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teawan · 2 years

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How about something like a secret relationship? They sneak off and hide to make out and stuff. Just really cute and wholesome love for one another. I just want some sweet fluffy romance! Thank you! ♥

here you are :) it's a little rushed and probably ooc bc this is my first time writing for stranger things but hopefully it's not too bad 😭😭 ty for the prompt and hope you enjoy!!

It’s seven at night and the party is gathered in Mike’s basement, drunk on laughter and cold pizza and togetherness. Will is in his wizard costume—well, the cape is draped across his lap as he stretches out on the couch and the tall, pointed purple hat is askew, a couple jostles away from falling straight off, so maybe he isn’t exactly in costume, but he doesn’t really care at this point, because the room is full of warmth and giddiness and he hasn't felt so at peace in what seems like forever. Mike is sprawled out on the floor below him, snorting at the sight of Lucas and Dustin as they wrestle with each other.

“Give it up, man, Suzie literally saved the world,” Dustin says, pinning Lucas to the ground and carelessly lifting an ugly throw pillow that Mrs. Wheeler had placed meticulously on the couch only hours before, preparing to sock Lucas in the face with it.

Lucas scoffs, rolling out of the way just as Dustin brings down the monstrosity of a cushion. It lands squarely where Lucas’s face had been moments ago. “Yeah, by reciting some numbers. What was it? Pi or something? Max is way more badass.”

“Planck’s constant, you idiot,” corrects Dustin, dodging clumsily and checking his hip on the corner of the table as Lucas lunges to tackle him to the ground. “Oh, shit, that hurt! Motherfucker!”

Will laughs. “I don’t think Mrs. Wheeler would be very happy to hear that kind of language under her roof.” He glances at Mike when he says this and is pleased to see that a small, amused smile has wormed its way onto the taller boy's elegant, angular face.

Alarmed, Dustin turns to the stairwell, as if he expects Mike’s mother to materialize at the sound of her name like a demon being summoned. Lucas takes the opportunity to chuck a die from their unfinished campaign they had drifted away from an hour ago at Dustin’s exposed nape, and his newfound basketball skills ensure him a direct hit.

“Ow!” yelps Dustin, whipping around so fast that he nearly trips over his own feet. “Oh, you’ll pay for that, Sinclair—”

As the two boys’ bickering continues, Will catches Mike’s eye from his spot on the couch, reaching out with a socked foot and nudging Mike’s hip to get his attention. A silent conversation passes between the two of them, consisting solely of secretive smiles, sparkling glances, and, occasionally, a peek at Lucas and Dustin to check whether or not they’re being watched (they aren’t; Lucas and Dustin, having spontaneously made a truce, are now leaning against various pieces of furniture and discussing seriously about their respective girlfriends), and eventually, Mike props himself up on his elbows, gravity sweeping a single dark curl over his face. Will bites back a smile as Mike tries to blow it out of his face, eyes crossing slightly. After a few attempts, he gives up, hooking it behind his ear impatiently, and moves to stand, making his way to the stairs.

He doesn't get far, having taken only four steps—Will counted—before Dustin and Lucas look up, eyes questioning. "Where are you going?"

"Up," replies Mike, waving his hand vaguely at the stairs. "I think my mom called." He doesn't look at Will, but his body is ever so slightly angled towards the couch where Will lounges. The corners of Will's lips quirk up at the likely-unintentional gesture. It's at times like this that he has to restrain himself from doing one of two things: either pinching himself to reassure his mind once again that he is not, in fact, trapped in a strangely realistic and detailed dream that spans several weeks, or—the urge that is much harder to resist—launching himself at Mike in front of everyone and smothering his boyfriend with kisses because God, Michael Wheeler is the single most adorable thing he's ever had the pleasure of encountering in life. He can't do either of these things because first of all, Mike would get pissy if he saw Will doing anything remotely harmful to himself, and second—well, that's self-explanatory. It isn't that he thinks that any of his friends would react badly if they ever found out that he doesn't like girls the way they do, but honestly? He doesn't want to deal with the drama that would inevitably come if he were to show any kind of affection towards Mike that wasn't strictly platonic in front of other people.

Lucas hums in acknowledgement and he and Dustin return to their conversation. Shooting Will a quick, conspiratorial grin that says I can't believe it was that easy, Mike trots up the stairs. Smiling to himself, Will begins to count backwards from one hundred and twenty—it's probably unnecessary, but staggering their exits when in front of other people makes both of them feel a little more secure.

"Hey, what about you, Byers?" Dustin's question distracts him from his reverie, and he sits up before remembering the hat that's balancing precariously on his head. Well, was balancing. It falls to the ground with a soft sound and Will spares it a short glance before turning his attention back on his friends.

"Huh?"

Lucas gestures impatiently, waving his arms around in the air and looking at Will like he expects him to understand. "Y'know. Any girls?" Wiggling his eyebrows, Dustin leans forward, clearly anticipating some kind of juicy answer.

Will tries to force down a laugh, but the question is just so ridiculous to him—obviously he can't really blame his friends, as he has spent the last decade trying as hard as he possibly can to fake crushes on the women in magazines and modeling shows, but the idea of him noticing a girl enough to feel the need to share it is absurd. Mike is literally two floors away, waiting for Will. Lucas and Dustin had been in the same room as Will's boyfriend not even two minutes ago. So, despite his valiant efforts, a giggle slips out.

Lucas's face morphs into an expression of comical confusion, but Dustin just raises his eyebrows, leaning even farther forward. Will doesn't understand how he hasn't fallen yet.

"No," he answers truthfully, and watches the confusion and excitement slip from his friends' faces, suspicion painting itself over their features instead.

"Really?" Lucas asks skeptically, knitting his brows together at Will.

Will nods, trying to look as earnest as possible—it's not like he's lying, after all. He'd answered Dustin's question completely honestly. He hasn't noticed any girls, not ever in his life. At least not in the way that his friends were implying.

He sees Dustin open his mouth to ask a follow-up question, most likely something along the lines of an accusation of insincerity, when he remembers to check the time on the clock. The minute hand has ticked its way around the face twice now, and is on its way to complete a third revolution. Mike is probably getting confused by now. Will can just picture his delicate features twisting into a look of puzzlement as the seconds race by, and he stands up abruptly, his purple cape dropping unceremoniously from his lap onto the floor, before Dustin can even get a word out. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” he announces, and toes the fine line to how fast he can walk before it becomes alarming.

Just as he reaches the first stair, he catches a glimpse of his friends’ bewildered faces. “Isn’t there a bathroom down here?” he hears Lucas ask Dustin, but he’s already stepping out onto the first floor and shutting the door to the basement as quickly as he can without slamming it.

Doing a short preliminary scan to make sure he’s in the clear, he scurries towards the stairs that lead up to the second floor. Before he steps foot on the staircase though, Mrs. Wheeler’s voice cuts through the silence, scaring Will so badly that he almost jumps out of his skin. “Will, honey? Where are you going?”

Heart pounding in his throat so hard that he feels nauseous, Will turns to see Mrs. Wheeler rounding the corner with Holly on her hip, looking slightly concerned. “Oh, uh—Mrs. Wheeler! Hi,” he manages, trying in vain to take himself down from fight-or-flight mode. He doesn’t do well with sudden noises or people creeping up on him, especially since the Upside Down. It reminds him of the constant fear, the nonstop need for vigilance, lest the grotesque, horrible, fleshy creatures picked up his scent, or heard his breathing, and decided they were hungry for human boy.

“Hi there,” Mrs. Wheeler says slowly, brows drawn together in confusion at his strange reaction, looking him up and down as if assessing for injuries. “Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah. I’m okay, you just scared me,” he says, mustering up a smile and hoping it doesn’t look as much like a grimace as it feels like one. “I’m just grabbing something for Mike. From his room.” He prays that Mike had gotten up into his room unseen so Will can avoid any further questioning.

Still looking slightly doubtful, Mike’s mother adjusts her arm around Holly. “Well, okay. Let me know if you need anything, alright? Don’t hesitate to ask.” Will nods, silently willing her to go, and to his relief, she turns and heads back towards the kitchen.

Racing his way up the rest of the stairs, he half-runs down the hall until he reaches Mike’s bedroom, twisting the knob a little harder than he intended to and yanking the door open to reveal his boyfriend, lounging on the bed with a comic laid out in front of him, lanky arms and legs sprawled lazily out across the sheets and eyes half-lidded with boredom. “Took you long enough,” Mike says, grinning at the sight of Will’s flustered expression, and slips off the bed, padding towards the shorter boy.

When Mike wraps his arms around Will, pulling their bodies towards each other and pressing a kiss onto Will’s lips, he melts, losing virtually all muscle function. Mike laughs into the kiss, hauling Will onto the bed. “What did Dustin and Lucas say when you left?” asks Mike, mouth still pressed against Will’s, and Will can feel the shape of the words. Mike’s voice is sweet and sounds and tastes like a popsicle on a sweltering summer afternoon.

He mumbles something incoherent, pressing himself against Mike because he doesn’t really have the facilities to carry a conversation right now. He’s mostly focused on getting as close as humanly possible to Mike, hoping that maybe willpower will be enough to get their bodies to fuse together. “I wanna wear your skin,” he mutters as he wraps his legs around Mike’s waist. He attempts to deepen the kiss, but Miks draws back, startled. “You want to what?” he asks.

Frustrated at the sudden lack of contact, Will headbutts Mike’s shoulder. “Why’d you stop, stupid?”

“Because you implied that you wanted to literally skin me alive,” replies Mike, adjusting their positions so that he can look into Will’s eyes.

“Just wanna be closer,” complains Will, using a hand to guide Mike’s lips back to his. Finally, the dark-haired boy complies, letting Will capture him back into the kiss, grinning a little at the smaller boy’s eagerness. Impatient now because of the previous pause, Will snakes his tongue into Mike’s mouth in a rare display of confidence, apparently surprising the other boy, who makes a startled—but definitely not unhappy—sound. It’s not loud by any stretch of the imagination, but Will still draws back a little, listening carefully for footsteps before diving back into the makeout session with vigor. He whimpers a little when Mike catches Will’s bottom lip in between his teeth, not that Will would ever admit it, and he feels his boyfriend smirk at the sound. Irritated, he nudges Mike’s mouth open wider and licks into it in retaliation, wiggling a little with satisfaction and carding his hands through Mike’s deliciously soft and silky curls when his boyfriend’s long, dark eyelashes flutter at the unexpected action.

Suddenly, Mike flips Will over so that he’s lying under the taller boy, locks of hair framing his face as he looks down at Will impishly. His lips are kiss-swollen and his hair is mussed and Will doesn’t think he’s seen anything hotter than this ever. “Michael…” he says, half-questioningly and half-warily, because the shark-like grin on the Wheeler boy’s face is raising some alarm bells.

Without replying, Mike places his forearms down on either side of Will to support him as he leans down to kiss Will again. Hard. Overwhelmed by the warm, slick feeling of Mike’s mouth pressing against him with a ferocity that was at least double of what they had been working with before, Will’s knee presses up against the warm skin under Mike’s navel involuntarily. Mike hums at the contact and takes the chance to move away from Will’s mouth and down to his neck in the split second that he lets down his guard, stopping somewhere near his collarbone and sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin. Will gasps shallowly at the painful pleasure, using every ounce of strength he has in himself to keep in the embarrassing keening noise that is building up in the back of his throat.

Mike continues down Will’s neck and onto his chest, exploring the almost too-warm expanse of his skin with his lips and teeth, and Will dissolves, clutching onto Mike’s shoulders to anchor him to reality as Mike quite literally marks Will as his own.

It’s really fucking hot.

Then Will remembers that he’ll have to cover it up later, which really defeats the entire purpose, but he’s too out of it for the flicker of unhappiness to be any more than just that—a flicker that’s immediately covered up by the pure sensation of Mike against him, Mike’s mouth on his skin. Fuck, he thinks to himself, because he’s so far gone for this boy, so far gone for Michael Wheeler, his best friend since childhood. And he can only assume, from the way that Mike is mumbling unintelligible endearments against his sternum, that Mike is just as far gone for him.

