Work Text:
“Weiss,” Blake sighs. “Don’t you think this is a little much?”
She’s staring at the dress hanging on the back of her bedroom door. The one that arrived earlier that afternoon via a private courier and with a handwritten note from Weiss to remind Blake to handle it carefully. It’s not as if Blake’s unfamiliar with the concept of expensive dresses – growing up as a senator’s daughter carries a certain level of expectation – but she’s never been in the possession of something that looks like this.
She runs a fingertip over the fabric, studying the way it fails to capture the light. Black’s always been a complimentary colour for her, but Blake’s never seen it in a shade quite as deep as the one she’s looking it. It makes for a stunning contrast to the looping chains of gold that trail down the open back and curve round the hips; attention pieces that draw the gaze to the skin that the dress exposes. She’ll be practically naked, bare from the curve of her neck to the base of her spine; one false move away from flashing parts of herself to a room of complete strangers who will no doubt be watching with the expectation that she is going to do just that.
If Weiss hasn’t had this thing made to Blake’s specifications exactly…
“Like I told you,” Weiss responds, the slight clip of her voice obvious even through the tinny speakers of Blake’s scroll. “It’s the most expensive restaurant in Atlas. There’s an expectation to meet.”
“I’m aware of expectations, Weiss. I grew up with enough of them.”
“Then you understand why I bought this for you.” There’s the faintest sound of creaking leather followed by the muffled padding of footsteps on carpet. “Apparently it’s the big thing amongst Atlas high society.”
“What is? Frostbite?”
Weiss snorts. “It’s high fashion, Blake.”
“It’s underwear.” Beautiful, exquisite underwear but underwear all the same. “Just tell me it comes with a coat.”
“No coat. And I don’t want you trying to accessorise, either. Your fashion sense is atrocious.”
“Hey!”
“Blake, I’ve seen your turtleneck collection.”
“There is nothing wrong with my turtleneck collection.”
“I will not dignify its existence by arguing with you. Wear the earrings your mum bought you for graduation, and that clutch Coco gave you for your birthday.”
Blake chuckles. “You going to tell me what shoes to wear, too?”
“I was going to leave that to you, but seeing as you’re trying to be cute, the heels you wore to Velvet’s twenty-first – and don’t try and tell me you’ve lost them. They’re in the far corner of your closet.”
“I hate that you know that.”
“Then stop getting wine drunk around me and spilling all of your ‘closely guarded secrets’. You’re making it too easy. And before you ask me, yes, I’m telling you to wear those heels because of how they make your ass look. You’re playing the part of my girlfriend. If we were actually dating, I would want to show off the best parts of you.”
“And here I thought my brain was the best part of me.”
“The other best parts of you.”
It’s kindling for what will no doubt be a long and ridiculous conversation the next time they get drunk together, but for now, Blake’s choosing to focus on the pragmatic aspects that have led to Weiss Schnee thinking about her ass. “You’re really trying to make Pyrrha jealous, huh?”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
~
Weiss shows up at Blake’s on a Wednesday. That itself enough to suggest something is wrong, but the bottle of vintage red in Weiss’ hand certainly is. It’s one of the few areas they’ve never been able to agree on – Weiss steadfast in her insistence that white has a better taste and Blake forever teasing her over her lack of a refined palette as she smugly sips from her own glass of red.
In keeping with their long-standing tradition, Weiss’ dam doesn’t break until after dinner. It’s typically the point where she’s relaxed enough into her own bottle that she stops caring about the consequences of vulnerability, but apparently the half-glass of red that she’s been stubbornly persisting through all evening has aggravated her enough to do the same job.
“I need to ask you a favour.” It’s not the first time Blake’s heard those words out of Weiss Schnee’s mouth, but it is the first time Weiss has looked so nervous saying them. She has her hands cupped around the head of her wine glass and Blake thinks she’s on the precipice of breaking it. “You can say no – I’d understand if you did. It is ridiculous, after all. But you’re my best friend and I thought that maybe -”
Blake silences her by placing her hand on Weiss’ knee. “What do you need, Weiss?”
Weiss draws in a breath, her back straightening with the action. It’s a technique that Blake’s seen her use countless times, typically before she has to stand up in front of a group of people and deliver an important speech. “I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”
Blake stalls. “Excuse me?”
