Archive of Our Own

One thing about Levi – he can take an injury. More specifically, he can take pain. An unhealthy amount of it, in fact, without letting it show on his face, much less let it vitiate his duties.

It’s a skill cultivated over many years, forced by the necessity of the circumstances and fine-tuned by the innumerable quantity of wounds he’s accumulated through the years. There has simply never really been time to lick his own wounds, too many people depending on his leadership, on his unyielding tenacity and perceived indestructibility that he accidentally numbed down his own perception of pain until he forgot himself that he is not really all that invulnerable, despite popular belief and awed murmurs of humanity’s strongest following him everywhere he goes.

Through the years, he’s gotten stabbed, shot, nearly crushed to death; broken bones and a bruised body are nothing new, to him, pain more like an old companion than any meaningful impediment anymore. Whether old aches from another lifetime or fresh ones, it is all the same to him. Annoying, certainly, but that’s as far as it goes.

Consequently, Levi has learned to deal with all the little inconveniences that come after getting hurt, too.

An admittedly a little embarrassing limb when he broke his ankle that lasted for much longer than he cares to acknowledge? Annoying, certainly, but easy enough to walk off. The discomfiting full-body ache after he executed a breakneck manoeuvre that actually nearly broke his neck had he been just a little less skilled, body littered with bruises where his gear had bitten into his skin? Uncomfortable, but not unbearable. A splitting headache and an incessant feeling of nausea after he had gotten knocked over the head a little too hard? No big deal, he just swallowed back the bile, ignored Hanji’s blathering about concussions and got went back to delegating.

All that, whether just blows to his dignity or actual physical burdens, he can take, having ameliorated a certain serenity in handling all the little annoyances that usually accompany injuries like this.

What he cannot deal with, however –

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Eren apologizes, again, for the twelfth time in just under an hour – Levi would know, he’s been counting with an exponentially increasing level of irritation –, looking absolutely fucking miserable with what can only be extremely misplaced shame.

If the fucker had a tail, it would be tucked between his legs, Levi’s sure.

Not unlike a dog – dogged, stubborn, blindly loyal –, Eren has been vehemently refusing to leave his side since the incident, not even letting himself be threatened out of the medical tent with a harsh, barked-out order. Stubborn and stolid, as he tends to be, though significantly more morose than usual.

While it would usually be a pleasure to be subjected to Eren’s company, it is a lot less enjoyable through the haze of sharp pain surging through his arm with every miniscule movement and the impending headache from the constant fucking apologizing.

“Were you the one who broke it?” Levi snaps, voice lacking his usual trained monotone, courtesy of having his wrist bent at an angle it certainly should not be fucking bending.

Eren lets out a frustrated huff, eyebrows furrowed as if in deep contemplation how he could possibly make this situation his fault. “…no,” he concedes, not seeing very happy about that.

“Then stop fucking apologizing, Jaeger.”

“But–”

“It’s not your fault, Eren.”

The use of his first name, at least, manages to make Eren’s mouth click shut, though it does nothing to ease the insistent little frown on his face.

The brat is feeling guilty, Levi knows he does, even if he weren’t apologizing in five minute intervals – which he is, because Eren is always apologizing. For every little thing, too, and the big ones, especially, and everything in between, as well; ranging from the tremendous burden of his comrade’s deaths to inanities like letting Levi’s tea steep for too long. Always taking the blame for things that are not his fault, that boy, a horrible habit which Levi has not yet managed to beat out of him. Not for a lack of trying, of course; fuck knows how many times he’s had to say It’s not your fucking fault, verbally and sometimes even physically trying to beat out that masochistic tendency of taking on the weight of the world, but some things are too deep-rooted to be excavated and expunged, he’s come to realize.

Levi thought – hoped, more likely, had to resort to it when he realized that no amount of threatening, or actually inflicting, bodily harm would do anything – the brat would grow out of it. Clearly, hoping doesn’t do jackshit and five years later, the kid is all grown up and still apologizing for merely breathing in Levi’s direction.

The nearly neurotic penchant for taking the blame is as strange as it is unsurprising. Discordant with Eren’s usually unapologetic tenacity, but still utterly understandable, simultaneously, considering the whole humanity’s last hope bullshit and the resulting martyr complex that’s been shoved down his throat since he was a scrawny teenager. Though Eren has certainly – well, grown, definitely no longer a scrawny teenager, the perpetually self-deprecating slouch of his shoulders has stayed the same. Bowed in way he shouldn’t be, making himself smaller, lesser, as if trying not to take up too much space.

Knowing where it comes from does nothing to dissipate the fact that it’s fucking irritating, unfortunately. Especially when, once Eren’s got his jaw locked around the belief that something is his fault, it is damn near impossible to let him to let go again, even when it was, indisputably and irrevocably, not his fault.

Like – Levi’s broken wrist.

Decidedly his own fault – after all, he was the one deciding it would be a good idea to swoop down perfectly vertically towards the ground without thinking about how he’d avoid splattering his brain matter all over the forest ground with a momentum that would prove lethal for anyone less skilled. Unfortunately, not even a fragment of the blame can be put on his gear or other outside factors, which makes the whole ordeal just that much more embarrassing. All that finely-tuned finesse and trained rationale – poof, gone, defenestrating at the sight of Eren on the forest ground, struggling with his gear, a gigantic, skinless hand reaching for him –

Levi stopped thinking, simple as that. All calculations about angles and momentum usually whirring behind his eyelids ceased to matter, nothing besides fasterfasterfaster rattling around his skull, resulting in an inelegant but not fatal crash into a tree.

Maybe, perhaps, there is an argument to make that it could potentially be considered Eren’s fault, seeing as Levi only ever gets that careless when he’s concerned. But that is not something he could ever say out loud, lest Eren will commit honour suicide to atone for sins that aren’t even his own.

The brat already looks close to tears – or, rather and more likely, another guilt-induced emotional outburst that would result in a few broken knuckles and a lot of cracks in the cement and blood on the walls –, eyes dull and downcast with such obvious shame that it’s honestly almost a little funny.

Not that Eren’s misery is funny, just – the whole kicked puppy demeanour; ridiculous. A little endearing, too, maybe.

Laughing would be the last nail in the coffin for Eren’s already precariously teetering emotional state, which is a mistake Levi made exactly one time, and then never again.

He sighs instead, heavily, like he could somehow exhale the mounting irritation making his skin feel too tight. It doesn’t work, unsurprisingly, the tension in his shoulders buried too deeply to let itself be breathed away but it does settle his nerves enough that he doesn’t feel like snapping again.

He holds out his hand, unable to suppress a little wince when he catches a glimpse of the unnatural bend of it. “Set my wrist for me.”

The way Eren immediately perks up, always so eager to be of use, makes it hard to look at him, so Levi sensibly does not. Thankfully, there is no need for him to keep a close eye on Eren anymore in things such as these – never really was, honestly, the kid has always been exceptionally well-versed in first aid and wound treatment –, years of doing this routine allowing him to lean back and let Eren do his thing.

He has long given up on trying to keep Eren from fussing over him, a futile endeavour from the very beginning with all the fucking insubordination Eren commits whenever it pertains to Levi and the, unfortunately not exactly rare, instances where he gets hurt. He’s not sure when he started to allow Eren to dress his wounds, or why, exactly, when he used to adamantly refuse letting other people within a ten meter radius of his injuries. Too paranoid, too mistrusting, conditioned by years of solitude to even consider letting anyone tend to him in this way. Like most things when Eren’s concerned, it was a gradual process, slow enough to creep up on him until it slapped him across the face one day, at which point it was already too late to pull back again.

He doesn’t remember a starting point, exactly – each time he tries, thinks he’s got it, it slips his grasp and gets replaced by another moment, another injury, at an even earlier point in time, so he doesn’t really bother anymore –, but he does remember each wound Eren insisted on treating. How couldn’t he, when he carries physical reminders on his body, sees them every time he looks in the mirror. The scars are easily identifiable, neat lines where Eren patched him up with steady hands, so impossibly careful, not a single stitch out of place, creating a stark contrast to the ragged, ugly lines from when Levi had to do it himself.

In another life, a less violent one – a better one –, Eren would have made for an excellent physician. Truly a shame that that kind of skill is wasted on Levi.

It’s not like the help is not appreciated when it’s clear that he will not be able to do anything himself with his dominant hand out of order, either, so, for once, he doesn’t bother complaining. It wouldn’t matter much even if he did, knowing Eren’s single-mindedness and hard-headedness when it concerns his injuries. A good soldier but immensely insubordinate when it comes about the people he cares about, which, for some inexplicable reason, includes Levi. What he did for the boy to care so much, to the point of defying orders just to tend to his wounds, is honestly beyond him.

As always, Eren’s hands are steady and gentle when they cradle Levi’s wrist, large enough to completely envelop Levi’s hand in his – a fact he has to steadfastly ignore, lest he’ll get an immature surge of annoyance at their size difference. Or, worse, a surge of something else that he neither has the time nor the capacity to deal with right now. Or, ever, preferably.

He is spared from pondering over which would be more damning when Eren’s hold tightens marginally, the only warning he gets before his wrist is snapped back into place. The sensation of his disarranged bones getting shifted and pressed into the right position, albeit not unfamiliar, is just as uncomfortable as he remembers. A quiet hiss is the only sign of pain Levi allows himself, a mere sharp exhale opposing to the shout he’s biting back, not necessarily wanting to hear Eren apologize again –

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Levi sighs again.

xx.

The whole process would, normally, last no longer than ten minutes, in Levi’s experience. Set the bone, splint it, wrap it up. Done, back on his feet and barking orders.

Not with Eren, though.

Where he usually is always so efficient, he takes his sweet fucking time placing the splints – after measuring them out three times just to then not adjust them in the end –, rolling the bandages around them almost pointedly slowly, halting in even intervals under the thinly veiled excuse of asking Sorry, is it too tight, sir? while he damn well knows it’s perfect, the little shit.

The bastard is drawing this out on purpose, because he knows he will not be able to force Levi to stay put after he is sufficiently patched up. Using the only time Levi lets himself be commanded to sit still to his full advantage, the absolute asshole.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he mutters under his breath, disgruntled and a little childish, but feeling a need to retaliate at least in some way. Not that it will make any difference, but he can’t just let shitty brats be shitty brats without at least some resistance.

Eren’s eyes flit up to meet his, vicious viridian and incorrigibly insolent. The grin slowly creeping up his face manages to look both sheepish and triumphant, a combination only he could ever pull off so flawlessly sincere.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

xx.

Disregarding all the little grievances that come with broken bones – the constant pain with the slightest movements, for one, the mandatory and, in his case, forced suspension, for another –, the lack of mobility and the resulting limitations on his daily life are the biggest of them all. Because of fucking course, he had to go and fuck up his right wrist with his astronomically asinine little stunt, automatically rendering him utterly useless.

While years of handling the touch-sensitive triggers of his gear have certainly honed his dexterity in both hands, he is far from ambidextrous, leaving him to fumble and scramble with his left like a newborn fucking fowl. Cutlery seems to have a personal vendetta against him, slipping from his grasp unless he holds it in a death grip – like a toddler. His usual crisp dress shirt had to be replaced with a loose black shirt he normally only uses for sleeping because the buttons were impossible to handle – like a toddler. His cups seem to have gotten heavier and unwieldy overnight, his usual manner of holding them only causing him to accidentally spill his tea over the rim and down his chin – like a fucking toddler.

Levi can’t even do his paperwork, having to watch the stack turn into a pile and then further into a ridiculously large and precariously swaying mountain, which, of course, does nothing for his rapidly raising stress levels besides increasing them tenfold. And because the only thing capable of managing his inner restiveness is prohibited – while he does understand the importance of giving his body the proper time to heal, he doesn’t understand why he’s not even allowed to clean –, he is nearly vibrating with agitation.

On strict orders to rest but getting progressively restless, isn’t that funny.

It’s so funny, Levi wants to punch the nearest wall, over and over and over, break his hand some more, really give it a reason why he’s out of commission, why’s he’s sitting around, useless, doing nothing –

In short, he is starting to get pissed off. Idling around has never served him well. It makes him unsettled, unbalanced, the restiveness seeping in between his bones and filling him up until he feels close to bursting with nervous energy, a state he is unaccustomed to and, therefore, ill-equipped to handle.

It makes him irritable. Really irritable, genuinely, not the pretence he keeps up for appearance’s sake. It makes him short – well, shorter than usual, curt, clipped –, makes his already thin patience stretch beyond what it is capable of taking, snapping more easily than usual.

It doesn’t help that Eren’s been following him around, hovering in his periphery like a particularly annoying shadow, mute and unmoving.

