One more night
Petra x Levi/Rivaille
He was never her knight in shining armour, but he's saved her more times than she can count.
She sits there, silent. It's always kind of been like this, she recalls. When they were younger, when she just joined the legion.
So foolish.
So bright.
But those were the good days.
Before they were all jaded, before blood was spilled, before dreams were crushed.
And so she sits there, silent. Her hand is just an inch from his, where it always sits. "Heichou," she whispers, almost inaudible, but he doesn't respond.
Of course. She's not hurt — she's too used to the silence.
Her amber eyes lift, looking up from under long lashes as she examines his complexion. Under the pale flickering light of the lamp, it looks long and drawn and pale. Tired. Weary. Everything about him has always been smooth planes and angles, never rounded.
Petra reaches out to touch his face but hesitates. Then pulls back. It's a habit for her now. Reach, hesitate, pull back. It's comforting in a morbid sort of way, she thinks bitterly as her gaze flits back to her fingers.
All she can do is think about the past nowadays. It's what keeps her here, it's what keeps her from regretting everything. It's what keeps her sitting at this very table. Even now.
He's kind of intimidating when they first meet.
"Petra, this is the Lance Corporal, Rivaille. You'll be serving under him starting today."
Her amber eyes look up at him curiously. She's probably just a few centimeters shorter than him, Petra thinks absently as she stands at attention, her fist tightly curled on her chest in proper salute. He isn't that tall. Not as scary as she thought he would be — given the rumours. The young woman had been expecting some sort of brute, with bulging muscles and a square face.
Instead, she's face to face with this character. A thin stature, tight but young jawline, and narrow onyx eyes. His haircut is a little odd, and a little too formal for her preference, but she doesn't mind. There's something about it that adds to his demeanour.
Her musings are interrupted as he gives her a small nod in greeting, black eyes unwavering and gaze like stone as he welcomes her inside the small hut. "The others are waiting," he informs her curtly, shutting the door tightly behind him to commence the meeting. "You should introduce yourself."
Petra can't help but become nervous under the scrutinizing gaze of the others. She fidgets a little as she joins them, feeling like a complete outsider as she stands at the front with the lance corporal. "I—" Petra stutters slightly, voice trailing off. She feels a new sense of pressure in the room, in the presence of jaded veterans. And she's completely overwhelmed. She can hear snickers from around the room, and it doesn't help.
"Her name is Petra Ral."
Petra's head whips up so quickly she's surprised she doesn't end up with whiplash. As it is, her hair slaps her in the face, and she quickly brushes it aside as she gapes at Rivaille. He doesn't look at her, but continues on. "She just joined our ranks today. Treat her well. She's just as capable as you or me." The commanding boy, so young compared to some of the others, turns away sharply on his heel, discreetly pushing her forward before he leaves.
She feels the burn of his palm on her back, and cannot help the big smile that stretches across her face.
It's the first time he saves her.
The second time is when she is at her lowest…but pretending not to be. They had just finished a scouting. Petra fusses over the wounds of the other soldiers, dabbing at cuts here and there, flitting across the room with boundless energy.
It's finally his turn.
"Heichou, sit down!" she says, pulling up a chair for him. Rivaille's scowl loses its edge just ever so slightly as he accepts her offer and plops down. With his pompous sort of grace, of course. She can't help but giggle.
For a while, there's no sound except the light dripping of water as she occasionally switches the cold towel that's compressed to a bruise on his leg. She's surprised, to say the least, when he's the one who breaks the silence.
"Petra." His tone is slightly hesitant.
"Hm?" she hums lightly, still patching up his arm.
"You don't need to pretend. There's no one else here."
Petra is silent for a moment, stopping her movement. She isn't sure how she feels about his observation. Part of her is glad he's noticed the slight tremour in her hands as she was dabbing away the blood of others, and patching up limbs lost in battle. The other part is idignant, wanting to tell him that she isn't a baby — he doesn't need to look after her all the time.
