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Levi’s wedding to the gloomy brat is due to take place at 1730 hours on the last day of summer, in room eighteen on the second level of the newly rebuilt Trost District Courthouse. Levi doesn’t get to choose this time, nor the venue, nor even the bride.
Par for the course for a man whose life had been strung together by random actions and outcomes that he had no hand in whatsoever.
The summoning notice still sits in his pocket, moved between uncountable pairs of trousers, creases softened by the hundreds upon thousands of times he’s unfolded it to read again, as though the contents may have changed between one read and the next. His name alongside hers in the most perfunctory of fonts, the time and place. A cursory note to disregard this notice and contact your local courthouse should you already have firm prospects. A disingenuous thank you at the end, for their service before and doing their part now. Their part. As though they hadn’t given enough of themselves already.
His initial efforts to communicate with his future wife had been reminiscent of their past interactions — not something he appreciated after the long, hot horseback journey from Trost to Shiganshina. The brat had taken one look at him and slammed the door in his face, testing both the strength of the windows in her small home, and his paper-thin resolve to see this shit through. He’d sucked in a calming breath and spoken through the door, dropped one or two cryptic hints about maybe joining him in committing regicide. Surely this arranged marriage bollocks meant Historia had gone completely off the rails, and if Ackermans were meant to guard the throne, surely that meant guarding the throne from itself, too.
The door never opened, she never spoke back, but she did laugh, and that had been enough. Levi left much clearer and vastly more confused than he’d been before. Letters followed, somehow easier, but now Levi wonders at the stupidity of that choice. As it stands, he hasn’t seen his future wife in person for more than two seconds since…
Fuck, they’d still been in Marley.
He arrives at the courthouse half an hour early, baking in his military dress uniform as he leans against one of the tall columns out front, sighing as he sets his cane to the side. The column’s shadow offers a perfect vantage point to watch newly minted couples file out of the grand double doors at even intervals, marriage certificates in hand and plain silver bands glinting on their fingers. Their closeness implies a familiarity, but it’s the looks on their faces that speak what their bodies don’t: some smile at their new spouse, some weep openly, some are as blank as a starless sky.
Fifteen minutes now.
The last time he met with Historia had been three months ago, barely a week before the wedding orders were announced, to discuss the expansion of her orphanage project in the western districts. She’d been eloquent then, made sense when she spoke. She had mentioned briefly that the birth rates were still in decline and death rates were climbing, but she hadn’t given any indication that the marriage orders were something she was thinking about, or already decided on. She’d sent him off with a smile and he’d gone on none the fucking wiser.
(Historia had been plenty wiser, though, taking her kid and her farmer husband and fucking off to fuck knows where the second the notices were sent).
When he’d spoken to the brat, he’d only been half joking about the regicide. Another bawling woman stumbles out of the courthouse, held upright by the bewildered sap she’d been forced to marry. Levi wonders if he’s maybe only a quarter joking.
Five minutes.
He kicks off the pillar, leaning his cane on the ground and setting a hand over the box nestled in his coat pocket. He’s about to take it out, inspect the contents and maybe give them one last shine, when a carriage drawn by a pair of dapple-grey horses comes to a stop on the cobblestone road across from the courthouse. A pair of men in sky-blue suits dart from their seats by the driver and scurry around to the carriage door, pulling it open and helping a figure in bright, unsullied white down to the ground.
Levi winces against the glare, the bright white like the centre of a flame in the waning sunlight. He holds a hand over his eyes, and —
He’s not sure why he assumed that Mikasa would wear her dress uniform, too.
The style she wears isn’t something he knows the name of, this bright white robe embroidered with great gold and red flowers, the wide, blood-red belt at the middle, the long, wide sleeves held up by her hands in front of her, lifting the hem of the dress above the ground to reveal a dainty pair of red slippers. Her hair is an elaborate style of pins and curls, gleaming golden ornaments that glint in the summer sun.
She stops in front of him and drops her skirt, letting it puddle around her feet. The charcoal around her eyes makes them seem larger and brighter, and the deep red of her lips draws his eyes like a magnet.
Beside her, he feels hideously underdressed. And maybe just hideous, too.
He swallows; his mouth is bone dry. “Brat.”
Her lips twist. “Captain.”
“Tch. Don’t scowl, Ackerman.” He holds out the crook of his left elbow for her to take, taps the end of his cane along the ground. “This isn’t the end of the world.”
