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From head to toe, a soldier needs to be dressed to play the part.
Wearing what they do, the garb feels more costume than combat gear to Levi. It always has.
From the first expedition out beyond the walls to this first venture with the new recruits, he considers the well-established routine of their battle preparations.
How amusing it is, to see the greenhorn scouts near silent as they ready their horses, to note the ones who aren’t quiet were the ones who would run their mouths during the month-long training regime, to offer nods of approval to the questioning gazes and the expectant faces and – to the widest eyes of them all, regarding him with a begrudging sort of reverence, Eren’s – how ironic it is to be faced with a reflection of his former self now out of all the years in his no doubt short life.
How elaborate it is, to wrap oneself so many belts and harnesses, the finer workings of a device manmade to combat an inhuman enemy, to dedicate one’s body and mind to the spirit of a rebellion when – somewhere, someday, somehow, he’s sure there will be an end to the long-fought struggle if only the end would present itself to the only legion that could do the dirty work – the countless lives sacrificed to make it happen weigh down the trappings of their weary wings.
How methodical it is, to keep to this newfound system of titan execution because it works, for convenience’s sake, to hold onto the fastenings and buckles and flashbulb recollections of informal lessons as he remembers – with the kind of clarity that age does not affect, not in the least, not whilst the source of his contemplation kneels before him – what led him to this life he now leads and forces him to follow this annoying dress code for their potential death march.
“Keep your foot still,” Erwin’s voice floats from below, which would have startled him had he been aware of anything outside his musings. “Unfasten the other belts for your legs while I’m doing this, if it helps.”
And Levi does, though he all but scowls at the slight whirl on the crown of Erwin’s hair to have been caught letting his meditation get the better of him.
It’s a ritual, now, for Levi to sit at the foot of his bed and allow Erwin to do this.
When they were younger, more foolhardy, the rationale was that such things were good luck, a fortune charm to keep them both alive when they parted ways to lead their own troops. Sometimes, Erwin lets Levi do the same for him.
But they’re low on time at the moment and they need to address the others with some semblance of a debriefing speech before they head through town central today.
“It’d help way more,” Levi rejoins, done reaching back to ready the many clasps and the girdle meant to keep his waist steady in the air, “if you picked up the pace with the knee straps.”
“I’m only making sure they’re attached properly,” chides Erwin, though the fingers gliding from bare foot to ankle to graze the cleft of his left knee as they cross one strap over the other and the palm that lingers against his inner thigh while the bands are secured in their appropriate loops hardly seem apologetic, let alone give any indication they intend to move quicker. “You wouldn’t want your center of gravity to send you off-balance.”
It’s a metaphor within a metaphor, at best, when the quiet click of the last belt locked in place, a near painful fit over his chest, shifts as he leans down – the belts wound around him constrict, cords and fasteners less like battle gear and more like vices, one too many, that he wouldn’t dare to count himself with eyes wide open or closed – to press his mouth over the commander’s still ajar.
Erwin’s lips never quite fall shut, in the end.
But they do move against his, insistent, a gentleness to the quiet sigh that responds just as well, a fondness that neither can afford the time to indulge in proper conversation.
For the time being, the heat that runs through his singing pulse tells him, this is enough.
This, at least, where a hand laid over his heart means more than a vow to humanity and the indifference of clamoring sheep with their shepherds, where the beasts who might have worn mere mortal’s garb in the past cannot venture between the firm press of his superior’s form as he surges forward to lead him to lie back on the mattress, so quick that the gear sitting on the adjacent dresser shakes (as does Levi, because it’s unfair, he muses before his concentration wanes, that he can’t focus on anything except the near delicate touch of knuckles across his cheek, the wet lave of Erwin’s tongue along his exposed jawline, the vague cant of hips pressing back all too conscious of how much more than this they have to lose) and almost tips over outright, could keep him going for this expedition and at least a hundred to follow.
“I think,” Levi says after they’ve recalled the importance of breathing, not yet moving out from under embrace because there’s still enough time, still enough fight left in him to stay here a bit longer, still enough of his heart beating beneath the swell of his palm resting over Erwin’s and holding to fingers laced tight, “you’ve done a good enough job of that already.”
(They do eventually finish putting on the rest of their gear, in the end, but as they leave and part ways in the corridor, Levi thinks of the murmured promise of a continuation, with the ghost of a smile that refuses his better judgment as they walk out of the main cabin to meet the others, that will no doubt celebrate their new recruits and faithful comrades’ safe return back to the walls tonight.)