Work Text:
It was the 31st of October. A mild day, cool temperatures, leaves falling and detailing the streets and wooded areas of the college town you called home. It was late. The day had gone by so quickly it was hard to keep track.
Night had washed over the town, the streetlamps illuminating trick or treaters as they passed by you. Most of them were scuttling home, buckets full of goodies, hands sticky with candy, starting to peel off layers of costumes on their walks back to the safety of the indoors.
The house party behind you was bumping, flashing lights out the windows of the house and spilling onto the mostly dark street. Music permeated the walls, a dull pounding noise as your quiet footsteps fell on the sidewalk.
You’d partied as much as you dared, drinks weighing heavy on your brain, and a cigarette perched precariously in your hand as you took a seat on the perch out front. You almost fumble the cigarette, almost drop it onto the cold asphalt, but somehow capture it again without burning yourself.
Sweet, sweet release, you think, blowing the smoke out. If your body could get any laxer it would, nicotine entering your system and only further dulling your senses.
You’re half slumped over on the sidewalk, posture lax and knees tucked up a bit, feet just a step lower on the street while your bum is nestled on the curb. It’s cold and you vaguely wonder why on earth people choose to dress so slutty for Halloween when it’s cold outside.
You pull at the skirt that’s ridden up a bit. It’s a slutty cat costume. Fake tail, cute fake ears, drawn on whiskers, a short skirt and lowcut top, all monochrome to give the black cat effect. You felt cute in it when you left your apartment this evening, but as the night presses down on you, you just wish you’d brought a jacket or wore some tights or something. Or had the sense not to dress this way, at least.
“Oi! Hey!”
A rough voice rings out in the night, capturing your attention. You turn sluggishly, glancing behind you.
Here he comes, you think to yourself, failing to stop the roll of your eyes as he storms down the sidewalk toward you.
“Levi,” you greet, turning your back on him once more. You thought you had been slick sneaking out to smoke, but of course he hadn’t missed it.
His black hair is neat. He’s not wearing a costume because he’d never be caught dead in one. Perfectly created black brows knit together and giving you a look oozing of disapproval as he approaches your side.
“I told you to wait for me. You don’t need to be out here by yourself,” he snaps, giving you a look that should read as angry, but mostly reads as worry.
You wave a hand dismissively at him, the one with the cigarette that’s basically a stump at this point.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine,” you start, shooting him a moderately annoyed look before taking another drag.
“And you shouldn’t be smoking that, either,” He adds, brows furrowing impossibly deeper.
He plucks it out of your hands, pale fingers nimble, before your alcohol riddled brain really processes it. Your eyes instead fall to his shoe extinguishing it against the ground.
“Now you’re gonna get cigarette smell in my car,” He mutters, eyes locked on your face.
You glance up at him through thick lashes, coated heavily in mascara. It makes your eyes pop and for a moment he’s dumb struck staring down at you. You’re giving him a look oozing of annoyance, ingratitude. A little bit of that worry chips away, annoyance draining from him.
You look helpless sitting on the sidewalk all slouched over, and you look pissed that he took your cigarette, but you also look cute. Your face is bitten with the cold, and your hands are tucked close to your body, he assumes to warm them. It softens him a little.
“C’mon. Get up. I’m taking you home,” he mutters, sighing with begrudging fondness and not giving you a moment to protest.
He offers a hand to you, and you don’t hesitate to take it. You know he’s strong. You’d seen him with his shirt off once. One miserable time in all the years you’d been friends in college, and it hasn’t left you yet. He tugs you up, gripping your other arm to help you stumble to your feet.
“Clumsy,” he chides, releasing your hand but not your arm. He’ll be damned if he lets you run off again.
“Fuck off,” you mutter, trying to steady yourself as you rock on your feet.
He quickly wraps his free arm around your waist, tugging the arm in his grip over his shoulders.
“You don’t need to do all this,” you mutter, brow furrowing and eyes latched on the ground, trying to focus on your footing.
