she says with a smile; she'd picked Blake up for dinner after the band's meeting, and decided to take them all out. They wind up at a close-by sushi restaurant in Hollywood, modern with deep colored lights reflecting off the white marble, and a menu that lends itself to nothing but wealth.

"Although," she adds wistfully, "it does sound kinda fun."

"You want a cameo?" Sun asks, shoveling sashimi into his mouth.

"Is that, like, allowed?" Yang asks.

"It's our song," Blake says. "It's allowed."

"Plus," Neptune adds - he's having a hard time deciding between the rolls spread out in front of him, going back and forth between spicy tuna and crab - "I don't think they're gonna say no to you. Adding you to anything is like, tons of free publicity for us."

"I'm happy to be of service," Yang says with a grin, chopsticks closing around a double-tempura shrimp roll. "Let me know if you want a paid partnership. Have your people call my people."

Blake picks up her phone, deliberately swipes to calls, and taps Yang's number, holding it up to her ear as it rings. Yang answers it, grin pulling at her lips. "Hello?"

"Hey," Blake says, both five inches from her face and through the speaker. "D'you want a cameo in our music video? The song's about you."

"Me?" Yang asks, flabbergasted. "Oh my God - that's flattering and everything, but I have a girlfriend."

"We can keep this between us," Blake says. "She doesn't even have to know."

"I'm not sure about this," Yang says. Her brow furrows, reads troubled.

"I'm a vault, baby. Promise."

"Well..."

"Can you like, knock it off?" Ilia whines, digging around her rice. "Come on. We're at dinner. I'm gonna throw up."

Sun smacks the back of her head lightly, laughing at the display. It isn't protective, but he likes to see them as they are; he's always reminded of a time he saw nothing at all, and how devastating it was when it finally came into the light.

"Anyway," Sun says, a clear diversion tactic, "did you know when they renovated this building like, five years ago or something, they found a body in the elevator shaft?"

"What?" Neptune says.

"Yeah," he continues. "They think it's from like, the forties or something. We should've brought a ouija board."

"Ghosts aren't real," Blake says flatly, a tone suggesting repetition. They've had this conversation a thousand times; somehow neither of them ever tire of fighting to be right.

"Maybe his spirit's been lingering around, waiting for his murder to be solved," Sun drops his voice ominously.

"Now I'm really gonna throw up," Ilia says.

--

The video itself doesn't take long to shoot - maybe a week, even if that, and winds up relatively simple in its concept and execution: Blake, moving throughout a day blurred in its extremities; the people, the cars, the streets, the sky. She's the only vivid thing in the frame, though she shares the main spotlight with a male actor they'd cast and an androgynous model; to each of them, they have fleeting, passing moments with others in clarity before they fade away again - passing on the sidewalk, laughing over drinks, falling into bed.

Yang gets a little more than a cameo, mostly because once they see her with Blake, they can't find another actor - whether male or female or neither at all - who has nearly as much chemistry. Blake's scenes are the ones shot in a bar, and Yang plays opposite her for a few, brief shots - she becomes clearer and clearer until she's pressed against a pool table, Blake smiling an inch from her mouth. Their director hadn't called for a kiss, only telling them to do what felt right in the moment; and, well, it feels right. Yang's wearing her necklace. Blake has to kiss her.

That's what the song's about, anyway: the world imploding at its edges, how inevitability gets its definition from the two of them alone together.

--

The holidays arrive in a dazzlingly blue bitterness, a chill settling over the city despite the constant sunshine. Darkness drops at five p.m.; all the locals wear big overcoats and boots like they're expecting snow. Blake's now among them. She's been there too long, let her blood thin. Fifty, she finds herself admitting, is fucking freezing.

Kali and Ghira can't make it out to California - something's always breaking in politics, Blake says, and they'd never put a ton of stock into holidays to begin with; 'revolution doesn't stop with Christmas' had become an old family inside joke - but she picks out a tree with Yang and Ruby, whose standards for trees are incredibly high. It takes them three hours and five lots to find the right tree, but they wind up with an eight-foot balsam fir, full and even and fragrant. Weiss comes over and helps them string it with bubble lights and tinsel, hanging ornaments they'd collected from all over the world - tours and trips and location shoots - and then watches Ruby nearly destroy the whole thing when she loses her balance on the stepladder, attempting to steady the angel on top.

Weiss makes a spiced cider. She looks just as she always has, like she's able to keep whatever conflict she's having internally from manifesting. Blake wonders what that's like, if that's something she's trained for or something that's always come naturally to her. They watch The Holiday on Amazon Prime into the late hours of the night, and they all fall asleep on the couch together, warm underneath the blankets.

--

Christmas itself involves Tai coming in from Malibu to spend the day with them, exchanging strangely practical, joke gifts; there's nothing to get the girls who have everything, he stage-whispers to Blake, who only smirks into her tea. There's a specific, shared memory being recalled between them, if Yang's own grin is anything to go by.

She thinks of her wrists in ribbons, tied together overhead. Thinks of how she's glad it's winter and has an excuse for scarves and turtlenecks.

New Years' is a party, this time held at Nora's house - she lives in Beverly Hills and she hosts like she does, with a hundred bottles of actual champagne (from Champagne, France, she trills) and a chocolate fountain and a perfect view of the fireworks. The display isn't the only thing they're keeping tabs on; Weiss and Pyrrha have finally worked their way up to eye contact from opposite ends of the room, every room. It's oppressive without having a body, a physical form. Strings wrapping from their pinkies and tight.

Nora's noticed, too. She crooks a single eyebrow with her smirk when she meets Blake's stare, a silent confirmation. But there's a boredom there, too, as if she's saying God, let them get on with it.