Then the door swings open, and Will doesn’t register the squeaking of the hinges until it’s too late. "What're you guys doing in—"

By the time he’s pushed himself up on his elbows, face burning and undoubtedly crimson red, Mike having fallen away from above him, Lucas and Dustin are staring wide-eyed at the two of them, uncomprehending looks on both their faces.

“What the actual fuck,” whispers Lucas, breaking the silence.

“...Surprise?” Mike offers sheepishly from beside Will, who whips around and cuffs him upside the head.

“Sorry,” says Dustin, looking shell-shocked. “I’ll—we’ll. Um. Leave you two…to, uh, it.” He reaches out and attempts to grab the doorknob again, missing a couple of times before finally grasping it and yanking the door shut.

Will, face still hot, turns to Mike. His boyfriend smiles back—he is way too calm for the situation they are in right now—and takes Will’s hand in both of his, squeezing it lightly. “Hey,” he says, “at least we still had our clothes on.”

Will chokes.

#fanfiction #fanfic #will byers x mike wheeler #byler #will byers #mike wheeler #secret relationship #byler fluff #making out #kissing #liberal use of em dashes #might be ooc #not beta read #constructive critism welcome

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levmada · 2 years

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First Times Anthology, ch5: closer, harder

work summary » Intimate, vulnerable, gentle. Concepts Levi is a stranger to, until you.

ch.summary: Things are different after Mayfest. Hearts mingle and undefined lines blur—ones so very thin. Lost in the aftermath of what Levi wants to believe is right, you show him it isn't, whether you know it or not.

content/warnings: so much yearning, masturbation (m!recieving), almost softcore porn tbh, mention of eating abnormalities, Petra: so soft..so kind, lots of tears, Levi falling apart, vague blink-and-you’ll-miss-it mention of SA, heartbreak (for a while), explicit&severe panic attack, minor injury; slightly graphic injury recovery, Erwin (accidentally) plays matchmaker, Levi is humanity's strongest for a reason, hurt/comfort, very soft at the end, themes of self-hatred

wc: 17.2k(haha...)

a/n: alternative summary - levi is a hopeless simp who is horrified when he realizes he's in love.

as things heat up i think it's an appropriate time for their first crisis😀but also levi's first case of blue balls. i decided not to split this chappy bc i want softness and comfort out of this fic more than leaving it on a cliffhanger in chaos, but as a result it runs very, very, very long. im sorry! but it will be worth it. im done writing ch's the length of novelettes after this (hope).

i think someone who reads can tell where the end is going. these two are too deeply in love. lets just say there's a lot of smut in the next one. i didnt plan for this fic to run so long or live rent free in my heart😭💕 i thank u guys for all the support on it and i hope the length of this one doesnt drive too many ppl crazy.💖

for the song?? see also: just fine by spookyghostboy

previous part・work masterpost・next part

Listened to while writing:

taglist: @peace-for-levi | @sckerman | @jayteacups | @levi-my-beloved | (if you'd like to be added, lmk!)

“Hey, I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

Levi has always had hobbies a little softer than the way he portrays himself as. Mike or Hange would blanch if they knew he enjoys threading a needle and making scarves, for example. You know he sews, crochets, and surprisingly, dabbles in reading.

That’s a pastime he took to especially after you opened up him up to the world of books. There’s the typical slice-of-life affairs, and secretly (as in, tucked in the lowest of his dresser drawers, secret) contemporary romance.

After years of lending him your own tattered blouses to stitch up, then watching him work at it himself, a few months ago he started showing you the ropes. He’s just so good at it. Apparently, he learned when he was a kid, just out of necessity, but there’s something to his calm frown and steady hands that makes you think he’s just talented.

You, for one, have finally managed to stick a thread through a needle’s eye without pricking the sides. Mostly.

“Hm.”

He sounds just as disinterested as a man like Levi could ever sound. A little discouraged, you crane your neck over the back of his velvety armchair. In one hand you hold a small sock—in case you ‘wrecked’ it, in his words—and in the other, your triumph.

Your breath catches, and in case he can somehow tell, you hold it. Hastily he’s writing something, bent over the edge of his desk in dark, pleated trousers rather than his usual uniform. It’s not like you share his quarters, and the chaos that was Mayfest has again settled into calm waters of normalcy since that evening—so you’re allowed to ogle at his backside in a tight pair of pants, if quietly.

Sewing suddenly doesn’t interest you much anymore. His lips are still pressed together, focusing, so you decide to fool around a little.

The fabric may as well be firmly pasted to that round ass. You imagine it’s just as thick as his thighs: at special moments, you’ve sneaked in little pinches and strokes here and there. They weren’t too romantic since you figured out he’s ticklish in only very specific places—but still.

He looks good. He really does have a small waist, too. Your imagination runs away from you a little.

“Hey, Lev’.” You make your voice as placid as humanly possible. “I’ve thought about it and I think I really like the Military Police.”

Nothing—just a small sound to show he heard you. Your eyebrows shoot straight up to your forehead, laughter bubbling up in your throat which you manage to not let escape. An opportunity like this is simply too sweet to ignore.

Quietly, neatly, you shift your things off your lap and dawdle on your feet a moment before allowing yourself to drift over to him. It’s easy to feign interest somewhere else, and then once you’re close behind him, take a handful of the same round ass you were gawking at not a moment ago.

Levi reminds you a bit of a steel spinning top, how he immediately straightens up and bats your hand off his backside. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think there was steam pouring out his ears.

“W-What the hell are you doing?”

You mimic his aghast expression. “Oh, so you do know I’m here.”

“You’re…” He presses himself flush with the wooden desk, flustered to hell. His expression pinches (as always), like he’s tasted a fresh lemon. “You’re a pervert.”

You arch a single brow, gauging his reaction before moving in.

If he was much angrier, you’d have something to be worried about. It’s not the first time he’s called you a pervert before reeling you in for a kiss. You think of the last time he snapped your bra straps when you were in bed; all because you wouldn’t stop shifting around, trying to get comfortable.

These last few months have been fun.

He does nothing but stare you down when you cage him against the desk with both arms, leaning in close and pressing a fragile peck to his lips. “Oh? But I couldn’t help myself.”

Levi curls his hands into fists, but that doesn’t keep his whole body from shuddering. He’s normally so in-control, but when specifically you take that away—well, he’s hot under his collar.

He was signing off on documents a moment ago, and barely registered what you said. With a wrinkled brow and topsy-turvy feelings raging inside—notably, the heat in his lower half, which is winning the rest over—he knows why. It's the way you're looking at him. He’s one silky word out of your mouth away from kissing the hell out of you.

“Liar,” he breathes.

“Your ass just looks too good in those slacks.”

If he could somehow overdose on air, he would be dead. It isn’t fair. You’re close enough to feel him hardening in his trousers, but if he didn’t know you as well as he does, it’d be impossible to tell whether you’re simply getting another laugh out of flustering him.

“Daring today, aren’t we?” he mutters, regaining his literal and mental balance. His hand dives beneath the straps tethered around your torso, yanking you in so there’s no space left between you from the chest down. He’s feeling like quite the daredevil himself.

You meet him in a bruising kiss, only for your own to part when his palm slips into your back pocket, stretching down to take his own share. He grunts at the sound that escapes you, and molds his palm with the seat of your ass. It fuels a fire in his belly and the rush of blood in his ears. It’s still not as loud as the smacks from your kissing.

He wants to tell you that he wants your hand back again, that he wants you all over him, but all he can manage is a breathy “Fuck,” between breaks for breath. Your noses keep bumping together.

He burns. It’s with a fluttery twist of lust that a soft, sweet sigh leaves your lips, half-mounting him so your hips have perfect access to the spot between his legs. You grapple the desk as not to crash right into him, and shiver, shamelessly.

“Levi–”

You breathe each other into a wet, hasty kiss. Yes, he decides, he’s going to kiss the hell out of you.

He tastes sweet, in a subtle way, with the slightest hints of earthiness from his tea that’s coupled with something purely Levi that it makes your heart and every little eager nerve of yours sing.

You're out of practice and him, experience, but it no longer matters, not when you want each other this badly.

Somehow, based somewhere in instinct, your hands find each other on the desk on either side of his waist. His squeeze on the rear of your thigh disappears so he can lock them together, all-in.

The position has its drawbacks. Your straddle over him slacks a little, so—without thinking much beyond the throb of your heartbeat—you press right up against his solid body with a slippery whine. You’ve never felt him hard like this, not on purpose.

You see it when his lids flutter, and he pulls a lungful of air between his teeth. Your fingers grope together, uncoordinated. Briefly, you get the idea to reach around and take his ass in your hands again. That’s before his own slip around your wrists, trapping you against him.

Regardless of the fact that you should have him caged in, he’s the one in control; this is the way he wants you, and it makes your face heat. You hike your thigh up around his waist and roll your hips, bumping your knee against the wooden surface in your haste.

Licking pleasure causes a moan to roll through his throat, the first sound he’s made at all, and just like that the spell is broken. He smacks back against the desk, breathing hard. His fingers fumble away from you; all this without a clue why, but he’s horribly embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he croaks.

At first, you don’t think you heard him right. “What? No—are you okay?”

He stares at you, desire quickly bleeding away to shame. The fact that you make room and watch him, worried and earnest, darkens the feeling. He feels exposed, and meeting your eyes feels like confessing everything, so he can’t even look at you straight.

“Yeah. Sorry.” That’s the second apology that tumbles out of his mouth. “I didn’t think…”

He doesn’t know why he makes a fool of himself like this. It’s too much is a defense that comes to mind, which doesn’t make sense because he’s nothing if not glowing in your presence.

He chose this with you, whatever ‘this’ is, but the rest of the jagged lines that make Levi up won’t straighten out, so you can’t match up. They aren’t even defined, as you’ve never sat down and talked about it.

You’re still so patient with him, even now: “Hey, I don’t need that. You did nothing wrong.”

He knows. That’s the crux of the problem. If you were to ask him what exactly begged that Sorry, he wouldn't be able to say. He’s never been scared when hooking up with someone in the past. Then again, you’re so much more than that, to the point that it hurts.

The issue of stopping is redundant because sex has never been, isn’t, and never will be thing your relationship revolves around. He isn’t torn to bits because he pulled away, and you could care less about that when he’s backed into a metaphorical corner, white-knuckling his desk for dear life.

“It’s okay,” you say right beside him, frowning at the feeling of rigid steel that is his shoulder. “You don’t have to explain. But if something happened in the past–”

“It hasn’t.” He’s confident of that.

You nod. “But if I overstepped, I just need to know. So I don’t do it again, okay?”

With a shake of his head—being snuck up on by someone he knows as well as you hasn’t been the issue for quite some time—he takes a handful of your bandaged fingers (all that damn sewing), then squeezes. It helps him to calm down, and by the way you deflate, the feeling is mutual.

“No.” A peck to your temple. “It's good.”

Unlike before, when every damn thing you did was like an electric shock to a hundred nerve endings, at least then it was mutually exclusive. It was either something you both wanted, or it wasn’t, and you stopped: that was that.

These days, though, things are different. You pull him closer, and he’ll kiss you; take him to bed, and he’ll happily become your personal furnace for the evening. When you both want it, you make it clear in one way or another—emphasis on or another, in his case.

Too much is a new issue, gauging for how long and when to pull away. It’s like dancing in a field of bushfires blind, wondering when you’ll get burned.

He hates how insecure he’s made you feel. He can tell. No one can read you like him. Like an optical illusion resolving itself, he finds it written all over your face.

“Are you sure?”

With a small, deadpan look, he brushes your hair away. To his own fault, it’s a little messy. “Are you blind?” Another crumpling feeling of embarrassment. “–Or deaf?”

It’s like your voice is carried on a breeze. “Hm. Not the last time I checked.”

“Then that’s your answer,” he returns, glancing down and straightening your collar. His fault again: it’s rumpled.

“Just so you know, it’s good for me, too.”

