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Living with Porco Galliard is…interesting, to say the least.
There’s never a dull day, sleeping in until Galliard’s obnoxious morning routine before classes inevitably wakes you up. Much to your surprise, he’s a morning person who actually gets up early and is productive before the sun rises. He works out, showers, cooks breakfast, and is ready to go by the time you’re only beginning to stir. Usually, just to antagonize you, he’ll be extra noisy while he’s in the kitchen. Your door is the closest to it, after all—an unfortunate reality that comes with not getting the main bedroom.
In return, you’ll watch television on a loud volume setting at night, or sing without a second thought as you tidy up. Depending on the day, Porco will either shout at you (or angrily text you) to shut the fuck up, or he’ll give in with an attitude, emerging to join you in the living room until he falls asleep on the couch.
With how much he does sleep on the couch, you’d think it was his actual bed.
When Friday Night Movie Time comes along—after you’ve both spent your promised time on homework or class assignments—you’re usually able to tell within the first fifteen minutes if Porco is going to nod off. He’s oftentimes attentive, sitting straight, his eyes sharp and focused. When he’s on the way to sleep, he slouches, rubs his eyes, and lets you drape your legs over his lap when he refuses to move.
“You’re falling asleep,” you accuse him, poking his cheek.
He swats you away weakly. “Then let me.”
You’ll tease him for being an old man later, but for now you let your heart race as he places his hands over your calves, allowing his eyes to droop shut as he dozes.
You had been roommates for about ten months before you realized that you were beginning to fall for Porco.
While getting ready for a date, you’re hit with a wave of reluctance as you stare at yourself in the full-length mirror on the wall. You look hot and ready to devour whoever crosses your path, but you’re hesitant to go anywhere. Sure, your date was incredibly attractive, but you can’t find yourself ready to open up to someone else.
Not when Porco comes over to your bedroom door, leaning on the frame and crossing his arms.
“You clean up nicely,” he remarks dryly, though you can hear an ounce of sincerity in his voice.
You fidget, shifting your weight from foot to foot. Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes when you turn to face Porco, and he notices.
“Thanks,” you say awkwardly. “I guess I’ll text you if I need an emergency exit?” You tell him, not willing to admit to him that the butterflies in your stomach might be because of him instead of your imminent date.
He rolls his eyes, but nods. “I’ll yell about how the cat is dying.”
“We don’t have a cat, Pock.”
“Reiner won’t know that, the big oaf.”
You come home early, and you both eat ice cream and complain about the struggles of dating.
You smile and laugh more than you did on your date.
One perk of being roommates, and childhood friends with Porco, is earning yourself the title of his #1 fan.
This entails embarrassing him at his own baseball games.
He’s the first baseman, a spot earned for his quick reactions and flexibility to stretch if someone throws just a little too short. He’s on the university’s team—The Warriors—and he plays alongside the star pitcher, Zeke Jaeger. A lot of Zeke’s admirers show up to cheer for him, so you argue with Porco that he needs to have his own fan club.
With you being the ringleader, of course.
“You’re a pain in my ass.”
“I told you, if I’m coming to your games, I’m going to be obnoxious.”
Porco crosses his arms and juts a hip out, fixing you with a glare. You almost crumble from the heat of his gaze because he looks too damn good in his baseball uniform, but you manage to hold fast to your shit-eating grin. You’re in one of Porco’s older baseball shirts, the bold letters spelling GALLIARD on the back, but that’s not the issue.
It’s the giant sign you made last night, the words painted reading I ♥︎ POCK! in very large, glittery red letters to match the uniforms’ red and white palette.
“Whatever,” Porco finally huffs out, smacking his mitt on his leg in annoyance.
You fist bump the air in triumph as he jogs away to his teammates warming up before the game. You retreat to your seat, a front row spot alongside the first base foul line.
When the game begins, you’re one of the many Warriors fans hollering and shouting in support to drown out the opposite team’s cheers. Scouts fans are loud, but your school is louder.
Quickly, the first half of the first inning is done with no hits, thanks to Zeke’s pitching ability. He even goes against his own brother, Eren Jaeger, who catches for the Scouts, but he strikes him out.
Porco is early on the batting lineup. As he’s on deck, giving a few practice swings and centering himself, you lean over the wall and yell, “Get the first run, Pock!”
He doesn’t give any indication that he heard you, which you’re unsurprised by, but you shake your sign anyway and ensure you lower it once he’s actually stepping into the batter’s box so the people behind you can see. Since Porco is left-handed, he bats the same, making him face away from you. He pauses to look over his shoulder, and then he lifts his bat to point it.
He points it straight at you, and grins before pointing it to the outfield, claiming to hit a home run on his first hit of the game.
Your jaw drops as there’s excited cheers and hoots at the gesture. A camera flips to you on the massive monitor at the far center outfield, showing you as you’re shocked. You manage to recover and lift your sign, allowing the stadium a view of your ridiculous sign before it cuts to Porco at the plate.
The Scouts’ pitcher, Jean Kirstein, throws a fastball.
Porco nails it, and it flies, going until it’s past the wall of the outfield.
A home run.
