IMAGINATION

HI EVERYONEEE!

So, I just got fired from my job (literally today) and I have zero income to pay my rent next month. I’m desperate and worried and just really going through it, so I’ve decided to open fic commissions to have a little extra money on my plate.

HOW TO COMMISSION ME:

-Contact me through any of my social platforms: Twitter (florsternberg_), Tumblr (elmundodeflor), or Email ([email protected]).

-Tell me what fandom and what ship you'd like the story written for! (Attack On Titan, Naruto or Full Metal Alchemist).

-Tell me how long you'd like the story to be, and if there's any genre/trope/AU you'd like me to write! (could be angst, fluff, modern au, enemies to lovers, etc.)

-You pay 50% of your order in advance. I'll send you a file with the fic once it's halfway written to check if you're happy with it and discuss changes you'd like me to make. When the fic is done, you pay the remaining 50% of total.

-You can then do WAHTEVER you want with the fic as you now own the work.

PAYMENT METHODS ARE PAYPAL OR KO-FI. You can find my Ko-Fi here: https://ko-fi.com/elmundodeflor 

PLACES WHERE YOU CAN FIND MY PREVIOUS WORK:

Here on Tumblr! You can also read some of my fics on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmundodeflor/works 

I CAN WRITE BOTH IN ENGLISH AND IN SPANISH! You can pick whatever language you want for your fic. 

REBLOGS AND ANY TYPE OF WAY YOU CAN SHARE WILL HELP ME IMMENSELEY AND WILL BE VERY DEEPLY APPRECIATED.

5:21 p.m.

Levi scrunches his nose. 

"Tch", he can't help but grimace, — lips curled into a tight, thin line. "Put that shit out."

Hanji makes a face, but nods and does as he says so, anyway. They'd picked up smoking at the office, three years well into their stay in Marley. Zeke would have a cigarette every so often, lounging-on in the complex terrace. And so, they’d eventually joined him. Took the edges off with a drag or two.

"Well", they say, letting the ashes spread out the open window. "I thought you didn’t mind it when people smoked."

Levi hums. Ugh. To an extent, that is true, actually. He'd grown up with uncle Kenny flooding the house in tobacco smell. Had even gone for a try himself, just to see what was all the big fuzz about it.

"Doesn’t mean I like it, though.", his shoulders tense. Hanji had taken him into the old science lab, running across the empty hallways as though they were sneaking out of class. It had been fun, — stopping by their lockers, reading the nonsense sticky notes that they used to fill them with. Levi figures, now, — as he watches them look to the outside yard, — it’s not so much the smoking that bothers him. Instead, it’s the fact that they’re the ones doing it. And that it’s reckless. And stupid. And that it could hurt them… in the long-term, at least.

Hanji smiles at him, — then throws the cigarette away to the trash can in the corner. 

“So…”, their eyes glimmer. “Is there anything else you hate, that I didn’t know of yet?”

Levi considers it for a good, long minute. 

“Covers”, he says, finally, like it’s no huge deal. And, in the end, they burst out laughing so loud, he fears everyone in the basketball court can hear. “What—?”

Hanji tries catching their breath. Their cheeks are tinged the lightest tone of red, visible even under the soft glow of the setting sun.

“You mean like… book covers?”

 “No.”, he corrects, — the tips of his ears burning, burning. “I meant covers of songs.”

That only makes them laugh even harder. The sound ripples out of them like waves, — a joyous explosion that rings-in through the walls, the ceiling.

“Oh my god!”, they’re screeching, cackling. Their index to the corner of their eyes to stop a happy-tear from falling. “That’s like saying you hate vegetables, y’know!? It’s way too vague!” 

Levi frowns.

“Makes perfect sense to me," he explains, — arms crossed. “If it’s a good cover that sticks to the basic arrangement of the original song, it’s like, why?, and if it sounds nothing like the original, then it’s like, why the hell?”

Hanji shakes their head. God. The deep-gold light traces patterns on the test-tubes above the station-tables, the metal rim of their glasses.

“You’re such an old man screaming at the sky!”, they whine, — smiling, still.

Levi raises a brow.

“Oh, and so you just like everything now?”

Truth is, though, they simply kind of do. Turns out, they enjoy slow walks under the rain, and watching crappy horror films, and mixing berry jam with cheese on toast.

“Yeah, why not?”, they shrug, almost absent-mindedly. They’re sitting on top of a station-table, — the closest one there is to the window. At this hour, the sunset creeps and turns their mane into a crown, a halo. Makes Levi want to reach out, and tuck the hairs that fly out of their ponytail behind their ear.

“I guess I tend to like things.”

He snorts. Well, yes. That’s exactly the Hanji Zoe he remembers, to this very day; happy, carefree. Excitable, even for the stuff most people find mundane or uninteresting.

“Then just tell me something you don't.”

At that, they hum, — like they usually do when they’re working and need to go into focus-mode. There were many different items that would probably make their list, indeed. Jogging, checking out emails, having to lay down at reasonable hours. But Levi would most certainly know about all those already.

“Dating.”, is what they say, at last, — before they even have the time to process it. And, sure enough, their chest gets hot, and tight, and heavy all of a sudden.

Great job. Out of everything they could have chosen, why on Earth did they have to go with that?

“Hah, you see…”, their face is boiling, — sweat gathering at their palms, the tiny space behind their ears. “It’s simply not as fun as I imagined it to be…!”

That somehow makes it worse.

Levi looks up at them. 

“I call bullshit.”

Back in the old days, Hanji used to garner their own fair-share of attention; — from both boys and girls in equal parts. Sure, they weren’t the most popular person in high-school, but still. Even through the weird looks that some would throw their way, they had something to them that would draw people in. A warmth, — a kind nature that made others feel safe, or seen, or curious, at the very least. By tenth grade, they had already gone mini-golfing with Colt, then to the city-centre Cineplex with Yelena. He recalls, they would always come back running over to him with the latest, juiciest anecdote; how they’d held hands in the dark, — their very first kiss. How could it be that they didn’t find it fun anymore? He just had a super hard time believing that.

“It never ended well for me, y’know...”, they sigh, swinging their legs off the edge of the table. And they mean it, truly. “Never got to get too overly serious with anybody...”

After that, there’s a beat of silence that follows. And then:

“What about you, Mr.heart-throb?”, their elbow's on his ribs, — prodding, teasing. “Anyone else you might be seeing right now?”  

Levi grunts, — somewhere between a gruff and a scoff. As a matter of fact, things had gone a similar path for him, too. Frieda had been his only proper girlfriend, — on and off throughout the years. But, — classical him,  — somehow, he’d managed to turn that into a total, clinical disaster, as well. 

“I guess it’s just not really worth the trouble, huh.”, his cheeks puff.

Hanji smiles at him, — then ducks their index into the tiny dimple that chips at the right side of his face. The last scrapes of sunset makes the grey in his irises dapple, and they figure, — oh, staring up at him, — he’s just so damn precious…! They wish they had been there to tell him that, — especially on those late nights where he sure had thought otherwise. To them, it didn’t matter, — how many men or women deemed him cynical, difficult. They could dare love him like a best friend, — as easy as it was for them to blink.

“Have you brought in some beer?”, he swats their hand away, though laughing. Neon orange skies frame his lashes like they’re a string of twinkly fairy lights. Braid his hair with swirling specs of golden, — dust off of fallen stars.

“All this talkin’... hell, I need a drink.”

Hanji bursts out laughing again.

“Well, there you go, you beast!”, they say. At first, it seems as if they’re complaining, just for the sake of it, — to take the piss. But then, they’re rummaging inside their haverstack, anyway. Searching and searching, until it happens to be two medium cider cans upon the table. “Here’s to us being lonely together…!” They raise their arm, smirking. “Right, Levi…?”

He clanks his can up with theirs. His is lemon-flavoured, Hanji’s is one of soft strawberry-grape. 

“Yeah, yeah.”, he pokes fun at them, — gives in to that old,but-still-familiar back-and-forth that they had always had going on between them. “Whatever makes you sleep at night, Four Eyes.”

Their smile can only but grow wider. ------------------------------------------------------------- IF YOU'VE LIKED THIS, READ THE FULL FIC HERE!

She wasn’t expecting him to come visit.

It wasn’t that she didn't want him to, — of course she did. She just thought he would be too overly busy to set some time aside from his tight political duties, and travel all the way down to the South Pole.

The morning Zuko arrives, it’s done unceremoniously, — with no big announcements or fancy royal ships. A metal yacht, — wrapped up in the Fire Nation’s flag, — anchors itself up to the blue, icy shores. He hadn’t brought too much of an entourage with him, either. Just uncle Iroh and some other parliament deputies. 

