Archive of Our Own

Levi never really pictured out a life without blades in his hands. Surviving the war was one thing. Living through the aftermath was another. 

It's been months since they've won the war. Since Eren—still alive, against all odds—chose a path that didn’t end up with the world burning. Paradis had won, in a sense. But victory did not necessarily mean peace. Reconstruction was underway. The people of Paradis is now busying themselves with it. Fields once scorched by cannon fire were now being tilled for crops. Cities were expanded and relocated to accommodate the influx of displaced families. The economy, too, struggled to find breath under the weight of the ear that had almost broken it. 

Levi stayed behind, grounded by something he couldn’t name. Maybe it was duty. Maybe it was exhaustion. 

His squad remained for a while to help where they could. But eventually, Armin, Jean, and Mikasa left once again to venture beyond the island’s shores. Fire burned in them still—a need to find answers, to understand, and perhaps forge something new in the place of the old. Hizuru offered its hand and assisted them by providing an airship and envoys as a gesture of goodwill. Talks of cultural ties with their country were exchanged, and letters passed between Queen Historia and Lady Kiyomi Azumabito, Hizuru’s matriarch. The foreign nation seemed to be genuinely interested in Paradis’ development—though Levi knew better than to trust gestures without looking beneath them. 

Mikasa in particular had been summoned for a more personal reason—to discuss with Lady Azumabito about her bloodline. She was, after all, the last descendant of the Shogunate—a symbol of something lost but politically valuable now. Whether Mikasa cared for that legacy or not, Levi wasn’t sure. She hasn’t spoken up about it yet. Not to him at least. Despite finding out about their familial connections as Ackermans, they have yet to reach a point where they can both consider each other family. 

As for others… Sasha, to everyone’s surprise, stayed. She now shared a life with Niccolo—a chef who cooked with his heart and adored her with a tenderness Levi almost found baffling. It was a match made in heaven. Sasha who might appear as a borderline glutton to others, is a dream come true to a cook like Niccolo. He’d never seen a man so openly smitten, not even in the barracks during rare celebrations. They’d settled near her hometown, helping rebuild the village with Connie, who had returned home with the same reckless grin and unshakable loyalty. 

Everyone, it seemed, had found a place to begin again. Everyone but him.

Eren also stayed. But it felt like he left all the same. His body remained within the borders of Paradis, but his mind... his soul had drifted somewhere Levi couldn't follow. Maybe it never came back from the war.

The trial he faced had been brutal, long, merciless, and too public for anyone's liking. The higher-ups, the ones who crawled from the shadows only when it was safe to do so, called it justice. They wanted blood. Called him a war criminal. A danger to humanity. Proposed execution with sterile tones and carefully folded papers, like the boy who saved them was just a mark on a ledger to be erased.

Levi had sat through it, jaw clenched so hard it ached. He remembered the whispers, the narrowed eyes, the fear disguised as righteousness. If most of the people hailed Eren as a hero—Humanity's Hope—the politicians saw a different image: a devil. 

“Eren Yeager, you stand accused of reckless use of Titan power, the endangerment of civilians, repeated insubordination, assault on fellow soldiers, and the usurpation of authority reserved for the Council. Though your actions aided humanity’s survival, your unchecked power and defiance threaten the stability of our fragile peace.”

He would've hung, if not for Historia. The queen had intervened—not just as a monarch, but as someone who knew Eren. The prosecutor turned, directing the weight of his words toward the throne.

"Your Majesty, with all due respect—this hesitation appears less like justice and more like… favoritism. Are we to believe that the queen herself is above suspicion?"

Gasps erupted in the hall. 

"Favoritism?” Historia repeated, her response cold. “It’s condemning a man for the crimes he committed to protect people you failed to defend. It’s sitting in safety while others bled and sacrificed. It’s waiting until the battle is over to declare yourself righteous."

"Eren Yeager is guilty of posing himself as a danger to humanity," she said. "But to execute him now would not bring justice, and would only bring collapse. The old nobility have begun to whisper of rebellion. Won’t the underground syndicates see this as the government’s first crack in the stone? And those who survived the war? They’ve lost too much to sit quietly through another execution."

She turned her eyes to a Hizuru envoy, who offered a subtle, confirming nod.

“Executing him in front of a fractured, grieving people would not bring justice. It would ignite a civil war. It won’t be fought with Titans this time. There will be blood in the streets. Are you all willing to sit through a civil war? We can’t afford another destruction when we have yet to recover from the casualties we are currently facing—casualties from the war that your high-risk weapon, this Titan shifter, had won for Paradis. He is a hero, as he is a liability.”

She let the weight of her words sink in before continuing.

“This island survived only because someone was willing to become a monster for it. And now you ask me to kill that monster as a show of virtue?” She shook her head once, voice softening, though the cold edge remained. “I will not offer the people the corpse of their hero and call it closure. So no. Eren Yeager will not be executed.”

Her voice in that courtroom wasn't loud, but it was enough. Enough to sway a council bloated with paranoia. Enough to reduce death to something far more mundane: Community service, custodial and conditional freedom, and monthly experimental evaluations conducted by Commander Hange Zoë. 

Levi had seen a lot of trials in his lifetime. That one was among the worst. Not because of what was said, but because of what it did to the people he admittedly cared about. Mikasa had barely contained her rage. Her silence was sharper than any blade. Armin had looked so cold, so controlled, that Levi had blinked, certain, for one chilling second, that he was staring at Erwin.

And Eren… Walls, Eren looked like hell.

Still does, honestly. The last time Levi saw him, he had to stop himself from asking if he was eating. Or sleeping. Or doing anything at all besides breathing. His eyes, once so wild and bright—were dulled, shadowed by dark circles like bruises. His hair had grown longer, unkempt and stringy, falling into his face and draped on his shoulders. He hadn't bothered to shave. The muscle he'd built over years of training had faded just enough to make him look... fragile. Not in strength, but in spirit. It disturbed Levi more than he cared to admit.

Eren had been fire once. Now he was ash that refused to scatter.

And Levi, blade-less and bound to a world trying to piece itself together, could do nothing but watch from a distance—and wonder how long before the boy vanished for good.

For now, Eren lived under quiet surveillance. He stayed at headquarters not as a soldier, not as a prisoner exactly, but as something in between. A ghost of a weapon once unleashed. It was the court's decision: he would remain there until the eight months of community service were completed. After that, he would be free to live as a civilian. He could choose a new home or stay in the barracks. He could pursue a career, take up education, or even vanish from public sight entirely. But under no circumstance, he was forbidden to transform into a Titan unless ordered to. The court made that part very clear. And Historia, with all the weight of her crown, had agreed.

Levi understood, and so did Eren it seemed. 

But he remembered the way Eren had squared his shoulders when the restriction was spoken. A twitch of tension that passed too quickly, too cleanly, like a man trying not to flinch at an old wound. The Titans had helped them win the war. Eren had shouldered the power of the Founding Titan, the Attack, and the War Hammer. That power had turned the tide and bought them the chance at peace. But peace had a price, and part of that was fear. Fear that one day, the monster would stir again.

So they clipped his wings before he could fly.

Levi knew the logic. He'd lived long enough to understand the weight of potential threats, even when they wore familiar faces. Even when those faces were worn and tired, like Eren's. The boy was stretched thin—not just in body, but in soul. Carrying three Titans had done more than scar his flesh. It had hollowed him. There was a weariness in him now, one that didn't sleep even when his eyes were closed. And Levi watched. From hallways, from doorways, from shadowed corners. He told himself it was part of the job. Old habits. Protective instinct. But deep down, he knew he was watching because he cared. Because something about Eren's silence felt too loud. Because one day, he might blink and find nothing but an empty room where he used to be.

