Levi

Hannes, being the dutiful lawyer that he is, sent me a big-ass document shortly after the funeral that delineated everything I needed to know about the hearing. Darius Zackley is my golden ticket out of here, and thank the Lord that his political views are diametrically opposed to my own. For starters, I'll need to cast myself as a raging liberal (which shouldn't be too hard, since I can just be myself, business as usual), maybe make a comment about my non-heteronormative sexuality.

However, the way to surely seal the deal, however, is to be in cahoots with Mikasa.

I need to find a way to sit down with her and put everything on the table. Tell her, plain and simple: "Look. You can't stand me, and I really don't give a shit about you, so that being said, let's do ourselves a favor here." To which she'll probably kick her heels and suggest demeaning lines to say. We'll perfect her script, every insult in its right place, exaggerate my beer ritual into fully-fledged alcoholism, then skip up to the judge, hand in hand, ensuring my eviction from these suburbs. It's foolproof.

Except that it's hard to reel her in when the destroyer of our mailbox has almost become a permanent fixture of the house—preying on our food, rubbing his snot in our tissues, shitting in our toilet.

Jean picks her up in the mornings, and in the afternoons, they hightail it to Mikasa's bedroom, where they lock themselves in for hours. Occasionally, Mikasa will skitter downstairs for some water, in minimal clothing, earning from me a scowl.

"Hey, I know I'm a make-believe parent figure, but we need to have some ground rules," I told her one day.

"Such as?" she answered coolly, sliding into a chair. She pranced down here in a thong and hardly had one button done on her oversized top—presumably swiped from the boy.

"This," I said, gesturing at her with one hand, "is sloppy."

"Says the middle-aged man spends more money on beer than he does on gasoline."

"You don't let me drive the fucking car. How am I supposed to pay tribute to Exxon and BP if you keep the keys hostage 24/7, even though you've got your equine plaything serving as a chauffeur for you every single day?"

"His name is Jean, and that's just rude."

"As if I care. Anyways, back to what I was saying. This," I reiterated, waving my hand again, "is not okay. I don't care what's happening upstairs. I don't want it to even cross my mind. And this is not doing me any favors. When you take your water breaks, throw some fucking pants on—hell, even a towel will do—or I'm kicking that horse-faced tool out."

"Fine," she sniffed, rising out of her chair, but I tapped my mug sharply on the table. She plopped back down, rolling her eyes. "Yes?"

"Secondly, I'm not going to belabor this point because this is awkward both ways, but it's still a point worth making," I sighed.

"Don't worry," she cut in. "I'm using protection."

"Thank you," I acknowledged, and she nodded back curtly. "Moving onto my third point—"

"Oh, there's more."

"Can it. Let me finish up, and you can go back to doing whatever ungodly things you were doing in your upstairs dungeon—"

"You make it sound like I'm going to get nailed to a cross." I glowered at her, and she huffed, "Sorry, go on with your thought, please."

"At some point, we're going to need to talk about this legal guardian, fake-parent gig that's happening here. There's a big hearing coming up at some point, and we should work out the game plan."

"That's it?" she asked, getting to her feet and walking back towards the stairs. "I don't care either way. Do whatever you want."

"I really need your input—"

"Now's not a good time, maybe later, Levi."

Yet as annoying as sexually-active Mikasa can be, it feels as if a gloom has lifted from the house. There's a lightness to her step now, replacing her dreary shuffle. And she smiles more.

On the other hand, I'm learning how to tolerate her male friend's constant presence. He offers to refill my coffee cup when he makes Americanos for Mikasa and himself. He listens to NPR (or at least he claims he does) and actually contributes borderline stimulating conversation material. He redeemed himself for the mailbox incident when he offered to wash the dishes, which is now a task he gets the pleasure of doing every time he joins us for dinner.

Meanwhile, Carla comes over for a beer every couple of days and gives me the latest in her divorce proceedings. She complains about Grisha. Talks shit about Dina. Vents about how Eren's being a hormonal numbskull. But Mikasa demands that Carla comes no earlier than 9PM. Our princess needs time to pack Jean up into his car, nice and neat with a goodbye kiss as the cherry on top, ensuring that he and Carla don't, under any circumstances, cross paths.

