Levi
a year and a half later
"Can you give it a rest?!" Mikasa squawks, trying to wrench the mini-fridge out of my arms, but I twist away from her, holding onto it as tightly as possible.
"Stop it, you're making a scene," I mutter, glowering at the nosy families gaping at us in the Carman Hall lobby.
"I'm making a scene?" she protests. "Look, you can carry it, but can we just take the elevator? I'm on the twelfth floor, Levi. I don't understand your obsession with going up the stairs."
"Get that, will you?" I gesture with my head towards the door leading into the stairwell, and reluctantly, she opens it for me.
The first six flights of stairs are a cakewalk. God, if only those dumbass doctors could see me now. When I finally came around, I remember them shambling into my hospital room, all grim-faced and stoic, with the enthusiasm of funeral attendees. They told me I'd be "confined to a wheelchair" for the rest of my days.
To hell with that.
I breezed through physical therapy, blowing their minds when I could hobble around on crutches after a month. By the time Mikasa started her senior year of high school, I was walking normally for the most part, and come New Year's, I was training for a half-marathon with Hanji and Carla.
The second half of our hike up Carman Hall, however, is painful—but this is only because Mikasa won't stop yapping about how I need a filter. When we first entered her dorm room, I peered at her roommate's Harry Styles posters, remarking, "Well, that's some real shit."
Moments later, the roommate—a sloth-like girl with messy dark hair named Pieck Finger—shuffled in with a steaming styrofoam cup of instant ramen. "Well, you're some real shit," she drawled in a Louisiana accent, and immediately, Mikasa blurted out an apology on my behalf.
"First day of college, and I already have to do damage control, thanks to you. You're unbelievable, Levi," Mikasa grits out, pausing on the landing of the tenth floor.
"Pieck seems like a night owl," I comment, trudging up the steps. "Someone who sets like three hundred alarms just so she can make her 11AM's. Breakfast probably isn't a concept for her."
"Will you stop shit-talking? For all we know, she's around the corner."
Pieck seems to have disappeared by the time we make it to the twelfth floor. As I lower the fridge onto the ground, a bead of sweat drips down my brow, and Mikasa watches me catch my breath. She's wearing her classic troubled expression. I constantly remind her that her forehead will have a permanent crease if she keeps doing that.
Mikasa hangs up a poster we nabbed from Radiohead's summer tour, and I whip out the spray bottles and get to work on wiping her desk and drawers. For her own sake, I decide against telling her about the family of spiders camped by the outlet, opting instead to shower them with Lysol spray. Ignorance can be bliss sometimes.
Within an hour, her room is in working order. Her clothes have been transferred from the suitcases into the drawers, and her desk is equipped with a power strip, a cup of pens, and her course books. Most importantly of all, her fridge is now plugged in, humming happily, and fully-stocked with booze. We take a moment to appreciate the view of Low Memorial Library and the surrounding New York City from her window.
"I'm so lucky I got this room," she says.
"It's a double, though."
"I can deal with roommates, Levi. Unlike you, I know how to make compromises."
"Trust me, she's gonna get annoyed when you 'sexile' her and vice versa. Does Eren have a single down at NYU?"
"No, a quad," she mumbles.
"Have fun working out those logistics."
Thanks to that freak cardiac complication I had while comatose, I've become a pescatarian—much to Mikasa's delight. I haven't tasted pepperoni pizza or cheeseburgers for almost a year and a half, and I've forced myself to incorporate quinoa and brussel sprouts into our grocery lists for "heart health." Mikasa has taken it upon herself to monitor my diet. Several times a month, cravings for red meat overtake me, but she's discovered that her late mother's savory Japanese dishes do nicely in dampening these urges.
We sit on the steps before the Alma Mater statue, forks in hand, stabbing at salads from Strokos.
"You'd think that after a year or so, I'd have developed an appetite for rabbit food," I grumble, shoveling a forkful of lettuce into my mouth. "But nope, I still don't see the appeal in eating leaves."
She doesn't answer because she's bolting down the steps, sprinting across College Walk, and tackling Eren in a bear hug. He moved into his own dorm a couple of weeks earlier to attend soccer preseason, so they haven't seen each other in person since—but I don't understand why they're making this reunion so dramatic, especially considering the fact that they've literally been FaceTiming every single day, for multiple hours. They make out for several minutes, pretending they're in a Hollywood flick, and when they finally snap out of it, they make their way up to where I'm sitting, arms linked together.
