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Seven hours.
The blonde had been sitting there for the better half of the past seven, excruciatingly slow hours. She drank no less than four orders of piping black coffee and the bags under her eyes were identifiable even from where Ymir stood behind the counter of the café, absentmindedly wiping down the used and dirty dishes.
She curiously observing the girl who had all but made home on the second floor of their campus library, tucked away in a little corner surrounded by piles after piles of papers and textbooks. If memory served right—and her memory rarely ever failed Ymir—the blonde walked in every day at five in the afternoon and left moments before closing hours at one in the morning, always carrying the same heavy bag and always in the most picturesque forms of distress. It was impressive, really.
“Hey! Are you done in there?”
She placed the mug in her hand on the rack, turning tiredly at her coworker to give him the a-okay to start heading home.
"Go home," she said. "I'm tired of looking at your face."
“You sure?” Connie asked again, fingers readjusting the brown backpack already swung over his left shoulder, half his body out the door.
“What, you're gonna stay if I ask you to?”
“Fuck no,” he snorted, and pushed through the door. “Don’t stay too late!”
She chuckled fondly before her gaze returned to the blonde whose eyebrows were creased and a sigh halfway through her lips.
Yeah, Ymir was beginning to become very, very worried for her.
Seven hours.
She had been sitting here—quite uncomfortably too, might she add, because of the odd way the chair bit into the bone of her thigh—for the whole of the past seven hours. Not that she was here by choice; if her stupid schedule didn’t require her to take this stupid class to get her stupid diploma, she wouldn’t even have to be in the library at midnight, craning her neck over words (yes, math now had words) and numbers that didn’t even make sense. For all Historia cared, it was all a jumble of gibberish she would most certainly never be using again, and was nearly moved to tears from the sheer frustration of it all when—
She nearly jumped out of her skin as the barista with the striking brown eyes put a hand on her shoulder, a paper cup nestled in her other hand as she smiled down at her. Historia noted with intrigue the amount of freckles spread across the barista's cheeks, face, and arms. It seemed almost haphazard, the way an artist would speckle paint over his painting as a final touch, a final act of care in chaos.
What got her attention more than the freckles, though, was the apron hung loosely around the barista's shoulders. With the knot undone, it was a clear indicator of closing time rearing its head.
“You doing alright there, blondie?”
She took off her earphones, moving to pack her backpack as soon as she could. “I’m so sorry," Historia rushed out, moving far too quickly for her brain to catch up with. "I didn’t even realize how late it was. I’ll pack up right away and get out of your hair.”
“Oh no, technically we don’t close for another hour,” the pretty barista said, pointing her thumb behind her shoulder and taking Historia's backpack from her frenzied hands. She put it back on the floor beside their feet and sat onto the chair beside her, leaning comfortably, arms folded behind her head. The devil-may-care grin on her face made Historia look away, only to make eye contact with the looming clock on the other side of the cafe.
“Sorry for scaring you,” the barista began, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. Historia looked back and watched as she gently pushed the cup on the crowded table, passing through coffee-stained assignment sheets and towards Historia like it was a peace offering.
“Is that coffee?”
The barista snorted as though Historia had cracked a joke. “God, no. It’s hot chocolate. No offense, but I’m not giving you any more caffeine than you’ve already consumed.”
Laughing quietly, Historia rubbed her eyes to bring some semblance of wakefulness back into them. “None taken. I’m actually quite surprised that my heart hasn’t all-out stopped by now, considering that I’ve had five cups today alone.” She pursed her lips. “No, sorry. Six cups. I had an energy drink before my 8am lecture this morning—does Red Bull count as coffee?”
“I—probably?”
The barista, then, seemed at a loss. There was a question brewing, and Historia could tell that it was bothering her, dancing uncertainly on her tongue like she was scared Historia'd run away if she asked.
“You’re always here,” the barista finally started, and her arms fell onto the table instead, gesticulating. Historia found that she rather liked the way the barista talked like that, animated yet calm. “And you’re always so furiously studying. At this point I guess I’m wondering if, like, you ever sleep at all. Do you eat? I wouldn’t know—when you’re here, you’re only buried in your textbooks.”
Historia coughed.
“I, um…”
Quickly, the barista backtracked. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to,” she corrected herself, clearing her throat. “I just see you all the time. I’d be lying if I said you haven’t caught my attention, but you sure as hell don’t owe me an answer.”
