Archive of Our Own

On the day his brother left him forever, Porco Galliard just might have been the angriest boy in the world.

He had been seething for two years at that point, glowering unnoticed in the background as he watched his fellow Warrior Candidates move on without him. Hot, searing, red fury tinted his vision like smog, materializing into pristine cloth and furtively coiling around Marcel’s bicep, staring him down every single day. Meek, embarrassed yellow stared back, a once proud color reduced to something lesser…a symbol of what he could be, what might happen, with his potential fizzled out and rotten beneath the feet of a Titan that should have been his. 

Even thinking about it made his lungs constrict and his stomach churn…Reiner Braun: Marley’s Armor. Liberio’s very own Marleyan ass-kisser had stolen Porco’s Titan from him. If it wasn’t so violently unfair it would have been funny. To Magath, to the Marleyan Brass, to everyone else, it probably was funny. Porco had worked his ass off, pushing himself as hard as any nine-year-old could. Anyone with eyes would have been able to see it. But somehow Reiner was better…despite being the slowest in races, and a terrible shot, and piss-poor at hand-to-hand combat, and only having the wherewithal to gather all the stupid pieces in his stupid brain together to lick the mud-crusted underside of Magath’s boot. Despite all that, Reiner was better. It didn’t make any sense. 

But maybe what made him the angriest was Marcel’s complacence to it all. He was the reason Porco had ever considered becoming a Warrior in the first place, the pride and joy of the Galliard family, the one kid in the whole program everyone knew would get a Titan no matter what…and Porco was always right there beside him. He wasn’t as good as Marcel, nobody was, but he was close. Marcel knew that, he knew that the Armor was supposed to go to his brother and that Reiner stealing it away was a massive injustice. But he said nothing. Even beneath hushed whispers, even within the familiar walls of their own home, Marcel accepted the news about the Armored Titan like he was hearing about tomorrow’s weather. He’d shrug it off whenever Porco brought it up, changing the subject to something stupid and miniscule, and all that did was make Porco angrier. Marcel had become a Warrior and Porco hadn’t. He would never be Marley’s shield, he would never fight alongside his big brother, and it hurt. But he wondered if it would hurt so bad if his brother cared.

Porco stood with his hands shoved so deep in his pockets he thought they might break through the fabric, watching the organized chaos of departure preparations. Military personnel cut through the crowd of Eldians with practiced, disdainful efficiency, loading supplies onto carts, checking equipment, reviewing maps one final time. For once, any insults barked by Marley’s guys fell on mostly deaf ears. Four Warriors were chosen to infiltrate Paradis Island and retrieve the Founding Titan for Marley…Liberio hadn’t had something this big to celebrate in who knows how long. 

Though, not everyone was celebrating. Porco wasn’t, he knew that for sure. Earlier he had seen Mr. Hoover watch his son quietly from a distance, frowning deeply. Pieck, the only Warrior his age that would stay back alongside him and the Warchief, whispered things in her father’s ear occasionally, only changing her tone when she locked eyes with her fellow Warriors. She would smile as she always did and take their hands and speak softly to them. She even kissed their foreheads as a parting gesture. All of them, even Reiner. Of course she did. If Porco took the time to stop staring at Pieck for more than a second, he would notice Mr. Leonhart hadn’t even bothered to show up. So clearly, anyone with any sense was just as unhappy about everything as Porco. He breathed in and his nose wrinkled at the smell of oil and metal and something else he couldn't quite name beneath the pride and festivities. Fear, he guessed, but he didn’t really know. 

Marcel stood near the dock, laughing at something someone had said. He didn’t know who and he didn’t care, honestly. Even now, even on the morning of the most dangerous mission any Warrior had ever undertaken, Marcel looked relaxed. Confident. Like he was heading out for a training exercise instead of a years-long infiltration mission to an island full of devils.

Throughout the past two years, Porco had started to hate how easy Marcel made it look. Hated how natural the Jaw Titan seemed for him, how everyone gravitated toward him as a natural leader. Even now, hours before departure, Marcel was the one keeping everyone's spirits up, joking and laughing and smiling like everything was normal. His brother’s hand was on Reiner’s shoulder now, firm and reassuring, and Porco blinked hard when he noticed his eyes beginning to sting.

It should’ve been me.

The thought consumed his entire mind since the day Magath made the final selection, constant and cacophonous, haunting his every moment. Porco had been so sure. But when the selection came, it was Reiner’s name they called, and Porco had to sit back and watch as that bastard stood alongside Marcel. Marcel, who inherited a Titan of his own. Marcel, who became a full Warrior while Porco remained a candidate. Marcel, who brought pride to the Galliard name.

Marcel, who was leaving.

"Are you just gonna stand there glaring all morning or are you actually gonna say goodbye?"

Porco jumped, startled, quickly blinking away any tears that had started forming. Marcel had crossed the distance between them without him noticing, and now stood close enough that Porco could see the dark circles under his eyes that aged the 12-year-old by about three years.

"I wasn't glaring," Porco muttered.

"Yeah you were," Marcel's grin was infuriatingly genuine. "You were making that same face you do when I can tell you’re imagining different ways to beat the snot out of Reiner."

"Yeah, well, maybe I was thinking that."

"See? Knew it," Marcel bumped his shoulder against Porco's. "C’mere, walk with me."

