Chapter Text
Bertholdt wasn’t one to receive love letters.
Really; looking at the mailboxes adjacent, his was comparatively barren. It didn’t come as a surprise. Nor did he mind.
He stayed away from the public eye as much as he could. When his appearance was mandatory, he clung to the wall, hunched over in an effort to shrink himself. He didn’t have to waste his breath, however; as the holder of the Colossus, he wasn’t exactly approachable.
Something about harboring a sixty-meter-tall scalding monster with explosive capability must’ve been too off-putting for the general crowd. Even in generations past, the other Warriors were viewed as far less intimidating. Again, not that Bertholdt minded.
He’d realized it years ago. His feelings grew too strong to ignore and too clear to question. He could get a thousand of the sappiest, sweetest love letters in the world and it’d all pale in comparison to a single glance from his best friend.
In the past, it bothered him; the sight of Reiner’s mailbox stuffed with cards and gifts, most of which were from complete strangers. They claimed to feel something for him, and yet, they had never seen how his eyes crinkled as he laughed, they hadn’t heard the song he hummed while he made coffee.
But over time, Bertholdt grew accustomed to it. Reiner’s overfilled mailbox beside his empty one became the norm.
Which was why he’d been so confused that morning, looking over the tasteful yellow stationery in his hands. He thought it was misplaced into his slot until he read the name on the back of the envelope, looping in inky cursive letters. His next assumption was that of a generic ‘thank you’ card; they’d pop up every now and then, usually addressed to all of the Warriors at once as a gesture of gratitude for their service.
His speculations quickly dissolved as he tore through the glue and unfolded the paper. He read it once, then a second time, blinking in disbelief. Inside, in the same haphazard cursive writing—
To my beloved,
I don’t know how I got so lucky. Every day I wake up and I am thankful to be alive at the same time as you are. When your eyes meet mine I feel as though the world stops turning for a moment. The thought of you at night lulls me to sleep at night and wakes me in the morning.
If I weren’t so afraid, I would speak these words aloud to you. How I wish I could. You deserve to hear it each day, as many times as you need, until you finally believe it. I beg you to look past my cowardice and accept this letter.
I need you to know how loved you are. It scares me that you may not. It scares me that you may not know your own place in my heart. So, please, trust these simple words in their written form.
I love you, Bertholdt.
The third time over, once his fluttering heart finally settled, he started thinking it was a joke. It read like a cheesy romance novel, one written to him of all people. He squinted at the paper as if it’d give him answers, trying to recall the few acquaintances he’d made over the years. Surely, it couldn’t have been any of them that wrote something like this.
“What’s that?”
The voice, blunt as always, ripped his attention from his mysterious letter. He whirled around to Annie’s questioning expression; already, she was eyeing the envelope he held.
“Oh, Annie,” he clasped his hands behind his back, hiding the letter. “It’s nothing— just a ‘thank you’ note.”
“Right.” The look on her face didn’t change. Still, she didn’t probe him any further, stepping to the side to walk around him.
Before he got the chance to relax, his hands were suddenly empty. By the time he turned to her, she was already hunched away from him, unfolding the paper. He should’ve known she’d swipe it.
“My God,” she muttered, drawing her brows together. She shook her head, pushing the envelope back into Bertholdt’s hands. “Take it back. I’m gonna throw up.”
He glanced over it again, then rolled his eyes. “I’m sure it’s just a prank, Annie.”
“A prank?” She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, that line about the world stopping to turn sounded pretty genuine to me.” He only scoffed, folding the letter along its creases and stuffing it back into the envelope.
“It doesn’t matter either way. Not like there’s anything I can do about it.” In truth, he was relieved it wasn’t signed off. Otherwise, he’d feel responsible for sending some kind of reply; what’s more, if their feelings were true, he couldn’t exactly reciprocate.
“You never know. Secret admirers don’t tend to stay secret for long.”
He hoped, for their sake, whoever sent the letter was in the minority that opted to stay hidden.
Watching Annie walk off, he remembered what he was doing there in the first place. Bertholdt pulled the folded report from his coat pocket and slipped it into Magath’s mail slot, relieved to be done with his work for the day.
He smiled to himself, headed for his dorm room at the headquarters. On the field behind the building, the candidates were shouting amongst each other, likely terrorizing Porco in his attempt to oversee their training. From what Bertholdt could hear, Marcel was down there too, further derailing his brother’s plans.
His smile only grew as he noticed the lamplight pouring out from under his door; he pushed it open, finding that his roommate had returned from his weeklong diplomacy mission.
From his desk, he looked over his shoulder, straightening up as Bertholdt trailed inside.
He became overly aware of the envelope in his hand as their eyes met. Bertholdt made a rushed beeline to his own desk, reaching for the top drawer. “When’d you get back?”