"What's your issue with her? She made a shitload of casseroles for us," I growl over breakfast one morning.

"I have no problem with your friendship with her. She's lovely," Mikasa retorts, stabbing a fork into her grapefruit. "I just need space from Eren, and I don't need him knowing about my business."

"So what you mean to say is," I reply, after sipping my coffee, "that Carla's playing espionage on your sex life by coming here."

"She has the potential to play espionage," Mikasa corrects me briskly.

"Geez, paranoid much?"

"They're close, Eren and his mom."

"I'm pretty sure Carla's too distracted by her incoming divorce to be snooping on your relationship."

"I'll give you the car keys if you just make this happen."

"State your terms."

"Arrange your… happy hour or whatever no earlier than eight."

"Deal, but I still don't understand your objective. Isn't making Eren jealous the whole point of this Jean thing? Using his mom as your messenger would serve that goal nicely, wouldn't it?"

Her fork spears through the grapefruit, the metal prongs clanging against the ceramic bowl. "Where the hell did you get that idea from?!" she snarls. "You don't know anything about my life!"

"Okay, okay, fine, it's none of my business."

"You're damn right about that."

"Can I still get the keys if I honor your conditions?"

"One more."

"Spit it out."

"Stop picking and prodding at my life at all the time, like it's a stupid op-ed of yours."

I nearly choke on my coffee. "You seriously think I'm capable of quitting cold-turkey like this?"

She slams the keys on the table before storming off to school.

Mikasa

Jean has a way of turning sex into a three-act play.

Act I starts in a class we share. We choose the seats in the row furthest from the whiteboard, in the corner of the classroom, where the fewest pair of eyes can bear witness. When the glaring fluorescent lights cast down on us, we trade glances with each other, along with other subtle expressions—a flutter of an eyelid or a smile just barely perceptible. At some point, our teacher kills the switch to project her Powerpoint, and my foot stretches out, where it's met by Jean's sneaker. We settle for that amount of contact, since it's the most that we can afford in a classroom.

We walk to the locker rooms together. We don't hold hands; I've made it clear that I'm not a fan of public declarations of affection, but his eyes tried to cling onto mine for as long as he can before our paths split into our respective changing rooms.

Act II kicks off with me waiting for him in the parking lot. My hair is wet from the showers, almost freezing in the chilly air, but not long after, he jogs up to me with his gym bag slung over one shoulder, his backpack over the other. He smells of shampoo, and his hand strokes mine as he drives us back to my place, his thumb running along the ridges and valleys of my knuckles. If Levi's home, we dodge his volley of snide comments, and I lead Jean up to my room.

The second the door closes shut, he spins me around, pressing against the wall, kissing me intensely. We shed our clothes across the floor of my room, and before I know it, he works his magic, kissing my between my legs while I sigh his name, trying not to giggle as his prickly hair tickles my inner thighs. He sends me skyborne, and I return the favor, making him clench the sheets as he watches me run my tongue up his length. But I'm nowhere as giving as he is, and I stop, just moments before he releases himself. Cursing, he rolls over, reaching for the top drawer of my nightstand, rummaging inside for my stash of Trojans. I lightly trace shapes along his thighs, and when he's ready, he pecks me on the lips before slowly entering me.

He was gentle the first time, mindful of my every wince and grimace, pausing every so often to check in, asking me, "Is that okay?" And he's still gentle, even after we've done it more than a dozen times by now. Only when I sigh into his ear that it's okay to be rougher does he thrust more deeply into me, causing me to gasp out his name. He groans as I rake my nails down his back, and he shifts my leg onto his shoulder, moving further into my core. At some point, we switch places. He's on his back now, and I'm riding him while he bucks into me—hard. He assures me that my moans and pants are sexy, reminding me that I look beautiful. We experiment with different positions, and eventually, we figure out how to do things in the shower. Always, he makes me come first—a virtue that draws the envy of my teammates.

