She had never been comfortable with anyone touching her hair.
It was very sacred to her, it held an importance impressed upon her by her mother at a very young age. Boys would pull on it, comment on its thickness and the richness of its black colour, and receive everything from praise to teasing for it. And Mama had explained, patiently, that her hair was her hair, and she was to take loving care of it.
Now, older and wiser, she'd passingly heard the horror stories of her kind, and how their bodies held so much value in the underground trade. For the unlucky who tried to keep tradition and grow their hair long, it was sheared from them and sold for prices loftier than Mikasa had ever fathomed.
So she didn't care much for her hair being touched.
Eren was an exception. Mom, too. Mom was always very good about brushing her hair each morning and being gentle and the perfect person to ease the strains on her heart, and Eren was polite enough to keep his hands to himself when it came to it, even to this day.
With all of these facts withstanding, it was not remarkable nor surprising that now Mikasa was sitting on a wooden chair, stiff as a board and shaking like a leaf. Her feet were planted firmly on the ground, and her hands clutched the sides of the chair desperately, and she stared straight ahead at the wall in front of her as her breaths came too rapidly and unsteadily.
But Mikasa wasn't here by force.
"Surprised you haven't gone grey yet," he murmured half-jokingly. And just like that, she relaxed, if only a little. He didn't take offense at her lack of reply.
Mikasa struggled to find her calm, to be civil and mature. "Same to you."
"Shh. I told you. Don't force yourself."
"I-I'm not." Great.
But he just snorted under his breath. "Such a dreadful liar, Ackerman." And she knew better than to reply.
They lapsed back into silence, and Mikasa dealt with the war in her body.
Levi was standing behind her, and as usual, his presence exuded so strongly that she felt like he was wrapped around her. His stomach pressed to the back of her chair, letting it take his weight as his fingers nimbly combed through her hair. He was, one by one, unfurling the knots and straightening misplaced strands. It was a long, arduous process that made her simultaneously nauseous and pleasantly flustered - his fingertips, precise and gentle, would rub against her scalp and signal a tingle straight down her neck. His work would leave him tugging carefully on her hair, pulling, tilting her head back, and the pressure was thick and heavy on her skin. And when he combed his digits - sliding his fingers into her hair, lacing into it, and raking down and out softly, her heart slammed into her throat like cannon fire. Fear and pleasure coalesced rampantly in her body at every burning touch, and it took all of her focus not to escape from the chair and hide far away from Levi's frightening, prying hands.
It seemed like hours had passed when he stopped to get the brush. Mikasa was almost sure she'd faint before he made it back.
But she didn't.
Instead, as in control as always, Levi patiently stroked her cheek with a slender, calloused hand. He pressed a warm kiss to her crown, and mumbled something into her hair that she didn't catch. His hand didn't move away. She leaned into his heated touch, savouring it, focusing on it to distract herself. She would get through this. She trusted him with her life, so she could trust him with this as well. He had not pushed her into letting him brush her hair, he only asked politely and explained honestly and against everything she had taught herself, she found herself nodding her head yes, pale as a ghost as she realized what she'd done.
It was a strange thing to bond over, she realized with faint amusement. Her being vulnerable with her fear of her hair being touched, him coming clean with his desire to do something special for her that was once very important to him. He didn't say much, but she understood from his explanation that a long, long time ago, there was a girl whose hair he brushed, too. And he missed it very, very much.
When the soft bristles touched her scalp, she jumped, and froze, and he didn't even flinch. He continued all the way down, and the sensation of her hair parting so smoothly was soothing in a way she'd forgotten. The feeling was so powerfully nostalgic that her breathing hitched in her throat.
He repeated this motion over and over. And over and over, she felt her muscles untense. Her heart rate slowed to an easy, light canter. She felt lightheaded instead of panicked.
Then, he spoke, his voice low and private. It was a tone she very, very rarely heard him use.
"Her name was Ester. Had long, long hair. We'd tell her it was too much trouble, was a pain in the ass to tote around, and she'd move better if she just hacked it off. Plus, we could probably make good coin off of it."
The room was still as night. Mikasa scarcely breathed, only listened intently to what she was sure was something Levi did not speak of often, if ever, to even his closest companions. Her heart swelled and ached with emotion as she comprehended the significance.
"She'd refuse, obviously. She was a stubborn brat, but at least it kept her warm in winter. But she was young, and couldn't really manage it herself, so I took Amah's brush and would brush it out for her. I looked like a damn fool, but thankfully the idiots below understood if they so much as looked at us the wrong way, they'd wake up with broken wrists and not be able to pickpocket for weeks."
He paused for a moment. Mikasa had long ceased shaking, and was instead perfectly still in her chair, enraptured with his story. She realized he'd finished brushing, and she reached up to touch her hair, but he snapped, "Don't. I'm not done yet." She withdrew. Levi wandered across the room to replace the brush (she had a strange sinking feeling it was the brush he spoke of) and he returned with something in his hands that she didn't see.
"Since she was a brat, eventually she had me styling it for her like a shitting fool. But I'll be damned... if Ester did not have the best braids of any brat in the underground."
His fingers plucked clumps of hair from the front of her face, pulling them backwards. She felt them fasten into place, as they did not fall back, and he twisted and tugged more in a rhythmic motion. He had gone silent, now, and the silence said too much. Mikasa felt, telepathically or whatever it was, she felt him, the dark churning of his emotions and she frowned, feeling hot tears bite at her eyes.
Mikasa didn't need to ask what happened.
"There."
Blinking and wiping at her eyes hurriedly, pretending she was fine, Mikasa went to stand only to have Levi appear before her, offering his hand. She took it, feeling warm and muddled, and he helped her up.
Finally, she looked into his face. Surprise coloured her eyes for a moment, but she hid it.
Levi's eyes were very obviously dark, and very obviously red-tinged. His expression was something between satisfaction and melancholy. Sadness - real, genuine sadness - was unheard of. Corporal Levi was, after all, the man who could not be budged. Perfectly unruffled, always enduring for his soldiers. The picture of a leader.
She saw his uneven breaths, and he reached out, faintly touching her cheek. He looked at her in an indescribable way, and Mikasa felt helpless and sick, and grateful for everything he had just done, and she didn't know how to handle the impressive surge of emotion that was overwhelming her.
"It suits you," he whispered.
Mikasa bit her lip.
"I'm... glad. Thank you, Levi. Truly."
She knew her words were feeble compared to her feelings. And it was frustrating that she couldn't express herself clearly. But Levi was Levi. He understood. Closing his eyes, defeated, he drew her into his arms and Mikasa's throat got stuck as the tears unwillingly spilled.
"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'm sorry."
Levi's voice wavered, nearly cracked. "I wish you could've met my sister, Mikasa."
Mikasa practically choked, and let herself sink into Levi's embrace. She clutched at his shirt, buried her face into the crook of his neck, pressed all of herself to him as to not feel alone. In turn, Levi's arms wound around her like steel, possessive and needing, and his lips found her temple, lingering on it with a half-kiss.
She received lots of compliments on her hair the next day. Most people gave her confused looks, but in the end, admired the change.
Mikasa's silky black hair, pulled aside in a braid, finished with a small, plain bow that looked old and well-worn.
It suited her, somehow.
