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fireflyinks · 4 months

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karaoke and cowboy hats

colt seavers x costume designer/manager!reader

there will be multiple parts, this is part one !!

a/n : so so so much fun to write, and probably one of my longest and favorite fics i’ve ever written. i love colt and ryan gosling, and tried to add as many easter eggs from “the fall guy” as possible

summary : colt always seems to be misplacing his costumes pieces, which has him constantly coming back to the costume manager and designer, y/n. the two decide to hang out for once outside of set.

contains: this is just purely fluff and good vibes, no smut, cursing, “will they, won’t they”, part two will have more romance dw

word count : 3.7k

Working with Tom Ryder was one of the most difficult tasks one could be assigned. He was arrogant, narcissistic, and overall just a complete asshole. I had the misfortune of being the costume designer and manager for the up and coming film “Metalstorm”, and Jody, the director, insisted on the most cliché cowboy get ups imaginable, plus a gold metallic touch. Having worked with Ryder many times previously, I knew he would hate this. I had prepared myself for one of his meltdowns long before it actually happened, but it still somehow caught me off guard.

“What the fuck is this?” He stormed into the costume tent, causing me to jump up from my seat in panic.

“Ryder... Jody insisted you wear this.”

Ryder looked down at his attire in utter disgust. “Don’t try to blame anybody but yourself. This is your fault. Are you trying to embarrass me? Do you have some personal vendetta? I’ve never even worked with you before!”

It stung that he didn’t even recognize me from our previous jobs together, but I tried to ignore it. Looking at Ryder’s get-up, he didn’t even look half bad. The gold metallic suit went great with his complexion, and the cowboy hat added a charming touch. But he wasn’t having any of it.

“You have to wear it. It’s not an option. This is your costume.” I tried to act brave, as if his harsh voice didn’t effect me one bit.

“You’re fucking delusional if you think I’m going to be caught dead wearing this. Say goodbye to your job, nobody speaks to me like that. I’m Tom god-damned Ryder.”

The tent’s entrance opened, revealing a very angry Colt.

Colt and I were sort of close, as close as most coworkers get. I didn’t think we’d never hang out outside of set, but I considered him sort of an ally. When he wasn’t performing a dangerous stunt, he’d talk to me about whatever was on his mind and listen to me ramble on and on.

“Just leave her alone, Ryder. She’s not here for you to bitch at.”

It would be hard to deny the fact that I had a small crush on Colt. He was everything I could want; charming, tall, handsome. But in those moments, as he defended me, I could feel it turning to a major crush.

Anger pulsed through him as he walked over to Ryder. I’d actually never seen him so pissed off before. Colt, the easy going, overly sweet, fall guy, was bowing up on Tom Ryder.

I could tell Ryder wanted to say something back, but instead he bit his tongue as he strutted past Colt, making sure to bump shoulders with him on the way out.

Colt shook his head, making eye contact with me. He had a sorry expression on his face, genuine pity for me.

“Ignore him. Ryder’s a jackass.”

I giggled, “That’s an understatement.”

He chuckled, “Anyways, do you have any extra hats? I somehow managed to lose mine, and I already have some stunts I need to do.”

Colt nervously twiddled his thumbs, embarrassed of his clumsiness. It was our third day on set, and he’d already misplaced his hat.

I nodded, smiling. Colt was always losing his props and costume pieces in previous projects we’d worked together in, so I’d remembered to bring extras. Turning around to reach into the bucket of hats, I pulled one out and handed it to him.

“Thanks. And again, just don’t let Ryder get to you. I know you’ve worked with him before, but don’t take anything he says personally, okay? If he gives you any problems, just let me know, alright?”

It wasn’t surprising that Colt remembered me from past projects, but it still felt nice in contrast to Ryder’s forgetfulness.

I nodded, smiling. “Thanks Colt, I really appreciate that.”

My cheeks burned a light crimson shade, and I tilted my head down, hoping he didn’t notice.

As he walked out of the tent, I added “Let me know if you need another hat or anything. I brought extras just for you.”

Colt looked back at me, smirking. “I will definitely need another one, thanks sweetheart.”

The simple nickname made my head spin. Yep, this is definitely a major crush.

—

By day five of filming, Ryder had become okay with his costume. Well, maybe not okay, but definitely impartial. Perhaps because his ego had realized how ridiculously good the suit made him look, or maybe Colt had spoken to him alone about the matter.

Part of me hoped it was the latter.

My job as costume designer and manager was really simple; fix and replace shit all the time. Especially Colt’s shit. When day six rolled around, he had lost three hats, his metallic jacket, and somehow a singular shoe. I’m not kidding, he had stumbled into the costume tent, peg footed, hobbling on the shoe he’d managed to keep. I didn’t mind though. In fact, Colt was one of the few people that actually visited me in the tent, instead of walking in, grabbing their belongings, and quickly walking out, not saying a word or acknowledging my existence. Colt’s visits slowly became one of the only things I looked forward to during filming.

On day twelve, when Colt came in to the tent without a cowboy hat once again, I mustered up the courage to ask him the one thing I never thought I’d be able to ask.

“Do you want to hang out sometime. You know, just me and you? Outside of set.”

The sides of his mouth quirked up. “I’d love that actually. But I do have one request.”

I furrowed my brows, listening intently. “If me and you go out, you have to wear a cowboy hat.”

My mouth dropped open in protest, but he argued on. “You’ve seen me in these stupid things so many times, too many times to count. I’m completely and utterly embarrassed. Maybe I want to see you sporting your southern spirit for once.”

“I’m from Wisconsin!” I giggled, shaking my head rapidly. “I am not wearing one of these things in public.”

Colt rolled his eyes, “Fine, but you have to wear one around set for the rest of filming. Deal?”

I sighed, remembering that I barely ever exit my tent other than at lunch time and when leaving set for the day. “Deal.”

“Karaoke, seven, tonight. I’ll text you the address.”

Colt turned to leave, and I grabbed his shoulder, pausing him.

“I don’t have your number.”

“Oh, yeah.” Colt chuckled, pulling his phone out of his pocket. We exchanged numbers, and he laughed at the excessive amount of repetitive digits in mine.

“And I’m expecting our deal to begin right now.” He said, glancing at the bucket of hats behind me. I sighed, picking one out and placing it upon my head.

“Happy?” I asked, holding out spirit fingers beside me.

Colt beamed, “Perfect.”

He turned and left the tent, and I pulled out my phone and began to update Colt’s contact name, only to sigh and pocket my phone again. Apple somehow doesn’t have a cowboy hat emoji.

—

When my Uber lazily pulled up to the karaoke bar, anxiety pooled in my stomach all at once. I shouldn’t have been this nervous, and I knew I was making this out to be something that it wasn’t. A date.

But what exactly was I supposed to think of this as? Hangouts happen at people’s houses, dates happen at bars. Plus it didn’t help that it was Colt and I alone. I look down at the sun dress that I donned, running my hands down the skirt. This wasn’t too formal, right?

I stepped out of the black car, thanking the half asleep driver, and walked toward the bar. I opened the door and automatically spotted Colt sitting by himself, drinking a small, lean glass of something colorful. The bar wasn’t exactly packed, but it wasn’t empty either. Numerous people danced around as a man in a orange and green polka dot button up did a bad rendition of Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance”.

Making my way towards him, the anxiety filled my stomach even higher.

“Hey.” I said nervously, sitting down beside him.

Colt looked at me, examining my attire. “You look great.”

I blushed, shrugging. “Thanks, you don’t look too bad yourself.”

He smiled, taking another sip of his drink.

I wasn’t too keen on getting drunk because we still had to go to set in the morning and the last thing I wanted Colt Seavers to see was me throwing up in a bush, but a drink or two couldn’t hurt.

“You want a drink?”

“Sure,” I grabbed the bartender’s attention, “Can I please get a margarita?” She nodded, scrambling to assemble the cocktail.

“So I’m guessing you don’t drink much?” Colt asked, his lips in a sly smirk.

“What makes you say that?”

I chuckled, drinking the last of what I assume what his first drink and ordering another. I then learned the bright liquid was a sunset on ice.

“Well you ordered the most basic drink known to mankind. I mean, at least make it spicy.”

I guess that was true, but I didn’t like experimenting with my orders much. I didn’t enjoy drinking much in general due to the effects it would have on me later.

“I like what I like.” I shrugged, thanking the bartender as she handed me the margarita.

We sat in silence for a moment, until Colt turned to me. “So, what are we singing?”

I coughed into my drink. I hadn’t even thought of what I was going to sing yet.

“Funny of you to assume were doing a duet.” I said slyly, playing off the fact that I was trying to pull a song out of my ass.

Colt raised his eye brows. “Okay, then go and serenade me.”

I nodded at him, walking over to the DJ and requesting “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood. Once Polka Dots was done singing his heart out, the adrenaline had kicked in and I felt as if I ruled the world. Or maybe I just wanted to rule Colt’s world.

The small crowd clapped along as I sang, and I say Colt’s smile through the audience every time I tried to execute one of the runs in the song.

Afterwards, I walked over to him, slightly embarrassed but also proud. “How’d I do?”

His face was covered in amusement. “It was... entertaining.”

I giggled, punching his arm lightly. “You’re the one who told me to ‘sport my southern spirit’!”

He sighed, shaking his head sarcastically. “The cowboy had would’ve made it complete. You missed the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“I think I’ll live. Now it’s your turn!”

I motioned towards the DJ booth, and he stood up turning back for a split second to wink at me.

I was expecting something silly. Maybe Total Eclipse of the Heart, or Sweet Caroline. I was terribly wrong.

By the time the first notes blared out of the speakers, I knew I was doomed.

Wise men say only fools rush in

But I can’t help falling in love with you.

It’s like he’d searched my brain, found my favorite love song of all time, and decided he was going to make me fall in love with him by singing it.

His voice wasn’t perfect. There were parts that were off key and shaky, but the bigger picture was beautiful. I never thought I could fall in love with someone in a karaoke bar.

Once he was done, my shoulders dropped and the tension left my body. It had been so unexpected, the tune had snuck up on me and now I felt head over heels to the man who had sung it. I wasn’t the only one who loved it, the crowd was going crazy.

“How’d I do?” Colt asked me, sipping the drink that had been waiting for him. This had to have been his third drink, and I could tell he was tipsy from the way he spoke.

“It was great.” I wanted to scream ‘It was amazing! It was perfect! Please marry me!’ But thankfully I did not.

“‘Glad you liked it.”

We sat in silence for a moment before I got the guts to ask.

“Why that song?”

Colt hummed, as if asking me to repeat my question.

“Why’d you pick that song?”

He grinned to himself before shrugging. “I just like the song, I guess. It’s one of my favorites.”

It could’ve been my habit of overthinking and examining everything to the smallest detail, or it could’ve been the psychology course that I took in college and obsessively studied over for months, but Colt’s excessive blinking in those moments told me there was a good chance he was lying to me.

Why would he lie over a song?

“It’s one of my favorites too.” I smiled. I’d find out why he lied to me later.

Colt grinned to himself in satisfaction.

We sat there for another hour, and Colt drank two more tequila sunrises, which meant I was now his designated driver.

At about nine, I decided it was time to leave.

“Colt, I’m gonna give you a ride home, okay?”

Colt nodded dizzily.

“Did you drive here?”

“Yeah, here.” He clumsily handed me his keys, almost missing my hand. I stiffened a laugh. “Diane! Close out my tab, please.” The waitress handed him his card quickly.

We stood up, beginning to leave, when Colt turned back to the bartender. “Thank you, Diane, those drinks were great.”

I waved goodbye to Diane as well, reading the “Amy” on her name tag with a smile.

I got him into the car slowly, and began driving him home.

“Hey, y/n?”

I hummed, waiting to hear what he was about to say. Chances are it would be something ridiculous, and I was all here for it.

“You’re really pretty. Have you ever been told that?”

I blushed, and prayed the dark car shadowed me enough for him not to see.

“A time or two. Thank you, Colt.”

He leaned the passenger seat back, and I thought for a moment that he would go to sleep.

“Where are you staying?”

He turned his head to me, and shrugged. “Can we just go to yours?”

I lifted my eyebrows in surprise. Colt Seavers, in my small temporary apartment that I was providing to stay in during the time we’d be filming. It wasn’t a mess since I’d only been staying in there for about two weeks, but it definitely wasn’t guest ready.

“Sure, why not?” I fumbled with my phone, pulling up my GPS app and getting directions to the apartment.

“Can I tell you something, y/n?”

I nodded slowly, ignoring the way my stomach felt when he said my name.

“I actually didn’t lose all of those hats.”

What?

I furrowed my eyebrows, whipping my head to look at him. “Then why’d you keep getting new ones from me?”

He hiccuped, smirking. “I just wanted an excuse to see you.”

If my face was a crimson shade before, it was a tomato now. I felt bad, like I was using Colt’s drunken state to get answers out of him.

“Did you like my song?” He looked over at me, waiting for my answer intensely.

My lips quirked up into a soft smile. “I did. ‘I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You’ is actually one of my favorite songs.”

This made him giddy. He giggled like a school girl, and then stiffened a laugh myself.

“I know.” Colt said under his breath.

So he did know.

“How’d you know?” I pressed Colt for answers. I knew that if he found out he’d told me any of this while drunk, he’d be mortified, but I just couldn’t help my curiosity.

“I heard you listening to it one day on set. I was outside of your tent, about to come in to tell you that I’d lost another hat, but I stopped and listened for a while. You were singing along, and you sounded so good. That’s why I wanted to sing a duet with you.”

At this point, I’m the color of a fire truck.

We pulled up to the apartment, and I unbuckled, getting out. I walked over to Colt’s door and opened it for him.

“Very chivalrous, thank you my lady.”

I giggled, helping his wobbly frame out of the car. “You’re welcome kind gentleman.”

We walked into the apartment building, making our way up a flight of stairs. Well, I made my way up them, Colt tripped over himself with each new stair until he made it to the top. At one point, he almost fell all the way down them, and dragged me down by my arm with him, but he managed to catch himself.

I brought him to my room, closing the door behind him. It was small, the kitchen and lounging room directly next to one another, separated by no wall. There was a door that led to the bedroom with a bathroom connected.

Walking into the kitchen, I grabbed a plastic cup form the cupboard and filled it with water. I handed it to Colt, who turned his nose up at it like I were trying to feed him poison.

“You have to drink water or you’ll regret it in the morning, Colt. You still have to go in for filming, remember?”

He sighed, taking the cup from me and drinking it all at once. “I’m starving.”

I thought for a moment about what he could possibly find to eat in the apartment. Nothing. I’d pretty much been eating take out since I arrived to Sydney.

“I’ll order a pizza.”

I pulled my wallet out of my purse on the kitchen counter. Colt shook his head, reaching in his pocket. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay.”

“You got the drinks, Colt, it’s fine.” I insisted, grabbing my card.

