therealmrsgojo - Tumblr blog

therealmrsgojo · 10 days

Text

10/10 a must read, porco fic!!! ❤️❤️❤️

[3] precipice ; porco galliard (2/2)

pairing: porco galliard/f!reader chapter word count: 24.6 k chapter content/warnings: secret meetings in the dark, crushing on your bf/gf, porco's scandalous sexual history, some angsting about marcel, girls' night out chapter summary: The most precious secrets are the ones that are the hardest to keep. a/n: this is overdue, isn't it? 🤭🤭posting as two parts because I learned tumblr has a post length limit!! As always, please let me know what you think, I love hearing from my fellow galliard girlies. <3 Read on AO3? || See Series Masterlist? [<-Chapter 3 (1/2)][Chapter 4->]

The old woman gives Porco his change. The coins are cold against his palm, from sitting near her ice chest. He doesn’t like how they jingle in his pockets with every step; and he plans to give them to the children, once he gets back to them.

“Just the one, dearie?” she asks, in her quakey voice.

Porco nods.

Her husband hands him the ice cream cone wrapped in tissue. He says something too, but the man doesn’t have enough teeth left for Porco to make out the words.

“Thank you,” he replies, hoping it’s appropriate. “It’s good to see you two as well.”

It’s a pleasantly warm afternoon, but they’re both bundled up in matching brown coats. Pigeons flock at their feet, pecking at the breadcrumbs they’ve scattered around. They’re sitting on one of the wooden benches under the elms that line the path through the park. Mottled light filters through the drying, thinning leaves in large patches— Liberio is entering autumn. It's fairly crowded, with people wanting to enjoy the cooler weather.

(It’s a nice day, for once.)

The old woman— Porco doesn’t know her name, but she’s been here for as long as he can remember— gives him a wry smile. “He asked if you wanted spoons, to share with your lady friend.”

Porco swallows. “It’s not like that. We’re— we’re colleagues.” He can feel the chill emanating from the ice cream against the sudden, anxious warmth on his skin.

“That’s what I told him!” She smacks the man across his upper arm. “No armband on her! She’s one of us, you old lout. Don’t you go getting this poor boy in trouble.”

Her husband chuckles.

Porco thanks them again, and begins walking back; but the exchange has his nerves on edge. Was he being careless? Was this too dangerous? This was a mistake. It was selfish of him to ask you to come here, out in the daylight.

The carpet of red and yellow leaves crunches under his boots. He sees you alone on the bench. Your uniform is stark white against the muted, earthy colours around you. Just a nurse; spending her lunch break out in the only green patch for miles around.

You’re watching the children play. They’ve somehow roped Colt into their game while Porco was gone, and he’s chasing them across the grass.

“Po— Galliard,” you greet him pleasantly as he comes up.

Right. You’re a nurse from the hospital nearby, and he’s Galliard. It couldn’t be any other way, not out here; no matter how much he felt otherwise when he looked at you. He’s stupid to have forgotten that. He’s stupid to have forced you into it.

Porco hands you the cone, and pulls his hand back even though he wants to let his fingers linger against yours for a little longer.

“For me?” you ask, pleased. “I was wondering what was taking you so long. Thank you!”

The delight on your face makes him guilty, somehow. “You didn’t get any for yourself earlier.”

You lick the ice cream. “I didn’t know if I was supposed to. All their customers were…”

“Eldian,” he completes. He swallows back a sigh, and goes to lean against the tree behind the bench. Stupid.

You turn to look at him with a sad smile. “You can’t sit with me, can you?”

“It’s not a good idea,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? It’s not your fault.” You tell him, turning back.

This is a public park, and it’s one of the handful of areas outside the internment zone that’s open to Liberio’s Eldian population— upon obtaining permission from the relevant authorities, of course. And still, the two peoples separate like oil and water. The path that runs through the middle of the park is a boundary. You’re allowed to be here, but on this side— the Eldian side— you’re an oddity.

(Of course, no one on this side dares say anything about it. But they do stay away; and none of the other children join in with the candidates’ game.)

“You and Colt seemed friendly with that old couple,” you comment, still looking ahead. “Who are they? They weren’t wearing armbands.”

The old Marleyan couple has been here since before he was born, and he's sure they'll be here long after he's gone. “Their son was in the military,” he explains. “An Eldian saved his ass thirty years ago, and carried him back behind the lines after he lost his legs to a landmine.”

“That's terrible.”

“Well, he survived. And now he runs an ice cream shop, so mom and dad express their gratitude by bringing some over every weekend for the Eldian kids.”

You sound impressed. “They've been doing it for thirty years?”

“Give or take. We don’t buy anything from the regular shops because…” He trails off. Because, there’s a good chance they would add rat poison to the sprinkles— but he doesn’t want to tell you that.

He doesn’t have to continue though, since Colt chooses this moment to trip and fall teeth first into the grass.

(Again, Porco thinks in disbelief. Good luck for everyone but himself.)

Colt picks himself up but stays on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. You gasp out a soft ‘oh no’. The children worriedly look at each other, suddenly silent, and cautiously approach him.

You're trying to hurriedly hand Porco your cone to go check on him when Colt explodes upwards, and tackles Falco to the ground with a triumphant cry. The other three shriek and scatter.

Porco watches you laugh, sitting back down with your arm resting across the back of the bench. He watches the ice cream melt, beginning to run down your fingers. Something squeezes his heart. He really does want to hold your hand.

“Hey,” he says. “My throat’s been kind of sore.”

You scrunch your eyebrows as you look up at him. The dappled sunlight shines across your face. “Warm water will—”

“I think I'm going to go get it checked at the hospital before I head home.”

Your frown deepens in confusion before understanding dawns. “Oh! Oh, you could do that. Yes.”

“I'm going to tell Colt I'm leaving. You're uh, you're probably heading to your shift after you finish eating, right?”

You nod, incredibly seriously.

And so Porco finds himself, about twenty minutes later, at the reception counter in Liberio General’s marbled foyer. The nurse on duty is a small woman, with her black hair in a wavy— almost curly— bob. She’s standing; but she’s short enough that her shoulders barely clear the tall counter. The way she’s staring at him is unnerving.

It’s because she’s staring at him, Porco realises. Not at the armband.

“Uhm…” he says, because the silence has stretched on for a fair bit now. “Like I said, I wanted to see our regular nurse but she wasn’t at—”

She blinks at him. Her eyes are large and round. “You look fine. Really fine. Wow.”

Porco blinks back. “... thank you? But I—”

“Were you really going to die, or would you have been fine anyway if they just let you steam in the corner for a bit?”

Porco thinks he should probably be offended by this, but there isn’t even a hint of malice in her words— which is impressive, because those were hard words to say without malice. And honestly, with that uniform, she reminds him of you; just a little. So he decides to engage with her.

“…Are you talking about back in the Mid-East? Were you there?”

“I wasn’t with you, but I was there.” She leans closer. “So, were you? Going to die.”

“I was bleeding pretty bad. Probably would have.”

“Wow. I wish I could heal like you.” She pulls back her sleeve, and shows him a long, thin burn on her forearm. “Got this from a pot. It’s so ugly.”

“It’s not that bad,” Porco assures her. It really isn’t. “Can I see my usual nurse? Her name is—”

“I know who your nurse is. She’s not here yet, though. What seems to be the problem?”

He doesn’t think he can get away with a sore throat. “My, uh, eye hurts. And sometimes I see spots. Big ones.”

She frowns. “And it won't heal itself? It sounds like you need a doctor, not a nurse. I can make you an appointment—”

“No! She… she needs to get me a referral. I’m uh, military property, after all. Can’t go around making my own appointments.”

“Oh, is that how it works? That’s inconvenient.” She sounds genuinely sympathetic.

Porco almost feels bad for the blatant lie. “It is.”

“Hmm. But she’s not here yet.” The nurse thoughtfully taps her chin. “If it hurts real bad, I can get a surgeon to smash your skull in and then we can wait for the whole thing to reset. That should fix it.” She looks pleased with this idea. “I don’t think we need a surgeon for it at all! You wouldn’t even have to wait.”

Porco’s mouth falls open. “Helos, lady. You know I can still feel the pain, right?”

“You can?” She looks shocked. “Oh my. That’s inconvenient.”

“…It is.”

Porco’s almost ready to go and take his chances back at the park; when you pop into his vision, a little breathless.

“Hi, Hannah.” you say to the nurse at the counter.

She chirps back a greeting. “You’re breathing hard. Did you run here or something?”

“Thought I’d be late.” Then you turn to Porco, biting your lip. He thinks he can hear a barely-suppressed giggle in your voice. “What are you doing here, Galliard?”

The nurse at the counter— Hannah, she seems to be your friend, so he tells himself to remember her name— tells you about his eye.

“Ah, it is an immune privileged site,” you tell her. “It makes sense.”

“Oh, it does! Why didn’t I think of that?” Hannah gasps. “Will we really have to smash in his skull to fix it after all?”

You look stunned, and more than a little concerned. “Why are we— ? Hannah, did you tell him we’d do that?”

“It was just a suggestion,” she says sheepishly. “Look, lunch is almost over, but why don’t you go have a look at him in exam room three? That’s Dr. Klein’s today, and he’s always late. There’s time.”

“Dr. Klein…” you mutter. “Thanks, Hannah. I’ll do that before clocking in then, okay?”

You barely wait for her to answer, before giving his sleeve a tug— his heart skips a beat— and leading him out of the foyer. The examination room is only a short distance down the corridor. You hold the door open for him to follow you inside.

This room is far more spacious than number sixteen. It’s about half the size of the clinic. The walls are made of panelled wood, and the shelving doesn't seem to overflow. Sunlight shines through the tall windows.

(Porco doesn’t know when he started finding the smell of antiseptic and the sight of sterilised steel to be this comforting.)

He leans comfortably against the examination table. He's never been here before, yet it feels strangely familiar, as he watches you moving around. You’re drawing the curtains. The room dims, but the curtains are light; and the day outside is sunny, so it’s still fairly well-lit.

“Can you sit on the table, please?” you ask him, as you rummage through the drawers. “In case anyone comes in without knocking.”

He obliges.

You pull out a small penlight from one of the drawers. “So, something is wrong with your eyes, is it?” It flashes on and off, as you make sure it works.

Porco can see you relax too. The practised, formal expression melts off your face. You come to stand between his legs; and when you look at him again, your eyes are full of affection.

(He puts his hands around your waist, just like last time. But this time, he doesn’t need to let you go.)

Fuck, he thinks. Beautiful. He isn’t capable of making longer sentences at the moment.

And he can’t hold himself back anymore. He grabs your face between his palms, and kisses you. You make a muffled noise, but you don’t resist.

“Would it be cheesy to say,” he says after, with his hands still on your cheeks, and his forehead resting against yours, “that something’s wrong with them, because I can’t stop looking at you?”

“Incredibly cheesy. But I don’t mind.”

Porco hums, and tugs your hands into his lap. His back is to the door. Like this, no one coming in can see how your fingers are intertwined with his. Finally.

It feels quiet.

He realises his mind has been noisy all day; anxiously trying to keep this secret. Trying to live in two worlds at once— one where he's supposed to be, and one here with you.

Maybe he should be saying something, and making the most of this brief time he has alone with you. But somehow, he’s content just like this; holding your hand, feeling its warmth without words.

“Porco,” you say, looking down and gently squeezing his fingers, “thank you for coming to see me again.”

“I promised, didn’t I?” He squeezes back. “Hey, look at me. I’ll always come back to you, alright? Don’t ever doubt that.”

You open your mouth to say something else; but there’s a knock on the door. You jolt backwards and wrench one of your hands out of his, to grab the penlight. It clicks on just as the door swings open.

It’s Hannah from earlier, here to tell you Dr. Klein would arrive in five minutes.

You look calm, and your voice is level when you tell her you’re almost done. But Porco can feel your hand trembling in his.

It's noisy again. And too bright.

It wasn’t always like this.

No, that’s not entirely true. It used to be like this. Then it wasn’t for a little while. And now it is again.

For a little while, you weren’t scared of doing things. You thought you finally knew what those right answers were, and figured that the ones that didn’t really make sense to you didn’t make sense to anyone— especially not the people here in the hospital. You thought you didn’t have to make those choices you didn’t agree with.

That’s why you told Dr. Klein he had to try and save Julie.

That’s how you learned you were wrong.

And now here you are again, terrified of taking a step outside the lines.

It’s certainly easier this way.

(It is, it is.)

Did you get it right the first time? Or were you just making old mistakes?

(You admire Porco; and how casually he’d asked you to join him at the park, and then at the hospital. You feel terrible that you haven’t been able to bring yourself to do the same for him.)

“Sorry, I'd invite you, but…”

When Eileen gives you that apologetic look, uncomfortably fiddling with the end of one of her long, red braids; the easiest thing to do is to say you understand, that it’s alright. And then you watch her scurry away down the corridor to join the other nurses about to take their break out on the grounds.

Eileen had graduated with you.

She was from a small town too, but not as good as yours, so maybe that was why she knew the answers so very well. You’re sure she must have sworn up and down to the disciplinary board that you’d made a mistake.

You can’t find it in yourself to blame her.

One of the nurses glances back over her shoulder as she’s leaving, and accidentally catches your eye. You desperately try to stop yourself, but you can’t help the flash of hope. Maybe they changed their minds, maybe Eileen convinced them that—

Then she whips her face forward, and leans towards Eileen to whisper something. They erupt into giggles.

It's pathetic, you think as they disappear around the corner, that it still upsets you this much.

You’d thought it would be different, after being away for months in the Mid-East; hoped that was enough time for them to forget. But nothing has changed. You’re still the one who made a mistake— the one who wouldn’t even admit to it.

The one who it was better not to talk to, just in case.

You’re standing in the corridor outside one of the general wards. It’s a quiet night. In the ward, there’s just an assortment of allergies, and a few broken bones. Only a handful of the rickety cots with their starched white sheets and thin pillows are occupied.

It’s not nearly busy enough to keep you distracted from how terribly your shift is going; and there’s still hours left before you can go home. You sigh, and lean your back against the wall.

The hospital has had lightbulbs installed recently. They burn yellow under their flower-shaped lamp shades, all along the corridor. You tilt your head to peek underneath; fascinated by the loops of glowing filament.

Would it have made a difference, you wonder, if it had been this bright back then?

The memory makes your stomach churn. You turn your gaze down towards the dull red carpet, trying to blink away the ghostly afterimage of the bulb’s guts.

