Archive of Our Own

Levi Ackerman is fast as hell.

That’s the first thing you notice about him.

The second? He’s fucking gorgeous. Black hair falls in coarse strands over his forehead, his nose is straight, his lips are rosy to match his flushed cheeks, and his pale flesh is ridden with muscle that ripples whenever he runs. A pair of black shorts with a 3” inseam cling to his thighs, hugging the strong and firm planes of muscle. Even his calves are carved out and nearly bulging out of his skin as his cleats slam down on the field. You want him to step on your neck with those exact cleats.

You’re pretty sure earlier you heard a few junior girls gush about how gorgeous the varsity players are, especially “that Levi Ackerman guy”, and you don’t disagree.

It’s the soccer semi-finals for the Shiganshina High School varsity soccer team, and Levi Ackerman is the Captain. You, with your crumpled up list of questions and half-broken recorder, are supposed to fill out this week's sports column for the Shiganshina Chronicle. You also don’t know shit about sports, and are only doing this because fucking Nifa dipped out for the sake of going out with some blue-eyed kid from your Government class. Now, here you are, thumbs up your ass, wondering how the hell a “foul” actually works.

Though, it’s not like soccer is that complicated of a sport.

The objective: Kick the ball in the other team’s goal.

The result: Everyone screams their heads off if you make it, or collectively groans when the goalie blocks the attempt.

Simple enough. At least, that’s how Levi makes it look.

You can’t blink when you watch him. If you blink, you’ll miss him. The sun beats down on his upper back, illuminating him as if the heavens are shining down on this God of an eighteen-year-old super-athlete. Admittedly, you think he’s the reason for your unexpected interest in this game.

It’s the way that he moves. Dribble. Kick. Pass. Capture. Kick, again. Goal.

Goal, goal, goal.

He doesn’t miss.

Shiganshina is up by ten. Karanes obviously doesn’t stand a chance in these final minutes.

Number twenty-two, a kid named Erwin Smith who you also know from your Government class, passes to Levi. Levi doesn’t even have to look down to know the patterned ball is at his toe. He just goes. He runs, swerving around an opponent, eyes narrowed ahead. Everyone is punching their fists into the ear, screeching his damn name at the tops of their lungs.

Levi kicks. Levi scores. The rowdy pack of animals behind you explode, and Mike, number eighteen, claps Levi right on the back. A grin slowly curls on your lips at the irritated scowl that immediately darkens his features like a heavy gray cloud. You’re pretty damn sure that signature scowl hasn’t evaded him since freshman year when you first saw him in English I.

And the only reason you know that for “pretty damn sure” is because, well… you find Levi interesting.

The buzzer groans obnoxiously loud but is overshadowed by the choir of overenthusiastic (and sweaty) freshmen. You just plaster a smile on your face and pretend like you know what’s going on.

Right, the interview. Nifa gave you a couple of pointers when it came to this integral part of the early evening.

Number one: Locate Hange Zoë. They’re the manager of the team, which means they should already know there’s a school journalist floundering somewhere about in the stands. It’s not uncommon for the athletes to be interviewed after games; it’s just more common for the STV kids to pre-record a segment for tomorrow’s morning announcements.

Honestly, no one fucking reads the Shiganshina Chronicle. You don’t even think that Pixis, who’s the teacher advisor of the club, reads it, either.

But, hey, it’s still something to put on the resume.

Anyway, number two: After Hange approves (and they will approve), you talk to a) the Captain, or b) the Officer, who mostly works alongside the Captain crafting plays and corralling the rowdy boys, or c) both.

(You pray for the third option.)

(Mostly because Levi is absolutely terrifying with that perpetual scowl, but you definitely don’t want him to know that you think that.)

Finally, number three: Ask the questions already prepared by Nifa herself that are currently crumpled up in the back pocket of your jeans.

Alas, you have a mission.

By the time you’ve broken free from the tiny hoard of freshmen waiting for their parents to pick them up, half of the bleachers have already been emptied out, and most students (mainly the juniors and seniors and some sophomores who want to feel included) are probably heading to Scouts for post-game grease and milkshakes with a side of nicotine.

You could go for a plate of fries.

Later, you remind yourself. Right now, you’re up and walking the edge of the bleachers, following the metal railings. The players are striding across the field, smacking hands with the opposing team in a display of good sportsmanship while you are surveying Shiganshina’s side for a certain person with glasses and a high ponytail up-do.

You know Hange. You had AP Chem with them until you dropped the class two weeks in and managed to squeeze into a Filmography course after gaslighting your counselor. But Hange still remembered your face every time you passed them in the hall, and they remembered your name, too.

Sure enough, squished between the Shiganshina coach and number eighteen, they’re standing with their arms folded, eyes squinted into half moons. They are thrilled about tonight’s win.

You shout their name and shoot your arm up in the air for the first time tonight, waving it aggressively as if that will catch their attention more than the sound of your voice. Still, they perk up after another deafening belt and turn around, instantly beaming at the sight of you.

They echo your name in response and jog over. You smile and crouch down while they bounce up on their toes to talk to you through the bars.

“No offense, but this is the last place I thought you’d be!” they chuckle, tilting their head.

You playfully roll your eyes. “Me too. Hey, I know Nifa usually does this, but she’s getting her face sucked off by Thomas at the theater off 38.”

Hange hisses, “No way! I mean, good for her. So, I imagine you’re here for the interrogation, then?”

Your eyebrows raise. “Yes. That’s right.”

“In that case, you may follow me, Detective.” Hange’s voice is laced with mirth as they gesture around the fence, and after a snort on your behalf, you’re hurrying down the steps and past the gates until you step onto the asphalt track. The rubber rims of your white converse are quickly smeared in black.

Hange begins leading the way, hands tucked in the pocket of their windbreaker.

“I imagine you’re looking for Levi? And Erwin?” they confirm.

You swallow, “Uhhh, yeah. Yeah, Levi. And Erwin.”

Levi. Le-vi. You’re testing the name on your tongue to see if you like how it tastes, and your cheeks are warm because it’s embarrassing how much you enjoy it. Levi. God, does he really have to have such a cool fucking name? And it suits him, too. It’s always suited him. Levi for the kid with hair so black it almost looks navy beneath bright light. Levi for the kid with a sullen disposition.

You smile to yourself.

“Levi’s uh, a bit of an asshole, but he’s more like a kitten once you really get to know him,” Hange informs with a hint of caution. They tug on their collar. “Erwin will probably guide the conversation. Just remember not to take anything Levi says too seriously!”

Your brows pucker and suddenly you want to limit any and all interactions with Levi to four-person discussion groups in English class.