The silence is deafening. Instead of blowing up or breaking down, a quiet tear slips down her cheek. Rivaille's expression takes on some panic, and if it weren't for the situation, Petra would think it funny. He pats her awkwardly on the shoulder as she wipes it away, trying without avail to stop the stream now steadily soaking her face.
It's kind of relieving, she thinks, to have someone assure her that she doesn't need to keep up a strong, kind front at all times. And so she cries quietly. And he stays there, not saying a word. But his presence is enough, all the same.
It's an awkard sort of comfortable silence, and Petra thinks she can grow to like it.
It's been the same since then. He stays with her each time they finish a scouting, and she cries or talks while he sits there in companionable silence. She likes to think that he likes this mutual agreement just like her. Since then, she's lost count of the number of times he's saved her from her own emotions.
They're older now, each more jaded, but she's still bright and kind and he's still the same stony stiff guy, and Petra wants things to stay as they are forever.
A quiet afternoon is all it takes for things to change.
She's humming again, hanging up her clothes to dry. She doesn't have many, but keeps the little white dress her father gave her. It's a wispy thing, made of long flowing lines and billowy fabric and a soft, flowery scent. Petra likes it. It reminds her of home. Before the titans. Before the legion. Before the heartache. Before the bloodshed. Before it all. And so she flits up to her room and dons the dress, spinning around and allowing herself a girly giggle as she feels the soft linen fly up then settle around her.
"Having fun?"
She whirls around, eyes widening and face reddening in embarrassment. "Heichou! U-um, I'm sorry, I'll get changed right awa—" She's stopped when a tiny chuckle escapes him, and she can't help but admire the tiny, barely-there (but it's there, it's really there) smile on his face.
"No, it's alright. I was just wondering…" Petra blinks slightly. Are his cheeks red? She would think it adorable if she wasn't so sure she's hallucinating.
"I was just wondering if you wanted to go take a walk," he says through gritted teeth.
Petra laughs, which causes the tips of Rivaille's ears to burn practically crimson. He turns away, just as sharply as he did when they first met. She still remembers. "If you don't want to—"
His voice, rough with embarrassment, is interrupted when she takes his large hand in her soft one. "Let's go?" she offers, a smile on her face.
And so they spend the afternoon outside, wandering aimlessly. He's more relaxed than she's ever seen him, even agreeing to join her in walking barefeet in the dewy grass.
She's laughing, running backwards, when she trips and stumbles. He doesn't make it in time to catch her as she falls onto her back, strawberry-blonde hair feathering out.
He joins her instead, although with more grace than her accidental fall, and looks up at the blue sky. It's so peaceful. And Petra is really happy, because, just for one afternoon, he helps to forget her homesickness, her friends' deaths, and the impending doom of mankind.
So when she presses a quiet little kiss to his cheek later, she silently thanks him in her mind for saving her again.
It changes when Eren comes along. Everything is different, Petra can tell. She is kind and optimistic, but she is not naïve. And she can see that he will either be the downfall or the rise of the human species. She hopes it is the latter. So does the rest of the scouting legion.
It's what Rivaille expects when he takes Eren under his wing.
She has a particularily bad feeling that night.
But nothing's really different, she thinks to herself doubtfully. Petra brushes her teeth, combs her hair, puts on some comfortable clothes, then heads downstairs. She bids goodnight to the ones who are awake in her cheery voice, with her smiling face, and pretends like nothing is wrong. But he notices when he meets her eyes.
Of course he does, he always does. And as usual, he stays silent until she approaches him. It's always the same, and she's grown used to it. It's as much her routine as it is his. Over the years as her experience with the titans and bloodshed grew, her visits have waned, but never stopped.
And so she's there again, quietly knocking on his door, at 5 am in the morning. She can't sleep. It's that feeling, digging away at the pit of her stomach. Petra idly wonders if she ate something, but knows that isn't the case.
She knows this feeling after all. All too well.
Despair.
And when he opens the door, and his onyx eyes meet hers, it's the first time Petra breaks down. Tears streak down her cheeks, and wracking sobs escape, shaking her whole body. Rivaille wordlessly invites her inside. She can feel his discomfort as they sit down on the edge of his bed.