Weiss sighs and her gaze shifts to the floor. “I…I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”
Blake stares at her in silence for a moment and then stands, the act causing Weiss’ attention to shift onto Blake. It’s a sad sight; Weiss looks defeated, a crumpled shell of her usual, confident self. “I’m opening that bottle of Riesling,” Blake says. “And then you’re going to give me an explanation.”
All things considered, it’s a far more simplistic set of events than Blake had initially feared.
“I panicked,” Weiss says. She’s already deep into her second glass of white wine, the first one gulped down fast enough to leave a hint of a blush on her cheeks. “Pyrrha invited me to Crueseau’s so of course I accepted. Then she drops the fact that she’s going with Yang and I…I couldn’t just turn around and say no, and the thought of playing third wheel to them was just…” Her eyes close and she lets out a slow, shaky breath. When she opens them again, Blake catches a hint of a glimmer in the corners of her eyes. “So, I asked her if I could bring my girlfriend and she said yes.”
“And now you need someone to play the part.”
Weiss opens her hands, a silent gesture of placation. Of prayer. “You’re the only person I trust with this. Please, Blake.”
Weiss is right, it is ridiculous, and Blake should probably say no. But Weiss is her friend and she’s been Blake’s fiercest supporter through some of her stupidest decisions, so it would be unfair if Blake didn’t offer Weiss the same.
She takes a sip of her wine and agrees.
~
Weiss picks her up in a new limo. Blake knows it’s new because it still has that artificial “new car” smell that Blake grew up associating with people who have too much money and too little sense. Weiss might not be guilty of the latter, but the former is definitely true.
She’s dressed conservatively. A goddess in white that compliments Blake’s black better than it contrasts it. There are threads of silver woven into the fabric; neat, tiny lines that are only visible when they capture the light as Weiss moves. If Blake knows her friend – and she does – they’ll make the shape of the snowflake that serves as the Schnee family’s crest.
“Here,” says Weiss, passing over a binder that’s almost as thick as Blake’s hand is wide. “Topics of conversation for tonight.”
Blake flips through out of morbid curiosity as opposed to actual intent. The whole thing feels painfully reminiscent of her childhood – journeys spent in the back seat studying printouts of faces so that she didn’t set back her parents’ campaigns because she forgot the name of generic investor number 47. Instead of people’s faces, however, Blake’s met with pages dedicated to different topics. There are headers and summaries and lists of bullet points coloured coded to match someone’s moral compass – Pyrrha’s, if Blake had to guess. The whole thing is thoroughly wasted on Blake. She’s known Weiss for the best part of decade, she doesn’t need cliff notes on how to handle a conversation with her.
“This would be more useful if it actually had any information about the women we’re dining with.”
“You know who Pyrrha is.”
“Everyone knows who Pyrrha is.” It’s a symptom of being the most famous sports star on Remnant. The thing is, that’s just about the only thing Blake actually knows about the woman, save for the fawning adorations that Weiss tends to babble when she’s drunk. Blake’s never taken an interest in the sporting world, so the details of Pyrrha’s career – what it is she actually does, for example – is a complete mystery to her. She’s seen the billboards, and the magazine covers, and the advertisements, but all that actually tells her is just how much of a commodity Pyrrha is considered to be by the markets. She has no idea who Pyrrha Nikos really is.
“Then the information you’re asking for is irrelevant.”
“It would help to know what her interests are. It would help me find some common ground to start on.”
“You don’t need common ground,” Weiss replies, nodding towards the binder in Blake’s hands. “You have vetted and approved topics of conversation to refer to instead.”
“And what about Yang?”
There’s the faintest flush of red at Weiss’ cheeks. “What about her?”
“It would be nice to know what she looks like for starters.”
Weiss grumbles as she digs around in her clutch for her scroll. “Here,” she says, holding it out towards Blake.
The display on the screen shows two women. Blake recognises Pyrrha. She’s dressed in some kind of uniform, her hair tussled and her face red. Squeezed into her side has got to be one of the most beautiful women that Blake has ever seen. Her mane of golden hair cascades over her shoulders as she leans into Pyrrha, a muscled arm draped around the redhead’s shoulders. Lilac eyes stare at the camera – at Blake – sparkling with the same pride and adulation that sits behind the wide smile on her lips.