She levels him with a hard look that softens almost immediately. She hooks her arm through his and lets him lead her into the courthouse. “I know.”
He clears his throat; the scent of fresh paint and disinfectant is sharp on his tongue. “You… look beautiful, by the way. Hell, that’s probably underselling it.”
She tilts her head down and blushes. “Thank you. You look quite handsome yourself.”
He snorts. “You have the exact same uniform, brat.”
“I know. I was going to wear it, but…” She trails off, dragging her hands over the skirt and trailing the sleeves over the floor. “Kiyomi… insisted. On a lot of things, actually. The dress uniform looks good on you, though. I… I always thought so.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that, but something in him tugs at the mention of the Hizuran official, who has never been particularly subtle about wanting to whisk Mikasa across the sea. “Did Kiyomi give you the dress?”
“It’s called a kimono, a traditional Hizuran wedding dress. And yes. She helped me get ready, too.” She gestures to her elaborately decorated hair. “The kanzashi, though… the hair ornaments… they were my mother’s.”
The gold on them, clearly real and polished by a loving hand, gives him pause. “What did Kiyomi have to say about them?”
“Nothing,” she says carefully, “but she wants to speak to me about them when we’re… finished today.”
His lips press into a firm line. “Hmm.”
Levi scowls as they come to a set of stairs. Without prompting, she tightens her grip on his arm and slows her pace for their climb, though his knee still tweaks painfully with every step. Levi squeezes her arm and says nothing.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
He grits his teeth. “Fine, brat. Don’t worry. It can’t be helped.”
“Are there any more stairs to climb?” she asks once they’ve made it to the top.
“No.” He nods at the long echoing corridor, doors inset at even intervals along each side. “We’re just down here.”
They pause in front of a wide, glossy-black door marked eighteen, with a small, fogged glass window level with the top of Levi’s head. He draws in a breath and takes the door handle, ignores the uptick in his heartbeat. “Well, brat… you ready to get this shit show rolling?”
She snorts, and the sound is almost reassuring, that the soldier is still there beneath the layers of unfamiliar finery. “Aye, Captain.”
“Given the circumstances,” he says carefully, tapping his index finger along the cool steel of the handle, “you should probably call me Levi now.”
“Levi.” She draws his name out like she’s tasting it, and nods as though she likes it. “Okay, but only if you call me Mikasa.”
He snorts and pushes the door open. “You’ll always be a brat to me.”
The clerk eyes them warily from behind a desk covered in loose sheets of paper, flanked by two tall shrubs on either side, and a wilting jar of pink roses to his left. Sweat glints of the man’s forehead, and Levi bites back a wince when the man fishes a frayed, grey handkerchief — unwashed from what Levi can tell — from his pocket and dabs it all over his ruddy face. “Mr. and Miss Ackerman?” he asks.
“Correct,” Levi says curtly.
The clerk stows his handkerchief and glances between them, beady eyes narrowed. “No relation?”
“No, we’re not,” Mikasa says quickly.
“This whole thing would be a lot more fucked up if we were.” Levi shrugs.
The clerk tuts and shakes his head but says nothing as he shuffles though the mass of papers covering his desk. Mikasa’s glare is a weighty thing, burning the side of his head.
“What? How many times have we been asked that, brat? Does this asshole really think Historia is that fucking stupid?”
The clerk clears his throat loudly, the ruddiness of his cheeks giving way to a deep, wine purple. “Are you both ready to proceed?”
The brat draws in a sharp inhale, nods. Levi rolls his eyes. “Tch. Whatever.”
“Very well. Please join hands.”
They move at the same time, linking fingers callused in all the same places.
It’s a quicker process than Levi was expecting; who would have guessed that it takes less than five minutes to bind a couple together? Some repeated vows, three stamps, and two signatures each later… he’s married.
“Congratulations,” the clerk says, shuffling his papers into a neat stack. “I now pronounce you man and wife. Kiss is optional, not a requirement. Do you require a standard ring, or do you have ones you wish to use?”
He says yes at the same time Mikasa says no. She looks at him with wide eyes as he lets go of her hand and fishes the box from his pocket, brushing lint off its smoothed surface.
“This belonged to my mother, Kuchel.” He cracks the box open, the polished silver and simple blue gem glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. “I’d like to say there’s a nice story behind it, that someone she loved gave it to her or that it’s an heirloom of some sort, but truthfully, I have no fucking idea. Maybe she found it or stole it. Maybe she was saving it to sell later. But I’m pretty sure she liked it; she wore it all the time on a chain around her neck.” He plucks the ring out of its box and holds it out for her inspection. “I’d like you to have it.”
