nur eine

Genshin Impact

Kaedehara Kazuha

smoke spot (female reader, one shot)

Albedo Kreideprinz

the fluidity of concrete I // fem reader, modern AU, small town AU?

Attack on Titan/Shingeki no Kyoujin

Levi Ackerman

oneshots/short fics

by the sea // post-canon, gender neutral reader

how to preserve a building I II // college au, fem reader

songfics

bartender by lana del rey // 1950s bartender AU

blue jeans by lana del rey // semi-canon compliant modern AU, a choice with no regrets era

Most people would never get to see true stasis. Stasis, a state or period of inactivity or equilibrium. The best place to find stasis is a home owned by someone important which was turned into a museum after their passing. That is where stasis is in its purest form. Where else would you experience a state of such stillness? It feels so wrong - either the original owners should come back and inhabit their home, or the tourists should occupy it. Regardless, the stasis of an empty, culturally significant home possesses an arresting emptiness to it. It is… stasis. Stasis implies that there will be change, soon. It is a home. Homes are for living. Where are all the people? 

The home in question: mid century modern, hidden away behind rows of thick symmetrical hedges, a sprawling lawn behind it stamped with a checkered mowing pattern, dotted with willow trees. A bright conversation pit in the center of the living room with a baby grand Steinway adjacent, immaculately dusted and wanting. Low, flat ceilings, floor to ceiling built in bookshelves decorated in antique clocks and obscure coffee table books on art. A wall of glass behind the conversation pit that faded into a short concrete porch. 

Gold stood there with her hands clasped thoughtfully behind her back, a large, ugly hat on her head as she surveyed the lifeless lawn and its perfectly cut grass. Just her, and her “translator” on the phone in the kitchen, making sure she didn’t wander off. She tended to use her old age to her advantage these days, meandering wherever she pleased in the name of “allowing an old woman her pleasures.” 

—

Again, Gold and her omnipresent companion, now at one of the churches and preschools downtown. Mona, her translator, always on the phone, balancing herself on one hip with all her weight on a dangerous-looking black stiletto heel and impeccably dressed with her innate balance of tasteful and expensive. She jabbered on in German… 

“Was du gesagt hast, klingt für mich so, als ob…” She gave a quick glance at Gold, who had picked up one of their discarded umbrellas and was meandering. “Ach nee!” She said rudely. 

The courtyard of the church was a strange one. The church itself was large and imposing, a compound occupying an entire city block. A large L-shaped rectangle formed the main structure, and in the crook of the L it sank down to an open courtyard an entire story into the ground, a sort of hamster tunnel up above from the preschool to the church proper providing the only shelter from the elements. White concrete contrasted against the green summer grass that housed a small fenced-in playground. The concrete proudly exhibited its popularity with wheel tracks from skateboards and roller skates. 

Gold collapsed in a heap on the concrete as the clouds opened and rain fell on her old body. 

Mona dropped her bag and flung her heels off and ran, dialing 911 as she went. 

--

It was your mid-afternoon smoke break. You wished books weren’t so delicate. If they weren’t, you might be able to smoke in the library instead of outside. It was so fucking hot outside, in the June midwestern heat. You hated it. But the view of downtown was nice, and you got to stare at the church, the library, and the Ragnvindr house. You didn’t mind that much. It might have been a less miserable smoke break if Kaeya was there to keep you company. He was good at distracting you with intellectual bullshit. 

You stared thoughtfully at the large gray-green sculpture that the kids aptly called Dinosaur Bone. The architect had designed it such that when you looked through it from the right angle, the clocktower of the L-shaped church across the street was framed perfectly inside of it. You leaned against the wrought-iron fence of the Ragnvindr house that bordered the library, observing the clocktower, which was in desperate need of renovation. It was interesting that something only a few decades old could rot like that. But it didn’t surprise you. Rot was everywhere, no matter the age. 

While you pondered, you ran over the script in your head, rattling off lines about the church. You hoped the historical society would accept your job application for a tour guide. You knew your stuff, but the thought of staring at strangers, with their expectant eyes intently gazing back at you, and having to recite something from memory gave you heart palpitations. Another drag from your cigarette. You clenched the clear red gas station Bic lighter for dear life. 

“Fuck,” you whispered. You stepped on your cigarette, and went back inside to clock in for the rest of your shift at the library. 

Inside, you were in the zone as you called it. It was easy to get lost in yourself working here. The library was always occupied, but never busy. The ceilings were impossibly high and waffled with concrete, lights inset in every adjacent square like checkers. The rows and rows of wood shelves complemented the red brick walls and dated blue carpet, and the lazy midsummer light pouring in from the monstrously large sections of glass between the brick pillars made you feel cozy.

A half hour of stocking the shelves with returned books came and went, and you had made it to the back of the adult fiction section. There, on the floor leaning against the stacks, was your coworker Kaeya. His thick raven hair was pulled back in a signature low bun, and he wore the same vans, black jeans, and button-down that he wore almost every day, a getup which you affectionately dubbed The Kaeya. He was holding a book open in his tanned hands, brows furrowed in concentration. 

“Reading anything good?” You took a seat on the floor next to him. It was getting close to closing, and you were sure that nobody desperately needed a third copy of Crime and Punishment at this hour.

“Not sure,” he responded, not looking up at you. “Might just be grad school gibberish.” 

“If you need help with something, let me know,” you offered. 

“Yeah…” he trailed off, still engrossed. He suddenly shut the book with one hand and met your eyes thoughtfully. “Do you wanna… see a movie tonight?” 

You were taken aback. Kaeya was your work best friend and nothing more. You bit your lip, wondering how to handle the situation, though you couldn’t deny you found him attractive. In all honesty, it was a bit shocking he wasn’t taken. The two of you did live in the middle of nowhere, after all. Specimens like Kaeya were snatched up fast. 

You kept your expression guarded so you could gauge the situation. “I… can’t. I’m getting dinner with a friend tonight," you lied.

 “Like a date?” He looked a bit disheartened, but maybe your mind was playing tricks on you. Kaeya wasn’t the type to mope about stuff like that, you didn’t think. He was a bit of a ladies’ man. 

“No, no, just a school friend.” You tucked an errant strand of hair behind your ear, messing with the hem of your shirt. “Nothing like that.” 

He met your avoidant eyes with an even, contemplative look. You could almost fall for him like this, you think. His eyes were deep, dark pools of blue. “Yeah, sure, whatever.” He opened the book again. You wished he would tease you. Normally he would’ve teased you over something like that. 

“Do you have your master’s?” You asked, changing the subject. This was getting uncomfortable. If Kaeya really was interested in you, you certainly had a lot to think about. 

Thankfully, Kaeya was a smart guy, and he seemed to catch your drift. “Yeah, unfortunately.” 

“Was it hard to get?” 

“Depends on your definition of ‘hard.’ Why do you ask?” He flipped through the book, his long, dark fingers occasionally grazing over something. The movements of his arm turning the pages constantly messed with his nametag, and it bothered the living hell out of you. 

You paused. “I was just talking to Lisa, and she told me that as a rule they only give full time positions to Masters of Library Science grads.” 

Kaeya didn’t miss a beat. “That’s not completely true. Rosaria doesn’t have one.” 

“She doesn’t?” A flicker of hope blazed in your chest. If there was a possibility that you could land a decent-paying job without the burden of paying for school - which you most definitely could not afford - then there was hope. 

“She has a Ph.D. in Lit.” 

“Great.” Your heart sank and you thought you might burst into tears. 

Kaeya chuckled lightly to himself in self-pity. “Yeah, whatever you do, don’t get a masters in library science. It was recently declared the worst master’s degree for a job.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” he replied, still not making eye contact. He was honestly starting to bother you a bit. 

“And yet you have a job,” you jabbed, irritated. 

“I’m an exception.” Another page turn, his nametag flipping around again. “Anyway,” he said, finally looking at you. “You don’t want to be a librarian.” 

“I might.” You weren’t sure if his words were laced with condescension or not. Regardless, a small thorn of spite lodged itself in your heart at his tone.

Kaeya sighed dramatically. “No, you don’t. What about Deborah Berke? You’d be crazy to pass that up.” 

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” you laughed softly. Would your future never stop haunting you? You wished you could shut your brain off and never think ever again. 

“Why not?” Kaeya challenged, an indignant look crossing over his face before melting into something less severe. The book in his lap, opened again as he shifted his attention away from you once again, ruffled with the breeze of the AC unit above. 

“It’s just not,” you replied, a bit of a bite to it. “You wouldn’t understand.” You leaned back on your wrists to stare at the waffled ceilings again. 

“Yes, I would.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

– 

It was cloudy again. Summers in the midwest were always hot and humid, but this particular June was stifling. The humidity soared with every inch of rainwater that threatened to flood the river. 

You internally bemoaned these facts as you scooped vegetables into a tupperware container to save for later. Your mother still wasn’t home from work yet, and you wanted the vegetables for dinner to be at least semi-fresh for the meal. You checked your watch - 5:30 and she still wasn’t home. Her shift ended at four. 

You felt a tightness in your chest. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know how you were feeling. But at the same time, she had to understand how hard this was. How hard it was to pretend. The sporadic absences, the overworking, the lack of communication, the trying–God, the trying. It weighed on you. Your house felt so empty without another person in it. 

–

You were back at the bank again. Your beat-up Civic rattled to a halt in front of the building you’d visited a thousand times in the past six years. You got out of your relic of a car and sat on the hood, staring at the four squares of greenish fluorescent lights that covered the concrete overhang for the drive-thru teller stations. 

It was nighttime, and the temperature had dropped to a bearable 85 degrees despite the ever-rising humidity. You deemed this appropriate weather for crying. You stared and stared and stared at the lights and let the paradox of your existence consume you inside and out, silently crying as you always ended up doing when you went to this unremarkable bank that had become something so meaningful to you. 

Most teenagers had a “spot.” For some people, it was the watertower on the west side of town with its suspiciously unlocked ladder. For others, it was the roof of the highschool on the north side. Another group might frequent the soccer fields with its soft grass and border of blue firs. For you, it had been this old mid century drive-thru bank downtown. You hadn’t had many friends in school, so nobody minded that your go-to hangout spot was a fucking bank. 

9:30. Your mom wasn’t picking up her phone. 

–

10:30. You were crying, this time in front of the hospital. The second shift was leaving while a well-dressed man with platinum hair dressed smartly in a navy and tan suit was exiting a taxi. He gave you a passing glance as he pulled an expensive looking matching suitcase and duffel bag behind him before disappearing into the lobby. You gave him a small smile for moral support, wondering why he was there. Maybe he was a doctor or something. If he was, you felt stupid for smiling. Doctors know what they’re doing. 

There she was. Your mom, the last of the group of cleaners leaving. You walked back to the car in awkward silence as you shot down each of her attempts at conversation. You both resigned yourselves to an uncomfortable quiet on the ride home with only the rumble of the engine to fill the void of words. 

