Weiss isn't good with girls.
That's been a fact of life since the first time she came to terms with the way her knees threaten to buckle at the very sight of someone she's deemed attractive enough for her attention. And while she knows, to a degree, how not-good with girls she is, she refuses to accept how absolutely terrible with them it actually makes her.
Her roommate, Blake, likes to call it a side effect of her head-busting ego. And though she laughs while she says it, as if it were a joking jab, every word drips with the blatant certainty that Weiss shows to be so confident in herself, she makes a fool without even realizing it.
Blake knows it's not the snowy woman's fault, though. She knows it runs deeper than the barren surface, than marble counter tops. She knows it weaves between red wine spills and stained carpets and calloused palms littered with the small, white hairs of an angered rat. She knows, eventually, somewhere, it ends at the feet of the want to just make someone happy. Of wanting to make someone believe she's worth loving, worth keeping around.
So when Weiss woke Blake up in the middle of the night, tugging gently on the black fur of her right ear and eagerly explaining her plan to join Tinder like it was the smartest thing she's ever come up with, Blake couldn't shoot her down. She'd simply held back her yowl, invited Weiss into bed with her, and helped her pick the best photos she could to make a good impression on whichever woman would be sought after.
Then came the weeks of ignoring instant messages from overly curious men, commenting on the length of her hair and the curves of her lips and so many other things that would be much too inappropriate to retell. And while Weiss was great at hiding things, the one thing she's always struggled to shield is the look of utter defeat that crosses over her face as she begins to lose hope.
It seems silly to her, now, the fact that she even began to lose hope in the first place. Blake was always amazing at peptalks, at reassurance, and most of the time– the nonsense she spouted wasn't nonsense at all. It always had a bit of truth, if not only truth, and this time... this time had been no different.
That thought solidifies as Weiss' heels click down the sidewalk, turns into rock and rolls around inside her skull. It dips toward her spine, rolls down her vertebrae, and sinks into her knees the very second she makes eye contact with... her.
Weiss nearly falls, nothing out of the ordinary.
The blonde had looked amazing in her profile, standing with a daring confidence that seemed so natural and unforced, it usually would've put Weiss off, but didn't, for some odd reason.
It could've been her amethyst eyes, shining pools of crystal and warmth. Maybe her golden hair, looking more like a halo than an angel's crown. Perhaps it was the metal of her prosthetic, nearly usual in its ease. The steel had looked like nothing but comfort paired with the woman's expression, the way she stood like she knew the power every positioned limb held.
Whatever it was, Weiss didn't really care. Because looking at her felt nice, and experiencing her was bound to feel even nicer.
Spoiler alert: it did.
"Hey!" Yang grinned from a few feet away, waving.
Weiss would've replied– should've replied– but she couldn't. She was a little too busy staring. And she know's it's inappropriate, disrespectful in gesture, but she can't stop. Because Yang looks like she'd been fathered by the sun itself.
Yang looks warm. Welcoming in every sense of the word, like a set of burning logs, the yarn of a knotted blanket. The corners of her eyes garnish a broad smile with crinkling that registers as roadmaps, as journey and adventure and experience. She looks like she's walked the surface of the moon, bare and on fire, naked in the way comets fall and discard their jackets on their way down. She looks to be touched by stars, swallowed by them, taken apart and mended by them so that every inch of her body has been put together with nothing but molten stardust. She looks like everything bright the sky has ever created, and it makes the shorter woman's face feel like fire.
Weiss is the complete opposite, by the way. She looks like cold foam over a boiling sea, like doves soaring with wide wings and so much poise, it had to be natural from birth. She looks like snow falling into fire, intricate and twirling and so utterly perfect, it melts against flames in the same shape it grew in. And she looks like steam, cut with frayed edges and the inability to give something up.
She's short, small, but the long strides she takes make up for every missing inch, nearly make Yang feel like she's watching a giant.
"Weiss?" she asks, hoping for a response this time.
Weiss nods as her steps slow, lips turning upward into a smile, forced not because she isn't happy, but because her cheeks feel as heavy as ice. "Yang."
The blonde's grin eases, widens like a hug. "What, hit traffic or something?"
Weiss exhales once, crossing her arms over each other. "Yes, I'm sorry. I'm never late, I should've texted you."
"Oh, definitely," Yang says, and it's with a tone that reminds Weiss the person standing before her is the same person she's been texting for the past week. "I was waiting for so long, I should've left."
"You know what? I take it back." Weiss straightens out, offers a glare warm and frosted with lighthearted intent.
"Your regret over not texting?" Yang asks.
"No, my apology."
"I was going to say."
