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The first time Porco Galliard meets Reiner Braun he’s glaring at him.
He’s sitting opposite him at the table, and looks away so quickly he thinks he might have pulled a muscle: there’s no need to touch his own cheeks, he knows they’re getting warm and red like they always do when he’s embarrassed.
“Stop glaring,” hears Reiner, so he glances back at the mean, thin little boy: his brother is next to him. They look like twins, maybe, Reiner isn’t really sure, he’s never seen two identical people in his life after all.
Commander Theo Magath talks a lot, with a very loud voice that scares Reiner and makes him flinch: Mum never raises her voice, she speaks quietly, because the walls of their house are thin, and Eldian people have many secrets. Reiner stole a fruit once, when the merchant wasn’t looking, because he was so hungry and Mum couldn’t go to work that day.
Never do that again, she’d said, her big eyes looking down at Reiner, covering her mouth because she was coughing a lot and didn’t want him to get sick too. You do know what would have happened if they caught you.
The words she used next were very hard, and Reiner isn’t smart like the other children his age, but he can imagine what those long and scary words mean. No one wants to go to paradise with the bad Eldians.
Commander Magath starts calling their names, and Reiner bites his lip as he studies the other kids, seeing how they get up, what they say, so that he’ll know what to do to make a good impression. The kind, older child from before stands up, Reiner finding it hard to look away from him- Marcel Galliard is his name.
His mean little brother stands up immediately after, grinning, so sure of himself it makes Reiner feel stupid. It’s not a test, there are no grades, but he feels like he’s failed already and he kind of wants to cry. He can do that later when he gets home and Mum asks him how his first day went.
After the thin little kid sits back down, Reiner looks at him again, glares, knowing he won’t notice him because he’s so wrong and pathetic. Nobody talked to him today, because nobody knows him, he never had neighbours his age and was always alone with Mum, and it’s not fair.
Reiner draws his knees together as he stops staring at the kid and his nice brother, thinking that maybe, even if he was mean to him, they could still talk to each other. Maybe become friends one day, who knows.
And that’s how he learns Porco Galliard’s name.
*
He wakes up to an upset stomach, the lingering, faint screams of long forgotten nightmares creeping up his spine, dangling from his heaving ribcage: his dear old friend, guilt, lies crystalised at the back of his throat and he tries with all his might to spit some of it in the toilet, together with bile and vomit, all to no avail.
The sun is high in the sky when Reiner realises that he’s not supposed to be shaking like a leaf, arms crossed over his chest, eyes transfixed on the vague shapes cast by the sun, splashes of light stretched across the floor: it’s a beautiful spring day, words he can hear in his mum’s voice, the useless obvious facts she points out to try and make some conversation, accepting Reiner’s tight smile as a good enough answer.
On most days, he wakes up with a hesitant crumb of good mood glued to the roof of his mouth, a particularly persistent one he can’t seem to swallow or spit, so he lets it be: on those days his laughter feels almost natural, it manifests right on cue when everyone expects it, and for a split second, a moment of dissociation, old voices and smells and the crisp taste of happier times pull his body in the right direction.
On other days he wakes up with the taste of gunpowder lingering on the back of his tongue.
Later that afternoon he’s supposed to show up at the counselor’s door, which he does, following an intense internal debate: there are no accredited psychologists in Liberio at the moment, so he should be grateful that there is someone who at least tries to fill that role, but he can’t ignore how his pockets get progressively emptier every time they meet, money drained by obvious deductions that don’t help in the slightest.
Reiner steps in, doesn’t look the man in the face until he sits on the creaky chair opposite him, papers scattered all over the low wooden table between them, covered in what he knows are meaningless scribbles: anything to appear busier, professional, except the donation box at the entrance and a very short list of patients say otherwise. Not to mention that Reiner’s seen him before, wandering in the hallways of the Marleyan army headquarters, never doing anything remotely close to useful: some things never change, Rumbling be damned.
The man starts gathering the papers as he asks, “any progress?”, squinting from behind his useless glasses, eyes far from tired: Reiner’s never seen someone take their glasses off as often when writing or reading, so he suspects they’re just for show. Anything to give a better impression, and no one to stop him from playing this fun little game.
Since there’s no point in lying, Reiner shakes his head, palms resting on his knees, back straight as usual.
A sharp inhale in answer, one that turns quickly into a more subsided sigh, as if he just remembered he wasn’t talking to his esteemed reflection in the mirror. Hard to keep in mind that the life forms walking through the streets are people, too: this seems to be true even for a counselor. A fake, unqualified one.
