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Living in the slums of Liberio is awful.
Forget armbands, gate guards, and the threats of violence whenever someone decided you’d stepped out of line; everyone deals with those dangers from outside equally. Less often talked about is the daily suffering from within: the crumbling infrastructure and terrible conditions that most Eldians behind the gates are “fortunate” to endure. Marley has fashioned them a cage of misery and decay, and dressed it up as some generous kindness.
For example, everything in Bertolt’s filthy apartment is always at least a little bit broken.
Like how the toilet was never bolted to the floor properly. Dad calls it a ‘rocking horse toilet,’ finding his own joke incredibly funny. (Which perhaps it might be, if it were just a silly detail in a story and not real life.) It was Dad’s responsibility to find someone to fix it, but ignoring it was easier—now the plumbing’s all fucked up, and it’s become the roaches’ favorite spot to gather.
Then there’s the issue of his perpetually-leaking bathroom sink, its basin repurposed for dry storage: housing his parents’ medicines and various folk remedies concocted by the neighbors (whose ingredients are dubious at best). There’s more than one bottle of tincture sitting in there growing mold.
He’s used to all this by now, so he washes his hands in the tub.
Of course, Bertolt can’t complain about any of the endless things around the house in desperate need of repair—because Dad’s always in pain, and he’ll take it out on Mom the second Bertolt stresses him out by daring to name the reality of their situation.
Bertolt is always poised and ready to handle the next crisis at home. For Mom to fall and injure herself, seemingly always in a losing struggle against gravity.
Sometimes, Mom will wake in the night after a seizure and just wander, ambling through the house. Anxiety fueled thoughts race through Bertolt’s mind (Did I lock the front door? Fire-proof the kitchen? Pick up enough off the floor so she doesn’t trip and break another bone?) whenever the familiar sounds tell him she’s up again.
She’ll turn on his bathroom sink faucet, ruining their supplies and the cabinet below the sink in the process. At least, as much as you can ruin wood that’s already rotted from this happening countless times before. Still, it’s irritating to deal with over and over again.
His building is infested with huge, ruby-brown sewer roaches. At first, he assumed everyone had them—then he noticed they’re not in Reiner’s building. His mom is neurotic about keeping their apartment clean and tidy—Bertolt’s apartment couldn’t be more opposite, if the stinking piles of dishes and cigarette smoke stained, permanently-drawn curtains were any indication.
Bertolt is, admittedly, afraid of the roaches. Yes, they’re so much smaller than him, and yes he could literally just squish them. But he feels so sick at the thought of having to kill something just to get to something else. They’re grotesque little obstacles in his path, but they’re still living things. No matter how repulsive, how utterly disgusting he finds them, Bertolt doesn’t want to use his feet to obliterate this living thing. He’d rather kick a football around with Reiner.
He needs a shower, desperately. He’s been avoiding it, mostly because the bathroom is where his unwelcome house guests live. There’s never really a reason to spend time in the kitchen (they rarely have food in this place, anyway), so the bathroom is the current bane of his existence.
He works himself up to a compromise: washing his hair in the tub.
Pulling back the mildew-stiffened curtain, Bertolt plants his knees to the filthy, tattered towel that barely passes as a bathmat (it works well enough to catch some of the shower drip)…
Tilts his hunched frame over the lip of the tub…
And nearly touches his nose to a massive, six-legged creature from hell.
There’s no peace from them. Even when he’s under his blankets (which he’s very careful to not let fall to the floor—thankfully, hes never had to share his bed with them). But there’s never any real escape, because he hears them skittering within the thin walls, all throughout the night.
~*~
“Bertl, I’m gonna be real with you for a second.”
Bertolt stares back silently.
“You kinda… you look like shit, B,” Reiner sighs, somehow still managing to sound kind.
“I haven’t been sleeping,” he explains, breathing out a dry little laugh at Reiner’s bluntness. There’s dirt on the back of his neck and his scalp itches all the time. But Reiner doesn’t call him out on anything specific or humiliating. Which he appreciates.
“Come over tonight, then. We’ll play that board game we just borrowed from my cousin.”
“Okay.” He answers immediately with a smile.
“Yeah? You don’t gotta ask anyone?”
“No.” Obviously.
The invite is casual, but Bertolt’s heart soars for the rest of the day, finally having something to look forward to.
Reiner’s family is far from well off, but they do have a real bathmat.
He showers before dinner, rejoicing that the water is hotter than at his own apartment. They have high water pressure, soap that isn’t watered down, and a door that latches all the way. He allows himself to feel luxurious for a moment, in a closed bathroom where he’s actually alone. No insects to ruin his night.
He has a hearty, home-cooked meal for the first time in… well, in as long as he can remember. He barely registers what’s on his plate because he inhales it so quickly. There’s definitely carrots; he knows this because he practically chokes on one. There’s even potatoes, which he doesn’t care for that much, but they’re cooked with real butter and garlic and they taste divine.
“This is so good!” Bertolt manages, after a concerned Reiner pats his back, shoving a glass of water in his hand. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Braun.”
Reiner’s mom splutters a bit over the lip of her cup of wine. “Oh, aren’t you sweet. Please, dear, call me Karina.”
“Thank you, Karina,” he corrects himself with a nod, ears hot with embarrassment. Adults almost never talk to him, let alone call him things like sweet.
The meal continues pleasantly, and before long Karina breaks the comfortable silence. “Reiner, have you told your friend the news?”
Bertolt looks up, mouth full, at Reiner. Raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t remember hearing any news.
Reiner’s face transforms from sheepish to proud, beaming like he’s his own source of light. Bertolt can’t help but smile at that.
