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trillian-anders · 4 years

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amor de mi vida - 1943

pairing: bucky barnes x latinx!reader

warnings: racism, prejudice, fluff, angst

word count: 3800

description: Bucky Barnes is a sweet young Brooklyn boy, just on the cusp of manhood, a hopeless romantic that falls in love with almost every girl he sees. when he sets his eyes on a young girl fresh off the boat from Cuba he finds out how hard love can really be.

for @cake-writes 1940s challenge.

The apartment was quiet. Eerily so. The steady drip from the faucet that Bucky hadn’t gotten around to fixing, the commotion from the street below. All of it muffled behind the walls of your bedroom. Your marital bed with the thick duvet, fingers tracing the empty sheets beside you. The faint smell of his aftershave still on the pillow. You’d stopped crying days ago, but this space for the first time was empty.

Bucky filled the place in this little apartment where your Mother had been before. This was the first time in your life you were truly alone. No one to take care of, no one to wrap yourself around to take comfort. Alone.

But not really.

“We should go to the shore.” Winnie said over breakfast. The Barnes household wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t lonely. But there was an empty spot at the table. “We could go up to the Adirondacks. Rent a cabin?” George hummed in agreement.

“Here,” Suzy, “So what would you like to write?” The small desk crammed in between her bed and Becca’s. Sheets of paper laid out and an envelope already addressed to James Barnes of the 107th. You tugged your bottom lip through your teeth, unsure of what to write.

You’d written him a letter before, very painstakingly, back when you’d first started dating. And you’d written him many letters since he left with the help of Suzy, but they’re all so superficial. You talked about the weather, about a new fabric you’d gotten with his Mother. You told him how Steve had written to you saying he was alright, but you hadn’t seen him since the Stark Expo, but he swore to visit soon.

You told him that you missed him every minute of every day, but you didn’t tell him that you missed him wrapping his arms around your waist and singing love songs softly into your ear. You didn’t tell him that you missed those early morning kisses, sleepy and gentle. You didn’t tell him that you missed how he would playfully tug on your hair or how he would always bring you new flowers. You didn’t say that you missed how he would pluck one from the bouquet and place it behind your ear. You didn’t say that your body longed for his. The fire set in your core that made you long for one more time, just one more before he left.

You couldn’t. Not when Suzy was helping you write the letters.

“Tell him we are going on vacation.” You said. She handed you a pen, and taught you how to spell out the words. Eventually you’ll be able to do it on your own. You’ll tell him then.

“It’s so great.” Becca said from the back seat. “We all get to wear pants and I’ll show you the tree I love to climb, and then we can go swimming in the lake, and then…” Her voice rambled on and on. You sat in the passenger seat, Ginny next to you driving. Winnie and George were just ahead of you, toting Ruth and Suzy. “I wish Bucky was here.” She mumbled, almost to herself. Ginny’s hands noticeably tightened on the wheel.

“Me too.” You agreed, smiling on the now thirteen year old girl. Her face freckled, pimples had broken out on her forehead from her bangs, but it was just family. Winnie pinned them off her forehead for the week, telling her that it would help them go away.

Bucky’s absence was felt, but was somewhat soothed by the little package of letters that had just arrived the day before. One for Winnie, George, Ginny, Ruth, and Suzy. Two for Becca. And ten, ten letters for you.

He’d just finished basic training. They’d given him the letters they had withheld during the weeks before they took him out to Italy. The front lines, Suzy read to you. It made your stomach drop and your hands shake. The war was in Italy right now, the allies trying to take back the country from Nazi control.

In the margins of his letters were hastily scribbled flowers. Some had little poems, a book one soldier kept with him of love poems. One his girl had given him. One letter just had I love you written over and over a border on a letter that explained what he saw out there. The horrors of bombs going off in the middle of stone paved streets. Businesses that would never recover having their windows blown out.

The first death he ever saw happened that first week. He wrote about how the man who died just had a baby girl. They named her Judy.

Your hand rubbed Suzy’s back as she read that part. Her eyes sad, wet with tears for the passion in which Bucky said he couldn’t let this man’s death be in vain.

