Levi Ackerman Shrine

Finally, the sultry voice that gives life to Werner Fischer hones in the last scene of yesterday’s episode and, splaying a hand on your chest, you heave a sigh of relief. You huddle on the couch and stretch your wool sweater over your knees, expectant. Tonight, Sarah will choose between her fiancé Werner, the wealthy, extremely good-looking and perfect future son-in-law, or Thomas Meyer, her family’s gamekeeper, and the love of her life since they were fifteen.

The notes of the Wedding March purl in, and Sarah’s journey to the altar commences.

“No, Sarah, don’t.” You mumble, clenching the hem of your sweater and biting your lips. Meanwhile, Thomas is waiting at the train station. Steam hoots, people blather, iron wheels hurtle by and screech. A letter rumples in his hand.

The door thuds and the foyer lights flicker to life. Levi takes his time. He hooks the cane on the nail, then shimmies off his trench, his jacket and slips them on the branches of the tree-like hanger. Then his hat and runs his fingers through his hair. His spine cracks as he groans down onto the bench.

Maybe he is getting old.

But aren’t the forties supposed to be the new thirties? That’s what the guy in the hair dye add says.

Deliberately, he takes off his shoes, fishes yours with his toes and pushes both pairs under the seat where they belong.

That goddamn play has become your new vice and sometimes he regrets buying the damn radio for your last birthday. Nah. He loves seeing you smile. He’ll never forget the spark in your eyes when music blared into the house for the first time, and you beckon him to the dance floor even though he was still doomed to the wheelchair. The candid and carefree way you react to the small things in life fascinates him.

He limps to the kitchen, ties the apron on and rummages through the scanty content in the fridge, diving into the drawer of forgotten veggies where your attempts for a healthy lifestyle lie.

The box of chocolate bars rests in plain sight.

He unwraps one, furtive enough to go unnoticed by the acute ears of a telegraphist. Even though you’re too absorbed in the play, he cranes his head over his shoulder, squinting. Nothing. You’re rocking with apprehension, riveted to the radio.

The bomb of textures and flavors explodes in his mouth, the chewiness of the caramel mates immaculately with the crunchiness of the wafer.

The foil falls into the bin, and he wipes his fingers clean.

The heater hums; the windows rattle with the sharp and crispy wind.

Onions, tomatoes, garlic; mouth-watering sizzling. Through the chop chop chop, he strains his ears to catch the final scenes. Though predictable, like your romance novels, he’s engaged in the plot too, listening in secrecy while making dinner. Now Sarah runs across the town in her hefty wedding gown, crossing her fingers for Thomas not to hop in that train. He leans over the countertop, scrapes the cutting board into the pan, his hand threatening to solder to the knife handle.

The trains whistles to depart, and Sarah’s harrowing pleads stop the machine.

You’re clapping and sniffling and wiping your tears; your nails most likely reduced to the roots.

And they lived happy ever after.

“Did you like it, Levi?” You chime from the living room, stoking the coals in the fireplace.

Shit.

 You turn off the radio and pad on your kitty socks to the kitchen, your eyes red and swollen and the hem of your sleeves tinted in a darker shade of taupe. “Next week starts a new one, we should listen together,” you say, flitting like a hummingbird from pantry to pantry to spoil dinner.

“I’m not into that crap.”

You raise a brow, hands hooked at your hips.

“I wasn’t.” he grunts, and your peck on his cheek softens him.

You stride around him, filching a chunk of carrot, sniffing the sauté, and turn toward the fridge, while Levi rakes an excuse in his head he’ll need for when war drops the question mark.

“Levi! That was the last one!” you pout.

But he shrugs and sighs, bullet-resistant to your whining. “You said you wanted to lose some pounds; I was helping.”

“You’re saying I’m fat.” Your jaw drops to the floor.

He opens his mouth to concoct his defense and closes it immediately, sewing his lips into a thin line before he, involuntarily, wreaks havoc in your kitchen. He knows that whatever he says, you’ll twist his words against him, transmute them into a dagger. One doesn’t fight battles that are already lost.

Levi surrenders, turns around, and you trap him in your arms, pressed between your body and the granite edge. No time to hunker down in the trench. You kiss him, slipping your tongue in his mouth, unannounced, cajoling sweet sounds and little grunts, savoring him; his not so shy hands teasing with the hem of your sweater.

You pull apart, holding down his hands, his lips dewy and pink, his eyes glazed with endearment. “You taste good,” you purr against his lips, running your fingers through his hair, some strands dusted with the white of age.

Dot, dash, dot, dot. Dash, dash, dash. Dot, dot, dot, dash. Dot.

In the pot, water burbles to a boil, the ring of blue fire fizzing. You prattle about your day, tangling and combing out his soul with your sweet voice.

☺

He lids the leftovers of the stew, and you help him to the couch. He snuggles in your arms, in his safe place, his ear pressed on your heartbeats. His solace and reassurance. His purpose. His beacon.

You caress his hair, fondly, with the adoration of a devotee raising their palms in hallelujah.

“Levi.” You whisper.

“uh?”

“Do you want to be my Valentine?”

“You’re what?”

“Valentine.”

He raises his head, scanning your face. “What is a Valentine?”

