Chapter Text
Beneath the light, tentative ministrations of his fingers, Eren’s skin erupted in warmth; a contented sigh leaving his lips in an unconscious display. Levi hid his frown behind the brunet’s shoulder, a strange sort of settlement in the pit of his stomach as he regarded the boy in his bed, fast asleep with that familiar youthful semblance. No longer concealed within the blanket of night he could observe the boy more clearly; discover the uncharted stretch of his torso exposed to him; grace his fingers along the unexpected little mole on his taut stomach, mirroring the one on the side of his tawny neck; have a front-seat viewing to the thin white line stretching across his abdomen. A scar which, unlike many of the other wounds his body had acquired, hadn’t disappeared. A part of him almost felt guilty in laying his half-lidded gaze upon it. He felt as though he was uncovering Eren’s secrets without his knowing and, in doing so, was betraying the trust they had formed. And in mapping out every millimetre of Eren’s upper body, he ingrained the heat of his skin into his mind; committing it to memory as though it would disappear in an instant.
An extravagant vibration atop of his side table jarred him out of his thoughts, its sound reverberating about the room, and Levi had to supress a smile when an audible groan of complaint exited Eren’s mouth; his hand fisting his pillow as he brought it down to shield his ears from the sound. It beckoned the raven to reclaim his phone before it roused Eren from his blissful sleep completely; something which he didn’t hope to achieve. As lazy as the brat was, it would mean Levi wouldn’t be able to ogle so freely and unabashedly at him. Eren’s hand twitched by his shoulder, the bronzed skin barely touching the alabaster muscle at all, but it managed to hold Levi captive nevertheless.
Effectively shutting his alarm off before it stirred Eren awake, his phone felt heavy in his grasp all of a sudden. He thought back to the last conversation that he and the brunet had shared, ending with Levi concluding he would call the number that Kenny seemed so suspiciously adamant about him knowing. He considered his options: muster the restraint and remain nonchalant to Kenny’s typically shady self, or surrender to his overpowering curiosity.
It didn’t take him much time to type the number into his phone, and he felt as though a breath was caught in his throat all the while. Each press of his thumb against the screen elicited a sharp blip in his heartrate; the hesitation before he could select the call button, a result of his anxiety in that moment, only quenched by the quiet murmurs of the sleeping boy beside him.
The brunet’s dark brow furrowed all of a sudden, an intense frown overcoming his features. An incoherent grumble vacated his lips – seemingly a groan of sorts – before he hugged himself closer to Levi, succeeding in pushing the raven back against the pillows. Eren’s cheek lay against his abdomen, his mouth agape in sleep.
“If you drool on me, you’re getting kicked out.”
Eren shushed him then, lips against his stomach. “You’re too loud...” Fatigue grasped onto every word, his speech slurring through his drowsiness, and Levi was surprised by how endearing he found it to be.
“I’m speaking no louder than usual,” he said – contrary to his statement – a little louder than his usual tone of voice, solely to further gripe Eren’s particularly short temper.
Eren practically growled at the sound of Levi’s voice interrupting his sleep. Expecting an exhausted, half-arsed retort from the boy, Levi sat back with a triumphant smirk settled on his mouth. When he felt teeth graze his skin however, a hot breath against his abdomen, he decided then to stop expecting a civil response from Eren Jaeger. He damn near gasped at the sharp nip, the slip of his tongue against him; and instead planted a rough kick against Eren’s shin. It was an incidental reflex action, but he couldn’t deny that Eren deserved it. Alabaster digits fixed themselves into the brunet’s mane of hair, facing the lazy, sleep-induced pierced grin with a glower of his own.
“No,” Levi warned, quietly observing the malevolence and shimmering mirth seep into Eren’s half-lidded emerald stare. “Eren –“
When Eren’s mouth fastened itself against the pale flesh above his navel, any possible retort he had rearing on the tip of his tongue involuntarily diminished; and in its wake a short intake of breath remained. His eyes were focused on him for a moment longer before, inevitably, shutting with a small sigh as Eren’s lips continued their gentle ministrations, the warmth of the foreign feeling spreading throughout the entirety of him.