Winnie read you some letters too. Helping you sound out the words, on the porch of the cabin, the girl’s and their Father hanging up the tire swing, the cobwebs just swept from the house. A glass of wine in front of you as the love of your life’s Mother helped you read about how hard it was for Bucky to fall asleep without you. How the beds were so hard. He slept on the floor for the first time, aside from when one of the girls had nightmares. How he would lay on the floor next to their beds and talk to them until they fell back asleep, not leaving just in case they woke up and he wasn’t there.

“I never knew he did that.” Winnie smiled, “Oh goodness.” She sighed, leaning back in her chair, looking out on her girls and taking a sip of wine. “I never knew he did that.”

He described how beautiful some parts of the city were. Parts where war hasn’t reached. He talked about how they landed on the beaches of Sicily first and worked their way up. There was a small town, just outside of Rome they passed. It was as if nothing happened. The sleepy little town had been untouched by this war. He said he felt guilty walking through it. Like the mud on his boots was going to defile the cobblestones. Like it was bringing the war to disrupt the lives of these people who just wanted to keep on living.

I’m sorry, he kept writing, I’m sorry I had to leave. He said if he wasn’t part of the solution he’d just be part of the problem. The denial that it was happening. And he saw it happening. He talked about a camp they’d found. Ferramonti di Tarsia, he said. They were planning on liberating the camp, but they hadn’t figured out what to do yet. How to proceed.

That was the discussion at dinner.

The war.

Fresh fish that George and Ruth had gone out this morning and caught lay filet on the table, vegetables, roasted potatoes and white wine.

“The government isn’t saying much about it.” Winnie said, the United States government. Everyone knew that there was Jewish prosecution over there, but no one knew it was like this.

It wasn’t long after that newspapers started talking about them. Concentration Camps, POW camps. The real image of what exactly was going on in Europe.

You wrote to him, through Suzy, through Winnie. An attempt at comfort, and attempt to sympathize with the shedding of his innocence as he viewed how hard and cruel the world could truly be.

I don’t understand, he wrote, how someone could do this to another person.

The cruelty in which these people were treated, just for having different beliefs, just being different people, different values, while at the same time being very much the same as everyone else.

It was a somber dinner.

It was on a boat in the middle of the lake that George Barnes taught you to fish.

“I always enjoy getting away.” He said, “Just come out here with one of my girls, nice and quiet.” He had more grays since Bucky left, they were growing thick around his temples and in growing his beard on this vacation it mostly showed salt and pepper. He smiled at you, fixing the fishing rod into the little divot on the side of the boat. The lake was still. Not too far behind you the cabin sat still sleeping.

He seemed a little down lately.

Those private times Bucky had told you about. Those scars from the war. They were a little more open now in the crisp morning air. The fresh air of the mountains that were around you. The wrinkles around his eyes were more noticeable. For the first time since you’ve met George Barnes he’s looked truly old.

“Bucky hated comin’ out here.” He continues, “He’d get bored after the first half hour, wanna go back and sneak some of the bacon off the table while Ma was still cookin’.” Bucky had a habit of doing that. Sneaking bites, little pieces of chicken shredded on a plate, a string bean freshly snapped and crunchy in an empty pot ready to be cooked. A dip of his finger against the side of the bowl in some batter. Cakes, cookies, brownies, the dulce de leche you’d made for a Sunday dinner at his parent’s house got a double dip. First with his pointer, then with his pinky. A long kiss pressed to your cheek and a hum of approval.

“He’ll be okay,” George’s soft blue eyes meet yours, the same eyes that Bucky and Becca both had, “He’ll be just fine.”

It took practice, but the words were coming a little easier.

You could read on your own now, slowly, but still. Privacy helped.

Bucky pressed a daisy in between the pages of his last letter. He’d found it on the side of the road as his campaign shook the last official day of winter from their bones. The temperature is steadily rising. The cold winter nights on a hard cot gave way to summer sweat and he was finally able to sleep. It’s not so bad when you get used to it, he wrote.

He complained about the mud on his boots, how thick it would crust on. The rain had been endless in the spring. He wrote about how sometimes his boots would sink almost to his shins in the muck. How he would have to wait for it to dry before he scraped it off with a pocket knife.

The next letter had a crocus. Purple and pressed, the flower stained the page.