They moved away from the main group, far from the dock where morning mist of the harbor still clung to the ground. Porco kept his gaze fixed on the cement below his feet, refusing to look at his brother. If he looked at Marcel, really looked at him, he might do something embarrassing. Like cry.

"So," Marcel said, his tone nauseatingly light. "I'm thinking of starting a betting pool on the ship. Y’know, to pass time and stuff.”

Porco didn’t respond. Marcel kept talking. 

“How long before Annie jumps ship and swims home? I'm giving it three days, maximum, once she realizes she has to actually socialize to do this mission."

Still nothing.

"Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she just kicks us to death before we even reach Paradis. That's the real bet. Reiner’s probably gonna say something straight from a textbook again and she’s gonna get so annoyed that–” 

"Stop," Porco's voice came out rougher than he intended. "Just…just stop.”

Marcel went quiet. When Porco finally risked a glance at him, his brother's expression had shifted, the easy humor replaced by something more serious. More real. More befitting of this grim situation of two brothers forced apart. 

"I know you're angry," Marcel said quietly.

"I'm not angry."

"Pock–”

"I said I'm not angry,” But his hands were clenched into fists, his jaw tight enough to make his teeth hurt. "I'm fine. You're leaving. That's fine. You’re supposed to go away, it's what Warriors do."

The silence distanced them, splitting them apart before Marcel had even set foot on that boat. 

"You should have been chosen for the Armor," Marcel's voice was quiet…apologetic, even. But what did he have to apologize for? "You were better than Reiner in training. Faster. Stronger. You wanted it more. Everyone knew that.”

The admission made something twist painfully in Porco's chest. "But…why–”

"I don't know." Marcel snapped his head away, looking towards the other Warriors. Towards Reiner. "Politics, maybe. Or they thought he was more...I dunno, reliable, I guess? I wish I could get in their heads but…what’s done is done, Porco.” 

Porco wanted to argue, to insist that there was no way that politics alone would place an entire Titan in a moron’s lap. But the words stuck in his throat. Because a tiny, helpless part of him didn’t want to be angry at that moment. He didn’t want to fight with his big brother on the day he left.

"You're gonna do great things on the island," Porco said finally, forcing the words out. "You're gonna complete the mission and come back a hero."

"Or I'm going to get eaten by a Titan on day one and you'll inherit a Titan earlier than you thought," Marcel's attempt at humor fell flat. "Silver lining, right?"

"That's not funny."

"I think it’s a little funny."

"It's not,” Porco's throat was tight now, his eyes burning stronger than before. But he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. "You're not allowed to die out there. You gotta come back. For– for Mom and Dad. And for me. We’re gonna be waiting for your stupid ass for a long time so you can’t die and make us wait for nothing.”

Marcel's expression softened. He reached out and gripped Porco's shoulder, his hand warm and strong.

"I'm coming back," he said. "I promise. And when I do, we're gonna train together, and I'm gonna help you become the next Warrior. You're going to get chosen, Porco. I know it."

“No, you don’t…”

"No, Pock, I do. Because you're stronger than they think you are,” he cocked his head towards Magath and a few other Marleyan superiors gathered near the boat. “You just gotta believe it…’kay?”

Porco wanted to believe him. Wanted to hold onto that certainty, that faith Marcel always seemed to have in him. But all he could think about was the years stretching ahead…years of Marcel being gone, of training alone, of watching Pieck and Zeke fight with their Titans as he stood alone. His house wouldn’t even be a place of reprieve anymore. He would come home to two parents sporting red armbands while his remained as it was. Parents that he knew were disappointed even if they didn’t show it. Their family had almost obtained two Warriors, an honor most other families couldn’t even dream of. But it slipped through their fingers, all for reasons Porco couldn’t even comprehend.

Porco wondered if he could even go back into his room that night…a room he had shared with Marcel since the day he was born. Could he really do it? Curl up under the covers and sleep knowing Marcel’s empty bed was right next to him?

“You there, Pock?”

Oh. Right. Marcel was standing there, brow furrowed and lips pursed slightly, awaiting a response. Porco sniffled, reaching up to rub his eyes with his knuckles, the bone digging uncomfortably into his sockets.

“You– you sounded really cheesy,” he mumbled, quieter than he’d like. “Just now…”

Marcel smiled, the hand on Porco’s shoulder moving to his head as he messed up his hair. Porco didn’t even protest, his chin touching his neck as he looked down under the weight of his big brother’s hand, a weight he wondered if he’d ever feel again. 

"I should go," Marcel said, glancing back toward the group, taking a minute to smooth out Porco’s hair before settling his hand at his side. "They're almost ready to move out."

Porco nodded, not trusting himself to talk.

Marcel pulled him into a hug, quick and with no time to protest, the kind they hadn't shared since they were kids curled in the corner of their room, staring out the window as thunder shook their little hearts. Porco stood rigid for a moment, then let himself lean into it, if only for a second. Let himself memorize the feeling of his brother's arms around him, the familiar smell of his freshly-pressed uniform, the steady rhythm of his pulse. 

"Take care of Mom and Dad," Marcel’s voice was softer than it had been in a long time. "And take care of yourself. Don't train too hard.”

“I know.”

“And don’t mess up my side of the room,” Porco could almost feel Marcel smile against his shoulder. 

“I won’t.”