“When was the last time you drank alcoholic beverages, mister Braun?”
His nostrils flare, slowly, in amusement. “Last week,” he croaks, swallowing the still vivid memory of making a face at his drink, too bitter, only to abandon it on the nearest table and look around the crowded room with tired eyes.
The counselor tuts, abandoning the slightly less messy pile of papers on the table to rummage through his bag: he fishes out a notepad and a pen, writing something Reiner can’t see. It could be anything, from ‘I need to scratch my balls’ to’ mister Braun is a monumentally useless prick’.
He wonders why he even bothers faking it. “I thought we agreed that you should stop drinking. Alcohol won’t do anything except add more issues to the pile.”
Boyish mischief pulls at his cheekbones, tugs at the back of his tongue and makes him flash his teeth briefly. “I never said how much I drank.”
“Quantity does not matter,” he answers, somewhat offended, pen grazing the paper aimlessly, Reiner wonders if he’s changed shapes or if he’s still into drawing triangles. “Vices are bound to throw away all our hard work and anything we achieved in these months. I’m afraid I cannot help you if you don’t cooperate.”
If only someone told him earlier that alcohol would prevent him from making any progress! As if all those years of traumas and racist propaganda shoved down his throat were for nothing. Clearly, wine is the culprit here, even if no one was drinking inside the walls when he broke through the gate and killed thousands of people, though. Not that he could notice since he was too busy squashing them like bugs.
They’re getting more frequent, lately, the memories that squeeze air out of his lungs and fill them with thick, clear water that pumps into his heart, makes it go faster, properly, like it did before the war. Reiner allows his back to slouch, slightly, gaze wandering somewhere to the left, back in time, the smell of warm skin and hot breath on his neck, a tear-streaked cheek resting on his chest.
If he were here, what would he say?
“Did we achieve anything at all?”
Something like that, perhaps with more cursing.
The counselor’s stupid face morphs into a pathetic show of widened eyes and open mouth: Reiner stands up, heartbeat echoing in his ears, his own voice sounding distant and muffled as he thanks him ‘for all his efforts’, sarcasm dripping pleasantly from his tongue while adding, “I’ll have to find someone more qualified to help me.”
Poison gurgles over the ridges of his teeth, still showing in an unpleasant, unsettling grimace, shaped like a smirk. Is this how people feel when speaking their mind? When they stop playing the waiting game and get things over with?
Is this how he felt all those years ago on top of the wall, the morning after Utgard Castle?
Walking out of the room, Reiner doesn’t even spare a glance at the donation box lying in the corner, the last remains of the Marleyan army trying to stay afloat with every means possibile.
*
The streets are growing quieter, slowly: lights turned off, doors closing, people yawning as they walk back home. Curfew’s drawing near, and there’s a certain urgency in Porco’s step, knowing they’re not supposed to stay out too late.
“Want to go see something before we get home?” asks Porco, out of the blue, breath hitching in Reiner’s throat at the sudden question, his voice always so shrill and unexpected, no matter the time or place.
“…not particularly, no,” he murmurs, his voice so meek it sounds like it’s afraid to come out.
“Thought so,” a scoff, a stray pebble kicked down the street. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”
Reiner tries to swallow down the anxiety, failing miserably, and decides to mask his anxious sniff with a hesitant “yeah” that wouldn’t convince anyone. Porco doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he doesn’t care at all about their stupid conversation.
At some point, they pass the statue of Helos, barely lit by the moonlight, blending in the dark of the night sky. Porco stops in front of it, so Reiner does the same: he looks up with a reverence he can’t hide, the pain in his body slowly fizzling out, healed by the quiet, warm memories of bedtime stories in which heroes are real and everything is simple, black and white, no confusing shades in between.
The hero is depicted driving his spear into the Devil’s maw, standing on its huge disembodied head, no fear in his eyes, since whoever carved the statue didn’t bother to add them. Reiner knows it sounds weird, even in his own mind, but he wishes he were the same, sometimes. Fearless, able to throw himself on the battlefield knowing exactly what to do, standing up for his own beliefs, telling the truth apart from all the lies, spitting out the doubts that keep coming up, knocking at his skull, whenever he repeats the right things to say- whatever it is they taught him.
He steals a quick glance at Porco: he’s looking up at the statue, his face blank, as if it were nothing interesting, which makes sense. If there’s someone cut out to be a hero between them, then it’s Porco, always so vocal, sure of himself, even cocky at times, capable and determined, a hard-worker who was almost chosen and only got left out because- Reiner stops thinking.
