Ilia is ecstatic when Blake tells her she somehow hooked a gig at the Rouge.
Blake doesn't quite share her enthusiasm. Though perhaps it's because she's in
a different world entirely. She's flung her torturous top hat to the other side of
the room, the bindings under her clothes and her pinching shoes shed in a
matter of moments. Her dress shirt parts between her breasts to let them
breathe, and she tucks the ends into her trousers out of habit, pacing the room
in a slow prowl.
Her head's drifting in a soup of golden warmth and lilac. Ilia chatters on from
her cot, but Blake only gives the barest amount of humming to indicate her
attention.
By the time she passes her typewriter for the third time, Ilia leaves her to her
own devices. Probably off to go partying with the other bohemians in their
apartment building. It's still relatively early for Paris. Midnight merrily rolls the
remains of the moon across the deep sky. Time groans by just as slowly,
dragging its feet over each second as if the universe had seen it fit to let Blake
absorb the events of the night.
For the first time in months, Blake doesn't touch her typewriter. Instead she
ceases her pacing and sits by the open window. Gazing out at a sea of lights,
and the pyre of the Eiffel Tower gleaming above it all.
She hums a tune to herself, caught by a daydream of Satine's - no, Yang's,
parting smile.
She travels the halls of her recent memory, basking in the way her poetry had
sounded from those velvet lips. Words tinted maroon red by the shade of her
lipstick. She wonders if her poetry is still echoing in that hollow elephant. She
wonders if Yang sleeps there.
Blake can actually see the black creature from her window, those hooked tusks
curving high above the walls surrounding the Moulin Rouge. She can't see her
from here.
Heaving a great sigh, Blake melts against the window sill. Songs filter in from
the apartments above her, discordant and off-key, but so utterly beautiful in
their chaos. Her eyelids feel heavy, but she likens the growing noise to a
maelstrom of butterflies. She imagines a cloud of them, rising from verdant
fields after a sudden disturbance. Wings and colours fluctuating together,
millions of bodies bleeding bright paint onto a canvas of sherbet skies and
stencils of clouds gilded by the sunset.
She thinks their wings drip with Yang's specific shade of lilac.
She imagines them weaving through her skeletal system; fingers of raw bone
curled like claws across the sky and ground below. A cloud of lilac fluttering
along the ladder of her ribs, twisting between ribbons of sinew; beating their
wings frantically against the yawning cage of her chest.
She wants them to find holes in her ribs. Wants them to lift her in the air from
the cavern where her heart sits. To drag her wanton body up to the stars.
Let her dance among the clouds. Let her dance with Yang above this corrupt city
of lights, with only the lost gods as their witness. Let them parade about the
sky, feet burning comets in their wake. And let them kiss in the impossibility of
it all.
Just to feel what it's like to be in love, if only for a day.
But a shock of noise shoves itself into her sensitive ears, and Blake's dream
evaporates. She jolts awake. Trumpets are cawing from the rooftop. Feet
stomping and shaking plaster from the ceiling.
Blake comes crashing back to earth, where the night is still alive with
celebration and gin. Her pulse rattles in her wrists. She shivers and buttons her
dress shirt, cold.
Blake's bones protest as she rises, catching her breath off of a marathon she
never ran. A starlit dance she never had.
She finds she's embarrassed by the dream. All the excitement of the past few
hours must have made her drunk. She doesn't even know Satine.
Yang, she means.
She glances out the window again. Across the street, that hulking elephant calls
for her attention with a single silhouette at the top of its head.
And Blake isn't sure how she knows, but she does.
It's her.
Yang. Satine. The mystery herself.
The dream lingers at the base of her skull. Coiling warm fingers around her
bones, and sleepily urging her forward.
Blake bargains with her common sense. Knows that it's late, but her heart
compels her to talk to her again. Even if she has more important things to worry
about. The show won't write itself, and Sienna could call for an update at any
moment, but it doesn't stop her anticipation from growing. From the lights of
the Moulin Rouge to drag her back into those ravenous red clutches.
Adrenaline spikes through her system; propels her forward where caution
should have stalled her steps.
Blake's on the fire escape before she can think twice about it. Her feet are on
their own path. She watches herself speed up, almost out of body.
