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This, Yang tells herself firmly, is ridiculous.
It's half-ten, and darkness shrouds Mantle. The street lights are haloed with light rain, shimmering off the sidewalks. Everyone who's out is walking with their heads ducked or hoods pulled up, walking with purpose.
And here's Yang, hesitating in front of a door, pacing back and forth, making half-motions to go in and then redirecting at the last second to stroll past.
This shouldn't be a big deal. It's not a big deal. It's just a bar.
A bar, but it's a queer bar. And it's her first. And she's still not sure how she fits in her own skin. Looks down at her outfit – leather jacket over a black plaid shirt and low-slung jeans, chunky boots, carabiner through her belt loop – and feels like a kid dressed up in her dad's clothes. Feels like she'll walk in there and they'll all know straightaway that she's too new at this.
It's not like, realistically, anyone's gonna care. The worst they'll do is ignore her. But she's scared, scared of being looked at like she doesn't belong. Still scared of claiming this part of herself.
She's read all the forums, all the people saying they've known since they were four years old; it took Yang almost two decades longer than that. Twenty-two before she realised she liked girls; twenty-three before she let herself claim the word lesbian as hers; and now she's twenty-four, and has only just started dressing the way she really wants. Sometimes, she feels vanished by it, the idea that she can't be real, because she didn't always know.
She's scared she looks like a kid who googled butch fashion and dressed in the first result. And okay, maybe she kind of has, but she doesn't want it to be obvious.
Yang takes a breath around the raw feeling in her chest. If she doesn't do this tonight, it'll be months before she screws up the courage again. The internet says this is a good place, friendly and fairly lowkey and actually queer still. She's Yang; she's confident; she's gotten through worse; she'll be fine.
None of the affirmations particularly work, but she makes herself push the door open anyway, steps inside.
It's not a wall of noise that hits her, nothing that dramatic, but there are voices and laughter, people playing pool and music on in the background.
Yang takes another breath, squares her shoulders and heads for the bar, because otherwise she thinks she might turn around and head straight back out into the street.
The bartender has a bright smile, orange buns and a nametag that reads Neon. She/her.
Yang gets a beer, returns the bartender's grin, and heads further in, takes a seat not far from the pool table. A small group is clustered around it, two people with blue hair and two with white, in the middle of a game.
It's been a little while since Yang played, but she finds herself eyeing their technique anyway, evaluating. They had an old table in the common room at uni. It took her a while to get the hang of it – no one else in her dorm knew how to shoot one-handed or how to adjust the game to her prosthesis – but by the time she graduated, she was winning almost every time.
She nurses her beer, tries to look like she belongs here, keeps an eye on the players without being too obvious. The one with the white ponytail is good, but they're rushing some of their shots. That was Yang's biggest flaw, too; maybe still is. The small one with cropped white hair is obviously hesitant. The other two are overly competitive, though she gets the sense it's with the ease of long friendship.
As the one with the waist-length braid lines up a shot, their competitor glances over, catches Yang looking. Yang tries to play it off, glances around like she's just taking in the place, but the stranger grins wide, vaguely wolfish, and takes a couple steps away from the table.
“Hey, kid!”
Yang hesitates. She doesn't particularly want to answer to that. Also, this stranger is intimidatingly cool, bluish-green cropped hair and a dark grey muscle tee showing off tattooed biceps. She darts a glance, and the stranger beckons.
“Yeah, you, baby butch. Wanna join?”
Yang's caught between two emotions, cheeks flushing at baby, blush like a neon sign marking her out as inexperienced. Butch feels nice, though, wraps affirmation like a string of lights around her heart.
She swallows her pride and stands. The person grins wider, and Yang almost stumbles on her way over. It's not attraction, she decides, despite how handsome they are. It's... it's a different kind of longing, because god, she wants the ease this person has, someday. The confidence, the way they stand like they own the room, like they'll never let anyone tell them they don't have a right to be in it.
She manages to reach the table without tripping, tries to project confidence in her smile.
“You know how to play?” the person asks.
Yang nods.
“Cool.” They hold out their left hand. “I'm Joanna. They/he.”
Yang grasps their hand in hers, tries to match their firm grip. Briefly overthinks the left-handedness – some people are weird about touching her prosthesis, switch over like she hasn't seen them doing it, but Joanna was favouring their left in pool, too, and they haven't given her right hand any panicked glances.
“Yang,” she says, half a beat too late. “Uh, she/her.”
It's a conclusion she's come to, is fairly certain on. She likes masc terms, skin feeling weird at ma'am and pretty, but 'she' doesn't fit wrong.
“First time here?” Joanna asks, grin on his face like it's obvious.
Yang nods again, resigned.
“Knew it.” They scan her. “I can always spot a baby gay.”
