Levi pulls his collar up and slides further into the booth. Erwin frowns at him.
“You know why,” Levi hisses. “I’m not supposed to be in public consorting —”
“—consorting—”
“—with you.” He covers his face desperately as the waitress approaches the booth.
“Can we get two burgers and fries?” Erwin smiles pleasantly at her. Of course he had to order for him. Of course he knows his order. She writes it all down with a flourish and busies on to the next waving customer.
“Now,” Erwin says, turning to the glowering man in front of him, “why are you trying to kill me again?”
alsoooo this is slightly off-brand but! same themes (being a teenage dork, not dying downtime), different universe (jjk)
Regularly Scheduled Programming (1.6k, fluff)
You’re such an idiot, Megumi thinks, but I’m glad for you.
In which Megumi struggles with a) how to react when Yuji is, unexpectedly, alive, because no one has written an instruction manual for when someone falls dead in front you, is resurrected by otherworldly forces and incidentally, neglects to tell you for two entire months; and consequently, b) submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known.
and sincere apologies - i’ve sort of fallen off the snk bandwagon post final chapter + i’m always torn between cultivating an online personality & hiding in a time-invariant hole, though i’m glad to chat always!
also fyi i’m more active here though it’s moreso personal blog & sprinklings of whatever fandom i’m currently invested in (currently jjk! though snk will always be a formative experience for me)
i have nothing to contribute to the snk fandom other than the vague notion that if levi were a mermaid that means erwin would be legally mandated to carry him everywhere that is not the ocean from whence he came
Summary: Levi remembers everything. Erwin doesn’t.
His hand was bleeding. Levi looked curiously at the the crimson spreading across the gaping skin, then at the man hovering over him. God, it was him, he thought. Erwin.
“Let me help you,” the man was saying. His blue eyes were concerned and earnest. His blond hair was slicked back — so, so neatly, Levi thought. It suited him. It was him.
The man was looking at the wound too. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“No,” said Levi, and blacked out.
—
The blond man - with his blue eyes and neat, perfectly-gelled-back hair - was the first to speak when they’d been ushered into the waiting room. Levi had been bandaged and stitched up; he’d popped a few painkillers just in case. The man watched as he knocked them back and washed them down with a swig from the flimsy plastic cup.
“I thought coming here with you,” Erwin gestured around the corridors with busying nurses and people rushing in and out, “was the least I could do. I mean, you took him for me.”
“There was a lot of blood,” he added.
Levi felt the tablets catch in his throat. Ah. Right. He’d have known that voice anywhere, except this time it was shouting stop thief and really, all he’d done was put his hand out —
“You grabbed his knife and punched him. Not smart, but...thanks.”
Despite himself, Levi snorted. “Yeah,” he said, and leaned back in the hard seat. He swore it could feel the warmth radiating off the large man in the seat next to him. It was him.
Though: why hadn’t he said anything yet? Did he know? Levi himself was still getting the hang of this. Transmigration was a terrible, bureaucratic process and there were always pitfalls, because cosmic forces did have a cruel sense of humour. He drew in a long breath and leaned in closer above the chatter of the room. Erwin leaned closer too.
“Do you-“ Levi started. His good hand reached deep into his jacket, closing around a faded patch.
Erwin’s phone rang, startling both of them apart. He fished it out of his pocket, mumbling, and hurried away to take the call. It was weird to see him like this, Levi thought as he watched his retreating back. It still startled him to see the other man whole. He was still dressed impeccably, though Levi missed that bolo tie. He shut his eyes.
The painkillers must have done a number on him - what did they put in these new drugs anyway? - and so he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew someone was coughing in front of him, very gently, with a sound that seemed almost polite. He blinked groggily. Erwin had returned and he was standing in front of him, looking more harried and business-like. He was wearing his jacket and rocking back in his shoes. He would fit right in the bustle of suits and in an office with glass floor-to-ceiling windows. Levi was sure his job involved commanding — sorry, managing — people anyway. He didn’t belong in a hospital, sitting with under the harsh lights in uncomfortable chairs as they waited for Levi’s number to flash on the screen and for them to send him on his merry way.
Then again, they perhaps weren't even supposed to be here. Levi was sure most people lived a single life.
“Sorry about that,” Erwin said. “Marie — my girlfriend — she wanted to know if I was okay.”
Damn it, Levi thought. He was too late again. Damn it all to hell. He must have looked pained because Erwin— oh bless him — looked concerned in return.
“I realise I didn’t introduce myself,” he said, sounding more apologetic than he needed to be. “Erwin. Erwin—“
“Smith.” Levi finished weakly. Erwin quirked an eyebrow, but put his hand out at him expectantly. Levi looked down at his own bandaged fist and then up at him. Erwin looked sheepish. He put his hand away.
“Nice to meet you anyway,” he mumbled.
Levi looked over him warily, distracted. He should have known something was wrong when he had handed Erwin his wallet back and it had flipped open to reveal a faded polaroid. He’d caught a glimpse: Erwin younger than he’d remembered him, his arm around a woman who looked at him like he was her world. He was. He had every right to be.