–

Albedo found his way to the third floor of the hospital with no difficulties save for the obnoxious distraction of one squeaky wheel of his suitcase. Mona was waiting in the hallway for him, arms crossed and tapping her foot like a cartoon character. Her dark hair was wound in a low, tight bun that made her soft facial features look more severe than they actually were. Albedo didn’t like it on her. It made her look older. He missed the days when she was younger and happier. But then again he hardly remembered those days anymore. 

The receptionist gave him a barely perceptible nod and Mona finally saw him. Her anxious body relaxed a bit at the sight of him, and he let go of his suitcase to catch her as she barreled into his arms, squeezing more tightly than he would have liked. 

After what felt like forever, she finally pulled away. “Come on. Let’s go see her first,” she muttered. Albedo really didn’t want to. 

–

Albedo checked into his room at the Ragnvindr house, a stately old home which had at some point been converted into a bed and breakfast. It was regal, meticulously maintained, and blessedly empty. His suite was large and tastefully decorated with rich oak walls, double hung windows, and heavy velvet curtains. His room boasted a small sitting room of eclectic vintage furniture; a massive, ancient-looking wardrobe, a beat-up desk, and a sumptuous king-sized bed on an ornately carved mahogany frame.

He dropped his expensive luggage unceremoniously on the floor and took a turn about the room he had found himself in. As he rifled through the many scraps of paper and open books still on the desk, he realized he would most likely be staying here for an undetermined amount of time. 

He felt sick remembering that this was his mother’s room. 

Albedo picked up one of the empty notebooks. It was black with a red fabric binding. He flipped through it, pacing the room as he looked at her scribblings and half-legible German. When he felt truly sick to his stomach reading her notes, he threw the notebook on the bed and opened the wardrobe, looking for something more tangible than the abstract, half-cooked drawings. 

Inside the behemoth wardrobe was a singular cropped vest and an ugly green hat. Thankfully, his phone rang and broke him from the reverie of his mother’s hideous fashion sense. 

“Ja?” He picked up. “...Nein. Rufen Sie mich später an, bitte…. Ja. Tschuss.” 

He sighed heavily and laid down on the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. 

–

“I can’t believe how old you are. You look just the same,” Mona said, crossing her legs delicately at the ankle. She daintily took a sip of her wine, a small, faraway smile crossing over her lips. 

Albedo sat next to her at the bar nursing a beer. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his suit despite feeling disgusting from traveling for so long. “That’s not true, but thank you.” 

“You do!” Mona insisted, attempting to inject some energy into the clearly-deflated Albedo.

A beat passed before he scrounged up the mental capacity to grind out, “You’re sweet.” 

They both took another drink before Mona kept the conversation going, her body angling towards him. “So,” she drew out the ‘o’ for too long. Albedo never understood her. She was far too friendly to be German. Did she talk to strangers like this? “How do you like being in Berlin?” 

“It’s okay,” Albedo replied softly. He looked anywhere but at her, somewhat unsettled by her undivided attention. He observed the dim bronze lights hanging from the curved ceiling, and glanced at the other patrons. It was a nice, refined place, reminiscent of a chic subway tunnel. Mona certainly had good taste. 

“What are you doing there?” She asked, her accent hardening the ‘w’ a bit. 

“I got a job at a lab there. Science… stuff.” Albedo felt absolutely sick to his stomach thinking about work.

“That sounds interesting.” Her voice was encouraging, like she wanted him to talk. He did not want to talk. 

“It is… not.” For a brief moment he considered whether or not to dump all his troubles onto her, but then decided against it. He kept a lid on it, intentionally air-tight, just for that reason. “It’s pretty painful, actually. Um, I’ve got projects still ongoing. I just got off the phone with them before we met here.” 

Mona looked offended. “They don’t expect you to work while you’re here, do they?” 

“I think they do. You know,” Albedo began, taking another sip for courage, “it’s that… that thing: ‘We’re sorry, family is important… but really work is the most important… so you’d better fucking finish your project or we’ll lose the grant…’” He trailed off, eyes glazed over. 

“That can’t be true.” 

“We’ll see.” His words held a finality to them. “I wish you were staying another day.” He didn’t wish that at all, but he felt like he should humor her and perhaps honor their history. 

“I know… but I was supposed to be in Chicago a few days ago with your mother. And I have my work…” She trailed off dejectedly, tapping her fingers on the counter. 

“I know,” he almost whispered. “You’ve already done so much.” He stared at the wall of wine bottles.

“I can’t believe this happened…” Mona had a haunted look in her pretty blue-gray eyes. “She was doing fine and then just… I’m sorry.” Albedo was taken aback at her change in demeanor. She hiccuped a bit and placed the back of her hand on her mouth to force back the tears. “I just… I owe her so much. Your mother means everything to me.” 

The bartender tactlessly interrupted the obviously intimate moment. “Is there anything else I can get you guys?” 

Mona beat Albedo to the punch. “No, I think we’re ready for the…” 

“Can I get another beer?” Albedo interjected. 

“Definitely. Another glass of wine for the lady?” He smiled a picture-perfect customer service smile that Albedo knew all too well. 

“No thanks.” 

A moment of unsure silence passed before Albedo spoke up. “She didn’t even tell me she was coming on this trip. Did she tell you that?” 

“No…” 

“That’s about right. Did she mention me at all?” He asked, somewhat desperate. Normally he could keep it under control, lock them away, keep them hidden, but Mona’s presence and the stress of traveling internationally and seeing his mother’s failing body and being in a foreign country was just too much. The lid was slowly popping off and he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to get it back on. 

“We talked a little,” Mona said defensively, eyes darting around like a cornered animal. 

He pressed her further, heart pumping. The rage, God, the rage! He gritted his teeth, spitting out the words, “What did she say?” 

“Albedo…” Mona was on the verge of tears again. Albedo felt a small pang of guilt for it, but she couldn’t pretend to be blind to Gold’s problems forever, no matter how much Mona owed her. He wondered how she would feel when she found out the truth about Gold. 

“Did she tell you that we haven’t spoken in over a year?” His voice lowered dangerously. The lid was slipping.

Mona looked absolutely devastated. “You’re all she has.” 

“That has never been the case,” Albedo said in a deadly calm. His hands tightened under the bar counter, small crescent moons forming in his palms. He knew his mother didn’t care for him. She raised him, if you could call her parenting raising a child, and cast him aside like he was some sort of creature. Like a pet she didn’t have use for anymore. “She has her students… her work,” Albedo spat. His tone was so venomous he was sure the acidity of them could've bled through the bar.

“You’re her son!” Her voice was pleading. It revolted him to his stone cold core. 

“You’ve been watching too much TV” is all he said. The lid was safely back in place.

Mona peeked at him out of the corner of her eye before waving down the bartender, clearly done with the conversation. “Can we get the check?” She sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and pointer finger. “I have to leave early in the morning. I should go to bed.” 

Albedo tried to salvage the situation, adrenaline petering out. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.” And he really was sorry. It was so painfully awkward he wished he hadn’t brought her up. 

“The Ragnvindr Inn knows about the situation,” Mona explained, disregarding him. She did this sometimes. Business as usual. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised by the quick construction of the facade; she was practically raised by Gold as well. “You should be able to stay in her room as long as you need.” 

They parted ways. 

–

Back in the suite, Albedo stood in the ensuite bathroom wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants,  arms braced on either side of the mirror. He glared at himself. The gravity of the situation weighed on him. In that moment he believed he might just be Atlas.

“Shit.” 

-

You were peeling vegetables again. This time, a daikon root from the backyard. You’d decided to take on gardening to pass the time, and your mother needed good healthy foods to recover. You dedicated yourself completely to your task, rinsing the root in the sink. You absentmindedly stared out the window as you grabbed the next one, watching your mother smoking under the carport. She was too young to look this old; she was truly 45 going on 60. Your heart twisted violently. 

You ate your meal together in comfortable silence this time, your mother commenting on how much better your cooking had gotten. After you cleaned up, you sat together on the couch and watched Jeopardy, the blue glow of the board and Alex Trebek’s familiar voice enveloping the otherwise black darkness and silence of your tired living room. 

“Do you know what you’re doing on Sunday?” She asked suddenly. 

“No, I’ll just drop you off in the morning and then take it over to Wagner’s,” you replied with a mouthful of ice cream. 

“It’ll cost us more if it breaks down on us…” she said with a twinge of worry. Her long, skinny arm reached across you to take a sip of water. 

“Ugh, I hate cars,” you complained. 

“Me too.”

--------

Author's Note

Heyyyyy! Not sure if anyone will read this but I am back from my little hiatus. I am planning on writing some other pics, maybe Link or Scaramouche, not too sure yet (and maybe even some Levi depending on when the fuck season 4 part 3 is dropped).

Housekeeping stuff:

this is not my original work. this is from a movie called Columbus. I thought the story was really interesting and I wanted to stretch my writing ability and see if I could adapt a really complex, visually-heavy, story-light screenplay into text

I am part German, though my German isn't perfect. sorry if there are mistakes, I'd say I'm only about half fluent, and it's mostly German/English I speak with my family. as such, grammar isn't very strong

reader is about 25 here, albedo is around 27 or 28

for clarity again, this movie takes place in a real town called Columbus, Indiana. for reference, it is in the middle of nowhere, but it is considered a bit of an architectural hub. so if it seems weird that there are important architects with buildings here, that is why

this is already finished on AO3 if you want to read it completed there, but it is NOT edited. it needs a lot more fleshing out, so if you want a better story and a better representation of my writing ability, I'd recommend waiting it out here

this is a 7 chapter story, but I will be narrowing it down to 3-5 on Tumblr. I think longform works better with this story since the "chapters" are so fragmented

“It’s not a problem at all, Mr. Ackerman,” responded the department chair smoothly after a beat, the class participants back to their work. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here after arriving only a few days ago. What a nice surprise.” 

The mysterious Mr. Ackerman only hummed noncommittally, barely acknowledging her. You found him to be quite rude and presumptuous. You liked that. 

“And who, pray tell,” you began, intrigued, “is this Mr. Ackerman?” You tilted your head to address him, taking him in from out of the corner of your eye. The burgeoning midday light beginning to peek out from behind the autumn’s perpetually gray skies escaped the barrier of the blinds briefly before a cloud obstructed it once again. Oh yes. That’s definitely the man who was in your bed. You couldn’t forget someone like him. Once you saw him, he was in your mind’s eye forever. The only way you could describe him was pretty. He was pretty in a strange sort of way–all soft features and (presumably) soft hair that you’re sure you’d touched before but couldn’t recall. All that beauty marred by a permanent scowl. He was positively lovely to look at. You internally applauded your drunk self for your immaculate taste. You hoped his mouth was as foul as his facial expression. 

He deigned to regard you. “Levi Ackerman, Yale history department.” And that was it. He sipped his cup of tea in a manner you decided to call haughty. 

“Is that so?” Your voice petered off towards the end, deep in thought. 

“Well,” the department head interjected. “Let’s begin, shall we? Who wants to go first… Simon?” 