Blake has never considered herself to be the kind of person to have a type. After Adam, she didn’t consider herself to be the kind of person to take much romantic interest in anyone at all. But as she looks at that photo, she’s quick to realise that she’s wrong on both fronts; Blake is very interested, and she definitely has a type.
Unfortunately, that type appears to be blonde, beautiful, and unavailable.
“I can see why you’re jealous.”
Weiss snatches the scroll back with a huff. “I am not jealous.” The glowing tint of pink at the tips of her ears says otherwise. “Obviously, I would prefer it if Pyrrha was unattached, but I am not about to debase myself with emotions so frivolous as jealousy.”
Blake can’t help but smile fondly as Weiss’ pragmatism. It’s one of those aspects of her personality that comes out at very specific times, and it never fails to entertain Blake when it does. This is the woman who Blake has seen wine drunk and half naked in her living room denouncing the evils of “society’s breast cage” whilst spinning said “cage” round her head like a lasso, as Blake looks on and tries desperately not to choke to death on her water. Placing the image of her alongside the “uptight, stick-riding Schnee bitch” – not Blake’s words – that she can see now, leaves her with a mental picture that never fails to make her laugh.
“Stop it,” Weiss chides, swiping at Blake’s arm. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Then you know I can’t stop,” Blake manages between bouts of laughter.
Weiss tuts and settles back against her seat, arms folded across her chest. “I suppose I should be glad that you’re getting this out of your system before we get to the restaurant.”
“I don’t know,” teases Blake. “I bet I could paint a picture of it well enough that the others could enjoy the mental image too.”
“Don’t you dare.”
The threat has Blake laughing again, but only because she knows there’s nothing honest about either of their words. She’ll tease Weiss until she glows red in the privacy of their own homes, but she’s not about to embarrass her in public. Blake knows her assignment, and she’s going to fulfil it to the best of her ability.
She leans over to pat the back of Weiss’ hand. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I promise to be on my best behaviour.”
~
Cruseau’s is exactly what Blake expects from “high-end Atlassian cuisine”; bright, white and expensive. Walking inside feels like subjecting herself to a private blinding session, and it’s only thanks to Weiss’ hand on her arm that Blake’s able to navigate the route to their table whilst her eyes slowly adjust to the light.
Pyrrha’s the only one seated when they arrive, and she jumps to her feet as Blake and Weiss approach. Pyrrha looks stunning, of course. A vision in burgundy and bronze, her dress hugging her curves, her thigh exposed through a slit up the left side. It’s the kind of dress Blake had expected to be attending this dinner in. Something modest but appealing. The type of outfit she could relax in without worrying about who she was going to flash if she makes the mistake of leaning the wrong way.
Weiss wastes no time in greeting her. Even in her heels, she’s a good head shorter than the redheaded athlete, and Pyrrha has to bend down to offer a kiss to each of Weiss’ cheeks. It’s cute, actually. Blake’s so used to seeing Weiss standing above her height, that it’s nice to see her in a situation where she’s forced to embrace it without being humiliated by the act.
There’s a moment after they break apart where the two of them just look at one another. It’s that shot in the movie where you know two people are into each other but they’re still in denial about the fact that they are. At least, that’s what it would be if Pyrrha wasn’t already in a relationship.
“And this is my partner, Blake.” Weiss opens her arm in invitation and Blake steps into the space, jumping as Weiss’ hand settles against the small of her back.
Fortunately, Pyrrha doesn’t seem to notice.
“Hello Blake,” she says, taking Blake’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Weiss has told me a lot about you.”
“Mostly good things, I hope.”
“Mostly.” Pyrrha’s gaze flits over Blake’s shoulder and she straightens a little. “Ah, just in time. Weiss, Blake, this is Yang Xiao Long.”
Blake turns and – shit. Yang’s even more attractive in person. It’s the suit, Blake tries to argue as she gives the blonde a quick once over. It’s the form fitting trousers and the curve-hugging waistcoat and the three-quarter sleeves and –
Her eyes settle on the bright pink drink in Yang’s hand. “What is that?”
There’s a near-inaudible intake of breath from beside her – Weiss – but it’s cut off by Yang asking, “This?” She raises the drink. “It’s a Strawberry Sunrise. Well, as close to one as they can make in a place like this.”
“It’s Yang’s favourite,” Pyrrha explains. “She insists on getting it whenever we go somewhere new. Regardless of whether or not they serve it.”
