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There was this inescapable notion for Ymir that she would forever be ruined.
Perhaps it came with the name that had been given to her, brought with it the doom of the girl who's forever damned by love. The moment it had been written (in the handwriting of a man who is not her father), the thread had done its final loop and tug -- her heart was to be stripped bare, and it was going to beat for another.
Which was ironic, because she stood by the idea that she'd live for no one but herself.
Yet somehow familiarity could not even vouch for the presumptuous rhythm her heart hummed when she said another's name.
She hadn't even undergone the cowardly choice to hide her sentiments, either, but the opposite. She'd been open, too open, with the glimmers in her eyes that were hard to miss, and the words of tease that slipped her mouth. But it stuck to her like it was her name instead, 'damned', and it was glowing, stamped on her forehead.
Historia was the kind of kind that always drew people close, save for the obvious fact that she looked ethereal; she had this foolish smile that spoke for itself -- foolish. And stupid. Ymir thought that she was too goody-two-shoes and someday, it'd backfire on her, this whole nice girl personality, and one day she'll be hated by all instead of pulling them in more.
Maybe it was that one thing that somehow comforted Ymir, the idea that everyone will hate her, and they'd be the two sore losers everyone will hate. Maybe then Historia would stop flashing her foolish smile and she'd realize that they could be damned together instead.
Ymir always wanted to tell her that, well, she did in that house party when she got drunk, yell at the pretty girl in her dolled outfit that she should stop using the stupid name some frat boy called her, "Christa", was it? It suits you, way more than... Historia? Whatever that even is. Ymir yelled at her, in front of everyone, to get her shit together and start living for herself instead. Christa was a stupid name, even more stupid than her pretend smile, her pretend kind girl act, especially the pretending that she liked the boys.
Given, her skull was split from the hangover the morning after. She'd expected some oh-so-kind closure text message from Historia by the morning, something like thanking her for being an asshole friend and that she hopes her the best, she humiliated her in front of everyone after all. But she hadn't. Scared the shit out of Ymir when she opened the door to her room with bacon and eggs, and her face was bare and her clothes were more comfortable -- that smile was still there. Yeah, she was an ass of a friend and the kind of person people pushed away from, Historia shouldn't have been different. But still, she smiled kindly at her, anyway.
There was a long moment Ymir was convinced that maybe she hadn't been as damned as she thought she was. That moment was with Historia, of course. When she stopped wearing Christa like a lace dress -- she still flashed that smile that drew people in but at least it was Ymir's arm she was tucked into.
She hadn't felt like her name was a curse for that time, even when she ran to Historia's place at 2 am, and snuck her out of her room to buy ice cream. She was crying, her face as bare as Ymir's heart. She'd been crying over this boy she was talking to for a month, blamed herself for not letting her heart bleed the way her eyes did for him. She couldn't understand why her supposedly romantic first kiss didn't feel as good as she thought it would -- should.
Ymir, of course, scoffed. Historia stopped crying then, only followed by hiccups.
Ymir was the kind of mean that should push her away. They both knew that, yet somehow, they sat together on a bench in the dark, and that made Historia's stomach buzz more than it should have. Ymir wasn't as damned as she thought she was, because if she were, Historia wouldn't be there at all.
And that was enough.
"You and I know why you didn't enjoy it," Ymir said, a bit of amusement in her voice when she did.
Historia shook her head and sniffled, eating her ice cream. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Ymir stood up, finishing the last bit of her ice cream. It would take a hundred boys and their failing kisses to help her realize.
"You know what I'm talking about. And it's about damn time you get it in your head that you're not who you think you are. You're not another ordinary pretty girl, you're not gonna have a happy ending with some boy." Ymir shook her head and turned her heel.
She only needed one kiss to realize that.
Ymir could still taste the artificial strawberry flavoring on her tongue when Historia pulled her down to her height, her face between her hands, her lips against hers.
No, she wasn't damned that night. When her hands held Historia's waist and pulled her in, forgetting the late frosty breeze when she felt the warmth of her embrace, her arms around her neck. They didn't know what they were doing, giggles slipping their lips before they started kissing again, but at least she didn't feel the weight of her name shoving her down.
It felt right. She wondered if it had to be so wrong.
