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This story is about a runny nose, dark apartments, two bags of groceries, a crazy boss, and a blanket the size of a small country. It’s also about college, money, distance, appointments, and obligations.
But mostly it’s about a wind chill of -28 degrees Fahrenheit, a misunderstanding, and Christmas Eve.
Let’s start at the beginning.
This tale begins with a phone call. Two, actually; when the first is picked up, there’s a short, clipped conversation between two men speaking English. One has a French accent and the other does not; the Frenchman is the caller and it is eleven in the morning when he calls the American man he speaks to.
The time on the American’s watch is 4:06 AM, but his voice is clear and his diction impeccable.
Fast forward to nine-twelve AM on the American’s wrist and he’s dialing a number he has memorized more so than the gate and flight numbers of the plane he is about to board. It rings twice and then someone answers.
“Legion Coffee – this is Eren.”
Someone scuffs behind the American dragging a suitcase that scrapes along the floor as he responds. “Good morning, Eren,” he says pleasantly. “Is Hanji there?”
“Yeah, she’s right in back. Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Erwin Smith.”
There’s a pause and he can hear the employee yelling to the woman he wants to speak to; he remembers what Hanji’s said about him and an idea, a seed takes root in his mind.
By the time she chirps “Morning, Erwin!” into the phone it’s sprung into a plan that’s so harebrained it’s practically genius, and he smiles to himself offhand because that’s exactly the way he likes it.
“Dawk’s client called,” he begins and doesn’t stop for any protest. “I’m boarding a plane to France in about three and a half minutes. I need you to do something for me.”
Take a few steps back – like three hours back. At six-twelve AM that day, which is, coincidentally, December 23 (a Monday), Eren is wrapping a scarf around his neck and rubbing irritably at his nose with a tissue. Sniffling at work is really, really obnoxious but it’s not like he has much of a choice. He resists the urge to bitch pointlessly at his steering wheel (which is freezing in his hands, thanks a lot for forgetting his gloves at work when he closed last night) as he makes the five-minute drive to Legion Coffee.
For once he doesn’t start to slide or fishtail, which is nice, because there’s about five inches of salt and slush on the ground and he can’t afford new tires. So his Biology 203 textbook stays firmly in his passenger seat. (He’s on break but he barely survived the last three weeks of the course. If he doesn’t get solid with the material now it will bite him in the ass later.) The bells hanging on the front door jingle and rattle as he walks in about ten minutes early, and he isn’t surprised to see Hanji's head poke out of the back room at the sound. The smell of the Colombian blend brewing is comforting as she offers a greeting with a yawn.
“Morning, Eren.”
“Morning, Hanji,” he answers as he stows his coat away, breathes on his hands, still numb from clutching -3 degree leather on the way over. His nose begins to run as it thaws and he stifles a groan.
They open at 6:30 but he is waiting outside at 6:29, a black peacoat and a dark blue plaid scarf being the only things about his appearance Eren can make out beyond the holiday-themed door. But when he strides over to open it, the cold air that rushes in almost makes him flinch – the threatened cold snap is gaining ground and he doesn’t envy the guy for standing out there in that weather for about three minutes.
He recognizes the customer as he shoulders his way in but doesn’t have a name to put to the face. Instead he tries to pronounce the words “good morning” beyond chattering teeth, happy to let the door close and escape back to the warmth behind the counter.
The regular – Eren doesn’t know why he doesn’t know his name – offers a curt nod in response, declining to speak, whether it be out of personal preference or the fact that his lips, thin, have turned a dusky blue. (It makes Eren feel guilty for a moment. He’s sure Hanji wouldn’t have minded if they opened a minute early, but he hadn’t noticed him outside – been too busy regulating the temperature of one of the boilers on the counter.)
He orders a café au lait, which he rushes to prepare, as if speed will allow him to make up for making him stand out in the cold; he hands the twenty-ounce mug gently to the customer with a smile that wavers a bit, nervousness showing through.
His eyes look tired but he nods his thanks and slips two dollars into the tip jar, which makes Eren brighten about two hundred watts as he watches the regular make his way to a table just near the backroom window, addressing Hanji with his first word as if he is already sick of her.
There are several customers in the store when Erwin Smith calls and none of them are that regular, the short man with tired eyes whose demeanor puts Eren on his toes. He’s passing the phone back to Hanji with a hot chocolate in his other hand, and he swirls some whipped cream on top and passes it off to the girl at the other side of the counter with a smile.
Another one-fifty in the tip jar.
Petra clocks in less than an hour later and at that moment Hanji grabs onto his elbow and drags him into the back room. Out of sight of the front door, abandoning the young woman to the counter alone – Eren almost trips on an upraised tile at the speed with which she’s pulling him.
When they’re in front of the fridge she turns to face him with eyes bright behind her glasses. “I’ve got you a job!” she says brightly, and the way with which she says it makes Eren’s stomach twinge a bit.
When she says job and pulls him to the back corner to talk about it, he knows it has nothing to do with coffee beans and cash registers. Because.
Eren Yeager is a young man with a deceased mother and an absent father, with little to speak of in the bank, riding on student loans and scholarships he’s earned through hard work. Neither of his two best friends live nearby and he’s got nothing else to support himself on besides his own income.
He works two jobs and no one knows but him and Hanji – because when he approached her for more hours as he was nearly dropping dead from the exhaustion of work and school, she knew better than to let him run himself to death. Because the kid would do that. He’s determined enough to throw his own personal health to the wayside in order to be stellar at school and on the job.
