Chapter Text
Alden Hall is beautiful in January.
January, after all, means the intersection of winter and spring. Levi’s always hated English winters, when the skies are a constant, soul-sucking grey and the trees are skeletal and the wind seems almost wild, teeth bared and ready to bite. But at the start of the year, the weather seems to change, like a child emerging sheepishly from a tantrum: the air turns from depressingly frigid to clear and crisp, the thin ice that covers the lake begins to melt, and every now and then, the clouds part to reveal a hint of palest blue.
Trost University's abundance of glass and metal in its architecture—an attempt at appearing modern and futuristic, he’s sure—means it's a reflection of its environment. So in winter, it’s about as cheerful as a state funeral, but in January it starts becoming all bright and flowery, refracted greenery bouncing off every surface and light slanting through the (many, many) windows. It’s almost like the building is rolling out the welcome mat for the exchange students, who troop in into the university in a colourful, multicultural buzz, all windblown and jetlagged and positively bursting with an excited energy.
Levi doesn’t have anything against exchange students, in general, even if they are loud and eager and stand out far too much in the otherwise relatively subdued student population. Except, of course, for the ones that the university conveniently places in his building, who track their muddy shoes into the carpet and have loud sex at 3AM (the university is cheap and the hostel’s walls are thin) and slather his beautifully-kept kitchen with a myriad of oils and sauces (that he doesn’t recognise, and, hence, doesn’t know how to clean) from all over the damn planet.
As a result. Levi hates January.
This year is no exception.
Levi’s already in a dark mood when the day begins.
The university had called, the day before, informing him that two exchange students would be coming in the next morning. Two girls, both second-year undergrads. He’d muttered a terse acknowledgement and ended the call without another word.
As the longest-standing resident of the building, he’s been assigned as the unofficial welcome rep. It’s a role that he takes on with greatest reluctance, not because he wants to but because, well, he knows better than to let anyone else do it. Hanji may be a genius in her own way, but she’s such a fucking airhead that she couldn't differentiate the microwave from the oven. And Mike, even after three years in the UK, can barely navigate the local customs, let alone those of some poor kid from the Tokyo suburbs.
Again, it’s not like he wants to do this. He shouldn’t have to, in all honesty. He’s a grad student, but the school had conveniently run out of places in the graduate housing and offered him—in a very nicely worded letter that'd bordered on a plea—a reduced rate to stay at one of the undergrad halls instead. And, well. Levi isn't made of money, considering the only things that'd been left to him by his deadbeat uncle were childhood trauma, mild OCD, and a better-than-average knowledge of human anatomy, right down to the location of all readily accessible major arteries.
And if he’s being honest, staying at Alden Hall isn’t the worst thing in the world. Erwin got stuck with one of the buildings on the main campus, which has the happy honour of being located right next to the university’s nightclub (it claims to be a bar, and maybe it could pass off as one, if it put on airs and a fake accent). He has a coursemate who’s staying off campus, and has to spend an hour biking onto campus, which is a fair bitch during 8AMs. It’s fairly quiet, fairly close to all his classes, and comes with ensuite bathrooms—which, to be honest, was a deal-breaker. He's not paying a fairly ridiculous tuition fee to spend his credit-hours cleaning up someone else's shit.
Right. Besides, this is his last year. One more semester, and he’s out of here, off to whatever corporate hellhole that manages to successfully bribe him into joining. Hell, he might even miss the place.
Of course, that's when the phone rings, rudely knocking him out of his sad attempt to delude himself out of his own bad mood.
There’s a pause and an outburst of giggling when he picks up, and then someone clears their throat. "Hello? Is this Levi Ackerman? This is Petra Ral and Suzuki Miyu, we’ve been assigned to your building…” The sentence comes out more like a question. “Uh, we’re downstairs.”
He sucks in a breath when he hears her accent—the way she rolls her consonants and stretches her vowels. It’s unmistakably American.
Dammit.
“I’ll be right down,” he says flatly, and hangs up. Levi isn’t generally a judgmental guy, but in his narrow experience, Americans make the worst flatmates: loud, energetic, and worst of all, friendly.
When he reaches the foot of the stairs, he’s unsurprised that he hears the girl before he sees her. She’s small, redheaded, and surrounded by far too much luggage for just one shitty semester. She’s also giggling uncontrollably, for whatever reason.
The other girl—Miyu, he assumes—is tall and slim and pretty, with delicate features, long dark hair, and a quiet demeanour. She’s smiling serenely, and has just one large suitcase and a piece of hand luggage.
Levi immediately prefers her.
With an inward sigh, he tucks his hands into his pockets and inclines his head in greeting. “Welcome to Alden Hall,” he drawls. “I’m Levi. We’re on the third floor, I’ll show you the amenities and your rooms.”
Miyu nods politely and beelines for the stairs. To her credit, Petra tries to follow, but the sheer bulk of her three substantial suitcases hinders much of her progress. He wonders how she even made it here from the airport.
“Here,” he says brusquely, and grabs two of her bags. She beams at him.
“Thanks! It’s nice to meet you. I’m Petra.” Her amber eyes sparkle.
“We spoke,” he says shortly. Despite their size, the bags are lighter than they appear, to his relief—he’s not out of shape by any means, but he’s just showered and has no intention of perspiring.
They reach the top of the stairs soon enough, Petra huffing and puffing in his wake (why bring so many damn bags, then, he thinks irritably). With a practiced efficiency, he goes about the tour.
“This is the kitchen. It’s shared with the rest of the people on the floor—there’re three of us—so make damn sure to keep it clean at all times. Don’t leave your dishes in the sink for more than an hour, wipe the stove once you’re done, mop up any messes. And we have a roster for garbage disposal, it’s on the fridge, stick to it like your life depends on it. And for your food and utensils, you can use any empty cupboard at the back—just keep everything sealed, because if there’s an infestation, I will end you.” There’s a nervous titter at that.
“This is the cleaning store. The cleaning materials are shared, feel free to contribute whatever you can. We also have a vacuum cleaner for the floor, but for fuck’s sake don’t go about using it in the middle of the night.
“And these,” he concludes, “are your rooms.”
The rooms aren’t awfully spacious (the university website calls them economical. Levi calls them cramped as hell). But there’s a tiny bathroom, a mini-fridge, and a bed. It’s good enough for him, and most students, but Petra’s eyes widen at the sight.
“Um,” she says, hesitantly, “I might need a little bit more space. The kitchen cupboards didn’t seem very big, see, and I have quite a lot of cooking tools, I was planning to keep the rest in my room but—” She bites her lip.
Typical. He rolls his eyes. “I think there’s an extra cupboard in the kitchen this semester, one of our residents just graduated. You can use that for now.”
“All right,” he goes, “any questions?”
Of course there are. He’s expecting the usual stuff, like cleaning schedules and where the garbage disposal is and what are the nearest supermarkets, so he’s surprised when Petra asks, timidly, if they usually have meals together.
“No,” he says flatly. She flinches a little at his tone, so he adds, a little more gently, “it doesn’t really work, we all have different schedules, and some of us eat out. So it’s easier to just settle everything by yourself.”
She looks mostly placated at his reply. But there’s something about her quiet hum of acknowledgement that makes him feel oddly uncomfortable, even though he’s not sure why.
Then Miyu asks a question about Asian supermarkets, and he focuses on answering her instead. Whatever, he thinks to himself, it doesn’t matter. We’re not friends, we’re flatmates. Best that she learns that fast so we can all get on with our lives.
By the time the two girls return to their rooms and he goes back to working on his thesis, he’s already forgotten all about the question, and the look in the strange American girl’s eyes.