A/N: I wrote this during my stay in Arizona and I completely forgot! so here. Have modern yumihisu trash. Ymir's gonna shake Historia's throne and I'm absolutely ready to write it.
Inspired by "Beautiful Girl" by Broken Iris, and just a tad bit of "She" by Blackbear.
There was a fine line between being alive and actually living. There was the emptiness of playing the part, conforming to the norm, filling the perfect mold; then there was the liveliness of letting the facade drop, allowing her posture to slack, taking what life gave her and running with it without a care in the world who saw or what they thought.
But it was a problem of what they'd do, not what they'd think.
Life was full of experiences, many of which were never an option for Historia for a long time. For as long as she could remember, 'perfect' was what she had been discreetly trained to become, an expectation that she had been beaten into submission with. That wasn't her first memory, though. First memories were different. Mind-blowing. Life-changing.
So Historia's first memory was of her.
. . . A long time ago, there was a library.
Outside, under ninety degree weather, there were children with tanned skin, burned noses, and messy jeans that all played together on the streets without a care in the world, only dispersing at the presence of a car. Then they would meet together again, continue on with their games as if nothing happened, and it confused her. On one hand, because how could an interruption go unnoticed? And on the other, because she never had the opportunity before.
In the safety of the air conditioned car, upon the smooth, leather-bound seats, she sat with her hands folded in her lap, her posture perfect, her head slightly turned towards the window for a bit too long. Ahead of her, through the gentle hum of the air conditioner, a quiet voice deadpanned with a dangerously gentle voice, "Something wrong, dear?"
She threw out the endearment with a sickeningly saccharine hum, one of which Krista responded with an equally unctuous smile, "Nothing, Mother."
Soon after, she stepped out of the car and into the sidewalk, towards the entrance of a pristine library. Lined between the two walkways were clear fountains, its gentle spray landing on her cheeks and offering some relief from the weather. As she approached the glass doors, her large, blue eyes inspected the reflection, over her head and at the now empty sidewalk. Finally, she allowed her shoulders to falter.
Historia often volunteered at the local library - not against her will, though it certainly wasn't her first choice - to both cash in on community hours that were required in the clubs she was a part of at school and to keep up a good name. After all, the Reiss family was a generous donor, and some of their funds have graced the surface of the library that stood proud at the heart of Sina. It was ancient, but not decrepit; stern, but not unfriendly. She adored it.
And within the library, enveloped in the silence and soothed by the cool air, she would think. Not idle thoughts masked by an impeccably insouciant mask, but genuine questions and thoughts that made her wonder.
One of which was why the absolute hell there were footprints on the tiled floors.
She followed them on her way out of the back room, her arms full of various folders that the librarian herself had requested, and saw the tall woman that stood before the front desk. Historia abruptly stopped, the squeak from the soles of her shoes echoing through the room, and thus gaining the woman's attention. With eyes a gentle hazel, hair a strong shade of brown that was kept tied behind her with a wooden hair clip, the woman regarded her with an enigmatic quirk in her brow that did not match the disinterest in her eyes.
"I - You -" Historia pursed her lips, then tried again, "You left a mess."
The woman glanced down at her ratty sneakers, which were partially concealed by the ends of her torn jeans, before snorting, "That's hardly a mess, princess." To Historia's surprise, she wiped her feet on the spotless tile before her, repeated it a few times when the first result was inadequate, and left behind a faded trail of dust against its previously pristine surface. "What're you gonna do? Kick me out? It's a public space. I'd like to see you try."
Normally, insults were discreet, and smiles were still shown to one another despite the venom that hid underneath their masks. Normally, despite the obvious hatred that had been harbored between her family and another, they were still civil, and kept their disrespect limited to the judgmental raise of the brow and slight shift in their voice. What mattered was presentation. What mattered was playing the game correctly and getting away with nothing more than a slight scratch to the ego or pride rather than a poisoned drink.
But this?
It had been the first time Historia had ever been disrespected so openly.
Historia visibly bristled. "Well -"
"Where's the librarian?