Levi didn't know how Eren saw the Titans—not just the ones in history books or the ones they fought beside and against with, but the ones that still lived within him. The ones that had fused into his marrow, crept into his dreams and claimed a piece of his soul. Maybe no one could truly understand that kind of burden. Levi suspected it went deeper than that.

Over the years, Eren had formed something with his Titan—a bond, an uneasy alliance that blurred the line between man and monster. It wasn't obedience. It wasn't control. It was something... Mutual. Wordless. The kind of connection no ordinary human could comprehend. But Armin and Mikasa understands. His squad might. And Levi, whether he liked it or not, was beginning to try.

He'd considered talking to him. Not to interrogate, not to lecture. But words were harder now. Especially with Eren. Levi's chance, or what felt like it, came one late night when the halls of headquarters were dark and quiet, the air outside touched with rain. He was on his way out for a walk, hoping the silence would soothe whatever had been clawing in his chest lately. He passed Eren's room without meaning to stop.

He didn't expect voices. Soft. Urgent. Familiar. He stilled by the wall, footsteps silent. Just long enough to recognize the tones. Armin's voice was low, strained. Mikasa's, tight, breaking, full of something deeper than grief. And then a sound that Levi hadn't heard in a long time.

A sob.

Raw. Unfiltered. Eren.

It cracked through the quiet like a blade drawn too fast from its sheath. Levi stood frozen. Not because of the sound itself, but because of what it meant. The boy who once swore to destroy the world, who stared death in the face and dared it to blink was crying. He was being held, probably in Mikasa's arms, like a wounded child pulled too deep into waters no one could reach. It was the cry of someone who carried the weight of monsters.

Levi turned away.

Not out of disrespect, but out of something closer to reverence. That moment wasn't his to witness. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He stepped quietly into the hallway's shadow and let the cold air from the open window hit his face. Somewhere outside, a rare storm was building in the summer’s night, distant thunder rolling in like memories. And inside that room, behind a wooden door and years of bloodshed, three survivors clung to each other in the only way they knew how: In silence, in sorrow, in love that had never needed words.

A few days later, they left. Mikasa, Jean, Armin—all of them bound for Hizuru under diplomatic escort. Promises of peace, negotiations, and hope that none of them fully believed in anymore. Eren didn’t go to see them off. He stood at the window that morning, watching their carriage disappear between the outer gates. After that, the headquarters felt impossibly quiet.

Only Hanji still made conversation, scattered and busy as ever. Levi didn’t speak unless necessary, and the guards rotated often—always watching, never talking. Most barely looked him in the eye. He got used to it. Didn’t expect anything else. So when a knock came at his door late one morning, and a young guard stepped in holding a folded towel, a small brush, a tin of soap, and a bottle of lemon oil, Eren froze. The kid didn’t say much, just looked vaguely uncomfortable, like someone had shoved the task into his hands last minute.

“Uh… for your… grooming, sir,” the soldier mumbled, voice barely above a whisper. He held out the supplies like they might bite.

Eren blinked. The gesture wasn’t grand, but it startled him anyway. He went through all of that just for them to decide that they could trust him with a blade now. Still, instead of asking, he reached out and took them. His fingers brushed the towel—freshly laundered, still warm.

“…Thanks,” he said quietly while he forced a small smile. 

The guard nodded once and stepped back without answering, positioning himself just outside the washroom. The door stayed slightly open. Of course. He set the items down on the basin and looked into the mirror. The face staring back was still unfamiliar. Tired. Shadowed. The beard made him look older—unkempt in a way that made it feel like he was unraveling slowly. He hated it. The hair made his skin itch.

He soaked the brush, worked it into the tin of soap until it foamed. The scent of citrus rose up subtly, clean and bitter. He spread it across his jaw with practiced movements. He hadn’t done this in weeks, maybe longer. Everything after that had blurred together.

The razor felt cold in his hand, even after being warmed under water. He made the first stroke carefully. He didn’t rush. It wasn’t about looking good. By the time he finished, the towel was damp, the mirror fogged from his breath. He looked up at himself again. The man in the mirror still looked worn down, but there was something cleaner about him now.

Not much, but it was something. And for the first time in a while—he felt better.

◈

By now, most of the remaining Scouts and the willing Garrison members had become little more than community aides—at the Queen's request. It wasn't mandatory, not officially. "Highly encouraged," she'd said, her voice gentle but firm, the kind of suggestion that didn't need enforcement.

Many stepped forward regardless. Not just out of loyalty, or some sense of duty—but because none of them could sit still. The war might've ended, but their bodies hadn't caught up. The adrenaline still lingered in their veins like a ghost, keeping their fingers twitching for a trigger, their eyes scanning the horizon for movement that never came. So they threw themselves into work. Any work. Chasing pigs that escaped their pens, patching up the broken roofs of crumbling homes, and hauling sacks of grain to towns still struggling to breathe. It didn't matter what the task was, only that it kept them moving.

And while many soldiers had survived the war, some began to disappear in the weeks that followed. Not from battle this time—but from retirement notices. The new Colonel had begun easing veterans out, quietly and methodically. No announcement, no ceremony. Just paperwork, handed down with practiced hands and a polite smile. It was cost-cutting, plain and simple. A temporary fix to a deeper wound.

"A band-aid solution," Hange had muttered, slouched across the chair in Levi's office. Papers were scattered between them, cold tea sitting untouched by their elbow. 

Levi didn't look up from the form he was signing, but he hummed in agreement. A low sound, barely audible. Spring came earlier than expected that year—quietly, almost shyly—slipping in at the tail end of February as the last traces of summer's oppressive heat subsided and faded into memory.

It was Historia who finally declared it time to move forward. Time to hold the long-delayed medal presentation and commemorate the hard-won victory, however hollow it might still feel in their hearts. In the chaos that followed the war, the idea of a celebration had been little more than an afterthought. Grief had taken precedence. Burying the dead, comforting the broken, rebuilding what could be salvaged. There had been no room for pageantry. No space for victory feasts or gilded speeches. But now, with the arrival of spring, something shifted. Perhaps it was hope, or perhaps just a need to mark the end of it all.

The official announcement came swiftly: the medal ceremony and accompanying banquet would take place in Mitras during the second week of March. The capital would host the event, its palace halls once again opened to the remnants of a fractured military. There was just enough time. Enough to prepare the grounds, gather the scattered survivors, and most importantly—await the return of Mikasa, Jean, and Armin from their brief expedition beyond the walls.

Levi received the news a little earlier than the rest of the Survey Corps and MPs. In fact, it was too early. The sun had barely begun to crest over the horizon, its light diluted by the heavy fog that curled over the fields of the training yard like a thick blanket.

He was still in his sleepwear—shirt wrinkled, feet bare, head pounding. And yet, there she was. The queen welcomed herself into his office with no prior notice whatsoever.  He never really liked surprise visits as they were usually a prelude to bad news and trouble. But Historia only smiled sweetly and her light blue dress illuminated his room, casting a glow that softened the sharp edges of the morning. The tension in his shoulders eased before he could stop it. The tight line between his brows unfurrows, though the headache stubbornly remained. The nerve of this brat.

Becoming Queen hadn't changed her. Not really. And that, he supposed, was both the problem and the reason he let her stay.

"Tea?" Levi asked, gesturing toward the shelf without bothering to hide the weariness in his voice.

“Yes, please. What do you have?” 

Historia exhaled softly as she sank deeper into the couch, pulling one of his throw pillows onto her lap like it belonged to her.

“Earl Grey. Assam. Gyokuro.”

Her brows lifted in interest. “Gyokuro? Did you receive a gift from Lady Kiyomi as well?”

“A care package would be more accurate,” he replied dryly. 

“That’s good,” She said and paused thoughtfully. “Gyokuro has been my favorite lately. I’ll have that one then please, thank you.”