“You’re here…!”, she exhales, throwing herself into his arms. She doesn’t quite care, — that this is out of protocol for them; a Water Tribe Ambassador and the Fire Lord himself. All she had wanted, — for the longest of times, — was to be comforted by him, his warmth. To be held by someone so strong, he could pull her every bit of brokenness back together.

Zuko lets her hide in the crook of his neck.

“‘Course I am”, he whispers; soft, chaste against her hair. He can feel Katara swallow a silent sob there, tucked to his very chest. And so, he can’t help but melt into the hug; closer, tighter. Push her into him with as much delicacy as if she was made of snow. “You needed me.”

She nods, then turns away just enough so she can look at him. He’s wearing a muted-red fur coat, — the tips of dark, straight strands poking right out of his winter hat.

“Let’s go grab a snack”, her hand is on his shoulder; a guidance. “You and your uncle must be starving.”

The rest of the day slips away quickly, — smoother than the frozen slopes in the farthest horizon. Katara takes Zuko and Iroh home to meet with dad, Aang and Sokka, — and then they all gather around to eat a pot of steamy, stewed sea prunes.

The conversation had been calm, collected, — nothing out of the ordinary, in spite of the very obvious pain everyone else was in. It was in the words nobody dared say, — the slight tension floating in the air. Zuko had noticed, mostly because he could see it written in Katara's face, — how she'd smile politely, but the smile would never fully quite reach her irises.

“Ditched the party?”, he tells her now, as he walks up to her in the cold. Funerals in the South Pole were always some kind of celebration, — a special ritual that had been passed from one generation to another. Families circled near the ocean to send the physical bodies out to the Spirit World, — and then there'd be food, and drinks, and music to rejoice in its safe arrival. 

Katara doesn't dare face him.

“Didn’t feel like celebrating.”, she says. Here, at her small, snowy Tribe, she's hyper aware of everything around her. Much quite like Toph is when they're standing on fresh grass, or any other type of plain terrain, really.

Zuko exhales. An icy, frozen cloud escapes his parted mouth.

“What about Aang? Your dad…?”

Katara shrugs, — puts her hands inside her coat's pockets. She doesn’t even need to turn around to guess that he’s frowning, — or that his frown carves the tiniest of dimples on his forehead. As any other senior water-bender would, she's learnt to wrap up her instincts around him like that.

“They’re greeting everybody…”, she sighs, her shoulders dropping. “You already know how it is…”

Truth is, actually, that every other place they'd been to, Aang had had to stay longer than she deemed necessary. It wasn’t like she didn’t want to travel and help people, — she sure did. But she also missed home. A lot. And they'd argue every time they’d tried to talk about it.

Zuko stares at her, then at the sky.

“Do you think Grangran is watching?”, he leans to her side; the tips of his elbow brushes at her ribs. High up above, the night is lit-up by a flash of sparkly neon green; — an aurora borealis carving paths into the darkness. It’s a sight so wonderful, — a scene so uniquely magical—, he feels as though he’s short of breath.

“I hope she is.”, she tells him, then, — and her voice is hoarse, broken at the seams. She recalls, her last few days with Grangran had been tough, especially. A separate tent had been set up for them alone, and she'd spend her hours healing a body that was already hollow, withering. “Though I doubt she'd like to know I skipped her funeral party, hah!”

At this, Zuko laughs a little bit, too. To be frank, they both do. 

“In the Fire Nation we have this one thing…”, he says, taking out a golden keychain from under layers of fur and wool. It has a typical ember-emblem locket that’s dangling from it, — and the moon catches on its warm, shimmery light. “It’s there to remind us that the people we love are always present somewhere with us.”

Katara focuses on it, — then stops to hold it in the cup of her freezing palms. She can see Ursa’s name engraved in it, — and she’s certain, oh, right that moment, that Zuko gets her completely. Her anger, — her indescribable sorrow, — he sees it. Even when the scars life’s left on her are not as visible as the ones that are on him. 

“I know traditions are not exactly the same and whatever…”, he scratches the back of his head. “But, overall, I guess you still understand the meaning…”

She nods, — subconsciously tugs at her mother’s necklace. Well, yes. There’s something in the way Zuko talks, — with such serenity and wisdom— that puts her soul at ease. As if he could reach uninvited into the deepest, scariest parts of her, — and then extract the very same words she needed to hear.

Last time it’d been like this, she remembers, they’d been staying at the Eastern Air Temple; a little summer trip. Aang and the rest were all sleeping in their tents, but the two of them were restless, unable to lie down and close their eyes, for some strange reason. 

“Don’t you wanna rage at the world, more often than not?”, she’d gone, totally out of the blue. She was aware, it was out of character for her to improvise stuff like this, — speak up her mind while on the spot. Still, however, she didn’t fully care for it.

Zuko’d raised a brow at her, — stretched back on the stone-cold floor. Pale moonshine traced ancient drawings on his face, — the soft curves of his nose. And so, Katara'd noticed, how young it made him seem, — such delicate lighting. Much quite like war had never maimed his skin, his fingers.

“I do”, he’d told her, then. They were sitting on one of the Temple’s higher lookouts, — their legs swinging off into the void. “I just try not to let my anger get the best of me, you know…?”, a pause, and after it: “That’d be like letting evilness win. And we simply cannot afford that at the moment.”

She smiles at him now, — same as she'd done that night, all those years back. Sure, life could be bleak, and unfair, and devastating. But, even amidst defeat, — the ache in every loss, — they'd found this. A mirror to each other. A road to their most intimate secrets, that wasn’t as terrifying to follow. 

Not if they did it together.

“You gotta promise me something”, she says, — with the sudden tone of resolution only she could have.

Zuko smiles again, — at her, this time. 

“I'd promise you anything, ‘Tara.”

The words flow out of her like a stream of consciousness.

“You know…”, she starts, — her cheeks apple-red. “You being the Fire Lord, and me travelling with Aang, we'll probably be so busy for the next couple months…”

Matter of fact, it was expected already. Her and Aang actually both had a scheduled trip to Republic City along with Sokka, — and Zuko most likely had to return to the Fire Nation for his own fair share of duties, too. 

“I wanna still be in touch with you…”

He stares at her, — feels his own neck grow hot, as well. He can see the aurora borealis green flicker in her crystal blue eyes, — reflect upon the beads in braided, dark-brown locks. There’s something about her authenticity, — how vulnerable she is when she’s with him, — that makes him go warm, fuzzy on the inside. It’s different from anything he’d experienced before, he realizes. Like his heart’s about to burst, rip out of his ribcage, — neon, and flashy, and twinkly, as the colors in the sky.

“I’ll write letters every single week”, he says.

Katara makes a face at him, not so entirely convinced, — so he recoils. 

Here we go again.

“Alright, alright…!”, his hands are in the air; a sign of surrender. “Whenever we’re tired, or upset, or wanting to rage at the world… Just let me know, and we’ll meet somewhere. Anywhere.”

She gives him a small bump on the shoulder.

“So… it’s a promise?”

Zuko bumps her back.

Recently, I’ve been reading about the Earth’s five great extinctions. I didn’t know, but they came way before we were even particles.

In many of them, volcanoes suffocated the atmosphere with toxic clouds of ash. They slammed against rivers, and wide valley-plains, covering their surfaces with kilometers of boiling lava. There were others, perhaps, in which the very air turned heavy with heat, or then grew so cold the grass became icy and white.

I guess we’re prone to catastrophe. Or cataclysms. Or natural disasters. The world has been shaken up by earthquakes, hurricanes, meteor crashes. Nothing, — I mean, no one— is ever free from getting broken, scratched, bruised.

The last moment I saw you, I figure that’s what my world had come to be. A raging collapse. A helpless tsunami. A wildfire. The weight of the inevitable made me crumble into scorching despair. Pain ripped my gut like the harshest of droughts can shred a rigid, tough stone. Historians say that, when we lose something, there are two tragedies that happen. Loss in itself, and the loss that blossoms as a consequence. I can hear your voice in my head, ringing and ringing so clear, asking; — who knows how many civilizations have withered without a trace? And, with them, how many languages, rituals, cultures, have we forgotten along the way?

Between you and I, there was a language that existed. A cup of tea before bed. Seeking for you in the diner. You stepping my foot from under the table if those military meetings where going on too long. I liked it that nobody else understood, just us. That, even through our worst days, it was always you the first person I wanted to run into in the hallways.

I still remember that one conversation we’ve had, such a long time ago. You were drunk out of your skull and I stood by the window in your room. I had fluffed your pillow, taken your shoes off… — I was about to leave, really. But then you looked at me. You looked at me like a child that has just caught a temperature, — with that glint of yours in your eye, — and told me you wanted me to stay. I have no idea why you did that, I was simply certain, from that night on, I just couldn’t say no. Fuck, I could never say no to you, Hanji. I bet you knew that, too, didn’t you…? That, our language was real. And ephemeral, yes. But ours. Ours and no one else’s.

