Chapter Text
"May flowers grow in the saddest parts of you."
Levi can pinpoint them for certain: the exact three moments where he knew Hanji Zoe was depressed.
The first happens on a seemingly chill afternoon. They both had set themselves into organizing Erwin's office, and he had gone made some tea for them to drink.
Bang. Bang. CRASH!
A thumping noise, followed by the clink of shattered glass, invades the empty hallways. His eyes shoot open at the explosion; the hairs on the back of his neck standing up sharp.
It was them; he was sure.
It was Hanji.
He barges in without a word, knocking the door down with the heel of his foot. Worry pulsates in his veins— is etched to every inch of his face. Having been on this situation with them over the years before doesn’t concern him any less. Actually, it’s quite the opposite.
"Goddamn it, Four Eyes."
They've pulled out a drawer to the floor, and there's a mess of spilled-out papers that followed. It appears, the ruckus caused a vase to fall down of the desk— pieces of porcelain sprinkled over the carpet.
"Aaaagh!", their screams fill in the silence. They clean their nose with their wrists, then charge up to the desk once more. This time, it's Erwin's small oil-lamp the one that smashes into a million tiny figments.
"Hey!"
Levi rushes over to them, with his fists locked tight and a knot tied in his stomach. He holds them from behind, keeping their arms close to their body in one swift, singular move.
"Hanji.", he calls out; his voice firm, yet soft, quiet. They’re about to throw something to the floor once more, and he wraps them to his chest, almost as if he’s determined to prevent them from doing it.
"Hey, hey, look at me, okay...?"
Each scarp of them shakes against him; their breath caught inside their throat. They have hurt themselves, too lost in their fit of rage to ever think straight. It’s the first thing Levi notices, when he takes a look at their hands, searching for sings of any wounds or cuts. Shy drops of red are dotting over the porcelain, — mix in with the golden that had once glued it back together.
“Hey...”, he repeats, hugging them with all the love that he’s capable of. He recalls that old tradition that they had told him of, where people would mend their broken cups with threads of gold. They had cracked up Erwin’s vase on accident, that one time they were talking too excitedly, moving their hands up in the air. Of course, they couldn’t fix it with liquid golden, the Corps just didn’t have that kind of money. Still, he remembers, they were rushing to the markets the next day, digging in every stand there was until they could find cement.
“Besides being extremely practical”, they’d said. He was there with them on their lab, their hands wet and full of clay. “It also represents the beauty that lays in imperfection.”
Levi had nodded, and watched as their fingers moved, almost like they could float. He finds it ironic now, how crimson scatters over the gold. It seems to him, maybe that’s just how fragile life is. There’s beauty in painful things, and no pain can be felt for long without beauty ever preceding it.
“Please.”, he begs. His breaths come in ragged puffs of air; his tone raspy and tired. It’s uncommon for him to speak with such gentleness. His words usually turn out rough, harsher than he intends to. He doesn’t know what’s gotten in him now, that he talks to Hanji like they’re made of glass, lighter than a rolling cloud. “Look at me, I’m here.”
They let themselves fall to their knees. Their hair’s a mess, with sweat gathered in their bangs; their face stinging a bright shade of red. They hate that they’re transparent, clear as day. That they can’t guard their anger from the world, much less from Levi, of all people.
“Why…?”, they sob, barely audible. A tear stains their cheek, followed by one and then another. They had once been like this; a young soldier full of anguish. It feels strange to them now, going back to that kid who kicks stuff, and points at life like it’s cursed. It had taken so many years to burn their rage into purpose! To bury down their madness, just to build it up into thirst, instead. They never intended for anyone to see this side of them. Never wanted to unravel the wild thunder that they were.
“Why did he do it…?”
Levi tells them nothing. They don’t need to spell it out for him— hell, they don’t even need to make a sound. He’s aching just the same. A portion of him feels like the question should be aimed at him, and not towards Erwin. It was his choice the one to lead them here, in the end. The bits of porcelain dusting the floor, the blood on Hanji’s hands, he can’t help but blame himself for it— at the very least, partially.
“He made the right decision”, he says, then, against his sense of much better judgement. He’s aware it’s not what Hanji would have wished to hear, but it’s true. He’d never been a part of the equation, anyways. If it had to be between them and him, it had to be them. It could have never been otherwise. He was awkward, and a sappy old grump who frowned at the world. Hanji, on the other hand, was smart— much smarter than him. And kind. Like sunbeams bouncing off one’s cheeks. “We know this already.”
