Work Text:
Koi No Yokan - The sense one has upon meeting another person that they will inevitably fall in love.
1. The Roommates
The guy from the Craigslist ad looks miserable. The self-described “quiet, thirty-something ex-office drone who desperately needs a roommate” seems like he doesn’t sleep much. Dark under-eye circles and a scowl seem to be etched into his thin face. Mikasa initially thought that mentioning that he is allergic to everything cute and fuzzy swas funny, but now it seems appropriate for such a dour person. When she meets him he mumbles his name, Lee or something, and barely makes eye contact with her, choosing instead to stare at her forehead: close enough to her gaze to approximate social graces, but just far enough for her to know that he intends to live around her and not with her.
But his spare room is spacious and rent is only four hundred dollars a month, so she says yes when he asks her if she’s interested in moving in next weekend. (Even though while showing her around, he told her the closet in her room is so big that she could probably hide at least three bodies in there. He seems too morose to actually work up the energy to kill her, so she is not worried.)
Mikasa feels like an interloper in her own home: when she gets home her roommates are cuddling on the couch, their limbs splayed and tangled together, the side of Eren’s face resting against Armin’s chest as they watch a movie. After seeing Lee-or-something’s apartment, her old place seems more cramped, the paint more dingy, the carpets more worn. Perhaps it has looked like this since she moved here and she has never noticed until now.
"I’m moving out in a week," she tells them, standing off to the side, her arms folded across her chest. "So you don’t have to worry about that anymore."
"No one asked you to move out," Armin says cautiously, one eyebrow raised. Eren doesn’t even lift his head to look at her.
"Ask your boyfriend,” Mikasa snarls, then stalks off to her room. She flops down on her bed (more accurately, a king-sized mattress that takes up most of the floor) and pulls her phone out of her pocket, then logs into the instant messenger app that she only uses to talk to her friend.
She wonders if “friend” is the right word to use for someone she’s never met and never will. She wonders if it’s possible to be friends with someone about whom she barely knows anything, not even his name. Mikasa knows that he is ten years older than her, 33 to her 23, and that they live in the same state, judging by the tiny flags next to their names in the gaming app where they first met. But that’s it.
To her he is merely SharpDressedMan; to him she is merely Mikawesome. His first words to her were, “Do you not know how to spell ‘McAwesome’?” An auspicious beginning, to be sure.
Mikasa is someone who generally thinks before she speaks, but she found herself typing a retort before she even realized she thought of one: “Do you not know how to spell ‘shut up and play your turn’?”
The trash talk only devolved from there, trying to one-up each other with colorful insults about the other’s imagined weaknesses. Soon they were neglecting the game for over an hour while both of them let their turns time out and expire. After two hours, he asked her if she just wanted to talk instead.
Four months later, she spends most of her spare time tapping away at her phone, telling him everything about her life except how to find her. They have an agreement: no names, no personal information. He has told her about the disintegration of the company he worked for, the slow rounds of layoffs until he was the one packing his belongings into a cardboard box and being escorted from the building by security. She offered to burn down his office building as a joke, but then had to backtrack when he started offering suggestions for where she could find large stores of old newspapers and where she should pour gasoline (in particular, all over his boss’ desk).
She has kept him apprised while Eren and Armin danced slowly into each other’s orbits, leaving hers to wither and decay. He comforted her when she told him that Eren asked her to leave - although his idea of comfort was more akin to asking her whether she wanted him to murder her roommates and make it slow and painful. She declined, citing their agreement of mutual anonymity, but told him she appreciated the gesture nonetheless.
Mikasa tries not to think about the fact that a complete stranger might be her best friend in the entire world, especially now that Eren has apparently chosen to forfeit that position.
When she sees that her friend is online, she smiles. Some days the green dot next to his username is the only thing that can shake her from her misery.
<mikawesome>: Hey! I found a place! My new roommate might murder me, but I found a place.
<sharpdressedman>: That’s good to hear. I always thought you’d make a great cautionary tale.
<mikawesome>: You’re such a dick. <3
<mikawesome>: Before this guy murders me, I’m going to write a note saying you did it. So there.
<sharpdressedman>: You’re moving in with a *guy*?
<mikawesome>: Yeah, so? Are you worried about my honor?
<sharpdressedman>: No, I know you don’t have any. But now I actually am kinda worried you’re going to get murdered. Possibly sex-murdered.
<mikawesome>: I’ve lived with two guys for more than a year already and I remain un-murdered, sex or otherwise. I’ll be fine.
<sharpdressedman>: Whatever. So what’s this guy’s deal?
<mikawesome>: You’re going to kill me.
<sharpdressedman>: That’s a weird answer.
<mikawesome>: Shut up.
<sharpdressedman>: If that’s how you react, then I probably will kill you. So why am I going to beat your new murderer - I mean roommate - to the punch?
<mikawesome>: Soooooo… I kinda forgot his name and most of the info he told me about himself. He mumbled it at me when I met him and I wasn’t really paying attention. I was so distracted by how huge and clean the place was.
<sharpdressedman>: That actually made me laugh out loud. Nice knowing you.
<mikawesome>: I’ll just look at his mail after I move in. He’ll never know.
<sharpdressedman>: You stealthy bitch. I love it. So, speaking of roommates, guess who just solved his imminent poverty problem?
<mikawesome>: Two for two on the roommate front! I would high five you, but, you know, the whole “I have no idea who you are” thing.
<sharpdressedman>: Also I don’t high five.
<mikawesome>: Why am I not surprised to learn that? I’m rolling my eyes at you right now, FYI.
<mikawesome>: Of course you are. So who’s your new roomie?
<sharpdressedman>: Some girl. She’s young, probably still in college. She’s a bartender or something.
<mikawesome>: Is she cute? Are you gonna try to hit that?
Here, she feels a pang of jealousy as she types and hits send. She doesn’t know his name or his face, but the idea of him having someone else in his life, someone whose eyes he can look into, someone real he can touch, makes her feel more alone than ever.
<sharpdressedman>: Hah, no way. She’s pretty, but I try not to immediately ruin a roommate situation by sleeping with them and making things awkward.
<mikawesome>: But will you in the future?
She has to know. She has always been a glutton for punishment.
<sharpdressedman>: Maybe if the lease is running out and I never have to see her again. Otherwise, no.
Mikasa lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
<mikawesome>: Do you think I should bang my murderer roommate? Will that make him more or less likely to kill me?
<sharpdressedman>: Way more likely. Maybe the only way he can orgasm is by choking the life out of you.
<mikawesome>: Are you speaking from experience there?
<sharpdressedman>: Duh.
<mikawesome>: Remind me never to meet you.
<sharpdressedman>: That was the plan all along.
<mikawesome>: I know. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like. Don’t you?
<sharpdressedman>: I do. But I’m way better from behind a screen, trust me.
<mikawesome>: I guess…
<sharpdressedman>: Listen, I gotta go. I have to start getting this place ready for this girl to move in.
<mikawesome>: When is she moving in?
<sharpdressedman>: Sometime next week, so I don’t have as much time as I’d like to really give the place a good deep clean.
<mikawesome>: You’re insane. Have I ever told you that?
<sharpdressedman>: Only all the time.
<mikawesome>: Wouldn’t want you to forget. ;)
<sharpdressedman>: And I never will, thanks to you.
<sharpdressedman>: Talk to you later?
<mikawesome>: Yup. I’ll be here.
<sharpdressedman>: Good.
[User sharpdressedman has logged off.]
2. The Move
Eren says he has to work on Saturday, so he can’t help Mikasa move. She is not sure he is telling the truth but she chooses to believe him anyway. It is easier than constantly questioning his motives, trying to figure out when he is being truthful to her, when he is lying, when he is trying to spare her feelings, when he simply does not feel like weathering the cold storm of her anger. As Mikasa and Armin lug her possessions up the stairs in her new apartment building, she decides that she is glad Eren is not there. She is not sure if she would be able to keep herself from crying. She is even more glad that her roommate texted her to tell her he would be out for the afternoon, so she will not have to introduce him to Armin or think of a euphemism for losing the two people she loves most when she explains the circumstances of why she is now living in Lee-or-something’s spare room.