The abruptness of the woman's question made Historia pause, blink once, twice before finally registering it. With grand effort, she managed to hide the fury that boiled in her blood like the white-hot pain of vodka in the back of her throat, of freshly brewed coffee in the pit of her belly, only barely grinding out, "Busy."
The woman finally turned to her, fully now to reveal the faded band T-shirt and the front of the sweater that, besides being torn and as lifeless as a drooping, withering flower, was missing the zipper. Her barely imperceptible smirk turned into an outright grin. The nerve!
"You're puffing out like a chicken. Aren't you cute?"
Historia's eyes widened at the ludicrousness of the insult - or compliment, maybe? - and gasped, "I am not -!"
"Is there anyone that can actually help, or am I stuck with you? In which case," she drawled, tilting her head towards the front desk, "I'd like to pay a fine." At the slack-jawed surprise that the admission gave her, the woman snarled, "What are you, stupid? You didn't come out of that back room for nothing. Stop wasting my time."
Historia, although furious and on the verge of tears, remembered her place immediately; despite the lack of people this late into the afternoon, it was unnecessary and potentially irreversible damage done to her reputation to be this visibly annoyed, to vividly respond to mockery and petty insults. That fury, almost as if sucked into the vortex that was the empty pit of her stomach, washed away. That was not a punishment she was willing to deal with.
With a small, inaudible growl that rumbled in the back of her throat, stomped over behind the desk, seated herself in the leather chair that stood abandoned off to the side, and scooted over to the center where a computer sat and waited patiently. After logging in, she asked quietly, "Your card?"
From a chain that hung idly from the woman's jeans and dipped into her pocket, a wallet was pulled out, weathered but handsome nonetheless. She opened it, and Historia watched as it pathetically drooped in her hands, no doubt empty.
"Thank you," Historia hummed when the card was handed to her, a fake smile sitting upon her lips as pleasant as can be, and the woman scowled.
While the system loaded ever so slowly, Historia pushed herself over to the filing cabinet and opened the lowermost drawer. There was a folder there, small and thick with different compartments. She guessed it was meant for note cards, but they used it for their money instead. There were dozens single dollars, five dollar bills, ten, even twenty (the lone twenty, because of an outrageous overdue fee that they were repaid years ago). There weren't, however, any coins to be found in the folder.
And of course, she needed coins. For a printing fee. She didn't know people still payed those back, but apparently this woman - no, Ilse, as it said on the card - did.
Ilse. What an odd name.
The picture that appeared in the directory showed a woman with the slightest of differences; fuller lips, rounder cheeks, shorter hair. That could just have been the notable difference in age, of course, given that the account had been opened five years ago. She set the folder back down, but didn't bother closing the drawer.
"You're due twenty-five cents, Ms. Langnar," she announced.
There was a brief flash of discomfort on the Ilse's face at the mention of her surname. Historia would question it, but if anything, it could have been the formality of the situation, given that she had nearly burst in impulsive anger just a few minutes prior. She took the wrinkled dollar "Ilse" gave her and stood.
"Unfortunately, we don't have any coins at the front desk," Historia said with a small frown, as if she was genuinely concerned about delaying Ilse's visit. "I'll be back with seventy-five cents in just a minute, okay?"
Ilse's lip rose in a sneer. "Take your time."
Historia hurried off after that, the heels of her boots thumping loudly against the tiles until she reached the carpeted area of the back room. It was then when she let out an angry huff. She'd curse the woman's name to the heavens if she didn't fear uttering the Lord's name in vain.
It didn't take long; just as quickly as she had entered, she exited, three quarters resting in her palm, only to falter in her tracks when she saw that Ilse was gone. There were footprints leading towards the exit, but they faded completely halfway through.
Historia considered peeking outside to see if she could still catch Ilse and give her the change, but she thought about the sneer, the unpleasantness of Ilse's smooth voice, the rude, almost disgusted glare coming from those brilliant eyes. So she instead sat back down at the desk and reached to put the dollar away in the folder. If Ilse wanted it back, she'd come and get it.