Levi gave a quiet hum and turned toward the counter, scooping out two measured spoonfuls of leaves into the teapot. His movements were sharp, precise, like everything else he did. He’s never been the type to make pointless small talk. It’s not that he doesn’t talk or can’t hold out a decent conversation, he’s just not much interested in it. And it’s not like you do many conversations when you’re on the battlefield. So he brewed the tea in silence.

Historia didn't seem to mind. She waited quietly, pillow in hand, calm and still in a way that somehow unsettled him more than any awkward small talk would have. He returned with two cups and set them on the low table between them, then lowered himself into the chair behind his desk, choosing distance over comfort.

And still, she said nothing.

"What brings you here? Surely not for a reunion," Levi said, cutting to the point with the kind of impatience only early mornings and headaches could justify.

Historia's brow arched, her lips curving into a smile that was all amusement and no apology.

"It's good to finally talk to you again properly, Captain. I'm doing fine, thank you for asking," she said sweetly. "It's been a while, hasn't it? Everything's moving so fast I can barely catch my breath these days... And you? How have you been? Good, I hope?"

She had always been mouthy.

"Fine," he replied, short and clipped. He could've left it at that—and almost did—until he caught the look on her face. Something between mock offense and genuine disappointment. It reminded him of a kicked stray puppy. So he sighed and added, "HQ's been quiet. A lot of Scouts volunteered for your community aide programs, so training's been on hold. Hange's planning to resume it in May. More paperwork than usual."

"That's good to hear," she said, lifting the teacup delicately to her lips. "Reading reports all day has become... painfully dull, to be honest. I don't know how you and Commander Hange manage it without losing your minds."

She took a sip, then added, as casually as if commenting on the weather, "Anyway, I came here to tell you about the upcoming medal presentation ceremony."

Admittedly a bit dramatic, but Levi choked on his tea. He coughed once, then again, reaching for a napkin as he wiped away the spill—more annoyed at wasting perfectly good Gyokuro than the surprise itself.

"The what."

"A recognition," she said evenly, utterly unfazed by his reaction. "There will be a banquet. A formal celebration of the military's victory and an opportunity to honor our modern-day heroes." Her smile turned just a little wicked. "Titles like Humanity's Strongest and Humanity's Hope do have a nice ring to them, don't you think?"

"What?" 

"Eren will be there," she said, still holding that light tone—though it faltered, just slightly. Her smile faded into something more thoughtful. "He's one of the reasons I want this ceremony to happen. I'm worried about him."

Levi stilled. He glanced up from his tea, meeting her eyes—searching, for what, he wasn't sure.

"As queen?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"As a friend," she replied sharply, brow raised, clearly displeased by the implication. "He's not a military asset. Not to me."

"To the court, he is," Levi muttered.

Her expression darkened. "What they did during his trial was out of line. Most of those bureaucrats are still tangled up with the old regime. They refuse to see the truth—that getting rid of Eren now would be political suicide. The Yeagerists haven't disappeared, they've just gone underground."

She was right.

The tension following Eren's trial had nearly torn the capital in half. Chaos would've erupted if the court had pushed for execution. It was too soon, too reckless. The economy was hanging by a thread, crime rates hadn't dropped despite the war's end, and the people were still grieving. Killing their savior and hero would spark unrest—and drag the Survey Corps and Historia's rule through the mud with it.

"I already spoke with Commander Zackley," she said, lifting her cup again, calm and composed. "Dismissing some of these old buggers from their seats should be easy enough."

“A queen overthrowing her own government,” he muttered, one brow lifting. “Didn’t think that’s how monarchies worked.”

"I only learned from the best," she smirked back. “Actually… I also wanted to let you know about my new plans for the next year.”

“What is it?”

“I want to build a new orphanage in Trost. For children born or raised in the Underground district—and orphans from the war, mostly. I spoke with a few recruits from the Underground last week. Your friends Callum and Ezra seemed to like the idea, but…” she trailed off slightly, her voice softening, “I wanted to hear your opinion on this.”

Levi didn’t respond right away. 

When he did, his voice was quiet, edged with something hard to name. “Because I’m from the Underground?”

Historia looked down, her fingers curling slightly in her lap. Her voice caught in her throat. It’s not like that! She wanted to say, but they both knew that would be a lie. She hadn’t meant to offend him, but the truth was undeniable. She realized then that her choice of words may have crossed a line. Before she could apologize, Levi exhaled.

“You’re queen now. You don’t need my approval for things like this.” He set down the cup. “If you think it’s best for your people… then do it. I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”

“I didn’t mean for it to come across like that…” 

He shook his head. “Your Majesty, I don’t mind. It makes sense you’d reach out to me. But it doesn’t matter what I think.”

“No,” Historia straightened slightly in her seat, brows drawing together. “Of course it matters,” she said firmly. “I’m sorry, truly. It’s just… you were once my captain. I mean, you always will be. That kind of respect doesn’t just fade. And I suppose part of me needed someone to tell me I wasn’t being impulsive.” Her expression softened. “Also, please—just call me Historia. When it’s just us. Even when the others are around, sometimes. I need someone who can keep me grounded.”

Levi raised a brow but said nothing, choosing instead to sip his tea. The silence that followed wasn’t tense—it was companionable. But he broke it anyway.

“The kids I grew up with down there… most of them couldn’t even imagine a world where a king, let alone a queen, cared whether they lived or died.” He glanced at her, voice low but honest. “You’re making it real. That’s worth something. Historia.”

A breath slipped from her lips, some tension leaving her shoulders. A smile rose, quiet but genuine. She leaned back, as if letting herself enjoy the peace for a moment—then frowned, remembering something. “Anyway… I haven’t talked to Eren about the ceremony yet.”

“You will,” Levi said, watching her closely. “After this, I assume?”

“Yes.” Historia nodded. “He’ll have to make a speech. The public wants to see him—know that he’s alive and well. I can’t blame them. This ceremony is the best way to ease their anxiety.”

“You know not everyone wants to see him,” Levi replied. “He could be ambushed.”

“I’ve thought about that,” she said. “There will be sharpshooters positioned on the rooftops, plainclothes officers in the crowd, and rotating guard shifts surrounding the stage. Hizuru has agreed to deploy a small unit of their elite to coordinate with the Garrison. No gaps. No blind spots. Only the ceremony itself will be publicized. Everything else will be closed off.”

She hesitated, then added more quietly, “And you’ll be beside him, of course. And Mikasa. Worst case scenario… he spends some time in the infirmary. He still has his healing abilities, after all.”

Levi’s jaw tightened. Something in her words struck a raw nerve. The casual mention of Eren getting hurt—brushed aside like a minor inconvenience because of his freaky titan healing—stirred something sharp in his chest. He wanted to protest, to almost curse her for saying it like that. 

But what right did he have? What was he to Eren, anyway? So he swallowed the protest and let her speak. 

“I’m not cruel,” she said softly. “I’d never deny him something as simple as happiness. Not after everything he’s done—for us. For humanity. You’ve seen him lately, haven’t you? He’s… unwell. He won’t admit it, but I know he misses Armin and Mikasa. Hell, maybe even Jean. I want him to be happy again,” she paused, eyes distant. “When we were younger, he was the one looking after all of us. Always so… so bright, and—”

“Loud.”

A quiet laugh escaped her. "Yes. Loud. You'd know that better than anyone. You were his superior, after all."

Levi's chest tightened. He looked down at his teacup. He didn’t mean to think of it, but it happened anyway. Green eyes, glassy and glowing. A voice—breathy, worn—calling his name over and over like a broken record, like it was the last thing he could say. He forced the tea down despite the heat, swallowing it like it could burn the memory of his dream—no, nightmare—away. Buried it and locked it deep in the cellar of his mind and threw the key into the dark.

Historia’s voice pulled him back.

“Isn’t that strange? Mourning someone who isn’t even dead yet.”

