Work Text:
Levi remembers every scar on Erwin’s body like they’re carved onto his own skin.
He remembers the smaller ones; a tiny, barely visible rise at the edge of his forehead from when he fell down the stairs and hit his head -as told by Erwin-, a white shallow line on his palm from when he accidentally held a sharp maneuver gear blade in his hand in training. There are more, less significant ones that carry fond memories of a moment of carelessness, there are scars that run deep, their stories painful and unpleasant to tell.
(Like the one at the base of his neck, just an inch above his collarbone, where Levi had pressed his blade in, the pressure heavy but not enough to kill. Levi wanted to press deeper, but his heart lurched and ached so badly when their eyes met; cerulean blue with molten silver. He let go, blade clattering onto the ground. The scar remained, at the spot close to where Erwin's pulse jumps.)
And Levi had found himself wondering, at times, of the numerous other marks littered all over Erwin's body -the ones Erwin had yet to tell him about. He's caught himself staring at the rise and fall of Erwin's chest as they laid in bed, huddled close under the comfort of the woolen blanket, the pitter-patter of the rain singing a calming lullaby. He had traced the scar that began at the top of Erwin's left hipbone, so small it's barely noticeable, and made a mental note to ask the man about it once he woke.
Life treated Erwin like its own personal canvas, a place to paint the sufferings and troubles of this world, and Erwin, Erwin that idiot, he just took them one after another without so much of a flinch, because that was what he lived for.
He's a soldier.
He was a soldier.
Levi watches as his pale hand move to run the wet sponge across the even paler, unmoving chest, tracing the now dulled gash that cuts in a long, jagged line. Ahh. That’s gonna leave a scar, he thinks. And a broken part of him laments the fact that this scar will be Erwin’s last; the only one he’ll never see.
He continues washing in silence, feeling the dips and contours of Erwin’s body that he has become so familiar with. But this coldness, this icy sting seeping through his fingers with each touch is strange, because the Erwin who always held him tight in his arms at night was warm. Warm, and alive.
“You’re fucking stupid, you know that?” Levi mutters under his breath, “Going on with all that ‘us against the world’ shit… And yet you left first. Leaving me with this mess.” As he says this, the water deflects off Erwin’s skin, landing and soaking the front of his shirt with a loud splatter. It clings to his body, and Levi scrunches his face, letting out a strained laughter, breath hitching in his throat. “Hah… Even when you’re dead you’re still mocking me.”
Erwin’s eyes are closed, soft blonde hair wetly plastered around his scalp and face. The golden colour has greyed into a dull platinum, and the strands look so coarse, not a trace of the neatly combed locks Levi was so used to see. Levi uses his hand to run through them, letting it fall back in place. He traces lower, his fingers lingering on the bloodless lips.
Pale. Pale. So pale, and cold.
Slowly, the rusty smell of blood disappears, replaced by a sickeningly sweet scent of vanilla and clean aftershave. When the washing is done, Levi gently dabs the towel to dry him off, slipping Erwin’s stiff limbs slowly into the clothes. He feels heavy, heavier than Levi can remember, and it momentarily reminds him of the way Erwin’s body felt pressed close onto his as they desperately fucked in the quiet room, the night before the great riot.
“Levi,” Erwin had said, breathed, against his lips as they sought for release, for assurance and relief in presence of each other. He didn’t say anything else afterwards, but at that time, Levi understood. Levi… live.
Levi chuckles darkly at himself. What a thing to recall, at such a time. But the more he tries to push the thoughts away, the more they come flooding in, and then in a matter of seconds, he is reminded of Erwin and his softly whispered words, Erwin and his bright teasing smiles, Erwin and his little kisses that were always too gentle for Levi’s liking, Erwin and his undeterred courage and bravery that had somehow convinced Levi into thinking that yes, perhaps they can one day be free. Erwin… Erwin…
“Erwin.”
Levi’s trembling hands clutch desperately onto the rough cotton of Erwin’s clothes, leaving crumpled folds in their wake as he cries silently, sinking to his knees.
Tell me, how am I to live, when my purpose is lost?
They have to pass the city to get the burial site, and along the way, Levi hears people talk.
They talk, about how the defunct Scouting Legion Commander had finally fallen. About the rebellion leader -the filthy heartless bastard who once dreamt of the impossible- sacrificed the innocent for his own desired future and ended up winning nothing but losing everything he had. They spit out his name with absolute disgust, like the thought of the man having walked this Earth before his deserved death is a blasphemy. Commander Erwin Smith. The murderer. The scum.
Levi listens. He doesn't want to; there isn't much of a choice. But if he listens a little more closely he can hear distant cries of a mother weeping, of children sobbing silently in the alley as they watch their hope, their faith, their wings of freedom, passing by in the guarded coffin, lifeless and unbreathing. ”This is unfair,” Levi hears a young boy say as he stands alone in the dark corner, face smudged and dirty, clothes tattering at the hems. He reminds Levi of himself in the Underground so much that he has to turn away.
Although of course, hatred rings louder than love. It’s all-consuming, and drives the compassion away.
They arrive before late evening falls at the silent stretch of land, pale green patches peeking out from a sea of red-brown soil. There’s a darker shade at an area, Levi notices, wet and freshly dug for this occasion. How appropriate, he thinks, staring at the spot that they’re heading to. Dark and wet, for a goodbye.
Hange’s hand comes to rest on top of his shoulder, meaning to signal him to move. He looks up at her, sees the greyish circles under her sunken eyes, visible even with the glasses in between, and nods, saying nothing. Levi mourns the loss of the brilliant light that used to twinkle in her eyes, gleaming with curiosity.
Death and grief. This is the price they have to pay.
Levi knows. Hange knows. The Scouting Legion knows.
Erwin knew.
Levi closes his eyes and sees it replay in a torturous loop in his head, the moment the blade pierces through Erwin’s heart, taking him away forever. They killed him because he fought. They killed him because of his voice, and his dreams.
Commander Erwin, the cruel, ruthless criminal deserved to die, they say, but as he watches them lower the coffin under the ground, little by little, Levi starts to think.
What did Erwin Smith deserve, really?
“Not this,” Levi whispers softly, voice a broken hush in the eerie silence, carried away by the cold November breeze. He places the bouquet of wild flowers on top of the fresh soil, crimson and lavender hues blending in softly with the earthly tones, and curls his hands tight, feeling the nails digging into his skin. “Not this.”
Levi knows every scar on Erwin’s body like they’re embedded in his soul, a part of him that will never fade away regardless of the many times he scrubs at it, slashes and stabs and lets it bleed. He tries to forget, but he remembers. Every single one of them.
He remembers.
And remembering hurts.