Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin)
Word Count: 4.6K
Summary: flashback five - also known as the start of the heist that may grant you a chance at living in the sun
Warnings: verbal arguments, miscommunications, self harm language, mentions of injury, death, and illness
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CHAPTER 15 - FLASHBACK: FIVE
note: the next couple of chapters will be heavily influenced by the ova 'no regrets'. they are my interpretations of the material. please watch those episode first, otherwise you will get spoiled on elements revolving around levi's backstory.
“This is suicide.”
Furlan winces at your strong reaction. Isabel pales.
They’re both sitting on the edges of the love seat couch, equal parts surprised yet expectant of your reluctance.
Of course they had Levi break the news first.
Neither of them wanted the blow back of your rage at the mere entertainment of such a problem.
Levi, however, can take your anger and neatly fold it with the rest of the clothes you’ve shared since you were kids. He knows how to dismantle your rage in ways the other two have never quite mastered.
At the kitchenette table, the raven-haired man doesn’t move from his chair. Leisurely his arm drapes along its back, legs crossed in front of him. You wait a full table-length away from him, hunched with your hands pressed into the wooden surface separating you.
A stand off.
The other two watch like hawks, awaiting a response from Levi that never arrives. You feel the worry rolling off of Furlan and Isabel in waves, a concern they can’t quite voice, but all you can do is stare at him.
Dead eyes, unwilling to express anger or excitement, meet you.
Right now, you hate him.
You hate Levi’s neutrality.
You hate this godforsaken city.
Most importantly, you hate how easy a few pretty words can upend your entire operation.
After a long stretch of silence Isabel clears her throat, fidgeting with her fingers. “We would be careful, sis. We’re always so careful. The old man said—”
“I know what he told you, Isa,” you snap, and Isabel whimpers with uncertainty. “I think I heard it loud and clear — unless there’s a part of the proposal I missed. Levi?”
His eyes flinch to a narrowed state.
You’re angry.
You’re angry because a devil made an offer.
Not just any devil — a devil from the surface, one that lives within the walls and takes the sunlight for granted. A demon willing to dangle the one thing everyone in the Underground City district desires most on a flimsy little stick:
Salvation.
More specifically, documentation that’s as precious as rare rubies. Papers that bypass the thugs bleeding funds dry at the top of the stairs. A ticket to a better life, one where a person like you can walk among the living rather than fight with the dead for scraps.
The offer sounds too good to be true.
It sounds too good to be true because it is.
(We were offered a job by someone from the surface, someone with the reputable means to back up his payment, and we accepted the terms and conditions in exchange for money and a one-way ticket to the surface.)
Ever since you were seventeen, finding a way for the four of you to live on the surface is all Furlan has wanted. Now you're twenty-one with an opportunity for a way out. You cannot take an entire gang there — the transport of underlings cannot work like that, the logistics are not feasible, but this?
For the people he’s grown up with, laughed with, cried with?
(His family — Furlan has said the doomed word more than once to your face, to Isabel’s, to Levi’s. None of you have ever corrected him.)
What was once a fruitless idea has been fertilized and harvested, corrupted by grubby hands who can make a pipe dream happen.
It’s poisonous to a dreamer like him — like Isabel, who has never lost her knack for dreaming no matter how dire things get, so you focus your efforts on the only other person in this apartment who may see the reality for what it is.
A lost cause.
(A trap.)
“Doesn’t it seem wildly convenient,” you begin with a bite, “that some rich asshole found the three of you wandering the streets with little to no trouble? We’re supposed to have eyes everywhere. We’re virtually untouchable, even on the main roads.”
“The Military Police have been after us for years, James,” Furlan argues, but his words falter closer to a plea. “Pretty sure everyone down here knows our names. And it’s not like the Military Police have no idea where we live, so it stands to reason this guy—”
“That isn’t the point, Furlan,” you tell him. “You’re talking about the MPs. This guy is not an MP. He’s an outsider.”
Furlan’s frown deepens. “So?”
“So?" you repeat. "So you don’t think it’s suspicious, at all, that this shithead is offering us a job—” The humorless laugh bubbling on your lips stops your train of thought. “Actually, calling this a job is an insult to what we’ve built.”
“James—”
“Blackmail, Furlan. It’s fucking blackmail.” You pause, allowing the word to permeate through the room. “He is blackmailing us with the promise of money and the one thing everyone down here wants.”
A right to the surface.
A chance to live a life in the sun.
“Because we’re the only ones who can pull off a heist like this!”
Isabel urges with a naivety you typically adore. Right now? You loathe it.
“How many other people, what other gangs, have what we have? The numbers. The ODM stuff. The old man believes in us.”
On instinct, you sneer.
Belief, like it’s stronger than money.
Instead of taking your anger out on her — she doesn’t deserve it, not when you know her bleeding heart would pour itself dry without hesitation for a chance to bring this found family to surface safely — you snap your attention back to the quiet, contemplative man across from you.
He’s too calm about this; Levi trusts people from the surface as far as he can throw them.
Granted, it’s probably further than the distance you can toss, but still — it isn't far.
So you ask.
“Why?”
Levi's eyes narrow further, thinning to a sliver.
You lean in closer, gritting your teeth. Your necklace dangles off of your neck like a noose.
“Why are you okay with this?”
Curving your steps around the table, you walk towards him. Levi stays seated, eyes stalking your movements with practiced memorization.
“Why aren’t you telling them this is a terrible idea?”
Furlan holds out a noncommittal hand to stop you. “James—”
“Because we don’t have a choice,” Levi interrupts, finally standing from his chair. He doesn’t sound angry, but you know Levi sometimes better than you know yourself. Something is there, just under the layer of nonchalance. “It’s complicated.”
A storm flickers in his eyes when they meet yours.
“There’s nothing complicated about it,” you tell him, your words rushed under your breath. “We make the rules. From the very beginning until now, we make the rules. We don’t let surface scum tell us how to live our lives. We always have a choice.”
His chin tilts to the left. “Not this time.”
“Why?”
“We just don’t.”
“We do, Levi.”
“No, James, we don’t.”
He firmly emphasizes each syllable.
Then, finally, he places the caveat on the table:
“They have Yan.”
The warmth in your body pools at your feet, like the blood has seeped through the soles of your shoes and into the wooden blanks beneath.
It’s no secret that Yan, one of the long-time underlings of the gang, hasn’t been doing well.
Over the last few months, his legs have gone from bad to catastrophically worse. He’s barely managed on jobs, causing him to fall behind on earnings.