If they talked, things would be easier, not to mention that this could be his last chance before their departure: he forces his mouth open, then closes it again, doubting himself even on the edge of the tallest cliff he’s ever stood on. Not brave enough, not good enough, never was and never will be.
Porco notices his failure, as he always does, so he snorts, eyebrows riding up his forehead as Reiner swats away the embarrassment, scratching at the side of his head. “No, it’s nothing-“
“Come on, spit it out, whatever it is,” he says, a bitter chuckle lacing the words together. He wishes he were half as outspoken as him, able to feel proud of himself and take matters in his own hands, so he tries again, harder, like he always does, banging his head against the wall until he breaks it.
“Right. I’ve always wanted to be like that,” he confesses, lifting his chin up towards the statue. “Ever since I was little.”
He doesn’t look at Porco as he waits for an answer, one that comes surprisingly later than expected. “You’re not Marleyan, though. There’s no way you can become their hero.”
Of course, a roundabout confession will always be misunderstood. “I know,” pouts Reiner, not even daring to glance away from the eyeless statue, “but he proved himself, didn’t he? That’s enough.”
This time, Porco’s rebuttal comes immediately, lightning fast: “why do you want that? Prove yourself to who? Your mum loves you to bits,” he spits, voice trailing off at the end, hesitating on the word mum, and Reiner’s had his own share of family problems to know that he’d better not pry into it.
Or maybe he should. Who else bothers to talk with Porco about these things? Marcel is never home, he’s growing up alone, and it’s not like he’s close with the other candidates… Reiner weighs his options, shifting his body weight from side to side, then stops when he accepts that no, he shouldn’t get this personal with him. They’re not friends anymore, after all.
“To everyone,” he says then, lower, answering Porco’s words. “Do you think I can do it?”
“You got your Titan, didn’t you? That’s a start.”
Reiner tears his gaze away from the statue, and finds himself staring at Porco, his upturned nose, fuller bottom lip, thin neck, the darker, greener amber of his eyes as he turns towards Reiner, looking back at him.
They’re standing closer than Reiner thought they were. If he shifted any further, their hands would be touching- the thought sets his belly on fire, for a reason he’s started to acknowledge and accept.
Porco is still the same scary thin little boy he was back then, when Reiner offered him an apple for lunch instead of taking it home to his mum. They’re almost the same height, though Porco’s hair is still longer, slicked back like Marcel’s but thinner, a lighter colour closer to Reiner’s.
He wishes he could give him another apple. Marcel did mention once, during a mission, that Porco hardly eats anything when he’s upset and he suspects he might be forcing himself to throw up sometimes: Reiner doesn’t want that. There’s an itch running along his spine, nestled up in the back of his throat, he wants to step forward and take his hand, ask him about it, about his mum, how lonely he must feel on his own, left behind because of things they can’t control.
It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Reiner wonders who’s blushing harder now, and for what reason. Time seems to slow down as they stare each other down, eye to eye, a million complicated thoughts pounding in their heads.
He wants to hold his hand and squeeze it tight, without letting go, for a long time.
“We should go,” murmurs instead the coward, the coward with the big amber eyes, “it’s almost curfew.”
The seconds that pass between Reiner’s words and Porco’s answer stretch out into minutes, hours, a silent wish- hesitation, mutual confusion, the unspoken urge to be closer, how illogical, how useless.
“…yeah, we should,” concedes Porco, and all of a sudden they’re not looking each other in the eye anymore. They turn around and walk back to the internment zone, a different kind of silence sitting in the small space between their shoulders.
*
Life after his mother’s death is made of long contemplative silences and not much else.
Reiner squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling slowly through the nose, head lolling to the side. Liberio is quiet as always at night, and his bedroom is no exception: it’s not the same house he lived in years before, for obvious reasons, but every time he lies in bed and closes his eyes it’s a journey back in time.
It happened on a Wednesday, he remembers, because it used to be the local market’s busiest day and everyone complained about it that morning, bits and pieces of conversations he picked up while walking through the streets of his old hometown.
He’d walked back home with a heavy heart, that evening: the words spat out by Porco were still ringing in his head, cursing him with a painful headache that didn’t go well with how tired he was from previous sleepless nights, spent mulling over things he shouldn’t want, doesn’t deserve, can’t have.
It’s so different now, because Reiner wants all of that and even more, but it’s too late, as always.
Opening his eyes, he glances at the door of his bedroom, locked out of habit. Porco didn’t need to knock on that Wednesday night, because Reiner heard his hushed voice in the corridor as soon as he spoke, rushing to the door so fast he might’ve pulled a muscle.