Mikasa keeps telling herself that there are no hard feelings, that moving out is what will save their friendship, that Eren is much happier with Armin than he ever was with her, but a small part of her still wants to smash her fist into his face - just once.
It only takes a couple of hours for the two of them to unload the moving truck and bring Mikasa’s things upstairs: a small assortment of furniture, all particle board and plastic; boxes of books, black garbage bags stuffed full of her clothing and linens. When everything is loaded into her room, she and Armin walk to the pizza place at the corner. Mikasa buys a large pie and a six-pack of beer, which they eat and drink in silence in her new kitchen, looking at the way the lights gleam off of the white tiled floor instead of at each other.
When they are done eating, Armin gets up to leave. She tries to thank him but he won’t hear of it. It is his fault she is leaving, he says, and therefore he is obligated to help.
"I’m sorry," Mikasa tells him as he walks out the door. "You’re a better friend than I deserve."
Armin pauses and turns to her. “I was thinking the exact same thing about you.” They look at each other for a moment, sharing this moment of mutual feeling, of sadness and regret, of unexpected new beginnings. He steps forward and throws his arms around her neck, catching her in a tight hug. Mikasa leans down and wraps her arms around him. She rests her chin against his narrow shoulder and thinks now would be a good time to cry, but when she screws up her face in anticipation of tears, she finds that her eyes are dry.
After a few moments, Armin pulls back, squeezes her hand once, and walks away. Mikasa watches him push open the door to the stairwell and then he is gone. When she walks back inside her new home, she wonders if that’s the last time she’ll ever see him. She hopes it is not.
Mikasa unpacks her linens and sets up her bed, folding a red flannel sheet over the huge mattress with military precision, shoving pillows in pillow cases, layering a quilt over a comforter over a blanket over a flat sheet. When she is done, admiring her orderly handiwork, she decides she is going to take the rest of the day off. Even though the day has been cool she feels hot and sticky from lugging boxes and furniture, her muscles sore with a weary burn. So she decides to take a long shower, then see which premium cable channels her roommate has. Perhaps, she thinks, she will buy more beer and get drunk alone in her room, listening to sad music and waiting for her friend to appear online.
Lee-or-something’s bathroom - though she surmises it is hers now, too - is much nicer than her old one, the floor a tiled mosaic in shades of blue from sky to indigo. She suddenly feels way out of her league, placing her bottle of drugstore brand combined shampoo/conditioner in a wire rack next to the roommate’s haircare products, clarifying shampoos and deep conditioners. (She reminds herself to look through the guy’s mail. She is almost certain that his name is not Lee.)
Mikasa checks the medicine cabinet out of curiosity, noting a myriad of creams and serums and masks and sprays for his hair and his skin, cinnamon dental floss, painkillers and antihistamines, an atomizer of expensive-looking cologne that smells of musk and cedar. An orange pill bottle stands out like a beacon from the plastic tubs and jars in black and white and muted neutrals. Mikasa lifts the slim plastic cylinder to find it half-filled with cheery pink ovals of Paxil.
After she showers, noting the strong water pressure and stealing a bit of the roommate’s body wash (the same scent as the cologne, she notes as she breathes it in deeply), she sits on the couch and snoops around a bit, trying to find something that will give her some clues as to the person with whom she has agreed to share her living space for the next year. She finds her answer in the magazine rack that sits next to the coffee table, issues of GQ and Details and Esquire arranged neatly in reverse chronological order. His name is Levi, she reads, and they apparently have the same last name. Mikasa snorts, amused at the coincidence. Perhaps this is a good sign.
Levi comes home an hour later as Mikasa dozes in front of a rerun of Game of Thrones, her head leaning back against the couch cushions, her feet resting atop the coffee table. He places his keys on a rack by the door and pauses when he walks into the living room, apparently confused by the sight of a young woman asleep on his couch.
"Oh hey," she says, blinking her eyes slowly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.
"Don’t put your feet on the coffee table" is the first thing he says to her.
"Sorry," she mumbles, sitting up on the couch and putting her feet on the floor. "Hey, do you want some pizza? My friend and I didn’t finish it, so there are a couple of slices in the fridge."
He walks into the kitchen and grabs a glass from a cabinet, filling it with water from a pitcher that he keeps in the refrigerator. “I don’t eat that shit,” he replies after taking a sip. He leans against the counter, seemingly glaring at her, though she is not sure if that’s how he looks naturally. She remembers him as sour, but not like this.
"You don’t eat pizza? Like at all?" she asks, trying to hide the incredulousness in her voice.
Levi fixes her with an unblinking dead-eyed stare. “No.”
"Oh. Sorry to bother you, then." She watches Levi take his glass of water into his room and close the door with a sharp click and the scrabble of metal on metal. She realizes that he has locked the door behind him.
Mikasa glares in the direction of Levi’s bedroom, then puts her feet back on the table.
3. The First Volley
Mikasa rarely sees Levi. She likes it that way. She spends most afternoons and evenings waiting tables at an upscale restaurant, refilling wine glasses, fetching small plates of short ribs, delicate squares and ropes of pasta, garlic-studded greens slick with oil. It is tiring, kissing the asses of the people rich enough to afford to eat there, but at the end of the night she walks away with a thick wad of bills that will buy her enough beer to help her forget that she is spending yet another evening lying on a mattress on the floor, holding in her piss for as long as possible so she doesn’t have to encounter her roommate.
Normally she would feel self-conscious about her concentrated efforts to avoid someone who sleeps not twenty feet from where she does, but Levi seems comfortable with their system of mutually ignoring each other. He leaves every morning between six and eight and comes back two and a half hours later, carrying a black nylon gym bag, his hair wet from a shower. He eats at precise times: a small meal when he gets back from the gym, lunch at twelve-thirty, light snacks at two and four, dinner at seven. She knows to be in her room at those times, staring at her phone and waiting for the circle next to SharpDressedMan’s name to turn green. All other hours of the day, Levi is a ghost, doing god knows what in his room, and she can return from her self-imposed exile.
When they do interact, they acknowledge each other with curt barely-nods or nothing at all. They move swiftly and quietly around one another, each giving the other wide berth whenever they share a room. If Levi is sitting on the couch typing away on his phone, watching yet another documentary show about murder (it is all he seems to watch, grisly shaky-camera shows about solving crimes; perhaps SharpDressedMan’s joke was more accurate than he intended), Mikasa is sitting in an overstuffed chair across the room, her legs draped over one arm, also typing on her phone. She wears headphones when Levi is watching television, tired of hearing phrases like “thoracic cavity” and “multiple stab wounds” in the middle of the afternoon.
Neither of them seems to notice that a few seconds after Levi finishes whatever he is writing, Mikasa smiles at her phone for a moment and then her thumbs start to fly across the touchscreen.
They speak entirely in terse sentences, barked words. He is always short with her, even when he thanks her for paying rent early. (He does not tell her that it is because his unemployment allotment is late this month and he may bounce the checks he wrote for his phone bill and the power bill if he doesn’t pad his bank account with a few hundred dollars.)
One day, a couple of months after Mikasa moves in, Levi informs her he would like her to be more diligent about housekeeping by snapping, “This place is filthy.” He walks into the living room from the kitchen and stands before Mikasa as she flips channels on the television, a fraction of a second too late to catch her taking her feet off the coffee table and putting them on the floor.
She looks around the apartment, at the gleaming white walls and the freshly vacuumed carpet, then thinks that maybe she should lock her door before she goes to sleep that night. “I respectfully disagree,” she finally says, needing some time to consider the most diplomatic way to say, “You’re a fucking nutcase if you think this is filthy.”
Levi crosses his arms over his chest. “Look, I have high standards for my home and I expect you to contribute to the work.”
"I do," Mikasa replies. "I wash my dishes, I leave all of my stuff in my room. I cleaned the kitchen floor and the bathroom floor last week."
"Did you get on your hands and knees and scrub?"
"No."
"Then you didn’t clean those floors." Mikasa stifles an exasperated sigh. "Also, close your door if you’re going to keep your room a mess. I don’t want to look at your shit when I’m in the living room."
"Sure," she bites out.
"I’ll be making a chore chart," Levi tells her, then goes into his room, presumably to do just that. After his door closes, she raises one middle finger in the direction of his bedroom.