“I'm twenty-four,” Yang blurts, then feels her cheeks burn again. Gods, Yang, shut up.
Joanna laughs. “You can be a baby gay at forty. Just means you're new. And twenty-four's young.”
Yang wants to argue (Joanna can't be more than early thirties at the very most), but she bites her tongue. She's embarrassed, but there's something kind of nice about it, too, being here with people who get it. People who stand tall in their bodies, their clothes and words and identities. People who don't pace back and forth in front of the door, too scared to go in, too scared they won't belong.
It's like a window opening, a glimpse of the person she might be, one day.
There's a triumphant cheer from the table, and the person with the blue braid steps back, bows. “And that's the game.”
“Rematch,” White Ponytail says immediately.
The nervous one sighs, chewing on their bottom lip.
Joanna grins, stepping forward, gesturing for Yang to step with them.
“Hey, girls, wanna help me show Yang here how it's done?”
The three of them turn, like they're finally noticing someone else has joined them.
Blue Braid grins, holds out a hand. “With pleasure. I'm May. She/her.”
Yang repeats her own introduction. May shakes right-handed, doesn't flinch when Yang's metal hand grips hers.
The cycle repeats (Robyn, she/they, and Fiona, she/her). Fiona leans in conspiratorially, half-whispers, “Just to warn you, they get competitive.”
Yang grins, decides to swindle them, payback for baby gay and kid. She curls and uncurls her prosthetic hand, like she's doubtful. “Competitive with threats, maybe. I'm a novice, right?”
The others aren't looking. Yang drops Fiona the smallest wink, and the shorter woman smiles wide, nods encouragement at her, and steps back to watch, looking relieved to have a chance to step out of the fray.
“Not to worry, kid.” May grins. “We'll go easy on you.”
Yang rolls her shoulders back, takes the cue carefully in her left hand, like she's uncertain. “Good to know.”
She's been watching them play doubles, but Robyn makes the call to switch to singles, since Yang's never played alongside any of them before.
May claims first match, off the merit of winning their last game. She's a good player, and Yang's trying not to show her hand too early, so the match is closer than it could be. When she wins, she shrugs and claims beginner's luck, but privately feels confidence swell in her chest. She's still got it.
Joanna takes next, a challenge in his eyes. “Okay, baby gay. Let's see if your luck holds out.”
There's baby gay again. Yang doesn't entirely hate it, can hear the affection, the recognition. But still. Payback time.
She wins the coin toss, and proceeds to sink all eight balls without Joanna taking a turn once.
Joanna stares at her, half-glaring, but there's poorly-hidden respect in their eyes. Yang feels her chest puff up, shoulders squaring with steady pride.
“You hustled me,” Joanna accuses.
Yang shrugs. “I told you I knew how to play. Never said how well.”
Fiona laughs. “I like this one.”
Yang bows to her, joy bubbling in her chest. There's an ease to this, already. An ease like community, like belonging, like she's known these people years.
Another group's been waiting by the table since halfway through their last game, so Robyn shoots Yang a challenging grin and a “next time,” then invites her to sit with them instead.
Yang does. Sits, and has another beer, and listens to them talk. She chips in sometimes, but is happy just to be here, to listen, soak it in. New words, new stories, new information. They talk about Mantle's queer scene, about their communities, about the antifascist collective they run – “it's not Queers Only,” Joanna quips, “but it might as well be.” May talks about helping trans kids get healthcare, about the disparity of it, who has access and who is left behind. Robyn talks about the state of Atlas leadership, how little they care about anyone beyond the elites, leaning forward and talking fast, purple eyes flashing.
It's fierce and angry and hopeful all at once, so real Yang feels almost in awe of it, the way they reflect her own heart back at her, her own rage, her own joy.
It makes her feel young in a way that's not disempowering for once. She has always rushed to grow up too fast, because she had to, because Ruby needed it, because they all did. But this, sitting here, with the warmth of them, these people a few years older, these mirrors to who she could become... it feels okay, to be young. To be learning.
Joanna's still calling her baby butch, baby gay by the time it hits one, and Neon announces 'last call'. Is still saying it when they say goodbye, waiting with Yang at the side of the road (Yang tells him she's fine; he grins and says it's just basic chivalry, kid).
Yang's cheeks still flush at it, but she sees it for what it is. It's care, a little teasing, a little rough around the edges, but tender all the same. It's wings tucking her under them, letting her fly. It's belonging.
Half-shy, she asks if they'll be here next Friday. Joanna grins and cuffs her on the shoulder. Says they wouldn't miss it for the world.
“I'll beat you next time, baby gay,” they say, as she catches her ride. Yang shakes her head; the words feel like a hug.
She smiles the whole way home.