"Ah, Levi," Hange crossed their arms, a careful, tensed expression plastered on their face. "Not that I don't trust you— don't get it wrong, but how did Miche ended up finding the chapel when none of us knew until today?"

"Hey," Jean nudged you by the shoulder, nodding at the new badge on the left side of your coat. He looked presentable with the fresh haircut and trimmed sideburns, but the small cuts and purplish bruises from a few days ago slightly dishevelled his look. "Queen's advisor," He grinned. "Look at you climbing the ladders."

You glanced at him, "Oh hi." and gave him a forced, quivering smile. You've been doing nothing but shake hands like a dog and grin like a monkey for hours greeting the benefactors. You were starving to the point you were shaking. Even drinking cold water seemed to hurt your hollow stomach.

"Oh god, when was the last time…" Your eyes ogled on the buffet, eyeing the length of the buffet table before practically pouncing on the meat and potatoes. "...we ate meat?"

Jean chortled while grabbing some of his own, following you from behind. You felt the wordless judgment that your neck snapped at his direction before giving him a mean, questioning look. "What?"

"Nothing," The sand-haired boy said coolly before giving you a bashful look. "I just, I haven't seen you eat this much. It's refreshing."

"Ah," You nodded, getting what he meant. "We don't get to eat these anywhere in the mess hall so I might as well."

"So you're Chri— the Queen's advisor huh?"

"Looks that way." You responded as if the answer was a burden to your shoulders.

"And you don't look happy at all." He pinched the cured turkey leg by the tong before deciding he didn't want some. "You know I've dreamt of working as a Military Police officer myself so I can live comfortably in the inner walls. But look at you, you're gonna live in Mitras."

"Yeah?" You barely listened before taking a plate of pudding. "What made you change your mind about the MP thing?"

"Uh," You glanced at Jean, knowing well why he was taking his time to answer your question. Marco might still be a sensitive topic considering the boy passed less than two months ago.

"Well, plans change, right?" You gently nudged him by your shoulders before offering a consoling look. "People do that all the time."

"Yeah," Jean flashed you a gentle smile. The clanks of tongs against ceramic plates consumed the heated space of the hall before Jean spoke again. "Speaking of people," He started, "I heard you were looking for someone in the clinic. Did you uh… find him? Or is it a woman?"

"Ah that? I was looking for Captain Levi."

"Oh." Somehow, Jean sounded disappointed. "Why?"

"Nothing, it's just— I was in his squad before. We rescued the Reeves."

"I see."

"Is there something wrong?" You both settled in leaning against the wall, eating beside the sand-haired boy. "Jean?"

Somehow, Jean looked uneasy. He glanced around the halls filled with army-green coats and fluttering whites and pinks, before leaning a bit towards you. "Well, sir Levi was on penalty after… you know, the coup."

"Huh?" You snapped your eyes on him. Did you just hear that Levi was in trouble?

"Yeah," You waited for Jean to say he was joking, until the safe phrase never came. "He was on penalty for Gross Insubordination. It was a total shocker."

So it was. You couldn't even talk. After what felt like minutes, your muscles waned. You almost dropped your plate that Jean had to catch it.

"Why— for what? What did he do exactly?"

"Well, from what I know," Jean cleared his throat, apparently uncomfortable with the topic as he kept peering at his surroundings. "He disobeyed an order. He told Sir Miche that they needed a full forced back up to the church. We were told to look after Hoover."

"And…?" You hang on every word. "So no one looked after Bertholdt?"

"We secured him. We were sure about it, but no one stayed behind to look after Hoover. That bastard escaped."

Then that would explain why you couldn't find him anywhere. Not in clinics, hospitals, the barracks… "So they kept him in a cell?"

"Worse," Jean swallowed his first bite, "Captain Hange was furious. There was so many inside jobs already with Annie and the two, and to think that even Captain Levi would—"

A flare of anger swirled in your chest. "You believe that?"

"I don't know," Jean shrugged, unintimidated by your sudden flash of anger. "But I understand Captain Hange's concern. Too many betrayals nowadays. Besides, I think Commander Erwin allowed it because the Survey Corps' name just got in good standing again. We can't afford to not get supported by the people right now, considering Chri— Historia's from the Survey Corps."