Not that –

Levi enjoys his presence. He enjoys Eren’s company greatly, in fact.

Usually.

When Eren is being his usual self, grinning like an idiot, unselfconscious and bright. Not the watered-down version that is constantly frowning at himself, bright eyes dull with guilt and constantly clinging to Levi’s back, weighing him down with almost tangible worry. Even Eren’s incessant chattering would be preferable to this strange silence that’s been hanging over him ever since they returned to base. It would be almost cute, so endearingly miserable when there really is no reason for it, were it not so fucking tragic.

Eren is a soldier, he should not be this distraught over seeing a comrade wounded, should have – has – seen much worse, should have built immunity to it, even with that massively martyrish tendency of taking the blame for everything.

Levi doesn’t know how to deal with that and even if he did, he isn’t emotionally quipped to deal with this in a delicate way. Especially not while in pain, skin already too thinly stretched from his rapidly declining patience.

“Stop fucking hovering.”

“I’m–”

“Stop fucking apologizing, too.”

Eren’s mouth snaps shut with a click, his lips pressed together sheepishly and ears turning a little red, and Levi feels a twinge of regret at the harshness, tugging at the strings of his jaundiced heart. The urge to apologize is unfamiliar as it pushes against the back of his teeth, tasting bitter and acidic on his tongue.

He swallows it down.

“Just,” he starts, halting and stumbling over his own scattered patience. “Please, Jaeger – Eren. My wrist is broken, not my neck, alright?”

“I’m,” Eren starts before cutting himself off abruptly. The apology doesn’t leave his mouth, but Levi hears it, anyway; can read it in the dark shadows carved beneath Eren’s eyes, the unhappy twist of his mouth. “I know that. I just – feel bad.”

No shit.

Levi looks at Eren, sees the way he’s standing there with his hands clasped behind himself, back straight and head lowered, looking not dissimilar to a thoroughly chastised child, despite being neither of those things. The sight has Levi’s sharp tone softening from knife-edge to… well, a slighter duller knife, which may not seem like a lot but still more effort than he’s ever given for anyone.

“What is it that you’re so worried about? I’ve broken plenty shit in my time, and even without some freakish titan regeneration, I’ve always healed just fine. Or do you really consider me that fragile?”

“No, of course not,” Eren says without missing a beat, shaking his head resolutely, firm and earnest. It is an echo of the sparkle he used to get in his eyes whenever he looked at Levi, a leftover of his admiration for humanity’s strongest that has, thank fuck, abated over the years. Never quite went away, either, though, and Levi still hasn’t decided whether to be frustrated or flattered by that. “But… what if it’s like your ankle?” he continues, frown deepening, and then suddenly, the words tumble out of his mouth unrestrainedly. “Which was my fault, too, and it still bothers you five years later, which is bad enough, but that would be your trigger hand, which would be even worse–”

“Jaeger.”

“…yes, sir.”

“Stop saying ‘which’. Stop talking, just in general.” Levi doesn’t say it unkindly, and Eren accepts the rough-sounding invitation to shut up with a faintly grateful nod. Through the years, he’s undeniably gotten better with the whole babbling thing, but it still manages to resurface from time to time, no matter how well-spoken Eren’s become. Levi usually finds it quite entertaining, rare as it is nowadays, but he knows Eren prefers to be stopped before blathering out something too embarrassing. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

Eren snaps his head up to stare at him, as if trying to figure out whether Levi went prematurely senile.

“You’re hurt,” Eren says, perplexed.

“No shit?” Levi says back, getting a little perplexed himself. Is he going senile?

“Don’t try to make me feel better when you’re hurt, what the fuck?” It’s far from the first time Eren’s cursed in front of him, but this is the first time it feels accusatory, pointed, personal, despite not cursing directly at him, and it makes Levi want to ask what he’s being so passive-aggressive about. He doesn’t need to ask, though; he knows. “If anything, I should be the one to–”

And there it is. The why.

“Eren,” Levi interjects, and Eren winces at the sharpness of his tone. “I don’t know how many times I have to say this until it gets through your extraordinarily thick skull, but it’s not your fault. It wasn’t like you tripped me – I miscalculated and landed awkwardly.” When Eren’s mouth opens to, whatever, protest, probably, spin the situation just enough to make it his fault, Levi adds, “Therefore–” Eren’s mouth clicks shut again, and he cannot help but feel a certain sense of satisfaction. “–I don’t put any blame on you.”

“Then why are you mad at me?”

The question is spoken so softly, Levi nearly doesn’t catch it. Unfortunately, he does, and something clenches painfully in his chest, like something’s reached between the gaps of his ribcage and gripped his heart and squeezed. No matter how ridiculous the notion is – really, when has he ever been mad at Eren, genuinely? –, he cannot even bring himself to snort sardonically when Eren seems so heartbreakingly sincere about it.

“I’m not mad at you,” Levi says, slow and somewhat uncertain, the words feeling foreign and juvenile on his tongue. Unpractised, at the very least, because when the fuck has he ever tried to be reassuring? Eren really brings out the worst in him.

“Then why are you so…”

“Pissy?” Levi provides, and now he does manage an inelegant snort.

“Irritable,” Eren corrects. Sweet of him to try and sugarcoat it, albeit it a whole lot unnecessary.

“I’m…” In pain, frustrated, nearly shaking apart from sitting around and doing fucking nothing, all equally true ways to end that sentence, but he doesn’t want to admit to any of them. Especially not in front of Eren, who already feels remorseful about something he didn’t do. “…maybe a little ill-tempered currently.” Now it’s Eren’s turn to snort, impertinent brat that he is, but luckily for him, Levi likes impertinence better on him than the misguided guilt, so he graciously lets it slide. “But that should be none of your concern.”

“It kind of is when you’re being a bitch,” Eren says, and then snaps his mouth shut with an audible click. Slaps a hand over it, too, looking scandalized by his own words, as if he weren’t the one who said them so matter-of-factly.

Levi should probably care a lot more about the insubordination, the disrespect. Could court-martial Eren, just for uttering an insult in his general direction, no matter how connotational. That would be horribly hypocritical of him, though, and he also kind of likes when Eren lets his mouth run, against his better judgement, so instead of screaming – or scowling or snarling or something –, he just starts to laugh.

It’s sudden, startling, rattling through him before he can even attempt to bite down on it. He doesn’t remember the last time he laughed like this, more than a sardonic smirk or a sarcastic snort. It sounds a little stilted to his own ears, quiet and unpractised. Unaccustomed to his own laughter, isn’t that fucking tragic. If the look on Eren’s face is anything to go by – wide-eyed and slack-jawed –, he’s just as startled, perhaps even a little weirded out; an honestly appropriate reaction to being met with laughter after calling his superior officer a bitch, which only manages to make Levi laugh that much harder.

“I apologize for being curt,” he says after the sudden fit has subsided, careful not to apologize for being short, as that would only give Eren the opportunity to be a little shit.

“I don’t want to hear you apologize,” Eren says, which is rich coming from him, of all fucking people, but before Levi can even open his mouth to warn him about cutting himself on his own hypocrisy, Eren pre-empts him. “I’d much rather you’d ask for help instead of moping around.”

The audacity of that kid, unbelievable. Maybe Levi’s been too lenient, has let him get away with too much, too often, and now it’s come to bite him in the ass.

“First of all, I do not mope,” Levi says, holding up a finger to emphasize. Eren opens his mouth to, presumably, say something immensely impertinent, but sensibly keeps it to himself when he holds up a second finger pointedly. “Secondly, I don’t need help.”

“This morning, I watched you try to stab the same potato for five minutes.”

“I don’t think I have to tell you how rude it is to stare at someone struggling with their breakfast.”

Once upon a time, Eren would have blushed at that, maybe stuttered a half-assed excuse consisting of equal parts denial and apology at the accusation of having stared. Now, he merely sends Levi a look, flat and unimpressed at the, admittedly asthenic, attempt at deflecting, and Levi can’t even reasonably be mad at the impudence because he was the one who taught him that.

“You asked what would make me feel better,” Eren reminds mildly, almost diplomatic, mouth is set into a stubborn line. “Not watching you struggle would make me feel better.”

And what is Levi supposed to say to that? He did ask, and he’s never been one to go back on his words, no matter how stupid those words are in retrospect. And Eren, the little shit, knows that, too. Really fucked himself over there, hasn’t he.

“Fucking fine,” Levi says – relents, concedes, admits defeat. Has no other choice, really, in the face of Eren Jaeger’s stubbornness. “I’ll let you – assist me.” Eren’s grin is instant and ridiculously bright – really, why does he look so elated at the prospect of having to help him? Deciding not to want to know the answer to that, he does what he does best – he deflects. “Try feeding me, though, and I will bite you.”

Eren laughs, not taking him seriously at all, and Levi kind of really wants to bite him either way, just to prove a point.

“Understood, sir.”

xx.

True to his word, Eren refrains from trying to spoon-feed him. In fact, Levi does not have to suffer through any suffocating smothering like he half-expected, nor is he waited on hand and foot. For that, at least, he is grateful; he doesn’t think he could handle it if Eren were to service him like his very own personal handmaid.

Instead of being treated like a child (or, worse, like a patient), not much changes at all. Except that Eren makes and pours his tea, now, in a cup with a handle so it will be easier for Levi to hold with his left hand – god only knows where he got that mug from, and he is loath to think the brat spent money on it, on him –, and that, although he hasn’t quite stopped following him round, Eren’s taken to do it more deliberately now, more purposeful being-there than awkward hovering, constantly at Levi’s side instead of kind of awkwardly behind him, and that Eren discreetly took it upon himself to adjust the meal plan to exclude any foods that require cutting to spare Levi the indignity of having his food cut for him.

That last one is merely an educated guess, but Levi can’t think of another reason why there’s been so much stew on the menu recently and he’s certainly not popular enough for his subordinates to be so considerate of him, so that really only leaves Eren. It’s a thing only he could do, charming the people on kitchen duty into adjusting the foods for a widely and generally greatly disliked superior officer.

The brat has even taken it upon himself to do the cleaning, doing an immaculate job, leaving no spot unattended, not a speck of dust on any surface or even the slightest smudge on Levi’s windows.

(“I know you get ill-tempered when your space isn’t clean,” Eren said when Levi caught him in his office with a duster in his hand and a handkerchief tied around his face. Had the sight been any less surprising, he probably would have reprimanded the brat for – well, several things, really. Entering – trespassing – his office without permission, for one. Indirect insubordination by repeating Levi’s words back at him with teasing intent, for two. As it stood, however, he couldn’t even scrape together his usual ill-temperedness, for he was more grateful than annoyed.)

It is, quite unfortunately, not as annoying as Levi anticipated. Because –

Eren is helpful, is the thing. Maybe a little too helpful. Every time Levi’s hand makes an aborted movement between wanting to reach out and being rudely reminded why he cannot by a sharp surge of pain, Eren’s there, finishing the action himself; opening doors, fetching documents, handing over cups of tea, done smoothly and quietly, without ever feeling overbearing. It also seems to have settled Eren’s guilty conscience, having him stand taller again, so Levi doesn’t complain.

xx.

It’s hardly even been a week – a measly six days, fucking hell, how is he supposed to endure another five weeks of this? – and his sanity is already threatening to splinter from the forced inactivity.

Where he would usually welcome quietude – god only knows he doesn’t get too much of that with fighting man-eating monsters and babysitting a horde of idiotic, suicidal young adults –, the dormancy is slowly tearing at his seams, making him feel off-kilter, off-balance, off. For someone as accustomed to constant clamour and commotion as he is, this is torture. Actual torture hasn’t fazed him as much, on either side of things, and how fucked up is that? Able to pull teeth without remorse and endure getting his fingers broken one by one without as much as flinching, but a little forced suspension and he’s losing his mind.

It’s reminiscent of the time when he broke his ankle – awfully, horribly reminiscent. He was out of commission then, too, and what happened? Everything went to shit, that’s what happened. At least then he was still allowed and able to work behind the scenes, nonexpendable due to the circumstances, which was moderately successful in putting off what surely would have turned into a full mental shutdown. Now, there is a glaring lack of any kind of distraction; a glaring lack of anything to keep his nerves from fraying, and he can feel the seams of his patience come undone with every day spent wandering around with nothing to do.

That’s how low he’s sunk – he’s wandering. Aimless, directionless, walking just to burn off a fraction of the crushing restlessness. It helps only marginally, not as much as he would like, not enough to help him sleep at night, but it is infinitely better than remaining stationary.

Eren seems to notice, because he always notices the mildest fluctuations in Levi’s moods, too perceptive – or too attuned to Levi, specifically, which is a horrifying thought. One he isn’t particularly comfortable having, because – if Eren is able to see and correctly identify something as rare as restiveness in him, what else can he see?