From the corner of your eye, you see it: Furlan’s head tilts back, eyes closed. He deflates, shoulders first, until his whole body shrinks.
It reeks of guilt.
(Why the hell would Furlan be guilty?)
Isabel is the opposite; her body tenses as her wild ginger hair flings side-to-side to look at Furlan, then Levi, then back to Furlan, waiting for an explanation.
Then you realize: she isn’t waiting for anything, not like you.
Because Isabel already knows that Yan’s being held hostage; she’s just waiting to see who will say it first — or if she’ll be forced to be the one to bring you into the loop.
Suddenly the world feels smaller, like you’re back in that little makeshift ring by an abandoned street stop.
Alone and fending for yourself.
“The hell do you mean, they have Yan?” You hate how shaken your voice sounds.
“Saw it with my own two eyes,” Levi tells you in a monotone manner. “There wasn’t anything we could do. So, no, we don’t have a choice — unless we want him to die.”
“Which means you all saw it.”
The words of doubt tumble from your tongue. Levi’s eyes tick in a squint to decipher what you mean, but you create physical space with a step backwards.
“All of you knew this wasn’t just about the money from some rich fuck, but you didn’t tell me the second you came back. Why didn’t—”
“I didn’t tell you right away because Furlan has been skimming money for Yan under the table,” Levi blurts, effectively stopping you from crawling into yourself.
The ball of yarn halts in its unravel. An uncomfortable silence fogs the room.
“...what?”
But that isn’t your voice.
Isabel speaks now with the same confusion in your gut. Her fiery hair whips to Furlan for an explanation.
Furlan doesn’t move a muscle.
You blink back into your body, and soon you find Levi standing right in front of you. He urges you with just a look, a nonverbal reassurance:
Breathe.
You’re not alone.
(You aren’t fighting three against one again.)
“It’s no secret that his legs went to shit,” Levi explains, level yet earnest. “First it was his ankle. Then it was his knee. Then it became both knees. Whatever disease he has, it’s spreading and it’s spreading fast. All of us have seen it coming: he can barely keep up with his team. No jobs means no earnings. Those are our rules. Furlan chose to skim off the top to help with treatments.”
Levi tenses under your widening stare.
“I knew," he finishes. "Furlan didn’t know I knew, but I did. Not Isabel, not anyone else — just me.”
Blame me, he’s telling you without saying so. Don’t punish everyone else for this.
(Levi Ackerman, always ready to shoulder your burdens without hesitation.)
Only one question numbly exits your lips: “For how long?”
Levi studies your eyes.
“Since the Nightshade job.”
Piece by piece, the gravity of your situation comes together.
You can feel it weighing down your shoulders when your attention flickers to Furlan.
Furlan trembles as he continues to stare at the ceiling. His complexion is tinged with a mortified, red-handed glaze.
The corner of your lips pull to a sympathetic frown. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“It wasn’t anyone else’s business but Yan’s and Furlan’s,” Levi answers for the other man.
“But we could have helped,” you protest, turning your attention back to Levi. "Me, Isabel, all four of us — we could have helped."
“It’s a gang, James, not a church,” Levi bitterly argues. “If we help one person’s problems, then everyone looks for handouts. That isn’t how we operate.”
A hefty glare settles on your brow. “And now these people have Yan, who — by all intents and purposes — we could leave to die. Right?”
A squeak bubbles in Isabel's throat.
Levi tilts his chin with a knowing sharpness.
“Sure, if we want those bastards to torture him for information about us.”
There: the spark, the swift kick in your ass, to ignite the fire in your belly once again.
You’re mad, you’re furious — but not at any of them.
“So I was right,” you chide, chin dropping to your chest. “This is just blackmail—”
“His legs are shit out of luck if he doesn’t receive treatment at a surface clinic.”
A fingertip lifts the tip of your chin back up.
It’s enough of a shock to your system to get you to listen — Levi rarely, if ever, shows blatant affection in front of the other two, yet here he is: blurring the lines for the sake of keeping your focus.
“Bottom line is that I want to work with these pieces of shit just as much as you do, but without the proper medical treatment, Yan’s as good as dead," Levi explains. "Even if we left him to fend for himself, it could still destroy not only our reputation, but he could give them access to everything we have. Bringing Yan back is the best option for business. Furlan, Isabel, and I will do the job—”
Furlan, Isabel, and I?
“Wait.”
“—get him what he needs, bring him home—”
“Wait, what do you mean by—”
“—and we’ll figure it out from there.”
“—just the three of you?” you finally finish, voice smaller with each word. “But what about…”
“The bastard didn’t intercept you,” Levi says, and you push his hand from your chin.
“We need someone to take care of everyone else,” Isabel chimes in softly, shrugging a noncommittal shoulder.
You blink towards the younger girl with her shining eyes, seeking your approval; a cease fire to an awkward evening.
“If it’s a trap created by MPs, then at least we know our gang can get away if they come knocking on our door, right?” she adds. “James is fast. She’s a fighter. She can take them on, no problem.”
“No, Isabel,” you start, “what you need is a B-Team.”
“Hate to say it, but Isabel is right.” Furlan finally speaks, exhaling in a short huff. “He didn’t see your face or ask for you by name, so you’re kind of off the hook.”
In a shocking turn of events, Levi agrees in a matter-of-fact finality. “The less people involved, the better.”
That overwhelming sense of dread rears its ugly head once again, creeping up the veins of your neck.
“Don’t be stupid. Every job needs a B-Team,” you argue right back. “The three of you cannot just go on this job without eyes on—”
“Maybe not this one,” Levi shuts down your offer with little remorse. “This shit’s already two people too many.”
Your eyes grow, appalled.
“You’re serious?”
He doesn’t budge.
“I’m sorry, but are you fucking insane? What the hell happens, then, if any of you get caught?”
“James,” Furlan begins, holding both palms up. Your hair falls into your line of deadly sight when your attention whips to the lanky man with shaggy, ash-blonde hair. “We were doing this way before you came into the picture, okay? Levi and me, I mean."
You scowl. “You two were beating people up for money in fucking alleyways before me, not taking sacrificial bribes from surface pigs.”
Furlan frowns deeply, and you decide you hate him just as much as you hate Levi right now — because Furlan responds quietly and full of respect. Adoration.
“We’ll come home. We’ll make it to the surface, together. Please, you have to trust us.”
Your nostrils flare and the fire in your belly quells as you lock eyes with your friend.
“It isn’t you I don’t trust.”
Never.