“It’s the only fair way to measure if a place is any good,” Yang insists, setting the drinks down on the table.
“How do you figure?” asks Weiss.
“Well, if you judge a place on its food, you’re limiting your opinion based on someone else’s idea of what options you should have, as well as your own tastes on that day. Say you want steak, but the restaurant doesn’t offer it, so you go with the next best thing, but you’re always going to be negative towards it because it’s not what you really want. I always want a Strawberry Sunrise, so it’s the perfect thing to assess a restaurant by.”
“Except that you’re forcing them to provide you with an item that isn’t on their menu. You’re creating a situation of bias by requesting something that they have no experience in making, thereby favouring those places with more experienced bar staff.”
Weiss is straddling the line of confrontation and Blake’s going to remember this the next time Weiss tries to claim that she isn’t jealous of Yang’s relationship with Pyrrha. It’s the sort of thing she came into this knowing to look out for, and Blake knows that all it will take it the lightest touch on Weiss’ forearm to stop this back and forth before it starts. But there’s a spark in Yang’s eyes, as though she’s been waiting for someone to challenge her, and Blake can’t find it in her to deny it.
“It’s no different with the food. There will always been an unconscious bias towards those kitchens with the most experienced staff.”
“But they are adhering to a set menu. They have recipes to follow. You are forcing them to deviate from that with your request.”
“It’s a cocktail, not an airship. And I supply everyone who asks with the same instructions for making it.”
“But the ingredients -”
“Are things you can find in any bar on Remnant. Even the seedy ones. Places like this just carry versions with fancy labels on them instead.”
“What’s in it?” Blake’s sure that Weiss has a whole host of retorts primed and ready to launch in Yang’s direction, and she’s pretty sure that Yang is more than excited about the prospect of knocking them back, but she really wants to know what it is that’s caused this conversation in the first place.
“Tequila, mostly.” Yang picks up the glass and offers it. “Would you like to try a bit?”
Blake would, actually. And she does. It’s surprisingly sweet – not the type of thing she’d order for herself – but nice. The kind of thing she can picture Yang drinking on a porch on a summer’s day.
“Nice, huh?”
“Better than I expected,” Blake says as she passes it back. “It’s not really my style.”
“Let me guess, you’re more of a whiskey girl.”
“In the right settings. I usually stick to wine.”
“Rosè?”
“Red.”
“Ah, so you like rich wines as well as rich girlfriends.”
“What can I say? When I find something I like, I commit to it.”
Yang grins and offers her hand. “Blake, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” She didn’t notice the prosthetic at first, but there’s no mistaking the feel of something artificial and firm against her skin. She looks down in surprise.
“Sorry,” Yang says, misinterpreting the reaction. “I usually try and warm it up a bit before I shake someone’s hands. It must be some leftover chill from the drink.”
“It’s fine. Really. I was more surprised by the texture. It’s rougher than I expected.”
Yang slips her hand from Blake’s, turning it palm up so that she can see it clearer. “It helps with grip,” Yang explains. “There’s padding to help me keep hold of things that are smooth or damp. Drink glasses, for example.”
Blake goes to touch but pauses, eyes rising in a single question that Yang answers with a wordless nod. She runs two fingertips down the padding on the palm, studying the texture. There are similarities to the way callouses feel on human hands but it’s different enough that her brain keeps stumbling every time it tries to make that connection.
“They’re pretty durable,” Yang explains. “I can typically get two or three years out of them if I’m careful. Less if I’m out rock climbing or something.”
“Is that something you do often?”
“Rock climbing?”
“Yeah.”
“Not as often as I want to.” She juts her chin towards the space behind Blake. “You can thank that one for that. Keeps me too busy to enjoy all my reckless pursuits.”
“Oh hush,” Pyrrha chides. “You get to do plenty.”
It’s at that moment that Blake remembers that there are other people in this room, and that one of those people is the girlfriend of the woman whose attention she has been hoarding for the last – she doesn’t know how many minutes. She lets go of Yang’s hand with a suddenness that has the blonde raising an eyebrow and turns to the rest of the group.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ve been holding us up.”
“Nothing to apologise for. I’m glad to see the three of you getting along. I actually had a bet going that Yang would have chased you off before the appetiser.”