"Hold on," You caught something in the middle of his sentences. "What do you mean 'it'?"

"Well— hold on, Sir Levi's looking in our direction. 11 o'clock." Jean coughed before looking down at his plate and began piercing the meat with his fork. He leaned closer to whisper that you two should pretend to talk about something else. You played along, even laughing a little to give off the impression that you were having a blast.

Come to think of it, you saw the signs when he came to visit you in the female barracks. The sudden weight loss, the pale, ghostly appearance…

"Phoebe, he's still lookin— shit, he's still lookin'. Don't look…" That was the last time you heard Jean's voice before everything faded in the background. Because when Levi stares at you like this, there is this muted, controlled longing in it; his eyes glisten with life, you couldn't help but revere.

You never peeled your eyes off of him even when he already did. You watched him quietly exist behind Erwin, one of his hands hidden inside his coat pockets.

Only to catch him stealing a glance of you.

The crowds slowly passed in blurry frames between the space full of clinking glasses and waiting tables. This time, he held your gaze from afar. Breathing was long forgotten. Maybe it was the faded chatters in the background, or the magical way that this hall was decorated with candle lights and chandeliers— all you knew was that his eyes were saying something.

Your muscles urged you to move. He broke the spell by looking away, kissing his brown bottle of liquor before fixing his eyes somewhere else.

You watched him talk, and you could tell he was aware.

"You know Phoebe," Jean sighed. You could feel the sand-haired boy staring at you; you could even imagine his gentle, concerned stare. "I don't, okay? But this is my take with Sir Levi."

"He's not like that." You retorted dismissively, not ever looking away. "Levi will never betray the cause."

"Not for a reason." That made you snap your neck just to gawk at this youngster's height.

"What was the reason?" You asked.

"Or rather, why was Captain Hange so mad?"

"Sorry Jean," You chortled in frustration before setting aside your untasted food. You weren't even hungry now. "I don't think I'm following."

"We uh… I delivered food to his cell twice so I know what I saw—"

"Jean, get to the fucking point."

"Okay, geez." He snorted, slightly raising his free hand in the air. "He was tortured, Febe."

"What?"

"He was… hurt. Not like they did to you, but close." Jean sombered. The new information made your eyes bulge like saucers. Levi was what? Tortured? For disobedience?

"I thought disobeying an order…" Your voice waned the more the dots connected.

"That's the official charge, but I think he was tortured for something else. I think he's trying to cover up for something or someone because no one can get a word outta him. Captain Hange was pissed about it."

LEVI ACKERMAN

I wish I could say that these liquors I brought with me are for my wounds.

But one more chug before I toss another empty bottle of liquor before I let out a satisfying gurk. Good shit I might say. The first four bottles tricked my mind into thinking we're safe. Six made me kinda sociable. Ten made me honest. Too honest that I began staring at someone I shouldn't be staring at.

Then Erwin excused me out to the hallway and told me to cool my head outside for a little while.

I took that as permission to go back to my private quarters and drink alone. So here I am, with 3 more bottles of rum while single-handedly upsy-daisying a can of high-grade tea.

Darkness greeted me for a moment before the candles did the trick to light up half of my office. A whaff of clean powdery scent along with the salt-sour rust greeted my nose. I found it comforting, surprisingly. It was a refreshing change compared to the sickeningly sweet perfume of women in Mitras.

In contrast, Phoebe's bags looked like garbage clumsily wrapped in sacks. They just marinate in the middle of my office like the nuisance that they are. They made me curious though. Like a cat rounding up the ankles of his master, I walked around them, careful not to trip. My vision swirled. There goes 11 bottles. Most of her shit looks like the real deal. Parts from gears, bolts, dull blades, matches… some wrinkled clothes that had seen better days… there was nothing distinctly feminine that would excite a man's curiosity. Not one lace or even a red dress. Not even a suggestive bodice or a corset to tease a man. Its absence is disappointing, doubtful and relieving all at the same time. How am I attracted to this?

But forget that— I should probably… 'fix' the way she tied her sacks?

For a moment, I got excited at the thought. Maybe it's the alcohol and the funny things it does to people because I'm not myself tonight. I actually thought to myself: 'I should do that.' The rational side of my mind was getting soupier the more I drank. The can of tea leaves would be a nice morning pick-me-up. The Queen was generous, at least. She could've given more, but I forgive her since it's good quality.