It was rather pleasant when Historia said it between her laughs while they walked back to her house. They hadn't held hands yet, but they didn't pull away when their knuckles brushed. Ymir helped her back up, her hands around her waist, and she assisted in carrying her back up her window. She liked her name then, when she was about to turn around and jump down on the ground, not until Historia called her name, grabbed the collar of her jacket, and pressed another kiss on her lips.
Hidden kisses in the secret corners or lingering touches before the bell rang, the name that wasn't hers hadn't glowed yet in that moment. Instead, it felt soft, tasted like strawberries, and sounded like a pretty girl's giggle after stealing a kiss. She finally soothed an ache she'd forgotten, when it was just them, even in a room of people, that flashy smile on her lips that always drew her in.
For a moment, Ymir knew what it felt like to be free from the metal bars that constrained her down to a girl with a fondness bigger than her left breast pocket.
It was worth it, in Historia's room and the soft sinking of her bed, Ymir's hands on her upper thighs while Historia flecked her eyelids with glitters and caressed the freckles that scattered through her skin. There weren't many words exchanged, other than Historia's laughs when she messed up Ymir's eyeliner, and Ymir's scoffs that didn't imply any real irritation. It didn't feel so much like a sin then, instead like divinity had been anointed down to the supple flesh of her femininity -- in Ymir's arms and lap.
If that was the anomaly of loving a woman, of carrying the name of a slave to love, then she'd have it. As long as it came as the girl with golden locks and blue eyes, whose kisses let her feel the devotion of religion.
Maybe she shouldn't have forgotten the entangled doom of bearing her name, one with the inescapable notion of ruin.
Maybe she shouldn't have let her heart get so bare.
Maybe then, she wouldn't have loathed the familiarity of being damned, her name shoved down her throat -- the strawberry starts tasting too sour and the laughs were starting to sound like a ticking clock.
There was this time when she liked Historia's finger tracing the constellations for freckles on her cheeks, basking in the silence of each other's company. It felt so fucking right that she forgot that it wasn't.
The same hand that ran through his hair. Some stupid boy from Historia's class had his arm around her shoulder, grazing his lips at the shell of her ear while she laughed that stupid laugh that tried drawing people in.
Maybe it's Ymir's fault that she was still so drawn.
"Then what were we?" They stood in the same park they first kissed, the same tears in Historia's eyes, but they refused to fall this time. Ymir sounded too desperate and she felt her name embroidering in her skin -- the reference of the title was always going to be hers; it was her burden to bear. She started to curse that poor girl then, for letting herself fall into the death that felt so sweet even though it burned, like a damn constellation that burned, because stars don't shine. Why did she have to let herself die in his false love; why did Ymir have to live the legacy of her providence?
Right then, it felt like the constellation of freckles on her skin was starting to burn and bleed, and she was trying to recall if the finger that traced them had been as cold as the night was now.
No, they were warm. And they caressed her skin like it was real.
"We were friends, Ymir." She cringed at the name. It didn't feel like strawberries anymore. She wondered if Historia could taste the sourness of letting it tumble down her tongue.
"Friends don't do what we did--" Historia shook her head. "You knew that it wasn't right."
Ymir scoffs, running her hand through her hair. "Bullshit! You just keep denying it to yourself, even though you want this, that you are this. That Historia isn't just some pretty girl who will get with the cool guy. She kissed her fucking best friend, here, and she enjoyed it."
She yelled this time again, and she wasn't sure if she'd receive bacon and eggs the following day. But she felt as bare as Historia was in the morning, heaviness in the back of her eyes, and her voice was starting to crack. It was as if all the moments that she didn't feel the nicking of her fated ruins had built for this moment, and she could feel it rumbling her chest.
"I'm not as strong as you are, Ymir." Somehow, her voice was still soft as if she'd just been consoling her. "Maybe it's really just the way I am."
Ymir took a step forward, clear frustration and heartbreak in her eyes. She wondered if she looked like Ymir, with the depths of the dim beneath her eyelids. "One day you're going to realize that you're fucking doomed, and you'll bear the burden of a name that isn't yours. You're going to keep pretending, and you're going to realize that everyone else will live your life but you."
It'd been a few months since they last talked that night.
It was inevitable to meet, of course, so Ymir had to witness the kisses by the lockers or the hidden touches in the classroom. Historia would still laugh and pretend she liked the touches, live the life of being Christa because her boyfriend liked it better. She looked like it anyway, he said, like she was the appointed one that saved him, and she'd smile that thin-lipped smile and nod.
