1.
She is the hill in the flat crust of his world. She comes out of the ground in a bump, high and unusual, before his dull eyes and the thought that she might have taken the wrong decision is recurrent in his mind.
She walks in the corridors, softly sings in the mornings and laughs more during a day than he has in his entire life—but then again, he's no reference.
She is a tornado of emotions that are just as obvious as the color of her hair in the green veil of their cloaks when they come back home. She sobs, rubs her nose against her sleeve and walks in shame as she tries to hide the wetness of her pants. She smiles the next day, it doesn't reach her eyes in the morning but as the sun sets and he looks from afar, there is that obvious flicker in her gaze again.
Petra fights like a soldier should. She fights not only for her life, but for the life inside of the Walls they're trapped in. He sees her taking decisions when death's scythe aims right at her and she escapes in exchange of a little bruise, a little blood, or a bad fright if she is lucky.
She screams when they are ordered to leave somebody behind, cries and voices her disapproval before his own intimidating stare and he wonders if she's clueless but his attempts are little rocks that her violent wind throws away.
And the next day, she smiles even though at first it doesn't reach her eyes.
He understands that he is rotting inside, air and light and rain stopped by a stubborn shell when she lets rain wash the dirt and lets the sun warm the ground for the grass to grow again—with flowers, most of the time.
She doesn't work the way he does, and he starts to realize that her method might not be one he can pick, but if it works for her then be it.
2.
He wakes up before they do; he's their leader now and he needs to be up before them. He tries to prepare tea but it tastes gross during normal days, and when the world is against him he burns himself with the boiling water when he lets his concentration choose different topics such as the paperwork he hasn't handed Erwin yet.
He wakes up later than usual one day, and the pleasant smell that fills his lungs is unusual. The sounds of laughter, muffled words reach him and he sits on his bed for a while.
It feels weird, he thinks, waking up in a warm place.
He gives himself some more time, just a little, enough that he closes his eyes and pretends it's always like this. He eventually gets up, and gets ready.
The words get clearer as he walks, laughs still there and different dishes noises echoing through the walls. He stops in the door frame and the lively sounds that have followed him as he woke up disappear, and instead he gets blinks and pressed lips.
The silence is almost unbearable, and he eyes them all before he orders himself to get the nearest chair and sit on it but she breaks the glass and melts the ice before he takes a step.
Her voice is almost too cheerful for what he deserves, smile so wide that her eyes almost close. She tilts her head, hair following her movement and says, "Good morning, Captain!" and their voices follow soon afterwards. The creases in their facial features ease away, little timid smile taking their places and drawing happy creases instead.
She asks him about his night, and he tastes her tea for the first time.
"Fuck," he whispers to himself right after taking a sip, and the room is silent and cold again as all eyes set on him. He gives them a questioning look, mouth still hidden by the rim of his cup, but they don't seem to understand.
"What?" he asks, "This tea's not bad, what do you expect me to say?"
She's the first one to laugh, and she will never know about the little smile her reaction got out of him because the rim of his cup wil keep it a secret.
The next morning, she prepares their tea in front of him and he watches her, arms crossed and back against the kitchen counter, trying to remember.
3.
He gets on her nerves more than he'd like to admit, and she's not afraid to show it.
He takes decisions that leave her agape and eyes so wide for minutes before she blurts out a "What?!" that isn't expecting an answer and he never explains because that would be, according to him, stating the obvious and he suggests that she, instead, uses her sorry excuse of a brain.
She follows him as he rides his horse, shouts orders or stays silent when they need guidance, and sometimes she asks why in the middle of a mission and he never answers.
He can tell she's not the same right afterwards and it lasts for some time. She avoids his gaze, avoids being alone in the same room but she still fills his cup before everyone else.
He lets her in. He works with her under the faint candle light and lets sleepiness, the heavy weight of weariness and inviting human presence ease the knot in their tongues and he listens to her talking about herself: her dad, the little plushie that still sits on her bed or the bookshelf where she used to hide the papers full of the bad things she's done and never told her father as a child. She doesn't talk about her mother and honestly, it's fine, and it doesn't make him want to ask questions because at least, she has a father. He has none of those, but he listens to her and tries to imagine the little details she describes.
Once, their fingers slip and maybe he is drunk—he isn't—and he locks his lips with hers.
Arguments start and he doesn't know what to do with them, and even though she stops sleeping in the same bed as he does when they happen, she tells him "It's healthy, we need to fight sometimes. I guess." and he believes her because he has no other reference and if he's willing to trust her as a comrade, he can try to trust her as a woman. But even though she gives him judging looks, calls him names he'd never thought would even cross her mind, she still covers his body with one of her sheets when he falls asleep. She still does more paperwork than necessary, and she still fills his cup in the morning before anyone else.
