Chapter Text
Erwin wouldn't realize it until he was much older, but the day his father left was a cliche by any other name. He was seven years old, eating a container of Strawberry Banana Bash Trix yogurt at the kitchen table, spilling most of it onto the already sticky plastic tablecloth, the one that had grapes and cornucopias dancing all over the weathered, white on yellow surface. He had come home from school just in the nick of time, because outside, the long-overdue storm was already falling, battering against the glass sliding door to their backyard and streaking down it clear and crystal, turning the plants outside a slurry of greens and washes of pink and peach and white where the tea roses were blooming. Erwin stuck his spoon in his mouth absentmindedly, spilling more yogurt over his homework, and made bets with himself on the raindrops streaking down the glass.
If the one on the left wins, there will be spaghetti for dinner.
If the one in the middle wins, I won't have to do my homework until after bath time.
If the one on the right wins, Mommy and Daddy won't yell at each other anymore.
The rain pounded against the glass, almost, but not quite, drowning out the sounds of doors slamming upstairs, and then the harsh tattoo of footsteps down the wooden stairs, the shrieking creak of the baseboard on the third one from the bottom. Erwin watched, out of the corner of his eye, as his father, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, approached the kitchen table, anger a steaming miasma around him. The raindrops were beginning to merge paths, in the way that only raindrops can, slicking separation into togetherness and fluidity, belonging.
The yogurt was sweet against his tongue, pink and yellow halves of the yogurt cup swirling into one against his tastebuds.
"Hey, listen." His father was out of breath, as though he'd been running, as though he was in the middle of running away from his demons. Erwin turned to look up at him.
He'd always known his parents were on the older side of the spectrum, wrinkles fanning out from the corners of their eyes and bracketing their mouths and noses with fine spidery tendrils, grooves deep in their flesh that the other mothers and fathers who went to Open House didn't have. His father's eyes were wild, now, trapped and darting about the room, like the squirrel Erwin had seen lying half-dead on the side of the road, flattened and bloody. His mother had pulled him away before he could inspect it too closely. It wasn't a good look for him, and Erwin resolved to be a better son because his dad was always busy with work and always came home late, smelling like smoke and the unfamiliar acid aroma of something that Erwin could only describe as illegal.
"You be a good kid for your mom, okay?" his father said, more a statement than a question, more a command than a plea, as he lowered himself to look Erwin in the eye, ice blue on blue that had yet to develop into its full spectrum of colors. "Do your homework, come home on time, and make sure to eat all your vegetables so you can grow up big and strong to take care of Mom."
His father hugged him, tight, a shudder rippling through him, from what, Erwin wasn't exactly sure; he was wearing a wool jacket, and his body was warm against Erwin's. He smelled like too much aftershave and soap, the bitter fragrance of despair and regret, one that Erwin would grow up to know all too well, weaving its way through his childhood memories and his mother's wardrobe.
"But what about you?" Erwin asked, innocently, watching as his father pulled away, a pastel streak of soft pink yogurt staining the right shoulder of his jacket. "Won't you be here to take care of Mommy?"
His father pinched at the bridge of his nose, an action that Erwin recognized as an attempt to stave off a headache. "No, I'm afraid not," he said, finally. "I'm going away for a bit."
"Oh." Erwin nodded, turning back to his yogurt and the glass sliding door. He had lost track of the raindrops he was racing, and tried to pick out a few more fat droplets, to try again. "Okay. Be safe, Daddy." His father was a busy man, who always went on lots of work conferences every year, and Erwin was assured that this would be no different.
His father sighed, the soft susurrus of his exhalation lost among the sounds of the rain battering at their home, their last defenses against nature. His footsteps tapped along the hardwood floor, receding into the distance with the thunderclaps that were growing ever closer - Erwin counted, one second two second three second four - and the front door clicked open and closed before the next roll of thunder rumbled through the sky, the underbellies of the clouds swollen and dark.
He picked out a few more raindrops, these ones just having landed fat and perfect in his direct line of vision.
If the right one wins, I won't have to go to school tomorrow because it'll have flooded. This was optimistic, but Erwin privately thought he could be making much better use of his time at home than stuck in school learning cursive penmanship that made his hand cramp and streaked the side of his pinky with silver that his mother always tutted at, informing him he would get lead poisoning or some other such frightening ailment.
If the middle one wins, Mommy will let me have two cookies for dessert tonight.
If the left one wins, Mommy and Daddy won't be angry anymore.
He stuck another spoonful of yogurt into his mouth, the bowl of the spoon scraping against the bottom of the plastic container as he watched his chosen raindrops intently, vaguely wondering why his mother hadn't come downstairs to wave goodbye. She usually did that, standing at the doorway and waving until his father's car had rounded the corner of their block, but this time the sputtering sounds of the car's engine turning over and the spray of gravel from the tires as his father backed out of the driveway was muffled by the solid wood of the front door.