She practically runs down the stairs, crossing the landmine of a street. She slips
unseen into the courtyard of the Moulin Rouge. She doesn't think about her
attire or lack of shoes. She doesn't think about security catching her.
They'd need to see her first, and she knows they won't catch a glimpse. She's a
phantom as she siphons from one puddle of shadows to the next. There's a
ghost of a smile on her face as she weaves under the lingering beams of red
light. Her liquid grace comes alive at night, and she revels in the thrill of it. She
seldom gets to use it anymore.
Blake threads her way under the elephant, greeting it with a quiet pat on its big
black toe. Not a word comes from security; there's barely a sleepy blink to mark
her arrival. Her hands buzz with excitement, or fear. She can't tell which is
which anymore. She steels herself and melts up the spiral staircase from its
ankle.
One step after the next, she ascends the tight space. Glimpsing at the sparse
spread of stars above with each revolution, until the canvas unveils itself at the
top. Blake finally breathes.
And there, a world away at the elephant's neck, is Satine.
Yang.
She's having a quiet moment with herself, it seems. There's a tented gazebo
between them, but none of the lamps have been lit. The shadows crawl freely,
clinging to the courtesan's legs, wrapping into her body with greedy fingers.
She's wearing the same thing Blake left her in. The same dress that splits high
at her hip with every whisper of wind. Her head is bowed over her hands like
she's holding something sacred, her loose gold locks molded to broad shoulders
like the desperate clinging of a lover.
She is otherworldly.
Blake suddenly feels like she's intruding.
Looking back on it, she has no idea what she was thinking. She had no idea of
what she'd say. What she'd do when she got here. She didn't think of anything,
actually, and Blake supposes that's the consequences of acting upon a dream.
Reality stings when it doesn't work the same.
Blake blindly reaches back for the railing, intent on leaving - but her elbow
cracks into it with a clang. The shudder wracks all the way down the elephant's
leg, and Yang turns abruptly. She takes a sharp, threatening step forward. Her
body tenses with untapped power. There's a tempest roiling in those brilliant
eyes.
She demands, "Who's there?"
And Blake doesn't know why she doesn't use that blanket of darkness as an
escape.
Instead, she steps out of the stairwell. Away from anonymity.
Yang's expression instantly lightens in recognition, the tension slipping away
from her like water. "Oh, it's you."
Blake's mouth feels dry, any lie she had prepared cruelly abandoning her. "I
didn't mean to disturb you, I was - um."
"Satine? Are you alright?" Comes a burly voice form below.
Yang's expression cycles through several emotions before she glances down at
the elephant. As if she could see the guards below them.
"Yes I'm fine, I just..." Blake stiffens as that stellar gaze alights upon her and
narrows. "Found a stray cat."
Blake bites back the huff in her chest as the guards murmur below. They shuffle
and return to their posts, Blake heaving a quiet, relieved sigh.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
Yang's eyebrows pinch together, brushing past it. "How did you get past them?"
"I- ah...I know it hasn't seemed like it, but I am light on my feet. It's difficult to
catch me when I want to disappear."
"And you 'disappeared' up here?" Yang holds her hands close to her stomach,
knuckles white against the little red cloth buried in her grip. "What for?"
She seems oddly vulnerable, despite the power in her body. Blake has every
confidence that Yang can take care of herself with unsavory suitors, but it's
something about the red blanket in her hands that makes her seem…wounded.
Blake doesn't move any closer. She stays rooted, soothing her with an
explanation instead of touch.
"I live across the street and they're...rather loud. I couldn't sleep. I um… I saw
you from my window, and-"
Would it be strange to say she wanted to talk to her? That she's convinced she
can physically feel the distance between Satine and herself from across the
street? That she'd do anything - give anything, to close it for good?
No, she needs to tone it down. Rein it in. She's not a teenager anymore.
Blake settles with an observation instead. " -you seem to be the only person
who knows where to find a moment of peace in Paris."
If Yang notices the too long pause, she doesn't show it.
"...Oh."
Her grip relaxes only a fraction, and she catches Blake's glance at the fabric in
her hands. She's quick to set it down as if it means nothing, breaching the
distance between them in one smooth motion. She stops a fair amount away
though, Blake standing just outside by the stairs and Yang lingering at the
opposite end of the elephant's howdah.
