Disclaimer: I do not own Shingeki no Kyojin. It belongs to Isayama Hajime. I don't own Les Misérables either.
I ship Rivetra but also Rivamika? And I should be working on A Possible Route but nah son.
I don't actually know what Petra's ethnicity is. Like, Petra is a Greek name, but it's also popular in Germany, Croatia, and the US. Not to mention Hungary and the Czech Republic. And Ral isn't even a real last name, apparently. And, as I interchange between writing Levi and Rivaille, let me clear this up: I believe it's a possibility that he's French. So I'll spell it Rivaille here. I know Levi is Hebrew, and that's another headcanon of mine, but here, him being French fits in with the story.
Different languages are in italics. If my French or English is incorrect, please tell me and I'll correct it; neither are my first language.
SPOILERS AHEAD!
Spoilers for episode 21 of the anime!
J'avais Rêvé
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Doux Seigneur,
Que vous ai-je fait,
Pour que plus je tombe,
Et plus vous me laissiez tomber?
J'avais rêvé d'un cœur si grand,
Que le mien y trouve place
Pour un bonheur à partager.
Doux Seigneur,
Que vous ai-je fait?
(Les Misérables, « J'avais rêvé d'une autre vie »)
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Rivaille was a close friend of Death's.
Having been a soldier for the majority of his miserable life – a soldier serving under the Survey Corps branch, no less – it wasn't an unfamiliar concept. He had seen countless of his comrades die, and almost everyone he knew – including himself – had had Death knocking on their door once or twice. It didn't matter how skilled you were; Death could find any and every soldier in their unpredictable world.
Then why, if he was so familiar with Death, wouldn't he accept theirs? Why couldn't he look in the mirror anymore, in fear of seeing something other than the man who had been their leader? Why couldn't he see them in his mind's eye, yet could not bear to look at their photograph anymore?
Or, perhaps the most important question: why were they gone?
Leaning back in his office chair, sipping on bitter, scalding hot coffee – black, no cream, no sugar, because he couldn't stand sweets ever since – and looking out the massive spotless window in his personal office, Rivaille could pretend Death and he were unacquainted. He could stare at the beautiful forest scenery and imagine he lived a peaceful life without walls, without loss, without fear or pain or terror or Titans. He could pretend nothing was wrong at all, and simply live every day in a dream world where he didn't have to wonder if he would be alive by the end of the day. But if he had wanted to lock himself away from reality, he could have joined the Military Police or moved to the interior of Wall Sina, and the Lance Corporal wasn't that much of a coward.
Was he afraid of Death, he wondered? Well, that was a tough question with a complicated answer. It depended on the circumstances, he supposed, as he took a small sip of his bitter coffee. He gave a tired sigh as the distasteful liquid burned his tongue and throat, but he continued to stare out the window with a placid expression. It was only a distraction, one that mercifully avoided the light-headedness alcohol brought.
Glancing around his office with an utterly uninterested expression on his pale, sunken face, he supposed that he would fear Death if it threatened the ones he loved. Yes, that was a sensible answer. Mind, the Lance Corporal didn't allow himself to love many; the life of a soldier was the one he'd chosen. You couldn't give your heart away to just anyone, because they could be dead within the hour; this was an added gift in the package given to every soldier, tucked right in between "You will be in danger of dying every day" and "The food rations will taste like shit."
He snorted and set his cup on the saucer. He should write a report: "The Perks of Being a Soldier..."
He had known perfectly well not to get attached to anyone. Nevertheless, he had ignored that rule, and loved anyway. It had been a stupid move. Perhaps the dumbest thing he'd done, since joining the military in the first place. And yet he didn't regret it in the slightest.
It hadn't been mere puppy love. It hadn't been fake and it hadn't been shallow and, no, it hadn't been unrequited or hopeless; it had been – and here the Corporal shuddered to think that he'd actually use such an unreasonable term – a true love, for lack of better words. It had been sure as the sunrise that would greet him every morning. It was sure as the broken heart he'd undoubtedly gain by the end of it.
He had cared for his entire squad, and loved them all, even Auruo. But this was different. It had been the sort of love that wasn't only platonic or only romantic. It hadn't been lust, or friendship, or familial love. It had been a mixture of all the different types of love ever felt by humanity or any other creature to inhabit the Universe.
