Disclaimer Note: I do not own Attack on Titan/Shingeki no Kyojin or its amazing cast of characters.
Synopsis: The adventures and misadventures of Julia Pixis and her band of friends and foes. Trying to survive Northwestern University's Medical Program is difficult enough, but persevering the trials and tribulations of love and all of its woes is another problem entirely. Hearts are made to be broken and mended, but not always by the ones we expect.
A Bizarre Love Triangle
Lesson One: Choose Your Lovers Carefully…
My father taught me two very important lessons in life, the first: you cannot save those who do not want to be saved. Now, being a surgeon, this seems not only divergent to his own supposed "ethics", but downright harrowing to consider for any potential patients. However, after our own family tragedy, it is actually not surprising at all, but that—ah, that tale is for another time, now is for him.
Levi Ackerman. Resident asshole. Complete with the emotional range of a teaspoon. My worst nightmare; possible arch nemesis; my human behavior professor. And, my ex-lover as it were.
Yes, this tale is for him. The shortest, sassiest, wryest, most cynical man I have ever had the displeasure of encountering. Yet, the most esteemed professor at Northwestern University—note that he is most respected, NOT liked, because well, he isn't. Unpopular, unfriendly, unforgiving—"un" everything, that's what I have concluded using his own psycho-analysis bullshit that he passes as a class.
What is the point I'm attempting to make here? Oh, right, being unable to save those who choose not to be saved. Here's where that lesson really began to make sense for me, and it all began with professor Ackerman.
It's a usual day on campus, chilled by Lake Michigan's steady gusts of wind; the smell of garbage, sweat, and anxiety palpable and suffocating. The verdant trees just began changing color, metamorphosing into mystical-like columns of gold and scarlet housing a community of sprites. Chicago's city symphony presses in from every corner, screaming in our ears with the onslaught of traffic and pedestrians and the constant nervous chatter of the student body as we approach midterm finals.
"So, I definitely failed Hange's anatomy test today." Connie wilts, his characteristic grin pulling into a tight frown, fingers idly rolling a pen across his desk. "I'm never gonna make it through med school."
His head hits his desk. Krysta coos, running small circles over his crimson wool sweater. "Shhh, you'll be just fine. We're all going to make it. I promise."
Sasha bites down on another greasy potato chip, licking her fingers clean like a housecat preening its paws. "Krysta's right, Con! We're gonna get through this together."
Cue Jean-fucking-Kirstein, fourth in our class academically, first in line going straight to Hell. "I don't know guys, there is that one percent that don't make it through our ORM's and other exams, perhaps Connie is in that one percent? I mean, one of you has to be—considering you aren't in the top five percent of our class, and you know that if your spot isn't reserved in the elite percentile you aren't really guaranteed to pass."
"God, someone shut him the hell up! He's giving me a damn headache!" Ymir rubs her temples, scowling fiercely at Jean.
"Seriously, does anyone actually believe that psychological bullshit?" Annie's blonde head lifts from her text, glacier blue eyes leveling the cocky brunette.
Armin's meek, tremulous voice comes squealing from a corner seat, cutting Jean's callous retort short. "Actually, it is proven that psycho-analysis and manipulation can deteriorate one's psyche if used properly."
"Thank you for that astute declaration, Ar-fart," Reiner snickers, throwing one hand in the air for a high five, only to be denied by his apparent "bestie" Bertholdt.
"Wow, go back to pre-school, Braun," Eren pipes up from beside the mousy blonde; crazy laser green eyes honing in on his target (aka the biggest object in the room, that being Reiner's gargantuan toe-head.)
Playing the valiant card as always, Eren Jaeger puts himself in the line of fire for justice and fairness and other utterly useless upheld morals that the suicidal maniac formulates in his head.
Reiner's jaw clenches; an anvil ready to annihilate Eren's skull, but then the onyx haired "assassin", Mikasa—or, as I like to call her Black Mamba—cracks her knuckles. The sound of a sharks jaws closing over someone's life.
Silence ensues for several breaths, some of us cease to breathe at all. Reiner squirms uncomfortably in his chair, which could be attributed to his girth, but says nothing.
Which, make note, is a rather big feat for mouth as I like to call him. He never seems to run out of idiotic, macho, brash things to offend everyone with. Again, this is admirable because, well, how many people can you say have the talent of affronting any and everyone on the planet? That's right, not many.
