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His mum’s fingers always felt rough when she caressed his forehead, pet the top of his head, short hair caught underneath the touch: this time, the fingers are soft and clumsy as they run through thicker, overgrown bangs that stick with sweat to his forehead.
“Get some rest here, Reiner,” she murmurs, and it’s not his mother, this voice is younger, strong, familiar, it makes him want to curl up on himself and fall asleep, willing his heartbeat to slow down as much as possible.
It’s Gabi, he realises when she keeps caressing his forehead, sighing like she always does when faced with intricate problems she can’t seem to solve on the first try, the gentle sound cutting through the loud footsteps of the Colossal Titans, marching across the land and the seas, dark ink spilled over a map. Her touch gets progressively lighter, the cold heat of the rifle sticking to her fingertips as it cuts through the warmth of Reiner’s skin- he’s burning up, and she’s making it better, but she has to go now. He doesn’t want her to.
Gabi’s fingers slide down the side of his face before she removes her hand, standing up and walking to the door, quietly: as it creaks open she says, “I’ll bring everyone back”, and it’s muffled, barely slips through his closed eyelids, reminding Reiner of old ghosts and the words that claw at the edge of consciousness right before waking up from a nightmare. When no one is there by his side.
The smell of clean sheets and spring, carried into the room by the gentle breeze blowing outside, white curtains dancing at the very edge of his peripheral vision, and a silhouette sitting at the table, the soft, quiet scratching of pen on paper. That was when his recovery speed neared its best- gasping at the ceiling, collecting himself, tension stirring all over his body and ready to face not a person, but a symbol of his failures, the living proof that his past truly existed, the open, gushing wound that splits Marcel’s dying wish open, blood coursing down Reiner’s throat and forcing him to stay awake, to move forward, to clash with the person who can take it, over and over, and-
He sucks in a huge breath, it rattles against his ribcage as it melts all over his lungs, branded by fire- Reiner screams, but no sound comes out, mouth locked open, it’s dark outside and he throws an arm out, bumping into something that rolls away, rhythmical thumping lost into the growing chaos that floods his ears, swimming in silence. His eyes see nothing, the shape of his outstretched arm blurred, distant, outside of his Titan, words muffled by screams and explosions and his own heartbeat, speeding up, squeezing the air out of his lungs, a smile, he coughs, wants to throw up but he can’t, flesh dangling from his spine as it snaps in half and falls to the ground, and that’s when the sobs wreck him from the inside, it’s the smile, the blood, steam coming out of a broken skull, a limping walk to the gallows.
Reiner gulps all of it down, hand reaching for the apple he knocked against before, strength flowing into his arm as he throws the apple to the opposite side of the room- the growl explodes from deep down his chest, muscles clawing at bones, eyes stinging with tears that won’t come. Rolling over seems to help, and he kicks the old sheets off his body with a desperate annoyance he doesn’t recognise, trying to hold onto any kind of illogical emotion not to succumb to how he truly feels.
His bones keep breaking, but something always glues them back together, and he’s so tired of it.
Little by little, chaos dies out.
Eyelids cracking open, this time Reiner greets darkness with indifference.
He’s cold, so he grabs the sheets and covers himself again, knees shifting closer to his chest. The last time he slept like this was when he just came back from the island, on the first night in his old childhood bed, after his trial.
Now, his breathing is steady, tongue coated in dust, needles stabbing the insides of his cheek at every blink of the eye. It feels easier to think, to mouth the words I failed again, and he repeats them, voice forgotten and shoved back in the dark corner of his mind he doesn’t dare to touch.
Of course you failed. It’s all you do, failing, isn’t it.
No one is here with him, but Reiner’s reality works differently. Whenever he needs someone to talk to, there he is: his voice low and pleasant, scratching gently that spot right behind Reiner’s ear, blowing warm air over the freezing tip of his nose. And the words are always those he wants to hear.
“You’re right,” he confirms, croaks, holding a hand near his mouth while balling it into a fist, thumb resting against the curve of his lips, brushing against the skin there. “You’re right, you’re right…”
Yeah, you bet I am. Who else is going to tell you all this stuff?