Colt handed me his entire wallet, “I wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing I made you pay for it.” his drowsy eyes said otherwise, “Please, just let me.”

I sighed, taking his wallet from him, “Thank you.” I said under my breath.

Colt only winked at me, lazily walking to the couch and plopping himself on it.

I ordered the pizza, assuming he liked pepperoni because who doesn’t like pepperoni?

I sat down beside him on the couch once I was finished. He was flipping through the different options on Netflix, his face was focused intently to find something.

Colt Seavers was on my couch. Well not necessarily my couch since the apartment was only being rented for me, but you get the point. We were on the couch together, tryin to find a movie to watch with pizza on the way. This realization made my cheeks feel hot once again.

“Here we go.” Colt chuckled as he clicked on the block buster film “Bad Cop, Good Dog” starring the one and only Tom Ryder.

“Get him off the screen, I might puke.” I giggled, attempting to grab the remote from him. Colt held it as far away as his much longer arms could manage, and I gave up.

“This is such a horrible film.” Colt told me, his eyes laser focused on the screen still.

“Then why are we watching it?”

Colt thought for a moment. “The way he talked to you the other day isn’t anything new. I’ve seen him talk to pretty much every one on every set we worked on together just like that. I just couldn’t always save them like I did you. It’s easy to think he’s some big, powerful guy, but in reality, he’s a pussy.”

I stayed silent for a moment. It felt nice, knowing that he still cared so deeply about the way Ryder had treated me.

“That’s nice and all, but it still doesn’t explain why exactly were watching this.”

Colt shrugged, “Oh, I just like making fun of him. We can watch something else if you want to.”

I snatched the remote from him, “Please.”

After a few more minutes of searching, I decided on the 1998 classic “The Parent Trap”.

“This movie never made any sense to me.” Colt crossed his arms as the movie started.

“Why?”

“Well, first off, what judge arranged this custody system? I mean seriously, how did both parents just up and leave with one kid?” He slurred so horribly that I had to fight a laugh as he spoke.

“It’s just a movie.” There are a few movies that I would defend with my life, this is definitely one of them.

“You can’t just use that as an excuse. Just because it’s a movie doesn’t mean it’s allowed to just defy all logic.”

“Colt,” I turned to face him, “You are working on a sci-if space cowboy movie with aliens. I think that makes the parent trap sound pretty reasonable.”

Colt chuckled, “Touché.”

My heart fluttered as I looked at Colt, lazily snuggled into my couch.

There was a knock at the door and I hopped up, walking through the kitchen and dodging Colt’s wallet, grabbing mine instead.

I paid for the pizza and brought it in, met with the sight of an extremely hungry Colt waiting impatiently at the counter.

“You didn’t use my wallet.”

I sighed, putting mine back in my purse. “I’m a big girl, I can pay for my own things.”

Colt shook his head. “You’re absolutely kicking my ass at the chivalry game.”

Grabbing a slice of pizza, I went back to the living room. Colt followed quickly behind me, and we got about one-fourth through the movie before I could tell Colt was getting extremely tired.

I got up, and went to my room, grabbing a blanket and a pillow.

“Here.” I handed them to him. Colt smiled up at me gratefully.

“Thanks.” He made himself comfortable, before leaning back and closing his eyes. The couch wasn’t very small, which was surprising since the apartment was so compact. This is why I didn’t feel bad about having him sleep on the couch. He didn’t complain either.

“Goodnight.” He mumbled, drifting off.

I smirked at him, walking to the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water to place beside the couch. I also grabbed the bathroom’s trash can. He was going to have a terrible hangover.

“Goodnight Colt.”

I had gotten a date with Colt Seavers for the small price of humiliating myself in a southern style for the rest of filming. I’d say that’s a pretty good deal.

Or maybe it wasn’t date and I was delusional, but Colt ended up sleeping on my couch, which is pretty sweet if you ask me.

#the fall guy #ryan gosling #colt seavers #new movies #fluff #fanfiction #the fall guy fanfiction #colt seavers fanfiction #ryan gosling fanfiction #no smut #fanfic #writing

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wttcsms · 6 months

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daylight [pt. iii (1/3)] ; colt grice.

pairing colt grice x f!reader word count 22k synopsis colt grice's life has never been easy, and it's about to get a hell of a lot worse. content contains sw!reader, canon discrimination against eldians, derogatory terms towards women, deployment author's notes this is a shortened version of the chapter; i got too excited to share my work with everyone, and also, i know your attention spans are all lacking. if you survived reading 20k+ words in one sitting, pls soldier on and leave a comment expressing ur thoughts x much love <3

part three: no falling in love

“Name?” The bored voice of the administrative assistant tasked with filing away the paperwork for all deployed soldiers stares at Colt with a mixture of disinterest and delight. It leaves him feeling unbalanced, halfway wanting to put on a good show for her and halfway wanting to disappear into thin air. She’s bored, probably thinking about what she’s going to eat for lunch after this, but Colt knows all too well that bored Marleyans make for the most dangerous ones. Best not to get on her bad side and remind her that prior to doing this lineup, she was the one who had checked him in and confirmed his name.

“Colt Grice.” He answers, and she frowns, like she was expecting any other answer than the one that actually answers her question.

“Unit?”

“Warrior.”

“Blood type?”

“O negative.”

“Race?”

The energy in the room comes to a standstill. He knows that this is just a formality, that she’s just doing her job, but he also knows that she’s staring directly at his armband. He also knows that most people tasked with dealing with people like him don’t enjoy doing their jobs and would actually prefer to do anything but.

“Eldian.” He says, and she repeats it back, slowly, exaggerated.

She makes a note on her clipboard, checking all the boxes that correspond to the answers Colt has given her. The bright red pen of hers matches the bright red she coats her lips in, and she tears at the perforation in the paper, handing Colt the lower-half of the sheet.

“Turn this in to the people running the clinic.” She tells him, looking more disinterested than ever now that her interrogation with him is over and that Colt has proven himself to be a very boring and painfully polite young man.

When Colt gets to the clinic, which is nearly half a kilometer away from the administrative office, he turns in the slip. The lady at the front desk glances at it, then hands him a clipboard with a form for him to fill out. He’s not sure how to feel when he realizes that the form is asking the same exact questions that the administrative assistant asked him, and he feels like he should point out the fact that all the answers the clinic needs have already been turned in to them through the slip of paper he just handed them.

He doesn’t say that, though, because he knows doing so will only slow down the process some more. So, he fills out the form, hands it to the front desk lady, who then looks down at the form and compares it to the slip of paper he gave her, as if checking to see if there are any discrepancies.

“I’ll let you know when the doctor is ready to give you your physical.”

Colt spends the whole day like this: just going through the motions and complying with anything the Marleyans ask of him because that just so happens to be the natural order of things around here, around anywhere. For a country that prides themselves for their innovation and intellect that helps them maintain their superiority over everyone else, Colt (and perhaps every other Eldian soldier forced to waste their time with this deployment process) thinks he can spot some internal inefficiencies in their military.

(Not like he’s going to say anything about it. Not like he can.)

After being poked and prodded by the doctor (who, just for good measure, wastes five minutes to ask Colt for his name, unit, blood type, and race), Colt is then sent off to the on-base barber who shaves his hair off to the standard buzzcut given to all Eldian soldiers who are fresh to the fight. Colt isn’t vain by any means, but the haircut takes less than a minute to complete, and he feels foolish for hoping that this process would be just as lengthy and meticulous as everything else he’s had to endure. His last stop of the day is to the uniform repository, where Colt is given a brand new uniform and dog tags to wear for when he’s sent off to the war.

The sun is already setting by the time Colt makes his way back to his barracks, and when it seems like the world is giving him a good and proper beatdown, it usually sends him somebody to mock his misery and make the sting of being the universe’s punching bag burn deeper.

“Heard the news,” a familiar voice stops Colt in his tracks. Porco stares at the crisp uniform Colt’s holding, and scowls. “For deployment?”

“Yeah,” Colt says, even though he knows that Porco knows.

He snorts. “Great. Maybe the enemy won’t bother shooting at you once they realize what a shame it’ll be to let top-tier drycleaning go to waste.”

Once again, the world is ending when Porco makes a valid point. The whole process of preparing for his deployment feels silly and senseless; after all of this, all Colt has in his brain is “Name: Colt Grice, Unit: Warrior, Race: Eldian.” The craziest part is that no actual combat-active military official has given him any details on what’s happening at Fort Helena, and why he’s been chosen to be deployed there.

The uniform feels heavy in his hands, and the weight only becomes more burdensome when Porco asks him, “Hey. Does Falco know yet?”

It’s Falco’s first year in the program. Because he’s so young and still too early in the process to be considered as a Candidate, he stays in the youth barracks, which are appropriately stationed far away from the actual soldiers. From the ones who will actually have to answer the call to arms.

“No. I just got the letter last night.”

Something indiscernible softens in Porco’s features. “I’d hate to be the one who has to tell him.”

Colt forces himself not to make a face. Falco won’t take the news well, no matter how Colt gives it to him. Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time someone hasn’t wanted to be in Colt’s shoes. Sometimes, not even Colt wants to be himself.

“Yeah.” He finds himself agreeing with Porco. “What an unlucky guy.”

All soldiers cleared for deployment are confined to staying on base at all times, probably because when you tell young men that you are essentially sentencing them to death (or, at the very least, forcing them in a situation where it’s more likely than not that they are going to lose a limb — and most people happen to like having all their limbs, thank you very much), they get scared and start thinking up stupid things like deserting their country or trying to kickstart a munity.

Then again, the only people who are allowed to be frightened enough to pull stunts like that are the same people who have nothing to lose. Colt has a titan to inherit, a family to feed, and you. All of the Eldian soldiers getting prepared to be shipped off to Fort Helena are in similar boats.

The Marleyan unit assigned to Fort Helena, however, is in a state of all sorts of distress and chaos, and Lieutenant Michael Sells is enjoying every second of it.

Sitting criss-cross applesauce on the top bunk of the barracks, Michael looks down at his fellow Marleyan soldiers who fucked up badly enough to be receiving the same punishment as him. Marleyan soldiers aren’t supposed to be the ones who get sent to the frontlines; sure, there are some idiots with ideas of grandeur, and those are the ones who volunteer to see some “real action,” but for the most part, joining the military just seemed like a better alternative than spending their young adulthood stuck in a university’s lecture hall.

The thing they forgot to consider is that when you mess up in college, you get sent to the dean’s office. When you mess up in the military, you get sent off to the shitty deployments that no one wants. War is war, an enemy soldier who doesn’t know anything about you but is hellbent on shooting at you is a pain in the ass wherever you go, but like with everything else in life, there is always something better. Considering that Michael is on this assignment, and every soldier here has a long list of transgressions (long enough to the point where their officers can no longer turn a blind eye to them), this is an indicator that Fort Helena is going to be literal hell on earth.

Early on in the war, the first wave of soldiers to come back from the battlefield all complained about rats in the trenches and the lack of plumbing. One group was fighting closer to a mountainside, though, and they actually had sufficient enough coverage from the enemy to set up a decent camp. Trenches or tents. Both aren’t screaming luxury, but one is infinitely better than the other, that’s for damn sure.

“We’re fucking screwed!” Jude scowls, kicking at the uniform hanging by his bed.

“Can’t be that bad,” Elliot rationalizes from the top bunk across from Michael. “They’re sending off Eldian units with us, and they outnumber us by quite a large margin. Chances are, we won’t even be on the frontlines.”

“It’s true,” Oliver is sitting at the singular desk crammed in the barracks. He claims he’s writing a farewell letter to his girlfriend — all three of them. “This is just a scare tactic to get us back on the straight and narrow. You think they’d be willing to sacrifice us for that fort?”

Jude’s frown doesn’t disappear, but he’s silent. Elliot and Oliver have a point, and everyone here knows it. That’s because the boys in this barrack aren’t enlisted soldiers, but officers. They’re the ones who’ll get the nicest benefits package, the better meals, the high ranking titles. They’re the ones who society holds up to a pedestal. Elliot, just like Michael, is a legacy — someone who already has a generation of their family who served as an officer. For most Marleyans, this is something you can boast about.

“Don’t worry, Judy. If Captain Baron decides he’s sick of us and forces us to be human shields for the Eldian soldiers, he’d pick me first.” Michael sounds too cheerful at the prospect, and Jude glares at him.

You either love Michael, or you don’t. There is no inbetween, there is no merely tolerating him — only like or dislike. Everyone else in the barracks is on decent terms with the lieutenant, even going so far as to consider him not just a comrade but a friend, but Michael’s the type to sniff out the few who despise him, and then he antagonizes them for sport. Jude belongs to the group who dislikes.

“Don’t call me Judy, and don’t spout off bullshit like that, either. Don’t act like you wouldn’t willingly fight alongside those damn devils. We all know why you’re here.”

“Really?” Michael’s eyes go wide. “Why am I here?”

In the office, there is a big, fat file labeled SELLS, MICHAEL (LT.) with a very long record of transgressions committed by the angelic-looking young man who is anything but. What a shame, the officers who have to update his file muse, that he is nothing like his father who was honorably discharged as an Admiral for the Navy. The only thing Michael seems to have inherited from Admiral Sells are his looks.

The fact of the matter is that Michael is here because he is a problem child who manages to stir up trouble no matter where he is and no matter who he is with. At least on a battlefield, they can make good use of his restless energy, and hopefully the fear of being killed in action will be enough to get him to behave.

He’s been a pain in the ass since the moment he came into this world (a C-section baby, which is a universal indicator that someone is destined to be annoying), and he’s only grown into a walking, talking, migraine-inducing bastard ever since.

“Don’t act all innocent. We know you started the fight with Brutus.” Jude sneers, as if Brutus the Brute didn’t deserve the one singular punch Michael managed to get on him before getting his ass handed to him.

“If you can call that massacre on Michael a fight.” Oliver pipes up.

“Hey! Whose side are you on?” Michael asks him, not offended in the slightest.

“The real question is, whose side are you on?” The look Jude gives Michael reminds him of the same glare one of the other Marleyan officers, James, gave him during visitation day. The visitation day where James’ girlfriend couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of Michael. It’s a look that’s full of contempt and vitriol.

Everyone likes to act all holier-than-thou when it comes to Michael, and it’s because nobody is more openly rebellious than him. They think that he can’t keep a secret, that his heart is constantly on his sleeve, and they’re right; too bad no one can actually read him. Michael gets into fights all the time, and he’s either stupid or brave with the way he shows no fear in attempting to take on guys twice his size. In middle school, he lost a tooth (that has since been replaced with a fancy implant that blends seamlessly with the rest of his pearly whites, despite the fact that he thought the gaping hole would’ve added character) because he picked a fight with a high schooler about to graduate. Everyone misinterprets his bold actions for recklessness, but he does stupid shit like this because he cares. No one knows he picked that fight because the boy said something downright vulgar and disgusting about Claire, one of his older sister’s friends. Just like how no one knows that Michael didn’t swing at Brutus because he took the last brownie during dinner, but because Brutus was the one who nicked Colt’s face.