He hadn’t been touched like this before. Not by anyone – especially not by Eren; not in this life, nor the one before. He never wanted it. He didn’t want – what he thought to be – a distraction. He was more efficient soldier, captain and advisor, to himself and others, in concentration. He didn’t think he needed distracting. He didn’t rely upon desire, the instinct of lust, to feel human. He didn’t need it to handle the severity and morbidity of their situation. He didn’t need the press of a warm mouth against his skin to feel alive. He didn’t possess the desire to be irrevocably undone beneath someone’s touch.
He didn’t think he did. That is, until the lips moving against him belonged to a shameless, viridian-eyed brat, and only now did he realise that yes – yes, maybe he had wanted this. This, with Eren’s slick tongue gliding against his skin; the cold metal of his piercing igniting an aggravatingly stark contrast to the heat blossoming within him; a glistening trail of wet moisture; the bronzed hand gripping him at his thigh, holding him firm; and yes – perhaps a part of him might have needed this too.
Eren’s lips continued in their steady incline, unrushed as though he wanted to personally engrave the impression of himself into Levi’s ivory skin, and didn’t look at him once until his lips reached his clavicle. He paused, emerald orbs clouded with an unidentifiable intensity that Levi didn’t think could be sated by the taste of his skin alone, a quizzical frown taking purchase on his face.
Levi kissed him then, hard. His fingers entangled themselves into the brunet’s hair, fisting the long strands as he tasted the metal of the piercing on his lips. Eren’s tongue parted his mouth, and desire had Levi’s body ache; an uncommon sensation rushing through him like volts of electricity. His back arched voluntarily, pushing his front against Eren in a way that elicited a sharp intake of breath from both of them. When Eren’s hands travelled southward, burning permanent etchings into his skin as they did, Levi felt high-strung and restless, like a length of finely taut string was close – painfully close – to snapping inside of him. The damn near scorching heat of the tawny hand below his navel was unbearable, and Eren’s teeth grazing against his neck was enticing to him.
Behind closed eyes, Levi could see a boy. A boy, whose emerald orbs were held accountable for his young age; his eyes much too large and much too circular in proportion to the features of his face, staring at him, his expression that of utter wonderment and adoration. A boy who, the next time Levi saw of him, could transform into a monster. A boy who, to his own dismay, possessed an ability beyond the knowledge of even the specialists – a boy who, if happened to lose control of his urges and his monstrous curse, would be murdered by the most ruthless of men; the man who could kill without a trace of remorse. A boy whose shoulders bore the fate of humanity itself.
A boy.
The boy was Eren.
If he lost control, Levi would be the one to kill him.
“Stop.”
The tone of his voice must have carried a thousand words that his mouth wouldn’t have been able to convey in that moment alone. The command was thick and grave, his confliction palpable as he sat up; his feet planted on the floor. Eren was beside him, quiet and unsure, with his hands wrung together in hesitance to touch him again.
“I’m sorry.” Levi stood up, distancing himself from the bed – from the boy. From Eren. “We can’t do this. Not right now.”
Eren followed, brow furrowed confusedly. “Levi –“
“I can’t do this, Eren.”
Holding a polystyrene cup of water in precariously shuddering hands, Eren winced at the aching settlement forming in his lower back.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’ve been better.” That was an understatement. His temperature had been fluctuating for the past couple of days and today seemed worst of all, likely not a result of the mediocre procedure Hanji had jumped – literally, she leapt – at the chance to perform on him. For science, as she had said, as though that was reason enough to treat Eren like a Guinea pig in her laboratory of madness.
“Considering it’s your first time receiving a lumbar puncture, aches and pains are to be expected. Especially as it’s been done by an amateur.”
“You told me that already,” he murmured dryly, holding his forehead. “It’s still not reassuring.”
“I have a friend in the field,” she paused, “An actual professional, don’t you worry, who’ll take a look at the cerebrospinal fluid and blood samples I took – just for any mutations as such; the things that were more difficult to do back then. Though at this point we’re not too certain what we’re looking for exactly, so we won’t be getting any answers for a couple of months – at least.”
She had been remarkably adamant on Eren agreeing to this, calling it an advancement in medical science that they couldn’t afford to miss. With his final transition trailing closer with each passing day, Eren allowed his will to be bent and agreed to her proposition. For the moment though, his mind was elsewhere. It toyed with him mercilessly, day and night – some nights he even woke up to it: the incessant scrubbing, clawing, of hands and soap in the bathroom. He’d stay awake until Levi returned and, again, they would fall back to sleep as though it never happened. It had happened eight times in the past week alone – twice, one night.