Sure enough, when she gets home from work the next day there is an Excel spreadsheet stuck to the refrigerator. It is even color-coded, Levi’s name in blue and Mikasa’s in red. This week she is supposed to take out the trash, clean the kitchen, and vacuum. For the past four days Mikasa has been working double shifts and then some, owing to a stomach flu that has been going around the waitstaff at her restaurant. She has been spared so far, but she is so exhausted and weary that she is convinced she’ll be the next waiter down. If anything, she welcomes the prospect of having to take five days off of work, even if she will spend the entire time hugging the toilet and praying for death. Mikasa decides to ignore the multi-colored grid on the refrigerator. Levi can shove his chore chart up his ass, she thinks, then yawns and pads off to her bedroom to take a late afternoon nap. She ends up sleeping until the next morning.
A few days later, six hours after a double shift and six hours before her next double shift, Levi knocks on her bedroom door. After she opens it, he asks her, “Are you going to scrub the kitchen floor or what?”
She looks down at him for a second. “I’ll get to it.”
“Today,” he all but growls, his mouth set in a firm line. He looks intimidating, his drawn face even more deadly serious than usual; at the same time she is not afraid of him, not even a little.
"I’ll get to it," Mikasa repeats, her words as tight as her jaw is clenched. Levi stands before her, his hands on his hips, unwavering and unblinking, until she throws up her hands and relents. "All right, fine.”
He watches her as she strides into the kitchen, mixing soap and hot water in a bucket that she retrieves from under the sink. She sloshes the mixture onto the floor and gets on her hands and knees, scrubbing the barest traces of grime away with a tough-bristled brush. Levi stands outside the kitchen, leaning against the wall, watching her work to see if she is actually cleaning or pantomiming just to shut him up.
After a few moments of silently looming over his roommate, slowly sipping from a mug of tea that he grips around the rim with his fingertips, he asks, “What’s my name?”
"Are you having a stroke?" Mikasa replies without looking up at him, gouging the bristles of the brush into the linoleum. She imagines that the tile is Levi’s face as she rakes the brush across the floor.
Levi frowns. “I’m not having a stroke. I’m just curious if you know my name. A friend of mine moved in with a new roommate and didn’t catch the guy’s name at first, so she pretended to know what it was.”
Mikasa stops scrubbing, then looks up at him and shrugs. “Your name is Levi. Like the jeans.”
"Like from the Bible,” he corrects her. “Heard of it?”
“No,” she answers, the single syllable somehow dripping with sarcasm. She glares up at him, hoping to cow him with her focused black gaze, until he finally rolls his eyes at her and walks back into his bedroom. When Levi is safely ensconced away from her, his door firmly shut, Mikasa gets up from the floor and pulls out her phone, checking to see if her friend is online so she can complain about the gigantic asshole in the next room.
To her great relief, he is, but she wants to finish her task, if only so she can tell Levi to shove it when he inevitably finds deficiencies in her cleaning. She sets her phone on the kitchen table and dumps the remainder of the soapy water on the floor. Mikasa quickly mops it up with half a roll of paper towels, doing a vague approximation of cleaning by using one foot to drag the sodden wad back and forth across the tile. She cannot tell the difference between the part of the floor she scrubbed and the part of the floor she did not, so she decides that she is done appeasing what she decides is Levi’s undiagnosed obsessive compulsive disorder.
Her phone chimes as she puts the cleaning supplies back under the sink. Even though she should be used to the sound of her message alert by now, her heart skips a beat and her stomach twists whenever her friend initiates a conversation with her, and she resists the urge to run over with still-wet hands and see what he has to say. It still feels good to think that even when she’s being harassed by her strange roommate, even when her only two friends in the world have barely spoken to her since she left her old apartment, someone wants her and only her. Even if it is only to talk.
Mikasa takes one last look at the kitchen and decides that Levi can bleach the floor and scrub between the tiles with a toothbrush if he wants it to be any cleaner. She goes back into her bedroom and crawls back into bed, then looks at her phone.
<sharpdressedman>: My roommate is so gross. I need to bitch for a minute. You around?
<mikawesome>: Yeah. Can I bitch when you’re done?
<sharpdressedman>: Sure.
<sharpdressedman>: So now that I’m trying to write it out it doesn’t seem as bad as it feels, but this chick is the biggest slob I’ve ever met. The kitchen is disgusting and she’s just content to live in filth.
<mikawesome>: Did you try talking to her?
<sharpdressedman>: Yeah, I finally got her to do some cleaning, but she was all bitchy about it. She’s probably just going to half-ass it and I’ll have to fix it.
<mikawesome>: I have the opposite problem. My roommate is a fucking psychopath who sees a perfectly clean house and thinks it’s filthy.
<sharpdressedman>: Just bleach everything, starting with his clothes. That’ll show him.
<mikawesome>: You want me to ruin his clothes? That’s sacrilege to you. Sometimes I think you *want* him to murder me.
<sharpdressedman>: Oh no, you found me out. He’s definitely going to murder you, though.
<mikawesome>: Whatever, asshole.
<sharpdressedman>: You rang?
<mikawesome>: LOL. I’m not even mad about this anymore, but I am pissed that that douchebag managed to get me even more stressed out when I’ve been busting my ass at work. I’m scheduled for 60 hours this week. 60!
<sharpdressedman>: Drink tea. It solves everything.
<mikawesome>: I thought violence solves everything.
<sharpdressedman>: Not if you have a cup of tea first and forget that you want to murder your roommate.
<mikawesome>: But if he’s going to murder me, don’t you think I should strike first?
<sharpdressedman>: Do what you want. I’m probably going to hit the gym and sweat it out until I no longer want to strangle the garbage person I live with. You could do that too.
<mikawesome>: I’m barely awake as it is. Tea does sound good, though. Got any recommendations?
<sharpdressedman>: Darjeeling oolong, if you can find it. You don’t even need to put any milk or sugar in it.
<mikawesome>: I’ll check to see what we have in the house. brb
Mikasa listens at her door but cannot hear the telltale sounds of Levi’s footsteps. She turns the knob slowly, then pulls the door open a fraction of an inch, scanning the room outside with narrowed eyes. When she is sure that Levi is still sequestered in his bedroom, she sneaks into the kitchen to rifle through the cabinets, her feet sliding on the still-damp floor as she looks around. In the back of the last cabinet she finds a vacuum-sealed canister marked “Darjeeling oolong” in small, even capital letters. (Levi’s handwriting is just as uptight as he is, apparently.) Mikasa pops open the lid and inhales deeply, smelling flowers and wine. She looks around, paranoid that her roommate will catch her huffing his secret stash of tea, then closes the jar, puts it back in its hiding place, and tiptoes back to her room.
<mikawesome>: Okay, this is weird. He has Darjeeling oolong. A huge tin of it.
<sharpdressedman>: Great. Drink it.
<mikawesome>: It’s not mine.
<sharpdressedman>: So? You’re taking like a teaspoon if you’re just making one cup.
<mikawesome>: He’s home now. I don’t want to get caught stealing. He’s the kind of guy who’d throw a fit if I touched his precious tea.
<sharpdressedman>: He’s got to leave or sleep at some point. Do it then. You won’t get caught. He’s not going to miss a single scoop of tea.
<sharpdressedman>: Look, I’m going to head out. I need to go for a run. Let me know how you like it.
<mikawesome>: If I take it.
<sharpdressedman>: You will.
[User sharpdressedman has logged off.]
Five minutes later, there is the sound of a door opening and Mikasa jumps, her head whipping toward her door. It is still closed; she realizes that the sound is Levi emerging from his room. His footsteps seem to grow louder but then they recede, followed by the sound of the front door slamming shut. Mikasa waits, not moving, barely breathing, until she feels confident that Levi will not be coming back anytime soon.
She goes into the kitchen and makes a cup of the tea, slowly pouring near-boiling water over a stainless steel tea strainer, then clutches the steaming mug in her hands, warming them as the tea cools. The brew is floral and fruity, with a slight astringent bite to it. It is a little strange, but she finds that she loves the peculiar taste. The flavor feels fitting, somehow, a compliment to the strange ambivalence she feels about the knowledge that both Levi and SharpDressedMan have enjoyed this same tea. She feels a reluctant connection to both of them, the lunatic asshole who lives with her and the anonymous stranger who knows her better than anyone else does. When she finishes the cup, she makes another, then a third.
