Second Best
Track 5: Giant Steps
------------------ a/n: Reader drama 😔
Masterlist
----------------- You: Call me
You impatiently waited for the response as your time before you had to leave for work ticked down; he was probably still sleeping, hopefully dreaming better than you were. Just as you gripped the handle of your door, you felt the vibration in your pocket.
Pock 🎸: You have work.
You: Come over when I’m done.
Pock 🎸: Why?
You: Just come over
Pock 🎸: Fine 🙄
You slipped your phone back into your pocket, put on your music, walking to the cafe. When you got to work, you were haunted by the nearby garage, taunting you from your interaction last night and in your dream.
“You look stressed,” your boss greeted you as you burst through the door, wiping off a table.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” you threw your hands up, quickly putting your things down before tying your apron, staring with preparations behind the counter.
“Is it about that guy from last week, from your band?” she prodded you. You always kept her close as there were lulls in the day and it could get boring just being the two of you; you knew details of her life, and she knew details of yours.
“Something like that,” you sighed, wiping the counter off. Your shift began as normal, greeting customers, taking orders, making drinks; your boss joined you in your efforts, attempting to make small talk in the downtime, when who else other than who you were avoiding interrupted your lull.
“L/N,” Jean smiled as the doorbell chimed.
“Kirstein,” you grinned back. Your boss excused herself to the back, letting you take care of the only customer in the cafe.
“I knew you would be here,” he said confidently, leaning on the counter you were standing behind.
“Sure you did.” You rolled your eyes. “What can I get for you?”
“For you to step down,” he smirked.
“Will that be for here or to go?” You brushed over his comment. You grabbed a paper cup and the Sharpie from behind your ear, ripping the cap off with your teeth, beginning to scribble on the cup.
“L/N, come on,” he leaned over the counter further.
“I’m working,” you said softer, “order or leave.”
“Fine, white chocolate mocha with oat milk.”
“How original,” you groaned. He had taken your breakfast and your coffee order. He was persistent as you made his order, continuing to try to convince you to step down. You smiled at the name you had written on the cup as you filled it.
“You need a name?” He asked.
“No need,” you smiled, sliding the cup across the counter towards him. Jealous Jean, accompanied by a small doodle of a horse.
“Really mature,” he scoffed, but he didn’t move.
“You aren’t denying it, and you heard what Ackerman said.” You hated yourself for studying his features the way you were right now as he tore you apart.
“Yeah, so I’m figuring this out with you now.” he took a sip.
“Well, I’m not stepping down, so you’re stuck with me for another year, unless you would like to-”
“You know what, L/N, fine, be stubborn, but we both know who’s getting the solos,” he picked himself up from the counter, heading toward the door; that stung, deep. You thought back to your audition, your professor having you improvise again after you already had.
“You’re such an ass,” you yelled as he left the empty cafe, all your potential feelings for him flying out of your head for the time being. You ended up closing early, heading home, changing out of your uniform. You felt incredibly stupid for letting yourself fall into Jean’s game once again, blaming it on your dream. You were blowing your hair dry after you showered when a knock at your door stopped you. You dashed to the door in your tanktop and sweatpants, opening it.
“What do you need now?” Porco leaned on your doorframe. You grabbed his hand, dragging him to your bed, pushing him down, forcing him to sit by his shoulders. You took a deep breath, clasping your hands together, accepting the cold reality of why you called him here.
“I need you to kiss me,” you breathed.
“Why…” his eyes narrowed.
“Porco, please,” you groaned.
“You asked the wrong brother,” he shrugged.
“Porco,” you sighed.
“Not until you tell me why,” he cocked an eyebrow as you sat beside him.
“Would you believe me if I said practice?” you said sheepishly.
“You kissing Professor Ackerman?” he smirked.
“I hate you,” you glared at him.
“Then why do you want to kiss me, hmm?” You didn’t answer; your flushed cheeks and look of embarrassment were enough. “Gotcha,” he pointed at you.
“It’s just been a while since I’ve-” he cut you off, grabbing your face, pulling it quickly to his, pressing his lips to yours before letting go. You sat frozen, as he sat with a smirk.
“Happy now?” He pushed himself back, resting against your wall.
“I wasn’t even ready,” you snapped at him.
“You’re so needy,” he sighed, patting the space beside him. You moved back, sitting facing him. “Tell me when,” he rolled his eyes. You slowly moved your shaking hand up to his face, cupping his cheek, taking a deep breath.
“Okay,” you breathed. Slowly, you leaned in, shutting your eyes, feeling your lips brush against his again, before pulling back quickly- like kissing your brother, gross.
“Now tell me who this is about,” he shoved you away from him. You sat now with your knees to your chest, resting your head on them, trying to hide the shame you felt admitting it.
“I think I like Jean,” you said softly.
“Well, no shit, you’re obsessed with the ass.”
“Pock,” you groaned, burying your head further into your knees.
“Y/N,” he groaned back, giving you a knowing look that only made you turn more red.
“It’s embarrassing,” you said dramatically, throwing yourself back on your bed.
