A/N: I stumbled upon this the other day, and it took all I had not to cry. /watch?v=1HRLfrvB5Hk
This piece is beautifully performed and when I heard it, I had to write for Levi/Eren.
I will not tell you which one is dead, because...it doesn't really matter. We all process these things differently. But I do know who I had in mind as the singer when I wrote this. It is unbeta'd, written in just a few minutes. I just needed to get it out.
He sits high on a hill beneath a sycamore tree. Its branches droop in the poor imitation of a wizened willow, the wind rustling through the vivid greenery. The leaves cling to their perches, keeping a desperate grasp on their lives.
The weight of the guitar on his back is weighing him down, and so he succumbs to the pull of it, allows himself to be dragged to the earth. A deep intake of breath and he smells overturned dirt, sunshine, the lush fragrance of broken blades of grass.
For a long while he just sits, staring at nothing, at everything. He's seeking the right words. He needs the right words. No one else is waiting, so he takes his time.
Nothing comes. All he can do is close his eyes and allow calloused fingers to find the strings of his guitar. He plucks them individually, head tipping back as the squeak of his frets against his fingertips ads another subtle layer to a melody that seems strangely…open.
"I think you'll like it here. I think you'll like it here…" he croons, low and quiet. "There's a beautiful view, it's a nice spot to be. Up on hill, under a cottonwood tree…" he pauses for a moment. "Well, this is a sycamore, but it's beautiful all the same."
He huffs a small laugh before bowing his head and returning to his music, reverent.
"There'll be birds in the spring, fireflies in July. Leaves will turn yellow, you'll see the snow fly. Peaceful all year. I think…you'll like it here," he nods and rocks against his guitar.
Delicate plucking becomes gentle strumming, his body swaying along with an orchestra only he can hear, the dulcet tones of his voice brooding and kind.
"I think you'll like it here. No one tearin' you down, no more dread in the hall, or finding your name scratched on each bathroom stall. Here it's tranquil and calm, nothing but sky and earth. No one can harm you or question your worth. Just…rabbits and deer," his voice hitches. "I think you'll like it here. Do you like it here?"
Warm wind billows up beneath him, enveloping him in heat and cold and rain and sun. It ruffles his shirt and he can't help but take in the texture of it against his flesh.
A tear rolls down his cheek, glassy and fragile.
"Are you glad that you did it?" he cries out, melodious and pained. "Was it the right thing to do? Are you filled with regret? Do you think I should die, too?"
His voice halts again and he stutters, a hand clutching the fabric of his shirt, right over his thundering heart.
He can finish this.
He has to.
"Would I like it here?" he asks, so very softly. "Would I like it here? Would I finally fit in with the worms and the dirt? Buried so deep, far from the pain and the hurt?" he stares at the loose mound in front of him, reaching out a hand to sift soft soil through his fingers, watches it cascade back down while smaller bits of dust are stolen by Mother Nature's breath.
"But then, what would I miss?" his voice wafts along the current of air, no guitar to be heard. "Dating and learning to drive. Mom, dad, and Janie…just…being alive. Guess nothing is clear. Would I...like it here?"
And as he bows his head to press it against the sweet grass at the edge of the grave, clutching so tightly he fears he may shatter into pieces, a soft voice whispers to him.
Not yet.