Chapter Text
V. Taste
Every day is different in Hizuru. Something new always presents itself; faces she doesn’t know, another custom she isn’t familiar with, endless scenery unexplored. Nearly everyone has names she tends to forget. Rituals feel more foreign with continued practice, not less. No matter how beautiful the places, none of them feel like home.
Only one thing remains the same: the dull ache in her chest with its ever-expanding pit into the base of her stomach. Six months have passed since The Rumbling, but for all intents and purposes, it never ended. Flashing images of peril run like a continuous film reel through her mind, even when Mikasa’s eyes are opened.
“Yes sir, nice to meet you, as well,” she says, but the stampede of countless colossal-sized titans is all she hears in response.
“Lady Mikasa, isn’t it? We’d be honored for you to join us at the puppet theatre’s opening performance tonight,” but once there, it is only the carnage of mass murder playing out before her, blood and broken bones from civilians— from children.
To kill every titan and explore the world. That had been the plan. The thought alone makes her grimace. She had known the world to be cruel; now she knows it to be cruelly ironic.
“You ready to go home, dear?” Mikasa hears that loud and clear, and while she is under no delusions that Paradis Island will offer any sort of relief let alone comfort, she answers resolutely after a polite pause.
“Yes, thank you, Miss Watanabe.”
“Please dear, I’ve told you, Mesuki is just fine.”
But she is still a stranger. At this point, Mikasa knows more strangers than friends.
.
.
Seeing each other nearly every single day for their entire adolescence had blinded her to the changes. His blonde locks are swept away from his forehead and cropped further above his ears, enabling a clear view of cheeks no longer round with baby fat. There is even golden stubble along the length of his jaw. Not to mention he wears the full commanding officer’s attire, emerald orb pulsing beneath his throat. It doesn’t look like a costume of Erwin. It looks like it fits.
Commander Armin Arlert is not a boy anymore. Mikasa supposes that means she is no longer a child either. That brings little comfort as she stands before him and thumps a fist atop her heart. Almost half a year has passed since she’s needed to offer a salute. It is strange to feel her heart’s predictable beat, a rhythm that has continued despite how hollow she feels.
He is still the same Armin, though. He smiles easily, azure irises sparkling with joy as he speaks, and he dismisses her salute to stand up for her instead. He’s grown another inch or two, as well.
“You’re back.” Then, a relieved slump of his shoulders. “Thank the Walls. We’ve missed you around here.”
Mikasa tries not to think about the absence of too many others in the implication of we. She offers a tepid smile at first, but then with warmth that is genuine, tells him she missed him, too.
They talk for hours. Armin has a thousand and one questions about Hizuru and she is glad to answer them. It was a beautiful landscape with kind people and fascinating traditions. But it was not the things that mattered to her more.
He only asks her how she is doing once, and when she shrugs to hide a grimace, he knows better than to ask again.
“Well I shouldn’t keep you,” Armin tells her, though she is certain it was actually her who kept him from important work. “I know there’s someone else waiting for their turn to see you.”
There is an unusual glint of mischief in his sea blue orbs and keen smile. Mikasa doesn’t bother to lift a curious brow, only an exhausted attempt for a smile.
“It will be nice to see Jean too, but I think I’m going to turn in early. It’s been a long few days.”
Armin starts to laugh, but then abruptly chokes it back. He brings his hand up to cover a smirk, she is sure of it. Her brows do lift then.
“I – I wasn’t talking about Jean.”
And this is the same old Armin, too— far more observant than one had the right to be. Mikasa feels the start of a blush and makes a valiant effort to stop it. For a second she looks behind Armin, gathering her thoughts, but then she straightens her shoulders to meet his gentle gaze. There is a surprising bout of relief in no longer pretending, no longer hiding, from one of her closest friends.
“Thought he planned to go back to the Walls,” she says, the question unspoken. To open up a tea shop in Mitras had been the plan.
“Thought so too, but for some reason, he’s been stalling,” Armin answers, his smirk replaced with an earnest smile.
Mikasa feels the heat blossom over her throat. She stands, whether to distract Armin or herself, she isn’t certain. The heart she nearly forgot was still beating makes its presence known again, pounding fast and hard in the center of her chest.