Nevermind that— fixing the knots means I get to untangle the knots and untangling the knots means I get to see everything she's about. That should be exciting, right?

No. I deprived myself as I let go of the air suspended in my lungs.

"You're better than this," I muttered to myself maybe twice, three times. No way am I gonna go over someone's privacy. I did that to Erwin because I had to get a citizenship above ground. That was years ago. We're not doing that anymore.

But for Phoebe…

I shook my head to clear my thoughts. I know what I'm doing, but inhibition's a bit loose. it's tempting to go over her stuff while she's probably in Mitras, smiling her teeth out until the corners of her mouth tear and that expression become permanent. Gotta greet their new overlords after all.

My eyelids started to feel heavy…

"Guess gotta sleep this off for a little while." I said as I forcefully widened my eyes hoping it rids the drowsiness.

One step, two steps, careful not to trip—

"Oh shit."

I didn't exactly trip but I did kick one of Phoebe's bags. From the gaps of the poorly tied sack, some sort of a book came out.

No, not a book. A journal. With the handwriting, at least, that's how I could tell. It was old and kinda disgusting and by the damn fucking walls, Phoebe's handwriting is horrible.

But this is her journal. Phoebe's private thoughts. It was easy to kill the thought that I should report back to Erwin whatever was in it. Easier than containing the thought that I should read every line simply because I want to know her. There must be a reason why she's writing them and not telling anyone about it… is what I keep telling myself before picking it up and attempting to read her child-like scribbles. And if this redeems me of anything, I'm not touching it. The book fell and opened on this particular page on its own.

But she won't get mad about something she doesn't know, right?

Meh, I began flipping pages.

"What a shitty handwriting," I murmured to myself as I attempted to read the damn thing. It took a 10-second headache to realize that I wasn't looking at a horrible handwriting but a completely different language. It had curves and lines and strokes that I didn't understand. At some point I thought I was degenerating to an idiot. Well, this is interesting. Are these words from her world or did Phoebe make these up? A code, maybe?

Tsk, fuck. She's such a headache. If Erwin knew this, I know they'd demand her to decode it for us. What would that cost her? A finger? An eye? Her life? I know she'll comply if only the higher-ups would stop asking about the credibility of her stories. I know for a fact she's not lying— I've seen it, but they won't take an outsider's word unless she has proof. What if she herself could not decode this thing and they won't believe her and they'll torture her for nothing? The infinite repercussions made my throat dry.

Wait, maybe that's why she can't give the entire story? Because she's scared I'll ask for proof like everybody does?

The blood concerned me. Brown-black. Old. It was smeared as if she was clutching something bloody. The edge of the pages was soaked, it seeped through half of the bind. Was Phoebe bleeding when she wrote this? She had time to journal while she was bleeding to death? Surely, I would know. I cleaned her wounds in my free time after all. She did not bleed this much. Not in the expedition— wait, her head injury was bloody but I was there, I fixed it…

The reports said she didn't have a head injury during the Trost breach too…

"MPs…?" I mumbled, trying hard to recall if they landed a coupla blows on her head during her detention. The nails, sure, but the head? Nah. She wasn't shot badly during the coup, hell, if anything, she threw the bombs, so that leaves two possibilities: She either wrote this before joining the cause or…

This journal isn't hers to begin with.

More than half of what was written was illegible. I flipped far enough to find a page I understood. The pages, or rather, this detailed, 3-paged account of some woman's last moments before dying was written in Eldian script.

This is certainly not Phoebe's. Then why is a journal not hers, with her?

It wrote about… being able to save someone. The woman, whoever she was, was happy. Something about… my eyes squinted to carefully read every word—

… we live our lives fully. In the end, every pain was worth it.

Urgh. I could feel the eye roll comin'. Is this some kind of a feel-good novel Phoebe's writing in secret?

"... and you have to do it all again, my ray of sunshine, these—"

"Levi, you fucking martyr! I know you're in your office!" I froze. Even sobered a little. That was Phoebe in the hallway, and the heavy, quick thuds of her shoes tells me she's not happy. Fuck.

I slammed the damned book shut and shoved it in one of her sacks before the door violently swung open. Shuddering in my office seat, I pretended to rummage over my drawers. Why did I do that? Too late, I already did.