Levi tuts to smother how that makes him feel. He made you feel good. You liked it. You liked his hands on you, and his tongue licking into your mouth.

He’s inclined to call you a pervert again, but only rolls his eyes and pats your head. Like a puppy starved for affection, you duck beneath his hand, not that he would dream of throwing away the chance to wrap his arm around your waist.

Even affections like this feel different from the era before the festival. She feels it too, right?

“Just let me know,” you mutter just below his ear. “And sorry, about your papers.”

Some of them fluttered to the floor; too bad he’s a little distracted. He’s also never told you about that spot below his ear, come to think of it.

“I do. I will,” he assures. He can’t even remember what shit he was signing off on before you jumped him. “Do the same.”

“Mm.”

Comfort puffs and swirls like a calm cloud in his chest. Maybe it’s in his head alone, this spiky, demonstrable change, or maybe that’s what he wants to tell himself. The one thing he’s sure he has pinned down is, somehow, he’s more terrified than ever; even more than before.

Of what? A million things. One of those just might be the fact that you've never rutted up against each other like bunny rabbits before. Levi is the same person who, when you ran your hands up and down his jaw and leaned in for the first time after the fact (the next afternoon, actually), he stalled when your lips met. It was like being cradled by a butterfly wing.

But it wasn’t that he didn’t want you and it wasn’t that he regretted it: it wasn’t the worst-case scenario that always comes to you first, usually knocking you sideways.

Somehow he simply didn’t expect it, you finding him just after the sun reached its peak and—wanting to kiss him. Of course he kissed back, he always would, but he still had to stop, pull away and ask, “Wait, are you sure you–” and you never let it go.

“I thought you were gonna show me your progress. Don’t tell me you’re dressing up like a mummy for fun.”

You gawk at him. “Mummified—fingers, maybe.”

You stretch your fingers in front of yourself and wiggle them, as if that’ll prove the point.

He bites his lip, pinching hard in efforts not to smile. The strain in his cheeks dissolves into mild stupefaction when you clarify that you need to change clothes—panties, specifically.

“Fine,” he coughs. “Go.”

You don’t share a living space. He still makes a small mental note to do your laundry again. His reason, and eventually yours became that he buys impeccable fabric softener. He can also scrub pretty much any stain out, even hot cocoa—he knows all the tricks.

He can imagine you now: “Sweetie, do you mind ironing my clothes? I can’t do it like you.”

Why does that make him feel so giddy, still? You make him want to iron your clothes for the rest of your life, as long as it pleases you.

And then, he gets thrown in the ditch of ‘rest of your life’, and the fear shoves him to his knees once again.

Why the hell do you always have this effect on him?

Today, at the end of a long stream of paperwork, your palm slinked around the nape of his neck, and you asked to take him for a picnic—which isn't unheard of at all. At least twice a month you end up dragging him somewhere (occasionally, it's the other way around, but Levi is more of a homebody).

It was by a lake like twilit glass, beneath one of those ancient, gnarled oaks that must stretch its roots just as far below ground as its branches pierce the sky. He took the liberty of making these sandwiches with light, fluffy bread; these didn’t stand up to your bright lipstick, smeared with even brighter, tangy strawberries.

You insisted on popping a few in his mouth, just to return the favor by brushing a few stray leaves out of your hair; tucking the prettiest flower he’s ever seen in his life behind your ear, too. You were the one who wouldn't quit babbling about it, calling it that, but that sentiment only became truth when he put it there.

He raised a brow. “Doesn’t seem very equal.”

And then, a strawberry between your fingers, you just kept on smiling at him.

He allowed his eyes to rake up and down your breezy summer dress and sighed evenly through his nose. “You smile at me too much.”

“Have to do it enough for the both of us.”

He snorted, then it was your palms swooping around the backs of his thighs, inviting him into your lap. This, with the promise of giving him a crash-course in making crowns out of (“Are you serious?”) daffodils and all manner of wildflowers.

Levi sits now, perched on the edge of his bed with his hands braced over his knees. You’ve just left—a few minutes ago, actually—but he can’t get his dick to calm down, not after your lips and hands were all over him, kissing just behind his ear and roaming up and down his chest. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and traces of your lipstick still persist.

You got to the flowers eventually, but before that his hands were on you. You’d teetered onto your back and brought him down with you. Turning it over in his mind, the word that rounds out the experience perfectly is honey-glazed.

Just your noses bumping together in a maze of smacking lips, the heat of your breath, and the salty-sweet taste of your skin beneath his tongue. He remembers now, fighting so hard to breathe over the sweltering haze of strawberry rolling over his tongue. It created a pulse in his head that pulsed on and on.

“Sweetness,” he muttered between wet kisses, royally whisked away out of his mind. The shakes in his hands gave him away; the nervous shine in yours. “Look at you.”

You grinned at that—some cheeky comment about needing a mirror. He kissed it off your face, knocking your teeth together.“Gonna report me to the brass, Captain?”

“Brat,” he huffed.

He touched you, too. He asked, and you slotted your thighs around his hips and spared him a look that set a fire in his belly before you took his palm, guiding it beneath your collar, where the strap had fallen away.

Swallowing heavily, Levi pops the collar of his shirt open. He just buttoned it, but it suddenly feels too warm to wear it at all, the front of his trousers too tight, too hot.

Your skin was warm like an oven, and the weight of your breasts so soft in his palms. He could hardly believe his ears when you sighed in his ear and asked if he wanted to see.

He unbuckles his belt with haste, an earnest shudder following when he palms the front of his pants. He hangs his head, though it isn’t the first time he’s had to touch himself when you leave your mark on him, like some kind of vixen. Really, all it takes is a look and suddenly he’s left in the dust, hot and bothered.

Recently, all semblance of control has begun to dissolve when he’s around you and he’s losing his mind.

He squeezes, then he thinks, to hell with it, and shoves his trousers down to bunch up at his ankles. He kicks them away, lets his shirt hang loose at the front and scooches back to lay down. His heart stomps against his ribcage.

Never has Levi wanted a woman so badly in his life. Without guidance on what to think or do, the memory of how you touched him and cooed in his ear rouses back to the surface the moment he wraps his fist around his dick.

With a few loose pumps, he’s just as hard as he was before that long stroll back. There was you, whetting a handkerchief and cleaning lipstick stains from his skin, evidence of where you explored him—but he almost wishes you didn’t. He strains before his eyes, squeezes his round cockhead, and spit-soaked lips part as he throbs.

A gravelly sigh. “Shit.”

For no reason, he’s searing hot with embarrassment. But desire this time has a louder voice, and wins out.

He nudges his briefs down, kicks them away, and spreads his legs. What he wants, what he imagines, is you crawling between them. Then again, if you were here his own mortification would kill him rather than just running his blood a little hot. He’s hopeless.

It’s good, though, even with just his own hand. His cock is thick beneath neatly trimmed, wiry hairs, pulsing when he traces the long vein on the underside. He never thought about it, whether it’d be good for you, whether he’d look good…

Would you do this to him, too? Cup his heavy, round balls and glide a tight fist—just the way it runs his blood the hottest—up and down? Would you praise him, Oh, that’s good, baby. Fuck my fist—there you go, or tease him? So fucking needy, Levi.

He sinks his teeth into his free hand and sighs, high in his throat. The scene is so vivid it begs his imagination; neither would be unlike you. In fact, he guarantees you would tell him to let you know what he likes, and if for some reason he needs to slow down or stop, you would still want him after. You’re so good to him. You’d drag his arm off his face and order him to be louder.

Let me hear you.

He’s wetter now—he hears the slick smacks of his fist, and he feels the hot coil in his belly growing even hotter. He dares to glide his free hand over all those tensing muscles, flicking his hard nipples on the way, and flops his head back on the pillows.

It’s really hard to be quiet, much more than he thought it’d be—or how it usually is. He doesn’t get off like this on a whim, not enough to commit the act to memory. He just knows you’d want to hear him moan, and that’s enough to inspire the sounds to rumble in his chest.

He dips a finger into his wet slit, and his hips give a small jerk. In small circles he teases all around it. What if it was her mouth?

“Gon’a–”

With trembling thighs, he sinks his free hand into the pressed sheets and feels his toes curl. Every muscle tenses, so hard it hurts as his cock begins to twitch. Pleasure pulses on, red-hot, sweet, warm. Throbbing waves wash over him.

His cock throbs, and spills thick cum all over his fist. Some of it even streaks his stomach in white, and when he thinks his climax is ready to recede, he groans low and pleased and throttles a little harder. He doesn’t get off nearly as much as he should.

It’s messy, horribly messy, and if he weren’t squirming all over the place surely his back would be making the tightest arch.

By himself, he’s never had such a mind-bending orgasm in his life—that’s what he realizes a few minutes later when the clarity slams into him and he realizes he cried out aloud to absolutely no one; except you, maybe, but only in his fleeting imagination.

Things are the same as they’ve always been. That’s what Levi wants to believe.

It takes outside intervention to shove the facts in both your faces—other than Hange shooting you both the look when Levi just so happens to pour two cups of tea and set one down front of you during a meeting; other than Mike, whose nose screws up when he sniffs the air and you both know he knows you’ve been wrapped up in bed together.

None of that ever mattered in the past. Remarks and jabs dissolve into awkward passes between moments—a look, a joke to be forgotten. It’s the same with everyone else among Levi Squad, until it isn’t.

Oluo gets a kick from poking at you, but it still isn’t as fun to him, apparently, as joshing around with Petra like an old married couple. He goes tight-lipped whenever Levi’s within earshot, and to Oluo’s credit it’s all in good fun.

With Eld and Gunther, things never stray beyond professionalism. They make good drinking buddies for you (and if you make your sad-dog eyes at Levi, him too), and they’re damn good fighters. All of them.

Levi has known each of them for years, just like you. It’s a web woven by mutual respect and trust, which is why what happened didn’t rattle the squad as much as it very well could have.

The six of you have just wrapped up a brief discussion in the echo chamber that is the dining hall. It’s late, and with so few bodies, shadows dance across cobbled walls.

You flash Levi the briefest of smiles. “I’ll have that report on your desk by tomorrow, Captain. G’night.”

You both know it’ll be sooner than that. He nods like a bird would, and watches the last of his murky tea swirl in its ornate cup as he swishes it around. Petra is usually the first to bed; she’s damn responsible, which makes it weird that she’s still here, nervously tapping the table. With it so quiet, she might as well be playing drums.

He asks the question cordially: “What’s wrong with you?”

“Could… Could I ask you a question, sir?” she stammers.

“Go on.”

The tapping grows a little more frantic. The question is whether or not they’re friends—a pretty stupid one. There’s life-or-death business, straight-laced and coarse, and then there’s camaraderie.

You or Gunther are the ones who do all the pep-talking when Petra needs something, though. Levi isn’t exactly someone people go to for comfort. Rather than a matter of her ODM belts fraying though, it seems a pep-talk is what she needs. She’s hardly ever this nervous around him.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she requests that they talk, as friends. It drops his stomach to unknown, wretched places, but he agrees anyway. People—a friend who ‘wants to talk’ never has good news.

They might as well get out of the dining hall, though. It’s a clear night out.

Beyond the front doors of HQ, the air is cool and breezy, which is surprising for the new summertime. Along the way an occasional firefly will glow to life, intent on getting to wherever they get to. Pondering the lives of the fucking fireflies distracts Levi from Petra’s obvious, unbearable anxiety. Unlike yours, it’s infectious.

He strolls alongside her, keeping in step as she goes on about her father. His letters—and by extension, hers—naturally pass by his desk occasionally. He knows the man is a tad overbearing, how he never wanted her in the Corps, but any set of parents with half a brain are wise to think that way.

“He wants me to get married,” she chitters, clearly troubled by the idea. “Can you believe that? I’m so young.”

Levi isn’t young anymore, and he doesn’t have a family, but he empathizes. “People are too young for plenty of the shit they go through with, whether they got a say or not. So if you have a choice, make up your own mind.” His advice is better than usual. “If you wanna get married, then go off and do it.”