Sometimes Ymir wished they didn't have to be so similar, so she wouldn't have to see the little things her boyfriend failed to notice. Her eyes looked more dull, almost grey instead of blue, and her nose was always stuffier than it used to be. It looked like weight pulled frowns down her cheeks, and the glowing label was stamped on her forehead.
It kind of did irritate Ymir that she still looked pretty, and there were times that she looked happy even if her eyes lacked the sapphire hue, like her absence didn't actually bother her and she didn't mind the stifling load of his arm around her shoulders.
Historia never liked having the weight of another person's limb around her, but of course, he didn't know that. Only Ymir ever did. And she did kind of like that, the knowledge of something he didn't have that proved her upper hand even if they were apart -- until she'd hear her laugh across the room and realize that even if she knew things he didn't, he was the one who felt her kisses, no matter if they were real or not.
There was this inescapable notion for Christa that she was forever ruined.
Perhaps it came with the name that had been given to her, brought with it the doom of the girl who pretended. The moment it had been written (in the handwriting of a man whom she needed to love), the thread had done its final loop and tug -- her heart was to be stripped bare, and it was going to beat a hollow shell.
She doesn't have to be doomed. After all, it was the curse of the name her boyfriend preferred. The weight shouldn't have been as hefty if she'd realized sooner that the heaviness isn't only behind her eyes -- it was in her hand when he held it, at the back of her throat when they kissed.
None of it ever felt the way it did that one night, or even the days after.
It shouldn't mean anything. Preference was something that could be altered, with age and beneath the season of change -- it will come. So even if she preferred the brush of her knuckles, she stayed with the calloused weight of his hand instead.
It was her choice, anyway.
She wished she'd stop being so visible, even when she'd never catch Ymir looking. A part of her had been thankful that she wasn't, so she wouldn't see. Maybe she didn't look as awful as she felt, but she still wouldn't be able to bear it even though she hadn't said it yet. "I told you so," it rang, and she wasn't even sure if it was Ymir's voice or hers.
Historia wasn't expecting Ymir to show up at all. It was another house party hosted by Eren, and Ymir showed up in tow by some girl they shared chemistry class with. Ymir looked okay, so Historia didn't want to put meaning in the ill-mannered attitude she'd protrude -- she'd always been that way. The girl was pretty too, her eyes this shade of blue that made her wonder if it was the reason she was the one dragging Ymir into the party.
Historia -- Christa shouldn't have felt the irritation bubble in her chest, so she let her fingers curl in her boyfriend's shirt and placed a kiss on his jaw instead.
Maybe, just maybe, if Ymir decided to yell at her in front of everyone again, Historia -- Christa would change her mind. Maybe she'd leave the house having her towed behind her instead, and the feel of another hand in hers wouldn't be as coarse as the one she's used to.
It was late and her boyfriend was with his friends, completely forgetting Historia beside him. She was almost grateful for it, so she left, heading to the kitchen.
She wasn't sure, but the warmth of the night at the park had intruded once again, and she could still taste the vanilla from Ymir's lips. Ymir was there, alone against the counter, a red cup in hand.
It was inevitable to meet, of course, but Historia knew she should just leave. She didn't.
"You and I know he's cheating on you, right?"
Historia -- Christa -- whatever, her throat clogged, but she took a breath and drank from her own cup. "I know." She could almost feel like her voice dragged instead of spilling out. She'd known, obviously, it did not change the hollow vastness in her chest.
Ymir scoffed, running a hand through her hair.
This shouldn't feel so familiar. But if it is this familiar, she had an idea on how it'd turn out.
She didn't hate the idea.
"Well, good luck." Ymir turned her heel, turning away with her nails digging into her palms. She was long past the obligation to attend to Historia's needs and run to her, sneak into her bedroom window, being that one call away when she gets sad.
The tears and sadness coated Historia's voice, and she hated how her hand trembled when it wrapped around Ymir's wrist.
She'd rather her yelling right now, and she hoped that when she turned, she would. She'd yell at her, drunk or not, tell her to get it together and stop pretending and let her heart beat in a way that did not speak her doom --
Ymir didn't. She only looked at her. Really looked at her like she knew her fucking truth.