"We," Phoebe animatedly exhaled, her eyes squinting and darkening as her left hand clutched the doorway. "We need to talk."

"No, we don't." I responded nonchalantly, (but I am sweating up my ass, mind you) rising from my bent form and taking the bottle as if to cast a toast. When my eyes laid on her panting, breathless form, exhaustion wasn't there.

If anything, she looked… worried.

"I heard what happened to you when you were… gone for a few days." She choked. "Why didn't you tell me? You acted like it's no big deal a-and… my bags…"

"Ah, that," I sipped from the bottle, averting her worried gaze. "They weren't even heavy."

"Liar— You groaned! I noticed the signs! You were having a hard time!"

"You're delusional."

"Don't gaslight me," She began walking huskily towards me and my body almost forgot I was drunk. "You should've told me! Now I have to worry about you!" I just stared at her as this beautiful woman began to walk closer.

My muscles become rigid. I couldn't move. Staring at her was all I could do.

"Sorry it has to be an obligation." I sneered. "But there's nothing to worry about."

"Let me see it," She said so callously but her gentle tug on my coat said otherwise, "I wanna see what they did to you."

"Tch, you're not my mother."

"You're lucky I'm not."

I could melt at the closeness of her presence. My intoxicated, drowsy state was roused into sobriety with the subtle scent of her, the sway of her hair, the command of her voice, that worry in the corner of her eyes. Would it be selfish of me to say that I like it? I am, but that didn't matter. Phoebe was worried, and that part of what she's feeling right now, was all for me.

"If you wanna see me naked, just ask."

Phoebe's face slightly crumpled grimly after giving me a mean glance. Every fingers that brushed against each other was electricity, the tingle was impossible to ignore. Maybe she saw me struggle with the buttons, (it wasn't very bright and my mind was at the bottom of the bottle) because she gently pushed my hands away and began unbuttoning it herself.

Silence.

Silence.

Sile—

"I don't want to assume you did it for me." She blurted out.

"I didn't do it for you." I muttered back while holding the gaze of the wall.

"You knew Miche's squad was guarding Bertholdt. Why did you tell them to back you up at the church? You knew nobody knows about the church but us." She mumbled, her voice was brittle. Even her hand trembled as she undid the next buttons of my coat.

"We needed the help."

"Don't start—" she tugged the collar slightly harder. Her eyes demanded that I look at her but I knew I couldn't. "They…" She hesitated, "Someone told me that Bertholdt was unguarded, that's why he managed to escape." Her expression turned grimmer when she saw the first bruises from the beating. "Braun must've snuck him out."

"Likely." I shrugged, as the cold chill crept into my skin when I was one clothing colder. Wearing coats is such a pain, especially when you've got fresh wounds all around the arms.

"The people think you… betrayed the cause."

"Do you believe it?" That's when I held her shift, downward gaze.

She fell silent. Her lips were pursed, uncertain what to say, or how to say it. I have this inkling that she sees me the way most people now do, and if that's the case, I should be happy, but a part of me hopes she doesn't.

I turned my head to look outside as I stepped back to put distance between us. So she does. The faithlessness stung. The lightheadedness was slightly gone but my inhibitions remained scandalous, my emotions in all time high. I know that one look at her devastated eyes and I'm done holding on to this ounce of self-control.

"It's over anyways. No use dwelling on the little things—"

"No," She closed the distance I made. "I see the things you do." She muttered, her eyes glistened with softness even with the poor lighting. "And I know how kind you could be."

I wanted to turn and give us space, but Phoebe's gaze held me still and made me stay. My breathing went rugged, not from enchantment or drunken lust, it was something deeper than that. Her eyes flickered as they probed mine. The way she looked at me made my stomach flip in triple folds; the alcohol-infused bile slowly gurgled outta my throat. My instinct was to step back and run away, tucked and hidden from her and everybody else.

"You don't know half of what I've done."

"No, don't do this— why do you keep on doing this?" She muttered between her heavy frustrated breathing. "Why do you keep doing— oh god…" She covered her eyes and rubbed her face with her entire palms.