“Don’t you remember?” Levi said softly.
“Should I?” Erwin’s smile was as brilliant as ever.
Levi swallowed. He felt dizzy, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t from blood loss. They’d checked him too for a concussion and he was all clear.
Still - girlfriend - there was hope this time. It was better than fiancé, and much easier to take than wife. He would have just let the guy stab him if it were otherwise. Or taken the knife and done himself. He knew exactly how to kill. A wave of relief washed over him, before he was flooded with guilt.
“No,” he said wretchedly. “I guess not.”
-
His phone buzzed beside him. His arm was beginning to ache again, the stitches pulling at the skin. He thought maybe the painkillers were starting to wear off - it wasn’t any fair, this life, because he didn’t seem to have the same physical prowess. It’d taken twice the work to be able to do one of those somersaults, anyway. And there wasn’t any gear and you probably had to get a license to fly about cities.
He glanced at the screen.
Good, Erwin had replied, confirming the timing. Then, before Levi could formulate a reply, and because everything was conspiring against him, because God, if he existed, was really enjoying this, and Erwin was such a kind, empathetic bastard, always thinking — too much! — about the ones he loved, the next message had popped up:
Marie would love to meet you.
He felt a deep twisting in his gut again. It seemed to radiate out, shimmering along his nerves to his cut palm. He would have thought that he was used to dealing with this by now, having weathered broken bones and surviving bite after bite, but the pain was always fresh. His blood was always red and raw. And the smallest, stupidest things cut surprisingly deep.
He rolled over and groaned.
Before they had parted, Erwin had turned to him and said, “I can’t thank you enough. What do you say to a meal at my place?”
He’d nodded dumbly. It was him, after all. He could never say no.
He looked at the screen again. The devastating certainty of the engagement, seeing him again, brought a slow ache inside his chest. He felt his heart do a tiny, unsettled flip, before the thought of the ensuring awkwardness of next week's meeting made it sink. It had fallen right to his feet. Everything hurt.
“Fuck,” he said, feelingly. It was in times like this that he wished he hadn’t chosen to come back at all.
She draws her knees to her chest, shifting slowly in the wet grass.
Her coat is pink, he thinks. It is all he can think about, the baby pink material of her coat, the way it’s grass-stained and damp in the dew. How her black hair is soft against its upturned collar. He’s sitting a few inches behind her, fingers absentmindedly curling in the long blades of the grass. They’re neat and slippery in his hands. His own long legs are crossed. They’re falling asleep. Their breaths are foggy in the crisp air.
It’s still dark out but the sun is beginning to crest over the hills. Soon the sky would crack open. Light would spill over the sleeping landscape, still shrouded in the morning mist. The birds are beginning to sing, voicing out single, tentative notes. Then the sound would give way to the call of brusque orders and it would be the loud hum and rattle of metal as these impossible machines took off into the evening and then into the inky night. He imagines the raw fires underneath them, a city awaiting judgement.
Maybe she’s thinking the same, because her hands are tangled material of her scarf. It lies red on her knees, a stark brush of crimson bleeding out from her and into the dark grass. The rest would be waking soon.
He reaches out to lace his fingers in hers. The callouses on her hands match his own.
“Come back alive,” he says.
She smiles slowly. The pale, ghostly light catches her features. “I will.”
These were the histories of their bodies - the scar along Erwin’s palms where he’d caught Levi’s blade and the way he stood, back straight and stiff, proud of the man he was. And for Levi himself, it was the burning handprint on his shoulder from where the other man had touched him, the way he held a knife and tensed at each shadow. The lilt to his words which betrayed his background.
Upon joining the corps Levi finds himself caught up in something entirely bigger than himself and in the forlorn march of people, of bodies, toward something. Erwin had said it was a better world, but in moments like these he wasn’t sure.
a/n: yeah i’m taking a stab at that kind of 2014, post-ACWNR fic. not particularly original but i just wanted to explore the politics of the wall & unpick their relationship for maximum drama...also i’m oddly invested in this though what is Plot, really - so if you wanna chat please hmu...and if you wanna nerd about politics (or just these two old men lol) PLEASE my inbox is always open
so this is what people do (jeankasa, 2k+ words, g)
summary: Nighttime. Him and Mikasa, alone together in a darkened room. Air heavy with emotion and Eren out of the way.
Fifteen year old Jean would have loved this. Nineteen year old Jean really doesn’t.
—
a/n: i never do jeankasa because i was always a jeanmarco girl but also my multi-shipper is creeping up on me. but this isn’t really jeankasa it’s more...jean appreciating his friend. have so many thoughts on mikasa’s character in a meta way but i’ll spare everyone. not saying jean deserves her but i think at least he’s trying...
so this is what people do (jeankasa, 7k+ words, m)
summary: Nighttime. Him and Mikasa, alone together in a darkened room. Air heavy with emotion and Eren out of the way.