“Hanji,” he began, his voice quiet. “Can I ask you something? About Levi.”
Her back was to him. He watched, from the movement of her fiddling hands with equipment stationed at the countertop, to then pausing as he spoke. A visible sigh could be seen shutter through her frame, long-winded and expectant.
“I suppose now that the initial shock of your reclaimed memories has worn off,” she said, her bespectacled stare downcast as she turned around. “You’re beginning to realise something about him.”
Eren’s throat tightened. “He’s not well, is he?”
Hanji took a seat beside him on the singular hospital-style bed, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of her nose.
“Erwin and I – we’ve been watching over him for a while now...” Eren’s stare followed the soothingly repetitive thumb gracing over her knuckles, a motion he figured must have been reassuring to her and to quench her anxieties. To see Hanji, the most excitedly erratic of people, look so despondent and concerned, terrified him more than he’d like to admit. “No one is taking this life well. Not with the past tearing at our heels. Levi, he – he remembered it all prematurely. Not knowing what it meant or who to confide in, he was just a little boy when he developed certain...tendencies –“
“Scrubbing at his hands like his life depends on it?”
A grimace contorted her face. “Among other more detrimental things, yes. Many of which remain in his childhood and he’s since managed to take back some form of control. But the washing of his hands has stuck with him.”
Eren’s stomach churned at that – the mere mention of the ‘other things’.
“Was he like this before?” Eren asked. “In the past I mean.”
Hanji shrugged one shoulder, exhaling deeply. “I believed for some time that Levi’s condition now has transpired, or is exaggerated, from his past obsessions. Growing up, remembering a part of himself from a whole new life, might have complicated things for him. He’s been making connections since he was young; discovering who he once was, and how that differs to who he is now. And how he found a way to deal with the cruelties of the past was by cleaning – making sure his surroundings were spotless.”
“Why?” A murmur strained his throat. “Why is this happening to him?”
Eren stared at the floor beneath his feet. He didn’t flinch as an arm came about his shoulders; Hanji’s hand clasping his knee, assuring. “There’s no simple answer to something like this. I told him the same when we discovered that your memories hadn’t returned,” she mumbled. “Ultimately however, we can reassure Levi that his hands are clean until our voices are gone and our throats are sore, but he may not ever hear us. We’re all slaves to the past, Eren. Even humanity’s strongest man.”
“Slaves,” he grouched humourlessly, spitefully reminiscing over Hanji’s words as he struggled to barge through the door in heading up to the roof of the building. It had become his haven – a relief to his skin, which now seemed to be permanently engulfed in unbearable heat – and his regular outings to the place had increased drastically in the past week.
Eren’s knees almost buckled as he reached the edge. He sat before they had the chance to give out beneath him.
A spasm transitioned along his spine; the agony of the discomfort hauling a wretch out of Eren’s throat. A cross between a sob and vomit. Fingers tightening in his hair, he tugged. A scream stood, temptation holding it there, on the tip of his tongue.
Beneath the skin of his wrists, his veins began to bulge in sheer, straining tension. An eternal shadow seemed to take residence on his shoulders, its enormous weight serving as an extraordinarily painful reminder of what he was – of what was about to happen, if he didn’t find some way of controlling it. He held up his hand and, mindlessly, drove his fingernails into the flesh. Blistering welts, extended lines of provoked aggravation, covered the entirety of his forearm and then, emerging almost seamlessly, steam immediately dispersed into the air. He hissed sharply, a grimace crossing his lips at the confirmation of his suspicions. It was happening – and he couldn’t trigger it.
He didn’t notice the prolonged creak of the door behind him, nor did he see the icy cerulean stare of the blonde-haired girl stalking towards him, her expression cautionary and speculative.
“Why are you up here?” Annie questioned, the demand weighing heavily on her tongue. “Eren. You need to get you down.”
“I can’t.” He turned to her, her figure shrouded by the intense plumes of steam evacuating his body. “I won’t make it.”
“You can’t transform on the bloody roof, Eren.” She swore, uncharacteristic alarm infiltrating her tone. “You’ll bring the damn building down on top of you. People will –“
“Why the Hell are you here?” He interrogated vehemently, ferocious animosity forcing his fists to clench. “Were you following me?”