A few feet ahead of you, you see him. Sweat clings to the neckline of his shirt and to his back, and his black hair is slick across his forehead, the ends dripping in what you assume to be water sprayed from his water bottle. He dabs at his flushed cheeks with a clean towel, then tugs the hem off his shirt up and uses it to fan air against his very flat and very, very toned stomach.

You try to keep your mouth closed. Your fingers pale around the strap of your back instead.

When he looks up, you see a striking pale gray and a flash of recognition across his face.

Out of nowhere, Erwin slides in beside him, capturing his attention. He’s probably muttering some Captain-officer soccer business that you wouldn’t understand.

“Leviiii!” Hange sings excitedly, slinking into a sashay. Levi frowns like a muppet when they plant themselves in front of him, with you standing behind them, staring at the back of their shoulder rather than Levi or Erwin’s faces.

“What do you want, Four-eyes?” That deep, familiar voice that you hear muttering tangents during Socratic Seminars settles softly in your chest. You feel oddly at ease despite how fucking mean that nickname is.

Except, Hange just breaks out into a fond laugh. “The detective has a few questions to ask you guys.”

“Detect— “

You step out from behind Hange and awkwardly lift your hand in a half-hearted wave. Immediately after you’ve done so, you want nothing more than to recoil into yourself and never see the light of day again.

However, Erwin just barks your name in that rich tone made for politics. “We’re in Gov together. I didn’t know you wrote for the school paper?”

Your face settles into a softer, more relaxed expression. “Yeah! I’m covering for Nifa tonight.”

He makes a noise that alludes to his understanding, and says, “Well, we’re happy to help. Levi will cooperate.”

Levi, who still hasn’t said anything, shoots his blonde friend a pointed glare.

Hange leans in, cupping her hand over your ear so the boys can’t see what they’re muttering. “Actually, he’s more like a uh, feral cat who found his way into the dumpster only to realize there isn’t anything worth eating aside from a moldy can of tuna stuck to the very bottom.”

You lean in and respond, “That was very specific— “

“ —and not as quiet as you thought,” Levi finishes. His expression still hasn’t changed. You want to tell him he’s going to get wrinkles and that maybe he should invest in some Cera-ve or a sunscreen so—

“We can take a seat on the benches over there,” Erwin interrupts, lifting a finger to point towards a more secluded corner.

“Great idea! You kids have fun. Levi, please find me before you head home, and Detective— ” Hange meets your gaze. Your eyes open up expectantly, but they simply bring their fist to their heart in some mock salute you recognize from a show you watch. “Best of luck!” You’re gonna need it, they want to add.

You wave. “See ya.”

Levi watches them skip away. Dotingly, he murmurs, “Freak of nature.”

Erwin leads the three of you toward the quiet area with the bench and some scattered folding chairs. He sets one in place for you and takes a seat, Levi following in his footsteps.

“Just bear with me,” you hum, pulling out your notepad and a beat up recorder.

(Pixis insists that you use it because it’s a long-standing “tradition” amongst Shiganshina students who wrote for the paper in the past—but you mostly do it because he’s old and fragile and you’d feel terrible if you didn’t.)

“Do you guys mind if I record the convo? It’s just in case I need to dig back for some information later.”

“We do.”

Erwin laughs lightly, waving his hand. It’s a silent gesture to tell you to ignore his friend. “Not at all! Go ahead.”

Your eyebrows are raised as you look at Levi. His lips are pressed into a firm line and it seems like he’s wearing a perpetual scowl on his face that only ever seems to shift into one of concentration when he’s studying or on the field. You almost laugh. Almost.

“Right,” you huff. “Uh, okay, so you guys just won the semi-finals, which means you’re heading to State. Last year, Shiganshina only made it to the semi's before we lost. So, I guess I’ll ask the obvious: You planning on taking home a trophy in two weeks?”

“Yeah, if Oluo doesn’t—“

Another awkward laugh from Erwin cuts Levi off, and he grips the shorter man’s shoulder. “Absolutely! All the guys have been working really hard. Levi’s done a good job leading the team, and we’re just hoping to see all of that hard work pay off at State.”

You nod. “Yeah, I noticed the teamwork on the field. Everyone seems really close to each other. It’s a lot different from last year when Fritz punched Berner right across the jaw for making out with his girlfriend under the bleachers.”

“Who even cares?”

“It’s the team dinners every week!” Erwin exclaims. “Hange always organizes those. One of the guys gets to pick a place, and we all meet there just to hang out. It’s a lot of fun. Lots of inside jokes.”

Levi shakes his head.

“Oh, what’s your favorite place to eat?”

“Well, I know for a fact Levi loved Olive Garden! He stole a basket of breadsticks— “

“Erwin, you’d better shut your shitty mouth if you know what’s good for you.”

Your brows shoot upwards while a devious little grin begins to climb onto your lips. “Olive Garden, huh?” So that’s Levi’s vice.

“Isn’t this supposed to be an interview about the game?” he glares.

“Right, my bad. Serious question: Are you normally such a dick?”

Levi gapes at you, and you feel a burst of triumph in your chest knowing you’ve caught him off guard. He closes his mouth after a solid five seconds then slouches back in his seat as Erwin laughs into his palm.

“Maybe I am. And what about it?” he mutters. “That’s not very professional of you. Sports journalist woman. Whatever your name is.”

“We literally have AP Lang together. I have read probably fifteen of your essays since freshman year.”

“I have never seen you before in my life. Do you even go to this school?”

“No, I don’t, that’s why I’m sitting here, interviewing you for the Shiganshina Chronicle. Because I don’t go to this school.”

“Such a smart ass.” Levi huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

He comes to the rapid realization that he’s doing a terrible job at making a good impression. Not that he would care what anyone thinks of him. But you’re not “anyone”, are you? For some reason, he’s always wanted you to see him a certain way—the one girl who's been in every one of his English classes, who’s read plenty of his writing but hasn’t once critiqued any of it. Who just hands it back to him while forcing down a smile.

But every time something relatively nice lands on his tongue, he wants to shrivel up, so he says, in the most disinterested tone, “Ever heard of a joke, Hemingway?”

You’re silent for a moment before you reply. “That’s definitely not my name, but I think I’ll keep that information private for as long as I can. Self-preservation and all.”

“It’s definitely not private,” he replies. No, it’s definitely always typed perfectly in twelve-point, Times New Roman font, at the top left of every essay of yours he’s ever peer reviewed.

You ignore his response. “So, did everyone actually collectively vote for you to be Captain? I find that very hard to believe.”

“Of course everyone voted for me. Varsity soccer is a democracy.”

“Are you sure they weren’t all just too scared of you not to? Or maybe they were coerced.”

“You seriously think I coerced my team into voting for me as Captain? Actually never mind. Think what you want, Girl-who’s-writing-about-soccer-who-doesn’t-actually-know-anything-about-soccer.”

