Chapter Text
It didn’t look like it did on TV.
His body wasn’t poised across the melting snow; compositionally designed by some artist behind the screen. The high points of his cheeks, turned to face the glow of Winter’s morning, neither radiated the flush of cold nor reflected the scattered light bouncing against the sea of surrounding white. His hands were not posed to perfection towards the heavens at his sides. His eyes were not shut. The grime clinging to his chunks of open flesh didn’t bother to censor the gore.
Rather, he was thrown on his back like a rag doll--one hand desperately outstretched with frozen fingers hooked in the frozen ground like talons. The top of his hand was covered in torturous swipes from a knife, exposing the petrified muscular tissue. His right leg was graciously hidden beneath what remained of his icy burial, while his left exposed itself--extended out, useless--as the cut to the back of his ankle had nearly amputated his foot. The gap between his calf and heel seemed like miles. The body, both rigid and grotesquely relaxed, was swollen; decaying bruises peppering his abdomen and contrasting his dull, ghostly verdigre. He smelled of the shit and piss he was soaked in--undertones to the thick stench of death against the stagnant air.
The disturbing amount of blood in the area echoed a haunting chill. It wasn’t the loose mixture of crimson cornstarch sparingly poured over the surface of latex; gently placed down the curves of his body to a pool beneath him. It was a thick, horrifyingly dull mush, and clung to everything it touched in endless patterns of a violent dance. It coiled around the mess of frozen, brown hair and flaked around the curve of his shoulders. It stuck to the snow in cruel strokes as it melted beneath the glimmering sunlight. It pooled only from the deep gash across his throat, caking the edges of his skin as it oozed over the contours of his neck and plastered the mortified fingers clawing at the gaping wound. Sporadic heaps of it stained beneath his nose and around his mouth as the meaty, viscous fluid filled his lungs and slowly suffocated him.
A distant passerby might have mistaken him for an uncanny, wicked Halloween prank beset by the local high schoolers; perceiving his enlarged, ice-burned skin as some sort of wax mannequin until the snow had fully receded. They may not have recognized the dust of green flashing beneath his glazed eyes, widened with eternal terror towards the barren trees. They wouldn’t have thought back to the countless times those eyes would flicker up from the floor as they passed in the halls, or remember their vacant beam printed in the yearbook. But, Levi recognized them from his short distance, and only became more aware of the victim’s identity as he drew closer.
Eren Yeager.
Levi leaned away from the brim of the toilet, sneering at the odor of his own vomit as he let out one more pitiful retch. A proud man, he flushed the toilet, took a composing breath and set his collar as he straightened; keenly aware of the bustling white noise of employees just outside the bathroom door. He’d done well to mask his panicked stride as he felt the initial flip of his stomach, nodding to several enthusiastic interns as they excitedly discussed their plans for the night.
This time of year was always difficult for him.
"I didn't really know him. No one did. We weren't friends or anything, I just saw him in our music class"
It had been fifteen years since the brutal murder of twelve year-old, Eren Yeager, on March 31st, 1993. Thirteen since single father, Dr. Grisha Yeager, was tried and convicted for the homicide of his only child. Ten since he was acquitted. The boy was found with his left achilles severed, lacerations around his right femoral artery, few defensive wounds, and his head nearly decapitated.
Levi exited the bathroom after a silent glower in the mirror, silently reminding himself to keep it together. The desk unfortunate enough to stand just outside had a half-eaten pastry teetering on it’s rounded edge; the sweet scent enough to break Levi’s stoic determination as his stomach recoiled once more. He quickly turned back toward the direction of his office, passing by the myriad of grey employees tucked away in their uniform cubicles.
“I don’t know how long I stood there just… staring at him. I knew it was him, but it didn’t really hit me until…then, I just ran home”
Fourteen year-old, Levi Ackerman, had discovered the mutilated corpse along the main hiking trail just two days after the crime had taken place. His picturesque hometown had their illusion of innocence shattered upon receiving the news--breaking into a hysterical witch hunt as they pleaded for the culprit to be delivered swift justice. The living child quickly became a brief media sensation across the country, and faced a constant barrage of questions regarding the state of the body or what compelled him to the woods that day. Shortly after being placed in his first round of therapy, Levi Ackerman moved in with an uncle across the country as the investigation proceeded.
