elmundodeflor

[elmundodeflor]

I've Told The Stars About You - Chapter 1

A story written for #LeviHanWeek2025 Day 1: Childhood Friends

Summary: Levi and Hanji have been best friends their entire lives. That is, until Hanji moves out to go to college and study the career they've always dreamed of. Time passes, and ten years later, they meet again when Paradis High calls their graduates for a High School Reunion. What will happen when they see each other once more? In a series that intertwines their past and present, they face their truths. And, after one night together at the school's event, there's a choice they have to make. They either go their separate ways, or they risk it all and change their lives around to be with each other.

READ THE FULL STORY HERE!

Thank you @levihanfest for putting together this amazing event and making so many of us reconnect with our love for levihan!

If you guys liked this fic, please don't hesitate to leave a comment to let me know!

[elmundodeflor]

MADE SOME TRADITIONAL ART FOR THIS FIC🥹❤️❤️

hope you guys like it!

An Umbrella, Shared

For @seamsterspell

Hope you like your gift!

Thank you @levihanweek and @alemanriq for putting this event together!

If there's anything Levi Ackerman hates more than rain, is rain without him having an umbrella to cover himself up from it.

"Hey!", a voice calls him from the left. Hanji Zoe, — the one who sat next to him during science class and wouldn't shut up, — he figures. They wear neon yellow rainboots and a frog-stamped raincoat to match. Droplets have damped their short braids like a cascade that weights them down. Their big, round glasses all fogged up and crooked.

They look ridiculous.

Lucky for him, though, they do carry an umbrella out with them.

"Levi Ackerman, right?", they offer. A wide, wide smile brightens up their features. "Wanna walk up to the school entrance?"

To that, he can't really say no.

"'Kay."

"I'm Hanji, by the way.", they extend a hand out to him, the other holding the umbrella out for the both of them.

Levi looks at them, then at the hand. He notices, they hadn't washed it before or after they played with the class’s hamster, — and so, he decides, he better not take it.

"Yeah, I know.", he tells them, instead.

Hanji shrugs. Seems to them, Levi isn't the talkative type, much. Still, they think, then, they better be the one to fill in the silence.

"So, what's your middle name?", they ask. It's not a normal question to come up with, especially when it comes to someone you've known for an hour or so. Hanji Zoe, however, has never been one to be exactly normal, anyways.

Levi stares at them for a moment. All of a sudden, he realizes, how tiny and constricted the space under the umbrella is. How confined him and Hanji are to this one shared patch of heaven. Up from where he stands, he can see the freckles that dot over their nose, almost like they're stardust. Can sense their warm, batted breath under the cool storm.

"Sebastian.", he says, then, plain and simple. He's aware, telling a middle name to a stranger is not a normal thing to do. Still, he does so, either way— as easy as it is to breathe. He's never known of normal things, much, after all.

"Sebastian!", Hanji tries it out, almost like they're testing how the sounds taste in their mouth. They like the ring of it, — Levi Sebastian Ackerman. It's elegant, fancy, expensive. Like the letters could dance. They also happen to like that he’s been frank, sincere. That he didn’t run away from them at the question, like most other boys usually tend to do.

“Yeah”, he bites the inside of his cheek. They have been walking together, slow-paced and steady, — so glued to one another, their arms can almost brush. So close, dry under the umbrella, his sneakers meet their rain-boots. “That’s what I said.”

Hanji smiles again. Levi has no idea what’s so funny, but he’s too shy to ask. He’s too shy to ask many other things, as well. Like how it is that they’re so into frogs, or what’s their favourite ice-cream flavor. He can picture it being chocolate-chip-mint, for some reason. Their middle name being Amber, or Fionna, or Grace.

“Do you live nearby?”, they go, staring back at him. Their one tooth is kinked-up when they speak. The colors of the umbrella, — all shades of the rainbow— contour the sharpness in their features. They are pretty when lit up like this, — neon bright effervescent. Cute, even. For a single moment, Levi wonders, how must they like their tea. If maybe they’d sit down with him by the treehouse and play pretend.

“In Trost district.”, he says, at last, and Hanji’s eyes crinkle when they laugh.

“Oh!”, they spin, now walking backwards, facing him. Levi’s afraid they might trip, or break a leg, or fall. He’s never been one to be spontaneous like that. “Coincidence, much? I live there too!”

He nods, his lips twitching just the slightest of bits. He can now see Hanji up in better detail. Appreciate each corner and scrap that there’s to them. There are specs of golden that float and dapple in their irises. Their face framed by a lonely red pimple.

He wants to get to know them better, after all. Take them to his treehouse and make them tea. Mom would be happy at that, sure enough. Ever since they moved to town, he hasn’t made a single friend. Not even one. Everyone ran away from him, his crazy questions or harsh words.

“I can walk you home...”, they offer once again, as they signal up to the umbrella. “The rain’s quite daunting right now. You wouldn’t wanna catch a cold or any of that…”

To that, he can't really say no.

“’Kay”

Hanji hums. They have already reached the school’s entrance, and it seems, they’re the only two people left in there. A few bicycles pile-up by the bike-rack, dazzling wet from the downpour. The world sits quiet, as if it’s stirring in slow motion.

“Let’s go, then?”, they take a step forward. They’re all too joyful for such bleak weather. Levi notices, when they look back at him, that they’re smiling once more.

“Let’s go.”, he says. The air smells of jasmines, — the first few sings of spring after the taxing winter. He finds, that he likes it being here, — both him and Hanji sheltered from the winds. They have nothing in common but the colored-parch of fabric that lays upon their heads. An umbrella, shared, that has brought them together, — and that could be the start of something. A flower blooming, a leap of faith.

“What street is it?”, they ask him; their pupils big beneath the storm.

He smiles, too, for the first time in what seems like forever.

“I live downtown, there in Maria Ave.”

Maybe rainy days aren’t so bad, after all.

[elmundodeflor]

An Umbrella, Shared

For @seamsterspell

Hope you like your gift!

Thank you @levihanweek and @alemanriq for putting this event together!

If there's anything Levi Ackerman hates more than rain, is rain without him having an umbrella to cover himself up from it.

"Hey!", a voice calls him from the left. Hanji Zoe, — the one who sat next to him during science class and wouldn't shut up, — he figures. They wear neon yellow rainboots and a frog-stamped raincoat to match. Droplets have damped their short braids like a cascade that weights them down. Their big, round glasses all fogged up and crooked.

They look ridiculous.

Lucky for him, though, they do carry an umbrella out with them.

"Levi Ackerman, right?", they offer. A wide, wide smile brightens up their features. "Wanna walk up to the school entrance?"

To that, he can't really say no.

"'Kay."

"I'm Hanji, by the way.", they extend a hand out to him, the other holding the umbrella out for the both of them.

Levi looks at them, then at the hand. He notices, they hadn't washed it before or after they played with the class’s hamster, — and so, he decides, he better not take it.

"Yeah, I know.", he tells them, instead.

Hanji shrugs. Seems to them, Levi isn't the talkative type, much. Still, they think, then, they better be the one to fill in the silence.

"So, what's your middle name?", they ask. It's not a normal question to come up with, especially when it comes to someone you've known for an hour or so. Hanji Zoe, however, has never been one to be exactly normal, anyways.

Levi stares at them for a moment. All of a sudden, he realizes, how tiny and constricted the space under the umbrella is. How confined him and Hanji are to this one shared patch of heaven. Up from where he stands, he can see the freckles that dot over their nose, almost like they're stardust. Can sense their warm, batted breath under the cool storm.