And that was somehow worse than getting humiliated at Eren's party, because she didn't look at her mad or disappointed. She looked at her with pity.
There were a very few things that truly made Ymir rewardingly happy; one of them was being with her, and she didn't know that another was going to be kissing a guy's girlfriend in a bathroom. Historia pulled her upstairs and stormed into a bathroom, before taking her collar and pulling her down to her height, and she didn't know what she was doing, but she knew she enjoyed the taste of her lips.
It was fast and something they'd never done, so maybe it was still romantic, even though her cheating boyfriend was downstairs, the romance of something that they both were inexperienced in. Ymir's hands clumsily unzipping Historia's dress and Historia's hands tangling through her brown locks, combing through the length that she couldn't do with him.
They hadn't reached far, only Ymir's uncertain lips on Historia's collarbone, before they'd gotten sober and stopped, catching the breath they lost and letting the warmth of each other's embrace clear the intoxication that tainted their skull. Ymir leaned against the marble counter, towering over the girl who stood between her legs.
And there it was, the comfort of what isn't fucking right.
It should make Ymir guilty, maybe make her flinch at the reminder that Historia's boyfriend was at the level beneath them. But it didn't, it even made her proud that she really did have the upper hand, made her even wonder whether the moments Historia kissed him she'd truly been thinking of her instead. So her hands squeezed her waist, pulling her closer while Historia leaned against her chest.
Historia's gloss smudged at the corner of Ymir's cheek, and it looked wrong and it felt familiar. The gentle surface of Historia's thumb wiped against her skin, with the intention to caress rather than to clean, and Ymir knew how fucking heavy her name felt behind her eyes that time, as the girl who was doomed for love.
Perhaps she could live like that, against the marble counter and in the secret of Historia's breast pocket. Or she could decide that she wasn't a slave to the reference of her name and instead live for herself.
It wasn't fair to her or Historia's boyfriend, so she let go. She took the dress that pooled on the bathroom floor and let it slip back on Historia's body, hiding the slight bruise that only reached her sternum. It wasn't going to last, the bruise or them, that was her curse anyway.
"I'm not gonna be the person you can run to after a boy gets your heart broken." Ymir's voice remained stern even though she knew Historia could see right through it. And her heart wasn't broken by some boy, how could it if it already needed mending even before his bland kisses?
Maybe they both could be damned in that bathroom together.
"I don't want you to be," Historia whispered, having the courage to even smile while she tucked hair behind her ear. Ymir had the notion that the thump beneath her rib was probably more than the inclination of someone similar -- she was probably in love.
Ymir frowned, leaning back against the marble counter again. "Then why does it feel like that, Historia?" Her voice cracked the same way her face did.
Historia looked away, running her hand through her hair as if she was actually thinking, as if it was something so hard. It wasn't, at least to Ymir, because it did not need a kiss from her best friend or a hundred boys to realize the cure of this sickness.
She only remained silent, melancholy glistening in her eyes.
Ymir wished she hadn't looked as doomed as her, maybe then she wouldn't have mattered to her this much. But she did, and there was no use forcing a heart to unlearn something inured.
Ymir could only reach up and tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, letting her look up with those foolish doe eyes in surprise. She wished Historia knew what she did to her. "You can't keep doing this to me." She said quietly, before pressing a kiss on her forehead, before leaving the bathroom.
It wasn't from the name, whichever one wore. It would have still happened, because they were cursed to be ruined.
Ymir was going to let her keep dragging her back, and Historia was going to let her keep yelling.
It'd been a few more weeks since then, yet somehow the taste of strawberry lingered like Historia's tongue clawed in the remains when they kissed. Ymir wasn't really angry anymore, she never was, but she hated that somehow nothing changed, and hated it even more that she was expecting something to happen.
Ymir never kissed anyone after, even at the revelation of Christa's boyfriend. That was her mistake, letting it linger and getting frustrated from the taste she doesn't wash off -- it was going to be futile anyway, because it's not like she wanted to learn another. No matter the act she projected, she was a loser for letting the artificial flavoring drunkenly condition her to the way she is now.
Historia's number was still saved in her contacts, which was just part of being this stupid girl who can't live for herself.
So when Historia called, her contact name flashed, and Ymir stared at her screen before answering it by the 5th ring. It was part of being a stupid girl who'd let the curse ruin her again and again.
