A/N: this was inspired by a comic strip I saw somewhere on the Internet some time ago. Sorry I can't give credit or provide you with a link, but the title should give you an idea of what it was about. Also, I don't own Shingeki no Kyojin universe.
I wonder, could one call fate 'an assortment of occurrences leading to a single event'? Because if yes, what I have around me could well be called that. It just so happens that our fathers are long-time friends from reputable families. It just so happens that we live next door from each other. The rest could be easily drawn out of those two facts. I wasn't constantly reminded of it, but occasionally, dad would chuckle that we resembled an old married couple bickering over groceries, or mom would send me over with fresh pastries, and they never let me return without pumping so much tea into me I could barely distinguish myself from a bucket of water afterwards. The bright, slow-paced childhood was probably supposed to be the deciding factor that would tie me to that life. Even me joining the Scouting Legion has done little to thwart the hazy plans some ambiguous god seems to have in stock for me, because he has followed me there, just as he has always been prone to doing.
And yet, even after all those years, I still can't see how that perpetual adjacency can evolve into something as solid, as pompous as fate.
By the time Petra heads inside from training, the only remnants of the sun are scattered across the sky dome upon dark patches of clouds splotched over a deep purple hue, and the torches are fuming along the stone walls long since drenched with the smell of burning wood. Her steps are light as usual, but it feels as if there is a sack of flour tied to each of her ankles, and her hips groan and whine with pain at every movement: it has been a while since she'd put herself under so much strain, and though by this time, she should know better than to overwork herself a mere week before an expedition, the responsibility of a special ops soldier seems heavier than over on her shoulders lately still, and the rookie fear of not coming back surfaces yet again.
It's not that it ever goes away; they just learn to suppress it.
There is a familiar figure down the hall though, a figure of a certain short black-haired man who now has a threateningly big stack of paper under his arm, and all the fatigued protests of her body are suddenly forgotten, not there anymore, as she sprints lightly to catch up to his steady, brisk walk. Corporal Levi is too watchful a man to miss the thus of her boots, she knows that well, but still, he doesn't acknowledge a presence until she's right beside him; only then does he turn his head a fraction and cast at her a look as emotionless as the stone he is stepping on.
"Corporal," she chimes in a chipper tone which manages to surprise even her own self,"good evening."
He hums in reply, and it may have seemed rude to a stranger, but she has learnt enough about the sort of person he is to know when feeling offended was appropriate.
"Is that paperwork?" She pointedly drops her gaze to the off-white stack that seems to give off as bad a vibe as paper is capable of, and he sighs through his nose; she doesn't miss the way his shoulders sag, if only slightly.
"Yeah, and I need it done by tomorrow morning," he almost grumbles, and then a thought strikes her mind.
If her own responsibilities seem so heavy to her, what kind of weight must he, titled 'humanity's greatest soldier', the one thousands of people put their hopes on, be bearing on his shoulders?
"Should I... make some coffee?" She offers cautiously, as if balancing the words on the edge of a blade, and there is a smile, though faint and uncertain, present on her lips.
He stares right at her with his usual deadpan face in place, but there is some minute miniscule detail – in the tilt of his eyebrows, in the slant of his mouth, in the angle of his jaw – that gives away his surprise, and it puzzles her just how, in the name of St. Sina, did she figure that out. It doesn't last, though, and within milliseconds, the stone is back on his facade.
"Go rest." His gaze returns to the hall in front of him, and she suddenly recalls all the times she has used her dirt-smeared hand to wipe sweat from her forehead throughout the day, yet her mind is rapidly turning into a big lazy slug, and it takes her some seconds to work through his words.
"But..." she starts and trails off, because arguing with superiors is never the wisest thing to do; he looks her in the eye from what little height he has above her, and that look is probably the stoniest out of the ones she has witnessed up till now.
"Rest. That's an order," and, unexpectedly, he smirks, and that's when she knows that it's all right to smile.
And smile she does.
"Yes, sir," and there is a strange, subtle sensation of lightness fluttering somewhere between her shoulder blades as she saunters away.
The mail sometimes arrives pretty early in the morning, even earlier than the time Petra sets to making the already traditional coffee that she diligently brews for the whole squad every day, and the soldier who has brought the tightly packed, slim parcel of letters is as bleary-eyed after a long night of horse-riding as she is before her daily intake of caffeine when they exchange greetings. There is always more milk than actual coffee to the beverage she drinks, though, and while she is aware she's wasting their precious dairy rations, she can't have it any other way; she figures it must be the warmth that wakes her up so efficiently, but switching to tea doesn't seem like an option anymore after months of following the sinful routine.
Her own envelope sits patiently on the edge of the table while she drinks, and the solemn, but comfortable silence doesn't last long: the door creaks, though barely, and in 'marches' Erd; he's dragging his feet still, and yawning so widely it's a wonder he doesn't dislocate his jaw.
"I swear I smelled this divinity in my sleep," he grins, and the smile she returns is perceived as permission to help himself to a cup; she takes a large sip from hers, careful not to unwittingly gulp down the grounds, and reaches for the letter, and there is familiar, barely contained excitement bubbling in her chest, because she does miss her father, and she is happy to hear news from home, even though those are always utterly predictable. Erd picks up on her bright mood, it seems, because he's grinning at her again from across the table.
"A word from family?"
She hums her confirmation as her fingers work well-known patterns on the wax and then dives into the painfully familiar handwriting, but the gleam which colours her face at first slowly drips down with every sentence she reads, because why, why does he have to bring it up now of all times? Now, when she is finally part of Special Ops...