“Right,” Mikasa says, searching for her bags of luggage at her feet. “Well, I’m sure there’s a lot to prepar—”
“Mikasa,” Armin interrupts patiently.
She looks up at once. “Hmm?”
But Armin just smiles at her. After a moment in the simplicity of his calm and understanding presence, Mikasa feels herself relax.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Armin says in closing, standing again and rounding the corner of his desk. “I’m— I’m really glad you’re back.”
It is rare for them to embrace, but Mikasa feels the urge like a swelling balloon about to burst in her chest. As soon as he is in arm’s reach, she takes hold of him. In the ways that Eren failed to feel like a brother, Armin never did. He doesn’t hesitate to hug her back, laughing warmly, reminding her that the ache can be soothed. That she won’t be hollow forever.
“Me too, Armin.”
Maybe she knows more strangers than friends, but those she calls friends are worth their weight in gold.
.
.
The halls are quiet and Mikasa is grateful for it. She forgot to check the time before she left Armin’s office, but the sun’s low-lying position and the emptied corridors suggest it is half-past six. If the others are busy eating in the mess hall, she can slip into her room unnoticed. She does want to see Jean, Connie, and even Annie and the children— everyone, really— but most of all she wants to see Levi and before she can do that, she needs to gather her bearings.
Mikasa rounds the corner, but halts mid-step at the sight of him. Despite what Armin shared with her, she is still left unprepared for why Levi is propped against her bedroom door— arms folded lazily and ankles crossed— apparently waiting for her.
So much for gathering bearings. She takes a deliberate breath.
Six months have been kind to him. There’s no trace of broken bones or near fatal wounds in his leisurely posture. The gash across his face has healed surprisingly well, the raised scar pinkish but skin-toned, a thin line stretched from forehead to chin. Both of his lids appear open as normal, and though she’s not sure if he can see out of the left one, he’s looking at her intently enough to convince her that he can.
She suddenly becomes hyperaware of her own state of appearance. The best she can say for herself is at least she showered and attempted to settle her wind-tossed hair before getting off the ship. Underneath three overstuffed duffel bags and her backpack, her strapless button-up blouse belted into matching black pants is casual at best. Levi would probably call his own rolled-up sleeves and absent blazer casual too, but their opinions on attire differs drastically.
Mikasa reshuffles the bags strapped across her. It’s too late for an exchange of greetings; the typical time to share them has already passed.
She wants to ask why he’s here or what he wants, but she isn’t sure if she’s ready to hear it. Seeing it is already a shock enough. While she has spent years finding reasons and making excuses to visit him at his room, he’s never once come to hers.
Levi waits patiently, but at her extended pause, he lifts a brow—it’s not curious, but challenging. A look she’s seen plenty of times, prior to a sparring match or at the sight of an incoming Abnormal. Mikasa remembers her resolve at once.
She starts toward her bedroom door, and by default of his purposeful positioning, toward Levi.
“You know, the men in Hizuru always offered to take my bags,” she tells him, despite the even clack of her boot heels and natural gait suggesting that the weight of them poses no problems.
Levi remains unimpressed. “Sound like proper gentlemen. Did you let them?”
Mikasa withholds her smile, coming to a halt before him. “Once.”
Levi drops his brow and surveys the luggage strapped around her. “And how many of them did it take?”
“Three.” Half of her smile slips out then. “They didn’t ask again after that.”
“Hn.”
He doesn’t move off of the door. As fast as their humored exchange comes, it passes. Standing so near to each other, Mikasa is once again drawn to the state of his healed wounds. Despite finding him in critical condition, Hange must have not rushed through the stitches. It’s the only explanation for how the scar on his face presents so neat and uniform.
“You look—...” Mikasa starts, and then stops. She didn’t actually mean to speak aloud.
Levi interrupts regardless. “Disfigured?”
The syllables are hard but also light, and Mikasa feels a tension in her shoulders loosen to hear that he isn’t overtly bitter.
She shakes her head once. “For six months I’ve only seen you in my nightmares. It—it feels— ... Well, you’ve no idea how it feels to actually see you.”