"Sebastian.", he says, then, plain and simple. He's aware, telling a middle name to a stranger is not a normal thing to do. Still, he does so, either way— as easy as it is to breathe. He's never known of normal things, much, after all.

"Sebastian!", Hanji tries it out, almost like they're testing how the sounds taste in their mouth. They like the ring of it, — Levi Sebastian Ackerman. It's elegant, fancy, expensive. Like the letters could dance. They also happen to like that he’s been frank, sincere. That he didn’t run away from them at the question, like most other boys usually tend to do.

“Yeah”, he bites the inside of his cheek. They have been walking together, slow-paced and steady, — so glued to one another, their arms can almost brush. So close, dry under the umbrella, his sneakers meet their rain-boots. “That’s what I said.”

Hanji smiles again. Levi has no idea what’s so funny, but he’s too shy to ask. He’s too shy to ask many other things, as well. Like how it is that they’re so into frogs, or what’s their favourite ice-cream flavor. He can picture it being chocolate-chip-mint, for some reason. Their middle name being Amber, or Fionna, or Grace.

“Do you live nearby?”, they go, staring back at him. Their one tooth is kinked-up when they speak. The colors of the umbrella, — all shades of the rainbow— contour the sharpness in their features. They are pretty when lit up like this, — neon bright effervescent. Cute, even. For a single moment, Levi wonders, how must they like their tea. If maybe they’d sit down with him by the treehouse and play pretend.

“In Trost district.”, he says, at last, and Hanji’s eyes crinkle when they laugh.

“Oh!”, they spin, now walking backwards, facing him. Levi’s afraid they might trip, or break a leg, or fall. He’s never been one to be spontaneous like that. “Coincidence, much? I live there too!”

He nods, his lips twitching just the slightest of bits. He can now see Hanji up in better detail. Appreciate each corner and scrap that there’s to them. There are specs of golden that float and dapple in their irises. Their face framed by a lonely red pimple.

He wants to get to know them better, after all. Take them to his treehouse and make them tea. Mom would be happy at that, sure enough. Ever since they moved to town, he hasn’t made a single friend. Not even one. Everyone ran away from him, his crazy questions or harsh words.

“I can walk you home...”, they offer once again, as they signal up to the umbrella. “The rain’s quite daunting right now. You wouldn’t wanna catch a cold or any of that…”

To that, he can't really say no.

“’Kay”

Hanji hums. They have already reached the school’s entrance, and it seems, they’re the only two people left in there. A few bicycles pile-up by the bike-rack, dazzling wet from the downpour. The world sits quiet, as if it’s stirring in slow motion.

“Let’s go, then?”, they take a step forward. They’re all too joyful for such bleak weather. Levi notices, when they look back at him, that they’re smiling once more.

“Let’s go.”, he says. The air smells of jasmines, — the first few sings of spring after the taxing winter. He finds, that he likes it being here, — both him and Hanji sheltered from the winds. They have nothing in common but the colored-parch of fabric that lays upon their heads. An umbrella, shared, that has brought them together, — and that could be the start of something. A flower blooming, a leap of faith.

“What street is it?”, they ask him; their pupils big beneath the storm.

He smiles, too, for the first time in what seems like forever.

“I live downtown, there in Maria Ave.”

Maybe rainy days aren’t so bad, after all.

[elmundodeflor]

The sun fits her body just like a glove would. It caves, and it trips, and it bends to every crevice that’s in her. The curves of her legs, her hipbones and waist, — they are all shaped by light and shadow. Contoured in pale paint-strokes that make her worthy of admiration.

Cait’s asleep right next to her, her breaths slow and steady, — almost peaceful. They are covered in nothing but bedsheets, coated in sweat. The hour before, they had tasted each other fully. Gotten to know the sweet, sweet ecstasy that’s to love, and be loved in turn. Vi can’t help but remember the first time she’s been here, right in this house. The rain was pouring, the world was crumbling. Oil and water, she’d said. Her and Cait couldn’t be more different, — two halves of a whole that would never fit together.

“Forget me, cupcake.”, she’d told her, back then. The pit-pat of the downpour the only sound that was between them.

Cait had extended her hand to reach her, but she was far gone, walking away already. At the time, that’s all she had wanted to do. It is crazy to think that, now, maybe, for once, she thinks she’ll stay. That, after a lifetime worth of running away, with Cait there, tucked inside her arms, the day has finally come for her to settle.

She strokes her cheek. Her hair’s blue, and it falls like the ocean waves. It’s wild and it’s free, — as seafoam outlining the shores. Cait, oh Cait. The fearless Commander, Piltover’s fiercest. She’s clean-cut and tidy. Strict and obedient. It sure is new to her, to see her like this now, — raw, and untamable, all too beautifully naked.

She had caressed her this same way, Vi remembers, — back when they were here, right in this very bed. She had talked about Powder, and how they’d play to chase their own monsters away, on those scary nights where neither one could sleep. Her hands had been careful, she recalls. Soft, and warm, and delicate, — as if she was made of glass, and she was afraid of breaking her up.

She puts a strand of blue behind her ear, now. Her palms are opposite to Cait’s, she notices, as she traces patterns on her face. Hers are harsh, and full of battle-scar, — her knuckles sprinkled up with callouses. But something wonderful could bloom from underneath, — she’s aware. It was in the way she’d undressed her bare, with a lifetime worth of yearn. How she’d marked her flesh, with a loyalty that unwavers, as bright as the day they met, still.

She smiles. At times, it appeared to her all her hands had known was fight. It was nice to see that it wasn’t all that true, at last. That they were capable of making marvelous things, too.

“Hi.”, Cait looks up at her, her eyes barely open. The sunset’s orange makes her irises twinkle. Paints sparks of gold within a cerulean canvas.

Vi snuggles up closer, takes in every scrap and figment of her. She’s gorgeous like this, basked underneath the afternoon colors. It seems to her, that she’s never been more like herself than here; — her breasts poking from beneath the covers, the freckles on her shoulders all the more visible.

She smiles again, — wider this time—, and thinks of that one night she’d been here. Back then, she’d been scared. As if the monsters her and Powder would dare chase away, were there inside her head, instead. Now, her wrappings lay on the floor, her arms and chest unraveled only for Cait to see. She’s stripped, unshielded both body and soul, — but she’s not scared anymore. She’s found, with Cait there, staring back at her, that there’s a ray of light that’s hushed away the monsters. That there’s no need to hide no more.

The hour before, she had taken the band aids with such care! Got rid of them, slow and tender, as if uncovering an open wound. It had made her feel safe, — how she’d touched her, then. So sheer, so delicate, as if her fingertips burnt. Every brush of her palms against her put her heart at ease. As if she was filling in the cracks that broke her, — fixed her inside out, outside in.

“Hi, there.”, she says, — and Cait leans in, lips to lips, nose to nose. She’s warm against her, almost like boiling water. Vi takes notice; she’s worn-out oil, in turn. The dry kind that sticks to plates and vases serving street food down in Zaun. But they mix well together, somehow, after all. Two halves of a whole that have found their way to make it work, if only.

“Let’s just stay like this a little longer, Cupcake.”

[elmundodeflor]

This wasn't supposed to happen, he tells himself. He shouldn't be doing this, he repeats, — and it seems like it's the tenth time he's said that ever since they've left the house.

It was Connie the one who had shrunk half of the Ambassadors' suit-uniforms, anyways. Why couldn’t he be here, then, instead of him? All he wanted was to spend his day off lazing in bed. Maybe, even revisit his long-forgotten sketch-book for a new draw.

But not this.