Levi’s key turns in the lock as she is drying the tea strainer, the last piece of evidence of her stolen drinks. Mikasa places the strainer back in its place in their silverware drawer, then runs back into her room and quietly closes the door before he knows she was ever there.
A few days and a few more stolen scoops of tea later, Levi stands before the open kitchen cabinet, looking into his canister of Darjeeling oolong. He doesn’t recall drinking a lot of it in the past few days, but it seems as though there’s less there than he remembers.
"Mikasa?" he calls into the living room.
"Yeah?"
"Did you drink my tea?"
"What tea?" Mikasa replies without missing a beat.
4. The Virus
Levi spends a lot of time preening before the bathroom mirror, but today he has stretched his usual twenty minutes to nearly an hour. Mikasa finally has a day off and intends to sleep as late as possible, but at eight-thirty she wakes up with a bladder so full she has to waddle down the hall to the bathroom. When she turns the knob, she finds that it is locked.
"Occupied," Levi croaks. He coughs a few times, rough, barking noises that seem to scrape their way up his throat, then retches.
"Are you okay?" she calls through the door, pressing one ear to the wood.
"Yeah," he groans.
"You don’t sound okay."
"Look, do you want something? Otherwise, let me die in peace."
"I have to pee," she admits sheepishly. "Like really badly."
"I’m puking and shitting at the same time. I had to cancel a job interview for this shit."
"Literally," Mikasa chuckles to herself.
"Hold it in or piss in the kitchen sink." He goes quiet for a few moments. Mikasa cocks one eyebrow and wonders if Levi is delirious. "Please don’t piss in the kitchen sink," he pleads softly. His voice is lower now, more weary, but even in the throes of illness he is still Levi.
"Wasn’t planning on it. I’ll pee at the corner store. Do you need anything?"
"A bullet directly to the brain stem," he answers.
"Yeah, I’ll just go down and ask the cashier if he has a gun." Her voice is flat with sarcasm.
"You should. He probably does."
Mikasa sighs. “I’m not going to murder you, even if you ask me to. What flavor of Gatorade do you like?”
"Blue."
"The light blue or the dark blue?"
"I don’t know. The neon one? Which one is that?"
"All of them. I’ll figure it out. Don’t die while I’m gone." Mikasa goes back to her room and changes into a hoodie and jeans, forgoing a bra and shirt as she slips a pair of worn sneakers. She hears Levi throwing up as she passes the bathroom door and grimaces as she listens to the wet convulsions of his throat. Her sneakers squeak against the stairs as she tries to run while clenching her thighs together, her bladder distended and sore. At the corner store, she explains her situation to the old man behind the counter, who laughs uproariously and lets her into the bathroom.
After Mikasa gets out several minutes later, sighing with relief, she pauses before the refrigerator case at the translucent rainbow array of sodas and drinks. To her chagrin there are three types of blue Gatorade, all of which glow with a neon unnaturalness. She gets a bottle of a light neon blue and a royal neon blue and tucks them under one arm while she walks to the register. On her way there, she sees a display of crackers and grabs a family-size box for good measure. She figures Levi will need it once he can leave the bathroom.
The apartment is silent when she returns. “You alive?” she asks after lightly knocking on the bathroom door with two knuckles. A black plastic bag dangles from the fingers of her other hand.
"Barely," comes a faint voice.
"Good. I left presents for you outside the bathroom." She sets the plastic bag on the floor, resting them against the doorframe. "Two kinds of blue Gatorade and some saltines for when you feel better."
"Thanks," he says, then gasps. Mikasa hears a gurgling noise coming from the bathroom and turns her face away from the door, hoping that she did not hear what she thinks she just heard. "I don’t know when I’ll be out," he pants.
"Just spray some air freshener in there when you’re done," she calls, plugging her ears. "And yell if you need me to drive you to the hospital."
Levi grunts. “Shut up and thank you, in that order.”
"No problem," Mikasa replies, grimacing and chuckling to herself at the same time as she walks back to her room.
5. The Suit
On a Tuesday morning, Mikasa decides to wake up early (which for her is nine-thirty) and cook herself a leisurely breakfast before work at twelve-thirty. She is listening to jazz radio and the sound of four strips of bacon frying, sipping orange juice from a glass, when Levi shoves two rolled-up neckties into her field of vision.
"Red tie or green tie?"
She looks over at him, standing before her in a crisp white button-down shirt and black trousers. His clothes are simple, but they look well-made and are tailored perfectly to his body, hinting at a hidden solidity, a strength within his small frame. “You may not want to hold those so close to the pan full of hot grease,” she finally answers.
Levi looks down at the stovetop. “Good call.” He takes a step back. “Red or green?”
"That’s a burgundy tie," she replies, one eyebrow raised.
"And burgundy is a shade of…?" he trails off, waiting for her answer. "It’s a shade of red, which means the tie is red."
"Whatever. What’s your not-red tie for?"
"Job interview. Office job, but a good one."
Mikasa exhales heavily, puffing out her cheeks, blowing a thick strand of black hair skyward. “Red is more classic. Might want to play it safe and go conservative.”
He twists his mouth and looks at the ties, then back up at her. “Yeah, I agree. Just needed to hear it from someone else.” He then walks away, stalking off toward his room in his stocking feet.
It is then that she notices that his socks are light blue with burgundy polka dots, coordinating with his chosen tie. She smiles to herself as she turns back to her food, flipping the bacon with a metal spatula, then transferring it to a plate covered in paper towels. She grabs two eggs from the refrigerator and cracks them directly into the grease-filled skillet, the albumen hissing and coagulating as it touches the cast iron.
Levi emerges again from his bedroom as Mikasa sits down with her breakfast, picking at squares of toast and strips of bacon and dipping them in the runny yolk of her eggs. He saunters into the kitchen and stands before her, the crimson tie knotted around his neck, a slim-cut black blazer buttoned just below his chest. “How do I look?” he asks, his hands on his hips.
Mikasa has to stall for time, because she does not know what to say. He looks authoritative in a suit, seemingly standing taller now that he has fully outfitted himself. The blazer accentuates the broadness of his shoulders, the thickness of his chest, the slender curve of his waist. In that moment he is not Levi or her roommate but simply a man, all muscle and angle. She suddenly wonders what it will look like if Levi takes the blazer off and starts folding the sleeves of his white shirt over his strong forearms. “Did you get a haircut?” she asks, her mouth dry. She chases her words with a gulp of orange juice.
"Just cleaned up the underside a bit. Is it even?" He turns his head first to one side, then the other, giving her a glimpse of a straight nose, a sharp jaw, the slight protrusion of his Adam’s apple. As he moves she gets a whiff of his cologne, cedar and musk, and has to force herself not to inhale deeply and let her eyes flutter shut.
"Looks good. All of it," she says, the cadence of her voice anxious, choppy. She stuffs a piece of bacon in her mouth to keep herself from saying anything more, crunching loudly on it. Levi nods his thanks, then turns to leave. "Good luck!" she calls after him, her mouth still half-full.
Mikasa thinks she hears Levi mutter, “Don’t need it,” but she isn’t sure.
6. The Détente
<sharpdressedman>: Are you there?
<sharpdressedman>: Come onnnnnnnnnnnnn
<sharpdressedman>: Are you taking a shit or something?
<mikawesome>: Whoa, where’s the fire? I didn’t have my phone on me.
<sharpdressedman>: So you were taking a shit!
<mikawesome>: Ew.
<mikawesome>: …And double ew because I was. Were you watching, perv?
<sharpdressedman>: You wish. I have good news and I wanted to share it. You were too busy taking a shit.
<mikawesome>: You got that job?! :D
<mikawesome>: Also shut up.
<sharpdressedman>: Not only did I get that job, but I also got them to give me $5000 more per year than what they initially offered.
<mikawesome>: Nice! How are you going to celebrate?
<sharpdressedman>: Hadn’t thought about that. Having a hot cup of tea and jerking off twice, probably.
