*Memories* (P1)
A/N:
Hi everyone 👋
I'm late because I have to take care of my grandma, so yeah here it is
Enjoy 😘
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Erwin drives an elderly pickup truck, battered and with bulbous headlights, one that was probably new sometime before Reiner or Galliard were born. It looks like it used to be dark green, but sun and the years have faded it to a pale sage color. But it’s not rusty at all, and the engine starts immediately and purrs throatily as Erwin guides them out of the airport’s crowded parking lot. The pickup is so old that it doesn’t have a second row of seats, and Galliard sits in the middle, giving Reiner shotgun and keeping his knees turned towards him, so his uncle can work the truck’s manual transmission.
Something jingles in the truck’s bed as they hit the road, and Reiner glances over his shoulder. There’s a large, equally battered toolbox riding in the truck’s bed, and Reiner’s heart jobs unexpectedly when he sees a pair of fishing poles back there. He wonders if Erwin ever took Galliard and Marcel fishing when they were boys, and if there are any stories about the one that got away that they share, or maybe a mounted fish on Erwin’s wall.
“Do you like fishing, Reiner?”
Reiner jolts back to himself, and shakes his head at Erwin’s question. “I’ve never been.”
“You haven’t?” Erwin’s surprise is palpable. “How long are you staying? The bass are running and…”
“We’re not here to fish,” Galliard interrupts, and his arms tighten around Reiner’s bag, cradled on his lap. “We’re here to bury Sarge and then we’re gone.”
Erwin is silent, and Reiner watches Galliard out of the corner of his eye. He’s staring straight ahead, his jaw set and rigid, his brows drawn down. Whatever warm feelings he’d had in the airport have fled, and Galliard has wrapped himself in anger and aggression again. Their tickets back to Trost don’t leave for another four days, and Reiner wonders if they’re going to make it, or if Galliard is going to insist they go home earlier.
They drive for a few miles in awkward tension, and Reiner spends his time looking out the window. They drive past the usual sprawl around the airport, but Reiner is used to that sprawl lasting for miles and miles, the airport almost becoming a city in and of itself. Here, the sprawl is over in minutes, consisting of some motels, some car rentals places, and a few fast food restaurants, some of which Reiner doesn’t even recognize. Then they’re on a highway, and even that’s smaller than Reiner expected—two lanes in each direction, with a divided median and trees planted between—and nothing but fields and trees on either side. In Trost, you’d have to drive for hours before getting this far out into the country; in Liberio, it took Erwin all of ten minutes after leaving the airport. The trees close in on either side of the road, taller and ganglier than any he’s seen in Trost, and Reiner wonders where they’re going.
As if reading Reiner’s mind, Erwin speaks up again. “It’s about a forty minute drive. If you’re hungry or anything, there’s a rest stop in about ten minutes.”
Reiner almost says no, then changes his mind. Even with the truck’s air conditioning chugging gamely along, they’re cramped in the cabin, and he’s not used to this kind of sticky, close heat. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all.” Reiner can hear the smile in Erwin’s voice, and damn if he isn’t already enchanted by him. “It’s why I asked.”
Galliard rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything.
The rest area has vending machines, and Reiner stocks up on bottled water as Erwin heads into the men’s room. Galliard stays in the truck, and nods when Reiner returns and hands him a bottle of water. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Reiner climbs back in and closes the door, rebuckling his seatbelt. “Your uncle seems nice.”
He expects Galliard to snap at him, or say something cutting, but he doesn’t. He sighs instead, and hugs Reiner’s bag to his chest. “I know. He is. Uncle Erwin is… he’s great.”
Not the direction Reiner thought this was going to go, and he knows he has to tread lightly here. “Did you spend a lot of time with him when you were a kid?”
Galliard nods. “Yeah. Marcel and I both.” He glances at Reiner out of the corner of his eye. “More time than we spent at home.”
“Why?”
Galliard just shakes his head, and a few moments later, the driver’s side door opens and Erwin hops back inside the truck with the ease of man years younger.