Just before midnight, Yang's champagne-drunk and her lips have a mind of their own, lipgloss-kisses leaving faint sheens on Blake's cheeks, her mouth. "You know," she murmurs, "the way you spend New Year's Eve is the way you spend the rest of the year."

"I thought this was Beverly Hills," Blake says, wrapping an arm around her waist, other hand resting over Yang's heart. It beats, clutched in her palm. Drums against her bones. Blake's entire album plays on a loop in her head, scrawled across Yang's skin. "Not The O.C."

"Pop culture leaves a legacy," Yang says, undeterred. "I love you."

"Well, then," Blake says with a sly smile, "thank you."

The countdown begins, but there's no point waiting for the closing of it - she doesn't need to pack the year away in a box, doesn't need to tie it neatly and wrap it up - she wants it left messy and open and hers, full of things to pull out and pour over like diary entries - today I kissed a girl and I lost my sense of time, I think I'm fifty years from now - she kisses Yang at ten, tastes chocolate and cherries and continues long after one hits.

Weiss and Pyrrha have disappeared by the time the immediate celebration of the new year ends. Blake isn't sure if it's a good or a bad thing, and isn't sure she even wants to know.

--

Their music video releases two weeks before their album and coincides with Oscar nominations. Yang's on the list for lead actress, but she isn't surprised by it; "We kind of know," she admits, reading the rest of the names on her phone. "Not like we're tipped off, but we know the critically acclaimed movies of the year, what's been said about our own performances. Once in awhile, there's a surprise - usually it's an indie film and a fresh face - but I mean...getting nominated isn't surprising. Winning is surprising."

"Do you think you're gonna win this year?" Blake asks.

She smiles, thumbs back up to her own category:

Lead Actress

Saphron Cotta-Arc, "Out of the Blue"

Yang Xiao Long, "If the Sun Ever Sets in Florence"

Sienna Kahn, "Necessary Sacrifice"

Emerald Sustrai, "Breach"

Pyrrha Nikos, "Destiny"

"No," she says with certainty. "My instinct says Saphron's gonna take it - but Pyrrha's also a likely option. She's probably the underdog, and the Academy loves an underdog, so...I wouldn't count her out."

"Why not you?"

Yang laughs, and unable to help herself, presses an adoring kiss to Blake's mouth. "I'm talented," she allows, "but with the state Hollywood's in - this was never a role I was gonna win for."

She's not the only one with accomplishments, though; their music video goes viral, and the scene of her kissing Yang takes over both of their Instagram tags, Twitter notifications. So many people set it as their icons that for a solid minute, Blake's convinced the same person has tagged her in a hundred tweets before she realizes.

They watch it together; Yang's used to watching herself on-screen, but Blake keeps blinking, turning her face away and blushing. It's hard for her to reconcile herself, or it used to be - and maybe that's what's jarring now. She recognizes the woman she's looking at. She didn't always.

damn yang looks so good, Sun texts her. 2 bad they couldnt fix ur face during the editing

shut up asshole

lollllll love u

"At least we know we look hot when we kiss," Yang says, clicking replay.

--

By the time their album release rolls around, Blake's about ready to throw herself over - a ledge, a mountain, the city itself, dive straight into the ocean. She's nothing but nerves, skin peeled back and stripped away. Her heart echoes like a gong, everywhere inside of her at once.

She barely sleeps - Yang dips a hand between her legs, fucks her slowly, circles her clit, makes her cum over and over until she's too exhausted to do anything but.

It's not that she's worried the album will flop - she knows for a fact it won't; she's seen early reviews, heard the outrageous number of presales - it's that it'll be out of her control, words she's written up for interpretation and lacking the context she'd created them in. It's that, in the end, she can't stop anyone from calling her a liar. From saying no, no - if this is your blood, then spill it.

It isn't just that I love her, she wishes she could add in a note. It's that I love who I am, too. Who I've finally become.

--

She wakes up to the sun blanketing Yang's smile like that's the only reason it burns at all.

"Congratulations, number one," Yang says, and her pride is so tangible the room breathes like helium, ready to float itself away.

She hands over her phone, open to the Billboard charts.

1. Until You

Menagerie

--

Yang invites the entire band to the Oscars in February; Tai went last year, and Ruby doesn't want to go - she's socialized way too much recently, she says - and Weiss is apparently already going. Nobody touches that the minute it's uttered aloud.

"I'm nobody's date," she clarifies, face flushing heavily. She has skin that isn't afraid of betraying her at the most inopportune moments. "I'm just - I'm going."

She does. Seated on the other side of Nora and Ren, far enough that she isn't quite picked up by cameras during the nominee shots, she's her own name with her own life and not a knockoff of it. She isn't Menagerie's manager, isn't friend of Yang Xiao Long. She's Weiss Schnee, and she's here for her own reasons, like to watch a girl she may or may not love win an Oscar.

Pyrrha's stunned - so stunned Nora has to help her stand, nudge her to the stage - somewhere in the audience, Sun is wolf-whistling, Yang and Blake screaming in excitement beside him. There's not an ounce of disappointment, not a sliver; "If anyone deserves this," Yang says, "it's her. Plus," she adds gleefully, "look at Emerald's fucking face. What a bitch."

The award's heavy in Pyrrha's hands, the weight of success defined as the shape of a person encased in twenty-four karat gold.

She finds Weiss in the crowd, and takes a breath.

--

After that, Weiss throws herself into work. Their tour dates are sold out, but before that, Beacon Records' twentieth anniversary is coming up; they're hosting a label-wide event in celebration, and they've asked Menagerie to perform, she explains.

"It's a month away," she says, typing something on her phone. "It's at the Roosevelt - you'll perform at the Fonda first, but that showcase should be done by about ten."

"Great," Blake says. "How many songs are we allowed?"