Simon, a quiet man with a receding hairline and a bachelor’s in library science, sputtered over introducing himself to Levi and giving an update on his thesis before opening the floor to questions. Nobody had any, and then Kristin was next, and then Tiffany, and then James, and then Zinia, and then finally to you. Thank the gods! Finally something interesting to talk about. You were over the moon to assess the mind of this Levi Ackerman based on the upcoming conversation that you were so thrilled to begin. 

“As usual, no major updates. Though I did come across a rather interesting phenomenon. I was visiting my aunt last week and she happened to be watching HGTV–you know, the home renovation channel–and she stumbled upon a most unusual show. I can’t remember the name of it,” you began, feigning thought as you made everything up as you spoke. “But I do remember that there was some sort of ‘expert’ who would come in and advise the homeowners on how to preserve their historic homes properly while still making them livable for the modern family. In the end, he only managed to convince them to uphold a few of the house’s original motifs–light fixtures, exposed wood trims, and so on–with the rest of the design elements incorporated into a more modern school of thought for interior design. The exterior, as per usual, was entirely squandered on white paint and hideous landscaping. I looked into the expert a bit and as usual he wasn’t an expert at all but rather a local politician who happened to have a penchant for his city’s history.” 

You stared at the people in the room, listening, enrapt, purposefully avoiding Levi in your visual sweep. You continued on, suspending your disbelief of their blind trust for you as you continued to spout bullshit on your way to the point of your spiel. 

“I found it somewhat repulsive that this house did not meet the requirements for the National Registry of Historic Places. The research I’ve done into the NPS shows that they haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of the qualifications for a historic home, and for the most part is concerned with zoning. Our politicians simply don’t care unless the people care, and the people for the most part, also simply don’t care.

“What I’m trying to say is that our buildings are being destroyed and our urban planners are woefully underqualified for the jobs at hand. Our cities are becoming increasingly unpleasant to look at and increasingly anti-resident. I dislike politics, but the power struggles of politics are the ugly reality of democracy. So I suppose my point is this: why is our focus in academia on academia alone rather than its real-world application? For all our talk of the classics, what use does it have to the general public?” You raised an inquisitive eyebrow at your audience. “Before you yell at me - for I know you all have passions for literature - keep in mind that most people do not possess high-brow academic minds such as yours. Truly and earnestly I ask for suggestions, for the language arts haven’t near enough reach in the general public. So… thoughts?” 

It was silent for a beat before the newcomer you had your eye on spoke up. 

“Do you people actually praise this sort of junk here?” said Levi, boredly scanning everyone at the table. “You just said words, I mean honestly what sort of cold-ass take is that? Obviously the public has nowhere near the level of arts appreciation as in previous generations, but honestly. As your peer, I feel responsible enough for the mush that has replaced your brains that I have to say something. I came all the way here to listen to her spout nonsense?” Levi uncrossed his legs, his perfectly ironed and steamed slacks creasing stiffly with every movement, and, without ever having set his cup of tea down, stood up and approached the door. 

He closed with a simple, “do better,” as those piercing gray eyes analyzed you like a hunter to his prey. You couldn’t stop the slight shiver down your spine at that look. God! You almost wished you had fucked him, even if you wouldn’t remember it. 

The group had fallen into a silence even more awkward and uncomfortable than when you entered the room, and that was really saying something. You relished in it, not listening to the continuation of the meeting with its undertone of quiet shock and confusion, and instead daydreaming about what you would say to Levi Ackerman the next time you saw him - if you did. Clearly he wasn’t pleased with you. But you honestly didn’t mind! You didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything you’d just said; you knew you were bullshitting and he knew you were bullshitting, too. Maybe. Maybe you had thrown an amazing job opportunity out the window. But you just didn’t care. 

The rest of your day was more of the same - walk around campus aimlessly pretending to be busy, drop by a class to TA, grade assignments in the lounge, and in general masquerading as your normal self. The act had been going on for so long you could almost convince yourself you really were the same you as a year ago. At the end of the day, however, it was exhausting. And if you were going to a bar tonight, you’d need to stay awake. And to stay awake, you needed coffee. Desperately. 

Your favorite coffee shop wasn’t a coffee shop at all. It was a quiet jazz cafe on the far north side of campus, the side closest to the inner city. On weekdays it was a humble coffee shop, but on weekends, live performances of any and every jazz ensemble that knew your city’s famous and historic jazz scene lit the place up like neon lights. It was your absolute favorite place. In a way, it was a bridge between your old life and your new life. At the beginning of your mental health bender, you’d stumbled by looking for a quiet place to smoke, but had been drawn in by the raucousness of the crowd. You had never listened to jazz before, or at least never attempted to understand it. But now that you knew what a saxophone could make you feel, you were addicted. Knowing that you had a place to haunt in the daytime as well as the nighttime made you feel less, for lack of a better word, crazy. This place was yours and yours alone. 

At least it was. For there in the back corner of the quiet establishment was none other than Levi Ackerman himself, in the flesh. You ordered your coffee from Ray, who began making it as soon as you walked in, and sat down at a small table near the piano. 

“Are you following me?” 

You hadn’t even gotten a single sip in before he addressed you! The audacity of this man. Clearly he didn’t want to be disturbed - this place rarely had any customers other than old folks, and it was silent as the grave most of the time during the week. 

You twisted your torso behind you to see him, draping an arm over the back of your chair. 

“Oh, Ackerman! I wasn’t expecting to see you here. You see, this is my place. Nobody’s supposed to be here right now except for me. And I’m not sure how I’m following you when I’m the one who lives in this city, not you.” You had to dip your toe in before you dove in. You hoped he was as testy as he looked. You liked a challenge. 

He set down a steaming cup of something on the lacquered wood table of his booth, gazing at you disapprovingly. 

“So you’re always like this.” It wasn’t a question. He said it as though he had known you your whole life. A small piece of you reared its head in indignation at the gauntlet he’d thrown down. But you grabbed that part of you and choked it til it died with faint whispers still on its parched lips. 

“I don’t know whatever you could mean, Mr. Ackerman,” you prodded. You had a thought suddenly. You knew your ass looked absolutely phenomenal in these pants, so you’d use that to your advantage. 

You slipped from your seat, coffee forgotten, and leaned ostentatiously over the counter of the bar against the wall to grab a lead sheet off the stack you knew the owner kept there, making sure your ass was fully facing Levi’s direction as you did so. You mentally thanked your parents for forcing you to learn piano at a young age and sticking with it. You would be every bit the show he believed you were. 

The piano beckoned. The lid was propped open and ready for you, the keys glistening beautifully in the dim, golden late afternoon light filtering through the stained glass windows of the cafe. What would you create today? A little thrill raced from your stomach to your throat. You prayed you would be reincarnated as a jazz pianist, for the one thing you believed you would never tire of was the freedom you experienced at a piano. It just couldn’t be beat. 

“Do you play, Levi?” You purred. You had no clue where the sudden seductiveness came from but you were rolling with it now. You were in too deep at this point. 

You were met with the same cool, even stare as before when you glanced back to make sure you still had his attention. 

“Yes,” he responded. Short and succinct. Wonderful. 

“Do you like Duke Ellington? Answer correctly please.” You set about with the melody of In A Sentimental Mood. You could almost feel the echoes of previous performances as you played, a memory of a saxophone solo playing on top of your fingers as they lazily traveled across the keys. 

“I can’t say I’m well acquainted with jazz, so I suppose it depends on how well you play whatever song you’re playing,” he retorted swiftly. There was an edge to his voice you decided you liked. You saw him sip his tea out of the corner of your eye as you continued onward, not really needing the lead sheet after hearing so many iterations of the song so many times. 

You hummed. “The Duke is one of the greats. Start with him if you’re interested. My personal favorite is Chet Baker, but I’m sure you don’t trust anything I say after earlier, no?” Your sentences were dotted with measures of rest as you focused on injecting a piece of you into the song. A lead sheet is just a lead sheet at the end of the day. The melody is just the blueprint. You would have to build the house. 

Levi didn’t answer immediately as he usually did, and so you brought the song to a close and reverently shut the fallboard before swiveling your body around the piano bench to face him fully. 

“I know you’re just messing with everyone,” he said finally, eyes never leaving you. You felt a bit breathless at the intensity of his eye contact, not used to such real, genuine attention. “What’s your deal?” 

Your eyes widened a bit in surprise. “My deal?” You laughed. “Academia is a joke. I’m sick of pandering to people with heads so far up their asses they don’t know which way their head was to begin with. It makes me sick.” You twisted your hair with your fingers, eager to find a distraction from what you thought would be your next conquest but now seemed a different beast entirely. 

His replies were back to their original promptness. “I agree with you.” 

“Oh?”

“I understand. I used to be you.” 

You paused, gauging where this was going. “What changed?” You asked, genuinely intrigued. 

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in his mood at the question. You decided that this was getting too deep, and instead focused on his hands wrapped around the mug he held and what they would feel like if–

“That’s none of your business.” 

“Fair enough,” you sighed. “I don’t know what I expected anyways. Nobody really interests me these days.” You slunk back to your seat to a now-cold cup of coffee, defeated. 

“That’s not what you were saying when I was in your bed last week.” 

You about had a stroke. “Pardon me?” 

“You know what I’m talking about. It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you around.” He gracefully took his exit from the booth, and you watched with an open mouth as he slung a tweed jacket over his shoulders and left without a word nor a backward glance. 

“Ray,” you shouted, hoping he wasn’t taking a smoke break. “Can you pour me a cold one, please? I could really use it.” 

Maybe things would get interesting around here for once.

“Fuck, Kazu, really?” You said, irritated. This was the fifth time tonight he’d almost fallen asleep, his head dipping low enough to jerk him back into consciousness from the weight of itself. Of course you were feeling tired as well, but he didn’t need to know that. You would stay awake out of spite, since this was his whole idea.

He only whined childishly in response. “Whaaaaat?” He sat cross legged in front of you, completely at ease on the sharp incline of the shingled roof you were both perched on. “It’s not my fault this Liyuean stuff makes me sleepy.” 

“It is most definitely your fault,” you chuckled, “since you’re the one who bought it.” You couldn’t fight off the smile creeping onto your face. Your eyes felt heavy, and you experimentally attempted to open your eyes all the way, fingers coming up to test if they were really open all the way or if your intoxicated brain was imagining things. 

Kazuha, in a simple Mondstadt-style sleep shirt and loose shorts, inspected the small pipe he held pinched between his thumb and index finger. “Maybe no more Liyuean strains, then?” 

You snorted. “It’s fine, I’m actually quite at peace despite the drowsiness.” And you were. You had followed Kazuha ever since you were teenagers, and you felt as though you were both finally at a place of peace; so much had happened, and you were now at a stable point in the healing process of the past few years. 

“Ah, Y/N,” he sighed, gazing up at the moon keeping watch over the city of freedom, then down to you at his side. “Where would I be without you, love?” His eyes were half-lidded in the way the drug made them, slightly reddened as well. You two had been doing this for years, on every special occasion or when the company deemed it appropriate, but this was the first time he had brought you to a smoke spot for seemingly no reason. 

