You suddenly wake up in the middle of the night feeling thirsty, and on your way to the kitchen, you hear a sound coming from your roommate’s room.

Levi? What is he doing up this late?

As you slowly walk toward his room, the sound also gets louder until you’re in front of the door, which is slightly open.

You peek.

The room is dim, lit only by a small lamp. It’s Levi, sitting near the edge of his bed, his breath ragged, and what you see makes your body freeze on the spot.

“Ah, fuck.” Plap, plap, plap.

He’s pumping his cock.

What’s even more shocking is hearing him moan your name.

Is this even real? Maybe you’re just dreaming, because there’s no way your roommate, who always nitpicks everything you do, is masturbating right now while thinking about you.

And holy shit, he’s big. Whenever you see him wearing his gray sweatpants, you always wonder what he’s hiding behind them. You were definitely right to guess where his extra height went. This man is packing SO MUCH down there.

You feel the heat pooling between your legs as you keep watching him fist his cock, while his other hand goes to his balls, squeezing them.

This is not right; watching your roommate jack off is wrong, you tell yourself. But on second thought, he’s doing this while thinking of you.

This is only fair, right?

Levi's hand movement speeds up, pumping his cock up and down as he quietly moans, "I'm coming, shit—"

You watch him spurt thick ropes of cum and, gosh, what a waste. You wish he would release that inside you instead.

Panic surges through you when you see him stand up and start walking toward where you are, probably heading to the bathroom to clean up, so you dash silently back to your own room.

After shutting the door, you lean your back against it with one question in mind: how are you supposed to sleep after witnessing that?

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Fuck! If only this blasted headache stopped making things spin every time he stands, then maybe Levi would be able to take more than three steps away from his bed. His head feels as if it's been loaded with gunpowder and detonated. The ringing in his ears refuses to cease, even as he lays back down. He thinks of thunder-spears and fire and—

Levi wheezes as he breathes, which prompts a series of unstoppable coughs. It's phlegm-filled and revolting. He feels around for some tissues on his bedside table to spit out whatever muck he's just hacked up. He inhales deeply and slowly after, in an effort to reset his stuffy chest. Blearily, he hears movement from the room next door — your room. Well, if you weren't awake before, you sure are now.

It's going to be your first proper day with Levi (just you and him in this barely-stable post-war world until you tire of him) and he can't even get out of bed. Goddamn it. Even though the two of you were the last vets of the Scouts and were always close, you had never visited before, too busy gallivanting around the globe with the 104th, working with them, watching them step closer and closer to peace with every diplomatic mission. Then, you grew tired and finally felt satisfied enough to step down. You found yourself back by his side again (letters don't suffice — never did — no matter how many black and white pictures you had sent him, he had always wanted a little more). Levi can't complain at your return. He is and will be content with whatever you give him. In the weeks up to your arrival, Levi had made sure everything was perfect. And it was: his cottage is the very definition of clean, tools and sentimentals are ordered neatly on shelves or packed away in cupboards; his spare room is hopefully styled to your liking and smells faintly of rosemary rather than his usual mint, as he knows your preference for the herb. Everything was perfect until this very morning.

You knock gently at his bedroom door. He makes some sort of noise to refuse your entrance. Something caught between a groan and a grunt. The door swings open anyway.

"You're ill," you state after a moment scanning your eyes over him. For once, Levi, this time, dislikes your attention. There's concern etched in the contours of your face. His skin prickles in embarrassment, suddenly conscious that he hasn't ran a comb through his hair or brushed his teeth. More phlegm sticks to the back of his throat. Levi feels as if he's going to choke.

"No."

Your face pinches into strained amusement at his defiance and worry as he croaks. 

"No?" You question, "You must have went extra senile in your sleep then. There's not a way that you're not ill. I should fetch you a doctor."

Levi rubs at his temples. "No- I- Just stop looking at me like that. I know I'm sick, therefore, get out of my room. Don't you dare catch what I have … you're insufferable when you're ill."

"Ah, I understand." You clearly don't. Not only you stay in his room, but you also take a slow step closer, with the same tentativeness as you would show to a wounded animal. "Bet you feel real shitty right now."

"The shittiest," Levi is tempted to bury himself under the sheets to avoid you, but he's too weak to even move anymore. Your hand reaches for his forehead. He has to physically stop himself from leaning into your touch. It's cool and a blessing to his burning skin that he didn't even know was on fire to begin with.

A slurred 'fuck off' exits his mouth. You actually abide by his crude instruction and exit the room with a titter. Levi shuts his eyes, pretending to be completely unaffected by you, ignoring whatever sinking feeling he gets from turning you away. You care too much. He hates being sick, incapacitated. It only worsens the sense of horror he has around disease and rot.

Levi can only recall one other time when he was seriously ill. He was young, and as skinny as the next creature you saw in the Underground, but he was getting by. Much against his wishes, Isabel had stayed by his side for the whole day, throwing out and cleaning up his vomit from a basket, while Farlan hunted down medicine and proper food for Levi to build his strength back up. Levi was fortunate that the illness lasted a day and was not particularly infectious.

Levi coughs like a stuttering engine when you make your return (after a few minutes or an hour later, he can't tell). You come back to him with a mug of steaming tea (because just what else would he drink) and a plate.

You approach him once more, unperturbed by the glare he sends your way. There's two soft clinks of porcelain touching the wood on his bedside.

"Found some things for you," you say while reaching for his forehead again, your touch soothing. He doesn't recall you coming in with a cold compress, but he feels it icily stick against his skin. He tells you to go away, but you pet his hair instead, smoothing the strands and tucking them away into the rest of his hair. Your comfort is dangerously hypnotic.

