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"'Let's make tea.'
"That's what she always said when I had a question she didn't want to answer." Levi reclined in the simple wooden chair, one arm over its back, the other resting on the table. With a preparatory inhale, he hooked one foot over his other knee and winced a little. That knee hadn't fully recovered from the injuries he had sustained during the Battle of Heaven and Earth. He didn't always use the wheelchair these days—a cane was sufficient for short amounts of time on his feet—but after three years, he was getting used to the idea that it would never be the same. Would anything?
He traced the rim of his teacup with his index finger as he hung a string of questions in the air.
"'Who is my father?'
"'Will I ever meet him?'
"'Why don't we live in a regular house like other families?'
"Stupid questions from a dumb brat born in a brothel." His finger, which had continued to trace the rim of his cup, stilled. The lines around his eyes tightened at the memory of his own naivety. "Tch.
"Anyway, then the questions were, 'Why are you so tired?' and 'Will you be all right?'
"She had gotten sick, you see. So sick that I stopped asking questions. But 'You need a doctor' got me another 'Let's make tea.' We'd ignore the Titan in the room. Just drink our tea together and let small talk cover truths that were too hard to face. Instead, we'd talk about the shitty state of our meals as if we were patrons of a restaurant who had a choice. We talked about the squeak in the door that needed oil—not that we had any—and the dirt that we'd sweep up after our tea. At least we had a broom."
Levi spoke in a barely-inflected monotone, slow and steady as the march of time. Like it made no difference how long it took to deliver this speech and he couldn't care less whether it sounded interesting.
"She would go on about what life would be like for us when we got out of the Underground City. She had never smelled a spring breeze, felt the sun on her face, or had a staring contest with the moon, but she'd sit there with such elegant posture talking about them as if it was only a matter of time.
"She'd ask how I was doing. I would say I was fine. What else could I tell my dying mother? Besides, this how she dealt with circumstances she didn't choose."
His host listened attentively but said nothing. He had expected as much. The shroud of grief that enveloped the room was nearly palpable and his story wasn't lightening the mood.
The kitchen in which they sat was tidy and clean. The table had been recently wiped and the counters were free from clutter. The living room was similarly tidy bordering on sterile. Side tables were empty. Surfaces were free from dust. A bookcase displayed a house plant and some books, but the shelves were far from full, giving the impression that there weren't enough interesting things to bother putting out. It had the elements of a home, yet it didn't feel homey. More like an imitation of a home, where each item had been selected from a list of things one might find in a dwelling. Like the occupant was existing here, not living here.
He picked up his teacup by its rim using three fingers, all that remained on that hand, and noticed it was a nice cup. Similar to the ones he had inherited from his mother. Completely unlike those thick, clunky mugs that were so common in Marley where people liked their coffee. This cup was delicate, the way a proper teacup should be, and was painted with a scrolling floral pattern.
Lifting the cup to his lips, he paused as the aroma of the tea invaded his senses. It was woody and sweet—not sweet like honey, but the earthy sweetness of carrots or turnips. He savored it for a moment before taking a silent sip. The hot tea poured over his tongue and his eyes widened in shock. His feet hit the floor with a thunk as he sat up straight and stared into the dark liquid, inhaling the steam. He hadn't had a cup of tea like this in a long time. Rich and full even without adding anything, just the way he preferred. How much he had missed a really good cup of tea. It was familiar as the Survey Corps headquarters to him, and yet there was something else—something foreign but not unwelcome. Even when he'd had Mike Zacharias sniffing out the best tea that came in, he wasn't sure he'd ever had something quite like this. The woody, earthy-sweet flavor was deepened by warm, slightly floral notes he couldn't place.
Aware of his surroundings again, he shot a sharp look at his host, who explained with an economical use of words that reflected the decor of the house.
"It's saffron. My mother used to use it. Mostly for medicines."