I want to, he wants to say, but the words are thick in his throat, and his ears feel like they’re burning hot with the contact of your drunken warm body against his side. He’d almost try to enjoy it if he didn’t feel like a pervert for it.
“Someone’s got to take your drunk ass home,” he replies, tone annoyed, dismissive.
He mentally berates himself when he catches the guilty look you shoot him. He doesn’t comment though, as much as he wishes he could find the words to say what he’s really thinking.
I care. I worry about you. You look hot tonight. Stop thinking about him.
“C’mon,” he chides again, voice softened just enough to let you know he's not angry.
He assists you with stepping off the curb, well-muscled arm tight around your waist. Your steps are fumbling, a little off as you try to focus on the asphalt below you. The streetlamps help illuminate things, but they don't quite help with the increasing lack of spatial awareness you’re feeling.
You do feel bad. You've been relying on him an awful lot here lately, ever since the breakup with your miserable ex-boyfriend. You and Levi had been friends for years, somehow connecting over a mutual enjoyment of the same cafe and having similar orders.
You had approached him first. He was intimidating but you thought he was…. well the kind of mysterious and harsh that made you want to figure him out. It made you wonder what made him tick. So when all the tables were full and you had no where to sip your own jasmine tea and read, you had shyly approached him and asked him if you could use the extra seat at his table.
To your surprise, he had agreed, and at the time was more flustered than you realized. The pretty girl he’d been casting glances at for weeks, showing up every day just to catch a glimpse of her was asking to sit at his table. He agreed to it, expression stoic as ever, and didn’t say a word else to you. You didn’t find it rude. It had given you more time to subtly study him.
Eventually you did speak to one another though - bonding over a shared preference of tea, books you were reading, and your studies. You two had clicked easily. Easier than you would have thought, but nonetheless, the budding friendship never bloomed into anything more.
Any hint you dropped at wanting to go out was, you thought, tactfully ignored by him. Any indication of flirtation he tried (bad at it as he was) flew right over your head and he had assumed you weren’t interested.
You’re disturbed out of your stupor at the jangle of the keys in his hand. He unlocks the passenger door and opens it, somehow managing to juggle half your body weight in the process. You lift one foot and begin to step into the vehicle, and he helps ease you in.
“Easy,” he mutters, voice low.
He swiftly shoves his keys back into his pocket, before placing a hand on the back of your head. Pushing it down and leaving it there for a moment to ensure you don’t bump it as you slide into the car.
Your body tingles at his touch, at the tone in his voice, but you listen. For once you listen without arguing. The almost tender tone in his voice quiets you. It also makes you feel guilty. It shouldn’t be on him to make sure you get home safe or drag you off the sidewalk when you’ve been drinking over your ex.
The interaction is over just as quickly as it starts. He’s closed the passenger door and is sidling over to his side of the vehicle. You long for the warmth of his hands on you again, just his touch. It makes you queasy in the best way possible and makes something ache in your chest. They’re calloused, rough but so tender and it makes you want to-
No. No, you chide yourself. He’s your friend, you think to yourself. A good friend.
Calm down.
He’s sliding into the car beside you then, moving to buckle his seat belt. He’s all business as usual, even though you’re sprawled out in his passenger seat. You begin to fumble with your own seatbelt.
He glances over at you, eyeing the current predicament.
She needs to get this out of her system, he reminds himself. He’s trying to be nice, understanding, and not get irritated with how utterly inebriated you are.
You grunt, trying to get the seatbelt adjusted. Somehow, you’ve managed to tangle it up and you are equal parts drunkenly confused and annoyed with yourself, face burning in embarrassment.
“Here,” he says, reaching across the console of the dark car, not even started yet.
His hands work quickly. He was always quick and efficient at whatever he did. You release the seatbelt and just let him work. He’s moving your arms, pulling you forward a bit to remove the tangled portion that somehow ended up behind you. You try not to squirm but….close contact, his hands on you, in a dark enclosed space?