Erwin is gaping, unable to keep up with the swiftness of the banter. He continues to stare incredulously at Levi who’s being more of a grump than usual tonight. It’s rare for him to speak longer than two minutes at a time unless he’s teaching the team, so he wonders what exactly he’s stumbled upon.

“Hm, wait”—you tilt your head, blinking at the sky as if you're filing through your thoughts—“now that I think about it, you don’t seem like the type to talk that much. But maybe you just glared at them until they caved.”

“Hm, maybe I did. What are you gonna do about it?” he drawls. The sarcasm dripping from his words certainly doesn’t go amiss.

You bare an earnest smile. “I have you recorded, Cap. I can just expose you and all your dirty laundry!”

“To whom? The three people who read the school paper?”

Well. He’s got you there.

You groan, slouching back in defeat. “Fine. I surrender. You win this time. Now can we please just get through these interview questions? I’m missing the season finale of Riverdale for this.”

“Looks like we’re doing you a favor then,” Levi snarls.

Erwin scratches at the back of his neck. He seems a bit worn-down himself. “Ah, yes. Let’s get on with it. Levi,” his voice drops an octave lower, “be nice. Please, ask away, Hemingway.”

Ignoring the fact that Erwin seemed to pick up on Levi’s new and totally random (and fucking weird… but strangely endearing) “nickname” for you, you continue on with the prepared questions. They’re straightforward and good enough to write a cohesive article for a subpar high school journalism club. Somehow, Levi garners the strength to answer any questions geared towards him; short answers, to the point, lacking any embellishments or flowery language, just the way you like to hear it and write it.

You learn quickly that Levi is just as much of a hardass on himself as he is on everyone else on his team.

He does not take compliments. No, he blatantly and outright rejects them.

If Erwin commends Levi for his leadership, Levi grumbles something under his breath and sinks back into his seat with folded arms. If Erwin tells him his footwork was outstanding, he points out the two fragmental, itty-bitty errors he made and continues reworking the play in his head. You wonder what he sees behind those slate-gray eyes. You wonder what little universes exist within that noggin covered in soft-looking black hair.

He’s a perfectionist, you quickly deduce. And almost to a fault. You can tell because it takes one to know one.

The interview takes no more than ten minutes, and Erwin, ever the entrepreneur, shakes your hand. Then you remember this guy won DECA nationals last year. His more-than-firm handshake and piercing eye contact suggest he’s already a renowned CEO.

God, you only wish you could have that kind of experience. Or that kind of authority.

Levi, on the other hand, offers you an exasperated huff and a long, mostly blank stare. Oddly enough, you hold it, because making eye contact with Levi isn’t exactly something you’re unfamiliar with.

The two boys are courteous to walk you back to your car, until Erwin is ensnared by another girl from your Gov class.

That leaves you and Levi. Alone.

You can practically feel him brooding beside you.

“So, like…” You trail off, wracking your brain to fill the stretched silence. “What’s it like, thinking up plays in your head?”

Levi gives a “harrumph” and continues on walking. You just had to park all the way back in the furthest lot, didn’t you?

“I thought the interrogation was over.”

“Just making conversation, Cap,” you grumble.

Levi’s scowl only intensifies. “No need to. It’s not like you actually care, anyway,” he says, but his tone isn’t degrading or harsh. It’s said like he’s deep in thought about something. Maybe, about how he’s going to torture his teammmates before the upcoming match in two weeks. “Why ask people questions if you don’t care what they have to say.”

You shrug. “Good point. But for the record, I do care. Earlier, when you were talking about working with Hange to create plays for the team, I wanted to know how you do it. I don’t know why, but I just did. I still do.”

Levi can appreciate outright candor when he hears it. He contemplates, then sighs, jamming his cold fists into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “It’s nothing special, really. You kinda just… picture the field in your head and imagine your guys in their respective spots. You ever play chess?”

“Do I look like I’ve played chess.”

“You really do.”

You snort. “Fair enough. Carry on.”

He does, “It’s like… You need a strategy. Remembering your strongest players. Pairing them off with others who may cater to different strengths. Sometimes, they work well together, and it pays off later. Or you gotta move people around and see what fits…”

“Oh, I saw that,” you hum, sticking your hands up in surrender. You wave them rapidly. “Sorry to interrupt you!”

Levi is so close to smiling because that was one of the cutest fucking things he’s ever seen.

“It’s fine,” he utters. “What were you gonna say?”

You visibly relax, falling back into your slow stride beside him. A breeze brushes past the two of you and blows your hair over your shoulder so he can see the side of your face and watch your lips move as you speak.

“That last play. Erwin kicked the ball to you and you didn't even look down. Like you already knew the ball would be there in front of your feet,” you finish, and Levi swears he hears your tone going breathy, as if something so simple like that has impressed you.

“Oh,” he hums. “Yeah. It’s not actually a play. Erwin and I have played soccer together since… our whole lives.”

“Muscle memory,” you nod, understanding. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that Levi and Erwin are close friends. “Okay. What else?”

Levi considers for a moment, then continues, “You gotta anticipate the next move. So, let’s say I have one opponent coming straight for me. I lay out my options: Are they gonna steal the ball? How would they? Is there anyone else around me? An opponent I don’t know about? A teammate who I can pass to? Well, I know that Oluo, who plays forward, always makes himself open. He’s probably a safe bet,” Levi takes a breath and glances your way, surprised to see you aren’t staring off blankly. “But the most important part is to figure out their strategies. If we can do that, then we have the game.”

You listen, unaware of how you both have almost come to a stop amidst your conversation.

Levi’s been in a handful of your classes since freshman year. Perhaps you remember a little too well when he was a whopping 4’11” and already playing on the varsity team with his best friend, Erwin Smith. You remember he’s been number fifty-five since that same year.

You know that he hates being the center of attention. You also know that in every class you’ve had with him, he sits in the second row to the front, usually on the side of the classroom that has all of the windows because he prefers when the sun is glaring down on his back and warming him through his shirt.

A kitten, you remember Hange saying earlier.

You smile.

A feral dumpster cat, you also remember Hange saying.

You quickly wipe that smile off your face.

You know that, despite his reclusive and elusive behavior, everyone loves Levi. By default, he’s popular, because he’s Captain of the Varsity soccer team and has black hair and pretty eyes and all the girls love that about him. But it’s also easy to tell that he’s utterly indifferent towards it.

You’ve never had a conversation with him. Not a real one, at least. Only the group discussions in English class, because you have somehow ended up in the same class every single year together, so technically, they don’t count.