Levi nodded slowly. He understood. Walls, he understood them better than most. It was subtle, but Levi noticed—Eren was avoiding him. Like the damn plague. The changes had started small. So small you’d miss them if you weren’t paying attention. But Levi always paid attention. There was a shift in Eren’s gaze—too quick to look away, never holding eye contact longer than necessary. The stiff, formal “Good evening, Commander,” always when Hange was around and not even a glance, just a nod toward Levi’s direction. It was starting to piss him off.  

Historia broke the silence again, voice softer now. “The past few weeks, I’ve been thinking…”

“That can’t be good.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “Shut up. I’ve been thinking about assigning you as Eren’s Strategic Asset Liaison.”

Levi blinked. “...What.”

“Yeah. It’s not exactly bodyguard duty, but… it’s not far off, either. Don’t worry—it’ll be easy. You both live in headquarters, after all.”

“So you want me to babysit the brat. Again.”

“I want someone to watch over him. Even from a respectable distance. I’m not asking you to coddle him, Captain. But he needs to know he’s not alone. Your position as his former squad leader, the authority you still carry over him—it’s reassuring. To the public, to the Council, to the soldiers who still don’t trust him,” she took a long sip from her now-lukewarm tea before continuing. “I also think this arrangement would be good for you, too.”

Levi frowned. “Me?”

“Yes. Sitting behind a desk all day, drowning in paperwork, can’t be good for your back. You being ancient and all.”

“Historia.”

She grinned, unrepentant. “Ah, would you look at the time. I really should learn when to shut up.”

Then, more gently, “It’s a win-win situation, Captain. You’ll be doing something useful, not just signing reports. You’ll be paid double. Eren stays protected. And your squad won’t have to lose sleep wondering if he’s going off the rails. It’s a good deal.”

“Historia…”

“Anyway, the ceremony will be in Mitras. Twelfth of March. The awarding begins before sunset. After that, there’ll be a banquet. You have roughly three weeks to prepare,” Historia continued with a smirk and wink. “I advise you to start practicing your charm—there’ll be a lot of talking. With dignitaries. And ladies.”

Levi shut his eyes, sighing as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He reached for his tea again, taking a long sip as if hoping it would dull the budding headache.

“Historia,” he said finally, voice lower. “Eren and I haven’t spoken. Not since before the war ended.”

She blinked, caught off guard. The silence that followed hung awkwardly in the air. She seemed to weigh something in her mind before nodding slowly.

“Then… take this as opportunity to break that silence,” she said with a small shrug. “It doesn’t have to be now. Move at your own pace. I know things don’t just… mend overnight. Whatever happened between the two of you is out of my hands. And you can’t expect things to go back to the way they were after just a few words. Wounds take time to heal. You know that better than anyone.”

Levi let her words sink in, and something flickered inside him—pride, maybe. Gratitude. She had grown into her crown more than anyone expected.

“Tch. Since when did you become a smartarse,” he muttered, eyes narrowing.

She giggled behind her cup, unbothered, and finished the last of her tea in one swallow.

“Fine,” he muttered after a pause. “I’ll do it.”

Historia set her cup down slowly, her smile now brighter, warmer—genuine. She looked at him like someone who had just cleared one of many obstacles ahead.

“Thank you, Captain.”

◈

The wind rattled faintly against the wooden frame of the window as Eren leaned forward at the table, flipping absently through a worn book he wasn’t really reading. The headquarters was quiet, a little too quiet for his liking. He didn’t mind silence—he’d grown used to it—but lately, it had felt heavier. Like it was pressing on his ribs.

What unsettled him more, though, was the distance. The guards were still there—he saw them, heard the shuffle of boots in the halls, caught glimpses of them posted in corners or passing by the corridor windows. But they no longer hovered just outside his room’s door, or the washroom, or trailed him down every hallway like shadows. No eyes constantly glued to his back. They watched him, yes, but from far enough that he had to wonder when that changed—and why. The change felt intentional. And that unsettled him more than their presence ever had.

A knock came at the door—polite, but unnecessary.

“It’s open,” he called out, not lifting his head.

The door creaked open, and he heard the soft rustle of a dress before a familiar voice broke through the quiet. He heard her footsteps before he saw her. Light, measured, but not without purpose. Historia always walked like she was on royal business—even when she wasn't.

"Mind if I come in?" she asked from the doorway, already stepping in as though she knew he wouldn't object.

Eren watched as he closed the book in his lap. "You're the queen. You don't need my permission."

Historia ignored the remark and closed the door behind her. She crossed the room and sat across from him, folding her hands on the table between them.

“Someone said something similar to me not long ago,” she said after a moment, her gaze resting somewhere just above his shoulder.  "You shaved. Good.” 

His hand lifted reflexively to his cheek, brushing the side of his jaw like he needed to confirm it himself.

“…It was you, then?” he asked, not accusing—just tired curiosity.

Historia nodded, her tone matter-of-fact. “Yes. I wasn’t going to take away your right to basic hygiene. And privacy. This whole thing’s become… ridiculous.”

Eren exhaled quietly, lowering his hand. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“I know,” she said, her voice softening. “I’m sorry. It was sudden on purpose. But I planned it.”

He looked at her then, finally. There was warmth in her expression, maybe even regret, though she hid it behind the familiar calm of someone used to carrying too much.

“You look thinner,” she added after a beat.

Eren gave a dry smile. “Yes, well. Things happened.”

“And I promise you, I won’t let that shit show happen again,” Historia said softly with a frown. Eren’s brow lifted at the remark but kept quiet.  “But that’s not why I’m here.”

"What is it this time?" he asked, leaning back in the chair. “Does Hange want to discuss with me my upcoming ‘recovery procedures’?”

"No, nothing like that," she said. "This one's a little different. There's going to be a ceremony. In Mitras. An awarding, followed by a banquet. Publicized, but only partially. The people want to see you."

Eren’s mouth twisted. “Why now?”

“What better time than now, Eren?” She said, not unkindly. “They’re asking questions. After everything... you disappeared. No statements. No appearances, other than that trial. There are rumors you're being detained. Others say you're in exile. I need to clear the air."

“Yes. By putting me on a stage and handing me a medal.” 

“I’m not exposing you for shits and giggles,” Her tone was firm now. Despite everything, it baffled Eren how quickly she could go from a formal tone to a casual one. “Eren, you did things for humanity others could not. Whether they like you or not, they’re alive and free because of you. You gave us a chance for a better future. We acknowledge that. This will be written in history books.” 

Eren stared at her, expression unreadable. The wind outside picked up, rattling the glass in the windowpane.

"And what if I say no?"

“You won’t. Not because I’m asking. If you resist then I’ll just have to drag you there myself. You know I will.”

He smirked. “You planning to carry me in your royal arms, Your Highness?”

"You're not that heavy,” she chuckled. 

There was a beat of silence before Eren leaned back again. "You're really set on this?"

She nodded. "I am. But there's more."

"Of course there is."

Her hands drifted to her lap, fingers curling around a folded document. With a quiet rustle, she placed it on the table between them—sealed, pristine, deliberate. "This outlines the plan for the ceremony. You'll give a speech. Not long. Just enough to remind them you're human. After that, the banquet, then you'll be escorted back here."

Eren’s eyes flicked to the envelope but didn’t move to take it.

"Escorted?" he repeated, eyes narrowing.

Historia hesitated. "I've assigned someone to act as your... Strategic Asset Liaison."

Eren blinked. "What the hell is that?"

"Basically? A glorified babysitter."

"Historia."

"Levi."

Eren froze. "You're kidding."

"I'm not,” she said slowly. “It's... mostly a formality. You'll still be free to move around. But having him beside you offers reassurance. People trust him."

Eren went still. For a long time, he didn't move. Just stared at her with an unreadable gaze.

"So I get a leash. That's what you're saying."

"It's not a leash. It's protection—for you and the public."

Eren didn't say anything for a while, staring at the table. Then quietly, "Do you think I'm a threat again?"