It hadn't been love at first sight, though he admitted to only a tiny part of his being that indeed, he had established in his mind that he thought she was beautiful the first time he'd seen her. And the second, and the third, and the hundredth because who'd been counting? And it didn't stop there because she hadn't been just beautiful; she'd been as tempting as the illusion painted on Death's mask, wise as the oldest man and warm-hearted as every mother.
He had frequently thought that she'd been the absolute epitome of all things good; brilliant, beautiful, strong, kind, empathetic, generous, loving, and loved. And not just by him; he'd seen many possible suitors lust after her over the years, men and women alike. Auruo had been one of them. It was hard to ignore his advances towards her, which had formerly irritated him to no end. He found himself missing even them, now.
He allowed himself a brief glance at their photograph that stood, once proudly, now in mourning, at his desk. He memorized each of their familiar smiling faces and felt a pang of nostalgia.
Eld Jinn.
Gunther Schultz.
Auruo Bozado.
Petra Ral.
He missed them. That was all.
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The first time Rivaille had seen her, he was impressed.
Her strawberry-blond locks made her easily distinguishable from the others around her, and it was the first thing he'd seen among a mass of grey-faced soldiers. The draft had brought in perhaps fifty soldiers in total—not that many compared to other years. Less and less signed up for the Survey Corps when they found out exactly how dangerous it was.
Rivaille had taken it upon himself to personally accompany Commander Erwin to pick out potential soldiers for his personal Special Operations Squad. He would take these under his wing and train them personally, which almost all the soldiers were ready to do—however, he needed those of strong mind as well as physical strength, because they would have to be able to work together like clockwork.
And so, when he inquired about her and was informed that she was the third top graduate, and the only one in the top ten to choose the Survey Corps, he was notably impressed—though anybody looking at him would not have guessed. His placid expression, as if carved into his face permanently, gave nothing away. What did give it away was the look in his eyes that was directed at only her. And once their eyes met, he knew he was a goner.
Her eyes were peculiar: amber, though not hard or cold; soft and molten, like caramel, the rare and sweet delicacy he had once tried in Sina. Gold and brown flecks danced around in them as they caught the sunlight, giving them a gem-like appearance, as if her eyes were two delicately-carved drops of amber splattered with precious gold. Her bright hair, reaching her waist and almost ginger, only added to her unique beauty. Her posture was perfect, as every soldier's should be, as was her uniform. A small, natural smile adorned her face, and she gave off a calm and motherly aura.
There was no doubt about it. She'd be on his squad. If she accepted.
He strode over, catching her eye as he did so, and earning the attention of all the soldiers lined up in the row alongside her. Whispers of "Humanity's Strongest," went around and soon the crowd was quietly buzzing with gossip. Rivaille paid them no mind; his eyes were trained only on her.
"Name?" he asked, his voice authoritative and demanding.
He saw her eyes widen slightly as she said, her voice sounding forcibly controlled, "Petra. Petra Ral."
He nodded. "Well, Petra Ral."
A pause. Her delicate eyebrows knit together in confusion and curiosity. "Yes, sir?"
"I want you. In my squad."
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The worst thing about the whole situation was probably that he'd never said goodbye to them.
He wasn't even sure what his last words to them had been; the mission had been a blur, and he only remembered saying something vague about never knowing how each mission was going to end to Jaeger. They hadn't left him on remotely good terms and it broke his heart.
As for him and Petra, he had not even told her how he really felt. Not to her face, anyway. He had, once, but she'd been sleeping at the time. He'd never expressed how happy she made him, or how much pride he felt just in calling her his. For all he knew, she died thinking he didn't love her. He had never been a man of words like Erwin, and the reasons behind his actions were always up for debate. Perhaps...perhaps she thought he never loved her back?
No, she'd known their love was mutual. At least he could pretend she had. That was enough for him. And for some reason it had been enough for her. He knew damn well he wasn't worthy to love her; he'd known it since he'd first met her. Such a rare soul was worth the best this sorry world had to offer. One of warmest heart, kindest words, and most brilliant of minds wouldn't be worthy of her love; she deserved everything good and more. Yet, for some unfathomable reason, she had settled for him.
And she had been happy.
The Corporal could not understand why, for the life of him, she'd been content with a bastard like him. He was, at best, the strongest soldier of humanity; at worst, he was scum of the earth. Usually, people tended to think he was uptight, distant, cold, cruel. He may not be the biggest gossip, but he wasn't ignorant; he knew damn well what people whispered about him behind his back. He just didn't care enough to do anything about it. But Petra was the first who had made him want to change for the better.