I’ve gone mad, whispered Porco, Reiner’s hand tightening around his own, eyes wide, searching, those words breathing air into his lungs, so don’t ask me why I came here, cos I don’t have a sodding clue.
He remembers every word, how it felt to be slapped in the face by the harsh truth, to see fear on Porco’s face, wondering, waiting, frozen between word and action.
You keep doing this, you keep coming back, he recites, mouthing the same words into the night, eyelids fluttering at the lasting sensation of Porco’s breath, warm on his skin, his own mouth open and waiting.
I know, lips so close they could taste the heat of each other’s breath on the tongue, Galliard, and immediately after, I’ve got a fucking name, you know, before the storm, if you’ve got to ruin me completely then do it like you mean it.
You want me to?, a useless question, unimportant, unneeded, before the words that changed everything for all time.
You’ve been ruining my life ever since I met you, the echo comes back once again, filling the room with silence, just take everything you want from me, and fucking make sure there’s nothing left for anyone else.
Reiner kissed him so hard he made Porco hit the back of his head against the door, the tips of his fingers brushing against his earlobes as he cupped his face, Porco’s palms tracing Reiner’s jawline, all the way to the back of his head, stroking the short hair there, until they parted with a loud, wet sound of lips smacking and sliding that even now makes Reiner’s breath hitch in his throat.
Tracing his own jawline with hesitating fingers, skin prickling pleasantly, Reiner melts into the bed, his other hand pulling at the waistband of his trousers- Porco cried, back then, before they could do more, before they could consume all that had been built between them over almost twenty years, so Reiner stops as well, pulled into the wrong direction, his mind betraying him, ignoring the throbbing ache in his body, hoping for a release it hasn’t known in months.
Reiner tries with a different memory: their first kiss is the one he remembers less clearly, charged with frustration, desire, the lingering burn of alcohol down the throat, Porco’s breath mixed with smoke and hatred and a tangled mess of confused bursts of emotion- it’s also the one Reiner gets off to, sometimes. Nothing else works, and he doesn’t want, need, deserve anything else, anything different, clearer, alive. Only the dead will spare a moment for someone like him.
Hissing into the quiet of his bedroom, Reiner cups himself slowly, pushing down with the heel of his hand as he thrusts his hips up against his palm: his fingers trace the shape of his dry, sensitive lips and all he can think about is Porco’s mouth, his words, how his voice sounded to Reiner’s ears, how raspy it got in his adulthood, pleasantly so, still deep but retaining a hint of the whiny little child he used to be.
A faraway memory brushes against the forefront of his mind, gets tangled up in his eyelashes as he squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to get distracted: though his hand stops, defeated, and he sets it down on his thigh, keeping the other around his mouth, only now daring to open his eyes, gaze distant while roaming the dark ceiling of his bedroom.
Porco used to blush all over his neck, which was adorable, and Reiner remembers distinctly that his ears would get red, too.
He used to stare a lot, back when they were children. At first he was curious, because this mean little child with big eyes and that peculiar upturned nose caught his attention without doing anything special: he was just there, together with his brother, with the other children he used to talk to, and Reiner would catch himself staring more often than not.
His body forgets all about what it was trying to do before, and in a matter of minutes Reiner’s hand is resting on the bed, the other one pulling half-heartedly at his beard hair, unfocused, mind travelling back at least twenty years and trying to recall how things were different, how much brighter and cleaner it all was, in general. The air, the people, his own mind.
The dissonance throws him off: he curls up on his side, still tracing his lips, crossing his ankles, eyebrows furrowed, stomach growing bigger and bigger until it punches his lungs up to his throat.
He turns away from the bedside table: there’s a drawer where he keeps an old, chipped lighter Porco used that night they went out for drinks. Maybe knowing that it’s there prevents him from sleeping? He’ll throw it away tomorrow.
He won’t. He never will.
*
The red, untouched apple rolls on the table: its rhythmic thumping echoes in Reiner’s ears, until it stops against Porco’s elbow. He glares at it, then looks back up, and sees Reiner sitting opposite him, just like on their first day.
*
”We need to talk,” coughs Reiner a few decades later, a low chuckle hidden between the words. His lungs aren’t quite the same they used to be.
He doesn’t sit, because he knows he’d have a hard time getting up, so he stands there, arms limp at his sides, back curved under the weight of seventy-four years spent in this world.
Liberio is the noisiest it’s ever been lately, or maybe his ears aren’t used to all these new sounds, people talking to each other so loudly in the streets, the constant rumble of car engines stuttering back and forth, spreading dark, thick smoke that is going to ruin everyone’s lungs too, one day.