Truth is, when a person dims, it’s an entire ecosystem that suffers, as well. Words, and gestures, and little magic instants shrink, and tarnish, and vanish from the skin. However, still, I like to think that, just as it happened in the five great extinctions, — and just as historians and scientists tell—, something has always remained. A mystical atom of life that prospered in the harshest of adversities. In the rarest conditions. In the impossible probabilities.

Perhaps, deep down, I’m still that stupid teen that joined the Scouts with dreams of saving humanity. But, you know, I don’t want to let go of hope, — foolish as that may be. Even after crimson clover bloodsheds, I do cling to believing that something similar happens with us… — in the end. When we’re gone, and light extinguishes behind our pupils, there’s a spark; — an atom of life that remains. That resists. That prospers. Forever, and evermore. It’s in the way I keep you with me, every single day that I breathe. The way I can draw you from memory, in my mind and with my eyes closed. The way you’re still the first person I want to run into in the hallway.

I used to think that life was too damn bleak, or unfair, when I was younger. After we’re nothing more but wind, everything else continues like normal. Life spins and spins without a stop. Sun keeps twinkling on water, or dipping up-above the horizon. Sky keeps painting itself in wide streaks of neon yellow. Rivers keep flowing down South. Cities keep bustling in flashing lights. I didn’t understand why, back then; — why the great scheme of things was indifferent to my wounding loss. Why my anguish wasn’t capable of retaining the sun, or the rivers, or curbing the clocks for the rest of the world, just like they had curbed for me. Now that I see it the way you would, I figure it’s that resistance. That resilience. That ‘something’ that stays, and fights and fights after extinction.

You’re still with me in the sun that dapples above water like fireworks. And in the neon yellow skies. And in the murmur of the rivers. You’re with me in the ticking clocks. And in my night-stand. And in every person that I come across that wears glasses. You know…? I guess, as long as I draw you from memory, and that I want to run into you first-thing in the hallway, then there’s no extinction possible. Our little language of cups of tea, and bedtime stories, and stomps from under the table lives on… — because the world keeps moving. And I’m moving in this world. And you move with me, wherever I go.

He stops the car by Erwin’s parking spot. Good thing, all teachers at the school get one. Even better so, Erwin doesn’t even need his, — not with that vintage scooter that he rides, at least, — so the space is all free for him to use.

“Got everything we bought?”, he asks, just to make sure. The trunk is filled with paper bags from the grocery store, — crispy snacks, and soda cans, and beer bottles.

Erwin gives him a nod, then goes out to carry some of the bags himself.

“All set.”

The air outside is wet and heavy, — warm, almost as if it was summer. That was the nice thing about spring, Levi guesses. The breeze smelt of sweet jasmine flowers, — the skies ever that tender mix of light-blue and orange.

He huffs, — puffs upon his cheeks as he walks, lifting up the weight of a dozen cheap thrills. The school has been decorated by the seniors, — papered on with little signs and cute pasteboard emojis. He, kind of, can’t believe Mikasa and her friends had agreed on doing this. There’s a huge poster hanging in the entrance-hall that reads: “WELCOME BACK, GRADUATING CLASS N°94!”, and it has hand-drawn hearts, smiley-faces, — the whole deal. He’s pretty certain Sasha was the one painting each one of the sparkly cupcakes in the corners, anyways, too.

“Levi, duuuude!”, he perks up when he hears Mike call him. It’s been a week since he’d last seen him, and his hair has already grown longer, — the bridge of his nose tanned. He’s the type of person who works a million different jobs, — lifeguard during summer, and pet-nanny, and wine taster at night— but that never worries big-time about money. Or… just life in general.

He gives him a little push with his shoulder, — though he’s careful about not dropping the bags off. Mike’s at least half a meter taller than he is, and so the blow barely makes him flinch.

“Thought you weren’t coming.”, he says.

Levi shrugs it off.

“Erwin dragged me”

After all, it’s not like he’s been lying, whatsoever. Technically, yes, — it was him the one accepting the invitation. But even after, he’d had his doubts. These types of gatherings weren’t much like him at all. He wasn’t in the mood for loud, obnoxious music, — or for people stuffing themselves up with junk food. It seemed idiotic, pointless, — as much as everyone else insisted he needed to ‘loosen up a bit’, and that ‘some fun would do him good’.

He sighs, — then follows up Mike into the school’s indoors gym. Inside, the walls have been adorned with old pictures of them, more drawings and neon cardboard signs. The lights are fairly dim, — an old-fashioned ballad playing on the stereo. He can quickly recognize Ed, Gunther, Mina, Lara as he further lets himself in, — Erwin trailing right behind. They are all sitting in a circle, chatting and drinking up from plastic cups. As if ten years had never passed them by, and they were each genuinely happy to see one another again.

There are no signs of Hanji.

“Disappointed, much?”, Mike elbows him. They are unpacking their grocery store bags on the snacks table. On top of it lay bottles of rosé summer wine, chocolate-chip cookies and the cinnamon rum that Erwin bought.

Levi doesn’t dare answer. A part of him is, as much as he hates to admit. It’s not like he ever expected them to come, though, — but he can feel a warmth inside his chest fading; dissipating slowly, indeed. A sensation as empty as the trails of a firework wanting to burst, but never quite getting to do so.

He rolls up his sleeves, — grabs up a pack of gummy worms, — anything to distract himself from thinking, thinking, thinking. In his mind, he’s taken aback to that summer night at Hanji’s house, that one time they got drunk out of their skull and he had to carry them upstairs to the bathroom. He remembers how their skin was soft under his palms, — as he untucked their shirt and brought them to the shower. The way they were saying his name; so sleepy and hazy. Like it was a chant, a dream, a prayer.

“Leeeeeviiiiiii!”

His whole body jumps as if it was struck by lightning, — his soul clenching smaller and smaller. Yes. He would recognize that voice anywhere else on the planet.

It’s Hanji. His Hanji. Hanji Zoe.

Hanji, — in all of their quirky, uniquely precious glory.

He almost has to pinch himself. It seems, the world has stopped, right there and then, — as they’re walking up toward him. He can’t believe how, after all these years, they still have this same effect on him. His muscles tense, his heart is reeling. His cheeks flush so hard he might as well be having a burning fever.

God, what is wrong with him?

He stares at them, — sucks in a breath as they get closer, and closer, and closer. They’re real. They’re present. Damn. They’re here. Here, and not in one of crazy fantasies. Here. It’s amusing, alarming. Their hair falls all over the place, like scattered domino pieces. Their floral polo-shirt neon and flashy, — quite the opposite to the all-white one he’s wearing.

Shit, they haven’t changed one bit. Neither of them did. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Leviii!”, they insist, now next to him, plunging themselves into his arms without warning. The hug is short-lived, but tight, sweet. Enough so that he can smell their shampoo, — feel them so warm and alive.

It makes him go dizzy in the head.

It appears to Levi, grief always finds a way to come back and kick your ass. You could be going on about your day, — running errands, stuck in traffic, — and then it’d finally hit you. It could be a song you randomly heard upon the radio, — a face you saw while in the street. Anything, really.

He figures, it’s especially tough during Christmas time.

“Can’t sleep?”, Hanji’s voice comes in a hush, — a rush that mixes with the sound of their footsteps.

Levi doesn’t even need to turn around to know it’s them.

“Guess I can’t.”

Truth is, he hasn't been able to. Not for the past week, if he’s being honest. Holiday season was always such a celebration…! They spent Christmas Eve at Zoe's, then Christmas Day at home. Henry would bring out the toolkit, — the old box of decorations from the attic. Zara would make hot chocolate for everyone, leaving a mess out of the kitchen, too.

Hanji makes a non-committal sound and sits down on the snow beside him. For a moment, being together, he doesn’t fully care about how cold it is. That the thick, icy layers melt down on his clothes, and leave wet splotches on the fabric.

They are lounging in their backyard, — staring out into the oddly quiet neighbourhoods. Houses are wrapped-up in golden fairy-lights, — porches filled with ribbons and smiley Santa statues. It all looks so cheerful, so calm. Levi, on the other hand… oh, he is raging on the inside. He wants to scream, and throw things, and pull the stone that lays at the pit of his stomach from out of him.

“What was that, again…?”

Hanji turns their head. They notice, he’s been glancing over at the sky, pointing up at a constellation that they’d told him about years ago.

“Orion’s belt.”, they whisper, — their tone weak, choked out. Their grandpa had taught them about it when they were little; both standing on their house’s front porch. “Some sailors used to say it played a central role in navigation. That it functioned almost like a compass…!”