"They asked a lot of their artists to perform, so you'll only do about three." Weiss pauses, considers something. "You can pick if you'd like, but I think it'd be polite to ask them if they have requests."

"I'm fine with that." She looks to the band for opinions, but Sun only shrugs, and Neptune nods in time with Weiss, apparently agreeing.

"Excellent." The typing intensifies. "Now, guests. You're only allowed a couple each to the actual showcase, but more can attend the afterparty; I'm assuming Yang and Ruby for you, Blake. Neptune, Sun, Ilia?"

Conversations with Weiss are largely her agreeing to things Weiss has already thought through. "You'd be correct."

"Sage and Fox, if they didn't get invites through the label," Sun says. "And Neptune's parents."

"Fuck, dude," Neptune complains automatically. "Come on."

"You know they'll be pissed if they don't get an invite, dude," Sun threatens. "They're like, proud of you and shit, and they're local. You gotta invite them."

"Fine."

"How about the afterparty?" Weiss continues, undeterred by their brief argument. "Any of Yang's friends?"

She can already picture Nora's indignation if she's passed up; the outrage is almost definitely not worth it. "Nora," she says immediately. "So add Ren to that, and…" she draws it out, mostly to catalogue Weiss's reaction - it's as stoic and passive as ever, but her fingers seem almost twitchy, as if waiting for an excuse to type a specific name. "...Pyrrha."

"Okay," Weiss says, keeping her voice steady. Nobody else notices the power play. "Jaune, as a courtesy? I believe he's on location at the moment, anyway."

"Sure," Blake says, resisting the urge to break the stalemate at last. Pyrrha - it's there, an obstruction, an object, and they both know it but refuse to talk about it. Blake can't quite figure out why. "That'd be nice."

"One last thing," Weiss says. "They're booking a block of rooms - a lot of people from the New York branch are flying out for this. Now, I know it seems ridiculous, considering you all live rather close to the hotel, but--"

"Oh, sign me the fuck up," Sun interrupts excitedly, his eyes gleaming, and Blake groans. "I want a room. I mean, I want one anyway, 'cause Neptune and I are kinda far--"

Weiss looks slightly alarmed by his enthusiasm; Blake explains exasperatedly, "He thinks it's haunted. He's always wanted to stay there and see for himself."

"Uh, it is haunted," he says. "Blake, I dare you--"

"Oh, Jesus."

"--to stay a night in the hotel, and we'll see if we have any paranormal experiences." He says this very seriously, almost heated in his intensity.

As stupid as Blake thinks he is, she isn't one to back down from a challenge this easy to win. They would've stayed regardless; it's much easier to collapse drunkenly upstairs than to wade back through the paparazzi - plus, hotels allow them to be as loud as they'd like to. That's been a problem, recently - Blake can't seem to control herself when Yang's fucking her into the mattress, and with Ruby home, it's been a little harder to get away with. "I'll stay the night, and hopefully I'll be too drunk to wake up from any paranormal activity anyway."

Weiss closes her mouth, opens it again, apparently choosing to press on. She's familiar with Sun's ghost hunter obsession, but he rarely has an opportunity to be so vocal about it. "Okay," she says, "which brings me to my next point, I suppose. Blake, assuming Yang is staying with you, you'll get a suite automatically - possibly the penthouse, if it's available. Your label's execs are important, but none of them hold a candle to her."

"Wow," Ilia says. "Perks of fame, huh?"

"She's in extremely high demand right now," Weiss says, as if that's new information and not Yang's status all the time. "She's been nominated two years in a row for lead actress - and won, last year. Security is a huge issue for her."

Sun looks over at Blake. "You'll be where the old-time Hollywood celebrities probably haunt," he tells her earnestly. "Can I come in and like, hang out for a little? Maybe have a seance? I bet Marilyn's there."

"Sure," Blake says, keeping her amusement in check. "Whatever."

"I'll pass," Ilia says. "I like going home when I'm drunk."

"Wonderful," Weiss says, clearly relieved to have all the necessary information from them; it'd be offensive if they weren't so used to it. "Please mark your calendars - April seventh. And you leave for tour a week later."

"Awesome." Sun's enthusiasm is so authentic it's almost overpowering. "Gonna prove ghosts exist, and then go on tour. Exciting shit, huh, guys?"

"Actually, I'm going to spend a great night in a fancy hotel room, fucking my girlfriend," Blake replies without an ounce of sarcasm. Weiss literally gets up and leaves the room without another word. "And then I'm going on tour."

"Thank you," Neptune says, pained, looking like he wishes he could follow her. "Really. Thanks for that."

Blake only grins; Ilia doesn't seem to know what to feel about it, if anything at all. But Sun laughs, unaffected; he is as he's always been - happy to see her happy. "That's the spirit," he says, and somehow, it isn't the worst joke she's ever heard.

--

As it turns out, they aren't particularly anniversary people, because they forget about it entirely until the day-of. They're more consumed with ideas for Blake's birthday; Yang keeps proposing wild vacations, Fiji or Cape Town or Paris, and it's only when she's in the middle of looking up spa details for Bath, England that she realizes.

"Oh, hey," she says, careless in her surprise. "It's our one-year anniversary."

Blake has the decency to look mildly impressed. "Wow. That's it?"

"Fame's aged you," Yang agrees, tilting her head as if examining Blake's face from all angles. "I should buy into a skincare company. You need it."

"Or you can give me the number of your plastic surgeon," Blake replies, charmingly dry. "I can barely see the botox."

Their laughter is enough; it always is. They order pizza, forgoing a fancy dinner at any one of the city's glittering and glamorous establishments, and Blake decides she wants to turn twenty-six quietly, just like this, thankful to be alive.