“The right one.” Michael cheekily answers, not elaborating further. Let everyone make their assumptions about what that means.

Alize Evans is no one’s fool.

When the universe deals you a shit hand in life, the least you can do is not be stupid. Alize might’ve came into this world as an accident, the result of a drunken mistake (perhaps she inherited bad luck from her mother; she can’t be certain, considering that the only mother figure in Alize’s life had been the stern mistress of her orphanage), and it’s because of this that Alize is very careful in not making mistakes in her life.

Maybe ending up at The Gentleman’s Club wasn’t exactly a part of her master plan, but Alize remains adamant that she is not stupid — just down on her luck.

It isn’t stupid to walk the streets of the red light district alone. Alize knows the area better than the back of her hand. She lives here. She knows the strip of street to avoid unless she wants to have the stray dogs’ shit under the soles of her too-tight shoes. She knows that the drunkard who looks like the type to harass women is quite the opposite; in fact, he’s probably one of the kindest men who stay around this area. She bought him a bottle of cheap liquor once, just because decent people are hard to find and the least she can do is show her gratitude in a way that doesn’t automatically demean her. (Deep down, she knows that he wouldn’t have accepted free rein of her body, the only currency she has unlimited access to. It had cost her a week’s worth of wages to gift him that bottle.)

Turns out, he’s not stupid either. He’s just down on his luck, too.

Alize’s bad luck seems to be on a winning streak. Not only did she wake up late, but the bruises scattered on her body have turned a ghastly shade of purple with a sick, faint green ring around one of the abstract shapes. In the winter time, she’s paler. She already sees a lack of sun, and the darkness of this season doesn’t do her any favors. She likes it when it’s spring; she tans easily, for one, and everyone says spring is the season of possibilities, of new beginnings.

Alize isn’t stupid. She doesn’t believe in those sorts of things. But it’s nice, she supposes, to indulge every once in a while and believe in things like that.

Her bad luck clings to her as she walks down the street, quickening her pace. She knows the creepy, distorted shadows in the corners of her eyes are just figments of her imagination; the street lamps are all cracked and now line the street just for show. They don’t actually work. The whole district is shrouded in darkness, with only the censorious moonlight to look down on her. She hates moonlight. Nothing good has ever happened to her when it makes its appearance.

That fact won’t change, either. She knows this when she hears the predatory whistle coming from behind her.

Alize isn’t stupid. She knows she doesn’t stand a chance if she tries to run. She knows that there is nowhere to run. She knows that she wants to try, anyway. She knows that things will only be worse if she does.

Alize pauses. She takes a deep breath. And then she turns around.

It’s a Public Security Authorities officer. Mid-forties, at least. He looks like today is his lucky day.

She wonders what that might feel like.

“What’s a young girl like you doing around these parts? Don’t’cha know it’s dangerous?” He smirks, and she can see every wrinkle and crease on his face, all thanks to the moonlight. She curses the wretched thing. She hates everything that looks down on her. Not even the solar system can escape her wrath.

She doesn’t say anything. He’s leering at her, licking his chapped lips as he eyes her, his excitement evident as he openly admires the armband circled around her left arm.

A piece of fabric that defines her entire being. A piece of fabric that is the reason why she receives the worst customers in the brothel. Men like the one standing in front of her liken her to something inhumane, filthy, but they’re the ones who fuck her like savages, like devils. The irony isn’t lost on her.

“Let me walk you home, sweetheart.” The man grabs her left arm, gripping her armband. He tugs her with such a force that she almost wishes to see the piece of gray fabric come loose. She remembers when someone used it to choke her with it, and then she decides that with the way her luck is going, he’d probably have the same idea. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe he’ll be quick. Maybe Willa will feel bad and brew her a cup of tea when she manages to limp her way to the brothel.

Alize isn’t stupid. She knows to let the man drag her away. She’s resigned to her fate.

And then, the strangest thing happens.

Another man is strolling down the street. Traffic here is usually light considering that there isn’t much in this area, save for abandoned buildings and the occasional homeless trying to seek shelter from the harsh, biting wind. Alize thinks her luck is getting worse when she notices this one is wearing a cream colored uniform, too.

When he comes closer, she’s pleasantly surprised. At least he’s cute. Say what you want, but having an ugly bastard slobbering over her is awful. If she’s going to be used, why can’t she at least have a decent view? It might distract her from everything else.

“What’s going on here?” The young man says, blue eyes focused on the officer before traveling to Alize. She looks at him briefly before focusing on the gravel underneath her feet.

“Nothing for you to worry about.” The officer spits on the ground. “Go run along and find your own hole to get your dick wet in.”

“See, when you say stuff like that, it does make me start to worry.” Alize dares to take another look at him. He’s blond. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, and he has such an easy-going manner about him. The top two buttons of his military issued coat are undone, and she spots a peek of bright white cotton from his undershirt. He’s tall. Taller than her, and even taller than the man who has her in his grip. “I don’t think she likes the way you’re handling her.”

“You think I give a fuck about what a bitch like her likes?”

The blond man’s eyes narrow. Gone is his easy-going manner. Alize can feel the shift even from her current position, which is her being all cowered and looking like she wants to be as small as possible. Apparently the man senses the change in his demeanor, too, seeing as he loosens his grip enough for Alize to slowly free herself.

“I think you should give a fuck on how I feel about it.” He says, taking a step forward. “You know that PSA officers with a rank as low as yours are only allowed jurisdiction in his designated internment zone.” Another step forward. “This isn’t an internment zone.”

“You’re a fucking greenie. You’re barely a second-rate private in the military.” The man snarls, spotting the lack of any high ranking adornments on the blond’s uniform.

The blond shrugs. “Yeah, but this isn’t an internment zone, meaning that as an officer in the military, I have more authority here than you.” He smiles. “Bet you give a fuck that a greenie like me can tell you what to do, and you have to sit down like a good dog and listen.”

Alize isn’t stupid. She knows that she has the opportunity to run. But she’s frozen in place, admiring the way this young soldier seems to greet a fight like an old friend, with welcoming arms. If it came down to physical blows, she thinks he’d win, easily.

The man’s hand seems to gravitate towards his side, but the blond is quicker on the draw. Before the PSA officer can grab his gun, he finds himself staring down the wrong end of this private’s pistol.

“I’ll let you take out yours, too, if you want. It’s only fair that you show me yours after I showed you mine.” The moonlight illuminates the smug expression on the soldier’s face. “But know this: the law won’t give a damn what went down here. All they’ll care about is that a PSA officer broke the law and drew his weapon against a Marleyan militant officer in the military’s jurisdiction. You think you’ll have any power from a jail cell?”

“I have connections.” The man snarls, still hesitant to whip out his own gun.

“Really? What a coincidence, so do I.” The soldier releases the safety on his pistol. “Do you mind sharing who those connections are? My uncle, the commanding officer of the PSA, might be interested in knowing, too.”

The man’s face pales. “You’re that Sells kid.”

“Yeah. Trying to make a name for myself, though, so take out your damn gun and let’s try to make headline news, okay?”

They don’t make headline news. Instead, the man apologizes to this “Sells kid”, and then he turns and apologizes to Alize after the Sells kid tells him to.

“Get on your knees and kiss the ground she walks on.” The soldier commands him to do. Alize feels a sick sort of satisfaction witnessing the man slowly get down and press his lips to the dirty ground. For once in her life, Alize is the one who is looking down. What an addicting feeling.

When the soldier gets bored of humiliating the man, he sends him off by tapping his shoulder in farewell; he does so with the barrel of his gun, whose safety is still conveniently off. One wrong move, and a bullet could be pierced through the man’s shoulder blades.

“You want me to walk you to where you wanted to go?” The soldier asks her, clicking his gun and sliding it back into its holster.

Alize isn’t stupid. She nods, and he lets her lead the way.

She starts to foolishly believe that maybe her luck can turn around.

But then he drops her off at the front door of the brothel, hands in his pockets.

“What’s the matter?” He asks her, when she doesn’t immediately walk in. “Is it not safe for you in there?”

He sounds like he actually cares. Gone is the stern soldier with the cocky attitude and smirk. The gentleman standing here doesn’t seem like he just shoved his gun in someone’s face less than ten minutes ago. He’s interesting, this soldier.

She shakes her head, giving him a tiny smile. This brothel might actually be the only safe haven for her here, perhaps even safer than the shitty apartment she rents a couple of blocks away.

“Will you come in and join me?” I won’t even charge, she wants to add.

He seems to pick up on her suggestion, and he gives her a small smile, too, while shaking his head. “I’d feel a lot better knowing that you’re somewhere where you feel safe. I think some time alone would be good, don’t you agree?”

Alize’s never been alone for long stretches of time. She grew up in an overcrowded orphanage, then traveled with a small group of runaways when the original mistress died and got replaced by some creep who eyed like the girls in the house like a butcher looking at a prize pig. Even when sleeping and begging on the streets, she always had at least one other person right with her. Renting this apartment is the first time in forever that Alize’s ever lived on her own, and even then, she spends so much of her time in the brothel, surrounded by her chosen sisters, blanketed in their warmth and comfort, that she forgets all about living on her own.

“I don’t know how else to repay you.” She admits. Out of all her meager belongings, she’s come to terms with the fact that her body and Eldian fetishization are her most valuable.

“You don’t have to repay me.” He says, and she almost wants to roll her eyes.

Alize isn’t stupid. Life is a series of transactions. You receive, you have to give back. Otherwise, karma will intervene. Karma is a sick and twisted bitch who balances the scales in the worst way possible. Her luck might be starting to turn around, but she’s not going to push it.

“I can’t have you walking around with my favor in your pocket. Let me pay you back now.”

He waves a hand carelessly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

For once, Alize dares to go against a soldier and stand her ground. “No. I really do owe you.”

He lets out a thoughtful hum, staring at the closed door of the brothel.

“Fine.” He says, but then he follows it up with something she isn’t expecting. “Pay me back by going inside and taking care of yourself. Take it easy tonight, okay?”

Alize isn’t stupid. She takes the offer.

But, of course, seeing him changes her perspective on things. Meeting him while flat broke, weak, and defenseless proved to her that her luck could change at any time. This hope that builds up in her causes her to seek him out, to expect him to walk through the brothel doors and maybe the story Willa tells her comes true. The story about the girl who saves the businessman and gets her happily ever after.

Alize is stupid. He doesn’t come back. Which means he doesn’t come back for her. Luck can turn around, but it can go back right where it was, too. The disappointment that follows serves as a cruel reminder of what being stupid does to a girl.

When she looks into the worn faces of the girls working alongside her, Alize decides right then and there to protect them from the soul crushing discovery that no one in the world is coming to save them. Don’t even bother dreaming about it.

So when she turns her attention to you, demanding you to spill the details on the soldier, you mistake this interrogation for being an unwanted intrusion. If you had realized sooner that it came from a place of care, you wouldn’t have immediately played dumb.

“What soldier?” You ask innocently, perhaps playing a bit too dumb.

Margaret lets out a loud laugh. “You’re so full of shit! ‘What soldier,’ my ass! Nadia, can you believe her?”

Nadia looks at you for guidance on how to react, what to say. All you can do is shrug helplessly. Hurricane Alize has already touched down, and there’s no stopping this force of nature.

“The soldier who visits you and brings you gifts and just wants to talk.” Alize says, crossing her arms. “Tell us about him.”

“I don’t know much about him.” Besides the fact that he ran away from the girl who gave him his first kiss. Besides the fact that he loves his family, especially his little brother, Falco, as easily as breathing. Besides the fact that he kisses you with poorly concealed restraint; you think you can taste the hunger for more on his lips, but he’s too much of a gentleman to cross that line. You don’t know much about him, besides him enlisting in the military for his family. He was supposed to go in sooner, to prove his family’s loyalty after his uncle got exposed for being an Eldian Restorationist.

He had been a sickly child, he tells you, back against the wall as he resigns himself to the floor, letting you have your bed all to yourself. He’d be bedridden and useless to the Marleyan military if they took him in, and luckily, they saw some sense in that. His parents foolishly dared to dream that the government forgot about wanting to take him, but after his father falls ill and it lands on him to handle his family’s finances, of course he enlists. Of course they remember him. Of course they make him pay for everything with interest. Always waiting for him to slip up, always delighting in punishing him. Mocking him.

You know that he had to learn how to take it all lying down. To grit his teeth and bite back any protests. To resist the urge to ask the Marleyan officer what did I ever do to you?

You know that he’s gentle. Genuine. Sweet. Soft.

No — maybe soft isn’t the right word. You’ve felt the smooth ridges of hard-packed muscle underneath his shirt. You’ve seen the flex of his biceps, felt the rough calluses of his fingers every time the ghost of his touch lingers on your skin. You’ve seen the way he delivers his words, how he can say something with such strong conviction. He never raises his voice to make a point, but the stern look and his steadfast adamance that he wants you to be happy, even if it’s not with him, because he cares about you, was strong enough to knock some sense into you. You think of how it’s his natural instinct to protect. You think of the way his body immediately went to shield yours when that bar fight broke out, his stance that seemed so formidable, unyielding to any external force.

You think of his casual discussion of the abuse subjected to him. How he tells you, in the same soft voice he always uses, as if he’s telling you the weather today, about how one time some Marleyan soldiers pulled a prank on him and handed him his food in a dog bowl, with DEVIL DOGGY crudely etched into the metal. He had to eat out of it, he explains, because he was hungry. This was his only meal of the day, and it was one against too many. He’d never be able to get a lunch tray.

Despite it all, he didn’t let it turn him bitter. Vengeful. Mad at the world and seeking to take it out on others. You wouldn’t blame him for turning cold; anyone else would. But Colt lets it bounce off of him.

You like that. You like everything about Colt, you realize, but you like his resilience. His unwavering good character. He isn’t soft; maybe tender. You could cut him to the bone, but he still wouldn’t lose shape; he might even put up some resistance.

“Really?” Alize narrows her eyes. “So what exactly do you two talk about then?”

Everything. A story for a story, you decide one day. You’re sitting on your calves, knees digging into the stiff mattress, and the excited expression on your face makes Colt give in to your whims before the request even fully leaves your mouth.

A story for a story, he agrees.

You tell him the bits and pieces of your childhood that you remember. You tell him about how it feels strange to cling to a culture you think is dying, that soon no one will remember, but stranger yet to not take pride in it, to not want to hold on to what generations before you have held on to. He tells you about how he doesn’t like the feel of a gun in his hands, but that he’s such a good shot, his officers want him to constantly be on the frontlines, armed with it. He’s never been on the frontlines, he reassures you, when he notices your horrified expression. A couple of simple deployments, as a reserve in case the battle doesn’t turn in their favor, is all the action he’s seen so far. Probably will be that way for the foreseeable future, since the military doesn’t like risking the Warrior Candidates with the most potential.

