Archive of Our Own ^beta

"This goes out to my grandma

Who fell with the April breeze

And just like the autumn leaves

I hope she grows back to me

When butterflies migrate on to spring."

Grass creaks under their boots as they walk. It’s their one day-off, and Hanji had insisted on them going out the walls to explore.

“C´mon! It’ll be fun!”, they’d said. And Levi, though reluctant, had accepted in the end. He had thought about using the spare time to clean around headquarters. But the weather was too nice to waste. Besides, they had already fixed a cleaning-day a few weeks prior. A little sun wouldn’t hurt him much.

He sighs, stares at the clearing before him. It’s early spring, and the first-born sprouts begin to poke from the trees; branches dotted by shy specs of green. It’s a wonderful sight, he has to admit. Light seeps through the leaves, paints the fields of cellophane gold. And he thinks, he’s quite glad Hanji had dragged him out for a walk, after all. Even when, by walk, he means listening to their rambles or getting his clothes dirty.

“Look!”, he hears them call. They are pointing at a rare flower, lost somewhere in a midst of wood and brown. A butterfly floats around its petals; its wings fragile, fluttering in see-through yellow. “Isn’t this beautiful?”

Levi hums. Hanji had taken him discover the pretty to the world. The sparkle that laid in common-detail, so often invisible to the eye. He had a much more different stance at life before he met them, he tells himself. The Underground was harsh, and cold, and ruthless. And so, he thought he could only seek survival, then.

“It’s still a bug.”, he huffs. His voice is rather soft, despite the rough tone.

Hanji laughs at him, as if their fingers had caught the sweet within his words.

“I've never told you about butterflies, haven’t I?”, they ask; arms crossed over their chest. The afternoon light splatters over brown hair. Has turned their glasses into a stained kaleidoscope. “Come, quick! Get over here!”

Levi shakes his head, but does so, anyways. Truth is, they had shown him the colors of the wild, helped him understand rain and stars. It made him feel like he belonged, somehow. Like he could always find rainbows hidden in a universe that had unraveled to black and white.

"What is it?"

Hanji extends a finger. The butterfly has perched upon it, foolishly mistaken it for a flower petal. It makes them giggle; how its tiny legs trickle their skin. How Levi gives them a knowing stare, wide-eyed and curious.

“These babies”, they tell him, as they lift their hand up. “Only live for a single day.”

Levi frowns. His mouth parts open: an expression of sheer innocence. It’s almost as if he’s just starting to grow, like leaves that crawl from the mud. He doesn’t quite understand, yet, the way some things work. And he takes a guess, even if just to entertain the idea, that it’s nice to be a little bit naive, still.

“I call bullshit.”, he grunts. The butterfly sits in quiet; its wings shimmering under the timid rays of dusk. How could something so complex fade away so quickly?

Hanji laughs, louder this time.

“It’s true!”, they try to defend themselves. Their smile is warm and kind, wider than the open fields. “They start as caterpillars, first.”, they explain, though rather careful. “Then, they go through a transition process known as metamorphosis.”

Levi says nothing for a while, drinks in every trace of sunlight. He can’t help but think that they sound like an expert, indeed. That it’s just like they’ve spent their whole lives searching for answers to the mysteries of nature.

He looks at the butterfly first, and at Hanji, after. They’re holding their finger up to their nose, so near they’ve turned crossed-eyed and dizzy. He figures, probably, there’s tenderness about the ways they have for exploring. That his soul is left exposed at the sight of them: skewed glasses, clothes speckled.

“Ah, well…!”, he hears them speak again. “I just find it so incredible! A few months in and ta-da! They completely change forms.”

He scoffs. It seemed gross, in all honesty. But that, he wouldn't say. Hanji most likely knew already, anyways.

“All that and just to die within a day, huh...?”, he sighs, disappointed.

Hanji nods, and takes his hand into theirs for a moment. There’s a thin layer of dust that’s collected underneath their nails. A warm splotch of sweat that peppers over their palms, too.

Still, Levi doesn’t care.

"Super unfair, if you ask me.", he watches them shrug, ever so carefree. The butterfly's fumbled from their finger onto his, made a home out of his embrace. And he feels as though time has stopped, right there and then. Like he's cradling a daydream too good to be true. "So, pay attention, alright? We're probably never gonna see this again!"

He catches his breath. The butterfly spreads its wings, shows them every hue of golden and yellow. It's fascinating, he thinks, as he brings it up close to his face. He'd been told, the world was supposed to be one filled with despair. An irregular battlefield, where love could only come at the cost of loss.

Yet, he notices, there's a beauty that remains precious, even in the simple. Some kind of wonder that stays in moments of quiet: the fading sunsets, the blink of an eye. Hanji goes on adventures, smiles with their heart light. And he finds that it's contagious, really. That passion of theirs. That they can let joy bloom in places others had planted with sorrow.

How do they do it?

“I don’t get it.”, he complains. And they let out a giggle: a sound that drifts away with the breeze.

“You don’t have to, Levi.”, they tell him. The traces of their voice hang loose around the edges; his name a soft whisper on their lips. “To be frank, I don’t quite get it myself, either…”

He remains quiet for a minute, takes in the perfume that lingers in the air. A smile of his own has blossomed on his mouth, shy as wildflowers that push above-ground. He's aware of how stubborn he can be. How he can seem cool and unfazed, at times. Still, he decides that, maybe, Hanji can be right, if only just for now. That there’s some kind of comfort in sharing himself with someone who simply understands.

He exhales, and looks up at the butterfly: the way it floats off to the afternoon. It appears to him, somehow, the meadows feel emptier now that it’s gone. Yet, he’s certain, there’s not much he can do about what’s finite, after all.

Some things are meant to slip beyond one’s line of comprehension, anyways.

"I think we should start heading back.", he offers, as he gets up to sweep the mud that’s on his pants. The sun’s about to set, and all he really wishes for is a long, hot shower before dinner.

Hanji grazes him another smile, and helps themselves off the floor, as well.

“Then admit that you had fun, at least!”, they tease. And Levi figures, perhaps, to them happiness can be only but a butterfly, in the end. The brittle that's in beauty. The fleeting one yearns to keep from the sweet betrayals of time.

He huffs and turns around to stare at them, still walking a few steps behind. He did have a wonderful day, indeed. But that, he wouldn't say. Hanji most likely knew already, anyways.

"Don’t be stupid.", he goes, instead. And they laugh in response, loud, and wild, and clear. “We’re gonna be late for tea.”

.

.

He bathes Hanji soon as they get to headquarters, later on that afternoon. They had protested for a while, saying that it wasn't necessary and that they'd be getting back to paperwork, anyways. But he had insisted. After all, it hadn't been his idea to get out the walls to begin with.