"Liar," Marcel pulled back, his hands on Porco's shoulders, his eyes searching Porco's face. "I mean it, Porco. Don't…don’t stay so angry. I know it’s hard, but…just try. Please? Promise that you’ll try?”

Porco couldn't promise that. Couldn't promise anything except that he'd still be here, still waiting, still trying to prove himself worthy of something Marcel had been given without question.

So instead, he just nodded.

Marcel seemed to understand. He squeezed Porco's shoulders once more, then let go and turned toward the waiting Warriors. Reiner stared forward like a shelshocked infantryman. Bertholdt looked nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Annie stood apart from them, her expression unreadable as always. 

Marcel walked away and Porco watched him go.

He wanted to call out, to say something meaningful, something that would matter if this really was the last time they saw each other. But no words came. All he could do was stand there, hands clenched at his sides, watching his brother disappear into the pre-dawn darkness.

Come back, he thought frantically, like the scared little kid he forgot he was. Please come back.

But Marcel was already gone.

⊰═══════════════════⊱

He hadn’t remembered his bedroom door being this heavy.

Porco stood in the hallway of his family home, one hand on the doorknob, the other clenched into a white-knuckled fist. Behind that door was everything he'd known for his entire life…the narrow, cozy little room with two twin beds pushed against opposite walls, the window that always swung open when it rained, the scuff marks on the floor from when they were kids and wrestled too hard. Marcel's satchel still hung on the back of his desk chair. Their mother hadn't moved it.

She hadn't moved anything.

Porco pushed the door open.

Marcel’s side of the room was exactly how he had left it five years ago. Five years of waiting. Five years of staring at the mirror and picturing himself with brown hair, wondering what his brother would look like when he was all grown up. Five years of hoping he'd come back from that godforsaken island of devils, that the mission would end and Marcel would walk through the door with the others in tow. He would smile like he always did, ruffle Porco's hair like he always did, tell him some story about Paradis that would make the whole thing seem less scary. 

Five years of lying to himself.

Porco's eyes went immediately to Marcel's bed. The sheets were pulled tight, probably just as crisp as the day his mother first bought them, when her first son was finally old enough for a big kid bed. For five years, their mother would touch up the bed, fluffing a pillow or smoothing the comforter to make it as pristine as possible. It was a ritual of hope that had spoiled into something else. A shrine, maybe. A grave without a body, just like the headstone over solid earth at the Liberio Cemetery. They never would get his actual body as much as they wanted it, no matter how rotted and maggot-infested it would have been after five years of death. It had sat broken and still in the stomach of a Titan, only for a brief moment, and burnt up in the acid, washing away into steam when the new shifter was born. Porco imagined his brother’s death over and over in his head, wondering what his calm, cool, collected brother sounded like when he screamed for his life. What giant teeth pressing down on either side of your head must have felt like. What did he see as he died? Could he see anything at all? Maybe his eyes popped out like peas from a pod before he even registered what was happening. 

“Marcel Galliard was killed in action five years ago on Paradis Island,” Magath had said at his doorstep a few months prior, staring his father in the eyes. “He was consumed by a Pure Titan, but the Jaw was retrieved. Porco is needed immediately so the Marley can secure the power of the Jaw again."

Retrieved. Like Marcel was a piece of equipment. Like his brother's entire existence could be reduced to the Titan power he'd carried, now transferred into Porco's body through the consumption of a girl who'd spent five years wearing Marcel's face. A girl who stood right beside the three comrades who came to the island with Marcel. Comrades who were clueless to the Jaw Titan’s wielder right in front of them. So-called “comrades” who didn’t transform the second Marcel were grabbed by that Titan. Morons who stared and watched, with their crowned king ruling over them all with his fat face and smug smirk…a sniveling coward who never should have been selected in the first place, whose idiocy killed Marcel. His predecessor's memories were so far from what he pictured when he thought of Reiner on the island it made his stomach churn. He was playing a part, trying to be Marcel after getting him killed, lumbering around with devils he was supposed to hate and slapping them on the back, giving them advice, offering a listening ear. It was sickening. 

Porco only just realized his hands were shaking.

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The click of the latch sounded too loud. Everything did, really…his breathing, his heartbeat, the creak of the floorboards under his feet. He couldn’t tell if this was just part of being a Titan Shifter now or if he was going insane. Through the thin walls, he could hear his mother crying softly in her bedroom next door. He heard nothing from his father, which was expected. Dad was always a quiet man, but he was near mute after the news of Marcel’s death broke. The room was stale, undisturbed for too long. Porco was rarely home anymore, spending most days and nights at HQ, preferring the stiff mattress and shitty food to the weight of his childhood bedroom. He could feel Marcel's absence like two hands pressing down on his chest, harder and harder until his ribs cracked and gave way, exposing his core. 

I should have been there.

The thought came unbidden, the same thought that had plagued him for five years. He'd been so angry when he wasn’t selected, so convinced it was a mistake, that he was stronger, faster, better than the runt that got it. He'd spent five years as a Warrior Candidate while Marcel became a full Warrior, went on the mission to Paradis, became a hero.

And now Marcel was dead. Had been dead. For five years. He hadn’t even made it past the first day. Instead of his brother, Porco had a Titan that didn’t belong to him.

He crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, until he stood between the two beds. His on his right against the wall, Marcel's on his left next to the window. He'd slept in this room alone for five years, but it had never felt empty before. There had always been the possibility of Marcel's return…there was always hope.

Now there was just the bed.

Porco sank down onto his own mattress, his eyes fixed on the empty space across from him. In the dim light from the street outside, he could almost see Marcel there, sprawled out the way he always slept, one arm thrown over his face, blankets kicked to the foot of the bed. Marcel had always run hot. Porco had always been cold.

You should have turned back.

His throat tightened, making any inhale he sucked in painful and forced.

Why didn’t you just turn back?

The wrong Jaw’s memories were there, lurking at the edges of his consciousness. He had known about this for years, how inheriting a Titan meant inheriting fragments of everyone who'd carried it before, but he never expected it to be this vivid. His predecessor, a decrepit, freckled woman named Ymir, had memories that were a confused, tightly wound knot he hadn't sorted untangled yet, but beneath them, deeper, were Marcel's. He could feel them. Feel him, his older brother reaching out, trying to get Porco to see something he just…couldn’t. Everything he saw was through Ymir’s eyes. He saw a girl, golden-haired and sweet natured and dishonest and he could feel what Ymir felt for her, like he was feeling that himself. It was invasive, making him feel sticky and wrong.

Porco had passed out after he consumed Ymir. Zeke told him some shifters were able to get up and walk away after inheriting a Titan like nothing happened, but that wasn’t the case for Porco. Apparently he threw up, too, but didn’t quite remember that. All he remembered from the inheritance ceremony was red. The red of Ymir’s blood dribbling down a chin that wasn’t quite his and onto the floor, the red of muscle and sinew he broke free from, the red of the armband fastened around his bicep when he woke. He wondered if that was the last thing Marcel remembered, too. Red. Marcel's death was inside him now. The Jaw Titan carried it like a boulder on its back and now Porco carried the Jaw Titan. 

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to push back the pressure building behind them. He wouldn’t cry. He hadn't cried when Magath told him. He hadn’t cried when Pieck and the Warchief returned with Reiner and Reiner alone. He hadn't cried during the inheritance ceremony. He hadn't cried when his mother collapsed in the hallway, wailing like a dying animal, finally allowed to grieve after five years of forced hope. He wouldn’t cry now.

But the empty bed stared at him, and memories he couldn’t see pressed against his skull. The room felt like it was shrinking, the walls closing in, the air growing thinner.

I can't stay here.

The thought came suddenly, desperately. He couldn't spend another night in this room, staring at that bed, feeling Marcel's absence like blood seeping from a wound that wouldn't close. He couldn't listen to his mother cry. He couldn't pretend to be strong when everything inside him was broken and small.

Pieck.

Her name broke the surface of the waves that crashed in his mind, bobbing up to the forefront of his thoughts. Pieck would understand, Pieck always understood. She'd been there for the last five years, left behind to fight for Marley. The two had grown close, much closer than they were as Candidates. They trained together, ate together, spent countless hours in each other's company because there was no one else. The other Warrior Candidates were too young, and the Warchief treated them like children, praising Pieck each time she breathed and acting as if everything Porco did was immature and inexplicably funny. But Pieck had never treated him like a child. She'd treated him like an equal…a friend. Maybe more than a friend, if he was honest with himself. But he had never been good at honesty, especially not about things like that.

Porco stood abruptly and the decision made. He couldn't stay in his house, not tonight. Maybe not ever again. He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door, shoved his feet into his boots, slipped on his armband, and left the room without looking back at Marcel's bed. His mother's crying had quieted to near silence, save for the stray shuddered gasp. He paused outside her door, one hand raised to knock, to tell her he was leaving. But what would he say? I can't look at Marcel's bed anymore. I'm going to Pieck's house. I'll be back tomorrow. Maybe. He lowered his hand and kept walking.

The streets of Liberio were quiet at this hour. Most people were inside, finishing dinner or getting ready for bed. Porco walked quickly, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the evening chill. The Internment Zone wasn't particularly large and he was particularly quick, he could cross it in twenty minutes if he walked fast enough. But tonight, the distance felt both too long and not long enough. Too long because every step away from his house felt like cowardice, not long enough because he didn't know what he was going to say when he got to Pieck's door. 

Can I stay over? I don’t wanna look at my dead brother's bed anymore.

Yeah. That would totally go over well.

But Pieck had just come back from Paradis three days ago. She had been there. She'd seen the place that killed Marcel. Maybe she'd even seen where it happened. Maybe she knew details that Magath hadn't shared.

Maybe she was grieving too. Porco still remembered when she returned home with Zeke and Reiner…how could he not? He had never seen her look so…small. Pieck hadn’t grown much from when they were children, but her personality didn’t match her size. She wasn’t shy or antisocial, quite the opposite really. But when she stepped off that boat, hobbling on a crutch wedged under her right arm, she looked tiny. She stared at the ground, her lips pursed and her eyes wet and shimmery like a sick mutt at the other end of a gun. When she first looked up at Porco, she couldn’t hold his gaze, eyes shifting every which way as she avoided looking at his face. The thought made him walk faster.

Pieck lived on the eastern edge of the Internment Zone, in a small house she shared with her father. Porco had been there countless times over the last five years, just existing together when the pressures of their lives got too heavy. Her father was kind, albeit frail, and he had always welcomed Porco with a warm smile and an offer of tea. But it was late now, past ten. Her father would be asleep.