"No," she said instantly. "But some do. They always will. Levi's presence keeps them in check."

He gave a bitter laugh. "You really think they'd care if I got hurt?"

"Yes," she snapped. Then softer, "I care. And many would care. More than you think. You've become a symbol, Eren. That's not something you get to put down just because you're tired."

He looked away, fingers curling slightly on the table's edge. The sunlight hit his profile just right to illuminate the dark crescents under his eyes, the pale edges of healing skin where bone had broken too many times to count.

"You should tell Levi I don't need babysitting."

"He knows," Historia said. "But he's not doing this because I ordered him to. He agreed because I asked."

That got his attention. Eren looked back at her, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes. Then Historia leaned forward, her tone quieter. "You haven't talked to him since the war, have you?"

Eren shook his head once. "Didn't seem like he wanted to."

"Maybe he didn't. Maybe you didn't either. But people can change their minds, you know. Look, I don’t know what happened between you out there. You could talk. Or not. Just... show up."

"He'll probably bring up every stupid thing I've ever done," he muttered.

"He remembers everything. You're doomed." 

They both chuckled and for a moment, it was easy. He looked at her again, and there was something tender in his gaze that hadn't been there before.

"You've gotten really good at this queen thing," he said.

She smiled. "Thanks. You're still my favorite, by the way."

"Still the most dramatic?"

"Obviously."

He sighed. “I'll be there. Just don't expect me to enjoy it."

She stood, brushing imaginary dust from her skirts. "No promises. The ceremony is on the twelfth of March. Try not to vanish before then. And try not to pick a fight with anyone important during the banquet."

As she reached the door, she paused and looked over her shoulder.

"You're not alone, Eren. You haven't been for a long time. Stop trying to act like you are."

He didn't respond, but when the door shut behind her, the room didn't feel quite so heavy anymore. And for the first time in weeks, Eren sat back and let himself feel the weight of what was coming. Not war. Not death. But something he hadn't faced in a long time—living.

◈

The next morning, Eren decided that it was time for him to finally leave the prison that is his room. The barrack still slept. The hallway was cold underfoot, even through the thin soles of the boots Eren finally laced up after days of staring at the same corner of his room. The walls, though stripped clean, still felt too loud. The silence inside had pressed against his ribs, dull and heavy, until the only thing left to do was move. Even if it meant walking nowhere. 

Shadows stretched long and heavy across the stone corridors as Eren stepped out into the open, pulling his jacket tighter against the morning chill. The air was sharp with dew, quiet in a way that made his boots sound louder than they were. It wasn’t courage that moved his legs this time—just the desire to remember that they still worked. His body had grown restless in stillness, and so had his mind.

In his pocket, something crinkled. He reached in and clutched the napkin-wrapped bundle he’d stolen—no, borrowed—from the kitchens: two bruised apples, a few broken sugar cubes, and a small heel of rye bread. A peace offering, maybe. Or a bribe.

The stables weren’t far, tucked behind the south end of the compound. It was instinct that led him there, not plan. Maybe it was because the horses never asked him questions. Maybe it was because their eyes didn’t accuse. The sky was still stained with ink when he reached the stables. Dawn hadn’t broken yet—just a dark smudge of lavender on the edge of the horizon. Eren pulled the heavy door open with a creak that echoed through the still yard, then ducked inside before the cold wind could follow. 

He slid the barn door open just enough to slip through, the wood groaning softly. It was warm in the stables. Alive, even. The smell of hay, old wood, and horses, musky, grounding—wrapped around him like something familiar. Like a memory from a better time. They stirred when he entered—heads lifting, ears twitching, some stepping forward with a soft clop of hooves. The horses knew him. He wasn’t sure what that meant anymore, but he was thankful for it.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice cracking from disuse. “Easy… I’m not here to saddle you up. Just visiting.”

He made his way down the aisle, past familiar dark eyes and worn wooden placards, until he found his horse, River. The dappled grey stallion snorted softly and leaned forward, nostrils flaring as if he’d already smelled the sugar cubes. His mane was tangled from sleep. River nudged his chest eagerly, resting his big bead on Eren’s shoulder making him laugh.

“Hullo, I missed you too,” Eren chuckled, a faint grin ghosting across his face as he pulled out a half-apple and held it out on his palm. The horse took it with a wet crunch, lips brushing his fingers. “Still greedy. Good.”

Eren let his other hand drag through its mane, untangling some of the knots absently as he leaned against the stall door. 

“Historia paid me a visit yesterday. It was weird. Apparently, there will be an awarding and a feast. I have to make a speech and all. The people want to see me,” he said softly as if the horse could understand the weight in his chest. “I have a newly assigned bodyguard now too. So much for freedom, huh? That’s why I joined the scouts in the first place. To fight for freedom. For everyone’s freedom. And now? I can’t even shave without someone watching my back...” 

“And I get it. I do. But it’s ironic, isn’t it? In the end, maybe we did win. In a way," he murmured. "The fighting’s stopped. There are no more titans looming outside. Walls are just relics now. People are starting to live again."

His voice softened, a note of something like hope threading through the quiet. Another sugar cube. The horse nickered approvingly, nudging his chest. "I’ll see Armin and Mikasa soon. That’ll be nice."

River snorted—loud, indelicate, almost disapproving. It startled a crooked smile onto his face.

"What?" he said with a short laugh. "Not a fan of reunions?"

The horse huffed again, and for a second, it almost felt like the world had a sense of humor left in it.

“You don’t care about any of that, huh?” Eren asked. “Just want your breakfast.”

A low huff came from the next stall. Eren glanced over. Levi’s horse—sleek, black-coated, sharp-eyed—watched him with something between judgment and curiosity. It was smaller than his own, more compact, alert even in stillness. Eren hesitated, then pulled out the other half of the apple and a couple of sugar cubes. 

“I know he doesn’t feed you this crap,” Eren said, voice lowering like he was sharing a secret. “But you deserve something nice too. For putting up with him.”

He reached over the stall door and offered the fruit. The horse took it more cautiously but didn’t refuse. It chewed slowly, ears flicking.

“It’s not much, but… figured you’d be less judgmental than people.”

As he held out the fruit, the horse took it with a slow, deliberate crunch, his warm muzzle brushing Eren’s fingers. The soft, wet sound of chewing filled the silence between them.

“I don’t know what they call you,” Eren added, leaning against the stall post. “Probably something boring like ‘Unit 12.’” He paused, thoughtful. “You don’t look like a twelve. More like a… Flint. Yeah. Strong, kind of stubborn. Like you’d throw someone if they didn’t treat you right.”

Flint snorted.

Eren cracked a faint smile. “See? You get it.”

His fingers shook slightly. Not from cold. Just… worn out. The dark-coated horse watched him with sharp eyes, like he didn’t quite belong there. He is, without a doubt, Levi’s horse.

Eren tilted his head. “You’re the quiet type too, huh?”

The horse didn’t blink.

“I bet he named you something dramatic. Or maybe he didn’t name you at all.” He pulled out the last sugar cube and held it up between two fingers. “If I give you this, you’re not gonna bite me, right?”

The horse eyed the cube for a moment. Then, gracefully, it took it—clean, no slobber, just an efficient flick of the lips and gone.

“I knew it. Just like your damn handler. Bet he talks to you, too,” Eren continued, not sure why he was still speaking. “In that gruff, don’t-get-close tone. Probably swears more at you than I do at anyone. But I bet he means it in his own weird way.”

He scratched behind its ear.

“You’re not so different, you know. Both quiet, both fast. Both scary when pissed.”

“You shouldn’t be feeding him that.”

Eren froze.

That voice could cut clean through fog. He turned slowly, jaw clenched. Levi stood just inside the stable doors, barely illuminated by the lanterns. His posture was relaxed but unreadable, hands buried in his coat pockets.