Weiss' brows furrow. "What?"
Broad shoulders shrug. "You text constantly, you'd never not regret doing it."
Weiss huffs, taking her purse and jacket and dropping them straight into Yang's arms. "Shut up," she murmurs, pulling the restaurant's door open.
Yang laughs, gaze following her every step before her own foot even dares to move. "What, I'm a bag carrier now?"
"Among other things," Weiss says, flippantly.
Her strides are quick and intent again, like she's got no other interest than sitting down at the nearest booth and memorizing every dish on the menu. But, even so, she glances at Yang in the corner of her eye, hopping to catch an expression, a gesture; anything to hint she's not being too harsh.
She only sees blue fabric, the sleeve of her coat drapped over Yang's forearm. So she hopes instead.
To make up for it, for the possibility of her being too much like stone, she thanks the waitress. She doesn't know how it correlates, how this thing has anything to do with that thing, but it makes sense to her. Being nice to the waitress means she's nice, means she's a decent woman even though every word and facial expression that comes from her might say otherwise to Yang. Probably doesn't, but might.
The only issue is, she's a little too nice. She thanks the server before they've finished talking, and then apologizes. Then thanks them for accepting her apology... while interrupting again. Then apologizes for speaking over them again, and thanks them for accepting.. while they're still— well, it happens a few more times. And by the time she and Yang are seated, Weiss' face is bright red and hot, and she's sure she might cry.
Yang rests Weiss' things beside her, sits down across the table from her, and searches her face. Weiss doesn't even look up from her menu.
She's reading, probably. Trying to. But her eyes aren't moving across the page, they're still and burning holes into the paper.
She starts to smell smoke. She wants to call Blake. She suddenly wants out.
Because she isn't good with girls. Especially girls like Yang.
"Have you ever eaten here?" Yang asks, folding her menu closed and resting it flat on the table. It's like she knows how close to the edge Weiss is, how suddenly she spiraled, and really wants her to stay.
That's usually impossible, because Weiss doesn't show those things. But this time, she doesn't need to. Yang knows. Yang is good at reading people. And she's amazing with girls.
"I haven't, no."
"Oh, right. High class?" Yang's fingers tap the table, dull steel ringing hollow against the surface to the time of Weiss' heartbeat. It's calming in its own way.
Weiss shrugs, raises her gaze above the menu and meets lilac eyes. "I'm just busy a lot."
"You made time for me."
"Duh." She folds the paper in her hands, rests it the same way Yang did. "You threatened me."
"You threatened me."
Weiss scoffs, rolls her eyes to the left just in time to catch a child's highchair tip to the side as the baby sitting in it leans. Its mother catches the leg just in time, and Weiss' breath pushes out so fast, it nearly squeaks.
Her attention meets Yang's again as she speaks. "Hardly."
"Hardly? You told me you'd show up at my doorstep if I changed my mind about taking you out."
"How is that a threat?"
"How's that not a threat? Tell me you wouldn't take a stranger telling you that as a threat."
"I would," Weiss scowls, shifting in her seat and shrinking down a bit. For comfort. "But we're not strangers."
"We've been talking for a week."
"It could've been less than that," she points out.
Yang's lips lift, dimples burrowing their place into her cheeks. "I'm glad it wasn't."
Weiss' chest lifts, bubbles with the breath that catches in her throat, refuses to move. She fears her lips might turn purple.
"Alright," Yang says, resting her elbows on the tabletop and leaning forward. "So."
It feels like she's just opened a long, slow book. "So?"
"This is a date, right?"
Weiss keeps silent, eyes a bit wider than she would've liked. Her eyes are craters, struck by that meteor, naked and missing a jacket.
"'Yes, Yang! This is a date!' Thank you, Weiss."
"This is a date, yes..." Weiss murmurs.
"There you go. Now," Yang begins, "first dates. What do people usually do during first dates?"
"Talk??"
"Yes! Perfect. They talk."
"You don't have to walk me through this, you know," Weiss says.
"Shhhh. I'm not walking you through it, I'm setting the stage. Can I continue?" Weiss' head tilts, but she nods. "I was thinking, last night, that I know a lot about you."
"You do?"
"Well, I know a good amount for talking only a week. I know you grew up in Atlas, you're a princess–"
"Heiress."
"–Heiress," Yang corrects. "I know you don't like the color yellow, but you think it looks amazing on me– very true, by the way. You like fencing, are a junior in college, and go for a pedicure on Mondays, and a manicure on Thursdays, probably. Your best friend is a faunus and you think her ears are good thing to tug on while making a point. You're terrible at cooking and you nearly burn down your kitchen, based on an estimate, three times a week. But that's okay, because baking's your thing anyway, right?"