The night of the accident had been a new moon, dark and cloudless. There hadn’t been any bulbs then. Just a thousand candles lining the corridors; the windows shut to keep them from going out. The stuffy heat of the flames and what felt like a hundred bodies packed into the narrow space, a writhing mass of white bandages and the red and brown of blood, too enveloped in strange shadows to make out where each person started and ended; only the noise of children wailing for their mothers, people calling out other’s names. So many names.

Stephen, Stephen, are you here? Please, is my son Stephen here?

Have you seen Sarah?

Maria…? No, no, NO!

And then there was Julie.

Silent.

(No, not silent. Not entirely, not yet.)

You’re so lost in reminiscing, you don’t notice the muted thumping of the wooden cane on the thin carpet, until its owner is right beside you.

“I was hoping you would be here,” a man’s voice says.

You’re jolted out of the memory. Exhaling, you look to the side.

(You remember that voice, how could you forget?)

“Director Klein. Good evening, sir.”

The old man adjusts his cane. “And a good evening to you too, my dear. Would you join me in my office?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer. It wasn’t really a question, after all. The Director rarely asks questions. You push yourself off the wall to follow him further up the corridor.

White. That’s always your first impression of him. Snow white hair and beard— both neatly clipped and combed— and a white shirt under a pristine, long, white coat. You’re sure he carries that cane purely for the effect the carved golden handle has on people; because his back is straight and his steps are strong and confident, as he makes his way up to his office. He's missing at least fifteen of his seventy years.

You remember the last time you walked behind him, down this exact path, with blood crusted under your fingernails, and stained into that skirt you would eventually go home and throw away.

My son was alive, ALIVE!

Ma’am, it was a mistake in the paperwork—

Yes, a mistake! Yours!

Director Klein’s office hasn’t changed, either— tall bookcases, stuffed with leather bound volumes; and the walls so covered with photographs and certificates you would be hard pressed to find a square inch of the flowery wallpaper underneath. He takes his seat behind the heavy cherrywood desk.

You’re left standing in the middle of a room that feels cramped enough to make you claustrophobic; and yet big enough to have you feeling small and awkward at the same time.

“How are you?” he asks. There’s sincerity in his voice.

“Fine. I… fit in better than I thought I would, there.”

“You can still come back.”

You swallow, and look away. “I still don’t want to.”

“I’m only trying to help you, child. Don't be stubborn.”

He sounds concerned. He sounded concerned that night too, when you really thought you could have made a difference by pleading your case.

Dr. Klein, you agreed with me. Why are you—

I didn't have time to check for myself! You really must have made a mistake!

“I appreciate you offering, sir. But I think it would just cause a lot of trouble if I came back here full time. I’m— it's not worth it.”

Dad, she's a new nurse. It's understandable. But our reputation is on the line. You need to clear it up with the committee so they don't think a doctor—

The Director scrutinises you for a few moments. Then he sighs. For a second, he looks much more like the old man he is. “Very well. It's not what I wanted to discuss. Please, sit.”

You sit.

He reaches down to open his desk drawer, and pulls out a red folder that he slides across towards you. It’s emblazoned with the military coat of arms.

You look curiously at him. He gestures for you to open it. You do, and find a single sheet of paper.

“A confidentiality agreement?” Your heart beats a little faster; but a quick skim reveals no details, except for a vague description of titan research. “What for?”

The Director raises an eyebrow. “It wouldn’t be much of an agreement if I could just tell you.”

You read the document again, slower this time. Project Merlot, proclaims the bold type on top of the page.

“You can’t tell me anything?”

“Not unless you sign.”

The idea is exciting. I wish I had something interesting to tell you, is what you’d said to Porco. Well, here it is. Something outside the routine of the clinic, and something other than being treated like you have a contagious disease.

What gives you pause, however, is the fact that it has something to do with titans. ‘Research on titans’, especially where the military is concerned, was just a polite way to say ‘experimenting on Eldians’.

(The memory of Falco, trying to hide his nervousness flashes through your mind. One of the most insidious rumours about Eldians is that they don’t feel pain. You know how much of a lie that is.)

“Why would you want me on this?” you ask the director, frowning. “Considering… my reputation.”

He peers at you over his glasses. “Zeke Yeager requested you specifically.”

You’re surprised. Why would an Eldian want to take the lead on a project like this? “He’s involved?”

There’s a hint of a smile on the Director’s face. “Again, I couldn’t tell you. I’ve signed one of these myself.” He takes off his glasses, and produces a soft-looking cleaning cloth from his breast pocket. “I admit this probably won’t be the most pleasant of projects,” he says, wiping the lenses, “but if I may venture to say so, it is precisely because of your reputation that I think it would be better with you on it.”

You stay silent, unsure.

“You can take a day to think it through, if you prefer.”

The thought of asking Porco what he thinks half-forms in your mind; but suddenly, you’re annoyed— annoyed that you’re so scared all the time, that you can’t seem to bring yourself to do things without some kind of permission, even when the opportunity seems to fall into your lap.

Things have to change.

“May I borrow a pen?”

The Director smiles— it’s a rare sight— and gives you the one from his breast pocket. You take a deep breath, and hover over the dotted line for just a second, before signing your name in glossy black ink.

In the back of your mind, you know this is objectively going to be a terrible job— one which will more likely than not end with you having to throw more bloodstained skirts away. That’s why you’re the one signing your name, and not the children of one of the higher ranking officials. It’s how these things usually work.

But as you close the door to the Director’s office behind you, you find yourself feeling more and more like you won’t regret it. Not if you can help make sure even one person suffers a little less. It’s what you’re good at.

“Ah— I was hoping you’d still be here.”

It feels like déjà vu, when you turn to the side. He looks so much like his father.

“Doctor,” you say. You don’t greet him any further.

Benjamin Klein awkwardly shuffles his feet. The last time you saw him, he had all the charm that came with being the son of a rich, important man— it had dazzled you too. Right now though, he looks a little small.

“How are you? Is the new appointment treating you—”

“I’m sorry, I’ve been away from my post for too long. Please excuse me.” You walk past him, back towards the general ward.

It feels awful, being even slightly rude to him. You think you may throw up right there from the nerves; all over his shiny leather shoes. But if you’re going to stop being scared, biting your tongue and being nice to this man simply doesn’t fit. No matter how powerful he is.

He doesn’t take the hint. That probably also had to do with being the son of a rich, important man.

“I feel terrible about what happened. It’s been a while now, and—” he starts saying, following along beside you.

And you think it’s okay to be seen talking to me again.

“— we never got to have that cup of coffee together. Will you let me make it up to you?”

There had been a time, when those meaningless flirtations he would offer you had actually made you happy. But now you’re at the ward doors, about to step back into that cold place; and all you can think is that he’s incredibly selfish.

“I don’t think I’m free, doctor.”

You catch only a glimpse of his disappointed face, as the doors swing closed.

For the longest time, you’d tried to force yourself to believe that no one had had any choice in that whole affair. But then Porco had shown you that there was always a choice.

Doctor Klein hadn’t been alone in the choices he’d made that night. You know you’re not the only one who saw that the little Marleyan boy was beyond help. You know that there were several eyes who couldn’t meet yours as you pleaded with his mother in the middle of the corridor, while your fingers were still sticky with Julie’s blood.

You shake your head to clear it. Being at the hospital always brought the memories back, but there’s no point remembering any of the details now.

(Even if no one will let you forget it.)

Eileen and the others are back. It doesn’t even cross your mind to try and approach any of them. The distance feels too big to cross by yourself.

You’re neither here nor there now, you realise— rejected by Marleyans, yet still distrusted by Eldians.

That was the strange thing about the military base, you think. It’s the strictest place— by far— when it came to marking out that boundary. But it’s also where it blurred the most; in a way it never could outside the battlefield. Fighting beside someone, bleeding beside them was a camaraderie that turned it into a line in the sand, right up at the edge of the waves.

You know that kind of connection, forged in blood, is dangerously addictive.

It’s still the best place for you to be.

You’re distracted by a tap on your shoulder, and someone calling your name, for the third time tonight. You turn, half-expecting the ghost of the deceased, previous Director Klein.

But it’s only Hannah.

(It’s still unexpected, since this ward is the farthest from the administrative wing, but not as much.)

“Took you long enough!” She brandishes a folder at you. “I didn’t trust those bitches to give this to you if I left it with them. Here, it’s a temporary schedule for next week…”

For someone with less than two years to live, Porco thinks as he leans into the plush meeting room chair and tips his head back to stare at the ceiling, Zeke really is taking his sweet time.

Just like the walls, there’s not much to look at up there— there aren’t even any windows in the room. Porco figures it’s more paranoia than any actual need for security, here on the third floor.

(After all, there was plenty of time to dream up imaginary assassins, when the last time you faced a real enemy was twenty years ago.)

It’s his first time being deemed important enough to be here. This is the fancy meeting room— the one where the asses usually occupying these chairs are highly paid, and have great retirement benefits. Where you walk in, and are immediately faced with a row of larger-than-life, grandiose portraits of former Generals; decorated with medals and standing in front of red velvet curtain backgrounds.

Like he said, not much to look at.

Porco gets up, and walks towards the only things worth anyone’s attention in the room— the row of copper plaques right below the paintings. He runs his hand over the engraving. Names. Dozens of names, his among them. Marley’s titan holders.

Their names, and their years of service.

(Only the years of service. The military didn’t care when you were born, or how long you’d gotten to grow up.)

He follows the lists down to the very end, running his fingers over each line, letting the syllables of each name rest in his mind for a second before moving on to the next. He’d like it if someone would do that for him, he figures.

And then he arrives at his own.

Porco Galliard: 850 —

It's like an open grave. He tries to imagine what it would look like in ten years, picturing the curves of the eight and the six and the three that would one day be carved into the plate.

For a moment, he’s surprised by how naturally the number comes to him. And then he steels himself. No, there’s nothing surprising about it. He will make sure he gets his full term. He won’t leave you behind any sooner than he has to.

Porco’s eyes flick to the name above.

Marcel Galliard. 845-846.

One year. The twelve years before; with all the meals they’d shared, the times they’d walked home together, the countless memories of birthdays, of fights, and just plain talking in the middle of the night— none of that was worthy of being recorded. No, just the one year.

(A rare courtesy from the military, really. Marcel hadn’t actually made it past the winter.)

Maybe it was for the higher ups too, Porco muses. To help them rationalise how they treated people like tools, simply discarded once they were too blunt to use.

But they aren’t just tools, they’re people; and they stubbornly persist.

The memories of a direct predecessor came like remembered dreams— the details always vague, but sometimes the emotions were remarkably clear. But going back any further was difficult. There was no telling what could trigger it. Porco had spent hours in their old room after he inherited the Jaw, rummaging through Marcel’s things— increasingly desperately— to no avail.

But that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

Pieck tells him of an inexplicable happiness, a sense of security when she smells apple pies now. In the brief time they’d had before Marcel was sent to Paradis, he’d suddenly been able to cut and shuffle a deck of cards like a seasoned magician. Porco now gets uneasy on snowy days, when he used to love them.

(He can’t help but feel he got the short end of the stick there, somehow.)

He wonders what will be left of you, in the memories he has to pass down. Will his successors love sweet vanilla, like he tasted on your lips? Will they be comforted by the sight of the elms lining the streets in the old part of the city? Maybe they would feel strangely compelled to turn their eyes to the ground, and watch the swaying shadows of the leaves on the cobblestone.

Porco misses you.

He hasn’t been able to talk to you— really talk to you— for two days now; not since you anxiously approached him on the training grounds under the guise of having to reschedule his regular checkup, and told him about the temporary schedule that would have you working the evening shifts at the hospital all week.

(Porco can only think God had decided to fuck it up for him again.)

(One time, when he’d made a similar comment, Colt had said with some surprise that he didn’t think Porco was the religious type. Porco doesn’t really think of himself as a religious type either, he just likes having something to be angry with.)

He glances at the clock on the wall. You should be locking up the clinic right about now, busily wiping down the counters and locking the cabinets.

“What are you smiling about, Pock?” Pieck asks him.

He’s shocked that he didn’t hear her coming up to him, and that he hadn’t remembered to keep his face straight while he was thinking about you. “Nothing. Just in a good mood.”

She looks at him wryly. “I won’t say you’re never in a good mood, but it’s rare, and you’ve been grumpy all day so far.” I’m not buying it, her eyes say.

Drop it, he says, rolling his own. “Seriously, it’s nothing.”

She sighs dramatically. “You’ve been so distant lately.”

It’s a lighthearted comment, but Porco immediately feels guilty. There’s never been a lot he doesn’t share with her, not since they became the two left behind. “Pieck, I—”

Pieck smiles and pats his shoulder. “It’s just a joke. I’m not going anywhere yet, don’t worry.”

(Her name is, after all, right above Marcel’s.)

He thinks this is the part where he should be a good friend, and reassure her that he’s not shutting her out. Tell her he’ll tell her later, at a better time. But he knows there will never be a time where he wouldn’t be burdening her with his secret. So he just swallows, and nods.

“I haven’t been in here in a long time,” she comments. “The plaques are a little creepy, right?”

More than a little, if he’s being honest. “It’s like they can’t wait to get rid of us.”

“Good luck to them.” Pieck runs her finger up the list; going back thirty, forty years. It stops, on one Francis Zimmer. “Him. He’s the one who liked apple pie, I think. I looked through the newspaper archives in the public library.” She looks a little sad as she continues. “He asked for it as his last meal.”

Porco bumps her with his elbow. “Don’t go getting all mopey on me until after the meeting, please.”

“I won’t, that’s your job,” she teases back. “How about we go sit down again? I think Reiner must be getting lonely.”

Porco glances back over his shoulder, to where Reiner is still sitting at the long meeting table. He’s poured himself some water, but it sits untouched in front of him; as he forlornly contemplates it.

“I think he’s about to start crying into his glass,” Porco says incredulously. “I don’t want to be there for that.”

Pieck sighs. “He’s been through a lot, Pock. Cut him some slack.”

“I cut him plenty of slack,” Porco scoffs.

He’s about to continue, but there’s voices in the corridor, and the door opens. Commander Magath walks in, followed by another army official, and then Zeke.

Once everyone has taken their seats, Zeke starts to distribute the stack of red folders he has with him.

“Everyone comfortable?” he asks, jovially. “This has been in the works for a while now, but I can finally introduce to you all, Project Merlot.”

The army official— he’s got an absurd amount of medals pinned to his chest— scowls at him. “Before Yaeger continues, I am reminding everyone that anything which is discussed in this room cannot be repeated outside of it.”

“Of course, Major,” Zeke says. The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he rests his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers. “It would be disastrous if the public were to hear that there will be pure titans inside Liberio quite soon, after all.”