And he knew what they had been whispering the last few months: that he was pitiful.
It was true. He'd lost weight and sleep as well as his heart. And he honest to God didn't give two fucks about it all.
The Lance Corporal was not the type of man to whine for what he wanted, like the governors and lords in Sina did when they didn't get their way; but, whenever Hange or Erwin or even Eren came in and asked if he wanted anything, he could only think of his Squad and how he could never see any of them again. How he could never see her again.
He didn't care that she was dead and gone forever. He didn't care. He just wanted her back. All be damned if he couldn't get what he wanted just this once. The world had been cruel enough to him; couldn't he have just one thing precious to him, even if only to say goodbye? Couldn't he hold on to just one dream and not have it torn apart by reality, just one time? Hadn't he done enough to better humanity's chance at a bright future? Hadn't he done enough?
No. Apparently not.
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He often wondered if she harboured feelings for him.
Well, it wouldn't be something he wasn't used to; with his rightful status as Humanity's Strongest Soldier, many had confessed their undying love to him before they had even met the man. Of course, once they had gotten acquainted with his uptight personality and his irritable quirks and, of course, his height, they tended to withdraw their feelings.
Petra was nice to him, unbearably so. Not just at the beginning, when she had first been introduced to his squad. She got along with her comrades – though she often quarrelled with Auruo – and she stayed friendly and cheerful all the damn time, even after months of hard training and terrible conditions. At first he wondered if she liked him; perhaps she was only like this when he was around, to impress him.
He soon realized this was a selfish and not to mention ignorant way of thinking. He heard Hange and Erwin talking about her once, about how nice she was, and what was such a nice girl doing in the military. He couldn't help but agree. Petra was a gentle soul, not suited for the life of a soldier.
He assumed this the first few weeks, and seriously debated kicking her off the squad, only to be proved wrong once again. On her expeditions, she displayed ruthlessness and intent to kill when facing the enemy, and did so effortlessly. She could be terrifying outside the walls; the once-lovely face of such a kind-hearted girl, transformed into a murdering, mechanical monster... He admired her for it, yes, but also feared her, which he would never in his life admit.
One day, she came down for breakfast, but there was something different he couldn't quite place. It wasn't her cheerful expression or her sunny aura, or the way she politely greeted everyone with a breathy, "Good morning!" It wasn't her clothes – which were the standard uniform – and it wasn't in her eyes, either.
"You cut your hair," he suddenly announced, sipping his tea.
Petra turned to him, momentarily shocked, and then pleased that at least someone had noticed the change. She ran her fingers through her strawberry-blond locks, now reaching her shoulders. "Yes, you noticed."
"It's nice."
She blinked and smiled, a bright smile that could light up the darkest of hearts. "Thank you!" she said graciously. She smiled all through breakfast.
It didn't take him long after that to notice the stolen glances they shared in meetings, the butterfly touches, the constant blushing. Never on his part, however; no matter what, he just couldn't be caught blushing just because some ginger-ass soldier and he shared a look. It wasn't just that, though; it was the way she knew exactly how, when, and where he enjoyed his tea; the way she tolerated him when he wanted to go on a cleaning spree and would even help out; the way she and him went so well together when sparring, cleaning, or even just talking. It didn't take him long to realize all this, and when he did, he realized something else: he had fallen hard.
He fell for her smile, and her wits, all the way from the dotting of freckles on the tip of her nose to the way she always put on her right boot first, or the way she absentmindedly ran her hand through her short hair, as if missing the long locks she had once had. He liked her hair however she wore it, loved it even.
He wasn't sure if he loved her; but he was definitely in love with her. He woke up in awe of her every morning, utterly terrified of how she made him feel every day with just one look. He found himself hoping he was wrong, and that she maybe did like him back.
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One especially dreary morning, it was raining, his tea was weak and the Corporal hated everyone in the room.
One new member of the Survey Corps – one of Jaeger's friends, Sally or Sandra or whatever; the Corporal had found she was dubbed Potato Girl and referred to her as such – came downstairs. The Corporal wouldn't have noticed if some bald guy hadn't announced it for all the world to hear, but yes, she had gotten her hair cut.
"You cut your hair?" the bald guy exclaimed.
"You noticed!" Potato Girl replied in the same tone Petra had once used.
"It looks nice," the blond kid, Armin, commented.
"Thank you!"