"Franz has never made me do that," the love-struck Hannah complains. "I've had to pretend every time."

"Yeah, and on your first time, too!" Sasha adds. "Usually, that's a shitshow!"

"Not to mention he makes you climax multiple times a session!" Ymir exclaims. "Let me remind you that I take credit for your thriving sex life, since I'm the genius who set you two up!"

"He probably learns it all from marathoning porn," Annie comments, but a part of me swells after hearing the jealousy in her voice.

But I find myself enjoying Act III the most. Cuddling without clothes on is one of life's simplest pleasures. "Does this cut off circulation to your hand?" I asked him after the first time we had sex. He had let me rest my head against his bicep, and we laid together, my bare legs tangled with his. He shrugged the question off and kissed my forehead, but the way his arm shifted every so often said otherwise.

These moments after sex are marked by feathery touches and intimate whispers. His thumb lazily brushes against my thigh, and my fingertips trail the stubble on his cheeks. He tells me about his day and asks me about mine. He shares with me funny stories. He complains about how his mother needs to cool it with the helicopter parenting. He confides in me, telling me that he has a vague idea of his future—maybe find a job like what they do on Law and Order—but he hasn't the faintest clue how to get there.

We stay there until it's time to make dinner. We pretend to do homework afterwards, but we usually end up laying in bed together, watching a movie or just talking.

Even the ever-crotchety Levi is warming up to him.

It's simple with Jean. He doesn't ask about baggage or history or any bygones that ought to remain bygones. He's a clean slate. I can skate along the present with him, enjoying the scenery aboveground without worrying about what lurks beneath the ice.

Levi

Ever since Hanji and Carla made comments about my growing beer belly, their words have echoed through my skull. But with these new-used car keys dangling from my fingertips, the world is my fucking oyster. That being said, I drive five miles north to a park overlooking Lake Michigan.

One forty-five minute jog later, and I'm bent over my knees, trying to catch my breath. I grit my teeth through several reps of sit-ups and push-ups before collapsing backwards into the dead grass, watching a lone shorebird cruise the skies.

I stopped running in the neighborhood because, as it turns out, Hannes also runs. He intercepted me last week, bringing up the hearing before I could even say "hi." At least he came bearing news: bureaucracy is being a bitch, which means I have weeks before Darius Zackley can hear our case.

"While this is inconvenient, it's also great," Hannes remarked, jogging in place. "You'll have more time to build a relationship with Mikasa, and it'll reflect better in court."

Hanji was overjoyed at this. Along with job recruitment fliers, she spammed my email with ideas for "daddy-daughter" bonding activities—taking her out for milk shakes, for instance, or a boat ride across the lake.

"The term 'daddy-daughter' is hardly representative of our mutually-indifferent coexistence," I informed her, after marking her email address as spam.

"Come on, you like living there! Evanston's growing on you!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. My first order of business each and every time I get on the phone with you is bitching and moaning about this place."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Hey, on another note, I got an interesting message from your old colleague. His name was, er, Floch Forster? Does that happen to ring a bell?"

Days later, I got a call from the man himself. Floch Forster was a bottom-of-the-heap staff writer at the Tribune, but recently he landed himself a book deal. He was writing a biography of Erwin Smith's life, and he wanted to interview me for anecdotes.

"Yeah, so if you have any memorable moments you'd like to share on-the-record, I'd really appreciate it," Floch said. Not too long ago, he would almost piss himself when he approached me in the newsroom, but I could picture him at his desk, phone sandwiched between his shoulder and ear, twirling his ballpoint pen, bubbling with newfound confidence. "You guys did become Pulitzer finalists together, after all."

Right then, I could grasp as to why the public is wary of journalists. Doggedness in reporting is a double-edged sword. On one hand, we're the Fourth Estate; we keep institutions, business, and agencies accountable. But on the other hand, we risk coming off as hungry and entitled to information—just as Floch was, lounging back in his chair, casting a line, and expecting me to bite.

