Chapter Text
“And you became like coffee, in the deliciousness, and the bitterness and the addiction”
–Mahmoud Darwish
The Story So Far
Chapter Four
It is during an early autumn day as the remaining green leaves of the lemon and clementine trees bravely make a last-ditch effort at staying alive under the steady progress of the ocean of yellow and red that's sprouting from the surrounding branches, that Petra first catches the signs of a heavy heart sustained by weary limbs and broken sighs.
She catches the invisible signs between the dark book aisles where the Classical genre hides behind, in the form of heavy sighs not directed at anything. In the way long, elegant fingers hold each book page with silent grace and reverence. Steel-colored eyes unguarded and soften by the words Levi’s eyes find between the worn out covers. While the shadows clinging to the corners of the bookcases cast a spell of broken light across his slender frame; darkness underlining his eyes and jaw in a way that almost makes him seem haunted, but then he'd raised his head. Blink once at the sight of Petra holding books to be shelved, and the unfocused look his steely eyes once held would be gone. Replaced by his usual annoyed gaze, and with a grunt he'd pivoted on his heel and walk away; the book he had held being carefully placed above a bookshelf by the same slender fingers who had so patiently travel across its page margins moments before.
It is during a slow, early autumn afternoon when Petra looks out the coffee shop's window panes, and notices a lazy breeze twirling the fallen leaves. Pulling them upwards to dance in circles the same way a puppeteer attaches strings through wooden holes to make their puppets dance with a mere flick of their fingers.
The sound of clicking can be heard in the background of her mind from where a costumer is typing away in his laptop. While the ever-present sound of coffee beans being brewed fills the air with its usual heavy aroma.
Petra watches a pair of brave youths jogging down the sidewalk despite the crispier air, while younger kids mill around the street in a strange array of worn flannels and dark washed jeans. Feet carrying persons from the flower shop on one of the street's corners, and down to the doughnut shop. Hands carrying plastic bags from the grocery store across King's Place, or paper bags advertising the coffee shop's own name from people who've walked in and bought a book or two.
Closing her eyes, Petra recalls the strange longing that had marred Levi's stoic face mere hours ago as he'd lost himself in a story depicting classical tales. His slightly parted lips causing her breath to catch by the sheer vulnerability she'd witnessed in a pale, angular face marred by the invisible scars of a bent heart.
It would be easy to pretend as if she had seen nothing. To firmly shove the memory of his melancholic face, and the sound of his deep sighs to the back of her mind. It would be easy for Petra to open her eyes, and turn her face away from the window panes to gaze at the seemingly unmovable man besides her. To look at the way his fingers would curl around a damp towel, or the way his knees would smoothly rise and fall whenever he had to kneel down to reach a pastry for a costumer. It would be easy, yes, to gaze at the steely walls in his eyes and succumb to the depth within. Just as it would be easy to form walls of her own to block out the moon-like gravity pull of his eyes.
Yet, as she opens her eyes and turns to steal a glance at the seemingly bored man at her left, she can't find the conviction to look for even a stone to form the foundations of her walls with. Petra blames his downward casted eyes; she blames his tightly pressed lips. She blames the moon for having the gravitational strength to pull the ocean's waves against their will, for his gray eyes surely learned a way to copy the moon's cunning tactic and are now using it against her. Petra even finds fault in the sun, for without his blazing light the moon would be casted in a darkness so deep there would be no light reflecting from its bottomless, mirroring lake.
Petra bites her bottom lip as her brow begins to furrow. There is no light reflecting from Levi's own moonlight eyes; no extraordinary strength with which to pull ocean waves to do his bidding. Yet, there she is, a lost sun wanting to cast light into his impenetrable being. A compilation of disarray, crashing waves wanting to be acknowledge by his cold eyes.
"You're starring again," Levi reproaches under his breath without taking his eyes off the counter where his hands are wiping the already spotless surface, "that can be classified as sexual harassment."
A short snort is pull out of her lips before she clasps a hand over her mouth, "I wasn't staring!"
"Hn," Levi hums in retort with none of his usual, quiet feistiness threading underneath his voice. His moon-colored irises fixated on dirty spots only he could see. While her own amber eyes grow creases around the edges as they narrowed in silent observation.
"You're oddly quiet today," Petra faintly mumbles before turning around to replace the coffee beans in one of the coffee machines located on the back counters. Where up-turned mismatched mugs loitered the clean space, and upside-down small plates form precarious stands on the surrounding space. The material of her green apron scratching lightly against her palms as she wipes the strong odor of the beans away.