"I'm still shocked that you even knew what astute meant, Braun." Fucking Kirstein, always instigating. His eyes turn into two devilish slits as Reiner turns the shade of a fire engine, and then a deep hue of plum, sputtering like a broken hose spurting useless droplets of water upon a lawn in mid-July.
"Braun, please, I haven't even started class and already your brain is malfunctioning." Sauntering toward his perfectly polished podium is none other than the devil's incarnate—you guessed it, Levi Ackerman.
The classroom breaks into a fit of uneasy laughter and nervous coughs as Levi turns on his computer, today's notes flashing upon the projection screen. Pens frantically hit pads of paper, scrawling anything they can manage to before the slide is changed.
"Today, we will be discussing schizophrenia and its treatment before we go into mocks and interviews. Please, remember that when we do reenact mocks of patients to be realistic—Sasha, that means there will be no woman with the alter ego of a potato today," Levi says flatly, the staccato click of his finger pressing down on the keyboard signaling everyone to glance up and take down the next slide.
Sasha nods, a goofy grin raising one half of her crumb littered mouth, her pen moves so quickly across her grease stained notebook it makes my wrist throb just watching it. Jotting down only a few key bullets, I weave my own pen through my fingers wearily. Nothing like human behavior to put you to sleep, right? It always does just the trick for me.
Mr. Social Butterfly drones on about schizophrenic symptoms, signs, and treatments for eons—maybe that's being a bit dramatic, but for the love of Freud, his lecture seems to drag on and on. But, everyone else hangs on each syllable as if their lives depend on it. The boys listen intently for the sake of their grades; however, the ladies have a different motive entirely.
Breathy sighs. Entangled limbs. Lips brushing an invisible path down scarred skin.
Stop. I need sleep. That's it. That's all.
My eyes grow bleary, heavy with the promise of a sweet, sweet nap, only to be refused by a sudden sharp pang against my forehead. Eyes popping open in confusion, surprise, and all out irritation, I spot the perpetrator in my lap: a dry erase marker.
The lecture hall teems with childish giggles, pairs of eyes surround me like dozens of spotlights on an actor performing a soliloquy. Heat, hotter than hell's flames erupts over my cheeks, down my neck, and across my chest, sinking into my gut as the laughter continues around me. But, Levi's mouth presses into a stern, uninviting frown, gray blazer shifting as his arm swoops back to his side, eyes narrowed in annoyance.
Who was it that just got hit with a dry erase marker? That'd be me. How dare he act like he's the one offended!
"Bastard."
The sniggering stops abruptly, replaced by sharp intakes of breath. Eyes flicker hesitantly toward the podium.
Shit, I said that aloud…
"Miss. Bennett, while I am in fact an orphan, I hardly see how such a comment was necessary. Some might even say that it was offensive, alas since I have no feelings as certain students like to claim, I am sure my psyche will be unaffected."
Insufferable. Completely insufferable, pretentious asshole.
Gritting teeth over teeth, I can feel tiny bits of enamel shaving off onto my tongue as thousands of weapon-like words burn the back of my throat, desperate to be released from their chains. But I sit resiliently; staring down my enemy with cool, collected calculation.
"I can't believe you just called him a bastard," a voice sneers quietly from behind me, pen tap-tapping along the flecked surface of his desk.
Levi's back is turned, dark hair casting shadows along his collar as he writes several indecipherable notes upon the whiteboard. I take the opportunity to glance over my shoulder. "I can't believe you cut your hair that way, Kirstein, alas the world goes on."
Shoot. Aim. Fire. Brown eyes narrow, teeth baring in a feral gesture. Ah, wounded pride—my favorite.
"I just wonder," he says, mouth curling into a wicked little grin; a cat toying with its prey, "What it is that daddy will think, being the dean and everything."
Eyes begin tearing themselves from Levi's serial-killer-esque writing to observe the roiling storm between the class asshole and the dean's daughter. Jean's eyes are unwavering, watching me, waiting for me to make the next move. Will I move a pawn? Or, will I just go for the checkmate?
The clock ticks off each silent second passing between us, Levi's marker hitting the board the only other sound breaking up the impending quiet. I crane my neck back for a better look at his satisfied smirk.
"He'll probably be thinking the same thing he always does: Why the hell did we let Jean Kirstein into this institution? Oh, that's right, his daddy paid us to accept him. You know, some of us actually had to earn the grade to get in, but I guess being a rich kid, you've never had to work hard for anything, eh?"