<mikawesome>: Weren’t you going to do that anyway?
<sharpdressedman>: I’d just jerk off once normally, but I think I’ve definitely earned that second wank.
<mikawesome>: Wow. Gross.
<sharpdressedman>: I’m wearing a suit, so whatever I do is automatically classy.
<mikawesome>: You are really, truly a disgusting person.
<sharpdressedman>: I know. It’s great, isn’t it?
<mikawesome>: For you, maybe.
<mikawesome>: But I think you should do it up. Get some champagne. Jerk off three times!
<sharpdressedman>: Whoa, that’s getting a little crazy there.
<mikawesome>: So? Things seem to be going well for you. Might as well celebrate.
<sharpdressedman>: Yeah, you’re right. Get this, my roommate is even being cool.
<mikawesome>: Really? Holy shit.
<sharpdressedman>: Yeah, I’m shocked too. She helped me out when I was sick last week. And the place no longer resembles a literal shithole.
<mikawesome>: That’s great! Coincidentally, I’ve managed to go a few days without thinking my roommate is going to murder me.
<sharpdressedman>: He’s lulling you into a false sense of security. Then come the zip ties and the knives.
<mikawesome>: That was awfully specific.
<sharpdressedman>: You think that’s specific? You should see the pit in my basement.
<mikawesome>: I feel like I will someday.
<sharpdressedman>: Aren’t you glad we’ve decided not to meet? Smart idea.
<mikawesome>: Huh. Were you thinking about meeting me? Is that why you brought that up?
<sharpdressedman>: I just thought of it. Don’t read into it.
<mikawesome>: Admit it, you were thinking about it.
<sharpdressedman>: If I continue to deny it, will you badger me?
<mikawesome>: Forever.
<sharpdressedman>: Then fine. I was. So sue me.
<mikawesome>: I was thinking about it too.
<sharpdressedman>: I’m not comfortable with this.
<mikawesome>: Fine. I won’t bring it up again, but I just want to say this:
<mikawesome>: I’m not saying we should meet. But I think you should consider it.
<sharpdressedman>: I’ll think about considering it. I gotta go.
[User sharpdressedman has logged off.]
7. The Kiss
Mikasa comes home from work in the pouring rain. The sky was clear when she left the house, so her umbrella is currently hanging from her closet door and not in her hand, protecting her from the downpour that turns her white shirt translucent and makes her shiver beneath the drenched cotton. Her scarf is a heavy, sodden mass that feels as though it is passively choking her. Still, she carries three large plastic bags full to bursting with styrofoam containers of food from her restaurant, owing to a catering client who canceled at the last minute, so she is smiling (although with gritted teeth, owing to the cold rain that spatters against her scalp and trickles down the back of her neck; her hands are too full to wipe it away). The general manager practically forced the food on her, demanding she take home pounds of pasta, veal chops, double servings of salumi and cheese platters. There is more than enough to share, and she figures Levi will appreciate a good, hearty meal now that he is no longer taking up habitual residence in their bathroom.
Part of her thinks that she should not be kind to Levi, that she should repay his usual unfeeling stare in kind. But part of her realizes that she has not always been so cold, that at some point in her life she was open and generous and caring. She hates the hollowness she feels in her chest, the dulled light that shines in her eyes. She cannot live on poison forever, she decides. Perhaps she’ll even make that dour bastard crack a smile.
As Mikasa walks up the stairs to the second floor, she hears the dull strands of what sounds to be buoyant orchestral music. The music gets louder as she approaches the apartment, horns and strings and drums, when she realizes that the music is Levi’s and it sounds like some kind of military march. Of course that’s what he listens to, she thinks. Of course.
When she enters the apartment he is in the kitchen, unwrapping the wire cage from a bottle of champagne, head nodding to the tune of the music — probably Sousa, now that she thinks of it.
"You look like shit," Levi calls over the blaring horns.
"Thanks," she scoffs. "It’s raining, if you hadn’t noticed. So what’s with the champagne and the army music? Can you turn that down?"
He walks over to the stereo system and turns down the music. “I got a new job,” he says, picking up the champagne bottle and gripping the neck in one hand. “Have a drink with me.” He twists the cork with one hand and it comes off easily, the pop echoing loudly through the apartment.
"Yeah, give me a sec," she says, dropping her bags on the counter, then walking back to her room. She comes out a few minutes later in a pair of worn and faded jeans and a white t-shirt. "Did you eat dinner?" she asks as she goes back into the kitchen, retrieving the styrofoam containers from the bags. "I have pounds of expensive Italian food.”
"I ate already," he says, handing her a flute of champagne.
Mikasa downs half the glass in one gulp. “I guess you can watch me eat, then.”
"I didn’t say I was full," Levi replies. "What did you get?"
She pops the lid to each container. “Caprese and Caesar salads, antipasto, ravioli with brown butter, cavatappi with pesto, pumpkin risotto, veal osso buco, meatballs. And… a shitload of tiramisu,” she finishes, peering down into a mass of ladyfingers laden with espresso and custard. Mikasa dips her pinky into a heap of whipped cream and sucks it off her finger. “Good stuff.”
Levi simply stands there, his mouth hanging open a little as he surveys the food before him — and, for a split second, the woman before him, the tip of her finger resting between pouted pink lips. “Have you been holding out on me all this time?”
"Not really. But I did bring home half a cheesecake once without telling you," Mikasa replies, shrugging.
"Way to suck, Mikasa," he grumbles.
She picks a ball of marinated mozzarella from the nearest container and takes a bite. “Okay, now you can’t have any of this.”
"Way to be awesome, Mikasa," he corrects himself.
"That’s more like it."
An hour later they are both sprawled out on the couch, passing a second bottle of champagne between them as they suck down the dregs of the now-flat wine. One of the styrofoam containers rests atop Mikasa’s stomach, and she reaches into it occasionally to pull out a plump olive, a creamy cube of Taleggio, a hunk of fat-speckled Soppressata.
"Gimme some," Levi groans after taking a long swig of champagne.
"I’m not moving. I’m too full." She takes the bottle from him and grasps it by the neck, bringing it to her lips.
"If I move, I might die. I just couldn’t stop eating. I was like a maniac. Just out of control."
"I’ve never seen anyone pick up an osso buco by the bone and eat it like a drumstick before." Mikasa laughs as she recalls the sight of Levi tearing hunks out of the huge cut of meat, red wine reduction staining his lips and cheeks. "I’ve been waiting tables since I was fifteen and that’s definitely a first for me."
"I like to think of myself as an innovator," he mutters. "Besides, you ate some, too."
"I did." She tries to blot out the memory of Levi pulling the veal chop away from her lips a moment before she tried to take a bite, her mouth closing around thin air. He laughed at her then, this low chuckle that seemed to reverberate through the pit of her stomach, and his smile… “I think I’ll use a knife and fork next time,” she says brusquely.
"Plebeian," he mock-snarls, then motions for her to pass the bottle back to him. She does, after which he gulps from the bottle. A droplet of wine runs over his lower lip. "And the food."
Mikasa reaches into the container and pulls out a hunk of fennel-laced salami, then holds out her arm limply in his direction, hovering in front of his face. “Here.”
Levi looks at her outstretched hand, then scowls at her. “Just pass it to me.”
"Just eat. What, you’ve never had a pretty girl feed you cured meats before?" She raises her eyebrows; the corners of her lips soon follow.
"I haven’t, but you’re not making it sound appetizing," he says.
"Whatever, more for me." She pulls back her hand and stuffs the piece of salami into her mouth. "Mmmm," she says as she chews with her mouth open, "that was soooo good.”
"I didn’t say I don’t want any!" Levi reaches for the styrofoam container on her stomach as she leans away from him, grabbing it with one hand and reaching her arm away from him to keep the food out of his grasp.
"These are all mine now,” Mikasa taunts him as she tries to squirm away. Levi follows, heaving himself against her as he strains toward the container in her hand. He is hampered by his grip on the champagne bottle, so he sets it on the coffee table and dives toward Mikasa once more. She tries to push him away with one hand but only succeeds in sticking her hand in his face, her palm pressed against his nose and mouth. Suddenly there is a sharpness and a wetness against her skin and she realizes that Levi is biting her hand, gnawing gently against her palm. She shrieks with laughter and pushes Levi’s face away as she tries to wiggle out from under him.