"I was covering up for your hangover ass!", Connie had said, in his own defense. And it was true. Back in headquarters, they had equally divided the list of chores between all of them. Armin cooked on Mondays, Reiner made the beds on Tuesdays and he did the laundry on Wednesdays.

Still, it wasn't his fault that Pieck's pair of trousers looked like those of a toddler's. At least, not directly.

"Jean.", she calls him out of his train of thought. There's a suit pastel yellow dangling from the hanger between her hands. It's bundled up with a white shirt and a matching pair of pants, all too colorful to use at any diplomatic meeting. "What do you think of this?"

He furrows a brow. She can't possibly be serious, — and yet, the look on her face tells him that she totally is.

"Well...", he starts. If there's anything he's learnt during his time living with the Ambassadors, is that Pieck is never afraid of having fun with her fashion. Sometimes, he recalls, she'll wear pineapple-stamped blouses around the kitchen. Others, it'll be the neon-pink socks peaking from under her long, pleated skirts.

"I guess that'd be a great choice if we wanted to look like a duck's thrown up on us..."

She rolls her eyes at him.

"You're a boring-ass man, Kirstein."

He shrugs, and stares at her for a moment; — the triumphant smile that brightens up her features. The spider-web earrings that show through thick, black hair. It amazes him, really, how irremediably different they are. He’s all slick-shirts, shiny shoes. She’s the type to throw some sneakers underneath her dresses.

"I've been told worse.", he says. And that is true, as well.

Pieck chuckles, then puts the suit back to where she’s found it. She looks ridiculously tiny, floating around the shop in her green, wide-legged trousers. Jean knows, right as he watches her again, she’s an enigma, sure enough. A five-foot-two paradox he can’t quite figure out just yet.

He shakes his head. The boutique Armin's sent them to seems awfully empty for a week-day afternoon. There are roads of folded clothing to cover up the walls, gowns neatly placed by size and color. Normally, they'd have a tailor do this for them. But with the new peace treaties incoming, they had no other choice than to run in emergency.

He takes a grey suit from the hanger, feels the softness of it between his fingers. He remembers the first time they'd been in Marley, back when hope was intact and the world was new. It all appears to be a distant blur now; a gleaming daydream lost within the alleyways.

He’d actually worn something similar to it at the time, he figures. They’d been shopping with Levi and Hanji the week before departing, and it’d been quite the adventure. They'd acted like an old pair of lovebirds, he tells himself now, looking back on it. They'd pick up outfits for Armin and Eren, — call out Sasha for spending her loan in food instead of clothing.

“What about this one?”, he shows Pieck, then.

She makes a face, but ends up giving him a small push, up towards the dressing rooms, after.

“Off you go!”, she says, as she takes a suit that matches his, and disappears behind the curtains herself.

Jean can’t help but roll his eyes. If there’s any other thing he’s learnt about living with the Ambassadors, is that Pieck’s weird, — hard to read as letters carved on stone. It’s not only because of how she dresses, but also due to everything else. Truth is, she’ll make odd noises when she laughs at Reiner. Put cheese between two walnut cookies and call it a day.

“Well, didn’t I tell you we’d look killer with thi—?”

He stops himself.

Outside her dressing room, she stares back at him, — makes a little pose in front of the full-body mirror that they share. She wears a white, simple blouse, tucked inside a long, grey skirt, that she’s paired with a plain linen blazer. She’s utterly gorgeous, achingly delicate and elegant, there— standing under the stage lights.

It takes a minute or two for Jean to regain his composure.

"Meh,", she shrugs, but it’s just to poke fun at him, at last. "I'd say it's alright for someone with such a boring taste."

He bites his tongue. If a single glance could kill, then, he swears, Pieck Finger would be dead and buried. She turned out to be quite the expert at getting on his nerves, after all.

"So, how you’d make it better, huh?"

She says nothing. At least, not at first. Instead, she spins through the store and goes to the tie-section, — grabs one that's navy blue.

"Hm", she holds it up next to Jean's face. The bright spotlights cast a golden sheen in her hair. Make it seem as though her eyes are fresh dew on an early morning. "Guess this one could go."

Jean raises a brow at her, but doesn't really reply, whatsoever. She's gotten close to him now, — so much so, he can count the specs of violet that dapple in her irises. Name the tiny freckles that dot over her cheeks, and that he'd never even noticed were there before.

"You really think so?”

Pieck nods, then gets up on her tip-toes.

"Yeah", she wraps the tie around his neck, first. It's a funny image, Jean thinks, as she tries to make up a knot — her stretching up, while he has to crouch down for her to reach him. To be fair, he has to be thankful that they're the only two people in the store at the moment. "I genuinely do."

He goes back to looking at her. He can feel the warmth that oozes from her body. Sense the trickle of her fingers against his neck, his shoulders. She’s beautiful like this, — cute, even. Her hair’s a mess, her eyes are drooped and tired. But she smiles at him like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Touches him as if he was made of the thinnest of glass, way too fragile for her clumsiness.

It is nothing like the first time that they saw each other, he notices. Not only because she was in her Titan form, but because he’d thought, then, that her hands could only be made for killing.

“Hold still, idiot.”, she laughs at him, and Jean straightens himself up. He sees it as fascinating— that her knuckles are all caked-up in battle-scar. Her palms are rough, baked in pink linings that turn gold under the sunset. But something soft can bloom from under them, —something tender. It’s in the way she holds him, with such care, — like he’s precious. How she tickles him in the tiny spot behind his ear, plays with him like they’re kids.

“Pieck…”, he sighs. His hand brushes a black lock off her face, — does it in a way that’s slow and delicate, as if time had stopped, right there and then. Matter-of-fact, he doesn’t even know why he’s done it, or when, — just that he felt like it. That his body acted on its own, without ever warning him of what it’d do.

She smiles at him.

“We should…”, she stutters. The bridge of her nose is flushed of a light shade of rose. Her cheeks scorching, twinkling beneath the afternoon-hours. “We should get goin’…”

Jean nods, but doesn’t pull away, at last. Pieck’s hands are on his neck, locked in around the tie, still, — his are on her hair. It’d been too long since he’d last felt like this, — as if his heart could jump, do flips inside his chest. If anything, he finds that, maybe, her palms build things back to life, as well. That they’re not only meant for destruction, but are capable of love. Of holding him like he’s broken, and they’re there to put him back together, after all.

“Yeah, right”, he says, finally, after a second or two; a small smile pulling from his lips, too. “I guess we should.”

[elmundodeflor]

After bathing, he lays them down on the bed.

He carries them there, as if it's no big deal, from the bathroom to the bedroom, bridal-style and all. Hanji has their arms around his neck, even after he's put them down on the mattress, — doesn't really want to let him go.

"Stay.", they plea, barely above a whisper, pulling him in closer.

Levi stares at them for a minute, then nods slightly. They are wrapped up in a towel, — him wearing nothing but a pair of loose, sleeping-pants. Their hair is wet, and falls over like a curtain that covers up their eyes. Their skin still warm from the water.

Truth is, he can never say no to them.

"Alright.", his lips twitch in just the tiniest of smiles, — the bridge of his nose tinged of a sheen, rosy pinch. He could very much use some rest, as well. It'd been a long day, after all.

Hanji smiles back at him. They're tucked near each other now, — so much so, they can see the smallest specs of blue that spot over his irises. Breathe each scrap of him, — chamomile and autumn leaves.

"You're so good, Levi.", they tell him, — lips brushing his ear, fingers on his undercut. "So, so good to me."