“Love you too, Pyr,” Yang mutters affectionately. “Can I get you a drink? Red?” She asks Blake, who nods in response.
“I’ll take a white wine,” says Weiss, before Yang has a chance to ask. “One of the Domaines preferably.”
“As you wish.” Yang bows her head before heading for the bar and Pyrrha chuckles as she goes.
“I warned you she was quite the character.”
“She’s certainly…interesting. A lot more provocative than I anticipated.”
“She’s a tease,” Pyrrha says, gesturing for them to sit. “She can’t help herself.”
“I like her,” says Blake. “It’s refreshing to see someone else willing to go toe to toe with Weiss. Most people are too scared of her name to even try.”
“That’s not a problem with Yang. She’ll tell you what you think regardless of what your name is. I can’t count the number of times that quality of hers has gotten us into trouble.”
“I bet you have a few good stories to tell about that.”
Pyrrha’s green eyes sparkle as she smiles. “Oh,” she says. “I have plenty.”
~
All things considered; the first two courses of their meal go surprisingly well. Weiss works her way through her memorised list of appropriate conversation pieces and she and Pyrrha carry the tone whilst Blake and Yang chip in from the sides. Blake will admit that there are times when it feels a little bit like the partner divide goes through the table instead of across it, but she’s secretly grateful for the fact that it makes it easier for her to play the part Weiss needs her to. Backing up her “girlfriend” on some points and challenging on others is such a minute step away from the reality of their actual relationship that it doesn’t feel like pretend so much as a continuation of the normal.
It's simple. Easy.
And in true dramatic fashion, that of course means that it cannot last.
“Yang’s finishing up her doctorate in physical therapy,” says Pyrrha, gesturing to the woman at her side. “You’ve got – what? Six months of work left?”
“Five,” Yang corrects. “And then another three months to get my final essay in order.”
“Do you have anything special in mind for when you finish?” Blake asks.
“Not yet. I’m just focused on finishing it for now. I’ll see how things look after.”
“Does that mean you’re considering leaving Pyrrha’s team?”
Under the table, Blake nudges Weiss’ ankle.
“It’s crossed my mind. But like I said, I’ll wait until I actually finish to decide.”
“I’m proud of her regardless,” Pyrrha says, the words drawing a blush to Yang’s cheeks. “It’s not easy studying on the road, but Yang’s never missed a deadline or a training session.”
“It’s not that impressive,” Yang mutters into her drink.
“Blake’s been approached about a movie deal.”
Blake snaps her head in Weiss’ direction. “Weiss.”
“What? It’s true. She has two studios arguing over the rights to her debut novel.”
“Because of my name -”
“Because of your talent. Pyrrha’s read it, she’ll tell you.”
“What book’s this?” Yang asks.
“Forever Fall,” Pyrrha answers. “You remember. The one I was reading when we went to Vacuo for the invitational. When there was that storm and we had to bus through the desert instead.”
“The one where you cried at the end!” Yang exclaims, snapping her fingers. Her lilac eyes fall on Blake. “Seriously, she was weeping like a baby. I’ve known that woman most of my life and I can count the number of times I’ve seen her cry on one hand. You’re obviously incredibly talented.”
“She is,” says Weiss. “More so than she’s willing to admit.”
Blake’s not entirely sure what Weiss is thinking in trying to make this conversation about her. The last place Blake wants to be is the centre of attention, especially when that attention is focused around the discussion of her supposed creative talents.
“I shouldn’t mention it,” Weiss continues, her hand patting the top of Blake’s. “But she’s just so cute when she blushes.”
Well, if that’s the way Weiss wants to play it…
“She’s just saying that because I’m usually the one making her blush.”
“Weiss doesn’t strike me as the type who blushes easily.”
“That’s just what she wants you to believe.” Blake ignores the way Weiss’ hand tightens around hers. She was the one who asked Blake to be her fake girlfriend. She can’t complain when Blake starts acting like she is. “She’s actually a big softie, really. Like when she asked me out – come on Weiss, it’s a cute story – When she asked me out, she was so nervous she kept stumbling over her words. She had this whole speech prepared and after fighting her way through half of it she just plants her feet, sucks in a breath and says, ‘Blake Belladonna. I want to take you to dinner.’” Blake presses a kiss to Weiss’ cheek. “It was so earnest; how could I possibly say no?”
“Huh. I figured it was going to be some grand affair. Flash dancers or sky writing or something.”