"Don't be an idiot," Levi responds without turning to look at her; shoulders hunched over as he continues to wipe the worn towel around, "I always talk my share, but the moment I refrain myself from talking shit you turn suspicious."
"I'm not being suspicious," Petra admonishes with a small frown margin the usually smooth space between her brows, "I was merely asking," she continues. Raising her arms over her head, and smiling at the satisfying sound of her bones cracking while closing her eyes in simple joy.
"If you're done breaking your damn back get back to work," Levi mutters with a distinct edge she had never heard from him before just as the sound of the door's bell jingle impregnates the air within the coffee shop with a distinctive ding.
"Welcome to King's Place," a warm voice calls from somewhere within the many book aisles that makes Petra think of hot mocha served during a cold December night. The voice's lifting joy carrying throughout the air as Marco's warm welcoming filters through.
Petra had met the high school working boys on the start of her second day's shift. She fondly recalls the arch of Marco's dark brows as his whole face lit up in joy at the sight of his new co-worker, and Jean's wide eyes as he, too, took in the sight of Petra's shorter stature and warm gaze. While Hanji stood smiling next to her as she introduced them to each other.
In the beginning it had been odd to be under the perusal of the younger teenage boys, but as soon as she had spotted the Legion logo on the sleeve of Marco's jacket, Petra had locked eyes with the dark haired youth, and proceeded to shower the tall boy with inconsequential questions ranging from his favorite song from the band as well as his take on their song 'The Defeated'. Jean's own eyes had sparked as he spoke of his undying devotion to learn the guitar riff for the song 'Reluctant Heroes'; a spark that had only continued to grow as Petra casually asked if his fingers had the G chords of the riff down yet. The incredulity in Jean's eyes lacing through his voice as he'd asked her if she played guitar, and after her simple nod, had immediately asked if Petra knew of any tricks she could share with him.
Minutes had ticked by as Petra's fingers curled and unfurled in a rapid pace under the focused gaze of Jean's dark eyes just like Marco's own eyes remained glue on her slender digits.
Levi had called them morons on his way towards the wooden plaque at the end of his morning shift. It was a simple plaque used by King's Place employees to hang their green aprons at the end of each shift, and where they picked them back up before the start of every work day. His offhand insult falling into deaf ears as the boy's concentration remained locked on Petra's hands; the same way her own focused gaze and attention fell solely on her fingers, and the memory of a song she had played months ago.
Deft fingers playing in the air the chords they had not touched since the moment her father's diagnosis had been made, but with the same agility as before.
Over mismatched hot mugs, flickering steam, and a napkin marred with long lines of ink that marked Marco's handwriting. The trio's eyes had fallen over the chaotic havoc that was their combined schedule to find a loophole day in which they could practice together in.
Since both boys were active participants in extracurricular groups that met throughout the week plus worked part-time at the coffee shop; they all three agreed on practicing on Saturday mornings.
The weekends being the only free days for the teenage boys, and the day where Petra's shift started until two in the afternoon. Sundays were their reserved day of freedom, and so they agreed on leaving those morning free as to have time to do homework, or in Petra's case, to relax from the steady workload she was doing at King's Place.
Now, mere hours afterwards, she smiles as she recognizes the warmth in Marco's voice, and the sound of an off-hand snort that characterizes Jean's personality.
Out of the corner of her eye, Petra sees the impassive look on Levi's face as he, too, hears Jean's impolite snort. Lips parting as he says with annoyance, "can someone shut them up?"
Petra resists the urge to laugh, opening her lips instead to allow words belonging to the past flow through her mouth.
"When I was a child my father would often take me on bus trips around the country side," she starts. Eyelids falling half-way over her amber eyes as she recalls the sight of tree-filled hills and narrow roads, "he would never tell me our destination, only letting out a few words that were meant as clues."
By her side Levi continuous to wipe the counter clean, but she can tell by the subtle tilt of his head, a small sigh, and the small relaxation in his shoulders that he is listening, "a book named after a Polish boy was my first clue on a journey we took when I was eight; the name Rovinsky rolling off my tongue in broken syllabus and my dad's laughter filling my ears the same way pointy rocks and thick trees colored in the uneven outlines of the hills we were driving by."
Petra's amber eyes look through the sunbeams filtering through the crystal window panes, not noticing the broken light and narrow shadows, but instead seeing the bright rays of a rising sun that had bled through the windows of that bus so long ago.