You wrote to him about how you’d seen someone who looked just like Steve on a poster in Manhattan. If Steve was a poster boy for a carved out all american man. They were calling the guy Captain America. They even started making short films. Becca had told you about going to see one with a classmate, she also thinks he kind of looks like Steve. He had sent you a letter, you told Bucky. Steve did. And she assumed he received one as well. He had gone to basic. Someone let him into the military. You hoped they put him behind a desk.

A picture came in the mail.

A picture of Bucky in his uniform. The kind of picture, you thought, and couldn’t help but think, would sit next to his casket.

It was on your mantle now.

“Cómo estás? [How are you?]” The noise startling. You fumbled with the keys in your hand, turning to look at him. Mateo. You hadn’t seen him much, he’d moved onto another girl, someone else to push around quite quickly after you. A guy like him didn’t stay single for very long.

In the early days of your relationship with Bucky you’d run into him in the hall. A bubbly girl wrapped around his arm. Someone young, younger than you, and too naive to see the man they were in love with was trouble. A girl that would get jealous and possessive when another girl looked at their man. You’d been on the receiving end of a glare or two, or five. But he never talked to you after that. Not until right now.

Your hand wrapped around a stack of letters fresh off the front lines.

A dish of leftovers in the fridge waiting to be warmed up and aching feet from walking in your heels up and down the streets of Manhattan under the guise of being Winnie’s maid or servant or however the department store clerks viewed you.

A day of shopping for a few new summer dresses. For the girls, and for you. Your new dress hung in a garment bag over your arm.

Now your heart was racing.

Mateo was close, a little too close for comfort.

“Qué deseas? [What do you want?]” You ask, fisting your keys tightly. The corner of his lips twitch.

“No puedo ver cómo estás? [I can’t see how you are?]” He was trying to act innocently, but you knew he was up to something.

“No,” Your eyes shift behind him to look down the empty hallway, “No puedes. [You can’t.]” You jam the key into the lock, twisting it quickly as he grabbed your arm.

“Relax.” He said, standing too close. Far too close. “Voy a la guerra mañana. [I’m going to war tomorrow.]” His chest almost flush with yours, hand tight around your arm. “Solo estoy buscando algo de consuelo. [I’m just looking for a little comfort.]” You roll your eyes, pushing on his chest to create some distance.

“Estoy casada [I’m married.]” You try once again to push him further from you, heart rate spiking.

“Él no está aquí. [He’s not here],” Mateo grumbles, “El nunca lo sabrá. [He’ll never know.]”

Locks clicked heavily as he yelled from the other side of the door. A white man’s whore. That’s what he called you. The garment bag tossed over the back of the chair Bucky liked to sit in to listen to the radio at night. The pack of letters clutched tightly to your chest as you sunk down to the floor, kicking off your heels. The next day you’d talk to Winnie and George about moving.

They helped you get a house.

Close to theirs, but it was in Bucky’s name. It was a ruse that had been worked out. Just make people think you’re the hired help so they weren’t calling the cops when a strange Hispanic woman was coming and going from a home on their street. The pursed lips and upturned noses didn’t talk to you, and that’s fine. That worked out for you.

The home was beautiful. Bought with your saved wages and Bucky’s military income. The dark hardwood and an eat-in kitchen. It needed a little polish. It was an older house, but the family was happy to help.

You polished the floors with Winnie. The girls helped you paint each room. George fixed the little things that Bucky would have had he been here. The leaky faucet, new knobs on the cabinets, a creaky floorboard or two.

Winnie stood in the doorway of one room. The one closest to the master, a wistful look on her face. “God willing this will be a nursery one day.” She said. And it made your heart ache. Bucky’s side of the bed was especially empty after that.

You wrote to him about the house, but you didn’t mention his Mother’s comment.

You wrote to him about the way the sun filters in through the kitchen window. How the house was much more quiet than the apartment. No loud neighbors arguing at 2 am. No thick scented mixed smell of dinner that took over in the evenings. No banging on the ceiling or floors. So quiet. So lonely.

You told him how you hung the dried peonies in bundles on the entryway in the kitchen. Another bundle near the front door. You could see them as soon as you walked in.

He wrote about how he couldn’t wait to see it. How he couldn’t wait to see you. How his missed you. How he looked at your picture every chance he got.

Italy surrendered to the allies. It was time to move on.