Eren wants to shake his head, but the jump in his rent that accounts for the rise in heating costs means money is a bit tight (his landlord is shady but it’s the only place he can afford). Wants to turn it down but it is money –
Money that makes up for the way he feels a little dirtied when he grits his teeth and nods.
“Don’t worry,” his boss says, patting his bicep sort of awkwardly. The sentiment is appreciated. “I know the client. He’s a good guy – it’ll be just fine.” She grins at him. “Surprise gift for the client. I hope you’re not busy tomorrow night.”
“Christmas Eve?” Eren asks out loud even though he knows it – affirms it vocally with the nod Hanji returns.
Mikasa and Armin are a thousand miles away and the only other thing he’d be doing would be studying tomorrow night. Legion is closed and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go while school’s on break.
He really can’t think of any reason not to take it; he trusts Hanji’s judge of character and that puts him a little at ease, but he still runs one hand through his chocolate hair, the tips of his fingers dancing along his scalp – a nervous tic.
“What are the details?” he asks at last, and she rightly takes it to be acceptance, grudging or not. So his boss picks up the sheet of paper lying on the counter with some hastily-scrawled notes. On the top of the page, the back of the receipt of their last shipment of the Oaxaca blend, he can just make out the name “Erwin Smith” on the top and that lets him begin to connect the dots.
“I’ll give you a ride over there with a spare key,” she begins. “The apartment building is in the nice part of town and you need a parking pass for your vehicle. Obviously you don’t have one! But I have a key, and the buyer wants you to just make yourself at home. It’s a surprise for the client, which means you’ll be there by yourself for a bit. Be ready when he gets home.” She takes note of the expression on his face and shrugs. “I don’t know – wear something cute, lay on the table or something. Have a little fun with it!”
He shifts uneasily; refrains from responding as Petra darts into the back room, retrieves something, and returns to the front end again. (This little arrangement is something that Hanji doesn’t blab to her employees, whether it be to preserve Eren’s dignity or otherwise – some of them crack jokes about the woman being some kind of pimp, but the confidence of the subject matter of Eren’s other job isn’t something she chats about.) Once the coast is clear, he turns to her.
“Are you sure this is –“
“It’ll be fine,” she stresses, both hands clapping onto his shoulders. “Look, I’ll pick you up a few hours later. I know both the client and the buyer personally. I know it looks shady, but it’s just a birthday present. I promise! Hell, he’s such a prude I bet he won’t even ask you to do anything.”
Eren sighs out his nose, but it’s more a mix of exasperation, relief, and confusion than it is any clear emotion. The prospect of stocking his cupboards with a pretty meaty paycheck (as it has to be; the client’s well off and the buyer probably is too to buy a pr- he doesn’t think that word -for a friend for Christmas) staves off most of his trepidation and he squares his shoulders.
“I’ll pick you up at eight, then.”
It is seven minutes after eight on Christmas Eve when Hanji pulls into the parking lot below Eren’s apartment. He’s on the second floor, so he sees her car out the window, curses, grabs his coat and pulls it over his shoulders as he throws on his boots. It’s close to three below outside, but the wind that whips and whistles loud enough that it’s audible in his apartment dips it twenty degrees lower and he really, really wants to stay home and watch It’s A Wonderful Life for the fourth time. But that peanut butter and jelly from four hours ago reminds him how much he needs the money – and it’s only for a couple of hours.
Decked out in dark wash jeans, a turtleneck, and his coat, he nearly trips down the stairs with his bag in hand. The cold hits him like a fist to the face and his cheeks go numb in the moment it takes him to lock the door; he’s stumbling over the icy sidewalk to Hanji’s passenger seat and he falls in with a huff, clutching his keys and the bag to himself with fingers numb in his gloves. During the ten-minute drive they talk about inconsequential things, like his work schedule for the next week – he’s got another opening after a closing, he hates those, but what can you do – and Petra’s pregnancy and Gunther and his ailing love life (his most recent date left a note to Hanji on a napkin asking her to tell him not to call her) which are all things that are easy to discuss, preferable even, when neither of them want to address the elephant in the car that's headed the same place they are.
Hanji almost feels a little guilty that it's come to this for a bright kid like Eren - finances are tight and it's fine when it's just a bachelorette party (he's done one of those once, his first), but this is a private event and, though she feels he's the best choice, really the only choice if Erwin's instructions are to be followed, she feels even a little...
She glances to the side, glasses mirroring the glint of traffic headlamps at Eren who sits tight-lipped and rosy-cheeked in the passenger seat. He's barely nineteen and what she's asking of him is essentially to throw away his virginity if he has it yet, if need be - she's kept enough of an eye on him thus far to keep him out of trouble but this one is his to handle. But he's young, so young.
The determination she sees in the one green-blue-green eye that's visible to her is calming in its absoluteness, and she smiles a bit as she turns back.
He never notices her glance, occupied as he is with watching the businessfronts and buildings on Garrison Avenue pass in a stream of bright lights and neon signs. The snow swirls between them, a fine white dust that skates over the windshield. He's thankful for the warmth of the car, as he sniffles lightly, but the fishnets he's wearing under his jeans have begun to itch and he rubs at them automatically with the palm of his hand. Still not used to wearing them - besides these kinds of things, it's happened once before when he lost a bet with Jean in high school. It's a bit of a shameful experience, really - his thighs aren't toned at all - but whatever gets the job done.