"He'd woken me up at four in the morning, and told me to wear thick clothes. By that age I'd grown used to the unprompted road trips that had started since the day I had turned four years old; barely old enough to hold on to his pants’ legs. But not old enough to realized the meaning behind each trip, or the imprint of my mother's hands behind each clue."
Tilting her head, she recalls the thickness of the book her father had passed to her as they'd sat on the bus seats. The fondness behind his fingers as he'd passed it from his bare hands to her gloved ones.
"All I knew of our destination was the kind of climate I should expect, and that it would be somehow connected to a book with a thick cover and a large margin," by now her words are flowing more freely through her as each word is marked by the happiness she'd felt on that morning so long ago, "strangers filled the seats around us, and after the driver informed us we'd be leaving in a few minutes; we set off. I remember there were women wearing long socks, and boys with rosy noses hugging their knees to their chest. The smell of cloves and smoke curling around the bus's aisle as each passenger moved around in comfort.
"We drove on narrow roads, and through the windows I could see giant trees, fallen stones, and the sharp edges of cliffs as the bus drove down a mountain's curve. Gray clouds pressing on the hills' tops before dawn started to break through their fog fortress. Sunrise breaking through the sky on the other side of the road where cliffs took over, and the mountain tops stood at a lower height. The sight had left me breathless, and for one wonderful second I thought that the reason we'd left home at four in the morning had simply been to witness the sun rising over a faraway mountain."
Petra feels her lips curl in a smile as she remembers the way the sun had casted a painting of light pink and yellow hues across the sky, "the spell was broken when one of the red-nosed boys had sneezed, but the sense of contentment that had swept through me at the ethereal sight had stayed with me for the rest of the day.
"Our destination had been a small, family-owned restaurant in a village four hours away from home," Petra continues, taking a look down at Levi's still hands over the towel he'd been formerly cleaning with, "we arrived just as the owner's wife was opening, and proceeded to eat our fill in dark coffee, scrambled eggs and warm bread mixed with butter. A painting of an owl stared at us from the restaurant's left wall, while the sight of a one-lane road and picturesque houses from the open wall that also served as the entrance stood to our right. The owner's wife prepared breakfast for us and their other early-risers costumers from the kitchen located in front of us, while their teenage daughter set the tables and refilled empty mugs."
Letting out a sigh with the faintest of a laughter's hint, she adds, "over our thoroughly cleaned plates my dad had explained to me how the owner's father had grown up in a small village in Poland, and how my dad's own father had come to meet him as a teenager when the war's conflict had driven him away from his homeland to seek refuge in another country.
"The book he had given me as a clue was one that had been written years later after the war had ended by a woman whose name was not well-known, but whose book my grandfather had given his son when he'd turned fourteen. He had narrated in his worn-out voice the story of a young, blond boy he'd met at the factory he'd work at, and whose old life had ended with the resounding sound of a canon being fired. My dad explained how my grandfather had come to know the boy, and how he’d often helped him however he could. Our family has never been one with money, but he'd still helped him. Sharing his lunch, and providing a person the boy could speak to in order to lessen the anger and sadness he'd been carrying on his skinny shoulders since the war took away his home."
After closing her eyes tightly before opening them again a second later, she continuous, "years passed and when the war was finally over, the boy decided to stay and live in the same town as my grandfather. Saving up his money so one day he could buy a property of his own; a piece of land no one could ever take away. Years passed, and the boy met a girl. They fell in love and married a year later, and with the money my grandfather had given him as a wedding present they'd finally summed enough to buy some land where they could build their house on.
"The restaurant we'd visited on that day had once been the small, one-story house the boy and his wife had lived in, but now was sparser with the rooms his son had added over the years. The story within the book had not been the clue though, no, it had been the story behind the blond boy's life. Only after purchasing our bus tickets back home, and sitting down on our seats did that my father reveal that the book he'd given me had been one the blond boy's son had gifted to my father years ago, and one he had then passed to me."
Blinking hastily as if coming out of a daydream, Petra lifts her arms over her head again, and stretches once more. Bones popping satisfactorily, and shoulders feeling lighter as if a weight had been lifted from them by telling a story of her father to a stranger who knew nothing of her past.
"Guess I better go help Marco restock the science fiction aisle," Petra says as she walks towards the counter's opening.
"Hn," Levi merely mumbles before letting out a soft sigh.
So softly, Petra almost doesn't hear it.
The lightness within the sigh oddly sounding as if he'd lost some of the weight he'd been carrying on his shoulders, too.