They nod, and allow for a short breath to come out their nose. Little there is of the once mighty Commander, or even the fierce scientist who’d be scared of nothing. Now, they’ve melted into a puddle of sobs and tremors. A bunch of broken pieces that only Levi’s arms can hold together.
“You see...”, they sigh at him, sweeping a brown lock off their forehead. The last drops of daylight reflect on shattered glass, and it almost seems like they’re the living part of a mosaic. “I’m a freakshow, and juvenile, and none of these officers takes me seriously, and…”, they pause. “How am I supposed to do this…?”
Levi gulps. He’s right there on the floor with them, as if he was a heavy blanket they could cover themselves up with. His knees scrape against shards and splinters, but he doesn’t care. There, as he uses his frame as best he can to tower over Hanji, he realizes, he’s just as flawed. Just as cracked-up as they are.
“I don’t think you’re meant to know.”, he offers. They’re doing a great job, regardless— though this, he doesn’t say. It’s only been three weeks, but they’re already signing off papers, attending meetings that stretch long into ungodly hours. He wishes he could do more than that, actually. That he could take their place in some of the military gatherings— maybe even punch a few higher-ups that usually frown at everything they say, too.
“I wouldn’t have as much patience to handle Nile’s bullshit to begin with.”
That seems to make them laugh a little.
“No shit.”, they assure him. And when they talk, Levi can hear the smile, camouflaged between the snot and the sniffles. “I bet you could never.”
He gives them a light squeeze on the shoulders, then lets his palms cling to their warmth. Hanji used to be strong, unapologetic. Like the hot winds during a summer storm. He can’t tolerate to watch them like this; weak, small. Almost as if they’ve become nothing but drizzle.
“C’mon”, he helps them stand up from the carpet, with his hands under their arms and his legs guiding theirs. Their uniform’s wrinkled, speckled by tiny spots of glass; their hair torn and unkept. It makes his chest ache, the fact that they look a wreck, and all too shrunk into their jacket. He kind of feels like he’s about to be sick about it. “I say we better go check that the brats haven’t burnt down the kitchen.”
Hanji stares at the floor.
“But what about…?”, they cut themselves short. The room’s graced with cracked-up porcelain, and gold paint splotched over with blood. It’s quite as though a tornado has turned it on its axis. Or like an earthquake tore it to the core. “I made a mess…”
Levi shrugs. It’s the first time in a while that he doesn’t mind it much. All he knows, is that he wants the sad in their eyes to fade. That, if he has to, he’ll glue all their broken traces back together, — shade their fragments with liquid gold.
“Hm, we’ll figure it out later.”, he says, as he opens the door up to the hallways. “Now, stop with all the whining and bring your ass out to the diner.”
The second moment takes place a week after. They had gone visit Moblit’s parents at Trost District, and are now both returning to headquarters.
He had taken care of the task of retrieving his belongings, then putting them into boxes. Hanji had offered to do it themselves, but he had insisted. He just couldn’t bear seeing them be as upset as they were while cleaning Erwin’s office.
They had handled it quite well— being at Moblit’s home, though. Not that they stayed for too long, anyways. The house was pretty nice, too; a square, two-floored cabin with a small kitchen and a round table to sit at.
“God, I hate this, I hate this, I hate this.”, they’d said, once they knew they were only a few blocks away. They had no clue what they’d tell his parents, or how could they be so shameless to even come at their door. After all, Moblit had died for them, — for a cause that was still too complex to explain. How could they look at them in the eyes? Their one son had given up his life, just so that they could live theirs, instead. It was suffocating. “I swear, Jeez, I’m about to throw up.”
Levi’d huffed, then glanced at them over his shoulder. They were on their horses, sorting their way through the winding streets and market stalls. Some people would greet them, others would point at them and whisper things in timid voices. Whichever it was, it only but made him heavily uncomfortable.
“Calm down.”, he’d asked. “If you’re gonna puke, at least do it before they let us in.”
Now, the stables fuzz behind a thin layer of fog; sun slightly peering through the clouds and rain. Moblit’s parents had been kind and gentle, just like he was. Levi’d let Hanji do the talking, though. After all, he was only there for moral support, anyways.
It had gone well, pleasant— being there, the four of them in the kitchen. At least, pleasant as it could be. It was never easy to deliver this type of news, — no matter how many times one had to do it. Some families would stay silent, accept life’s own, human fragility, harsh as it was. Others would insult the Corps, call them “suicidal maniacs”, even curse the day their daughter or son decided to join.
Moblit’s parents had been somewhere in the middle of both.