--

The day of Beacon Records' party arrives; Blake's required to get their early with the rest of the band, leaving Yang to a surprise factor - there's no sneak peaks beforehand, no watching her getting her hair curled and her makeup done. But Yang won't keep her totally in the dark. She has motives; they're staying at a hotel. Transient in nature, meant to seduce and blindfold and fuck. She'll walk up to Blake tonight and be wanted.

"How do you want me to look?" Yang asks over the phone, examining herself in the mirror. She runs a finger under her eye; she hadn't quite managed to remove all of yesterday's eyeliner. She warns in advance, "Coco's here and you're on speaker, so behave."

"Slutty," Blake answers instantly at the prompt, and Coco laughs loudly; Yang only rolls her eyes, doesn't bother repressing a smile. "Tight, short, black. Seduce me."

"I don't need to be wearing something slutty to do that, babe," Yang points out, but Coco's mind seems to be running wild, sorting through through a rack of dresses on the right of Yang's closet. She's more familiar with Yang's personal wardrobe than Yang is herself, and it definitely saves time.

"I'm going on tour for three months," Blake says, though the amusement in her tone ceases to hide itself. "Don't you want to give me a memorable send-off?"

"Oh, we're playing that card," Yang says, snickering. "If you think I'm not gonna be at like, every other show--"

"Not the point--"

"You're so dumb," Yang says harmlessly, and Blake finally breaks and laughs. "I'll look hot tonight."

"I'll make sure of it," Coco calls, now rummaging through Yang's shoes.

"She always does," Blake says. "Love you. See you later."

"Love you," Yang echoes, touching the end button. She turns to Coco, who's transitioned into alternatively staring at Yang as if she's a canvas and back to various dresses, mentally picturing what she'll look like in them. "So?"

Coco smirks knowingly, fingers running along the material of black dress. "Oh, yeah," she says almost evilly, "you're gonna give Blake exactly what she wants."

--

Blake's jaw actually drops, that's the first embarrassing thing about it.

She's already at the bar with the band when Yang walks into the venue. She doesn't even see her, at first, facing away from the door as she talks to Ilia about where to go when they're in San Francisco. Ilia is the one who notices her, dropping every word she knows from her mouth until she's left without language entirely, her brain a shell of knowledge she used to have, eyes widening and tongue flat, and Blake glances around--

Yang is strutting towards her with a confidence that commands the room, turning every head, willing or not. She's in a black dress that measures up to classy over scandalous, but it's in an almost dirty way; it's tight, only comes to about mid-thigh, and the nearly entire top half is sheer: it covers her arms, her collarbones, dips down the middle of her chest to her stomach, keeping anything anyone really wants to see under the darker fabric. Her hair is loose, but it's curled, falls in delicate waves rather than the wildness it usually is. Her lips are a wicked red, smirking, eyes only for Blake.

And she's wearing Louboutins, the added height only increasing her attractiveness, her confidence, her intimidation. Blake walks towards her, leaves her drink on the bar, barely even remembers where they are, what they're doing here. Forgets the turning of the earth, forgets the sun and the moon and all the stars. Yang raises a single eyebrow flirtatiously as she approaches, extends a hand automatically.

Are you fucking kidding me? is what Blake attempts to say but severely mangles the sentiment; what actually comes out of her mouth is, "Are you fucking me?"

Yang laughs, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Well, not yet, sweetheart," she says, darkly amused. "But I'm sure you'll get your turn."

Blake wants her hands under that dress, wants Yang's lipstick on her neck, wants her tongue somewhere hot and wet, wants. "I'd better be the only one," she answers lowly, and Yang's smirk fades the barest hint. Blake's already had a shot or two and everyone in the room is staring at Yang like she's something to spread across a table and devour. "Jesus, Christ. I'm not letting you out of my sight looking like this."

"Good," Yang murmurs. Blake's rarely so openly possessive, and it always measures up to sexy instead of controlling; there's just something erotic about desire, how it turns into life support. Like if Blake couldn't touch her, she'd still die trying to. "Don't."

"Holy shit," Blake says, blatantly checking her out, eyes from top to bottom and back - it isn't that she's startled by Yang's beauty, but rarely does Yang take the angles she's taking now, the lipstick, the skin, the sensuality. Normally she's more of her, Calvin Klein boyshorts and leather jackets, motorcycle boots. Normally she fucks Blake like she's the devil, not its mistress.

"I think I pretty much nailed your request," Yang says, wickedly playful, and brushes past her for the bar.

--

"If I were Blake," Neptune says, "I'd have passed out."

"I'd be dead," Sun says stupidly, staring.

Ilia says, "I'd literally let Yang murder me."

--

Menagerie performs, and it's a miracle Blake remembers any of her own words with the way Yang's watching her the entire time, filling the room like smoke. Like she'd slip a hand underneath her dress right then and there if she could, ride her own fingers. And she could. She could. She could--

"There's no fucking way you're wearing underwear under that dress," Blake murmurs in her ear the minute her set ends, under the cover of the loud music of the next band. "Not even lingerie."

Yang's smirk is nothing but a dark alleyway. She turns until her lips are at the shell of Blake's ear, and says lowly, "Well, why don't you find out?"

Fuck, fuck - she'd almost forgotten how Yang could get like this, every word like cracking a whip; give her a little power and she'll control a room, give her a pretty girl and she'll have her on her knees. Blake bites her lip, swallowing a moan in her throat, eyelashes fluttering. "Yang," she breathes out, Yang's fingers settling low on her back.

"Yes?" Yang asks, sultry and knowing. She isn't even going to pay for this later - that'll be Blake, wrists bound behind her back and Yang's hips slamming into her ass from behind. That's foreplay for them: not about the power itself, but how far she can expend it until it snaps.