"My thing," Weiss repeats.
"Am I wrong?"
Weiss thinks for a moment– not that she really can, with the way the butterflies in her stomach pry the doors of her ribcage open and flee. Her voice is nearly as fleeting as wings when she speaks, the usual ice in her tone cracking some in the distant echos. "I would've chosen a better phrase, at least."
Yang shakes her head, joins her hands behind her head and leans back. "Like?"
"It's something I like to do."
"And you're good at it?"
Weiss shifts, switches her gaze between the bends in of Yang's arms and thinks about touching them with the tips of her own fingers. "Yes."
"Exactly. It's your thing."
Weiss stares.
"Alright, we'll work on that."
"Don't count on it."
"I will." Yang offers a cheeky smile, sculpts it around the way her response sounds like a fire Weiss has to put out. "My point is, I know about you. But you don't know much about me."
"I know you dropped out before your junior year."
"Everyone knows that."
"Yeah," Weiss agrees, nodding once. "You have that kind of look."
Yang scoffs, stares for only a second instead of commenting.
She doesn't have to, luckily, because before anything can continue, the waitress comes back, clicking a pen as they ask if they can start the two women off with any wine.
Yang answers immediately, like ordering is the easiest part, the least of her worries, just a motion. "Do you have anything cabernet?"
"We do!" the waitress says, taking up a routine smile. "Some favorites are our Carson Ridge and Luc Pirlet."
Yang's fingers tap again, drum to the beat of forks hitting plates at the next table over. Her eyes narrow with her response, partnering a polite grin. "Pirlet sounds amazing, thanks."
The waitress turns to Weiss, holds the same expression. "How about you?"
A pale hand folds, flips out in a swift motion. Weiss juts her chin to the side, shifts once more in her seat, and states, "I don't drink, but thank you. Water and a lemon is fine."
Yang catches it, even if she's not supposed to; the way the corner of Weiss' lips turns downward. She catches the way her shoulders raise in expectation, like the action of even considering answering differently warranted something low. She sees every white strand of hair stiffen, grow into shards of ice and glass and planned refusal. Of discomfort.
"Actually," she says to the waitress, holding up a finger, "scratch the Pirlet. Orange juice instead, if you can."
"No problem! I'll be back in five."
Weiss straightens out, made curious by the gesture, the mind change. An avalanche just stopped, halted by sunflowers alone, snow scared of unbending prediction and the way Yang just seems to know.
"Anyway," she continues, a few golden strands falling loose in front of her eyes as she watches the server walk away. "My favorite color is blue."
"Blue?"
"Yeah. And I'm not good at baking, myself, but opposites attract, right?"
Weiss watches Yang's lips move, makes sure she sees the words she hears, and then nods once. "Yeah."
"I really like apple pie. I like astrology even though I don't even know how it works, I just like the posts that say Leos are firey and strange."
A soft laugh rings out, the least urbane sound to leave Weiss' mouth all evening. And not only does it sound great; it feels great. "Firey and strange? Odd combination."
"Oh yeah? What would you have picked?"
"I don't know," Weiss says, looking past Yang and pretending to observe something in the distance, as if she could see her own intrigue solidify and watch her every move. "You seem adventurous."
Yang beams. "I'd kill for adventure, it's one of my favorite things. Rock climbing, random camping trips, you name it!"
Weiss fails not to make a face, tries covering it last second with a dainty hand. "Those both sound awfully dirty."
"Oh, gods, are you one of those people?"
"What?"
"Those people that are terrified of dirt, getting dirty, that stuff?"
"Absolutely not!"
The pitch of Weiss' tone reeks nothing but pure defensiveness, edging onto denial. It makes Yang laugh, and the sound twirls between every one if Weiss' fingers, dips into her pores and gives her no time to be surprised by the sudden rush. "You are, aren't you? I should've known. No one who wears silk likes getting dirty."
"You don't wear silk?"
"I don't— no? Do I look like someone who would wear silk?"
Weiss huffs, her lower lip juts out and threatens to jump off. "No." It sounds like she means it as an insult, and it only makes Yang laugh again.
"I don't have that kind of money, Ms. Schnee."
"We'll work on it."
"Don't count on it," Yang quotes, and the reuse of the phrase sends the other woman's cheeks burning.
Aside from girls, Weiss is also terrible with words, she's beginning to notice. Not always, of course. Most of the time she can string them together like diamond necklaces, metal and shining, making sentences feel like a gift. But when she's nervous? When she's talking to someone she might like, talking to Yang? There's no hope.