You trust the people in this little apartment more than anyone in the Underground City.
You would go to war with them, die for them, if it meant they could be happy.
Surely by now, after all these years, the three of them knew implicitly where you stood.
The problem, however, no longer lies below: it’s the people above you in more ways than one.
(What lies on the surface is the enemy.)
One false move and the four of you stand a chance to lose everything —
Including each other.
Sickened by the absolutes you face, your hands push off the table.
"Fuck this. If you want to kill yourselves, then be my guest. Throw it all away. We’re not making it to the surface.”
Isabel stands from the couch as you turn on a heel, spinning towards the front door. “Wait!”
“I’m not sticking around to watch you die, Isa,” you bite at the young girl. She flinches from your venom. “Same goes for you, Church, and Ackerman.”
You don’t wait any longer.
Can’t; you feel sick to your stomach and don’t want to make a mess of the apartment.
Without another word, you step past the threshold of the apartment and into the damp outdoor air. Your boots shuffle down the narrow staircase, quick and panicked.
Isabel calls out your name — your first name, a cheap trick that usually gets you to listen.
You don’t.
Passing the corner is as far as you get when you hear a second set of shoes following in tandem, hitting solid ground and turning a similar edge.
Let them.
You’re too upset to confront, to ward them off, especially when you have a pretty good feeling as to who may have run after you.
You continue your trek, head bowed to avoid the watchful eye of your gang runts guarding the apartment premises. Through a main street and into an alleyway you’ve grown so familiar with.
Twenty-one; it only took a few years to finally get here, where the dream dries to a mirage.
A warm hand grabs your bicep, anchoring you in place. “Hey.”
You stop.
You don’t fight.
“Hey,” you greet in return without turning, allowing your arm to float in the finite space between bodies.
“Want me to let you go so you can continue your dramatic nature walk?”
Lessening his grip for emphasis, Levi waits.
(I won't keep you prisoner.)
The baritone of his voice, neutral with an edge of care, vibrates through your body like a soothing aloe.
“Depends,” you answer, craning your chin to watch him over your shoulder. “Are you going to run after me?”
“Kind of already did.”
The anger evaporates from the crown of your head to your toes with each passing second. Eventually you drop the heel of your boot to the ground, lessening the strain on your raised arm.
Then the tension between his brows dissolves, too, when it’s only the two of you here.
“Talk to me.” The request is barely above a whisper. “Don’t shut me out.”
His choice of words — your words, thrown back at your face — almost steals your breath.
“You shut me out about Yan,” you argue childishly. “About Furlan.”
“Like I told you, it wasn’t any of our business.”
“And you’re shutting me out of the job.”
“I’m not trying to—”
“It’s our home, Levi.”
You blink away, embarrassed by your sentiment. His hand flexes to let go of your arm. It unceremoniously drops to your side.
“We’re supposed to be… We’re supposed to watch out for each other. All four of us. That’s what we do. We don’t leave each other behind.”
“I know,” he says, somber, as if to apologize in his own way.
“If this is your half-baked attempt to protect me…”
You trail off when something flickers in his eyes. His expression shifts, and your shoulders drop.
“I could be a part of the heist,” you surmise, “but you’re leaving me out on purpose.”
His jaw clenches. “If I could leave Isabel out, too, then I would. Same with Furlan.”
“So it—”
“You’re the only one.”
Levi pauses, fighting to find the right words.
“You were the only one who wasn’t forced into that carriage. Chances are we’ll be flanked on all sides by Military Police. If things go to shit, then I know you’ll be safe back here.”
“Who can really guarantee that I’ll be safe?” You shake your head. “Isabel said it herself: it could be a trap. They could be trying to attack the rest of the gang while the three of you aren’t here.”
“Yeah, and there’s no one I trust more to make sure we’re still in operation. No one.”
He speaks with such conviction that you almost believe him.
(It’s not about trust in protecting assets, but something more basic than that.)
“And if you get arrested, then you don’t want me there,” you finally say what he won’t, and Levi’s eyes dart to the left to avoid yours. “You want me to be the last person standing.”
“We won’t get arrested.” His wispy black hair jostles when he shakes his head. “We’re too fast on ODM gear. The MPs won’t stand a chance.”
Silence engulfs the space. Your brain continues to run the numbers, the logistics, of the proposed heist plan given by this mysterious buyer.
Every scenario, every issue, every failsafe — you can’t shake the foreboding chill in your blood.
“And who’s to say they haven’t already killed Yan?” you decide to ask, running through your list of concerns.
“Yan contacted Furlan two hours ago,” he answers. “He’s already at a first-rate clinic.”
“What if it’s bullshit? A set up, where they’re pretending to be Yan?”
“Do you think I’d fall for a fake report?” Levi scowls, insulted.
“No, but Furlan would.”
“I checked, twice.”
Which means it’s true.
Your doubt never creeps up to Levi, not once.
Dejected in what little choice remains on the table, your attention subconsciously lands on his parted lips.
“...how do we receive the surface papers?”
“He already paid half of what he’s promised. I checked: it’s not bullshit. The money’s real,” Levi explains slowly. “Furlan, Isabel, and I will take the ODM gear and finish the job. Then we’ll get Yan back safely, give the money to the gang, and take you with us.”
“So I just… sit around like an old maid and hope everyone makes it back in one piece? Then we all get to hold hands, walk up the staircase, and strut straight through Wall Sina like we belong there?” You sigh heavily. “It sounds too good to be real.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “But Isabel’s right: we have to make sure our people don’t get stuck in the crossfires with the MPs.”
“Then agree to a B-Team.”
You slide a boot forward, lifting your attention to his eyes. His attention, however, slides opposite of yours — further south, staring at your lips as you propose.
“Let me lead a small group of us to watch your back.”
“James.”
“Levi,” you murmur his name, “look at me.” Surprisingly, he obeys. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m going to butt out of the one job that might change our lives. You protect me, sure, but I protect you, too. We’ll maintain our distance and have units set up to guard the apartment, but I want to be on the streets making sure you’re clear.”
His brows knit together briefly. “...I need you to be safe.”
“I will.”
“Because if I’m out there thinking for one second that you’re not—”
Reaching for the collar of his shirt, you pull him in to press a chaste yet firm kiss to his lips.
He tenses, seemingly expecting a wild punch, but he melts on contact and wraps his arms around you with a fierceness only a dead man can possess.
Because that’s all anyone can be down here: dead lives, dead faces, waiting for the final nail in the coffin. The world doesn’t scare people like Levi.