Porco slowed as he approached the house, suddenly uncertain. The windows were dark except for one…Pieck's room, on the second floor. A faint light glowed behind the curtains. She was awake.

He stood on the street, staring up at that window, his heart pounding harder than it should. This was stupid, he should go home…he should deal with his own grief by himself, not drag Pieck into it. She'd just come back from a failed mission. She was probably exhausted. She probably wanted to be alone.

But even as he thought it, his feet carried him to the front door. He raised his hand to knock, then hesitated. The door opened before he could decide.

Pieck stood in the doorway, clad a simple white nightgown, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. As plain as it was, it was probably the most feminine thing he had ever seen her in, much more used to pristine white uniforms and big, clunky boots. She looked tired, as always. There were shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there five years ago, but her expression was calm…unsurprised.

"I thought that was you,” she said simply. 

Porco blinked. "What?"

“I saw you outside my window,” she shrugged. How long had he been standing there? If she had the time to spot him, come downstairs, and open the door… "I wasn’t completely sure, but who else would it be? I’m not a very popular girl." She paused, her dark eyes searching his face. "You look terrible, Pock."

"Thanks," he muttered with a huff, wincing at the nickname, agitation already bubbling inside him. Maybe this was a mistake.

"I’m serious, you do," Pieck stepped back, opening the door a bit wider…an invitation. "Come in."

He didn't move. Now that he was here, standing in front of her, the words wouldn't come. His throat felt tight again, his chest constricted. He couldn't ask this of her. He–

"Porco," Pieck's voice was soft, but firm. "Come inside."

Porco stepped through the doorway, obedient as any good soldier was. The house was warm and quiet, the very floorboards seemingly settled for bed. Pieck wordlessly closed the door behind him, gesturing for him to follow her up the narrow staircase to the second floor. Pieck's room was smaller than his own, but cozier...and messier. A twin bed with fawn-colored sheets was pushed against the wall, many blankets and pillows scattered across its small surface. Her desk was almost as cluttered, papers and books covering nearly its entire surface. The lamp atop it shrouded the room in a warm glow, gentle and inviting.

Pieck closed the door and turned to face him, leaning back against it with her arms crossed. "So," she started. "What happened?"

Porco opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Hesitated, and then just paused all together. His words weren’t coming out, stuck painfully in his throat like shattered glass. Pieck waited. She was good at that…waiting without protest. Never pushing, never demanding…just a constant presence. As expected of Pieck. The Cart Titan was known for its endurance, of course, she would probably stand there staring at him all night if she could, waiting until he mustered up the courage to speak. 

"I can't stay in my room," he finally managed. His voice felt unfamiliar on his tongue, like he was an oversized baby speaking for the first time. "Marcel's bed is…t's just sitting there. And I, uh…I can't–" He stopped, interrupted by some unseen force, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I can't look at it anymore."

Pieck's expression didn't change, but something shifted in her eyes. Understanding, maybe, or recognition.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I should have come to see you sooner. After you inherited the Jaw, I mean. And…after you found out about Marcel. I just–" She paused, her gaze dropping from his face to the floor. "I didn't know what to say to you.” 

"You were there," Porco’s words came out sharper than he intended. "On Paradis. You saw–" He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.

"I wasn't there when it happened, Porco, you know that," Pieck frowned, reaching to move a strand of hair away from her eye. "Marcel died on the first day, before he and the others even reached the Walls and long before I arrived with the Warchief. I didn't see it." 

She looked up at him, her eyes dark and sad, just like the day she returned but far less tearful. "But I saw the aftermath. I saw what it did to Reiner. To all of us."

Porco's jaw tightened at that name. His name. The bastard that stole the Armor from him and got his brother killed…the only one to return from that doomed mission. It wasn’t fair and it hadn’t been for a long time. Things stopped being fair when he was nine, when he watched each one of his comrades move up in the ranks without him.

"He blames himself," Pieck noticed his distress. Of course she did. "For what it's worth."

"Good,” he hissed without hesitation or thought. "He should."

Pieck didn't argue. She just watched him, her expression unreadable.

Silence stretched unwaveringly between them, unable to end without their aid. Porco could feel his control slipping, the careful walls he'd built starting to crack, crumbling like his brother’s skull beneath the incisors of a monster. He had come here because he couldn't be alone, but now that he was here, he didn't know what to do…he didn't know how to ask for what he needed. 

"Can I stay here tonight?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them. Porco’s eyes fell low and he bowed his head slightly, embarrassment burning his cheeks. "I just…I can't go back there. Not right now.” 

Pieck straightened, her arms falling lazily to her sides. For a moment, she didn't say anything, and Porco felt a spike of panic. Shit. He overstepped. As close as they were, there were some boundaries he never thought to cross…was this one of them? Had he asked too much of her? 

"Of course," Pieck responded, interrupting his swirling mind. "You can take the bed. I'll sleep downstairs on the couch."

"What? No," He frowned, shaking his head. "I'm not…Pieck, I didn't come here to kick you out of your own bed."

"Then what’d you come here for?"

The question sat plainly between them for a while. Porco didn't have an answer. Or maybe he did, but he couldn't say it out loud. Instead, he said, "I don't know."