Historia lacked the sadness in her voice when she said it, and it was Ymir's silver lining. "I broke up with him."
The convenience store by the park sold the ice cream in cheap plastic wrappings. No, the ice cream company wasn't going to rebrand or change the flavors after a sapphic complication, so it had been awkward when Historia got her strawberry flavored ice cream and Ymir with her vanilla.
It was midnight this time, less cold than it had been all the times they've been there.
"I don't know what to do." Historia was the first to break the silence, and she lacked the glisten in her eyes for tears, but at least they were no longer grey. For once, Ymir hadn't scoffed as if the next move was obvious, nor did she prepare another witty comeback for Historia's foolish intentions.
Ymir continued to eat, letting her shoes graze against the pavement.
"Is this Christa or Historia?" She simply asked, and Historia cringed, disliking it completely.
"Ymir," She will always hate that name unless it is in the tone of Historia's voice, then it isn't so bad.
"I don't know either, okay?" She finished the last of her cone, letting her back rest against the cold metal of the bench. "I have no right to tell you how to live your life. No one gets to do that."
Then it was quiet again, somehow everything simmered down to the familiarity and the difference of the moment -- everything has changed and hasn't. She was unsure, and she didn't have that smartass thing where she knows what to do or knows what to tell Historia about these heartbreaks. It wasn't clever to speak about it anyway, since when did she know better?
The thread of her heartstrings never went undone even after she'd left, it only tugged and let the loop tighten.
Ymir got to be mad, and she had the right to leave Historia's fresh face from uncertainty to choose herself the way she pleased. She deserved that, because it was always Historia doing the gentle kisses and caresses, and then leaving for a boy she never cared about.
So maybe a part of Ymir did want to throw a witty comment that insinuated insult for the dick moves she did, let her poach the damage Ymir had to repair alone (it hasn't even been fixed). Let her understand, finally, that she loved her more than she should, even in the intimate ways that they never had sex but her fingers still touched her soul the way the act of love allowed.
Hell, the ice cream was more intimate than the beer they downed before almost having sex, and maybe that's why her heart ached more even without feeling her lips against hers yet.
It ached, that no amount of untrue commitment to her self-respect was going to ever cobble a gospel she would speak. That having Historia's contact, answering the call, and running to help her out the window was the testament of her unwavering relent to the insinuation of her name's definition.
That's why she didn't throw a witty comment and leave, because that wasn't who she was. To stay and be damned was her purpose.
Historia laughed, genuinely this time, with a slight flush once gone that found its way back, the same way she did. It was soft and amused, one that was reserved for Ymir.
"I want to do it right this time." She said quietly, letting her eyes wander away. "I still have no idea what I'm doing, but -- but I just want to live." She smiled kindly at her anyway, even when Ymir only looked at her. They stood up, hands in the pockets of their jackets.
Naturally, the vanilla coated her tongue. The artificial strawberry flavoring had already been covered, and she'd forgotten whether it'd been sweet or sour when she first had it. She knew, though, that the ruins that came with her name would bring itself back the taste against her lips.
There was this inescapable notion for them both that they would forever be ruined.
Perhaps it came with the name that had been given to them. The moment it had been written, the thread had done its final loop and tug -- their heart was to be stripped bare, and it was going to beat for another.
Which was ironic, because they stood by the idea that they'd live for no one but themselves.
Her heart knew, then, how the presumptuous rhythm of a name that was not her own but another's was the curse of the girl doomed for love.
"I'm sorry, Ymir. And I don't -- I shouldn't be here, but it was always you, even in the times I didn't want you to be and --"
She should have felt the weight of guilt -- guilt as old as Eden -- but all she felt was rapture. The trembling of her lips against hers was a prayer unspoken, a psalm in flesh. The way their bodies fit, heartbeat to heartbeat, felt consecrated. This wasn’t sin; this was sacrament. Her knees faltered from reverence as if she might drop to the Prie-dieu and offer herself wholly -- so Ymir held her closer, as if in embrace she might glimpse the face of God, their heartstrings entwining like rosary beads, the softness of this divinity melting into her palms like communion on the tongue.
You've hurt me as the sinner you are, so love me like one anyway.
She was always going to hate her name, and perhaps there is truth in the judgment that she is defined by the reference of the title. With Ymir's nose against her golden locks and Historia in her arms, she'd learn to accept that perhaps she'd live for her instead.