Hanji throws on some cheesy Christmas tunes to fill the silence that's fallen and they listen to an over-jazzed Kelly Clarkson track for about a minute and a half before she pulls into the parking lot.
Eren's jaw drops open.
He expected pricey but this place is swank.
She grins at his expression as she cranks the wheel, sliding a few inches in the new snow before her tires gain ground. Eren is dumbfounded by the expensive cars belonging to rich tenants and he begins to wonder what he's getting himself into when she pulls up alongside the front walk and presses a key into his glove.
"304A," she tells him, and he nods - it's on the third floor and he isn't sure if that's a blessing or not.
"I'll be here at two unless you text me," is the last thing she says, as he's standing outside in the cold hanging onto the open door with one hand. Eren thanks her and shuts it, and she waves at him as she drives away; he stares up at the façade of the building with a mounting sense of apprehension.
What would Mikasa and Armin say if they could see him right now?
He pulls his gloves off as he enters the front doors, well aware he doesn't play the part of a resident well with his Goodwill coat and suffering jeans; he walks purposefully down the hallway to the right without reading the sign, avoiding eye contact with the doorman and hoping to some god that he guessed right on the first try.
There's a set of elevators on the left and he breathes a sigh of relief. Once he's in them and heading up to the third floor, he remembers he forgot to ask Hanji something - he pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts her the question as he's wandering down the third floor hallway.
304A has no wreath or ribbon hanging on the door like many of his neighbors. But he thinks he has the right room - now hopefully he isn't home.
Eren ponders his options.
After a moment he decides on knocking. Rather than unlocking the door if the guy's inside, that seems a little less suspicious - so he does. He raps his knuckles against the wood. Real wood that looks kind of like a dark cherry, if he knows anything about wood, which he really doesn't.
There's no answer after about thirty seconds, so he gives it another shot. Then another to be safe.
When he's decided there's probably no one home, he slips the key out of his pocket and spends about thirty more seconds trying to unlock the deadbolt; when he gets that accomplished he stumbles into the dark apartment using his phone to light his way.
He flips the light switches he finds on the right on, floods the foyer with light as he closes the door behind him.
It is.
Magnificent.
Humongous.
His entire apartment can fit in the main room - a kitchen just past the small entryway, with a high counter that separates it from the living space beyond. He's floored by the size and the opulence; everything is white and silver and dark wood, glass cabinets and a glass table to his right in an alcove beyond the rug on which he stands and is afraid to step off of.
Because not only is it rich - it's also impeccably clean. Impeccably as in he could lick the small chandelier hanging above the table and not swallow a single fleck of dust. Everything gleams in the light - white linoleum and glass and metal and polished wood.
It's terrifying.
He takes his boots off slowly and meticulously, setting them together at the edge of the rug; they are caked in snow and this place is too too clean to fuck it up. Because the only thing that's probably getting dirty here tonight is him.
It makes him nervous. What kind of uptight asshole takes care of this place? He probably has a maid kink.
He wanders through the apartment in his socks, thrown on unattractively over the feet of his fishnets. Takes stock of the rooms he finds.
On one side of the living room is a single bedroom, as tidy as the main area with a distinct dark blue theme. The bathroom, on the other hand and the other side, is a forest green; preceding it is a small hallway with a pair of folding doors which tuck away the washer and dryer. The front of the bathroom door sports a full-length mirror, in which Eren looks himself over.
His hair's a bit askew - he fixes that with one hand - but his rosy cheeks and the way he keeps sniffing really can't be helped. But he grabs the bag in his hand tighter and goes into the bathroom.
He strips down in here. Folds his shirt and pants up nicely and tucks them in the messenger bag, along with his socks, left standing there in thigh high fishnet stockings and black lace women's panties and a whole lot of nothing else.
Eren sniffs.
Digs in his bag for the garter belt; this he loops around his waist, lets settle against the top ridges of his hipbones as he reaches back to hook it closed. Adjusts it a little to let it sit properly; the black lace matches but he itches like hell and the clips are really really cold against his thigh. But he pulls the thigh highs up a bit by the band around the top of each, clips the front clips to them just underneath the little satin bows that are sewn to the tops.
He refuses to admit he might enjoy this even a little bit because he has his masculinity to reaffirm and he might net himself a good tip, thank you very much. (But the fact he keeps glancing up to see how the ensemble is coming together in the mirror says otherwise, as he does a dumb little dance to get the back clips secured.)
He's not punishing himself with a corset. No fucking way. He thanks God for online shopping as opposed to buying these damn things in public as he rummages in his bag for the camisole he has packed, but his phone vibrates on the sink before he finds it.
He withdraws his hands and reaches to check the text messages. His own shows up in blue, the response from Hanji in green:
> So what's the client's name?
> Oh, I didn't tell you? It's Levi.
Levi?
Sure sounds like an asshole, he thinks to himself as he hits the lock button and opens his bag again. Wonders what the guy looks like, as he pulls the article of clothing out of the depths of the bag. The fabric is lacy, sheer, black – resembles a light sweater but when he slips it on it clings far too close to his frame for it to be modest.
Is he tall? Eren smoothes the camisole to his sides, the wavy lace design accentuating the slightest of curves between the bottom of his ribs and the top of his pelvis. Definitely tall.
