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Midwinter dusk finds the square ablaze with lanterns, spilling warmth over frostbitten streets. Colour drips from every line and rafter, smudging away the memory of war.
It’s strange to hear thin music leaking from the inns, the sound winding out into the snow-choked square. Most nights, the only melodies here are the ones sung by the wind through broken shutters, or the harsh cadence of boots against cobbles. Everyone is too busy worrying about Titans to risk laughter in the open air—too busy counting rations, tallying losses, listening for distant rumbling that might mean the end. But tonight, for the space of a few fragile hours, the world inside the walls lets itself forget.
Song slips through the doorways; someone strikes a tambourine, and for once, no one flinches at the noise. There’s a kind of defiance in it—a refusal to let fear claim every corner, a hope as fragile as the lanterns themselves.
You stand on the edge of the square with your collar turned up, the ache in your thighs still echoing from yesterday’s expedition, and let yourself watch the scene for a little while before you slip into the crowd.
Levi is already there, half a head shorter than the milling townsfolk but twice as noticeable. He stands by a cart stacked with paper lanterns, arms folded, jaw set in that line that means he’s trying not to scowl. The world brushes past him—children shrieking, old women offering bread, the flick of laughter that doesn’t belong. He takes up less space than any man you’ve ever known and somehow commands more of it. The lanterns throw gold onto his face, making his eyes look almost gentle.
You step up beside him, and he glances at you, a sideways sweep of grey. There’s a dusting of snow in his hair. He doesn’t shake it off.
“Could be worse,” you say, nodding at the lanterns. “Could’ve made us dance.”
He grunts. “If that starts, I’m leaving.”
You let yourself smile. The truth is, you’re both bad at celebrations. After years of war, every crowd feels like a formation, every cheer like a warning. But the lanterns are beautiful, in their way—bright paper bobbing above old scars and new hope, a town stitched back together with wishes and string.
Someone thrusts a slip of paper at you, a stub of charcoal for writing. “Your wish,” they say, and you take it without thinking. The paper is thin, nearly translucent, its edges curled from handling.
You glance over at Levi. He hasn’t taken one. Of course not.
“You’re supposed to write your New Year's wish down,” you say, waving yours.
He shrugs, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—a tell you’ve learned to read, the way his right hand curls tighter, like he’s still gripping the hilt of a blade.
“Then write yours. Just don’t waste any wishes on me,” he says, flat, almost brusque.
You arch a brow, the old bravado slipping in. “What if I want to?”
“Then you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”
He says it quietly. It stings more than it should.
You write anyway.
You keep it simple. The sort of thing you could almost say out loud, if only you had the nerve:
Let me stay by his side. Let there be days that aren’t filled with loss. Let him want me the way I want him, even if he never says it.
You fold the wish once, twice, then quickly press it into his palm, before you have time to second-guess yourself. His skin is somehow warm even in the cold. He glances up at you, unreadable, then his fingers close around the paper.
For a second, you’re sure you feel something pass between you—raw, unspoken, almost enough to make you forget the crowd.
He tucks the paper into his jacket without reading it.
**********
The square grows louder as midnight approaches, the air thick with frost and anticipation. Lanterns go up, one by one, children chasing each other in the pale spill of light. You watch them from the shadow of a ruined arch, arms wrapped around yourself, counting your breaths.
Levi joins you, close enough that his shoulder presses yours. He doesn’t look at you, but the set of his jaw is softer now, the line of his mouth less severe.
“Crowds bother you too,” he says.
“You know how it is,” you answer. “Always feels like something’s gonna go to shit.”
He makes a noncommittal sound—both an agreement and an apology. The lanterns float higher, orange and crimson, each one a thread of possibility in a sky that’s seen too much sorrow.
You break the silence with a question: “Did you have any New Year’s wishes back when you were young?”
Levi doesn’t answer right away. His hands are buried deep in his pockets, the tips of his ears red from the cold. Finally, he says, “Wasn’t much to celebrate where I grew up. People were more interested in picking your pocket or putting a knife in your back.”
Something inside you softens, your own breath clouding the air between you. It’s not pity but a dull ache, knowing how much was stolen from the boy he used to be.
“Sounds like you learned early not to trust anybody.” You hesitate, then add, “I’m glad you made it out.”
He shrugs, the movement small. “Luck of the draw. Out of the Underground, straight into Titan's jaws.”