Normally she'd be apprehensive about speaking about this topic with anyone else, for the fact of it being embarrassing if nothing else. But it was past midnight, and her brain was foggy and exhausted and long since turned to jelly, and for reasons beyond her understanding, Historia felt that she wouldn’t mind telling the pretty barista about the hellscape she was cursed to. And so she ran a hand through her hair and scratched the back of her neck in embarrassment, contemplating on how to begin. Outside, the gentle pitter patter of raindrops grew tenfold as the wind howled quietly. Winter was approaching and so was winter break—soon, the unstoppable slew of rain and snow would be her most formidable foe, Historia reminded herself, not certainly not differential calculus.
“No, it’s fine,” she reassured. “It’s just…math.” She said it like the word itself had tasted funny in her mouth. Something sour and bitter and nauseating, all at once. And, on second thought, Historia realized that it really did taste kind of bad. She hated math—the word, the study, all the numbers (imaginary and real), everything.
“It’s just so tiring. I’ve been working on the same exact problem for the past—what time is it?”
The barista looked over her shoulder at the clock, squinting. “Twelve thirty-four.”
“Thank you. I’ve been working on this for the past three and a half hours.”
“Ah, I see.”
Historia had half the mind to be offended at how casually she shrugged. And then, with far more trepidation than before, she said “I’m actually a mathematics major. It’s actually pretty fun when you know what you’re doing.”
Historia almost choked on the hot chocolate that was brought to her. Frankly, the whole notion of liking math seemed entirely made up to her until right now. So, incredulously, she laughed.
But instead of being taken aback by her rudeness, instead of getting mad and walking away at her insolence, the barista simply joined in, and it was sound that was so light. A sound that was beautiful and bright and at once befitting and also completely unexpected from her. It was a sound so soft that, momentarily, Historia forgot what exactly it was that she was laughing at to begin with.
“Yeah, yeah. Laugh all you want. I get that quite a lot, actually.”
Right, mathematics.
“I’m sure you do. Anyone would laugh at someone torturing themselves for fun,” she joked, but only slightly.
“At least I don’t have to write ten-something pages of bullshit for a grade. I took one philosophy course for Gen Ed and wanted to shoot myself in the kneecap by the end of the semester.”
They chuckled before a moment of awkwardness passed briefly over their heads like a cloud.
“I could tutor you?" The barista blurted out. "I mean, if you want that. I just have an hour of free time before closing and usually I have nothing to do and I finish the dishes pretty quickly, and, I don’t know, if it helps, I’d be more than happy to do it. You always look so miserable—it gets kind of annoying to see your stupid face all scrunched up like that.”
Historia was completely, undeniably, red.
“You can totally say no. I mean, I’m not trying to force you into this or whatever, I would just like to help if I can, and I swear I’m not, like, a serial killer or something, I promise I’m not trying to be weird.”
“Stupid face?”
“Oh my God. I just told you all that and you focus on me calling your face stupid?"
"I mean, yeah."
"You're insufferable. I've actually changed my mind. Fuck you and your math equations."
Historia laughed at the theatrics and raised to hold the barista's hands in apology. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry—I promise I'll behave."
The barista's fingers were a lot longer than hers, she realized. And with slight revelation, she noted that she rather liked the way they felt resting on the barista’s larger hand.
“Cool,” the barista smiled.
“Cool,” Historia nodded.
“So tomorrow, around this time, then?” She asked, standing up. “I’d be thoroughly offended if tomorrow was the one day this semester you decided not to show up.”
Historia laughed. “Trust me, I’d rather be nowhere else.”
They talked for a minute longer before the rain and wind picked up like a hurricane and even the thick-paned windows bent painfully under the pressure. At her apprehensive glance at the storm outside, the barista (her name was Ymir and it sounded so, so pretty) offered to walk her to her dorm room, claiming that she lived in that general direction anyway. Historia not only didn't believe her in the slightest, but also didn’t miss the way her cheeks grew slightly red under her freckles. Keeping the observation to herself, she stored away that information for another day when her biggest worry wasn't finals.
They didn’t escape getting wet from the angry spews of water pelting their shoulders and sleeves, but Ymir did end up slipping in a puddle and Historia couldn’t help but be a hysterical mess, helping her up so weakly while laughing that she shouldn’t have even tried to help at all.
Eventually, Historia made it to her room and watched as Ymir turned around and made a full 180 degree trek back to the opposite side of campus.
She spent the entire night trying not to think too hard about the barista's freckles and begged for sleep to take her.