It’s remarkable, you think, how boldly the mess hall on base puts up a menu every day; when everyone knows they’ll run out of almost everything by three, and that whatever’s left will be indistinguishable by taste, sight, or smell.

“I think this one’s yours,” you tell Claire, frowning at the ambiguous brown lumps floating in the gravy in front of you. “These are potatoes, right?”

Claire pokes at them with a fork. “I don’t know. They feel kind of chicken-y to me.”

“I think they’re both potatoes.”

Claire picks up a piece with her fork, and cautiously takes a bite. She chews thoughtfully. “...at least there’s pudding today,” she says after a moment of consideration, nose scrunched.

Someone shouts near the outside entrance to the hall. You and Claire turn to look down the rows of long wooden tables. A group of soldiers has just come in, shoving open both doors, and everyone sitting nearby is yelling at them to stop letting the cold in. Outside, the autumn afternoon is grey and overcast.

The sun has only shown hints of itself since this morning; when you woke up to a day so cold, you could have sworn you’d slept through the months to winter. The brown cardigan you’re wearing over your uniform is barely enough to keep you comfortable.

The hall is warm enough though, with so many people in it; but the noise of a dozen conversations from several very loud, very boisterous young soldiers blends together into a cloud of sound where you can’t pick out any one thing. It buzzes in the background of what Claire is saying, drowning her words in its mush.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?” you ask, squinting your eyes, as if it will help your ears.

She repeats herself, a little louder. “I said, is that the lipstick I gave you? It looks nice. I told you it would suit you.”

“Oh, thank you.”

When you’d reached for your usual shade this morning, you’d remember Porco’s story about Braun. It had just been a silly thought, that you should change the colour just in case— you doubt Braun even knew you were wearing makeup at all— but you’d tried on a different one just for fun. The brownish-pink looked unexpectedly nice.

It had made the ache in your chest even worse.

You want to be able to show it to Porco. It’s been four days since you’ve been able to see him, and each passing sunset makes you miss the golden evenings in the clinic more and more.

(You miss him so much.)

“Are you sick?” Claire asks. “You look a little pale.”

“I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit.

Claire scowls. “Are those idiots still giving you trouble during your shifts? You have to report them, it’s harassment—”

“I’m fine,” you insist. Their behaviour honestly hasn’t been bothering you all that much recently. “It’s just a few of them, and I don’t like them anyway.”

Claire looks at you suspiciously, but then sighs and pulls out a small notebook from her pocket. “If that’s what you want to do. Do you mind if I work on some of the wedding planning? I’m running behind.”

“Go ahead,” you say. “What are you working on?”

“The guest list,” she replies. “We decided to keep it small, so I’m deciding who gets the cut.”

She looks concerningly gleeful when she says that.

“You’ll be invited, of course.” Claire says, misinterpreting your expression. “But I won’t have the invitations printed for a while. Do you need a plus one?”

There’s the smallest lump in your throat when you say you don’t.

Claire hums, focused on her list. “Cassandra’s out, that’s obvious.” You don’t know who Cassandra is, or why Claire is sneering at her name. “Michael stays,” she continues absently.

“Michael?” you ask. “The soldier from the hospital? I didn’t think you liked him.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t like him, but I can’t not invite him. After all that business with his family…”

Claire vaguely explains, but you never do find out what happened to Michael Sells and his family; because at that moment, another gust of cold wind washes through the hall, and you instinctively turn your attention to the door.

You see the red armbands first, and your heartbeat quickens.

Zeke Yeager walks through the door, followed by Pieck. You’re disappointed, but you keep waiting, watching the door that’s slowly swinging closed. Just when you bite the inside of your cheek, and prepare to turn your attention back to Claire, it’s pushed open again.

Porco.

You don’t know how he immediately knows to look in your direction, but he does; and you have to clasp your own wrist in your lap to stop yourself from waving at him. He doesn’t acknowledge you— he doesn’t even smile— but his gaze keeps coming back to linger on you as he makes his way across the room. He sits with the other two Warriors. The bench faces you; but it’s on the opposite side of the room— the unofficial Eldian side.

(You wonder if you had sat closer to that invisible wall, if you could have found some cracks to whisper to him through.)

“Do you think I should ask the caterers for crab cakes after all?” Claire asks.

“I like them,” you reply.

Porco’s resting his face on his palm, elbow on the table. He’s turned towards the other two, but you think you can see him stealing sideways glances at you, over his fingers. You swallow and shift your eyes away. You can’t stare. Not this openly, not here.

“I’m getting the blue dresses for the bridesmaids, I think. It’ll be great for a summer wedding.”

“Blue is lovely,” you say, a hand over your face to cover your smile.

You fake interest in Claire's notebook, and slowly raise your eyes to look over her shoulder. Porco is talking to Pieck now, attention away from you. You take the opportunity to really look at him. You feel like you could do that for hours; brushing your fingers through his longer blonde strands, running your thumbs over his face, memorising every detail.

(How cruel that you have to wait, when he’s right there in front of you, and you already know you’re condemned to spend more time apart than together.)

“Do you want to come clothes shopping with me on Thursday?”

“I’d love to.”

Porco makes eye contact with you again. You think you must be going insane; because even that little quirk of his mouth, the biggest reaction he can afford, envelopes with you a warmth that blossoms from your heart and goes to the very tips of your fingers. You’ve never felt this kind of happiness before. So pure, and so unreasonable.

(For now, it’s enough to endure the sorrow of having to pretend you don’t adore him— of having even the breadth of this room between you.)

Claire is putting away her notebook. “You haven’t touched your food! Are you sure you aren’t sick?”

You scoop up the maybe-potatoes. “I’m just a little distracted.”

Lunch passes much too quickly after that, as you finish your meal; stealing glances across the room the whole time. All too soon, you’re getting up and following Claire towards the door. It takes an immense effort to not look towards Porco’s table as you cross it.

The chilly breeze is still blowing, but the sun is peeking out from behind the clouds now. It’s one of those early autumn days that just can’t decide if it wants to be warm or cold.

“Do you mind hanging back for five minutes while I go to the bathroom?” Claire asks.

You agree to wait, and go to stand behind a pillar to protect yourself from the wind blowing through the open corridor; while she hurries down to the bathrooms. You notice a poster crudely pasted on the concrete, its edges lumpy and shrivelled from the paste. It’s a notice for a new weekly charity clinic in the internment zone, sponsored by the military hospital; asking Eldian soldiers to let their families know.

Interesting, you think. I wonder if Director Klein is behind it.

You’re perusing the poster, trying to figure out how you can volunteer, when you suddenly feel the weight of an arm wrapped around your shoulders. You tense up, about to shout in surprise— and then Porco’s voice is whispering in your ear.

“You look nice today.”

The cry catches in your throat. His warm breath— the ghost of that whisper— lingers against your ear. His body brushes against yours, familiar enough to make you blush. Something is slipped into your hand.

And then, in the same second, the weight disappears— and you see him casually continuing down the corridor.

(Did he just…?)

Your heart is pounding. You clutch your cardigan around your body, and whip your head all around to check if anyone saw.

There’s not a soul.

(He didn’t even let me see his face, you think, giddy.)

You look down at the thing he’d pressed into your hand. A small sheet of paper, messily torn and folded in half. A note.

‘I want to see you,’ it reads, in a hasty print. ‘Meet me in the usual place whenever you come back. Even if it’s late. I’ll be waiting for you.’

You hold the note against your chest, willing your heart rate to go down before Claire comes back.

It doesn’t feel as cold anymore.

The night before Marcel left for Paradis, he’d shaken Porco awake, and they’d slipped out of the house.

They’d squeezed themselves through the gap in the wired fence— there was no need to, not with the red sashes that now encircled their arms, but it had made the whole thing a lot more exciting— and made their way past the edge of the city and into the first of the rolling fields on its outskirts.

The grass had been damp, and the crickets had been loud. The stars had stretched out above them, twinkling in a sky so filled and endless that for once, Porco hadn’t felt caged.

That’s the kind of sky he sees right now, through the branches of the elm.

It’s almost midnight. The moon is high and full.

He’s worried— not because he thinks you won’t come (the thought hasn’t even crossed his mind), but because it’s late, and because it’s cold. He’s leaning against the tree, making sure to stay in the shadows; as he tries to picture the route back from the hospital.

The road is well lit, he tells himself. She’ll be safe.

He sighs, wishing he could come pick you up from your work.

(Did you wish that too? He wonders if you ever felt envious of the other nurse, who he’s seen meeting the PSA agent at the gates more than once.)

The crack of a dried leaf pierces through the night. It's the sound of something trying to be quiet. Porco flattens himself against the tree and cautiously turns his head to look around, heart rate kicking up.

It's just a cat, padding into the moonlight.

It spends a few moments sniffing around, before suddenly darting away across the grounds and into the darkness, chasing something only it can see.

Porco relaxes again, and turns his eyes back towards the stars.

On nights like this, when the wind carries the scent of damp earth from somewhere far away, it pulls him back through the years and right into that field.

Marcel had done most of the talking. It hadn’t been because Porco didn’t have anything to tell him. No, he’d had too much. So much that it all got tangled up and stuck in his throat, a big ball of questions and hopes and anxieties that he’d been too young and too embarrassed to whittle down to the one thing he really needed to say.

I’ll miss you, come home soon.

Marcel had filled the silence by pointing out constellations, and telling Porco the stories he'd read about them. It wasn't the kind of thing either of them ever talked about— there hadn't been much time for fairytales after they entered the Warrior program— but they'd made Marcel learn how to navigate by the stars to prepare for his mission; and he claimed it helped him remember everything.

“The way I see it,” he'd said, suddenly roughly pulling Porco into a headlock and mussing up his hair, “we're going to be looking at the same sky. So I won't be that far away, not really.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Porco had scoffed, scrabbling at his brother's arm, “That's so sappy. I'm gonna throw up.”

Nearly ten years on, he remembers the waver in his brother's voice, and now figures Marcel had been saying that for his own benefit as much as for Porco’s. He thinks Marcel may just have been a boy who liked stories.

Ten years on, that field has a factory on it, belching smoke into the sky and vomiting muddied water into the grass.

(He can't ever go back, but Porco always did think those old stories were pretty depressing anyway. The wisdom of the ancestors seemed to amount to ‘if you step out of line, you will die horribly, and all of it will be your fault’.)

Porco takes a deep breath. It’s cold enough to sting.

And then, he hears your voice calling for him; so soft it’s almost a whisper.

“Porco? Are you here?”

He steps out from under the shadow of the elm, heart pounding with anticipation, and sees you under the moonlight. You’re searching for him, clinging to the strap of your bag; and turning all around, taking faltering, circling steps.

Then you see him, and stop.

Porco thinks that joyous smile on your face is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He’s so enamoured by it, he forgets to move his feet, and you reach him first.

“I’m late,” you say, still whispering. You’re standing barely an inch away.

It’s still too far. “That’s okay, I just got here,” Porco lies. You’re worth waiting for.

He pulls you by the arm, into the shadows with him; and gently pushes you back against the tree, one hand cradling the back of your head. He can barely see your face, but it's enough.

(For now, it’s enough.)

There's no words; only the sound of slow breaths as you gaze up at him. You let your bag slide down to the ground. It lands with a muffled thump. Time slows down as your eyes wander across his face, finally settling on his lips. Your hands come to his shoulders. Porco’s free arm snakes around your waist.

This is where you’re supposed to be, he thinks as he leans down. Right here, with me.

It’s been too damn long.

He missed how warm your lips are. He missed how your hands clutch at his jacket, how they trail up the sides of his jaw; and further up into his hair. It's a little different today, though— your fingers are surprisingly open and free, without inhibition, when they’re tugging at it. They’re telling him that you like this, you like this.

He knows, because he feels you kissing him back just as fervently, pressing your chest up against him; heat radiating from—

Ah, fuck. Porco reluctantly straightens up.

(He needs to control himself. He can’t let himself go too far, too quickly.)

“We should— we should go inside,” he manages to say, blood still rushing in his ears. His breath mists in the cold air.

(He has to do this right.)

“I— yes. We should. Inside.” You sound dazed. It’s almost enough to make him lose his resolve.

Porco leads you by the hand, making sure your path hugs the shadows around the building as much as possible. At the door, he waits as you fish the keyring out of your coat pocket, and fumble with the small padlock.

Once you’re both inside— the door locked behind you— he has an idea.

“How about we go upstairs?”

You pause, then nod. So he takes your hand again— so addictively soft, and smaller than his— and leads you past the clinic, and through the narrower door that opens into a cramped stairwell. It’s windowless, and completely dark.

Porco wraps an arm around your waist, and firmly grips the bannister with the other. He tells you to be careful. The polished wooden stairs creak as he climbs up one flight, and then another with you; moving his feet cautiously into the darkness, more sweeps than steps.

(He feels every breath you take, and wishes he could always keep you this close.)

After a while, the bannister stops abruptly. He feels around blindly in the dark, keeping you pulled snug against him. There’s a door handle. He gives it a turn. Locked.

He uses his fingertips to trace along it, and finds the indent at its base.

“Get your keys.” He instinctively keeps his voice low.

He hears the keys on the ring jingling in the dark. “I think I have the right one,” you say; quiet but excited.

Porco guides your hand to the lock. He hears you taking three tries to push the key in, and then the bolts sliding back.

The door opens, into a room that’s almost big enough to be a hall. Moonlight washes it with a faint glow, incredibly bright after the pitch dark of the stairwell; bright enough to see the dust motes in the air. The wallpaper is peeling. Cardboard boxes are piled waist-high all around, some of their bottoms torn and the files inside them spilling out. What look like old, rusted bed frames are pushed against the farthest wall.

It resembles the older wards at the hospital, with nice, tall windows all along the outside walls. Framed inside the tallest, widest window at the end of the room— behind a simple iron grill— are the elm branches. The moon peeks through the leaves.

The place is old, abandoned, and dusty.

Porco finally feels at peace.

“Oh, it’s so much prettier at night,” you breathe. “Where can we sit?”

Porco hums, and picks his way through the maze of boxes with you, finally finding a relatively clear spot on the floor right in front of the large window. It’s a little chilly to be sitting on the bare wood, but when you hug his arm and curl into his side, it doesn’t feel all that bad anymore.

“I… brought us something,” you tell him, a little hesitantly. You’ve let your coat open, and the white of your blouse glows in the moonlight.

“Actual chocolate?” he asks with a chuckle.

You laugh. He’s missed the sound. “No. I wanted to get us something sweet, but all the shops were closed because it’s so late.” You pull your bag into your lap; and after digging around for a moment, take out a bottle. “This was all I could find.”

“Is that wine?” Porco asks, an eyebrow raised.