The clock is deafening now. Levi's hand falls away from the board, no longer punctuating the silence. Jean's pride lies shattered on his desk, dignity down the drain as reality settles over him; as the truth unveils what's undeniable.
"Children," professor sunshine says, elbows resting lazily on the podium, "Play nice. Now, back to schizophrenic patients. Who would like to volunteer to play the crazy patient first?" No takers. An irritated sigh curls his mouth mingling with the steam swirling from his ceramic coffee mug. "I'll even give you some yummy medicine." Rattling a tin of mints, he lifts one dark brow.
That's all the incentive Sasha needs; her hand pops into the air like a waving banner in the wind. "Ooh, I'll do it!"
"Fantastic," he deadpans.
And, so the lesson begins.
XxXxX
Three forty-five pm. The most beloved time of my day. Why, you ask? Because it marks the end of my time trudging through the seven circles of hell.
"Miss. Pixis, could I see you in my office?"
Well, that's new. He doesn't usually phrase it as a question. Regardless, it would seem that my stay in hell will be longer than anticipated today.
"Do I have a choice?" I shift my bag over my shoulder.
"You always have a choice."
In a cryptic mood, huh? Not promising for yours truly.
Following him over the threshold of his office door, I settle into one of the newly upholstered leather chairs near his desk. He tucks himself into the seat on the other side, fingers zippering each other and cradling his chin. Gray eyes penetrate from the safety of his proverbial line in the sand.
His hair looks longer than I remember it being that summer. Eyes tinged crimson from a lack of sleep. Skin even paler with the disappearance of the summer sun.
I wonder what changes he notices in me. Shifting anxiously, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
"So," I say, opening the inevitable conversation.
"So." He blinks, twisting the silver band encircling his left ring finger—nervous habit? "Do you ever plan on acknowledging what happened this summer?"
Two oceans colliding. Bodies tangled like seaweed. Heat rising. Flushed skin on skin. The first layer of an affair: our skin.
"Not if I can help it," I mutter, fidgeting with my hemline uncharacteristically.
My eyes flicker to the door, an action not unseen by his own. Clearing his throat, his voice crawls desperately from his mouth—uncharacteristic behavior seems to be in heavy supply. "Do you mean that?"
"No." The word tumbles onto the desk before I can catch it. It lays there with his keys, and ungraded tests, and her.
Strawberry-kissed hair shines behind the glass of the only frame on his desk. Petra: beautiful wife; beloved grade school teacher; and apparently the most oblivious woman on the earth. This—dirty, rotten, awful—thing had been going on all summer between me and my enemy. Yet, she hadn't caught any whiff of our sticky trail. No questions; no arguments; no curiosity. Either she was completely naïve, or someone was in denial. I'm going with the latter.
I promised to save myself from this disgusting mess—to end it cold turkey. And I did. This entire half of the semester went by without incident.
But, his lips look so delectable—so inviting as he sighs across his desk. Those lashes furl and unfurl upon his cheek somehow reminding me of our bodies creating a primitive rhythm in the quiet of my room. Sailing without a compass through sheets, creating a new language with each press of our lips.
"No," I repeat. "I don't, but we ended things for a reason. I'm your student. That's it, Levi. That's all I can be."
Silence. Unpunctuated, uncomfortable, unbearable silence.
Standing abruptly, I lift my bag off the ground and inch my way toward the safety of the hallway. "Was there anything else, sir?"
Blank stare. As if I hadn't just rejected him, as if his world wasn't effected at all by the massacre of this summer romance—as if I never really mattered anyway. So, we were back in enemy territory?
With almost no time to register his movements, he's up and in front of me, pinning me to my spot in the office with only his eyes. Supple lips ghost along the rising goosebumps of my neck, and he whispers, "Clean up that mouth of yours in my classroom, or I'll clean it for you, and something tells me you won't like my methods."
"I personally enjoy the taste of Mr. Clean, sir." But, my joke falls on deaf ears. His eyes are still penetrating me; my heart; my soul.
Primal instincts are activated. They have me betraying all logic and moral, edging toward a very dangerous precipice—toward an unquenchable addiction. I can feel the heat of his body enclosing me, can hear the thump-thump of his heartbeat through the deafening sound of my breath. His hands are careful—so careful—as he reaches out, encircles me in his clutch; his scent; his trap. But my heart is weak, and my mind equally feeble, as his lips brush gently over the racing pulse of my throat.