“Got us some provisions at the vending machine.” He hands Reiner a Snickers bar, which Reiner accepts in exchange for one of his bottles of water, and then offers Galliard a bar Reiner doesn’t recognize. “Look what they had in the machine, Porkchop.”
Reiner expects bristling at the nickname again, but Galliard is full of surprises today; he turns the bar over in his hands, looking down at the brightly colored wrapper, and Reiner catches a glimpse of the name. It’s something called a Goo Goo Cluster, and he wonders what it tastes like.
“Thanks, Uncle Erwin.” Galliard’s voice is soft, wrought with some emotion Reiner can’t understand or decipher, but Erwin pats Galliard’s knee before starting the truck up again, and once they’re on the highway, Galliard leans against Reiner’s shoulder.
He tucks the Goo Goo Cluster into a pocket of Reiner’s bag instead of eating it, and swipes part of Reiner’s Snicker bar instead.
They drive the rest of the way in silence, but it’s companionable, and by the time Erwin pulls off the highway and onto a bumpy dirt road, Galliard is dozing on Reiner’s shoulder.
“I hope you’re not expecting too much.” Erwin’s voice is pitched low; he knows Galliard is snoozing and doesn’t want to wake him up, Reiner realizes, which just makes his esteem for the man rise higher. “I don’t know how much Pok told you about his upbringing, but he sure doesn’t come from money.”
Reiner smiles, glancing down at the top of Galliard’s head, all he can see due to how Galliard is sleeping on him. Pok… will today’s wonders never cease? That’s just as cute but less childish than Porkchop, and he wonders if Galliard would let himself be called that by Reiner. “It’s fine, sir. I don’t come from money either.”
Erwin makes a soft humming noise in his throat, whether in agreement or denial Reiner can’t tell, and the truck rounds a corner. The trees fall away into a natural clearing, and Erwin takes his foot off the gas, letting the truck slow down and coast towards a well-worn parking spot under a tree’s shady branches. “There it is. The old homestead.”
Erwin wasn’t kidding; it’s not much. The house is small and tucked back under another tree with draping branches; the main section looks like it was once a trailer, but then had bits and pieces added on over the years, giving it a hodgepodge, scattered appearance. It’s well-kept, though, and Reiner notices the cheerful little flowerbeds in front of it, in full, lusty bloom. There’s another structure behind the house, equally ramshackle and handmade, that must be a barn, and Reiner’s interest is piqued; what exactly is Erwin’s job, anyway? And who lives out here with him?
With the truck safely parked and turned off, Erwin reaches over and gently shakes Galliard’s shoulder. “Wake up, son. You’re home.”
Galliard snorts and turns his face into Reiner’s shoulder, and even though he’s sleeping and the gesture is clearly unconscious, Reiner can’t help but be delighted. Erwin just smiles and shakes his head. “You want to try?”
“He’s had a really tough week.” Reiner moves his shoulder, rolling it under Galliard’s cheek, and Galliard makes some sounds that are almost words before sitting up and blinking blearily.
“We there?”
“We are.” Erwin opens his truck door and steps out, and heat billows into the cab.
Galliard looks at Reiner, still half-asleep, before he reaches across him and opens the door. “Go on, get out.”
Reiner does, the dust from the yard boiling over his shoes, which he realizes now are way too fancy for Liberio, and waits for Galliard to climb out. He offers a hand to take his bag as Galliard does, but he shakes his head and tucks it up under one arm.
Erwin strolls around the truck and gestures to the house. “Go on in. Everything’s where it always was.”
Reiner thinks that sounds amazing, but Galliard balks at it, taking a step back until he collides with Reiner’s chest. “Everything?” he asks, his voice pitched high, sounding almost frightened.
Reiner glances at Erwin for help, even as he lays a hand on Galliard’s waist, and Erwin’s eyes are dark and sad under the brim of his hat. Still, his voice is impossibly gentle as he lays a hand on Galliard’s arm. “Just like you remember, son.”