He cups their face. His palms burn at the spots where he meets them, but he doesn't pull away. Matter of fact, there's a part of him that doesn't wanna believe them, really. That patiently waits for them to push him off. He never saw himself as good, — not in the way that they have. Quite the opposite, actually. He's closed off, and awkward, and, he's sure, they'll one day get tired of him— his emotional constipation. But they're wild, and reckless as the winds, and smart— so smart! He could never compare.

He doesn't deserve them at all.

"You're tired.", he dismisses them, and Hanji kisses him— one small peck on the cheek.

"I am.", another one, placed right on the corner of his mouth. "But still—", and then one more.

Levi hums. He feels as though his soul was made of sugar— a sweet. sweet substance that melts under the sun. He figures, no one'd ever treated him this soft, — this warm, and nice and careful. Like he could break and disarm, unshielded of all shining armor.

Not a single soul had talked about him as if he was precious, delicate, something that was ever worth to keep.

Back when he was younger, he recalls, he'd had this idea that he was hard to love. It had been after he’d lost his mother, — right when Kenny had left. He thought, if he had become all the strong he was told to, and was alone, still, then being strong was not good enough. But then— then there came Hanji. Goddamned Four-Eyes, crazy Hanji Zoe. They'd stormed into his life like it was no one's business, loved him as easy as it was to breathe.

He doesn't deserve them. Doesn't deserve them at all.

"Hey", he tells them.

And then they kiss him. This time on the lips.

At first, it’s chaste. A shy, wonderful touch of the mouths. But then, right before they realize, it turns to more. It grows, and it climbs, and it burns, — until it’s their tongues dancing, getting used to one another’s rhythms. It’s chests heavying, and numb fingers, and hands on wet hair.

Levi can’t get enough of it.

“Hanji…”, he pants against their lips. They are naked beneath him, there; underneath the towel, — and it makes him feel hot, impatient. Like his entire body’s been set on fire and it stings from inside out.

It isn’t something that he’s proud of, most definitely.

“Levi…”, they pull apart, right when he was leaning in closer. Their breath is ragged, their bangs messy, cast to the sides of their face.

He kisses them again. Harder, deeper. Their hands roam through the fresh trims of his undercut, — his rest upon their cheek. He had no clue that a kiss could awaken all of this in him, — this achingly unyielding desire. All of a sudden, it’s as if every emotion he’d repressed over the years, had come rushing to the surface, leaving him a wreck. As if a cannonball had hit him on the chest, and all the love he’d been guarding had overflown, — no chance of him making it stop.

“Levi.”, Hanji moans his name once more. If he wanted to, he could take this whole thing further, really. Spread their legs open and sink himself right into them. Still, he decides, for now, he better not do it. They’re weak, and exhausted, and it just wouldn’t be right of him.

“Yeah.”, he agrees, at last. “Gotta quit it.”

Hanji nods, and pulls over the covers for him to get in bed with them. It’s not that they don’t want this, not at all. They just know Levi’s heart too well to be sure that, to him, this isn’t how he’d have wished for things to go.

“There will be a better time.”, they say, their head on the crook of his neck.

Levi makes no sound, at first. As soldiers, they live in a vacuum of “what ifs”. Their future’s uncertain, — they can’t take anything for granted, ever. He can’t guarantee that the world won’t crumble in and on itself, as Hanji fears it’ll happen. That the sun won’t swallow the only Earth they’d ever known, and crisp them all into oblivion.

He tells himself, then, that outside, — in the Capital, overseas, — humanity’s raging. Building bridges based on anger. Meanwhile, for now, they do have this, — this little moment of peace. A tiny scrap of heaven they've found, here, where it's just Levi, just Hanji— no strings to tie them down.

“Guess so”, he shrugs, and Hanji plants a trail of kisses; from his shoulder to his temple, — from his temple down. Truth is, they can’t be sure, either, — whether they’ll get another chance like this or not. The kids are making dinner, their room is full of sun, and everything else seems quiet. Life stands still.

“It’s okay.”, they say, more so to reassure themselves than him. If they weren’t Commander, if he wasn’t their Captain, they would have let him— pin them down, do whatever he pleased to their body. Oh, yes, they would have. But for now, this is all that they have. The long caresses, their legs entangled under the wrinkled bedsheets.

And, for now, as well, this is enough.

Yeah, it’s enough.

“We’re okay, Levi.”

[elmundodeflor]

LEVIHAN AFTER JULIENZO🇦🇷

[elmundodeflor]

Acuarelas - PARTE 1

Nunca había soñado con Hanji. Onyankopon solía decir que, las personas que se hacen bruma, en el inconsciente se vuelven carne. Y que allí, rebrotando de entre las grietas como margaritas, nos reencontramos. Que vienen a dejarnos un mensaje.

Le parecía injusto, entonces, que Hanji aún no se le hubiera aparecido, ni siquiera para saludarlo de lejos. Que sólo hubiese podido recordarla en pesadillas.

A veces la veía, cubierta en llamaradas rojas, cayendo y cayendo en un infinito del que no podía salvarla. El cielo azul se teñía de gris, empapado por el rastro de humo que dejaba su cuerpo, y él estiraba la mano, inútilmente, por las ventanillas del avión, como si eso sólo hubiera alcanzado.

Había otras noches, las más terribles, en las que las muertes se suscitaban: una tras otra, otra tras una. Las escenas se repetían, — como si de un ciclo eterno se tratase. Como si cada átomo de imagen hubiese quedado grabado tras las retinas, y al caer dormido alguien palpara esos rincones del alma que todavía ardían. Podía escuchar los desgarros de dolor en los tímpanos, los pedidos de auxilio estrujándole el corazón. Él también gritaba, lloraba, hacía fuerzas para respirar, pero los sonidos se le atascaban en las cuerdas vocales. Sólo salían en sollozos recortados cuando despertaba en su habitación.

–Ey. – Onyankopon lo sacude ahora, cuidadoso de no sobresaltarlo. Solía dormir en el cuarto de al lado, por si los alaridos y el sufrimiento se volvían demasiado, y hacía falta atenderlos o calmarlos.

Levi se restriega los ojos, y reconoce la humedad en sus mejillas de inmediato. Las lágrimas se desdibujan hasta las comisuras de sus labios, allí donde se pierden, como el cauce del río que desemboca en el mar.

–Mierda. – escupe entre dientes, y se estira para tomar del vaso de agua en su mesa de luz. – Es ese sueño de nuevo.

Onyankopon asiente. Ya lo sabe. En los tres años que lleva viviendo con Levi, ha llegado a conocerlo como quien conoce a su hermano. Está seguro de que el té le gusta a secas; sin azúcar, sin miel, a lo sumo con limón. Está al tanto, también, de cómo limpiar para no llevarse un coscorrón.

–Es Hanji, ¿no? – pregunta, aunque ya se ve venir la respuesta, y Levi no se lo dice. Esta vez, la tomaba de las mangas para tratar de detenerla. Y entonces, justo cuando creía que iba a hacerlo, que por fin iba a cambiar ese desenlace fatídico, atravesaba la tela de su camisa como si fuera aire.

–Llegué muy tarde. – susurra, casi inaudible. Tiene los músculos tiesos, entumecidos de la angustia. La mirada inconexa, perdida en algún punto del empapelado en la pared. Afuera, cerca de la playa, una tormenta repiquetea en las ventanas, salpica los vidrios con motas gordas.

–Tranquilo. – le asegura Onyankopon, sonriéndole desde la silla de junto al colchón. Registra, porque siempre ha sido un hombre de percepción, que las pesadillas florecen más en los días de lluvia; casi con la misma fuerza con la que suelen alzarse los tallos de entre la tierra. Se convence, porque otra opción no le queda, que los truenos deben de recordarle a Levi, tanto como le recuerdan a él, a los estruendos horrorosos de ese día. Tiene sentido, al fin y al cabo, se explica. Cada estallido es la pisada de otro titán que se acerca. Cada crujir, es el último suspiro de un alma nueva. – Vayamos a la cocina.