(What he’s terrified of, however, is trapped against his chest. Two hearts wildly beating in tandem. Unspoken confessions. The light.)
You nip at his lower lip, causing a tiny, needy noise to exit his throat. His arms tighten, and his feet drag the two of you towards a nearby wall.
Out of view.
His tongue searches for yours and you relent, pressing your hips into his. He makes another short, broken noise, and bunches your shirt into his fist.
Running your fingers through his hair, you drag your nails against his scalp and try to convey your urgency: please don’t leave me behind, please don’t get caught, please don’t disappear.
After a minute he rips his lips away, face tinged with a pink, bashful hue.
You open your eyes, drunk on the sight of his blush.
“...dirty trick,” he huffs without an ounce of anger in his voice.
“I got a couple of those up my sleeve,” you murmur in jest, smiling despite yourself.
He exhales again, sounding close to a laugh, and drops his forehead to yours. You press back, closing your eyes and allowing the moment to pass.
Peace.
(How much time do either of you have left?)
“Take a B-Team to the streets,” he finally relents. “Monitor our movements. Follow any MPs that might turn their attention to our employees. The client stated our target objectives will be making contact regardless of our consent, so as far as I’m concerned, the job’s already started.”
“I’ll keep our people safe, I promise.”
“I know you will,” he reassures, taking a rare moment of affection to lift his chin. His lips kiss the tip of your nose, warming your once frozen insides. “I trust you.”
You nod. “And when you finish the job, I’ll go where you go.”
He hums. “Is that right?”
“I made a promise, didn’t I?”
“Like a dumbass,” he jokes in that deadpan humor of his, and you can’t help but finally smile.
“But I’m your dumbass.”
“What an aspiration,” he groans, feigning annoyance. “My very own dumbass who’s gonna spend too much of her fucking time decorating our very dumbass house—”
“A house?”
Not just a house — our.
You abruptly pull your forehead from his to look him in the eye. Levi mentally backtracks, realizing his grave mistake from the way the whites of his eyes grow, but you press your hands into either side of his face to trap him in.
“Levi Ackerman, are you gonna get us a house?”
He sneers. “Where else are we going to fucking live?”
“Are you kicking out Furlan and Isabel?” you ask, unable to stop the grin from growing on your face.
Levi, knowing damn well he’s been caught red handed, groans and drops his head back.
“With the amount of money we’re making from this heist, Furlan damn well better be able to afford his own house. I’m sick of cleaning up after his shit. Isabel can go with him.”
You bite your lower lip. “They could always be our neighbors.”
“Took the words right out of my mouth.”
The sarcasm bleeds right through, and you can’t help it: the giggle bursts from your throat, and Levi leans in to pepper gentle kisses against the base of your throat.
“Can I get a pet?” you ask, lifting your chin to the sky.
“A furball?” His teeth nip playfully at your skin. You jolt. “The little shit’s hair will get everywhere.”
“It’s your consolation prize for demoting me to B-Team.”
He tsk’s under his breath, allowing a beat to pass.
“Maybe one.”
“A cat?”
“Yeah.”
“Or two.”
“You’re pushing it.”
“I’m negotiating, Ackerman.”
“You can negotiate once we have a key, alright?”
You giggle in response, tugging his chin up to stare into his eyes. Levi settles against you, arms still looped around your waist, and sighs through his nose.
He admires the view, clearly taking the moment to memorize every inch of your face.
It feels too final.
“Come back to me, Levi,” you murmur, pouring all of your emotions into five small words.
At first he nods, small and earnest, before sealing your words with a gentle kiss.
“I won't go far from you."
.
author's note: I'm glad we collectively giggled and screamed and kicked our feet in the last few chapters. It was a marvelous time. Now I'm out here ruining everything.
Thank you to all of your wonderful feedback, asks, reblogs, etc. I can't believe my draft doc is over 60K words! I want to say we're about halfway through the story I want to tell, if not further in. We're definitely halfway through the flashbacks, so I promise those who have been asking about the CH10 cliffhanger… just hang tight (like James - ha.)
Please note that there will not be an update on August 11, as I have a bachelorette weekend to attend for a friend, so I'm hoping to write through the week and maybe post the next update on August 18.
Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F!Reader (Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin)
Word Count: 4.2K
Summary: Day 97 - Better known as the first day you reunite with Section Commander Hange Zoe, who has their own plans to recovering your memory.
Warnings: Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Eventual Romance, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Flashbacks, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Nonbinary Hange Zoe, Angry!Levi, Other Additional Tags to be Added As the Story Progresses
( Read on AO3 )
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CHAPTER FOUR.
There is something therapeutic about cleaning.
Clearing stubborn dust in every corner and pesky grime from the floorboards brings a sense of accomplishment — a sense of control, to your day.
It's not what you thought you'd be doing in the midst of preparing for your first official training session with the military, but Petra Ral claims this is how the Scouts indoctrinate all the new recruits.
A rite of passage, so to speak, to learn how important it is to mind your space.
(She's quick to mention you've already completed said rite in another life.)
Petral Ral, better known to you as the girl from Erwin's file, is a devastatingly perky and short redhead with stars in her eyes. Despite the harrowing business of being a Scout, she speaks like she's on the most incredible adventure of her life.
A novel-quality crusade.
She greets you with such excitement upon your arrival with Erwin Smith that you can't help but feel relief that this is your intermittent handler. You don’t remember Petra, not in the way she hopes you will, but she parades you around the rendezvous castle like it's your first day.
Because, according to her, she's just repeating history: she was the one to do this just a few short years ago.
Before you get your hands on military gear and weapons, Petra first offers you a broom and dust pan. "Scrubbing down the common room mess space is first priority," she supplies, holding up her own broom. "You might want to take a cloth to keep your hair out of your face. When you're done with the mess space, you can start on your room. You hold a broom like this, and—"
"Petra," you start, and she waits patiently for your reply. "I'm not braindead, just blank. I remember how to clean."
"You do?"
"Yes," you reassure with a breathy laugh, holding the broom handle with a half-assed sweep of your arm. "Ta-da."
She squeaks in embarrassment, bringing her gloved hand to her mouth.
"Gosh, I'm sorry! This really is just like old times! I'm getting deja vu just looking at you."
"In a good or bad way?"
"Oh, good. Definitely good. You were so fun back then," Petra reassures with a bright grin. "But go, go, go — I'll see you for lunch!"
So you're here some odd hours later, scrubbing down the common room mess space and clearing your swirling mind.