While Mikasa can go from zero to ninety-five kilometers in a flash on ODM gear, she finds the same skill lacking with verbal remarks. What she’s shared with Levi has only been spoken through looks and touches, never words.
“Tch.” Though Levi hasn’t taken his gaze off her since she rounded the corner, she watches him look her over with even more intent. “Think I have an idea.”
That earlier heat returns in a blossom over her throat, but there’s too serious a thought still crowding her mind.
Mikasa speaks quietly, prepared for the bitterness she anticipated earlier. “Can you see?”
Levi rolls one shoulder in what she takes for half a shrug. “Somewhat,” he says, still watching her intently. “Well enough.”
Mikasa forfeits her attempts to refrain from smiling, surprised at the ease and warmth in being near him again. After the aftermath of The Rumbling, they hadn’t left on bad terms, but they hadn’t left on good terms, either. There were no terms.
“Staying for tea?” She asks, readjusting the weight of her luggage, both hands clasped on the straps.
Levi nods, at last lifting himself off her door. “Alright.”
She could maneuver her bags to find her bedroom door key and open it herself, but despite her earlier dismissal on the need for gentlemen, she is not above asking for help.
Mikasa drops her chin to gesture at her waistline. “Keys are in my pocket.”
Her boldness is rewarded with the flash of silver in his steel gray eyes. Levi doesn’t hesitate to step forward, closing what limited gap existed between them. Since she didn’t clarify which side, he slips both of his hands into her front pockets at the same time.
Mikasa does her best to remain indifferent while Levi takes his time securing a grip on the keys, his fingers curling inside the fabric of her pants at the dip beneath her pelvic bone. She knows that he doesn’t blink once while taking hold of them because she hasn’t blinked either.
Slowly, Levi lifts his hands from her pockets. Mikasa reluctantly breaks eye-contact to evaluate her keys in his hand. Where there used to be missing fingers, there are matte metal prosthetic digits instead.
Before she can ask, Levi explains. “They’re not prehensile, but they’re functional enough. They can bear weight.”
He rearranges his loose grip on the keys to show her the limitations, prosthetic fingers unable to curl tight enough to clasp, but then he transfers the keys to his other hand. Levi relieves her of one enormous duffel bag, the prosthetic fingers no less strong than flesh ones in holding the weight of it.
Mikasa admires the prosthetic, wondering for less than a moment how it came about. “Hange?”
He nods, turning toward her door to unlock it. “Apparently they came up with the idea and made some sketches. Armin and the medics were able to find the materials and figure it out from there.”
Levi pushes her door open and gestures for her to go first.
Mikasa pauses, though. Her words are soft, but deliberate. “They loved you.”
He studies his hand holding the duffel bag, expression unreadable. Then, quiet and grateful. “Yeah, I know.”
Mikasa waits for him to look up before she offers an understanding smile, then moves past him to enter the room.
Thankfully, Armin had taken the liberty of letting himself in to clean the place before she arrived. There’s no film of dust covering her furniture and no dank air, either. The window was left open to allow for the cool breeze to come through. It’s a minimalistic room, just a half-table for two, small closet, functional kitchenette, and full-sized bed all in one open space, the bathroom attached through the door opposite the little sink. Yet she likes it a great deal more than the grandiose spaces she’d spent her last six months sleeping in.
Mikasa walks in further and drops her bags at the foot of her bed.
She turns around to find that Levi has already made his way to her kitchenette. She watches as he helps himself into her cabinets, teaching himself where she keeps the kettle and tea leaves. He fills the kettle with water and sets it atop the miniature stove as if he’s done it countless times before. Which he has, she’s certain. But not here, and not for her.
Mikasa has made their tea from that exact spot or what was essentially the same setup in his room. It is as surreal as a dream sequence to see their roles reversed. To consider what it could mean.
Once Levi reaches for the glass container of black tea, she snaps out of her reverie.
“Wait,” she interjects.
Mikasa turns back to her duffel bags. She kneels beside one of them, opening it up and gathering a rectangular-shaped object wrapped carefully in durable linen.
Levi scrutinizes it. “What is it?”