Levi lo contempla un segundo, sin ánimos de hablar o moverse. Todavía puede sentir a Hanji; diluyéndose a cuentagotas de entre sus dedos. Piensa que, si estuviera aquí, ella sabría qué hacer para apaciguar sus miedos. Adormecería los gritos con caricias suaves; le besaría el pelo, la frente, el espacio entre las cejas, y lo arrullaría con dulzura. Lo arroparía, firme entre sus brazos, y recitaría palabras de cuna para hacerlo soñar bonito.

–Está bien. – suspira, entonces, y, como puede, se incorpora sobre la cama. Lo cierto es que le duelen los huesos, aún lastimados por los años. Que le duele el pecho. Que le duelen ausencias. Que le duele todo. – Ya sabes dónde está el té.

Los viernes, Jean viene a casa a visitarlo. A veces, Armin es quien lo acompaña; otras son Connie, o Pieck, o Reiner.

Onyankopon prepara una merienda abundante para dos; bizcochos de avena y limón con un té apenas dulce. También se ocupa de dejar bien cortado el césped del patio; justo allí donde ambos se sientan a pintar por un rato.

Hace ya dos años que Jean enseña a Levi lo que sea que sabe de arte. Al principio, había sido Moblit, hacía ya mucho tiempo atrás. Luego él, después de la guerra y por pedido suyo, había decidido seguir y tomar el mando.

Era naturalmente bueno para pintar, Levi, decía Jean. Había comenzado con bosquejos desprolijos en un cuaderno, cuando las reuniones de Erwin lo aburrían más de la cuenta. En cambio, ahora, las líneas finas y garabatos acababan por transformarse en retratos reconocibles y concretos que decoraban la casa. Mike, Isabel, Farlan, Kuchel, Petra; todos tenían algún lugar. Todos sonreían detrás de los marcos.

–Algún día tengo que enseñarle a pintar con acuarelas. – insiste Jean, mordiendo el dorso del pincel, casi pensativo, antes de volver a remojarlo.

Levi chasquea la lengua, y lo mira durante una fracción de segundo. Lleva meses insistiendo con que no lo traten con honoríficos, o de “usted”, por lo menos, pero, realmente, no va a ensañárselas con eso ahora. En su lienzo, la figura de Hanji vuelve a aparecerse de entre las sombras, y, cree, entonces, que eso requiere de toda su atención. Incluso más que como puedan llamarlo o no los niños.

–De acuerdo. – acepta, al fin y al cabo, como quien no quiere la cosa, y su pincel se detiene un momento. Lo cierto es que la ha pintado ya demasiadas veces— más de las que uno es capaz de contar. Y es que tal vez Hanji no se le presente en sueños, pero puede verla en cada parpadeo, grabarla en cada exhalación y latido. Está igual de bella que cuando la perdió; allí, enmascarada en témperas. Tiene el cabello desprolijo, arremolinado en el viento. Su boca está torcida en una sonrisa a medias que apenas le achina los ojos.

Si quisiera, piensa, podría pintarla, también, incluso hasta con la vista ciega. Siendo sincero, la ha inmortalizado ya en su memoria demasiadas noches, cuando aún podía dormir a su lado. Sus manos, las yemas de sus dedos, han recorrido cada uno de sus recovecos; suave, cuidadosamente. Han atrapado bajo sus palmas el lunar junto a sus labios, — la expresión en sus pupilas—, cada minucioso retazo de ella.

–Dicen que pintar con acuarelas, es aprender el arte de dejar ir. – cuenta Jean, después de un rato en silencio. Afuera, en el claro en el jardín, la brisa cálida remueve las hojas de los árboles en un arrullo suave. Permite que el sol atraviese las copas verdes y frondosas, y los envuelva en un manto de ocres y dorados. – Creo que podría hacerle mucho bien, ¿sabe, Capitán?

Levi inspira hondo un segundo. No está muy seguro de quién pudo haber dicho eso, o con qué motivo habría sido, pero no va a ponerse a discutirlo ahora. Cuando comenzó a pintar, acababa de subir a la superficie, luego de años de ser preso de los subsuelos. Flores, las tazas bellas que veía en el mercado, había descubierto que, dibujando, comprendía mucho mejor el mundo que lo rodeaba. Que podía volver inmortal todo aquello que hiciera que su corazón saltara de alegría.

Los retratos llegaron después, con el correr de los meses, o de los años. Por alguna razón, Hanji era quien más se le desparramaba de entre las manos y volcaba en el papel. Había algo espontáneo en ella, — algo fugaz y efímero— que lo hacía querer pintarla, casi de manera inevitable. Tal vez, piensa ahora, era su risa. Alocada, terca, suelta y rebelde. Tal vez, también, era su esencia, — algo salvaje y arrollador, imposible de capturar por mucho tiempo.

Se echa hacia atrás, y, con nostalgia, contempla su trabajo casi terminado en el lienzo. Ahora que la ve, un sentimiento parecido a la angustia le hace agujeros en el pecho, — se le instala en el medio del corazón. Quisiera, por un momento nada más, que pintarla no le trajera este sufrimiento agigantado. Que tenerla de vuelta, aunque sólo fuera en recuerdos, lo hiciera sonreír, y no lo llenara de culpas pesadas, o de miedos infundados.

–Está bien. – contesta, entonces, y Jean lo mira esperanzado. Tiene que admitir que siente a Hanji en la frescura de las olas; entusiastas, e indomables. Que la ve en los cielos morados, o que puede acariciarla en el vaivén de los vientos. Lo que no puede, porque el alma aún le arde, es mencionarla delante de Gabi o de Falco. Soñarla sin despertar empapado de sudor.

“Pintar con acuarelas, es aprender el arte de dejar ir.”, las palabras de Jean resuenan en su cabeza, y se vuelve a verlo, alejándose del cuadro. Quiere que pensar en Hanji no lo ahogue en un dolor venenoso, que lo corroa por dentro. Que las pesadillas punzantes sean fantasías de algodón, livianas, en las que se reencuentran y pueden abrazarse de nuevo.

–Está bien. – repite, con la voz algo ronca, y Jean le sonríe. – Enséñame a pintar con acuarelas.

[elmundodeflor]

“Wait…!”, words escape him before he can manage. Katara’s leaning over the river banks, looking as her reflection wavers on the rushing waters. “I mean…”, he scratches the back of his head, when he sees her turn around to take a glance at him, instead. “Are you sure you’re gonna go there alone…?”

She smiles; a small, fainted pull at her lips. Turns out, though, she’s not as surprised as she’d thought she’d be. After all, it’s no news to her; Zuko had always been a little awkward like this.

“Well…” she shrugs. It’s nice enough of a day to be here, out in nature. Sun bristles over the forest leaves, paints the grass with patches of golden and a yellowish-green. “Unless, you wanna come join me…?”

He hums it out. He’s not wearing his usual Fire-Lord attire, but a laid-back linen tunic that crosses his chest. Katara and him had decided on reuniting for summer, since they two had a few days off from both their political duties.

“Sure.”, he tells her, and he sits down by the shore, as well. She’s pretty when basked down in this soft light, he figures. The blue in her eyes dapples with specs of early sunset. The tiny freckles that dot over her cheeks pop up all the more. He doesn’t quite understand why she'd insisted on visiting this particular Fire-Nation village yet, but he isn’t about to complain on it just now. She must have been bored of freezing her ass out in the Southern Water Tribe, he assumes.