You don't know where Petra's gone, but she can't possibly be far.
This is nice.
Quiet. Manageable.
Tirelessly flinging cobwebs from the ceiling corners, you wipe a hand over your shining forehead and draw a short sigh. This place is looking good. Beyond an improvement to what you first faced upon entering this seemingly abandoned castle.
At least you remember how to make a room spotless—
“Ahh!”
A shrill shriek from behind breaks your peace.
It’s so loud that the broom handle fumbles from your hands and clangs to the floor.
“There she is!”
Startled, you turn to address the danger head-on.
A person with wild brown hair and a military uniform stands in the door of the hallway, fingers folded tightly together at the center of their chest. The Scout crest at their breast distorts by how hard they press their folded palms into their body, like they’re using every ounce of willpower not to—
Too late.
Their arms swing wide as they near. Before you can open your mouth, your body’s being squeezed into a tight hug.
“And look — all limbs intact! Wow, talk about a lucky break, huh? I thought for sure we’d be seeing a missing appendage or two.”
For good measure, they back up just enough to pick up your hand from the wrist. Tugging the eye glasses from their forehead, they squint and lean in to observe the remaining bandages.
You should say something.
What do you say?
“Uh — hi?”
Nailed it.
Belatedly, the preoccupied person flashes a look back to your face, considering in a haze.
Then the dots connect.
“Oh, right! Duh. Maybe no missing limbs but you’re missing memories. Allow me to re-introduce myself: Hange, Section Commander, at your service.” They smile wide. “Captain Levi told me where you were staying, so I thought maybe I’d make a visit.”
Wait.
Captain Levi knows where you’re staying?
(Why does it always have to circle back to him?)
“And when you weren’t there, I asked around — Petra knew!”
“Oh,” you reply lamely, embarrassed that you can’t match their elated energy. Hange doesn’t hide their excitement, so you cannot hide your hesitance.
Maybe the surprise touch has something to do with it, but this encounter already feels different. As if Hange is a long-awaited crisp breeze on the first day of Spring. You find yourself wanting to hug them again, to see if the spark lingers.
“Yeah. Commander Erwin gave me over to Petra for the week. I haven’t seen the Captain.”
“Oh, you haven’t? Color me a little shocked.” Hange drops their arms from you to wipe some strands of hair from their face. “Well? Any new discoveries since you first woke up?”
“A few,” you admit, bending to pick up the broom lying on the ground. “Commander Erwin got me to remember a little bit about where I came from and how, uh… being in the Scouts was kind of my whole life.”
“Part of the job description,” Hange bemuses before mimicking Erwin’s deep voice for the salute. “Dedicate Your Heart — every artery and then some.”
The endearing attempt at imitating the commander makes you snort despite yourself, and you sweep one final pile of dust into the pan.
“At least you feel familiar. The Commander and the Captain were like blank slates.”
It’s as though you’ve said the most magical thing to the Section Commander's ears. Their smile now bursts into a grin.
“Ch’yeah, I’d say you and I got into some wacky adventures in our day. Of course, only when you weren’t so busy in the corner with Levi.” The grin falters if only for a fraction. “Though I must say, I’m really surprised he wasn’t the first.”
Your brows knit. “The first what?”
“The first person that you would remember — at least, in feeling.”
“Everyone keeps implying that,” you tell them, crossing the room to settle the broom against the frame of a bookshelf. “Except the one time that I saw him, which was the first day, it sounded like he hated me.”
“Hated you?” Hange blurts. “Captain Levi hating you is about as true as me hating titans.”
You blink. “That… comparison escapes me, Section Commander.”
They lean in with a flippant shrug. “Hange, please. And I don’t hate titans at all. They’re incredible, fascinating, the thing I think about all the time.” Heat rises to your face. Hange doesn’t let up. “I think he’s just a bit grumpy since — well, I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you.”
Eyes widening, you step closer to the other person.
“No — do. I wanna hear it. Seriously, living in the dark about this whole thing is probably a hindrance to remembering anything at all.”
“Hey, that’s what I said.” Hange laughs. “Still in sync, even when you’re not You!"
They pause for a moment, holding up their index finger.
"Actually let’s shelve the Levi debacle for a bit, because I thought maybe I could give you something and see what you think about it.”
“Give me something?” you repeat.
“Don’t get too excited. It’s not like a gift or anything.” They reconsider, slipping a hand into the breast pocket of their uniform jacket. “Well, for you, it might be.”
It’s a small and flat brown box, only a few centimeters tall and not very wide.
Hange holds it out for you, nodding down to it — take it — and you meet them in the middle.
Nothing sparks while holding the box, and it takes every ounce of your curiosity not to give the thing a preliminary shake to hear what’s inside.
Your fingers pry the top lid off—
And it hits.
Like a lightning strike to the heart, you drop the lid to the floor, hand limp.
Silver — unassuming, dainty, but very obviously a necklace. There is barely anything special about the fragile jewelry, but emotion swells and threatens to choke you up and out. From the bottom of the chain dangles a small gemstone, swirling in stormy gray color. It looks well-loved, worn, but still manages to glimmer in the soft sunlight peering in from the open windows.
The pad of your index finger brushes along the smooth surface.
A drop of water splashes on it.
(Are you crying?)
Glancing up to look at Hange confirms that you’re not only crying, but sobbing.
Streams of tears drag along your cheeks as you let out a broken breath, confused yet relieved. The bottom half of the box drops, too, joining its sister on the floor as you clutch the necklace to your chest.
You can’t explain any of this, but you know.
You know this is the one thing you subconsciously hoped to see, to feel, one day.
“You kept it.”
The blurted sentence is barely above a murmur.
Hange draws an inhale through their nose.
“When Captain Levi brought you in on horseback after your accident, I was the first to receive you,” they explain, softer this time. You watch them through a watery lens. “There was little to no time. Your uniform was torn to pieces. When the doctors were preparing you for the emergency surgery — you’d lost a lot of blood while traveling, and we weren’t sure how deep the cut wounds went — I took that necklace off of you in hopes that one day I could give it back.”
Your heart swells with an overwhelming gratitude you can’t quite place into words. Hange nears cautiously and places a comforting hand on your shoulder.
“That necklace went everywhere with you. In all our years of serving together, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take it off.”
“It’s important to me,” you reason with certainty. Hange nods with empathy.
You don't even realize what you're saying, but it comes from the heart.
“...I’ve had it since I was a kid. This was the only thing I owned in the Underground. Before I joined the Scouts, I didn’t even own my own clothes. They were — they were stolen. Everything was stolen. I had nothing. Nothing except this.”