Setting the cup down, Levi's eyes lingered on the small red flowers that wrapped around the cup like a scarf, intertwined with green leaves and stems. The green was exactly the shade of Survey Corps cloaks and Levi was reminded of the joke he used to share with Mike and Nanaba. They had quipped that Mike would have an easy time finding work on a rating panel for alcohol, tea, or whatever luxury goods he wanted to review.
Levi exhaled a short breath with a soft hmp sound. He hadn't thought of that in years.
"It's good," he said, understating how he felt about the tea. He wasn't one to gush. In the silence that followed, he took another sip and savored the aroma as much as the taste.
With a sigh that was both appreciation for the tea and resignation to the conversation before him, he continued.
"I believe my mother made the choices she had to make. I don't regret not pushing back then." He paused and waited until his host met his gaze. "But I'm not going to do it the same way she did."
Across the spotless table, his host's expression was as flat as his own but her eyes were on the edge of flashing dangerously. Like a blade tilting towards the sun. He kept talking anyway.
"So tell me, Mikasa," he said. "How are you doing? How are you really doing?"
Mikasa's guard was up in an instant. His expression held no warmth and Mikasa wasn't sure whether to be affronted or touched. Levi had come to this house—her house, she reminded herself—apparently to press beyond the clipped "fine" she'd become accustomed to giving. I already told you, a defensive fragment of her broken heart wanted to snap at him. I'm lost, whispered another homesick piece of her heart that she couldn't afford to acknowledge.
Greeting the Paradis delegates who had arrived on the island yesterday had been so hard. She'd known it would be. Everyone had asked how she was doing, usually with the air of walking on eggshells. It wasn't really the time or place for saying anything other than "fine." She had tried to be normal and match the energy the others exuded at being back in Paradis—the squad was all together again. It should have been a happy occasion, but all she could think was What's left of us, anyway. The absences were almost more present than the people standing there. Sasha, Hange. Eren. She had wondered if she was the only one who felt that way. It seemed like everyone else was functioning despite their losses.
What's wrong with me then? she asked herself again. Her chest tightened and her throat felt thick. Three years had not been long enough for the raw places inside of her to scab over and yesterday had set everything bleeding again. She didn't want to think about this. How dare that shorty come here with his questions.
There was that glare Levi had known was coming. He remembered when she had attacked him on a rooftop after the mission-from-hell to retake Wall Maria. He'd been exhausted then, mentally and physically, or he might have fought her off. Neither of them was as strong as they once were, but he had weaknesses now that she could easily exploit. Though he didn't think she was going to attack him.
Might as well find out. "Come on, and don't say 'fine' again." He spoke firmly as though issuing a command as her captain. Her face was set. She didn't fidget. Levi wondered whether they were back to the attitude she'd had as a cadet, when she had considered orders optional. Secondary to protecting Eren.
Eren. Levi sighed and sat back in his chair, leaning heavily against its frame. He had lost so many comrades and let so many civilians die. First to the Titans, and then to Eren. He still wasn't sure whether he wanted to kick that brat one more time or look him in the eye and make him see reason. Not that either would have helped.
He trained his eyes on his teacup as though he had lost interest in her response. Pushing harder wasn't going to work on her. It just made her burn inside, like drinking too-hot tea that scalded all the way down. Better if she came around to opening up on her own terms.
He took another sip from his cup. Shit, that's good.
Mikasa thought his sigh a moment ago had sounded as tired as she felt, though he was clearly enjoying the tea. It must be beautiful to him. The kind of beauty she no longer had eyes to see. She tried to hold on to her anger just to feel anything other than grief but it dissipated like the steam rising off her cup, leaving her empty again.
The logical part of her knew his probing questions were motivated by concern. It was just so hard to let someone be concerned for her and to reciprocate that. Letting people in had only brought pain and she was done. She wanted out. Maybe alone, she wouldn't hurt so much. You're hurting anyway, that damned logical side of her said.
