Work Text:
Tragedy doesn’t suit her.
A diamond necklace, her favourite mink coat, a gentle sip of the expensive chardonnay she gifted herself for no particular reason – these are the things that Miss Heinemann drapes herself in. Luxury and class are her dearest friends. She wears names like jewellery.
So never, then, has she ever felt the need to tell herself that her design is anything other than refinement. Miss Heinemann is too high on the ladder for the weight of tragedy to drag her down. She sings songs of grandeur and of opulence, the things she has and so sorely deserves.
Now Eva, on the other hand, is a different story.
Eva knows she is as bitter as the coffee she drinks to stave off the hangover.
She’ll never admit it. Not to a single soul. She refuses to be a ridiculous broken bird. But a fall from grace is the hardest to get up from, especially since it left her with a shattered soul over broken wings.
Eva will not sing for the common man. Eva will sing for herself, and herself only. She wears tragedy like the finest silken robes and looks goddamn lovely, if she says so herself.
She is no fool, and neither is Miss Heinemann. In fact, the two women share a body, the same person under two very different sets of circumstances. The princess is elegant and regal and haughty; the pauper at her feet is destitute and depressed, but still a determinator. After all, it doesn’t matter if she breaks a few hearts if her goals are achieved. Even if among the few is her own.
However, she does occasionally think back to her sneer of steel as she held that ring at arms length, dropping it callously to the floor in front of the man she swore to herself that she did not love. She thinks back, and does sometimes wonder how she can insist she is not as foolish as the man who promised to marry her.
She thinks of the embers of her home. She thinks of the remains of her family, her lovers. She thinks of every single little thing that she had and was silly enough to let go of, and curses the very ground she walks on.
She’ll take a pull on the cheap red wine still in its bottle. She’ll tell herself that she’s a stupid little girl. She’ll stand up and grit her teeth and move the fuck forward anyway. She’ll be better than this.
The ladder that held Eva Heinemann so securely in the past is still there. The first rung is the most difficult.
Tragedy doesn’t suit her. But damn, sometimes it seems like it was tailored to her shape.