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When Levi becomes a captain, he asks for help improving his handwriting so he can take on more paperwork. He is such a fastidious student that his handwriting is soon the best in the Corps, as neat as newspaper text.
During a lesson that Erwin thinks will likely be their last, Erwin finds himself wondering what Levi could have done had he been given the chance to go to school. The thought makes his heart heavy.
Levi looks up suddenly from across the desk, like he can feel Erwin’s eyes on him longer than usual.
“What?”
Caught on the back foot, Erwin takes a brief moment to compose himself.
Finally, he asks, “Who taught you to read and write?”
Levi’s eyes darken the way they do when someone tries to approach him on the street, and Erwin feels a pang of guilt. He doesn’t expect Levi to answer, so when he does it’s a pleasant surprise.
“My mom,” he says, and goes back to the text he’s copying perfectly on a sheet of spare paper.
Levi never talks about his past, let alone his family, and the prospect of learning more makes Erwin reckless, has him leaning forward in his chair.
“And who taught your mother?” he asks.
Levi glances up again, eyes flashing. “I don’t know. Never came up.” His tone says that the conversation is over, and Erwin leans back reluctantly. Then Levi says, “I recognize some of these books, though.” He gestures at the handwriting primers spread out on the desk. “Ratty-ass old copies, but that’s what she used. Down to this stupid one with the mouse.”
Erwin blinks at him, not understanding. “Are you certain you aren’t misremembering? Every district uses different materials, and these primers all come from Ehrmich, where my father used to teach. Even if your mother somehow got discarded copies from Mitras, they would be different—”
“I don’t know, Erwin, all right? I was a fucking kid, I didn’t think to ask.”
Curiosity rears up in Erwin’s chest, but he quashes it down. He can see that this is not a line of questioning to pursue. Still, though, the idea that Levi’s mother somehow had school primers from Ehrmich in the Underground just seemed…strange. Unless she hadn’t been born Underground, had gone there on purpose, but for what possible reason—?
Then Levi surprises him, saying, “She died when I was a little kid.”
Erwin’s world tilts. He can’t help but feel like he’s been allowed to glimpse something sacred, and is pulled to show proper reverence before it. Levi is looking down at his paper.
Carefully, Erwin says, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Levi twitches one shoulder, dismissive.
Something warm rises in him, and without thinking Erwin says, “I lost my father when I was very young, too.”
He sees Levi glance up, then down again.
“Never knew mine.”
Erwin’s heart gives a painful twist. Then he realizes—
“Who took care of you when she died?” His voice is soft. It feels inappropriate to speak any louder.
To his surprise, Levi barks a sharp laugh. He looks Erwin dead in the eye and says, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
At once, the tension in the room is broken. Never one to back down from a challenge, Erwin says with a smirk, “Try me.”
Levi shakes his head, one corner of his mouth lifting, and when a beat passes and he still doesn’t speak Erwin reaches into the bottom drawer of his desk.
“Your handwriting has surpassed mine in quality,” he says, producing two glasses and a half-empty bottle of whiskey, a gift from Nile when he’d been made commander. “I’m not sure I have any more to teach you.”
Levi puts down his pen. “Don’t try to ply me with alcohol, Commander.”
“This is a celebration, not a bribe,” Erwin says, unstoppering the bottle and pouring two generous portions. “You were an excellent student.”
“Oh, this is a ‘get the fuck out of my office’ drink, then.”
“Never, Levi.” He nudges one of the glasses across the desk. “I’ve enjoyed getting to spend more time with you like this. And now that I know it would likely take the rest of this bottle to get you even a little drunk, I’m not keen on using it all just to ply a little piece of information out of you. This is good whiskey, I want it to last a while longer.”
Levi snorts. “You sure that won’t be too much for you, lightweight?”
Erwin leans across the desk, clinks their glasses together more aggressively than necessary. He likes Levi like this, feels pleased that he’s one of the few people with whom Levi feels comfortable enough to trade jabs.