“Oh, no! I don’t want to, that’s not…”

His stroll stutters. “Then, what did you want?” comes the blunt question, and he (to the best of his ability) rectifies it: “Just… get to the point. You have a concern, speak it. Or go to someone who gives better advice.”

Petra scrubs her arms as if it were cold, and stares at the ground like there’s something interesting there.

Confused and a little concerned, he stops too.

“It’s related to that,” she finally says, and looks up (it’s always strange that she’s shorter than him), but she can’t meet his stern gaze.

His brow wrinkles. “Yes?”

“Well… a lot of people admire you—and it’s more than warranted. I look up to you, i-in my case, literally.” She shakes her head, but his lips twitch, because it’s funny. “I try to find someone, but no one quite adds up to you.”

You’ve helped Petra with love troubles a million times—he knows that already, sort of. Without thinking, he shifts his footing.

“So…” she trails off.

He blinks. “I don’t know how to help with that. Find someone different to admire, I guess.”

Her head whips up to look at him again, startled. It’s combed over with a small laugh, and she smiles, ruefully. It’s with a sinking feeling he realizes he misunderstood.

“No,” she chuckles, entirely to spite the muck of awkwardness. “That’s not what I… do I really have to come out and say it?”

He would prefer that; if she stopped bumbling around the issue and disproved what he’s thinking this is. Assuming usually ends in Levi making an ass of himself, because in social situations it’s not uncommon for him to be wrong. The crux of what makes their squad work so well together is communication, anyway; during business hours or no.

Crossing his arms over himself, he tells her so: “Yeah, you do. So just be out with it, Petra,” and watches her pass by him and plant herself on a bench. It has no back, so she’s forced to hunch in on herself a little. Maybe she’d be doing that anyhow.

It’s quiet for a long moment, so long years could pass and he would still be frozen to the spot, maybe morphed into a statue. Then it’s confessed, anxious and unbearably quick, but nonetheless firmly, like Petra is ripping a bandaid off.

She has feelings for him.

“I know this is unprofessional of me.” Her eyes squeeze shut. “I’m sorry. But, if things stayed unspoken, I, I was afraid I’d regret it.” That stings, a little. “But no matter what the answer is, I’ll find a way not to now that you know.”

“…I see.” The words seem to drip off his lips. He idles stupidly, brows furrowed. Then he comes to terms with what she’s admitting and lets it sink in. “But you can’t get the-the wrong idea. Look…”

Their eyes meet somehow, and it feels like touching a hot stove. Levi could go on and on about ‘unprofessionalism’ himself, which is precisely why he doesn’t. There was never going to be another answer, but that’s only a nugget in the reasons why this feels shitty.

He’s not good at this. He’s given a million, deathly-worse pieces of bad news before, but unlike anything else, warring with feelings never gets easier. It isn’t like killing monsters, no matter how he wishes it was.

Will you and he stew in regret if things go unsaid, and why haven’t you both discussed it? Petra wouldn’t have been so inclined to say a thing if everyone knew, and he wouldn’t have to crush whatever fantasy she has of him in her head.

There’s never been a good, safe time—times are never safe. So, does there exist such a haven as the right time? How could there be?

Petra must be braver than Levi, because right now, in the simplest meaning of the phrase, seems to be it. But whether it’s safe, or good, he just can’t bring himself…

“Ah.” Her voice is lighter than air. Her head hangs again, ashamed. “I’m sorry, sir. If you’d prefer if I was booted from your squad, then I’d understand.”

Now that’s just ridiculous.

“You’re a member of an elite squad,” he tells her, “not my dog. Don’t talk like that. But I don’t…” He swallows, collects himself. “Do—you get what I’m saying, or what?”

“It’s fine,” she resolves, nodding. True to her word, her shoulders sink, like something heavy has tumbled off them. “I understand. I won’t mention this again.”

“Good.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Petra rises to her feet. Her face is splotched with red, especially her eyes, but she hastily wipes them with her sleeves and sniffs.

It’s easy to stay friendly with Petra because that’s the way he’s always viewed her. Things will work out this way, but he can’t say the same for the web of fluff entangling you and him. It’s a dull, anxious twist of realization.

As he passes her, he pats her shoulder in efforts to be reassuring. “Look. You’re a valued comrade, and we’re not at each other’s throats, are we? Don’t beat yourself up. That's foolish. Just go to bed.” A pause. “Sleep well.”

“Thank you…” She wipes her eyes, where tears are clinging. “...and the same for you, Levi. Goodnight.”

Right, of course.

He doesn’t remember the walk back; even the fireflies join the fog at the back of his mind. Once he’s trudged up the stairs, swiped out his keyring and retreated into the warm glow of his office (you must’ve lit a candle once you realized he'd be late), he starts to deflate. Knowing you’re here, especially at the end of the night, makes him feel better.

He has work to do, but getting this off his mind will be impossible if he doesn’t let you know. Keeping quiet about the confession—as inconsequential as it is—would feel hollow, like a betrayal to you. It wouldn’t be right.

The smell of roasted cedar immediately swells when he enters. You’re lounging cross-legged on his sofa, chowing down on a bowl of blueberries snug in your lap with one hand, propping up a thick novel with the other.

Flames lick in the fireplace, which casts the room in gold. It’s serene, almost domestic, and this huge wave of—relief crashes over him. It feels like coming home, and that hurts.

He leans back against the closed door, thinks in a string of curses, and closes his eyes. His face feels hot, and the room’s gone blurry.

You notice him, or did, a moment ago, and greet him once he plods over and plants himself in the armchair. He immediately shades his eyes with his hand, wrung-out, exhausted.

It’s better not to ask, even though it’s clear something happened. He’s still in uniform, pressed and perfect as always, but you know him well enough to tell. You ask whether he’s eaten dinner, whether he’d like some berries, and he gently turns down your offers—he ate earlier.

“You think of me too much.”

“Hm. Wrong.”

Your feet take you to his small kitchen. There’s a kettle on the stove from earlier, which you lift and pour steaming, earthy-smelling tea in a mug for him. It’s black, no good for relaxing, but knowing him it'll get the job done.

You take the saucer to Levi, who doesn’t appear to have so much as twitched since sitting down, and hold it out. Immediately he lights up, and sets the china aside so he can cradle the cup in both hands, savoring the heavy aroma, its warmth. It never tastes quite like the way he makes it himself, but close enough—it’s good.

By the way the sofa whines under your weight, it sounds like you’ve sat back down. He wouldn’t know; his eyes have drifted shut again.

Quietly, “Thanks, sweetness.”

“Anytime,” you quip, and curl up like a cat against an armrest. Back to reading.

By the time he’s drained the cup and his stomach is warm, he’s recuperated enough to collect his thoughts. He pulls himself into a proper sit, and informs you quite plainly what happened. You deserve to know, and it’s not the end of the world. It doesn’t break the squad like snapping driftwood, and it shouldn’t break you two either; though it rattled him, sure.

“...Oh.” A little wide-eyed, you stare at him. Your reaction startles even yourself a little bit. You flounder, opening your mouth, then closing it. A wave of cold, cold feeling breaks over your chest.

He turned her down. That makes sense.

Unless he made that choice, not because he entirely feels nothing for Petra, but because he feels some obligation towards your own feelings. Levi makes time for everyone in your squad, but everyone is close to Petra—everyone who has a brain, anyway—because she’s open, and supportive, and one of a kind. Just like him.

You frown. It feels like you’re falling. You couldn’t bear it if Levi contradicted how he really feels for your sake. It wouldn’t be like him, but stick the words for your sake in the equation and he’s made plenty of sacrifices before—life-risking ones included. You can’t count the number of times he’s quite literally shielded you from attack, completely compromising new, raised scars and a dislocated shoulder, or (not so literally) a broken back. It’s never the case that you do too much for him—as he’s often insisted, over more meaningful things than fruit—but completely the opposite.

He frowns as you launch into small questions about his choice. You can’t help but sate the craving to ensure that what he said is what he really wants.

Since forever, it’s been a slinking thought creeping around the back of your mind: What are we doing, if not just spending quality time together the way lovers would? That title alone is blacklisted from your relationship—however you should define it as.

Am I holding him back? Not in the scope of his reputation, or the dream you both dedicate your hearts for, but in life. It’s never been clear, and that’s how it’s been between you two since (what feels like) forever. It’s as muddled as it is perfect; in many ways it’s perfect, but so fragile. What are you supposed to do while you’re drifting, stuck in the threshold of a grand promise like that?

How, concretely, does Levi even feel? What does he want? You realize that you don’t even know, not that the lives you two lead give you much opportunity for prancing in fields without a care in the world.

Now’s a good time to get the answer. With your book effectively forgotten, you’re sure to forget everything else until you know for certain.

You both idle now in the space between the golden sitting room and the dim kitchen. The more words that pass between you, the more he becomes (more and more) impatient.

In your defense, this isn’t an issue of flipping to the wrong page of a book—or however casual he thinks this whole conflict to be. You’re not overreacting. This is important.

“No,” you insist, “I’m not trying to judge your choice, I just don’t understand, because—she’s Petra!”

His befuddlement sinks into a glare. “And you’re you. What’s your point?”

“My point is…”

You’re not sure. The topic of a potential relationship with people outside your merged bubble isn’t something you two have ever talked about; not in such frank terms as someone outright confessing their love to one of you. That was especially true before you and he kissed for the first time.

Christoph was different because, to you, he was objectively unattractive, and he never outright spoke the words: I love you! Go out with me! Be with me! into existence. This is different, so much different. She confessed to him.

Anxiously, you pull at your sleeves and step away. You need to think.

“Are you…” He doesn’t understand. “…upset, because I turned her down? I didn’t do that because we’re—exclusive, or….”

He trails off, at a loss. Fact is, you’re not exclusive—that’s not a baseline you ever established.

While you stand there, very clearly upset, the possibility that you’re feeling insecure comes to mind, but that wouldn’t make any sense. You ought to be pleased with him if that were the case. He told Petra the truth: he doesn’t want that kind of relationship with her.

“I know,” you say, a little stupidly. You meet his troubled eyes head-on. “We’re not. That’s fine. I’m just—I am upset.”

His brow twinges with confusion.

You shake your head, resigned. “You deserve better than for me to be upset about it. I shouldn’t be, but Levi, if we’re not in a relationship, or dating, or exclusive…”

Each press of the words, for him, stings.

“…Why did you tell me all about it? That seems personal, since me and her are close.” You frown, deep in thought. “She probably would’ve told me, actually. I've known Petra a long time.”

Frozen on his feet, he stares at you like the front of a door. Not even a reason comes to mind, because he doesn’t know. It never crossed his mind not to tell you.

“I see,” he replies, lips twitching.

What does he say? You’re right. And now, he’s rendered you frowning miserably, anxious, likely tearing up your sleeves. He did wrong by you, too.

“What’s on your mind?” You free your sleeves, opening up a little, and wander closer, if just to show you’re not angry with him.

He isn’t looking at you. When there’s no reply, you tilt your head. “Of course you’re free to make your own choices.”

I just think Petra would be a better one.

You swallow again: it feels like there’s no saliva in your mouth. “I just think Petra is really great, but if that’s the way you feel, then I’m glad. I'm just—worried I’m holding you back.”

A little incredulous, he jerks his head to look at you. “What? How does being—content with our situation mean I’m limiting myself?” He doesn’t understand at all. “Why the hell should that even matter?”

“Because you have the opportunity to be even more content than you are now!” you insist, then tear apart inside. Really, what gives you the right to micromanage Levi’s happiness?

He keeps his voice carefully even. “I don’t care. There wasn’t ever gonna be another answer.” He’s actually angry, you belittling yourself like you’re nothing but a pastime for him. “Get that through your thick skull.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter. Even as you speak, you sense a rift pulling you apart. “I’m just insecure.”

He huffs and retreats a little, leaning against the doorway. “Shit. Coulda fooled me.”

You’re reaching the end of his patience. Briefly, you close your eyes, seeking a breath. There’s insecurity, and the blunt-force claw of selfishness, too. It’s an ugly facet of yourself—and not the real issue.