“Anything that comes up naturally, I guess.” You say, holding all your conversations with Colt close to your heart. “Alize, what does it matter what I do with this soldier?”

“It matters because every time I mention the soldier, you get this look on your face.” Alize is not a mean person, but the way she says look — dripping with disgust, topped off with pity — you suddenly go on the defensive.

“I can’t make facial expressions anymore?” You ask her, and the girls in the room shift their bodies awkwardly. Someone clears their throat. Alize is silent, but she doesn’t lower the intensity of her glare.

“I’m worried about you.” She sounds like admitting this is a painful ordeal. “I don’t want you making a mistake.”

I don’t want you making a mistake. You’ve whispered this exact phrase in the dark, saying it so softly you almost think he won’t be able to hear it, but he does. Of course, he does. He notices everything about you.

He looks at you, that same unwavering conviction coating his words as he reminds you, nothing about you is a mistake to me.

“So what if I make a mistake? It’s my life.” You regret telling her this the moment her stern expression falters, revealing something hurt and pained, before she brings back her perfect poker face. You’re so used to being the older sister that sometimes it’s jarring to come here and interact with Alize, who is the designated older sister in this room. You don’t know how to handle being the one that is cared for, too used to having to be the strict one, the one who does the caring in a less-than gentle manner.

“Mistakes hurt.” She says flatly. “But by all means, continue living your life how you want. It’s yours.”

You don’t make mistakes often.

When Marleyan forces destroyed your homeland, sent you and the rest of the survivors running to a false salvation (the sprawling, abandoned hills on the outskirts of Marley’s cities), you made many mistakes. You were too trusting. Just shy of fourteen years old, you had a six-year-old little brother to take care of and parents who left behind nothing to help you. It’s not their fault; who anticipates their young daughter to take on the role of matriarch? There’s no instruction manual, no how-to guide on what to do when you’re a refugee with no skills, no talent, and nothing to offer to a country that already looks down on you. You used to be so desperate that when it seemed a citizen was taking pity on you, you chose to trust them. To believe in their goodness.

You quickly learn to stop making that mistake.

You can’t talk to strangers, then. You only stay close to the other refugees, only trusting their kindness, sometimes hesitant and fearful that they could turn on you, too.

You make more mistakes. You misjudge how long food can last, what the weather will be like, the intentions of the people around you. Sometimes, you reject kindness because you think it’s viciousness in a clever disguise; gone are the times you accidentally identify cruelty as care.

(You don’t make the same mistake twice.)

Occasionally, when you think about who you are, you think you’re a dog backed into a corner. A dirty alleyway. Surrounded by bigger, hungrier dogs, with no room for escape, no chance for survival. Some days, you think there’s something admirable in not backing down without a fight. Other days, you find that playing dead and hoping they lose interest is more reasonable. Every day, you know that it doesn’t matter what you do — you are still a dog backed into a corner.

You don’t like being backed into a corner.

You don’t like feeling small, and you certainly don’t like feeling vulnerable. Weak. Defenseless.

You know your position in life. The men who filter in and out of your room remind you of this.

Cheap whore. Loose fuck. Good for nothing. Bitch.

Katie, one of the quieter girls in the brothel, admits to everyone that sometimes she takes sleeping pills in the hopes that it’ll get her drowsy and she can filter in and out of consciousness when she’s working.

It’s better when you’re dead to the world during the sex, she says. If I could be asleep and unaware of everything happening to me, I’d be so happy.

Everyone handles this job differently, but you could never let yourself be so unguarded. No matter how tired you get, your body refuses to go limp and allow you a brief moment of sleep when you’re in the presence of a strange man who paid a price to have his way with you. You made a lot of mistakes in your life, but falling asleep in this brothel will not be one of them.

But one night, you find yourself fighting the urge to let your eyelids droop and your body to sink into the mattress. Colt’s telling you about how he finds it odd that Michael is actively avoiding some investigator who’s visiting the base. Colt can’t seem to fathom why. The investigator supposedly only covers cases concerning Eldians, and he doesn’t look like someone who would want to get into a fight with Michael. You’re struggling to follow along, and the last thing you remember hearing is oh no, I’m stopping you from sleeping.

When you do wake up, your mind is on high alert. You instantly sit up, heart racing.

Calm down, nothing bad has happened to you. You try to swallow, but your mouth is dry. You can’t tell if the pounding noise in your ear is from your heart or the rush of blood to your head. You sat up way too fast. You can hear your ragged breaths, and you close your eyes, resisting the urge to chastise yourself for being so weak. You’ve never fallen asleep here before. You followed the same routine you’ve always done, so you shouldn’t have even been tired. There’s no reason why you should have fallen asleep, just as you realize there should be no reason for the thin sheet on your bed to be covering you, a pitiful excuse for a blanket.

You pause. Calm your breathing. Reassess the situation.

You didn’t have the sheet covering your body before you fell asleep. You know this because you never use the sheet as a blanket. You slowly turn your head and find Colt slumped against the wall, his eyes shut, his breathing calm and steady. The position looks uncomfortable, and when you move to sit on the edge of the bed, letting your sock-covered feet hit the wooden floors, you can still feel the chill of hardwood biting through the cotton.

He didn’t do anything besides tuck you in. You glance down at the watch on your wrist, only feeling safe enough to wear it when he’s around. Not even thirty minutes have passed. There’s still an hour left of your time that he is promised.

You didn’t make a mistake, you realize.

You take the thin sheet and drape it over his body, hoping that it provides some sort of comfort. You do this, and then you climb right back into bed, turning to the side so that you can get a view of his peaceful expression before you allow sleep to drag you under its spell once more.

After that, Colt insists that you go to sleep whenever you feel tired. You tell him that that isn’t fair, and he gives you a look.

Fairness is a foreign concept to him.

You never realized just how late into the night your shift takes you. You never realize how sweet a peaceful slumber truly is. The first few times you go to sleep, Colt still remains on the floor. Then, one night, he’s helping you readjust your watch and suddenly your right arm is hanging from the bed as you sleep, and he’s holding your hand, equally unconscious to the world. You wake up to the comfort of his hand still securely wrapped around your own, the rest of his body relaxed on the cold floor. You don’t let go, feigning sleep when you notice him stirring and about to wake up. You want to see what he does when he thinks you’re still asleep; every time before this, you’ve always been open about being the first one to wake.

You wonder if this is when you relearn the lesson of never trusting outsiders. You hear him shift his body, try to reawaken muscles that have gone slack. And then, he’s moving your hand, slowly bringing it upwards. You fight to keep your eyes closed, your body relaxed.

A quick brush of his lips against your knuckles. He squeezes your hand, and when you shift your body, prepared to finally “wake up,” he’s quick to drop your hand, acting as if he’s done something he shouldn’t have. Like a kid caught with his hand in the jar of cookies.

(He’s been that kid before; you couldn’t stop laughing at his retelling of the whole ordeal. He turned pink, telling you that it was because Falco wanted the cookies, and he refused to listen to Colt’s explanation of how they weren’t allowed to have any until after dinner.

“Did you take the blame for everything?” You ask him, with tears in your eyes from how hard you’ve been laughing.

“Yes.” He admits to taking the fall, acting as if he was the one who wanted the cookies, and Falco was just a tiny witness and not the reason for getting him into this situation.

You start laughing again, to the point where your stomach aches. You’re unaware that he thinks the sound of your laughter is the soundtrack to his life, and both of you are unaware of how he’s pulling you in even deeper.

For someone with a fear of falling, you sure don’t know how close to the edge you really are.)

In the months leading up to you kissing him in front of your whole community, these are the moments shared. Every conversation, every secret, every story for a story, every shared slumber, the singular barely-a-kiss upon your hand — all of it fills the cracks and crevices of your heart.

(You refuse to admit to being scared of a lot of things, but the meaning behind him taking root inside your heart — that’s the scariest thing to you.)

You try to steady the beat of your — slowly transitioning into his — heart every time you watch the door handle twist. You know not to expect him too often nowadays; his training more grueling, more intense, as his inheritance of the Beast Titan is fast approaching. If it’s not hope (and the inevitable disappointment that soaks you to the bone when you realize it’s not him) that’s serving you a slow death, then it’s the waiting.

You have experience in waiting. Waiting in long lines at the food bank during the cruel heat of the summer, knowing that leaving the line in search of water would be fruitless and only result in you losing your place in line (and as a result, food for the next two days — three if you limit your own portions). Waiting for your parents to miraculously come back from the dead and to give you a big hug, tell you that you did such a good job taking care of yourself and Ramzi. Waiting for your particularly rough clients to finish having their way with you and to leave you be. You’re always waiting. Always in a constant state of looking forward to what comes next; a side effect that stems from the fact that your current standard of living always leaves much to be desired.

And you know about desire. As much as you’ve tried to avoid it, to avoid the senseless action and feeling of want, you’re only human. You dream of a better life; nothing too luxurious. A small apartment instead of a tent. A real school for Ramzi to attend instead of the volunteer tutors who come by once or twice a week, covering material that kids Ramzi’s age have already learned years ago. A different job, even. You’re fine with labor — your current work already is laborious — but a respectable job. Something that won’t have people who know what you do sneer and spit at you. Cleaning houses, watching over spoiled children — yes, those are preferable jobs. You’re not a person accustomed to selfishness, to letting your desires run rampant. You are not asking for pleasure from the world; you’ll gladly settle for a reduced sentence of pain.

But desire grips you by the throat, winds itself around your body, chokes you, strangles you, in all matters involving Colt Grice. The unfamiliar, devastating punch of want hits you in your heart as all you can do is stand frozen in your room, trying to let what he tells you sink in.

It doesn’t sink in. It hangs stagnant in the air, looms over the both of you before expanding, surrounding you two on all sides. Takes the shape of the four walls, and suddenly, it’s closing in on you, everything is closing in on you.

Why is it that you always have to wait? Haven’t you waited long enough for just a glimpse of something bright to enter into your world? You’ve dealt with all this shit for years, suffered in silence, took everything lying down, and Colt stumbles into your room, stuttering over his sentences, and you dare to think that this is your luck turning around. That the universe is throwing you a bone. That nature says spring is coming early, spring is here to stay. Every time he walks through that damn door to enter your room, you see the sun peeking through the storm clouds.

“You’re leaving?” You don’t like the way you practically choke on the question.

Regret roughs up the soft features of his face.

“Yes.”

Colt Grice is handed a metal container that is roughly the size of a shoebox and is informed that anything placed in there will be sent to his family in the case that he does not return.

He’s sitting on his bed, staring at the empty box resting on his lap. Whatever is supposed to go in here is meant to be a satisfactory consolation; sorry you lost your older son, here’s some junk he found in his barracks to help you remember him. He places the lid back on the container. How is anyone supposed to fit a life inside something not even a foot long?

He lays down on his bed, savoring the stiffness of the mattress and the cold sheets neatly tucked with military precision. This will be one of his last days of enjoying the comforts of a real bed, and Colt is not the type to be ungrateful. He can take pleasure in the little things.

He has to be able to — if he waited for anything major to happen before he started considering it to be a win, he’d never have a cause for celebration.

There’s this funny feeling he gets sometimes. Moments in his life where he feels like everything is moving too quickly for his liking. One second he’s tossing a ball back and forth with Zeke, then he blinks and he’s in the mess hall, listening to Porco complaining about “the fucking slop” they’re being fed that day. He knows it’s silly, knows that the impending deadline of thirteen years won’t loom over his head just yet, but the idea of this life — his life — being cut short has never bothered him before.

And then he meets you, and suddenly, life stops moving at a pace where everything around him is a blur and leaves him feeling dizzy, unable to find his footing. Suddenly, time stands still for him. He finds his footing. He can stand tall. Everything is in hyper focus, and he’s all too aware that the future is bleak.

His future’s always been destined to be bleak; if he wasn’t in the Warrior Unit, there’d still be a chance that he’d be used as a titan for war. Just not the kind that grants some form of glory. Just the kind used as a weapon. Just something in a military general’s arsenal. He’s certain that “unleash the titans” is written on a slip of paper and is put inside a case alongside grenades and guns.

He shuts his eyes, thinking about his sheer impermanence. His lack of a future has never been a major cause for concern. Eldian families know what to expect when their sons and daughters end up in the Warrior Unit. But then you kissed him and all he could think about when he felt the pressure of your lips against his for the first time was maybe there is a future out there for me. One worth chasing after. One worth being alive for. One with you.

He wants a future now. He wants it so badly, so desperately, that all he can do is lay here and curl his fingers around the bedcover, ruining the hard work that went into perfecting the appearance of his bed. All he can do, all he’s allowed to do, is grit his teeth and force down the bitter truth: he has no future.

And he would really, really love to have one now.

It’s not like this dream is new — just repressed. He’s gotten too good at pushing down his selfish desires in favor of thinking about what’s best for the collective good. If he becomes the Beast Titan, his family will be elevated in status; better healthcare, better home, better paycheck to mail to them. There would be less pressure on Falco to do well; there would be no point. The Grices would have given up one son; surely, even Marley would have pity and tell them to do everything they can to hang onto the last one. As a child, he used to skip recess breaks to help his teachers clean up the classroom or grade papers. He’d wipe down the windows, pretending that he doesn’t want to be one of the carefree kids swinging on the monkeybars. Because of his volunteering to help the teacher, she was less stressed, with no frustrations to take out on the students. No one ever thanked him for doing this. No one even acknowledged it.

“What’re you thinkin’ so hard about?” Porco drops the metal lunch tray onto the table. It’s the sound of the tray making contact with the aged wood that snaps Colt out of his thoughts and back into reality.

“I wasn’t thinking about anything.” He’s lying, but Porco doesn’t need to hear about his inner turmoil.

“Don’t bother lying if you’re not even going to try to be good at it.” Porco snorts, digging his spoon into the mushy vegetables steaming on his plate. “You’re being sent home tonight, aren’t you?” He’s in the middle of chewing a mixture of too-soft carrots and green beans. Colt pretends not to notice the way the vegetables are being blended together in his mouth. Pieck complains that Porco needs to learn how to chew with his mouth closed, and out of spite, he chooses to do the complete opposite.

“Yeah.” Colt uses his fork to play with his food, poking at an overcooked steamed carrot. “Falco gets to spend the night at home, too.”

“Damn. How’d he take the news?”

Colt cringes. “Didn’t get a chance to tell him.”

Porco gapes at him, but then his stomach growls and he’s back to shoveling more food in his mouth. He has the decency to swallow first before resuming the conversation. “You’re fucked, Grice.”