“I’m not so sure.” You tap a finger on your chin, gazing up and blushing. “I heard the girls in the office blathering about chocolates and roses, but I was too embarrassed to ask. It seems they celebrate love, the fourteenth.”

Levi ponders. Now it makes sense why so many lovey-dovey mawkish couples have been swarming the tea shop since the beginning of the month. Does he look that dumb when he’s staring at you?

He jots in his head to have Gabi and Falco garland the shop with red and white.

He smiles. “I’ll be your Valentine. Whatever that means.”

Your eyes glint, and you plant kisses on his head. Rosemary sheds from his hair.

☺

You tear off the 13th from the calendar; but the elation soon dwindles.

The restaurants are bursting at the seams. At Montolivo, the line snakes around the block, and Levi’s gammy leg is giving up. The wind blows slashing your cheeks, and people’s breaths amass in a cloud.

“I’m sorry, Levi.” You mutter halfheartedly and disappointed, “I should’ve made a reservation.”

He winds an arm over your shoulders for support, “and I should’ve brought the damn chair.”

After the war time rolls by leisurely. You take your time, shamble down the street festooned in red hearts, the throngs splitting to give you way. Matching coats and scarves. There’s nothing else to worry about other than what you’re going to eat for lunch.

A little boy, around eight with his hair slick-parted to the side, stops before you and hands you a rose. You know him. Every Friday, he and his mother place a message for his father who works at a mine two hundred miles to the west.

“You’re pretty,” he mumbles. His plump cheeks flush, his hands tethered behind his back. He scuffs a foot on the pavement as you pat his head. “You’re so sweet, Matty. Thank you. Happy Valentine for you too.” You bend and drop a kiss on his head, and all his face heats with red.

“Who is that?” He points at Levi, both glowering at each other.

Her official Valentine. Brat. But Levi bites his tongue before he screws up and ends up sleeping in the couch tonight. Thankfully, Mrs. Russo saves the day. She calls Matty and he waves goodbye to you, before slithering through the crowd.

Jewelry stores gleam; marbled chocolate truffles are dusted with gold. The air is dense with the perfume of roses, and beams of sun pierce the mantle of clouds like search lights.

“Let’s grab a large pepperoni. There’s a Malbec waiting for a special occasion at home.” You come up with a quick plan as your stomach grumbles in reproach.

Why do we wait for special dates to use the good stuff? Life slips through our fingers as we wait for the right moment, and then it is too late.

You eat the cheap greasy pizza on the finest china that had never seen the daylight, sloshing a glass of wine back and forth, laughing between hiccups. The gramophone’s flower spills the chords of Debussy and fills every corner of your home.

Home.

You and him.

You eat in silence, with the notes climbing and swirling down in the comfortable kind of silence lovers share.

“Some fresh moon flesh, my sweet valentine?” He opens his mouth, and you stick a wedge of soft   camembert. The runny interior, smooth and silky against the pleasantly bitter rind. There’s always a wheel around; you just cannot have enough cheese. “Wine burns fat.” You always say and pour to the last drop. Levi’s cheeks flush, his dimple at full display, crow feet wrinkling the corners of his eyes. He’s mellowed with time.

The cardboard box is blotted with cheese, bestrewn with dried oregano and dough crumbs. In the middle you place a can, the expiration date says it’s fine, but the label has been ripped. It could be anything: beans, sweet corn or spaghetti o’s. You cross your fingers for it to be something sweet.

You find out together. With the tip of a knife, you flick the lid open, and Levi smiles. “Peaches?”

“Peaches.”  

You dip two fingers in, tow one slippery half, and nab it, humming with delight, the sugary juice dripping on your hand. Levi laughs, shaking his head and follows you. Sunrise sliding down his throat.

Sweet shops and pastry shops were overflowing with lovers you couldn’t wrest out a slice of pie.

“I’ll do the dishes later,” you say as your pile up the plates in the sink. But you’ll forget and Levi will do the washing up.

You give him a hand and haul him to his feet, then turn around, and he wraps his arms around you, his chest against your back. “Ready?” You clasp your hands on his, holding tight.

“Yes.”

The fireplace crackles, sputtering fire flakes, the flickering glow lapping your naked bodies in bronze. Intertwined like Sinding’s lovers.  He presses down into you, your belly flat on the carpet, your name falling in whispers onto your hair.

Writhing and panting. He kisses the spot under your ear, his fingers stroking the knobs of your spine. The rose feels shy and jealous, and her petals unfurl toward the window.

Dash, dot, dash, dash. Dash, dash, dash. Dot, dot, dash.

He taps a sequence of dots and dashes on your shoulder. And you smile. All week you’ve been encoding, sending, and decoding the same array for strangers. Three words, eight letters. Twelve short beeps, twelve long beeps, strung in a pattern that’s already carved in your head.

“I love you too, Levi,” you breathe, your body quivering with pure bliss.

His hand finds yours, wedding bands glinting, and he gives you a squeeze.

You are his safe place, his quiet corner, his sweet surrender. You two are the best love story. Better than any cheesy radio play.

And he mutters, “I want to be your valentine forever.”

Tag list: @stygianoir @lamees004 @lovolee3 @notgoodforlife