And he understands that the world will never soil the good in her, no matter how hard it tries. He realizes he will never change her, no matter how much she gives him or how much he takes from her.
It makes him ask himself questions in the dead of night, with eyes set on the ceiling and hands on his stomach: when did he let the world around him change him so much?
And he comes to the conclusion that it's a wide road; one where he learns from her as a person while, maybe, she learns from him as a soldier. Because killing is the only thing he can teach her.
4.
She is fire and water and wind and ice all at once. She burns his skin, unleashes a wave of goosebumps and little noises get caught in his throat before they even get to roll out of his tongue. When some of them do, she swallows them with her mouth, kisses sweet and hard and gentle and rough that leave the pink flesh of his lips swollen.
He knows where she is going; he knows where they are going, but for some reason he tries to stifle the thought under details he takes in like the scent suffocating him or the feeling of her body moving against his. He stiffens when she removes his shirt and quickly starts working on his pants, and she must have felt it for her hands stop and she looks at him with a heated glassy gaze and parted lips, little huffs of breath hitting his skin. It gets tighter and tighter where his legs meet the more he thinks about it so he just grabs her hands and urges her to continue although he's taking a path he has never taken before, and his lips come crashing against hers again.
She leads him to the bed with careful steps, repressing him when he gets eager and slowing down when his steps get messy, but as soon as his legs hit the mattress she lets him fall on his back. He looks at her, head slightly tilted as she works slowly on the buttons of her shirt—too slowly—and he notices the way she bites her lower lip and he can't help but sit and reach out to the button of her pants. His hands don't fidget as much as he thought they would, and he feels her fingers brushing back the tousled mess of his black locks back before settling on the back of his neck, nails digging into his flesh when he caresses the creamy skin he's never seen.
There is a map traced on her skin, a map of the soul that's hidden inside, and his eyes are hungry feeding on it, and he realizes that the treasure might just be the map itself.
Her body has him part his lips in awe for he's never seen anything quite like it and she lets him explore, lets him touch with his eyes, before his hesitant hands wander where they may. He lets her take the lead, he lets her make decisions because it's easier and he would just make himself look like a fool otherwise. His hands feel awkward, his heart is too loud and he feels veins pumping inside his being and there is that damn twist inside.
She whispers his name against his skin, bites and kisses the sting, scrapes and draws angry red lines that make him arch his back and press harder against her. And at the same time she strokes his hair, plants kisses like she plants seeds on his skin and hopes for them to bloom.
He is about to explode, already trembling and shuddering while she loves him with her mouth and he says her name like a plea, a question, a warning.
When he opens his eyes again she's eyeing him with light moving into her eyes, a tender glint dancing between the golden flecks swimming in her irises and he finally feels the gentle strokes of her thumb against his hips, waiting for him to calm down. She smiles and kisses him slowly, slips her fingers between his and shifts so that her knees are at each side of his hips and the apprehension he feels is unbearable and he wishes he could just thrust his hips but—she slides down and his plans to watch her all go to waste as his head slams against the pillow, "Fuck, Petra," is all he can manage before he inhales sharply.
She brings their hands on top of his head and leans down and he knows nothing but her.
Everything disappears and nothing has ever been more real, nothing has ever made more sense than their fingers intertwined and the little sounds she makes, filling his ears and being, as she moves against him.
She guides his hands to her hips for him to grab and she bites her lip which makes his go dry. Their mouths meet again and there, just there, she sings his name and that is it. That is when he snaps, and that is what it takes for him to grip her hip with one of his hand, the other arm circling her waist as he pulls her closer than ever and leads the dance.
When he wakes up the next day, feels the soft locks of her hair grazing his skin, and the gentle press of her bare body against his, he just understands that it can never get better than this.
5.
Eren might still be alive, he thinks as he leaves their bodies behind: Gunther, Erd and Auruo, soldiers with names he will carry to his grave. He hears their faint laughs somewhere in the back of his head, the same sounds he's heard that day when he woke up late—and he's glad he did.
He tries to focus on Eren—because Eren is the only hope they have—and wishes he could slay the desperate thoughts running inside his head; he searches for that color, the one that makes the sun jealous and at first he looks around because she might be flying between the trees.
The forest is cold and calm, and he can't hear Eren shouting anymore.
He gulps once, blue-gray eyes slowly lowering and he feels a putrid liquid climb up his throat. He stops, but he's not sure if it is because he feels dizzy or if it is because the reality hasn't slapped him out of denial yet.
Levi watches her, eyes still open but empty, and he clings to that tiny hopeful thought that she might blink again—he does it for a split second but he is the one blinking, and time has stopped.
He's the little boy running in the underground, life lessons not learnt yet and numb, and now the little boy grew up and he is standing on a branch. Alone.
He forces himself to look up again, but he doesn't know how to forget.