“Tea,” she tells him, as though it’s obvious.
Mikasa carries it over to him, a smile threatening to spill at the sight of Levi’s overt concern.
“Tea?” He repeats, repulsed with the block.
She stands beside Levi in the kitchenette, removing the bands over the tea brick to pull off the linen cover.
“Compressed tea,” she clarifies, placing it down on the counter. “The plants harvested for tea in Hizuru come from higher elevation on the mountains. This is still black tea, but it’s much better than what we have here. It’s the best tea I’ve ever had.”
“That’s high praise,” Levi acknowledges warily.
She does smile then. “You’ll see.”
Mikasa teaches him how the Hizuranese tea is prepared. She takes a finger-sized chip off the block, rinses it thoroughly, and then gives him ratio recommendations and steeping directions. Levi takes over once the teakettle whistles.
She settles onto a seat at the edge of her bed, elbow on her knee and chin held by her palm, content to watch him. He’s apparently seen her at work in his kitchenette enough times to know her preferences: steeped for a moment longer than recommended and served with a teaspoon and a half of honey. As she expects, Levi leaves his unsweetened.
When he starts to put her teacup onto a saucer, she intervenes. “You know I won’t use it.”
He discards the saucer onto the countertop. “Cause you’re a heathen,” he mutters, not for the first time.
She bites her lip to prevent from smiling as he carries her teacup over to her, utilizing the tips of his fingers on the top of the rim, as odd as ordinary.
Mikasa opens her mouth to make a retort, but he’s glaring mildly at her and interrupts.
“And I’m a prissy-pants, yeah I know,” he says blithely, ignoring her small laugh that follows.
Levi hands her the porcelain cup and she takes it with two hands, cradling the warmth between her palms.
It takes effort to keep the sentiment neutral— she fails regardless. “Thank you.”
He studies the cup clutched in her hands, no less aware than she is that it was a first, and then returns his steadfast gaze to hers.
“You’re welcome.” Levi fails for indifference, too.
He moves back to the kitchenette to collect his tea. “Now let’s see about your dirty mountain brick tea.”
Mikasa nearly rolls her eyes. “It’s not dirty. You saw how I rinsed it.”
“Hn.”
Levi doesn’t wait for it to cool down, he never does. He blows on it briefly and then takes the first sip to try it. Mikasa continues with unapologetically watching him. It's hard not to after six months apart.
“Oh,” he intones, pulling back from the teacup in slight surprise. “Oh, that is fucking good.”
She can’t help but grin. “Told you.”
Levi takes another long sip while she carries her own untouched one. He gestures with his chin toward the items left out on the counter. “Why did you bring it back as a brick?”
“Bricks, actually,” Mikasa tells him, lavender-dusted eyes pinging toward her duffel bag. “Tea is one of the most popular trade items to be exported from Hizuru. The merchants compress the tea to preserve it, shipping and selling it in larger quantities.”
Levi tracks where her vision flickered. “You brought back an entire duffel bag? It’ll take you at least a year to go through all of that.”
Mikasa opens her mouth to respond, but then closes it. In its place, a nervous breath escapes. This garners additional scrutiny from Levi, so she shakes her head once and tries again for nonchalance.
“It’s not meant for a person.”
The rest goes unspoken. It’s meant for a new business.
It must be understanding that pierces through him. In one second he’s appraising her with mild curiosity and then the next he’s gravely serious. She looks to his teacup instead of to him, but he places it down on the counter behind him.
Mikasa takes a fortifying breath when he isn’t watching. Instead of waiting for whatever comes next, she draws confidence by taking control and speaking first.
“You’re supposed to be in Mitras."
To ease her nerves, she wraps both hands tighter around the heat of her teacup.
Levi takes a careful step toward her. “You’re supposed to be in Hizuru.”
Mikasa just looks at him. “You knew I wouldn’t stay there.”
He takes another step, only an arm’s length away from her. “You thought I wouldn’t stay here?”
Spoken with a tilt of sarcasm and lobbed lightly to challenge her. Mikasa feels the temptation to pivot further with a joke, but she can’t. The truth in his words lances through her.