There's swathes of ornate rugs laid out between them, comfortable looking
couches framing the edges with fluffy pillows haphazardly thrown about the
sinking cushions. Rich red, black, and gold fabrics clash, bleeding together in a
war of optical opulence. It's complex in the extreme, though each of the colours
are muted or lined in silver by the moon.
Aside from the rift between them, the night is rather quiet, this far above
everything.
The elephant stands at three stories; it holds its own air space. The only thing
that defeats its height is the windmill tower jutting out from atop the Rouge.
Beyond that, just the wind, moon, and stars that share their company. It's
blessedly quiet.
"It must be hard for you to sleep with all the noise," Yang gives a small chuff,
"especially next to the Rouge."
Blake can't help but smile back at her. She prays she doesn't look as starstruck
as she feels, but she can't quite help herself. It's an absolute privilege to see
Yang like this. Honest and relaxed, barefaced with just the suggestion of
freedom at her fingertips. Her earlier dream makes her own hands itch.
Blake hums, "I've grown used to the noise. It may be loud, but...the wonder of
this place has its reach."
"Wonder, huh?" Yang starts wandering the perimeter of the gazebo-like
structure, her nails grazing the top of the couches as she winds closer. Her eyes
are thoughtful. "You think this place is wonderful?"
Blake glances down the dark of the staircase, her heartbeat skipping with each
step Yang takes. She leans slightly on the stair railing, willing her heart to cease
its knocking.
"...It, um. It does what it's designed to do, I guess." Blake shrugs. "Parties,
booze, sex. It's all a venus flytrap for rich men. I've...never found myself
interested in it before."
"Oh? Then tonight must have been a special occasion. What drew you in?"
Blake looks up. Her stomach drops to her toes.
Yang is close enough that Blake can count the light spread of freckles over her
cheekbones. She notes the way they cross the bridge of her nose like the
impression of a galaxy made its home in her tan skin.
Blake wants to trace their path with her thumbs. Wants to hold Yang's face
between her hands and see what her smile would feel like against Blake's
palms. The implications are towering. Skyscraping. Too big and too sudden. Too
much, too much.
Oh.
This is leagues away from what she expected.
She wants Yang in all the ways she shouldn't. She's drawn to her like a dove to
the sky, and it moves her heart a few inches to the right. Like it's making space
for another rhythm.
Yang steps into Blake's space, her lilac eyes darkened to a sweet amethyst by
the canopy above. Her feathery gold eyelashes flutter, bits of dark kohl still
clinging to their roots.
She says softly, "I've had men stare at me like that before. Women too, though
they're rarely as bold as you."
Blake's world stops in its tracks.
Yang leans down just enough to breathe across her lips, "That's why you're
here, right? You want me like that, Blake?"
Blake is silent.
She doesn't trust the answer on the tip of her tongue. She doesn't trust her
indulgent fantasies, the brief wonderings she's entertained in Yang's presence.
She's not sure she can trust the way she feels.
Because the thing is, she does.
She wants her. But not only in a carnal way.
She's not sure what convinced her heart to throw itself at Yang's feet, but it's
already pulsed from her chest and she can't bring it back without ripping herself
apart again.
Isn't that just a terrifying thought?
To think a stranger came in and stole it out from under her. It's terrifying to
know that even after Adam, her heart could still leave her on a whim. At the bat
of a pretty eye, and howl of the fated winds. Like it never learned its lesson.
She's doomed to love strangers.
Blake leans further back into the stairwell, the revelation making her knees
weak. The way Yang looks at her has the itch in her hands growing to a full
body ache. That dare in her eyes, the guarded tilt to her lips. She's challenging
Blake. Testing her, and her intentions. What does she plan to do with her
obvious desire?
Too bad even Blake doesn't know what to do about it.
She blurts out, "Do you believe in love?"
It's enough to throw Yang for a loop. She drops her silent challenge to step
back.
And even worse, she starts to laugh.
Blake's heart squeezes itself on a gasping wheeze, and she struggles not to
shrink under that cackling. Adam used to laugh at her whimsy too. She lost it
for a while - whimsy, optimism. Blake suspects it came back to her when Yang's
laughter didn't hold Adam's mean edge to it. When she stared at Blake like her
poetry had moved something long dead and buried. Still, that laughter makes
her want to crawl under the nearest couch.