Levi prefers not thinking about that, certain that he wouldn’t like the answer, so he simply does not.

Point is, Eren notices – has to have, because he’s taken to accompany Levi on his pointless walks, although he surely must have better things to do. In fact, Levi knows the brat has more productive things to do, like doing drills with his squad or going over the training regimen that is ever-changing with the arrival of new recruits in a few months or paperwork, because one’s never truly done with paperwork, or – point is, as squad leader, Eren should have both hands full of responsibilities to attend to. Instead, the second he spots Levi doing one of his, unfortunately pretty regular, walks around base, he drops whatever he’s doing to join him, be it paperwork that gets abandoned on a table or a horde of adolescents who stare after him with wide-eyed disbelief.

Levi probably shouldn’t be so lenient with that blatant disregard of duties right in front of him, but frankly, he cannot give a shit. He remembers all too well how much leading a squad takes out of someone, and it’s not like he can honestly say he minds Eren’s company, either, so he lets it slide with a pointed look.

Usually, Levi’s walks are purposeless, barely effective means to a very unsatisfactory end, but Eren always seems to steer them somewhere, all long strides and unrelenting trust that Levi will follow. Tragically, Levi does. Follow. Every time, without fault, because – well, it’s not like he has anything better to do, anyway, so he follows. It’s never a particularly interesting destination, all places Levi’s been to before countless times – the roof of the castle or one of its towers, the small patch of field behind the training grounds, the forest yawning out wide behind base – but he doesn’t complain. If nothing else, the air is fresh and the company is good, so there really is no reason for him to complain.

As always when they’re together, it’s mostly Eren doing the talking, which suits Levi just fine; he doesn’t have anything interesting to say, and he’s always preferred listening to talking. Eren can fill the quiet easily by himself, chattering about this and that or another – updates on Armin’s research, information about the newest experiment Hanji is planning on letting him suffer through and immediately followed by complaints about how Armin doesn’t have to, anecdotes of his squad that get more outlandish every time – and Levi listens diligently with noncommittal hums at the appropriate places, and he carefully doesn’t ask why Eren is so insistent on keeping him company.

Eren is – well, Levi isn’t quite sure what the brat thinks he’s doing, but considering who he is dealing with, it can only be something asinine and unnecessary and painfully earnest like – distracting him from the torturous tedium, or whatever.

It is easy, being with Eren. Peaceful, even, which is not a word Levi ever thought to use for his life, yet here he is. The restlessness is still present, of course, but it lessens from a wildfire to a low simmer when Eren is around, easy enough to ignore and block out, if only momentarily.

xx.

“Let’s spar,” Eren says on the tenth day.

Levi gives him a look; flat, hopefully appropriately unimpressed. He lifts his bandaged hand, having to bite his tongue to avoid hissing in pain. The last time he did, it resulted in a slew of undeserved apologies, and he really doesn’t want to suffer through that again.

“Have you forgotten why that is going to be a problem?”

“Since when do you need two hands to beat my ass?” Eren asks back cheekily, and – he’s got a point. Levi could beat him up with his arms tied behind his back, if he needed to, so one functioning hand is honestly plenteous enough.

That Eren would so readily offer himself up as the proverbial and literal punching bag, just to make Levi feel better, is – well, it’s fucking stupid, and not exactly helpful in dispersing the allegations of being a suicidal bastard, but it’s also – sweet. In a very backwards, fucked up way, obviously, but it’s so distinctly Eren that Levi has a hard time refusing. Punching something does sound good, anyway, and fuck it, if Eren wants to get his ass kicked so bad, who is he to deny him?

“If I notice that you’re holding back, I’m going to strangle you,” Levi says in lieu of proper assent, because he’s an emotionally constipated asshole and threatening bodily harm has always come easier than expressing gratitude, but Eren smiles at him like he hears the thanks laced between the words, anyway.

“Wouldn’t think of passing up the only chance I’ll ever have of beating you.”

“Props for the self-awareness, but minus points for thinking you have a chance at all.”

Eren grins at him, bright and brilliant and bastardly, and Levi is so going to kick his ass.

xx.

In the end, Eren was right – Levi doesn’t need both hands, after all.

There is definitely an adjustment period – a few instances where he instinctively flexes his right hand, trying to curl it into a fist before being rudely reminded why that is not exactly feasible, with the pain and the cast in the way and all. It poses more of an inconvenience than any real debilitation, though, and it doesn’t take more than four aborted movements, tensing reflexively and forcefully relaxing again, until his hand doesn’t as much as twitch anymore. He’s always been more of a kicker, anyway, so he absolves from using his hands altogether.

They fall into a rhythm quickly; a rapid exchange of blows, a continuous push-pull, not sparing each other or themselves any room to breathe.

As promised, Eren does not hold back. If anything, he ups his ante like the shitty little opportunist that he is, ramping up his freakish strength that he never quite dares to use in full force on anyone who isn’t an enemy. Levi cannot blame him; wouldn’t, not when he’s secretly a little pleased by the complete absence of holding-back, all the carefulness Eren’s been regarding him with gone in an instant of unhinged, unbridled fucking ferocity.

Not that he stands a chance, either way.

Levi’s got a good decade on him, a lot more combat experience, and that doesn’t account for the fact that he’s learned to fight from his psychopathic uncle, making his technique not exactly fair.

Eren holds his own quite well, though, much better than anyone else would have – much better than anyone else could. Undoubtedly partially thanks to his regenerative abilities, otherwise he would have been down ages ago; no amount of willpower is enough to make one get up after Levi’s kicked them in the jaw so hard, not one, not three, but four teeth went flying. He does feel a little bad about that; he planned on knocking out two, at the most, just grave enough to serve as a reminder, a deterrence, enough to engrave it into Eren’s extraordinarily thick skull that it is a supremely stupid idea to offer himself as a punching bag. To Levi, of all fucking people, who’s probably the only person capable of truly hurting him.

But Eren does get up, because the fucker wouldn’t stay down if all his limbs were ripped from his body; would drag himself forward by the skin of his teeth, probably, truly an unstoppable force of nature. If he’s unstoppable, though, Levi’s immovable, and a broken wrist be damned, he will pin this boy down, and if he has to knock out some more teeth to achieve that, then so be it.

Except – except, the next time Levi shifts his weight and lifts a leg, fully intending to knock Eren down with a well-placed kick to the sternum, Eren is expecting it, and he manages to catch his ankle. His hand is large enough to almost fully wrap around it, even with the thick material of the military-issued boots in between, and when did the fucker even grow that big –

Such a moment of inattentiveness, that split-second of letting himself be distracted, would be plenty enough for Eren to knock him on his ass, but Levi finds himself still decidedly upright, which is somehow more disorienting than actually losing his footing.

Eren is still just – holding his ankle, keeping Levi’s leg in its outstretched position, though not allowing it to move, neither to finish the kick nor to pull back, and staring like a dumbass.

“What,” Levi snaps, not bothering to make it sound like a question. Eren blinks at him, like he hasn’t realized that he was, in fact, staring. Blatantly.

“You’re very – flexible,” Eren says, and for the first time since their little sparring session started, he sounds breathless. He’s –

Eren’s sweating. His shirt is soaked through and sticking to his frame, his skin flushed and glistening with it. A droplet is in the process of running down his temple, over his cheek, along the sharp line of his jaw. Which – is a totally normal thing, they have been going at it for the better part of an hour, it would be weirder if Eren weren’t sweating, but Levi isn’t sure if noticing it, being so acutely aware of it quite so suddenly, is normal.

“Evidently,” Levi says, flat. Then, for a reason escaping rationality, he adds, “It can go up further.”

Although it’s merely a factual statement, it’s also a stupid thing to say. It’s humouring, entertaining – it’s encouraging, even, and he really should know better than to encourage Eren’s stupidity.

Eren swallows, visibly and audibly. Levi finds himself following the motion with his eyes, the movement of Eren’s throat interesting, though he doesn’t quite understand why.

“Um,” Eren starts intelligently. Swallows again. “How much further–?”

“You really wanna test my flexibility?” Levi asks, trying very hard not to make the question sound suggestive, with only moderate success. Hardly his fault; not even his monotonous delivery is enough to leech the inherent innuendo out of the words. Maybe the first misstep is not the phrasing but asking the question at all, as the answer is fairly obvious.

Eren’s eyes are wide, the tips of his ears pink, mouth pressed into a sheepish line. For as much as he has changed over the years, despite the few differences stark enough to assert some demarcations between youth and adulthood, there are still moments where he looks awfully, gut-wrenchingly like the fifteen-year-old recruit Levi knew so many years ago; bright-eyed, overeager, and still as easily excitable for the strangest things. Whether it might be complicated manoeuvres or something inane as his cleaning technique, Eren’s always been right there, watching, attentive and awed. It is honestly not too off-brand for him to be curious about Levi’s, admittedly excessive, flexibility.

Doesn’t mean Levi is very keen on giving a performance, though; especially not one involving having Eren’s hands on him.

Banking on the moment of surprise to give him the advantage, he shifts his weight and abruptly turns his hips, dislodging Eren’s hand from around his ankle with a sharp, measured jerk of his leg. Then, because he cannot quite help himself, he finishes that kick he was intending earlier, placed neatly and precisely to Eren’s sternum and sending him backwards onto his ass. The wide-eyed and, frankly, comical look of betrayal he’s met with almost makes him feel a little bad.

“I can do the splits, do the math yourself,” he offers in lieu of an apology. Eren makes a strange, sort of strangled sound at that, one that is difficult to interpret, so Levi doesn’t even bother to try. Who knows what’s going on in that thick skull of his. “Get your ass off the ground. Or are you already too tired for round two?”

The deliberate provocation has the desired effect – Eren huffs, offended, springs to his feet and settles into a fighting stance that is outwardly defensive but practically oozes aggression. Levi feels the corner of his mouth twitching up despite his best efforts, and he lunges.

xx.

Levi doesn’t ask for help, just on principle. Not out of some misplaced need to be independent or unnecessary feelings of pridefulness, he’s long since laid down such childish habits. No significant lack of trust in his comrades is to blame, either, for his neurotic need to do everything himself; he’s merely always followed the simple belief that if he wants something done right then he’ll have to do it himself. Whether it is as menial a task as mopping the floors or something potentially life-threatening like stitching up his own wounds, he’s always preferred to do things himself.

It has served him well so far, seeing as he usually isn’t in the need for assistance (except, perhaps, when something is out of reach and there is nothing sufficient to stand on in immediate vicinity but that is the exception to the otherwise rigid rule).

Usually, his right wrist is not broken, though. Usually, he is not nearly bursting at the seams with irritation because he just spent twenty-two stubborn but not very successful minutes fumbling with his harness. But it is, and he is because he has, and he’s tired and in pain, and –

“Jaeger!”

Eren’s head pops through the doorway separating Levi’s office from his private quarters, eyes wide and ears a little red, seeming sheepish – did he really think Levi wouldn’t know he was loitering in his office after being dismissed? – but eager, nonetheless.

“Yes, sir?” Apparently, not even his embarrassment at being caught is enough to temper that inexorable enthusiasm to be helpful.

“Help me get this off,” he snarls, barely resisting the urge to bare his teeth down at the straps of his gear – why is he even wearing it anymore? It’s not like he will be able to use it anytime soon –, as if his displeasure alone would be enough to loosen the buckles where his left hand has failed to do so.

Ever the dutiful soldier, Eren is in motion before Levi’s even stopped speaking, and then he freezes so abruptly, his own momentum almost causes him to stumble. Then, like the words have registered very belatedly, he blushes, as if Levi suggested something else entirely.

No matter how tall he’s gotten, he’s still just a fucking kid.

“Fuck’s sake, Eren, I asked you to help me with my gear, not to fist me,” he snaps, maybe a little more harshly than appropriate for the situation. Bit unfair, too, to pull out the crudeness, knowing full-well it will only worsen the embarrassed blush, but he’s annoyed, in a nonignorable amount of pain, and he simply cannot scrape together the self-restraint to be considerate right now. He knows Eren will forgive him for it, just as he always seems to forgive Levi his poor moods, and maybe that is a little unfair, too, banking on the infinite goodness of this kid. “Come here.”

That, at least, jolts Eren back into himself, his face, despite the insistent tint of red, settling into something ridiculously determined again, never one to let himself be kept from following an order by his own embarrassment, though it falters momentarily when he’s reached him, hands halfway raised and unmoving, uncertainty in the way he bites his lip and glances up. Probably not sure whether he is really allowed to touch Levi despite the implicit order, which is – fair, maybe; Levi’s punched people in the face for far less.