However, from said discussions, you know he hates classic literature. He thinks that Heart of Darkness was the grossest book ever written. He also hates formal essay writing (That, you discovered, because when you peer reviewed last year's final essay, his was written entirely in his voice: cynical, sardonic, pessimistic. And you laughed, because you thought it was fucking funny, and interesting, and you didn’t want him to change a single thing about it).

For someone who you rarely talk to, it’s a little jarring that you know him like this, and definitely a little stalker-ish, but when he talks, it feels like you’ve known him for ages. It makes you wonder if he knows you, too. He probably doesn’t. You’re probably just a creepy stalker who totally doesn’t have a fat fucking crush on him like every other girl in this school.

You suppose it’s just something about the guys you can never have.

“I’ve been doing stuff like that—going over shit in my head—for so long, that it’s second-nature now,” he says after a period of comfortable silence.

You laugh. “So, it’s like driving a car and subconsciously remembering to hit the gas, put on your turn signal, and check your mirrors, all at the same time?”

Levi freezes. “Yeah.” Oddly, his throat goes a little dry. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.” But also, you check your mirrors when you’re driving? Maybe he should start doing that, too.

You hum in understanding. “I get it. It’s kinda like writing, you know. Not completely. But it’s all about creating the image in your head. Coming up with questions and figuring out how to assemble the story. Reworking sentences over and over. Wanting it to be perfect.” You offer him a shrug. “Or not.”

Levi swallows the dryness, hoping to lubricate his throat. It doesn’t work. He feels like his tongue is weighing heavy in his mouth like a goddamn brick.

“No, it’s… kinda close, I guess.”

“Also, uh, I don’t know much about soccer or anything,” you add, waving your hand again. “I mean, you said as much. But normally, I write about things like, local events and stuff”—Levi nearly blurts I know that, too but bites his tongue—“and Nifa does the weekly sports column, but… I’m glad I came tonight. Honestly, I think you’re too hard on yourself.”

Shit, now he’s really going to choke on his tongue. He hopes you don’t notice the sudden falter in his steps, or the way his shoulders wilt as if you saying that to him has alleviated him of something heavy he’s been carrying for years. But he doesn’t say anything. He can’t. The thought of stringing together a coherent sentence makes him feel like he’s going to hurl.

“I mean, you really kicked the shit out of the ball, Levi. Scored all of those points for your team. So what, your footing was a little off? Doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve to give yourself some credit. Like, yeah, it’s good to know for next time, especially so you don’t get injured, but still. You’re such a pessimist.” A throaty yet light noise shakes your shoulders, and Levi wonders why he loves the sound so much.

He shakes his head. “And what, you’re an optimist? Whatever. I’m just being a good example for my team. Mistakes are fine but shouldn’t be made twice.”

You roll your eyes, arriving at your car. As you fish your keys out of your pocket, they clatter onto the pavement.

Levi crouches down at the same time as you, accidentally brushing your fingers reaching for your keys. When you look up, surprised by the contact, your foreheads smack together and you fall directly onto your asses.

“Watch where you’re going!” He holds his head where it hurts, like his brain has been rattled in his skull.

And much to his surprise, you fucking laugh. A loud, obnoxious cackle, the same one as earlier, and he just can’t bring himself to frown at you. So it feels a little weird when his forehead smooths over and his rosy lips part. His eyes glaze over, and yours seem to catch the leering lights in the parking lot.

“Sorry, sorry,” you continue to giggle, standing up from the ground. You dust the gravel off your pants and slap your hands together until your palms are clean. When they’re spotless, you extend a hand.

Reluctantly, he reaches up and takes it.

Your hand is warm folded around his. He feels the pad of your thumb digging into the smooth skin, brushing one of his knuckles. There are a few rings stacked on some of your fingers. Too many to count, with weird patterns and crystals and varying thickness to them.

Levi hates holding hands. Girls who like him just grab him and touch him, and they don’t even ask. They don’t reach out, and see if he will take it.

He realizes quickly: you have nice, warm hands. And their weight feels perfect held in his own.

“Well, thanks for walking me to my car!” You unlock the door and slide inside. It happens so quickly that he has to blink twice. He’s still dizzied from touching you.

Tomorrow is a Friday. He has AP Language at 12:14 p.m., and he will see you there, like he always does. He wonders what you will wear. He wonders if your hair will be up or down.

He nods. “Yeah. You didn’t really need it.”

Your car revs to life. Music starts to play gently. Levi instantly recognizes the song over the speaker because he listens to it all the time in his headphones.

Something weird festers in the pit of his stomach. He’s warm all over, too. Maybe he’s getting sick. He has felt a bit odd all evening, ever since Hange brought you over. Maybe you got him sick. That has to be it—your close proximity got him ill and he should definitely stick to watching you from afar to avoid catching it again.

“Get home safe!” you tell him, and then you’re gone.

Levi stands in the gravel. He slowly makes his way back to the stadium and finds that Erwin is still talking to that girl from Gov. As soon as the blonde sees him, he bids goodbye and jogs over.

“Everyone is heading to Scouts! Want to drive together? My treat?”

Everyone sure loves that greasy diner in the heart of town. Levi’s positive that the diner definitely hates everyone else.

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t feel well. I’m just gonna have Kenny pick me up.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder. “She’s nice, isn’t she?” Oh great, Erwin’s talking in his soft voice like he’s the gentle giant or some ridiculous shit, which means he’s trying to gauge a sensitive topic with Levi that often goes unspoken between the two.

“Huh? Oh yeah, Hemingway?”

Erwin chuckles. “You know her name is—“

“I know her name, Erwin.”

Of course he knows your name. How could he not?

When Levi gets home that night, he’s at his desk, cranking out the last few discussion questions for 1984. There’s going to be a Socratic Seminar next week, and he fucking hates public speaking when he’s forced to do it, so the more preparation means the less likely he is to make an utter fool out of himself.

In his headphones, he’s listening to the song that came up on your Bluetooth earlier that night.

Back when he walked you to your car.

Since he got home, he’s felt less sick. But there’s still this feeling in his stomach. It’s something akin to the static of a television set on the wrong channel. Or Rice Krispies when you drench them in milk. And he thinks that his heart has maybe changed channels too, or something like that, because he swears it isn’t thumping the same as it was before. The pattern is all discombobulated and unfamiliar and just not right. It’s like he has to relearn how to breathe again.

Is it panic? No. He knows what a panic attack is, and this isn’t it.

Whatever is it—if it doesn’t fucking stop soon, it’s going to put him in a bad mood.

Distracted, he pulls out his phone. The purple icon for Instagram sits on the last page of his screen, mostly because he rarely ever uses it.

