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It wasn’t fair, really, but nothing ever was in their line of work. Death never came as a surprise. It was more of a necessary horror, or perhaps an expected disappointment, because it was always disappointing to be proven right when it came to something terrible.
Love was, Levi had realized, also disappointing, though for very different reasons. It was hard, in this hell, to love when losing always followed on its heels. He couldn’t blame Hange for not wanting any part of it.
That was how he had interpreted the thinning of her lips that day, the turning of her head.
The change of subject after a half-whispered, “It’s not like you to say something like that, Levi.”
It wasn’t like him. That was why he had said it, had told her that he loved her. It needed to be said, or at least he’d thought, then, that to not say anything was a bigger crime than to speak, and he’d had enough of being a criminal. Was it stupid to wish, for only a moment, to be nothing more than a human being?
Hange’s fingers brushed against the sleeve of his jacket, leaving blood there. He almost didn’t notice. Her eyes were too bright considering the absence of her goggles and the shape she was in. It made his heart pound almost anxiously in his chest.
But of course Hange would die like this: brightly.
There wasn’t much of her left.
Still, she tried to speak to him. Tried to say something as blood spilled out of the corner of her mouth forcing her words to gurgle.
“Levi, I—”
That was all she could manage before she started to choke on the stuff. He’d seen it happen before, a hundred times, probably, but it still hurt to watch, and it was especially difficult this time.
“You don’t have to say it,” he said when all she could manage was a sad, choking gargle of blood. “I know.”
He didn’t know. Maybe she loved him. She probably did, in her own way. Hange loved strongly even though she never spoke the words to anyone. Some things were just too hard to say for to say them made them too real…and once made real it could be taken away.
But for all he knew she was trying to ask him why she couldn’t feel her legs.
Her fingers weakly clawed against his jacket sleeve again. She was trying to keep him there, he imagined. Or perhaps he only hoped as much—that he mattered enough to her that she’d want him there at the end of her life. Maybe, despite her bravery and bravado, Hange Zoë didn’t want to die alone.
Her fingers fell away.
The ground was hard when he kneeled beside her, and her hand, as he took it, was still warm.
A moment passed. There was no death rattle. There was no smile. There was only death and the strange, horrifying silence that came with it.
He held onto her hand for a moment longer, squeezed it too hard, and then let go. When he got to his feet the sun was in his face and he had to turn away.
It really wasn’t fair.