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He hates to look in the mirror. Never a narcissist, he hadn’t been drawn to his reflection even before the ugly scars marked his skin. Now, when he crawls out of bed each morning and makes his way to the small bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, he avoids glimpses of his discolored right eye and the jagged, puckered line that crosses from his temple to his chin.
It’s been over two years since the end of the war with Marley, two years since the Attack Titan disappeared forever. His commander laid to rest even further ago, six years or more. Most of the people he held dear are gone. The ones remaining absorbed in their own lives, busy with families and children.
He never really considered that he might need someone one day. Although he kept others at arm’s length, someone was always there, even way back during his time in the Underground. Furlan and Isabel were a dream now, people locked in hazy memories that don’t match up with reality. His life is vacant, quiet.
Pulling the soft gray shirt over his head and running his hands back through his dark hair, he redirects his thoughts to the tasks of the day. There will be a new shipment of tea this afternoon, varieties he has ordered from a faraway country across the sea that he might one day consider visiting. There are chores to be completed too, cleaning the lobby of his tea shop, ensuring that all of the tea kettles are properly descaled before he heats even a drop of water.
Yanking on the black wool slacks, he lowers himself onto the stool he keeps at the end of his bed to reach for his boots. His life is ordered and controlled. Up early to prepare the teashop, waiting on the few customers that happened to stroll through the door. Cleaning up in the evenings. Retiring to his small room in the back of the building with a book, reading until the late hours when he finally closes his eyes and slips away hoping not to be jarred awake by nightmares.
Pushing through the door, he finds himself between the small shop counter and the short space that offers double porcelain basins flanked by shallow surfaces covered in flat stones. There is also a cast iron wood stove that hopefully still contains hot coals. Stepping there first, he flips open the compartment at the bottom to stir the ashes with a poker before adding twigs of kindling and carefully positioning a stick of dry wood above.
Selecting a pair of glass kettles from the long shelf above the sink, he inspects them to ensure they are as spotless as they were when he lifted them to the ledge above his head the night before. Satisfied, he leaves them on the back counter and makes his way toward the seating area to inspect the rest of his facility while the stove rises to temperature.
Setting the wooden chairs onto the floor from the tabletops before wiping the surfaces with a rag doused in his own disinfectant solution, he’s surprised to hear the bell above the front door rattle indicating a customer has walked inside. It isn’t like him to fail to lock the front of the business when he retires to his room in the evening, but it seems he missed a step in his routine the night before.
Turning, he draws a breath, his eyes falling on a beautiful woman dressed in fine clothing. She’s shaking her shoulders out of her tan coat without looking in his direction. When she has rid herself of the fabric, it is folded and draped over an arm while she turns to the counter as if expecting to find someone standing there. Registering the vacancy, her face scans the room, landing on the place where he stands motionless, staring back with narrowed eyes.
“Am I too early?” she asks, her voice light and friendly. “I didn’t see the store hours posted outside.”
He shakes his head without speaking, even though it is evident that the shop isn’t yet ready for service. Resuming his duties, he clears the rest of the tables, ensuring the surfaces are spotless before shuffling behind the counter again to check the compartment on the bottom of the stove.
“What can I get you?” he asks, without looking at her. Adding water to one of the pots, he sets it on a burner to warm as he turns back to where she is leaning against the other side of the counter. When he catches her eye again, he is mesmerized by the varied shades of color reflected in the kaleidoscope of the irises.
“I’m not even sure what you offer,” she says with the smallest of smiles. “I’m sorry to say, I’ve never been here before.” She studies his face a moment too long, causing him to duck away to the stove to remove the kettle and dump the warmed water before adding cold to the pot again. “My name’s Zoe, by the way,” she offers to his turned back.
The words draw him to her again, in spite of his discomfort, his lips parting before he can formulate words in his head. “Zoe?” he asks, brow furrowing in confusion. “I had a friend named Zoe once,” he adds deep in thought. “Hange,” the last word is a whisper on his tongue.
“The Commander of the Scouts?” she inquires, her voice dropping low and quiet to match his. “My husband spoke of her so fondly.” His eyes flick back to her face, as his heart slips inside his chest, the first indication that he cared whether she was attached to anyone. He gives her a sharp sound, something halfway between a hum and a grunt and turns away again.
“My late husband I should have said,” her voice floats to him in a way that soothes the tension in his shoulders. “It’s been more than two years, and I still forget to say the right words,” she mutters with a sigh.
“Should I just make you a cup of the house special?” he asks, not knowing whether he wants to move the conversation in a different direction or not. Part of him longs to commiserate with someone who might understand a shred of his pain.