Well, Erwin reasoned as he scraped the last dollops of yogurt into his mouth and onto the tablecloth, maybe she was tired or sick or something like that. Maybe she had one of those big headaches that she got every once in a while, where she had to lie down, perfectly still, with all the blinds drawn and all the lights off and with no noise whatsoever.
A bolt of lightning traced its way across the sky, and Erwin jumped in surprise, his spoon clattering to the floor and spattering pink and yellow yogurt everywhere. When his vision stopped dancing with the sparks of the remembered flash, he found, much to his dismay, that he had lost track of the raindrops again.
Perhaps it was for the better, he argued with himself as he hopped off the chair and pushed it across the floor to make a stepstool for him to reach the paper towels they kept in the kitchen cabinet. The one-cookie rule and the way cursive always made the side of his hand smear grey and silver were facts of life, just as much as it was common knowledge that his parents didn't get along as well as the other parents did. It was a fact that Erwin had long ago learned to live with, and he assured himself that it didn't matter which raindrop would have won, because nothing would change, anyway.
The sky grew darker, the rain still pouring down in massive sheets that soaked Erwin in a heartbeat the instant he stepped outside to put the empty milk carton in the recycling bin behind the garage. The earth seemed to be sighing with relief, the soft, loamy scent of rich soil and clean grass and rain.
It was a scent that would weave itself through Erwin's memories, laced heavy with nostalgia and bittersweet like the most exquisite of cologne, a fragrance that he would, at sixteen, learn was called 'petrichor,' flipping through flash cards of vocabulary as he studied for the SAT. It was a scent that would highlight the most crucial moments of Erwin's life, stretching out before him in an endless carpet of greenery, his first kiss, his wedding day, and his divorce.
And, though he didn't know it yet, it was the perfume his greatest love would wear, dabbed liberally between his collarbones and the backs of his ears, rich and delicate against Erwin's mouth as he rose up to meet his kisses.
It would be the fragrance of Levi's skin, and the taste of his mouth, and the sound of his laugh like leaves rustling in an autumn breeze, but Erwin was only seven years old and had no idea that his happy ending lay right outside.
Hunger gnawed at his stomach as the hours passed away, the sky growing darker and sinking deeper into the evening, and still his mother hadn't come downstairs. He had done his homework without being asked, had taken off his wet clothes in the laundry room and had taken a warm shower and gotten changed into his fire truck pajamas all by himself.
His parents' bedroom door was firmly closed, and his mother didn't respond to his knocks, so Erwin felt rather justified in microwaving a bag of popcorn for dinner, salty and buttery and crunchy between his teeth as he parked himself in front of the television and let the silly dialogue of his favorite cartoon characters fill the room, competing against the rain outside for his attention. Hours ticked into hours, and the programs switched until the cartoons ran out and Erwin's eyes were gritty and sandy.
Throwing the popcorn bag away and washing his hands, he headed upstairs for bed, pausing in front of his parents' bedroom door again, indecisive, wavering, his hand hovering in the empty space between himself and the doorknob. A clap of thunder, violent and terrifying in the darkness, had him grasping the metal and turning it, pushing his way in.
His mother was a lump beneath the covers, her back to him, and didn't respond when Erwin climbed into bed beside her, curling up to her back and burrowing his head in between her shoulder blades, seeking comfort from her leaching warmth. His mother was shivering, too, like his father had been, and Erwin clung to her in determination, because he had told his father he would take care of his mother while he was gone.
But her shoulders were too big for him to get his arms over, and so Erwin settled for just patting her a few times on the back, soothing, like she did to him whenever she came in to read him bedtime stories and scare away the monsters in his closet and in the shadows in the corners of his room. She didn't stop shaking for a very, very, very long time.
Erwin hoped his father would come back, soon, and strained his ears listening for the car crawling back into the driveway, tires crunching along the gravel, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat rabbiting away in his chest at every thunderclap.
Similarly, Levi would not know, until he was much older, that he knew how to love, and that the man that would draw this realization out of him was only a scant sixty feet away.
The storm beat down around him, soaking creamy skin, and he stretched his limbs out, reveling in the weight of the water that spilt out over the branches of the silver birch he occupied. He could taste the water, pure and cold and utterly delicious, as it raced along every twig and every unfurling leaf.
The scent of the earth rose up around him, rich and musky, and, though he didn't know it yet, it would be the scent he would associate with Erwin, the scent that would weave itself into his dreams and memories. Levi inhaled, deeply, petrichor filling his lungs, and sat down between the roots of his silver birch home, watching the rain turning the world into a slurry.