“Few hours ago.” Reiner looked tired, resting his chin against his palm. “I was wondering where you were.”
“Just finishing my report.” He caught the way Reiner’s eyes flickered to the letter before he hid it away; miraculously, he didn’t question it. His mind was most likely occupied with his own troubles. “Are you just starting yours?”
“I’m not just starting,” he sat back, massaging his cramping hand. “I started ten minutes ago.”
Bertholdt merely shook his head, stifling a giddy feeling; it was always hardest after they hadn’t seen each other for a few days.
“You don’t have to wait for me to get done, you know,” Reiner went on, reluctantly picking up his pen. “You should go get dinner if you’re hungry.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind waiting,” he took a step closer, noting the way Reiner squinted at the paper, the dark circles beneath his deep-set eyes. “Or I can just bring some up here for both of us.”
He let out a sigh. “I don’t know how you always read my mind,” he looked up, gaze softened by yellow light. “Could you?”
Bertholdt’s hand was already around the doorknob, cheeks sore from smiling. “I’ll be back.”
It was always the little things that made him the happiest. The fact that Reiner didn’t feel the need to specify what he wanted to eat, his lack of reservation to accept Bertholdt’s offer, his contentment to eat their meal together in a dimly-lit dorm room.
Years ago, he’d exhausted himself trying to find a label for his feelings; romantic, platonic, familial, he never could figure it out. In the end, it was enough to settle on the one thing he could never deny. It was love. The kind that had no hope of fizzling out.
By the time he made it down the hall, he’d forgotten all about that elusive letter and its contents.
Until, of course, the second one came.
It was a rare instance that everyone had time in the morning for a shared breakfast. Over the sound of Porco’s usual complaints, Bertholdt was starting to regret his choice of soggy oatmeal over the not-so-slightly burnt toast.
Annie was the last to make an appearance; unusually so. They were quick to find out what kept her.
Bertholdt’s aimless stirring was interrupted as she came behind him, dropping something on the table beside his bowl. He sighed, recognizing the stationary. Annie had already taken the liberty of reading through it, seeing as it was already torn up.
“They sure are persistent,” she took a seat, wedging herself between him and Pieck. “This one’s even worse than the last.”
“Hm? What is it?” Pieck leaned forward, catching a glimpse of Bertholdt’s sour expression. Evidently, she didn’t waste time waiting around for an explanation, reaching over Annie to see for herself.
Watching the way her eyes darted across the paper, he suddenly found his oatmeal much more appetizing.
“Bertholdt, this is—” she paused, mouth agape. “We have to find out who wrote this.”
Before she finished her sentence, Marcel was peering over her shoulder, wearing a similar expression. “Oh my God, Bertholdt! This girl’s crazy into you!”
Feeling left out, Porco quickly reached across the table to snatch it out of her hands. “What the hell?” He wrinkled his brows in distaste. “She can’t even spell half the words right.”
“Who cares, Porco?” Pieck rolled her eyes, taking back the letter. “This is love we’re talking about!” She shifted her attention to Bertholdt, maintaining his disinterest. “What’s with that look? And why didn’t you tell us sooner?”
“Right!” Marcel chimed in, clapping him on the back. “Think of all the time we could’ve spent investigating!”
“I’d rather not— um, investigate,” he dropped his spoon, giving up on appearing distracted. To his surprise, and overwhelming relief, the only other bleak expression matching his was Reiner’s.
“What do you mean you’d rather not? What if this is the love of your life?” Bertholdt seriously doubted it.
Realizing he was getting nowhere, Marcel turned to the seat beside him. “Reiner, quit buttering your toast and talk some sense into him!”
He looked up from his breakfast, flinching at the horde of expectant eyes.
“Right, you’ve been awfully quiet,” Pieck crossed her arms. “As his self-proclaimed best friend, I thought you’d have a bit more enthusiasm.”
Bertholdt sighed into his hand; his ‘self-proclaimed best friend’ was the last person he wanted to read, or even know about, that letter.
After sparing him a glance, Reiner only shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t look like he wants to talk about it anymore.”
A hush fell over the table as they took in Reiner’s painfully considerate words. Bertholdt was getting ready to tear up that letter, envelope and all, without ever having read it.
“Sorry, Bertholdt,” Pieck refolded the paper, handing it back to him. “I got a little ahead of myself.”
“I did too,” Marcel muttered, taking one last look at the letter before Bertholdt hid it away. “But are you sure you don’t wanna figure out who it’s from? We could always stake out the mailboxes around town.”
“I’m sure,” he insisted, imagining what a nightmare that would be and returning to his congealed oatmeal. “Thank you all for trying to help.”