"How early do you think we can leave the party?" Blake says, and Yang breaks and laughs. "If we show up for five minutes and leave, do you think'll they'll notice?"

"Oh, no, baby," Yang says, more endeared and dangerous. "You asked for this, and you're going to wait for it."

--

Weiss shepherds them out the door a few hours later; there's a black car waiting to take them down the street to the Roosevelt. They're already checked in to the hotel itself, but they're checked off a list before being allowed entry into the ballroom where the event is being held; Nora's already there with Ren, and by the sound of it, she's on her third cocktail. That's to be expected.

It's fun. That's all Blake has to say about it, mostly because she's lost the ability to concentrate on anyone who isn't Yang, process anything she's being told that isn't about how she's going to be bent over. They drink and flirt in a corner of the room, hidden behind tall leather chairs and pillars. She thinks the building has a roof, thinks other people might be present, but she can't be sure.

Pyrrha shows up shortly after, spends more time smiling than she has been recently, even convinces Weiss to do a shot with her. They're talking, heads tilted close and hands almost brushing. Weiss loses her edge, starts to laugh. That says enough to the rest of them watching who know.

--

Sun, on the other hand, spends the following hour cramming as many shrimp cocktails in his mouth as he can get his hands on, taking long chugs of his margarita in between. He occasionally passes Blake and Yang in the corner, looking like they're seconds away from swallowing each other whole, and Nora's challenging people to arm-wrestling contests at one the far tables; it's where he finds Neptune on his third lap around, having freshly lost to her.

"Dude," Sun says to him, staring out at it all as if it's his to be proud of. "We like, really made it, didn't we?"

Neptune ruffles a hand through his hair, grin irresistible. "Yeah, man," he says, understanding perfectly. "We really did."

And then someone grabs his hand, nearly jerking his arm out of his socket.

Weiss pulls him aside, harried and frantic and looking around constantly with narrow, suspicious eyes. She's so obviously agitated that he's on edge by the time she pulls him around the corner of the bar, opening her mouth. "Adam's here," she whispers violently, and he suddenly understands her tangible, ever-growing hysteria. "He's here, Sun. I saw him enter."

"What?" Sun asks, gaze immediately darting back towards the door; he finds himself searching for that distinctive red hair, the same way he used to do after Blake'd finally left. "How?"

"He came with some lower execs from Beacon," Weiss says, furious with herself, the situation. "He wasn't on the guest list - they vouched for him. He said he wanted to offer his congratulations." She nearly spits the word.

"Oh, fuck," Sun says, his skin firing hot, sweat already pooling on his lower back, his neck. "Oh, fuck, okay. Fuck. This is bad, Weiss. This is seriously, seriously bad--"

"I know," she hisses. "But Blake doesn't have a restraining order, so there's nothing we can legally do."

"Shit. Okay. Um," Sun runs a hand across his forehead, recognizing the mounting panic. "We've gotta - we've gotta keep him away from her. We can't let her know. Do you think - I mean, can we manage that? It's a huge party and he's showed up pretty late--"

"I think we can," Weiss says, thinking fast. "Blake won't be paying attention to anyone except Yang all night, anyway"--her stare flickers over to where she knows Yang and Blake are tucked in a hidden corner of the room, talking--"so she'll theoretically be fine. As long as we can make sure Adam doesn't find her…"

"Pyrrha and Nora are here, right?" Sun tacks on. "Adam likes being the most important person in the room. If we can surround Blake with people more important than him, he might - he might leave her alone..."

But he trails off. They both know the truth. And he won't be stopped for anything.

--

It's been about three hours too long by the time Yang finally suggests they go upstairs to their room, her tone so low and husky it becomes a threat instead of a voice. Walking alone at night down a poorly-lit road, ducking under a Do Not Enter sign.

They're also incredibly, stupidly drunk.

"In my defense," Blake slurs, "I wasn't gonna make it if I'd been sober."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," she says. She's leaning heavily against Yang's shoulder. "You're so hot. I thought I was gonna die."

Yang smirks as the elevator dings for each floor on its way to eleven. She raises a hand, skims her fingertips against Blake's neck like she's thinking over closing them around it, and instead trails them over Blake's jaw.

"You still might," she says, and the elevator stops, opening.

Being drunk has its drawbacks, like the fact that Blake can't get her keycard in the door and Yang's apparently left her entire purse somewhere downstairs - her phone pings a text, and she glances at it to read, snorting into a laugh. "Oh, shit," she says, squinting at her screen. "I left it at - at the bar, with Pyrrha. She still - she has it. I'm gonna go grab it real quick."

"I love that purse," Blake says, more than a little drunkenly. Red light. "Make sure nobody steals it."

"Sure thing, babe," Yang says, rubbing her back as the light finally flashes green, allowing them entry. "You go sit down."

"Mhm," Blake answers, disappearing into the room and possibly stumbling into the wall from the sound following it. Yang returns to the elevator, nearly running straight into someone disembarking it.

"Sorry, excuse me," she says with a polite smile, stepping past him.

"You should be a little more careful," the man says, and it only occurs to her after the doors close that he'd looked strangely familiar.

--

Blake kicks her heels off by the couch, takes inventory of the suite - there's a wet bar, living room, a bedroom to the right half-covered by sliding doors; the bathroom piques her interest the most - the tub is spacious. So is the shower. She has ideas, though honestly, she's not sure they'll even matter; Yang's the one with the plans, the surprises, and she's never been wrong before.

The knock at the door, when it comes a few minutes later, isn't unexpected. Yang'd watched Blake try and fail to work her keycard at least ten times - she's apparently opted to forgo that attempt entirely.

Blake ambles to the door, fingers curling around the handle as she pries it open unsteadily, other hand bracing against the frame, and blinks up--

It isn't Yang standing there, waiting to be let in.