There doesn't have to be, this time, luckily. And she'd applaud and thank the waitress for their impeccable timing if she could, because as they approach the table with two glasses and a basket of bread, Yang's original focus seems all but dissipated.
The moment the basket hits the tabletop, Yang's hand is inside of it, grabbing the closest garlic knot she can. Hell, the movement is so quick and subconscious, she thanks the waitress with a full mouth, and Weiss finds it disgusting, worth reprimand.
She also finds it cute.
And then she hears the sound of glass touching wood, hears ice threaten to crack against ice, and rests her eyes on the cup placed in front of Yang.
It's orange and opaque, not red and translucent, and she feels her throat twinge with the realization that she might've just taken a lot of her date's fun off the table.
What if she wanted to get tipsy, what if that was her plan? What if I disappointed her, by declining?
It's such a silly thought, probably, such a minor roadblock, but Weiss can't help it; she freezes anyway, limbs taking up cold marble and chipped confidence. She feels bad. And she's so good at masking, so good at feigning indifference, except – it still feels like Yang knows.
"You okay?"
She does. She has to. Fuck.
"You look like you've seen a ghost or something." She looks behind herself, as if expecting to see a supernatural entity, the personification of Weiss' doubt, and sees nothing. It's natural, empathetic, a call for comedic distraction, but it doesn't work, not entirely, because all Weiss wants to do is apologize.
I'm sorry, she wants to say, you can order wine, for me, too.
But she doesn't. Not only because she knows it'd ruin the mood, the way she'd refuse to look at the fruity alcohol in all of its disgusting, manipulative glory, but also because Blake likes to tell her her apologies don't come across the way she usually means them.
Blake has suggested 'thank you's, instead.
'Thank you for your patience', instead of 'Forgive me, I'm late'.
'Thank you for listening', instead of 'I apologize for going on and on'.
'Thank you for ignoring your plans to drink in an effort to keep me comfortable even though you really didn't have to, even though I would've been a little bit uncomfortable because my mother used to drink and it ruined my innocence and I never want to smell red wine again', instead of 'Yang, I'm sorry'.
"Thank you", she says, and she doesn't even know whether the words really left her mouth, or she imagined them.
"Huh?"
She shifts her blue eyes upward, makes hard eye contact with pools of lilac ember, and sees the already finished attempt at putting a puzzle together and masking it with confusion.
Weiss goes along with it anyway, because it feels best. "For declining the alcohol. Thanks."
"Oh!" Yang waves a hand, grabs for her glass with the other. "Don't even worry about it. I didn't want to bother you."
"You could've taken it, I wouldn't have minded much."
The blonde smiles into the rim, rosey lips leaking pigment into lukewarm juice. "I know."
"My mother drank." The words surprise Weiss more than the honesty behind them, and suddenly, she wishes she could've taken them back. This is only a first date, after all.
"Makes you nervous, right?"
Weiss considers being flippant, changing the subject to something more lighthearted. To grass, to flowers, to the way the sky cries to heal them both. But she doesn't. Instead, she takes shelter in the certainty in Yang's words, and tucks herself into their understanding. "Yeah."
"I thought so."
"I'd rather not fall into a similar habit, or witness my loved ones doing the same."
"Loved ones," Yang repeats, nodding. Her eyes sparkle, they do, but she doesn't linger on the words, doesn't need to. She understands. "Yeah. I understand. But, hey. Guess what?" Weiss' head lifts again in answer. "I don't even like wine."
"Then.. why did you order it?"
Yang shrugs, grabs a garlic knot and shoves it into her mouth before she can take another breath. "I wanted to make a good impression."
Weiss' heart skips a beat. "If you don't swallow before speaking, I'm taking those rolls away from you."
"Rolls? Weiss, these aren't rolls."
"They're bread stones, it's the same thing."
"No!" Yang finally takes a moment to swallow, gulps a little louder than expected but doesn't even acknowledge it. "These are everything rolls want to be. And more!"
"Alright, so, you like garlic. Got it."
"I do!" She brings her hand to her side, presumably patting her pocket. "Even brought a toothbrush for that exact reason."
"Oh, she's classy," Weiss says, reaching for a 'roll' herself.
"The classiest."
"All I need to teach you now is how to balance a book on your head."
Yang's eyes widen. "Do you really know how to do that?? Did your parents force you to learn or something?"
Weiss shrugs. "No. I got bored."
"Same thing with fencing, I'm guessing?"
"No, actually. My father got me into it, and it stuck." She rolls her eyes. "One of the only decent things that came from him."
"Okay, so– balancing, fencing and daddy issues."