You’re on your feet in excitement, screaming and jumping with your sign, watching Porco jog around the diamond with a blinding smile. He’s met with high-fives and slaps on the back in praise for securing the Warriors’ first score of the game.
You scramble for your phone, intending to send a message to Porco full of clapping emojis and ecstatic exclamation points, but there’s already a text from Annie waiting for you.
She must be watching the game from her dorm—she had a massive exam to study for, but she enjoys watching the games if she can’t make it in person.
The commentators are saying you must be Porco’s lucky charm. The rumor mill is starting
Annie is the only friend you’ve confided your crush to, and you’re lucky that she’s not a secret gossip like her boyfriend, Armin. Although, he is starting to notice your behavior around Porco when he comes over with Annie.
You type a response to her.
I’m pretending that I didn’t read that
She sends a twitter post within minutes.
Porco’s a campus star. Good luck living in your fantasy where everyone is oblivious to you idiots.
Her words stump you, but when Bertholdt is up to bat, you tuck away your phone and try to focus.
The Warriors win, 7-3.
You head home instead of meeting Porco and his teammates for drinks. He sends a few crying emojis when you don’t show, but when you don’t reply, he sends a follow up text, accompanied by a photo of Zeke, Colt, Bertholdt, and himself all with dramatic sad faces.
You’re missed by everyone
You sit on your bathroom floor, the shower running and steaming up the room. The tile is cold under your legs, but the humidity helps ease the knot in your chest. Something about how he says everyone misses you and not how he notices your absence doesn’t help.
Annie’s text is staring at you from your phone display.
She said you idiots.
Plural.
She knew Porco years before you did, so it makes sense if they’re close. Does she know something that you don’t?
Distantly, you hear the front door open and shut.
You get in the shower, hoping to clear your head.
Once you’re done, you venture into the kitchen with the goal of eating junk food in mind.
Naturally, Porco is in the living room with a sandwich; he’s always ravenous after a game. He’s also freshly showered, probably from the stadium locker rooms, and he’s sitting on the sofa with a beer in one hand and his phone in the other. He looks delightfully comfortable, in black sweatpants and a plain green shirt that brings out the gold in his eyes.
You don’t intend to look at his phone, but you can see from afar that your face is on the display.
From the game.
“Oh, hey.” He quickly swipes out of it as he realizes you’re there, twisting to look at you.
“Hi.” Your face heats up, and you abruptly make a break for the kitchen. You don’t want to talk about the game, but after the show you both made, you probably should acknowledge it. Besides—he played an amazing game today.
You open the fridge, the pantry, and then you’re back in front of the fridge, hand on the open door as you stare at the contents, willing a new item to materialize. Porco enters the kitchen and watches you for a moment, finally breaking the silence when you don’t look over at him.
“You know, watching the shelves won’t make anything new appear.”
“I wish it did,” you complain as you reluctantly shut the door, turning back to the pantry. You settle for a package of Oreos, which you place on the counter and tear into. Porco comes up beside you, offering his beer, which you take a swig of and grimace immediately at the taste.
“Zeke bought it,” he explains as he takes it back.
You expression twists in disgust. “He’s so pretentious about beer.” Your face smooths out as you pick up an Oreo, finally turning to face Porco. He’s closer than you thought, only clouding your thoughts more. “You played amazingly today,” you tell him earnestly, hoping to sound as nonchalant as you hoped.
The smile on his face brings a blush to yours. “Thanks.” He drinks from the beer again, holding your gaze as he clears his throat after, apparently trying to also play something off. “I had my good luck charm there tonight.”
His good luck charm.
You want to shriek.
You don’t.
“Oh?” You choke out instead, averting your gaze to the floor, turning so your back is against the counter. He moves to do the same.
No way. There’s no way.
But…Annie said you idiots.
“Yeah.” He nudges you with his arm as he sets down his beer. “I did.”
He doesn’t move away when his bicep presses against your shoulder. All you can think about is how he’s so damn warm next to you, how he called you his good luck charm, and the way he grinned and pointed at you with his bat in front of the entire stadium.
He took a risk, and it paid off.
So you do the same.
Sort of.
“I’ll be your good luck charm anytime you need me,” you confess timidly. You feel like you don’t sound nearly as confident as you hoped to, so you avoid meeting his eye.
He huffs out a frustrated breath, and you manage to withhold a disappointed sigh at his response—or lack thereof.
“You’re so dense,” he grumbles, and before you can ask him what the hell he means by that, he’s grabbing your chin between his index finger and thumb, angling you toward him.
And then he kisses you.
He kisses you.
His stupid, soft, full lips are on yours, and after a second of feeling frozen, you melt under his touch. He releases you, but he traces his fingers along your jaw, settling on the side of your neck and beginning to tangle in your hair.
You part for air, and you mutter, “The game?”
You’re not sure you even made sense with your half question, but he kisses the corner of your mouth, and luckily he knows you well enough to understand you.
“A little for show,” he admits, mouth hovering over yours. “And a little for you.”
He pulls you so you’re pressed against him, and he deepens the kiss to hide how his cheeks are red. You pretend not to notice, but you call him out for it later, to which he just kisses you harder.