Except Ilse wasn't coming back.
That was made obvious when she saw that the folder was missing.
When she burst out the front doors, she caught the sight of Ilse's raggedy sweater and went for it. Of course, Ilse heard the heavy footsteps from her boots, and she barely turned before Historia was lunging at her. She dodged, of course, but it was a close call, and they both nearly fell down the flight of stairs and onto a crumpled heap on the sidewalk. Ilse jumped the rest of the way down and sprinted off towards the alleyway, with Historia following as best she could, past the fountains and the parking lot and into the grassy meadow far behind the building.
Historia, although gasping for air and starting to fall behind Ilse, felt as if she had entered some foreign land. It was hard to believe, and maybe she was just lightheaded from the lack of air and the exhaustion of running for so long, but it felt oddly free. The feeling was an enlightening one, a careless one, that left her mind numb to everything but the wind in her hair and the air in her lungs. It was so distressingly different, but it brought a sense of euphoria, and a delirious laugh left her.
That was until she stumbled and tripped in the meadow.
She fell forward onto her face, sliding just a bit against the surface. The pristine fabric of her blouse, previously white and divinely perfect, smeared with a dirty green, plastering to her body with the sticky wetness of the grass. A disgusted whine left her as she brought herself up to her knees, panting heavily as she stared at the mud on her palms and the blades of grass on her front. She snapped her attention upwards at the mocking laugh directed towards her.
"You're vile!" Historia breathlessly spat, "You thief! You lying -"
"Those are really pretty words for a pretty girl," Ymir said with an amused grin. "Look at you! It's like you've never ran a day in your life. Was that the only exercise you've done in years?"
"You -"
Historia cut herself off with a frustrated groan before she could spew any profanities. That only made Ilse laugh harder. Disregarding the mess that she made of herself, Historia pounced and reached for Ilse's arm, but she only managed to get a hold of her sleeve. Nevertheless, she pulled, hauling herself upwards, only to fall back on her rear when Ilse effortlessly slipped out of the sweater.
"Try again, princess!"
Angry tears welled up in the corners of her eyes. She scrambled up onto her feet, and when she lunged again to grab the folder that was now visible, Ilse held it high above her head. Historia reached, straining against the hand that held her down by the head, screeching, "You're so rude!"
"And you're so short."
Historia's attempt was painfully futile, and upon realizing this, she stepped back a bit, her breath stuck in her lungs and filling her chest until she burst. Of course, they were tears that burst, coming out with a high-pitched sob, but the rush of emotion that accompanied it felt like a waterfall running through her body. Ilse's smile dropped a bit, the light in her eyes flickering in uncertainty, and she brought the folder back down to level at Historia's chest.
"Quit crying, sweetheart," Ilse offered, the new softness in her voice betraying her half-assed sneer. "You're too pretty to cry."
Historia snatched the folder back. "Thank you," she angrily spat, but it sounded small and petulant, and it made Ilse's smile return.
"You're welcome, Your Highness," Ilse offered with a wide grin, and with that, she turned on her heel and left, a bit too quickly to be innocent.
Historia, although thoroughly humiliated, was slightly comforted by the recovery of the folder. Her mind rushed with worries of later, much later, when her mother had returned. There were stains on her blouse, blades of grass on her skirt, mud on her knees, tears on her cheeks, all of which murmured sinister words of vile, horrible, and worst of all, imperfect.
The whirlwind in her head suddenly paused when she opened the folder.
It was empty.
Of course.
Historia shook, everything in her swelling and rushing, rupturing and screaming, until she threw the folder down against Ilse's discarded sweater with all the strength she could muster. Then she noticed, through the heat of rage that burned in her blood, that there was something in one of the pockets. She bent to pick up the sweater, and when she reached into the pocket, she found the same leather wallet from earlier. None of the money Ilse stole was in it, unfortunately, but there was something else.
A state ID card.
Ymir, it read.
Ymir. What an odder name.
It was a name Historia could never forget.