Your heart clenched a bit at the pet name despite knowing there was no romantic intention behind it. You had been in love with him since you were children, but you had covered the smoldering embers of your feelings due to, well, everything: he was nobility while were but the daughter of a local bladesmith, you two had been on the run from the Shogunate… he had been in love with your best friend. That familiar pang beat in your chest again, though this time in sorrow for Tomo, who had never known Kazuha’s love for him, and who had died before his time. You resigned yourself to silent adoration in respect for these reasons. He did not need to know the true extent of your bond to him. 

“Probably dead in a ditch.” You grinned at him sidelong, making sure to hold onto the spine of the roof before leaning over to snatch the pipe from him again. “Why are we up here anyways? We never smoke unless something’s happened. Did you hang out with the Traveler again?” You teased, jostling him. Aether and Kazuha were quite close, and you couldn’t say you weren’t jealous. You knew Kazuha felt nothing for the mysterious boy, but the vice grip Kazuha had on your heart couldn’t help but feel a pang of searing green envy whenever Aether spirited away the man you loved for hours or even days at a time. 

Kazuha merely exhaled lightly at your banter, brushing it off just as the wind drew his bangs away from his forehead. You loved that about him - no matter where you two were and no matter how still the evening, there was occasionally a light breeze that fluttered around him in response to his emotions. You weren’t sure if he was aware of it, but you had spent years studying him. It was… cute. 

“No, dear, I’ve not been with Aether.” He shifted a bit, and undid his hair from its ponytail, letting Barbatos comb his fingers through the soft white strands.  

You surveyed the city of Mondstadt. The sky was clear, constellations lit up in the captivating way that astrologer girl you’d run into earlier said they’d be. The peace you felt from the contents of Kazuha’s pipe was momentarily disrupted as a veil of homesickness settled over you. You opened your mouth to comment but closed it again as Kazuha beat you to the punch. 

He uttered your name softly, like the prayers of the nuns in the cathedral you’d toured yesterday. “You know I speak my mind, no?” He tilted his head to take you in. 

“Of course, Kazu.” 

“Then I must be honest with you.” He gently plucked the pipe out of your fingers, cradling the bowl at the end as though he were holding an injured bird. His brow was furrowed a bit, as though he were extremely focused on either the ground leaves inside the bowl or choosing his next words wisely. You assumed it would be the latter. A great curiosity plucked at you like a finger on the string of a lyre. 

“I care greatly for you, my friend. We have been through much and experienced much together. I have great respect for you as a warrior, a confidante, and, of course, as a travel partner.” His unbandaged, scarred fingers twitched as he rested them on his knee, a new cloud of smoke dissipating around his head as he exhaled. 

Your stomach roiled in anticipation of what the hell he would say next. 

“I feel as though you have been far from me recently, and the only thing I could think is that you desire the freedom I have been searching for all these years. I am at peace with my path in life; I enjoy the life of a wanderer. But I do not know what it is you desire, and so, if freedom from me is what you desire, then I want you to tell me, and I will tell you that it’s alright. You can be free.” He said all this in the easy manner in which he said all things, but you could read him like those poems he wrote constantly; he didn’t want you to go. His face betrayed the lies in his words. 

“Kazuha,” you began, turning your whole body to face him. You grabbed his hands, lightly brushing your thumb over the burn scars on his hand. You prayed Tomo’s soul would be able to rest after what you knew you would have to say tonight. 

“Kazuha, I have followed you all these years for a reason.” You squeezed his hands for emphasis. “I want nothing more than to stay by your side… forever.” His face was shadowed by his bangs and you cursed Barbatos for his horrific timing - you needed to be able to read his expressions! “I hope you understand what I am saying. I also understand if you cannot give me what I’m asking for…” you trailed off, eyes burning with unshed tears at the thought of your dead friend, feeling horrible for putting Kazuha through this, but you truly couldn’t take it anymore. You had to tell him. 

Your name left his lips again, gentle and smooth like silk, the exact way he recited haikus. The breath left your lungs. 

“I cannot say I do not feel the same way, though it seems you have put much more thought into it than I have. I will admit that my feelings are much less developed than yours, but…” Those half-lidded eyes again. “We can try.” A smirk. 

The shame in your stomach faded at his words, and you prayed thanks to Celestia for finally, finally letting you catch a goddamn break. You would do anything for this man. Maybe… maybe you could be happy.

He smiled and leaned in to kiss you softly. 

“Kazuha,” you whispered. “You knew, didn’t you?” 

“I can’t say. What the wind whispers to me is mine to keep.” He laced his fingers through yours. “Now what do you say about some more of this,” he gestured at the pipe, “and then see if the Angel’s Share’s beds are as comfortable as Master Diluc says they are?” 

It had gotten bad. A little bit out of control, maybe. You weren’t sure how to talk about what had happened, because nothing really did happen. Maybe you burnt yourself out, did too much too soon. Either way, it didn’t really matter; the Freudian rationale was inconsequential, for in this moment you were too gone to care.

Eddie’s wasn’t always this packed, but tonight was the homecoming football game, and you had the misfortune of attending a Big 10 school. Homecoming wasn’t just a football game, but also an excuse for the entire student body to get blackout drunk and party no matter the final score of the game. Though you had to admit, the winning streak your school’s team was on definitely helped the atmosphere. It was… nice, in a way. Twice the size of the typical Friday night crowd. Yes, you decided, it was nice. More people to lose yourself in. Just a cog in the machine that was the dance floor.

These thoughts attempted to pierce their way through your alcohol-addled brain, your conscious side only grasping at the vague sentiment of what you were feeling rather than the entire phrase the hidden sober part of your brain had conjured up. It didn’t matter. You were wearing a new pair of heels you’d found at a vintage store along with the tightest dress to ever grace your closet, and you felt marvelous. Originally, your aforementioned wardrobe only knew muted grays and creams and blacks, all turtlenecks and blazers and wide-leg slacks. Oh how scandalized they must have been when they were unceremoniously pushed to the side and folded away to make room for bodycon dresses, tiny strappy tops and platforms. You felt a perverse pleasure in the despair those clothes must have felt.

The errant limbs pulsed in time with the beat, doused in an array of never-ceasing lights that caught on the old disco ball in the center of the ceiling, antiquated in this pub-turned-nightclub that had become so popular tonight. A small part of you perhaps felt a little bit sad at the thought. Poor little disco ball. You danced in the center of the floor, heat pushing up against you from all sides, small swipes of varying garments catching your ever-bare skin. As you danced, you pondered the old disco ball. The fancy club lights almost pierced straight through it, and it was sort of… beautiful in its pathetic state.

As though it were never there.

–

The mornings after were always the worst.

There was a point in time when you adored mornings. Your proud parents always called you an early bird, and your teachers in high school praised you as a go-getter. Student leadership workshops, NHS meetings, club presidency and officer elections, extracurriculars galore, immaculate grades–it didn’t get much more perfect than that. And on top of that, people liked you. At least you thought they did. Everyone smiled at you and said hi in the hallways. You were even prom queen one year. You were… social. High school was good.

College was good, too, up until a point.

Yes, mornings were always the worst. You and your body both agreed. You rolled yourself unceremoniously out of bed, barely missing the heels from last night. You kicked them under the bed. You were not having it today. You stretched, cold not-under-the-blanket air latched onto your stomach from your shirt riding up–wait. This was not your shirt. At all.

You panicked a bit, you won’t lie. It’s one thing to lose yourself almost every night to alcohol and dance the night away, but it’s an entirely different thing to lose yourself to a person. All your newfound vices aside, you would not let the vice of lust overcome you. You weren’t a virgin, but you had told yourself that while you let yourself go on your present downward spiral, the one thing you would swear off is men. You’d promised yourself a lot of things in the past few years and had broken most of them, but for some reason this one stuck around in your brain. So why the hell were you wearing a button down and why the hell was there a man in your bed?

“Don’t look so surprised,” the man in your bed said in response to your small gasp, facing away from you. He was bare chested with only a muscular shoulder and bicep visible from under the twisted covers, a shock of black hair standing out against the cream of your bed sheets even in the dim lighting of your pit of a room. “You were the one all over me.”

The man stood up, running long fingers through his hair, still not turning to you. He was wearing slacks and still had socks on.

“Did…did we…” you sputtered.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” And with that, he slipped into a hoodie he picked up off the floor (your favorite hoodie, you bemoaned internally), picked up his loafers from by the door, and left your bedroom without even a glance your way.

You stood in absolute shocked silence for about a minute after hearing the distant telltale creak of your apartment door opening and closing before stumbling your way into the kitchen for a much-needed glass of water and some Advil, still pondering what had happened.

What had happened? As you put some poptarts in the toaster and vaguely regarded the abundance of empty takeout boxes from the Burmese place downstairs, you decided you wouldn’t dwell on it. He said you hadn’t done anything, and the fact that he was still wearing pants relatively calmed you. So, as you had a habit of doing lately, you forgot all about it and continued on with your day, mostly unaffected by this anomaly in your daily routine.

Ah, yes. Your daily routine.

Today was just like any other day, though it was a Saturday which meant you had no classes. No, you thought, brain still fuzzy. That doesn’t sound right. You chewed your overcooked poptart as you reached in the depths of your memory for what you were forgetting. Oh yeah! I proctor a midterm today. The realization hit you like a ton of bricks and completely destroyed any progress the Advil had done, a headache already forming. You hated proctoring. Standing in a room for two hours at a time, reading instructions, and actually monitoring the students. It was so terribly dull, and you hated having to rat people out for academic dishonesty. At one point in time, it would have boiled your blood to see someone cheat on a test, but now that you just didn’t care anymore, you just didn’t care anymore. Who cares if Johnny So-and-So looks off Miranda Don’t-Know-Don’t-Care’s test? Not your concern.

You sighed and threw the second poptart away, feeling slightly nauseous from the sugar. You hadn’t been eating much lately, which was fine by you; it took much less alcohol to get you drunk when you hadn’t eaten all day, and that meant your night was considerably less expensive. Seeing as it was almost one, you decided it would probably be a good idea to go through the motions and get ready for your job.

Your room was a pigsty. Even in your current bender you were mildly disgusted by it. Your desk was a disaster, textbooks and random papers irreverently stacked and disorganized and covered in miscellaneous makeup brushes and wipes from the night before. Not a single surface had been dusted or vacuumed or cleaned in any manner in months. You forced yourself to do laundry at least once a week, so your closet wasn’t too terrible, but there were still clothes everywhere that you had only worn once and couldn’t bring yourself to put in the hamper.

Oh well, you thought. You grabbed a turtleneck that was slung over your desk chair and begrudgingly forced your head through the stretchy opening before grabbing the first pair of semi-professional pants from the back of your closet. That was good enough. You checked your phone, which was at around 20% due to your late-night disarray and subsequent… encounter with whoever you had woken up next to. What a pain. You’d have to charge it while proctoring and then you’d really be miserable.