"Something wrong?"
Her gaze snaps up to meet his and then slowly trails back down to the ink-mottled paper, only remotely recognizing the concern in his features, and for a couple of seconds, she can't say anything, can't wring a sound out of her throat, that has suddenly become so tight.
"Say, Erd... Do you ever get the feeling... Do you ever feel like leaving the Legion?"
Her eyes are fixed on his face, but her hands are restless in their fumbling and wearing away at the off-white paper, as if it would miraculously vanish into thin air and take the whole dilemma with it, and she can feel her eyebrows bend in misery, because she sounds like a coward to her own ears, and the last thing she wants is to be perceived as one while she is the only female in the squad. Erd's face contorts in confusion at first, but then, oh so thankfully, brightens.
"Of course I do," he states, like it's the most obvious thing within the walls, like it's the natural wish of any man in their situation, and it probably is, but it's just that she can't grasp it yet, not with what awaits her once she decides to 'settle down with a nice man you've known for a long time', as her father puts it in every odd letter. It's not just that which is keeping her in place, though, has never been. "I've a family too, of course I'd rather spend the rest of my days with them. But you know," he pauses, and she tries to figure out that elusive, intangible thing that's urging her to go on with the dance on the razor's edge that is her current life, "we all have our reasons for fighting. You can't stay in this job without one or some. And if you've managed to get this far, then you must have something in you. Do you know what that is?"
"No," drops from her lips, soft and fragile and light, and the confused distress which seemed to have lifted settles in once more as the realisation of the vagueness of what is supposed to be her anchor to reality every time she fights sinks in, "I- I don't think I do."
"Well, you'll figure it out in your own time," he chuckles, if a bit awkwardly, as if he doesn't know what to say anymore. "If you ever want to talk about it, anytime."
She nods, falling deep into thought, and he leaves right after guzzling down the remains of his coffee, entrusting her to the care of her own insecurities. She reminisces on her life, on the numberless occasions when she was proven again and again that her future is set in stone at the hands of some obscure universal power.
"Erd!" she calls, because she needs to ask, needs just a little more weight on her side to overturn the scales, but she is forgetting one important detail, and that is-
"Was in the hall just now," the corporal speaks from the door, jabbing his thumb to it over his shoulder, and she remembers with shame that the blond has already left. "You can still catch him."
"Corporal..." she stalls in embarrassment, and uncertainty, though masked, strikes back. "Good morning. Would you like some coffee?"
"Not going to follow him?" He sits down across from her, and she knows his habits well enough to know that he would like some, thank you.
"It's not that urgent," she can't help the disappointment of having to postpone her questioning as she pours another cup, adding the mandatory dash of milk and skipping sugar – she's learnt the taste preferences of the whole squad by now, not just his, - and his inquisitive, intrigued stare burns her cheeks.
"Petra," he starts after half his cup is gone, and she is startled, because between re-reading the nostalgic ink-lines and sipping her already stale coffee, she has totally spaced out, "you should train with me today. I was thinking of working on your solo skills."
She blinks at him over the rim of her cup, slightly puzzled while processing the words and returning from her mind-trip, and then a thousand thoughts run through her attention like a stampede, the likes of how rigorous his training is, how she is still somewhat sore from yesterday's workout, how she would have to spend hours socializing with the unapproachable Corporal Levi, how she wants to see him fly through the trees again for some unknown reason ('He looks way less moody during those times,' her mind supplies, and she agrees without a second thought). Sorting through all those is a pain, so she doesn't, and simply lowers her gaze, glaring holes through the letter in her hands, only dimly aware that he is entitled to some kind of response.
"Anyway, I'll be on 3DMG if you decide to join me," he sighs and gets up, and even as she watched him, he seems so cold, stone-cold, like the mouldy greyness around them, like he is most of the time, and for some unfathomable reason, she can't bear the sight, she wants nothing more than reach out for that heart that carries St. Sina knows how many burdens, how many scars, and something is rising within her, something she had felt a few times before, but not as strongly, and when it finally bursts through a sharp intake of air, she recognizes the now-scorching feeling.
Indignation.
Nothing, not even some overrated fate, is allowed to mess with her life when she doesn't want it.
"Corporal!" she cries, springing up from her seat, and the cup jumps on the table and tumbles down, and the last few drops of sepia-coloured liquid sink into the yellowish sheet bearing the hurtful words, and he stops at the doors which lead outside, where spring is in full bloom.
And when she beams at him a smile of her own freedom that she has just caught in her grasp (but it is struggling to get out, like a wild bird, because freedom doesn't like being caged), his eyes widen a fraction, and then he is smiling as well – it is not really a smile, but a smirk, but for him , it counts, - and by the time she has caught up to him, which is easy, because he is waiting, she knows that it is all right to smile whenever she wants to, smile for him, because if she does, then he will smile too.
A/N2: I know, I know, I should be working on my EreMika stuff, but this had been floating in my head for a while, I had to get it out, plus it only took me two days. Besides, I love Rivetra, it's one of my most beloved pairings on the whole, not only in SnK, so maybe I'll write something short (or not so) soon again, now that uni has laid off for a while. I have a tendency of making promises I can't keep, though, so don't trust me much :)
For those wondering, it's Auruo Petra's father was writing to her about. I kind of figured those two - Auruo and Petra - had known each other for a good while, though I don't care much for details.