You let out a shaking breath.
He’s trying very hard to focus on the task at hand and not your cleavage that’s temptingly close to his face as he leans across the console to adjust you. It’s not in his face, but he sort of wishes it was, and it makes him feel kind of like a pervert.
His ears are burning with embarrassment, and he’s glad it’s dark in the car. His eyes are laser focused on the seatbelt and not on that tempting glance he so badly wants to take down to really get a good look.
“You really made a mess of this,” he mutters, frowning.
You’d never really know what’s going on in his head. He seems frustrated, not like he wants to jump your bones. It kind of makes you feel bad.
“I’m sorry,” you offer, laughing nervously at the close contact.
His eyes lock with yours for a moment as he finally gets the belt unknotted and begins to buckle you in.
“It’s fine- “ he starts.
He’s so focused on not looking and the almost guilty tone in your voice that he doesn’t quite realize he’s basically brushed his whole hand across your chest to buckle you.
You freeze. He freezes. A millisecond of awkward silence ensues. Your eyes are still locked, and for the first time you see something akin to panic in his features.
And then he’s back in his own seat, your seat belt now secure, and starting the car before you can blink or appreciate the moment. His jaw is tight, and your eyes are wide.
Should you say something? You kind of…liked it. It makes you hot in a way that screams desperation and it feels shameful. Your face was burning before but it’s an inferno now.
The lighting in the car is still dim even with the car on. Levi wastes no time and steps on the gas, easing out into the roadway. His expression, of course, gives nothing away, but internally he’s cursing the day he was born.
Should he apologize? No. He’s not sorry even if it was an accident. But would you think he was a creep? He wasn’t trying to be!
The silence in the car is tense. Both of you know what occurred but neither of you wants to admit how you feel about it or comment.
Maybe it would be easier to forget it, you think to yourself, slowly trying to relax your posture.
But I liked it, your heart seems to remind you. I bet it would feel better if he had actually grabbed- no. No.
Levi is in no better condition, white knuckling the steering wheel and trying to decide whether he should apologize or just own up to it. It was an accident.
You’re drunk and may not remember it, he reasons.
But what if you do? What if you remember and think he was trying to cop a feel?
“I’m sorry,” he finally blurts out, without quite meaning it.
The road is quickly disappearing behind them. He knows the way to your apartment and is taking the familiar route. Your eyes are locked on the window; forehead pressed to the glass to admire the still lit pumpkins and Halloween lights along the residential area when he makes the admission.
You sit up a little straighter, glancing over at him. There’s some level of sobriety in your features now. The haze of alcohol is still there, bolstering you, but you’ve made up your mind.
Fuck it. I can just pretend it was the drinks in the morning, you think to yourself.
“I’m not,” you state boldly, eyes focused on the road ahead.
He’s silent, eyes narrowing on the street as he drives. He’s confused, trying to figure out if this is the alcohol talking or not. The tension is tangible in the car at this point, eerie, uncomfortable.
“You’re not?” He asks after a few moments of heated silence. His eyes never stray from the road. It’s hard to gauge his tone. Some surprise, but also something…endearingly awkward in the way he asks.
“I’m not,” you agree, trying to sound as sober as possible. Internally there’s red alerts going off, sirens sounding in your brain.
What if he doesn’t want to be your friend anymore? What if he throws you out on the side of the road? He would totally do that.
He lets out a slow breath. He glances over at you in response, body tense, on edge, before locking back in on the roadway ahead. His ears are hot coals attached to his head, and his expression is grim.
“You’re drunk,” he says after a moment, voice flat, measured.
You’re not quite sure how to respond to that. You don’t look at him, instead gazing at the empty sidewalks passing by. It’s nearly 2 in the morning at this point and there’s not many other cars on the road either. You’re only a block or so from your apartment now and you debate with yourself.
Do I really want to confess this? You wonder, silent for several moments before the words spill out.