"Hey, Levi," Eren says, nodding at me. He's had a growth spurt in the past year, and he now wears his hair in an edgy man-burn sorta situation.
"'Sup, brat." I hand him a sandwich.
We settle down for dinner, and it's mainly Mikasa and Eren chattering excitedly, while I occasionally interject to ruin the mood, earning a glare from Mikasa and a grimace from Eren. But today, I'm trying to put a cap on the comments. This is going to be one of the last times we eat together for a while—that is, until they come home for Thanksgiving break.
I've only served as Mikasa's legal guardian for about two years, but this past week, as we scrambled to figure out packing and move-in details, I could feel the preliminary stages of empty nest syndrome kicking in. It's a mixed feeling of sweet liberation and sheer disorientation. So far, it comes and goes, stimulated by little moments, like when I see Mikasa swapping out her lacrosse hoodie for a Columbia University sweatshirt. Or when she surrendered total control of the car keys (except for breaks and holidays, she reiterated). Or when I noticed her bedroom slowly losing its character as she packed up her decorations and wall art.
Carla, on the other hand, has become a fully-fledged empty nester, especially since Eren has already moved out. The week before he left, she wanted to spend some quality time with him—not to mention make the rounds at Target and IKEA for dorm supplies—but he was always MIA, either making reckless decisions with his friends or disappearing somewhere with Mikasa.
They spent their entire two-day drive to Manhattan either yelling at each other or fuming in silence. Their final good-bye was Eren saying that she was "lucky" if he decided to fly back for Thanksgiving. Carla, being Carla, decided to do the twelve-hour drive back to Chicago in one straight shot, blasting the Backstreet Boys all the way. She almost pulled it off—but then she got a flat around Cleveland. Within twenty-four hours, Eren apologized over FaceTime, and they're fine and dandy now.
Funnily enough, it seems like ever since Eren left, Carla's been attracting suitors left and right. Hannes has invited himself to our evening chats, and Carla and I have gotten good at stifling our guffaws until after he leaves. In addition, Keith Shadis, Eren's high school soccer coach, asked her out for drinks when she ran into him at the supermarket last week. Carla's still on the fence over whether or not to re-enter the dating pool, though.
Mikasa, Eren, and I walk around the campus after tossing the take-out containers, and around 8PM, Eren has to head back to Greenwich Village because he has a scrimmage in the morning. I scroll through the news on my phone while they hug it out. Mikasa promises she'll visit him in the next couple of days, once she's settled in. They peck each other on the lips, and Eren bounds off to the nearest subway stop, leaving the two of us to stroll the evening streets.
"There's something I need to do," I tell Mikasa. I pull a folded-up manila envelope out from my back pocket.
"What is that?" she asks.
"Letters for Furlan."
We walk several blocks west. The neon lights of storefronts have buzzed on, and the sun is starting to set over the Hudson River. I pop into a convenience store and purchase a couple of ice-cold beers. Eventually, we're back at Riverside Park, watching boats float across the waterfront. The skyline of Dirty Jersey winks at us.
I've brought two sets of lighters, and I hand one to Mikasa. "I've never been a religious or superstitious person," I tell her. "So I've always been confused on how to send a message to a dead person. Some people pray. Others put things by graves. I know a couple of folks who talk to the moon." I flick the lighter on, and a small flame dances to life. "But I figured, hey, if I scattered Furlan's ashes into this river, why not set these letters on fire and cross my fingers?"
One by one, we pull letters out of the envelope and set them ablaze before dropping them into the water. "You know," I comment, watching the flames snuff out the moment they hit the Hudson. Soon after, the charred slips of paper are swept away, sinking down towards the river silt. "I thought it would be more dramatic and eye-appealing than this."
"Like a glowing parade of floating candles?" Mikasa offers.
"Something like that. Keep an eye out for park staff or cops, will you? I'm pretty sure this counts as littering."
"You're ruining the moment."
"I'm trying to avoid further notices from the police, okay?" I whack at the top of her head with the now-empty envelope. "I can't believe you hormone-addled idiots got yourselves caught like that. Carla's still pissed and humiliated, even though that was like a year ago, just so you know."
She flushes instantly. "I didn't have to tell you about that. I could've shredded that notice before you woke up, so consider it an act of good faith."
We start walking back to a familiar spot: the picnic table next to the food stand. I hand her a beer. A pop, a carbonated fizz, and we're clinking cans and sipping at the foam. The doctors recommended that I cut back on the alcohol, so I've grudgingly reduced my consumption to one IPA per week. Always fretting over my health, Mikasa has taken charge of rationing out our beer stock.