“Your son was magnificent.”, said Hanji. They took a different approach when it came to this sort of things. Erwin would have gone a more formal, military route, but they couldn’t care less about it, really. They were never one to follow the protocols to begin with. Levi liked what they did way more, as well. There was no “this soldier dedicated their heart for our cause”, or any of that bullshit. They made sure to make it personal. To tell how great someone was at cooking, or to go in full-detail about how neat and on point their reports were.
“He could often get a bit hysterical, not gonna lie”, they’d added, as they took a seat at the table. The hints of a smile brushed the corners of their lips, made their eyes soften from behind their glasses. “But that was probably on me, you know?”
Moblit’s mom smiled back at them. She had read all about it, on the occasional letters Moblit would send their way; one per birth of season. It was nice to finally meet “Crazy Section Commander” and the “mighty Captain” he was so intimidated by. Levi had to give her his props, too; — turns out, she’d served them some of the best tea he’d ever had.
“You alright?”, he goes. He’s helping Hanji get off their horse; his already behind the gates. They seem calmer now that they’re alone, and they don’t have to deal with Moblit’s mom’s tears, or his dad’s ever-lasting quietness. Back in the kitchen, they had talked about the time a titan almost eats them, and he’d had a breakdown trying to save them. Or about that boring afternoon, where they’d asked him to draw a portrait of them, and they’d spent the entire evening making silly faces for him.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Levi nods, and takes their hand in his to keep them balanced. He’d seen their expression morph through a wide range of emotions all along, attentive as he was, one anecdote after another. From rage to anguish, from joy to nostalgia. They were an easy read, an open book, clear as the blue skies. As if they were a piece of stained glass, and one could see right through every color, every trace, every line.
They sure had been brave. Oh, so much braver than he ever was.
He looks down, there where their fingers meet, still. It doesn’t take him long to notice that there’s a certain roughness under his palm. The familiar feeling of scar tissue that has yet to get formed. He recalls exactly how they did this, when they threw Erwin’s vase off his desk, a few days ago. Going by mere logic, the wound should be healed, — have its hues of pinks and whites. Instead, though, the skin has been covered in spots of dark, burgundy red, all but spluttered by a sheen yellow edge.
It makes him instantly worried.
“Shit, Four Eyes.”
Their hand’s infected.
The next moment, he’s flinging them over his shoulder like they’re a sack of potatoes, taking them straight to the infirmary. He doesn’t even care if one of the kids just so happens to see.
“You know how this goes, huh.”, he warns them, once he’s set them down on the gurney. He prepares a few cotton swabs, then soaks them all up in iodine. “This might just hurt a little, so hold still and—”
“OWWWWW, FUUUUCK! LEEEEVIII, WHY WOULD YOU—?! FUCKFUCKFUCK!”
He bites the inside of his cheek. Serves them right for not properly dressing up their wounds, but also for every time they’d teased him while cleaning his own.
“Chill out.”, he rolls his eyes at them. He has no idea how they’ve gotten into this, — this odd habit of keeping track of each other’s scars. But he likes it, though. A lot more than what should be considered normal, actually.
If pressed hard enough, he can recall exactly when it all began. It had been way back, about a year after his first expedition. Hanji’d treated him like he was another one of their test subjects. And he’d gotten back at them right after, enjoying himself too much whenever he’d stitch them up and make them curse.
His opinion on them hadn’t changed much, if he was being honest. They were just as messy, just as awkward and unhinged. They also happened to be just as oblivious as to forget to bandage their own cuts and gashes, as well.
“It’s your fault for doing a shitty job at cleaning it up in the first place.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re a shit-stain.”
“Demon.”
“Dickhead.”
He takes a gauze and splashes it with a good amount of alcohol. Hanji’s hand’s warm, and calloused, yet there’s quite a softness to it. He tries not to think too much about that, though.
“Hold still.”, he repeats, as he dabs away the excess blood and pus. His movements are swift, careful, like they are made paper thin and he doesn’t wanna ruin their edges. He knows, it is always a gamble when it comes to them. In another hour, they’ll probably be writing on a whole new pile of documents, completely unaware that they were injured in the first place. “Looks better.”
Hanji frowns at him. Makes sense that the slash and scratches are clean to perfection. That, beneath the splotches of murky reds and browns, they can now see skin and flesh, new and shiny and pink.
“Kind of.”, they say, but it’s only just to poke fun at him. Levi is the cleaning expert, after all. “I think you did a pretty lousy job.”
He makes a face, then grabs a brand-new rag from the aid-kit. Hanji stares at him while he does so; — pays special attention at how calm his expression is. He’s not scowling, like he usually is. His eyes, the tail of his brow, — it is all smooth; like the ocean’s surface after a storm. They find that they like seeing him like this, with his lips partly opened and his cheeks puffed. There’s quite a delicacy to him, to how his features seem drawn by hand. He’s soft, pretty, in a way that’s unusual for other soldiers like them to be.