It’s not like leaving Falco in the dark was intentional. He stays in the barracks designated for younger kids, and Colt’s been running around the base, trying to make sure that he’s properly preparing for his deployment. He meant to take the walk to Falco last night, after he finished finding things to put in that damn shoebox, but thoughts of you, his mediocre life, his wasted time and lost chances, his family — all of those thoughts weighed him down, kept him chained to the bed. He couldn’t even get a decent night’s sleep. And his box still remains empty, shoved underneath his bed. It’s gotten to the point where he’s even debating asking Porco to fill it on his behalf, but who knows what he considers appropriate?

“The worst part is, Falco’s definitely been notified that he has the opportunity to be sent home, and the reasoning they’ll give him is because an immediate family member is being deployed. He knows I’m being sent away, and now he’s just waiting for me to actually tell him.” Colt sighs as Porco beats him to his drawn conclusion:

“Yeah. You’re super fucked.”

After a few minutes of silence, Porco finds even more stuff to ponder about. “Hey, how’d your girlfriend take the news?”

Seriously, since when did Porco suddenly become so chatty? Was the tasteless lunch food not enough to keep him occupied? Colt takes this moment as an opportunity to shovel a heaping of hot, bland mush into his mouth in order to avoid answering that question. He thinks he burns a few taste buds in the process, but with the food that’s being served to them, it’s not like they were being used in the first place.

Colt wishes Porco didn’t have such a stubborn streak. He sits there, unimpressed, waiting for Colt to finish eating, which takes no time at all. The silence and his bemused expression say enough: hurry up and answer.

“Didn’t really get a chance to tell her, either.”

Porco blinks.

“Damn it, Grice. Who does know about your deployment?”

He thinks for a second, mentally doing a count. “Well, for starters, you—”

“Okay, so no one. No one knows you’re being deployed.”

Well, when he puts it like that.

“I planned on telling them.”

“When? When you’re already on the battlefield?”

Colt flinches. “When they would have less time to worry about me.”

Porco pauses, the snarky comment sliding back down his throat. For once during this conversation, Porco seems at a loss for words.

“They’re always going to worry about you.” Porco says, all sarcasm gone from his tone and replaced with a seriousness that Colt doesn’t get from him often.

Colt thinks about how Porco used to react when Marcel would be sent away, even if it was just for a training camp sponsored by a different town’s military unit. He’d be even surlier than usual, and with no Marcel to stop him from picking a fight, he’d get into more trouble, too. People’s worry seems to manifest in different ways. When he first made it into the Warrior Unit, his mother pulled out his baby album and started tearing up at the rare photos of a baby Colt. The six year old boy with a front tooth missing, smiling for his elementary school photo, is the son she sees being taken from her.

Colt doesn’t know how to verbalize his feelings on the matter without embarrassing himself. If it were possible, Colt would gladly shoulder the weight of everybody’s worry for him. He doesn’t like the idea of his parents and little brother anticipating Marleyan officers coming to them, presenting them with a shoebox filled with trinkets meant to represent his life. He especially doesn’t like the idea of you anxiously waiting for him. He sees the split second of desperation in your eyes when you watch the door crack open, trying to see who’s behind it. He knows the relaxed slump of your body when you see it’s him is reserved just for him. He doesn’t want to try and imagine the reaction you have when it’s anyone else.

(Because it will be, for at least several months, someone else.

And he will be miles away, trying to dodge a spray of bullets coming from men he doesn’t know, powerless to help you and maybe even himself.)

“That’s the problem.” He admits to Porco, before pushing his tray aside, losing his appetite.

When Falco is born, Colt can’t seem to wrap his head around the fact that this crying, red-faced gremlin swathed in a baby-blue blanket is his brother.

“This is your baby brother, Colt,” his mother cooed, rocking a newborn Falco and beckoning Colt to come closer. “His name is Falco.”

Colt doesn’t know what baby brothers are supposed to do. For the first few days since they’ve brought him back from the hospital, Falco sure doesn’t do much besides cry and sleep. There’s a funny feeling he gets, though, whenever he hears his little brother cry. He wants his little brother to stop crying; not because the noise bothers him, but because he doesn’t want tiny Falco to be in any sort of distress.

Colt’s still too young to worry about things like life and death, but he does find himself on his tip-toes, peering into Falco’s crib, seemingly worried that if he doesn’t watch over Falco himself, Falco will just disappear into thin air. He doesn’t ponder on it too much, but as Colt stares at the peaceful state his normally loud brother is in, Colt realizes two things: life is very precious, and he wants his brother to enjoy this life for as long as he can.

He offers to carry Falco at any given moment, telling his mother that she’ll have her hands full while cooking and can’t carry him herself. He watches with morbid fascination (and a little disgust) as his father explains how and why he has to change Falco’s diaper, and even though he’s just joking when he asks Colt if he wants to change Falco the next time, he grins when young Colt nods solemnly.

“You’re a good big brother,” his father tells him, squeezing him on the shoulder.

A good big brother.

This praise becomes one of Colt’s goals in life. He’s a dutiful son, a capable soldier, and a dependable older brother. He’s the one who Falco looks up to in this world. Falco’s the reason why he doesn’t ever fight back against the blatant disrespect some Marleyan soldiers show him. Falco’s the reason why he’s careful about who he hangs around with; Colt was never meant to be with the group who walked him straight to the red light district. Falco’s the reason why Colt finds himself nervously trying to build up the courage to give a request to Zeke.

“They’re sending you to Fort Helena.” Zeke says rather than asks, tossing the baseball in a wide arc. Colt winces, but not because of the impact of the ball landing neatly in his palm.

“Just my luck, I suppose.” He says, throwing the ball.

It’s an ancient-looking thing, discolored from age and dirt. Colt can’t understand why Zeke hangs onto it, but asking him that seems even scarier than the prospect of asking him for a favor.

“Do you?” Zeke raises an eyebrow. “Think you’re lucky, that is.”

Colt catches the ball once more, hanging onto it for a few more seconds than necessary as he mulls over the question. He thinks about his family gathered around the kitchen table, no fear of ever starving, a nice roof over their heads. He thinks about Falco falling just short of making the preliminary list of future titan inheritors; with Colt inheriting the Beast, the Grice name will be restored. There will be no reason for Falco to chase after a meaningless legacy full of empty glory and an early death. He thinks about you.

“I’ve lived a better life than most.” Colt answers carefully.

“Gonna be a bit of a short life, huh?” Zeke holds a hand up to stop Colt from tossing the ball back to him. Zeke fumbles with the inner pockets of his jacket, taking out his lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “My advice to you is to start doing whatever you want, otherwise the deadline starts to get to you.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

Zeke takes a drag of the cigarette, casually exhaling smoke. “I don’t want to leave behind unfinished business.” And he leaves it at that, choosing to not elaborate any further. Colt doesn’t press him for more details; they don’t have that sort of relationship. Despite the fact that Zeke’s been a full-fledged Warrior for so long, Colt has a feeling that Zeke doesn’t really have any relationships that allow him to confide in others. “On that note, do you have any scores you’re trying to settle before you go?”

Sometimes, Colt gets the funny feeling that conversations with Zeke are more like interrogations. Unlike Porco, who outright asks what’s on his mind, Zeke meticulously pokes and prods at all the weak points Colt wasn’t even aware he had. Colt finds himself shifting his weight around, the baseball suddenly feeling too heavy, his uniform too restrictive.

“I just want to ensure that the people I care about are well taken care of, long after I’m gone.”

Zeke studies him for a moment. The more time they spend together, the more layers of Zeke Colt thinks he unravels; the only issue is, surface level stuff is easy to understand. It’s when you start to dig deeper into a person’s being that they start to become confusing. He makes an effort to try to get to know Zeke, not for his own personal gain, but because no one really knows Zeke. How incredibly lonely it must be, Colt thinks, to not be known. To not even have anyone willing to try to learn you.

Of course, he knows that eventually he’ll understand what goes on in Zeke’s mind, that one day, Zeke’s memories will blend in with his own. But Colt’s not the invasive type. He needs to be invited in.

“You’ll do a lot for your family.” Zeke comments.

“They’re my family.” And Colt leaves it at that, certain that nothing more could be said on the matter. In typical Zeke fashion, he pokes and he prods. He’s perfected the talent of softening the words that come from his sharp tongue, though.

“Your parents and your brother; they mean that much to you?”

They mean the world to me. I’d die for them without any hesitation. I’d give up anything to ensure they live good lives. Those answers come to Colt naturally. He doesn’t have to think about saying them, but he does pause. Thinks to himself what a good answer might be.

When he was younger— the Beast still wholly belonging to Zeke, Colt uncertain of what his bleak future might hold — Zeke had always seemed to be an enigma. All Colt knew about him was that he mostly kept to himself, that he proved his loyalty to Marley by betraying his family (and by extension, revealing Colt’s uncle as a dirty Restorationist), and that he knew much more than he let on. Colt figures out this last bit of information through years of conversation and mentorship. Zeke’s trick, Colt realizes, is that he lets everyone else around him do the talking. At best, Zeke will offer up the most bare minimum reply he can get away with.

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?” It’s a cheekier reply than what Colt would normally give, but he relaxes his shoulders when he catches the barest hint of a smile on Zeke’s lips.

(That’s another thing Colt notices about his mentor; he doesn’t ever seem to smile.)

“You worked hard to inherit the Beast. The appeal of being a Warrior so enticing that you would shorten the time you could spend with your family?”

Colt sometimes forgets that Zeke technically has no family; his parents are either deep in the dungeons or dead due to their betrayal to the country. Colt hasn’t decided which fate is worse, and now he wonders if Zeke knows what has become of his parents. Zeke also doesn’t have any siblings; he probably can’t see where Colt is coming from.

“What I do affects my family entirely. If I become a Warrior, they receive the benefits and retain the status of honorary Marleyans.” Colt clears his throat. “Even after I’m dead.”

“Your brother — I heard he wants to inherit one of the Titans, eventually. Maybe follow in his older brother’s footsteps and take the Beast.” He’s not asking a question, but Colt can’t help but answer.

“That won’t happen.” He’s quick with the reply, tightening his grip on the battered baseball. “He’s already ranked close to the bottom of the list of candidates, and there wouldn’t be a point to him inheriting a Titan anyway.”

“There’s always the opportunity to make Marley proud.” Zeke’s being sarcastic; his actions might indicate that he’s nothing but loyal to the motherland, but his expression and attitude suggest otherwise. “That’s not a pointless ordeal.”

Yeah, but this conversation is starting to feel like one. Colt loosens his grip on the baseball, unsure of what direction Zeke wanted to take this conversation in. Maybe it’s just a setup, and he’s trying to gauge Colt’s loyalty to the country before he officially inherits the Beast. Having someone who can transform into a powerful monster at will is already dangerous enough; imagine if that person just lost control or wanted to take their anger out on the people who abused them on a daily basis.

(Honestly, the more he considers it, the more he realizes the amount of self-restraint Porco truly possesses.

That, and the fact that he’s a mama’s boy. If he went rogue, Mrs. Galliard would surely pay the price for his transgressions.)

“I just don’t see the point in him wanting to be on the frontlines of war.” Colt decides to say. It’s the truth. “There’s nothing to be gained from it.”

“You’ve got a point there, Grice.” Another drag of his cigarette, another puff of nicotine-infused smoke being exhaled. “War’s only glorious when you see the pretty posters telling you it’s an honor to enlist. Won’t be long ‘til he’s being sent out there. The disillusionment they feel after their first deployment is always worse than the shell shock.”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.” Colt locks eyes with Zeke, and he continues speaking before he loses his nerve. “Falco still has some time where he’s considered a child, and you know that war isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He looks up to you. Could you possibly… make some time to throw around the ball with him, maybe convince him that some fights just aren’t worth joining?”

Zeke doesn’t answer immediately. He finishes off his cigarette, drops it to the ground, and stomps on it, still possibly mulling over Colt’s request.

“If it’s a request from my favorite successor, then sure.” A brief flash of a smile. “Hopefully he throws half as decent as you.”

As a baby, Colt wasn’t very fussy. His mother used to tell him that she was worried about him while he was growing up because he wouldn’t make a lot of noise. She tells stories about how, as a child, he would curl up in bed, trying to make himself as small as possible, almost as if he was scared of taking up too much space. This anxious reflex was something he grew out of, probably because that growth spurt of his resulted in him taking up a lot more space everywhere he goes. It’s hard to hide in plain sight when you’re the one who has to grab stuff on the top shelf for others.

Falco isn’t like that, though. Colt remembers the long nights of constant crying that came from his baby brother’s crib, the way he could never hold in his wails of pain when he would skin a knee while playing on the decrepit public playground in the internment zone, the excited shouts of joy he let out as he barreled straight into Colt’s outstretched arms on the days a young Colt would return from the military base. Falco might be nearing ten years old now, but he still hasn’t outgrown much of his childhood; tufts of feathersoft hair that still sticks out against his longer strands, baby fat that makes his cheeks appear to be chubby, adult teeth that fits awkwardly in his mouth, and most incriminating of all: his innocence.

Falco doesn’t know anything about war. It’s because their father doesn’t like to discuss it, and Colt will do anything to ensure that Falco never learns. He complains that everyone in their family babies him, and Colt doesn’t know how to tell Falco that it’s because to them, he still is a baby. When Colt looks at him, he still sees the little brother who would hide behind his back, wiping his tears and snot against the fabric of Colt’s shirt.

Colt isn’t the type of person who speaks up for himself, but it’s an entirely different story when it comes to others. Growing up, he would get teased on the schoolyard, yelled at by his instructors in the military, sneered at, spat at, laughed at. He took it all in stride, and when it comes to matters concerning only himself, he still does — take it all in stride, that is. Just last week, he was on courtyard cleaning duty, except the Eldian units had no brooms to sweep with. He had to make do with a crutch (loaned to him by an injured soldier who felt bad for him) shoddily attached to some raggedy broom bristles.

The alternative would have been to ask a superior officer for a proper broom, but Colt already knows how that would have ended: with him getting yelled at in front of everyone, absolute humiliation and shame coursing through his veins, and still, no broom.

When you spend most of your life being someone’s go-to punching bag, you start to get a feel for what’s a losing battle, for what fight is worth having.

Even if things will only prove to get worse for him, Colt jumps to the defense of others. Even if it’s a losing battle, when it comes to matters concerning Falco, it doesn’t matter what odds are stacked against him, what cruel punishment awaits for him; defending Falco will always be a fight worth having.

It’s why he’s the big brother who kills all the bugs, the brother who checks the closet and under the bed to make sure there are no monsters in the room, the brother who couldn’t hold in his shout of disapproval when he saw the youth commanding officer punishing Falco. He’s the brother who enlisted so Falco would never have to.

And now, picking him up from his barracks so they can take the train home, Colt realizes that he will have to be the brother who leaves.