"Now that I can't nag you anymore," Mikasa says, giving me a sidelong look. "You better stick to the schedule. No more than one a week, got it?"
"It's almost like you don't trust me."
"Goes without saying."
"Wow, that's one of my comebacks. Plagiarism, much?" I grumble.
"A lot of people have noticed that, actually," she says, smiling. "Your speech patterns are rubbing off on me. I've picked up 'shoot to kill' as well. Oh, here's another one: 'If your left ball still wants its right counterpart,' followed by a strongly-worded request. "
"Imitation is the highest form of flattery, I guess. For the 'left ball' one, save that one for creepy guys who hit on you at bars. It'll send them packing."
"Duly noted."
"Finance bros are the absolute worst. You need to mean it when you say it, Mikasa. It's not something you can half-ass. So when they insist on buying you a drink, even after you've turned them down three times, repeat after me: If your left ball still wants its right counterpart…"
"Are we seriously doing this?" she mutters, rolling her eyes.
"Do my phrase justice, dammit. It's not gonna do shit if you mumble it out, all meek and mild-mannered. Come on, say it: If your left ball still wants its right counterpart…"
"If your left ball still wants its right counterpart…"
I scowl at her, whacking her yet again with the manila envelope. "You need to be more menacing. Right now, you sound like a schoolgirl reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Again."
"If your left ball still w—"
"Come on, Mikasa. More gusto."
"If your left ball still wants its right counterpart…!" she almost yells.
We exchange glances. I nod, and she smiles. "Then go fuck off!" we both holler, in unison. Several feet away, a family with a stroller stares at us. The mother clamps her hands over the ears of her toddler, and Mikasa and I reel over, snorting with laughter.
After that, we're quiet for a while. The sun has almost disappeared under the horizon, and I have a couple of hours before I have to catch a red-eye flight back to Chicago, where my empty nest awaits. Life will be peace and quiet, which sounds like a luxury—but then again, did such a life ever suit me?
"I reread your letters from time to time," I say, breaking the silence. "Thank you, Mikasa."
"I didn't do anything," she says quietly. "I'm just glad you made it out okay." She shoves me lightly. "I want a selfie every time you get on a bike, and you better be wearing a helmet. I'll ask Carla or Hannes to rat on you if they see you riding by without one."
"Of course."
"And STOP signs. They're a legal obligation for bikes too."
"Okay, okay. I get it."
In the months following my discharge from the hospital, she used to tear up whenever she reminded me of these things. Nowadays, she's more even-keeled about it, but her hands still clench the beer can in a death grip.
I put a hand on her shoulder. "Seriously, don't worry so much. I won't be a dumbass again."
We take our time walking back to Carman Hall. I point out the liquor stores that, to my memory, are relatively lax about fake IDs. I show her secret gems in the neighborhood. Hole-in-the-wall eateries, a family-owned hair cuttery, cafes that host the best slam poetry nights. We meander through the streets, trying to extend our journey for as long as possible, but in due time, we're standing in front of the lobby of her dorm room, waiting for an Uber to take me to the airport.
"Do you have your switchblade on you?" Mikasa demands. She makes me turn my pockets inside-out, and she crosses her arms when I come up clean. "Don't pick a fight with security, Levi."
"So before I leave," I say, rolling forward my carry-on luggage. I unzip the main compartment, and I pull out a small wrapped package. "This is for you."
The wrapping paper crinkles and tears as Mikasa opens the gift. Her eyes widen when she recognizes what it is. "Is this? Levi, could it actually be? You're kidding!" she stammers, holding up a hardcover copy of Erwin Smith's biography. "I thought this wasn't going to come out until two weeks from now?!"
"Christmas came early, I guess." I shrug.
"Congratulations, Levi!" Before I can react, she has me suffocated in an almost rib-crushing hug, rocking us back and forth unnecessarily. When she pulls back, she has a huge grin on her face. "I see what you did," she says, putting her hands on her hips. "A fake release date. To deceive Floch into thinking that he has more time than he actually does, yeah?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I probably already know this forwards and backwards from proofreading everything, but I'm excited to read it cover to cover," she says, holding the book to her chest.
"Take a look at the first couple of pages," I tell her.