“You’ll spoil him,” Levi added, stepping forward with slow, sure strides. “He’s already smug enough as it is.”

Eren rubbed his fingers together. “It was one cube.”

Levi raised an eyebrow and walked down the aisle, boots near-silent on the packed earth. He stopped beside his horse and ran a hand briefly along its neck, checking something in the saddle area out of habit, even though the animal wasn’t tacked.

“They’ll rot his teeth. Having cavities is enough reason for him to bite people.”

Eren huffed a quiet laugh. “He likes me.”

“Dangerous trait.”

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as he expected it to be. Not really. Just the kind of quiet that had room in it.

“How long have you been standing there?” Eren asked. 

His neck prickled in concealed embarrassment at the sudden realization that Levi might have heard him chat mindlessly to his horse. 

“Long enough.”

Before Eren could wallow in his discomfort, Levi continued. 

“You gave Flint a name,” Levi said quietly, as he reached the stall beside Eren and leaned on the wooden edge. “Didn’t think you cared enough to name things anymore.”

“Didn’t think anyone was keeping track,” Eren muttered. 

Eren had a peculiar habit—he named animals. Horses, birds, even the butterflies that fluttered too close to his window ended up with some clumsy, human name. He spoke to them the way others confided in friends. With animals, there was no sharp retorts waiting to cut him down. They listened in silence, and that silence gave him peace. Venting to them was easier than talking to people. Humans talked back. Animals never did. His friends, of course, thought it was hilarious. They’d catch him in the middle of some one-sided conversation with a sparrow perched on a fence post or a stable horse flicking its ears, and they’d laugh until they doubled over. It didn’t matter how much he glared or barked at them to shut up; they always found it funny.

Once, Levi had ordered him to clean out the stables as punishment—for decking Jean in the dining hall, again. Eren found himself knee-deep in stable muck, shovel in hand, scowling as he scraped at the straw. His temper hadn’t cooled; if anything, cleaning manure only fanned the flames. He muttered under his breath, whisper-shouting insults at Jean while flinging dung into the pile, fists swinging through the air in a half-spar with nobody. 

“Can you believe that bastard? Always running his mouth, like he’s better than everyone. Tch—” He jabbed at the ground, mimicking Jean’s voice in a mocking falsetto. “Oh, Eren, you’re so reckless, Eren, you’re so stupid. I’ll show him stupid—” His fist cut through the air in a sharp punch.

That was when he heard it. A strangled sound, like someone choking on a laugh. He froze, shoulders stiffening, before he turned toward the stable doors. Jean and Connie were leaning against the frame, both red-faced, both shaking as they tried to contain themselves. Tears streaked down Connie’s cheeks while Jean clutched his stomach.

“What the hell’s so funny, horse-face?” Eren snapped, his voice sharp but his ears burning.

Jean nearly doubled over, his laugh breaking loose. “Oh, nothing. Just—” He gasped for air, pointing a finger at Eren. “Watching you pick a fight with horse shit might be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Connie wheezed harder, sliding halfway down the wall. Eren’s glare could have burned a hole through both of them. Jean, still laughing, managed to straighten just enough to add, “I was actually gonna apologize for being a dick, but—” He broke again, shoulders shaking. “Now I think you deserve it.”

Connie howled at that, his laughter echoing through the stable. Eren’s lip twitched before he scowled again and threw another forkful of manure into the pile. Fuck, him and Jean had been complete idiots. Idiots who never missed a chance to piss each other off—and yet somehow, those moments stuck with him more than the fights ever did.  Looking back now, he smirked despite himself. 

Eren cleared his throat after coming back to his senses. “You really never named your horse?” 

For a while, it was quiet. It stretched on long enough that Eren began to regret speaking at all. Levi wasn’t the type to answer idle questions, let alone ones that might touch a raw nerve. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. He was about to shift the topic or apologize, even—when Levi finally moved. Just the slightest change in his posture, like something had settled in his chest, or maybe dislodged. His face contorted to an unreadable expression. 

“I didn’t want to get attached.” 

Eren froze at the honesty. For a moment, he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. He turned his head, just slightly, eyes scanning Levi’s profile. It was rare to hear Levi speak so plainly. Impossible even to glimpse any hint of vulnerability that wasn't cloaked in his usual bluntness or disinterest. But there it was, a truth that revealed far more than it said. It was rather startling. An air of melancholy surrounded them but they stood in silence for a while, listening to the soft shifting of hooves, the occasional snort or sigh from one of the horses. Outside, the first pale light of morning was starting to creep over the edges of the stable’s beams.

Levi finally spoke again, eyes flicking to the door. “You planning to ride?”

Eren shook his head, glad for the subject change. “No. I was just… I don’t know. Needed to walk. Get out. See something that breathes.”

Levi nodded once, like he understood that more than he wanted to say.

“…Come on then,” he said simply, moving to unbolt the stall. “Bring yours.”

Eren blinked. “What?”

“You said walk. Let them walk too. You’re not the only one who’s been stuck indoors.”

He led his horse out without waiting for a response. Eren stood there for a beat longer, stunned into stillness—but then his hands were moving, loosening the latch, guiding his own horse out with a gentle tug of the reins. He nodded, slowly. They stepped out into the yard together. The sky was blooming with muted gold, the grass shimmered with dew. A breeze moved through the trees in soft whispers, and for once, the world didn’t feel like it was about to collapse in on itself.

They walked in silence at first. Not awkward. Just… quiet. The good kind.

Eventually, Eren spoke, his voice low. “I thought if I came out here, maybe I’d remember what it felt like to… give a damn.”

Levi looked ahead. “And?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

Levi didn’t answer. But he stayed beside him, step for step, as the sky lightened and the stables disappeared behind them. Sometimes, Eren thought, the best kind of answer wasn’t a word. It was a presence. The compound was quiet. As if the world had been paused just for them. They walked side by side, horses trotting slowly behind them on lead, the air filled only with the sound of breath and hooves and the occasional bird stretching awake.

Levi glanced sideways after a while. “You look like shit.”

That earned him a huff. Maybe even the shadow of a smirk. “Thanks.”

Levi’s lips twitched in the smallest approximation of a smile.

“You sleeping?”

Eren shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“Eating?”

Another shrug.

They walked on in silence, boots scuffing against the stone path, the breeze winding between them like a restless ghost. Levi stole a glance from the corner of his eye. Just a beat. Then another. Eren’s jacket was slung over his shoulder, his sleeves rolled up to the forearms. His hair was longer now, tied back messily in a half-bun but still falling loose around his face. Despite losing weight, he remained taller, broader. Sharper in the jaw. His face clean shaven once again. He had the kind of beauty that came with hardship—earned, not given. Levi’s gaze lingered a second too long before he looked away. He’s gotten tall. Too tall. And handsome in a way that felt cruel.

“You’re supposed to check in with me now,” he said flatly, his tone clipped, almost bored. But there was an edge to it—like he was trying to distract himself. “Queen’s orders.”

Eren huffed through his nose. “We talked. She sent you.”

“I volunteered,” Levi said simply.

That made Eren look up. Just a flicker of surprise in his expression, quickly smoothed over by something unreadable.

“Huh,” he muttered, turning his gaze back to the sky. “Didn’t think you’d still want to deal with me.”

“I don’t,” Levi replied. “But apparently, I’m the only one qualified to keep you from doing something stupid.”

A pause. A dry, humorless laugh escaped Eren. “You make it sound like old times.”

Levi shrugged. “You still breathe like you’re trying to fight the wind.”

He almost smirked. Almost. Instead, Eren exhaled hard and stared forward, as if the horizon might offer an escape. They walked side by side into the mist-laced morning. The sky was a murky gray, stars vanishing into the growing light. The earth was still damp from last night’s rain, and the horses’ hooves made soft sounds in the silence. Eren didn’t speak for several minutes. His shoulders were hunched slightly, hands tight on the reins. Levi walked like a shadow beside him, quiet but always observing.