His letters stopped.

And so did you heart.

You sat in the middle of your bedroom floor. The letters in a box you kept under the desk in what would be the study if you ever got it set up. The box was in front of you now. Fingers shaking as you thumb through, rereading the loving words of your husband. Praying to God that he was okay. That maybe they were lost in the mail. That maybe he couldn’t find time to write right now. He was in the thick of the war after all.

It had been a particularly rough week. And that thick bundle of letters that seemed to arrive like clockwork on Thursdays was something you’d been desperately looking forward to. Someone had made a comment.

It wasn’t like you weren’t used to those comments. But it was from a friend of Winnie’s. You had gone to her house with a bundle of fabric, enough for a dress for you and Becca. One you’d promised to let Becca help with. It was there that one of her friend’s had come around for lunch. The two women chatted merrily in the kitchen while Becca was talking animatedly about what Bucky had written to her since the last time you saw her.

Something about the last Dodgers game. She kept him updated about scores and something about Curt Davis. But what rang clear as a bell from the other room, was Winnie’s friend saying, “You shouldn’t let your children get so comfortable with the help.” She then called you something you wouldn’t repeat. Casual. Like talking about the weather. But the worst part about it is that Winnie said nothing.

You realized something then, and you had this argument with yourself more than once. You love Bucky. You love his family. But there was always going to be this little line of distance between you and it all. When Bucky was around he seemed to bridge that gap.

You could imagine if he were here and heard that comment that woman would have met the door, but he wasn’t here. And she didn’t. Because as much as Winnie and George were progressive and believed in equal rights and desegregation, it wasn’t easy to speak out about it. Especially with the people they’ve known their entire life. It’s easier to let people think you’re the help. It’s easier for them.

And you couldn’t help but think they don’t mean it. Times are slowly moving forward and they’re not sure what to do with the change. How forward could they be? How open could they be about it without being exiled from the community they grew up in?

But you had been exiled. You had spoken out about your relationship with Bucky when you’d been confronted about it by some of the girls when you were at the factory still. And you defended him. They thought it fine for him to chase your skirt but once that ring was on your finger it was a whole different ball game. You chose to stand your ground. Dig in your heels, and only two girls and a friend of your Mother’s stuck by you.

It’s hard, but it’s what you have to do. And Winnie didn’t do it.

So here you sat, Bucky’s letters no longer arriving. This wasn’t like when you’d first moved in and had to go pick up your mail at your old apartment building. He wrote the new address on the recent ones. He couldn’t have mixed that up, but maybe? Tears smudged the corners.

You wouldn’t feel relief until letters showed up the week after. The horror of expecting men at your door to tell you that your husband was killed in action was squashed when a pack of letters arrived.

It was Steve on the posters, he wrote. Steve rescued him. He’d been captured, but he was okay. He didn’t go into detail. He didn’t say what happened, but just that he was okay. He apologized for scaring you, the letters you’d written him they’d given to him almost all at once. The last few frantic writings of please answer me.

You didn’t say anything about what happened with Winnie.

But you also didn’t go to the Barnes household for Thanksgiving dinner.

“Doin’ alright in here kid?” George came over with a glass dish. The gentle knock and enter that Dad’s do. You were writing Bucky, his old Spanish-English book tabbed and sat next to you at the kitchen table.

It wasn’t his fault. Nor the girl’s, but you couldn’t help but want to stay away. It sat heavy as a rock on your chest. You knew it wasn’t his fault, and part of you wanted to forgive Winnie. Maybe she was caught off guard, maybe she didn’t know what to say. But you couldn’t help but feel like she could have said anything and it would have been better than what she did. Which was say nothing.

“She’s been crying.” He said, “She knows you don’t want to see her.” George was a stand up guy. He’s the one who had been employing minorities in his shop. He’s stood up against some men that had shattered his front window in the beginning. He threw a bible in their face and called them all heretics. “She didn’t think that Lucille would ever say something like that, and I know that doesn’t make it right, but you know none of us feel that way about you.”

The glass dish had servings of everything from Thanksgiving dinner. A piece of pie wrapped in foil on top.

“I think the two of you should talk, it’s not good for you to be in this house all alone.”

Bucky wrote to you about the Howling Commandos. He sent a picture of him and Steve that sat on the mantle now.

