#udrunk

Erwin has a scar up his arm that’s puckered and still red – there was a shortage of medical equipment. Hanji stitched it in his office, a splash of whiskey all the aid he was willing to take from the soldiers he’d sent to their mangled ruin.

Erwin has scars. Levi isn’t sure he would believe him a real man if there wasn’t brutalism etched into his flesh.

At the seam where Erwin’s hair grows long is a patch of pale flesh that refuses to grow hair. His style hides it. It might be vanity, if a man who looks in the mirror as few times as Erwin does can have vanity.

Scars stay. They mean something. but they deceive. Erwin is not a man of scars.

There’s a pinky that healed wrong – his left hand grip is just that much off for it – and Levi sucks the crooked finger into his mouth, tongue tasting the misalignment.

That isn’t either. Erwin isn’t broken bones or scars. he isn’t even bruises.

Erwin loosens the bolo tie, slipping the cold weight lower, from trachea to heart.