With trembling fingers, you try to unhook the clasp and fail. Twice. Hange tsk-tsk’s with their tongue and drop their hand to close around both of your hands.
“C’mon, you big softie. Let me?”
You sniff and nod, pushing hair away to give them an avenue to your neck. Hange easily situates the chain around your neck and secures the clasp. The cold chain presses to your body like a weighted blanket.
Your shoulders slack with its comfort the minute you can press the gem between your thumb and index finger.
“There. Feel better?”
“Loads,” you admit in a sigh, wiping your eyes with your free hand. “Sorry for the outburst, Hange, it just—”
“Hey, happy to help. Look! You remembered something.”
They’re right.
Something so small brought such a visceral emotion to the forefront.
Rolling the gemstone between your fingers, you forcefully smile in return. What you say next rolls right off your tongue. “You know... you’ve always asked me where this came from, and now I’ve accidentally divulged that story. Talk about a dirty trick, Hange.”
“Whoa, I—” They start but reconsider. Hange doesn’t give it away immediately, but the section commander’s surprise is palpable the longer your words linger in the air. “Damn, you remember that?”
You do.
Clear as day, in fact, with the way they’re looking at you right now. Sitting right in this very room — you were both at the table situated in the corner, though it's now crowded by four chairs you've scrubbed vigorously clean. When you blink towards them, you can see the silhouette of Hange's frustrated hands flying high into the air. You're leaning back in the chair, tipping it with the heel of your boot pressed against the table's edge with a laugh.
“Oh, c'mon! Stop being such a tease and tell me about it already. It’s just a necklace!”
“That doesn't sound right,” you tease, grinning ear to ear as you absently roll the gemstone between your fingers. “If it's just a necklace, then how come you wanna know about it so bad, huh?”
Hange groans in the pale torch light, sliding down into their seat in dramatized agony. “Be-cause I just watched a five-meter titan almost snap the damn thing in half."
“So?”
“So! I saw how fast you sliced that thing up! You went totally berserk, like you had a personal vendetta.”
You chuckle low, burying your chin in the mouth of the emerald green cape around your shoulders.
“Five-meter titans should learn not to touch my stuff, then.”
“Hey, shitheads.”
Except that last part is something you hear with your own two ears, now, in the present.
A deep voice unlike yours or Hange’s.
Your heart skips a beat. You turn your chin to acknowledge it.
Levi Ackerman stands in the door frame dressed with a similar green cloak you wore in your vision. He’s wearing the same Scout uniform as Hange, but with a pressed white shirt and a flare of his own cravat nestled at the neck. His black hair falls over his eyes, shoulder pressed into the door frame, but he doesn’t look at you.
His eyes land directly on an all-too giddy Hange.
“So much for telling me that you arrived,” he mumbles.
Hange gives him a one-shoulder shrug. “Oh, you know I couldn’t help but find her for myself. The Commander caught me up to speed in a letter.”
“I would argue that that sort of information should remain out of letters, don’t you?” Levi asks as he nudges a boot into the room to join the conversation.
“Too late for that!” Hange sing-songs, pulling you into their side. “We were just catching up.”
Levi’s brow raises by a centimeter on his forehead. “...catching up.”
“Yep! It seems like I’m top of the team leaderboard for most memories. Amazing what happens when you try to work with victims of memory loss.”
It feels like a direct jab to Levi’s effort — or lack thereof — but he doesn’t react to it.
Not yet, anyway.
Because a whole world of awkwardness comes to a head when his eyes flicker to your face, then down, and stop.
Hange says nothing, but you feel it — their hand curled around your arm grips tighter.
Your chin drops to see what he’s staring at:
The necklace between your fingers.
When you stare back up, you’re certain Captain Levi has changed an entire shade of pale.
“—anyways!”
Hange’s voice cuts through the heavy silence as they squeeze you one last time into their side before letting go.
“I gotta go check in with the Commander. You two have fun catching up, alright?”
They pass with a bounce in their step, but not before stopping at the captain to all-too-whimsically point out the obvious.
“Look, Levi, she’s cleaning!”
He doesn’t have a snarky comeback this time.
Hell, he doesn’t even say goodbye to Hange when they exit, leaving the two of you to a room full of uncomfortable air.
If you so much as breathe in longer than a second, then it threatens to suffocate you.
Three whole months of nothing, and now?
There’s no excuse.
“You missed a spot,” he finally tells you, gesturing to the back left corner.
“Huh?” you mumble, turning to observe. “I haven't gotten to that part yet.”
“Sure.”
That’s all he had to say?
This was the big reunion everyone waited for?
Subconsciously your other hand raises to your necklace in order to tuck the jewelry into your gray button-up.
“You never visited me a second time.”
“I did,” he corrects, and your eyes narrow.
“I never saw you.”
“You were asleep.”
Your stomach flutters with butterflies. “Wait, really?”
“Do you think I care enough to lie?” When you blink twice from how biting his tone is, he sighs to himself. “Yeah, I visited.”
Although you probably shouldn't believe him, you do. The sigh is as much of a surprise as his confession. Like he's resigned to chip a part of the wall he builds between you.
So you speak with honesty, too. “I’m sorry I missed you, then.”
His brow twitches.
“Why?”
“Because contrary to the nature of our first encounter, I’ve wanted to speak to you.”
At first he says nothing, opting to merely study your expression. You try to remain confident, chin up and expectant.
“Did you remember something?” he asks.
“Yeah." He doesn't react. "I have been remembering bits and pieces, but…”
You venture to a chair to your left at the newly-cleaned table, sitting with a short huff. It feels nice to get off of your feet.
“...that’s all they are. Bits and pieces to bigger outlines, bigger pictures, that I don’t have."
"Sorry to hear that," he tells you, evidently not sorry at all.
Your brows furrow as you lean forward, taking the time to really look at the shorter man this time. "Except something weird happens every time I talk to someone. Specifically Commander Erwin."
"Which is?"
"The commander is pretty hellbent on mentioning your name every time we have a conversation."
Levi’s stare hardens. “Right.”
"In fact, Hange just now mentioned you.” You pause. “Aren't you curious about what they say?"
"No."
The word leaves his mouth too fast. You realize instantly that it's a lie. You press on.
"They tell me that you know me."
He scoffs. "I already told you that, dumbass."
"No you didn't."
"I did," he argues. "In Trost."