I’ll Be Home for Christmas. It was a new song by Bing Crosby.

He wrote about how he heard it on the radio for the first time right before they left London. It would have been your first Christmas as husband and wife. This Christmas. He mailed home some trinkets he’d been collecting for you. A little eiffel tower. A hair pin he got in Italy. A box of tea and chocolates from the UK. He wrote that maybe the war will be over next year. Maybe next Christmas you’ll be together again and you can celebrate Christmas as a family.

Maybe.

taglist // @corneliabarnes @bookish-shristi @saturnki @jennmurawski13 @geeksareunique @albinotigerpython @cake-writes @iheartsebastianstan @000bananaclip000 @shadowbusiness @sprinkleofbooty @gifsbysimplysonia @vhsbarnes @loseralert @wendaiii @the-soulofdevil @tinmunky @alwaysbenhardysgirl

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #1940s #captain america #latinx!reader #latina!reader #steve rogers #sebastian stan #the winter soldier #the falcon and the winter soldier

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reibertweek · 7 years

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Reibert Gift Exchange Present

My secret Santa gift to Chuchu (@b00kcake). I’m not in town at the moment, but I wanted you to enjoy your gift on time. Please enjoy—Fea (@perfectackeracy)

Liberio, morning.

The sun’s rays make themselves shy between the buildings, barely able to make the mist fall in the street. The alleys were just as lively as the ambient cold: only a few sounds could be heard. While merchants were opening their stores quietly, others were staying inside their homes for the rest of dawn. They would get up to work while their Marlean fellows were profiting off their day.

Such is the life of a day off in Liberio.

The same thing applied for the military personnel. While the most cherished of them all, the warriors of Marley, had a privileged status, they were still devils at their roots. No devil needed a rest. Unless it’s for morning groceries.

That’s how cadet Reiner Braun spent his early morning before heading to the headquarters. As mornings were cold in this season, he headed to the marketplace, wearing a scarf and a cap, holding his basket and keeping pocket money safe, when the stands were barely set up. He’s gotten familiar with the merchants and never failed to get the fresher ingredients—that held the advantage of being rewarded with his mother’s delicious meals. As he was going back home, he encountered another boy, carrying a package from the drug store.

That boy was none other than Bertolt Hoover, his fellow warrior candidate, with a kind heart and tender eyes. Both boys were surprised to see each other that early in the morning.

“Ah- Bertolt? What are you doing here this early?” Reiner began.

“A- Ah… Just picking something from the drug store.” Bertolt scanned Reiner quickly.

He looked so different with his winter attire and stuffy nose. Combined with the basket filled with bags, leeks and potatoes in full evidence, he could’ve been mistaken for a random citizen minding his business. Of course, with the armband indicating their affiliation....

“You… went to the marketplace?”

“Ah, yeah! Just picking stuff for my mom.”

Curious, Reiner inquired, “What’s inside that bag?”

“Medicine. It’s for my father. Winter is coming close and…”

He does not finish his sentence. His father was chronically ill and the winter showing up means his health was at risk. It was up to the son to fetch some medicine that would allow him to see another year. The silence was quickly becoming unbearable.

“Why don’t we walk back to my house together?” Reiner proposed, breaking the ice.

Bertolt was taken by surprise by the proposition,but agreed nonetheless.

They walked side-by-side, on the pavement, while the sun was getting higher and higher in the sky. Eventually, the inhabitants’ roofs could no longer mask the bright disk. The colors already made the street more colorful. Bertolt smiled, admiring the landscape. Not a single cloud was seen in the horizon.

“It looks like this is going to be a good day to train. Despite the cold.” Reiner noticed Bertolt’s smile. “Better give ourselves at 200%, today.”

“Eh? You don’t want to take a day off?” Bertolt replied abruptly, “After all we never… have time for ourselves.”

Reiner side-eyed Bertolt following that remark.

“...Don’t tell me you want to slack off?”

“N-No! That’s not what I meant! We-”

“Do I need to remind you if we slack off, we’re losing our way to become honorary Marleans?”

Bertolt paused, taken by surprise by Reiner’s remark. Reiner was right about how serious the training was. Despite how talented Bertolt was, he felt rather insecure about not getting a titan. Any mistake, and he could sit on the bench.