“You’re always doing things for me,” you say, sounding like you really want him to understand something, but he’s not sure what. “And I just let you. I— ” You stop, and bite your lip. “Do you like it?”

Porco grins at you. He’s more of a hard liquor kind of guy, but somehow, whiskey doesn’t seem half as appealing right now. “Of course I do. Pour me some?”

You look pleased with yourself . “I can go get glasses from the clinic.”

Porco doesn’t like the idea of you stumbling around in that dark stairwell. “No. We’re drinking straight from the bottle.”

“Exciting!”

(That surprises him. He thought you'd be a little more flustered about it. He'd been hoping for it, in fact. He thinks it’s adorable.)

The key ring jingles again as you twist one of the keys into the cork, and struggle with it for a few seconds. Porco’s about to offer to help, when it comes out with a pop. A few drops spill on your coat. The small stains look like ink under the moon.

(Where did you learn how to do that?)

“Oh, I hope that comes out okay,” you say worriedly. You tilt your head back and swallow a mouthful of wine, then hold it out towards him. “Here. It’s good.”

Porco accepts the bottle but doesn't drink. He leans back a little, resting on his palm. “You seem a little… different.”

In the dark, he can just make out the anxious look in your eyes. “...Good different?” you ask.

He considers it. What was it really, that felt different? The way you’d kissed him. How you matched him step for step in the stairwell earlier, when he thought you’d be scared, and now this wine…

You seemed surer of yourself, Porco realises.

“Yeah, good different,” he tells you with a grin. He takes a swig of wine. It’s plenty sweet. “What changed?”

A little of that shyness he likes so much comes back; and you can't meet his eyes, even in the moonlight, for your next words. “Maybe you're good for me.”

(He may be good for you, he thinks; but you’re still the best thing that’s ever happened to him.)

Porco kisses you, once, twice, and then once more because he can’t help himself; tasting the wine on your lips each time. “Can I ask you something? Why did they send you here?” How did I get so lucky?

It’s a lighthearted question, but something shifts. You tense a little, enough for him to notice.

“You don’t have to talk about—” he starts.

You sigh. “No, I want to tell you. I have, for a while.”

And then you tell him, all about a little Eldian girl named Julie, who had been in a terrible accident— a train derailment— with over a hundred others. You tell him how she’d had a piece of iron impaled straight through her stomach, and how she had been crying without making a sound, waiting all alone— abandoned in a hallway like a discarded doll— for someone to help her, while her blood continued to stain the carpet. That you’d finally convinced a doctor to attend to her, and how he’d floundered in the middle of it; after they brought in a Marleyan boy.

“He left me—” you swallow thickly, and take a few deep breaths. “He left me and Eileen with Julie, and I had— I had my hand inside her, to put pressure on it, to stop the bleeding—”

(He thinks you drink a little more of the wine than you should while you’re talking; but even though your lip wobbles and you choke more than once— a knife twists in his heart each time— the tears stay glistening in your eyes and don’t drop.)

“It’s okay,” he soothes. “You don’t have to finish.”

You shake your head. “The boy was dead already. I don’t know if they messed up at intake, or if he died on the way to the ward, but he was dead. Crush injuries. But Dr. Klein didn’t want the paperwork to look like he gave up on him to work on an Eldian girl.”

Porco doesn’t comment, though he has lots of choice words for this Dr. Klein lining up on his tongue. He just comfortingly rubs your arm.

“I yelled at him to stop being ridiculous, trying to revive a dead body. And it wasn’t— I didn’t make a mistake, I know it. He was right next to me, I could see—” You stop abruptly, and then continue after a moment. “I eventually got him to come back. But the little boy’s mother wanted someone to blame, and she got it in her head that he didn’t get the help he needed because of me. Dr. Klein, Eileen… none of them backed me up.”

“Do you regret doing it?” Porco asks, gently.

“No!” you cry, snapping your face up to look at him. “I just— I don’t know if I made a difference.”

“It must have made a difference to her.”

You shake your head again. “Julie died anyway. She was too far gone. And I don’t know if Dr. Klein was right to stop trying.”

Porco pulls you into his lap without warning. You squeak in surprise, but he doesn’t let you move, holding you tight against him.

“It made a difference to her,” he repeats. “Don’t you dare think otherwise.” He feels your hand braced against his chest, how the shaky breaths against his collarbone begin to slow.

“Thank you, Porco,” you say after a minute, and he thinks you may be crying now; but he knows you’ll be alright. He hears it in your voice.

Porco kisses the top of your head. “It’s the truth.”

For a minute, it’s silent.

Then you speak again. “I think you were loved a lot.”

He raises his eyebrows. Several faces flash through his head. “Look, I don’t know what you heard, but—”

“Not like that!” you say with a laugh. “I mean growing up. Your family must have loved you so much, because…” Your voice grows softer “...because you’re so good at showing affection. You must have learned from them.”

Porco feels his face heating up. “It’s not anything special—”

“It is,” you insist, as you curl into him a little more comfortably. “You’re good at it.”

Porco holds you tighter, feeling the warmth of your body, and the calming way your chest rises and falls with each breath. Your comment stays in his head as the conversation continues, even when your breathing slows and you start slurring your words.

(He can tell you’re falling asleep. He wonders if he should walk you back down so you can get to your room, and a real bed; but then you reach for his hand, and he decides an hour or two like this wouldn’t hurt.)

Was he loved? He thinks he was. He thinks of his mother, who made sure he never felt alone or insecure, after his father was gone. Who was always there to hug and kiss him, and tuck him into bed; no matter how tired she was. Who pretended she had already eaten, when there wasn’t enough food left in the pantry for three portions. Who now pretends she isn’t worried to death about him every time they send him to the edges of the empire.

He thinks of Marcel. Porco knows he was reckless— is reckless— and that Marcel had often been the only thing standing between him and his teeth getting knocked out. How the only thing he ever wanted in return was to ruffle his hair up a little bit. He knows he only learned how to get along with children, because Marcel had figured out how to get along with him first.

Porco wishes he could introduce you to Marcel. He thinks you would have liked him.

He thinks Marcel would have liked you too.

You wonder if the salesclerk— was that even what you were supposed to call her? It didn’t feel right— has sore cheeks from smiling so much. The slope of her lips hasn’t shifted even a little from when you walked into the boutique about an hour ago. It’s still perfect— formal, yet welcoming.

The older woman instructs the girl modelling a red dress to spin and show off the flare. She’s on a little round platform. It’s disturbingly reminiscent of a music box with a ballerina.

On the opposite sofa, Claire frowns. “I don’t know… do you have one that’s more coquelicot than rose?”

“Don’t force yourself to like it, Claire,” Sophie says, sipping on her champagne. “I know the embroidery is pretty, but it’s not worth it. The rolled hem won’t hold up with that fabric.” She addresses the woman. “Do you have something similar with a blind hem?”

Hannah pinches your blouse and pulls you closer to her, a little clumsily. Her drink tips dangerously as she leans over the cushion to whisper in your ear.

“What’s the difference?” she hisses. “And what in the world is coquelicot?”

“I don’t know,” you hiss back. “Isn’t that your fourth glass already?”

“Is it? They’re free though, it’s okay.”

Hannah has certainly adapted to this place better than you have.

You knew Claire was rich, but you didn’t know she was this rich. When she’d invited you to come clothes shopping with her, you hadn’t exactly expected her to patronise the night markets; but this was one of the most expensive boutiques in Liberio. The kind of place where you didn’t have to do anything for yourself, not even trying the clothes on.

It must look even more beautiful in the daytime, you think.

Everything is detailed. There’s luxurious gold trimming (real gold) on the creamy white walls. An ornate crystal chandelier lights up the cosy space, along with half a dozen lamps that have lacey shades. The legs on every table and side table are made of a delicately twisted iron, meant to resemble vines. Rolls of the most beautifully printed and embroidered fabrics you’ve ever seen are draped over them.

It should have felt cluttered, but somehow it’s all so tasteful it just looks intimidatingly expensive.

Even the sofa you’re sitting on— the cushions are a muted mint, incredibly soft, and its blue-green throw pillows are embroidered with red roses and pink peonies. The threads are so thin and delicate, you’re afraid to rest your weight against them.

Hannah doesn’t seem to mind though. She sits comfortably, with her ankles crossed, smiling pleasantly (and a touch too widely, unlike the salesclerk— or perhaps the ‘manager’ would be a better word?) as she looks around the room.

“Claire!” she says suddenly. “Look at that green silk. I think that would look so nice on you.”

Claire looks where she’s pointing and nods. “Show me what you have in that fabric, please.”

“Gladly, Madame.” The salesclerk— manager, proprietress?— claps her hands, and the ballerina hops off her platform. They both glide to the back of the shop. You see Ballerina undoing her buttons on the way.

Hannah stands up abruptly, and sways in place.

Claire raises an eyebrow at you. You mouth a four, pointing at your own champagne flute, and she stifles a laugh.

“Maybe you should sit down, Han.” Sophie suggests, eyebrow raised. “Or at least put the glass away. You’re going to spill it.”

You’ve known Hannah since your time at the hospital, and you spend most of your time with Claire. One is the opposite of secretive, and the other is far too poised to ever need to hide anything. Sophie is still a mystery to you.

Sophie has only ever spoken to you once— on the train back from the Mid-East— and you’ve seen her a handful of times while you were there. She’s always looked more like a strict school teacher to you than a nurse, with her half rimmed glasses and her black hair usually pulled into a tight bun.

Hannah looks at the glass in her hands, a thoughtful expression on her face. Then she raises it to her lips, and drinks the whole thing in a single breath.

“No spills,” she says, holding the glass upside-down with a flourish.

Claire laughs out loud, while Sophie sighs. Hannah does a little bow.

You can’t help laughing too. Even aside from Hannah never failing to raise everyone’s spirits, you’re already in a good mood.

(You feel well rested for the first time in days.)

Hannah plops back down next to you. “Claire, didn’t you say you wanted to tell us something earlier?”

Claire suddenly looks very serious. “I did.” She runs a finger around the edge of her glass, and then takes a deep breath. “I’m resigning.”

“You are? When?” you ask, dismayed.

“You’re leaving?” Hannah cries.

Sophie just looks annoyed. “You’re quitting your job? Claire, no matter how nice he is—”

Claire waves her hands to shush everyone. “I’m not quitting being a nurse. And I’m not leaving Liberio. I applied to the new private hospital.” She takes a sip of her drink. “It only makes sense. It’s closer to where the apartment is, and the pay is better.”

(You’re surprised to see Claire looking a little sad, about something that made sense.)

“And,” she says, looking at you. “They’re still doing the interiors, so I won’t be gone for a while. I just wanted to give everyone a heads up.”

Sophie leans back, satisfied. “The private sector pay is great. I’m much happier out of the military. Don’t have goddamn sergeants thinking they can yell at me.”

“Oh, no one yells at Claire,” you say without thinking; your tongue loosened by the alcohol, and by how touched you are at her reassuring you. “They’re all too scared.”

Sophie peers at you over her lenses. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but… how are you so pleasant?”

You feel your face warming. “What do you mean?”

“You’re so nice. Everyone gets a little jaded after seeing the frontlines, but look at you.”

“It's because she didn't see much of it,” Claire says. “She was only there for the last couple of months.”

The Warrior Unit was supposed to be a temporary assignment. Just somewhere the board decided to stash you, out of the public eye; until the whole business with Julie had been sorted. You weren’t really part of the unit, not back then.

And so you’d been left behind while the rest of them were sent to the Mid East. But you never did apologise— Director Klein ended up having no choice but to sign off on your formal transfer.

(It had happened almost overnight. It led to Claire finding you standing awkwardly at the entrance of the tent; wearing boots that had been issued last-minute, and at least one size too big. They’d made you feel even more like a child, far out of your depth.)

Sophie adjusts her glasses. “You haven’t even seen titans?”

“No.”

“Hope it stays that way.”

“This wasn't like Helena, Soph,” Claire adds, “The Warriors steamroll over everything. And it all happens so far away, relatively speaking.”

Hannah claps her hands. “This isn’t a fun topic! Claire, congratulations on the new job.”

Sophie shakes her head, as if to clear it, and nods. “Congratulations. Maybe I’ll apply too.”

“Oh!” Hannah suddenly sits bolt upright. “And maybe I’ll apply to the Warrior Unit!”

Sophie smiles wryly. “I thought your plan was having a rich patient fall in love with you. Not a lot of eligible bachelors over there.”

“No, but she’s over there.” Hannah gives you a one armed hug. From her, it’s as warm and comforting as a bear hug from most others. (Even if her drunkenness has her clumsily punching your arm on the first try.) “What’s so great about guys anyway? I don’t have half as much fun as I do with you three. Claire, is Eric fun?”

“Not as much as you,” she replies, with a barely straight face.

Porco's pretty fun, you think. He always makes me laugh.

But there's a tinge of melancholy to the thought.

Claire was leaving. She would leave, and one day she’d go so far— Odiha, or maybe even further— and you wouldn’t be able to see her anymore. They all would. And then Porco would too.

And then no one would know.

No one would know that he’s more than fun. They wouldn’t know how he’s been kinder to you than anyone else in your entire life. They wouldn't know that he makes you feel safe enough to fall asleep in his arms.

No one would know how he made you feel wanted.

They wouldn’t know, because even though it’s safest when it feels like you’re the only two people in the world, it meant that world would disappear with him.

“You look like you finally got a good night of sleep,” Claire comments.

Your heart starts to race, though you’re not sure exactly why. “Oh, yes. I slept well last night.”

(No one knows.)

The first thing that makes Colt think something is up, is when Porco spends the whole night chewing with his mouth closed.

The second, is his reaction to Olivia telling him— very suggestively— as she pours him yet another glass of whiskey, that her shift would be over in another hour.

“Yeah? It’s still pretty early, but be careful on your way home,” Porco says.

Colt chokes on his drink.

Zeke snorts.

Pieck’s eyes go wide.

A stream of beer dribbles out the corner of Reiner’s mouth.

The bar is busy, and loud. There’s a table celebrating a birthday, and the residents of the internment zone were never ones to let an excuse to celebrate pass them by. You had to take the happy times when you could, even if they were borrowed from someone else. Cheers periodically erupt from near the dartboard. It’s difficult to see through the crowd surrounding it, but Colt’s fairly sure the birthday boy has taken it off the wall, and added an extra challenge to the whole thing by moving it wildly around.

He’d been meaning to go join in, when Porco Galliard turned down a hookup. Colt has only just started getting buzzed, but the shock of it almost sobers him.