“I think she’s saving that for the proposal.”
Pyrrha’s eyes widen. “Is that something you’ve talked about?”
“No,” Weiss says at the same time that Blake says, “Yes.”
Yang chuckles, looking between them. “Uh oh, Pyr. Look what you’ve gone and done.”
Weiss shoots Blake a look that tells her she’s stepping too far and then clears her throat. “We’ve discussed it, but only in the hypothetical sense. It made sense to ensure that our interests were aligned before things started to become serious.”
There has, in fact, been a discussion of marriage. Like most topics that Weiss would steadfastly avoid, it was one that was raised when the pair of them were drunk off their asses in the aftermath of a particularly unpleasant dinner at Schnee Manor. “You better not let me die a spinster, Blake.” Weiss had declared, her head in Blake’s lap, her bare feet hanging over the end of Blake’s sofa. “If I’m single at forty you better rush in and marry me.”
“I’ll be forty first. You going to marry me if I’m single?”
“Obviously.” Weiss had replied with a snort. “What kind of idiot would I be if I didn’t?”
They’re spared further embarrassment by the return of their waiter and the arrival of the third of their six courses. Yang decides to take advantage of the moment to order another drink. “A sex on the beach, if you don’t mind,” she says, oblivious to the look of horror Blake knows Weiss is now throwing in her direction. “I’m feeling something fruity.”
The waiter’s mouth is tight as he replies, “I’m sure we can accommodate that,” in a tone that suggests he wants to do anything but.
Pyrrha clicks her tongue when he leaves. “I can’t take you anywhere.”
“Which is what I keep telling you, but you keep refusing to listen. Besides, it could be worse.”
It’s a baited comment. One which both Blake and Pyrrha know not to rise up to. Weiss on the other hand…
“How could it possibly be worse?”
“I could have asked him for a Whore’s Bath instead.”
~
By some miracle, Yang does not combust under the intensity of Weiss’ glare.
And the next course passes without incident.
~
The midpoint of the meal is the perfect opportunity for Blake to take a breather. Between the flashes of embarrassment and the long gaps between her contributions to conversations, Blake’s already made it to the end of her third glass of wine. Typically, that wouldn’t be enough to concern her but apparently Yang’s offer of red wine was in fact an offer of “the strongest red wine that they have” and Blake’s feeling just the slightest bit lighter than she should do at this point in the evening.
Yang’s at the bar as Blake makes her way back from the bathroom and it’s late enough – Blake’s tipsy enough – to convince herself that the only reason she’s beelining towards the blonde instead of heading back to their table is so that she can help Yang carry the drinks.
Yang’s not paying the room any attention. She’s leaning onto the bar, her weight braced against her forearms, and Blake’s doing an exceptionally good job of snuffing out any thoughts of being squeezed into the space beneath Yang’s chest. Preferably in a facedown position.
And, yeah, okay, Blake definitely needs to switch to water.
“Have you ordered yet?” Blake asks, sliding into the space at Yang’s side.
Yang tenses for a moment before settling with a sigh. “Shit, Belladonna. You can’t just sneak up on a girl like that.” She makes a small, nervous sound that’s caught somewhere between a huff and a laugh. “But to answer your question, no, I haven’t. Apparently, the bartender is occupied with something else.” Yang gestures towards the empty space on the other side of the bar.
“Then I’ll wait with you,” says Blake.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I thought it might be nice to have a conversation without…” She gestures back towards the table and Yang laughs.
“It’s a little intense, isn’t it? I’ve seen some of Weiss’ speeches and obviously I know how Pyrrha can get but I didn’t realise that they would…” Her hand rolls like she’s trying to conjure up the expression she’s looking for.
“Egg each other on like that?” Blake offers.
“Exactly. It almost makes you wonder what they get up to when we’re not around.” Yang’s roguish grin falls with a blush. “Shit. I just realised how that sounded. I didn’t mean -”
Blake cuts her off with a shake of her head. “I knew what you meant.”
“It’s obvious how much she cares about you, you know. Just the way she looks at you. How she talks about you. You clearly mean a lot to her.” Yang’s earnest attempts at firefighting have Blake’s cheeks warming and she wishes she had a drink to hide the blush behind. Instead, she dips her head, hoping to hide a little of it behind her bangs.