“Yeah, it is,” he laughed, joining you lying down. “What took you so long to figure it out?” You explained to him what happened last night, in the parking garage, how good it felt playing together, the dynamics the two of you shared, how you were so similar in every way. Then you confessed to the dream you had, about kissing Jean, waking up before it happened, which only meant you were scared of kissing in your mind.
“You dreamed about his horse face?” he laughed, trilling his lips. “Neigh.”
“You’re the worst,” you blushed, watching him type on his phone. You rested your chin on his shoulder, watching him.
“Just be careful with him, though, alright?” Porco sighed, resting his phone in his lap.
“I will,” you rolled your eyes.
“Y/N, I’m serious, I don’t want you getting hurt again.”
“This is nothing like that,” you trailed off.
You recalled the last time he said that to you. The school was on holiday, a four-day weekend in your first year; your family lived close, so you asked your parents if your friends could come visit. They agreed, and you immediately sent out the invite. Annie and Bertholdt passed in light of their fresh relationship, wanting to take advantage of the alone time; Pieck and Reiner passed, taking a trip home of her own, leaving the three of you. Marcel drove the three of you to your house; your parents welcomed them with open arms, glad you had made some friends, or so you thought. Dinner, the last one you would be spending with them on your trip.
“So you boys have taken a liking to my daughter,” your dad began. They both looked at you.
“Dad,” you said, “they’re friends.” Your mom patted your hand beside you; you pulled back.
“Friends are good,” your dad continued, “but I’m afraid these boys are distracting you.”
“Dad,” you stood up from the table.
“The two of you are sweet boys,” your mom chimed in, “but Y/N needs to focus on her music.”
“What the hell are you even talking about?” you hissed. “They’re in band with me.”
“Yes, but the three of you could have been practicing this weekend; instead, you dragged them into slacking off with you,” your Dad was firm, the same way he was your entire life growing up; music took priority over everything, to your parents’ legacy. The only child of a star classical trumpet player and his brilliant talent manager meant no rest. You were surprised they even let you stray from trumpet, but as your dad told you constantly, if he could do it again he would change his instrument, because what he had was simply never enough for him.
“Don’t bring them into this,” you scolded your parents, “this was my idea to come home.”
“If we wanted to see you, we would come to you,” your mom scolded you.
“You don’t want to see me,” you slowly sat back down, your voice breaking as you spoke.
“Of course we do,” your dad said, “but for good cause.”
“Me being your daughter isn’t a good enough cause,” you huffed, throwing the napkin from your chair on the table.
“Honey-” your mom began.
“Save it, you don’t get to call me that,” you stood up, swooping around the other side of the table, grabbing the pair of glassy-eyed brothers from their chairs, “we’re leaving.”
“Go then, finally give us something to be proud of after all these wasted years,” your dad scoffed. The three of you stormed up to your room, neither of them saying a word until you were completely isolated.
“Y/N,” Marcel began.
“Stop,” you cried, sinking into your bed, “this was a mistake.”
“Should I-” Porco said, but you cut him off.
“Don’t say anything; you’ll just make it worse. I’m sorry you had to see that,” you gripped your sides tightly, as the tears streamed down your face. The two immediately embraced you,
“You have no reason to be sorry,” Marcel rested his chin on your head as Porco’s face rested beside yours.
“I should have known,” the words escaped between frantic breaths. After that night, you broke contact with your parents for a while, until the final competition of your second year, where the Senior Tenor one would give his final solo, and your parents were waiting for you to jump in and take his place. They had found you after the show, Porco and Marcel glued to your sides the entire night once you spotted them in the audience.
“What do you want?” you deadpanned at your parents, both wearing expressions of disappointment.
“Why didn’t you tell us the first tenor spot was opening?” your mom asked.
“Hmm, I wonder,” you scoffed, “if I remember correctly, the two of you didn’t want to see me.” Marcel put a hand on your shoulder to keep you calm; you shrugged him off, but he refused.
“Well, this is a good reason to contact us,” your dad scowled at Marcel’s hand on your shoulder, “unless you’re not going to go for it.”
“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you,” you snapped.
“She’s going for it,” Porco said beside you. All eyes on him now, you balled your hands into fists.
“Excuse me?” your dad said.
“You heard me.” Porco nodded, a small smile creeping on his face as he folded his arms.
“Porco,” you tried pulling his arms down, but instead he stepped in front of you.
“And she’s going to get it too.” Porco was grinning ear to ear now, his eyes narrowed on your parents.
“Not if she needs someone to speak for her,” your dad glared at him.
“At least we believe in her,” Marcel chimed in beside you, squeezing your shoulder tighter.
“Stay out of this,” your dad snapped.
“Don’t talk to him like that,” you finally spoke up. “You don’t get to talk to them like that, or to me like that anymore. I’m done,” you yelled at your parents; the brothers nodded in agreement. The three of you turned and headed off, their arms slung around your shoulders, both of your parents yelling at the three of you as you walked off.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
“I don’t want you getting hurt again,” Porco sighed, leaning into you.
Now here you sat with him again, that same need to protect you.
“I know it’s nothing like that, but I don’t want it to get to that,” Porco rubbed his head. “But I know you, and I know that he gives you that same feeling your parents used to.” You sat, letting his words register; you nodded in silence before the two of you headed out to meet Marcel, retelling the story of your night with Jean.