There’s one single picture, or two. It’s of him and Erwin at last year’s semi’s. Erwin beams at the camera, and Levi stares straight-faced, brow crinkled in irritation. When he swipes, a second picture appears. Again, him and Erwin, but this time, ten years younger at their very first soccer game together. Erwin smiles. Levi looks a little less pissed off than he does in the first picture.

There’s a little blur in the top right corner where his mother’s finger accidentally entered the lens.

For the little time he spends on social media, he somehow garnered a whopping eight hundred followers. Most of them are girls from school who he has never spoken to, in just about every grade level, and others are guys he’s played soccer with over the years, club and school alike.

He’s mastered the art of hiding all of his tagged photos so no one can go searching for anything to use against him.

He chalks it up to blatant curiosity as his thumbs twiddle, typing in your name to his Followers tab. Sure enough, the little icon that pops up beside your username is your face.

There it goes. Thump, thump, thump. A new, new rhythm, different from earlier. God, his heart is far too skittish and all over the place. What if this is an early sign of a heart attack? Should he call Erwin? Tell Kenny? He’s probably passed out downstairs on the couch anyway.

Amidst his panic, he taps on your name. Your profile fills his screen to each corner, and he feels a little dirty for looking even though you follow him and it's a completely public profile. Still, he can’t help but wonder if this classifies as stalking. Maybe it’s because he’s never crossed this bridge before.

There’s only eleven photos posted on your account, but all of them consist of tiny galleries in themselves. Some are of scenery and sunsets. Sometimes they’re your outfits, pictures of Nifa, or plants you see, or interesting things you find in public that you feel inclined to share for whatever reason. As he scrolls down, he sees a portrait of you. A black leather jacket flares out near your hips and there’s a smile plastered on your glossy lips. Beside you is a grown man. He looks like you. It’s probably your father.

Levi thinks he’s seen too much. He goes to swipe out and accidentally double taps the screen. A giant red heart appears in the center of the picture.

He wants to die.

“Shit, shit— “

He successfully unlikes then unsuccessfully relikes the picture. He does it a total of three times before he gives up and slams his face into his desk. The spot on his forehead where he accidentally knocked yours throbs dully.

Somewhere, a few neighborhoods away, you’re glancing down at your phone screen, bright light blinding your eyes when the notification pops up.

@captainlevia liked your photo.

You just bust out laughing.

Levi hates these Socratic Seminars.

It’s where all the “smart” kids hog the entire conversation by regurgitating whatever the last “smart” person said, making it nearly impossible for anyone else to add on or gain any points from the discussion.

You’re the only exception. Or maybe Levi just likes the sound of your voice and that’s why it doesn’t bother him to hear you talk about boring stuff.

But what does bother him, is when the “smart” kid doesn’t let you talk.

It’s been twenty minutes of you trying to say something insightful and this one kid interrupting you, pretending like he’s the one who came up with your idea in the first place.

If these kids knew what was good for them, they wouldn’t interrupt you every time you tried to speak. Don’t they get that you’re the one who’s going to get them to pass the test in two weeks? If this kid would shut up and actually listen for once, Levi wouldn’t have to hear him bitch and moan about receiving another B-plus.

That’s what he tells himself when he spits, “You know, if you actually let her speak, you’d realize how wrong you are.”

Your jaw drops. Petra raises a brow at Levi’s sudden outburst. Pixis seems to perk up in his seat. (He was probably two minutes away from falling asleep).

“Mr. Ackerman!” he barks. He sighs and slumps into his desk. “Remember what I said about being respectful during these seminars?”

“Yeah, well, interrupting the smartest person in this class isn’t being respectful,” he replies, slouching back in his seat with folded arms and wrinkled brow.

Smartest person in this class? Foremost, you’re flattered, but Levi wouldn't know something like that and neither would you. Snickers are heard amongst the circle. Instantly, your fingers move to scathe your cheek. He may as well have set you on fire.

There’s an uneasy churning in the pit of your stomach that seems to intensify as the hole gapes wider and wider. You hope that by awkwardly straightening out all of your papers and pens, that everyone’s gazes will shift away from you.

Pixis huffs through his nose and folds his hands together. “Very true.” Levi grunts, happy to be agreed with. “Mr. Doc, maybe if you didn’t try to pass off Miss Reader’s point as your own, you wouldn’t be whining about your B-plus.”

Nile gawks in response. The snickers turn into hushed and amused conversation.

“Miss Reader, you may continue.”

“Uhhh, I lost my train of thought,” you murmur, tapping your fingers against the desk. “Sorry, maybe it’ll come back to me in a minute, if, um… someone else who hasn’t gotten the chance to speak wants to go?”

Petra grabs her paper. She spares Levi, who is blushing furiously, a curious glance and simultaneously forces her lips into a straight and professional line. “I’ll go.”

“Thank you, Miss Ral. And Ackerman?” Pixis narrows his gaze toward the athlete.

“Yes, sir?”

“See me after class.”

Levi wants to roll his eyes.

From across the circle of desks, he glances up and accidentally meets your eyes. He can still see your anxiety in the slapping of your sole against the floor and the way you rub at your collarbone.

Still, a small smile tugs up on your lips. Your eyes shine.

There it goes again, the pattering of his heart as it rocks against his chest.

The Seminar ends fifteen minutes later, and when the desks are rearranged, back in order, Levi tries to escape the classroom before he has to suffer a “stern talking-to” from Pixis.

“Ackerman,” Pixis calls. Well great, he didn’t forget. He’s swirling a flask around in his grip and staring at the black-haired athlete a little too intently. Levi turns around. “Good job.”

His brow shoots up. “What?”

Pixis shrugs. “I hate that goddamn kid. Good on you for standing up for your classmates!”

He stands there and tries to wrap his head around exactly what Pixis is saying to him, but decides he doesn’t really care for any compliments for doing the bare minimum and would rather get to lunch before he has to eat at an uncomfortably fast pace.

“Is that all?”

“Huh?” Pixis muffles a cough. “Oh, yeah. You’re dismissed. Just… watch the attitude. I find it refreshing but your superiors will begin to find it incompetent.”

He wants to say he doesn’t care but instead murmurs, “Noted.”

Pixis nods, and Levi disappears.

When he steps out of the classroom into the hallway—which is now mostly empty since the passing period has ended—the last thing he expects is to see you leaning against the wall outside the door. His eyes open wider, interest obviously piqued, then he looks you up and down.

“Yep. It’s really me,” you grin.

Levi flushes, and your stomach grows fuzzy at the sight of his pale cheeks turning pink. He scratches at the nape of the neck like you did earlier, which you find adorable.

“Are you stalking me?”

The corner of your mouth tugs up. “Last time I checked, you, Mr. Stalker, are the one who liked my Instagram photo from thirty-three weeks ago.”

Levi quickly turns from pink to red then begins a rushed walk down the hallway towards the cafeteria.

