Chapter Text
Year 854:
Ignoring the incessant roiling of his gut, the pads of Levi’s mismatched number of fingers press up against the cool glass of the window by his bed. He hates flying-boats with every fibre of his being. He hates them for making him want to throw up. He hates how claustrophobic his cabin is; it’s only slightly bigger than a broom closet.
Most of all, he hates the sight that the windows bestow him of the land below.
As a child, he’d always dreamed of sprouting wings and flying above everything: escaping the filth of the underground and its piss-soaked alleys, rising above the muck and detritus that clung to his skin like sweat since birth. Even as an adult, vaulting in the air with 3D-manoeuvre gear could only scratch that particular itch so much. It was exhilarating, as close to flying as he could get, but gravity’s inexorable pull would always bring him and his childish dreams back down to the ground.
The thought of having wings makes him laugh bitterly now. The world is a wasteland; there’d be nothing of note to see.
Only bones and blood.
He's seen enough of both to last him several lifetimes.
Swallowing down bitterly sour saliva, Levi can’t help but drink in the unadulterated devastation that Eren’s gifted them all. Remembering that conversation he’d overheard between him, Mikasa and Armin on that night before they’d returned to Shiganshina, he shakes his pounding head in disbelief.
“Was this really the world you’d dreamed of, Eren?” he whispers hoarsely to himself, feeling his throat clench and stomach twist as they pass through some turbulence.
Grabbing for his bucket with scrabbling hands, he retches into it and shuts his streaming eye.
He’s wrong. What he hates most is knowing that Eren had lied to him.
---
Year 853:
The monotonous scritch-scratching of his quill-tip against cheap vellum is almost enough to lull Levi to sleep. Almost. He’s been up for hours filling in documents and requisition forms, and his hand is cramping. In irritation, he throws the quill down, leaving a splotchy blot of ink on the paper.
‘If we split the workload, it won’t be a mountain of paper for me. Have a heart, Levi!’ Hange had implored, eyes wide and hands and face smudged with ink. Feeling charitable, he’d grudgingly agreed to help only after being guaranteed an express order of black tea.
“This shit’s still a mountain, Shitty Glasses,” he gripes, glaring at the stack of papers teetering ominously on his desk. No matter how many he fills in, the pile doesn’t seem to recede in size. As the ink splotch seeps further into the paper, Levi decides he’s past caring at this point. He’ll end up looking like Hange’s bespectacled twin if he keeps squinting down at this shit.
Flexing and extending each of his fingers in turn, he gazes up at the ceiling and sighs. He desperately wants to shut his eyes and get at least a few hours of sleep, but it seems like one of those nights where rest will elude him.
He’s about to extinguish his oil lamp – call him old-fashioned, but he prefers them over the glowing stones' unnatural light – when there’s a knock at his door.
Several knocks.
‘Not Hange,’ his mind supplies. If it was, the door would’ve been flung open after the first knock. Hell, he likely would’ve heard them thundering up the corridor; their gait pattern is distinctively loud.
Easing himself out of his uncomfortable chair with a groan, he lumbers over to the door and unlocks it with still-stiff fingers.
Swinging it open, he’s surprised to find Eren standing in front of him. Sloppily attired in his pyjamas – Levi idly notes they’re too small for him now; his latest growth spurt has the sleeves ending well before his bony wrists.
It’s hard to see his face very well in the dark, but Eren’s green eyes are glazed over and his skin looks slightly clammy. His long hair’s a shaggy mess around his shoulders and there are several beads of perspiration clinging to the skin of his forehead.
To Levi’s alarm, Eren’s also breathing rather heavily; he’s swaying on the spot like he’s imbibed too much alcohol.
Concerned, Levi tilts his head. “Eren? Is something the matter?”
‘He looks drunk… or sick.’
As if to confirm Levi’s thoughts, Eren opens his mouth like he's about to speak, but only vomit comes out.
Jumping back in alarm, and to avoid being splashed, Levi swears.
---
Eren’s reclining on Levi’s worn leather chaise; a damp flannel’s been placed on his forehead.
“I’m so sorry, Captain,” he groans, voice weak and watching with mortified eyes as Levi sluices the mess away. Cool water runs down his flushed face, tracking its way down the back of his neck. It’s going to soak his shirt, but he’s too embarrassed to care.
Grunting and scrubbing at the stone-flagged floor with vigour, Levi glances at him over his shoulder and shrugs. “It’s fine. Bowl’s on the floor if you need to puke again.”
He’s loath to use his vinegar mix as the smell’s likely to make Eren feel sick again, but he’s not keen on having his quarters reek of puke either. He wipes at the floor with haste.
“I think I’ll be okay,” is Eren’s mumbled reply. He’s worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth.