Annie’s brows rose as indignation spiked through her. “I saw you staggering around, steam coming out of your arse – did you expect me to not follow you up here?” She shook her head, scowling. “Levi’s fucked off somewhere, leaving you alone to deal with this. I’m filling in for him.”
“I don’t want you to –“
A brutally anguished scream tore out of his throat as his spinal column, once more, seemed to twist angularly; the agonising effect it had on him prevalent and merciless across his body. His arms shook as he tried, his attempt fruitless, to hold himself up.
He hadn’t felt pain like this before. Not in this life, at least.
Fragments of splintered wood, the remnants of demolished buildings, pierced his chest and ribs. Pinned to the ground, immobile, Eren fought for control of his body. The pain – the excruciating agony – reverberated throughout the entirety of his stature, though none of which could compare to the rage searing through him, the furiousness of his spite, in the slightest. Resentment towards the inflictions of his incapability, his inability, to reign in his focus. The overwhelming contempt he experienced, an unstoppable riptide of malevolence, towards the girl he had once considered a friend. Former friend, now his nemesis. An enemy of mankind. Annie Leonhart.
Unshed tears glistened waveringly in her blue-eyed stare, her blonde hair fallen into her face, loose strands against her cheeks. Her hands were clasped on his forearm, in spite of the immense heat scorching her palms and the scent of burning flesh invading the air between them, and were unfaltering nevertheless.
“Eren.” Her voice shook. “I need to get you off this roof.”
Its jaws snapped shut. The ever-present malicious grin glinted, its monstrous stare barren of emotion – void of remorse; not a single trace of humanity taking residence in its humanoid expression. Rains of blood cascaded to the ground, showering the grass beneath its feet in the remnants of Hannes’ body. Eren’s hands dropped to his sides, numb. He fell forward, violent tremors wracking his frame as, from the depths of his throat, a guttural scream of helplessness shook the earth below him. It rattled his ears, the sobs leaving him growing louder, more despairing, in consequence.
Useless.
Useless, even now.
Through the simmering mirage of steam and the convulsions of his body, Eren witnessed what panned out before him. A stretch of grass, pupils gathered in small clumps as they minded their own business. Fright paralysed him then. The horror and the terror on their faces if they saw him would be unimaginable. Their expressions now, unprovoked and relatively at peace, would be gone in a heartbeat.
Eren wouldn’t be a monster to be feared.
“Should you feel yourself transitioning, wherever you are, you need to get to the southern woods – there, behind the building. You need to be out of sight, Eren.”
He hovered above the north-face of the building now. He glanced behind him, a determined curse heavy on his tongue. Eren fought for the control of his legs, to be stable enough to run.
Annie caught his eye, hers flashing in warning.
“You can’t –“
“I don’t have a choice.”
We’re all slaves to the past.
And Eren wouldn’t be a monster to be feared. Not anymore.
Across from him, a red-haired woman smiled tearfully at him. Her elderly hands took a hold of her teacup, the dainty china set with quaint patterns of birds and periwinkles and marigolds that the sight of made Levi want to scoff. The familiar sparkle of her emerald orbs shone youthfully, excitably, as she spoke to him – or, more specifically, at him. She was always one to talk his damn ear off, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be listening to her most of the time. He pretended not to notice the slight tremor coursing through her hands every now and then, nor the streaks of grey polluting her fiery head of hair. He tried to not acknowledge any one of her features that might have suggested her old age. It was too strange for him to see.
It was too strange for him to admit was now the reality.
To her side, the framed photograph of a grey-haired man was sat on display. The elderly woman gazed at it occasionally, a faint smile on her weathered lips, with a mischievous glimmer in her stare. The man was old too. Hair that Levi had once known to be a sandy blond was the colour of ash – neutral in tone, dead of colour, unlike his eyes. His eyes conveyed a timeless age that couldn’t be foreseen by the photograph alone.
She regarded him with a despondent gleam. “Are you going to speak at all?”
“When did he die?” He crossed his ankle at the knee, folding his arms over his chest.
“About six months ago. Brain tumour.”
“You don’t wear the wedding ring.”