“You don't have to be embarrassed, Levi! Besides,” you grab his wrist and tug him back, talking to the back of his head, “I thought it was… kind of endearing.”

“Endearing? Don’t condescend me,” he sneers. “Fuck off.”

You frown, “I’m not being condescending. I thought it was sweet.” You hope he knows that you really mean that. “You really think I’m the smartest girl in class?”

Levi continues walking. “I said fuck off, Hemingway.”

You don’t. You continue trailing him on his heels, following him like a duckling to the cafeteria where he makes a beeline for the table crowded with Erwin, Hange, and a couple other teammates who share the same lunch hour.

“You’re still following me?”

“Well, you won’t let me finish what I was hoping to say to you,” you shrug. “I’ll be out of your hair afterwards. Promise!”

Levi stops with a resigned sigh, eyes flitting down to your fingers still wrapped around his wrist. Finally, you seem to realize your mistake and release his hand before taking a cautionary step back. Both of you can feel eyes trained on your interaction.

“Uh, I, uh— “ You pet your hair, swallowing your nerves. Levi waits. “Just, thanks. I guess. I don’t know. For sticking up for me in class. You didn’t have to do that for me.”

Levi grunts, “Yeah, well, I did it more for me than for you. His analysis was garbage, and if I had to listen to it any longer, I would’ve lost all my brain cells.”

A laugh crawls out of your throat, and you shake your head. “Yeah, me too. Still, thanks. I want to… repay you or something. I don’t know.”

His heart slams bruisingly against his chest. It hurts to swallow. Suddenly, he’s getting that sick feeling he had a week ago after he walked you back to your car. Since then, it’s been all sticky palms in class and taking a peek at what outfit you decided to wear that day, but otherwise, your interactions have been limited to as they were before the interview.

You never even said anything to him about liking your old Instagram picture until today. Maybe you thought he was a creep. But you did just say you thought it was cute…

“I might know a way you can repay me,” he starts, confused by where the sudden surge of courage came from, but nonetheless still going with it.

Interest flickers in your glassy eyes. Levi wants to step closer and dissect all of the colors they hold, all the shades and tints, and how they manage to blend together so seamlessly. There’s something about you that elevates the parts of him that have sunk so low he forgot they were there.

You clutch your notebook to your chest. “And what’s that?”

He clears his throat. His cheeks are still red. “You can… come to the match in a week.”

You blink. “Like, State? You want me to come?”

Levi inhales and pretends like he’s smooth. “Yeah.”

You don’t know shit about soccer.

Well, actually, you know a little more about it now than you did a week ago.

And you know that Levi makes it interesting, because he’s interesting.

“Okay, sure,” you reply, with your stomach in knots and your heart beating out of your chest. You try to play it cool and pretend like this invitation doesn’t excite you as much as it actually does, so you’re pressing your lips into as much of a convincing line as possible.

“Sure?” Levi repeats.

“Yeah,” you nod, a little too aggressively. “Yeah, I’ll come to the game.”

Silence envelopes the two of you as he processes this. Then he says, “Okay.”

You smile. “Okay.”

He grips the strap of his backpack a little tighter and chews on the inside of his cheek. “If you want, you can wear my other jersey.”

“With your last name and number?”

“Yeah, that's typically what’s on a jersey.”

You grow even hotter at the prospect, imaging yourself draped in a royal blue and white jersey, with the name ‘Ackerman’ spelled across your back in all capital letters. With the number fifty-five printed right below, in an even larger font. You almost want to cup your hand over your mouth and giggle into your palm like a fucking kid.

Instead, you clear your throat. “But that’s like… only couples do that.”

“I liked your Instagram picture from thirty-three weeks ago,” he says, like that fact alone is evidence enough of his fondness toward you.

It absolutely is.

You bite down on your lip and shift back on your heels. “Yeah, that was a real rookie move, Ackerman.”

He rolls his eyes, but they still sparkle. You can’t tell if they’re more blue than they are gray, or if they’re more gray than they are blue. “Shut up. I’ll look for you there. Don’t make any plans for afterward.”

“What, are you gonna lure me into your car and kill me?”

“You listen to way too many True Crime podcasts.”

“I’m a woman. I have to be cautious,” you explain.

“Something tells me men should be more cautious of you.”

You smile at that. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m a reeaaaal heartbreaker!”

Said nobody, ever. Because you’ve never had a boyfriend. You’ve never been asked on a real date. You’ve definitely never worn anyone’s sports jersey.

You’ve been kissed before. In the seventh grade, during a game of truth or dare, by some random kid whose name you don’t even remember. There wasn’t any tongue. Only chapped lips and foul breath that has scarred you up to this point.

Levi seems like someone who would be a good kisser. Your eyes flash down to his mouth, where you follow the outline of his lips, noticing the subtle way his bottom lip juts out and the prominent Cupid’s bow etched above his upper lip. He has nice teeth, too.

“Stop looking at my mouth, freak,” he mumbles. “If you wanna be kissed so bad just...”

Now it’s your turn to flush at what you know he’s implying. “Adults do not plan kisses.”

He clicks his tongue. “Right, because we’re total adults.”

“But uh, are you more of a mint or a watermelon guy, because I’ll buy gum—“

Levi laughs through his nose, all soft, like he’s really just a body pillow meant to be hugged close.

Actually, no—he’s a cat. Maybe that’s why he likes sitting by all the windows, because he likes the feeling of the sun on his skin and seeping through the fabric of his clothes. You wonder what Levi’s body would feel like warm and pressed against you. You wonder if his hair would feel hotter than his body because it’s black. You are certain that it’s as soft as it looks.

“Okay, well,” you trail off, starting to step back. “I’m already late for my study hall.”

“That’s your own fault,” he says. “See you in English.”

“Tomorrow, yes! See you… see you tomorrow!” The backs of your legs hit the corner of a table, and one of the kids occupying the benches glances up to shoot you a dirty look. “What?” you hiss. “Eat your sandwich.”

Levi’s brows are raised, his gaze never leaving your movements. You spare a dry, awkward laugh before turning around, finally finding feeling in your legs again until—

“Hey, Hemingway!” he barks. You glance over your shoulder. Levi’s silver eyes are sparkling when he adds, “Don’t miss the game.”

A small smile plays on your lips. You nod with warm cheeks. “See you, Levi!”

A week passes in a blur of English class discussions over 1984 and soccer practices that end two hours later than they normally do. Levi goes to school, puts his all into practice, does his homework, eats, then falls asleep, just so he can do it all again the next day. By now, it’s a routine that’s burned into his bones.

His team has noticed something’s different, but they know nothing of Levi’s underlying motivations. They don't know that he invited a goddamn girl to come see him play for the first time. They don’t know that he’s giving her his jersey and likely taking her out afterwards instead of celebrating with the team.

