New Climate

The heating was on but it didn’t quite rob the air inside Atlas Academy of its bite. The building was grandiose even compared to Beacon’s lofty towers: stately white columns in an upright row around the entrance, a vast yawning hall whose vaulted ceiling soared above its occupants, shining with crystalline hanging lights, and dormitories furnished with glowing tri-fold mirrors and fine metal beds whose heads were adorned with decorative leaf shapes.

Yang understood Weiss a little better now she was here: the distant, polite manners, the brittle exterior, the dispassionate grandiosity. The cold. Atlas wasn’t for her.

The team were dog-tired on arrival and collapsed into the impossibly soft beds of the rooms they were allocated. Yang was startled to awake with a chill at the tips of her fingers and toes. She looked around. Ruby and Weiss were already up; Weiss was off already, but Ruby padded over, toothbrush in mouth.

‘Hey, sis.’ The toothbrush waggled.

Yang pushed herself up, her mechanical arm clicking softly. ‘Morning.’ She glanced at the arched window at the dark city. ‘If it is that.’

‘7 AM,’ said Ruby. ‘We’re pretty northerly, huh?’

‘It’s chilly.’ Yang rubbed her arms. ‘Heating on?’

Ruby chuckled. ‘It’s like -10 out there. It’s doing the best it can.’

‘What are you up for?’

‘Weiss and I are gonna walk around a little, show me her old haunts.’ Ruby half-smiled. ‘Figured you might want some time to yourself.’

Yang rolled her eyes. ‘Have a good time. Try not to draw attention, yeah?’

Ruby dressed herself and left her with a quick hug. The room was big: eerily extended, soundless but for Blake’s breathing. Yang remained with the quiet for a few moments. She touched her hair and grimaced at its matted texture.

When she came out the shower room in her underwear and—to her annoyance—was reintroduced to the faint chill of the room, Blake was awake. She was cross-legged in her pyjamas and staring into her hands as Yang appeared; she raised her head with a sunny smile, her ears perking up.

‘Good morning.’

They hadn’t been alone like this since the cliffside. Yang’s lips creased in a wry grin as she pulled on trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. ‘Morning. You okay?’

‘Better.’ Blake patted the duvet. ‘Talk?’

Yang dropped onto the bed heavily. Glancing down, she raised her eyebrow at the embroidered blue-white acanthus leaf patterns weaving their way across the duvet. ‘Don’t spare expense in this place, huh?’ she said.

Blake giggled. ‘Makes a change from some of the places we’ve slept this year.’

‘Yeah,’ said Yang. ‘Long year it’s been. Long year we’ve been through.’

As Yang’s warm gaze rested on Blake, she glanced away, and Yang’s heart trembled with thoughts she hadn’t admitted for months. Breathing out tension, Yang let herself absorb the body outlined by the shimmering black fabric, the goosebumps just visible on her exposed chest and long, lithe thighs.

‘I’m sorry for pulling you into my problems again,’ Blake said quietly.

‘It’s okay.’

‘I’m a no-good friend.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘I do this to everyone.’

‘Blake.’ Yang took her gently around the shoulders and drew her into a hug. Blake’s warm arms slid over her waist, and she wished it didn’t feel so right to her. ‘Blake, I wouldn’t be here if thought you were no good.’

Blake pulled back and threw Yang again with her deep vibrating eyes the colour of honey. ‘I don’t deserve it.’

Yang cupped Blake’s face with her good hand and kept her eyes steady on her, projecting strength. ‘That’s not true.’

‘I’ve hurt you,’ mumbled Blake. ‘I’ve dragged you down and hurt you and even though you say that—I’m just so ashamed of myself. I ran away because I thought you’d see what a bad person I am and only hurt you more.’

The need in Yang surged hot and feverish. With Blake’s tearful visage held captive, Yang’s thoughts were interrupted by the same fancy that preceded most of her mistakes: I have nothing to lose.

‘How could I be here if I thought that?’ she asked ‘How could I love you if I thought that?’ Not waiting for a response, she kissed Blake—chastely, confidently.

At first, it was nothing but release. Those soft lips with their savoury tang were finally hers. Then Blake drew away and Yang knew they were gone forever.

‘Yang, I—’ Blake’s startled face birthed humiliating disappointment in Yang’s breast though she gave no outward sign: she only stared expectantly as Blake stuttered. ‘Yang, I didn’t know that—I didn’t mean—’

‘It’s okay,’ repeated Yang, forcing a phlegmatic tone.

‘I love—’

‘Boys?’

‘Sun.’ They said the words at the same time. Blake moved back a few inches, but to Yang it was a mile, or maybe a thousand.

‘You love me?’ murmured Blake. Yang almost smiled, her eyes downcast, which was enough of an answer. Blake returned the gesture politely. ‘Thank you,’ she said, discomfited despite herself.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Yang.

It was Blake’s turn. ‘It’s okay.’

‘It won’t happen again.’ Yang exhaled slowly. ‘I promise.’

Blake nodded. ‘I’m just gonna shower, okay?’

She was gone. Yang decided to lie in bed. She didn’t move—her feelings moved for her, drawing and flexing like a fist inside. Time meandered by imperceptibly. The dreamy lights of dawn rising on Atlas did little to disturb her.

After showering, Blake saw Yang brooding and left her to her own devices. Yang stayed in bed but dreaded what was next. It wasn’t long before that fear came to pass: Ruby returned to check on her. Ruby tried more than a few lines, including the evergreen temptation of meeting General Ironwood to talk about Ruby’s damned relics at 11 AM, but ultimately it boiled down to the same thing.

‘Yang?’ Ruby’s peeping voice only irritated her. ‘Yang, are you okay? Please talk to me.’

‘I’m fine, Ruby.’ Yang pulled the duvet around her shoulders and turned towards the wall. ‘I’m just cold. This place is too cold. Putting me off my game. I’ll be up for Ironwood.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Ruby!’

Ruby gave up. Yang remained in the same position, eyes open, unrested. The first time was tragic: the fiery centre of her being, the yearning that became rage that became disappointment, the feelings of which she’d become the unthinking instrument, and lost her arm for the trouble. But this time she almost laughed at herself. If only it stopped.

‘Too cold,’ she said again, to herself. But the yearning still clawed at her, laughing and laughing at her ceaseless theatre of errors. ‘Not cold enough.’