It's Adam.

--

Sun's been keeping tabs on every player all night, but it only takes a single second of distraction to crumble. A blink. A laugh. His name called.

They almost make it, that's the thing. It's nearing two a.m., and people have slowly started filtering out. But when he turns back to the room, there are a few too many important people missing to feel like a coincidence - the corners are empty, and the red of Adam's hair is nowhere. His heart sinks into his stomach, rises into his throat. He thinks about throwing himself up, everything inside of him, every song, every lyric, every melody. There won't be any of that without Blake.

"Weiss." He catches her by the door, firm and steadier than he feels, both hands wrapping around her shoulders. "He's gone. So are Blake and Yang." He holds her stare a second longer, not wanting to mount panic but knowing the obvious conclusion. "I don't think we got lucky."

"Fuck," she whispers immediately, so pale she looks like the origin of the hotel's hauntings. "Fuck, Sun - fuck, you lost him?"

"I looked away for a second, I swear - he was - he'd stayed away from them all night, and suddenly--"

She pushes past him in long, harried strides her body isn't accustomed to, ponytail bouncing behind her as she walks. There's a short line - probably people from the party looking for their room keys - and she bypasses all of them, slamming her palms against the counter in front of a young man who isn't taking guests. He glances up to her, mouth already twisted in a forcedly polite smile, and she doesn't wait for him to offer.

"Get security to Yang Xiao Long and Blake Belladonna's room," Weiss hisses frantically, pulse triggering an alarm, and his expression drops instantly. "Now."

--

"Adam?"

She hasn't said his name in so long that it's wrong coming out of her mouth, holds an eerie sort of timbre, like she's shouting into a sunken ship. Like she's raising the dead.

She's drunk, she thinks, backing up into the living room. He follows every step, slower and more calculated. She's hallucinating. She's too high, too successful, and now her brain's rebelling, making her relive her trauma to protect her. He isn't here. He can't be here.

"My love," he murmurs, and his disgustingly sick smile lifts at the corners with his arm, like he's a marionette. It all rises at once, enters her line of sight. He's holding something in his hand, and all she can think is that this is the difference between them, Adam and Yang - when she threatens death, it's a becoming, a metaphor.

When he threatens death, he's pointing a gun at her, and he's itching to pull the trigger.

"Don't call me that," she whispers, the only thing she can think so say. The shock of it detaches her mouth from her brain, like none of this is actually happening to her.

"I hear they honored you at the showcase," he says, terrifyingly casual, ignoring her. "For your...successful sophomore album." She wishes he'd tremble. Wishes he'd show just a hint of weakness, a fear like the one she feels. Then she'd know, somewhere, that he was still human. "That should've been me, Blake. That should've been me."

He takes an aggressive step forward, angered by her lack of response. She jerks violently away from him, nearly trips; he seems amused by her reaction, satisfied, like he's delighted that a part of him is still inside of her even after all this time. Instincts she'd never overcome.

"This could've been our day," Adam murmurs quietly, finger curling over the trigger. "I found you. I signed you. I loved you. I made you what you are. You'd be nothing without me."

She can't speak, her tongue swollen and taking up all the space in her throat, every thought left to crumple and cower. If she's still breathing, she isn't sure how - she can't feel her lungs expanding, can't feel her heart pumping, can't feel her bones underneath her skin - she's tangible the way white noise, only in theory, numb and empty.

But he's flesh, he's metal, he's drunk: she can see it in the way he holds his body, the way he smiles darkly and shamelessly, how his voice irons itself sharp enough to impale. He's drunk in her hotel room and he's pointing a gun at her and all she can think about is Yang stumbling back up, finding her dead and bleeding on the floor - she doesn't deserve that, doesn't deserve the trauma - he should've done it elsewhere, should've cornered her alone, should've made her atone for her mistakes and left the people she loves out of it--

The door bounces off the inside wall, and Adam turns in an instant, swiveling the gun around.

"No," Blake whispers, barely above a breath.

--but they're part of the problem, she understands. He's punishing her with them, not simply because of them. He wanted this.

Yang's frozen in place, stare trained on the glinting metal, the twitching of his finger, the black hole of the barrel. She can't seem to comprehend what she's seeing or why, can't reconcile the night up to the minute, a map of how they got from the beginning to the end. She expected to return to candlelight, to music. To silk and roses. To heat and skin and sweat.

Instead, she's wandered into a nightmare, where Blake's learning everything he'd ever told her had been true. Here's the real reason people are all afraid of the dark. It's always hiding things that are just itching to kill you.

"Get away from her," Yang says, rough and rigid, and only love fuels a bravery strong enough to talk down the barrel of a gun. Her fingers curl into her palms, tight and painful.

Adam tilts his head back to her, mouth curled cruelly, eyes slits; the gun follows slowly, as if putting on a show for Yang, who only stands still like she's cemented there, melded in place despite the fight in her words. She meets Blake's terrified gaze over his shoulder, silently trying to convey it's okay, it's okay, it's okay.

It isn't. Blake tastes bile in her mouth, acid scarring up her throat. It isn't okay, and she's not going to start lying to Yang now.

"Blake," he says, almost conversationally, "I want you to know that this - everything that happens now, everything that will happen after - is entirely your fault."

Without hesitation, he pulls the trigger, just as Yang makes a move for the gun.

--

It happens so fast, she doesn't even have the time to absorb it.