Fifteen year old Jean would have loved this. Nineteen year old Jean really doesn’t.
—
a/n: i never do jeankasa because i was always a jeanmarco girl but also my multi-shipper is creeping up on me. but this isn’t really jeankasa it’s more...jean appreciating his friend. have so many thoughts on mikasa’s character in a meta way but i’ll spare everyone. not saying jean deserves her but i think at least he’s trying...
edit: welp it got longer & a bit more emotional & physical...so i’ve corrected the description to reflect that
post that table scene because it lives in my head rent free...
tw: blood, tw: injury
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Jean’s face went red and he was cursing when he saw Armin. He was sat at the edge of the bed at the medical bay, legs hanging limply off its sides. Even underneath the spreading purple bruises, his knuckles were white as they gripped the hard mattress. For once he was glad for his shaggy fringe because it meant that he didn’t have to meet Jean’s piercing eyes. Jean also didn't need to see the dried blood around his nose and mouth.
“Armin…” the other boy sounded almost chiding. “What - why-”
Armin swallowed thickly through the dull ache in his ribs. “I started it,” he mumbled. “I threw the first punch.”
Jean let himself process the words. It was the furthest thing he’d ever expected from the blond boy - on the receiving end, definitely. Retaliating, maybe, but that was still a distant possibility. Even more unthinkable was the thought of him instigating. Still he didn’t say anything.
“Right across the face,” Armin said, as if to clarify. He seemed to want to desperately explain himself, and in doing so to atone somehow. Jean remained silent, letting him.
“I deserved it -” he said slowly, letting the words fill the cold room. “He said I was useless, he hated Mikasa - and it was out of line, yes, but I moved first - ”
“No -" Already the taller boy was fumbling at the cupboard, wrenching the doors open, pulling out trays of gauze and iodine and where were those sterilised bandages?
“You don’t have to,” Armin said, still looking down. “Don’t waste it. I’ll heal. We both will.” He was right: already the grey of his cheeks was looking a bit brighter, but there was still the problem of his loose teeth. And of course there was something unsettling about the shallow way in which he breathed and the odd posture with which he held himself.
Jean ignored him. Armin let him peel back the layers of his forest-green coat and his soft white shirt which was sticky with sweat. The other boy sucked in a long breath at the bruised cavity of his chest and the angry colours which had begun to coalesce along his sides. He rummaged in another cupboard for ice packs and pressed them to Armin’s side while he sat there taking in small, weary breaths. His skin prickled at the cold, goosebumps rising along the pale flesh. He made a noise in the back of his throat.
At the sound Jean glanced at him. Armin could see he was worrying his dry lips. Then he blinked hard and reached for Armin's hand in a sudden motion, guiding it in a slow arc to his bruised side, where he was holding the ice in place. For a brief second Jean's larger hand had held Armin's smaller one, covering it in his. His fingertips were cold as they lingered on the back of his palms.
"Keep it there,” he said, looking meaningfully at him, and Armin dutifully complied, pressing the pack against his ribs. Jean took his hand away.
He watched as Jean busied about, turning to pull out cotton pads, dabbing antiseptic on them, watched as he moved to press them to Armin’s broken skin, where he hissed at the sting of alcohol.
Jean seemed to get angrier as he worked. Finally, when he was finished with Armin's chest he knocked out two round tablets onto the palm of his hand. But Armin brushed him off with a small shake of his head, and Jean set down the bottle of painkillers with a clang.
“Why’d you let him fuck you up like that?” he blurted out, and immediately regretted it. Armin’s head snapped upward in a swift, almost violent motion, even as his face had contorted in pain right after. But Jean knew he had crossed an invisible boundary; Armin and Eren’s relationship was sacrosanct, whispered but never spoken about, and it was wrong to doubt their connection, wrong to question humanity’s hope and make the brilliant boy who was their best tactician, who wielded the colossal titan, see sense.
“He can’t help it,” Armin said quietly, even as he grimaced through cracked teeth. “When he was ten his father thrust the weight of the world on him. How do you outgrow that?”
Jean didn't answer. Instead he busied himself by moving onto Armin’s forehead, where he’d cut himself on the broken glass. He focused on wiping the wound with a spool of cotton, running the white cloud along the gash and noting the raw, pink flesh which lay beneath the split skin. Already the gauze was turning red with crusted blood from the side of the other boy’s face. He sighed, but said nothing.
“And,” Armin said softly, and there was something in his voice that made Jean properly look at him. His amber eyes were wavering as they met Armin’s wide blue ones. “He’s on our side, right? He’s our friend, Jean.”
“That’s,” Jean sighed. “That’s not who he is, not anymore. Not after today.”
Armin looked up at him, glassy-eyed, and then away. He sat there silently as Jean finished up bandaging his head - much like he had done before in what felt like a lifetime ago - and didn’t move until the other boy had packed up and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
He didn’t realise he’d been crying until he felt hot, angry tears spilling onto his stained coat and shaking hands.
kaledo-art
izzy806
dailybridgerton