The next day, the one after, and all the days after that, they spent in caffeine induced laughter. Inevitably, their shenanigans and Ymir's complete inability to focus led to them staying far long than the designated hour to study, but it's not like Historia was complaining. Somewhere along the way, she discovered that Ymir herself had a knack for being unable to work on her history coursework—something about being unable to analyze the readings—and offered some tutoring of her own. Historia convinced herself that it was just to help balance the ratio of tutor-to-tutored in their little arrangement, but the way Ymir lit up whenever she understood the material stood unparalleled to anything else Historia had ever felt.
It was four or five weeks after they started this exchange of knowledge—a camaraderie built on mutual desperation, really—when Ymir walked to her (well, it was their table now) table during her break, apron tied neatly around her (distractingly small) waist and her fingers unmistakably twitching.
They were far enough into their friendship for Historia to know that her hands never really shook.
“Hey,” she coughed, and Historia could almost taste the apprehension that seemed to seep from every corner and joint of her body.
“Do you want me to beat up a professor for you?” She joked, but his voice withheld humor.
Ymir was momentarily disracted, though. "You couldn't do that even if you wanted to. You're, like, barely 5'1."
Historia valiantly pushed forward. She couldn’t say that she was necessarily good at psychoanalyzing people, but something told her that Ymir's grades might not have been the source of her distress. “What’s wrong?” She asked.
“I—” the barista began, but looked away, chuckling nervously instead. “Okay, I’m so sorry about this in advance, I really, really have no idea how it happened. But—just promise to hear me out completely before you say something, okay?”
Her interest? Piqued. Her anxiety? Absolutely fucking skyrocketed.
“Alright," Historia nodded. "The offer to kill someone for you still stands.”
She tried again to lighten the mood but found it rather difficult to do when she herself was filled to the brim with tension.
“Okay. So, my brother's getting married soon, right? And he was teasing me about not having a date for, like, the eightieth time this week alone and I just, I don’t know. I told him I was seeing someone just to get him off my back because he would not let it go.”
“I see,” Historia said. “And this is upsetting because…?”
Ymir's eyes were begging for her to understand, wide and pointedly trying to send her some telepathic signal that she would rather not say out loud, but Historia couldn’t read between the lines when she didn’t even have any lines to read between.
“Well, remember when we were texting last night about my assignment?”
“Yes?”
She waited again, and upon Historia's astounding silence, gave up and covered her face with ring-clad fingers. Her blush reached the tips of her ears, evident so vibrantly even on her tan skin.
“Alright, so, he may or may not have seen your name in my phone while we were messaging and he may or may not have assumed that you were the one I was dating because I was laughing at your stupid joke about Hamlet and he also may or may not have refused to listen to me when I denied that it was you. I—this is all to say: we’re now unofficially dating and you’re my date to the wedding. He has your invitation ready and signed and everything. It’s in my bag. Right now. Back in the kitchen.”
Historia blinked, the anxiety that had coiled in her chest like a python unraveling at an alarming rate. That was it? Just this? With how nervous she’d appeared, Historia could’ve sworn that she was going to say something far more sinister and heartbreaking. But this? This wasn’t even a problem.
This wasn't a problem at all.
“Cool. Do I have to wear a ballroom gown or is his vibe more informal?”
Ymir looked at her, incredulous.
“Wait a minute—are you serious?”
“Yep,” Historia shrugged, pretending really, really well as though her veins weren't literally on fire. “Are you kidding? I’m bored and have nothing planned for break. When’s the date? I have to buy a new dress.”
“Oh, you sweet, sweet angel," Ymir huffed, pulling Historia in for a hug. "You’re a lifesaver. I swear, I’m going to make this up to you. I’ll literally do anything you want for a month. I promise it’ll be worth your while.”
“It’s really not a problem,” Historia said, though she couldn't speak properly when she was being hugged so tightly.
“You might regret saying that, knowing my brother.” She pointedly ignored Connie who was yelling at her to come back to the café counter so that they could keep up with the onslaught of early evening orders.
"Maybe you're right. Regardless, I still can't imagine it'll get too out of hand."
"I'm always right," Ymir grinned, completely ignoring Historia's later sentence, and flexing her biceps as if that helped her argument in the slightest.
She pushed Ymir away. “I feel like your history professor would beg to differ.”
Ymir whistled, hand at her heart like she was shot. “Ouch. That’s low hanging fruit, even for someone as short as you.”