"It's not like you didn't enjoy it!", they'd snapped. And he'd rolled his eyes as he let the faucet run open, carefree as he ever was.

Now, foam gathers by the edges of the tub, makes it seem as though clouds have melted down to the rivers. He recalls, it had always been like this with Hanji: the push and pull, the endless bickering. He had to knock them out the first few times, when they would be too stubborn to conceal on basic hygiene. But then, it happened, cautious, and slow, and tender: like ice that drips under the sun. They would let him take them to the showers, first: bathe them clothed and enraged. And so, soon, as months would fade, they began peeling off the layers that shielded them whole. One for each season that went.

"See?", he speaks. His voice is soft, a whisper that mixes with the rushing waters. The bathroom is basked in the cotton-candy light that seeps through the window. And Hanji looks at him over their shoulder, lets him rinse the soap off their hair. "Much better."

"It's my turn now!", they insist. Their back is speckled by crisscrossing scars: the filaments on a butterfly's wings. Eighteen, Levi has counted, this time around. Some of them, he's sure, he already knows by memory. After all, it's always been hard to escape his scrutiny. And he can paint Hanji's body with his eyes closed, just from how many nights he's seen it.

"Your turn for what?", he frowns. His thumb traces the contours of one of the newer marks: one that he's discovered two counts ago. It's a single line that slices up their skin: from their shoulder, then down their hip. He wonders how could it be, that they'd gotten it without him noticing. How wasn't he there to prevent their heart from getting scarred, too.

He sighs, and grabs the soap-bar in his hands. The air smells of sun, and lavender, and spring. And Hanji allows him into every crevice that there's to them. Stays as he tends to their wounds, like a florist that tends to his plants.

"I wanted to wash your hair.", they say. A small, languid smile grazes their lips: almost as if they're about to fall asleep.

Levi snorts. There's something that soothes him about this, really: the quiet bathrooms, the soap-bubbles. Truth is, he's never let anyone bathe him before. That he's always done it on his own, meticulous way.

He looks over at Hanji— the memories that burn on their skin, the strands of brown that wave past their shoulders. He's aware, they don't like letting their hair down like this—but oh, for him, they do. And, as he watches them, he decides that maybe, it’s only fair he does the same.

"Fine.", he complies, then. It's a minor victory for Hanji, who tends to win him over, regardless. They clap with excitement, and tell him to turn over to them; water splashing between the two. "Just wash it how you've seen me do it."

They nod, and lather up foam between their fingers. The air is warm, like every sunbeam's laid upon their bodies. And it's not long before they notice, Levi has scars of his own, as well.

They swallow, let their index wander through the maimed skin. Some marks have vanished to white, like the striking of a lightning bolt. Others, are a faint shade of pink, have spread open as the flesh on a bat's wings.

"If you could be an animal...", they hum, in a low voice. Their hands are now occupied, tangled between black locks. "Which one would you be?"

Levi scoffs: somewhat between a laugh and a cough. Hanji has always had a weird timing with questions, that's for sure. But he's not about to point it out just now.

"Why the fuck would you ask, four eyes?", he goes, instead.

Hanji giggles, then pours water atop his hair. They figure, sure enough, Levi's usually a fun person to be around with. Even in spite of his sour disposition.

"Well, it's not fair that you answer my question with another one!", they tell him, cheerful as ever. A few droplets have settled on the firm lines of his back, turned the ridges on his skin shiny under the sun. He’s so precious, they think, as they allow themselves to stare. They can’t help but catch their breath at how delicate he seems. "I'm just tryna bond over here!"

Levi huffs, looks at the clouds of foam that have formed above-water. Others often see him invincible, someone stronger than the oak trees. But Hanji's different, he's realized; a rare spirit, wildly unique as they come. They tease him for being too uptight, and make fun of how he takes his tea. And so, he's sure, even if just for a moment; the part of him that's soft, at last, is just for them to unravel.

"No clue.", he frowns. "Which one would you be?"

Hanji bites their lip, as they do when they're set too deep in thought. Their hands are patching him up again, have drawn stars around the aching flesh. It makes Levi feel like a butterfly when they touch him like this. Between their fingers, he's noticed, he's too fragile. Too little. Too much like he's nature's prettiest treasure.

"So much for bonding, and I waited so long, I could have had dinner while you tried to make up an answer.", he says.

Hanji laughs once more, and splashes him a mix of water and soap. They're the orange haze of the sunset. A beauty too obnoxious, never meant to be captured.

He turns around to look at them again. There's something about them that reminds him of the butterfly they'd seen in the forest, earlier that day. They are free, and raw, and glowing with the brightest technicolor. And they will, eventually, too, burn with the last drops of daylight, maybe without even knowing so.

He sighs. Does it have to be that way? Isn’t there a corner up in space where time doesn't breathe? It seems, some things are meant to slip beyond one’s line of comprehension, anyways.

He rests his head on their shoulder, lets Hanji kiss him on the forehead; long, and delicate, and like they're careful not to taunt him. Their fingers now run down his arms, have glued every one of his edges back to sanity.

And so, he prays, then, as he listens to them talk again, that his very thoughts may never turn true.

That, when all is said and done, for all the love the world's worth, Hanji Zoe may never become a butterfly.

.

.

There isn't a part of his body that is safe from harm. Every muscle, every crevice and cartilage burns like he has a soaring fever— pounds and stings worse than in any other battle he's fought.

Is it over yet...?

His cheeks are red, flooded with his own cries of pain. As the silver thread that makes up a stream from across the driest of valleys. It all hurts. It all stings. It all burns.

Damn.

He winces, cleans up his tear-tracks with the back of his hand. If he had to compare this much pain to something— anything— really, it'd sure be a black hole, he figures. A force deadlier than gravity that makes him wanna cave into his very own misery.

"They're dead stars, I've read.", Hanji'd told him once, as they'd pointed up to the skies. They were set out to camp for mission, and Erwin had put them both on watch duty. "They bend time and space, and start swallowing everything that's around them! Kinda crazy, huh?"

Their voice fades into an echo, and the vision of them two reaching for the stars is water that slips through his fingers. It's all gone. All set. All done. And now, he's left with nothing but a black hole sitting in his chest. A growing pull that threatens to swallow what little there is of him.

Is it over yet...?

He looks through the blur. The air smells of fire, like a hundred-year drought that brought the land to its end. He can taste it, on every inhale of his lungs: it'll take another hundred years for hope to bloom again. It'll take two thousand lives for dreams to part through all this death.

Erwin, Mike, Petra, Hanji... where are you...?

Are you guys watching...?

Is it over yet...?