"What makes you think you can write about Erwin's life?" I asked bluntly.

"He was everything I wanted to be as a writer."

"That's not a real reason—this shit is off-the-record, by the way. He was a complex man. What makes you think you can capture all of his angles? I do hope you don't intend on casting him as this knight in shining armor. That's a caricature, something that should go into the metro section—not a biography."

The other end of the line goes silent. At that point, I didn't care if I was tipping him off to the darker moments of Erwin's life because right then, an impulse overtook me. Before I could process the thought completely, I threw down the gauntlet. "You know what, Floch? Game on."

"Sorry?"

"Game on. You're probably weeks ahead of me, digging up sources left and right, securing all these little phone chats, but maybe it's better for you to get a head's start."

"I'm not following."

"Who's gonna break the better story?"

I hung up on him before he had a chance to respond. But it wasn't until hours later, when I was washing the dishes, that I was struck by a dreadful realization. I replayed the phone call in my head, and I wanted to kick myself for letting my pride take the wheel. I had just careened back into an industry I had sworn off.

I had just committed myself to writing a book about the man flung my life into disarray.

"Hey." I knock against Mikasa's door frame. She's sprawled across her bed, watching a show on her computer.

She pauses Netflix and glances up. "What?"

"Weird request, just so you're prepared."

"Oh, God. Did you find—I'm sorry!" she stammers, sitting up immediately.

"Um, what?"

"I... left something in the car, I know. It won't happen again, I promise—"

"Left a what?"

A strange quiet settles between us, not unlike those moments in western movies, where two rivals face one another in a ghost town, just anticipating who will budge the first muscle. Tumbleweed blows past.

Her reflexes are lightning-fast. The second I start my sprint for the stairs, her feet are just paces behind me, in hot pursuit. We fly down the steps, skidding along the kitchen floor, swinging the mudroom door open.

"Levi, I swear to God, please—"

I try to slam the door leading into the garage behind me, obstructing her path, but she catches the handle deftly, sparing not a second to yank it back open. I'm about to reach for the backseat handle of our vehicle when her arms grab me in a vice-grip.

But I can already see it through the side windows, just sitting there on the car floor in plain sight. "Oh, Jesus-fucking-Christ."

Conceding her defeat, Mikasa releases me and takes several steps backwards. "I know. It's a bad look."

"You gotta be kidding me."

"I know."

"I literally drove this fucking car not three hours ago."

"It's from yesterday. I told myself I was going to pick it up, but I guess I was—I guess it slipped my mind…"

"Is this why you were out so late? I thought you had some lacrosse thing."

"I had something after that too."

"No kidding."

"Yeah."

"I… literally dropped off some beer for Carla this morning. And I put two six-packs right on top of that thing. How the fuck did I not see it?"

She has no answer to this. Her face is beet-red.

"That thing could've… stuck to the cardboard casing, like a fucking… adhesive. And I could've ended up delivering it as an extra goodie. God knows that didn't happen."

"Let's not kid ourselves, Levi. It's... dry," she grumbles under her breath.

"You're not doing a good job justifying this."

"I know."

"I literally don't give a damn if you guys fuck each other upstairs, you do realize that, right? And isn't it profoundly uncomfortable back there?"

No reply.

"Thrill-seekers." I cross the garage, towards one of the metal shelves, where I take a screwdriver out of a toolkit. I open the car door and pop a squat. "How revolting," I comment, fishing out the discarded condom. The deflated latex hangs limply from the point of the screwdriver.

"You don't have t—I can clean that up myself, you know," she mumbles quickly.

The doorbell rings.

Mikasa

"Why are you answering the door with that thing?" I protest, following Levi back into the house. For some unfathomable reason, he's still holding the screwdriver, showcasing my slip-up for all the world to see. We pass the kitchen trash can, but he breezes past it. "Are you serious? You're being a world-class dick right now!" I yell after him.

"How can I help you?" he announces loudly when he answers the door.