Except she's not the wilting flower she used to be. The longer Yang laughs, the
more Blake doesn't want to stay small. Yang sucks in a gasp, wiping under her
eye.
Blake stands tall. Well, tall as she can. That wounded muscle in her chest wants
to lash out. To defend her whimsy.
She takes her first step away from the stairs, glaring. "You're laughing at me."
"Well yeah ," Yang chuckles, brushing another thumb under a squinted eye.
"You can't be serious."
"But what if I was?"
Yang pauses, glancing at her skeptically. She scoffs. "Right. Because courtesans
are known for their lasting relationships."
"I only asked if you believed in love, not if you've been in love."
Blake knows for a fact that she's being stubborn, and she's not entirely sure
why she chose this hill to die on. Ilia sometimes complains about her hard head.
Maybe Yang brings it out in her more.
The courtesan rolls her eyes to the heavens, rolling back on her heel and
sweeping away from Blake.
She flips her wrist loosely in a dismissive wave, hair fluttering in her
movements. "Can't say I've ever met the real thing, so to answer your question
- no. I don't believe in it. Not romantically anyway."
Blake follows her like her toes are tied to Yang's heels. They emerge onto the
elephant's neck, and Yang twists back around to glare at her suspiciously. "Why
do you ask?"
"I -" Blake stops short, nearly running into her. "I just wonder what it would
look like. Satine in love."
"It looks like tragedy," Yang replies sourly. She crosses her arms over her chest.
"Any courtesan worth their salt knows that love is just a fairytale."
Blake can read the crease of Yang's forehead; her body is a book with familar
words. It's telling in the way she instantly rejects the idea of love. It's
something of a sore subject for her. A woman scorned too many times; but by
the casualty of the conversation… Maybe she's always expected this life to sting.
Possessed, Blake moves closer and murmurs, "Who killed your hope, Yang?"
Don't worry, someone killed mine, too. Do you miss it as much as I do?
The courtesan nearly flinches. Her cheek twitches as she bites back a visible
snarl, before her expression schools itself. She flicks her hair over a broad
shoulder, placating Blake with a false smile.
"Can't kill what isn't there in the first place," She says airily.
Levity and sadness all rolled into one sentence. The lurch it pulls from Blake's
chest is enough to make her stumble forward a little. Yang watches her move
with sharp eyes, her smile firmly fixed to her face.
But Blake doesn't respond. She lets the conversation fall apart between them in
puzzle pieces that neither want to pick up.
Yang's smile slowly fades under the silence. Quiet stretches between them like
salted, sour taffy.
The distant resonance of music crawls its way up the elephant, settling at their
bare feet. Just enough noise to remind them of the rest of the world, but not
loud enough to rise into their talking space.
"Do you believe in love, then?" Yang asks suddenly, "You must, looking at me
like that."
Blake's stomach takes a nosedive as heat floods into her face, burning the chill
off her skin. She clears her throat, clamping down on the instinct to run.
She answers, mouth curiously dry, "I do, actually. Both good, and bad."
"Oh?" Yang's eyes flash, blood seeping in the water. "And what is good love to
you, poet?"
And against her better judgement, Blake huffs a soft laugh.
Yang tilts her head, the predatory look washing away with curiosity.
"Something funny?"
"No no, just…" Blake runs a hand through her bangs, smiling fondly. "My friend
once told me that the greatest mistake you'll ever make is asking a poet to
explain love. You'll be stuck for hours. Days, even."
Yang breaks into a small smile. "You have a lot to say about it?"
"Mm. You could say that." Blake smirks a little, a bit of her youthful cheekiness
threading into her limbs. She tilts off the ball of her foot and starts to wander
around Yang casually.
"You could say that some poets wax a thousand poems about love, without
knowing a thing about it."
"Let me guess, you know a thing or two about it?" Yang's sarcasm has thorns,
but Blake just gives a self deprecating snort.
"I'm afraid I'm more clueless than anyone on the matter, actually."
A hum flutters between them, Yang's lips curling in a slightly charmed smile that
Blake catches from the corner of her eye. "Oh?"
Blake twists around, having made it to the apex of the elephant's neck. Yang
stands a few meters away from her, wreathed in moonlight. She looks at Blake
with a heavy curiosity that weighs itself over Blake's skin, testing to see if she's
worthy of it.