"Your twenty-question crusade three months ago is not the same as just telling me how I know you," you snap right back. "This isn't some acquaintanceship. They act like I know you incredibly well. Better than I'm supposed to know Hange or Petra or Erwin. And they all refuse to talk for you."
“As the shitheads should.”
This conversation is running in circles and getting nowhere.
Whereas Levi sticks to his conviction, your shoulders deflate.
"Captain..." You begin to stand, voice softening. “Captain, I want to—”
“Excuse me,” he abruptly states, turning on his heel to walk to the hallway.
By the time you stand at full height to follow after him, he’s already shut the door behind him.
.
.
.
.
.
“Hange.”
Their name is acidic on the tip of his tongue on purpose.
This isn’t a game.
Hange knows, too, because they take their fine fucking time walking down the hallway. Like — if the way they turn on a heel with a pursed smile is any indicator — that they already knew the conversation in that room with you would be short.
Levi can feel his blood boiling well over its limit. His hands are itchy, like they need to be doing something, so he digs half-crescent moons into his palms instead.
Hard, so it hurts.
Pain is one hell of a drug.
“Levi!” they call, feigning ignorance. “How was your talk with—”
“You kept it.”
It, because Levi knows he doesn’t need to elaborate on what exactly they’ve done. Over and over the scene replays in his head: the turn of your chin, your torso, with the glitter of silver in the afternoon sun just between your fingers at the collar of your shirt.
“I don’t know what you mean,” they sing-song, and Levi’s nostrils flare.
“You know damn well what I mean.”
“Oh — what, are you referring to the Lieutenant’s necklace?”
The first card is on the table in full show, and Levi’s all-too certain Hange believes they have a winning hand.
The white cravat at his neck threatens to choke him out when he swallows, maintaining a mere shred of his nonchalance.
“Of course I kept it, silly," they add.
“Why?”
“Even I knew how important it was to her.”
The sentence turns his tongue to lead.
Important.
“When did you take it?” he chooses to ask, pushing through the strain on his vocal chords.
“Before the doctors prepped for surgery, duh. Why? What’s so important about that stupid thing to you anyway?” Then they grin, and Levi knows he’s in deep shit. “Care to finally elab-or-ate?”
Each syllable is annunciated with such sickening clairvoyance that he instinctually turns the other way, opposite of the mess space.
Away.
Away, away, away—
“Oh, come on, Levi!”
“Not now, Four Eyes.”
“But we just started getting to the bottom of this mystery!”
Too late. Hange’s lanky ass legs get the better of him. They outpace his stalking and eliminate the distance he’d been trying to clear.
For someone notorious for ending fights, he sure didn’t know why he started this one. Levi doesn’t want to be a part of this experiment, this thing, where they treat you like a fragile baby bird waiting for the moment you’re strong enough to fly on your own.
It’s insulting.
You were — are — more than that.
“There is no mystery,” Levi sours.
“Oh, please,” Hange groans. “I may not have perfect vision, but I’m not blind. You looked like you witnessed a titan trying to learn how to tap dance.”
“Fuck off.”
“Y’know, you’re going to have to tell her eventually before someone else does.”
So they did have a winning hand.
Levi abruptly stops walking to finally face the taller person. Hange’s tone remains in a sing-song, but their smile all but disappears.
“Excuse me?”
“We all knew her, Levi. We know her,” Hange corrects. “Perhaps not as well as you, but things are going to start slipping out.”
“Not if you keep your damn mouth shut.”
“Why?” they challenge, crossing their arms over their chest. “I’d actually quite like my friend to fully remember me someday.”
“They won’t be honest memories, then,” Levi argues. “Just whatever shit you put in her head so you feel better about it.”
“What a pessimistic way of looking at it.”
“It’s our reality.”
Hange sighs in that way that Levi hates: saddened, like they know something he doesn’t.
He’s heard it countless times before the scientist made a devastating, truth-shattering discovery.
“Then I suppose you don’t want to hear that it helped.”
Levi turns into stone.
Hange pretends to be interested in the cuticles of their nails, tone light and airy. “Oh, didn't you ask? Or are you still pretending she’s a tree with legs in HQ’s yard?”
“You’re lying.”
“Now that’s just hurtful.” The smile returns. “Look, Levi: the minute she took a look at that necklace in the box, it was like she came back to us. Even if just for a moment, I swear, it was her. I’m no cranial injury genius, but I like to think that the more she interacts with things that are important to her, the more memories it may trigger.”
The sharp pain in his palm returns.
Had he been holding that fist this entire time?
Things that are important to her.
Even without its origins spelled out, the necklace meant something to you. You wore it under your uniform just as you always had before the accident. Close to the chest, its meaning hidden from most of the world.
Maybe Pyxis has the right idea to drink on the job, because Levi’s one more bad day from breaking open a cork just to taste something a little more bitter than what fate’s allowed.
(What memories came back to you?)
He could ask.
He could play stupid just to see if Hange’s telling the truth.
He’d rather get swallowed whole, but it’s better than turning around and asking you.
“What did she remember?”
Hange, thrilled that he’s taken the bait, leans in to keep the conversation private.
“She told me that the silver necklace came with her from the Underground.” Oh. “She’s had it since she was a kid.” Oh, shit. “Said it was the only thing she’s ever owned.” Shitting shit. “Sounds like the exact same story she told me when Erwin made her a Scout — the whole fend-for-yourself mentality, the crappy childhood, blah-blah-blah. We don’t need to dive back into all of that.”
No, he doesn’t.
What he needs is to take a breath, but his lungs stopped working twenty words ago.
Hange is waiting for the gotcha right on the tip of their tongue, a years’ long question in the making, but he refuses.
Can’t — because those are your secrets to tell, not his.
“Is that it?” He asks, feigning neutrality.
“You sort of interrupted the epiphany,” Hange grins, “but yeah. That’s all. Nothing’s stopping you from turning around and hearing it for yourself, you know. I’m sure it’ll make you feel a hell of a lot less crummy if you do.”
Yeah, it probably would.
Because your memory’s coming back, with or without him.
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has sent me anons about this story! I'm having so much fun writing it. I appreciate your likes and notes xo.
A bunch of resolutions for writers and people who want to try writing this year. It's in no way something you must do, these are just ideas how you can set out to improve your writing in the new year.
Try something new
Try to write something you have never written before.
Write something silly, write something serious, write in a different genre, try to write characters that you haven't explored yet.
Write consistently
Writing consistently will not only give you exercise to become a better writer, it can also keep your voice as a writer consistent.