Her squirming only serves to give him more leverage and soon he pulls himself up and ducks around Mikasa’s hand, covering her body with his as he reaches for the container of food in her outstretched hand, taking it away from her. He does not seem to notice that they are pressed hip to hip, and that Mikasa’s movements only serve to make that fact more evident.
Levi plucks a translucent slice of prosciutto from the container and holds it a few inches above Mikasa’s head. He tosses the container onto the coffee table. She tries to get at the food that he is literally dangling above her, snapping her jaw at it, but he still holds her down with his surprisingly heavy body. He shakes his head and places the prosciutto on his tongue, chewing slowly, as if to taunt her. “Got you,” he growls.
"You did," she says, but it comes out like a purr. Mikasa’s eyes widen a little as she hears her low tone, the rasp of need in her voice. Levi smiles at her, a sharp sliver of lips and teeth, and it stabs her right in the heart.
And then he kisses her.
She is not sure “kiss” is even the right word for what he does at first: his lips close over hers but she feels his teeth first, scraping lightly over her lower lip as he pulls it into his mouth. Mikasa gasps a little at the strange sensation but also the way it makes her melt into him, her arms wrapping around him before he is kissing her in earnest, his lips firm yet pliant against hers.
One of her hands makes its way up his back, cupping the strong, solid curve of his shoulder and the column of his neck before her fingertips hit the soft scruff of his undercut, then the longer hair above it. Her fingers twine among the dark strands and pull gently. Levi gasps against her lips, then kisses her again with increased fervor. Mikasa pulls his hair again, harder this time, eliciting a growled moan that makes her grip his hair tightly, forcing his head back as she presses her lips to his jaw and then to the side of his neck.
"Shit," Levi hisses as she worries at his skin, smoothing over the sting of her teeth with slick open-mouthed kisses. Mikasa’s hand presses against his stomach and skates upward beneath his shirt, and then he stiffens.
"What?" she asks, retreating from him, releasing her grasp on his hair and removing her hand from his body.
"We should stop." He gets off of her and sits back down, pressing against the armrest on the other side of the couch from Mikasa. She pushes herself up until she is seated, looking over at him as he sits straight-spined and scowling. Unconsciously her hand raises to her mouth, her fingertips barely grazing the kiss-swollen fullness of her lower lip. Levi frowns. "Please don’t do that," he says, breathing deeply. "It makes me want to kiss you again."
Mikasa drops her hand to her lap and her gaze follows. “I’m sorry.”
"Don’t be. It was my fault."
Her mouth opens, trying to think of something to say that will make him feel better, but the only thought that comes to mind is that she just wants to kiss him some more, consequences be damned.
"I should go to bed," Levi says. "I have to go to work tomorrow."
"Yeah," she murmurs, and watches him go.
The next day, there are a dozen red and yellow tulips sitting in a cut glass vase on the kitchen table. Mikasa wonders if they are for her as she traces a finger over the feathery cupped petals. Levi has never brought home flowers before, and now is a strange time to start. She makes a cup of tea and drinks it while she watches the tulip bulbs sway in the morning breeze, wafting a light perfume as they are gently rocked to and fro.
Mikasa decides not to ask Levi about the flowers.
8. The Fight
<mikawesome>: Ever get the sense you’ve fucked your life up in some horrible and irreversible way?
<sharpdressedman>: What, no hello?
<mikawesome>: I thought we were past that by now.
<sharpdressedman>: I’m just teasing you, calm down.
<mikawesome>: I’m so not calm right now. Do you ever feel like you’ve really, REALLY screwed something up?
<sharpdressedman>: Only every waking moment of my life, but now that I’m gainfully employed again it seems to have subsided a little. Why?
<mikawesome>: I fucked up. Big time.
<sharpdressedman>: What did you do?
<mikawesome>: You’re going to kill me.
<sharpdressedman>: Probably.
<mikawesome>: I kissed my roommate.
<sharpdressedman>: Huh.
<mikawesome>: I KNOW.
<sharpdressedman>: No, not that. It’s fucking creepy, because I kissed my roommate too.
<mikawesome>: That is creepy. For a second I actually forgot that I’ve probably ruined a not-bad living situation. You kissed the garbage person?!
<sharpdressedman>: Yup. And you kissed the murderer.
<mikawesome>: I would rather kiss a murderer than human garbage. And I’m pretty sure he’s not a murderer.
<sharpdressedman>: You won’t know until it’s too late.
<mikawesome>: He doesn’t kiss like a murderer.
<sharpdressedman>: How would you know? Have you kissed many murderers?
<mikawesome>: Tons.
<sharpdressedman>: Gross.
<mikawesome>: It wasn’t bad. He’s so uptight I figured he’d be really cold, but he definitely knew what he was doing.
<sharpdressedman>: So he has a lot of experience seducing his victims, then.
<mikawesome>: Will you stop with that? I’m trying to be open with you here.
<sharpdressedman>: About what?
<mikawesome>: Well, I feel bad.
<sharpdressedman>: Because you kissed your roommate? Believe me, I feel the same way.
<mikawesome>: No, it’s something else.
<sharpdressedman>: What could it possibly be now?
<mikawesome>: I want to meet.
<sharpdressedman>: This again? You know we agreed not to. You told me you weren’t going to bring it up.
<mikawesome>: I know. But ever since I kissed my roommate, I can’t stop thinking about you.
<sharpdressedman>: Why would you ever think about me?
<mikawesome>: Seriously?
<sharpdressedman>: Seriously. I have no idea why you would.
<mikawesome>: Is it so difficult to fathom that maybe I’ve started to develop feelings for the person I talk to all the time and tell everything?
<sharpdressedman>: And?
<mikawesome>: Wow. You were not joking when you told me you were “bad at chick stuff.”
<mikawesome>: I like you. A lot. And this whole roommate thing has me really confused because I think I might have some feelings for him too.
<mikawesome>: But I’ve talked to you for so long and it’s always the best part of my day. I even miss you when you’re not around. Can you really blame me for wanting to explore that?
<sharpdressedman>: You don’t know what I look like.
<mikawesome>: No, but I know you. And I like you.
<sharpdressedman>: I could be secretly a 60-year-old married man with four kids and a mortgage.
<mikawesome>: Are you?
<sharpdressedman>: Hell no. I wouldn’t keep a mortgage that late in life. Sell the house and get a condo.
<mikawesome>: LOL. Even though I kinda feel like I’m going to throw up from anxiety, you can make me laugh.
<mikawesome>: You are really 33, right?
<sharpdressedman>: Until my birthday, yeah.
<mikawesome>: And not married?
<sharpdressedman>: If I was married, why would I make up a story about having a disgusting roommate and then drunkenly making out with her?
<sharpdressedman>: I still can’t believe I did that. Stupid.
<mikawesome>: No kids?
<sharpdressedman>: No kids.
<mikawesome>: So… why not meet?
<sharpdressedman>: I don’t think we should.
<mikawesome>: Why?
<sharpdressedman>: I just don’t. I don’t think it’s a good idea.
<mikawesome>: But why? We get along so well. Our lives are apparently creepily similar. I feel like you understand me, and I feel like I understand you.
<sharpdressedman>: Talking online isn’t the same as meeting up in real life.
<sharpdressedman>: I like this. I’d rather keep things the way they are than meet up and potentially hate each other.
<mikawesome>: I don’t see how we could hate each other.
<sharpdressedman>: Because you’ve never met me.
<mikawesome>: Let me be the judge of that. Why are you so hard on yourself?
<sharpdressedman>: Because I’m not a nice person or a good person. And I’m not fishing for compliments here. It’s the truth.
<mikawesome>: The man I know is a nice person. He’s a good person, too. That’s why I like him.
<sharpdressedman>: That’s only part of me. There’s a lot more shit you don’t see.
<mikawesome>: But can I?
<sharpdressedman>: No. Stop.
<mikawesome>: Aren’t you even curious to know who I am?
<sharpdressedman>: STOP.
<sharpdressedman>: I’m not going to listen to this shit anymore. I’ll sign off if you don’t quit it.