The bitterness in his tone settles over you, heavier than the cold. You look away, letting your eyes trace the edges of the square—the small knots of people huddled close, laughter flaring up bright and loud. It’s odd, seeing so much joy pressed into one night, when you know how easily it can all be lost. Survival still isn’t safety—not for him, not for anyone.
The ache in your chest twists a little tighter, sharp and useless.
“Maybe it’s safer not to hope at all,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can call them back. They hang there—soft, uncertain, too honest for a night like this.
He looks at you, eyes darker than the sky around you. “I’m not sure it is...”
You watch the lanterns drift—slow, endless, paper bellies swollen with heat and dreams. Some collapse, flames eating through them; others soar, fragile and stubborn.
“I used to wish for things I can’t even remember now,” you admit. “Mostly peace. Sometimes more. A husband, a family. Lately… I just wish for mornings with hot tea and no bad news...” You pause, meet his eyes. “I wish you’d let yourself be happy, even just once.”
He doesn’t move, but you feel him breathing—careful, measured, as if he’s afraid of breaking the moment.
“You got nothing better to wish for?” he asks, sceptical, almost incredulous.
You let yourself respond, because it’s a new year and you’re tired of pretending. “Not anymore. And you’re the only person I've ever truly cared about.”
He says nothing, just keeps staring straight ahead, watching the lanterns drift. You’re about to look away—already feeling the ache in your chest—when you feel his hand. It finds yours in the dark, rough and hesitant, fingers settling over your knuckles with an awkward kind of purpose. It shocks you, the warmth and weight of it, so careful but so undeniably real. For a second, you almost wonder if you imagined it.
You don’t look at him, afraid you’ll break the spell, but you let your fingers shift just enough to hold him back. The rest of the world drops away, leaving only his hand in yours—a small, clumsy promise you never thought you’d get.
**********
When the midnight bell tolls, cheers erupt across the square—sudden, loud enough to make your shoulders tense. Old habits die hard; both of you instinctively glance toward the wall’s dark silhouette, eyes scanning the perimeter for movement, half-expecting the distant thunder of something that isn’t celebration. But there’s nothing out there—just the whisper of snow, the lanterns bobbing in the night breeze.
You both stand silent as the crowd surges around you, and for once, there’s no call to arms, no emergency. Just the hush between heartbeats, and the pressure of Levi’s hand, solid and unfamiliar, wrapped around yours. The music trails off, thinning note by note as midnight settles in; Trost is a soft blur of light and shadow, the cold settling, but hope blooming quietly in its wake.
Levi shifts beside you, clearing his throat. He pulls your wish from his pocket, unfolding the paper with careful, scarred hands. His eyes flick over your words, a small pause betraying his hesitation. When he looks up, the scowl you’re so used to seeing is gone.
You hold his gaze, your own heart stuttering.
“I told you not to waste your time,” but even as the words come, you realise he’s moving closer—subtle, intentional, closing the space between you in a way that sets your nerves alight. Your breath catches, pulse quick and insistent at the base of your throat.
You breathe him in—tea, snow, steel, and something sweet and clean beneath it all. “Not a waste,” you whisper.
His lips brush yours, feather-light, a question trembling in the air. You can feel his hesitation, the restraint in every muscle, and you’re suddenly aware that you’re holding your breath, terrified that one wrong move will break whatever fragile thing has gathered here.
You’re not sure if you should close the distance or let him do it, not sure if this is permission or a warning, not sure if you’ll ever be braver than you are right now. The pause stretches—uncertain, electric, everything in you wanting and afraid all at once.
And then, finally, he closes the gap.
The kiss is gentle at first, more relief than hunger—two people learning a language they’ve only ever dreamed of. Levi’s lips are cold but soft, his hand settling at your jaw as if anchoring you to the world. He kisses you like the soldier he is—cautious, disciplined, but when you sigh against his lips, something in him gives way.
Lamplight flickers across his cheek, snow tangles in his hair, your breath mingles in the narrow space between hope and regret.
When you break apart, his forehead rests against yours, his hand is warm and solid at your back. For the first time, you find yourself believing in something new. Something that isn’t just death, or sorrow, or the dreadful certainty of the Titans beyond the walls.
The lanterns drift on, and the new year opens, tender and bright, with both of you standing at the threshold—lonely, afraid, but together.