"So...", she's back to looking at herself. There's a paint-pot near the seams of her dress, and she dabs on it to take a dip. "How about we go grab a bite after this? I'm craving some noodle-soup!"

Zuko nods. Truth is, he's grateful for Katara; her unwavering company. He knows for a fact; she hates the spicy dishes that the Fire Nation has to offer. Yet here she is; all giggles and up and ready to take another chance on them, regardless. 

"I guess we'll manage.", he says, causing her smiles to only but grow. She's already traced the first streak upon her cheek; the birds chirping as she goes along. "'Tara", he calls her out, then, right when she's about to place a second one, there on the dimple on her chin. "You're doing it wrong, y'know."

That makes her frown big time. She's aware, the Painted Lady is a Fire Nation spirit, but still—

"Asshole!"

Zuko laughs; they both do. After all, he's sure Katara doesn't really mean it. She could be hot-headed, on occasion; fiery as the flames that once sprung up from his very hands, indeed. But she wasn't ill-intended, at last. He could see it in her eyes, dazzling everlasting teal. Could sense it in how her fingers touched her skin; careful, patient. Like there's no rush, and seconds and hours can lay suspended in the tender breeze.

"So now I'm the bad guy for telling the truth?!"

Katara pulls a face at him. His palms are in the air, as if to prove that he's always been this innocent, and she can't quite take him seriously.

"Come do it yourself, then.", she challenges; one eyebrow raised. It has always been like this with Zuko, she thinks; the push and pull, the constant bickering. He's odd and gets flustered easy, — and she'd studied him long enough to remember all the different ways she could push his buttons. “If you believe to be so wise, hm..."

He stays quiet, then scoots down close to her. The shadows from the treetops slice her features in a miscellaneous of greens and warm tones. Sun’s cast upon her hair, delicate and thin as a golden veil.

"O-Okay..."

Katara hands him over the paint-pot, and sits down as if to face him fully. There’s a certain glimmer on her expression as she does so, Zuko notices. Like the skin on her nose has turned the slightest pinch of rose.

“Okay.”, he repeats, more so to steady himself, and so he takes a drop of paint and draws a straight line on her forehead. Katara stays still, let’s him do whatever. She realizes, right as he touches her, how rough his palms have gotten. As if his years of struggle had somehow imprinted on every stripe and trace upon them.

She swallows hard. Zuko has a hand lifting her chin up, the other sliding down her face. She’s seen him become a man, little by little. Has been present when he had to make hard decisions, there at political meetings, — then drunk tea with him at Iroh’s, cracking up until their stomachs would hurt. It’s why it almost makes her shiver, the way he caresses her; so grown. Like it’s evident now, time has flown by, and they’re not those small kids who’re afraid of the world anymore.

“Close your eyes.”, he asks, almost in a drowned-out whisper, — then he takes more paint over from the pot. Katara might be a water bender, he knows this; but she’s as searing as stardust on a summer evening. Fierce as the washed-over sand on Ember Island. Her features are delicate, yet strong. Her skin’s earnest, and it’s speckled by cozy, tiny spots, — like a comet that flecks upon the broadest of night skies.

“Are you sure you’re not drawing me a beard or something?”, she says, just to poke fun at him. Zuko’s moving over to her brows now, covering each patch of lid with crimson red. He’s soft when sketching her up like this; it even shocks her a bit. When she imagined how his fingers on her cheeks would feel, she never thought they would be so caring. As if they were holding something precious, — something stitched with utmost fragility.

He laughs once more; a lovely, timid chuckle this time only.

“Pff, you’ll see…”, his index glides up over to her temples. Suddenly, he realizes that he’s never been so aware of how thick her lashes are, indeed. How long, and dark and curled-up they look from up closely. “I’m drawing you with a pair of glasses.”

Katara sticks out her tongue to him.

“You’re an idiot.”, she goes again. Zuko stays quiet, but smiles at her, regardless. Her skin’s gotten hot now, red and shiny as the paint that’s on his hands. And to him, that’s good enough for the time being, at least.

He bites his lip. Actually, though, the first time she’d told him about her being the Painted Lady, it had been a late night at the Palace. Katara was staying over for a couple weeks, since the Southern Water Tribe was peaceful, and so he had gone to her chambers like it was natural instinct for him to do. It was a warm, wet spring, he recalls, — the air was humid and smelt of rainfall and jasmines. For once, Katara was thrilled to change her furr coat for a silk pant and tops, just as much as he was thrilled to have her over.

“It’s a bit ironic, if you ask me.”, she’d said; her voice filled with something that sounded much quite like happiness. They were strolling their usual way through the gardens, like they would do when neither one could sleep. “We both dressed up as spirits from each other’s nations, right?”

Zuko had nodded. He wanted to believe that it was mere coincidence, or that maybe it was fate. A force stronger than the tides threading them together. As if they were always just meant to be pushed towards the other like that— with the helplessness of the ocean waves.

“Awe, so you knew I was the Blue Spirit all along?!”, he’d whined, making Katara laugh a little bit. He was aware, Aang had been sure of it, back then. He just didn’t think he’d ever tell the rest of the group, as well.

“Of course I did!”

He draws another line now, and then one more. Katara’s face is soft, he notices, round as the crescent moon— and it’s a thought that catches him off guard, all of a sudden, right as he goes along. His hands would fit every crevice, every bump and protuberance. Like they were made just for him to touch.

“´Tara…”, he calls her, at last, in a hush that’s barely audible. A brown lock has fallen over her forehead, and so he tucks it behind her ear. Strokes her cheek with the greatest care, almost as if she was made of glass. “You can open your eyes now.”

“So… you’re done?”, she stutters, blinking back into the midday-light. She can still feel his fingers on her skin, feather-light as a butterfly’s wings. Would recognize the gentleness of him were she blind, or deaf, or both. “We should get going, I guess.”

Zuko takes one last dip from the pot, then places his thumb upon her chin. He’d seen Katara grow into a woman, little by little, or all too fast, perhaps. Has thrown snowballs at her while on the South Pole, — chased her down the steep slopes; both screeching like two maniacs.

“Y-yeah, right, we should.”, he whispers, but Katara doesn’t really move. His fingers are now in the outlines of her lower lip, and— for the life of her—, she can’t think straight. Zuko is too close to her, almost a few hair breadths away. It’s up from this very distance, that she can see all of him; every detail, each pore, and scrap, and freckle for the first time. That she can appreciate the memories that were burnt upon his skin, the beautiful drops of amber that stipple up his eyes.

She holds her breath, just as he realizes he’s doing the same. That his hands are no longer steady, but have gotten shaky and damp with sweat, instead. If she wanted to, she could lean in and kiss him, sure enough, she figures. Could let him ruin the paint he’s just neatly put along her mouth and check how that would feel. Still, she knows this; it just wouldn’t be right.

“Zuko…”, she smiles. His name’s sweet upon her tongue. It’s smokey, and fierce and tastes like summer.

He smiles back at her, as his hand cups her cheek and lingers there for a while. Katara notices, almost right away, that this is different than when she was with Aang. With him, she’d never had her stomach full of butterflies— no, badgermoles— that would stomp and dig, dig, dig. Zuko, however, brings this other side of her. Like she’s raw, and wild, and untamable; fearless as seafoam going with the flow.

“Yeah.”, he tells her, and he pinches her nose in the cutest, most loving of ways. “That noodle-soup spot I know is gonna close up pretty soon.”

[elmundodeflor]

So... I've been thinking about this for a while and I've FINALLY decided to make a twitch channel!