She stares at it just a beat too long. “Cap — Levi, I…”
“No hard feelings.” He goes to replace the ring in its box. “Just putting it out there.”
“No!” Her hand latches onto his wrist and stops its journey. “No, I’d… I’d be honoured to wear it, truly, but… are you sure?”
“Tch. It’s not like I’ll never see it again, brat.”
“If you’re sure…”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure.” He slides the ring onto her finger, and something about the moment feels more electric than any of the others since they arrived in room eighteen, more than seeing her in the kimono the first time, or the inappropriately flowery vows. He squares it up, so the gem is facing upwards, and nods. “There. Looks… good.”
She draws her hand away from his and stares at the ring, her eyes bright and glassy. “Thank you, Levi. It’s beautiful.”
He swallows. “Glad you like it.”
“But you’re going to have to take the standard silver ring.”
“What, not going to offer me one of your mother’s hair decorations?”
She laughs, the sound breaking off with a hitched breath that sounds like she might start crying.
It’s faster than a bolt of lightning, the speed at which she moves to press her lips against his. There’s barely enough time to react — to catalogue the unnameable sensations or properly discern the scent on her skin, something sweet and floral that he can’t name — let alone her kiss back or push her off, before she’s pulling away again, her rouged cheeks even brighter. Levi opens his mouth, but he’s got no fucking idea what it is he wants to say.
“Well.” He and Mikasa start at the same time. The clerk sounds dour, though there’s the barest of smirks on his lips. “Congratulations again. There will be follow-up paperwork in your letterbox regarding your new commitments to yourselves and the country in the coming weeks if you’ll just confirm your address?”
In all their letters, they never discussed where they’ll be living after this, or if indeed they’ll be living together at all. At the war’s conclusion, he kept his address in Trost while she moved back to Shiganshina. Moving isn’t as unfeasible as it once was now that the Walls are gone, but it’s still a pain in the ass to even think about it, and not something he particularly wants to be subjected to.
He grunts a confirmation, and the clerk ticks a few more boxes for good measure.
“Then you’re both free to go. Thank you both for your service during the Titan Wars. Please enjoy your evening and celebrate your nuptials accordingly.”
The clerk goes back to his paperwork, and they are summarily dismissed. Levi holds the door open for Mikasa to shuffle out first, her silken skirts trailing along the mercifully pristine floors. She waits to the side as he shuts the door behind him, and for a long moment, all he can do is stare at her.
He understands the couples who ambled out of the courthouse dazed and confused a little better now.
“Well,” Mikasa says lowly. “That’s… that, I guess.”
“I guess.” His voice is like gravel. “For what it’s worth, though, I’m sorry it’s like this. You should have been able to choose. Shit, we all should have. Fuck knows what was going on in Historia’s head.”
She sighs, takes his proffered arm. “It’s not your fault. Besides, I could have done a lot worse. At least you’re not a stranger, and with you I don’t even have to go through the trouble of changing my name.”
He huffs a laugh. “There’s that, I suppose.”
“What would you have chosen?” she asks as they approach the stairs, the thud of his cane echoes in the corridor, the only sound save for the muffled voices of other couples in varying states of emotion behind the doors. “If you could have chosen for yourself?”
He can’t say he would have chosen anything at all had the decision been up to him. Marriage isn’t something he considered for himself, nor something he felt really mattered. “No use asking dumb questions, brat. But…” He slides his arm out from around hers and takes her hand, squeezes gently. “I can’t say I’m disappointed.”
“I’m not, either.” The way she looks at him, he gets the sense that she’s staring right through him. “I think I could love you, though,” she whispers at last, knocking the breath from his lungs. “In time.”
He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come easily. “You… don’t have to force it,” he croaks, dredging the sentence from the deepest depths of himself. “We both know what this is.”
She shakes her head; one of the hair ornaments hanging from a fine chain whips across her face. “It wouldn’t be forced. And frankly, Levi, I’d rather love the man I marry, even if I have to work at it, especially if he’s going to be the father of my children.”
He swallows. Children. A requisite three over the next ten years. The next phase of their obligations to Paradis Island. “It’s work even when it’s easy, brat.”
She smiles and takes his hand again. “Then it’s the same either way, isn’t it?”