"I can't believe you," Historia groaned, pinching the back of Ymir's neck. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Really—how bad could it be?
Bad.
It could be pretty bad.
“Hey Historia? Remember when I said I would regret saying yes?”
Historia hummed from the vanity.
“You said I would regret saying yes.”
"Why can't you go ahead without me?"
"Because it's your brother's wedding, and because you invited me."
“Correction: Eren invited you."
“You would've invited me anyway," Historia said, applying her lipstick with practiced nonchalance.
It was silent for a beat longer than it should have been.
“Stop thinking so hard. You’re giving me a headache.”
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“You didn’t need to.”
Ymir laughed, but it was humorless. “I look ridiculous,” she groaned, and Historia sighed, finally swirling around to face her. “I can't believe he's making me wear a navy suit.”
The blonde huffed indignantly, the click clack of her heels on the floor of Ymir's childhood bedroom ringing in the air around them. Even like this, she could barely rival Ymir's 5'11'' stature.
“You are honestly the most dramatic woman I’ve ever met,” Historia said, rolling her eyes so hard she feared they’d roll off and away from her skull. Her fingers soothed the lapels of her dress shirt. “In my life. And it really does look good. But if you really won’t take my word for it, how about this: I'll buy you coffee for the next two weeks to make up for your misery today.”
Oh, so bribery was the name of the game today.
Ymir lifted her chin, thinking.
“Make it a month. At least. And with complimentary snacks upon request.”
Historia hit Ymir's chest, offended. “Two and a half, and no snacks. What kind of business would that be? You're the one who works in a coffee shop. I'd go broke. Two and a half weeks—take it or leave it.”
“Three weeks. No snacks.”
Historia though, sizing her up with narrowed, judging eyes.
Finally, she acquiesced. “Fine. Three weeks.”
“I’m glad we could come to an agreement, Miss Reiss,” her voice was partly business-like and entirely predatory, freckles bookending the obnoxious smirk on her perfect lips.
They stood in a locked gaze like that for some time, and then—because, of course—Carla barging into the room.
“There you are! Your brother's been looking everywhere for you!”
Historia stepped to the side and laced her fingers together before her, watching as Ymir coughed awkwardly, hands fixing the popped-open collar of her navy dress shirt. The navy contrasted her skin and striking jewelry in a way that Historia would admit was breathtaking.
“Sorry,” she said, shooting Historia a threatening look to which she arched an eyebrow, annoyingly oblivious. “We got carried away.”
“I could tell,” her jovial mother chuckled, implying something completely different to what happened. Historia wouldn’t correct her, though. That was the point of this whole charade anyway—to look like a couple. Her mother hooked her hands to each of their crooked elbows, pulling them out the door. “Come, come!”
“What a wonderful idea, Mrs. Yeager,” Historia chirped, charm dripping from his tongue like honey. Ymir gave her an incredulous look. “I can’t wait to meet the rest of the family. Ymir's told me so much about you all.”
The Yeager in question rolled her eyes, mouthing a “kiss ass” behind her mother’s back to Historia because that wasn’t true at all. Other than that she had a brother who was about to be wed and that she was adopted, Historia knew just about jack-shit regarding her family. In retaliation to Ymir, Historia blew back a kiss.
“You’ll love Eren and his fiancée,” her mom continued, oblivious to their conversation. She led them to the staircase. “Mikasa's already family, and Eren has your sense of humor! You two would get along well.”
They made their way downstairs as some sort of misshapen trio, with Carla walking ahead and dragging Historia and Ymir after her, hands still gripping their arms, both of whom did their best to avoid tripping on each other’s feet as they tried to fit through the entry to the foyer. In the spacious dining room of Ymir's home sat everybody from the groom and bride to their friends, parents, and esteemed guests. They all chatted excitedly when Mrs. Yeager took them around the room to become acquainted, pouring rather copious amounts of alcohol to both of their champagne flutes.
“No, thank you,” Historia said, handing the elongated glass back to Ymir's mother. “I don’t drink.”
“Are you sure? It’s all in celebratory gestures, after all.”
“Really, thank you. I would rather not.”
“There you are sweetheart,” Ymir's voice carried lowly from behind her, and she fell into the relief that echoed after the gentle touch she placed to her lower back. She voiced the pet name so naturally that for a moment Historia forgot they were pretending, and soon enough was caught in the riptide that washed over her with the disappointment of their arrangement.