Yang looks blankly down, slow and uncomprehending, as blood starts pouring from the hole just above her elbow; she lifts her other hand thoughtlessly, curling it over her skin, fingers staining red. Someone is screaming, and Yang teeters on her feet, falls against the wall and slides to the floor; Adam points the gun at her again, and Blake feels herself moving on instinct, crashing into him and down - it fires again, slips out of his hand - the sound deafens her ears, creates a high-pitched ringing like the bullet is bouncing around the inside of her skull; vaguely, she notices a stinging across her stomach, and there's a pounding on their door--

She can't grasp any of it, can only crawl to Yang, still clutching her arm and blinking slowly, too slowly - someone is screaming, it's too loud and disorienting, she wishes they'd just stop, she can't hear herself thinking, breathing - if she's even breathing at all - she inhales sharply, a pain stabbing in her side, and all she can comprehend is the fabric of Yang's dress too sheer to absorb blood, leaving it dripping down her hand from beneath the sleeve - she wraps her fingers around Yang's arm, puts pressure on the wound - blood pours over her fingers, she's never seen so much of it in one place, where is it coming from, does it ever end, does any of it ever end--

"No," Yang whispers, pale and clammy and staring up at something behind Blake, "no--"

She turns, finds the gun almost pressed against her forehead, and the last thing she hears is another gunshot.

--

The broadcast plays all night, each time peppered with every further detail the reporters can get their hands on. At least three shots have been fired inside of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, the late-night anchor reads, the breaking news introduction in accompaniment.

The four a.m. announcement paints slightly more of a picture: Three shots were fired early this morning inside of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. We've been told there were injuries, but it's unclear as to the criticality of them at this time.

And five a.m. becomes a 'Developing Story' segment, now complete with a traffic report and video of the scene: Three shots were fired around two a.m. this morning inside of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, where record label Beacon Records had been celebrating their twenty-year anniversary. There have been two confirmed injuries and one reported death. Hollywood Boulevard remains closed through Highland...

Blake awakens to the sound of sirens, her heart rate spiking in her chest, and screams.

"Shit," someone says, and something crashes against the wall. "Shit - Blake! Blake, it's Sun, stop - just--"

There's an intense flurry of motion surrounding her, but she hangs onto his presence like it's a lifeboat, choking on her own tongue. It's too heavy, too weighted down like the rest of her body. She tries to speak and it hurts, scraped raw. She speaks anyway, raising a hand and trying to grasp at his shirt; she misses by several inches. "Yang," she whispers, her lips cracking with her voice.

"Blake, you're in the hospital," Ilia says from her other side. "Yang's okay, okay? She's - she's okay." Neptune and Sun exchange a look above her. "You're both - you're gonna be fine."

She catalogues the room, blurry in the dim light. The walls are an odd off-white color. Several machines are beeping, but she can't tell where she's attached to them. Can't even tell if she's in her own skin.

"Her arm," Blake manages, scratchy and broken, and winces; Neptune passes her a cup of water, and she's barely able to lift her head and drink through the straw. "Why - why can't I--"

"They...had to sedate you," Sun says, features darkening for a moment. "You...you were in shock. You wouldn't...wouldn't stop...screaming."

"I want to see her," she forces out, ignores any pain. Whatever it is, she deserves it. "I want--"

"You can't," Sun interrupts, and she vaguely realizes he's got a hand on her shoulder, preventing her from getting up. Not that she could fight him. Not that she could fight anyone. "She's - she's in surgery, Blake. Can you - Neptune, can you get a nurse? Or the doctor?"

"Surgery," Blake repeats numbly.

"She's going to be fine," Sun soothes, and it almost works. Almost. "She's Yang Xiao Long. They aren't going to let anything happen to her."

I won't let anything happen to you. It's sickeningly familiar of a phrase, grotesque and twisted and false in its sense of security. She'd promised herself. She'd made bargains. She'd said this, just give me this, this one thing and I'll keep it safe.

"Yeah," Blake says, sinking back against the pillows with a hollowness to her skull, bones all taking space. Let her become porous and empty and nothing. "I used to tell myself that, too."

--

"She'll be fine in a few days," a voice says distantly, even though it's coming from beside her bed. "We'll keep her overnight to combat any potential infection, but she doesn't have to stay longer than that. The bullet only grazed her; she was incredibly lucky."

"And Yang?" someone she thinks is Sun asks, but the sound is so distorted, everything hazy before her. She's finding it difficult to focus on anything, every movement chaotic, every noise a gunshot. "Do we have - like, do we have clearance to know that?"

"Due to the circumstances, her sister has given us permission to update you past her original condition." The doctor, oh, of course, it's a hospital. None of it had been a dream. "Someone will be out shortly to speak with her and her father, which you are welcome to be present for."

Singer Blake Belladonna, frontwoman for alternative rock band Menagerie, and movie star Yang Xiao Long were both rushed to the hospital early this morning, though neither were said to be in critical condition. The gunman has been identified as Adam Taurus, high-ranking music executive with label White Fang, and was subsequently killed in the struggle with police.

"Turn it off."

She hasn't fully opened her eyes, but the scramble of motion at her words alert her to the fact that they're all still here - the same people, the same broadcast, the same room. The same situation. The same truth.

"Blake," Sun says, relief evident in his tone. "Hey. Are you - are you okay?"

Whatever they'd put her on the second time hadn't been nearly as heavy; her head's still a wreck and her stomach splits open. She only stares at him. He knows better.

"Okay, dumb question," he says, appropriately abashed. "Um, so, Yang's - she's okay."

"Can I see her?" It's out of her mouth almost before he finishes speaking.

"No," he says, closing in again. Ilia's asleep in a chair, and Neptune's just staring vacantly out the window. "She's in the ICU for recovery. We can't visit her yet."

She'll go insane without the proof in front of her, without hearing a pulse herself. All she has is that final moment, red over her hands like her own blood clawing its way out of her veins, and Yang's eyes rolling back into her head. "What happened to her?"