“Good to hear.”
Lifting himself up off his knees, Levi picks up his bucket and washcloth before sidling off into his quarter’s bathroom. With a grimace, he empties the dirty water into the privy and flushes it, before rinsing the cloth and his water-wrinkled hands thoroughly with some lye soap.
Re-entering the room, he finds Eren staring at him nervously. He’s still biting at his lip.
It’s silly, and if Levi wasn’t concerned about the situation, he’d snort. They’ve known each other for years, yet Eren’s acting like the shy recruit who’d just been put under his and the Survey Corps’ care.
“No need to shit yourself, Eren. It happens, just relax.”
If anything, Eren only seems to tense up more. Levi can see it in the tightness of his shoulders, the way his face is contorted.
He looks constipated.
“Did you overindulge?” Levi asks, sitting at the far end of the chaise. Eren quickly flexes his knees, moving his bare feet away to give him more room. “You don't stink of beer or whatever piss you brats like to knock back like water.”
Eren chuckles faintly, creasing his eyes. “No… Anyway, I don’t get drunk.”
Scratching at his undercut, Levi’s brow furrows. “Then… what?”
“I had a bad dream. Woke me up.”
There’s something insufficient about Eren’s answer. Whatever he’d dreamt of, Levi knows “bad” isn’t the correct descriptor. They all have nightmares. If anything, not having them is more unusual in the Survey Corps. Eren’s ones tend to be more dramatic and frequent, but he can hardly be blamed for that.
There had been whisperings of Eren’s night terrors increasing in intensity after Historia’s coronation, but Levi had been so busy training new recruits and helping Hange manage the chaos, that, in truth, he hasn’t had time to check up on his charge.
Regret and guilt snarl their way through his veins, making him frown. “Want to talk about it?”
Eren’s eyes meet his, and Levi watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows thickly. “There’s nothing to talk about, sir,” he hedges, anxious caution colouring his tone in numerous, indecipherable shades.
Levi may not be the most socially apt member of the Corps, but even he can tell when to back off. Eren’s skittish, and probing him for more information will only cause him to withdraw further into himself. That’s another thing that’s been circulating around headquarters like shitty school-yard gossip. Even Hange had brought it up: Eren’s been acting more distant lately, spending more time alone. He’s even eschewed hanging out with Mikasa and Armin, his supposed bosom buddies.
Chewing on his tongue, Levi ceases scratching at his head and opts to musingly rub at the velvety texture instead. ‘If that’s the case… why is he here?’ While they do seem to have built some kind of rapport, Levi is leery about trying to tag any meaningful epithet onto it. Eren’s hero-worship of him has, over time, eroded away like that beachside cliff they’d stood on that day to behold the sight of the ocean for the first time. They’re comfortable in each other’s presence, but not to the extent of Eren turning up to his quarters unannounced in the early hours of the morning like a lover, sick or not.
Uncomfortable about where his mind has strayed to, Levi clears his throat. “Would you like to rest here, or do you think you’re well enough to make it back down to your room? I can escort you.”
Eren squirms on the chaise, turning his head and stifling a yawn with his shoulder. “Is it okay if I stay here? I promise I don’t snore.”
Unable to hold back a smirk, Levi nods. Getting up, he sidles over to Eren and bends forward. Ignoring Eren’s sharp intake of breath, he plucks the flannel from his head gently. It feels warm to the touch, no doubt in response to Eren’s unnatural body temperature. He always runs hot, so it’s difficult to discern when he’s truly feverish. “Would you like me to replace this?” he asks quietly, standing up. A few droplets of water patter soundlessly onto the floor.
“I think I’ll be okay,” Eren whispers, closing his eyes. There's a faint blush dusting over his cheeks.
"Alright."
Treading quietly back to the bathroom, Levi wrings out the flannel before hanging it to dry. After towelling his wet hands, he exits and wanders over to his modest kitchenette, grabbing a jug and pouring some water into a glass. Passing it into Eren’s grateful hands, he makes a final circuit around his room and gropes around in his dresser for a spare woollen blanket. Draping it over Eren’s knees, he’s pleased to see that the glass has already been drained and placed on the table adjacent to the chaise.
Finally, he settles back into his horrible wooden-backed chair and, with a heavy sigh, hunches over his paperwork once more.
“Aren’t you going to sleep, Captain?” Eren asks from his makeshift bed. His voice is cloudy with stupor, but he still sounds concerned.
Waving a hand dismissively, Levi glowers down at the sizeable patch of ink that’s now blended in with most of his writing. He’ll have to rewrite this form from scratch.
“Don’t worry about me, Eren. Just rest.”
As much as he’d like Eren to take the day off sick, they have coastal patrol duty later.
There’s no getting out of it.