“But there’s something else.” Again you swallow, but there’s a snag there this time. “I also got worried ‘cause I don’t want any of this to stop, I want nothing to change—because you’re the best person in my life, and, I don’t feel like I deserve it, so I’m so fucking terrified you’ll…”

“I’ll what?” Flush with the doorway, his voice is low, and thick like molasses. “Get bored of you? You’re smarter than that. But think about our fucking jobs—we’re always in danger. You’re the oldest veteran besides Eyebrows, and I know what I’m doing, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“No–”

“You need to be prepared for the worst. Are you not?”

It’s this type of thinking, specifically, that’s been gnawing at his bones for months. Life could change, or end, at the flip of a coin; it always has. How you could possibly forget that, he doesn’t know, unless it’s his fault for lulling you into a false sense of security.

The best person in your life? That’s practically a screeching alarm, warning to something horrible about to happen, either to him or you. He hopes it’s him—in a sick, destructive way. Everyone who’s ever talked like that, or showed it in even a fraction of that way has left him behind; living or dead, but mostly dead. Nothing has ever stayed as long as you.

You don’t answer.

“If I got unlucky, you’d have to move on,” he insists, leaving no room for argument. “And if it were you, I’d do the same.”

“Levi–”

Your eyes look like glitter. He can tell you’re about to cry, but you can’t not be prepared for that. He can’t wreck you. He can’t do that to you.

“Listen,” he goes on, “f’you live with regrets, you might as well count yourself among the bodies… You’re right, I shouldn’t have told you. That was shitty to Petra.”

“I know.” You’re not entirely listening, too busy cracking wide open. This conversation left Petra a while ago. “I’ve had so many friends die. You were there for that! But we’ve made it this far–”

“And one day we won’t. I thought the same about–” he sneers, “–n’ look what happened to them. The world will chew you up and spit you out all it wants—it a-already has. You deserve better than me or this shitty world could ever give up–”

Hearing him talk like this is a punch in the gut. “No. That’s not true! I just want you!”

His eyes go wide. “It doesn’t matter what we want! Don’t you get it? This world is cruel. It’s not gonna listen to you or me and let us stay happy, no matter if we’re Titan-food or two fat, ugly nobles.”

“Wait, you’re happy?” you sniff, picking at the skin of your fingers. Hope hurts. “I make you happy?”

Realizing what he let slip, he seals his lips. It’s like his insides have dropped inside a chasm, that’s what it feels like, and no longer in a good way. His chest caves in.

He knows—what he feels for you is so rare, maybe he’s never felt it in his life: call it happiness, call it anything good. Never could he keep it. It’s been ripped away each and every time, so eventually he stopped reaching for it.

The first time he kissed you was the first time he reached out again, resolved to the fact that things would be different. Of course they are, and more than that, they’re new, and overwhelming. You want him, and maybe you can tell the feeling’s mutual; or not, by the way you belittle yourself so much.

Either way he’s sick to death. He refuses to wait around for you to be ripped away. Not you, not yet another person he failed to protect. Terror forces him to say nothing.

Yes, Levi’s happy, but his lack of reply tells you that he won’t allow himself to be. You’re not the same. Be it a bloody death, or how cruel the world is—you could never bring yourself to care. It’s hard to say whether he’s a coward, or you’re a fool.

“So… what?” You brace your head with your hands, sounding like a strangled bird. You feel like one, too. “We can never be happy?”

By his sides, his hands curl into fists. “…No. I guess not.”

But he foolishly believed you could be, once.

It’s always the hardest words to say, the lowest thing to do—but it’s true. He knows this. It’s cruel and it’s unfair, but you’d be fooling yourselves to believe otherwise. Isabel’s severed gaze, and Farlan, waving goodbye. People with faces and names and lives. This world is too bloodthirsty to let happiness stay.

You stand, arms crossed tightly, like you're hugging yourself. Then you snivel, a wet sound.

Automatically, he straightens up and looks down at the floor. Things have always easily reduced you to tears, so he’s heard you cry, but it never gets any easier to listen to. He feels ripped out of his own heart. Everything he feels goes against what he’s done here.

Without another word, you sniff, and begin to move. He’s never felt more disgusting, foolish and evil than that hope twinging. In the past, he couldn’t pry you off with a hammer when you were upset: you always completely latched yourself to him. Maybe that’s why you’re carrying yourself like that.

The soft, wet sound of your weeping retreats down the hallway. It’s hard to breathe. He did what he gave his word not to. Maybe you don’t even remember, it was years ago, but he’s pushed you away.

But it’s true, the same thought protests. Was there any other option where you could possibly maintain this dance of friendly romantics, and face the threat of it all being torn to shreds—every day for the rest of your lives?

If you shared each other completely…

A long breath. He doesn’t know. He’s never felt this for anyone. Imagining the opposite, losing you, it would be worse than loss. Worse than the biggest bone in your body shattering, worse than staring down at the blood pooling in your palms and getting the first inkling of what you’ve done. Loss hurts like hell, so he can’t even imagine.

But hurting you hurts like hell, too, so he must be damned either way.

The side-door to his quarters shutting is a gavel going down. Muffled, further away, your retreat from his office is a ghost letting go.

It feels like a vicious whip has cracked a jagged line through the center of everything you are. The result is manic, and it’s numb and raging—all at the same time.

Numbness easily pilots you back down to your hall, to your dark, oaken door. You stare for a while, hating that you left. There’s a thousand things you could’ve said, and a million more thoughts still crammed in your head. It’s Levi, so you simply can’t think of it any other way.

The crest of the door-knocker is a stormy gray, above which sits the coppery plate proudly displaying your rank as Lieutenant, followed by your last name.

The knob is cold when you grip it, and incidentally the chill reminds you of Levi. Here’s where the knot in your throat lurches, and the shapes in your vision stretch as it clouds with tears.

You step inside, and go to bed.

‘Crying all night’. In your life you’ve cried plenty, but a phrase like that only ever rang as true as ‘you’re perfect’, or ‘endlessly, forever’. A contrived game of hyperbole and extremes, usually to play up terribly average feelings. Say it enough, use it enough, and the meaning will drain from the words.

But your entire body lurches with the force of your sobbing, screwing your shoulders up as far as they’ll strain.

You can’t get over it. It’d be easier, somehow, if Levi didn’t want you. No, you make him happy, but he refuses the eventual heartbreak. In his case, he can’t afford to be distracted, not the most valuable soldier the Corps has. What only rubs salt in the wound is you understand why he said what he did.

When it grows late and your tears have dissolved to whimpers, the pool of anguish sits like a stone in the center of your chest. As heavy as your body grows, as soaked as your pillows, as heady as the blankets framed around your face—that dull urge to weep keeps grasping. It feels like you could cry yourself to sleep. As long as you remain in this dark, drowsy void, you could keep crying, on and on until you wake, weeping in shallow gasps.

This turns true, along with the fact that people are more than capable of crying all night long.

It’s early in the morning. You can tell by the gray that waits outside your drawn curtains. Somewhere, a mourning dove is crooning, outshined by a drill instructor shouting his commands. HQ is already awake.

A deep, shaking breath, and more grief worms its way up your parched throat. Your eyes feel somehow chapped when you open them, and sting when you shut them. That’s not exactly fair—but neither is anything.

Curled up, sleep is drifting back in, warm and inviting.

It’s easy to write off most of the jabs Levi throws as dry, poorly-timed jokes, or instances of him ‘just being an asshole’—his words, anytime you asked. But he always means the things he says, in lieu of chattering along without a care. He’s not good with words, but only because he fails to say what he means much of the time. That’s not his fault.

Last night, there was hardly any room for deciphering a different meaning between the lines, “You deserve better than me or this shitty world could ever give up,” and “If I got unlucky, you’d have to move on.”

He was worked up. Case in point, you never talk about either one of you dying: that’s like seriously discussing how likely it is that humanity will one day eradicate the Titans. He’s never yelled at you, either. Not like that, when he wasn’t Captain Levi of the Survey Corps, but just Levi.

You sniffle, cringing at your sloppy-feeling, clogged sinuses, and wish he’d never brought up Petra. Then again, the thought persists, a conversation like that had to happen eventually.

Your relationship, or a hypothetical one—you try to sort it out by yourself.

Friends—even friends with benefits—don’t hug and press little kisses all over the other’s face to wake them up after the nights they stay together have bled into the morning. The only benefits that you and Levi really shared in that sense, was each other. It was never going to work, lines jumbled and unclear like that, but.

With a small whimper, hot tears drip down your cheeks, which you smear in the pillows. Thinking about it isn’t helping.

You’re deeply inclined to sleep in, but chastise yourself for your laziness. There’s work to be done, if only that means interacting with Levi, or rather, Captain Levi: the most shallow, professional part of who you know him as, completely on face-value.

And it goes about as well as you expect.

Long since springtime came and went in its unfurled blossoms and light, smoky days, summer has come to take its place. It’s blisteringly hot outside, and while weighed down by fourteen kilos of straps, gas and wires, while also wrangling the new recruits—to mold them into certified Scouts (though, no one is really a Scout until they make it back that first time)—you’d rather be shoveling horse shit.

On the other hand, Levi has plenty of excuses to be stricter than usual. If a disagreement over gas tanks or something else just as asinine breaks out, he’s quick to break up the fight with just as much tenacity: a swift kick in the ass and a few biting curses at the ‘brats’. Hange, in honesty, just likes to make them squirm, while the stablehands (and Petra, you notice) aren't happy with any of it.

You’re perched in the hulking tree branches alongside Eld, guiding screeching, unsteady wires—and the new blood attached to those wires—when it happens.

Like a lonely marionette, you’ve been on auto-pilot since breakfast’s gruel. Maybe it’s hours of muscle memory finally derailing, or you haven’t kept as hydrated as you should for the sweltering sun. Either way, one moment you’re coasting through the air, and the next, your vision’s a green spinning top.

You hit the forest floor pretty hard, and for a while you can’t find the strength but to stare up at the blinding gaps between the leaves above, heaving and hot and fuzzy.

Eld leaves no room for argument when he clasps your hand, urging you to your aching feet: “Let’s let the Captain know, just in case. It’s the right thing to do.”

“No… I just took a fall. That’s all.”

His bright bangs flop in his face when he shakes his head. “It’s gonna be me, or me and you. No offense, Lieutenant, but you look like hell.”

You hate to see where this is going, but you smear the sweat off your face, and let it go. No doubt you feel like hell, that’s for sure.

The first, brief look of alarm on Levi’s face when he first catches sight of your skin and uniform scuffed, scraped, dirty vanishes in an instant. You have the guts, at least, to come out with what happened, but he still deals you quite the verbal whipping for it. His tone is just about as sharp as the kickdrum beating between your ears.

Levi dismisses Eld with a jerk of his head, and then his eyes are squarely on you. “You idiot. I didn’t see the sun for twenty years and even I know what fucking heatstroke looks like.”

“It was a mistake,” you insist, curling your toes in your boots to stay steady. Wavering now would just be embarrassing.

“Yeah,” he sneers. “Mistakes kill people.”

You grind your teeth like shaving wood, willing yourself not to speak. You’re getting chewed out by your Captain, not your friend (Whatever he is, you admonish yourself).

“I’m just tired, sir.” Emphasis on the last word. “Didn’t sleep much last night.”

Several beats of silence are clogged by the thick air. He won’t look at you, or maybe he can’t. Finally, he decides to let you off for the day.

“Get it together. You’re dismissed.”

Cheers to you for maintaining maturity. Still, you scuff up a little bit of dust than you meant on your way through the grassy courtyard. The hot shower you take burns like acid, fostering a new batch of bruises dotted up and down your limbs. You burn on the inside too, ashamed.

Will we ever talk about this? If your performance keeps slipping, yes. Will we ever talk the same? You don’t know.

You get to thinking.