His heart clenches, then expands and explodes into the glimmer of a billion different supernovas. There's not a single frame of him that's not empty now. Not a simple trace that hasn't been replaced by utter brokenness.

He falls to his knees, lets his body give in to the shake. Yes. For the first time since he's been taught how to combat, Levi Ackerman allows himself to fall. Rapid. Vivid. Painful.

His skin bleeds when it touches the floor; his throat so closed he can barely breathe. Perhaps, this, he tells himself—this endless spiral of ache— is exactly what happens when a soldier loves. It's the pieces of himself he's lent to the fallen, that now have been lost. The stubborn ways of the soul, to be so foolishly selfless now he's nothing but a living ghost.

He glances up at the skies, there where a ray of sun makes its way through the clouds. Will the black hole in him come and take him, too? Can it bend time and space, and make life the way it was?

He thinks about it for a second. Erwin, Mike, Petra, Hanji; everyone he'd ever longed for, had believed in this world. They had bled, and sworn, and resigned to war, so that the rest could see peace, even if just once. Would it be fair for him to wish he was gone, light as a feather, then? Did that mean he had to persist through existence, still? Even with this void eating him up inside?

He takes another look around. He has no answers, just yet. But, in the midst of destruction, he can make up the contours of something he's always known.

Something that brings warmth to the cool that always lays after stars are born.

Erwin, Mike, Petra, Hanji...

Are you guys watching...?

This is the result...

Of all of your devoted hearts...

And after that, he’s swallowed into the infinites of a black abyss, too.

.

.

"We have to go back!", his fist slams against the table. The candle wavers with the punch, and everyone else is left wondering.

They are staying at Historia’s castle, they've agreed, at least until cities could be built and brought to life again. Around them, the room's a direct reflection of what sits outside, ironic as that is. There's not much to discover, but what little they could rescue from the apocalypse. A few stacked-up boxes and some old report papers.

The Rumbling had been three days ago. The grounds had roared with the deadliest of tremblings, and all was lost along the way. The smoke, the heat, how terror seemed to reach until the very last corner, Levi had never seen anything quite like it.

He sighs, shakes the tension off his shoulders. On day one, he'd had dreams about fire, even when tirelessly awaken. On day two, he was burnt by the words he'd sworn unspoken. And it was now, three days after, that the first survivors started to knock on the castle's doors, all seeking for a share of clemency.

Most of them, they were told, came unconscious, usually brought by others who ran with a better luck. It was a harsh pill to swallow, Mikasa had said over breakfast. More than half was so badly injured, there wasn't much they could do to help.

He looks back at the door. Armin had sent her and Annie to set up a small infirmary by the castle's entrance, just in case more people would show up. Then, he'd asked him to call everyone in for a meeting.

If humanity had been brave enough to rise up from destruction, did that mean there was still hope for Hanji Zoe?

"But what if...?", Onyankopon falters. There's a shadow that courses through his stare. A storm that threatens to shatter his voice. "We do go back... and find them, and... they don't even make it to the castle?"

Levi freezes for a moment. He had never questioned himself before about the existence of a God. Or a heaven. Or even hell. He'd figured, eventually, if any of those were real, then maybe there wouldn't have been wars. Or titans. Or the crushing feeling that is to lose, in spite of loving.

He thinks of Hanji: how their words would sing. How their smile would make his chest fuzz with the warmest emotion. They didn't believe in God, either, sure thing. They were a scientist, after all. But they would, however, believe in love. And in loving all too fiercely, and in neon lights, and in capital letters. Even when, they knew, in the end, love could only be a losing game.

"Love, Levi", they'd say, when the nights were quiet and the worlds too heavy. "Love is our greatest chance to live beyond death."

He nods, and swallows the tears that burn. He didn't truly understand what they meant, back then. But he does now. He can still taste the sweet on his mother's voice. Hear Isabel's laugh in the wind. He can still see Erwin in the skies clear blue. Feel Hanji on every scar.

"You know...?", they'd repeat, over and over. And their voice would slip between stars. "As long as there's love, someone yearning to remember, then death can never really win us over..."

He nods once more. He's aware, it's still too dangerous to go out in the open. That the risks are too immense to be taken for free.

And yet, for once, he doesn't care. Not now, that he's got nothing left to lose.

"If there's even a slight possibility...", he chokes, hushed between clenched teeth. "We have to go look."

Armin glances up at him from the door frame. His eyes are troubled, like a cloud that's perched upon the sun. He recalls how love had brought him from the ashes, that day back on the rooftop. How his lungs had stung with every future promise, right after he’d been drowned out by smoke.

He looks at Jean, Onyankopon, Pieck, then at Levi. He’d saved him, all those years ago. Saved him, when he was only but a kid with hopeful eyes and dreams too big for the world.

All he can do now, maybe, is be brave enough to save Hanji, too.

"We...", he clears his throat. "We should start making plans soon."

Jean hums, slides his chair off to the side.

“I’ll try sketch us a map.”, he offers.

But Levi's words escape him before he can manage.

No. No. No.

"No!"

The room goes quiet. There’s tension in every portion of the air; like a storm is coming and despair has crushed down the walls. It's different to anything they'd ever witnessed, Armin ponders. Levi’s fist still pressed against the table. And it’s the vivid image of melancholy. A man who’s missed every single battle, even in spite of the odds.

"No...", he repeats, though now, his voice is low: a breathless whisper that dwindles in the air. He doesn't know yet, how could it be. That he's let his heart take the best of him. That emotion's slipped beyond the cracks that fracture him, and he's been weak enough to let it show. "These survivors get here with only hours left to live. We don't have time to fucking plan."

Armin purses his lips. He still has nightmares about this: how Hanji fell, rapid and burning just like he had. Theorically speaking, he knows, too, Levi is pretty much right on this whole thing. Hanji's on the brink of farewell as they sit around to discuss about it. They don’t have the luxury of patience, given the circumstances. He has to do something to change it, for the better. Even if it breaks him in half.

He opens his mouth, tries to say that they'll grab their horses and leave by sundown.

But Onyankopon speaks before he can.

"Listen, Levi...", he starts. And by the sound of his words, Armin can tell, he's just as scared as the rest of them. "There could still be enemies out there and..."

"Don't give a shit about the enemy!", he yells. It's like a part of him's been stolen, all of a sudden. Like he's a shell of who he used to be. And now that life's finished emptying him, he doesn't really mind the consequences. "Hanji is...", his voice cracks. "I just...”, he tries again. “…I would just never forgive myself if I lost them twice."

The room goes quiet, once more. Levi had always been a guy of firm resolve. A soldier strong as the crescent moon. He would never shed a light to his vulnerable. Never let anyone point to the darker sides of him.