Levi nods, — watches as his breath swirls up in frozen clouds. Next winter, they would be a thousand miles away from one another, indeed. Hanji was leaving off to Marley, — he was staying here. It seemed, it was always meant to happen like this, after all. He’s aware, he very much sounds like a pessimist, — but he is used to goodbye, anticipating. In the end, to him, there had never been constellations that led him back to people that he parted with. No hopeful God he could ever pray to.

Hanji speaks again.

“Orion was one of Poseidon’s many sons.”, they explain, as they bump him on the shoulder, — smile wider than the dark nights. “Some sailors even said that they could talk to him, too, — if the weather at sea was troubled and whatnot.”

A minute passes.

“And did it work?”

“Well…”, Hanji clears their throat. They liked it when Levi was curious enough to ask them questions. When he showed how closely he was willing to hear them, even if he constantly acted otherwise. “Maybe we could give it a try and see for ourselves...”

He raises a brow.

“I’m not talking to a stupid star, Four eye—”

“Your Highness”, they start, instead, though, holding in a laugh. “I know you’re listening, so please do something about my best friend....”, his jaw drops open at the words, — his cheeks boiling and boiling as they pretend not to notice. “He keeps grouching like an old man, — putting on that sour face of his, and it’s Christ— Oof!”

He pushes them.

“That's rude!”

“See?! He’s just the biggest—”, they block his hand from flying over at them, “most annoying,— “, he tries to wrestle, — to tackle them— though it's very much helpless, indeed, “sorehead that there is in this whole freaking island!”

A pause, and then, again: “You know, I’m sorry, but I think he needs to be stopped!”

Levi frowns, in that sly way of his that carves a dimple on his forehead.

“Oh, it’s so on now!”

He finally lounges himself up at them, and they both play combat in the snow, laughing like two maniacs. Hanji gathers a tiny snow-ball —“Hey, that’s cheating!” — and stuffs Levi’s mouth up with it, drowning down all of his protests with ease. He then takes them to the ground, spitting everything out and panting.

“So… you surrender, huh?”

They give him a high screech.

“Oh, never!”

In turn, Levi makes an effort to fight back, — he really does. But, as it turns out, he knows chasing down his best friend when they’re on a high like this, is pretty much like wanting to catch upon a rabid animal during mating season.

He ends up splayed up on his back, — hands and feet encased in snow. Hanji is straddling him to the floor, freezing him up— their legs to each side of his body.  

“Say it, short stuff.”

“Cut the crap, I won’t s—”

His mouth gets stuffed-up with snow. Again.

“Apologies, I didn’t hear that, your honor.”, they tease, smiling, smiling, smiling. Quickly, they realize, from all the way up here, they can see planets in the blue of his irises. How his skin, white as the dead-of-winter, has gotten the smallest bit of red around the tip of his nose.

The smile fades.

“What was that now?”

He stares up at them a moment before shaking his head up in silence, — the snow in his mouth already melting.

“Alright, alright, you win.” 

They don’t know how much time has passed when they finally decide to slide off of him, at last.

“That’s better”, they go, as they sit up on the ground again, — their glasses all askew and foggy. Levi follows suit, and pats the ice-patches off his coat and pants. He’s a mess.

“Next Christmas, Four Eyes, I swear…”

Hanji bites their tongue. A sudden pang has taken over their chest, their joints. There’s a truth that looms, — that hangs over them like phantoms. Next Christmas, indeed, they’d be in Marley, probably preparing off for their winter finals. Next Christmas, well… — there surely wouldn’t be one, wouldn’t it? They were seventeen already. They wouldn’t be this young, — this wild— for forevermore. It didn’t matter how much both of them wanted to freeze life at this very moment. 

It didn’t work that way.

“Do you think it was true…?”, they sob at this, almost inaudible. A tear falls down the corner of their eye, — slips, gliding, all the way up to their chin; salty, and warm, and shameful. “That thing they said about the sailors…?”

Levi hesitates, but it only lasts a second. Before he can even process what he’s doing, he brings his hand up to their face, — thumb cupping their cheek, brushing, stroking, mending. Hanji turns their head into his hand, and a small weep clutches at their throat as they wrap their arms around him. Pull him as close as they humanly can. 

“If Orion’s belt could bring them back home, then does that mean, if I beg, it’ll bring me back to you, too…?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, though, he leans in nearer, and nearer, and nearer. It appears to him now, grief could always find a way to come up and kick your ass. Leave you in shambles when you least expected it. That bastard. You felt it sink in, — unyielding, relentless, — and so, soon enough, you caught yourself hurting. Missing someone that wasn’t even gone yet.

“Let’s go back inside, ‘kay?”, he says, then, — almost like a plea. Hanji nods against the crook of his shoulder, but doesn’t quite dare release him, still. “Up, c'mon.”

He lifts them in his arms, — insists, and carries them around like it’s no big deal, whatsoever. Behind the wooden porch, the house gleams for them with the orange glow of the fireplace. Everything’s quiet, asleep, — their legs tenderly folded round his waist.

“No one knows what will happen”, he thinks, as he’s kicking up the back-door, — taking in the sweet smell of ginger-bread.“But I promise you, Hanji, we will find a way back to each other again.”

“We always just do.” 

---------------------------------------------

This fic is set in the "I've Told The Stars About You" universe! If you're interested, you can read the on-going fic here

A story written for #LeviHanWeek2025 Day 1: Childhood Friends

Summary: Levi and Hanji have been best friends their entire lives. That is, until Hanji moves out to go to college and study the career they've always dreamed of. Time passes, and ten years later, they meet again when Paradis High calls their graduates for a High School Reunion. What will happen when they see each other once more? In a series that intertwines their past and present, they face their truths. And, after one night together at the school's event, there's a choice they have to make. They either go their separate ways, or they risk it all and change their lives around to be with each other.

READ THE FULL STORY HERE!

Thank you @levihanfest for putting together this amazing event and making so many of us reconnect with our love for levihan!

For @seamsterspell

Hope you like your gift!

Thank you @levihanweek and @alemanriq for putting this event together!

If there's anything Levi Ackerman hates more than rain, is rain without him having an umbrella to cover himself up from it.

"Hey!", a voice calls him from the left. Hanji Zoe, — the one who sat next to him during science class and wouldn't shut up, — he figures. They wear neon yellow rainboots and a frog-stamped raincoat to match. Droplets have damped their short braids like a cascade that weights them down. Their big, round glasses all fogged up and crooked.

They look ridiculous.

Lucky for him, though, they do carry an umbrella out with them.

"Levi Ackerman, right?", they offer. A wide, wide smile brightens up their features. "Wanna walk up to the school entrance?"

To that, he can't really say no.

"'Kay."

"I'm Hanji, by the way.", they extend a hand out to him, the other holding the umbrella out for the both of them.

Levi looks at them, then at the hand. He notices, they hadn't washed it before or after they played with the class’s hamster, — and so, he decides, he better not take it.

"Yeah, I know.", he tells them, instead.

Hanji shrugs. Seems to them, Levi isn't the talkative type, much. Still, they think, then, they better be the one to fill in the silence.

"So, what's your middle name?", they ask. It's not a normal question to come up with, especially when it comes to someone you've known for an hour or so. Hanji Zoe, however, has never been one to be exactly normal, anyways.

Levi stares at them for a moment. All of a sudden, he realizes, how tiny and constricted the space under the umbrella is. How confined him and Hanji are to this one shared patch of heaven. Up from where he stands, he can see the freckles that dot over their nose, almost like they're stardust. Can sense their warm, batted breath under the cool storm.

"Sebastian.", he says, then, plain and simple. He's aware, telling a middle name to a stranger is not a normal thing to do. Still, he does so, either way— as easy as it is to breathe. He's never known of normal things, much, after all.

"Sebastian!", Hanji tries it out, almost like they're testing how the sounds taste in their mouth. They like the ring of it, — Levi Sebastian Ackerman. It's elegant, fancy, expensive. Like the letters could dance. They also happen to like that he’s been frank, sincere. That he didn’t run away from them at the question, like most other boys usually tend to do.

“Yeah”, he bites the inside of his cheek. They have been walking together, slow-paced and steady, — so glued to one another, their arms can almost brush. So close, dry under the umbrella, his sneakers meet their rain-boots. “That’s what I said.”

Hanji smiles again. Levi has no idea what’s so funny, but he’s too shy to ask. He’s too shy to ask many other things, as well. Like how it is that they’re so into frogs, or what’s their favourite ice-cream flavor. He can picture it being chocolate-chip-mint, for some reason. Their middle name being Amber, or Fionna, or Grace.

“Do you live nearby?”, they go, staring back at him. Their one tooth is kinked-up when they speak. The colors of the umbrella, — all shades of the rainbow— contour the sharpness in their features. They are pretty when lit up like this, — neon bright effervescent. Cute, even. For a single moment, Levi wonders, how must they like their tea. If maybe they’d sit down with him by the treehouse and play pretend.

