Chapter Text
Ferric miasma hangs in the air, low to the earth, a gauzy tulle of dawn fog. Beneath it, terra inked with sanguine dew. You stand above your parents’ mangled corpses, still. Blood roars in your ears, your face pulsates, hyperaware. You hear your eyes dart between your mother’s slack jaw, ripped from the cheek, and your father’s deranged expression, one eye hanging from the socket by a tendinous cord. Freckled complexions washed in red. Lifeless amputees, limbless, silent, barely even there.
An immense umbra engulfs you; you have no feeling as you’re lifted into the air, ascending towards an obscure ether, pulled away from the statuesque corpses that lie beneath, overlooking a perverted vignette, figures composed in beguiling agony, a foreground washed in vermilion. A feverish vise clutches your unmoving form, and soured iron permeates your nostrils as teeth crush your skull—you hear the sickening crunch of bone, the pulping of your brain as it seeps between fractures, but you feel nothing at all.
You woke with a heave in the dark of the barracks, unclenching your teeth and forcing your jaw apart. You searched in the dark until eyes find the dawn light. Everything was still; no one had stirred at your outburst. Why dream of them now? Your index and middle fingers wrapped around your wrist, feeling rapid palpitations, matched with an inbound throbbing behind your eyes. You focused on a gouge in the wall opposite and listened to the steady breathing of your teammates, slowing your pulse, grounding yourself.
An ambient hum hung in the air: the world’s low, ceaseless murmur. In the white noise, you heard remnants of a familiar melody—something quiet your mother used to sing to you, something formless and only heard in that vague void between wakefulness and sleep. Knowing it wasn’t there yet still listening intently, you grasped onto the wispy tones, and found yourself lost in nothing, and allowed yourself to fall into a dreamless sleep. Your mind produced no images, yet you sensed an incoming danger that left you restless.
You came to with Mikasa gently shaking your shoulder. Her expectant gaze hung above you.
“Training starts in ten minutes.” Said with gentle urgency.
You were inexplicably struck still, as if the thought of getting out of bed was paralyzing. You sat up but didn’t move further.
“Don’t wait up.”
You felt a hand in yours as Mikasa kneeled, quietly examining you. Her concerned eyes would be too much; you kept your gaze in your lap. She ran her thumb over your hand, as if to ask if you were okay. No response, and her hand slipped out of yours. She drifted towards the door.
“I’ll tell Captain Levi.”
—
A lifeless automaton, you eventually found yourself on the field just as everyone began warming up, feeling Levi’s eyes on your face as you wordlessly slipped into the drill.
“I expect punctuality at all times, not just when you feel like it.” Like a knife.
Steel eyes, annoyed. Concerned. You let the reprimand linger as dull shame settled in your chest.
“Yes, sir.” You apologized with your gaze.
—
Your tailbone struck the ground hard, birthing a shockwave that emanated through your spine. You made no moves to get up. Your respiration had ceased, and you fought against your sternum for breath. Hands gripped at loose soil, desperate for tangibility.
Eren began to gloat but cut himself off when you didn’t respond to his outreached hand.
“Hey, what’s with you?” He kneeled as he spoke, leveling himself with your gaze.
You swallowed hard, tasting tears. Panicked. The thought of death lorded over you, taunting, ready to crush you underfoot.
“I—I don’t know.”
You were vaguely aware of Eren calling for Mikasa, strong hands lifting you, bodies supporting your dead weight. The infirmary, hazy voices, ‘trauma,’ disembodied grey eyes, nervous observation. Void, melting away, drifting.
Your sleep was restless, filled with ravaged bodies, flayed flesh. As you finally awoke, you watched the glistening sinew creep up the walls, branded into your vision. Wordless, fearful babbling.
A strong hand pressed into your shoulder, pushing you back onto the mattress. Levi stood above you, expressionless, eyes roaming over your face. His hand remained until your expression calmed. The croak of your voice, your uncontrolled panic—you were humiliated. Eyes looking anywhere but him.
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
He scoffed.
“Stop thinking.” He let go of your shoulder and held out a glass of water, bringing it to your lips to drink. A worthless invalid.
He stayed with you for hours. Neither spoke. At one point he asked if you wanted him to leave—you admitted you didn’t.
Your hand rested on the edge of the bed, and he grabbed it without thinking. In spite of yourself, your face flushed at the contact. His touch was comfort, an unspoken assurance. When the nurse came to check on you, his grip stayed firm.
You were released the next day to a group of concerned teammates. Levi ordered them to stand down, but the words of your superior were no match for their worry. Despite insisting you were fine, they treaded lightly, on eggshells. Eren led you to the dining hall, a plate already prepared and sitting at the table with Mikasa and Armin.
“Please treat me like I’m normal.” Spoken with a hollow smile, a slapdash attempt at humor, normalcy.