Levi pretends like he’s not excited. He isn’t supposed to get excited about things.

He still sees you every day in English class. Only now his eyes are drifting down to your lips, which always seemed to be slathered in some pretty nude tint from the balm you’re always applying. You have nice lips, he thinks. And he wonders how they would feel pressed against his. He imagines them to be soft and plush, a little bit wet, probably warm, too. It’s intimidating because he’s never kissed anyone in his life.

Every day, you follow him to lunch, walking close beside him as you weave through the hallways. Most of the time, he isn’t even the one talking. It’s always you, ranting about English class and how Pixis’ alcohol tolerance is starting to climb toward exponential heights to a point where it’s become both impressive and concerning. Levi always manages a soft grunt through his nose—a sign that he thought what you said was funny, and you take that as an honor and let him walk the rest of the way alone as a gesture of good will.

It’s the evening of the state championships. Tonight, it’s Shiganshina versus Mitras. Levi’s sitting on the bench, staring at the jersey folded neatly over his thigh.

He hasn’t been able to find you yet.

The crowd’s a little larger than anticipated. The air is tense. Some of his teammates are running drills and Petra, who’s the Captain of the girls’ team, is leaning over the bleachers conversing with Hange, probably smoothing over any final technicalities.

He needs to get out of his head. He needs to fucking focus. But he hasn’t focused all week, because all he does is think about you.

God, fuck you.

Erwin yells his name and waves him over and they continue to warm up and run drills. Running around seems to grasp his attention, but his blonde friend can’t help but notice that there’s something off in his movements.

Before the game starts, Levi looks for you in the stands. He anticipates the sound of your voice over the crowd.

You still aren’t there.

He tries to curb his disappointment by putting his all into this one fucking game.

It goes as expected.

The game ends with Levi on the bleachers, with the jersey still folded on his lap. Hange places a hand on their friend’s shoulder and hopes whatever funk he’s in will go away.

Shiganshina won by three. Levi’s glad his team doesn’t need him there to pull it off. He’s happy to see Oluo and Eld thrusting Gunther up into the air on their shoulders, and he’s happy to see Erwin slapping hands with the floating athlete.

“Good job, Levi,” Hange says. Their hand comes down on his head to ruffle his hair.

“I didn’t do anything,” Levi whispers back. “They did it all on their own.”

A sad smile falters on their lips. “Give yourself some credit.”

You’re too hard on yourself, he remembers you saying.

Yeah, well. He doesn’t know how to feel about you right now.

Maybe something came up. Maybe you’re hurt. Fuck, he didn’t even consider that as a possibility because he was so swept up in his own assumptions. He feels a burst of air in his chest, then a tightness that can only be explained as the beginning of a panic attack.

“She was supposed to be here,” Levi says, quietly and to himself, but Hange picks up and raises a brow.

“Who?”

“Hemingway. She said she’d come.”

Hange frowns. “Did you text her?”

Levi shrugs. He stands, and people are about to shake hands. “I don’t have her number.”

“Maybe she had a reason, Levi. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” Then they add, “I think she really likes you.”

Levi finds that hard to believe, but he’s already tired of the conversation. “Maybe,” he replies. Then he tries to forget about it.

On Monday, you don’t show up for class. Levi stares at your seat for the first ten minutes and wonders if you’re really too much of a coward to show up and face him after standing him up.

On Tuesday, you don’t show up for class. Levi wonders if maybe he should’ve given you his number. If he did, maybe you would’ve been able to explain to him why you didn’t show up to his game.

On Wednesday, you don’t show up for class.

On Thursday, you don’t show up for class.

He definitely should’ve given you his number. Maybe you actually got sick. He knows that strep is floating around. Do you need anything? He may be terrible company but he knows how to make good soup.

On Friday, you don’t show up for class.

You don’t show up at all next week. Levi can’t fucking take it anymore.

One day, after English class, Levi approaches Pixis. “Hey, old man, do you know why Hemingway isn’t in class anymore?” He tries to sound as careless as possible.

“Hemingway?” The old man in question raises a brow, flask hovering over his white mustache. “Like, Ernest? Uh, I believe that would be—oh. Oh!” Recognition flashes across his eyes, and he settles back into his seat with a light smile. “You mean Miss Reader? She graduated early. I believe she had enough credits to end after midterms!”

“Oh,” Levi says. His shoulders sag. “I didn’t realize the school permitted stuff like that.”

Pixis scratches his scruff. “Well, these were uh, extenuating circumstances. I apologize, but I’m not allowed to disclose any information regarding the personal affairs of students.”

The scowl is back on Levi’s face. “Oh, so now you decide to do your job? That’s rich.” Levi rubs his forehead and pinches the bridge of his nose. “She… nothing happened to her, right?

His teacher stares at him for a moment. “Levi, relax. I'm sure she's fine. And hopefully enjoying her early summer break.”

Well, that certainly isn’t the satisfactory response Levi hoped for. It just leaves him with more questions than before.

The next day, he stops by the school paper. Nifa is there, along with a few other students, typing away on her computer.

When he asks what happened to you, she tells him that it’s not her place to say.

He wonders if it’s crazy of him to think he’s being conspired against. That, in reality, you never wanted anything to do with Levi, because why would you? He’s just some guy. Just some asshole kid, right? You told Nifa you made a mistake, and because of “girl code” or whatever the fuck, she isn’t permitted to--

Yeah, he realizes quickly that’s a ridiculous theory and definitely not at all what happened.

Soccer season is over. Finals season is on the rise. Maybe if Levi throws himself into studying, he can forget about the crippling disappointment over never seeing you again, and the painful humiliation of practically getting stood up at arguably, one of the most important games of his life.

You said you’d be there. Why weren’t you?

Now you aren’t in school for the rest of the year, which is really fucking weird, and makes him suspect the worst. When he checked your Instagram last night and debated stooping as low as to direct message you, he saw that not only were all of your pictures gone, but your messages were turned off. All of the photos he loved to scroll through—gone. You. Gone.

Gone.

Like you were never there. But you were. You’re still here. Maybe Hange can figure it out. They knew you—or maybe they know people you were friends with that can fill in all the blanks for him.

He wants to scream. He wants to hurt all over his body like he does deep inside his chest.

Levi doesn’t cry. He makes sure that there’s nothing important in his life to cry over in the first place. It makes living a little less painless.

But his eyes are stinging and he feels like he’s suffocating in this stuffed hallway that’s a little too loud for his own comfort.

He opens his locker and stares into nothing.

Graduation rolls around the corner, right after finals.