“What makes you think I ever married him?” A smirk toyed across her lips. “Marriage is a social construct – did you really think I’d conform to such a thing, Levi?”
“Not you, no.” He reciprocated the lightness of her smile. “Farlan, on the other hand – yes. The traditional bastard never asked you?”
Isabel’s viridian eyes shone bright. “Oh, he asked me – twice.”
“And you refused the poor guy both times.”
“I had to keep him on his toes somehow.”
He scoffed, though the discomforting heaviness on his chest made it difficult for him to do much else. The contents of his pocket began to vibrate but he didn’t feel even remotely compelled to answer his ringing phone.
“You should answer that. It could be important.”
“It’s probably only Hanji. She can wait.”
“Hanji...” Isabel mused, pondering. “The mad one?”
His phone continued to ring. “The persistent one apparently.” Retrieving his phone, he rolled his eyes. “Do you mind?”
She shook her head. “’Course not. We have all the time in the world to talk.”
The ironic statement was an unmistakeable feature that had carried through from the past and, despite the morbidity of her worsening situation, it almost made him smile having been reminded of the young crimson-haired girl, once full of life and determination and hope.
Kenny had led Levi to Isabel Magnolia. Though he didn’t understand the man’s reasoning for doing so, he couldn’t deny his appreciation for the abnormally considerate act of kindness. But the peace offering had been delivered to him too late. Six months too late to speak with Farlan – at least once – before he died. Two months too late to be with Isabel, be by her side, when she was diagnosed with dementia.
They didn’t have all the time in the world to talk. One day, however soon that may be, she’ll begin to forget everything – about Farlan; the underground; the past and the present; him. It was too late to talk.
Nevertheless, with a heavy heart as he did so, Levi put the phone to his ear.
“What is it?”
He should have noticed something was amiss when, upon answering the phone, he wasn’t pelted with overenthusiastic greetings and overzealous yells.
The shuddering exhale across the line evoked the coldest of settlements. His hand tightened on the device, his knuckles almost immediately whitening.
“Hanji, tell me.” His voice was hollow, a toneless monotone. “Is Eren –”
“Eren jumped.”
Hovering above him, circular frames oscillated in his vision and, for a worrisome and possibly delusional moment, he thought that Hanji was about to perform a lobotomy on him. With the fear firmly planted in his head, he fought to sit up, not completely cognizant to his blindingly clean surroundings and the sanitized scent in the air.
A placating grumble reached his ears and, as agony tore through his ribs, a pair of skeletal hands grabbed him at the shoulders, insistent in holding him against the mattress beneath him. Eren let out a disgruntled curse, allowing himself to be pressed into the bed; the horizontal position granted him a small amount of relief from his unbelievably aching torso.
“Easy, Eren,” a low murmur resounded from above him. “You’re in the hospital.”
“No shit...” He let out a grunt as he gained awareness to his uncomfortably dry throat. “Fuck – my head...”
“That would be your concussion.” The man stood back. He removed his glasses for his hand to rub at his eyes. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for hours, kid. Considering your fall, it’s a wonder how you’re not completely paralysed. Armin and I hypothesised that your ability may have lessened the impact of your landing –”
Eren’s throat constricted. “How do you know about that?” He demanded dubiously.
The lanky brunet straightened his hunched back. His blue scrubs hung loose from his seemingly thin frame. Eren was regarded with a weighted umber gaze, despondent and remorseful, behind the familiar circular frames. Realisation dawned as his vision cleared and, once it had, his dry stare promptly pricked with watery soreness.
“I suppose I have a lot to answer for.” Grisha Jaeger smiled wryly at his son, whose voice had since dispersed into a hoarse whisper.
“Yeah...” Eren mumbled quietly, unresponsive to the tears leaking out of his eyes. “You do.”
His father had not chosen to confess to his transgressions of the past immediately. Rather, he cast Eren another sombre glance and, gingerly, asked if he could take him somewhere.
Eren, quickly realising the severity of his injuries – the multiple fractures of his right arm; bruised ribs, two of which were also broken; as well as his concussion and numerous burns etched into his skin – struggled to situate himself into a wheelchair. His memory was hazy. He knew he would need Armin – or Annie – to explain what exactly happened to him up on the roof. His final conscious thought had been that he needed to get to the southern woods, the designated, most secluded, position for his transition to take place. And to do that – to protect the innocent lives of those in the building and on the northern lawn – Eren had to jump.