“No one else,” answers Reiner, almost over his words, so he repeats himself, eyelids giving in to exhaustion. The voice chuckles, but it sounds like it came from Reiner’s mouth.
What if I survived?
His lips start quivering, so he moves his fist closer to shield himself. “I’d be dead.”
No, you idiot. There’s no way I’d ever let you.
“I want to,” confesses Reiner to himself, to a ghost, the deep darkness of the room, moonlight carving bright nothingness into the red apple he’d thrown away before. “I’d be at peace.”
It’s not true.
“I do.”
You’re scared.
“I’m not,” lies Reiner, now smiling, curled up in fetal position, shivering all over. “I’m not afraid, stop… stop talking.”
Through the eyes of the Armored Titan, the smile, so small, a flash of white that cuts open his bloodied face, and Reiner breaks again, pieces scattered all over the floor, he runs a hand through his hair and clenches his teeth, it’s painful, and he can’t hear his voice anymore, because no one was here in the first place.
His mum caressing his forehead when he was little, red armband on white clothes, skin scorching hot as it heals and grows back over scarred tissue, Gabi’s cold fingers tracing the side of his face, Porco’s smile as he gives up his life for him.
The voice comes back.
Did you hear what I said before?
Tears start welling up in his eyes. “Some of it,” he admits, trying not to interfere with the memories, stopping himself from adding too much context, twisting the meaning, turning it into something it’s not. Something he doesn’t deserve.
Huh. I should’ve talked louder.
“Yeah, you should have…”
Another chuckle, from Reiner once again as he curls up on himself even tighter, ragged breathing hitting his fist, skin cut by the cold that patches itself up together in no time, an endless cycle of give and take that never truly leaves him alone.
He forgot what the voice was supposed to say next.
His eyes close, consciousness dissipating, tears falling in reverse, out of his throat and back into his mouth.
*
“Still nothing?”
Porco shakes his head as he leans back against the railing, elbows resting on it. “Nothing.”
Before gazing away from him, Reiner waits for Porco’s resigned sigh: it never comes as he faces the courtyard instead, half of Liberio gone after the attack, sunset spreading lazily over the horizon.
“How long did it take you to see more memories?” he asks at some point, rummaging in his pockets for a lighter that, Reiner knows already, he forgot at home.
“It doesn’t work like that,” he admits, Porco scoffing as Reiner takes out a spare lighter from his pocket, handing it to him- fingers brushing his palm, deliberately, “I had no ties with my predecessor, so I never got to see any of her memories.”
“Right, right,” says Porco, clearly uninterested, lighting his cigarette as Reiner’s gaze stumbles on his lips. “Want one?”
He shakes his head. “No, thank you,” polite, distant, allowing Porco’s hands to run across his palm once again as he returns the lighter.
“Are you sure?”
Reiner’s next exhale gets caught under his tongue, it doesn’t want to come out, and it has him blink in confusion at Porco’s hand, still lingering over his own. He’s afraid of what he’ll see if he looks up.
So, he does, lifts his chin with parted lips now that Porco is closer, the cigarette seized by his lips bouncing as he chuckles to himself, sunset spreading over the colour of his eyes, so bright, mirror-like.
“I never thanked you for saving my arse,” grunts Porco, testing Reiner’s attention as his hand retreats in his own pocket.
“You didn’t.”
A shrug. “I’m not doing it now. Too late for that.”
The lighter is still there in his hand, Porco’s gaze running over it, toying with unspoken questions. Reiner indulges him: “do you want to keep it?”
Before answering, Porco takes the cigarette out of his lips, smoke blowing right in Reiner’s face, snaking past the curve of his bottom lip, climbing down his throat, lungs filled to the point his ribcage might crack open. “No, I’ve got plenty of them,” he says from behind the smoke.
Reiner turns his head to avoid coughing in Porco’s face, another low chuckle dispersed underneath. “Fine, I’ll ask around-“
“Actually, yeah, I want it,” interjects Porco, holding out his hand, “give it back.”
It’s Reiner’s turn to chuckle, though it’s slower, lazier, Porco’s eyelids fluttering at the sound. “You said you’ve got plenty.”
