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Historia is not one who has nightmares, that’s entirely Ymir’s forte.
But, as she discovers, they’re more horrible than she could have ever fathomed.
-
She wakes with a sharp gasp, panic flooding through her and the tears already in her eyes.
No.
She is not that girl anymore.
She doesn’t flinch at the thought of emptying the dishwasher, because she isn’t horribly curious about the way the big knives would cut her skin. She doesn’t absently wonder about the damage done from the fall out of a second story window, a bridge, a misstep out into the street before the light changes. She doesn’t think about all the different ways she could die.
Her hands don’t shake anymore.
She doesn’t spend her days faking smiles and avoiding very real problems, she doesn’t stare at yellow ceilings and hate it and herself and everything, she doesn’t shy away from friendship, she doesn’t curl underneath blankets to try and fight off the chill so deep inside her chest it felt a part of her. Or at least not as often anymore.
She loves her girlfriend and her life openly and deeply in every way she can, she’s not so fucking scared of everything anymore, she doesn’t shove her feelings behind a wall formed of crumbling bricks, of outward appearance, insecurity, expectations.
A wall so shaky, she brought it down with only a steady gaze on her back.
But now, but now, her thoughts are a mile a minute and her heart is beating so fast and she can feel Ymir’s shirt sticking to her and oh God everything feels so wrong her breath is ragged and fucking hell it has been so long since this happened to her she barely remembers how she lived through it, she’s blocked out sobbing on the floor of the shower alone and cold with sorrow clogging her lungs.
She wants Ymir, she wants Ymir, but it’s all she can do to keep breathing and dig her fingernails into her legs to feel something beyond blind panic.
A sob makes its way out unmuffled, and she flinches at the sound, forgetting that with Ymir, there’s no shame or fear for this.
Historia hears quick footsteps and hides her face behind shaking hands.
Ymir sucks in a breath on seeing her, trembling with the covers thrown to the side.
“Historia, Historia, baby, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t sleep and was out reading.”
Her voice is hushed, and she sits across from her.
Ymir brushes her fingertips along Historia’s arm, noting the crescent imprints pale on her legs with a growing worry.
“Let me help you.”
Over the years, she had waited out numerous panic attacks with her, but it hadn’t been this bad in so long, and she didn’t want to accidentally make it worse.
Historia sobs again, trying to convince herself everything is okay, it’s okay, Ymir’s here, she’s safe, there is nothing to be afraid of this is ridiculous there’s nothing.
It feels like the hardest thing she’s ever done, but she reaches for Ymir’s hands, face tearstreaked and pale and a blank look in her eyes.
Ymir takes her hands, intertwining their fingers with a sure grip.
“Historia, can you look at me?”
Her voice is so gentle, she looks up to meet Ymir’s ever-steady gaze.
There’s something so terrified in Historia’s eyes, she squeezes her hands just a little.
“Deep breath. In and out, yeah?”
She ducks her head, but Ymir watches her chest move up and down.
“Can you do it again?”
Historia nods, doing so, and the soft stroke of Ymir’s thumbs along her skin is comforting.
They sit together, Historia breathing deeply.
But even after the overwhelming panic is gone, she's still crying.
Ymir reaches forward hesitantly, letting go of one hand to touch her face.
"Baby?"
Historia hiccups before words spill out of her mouth.
"I'm so sorry, Ymir, I thought I- I thought I was over this. I'm sorry, my love, you shouldn't have to deal with me-"
"Historia, I’d do anything for you. There’s nothing to apologize for."
She nods, eyelashes wet with tears. Ymir places a kiss on her forehead, and they look at each other.
"Can you go back to sleep?"
She shrugs.
"Is there anything I can do for you right now?"
Her voice is so small, but Ymir hears her.
"Hold me."
She answers with another kiss, feather-light, and moves up to their pillows, lying underneath the covers with a soft sigh. Historia follows, pressing her back to Ymir’s chest, leaving no space between them.
Her voice is soft.
“What did you dream about?”
She feels her shoulders stiffen, and knows she shouldn’t have asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
Ymir finds Historia’s hand, and gently takes it.
“I love you.”
She turns her head, suddenly conscious of the warmth against her.
“I love you too.”
Ymir falls asleep first, steady breaths ruffling Historia’s hair, but she lies awake, staring into the dark and knowing exactly what would have become of her if they hadn’t met.