If you have a first draft, write it down quickly and without big breaks inbetween.
Don't wait for inspiration
Waiting for inspiration to come can take forever. So don't wait for inspiration: search for it.
Make writing into a habit that comes natural to you every day, look up writing prompts, read a book you like, get yourself into the mood to write and do it!
Do your research
As a writer, you need to know about a lot of different things.
You can do research by reading books, listening to podcasts, watching movies, talking to other people, etc.
Take this year to learn something new and then tell your reader all about it.
Edit that draft
We all have that one story we wrote a while ago and then stopped at the first draft.
Take it and reread it and then rewrite it. You have a new perspective on it now and maybe this will be the year you turn your idea into a book.
Set yourself a goal
This explicitly doesn't have to be a goal about how many words or pages you write.
Your goal can be to finish something, to edit something, to write a few sentences every day, to share more of your writing or to publish something.
Don't compare
Try not to compare your writing with that of someone else.
Writing is about finding your own voice and telling a story that only you can tell. Also: other people's accomplishes don't diminish your own!
Write!
Whatever the outcome of your writing may be and whatever you want to do with it, if you want to publish it, if you want to share it with friends, or if you want to keep it to yourself: just start writing!
Do what you love to do.
To all my lovely writers, I wish you a great year, may everything work out in your favour!
I remember listening to this one podcast episode about story structure that's stuck with me for a while now and has really helped me when planning out my stories. And I thought I would see it here more, but I haven't. Granted, I haven't actively searched for it on writeblr and maybe it's already common knowledge that people don't need to talk about it often, but I'm going to share it anyway
Also, I've never actually shared advice here, so sorry if it's a bit clunky
In essence, the theme of your story is the heart of the story, the skeleton, the armature of your story, and once you have that, every decision you make serves to prove or disprove your theme.
That being said, one word (e.g. love) is not a theme. And it's not helpful to have more than one theme in your story (think of it as having more than one skeleton in your body; neither good nor possible). Which means that your theme may be a phrase, for example, "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" and the directions you go in the story will either prove that what doesn't kill you does indeed make you stronger or show that the things that don't kill you may leave you with crippling trauma instead
Anyway, Brian McDonalds explains it better in the podcast episode and if you're really interested, his book Invisible Ink is also really helpful with nailing story structure. The whole podcast is really good, if I'm being honest, so check that out if you have the time
One of the best scenes in Daredevil S3 is in Episode 8, when Karen visits Fisk in his penthouse jail, with the intent to rile him up enough so that he’ll break his terms with the FBI.
The acting is off the charts, with amazing details like:
Fisk watching Karen from the second floor - this implies his position of power, how he has been observing everyone, and orchestrating everything from above
Constant shifting of power between Karen and Fisk, as the conversation moves from Fisk’s mother, to Matt, then James Wesley
Both Karen and Fisk glancing upwards at the security camera; Karen to check it’s still switched on and Fisk to remind himself to hold back
The little details layered into Karen’s dialogue about James Wesley are amazing too:
“What was it like for you? When he disappeared? Really it's those.... it's those first 24 hours that are the worst aren't they?
And you call, and you call, and you call, and you call, and there's just no answer. It becomes an obsession. The calling. The never-ending loop that goes to voicemail in your ear.
You worry. You wonder. You swear, goddamn if he's still living I'm gonna kill him myself. Is that what it was like for you?”
Karen is intimately acquainted with these feelings - when she lost Matt at Midland Circle. She, too, held out hope that Matt is still alive. She, too, is livid when she realises he is alive but didn’t let his friends know that he was.
More than that, though, she’s recently watched the phones of those killed at the New York Bulletin lighting up with calls and messages; family members and friends asking if they’re ok. Earlier in their conversation, Fisk references her “misfortune” at the office. Karen’s lines are a great callback to that, an attempt to force Fisk to re-live the same emotions that he’s inflicted onto others.
This has got to be the most incredible writing for any scene, ever!
why is trying to make a new friend so embarrassing. hi. me again. asking for your attention once more even though i am literally just some random person to you. it's because i want to be not just a random person to you. please understand
On of the less intuitive things about love, I've found, of any kind, is the importance of needing things.
I didn't realize it until recently, but I've always seen love as something requiring sacrifice, selflessness, patience, and generosity- to ask for nothing is to be the best person I can be, small and quiet and never in the way, always happy and helpful, self-sufficient and present when desired.
It's only as an adult, now, that I'm beginning to see the selfishness of wanting nothing.
I cut my friend's hair in my kitchen the other day. They wanted a trim and I had the skills, so I offered, and was genuinely excited when they stopped hesitating over "bothering me" and took me up on it. It was a peaceful afternoon, and we had tea and chatted for an hour or more.
My brother and I shared popcorn at the movies a while ago. When I came time to pay, I pulled my card out like a wild western sheriff and slapped it on the machine before he could fight me for it first. The satisfaction was delightful.
Someone called me crying on the phone the other day. Kept apologizing for disturbing me at work, talking about how they were bothering me on my lunch break. I was telling the truth when I told them that really, I was flattered and honored and relieved, knowing that if they were hurting I would know, that I didn't have to worry in silence. It felt good to hear them slowly come down, and to know that they knew it would be better soon, and to hear them laugh wetly on the other end. We're getting together for a visit next week.
It's hard to need things, if you've trained yourself not to. It's hard to want things, when you don't know how to want anymore. Trusting people is difficult, and so is relying on them, but I don't know where I'd be without the people who rely on me.
I've heard a lot of people say, "Nobody will love you unless you love yourself". I've had a lot of thoughts about it. It's not right, but it's not wrong, either, I think.
"Nobody will love you unless you love yourself"... I've always taken that to mean, "You will not be lovable until you develop a positive view of yourself as a person".
Now, I think it's sort of inside-out.
"Nobody will love you unless you love yourself"... because nobody can show their love to you in a way that you can accept until you treat yourself kindly, and learn what you need, and what you want, and how to ask for it, and then give that vulnerability away.
Love, for me, is someone I ask for a ride to the airport. Whether they end up doing this or not is irrelevant.
It's not needy, or selfish, or taking up energy. It's giving the gift of being wanted, and needed, and thought of. It's giving someone the security of being part of someone's life.
as a kid i thought i would graduate from kid problems like cleaning my room to adult problems like jobs and taxes. but instead i have a job and taxes and still have to clean my room. cleaning my room is a lifetime problem. i will never stop having to put my markers away before bedtime. this is a rude way for aging to work.