Yet being postponed for the next thirteen years wasn’t a bad thing. What was so great about ending your life that early? Why wouldn’t they wait for thirteen years more and stare at beautiful mornings like this one? War was scary anyway.

“Besides… Marley will be able to help your dad if you get chosen, right?”, Reiner interrupted Bertolt in his thoughts, trying to remind him why it was important. Bertolt couldn’t deny the benefits becoming a Marlean warrior would grant: privilege, care, honors… maybe it didn’t only have negatives after all.

“You’re right… It’s just that-”

“That what?”

It would’ve been nice if we’ve gotten a day of freedom.

“N-Nothing.”

Bertolt couldn’t usher those words, not even in front of Reiner. Hell, the idea of Eldians thinking about getting a whole day off was inconceivable. Less of all Marley warriors. What they worked for was indeed a dirty job. But in this world, there is not another possibility to ascend in social status, or any other way to prevent your parent from dying an early death.The best way was to be sent as a soldier. Dropping everything off on a whim would be status suicide.

“Hey.” Reiner tapped Bertolt’s shoulder. “Y’know, if we get to accomplish our mission in time and serve our country well… maybe they’ll let us off. Out of the internment zone I mean.” He stared in Bertolt’s deep, dark green eyes for a moment before focusing again on the pavement, slowing down his pace a bit. “...so you can enjoy other frisky mornings like this.”

Bertolt appreciated the thought and slowed down to match Reiner’s pace. That grocery basket was weighing on the shorter boy and he was well-known for being the one with the worst grades. Bertolt let him win in certain areas sometimes, so he wouldn’t feel sad and worthless at the end of the round. The persistence he showed was fascinating, up to the point he would even use his strongest asset to impose his authority over the group.

“D-Do you want me to-”, Bertolt offered to carry Reiner’s basket.

“Ah, uh no. It’s fine, don’t worry.”

Sometimes he wondered what could push Reiner to go onwards. He told him it was for the sake of his family, just like him. But another, deeper reason was lying underneath: he wanted to become a hero, the glorified warrior who will save the world. That’s why he was willing to put his life on the line, willing to sacrifice his life, and possibly a part of himself in the process.

Reiner was truly amazing.

“...I don’t know how you can keep going like that.”

“Eh?”

“You said you were going to give yourself at 200% today? Even under that cold?”

Reiner paused, “Well yeah, I’m just gonna bring mom some groceries and get to training. Besides, it’s chilly today, but bearable. We’ll make it for sure.”

Bertolt pressed the medicine package against his mouth. “I envy you…”

“What did you say?”

“I envy you for having something more important than your life.”

The words came out of Bertolt’s mouth, as he was staring right in the road’s direction. It’s not the first time Bertolt made that kind of mystical and vague comment. Aside from his meek and gentle personality, it gave him a certain charm. Despite the two of them being friends, Reiner couldn’t understand what was going through Bertolt’s head. Starting with him sticking up for him and following him everywhere. How could some warrior prodigy stay alongside the big mouth at the bottom of the group? What did he see in the blonde-haired boy, exactly?

“Well, you wanna help your family just like I wanna do something for mine, so…” Reiner hid his jaw in his muffler. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

In these moments, it wasn’t uncommon for Reiner to feel like a pinch in his heart whenever Bertolt felt depreciative. Despite being the strongest of the group, he was still weak at heart. He couldn’t stand pain, despite growing with a parent constantly suffering. Maybe his mastering weapons allowing for a quick and efficient kill was fitting: his victims wouldn’t even understand what would happen to them the day he enters the battlefield. He’s supposed to become a warrior after all, and yet he lends a shoulder for people like Reiner: weak and underappreciated. It was still amazing, how fast he accepted Reiner.

Maybe he indeed deserved better than that.

“At best, we’ll accomplish this mission together, ok?” Reiner tried to reach his hand.

Yes, maybe he deserved more attention.

“We’ll be together, right?”

Maybe he deserved more acknowledgment.

The air was becoming hotter and heavier all of a sudden. Reiner’s surroundings were getting confusing.

However, he didn’t deserve to be left behind like that.

“Then why did you leave me behind?”