Under different circumstances, he would have found it funny that his most brazen subordinate would freeze so thoroughly at the prospect of touching him, would have found some small and slightly sadistic satisfaction in the knowledge that he still manages to instil that kind of fear in Eren after all these years, but alas.

“Today, Jaeger,” he snaps, and although it’s far from reassuring, it is exactly what Eren needs to clench his jaw in that stubborn way he does and nod with a seriousness that is entirely too disproportionate for the situation at hand.

When Eren reaches out again, it’s without hesitation, hands steady. He hooks two fingers into the tautly-pulled strap crossing Levi’s chest, knuckles digging into Levi’s sternum as he works on unfastening the buckle. It doesn’t take longer than two heartbeats, max – the motion of slipping a finger between the strap and the buckle, pulling it loose in the same movement as tugging the strap open, is easy, practiced, quick –, but Levi feels the startling warmth of Eren’s touch for a few disarming, accelerating beats longer. It shouldn’t surprise him so much – after all, he’s been subjected to Hanji’s endlessly excited chatter about Eren’s unnaturally high body temperature on numerous occasions.

All throughout the process, Eren keeps his eyes adamantly averted, focused solely on undoing the buckles of the harness one by one and working with steady hands on getting it off of Levi’s shoulders. Which goes about much more smoothly than Levi would have expected – no stuttering attempts at conversation, not a trace of the earlier embarrassment in Eren’s demeanour. Just an absurdly intense focus on a rather simple task.

That is until Eren moves further down to work on the leather crisscrossing on Levi’s lower body, his hands losing the efficient finesse as they fumble for several long seconds with the belts around Levi’s thigh. Not shaking, per se, but definitely not steady, either. He makes an almost pointed effort to touch the leather straps only, seemingly trying to keep the brushes against Levi’s thigh to an absolute minimum.

Which is weird. Because Eren usually doesn’t have any qualms about touching him. Quite the fucking opposite, actually, if he’s really thinking back on it; the bastard cannot go five minutes without tapping his shoulder to get his attention, poking his side when he ignores him, pressing their thighs together under the desk and brushing hands over paperwork.

Why’s he being so strange now? Granted, this position is really doing them no favours, Eren’s crouch putting him on an awkward level with his lower stomach –

…oh.

Ah.

Fucking kid.

“Don’t pop a boner.”

It’s meant to be a joke – admittedly, a bad one, just like all of his attempts at humour are outstandingly poor at best and tremendously unfunny on average –, something to slice through the sudden and very discomfiting tension. As always, it backfires spectacularly, and Eren, instead of laughing and maybe even shooting something back, something insubordinate and provocative, something like You wish or Jealous of my youthful virality? like he normally would, makes a choked-up noise and jolts backwards as if burned.

The abruptness of the movement causes him to lose balance and fall flat on his ass, though his hand is still curled around the leather strap crossing Levi’s thigh, causing him to inadvertently pull Levi along with him. Levi doesn’t stumble, just on principle, and he certainly doesn’t fall, but he does have to take two balancing steps to avoid toppling over as well. He ends up standing with one foot on either side of Eren’s hips, Eren’s face perfectly eye-level with his crotch, and that is possibly the only position worse than the previous one.

Well, except if Eren were to, say, bend over a desk and he were to, like, lean over him from behind, that would probably be –

He shouldn’t be thinking about his subordinate bent over anything, actually, so he firmly does not.

Levi stares down at the idiot with a hopefully appropriately unimpressed expression.

“Listen, I was joking,” he says, elucidates, even though he hates to explain himself, just because he knows Eren is prone to misunderstanding. “With that reaction however, I’m starting to get worried.”

“I would never!”

The response, albeit a little delayed, is just as indignant as Levi hoped it would be, the immediate instinct to bristle flaring up and finally – finally – displacing the strange sense of awkwardness that’s been hovering over Eren since he’s entered the room. It is far more bearable to see those eyes all fiery and fierce rather than dimmed and downcast.

Eren’s hand tightens around the leather strap with the little outburst, knuckles digging into the flesh of Levi’s thigh right where the decades-old bruises of his gears reside.

“Not that I couldn’t get,” Eren starts, emphatically, and stops immediately. Clicks his mouth shut and swallows. Clears his throat. Tries again, “I mean, obviously you’re very, uh, attractive. Sir. Definitely enough to pop a boner over, but – I wouldn’t. Not when – not after you asked for help when I know damn well how much you must have hated to do that – which I’m grateful for, sir, really – and getting – getting aroused – I would never take advantage like that.”

The words come out in a rush, so it takes Levi a second to sort through the barely coherent onslaught of several abruptly started and promptly cut-off sentences, taking a while to fill in the blanks. And when he does, he wants to bang his head against the wall. Eren’s head, too, while he’s at it.

Eren – sweet, stupid Eren – is so worried about potentially crossing Levi’s boundaries, handling the modicum of trust he’s been granted as if it were the most precious, fragile thing he’s ever had to hold.

It’s so sweet it circles right back to stupidity. As if something like an awkward boner were enough to displace the years of built-up – slowly, agonizingly slowly built, brick by emotionally constipated brick – rapport between them. They’ve went through hell and back and then some; have persevered through death and grief, bruised, battered, broken, but never alone. Something like that, it cannot be broken that easily, and it’s honestly a little insulting that Eren doesn’t seem to know that.

Deciding not to comment on the ‘attractive enough to pop a boner over’ part – as Eren looks on the verge of either combusting or bolting, and Levi’d rather spare him further embarrassment –, he instead starts with addressing what seems to be the main concern here.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind.”

“…excuse me?”

“If you got hard,” Levi clarifies, although that doesn’t appear to be the problem here, as Eren seems to have understood what he meant the first time by the way Eren is gaping at him, wide-eyed and slack-jacked, too stunned to even look particularly embarrassed. Levi sighs. So much for avoiding misunderstandings. “You’re what, twelve?”

Eren blinks, then bristles, going from astonishment to indignance just like that. “You know damn well I’m twenty–”

“Exactly, a baby,” Levi interrupts, purposely hyperbolic, because it always makes Eren puff out his cheek petulantly, not really beating the baby allegations, and it’s always enjoyable to look at. “You brats get hard from a gust of wind. I was young once, I know how it is.”

“You’re still young–”

“Point is,” Levi cuts off what certainly would have turned into an amusing but also kind of pointless tirade of exceptionally unconvincing arguments of You aren’t even forty yet, sir and You’re only in your second third of your life, sir, and Age is relative, sir. It’s the one he always pulls out whenever Levi as much as semi-seriously implies he might not be young anymore, which is factually accurate but somehow always elicits the same kind of outrage as when he calls Eren a brat or a kid. “I wouldn’t fault you for your body’s reaction. It’s natural, not a violation of trust or whatever.”

Eren stares at him, incredulity written embarrassingly blatantly all over his features, like he was expecting something else. Not an unfair assumption, to be fair; with anyone else, the topic of erections would have ended with a kick to the sternum. Then again, with anyone else, the topic would have never come up in the first place.

And then, astonishingly, Eren starts to laugh. Genuinely, head thrown back and everything, laughing. The thing about Eren’s laugh – it’s kind of ugly, in a charming way. It’s too loud, too breathless, more of a wheeze than anything else, but it’s always a pleasure to hear it. To be the one who caused it, however inadvertently, is almost nice enough to overlook the fact that it’s on his expense. Almost.

“What’s so fucking funny?” he snaps, reasserting himself into a more familiar tone before he can think something stupid like There he is.

Eren is curling forward from laughing, shaking slightly as it trembles through him. His forehead is almost touching Levi’s hipbone. “You just reassured me over a hypothetical erection.”

Put like that –

It does sound ridiculous, doesn’t it. The absurdity of the situation makes it supremely hard for Levi not to laugh, as well, so he – does. For once, he doesn’t bother to even attempt biting down on it like he usually would, and then they are both laughing, like crazy people. About boners, of all things.

xx.

In retrospect, Levi never should have allowed Eren to help him with his gear. Should have sooner given up and slept in the damn thing before asking for assistance, but hindsight’s a bitch and insight always comes a tad too late.

His momentary lapse in judgement in a moment of frustrated weakness – well, helplessness, which is virtually the same thing and so much worse, simultaneously – seems to have been misinterpreted as general permission (or, worse, an invitation) by Eren to extent his help to matters that are entirely out of his purview.

Namely, showing up at his quarters every morning with the intention of helping him get dressed. Because of course the bastard couldn’t help himself after he’s witnessed the struggle; felt bad, probably, for not realizing it sooner.

That first morning, Eren is bright red, barely stuttering through an explanation and nearly getting his nose broken by the door shutting before he’s even finished talking. That is, of course, not enough to deter Eren fucking Jaeger who, persistent fucker that he is, would never let himself be dismissed so easily. Not after that first harsh, wordless rejection, nor after the second, or the third, or fourth, and it turns into the world’s most annoying routine, an unrelenting cycle of a knock at his door in the morning, the rote motion of opening it with a stern No and then shutting it with a resolute bang. Not resolute enough, though, no matter how much finality Levi presses into in his monosyllabic refusal or the unnecessary amount of strength he uses to make his door bang louder each time, because Eren always comes back the next morning.

While the sentiment is well-intended – after all, it’s Eren, and there is no bad bone in his body even when his execution of those good intentions is unconventional at best –, Levi is, though he would sooner bite off his own tongue than admit to it, too prideful to accept help with this. Everything else, he can relent, concede that he does require assistance to some degree with his right wrist broken and inoperable, but this – this, having someone help him get dressed as if he were a child –, is too much. Too close, too patronizing, too much in every conceivable capacity.

He is, first and foremost, a soldier, and he has managed with his uniform under far worse conditions. So maybe he has to forego his cravat, and maybe he has switched to a simple shirt without any pesty buttons to struggle with, and fucking maybe it takes him a significantly longer amount of time to properly do up his trousers, but he manages, like he always does. There’s no need for a personal attendant.

Having Eren help him with his gear is one thing – a thing that was decidedly disastrous enough for him not to wish a repeat performance –, having him help him getting dressed is another entirely. How does Eren imagine it will work, anyway, when he was so awfully flustered only getting him out of his gear where a lot more clothes were involved? He’d probably spontaneously go into cardiac arrest were he to see Levi in a – in any – state of undress.

The thought is – actually not that bad. It would probably be fucking hilarious, having Eren fumble and fluster and flush while trying to help him with his uniform, but not funny enough to allow himself the indignity of actually letting Eren do it. Where would that lead, anyway, if he allowed even more leeway, if he allowed Eren to get even closer? Next thing he knows, Eren is offering to bathe him, too, and Levi really is not masochistic enough to potentially subject himself to that honestly very real possibility.

Unfortunately for him and his already frayed nerves, Eren is nothing if not tenacious, reaching out a helping hand with untiring persistence, no matter how often it gets slapped away. Levi doesn’t know whether it is stupidity or masochism or some sort of self-bestowed comeuppance or an unfortunate mélange of all three that has the brat so intent on helping him out.

Unfortunately for Eren, though, Levi can be a stubborn bastard, too, if not even more so, and they find themselves in a stalemate. A test of endurance, of sorts, between Levi’s immovable resistance or Eren’s unstoppable persistence.

xx.

Turns out, competing with Eren in matters of stubbornness is a lost battle from the very beginning. Levi should have known; he is, after all, the one most often subjected to Eren’s very own brand of hard-headedness and single-mindedness.

God only knows how often he’s had to admit to defeat to that obstinacy; so often, he could never admit it openly without trading a fair amount of his dignity for it. Does that make him a bad Captain? That he yields so often to the will of a – a kid, a brat. But then again, that brat is Eren, who has the kind of willpower that could either save the world or raze it to the ground, and Levi really doesn’t think he can be for cracking underneath the weight of it.

He usually lasts out longer, though.

Embarrassingly enough, it doesn’t even take a full week for Eren to wear him down enough to, instead of slamming the door, open it a little wider to let him in. He does so wordlessly, but not without narrowing his eyes into a sharp glare to ensure that Eren is aware of his displeasure despite the acquiescence. A completely pointless endeavour, of course; Eren hasn’t been intimidated by his scowl for years now.

“Good morning, Captain,” Eren greets him, far too fucking cheerful for the time of morning, a distinctly pleased grin quirking his lips. The same kind of crooked smile he only gets when he’s feeling particularly smug and trying very hard to make it seem like he isn’t.

“Fuck you, too,” Levi spits back reflexively, though he cannot muster up his usual bite in the face of that lopsided grin, which, to his dismay, only grows wider at his words. “You’re assisting me with my shirt and cravat and then you’re pissing off, is that understood?”