“In Trost district.”, he says, at last, and Hanji’s eyes crinkle when they laugh.

“Oh!”, they spin, now walking backwards, facing him. Levi’s afraid they might trip, or break a leg, or fall. He’s never been one to be spontaneous like that. “Coincidence, much? I live there too!”

He nods, his lips twitching just the slightest of bits. He can now see Hanji up in better detail. Appreciate each corner and scrap that there’s to them. There are specs of golden that float and dapple in their irises. Their face framed by a lonely red pimple.

He wants to get to know them better, after all. Take them to his treehouse and make them tea. Mom would be happy at that, sure enough. Ever since they moved to town, he hasn’t made a single friend. Not even one. Everyone ran away from him, his crazy questions or harsh words.

“I can walk you home...”, they offer once again, as they signal up to the umbrella. “The rain’s quite daunting right now. You wouldn’t wanna catch a cold or any of that…”

To that, he can't really say no.

“’Kay”

Hanji hums. They have already reached the school’s entrance, and it seems, they’re the only two people left in there. A few bicycles pile-up by the bike-rack, dazzling wet from the downpour. The world sits quiet, as if it’s stirring in slow motion.

“Let’s go, then?”, they take a step forward. They’re all too joyful for such bleak weather. Levi notices, when they look back at him, that they’re smiling once more.

“Let’s go.”, he says. The air smells of jasmines, — the first few sings of spring after the taxing winter. He finds, that he likes it being here, — both him and Hanji sheltered from the winds. They have nothing in common but the colored-parch of fabric that lays upon their heads. An umbrella, shared, that has brought them together, — and that could be the start of something. A flower blooming, a leap of faith.

“What street is it?”, they ask him; their pupils big beneath the storm.

He smiles, too, for the first time in what seems like forever.

“I live downtown, there in Maria Ave.”

Cait’s asleep right next to her, her breaths slow and steady, — almost peaceful. They are covered in nothing but bedsheets, coated in sweat. The hour before, they had tasted each other fully. Gotten to know the sweet, sweet ecstasy that’s to love, and be loved in turn. Vi can’t help but remember the first time she’s been here, right in this house. The rain was pouring, the world was crumbling. Oil and water, she’d said. Her and Cait couldn’t be more different, — two halves of a whole that would never fit together.

“Forget me, cupcake.”, she’d told her, back then. The pit-pat of the downpour the only sound that was between them.

Cait had extended her hand to reach her, but she was far gone, walking away already. At the time, that’s all she had wanted to do. It is crazy to think that, now, maybe, for once, she thinks she’ll stay. That, after a lifetime worth of running away, with Cait there, tucked inside her arms, the day has finally come for her to settle.

She strokes her cheek. Her hair’s blue, and it falls like the ocean waves. It’s wild and it’s free, — as seafoam outlining the shores. Cait, oh Cait. The fearless Commander, Piltover’s fiercest. She’s clean-cut and tidy. Strict and obedient. It sure is new to her, to see her like this now, — raw, and untamable, all too beautifully naked.

She had caressed her this same way, Vi remembers, — back when they were here, right in this very bed. She had talked about Powder, and how they’d play to chase their own monsters away, on those scary nights where neither one could sleep. Her hands had been careful, she recalls. Soft, and warm, and delicate, — as if she was made of glass, and she was afraid of breaking her up.

She puts a strand of blue behind her ear, now. Her palms are opposite to Cait’s, she notices, as she traces patterns on her face. Hers are harsh, and full of battle-scar, — her knuckles sprinkled up with callouses. But something wonderful could bloom from underneath, — she’s aware. It was in the way she’d undressed her bare, with a lifetime worth of yearn. How she’d marked her flesh, with a loyalty that unwavers, as bright as the day they met, still.

She smiles. At times, it appeared to her all her hands had known was fight. It was nice to see that it wasn’t all that true, at last. That they were capable of making marvelous things, too.

“Hi.”, Cait looks up at her, her eyes barely open. The sunset’s orange makes her irises twinkle. Paints sparks of gold within a cerulean canvas.

Vi snuggles up closer, takes in every scrap and figment of her. She’s gorgeous like this, basked underneath the afternoon colors. It seems to her, that she’s never been more like herself than here; — her breasts poking from beneath the covers, the freckles on her shoulders all the more visible.

She smiles again, — wider this time—, and thinks of that one night she’d been here. Back then, she’d been scared. As if the monsters her and Powder would dare chase away, were there inside her head, instead. Now, her wrappings lay on the floor, her arms and chest unraveled only for Cait to see. She’s stripped, unshielded both body and soul, — but she’s not scared anymore. She’s found, with Cait there, staring back at her, that there’s a ray of light that’s hushed away the monsters. That there’s no need to hide no more.

The hour before, she had taken the band aids with such care! Got rid of them, slow and tender, as if uncovering an open wound. It had made her feel safe, — how she’d touched her, then. So sheer, so delicate, as if her fingertips burnt. Every brush of her palms against her put her heart at ease. As if she was filling in the cracks that broke her, — fixed her inside out, outside in.

“Hi, there.”, she says, — and Cait leans in, lips to lips, nose to nose. She’s warm against her, almost like boiling water. Vi takes notice; she’s worn-out oil, in turn. The dry kind that sticks to plates and vases serving street food down in Zaun. But they mix well together, somehow, after all. Two halves of a whole that have found their way to make it work, if only.

It was Connie the one who had shrunk half of the Ambassadors' suit-uniforms, anyways. Why couldn’t he be here, then, instead of him? All he wanted was to spend his day off lazing in bed. Maybe, even revisit his long-forgotten sketch-book for a new draw.

But not this.

"I was covering up for your hangover ass!", Connie had said, in his own defense. And it was true. Back in headquarters, they had equally divided the list of chores between all of them. Armin cooked on Mondays, Reiner made the beds on Tuesdays and he did the laundry on Wednesdays.

Still, it wasn't his fault that Pieck's pair of trousers looked like those of a toddler's. At least, not directly.

"Jean.", she calls him out of his train of thought. There's a suit pastel yellow dangling from the hanger between her hands. It's bundled up with a white shirt and a matching pair of pants, all too colorful to use at any diplomatic meeting. "What do you think of this?"

He furrows a brow. She can't possibly be serious, — and yet, the look on her face tells him that she totally is.

"Well...", he starts. If there's anything he's learnt during his time living with the Ambassadors, is that Pieck is never afraid of having fun with her fashion. Sometimes, he recalls, she'll wear pineapple-stamped blouses around the kitchen. Others, it'll be the neon-pink socks peaking from under her long, pleated skirts.

"I guess that'd be a great choice if we wanted to look like a duck's thrown up on us..."

She rolls her eyes at him.

"You're a boring-ass man, Kirstein."

He shrugs, and stares at her for a moment; — the triumphant smile that brightens up her features. The spider-web earrings that show through thick, black hair. It amazes him, really, how irremediably different they are. He’s all slick-shirts, shiny shoes. She’s the type to throw some sneakers underneath her dresses.

"I've been told worse.", he says. And that is true, as well.

Pieck chuckles, then puts the suit back to where she’s found it. She looks ridiculously tiny, floating around the shop in her green, wide-legged trousers. Jean knows, right as he watches her again, she’s an enigma, sure enough. A five-foot-two paradox he can’t quite figure out just yet.

He shakes his head. The boutique Armin's sent them to seems awfully empty for a week-day afternoon. There are roads of folded clothing to cover up the walls, gowns neatly placed by size and color. Normally, they'd have a tailor do this for them. But with the new peace treaties incoming, they had no other choice than to run in emergency.

He takes a grey suit from the hanger, feels the softness of it between his fingers. He remembers the first time they'd been in Marley, back when hope was intact and the world was new. It all appears to be a distant blur now; a gleaming daydream lost within the alleyways.

He’d actually worn something similar to it at the time, he figures. They’d been shopping with Levi and Hanji the week before departing, and it’d been quite the adventure. They'd acted like an old pair of lovebirds, he tells himself now, looking back on it. They'd pick up outfits for Armin and Eren, — call out Sasha for spending her loan in food instead of clothing.

“What about this one?”, he shows Pieck, then.

She makes a face, but ends up giving him a small push, up towards the dressing rooms, after.

“Off you go!”, she says, as she takes a suit that matches his, and disappears behind the curtains herself.

Jean can’t help but roll his eyes. If there’s any other thing he’s learnt about living with the Ambassadors, is that Pieck’s weird, — hard to read as letters carved on stone. It’s not only because of how she dresses, but also due to everything else. Truth is, she’ll make odd noises when she laughs at Reiner. Put cheese between two walnut cookies and call it a day.

“Well, didn’t I tell you we’d look killer with thi—?”

He stops himself.