Galliard closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, leaning on Reiner’s chest for just a moment. Then he opens his eyes, squares his shoulders, and strides towards the house without looking back.
~*~
Erwin’s walls are a museum, and the topic is Galliard and Marcel. The inside of the house is a little small, but it’s cozy, not cramped, and every inch of wall space is taken up with a carefully framed and mounted picture, a veritable history of Galliard’s childhood. And almost every picture is Galliard and Marcel together, frequently with Sarge once they hit a certain age. Reiner, an only child—and frequently a lonely child, often excluded from games for a difference he wouldn’t understand until much later in life—can’t even fathom growing up with an innate best friend, a constant companion, like that, and he wants to spend hours examining each and every picture like the treasured relics they are.
Galliard keeps his head down and his eyes on the floor. He clearly knew about the photo onslaught that was awaiting him, and is trying to avoid it. What looks to Reiner like a fascinating stroll is probably hitting Galliard with his brother’s and now his dog’s death all over again, and Reiner takes a step towards him.
Erwin beats him to it, sliding past Reiner and putting an arm around Galliard’s tightly hunched shoulders. “Hey now, Pok,” he says, his voice low and warm and filled with such simple, naked affection that Reiner’s heart aches for the father he never had. He knows Galliard needs this, and he deserves it, but dammit, Reiner wishes he had someone like Erwin in his life. “You going to be rushing through the house like this the whole time?”
Galliard shakes his head, but doesn’t lift it.
“Is this why you never wanted to come home?”
No response at all this time, and Reiner suddenly feels like he’s intruding. This is something that’s between Galliard and his family, and he has no place in this ancient history. He retreats a step, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot, and Erwin glances over his shoulder at him.
“You’ll be staying up the stairs and on the second door on the right. Why don’t you take the bags up there and get settled?” Very gently, Erwin takes hold of Reiner’s bag and tugs on it, and after a moment, Galliard releases it to his uncle. Reiner reaches out and takes it, the leather still warm from the heat of Galliard’s body.
Erwin turns back to Galliard, and Reiner retreats up the stairs.
Even the stairwell has pictures on it, and Reiner pauses to examine a few of them. He finds one of a much younger Erwin, his face not as lined as it is now but his eyes just as bright, with a dark-haired toddler on one hip and a tiny scrap of a baby cradled in his other arm. The baby has a shock of bright red hair that’s sticking straight up, and Reiner smiles. Another picture has two little boys in a long, low-slung boat, grinning at the camera and holding up fish. Galliard’s skin in the picture had been darkened by the sun, his hair bleached almost blond, and Marcel’s smile shows off some missing teeth. Still another picture shows them at a later stage of life, perhaps early high school: they’re wearing baseball uniforms—the Beasts, Reiner notes—with Galliard wearing a catcher’s gear and Marcel holding up a baseball to demonstrate his grip on it. Reiner knew that Galliard had been a catcher—he’d told him that himself, when they’d gone to a baseball game, and Galliard had spent the whole time bellowing cheerfully at the catcher—but now Reiner wonders what position Marcel played, and if he’d been the pitcher. There’d be a certain unity to that that Reiner could appreciate, the Galliard brothers working together to strike other players out, hardly needing signals or hand gestures to know what kind of ball to throw.
From the living room, Reiner can hear Galliard’s voice, finally answering Erwin, and he walks the rest of the way up the stairs to give them privacy.
More pictures in the cool, shady hallway, but Reiner goes to the room Erwin directed him to and lets himself in. A pair of twin beds with matching coverlets; a window with simple, white curtains; walls painted green but mostly hidden behind old, color-faded posters; an actual taxidermy fish on the wall; a battered dresser with baseball decals plastered on it. It’s clearly the room where Galliard and Marcel stayed when they were visiting Erwin, small but cozy and personalized, and Reiner wonders which bed had been Galliard’s, and if he should take that one or the one that had been Marcel’s. There’s no way to tell, and so he eventually chooses the bed on the left, based purely on how Galliard usually ends up on the right side of the bed on those rare days when he can spend the night at Reiner’s place.