Even that is too much, honestly, but at least he will keep it somewhat professional by not making Eren help him with his pants, too. That would certainly only end in disaster.

“Yes, sir,” Eren says, perfectly respectful in his address, but Levi hears the insubordination, anyway, having learned not to be fooled by dutiful answers and instead reading between the expressive lines of Eren’s face; the crinkling of the corners of his eyes from smiling too widely to be innocent, the sharp cut of his cheekbone when he is biting the inside of his cheek to refrain from laughing, the resulting one-sided dent at the corner of his mouth where a dimple is doing its level-best to show despite his best efforts. Then, losing the self-satisfaction and whatever bravado he waltzed in here with, he ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck sort of sheepishly. “…you’ll have to walk me through tying your cravat, though.”

Levi knew he would have to; for someone with such deft fingers, the brat is barely capable of tying a decent tie. The last – and, hopefully, the first, that would have at least explained a few things – time Eren’s had to tie one, he ended up nearly choking himself, both ends visible somehow and comically uneven lengthwise. It was so ridiculous, Levi couldn’t even laugh when he saw it; opted for simply yanking the brat down – really down, pissed off all the way through that he had to do it at all, but vehemently refusing to reach up – and tying it for him. Though a cravat is a significantly simpler ligature, he wouldn’t trust Eren to tie his shoes, much less figuring out how to handle a cravat on his own.

Not trusting himself not to make a snide remark if he answered verbally – not necessarily wanting to be snide, for once, considering that Eren is doing him a favour, no matter how forced upon him it may be –, he jerks his chin towards his bed where he’s already neatly laid out a shirt and a cravat in preparation. Eren follows the direction, an eyebrow raising in a notably smug manner, and Levi is already regretting opening the door for him.

“Do you, uh,” Eren says, and stops. Wets his lips before continuing, “Need help with undressing, too, or…?”

Levi doesn’t. If the past few days have taught him anything it’s that one hand is more than sufficient in grabbing the back of his shirt and yanking it over his head; has done it often enough that he even manages with some semblance of ease, without aggravating his injured wrist too much despite the struggle that long sleeves pose. He doesn’t need help, getting undressed or otherwise, but –

He feels himself nodding instead of shaking his head like he honestly intended. It’s not a deliberate movement, it just happens before he can think better of it, some troglodytic part of his brain taking over and answering in a way he would have never actively chosen; dishonest, but sincere. No, he doesn’t need help, but he finds that he – wouldn’t mind it. That he wants it, even, undeniably, irrepressibly. Not – the help, obviously, but – having Eren do it.

He wishes he could say it’s because of some amused curiosity as to see what would happen, cruelly taking satisfaction in Eren’s embarrassed fumbling, and he would be lying if he said that didn’t cross his mind, but that is, quite unfortunately, not the whole reason. And Eren, sweet and unaware as he is, has just given him the perfect guise to act on some weird, obfuscating impulse he never would have indulged otherwise.

“Alright,” Eren says. Again, more firmly, as if to convince himself, “Alright, yeah – I can do that.”

And then he doesn’t move. It’s quite transparent that he’s steeling himself, his lips pressing into a thin line of stubborn determination; trying to work up the nerve, probably, to actually step forward and move to undress him. Maybe he’s wondering how he’s supposed to go about undressing a superior officer in a way that is appropriately respectful. Or – maybe a bit nervous, because he’s never undressed anyone at all before, which is a thought, isn’t it, one Levi really shouldn’t be having, because his subordinates’ private lives are really none of his fucking business.

Thankfully, he is spared from contemplating court-martialling himself when Eren takes a decided step forward. A second one, and another, almost too measured. A certain wariness in his movements, as if he’s approaching a feral animal instead of just him. It’s a strange resurrection of the caution he used to display around Levi, minus the skittishness, and Levi doesn’t quite understand it. Granted, he did beat him up pretty badly at one point, and then several times after that, not to mention the regular dismemberment, and he’s still technically Eren’s executioner, on paper, and, fuck, Eren should be a lot more afraid of him, actually, if he really allows himself to think about it.

But he isn’t. Eren isn’t. Embarrassed, certainly, trying very hard to seem like he isn’t and failing spectacularly, but he approaches Levi without a single trace of trepidation. When he lifts his hands, they are steady, just like they always are when they are fixed on a task, no matter how red his face might get in the process. His movements are slow, but not hesitant, when he reaches out to catch the hem of Levi’s shirt between his fingers, very clearly trying to avoid touching Levi directly.

It’s awfully reminiscent of the gear fiasco; that caution, that attempt at pertaining a certain distance in a situation too close for comfort. Levi faintly feels like he should be grateful for that – that at least someone here is trying to be sensible when he clearly has given up on that. He probably shouldn’t be – disappointed, that would be egregiously and excessively inappropriate.

“Your – arms, sir,” Eren says haltingly, softly, prodding vaguely to avoid – whatever, giving his superior officer an order, or making this sound any more patronizing as it already is.

Under different circumstances, Levi would have been – outraged, perhaps even embarrassed to be told to lift his arms like a child waiting to be dressed. As it stands, he can feel nothing besides the suddenly unbearable beating of his heart within his ribcage, like it wants to shatter his bones, crack open his chest and escape him. It’s a disproportionate reaction, he knows, he’s aware, but, quite unfortunately, rational knowledge does nothing to dissipate the wuthering unfurling in his chest, spreading outwards, interlacing with his bones, and hell, Eren hasn’t even touched him yet, and every self-preservative bone in his body screams at him to pull back, get away –

He lifts his arms. Against his better judgement, he does, and he doesn’t want to think about why he does it.

Eren’s throat works, jaw clenched so firmly that Levi can see the muscles strain under his skin, and then he rucks up Levi’s shirt, slow, over Levi’s stomach, his chest, and he’s not averting his eyes, seems to make pointed effort not to, but he does keep his gaze resolutely fixed on some point above Levi’s head. Though, just before Levi’s vision gets disrupted by his shirt, he catches Eren’s eyes flicker down, briefly, almost too miniscule to be perceivable, but Levi catches it, anyway, and he cannot stomp out the small spark of gratification.

It is stupid, of course, and vain, and wholly uncharacteristic – he has always detested getting stared at, gawked at like some novelty. No matter whether the stares are appreciative or apprehensive, he hates them all the same. For all intents and purposes, he should be hating the glance towards his torso – his exposed torso, no less –, too, should feel Eren’s eyes like needles on his skin, but he doesn’t. He isn’t, because Eren’s eyes don’t feel like pinpricks, or maggots; they don’t make Levi want to turn his skin inside out and scrub at it with cold water.

The carefulness with which Eren manoeuvres the shirt over his head is honestly a little ridiculous; after all, he wasn’t knocked over the head, and even if he had, it’s not like the fabric of it is so rough that it would warrant Eren seemingly trying to avoid even the slightest graze.

Then, the slightest brush of Eren’s fingertips against the edge of his undercut; accidental, if the way Eren goes comically still is any indication. Levi waits it out, not offering reprimand or reassurance, mainly because there is no realistic need for either, but also partly because he is curious to see what will happen when Eren is bereft of any directive, verbal or otherwise. A beat, two; the soft sound of Eren exhaling, the slight rustling of clothes as he does, and then the lightest hint of a touch on the base of his neck. Not accidental, this time around, not a brush, brief and gone in an instant, but purposeful, lingering. Waiting, perhaps, for Levi to snap at him and tell him to fuck off. When nothing of the sort happens, all of Eren’s hand, the whole breadth of his palm instead of the hesitant touch of his fingertips, settles on his nape, warm and steady.

It is certainly a bold fucking move for someone who was so obdurate about not touching him half a minute ago, but Levi is not exactly helping matters by allowing it, so he cannot complain. Not that he would – not that he wants to, either, because –

It’s not bad. Eren’s hand – broad palm stirring the shaven hair at the base of his skull, fingers curling around the side of his neck, fingertips just barely grazing his ear –, capable of so much destruction but reduced to a gentleness that is so inherently Eren, it’s – not bad. Nice, even.

Eren increases the pressure subtly, wordlessly prompting Levi to tilt his head down. Against all that is right and holy, he obeys the silent request, tipping his chin down. The hand on his neck tightens minutely, briefly, acknowledgement and gratitude in one, before it glides up further. Pushing the shirt off instead of lifting it, Levi realizes, although he doesn’t know what evoked this sudden change in tactic when Eren’s been assuming a very adamant hands-off approach before.

There is nothing hands-off about this; the way Eren’s fingers inadvertently card through his hair, the slight pressure of his thumb along the side of his neck, behind his ear, the resulting goosebumps spreading like the plague attest to how hands-on it is.

Levi’s – he’s not used to this amount of physical contact, is the thing. To any amount, actually, has always asserted a certain air of unapproachableness to ensure that his wide radius of personal space is never intruded upon. Hell, he doesn’t even shake hands with people.

Realistically, he’s had his face covered for a total of half a minute, forty seconds at the maximum, but when he resurfaces, it might as well have been hours with how disorienting it feels. The light is bright – too bright, brighter than it should be –, the phantom feeling of Eren’s fingers in his hair still tingling at his scalp, the leftover warmness lingering long after Eren’s removed his hand again.

After blinking some of the disorientation out of his eyes and regaining focus – it shouldn’t be this difficult, he thinks dimly, but it is, and he cannot figure out why –, he sees – well, Eren, obviously, since they are standing opposite of each other, and they are close, closer than Levi thinks he remembers, definitely closer than strictly necessary, and Eren’s face is – flushed, expectedly, but weirdly impassive. Blank; guarded. Weird.

Before Levi even has the opportunity to feel any particular way about that, Eren’s in motion again, eyes lowered and fixed stubbornly on his own hands as he works on peeling the loose sleeves from Levi’s arms. First the left, quick, efficient, then the right with notably more carefulness, doing his level-best not to as much as graze the bandages with either his fingers or the thin material of the shirt. Acting, again, as though Levi’s injury were an open wound instead of the internal little breakage that it is.

And then Levi is standing there shirtless, and Eren is still not really looking at him, and the air is – weird, between them. Thick, somehow; heavy, though Levi’s unsure with what, or why. What he does know, however, is that it’s disconcerting, unsettling; makes the hair at the back of his neck stand up, makes his skin itch with the urge to – something. Say something, do something; anything, to dissolve the strange tension that has so suddenly settled into every crevice of the room, cackling between them.

“Well?” Levi snaps, unmoored and hiding it behind precipitousness. “Are you actually going to do what you annoyed me for, or would you rather just stand there and not look at me?”

That, at last, cracks the strange stillness, the unnatural blankness of Eren’s expression, but instead of blushing or bristling – both equally likely outcomes and infinitely preferable to the tight-lipped silence he wrapped himself in –, the corner of his mouth twitches. Upwards, not quite a smile, a mere shadow of his usual bright grin, but close. Close enough, anyway, for the air to feel breathable again.

“Of course, sir,” Eren says, weirdly neutral, weirdly serious. Not a trace of his good-natured insolence when he calls Levi by his title, not a hint of embarrassment on this usually so easily embarrassed boy.

Having apparently no desire to address what just transpired – Levi is secretly relieved; he wouldn’t even be able to begin to formulate any sort of explanation, barely wants to acknowledge it –, Eren turns to go retrieve the dress shirt laid out on the bed. When he returns, it’s to stand behind Levi, which is understandable, the most logical course of action, really, but it makes his skin prickle, anyway. It’s not that he does not trust Eren – quite the opposite, honestly; if anything, Levi trusts him a little too much –, but there is always something discomfiting about having his back turned to someone, a paranoid little itch at the back of his mind reminding him that he shouldn’t leave himself open like this.

But Eren is no enemy – no matter what popular belief says, no matter what the military still likes to propagate to keep the populus adequately suspicious, Levi knows he isn’t. Never mind the fact that Eren very well could be, if he so decided; with the ability to extinguish half of humanity with a snap of his fingers (or whatever he needs to do in order to activate the coordinate, Levi’s never really cared much about the specifics) and a determination bordering on insanity, it is a miracle he hasn’t already. Instead, he stands there, behind Levi, disregarding – or, more likely, considering who he’s dealing with, not even realizing – the opportunity to stab him in the back to instead hold out his dress shirt for him.

No, Eren is no enemy – and even if he were, he would never be Levi’s. It’s a nonsensical sentiment to have, dangerous and naïve, but he settles into it like an old habit, anyway, shoulders relaxing minutely.