“She means a lot to me, too.”
Weiss does. Of course, Weiss does. She’s Blake’s best friend. She’s the person Blake goes to in her worst moments – and her best ones. The person she can count on to never judge her for her mistakes, to never hold them like threats above her head or wield them like knives against her flesh. She loves her. Platonically. Familiarly. In all the ways that one person can love another that isn’t romantically.
“Yeah,” says Yang. “I can tell.”
She’s looking at Blake in a way that’s a little too soft, a little too caring, and Blake looks away under the guise of trying to spot the bartender. “Do you think he quit?” Blake asks, trying to be funny.
“Maybe. How much do you want to bet it was my drink order that did it?”
“What, like your poor taste unsettled him so much that he quit?”
Yang hums. “Precisely.”
Blake shakes her head. “Why did you order it, anyway?”
“I told you, because I felt like it.”
“I know. I mean…” Blake gestures across the bar, hoping it will help round out the point she’s trying to make. “It doesn’t really fit, does it? A drink like that in a place like this.”
Yang shrugs. “I don’t really fit here, either.”
“Then why come?”
Instead of an answer, there’s quiet, and when Blake turns to find out why, she finds Yang massaging the pad of her prosthetic with her thumb. “Pyrrha and I had this joke – back when we first started training together. At least, I called it a joke, Pyrrha took it to heart. We said that when we made it, we’d check out the top-rated restaurant in every city we visited.” A small smile creeps onto Yang’s face. It’s soft, wistful, but there’s a pain in it that keeps it from spreading. “We stopped saying it after the accident. I forgot it was even a thing for a while. But then one day, Pyrrha calls me up out of the blue and says, ‘I’ve got a race in Beacon. Come over, and I’ll take you to Granite’.”
Blake nods. She knows the place well. She would eat there with her parents whenever their work had them passing through that area of Vale.
“That’s the day Pyrrha offered me a job on her training staff. She even used the fact that we could fulfil that stupid joke as one of the selling points of the position.” Yang looks back towards their table and Blake can see the love in her expression, the appreciation that Yang holds for Pyrrha. But there’s something else there. Something stirring just beneath that a piece of Blake wants to investigate and understand.
She won’t, though. This isn’t the time or the place for such things.
“That’s one of the best things about Pyrrha. People talk about how she’s dedicated and kind, but they never really scratch the surface of her loyalty. Pyrrha’s not the kind of person to leave people behind. Or forget about them.”
“It’s a wonderful quality to have in a girlfriend.”
Yang frowns. “I suppose. Can’t say I’ve ever given much thought to that.”
“Really? The two of you have been together how long?”
Yang tilts her head as she looks at Blake. “Hang on,” she says. “Do you think Pyrrha and I are a couple?”
“Aren’t you?”
Yang shakes her head with a chuckle. “Gods no. Look don’t get me wrong, Pyrrha’s great. I’m sure she’d make some woman somewhere very happy, but that woman is not me, and it’s not going to be.”
Well…fuck.
Honestly, Blake could probably come up with a more elegant sentiment to describe her feelings, but she thinks the word “fuck” does a perfectly good job of getting them across. If it doesn’t, then her face must be in contention for a close second, because something about it has Yang looking at her with concern and asking, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she manages, because “no, I just realised that my best friend is a colossal idiot” and “yes, I just found out you’re available” are two sentiments Blake doesn’t have the capacity to present in any way that isn’t outlandish. “I need to talk to Weiss about something. Can you order me a water if the bartender shows?”
“Uh…yeah. Sure.”
Blake spins on her heel and marches to Weiss’ seat.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says. “But I need to speak to Weiss for a moment.”
She knows from the aghast look on Weiss’ face that she’s committed about a dozen social faux pas in the last 30 seconds, but she doesn’t care. She’s not about to sit through another three courses as the only one with this newfound knowledge sitting over her.
“My apologies, Pyrrha,” Weiss says as she stands. “I shall return shortly.”
There’s a hint of concern in Pyrrha’s eyes but she doesn’t voice it. She gives a short nod of her head and Blake watches as the redhead’s gaze shifts to Yang whilst Blake leads Weiss into the bathroom corridor.
“What in the Brothers’ names were you thinking?” Weiss hisses once they’re far enough away from prying ears. There’s a whole tirade waiting on the tip of Weiss’ tongue – Blake’s been witness and recipient of enough of them to recognise the signs – but Blake cuts it off before it has a chance to start.