It’s accepted that shouting matches are a normal part of relationships. Maybe it’s even expected, but still: The sooner an argument like that sweeps through a relationship, the worse-off two people are for each other—especially the more it goes on. If that’s the case, it makes you wonder if you and he are still persistently bared to each other on an artificial level.

You’ve never landed yourself in a shouting match with Levi before last night; not a real, world-ending argument over such vague, precious topics like commitment.

Did that make us wrong in some way? A better question: Why the hell should it?

It’s a depressing thought. If it’s inevitable that two souls are bound to grate and screech together when rubbed the wrong way—is anyone truly ‘made’ for each other? It’d be the case then that some things are made to be broken. They tumbled out into the world deficient and cracked.

Does everyone tolerate? Does love mean you still have to settle?

You make yourself sick thinking like this. Too nauseous to eat, but knowing full-well you should, you decide to wait until the dining hall clears out.

Hopefully, Levi is eating enough too. You can’t help worrying. He tends to forget.

You’re smoothing the headache out of your temples when there’s a light, almost shy knock on your door; too soft to be Levi. You’d recognize his even if you went deaf.

Petra practically oozes concern when you summon her in, all the way down to the tray she carries, crammed with leftovers. She didn’t spot you at breakfast, either, so she decided to come by.

You sniff, take the tray, and gently place it down on your desk. It’s also crammed, just with cluttered paperwork. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” she says kindly, and picks at her fingers. It seems she picked up that habit from you at some point. “If there’s anything I can do, well, you know.”

She, for one of the few of your closest friends, knows the sort of ‘crybaby-turtle’ you are—Oluo’s words. You’d be damned to ever let your nature bleed onto the battlefield, or onto your closest comrades, who you’ve bled for.

It feels good, not having to pretend in front of her, but not even Petra knows about you and Levi; not any of it, no one. You hate that she was the catalyst, but it’s not her fault.

You reassure that you’ll be alright with a small shake of your head. “What’s new with you?”

“Well… I embarrassed the hell out of myself in front of Captain Levi the other day,” she laughs. “I hope he hasn’t told you.”

“It’s nothing,” you remark, “I think gossiping went out of style for him forty years ago.”

She sniggers at that. No one (including him) knows his age for certain—Levi doesn’t even use a last name—but not even recruits will bet on forty. His looks speak for themselves.

“Well, he’s been in a mood.”

Your interest is snagged. “You think so?”

Petra gives you a look that says everyone thinks so, but she’s still a little ashamed about gossiping. “So, I’m sorry anyway. You two are just—connected in a way, you know?”

“Hm. Maybe.” Playfully, you knock your boot against hers. You needed that. “Really. It’s alright. Maybe Oluo will get down on one knee one of these days, hm?”

“Agh. As if.”

You can tell she’d rather you open up and let her know what’s wrong, especially after your fall this afternoon, but she’s just as quick to trust you and leave well-enough alone. Demons follow just about everyone in this regiment, and you’re a hard shell to crack anyway.

She bids you goodnight. It’s stomach-churning to finish your supper, but you manage to force it down before strolling to your bookshelf to pick out a book.

“Oh,” you mutter, and slide a paperback off the pine shelf. Levi will be missing this one right about now. You sigh, and hug the book to your chest. Shit.

Just as you suspect, he is.

Levi frowns into the drawer, the lowest one he always has to crouch to get to. His fingers play at the polished wood, glaring into the emptiness. He looks mildly resentful and a little hollow behind the eyes, but that’s just his thinking face, more or less. The one he can’t find, you were reading together; bought in the most pompous bookstore in all of Wall Sina—or it must’ve been.

His gut reaction is to let you keep it, finish it on your own time, and if he never gets it back, so be it. Your duties are slipping, along with your mood, and you, and it’s all his fault. Guilt like a millstone roils around in his chest.

It had to be said, he reassures himself. You’re both better off not getting involved, or you will be. You must be. Feeling piss-poor and empty isn’t the newest feeling, but he never planned to drag you down with him. He tells himself again that you’ll bounce back, but that reassurance feels emptier than the first.

The sounds of your weeping retreating down the hallway needs to be worth it.

He rubs the bridge of his nose. Still. No matter how this thing between you ends, he shouldn’t have left things like that.

She walked away first, one part of his mind meagerly protests.

Because you made her cry, berates the bigger, seething part. What kind of piece of shit gets ‘I want you’ screamed at him and does that? What’s wrong with you?

Plenty. He rolls it around in his mind as he makes the trek through cobbled hallways, speckled with shadows thanks to the wall-mounted torches. The way he was brought up wasn’t exactly pretty, but that’s not an excuse. You know so much of it now, anyway.

When he quit locking up like a rattlesnake whenever you so much as wrapped your arms around him, you asked much later if the man who raised Levi ever hugged him. The ridiculousness of the question took him by such surprise that he actually laughed.

He shared a cigar with me, once, he remembers telling you. Then he added, The expensive ones. From Mitras, as if that cushioned the blow.

You really teased him for it, but you had to. Otherwise, it’d just be depressing.

Either way, the crux of the issue, and the conclusion he’s forced to come to, is maybe he never learned to hold people no short of arm’s length, but it’s that no one ever taught him any other way.

It’s almost like when he was learning to write just a week into his promotion to Squad Leader, when reading and writing became a requirement rather than a privilege. Everyone around him could do it without a second thought—some with their eyes closed, even—while he could barely manage making out the letters of his own name. The words he was an expert at no longer meant shit, either: eloquent ones like ‘tavern’ and ‘KEEP OUT!’.

You’re not obligated to mend a bone that snapped before he was born; you deserve better than that. If he had any say, he’d want your relationship to be smooth sailing and sweet, as close to perfection as you can get.

Thing is, he isn’t convenient, or perfect—or any of those other things you deserve. In some places he’s odd and broken. In plenty.

Sometimes, often, he even gets a sneaking, oozing feeling that he’s deceived you in some way when you make it so clear how highly you think of him. He never got that part: Why you seem to bask in his shadow so much. He can’t help but feel he poisoned you, because those horrible words you attach to yourself, so utterly incorrectly, is him.

He feels even less than a human being at times. If there’s anything he was taught, it’s that his body is a weapon, and he’s to make it in this world. Not much else matters other than avoiding getting dulled down or broken in half.

So no, the serial killer who raised him never hugged him much.

With your door—your plaque spelling your name across its face—staring back at him, he once again scrounges together the nerve to knock. His knees have locked up, along with the rest of him, but if Petra can get the balls to confess to her superior officer what she did, he can at least do this. He needs to.

He needs to fix things, or patch them over. Something.

You made her cry.

Levi raises his hand, and knocks. When the door cracks open, then whines a little further, he instantly forgets everything he planned to say—about the book. Keep it, he wants to tell you, but what comes out is: “You look constipated.”

You idle behind the threshold a little, sort of like a little kid. “Uh-huh, I know. If I lose any more sleep, I’ll start looking like you.”

That casual remark makes panic shoot through his belly for some reason. He might as well just be out with it. “I wanted to talk.”

“Okay,” you venture. Rather than a little kid, you now come off as a wary, wide-eyed cat. “If it can’t wait… Is it important?”

Important? He sure would like to think so. “...I’m not here for paperwork.”

The air turns thick. Now, you aren’t even looking at him: you’re glaring at the floor, swallowing as if there’s something stuck in your throat. The next few moments, he doesn’t really hear before the door shuts. You tell him, “I’m sorry, but I can't. You make me too sad.”

An apology sticks to his tongue, but if he opens his mouth, it’ll just be told to the door. His lips twitch, not understanding.

Why did that hurt so much? You didn’t tell him you hated him, you didn’t even slam it in his face. Levi makes you sad, that’s all, but suddenly the sky is falling inside him. He can’t even feel the floor beneath his feet.

Okay, he reasons to nobody. If he makes you sad, removing himself ought to make you happy. Maybe it won’t for a while, but… If I give it time, it should. In retrospect he was conceited for expecting anything else.

In any case, he’ll try his best to do right by you.

As his steps finally start to recede, you’re left at the door, sniffling, idling. You cry too much—which isn’t his fault. It’s just the fact that you’ve never felt more disgusting, hopeless, and evil than that hope sticking to you like cobwebs. Some part of you is so angry with him, but you wanted him to stay, too. It’s not fair.

You can hear Levi’s sardonic quip now: “Fair. Is that a joke?”

This whole mess reminds you of the first real night you stayed together—a million years ago, it feels like. Maybe three or four. For once, he actually slept, but his hands visibly shook when you crawled into his arms that night.

It worried you, whether he was anxious beyond all measure, or you were overstepping bounds he wasn’t ready for, but he insisted he just wasn’t used to going to bed with someone. Now, you’re sure he was afraid—of waking you with a nightmare, or being close to someone, or every bad thing, all at once.

He was warm and solid, and he cradled you to his chest, your breaths falling in sync with the rise and fall of his own. It felt so safe. He must’ve felt that way too, for you woke even before him, and strapped on your uniform back in your own tiny quarters (fit for when you were still a Squad Leader).

But a few minutes later, there was a rapping on your door. It was Levi of course, strung-up and glaring, but his eyes gave him away. By then you had an idea of just how often they do.

“You could’ve told me you planned on leaving first-thing. I told you I’m not used to this.”

“Oh.” You were a little blindsided. “I just wanted to let you sleep in.”

His eyes grew sharper. “Well don’t, you shitting idiot.”

You were flabbergasted then, but now you look back and know he felt abandoned. Even though he was still the one to approach your door this time, now it’s your turn to feel that way. Maybe you both do.

You’re so tired of crying.

On the other hand, Levi has never been a crying person. He couldn’t do it even if his Commander ordered him to, not even if he wanted. After you told him to go, he let the front of his desk bear his weight for a while, jaw locked up and aching.

You’ve seen him at quite a few of his rock-bottoms, in a state of icy grief or blood-red rage, but he’s still never been so pathetic as to let you see him blubber and sob like a baby. If he can’t do it alone, how can he expect to let you witness that horror show?

Doesn’t matter. You don’t want to see him at all.

So, he gets started on paperwork: he scratches dry parchment with the end of his quill so long that the inkwell runs out. Without pausing to mind his aching neck, he replaces it and gets back to it.

He writes some notes, too—ones the recipient will never see, so there they sit. He works some more. He throws the notes away. Sunset drowns in the dark gray of evening.

Levi is, self-admittedly, so good at math that he can tell distance with a single, squinted look. He’s always been that way. The logic is a comfort to him somehow, so that night he ends up calculating the Corps’ budget as far as two months from now. Sooner or later, he finally feels the hunger pains sinking its jagged teeth into his stomach.

Eating isn’t a new chore to forget, no matter how important it is. He lived with hunger for so long, it became just like dealing with sore feet, or aching fingers after quite a bit of writing; it’s just another task to get done a few times a day. Once he let you in enough for you to notice his weird patterns, you really jumped on his ass about it.

It used to piss him off, because it was his business and he didn't get why you cared so much. Now, as he manages to scarf down some leftovers that taste a little better than cardboard, he just feels shitty the ritual of you reminding him has been broken.

Falling asleep would be a pointless fight, he decides.

Unsurprisingly, Commander Erwin is awake this late—or this early, rather. The lantern on his desk is burning its weight in oil when he drops an even stack of papers down.

Lately, Levi has driven himself so hard into the ground that the stream of bureaucracy has whittled down to just a few drops, but, “if you’re looking for something to do, allocate some funds to buy a suit. A few select officers of each regiment have been invited to Mitras.”

Levi’s nose screws up. “You mean it’s time to kiss more pig-ass. Play politics, right?”

The shadows dancing across the walls make Erwin’s chuckle seem a bit more foreboding, but, as usual, Levi’s right: he has a knack for shaving the fluff off Erwin's words.

Rather than play politics though, it’s almost entirely Levi’s job to stand around, keep his mouth shut, and look like Humanity’s Strongest Soldier. Erwin, Hange and Mike always do him the favor of ass-kissing, but if possible, “bring your Lieutenant. She’s just as impressive, but unlike you she has a clean mouth.”