Olivia, with her attractive red lip, and long dark hair that could only be described as tresses, was reminiscent of the princesses from Falco’s old books; if those princesses knew how to make the best drinks in Liberio, and seemed to have an aversion to buttoning the top half of their blouses.

In short, it was not the response of a rational man; especially one with Porco’s habits.

Pieck claps him on the shoulders. “Porco! You shouldn’t have come out if you were feeling ill! Here, drink my water.”

Porco looks bewildered. “Feeling ill—”

Reiner wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and sighs. “I hope you don’t throw up in our room. Pace yourself, for god’s sake.”

“Why would I—”

Colt gently takes the still full glass of whiskey out of his hand. “You know there’s no need to try and keep up with me, right? I would never think less of—”

Porco snatches it back. “What the fuck are all of you talking about?”

Olivia, to her credit, seemed to be taking it in stride. She leans forward, elbows on the counter. Colt idly wonders if the buttons had actually popped off at some point. Or maybe it was more comfortable for her like that. It did seem too small. He doesn’t think he should ask.

“It sounds like they’re concerned about you not coming home with me, champ,” she says with a playful grin. “Is it something I said or did… the last couple dozen times?”

“Helos,” Porco mutters. “I’m fucking fine. I don’t mean to insult you, Liv. I just want to drink and go to bed today.”

Zeke conspicuously sets down his glass, and takes a puff of his cigarette; which usually meant he would be spouting some sage wisdom. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later, Galliard.”

Porco rolls his eyes. But he doesn’t interrupt. It never works. Colt would know.

"You're still in the sweet spot right now," Zeke continues, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the already hazy air of the bar. "Where they don't see a dead man, only some fun with a guarantee of no strings attached. No offense, Miss Olivia.”

“None taken. He’s very fun.”

“That makes him sound selfish,” Pieck comments. “Pock here’s quite sensitive, actually.” The way she says it, it’s somehow genuine and teasing at the same time.

Zeke waves the lit cigarette around as he speaks. It flits through the smoke like a boozey firefly. (Colt’s aware the metaphor is absurd, but the alcohol is starting to hit him. People said he never knew when it did, but look. He did.)

Porco slams back his drink. Colt winces. That was most definitely a sipping whisky.

“Fuck you guys,” Porco says, voice hoarse. “I need to take a leak.” He shoves himself backwards, the bar stool screeching, and then stalks off in the direction of the bathrooms.

Colt trades a look with Pieck.

(Really, he wanted to exchange a look with everyone to see what they thought of that, but she was the only one who looked back.)

“I don’t know what’s up with him,” she says. “He’s starting to worry me though, to be honest.”

Colt finishes his drink in another two gulps. He was the only one who could help Porco now. Pieck couldn’t go into the men’s bathrooms.

And so he goes after him.

He finds Porco not inside the bathroom, but in the hallway outside of it, where the noise of the bar is contained behind a stout wooden door.

(So he didn’t have to piss, Colt thinks. Maybe that’s important.)

“Galliard.”

Porco, who was moodily staring at his own boots, snaps his head up in disbelief. “Leave me alone. I’m not horny all the time, fucking sue me.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Colt asks.

“Lots of things. Want a list?”

Before he can chide him for the sarcasm, Colt trips on his own feet, and stumbles rather than walks the last few steps. He ends up leaning heavily on Porco’s shoulders, trying to regain his balance.

For all his flaws, Porco doesn’t try to push him away. “Are you drunk already? We haven’t even been here for an hour.”

Colt raises his head. He can find his balance later. “Galliard,” he says, looking him straight in the eyes, so he knows Colt is serious, “you know you can trust me, right?”

Porco’s throat bobs. “Yeah, man,” he says, voice thick. “I trust you.”

There’s no easy way to ask this. Turning down Olivia, the hurrying away after showers— it could only mean one thing, from him.

Colt takes a deep breath. “Galliard, after your injury. I know the nurses treated you—” He feels Porco tense under his hands. “— and it’s difficult to even think about, but—”

Porco isn’t breathing. He stares at Colt, eyes wide.

“—but did your dick grow back wrong?”

There’s silence, punctuated by uproarious laughter from the bar.

And then, Colt’s on the floor.

Porco pushed him.

“Motherfucking hell, piece of fucking shit—”

He’s swearing up a storm, but really, Colt doesn’t mind. It’s not directed at him. It’s just how Porco deals with his emotions, sometimes. It stopped bothering him after the first five years. (As long as Falco's not around.)

“Well something’s bothering you,” he insists from the floor. It's disturbingly sticky as he pushes himself up. “You’ve been acting weird ever since we came back from the Mid East.”

“Give it a rest—”

“You’re even broodier than usual. Is Mrs. Galliard okay?”

Porco drags a hand over his face. “Ma’s fine, Grice. Thank you for the concern.”

And then, Colt remembers something that’s been bothering him for a while now. “And then you asked that nurse to come with us to the park—” Suddenly, it all clicks into place.

The dawning realisation must be obvious on his face, because Porco’s has gone white. He can tell, even in the dim lighting. “Grice—”

“You’ve got a crush on her.”

Porco’s making a really weird expression now. If Colt didn’t know better, if he didn’t know how the alcohol made him overly dramatic, he’d think Porco was about to cry.

“... and what would you say if I did?” His voice is hoarse again.

Colt thinks about it. “That it’s understandable. She saved your life.”

Relief blooms across Porco’s face. The pinch between his eyebrows disappears. “Then—”

“But that you’re—” Colt pauses to hiccup. “— being really stupid by indulging in it like that. Quit it before—” Another hiccup. “— she figures it out.”

Porco pushes him aside, and starts to head back to the bar. Colt can’t see his face, so it’s difficult to decipher his tone, but the words are oddly clipped back. Like he’s forcing each one out. “Wow, Grice. I thought you’d be the blindly supportive type.”

Colt’s confused. “I thought you didn't like fairy tales.”

Sylvie’s cooking smells heavenly.

(It always has, right from when Theo was a kid, and she was making magic out of a can of peas.)

Theo cautiously peeks in through the kitchen window. He can see the table set for two places. One’s for her, of course. But that other one…

Was Porco home?

“I can hear you crunching through the leaves from here, Theo,” she calls, not looking up from the pot she’s stirring. “Come in. The plate’s for you.”

And so Theo meekly makes his way to the front door, and slinks in like a particularly dirty stray cat that the family has taken upon itself to feed. Confident, but ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. He makes sure to wipe his shoes on the mat— he’s pretty sure Sylvie’s hospitality would reach its limit if he got mud on her nice carpet.

He takes a seat at the table. It wasn’t too long ago, he thinks with some sadness, how he had to drag in a chair from the living room to sit at this table. Back when all four dining chairs had been spoken for.

“Porco came by already tonight. Said they were going out to the bar, if you want to avoid it.” She sighs and shakes her head. “I know his liver will be fine, but as a mother…” She takes a deep breath, and keeps stirring her pot.

“Oh,” Theo says.

Sylvie had given him more second chances than he could count. It’s why he believes Evie every time she calls him selfish.

(It’s why Wolfe fell in love with her, he thinks. That endless forgiveness, when he knew better than anyone how much Theo didn’t deserve it. He would have given Theo those chances too, though; if he’d survived that first one.)

Sylvie turns off her stove, and carefully walks the pot over to the table. Theo tears himself a chunk off bread off the loaf on the table. She ladles stew onto his plate, humming all the while.

“You’re in a good mood,” Theo comments. It’s nice to see Sylvie like this. She’s usually so worried about her son.

Sylvie waves off the comment as she sits down. “Oh, it’s just that Porco seemed so happy today.”

“Yeah? Something good happen?”

“I wouldn’t know, he didn’t tell me a thing. He said he was just here to make sure you had cleared out.”

Theo blanches. “And what did you tell him?”

“That it wasn’t his business who stayed in my house,” Sylvia scoffs. “Well really, I told him I’d take care of it. He took it how he liked.” She leans toward him. “But he seemed too happy to care either way,” she says conspiratorially.

“The kid does wear his heart on his sleeve,” Theo agrees.

(Porco always had. Right from when he was in diapers, wrinkling his nose at Theo’s off-key singing. In Porco’s defence, there were actual stray cats who could caterwaul more melodiously.)

“Oh, I love him too much for him to be able to hide it anyway.” She smiles to herself as she reaches for the bread. “That’s the thing about love. Everything shows.”

Theo rolls his eyes. “That’s so sappy, I’m going to throw up.”

Eric clears the side of his desk for Claire as she sets her shopping bags down and rests her hip on its edge. He allows himself a moment to admire the ring glinting on his finger. That had been a good choice.

The office is on the night shift. Claire’s not strictly supposed to be here right now, but most people are sleeping at their desks and weren’t awake to report it. It’s one of the few public buildings that got electric bulbs put in this year, and Eric is slightly displeased that they generate enough heat that he needs to take off his sweater vest. It’s one of his favourite parts of autumn, and now it’s been delayed.

“... and then when we went to look at perfumes, she picked out this honeysuckle one. It was too sweet for me, but she’s cute enough to pull it off.”

“I think you’re sweet,” he attempts.

Claire swats him on the shoulder, but he can see she’s smiling. “That’s not the point! The point is, you should have seen her face. She was definitely thinking about someone. I’m not about to pry though.”

Eric hums. It’s not in disinterest. He’s just trying to make sure he’s filing everything away correctly. He’s still got a headache from Chief Gerard yelling at that poor secretary this afternoon for misplacing documents. The poor girl had been swearing someone had messed with them, but he wouldn’t have it.

“Are you still working on that missing persons case?” Claire asks.

Eric frowns. “Technically, I am. But it isn’t going anywhere, so the Chief assigned me to something else.”

“Oh?”

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth. “I’m temporarily partnering with Detective Rolland.” He discreetly rolls his eyes towards the man sitting on the other side of the room.

Rolland is a psychopath. Eric knows this. Chief Gerard knows this. Everyone knows this. But the man had a knack for closing cases. Criminals all but lined up to confess. The Chief didn’t let him investigate alone anymore, though. There needed to be someone making sure his methods would hold up in court.

Eric thinks it just warps the younger detectives’ idea of what’s acceptable.

In fact, Eric wouldn’t put it past him to not care about the protocol around properly signing out files.

I should look into that, he thinks to himself, as he watches Thomas Rolland pull back his sleeve, to check the time on his large, gold-plated watch.

Hannah's getting a suspicious amount of character development, isn't she? 🤭 Please leave a like/reblog/reply if you enjoyed!

#porco x reader #porco galliard x reader #attack on titan #aot x reader

22 notes · View notes

therealmrsgojo · 10 days

Text

[3] precipice ; porco galliard (1/2)

chapter 3: Wine and Moonshine

The walls in the basement are whitewashed and plain.

Above, in this part of Liberio that comes alive at night, the cobblestone shines dully in lamplight that spills through the windows of the establishments lining the streets. Men whose faces are flushed from the drinks they’ve spent the last of the week’s wages on stumble along; past the ones who pull their hats low over their face as they alight from horse-drawn carriages.

They’re all going to the same places— in character, if not in extravagance.

People who haven’t ever set foot in this dimly lit neighbourhood often think these men are looking for a fairytale with the women they visit. And perhaps they are; but they still know what happens when the clock strikes midnight. They’re counting on it, in fact. Not one of them is willing to take the grime back to the lives they live under the sun.

(Never mind the ones who can’t leave.)

But that’s above.

Below, in the basement, is a woman who prefers the moon (like most people who are doing things they shouldn’t be); and a man who doesn’t really care either way.

Someone has made an attempt to make it look like an office; but the single folding chair, uneven table, bare floor, and the shelf that’s empty save for a single newspaper give the impression of a stage set— an approximation, rather than a real space. The only item of any character is the heavy, locked iron cabinet that’s pushed against the back wall.

The room’s two occupants have nothing interesting to look at, except each other.

Evie makes a mental note to have some books put on the shelves.

Theo Bauer shuffles nervously in the light of the single, bare bulb. The concrete under his shoes is scuffed and unfinished. “Do you think Thomas will be here soon?”

“Like you have somewhere to be.” Evie scoffs. “Shut up.”

She agitatedly picks at the flaking paint on her folding chair, peeling back small strips of grey. They fall from her red-tipped fingers; and Evie watches them fluttering to the ground, somewhere between ashes and snow. With the chill metal beneath pressing against the sides of her palms, she's reminded of another life; of an ornate-handled fire iron, and of coaxing flames out of glowing embers.

In that life, Evie had been Evelyn.

In that life, she'd scrubbed floors and washed clothes until her nails cracked and her fingers bled. Dust banished from furniture, only to turn into a cough in her own lungs. Bannisters polished to a shine that rivalled the mirrors; and mirrors polished to the point she found herself indulging a little more each time, in her fantasy of walking through them. She wished for a world where everything was the opposite of what it was.

Evie remembers Evelyn crying herself to sleep every night. Covers pulled up over her head, forcing herself to stay silent, not able to breathe because her nose was blocked up; and clearing it meant breathing in or breathing out, meant noise, meant the other maids hearing. And then everything would be even more complicated. In those moments, Evelyn had wished for a friend. Someone who was stronger than her, who could tell her it would be alright in a way that she could believe it. Someone like Evie.

And that was the problem, all that wishing. Nothing ever came from just wishing, because fairytales aren’t real.

Theo looks hurt. “You’re in a bad mood.”

“Do you think we’re friends, Bauer? Is that where you find the courage to speak to me like that?”

He grins impishly. “No, I just have nothing to lose.”

Evie glares at him. Theo Bauer was dangerous. Perhaps not in the way Thomas was— prone to bouts of unpredictable violence— but dangerous all the same. He had a way of rolling with the punches, and a mischievous air that invited you to try it with him. You wanted to trust him, and you wouldn��t realise until it was far too late that you never could come up with a reason why.

Evie coolly flicks out a piece of rolled-up paint from under her crimson nail. “Perhaps. But you’re not getting out of working for me. I know you don’t have the courage to end your own life, and I won’t do it for you.”

Theo was dangerous, but he didn’t know it. And Evie wouldn’t be the one to tell him. Every action of his was a reaction, innocent— almost childlike— in his lack of thought. Who else would dare shoot at Thomas, Eldian or otherwise?

It’s a shame, she thinks, that Theo couldn’t have put that charm of his to better use. The castles he could have built.

Theo gapes. “Now why would I want to do that?” There’s no mockery in his voice. He’s genuinely shocked.

Evie doesn’t answer. She only thinks that Evelyn was wrong to wish for a friend like her. No, that wasn’t quite right. Evelyn wasn’t wrong for wanting Evie, but she could never have convinced her that it would be alright, not in the way Theo could have. It would have been a lie.