Outside her dressing room, she stares back at him, — makes a little pose in front of the full-body mirror that they share. She wears a white, simple blouse, tucked inside a long, grey skirt, that she’s paired with a plain linen blazer. She’s utterly gorgeous, achingly delicate and elegant, there— standing under the stage lights.

It takes a minute or two for Jean to regain his composure.

"Meh,", she shrugs, but it’s just to poke fun at him, at last. "I'd say it's alright for someone with such a boring taste."

He bites his tongue. If a single glance could kill, then, he swears, Pieck Finger would be dead and buried. She turned out to be quite the expert at getting on his nerves, after all.

"So, how you’d make it better, huh?"

She says nothing. At least, not at first. Instead, she spins through the store and goes to the tie-section, — grabs one that's navy blue.

"Hm", she holds it up next to Jean's face. The bright spotlights cast a golden sheen in her hair. Make it seem as though her eyes are fresh dew on an early morning. "Guess this one could go."

Jean raises a brow at her, but doesn't really reply, whatsoever. She's gotten close to him now, — so much so, he can count the specs of violet that dapple in her irises. Name the tiny freckles that dot over her cheeks, and that he'd never even noticed were there before.

"You really think so?”

Pieck nods, then gets up on her tip-toes.

"Yeah", she wraps the tie around his neck, first. It's a funny image, Jean thinks, as she tries to make up a knot — her stretching up, while he has to crouch down for her to reach him. To be fair, he has to be thankful that they're the only two people in the store at the moment. "I genuinely do."

He goes back to looking at her. He can feel the warmth that oozes from her body. Sense the trickle of her fingers against his neck, his shoulders. She’s beautiful like this, — cute, even. Her hair’s a mess, her eyes are drooped and tired. But she smiles at him like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Touches him as if he was made of the thinnest of glass, way too fragile for her clumsiness.

It is nothing like the first time that they saw each other, he notices. Not only because she was in her Titan form, but because he’d thought, then, that her hands could only be made for killing.

“Hold still, idiot.”, she laughs at him, and Jean straightens himself up. He sees it as fascinating— that her knuckles are all caked-up in battle-scar. Her palms are rough, baked in pink linings that turn gold under the sunset. But something soft can bloom from under them, —something tender. It’s in the way she holds him, with such care, — like he’s precious. How she tickles him in the tiny spot behind his ear, plays with him like they’re kids.

“Pieck…”, he sighs. His hand brushes a black lock off her face, — does it in a way that’s slow and delicate, as if time had stopped, right there and then. Matter-of-fact, he doesn’t even know why he’s done it, or when, — just that he felt like it. That his body acted on its own, without ever warning him of what it’d do.

She smiles at him.

“We should…”, she stutters. The bridge of her nose is flushed of a light shade of rose. Her cheeks scorching, twinkling beneath the afternoon-hours. “We should get goin’…”

Jean nods, but doesn’t pull away, at last. Pieck’s hands are on his neck, locked in around the tie, still, — his are on her hair. It’d been too long since he’d last felt like this, — as if his heart could jump, do flips inside his chest. If anything, he finds that, maybe, her palms build things back to life, as well. That they’re not only meant for destruction, but are capable of love. Of holding him like he’s broken, and they’re there to put him back together, after all.

He carries them there, as if it's no big deal, from the bathroom to the bedroom, bridal-style and all. Hanji has their arms around his neck, even after he's put them down on the mattress, — doesn't really want to let him go.

"Stay.", they plea, barely above a whisper, pulling him in closer.

Levi stares at them for a minute, then nods slightly. They are wrapped up in a towel, — him wearing nothing but a pair of loose, sleeping-pants. Their hair is wet, and falls over like a curtain that covers up their eyes. Their skin still warm from the water.

Truth is, he can never say no to them.

"Alright.", his lips twitch in just the tiniest of smiles, — the bridge of his nose tinged of a sheen, rosy pinch. He could very much use some rest, as well. It'd been a long day, after all.

Hanji smiles back at him. They're tucked near each other now, — so much so, they can see the smallest specs of blue that spot over his irises. Breathe each scrap of him, — chamomile and autumn leaves.

"You're so good, Levi.", they tell him, — lips brushing his ear, fingers on his undercut. "So, so good to me."

He cups their face. His palms burn at the spots where he meets them, but he doesn't pull away. Matter of fact, there's a part of him that doesn't wanna believe them, really. That patiently waits for them to push him off. He never saw himself as good, — not in the way that they have. Quite the opposite, actually. He's closed off, and awkward, and, he's sure, they'll one day get tired of him— his emotional constipation. But they're wild, and reckless as the winds, and smart— so smart! He could never compare.

He doesn't deserve them at all.

"You're tired.", he dismisses them, and Hanji kisses him— one small peck on the cheek.

"I am.", another one, placed right on the corner of his mouth. "But still—", and then one more.

Levi hums. He feels as though his soul was made of sugar— a sweet. sweet substance that melts under the sun. He figures, no one'd ever treated him this soft, — this warm, and nice and careful. Like he could break and disarm, unshielded of all shining armor.

Not a single soul had talked about him as if he was precious, delicate, something that was ever worth to keep.

Back when he was younger, he recalls, he'd had this idea that he was hard to love. It had been after he’d lost his mother, — right when Kenny had left. He thought, if he had become all the strong he was told to, and was alone, still, then being strong was not good enough. But then— then there came Hanji. Goddamned Four-Eyes, crazy Hanji Zoe. They'd stormed into his life like it was no one's business, loved him as easy as it was to breathe.

He doesn't deserve them. Doesn't deserve them at all.

"Hey", he tells them.

And then they kiss him. This time on the lips.

At first, it’s chaste. A shy, wonderful touch of the mouths. But then, right before they realize, it turns to more. It grows, and it climbs, and it burns, — until it’s their tongues dancing, getting used to one another’s rhythms. It’s chests heavying, and numb fingers, and hands on wet hair.

Levi can’t get enough of it.

“Hanji…”, he pants against their lips. They are naked beneath him, there; underneath the towel, — and it makes him feel hot, impatient. Like his entire body’s been set on fire and it stings from inside out.

It isn’t something that he’s proud of, most definitely.

“Levi…”, they pull apart, right when he was leaning in closer. Their breath is ragged, their bangs messy, cast to the sides of their face.

He kisses them again. Harder, deeper. Their hands roam through the fresh trims of his undercut, — his rest upon their cheek. He had no clue that a kiss could awaken all of this in him, — this achingly unyielding desire. All of a sudden, it’s as if every emotion he’d repressed over the years, had come rushing to the surface, leaving him a wreck. As if a cannonball had hit him on the chest, and all the love he’d been guarding had overflown, — no chance of him making it stop.

“Levi.”, Hanji moans his name once more. If he wanted to, he could take this whole thing further, really. Spread their legs open and sink himself right into them. Still, he decides, for now, he better not do it. They’re weak, and exhausted, and it just wouldn’t be right of him.

“Yeah.”, he agrees, at last. “Gotta quit it.”

Hanji nods, and pulls over the covers for him to get in bed with them. It’s not that they don’t want this, not at all. They just know Levi’s heart too well to be sure that, to him, this isn’t how he’d have wished for things to go.

“There will be a better time.”, they say, their head on the crook of his neck.

Levi makes no sound, at first. As soldiers, they live in a vacuum of “what ifs”. Their future’s uncertain, — they can’t take anything for granted, ever. He can’t guarantee that the world won’t crumble in and on itself, as Hanji fears it’ll happen. That the sun won’t swallow the only Earth they’d ever known, and crisp them all into oblivion.

He tells himself, then, that outside, — in the Capital, overseas, — humanity’s raging. Building bridges based on anger. Meanwhile, for now, they do have this, — this little moment of peace. A tiny scrap of heaven they've found, here, where it's just Levi, just Hanji— no strings to tie them down.

“Guess so”, he shrugs, and Hanji plants a trail of kisses; from his shoulder to his temple, — from his temple down. Truth is, they can’t be sure, either, — whether they’ll get another chance like this or not. The kids are making dinner, their room is full of sun, and everything else seems quiet. Life stands still.

“It’s okay.”, they say, more so to reassure themselves than him. If they weren’t Commander, if he wasn’t their Captain, they would have let him— pin them down, do whatever he pleased to their body. Oh, yes, they would have. But for now, this is all that they have. The long caresses, their legs entangled under the wrinkled bedsheets.

And, for now, as well, this is enough.

Yeah, it’s enough.

Nunca había soñado con Hanji. Onyankopon solía decir que, las personas que se hacen bruma, en el inconsciente se vuelven carne. Y que allí, rebrotando de entre las grietas como margaritas, nos reencontramos. Que vienen a dejarnos un mensaje.

Le parecía injusto, entonces, que Hanji aún no se le hubiera aparecido, ni siquiera para saludarlo de lejos. Que sólo hubiese podido recordarla en pesadillas.