Nice? Soft-spoken? There’s a black satin ribbon in the front of the garment, at the transition from neckline to main body, sewn into the corners – he pulls it tight at the dip between his pectorals and ties a bow using his finger as an anchor. The neck of the camisole skates over the bump of his clavicle, exposes the upper portion of his chest in translucent black folds. He’d hope the guy is those things as well.
It’s probably not a good idea to fix an image of what he wants this Levi to be in mind without meeting him first, he thinks, reaches into the bag one more time for the last part of the ensemble –
It occurs to him suddenly how goddamn tidy the house is and then he thinks about the fact his snow-caked boots are dripping into the rug in front of the door and his coat is draped on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
And he doesn’t know exactly when the client will turn that doorknob.
So the next thirty-three seconds pass in a blur of activity. Eren hurries back to the kitchen, nearly slipping on the linoleum, scoops up his outerwear and – after a brief moment of deliberation – elects to stash the coat and boots (mostly dry) behind one of the plush armchairs situated facing out of the living room’s corner. He then flips over the kitchen rug so that the wet spot faces down; not the cleanest of ideas but he will be long gone by the time the client tries to lift it at all.
The black pumps he’s yet to slip on dangle from one hand by the straps; he grabs everything he’s left askew in the bathroom and stashes it behind the chair as well.
Thirty-three seconds later his breathing is quickened and he stands in his stockings in the client’s kitchen.
He hasn’t flipped the deadbolt. (He strides forward to go do that.) Once that’s taken care of, he looks around the room for a moment, thinking.
Hanji suggested the table; the spot in which it’s situated, in the small alcove near the door, isn’t really viable.
The counter, on the other hand...
He hoists himself onto it, the muscles in his arms straining, cold granite freezing against his bare skin and he barely suppresses a hiss. His legs dangle off the edge and he makes use of this to slip the high-heeled shoes on. (Those are going to be absolute murder, but it’s an end he’s willing to go to – his less-than-stellar dinner serves to remind him again exactly why he’s doing this.)
As he adjusts the straps, takes a moment to shift the panties he’s wearing – his dick is compressed so far it feels as if it’s chafing and it kind of really fucking hurts – and lounges back on the countertop, semi-seductively, attempting to slip into character...
The deadbolt rattles and clanks, shifts open with a click and Eren’s heart leaps into his throat. It sits there, pulsing madly, as the apartment’s resident nudges open his front door with his shoulder, the two plastic grocery bags in his hands making rustling noises like a flock of birds jostling for space in the same bush.
By chance, the man glances up – and freezes.
The way Eren’s jaw drops stands in contrast to the utter stillness of the apartment’s owner – as the man drops the bags, which land with a quiet thump on the rug on either side of his snow-covered boots, a barely-audible fragment of incomprehension drops from his lips.
“What –“
“- the fuck?”
About one hour earlier Levi stands in the same kitchen, with the fridge door propped open, peering inside it disinterestedly.
The lack of fresh produce he finds disappointing, as well as the utter sameness of the flavors he’s got. Various types of Italian pasta are boxed up neatly in a stack on the right side of the center shelf. A quart of eggnog and a gallon of milk occupy the other side of the shelf; above them is a loaf of bread on the top shelf, sitting next to a basket filled with assorted refrigerated baking ingredients (a tightly-sealed bag of brown sugar among them).
He’s not feeling like canned soup from the pantry, or the leftover pasta, or even a frozen pizza. However, the chicken breast in the freezer brings a thought to mind: for a moment then he’s craving
“Mexican,” Levi says out loud, definitively, slamming the fridge door shut. He needs to go grocery shopping and, though it may be Christmas Eve, he says fuck it to the traditional “hearty American dinner” that goes with the holiday because he hates stuffing anyway.
The stores are open as it’s only around seven-thirty and the remaining thirty percent of the American population that hasn’t purchased Christmas presents yet is being pushed to the wire, so he steps over in white-socked feet to the main closet for his boots and the black peacoat that hangs on the rightmost hanger.
Keys – wallet – scarf – he runs through the checklist as he’s locking the apartment door behind him, taking the elevator down and nodding curtly at the doorman. He churns through ideas of what to make and, therefore, what to shop for as he’s driving, taking the roads at the posted speed limit even though most would consider them “too fast for conditions” (and he skids once, but keeps a firm hand on the wheel and regains control after a long moment).
He’s never been one for extraordinarily careful driving.
Into the grocery store, avoiding the throngs of people (clustered mostly in the bakery and deli section), he picks up a basketful of groceries; he’s decided on tacos though the ground beef grease stains might end up being a bitch to get out, but he’s stocking up on other essentials in the meantime.
He needs to get coffee.
Strolls down the heated beverage aisle with an appraising eye. The bags and bean cylinders look varying degrees of undesirable to him, and he wonders why he didn’t just pick up some of the Oaxaca at Hanji’s today...
He must have been too distracted by that one barista, the young one that was Hanji’s most recent hire, opening the counter. He wasn’t sure why, but Levi found he much preferred his coffee to Petra’s; though he was actually pretty good friends with the latter, she tended to be easily distracted when there was a lot going on around her.
(He’s pretty sure that has nothing to do with it, but it sounds better than including in the comparison the exact shade of Hanji’s brat’s eyes. Because that has nothing to do with it. Whatsoever.)