Not that he’s going to talk louder just because of that. Porco will still hear him.
“I know I’m late,” he murmurs, scratching at his beard, “as always, with these things… but I’m here now.”
Silence: no one will answer. This gives him courage.
“I think you poisoned me, or something,” he jokes, “all those years ago… played the long game, didn’t you.”
Cough, breathe, chuckle. “You lovely bastard.”
The wind blows, then stops, not daring to interrupt the one-sided conversation between them. “The doctors said it’d be a matter of months back in February. It’s almost your birthday… it was pretty vague, but still.”
A faint ache in his throat, he’ll ignore it. “I don’t remember who called me a cockroach that one time, maybe I’m making things up, who knows, but… I’m pretty sure someone did, at some point. They weren’t wrong.”
Still a coward, even after all these years. Always true to himself.
“…it might be my last visit. So here it goes.”
The cemetery is quiet, only a couple of old people trudging through the pathway that splits the sea of graves in two. Reiner stands firmly in front of the memorial, forcing his knees not to shake under the weight of his age, of what he’s going to say, the feelings that carried him through his life, ready to be let out at last.
A deep breath, one that thankfully doesn’t impact on his slowly decaying lungs, death taking a step back before a seventy four-year old resolve materialising into the world, too late, too strong to be held back any longer.
“I don’t want that,” recites Reiner, low, high-pitched, tearful. “You can eat it,” he sobs, as the echo of a distant time comes willowing across the sky.
*
“I don’t want that, you can eat it,” he offers, trying to lower the pitch of his voice.
“I don’t like apples,” grumbles Porco, avoiding his gaze already. “You can eat it yourself.”
Reiner shrugs, finding more determination hidden inside him and hanging onto it for dear life. “I’m not hungry. I just took it.”
“For me?” asks Porco, immediately, his eyebrows so high on his forehead he looks almost funny, but Reiner won’t laugh at him. Laughing at others is mean.
“No… I wanted to bring something home for my Mum. But I thought, I can’t keep it all afternoon, and I saw you only got some old bread, so I gave it to you.”
After saying all that, Reiner has to catch his breath, and he parts his lips to do so as quietly as he can, hoping Porco won’t notice: his cheeks are red, too, and it distracts Reiner so he ends up not being quiet at all. His sigh is so loud in the room it makes him feel like everyone else is laughing at him.
“Oh. Um. Thank you.”
Reiner can’t help it, and he smiles in his weird little way, with only one corner of his lips going up as he nods, glance shifting towards the apple to try and ignore how embarrassed he is. He waits, and Porco clears his throat before asking another question.
It’s the longest conversation Reiner’s ever had with someone who isn’t his Mum.
“Why did you want to give it to her?” he asks, still not touching the apple in case Reiner will change his mind.
“Today is her birthday, and I wanted to surprise her,” is what he says, shifting on the bench, trying to wipe his sweaty hands on it, “but it doesn’t matter.”
Porco sighs as he takes the apple, tossing it back to Reiner. “You can’t say that. Now I don’t want to eat it, I feel bad.”
Before he can think twice, Reiner sends it rolling back to Porco, a short giggle escaping him.
“Eat it! She doesn’t have to run all day like we do. I can get her another present.”
“Alright,” concedes Porco with another sigh, and he’s so awkward that Reiner can’t believe this is the same kid who looked down at him on their first day at the academy. “Thank you… um.”
“Reiner Braun,” he introduces himself, still shifting on the bench because his hands won’t stop sweating.
This kid- Porco, he’s funny. Reiner knows that he has friends, and his older brother is very caring, he can see him look after Porco every second and they’re always together: but he isn’t pushing him away, not really. Some people are strange until you talk to them, Reiner knows this because Mum’s friends are so tall and old and wrinkly but they’re nice even if scary, and then they’re not scary anymore when Reiner talks to them.
“Porco Galliard.”
Reiner is still smiling when he looks away, occasionally throwing a quick glance to make sure that Porco is eating the apple for real, and he likes it because his eyes look so big and happy now, also he munches so loudly Reiner has to stop himself from laughing at the noises he makes.
Big, big eyes: they’re yellow, too- Mum says that Reiner’s eyes are amber, and he doesn’t know what colour it is but it sounds better than yellow. So Porco’s eyes are better than yellow, too, but not amber. He can ask Mum about other names for this colour when he gets home.
Reiner can’t believe he almost didn’t talk to Porco just because he was afraid. Of what? Silly, silly, like Mum used to say when he tripped and scratched his knee.
He’s been brave today, just like a hero.