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There was stained on his sleeve.
It was turning black against the dark-brown fabric and Rivaille couldn’t take his eyes away from it. Such things, of all things, considering he was standing in the midst of dissipating Titans leftovers, it bothered him; the stained on Erwin left sleeve.
Think about the dead comrades, think about getting out of there where the stench of burning flesh viciously melding onto his clothes, his hair, his fucking pores, think about anything else, Rivaille told himself— think about changing his soiled bed sheet because it was too hot the night before and he was sleeping bathing in sweat, think about something.
But bastard with the spot of blood on his sleeve turned to him with a smile, a fucking shitty smile and patted Rivaille lightly on the shoulder and Rivaille just—
“Good job, not according to plan but, fewer casualties than expected.”
“Yes, right,” Rivaille countered. “Also, dead things tend to mess up plans.”
Erwin smiled and ruffled his hair.
Rivaille just wanted to wipe the smile off from his face.
-
Sometimes Rivaille wished Erwin would stop being touchy-feely with him. Sometimes he caught himself leaning towards those touch.
During those awkward moments, he blamed Erwin for his inability to pull away.
-
The thing was despite of his height, Rivaille was not a child. He was no longer a child even when he was ten. He was only nine when he started living off the street. It was completely redundant, it was not enough, what was— if only Erwin would stop treating him like a God damn child, he thought bitterly scrubbing the window frame with his strength, three steps away from Erwin office.
Three damn steps away, he could’ve marched inside and demanded and what he would demand he hadn’t even figure it out yet, but anything Erwin could offer, would offer, and it didn’t have to be anything to do with emotional horseshit, God forbid, Rivaille just wanted what he could get. And Rivaille never asked for much, not in his lifetime.
It was ridiculous Rivaille concluded, this eagerness, these terrifying new feelings, this nonsensical thing in his head he had been dwelling on lately and it all came back to Erwin.
Fucking Erwin with his fucking shitty smile, whom still treated Rivaille as if he was a fucking child.
Which Rivaille was definitely a fucking not.
And it would be so fucking easy. Rivaille could, really, march inside the room except he wouldn’t. Instead, he took three steps away from the door and started scrubbing on another window frame.
-
It was two in the morning.
Rivaille told himself this was just a phase. He would grow out of it, given time.
It was not an unfamiliar thought.
-
Outside, people were yelling for some inane reason. It was humid and Rivaille was stuck inside the office in his full uniform writing reports. Shit had gone bad the last time they went outside the wall.
“You are angry these days.”
“No?”
“Don’t get me wrong, you’re always angry but lately you’re a lot angrier,” Erwin said, staring down at him. “What happened?”
“Life happened.”
“Talk to me.”
“We’re talking right now.”
“Not like that.”
“Erwin—”
“Yes?”
“I need to finish these damn reports.”
There was a shred of disappointment he felt when Erwin walked out and closed the door quietly behind him.
-
Over lukewarm coffee, Hanji offered an advice as if she knew anything at all. Talk to Erwin, she had said, but Rivaille had done talking and did not feel the need to do so. Talking could be unrewarding at times— words complicated things, complicated him.
“You’d look less constipated if you do,” she continued offhandedly, “I know this kind of stuff. He wants you, obviously, he wants to devour you, to have your flesh between his teeth and—”
“Go die.” He offered back in return, sweetly and sincerely.
-
What Rivaille wanted was something he didn’t not understand, not entirely. It wasn’t infatuation, hell no, of course not, and he cringed and that thought alone. Companionship he supposed, but then maybe not because companionship was only for miserable, lonely people, and for people who didn’t fight the battle with a constant threat of death on daily basis. Perhaps, he thought honestly, he just wanted a fuck. He was not a prude and he was far from denial, really. Rivaille had been watching, he had seen it all— Erwin quiet, eyes sharp, eyebrows furrowed slightly when he was concentrating hard, lips pulled into thin rigid line when he was annoyed, tensed and a little uptight, and God those shitty smiles was just fucking shitty— Rivaille observed and collected it all, bits and pieces into his memory and fuck it, maybe it was a little creepy, and a little sad, Rivaille calculated and rationalized but then that was the problem, he rationalized too much and thought too much to the point it was beyond healthy. Rivaille thought at this rate he could be developing a complex.
What Rivaille wanted was Erwin, simple as that. He wanted to touch and to be touched by Erwin and no one else, no matter how cliché it sounded in his head— because, of all the things, Rivaille was mature enough to desire the feeling of skin against his skin, warm and familiar, and safe— because, never fear Erwin was here— to devoured and to be devoured, to have his flesh between Erwin’s teeth and—
Damn Hanji. Damn you, he cursed out loud.
-
They were in the dining hall and both reached out the last piece of bread. Fingers brushed. Rivaille could feel the tingling sensation on his fingertips and he wasn’t even romanticizing.
Shit had gone from bad to worse it seemed, and God, what had happened to not being infatuated, he wondered and fumed to himself silently, because he could hear it, clear as the day— the loud, annoying thump, thump, thump on his chest.
Perhaps he was getting lamer with age. Aging was such a terrible process after all.
At least he had won the battle of the bread and he chewed it, angrily, and all the while glaring heatedly at Erwin curious face.
-
“Bad day?”
“Bad life.”
“Rivaille—”
“Erwin.”
Erwin frowned.
Rivalle wanted to just grab him by the collar and kiss him fiercely.
He didn't.
Of course he didn’t.
“I’m serious, something has been bothering you lately.”
“Look at me,” Rivaille barred his teeth, “I’m dandy, I’m peachy, I’m fucking sunshine.”
“You’re absolutely not. We need to talk. Seek for me after dinner tonight.” Erwin said, leaving no room for argument.
"Delightful." He muttered, because, shit.
-
Killing Titans was easy. Just a slice of cut on the back of the neck from a specific angle with the right amount of flying.
And Rivaille enjoyed flying. He did it elegently, no less. There was no such thing as fear when he was high and above.
But right then he wasn’t flying, he was walking towards Erwin office, fingers clenched and unclenched and he was sweating profusely; it was tragic because he would probably smell like damp socks later.
The loud, annoying thump, thump, thump on his chest was back.
-
They didn’t talk.
At least not in standard terms of talking.
Erwin, he had begun, his tone had always been slightly disrespectful, deliberately—
and they had went through this similar path of conversation before, it was familiar, with always either one of them leaving the room. But this time nobody had left, instead he found himself being pinned against the table with the wood edge digging quite painfully on his back and Erwin teeth on his jaw, nipping the skin there and hands were everywhere. Rivaille was fucking moaning, definitely not in any standard terms of talking. They didn’t fuck but close to it.
He would make sure they would have another talk later that night.
-