“Even if I weren’t, I’d mean it,” you finally settle on, deciding to look out the window so he can’t see the blistering heat creeping up your neck.
His heart is hammering in his chest at this point, in his throat. He’s not quite sure what to say to that. He’d love to just touch you. In any way, shape, or form. Just be with you, but he’s not sure how to get past the rising lump in his throat. He’s scared and he doesn’t like it.
“You’re just saying that because you miss Michael,” he assesses, once again in a flat measured voice. He’s trying very hard to conceal the storm brewing within him. Something ugly, something vulnerable.
You’re taken aback by the admission. Does he not know? Sure, you had liked Michael. You were bitter the guy cheated on you, but then again…. you guess you never told Levi why he cheated. You're silent, trying to give both him and yourself time to think. He doesn’t like to be cornered and neither do you.
The apartment is in view at this point, fast approaching. A large, old brick building you’ve called home for a few years now. You can see your balcony with the little potted plants that are already dying off with the increasingly brisk fall weather and the patio furniture that goes mostly unused.
If I’m going to do this, then I’ve got to do it quick. Cut and dry and straight to the point.
“I don’t miss Michael. It’s my fault he left,” you murmur quietly.
“Then do you just miss having someone?” Levi asks immediately. The rest goes unsaid.
You flinch. That one hurt. The tension is thick, uncomfortable in the car as it pulls to a stop in front of the apartment building. Your eyes drop to your hands in your lap; lips pressed into a tight line.
Is he calling me a whore? Is he saying that I’m that pathetic? That I’m that lonely that it could be anyone?
He sighs as he puts the car in park. Guilt is clawing up his throat, choking him. He’s lashing out because he doesn’t know what else to do or how to feel. If you were sober…. maybe he’d have the courage. Maybe he’d be comfortable enough to give his confession and be able to take a no, but drunk? No. This won’t do for him.
“I didn’t-,” he breathes deeply, "I didn’t mean it that way. I just mean that I know you’re lonely. Your roommate moved out not long ago and now him? I get it.”
He’s silent for a moment, debating.
“I don’t want you to do something you'll regret just because we’re close,” he finally finishes, voice the softest you think you’ve ever heard it. Almost sad.
You’re not sure whether to cry or to try to gather the melting puddle that is your heart. Mixed signals are a painful thing, and it leaves you reeling.
Should I just leave? Would that make it easier?
“Right well. There’s my answer then, I suppose,” you mutter, trying and failing to sound unbothered. You begin to unbuckle yourself.
“I appreciate you looking out for me, I guess,” you add, trying to lighten the situation despite the growing black feeling in your heart. You grip the car door handle and swing it open.
You don’t look at him and he can tell you’re upset. He’s trying to fight the panic clawing in him as you shove the car door open. The desire to let you be and leave it alone so he can eliminate it, cut out that weakness, or the desire to drag you into his arms so he can finally understand what he’s been wanting for so long are warring within him.
Before he can stop it, he’s unbuckled and out of the car himself, walking to the passenger side. No matter how worked up he is, he’s not letting you walk the streets at night even if it’s just to your apartment.
He's already reaching for your hand to help you out by the time you realize he's there. Begrudgingly, you take the hand he offers you. No way you're getting up the stairs to your apartment without him, as much as you'd like to think you can.
He's utterly silent as he helps drag you out of the car, resuming his earlier position with his arm around your waist. You sling one of your own over his shoulder even if it hurts to have contact with him right now. Even if you're sort of angry.
You begin the very short walk to your apartment building. The streets are eerily silent and the autumn breeze is cold. It makes you tuck yourself closer to his side despite the brewing sadness in you. He says nothing and neither do you. What else is there to say? You asked and he turned you down.
Your mind is churning.
Should you tell him? Would it bother him to know? Would it damage the friendship further?
Levi is in much the same predicament. He's feeling like he just shoved his foot straight in his mouth on this one. How to get a girl to hate you 101 is a book with his name on the cover, he imagines.