<sharpdressedman>: And I didn’t want to say this because I thought it’d hurt your feelings, but it needs to be said because you will not fucking quit, even though I asked you to.
<sharpdressedman>: I think I like my gross roommate and it’s really fucking with my head. I can’t deal with this shit. And I just started a new job and I’m still broke for now, on top of all of that. It’s too much. So stop. I won’t hear any more of this.
<mikawesome>: I’m sorry. I went too far.
<mikawesome>: But I’m not sorry for having feelings.
<mikawesome>: You know what, forget I ever brought it up. Just forget all of it. I don’t want to meet you. Forget I said anything.
[User mikawesome has logged off.]
9. The Reveal
After Mikasa fights with SharpDressedMan, their conversations become short and sporadic. Levi seems to recede as well. He leaves for work before she wakes up. She comes home after he goes to bed. When they do share the apartment, he avoids her. If she is out of her room, he is in his. If she is in the kitchen, he is in the farthest corner of the living room, his eyes firmly glued to the television or his nose planted in a book.
It is only after a few days of this awkward dance that Mikasa realizes that her entire life now revolves around two different men instead of Eren and Armin. Eren and Armin, she thinks wistfully, realizing she has not thought about either of them in at least a couple of weeks. I wonder how they are.
So she sends Eren a text, and it takes him two days to respond to her invitation for coffee with a mere “K.” They sit across a table from one another at Starbucks, looking down at their drinks instead of at each other, but they are able to say a few amicable things and leave without any cross words or arguments. Eren is applying to graduate school and chatters excitedly about personal statements and grant applications. Mikasa tells him about Levi, conveniently leaving out their kiss and the chill that seems to have taken up permanent residence in their home. Their meeting is not much but it is a start, at least.
When Mikasa asks Armin for coffee, he bikes over to her apartment building twenty minutes after she asks if he’s free. He says there’s a coffee shop called Dot’s around the corner from her and he’s heard it’s good, so can they go? They walk over together and drink chamomile tea, sitting in the same side of a booth so Armin can lean his head against Mikasa’s shoulder while he complains about Eren.
"I saw him the other day and he didn’t say much to me, but it didn’t seem too out of the ordinary," she says, sipping from her mug. "Considering… everything."
"He’s been preoccupied with grad school applications. He’s being an asshole to everyone." There is an edge to Armin’s voice, a hardness that she has never heard before.
"You sound like you’re taking it personally," she replies softly.
"I am," he admits. "How could I not? Obviously grad school is more important to him than I am. He’ll either quit being awful or he won’t. All I can do is let him know how I feel and wait."
Mikasa frowns. Even at her most vicious, choking on bile and jealousy as she could hear her roommates fucking in the next room, she never wanted to see Armin like this. His hair looks a little greasier than normal, his skin sallow. She wonders if he is sleeping well. “I’m here if you want to talk about it. Or if you don’t want to talk about it.”
Armin shoots her a small, wistful smile. “I’d like that a lot, Mikasa. I miss living with you. And Eren probably won’t admit it, but I think he does too.”
She ends up crying right there in the coffee shop, in front of everyone.
Once again, Levi is not home when she gets back. (It still feels strange for Armin to be there, even after a few months, so she does not invite him in.) Her call of, “Hello?” echoes through the apartment and meets no one. Mikasa sighs, her shoulders slumping forward, and decides to make herself another cup of tea. She sits at the kitchen table with her head in her hands while she waits for the brew to cool. Unconsciously she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone, signing into the messenger app. SharpDressedMan is offline so she sets her phone to sleep and figures she will survive another day without speaking to him.
Five minutes later, she nearly spills the still-steaming tea on herself as her phone buzzes loudly against the table, the phone grinding against the heavy lacquered wood. Mikasa puts the mug down slowly, her hands trembling, and picks up her phone. It is him.
<sharpdressedman>: Hey there, stranger.
<mikawesome>: Hey.
<sharpdressedman>: Where have you been?
<mikawesome>: I was going to ask you the same thing.
<sharpdressedman>: You’re never on when I’m on.
<mikawesome>: You’re never on when *I’m* on. But I figured I’d lay low a bit since I made an asshole of myself.
<sharpdressedman>: That you did.
<mikawesome>: Don’t rub it in. Please. Things are just weird and shitty right now.
<mikawesome>: Now I see what you meant about making things awkward at home. My roommate has been avoiding me. I feel like such an asshole.
<sharpdressedman>: I definitely understand. I also feel like an asshole. I should have known better. I don’t even want Mikasa to see my face.
Mikasa lets out a surprised yelp and drops her phone onto the table as though it is burning her hands. She stares at it for a few moments, eyes wide, mouth open, before she decides to play it cool. Perhaps there is more than one Mikasa, although she seriously doubts that.
<sharpdressedman>: Fuck. Shouldn’t have said that.
<mikawesome>: Your roommate’s name is Mikasa?
<sharpdressedman>: Yeah. So?
<mikawesome>: Shit. Shit shit shit shit.
<sharpdressedman>: What? Do you know her?
<mikawesome>: Do you live in the city? Downtown?
<sharpdressedman>: I thought we agreed not to share details.
<mikawesome>: If you want me to confirm whether I know her, then I need to know some things about you.
<sharpdressedman>: Then yeah, I do. We live around the corner from that shitty little coffee place, Dot’s.
<mikawesome>: Oh no. Noooooooooo.
<sharpdressedman>: What?!
<mikawesome>: I cannot believe you’re this fucking dense. How do you pronounce my screenname?
<sharpdressedman>: I… don’t?
<mikawesome>: Exactly. Say it out loud.
<mikawesome>: Your name is Levi, isn’t it?
There is a pause for a few minutes, during which time Mikasa wishes she could disappear into thin air. The longer she waits for a reply, the more she dreads inevitably seeing Levi at home. The apartment is big - but not so big that she can avoid him until the lease ends.
<sharpdressedman>: Fuck.
<sharpdressedman>: FUCK.
<mikawesome>: My thoughts exactly.
<sharpdressedman>: I cannot fucking believe this.
<sharpdressedman>: I thought your name was more like McAwesome.
<mikawesome>: Nope. It’s a long E sound.
<mikawesome>: Kinda sounds like Mikasa when you say it like that, don’t you think? ;)
<sharpdressedman>: I know that NOW.
<sharpdressedman>: I’d like to thank you for introducing me to a whole new level of feeling like a stupid asshole that I never knew about before.
<mikawesome>: Believe me, I feel just as bad as you do, if not worse.
<mikawesome>: So… now what?
<sharpdressedman>: I don’t know.
<sharpdressedman>: Can we agree to avoid each other forever?
<mikawesome>: No. We need to talk about this. Face to face. I’ll see you at home.
<sharpdressedman>: Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be a while. I need some time to think.
<mikawesome>: Okay.
<mikawesome>: I’m really sorry I ruined everything.
<sharpdressedman>: Don’t be. I ruined everything, too.
[User sharpdressedman has logged off.]
As if she could do anything else but wait. Her stomach heaves and rolls as she tries to stand steady before the sink and wash out her mug of tea, but her hands and knees are shaking. She feels like she is going to throw up; she also wants to run around screaming because, beneath the mutual embarrassment and regret for their hasty drunk decisions, she likes him and he likes her. SharpDressedMan has been in the other room all along.
For the first time in her life, Mikasa wishes she was at work so she wouldn’t have to sit in the apartment alone with her thoughts, waiting for Levi to come home. She considers taking a walk, but thinks that if he locks himself in his bedroom before she has a chance to speak with him, she may never get to do it.
Mikasa tries to read a book, watch a movie, even clean the apartment to Levi’s ridiculous standards in order to pass the time, but finds that she cannot focus on anything but listening for footsteps in the hall and the scratch of Levi’s key in the door. She paces the apartment for half an hour, then flops down on the couch to watch infomercials with the hopes that the constant drone of sales pitches for useless products will slow down the thoughts racing through her mind. She eventually falls asleep there, curled up in a ball, after silently swearing that she will turn off the TV and put her head down for just a second.