“That sounds fine,” she returns softly.
Scooping the tea into two mesh metal balls, he reaches for a pair of teacups on the shelf above and drops the diffusers inside before returning to the stove to ensure the water is properly heated, but not overboiled. Content with the level of steam rising from the spout, he lifts the pot to pour the water into the cups and begins a count in his head.
“You can have a seat if you’d like,” he mutters, resisting the urge to look in her direction. “I can bring it to you.”
“Oh, of course,” she replies, and he hears her move away from the counter to a nearby table. The seconds slip by in silence as he recites numbers in his head on the way to the perfect brew. He hopes he isn’t rushing the count in his effort to dispel the awkwardness descending around him. Finally, it is time to remove the diffusers.
“Do you need cream, sugar?” He raises his deep voice just a hair to ensure his question reaches the place where she is seated.
“No, thank you,” flits across the space, and he imagines a warm breath caressing the words into his ear. Lifting the cup, he makes his way across the shop with his eyes on the dark liquid, gently setting the cup onto the table beside her hand. Turning, he is surprised when she touches him, gently brushing her fingers against his remaining digits before he can move away.
“Did I see you brew a cup for yourself?” she asks, the words choking out through a constricted throat. “Would you want to sit with me? I would rather not sit alone.” He waits for her to move her hand away from his before he crosses the room in a daze to lift his own cup and return, dropping into the chair across from her.
He can feel her eyes on him, but he can’t bring himself to return her gaze. What can she possibly see? An old man with a disfigured face and deformed hand stumbling around in a tea shop. Sure, there were the smallest of wrinkles at the corners of her wide eyes and the edge of her pink lips, but she was mostly unmarred, at least externally. What Eldian didn’t bear internal scars?
“So, you knew Commander Hange Zoe?” she asks, attempting to draw him into conversation. “Credell, that was my husband, said they were kind, but a bit reckless.” She releases a sigh before prattling on. “Of course, Credell was the reckless one that failed to obey orders and got himself killed during that mission to Liberio.”
“Your husband took part in the Scouts’ mission to Liberio?” he asks, taking a chance, joining the conversation against his own better judgment. He could not recall the name Credell.
“Yes,” she lifts her eyes as he lifts his, holding contact for a beat before her eyelashes flutter, and she glances away. “I told him to listen to the commander and that other guy that everyone had so much respect for,” she pauses, rolling through information in her mind. “What was his name?” she asks herself, bringing a hand to her face to tap a thumb against her lips. “Captain,” she says, and he holds his breath as she pauses again. “I want to say it was Captain... Levi. Does that sound correct?” she flicks her eyes in his direction again.
Briefly he wonders if she is serious, but the imploring look in her pretty eyes answers the question. She has heard rumors and talk about him, but she has no idea who he is. It’s strange because most women who knew his name were aware of his appearance. When he dared to venture out on a walk across Trost, many of those women who previously held him in high regard would whisper sad thoughts as he passed on the street.
“Captain Levi is correct,” he says, the words sliding out low and thick. “What do you know of him?” he asks, lifting his cup to his lips and taking a drink between splayed fingers.
“Credell said he was fierce,” she remarks, a smile gracing her face, a twinkle appearing in her eyes. “He said that man could take down ten titans in the time it took any other soldier to eliminate one.”
“That seems like a slight exaggeration,” he comments, glancing out one of the two paned windows at the front of the shop. The streets are coming alive outside the building, people bustling along the sidewalk on their way to the market.
“I don’t know,” she says, taking a sip from her own cup of tea. “This is quite good,” she taps a nail to the side of her cup. “It makes me sad that I’ve never been here before,” she glances around the room before her eyes land on him again. “Anyway, back to gossip about the Scout Captain,” she says with a smirk. “Credell said he was hell bent on taking out the Beast Titan, that Zeke Yeager, all on his own.” Her lips turn down. “I hope that didn’t get him hurt in the end,” there is sadness in her voice.
“It did,” he works up the nerve to hold her gaze when she looks at him again, “but he survived.” Her expression is morphing into a look of curiosity. “He’s still around,” he adds, somehow bolstered by her attention. Her gaze doesn’t shy from the eye that is clouded in milky white, yet she isn’t staring at his scars in disgust either. It’s like she is looking at the features on any other face, taking in the lines as if they belong there.
“Did you know him also?” she asks, but the quality of her voice is different, as if she has come to an understanding and is guarding herself against further foolishness. He preferred the way she spoke before she reached the conclusion.