He sets their bags down and stretches out of the bed; it’s too short for him and his feet dangle off the end, and Reiner resigns himself to a few nights of sleeping curled on his side. On the little nightstand next to the bed, there’s a scrap of paper with a Wifi password written on it in a careful, neat hand, and Reiner is grateful for Erwin’s thoughtfulness. He pulls out his phone and connects.
It’s the usual suspects in his inbox: a question from work that could have easily been answered by Google, an ad trying to entice him into a Caribbean vacation, another ad asking if he’s happy with his current banking services. Even as he’s deleting them, Reiner’s phone chirps as a text message from Bertolt arrives.
It’s a picture, a grainy grey and black one, more modern art than actual photo, but even Reiner can pick out the outline of a head, and a little arm extended forward. He grins and taps out a response.
Reiner Braun: looks like you
Bertolt’s response is instantaneous.
Bertolt Hoover: you liar
Bertolt Hoover: she looks like Annie
Bertolt Hoover: she’s way too beautiful to look like me
Reiner Braun: so it’s a girl?
Bertolt Hoover: yes!
Bertolt Hoover: no dick on the ultrasound!!!
Reiner can feel his grin widening. It’s some very good news on what has been a long, grinding week.
Reiner Braun: then may I suggest Reinerina for a name?
Bertolt Hoover: no
Bertolt Hoover: no, you may not
They chat back and forth for awhile—yes, Annie is fine, she’s healthy and active and pregnancy has been easy for her; yes, she’s starting to get that pregnant lady glow, and is showing a little bit; yes, the flight was fine, Reiner got to Liberio without any problems; no, Galliard is still having trouble talking about Sarge and what happened.
Bertolt Hoover: is his family okay?
Reiner Braun: I’ve only met his uncle
Reiner Braun: and he’s pretty great?
Reiner Braun: at least he seems that way
Bertolt Hoover: huh
Bertolt Hoover: he hasn’t talked about why he left at all?
Reiner Braun: no
Reiner Braun: he’s hardly talked at all since it happened
Bertolt Hoover: I’m glad you’re there with him, then
Bertolt Hoover: it sounds like he needs you
“Reiner?”
Reiner startles and nearly drops his phone on his chest. Galliard is standing in the doorway, looking wan and tired, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. He’s practically swaying on his feet, and Reiner gets up, moving over towards him. “Hey.”
Galliard allows Reiner to lead him towards the bed on the right, and Reiner silently congratulates himself on guessing correctly. “Who’re you talking to?”
“Bertolt.” Reiner waits until Galliard is sitting down to continue. “He sent a picture of his baby. Want to see?”
Galliard nods, and Reiner retrieves his phone to show him the ultrasound shot. Galliard examines it, and the faintest smile tickles the corner of his mouth. It’s tiny, barely there, but it’s still almost a smile, and Reiner’s heart lifts to see it. “It looks like a blob.”
“Hey now, that’s my goddaughter you’re insulting!”
That faint little smile again, and Galliard hands Reiner his phone back and lays down. “You’re going to be a godfather?”
“Yeah. Bertolt asked me a few weeks ago.”
Galliard nods, rolling to his stomach and tucking his pillow under his arms, cradling his head in it. His legs are just short enough to fit on the bed, Reiner notices. “You’ll be good at that.”
“You think so?” Reiner lays his hand on Galliard’s back, rubbing in slow, small circles. He hasn’t talked about it much, but the idea of being a godfather is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. “I never really had a dad of my own, so I don’t know.”
“Dads are overrated.” Galliard rolls onto his side, turning to face the wall. “I’m taking a nap. Erwin is out on the back porch, if you want to go have a beer with him.”
And just like that, he’s asleep. Reiner lingers for awhile, just watching the slow rise and fall of Galliard’s side, before he gets up and slips out of the room.