A veces la veía, cubierta en llamaradas rojas, cayendo y cayendo en un infinito del que no podía salvarla. El cielo azul se teñía de gris, empapado por el rastro de humo que dejaba su cuerpo, y él estiraba la mano, inútilmente, por las ventanillas del avión, como si eso sólo hubiera alcanzado.

Había otras noches, las más terribles, en las que las muertes se suscitaban: una tras otra, otra tras una. Las escenas se repetían, — como si de un ciclo eterno se tratase. Como si cada átomo de imagen hubiese quedado grabado tras las retinas, y al caer dormido alguien palpara esos rincones del alma que todavía ardían. Podía escuchar los desgarros de dolor en los tímpanos, los pedidos de auxilio estrujándole el corazón. Él también gritaba, lloraba, hacía fuerzas para respirar, pero los sonidos se le atascaban en las cuerdas vocales. Sólo salían en sollozos recortados cuando despertaba en su habitación.

–Ey. – Onyankopon lo sacude ahora, cuidadoso de no sobresaltarlo. Solía dormir en el cuarto de al lado, por si los alaridos y el sufrimiento se volvían demasiado, y hacía falta atenderlos o calmarlos.

Levi se restriega los ojos, y reconoce la humedad en sus mejillas de inmediato. Las lágrimas se desdibujan hasta las comisuras de sus labios, allí donde se pierden, como el cauce del río que desemboca en el mar.

–Mierda. – escupe entre dientes, y se estira para tomar del vaso de agua en su mesa de luz. – Es ese sueño de nuevo.

Onyankopon asiente. Ya lo sabe. En los tres años que lleva viviendo con Levi, ha llegado a conocerlo como quien conoce a su hermano. Está seguro de que el té le gusta a secas; sin azúcar, sin miel, a lo sumo con limón. Está al tanto, también, de cómo limpiar para no llevarse un coscorrón.

–Es Hanji, ¿no? – pregunta, aunque ya se ve venir la respuesta, y Levi no se lo dice. Esta vez, la tomaba de las mangas para tratar de detenerla. Y entonces, justo cuando creía que iba a hacerlo, que por fin iba a cambiar ese desenlace fatídico, atravesaba la tela de su camisa como si fuera aire.

–Llegué muy tarde. – susurra, casi inaudible. Tiene los músculos tiesos, entumecidos de la angustia. La mirada inconexa, perdida en algún punto del empapelado en la pared. Afuera, cerca de la playa, una tormenta repiquetea en las ventanas, salpica los vidrios con motas gordas.

–Tranquilo. – le asegura Onyankopon, sonriéndole desde la silla de junto al colchón. Registra, porque siempre ha sido un hombre de percepción, que las pesadillas florecen más en los días de lluvia; casi con la misma fuerza con la que suelen alzarse los tallos de entre la tierra. Se convence, porque otra opción no le queda, que los truenos deben de recordarle a Levi, tanto como le recuerdan a él, a los estruendos horrorosos de ese día. Tiene sentido, al fin y al cabo, se explica. Cada estallido es la pisada de otro titán que se acerca. Cada crujir, es el último suspiro de un alma nueva. – Vayamos a la cocina.

Levi lo contempla un segundo, sin ánimos de hablar o moverse. Todavía puede sentir a Hanji; diluyéndose a cuentagotas de entre sus dedos. Piensa que, si estuviera aquí, ella sabría qué hacer para apaciguar sus miedos. Adormecería los gritos con caricias suaves; le besaría el pelo, la frente, el espacio entre las cejas, y lo arrullaría con dulzura. Lo arroparía, firme entre sus brazos, y recitaría palabras de cuna para hacerlo soñar bonito.

–Está bien. – suspira, entonces, y, como puede, se incorpora sobre la cama. Lo cierto es que le duelen los huesos, aún lastimados por los años. Que le duele el pecho. Que le duelen ausencias. Que le duele todo. – Ya sabes dónde está el té.

Los viernes, Jean viene a casa a visitarlo. A veces, Armin es quien lo acompaña; otras son Connie, o Pieck, o Reiner.

Onyankopon prepara una merienda abundante para dos; bizcochos de avena y limón con un té apenas dulce. También se ocupa de dejar bien cortado el césped del patio; justo allí donde ambos se sientan a pintar por un rato.

Hace ya dos años que Jean enseña a Levi lo que sea que sabe de arte. Al principio, había sido Moblit, hacía ya mucho tiempo atrás. Luego él, después de la guerra y por pedido suyo, había decidido seguir y tomar el mando.

Era naturalmente bueno para pintar, Levi, decía Jean. Había comenzado con bosquejos desprolijos en un cuaderno, cuando las reuniones de Erwin lo aburrían más de la cuenta. En cambio, ahora, las líneas finas y garabatos acababan por transformarse en retratos reconocibles y concretos que decoraban la casa. Mike, Isabel, Farlan, Kuchel, Petra; todos tenían algún lugar. Todos sonreían detrás de los marcos.

–Algún día tengo que enseñarle a pintar con acuarelas. – insiste Jean, mordiendo el dorso del pincel, casi pensativo, antes de volver a remojarlo.

Levi chasquea la lengua, y lo mira durante una fracción de segundo. Lleva meses insistiendo con que no lo traten con honoríficos, o de “usted”, por lo menos, pero, realmente, no va a ensañárselas con eso ahora. En su lienzo, la figura de Hanji vuelve a aparecerse de entre las sombras, y, cree, entonces, que eso requiere de toda su atención. Incluso más que como puedan llamarlo o no los niños.

–De acuerdo. – acepta, al fin y al cabo, como quien no quiere la cosa, y su pincel se detiene un momento. Lo cierto es que la ha pintado ya demasiadas veces— más de las que uno es capaz de contar. Y es que tal vez Hanji no se le presente en sueños, pero puede verla en cada parpadeo, grabarla en cada exhalación y latido. Está igual de bella que cuando la perdió; allí, enmascarada en témperas. Tiene el cabello desprolijo, arremolinado en el viento. Su boca está torcida en una sonrisa a medias que apenas le achina los ojos.

Si quisiera, piensa, podría pintarla, también, incluso hasta con la vista ciega. Siendo sincero, la ha inmortalizado ya en su memoria demasiadas noches, cuando aún podía dormir a su lado. Sus manos, las yemas de sus dedos, han recorrido cada uno de sus recovecos; suave, cuidadosamente. Han atrapado bajo sus palmas el lunar junto a sus labios, — la expresión en sus pupilas—, cada minucioso retazo de ella.

–Dicen que pintar con acuarelas, es aprender el arte de dejar ir. – cuenta Jean, después de un rato en silencio. Afuera, en el claro en el jardín, la brisa cálida remueve las hojas de los árboles en un arrullo suave. Permite que el sol atraviese las copas verdes y frondosas, y los envuelva en un manto de ocres y dorados. – Creo que podría hacerle mucho bien, ¿sabe, Capitán?

Levi inspira hondo un segundo. No está muy seguro de quién pudo haber dicho eso, o con qué motivo habría sido, pero no va a ponerse a discutirlo ahora. Cuando comenzó a pintar, acababa de subir a la superficie, luego de años de ser preso de los subsuelos. Flores, las tazas bellas que veía en el mercado, había descubierto que, dibujando, comprendía mucho mejor el mundo que lo rodeaba. Que podía volver inmortal todo aquello que hiciera que su corazón saltara de alegría.

Los retratos llegaron después, con el correr de los meses, o de los años. Por alguna razón, Hanji era quien más se le desparramaba de entre las manos y volcaba en el papel. Había algo espontáneo en ella, — algo fugaz y efímero— que lo hacía querer pintarla, casi de manera inevitable. Tal vez, piensa ahora, era su risa. Alocada, terca, suelta y rebelde. Tal vez, también, era su esencia, — algo salvaje y arrollador, imposible de capturar por mucho tiempo.

Se echa hacia atrás, y, con nostalgia, contempla su trabajo casi terminado en el lienzo. Ahora que la ve, un sentimiento parecido a la angustia le hace agujeros en el pecho, — se le instala en el medio del corazón. Quisiera, por un momento nada más, que pintarla no le trajera este sufrimiento agigantado. Que tenerla de vuelta, aunque sólo fuera en recuerdos, lo hiciera sonreír, y no lo llenara de culpas pesadas, o de miedos infundados.

–Está bien. – contesta, entonces, y Jean lo mira esperanzado. Tiene que admitir que siente a Hanji en la frescura de las olas; entusiastas, e indomables. Que la ve en los cielos morados, o que puede acariciarla en el vaivén de los vientos. Lo que no puede, porque el alma aún le arde, es mencionarla delante de Gabi o de Falco. Soñarla sin despertar empapado de sudor.