Levi gets tea instead, a box of English Breakfast and, on a whim, one of those herbal variety packs. Checks out, holds his bags closer as he braves the -28 degrees outside the building, and breathes a sigh of relief when he gets back into his slightly-warmer-than-outside car.
He pointedly evades mall traffic on the way home, feeling extra not into dealing with the general idiocy of last-minute shoppers and their crazy driving. Nods to the doorman, heads up to apartment 304A, slides his key into the lock, turns the deadbolt –
The first thing he notices is that his lights are on.
The second, as he shoulders his way inside and closes the door behind himself, is the male prostitute clad in lingerie that’s currently lounging on his dividing counter.
One that looks suspiciously like, he realizes as the bags slip from his numb fingers and drop to the rug he’s standing on, the barista from Legion this morning. Who has apparently recognized him as well; he scrambles to cover himself, indecent in his clothing, drawing his knees up as a boundary between them. His first “What –“ comes at the same time as Levi’s startled utterance.
“- the fuck?”
“You,” is all he can get out, because Eren is so embarrassed he wants to die. He doesn’t even process the utter irony of the situation: tall, nice, soft-spoken? Instead the only thing that pulls him from the sudden panic spiral – two things, really – are the realization that he’s curled up in an effort to preserve his own modesty (isn’t that hilarious) and that he is being paid to be here.
By someone that isn’t Levi.
And if nothing else, he is going to get fucking paid. No matter if the client is that kind-of-attractive standoffish guy who stands out front of Legion in negative temperatures waiting for them to open. Because he’s got the determination – he’s gonna fucking do this job and get out. (Maybe move to the Midwest, or somewhere in the middle of assfuck nowhere.)
It’s this revelation that causes him to slide off the countertop, to take slow, measured steps towards the man standing at the front door.
It looks almost like Levi’s brain has short-circuited – Eren hasn’t spoken to him much but he’s heard enough of his and Hanji’s conversations to know that the man is a snarker, and that he hasn’t said something scathing yet Eren wears as a badge of pride. As the barista/serviceboy draws closer, the client’s eyes narrow – appraising, judgmental – and retain sharp, unflinching eye contact.
“Did Erwin put you up to this?” is the first thing Levi accuses, and he can probably see it in the way Eren’s eyebrows tweak at the name in recognition. But the young man gives no further answer, beyond finally stepping close enough to Levi to be able to pin him against the door.
He’s in character, as best as he can be given the situation, and so he ignores with ease the dirty, defiant look the apartment owner is directing up at him – though, to be fair, he makes no attempt to avoid him.
Eren’s hands come up to rest, palms down, on the door on either side of Levi’s head.
“Does it matter?” he all but purrs, and the words and the intonation taste disgusting to him but he’s going to fucking do this.
Levi’s glare turns downright murderous. “Yes, it fucking matters,” he growls, shoves sideways through one of Eren’s arms, avoiding kicking over the bag he’s left on the floor. He picks it up with considerable grace, fetches the other one while leaving Eren standing there, and moves towards the refrigerator with a sour look on his face. “Else I could have you tried for breaking and entering, which, by the way, is a felony, you house-squatting shit.”
The situation feels surreal to Eren but he manages to keep himself from tallying the many ways in which things have already gone absurdly wrong. Instead, he attempts to salvage it; steps after Levi with a click-click of his high heels and an injured look placed in his eyes and his lips. “All dressed up for you and this is the thanks I get?” His tone is sickeningly simpering but some of his own irritation seeps through.
Levi probably notices by the way he actually does glance back, over his shoulder as he’s storing refrigerated items in their home locations. But instead of turning back away after the intensity of his grey-eyed stare is made apparent, he pauses – and the lines of his eyebrows draw down, closer to the wrinkled bridge of his nose.
After a moment Eren blinks, falls out of character for a moment as confusion passes over his face. “... What?” he asks.
What’s he staring at?
Levi’s frown then deepens into a scowl, as if from Eren’s question, and he spits out the words.
“Get out.”
Fuck.
He knows he isn’t charming, isn’t really that good at getting people to like him, and Levi himself is a little difficult to get along with from what he can see – but he’s really got to follow through with this. He doesn’t have a choice and he’s already shot himself in the foot two or three times.
Eren bats his eyes, the mascara coating his eyelashes trying to stick them closed. “Don’t be like that,” he croons (attempts to croon), moves forward one, two measured steps; he’s got like six inches on the guy in these heels and he wouldn’t have worn them if he’d known that but then his hands come up and
they’re resting on the barest ridge of his hips, Eren can feel the definition beneath the white dress shirt (his hands slip underneath the peacoat that hangs off Levi’s shoulders as the man has turned to face him) that cloaks his torso and he fights against the urge to swallow hard.
He can’t qualify the look in Levi’s eyes. “Aren’t you a barista,” he says, though, dry as the way Eren’s throat has parched.
Eren finds it in him to smirk and lean just a hair closer. “I can be whatever you want me to be.”
There’s a pause of pregnant silence.
And as soon as it comes it goes, shatters like thin ice at the sound of the refrigerator’s cooling system kicking into overdrive. Levi’s left the door open and he pulls away from Eren with infinite grace as if he’d never been in the position to begin with, resumes loading the groceries in an orderly fashion – and as if he senses the very intention, he speaks without turning back.
“Don’t creep up behind me like a horny dog, or I really will throw you outside,” he threatens, and Eren isn't sure how to respond. Conflicted. He's not sure if it's a joke, or -
He does, however, back up a few steps, leans against the counter both to maintain appearances and because these heels are absolutely destroying his feet.