After exchanging a few confused glances, mercifully, they dropped the subject.
He discovered the third letter on his own after curiosity got the best of him.
He’d been on his way to visit his father. This time, the sight of the mailboxes in his periphery started giving him a headache. Bertholdt sighed, turning on his heel and peeking his head around the corner; he sighed, overcome by embarrassment despite being by himself.
Lo and behold, his sudden hunch ended up being correct. He turned the new envelope in his hands, hesitating before tearing it open. He looked to either side to ensure the coast was clear as if he was committing a crime.
He drew his brows together as he read, frustrated with himself over the heat rising to his face. He shoved it back into that cursed yellow envelope, realizing he was starting to imagine each word spoken in a particular, overwhelmingly familiar, voice.
Bertholdt shook himself, returning to his original plans, stowing the letter in his coat pocket. Still, he couldn’t exactly stow away the dreary feeling clinging to his shoulders.
It only began to clear as he stepped up to his doorstep, barging into the scent of cooking rice.
He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his father’s so-called ‘youngest son.’ Smiling to himself, he reached down to pick up the cat; once, he was a terror on four legs but had since succumbed to seniority and opted to sleep for most of the day. He’d been in Bertholdt’s life for as long as he could remember, lovingly named ‘Butterbrot’ after his favorite childhood lunch.
“See, son? It’s like I tell you,” his father appeared from the kitchen, swinging a wooden spoon around as he spoke. “He always knows when you’re coming. He’s been laying there, under the door, for the past two hours.”
Bertholdt kissed the top of the cat’s head before setting him back down, abiding by his raspy meow. “I think he just likes to sleep there, Dad.”
“No! He usually sleeps on that chair,” he pointed with the spoon. “That’s his pillow over there. The brown one.”
Knowing he’d inherited his stubbornness from somewhere, Bertholdt merely shook his head and began to shed his heavy coat.
“Here, I’ll take it for you,” his father reached out, accepting the coat from his hands. As he turned to hang it up, something fluttered out of the pocket and onto the floor. Bertholdt sighed, feeling his heartbeat hasten as his father eyed the letter curiously.
Though he was already peeking inside, he thought to ask. “What’s this, son?”
“I don’t even know,” Bertholdt scoffed, abandoning the foyer for the kitchen, shifting his attention to whatever was cooking. “You can read it if you want,” he added, knowing his father was likely halfway down the page.
“My goodness,” he stepped around Butterbrot, already asleep again, trailing after his son. “Well, I mean— it’s very sweet. Do you know who it could be from?”
Bertholdt sighed into the boiling rice, squinting against the steam as he lifted the lid. “No idea.”
“Do you want to know?”
“Not really.” He frowned, taking back the letter.
In contrast, his father smiled. “I’d think most people would like having a secret admirer,” he turned Bertholdt by the shoulder to see his face better. “You almost look like it’s bothering you.”
“That’s not what’s bothering me, it’s just—” he paused, collecting his scrambled thoughts. His father stayed quiet, reaching around him for a clove of garlic.
He looked down at the envelope in defeat. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it.”
“What do you think you’re supposed to do with it?”
Bertholdt shook his head, watching him mince. His father was an amazing professor, but he had a bad habit of making his son answer his own questions as if he were a student, rather than offering advice.
Then again, Bertholdt seldom took advice. And, when he did, he avoided admitting it at all costs.
“Send some kind of response, I guess. And, I don’t know, if someone’s going out of their way to tell me things like this, maybe I should feel the same way.”
He scraped the cutting board, dropping the garlic off into a pan of hot oil. “Bertholdt, no one expects either of those things from you.”
Bertholdt looked up as his father turned, arms crossed. “It’s an anonymous letter. They just want you to hear their feelings. They know there’s no guarantee you would reciprocate.”
“Yeah, but—” he sighed, tracing the edge of the envelope with his finger. “The others were all so excited. I feel like I should be happy, at least.”
His father took the letter from his hands and set it on the counter. “You don’t have to feel anything, son.”
Bertholdt nodded, hiding his empty hands in his pockets. “Right,” he smiled as his father turned back to the cutting board; that stern voice always had a way of comforting him.
“And if it’s Reiner you’re worried about,” he tensed at the sound of the name.
“I’m sure he understands you can’t help getting those letters. Although, finally telling him wouldn’t hurt. Like I’ve said—”
“Dad,” Bertholdt cut him off, shutting his eyes; this was the last thing he needed right now.
To his dismay, his father had deduced his feelings for Reiner years ago with little difficulty. Bertholdt denied it to the bitter end; still, there was no fooling him. “That’s not— I’m not worried about that.”
His father merely hummed, spooning his signature blend of spices into a bowl. Though the two left it at that, they each knew he’d guessed right again.