The people whom she’s loved who wanted to stay have not always been able to. How could she possibly of hoped that he would stay when she’s been less certain that he wanted to?
Mikasa tries to straighten her shoulders and force the tension out from her spine, but it spurs an unintended consequence. The strain doesn’t disappear, it simply travels; by the time Mikasa realizes she’s clutching the teacup too hard, it’s too late. The porcelain shatters between her hands.
Hot liquid splashes onto her blouse, burning straight through the fabric and scalding her stomach. It’s only fine-tuned instincts that save from burning her lap; she immediately half-jumps up, curving her torso outward and away from her thighs. That’s when she sees her hands.
“Shit,” Mikasa murmurs.
Shards of ivory porcelain are embedded into each of her palms. The sliced skin is a different sort of burn; she has to force herself not to shake them out in attempt to alleviate the stinging sensation. As if in slow motion, the cuts begin to weep blood around ivory edges.
In those three seconds, she forgot Levi’s presence. Then he steps forward and she abruptly looks up, flushed from embarrassment more than pain.
He’s too focused on the spilled tea to notice. “Did it burn you?”
“I think so,” she answers reluctantly, looking down too.
The wet fabric is still hot, clinging uncomfortably against scorched skin. Half-seated and half-perched from the bed, she watches the tea as it drips from her blouse. Blood from her hands starts to spill over next. She mumbles another incoherent profanity before making an attempt to lift the hot fabric off her abdomen.
Levi stops her, moving the final step closer and taking a careful hold of both her wrists. His light touch startles her more than his interception. Levi is many things, but gentle isn’t one of them. Mikasa swiftly decides the unfamiliarity with his new prosthetic fingers is to blame.
He lets go of her wrists nearly as soon as he’d taken hold of them. As methodical as he would be on a battlefield, Levi moves toward the buttons on her blouse instead. Even before she can take a breath at his closeness, his steel-shaded irises flash up to meet hers. The question is clear enough.
She nods. “Go ahead.”
Even without full control of the usual fingers, he makes quirk work of her buttons and pushes the wet fabric off to her sides. She studies the streaks of red patches across her abdomen with a slight frown.
“That’s going to blister like a bitch,” Levi says, voicing aloud what she’d been thinking.
“It’s fine,” Mikasa says, resting the back of her injured hands onto the top of her knees and leaning back to sit. She cranes her neck over toward the countertop and Levi follows her line of vision, spotting the stack of clean hand towels next to the little sink.
He moves to the countertop. The initial rush of adrenaline starts to pass, replacing itself with an acute awareness of the pain across her stomach and both her hands. That, and the state of her undress. She’s been in limited clothing around Levi plenty of times before, whether from sparring in summer or with all the Scouts swimming in the sea. She tells herself this isn’t any different.
At the same time, she can’t repress the sudden gratitude that while her black balconette bra might be practical, it isn’t unflattering, either.
Levi comes back with a towel he soaked in cold sink water.
“Ready?” He asks, but already he places it over the inflamed skin.
She inhales, holding her breath as the cooler rag combats the heat on her skin. Levi looks up to her face for the first time, calm but calculative. Both his hands remain atop her stomach to hold the towel into place.
“And that’s why I hold teacups the way that I do,” he says humorlessly.
Mikasa exhales. “If you’re expecting an apology, you’re still not getting one.”
The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement, but then he returns his attention to her hands. For some reason, it’s the first time she realizes just how close he’s standing, her knees nearly pressing into the top of his thighs. Blood drips from the side of her palms slowly but steadily. The droplets fall from the side of her hands, the red splatters stark against the pine hardwood floors.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” Levi remarks. “Assuming you can still move all your fingers.”
Mikasa starts to clench her hands, just enough to see that all ten fingers can curl inward. Despite her carefulness, it pulls at the injured muscles in her hand and drags the porcelain pieces in further. She grinds her teeth, as much in frustration as in pain.
“All working,” she tells him, even though he watched too. Then, quieter and somewhat in amusement, she adds. “Would’ve been ironic, though.”