"You have a fever, Levi. I'm going to pop into town for some medicine and more food. Eat those crackers if you can, that sound good?"

Levi feels his eyes droop. He's so tired. He hums in response. Fine.

"Can't stop you."

You linger for a second more at his side, before getting up and nearing his window. You pull open one half of the curtains, the side furthest from his bed, and open the window.

"I'll shut it when I get back. It's a little stuffy in here," you reason.

"Be safe," he whispers into the air, but you've already made your way out. The air thins and Levi thinks that he can breathe a little easier now.

The next time Levi properly wakes up, everything is basking in the warmth of sunset. As he sits up, the damp flannel falls from his forehead, but he manages to catch it before it hits the floor. Levi is pleased that the sudden movement doesn't immediately trigger his head spontaneously exploding. Just an ache behind his eyes. He can cope with this. 

Levi is quiet as he observes, trying to figure out if he's really been asleep all this time.

A chair is pushed against the right side of his bed with a book about herbs resting on the seat. There's a total of three cups on the table next to his bed, two of them are empty. Levi doesn't remember drinking from any of them. He carefully reaches for the full mug on the table, using both hands to lift the ceramic up. The warmth spreads from his fingertips to his palms. You must've been in here recently. The liquid turns out to be the weakest tea he's ever tasted. He frowns as he looks down; it's not tea at all, it's water. He's a little disgusted with himself as some dribbles down his chin in his eagerness as he drinks, the scratchiness of his throat quelled somewhat.

Levi makes his way out of bed and gasps when he steps too quickly, pain shooting up his leg. He catches himself on his bedroom door, with a thump, his best hand clutching the frame. He's quiet for a second, half expecting you to appear and usher him back. You don't appear, but if he focuses he can hear the bustle of something in the kitchen. Still, Levi limps out of his room slowly enters into the main section of the cottage. 

There's a bunch of groceries strewn across the kitchen table: root vegetables, carrots and such; a loaf of brown bread, and a bottle of what looks like fever reducers to name a few. You're at the stove, mumbling something under your breath and stirring a pot of what is probably soup. Your face is needled into a look of concentration as you move to dig through another bag that is rested on a pulled-out chair. Levi wonders about just what exactly you have bought. He wishes he was there by your side as you wandered the market and shopped for everything, he could've shown you who to go to for the better deals. He presses a palm to his forehead in a light smack. His head hurts but his eye focuses on you still. You find another bottle of pills and your brows furrow as you read the label. There's a sigh as you place the bottle down next to the fever reducers and start cleaning up the table, packing the potatoes into a paper bag and turning to the pantry.

"You've been busy," Levi finally rasps. His lips twitch at your reaction. You whip around to look at him the moment your ears pick up sound, like some sort of doe. Shock and confusion grace your features before a look of worry clings onto the straight line of your mouth. You shove the potatoes into a box low down in the pantry and shut the door.

"And you should return back to bed. I'll be there with you soon … the soup is basically all done. And-and how are you feeling Levi? Better? Worse?" In just a few steps, you're standing before him and quick to press your palm against his forehead. He get the inexplicable urge to be bundled into your arms and coddled like some infant. His illness really has got to him.

"You feel better, I think," you mutter. 

"I'm fine," he dutifully sits on the seat you pull out for him. You give him a look that demands him to expand on his condition.

"It's only been a few hours, my head is still shitty though." He coughs as he finishes his sentence, you pass him a tissue without him asking.

"F-few hours?" There's the sound of the ladle scraping the bottom of the pot as you stir the soup one final time and spoon some into a bowl. 

"Has it not been a few hours?"

"Well, it's the next day, Levi."

He blinks, "Alright."

"You really had me worried there for a second Levi, I've never seen you so … " you trail off, eyes glazing over. 

"Weak," he suggests. 

You sigh, fingers tapping before you slip a spoon into the bowl and slide it over to him. "Pale or whatever you want to say. I-I was just a little scared, you know? You were literally refusing to drink any water a few hours into sweating your fever out, and- dehydration- and, before that, when I got back home yesterday you were on the floor. I don't know whatyou were thinking then, or how long you were passed out on the ground." 

You shake your head. Your hands tremble slightly as you unscrew the lid of a bottle and tilt it to coax out two pills. You gesture to him and drop the medicine into his open palm. "You're a stubborn man."

"I'm sorry."

Something flashes across your face. Levi doesn't have the brain power to decipher exactly what it is, all he knows is that it's negative and bitter. 

"Don't be — just take that and eat your soup," a low hum escapes you, " and go back to bed, you need to rest." 

The soup looks good. Hunger suddenly makes itself known in the pit of his stomach. He sighs at the sound, picking up the spoon but not putting it in his mouth yet. 

"I'm filthy, I need to wash if I've been in bed for as long as I have," he groans, "my sheets stink of sweat."

You laugh weakly at his dismay, "I'm surprised you can smell at all. For your peace of mind, personally, I didn't smell anything wrong with your sheets when I was watching over you."

"Don't need to smell to know."

"Tell you what, you take your medicine, eat your soup and take a shower, and I'll change your sheets for you during that time, and then you get back into bed and rest some more for me?" 

"You have to have some too," Levi looks at you pointedly, "Soup. You also need to eat. You look like shit."

There's tangles in your hair and a smudge on your blouse. Levi resists the urge to smooth out the creases and bring his fingers up to pick at the stain. He stifles the overwhelming urge to brush your hair, deeming the whole thing too intimate. In his state, he would probably accidentally tug at your hair. He doesn't want to risk hurting you.