Evie prefers truths.

There were three truths that separated Evie from Evelyn, and this was one of them— there was a way things would be for you, and no amount of wishing would change that or make it ‘alright’.

(So she’d changed who she was.)

The second was that everyone and everything had a price.

(The price for becoming Evie had been a few nights with the master, a handful of coins for rat poison, and ten kilograms of gold for the coroner.)

And the third, that people are selfish, without exception. They’re selfish in different ways, and sometimes it would complement your own selfishness in a way that fools you into thinking neither of you are.

(But that was a wish and nothing more.)

Theo, for instance, was the most selfish man Evie had ever seen.

Thomas may have been a piece of shit, but at least he knew it. Theo Bauer, on the other hand, was selfish like a child. Pure, and untempered.

There’s a high pitched, echoing creak as the flimsy metal door at the top of the concrete stairs swings open. A man steps onto the small landing. Evie watches him as comes down, confident and sure-footed despite the narrow steps and lack of railing.

“Where’s the money?” he asks, as soon as he’s downstairs. His voice echoes in he sparse space.

Evie draws out a stack of notes from inside her coat. “Not even going to tell me hello, Thomas?” She tosses it at him.

Thomas catches it with a single hand. “I’m not really in the mood for pleasantries. On account of the agony from the hole in my shoulder.” He sends a murderous look at Theo, as he begins to count the money.

Theo laughs nervously.

Thomas is a large man, broad-shouldered and tall. He’s dressed in a suit that he fills out well, and has his dark hair neatly combed back. Theo looks lankier and scruffier than usual, standing next to him. His sleeves fall slightly back as he thumbs through the notes, and the glint of an expensive-looking watch peeks out. The sliver of metal is dazzlingy golden even under the drab light.

He looks satisfied, and nods to himself as he tucks the money away. “I’ve got three more names for you,” he says as he takes a brown envelope out of his breast pocket.

Evie nods at Theo. His muscles are tense— he’s ready to bolt at a moment's notice, as he cautiously accepts the envelope from Thomas and hands it to Evie.

She doesn’t open it immediately. “Are these worth my time?”

“You’re running an extortion racket,” Thomas scoffs. “Anything is worth your time. Take what you get.”

“Watch your tone when you’re in my building,” Evie snaps.

“Or what?” Thomas asks, eyes darkening. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Evelyn.”

“It’s Evie,” she growls, the heat of anger blossoming in her chest.

Theo is watching the exchange like it’s a tennis match. “Come on, you two. We’re all friends here,” he ventures, with a nervous smile.

There’s silence as Thomas coolly regards him. “No, we’re not.” He turns on his heel, and makes his way back up the stairs, hand raised in a nonchalant wave. “I’ll be back next week.”

Evie’s eyes follow him as he leaves. Her pulse is still quick, her breaths fast and shallow. Evelyn. Would the girl ever die? Sometimes, Evie feels like it had all been a dream to begin with; a dream Evelyn is having with the covers pulled over her head, closed eyelids bathed in filtered moonlight.

The jam tastes sweeter than usual. It’s chill on your tongue, against the comforting warmth of fresh toast. You lean against the kitchenette and chew slowly; savouring the strawberry flavour.

You’ve got time.

A cool, early morning breeze blows through the open window next to you. It tickles the skin near your temples, where your hair is still damp from washing your face.

You don’t think anyone else on this floor has gotten up yet. The common room is deserted— no one’s jostling for the coffee pot, or frantically hopping themselves into their stockings. The misty morning sky is almost white, a blanket over the still-sleeping world. Traces of last night’s card games lie scattered across the table.

You weren’t there, of course. You were with him.

Galliard.

You cup your hands around your coffee mug, and inhale the aroma, feeling the steam wash over your face as you smile softly.

Galliard, with his kisses that were somehow blunt and careful at the same time; just like he was. With his golden-brown eyes; so gentle and sincere, the rest of the world had stopped mattering. You believed in that moment, that one day you would sit under the elm with him too— in a place where the shadows dancing across his face weren’t cast through the gaps in the blinds.

You press your fingers to your lips, and shiver as you remember every inch of his body pressed up against yours. How he covered your lips with his, again and again, increasingly desperate each time. It had been all you could do to breathe in the seconds between; but you would have let him do it for as long as he liked.

There wasn’t anything you would have denied him. Not then.

The thought makes your face warm to the tips of your ears.

You take a hasty sip of your drink, brows furrowed.

What is he doing right now? Is he thinking about you too?

The thought of having to wait for the sun to go down, when it’s hardly made its way up into the sky, makes your chest ache. But the idea of looking the other way if you saw him before, when your heart is this close to bursting, leaves you nauseous.

Fondness surges in your chest, and sours with nowhere to go. The hours to the evening stretch out endlessly before you. There’s a painful tightness in your throat as you drink, and you rub at your suddenly damp eyes.

(Is this what it meant to be lovesick?)

Despite what people seem to think about him, Porco doesn’t really break the rules.

He listens to his CO. He never stays out past curfew. His uniform is always spotless, his hair well within regulations. He doesn’t punch Marleyan soldiers in the face, no matter how much he wants to; not even when they start up with their ridiculously one-sided sparring matches.

And, despite what people think, it isn't something that’s ever been particularly hard for him. Yes, his life is mired in unfairness, a ridiculous amount of it, but he isn’t consumed by righteous anger. He— like every Eldian child— has been raised on the idea of consequences, and the bountiful amount of them that would be his reward for any momentary thrill or satisfaction. It only made sense to follow the rules.

Nothing about leaving you in that clinic had made any sense.

He’d stood at the threshold of the outside door, willing himself to step across the line, to follow the rules into a world where he wasn’t supposed to be by your side. Trying to tell himself that it would make sense in time; that he would be able to forget the way you looked at him with those pleading, hopeful eyes. That he could be happy with just the memory of your voice calling his name.

He’d stood there, and realised he couldn’t walk away a second time.

And then, he had brazenly broken the rules.

Tonight, he’s going to break them again.

But right now, it’s mid-afternoon. This far into the year, the days aren’t quite as warm; and the breeze that gently billows the curtains in Zeke’s room is pleasantly cool. There’s a map rolled out across the table, its corners weighed down with plates and teacups. Zeke leans back comfortably in his chair as he speaks. It could have been a chat among friends, if it weren’t for the confidential intelligence reports strewn in front of them.

Pieck points at the southern coast. “Tell the brass to increase naval patrols near Karifa. And not just around the port. The whole peninsula is vulnerable.”

“They’re more interested in watching Fort Helena,” Zeke replies. He takes a sip of his tea. “They still have their feathers ruffled from the last conflict.”

Pieck thoughtfully taps her chin. “Right. It could turn into a two-front situation.”

Porco’s not quite sure why Zeke invites anyone other than her to these briefings. It’s always her who has the smart things to say. As far as he’s concerned, he just wants someone to point him at the thing that needed destroying.

He’s finding it particularly difficult to sit in his seat today.

His thoughts keep turning to you, waiting for him; and it feels wrong to not be doing everything he can to go to you. It feels even worse to consider not thinking of you— to pretend he doesn’t care about you feels shameful.

So all he can do is sit there, resenting the way the sunlight reflects off the honeyed brown of his tea, and wishing he could share it with you.

“They still aren’t paying any attention to Paradis?” Reiner’s brows are knit. “It’s been over two years since—”

“It’s not a priority,” Zeke says curtly, not looking up from what he’s reading.

Porco holds back a snort. For all his bravado, Zeke was perpetually touchy about the island devils. Being cut to ribbons could do that to you, he supposed. He glances at Pieck, who doesn’t offer comment, and only gives Reiner a pointed look before examining another report. Reiner looks nervous. He always is, when Paradis comes up.

The tiny island on the map in front of Porco looks innocuous. It’s so small, it’s dwarfed by even a single one of Marley’s provinces.

He should loathe it, have the same dark look on his face as the other three, even if he’s the only shifter who’s never stepped foot on it. It’s why people hate Eldians. It’s where Marcel died.

But he has memories of it too. They’re not his, they belong to that woman— Ymir— but they’re so vivid, they feel like his own. Sometimes he even catches a faint thought at the back of his mind, a longing to go home.

It makes him worry about how many of his thoughts are really his.

Fucking Reiner, he thinks. Turning Marcel’s titan into a traitor.

He glares at Reiner, who blinks in surprise at the sudden aggression, and raises an eyebrow at him.

Porco ignores this, and waves one of the typewritten pages he's holding. “This says they’re expecting a hot conflict in the South within seven months. We’re supposed to be back in the Mid-East by then.”

“No need to worry about that,” Zeke says.

Everyone waits for him to elaborate.

Zeke smiles pleasantly. As if they really are just having a chat, and not discussing bloody warfare. “Ah, sorry. That really is a secret, but trust me, there won’t be too much going on at the same time.”

“You mean we’ll attack them first?” Porco says. “But then the Southern Alliance—”

“No,” Zeke says, still smiling. “Don’t worry about it.” The curtains behind him sway gently.

Porco feels uneasy. He’s not sure why. He’s long since had every survival instinct beaten out of him, with bombs and gunfire. He’s died and come back to life a dozen times over on the battlefield. War doesn’t scare him. Not anymore, not since he was twelve years old.

So why does he feel this dread in his stomach?

He doesn’t figure it out until much later, when he’s counting the minutes until he can see you again, and listening to Colt talking about Falco over dinner.

“He’s trying to hide it,” Colt says mournfully as he spoons potatoes into his mouth. They’re always on the menu. “But he was excited. Excited. About being sent to war.”

Outside, the sun is starting to set.

It’s a Saturday evening, and the energy in the hall is cheerful; excited for the coming day off, even if subdued from the exhaustion of the week. The long rows of wooden tables are almost completely occupied, but Colt gives off enough of a melancholy air that people to avoid the seats next to him and Porco.

“We were excited too, the first time,” Porco says, nonchalantly. “Don’t you remember? I didn’t even have a fucking titan, and I thought I was about to go blow enemy soldiers’ heads off left and right. Let him have this. He’ll understand soon.”

Colt chuckles half-heartedly. “Right, you thought you had such good aim. Pieck had to come save us after you gave away our position.”

Porco’s face warms in embarrassment. “No need to go down memory lane, Grice.”

Nevermind the dent to his adolescent ego from being saved by a girl (even if said girl was a hulking, four metre tall monster); the reminder that he was nothing on the battlefield without a titan had been far worse.

It had been less than a month after Marcel and the others left for Paradis, and Porco had desperately wanted to have something to show when they came back. He’d wanted to prove to them all that he wasn’t useless— that he was better than Reiner Braun. The best he did was surviving the shelling, and remembering to rub fresh dirt on his face to hide the tear tracks tattooed in the grime.

Even then, Porco recalls, Colt had had nothing but his baby brother on his mind.

There had been a photograph folded into his breast pocket, severely faded in the creases. It was of Colt, holding a fluffy haired little boy in his lap. He’d looked at it whenever he could; one hand pressing his helmet to his head, one clutching the picture, lips pursed so they wouldn’t quiver at every explosion. This is what he was here for, he told everyone who would listen. So this little boy didn’t ever have to be.

“I don't care what happens to me,” Colt says, aimlessly pushing his food around on his plate. “I mean, within reason. But if anything happened to Falco out there, I couldn't bear it.”

And that’s when he figures it out. Porco isn’t scared of war— he’s not capable of that anymore— he’s scared of losing you to it.

He thinks of the delicate shape of your body under his touch; of your soft voice, and how gently you speak, even when you’re trying to be firm. It seems absurd to picture you in the midst of violence. And yet you’d been there, impossibly kind and sweet, knee deep in his blood.

Porco knows you saved him that night. You told him it was Claire who stopped him from bleeding out; but Porco knows you were the one who held his hand through the night, the only one who shed tears for him.

You’d made him feel human, and it had made him want to live.

He knows now, that from the moment he'd opened his eyes in that tent and found you in a fitful sleep at his bedside, he was always going to spend the rest of his ten years paying you back.

“I understand,” Porco tells Colt, honestly.

Colt smiles gratefully at him. “I should get going. I have kitchen clean-up duty today.”

An idea strikes him. “Really? Could you do something for me then?”

When you tell Claire you can take care of the locking up by yourself from now on, she’s only a little conflicted.

“Are you really sure?” she asks again, pausing in the middle of touching up her makeup in the little mirror above the sink.

“It’s not a problem,” you assure her as you tidy up your desk. “You’ve got a longer commute now, after all.”

The clinic is lit up in the muted gold of dusk. The last rays of sun are shining in through the open windows. Claire’s face glows in a rectangle of light, cast through the half-closed blinds. Her lipstick is bright and red.

(It’s her usual colour, but everything has felt more today. Sugar is sweeter, and the reds are almost scarlet.)

“Too long,” she says, frowning. “We’re looking at new apartments. Something halfway between here and the Public Security office.” She sighs and looks at you in the mirror. “I miss walking back to the women’s quarters with you. The train is so boring.”

There’s something about the wistful way she says it, with that familiar scrunch in her eyebrows and pout on her lips, that makes you want to tell her; tell her about Galliard the way she tells you about Eric— because now you understand why she’s always looking for a reason to.

“I miss it too,” you say. “Did you find anything nice yet?”

Claire worries at some flyaway hairs on the crown of her head, illuminated in the direct light. “We’re actually going to see this one place near Gardenia Square today.”

“Gardenia Square!” you exclaim.

It’s one of the more expensive neighbourhoods in Liberio, built around a trendy shopping and business district near the port. You didn’t think it was somewhere that would be affordable on government salaries.

“It sounds too good to be true!” Claire closes her eyes, and holds up her hands, fingers crossed in an odd sort of prayer. “They did say near, not in. I just hope it’s not too close to the red light district.” Then she opens her eyes with a frown. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it would just hurt the resale value.”

“How do you go up from a nice apartment in Gardenia Square?” you ask, amused. “Sorry, near.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “A seafront villa in Odiha.”

Claire begins to powder her face. Even in the plain blue dress she has on, it’s so easy to imagine her walking along a sunny promenade; maybe stopping at a fashionable café to get a cupcake in a pastel wrapper. Perhaps some tea in a dainty cup.

You watch as she gathers her things into her purse. Galliard’s name stays on the tip of your tongue all the while.

“Good luck with the apartment, Claire,” you tell her, as she heads out the door. “I hope you’ll like it.”

“Thanks, honey. Get home safe.”

You hear the click of her heels going down the wooden floor outside, and the sound of the door opening and closing.

And then, you only have the ticking of the clock and the rustling elm outside for company.