“Tch.” Levi removes the wet towel from her abdomen, turning it over and then placing the cooler side back onto her skin. “Humanity’s Strongest, incapacitated from the Beast Titan and a close-range thunderspear. Girl Worth a Hundred Soldier, defeated by her poor hold on a teacup.”
Mikasa huffs. “Very funny.”
The ghost of a smile on his lips indicates that he thinks so, but then he’s back to business. He arranges the towel to where it will remain propped against her stomach without his assistance. Levi takes a half step backward to acknowledge that it’s secure, and then turns his attention onto her bleeding hands. What apparition of mirth existed before vanishes.
“Want something to bite on?” Levi asks, surveying the embedded pieces.
“No.”
He lifts a disagreeing brow. “You’re not going to be able to clench your fist. You’re going to want something to anchor onto.”
“It’s a teacup, not shrapnel,” Mikasa dismisses. “Just pull them out.”
Levi is unimpressed with her stoicism and his lingering stare lets her know it. He mutters something under his breath about her willfulness, but Mikasa is too distracted to hear it. Not once he brushes his knuckles onto the inside of her knees to part her legs.
“Do me a favor,” he says, stepping between her thighs. “Don’t crush me.”
Before she can make sense of his intentions or his request, Levi takes a careful hold of her left hand. The second she sees him grip onto the edge of porcelain is the same second he must move to pull it out; the pain starts with a violent sharpness at the source, but then immediately radiates across her whole palm.
On instinct, she feels herself attempt to make fists but wills herself not to with a sharp inhale. It’s a continuation of that same instinctual response that has her tighten her knees. Levi’s legs are between them, hard musculature serving as a study weight to apply pressure around.
Oh. That’s what he meant. That’s why he moved there.
“Told you,” Levi admonishes.
He discards the first bloodied shard onto the ground at their feet.
Mikasa does her best to press the back of her hands against her thighs while Levi quickly but carefully removes the rest of the shards. She makes no overt signs of protest, but continues to grind her teeth and squeeze her knees against him.
“Done.” Levi gradually releases her hand and drops the last shard. Then, with a hint of mild sarcasm. “Gonna let me go, brat?”
Mikasa blinks, assessing his amusement. Understanding comes to her a second later.
Though she’s already touching him, there’s something even more intimate about parting her thighs to release him. She does it slowly, trying not to make a fuss over it, but that quickly proves to be a flawed plan.
Levi tracks every millimeter of movement in the parting of her thighs. This time she feels the start of a blush and knows better than to try and stop it.
Once there’s room enough for him to step back, he doesn’t. Levi looks up at her, glacial gray colliding with her darkened lilac.
It’s only the open cuts in her hands that interrupt them. With the shards removed, the blood seeps from the wounds in earnest. She regretfully turns her attention to the blood collecting over her knees.
As if removed from a trance, Levi steps out from between her legs and goes over to the countertop.
Predicting his upcoming question, Mikasa speaks first. “Medical supplies are on the top right.”
Levi promptly gathers a clean towel, antiseptic, gauze bandages, and medical tape.
Deciding the wet towel is no longer cool enough to serve its original intent, Mikasa repurposes the one at her stomach to start wiping off her bloodied hands. Each of them throb, but not nearly as much as when the shards were still in or being pulled out.
They’re both proficient in wound care. She silently hisses through the additional burn of the antiseptic, but then Levi is cradling one of her hands between both of his and pain is the least of her concern.
He is methodical as always, wrapping the gauze tight around her palm so that her fingers remain loose, but she watches as if it isn’t the thousandth time she’s seen basic first-aid be administered.
When he finishes wrapping her last hand and places it atop her knee, he forgets to let go. The weight of his palm rests on her leg.
“You should go to the infirmary,” he says, eying the irritated skin on her stomach. “They’ll have burn salve for that.”
Mikasa shakes her head once. “That’s in the cabinet, too.”
Levi lifts a brow before turning toward the cabinet. “Spill boiling hot tea on yourself often?”
“You don’t use them like I do,” Mikasa explains. “Thunderspears. Took some practice to get used to handling several for consecutive release. When the timing is off, it’s hot enough to burn.”
“No one uses like them like you do,” Levi mumbles, unwillingly impressed despite his own disregard for them.