He didn’t have a choice the fourth time. He’d gone to his mailbox to check for correspondence regarding his mission the following day; it was purely a coincidence he’d gotten another letter. He muttered to himself, pulling it out of the slot, debating whether or not to read it.
Against his better judgment, he tore through the glue, furrowing his brows further with each sappy line. He folded it up in exasperation, ignoring how they’d masterfully managed to compliment his smallest insecurities. Again.
They were just lucky guesses. Nobody liked the way their cheeks balled up when they smiled; of course they’d write that.
Back in their dorm room, Reiner was sprawled out on his bed, nose stuffed in a book with a red cover. He quickly set it down as Bertholdt joined him, sparing a glance at the mail clutched in his hand. Watching his eyes move, Bertholdt held back an exasperated sigh, wishing he’d just left the damned thing behind.
Reiner sat up, tossing the book behind his back. “How was the briefing?”
“Thrilling as always,” Bertholdt draped his coat over the foot of his bed, trading the flashy stationery for his drab mission details. He sank into the edge of his mattress, rereading the dates and times until they were committed to his memory.
Reiner crossed the floor to sit beside him, leaning into Bertholdt’s shoulder to read for himself. Bertholdt didn’t bother tilting the paper to make it easier for him to see the text, instead smiling at the warm proximity. He kept his eyes trained on the page, even as Reiner got distracted and started to study his face.
“You got another one of those letters?”
Bertholdt’s breath caught in his throat; that was the first time Reiner had ever brought it up on his own. Knowing him, it took surprisingly long, but Bertholdt didn’t dare question it. Had he merely been waiting for the right moment?
“Oh, yeah,” Bertholdt muttered, shifting his eyes to the envelope he’d abandoned on his desk.
Reiner followed his gaze, holding back a laugh. “You seem like you don’t really like them all that much.”
Setting his mission details aside, he shook his head. “No, I mean— they’re fine,” he suddenly wished Reiner wasn’t sitting so close, predicting each of his words before they tumbled from his mouth. “I just don’t really understand them.”
Reiner drew his brows together. “What don’t you understand?”
Bertholdt paused to think for a moment, growing frustrated. Now, beside Reiner, he’d come to realize what bothered him most about the letters. Each time, they’d end with the same line; ‘I love you, Bertholdt.’
“Like— how can you claim to love someone if you don’t even know them?”
He didn’t get a response for a while. Reiner straightened up to meet his eyes.
“What, so you don’t believe in love at first sight?”
Even as the heat rose to his face, he found it too hard to look away.
“No, honestly, I don’t think I do.”
To his surprise, Reiner’s smile grew wider. Now, there really was no chance of him looking away.
“I don’t think I believe in it either.”
Bertholdt said nothing in return, wondering what about that answer made him feel so happy.
Met with content silence, Reiner leaned back against his shoulder, feigning interest in the details of his mission. He reached across Bertholdt to pick up the paper, squinting in the low light. After learning what he wanted, he let out a sigh, closing his eyes to nestle in closer.
“I swear, they make us get up earlier every time.”
The backs of their hands were pressed lazily together. Bertholdt fought the urge to move that extra inch, to entwine their fingers. “You don’t have to walk me to the station.”
“Yeah, right. I always walk you,” he jostled Bertholdt to the side, emphasizing his point. “Who knows when I’ll see you again after that?”
“It’s never more than a week.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a week too long,” he craned his neck slightly, looking up at Bertholdt through blond fringe. “No one’ll be here to defend me from Porco’s bullying.”
Bertholdt laughed, unsure how he’d ever bring himself to stand up and leave this warmth behind. “Get Marcel to defend you.”
“No way,” Reiner jostled him again. “He always takes Porco’s side in the end. That’s how it’s always been.”
In the lull, his heartbeat began to still at last, matching the steady rate of Reiner’s breathing.
“Since we were kids,” he went on, quieter than before. “You were the only one who was always on my side, Bertl.”
He felt a swell in his chest at the sound of his childhood nickname. Reiner’s voice, lost somewhere deep in his uniform, grounded him to that spot; it pulled the thoughts from his tired mind until only one remained.
He hadn’t realized how long it’d been since he last spoke until Reiner laughed to himself.
“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know you. It feels like you were always there.”
Though his tone was lighthearted, the words settled heavily on Bertholdt’s shoulders. He was no longer concerned with his mission the next day, nor the folded letter gleaning on his desk.
He let out a breath, allowing his eyes to close. He knew it’d only last another moment; soon he’d have to stand back up and get ready for bed. Soon, he’d lie under the covers and be wished a goodnight from across the room.
“It’s like that for me too, Reiner.”
But not just yet.