The silence grew thick enough to cut with a knife but Levi remained impassive. When his hope had nearly failed and his teacup was empty, Mikasa's hand went to the red scarf around her neck. Levi tracked the movement. The fight in her faded and left her looking like a beggar from the Underground City. All hollow cheeks and eyes. Wandering, alone in body and spirit, curling in on herself as she tugged the scarf higher.
"It's hard," she said, her voice steady but quiet. She held the red material over her chin like protective armor. "It's still hard every day. I know there is beauty in the world but—"
Unable to finish that sentence, she pulled the scarf up to her nose. Her eyes softened, the glare replaced by tears that didn't fall.
It never got easier, watching another person suffer through grief he knew intimately. Levi would rather take the pain himself, especially where one of these kids was concerned. It didn't work that way though. He couldn't spare anyone. The only way to take their pain was to walk through it with them. She might not let him, but he was going to try.
His eyes went to the window where the afternoon sun highlighted a young cherry tree outside. Brown branches peeked through in places where the leaves hadn't grown in yet. He couldn't see them from here, but on his way up to the house he had noticed small, pale green fruit that just needed more time. The rest of the yard had been dominated by a large vegetable garden. Blooming flowerbeds surrounded the house like a guard regiment.
"It's gone, isn't it?" he asked. "The power that awoke in you as a child. It's not there anymore."
"That's right." She sniffled and lowered the scarf to her chin.
"Must have been hard to plant all that without it." He nodded towards the window.
"It was."
"Hm." He didn't elaborate but the fact that she had made such an effort was encouraging to him. Titan strength or no, she was a fighter, and she'd make it out of this somehow. Gently, he added, "Unless you eat a lot more than it looks like you do, that garden is too big for your own use."
"The civilians know they can take what they need."
"You've got a generous streak, huh?"
Mikasa couldn't find the words to explain that generosity had not motivated her to transform every inch of the outdoor space into some kind of garden. It was another raw place inside. Discovering that she was powerless had brought a new kind of grief on top of everything else. Strong had been her identity. With no home, no family, and no strength, she'd been a seed on the wind with nowhere to go. She relished the blistered hands and sore muscles that working the land gave her. Physical pain became her roots, keeping her grounded and alive. Generosity was not part of it.
She took so long to respond Levi started to wonder whether she would.
"The neighbors tell me they like the flowers," she finally managed. "They say the sight makes them happy. I send them home with bouquets and food I've grown. The world is cruel. This is beauty for them. But for me, ever since… ever since—I can't—" She gripped the scarf more tightly, reaching for the strength to keep talking. Her mouth turned down at the corners and fresh tears filled her eyes. One dripped down her cheek to land on the scarf. "I can't see the beauty myself."
Mikasa didn't think Levi understood the full picture of what she was saying but she couldn't explain further. She was barely holding it together, the raw places inside bleeding again. Despite the cruelty of the world, she had always been able to see beauty before, but now…
Another tear fell and Levi wondered how many tears that scarf had absorbed. Taken into itself until it was imbued with more sorrow than one lifetime should ever see. It must be so heavy, and yet she wore it. He knew that weight. The Survey Corps cloak he still kept was heavy too but he wouldn't let it go. It was a testament to all that they'd been through and lost.
"I'm not going to tell you it'll be all right," Levi said pragmatically. "It might never get easier. Maybe bringing comfort to others is all that's left for both of us."
For both of us. Mikasa saw the world through his eyes for a moment, felt the weight of his losses on top of her own. With another sniffle, she pressed the scarf to her face again.
Levi stared into his empty teacup. Erwin had been the one with words that could inspire courage and hope. Levi had never really been good at conversation. Funny that Mikasa wasn't either. The two of them could probably sit in silence for hours.
Yet here he was, telling her about his past and trying to get her talking about her present. Not because he had some surefire wisdom that would ease her sorrow. He didn't, but he had been through countless iterations of pain and tried nearly as many ways to cope. One thing that remained true was that when life went to shit, sitting in the shit pile with another person was better than sitting in it alone.