Only now, he knows, deepest in his soul, t's all gone. All set. All done. He'd been too tired to even dare try. Too spent to build up the fences that kept him from the world.

There's no point in him fighting to protect his softness anymore.

He sighs, allows for a single tear to roll. He remembers the butterflies. How he'd sworn himself once, he wouldn't let Hanji become one of the same. It had been one of his favourite memories, that day back in the clearing. One he'd tucked away from the sweet betrayals of time, indeed. Their eyes would twinkle with the innocence of those who deem the Earth a warm place. And for them, he would fill himself with hope. Even when he'd been taught not to trust.

How could he not come back for them?

"I know there's still people out there ready to slice our throats...", he talks again. "But please..."

Armin gulps. Soldiers before him had trusted Levi to carry themselves through war. Had been foolish enough to turn him a living-legend: humanity's fiercest. The immortal amongst men.

He looks at him, how misery had etched upon the skin. Little there is of the once mighty Captain; the military prowess that could set the world free. Now, there's air instead of fingers, and an eye-tinged silver, and the scar-tissue that Hanji'd left on their wake.

And so, none of what was established matters anymore. Not when it’s all gone. All set. All done.

He turns to Jean and Onyankopon, first, then at Levi, second. He recalls, he had always wanted every burden to be his. That he would become the hero, if for a second that meant he'd spare everyone else from suffering.

"I’ll no longer be your Captain after this...” he says, finally; tone choked out and desperate. His chest feels heavy, and his throat aches, and his muscles sting with every emotion he's learnt how to hold captive. “This... this will be my last Survey Corps mission…”

No words, once more. Still, Levi lets out a heavy exhale. Truth is, after all, he's still unsure if there's a heaven. And he'll definitely go to hell for wanting to break the rules like this. But he does believe in love, above every other certainty he's ever really owned. And he loves Hanji Zoe.

And oh, God forgive him if he's selfish, even if just this one time.

"Armin?", Jean breaks the silence; a brow raised in question. He's already up from his chair and by the door, almost as if he had always been ready to leave with Levi, anyways. "What do you say?"

He takes a deep breath.

"Let's go survey."

.

.

There are different kinds of fire. There's the gentle one, to make the house warm during harsh winters. Then there's the type that's brutal— wild, even. The fire to light up the valleys and consume everything that it touches.

Hanji Zoe was fire, too. He found proofs of it that day. They were the softer flame one kindles with care. The fire to sit around and spill your secrets to. But they were, also, the burn that grows. The fire that's loose, open, free, bound to escape out of control.

He takes a look around. The port they took so long to build has been reduced to dust, a mere scrap of what there once was. He recognizes, it feels like Onyankopon's first hand-drawn sketch, when it was all blurred lines and the hopes of what it could be. That now, the only thing that's constant is the distant sound of the ocean, calm and blue, and wide as ever.

"Heichou...", Armin calls from upfront. He's pulling him on a cart similar to the one Hanji'd made; the wooden wheels creaking over debris and burnt stone. "Do you think we'll find them?"

Levi sighs. They'd divided themselves into three groups. Mikasa, Annie and Reiner wait by the castle, just in case Hanji arrives there first. Jean, Pieck and Onyankopon have taken their horses up West— him and Armin designated to go down East.

"We gotta.", he says. His chest collapses at the idea of them returning empty-handed. It's an image so poignant he can barely breathe. "We will."

He clutches at his fist; there where he'd fought, with every bit of tenderness, to keep the last of Hanji Zoe alive. They'd told him, too many nights ago, that love was the greatest chance to escape the dead. That, as long as love tied the human to remember, then not everything had to get lost along the way.

Had his love been strong enough to make them stay, then? Had his love prevented them from falling, faster than how the butterflies did?

He narrows his eyes. Clouds of steam still rise up from the grounds, making the landscape fuzzy and their vision blurry. It's a hopeless view, if he's honest. Like they're stuck on a desert that they’ll never see the end of.

Please.

Nothing left, nor right.

Please.

Nothing upfront, nor behind.

Please. Please. Please.

He stares at his feet. Has he arrived too late? Or gone too far? All his life, he'd been sure that love was the most selfless act. That, if he had to be a hero, he sure had to learn how to let go. To set free when it was right.

Kenny had told him about it, on nights where liquor made him somewhat conversational. He'd taught him how to stand for himself; to steal for food or twist a knife. But he'd also shown him everything he didn't want to be; someone too careless—a spirit that wouldn't have any interest besides its very own.

Was it so bad, then, that he was selfish now, that humanity didn't need him so? Was he so wrong for giving second chances, for his heart’s sake, even when he hadn't been asked to?

He thinks of the forest. How Hanji'd tossed their soul into the fire, hoping maybe, that way, their dreams would be safe from war. They, too, wanted the morning breakfasts and the sundowns in the porch. The shared bedsheets and the small talk.

He could picture it all too well, actually. Could frame their every-days with the warmest of color. They'd hum out in the kitchen, while he'd nag them for the mess they'd made. Then they'd laugh it off—because that was what they always did. And he'd trade kisses for his better lack of words; one for each scar the world had left.

How could he not come back for them? Wouldn't have Hanji done the same for him?

Hadn't they done the same for him?

Please.

"Why did you save me?", he'd asked, on their first night at the ship. They were lying down together, had sneaked into each other's quarters when no one else was looking. "If I can't fight, everyone's gonna forget I even exist."

Hanji nuzzled into his chest.

"Oh, Levi...", their lips moved over his neck, almost involuntarily. They were so close; he could feel every inch of them against him. Their breath, how their hip-bones dug on his. It made him flare-up with yearning. An overwhelming wave of warmth, and shame, and desire that washed over him. "I saved you because it's you, I mean..."

He kept quiet, only the sound of their exhales to break the silence. Hanji had always seen beyond the hero of the walls; the perfect Captain humanity wanted him to be. They knew the lonely kid, the angry soldier, the man that was too scared to be left behind. And they'd let him in, flaws and all. Had accepted and made room for him to pass, somewhere deep inside their heart.

"I just never even doubted it", they spoke again. Their head smelt of sunny days and salt-air; nose gliding through his clavicles. "When I saw you there...", he held them tight. "I never even had a second thought, you know...?"

He looks up at the road again. Dusk bleeds through the smoke, paints the skies of orange and yellow. Hanji had asked him to say goodbye, back when they stood right by the edge of the apocalypse. All along, they were certain, almost like a curse, if they hadn't, he wouldn't have let them leave. He would have pulled them back to life, like they'd done with him.

Like he is doing now.