“You’re up early,” Eren finally said, eyes ahead. “You and insomnia still on good terms?”

Levi gave a half-snort. “Didn’t come out here to talk about my sleeping habits.”

“Right. Well, I guess you’ll always follow and watch me from now on?”

“You’re not that interesting,” Levi said coolly. “And I don’t follow people. I track strays.”

Eren’s lips twitched into a bitter smirk. “You know, sometimes I forget how warm and nurturing you are.”

“Clearly,” Levi replied. “That sarcasm’s still clinging to you like mud.”

“You’re not going to ask?” Eren finally said, voice low but sharp. “About why I pushed through it all.”

Levi didn’t respond immediately. He adjusted his grip on the reins, eyes fixed ahead.

“If I wanted to ask, I would’ve.”

Eren’s brow twitched. “Of course. You’re so above it all. Must be easy being the moral compass when you didn’t have to—”

“I’m not above anything,” Levi interrupted, his voice like gravel—quiet, coarse. “But I’ve seen enough men die to know what asking does. Either you lie, or you drown trying to explain.”

Eren stopped walking, boots crunching against the gravel path. The horse snorted as he tightened his hold on the reins, leather creaking under his fingers.

“You think I want to explain?” he snapped. “You think I owe anyone that? After everything—after all the planning, the blood, the fucking weight I had to carry—do you really think I want to sit here and justify myself to people who didn’t even understand what was at stake?”

His eyes were narrowed, jaw clenched tight. The words came out like a blade drawn too fast—unforgiving, sharp-edged. He wasn’t just speaking to Levi. He was speaking to the ghosts behind them. To the silence that followed him everywhere now.

Levi glanced at him sideways. “No. But you know they need something to chase. To blame.”

“Do you blame me?” Eren asked. 

Levi froze.

“Do you resent me?” 

The question struck a chord that was somewhat forgotten. It was a fracture. A wound Eren had probably been carrying since the day the dust settled and the world didn’t know what to do with him anymore. It sent a shiver down his neck. Levi slowed his pace just slightly. 

“No. I don’t. Not everything is under your control. And not everything should’ve been.” 

Eren’s eyes flickered toward him, then away. He nodded faintly, lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to believe that. He almost did.

“Then I guess some people don’t know what to do when there's nothing left to kill.”

The words were a little too sharp. Eren didn’t mean it to come out that way—or maybe he did.

Levi didn’t react, not outwardly. “And you do?”

Eren tensed. “I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t think I’d have to say this again, but your attitude could use some work.”

Eren exhaled through his nose, the breath visible in the cold.

“Didn’t realize I was back in basic training,” he muttered. “Should I be saluting next?”

Levi finally turned to look at him, his gaze didn’t carry judgment. Just an unsettling calm.

“I thought you lost those bursts of anger,” he said flatly. “Guess I was wrong.”

Eren's lips pressed into a hard line. “Sorry to disappoint, sir.”

“You never disappoint,” Levi said. “You just keep finding new ways to be exhausting. I chose to believe in you. I protected you when everyone else wanted you dead. I chose to believe their deaths weren’t meaningless. That what we did meant something. That you meant something. And look where that lead us now. Alive, with a hope for a better future. Free. So no, I don’t blame you, no, I don’t resent you. So don’t throw it all away.”

Eren met his eyes, and for a second, something flickered in him. Shame? Frustration? Maybe both.

“It’s not anger,” he said. “It’s... whatever comes after. When you win. And nothing feels any different.”

Levi turned away from his gaze and kept walking. 

“No one told you peace would feel like a punishment, huh?”

The horses shifted. Eren’s grip tightened around the reins.

“We spent our whole lives trying to end it,” he said quietly. “Now that it’s over...”

“There’s still no normal,” Levi finished for him.

Eren looked down at his boots, dirt crusted into the seams.

“I didn’t think I’d talk to you so soon.”

Levi glanced at him again and for a second, he saw the ghost of that reckless boy with fire in his blood.

“I didn’t either,” he said.

Levi’s steps became somewhat heavy as he watched Eren breathe like the act itself cost him something. 

“You ever think about how strange it is to be alive?”

Levi didn't respond immediately. “Sometimes.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it this far,” Eren said, watching a crow fly overhead in a crooked path. “Back then… when we first joined, I thought I’d burn out fast. That was the plan, right? Fight. Die. Win. Whatever came first.”

Levi nodded. “Most of us thought the same.”

Eren’s mouth twitched bitterly. “And now I’m supposed to be a symbol of hope and wear a clean uniform and give a speech.”

“You’re not the only one that makes no sense of it,” Levi muttered. “But you’re the one people are looking at. Like it or not.”

“I don’t.”

“I know.”

Eren ran a hand through his hair. The fog clung to his sleeves. “I keep thinking I’ll ruin it. That I’ll say something wrong, or someone will see through me. Like I don’t deserve any of it. The stupid medal. The words they’re putting on paper. The peace.”

The wind pushed through the fields, fluttering leaves and the stray white flags tied between poles in the courtyard—remnants of some long-forgotten event or effort to make the place feel alive again. 

“Everyone thinks you're a weapon waiting to misfire,” Levi looked into the distance. “The brass. Some MPs. Even some of the civilians.” His voice was low, but level. “You’re not, but they don’t care. They only see what they remember.”

“…Do you ever regret it?” Eren asked, barely above a whisper.

Levi’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Living through it all.”

He didn’t answer immediately. The sky was bleeding light now, a smear of gold against pale blue.

“…No,” Levi said finally. “But I regret the ones who didn’t.”

Eren nodded slowly, eyes fixed ahead. “Me too… I’m sorry Captain.”

“For what?”

“For everything. And for what I said earlier. I didn’t mean to be a dick,” he muttered.

Levi snorted. “You didn’t mean not to either. It is what it is.”

A small, humorless huff left Eren’s throat. “Tch. You always know how to make someone feel better.”

“I wasn’t trying to. I’m not here to keep you in a cage. I’m here so you don’t have to sit in it alone.”

Eren finally met his eyes, a bit startled, and for the first time in a long while, he looked like himself. 

“That’s not your job.”

“No,” Levi said. “It’s not.”

“You know they were going to kill me, right?” he asked, not looking away now.

Levi nodded. “I know.”

“They still might.”

“Not on my watch. ”

Another silence. Another gust of wind. Levi watched a leaf land in Eren’s hair, soft and ridiculous against someone who once shouldered the fate of the world like it was nothing. It sat there innocently as if taunting him, and his hand twitched at the urge to take it off. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore,” Eren admitted, voice hollow. “Everyone keeps calling it peace, but it feels like I’m just… waiting for something to happen.”

Levi looked forward, his gaze fixed on the hazy line of rooftops in the distance. 

“Then we wait together.”

Eren looked at him again, longer this time, and didn’t look away. Levi felt his stare burn through him. After a while, Eren reached into his pocket again and held out the final broken sugar cube in his palm. Levi’s horse approached first, lips brushing his skin gently. River seemed to be rather interested in a patch of grass nearby, tail swishing softly. 

Eren smirked faintly. “Very smug.”

“Just like his owner.”

“You admitting you’re smug?”

Levi gave him a flat look. “I’m leaving you in the fog if you keep talking.”

But Eren laughed—genuinely this time, soft and unguarded, like it slipped from some long-buried part of him that still remembered joy. The sound stirred something deep in Levi’s chest, sharp and familiar. He hadn’t heard that laugh in years. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it until now. And god, it hurt—how much he’d come to crave it.

Wind tugged gently at the tall grass, rippling through the open field ahead like a sigh. Clouds drifted lazily above, soft shadows crawling across the earth. River flicked his ears and gave a low snort, brushing his head against Eren’s arm. Flint tossed his mane beside them, impatient. Eren slowed a little, his gaze drifting across the expanse before them. The land was open. Wide. The kind of space that almost felt unreal after a life behind stone and steel.