“Yang and Pyrrha aren’t dating.”
“…What?”
“Yang and Pyrrha aren’t dating.” Blake repeats. “They’re just friends.”
“Shit.” The heiress turns away, fingers raised to her lips. “Shit.”
“I thought Pyrrha had told you -”
“Pyrrha never explicitly said they were dating,” Weiss interrupts. “I assumed -”
“You assumed?”
“There were signs.”
A part of Blake wants to know what those signs were. The rest of her doesn’t care because they’re wrong. They’re wrong, and now Blake and Weiss need to figure out what they’re going to do about the situation that Weiss’ assumptions have foolishly led them into.
“We need to decide what our next move is,” says Blake. “How we’re going to bring this fake relationship of ours to end.”
“You read all of those ridiculous romance books. What would they have us do in this situation?”
“Either we’d have a very dramatic – and very public – breakup. Or we’d carry the rouse for a little longer and then just agree to call it quits.” Neither of which are options that Blake’s particularly keen on exploring. If it comes down to it, however, she’s going to fight tooth and nail for the latter.
“There’s always a third option.”
Both women freeze, eyes locked and widening before they turn back down corridor. Standing there, with her thumbs hooked into her belt loops, and an amused smile on her lips, is none other than Yang Xiao Long.
“How…” Weiss ventures. “How much of that did you hear?”
“Enough,” Yang replies casually. “And I have a solution, if you’re interested.” She looks at Blake and offers her hand. “You just have to trust me.”
Well, it certainly wouldn’t be the most outrageous thing that Blake’s done this evening.
Yang’s hand is warm, and it folds around Blake’s as she leads her back into the restaurant, Weiss silently following at their heels.
It’s not until Blake can see the look of panic on Pyrrha’s face that Blake realises she has no idea what Yang’s plan actually is. For all she knows, the blonde is about to climb up onto the table and perform an impromptu sonnet about her discovery and the ridiculousness of it all.
(Blake doesn’t really think that’s a possibility, but it’s the mental image her mind decides to conjure as they near the table.)
Instead, Yang simply stands at the table’s edge and, with a voice dipped so slow that only those in the immediate vicinity will hear her, says, “Pyrrha! Good news, Weiss is available. So, I’m fulfilling those wingman duties you wanted me for.” She turns to Weiss. “Pyrrha thinks you’re hot. Also intelligent, driven, stubborn, and a whole bunch of other descriptions that will sound better coming from her than from me. Point is, she’s been into you since you met, but is too shy to do anything about it.” Yang looks back at Pyrrha and nods. “I think that covers the basics. I’m gonna take Blake and get out of here. The two of you probably have a lot to talk about.”
Yang doesn’t give them a chance to answer. Weiss is standing there turning the deepest shade of red that Blake has ever seen and Pyrrha is staring between them, wide-eyed and gaping. It’s like they’re broken, frozen by the shock of the moment. Blake’s feeling a little of the same, but unlike the other two women, she has the sensation of someone tugging at her hand to pull her out of it.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Yang says quietly as she leads Blake away. “I can just drop you off home and we can pretend we don’t know each other until their wedding or something.”
“I’d like that,” Blake says. She’s still not quite with the moment, so it’s only when she spots the faint hint of disappointment on Yang’s face that she realises what she’s said. “I meant yes to the part about you taking me home,” she blurts, and now she’s gone too far the other way because Yang’s cheeks are heating, and Blake swears that she can feel a similar warmth in her neck. “Not to -” She closes her eyes with a groan. “Fuck, I’m so bad at this.”
Yang brings them to a stop outside. “How about this, then. You tell me the name of the best tea house or coffee shop that’s in walking distance of your apartment. I’ll drop you off, grab us something made solely from things I can actually pronounce, and you and I get to know each other the good old-fashioned way. I’ll be a little over dressed for the occasion, but I think I can make it work in my favour.”
It sounds…wonderful, actually. And a little bit ridiculous, but given that ridiculous is exactly the kind of thing that got her here in the first place, Blake’s not about to use it as an excuse to say no.
“I’d like that.”
Besides, Blake thinks, as she watches Yang wave down a taxi. Weiss has her romcom ending. Maybe it’s time for Blake to have hers too.