More smoke floods out of Porco’s lips, this time to the side, off the balcony. “Gotta keep a spare one just in case.”
“More like several spares.”
“The fuck do you even care,” he spits, charging his words, a smirk staining the curve of his lips. Reiner nods, careless, lightheaded, handing the lighter back to him, fingers lingering, Porco’s hand closing around it and, next thing he knows, he inhales smoke once again.
“What are you doing,” mouths Porco, voice forgotten down the back of his throat, between his collarbones, peeking out of his shirt: Reiner grabs him by the collar, noses bumping, looking down into Porco’s eyes, not as wide as he’d thought, as if what’s about to happen was always a possibility.
“I could ask the same,” he answers, Porco sucking in a breath, their lips almost touching, before he snaps out of it.
“Don’t even think about kissing me. I’m going to puke all over your stupid face if you do.”
Reiner doesn’t step back.
“Never said I would.”
Licking his lips, Porco tilts his head to the side, Reiner mirroring him, noses bumping again, both of them exhaling in the small, small space between their bodies, fingers intertwining, tentatively, over the lighter cradled by both their palms. “You think we’re friends now, or something? Just because you saved me?”
He’s making it difficult, but Reiner is used to it. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”
Porco scoffs, right past Reiner’s lips, setting them on fire. “I’m going back inside.”
Tugging him by the collar of his shirt, Reiner kisses him, hard, Porco gasping for air, mouth open, brows furrowed, biting at Reiner’s lips as if he wanted to tear them off: he flings the cigarette off the balcony, lighter dropped to the ground as he claws at the front of Reiner’s shirt, grasping the fabric to get him to bend further down, still biting, staring, as if he wanted to eat him.
Reiner gives up when Porco pushes him against the wall, out of view, nails digging into the back of his head as the kiss deepens: the wind blows, Reiner’s fingers buried in Porco’s hair, the inside of his eyelids alight with the glare of sunset, the smell of smoke and warmth and skin getting to his head, filling his nostrils, Porco shoving his thigh between Reiner’s, biting harder, hand coming down to trace the side of Reiner’s neck, thumb tracing his Adam’s apple.
“It’s all fucked up,” he croaks, Reiner licking his lips, Porco not returning his gaze, eyes closed as if deep in thought.
Bright, blinding light bathing him in gold. Reiner kisses him again, Porco kisses back.
“I know,” he confesses under his breath, Porco’s frustrated grunt so loud, so sudden that the following kiss knocks Reiner’s head back against the wall, hand slammed on his chest, nails digging into fabric and skin as if he wanted to tear his heart out and throw it off the balcony.
Reiner would let him.
“Why is it always you,” he growls, kissing harder, biting, clawing, the leg between Reiner’s thighs restraining him, “no matter what, it’s always you-“
How could he answer to that? He doesn’t, wishing Porco’s kisses would bite harder, leave marks, instead of growing softer, slower, his eyes opening, returning his gaze.
“Don’t go and die on me,” begs Porco, his voice rough, scratching at Reiner’s skin, ragged breath coming faster and faster, “don’t you dare die on that stupid island, you hear me?”
He wants to say, you should go back inside, like you said before: instead, Porco is kissing him again, and again, lips brushing Reiner’s as he murmurs, “stop me,” and once again he makes it impossible to answer.
They kiss until the sun hides out of view, wind blowing through Porco’s disheveled hair, through Reiner’s bangs, over their flushed cheeks.
*
The next time he wakes up, there is no voice to answer to: his mouth seems stuffed with cotton, eyelids glued together with the tears he cried in his sleep.
He’s smiling, though: the memories stick to him, pull his skin and twist it into the person he’d been once, the one he wishes he could be again.
Porco’s last smile, the one he saw through the eyes of his Titan, covered in blood and steam and so, so far away from him, is the one he’s wearing now: he blinks back the memory, lungs squeezed by the familiar grip of panic.
A string of words that are confused, distant, but it all falls into place anyway: bright flashes bathing the room in nothingness, thunder, rain, white noise, unspoken words that hurt and grow beneath his skin, breaking it, overflowing.
No need to talk louder, he got the message.
He’d love to give one back, too.