"I'm sorry," she manages to choke out, but the feelings are just pouring out and pouring out and she can't stand it anymore, the years of all this fighting and sacrifice and death, and she just doesn't want any part of it anymore.
Sometimes Petra thinks Rivaille can read her mind, or maybe she's just an open book, because the next thing she knows, she's swept into his arms and he's whispering things in a panicked voice that isn't like him at all and—
"You'll live you'll live you'll live you'll—"
It's what she's thinking when she rushes into battle, that very same day.
It's what she's thinking as she and the rest of the legion help Eren escape.
It's what she's thinking as she sets her jaw and draws her blade and advances into a fight she knows deep down they'll never win.
It's what she's thinking when she's faced with the prospect of never seeing his face again.
A scream, a tree, and red.
All she can see is red.
Petra isn't a fool, she knows what's happening. She feels it draining from her. She knows she's going to be gone soon. If she isn't already, that is, she thinks bitterly as her vision becomes even foggier.
The funny thing is, she can't feel any physical pain. Logically, she knows it's most likely because she's gone into shock and all her nerves are dying because SHE'S dying and soon she won't know anything. But emotionally, she just feels like the thundering fear in her mind is too strong for her brain to process any of her fatal injuries.
"You'll live you'll live you'll live—"
She'll never see his face again.
"You'll live you'll live you'll live—"
She'll never hear his voice again, but even now, the mantra in his rough tone is repeating in the fuzzy corner of her mind.
"You'll live you'll live you'll live—"
Petra smiles, broken, as a few tears slip down her face. It's a morbid sort of comfort, she thinks, keeping his words in her head. It's comforting for her but it shouldn't be because she ISN'T going to live and she knows it and she doesn't know what this is going to do to him.
He's always saving her, even as she approaches death.
If she has one regret, it's that she's never saved him, not even once.
Her smile falters as her mind finally begins to shut down.
"You'll live you'll live you'll live you'll—"
Petra props her chin up on one hand, glancing at the man in front of her again.
He's definitely a man now, she muses to herself, giggling quietly as he lets out a haggard sigh, his brows drawn together in his signature scowl.
Her smile drops when she realizes why she's still here.
Maybe she's just not ready to let go. But what the hell can she do for him now? Petra can still see the pain on his face. A collection of mental scarring from battles, politics, and deaths…one of which was now hers.
She's used to the silence.
So why does it suddenly seem so lonely?
But it's okay now. Because he has the others. She trusts Eren and Hanji. She knows they'll help him pull through, no matter how weary he gets. And most of all, Petra knows that Rivaille is strong — he's so much stronger than he thinks he is.
And so when she reaches for his hand, she doesn't hesitate or flinch, even when hers dissipates at contact with living skin. Even when he doesn't react. Even when her heart falls a little again at the reminder than he can't feel her, see her, hear her.
Petra stands up when the lamp is almost burned out. He's still there, having finished sorting through the day's reports. Maybe he's remembering, too. She hopes, anyway, that all he'll remember are the happier times.
It's a bit too much to ask, perhaps. The young woman stands in place for a moment, before curling her hand up to her chest, looking over the room. It hasn't changed much since they first met, with the exception of a few chairs replaced or moved.
"My name," she says quietly with a slight tremour in her voice, "is Petra Ral. It is…was…an honour to serve under the Lance Corporal Rivaille." Her eyes are focused only on him as her hand drops down to her side quietly. "I never did do that self-introduction properly," she says with mild humour.
Is she ready now? To leave?
She pauses dubiously.
Petra glances down at the weary man, looking much older and much more jaded than a man of his age should ever look.
She knows. She knows that if she doesn't leave now, she may never leave. And it'll be the same thing, over and over again. He'll sit. She'll sit. She'll talk and talk and talk, and he won't.
It's kind of like their original arrangement.
Without him listening though, it's a little lonely. But she's okay with it. The little things, even past life. She's okay with just his presence, even if he doesn't feel hers.
One more night, she promises herself, and with a faint smile, sits back down.
But that was what Petra told herself a month ago.