Mikasa couldn't look away from her reflection. She felt as if she might fall in. She'd never had nice things, rich things…silk dresses, diamond necklaces, songs in little boxes. She wasn't sure if anything like that existed in the world anymore. Maybe in dusty, forgotten boxes stored under beds. The owners were all dead. The first to crumble in the face of death, at the bloodcurdling screams and then that unmistakable sound of bones crunching and the smell…Most of them didn't live long enough to get used to it as if anyone could "get used to it." But they had. Something had to be wrong with them. Something had to be missing for them to survive this long.
Levi looked at her from underneath his disheveled hair and heavy-lidded eyes. His elbow was propped up by a pillow. He smiled sleepily at her. His walls came down around her, but even when they were alone his eyes gave nothing away (unlike hers.) Perhaps there was nothing left to give away. He was a survivor, like her, but all that meant was they had survived to see almost everyone they knew die.
Levi crawled out of the bed. Exhaustion had left its mark on every inch of him. He wore nothing, but the fading remnant of a bad dream. His arms encircled her small waist and held her tightly against him.
"You are beautiful." He whispered, resting his head on her shoulder. But they both knew beauty had no place in the world anymore. They didn't know what to do with beauty. They had never known it or particularly desired it. It wouldn't help them survive.
But still beauty was a thing that got under her skin. It was like cleanliness. They could see the grime on their faces even in the shallowest of reflections. The stench of rotting flesh got in their clothes and in their hair.
Levi always seemed to know what she was thinking and that scared her more than how comfortable she felt in his arms. He looked more tired than she did. She didn't know how he stood let alone fought. Hell she didn't know how, or why, she fought. No, that was a lie. She knew why she fought. Even after losing everything—her home, her friends, any sense of who she used to be—she couldn't give up. Fighting was all she knew.
They had lost too much to make any kind of commitment to each other. That was too much responsibility, too much chance of getting hurt again. It seemed stupid to try to stop the inevitable, but she supposed that was human nature.
They weren't lovers. They were fighters. There was a red thread that tethered them together, like her old scarf (she had buried that thing deep, until there were callouses on her fingers and her nails were black), a veil of blood that blinded them. Everyone and thing was stained with the past. He couldn't wipe the dust from his soul. He couldn't wash the blood from his hands. He couldn't get clean. He scrubbed until his skin was red and raw.
Levi brushed her hair aside and kissed the nape of her neck. She smelled of a different time. Like verbena and freshly made bread. She smelled clean.
She turned to face him. Her fingers interlocked with his. Her hands were cold, but he didn't mind. Her touch gave him a reprieve. It woke him up.
Mikasa didn't say anything. She didn't have to. He knew that look. People had been giving him that look all his life. It's going to be okay. This time he believed it.