He let out a breath, soft and fleeting. “It’s funny isn’t it? All the things we fought for, and we end up with this.”

“You make peace sound like a bad joke.”

“No, I mean it’s just... quiet. After everything. Despite everything, actually. And after everyone.”

Levi hummed, a sound low in his throat. “You get used to it. Eventually.”

Eren gave a slow nod, chewing on that silence for another beat—then he glanced at Levi, a small smirk playing at the edge of his mouth.

“Race you to the ridge.”

Levi lifted a brow. “I thought you only wanted to walk.” 

“Changed my mind.” 

Levi turned his head toward him slowly, as if deciding whether it was worth the breath. “You serious?”

“Unless you’re afraid you’ll pull something,” Eren shot back, raising a brow. “Old man.”

Levi snorted. “Bold of you to talk that way when the last time we raced, you damn near ate a tree.”

“I think you’re forgetting I trained with the Scouts. I'm not the brat you used to babysit anymore,” He grinned. “And that was years ago—River’s faster now.”

“It’s not the horse I’m worried about.”

Eren laughed, shaking his head. “C’mon, Captain. Live a little.”

Then, with a swift motion, he mounted River in one fluid move, his body moving like water—smooth, practiced, grown. He tugged gently on the reins, guiding the horse forward a few paces before glancing back.

“Last chance to back out,” he called over his shoulder, that cocky grin still tugging at his face.

Levi gave a long-suffering sigh, but the way his mouth twitched betrayed him. He adjusted Flint’s saddle with a sharp, practiced tug, then climbed up with ease. “Fine. But if you eat dirt, don’t expect me to help scrape you off the ground.”

“Noted,” Eren said. “But when I win, you owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

“I don’t know,” Eren shrugged. “Maybe I’ll make you talk about your feelings.”

Levi clicked his tongue. “You really think that oversized mop you ride can outrun my horse?”

“Hey! Don’t talk about River like that. He’s got heart.”

“He’s got legs like stilts and the coordination of a drunk on ice.”

“You’re just jealous he’s taller.”

Levi raised an unimpressed brow. “Taller doesn’t mean faster. Flint,” he said, turning slightly in the saddle, “run him down.”

Eren’s expression faltered for a second, then it broke into a beam. He grinned, wide and proud, bright as sunrise breaking through storm clouds. Levi acknowledged the name he’d given Flint. Used it, like it always belonged. Excitement bubbled in his chest. And just like that, they were off. Although Flint bolted first, River responded to Eren’s cue with explosive energy. The grass split around his hooves as they cut through the golden field, wind rushing past like waves crashing in his ears. Soon enough, Flint was right behind them—steady, sure, relentless. Eren laughed aloud, the sound torn from his chest by wind and memory. It echoed across the wide open sky, wild and free. Levi was silent behind him, focused, always focused—but even now, something in the tilt of his body, the steadiness of his grip, made it feel like he was chasing more than just a finish line. And something in the way his grip tightened on the reins, in the way his gaze lingered on the curve of Eren’s back as he rode ahead, betrayed him. 

He wasn’t chasing a finish line. He was chasing him.

The ridge loomed ahead. Not tall, but high enough to catch the wind. They reached it nearly together—River skidding to a halt in a flurry of grass and dust, Flint slowing just inches beside. Eren leaned forward on the saddle, chest rising with exhilarated breaths, hair windswept and eyes bright. He turned to Levi, grinning like a boy who’d forgotten how to mourn.

“I win,” he said between breaths.

Levi would’ve let him win a thousand times over if it meant seeing him like that again. But he narrowed his eyes instead, hiding the warmth curling in his chest, brushing a fleck of grass from his sleeve like it mattered.

“You had a head start.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

Levi didn’t respond immediately. He dismounted instead, boots crunching into the dirt, and walked to the edge of the ridge. Eren followed, both of them letting the silence settle again—different this time. Not just comfortable. Earned. Below them, the field stretched endlessly, painted in rising sunlight.

“...You’re not a brat anymore,” Levi said suddenly, his voice quiet.

Eren blinked. “What?”

“You said it earlier. That you weren’t the brat I used to babysit.” Levi glanced at him, unreadable as always. “You’re right.”

Eren’s chest tightened, but it wasn’t the kind of tightness that came with strain or discomfort. No, it was something that felt like it was expanding. A kind of warmth that swelled beneath his ribs, spreading outward. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that light. Not the weight of the world pressing down on him, not the responsibility, the guilt. Just... the wind, and the space, and the freedom of it all.

Levi was still beside him, a presence carved from stone, unmoving as ever, but something had shifted in the way he moved—less like the soldier who bore the burden of an entire race, more like someone who had learned to be still in a moment of calm. Maybe, just maybe, there was room for something else. Eren didn’t want to think too hard about it. Not now. He let the smile linger, shaking his head as he turned toward Levi, still catching his breath.

“You’re still annoying, though,” Levi added.

Eren smirked, the tension in his chest easing. It felt good to hear that—felt like some part of the old, bitter routine. 

“Yeah, well. Some things don’t change.” Eren let out a breath of laughter. Then something clicked in his mind, and his grin widened. “Wait a minute—you owe me one now!” he said, suddenly turning to face Levi, an almost mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Since I won and all.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, though the corners of his lips twitched ever so slightly as if he might have been fighting back a smile of his own. He didn’t respond right away—just stood there, staring at Eren with that unreadable look of his, the same look he wore whenever he was holding something back.

“You think so?” Levi finally said, his tone a bit too casual, as if he wasn’t caught off guard by the request.

“Yeah,” Eren said, leaning in just a little, teasing now, “a winner’s privilege.”

Levi exhaled through his nose, the smallest sound of resignation escaping him. “What?”

Eren’s grin widened. “I’ll think of something. You can’t get off that easy.”

“I owe you nothing,” Levi said coolly, but the challenge in his voice was unmistakable. He raised an eyebrow, his stance relaxed, but there was something underneath it—an unspoken thread, tight and quiet. “You want something, Yeager?”

Eren leaned back, arms crossing over his chest, his smile unrepentant. “Well, now that you mention it, maybe I could ask for a few things. Like… a rematch? Or—”

Levi’s gaze softened for a split second, like he was considering it. For that fleeting moment, the distance between them shrank. Something between them shifted, subtle and silent. Eren felt it like a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His heart gave a small, betraying lurch, and for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t from the weight of duty or consequence. Then Levi’s voice broke the moment.

“Later,” he said, turning away to let Flint graze the nearby field, the change in his demeanor so swift it almost felt like an afterthought. “You’re insufferable.”

Eren’s chest tightened, his breath hitched, and for a moment, he felt like a fool. His heart stuttered. He was flushed—he could feel it creeping up his neck, burning his ears. Of course, Levi wouldn’t let him get away with anything, wouldn’t let him get away with this.

He forced a cough, as if that would do anything to hide the way his face had heated. Don’t be stupid, he told himself, but the words didn’t come out right. The wind picked up, rustling the tall grass, and for a brief second, the whole world seemed to hold its breath. Eren couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been left unsaid.

“I’m serious, though,” Eren called after him, his voice a little softer now, the teasing edge gone. “You owe me.”

Levi didn’t look back, but the faintest, most fleeting flicker of a smile touched the corners of his mouth before he spoke again. 

“Fine. But whatever it is, make it quick. I’m not in the habit of owing people anything.”

Eren let out another laugh, and for a moment, just a moment, it felt like things were simple again. But he could feel his pulse quicken, something warm blooming in his chest at the rare moment of concession, but Levi had already turned away, his focus back on Flint. For a second, it felt like the world had moved on without him—like the space between them had widened again.

Eren couldn’t put his finger on why it felt like a loss.