"Sometimes I wish...", they'd whispered in a sweet, sweet voice. Their fingers were in his hair, tracing patterns on his nape, his undercut, the small place behind his ear. "You could see yourself the way I see you..."

He sighs, swallows through the lump in his throat. He understood then, as he does now. To Hanji, he had always been Levi. Just Levi.

And that was enough.

"I saved you because it's you...", their words come back to him, hard as a punch to the stomach.

Please.

Please. Please. Please.

Don't die on me, Hanji.

I promised...

I wouldn't let you become a butterfly.

.

.

The first time he'd searched for Hanji, he knew it was a mistake. Winter was slipping away, and the premature hints of spring had begun poking from behind the clouds. He hadn't joined the Corps that long ago— a year at most—, but Squad Leader Erwin had been impressed with him already.

Rumor had it he was going to get promoted to Commander, since Shadis was gonna announce an early retirement. The expedition had been nothing but the perfect chance for him to pick which soldiers would go higher up in ranks after his leave.

He huffed, and walked along the clammed hallways. The newer cadets were silent as ever— some had even thrown up on the floor. He had the impression that he'd never get used to this, no matter how many times he'd done it. The pale faces, the hushed voices— they always weighed the same. Always made his soul ache some type of way.

Where was Hanji?

They hadn't talked much, if he was being honest. He had heard quite a lot about them, though. Others often found them weird, too obnoxious and off-putting to say the least. Still, there was something about them that soothed him, ironic as that was. A rare kind of familiarity that pulled him towards them, even when he tried his best to stay away.

"Oh, we'll definitely see a titan today!", and there they were. Their mop of hair stuck out from the crowd, their tone loud and clear. "I've read they become more active as the weather warms up!"

He'd rolled his eyes. Opposite to him, Hanji wasn't one to usually lay low. He could spot them in the packed diner, or from far in the training fields. Whether it was a fun habit he'd picked up, or it had to do with how strong their presence was, he wasn't sure yet.

All he knew, was that he'd seek for their face on their way to the barns, always before expeditions like this. That his heart would secretly hope, almost on instinct, that that wouldn't be the last he'd ever see of them.

"Don't die on me, Hanji."

Sometimes, they'd lock gazes, indeed. He'd be lucky, and their big brown stare would intertwine with his, a minute longer than what most would deem necessary. It was like they had their own little language, he wanted to believe. For a single moment, the world would freeze, and their souls could talk with no one else to listen.

"Fucking shit.", he'd tell himself, when they'd run off to Mike with some joke, too unaware of what they'd done to him. His eyes were still searching for them across the hall. And he'd be left standing again, lonely and unable to catch his breath.

Maybe, he figured, were he wiser, this— the whole seeking game that had gone off between them—, would have never happened. He'd slay some titans, then go to bed without this pang that had accommodated in his chest.

But doing that wouldn't be like him.

"The world is cruel, and it's still beautiful.", his mother would sing to him, on easier nights where she'd put him to sleep. And he was so lost, so hopeless, he was desperate to dream that much was true.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Hanji had gotten into the stables along with the others, their voices drowning down to a mere whisper. He had wanted to remain harsh, and cold, and distant— to retain the deep wishes of the heart. But they made it difficult, really. They had come along like thunderstorm, as if they had no business doing so, and painted the widest sunsets on his skies of grey.

Why was he so stupidly stubborn, then? Oh well, after all, this was his fault to begin with. He was aware, goodbye was the only guarantee a soldier could ever really own. And yet, he had been too naive. Too weak for longing for something that was bound to break, anyways.

"Fucking shit.", he cursed again, with his fist closed and his jaw tense. He'd dreaded this— put every ounce of effort not to make such mistakes. Still, Hanji was everywhere, immobile, trapped in each one of his exhales.

He couldn't lose them all those years before.

He can't lose them now. Or ever.

"Pleas e, don't die on me."

He blinks the memories away. It's been two hours since they've left the castle, but he feels as though it's been months. Now, stone makes the cart rattle; his heartbeat going out of compass as they stroll their way through.

Had his love been strong enough to make them stay?

Armin looks at him over his shoulder. The last glimpse of sunlight glints inside his irises; a frown creased between his brows.

“Heichou…”, he calls again, almost like he’s apologizing. Truth is, they’re still in the middle of nowhere, and it’s tough searching for someone in the dark like that. Best case scenario, he thinks, is that another survivor’s already found Hanji and rushed them to the castle. That, or the possibility of Onyankopon’s group locating them first.

He doesn’t really wanna imagine the worst.

Levi nods, and shuts his eyes for a moment. He remembers how he’d searched for them when he heard the shotgun at the caverns. How he’d been close from getting swept away by rocks, the time the explosion nearly takes them from him. This has to be the last seeking game, he tells himself. And he hopes— no, he prays—, that this mad, mad world will be kind enough to grant him just that.

He sighs. Had his love been strong to keep Hanji safe? Butterflies were bright, wonderful creatures. Yet, he knew, they were also frail. And small. And could be gone in an instant.

They couldn't hold up to the same fate. Not for as long as he lived. He'd promised. He'd promised.

Please.

He fantasizes of them, fiddling with his thumbs under the table. The meeting's gone long into the evening, and they'd developed a code to talk through touch. Hanji doesn't look at him, but they capture his finger under theirs and hold his palm. One squeeze's for "I'm bored", two's "let's get the heck out".

Please.

They're by the river, doing laundry. Hanji's plucked wildflowers from the shores, then made him a crown. "You're so cute!", they clap, as they take him by the chin to tilt his head up. And he curses when he feels his cheeks grow flushed. "Shut up, four eyes."

Please.

He wraps them up in a towel; their head splotched with an earthy scent. They'd been so tired, they had almost passed out on their desk. He doesn't even remember how long it's been since they last ate a proper meal, or if they'd been getting any sleep at all. So, he tucks them to his chest, as if that's all the shelter they'll need, and takes them to bed, like they'd so often done with the kids.

Please. Please. Please.

"Heichou!"

Armin pulls from the horse, and the cart stops with a steady thump. The wheels have lifted a thin veil of smoke, so Levi narrows his eyes to adjust his vision.

There, curled up into themselves, lays Hanji. His Hanji. Hanji Zoe.

His mouth goes dry, and suddenly it's like they're trapped into a time-lapse. It's them. Fuck, it's them. He can recognize the green of their cape, covered by dark, ashy patches. He can see the wings of freedom ragged on the fabric, poking from under black flames, too.

It's them. Fuck, he would have known it even if they were swallowed by fire once again.

He glares at Armin for a second, but then jumps into the floor without giving it a thought. His knees bleed against the rocks; his entire body throbbing with a pain that climbs from his toes and up his spine.