“Tch. You’d be surprised how many idiots around here don’t brush their teeth,” he grumbles. Then, he steps away from Erwin’s long desk, and connects the dots. “Wait. You said I have to play dress-up for this. You wanna make her my date?”

Levi knows he’s being bitchier than usual, but Erwin’s cool gaze gives nothing away. He simply locks his hands under his chin, and explains: “Officially, yes. Nanaba is joining Mike in the same way. Unofficially, it isn’t my business. I’m not interested in disciplining you or her for fraternizing, of all things.”

If Levi and you are in bed together, Erwin doesn’t need to know—how relieving. Fair, though. Recruits crawl in bed with each other all the time. Still, this little revelation boils his blood to no end.

Fucking shit, Levi thinks with disdain. What great timing.

If just the sight of him at your door is enough to make you sad, a hokey date-night in Mitras will send you spiraling—better he not tell you and spare you the anguish. The news will find your desk on its own, and sooner or later you’ll learn to coexist, just like that.

But...

It’s when he’s sat hunched over in the reclusive safety of his quarters, shining a blade, that a selfish sense of possession swoops over him like an evil shadow.

Levi pauses with the cotton-white handkerchief clutched in his palm, thinking hard. He needs to think. You've always pointed out that he spends too much time in his head.

No matter what, he’ll always try to attract your gaze; let the room be crowded, dark, or empty. In some ways he feels he’ll die without it, hence how he needs you just to function. The crux of the issue is that if you did die, he really might just follow you. It’s pathetic.

He imagines cradling you as the life in your eyes is fogged by muddy, gray film.

Worse. What if he isn't there when you land in trouble? What if he could do something, but fails? What if your blood splatters his cape, proof of his helplessness and your painful end?

There’s a title he carries—Humanity’s Strongest—but still, somehow, he always manages to fail in protecting the ones he cares for the most. For you, if there was something he could’ve done, or done better…

His expression screws up, because that’s wrong: No matter what it’d be his fault. Whether it's logical or not, it’s how it is. If he’s strong and that’s his right to life, then he’s the one responsible for flubbing that one and only talent, and by extension his duty, over and over again.

He’s never told you this, he realizes with a hollow feeling, but he still finds himself anguished that he did nothing for his mother in those last days she spent bedridden. He knows he was just a kid, but he can’t convince himself that means anything, even now.

His old friends, faces with names and lives—those deaths ended up leaving him stronger. He was able to channel the grief, and mold it into power. But when he inevitably comes up with the image of your body amongst the dead, his hands pick up a tremble.

A carefully even breath. The knife he cradles in his palm is old, rusted a coppery brown and whittled down at the edges from years of wear and (literal) tear. It’s the one that clashed with Mike’s and Erwin’s blades; it’s the one that carried him through a good portion of his years running with gangs; it’s the one he brought up from the gutter.

It’s no longer good for practical use, but he never lets go of things, even when he knows he should. Even if he can't hold them or even see them, they stick in his mind. If he doesn’t get it together–

“Shit,” comes the curse, then a small string of others, one after another. A clean, brittle snap of the blade. Where now two pieces lay in his palm, the metal around the break is especially weathered, like terminally-sick silver.

Levi knows his way around a knife, so he knows the art of fixing them up. There’s not a damn thing he can do for this one.

He can’t idle on the equally-anguished snap somewhere deep in his chest. What does he do with it? It's useless now. His last tie to his home is dead and gone.

Home, he thinks with sorry spite. That’s a funny word for it.

Without thinking, he tears his cravat from around his neck, craving air, and stands. His step stutters, but he can’t help it. He needs to pace.

Levi doesn’t have a home, or a family. His meaning is the cause, with the Corps, and maybe he found a family once, but they were wiped out.

The knife means nothing, the Underground wasn’t home—it was a dead-end gutter where dogs are born, lay, and die. Maybe home was his mother, but she laid and she died, and he was so young when it happened. He doesn’t even know what home means.

The broken knife suffocates in his tightly-knuckled fist. It’s too dull to pay any mind to. Crushing it is better than feeling sorry about it.

He senses a pattern. That’s his way with all precious things. Whatever soft, golden thing sprouted between you two, he crushed it before the grief could ever snag a chance to crush him. He’s a killer, in the most elementary sense of the word.

Dull, burning hatred. He hates what he’s done here, and he hates himself for his actions.

At a loss, he crosses the threshold between his personal quarters and his office, swipes his keyring out, and jams it in the small lock of a desk drawer; the one closest to the floor.

There’s a ponytail holder of Isabel’s he only noticed he still had tethered around his wrist after the fact, a pair of ancient dice, and a dozen other odd things within a sea of strung-out patches displaying the Wings of Freedom. Most are bloodied, aged stiff and brown. He has nowhere else to put it.

He sniffs. The heaviness sinks somewhere way down in his chest, as heavy things do, and slinks away; dull, but unbothered. He’s not equipped to do anything else with those feelings, much less unload all of this bullshit on you. Even on good days it was hard.

He shoves it down deep instead, buried like a chest crammed with rotten, cheap treasures. It’ll find its way to the surface in another way—a pattern he believes because you explained it to him. He’ll just have to wait and see what it’ll be.

Two days later, Levi breaks his finger.

He’s running himself ragged with all manner of exercise he can manage by himself in Trost HQ’s claustrophobic gym: maintaining a plank until sweat from his brow drips to the mat below and his core is on fire; pushups until even he loses count; donning a pair of gloves and bruising the hell out of the leathery punching bag until Mike, who’s bracing it, gets knocked on his ass—or just about.

Mike’s the one who grins in approval, a smirk curling despite his bare, heaving chest. Much like a dog, he sweats buckets, so much so his skin looks more like tinfoil. He asks how much Levi has managed to lift lately, and sensing a challenge, told him honestly: “Two-hundred.”

“Shit, man…” Mike gawks at him in disbelief. “What’re you made of?”

It’s well-known that Levi’s abilities stretch far-beyond the best in the Scouts, or the military as a whole. You were always of the opinion that he’s the strongest man alive.

The times when you and he trained together, one-on-one (something that didn’t happen as often as it should, come to think of it), you worked off each other constantly, building strength, endurance. You never managed to knock him down, though, other than that one time years ago; you caught him off guard by demanding to know why he hated you. That was because he pushed you away.

He abandons that train of thought. Few people can take him in a fight, at any rate.

He believes the closest you ever got (fairly) was when he requested mid-plank for you to add more weight onto his back. He’d been able to maintain the same position for several minutes, and all he had to show for it was a bead of sweat broken over his forehead.

You indulged him gladly. Only, you were kneeling beside him, pressing both hands to the sharp planes of his shoulders. You were helping out gravity more than giving him a challenge.

“S’not working,” he huffed, and shrugged your hands off, adjusting his tight brace above the floor. “Sit on me.”

You were incredulous with him. “What, like a pony?”

“Ugh.” He rolled his eyes, flicking his sodden bangs away from his eyes. “Sure.”

“Only if you neigh.” You said this like it was the chief requirement.

“...Fucking neigh. Hurry up already.”

You chided him for acting bossy, but you quickly lurched into action. Your chief complaint was the sticky sweat pasted to his bare back. Still, he could feel you staring, gliding over the places where his muscles were pulled taut and flexing beneath his skin.

Levi, at the time, felt prickled that you might have been scrutinizing some particularly ugly scars with your eyes; those still stubbornly raised, the color of severely diluted blood. You weren’t.

He grunted and strained under your weight. With a whole human body managing a recline long-ways as if he were a hammock, who wouldn’t?

He dropped—according to Hange’s stopwatch—after another hour and twenty-two minutes. As a result you were severely bored, and babied the hell out of him for the next few days until he could at least stretch his arms above his head without every one of his muscles locking up in that crumpled way he only gets after a good workout. He thanked you, told you he owed you, even, but you never asked for anything back—not even for him to give you a proper neigh.

He hates you for that, he swears he does. You went out of your way by the hour to make his days a little easier, and demanded nothing in return. That only happens in storybooks, or so he thought. Either way, he didn’t deserve you.

No, he corrects himself, not just ‘a little easier’. You managed to make him look forward to eating, as if it were a candlelit date instead of a task to get done, you made swirling, happy feelings break over his chest by doing so little as yawning too widely, and at the end of so many days, he learned to hate sleeping a little less. He was less defensive, and smiled more—yours was just that infectious. But when your heart broke, he wanted to protect you, too. He could’ve handled feeling as broken as you, at least for a while, so you wouldn’t have to brave it alone.

And he still wants it. You make him so happy it hurts—that’s why he can’t stand it.

It was just an accident: Mike saw an opportunity, bet he could take him down in under five minutes in the ring, and Levi rose to the occasion.

That gigantic hound of a man was the strongest in the Scouts before five years ago, so they duke it out anytime Levi actually agrees to it. Most times not, especially if Hange bets on money, chores, or gods forbid gets Erwin wrapped up in the gambling.

This afternoon they weren’t present, but even if they were, he wouldn't have cared. The blood in his veins was boiling to fight, which is unlike him. Back before he met you, it would've been: he had a much shorter, nastier temper before the sun ever shone on him, but fighting has always come as natural to him as flipping a page. Everything else seldom does.

It must’ve been right before he kicked Mike square in the chest, putting him down for the count. They were rolling around quite a bit before then, so maybe Levi’s hand got pinned at some point. Doesn’t matter—it’s no one’s fault.

Mike even grasped Levi’s hand and shook it at the end, but he didn’t get the lurking sense of his ramrod-stiff finger until he stepped in the shower right after. It’s his left index finger, and it's puffy and swollen. In sharp contrast to the others, it’s taken on a morbid, maroon color.

He was weary when he first set his eyes on it, and he’s weary now as he kneels before his gaping bathroom drawers. This exhaustion somehow supersedes all his physical wear and tear.

He grinds his teeth to keep from wincing—despite the fact that he sits alone—as he roots through his drawers. It was only when he saw the ugly thing that the length of his finger started throbbing. That didn't go away, and now it’s tender and flaming simply on sight.

The first-aid kit—where is it? He doesn’t misplace things: organized would be his middle name, and he considers it his last as long as he doesn’t know it. The only reason he even keeps such a thing is to avoid siphoning resources from the medbay in cases of minor grazes like this.

He shuts his eyes as he smooths his sopping bangs completely off his forehead. The least he did was pull on a pair of briefs, but he couldn’t dry off before attending to this. Scavenging for a memory when he can hear his heartbeat in his mangled finger is a bitch.

The cabinet is deliciously cool when he leans his forehead against it. And then, it comes to him as all terrible revelations do, sinister in its clarity, abrupt and sinking: His first-aid kit is in your quarters.

You got sick of him tending to his injuries by himself—hiding them, you insisted—and all but pilfered it from him. He teased you about it and pretended to throw a fit, but he didn’t even think of it, not until now. He didn’t care, because if you had it stashed away he could do the same. It felt good to take care of you, even though he couldn’t stop the injury from happening.

He squeezes his eyes shut, wobbling around a dozen heavy, clunky feelings. It was more than just patching you up, too. You, taking care of him like that, he liked it—or the idea of it. It was nice, you keeping it for him. Reserving his well-being for the front of your mind, no matter how slight the hurt. No one ever did that for him before. He used to be so alone.

The acid-cork in his throat breaks like popping a tap. Hot tears spring to his eyes, and a croaked sound escapes before he can stop either of them.

With another wave of weariness, he comes to the realization that he’s so sick of hiding away, covering up, locking down and burying the key. It’s like the hint of something split him the moment you met, and it never stopped since. Only, he didn’t realize it until the something started to take shape.

It's like you cracked him, and like a dam he’s broken open, impossible to stop. He’s crying, and it feels like he can’t ever stop. It’s as if he’s been flung from his own reins, throwing him out of control. It was his choice that let him ruin things all by himself, but he’ll die before he brings this to you; he normally would, after he got a hold of himself, but he makes you upset just to lay eyes on.