The two of you arrive at the apartment steps and he begins to help you up them. It's maybe a dozen or so, but each one is clumsy for you. He catches you when you slip and despite the writhing discomfort in you, you lean on him.
Eventually you do arrive at the top and your mind is all but made up.
What else is there to lose?
He maneuvers away from you, leaving you to lean against the brick wall, and then pulls your keys out of his pocket. You'd entrusted him with the safe keeping of them while you were partying it up. He's unlocking the door then, his back to you.
"Do you know why Michael cheated?"
You ask, words just a little slurred. Your head is comfortably nestled against the cold brick, staring off into space. You're trying to summon the courage to admit it.
He pauses for just a second. He didn't think you'd say anything else. He thought you'd shut him out.
"Because he's a piece of shit?" He prompts, voice icy, door now unlocked. He swings it open and moves towards you to assist in getting you inside.
"No," you murmur, voice rueful.
You loop an arm around his shoulders again and he does the same to your waist, guiding you through the front door. His expression is grim.
First, you're trying to come onto him and now you're going to cry about your ex? He thinks to himself. What a mess. What a mess I've made.
"He thought I was cheating on him with you," you finally mutter, cheeks burning once again. Your voice is resigned, watery.
Levi pauses, having just kicked the door shut behind the two of you. He had been debating on whether to toss you on the couch or make the perilous trip upstairs to tuck you into your bed. His lips switch, something bitter passes in his features before they're flat as stone again.
"With me, huh?" he asks, bitter, sort of angry. He's trying not to let the surprise and irony of the situation reflect in his actions.
Had you come to him.... he would have. You'd have been his, he thinks miserably.
And now he's fucked it all up.
He maneuvers further into the apartment, towards the living area, and gently helps you down onto the couch. You immediately slump over and manage to get your feet onto it.
"Yeah," you say, sniffling.
You're not crying but you feel like it, eyes watery and the rims of them turning red. The couch is soft and comfortable. The apartment is dark and you're grateful for it. You don't want him to see you cry over him, because it wouldn't be over Michael.
He grabs a blanket from the back of the couch, tucking it around you, trying to get you to move so he can stuff one of the pillows under your head. One of his hands is near your face and you capture it in your own. He pauses, going rigid.
"Would you have? If I had- if it had been the right time?" You ask, voice small, unsure.
He can't quite make out all your features in the dark room, and he's hoping you can't make out his. His brows are furrowed, and his expression turns contemplative at the question. His heart aches at the frailness in your voice. He doesn't say anything for a moment.
"Yeah, I would have," he admits, voice tender, regretful.
He gives your hand a squeeze and begins to pull away, satisfied that you're home, safe and sound. That the conversation needs to end here before he does something you might remember in the morning, does something that'll push you further away.
The hope fluttering in your chest ignites at the admission.
He would have. He wanted me. Maybe he still wants me, you think fuzzily. Maybe if I play my cards right.
"Ok," you murmur, tightening your grip on his hand. You lean up, just barely, slowly, and press a kiss to the palm of it before letting go and flopping back onto the couch.
He drops his hand back to his side. It's burning where your lips have touched it, and his ears are not faring any better. His heart is thundering in his chest.
Mission failed.... successfully? You don't seem angry anymore, at least. All he knows is he can't muster much more of this back and forth tonight and he thinks you understand that.
"I'm going to go," he says, voice low, almost awkward.
You vaguely find it endearing in your state of half consciousness. The satisfaction of knowing this might continue later is all you need to let go, snuggling down to get more comfortable on the couch.
"We'll talk in the morning, ok?" he says, voice thin and a little unsure.
It's hard to keep up this usual nonsense of pretending he doesn't give a damn. He wants to curl up on the couch with you, but the idea is terrifying.
You only grace him with a nod in response. You don't hear his footsteps leave or the front door to the apartment shutting, but you swear you feel his hand brush your hair out of your face affectionately before you drop off into sleep.