"Wait!", Armin warns him when he screams out from the ache. Still, he doesn't stop. He has to get to Hanji. He can't let them become a butterfly. Not for as long as he lives.

"I just never even doubted it.", he can hear them say; an echo so loud, it pierces right through him. He realizes, it doesn’t matter now, if their heart’s still beating, or if this was selfish of him to do. Hanji’s knuckles had always been sprinkled by marks, their nails collecting dust. But their hands could give life— make wonderful things bloom from underneath. It was in the way they’d sewn him back to one piece, the scars that crossed his face.

He had to do the same for them, or at least try. At times, it appeared to him all his hands have known was fight. And he was tired of fighting. For once, he wanted to be able to touch with tenderness, if only.

He wipes the tears that damp his bandages, one after the other. His full body stings with each move, and yet he doesn’t dare quit. He couldn’t save Erwin, or Mike, or Petra. Heck, he couldn’t even protect Hanji from each new line he found on their skin, back when he bathed them at dusk.

What if he fails now? If he does, it’ll forever remain the one choice he’ll regret.

He chews the hurt away, and runs. He has to. He’d promised.

He runs, and runs, and runs, like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. He runs, until his legs buckle, and he falls to the ground; sore, numb, gasping for air.

“Hanji-san…!”, Armin stands beside him; his eyes wide in disbelief when he sees them.

Oh, Hanji…  

They had been the yellow sun, red passionfruit, the orange skies. But now they’re grey; a rainbow swept by clouds. Their hair’s been ripped to shreds, scars clinging to their every frame. It burns to watch them like this, so devoid of every color they’d ever shone as. It burns so bad, it’s like a blade’s been struck to his middle, cutting him in half.

He reaches out to them, allows himself to let it out. His cries invade the silence, rag his soul to a million tiny figments. He’s lost everyone he’d ever called home. Everyone he’d been brave enough to love. Erwin, Mike, Petra, he had witnessed things no one ever should. Had been torn apart by fate, with his heart on his sleeve and his hopes up high.

He’d thought Hanji would be different, somehow. Maybe because that’s who they always were. They laughed at acid jokes, and seemed to be afraid of nothing. And, he’d figured, perhaps, if he refused to say goodbye, then that didn’t have to be real, either.

Stupid Levi.

He doesn’t bother drying his eyes, and grabs their face slowly, as if they’re the made of glass and could break from under him. They are beautiful, despite their features being tinged by war. There, with their clothes thrashed, and holes in their eye-patch, they are too fragile. Too little. Too much like they’re nature's prettiest treasure.

He strokes a strand of ashy-brown hair, and puts it behind their ear. Every inch of him feels heavy where his touch meets them. Their nose, their fogged-up glasses, their lips that are cracked dry, but halfway open, still.

Damn it. Are they breathing?

He stays there, with his thumb on their mouth, and his pulse on his throat. The world bends around him, like life’s moving in slow motion. Yet he can sense it, clear as day. The strained sound of an inhale, a gust of air trickling onto him.

They are breathing.

Fuck.

Hanji Zoe is breathing.

Hanji. Oh, Hanji. His Hanji.

They are alive. Breathing. Present. Alive.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He hugs them tight; their head softly cradled to his hands. He's almost forgotten about the port, that's now no longer there. About how there's no home to come back to, even. He's forgotten about the color of the skies, still tinted with grey smoke. About how Armin stands right behind, now witness to a love that there always was.

“Oh my God…”, he hears him say. But he doesn’t answer. This is all he’s ever wished for, really. Now he and Hanji can start over, like life’s Onyankopon’s sketch and they can paint it how they want to. There are no cities, no streets, no stories. They can write a new one, where they own a little cabin in the forest and grow poppies in their garden. They can go on adventures, sail the oceans wide and tell others what they’ve seen.

He cries again; his lips pressed to their forehead, tasting of blood and smoke, kiss after kiss. There are two kinds of things fire can do, he notices. Sometimes, it crawls under your skin and leaves marks that ache forever. Others, it's the spark that allows for creation. The flicker blinking in the hollows.

Hanji Zoe had been burnt by fire; a victim of its cruel, most destructive side. But they were also a radiant being, the warmth that sticks to the face during summer. The light that glimmers from inside family homes.

It was ironic, how it was fire, then, that same nurturing type, the one that'd kept them alive.

Because they are alive. They are alive. They are alive.

And they came back to him. Even when there’s still no house they can come back to.

"Damn you, four eyes...", he coos; his voice a broken whisper. A desperate groan that gets caught inside his throat. His tears stain their charcoal-cheeks, so he wipes them with care. Lets his thumb swipe the ash, and the hurt, and the nightmares away. "You scared the shit out of me."

.

.

It’d been two years. Two years that Hanji’d been in the hospital. Fourteen months in the intensive care unit, then the other ten in one of the regular rooms, to be more precise. Levi would stay there, by their side, too diligent to ever dare move. “…I would just never forgive myself if I lost them twice.", he’d told the Alliance, back when the world was still new. And so, he’d sit by their bed, then. Hold their hand until the nurse would come.

Onyankopon would often go check up on him, too. He’d arrive with the newspaper and a home-cooked meal. Sometimes, he’d bring a picture or two of Gabi and Falco, as well. “Come over”, he’d suggest, and his lips would draw into a smile. “Hospital food starts tasting the same after a while, doesn’t it?”. Levi would hum, then tuck his hands inside his pockets. Sure, he did appreciate his friend’s efforts to try and cheer him up. But he didn’t want to leave, yet. Not when Hanji needed him so.

The rest would find themselves busy on the daily. Armin was the one visiting less, since he was out of town the most. With the Rumbling coming to an end, it was his duty to welcome an era of balance. To grant humanity the promise of a bright, hopeful future— and make the pieces fit back together again. It wasn’t easy on him, Levi could tell. His eyes had grown darker, his expression cooler. But he managed to keep in touch, regardless. He’d pick up the phone at every hotel lobby, ask for Hanji soon as he heard his voice on the other side of the line.

“When are you two returning home?”, Gabi would insist, on long afternoons playing board-games by the bed-side. Her and Falco were sent to a school near the hospital, with Onyankopon set as their formal tutor. They’d walk downhill and through the meadows, until roads of mud turned to those of bricked-stone. Levi would always know when they were coming, indeed. They’d bang on the door, making too much of a fuss for his liking, then decorate Hanji’s covers with daisies they’d plucked along the way. “Shush!”, Falco would elbow her, the times she'd get too nosey. But Levi wouldn't really mind the question. “When they are all good to go”, he’d reply, and the kids would call in the nurses for some tea.