Mikasa watches him collect the aluminum-lidded container, unable to answer as she considers what will happen next. If Levi is concerned by a similar thought, she can’t tell.
He stands before her knees again, unscrewing the metal lid and dropping it onto the bed beside her. Levi pauses with two fingers at the edge of the salve, looking at her the same way he did with her buttons in his grasp.
Mikasa doesn’t trust her voice to answer. Instead, she puts her elbows behind her and leans backward, affording him better access to her lower abdomen. It requires Levi to step forward and lean over, the ink-black hair of his fringe shifting as he looks down to her.
Once again she is surprised at his capacity to be careful— if it weren’t Levi, she’d describe it as gentle. He thumbs out a generous portion of the salve and liberally applies it on the inflamed skin, starting at the top of her stomach. He tracks the ointment with his calloused thumb lightly over the definition of her abdominal muscles, somehow even lighter when he moves lower.
It takes effort for Mikasa to remember to breathe, and to breathe normally.
Levi turns his hand partially, utilizing the last of the salve on the side of his thumb to rub it on the sliver of skin above her belted pants. The very tips of his other fingers, warm skin and cool prosthetic, trail over her hipbone as he finishes.
The ointment provides an immediate if only temporary relief. She expects Levi to withdrawal, so she savors the last second of his touch.
But he doesn’t take his hand off. Levi tracks his thumb upward instead— even though there’s no ointment left, even though it isn’t where she’s been burnt. The rest of his hand spans outward, gathering the side of her into his grip while his thumb settles beneath her lowest rib.
Mikasa relaxes onto her elbows, but Levi is stone-faced.
“You didn’t think I would stay,” he says again, but this time, it’s quiet and serious.
She should have known he’d circle back to this, the reason for the slip of her grip. Mikasa refuses to tense up again, but she waits until she’s sure her voice will be steady before she eventually speaks. Levi doesn’t remove his hold.
“No, I didn’t,” she says, meeting his brazen gaze. “I thought I’d be shipping those tea bricks to you in Mitras.”
She added the last part to distract him, but based on the slight grimace and additional pressure of his thumb, it’s had the opposite effect.
Mikasa wets her lips and clarifies. “It’s not as though I asked if you would wait.”
Levi exhales sharply; amused or disgruntled, she isn’t certain. But then he tracks his thumb over to the left, to the right, and to the left again. Touching her because he wants to, because he can. She resists the urge to lean back further.
“Seemed fair,” Levi says evenly.
Mikasa stares at him. There’s a damnable spark of hope that bursts to life from his deliberate touch and the direction of the conversation, but she’s finished with relying on unspoken sentiments.
“Fair?” She repeats, colder than she intended.
Levi speaks easily, though. “You waited for me.”
Waited. Not waiting. She is so focused on making sense of his chosen verbiage that she doesn’t realize she slides further down, almost settled into the bed. Levi steps closer, his thumb edging further up to trace the horizontal length of her lower ribs.
Mikasa swallows. If he’s still here, here in the barracks, here with the military, then they’re in the same position with the same problem as before. She tries to gather her focus instead of giving into the sensation of his touch.
“You’re still my Captain.” Even as she loathes the complication, she can’t will herself to say it with actual disdain. Not when he’s protected her and her loved ones more times than she can count.
Levi lifts a brow, almost indolent. “No. Not anymore.”
Her eyes widen, but the words of surprise don’t come out.
Levi nearly smiles through his sardonic words, applying more pressure into a touch that is probably less thoughtless than it seems. “You missed my retirement party.”
That snaps her out of it. “You had a party?”
“More of a gathering,” Levi says dryly, his thumb tracking further up with languid touch. He traces beneath her sternum and hovers at the edge of fabric beneath her breast. “The others insisted.”
“You deserve a party,” Mikasa tells him forcefully, her desire to laugh forfeited in favor of complimenting him in earnest.
Levi is serious too, watching her. He’s reached the last expanse of skin that can be covered and considered innocent. At the same time, Mikasa realizes the extent of their new circumstances.
No longer fighting for their lives.
No longer her Captain.
No longer waiting.