"Hey, Mom just wanted to say thanks for the beer, and she made extra banana bre—oh, uh…" My heart thuds in my chest. Internally, I scream at my legs to carry me back upstairs, but Eren's eyes are flickering between me and the thing in Levi's hands. "Um, sorry, this probably isn't a good time?"

He stands there on our front porch, shifting uncomfortably in his place, cradling a baking pan of bread.

"My favorite," Levi proclaims. "Don't sweat it, I was just giving our princess an earful about her sloppy habits."

As if these circumstances couldn't get any worse, a car pulls up in the driveway. Jean swings his legs out of the driver's seat. "Oh, it's you," he says tersely when he joins Eren on the porch. "What are you doing here?" When Jean turns to greet us, his eyes widen at Levi's screwdriver. "Ah, fuck… Mikasa, is that from…?"

"Yes," I answer, wincing.

"Shit, sorry, Levi. This was careless," Jean mumbles.

"Might wanna check in between the seat cushions of that thing," Levi deadpans, pointing the screwdriver and its cargo towards Jean's car. "Who knows? Maybe there's more stuff shoved up in the center console. You should also take a chopstick or something and poke around the disc slot, see if there are any treasures hiding in there—"

"Didn't you say you wouldn't belabor the point about these matters?" I say through clenched teeth.

"Oh, shoot. Is it getting excessive? Has the point been hammered home yet?" Levi asks in cartoonish astonishment. "Thank your mother for me," he tells Eren, taking the banana loaf from his hands. "And I was gonna ask," he continues, turning to me again. "I need to get those creative juices flowing again. If you're not smoking anymore, can I get my hands on some of that weed?" He doesn't give me a chance to answer before gliding upstairs to leave me to deal with the two boys on our doorstep.

Jean is standing there, stone-faced and lost for words, while Eren is fidgeting, trying to devise a way to get out of this knot.

The words spill out of me. "I'm sorry, Eren."

"Clearly, my timing sucks," Eren remarks with a feigned laugh. I can always tell when he's faking a grin. His eyes crinkle at the corners unnaturally, and he displays both his front and bottom teeth, as if he's making an extra effort to show the world that all is okay. "Uh, good on you guys!"

"You didn't have to see that, I'm so sorry. That was just, ugh, yeah, that was just—" I feel myself babbling, and I give Jean a pleading look to say something, but he's still flabbergasted.

"Listen, you're fine, Mikasa," Eren forces out. He tries to make eye contact with me but struggles to hold it for more than several seconds. "It's no secret that you guys are hooking up—I mean, that you guys are a thing! Talk of the town, am I right?" Another fake laugh. "I better get going, and let you guys go on with your day. I'm supposed to…" His voice trails off, and the corner of his mouth tenses, pausing to contemplate. His expression relaxes for a brief moment, but upon second thought, he regains the nerve to finish his sentence: "I'm supposed to hang out with Annie later."

"Nice, dude," Jean says.

"Shut the hell up, Jean-boy," Eren mutters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"The fuck's wrong with you, Jaeger?"

I watch Eren shuffle home, while Jean yells obscenities after him. I step forward and elbow Jean in the gut. He yelps in protest. "Stop it," I tell him dully.

We apologize profusely to Levi, who just lounges on the couch, like a lazy king, nodding nonchalantly, but midway through, a flash of anger surges through me, and I interrupt Jean. "Levi," I say, trying my hardest to keep my voice even. "That was so fucking uncalled for."

Before he can come up with a stupid comeback, I take Jean by the arm upstairs and kick the bedroom door closed, causing it to rattle against the hinges.

"Are you okay?" Jean asks me quietly, pulling me into an embrace.

"That can't happen again," I state firmly. He runs his hands through my hair, and I bury my face into his chest, inhaling his familiar scent of cologne.

The remains of my marijuana stash are tucked into an old thermos. Mindful of the creakier floorboards, I tiptoe out of my room, hitting the light switch on my way out. Jean mumbles something from under the covers and turns over in his sleep.

"He's staying the night?" Levi asks when I sit next to him at the dining table.