Pieck studied him for a long while, then nodded slowly. "Okay," she said with a shrug. "Then let's figure it out." She stepped past him to the bed, sitting down on the edge and patting the space beside her. "Sit."

Porco hesitated, then obeyed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down, leaving a careful distance between them. He was close enough to feel her presence, far enough to maintain the illusion of control.

"Tell me about the memories," Pieck said.

"What?"

"The Jaw Titan's memories. You’ve probably gotten a few from your predecessor by now," She turned to face him, both hands resting beside her on the bed. "It’s…a lot at first, I get it. It’s kinda hard to describe, but the longer you have your Titan, the more used to them you get. It was pretty hard when I first got the Cart, but I moved past it."

Porco stared at her. Despite how close the two were, they had never talked about this…the weight of carrying a Titan, the burden of inherited memories and the lives connected to you in an endless chain. Pieck had always seemed so calm, so unaffected by the power she carried…he never considered that she might be struggling too.

"I don’t wanna get used to them,” Porco glared down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if to check that they were his own, wondering if his body still responded to what his brain told it to do. His mind had been compromised, invaded by the memories of a woman he didn’t know and never wanted to know…and his body was irreparably different. One tiny paper cut would set him off, killing Pieck and her father, destroying her home and her neighbors’ homes too. It was a harrowing thought, one that everyone said should bring him pride…one that, five years ago, probably would have. 

"This woman…Ymir,” he muttered, her name tasting like rich, decadent cream that had soured in the sun. “I’ve been seeing things she saw…but I can feel Marcel. Under her memories…I guess. It’s like he’s trying to show me something but I can’t get to him because all I can see is Ymir’s stuff. I dunno, it’s– it’s weird…”

“Yeah,” Pieck nodded. “It is weird. As much as Marley’s researched the Titans, there isn’t exactly a handbook for these things…”

Porco looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the exhaustion etched into her features. The shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders…she had been carrying this burden for five years, and he had never noticed. Or maybe he had noticed, and he'd just been too wrapped up in his own bitterness to care.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out.

Pieck blinked. "For what?"

"For not…uh," He raised his hands purposelessly, one awkwardly finding a spot on the side of his neck, scratching an itch that wasn’t there. “I– I dunno, for not asking, I guess. About how you were doing. With the Titan."

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "You were busy being angry at the world, I understood. You got a lot going on in that head of yours, Pock."

"I was angry at Marcel," Porco admitted, a confession he never spoke aloud. "For being chosen instead of me…and for leaving.” He took a long pause, suddenly unable to finish his thought without taking in a slow, shuddering breath. “I was angry at him for dying, too, I think…it’s stupid.”

"No, that's normal," Pieck’s eyes never left his face. "Grief isn't rational."

"I don't want to grieve."

“What, you’d rather just be angry then?”

“Yes.”

"No,” she shook her head and Porco snapped his own in her direction. “Anger is exhausting, trust me. I've tried it out myself and didn’t like the result." 

Porco scoffed, a mix between a doubtful click of the tongue and a chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you actually angry before.” 

"I was really mad when I inherited the Cart Titan," Pieck shrugged. "I mean, I got what I wanted…but I was still pissed at everything. At Marley for turning a bunch of kids into weapons, at my father for being sick, at myself for being born Eldian." She paused for a moment, mulling over her thoughts before letting them loose into the air. “I was pretty mad at you, too, actually.”

“What? What’d I do?” 

“When you found out Reiner got the Armor you fell to the floor and cried in front of everyone. I remember staring at your back and thinking ‘Why does he want to kill himself so bad?’ Marcel was chosen to be a Warrior, you and your parents already were Honorary Marleyans. You had managed to get the best end result without actually dealing with the hard part and you were crying over it. You didn’t have to eat anybody, you didn’t have to turn into a big disgusting monster every day and kill people with it, you didn’t have to sit down with your parents and talk about what was gonna happen when you died in thirteen years…it just felt like you got the easy way out. It made more sense when I was eleven and sad and stupid.”

“You were never stupid,” he mumbled, somehow only managing to say that in response, of all things.

“Thanks?”

Neither one said anything for a while. Then Porco sighed, realizing he was going to have to be the one to start the conversation back up again. "So, what did you do?"

“Hm?”

“About being pissed all the time.”

"I was sad, so I let myself be sad,” she said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I cried a lot, and then I kept going."

"I don't think I know how to do that."

“What, cry? Even babies can do that, Pock. It’s the first thing they do actually…”

“No, I meant– not be…angry, I guess. It’s hard. I don’t know how to do what you did.”

"Yes, you do." Pieck reached out, her hand hovering near his for a moment before settling gently on his knee. The touch was light and tentative, but it sent a jolt through him and his gaze drifted to her hand. He remembered Pieck once told her how she hated her hands, calloused and worn instead of dainty and pristine like other girls’ hands. He had no idea what she meant then and he still didn’t at that moment, he thought they were...nice. "You just have to let yourself…feel it, I suppose. It sounds stupid, but it works pretty well.”

"I don't want to feel it, Pieck," His voice was raw now, the careful control beginning to crumble. Pieck's hand tightened slightly on his knee. She said nothing at all, but she was there, really there and really listening…his closest friend, the only one in the world that seemed to understand every little thing that went through his brain. Her words burrowed deep into his skin and down into his very bones, splitting him open and exposing him for her to see. Suddenly, he felt naked, newly born and vulnerable to the world around him. Everything he had been holding back came rushing to the surface.