It leaves a bad feeling in his stomach, punches him in the gut, and it’s silent as he and Falco board the train. It’s no more than a twenty minute ride to the internment zone from base, but the silence between them makes the seconds drag out and feel like years. Even worse — no amount of time seems to be sufficient enough for what Colt wants to say to him.

Sorry I didn’t tell you I was getting shipped off to war. Hey buddy, looks like I’m heading off to war! You’ll never guess where I’m going! Don’t be selfish; let your brother get some glory for you to brag about!

He thinks he’d rather get waterboarded than say any of those statements to Falco. If the roles were reversed, if he was the younger brother feeling betrayed over his older brother’s silence, what would he want to hear?

The truth.

“I didn’t want to tell you because I was scared.”

Falco looks up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted in surprise. He’s sitting on the seat across from him, and Colt can’t help but notice the way he’s still short enough to where his feet don’t even hit the ground. It makes him swallow hard, before continuing.

“I was scared you would be worried about me.”

“But I am!” Falco interjects, looking like he’s about to hop out of his seat. “That’s why I’m training so hard, so that I can be the one who fights alongside you in the future!”

The thing about little brothers is that they can’t fathom a scenario where they’re not right by their brother’s side. Falco doesn’t think about how awful going to war will be; just that it’s important to him that they’re with each other when it happens. Colt thinks back to the way Porco used to go around bragging that one day, he’d be fighting side by side with his older brother, Marcel.

Then Colt thinks about the haunted look on Porco’s face when he realizes that his older brother is dead. When Porco’s birthday comes around, the one where he reaches the age Marcel never had a chance to be, he doesn’t celebrate. Colt stares at the earnest expression on Falco’s face, memorizes his childlike naivety, and prays that nothing changes about him when he comes back from Fort Helena.

(Because he will come back. There’s too many people waiting for his return.)

It’s barely late in the afternoon, but there’s a darkness that smothers the internment zone of Liberio.

The sun is shining, and Colt can feel himself already getting overheated in his uniform as he steps off the train, but even the sunlight does nothing to wipe the grim expressions off the faces of his fellow soldiers. Everyone’s excited to be off base and to see their loved ones, sure, but this isn’t a holiday visit

When there’s active war and their enlisted sons are stuck on base, Eldian parents know what it means when they see their child on the doorsteps of their home, no prior explanation given except for a letter in the mail sent just a day before the dreaded arrival of their son.

Opening the door and seeing their baby in uniform isn’t a cause for celebration. It’s the chance that this very well may be the last time they ever see their child again.

No one is out in the street. Parents and families have received their letters in the mail, telling them that in twenty-four hours, they can expect to see their soldier returning home for the night.

Not even a full day, Colt realizes. He’s back a few hours before supper, but what really can he do with his family before he wakes up at the crack of dawn to head on a train to a warzone? Maybe, in the few hours he has with them, he’ll figure out a proper way to say farewell.

The Grice family home is modest, unassuming. Much like its inhabitants.

Barnaby Grice is where Colt inherits his height from, but he’s developed a slouch (a disappointing consequence of his chronic back pain) that makes it hard to believe. His shoulders sag, and he looks tired. Mom says it’s because he can’t sleep at night; too much restless energy. His father is good with his hands; before the illness took over, he had been one of the engineers — one of the few Eldian engineers, too — that worked on the Navy’s ships. He still wants to work, offering to help fix up neighbor’s boats, free of charge. It’s a slow death, to be a busybody whose body is failing them.

Amelia Grice fusses over her husband constantly. With both of her boys now out of the house, it’s easier to manage the household, but that doesn't mean she can’t find problems that need her attention. If keeping an eye on her husband proves to be not enough to keep her entertained, she spends her time flipping through old family albums, seeing her little boys, and then wondering what she can do to help them. She’s taken up knitting; sewing is essential, but knitting is purely for pleasure. There’s a stack of sweaters and blankets she’s managed to make, and they’re all going to be stuffed in her sons’ knapsacks before they take the train back to base.

(She knits every time she thinks about them.

It’s going to be impossible for them to take all her completed projects back with them.)

As plain as it appears to be, it’s home to Colt. He stares at the faded red brick exterior of the house, the shutters black (and the color too saturated, indicating that it’s been freshly painted since the last time he’s been here), the welcome mat swept clean from any outside debris.

He doesn’t even have to knock on the door for it to swing open, revealing the tired, worn, but relieved expressions on both of his parents’ faces.

“Colt, Falco, you’re back home!” His mother ushers them into the house, and Colt is slapped in the face with the strong wall of nostalgia.

When was the last time he’s been back home?

(Will this be the last time?)

No matter the time that’s passed, Colt can tell that his mother’s been cooking her famous roast; the spices are still marinating on the meat, and he can recognize mom’s cooking from miles away. If he faints on the battlefield, the scent of her cookies should be enough to bring him back to full consciousness.

He sees his father’s work boots still resting by the front door, and as he walks further along the narrow hallway of their home, he spots the pencil marks etched on the wall. It’s markers for his (and then Falco’s) new heights as they went through their childhood years. Amelia is back in the kitchen, fussing over the food, and Falco follows her, probably in the hopes of sneaking in bites when she’s not looking.

Barnaby watches as Colt looks at the pencil marks he left behind all those years ago. He can still picture his son barely able to reach his shoulders, and now Colt is easily taller than him.

“Should I get out the tape measurer and pencil?” He asks, smiling as Colt seems to be broken out of whatever trance he was in.

Colt gives him a sheepish grin. “I just couldn’t believe I was ever this tiny. Even Falco was taller than me when we were the same age!”

“I can remember when you weren’t tall enough to reach the cabinets so you would have to climb on top of the counters.” When he catches the faint blush on his son’s cheeks, Barnaby laughs. “Bet you would rather not remember that, huh?”

“Mom screamed at me to get down because she was scared I was going to fall off and break open my head or something. Her yelling was what nearly made me lose my balance!”

“Ah, your mom just worries about you too much.”

“Don’t play Mr. Tough Guy!” Amelia peeks her head out from the kitchen. With her back turned, only Colt and Barnaby can spot Falco mischievously popping one of the baby potatoes from the pot roast into his mouth. They hold in their laughter while his mother continues. “Just so you know, Colt, your father’s been up all night ever since we got that letter! He even started sifting through our trashed newspapers for any articles he might’ve missed on Fort Helena.”

“I was just curious about the crossword.” Her husband mutters, but she rolls her eyes.

“Falco, go set the table! You two, come in here and sit down. I’m about to serve supper.”

Nothing beats a home cooked meal, but when you’ve been fed nothing but indiscernible mush and questionable protein on a military base, the Grice boys can’t help but devour everything on the table like they’ve been starved. Too happy at having the whole family over for dinner, Mrs. Grice ignores the way they forgo table manners and instead encourages them to eat some more. Right when Colt’s plate is almost cleaned off, she’s forking over more meat and potatoes onto his plate.

Colt tries to savor the taste of the meal, hopes and prays that his taste buds retain the memory of his mother’s cooking so he has something to substitute for the tasteless protein bars they serve all soldiers on the battlefield. He’s been trying to actively avoid thinking too much about it, but where he’s headed, there will be no pot roasts or mothers to serve it up on a nice plate for him.

Later on in the night, Colt gets that funny feeling again. The one where he feels like time seems to quicken its pace when it comes to him. He blinks, and he’s suddenly not at the dinner table, laughing at what the neighbors have been up to. He’s no longer washing the dishes, either (he does it despite his mother protesting that he shouldn’t have to worry about cleaning when he needs to be up early tomorrow); Falco still finds it funny when Colt makes funny shapes out of the bubbles and suds from the dish soap, and their boyish laughter fills the house, makes it feel like a home once more. Time gives him some grace, though, when it comes to tucking in Falco.

“A lot nicer than the bunk beds in the barracks, huh?” Colt teases. Falco’s sheets are still the same baby blue, but they smell fresh. His mother must have washed them while waiting for them to come home.

“Smells a lot nicer, too.” Falco comments, and Colt laughs. He’s sitting on the edge of his little brother’s bed, and Falco’s all snuggled up in his blanket. With the sweat and grime washed off from his face, his pastel colored jammies fitting only a bit too snug, and the way he fits so perfectly in his childhood bedroom, Colt knows that this is what Falco’s nights should have still been looking like. Falco will take the later train back to base, but Colt’s happy that he’ll at least get to eat lunch with their parents; maybe even find some time to catch up with the other neighborhood kids.

“If you think the barracks are bad, I don’t think you’ll want to be going where I’m going.” He’s trying to keep his voice light, teasing, but Falco immediately frowns.

“I’ll always follow you anywhere! I don’t care how bad it gets! You told me that as long as we’re together, everything will be okay.”

People aren’t supposed to go back on their word — especially not older brothers. Colt cringes as he thinks about how he’s going to have to make an addendum to that particular promise.

“You know, Falco, war isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s dirty, and disgusting, and the officers are all harsher than they usually are.”

“I know that!”

Not really, not yet.

“Then why do you want to go with me so badly?”

“Because you’re my brother. Because I don’t want you to go through that alone.”

“You know that I love you, right?”

“Of course, I do. I’m not an idiot.” He mumbles, pulling the blanket closer to his chest, covering his chin.

“And it’s because I love you that I’m telling you to not follow me to these places. I’m your big brother. I want to do all of this so you’re never obligated to.”

“But—”

“Do you know why I thought inheriting the Beast was such an honor? It wasn’t because I wanted to make Marley proud, or because I was finally giving our country reparations for what Uncle did. It was an honor for me to inherit it because it meant that our family would be safe. No one else would have to fight anymore. It’ll all be over, don’t you get it? You can live better lives now.”

“But I don’t want to live a better life without you! It won’t be a better life without you!” Even in the dark, Colt can spot the familiar shine in his brother’s eyes as an indicator that he’s about to cry.

“Falco—” Colt pats him on the head, feeling babysoft hair underneath his calloused palm. “Everything will be okay in the end. I promise.”

That’s the first promise of the night that Colt makes. The next comes a few minutes later, when he heads downstairs and sees that the living room light is still on. His parents are seated next to each other on the couch, and they seem to be waiting for him.

If Colt was still a teenager, he would be feeling nervous. They’re seated almost as if they’re about to confront him about breaking curfew or a bad grade (neither scenarios have actually happened; the nickname of “Golden Boy Grice” didn’t spring out of nowhere).

“Hi.” He sits on the armchair adjacent to them.

“It’s still early in the evening, but you might as well go wash up and head to bed. You have an early morning ahead of you, sweetie.” His mother suggests this, but there’s a reason why she’s still up and waiting for him. It’s because she doesn’t want him to go to bed, not yet, not when she finally has her baby within reach.

“Too early for me to be able to sleep.” Colt tells her, because he knows how she’s feeling. “Besides, I feel like there’s some stuff I didn’t get to share with you two during dinner.”

Colt explains about how the paycheck he’ll receive while he’s actively on the battlefield will increase; not only has being a Warrior greatly increased his earnings, but being on the frontlines will leave plenty for his family. Half of his paycheck will go to them, of course, but he loses his confidence in his speech when he reveals his plan.

“And a portion of my earnings will be going to someone else.”

“Someone else?” His father raises an eyebrow; it’s not out of malice, but curiosity. He doesn’t care what his son does with his money, but throughout this entire day, Colt hasn’t given any indication of anyone important entering his life.

“A girl.” Colt answers, suddenly quieter than he’s been all night. “I’ve made the proper arrangements so that you two won’t have to worry about manually divvying it up yourselves, especially if I… don’t return.”

(It had been an awkward affair. He knows that you don’t have a bank account, and his only choice was to turn to Willa, the redheaded woman running your brothel.

“You want my bank account information so that a portion of your paycheck can be deposited into my account, and then you want me to cash it out and hand it over to her? Is that correct?”

“I understand if it’s too much of a hassle. If necessary, I can pay you—”

“I’m not going to kick someone when they’re down.” Willa interrupts him, and he can’t help but feel like maybe she’s even insulting him. Does she think he’s poor?

He kind of is, but he makes a far more decent living than many others in his neighborhood!

“Of course I can do it. Did you tell her about you sending her money?”

“No.”

“Good. She would have refused it.”

He knows you would. That’s precisely why he didn’t tell you.

“I don’t meddle in the affairs of soldiers, and I certainly don’t micromanage my girls. I’m asking this because I care about her. What are your intentions, truly? Are you going to steal her away from this place? Are you going to keep on giving her your paychecks, even when you find yourself a wife and start a family? Are you going to leave her with nothing but a few memories of you?” Willa’s green eyes are too sharp; just like Zeke, she pokes and prods, but it’s her intense stare that seems to whittle away at his very soul.

“I want to do whatever she wants.”

Willa’s eyes soften, just the slightest bit, before she promises to hand over the money to you every week, and then she sends Colt on his merry way.)

“A girl?” His mother repeats, and his father only continues to look more concerned.

“Did you do something with this girl to make her your responsibility?” Barnaby asks, scared of what answer he’ll receive.

“No! It’s not like that!” Colt exclaims, nearly jumping out of his seat. “It’s different. It’s… A delicate situation.” He tries to avoid looking into his parents’ eyes when he says this.

“Is she Eldian?” His father presses, leaning forward, practically holding his breath.

“She’s from the refugee camp.” Colt explains, and he watches as his mother processes what he’s just told them, along with the relieved slump of his father’s shoulders.

Refugees aren’t treated much better than Eldians; at least most Eldians have houses as opposed to tents.

“Is she a nice girl?” Amelia enters her Mother Hen mode, knowing that it’ll do no good to worry over her son. She shifts her anxieties onto you instead. “Oh, that poor girl, she’s going to be freezing in the upcoming weeks! You know we have some of the harshest winters here. Maybe I should knit her some sweaters. Do you think she would like that? What’s her name? I’ll head down to the camp one of these days, and—”

“Mom, it’s okay! She’s doing well.”

She doesn’t seem to believe him, but she eases up on her questions.

“She must mean a lot to you, though.” His father brings up. “Enough to mention her to your dear old parents. About time you bring a girl home to us, boy.”

Colt looks down at his hands. “She does. I’ll bring her back home if I make it back.”

The if stabs him in the throat, but he knows better than to make the promise of when.

“Well, we can’t wait to meet her then.” His mother is smiling at him, her hands clasped with his father’s. “I have a great feeling about her.”

There’s a breach in the barbed wire surrounding the back outskirts of the internment zone. Legend has it that a Marleyan officer once fell in love with an Eldian girl, and he sneakily cut this discreet opening so that they could make an escape and run off into the woods to be together.

Truthfully, Colt believes the other version of the origin story of the hole. It goes something along the lines of how a Marleyan officer once fought on the battlefield with an Eldian, and the Eldian saved his life by taking a bullet for him. Feeling bad, the officer returned, took his name off for active duty volunteer, and became a patrolman for the internment zone instead. When he heard that the Eldian’s brother was going to be shipped off next, the officer, not understanding that deserting his duty would lead to the Eldian’s death, decided to cut open this part of the fence and let him know that running away was an option.