I slide the thermos over. An olive branch. "Guess so."

"His parents okay with that?"

"He says he'll deal with his mom later."

"Oh, he's gonna be in for it." Levi twists off the top and inspects the contents of the thermos. "Have you smoked since you..."

"Had that mental breakdown?" I offer. "No. I should probably lay off of it for a while."

He takes out the Ziploc baggie of bud and the bowl he gave me. "This thing serve you well?"

"It did the job."

"J's are far superior, you know. Puff on it until you're left with the filter, then flick that thing into a bush. Zero evidence," he says, peering into the thermos. He turns it upside-down and shakes out a long-abandoned pack of rolling papers. "They're also better for a group because there's always that one incompetent idiot who doesn't know how to light a bowl properly. That's wasted weed."

"That idiot would be me."

"Goes without saying."

I throw up my hands. "You're insufferable. I'm literally handing over a peace offering, and here you are—"

"Any chance you have any business cards laying around? Maybe from a missionary that came knocking? Or a cute pizza guy?"

"Why?"

"I'm showing you to roll a joint right now. This is a one-time offer."

I find him a couple of old business cards from the mail counter. He tears off a strip and folds it back and forth a couple of times, as if it's an accordion, before rolling it into cylinder shape. "Your filter," he tells me, "also a crutch for the rolling step."

He calls for materials—grinder, bud, rolling paper—and I hand them to him, one by one, like a surgeon's assistant. After reducing the weed into finer grains, he sprinkles it onto a paper lined with the filter. "This step," he says, sighing, "can be a bitch. Honestly, I have no advice. Just fuck around until it works." He takes the infant joint between his thumbs and index fingers and rocks it back and forth, packing the weed into a more compact form. Somehow, he rolls the paper into a cone and licks the glued edge, sealing its shape. He twists the end of the joint into a little tail and announces with flat gusto, "Voila."

"Do you want a standing ovation or something?"

"Save it. Do get me a lighter, though."

I follow him out onto the back porch, and we sit on the bottom deck, side-by-side. He sticks the joint in his mouth, and the lighter cracks to life. When he brings the tail of the J close to the flame, the paper glows red then orange then yellow, and he takes two long, slow hits.

"Sure you don't want any?" he asks. "Shame you won't be able to experience this work of art."

Hesitantly, I take the joint from him. The days after Ymir's party, the very thought of weed made my stomach queasy, but inwardly, I steel myself. But, as always, I inhale too deeply, and I'm reduced to a string of hacking coughs.

"Amateur," he jeers.

"Shut up."

We sit there in silence, passing the joint back and forth.

"I'm sorry for today," I say, watching tendrils of smoke dissipate into the night air.

"Whatever."

Another silence. He taps the ashen end of the joint against the ground and passes the remaining stub to me.

"You're not going to apologize for answering the door with a dried-up condom hanging off a screwdriver?" I mutter, taking a drag. I hand it back.

"Hey, if you properly cleaned up after yourself, none of this would've happened," he reminds me smugly.

"It's Jean's fault," I say under my breath, burying my head into my knees.

"You go easy on him, don't you? If that was my significant other, I'd be ripping them a new one. Soft spot, much?"

"I'm more patient than you are. And Jean's a good guy."

"So you like him."

"Well, yeah. We're seeing each other."

"Do you guys use terms like 'boyfriend' and 'dating' yet? Or do millennials just swear off labels altogether?"

"We haven't talked about that. I don't know. We're not… very public about our relationship, but people gossip, so news spreads."

"I like Jaeger better, just saying," he says, shrugging. "He's more annoying, but he's got better spirit."

"How's Eren even relevant right now? He has someone already," I mumble irritably. "I don't know why you keep suggesting there's something between us.

"I just have a hunch about things. There's clearly a shitload of sexual tension. His mom and I placed bets on when you guys will end up doing something stupid with each other."

I grimace at him. "Can't you guys complain about the stock market like normal adults? There's nothing. He's got Annie, and I've got Jean."