“Congratulations on your graduation,” Erwin says, with mock formality. “May you have many more years of expense reports and mission debriefs to complete.”
They both drink. Right away Erwin’s head goes a little fuzzy. Levi leans back in his chair, throws one ankle over the opposite knee, considers Erwin like he’s a puzzle to solve.
“You ever heard of Kenny the Ripper?” he asks.
Erwin sets his drink down, taking a moment to ensure he heard correctly. He decides to go along with whatever turn this conversation has taken.
“Nile always suspected it was a gang that killed all those MPs,” he says, taking another drink and it burns down his throat. “Or a few copycats, because otherwise—”
“It wasn’t,” Levi says.
Erwin pauses, looks at him, trying to understand. Levi rolls his eyes.
“I’m answering your fucking question, Erwin.”
What ques—
Erwin’s eyes go wide.
“Told you you wouldn’t believe me.”
Erwin laughs.
Levi scowls, says, “Don’t fucking laugh.”
“I believe you,” Erwin says. He takes another drink and his glass is already half-empty, his gut pleasantly warm. “I believe you,” he repeats, and the scowl finally drops from Levi’s brow. Then Erwin says, “How…?”
Levi shrugs. “Don’t know. He knew my mom, I guess. Somehow.”
And now Erwin is leaning back in his chair, trying to picture Levi as a child, pale and helpless, and something aches so deeply in him that he tosses back the rest of the whiskey, then coughs.
“Well,” Erwin says, trying to cover up for his awkwardness, “with such a legendary mentor, I’m not sure I realized just how close I came to dying at your hand.”
Levi snorts. “Really? This didn’t get that point across?”
He bares his own neck, points to a spot that mirrors the thin scar he left on Erwin’s skin. Erwin’s eyes focus at once on the bob of his Adam’s apple instead. Then he looks away and down—he must have forgotten how strong the whiskey was, if he’s this flushed already—but he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he grips the bottle and pours himself another small splash, then silently offers more to Levi, who holds out his glass.
The room is too quiet. Erwin can hear his own pulse. Imagines he can see Levi’s beneath his skin. He scrounges desperately for something to say and comes up with a question.
“What was your mother’s name, Levi?”
The air between them sharpens into a knife’s edge. Erwin tastes metal on his tongue. Levi glares across the desk, and his eyes are like hooks on Erwin’s. He couldn’t look away if he wanted to.
Finally, Levi lifts his glass to his lips and whispers into it, “Kuchel.”
Erwin’s fingers tighten on his glass. He holds the name in both hands, not unaware of the sacred thing Levi has given him. More cracks form in his glass shield, spiderwebbing outward. A rush of affection for this woman he’ll never know fills his chest.
The glass is heavy in his hand when he lifts it. “To Kuchel, then.”
Levi’s chest contracts like it’s been run through with a sword. They maintain eye contact as Erwin sips his whiskey, but Levi seems frozen in place. Erwin thinks he sees something white glint in the corner of Levi’s eye, but then Levi blinks and he throws back the rest of his drink in one gulp.
“I’m gonna go.” And then he stands and crosses the room in a few strides before Erwin’s mind can catch up. “’Night,” he says, reaching for the door.
“Levi,” Erwin says.
He doesn’t slow. “Thanks for the drink,” he says, and the door shuts behind him.
Erwin sits still, the whiskey spreading warmth from his face, down his chest to his middle, and watches the lamplight reflected in their twin glasses flicker down to nothing. Only when he’s nearly sitting in complete darkness does he scrub his hands over his face and sway to his feet, reaching out to steady himself on the desk. He accidentally knocks over one of the glasses, sends it flying. It shatters somewhere. It’s strange that when glass breaks, there is both a low, deep sound and a high, tinkling sound. He hears the parallel sounds even as he puts the whiskey back and kicks the drawer shut, as he shuffles toward his bedroom, as he lays in bed, sleepless, shattered.