Colt’s not sure what to believe, but he does know that this opening in the fence has been used for the past decade or so, and will probably continue to be of use long after he’s gone. No one’s ever used it to desert their duties, and Colt thinks this is precisely why it’s never been fixed. You can loosen the leash on a dog to give them some semblance of freedom, and it’ll make it feel better when it heads back to its owner.

He checks his watch. He’ll make it to you just short of ten at night; he has to be back on the train by five in the morning. He needs more time, but he knows he’ll never get it. Instead, he finds himself awkwardly sneaking through the poorly cut opening of the fence, glad that it’s an unspoken rule that the Marleyan officers don’t patrol the streets on deployment nights.

If anyone was actually idiotic enough to escape, they’d find all the officers waiting for them at all the possible exits.

Even entering the brothel starts to feel too familiar to Colt. The sparsely furnished entrance puts him at ease since the space is so narrow, he’s bound to bump into something or knock over a vase if they had it. The lightbulb burns brightly; one night, he stopped by and offered to change the bulb while he waited for you. Now, he even can recognize some of the girls photographed on the wall.

Even Willa doesn’t seem as intimidating as before — still intimidating, yes, but Colt can almost muster up the courage to look her in the eyes for prolonged periods of conversation.

But there’s someone here that feels the most familiar to him, the one person who puts him at ease, the one person who makes time stand still for him.

You.

Just looking at you makes his anxieties momentarily freeze, and he resists the urge to scoop you in his arms and hold you close to his chest.

“Why so serious, soldier?” You giggle, smoothing down the dress you put on just for him. When Willa went down your list of appointments, she didn’t miss the way your face lit up as she mentioned Colt’s name. You had some free time; you wanted to look pretty for him.

He’s taking you in, eyes unsure of what to focus on, just knowing that he wants to focus on you. You’re wearing a pretty, colorful dress that reaches down to the floor and accentuates your figure. The fabric looks light, soft. He likes it when you wear your colorful clothing. It makes you stand out even more. You brighten up his life, and you don’t even know it.

“You’re beautiful.” He breathes out, still standing there, a man stunned.

“I knew you would appreciate all the time and effort I put into getting ready!” You give him a pleased hum, before looking up and gasping. “Your hair!”

“Huh, what’s wrong with it?” He runs his hand through his fresh buzz cut, worried that a branch or leaves had somehow created a nest on top of his head.

“Why is it so short now?” You look so concerned that he can’t help but laugh. You’re taking his hand, dragging him to bed, forcing him to sit down as you balance yourself atop his lap. He wonders if you’re as hyper aware of how intimate this position is. He wonders if he’s a bad person for having to restrain himself, trying his best to chase away any unchaste thoughts about you. Instead, he chooses to focus on you.

Colt’s used to being scrutinized. Every move he makes is under the careful, unremitting surveillance of Marley. There’s probably a counter for every blink he’s ever done, just to ensure he isn’t communicating to his fellow brethren via morse code. He’s used to the watchful eyes of Marleyan soldiers and officers who eagerly wait for him to mess up; no matter how minor the infraction, there will be a punishment to serve for his mistake. He’s used to the feeling of eyes focused on him. The harsh glares, the fearful looks, the disgusted glances, the pitiful gazes.

You’re looking at him intently, your eyes trailing over every centimeter of him.

Curiosity. Wonder. Appreciation.

Your eyes are full of them, and so much more, and all of it is meant for him, because of him.

Even from this position, with you straddling his lap, it’s still hard to peer over him. He has impossibly nice posture, always with his back straight and stiff. Still, you play with the hastily shaved hair, running the tips of your fingers against the incredibly short strands, so concentrated on your little exploration that you almost seem to have forgotten you even asked him a question.

Until you pause, let out a little gasp that has him looking up in worry, and now you’re asking him a question you couldn’t possibly be distracted from obtaining your answer to.

“What’s this?” You ask him, fingers pausing at the two scars dangerously close to his forehead. You’ve never noticed them before; they’re too close to his hairline, easily hidden when his hair is grown out and covering it from the world. With the buzzcut, the twin scars stick out against his fine, blond strands.

“My scars?” He meets your eyes, reaching up to gently place his hand over yours, the one that was tracing his scars with morbid fascination.

You nod, not wanting to speak out of fear that the words are going to get tangled in your throat. He lets out a soft laugh, even though nothing seems very funny to you right now. He stops when he sees your frown, your sad eyes.

He squeezes your hand. “They’re just scars. Nothing to worry about.”

“How long have they been there?”

“Since I was fourteen, I think.” Colt’s other hand finds its way to your waist, and he holds you, keeps you steady. “See, I can’t even remember all the details from how I got them. Not that serious, okay?”

But it is serious, you want to tell him. Because it’s him. Because a scar indicates an injury. Because it’s Colt getting hurt.

You swallow down those sentences, and instead let out a shaky, “How’d you get them?”

Now he winces, almost like the memory is being played out in his mind. Colt doesn't think too much of how bad his luck is, but he is acutely aware of how lame his life sounds when he has to actually verbalize what he’s been through to you. “It was during one of my earlier sparring matches. They had all of us get dressed in full military uniform to simulate what combat as an active soldier would feel like, and you’ve seen it before, the helmets we wear. Bulletproof, so the material isn’t the softest.” He chuckles a bit, but it’s clear that he failed to lighten the mood. He clears his throat, continuing.

“It’s not a very interesting story. A Marleyan soldier was just being extra aggressive that day, and I happened to be the one paired up with him.” Because that’s typically how Colt’s luck goes. “And he managed to take my helmet off and rammed it against my head. None of the officers noticed until after he got the second hit, which is why there’s only two. So, could be worse, huh?” He’s smiling, trying to make you feel more at ease, but the look you’re giving him makes his heart ache.

Only two? Only?

“Did the officers not notice or did they just refuse to acknowledge it until it looked like you would bleed out to death on the training field?” Your voice is shaking, and Colt moves your hand from his hair to down on the bed.

“Hey. Look at me, please.” Always gentle, always kind, always soft. You like that about him, maybe feel something even more for him because he’s like this, but where does that gentleness, that kindness, that unwavering softness, lead him to? Bloody wounds and lasting scars? Bad memories and story retellings that leave a bitter taste in his mouth?

You comply, still frowning at him.

“I’m okay now. I’ll always be okay.”

He squeezes your hand as if to punctuate his promise.

“I can’t believe I never noticed you had these scars.” You sound upset over this fact.

He laughs lightly. “Even the people watching the match probably don’t remember if it left me scarred or not. You shouldn’t feel bad. Besides, when my hair grows out, it’s hard to see.”

“Why did you get a haircut?” You ask him again; the soldiers you’ve seen all grow their hair out. It’s not a bad look; you think Colt is so handsome he could pull off just about anything, but still — your soldier doesn’t strike you as someone who wants to venture out and try new haircuts.

You don’t miss the hard swallow and the tightness of his jaw. He’s stressed about something. He’s hiding something.

“Colt—” Despite the nervousness of what his answer could possibly be, you still say his name gently.

He closes his eyes, memorizing the way you say his name. You always say his name gently. You even say your brother’s name, Ramzi, gently, too. You treat names with care, like they’re something precious, fragile.

He’s a soldier, yes, but there’s something nice in knowing that the person you adore the most believes that you are something precious, fragile, meant to be handled with care.

“—why did you get your hair cut?”

He opens his eyes. Your pretty features are contorted into a look of confusion and concern. He wants to tell you not to worry about him, that he’ll be fine, that he has everything handled. Instead, he swallows hard and takes you in, commits the image of you to his memory. He’d forget his own name in favor of remembering the way you look when you smile, pure joy lighting up your usual melancholy expression.

“Tonight is my last night seeing you before I get deployed.”

“You’re leaving?” He doesn’t like the way your question sounds, coming out raw and scratchy. Disappointed. Hurt.

And he’s so close to you right now, your weight resting comfortably on top of him, that he can witness all the emotion flickering across your facial features, pooling around in your eyes.

“Yes.”

Gone is your good mood. You’re staring at him, lips slightly parted, his hand still holding yours. You’re looking at him like he’s going to disappear at any minute now, and he’s so scared that he’ll blink, and he’ll really be gone, already on the train off to war.

Don’t look at me like I’m already a ghost. He wants to beg you. Stare at me for as long as you want, but trust that I’ll still be here.

“When will you be back?” You finally manage to find the strength to ask him.

“As soon as I can be.” It’s the most honest answer he can give you; the answer that will crush you the least. The truth? He’s not even sure if he’s going to make it back. War promises a lot of things: honor, glory, heroics. It never promised a safe return.

“You’ll come back, though, right?” You’re staring at him so expectantly that Colt Grice knows he’ll do anything on the battlefield to ensure that he’s on the train back home, back to you.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll find a way.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” You scold him, and he can’t help but smile at a fond memory of you telling him the same exact thing just a few weeks prior.

Before the kiss that he relives in his memories constantly, before deployment was even a thought on the forefront of his mind, just barely a fortnight before now, Colt’s sitting on the floor, back against the side of your bed, looking up at you from an angle that surely hurts his neck but he doesn’t protest. He never complains.

Sometimes you wish he would, just so you could know what to do to put him at ease, like how he always seems to be able to comfort you.

In this moment, Colt’s finishing up telling you a story about the blind date mishaps that happen on base. The girls-to-boys ratio on base is absolutely abysmal, he says, and the girls hold all the cards.

“The girls on base must find you handsome, don’t they?” You’re on the bed, but you’re sitting upright, knees up so you can rest your chin atop them.

“Um, well, I don’t know—”

“They do.” You say, suddenly wanting to curl up and make yourself feel smaller. You know it’s silly to feel the way that you do; scared that one day Colt will just look at you and not see anything worth looking at. If Colt stops and thinks about the future, you wonder, where do you fit in it? You know that you don’t exactly resemble the beautiful Eldian girls that he’s grown up with, the same ones who are probably more than happy to pursue him. They’re connected to him by the same culture, the same background — surely whatever connection he feels with you couldn’t possibly be as strong as what he can share with them.

“I don’t care that they do. I only care if you find me handsome.”

The expression on his face is so earnest and honest that you find yourself practically melting into the mattress. You’re not good at being vulnerable, never as open with your feelings as he is, but it’s almost like he can tell when you’re on the brink of insanity. When you’re close to blurting out that you don’t want him anymore, even though that’s far from the truth.

“Well, what happens if the most beautiful girl on base approaches you and says you’re the most attractive man she’s ever seen, and she wants to let you do all sorts of depraved, nasty things to her? What then?”

Colt likes to think that he’s managed to get a good read on you. You don’t often say what’s exactly on your mind, but he thinks he can fill in the blanks most of the time. There is no beautiful girl on base for you to be concerned about, and just the hypothetical that you’re bringing up is so comical that he almost wants to laugh. Even if it seems silly, he holds back his smile. You’re not asking him because you think this scenario is likely going to happen; you’re asking him would you choose me over someone else?

The answer is you’re the only one for me.

“I would scream for the authorities to take her away from my vicinity.”

“Hmm.” You mull over his answer, secretly pleased that he’s playing along with your antics that stem from places of yourself that you don’t want to explore; the insecurity, the fear, the anxiety that comes with being someone who you’re so certain is too good for you.

The more of himself he hands over to you, the more comfortable you feel with him. But the more you have of him, the more frightened you get at the prospect of losing him, because as the days go by, there’s more of him to lose. He’s not the stuttering boy who brought you socks one time. He’s the only man who knows your name and says it with such tender care that you start to believe that if you dare to fall, he’ll be there to catch you.

“What if you go out drinking with your friends, and the bartender is a very pretty girl, and she offers you free drinks and flirts with you all night?” You know Colt can’t turn down a good drink. Him not turning down the opportunity to go to a bar practically led him to your room all those nights ago.

Is your favorite vice more appealing than me?

“I would pay off my tab immediately, and let her know that I took a vow of sobriety. I wouldn’t even finish my current drink. I would just run and get the hell out of there.”

This makes you laugh. When his time is up, and he has to pass along the Beast to the next successor, he hopes they know how blessed they are to be able to hear your soft laughter in his passed-down memories. This is a melody that cannot be replicated by any trained orchestra.

“A vow of sobriety? You would never!”

He pretends to be hurt at your comment. “If you asked me to give up drinking, I’d never let a single drop of liquor in my system ever again.”

You mean more to me than any vice. There is no pleasure on this planet that can compare to the euphoria I feel when I’m with you.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep!” But you’re still giggling, adjusting your position so that you’re laying on your belly now, looking at him like you believe him.

(You should. He means every word he says to you.)

“You always tell me that.” He brings your hand close to his face before he’s pressing a kiss against your knuckles. Like heat hitting butter, you melt into him, suddenly finding yourself sinking against his chest, hiding your face from him in the space between his shoulder and jawline. The top of your hair tickles his chin; you breathe in deeply, catching the faint whiff of cologne and soap on his neck.

“No I don't.” You mutter, knowing damn well that you do.

You always ask him wild hypotheticals, usually out of the blue, too, as if you’re trying to catch him off guard. As if you’re waiting for him to slip up and admit that one day, he really will just run away with some other girl and drop you like a bad habit.

“What if you find a girl who doesn’t bother you with her stupid questions?” Your hands grip the material of his uniform, fingers curled around the dry cleaned cotton blend.

“There’s only one girl who keeps my attention, whether she’s asking me questions or not.” You feel the familiar touch of his hand pressed against the small of your back. Warm. Comforting.

Refusing to give in to him too soon, you soldier on, picking your next set of questions. These are a bit more serious.

“What if the war never ends, and you’re stuck on your deployment forever?”

“I’ll pretend to be insane and get sent to the mental facility back home, and then you’ll be the one who has to do all the running around to visit me.”

You don’t have to look up to know that he’s smiling when he says this. You should chastise him for not taking this seriously, but then the warmth of his body pressed against yours keeps you grounded. Helps you to remember that no one else in the world would be taking this barrage of stupid questions as seriously as him.

“Well, what if you’re fighting and get horribly injured, and then some cute nurse saves your life? I heard that’s how a lot of soldiers meet their wives.”

You can feel him playing with the ends of your hair as he tries to decide on a proper answer. It feels nice, to have him twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, and it’s almost enough to get you to ditch all these hypotheticals, but you stand your ground. “Well?”

“That won’t happen because I won’t let any nurse work on me, cute or not. If I get hurt, I’ll fix myself up.”

You think about the scars permanently embedded on his skin. The casual violence inflicted on him. The indifference of every doctor he’s dealt with.

“Don’t say that.” You mumble, trying to sink yourself even deeper into him, curling up against his chest and almost shyly burying your whole face into the stiff material of his uniform jacket. “I don’t want you to not get medical attention.”