He shut the office door behind him, the heavy wood rattling the abstract company art adorning the otherwise blank walls. He mechanically walked to his desk, focused on his breathing as he shook his mouse to awaken his computer. 4:37 PM. He’d spent longer in the bathroom today than he would have liked, and had several monotonous emails to get through in his remaining time on the clock.
“ I don’t know anything about Eren Yeager”
Like each time before, the words blurred across his screen; dancing in small circles as they transfigured themselves into the first newspaper headline about the infamous crime. His fingers trembled as he slowly willed them to type an individual letter at a time; each gentle ‘clack’ of the keys reflecting the passing minutes. ‘Thank you for inquiring about our product! Here our are specifications: there was a sexual nature to the crime, but the police are unwilling to reveal the details of such at this time’.
Levi jolted a bit as the flip phone atop his desk ignited, filling the silent room with a violent chime as it rang. In his startled flinch, one of the few picture frames decorating the stale space surrounding his monitor clattered--face down. Without checking the digital ID scrolling across the rectangular front screen, he let out an exasperated sigh and answered. There was only one person who would have been calling him.
“Have you bought your plane tickets yet?” Mikasa’s monotone voice sounded almost robotic through the static phone lines, “They’re getting expensive,”
“Hello to you, too,” Levi responded sarcastically as he lifted the fallen photograph back into place. It was a snapshot of him at his cousin’s high school graduation; Mikasa being the only person at the time that could have convinced him to go back to that shithole. She was dressed in her royal blue cap and gown; the fringed graduation tassel entwined with her long, black locks. She proudly held her flimsy diploma in one hand, the other clasped, awkwardly, around Levi’s shoulders. Her father, Jarrod, and mother, Yuuka--Levi’s uncle and aunt--stood at their daughters' side, crushing a bouquet of flowers as their eyes glimmered with visible pride.
“You already left me to plan everything myself,” she started, ignoring his passive sarcasm. She sounded distant, like she was focusing on two tasks at once. Levi figured she must have been driving, “You’re not going to skip her funeral,”
Levi moved his hands from the photo’s frame and audibly sighed into the receiver, settling his phone between his ear and shoulder as he busied his hands on the keyboard. Clinging to the side of his monitor was a faded polaroid of his mother, Kuchel, aged twenty at the time and pregnant. Her face was still bright and youthful then, her cheeks full with the remainder of childhood as the summer’s afternoon reflecting against her smooth skin. Her smile was infectious through the decades, and it sparkled brilliantly as her arms cradled her enlarged belly.
“She’s your mother, Levi,” Mikasa’s tone noticeably darkened, upset by the elongated silence.
He hardly remembered the version of his mother that lived, immortalized, in that picture. The Kuchel Ackerman he remembered was the woman that chose her own life of thrill seeking over the well adjusted upbringing of her son. Levi had barely grown into a toddler when his aunt and uncle were granted custody, and his life was swiftly uprooted into their home. From that point on, he had been given loving guardians and a headstrong cousin regarded much more as a sibling. He and his mother had tried to maintain some semblance of a normal relationship, but only so much could be done during the short sessions supervised visitation.
She died three days ago.
“I’m aware,” he groaned, noticing the small, red pop-up notification just above the company’s private messaging system.
“I’m not going back there,” Levi continued as he opened yet another email from Erwin Smith, the audit manager that held the office just across from his.
From: Smith, Erwin (3:22 PM): Mike and I are headed to the bar after work. Want to tag along?
“Levi,” she said in that same, irritated tone she’d adopted for him since childhood, “You’re on thin ice right now. Thin. Okay? If you want to feel like a good person for skipping out on my engagement party, that’s fine. But, you do not get to consider yourself part of this family if this is the type of shit you’re going to pull every time,” her words were sharp beneath her refrained tone, the distraction in her voice replaced by a palpable anger.
His fingers tepidly swayed over the keys as he reread Erwin’s message through his dazed vision; wondering if the salvation of alcohol was worth the hellish encounter. It was the fifth consecutive Friday night message, and the fifth one to be left without a response. He stole a quick glance at the time, 4:48 PM, before exiting messenger and shutting down the monitor.
“If this is because of what happened-” she started.