With the way Eren is holding open the shirt, his knuckles brush over the lengths of Levi’s arms as he slips them into the sleeves; the backs of his hands, wrists, up his forearms, the bend of his elbows, along his biceps. The touch is light, barely even a touch at all, but it makes his skin break out in goosebumps all the same.

Levi excuses the reaction with the fact that he hasn’t been touched in years and then immediately shoves the thought so far to the back of his mind that he could almost pretend that it was never there at all.

When the shirt is securely placed upon his shoulders, Eren rounds him to stand in front of him again and takes on the tiny buttons that gave Levi so much grief. For someone with such large hands, Eren is deft and quick with that, too, slipping the buttons into the corresponding holes with such ease that Levi almost feels embarrassed about his failure to do so. When he’s done, he takes a few moments to straighten out the fabric, tugging at the seams connecting the shoulders and sleeves to pull the fabric neat and smoothing it out by sliding his palms down over Levi’s chest and stomach, and although Levi thinks it’s quite pointless – his dress shirts are always crisp and creaseless –, he can hardly complain about the thoroughness.

When Eren takes a step back to inspect his work – stupidly earnest, as he tends to be –, he takes his freakish heat with him, and Levi pretends not to notice the distinct feeling of disconcertion at the abrupt absence of warmth.

Without waiting for Levi to snap at him again, Eren goes to collect the cravat from the bed, returning with the fabric gingerly laid across his palms like an offering, probably not wanting to crease it. And then he doesn’t say anything, and he still isn’t quite meeting Levi’s eyes, and it’s starting to get annoying now. So, in a manner that is pure pettiness, Levi crosses his arms over his chest, doesn’t offer up any orders or explanations, and waits. For what, exactly, he isn’t too sure, either – for Eren to stop being so fucking weird, for Eren to be forced to look at him, speak to him first, something.

A minute passes. A full one, Levi is counting, which might not seem like a lot of time, but spent in the discomfiting silence of his most talkative subordinate it feels like a small eternity. It takes exactly sixty seconds for Eren to finally look up at him, which makes Levi think he was counting, too, though he isn’t sure why he would. Actually, he isn’t sure why he was counting, either.

“Um,” Eren starts, astonishingly articulate as always. “How do I–?”

Levi doesn’t answer immediately, contenting himself with making Eren squirm under his stare, aware that he’s not exactly being mature by exacting petty revenge by returning the silent treatment but wholly uncaring about it.

“Wrap it around my neck,” he says when he thinks Eren’s suffered for long enough. He doesn’t put any particular intonation into the words, none of the strictness when he barks orders, but Eren jolts into action as if he had, anyway. It’s a little funny, having this usually so defiant kid oblige to his every word without any hesitation. It’s a little unsettling, too, but Levi’d rather not think about that too hard.

Thankfully, he’s saved from approaching a door that really shouldn’t be opened when Eren reaches out again. He doesn’t say anything, but he keeps his movements slow, giving Levi plenty time to see what he’s going to do, and Levi is honestly too relieved to be very offended by it. Holding both ends of the fabric, Eren raises his hands and holds it out, and Levi gets the hint and ducks under and into it. Careful fingers slide beneath his collar, the touch of them burning even through the layer separating them; along the seam of the neckline, searing a line along Levi’s throat. Eren slips the collar up in the same motion he slides the cravat around his neck, staring down absurdly hard as he tugs the right end to even them out; overshoots, has to make a slight corrective tug with the left one.

When Eren looks up again, it’s with such an earnestly prideful little smile, it’s all Levi can do not to burst out laughing.

“The ends,” he says, slow, trying very hard not to sound as amused as he feels and doing a shit job at it. “They need to be slightly uneven.”

The self-satisfied edge to Eren’s smile immediately drops, lips pursing into a slightly frustrated pout instead. His eyes drop down to the cravat again as he makes the correction with another tug, slightly harsher than the previous ones, just enough to come across passive-aggressive but not enough for Levi to call him out on it.

“Cross the longer end over the shorter one,” Levi continues, deciding a thorough step-by-step is the way to go, considering how ineptly Eren handled the whole tie situation. “Loop it all the way around and thread it under the neckband.”

The whole process is straightforward enough, a simple loop-around, not even involving any fancy ligatures – or any tying at all, for that matter –, but Eren follows the instructions with the same kind of fierce focus he applicates on everything; intense, wholly unnecessary, a little charming.

Eren’s hands are large, haven gotten broader, stronger but remaining unfittingly smooth for a soldier, unblemished, uncalloused, his tan skin a stark contrast to the pristinely white fabric of the cravat, the tendons in his forearms visibly shifting as he carefully works, fully focused, lips slightly parted and slightly pink and slightly slick from always running his tongue over them, and there is really no plausible reason for Levi to notice all these things. He shouldn’t be. Noticing. Anything, at all. But he is, because he has always been too aware of Eren’s – everything, really. Has had to; being the one tasked with the responsibility of surveying an emotionally unstable teenager with the potential for enmity has forged a habit Levi’s never quite managed to break, and he still finds himself locked in on every inane little detail of Eren’s person although it really isn’t necessary anymore.

The skin of his neck starts to warm, just from the close proximity to Eren’s freakish body temperature, the heat seeping through the layers of his skin and deeper, down to his bones, every occasional brush of knuckles against his throat like a brand, and –

He slaps Eren’s hands away.

Eren looks – not crestfallen, exactly, but close. Confused more than anything else, and undeniably a little hurt, and why wouldn’t he be? Here he is, embarrassed and probably a little uncomfortable, trying so hard to be mature about it, respectful in a way he usually isn’t, and gets his help rewarded with a harsh projection he really doesn’t deserve.

“Sorry,” Eren says, very softly, thinking, probably, to have evoked that reaction due to a mistake, and Levi wants, suddenly and viscerally, to yell at him, grab him by the shoulders and shake him for always fucking apologizing; for so easily taking the blame for his bad decisions, because, really, isn’t Levi supposed to be the adult here? Then again, he supposes wanting to physically knock sense into a kid half his age is not a very adult impulse to have.

Well, he can pretend, at least; has gotten enough practice in tempering all the unpleasant parts of himself, repressing and reining in until he can at least superficially seem like an adequately adjusted and fully functioning person. So, he doesn’t grab Eren, and he doesn’t shake him – even when he really, really wants to –, and he doesn’t yell at him, mostly because it would be undeserved but also because it would also be immensely ineffective.

Eren has, empirically, never responded to tough love very well, and Levi is not going to force it upon him, no matter how much his fingers itch to grab him and beat that annoying habit of apologizing out of him. The first and last time he attempted that, it didn’t do anything except make Eren cry, and fuck it all if Levi is ever going to repeat that.

“Don’t be,” he manages to grit out by the skin of his teeth, knowing that he should be the one apologizing but unable to bring himself to.

Eren looks decidedly apologetic, anyway, and Levi can only sigh again.

xx.

Afterwards, Eren doesn’t stop showing up at Levi’s quarters every morning, but he makes the silent yet pointed decision of forgoing the cravat going forward. Levi cannot blame him – is grateful, even, for Eren’s quiet sensibility –, and they don’t talk about it.

xx.

“Ah, shit, Eren–!”

“Sorry, does it hurt badly, sir?”

“No, I’m – hah, fuck – having a great time.”

To his dismay, the sarcasm falls flat with pain straining his vocal cords, making it rather difficult to retain his usual indifferent tone. Eren ducks his head, hair conveniently falling over his eyes, and Levi has the faint suspicion that that was the sole reason he grew it out in the first place.

It has just crossed the fortnight line – only seventeen days, a grand total of nothing, fuck him –, and Hanji insisted on doing some light physical therapy to ensure his muscles didn’t deteriorate from misuse, Levi, that is a grave concern, and they didn’t let themselves be dissuaded even by Levi’s prompt and repeated reassurance that he is decidedly unconcerned. Naturally, they persisted, and because they couldn’t resist being more annoying, they insisted on Eren being the one to help him with it.

(“Why can’t I just do it myself?”

“Would you do it yourself?”

A beat of silence, incriminating. “Can’t you–”

“We both know you wouldn’t let me touch you with a lance.”

And that was that. Levi couldn’t exactly refute that, and he wasn’t keen on explaining that he would rather avoid getting touched by Eren in the near future – or far, or any future, really, after that last debacle –, either, lest Hanji would get suspicious and start asking some profoundly personal questions he wouldn’t know how to answer, so he gave in under the pretence of being too annoyed to keep the conversation going.)

So now they’re here. In his office, because he’d sooner cut off his hand altogether than having anyone see him doing physical therapy, like some invalid. For a mere broken wrist, at that; laughable.

Eren is sitting opposite him – well, next to him, technically, but turned in a way that his whole body is facing Levi, one leg tucked underneath him, strategically keeping the sole of his boot off of the sofa, just barely escaping a reprimand. There is an old, battered medical book perched on his lap, opened at a page illustrated with visibly hand-drawn sketches of cut-open wrists and sinews and tendons, underlined with tiny script elaborating, presumably, the works of wrist joints and how to keep them going, and really, how Eren can pick out anything within that scribbled, smeared mess is beyond him.

They have been going through a cycle of repeating motions, a whole array of exercises designed to prevent muscle deterioration and dexterity decline but mainly managing to hurt like a motherfucker. Every movement, each slow rotation of his wrist, makes Levi acutely aware of the tendons and sinews in his hand, his wrist, grating against the healing bones in a way that has his teeth aching.

Eren is as adroit at this as he is with all medical endeavours, deft and sure, never exerting more pressure than absolutely necessary, and Levi is, yet again, struck by the thought what a shame it is. What a waste, truly, to have such skilled hands misappropriated for fighting, constantly covered in blood when they could be healing instead, make people better. Levi is careful not to say that, though; he wouldn’t want Eren to think his efforts have gone unnoticed or undermined. Even if Eren surely would have been better suited for a less violent life, he is a soldier, through and through. A warrior, a fighter, and Levi would never want to accidentally take away from that.

If Eren is bothered at all by touching him, he is exceptionally skilled at hiding it. That is, of course, bullshit; the kid cannot hide anything, wearing his every emotion plainly across his face. So, the closest logical conclusion would be that he isn’t. Bothered. Which is also bullshit; how come Levi is hyperaware of every point of contact, feeling the warmth of Eren’s fingers even through the thick bandages like a brand, and the brat who blushed so darkly when removing his gear is fine?

Bullshit, a whole lot of it. But that is just his life, isn’t it? A shitload of bullshit, a fuckton of it –

“You’re doing good, Captain,” Eren says, very softly, clearly compromising with the apology etched into every feature of his face as he carefully holds Levi’s wrist in place, pushing his fingers backwards one by one. He’s been doing that – stretching each individual finger – with relentless care and thoroughness, and Levi abruptly remembers Eren’s half-panicked babbling of It’s your trigger hand.

“I’m neither a child nor your lover, Jaeger, I don’t need you to talk me through it,” Levi says back, a little meaner than he reasonably has any right to be. Here, Eren is, helping him, again, trying so hard, and all Levi does is punish him for it. Is he a bad man? Sometimes, when he’s with Eren, he feels like he is.

Except – when Eren blushes, he doesn’t feel even a modicum of gratification, not a shred of amusement. Instead, nonsensically, his throat goes a little dry, and he can feel his palms getting sweaty, which is disgusting, first and foremost, and decisively unadvisable, too, considering that Eren is still holding onto one of his hands, and fuck, he really doesn’t want to get his sweat on Eren –

Eren relaxes his hold on his hand so abruptly, Levi startles with the sudden lack of something supporting its weight. He blinks; first down at Eren’s hand not-quite curled around his wrist, then up at Eren’s face. Eren blinks back.

“What,” he asks blandly.

“I – uh,” Eren says, stops. Wets his lips, and the brat really needs to adopt another nervous habit. Anything would be preferable, so long as it doesn’t involve running his tongue over his lips like that. “I thought you were gonna – you got that, um, look. On your face. I didn’t want to agitate your injury, so I thought I’d – y’know.”

Never mind that Eren was trying to make it easier for him to pull away – always so considerate, isn’t he, the little fucker, so much so to spare Levi the indignity of even saying it out loud –, apparently the brat whom he’s been reading like a children’s book can read him back, and that is terrible news. Horrible, horrid, horrendous fucking news, and he honestly should yank his hand back. Should’ve done it before Eren could even see it on his face; better yet, never should’ve allowed Eren to take his hand in the first place.

“But I didn’t,” Levi says, rather pointlessly, and doesn’t pull his hand from Eren’s like he really ought to.

“No,” Eren whispers back, lifting his head enough to dislodge the hair covering half his face. His eyes are bright when they lock with Levi’s, even in the dim light of the early evening, and Levi acutely wishes his hair was in the way again. “You didn’t.”