It's hard to look at the positives. Because Levi doesn't exactly like him, and he can't exactly leave. (Even if he could afford not to do the job, there's still the question of living five miles away and it being approximately -28 degrees Fahrenheit outside.) It doesn't seem like he can salvage the situation -
Maybe if he takes it slow. Slow and chatty, loosen things up; he does, after all, have all night if he needs. A text to Hanji would be all he needed to send.
Levi curses, matching a sound that reminds him remarkably of smashing his elbow on the fridge door. Then it's closed and he has a handful of balled-up plastic bags that he slides into a tiny drawer to the refrigerator's left.
"Don't you have better shit to be doing on a holiday," Levi states rather than inquires, neglecting even to pose the question as such. Eren blinks, bites back the reactionary retort that has been getting harder and harder to stave off with each new twinge of pain from his feet and from the unholy arrangement of his dick inside these fucking panties and why can't he just let it be over and done with, why can't he -
"There's no place I'd rather be than here," he manages to say sweetly, though it's through his teeth (and he probably noticed that).
"What," Levi scoffs, "you don't have any friends? Family? A fucking mouse to eat your cookies?"
"No one but little old me." That, at least, is true. Not the simpering tone which drags Eren closer and closer to vomiting every time he speaks, but the words themselves.
He's got no one and that's part of the reason why he's here.
If he had anything better to do he wouldn't be on this job.
Attempting to seduce. A grown-ass man. A regular at his other job. To whom he's served coffee. Like twenty times. And to whom he has smiled awkwardly, to whom he has tried to talk to even if it's just to trade fucking names or something.
Whom is really good friends with Hanji, who is something like his boss/pimp. And finally, whom is really goddamn attractive.
When did my life become a fucked-up porno, the young man laments to himself, resisting an urge to run his hand over his face in a long-suffering manner.
He wants to scream but that won't help anything - he wants to not know the guy he's embarrassing himself in front of and he wants the guy to fucking get off his high horse and get it over with because he's really done with this night.
Levi is staring at him, white dress shirt slightly rumpled under the peacoat that's spread over his shoulders like a pair of folded leathery wings, gray eyes narrowed - no, not narrowed. Tired-looking.
Eren swallows.
Levi looks away a second later with remarkable poise, a strange look on his face; he turns to walk towards the nearby closet, lifting the coat off his shoulders as he moves. "Go home," he says as he hangs it up, turns back to face Eren. "You're too young for shit like this."
How old does he think I am?! Eren's brows furrow, and he can feel the retort bubbling under his tongue, powerless to keep himself from letting it fly.
"Do you think I'm here for fun?" he bites out, pushing away from the counter with a barely-concealed wince. Then he's striding in high-heeled determination over to stand before Levi, towering close and intimidating over the shorter man. "That I do shit like this for kicks?" Leans in closer, too far gone to notice the change, the flicker in the client's expression.
The client. Because he fucked up by letting the fact that he knows Levi and Levi knows him detract from his ability to fulfill the buyer's request. This night is as near to the definition of "a good time" as a colonoscopy.
"I'd sell my fucking soul to be home right now watching shitty Christmas specials, but you know what? I'm nineteen years old and I don't have a choice. I'm doing this because I need the fucking money, which obviously isn't something a rich fucker like you would understand. Lord it over me all you want, but I've got bills to pay and this is how I've gotta pay them. So just let me do my job."
His teeth sink gently into his lower lip as he begins to realize how much he's fucked up - as evidenced by the shorter man's darkening expression.
"Please," he adds, a glimmer of regret shining through his angry expression; he doesn't often look back on shit he says in the heat of anger with remorse, but today is an exception when he needs three hands on which to tally his mistakes.
The silence between them is so profound it's tangible, tactile, like a pane of glass that threatens to shatter every time Eren's shoulders rise, every time Levi breathes out. (He counts the seconds in pulses of his heart, rabbit-quick drumbeats in his ribs.)
The sigh that breaks out of Levi ten seconds and five eternities later seems like it will continue on the exhale forever, Eren barely breathing in comparison with a throbbing organ in his throat and his mouth.
"Go," Levi orders, in a voice that's flatter than Eren's heart rate at the moment it's uttered.
But the direction he points is not towards the door.
He gestures to the living space beyond the kitchen, confirms the intent with a nod when the student/stripper glances back to him in confusion.
His heart rate starts up again when he takes a step. Two. Three. His heels click on the linoleum flooring until he hits the carpet - he almost pauses to take them off but the client is behind him and following his footsteps and he doesn't know yet what that means. Can't let his guard down now.
Where to go next - he isn't sure what Levi intends, and he thinks it shows (he's shivering as it's colder here and he's wearing approximately two square fleece of black lace and nothing else) in the way his shoulders hunch. But Levi is gesturing again, towards the couch, with an accompanying "Go sit down, brat."
It should irritate Eren but it doesn't; he's nervous as he makes his way over to the dark suede couch but he isn't angry. The anger has drained out of him with the words he spat, barely of a shadow of itself left behind.
Levi should've kicked him out.
Instead he's back in the kitchen doing something that creates a banging noise at various moments while Eren sits awkwardly on the couch, knees together and feet aching. (He takes advantage of the opportunity to remove his shoes.)
He doesn't...