I am lost in a sea of blurred lines and lost territory, when suddenly, the moment vanishes in a puff of smoke and lies.Bzzzzz….. Petra's calling. Good timing as always.
"Shit," he groans into my mouth. His lips taste like cigarettes and disappointment and spearmint.
"My point exactly," I murmur over his lips, one finger coming up to halt the progression of syllables trying to spill from his mouth. "No, Levi. Don't. Listen, you can't keep living this double life. You need Petra, and she needs you. Now, go be a good husband."
And just like that he's disappearing behind me, shrinking into his "perfect" life. I can taste the bitterness on his brow; can hear the strain in his voice as he says: I don't know how.
It almost breaks my heart. Almost has me running back into that office to comfort him. Almost. But, then I hear a perpetually haughty voice, "Trouble in paradise?"
Kirstein. Sitting on one of the cushioned benches outside of professor Ackerman's office, Jean and Marco appear to be studiously pouring over anatomy notes from Hange's last seminar. Marco greets me with a smile and a wave.
"Hey Marco, it's nice to see that at least someone has manners in this Godforsaken school." I shoot a glare made with ice and venom at Jean's own fiery one.
"You should talk, Pixis. You're manners are about as existent as your father's hair!"
"What? Are you talking shit on my dad?!" Only I can do that and get away with it…
Marco is blushing and waving off the stream of onlookers observing the scene as Jean and I become less calm, professional medical students, and more grizzly bears fighting over a freshly caught salmon.
"Guys," Marco tries desperately to intervene, but Jean growls terrifyingly enough for him to wilt back onto the bench.
"Horse face!"
"Spawn of Satan!"
And now we've seemingly morphed into children. Lovely.
"Kirstein. Pixis. What is the meaning of this bickering?" Professor Smith's chilling blue gaze holds the two of us in place, both quivering from a nameless fear the stoic man brings out in us all.
"Nothing important, sir," Kirstein replies. He goes into some kind of strange salute—right fist poised over his heart. I fight a fit of laughter.
Erwin quirks a heavily defined brow. "Alright. Well, there will be no more of that in my hallway, understood?" We nod dutifully and he sidesteps us to enter Levi's office. "That is all."
As the door closes on the scene between longtime friends, we all heave a withheld breath. Marco scoops up his books and says, "Library?"
"In a minute," Jean replies, turning back towards me, shuffling his feet restlessly. "Look, I'm sorry alright?"
"You know, that word means by definition that you won't make that same mistake again, right?" I'm instigating, but the kid brings out this mischievous side in me, and I'm not sure why. My mouth curls into a smirk; a snigger poised to fire, lying in wait upon my tongue.
"Why?! Why do you make it so hard to apologize for anything?!" He throws his hands in the air, but a tiny smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
"Just part of my feminine charm," I say.
"You? Feminine charm?" He laughs, and the genuine mirth within it brings out something new in me—something foreign in my heart for Kirstein. But, I don't have any time to register or analyze it before a wide palm is crashing down over my shoulder and a thunderous voice says, "That's a good one, Pix."
"Reiner, shouldn't you be torturing some poor defenseless animal somewhere?" I spot Armin. Poor soul. "Ah, I see. You brought it with you. Hello Armin, lovely weather we're having, don't you think?"
"Erm—Julia, it's raining."
"I know," I deadpan. Flicking the heavy weight of Reiner's hand from my shoulder, I ask Jean, "So, would you mind if I third-wheeled with you and your boyfriend at the library? I promise not to watch too intently as the two of you shamelessly flirt—I won't even start nasty rumors about it this time." (I never really did, but I'm jealous of the one who did. Why didn't I think of that? Missed opportunity indeed.)
Dark eyes level me seriously. "He's not my boyfriend, and yes—you may join us." I adjust the strap of my bag and start in the direction of the library. "On one condition," he says.
I whip my head back toward him, catching the latter half of Reiner's ostentatious lie about there being bodies in the wall, and Armin's look of sheer horror. "Ok," I say hesitantly. "What's the catch?"
"You have to help me with my anatomy homework."
I nod slowly. "Deal."
"For free."
Damn.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Please review. I need to know how you guys feel so far!