He says it like it means something, to him, in a way so sincere, it is difficult for Levi to comprehend. Hard to grasp something he doesn’t understand, doesn’t know the shape and weight of, so he opts to let it slip through his fingers instead of trying to hold onto it, because it’s easier.

xx.

Physical therapy turns, to Levi’s never-ending chagrin, into a regular occurrence.

He should’ve known, should have seen it coming from miles away, that if he agreed once, it would be taken as general permission to continue.

Every evening after dinner, Eren will follow him to his office, unasked, plop down on the battered sofa and hold out a hand in silent demand for Levi’s. And Levi – he doesn’t protest, because no amount of lamenting would be enough to dissuade Eren Jaeger when he’s decided on being a stubborn bastard, but he does make sure to roll his eyes before surrendering his injured wrist and letting Eren do what he wants, anyway.

The sessions are, blessedly, silent, only disrupted by harsh exhales whenever his wrist is jostled in a way that makes it hard to bite down on outward signs of pain or Eren’s voice, quietly giving instructions or explanations on what he is going to do.

It’s – honestly not that bad, Levi can admit that much. Eren’s company is always pleasant, even more so when he’s focused on something besides annoying him relentlessly, and the exercises, albeit painful, are helping. Thought they leave him sore for a few hours afterwards, it is noticeably easier to rotate his wrist and curl his fingers than before.

“The swelling has subsided considerably and the bruises have started to fade, too,” Eren notes with almost clinical precision. “The range of movement has improved, as well. If we continue like we’ve been going, I think you won’t even have to wait the full six weeks – what?”

At first, Levi’s confused as to why Eren interrupted himself, but then, horrifyingly, he realizes that he’s smiling. Disgusting. Biting down harshly on the inside of his cheek, only content when he feels the corners of his mouth flattening out and tasting iron on his tongue, he waves his free hand in a hopefully dismissive gesture.

“Nothing,” he says, unconvincingly. “You would have made for a good doctor, is all.”

Expectedly, Eren scrunches up his nose at that, not looking offended but not appearing particularly pleased, either.

“I’ll have you know that I would be terrible,” he says, with emphasis, though it is very hard to believe when he’s in the midst of rebandaging Levi’s wrist with such effortless finesse that would have the people in the med bay red in the face from shame.

Levi scoffs, somehow unable to let the self-deprecation go. “You’ve been quite adept, as far as I'm concerned.”

“Yeah, because it concerned you,” Eren says, making a derisive noise. “That’s different.”

Levi doesn’t know what to say to that, not sure what is so different about him and unsure whether he wants to find out, so he opts for saying nothing.

xx.

“Maybe we could go for a walk–”

“We’ve just been this morning.”

“Alright, another sparring match, then–”

“Cut it, Eren.”

Eren does cut it, though he doesn’t look happy about it. Why would he, when all his suggestions get shut down so ruthlessly? It’s not like Levi doesn’t appreciate his efforts, and he knows he isn’t being fair with his snarling, but he cannot help it. He’s been cooped up in his office for the past few days, restless and drained all at once, his mind a mess and his body high-strung from piled-up frustrations.

“Sorry,” Levi says curtly, not really understanding why he even feels the need to apologize, when usually, he is decisively, deliberately unapologetic. This whole ordeal has really frayed his nerves until they’re barely hanging on by a thread, making him both more lenient and more snappish than usual. “Just – annoyed. Pent-up.”

To emphasize, he lifts his right hand from where it was resting limply and uselessly on his desk, hoping to demonstrate his misery to make for an adequate explanation for his piss-poor mood. There’s really no pretending anymore that he is handling this in any way gracefully. The usual bullshit stoicism veneer is difficult to upkeep when he’s constantly, incessantly, increasingly annoyed.

Eren’s eyes widen, the tips of his ears turning a little red, and he bites his lip as he comes to an entirely false conclusion – of course, the kid would misunderstand.

Before he even has the opportunity to set it straight and explain that pent-up doesn’t automatically mean horny, Jaeger, get your head out of the fucking gutter, Eren pre-empts him.

“I could, uh… help. With that. Too. Sir,” he says, haltingly, as if taking extra consideration with every word, conversationally treading around landmines. “Releasing – relieving – stress. If you – not that you need it! Not that you want it, either. Fuck, what am I even saying?”

Levi can do nothing but stare, hardly anything of Eren’s embarrassed babbling registering after I could help.

Who would have thought the kid had it in him? Not that Levi should be so surprised – Eren has always had a penchant for being stupidly, suicidally fucking bold. Impertinent, reckless, more of a doer than a thinker, head through the wall and deal with the hole later. This, too, is probably just one of these things Eren blurts out with his famously missing-in-action brain-to-mouth filter, not even thinking of the implications, the problems, the consequences.

Levi should just laugh and brush him off. Should honestly slap him across his pretty fucking face for even suggesting giving him a hand. Offering to jerk off his superior officer could get Eren into more trouble than he’s probably aware of and the brat is lucky that it’s only Levi who has never really cared as much about propriety as he pretends to.

“Are you offering a hand to all your superior officers that got hurt?” Levi asks, although he really should not. Shouldn’t ask anything, shouldn’t probe further, shouldn’t encourage this conversation to go on. Should have immediately cleared up the misunderstanding the second he saw that stupidly transparent look of embarrassment, and then he maybe should have lectured Eren about wearing his every thought so blatantly across his face.

Should, most definitely, punish him for the insubordination, not entertain this.

But he does. He is, because – well, there aren’t too many opportunities to inquire about topics like this, and he’s curious, against his better judgement.

“What? No!” Eren says back empathically, explosively, almost comically offended at the notion, not at all befitting someone who has done exactly what they’re so outraged about not a full minute ago.

“Then why are you offering now?”

It’s a mean question, one that cannot be answered in any way that wouldn’t be embarrassing at best and utterly incriminating at worst, and maybe Levi is cruel for asking it, but he thinks it is fair enough.

“I just thought I could… help.”

For fuck’s sake. It takes a considerable amount of mental fortitude not to bang his head against the closest surface.

“For the last time, it was not your fault–”

“Wasn’t it?”

The interjection is sharp, almost sharp enough to cut through Levi’s bullshit excuses. Almost.

“No,” Levi says, commendably firm despite the bitter taste of dishonesty clinging to the word. “And if you took my wrist and broke it with your bare hands, I would never make you–”

He cannot even say it, nearly shuddering at the mere notion of it. Only partly out of disgust, tragically. The thought of ordering – making – Eren lend him a hand in this, too, as if he hasn’t already been helpful enough. Too helpful, actually, so much so that Levi will have a hard time getting used to doing things himself again when he’ll be able to, which is definitely cause for concern.

“No, that’s not–” Eren cuts himself off sharply, huffing out a frustrated breath. “I’m not offering because I feel guilty. Although – yes, I do feel guilty, obviously I do, but I’d never offer – and I know you would never accept something like that, anyway, don’t get me wrong, I know you’re not that kind of person–”

“Eren.”

“…yes, sir.”

“You’re blathering.”

“Yes, sir,” Eren says, audibly forcing his voice to steady again. He straightens up a little, subconsciously falling into attention, shoulders squared and back straight. It makes him a good bit taller, too, and Levi will have to whack him over the back of the head later for making himself smaller around him. With unrelenting determination but a little calmer than before, he says, states, “I’m offering because I want to.”

Somehow, it feels like this shouldn’t surprise Levi. The proposition, the confession, the admission. Thing is, it does surprise him, he never would have seen this coming, and he feels all the more wrong-footed for it.

It’s not even that he’s stunned at the bluntness of the proposition – at this point, he is hardly surprised by anything that leave’s this brazen young man’s mouth –, but the fact that there is a proposition at all. That there is, assumedly, an underlying feeling of attraction – because there must be, right, otherwise Eren probably wouldn’t have offered, even if it were merely rudimentary and superficial. Even with his need to be helpful, he wouldn’t –

Wouldn’t he?

Eren’s always been – eager to please, for a lack of better words. Especially for –

It’s not like Levi wasn’t aware of it, before, in a vague, detached sort of way. That Eren has – that he is – used to be – well. Eren isn’t subtle, is the thing, and he wears his sleeves rolled down, heart on it and everything, and he’s a shit liar and frighteningly easy to read, and Levi may be socially inept but he isn’t blind, so he might have been aware, might have known of Eren’s past little crush on him, but he’s made a habit of so vehemently refusing to acknowledge it that he can barely think the words, juvenile as they sound in his head.

Levi has made a point in ignoring it, not engaging with it in fear of accidentally encouraging it beyond an irreparable level. Didn’t want to – he’s actually not quite sure what he wanted to accomplish with it, considering that he started shovelling his grave when he didn’t immediately and definitely draw a line the moment he felt Eren’s eyes starting to linger for a little too long. It would have been the wise, the responsible thing to do; recognise a spark and stomp it out before it can escalate into a wildfire. Especially with Eren, who has always burned that much more easily, fiery and fierce in everything he does, everything he is.

Levi just thought it would – blow over. With some more exposure to his decidedly unlikable self, the illusion of whatever war hero propaganda the military spoon-feeds the populus would shatter, and the brightness in Eren’s eyes every time he looks at him would dim in due time. It always does, in cases such as these; Eren is hardly the first wide-eyed soldier to project misplaced feelings of affection onto him, and he sure as hell will not be the last. He thought it already did blow over, because – alright, maybe Eren’s eyes never dimmed, and maybe the transparent admiration he’s held for Levi since he was a snot-nosed kid has not diminished at all, but – there’s definitely been a shift.

Somewhen, Levi’s not sure when, though he suspects it was around the time he started to allow Eren to treat his injuries without complaining, the way Eren looked at him changed, from overblown infatuation to – something else. Something less; less heated, less intense.

Stupidly, naïvely, he believed that to be the end of Eren’s misguided affections.

Apparently, the bastard just learned how to hide it better.

He really fucked himself over with this one. Both figuratively and literally, apparently, hell.

It’s been quiet for too long, and Levi really should say something, anything, but as always, Eren is faster than him.

“Am I not,” he starts to say, and immediately cuts himself off. There is that little frown again, the one always tugging at his mouth whenever he is about to say something juvenile while fully aware it’s juvenile but incapable of expressing it any other way. It’s the same one he wore when he asked, quiet and chastised, Are you mad at me? which is really not a good preset for whatever he’s about to say.

There are a lot of ways he could finish that sentence, a lot of different things he could be asking, and Levi is pretty sure he doesn’t want to hear any of them. Much less answer whatever thing that has Eren all self-conscious, because that will surely end in disaster.

“Attractive,” Eren manages to bite out, the word shaky, unsteady as it leaves his mouth, and Levi was right. He didn’t want to hear that; doesn’t want to answer that, because Eren is –

Alright, Levi may have a bad eye but he isn’t blind, it’s just an objective truth, a mere observation of fact that Eren is – well.

At some indefinite point in time, or maybe over multiple points, stretched out over the years, gradual and slow, Eren grew up. Grew, arguably more importantly, into himself; grew into features that were mere indications a few years ago, grew into his body. Grew literally, too, so much that Levi has to crane his neck dramatically to look up at him, the little fucker. The awkward scrawniness from adolescence has abated, slowly, and then disappeared all at once; overnight, it feels like, now that Levi is looking at him and barely able to recall what Eren used to look like when he was a recruit. He thinks he remembers softness – round eyes, round lines – but he can’t reconciliate it with Eren’s face, all hard lines and sharp angles, cutting, striking.

Not merely good-looking, but – well.

Well.

So much so that every description feels like a gross understatement, no word comes even close, so Levi has actively, purposefully, never tried to find the right one. Not only because he’s shit at words, but also – mainly, mostly – because searching for a word would be tantamount to admitting that he does find Eren attractive, that he may even be attracted, that he honestly wouldn’t mind having Eren’s hand around his cock, or Eren’s mouth, or Eren’s anything, that –

– that he’s fucked. Utterly, stupidly, fucked, because where he should feel appalled, he feels – well, something other than that. Something he definitely should not be feeling towards his subordinate who is also a decade younger than him, yet no amount of rationalizing and self-reproach and reminding of the consequences manages to rescind the realization now that it has been made.

In this moment of startling clarity, the realization seems kind of belated, actually, and he really should have been aware of it a lot sooner. Like, shit, years ago, probably, and Levi feels the untimely urge to laugh. At himself, mostly – because, really, how emotionally stunted can one man be? –, and at the situation as a whole – because it is fucking absurd, isn’t it, sitting here and having Eren honest to god question himself after he’s offered to jerk him off and being so heartbreakingly, gut-wrenchingly sincere about it that it has Levi questioning his own sanity, and it really cannot get any more ridiculous than this –, and maybe at Eren, too, because the brat has shit taste in men, apparently.