Now, water ripples at his fingertips— waves frothing every time he moves. The day Hanji had moved in with him, he’d cleaned more than he could ever recall. He’d swept the floors spotless, scrubbed the kitchen until his knuckles were red. If they were going to live together for good— to share the silly little in-betweens—, he thought, then he wanted everything to be perfect. At least, as perfect as it could.

The kids had helped him build the house along with Onyankopon. A nice, two-floor cabin with plenty of room for guests. They had white wooden cup-boards, — big enough for Levi's mug obsession—, two rocking chairs in the porch. Everyone took turns with construction, since him and Hanji were always at the hospital, anyways. Jean, Connie and Pieck would show up on Mondays, Thursdays, Saturdays. Reiner, Annie and Armin would go on Fridays, with Mikasa popping up every now and again. It had been quite the adventure, he had to admit. The few couple days he'd shown up, there would be music filling in the air— the smell of cheap market food tugging at the breeze.

He smiles, lets the memories fade with the foam. Him and Hanji bathe together now that neither can do it on their own. Still, it's not that he minds it much, sure thing. It had always been an old habit, anyways.

His hand trickles down their back, holds their every line like they're about to shatter. Flames are afire on their skin, even after all these months. Forty-two, he'd counted the very last time, thumb swiping through flesh and scar. Once it was eighteen, then twenty-seven and thirty-nine. He'd been so close to losing them. So near from getting his heart burnt just as bad. The only difference now is that, he knows, there won't be any more marks. No more bruises than those the war had already ripped inside.

He allows for his fingers to handle each scar. Eighteen, nineteen, he keeps them on check with meticulous care. Hanji's body had never been the same since the hospital— and for the longest time, he was aware, they didn't even want him to see them.

"I look like a monster.", they'd said, one night when he was trying to style their hair. They were sitting on their room's boudoir, both dressed in their pajamas only.

He'd sighed, and combed through the brown locks. Fire had taken most of it away, left patches of skin one could catch between the strands. Hanji had once had long, wild waves that would go like the ocean. Still, he found nothing wrong with the shorter threads growing loose and uneven.

"I thought you liked monsters.", he'd teased, in turn; one hand on their shoulder. And they'd laughed for a moment—because he was right. Oh, he was always right.

Now, he strokes down their spine, feels every bone and ridge under his palms. He'd never been good with words, he's aware. So, he makes his touch do the talk, instead. It's in the way he embraces their scraps, like he strives to mend their broken pieces back together. How he counts their every line, with a loyalty that unwavers, still as bright as ever.

Hanji stares at him, then lets him put ointment on their skin. Their lives are far from the perfect Levi'd imagined the day they came back. But, at last, he's certain, they're theirs to live. Theirs and no one else's.

And, for now, truth is, that is enough.

"If you could be an animal, which one would it be?", he decides, he'll make the questions first. At least, this time around.

Hanji chuckles.

"Hmmm, I never thought you'd ask!", they lay their head on his shoulder; a big, big smile on their lips. Levi hums, and sweeps a few wet strands off their face. Maybe, he figures, as he watches them close, they'd be a Fenix, if those were ever to exist. Still, he doesn't dare say it. Instead, he smiles back, gives them a kiss on the corner of their mouth. It's a contact that's too shy. A stroke light as a feather, even.

But it's enough.

It's enough.

"I just know I would never be a butterfly."

.

.

After their bath, they go sit in the garden. Levi thinks it’s quite the irony now, as he watches Hanji water the plants. He’d been nitpicky as ever, making sure the inside of the house looked perfect, just for their favourite spot to be the backyard, instead.

It’s not like he can lie, though. They live in a nice, open clearing, where trees stretch out to the skies and birds sing for them each morning. He feels as it’s a shelter— that sweet, sweet home of theirs. Hanji grows herbs and flowers to make new tea-blends, the city near enough so that the kids can come visit.

Sometimes, if he’s brave, he can even let himself imagine that this is all there ever was to life. The smell of pine creeping through the windows, the neighboring stream to lull them at night. Truth is, war has softened him around the edges, however. That it made him cherish every breath, every glance all the more. Even when there are certain words his heart still struggles to say.

He lets the air fill in his lungs. On his good days, Hanji climbs on his lap, and he strolls his chair across the grass, puffing through the numbness in his legs. They haven’t changed much, if he's honest. It's taken time for them to bloom into their old, bubbly self again. Yet, now they walk him to the river-side, and combine weird flavors in the kitchen. And so, he's noticed, they are trying their very best, just as much as he is.

“Levi”, they call him. Droplets fall from the cookie jar they use as a watering-can. “Over here! Look!”

There’s a butterfly propped on the petals of a forget-me-not; its wings a furious orange, dotted with delicate black. The afternoon sunset sprinkles over it, making dew and water seem like crystals have covered its surroundings.

It’s all so beautiful.

He refrains himself from gasping. Hanji's taken the butterfly into their finger, laughing like they’re only but a kid who’s re-discovering the world. Scars hug the sides of their face, especially when they smile like this. But he couldn’t care less. At this point, he knows every line by memory, has traced them over and over with his index. Eighteen, twenty-seven and thirty-nine, to him it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s learnt to love the hardships; the little indents chipping near their earlobes, and everything else in between.

“We could build a butterfly garden, right?”, they set themselves comfortable in the chair with him. Their arms are wrapped around his neck, and the butterfly perches on his shoulder.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Their hair tickles his jaw; their breath warm on his skin. They are so close, it makes his heart jump, and do small flips inside his chest, delighted at such softness.

“We’re too old to DIY, four eyes.”, he says, with his voice ragged and his mouth dry. “And the brats are busy with being world heroes or something.”

Hanji giggles. That, they guess, can be an accurate way to put it. The kids have been travelling quite a lot lately, with treaties and conferences piling up on top of them. They had made some headlines, too, actually. Levi’d crop the pictures from the newspapers, then keep them on his night-stand’s drawer.

“We can still try…", they tell him, and their nose's tucked along his clavicles. The breeze’s opened up the collar of his shirt, causing him to shiver at the touch.

"Yeah...", he speaks, at last, and his missing fingers swipe their bangs off their face. He isn't sure how long does the caress linger, but Hanji shuts their eyes to it, content. Like he's a sculptor and every trace of his palm breathes life back into them. "I guess maybe we can..."

They smile at him again. Sunlight flicks inside their irises. Caves, and trips, and bends into the marks that frame their cheeks. Of course, they can. And they are so wonderful, Levi can't help but want to kiss them then, right at that very moment.

He had wanted to do it before, actually—kiss them. It dawns on him like lightning, or being splashed by ice-cold water. He'd wanted to do it on the quarters' roof, during a warm, starry night. He'd wanted to do it slow, and sweet, as if Hanji's lips were champagne and he was there to take a sip.

