#blizzard let this man have some peace I'm begging

[nb-n0v4]

A peaceful pepaw for ur dash <3

[lucytara]

lilac; I'm not strong enough to stay away

Atlas is hostile, treacherous, and unforgivingly cold.

Despite the hero’s escort Ruby’s silver-eyed powers and the end of the attack on Argus had granted them, the rest of the population doesn’t seem to believe it owes them anything. They’re forced to stop on the outer reaches of the border - airspace is too tightly controlled for exceptions to the military’s top general - and then only allowed the rest of the trip to the capitol via the national lines. In some ways it’s preferable not having to make the journey on foot, roofs above their heads in between storms and blizzards.

In other ways - they all shift uncomfortably outside of a restaurant with a sign that reads no faunus allowed - it’s unquestionably worse.

Blake crosses her arms, turns away with her ears flat; Yang’s vibrating at her side, anger so palpable her semblance is likely a hair-trigger away from firing on its own. Ice fights with her, struggles to solidify against the drips from the tips of its spikes, but doesn’t seem to be winning that battle. Just because something flourishes does not mean that it should be allowed to.

“Disgusting,” she spits viciously, and the rest of them only hum in agreement.

“I’m tempted to set it on fire,” Weiss says conversationally, fingers twitching, “but I know better than to think it ends here.”

“It’s fine,” Blake says, resigned. “Let’s just go.” She rests a hand on Yang’s arm, begs her forward without a word. Yang acquiesces to Blake’s touch as she always does, follows her lead. She’s not above making scenes, but sometimes they’re not worth the energy.

Yes, the racism’s the worst part of Atlas, no question about it; Blake’s faced with an onslaught of cruel murmurs and appalled stares from the moment they get off the airship, finding solace only in the few moments they’re spared some time alone, and then, alone. It’s said with implication. There are two sides to it, as there always are.

With that said, the second worst part of Atlas is her relationship with Yang: intense, undefined, and completely, totally secret.

She isn’t weak. She’s prided herself on that in recent time more than she has previously, and she wants it to stick, to hold, to mean something, but–

Filthy, a man whispers to his wife as he passes them down the cobblestone road, and sometimes all Blake wants to do is curl up in Yang’s arms and cry.

She’d known this about Atlas, that’s the thing. She’s been treated like this for most of her life. It’s the frustration that wears her down now, runs her over and through more than the actual hurt does. Atlas is the proof that in spite of everything, there are still places that seem as if they’ll never, ever change; that somewhere, she’ll always be unwanted.

Yang subtly tugs at her jacket, slowing her walk to a halt. “Hey,” she says shortly to the rest of the group as Blake pauses beside her, confused, “you look for somewhere to eat. We’re going to stop here and grab a hot tea. We’ll meet up with you.”

She says it so firmly and matter-of-fact that nobody questions her, let alone dares to invite themselves; her expression, her posture, her tone - she’s the ground before it splits, the fire before the windstorm. Ruby offers them a sad, half-smile before continuing their trudge along, glancing at windows, menus, and finally fading away.

Yang links their fingers together, tugs her gently to the door of the teahouse. She pushes it open and the bell chimes, the hostess glancing up with a polite smile already in place. “Hello,” she greets nicely, and crooks an eyebrow at the way Yang hovers, Blake just behind her. “Can I help you?”

“Are faunus allowed here?” Yang asks bluntly, her voice barely tempered, flat with a sharp edge.

The hostess blinks once in comprehension. “Oh, yes, of course,” she says nicely, and Yang opens the door wider, makes room for the two of them to enter. It’s mostly empty, only a single other woman sitting in the corner reading a book. “We don’t allow discrimination here. Of any kind.”

It’s warmer inside, lighter, smells like jasmine and honey. Blake says, “That’s a relief to hear, after the day we’ve had.”

“Would you like to sit, or have something to go?”

“To go, please,” Yang says. She’s relaxing somewhat under the less-oppressive atmosphere, tension unwiring from underneath her skin. She flexes her fingers in Blake’s, glances down at her. She’s already so much softer. ”Go ahead.”

The hostess takes their orders, directs them to a small window where they can wait; Yang pays with minimal objections. It was my idea, she says, so don’t worry about it. It’s all a group fund at this point, anyway. She isn’t wrong and Blake allows it without further argument.

“I’m sure it’s difficult, being here, surrounded by - by - these people,” the hostess says, quiet and empathetic, “but good ones exist, too. They’re out there, I promise.”

Blake smiles, tightens her grip around Yang’s hand. “I know they are.”

They step off to the side, waiting for their orders. Yang doesn’t pull away from the display of affection; not that she would, regardless of who was staring at them - it’s always Blake, keeping their secrets to herself until there’s no possible way they can be used against her. She sighs, shifts her weight to her left, shoulders brushing through their coats.

“You okay?” Yang asks gently, heat from her never gone, only subdued. The lilac of her eyes is too vibrant amidst a colorless sky, a wall-less room. The snow coats the ground outside, unchallenged until it found itself beneath her feet. Atlas, Blake thinks, has never seen anything quite like her.

Yang’s still waiting for an answer, but all Blake can do is claim their moment of peace for herself instead of fight it; it’s been weeks, months, years, and it’s something she’s tired of. She slips into Yang’s arms, wraps her hands around Yang’s shoulders, lets her eyelids flutter closed. Yang doesn’t speak, merely hums and pulls her closer, casually, candidly - this - this could be a scene, but she won’t make it one. Blake isn’t weak. Yang’s aware of this fact better than anyone.

“Yeah,” Blake murmurs, breathes against the fleece collar of her coat. “I am now.”

Yang curls a single arm around her waist, drops a kiss to the top of her head, and for a few tranquil minutes they’re content to go unnoticed.