She is roused some time later by a firm hand gripping her shoulder and rocking her gently. Mikasa opens her eyes to see the living room dimly lit by a single lamp. It is dark outside, the sky a dull black. Levi stands over her, cupping her shoulder with his right hand. He is still wearing a suit but his tie (green, this time) has been loosened and the top button of his white shirt undone. From this angle Mikasa can see a hint of his collarbone, the hollow at his throat. She gasps a little, feeling the overwhelming urge to press her lips to his skin there, and tries to disguise it as a yawn.
"I tried calling your name but you were out cold," he says, removing his hand from her shoulder and taking a step back.
"I waited for you," she murmurs, then immediately chastises her sleep-addled brain for betraying her so quickly.
Levi frowns. “I told you not to.”
"I did anyway. Can we talk?"
"You sure you’re not too tired?" he asks.
Mikasa narrows her eyes at him. “I won’t let you weasel your way out of this,” she yawns.
"I’m not trying to do that." He pauses. "Okay, maybe a little. I’m going to get changed, then we can talk." She nods and he walks off to his room, shrugging out of his blazer as he moves.
"Don’t even think about locking yourself in there," she calls. She gets up and pads into the kitchen, her joints stiff with sleep, then plugs in her electric kettle to heat some water for tea. She fills the kettle to the brim, figuring they will both need a few drinks.
"I’m not going to lock myself in my room," Levi replies flatly as he walks back into the living room, now dressed in a long-sleeved gray t-shirt and black sweatpants. Mikasa turns back to the kettle before her mind is overwhelmed with ideas about what it would feel like to run her hands over the bulge of his biceps, outlined by the thin cotton. "Making tea?" he asks.
"Yeah," Mikasa replies, walking back into the living room and throwing herself onto one end of the sofa, slumping against the cushions. Her limbs feel heavy and her head swims, but she is not about to let this opportunity go — even though she could really use another half hour of sleep.
"Good call." Levi sits at the other end, his back straight, his hands in his lap. He looks as relaxed as she feels; she would be sitting the same way if not for the languor of exhaustion suffusing every cell in her body.
"So…" she says, suddenly unable to think of anything else. For all the time she imagined meeting SharpDressedMan, of getting to speak to him, she realizes she has never considered what she would actually say.
"I was going to buy you flowers, but I thought that might be weird," Levi blurts. "Plus the store was closed.”
"This is weird enough already, SharpDressedMan." Mikasa holds out her right hand, which Levi takes, his grip firm and warm against hers. "Nice to meet you at last."
"Same to you, McAwesome," he replies with a smirk.
She retreats from the handshake and folds her arms over her chest. “It’s Mikawesome!” she exclaims, a fire in her dark eyes.
He chuckles. “I knew that’d make you mad.”
"And you called me a garbage person?!"
"You are a garbage person. Or you were, anyway. You seem to have shaped up nicely." Mikasa huffs in response. "Notice how I’m not mad about you calling me a murderer, though," Levi snickers.
"You called yourself a murderer first. But you’re not really going to murder me. Right?" she asks with a smile. Mikasa crosses her legs, then uncrosses them, then pushes herself to a sitting position. She finally settles on clutching a pillow to her chest, digging her fingers into it in the hopes that it helps her start to feel less jittery, less like her nerves have become electrified.
He sighs. “I know I should say something besides ‘I’ll murder you with my dick,’ but that’s the only thing that’s coming to mind at the moment.”
"Is that supposed to mean you want to have sex with me?" She grimaces, her nose wrinkling.
"That’s the gist of the joke, yeah," Levi answers, nodding bashfully.
Mikasa starts to laugh. “Ew. You are horrible at this. Just awful.”
"I told you I’m better from behind a screen," he mutters.
"You’re not. It’s strangely endearing, the way you know exactly what not to say. I like you so much more in real life." She adjusts her posture once more, sliding slightly closer to him as she does so.
He looks away from her. “Imightlikeyoutoo,” he mumbles.
"What’s that?"
"I might like you too."
"Can’t hear you."
"I like you!" he shouts. Mikasa jumps a little. "Oh, goddammit," he groans, his eyes closing with frustration. He sighs and covers his face with both hands for a second before dropping them to his lap. "Fuck it," Levi says, then leans over and plants a kiss on Mikasa’s lips.
Her eyes widen in shock but soon she is kissing him back, dropping the pillow and throwing her arms around him, pulling him on top of her as she lies down. Slowly, tentatively, he traces the curve of her cheek and jaw with the back of his index finger, then cups her face with one hand before pulling away from her lips.
Mikasa looks up at him, his steely eyes glittering silver, the slight flush that suffuses his pale skin. “Are you blushing?”
His eyes seem to harden. “No.”
"You are! I can see it." She brushes her lips against his. "I like it. And I like you. A lot," she adds.
He cracks a weak smile, then shakes his head. “I still don’t get that.”
"For one, you look good in a suit." Mikasa says, running her hands over the solid muscle of his chest. "Really, really good."
Levi chuckles low in his throat and presses a kiss to the sharp ridge of her cheekbone. “You’re in luck, then. I look better in nothing.”
10. The Beginning
Sex doesn’t feel distasteful with her. That’s how he knows she is something special. The whole production has always felt slightly unsanitary to him, the heat, the noise, the sweat. But when Mikasa is beneath him he finds himself tracing a trickle of her perspiration with his lips and tongue, skating down her browbone to her cheek. When he comes she holds him tight as he hisses her name against her shoulder and tries not to blurt out that he loves her. (He does not, but can see himself muttering it to her someday, probably at some inopportune moment. The knowledge feels dangerous to him, somehow.)
Later, they spend time simply looking at each other as they lay tangled in Levi’s crisp white sheets, memorizing the planes and angles of each other’s faces. They wear matching smiles, lightly curved lips, a peek of teeth.
"You know, for the longest time I thought you were such an asshole," Mikasa says, twirling a strand of Levi’s hair around one finger.
"I am an asshole," Levi admits. "But it works, ‘cause you can be kind of a bitch."
"Yeah," Mikasa chuckles, her already flushed cheeks growing slightly darker. "A little."
"But I like that," he breathes, then closes the slight distance between them, kissing her lightly.
"I noticed," she says against his lips as they lay there, nose to nose. "You’ve had your hand on my boob for like twenty minutes now."
Levi scoffs and looks down at his right hand, firmly cupped around Mikasa’s left breast. “It’s my boob now.”
"You’re so bad at dirty talk!" she laughs.
"Thanks," he gripes, burying his face into the pillow (although, Mikasa notes, he does not move his hand at all).
"No, it’s cute." She leans in to kiss his forehead, hoping that the pressure of her lips is more reassuring than her words.
Levi sighs, blowing a strand of Mikasa’s hair away from her face. “I’m still mad at myself for not realizing we’ve probably been texting each other while we were in the same room.”
"I’m pretty sure we’ve done that. I’m not sure how I’ll spend my time now that I’m not glued to my phone."
"You can talk to me in real life, stupid. We can just hang out."
"Oh yeah? Is this how you hang out?" she asks him, one eyebrow raised.
Levi shrugs one shoulder. “Apparently.”
"I like it." Mikasa turns onto her back and puts her hands behind her head, then exhales deeply. “So we broke the cardinal roommate rule, huh?”
"Definitely. But I’m not worried about it. We’ve already been honest with each other for this long. Why stop now?" Levi raises himself up on one elbow and looks down at her. "Except you lied to me about drinking my tea."
Mikasa looks away from him for a moment as she flashes a wide, goofy smile. “In my defense, you told me to take it.”
"So this is my fault now?" he asks, shifting until he is straddling her hips. He leans down over her, lacing his fingers through hers.
She smirks at him. “What are you going to do about it?”
"Murder you, obviously," Levi answers.
"Please don’t say you’re going to murder me with your dick. That was horrible."
"No, I’m just going to hug you to death." He wraps his arms around her chest. "I like you so goddamned much, you fucking disgusting brat," he grunts out as he squeezes her to him.
"I like you too, even if you are a serial killer," she replies between bursts of laughter. Levi’s grip slackens a little and Mikasa takes the opportunity to snake her hands up his chest and then outwards, under his arms, tickling him there.
"What the hell?!" he yelps, wrestling himself away from her. "How did you know I was ticklish?"
Mikasa grins at him. “A friend told me.”
11. The End