“WAIT-”

The next thing Reiner saw was his hand reaching the ceiling, his vision recovering from the blurry awakening.

Was it a dream, or a nightmare?

Reiner couldn’t remember the exact nature of the dream. Probably a mixture between a memory and his conscience guilting him, even in the most comfortable dream. He used to find respite from it when he was falling asleep, but now, it’s impossible.

Reiner peeked at the window: it was still morning. The first sunshine rays were coloring the sky a bright purple. He didn’t fall asleep for long, probably two or three hours. After his expedition on Paradis, dreams like these unfortunately didn’t last long. That morning also had a cold air. Neither freezing nor daylike-warm.

It’s just like this morning… Yeah, that definitely was a memory.

Reiner was feeling groggy after waking up so brutally. Maybe grabbing a painkiller would be nice before snagging an hour or two. As the new vice-captain of the warriors, his programm is a lot more different than the one he used to have as a kid. More responsibilities, more paperwork… It was dull for sure but it kept his mind busy. It’s not like any activity was stimulating nowadays. Not even the ones he used to do as a kid.

It’s been years now since he returned to Marley. He should be happy he came back in a single piece, as he promised years ago, but a permanent void took place in his heart. Everything he dreamed of was denied from the start, along with the lives of his team members. It was all for naught.

He couldn’t even remember how he ended up back on Marley’s docks. It’s only after the climax of the final battle he took note of his near catatonic state. During the first week break, all Reiner sought was loneliness, just to allow the tears to flow, just to calm down. It was the first time in his heart he experimented something as a permanent heartache. A mixture of grief, yearning and regret. The kind of sensation that would happen when Reiner was seen talking to a friend who wasn’t there anymore, or missing a shoulder to lie on. The trauma was so draining he ended up skipping meals and shutting himself down.

The young warrior kids were around and it was fun babysitting them, but it could never fill the gap left by his friends’ death. Bertolt’s in particular. No matter how Reiner felt, Bertolt’s absence always took a toll on his nerves. Life was getting so hard Reiner was afraid he would forget his pretty face, his large forehead, his prominent nose and most of all, his tender eyes. How gentle they were when they laid on him, as the tall brunette was extending a hand for him, telling him to stand up.

He still had that coat of his. He didn’t know how it ended up in Pieck’s belongings, but it’s the only recent trace left of him. When he couldn’t sleep, he snuggled against the inside of the fabric and breathed the fragrant leather. Imagining it was his missing partner, he whispered apologies while wetting the coat with his warm tears.

Maybe time and solitude helped him understand what Bertolt went through during all these years. What it was like to feel tainted and miserable. Time froze for him. It’s almost like he was reverting to the same loser he’s always been, before he became a warrior. At the very core he was weak and unacknowledged… something only Bertolt could understand. Something that he, alongside other things, should’ve confided instead of handling everything. But now he’s gone.

“I miss your face… and that voice yelling my name, looking for instructions.”

After taking a painkiller, Reiner stared at the horizon from his window. There’s still a couple of minutes before the call. No time to take a short rest. Even today, Bertolt’s absence still pains him. Not so long ago, they used to share a tent. Now… who knows what happened to him. Aside from the current war, no strikes from Paradis were heard yet. What about all these victims? The people he deceived? Surely they were going to make him pay, right?

His life was just like that now. War after war, he risks his life, clinging to that thin thread that keeps him alive. Whether it’s luck, Gabi or her friends. No possibility to move on, or hope for a better tomorrow as his life expectancy is getting shorter everyday.

That’s right… people like him weren’t allowed anything nice. Not after they’ve left not only their friends down, but everybody down. It’s only fitting they would be forgotten and abandoned. They were just that despicable.

Bertolt deserved much better.

Bertolt didn’t deserve to be stuck with such a piece of trash like him.

Bertolt deserved a position of vice-captain, make Marley stand and take care of the kids instead.

Only the sweet liberation death offers could grant him peace. Maybe there’s a chance he can redeem himself there. Confessing so many untold words, embracing the other for comfort, sharing the moments that can make the heart feel at ease, from the softest to the most lustful ones.

But for now, he will carry what’s left of their memories till his dying breath.

“Bertolt… Let’s be together again once this is over.”

#reibert #reibert ss #reiner braun #bertolt hoover #submission

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