The faunus swallows the beautiful sight in a gulp. She answers with a muted
tongue; softer words for the softer sight before her.
"Other poets can ramble thousands of words to try and describe this elusive,
mythical concept of love - but I can't say I've agreed with any of their
interpretations." She flexes her hand near her left hip, and Yang's eyes follow
instinctually. "My own experiences with it aside… The concept of love has always
slipped from my fingers. There's never been a solid moment where I've been
able to grasp a feeling and say, 'Yes, this is love'."
Lost in her thoughts, she adds, "Sometimes I wonder if I'm chasing it too hard."
"Chasing love?"
"Looking for it, chasing it, needing it from someone." Blake bites her lower lip,
looking at Yang from under her lashes. "I often ask myself if it's something
that's actually meant to find you, instead of the other way around. That maybe
love is elusive on purpose. If it was something we could find by looking, it
wouldn't be as precious. Maybe it's supposed to sneak up on you. Surprise you.
Consume you, and everything you once were. Maybe…"
She tilts her head back to face the stars on a soft sigh, letting their gentle light
kiss her brown skin.
"Maybe the secret to love is letting yourself die a little, to become something
more than you ever used to be alone."
She glances at Yang. Breathes a full lungful before she realises she's been
rambling for far too long.
Her attention flicks to the couches over Yang's shoulder, a familiar shame
crawling up her arms. Adding hastily, "This is all just theories and speculation,
of course. I didn't mean to go on for so long."
"No, you're...you're fine."
Yang tilts her head, her attention cutting through the night and piercing Blake
against the railing. She is unreadable at this distance, even with Blake's night
vision. She looks reluctant to move closer. Her arms cross over her body, like
she's trying to keep something in.
She hears a careful breath or two from the courtesan across the divide, and
finally. For no one but the stars and Blake to hear, Yang speaks.
"I think," Quietly. Reverently. "That would be wonderful. If it were ever true."
Blake's heart trips in her chest. She feels the reverberations of butterflies in the
hollow of her bones, and it makes her want to die a little. Maybe death will set
her soul straight. Maybe it'll stop her craving what she can't have. Gods, the
ache in her chest grows. Monstrous, it claws its way up her ribs, devouring her
from the inside out.
Devastated and yearning, Blake runs.
Not quite, actually, but she does her best to get some space. She slips past the
railing clasped around the elephant's neck, hopping up to the top of its head.
The curve of the skull slopes dangerously beneath her toes. She just needs a
little air before she says something stupid.
Yang makes a quiet noise of alarm behind her.
Blake turns to see her watching with wide-eyed concern. The courtesan finally
crosses the divide between them, stopping short at the railing. Her hands are
hovering above the rails, poised to reach if Blake needs her to.
"What in Remnant are you doing?" Yang hisses, "You're going to kill yourself!"
"I've climbed trees higher than this, I'll be fine," Blake replies, a sighing breeze
kicking up the inky black edges of her hair.
Yang grunts an expletive, her eyes flickering between the railing and Blake like
she's contemplating hopping it to join her. She huffs, "Are you always this
stubborn?"
"Only if it gets a reaction." Blake glances back at her, her tongue pressed
playfully between her teeth in a grin.
Yang snipes her a glare that sends tingles to the back of her molars. She pulls
away from the railing and turns around, arms folding over her chest with a
petulant, "Fine, fall to your death. See if I care."
"Alright." Blake shrugs, her smile growing slowly, "But before I fall to my death,
may I have a final wish?"
"...What is it?"
A sliver of moonlight strikes across Yang's iris as she glances over her shoulder,
scowling.
It alights a fire at the base of Blake's spine. It grows her smile into something
reckless. She can feel her pulse echoing down to her toes.
"...Can I hear your honest opinion of me?"
Yang turns back around fully, leaning onto the railing in a way that tightens the
muscles in her arms. Darkness gathers to define them, and Blake wonders what
it would be like to trace those valleys with her hands. If her gold skin is still
warm despite the nightly chill. She can't even remember what she requested.
She just watches Yang's lips purse in thought, and imagines sinking her teeth
into the plush pink of them until Yang's voice jolts her away from the image.