He considers his words carefully, lips thin and pressed together as if to stop himself from prematurely letting the wrong ones loose. "The bullet...tore through her arm at an angle, made the damage worse," Sun explains quietly. "She - um - she had to have surgery, and she lost a lot of blood, but she's okay. They...they have to wait for her to...wake up. Before they know the extent of the damage."

"What does that mean," she says, a question but lifeless. He's said everything and nothing she understands. She swears she's miles outside of her body, staring down.

"Um," Sun says again, looking at the dotted pattern of her bedsheets and not her face. "She...she'll have to go to physical therapy. Almost definitely. To be able to...fully work her arm again."

"It hit her brachial artery," Weiss's voice comes from the doorway, firm and matter-of-fact. She's hardened overnight, clay baking in a kiln, cement settling. She repeats Yang's condition like she's been practicing, until she'd ridden herself of tremors and uncertainty. "It was repaired with a reverse saphenous vein graft, and she had several blood transfusions. She may have permanent nerve damage, but they won't know until she wakes up. She received immediate medical attention quickly enough that her life wasn't in any danger."

It's a joke. It's a fucking joke.

Her life wasn't in any danger, Weiss says, but she wasn't in that room, and she has no fucking idea.

--

Blake turns away and can't seem to absorb another word, and Weiss doesn't know how to sit still. The night keeps coming back to haunt her. They should've kept a better eye on him. They should've alerted someone, should've told security.

"You did," Ruby says, resting a hand softly against her arm. "Weiss, you're the reason security got there when they did. This isn't your fault."

Ruby, who's miraculously remained dry-eyed and strong, tugs her into a hug, comforts her. Just like Yang would've, if their positions were reversed. She's alive, Ruby says. That's what matters. Tai nods beside her, and even in his stoicism, he offers her a gentle smile.

They're both so much like Yang it makes her sick. Replaces bile with shame. Guilt becomes the acid in her stomach.

She finds Sun out in the hallway, sitting with one shoe against the seat, chin resting on his propped-up knee.

"How are you doing?" Weiss asks him quietly, taking the seat next to him. He looks tired, just like all of them, bags under his eyes, bloodshot. He, at least, understands.

"I dunno," he answers honestly and his tone sounds like he's deserting himself. "I just keep thinking that we - we should've done more, you know? We should've - just - done more."

Sun lifts his other leg up, pressing his forehead against his knees, and Weiss rests her head against his shoulder. She looks down the hall to Blake's room, thinks of Yang in the ICU, tries desperately to find a way to bring them back together. Knock down a few walls, rearrange the floorplan. But she knows she can't.

"I know," she says, and it's the first time he's ever heard grief make home of her voice. "I know."

--

Blake talks to her mom on the phone, though has no recollection of anything she says. She hands the phone to the doctor, who explains what she's already been told twenty times to varying degrees of comprehension. "It's just like a bad burn," the doctor tells her mother, scribbling something on a pad. "It's not deep enough for a flesh wound, but the nerves have been severely disrupted, though that pain will dull in a few days. She was very lucky, and she'll be completely fine."

She thinks she makes out relief on the other end, and she isn't sure why. She can't understand why everyone's saying you'll heal as if it's synonymous with you will find your way to yourself again.

They aren't the same thing. They aren't even close.

--

It's Weiss who arranges it. She may cling to truth for comfort, but she doesn't abandon her empathy in order to spare herself the painful emotion of it.

Visiting hours are almost over. Blake's staying one more night in case of infection, though the risk is apparently low. The band take turns leaving, one at a time, like they've scheduled shifts. She's never alone - not, at least, until Weiss snaps and sends them all for dinner in the cafeteria at the same time.

"Let her have a moment," she snarls, and none of them dare to argue with her ferocity.

But she doesn't go with them. She waits, watches them shuffle down the hall, and then she seems to be speaking to someone outside - it's hard to see through the door's small window - until it opens wider, and a nurse squeaks a wheelchair in, apparently waiting for a decision to be made.

"You aren't allowed to walk unless it's part of your rehabilitation," Weiss says softly, and for once the silver of her becomes something that isn't hard, sharp-edged, metal. For once, she's finally closer to the moon. "Do you want to go see her?"

"Yes," Blake says immediately. She thought she knew want, thought she understood its teeth and power, like the imposing force of a black hole. Thought she knew what it was like to need something so desperately she could've died of it.

She'd been wrong. It's nothing in comparison to this: someone you love almost dying in front of you, only to be living a few rooms away.

"She's still out - she had a weird reaction to the anesthesia, and she lost a lot of blood. Nothing to worry about, but she'll be...unconscious a little longer than normal."

Blake tries to swallow, her throat full and hard and uncomfortable, almost chokes; "Okay," she whispers, shifting off the bed.

She's wheeled down a wing, and Yang's room is suspiciously empty; Ruby isn't even out in the hall, lingering with Tai. Maybe this is Weiss's version of atonement.

The nurse opens the door to Yang's room, helps to wheel her in, and then backs out.

Yang's motionless, heart monitor beeping steadily, IV taped to the back of her hand rather than the crook of her arm, which is heavily taped and bandaged. She's breathing peacefully, her lips dry, hair tangled behind her. She isn't pretty; she isn't even remotely close. There's nothing beautiful about someone you love in a hospital bed.

Blake steps out of the chair, up to her bedside, catalogues every brutal, vivid change. She raises a hand and brushes it across Yang's cheekbone, the dark bags like bruises under her eyes, thumbs her lips, dry and cracked. She slowly bends down, despite the pain shooting through her stomach, and buries her face in the crook of Yang's neck, the only place that used to remind her of safety. But there are no arms to hold her together, and she's lost too much of herself to hold back.

"I'm sorry," she whispers brokenly against Yang's ear, simultaneously hoping she can hear her and hoping she can't. "I'm so, so sorry."