#postwar!levi

Gabi and Falco stare up at him with wide eyes from their spot on the floor, kneeling over a box which they’ve already proceeded to dig through (unprompted, of course).

Levi found them just like that, upon crossing the threshold. It’s nothing he isn’t used to; the two kids have been spending more and more time at the little house he has settled into. He might grumble about it, but he secretly finds that he doesn’t mind it all that much.

He isn’t familiar with the box, however. A delivery of some kind, he guesses, but its contents—what looks like memorabilia—don’t make much sense to him.

Until his eyes land on a fragment of the past that he’s suddenly compelled to pick up, that is.

Until the two brats sitting in front of him utter your name. And, as if that wasn’t enough to make him dizzy, they just have to start asking about you.

He supposes he can’t blame them. They must’ve heard of you in passing, here or there. Nothing but fond words, he’s sure.

He’s also aware of how he must look right now. They might be young, but Gabi and Falco aren’t clueless; the lovestruck look on his face only fuels their innocent desire to know more.

“Please, please, please!”

Levi wouldn’t often consider himself a talkative man. And yet, with his eyes stuck on the small object in the palm of his hand (the mediocre looking pendant you’d wear everywhere because he’d gifted it to you; a useless thing, really), the words seem to flow out of him as easily as a river in its own bank—perhaps because he wants the kids, the world, the galaxies and the whole goddamn universe to know how good you are.

…were, he catches himself. Truth is it’s been difficult to run from the thought of you, but he should have known it was going to find him on a beautiful day like today.

Finding a way to begin is the hardest part. There is so much to say, and not nearly enough words. The kids would have loved to spend even just a day with you—and you with them—and maybe he can give them the illusion that you really are here for a moment. Maybe he’ll end up believing it for half a second, too.

He wants to do that without fault, to allow them to know you as you were.

And though he never was one to wear his heart on his sleeve, he tries his best. For you. Despite his best efforts not to, he lets himself remember.

Because there are corners of his mind that are yours and yours alone; letting them collect dust simply won’t do.

So he tells them how you’d fall asleep anywhere. He never understood how someone could sleep that easily, but you did. Against trees or on a chair with your forehead pressed to a stack of reports you swore you’d finish before dinner. He got used to waking you up; a touch to the shoulder was all it took, and you always looked like you’d wandered back from somewhere far away. Then you’d smile—that small, shy smile he’d give anything to see one more time.

Levi has to let out a shaky breath. When did his voice stop being steady?

He’s not going to force you to wake up into a broken world anymore. You’re free to rest for as long as you like, now.

He tells them that you used to leave him notes. Stupid reminders and bad jokes, on his desk or tucked away in his coat pocket. Your handwriting was a mess, probably because you thought faster than your pen could follow. He used to complain, and, if you were feeling particularly annoying, you’d find a way to make him read it out loud just to watch him struggle.

There were days when you couldn't get out of bed. Still, you moved through the day. You probably thought no one noticed; he always did. He’d find you in the mess hall, food untouched, staring through the wall.

But most days you were bright, and maybe that’s why, with the sun so high up in the sky, today is the perfect day to remember you and the way you used to hum when you cleaned your gear. Hange would try and guess the tune, but they never got it right. Quite the pair, the two of you.

Your voice would go up half a note when you lied. You didn't lie often, but when you did, it would be something small: "I ate," when you hadn't. "I'm fine," when you weren’t. He let it slide more than he should have, just like he does now when the kids hide their giggles behind his back, thinking they’re so clever.

He remembers your hands, always warm and always busy and how they shook sometimes. He can feel them sneaking their way around his neck, only to find their rightful place on his chest as you place a tender kiss on his shoulder. Relax, you’d say. Just relax.

You bruised so easily. You’d always end up hurt one way or another during training, and he’d always take care of it (no one else could do it right). You’d tell him ridiculous stories about your scars while he worked, laughing at yourself. That’s how he remembers you: bleeding, and still trying to make the room feel lighter.

People changed around you.

He changed around you.

You made them believe things could be good again. You made him believe it, at times.

You used to keep lists of things people loved, of places you’d been and the ones you wanted to see. He wonders if he’ll find them in that box, among other pieces of you he thought were lost forever.

Maybe he could go sightseeing, one of these days. You’d like him to.

You said it helped you believe there was something waiting for you, after everything. When he asked you what that after looked like you told him to imagine coming home tired, cold and warming his bones beside the fire. You’d spoken those words like you truly wanted to be the one he came home to.

Levi could hardly believe it, but each day he spent near you it felt all the more possible.

He never believed in home either, and yet you were his, weren’t you?

…so where is he supposed to go now?

You had a way of noticing the parts of him he didn't think were worth seeing, and you never asked him for more than he could give. You’d look at him like time had taken pieces, but never all of him. Like there was still something worth holding on to. He still doesn’t understand how you did that.

He thinks he loved you before he even knew what it meant.

You probably knew, just like you knew the right time to bring him his tea, or that he’d often need to rest his head on your lap, just for a moment. You were insufferable like that.

He never told you; what a waste of a perfectly good chance to make you smile.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

(With the look she’s giving him, Gabi probably agrees.)

Most of all, he hates the silence you left behind. It is deafening, which is rather confusing; it seems to him that your presence has never been louder. You like to make yourself known whenever he least expects you to.

The space you filled is all but empty. The love you wore like a second skin is there in your stead: he can see it now, feel it—touch it, if he reaches for it.

It’s like you’re daring him to forget you.

As if he ever could.

You were just... you. The one who made him feel like there was nothing he should face on his own, who’d whisper sweet words onto his skin, words that had no business patching up his ugliest scars. The one who’d hold him oh so tight.

Perhaps tonight you will. Perhaps his nightmares will grow tired of tormenting him and, for once, you won’t become dust slipping through his fingers.

Instead, your hand will settle into his. Softly, surely, perfectly—like it should, like it always did.