You didn’t even glance in the mirror on your way out.

One bus stop later and you were in Handen Hall. For being the main front and lifeblood of the university’s literature department, they sure had gone without creativity in the naming process. You scoffed. Just another dead rich white man’s name in gold. Give me a break. You were a few minutes ahead of schedule, arriving precisely at 12:55. Old habits die hard. You may be a loser and a borderline alcoholic throwing away your academic prospects, but you would always be punctual.

“Ah, Miss Reader,” Professor Minn greeted you as you marched through the rows of occupied lecture hall seats towards his desk. “Are you sure you’re alright to proctor today? You don’t look quite well.” His old, kind eyes were a sight for sore eyes and you felt a tug in your stomach at the geezer’s concern for you.

Your continuously misplaced daddy issues had landed on this guy full force when you first arrived at the university. Professor Minn recognized your prowess from the beginning, placing you in advanced classes reserved for honors college upperclassmen as a freshman, helping you every step of the way. You supposed you had attached feelings of a familial sort to him early on when you were new to independence and feeling a smidge lost in the academic mumbo-jumbo. You had known him for five years now, as you were a grad student now, and even in your current half-year state of misery he had never asked questions and only ever been there to support you. If anything could get through to you, it would be him. But you’d never tell him that.

“Yes, Professor. I’m fine,” you grumbled. “Just had a bit of a rough night. Couldn’t sleep, you know?” You tried to laugh it off. Nobody in the department knew what was up with you, but you knew they were all talking. Everybody knew there was just something off. You had put in painstaking work to make sure that nobody ever found out about your midnight charades and growing alcoholism. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

“If you say so,” he responded, looking dubious as he adjusted his perpetually crooked glasses. He definitely had been wearing the same pair since the beginning of his academic career.

Professor Minn prepared himself to leave, shuffling papers and storing them away safely in his trusty leather messenger bag. As you plugged your phone into the outlet behind his desk, he cleared his throat.

“One more thing,” he said, looking a bit off-kilter. Not physically ill, you thought as you turned around to face him, just… concerned? “A very good friend of mine said that they were worried about you. I would just like to say that if you need anything, anything at all, I will do my best to help you with it.” His eyes were so earnest. You wished he’d just shut his mouth. If he said much more of that gushy stuff you’d absolutely fall apart, and your charade had been so perfect for so long that you couldn’t afford for it to crumble now.

You pushed down those feelings and responded with a chipper, “I’m fine, grandpa. Thanks for the concern” and an irreverent eye roll.

Minn looked distressed briefly before nodding and slowly moving his old bones out of the lecture hall.

You looked at the clock. This was going to be a long two hours.

–

It wasn’t as bad as you were anticipating. In fact, it was just what you needed. The two and a half hour long silence felt great after the hubbub of the previous night and the confusion from your morning. It was like a nice, relaxing lie-in that you were getting paid for. And seeing as this was a senior seminar with most students only a year younger than you, they were perfectly well behaved. It was marvelous.

The same could not be said of the rest of your weekend.

You stayed in your apartment the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday, occasionally going downstairs to nab leftovers from the buffet. Netflix played whatever it wanted without stopping once, and you took a quick five-minute shower at 2 am Saturday night to stop yourself from falling asleep while drunk–there was no way in hell a cop would find you dead because you’d choked on your own vomit. You think you’d simply die. Ha. Ha.

In all honesty, you don’t really remember the rest of your weekend. It wasn’t because you were drunk. On the contrary, you only drank Saturday night because you were bored. You weren’t drowning your sorrows, so you just sat and stared at the TV and completely shut down for a glorious 36 hours. For some reason, you didn’t feel like going out. You didn’t feel like doing anything at all, and so… you didn’t.

But Monday morning did eventually arrive in a flurry of falling leaves and biting winds and gray skies, and your responsibility as a student arrived in equal force. You wished academia would choke and die.

It was like any other morning. You got up, barely brushed your teeth, braided your hair so you didn’t have to brush it, and threw on a random borderline acceptable outfit for your class that wasn’t really a class. As a grad student, you mostly taught 1- and -200 level classes, did independent research, and talked about intellectual bullshit in small groups with other grad students and professors. The intellectual bullshit was your favorite part. You’d learned long ago that many people in academia did not actually have the intellect for their fields and that you could talk circles around them. Thus, your “classes” were a perfect opportunity for you to not put in any real work and spout nonsense for hours at a time to a rapt, adoring group.

As usual, you were the last person to arrive. While you were still on time, making your way up the ranks of overachievers meant that you were often outshone in punctuality and ass-kissing. This maybe used to bother you, but now it didn’t. In fact, your newfound self awareness made the social observation that much more fun. You could laugh at not just other people, but also the stupidity you yourself once had! Hilarity ensued in your mind.

The classroom was a small conference room in the archaic school library. The library itself was ancient, but the new additions were wonderfully modern and oh-so fancy. You loved the way the projectors retracted into the ceiling and how the blinds were remote-controlled. The central library would always have your heart, but you just felt so damn important in the new conference rooms, even if they lacked the charm of the long oak tables you once studied at during your undergrad days.

You flung yourself down into one of the two remaining available seats at the table with nothing but your phone on your person, your classmates giving you wary looks. Everyone else had laptops and books open, already scribbling god-knows-what on their university-sponsored portfolios. More intellectual bullshit, no doubt. You smirked inwardly. You hoped today would have something or someone interesting.

“Good morning, Miss Reader,” the department head greeted you warmly. You knew her name at one point at the beginning of the first semester, but you couldn’t recall it now. It had been filed away into the “unimportant” section of your brain, along with the names of most of the people in this class, which was a smattering of arts and humanities grad students. You knew most of them were working towards a master’s in literature or language, but many of them were history students as well. You were a bit of a special case due to the nature of your  relatively obscure degree, but you knew you’d show them up in Jeopardy on any day.

“Good morning to you too, ma’am,” you replied cordially. While you had convinced yourself you didn’t care, you would still talk the talk when you had to. This was one of those times.

“It’s so rare to see you here these days. What have you been up to in your absence?”

The room went still and everyone looked up from their business. You were a smidgeon surprised. What balls. Everyone in academia knew that you didn’t pry into personal lives. You were there to study and to learn, not to uncover everyone’s skeletons. While you were a bit of a celebrity on campus to the intellectual crowd, you hadn’t expected this at all, and least of all from the department chair.

But alas, you were saved from having to answer as the door closed noisily and someone entered the room, taking the final open seat next to you.

“Sorry for my lateness, some shithead made my tea wrong.”

Your world turned on its axis. Not only was the newcomer already speaking your language, but he was also the man who you’d woken up next to Saturday morning.

It was beautiful. Everything was beautiful. You knew beauty–had seen it, tasted it, understood it. Even though everything you’d been through. All those years of suffering and death, you never let the beauty that existed escape you. What would you have to fight for if it all disappeared? Hollowness. You’d seen it happen. It wouldn’t happen to you. You might have gotten close sometimes, but never over the edge. You didn’t break. Beauty was important. But the more abstract side of the concept of beauty was out the window when it came to what lay before your eyes.

How could you do anything but appreciate something so simple as Levi, Humanity’s Strongest, gazing out at the sea?

This moment was everything you needed. Sun, warm and all-encompassing, filtered only by errant strands of makeshift clouds, afterthoughts in the heavens. The wind, blowing easily and pleasantly, enough to lift pieces of hair across your eyes–promptly dealt with, for nothing would hide this scene from you. The ammophila swayed gently with it, a soft bend to the gray-green horizon that gave way to the slope down to the sea. Then, the sea itself. Foamy and unpleasant to swim in, but blessedly endless. Almost peridot. Crest upon crest folding in on themselves and continuously borne out and in. You’d visited prettier beaches. But this was your favorite.

Then there was Levi. He stood a few paces ahead of you, leaning on a simple cane fashioned by Jean in his spare time–the only one he would use. He wore black slacks and a simple white button-down, the clothes you envisioned him wearing when you pictured him in your mind’s eye. He wore that even in the beginning, all the way back in the Underground. Slacks and a button-down were so Levi. Besides his clothing, the only thing apparently different that came with his presence at this beach was his now-unkempt hair. He clearly hadn’t noticed yet. You wouldn’t be telling him.

You wanted to tease him. He teased you relentlessly, typically with a stupidly impressive poker face that had originally made discerning his intentions so difficult but now was so endearing to you. Even after all this time, he still thought he could hide things from you. Yes, you wanted to tease him. To make a comment about his unruly hair that was so pretty on him, to tell him to smile for once. But as you approached his side and stole a sideways glance at him, you only saw infinite peace. Your heart almost overflowed with emotion. After all this time, after everything he’s gone through, he is still the same Levi. He is still the same man who has always just kept going.

There’s something painfully human about hope. It’s difficult to put into words, you think. You want to put it into words to articulate to him how you’re feeling but you don’t want to ruin the moment, and so instead you ponder it.

You know Levi so well. Knowing someone for the majority of their life tends to do that, but most people haven’t been through what you and Levi have been through, or make it out alive and in one piece on top of that. But you and Levi did. Levi, who batters himself internally and doesn’t even seem to realize it sometimes. You, who would do anything to preserve what is beautiful, the definition of which at some point in time expanded to include him. By all counts, you both should have lost hope long ago. But you hadn’t. Levi hadn’t. Even when he was so tired and beat down. You will admit that you lost hope once before. Levi had been there to see it and you know it almost broke him. The spell of your introspection was briefly broken as you felt the shame washing over you in remembrance. But as you looked at him again, took in his tranquility and peace, you were reminded that even when he believed himself to have abandoned humanity, he was still human in the most basic form that was hope. He never gave up hope through your entire lives. And he was the most human person you had ever met for it.

Levi began to step forward, taking careful strides down the slope that led to the ocean. Your ocean. The ocean you had asked Armin about over and over again all those years ago when you’d first met the kid. You made a passing comment about how he needed to be extra careful with his knee in the sand, and he waved you off but followed your order nonetheless. He was like that.

You wished you’d brought a blanket for the two of you to sit on as you both lowered your bodies to the sand. Typically, Levi would bitch about the sand getting everywhere and demand something to sit on “for cleanliness’ sake” but this time he seemed to have no qualms with the bothersome sediment. This pleased you more than you’d like to admit and your cheeks burned at the thought that he was acting so agreeable for you. Because he knows how much you love the ocean. Because he fought tooth and nail through hell for years just for you to taste salt on the wind.

Several beats passed in silence before Levi said your name softly, like a prayer. “Do you think we should get married?”

Your heart fell through the ocean floor and into a chasm.

“Levi!” Your face was a bellows of fire.

He almost grinned, an impish ghost of a smirk threatening to be made known before he schooled it away and let his eyebrows unfurrow to reveal that peaceful look yet again.

“I’m only joking. Obviously,” he responded. “Unless you want to.”

“I…” You didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know what to say.”