“No,” he snapped, slamming his briefcase down hard enough to cause the graduation picture to fall once more, “This isn’t about that--not everything is about that. I just don’t have any inkling to take time off to go back to that fucked up town and play house. Is that so hard to believe?” He frantically loaded his bag, squishing the few papers haphazardly thrown inside, “She was hardly ever a mother to me,”
There was a heavy pause over the line as he zipped his bag shut; catching and fraying the same pieces of worn leather at the bleached corners. He might have thought Mikasa had hung up, had the static crackle of still air not still been ringing in his ear.
He exited his office, shutting off the agonizing fluorescents just before the weighted door shut.
“I’m just worried about you,” Mikasa sighed, her voice softening with concern, “I know it’s always hard for you around this time. And it’s been--God--it’s been fifteen years already…”
The dense silence returned--Levi keeping his eyes locked down to the white smudge on his shoe as he passed Erwin Smith to get through the glass-paned exit.
His remaining family and friends tried their best to stay in contact over those fifteen years--though each one would bite the dust as their calls were met with consistent voicemail recordings. Levi had escaped while still in middle school, while most of those people remained in or around the same area they’d grown up. It was simple in earlier years, when communication was limited to his uncle’s landlines and excuses to skip conversation came easily. Throughout the years, however, as they grew into their own people and technology raced, those excuses were harder to find. One by one, as the more prominent milestones of adulthood came, the calls ceased. Mikasa had been the sole person to ask for his cell number when he finally caved to buying one.
“How’s the medication the new therapist gave you?” she continued, the daggers of her tone now dulled. Mikasa had a way of altering your course; casually slipping from one dissonant topic to the next. Levi remembered the most recent call, where she’d drunkenly cussed him out the night of her engagement party before chittering with excitement about redecorating his apartment.
“I haven’t taken it,” Levi responded shortly. He preemptively rolled his eyes as his feet followed the familiar path down the cement stairwell to the parking garage.
His childhood therapist hadn’t recommended antidepressants. She was a kind, old woman who assured his aunt and uncle that a consistent schedule of toxic love and crippling positivity would be enough to keep his brain developing as normal. The second therapist was strict and spoke like a drill sergeant as Levi refused to open up to him about anything meaningful. His third suggested a psychiatrist prescribe him Alprazolam--which Levi took until he reported back with haunting night terrors of a battered boy climbing into his bed at night. His latest, a woman whom specialized in both trauma and addiction, proposed that he try Fluoxetine.
“Levi…”
“Don’t start,” He groaned, unlocking his car and ducking inside, “I’ll get there. I just want to take it slow,” He started the engine quickly, keeping the phone to his ear as he backed out. There was no point risking any of his coworkers seeing him and being forced to exchange worthless pleasantries about the weekend.
“It might be good for you,” he could hear her smiling.
He thought he might drive straight home, cook up one of the frozen pizzas burning in the dirty caves of his freezer, and enjoy a romantic night with his bruised ego. But, he pictured his usual diner down the street, with the flickering, neon sign and street slum meandering inside and out. What wasn't lingering in tattered booths with the grimy quarters they picked off the street, where the lonely hearts with nothing and no one expecting them home. There was the fair share of teenage runaways and aspiring models that would be the next tragic news story. After three years of minimized time outdoors, they had finally memorized Levi by his name and order. He figured that was a much less lamentable evening.
There was a sudden static shock through the line; a wave of the receiver popping. Levi instinctually pulled away, shocked by the sudden throb in his eardrum, “Mikasa?” he asked, timidly pressing the phone back to his ear. He had planned to continue, but got distracted with something dancing downward through the air in his peripheral. An array of white flakes fell from the deep grey clouds blocking out the coming night. The weather hadn't mentioned snow, Levi thought. He glanced at his gloveless hands and the passenger seat without a coat, and silently cursed himself. As his eyes focused away from the immediate white and toward something farther in the distance, he saw a family of four skipping down the sidewalk. No coats, no hats, and the father was even wearing a short-sleeved shirt. He would blame bad parenting, had the children not looked so impossibly content with the shavings of snow they were kicking from the cracks of concrete. Another woman strutted past them in a pair of dainty high heels, easily gliding through the pillowing snow with a chilled smoothie and sunglasses in her hands.
“Levi?--hear me?” Her voice pierced through the incessant static, “It m--- good for you,”
The assault of noise grew in volume as the wind rushed through the barely cracked windows. He felt a chill creep down his spine as the tiniest fragment of ice bit the nape of his neck. Roaring waves of snow pounded down in thick clumps; the smaller shards whipping around in the air before flying in various directions and out of sight. The charcoal clouds eclipsed the remaining strands of sunlight and blackened the road in front of him. He felt his eyes strain as he turned on his low beams.