"He's been dead for five years," The words came out choked, barely above a whisper. "Five years and I didn't know. I thought– my parents kept thinking he'd come back. The mission was just gonna…end and he'd walk through the door and everything would go back to normal. But he's been dead the whole time. He's been gone, and I didn't even know."

"Porco–"

"I think about it all the time," His voice was rising now, cracking at the edges like cheap paint. “What it must have felt like to be eaten…like– like what he felt before he died." He broke off, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "I ate the girl who ate him. I consumed her to get his power back. What does that make me?"

Pieck stared up at him, frowning slightly. "Human," she murmured.

"I'm a monster," The words tore from him like flesh from bone. He wondered if Ymir had been just as scared as Marcel when she died…she didn’t look scared from what he remembered, but when you’re faced with the gaping maw of a nightmare, it’s hard to be tough. Marcel wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t. "I'm a weapon. Just like Marcel was. Just like you are. We're all just…we're just tools for Marley to use and throw away."

“Yeah, we are.”

The blunt agreement startled him. He looked at her and she met his gaze steadily.

"To them, we’re tools," she continued. "We're Eldians, and Marley will never see us as anything more than that. But that doesn't mean we're monsters. It doesn't mean we’re not still human." Her hand moved from his knee to his hand, her fingers threading through his. Without meaning to, Porco squeezed her hand tightly, the pressure almost uncomfortable, but Pieck didn’t protest. Porco stared down at their joined hands. He'd held her hand before, helping her up after training, steadying her when she stumbled, but this felt different. "I’m important to a few good people and that’s all that matters to me…Marcel was important to a lot of good people. He wasn’t just a weapon or a Titan, he was your brother…that matters more, I think.”

"I don't know how to do this," he whispered.

"Do what?"

"Be okay with the fact that he's gone."

"You don't have to be okay with it, you just gotta deal with it."

"What if I can’t?"

"I'll help you," She squeezed his hand. "That's what I'm here for."

Suddenly, he couldn't hold it back anymore. Everything came pouring out in a rush that left him gasping. His free hand came up to cover his face, his shoulders shaking as the first sob tore through him.

"I should have been there," he choked out. "If I had the Armor…I– I would have saved him…”

"No, you wouldn’t’ve.”

The words stung, but they were true. Porco knew they were true. But knowing didn't make it easier.

"I miss him," he blubbered, the words so foreign on his lips he didn’t even realize how obvious they were. Of course he missed Marcel, he had been missing him for years…but he never said it. Any doubts he had about his brother’s wellbeing or the status of the mission were shoved down to the darkest, deepest depths of his mind and locked away, never brought to words. And in doing so, Porco never really talked about how much he missed him.

"I know,” Pieck's other hand came up to rest on his shoulder, and then she was pulling him toward her, guiding his head down to her own shoulder. "I know. I'm sorry."

Porco didn't resist. He let himself collapse against her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, his body shaking with sobs he couldn't control, each little choke and mewl squeezed out of him like a twisted wretch from a birth canal, forceful and strenuous. Pieck's arms wrapped around him, one hand moving to the back of his head. He cried like he hadn't cried since he was a child with deep, wrenching sobs that left him breathless and sore in the back of the throat. He cried for Marcel, for the five years of false hope, for the brother he'd never see again…and he cried for himself, for the burden he now carried, for the memories he couldn’t quite reach. He cried for the future that had been stolen from both of them. And through it all, Pieck held him. She didn't try to shush him or tell him it would be okay. She just held him, her presence steady and solid, the calm to his tempest. Time lost its relevance. It could have been minutes or hours, Porco didn’t know. All he knew was the warmth of Pieck's body against his and the gentle rhythm of her breathing. 

Eventually, the sobs subsided into hiccups, then into shaky breaths. Porco stayed where he was, his face still pressed against Pieck's shoulder, too exhausted to move. His eyes burned, his throat was raw, his chest ached like someone had reached inside and squeezed his heart…but the pressure was gone. The walls had crumbled, and in their place was something else, something raw and painful but something so freeing the feeling made him uncomfortable.

"Sorry," he mumbled against her shoulder.

"Don't apologize,” Pieck's hand was still at the back of his head, her fingers softly moving over his undercut in a manner that was probably more soothing for her than it was for him. "You needed that."

"I got your nightgown wet…"

"I don't care."

Porco finally pulled back, just enough to look at her. Her face was close, closer than he'd realized, close enough to startle him. He could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes reflected from the lamp on the desk. Her expression was soft, open, without a trace of judgment or pity.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"You don't have to thank me," Her hand slipped from his hair to his cheek, her thumb brushing away the tears still clinging to his skin. "That's what friends do."

Friends. The word settled between them, and Porco felt something hot and stinging in his chest. Friends…that's what they were. That's all they were. Except her hand was still on his cheek, and his hand was still holding hers, and the space between them felt tense with something he didn't understand.

"Pieck," he started, then stopped. He didn't know what he wanted to say…didn't know if he should say anything at all, really. Her eyes searched his face, and for a moment, he thought she might pull away…might put distance between them and restore the boundaries of their friendship.

Instead, she leaned in.

