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It’s weird, seeing the apartment complex in daylight. There’s a lot of things that Eren has never noticed about it before, like the fact that the stairway leading up to the front entrance is framed by hydrangeas, and the brick he had thought was an aged brown is actually a deep, deep red. He’s only been here a handful of times but it’s still a little bizarre, almost like he’s in a parallel universe.
Okay, he’s stalling.
The truth is he doesn’t even know the name of the guy who lives in apartment 3B. They met at a bar over the summer and he’s listed in Eren’s phone as “Short but ripped”, followed by a bicep emoji and a kissy face. Their chat history has been, up until now, consistent and concise – mostly variations of “DTF?” on Eren’s end, followed by a confirmation from SBR. It was easy and low-key and Eren had had every intention of keeping it that way.
Until Eren had forgotten his shirt.
His favorite shirt, to be more precise.
To the untrained eye, the shirt is nothing special. Black with a small bleach stain on the fraying hem, a few small holes under the arms. And of course, there’s the design screenprinted across the chest: an exploding zombie vomiting up the words “SKULL CRUSHER”, the name of his all-time favorite band. He’d bought the shirt on their farewell tour a couple years ago and it’s probably his most prized possession.
Which is why he can’t just leave it at a booty call’s house, even if it means disrupting their status quo.
Earlier, SBR had texted him back with “come by whenever”, which left Eren wondering just what SBR did for a living that allowed him to be home all day on a Tuesday. Well, not that it really matters. His mission is simple: get his shirt and go. The less awkward small talk, the better.
The building doesn’t have an elevator and the steps are a lot less daunting than he remembers, likely because he’s sober. He climbs them two at a time and before he knows it, he’s knocking on the door of apartment 3B, awkwardly shoving his hands in his pockets. He can hear the soft thumps of bare feet on hardwood from the other side of the door, followed by the sound of a latch being unhooked. The door opens moments later.
“Hey. I’ll get your shirt,” SBR says, stifling a yawn. It’s two in the afternoon and he’s wearing a pair of sweatpants that hang low enough on his hips that Eren can read the brand name on the band of his boxers, and his t-shirt is a wrinkled in a way that suggests he literally just rolled out of bed. Eren is more than a little jealous – he has to be at work in an hour.
“Take your shoes off if you wanna come inside,” SBR adds before he disappears into the adjacent room that is, if Eren remembers correctly, his bedroom.
Right. He now remembers this guy also has a thing about dirt.
After he toes off his sneakers (which are, admittedly, pretty dingy), Eren glances around the living area. He’s never paid it much attention before, but it’s incredibly neat – neater than Eren’s apartment ever is, anyway. Because all of his own furniture is from IKEA, he knows none of SBR’s is. He’s starting to realize SBR might be older than he initially thought.
His eye is drawn to the collection of records that neatly line the bottom shelf of the bookcase in the corner and he kneels next to it, gently running his fingers over the spines. A lot of the bands are familiar to him and he smiles, like one would at an old friend – SBR has good taste.
Then he sees it.
He swallows, his hand shaking a little as he slides the record off the shelf and holds it delicately in his lap.
“Here’s your shirt. Sorry if this is weird but I washed…,” SBR says, trailing off when he finds Eren cross-legged on his floor, cradling a record like it’s made of glass.
“You have Skull Crusher’s first album on vinyl,” Eren whispers, stroking the cover with reverence. “There’s only fifty copies in existence and you have one.”
“Oh, that,” SBR replies, scratching the back of his head. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, sighing. “Yeah. I went to highschool with the guitarist.”
“You know Erwin Smith?” Eren says, his eyes growing impossibly wide. “Erwin Smith personally gave you this album?”
“He’s not that great, you know,” SBR mumbles, looking down at the folded shirt in his hands. “He farts in his sleep.”
What’s supposed to be a laugh comes out as more of a surprised croak and Eren covers his mouth with his hand.
“I actually thought that you knew,” SBR adds casually, picking what Eren is pretty sure is an imaginary piece of lint off front of the t-shirt. “I figured that’s why you approached me in the first place, like you thought I would introduce you or something. I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”
“I had no idea,” Eren confesses through his fingers, his head still reeling. “I just genuinely wanted to suck your dick.”
They look at each other for a moment before the two of them burst out laughing and Eren hides his flushed cheeks behind the record. It’s a ridiculous situation, they both know it, but Eren feels a little warm somehow seeing SBR clutch his side, his eyes wet from laughing too hard.
“Anyway,” SBR says when he finally catches his breath, straightening up. “You can have it if you want.”
“Are you serious?” Eren hisses with disbelief, clutching the album to his chest. “But this is - it’s literally priceless -”
“It’s fine, really. Take it.” SBR pauses for a minute before dropping Eren’s shirt on his lap and kneeling down so that they’re eye to eye, his gaze resolute. “And if you really want to pay me back, maybe you could buy me dinner.”
Eren grins a little. The warmth in his chest grows. “Okay. Can I ask you something kind of embarrassing first though?”
“Shoot.”
“What’s your name?”
SBR snorts, rolling his eyes. “It’s Levi.”
“Levi,” Eren repeats, trying the name out. He likes the way it rolls off his tongue.
It’s much nicer than ‘SBR’, anyway.