“I did and now you do too,” he offers, drawing a sharp inhale from her lips, which in turn causes a short chuckle to escape his. “How the great Captain hath fallen, huh?” he asks, allowing his eyes to bounce around the shop before alighting on her face again.
“I feel like a very stupid person,” she mumbles, dropping her gaze to the cup on the table. “That’s what I get for gossiping so openly. I’m very sorry,” her eyes are sincere when she looks at him again. “I don’t talk to many people. I think I’m out of practice regarding what’s appropriate.”
“Being out of practice is probably better than never being in practice to begin with,” he says with a smirk. Her head tilts as she regards his words, which she can sense are self-deprecating.
“I’m going to speak out of turn once more, because I have to say this before I lose my nerve,” she confesses, and he waits silently for her to continue. “I always heard women talk about how handsome you were, but I never expected it to be true.” Her cheeks are pink tinged as the sentence make its way from her throat.
“Tch,” he scoffs. “Now you’re just mocking me,” he says, grasping his empty teacup by the brim and moving back toward the counter.
“I’m really not,” she offers, trailing behind him, leaving her own cup forgotten on the table. “I know that was a bit forward to say, but I’ve been telling myself that if I don’t want to be lonely for the rest of my life I have to take chances, and…” she trails off, and he turns slightly to give her a sideways glance. “I thought we were hitting it off,” she sighs. “I guess I was the only one that thought that.” She moves away, back to the table, sliding into her chair again.
Standing behind the counter, staring across the space, he considers her words. They sound earnest, genuine, but how can they be? He knows what he looks like. He knows his face is no longer considered handsome. Why would she say that? She couldn’t possibly believe it.
“Can’t you see the scars on my face?” he asks quietly, knowing the words are foolish and vain. She turns her wide eyes back, gazing at him.
“Of course I can see the scars,” she whispers. “I won’t tell you that I like looking at something that probably causes you a lot of pain, but they set you apart, draw me in,” she shakes her head, cutting off her own thoughts. “I need to stop talking,” she admonishes herself.
Without thinking, he moves across the room and drops into the chair across from her again, regarding her openly. “Don’t,” he says, his eyes flicking over her face. “People come in here every day and look at my face and then ignore me as if they are afraid of saying something that will offend me,” he falls quiet for a beat before continuing. “You are the first person who has actually noticed me in a long time.”
He watches her throat move as she works down a swallow before she speaks again. “You are light and dark,” she says, a pained expression crossing her face as she translates her thoughts into words. “Tenderness and brutality,” she says. “Hero and possibly villain?” The blush on her cheeks deepens a shade as the question passes her lips. “It’s all etched there on your skin, and it’s quite beautiful,” she confesses, glancing away before dragging her eyes back.
A hand flutters into the space between them, but she catches herself and drops it to the table. “I want to run my fingers over the ridges on your face,” she whispers, drawing her shaking fingers to her throat. “I’ve longed for Credell since he’s been gone, but from the moment you turned to me in this shop this morning I’ve forgotten what it feels like to desire him.”
“You’re just a lonely woman,” he grumbles, and his dark tone teases a vulnerability in her eyes. She nods agreement, but keeps her gaze locked on only him.
“Aren’t you lonely too?” she asks so quietly that he wonders if he heard the words correctly. “I desperately need someone to be lonely with.”
His breath racks through his teeth with a sharpness that is nearly painful, but before he can recuperate from her words she is reaching across the table to cover his fragmented hand with hers. The touch of her fingers sends a quake through him that he didn’t know he was even capable of feeling.
“Your tea is probably cold,” he says, glancing at her unfinished cup. She reaches for it with her free hand, bringing it to her lips for a sip.
“It’s fine,” she returns, waiting for him to say more.
“I can make you a fresh cup,” he offers without moving away.
“Please don’t,” she says with a slight shake of her head. “I don’t want you to leave that chair yet. My tea is fine. Your presence is better.”
“I have things to attend to in case I have other customers,” he reasons.
“If a customer comes, I’ll help you attend to whatever is needed,” she says. “How did you come to work in a tea shop anyway?” she asks. “Is this what you always wanted for yourself? Your dream come true?”
“I have always thought this would be peaceful and rewarding,” he answers, locked into her gaze. They haven’t broken eye contact for some time now. “Over the last year, I’ve felt something was missing though,” he confesses.
“Me,” she says with a smile and a shrug. “I’m what’s missing.” She releases a sigh. “Tell me that you don’t feel it too, because I look into your eyes and I can see what I’m feeling.”
“Maybe,” he’s noncommittal, not ready to offer his entire heart up to a woman he just met. “I’ll admit that I am glad I failed to lock the door last night.”