"I'm still convinced Jean's a ruse to get back at Eren," Levi says. I bristle, ready to fire back a retort, but he continues, "However, before you get your panties in a twist again, I can see that it's growing into something a little more real now."

"Your unwarranted commentary on my life is appreciated, as always."

"Much obliged."

"So what's going on between you and Eren's mom?"

It's my turn to enjoy the satisfaction of seeing him scowl. "Why do all you kids think that? I'm gay, for fuck's sake."

My upper-hand is short-lived, and I blink in confusion. "Sorry, what?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Well, I… try not to assume these things. But in my defense, I saw a headline, something about how you had a 'sizzling affair' with Hanj—"

"We were bored. We fed People a fake story, my boss yelled at me for it, and we had a good laugh," he explains, exasperated. "But it seems like this stupid prank is coming around to bite me in the ass. She's my best friend. She's batshit crazy, but she somehow keeps me sane."

"I'll never understand your fascination with these ridiculous stunts."

"Question. Did you see any tabloids about me and Erwin?" His tone is bereft of its usual irony.

"Erwin Smith? The guy you almost won the Pulitzer Prize with?"

"We should've gotten it, but oh well, I don't make the rules."

"To answer your question, I didn't see anything."

"Gossip journalists truly suck at doing their jobs," he declares with sarcastic triumph.

"You and him were…?" I reply in disbelief. "Even though you were partners in reporting?"

"Guilty as charged," he answers. "This stays between us or else I'll publish your condom incident into the local paper."

"You're the absolute worst."

"Go ahead and finish this off." The joint has gone dead, but he relights it for me. I take one last hit and crush the smoldering filter against the ground. "But yeah," Levi says, leaning back to squint at the stars. "Dumbass me is gonna write another book. It's Erwin's biography. Whoop-de-fucking-doo."

"Is that why you need the weed? And the creative juices? That's a disgusting phrase, by the way."

"Get some more, will you? I can give you cash."

"Asking me to do this for you makes you the worst legal guardian on the face of this planet, if I haven't made that clear enough to you—but I can text Sasha tomorrow."

For some reason, he laughs bitterly at this. He opens his mouth, as if he's about to ask me something, a burning question on the tip of his tongue, but at the last minute, he backpedals. "Get both—indica and sativa, if those words mean anything to you."

"How did you end up writing Erwin's biography?"

"I dug my own grave. Pride got the better of me."

"What do you mean?"

"Cocky cub reporter finally gets a chance at the big leagues with a book deal about Erwin. Called me up for private details, but I basically told him to fuck off and added that I'm going to do a better job of it."

"Can I be honest, Levi?"

"When haven't you been?"

"You are so petty."

"Let's play the adjective game. Fire off as many as you can think of."

"Words that describe you?"

"Yep."

"Vulgar. Fickle. Irrational. Crass. How many more do I get?"

"As many as you want."

"Cranky. Inconsiderate. Uncivil. Manipulative—"

"Manipulative?" he says, amused. "Wasn't expecting that one."

"Why do I feel like you're..." I struggle to find the words. "In the loop about everything?"

"Like your ulterior motives with Jean?" I shove him in the ribs. He hardly flinches. "Okay, fine, whatever, you're in a deep, meaningful relationship, yay, go you."

"What about me?" I ask him.

"What?"

"Adjectives."

"Self-flagellating," he says, after much thought. He rubs his chin, mulling over the next one. "Fiercely independent, to the point where you're lonely, and…" His next pause spans more than a minute. "Unreasonably tough on yourself."

A/N: SO I'm kinda in a writing mood, and honestly, you all have been so supportive and kind and amazing in the comments that it's really given me the fuel to type, type, type away. Holy crap, I freaking love you guys, and as always, please hit me up with your thoughts and takeaways from the chapter! (And again, plzzzzz trust me on the Jeankasa content, trust meeeeeee!) Also I'm just so pumped for this week. There's so much hype on Twitter (I'm spoiler_arlert if anyone wants to keep up with my silly babblings) about spoiler week, and I am so fucking ready for it. THANKS FOR READING!