The Corporal snorted. It didn't look that good. Not as good as her's had, anyway.
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She frequently expressed interest in people's origins. Before Titans and walls and chaos had reigned over their world, there had been countries. In those countries lived people of different nationalities. She only knew this taboo bit of knowledge because her grandfather had owned a library, once, long ago, before he died. Ever since she had found a book with family trees intertwining all sorts of nationalities and people, and languages from all over the world, she had wanted to find out more. Of course, all the books had been burned when the military had gone through her grandfather's library after his passing, and Petra had to pretend she didn't have a clue.
She told Rivaille all this in a hushed but surprisingly emotive voice. Her barely concealed enthusiasm when she described all the different nationalities and languages, to the evident sorrow dripping from her tone when she mentioned the burning of the books, not to mention the tenderness in it when she told him of her grandfather only gave Rivaille more reasons to adore her.
He listened with a face he hopes looked interested, although, he reckoned, he probably looked like he couldn't give less of a shit. Only Petra didn't seem to care. She chattered on and on and he noticed that her eyes seemed to shine whenever she told him something with a particular fondness in her voice. Almost like when that shitty brat talks about slaughtering Titans, he thought with some amusement. Only then did he realize she was looking at him expectantly.
At his confused expression, she understood and repeated her question: "What about you, Corporal?"
"What about me?" he asked. What could she possibly want to know?
"What is your nationality? Not German like Eren, or English like Commander Erwin, I assume."
He shook his head. "No, neither." He looked out at the horizon. "French," he muttered, like it was the worst thing to be in the world.
It was almost laughable how her eyes almost popped out of their sockets. "Really! Do you speak it?"
"I used to," he admitted. It was a half-truth; back when he had lived on the streets as a criminal, he had known many dealers that spoke French. Even before that, when he had known life with his family, his mother, he believed, had spoken to him in it and sung lullabies to him too. He remembered a few of them;Frère Jacques was one he still remembered the words to, but the others slipped his mind. He had, admittedly, sung or at least hummed them to himself. They were perhaps the closest things to good childhood memories he had.
"Could—" Petra visibly hesitated, wondering if she could cross this line. "Could you maybe—"
"Bien sûr que je peux."
Petra blinked. "What did you say?" she asked in wonder, looking thoroughly confused, though also every bit as curious as the cat that cared not for its life.
"I said, 'of course I can.'"
Petra never looked so pleased. With badly contained excitement, she asked him to translate several things. They went on like this for hours. Rivaille didn't think he was able to make someone look so happy with a few French words. He was glad he could.
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The day she'd died, it had taken everything within him not to snap.
He was emotional, but not openly; when he had seen her limp body which had once been warm and strong, he had wanted to break down into tears then and there. But he had known now was not the time or place. Either that, or his brain just couldn't process quick enough that she was gone forever.
No, surely she could not be dead. That was stupid. No, no, absolutely not; she was anything but dead. That was probably the dumbest thing he had ever heard in his life. After all, she was strong; she would never be killed by a mere Titan. She had made fifty-something kills in her short time as a soldier, and ten solo kills. A Titan couldn't kill her. And yet, there she was, her neck snapped back and her face emotionless, masking any pain she had undoubtedly felt when the final blow had hit her and forced her soul from her body. There was blood—so much blood. It was...wrong. It was so wrong. She shouldn't be kneeling in front of this tree, her neck shouldn't be bent like that, her face should hold such an expression, and there shouldn't be so much blood.
No, he decided. He couldn't accept this. Petra Ral deserved so much better than such a fate; this death was not worthy of her. She deserved to die naturally, with loved once around her, at a ripe age after having lived a full life. This...this was wrong. So wrong.
Her eyes should be full of light and life, with those beautiful gold and brown flecks dancing in her pair of amber gems. When he saw her later, he would realize how dumb this was and explain, and then she would laugh good-naturedly at his ignorance. The dimple in her right cheek that would appear when she smiled, along with the crinkle near her eyes, and the light freckles that dotted her skin would all reassure him she was, in fact, alive and well, like she should be. Yes, he would see her later. And one day they would look back on this as if it were some hilarious inside joke, and they would laugh together at it for hours of end because of its sheer stupidity.
But, the more seconds passed, the more it dawned to him that she really was dead. His entire squad was dead. He would never be with them again.
And when he had finally realized this, it all went wrong.
He snapped.
The red that shouldn't be on her was all he saw.