“Mikasa,” he demanded, irritated at the way his own breath hitched in the back of his throat. As he squinted through the chilling frost spreading from the corners of his windshield, and the irregular exhale of his breath became visible just inches from his face, a loud scream emanated from the phone speaker.
Levi pulled away fast, jerking the wheel with him. He could feel as the tires lost their grip atop the sleek blanket of ice, spinning out with the sudden change of direction. It was impossible to tell which way he was facing as the car barreled over some jagged bump; landing with a deafening mechanical crunch against the asphalt. His shoulder rattled against the driver’s side door in tandem with the metal screech before ricocheting his chest into the dashboard-- unprotected by a seatbelt. His phone shot out of his hands like a bullet and bounced against the window before disappearing beneath the seat.
The tires continued to spin, uncontrollably, as his hands bounced from their grip. His already upset stomach tensed with vertigo, flipping completely as he felt the back of the car jerk in a wide circle. He focussed his eyes, piercing through the fogged window just in time to recognize the sturdy, jagged trunk hurdling at him fast.
He clenched his eyes shut and braced his shoulders-- just before feeling the intense impact of his body being thrown forward in time with the airbag detonation. Against the hiss of the wind, he made out a soothing voice he didn’t recognize calling out his name.
His hands immediately shot to his chest, the joints of his fingers cracking in pain as they dug against his ribs. But, just as his body began registering the pain, his hands moved to his forehead; pressing his palms hard at the points just above his eyes. There wasn't any amount of pain at his core or sides; his neck didn’t creek or seize as he gave a weak roll of his shoulders. His head was the only body part throbbing in the cold, even as he maneuvered to rest on his knees.
He gasped a bit when he felt the cold stab of ice strike his kneecaps, forgetting about the headache as he followed the wet stains at his thighs down to the large mound of snow covering his knees. His breathing settled for a split second before he took note of the aged, hand-knit mittens adorning his hands. They were sopping and coated with fluffy fragments of ice, and clung to the tips of his trembling fingers.
He willed himself to stand, trying to disguise the ways his knees initially gave out from under him. He turned to the headlights gently illuminating him from behind, only to find a dark, empty sidewalk with a single streetlamp flicking from above. A miniscule pile of snow sat above it’s bulb, melting slowly down the sides and into the dying grass at its base. The world had gone inexplicably quiet, the storm having ceased completely with not even a single flake drifting from the clear night sky. There was no panic of a city crowd rushing to help him or call paramedics. There weren't the screams of horror from nearby pedestrians. The only hints of life were the soft caress of the wind rustling the thin branches of dry trees and the few, small footprints that trailed just behind him. They looked like a child’s.
Behind him, a whimper. He jumped, unintentionally, and whipped around. Levi felt the blood rush from his body, leaving him tingling as his eyes bore down into the boy laying in the dirt infused snow.
A mess of dark brown hair peeked out in all directions from beneath his tattered beanie-- braided strands of blue and white pressing the damp ends to the flushed skin of his forehead and neck. He wore a pair of black overalls under a muted green hoodie--completely engulfing his body in baggy fabric--excluding the area just below his collar bone. There, the edges of an inflamed, yellowish bruised shone just barely before descending under his T-shirt. He sat up, slowly at first, before hurriedly glancing up at Levi and into the soft glow of the street lamp.
His eyes were large and round; soft stars twinkling in the light against their light wash of tears. They were the shade of enriched forests; tree leaves in the Fall just before they transformed and drifted to the ground; a shining gemstone of Summer. They bore forward into Levi, stoic and vacant as the boy’s feeble expression, and caused him to stumble back slightly.
Levi pictured how those eyes looked under a layer of blood; the way they begged for a salvation that never came. He imagined those eyes shining bright within the darkness of his room; how they would creep along with the jagged, broken shadow as it would crawl over his bed at night. He’d memorized the sensation of their gaze years ago.
Attempting to steady himself, Levi sucked in an icy breath-- never breaking eye contact as his mouth grew dry and metallic. He hiccupped and felt bile rise in his chest as his body became riddled with electric tremors. He took another shaking breath in, the boy's eyes hypnotizing him with their intrigued gaze. He opened his mouth, intending to let out a scream, but only managed a weak:
“Eren Yeager,”