You sit yourself on the edge of one of the beds for only a handful of seconds, watching the long, thin shadows cast by its legs, fidgeting all the while; before the silence becomes unbearable and the anticipation you’ve been pushing down all day swells up to fill it.

The sink needs cleaning, you decide, getting back on your feet.

You hum to yourself as you wipe down the steel basin, noticing the pleasant hints of lemon in the cleaning spray more than the sting of alcohol. It’s not nearly dirty enough to occupy you for long, so you’re soon rinsing it off.

You regard yourself in the mirror as you dry your hands. The day is evident in your slightly wrinkled blouse with its creases accentuated by shadows; and in your lipstick, slightly faded in the middle.

(Really, you looked far worse yesterday, after spending hours confused and worrying; and Galliard certainly hadn’t seemed to mind.)

There’s not much you can do about the blouse. You settle for touching up your makeup as best as you can. You’re fully aware of the rapidly setting sun behind you— already half-hidden behind the high compound walls— and how your efforts will soon be unnoticeable.

(But you still do it; because when you imagine him thinking you’re pretty, your heart flutters and you want to giggle like a schoolgirl.)

Claire closed the blinds for you before she left; and now you walk over and adjust them slightly, letting a little more light shine through. Bands patterned with the silhouettes of elm leaves print themselves across the plain walls; adorning them like wallpaper.

You hook a finger over one of the slats and pull it down to peek outside. There’s no one there, of course; but you still feel a prick of nervousness.

(You hope he comes soon. It’s lonely.)

The silence is getting to you, you think. You’re not quite sure what you could possibly clean next, so you try to distract yourself by counting the sounds.

The clock ticks steadily, echoing faintly. A drop of water falls from the faucet, and hits the steel below with a plink. Wind blows through the elm.

The hinges on the front door creak.

You hold your breath, listening closely as footsteps come up the hallway— they’re blunt and heavy, not the sharp, quick clicks of Claire’s heels.

(He came.)

The knob turns, and the door swings open slowly.

(Just like he promised.)

Galliard pokes his head in cautiously. He runs his eyes across the room to confirm that you’re alone. And then, he greets you with a grin, face softly shadowed in the fading light. He couldn’t have looked better in a painting.

You close the distance to the door with rapid steps, almost running. Just before you crash into him, you’re worried— for a split second— that you’re about to knock him off his feet; but he easily catches you, and lifts you off your feet to spin you around as you squeal.

(He came back to me.)

You kiss his lips, not breaking away even when he lets you down, staying risen on your toes.

“Woah,” he says, when you finally part. He pulls you in a little closer, rubbing circles into your hip with his thumb. “Did you miss me that much?”

You’re suddenly embarrassed, and very aware of his touch. You have to hide your face in his jacket. “I did,” you say, voice muffled. He smells like soap.

Galliard laughs again. The sound vibrates in his chest. “You really don’t believe in playing hard to get.”

“I don’t.”

Sometimes, it feels like you’ve spent half your life being timid and unsure; wishing there was a book you could check the back of for the right answers, to make those elusive good choices. Maybe that book would tell you that it’s unbecoming to be so forward. Maybe it’s true. You don’t know.

(You’re scared to admit it, but you don’t care either.)

What you do know is that kissing him makes your toes curl in your socks, and has your heart feeling far too big for your chest. How could anyone think it’s not right, when he kisses you back like that, so unhesitant?

He gives you a squeeze. “I brought you something,” he says.

You take a step back, so you can look at him. “You did?”

The adoration on his face makes your heart skip a beat. Oh, how could anyone be this handsome, this perfect?

“Close your eyes,” he says.

You don’t hesitate to do what he asks, and hold out your hands expectantly. There’s a pause, and then you feel him shift, taking something out of his pocket. There’s a small weight in your palms.

You crack open your eyes. In the dim light, it’s hard to read the wrapper on the thing in your hands, even though the letters are in a thick block-print. “Chocolate? You brought me chocolate!”

It’s just a plain old bar of it, the kind you could buy at any store; but it feels like the best gift anyone’s ever gotten you. He’d thought of you. He’d thought about seeing you again, and he’d wanted to make you happy when he did. It’s just a plain old bar of chocolate, but it feels enormous, carrying the weight of this thing, this precious secret between you.

You wordlessly begin to unwrap it, not trusting yourself to speak.

Now he’s the one who looks embarrassed. “I know it isn’t all that special.” He self consciously rubs the back of his head. “I swear I’ll get you better things, I just need a little time—”

You cut him off by pressing a piece of chocolate to his mouth. “I love it, thank you. Do you want to share with me?”

He stops mid-sentence, eyes wide. Your fingers brush his lips as you place it on his tongue. When you try to move your hand back, he grips your wrist for a moment— just long enough to kiss your fingertips. You giggle at the mischievous glint in his eyes, even though the action sends a shiver down your spine.

You hold his gaze— warm, soft— as you break off a piece for yourself. It’s only when you bite down that you notice what’s wrong.

“Bitter!”

Galliard looks distressed, and scrapes his own tongue across his teeth, trying to get the taste out.

You hold the wrapper up into the light. “Galliard, this is cooking chocolate. There's no sugar in it!”

You look at him.

He looks at you.

Then you burst out laughing.

“I— I'm sorry.” He sounds flustered. “I should have read the label closer—”

You reach up to cup his cheek. “I'll make something with it. We can eat it together.”

“I'd… like that.” His voice is a little raspy. Then he looks up at the ceiling, eyebrows furrowed and eyes closed, like he’s collecting himself. “Hey, could you… use my name?”

Before you can open your mouth, a gust of wind blows outside, making the branches on the tree rustle. You’re struck with the irrational thought that it sounds like they’re whispering. Gossiping amongst themselves about you and him.

You instinctively glance over your shoulder to check the window, even though you know no one can see in.

He sees how nervous you are. “Here, come with me.”

It’s scary, being led to the window. But he has your hand in his, and that reassuring warmth makes you a little braver. He sits right below the sill, on the bare wooden floor. He pats the space beside him.

When you join him, he puts an arm around your shoulder and pulls you against his chest. “Is this okay?”

It’s more than okay. Even though the window is right above you, you feel shielded. Safe. The elm leaves aren’t whispering about you anymore. They’re friends there to tell you if anyone dares intrude; warning you with the shadows they cast on the floor, where your legs are stretched out next to his.

“Yes. Thank you—” You take a breath. “— Porco.”

You hear him exhale, but you’re too shy to look at him, keeping your eyes trained on your hands in your lap. Your fingertips tingle. All you can focus on is his arm across your shoulder, so firm and strong.

Porco softly says your name. Then he takes your chin, tilting your face up to his. There’s a pause. Both of you hold your breath.

And then, he kisses you.

Your eyes flutter closed. It isn’t intense like last night— it’s gentle, and soft; as if he’s asking you for permission every time. His thumb brushes over your cheekbone. Your hands find the back of his head, fingers combing through his hair.

You lose track of the minutes going by. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is him, finally next to you. Tears prick at the back of your eyelids as you smile against his lips. You’ve been waiting for so long.

Porco pulls away first. His eyes are still closed, head leaned against the wall. Your breath comes in soft pants, and you can’t help but think that it suits him to have his hair like that, all dishevelled; instead of in its usual severe, neat style.

(The wind blows again, but this time, you’re not afraid. No one can see. There’s no one else in this world below the window, except you and him.)

“Sort of feels like we’re in the trenches, doesn’t it?” you say playfully, resting your shoulder on the wall.

Porco’s eyes snap open. “Don’t say that.”

Your heartbeat quickens, worried you said something wrong. “I— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trivialise—”

“No,” he cuts you off. “Don’t apologise. It’s not that. I just— I don’t want to think about you being anywhere near there.” He looks down, and puts his hand over yours. “I want you to be safe.”

I want you to be safe too, you want to tell him.

But you know he can’t do that for you, and you won’t cause him the pain of having to say no, so you don’t say anything at all; and only curl closer into his side. You feel him kiss the top of your head.

“We didn’t get to talk last night,” he says, after a brief silence. “About how we’re going to see each other. Are you here every evening?”

You nod a yes. “Except Thursday and Sunday. I have an evening shift at the hospital on Sundays.”

“You won’t be here tomorrow?” He sounds disappointed.

“I usually leave after lunch.”

You think he hears the sadness in your voice. “That’s okay,” he says soothingly, “I’ll figure out a way to see you tomorrow, I promise. How was your day?”

“Good. It wasn’t very busy.” You play with the hem of his jacket. “It was a little boring, actually. I wish I had something interesting to tell you.”

“I’d listen to you reading out the protocol handbook,” he says. He sounds like he means it. “Do you stay here all day?”

“Mostly. It’s not so bad when the kids are around, I can see them training from the window. And sometimes they sit under the tree during their breaks. They’re in the mountains with their sergeant, you know.”

You don’t have to look at his face to picture his sneer. “That ass who didn’t care when Grice’s brother fainted in the heat?”

“Him. But I’ve been making sure they know how to take care of themselves. They’ll be fine.”

“Thanks. For looking out for them.”

You want to tell him you see Julie’s eyes in each of theirs. But you hesitate— her memory feels far too important to be mentioned in passing. “How was your day?”

“Zeke had us come to him for a briefing. There’s trouble everywhere, apparently.”

You swallow. “Are we going back out there soon?”

The memory of him choking on his own blood still haunts you. It feels like a lifetime ago. He may be whole and healthy now; but it’s barely been a week. You don’t want to see him like that ever again. You couldn’t bear it. Even if you know he could survive it, and worse— you couldn’t bear it.

“You can’t worry about that, babe,” he sighs. “You won’t ever have any peace. You don’t ever have to be scared out there, okay? I won’t let anyone get through to hurt you.” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Let’s not talk about this.”

“Okay,” you say quietly. You don’t tell him it’s not you you’re worried about.

There’s another comfortable silence, broken when the building settles. You’re used to it, and barely notice, but Porco shifts his weight onto his free hand to look up at the ceiling.

“What’s upstairs?” he asks, eyes wary. “I’ve never been up there.”

The small distance he’s inadvertently put between your bodies bothers you immensely; and you don’t feel at peace until you move closer. “Nothing except some old medical files no one cares about.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Someone from admin came by and needed me to unlock the door for him, a few months ago. I think I have the only key. It looks like it used to be another floor of the clinic,” you say, recalling the dismantled bed-frames pushed against the walls. “We could go there, but it’s just really dusty now.”

Porco hums thoughtfully. “Some other time. I don’t want to get up yet.” He takes your hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’ve been wanting to hold you like this all day.”

You giggle. “I told my roommate I had to organise some files, and that I’d be later than usual. How long can you stay?”

He scoffs. “Reiner wouldn’t notice even if I went missing. He’s an idiot. When we were with Zeke today—”

You stifle a laugh, and lay your head on his chest. You listen to his heartbeat while he tells you about the rest of his day, and exactly why Reiner Braun is an irredeemable idiot.

He feels so solid; so real. The rest of the day feels like a dream, vague and fading at the edges. Maybe that’s why you haven’t been worried about right answers and good choices with him, you think as you play with the zipper on his jacket.

Dreams don’t have to make sense like that. They just need to make you happy.

(All your life, you’ve been told that there are right answers, right choices. Especially when it came to the boundary between Eldians and Marleyans. What are the rules when you’re both on the same side of that line?)

By the next afternoon, Porco decides it would be better if he didn’t take a shotgun to his head.

There’s only two things stopping him.

One— that there were only so many times he could do that before someone either got suspicious, or deemed him unfit for duty; and then asked him to go ahead and put that other foot into his grave.

And, more importantly, two— the sight of it would probably make you cry.

He’s lying in his bed, arms crossed under his head and staring at the ceiling, where the paint is peeling at the corners; trying to think of another way to see you at the hospital— one that didn’t involve blowing his own skull off, but he’s a shifter and simple cuts and bruises just won’t do— when Colt knocks on his door and asks him if he has any plans.

(Sort of did, but they’re cancelled, he thinks. Cleaning up would have been a bitch.)

“You want to take me on a date or something?”

“Very funny,” Colt says, frowning at him. “Where’s Reiner?”

Porco sits up on his elbows. “Hell if I know. Why?”

“The kids are back from their final assessment. I thought he’d want to see Gabi. Are you coming?”

“You want me to?”

“Sure I do,” Colt says, as if it’s obvious. “You’re good with them. They’ll like it if you’re there.”

Porco remembers his final assessment. Two days of crawling through mud, and running uphill; rain soaking through his shoes and threatening to meld his socks into his skin. The food had been cold and tasteless, spooned out straight from the can— there was no lighting a fire in that deluge. He can still remember the slimy beans going down his throat. It had been years before he could eat them again.

He’d developed the worst fever of his life, and damn near fainted when he’d dragged himself over that last finish line.

(He’s fairly certain his sergeant would have just left him there if he had— for the bears to find.)

He also remembers everyone being taken to the nurse after coming back. The woman at the time had been close to retirement, and had really needed a refresher course on finding veins. Or maybe better glasses.

Porco thinks of the half-dozen bruises he’d had blooming across his upper arm; and then of you, towelling off Falco’s face on that summer day.

These kids didn’t know how good they had it.

Colt— good old, reliable Colt— looks expectantly at him. Porco can’t believe his luck.

“Yeah,” he says. “I'll come.”

Colt has a way of showing up exactly where he’s needed, even if it isn’t necessarily the best place for him to be. Porco figures out this pattern when they’re both fourteen years old, and hidden behind a mountain of sandbags destined for the trenches.

A few years later, when he's taller, Porco will see Gabi and Falco sitting in the same spot— yes, the same, it's always the same, nothing changes no matter how much he fights— and he'll be struck with the thought that the stacked up sandbags don't look quite as high as a mountain anymore.

(And then he'll remember he never grew quite as tall as Colt, and be annoyed about it.)

But that's later, in a time where he understands what Colt was clumsily trying to tell him.

Right now, he's kneeling on the sandy soil, dabbing at the fresh gash on Colt's forehead— Porco thinks he might just be the only soldier he knows who can get himself injured before even a single bullet has been fired.

The coppery scent of his blood cuts through the dry eastern air. Porco swears he can taste the salt of it on his tongue— or maybe that's from the sweat beading across his upper lip, evaporating as fast as it forms.

It’s hot. And getting hotter, as the sun inches upwards. He was irritated enough, with the way his uniform is sticking to his back and how each breath feels like he’s baking his lungs, before Colt decided to play at being a hero.

“Hell, Grice. Did you want to die before the enemy even finished lacing their boots? There’s easier ways to do that.”

Colt winces. “It was three on one. I couldn’t just leave.”