Colt catches himself smiling. First, you’re worried about him running off with a nurse, next you’re telling him that he needs to get aid if he needs it. He doesn’t mind answering all your questions if it’ll put your mind at ease, but he does wonder why the terms of engagement keep switching.

“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell the nurse that just because she saves my life, it doesn’t mean I’ll run away with her.” Then, after really taking the time to consider a scenario in which he does need medical attention, he adds, “I don’t think I’ll look like someone worth marrying when I’m bleeding out and covered in dirt.”

You let out a little huff of laughter at the idea of Colt ever looking unattractive. As if. Still fresh in your memories is the vision of him from months ago; even with his bruised face and body limping from exhaustion, he still looked handsome.

“What’s so funny?”

“That you would think anyone wouldn’t want to marry you.” Now you tilt your head to look up at him. He has an unreadable expression on his face, almost like he’s deep in thought, but you’re not sure what he could be considering.

“I wouldn’t marry just anyone, though.” He finally says, looking down at you. One hand is still playing with your hair, constantly toying with the ends of it. This time, the action isn’t enough to distract you.

He wouldn’t marry just anyone?

You’re aware of your heart beating and from this position, you’re certain that he can feel it, too. Hating this sudden overwhelming sensation of vulnerability, of being exposed, you feel yourself trying to edge away from him. You must have been easy to figure out, or maybe Colt just knows you too well already, because he’s prepared, gently pushing his hand against your back to keep you settled next to him.

“Hey,” he says this softly; just when you think he reaches peak gentleness, it’s like he unlocks some hidden reserve of it. Like he has an unlimited amount of kindness stored in his battered body. Softer still, he’s telling you, “Ask me another question.”

“What if you find the one you want to marry?” You can’t look at him when you ask this.

“I already did.” This is the quickest he’s ever answered you, and you know that he gives you outrageous responses for every silly hypothetical you throw his way. You want to tell him that out of all these questions, this is the most serious one. He needs to take this seriously. The implication drawn from his answer frightens you as much as it excites you.

“But what if you don’t come back?” Your voice sounds so small that he can practically see the words shrinking in size as you speak.

“I will.” You feel him tracing a shape against your back. He swallows hard. “I’ll come back to you. I always will. I promise.”

Out of all the ridiculous statements exchanged this night, you think this one takes the cake. Even more unrealistic than him giving up drinking.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” You don’t like the way your words come out when you’re with him, all coated in emotion. He makes you feel things to the point where all those feelings struggle to be contained ‘til they’re spilling out your lips and drowning the both of you in them.

“Okay. I’ll promise not to make promises I can’t keep.” You wonder what he’s outlining on your back with the tip of his index finger. It could be letters, and you try to focus on following his movements, but you can’t. Something about it seems to calm you down, steadies your heartbeat. Makes it feel like you won’t drown from the overwhelming urge to beg Colt to run away with you, that you’ll survive this tidal wave of emotions and live to see the start of a new day.

And then he says something that pulls you under, drowning you, crushes you with the intensity of something indescribable. All you know is that you’re full of this foreign feeling when he tells you, “I promise to come back. Always.”

He can tell you that he’ll try to come back, or that he wants you to forget all about him if he doesn’t make it. Those are more realistic. Those are promises that are easy to keep.

But Colt can never seem to take the easy way in life. He’d rather take the roughest route there is, all the while, he’s fixing the road so that the others who follow have a smoother path to take.

“I’ll come back to you.” He repeats, cradling the back of your head as you try to bury yourself into all the empty spaces of his body.

He catches a glance at the face of his watch; it’s nearly midnight now. He’ll have to head back soon, even though he thinks he could spend the rest of his life with you on top of him, his arms wrapped around you.

He whispers your name, and you barely stir, but you let out a little hum to let him know you’re listening.

“Do you want to know how to send me letters while I’m away? Just in case you ever need to reach me for anything, or just in case you want to hear from me?” He sounds almost afraid, like he thinks your answer is going to be a rejection.

“Of course I want to! I didn’t know we could send letters to soldiers.” You actually sound excited, but then you pause. “Oh, you should let me know if there’s a limit to how many letters I can send. I don’t want you to get sick of seeing my name in the post. And, you’ll be busy, obviously, so I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

You’re used to your gentle, soft soldier. Colt, who always ends his sentences with a chuckle or a good natured jibe (usually self deprecating). This is one of the first times you’ve ever heard him sound so serious. The gentle ministrations of his finger tracing letters and shapes against your spine don’t cease, but his voice is hard. Full of conviction. It leaves no room for your insecurities to rent out.

“You’re never a bother to me. Write to me as much as you would like. I always want to hear from you.”

It’s the truth. Always honest, always open, Colt is telling you the truth.

(He loses count of how many times he’s traced stars across your back, and in shaky, anxious letters — fearful that you’ll figure it out — I love you.)

In 852, roughly four thousand Eldian soldiers and twenty-two Marleyan officers are sent to capture and restore Marleyan order in Fort Helena. Only nine hundred Eldians and twenty Marleyans will come home.

The train ride to Fort Helena is a rowdy one.

The train rides to all deployments usually are.

Even if they want to believe (desperately) that they’ll come back, Eldian boys are raised to be practical. Despite their wishes for it to not be important, they all found themselves getting their affairs in order. Telling their families that they love them, what to do when they’re gone, how they want to be buried, where to spread their ashes. It’s hard to have a reunion with your family and reminisce on the good old days when they know that there’s a chance they’re about to become just another memory to share.

But thinking about that would put a damper on things. They’re already on a speeding train to death and demise; there’s no point in acting like it. They’re not sure for who, most for most of them, this may be the last time they get to create cheerful, happy memories. Something to keep them warm when the rain is pouring on their battered bodies, hailstorms of bullets flying overhead, the thunderous booms of cannonfire.

Someone is singing a song from their childhood; joyful chants butchering the melody and swapping the innocent lines for something dirty are filling the train, and nearly every compartment can hear the anthem, regardless of whether anyone in said compartment is singing or not. A bunch of soldiers managed to sneak in some liquor; half-full bottles of whiskey from their family’s liquor cabinets, cheap bottles of beer from bartenders pitying the deployed soldiers, homemade moonshine.

They’re not allowed to bring too many personal items with them on deployment. As the officers like to remind them, this ain’t a vacation, ladies, so pack light and pack sharp. The alcohol should be fine; Colt knows that the officers are indulging in their own (the only difference being that theirs is top shelf). Some have snuck in baked goods from their mothers and sisters; photographs tucked away in jackets and pockets; handkerchiefs from girlfriends. Colt has a knitted blanket from his mother. It takes up more space in his pack than the thin military issued ones, the ones created in a lab and supposedly designed to retain body heat.

While it’s Colt’s first time being the first group of soldiers on a deployment — meaning he’s the first to be on the frontlines — this is Michael’s first time ever being deployed. Colt wonders what type of soldier he is. You can tell a lot by a person based on what personal item they choose to bring with them.

The flash of a light hits Colt right in the face.

“Aren’t you just a handsome fella?” Michael has a large grin on his face as he yanks out the rapidly developing photo from his camera.

An instant camera. Michael brought an instant camera to the deployment.

Most Eldians have only seen large, bulky cameras, and getting your photo taken was a big deal. It’s a pain to find time (or money) to get it developed, and most Eldian families can’t afford a personal camera. The instant camera is a shiny, brand-new technological feat, and expensive. Of course Lieutenant Sells would be the only one able to afford one — able to afford to bring it to an active warzone, too.

He’s been going around, snapping photos of all the soldiers, even the Eldians. He’s not in the compartment designated for Marleyan officers only. He’s been roaming around, jumping from compartment to compartment, ignoring how every Eldian who doesn’t know him is on edge until he’s goading them to take a photo.

Before they had gotten on the train, Michael made Colt pose for a picture with him. The only person nearby and readily available to take it for them was a displeased Porco who begrudgingly agreed but was frowning the whole time. Colt was sure Porco nearly burst a vein from annoyance when Michael requested he take two pictures; a copy for him, and a copy for Colt.

Michael seems as cheerful as ever despite the fact that he’s being sent off to war. Perhaps it’s his good spirits and the fact that he interrupted Porco’s farewell to Colt that had Porco on edge. Truthfully, Colt’s glad for Michael’s interruption; the conversation they were sharing had reached very serious, very deep territory.

“You seeing me off?” Colt tries to tease Porco, but he doesn’t smile back. He’s got his hands shoved his pockets, army green bomber thrown over his clothes.

“Why wouldn’t I? This is the first time you’re being deployed without me.”

“I know. I grow up so fast, don’t I?”

“You don’t need to joke around with me, dickhead. You can tell me you’re scared.” Porco’s not looking him in the eyes; he’s staring at the space above them. Colt wonders if he’s staring at his now-visible scars.

“Well, it doesn’t matter if I’m scared or not. It won’t change the fact that I’m about to be sent off.”

“Just don’t be stupid out there, got it, Grice?”

“Gee, is this your idea of a proper farewell? It’s not my first time going to the battlefield, Galliard.”

“Listen, things are different with this deployment. You’ll be the first person they think to send out in enemy territory. Zeke has a bad feeling about this assignment, and I do, too.” Porco is finally looking him in the eyes. “And I know you. You’re the type of idiot to take a bullet for someone, enemy or not.”

Porco isn’t a cold-blooded killer. He’s the type of soldier who learned to develop the mentality that when it comes down to his life or an enemy’s, he must do everything in his power to ensure that he’s the one who will be returning home — preferably in one piece as opposed to being shipped back in a box, a broken body for his mother to bury.

“You need to finish the job. Ghosts haunt you in your memories, but a soldier with a vendetta against you can haunt you in real time.” Porco claps Colt on the shoulder, and they’re looking into each other’s eyes. There’s no malice evident in the hazel color of Porco’s eyes, but there is worry. Genuine worry.

Colt is nearly frozen in place at the fact that Porco would be affected deeply if he didn’t make it back. Another person he has to promise to come back to.

“Do what it takes to get back home.” Porco tells him. “Don’t worry about anything else.”

Colt is the type of guy who could be actively getting shot at, but he’d still find the time to be more concerned about the lives of other people. His parents, Falco, you.

Trying to lighten the mood, Colt swallows and lets out an awkward, breathy laugh. “Well, if I wasn’t scared then, now I sure as hell am.” Knowing Porco’s status as the Jaw, Colt asks his comrade, his friend, for a favor. “Just don’t let Falco know I was scared, okay? Tell him his big brother had it all under control.”

Porco scowls. “Tell him that yourself. When you come back.” And then, looking like he’s about to say something else, Michael comes around the corner to brush Porco’s hand off of Colt’s shoulder so he can swing his arm around Colt.

Porco’s scowl only deepens as Michael waves his camera in his face. “Hey, Galliard, mind snapping a quick pic of me and Colt?”

The photos Porco takes of them have found their respective homes; Colt’s copy rests in his jacket pocket, and Michael’s will also be carried in his pocket, too. Right now, though, his copy is turned on the blank side, residing on the traincar’s table, and Michael’s got a pen out, scribbling something on the back.

Colt leans over to see what he’s writing down on it. Probably something stupid and embarrassing. Michael doesn’t show it off like Colt expects him to; instead, he tries to discreetly slip it into his jacket, turning it over to its proper side, where the image of Colt and Michael standing side by side, Michael’s arm slung over his shoulder, can be seen.

But Colt catches a glimpse of Michael’s surprisingly neat handwriting.

Colt Grice & Michael Sells — brothers in arms

“The ladies are gonna loooove this.” Michael shows Colt the photo he’s just taken of him. Colt is staring out the train window, looking to be deep in thought. He’s glad that Michael didn’t catch him when he was staring stupidly at the flash, mouth open in shock. The only person who would loooove that would be Michael, because it’d be a new addition to his blackmail folder, probably.

There’s only one lady that Colt cares about whether she loves this image of him or not. He left instructions to you on how to send him mail while he’s deployed, and it’s not like it’s just letters he’s allowed to send.

“Can I have it, please?” Colt finds himself asking, realizing that he really doesn't look half-bad in the photograph.

Michael pretends to sigh. “I was really hoping to be able to hang onto this photo. Cuddle with it when the nights get cold, and I need a comforting presence. That, and I was gonna sell it off to one of the many lovely nurses back on our home base who are dying for a chance with you.” He gives him a cheeky grin before sliding it over to Colt. “Whatcha gonna do with the picture?”

“I’m sending it to someone.” Colt goes back to staring out the train window as Michael slides into the seat opposite of his.

“Oh? Is it a girl?” Michael wiggles his eyebrows mischievously, which makes Colt instantly regret looking at him.

He doesn’t answer, but the tips of his ears turning pink gives Michael all he needs to know.

“So it is a girl!” Michael leans forward excitedly. “Tell me everything about her. Is she a stick in the mud like you are?”

“She’s not a stick in the mud.” Colt makes a face. “Stop being so nosy. It’s not a good look, Michael.”

He pretends to have been shot, clutching his heart and making exaggerated, wounded noises. “Ah, you’re breaking my heart, Colt! Oh, it hurts so bad to be insulted by you. Please, make the pain go away. I’m in agony!”

Michael’s antics make the corners of Colt’s mouth turn upwards. “You know, you’re the reason why I met her.”

“Oh?” He immediately stops his dramatics. “How’d you meet a girl that I know? No offense, but we don’t necessarily live in the same neigh— Wait a minute!” Michael gapes at him. “Willa found you a girl who showed you a good time!”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Colt mutters, almost regretting letting Michael know about you.

“You dirty dog! And here I was, sitting and thinking that you’re the most gentlemanly out of all of us.” Michael is smiling. “So, what’s her name? What’s she like? Don’t tell me any of the sordid details of what you two get up to, though. It’ll give me nightmares.”

“Shut up, Michael. I told you it’s not like that.” Colt is blushing, but there’s something nice about being able to talk about you in public. He doesn’t want you to be a secret, to be the girl who he sneaks out to hold in his arms in a windowless room. He carries your name in the interior breast pocket of his uniform jacket, close to his heart. Ignoring Michael’s initial question, Colt smiles as he tells him, “She’s everything.”

Michael lets out a whistle that gets drowned out by the train’s own whistle. The brakes squeal and when the train comes to a full stop, the boys’ bodies are lurched forward.

Colt looks out the window and sees nothing but rolling hills; save for the mutters fluttering throughout the compartments, it’s completely silent.

They have reached their destination.

author's note: remember when the synopsis said that his life is about to get a hell of a lot worse? chapter three, part 2 is when we go full throttle into the war arc <3 but dw!!! reader's life ALSO gets worse too!!!! equality!

#colt grice x reader #colt grice x you #aot x reader #snk x reader #one shot #fluff #angst #smut #series: daylight #attack on titan #colt grice

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