"I have no idea what you're talking about—"

"This!" She snapped, the gentleness in her eyes were gone and shots of anger replaced them. "First thing you're nice and we work so well together and then seconds later, you shut me out! I don't understand you at all! You think I don't see it—"

"You're overreacting—"

"Don't gaslight me!"

"Gasli— what?"

"Gaslight!" She repeated in a louder frustration mixed with insistence on her tone. "You always help me out— you treat my wounds even when I don't ask you to, you—"

"Speak slowly—" She choked on her invisible tears.

"You helped me with the gears, you practically put your life and honor to protect me from these people—"

"Phoebe—"

"You cancelled your engagement!"

"That's not because of you, not entirely." I murmured quickly.

"We kissed!"

Well, I don't have anything to say but a noncommittal shrug.

"You believed me— you! Among all people!" But she was not stopping. She shrilled. It should irritate me but if anything it's… endearing. When was the last time someone actually recognized me for the little things? Not as the 'Humanity's Strongest' bullshit? I can't remember. Warmth started to swell from my chest, then travelled down to my guts, down to… my gulp was audible against the silence of my office, the fact that I'm alone with the woman who rouses feelings in me I'd rather be dead than to say out loud started to resonate.

"And Levi, trust me, these are not little things to me!" There was a shift on the way she stared and inspected my entirety. I never held my breath like I do now.

"So don't dismiss yourself!" She let out an exasperated sigh. "What you do isn't little— what you do made me—" She breathed like she just ran at full speed. Her eyes begged for recognition that she's right and she is. I could feel the pounding of my own heartbeat against my ears, my thoughts were torn between wishing she'd finish that damn sentence or to drag it out from her tongue with my own lips.

"Made me…"

My palms itched to touch her. Own her. Mark her. Kiss her. Take her from there and then. Maybe it was the way her mouth moved. How cold her hands might be. How bitter-sweet she tasted. The way her lips stretch and pucker. Small events of lip biting when she had to pause and breathe— when she has to pause to think about what to say, or the way the vein in her neck protrude alluringly I sometimes catch myself wondering how she'd gasp if she'd allow me to nibble and lick that sweet, delicate skin.

She was annoying. Sweetly, alluringly annoying. Frustrating. Most certainly the way she talked me down in my own office was unforgivable. The way her hands moved wakes the curiosity of how they'll feel between the spaces of my fingers while I pin them on the wall. She's madly irritating. Seductively vexing. My mind stop working and all self-control gets loose whenever who the fuck's keeping count.

Because something about her made my muscles grow stiff and elicited an ache, a kind of longing far more than desire.

And it's something I have to control.

"Made me like—"

"Get out," I said firmly.

"What?"

"I said," I swallowed the pool underneath my tongue and I felt it slightly choke me as it passed through my dry throat. "Get out."

A momentary silence. "'Get out'?"

"You heard me."

I could sense the tension with the way she restrained her frustration. I turned my back to avoid her disbelieving appeal and leaned on the farthest wall to set some distance between us.

"After I told you I appreciate what you're doing…" Her voice had grown weak to a mutter the more she said those words, and that was good.

Keeping her at arm's length is good. Close enough to make sure she doesn't do anything reckless,

"I'll send your stuff to Mitras, if that's what you're worried about."

but far enough so she doesn't get to know me any more than she does now.

"I was worried—"

Convincing myself that I'm fine being on the sidelines.

"I know, I said I'm fine so get the hell outta my office."

"This isn't you. Don't do this to me."

While spending the rest of my life running away from what I truly wanted.

"Would you rather I kick you out so you could take the hint?"

Away from her who makes me feel.

"Wha—"

"Don't slobber. I hate cleaning after others."

Her eyes were wide and vacant, completely devoid of light.

A pang of cold guilt crawled from my chest, freezing my feet on the floor. Completely sober, I watched every frame where Phoebe slowly resented me.

"Ha," She scoffed, treading her fingers through her hair, her eyes darted in all directions just so the tears wouldn't fall. "So that's how it is," She chuckled humorlessly, "I can't believe I agonized over someone like you."

I did not take my eyes off of her. I have to watch how I betrayed the one woman who did nothing but trust me wholeheartedly. It had to be done.

Watch how her pain turned to anger.

"One day, you're gonna need me, and pray that I'm still here."

And how her anger turned to cold, permanent silence with the thuds of her heels.