Thirteen Years | P. Galliard

17

**Warning: adult themes mentioned and hinted at!! (Let me know if we want a full chapter on it 👀. Definitely won't be part of the plot but it'll be so fun to write.)

I have taken some creative liberties within this, minor details of course, the main story will stay the same.

This is the start of the festival, I wanted to start the dark stuff this chapter but I mayyyy have gone a little (a lot) overboard with the details and a few scenes, not that yall mind.

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Faint music could be heard from your home as your groggy eyes fluttered open. You let out a soft groan as you were met with the sunlight that flooded in, closing your eyes once again. As your eyes slowly adjusted to the bright room, you squinted to take in your surroundings. Porco lay next to you, his hair falling haphazardly in his face, fast asleep still. Soft snores came from the man as his chest rose and fell within a relaxed rhythm. A rare sight, as he usually woke up before you, you smiled softly at the sleeping man. His arm was still partially holding you, as he couldn't find the strength in his sleep to keep his hold.

You couldn't help but notice the lingering smell of smoke and tobacco, still filling the air just enough to greet you like an old friend. Scrunching your brows in confusion, you scanned your room to see what created the faint smell. Your eyes stopped as they met with a box of cigarettes and a lighter placed on the sill of your window. Thinking to yourself, Porco must have gotten up at some point in the night. Although you had grown accustomed to the bad habit he had gained, it surely wasn't your favorite. His clothes that once smelled earthy and clean were now tainted forever with smoke and tobacco, weaving between even the smallest of seams.

The house was quiet apart from the faint tune that still waved through the room, coming from outdoors. Unbeknownst to you, those who had stayed the night prior had taken their leave early. The Titan shifters who were once passed out from the effects of alcohol, seemingly good as gold from their unique ability to heal - aside from Colt. You on the other hand, were not as lucky to possess such abilities. Although not a migraine, the pain that pulsed around your head frustrated you; buzzing around like an insect you couldn't rid yourself of. Annoying you enough that you couldn't go back to sleep, along with the heat that now radiated through your window in rays.

"Good lord," you mumbled to yourself, "how long did we sleep?" The question fell upon a silent room as you sat up slowly with a gentle groan, stretching as you did before rubbing your eyes.

Weight shifted in the bed as the man beside you rolled over towards you with a groan. "Lay back down, dear," his voice was rough from the morning but full of love. "It's too early," he moaned as he tried to put his arm around you, only to find you were actively trying to get out of bed.

A soft chuckle left your lips at his words, "early?" You asked rhetorically, "I'd say it's probably around noon." You teased as your feet met with the cold ground, once fully standing stretching again. "And the festival is today," you said happily, "so there's no way in hell I'm going back to sleep. So get up, Pock."

"Shit-" he grumbled under his breath, "that is today isn't it?" He asked rhetorically before letting out a sigh, "you're lucky I love you, because I really don't want to get up." He groaned again before finally opening his eyes, squinting at the sunlit room before him. He felt his stomach swirl at the remembrance of what today actually was - a declaration; and closed his eyes at the guilty conscience he still had for not telling you what it was really about. He didn't want to get up, didn't want to go to the festival, didn't want to go to the grandiose speech Willy Tybur would give, didn't want you to hear such a declaration that would mean he would leave again, and most certainly didn't want to go back to war.