"Honest opinion…"
She's picked somewhere over Blake's left shoulders to stare at. "I find it hard
not to like you, on some level. You have...interesting ideas. And as far as I've
seen... Your thoughts are just as beautiful as your poetry. I don't think we
could've found a better writer for Spectacular Spectacular."
"...Damn." Blake bites the inside of her cheek to dampen a flattered smile. "I'll
have to pass on Death, then. I have a show to write, after all."
"True," Yang drawls flatly, a smile fighting its way onto her face, "We at the
Moulin Rouge are in desperate need of your talents."
Blake lets out a laugh, crouching to slide back down the curve of the elephant's
skull. Her feet scoot forward an inch and she pauses. Her head tilts coyly
towards the courtesan, her black ears tilted at a playful ninety-degree angle.
"So… you need my 'poetry'?"
Yang covers her mouth in a sudden, sheepish laugh. "Okay listen-!"
"Oh? I'm listening," Blake props her chin up on her knee with a twinkle in her
eye. "You seemed so interested in my 'poetry' before, has that changed?"
The skin of Yang's neck and freckled shoulders starts to turn red, her hand
covering more and more of her face. There's genuine laughter in her chest, and
it spreads a warmth Blake can't remember ever feeling before. "I can't believe
you brought that up - I was working , that's how I work!"
Her heart stirs in her chest. She hides the hope in her voice as much as she
can.
"So, this isn't considered work?"
Yang peeks at her through her fingers. That single eye holds a world of
contemplation. A universe of indecision.
"...No. You're easy to relax around." She replies, shifting to lean her elbow onto
the railing. Her long gold hair spills over her collarbones, tickling the back of her
wrist. She sounds like she's almost trying to convince herself as she adds,
"One...one night of freedom won't hurt."
Blake tries not to melt into the black plaster beneath her. "Well, I won't tell
anyone if you don't."
Yang chuckles softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Blake shifts
forward, sliding down the curve of the elephant's head.
Except her heels start burning as she slides a little too fast. Gravity seizes her
and hauls her to the railing. As she stands to catch herself, her body slams into
the metal with a hard clang!
Blake lurches halfway over the rail, biting back a gasp and hiss. Her left side
throbs all the way down to her toes with a dull ache. A pair of impossibly warm
hands suddenly grip her shoulders, pushing her back and taking her weight off
the bar completely.
Blake looks up.
"Are you alright?" Yang's brows pinch together hard with concern.
Blake can't answer at first.
Her breath seeps out between the gaps of her teeth, clouding in the small space
between them. The last time she was this close to Yang, she had those hands
on her waistband. She feels the phantom of them now, her hip's throbbing only
adding to the beat taking up a tattoo that travels from chest to hip.
"F...fine. I'm - I'm fine," she barely manages to say.
Shit.
Yang is... so close. Would her hands burn brands into Blake's skin if they were
to touch directly? What absolute sin she'd commit, just to find out.
Blake's ears pin back along her skull. Her thoughts take a distinct detour, her
throat bobbing in a hard swallow. She tears her gaze away, shame crawling
under her skin. What is she doing, treating Yang like an object to desire? What
is wrong with her?
"Dangerous, isn't it?"
One of Blake's ears flicks up to listen, amber flashing as she cuts her a
questioning look.
"Getting close to a courtesan," Yang answers herself.
She hasn't let go of Blake yet. Her palms bleed with heat to the point where
Blake is sure there's steam coming off her skin. Her voice strokes along Blake's
spine, a flighty touch of the midnight sun. Blake yearns to take up an orbit
around her.
And as if pulled by gravity itself, or maybe a hint of telepathic reading, Yang
dips her head down. Close enough to carve her lips into Blake's skin at a twitch
- but not quite. She's paused only a few centimeters from her mouth.
Centimeters to an entire continent, it makes no difference to Blake. She's still
too far away.
Blake grips the railing between them for dear life, pulse desperately kicking
through her veins.
A single, burning fingertip traces her clavicle, raising a score of bumps from her
touch. Gold locks brush over the tops of her knuckles. It takes all of her
concentration to stay as still as possible.
Yang murmurs over the horizon of Blake's lips, "All this talk of love, and you still
want to risk it all? You know you'll only get hurt. Wanting me so openly."