Weiss sputters. "Yang? Are you taking notes?"
"So what if I am??" The defensiveness is so realistic, Weiss almost apologizes, and the transition is so quick, it almost gives her whiplash. "Anyway, teach me how to fence."
"You want to learn how to fence?"
Yang's mouth drops, and a shallow laugh falls from it. "Was that an insult?"
"No! No, it wasn't, sorry."
A twin of the same laugh. "It's okay! I don't even blame you, I probably don't look the part."
"You look like you kickbox."
"I did, actually, for a long while. Stopped a few years ago, though. Still got the moves. How long have you fenced?"
"Fifteen years."
"A novice," Yang deadpans.
Weiss giggles, covers her mouth with the tips of her fingers. "Clearly."
"Seriously, though," Yang starts, "is that how you caught your eye?"
Weiss raises her hand a little higher, fingers the scar that runs under her eye, over her lid and brow. "Yeah."
"Sorry," the blonde says, suddenly a little more careful than she had been. The way a dog clings to the edge of a cliff when pebbles fall. "I could've been less abrupt."
"No, it's fine," Weiss reassures, "I used to leave my helmet off while practicing, stupid mistake."
"A mannequin do it or something?"
"You mean a dummy?"
"Same difference."
Weiss shakes her head. "No, not a dummy. I don't like those, I prefer live partners."
"I'll be your partner!"
Weiss stares, might've hiccuped.
"Your fencing partner, I mean!" Yang elaborates within a millisecond, words rolling and quick. And for once that night, her cheeks show the slightest pink tint, hinting scrambled embarrassment.
"Might need to work on your strategy," Weiss teases, "but it could work out."
"I'll pay you for lessons."
"I don't need a dime."
———
Blake sleeps a lot.
She knows that, knows a majority of her time is spent in bed, asleep, in the dark. And because of that, she doesn't mind being woken up in most cases.
What she does mind, however, is being woken up at one in the fucking morning. What she minds more is being woken up at one in the fucking morning with the Ear Tugging Method.
Weiss' method.
Blake's shrill yelp is enough to wake the neighbors, enough to wake the block. She swats at the pale hand closest to her head, does her best to curl into a ball underneath the covers and escape from what she's sure will be her doom. "Weiss! Get off!"
"Wake up, Blake! I have to tell you something!"
"Can't it wait? Did you have to pull on my ear?" She pokes her golden eyes over her comforter, glares straight at the woman at the side of her bed, and spits venom.
Soft venom. Friend venom.
"No! If it could, I wouldn't have woken you up!" Weiss hisses. "And yes, I did! Now scooch over."
Blake groans, narrows her eyes as she forces her body of pure dead weight to roll to the side. She lands on her stomach and stays there, even when Weiss crawls in next to her and rests her braided little head onto Blake's shoulder blade.
"I'm not moving from this spot, and I'm falling asleep, so make it quick," Blake mumbles.
(She's not really falling asleep. She's just impatient, and she's been waiting for Weiss to come home from her date the way Big Ben waits to chime with a smile.)
"I'm teaching her how to fence."
"Yang??" Blake proves herself untruthful, picks up her head and turns it to the side as much as she can. "You're teaching Yang how to fence?"
"Yes!"
"Why?"
"Why not?" Weiss' whisper, while hushed, is more powerful than a thousand voices; that's what confidence does to her, and that means the night must've been great. "She's interested! I invited her over!"
"When? Do I have class that day?"
"Probably." Weiss shivers.
Blake sighs at the feeling, grabs the edge of her blanket and tosses it to the woman beside her. "Get under."
Weiss pulls it over herself, tucks it underneath her and curls up against Blake's back. "You're warm."
"I was asleep."
"I know."
Blake snorts, plops her head back down. "So it went okay, I'm guessing?"
Weiss' voice sounds distant, like it rests in a place even fairytales can't reach. She sounds like an old story, a dry fireplace, and she sounds comfortable. And that alone is enough of an answer for Blake.
"It went nice," she says, but her words overflow like a teapot. "She's pretty."
An entertained exhale. "Pretty?"
"Yeah. And she wouldn’t stop stuffing her face and talking over it."
"You hate that."
Distance grows. "Yeah." It sounds right.
"But you like her?"
"Yeah."
"A lot?"
"A lot."
Blake's lips pull upward, stretch further than the smile she'd planned, and she says, "I guess I'll cook, then."
Weiss says, "You didn't have a choice anyway. I would've burnt this place down."
When they sleep, Blake dreams of books, endless isles and warmth.
Weiss dreams of flames, of comets and stars.
And Yang dreams of swords, stuck into ice.