It was barely a movement, just a slight shift forward, closing the small gap between them. Her forehead came to rest against his, her breath warm against his lips. Porco's breath caught in his throat and he almost squeaked out, "Pieck–"

"I mean it…whatever you need, I'll help you deal with it," Her hand slid from his cheek to the back of his neck. She smiled, closed-lipped and genuine, a sight he had grown so accustomed to. “Support’s what the Cart’s best at.”

"I don't deserve you," he said, his voice barely audible.

“Mm, I disagree,” she chuckled.

Porco's heart was pounding so hard he was sure she could feel it. They were so close now…close enough that if he moved just a fraction of an inch, their lips would touch. Close enough that he could see the slight flutter of her eyelashes, the way her pupils had dilated in the dim light. He wanted to kiss her. God, he wanted to kiss her so bad it hurt. But he couldn't. Not now. Not like this. Not when he was a mess of grief and exhaustion, when he couldn't trust his own emotions, when he didn't know if what he was feeling was real or just a desperate need for comfort. So instead, he closed his eyes and just breathed her in. Let himself exist in this strange, fragile moment where everything felt off.

"Stay with me tonight," Pieck said softly. "Not on the couch or anything. Here. In the bed."

Porco's eyes opened and he jolted back a bit, shock plastered on his face.

"Just to sleep," she clarified, though there was a faint blush creeping up her neck. "I don't…I'm not asking for anything else. I just think…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. "I think we both need to not be alone tonight."

She was right. Porco knew she was right. The thought of going back to his house, to that empty room, to Marcel's bed…it made his chest tighten all over again.

"Okay.”

Pieck pulled back slowly, her hand slipping from his neck. She stood and moved to the lamp on her desk, turning it off and plunging the room into darkness. The only light came from the window, pale moonlight filtering through the thin curtains. Porco heard rather than saw her move back to the bed. The mattress dipped as she climbed in, settling on the far side against the wall. Porco kicked off his boots and shrugged out of his jacket, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Then he climbed into the bed beside her, his movements careful and deliberate. The bed was small, barely big enough for one person, let alone two. There was no way to avoid touching her.

He lay on his back, stiff and uncertain, hyperaware of every point of contact between them. Pieck's shoulder pressed against his, his leg brushed hers, the warmth of her body seeped into his side.

"Relax," Pieck murmured. "You're gonna give yourself a cramp."

"Sorry.”

"Stop apologizing."

A moment of silence. Then Pieck shifted, rolling onto her side to face him. In the dim light, he could just make out the outline of her face, the dark fall of her hair across the pillow.

"Can I…" She hesitated. "Is it okay if I–”

“Yeah.”

Pieck moved closer, her head coming to rest on his shoulder, her arm draping across his chest. The position was intimate in a way that made Porco's breath catch, but it was also comforting. He lifted his arm, wrapping it around her shoulders, pulling her closer. She fit against him perfectly, like she was made to be there.

"Is this okay?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah," Porco said, his voice rough. "This is okay."

They lay like that in silence, the only sound their breathing gradually syncing up. Porco stared at the ceiling, his mind still racing despite his exhaustion. He could feel Pieck's heartbeat against his side, steady and sure. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest with each breath.

"Porco?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you came here tonight."

One of the many tight coils in his chest loosened. "Me too."

Another silence. Longer this time. Porco thought Pieck might have fallen asleep, but then she spoke again. 

"I was scared," she said. "On Paradis. The whole time. I kept thinking, ‘What if I don't make it back?’ What if I died there, and you never knew what happened? What if–" She broke off, her arm tightening around him. "I thought about you a lot. Wondered how you were doing. If you were okay."

"I wasn't," Porco admitted. 

“Mhm…” Pieck stared up at his face, seemingly reading his mind. “Marcel being chosen wasn't about you not being worthy. It was just…it was just how things happened."

"I know that now, but knowing doesn't make it easier."

"No," Pieck agreed. "It doesn't."

They fell silent again. Porco's eyes were growing heavy now, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with him. But he didn't want to sleep…didn't want to let go of this moment, this strange, fragile intimacy that felt like the only real thing in his life right now.

"Pieck?"

"Mm?"

"What happens now?" The question was vague, but he knew she'd understand what he was really asking. 

Pieck was quiet for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and uncertain…a rare, unexpected thing for her.

"I don't know," she said. “I think we just take it one day at a time.”

"Right,” Porco nodded slightly, her hair soft against his chin. 

"Is that okay? If we don't have all the answers right now?"

Porco thought about it. Thought about the grief still sitting heavy in his chest, about Marcel's empty bed, about the memories that weren't his but felt like they were…thought about the way Pieck's body felt against his, warm and present and real.

"Yeah," he said finally. "That's okay."

Pieck's arm tightened around him, and he felt her press a soft kiss to his shoulder, so quick and light he might have imagined it.

"Get some sleep," she murmured. "I'll be here when you wake up. Promise."

Porco closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the warmth of her presence. The grief was still there, it would always be there, he knew that now. But it felt more bearable like this. Less overwhelming. Because for the first time in five years, maybe for the first time in his life, he wasn't alone. Sleep came slowly, creeping in like smoke to smother him and take him away from his troubles. As he drifted off, Porco's last conscious thought was of Pieck's hand resting over his heart, her fingers curled loosely in the fabric of his shirt. Holding on. Holding him together.