“‘Pain in my ass.”, he mutters, at last, and his fingers wrap the bandages up; tight, yet just as careful. He’s methodical when he does this; — goes bit by bit, slow-paced and steady. Hanji wouldn’t have any other person stitch them up like this. The ease with which Levi touches them makes them tremble.
“Pain in my hand!”, they shoot back, shoving their freshly-bandaged one under his nose. Their gazes meet for a moment, at that; lingering, yearning, intertwined a second too long. It makes Levi smile, if only just a little bit.
After what seems like forever, Hanji’s finally smiling back at him, too.
The third flash of realization comes unexpected, one late-night where he's bathing them. He had to drag them there, — out into the common showers. They would have stayed in their room for another day, signing off papers and permissions, hadn’t he done so.
“Oi”, he’d asked, soon as he’d opened the door. “How long has it been?”
Hanji’d barely looked up at him.
“My brain’s fried, Levi.”, they’d sighed, as they ran their fingers through their hair. Good thing he didn’t even need to be specific. “I can barely remember my own name by now.”
He’d nodded.
“More of a reason to get moving, then.”
Now, mercurial blue hours twinkle in the haze between dusk and morning. Hanji’s bare before him, and the pale moonshine traces contours on their body. They’re concave and convex, frail and strong. All too swift, all at once. Levi can’t help but find shapes upon their back, — like he’s connecting dots between muscle and scar. A planet, a cloud. He pretends that he’s a painter. That each stroke of light and shadow brings his work to life.
He lathers up soap between his hands. Water ripples at each one of his movements, as he washes down their neck, their nape, their shoulders. He’s careful handling them, — he always has been. There’s a part of him that feels that Hanji’s made of glass, — that a single blow could shatter them to pieces. They don’t need the extra pressure— the world puts enough on them already. It’s why he holds them with sheer delicacy— as if they’re Erwin’s vase, and he’s trying to bring their broken edges back to earth. Not everyone gets to see the softer sides of him, but Hanji; — Hanji’s different. They understand him— simple and complex as that. Everyone else is intimidated by his presence, and yet they tease him for being clean-cut. Will say titans don’t shit just to play around with him.
His fingers trickle down their spine, their waist; shy, meticulous. As if all his endings have turned to sea-foam. They have a secret pact. A tacit agreement that goes unexplored, untouched in moments like these, where they’re too hush and helpless for the world. They don’t ask him why he does all of this for them, and he never speaks the two words that would give them enough of an answer.
“You stank, you know.”, he says, instead. His voice’s sweet, but then he stops himself.
He can feel bone under his palms. Sharp, and fierce and rigid. He doesn’t recall it being there before, the last time he’d bathed them. Sure, Hanji had always been skinny; tall, and with a languid frame. Still, it was never like this. It was never this bad. He would know. He’d engraved each scrap of them into his heart before.
When was the last time he’d even seen them eat?
He clears his throat, and swallows hard, and lets out a sigh. He can count each vertebra that pokes from under the skin. It seems that, beneath the shadows, they’re different phases of the moon: one crescent, one full. There’s little muscle in sight; only the thinness of flesh. The tough realization that this is all it’s come down to.
“Hanji…”
They tell him nothing back. They don’t wish to talk about it, and he knows better than to push them further. All of a sudden, it’s like they’re a kid who’s been caught red-handed. A famous criminal found at the theft scene.
It does make Levi’s soul shrink, — to watch them like this, all too small; knees pulled to their chest. They used to shine with every color in the rainbow; a whisp of bright and vibrant. Now, they’re only rain. Nothing but the cracks on a porcelain vase; no liquid gold to glue them back together.
He gets up from the chair he’s in, goes fetch for a warm, fluffy towel. Hanji stands up to their full height, and covers up their breasts with their hands, but he can see it, still. Their weak build, the protuberances on their hips and ribs. For a moment, it almost looks like they’ll bend and fall. Like water will weigh them down, and they’re not sturdy enough to carry themselves to make it.
He’s worried sick about them. Oh, God forbid, he’s so, so worried. He doesn’t understand, — how could he be this selfish; much too focused on his own pain to even notice Hanji’s.
“I’m cold.”, they whisper, barely audible.
And when he wraps them up in cloth, at last, beaming with all the love that he’s capable of, he can only promise himself one thing:
He won’t let them disappear. He can’t. He’ll never.
He won’t let Hanji Zoe become cracks on porcelain.