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Every time she was alone with him, she would greet him with a messy, "Bonjour." Her accent was terrible, but he didn't have the heart to tell her; it would be like kicking an excited puppy. Ever since that night, she'd frequently ask him the meanings of certain things out of the blue. He couldn't say he minded.
"What are stars?" she asked him once night, when they were both lying on their backs on a small grassy hill near the Survey Corps Headquarters. It was well after midnight, a few weeks after Petra had first expressed her interest in his origins. Eren did not know much in German other than simple greetings and an impressive variety of cuss words, and Mikasa did not like to talk openly about her Japanese heritage, though she just couldn't deny Petra a word or two. Most people had no clue themselves where their ancestors were from, and just shrugged when Petra inquired about it.
"Hmm?" Rivaille hadn't been listening, admittedly. Who knew stargazing was so calming? After looking after Eren's ass all day, he was glad for a chance to wind down and relax.
"What are stars?" she repeated.
He frowned, and sat up next to her. "How the fuck should I know?"
The ginger-haired woman pouted, though she cracked a smile. "Corporal. You know what I mean."
"Les étoiles."
She smiled, pleased, and turned to gaze up at the sky. After a minute she raised her head and asked, "What about a falling star?"
Rivaille had to think about that. He had never used the term before. Perhaps he had heard it, once, long ago, but he could only guess now. "Err, étoile filante?" he guessed, his tone rising slightly at the end to portray his lack of knowledge on the correct term. "Well?" he asked when Petra did not give her usual nod of content.
"Why do you ask me?" Petra asked incredulously.
He shrugged. "Tch."
After a few minutes, Petra asked in a quiet voice, "What about love?" Her tone was almost timid as she asked it. Usually she would ask what 'chair' or 'broom' was; this was a whole new level.
He hesitated a moment before answering. "Amour," he said finally, his voice softer than what he'd meant it to be.
"And..." She trailed off, leaving only that one word spoken.
That was peculiar. He'd told her this before; she knew this. "Et."
She laughed unexpectedly, though it was a welcome sound; warm and from the heart. "No, that's not what I meant," she explained in between giggles. "I love you."
Rivaille froze; every fibre of his body tensing, as if his body were stuck in time. He dared no release his breath, locked in his lungs, for he feared it would shatter everything and spoil the comfortable air they had built around them. "I love you." Was that why she'd asked what love was? He wouldn't let himself hope, but... Did she really—
"What's that in French? I'd tell my father in a letter; that would be a laugh," she explained.
He did believe that was unnecessary.
"Je t'aime."
"Je...t'aime?" she repeated, turning at him for confirmation. He merely nodded, not wanting to think of his earlier assumptions, trying his best to hide his blush.
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When they had gotten back from the expedition, Rivaille just wanted to crawl in a hole and stay there for a while, not thinking or feeling, just breathing. His leg was injured, he felt sick, and he was sure he was going to shout profanities at the first person who talked to him.
So when Petra's father showed up, he felt like he was going to die.
And when he went on and on about some fucking letter Rivaille wanted to scream and yell and cry.
"...she was going to devote herself to you," her father said. "Well, as her father...I think she's a bit young to marry, no?"
Rivaille stared ahead and stopped dead.
He had to say it sooner or later.
"Mr. Ral."
The man chuckled. "Oh, please, just call me—"
"Your daughter is dead."
By her father's expression, it seemed the number of deaths that day had only increased.
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One morning, early as the sun, when the Corporal met Petra in time for breakfast, she smiled and shamelessly exclaimed, "Bonbon!" He found himself unable to contain his laughter as he explained it was bonjour, not bonbon, and then he explained exactly what she'd said, sighing at what a glutton she was. She pouted and frowned at the comment, though she soon joined in. She was still laughing by the time they'd finished breakfast.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like that.
The next day, when she knocked on his office door, he expected a report on something Jaeger did or an unexpected expedition, but she simply told him, "Je t'aime," just as shamelessly as the day before.
He was ready to laugh again and was about to do so, but something in her expression told him she knew exactly what she was saying.
"Je t'aime, Rivaille."
It was the first time she had used his name. Soon her lips were pulled up to meet his in a kiss that was gentle yet passionate and chaste yet heated and felt absolutely right in every way. The way his hands fit perfectly in hers made him hold her tight and the way one short kiss made him feel so happy made him kiss her again and again.
And for just once, everything was absolutely perfect.