Blake doesn't understand why every fiber of her being wants to ignore the
warning. Why every ounce of her common sense claims that she's right, and yet
still doesn't give two fucks about it.
She wants the recognition in her soul to speak up or forever hold its peace.
Why now? Why this woman? Why is she worth risking her wounded heart? Why
is she worth more than any dream she's ever had?
Who is Yang, and why does it feel like they already fit?
"I don't know why," the words tremble as soon as they leave the alabaster cage
of Blake's teeth. "Maybe I'm just stuck on what...what happened in the elephant
before. I don't know if I can trust what I'm feeling, actually."
Yang's eyes glint in the darkness, the void of her pupils speckled with stars.
"...And what exactly are you feeling?"
Blake unconsciously presses as close to the railing as she can. The metal digs
into her hip, drumming a slow, aching beat from the scar raised there. Like
there's still a knife under her skin. Like it's trying to remind her what happened
before, when her heart used to speak this confidently.
"I feel desire, like it's going to burn me alive," Blake whispers honestly, nails
chipping off the black paint underneath her harsh grip, "and inspiration. I want
to write sonnets about your hands, and what your voice does to me. I...want to
know you, and everything that goes on behind those gorgeous eyes of yours."
Blake can't stop herself now. She draws herself onto her toes, the tip of her
nose brushing over Yang's. She picks up a small hitch in the woman's breathing.
She wonders if, for a silent moment, perhaps the courtesan just has a better
poker face. Maybe she feels the universe calling, too.
"I can't help but think I interest you in more ways than one."
Yang grinds out on a slight rasp, "I don't do anything for free."
There's a fog rolling into the corners of Blake's skull. She can feel Yang's lips
beckoning her to end the world.
Weakly, "Can I pay you in poetry?"
And she feels Yang's lips twitch into a smile.
A spike of satisfaction coils at the base of Blake's throat at that. She put that
smile on Yang's face. She wants to taste her amusement so badly it scrapes her
insides raw.
"You're cute," Yang hums, her hands dropping from Blake's shoulders and
settling on the railing between them. Her pinkies brush against Blake's thumbs.
"But no."
"...Shame." The desert in her mouth has a cactus for a tongue. Prodding the
roof of her mouth with spines. She tastes a little copper as she forces herself to
lean back, sucking in a painful breath.
She can't bring herself to meet her eyes again, deflecting her disappointment by
adding, "I think I'll end up writing about you, anyway."
"...I suppose that's flattering."
If Blake didn't know any better, she'd say Yang looks disappointed.
Blake clears her throat softly, her fingers creaking as she releases the railing.
She inches to the side, and Yang makes a quiet, "oh-" as she shuffles away,
letting Blake vault over the railing.
As her cold toes touch the ground again, Blake takes in the chill, the woman,
the sky.
She stuffs her heart back under her sleeve with a smile, and says thoughtfully,
"I think I might have an idea for Spectacular Spectacular."
"Oh really?"
Yang's expression remains carefully vacant, and Blake senses an end to the
ease of their conversation.
She bites back her disappointment with a careful nod. She knows the smile on
her face doesn't reach her eyes.
"I'll be sure to let you know...perhaps a bit later, though." She backs up a few
steps, earning a furrow in Yang's brow. "I've stolen enough of your time
tonight."
Yang's mouth opens partially, working itself soundlessly for a moment. She
seems torn between following, or letting it be. Her attention wavers between
Blake and the darkness curtained over the stairs. Her exit.
When Yang can't seem to respond, Blake makes the decision for both of them.
Quietly, "Goodnight, Yang. Thank you for talking with me."
And she's back in the shadows once more.
Yang doesn't call after her.
The apartment is too cold as she climbs back through the window. She ends up
lingering in the frame long enough to find Yang's figure atop the elephant.
Staring for what feels like hours, until the silhouette of her melts back into the
creature, and its red eyes turn black for the night.
Blake heaves a longing sigh, and heads to bed. The party is still raging upstairs,
but the exhaustion hooked at her collarbones drags her shoulders forward from
the weight. A heaviness that promises a blink of sleep, at the very least.
The wind's made its home in her sheets, nearly scattering frost across her
bones as she slips underneath them. She shivers and stares at the ceiling, until
the corners of her room drag black blankets over her eyes.
She sleeps well into the dawn.
And this time, she doesn't dream at all.