I'll be streaming every thursday at 12:00 pm (Argentina's time).

Come chat with me about music, anime, ships, fanfics and make-up!

[elmundodeflor]

CRACKS ON PORCELAIN - CHAPTER TWO PREVIEW

The tender rays prompt their eyes wide open, at last. They’re huddled in bedsheets, basked in a pallet of golds, and reds, and warm tones.

Next to them, Levi breathes slowly; his hair an ink smash that spills against the pillow. They had slept together the night before, more so in the strict sense of the word. He was about to go after they’d had dinner, but then they’d stopped him halfway through.

“Please.”, they’d held his hand. They didn’t even have to ask it straight out. Levi knew, just from looking at how their fingers entwined; — his cheeks glittering under the oil lamp.

“Alright.”, he’d said, as he kicked off his shoes, and sat back on the bed. He stared at Hanji’s meal, that was still left unfinished on their chair, then at them again. “But let me go do the dishes first.”

Now, they’re the one staring at him, for a change, — watching him sound in his slumber. His face looks more delicate when he’s peaceful like this, — not scowling at the world. The sun makes his long, long lashes glitter, and there’s an angelic aura to him. Like he’s a fallen star that they’ve dared hold precious, cupped inside their once bare palms.

“Oh, Levi…”

Only a couple hours earlier, he’d tried to take their eyepatch off; his fingers soft on calloused skin. They’d been adamant on it at first, not really sure of showing such a wound out in the open. But then it happened; slow, and cautious, and tender, — like sugar melting on the stove. He’d inched close to them, stroked their hair as he slid off the fabric.

“Are you gonna teach the cadets the first-aid course this year?”, he’d asked. His hands lingered on their face for a moment, tracing the marks that the eyepatch had left. “Wouldn’t trust you to do it if you can’t even let the skin breathe properly.”

Hanji leaned into the touch.

“Scatterbrain.”, they’d huffed, though they were smiling, even if the tiniest of smiles. Levi was so gentle, so caring and warm with them, how could they not? He made them feel pretty— for once— safe, at home. As if none of the red flesh, and the white iris, and the sinking nightmares were really visible, and it was just them. The passionate nerd. The reckless scientist. No injuries. No reasons to hide from people.

“We’ll have to set the recruitment campaign first.”

They scoot over to him now, flip a thread of black behind his ear. He’s so beautiful, their fingers burn at the spots where they meet him. Levi Ackerman; a fragile soul that life had been too bleak to. The timid gold peaking from a cracked-up surface. All they wish for, is to protect him from disaster. To cradle him in their arms, and never let anything hurt him ever again.

“Hi.”, he greets them, as if he knew they’d been staring all along. His voice is rough and low; a single dimple drawn at the corners of his lips.

Hanji kisses him in the space between his eyes.

“Sleepyhead.”, they giggle, and their thumb and index pit-pat at his temples, making him laugh a bit, as well. “Hi, good morning.”

[elmundodeflor]

HI! This is me, live-reading a small fraction of Chapter Two from "Cracks on Porcelain" (which you can read here)

I honestly suck at acting-out dialogue, and my English is probably not the best, either. But I will say, I DID have a lot of fun making this! So, I guess I just hope y'all like itt?) (!)

K BYE JSKSKS

[elmundodeflor]

Come here, sit down. I have something important to tell you. A message that could save both our lives.

You’ll have two kids, Gabi and Falco, by the time you’re a little over forty. Well, no, it’s not like you’re gonna be a parent. At least, not in the sense that you’re probably thinking. But you’ll care for them. A lot more than you’ll ever want to admit. You’ll brew them your best tea, tell them bedtime stories about giants from a foreign land.

Gabi, the girl, she’s hotheaded, and reminds you of that time you saw firecrackers on a Marley festival. She gets angry at the world often, but she’s kind. And smart. And has a heart that has so many broken, empty spaces, she can take everyone else in; no questions asked.

Falco would never hurt a fly. He has this soft, warm gaze in his eyes that never deceives, never hides. They both look after me, us, though they’re just that— two children of war. Gabi carries my wheelchair, now holds the cups the same way we do. Falco tells her to shush whenever his instincts warn him, she’s making me talk too much.

I don’t know, I guess all this was to say: don’t listen to me. Ignore everything that you’ve ever been told. You’re not guilty of any of these wounds. It was never fair of you to take so much ache in such a tiny, fragile frame.

When I talk to myself, I’m not talking to you, did you realize? When I feel this huge pull at my chest, it’s like a part of me is breaking yours apart, as well.

I apologize, Levi.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

It’s understandable, that you run behind closed doors if you hear my footsteps. That my words make you tremble, and you go search for mom under the covers. You’re scared of me. I’m your nightmare. A ghost that paces in the darkness and looms in the corners of your sweet, sweet innocence.

Every punch I received, every slash that left my skin burnt open, it made you bleed. Every time I doubted myself, my own will to fight, I shrunk you. I made you smaller.

I turned into a monster. You search for me in the shadows, in the closet, under the bed. I’m everywhere. I’m all of them. I’m all those who hurt you, when all you needed was a pair of arms to stitch you back together.

I’m worse than the sum of every enemy. Titans, the nobles, the underground thugs who tore you to shreds. They were on the outside. But me, Levi— this pain—, it lives within us. It’s buried so deep, that it stings, and it makes every scrap of us sink to our very core.

I’m sorry. I am. Don’t listen to me, okay? When I talk to myself, every choice that I regret, it’s not about you. It was never about you.

Even so, though, why do I feel this way, then? Why is it that, every time I wanna hurt myself, I can hear you shout? Why is it that, whenever I put pressure on my shoulders, I can see your hands clinging at my sleeves?

I’m here, you’re there. So close, yet so far. And even at that, what I wanted to say is that there’s still hope.

There's still hope for the both of us.

I’m your monster, right? So, if you turn the lights up… remember? I disappear.

I can still recall every last bit you. Tender, naïve, hopeful, happy. So, turn the lights up, you little Levi. I want to look up in the mirror and find you there, looking back at me. I want you to take control. To take over the two of us.

Your voice is softer than mine, it has always been. Your voice can speckle the small, ordinary things in life with threads of marvel. It can create worlds, where days are ever-sunny and the air smells of herbs and tea.

Your voice will bring us home. I’m sure. Your voice will fill it with warmth seeping from its windows. I’ve been a monster too long, little Levi, but you’re still there somewhere. So, scream. Scream as loud as you can. Grow all the huge and all the brave that I could never be, for the sake of us both.

Or be tiny. Be tiny, and precious, and never let this sappy old grump rob you of your wide-eyed gaze.

And don’t believe a word I say.

And do what Gabi and Falco do for me. When I’m too weak to walk, they let me rest my hands on their shoulders. When I’m tired, or grey, or sick, they climb to my bed and tell me stories about kids who fought dragons and saved their loved ones. They’re my adults. They clean my shelves, they comb my hair, they heal this crumpled soul of mine.

You see? Maybe I’m not the adult that you’d wished me to be. I don’t always treat ourselves with kindness. I don’t always forgive ourselves for what we’ve done. So please, please, please, take care of me now. Be my adult, if only for a little while. I’m tired, and grey, and sick. And I need you. I need you like I need Gabi and Falco. I need you like I need mom.

And I’m sorry.

I apologize, Levi.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

But for right now, it’s you who has to show me that there’s still hope in this cruel, yet beautiful world.

That there’s still hope for the both of us.

[elmundodeflor]

DID YOU KNOW I SING IN A FUNK BAND?