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The day of his squad's funerals, he hadn't wanted to go at all.
He had asked for a private funeral for Eld, Gunther, Auruo and Petra, separate from the other soldiers that had died on the expedition. They got their own plots and carved headstones in the military graveyard – near Rivaille and Erwin's pre-picked plots, near the centre of the cemetery – but their caskets were empty.
This knowledge did nothing to ease Rivaille.
It all went painfully slowly. Speeches were given, letters and flowers and trinkets placed in the coffins before they were nailed shut. People were crying, people he didn't even know. Who the fuck was everyone? Why were there so many people? Why the fuck were they offering him condolences and fucking hugging him?
Petra's mother looked just like her.
It lasted a full day: early morning to early evening. Even when everyone else had left, Rivaille remained on his spot, even when it started raining, because he didn't give a shit.
After all, how could he possibly care anymore?
He didn't prepare a letter or flowers. He didn't have something to say when the speeches had been given. He had something to give, but it was private. So when he was alone in the rain, he dropped to his knees, staring blankly at their graves. He started singing a song he knew had been close to her heart. Not for himself, not for passers-by. For his squad. For her.
He sang even through the tears in his eyes.
"Rivaille. We should leave," Erwin told him when he had finished on a cracked note. Rivaille turned his head. Erwin's hair and suit were soaked. He nodded.
"Damn rain," he said, wiping his eyes.
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One day, when they were cleaning his office, she found all the Wings of Freedom badges in his drawer, ripped from uniforms during failed expeditions. When she asked him why they were there, coated in blood and dirt and grime, he only looked blankly ahead at the window he was cleaning, though he never saw the scenery beyond.
After a long moment of silence, he muttered, "They were my comrades'," and with that he dropped to his knees, unable to be strong at the sudden flood of memories coming back to him, hitting him like a punch aimed directly at his heart. Mercifully, she didn't speak and didn't question any further. She put her cleaning cloth down and kissed his forehead and held him there, on the floor, in a warm embrace until he felt he could breathe again.
She promised he wouldn't ever need to add another to the pile as long as she could protect him. He believed her.
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Sometimes Rivaille would have an epiphany and remember the word in French for something that she'd asked so long ago, but that he didn't have an answer to at the time. He would drop everything and run towards her old room, almost excitedly, until he would stop dead in his tracks and realization, guilt and shame all came crashing onto his form, rendering him unable to breathe or move. He would sombrely saunter back to his room and stay there, in bed, for the remainder of the day, or until the feeling passed.
It never did.
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He had sung to her once.
No, it hadn't been something silly like Frère Jacques. It had been something he didn't know he remembered. It was called "J'avais rêvé d'une autre vie," and it was from a very old book that Petra had snuck him one night. She'd arrived, out of the blue, at his bedroom, in the earliest hours of the morning before the sun had risen. It wasn't to declare her love for him in a language she had only grasped the basics of, or to clean his room with him, but rather to show him a book she had saved from her grandfather's library when they'd been burned all those years ago. She had been able to persuade her father to send it to her in a package, and it had finally arrived.
"Shouldn't you sleep?" he inquired, more than a bit irritated that he had been woken so early. "We have an important expedition tomorrow. That Jaeger brat has to—"
"I know," she assured him, "and I will, but this is important to me."
He couldn't argue with that.
The original cover of the book had been ripped and faded beyond recognition, and only a thin, musty-smelling leather cover prevented the pages from falling like autumn leaves. Opening it with the utmost care by flickering candlelight, he examined the first page, and soon found the book held ancient sheet music from longer ago than he could guess. He turned the yellowed paper to another page, intrigued, and Petra showed him the page she wanted him to see.
In faded handwritten text, it read, "J'avais rêvé d'une autre vie," with under it, in smaller letters, "Les Misérables" which he guessed must be the book or story it was from. Plays and musicals were lost hundreds of years ago, and a concept nobody knew of now. Sheet music existed, though neither Rivaille nor Petra could play an instrument; not that there was a piano waiting around to be played. Instruments were valuable and mainly decorative. What would the Survey Corps do with them? Play the Titans to death? He almost snorted at the thought.
"I had dreamed of another life," he whispered, his finger tracing the faded ink, almost not daring to do more than gently caress it in fear the yellowed page would tear. Something, a glimmer of a memory or a thought, came to him as he reread the aged words.
