Says the legend that if one wants to write better, then they should write a lot and at least once every day. So here I am, writing a lot and every day, and hoping it will work hah. (It's curious because things sound a lot better when I write in present tense instead of past tense; figures).
I requested some prompts a few days ago and I got two; one of them is:
Anonymous asked: How about Levi grieving over Petra and Mikasa trying to comfort him because he saved her and Eren's lives? if that interests you?
Well, everything concerning Levi and Mikasa interest me haha, so here it is! Not very romantic because I wanted to keep them in character, but I think it all flowed well.
Don't be afraid to send more prompts, chinarai is my tumblr and the askbox is always open for requests!
Enjoy! Reviews are appreciated xx
Adamantine
adamantine; origin: English
(n.) something unbreakable; a legendary metal that was impenetrable
(adj.) unbreakable
I. Thank you
She shouldn't be there, she thinks. Eren is safe, despite the fever, and Armin is unharmed and watching over him with Jean's help back in his room. That's all she wanted, her dear friends safe and away from harm's way, and that's what she got.
So she repeats in her mind, you shouldn't be here, but she already knocked on the door and he already called her inside, and he's been waiting for her to enter for some time now, but she can't bring herself to turn the doorknob, and so her grip around it only tightens and she exhales. What are you doing, she thinks, her arm is now shaking and she grits her teeth; why should she try to comfort the one who she deems as heartless, the one who beat Eren up in the courtroom a while ago?
The door opens, the metal knob slips from her fingers and he is standing on the other side, glaring up at her and silently demanding an explanation. She swallows as her hand falls back to her side, and meets his heated gaze with a blank one. "Can I come inside?" He whirls around and stalks back to his desk, leaving the way open for her and the unsaid words I already told you to enter long ago, brat hang in the air behind him.
There's tea in a porcelain cup on the tabletop, soft wafts of steam rising and dissipating, his paperwork is piled neatly in a corner, and two twin pens are lined beside it. Everything seems normal and tidy, but there are crumpled up papers resting by the chair legs, a dark blue stain of ink on his right sleeve and an unfinished letter that he snatches away from sight the moment her dark eyes fall on it, and it falls to the unpolished floor not too long after in the form of an uneven ball.
She inhales deeply and finds out that he's not drinking tea; it's coffee, black and strong and so unlike him.
He picks his cup and turns his chair around, and stares out the window and leaves her there sitting across the desk to stare at his back. The dark circles under his eyes are prominent and his hand trembles ever so slightly; she decides to believe it is because of the caffeine rush, not for the weight of losing an entire team, because she can't imagine him being weak. But the truth is out for those who want to see it, and for those who doesn't, and although he conceals it so well, one can see past his façade if they try hard enough.
It isn't hard for her, because they are so alike, as much as she hates to admit it. They're called the strongest soldiers, he's humanity's strongest for longer than her, yet he couldn't protect his team. He says they knew the risks, and they knew it, everyone knows you can die at any moment, doesn't matter if you joined the Scouting Legion or not; but he knows that it doesn't matter how strong you are, at some point you're bound to feel fear, and he can't help but feel like that was the last thing they felt before they fell into death's cold grip.
His glare wasn't as strong as it used to be the moment he opened the door and saw her there. In his grey irises she saw that he deems himself responsible and believes he himself sent them to their early grave, and the sight of it made an odd sense of uneasiness settle in her stomach. He shouldn't be displaying it; not in front of her, not in front of anyone else.
"Corporal," her voice breaks the silence, and his cup halts an inch away from his parted lips. He sips his drink and waits for her words, that he may or may not like, and she considers saying that she's sorry, but she knows he doesn't want anyone's pity, because they are so alike. So she decides to soften her voice just enough so she won't sound too cold nor too pitiful, for she doesn't feel an ounce of pity for a man like him, but it concerns her to see someone who's said to be her equal in such a state, because he's got a heart after all. "Thank you."
The chair skids backwards as she stands, and she walks around the desk to take the violently shaking cup from his hand. Hers settles on his shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze, and he doesn't look up at her as he places his own above hers and lets it rest there. Mikasa stands between him and the early morning light, draping him under a penumbra and remains there until his tired eyes closes, and he finally succumbs to sleep.