DODO is a funk-music project born in January 2023, out of common friendship and the shared passion all of its members have for music. Drums, vocals, bass and two guitars, DODO is a breath of fresh air in the funk world, and has fun making music that brings everyone out to the dancefloor.

You can click HERE to book us to record your favourite song for you!

We'll make sure to provide you with:

-Best quality audio

-Fast and assertive communication

-Professional results and work environment

You can also follow us on our other social platforms:

INSTAGRAM

YOUTUBE

SPOTIFY

Reblogs and shares are always more than appreciated!

[elmundodeflor]

Thank youu so much for the tag! @giuliadrawsstuff ❤️❤️

3 ships you like: there's only time and space for Levihan, sorry hehe

First ship ever: I thiiink it was Mar and Thiago from an argentinian telenovela called Casi Angeles (Almost Angels/Teen Angels)

Last song you heard: Feather by Sabrina Carpenter. A banger, for suree!

Favourite Childhood Book: oof I have so so manyy! But I guess, if I had to choose one, it'd sure be "Kabú", a book on a baby elephant and his adventures (I looove elephants)

Currently Reading: lots of fanfiction and The Time Between Seams, by María Dueñas. Highly recommend!

Currently Watching: bunch of Robin Williams movies lol. As for a series, I'm watching Komi San Can't Communicate. It's pretty lovely so far!

Currently Consuming: soooo much music !!!!

Currently Craving: SUSHI !!!! or tacos !!!! haven't had either in what seems like forever lmaoo.

I tag @nerdynuala @autumndory @youre-ackermine @someonestolemyshoes @dontatmethanks (and anyone who wants to joinnn)

Thank you for the tag @thistlecatfics :D

3 ships you like: Sirius/Severs is a very loved favourite. Fenrir/Alphard is a personal headcanon, and for some non-Harry Potter: Niki/Joe from The Old Guard will always have my heart

First ship ever: Niki/Joe brought me to writing fanfic, before them I mostly did OCs.

Last song you heard: I'm all shook up from Elvis. We are in our "teach the kids some good music fundamentals"phase.

Favourite childhood book: Astrid Lindgren's Ronia, the Robber's Daughter - such a beautiful book to teach kids about tolerance, acceptance and about making their own decisions

Currently reading: Terry Pratchett - the collected books :)

Currently watching: I am a bit in between because I just finished "The law according to Lidia Poet" a beautiful Italian series - obscure but absolutely worth it (give it a try if you can)

Currently consuming: lemon white chocolate cookie, super unhealthy but good for the soul

Currently craving: the next ball room dance. I will have to wait a whole year and it was so perfect yesterday

I tag @squintclover , @soloorganaas, @tracingpatternswrites, @metalomagnetic AND @meteoralinart

[elmundodeflor]

Happy Earth Day! 🌎 Reblog this with a picture of your favorite plant/flower!

Thank you for the tag, @nerdynuala! Jasmines are my fav flowers because of how sweet their perfume iss. When I was a little girl, my parents and grandparents had this house far outside the city where we'd go spend the weekends on during spring/summer. Our neighbours there had this huuge plant that'd grow jasmines at the time, and so our block was always filled with this deliciousss aroma.

Now, the smell of jasmines reminds me quite a lot of spring/summer (best time of the year, imo), and of those childhood days spent with my familyy.

TAGGING @giuliadrawsstuff, @littlelasagne, @someonestolemyshoes, @dontatmethanks, @autumndory and anyone who wants to joinn!

Happy Earth Day!! 🌎 Reblog this with a picture of your favorite plant/flower!!

Mines a red hibiscus!

Tagging: @strawberrystepmom @the-milk-anon @jayteacups @theferricfox @postwarlevi @kikarouflames and anyone who wants to join in!!

[elmundodeflor]

CRACKS ON PORCELAIN - a gift for @someonestolemyshoes

READ THE FULL FIC ON AO3

The third flash of realization comes unexpected, one late-night where he's bathing them. He had to drag them there, — out into the common showers. They would have stayed in their room for another day, signing off papers and permissions, hadn’t he done so.

“Oi”, he’d asked, soon as he’d opened the door. “How long has it been?”

Hanji’d barely looked up at him.

“My brain’s fried, Levi.”, they’d sighed, as they ran their fingers through their hair. Good thing he didn’t even need to be specific. “I can barely remember my own name by now.”

He’d nodded.

“More of a reason to get moving, then.”

Now, mercurial blue hours twinkle in the haze between dusk and morning. Hanji’s bare before him, and the pale moonshine traces contours on their body. They’re concave and convex, frail and strong. All too swift, all at once. Levi can’t help but find shapes upon their back, — like he’s connecting dots between muscle and scar. A planet, a cloud. He pretends that he’s a painter. That each stroke of light and shadow brings his work to life.

He lathers up soap between his hands. Water ripples at each one of his movements, as he washes down their neck, their nape, their shoulders. He’s careful handling them, — he always has been. There’s a part of him that feels that Hanji’s made of glass, — that a single blow could shatter them to pieces. They don’t need the extra pressure— the world puts enough on them already. It’s why he holds them with sheer delicacy— as if they’re Erwin’s vase, and he’s trying to bring their broken back to earth. Not everyone gets to see the softer sides of him, but Hanji; — Hanji’s different. They understand him— simple and complex as that. Everyone else is intimidated by his presence, and yet they tease him for being clean-cut. Will say titans don’t shit just to play around with him.

His fingers trickle down their spine, their waist; shy, meticulous. As if all his endings have turned to sea-foam. They have a secret pact. A tacit agreement that goes unexplored, untouched in moments like these, where they’re too hush and helpless. They don’t ask him why he does all of this for them, and he never speaks the two words that would give them enough of an answer.

“You stank, you know.”, he says, instead. His voice’s sweet, but then he stops himself.

He can feel bone under his palms. Sharp, and fierce and rigid. He doesn’t recall it being there before, the last time he’d bathed them. Sure, Hanji had always been skinny; tall, and with a languid frame. Still, it was never like this. It was never this bad. He would know. He’d engraved each scrap of them into his heart before.

When was the last time he’d even seen them eat?

He clears his throat, and swallows hard, and lets out a sigh. He can count each vertebra that pokes from under the skin. It seems that, beneath the shadows, they’re different phases of the moon: one crescent, one full. There’s little muscle in sight; only the thinness of flesh. The tough realization that this is all it’s come down to.

“Hanji…”

They tell him nothing back. They don’t wish to talk about it, and he knows better than to push them further. All of a sudden, it’s like they’re a kid who’s been caught red-handed. A famous criminal found at the theft scene.

It does make Levi’s soul shrink, — to watch them like this, all too small; knees pulled to their chest. They used to shine with every color in the rainbow; a whisp of bright and vibrant. Now, they’re only rain. Nothing but the cracks on a porcelain vase; no liquid gold to glue them back together.

He gets up from the chair he’s in, goes fetch for a warm, fluffy towel. Hanji stands up to their full height, and covers up their breasts with their hands, but he can see it, still. Their weak build, the protuberances on their hips and ribs. For a moment, it almost looks like they’ll bend and fall. Like water will weigh them down, and they’re not sturdy enough to carry themselves to make it.

He’s worried sick about them. Oh, God forbid, he’s so, so worried. He doesn’t understand, — how could he be this selfish; much too focused on his own pain to even notice Hanji’s.

“I’m cold.”, they whisper, barely audible.

And when he wraps them up in cloth, at last, beaming with all the love that he’s capable of, he can only promise himself one thing:

He won’t let them disappear. He can’t. He’ll never.

He won’t let Hanji Zoe become cracks on porcelain.