Eren won't even attempt to speculate.
If this is his punishment for mouthing off (to a client no less, way to fuck it up, Eren Yeager) then he's got no idea of the outcome.
Levi's back in the room a moment later, picking up the remote sitting in the drawer of the coffee table and standing as he turns on the television. Eren waits nervously as the man, brows furrowed, rifles through the channels.
Eventually settles on Channel 12. Which is showing A Christmas Story, the scene at the mall - and then Eren understands, or he thinks he does.
"Here," Levi says, hands him a blanket he's procured from somewhere(???) and this is. Too much. For Eren to process.
"What's -" Eren tries to say but Levi's off again, up to some kind of plot from the way the kitchen noises resume. He still feels out of place but this is a great movie and the blanket on his lap is warm, a plush dark blue monstrosity.
If not for the fact of the lingerie he is still wearing this could be a normal night. Something like - a date, even.
The thought makes him feel fuzzy and warm inside as if the blanket sits in his stomach and it's a Dumb Feeling with a capital D because so fucking what if maybe he kind of just a bit had a crush on the guy from the coffee shop.
A tiny tiny bit. And then this.
But what is this right now? That's the question he doesn't know the answer to, because he's dressed like a cheap prostitute and being treated like a... like a boyfriend.
He's not going to think about it anymore, because Levi should have kicked him out for saying shit and he didn't. Eren probably would have frozen to death and he didn't. How does he respond to that? What does he...
He wouldn't ask but he can't handle this anymore. Eren stands and lays the blanket across his place, pads in his stocking-clad feet towards the kitchen and peeks in around the counter.
Levi's back is to him, facing the stove, and he can't see exactly what he's doing - or making - but it smells fantastic and against his expectations Levi in the kitchen, with his dark undercut and fitted white shirt and dark pants, is one hell of a sight. He feels instantly guilty about the moment he spends observing because now is not the time for shit like that.
"Is this okay?" he thinks to ask, hesitantly, looking uneasy because that means he's given up on tonight's job and what does that mean about his paycheck? He can't do this - he's tried and Levi wants none of it and why hadn't Mr. Smith told him that this job would be so weird?
Levi turns his head back to face him. "Do whatever you want short of taking a huge shit," he says, and Eren is caught off-guard again by his sheer vulgarity. After a beat, Levi, probably taking a hint from Eren's conflicted expression, adds another few words.
"I won't tell Erwin," he says, having turned back to the stove. So he misses the way Eren's shoulders slouch in relief, the way every knot in his back seems to loosen at the declaration.
He hadn't realized just how much... how against this idea he was, he thinks, as he stammers a "thank-you" and retreats to the bathroom with his stashed things in hand. Not that Levi isn't a very attractive man - he is - but there's a certain relief to not having to parade around in lace forcing himself on unwilling clients.
He remembers offhand what Hanji'd said about the job, when he first displayed his apprehension - "I know it looks shady, but it’s just a birthday present. I promise! Hell, he’s such a prude I bet he won’t even ask you to do anything.”
He's dodged a bullet and he's got only Levi to thank for it.
It was a very smart decision on his part to pack sweatpants, boxers, and a fleece - just in case he was stuck at Hanji's for the night, he had added them on a whim. He couldn't have guessed that this was how the night would turn out; that he would be sending the same woman a hastily-thumbed text that things were going well and he wouldn't need her until he texted again, to her knowledge boning (or getting boned by, whichever the case may be) one of her good friends when in reality he is sitting on that friend's sofa in West Titans sweatpants and a Legion Coffee green fleece.
He pockets the phone as Levi comes back into the living room, armed with two plates, two mugs, and a kettle of hot water; he handles them with ease, waves away Eren's help and sets them on hot pads on the coffee table, careful not to damage the cinnamon cherry finish.
"Chamomile," he says by way of explanation as he's pouring water into the mugs, ballooning the teabags wrapped around the handles. It's tea and grilled cheese and Levi fucking made him dinner and he isn't sure how to feel about this. (He hopes feeling like his chest is going to explode is, in fact, the right answer.)
The thanks he gives is sincere if a little quiet and Levi tells him to shut the fuck up and eat. The bluntness relieves the air of awkwardness and then he's digging in and it's pepper jack and A Christmas Story plays in the background and his tea is scalding too too hot and it's as hard to put it to his lips as it is to look at Levi.
Who sits next to him on the couch, very neat, very methodical in how he eats; holds the mug in one hand, blowing on it between bites, and he catches Eren staring at him with a flick of his eyes to the side.
Eren flushes and looks away.
(What he doesn't notice is the way Levi's eyes keep edging towards him, absent of the movie, watching the way Eren's grilled cheese crust occasionally falls to rest against his lip as he gets distracted by the movie, the way his eyelashes flutter with every blink - and if the makeup he has on makes him get lost in green-blue-green eyes even more so than he does on a daily basis at Legion, then nobody has to know that.)
It's eleven PM and six AM when Hanji texts Erwin. The message isn't long, and doesn't even have an abundance of military codespeak like it sometimes does when she goes on stints of obsession. But it's still very telling, and is enough to bring a smile to Erwin's face.
It's good for Levi to branch out.
They fall to talking when A Christmas Story ends and some local choir comes on in its stead; it's sometime around eleven-thirty and Eren is wrapped up securely in the blanket with his feet drawn up next to him.