Flushed, Armin rushed to insist you were normal; Eren denied any special treatment; Mikasa watched you carefully, as if she were afraid a heavy gaze would break you. You did feel the weight of her gaze, this time meeting her eyes, and you felt your chest swell. Her concern cut through you, warming your face. You tried to calm the rest of your friends down, but things began to escalate when Connie and Sasha joined in, mentioning they were glad you weren’t mentally ‘fucked up,’ to which Jean shushed them. Glares and overlapping, apologetic rambling overwhelmed you. You were grateful for their concern but only in doses.
Levi eyed your antics from his seat, recognizing your discomfort. He crossed the room in long strides, silencing the table with his arrival.
“Can I speak to you in my office?” His words were deadpan, but his eyes held no malice. You nodded, grateful he read you, and followed him out of the room.
—
“You’re not to train for the rest of the week.”
You couldn’t suppress your shock, which quickly turned to shame.
“Captain, I’m sorry. I won’t let my emotions interfere—”
Levi rolled his eyes, cutting you short. You shifted from foot to foot, unsure of what to say.
“It’s not punishment. Believe it or not, I’m actually concerned for your wellbeing.” Deadpan. You had assumed you would have acclimated to his way of speaking, but it still gave you pause. You couldn’t help you felt patronized by him.
You stood in front of his desk, looking at his cheeks, his forehead, feigning eye contact. His gaze bore into you.
“You’re not a special case. This has happened before.” Again, that equivocal, Levi-specific dialect. Did he mean to comfort you? You stayed silent, implicitly encouraging him to explain.
“It just—it happens when a soldier isn’t,” he paused, breaking eye contact, choosing his words carefully, “hardened.”
He returned his gaze to you.
“It doesn’t mean you’re weak, brat. You’re just still sensitive.”
You processed his words.
“How do you become strong?”
His eyebrows raised, fractionally. He set his jaw, his neutral expression returning.
“I just said this doesn’t mean you’re weak. You are strong.”
“I mean, how do I avoid more of these episodes?” You didn’t mean to raise your voice—you despised the desperation that slipped through.
“Just watch more people die.” He eyed your reaction, taking in your surprise.
“I don’t mean to be callous: it’s just a matter of exposure. Each death you see or cause or cannot prevent carves at your insides until you’re… hollow. And you have to let it happen.”
You were silenced, winded by a realization of a reality of unceasing cruelty. It was something you had always known, but to be faced with it so explicitly? You felt eviscerated.
“Many die before they reach that point—empathetic and afraid.”
Your knees threatened to buckle—Levi was quick to rise and support you. He apologized for going too far.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
You insisted it was not his fault. He only spoke a truth you were simply not ready to face. Levi led you over to his desk chair and you shakily sat. He stood before you, unmoving, before walking away, giving you space—moments later, deciding against it, he turned at the heel and returned, kneeling in front of you. He grabbed your hands, and you felt his breath on your face. Meeting his gaze, you saw an uncharacteristic softness, iris wavering. You wondered if he liked speaking to you, holding you. You wondered what would happen if you placed a chaste kiss on his lips. Levi’s smell struck you—it was familiar, nostalgic; it reminded you of home. Of a past, forgotten. Of the sunshine streaming through your grandmother’s kitchen window, the smell of your father’s tobacco pipe, your mother’s vanilla perfume. You couldn’t remember the last time you imagined any of them alive, rather than lifeless viscera.
You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his, retreating as fast as you had advanced. It was chaste, demure, and you watched Levi remain motionless, wide-eyed. Red shame crept up your neck into your face, but you instead focused on his shock—what was the last thing that truly surprised your captain?
Your captain—captain.
Reality set in and your eyes widened in horror. Impulse driven by an entirely constructed, drunken, nostalgic familiarity. You felt more faint than you had in days. It wasn’t even an especially passionate moment, more awkward and quiet and, frankly, underwhelming. Maybe that was what made a first kiss special: the unique mundanity of it. You wished you could revel in the indistinctness of the moment—but instead, you fearfully eyed Levi, half-embarrassed, half-angry that you would so blatantly and thoughtlessly overstep that boundary. You retraced your thoughts: had you ever been captivated by Levi, or were you caught up in the moment of comfort he offered you? The intimacy of familiarity, amity? Maybe a bit of both.
You watched as he finally recovered, defaulting to his normal expression. He didn’t have a tell, except for the deep red that tinged the tips of his ears. He pulled away, returning to his standing position and cutting you off before you had the chance to speak.
“Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He spoke firmly, softly. Idiosyncratically Levi.
Emboldened by some deep irrationality, you spoke, not shying away from his gaze: “It felt nice, sir.”
He was silent again, short-circuited by your boldness. You hung, suspended, in the tension of the room. He eventually confirmed your statement, agreeing.
“It did.” Bewildering for the both of you.
You insisted you needed to go back to your room and try to get some sleep, a cumbrous mess of meaning and filler words, and Levi didn’t stop you. There was no declaration of love, nor did he beg you to stay the night with him. You stood up and left, and as you shut the door, you looked back and caught a smile break through Levi’s look of consternation.