He shifted his leg a bit, biting back one of the usual curses that flew out whenever the pain flared. “Why shouldn’t we? We already live together don’t we? And we’re practically all those brats’ parents. So…” he continued, wiping imaginary sand off his spotless pants. “Why shouldn’t we?” And his eyes met yours, half cloudy and half stormy.

Your face imperceptibly softened and your shoulders slumped as you closed your eyes and looked at the sky, letting the sun bathe you.

“Levi, love, could you pass me the sugar?” You asked kindly, knowing what his reaction would be before you even finished uttering the words.

Like clockwork, the man’s nose wrinkled and lips curled in distaste. “Sugar? In your tea? How many times do I have to tell you that you’re ruining the natural flavor of it? It’s black tea. It’s already sweet enough, idiot.” So blunt. You found it adorable how after all these years he remained as irritable as ever. You would probably faint if he changed. He was perfect, and he had been even in the beginning when you were just two punk kids roaming the city.

You remember vividly the days of you and Levi ruling the streets. Two orphans were bound to bond in a dump like your city; it wasn’t long until you became the uncrowned king and queen. It helped that you were a match made in heaven. You were the brains and Levi was the brawn. It doesn’t get much better than that.

You rolled your eyes at Levi’s comment in a lazy attempt at appearing to be annoyed with him, pouring the sugar in your tea absentmindedly and listening to the clock tick and the pages of Levi’s book turning. While you were now soldiers, that didn’t mean that your downtime with Levi disappeared. On the contrary, now that you were both seasoned veterans–and quite skilled ones at that–you had the prestige and rank needed to buy yourselves a slice of mock domesticity. You didn’t mind. All you ever wanted was to be by his side. Now you could have that and also do what you do best: fight. You loved being a soldier.

“Oi,” Levi interrupted your thoughts. “What’s on your mind? You look like you need to take a shit.”

“Charming, as usual, Levi.”

He fixed you with a perceptive stare. “Tell me.”

“Nothing,” you responded lightheartedly, chuckling a bit. “Just reminiscing on the old days.”

The clock chimed one in the morning.

“Feel that, Levi?” You yelled over the roar of the wind. “That’s summer!” You stretched your arms out wide, standing up in the backseat of the convertible you had carjacked to escape the scene of the crime. The speed injected a rush of serotonin you hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

You felt strong arms yank you down as Jan steered you, Isabel, Farlan, and Levi into a tunnel. You laughed, knowing a lecture was coming but not really minding. It was worth it.

The same pair of arms reached forward and two rough hands pulled your face towards theirs. “You are so stupid, you know that? Look me in the eyes and say you won’t do that again.”

Your eyes met Levi’s worried ones. He was such a dad sometimes, you thought. “Oh come on, Lev!” You pouted, deciding to make a big deal out of it and crossing your arms childishly. “You never get mad when Isabel does shit like that but the second I do it’s a problem.”

“That’s because you’re supposed to set a good example. Now stop squirming around and behave. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

You just laughed at him again, leaning in for a kiss. The air was humid and warm despite the speed Jan had the car at, and you relished the feeling of his lips on yours, wet with a sheen of sweat from the exertion of the job and the anxious lip-biting he was so guilty of. He kissed you back briefly, shoving you a bit too roughly back into your own personal space–not that there was any. The convertible you’d stolen was only a four-seater, but you, Isabel, and Levi had crammed in the back due to being the smallest since Jan and Farlan’s legs were too long.

Your legs stuck to the seats uncomfortably but you didn’t mind. Your knees knocked against Levi’s clothed one and Isabel’s bare one, and all you could think about was how happy you were to be with your gang. As long as they were all fine, everything would be okay.

An hour later, you reached the outskirts of the city. It wasn’t an area controlled by your gang, but there was a relatively safe place you and Levi had set up years ago to be used in case you ever found yourselves so far from home base. The car was pulled into a run-down garage with the license plate discarded and paperwork burned. You’d sell it for quick cash later to add onto the bounty you’d just made. Maybe you’d buy Levi some new shirts with it since they always seemed to get ripped in fights.

A few days passed while you waited for the cops to stop searching for you. It was getting boring, and the summer weather was no longer charming. Jan kept trying to pick fights with people in the street to “test his strength” but even the gangs on this side of town seemed to be bored of the humidity. But eventually it was time to leave, and eventually it was simply too difficult to stay inside when it was so blessedly sunny out. Let the cops come, you thought. It’s summer after all.

Fall rolled seamlessly into winter. The sun was just as uncharacteristically present as it had been in the summer and you thought maybe those scientists on TV were onto something with that global warming stuff you heard about sometimes. Isabel’s tendency to burn hadn’t gone away but it had significantly lessened with her decision to listen to Levi’s lectures on taking care of one’s skin.

You pondered this as you walked down a pristine sidewalk framed by fancy stores. The streets uptown were always so boring compared to the neighborhoods you and Levi ruled. Nobody stopped to talk, no kids played in the street, the cars moved too fast, and nobody waved at each other. There was a subtle taste of tiredness that was never present where you were from. There, everybody came together for the holidays no matter how difficult it was, but here there was a tangible feeling of deeds outgrown and welcomes overstayed. You wanted to get out of there immediately but you knew you needed to get to one of these stores to buy the last item on your shopping list.

You were craving Christmas. You could taste it in the air. It was only a few days away, and with it came Levi’s birthday–your favorite day of the year. Isabel was always a bundle of joy (as per usual) and Farlan really got into the holiday spirit and Levi was just… Levi. Levi but another year older. He never told anyone his birthday, and you’d had to bully it out of Kenny when you’d gone to visit him in prison one day. That old fart. You wondered how different Levi would have been if Kenny hadn’t bullied him so much growing up.

Either way, your present for Levi hinged on the money you needed to purchase it. And for that, you’d needed his help whether he had wanted to give it or not. You smiled as you remembered the most recent heist you’d dragged him to.

One Week Prior

“I told you it would pull through, Lev!” The convertible top was up this time but the windows were down in your haste to tear out of the bank’s vicinity. Levi looked relieved but wasn’t trying to show it. Bastard. You’d get through to him one day.

You blew a bubble with the chewing gum you’d snatched from the purses of one of the bank’s patrons when they were busy becoming Levi’s hostages for the heist. It popped, coating your lips and chin.

Levi spared a glance at you sitting prim and preening in the passenger’s seat, shivering from the cold air pumping through the open windows. “That shit is disgusting and bad for you, I don’t care what the package says. It isn’t good for your teeth.”

Levi’s knuckles were white on the leather steering wheel. His body language was tense from reflex but you could read him too well. His voice had relaxed to its standard velvety timbre and his eyebrows weren’t knitted for once. He was definitely pleased with the little trick you’d pulled back there. You felt warm and fuzzy inside at the knowledge that you’d made him happy. It didn’t help that he looked positively dashing in the outfit you’d forced him into. The all-black tactical uniform fit him deliciously, and the balaclava pooled at the base of his neck made his porcelain skin glow against the fabric. To top it all off, his normally pin straight and perfectly arranged hair was tousled and sticking to his forehead.

You couldn’t escape it. Everywhere you went and every thought in your mind went back to that day. You knew how painful love could be, and you’d had your fair share of heartbreak. But this was different. It was a rip in time. And you needed to get those godforsaken memories out of your mind’s eye.

It had been December 27th. Two days after his twenty-first birthday. The party naturally was held a few days after to give time for the holiday (not that there was any money to celebrate with), but you hadn’t expected a crowd so close to Christmas. It seemed people turned out for the great Levi. You didn’t know him–well, you knew of him. Everyone knew of Levi. But you didn’t know him personally. You were lucky you weren’t against him, though, that’s for damn sure. You shuddered to think what would happen to you if you ever crossed him in the wrong situation.

But you had locked eyes the second he walked into the room, the surprise on his face at the party he clearly wasn’t aware of melting away and consolidating into something steely and inquisitive. Hard. The night had ended with his jeans and simple white tee scattered across the basement floor intermingling with your tank top and shorts and underwear. You didn’t remember much save for the emotions you’d gone through–elation, infatuation, awe, and desire. You needed this man to stay in your life. And he did.

It wasn’t a match made in heaven. Levi was raised by a fucking serial killer–Kenny the Ripper of all people–and wasn’t in tune to the finer workings of social cues. He was a functioning member of society (if you could call the Underground a society) but he mostly kept to himself, and when he did open his mouth, he was brusque and often rude. He wasn’t called the King of the Underground for no reason. Levi was a hard, hard man. Through and through. You, on the other hand, had been raised in a miracle, by two parents who loved you and cared for you, but had disappeared without warning when you were a teenager. You could not be more different, all the way down to the music you listened to; Levi loved The Clash, and you loved Biggie.

Despite the differences on paper, your life with Levi was a life you loved almost as much as you grew to love him. The constant threat of danger that comes with living in the Underground faded into the periphery as you walked the streets with the King, unmolested and greeted with respect. The money he made granted you privileges like living in a real home, and a clean one at that. It was a welcome change of pace.

But most importantly, you learned love. You’d been burned before. Badly. Life Underground just wasn’t great. Finding love was hard. But Levi wiped the possibility of those things off the table like the dust he so despised. You learned how to read him, how to pick apart the tiny twitches in his face and translate them into his thoughts, how to show your appreciation for him in a way he understood, how to speak his language. You learned how it felt to see stars, to be loved irrevocably.

At least until he left.

The night before he left, you’d argued. You and Levi had never had a fight. You disagreed over the standards of cleanliness he maintained and how many jobs he took, but you never fought about money since it was never a problem, sex since your sex life most certainly was not lacking, nor other common relationship problems. It came out of the blue. You don’t remember when it started save for the telltale body language that he was about to shut down. You’d rushed into the kitchen as he turned the kettle on and asked what was wrong, and it devolved from there.

“You don’t get it, do you?” He’d stared at you the way he stared at some of his “business partners” as you called them. “You don’t understand. We can’t live like this forever. I won’t let us.”

“What are you talking about, Levi?” He’d carefully poured the water into a cup with a few scant tea leaves. “We have everything we need here, we’re happy.”

“It’s not good enough!” He exploded, raising his voice at you for the first time… ever. “We can’t die down here without seeing the sun. I can’t let…” his voice broke, and you almost pulled your hair in frustration. You were completely blindsided; you didn’t know he had been feeling this way.

“Levi!” You’d shouted as he stormed away. Well, stormed is a bit of an exaggeration. Levi didn’t storm anywhere. He was back to normal, composed and refined as ever, face a blank slate. Your heart lurched at the thought of him closing himself off from you, diving deep where you couldn’t find him and bring him to the surface.

“Levi!” You screamed. “Don’t do this, come talk to me!” He left. You picked up a plate and hurled it at the wall, satisfied as it shattered into a million pieces. You hoped it pissed him off that there was shit on the floor. Whatever.