“Pintar con acuarelas, es aprender el arte de dejar ir.”, las palabras de Jean resuenan en su cabeza, y se vuelve a verlo, alejándose del cuadro. Quiere que pensar en Hanji no lo ahogue en un dolor venenoso, que lo corroa por dentro. Que las pesadillas punzantes sean fantasías de algodón, livianas, en las que se reencuentran y pueden abrazarse de nuevo.

She smiles; a small, fainted pull at her lips. Turns out, though, she’s not as surprised as she’d thought she’d be. After all, it’s no news to her; Zuko had always been a little awkward like this.

“Well…” she shrugs. It’s nice enough of a day to be here, out in nature. Sun bristles over the forest leaves, paints the grass with patches of golden and a yellowish-green. “Unless, you wanna come join me…?”

He hums it out. He’s not wearing his usual Fire-Lord attire, but a laid-back linen tunic that crosses his chest. Katara and him had decided on reuniting for summer, since they two had a few days off from both their political duties.

“Sure.”, he tells her, and he sits down by the shore, as well. She’s pretty when basked down in this soft light, he figures. The blue in her eyes dapples with specs of early sunset. The tiny freckles that dot over her cheeks pop up all the more. He doesn’t quite understand why she'd insisted on visiting this particular Fire-Nation village yet, but he isn’t about to complain on it just now. She must have been bored of freezing her ass out in the Southern Water Tribe, he assumes.

"So...", she's back to looking at herself. There's a paint-pot near the seams of her dress, and she dabs on it to take a dip. "How about we go grab a bite after this? I'm craving some noodle-soup!"

Zuko nods. Truth is, he's grateful for Katara; her unwavering company. He knows for a fact; she hates the spicy dishes that the Fire Nation has to offer. Yet here she is; all giggles and up and ready to take another chance on them, regardless. 

"I guess we'll manage.", he says, causing her smiles to only but grow. She's already traced the first streak upon her cheek; the birds chirping as she goes along. "'Tara", he calls her out, then, right when she's about to place a second one, there on the dimple on her chin. "You're doing it wrong, y'know."

That makes her frown big time. She's aware, the Painted Lady is a Fire Nation spirit, but still—

"Asshole!"

Zuko laughs; they both do. After all, he's sure Katara doesn't really mean it. She could be hot-headed, on occasion; fiery as the flames that once sprung up from his very hands, indeed. But she wasn't ill-intended, at last. He could see it in her eyes, dazzling everlasting teal. Could sense it in how her fingers touched her skin; careful, patient. Like there's no rush, and seconds and hours can lay suspended in the tender breeze.

"So now I'm the bad guy for telling the truth?!"

Katara pulls a face at him. His palms are in the air, as if to prove that he's always been this innocent, and she can't quite take him seriously.

"Come do it yourself, then.", she challenges; one eyebrow raised. It has always been like this with Zuko, she thinks; the push and pull, the constant bickering. He's odd and gets flustered easy, — and she'd studied him long enough to remember all the different ways she could push his buttons. “If you believe to be so wise, hm..."

He stays quiet, then scoots down close to her. The shadows from the treetops slice her features in a miscellaneous of greens and warm tones. Sun’s cast upon her hair, delicate and thin as a golden veil.

"O-Okay..."

Katara hands him over the paint-pot, and sits down as if to face him fully. There’s a certain glimmer on her expression as she does so, Zuko notices. Like the skin on her nose has turned the slightest pinch of rose.

“Okay.”, he repeats, more so to steady himself, and so he takes a drop of paint and draws a straight line on her forehead. Katara stays still, let’s him do whatever. She realizes, right as he touches her, how rough his palms have gotten. As if his years of struggle had somehow imprinted on every stripe and trace upon them.

She swallows hard. Zuko has a hand lifting her chin up, the other sliding down her face. She’s seen him become a man, little by little. Has been present when he had to make hard decisions, there at political meetings, — then drunk tea with him at Iroh’s, cracking up until their stomachs would hurt. It’s why it almost makes her shiver, the way he caresses her; so grown. Like it’s evident now, time has flown by, and they’re not those small kids who’re afraid of the world anymore.

“Close your eyes.”, he asks, almost in a drowned-out whisper, — then he takes more paint over from the pot. Katara might be a water bender, he knows this; but she’s as searing as stardust on a summer evening. Fierce as the washed-over sand on Ember Island. Her features are delicate, yet strong. Her skin’s earnest, and it’s speckled by cozy, tiny spots, — like a comet that flecks upon the broadest of night skies.

“Are you sure you’re not drawing me a beard or something?”, she says, just to poke fun at him. Zuko’s moving over to her brows now, covering each patch of lid with crimson red. He’s soft when sketching her up like this; it even shocks her a bit. When she imagined how his fingers on her cheeks would feel, she never thought they would be so caring. As if they were holding something precious, — something stitched with utmost fragility.

He laughs once more; a lovely, timid chuckle this time only.

“Pff, you’ll see…”, his index glides up over to her temples. Suddenly, he realizes that he’s never been so aware of how thick her lashes are, indeed. How long, and dark and curled-up they look from up closely. “I’m drawing you with a pair of glasses.”

Katara sticks out her tongue to him.

“You’re an idiot.”, she goes again. Zuko stays quiet, but smiles at her, regardless. Her skin’s gotten hot now, red and shiny as the paint that’s on his hands. And to him, that’s good enough for the time being, at least.

He bites his lip. Actually, though, the first time she’d told him about her being the Painted Lady, it had been a late night at the Palace. Katara was staying over for a couple weeks, since the Southern Water Tribe was peaceful, and so he had gone to her chambers like it was natural instinct for him to do. It was a warm, wet spring, he recalls, — the air was humid and smelt of rainfall and jasmines. For once, Katara was thrilled to change her furr coat for a silk pant and tops, just as much as he was thrilled to have her over.

“It’s a bit ironic, if you ask me.”, she’d said; her voice filled with something that sounded much quite like happiness. They were strolling their usual way through the gardens, like they would do when neither one could sleep. “We both dressed up as spirits from each other’s nations, right?”

Zuko had nodded. He wanted to believe that it was mere coincidence, or that maybe it was fate. A force stronger than the tides threading them together. As if they were always just meant to be pushed towards the other like that— with the helplessness of the ocean waves.

“Awe, so you knew I was the Blue Spirit all along?!”, he’d whined, making Katara laugh a little bit. He was aware, Aang had been sure of it, back then. He just didn’t think he’d ever tell the rest of the group, as well.

“Of course I did!”

He draws another line now, and then one more. Katara’s face is soft, he notices, round as the crescent moon— and it’s a thought that catches him off guard, all of a sudden, right as he goes along. His hands would fit every crevice, every bump and protuberance. Like they were made just for him to touch.

“´Tara…”, he calls her, at last, in a hush that’s barely audible. A brown lock has fallen over her forehead, and so he tucks it behind her ear. Strokes her cheek with the greatest care, almost as if she was made of glass. “You can open your eyes now.”

“So… you’re done?”, she stutters, blinking back into the midday-light. She can still feel his fingers on her skin, feather-light as a butterfly’s wings. Would recognize the gentleness of him were she blind, or deaf, or both. “We should get going, I guess.”

Zuko takes one last dip from the pot, then places his thumb upon her chin. He’d seen Katara grow into a woman, little by little, or all too fast, perhaps. Has thrown snowballs at her while on the South Pole, — chased her down the steep slopes; both screeching like two maniacs.

“Y-yeah, right, we should.”, he whispers, but Katara doesn’t really move. His fingers are now in the outlines of her lower lip, and— for the life of her—, she can’t think straight. Zuko is too close to her, almost a few hair breadths away. It’s up from this very distance, that she can see all of him; every detail, each pore, and scrap, and freckle for the first time. That she can appreciate the memories that were burnt upon his skin, the beautiful drops of amber that stipple up his eyes.

She holds her breath, just as he realizes he’s doing the same. That his hands are no longer steady, but have gotten shaky and damp with sweat, instead. If she wanted to, she could lean in and kiss him, sure enough, she figures. Could let him ruin the paint he’s just neatly put along her mouth and check how that would feel. Still, she knows this; it just wouldn’t be right.

“Zuko…”, she smiles. His name’s sweet upon her tongue. It’s smokey, and fierce and tastes like summer.

He smiles back at her, as his hand cups her cheek and lingers there for a while. Katara notices, almost right away, that this is different than when she was with Aang. With him, she’d never had her stomach full of butterflies— no, badgermoles— that would stomp and dig, dig, dig. Zuko, however, brings this other side of her. Like she’s raw, and wild, and untamable; fearless as seafoam going with the flow.

So... I've been thinking about this for a while and I've FINALLY decided to make a twitch channel!

I'll be streaming every thursday at 12:00 pm (Argentina's time).