icarus

i. burberry and lint

Mother always said Yara's temperament had never been good.

She clearly thinks it a lie. Mother is as fickle as they come. Yara thinks her being is that of gracefulness, patience and etiquette as has been hammered in her from younger, but that doesn't seem the case in the present.

She glances down at her hand, the ineligible cursive writing barely seen on her palm in the dim lights. Yara breathes slowly, drawing her legging clad legs under the table from the position they were before, spread unruly. Her hands drums the table, tapping a slow rhythm on the table. Her eyes lined with kohl are narrowed, and her glossy, plump lips pursed. Her being is distant, like a statue.

Her older brother isn't any different. If Yara thinks she is cold, Zane is freezing. He isn't looking at anyone, nor had he reacted to any topic that is being discussed. Icicles hang in his hair, and Mother's snivelling husband can't look him in the eye.

Mother's husband has been chattering on about his business, and she couldn't care less, until she hears him speak of a rumor that his company might be picked for a contract with Harrington Cooperation. Yara finally reacts, her dark eyes moving to her mother. The older woman turns away, Clinique mascara coated eyes darting in guilt. Zane shifts, and taps Yara's fingers on the table. She stops before continuing, the motion almost soundless.

"Yara, darling. Come with me. Let's go check what's holding up the kitchen." Yara's reaction is a little slow, but she looks up, nodding mutely before following behind her mother. The kitchen is blinding, white tiled floors, white walls and white marble countertops and it is headache inducing. She waves her hand and the staff disperse quickly, the older woman closes the door softly and turns to Yara. "Ara, sweetheart, it's not what you think." Her eyes filled with self depreciation, and guilt. A headache forming slowly. Mother has always been so perfect at guilt tripping, it's always easy to believe she is never at fault.

She holds up a hand, the diamonds in her bracelets glinting as she mumbles.  "Call me Yara, it's not that hard."

"I named you Yara when I gave birth to you, so I'll call you whatever I want to."

She leans against the kitchen island, scorn curling her lips. "It's a bit too late to be a caring mother, isn't it?" Mother freezes, and her eyes turns red. Mother really does know how to play her cards right. Yara steels her eyes, and when the older woman sees that she is unaffected, her tears cease.

"So what if I asked your father for help. He owes it to me for cheating on me and leaving me for that disgusting secretary of his." Regret almost forces itself into the haughty, self-assured tone of hers.

Yara pats her mother's shoulders, brushing the piece of lint on her dress that probably came from her husband's wool sweater. Burberry and lint. Matched the whole aesthetic of their home, if she was being honest. "It's also really late for regrets, Mother."

"As the heir to the company, Zane is supposed to do what's best for Harrington Cooperation and-

Yara cuts in. "And subpar materials for a hotel of the quality the company usually stands by, is the best? Building collapses are usually so easy to hide and to deflect but you being you'll do a particularly terrible job and they'll probably find out about it soon, so what then?" She questions with a raised brow. Mother's face really couldn't keep freezing the way it did. It could remain that way forever, stiff and angry. Not that it'd be any different than what was within.

"I don't care. They can use other materials for other hotels but not this project." She says stiffly, cracks almost appearing in her Nars coated face.

Her smile never dies down, not even when she hears what Mother said. "Careful mother, you sound super capitalisty.  You wouldn't want your husband to know that you want everyone to accept mass liabilities due to building collapses because he supplies shit materials just to protect his fragile ego. After all, he hasn't seen that side of you yet, or has he?"

"Yara, you-"
       
Yara cuts her off again, when she sees the chef walk into the kitchen, raising his hand timidly. "Dinner's probably ready, Mother." Then with a dull, sharp laugh, she walks into the dining room. Zane's brown eyes are irritated, and as soon as she sees why, her lips twitch. Her stepfather has two children, a girl her age whose name she didn't bother to remember and a boy who is Zane's age.

Terribly convenient if she is being honest.

The boy is following beside her mother's butler, his eyes glazed with greed and the girl rubbing her fingers all over the vases Mother bought from an auction in Vienna. The butler looks as irritated as Zane, his beard probably trembling in anger. He cleans those probably every five hours. They are worth more to him than his grandchildren. Mother's husband is with his children, their grubby hands probably leaving marks on the vases. They leave behind noises of amazement as the butler, bless his heart, explains the history behind each one of them.

"Is she serious?" Zane asks, his hands tapping furiously on his phone's screen.

Yara nods, her hand cupping her chin. "As serious as letting people die if the building collapses."

He places the phone face down, and pats her hair before laughing, it is short and derisive. "Calm down, Yara. You shouldn't be so believing in rumors."

Mother's husband finally walks back to the dining room, with his children behind him. Their fair faces flushes with excitement and greed. They sit down, looking at the spoons and forks at their table. Their older son moves to sit beside Yara. She recoils, moving closer to Zane. His shaggy black hair moves slightly as he shifts even closer to her, his brown eyes muddy as they scan her face.

"You must be Yara. I'm Thomas. It's nice to finally meet you." He holds out a hand, and Yara nods, shaking his as her silver rings glints in the light. "I've never seen so much cutlery for one meal before." He comments, his voice heavy with awe. Zane snorts from beside her, and she almost let out a giggle.

Fortunately, the first course appears with Mother in tow. Eating is quiet as it could've been, that is until Mother's husband started talking.

"Kira, you and Yara are in the same year of high school right? Then, please guide Kira as she is joining your school tomorrow." Mother wouldn't meet Yara's eyes, and Kira looks beyond excited to come to join her in Westwood. "As is Thomas, so Zane please do the same."

"Isn't Kira a sophomore?" She asks, her spoon grazing the bottom of the bowl. Kira nods. Yara takes her time to swallow, her manicured nails digging in the dimple in her cheek as she smiles politely. "I'm a junior. Skipped a grade."

The aforementioned girl blanches, and her father laughs nervously. "Well, that's great. I-"

"Don't worry dad. I'm sure if we all had parents like hers, we'd all skip a grade." Kira's laugh is cold as she counters into her bowl. Her dark hair almost enters the bowl, and her eyes won't meet Yara's. Her lips curl in amusement and she can see Kira's lips tremble softly. Zane sighs, pulling out his phone to send a text to probably their father.

Yara's fingers starts tapping the table again. Acrylics make such terrible noise. "I'm sure if you were capable enough, you'd have parents like mine. One half is still enough though, so don't beat yourself up too hard. Mother, I'm leaving. I have..." She pauses to look at her hand, and looks to see Mother and her new family all pale faced. "To get to Ophelia's party." Then she saunters out, Zane following closely behind. Mother protests loudly, and she can hear her stepsister being berated by everyone.

"I can get rid of them if you want." Zane offers, his hand in his pocket. He isn't looking at her but rather at the starry night. The stars are distant, scanty in the sky but still so bright. One pulses, catching her eye and the light dims almost immediately.

Yara shakes her head with a smile, pulling out the ponytail that hold her braids before entering her car. "No need, I'll see you at home." He waves, walking back into the clusterfuck Mother calls her family.

In the garage of their home, Yara's hands grip the steering wheel tightly. Her eyes burning with the promise of tears. Mother is wrong, Yara's temperament is clearly wonderful.