But the next day, he was gone. The shards of the plate where gone. There was a note on the kitchen counter, where he always left notes for you to wake up to in case he had taken a job that was urgent. All it read was “back Monday.” Monday was a day away. You thought that was good, it would give you time to calm down. But… he just didn’t come back.

You asked around. Nobody had seen him. Isabel and Farlan were gone too. How your heart had ached! Your entire family, gone without a trace as if they never existed in the first place. It was you at fourteen all over again, coming home to nobody. You’d sold your childhood home, and as the days turned into months, you sold Levi’s home as well. It hurt. It hurt like a bitch. But you couldn’t let go.

You would never let go of Levi. You would love him till the end of time. You knew how dangerous his job was, how there was always a risk he wouldn’t be in your bed when you woke up in the morning. But that was a risk you were willing to take. This man was your reason for breathing goddammit and nothing could change that, even if breathing felt like being stabbed sometimes from how overwhelming the pain was. You would wait a million years if that’s how long it took to be reunited with him.

It was difficult for you to put into words the paradox you were experiencing. The primal part of you reveled in how the sun drenched your body and the earth, exalted in the warm caress of the infinite richness of it, drank itself stupid on the raw beauty of it all. The way the light didn't reflect off the canyon walls but instead absorbed it and glowed with it filled you with an inexplicable love and appreciation for the sun and the life it brought. But the rational, civilized, and socialized part of you called you away from that. You couldn't sit and stare out the window for the rest of eternity no matter how much you wanted to, even though it was your given right as a woman of your station to choose to do so. But no, you had obligations, responsibilities.

Responsibilities. You pondered the absurdity of the claim that you of all people had responsibilities. If you thought about it, sure, you had responsibilities - responsibilities to stay pretty and keep quiet. It wasn't that you didn't have any responsibilities, it's just that they were inane and insulting, and not really responsibilities at all, at least not in your book. It wasn't fair to say that you had pressures on you when others could barely eke out a living.

And here you were. Not scraping by off the skin of your teeth, not living hand to mouth, no. Your surroundings were evidence of the audacity it took to label your day to day goings-on as responsibilities. Here, in this pristine ranch in the hills. Here, on acres of private property surrounded not by neighbors and a community, but by the canyons of southern California. Here, in a mansion. Here, in opulence and luxury. It didn't disgust you, no. You were far too selfish to be disgusted by the privileges granted to you. But it did make you restless and unfulfilled. Your stony, crock-of-shit husband made sure of that.

As you mused, seated carefully in a leather Eames chair while you overlooked the scenery, you picked up pieces of the chatter of those around you, the noises floating in and out of the space where you could actually register what was being said. The house party was in full swing at this hour and the wine was flowing at tempo. The theme for the night was Wild Woman, and the ladies had taken it to a level that hit close to home for many of them, most choosing to wear Victorian-inspired dresses that hearkened to the widowmakers of old. The theme was handpicked by none other than yourself, the woman of this house, and the idea rang true when you chose it. It felt right that tonight of all nights you should choose to be the Wild Woman. The poeticism of the matter struck you to the core.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the fire inside of you began to grow. This was your time to take control. This was the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end. You laughed inwardly. What rotten poetry. A rich woman like yourself is only gifted in having fun, and even you failed at that.

The alcohol-addled brains around you heeded you no mind as you slipped away into the garage, swiping the keys to the shiny black roadster your husband's money bought you as you closed the door behind you. You had already made preparations for this moment. You had thought that your heart would be racing, that you would be shaking and terrified of this moment, but all you felt was a strange oceanic calm - vast and present.

The car was old. It was a 1920s roadster. It wouldn't break down but it was… obvious. It matched your house and its surroundings, but it didn't match your crime. No, you would need something different.

You drove silently down the narrow single lane road into the desert. Now that the sun was down, you regretted leaving the hard top at home. It was downright freezing out here, with nothing but the saguaros and the odd desert rat to keep you company. On second thought, you had the stars with you. Yes, the stars. You glanced up over the top of the chromed windshield. The abyss of space was blanketed by a sheen of soft glowing balls of gas illuminating your path, but were outshone by the brilliance of the waning crescent among them. You didn't mind that there was no full moon. It was less light for them to find you by.

A few hours of driving later, you pulled into the driveway of a small, dirty home. The adobe roof was near crumbling, and the stucco walls had long since faded from their original shade. The house was bare regarding ornamentation save for the smattering of cars and twisted bicycle tires laying in the yard. It was unkempt, but you found it to be quite charming.

You knocked on the front door, and a few moments later a bent over old man revealed himself. You wordlessly swapped keys, and he pointed a crooked finger at the vehicle parked closest to the road. You nodded and bowed your head in acknowledgement before handing him a wad of cash for his troubles and taking your leave.

As you approached the big black work truck, it dawned on you that you hadn't changed out of your party clothes. While the rest of the women had chosen the scandalous widow-maker as their inspiration for the Wild Woman, you had gone a different route. You had left your hair unbrushed and free, not a hint of makeup to be seen, and donned a simple ankle-length gray sheath dress, adorned only with a threadbare red shawl around your shoulders you had found in the trunk of the roadster when you purchased it. It wasn't wild, but it was free. Is wild equated to free? You weren't sure, but it was the avenue you'd chosen. You didn't mind. While it was cold in the desert, your choice of clothes matched the poetic mood you were in as you committed your crimes. You hopped in the truck and it rattled noisily to life as it carried you towards selfishness.

Another hour down the road, you found yourself in something resembling a town. If the boom towns of the Gold Rush era had a modern equivalent, this was it. In the middle of the desert, isolated, too large for the environment, it fit the bill perfectly. You decided this was where you would stay for the night. There was an inn there, and in front of it you parked your "new" truck and wandered inside.

The first floor of The Underground Inn, which wasn't underground at all, was a hazy, dim, and busy bar in the peak crowd that comes with midnight, lit by neon signs and rusty, abused jukeboxes running on pure willpower. You felt a bit out of your element. The bike gangs and young people that constituted the clientele were lightyears away from the company you typically kept. Regardless, it was a welcome change of pace, and you decidedly needed to continue in that direction, and thus sat down at the bar, peasant dress and all.

The barkeep was a man of shorter stature and a fierce glower, eyes hooded by a strong and sharp brow curtained by black strands of hair that constantly fell in his face as he worked. Most of the people at this point had already consumed their fair share of alcohol, and the barkeep did not seem too terribly busy save for his frantic and thorough cleaning of the bar itself and the glasses behind it. You decided that you would find your company for the night in this man no matter how much his glare unsettled you.

You cleared your throat daintily. "A Manhattan, please," you piped up. You weren't really in the mood to get hammered, but your high class tastes called, and you needed some sort of drink to loosen yourself up.

"What are you doing here, little lady?" The man responded, not moving to make your drink and instead fervently scrubbing the inside of a glass. He examined his work and, satisfied, began to pour the whiskey into the glass, uncorking the vermouth as he did so.

"What do you mean?" You pretended not to know what he meant. It was clear you were the outsider here. You were dressed like a medieval peasant, barefoot and hopelessly alone. He was probably just looking out for you.

Suddenly self-conscious, you lowered your voice. "I mean, I know what you're saying. I just needed a place to stay is all."

His eyes softened a fraction of a centimeter, so minute was the movement you would have missed it had you not been staring at him so intently, hellbent on figuring him out. He intrigued you immensely, especially as you looked closer and examined his face better. On the left side of his face were three parallel scars with deep dents in their center, almost crater-like. His right eye was clouded over and accompanied by a long silvery strip running from close to the corner of his small mouth and disappearing under the bangs on his forehead.

The unusual man snorted in disbelief, shaking his head slightly to reveal a sharp undercut. "You must be an idiot to be out here by yourself. Did you run away from mommy and daddy to find yourself in the desert?"

You wanted to be offended, but couldn't find it in yourself. Instead, the weight of your decisions came down on your shoulders in full force and you slumped on the bar, chin leaning on your palm as you sighed in defeat.

"In a way," you said. "Why do you ask? Aren't you just a bartender?" You stole another glance at him, finding the need to assert your age. “And I’m twenty nine by the way.”

"It's my bar. My bar is my own business. You are in my bar, and now it's my business." He placed the speared cherry on the top of the now-completed Manhattan and slid it over the counter to rest in front of you, ignoring the comment about your age. You stared at it. The glass left much to be desired in terms of presentation, but the drink itself looked delicious. Eagerly you set about trying it, and made a noise of delight in the back of your throat at the taste of it.

“Mmm,” you said, closing your eyes as you savored the experience of it on your tongue. “Delicious. You’re an excellent mixologist,” you complimented.

“Almost like it’s my job or something,” he mumbled. “And just because you’re twenty nine doesn’t mean you’re not running away from ‘mommy and daddy.’” He did air quotes, rolling his eyes. You couldn’t tell if he was a grounded, realistic person or remarkably fed up with you. “You’re just running away from something that took the place of that. That’s all it ever is.”

“How wise you are,” you mused, smiling absentmindedly. “Perhaps you’re right. I won’t burden you with the whole story, but I am running away. It’s just that I’m running from heaven.”

“Heaven?” His brow furrowed slightly. “No such thing.”

“It was heaven, at least in its own way,” you said. “To most people I think it’s a bit of heaven.” You thought about the ranch and the endless desert surrounding it. Your husband was always gone, intermittently visiting between meetings he arrived at via private jet. It was a heaven that drugged you. No amount of material possessions could destroy the ache of unfulfillment, but it could dampen it for a time. You became an expert in distraction, in denial disguised by self care. You never wanted to do that again. It made you sick to think about.

“It’s all horribly cliche and awful. I don’t want to ever go back to living that way again,” you finished. The barkeep just looked at you, vaguely thoughtful, picking you apart and taking his time in doing so. You felt a little thrill at the attention that you were unaccustomed to.

“What’s your name, little lady?” He asked finally, after staring at you for what felt like forever. The blush on your face deepend, and you felt incredibly undignified.

You told him your name and he told you his. Levi. You rolled the name around in your mouth, exploring the way it sat on your tongue and echoed off your hard palate. You decided you liked Levi and that you would make a friend out of him by the time this night ended.

“Levi,” you said simply. You sighed a sigh of relief. “I like you, Levi.” You stared off into space, lost in thought. When would the consequences for your actions catch up to you? It frightened you to think about it. You knew this wouldn't be forever. He would come for you eventually, and your little escapade would end. But for now you were determined to enjoy your momentary freedom, however short or long it would end up being.

A group of six men stepped into the bar and settled into seats around you, pulling Levi away from you. The sudden lack of attention was akin to stepping out of a warm bath, and you involuntarily shivered from the mental sensation. You felt mildly delusional for finding yourself so taken by this strange bartender, but you also didn’t mind. In your mind, you were justified. You were starved in so many aspects.

As you continued to sip on the cocktail, you let your hair fall over your face as you subtly observed the thieves of Levi’s attention. They were in slacks and button-downs, with expensive watches on wrists and leather wallets poking out of pockets. They reminded you of your husband’s bodyguards. Being an arms dealer wasn’t necessarily a dangerous job, but the growing tensions with the USSR since the war’s end had put him on edge.