For years, being humanity's strongest soldier had been his role and responsibility. His identity. He had shouldered the burden by honing his abilities, never shying away from the fight. His strength had disappeared with the power of the Titans and its absence had left him untethered for a time. Like he'd trusted his weight to a grapple hook and only then found it had failed to anchor. After three years, sometimes he was still surprised by how heavy a large stew pot could be as he hefted it to the stove.
In the aftermath of everything, he had reinvented his role rather than leave it behind. He offered himself in a new way, listening to stories of grief and loss, telling of his own, and watching as those who had been stuck found ways to move on. He stood on the front lines of the internal battles his comrades faced the same way he had stood on the front lines in the war.
"Listen," he said slowly, not sure how she'd take what he wanted to say next. "You have lost a lot. Comrades, and family too. More than most."
He paused. A shadow passed behind her eyes like she was wary. He was too, actually. Stalling with a slow breath, he tapped the edge of his empty cup. He had brought this up once before and she had cut him across the nape, figuratively speaking.
"Remember that you haven't lost all of your family." He met her guarded gaze and held it.
Surprise kept Mikasa silent. They had spoken of their familial ties exactly once, soon after Eren had gone missing in Marley. She'd been crazy with worry. When Levi had come to talk to her, she had barely deigned to acknowledge him, unable to think beyond finding Eren and bringing him home. Convinced that Eren and Armin were all the family she needed. She thought she'd be able to protect them both.
Instead, Armin had left to protect the bitter peace her blades had brought when she had protected the world by sacrificing hers.
She'd been too quick to shut Levi down before and hadn't considered the possibility of another chance. After the way she'd acted the first time, she recognized the kindness Levi was showing to extend the bond of family again. It was an offer she did not take lightly.
Levi couldn't read her expression. Talking to Mikasa reminded him what it must be like to talk to him. All cool eyes and inscrutable expressions. After a long moment, she dipped her chin once, accepting his words. It was understated, but he knew she wasn't one to gush either. It was enough. The heavy shroud of grief that hung in the room lost some of its weight, lighter from being shared.
"It's kind of you—"
"Don't," he interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. He hated when people used words like that to describe him. Hange used to do it just to needle him and he'd never found a way to get under their skin in return. Letting out a loud sigh, he shook his head. "Look, you and I have survived too often. I've lost count of how many times I've thought I lost everything. It never gets easier, but it turns out there's always more to lose."
Mikasa bit back her apology and wondered at Levi's past, realizing she didn't know much of it.
Standing, she walked to the stove where a pot of tea was keeping warm. As though through a dense fog, she glimpsed the shadowy faces of friends who had written to her over the last three years and neighbors who came by her yard almost daily. She thought of springtime and flowers, dimly remembering her love for them like fragments of a nearly forgotten dream.
"I harvest the saffron from fall crocuses I grow here," she said hesitantly as she refilled Levi's teacup. "I returned to my childhood home and dug up the bulbs my mother used to tend. She would dry the stigmas and add some to our tea leaves."
"We weren’t growing anything so fine in the Underground. Mold and rot, maybe. But my mother always made sure we had tea, even if it was shitty. I didn't know any differently."
Levi waited until Mikasa returned to her seat, then lifted his cup by its rim and raised it to her before taking a sip. The medley of flavors washed over him, welcome as the dawn after the longest night.
Mikasa had never taken notice before, but now that she thought about it, he always held his cup in that strange way. She'd ask him about it someday. Holding hers by the handle, she watched Levi savoring the same tea her parents had served her. She took a sip, appreciating the connection that made the tea taste even better than usual. Like she was tasting it for the first time. It reminded her of the early stirrings of spring, warm with the promise that winter wouldn't last forever.
Some still, small corner of her broken heart pulsed. She felt a buried rhythm pick up and listened to it, her own heart beating within her chest. Still alive and quietly whispering, Beautiful.
"That really is a damn good cup of tea."