He’s out of control. This realization tosses him into an electric panic: The pangs of his heart reaches his ears, he begins to shiver, and his hands morph into prickly icepicks. He hasn’t gotten one this bad since Kenny left him.

Then, something else. That sense of danger that’s resided in him since he was young prickles, sending the shaking and anxiety and impending doom-feeling into overdrive.

Only on instinct does his body kick into action, but completely deprived of thought, all he can do is slam a cabinet shut, cringe at the reverberation, and pin himself against it, gasping noisily. The danger isn’t real—he’s in his bathroom at HQ—but the sense is never wrong, either. His eyes dart around for a weapon, but when he doesn’t see one his hands reflexively curl into fists. Big fucking mistake.

The wince, this time, is audible—it shows all over his face. Pain rattles him from the static in his head to the curl of his toes. He hears it through the cotton stuffed in his ears, but he can’t be bothered to muffle it anymore, if he’s even capable of that much thinking right now. He cradles his scathing finger, pinned between his folded legs and his chest, and feels himself from the perspective of a broken spinning top.

He’ll swear to the end that he never heard you knock on his door, nor unlock the door and go on searching for him until you heard the slam coming from the depths of his bathroom. You rapped on the oak in an endless mantra of Levi’s name until his head jerked up, finally hearing you.

You knew better, so much better than to barge in on him in the middle of a panic attack. With his clamoring gasps for air stretching through the door, barging in on him would’ve done nothing but plummet him into worse places. He’s broken parts in that way: When he’s in dire need of comfort, that's the last thing he’ll reach out and grab for. It weighs too much.

He hears your voice through the wood, and sighs high in his throat at the sound of it, relieved and a little helpless. You haven’t spoken this tenderly to him in so many days, so hearing it now is like falling back into a bed he’s slept in since birth.

For a while, you simply go back and forth; mainly you, guiding him through it. You tether him back down to earth, as dizzyingly rough a return it is. Sooner or later, much later, you gently ask if it’d be alright for you to come in, but he’s not ready for that just yet.

The first-aid kit—Levi’s first-aid kit—dangles at your side when you do come in, after he has more clothes on his back and he’s wrangled the air back into his lungs. In… and out.

The first order of business in his mind is how you knew, and if you were somehow forced to come, to leave. In yours, it’s his stiff, swollen finger, which has reached the color of rotten gala apples.

You came because Mike mentioned it, you claim. You’re here for Levi, though, and that’s enough of a reason.

Gently, you knock the door closed with your booted foot. “So? Sit down and let me do this for you.”

Objections, immediately. He tries to sound firm despite the croak still thick in his voice. “You don’t have to. Leave it here and I’ll handle it on my own.”

You shoot him a look—displeased, but patient.

“I’m fine,” he insists, but is sure to add, “I’m fine now.”

“Levi–” you plant the kit down on the counter, “–there are a million things I could’ve done instead of this. All he said was you were pushing yourself much harder than usual. I still came straight here, didn’t I? I got worried.”

“Because–’cause you have the med kit,” he stammers, and screws his nose up in shame with himself. “I can splint my own fucking finger. Leave. Get out.”

Your face goes hard. “You want that?”

“That’s what you said you wanted,” he points out, not resentfully, but plainly; like it’s an argument on behalf of a ghost.

The tension hangs in the air. You’re still hurt, and you’re angry about what happened. You can’t pretend you’re not, not anymore, and not when he's standing right in front you. All this time, you didn’t dodge all his bullets, just denied that they hit you.

The next words leave you in a long breath: “Levi, what’re we doing?”

His lips twitch. Sensing the path this conversation is going down, he crowds up against the counter without thinking. “...Don’t know.”

You want to ask what distressed him enough to make him panic, partly because of how rare it is, but you know you won’t get a straight answer.

Telling him it would make you feel a lot better if he sat down gets him to at least give you a chance, however reluctantly. He perches himself on the edge of the tub.

You plant yourself next to him and pop open the cotton-white kit. This part comes so easily you can talk while your hands work: “I really wanted you to stay the night you showed up, but I was upset, too… But I think that’s understandable. Don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Obediently, he spreads his hand over your knee when you tap his wrist. You elevate it a little.

“Can you feel this?” You take your pointer finger and carefully trail it down from his third knuckle.

The way he cringes tells you he can. While beaming red and stiff like a tree branch, it isn’t bad, all things considered. Splinting it would still be safer though, no matter how quickly he heals.

“I take it you won’t go to the infirmary for this?”

He makes a low, unhappy sound. “Not if I don’t have to.”

“…And if I ask that you do?”

“Same thing.”

Taken aback, you pause with the two pieces of metal bracing his finger. You didn’t expect him to say that after making it clear that it didn’t matter what either of you wanted, but he made it just as obvious that he wouldn’t dream of leaving you.

You decide not to comment: it’s high-time you stopped belittling yourself so much. Look what happened last time.

“Hey…” he mumbles, swallowing around the acid-shot of pain as you delicately splint the injury. Busy measuring his words, the silence drags on.

“Hey,” you say.

“...I meant what I said. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel the same as you.” He remembers what just transpired, and tenses involuntarily. “I realized that. Then… I. I thought there was danger where there wasn’t. It was just you.”

“Oh, honey…” You sigh, quietly lending your ear as he wanders through an explanation. All the while, your hands go on working, taping the splints. Levi can be chatty when he wants to be, but he takes time with his words anyway.

It doesn’t surprise you much that that discovery would make him panic. You get the feeling that he’s afraid most times. Maybe the root of it isn’t that physical anymore, but the fear is still there, nestled just beneath the surface.

All you’re afraid of is him disappearing on you for good while it can still be prevented.

“I don’t know what–” he swallows. “We can’t. I can’t go through something like that all over again.”

He could go on about how you deserve someone decent enough to follow through when they’re told that you want them, that he’s mangled and jagged in places, that he’s not good—but he doesn’t try. He knows you don’t see him that way, not one bit.

The splint is finished. You wrap up with a tired shake of your head and stand, striding out of the bathroom without saying anything. You leave the first-aid kit behind, too.

That troubles him enough to rise to his feet. He follows you out into the sitting room, where so many dear memories lie. It feels like defacing sacred ground, inhabiting it like this.

You’re sitting at the table next to the window, clearly swathed in some anguished thoughts. He has no idea what to say to make it better—honesty and comfort go together like oil and water.

“Look,” he begins, eyes darting aimlessly from your face to the floor. “We can’t ever be normal. That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

“Friends?” The idea scrambles your brain. You look up at him, brows knit. “Maybe it’s easy for you to cram all your emotions into a tiny box in a dead-end ditch where they’ll never be found, but–” you shake your head, “–we can’t be friends, anymore or otherwise. I’ll always see you as something else.”

To him, you’re implying you want nothing to do with him. Not an option, he decides immediately, because that’d be even worse than if you died. You’d still be putting too much syrup on your pancakes and fighting with more tenacity than anyone in his squad and scrunching up your nose in your sleep—but you’d be strangers then.

Your jaw drops, hurt. “You think, after all I’ve cried over you, I’d be okay with not having anything to do with you?”

As you speak, you quickly rise to your feet and plant your hands on his shoulders, giving them an even shake; as if to wake him up.

“All? You’ve–” He’s busy being jittered by the first hit of your pearly perfume, along with any bit of your touch in days to think straight. He feels stuck, like roots. “Don’t cry over me.”

“Then don’t make me cry,” you shoot right back, stepping away and planting your hands on your hips. You’re determined to stand up for yourself this time.

“I…” He doesn’t know what to say to that. Either way, you could, you will. There’s always a chance. The difference is there’d be nothing he could do then, and no way he could make it better, not any longer.

“Stop that,” you sigh, like you’ve heard the argument—the root of his doubt—a million times. “We can’t think in ifs. If everyone spent all their energy worrying about dying, there’d be no point in doing anything. Is five years still not long enough to prove to you that I’m capable?”

He grinds his teeth. “You’re more than capable. I'm just... I’m just an idiot.”

You fall back in the smooth, ornate chair and sniff. It’s asking too much for Levi to ever finish that sentence and admit he’s scared. Love hard, lose it, and you force yourself to stop loving; he’s lost so much, so he’s entitled to that fear, but you’re so sick of being scared. “Is that any way to live?”

It isn’t. He knows that it isn’t. Freeze up at the wrong moment, and it’s all over. That’s how most recruits go out, or the ones foolish enough to join the Scouts, anyway. Not death by Titan, but fear.

Losing another person precious to him, not by death, but by his own fault isn’t something he could tolerate. You’ve had some close scrapes of course, and you'll have more, but while you're both here you have a choice.

But...

One day it's almost guaranteed you won’t, and if he lost you for good, it wouldn’t leave him that much stronger for it; it wouldn't be like Isabel and Farlan. Your end would sap the life right out of him.

Stop that, your words remind him. How can I even bitch about that when she’s sitting right in front of me? What good does it do?

None. Seeking a little support from the table, he’s silent for a long moment, letting the words stir, thinking deeply.

It would be like taking his heart and leaving it completely in your hands. Whether it gets shredded would be no fault of your own, because he trusts you. It's the odds. Just as well, yours would be in his hands too, and he hasn’t taken care of it lately like he should. Yet you bare your heart, and persist.

“I need… to think,” he decides, and eyes you above your hand, which you prop up your chin with. “Maybe that’s asking too much, after wasting so much damn time, which—was shitty of me. Sorry.” He hangs his head a little, avoiding your eyes.

You deflate, relieved. He’s not the only one who’s wasted time.

If he needs a while to choose what’s best for him, or to come to terms with things, you don’t hesitate to grant him that. All you ask is that he makes the choice. This rift torn between you has felt like tenderizing a nerve, every damn day since that night. You never want to feel like that again, not when it’s perfectly possible for things to be okay. “–is that okay?”

He nods, circling around the table. Once he’s right in front of you he crouches down and rests a reassuring hand on your knee—his good one. He needs you to know that he means this.

It takes him a moment to find the right words, but it takes you the same amount of time to lean forward, smoothing the ramrod-stiffness of his shoulder. His mind goes blank. He missed you like hell.

“I swear to you.” He finds your other hand, takes it delicately between his injury, and kisses it. You’re too precious to throw away—he will never, could never. He hears your breath shudder. “Understand? I’m serious, so don’t worry about those things that scare you.”

He also wants to warn you not to get a single scratch before he can settle on this, and that if he lands in favor of putting his heart in your hands, he wants to make it perfectly special the way someone like you deserves. You’re one of a kind. A moment like that—just like the night of Mayfest—leaves no room for any sort of heartache trailing behind. That sort of mushy fluff he can communicate by squeezing your hand, and the small look he quickly shoots you.

Your eyes gleam like he’s just as precious, which stings in the best of ways.

“Understood.” You squeeze back. Your other hand rises to the top of his head, petting.

A long breath he had no way of knowing he was holding leaves through his nose, and the tension, it feels like, eases away like runoff from a river.

The utter relief on his face must amuse you. “Cute. Relax a little.”

With a small grunt, his chin lands on your knee. Your fingers buried in his hair feels too damn good—always too good. That’s familiar, at least, but after it's all said and done—whatever that may mean—it won’t matter if it feels normal or not. It’ll be good, because you’re good in any sector of his life.

“Stop, ‘m not a damn cat. You’re using that against me.”

You tut a little, and then your bound hands break away. His eyes shoot to your face, confused and a little torn, only to watch you press your fingers to your lips. At once you place them on his pout, and by the look on your face, you did it on purpose.

He smacks a small kiss to those fingers, leans up and catches your soft cheek, and takes his time leaving one on your forehead, then the side of your mouth. When it comes to the quirk of your pink lips, he stalls a little. He can’t decide if it’s appropriate or not to leave you hanging. He eyes you, wanting.

You tilt your head, lashes fluttering a little. You resist the way the pull between both of you yanks. “Take your time, ‘Vi.”

That’s a funny thing to say when he’s half-straddling your leg, not to mention his hand straying over your jaw. You have the collar of his shirt wound up like a knot, wanting just as much. He just needs time.

“Don’t worry,” he tells you again.

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