“It’s not like they would have killed him. They were all Marleyan. You, on the other hand—”

“It was three on one,” Colt repeats, a little more subdued. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Fair,” Porco snorts. “Listen to you.”

Colt snatches the handkerchief away, and presses it against the wound himself. Red blooms through the white. “Don't you have anywhere to be?” he asks, exasperated. “You’d think they’d find something for you to do.”

Marley is stretched thin. The Cart has been in the South, near Karifa, for months now; and the Beast has been sent overseas to the colonised territories. With the War Hammer set on being a drain on public finances, and the rest on the Paradis mission, there are no titans left to guard the border in the East.

Porco doesn’t know why anyone bothers fighting over this piece of land, barren and burnt from decades of warfare. In the distance, he can see the silhouettes of the tree stumps on the pitted and scarred terrain. They look like they’ve been speared into the landscape, charred so black it’s as if they didn’t once grow lush and green— as if they had always been born from an act of violence.

“Not until the trucks get here.” Porco settles down next to Colt, shoulders bumping. “You still dizzy?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry I bled on your handkerchief.”

Porco raises an eyebrow. “Why’re you sorry about that? It’s just a rag.”

Colt looks shocked. “But it’s all lacey. I thought it was…” He blushes and looks away. “... your girlfriend’s or something.”

Porco doesn’t know why he’s acting all embarrassed, but the suddenly awkward air has his face warming too. “I don’t have… one of those,” he mumbles.

“This is yours?”

“No!” Porco frustratedly runs a hand down his face. “A girl gave it to me, but she isn’t my girlfriend. Helos, she’s trying though.”

Colt unfolds the fine cotton and holds it up, arms outstretched. It’s good quality, and the (now bloodied) lace around the edges is delicately handwoven. “I think you’re the only guy I know who would sound irritated about a girl liking you.”

“Emma doesn’t like me,” Porco says, rolling his eyes. “She didn’t give a shit about me until Marcel got the Jaw last year. What she likes is the idea of marrying me in two years and getting benefits when I die.”

There was no way out of the internment zone. Everyone knew that. There weren’t even any pipe dreams to indulge in. No, becoming an honorary Marleyan, or a part of their families, and being able to look over the wire fences instead of through them— that was as good as it got. It made sense for Emma to plan ahead a little.

Porco knows he’s receiving Marcel’s share of attention too. Despite his best efforts, he’s the consolation prize, and it makes him bitter enough to see Emma’s true intentions. Her and the other half dozen girls vying for his attention.

(It’s the reason he wears his yellow candidate armband rather than the red one being Marcel’s brother grants him.)

He draws aimless patterns in the dirt with his index finger. “I told her I wasn’t interested, but she gave that to me anyway at the station.”

“And you kept it.”

“Fucking good thing I did too, isn’t it?” Porco grumbles. “Or you would have bled all over your uniform. Being reprimanded for that is the last thing you need. What is with you being in the wrong place all the time?”

“All the time?” Colt repeats, offended.

“All the fucking time. Like when that PSA officer thought you were one of those kids he was chasing down for stealing. They got away because he stopped to question you. You almost got arrested.”

“That was months ago!” Colt protests.

“How about last week when you took that lieutenant’s wife down to his office while he was in the middle of cheating on her?” Porco snaps his fingers. “Hang on, I heard some of the Marleyan soldiers talking about her getting this real big divorce settlement. So it’s the wrong place for you, but it’s the right place for everyone else. You’re a walking good luck charm, Grice!” He laughs hard at his own joke.

Colt does not look impressed. “Shut up, Galliard.”

Porco wipes away a tear. “You were good luck for that kid they were beating up too. Let him escape. Man, he looked like a snitch. They’re so fucked.”

With the army being spread out, even the Marleyan troops who usually sat back and let the Eldians eat bullets for them had started needing to pull their weight. Somewhere in between getting off the train at the end of the line, and being told they’d have to spend the night digging trenches, they’d started having uncomfortable thoughts about their mortality.

And then, like good little Marleyan boys, they’d decided to deal with that discomfort through casual violence— even if it was against one of their own.

Colt should have just ignored it, when he found those three older soldiers kicking one of the newer recruits around behind the warehouses. But Porco has known him for four years now, and they’ve been something approaching friends for the last one, so it doesn’t surprise him that he didn’t.

“Won’t you get in trouble too?” Colt asks worriedly. “I think you broke that tall one’s glasses when you punched him.”

Porco curls and uncurls his fist. His knuckles are cut up, from where they hit the thin wire frames. “Bastard had it coming after kicking you in the head.”

“My knight in shining armour,” Colt says sarcastically. He blushes again when Porco gives him an odd look. “Forget it. I just remembered it from one of Falco’s storybooks.”

“He still likes fairytales?” Porco is amused. “Good for him.”

Colt’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

Porco holds his hands up defensively. “It’s not an insult, Grice. Good for him, still being able to enjoy that idealistic crap.”

“You’re one to talk,” Colt scoffs. “You still want to be a Warrior.” His eyes widen immediately after he says it. “Fuck. Galliard—”

“The fuck does that mean?” Porco asks furiously. “You want to be a Warrior too.”

Colt licks his lips, choosing his words carefully. “It’s different.”

“How’s it different? Are you saying you don’t think I’m good enough—”

Colt looks at the sky and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like a ‘not this again’, but he holds up a hand before Porco can tell him to say it to his face. “No, I don’t think you’re not good enough. We passed the same tests. It’s different, because Marcel is already a Warrior. You’re not getting anything out of it.”

“I’m going to prove myself, and get the honour of—”

“There you go again, honour,” He looks frustrated. “What’s so honourable about trading your life in and getting thirteen years back like it’s spare change?”

“That’s—”

“There’s no honour in any of this.” Colt leans closer with every word. “Haven’t you ever thought about how they don’t let orphans join the program? Isn’t that weird? Why do they bother asking for applications and having parents sign waivers, when they could just pluck some kids nobody cares about out of a state orphanage?”

“Colt—”

He barrels on. “It’s because they need a family to threaten, to control whoever has the titan. Because they don’t trust you to not turn on them.”

Porco only watches as the other boy leans back against the sandbags, throwing his forearm over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

“I bet your brother was happy you didn’t get a titan.”

It's always been like that with him, now that Porco thinks about it.

Whenever Falco is involved, Colt Grice (trained soldier) dissolves— as immediately and as softly as powdered sugar in warm milk— into Colt Grice (big brother). Sometimes this manifests in a flash of anger across his face; like that day at the eastern border. Mostly it’s in dopey smiles, like when he’s telling Porco how Falco aced all his tests that term.

Today, it’s in the nervous energy in his hands. It’s almost imperceptible— the soldier is still fighting to maintain discipline— but Porco knows it when he sees it.

They're in the clinic. Colt is in the chair next to him; sitting ramrod-straight. He's always sitting like that. Porco has often joked that it's like he thinks Magath will turn up at his dinner table and reprimand him for slouching.

(Porco used to sit on chairs the wrong way around, just to make a point, but he's grown out of that.)

The smell of antiseptic stings his nose as you open the bottle again, and tip a few drops onto a cotton ball. He watches you help Falco roll his sleeve up his forearm.

It feels strange to see you in the day; where there's no shadows to shroud the both of you, no darkness to hide behind. The sunlight threatens to lay the secret bare, each time he shares a fleeting glance with you across the room.

(Somehow, those moments feel far more illicit than the kisses in the dark.)

You instruct Falco to make a fist, and wipe the skin near the crook of his elbow. He and the other three are sporting their new armbands. The yellow fabric is bright and distractingly clean compared to their dirt stained uniforms.

Porco can see the family resemblance— he’s seen Colt cautiously eyeing Marleyans with knives the same way Falco’s looking at the needles laid out on the table. It’s there in that nervous smile, and that faint— yet distinct— rise in pitch on the last syllable when he insists he’s alright.

He glances to his side, and sees Colt half raise his hand at the wrist— as if he wants to reach out to Falco— but he settles for drumming his fingers across his thighs. He doesn’t need to worry, Porco thinks. You’ll take care of Falco.

The younger Grice tears his eyes away from the needles when you pick one up, but Porco keeps looking at your hands as you assemble the syringe. There’s something elegant in the way your fingers move; and all he can think about is how they looked when you were fiddling with the hem of his jacket last night, and how nice it felt to hold your hand.

“Woah, Zofia!” Gabi suddenly exclaims, from near the glass slides on the counter. “Your blood’s weird!”

Zofia is panicked. “W-what?”

“Yeah, look. Three of your spots did the lumpy thing.”

She elbows Gabi aside to frantically inspect them herself. “Well, none of Udo’s did anything. That's weirder!”

Udo peeks over their heads. “You guys are so dumb. That's just how the test works. Zofia is AB-positive and I'm O-negative. And it’s called coagulation.”

Gabi simultaneously looks impressed with him, and like she wants to shove him. Colt abruptly stands up to cross the room and get between them, before she can decide which to go with.

(Porco has a vivid vision of her picking the latter, and accidentally getting Colt instead. It seemed like something that could happen to him. He’ll tell you all about Colt’s stupendously bad luck later, he decides.)

You glance over your shoulder at them with an amused smile as you straighten up. “That’s right, Udo.”

“It’s done?” Falco asks, shocked, looking at the now crimson tube in your hands. “I didn’t feel anything!”

“I’m very good at this,” you tell him with a wink.

(Porco can't argue with that.)

The comment makes Falco blush and drop his eyes down to his lap, and the others are distracted by Udo explaining how blood typing worked; so no one notices when your eyes meet Porco's across the room once again. His breath hitches. You give him that shy smile of yours— the one that's just for him— and all he wants is to take your hand and run away where no one else can see.

The spell is broken when Gabi calls out to you, and asks when you think their dog tags will be issued.

“Oh— I don't know, actually.” You look startled, just for a second, before composing yourself. “They don't take very long to make, though. I suppose it depends on your sergeant handing these records in.”

Porco scowls at the mention of Laurent, who had left not thirty minutes ago, after repeatedly warning you to be ‘careful, with all these devils in one place’.

“I'd stay,” he’d said, lip curled in disgust, “but I've been exposed to nothing but Eldian stench for two days, I don't need any more.”

That’s the best you can come up with? Porco remembers thinking. That I smell? At least insult my mother, you bastard.

“Mine took about a week,” Colt offers helpfully. “What about you, Galliard?”

“A week sounds right,” he replies nonchalantly.

Porco doesn't wear his dog tags anymore— if he died, people would know. But when Marley had extended him the honour of becoming a Warrior, they'd done the equivalent of hanging a dog collar around his neck anyway. There had been a lot of pretty, poetic words about the Jaw being returned and his dedication to the country; but what they’d done was drape a eulogy around his neck, and call it a privilege.

And if someone were to flip over that death sentence resting on his throat, they would probably see the words no commitments scratched into the back.

(At least, that’s what people thought.)

Porco’s not a bad looking guy; and there’s enough people looking to have a fun time with one of the admired, coveted Warriors that he’s never had trouble finding someone to warm his bed.

Well, it’s never his bed.

It’s usually theirs. Occasionally, it’s one in the rooms above the bar he frequents. One time, it had been in the men’s bathroom.

(That one was unexpectedly fun.)

It’s just sex.

No one expects anything more from him. There aren't any more Emmas chasing after him, not after almost a decade of turning them all down.

Porco doesn’t have complaints about these arrangements— it feels damn good, and it’s great for his ego when someone tells him that they like what he’s doing to them. When it’s over, maybe they lie next to him for a bit, and then they get up and leave, or ask him to leave. It never bothers him. Why would it?

No commitments, as advertised.

(What was there to commit to, with a man who already had a date of death stamped across his file?)

It’s not what he wants with you.

Porco isn’t scared of you leaving. He knows you won’t. But he needs to do this right— take it slow, and make sure you want it too. You deserve better than he can ever give you, but he can at least make sure your first time with him is something special; and isn’t just him fucking you on the floor where you work.

It’s difficult, because you seem to trust him so much; and close your eyes if he asks you to, without hesitation.

It’s difficult, because when you say his name or smile at him all shy, it goes straight to his heart; and when you look at him from under your lashes, breathless after a kiss, it goes straight to his dick.

It’s difficult, because he isn’t sure what special looks like.

It’s difficult, because every moment with you feels special anyway.

He’s greedy, he thinks. He wants to have as many of those moments as he can.

So when Gabi starts bragging about coming first in all the foot races save for one (Porco idly wonders which one of them managed to beat her), and the clinic visit is drawing to a close, the words are coming out of his mouth before he's even finished thinking them through.

“Hey,” he says, slinging an arm over Colt’s shoulder. “It sounds like you guys all did great. That deserves a treat.”

“A treat?” all of them— including Colt— chorus.

Behind them, he sees you pause filling out paperwork at your desk, and look up curiously.

“How does ice cream sound?”

Their eyes light up, but Porco's not done yet.

“Ice cream at the park downtown. Let's take those new armbands out for a spin.”

There's a few seconds where the children make an admirable effort to stay calm, be the newly minted soldiers they are; but then Gabi lets out a squeal like a tea kettle— in both tone and character— and then the rest of them, already practically vibrating in place, can't hold back either.

“Don't make a ruckus!” Colt casts a disapproving look at them. “You're bothering the nurse.”

“Oh, I like it when it's lively,” you say good-naturedly. “I hope you all have fun.”

(Now or never.)

“Do you want to come with us?”

In the corner of his vision, he can see Colt raise an eyebrow at him. But he can’t think about that right now. Not when you’re looking straight at him like that, with your eyes wide in shock.

He can feel his heart hammering in his chest, his brain finally catching up with his tongue. Porco thinks the world should have fallen silent for this. It should have left space for the question to echo, because what he'd just asked you is, will you take a risk for me?

(As it was, the world did not fall silent; and in fact offered him Udo blowing a raspberry at Gabi in the background.)

It feels like minutes before you answer; even though he can see the seconds ticking away on the clock behind you.

“The park… near the hospital?” you ask slowly, carefully; mouth oddly flat.

It's a stretch. The hospital is three blocks away. “Yes,” he says, anyway. “I never thanked you for— for everything.” He forces his voice to stay steady.

You look back down at your papers, and start adding your signature to the bottom of the sheets. “I do have a shift there this afternoon. Alright. Give me ten minutes.”

(Yes, I will, you answer him.)

Porco’s glad he’s still got his arm slung over Colt’s shoulder, because it’s the only thing reminding him he’s not alone with you in here; even if you’re all he can look at.

please like/reblog/reply on this part too if you enjoyed!! you can find the second half of the chapter here 💖

#This is perfection #god i love him #a masterpiece #porco galliard x reader #porco x reader

14 notes · View notes