Evidently. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be here, proposing –

“You are,” he says, although he probably shouldn’t, should probably just keep his mouth shut, or should maybe yell a little bit, actually, at the absolutely inappropriate proposition, should be outraged at mere notion that he would ever engage in something like this. But he doesn’t. Because he isn’t. He isn’t appalled, he’s not even slightly disgusted; if anything, he is disgustingly tempted, for a multitude of reasons, and while he cannot say so, he can’t have Eren think he’s anything less than – beautiful; prepossessing, pulchritudinous, and a whole range of other stupidly pretentious words. “Attractive, that is.”

It’s a rather weak attempt at reassurance, clumsy and stilted, in that very specific Levi-way that is not really reassuring at all – too blunt, and too monotone, and too everything people usually dislike about him. To his utter mortification, Eren blushes, bright and undeniable, up to his roots and down to his neck, making him look even warmer, even sweeter, and Levi kind of wants to reach out and touch his face and see whether he feels as warm as he looks, and fuck, how has Levi never noticed before –

“But that’s not the point,” he says, forcibly snapping himself out of it before he can do something stupid. “Whether you’re – that’s not the problem here.”

“Then what is the problem?” Eren has the audacity to ask that, as if there weren’t a whole plethora of them.

“Well, for one–”

“Don’t even start with the age thing, because I don’t care.” And Eren sounds like he means it, too, like the question of their truly severe age difference is nothing more than an afterthought for him. Maybe it is. Maybe, for Eren, who signed his life away to the military at age twelve and had to take on the burden of being humanity’s saviour before he even finished puberty, age simply doesn’t matter in the grander scheme of things.

“Alright, for two–”

“The power dynamic thing doesn’t work, either, Levi.”

Levi clicks his mouth shut wordlessly, too stunned at the use of his first name to even come up with an adequate response. Shuts his eyes, too, for good measure, not sure whether he can bear to look at Eren any longer without faltering. Remaining steadfast and unwavering is imperative in dealing with the bull-headed determination of Eren’s calibre; any crack in composure, no matter how minimal, may very well be misinterpreted as assent, as agreement. Or, worse, it’s going to be interpreted correctly, which is not something Levi can allow to happen, or he will never get Eren to let go of this little obsession of his.

Then again, if Eren hasn’t let go of it for all these years, even after witnessing the countless failures Levi has bloodied his hands with, then maybe he never will. It’s already been, what, five years, and yet, the way Eren looks at him hasn’t changed. Maybe it has lessened in intensity, but not in sincerity, and Levi knows, viscerally and inherently, that each attempt at talking sense into Eren would only result in him latching on more firmly.

“…you’re sure this is not a guilt-induced overreaction because I broke my wrist for you?”

“So you admit it’s my fault!” Eren sounds more triumphant than morose, too emboldened to have been proven right. It’s honestly a lot more bearable than the unneeded guilt thing, so Levi lets the smugness slide for once.

“As if I’d ever get hurt for anybody else,” Levi mutters, and that’s – too honest, probably. Too raw an admission; a confession he wasn’t even fully aware he had to give until approximately ten minutes ago. If the abrupt reoccurrence of that horrible, horrible blush is anything to go by, Eren understands the words as the monumental admission they are, and – Levi’s really done it now. So much for not yielding. “I’m still not going to let you jerk me off, though.”

“I can suck you off, if you prefer.”

“…Fuck me.”

“Yeah, I could do that, too–”

“Fucking hell, Jaeger,” Levi says, because there really is nothing else to say. Well, except – “Where have you gotten all that fucking bravado from?”

Eren grins at him, one-sided and much too sweet for a guy who’s well within punching distance.

“From the fact that you haven’t kicked me out yet. From the fact that my nose is unbroken. From the fact that you’re still entertaining me, instead of just shutting me down,” he says, slow and pointed, demonstratively counting down the reasons on his fingers and taking a step closer with each one as if to prove the truth of them until he’s rounded the desk and stopped directly in front of Levi.

Levi’s eyes are stuck on staring at these fingers, loathsome, knowing there is nothing he can say to disprove or deny. Even deflecting won’t work, this time, they’ve already long passed the point of return.

It isn’t like Eren’s wrong, either; if Levi really wanted to end this conversation, he would have done so already. Would have kicked Eren out of the office – most likely would have kicked Eren, in the head or in the chest or in the shin or all three in quick succession. Were it literally anyone else, Levi would have.

But he didn’t, because it’s Eren.

“I’m not going to let you jerk me off,” he says again, and with each repetition, the initial firmness wavers a little more.

“Hm, that’s fine,” Eren says, undeterred, and then he fucking drops on his knees in front of Levi’s armchair with such fluidity, Levi briefly wonders how many times he’s already done this. “There are other things I can do.”

“Eren–”

Whatever feeble attempt at reasoning curls up on his tongue and fucking dies the moment Eren’s large hands place themselves gingerly on his thighs. Levi has to resist the urge to press them together like some virgin, though it’s close.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Eren says, sincere. It’s certainly cunning, offering to stop instead of asking for permission, knowing damn well that Levi couldn’t give it with good conscience.

Though Levi is widely considered the acme of strength and self-restraint, even he has limits and he’s pretty sure he’s just reached them. Who can blame him, having humanity’s saviour on his knees for him, looking up at him with those fucking eyes, all entreating and earnest, practically begging for it, and Levi is not the good person Eren probably thinks he is, and he is selfish, at heart, and only a man, at the end of the day. A weak, foolish man.

And Eren is already sliding his hands further up his thighs, unhurried but no less unambiguous for it. His thumbs drag along the seams of Levi’s uniform trousers, along the inside of Levi’s thighs, digging them in a little more the further up he goes. Eren’s touch is gentle, which is both surprising – Levi’s seen the brat break all kinds of expensive equipment because he forgot to regulate his preternatural strength – and not surprising in the slightest – Eren is the most tender-hearted person Levi’s ever met –, and the combination shouldn’t work, but it does, because it’s Eren.

That seems to be his reasoning for a lot of things, recently. Allowing someone to fuss and fret over him, rejoining to all sorts of insubordinate little acts with leniency and humour instead of his usual harshness, not only tolerating but actively subjecting himself to incessant chattering – all because it’s Eren.

Eren, who uses his hands, capable of and responsible for so much destruction, for tending to Levi’s wounds instead, for physical therapy, for touching Levi so heart-wrenchingly tenderly. Eren, who blushes from the most innocent, asinine things and then turns around to offer a handy with the insouciance of a seasoned whore.

Eren, who is dead serious about sucking him off, apparently.

No, absolutely fucking not, he can’t –

Well. He could. Very easily so. Pathetically easy, in fact, it would hardly be a hardship to – but he won’t.

Not like this.

“Eren, stop,” Levi bites out, detesting himself a little that it takes so much effort to press the words past his teeth.

The immediacy with which Eren stills is almost a little funny. The way his eyes widen, a visible flash of panic crossing his features, is decidedly less funny.

“I’m–”

“Don’t,” Levi snaps, not in any mood to hear another slew of undeserved apologies, and Eren obediently shuts his mouth, looking more sheepish than embarrassed, which is a small mercy; Levi doesn’t think he could take the kicked puppy eyes right now without folding like a damn paper plane. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing out a breath he himself doesn’t know is more exasperated or resigned. “Is this how you kids do it nowadays? Straight to sucking dick? At least kiss me first or something.”

Understanding dawns on Eren, replacing the brief instant of panic, and then his face splits in a grin so bright, it makes it hard to look at him. Yet, Levi doesn’t look away. Can’t – couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Fuck, maybe he’ll never be able to look away from this brat again, and that is certainly going to bite him in the ass at some point down the line, but he’ll be damned if he worries about that now.

Not when Eren is already rising up on his knees, hands leaving Levi’s body to place themselves strategically on the armrests of the chair instead, effectively caging him in. He seems to find great enjoyment in that fact, leaning forward and forcing Levi to press himself against the chair to avoid collision.

“Is that an order, sir?”

Levi very barely refrains from grimacing at the use of formalities, unwilling to accidentally give the wrong impression. Eren probably thinks he’s being sexy – and maybe it would be, to other people. To the sort of people who get off on pulling rank and exploiting their authority, having a pretty young thing on their knees calling them ‘sir’ without as much as prompting would probably be a wet dream come true. To Levi, however, it’s like jabbing a finger into a barely scabbed-over wound and ripping it open. Rubbing salt into it and pouring alcohol over it, for good measure.

“It’s a request,” he corrects, very softly, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.

Instantaneously, whatever bravado Eren scraped together for that line melts away, salacious smirk softening into a sweet, sheepish smile, an infinitely better look on him than the bullshit seductress act.

For some reason, Levi would have thought – not that he ever thought of kissing Eren until ten minutes ago, but if he had, hypothetically, then he would have assumed it to be a messy affair. Hard, bruising, aggressive, even, as Eren is not exactly known for his self-restraint and patience; Levi just assumed it would translate in all aspects of his life, as well. Clearly, he doesn’t know shit, because what he gets instead when Eren bridges the last scant distance between them is the slightest brush of lips against his own, barely any pressure there at all, almost chaste in its softness. It is so sweet, Levi can practically feel his teeth aching from it.

And then Eren pulls back, face flushed a deeper red than even the most excruciating of drills have managed to coax forth. Awfully bashful for someone who was about to take cock in his mouth, looking a bit too awed for Levi’s taste.

“You call that a kiss?” It’s not meant to be condescending – or, well, it is, but only so much to evoke a reaction, incite some of the fire Levi knows is simmering behind those startingly earnest eyes. Anything to displace that sweet, starstruck look on Eren’s face. Anything to distract himself from the warmth unfurling beneath his sternum, threatening to burn all reason and restraint.

Never one to disappoint, Eren bristles immediately. “Fucking excuse me for lacking the experience to fit your standards, sir, I’ll try to do better next time.”

Finally finding his voice and immediately going for sarcasm and cursing, Levi almost feels proud.

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching against his will, and then the words – the implications behind them – register, and the smile drops before it can even fully form. All previous thoughts of teasing and taunting are gone in an instant, replaced by a profound sense of exasperation that has him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t tell you were going to suck a cock before even having your first kiss.”

At that, Eren has the decency to look abashed, shrinking back into himself a little and flush darkening incriminatingly, which is honestly answer enough, but he nods, anyway.

“That’s an exceptionally moronic thing to do, I hope you’re aware,” Levi says, and although he’s rarely been more serious, he can feel something sticky and sweet and suborning rise up in his throat, closing it and clogging it up. Ill-advised, really, to be charmed by such stupidity, but then again, it’s Eren, and even his foolishness is sweet in its own way.

“…yes, sir.”

And Eren looks on the verge of needlessly apologizing again, so Levi shelves the – very well deserved – chastising for another time. A time where he doesn’t have humanity’s last hope on his knees between his thighs, looking embarrassed and endearing.

“Let me get you up to standard, then.”

Before Eren can even open his mouth to voice the obvious confusing already knitting his eyebrows together – already forgot his own words, did he, though he’s going to get reminded shortly –, Levi hooks his uninjured arm around Eren’s neck and pulls him in again. It’s impatient, a little too harsh, more yanking than gently guiding, but Eren doesn’t seem to mind very much, letting himself be pulled in without a complaint.

This time, when their mouths meet – crash together, more accurately –, it’s more along the lines of Levi’s initial conjecture; hard, wild, unconstrained, more a clash of desperate urgency than anything else. Although it is rather obvious that Eren wasn’t lying about his lack of experience, he makes up for it with double the enthusiasm. His hands leave the armrests to splay wide across Levi’s ribcage, mouth opening unhesitatingly before Levi even has the chance to coax it open. Endlessly endeared by the eagerness and hopelessly helpless against it, he darts out his tongue to run it along Eren’s lower lip, over Eren’s teeth, mapping out his entire mouth and relishing in the breathless sounds he gets for his efforts.

Not being able to do much with his right hand feels both like a curse and a blessing; fuck knows what he would do to this sweet boy were it working properly. Unspeakable, unforgivable things, he’s sure.

When they part, Levi is breathless, which is bullshit; when was the last time he felt out of breath? Years ago, maybe even decades; running for his life and fighting man-eating monster hasn’t gotten him short of breath. Though, he supposes it’s reasonable enough after having his soul nearly sucked out through his mouth. At least Eren is panting, too, making him feel marginally better.

“Can I suck you off now?”

“You really take the whole hand, don’t you.”

“I’d rather take your cock, to be honest.”

“Incorrigible brat–”