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Porco wears cologne. Colt does not. Yet he ends up smelling of it anyways. From peppered kisses on Porco’s neck where he dots the sandalwood and rain scent. Cologne is a luxury of an honorary Marleyan. A rare indulgence, but Porco isn’t the indulgent type. The bottle was a gift to him, and Colt thinks he uses it for his sake. For when Porco’s arms are wrapped around his back. The aroma from his wrist marked across his shoulders. Clinging to him.
“I love when you smell like me,” Porco whispers, nipping at Colt’s flushed ear.
“Falco noticed.” Porco raises a brow, but doesn’t flinch. Colt adds, “But... he didn’t understand.”
”You smell like Mister Galliard’s cologne,” Falco had said one day while passing by the street markets.
Colt’s neck had grown red. “Oh. That’s odd.”
His clueless brother just shrugged and went on with his day. Falco had been thrust into the world of crushes and girls yet thankfully was still just a boy.
Porco’s scent clung to him all day that day. Wafting up from his jacket on the chilly fall afternoon in the internment zone.
”Think about me.”
Colt did. The heat of Porco’s body against him. That aroma of him. Memory of his words of how gorgeous Colt looked and how perfect he was lying there on the bed like that.
Mister Galliard. The abrasive man rendered to putty when Colt touched him. A sweet talker. Who calls him ‘baby’ and ‘honey’ in a hushed voice as if a naughty word. A side known to no one but Colt.
Colt sprains his ankle during a training exercise one day. Embarrassed by his mere human injury in front of a titan shifter—even if it is Porco. Who then helps him sit down, making him feel like a child again. Colt then gets a nose full of his cologne. Calming.
“Let me see it,” Porco says. Colt reluctantly pulls up his pants leg and removes his shoe. “Oh... that’s not that bad. Barely swollen.”
That feels like a lie. The pain’s sharpness matches a knife and will undoubtedly make walking a chore. Colt feels spoiled by the mistruth. One from someone who never minces words. A small offering of comfort that serves itself the most he can give when visible.
And Porco tends to his wound like a soldier. Strict and mechanical. Wrapping gauze around the injury with precision. Devoid of the tender touch he was used to.
Until later when they’re alone.
Porco kisses Colt’s bare knee. “Poor thing.”
Colt pouts. “I’m not a poor thing.”
Though he feels he is. How could he control a titan if he's still out there spraining his ankle like a mere trainee?
“Feel better.” Porco kisses his knee again, then trails his lips up his thigh. Goosebumps prickle his bare skin.
“Come closer?” A question. Hesitant. As if Porco won’t do as he asks, wouldn’t want to. He hates himself for that. He’s supposed to be a leader one day.
Porco obliges, traveling up his body and the sandalwood scent flows into his nose. Sending him flying again.
Colt nuzzles safely against Porco’s neck. “I love your cologne,” he says, as he had said before again and again.
“It makes me think of you now,” Porco says with a little amused scoff. “So... when it’s on you throughout the day, what do you think about in particular?”
“Hmm...” He muses. “I think about your voice. Your skin.” He cups his face. “Your mouth.”
“And what does my mouth do, baby?” He takes Colt’s curled hand from his cheek and kisses the pads of his fingertips.
He gulps. “That... and a lot more.”
Colt’s gaze drifts to the side of the bed where their respective yellow and red armbands rest on a chair. Along with most of their clothing. Lackluster pick for the beast titan he feels he is or not, Porco makes him feel like a prince. Kissing down his neck and across his chest. Making his breath hitch and toes curl.
But he wants to cry. He’ll outlive him. Titan or not, Porco’s days are numbered.
So Colt slips his arms around Porco’s warm back and pulls him flush against his skin.