"And the rest?" she asked, gesturing lightly at the words printed neatly under every note. She leaned forward to point them out, and the smell of gingerbread and cinnamon clove filled his nose. Petra always smelled like that. Rivaille suppressed a smile of familiarity and turned his attention towards the words. He read them, breathing each one out as if it were the most terrible and exciting secret.
Petra held her breath until he was finished. "What does it mean?" she asked, her voice filled with wonder.
Rivaille went through each sentence, carefully translating it as well as he could. Petra nodded every once in a while and repeated a few words with a clumsy tongue. Whenever she did, he kissed her fondly. Petra inquired about the story of the singer; why was the woman singing this so incredibly sad, and so desperate and almost angry at life, at God? Her love had either left her or died, but one thing was clear: she was a broken woman. What could have happened?
"But is that really a reason to be in such a state?" he questioned, sceptical of the idea.
A pause. "I know I would be," Petra said quietly.
Rivaille glanced at her in shock and saw the distant look in her eyes. He reached for her hand and covered it with his in a comforting gesture, caressing her skin with his thumb. "You don't have to worry about that," he reassured her. She gave him a small, sad smile. He glanced once more at the book. "I know this, from somewhere," he admitted quietly. "Someone must have sung it, once..." It was pure coincidence he knew this song, though he could not remember who had sung it, or where. A soft, innocent melody came to him as he scanned the words in search of the note that fit each word. Though he didn't know it all, it was familiar to him.
Petra gasped at this knowledge, her amber eyes widening adorably. "Honest?" At his nod of confirmation, she asked quietly, "Could you...sing a bit?"
Rivaille sent her a look. "Sing?" he asked dumbly, like he was the one unaccustomed to this language.
"Please, Rivaille?" she asked him. She looked at him with pleading eyes and the Corporal sighed. Well...what was a little singing anyway? He didn't sing much, and definitely not to other people. He had been caught humming to himself as he cleaned the headquarters on more than one occasion, but this was different. But how could he deny her something so simple? She had probably waited her whole life to hear one of these songs.
His soft singing filled the space in the near-empty room, though his voice was low and rough. He glanced at Petra. Her eyes were shut and she was leaning against his shoulder, enjoying his unaccustomed singing voice; he could do nothing but continue. Anything he could do to please her, he'd happily do. He continued, the melody growing intense as the emotion and despair and tragedy became apparent.
"J'avais rêvé d'une autre vie
Quand ma vie passait comme un rêve…"
Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her bloodstained face, as if craved into each eyelid to forever mark his memory. Her neck, bent so unnaturally, would forever send a chilling shiver down his spine. The thought of her never smiling again made him sick. The idea that her eyes would never meet his broke his heart.
The reality that he could never tell her he loved her, even if only once more, made him want to die.
"J'étais prête à toutes les folies,
À toutes les passions qui se lèvent…"
He thought back to their first kiss and when they'd first said they'd loved each other, and how happy he'd felt. The happiest since...forever. How long ago had anyone made him feel so loved, so special? Who else could make him laugh without a care in the world? Who else would love him as he did them?
"J'étais si jeune, où est le mal?
Je voulais rire, aimer et vivre…"
He remembered that night vividly, even weeks, months, years after. He remembered his lost promise, one he hadn't been able to keep. He remembered how he'd sworn his love to her and then seen it all turned to shame within a matter of hours as if it meant nothing.
"Danser jusqu'à la fin du bal,
Ivre du bonheur d'être libre…"
He realized, now, how attached he'd grown to her, as she hummed along the wrong notes to the song. He knew he would be just as lost as Fantine was if something were to happen to her.
Quietly, to himself only, he promised he would never let anything happen. He loved her. It was simple. Even if it was merely a dream.
He loved her, and would protect her with his life. Tomorrow, and the day after, and the years that would pass after that. He would wake up in the morning with the sun just to see her sleeping face next to him. He would raise a child with her, and teach them all that was right. He would sing to her whenever she wanted, and in whatever language she wanted to hear.
He'd love her forever. She'd love him forever.
He looked over her form once he had finished and smiled fondly as he saw her sleeping, her chest rising and falling with each breath.
"Je t'aime," he whispered.
.
.
.
Fin.
I realize this was a huge "Fuck you" to all of you and I apologize. ('Fuck you' is 'Vas te faire encule', in case you wanted to know.)
I just. Feels.
In any case, thank you so much for reading, and please leave a review.
If I made a huge mistake in French somewhere, please please please let me know! I'll fix it right away.