She flips through the title page, then the copyright information, and she pauses at the dedication page. "In loving memory of Furlan and Isabel. May you knuckleheads rest in peace," she reads. "And, of course, for Mikasa, who picked up my slack when I was being a vegetable." She laughs with disbelief. "I'm touched, Levi."
"I gave you a shoutout in the acknowledgements too," I add.
There's a paragraph thanking the interview subjects, followed by a blurb for Hanji, an inside-joke for Carla, and then this:
But all of this would've crashed and burned—had it not been for Mikasa Ackerman, my second-cousin once-removed and my ward. Mikasa, thank you for stepping up to the plate and keeping this project on track when I was sidelined for so many weeks. This book wouldn't have been possible without your unshakeable patience, your razor-sharp insight, and your rock-steady faith in me. It's an honor to be your legal guardian. I wish you all the best your freshman year, and you have all my love.
"I was going to add in a line directed towards Floch because he was the spark plug for this whole thing, but I thought that would be petty," I say. "Looks like I do have a filter sometimes—Mikasa?"
She's sniffling. And her teardrops are falling all over the acknowledgements page. Jesus, I hate it when she cries.
"You're making the paper all soggy," I scold her. I hold my arms out, and she squeezes me even more tightly than before, crying into my shoulder. "Come on, now. We're making a scene again."
"Shut up," she mumbles into my clothes.
We stay like that until my Uber driver pulls up and starts honking irritably, rolling down his window to demand why I haven't answered any of his calls.
"I'm gonna miss you," Mikasa says when we let go, wiping at her eyes.
"Likewise," I admit. "See ya at Thanksgiving."
Illuminated by the lobby lights, her silhouette waves at me as the car pulls out of campus. As we drive down Broadway, her figure grows smaller and smaller. Before long, she blinks out of view. I reach forward and tap the Uber driver on the shoulder.
"You wouldn't happen to have a tissue on you, would you?" I ask.
STUPID FUCK: So what line of work are you in?
LEVI: [chuckles, delighted that you pretend to give a shit] If you're asking what my nine-to-five deal is, I guess I could say that I'm a writer. But what really takes the lion's share of my time is this legal guardianship gig that got foisted upon me.
STUPID FUCK: [blinks in confusion] Ah... that's great! Do you enjoy it?
LEVI: [takes a long swig] I wouldn't have it any other way.
The end.
A/N: Aaaand that's a wrap. This has truly been such a fun journey, and if you're reading this, I'd like to thank you from the bottom of my fucking heart for sticking with me for more than 100,000 words. Some of you folks are new readers, and some of you have been keeping up with WUARD for years. Y'all fuckin' rock. The gas in my tank, the wind in my sails, the spark plug to my generator—I'll forever be grateful for the time you all have taken to read, first off. Like that alone is already such a fucking honor. And on top of that, it's been such a delight seeing your thoughts and comments grace my social media inboxes and comment sections. So much love for you all, and UGH, I'm so lucky to have such kickass, kind, compassionate, critical, reflective, and supportive readers.
I guess I do have some reflections of my own, now that we've reached the end. I've mentioned this before, but I honestly feel like I've grown as a writer over the years, thanks to WUARD. You guys play an enormous role in shaping my prose, and I cannot thank you enough for the honest, thoughtful feedback, as well as giving me the platform to write.
However, there's always room to grow. If I were to take a second stab at this fic, I wish I had developed Levi's backstory better. I feel like I haven't really fleshed these details out properly, and I've always had the sense that WUARD has been more Mikasa-centric, whereas my original intention was to give them even footing in the story. My recurring foe—pacing—continues to haunt me, but I've learned some tricks over the years for hastening the pace. Oof, and if you guys recall the comments from Chapter 18, I've definitely gotten more savvy with AO3 tags.
As I was writing, I realized something interesting. I don't remember who came up with the acronym "WUARD," but for starters, wow, thanks! "Washed-Up & Rundown" can get clunky. And secondly, I realized that Mikasa is Levi's "ward"—which is the legal term for the person under a legal guardian's care. "WUARD" and "ward"... *mind blown* I can't believe I only now just made the connection, HAHA.
So… what now? I promised WUARD AU one-shots, and yes, those are coming, because writing has really been an amazing outlet for me. I think I'll tack 'em onto the end of this fic, so that the whole package is in one place (but I'll still mark the fic as "complete" because I've been itching to do this, it's kinda a personal thing haha).
So this feels kinda like a good-bye… but not really. More like a "see ya when until the first one-shot drops!"
With that, I'll sign off soon. Thank you. So fucking much.
Karsyn