Levi too has fallen victim to the casual late night; one of his arms rests on the top of the sofa, the other on its arm, and he's perfectly framed in the corner.
A mug of tea is cupped in Eren's hands and between sips he looks up at Levi.
He doesn't realize that the mascara still coating his lashes makes the glance look like a sultry peek and it isn't like anyone is going to tell him, but it consumes Levi's attention enough that he's alert when the young man speaks, the student turned barista turned prostitute turned... what, temporary roommate?
"How do you and Hanji know each other?" he asks, and that's a question he should expect.
Levi looks to him with a sigh that's less I-hate-answering-questions and more the obligatory sigh that Eren feels is probably standard whenever someone mentions Hanji.
"We were classmates," he explains. "She's too goddamn persistent. Neither she nor Erwin nor Mike left me alone back in high school. That's probably the only reason I have any friends at all."
"Mike?" Eren asks before the last statement processes.
"One of Erwin's good friends." He nods absently; he doesn't know much of Mr. Smith but he seems authoritative, magnetic. (He wonders at how much Levi contrasts the description, magnetic in a different way entirely.)
"I don't think that's true," Eren says, hesitantly, staring at the tea in his hands instead of making eye contact with the man he is speaking to. In his peripheral vision he sees Levi glance towards him, and he begins to flush.
"I mean, you're really nice. You speak your mind, but you're kind. You could've kicked me out, but you didn't."
"Like I could ever get over the guilt of turning out a fucking puppy like you," he says, offhand. "You could be a PETA poster dog. All you need is McLachlan singing 'In The Arms Of The Angels' in the background and I'll mysteriously feel compelled to donate five thousand dollars."
Eren laughs - he can relate - but he thinks he understands the smart comment to be an underlying sort of defense. As if Levi doesn't know what else to say to fill the silence and maybe he is flattered. And that makes Eren smile a bit.
"I'm sorry," he says, looking up at Levi now, sincere. (He doesn't do anything by halves.)
Levi raises an eyebrow. "Why?"
He takes a sip of tea, stares at the rim of the mug. "For breaking into your house. For trying to seduce you. For not doing a good enough job."
It's enough to give Levi pause and maybe he would be proud of himself if that's what he was trying to do. The choir on TV sings through a good eight measures of a piece before he says anything in response, staring Eren down with intense gray eyes.
"You think the reason I didn't take you up on your offer is because you didn't do a good enough job?" he asks, and there's not even a hint of his dry humor - he is stone serious.
"Well, yeah," Eren says. "Or maybe I'm not your type. I don't know. But I... I'm sorry for tonight."
"Eren." Levi's sitting up straight, speaking firmly. "Don't be."
The young man blinks. He is at first more taken aback by the fact that Levi knows his name (but it stands to reason that Hanji's mentioned him) and then he connects a few dots.
The unspoken message makes him smile to himself.
But he looks up, over to the television, to the cable box underneath; it reads 11:59 and he's reminded of just what kind of present he was meant to be. Didn't Hanji say... not a Christmas present.
A birthday present.
And because he's connected those few dots from Levi's serious question to the look on his face to his initial reaction when he walked into his apartment - because he's fed and warm and comfortable sitting next to Levi in his living room - he's filled with a sudden urge, a sudden confidence that builds builds Builds with the seconds ticking down, and Eren lets the blanket slide off himself as he gently sets down the mug of tea, watches the digital numbers turn to 12:00 with a little dot by the AM and then he moves.
Levi turns just in time to see Eren sliding along the couch towards him; it never occurs to him to pull away, he merely lowers his eyebrows in confusion.
What's he up to?
Then the young man is so near he can hear the breath whistling through his nose like a poorly tuned woodwind instrument. There's a hand on his jaw, on his cheek, and he doesn't pull away.
"Merry Christmas, Levi," Eren whispers. "And happy birthday."
The kiss lasts about five or six seconds, chaste mouth on mouth and neither of them goes for something more.
Two breaths later Eren sits back on his heels - his hair's a little ruffled and the fleece lets peek out a corner of his collarbone. The makeup on his face brings out his eyes, but the faint blush on his cheeks isn't fabricated. Levi thinks in that moment that he looks real. He looks perfect.
And it's that thought that stays in his head as he reaches, lets his hand slide comfortably into soft chocolate locks and pull him back that way, brings their mouths together again.
Merry Christmas, Eren.
Hanji lets herself in at about 6:12 AM, juggling a box of doughnuts and two coffees - a café au lait and a peppermint mocha. She closes the door behind her quietly, pockets the spare key to Levi's apartment she has on her lanyard.
Remnants of a meal the night before dot the sink; a frying pan and two plates, unwashed. Strange. Levi always washes his dishes immediately.
The TV is on in the living room; she can see and hear the early Christmas morning rerun of It's A Wonderful Life. And she can hear just barely the sound of breathing.
Hanji smiles, setting the coffee and doughnuts on the dividing counter. From that spot she can peer over it.
Levi's lying faceup on the couch with his mouth open in a silent snore; across his chest Eren is splayed, with his arm stretching over the rumpled dress shirt and his face buried in Levi's shoulder, the blanket covering both of them from mid-torso down.
Neither stirs at the small noise of approval that issues forth unbidden from Hanji's throat.
When Levi blinks awake he thinks he hears a door latching, but he's too comfortable to even bother trying to rouse himself - and while the way Eren is drooling a bit (he thinks) is really gross, he can't be assed to care.