“She isn’t a drinker, mom. Let her be.”
“Of course,” Carla smiled, carrying the extra flute over to the other guests.
“Hey Historia, this is my brother Eren and his fiancée Mikasa, the centerpieces of this entire celebration,” she introduced. The couple before them waved sweetly as they stood intertwined.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Historia,” Eren grinned, and though Ymir and him weren't related by blood, Historia couldn't help but realize how strikingly similar their smiles were. Reaching to shake his outstretched hand, Historia gave him and Mikasa a kind smile. “Ymir's told us so much about you!”
“I’m very happy to be here, thank you for having me.”
“It’s no problem at all! Between you and me, I’m just ecstatic that this little asshole wasn’t lying about bringing a date to my wedding.” He lowered his voice into a stage whisper, hand cupped over his mouth as if he was about to confess a terrible secret. What he actually said was, well, it really kind of was a terrible secret. For Ymir's pride, at least. “See, she has this tendency to become completely dysfunctional when she’s nervous, and that’s quite often when she’s attracted to someone. I’ve seen her fumble over her coffee order just because the barista so much as smiled at her. Which, like, they’re paid to do.”
Ymir hit his arm, an admonishing gesture. It’s funny, Ymir thought, how betrayal always came from those closest to you. Her face must’ve betrayed the scorching tide of embarrassment that rode over her in waves, because she saw Historia swallow back a laugh.
Something playful passed between them and Historia had to look away, charged with far too much energy.
"You know,” Historia started, devious. “That makes a lot of things make a lot of sense, actually. It would explain why she can barely carry a conversation with me sometimes.”
“Hey—whose side are you on?” Ymir swore. “That’s not true and you know it! If anything, you’re the one who can’t carry a conversation, Miss I-Get-Tongue-Tied-Over-A-Leather-Jacket!”
“That is definitely not fair playing ground. Me getting flustered over you wearing that jacket is not the same as you tripping over your words every afternoon when I’m ordering my coffee. I mean, you already know my order, Ymir, how are you fumbling—”
“She's literally making this up,” Ymir said, pale with shock. “Mikasa, you believe me, right? You believe that she’s literally just making this up right now?”
Mikasa shrugged with a laugh.
Eren, on the other hand, had a very different reaction. His eyes widened. He gasped. Clutched at his proverbial pearls in an overtly scandalized manner. “Oh my God, she wore The Jacket? That jacket? The very same one that got her that one date with the school’s hottest cheerleader?”
Historia nodded, even though she had not one clue who this cheerleader was. “The very same. I can’t be blamed for my reaction.”
Ymir gave her a look that read oh, you just wait until we’re alone.
“She's right, Ymir,” Eren hung his head. “She can’t be blamed for her reaction. Not for The Jacket. Historia, did you know that that jacket used to belong to our mother?”
“It’s shocking it’s survived for so long. And I suppose I have your wonderful mother to thank for the stunning look. I’m something of a fashionista, if you couldn’t already tell.”
Ymir was beginning to think inviting Historia was a mistake.
“You two are unbelievable. Mikasa, please get a hold of your fiancé.”
Mikasa laughed at that, pinching Eren's side slightly. “Stop giving your sister shit,” she teased. “Although, I do agree. He can’t be blamed for his reaction to The Jacket.”
“Oh my God. Someone, get me out of here.”
The four of them—though, really, it was just Eren and Historia—spoke for the whole of the next ten minutes. They spoke of earth and sky and school and work and everything else that stood in between. When Eren was finally satisfied with his interrogation of the couple, he nodded gently and excused himself and Mikasa to go mingle with the other guests, leaving the two of them alone in the sea of people for the first time that evening their little moment in Ymir's bedroom hours ago.
“That went surprisingly alright,” Ymir said, exhaling as she picked up a flute of champagne from a nearby table, downing it in one swift shot. Historia eyed her nervously but didn’t say anything, instead opting to let her take the stress out of her system before it exploded in another, more devastating manner.
“You say that like you’re shocked. Of course it went alright—I’ll have you know that I’m quite the charmer,” Historia grinned. “Authority figures love me, and I have an entire childhood’s worth of trauma to thank for it.”
Ymir choked on her second glass of champagne at the admission, but before she could respond, an older couple pulled her to the side to catch up, dragging her all around the living room like she was a rag doll. Historia, not knowing what else to do, followed around for no other reason than to not get lost.
Audibly groaning, Ymir resolved herself to the long evening that lay ahead.