Still, he notices, there never seemed to be a fitting place; opportunities slipping and scarce. "Not now, Levi", he'd tell himself, when they'd cry themselves to sleep in each other's beds. "It just wouldn't be right", he'd repeat, when the urge to touch would invade him, the times they’d bathe together at dusk.

Even now, with Hanji resting under the same sheets, there’s always something that stops him, somehow. Perhaps, if he gives it some thought, it’s that he fears that he’s waited too long. That whatever feelings they could have had for him had vanished with his hesitance.

He holds their face, lets his fingertips get trapped into their hair. He’d wanted to kiss them in the lab, when they’d do paperwork and stick out their tongue. He’d wanted to kiss them in the hush, when they’d run down the hallways and sneak in the dark. Why hadn’t he kissed them? Why? Back then, there had been plenty of reasons to hide. But there’s none of that today.

So why doesn’t he kiss them now? Why?

“Hanji…”, he talks, almost like he’s sighing, and they nod to him in turn. He can feel their breath, their heartbeat in his ears. It was war, indeed, the one that’d taught him that everything could be gone in an instant. That he had to shred himself off to love, even if the price was pain. “Hanji, I…”

Why doesn’t he kiss them now? Why?

They blink at him, with their eyes wide and a hand on his nape. What if everything had been leading them to this moment? He likes to dream, if only because he’s foolish. He’d wanted to kiss them, that night when they came back from that fancy auction-ball. He’d wanted to kiss them, too, that one other time they got so drunk, they passed out on the courtyard.

Was it so wrong, then, that he wanted to kiss them now, as well? Was it so wrong, then, that after all'd been set, and gone, and done, he was just tired of waiting?

“Levi…”

He says nothing. Hanji’s way too near, and his pulse’s racing again; his throat shut with untold emotion. He’d wanted to kiss them, that afternoon their ODM broke, and he found them hanging upside-down. He’d wanted to kiss them, the day they first moved in to their house, and he saw them wear their yellow shirt once more.

What’s making him push back now? What is he waiting for? Time ticks inside his head, and all he knows is that he has to take the jump. A leap of faith. That war had softened him around the edges. That he’s tired of waiting. And that, if he doesn’t do this, it’ll forever remain the one choice he’ll regret.

He inhales, and leans in forward. And then; that’s it, just before he realizes, he does kiss them, at last.

Hanji smiles against his mouth, rambling through the fresh trims of his undercut. Each stroke of their lips makes him feel brand new, like he's fireworks on a Marley festival. He wasn't even aware a kiss could awaken all of this in him, either. A joy that numbed his limbs, and busted from his belly up to everywhere else in his body.

Sure, they had cuddled on shared mattresses, and held hands under dinner tables. But this felt too raw. Too intimate. Like crossing the thin line between friends-and-something-more they always danced around. He'd been scared of it, too. To be fair, how could he not? He was awkward, and closed-off, and not very funny. It wasn't only the chance of his love being unrequited, but life playing jokes on him; taking quickly whoever he grew fond of.

He looks at them through hooded lids, just to check if it's real. That they're there, kissing him back, and he's not about to wake up from a fever dream.

"It's happening, shit.", he tells himself, when their tongue parts his lips and he can taste them fully; orange juice and summer rain. Their hands are on his hair, their nose nudging his. He can let himself melt in the ocean that's Hanji Zoe; their warmth, their wild, their everything. And he wants to curse his cowardness, or the world, as well. For making him deny them both of this happiness, way too longer than he should have.

"Sorry, I...", he licks his lips, breaking contact for a brief moment. "I should have done this a lot sooner..."

Hanji kisses him once more.

"We're both idiots.", they breathe against him. "I should have as well."

Levi nods; his thumb on their chin, knuckles swiping through scar and skin. Truth is, he’s still uncertain if there’s a God, or a heaven. And he’ll finally go to hell for each one of his sins. But, for fuck’s sake, with Hanji wrapped into his arms, now he simply doesn’t care.

“Heichou!”, he hears Armin say, and both him and Hanji separate quickly. He had told the kids not to call him that anymore. That now, they could refer to him as “Just Levi”. But none of them had listened, anyways. “Look! Over there!”

He turns his head. It’s a Friday, and that means everyone comes to visit; even Gabi and Falco. The house is filled with chatter, and the smell of tea that Onyankopon’s made. Jean and Pieck are on the porch, Annie and Reiner unpacking files on the kitchen table. Everything’s far from the perfect he’d imagined long ago, that’s for sure. But he has to admit, after all, this comes pretty darn close.

Armin speaks again, pointing up at the sky.

“The butterflies!”

He refrains himself from gasping once more. There’s yellow, and orange, and blue, and white, and purple; a storm unlike anything he’s ever seen before. Butterfly migration, Hanji’d taught him, back on their scout years. When winter approached, they all travelled together off to spring, seeking for a warm forest to wake up to. Now, there’s dozens— no, hundreds— of them, all flying in unison. Like the colors of the sunset have detached off of the horizon.

He thinks of Erwin, and Mike, and Petra, and Moblit, and his mother, and Kenny. Butterflies are sure bright, wonderful creatures. Yet, they are also frail. And small. And can be gone in an instant. He guesses, in the end, maybe that’s life, happiness, the people we meet. Beauty that’s too brittle, despite its complexity. The sheer delicacy one yearns to keep from the sweet betrayals of time.

Next to him, Hanji stares in wonder, still sitting on his lap. Their irises are full of marvel, their cheeks splotched with a sheen pink glow. It’s an image that melts Levi’s heart. They lift up an arm, laughing, as if they could catch a very butterfly between their fingers. And he's sure, then, it's butterflies themselves that are opposite to love.

Because butterflies would burn with the last drops of daylight, eventually. But love would remain, above every other certainty one could ever really own. It was in how he could see Erwin’s stare on the river’s blue. How he remembered Sasha in the town’s food. It was how he could talk to Kuchel in his dreams. How he found Isabel’s voice in the sound of the nightingale.

He sighs, swallows through the lump in his throat. Perhaps, not even eighty years were enough to love. And yet, he knew, if he loved hard enough, people, and life, and happiness could go way, way beyond that.

"Do you think they're watching?", Hanji'd asked him that day, barely minutes before tragedy. And now, he is for certain, everyone finally is.

He looks up at the sky: how the butterflies have splotched every patch of blue with bright, vivid colors. He wants to believe that this is them, indeed. Each a different shade of rainbow. That this is them, at last, and Hanji was right all those years before.

"As long as there's love, then death can never really win us over."