So he did, and he could only hope that no one witnessed the boy hurtling towards the ground, a monstrous beast materialising in the fog behind him. Hoped to God that no one took notice of the agonised scream which ripped its archaically tortuous path out of his throat. He prayed that Levi hadn’t caught wind of his transformation; hadn’t been there to see Eren’s contorted, unconscious body being hauled into the back of an ambulance once his Titan had made its final appearance, before succumbing, lifelessly, to the atmosphere.
Eren felt lightheaded and nauseous all of a sudden, a wave of discomforting sensations that were not sated by Grisha’s hand firmly against his shoulder as he was wheeled through the ominously sterile white-tiled corridor. He despised hospitals. Since his attempt he had exhibited a detest towards them; from the closed doors – of which, behind, lay diseased, tortured, people; undeserving of having their lives tormented by illness – to the waiting rooms, family members wracking their thumbs and plastering facades of optimism onto their faces as they await the results of a relative. That had never been the case with his parents. They were there to answer questions regarding the state of his mental health and, once they had masterfully pushed that to the side and dodged responsibility, they drove him home. He didn’t ever see the expressions of devastation. He saw disappointment and irritation. Frustration, as though Eren’s admittance to the hospital had been a hindrance to them – just another of his yells for attention to interrupt their busy schedules.
The pungent stench of vomit began to dethrone the scent of hand sanitizer. Eren, having his senses overwhelmed by his surroundings, was unsuccessful in noticing the sign adorning the wall as they continued down the hallway. The wails of sick children began to quieten as they approached Armin, the blond-haired boy’s cerulean stare gentle and repentant as Eren and Grisha neared him.
“I hear you took a tumble,” the blond teased sadly.
Eren smiled warily. “Something like that.”
He caught Armin’s gaze flicker up to Grisha, a timid nod of acknowledgement – or permission – being passed between them. Eren’s chest felt uncommonly tight, blind bewilderment containing him, as Armin pushed through the door he stood just outside of. The group had taken residence in the room: Historia, Connie and Jean having pulled up chairs to a bed whilst Hanji and Petra, vacantly, situated themselves in the far corner. Apprehension was immediately bestowed upon their faces the moment Eren entered the room.
At the centre of the room, aligning the wall furthest from the door, a bed took its position. A mismatched plaid throw claimed most of the mattress, as though in a desperate attempt to make the hospital room a home. Above, a deck of cards took purchase, unattended to since Eren had arrived.
Uncontrollable lashes of shivers were ignited across his bruised skin as he saw her, the breath knocked out of him.
Blood adorned his hands, tainting the skin with a horrific flesh-coloured replica of the fabric beneath him.
Her weary charcoal stare flittered over to him, the sickly gaunt-faced girl’s cheeks drenched with tears as she saw him. A hand, alabaster skinned and her bones defined, covered her mouth – her wrist and arm unhealthily thin.
Eren’s sketches had portrayed her inaccurately. He had envisioned inky, flowy locks; her hair claiming the unwanted attention from the people by the likes of Jean Kirstein. The reality, it seemed, was not as he could have ever imagined. He had dreamt of his moment – but not once did he think it would be like this. He thought he would see her, more alive than ever before. Healthy – overjoyed –
The reality, it seemed, was the very picture of despair that she had left him with.
He had longed to see her. To feel her arms around him; her mouth against his ear, whispering the reassurances that only she could give.
But not like this.
His hysterics relapsed, his voice a ghostly murmur of monotonous despair. Hollow. Petrified. A mantra of her name spilled out of his mouth, uncontrollable and as repetitive as the waves lapping at the shoreline on the night that he died; Mikasa being his final conscious thought.
Mikasa weaned herself out of the bed, its surface sturdy and unimpressionable beneath her weight as she did, and without Grisha holding onto her – his skin against hers – she likely would have stumbled.
“It’s alright.” Her hand, concealed by the maroon fabric of her newly-acquired cardigan, was pressed against his cheek. Mikasa’s voice was quiet and for his ears only. She coaxed the material against the tears now coating his face, a small smile gracing her chapped, pale lips.
“Eren,” she spoke, tears of her own trickling onto his hands. “It’s alright.”