~*~
Reiner takes his time getting out to the back porch, pausing to examine the pictures on the walls more closely. He notices that, besides Erwin, Marcel, and Galliard, there’s another man who appears in some of them. While he’s rarely in a picture with Erwin, he’s in several with the boys, including a particularly cute one of a tiny Galliard, carefully balancing in a pair of men’s boots that go all the way up to his hips, his arms in the air and holding the other man’s hands for balance. Intrigue courses through Reiner; is this other man Erwin’s partner? He shows up in photos the way a wife would, and there’s no evidence of Erwin having a female companion.
Reiner makes his way to the back porch, and Erwin is sitting in a rocking chair there, a battered tin bucket full of ice next to him, cans of Budweiser lodged between the ice cubes. He glances over when he hears Reiner enter, and gestures towards another rocking chair on the other side of the bucket. “Mike won’t be home for a few hours yet and won’t mind you sitting in his chair.”
“Thanks.” Reiner snags a beer out of the bucket and sits down, surprised at how his body conforms to the chair, and how comfortable it is. He pops the top of the sweating can and drinks deep.
Erwin doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, just sits and rocks and watches dusk slowly fall, and Reiner takes his cue from him. The trees are tall and thick around the little house, and the way the light filters through their branches is something he hasn’t seen before; the trees in Trost are too planned, too systematic in their placement, to get this feathery, soft light as the sun sets.
“Long flight?”
Reiner shakes his head. “Not too bad. It’s only a few hours from here to Trost.”
“Pok told me he didn’t care for it.” Even in the slowly settling darkness, Reiner can see the smile on Erwin’s face. “Said he squeezed your arm almost off.”
Reiner chuckles; he can’t believe Galliard admitted that. “It wasn’t that bad. He just got a little nervous at takeoff and landing.”
“Still.” Erwin takes a drink of his own beer. “It was very kind of you to come down here with him. I can’t imagine that Pok had much nice to say about the place.”
“He…” Reiner pauses; this feels like a sensitive topic, one where he needs to tread lightly. “He hasn’t talked much about his past.”
“You don’t have to be shy.” Erwin sets his can aside and fishes in the bucket for another one. “The boy didn’t even tell you his full name, and you’ve been his for how long now?”
“A couple of months.” Reiner likes how Erwin phrases that; Reiner has been Galliard’s, and maybe didn’t even realize it, almost since they met. “I don’t think anyone else back in Trost knows it at all.”
“He never did like Porco.” Erwin shrugs. “Can’t say that I blame him. His brother got the easy, normal name and then the boy’s father saddles Pok with what he did. Imagine I’d go by Galliard too.”
“Are we going to go see Galliard’s parents?”
Erwin is taking a sip of beer when Reiner asks that, and the question makes him cough. “I don’t believe so. Not unless Pok wants it, and I don’t think he will.”
He turns in his chair then, pinning Reiner under his gaze, and Reiner feels stripped, like Erwin is flaying away all his skin to see what’s underneath, to see what his intentions are. “Has Pok ever told you why he was in Trost?”
Reiner shakes his head. “No. He’s never mentioned it.”
Erwin watches him a moment more, then nods and looks back out at the trees, and Reiner breathes an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. “I’m not going to tell you that story; it’s not mine to tell, and when Pok wants you to know, he’ll tell you himself. What you do need to know is this: don’t ask Pok about his parents, or why he doesn’t speak to them anymore. When he’s ready to tell you, he will.”
“I wasn’t going to.” Reiner lifts his can to his lips, and is surprised to find it empty. “Galliard is… very private.”
Erwin chuckles at that. “That he is. That boy is full of secrets, and what he doesn’t realize is how his face reveals every single one of them.”
They sit in companionable silence for awhile after that, watching dusk come on, and Reiner is amazed when fireflies come out. He’s seen them in movies and read about them in books, but it’s the first time he’s seen them in real life.
Erwin sighs, and gets out of his chair. “It’s about time to start making dinner. You don’t have any dietary restrictions I should know about, do you?”
“No, sir.”
Erwin claps Reiner on the shoulder as he passes. “Good man. Why don’t you go wake up Pok and bring him down? If I know that boy, he’ll be half-starved by now.”
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