Your gaze involuntarily slid back over to Levi. You watched the sinewy forearms as they flexed with the back-and-forth motion as he shook a drink. You watched the pursed lips and even look in his steely, focused eyes as he listened to his customers’ orders. You watched the solid white tee shirt ripple over his chest as he glided across the bar in search of the bitters. You took in the multitude of scars snaking up his neck and down his biceps and you wondered callously if he was a veteran, making a living as a barkeep after throwing away his youth in Europe or the Pacific. You wanted to know everything about this man.

A heavy hand on your shoulder yanked you from your not-so-subtle admiration of Levi’s physique. One of the newcomers leaned down close to your ear and whispered your name, saying, “Your husband is waiting, ma’am. Please come with us.”

Your stomach plummeted through the ground and into the core of the earth and you felt sick. No, no, no, no. This isn’t happening. It’s too soon. I just got free. You knew that it wasn’t going to last forever, but for it to only have taken a few hours… it was more than you could bear. The disappointment was immeasurable. Your mind went blank with static.

Levi, finished with his job for now, glanced sidelong at you from the other end of the bar. You made eye contact, and his eyes widened a millimeter at your expression. You knew how you looked; you’d seen the look of a cornered animal on your face in the reflection of the bottle of everclear on a shelf in front of you. You absentmindedly wondered how that stuff was legal, especially with it being so new. Levi must have some regulars with an insane tolerance.

You begged Levi with your eyes to do something. You knew it wasn’t fair to put him in this position, but the instinctual resistance to going back to your gilded cage had you desperate. He slowly nodded his head, and the tension disappeared from your shoulders. You slumped over onto the bar again, feigning defeat, and didn’t look at the man so he wouldn’t see through your shaky facade.

“Alright. I’ll… I’ll be outside in ten minutes. Let me finish my drink and freshen up first.”

The hand left your shoulder, and the group of men downed their drinks and left.

Levi sauntered over, movements careful and measured as he threw his cleaning rag over his shoulder and leaned over the bar to converse with you.

“Mommy and daddy want you back?” He said lowly, gaze startlingly fierce.

“Something like that,” you answered, throwing back the rest of the Manhattan he’d made you so expertly. You held the glass up to your face and frowned. “This didn’t taste very alcoholic.”

“You didn’t seem like you needed a fogged brain. I put cherry coke in it.”

“Must be some cherry coke to fool me,” you said. “I’m very knowledgeable about my alcohol and you almost got me.”

“Alcoholic?”

“Something like that,” you repeated with a coy smile. There wasn’t much for you to do at home other than drink, stare out the window, and host parties. What a life you lead.

Levi shifted to pull a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He pulled one out and stuck it in his mouth before shaking the pack to pull one up for you to take. You wordlessly took one, and he expertly flicked a small lighter to life, starting to bring it towards the unlit cigarette you placed between your lips. You plucked it daintily from his fingers and lit his first, then leaned across the bar to press your cigarette next to his in order to light it. He looked at you while you did this from behind unfairly long and thick black eyelashes. You felt a rush at the sensation of his milky right eye and the steely blue left eye boring into you.

“So what does your husband do?” Levi said after exhaling the first puff of smoke.

This startled you and you almost dropped your cigarette. “What?” You breathed, eyes wide. You took a shaky drag, letting the toxicity fill your lungs.

“I said,” he repeated, “what does your husband do?”

“He… he’s an arms dealer. He basically owns Lockheed Martin.” You attempted to compose yourself enough to answer, and propped your elbow up, cigarette aloft and held daintily between your painted nails.

Levi didn’t attempt to mask his disgust, wrinkling his nose and recoiling as though struck. “Look at me,” he seethed, voice gravelly. Your eyes snapped to his, wide and childlike.

“I’m looking,” you said breathlessly.

He grabbed your hand. “Look better.” Levi brought your hand to his face and grazed it over the deep dents in his cheek, across his sharp nose and over to the raised bump slashed across his right eye. Your breath caught in your throat at the sensation.

“I went through hell over there.” His eyes were frantic, a deep emotion you couldn’t read coming to the surface, and he dropped your hand.

“I apologize. I shouldn’t have grabbed you with no warning like that. It was inappropriate.”

“No, no,” you rushed to clarify. “I… I didn’t mind.” You felt your face heating up. You looked down at your watch, realizing you only had so much time. “And… I’m sorry. For what you went through… in the war. I understand how awful it was. I lost my brother to the war.”

Levi stared wide eyed at you, lips pursed and brow intense. “It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”

You cleared your throat, the both of you leaning back from the heavy air surrounding you, suddenly bashful. You thought it looked good on him.

But ah, such moments cannot stay. You glanced at the door, and the window next to it showed one of your husband’s men holding up three fingers to signify your remaining time. He turned around and you grasped Levi’s forearm.

“Please. I know we barely know each other, but I can’t go back to him. I can’t give up my freedom when I just got it. Please,” you begged. “I’ll do anything I can to repay you. Just… help me.”

You were growing used to having to scan Levi’s face intently in order to read his miniscule changes in expression, and with this new skill did you see his eyes harden.

“You don’t have to repay me.”

And then he left. He turned the corner into a back room and grabbed a tall, slender blonde man with a wispy goatee, an upturned nose, and a mop of fluffy hair. You thought he looked rather canine. Levi held a short, terse conversation with the man, who began to set up the bar in a different manner than Levi had. While he did this, Levi fiddled with the underside of the counter, unhooking something to reveal a rifle. You were suddenly aware when he turned around that he was carrying a pistol in the waistband of his jeans. You gulped.

He finally faced you. “Act like you’re going to the restroom. When you go down that hallway, turn right instead of left and go into the men’s room. There’s a door in the men’s room that leads to the dumpsters and the back of the building. I’m going to make a distraction out front. While that’s happening, run to your car and get the hell out of here. Don’t, and I mean don’t look back.”

“Levi,” you breathed, full of warmth for this stranger.

“Don’t. Now go.”

“Wait,” you said, standing from the barstool. “Come… come with me.” He looked at you incredulously. “Please.”

Levi appeared distressed, and affixed you with a hard stare as the panic faded. “Just focus on getting out of here first.” He snatched a napkin from the counter and materialized a pen. He finished writing something down on it and shoved it into your hands, nodded, and pushed you towards the hallway at the back. You understood your cue and made your move, the two of you heading in opposite directions, a small group of men following Levi.

Your breath was shaky as you pushed through the throng of pool players, dancers, and lovers. You put your cigarette out on an errant ashtray and walked down the long wood paneled hallway, finally pushing open the door to the men’s room and praying it would be empty. While it wasn’t empty, there was nobody at the urinals, and thus you were safe as you pushed open the door to the back of the establishment.

Immediately, you were on high alert. You turned the corner, hearing a commotion, and your jaw dropped shamelessly.

There, on the sidewalk and spilling into the street, was a full on brawl. The six men hired by your husband fought wildly against Levi and four others. In the neon-lit darkness, you could make out Levi’s small form kicking a man a head taller than him with such power he flew into your truck parked four spots away, grunting in pain as his head made a dent in the frame. He didn’t get up. Levi and his people were winning. The rifle he had brought from under the bar lay discarded against the entrance, and there were spectators placing bets.

You pushed through the growing crowd, and broke out into a sprint towards your truck, resolved now to fight tooth and nail for your freedom, especially if Levi was helping you. That freak. You couldn’t believe that this was his grand plan to save you. Not that you were complaining. The grace with which he exercised such opulent displays of violence enchanted you. It was like nothing you’d ever seen.

You were steps away from the door to your truck, fumbling with the keys, when the man who had approached you in the bar approached you again, this time more menacingly. He made a grab for you, wrenching your arms behind your back. You screamed and attempted to bite him, only succeeding in grazing his hand and kicking his shin pitifully. The man turned you around and growled in your ear as he pressed you to his chest, “Look what you’ve done. Now we’ve got to leave no witnesses. It’s a shame, isn’t it? All this violence for a pathetic whore. Boss won’t be happy with this. Not one bit.”

You screamed again, yelling Levi’s name. In the chaos of the bar fight, he still managed to subdue his opponent and search for you. He pulled away from the brawl, approaching you and your captor with a hand inching towards the back of his waistband.

“Don’t even think about it, short stuff,” your captor scoffed. You felt something cold and hard press against your waist. “Be careful with your next move.”

Levi slowly retracted his hand, holding both in the air in surrender. “I don’t know what your deal is, but I promise if you harm one of my patrons there will be hell to pay. I didn’t go through hell all those years ago for nothing. I can and will kill you if you don’t let her go.”

The man just laughed, closing his eyes and throwing his head back. Levi’s eyes darted towards the gun held to your side. The man opened his mouth to speak, and faster than the speed of sound Levi whipped the pistol out from his jeans and shot the man in the foot. He howled in pain, dropping you. Levi sprinted forward to help you up, and he grabbed the keys from the ground. He practically threw you into the passenger’s seat, started it up, and tore away from The Underground Inn.

You sat in shock, silent as the grave. The hum of the engine began to overpower the shouts and cries from the street fight. Levi breathed heavily from the exertion, taking deep breaths in and out.

“Well,” he began slowly. “I came with you.”

You just looked at him, tears filling your eyes. He glanced sideways at you as he adjusted the rearview mirror, finally regaining normalcy.

“Levi. I don’t even have words.”

“Then don’t say anything.” His words were sharp but his tone was soft and easy. “Just try to get some rest.”

Your eyes felt heavy, and you used your shawl as a makeshift pillow as you leaned against the window of the truck, the engine noise and the knowledge that Levi was there lulling you into sleep.

When you awoke, it was still dark.

“How long?” You asked, rubbing your eyes.

“About two hours. It’s two thirty.” He was pulling the truck off the side of the road.

“Where are we?”

“I’m not sure. Does it matter?”

“No.”

“Good. Get out.”

Levi reached behind to the backseat and materialized pillows and a blanket you didn’t know were there. He saw your inquisitive glance and said, “I saw them when I put you in the passenger’s seat. I thought that we should both get some sleep if we’re really doing this.”

He pulled the blankets and pillows out and threw them into the truck bed unceremoniously. You both pulled the tailgate down, and he gallantly offered you a knee for you to use to get up. You arranged them neatly and settled in.

You both stared silently at the Milky Way for a few moments before you both began to talk at once.

Levi let out a low laugh, barely more than a sound escaping his throat along with the strong exhalation that marked it as a sign of amusement. “You first,” he said.

“Just… thank you,” you sighed. “You have no idea what it means to me.” You tilted your head to take him in.

“You’re welcome. How could I say no to a damsel in distress?” He responded sarcastically.

“It’s not sarcasm if it’s true, Levi.”

“Say that again.”

“What, ‘it’s not sarcasm if it’s true’?”

“No, my name.”

“...Levi.”

He responded in kind with your name. “So, mysterious woman. Start from the beginning.”