“Oh yeah… I’m gonna be a Warrior candidate!”
Bertolt stops chewing, swallows thickly. “Yeah? You seem… happy about it.”
“Are you kidding? Of course I am; it’s the greatest honor! You should join, too!”
“Me? I dunno…”
“Yeah, you’d be so good at it! You’d definitely get in. Plus, we could train together and become Honorary Marleyans with our families; it’ll be great!”
Karina nods approvingly, her smile saccharine.
“Yeah… okay,” Bertolt replies, looking down.
Later that night, Bertolt feels… he’s not sure how he feels. The wild hummingbird in his chest won’t let him close his eyes, but tonight the reasons are all different. There’s no scratching coming from the walls, no leaky faucets, no errant adults forcing him to sleep with one eye open. He’s still anxious, like he always is whenever he shares a bed with Reiner (I’m just too used to sleeping alone, he tells himself), but it’s a warm kind of anxious. It’s weird.
“Hey, B?”
“Yeah?”
“You awake?”
“Reiner, I just answered you. Obviously I’m awake.” He feels light; he wants to laugh, but he worries he’ll mess something up if he does.
Bright amber eyes peek over at him from under the covers.
“You really think you’ll join?” he whispers.
Bertolt shrugs, stares back. “I dunno…” He thinks about those Warrior program leaflets (there’s one he uses as a bookmark)—boasting Marleyan-grade healthcare for approved candidates and their families. He nods slightly. “Maybe.”
“We’d get to train together, and get really strong.”
Bertolt finally laughs a little. “Maybe I should… to keep you out of trouble.”
Reiner shoves him playfully. (The imaginary handprint on Bertolt’s shoulder stings for several minutes.) “It’ll be way better with you there,” he says, in that way that he says things, like they’re just true.
A few moments pass, and Bertolt sighs out a pleased “Yeah… okay.”
He falls asleep to the even breathing of his best friend beside him. He sleeps peacefully.
~*~
He gets a notice the following year: he’s been selected for Warrior candidacy. Dad agrees without asking him. Because Bertolt’s opinion has never really mattered, especially on topics so trivial as Bertolt’s future or national security. Dad’s not patriotic like Karina is; he’s just happy for the promise of a “slightly-less-shitty life.” You’re welcome, Dad.
Mom’s gone. Some time during the winter, she left the house and just… never came back. Bertolt screamed at him to look for her at first, but Dad drinks so much now. After the second black eye, Bertolt learned to swallow his rage and drop it. The neighbors claim not to know anything, offering empty condolences and pitying grimaces whenever he sees them. He hopes she’s alright, but he guesses she’s probably not.
The Warrior program isn’t so bad—the training leaves him so spent that he actually sleeps. He gets to have more meals (and spend more nights) at Reiner’s apartment. Dad has a better housing voucher now, but Bertolt still stays at Reiner’s every chance he gets.
He learns he’s really great at shooting. He learns to shove down his feelings of whatever that means, what it will inevitably mean—about him, about what life has in store for him.
He easily reaches the top of his class. Everyone else is working their hardest, too, of course; but Bertolt’s drive to succeed, to excel, is all but bursting out of him. Who knew, all it took to motivate him was a challenging, competitive environment and some well-placed encouragement from adults?
Bertolt is on track to inherit the Colossal, and Reiner is struggling to remain afloat. The training is grueling and hard, but the structure and schedule helps Bertolt finally feel right about something in his life.
On the way home from training one day, they’re roughed up by a trio of Marleyan kids. Bertolt punches the shit out of them in a cold, murderous trance—his one goal protecting Reiner, who’d just passed out from a rock to the head. When the panic recedes and they’ve run as far away as they possibly can, he comes back to himself, gasping, covered in blood that’s not his.
(He really needs a shower.)
He spends air he doesn’t really have on berating Reiner for fighting back, and lamenting his own life. He calms down somewhat and they limp home.
Reiner sighs heavily as they cross the threshold into his bathroom. “Mom’s not here yet. She can’t know we got in a fight.” He looks at Bertolt meaningfully.
Bertolt grimaces, wishing he didn’t feel jealous. He nods. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean you up. I’m… good at taking care of injuries.” He is. He’d done it loads of times for Mom.
“You’re good at everything, Bertl,” Reiner breathes.
Bertolt lets out a dry little chuckle at that. “Not really.” He feels warm for the first time all day.
He works in silence, Reiner hissing when he applies the iodine.
“Nobody gives a shit about us.” Reiner’s voice comes out sounding pathetic and small.
“Yeah.” He sighs the word, almost boredly.
Reiner must’ve heard the resignation in his voice, because he bristles under Bertolt’s touch. “No, B! That’s not right! We’ll… we’ll do something. We’ll make them give a shit. We’ll make them respect us.”
Pretty sure that’s not how that works. But by the end of his rant, there are little crystal tears forming in the corners of Reiner’s eyes. Bertolt pretends not to see, fights the urge to wipe them away with a thumb, to lean in and taste them—wait, what?
He hums, just so Reiner doesn’t know the extent of his disagreement, or what other ridiculous thoughts his exhausted brain is conjuring. “Hold still,” is what he actually says.
“Do you think it’ll need sutures?”
Bertolt has very little formal medic training. But he’d stopped the bleeding to Reiner’s temple, so he shakes his head. The other boy exhales his relief, shoulders lowering a bit.
“We give a shit,” Bertolt says, resolutely, dabbing a final bit of gauze to clean the cut.
“Huh?”
“About each other. We give a shit.”
And that’s enough for him.