She abruptly sits up to reach for him, and while it slides his hand down from the more sensitive placement, he takes hold of her waist instead. Like the last puzzle piece set into alignment, both his thumbs lock into place on each of her hipbones.
Mikasa grabs a fistful of fabric on his chest, undeterred by her recent injury. “Then— then what were you doing, wasting time making tea instead of—of...” she starts and then trails off, interrupted by his approach.
This time Levi parts her legs with a nudge from his knee, stepping between her thighs with ease. He drops his chin into the dip of her shoulder; she both hears and feels his dark and gravelly chuckle.
“We like tea,” he reminds her, hovering over her ear.
Her fist loosens, fingers splaying out to rest against his chest. Even with the interference of fabric, she can feel the firm expanse of his pectoral muscles, the warmth of his skin. “Well, yes, but I think—” I think we’re going to like fucking more.
She’s distracted again when his mouth lowers, a hot breath of amusement blown into the vulnerable nook of her neck. Gooseflesh erupts at once at the nearing sensation. As if needing to hold on, her other hand flies to grab onto his waist.
“And we have plenty of time,” Levi says lowly, pressing his lips firmly onto the tender spot beneath her jaw.
Mikasa shudders. She has grown used to seeing her worst nightmares come to life, but never held the same expectation for the far less frequent dreams. Her hand drops lower, exploring the ridges over each of his abdominals, attempting to be patient.
When his mouth lifts off her skin, she’s not sure if he’s kissed or branded her, but she wants him to do it again. Her breathy exhale betrays as much.
Careful to avoid the burns, Levi promptly lifts her from the waist and drops her further back into the bed. Mikasa only has to blink before he’s atop her, molten silver staring down at her. His knees sink into the mattress beside her hips as he props himself up to avoid her stomach, but she wants him closer. Mikasa leverages her right leg to dislodge his left one out from its stilted position.
“Tch,” he starts, but there’s no real annoyance; the opposite, really.
Now lowered onto her, Levi shifts their hips into a more purposeful alignment. He glides one hand up to rest under the curve of her breast. Mikasa plans to tug his dress shirt out from his pants, but she’s distracted at his closeness.
She reaches up to touch his face, gingerly tracing the length of his scar with her pointer finger, from the top of his forehead down to his lips. Despite the searing heat of his body’s weight on top of her, it turns her serious.
“And what about the time we lost,” she asks quietly, her touch lingering on his bottom lip.
Levi shifts lower, breathing out a hard and serious sigh. His forehead drops onto hers, but it’s not with defeat. His palm skims over her breast as he reaches for her collarbone, then throat. He holds onto the side of her neck, her pulse beating strong against his once-mangled hand.
“We’ll make up for it,” he says, resolute words spoken alongside the bridge of her nose. Then, a half-spoken apology, a harsh whisper against her lips. “I’ll make up for it.”
Mikasa breathes in, her finger slipping slowly down to his chin. There’s no longer anything to keep him at a distance.
Levi is done waiting. He kisses her the second her finger is removed, hungrily taking hold of her entire bottom lip. Mikasa’s response is no less greedy, no less starved for him. For soldiers so used to the regiment of hardness, they’re released from it all at once. Wildly, eagerly, they claim each other’s lips as if every time is still the first time.
While Levi loosens his grasp on her throat, she tightens her hold onto the length of his jaw, refusing to separate any further. With lost time on his thoughts, Levi cradles the base of her neck and dips her head back; deliberate in deepening their kiss, to have more of her.
Mikasa responds, leaving her lips parted for him the next time she releases his lips. Levi’s tongue doesn’t stall in accepting her invitation.
It’s a brief and fleeting series of thoughts, starting with the notion that Levi tastes like tea. The tea she could have been drinking alone in Hizuru. The tea he could have been selling without her in Mitras. Instead, Levi tastes like tea he’s made for the both of them after waiting half a year for her to return.
She’s too consumed by his hand threading into the hair at her scalp, of the coiling pressure between her pulsating thighs, to think past a first impression. But the urgency from his grasp, the dedicated exploration of his tongue, the echo of his promise— "I'll make up for it."— convinces her she'll have other opportunities.
.
.
.
fin