Levi looks for you in the crowd. He’s almost tempted to look through the row of H’s, but then he remembers that your last name isn’t actually Hemingway. His eyes drift through the crowd where he scans for the first letter of your last name.

He doesn’t find you.

The ceremony lugs on. People are giving speeches that sound the same, and the superintendent rambles on about school spirit and those who worked behind the scenes to make this day possible. He sounds bored and ready to go home, which Levi couldn’t relate to more.

Erwin approaches the stage next. His best friend gives one hell of a speech for a valedictorian. Everyone bursts into applause and he flashes them that winning smile that surely will get him far in life. Levi is happy, but he also wants to sink into the ground and disappear so no one tries to speak to him ever again.

He walks the stage. Shakes hands with the principal. Gets his diploma. He graduated high school because he had to and because it was expected of him, but he’s indifferent towards most things, and that includes graduation.

Apparently, it didn’t include you.

Kenny did his best today. He’s wearing a suit and his shirt is actually tucked into his pants. Just the other day, he went out and got himself a haircut, and he’s smacking on chewing tobacco instead of gum, but Levi’s satisfied, because at least he’s trying.

He’s taking pictures with Erwin when it happens.

There you are.

Across the grass, blue gown swaying by your ankles, white dress hung above your knees. Your hair is down and squashed by the graduation cap, and beside you is an older woman with crow’s feet crawling from the corners of her eyes. She looks just like you, or actually, you look just like her.

An elderly woman takes a picture of you two.

He sees the corners of your mouth quirk up by barely half an inch. Barely half. And then he notices the heaviness below your eyes, and the slouch in your posture; the dullness of your skin; the flat, dead nature of your hair, like a tree when it turns from spring to fall to winter. When the camera lowers, your face drops, and you stare absently at a patch of grass in the field.

There’s no way that’s actually you.

“Oh, you should go say hi!” Erwin encourages, nodding towards you.

A girl jumps in beside you. More pictures are snapped. You smile like Levi smiles, and then he sees it: the perpetual scowl. The same scowl that Levi wears so often that it’s become a part of him. You are fucking beautiful, but he hates it on you. It doesn’t suit you.

Levi swallows. “I don’t know. She stood me up.”

“Maybe she had a reason. She hasn’t been in school at all this quarter,” Erwin shrugs.

Levi turns away. “She doesn’t look like she wants to be spoken to by anyone,” he insists.

“Well, neither do you, but when people do start talking, you listen. Wait, Levi, she’s looking at you!”

Levi’s eyes shoot wide open and he whips his back towards you. “What?! Shut up! She has ears!”

“Oh, she turned away really fast anyway,” Erwin frowns.

“What?!” Now, he swivels the other direction, facing the back of your head. Your mother’s hand smooths down your hair. It’s grown a little longer since he last saw you.

Erwin offers a hearty laugh, eyes pinched and head thrown back. His sandy blonde hair glints beneath the sun, and Levi wonders if he had an ounce of Erwin’s charisma—maybe you would turn around and notice him one last time.

“You obviously still like her, Levi,” his friend offers, gesturing towards you. A couple girls your age stop to meet you, throwing their arms around you, and Levi wishes he could’ve met your friends and that you could’ve come to his game and that he could’ve taken you to that diner everyone loves so much. He would’ve paid, too; would’ve let you steal the fries from his plate. He would’ve done a lot of things. He didn’t realize he was so good at making stuff up in his head, but then he remembers, he does that shit all the time.

Levi grunts, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. It’s a pitiful attempt at concealing the heat on his cheeks.

“The least you can do is say hello. It’s not weird. Just being polite after you haven’t seen her all quarter.”

His heart is pounding. That does make sense—it’s not creepy, saying hello to someone you were once acquainted with, who you haven’t seen in a while.

Are you even an acquaintance, though?

You’re just a girl he had a few conversations with. You always ended up in the same English class together and you always got high marks on your essays, and for a while, he was almost tempted to ask you how the hell you did it—every test, every quiz, every essay. You made it so easy, you gorgeous, hilarious fucking genius.

You sit in the dead center of the classroom, where the light reflects on all sides of you. You wear converse on Thursdays, and you doodle in all your assigned readings, and you make bookmarks out of folded paper that you can slide onto the corners of the page when you’re done reading for the day.

Does a week of limited conversation count as an acquaintance? As a friendship? Does four years of creepily gawking at you in English count as anything at all?

Who fucking knows.

If it goes terrible, he never has to see you ever again. He’ll unfollow you on Instagram. You’ll just become some girl who stood him up that one time. It’s not like it’s an uncommon experience.

“This is all your fuckin’ fault,” Levi growls, before shoving his cap into Erwin’s chest. He grunts and stumbles back.

Levi runs both hands through his hair. Today it’s slathered in gel to keep it from falling in his eyes. He pushes a couple of strands over his ears and swallows every last bit of nerves.

Kenny calls after him. Something about taking pictures with the soccer team.

He murmurs a “Watch it” as he shoves past a random senior. When the last group of people flock, and his view clears, he sees you. Your head is tilted backwards and a kid he recognizes—Nile Doc, that fucker from English—is wrapping a coil of your hair around his forefinger. He smiles down at you.

“Heming—!” His hand is midair. He’s never spoken so loud off the field in his entire life.

“There he is!” A familiar, annoying voice jeers.

Someone swings their arm over Levi’s shoulder, but he’s still craning his neck, hoping he meets your gaze.

Nile’s arm slips around your back and Levi has never felt something so sinister boil in his gut before. He clenches down hard on his jaw. He doesn’t fucking understand. Are you with him? No, there’s no way.

Eren Jaeger and Connie Springer—upcoming seniors next year at Shiganshina—are flocking Levi. Jean Kirstein is practically strangling him.

His neck hurts. He doesn’t care if you stood him up, or maybe he does. There’s no way you’re with Nile Doc and not him. The guy’s an asshole, and you’re—you’re goddamn Hemingway!

His heart skyrockets and he thinks he’s going to fucking explode into smithereens when you slowly glance over your shoulder. He notices the outline of nose and jaw and lips from afar, and God, it’s not normal to feel like you’re gonna die when a mere acquaintance meets your gaze, right?

Your real name catches in his throat.

He expects you to throw your hand up. Wave at him and flash him that smile and cackle obnoxiously at him like you did that one night.

He wants to hear you yell his name over the crowd.

But you don’t. You look him dead in the eye. No smile. No nothing. Fucking nothing.

And you just look away. Like he’s dirt under your shoe. He is nothing to you. Just some creep who stared at you all four years of high school English because he was too embarrassed to say hello and too afraid to give a shit about something.

“Fuck, just get lost you guys,” Levi snarls, batting at the limbs tangling around him.

“Of course he’s in one of those moods,” Eren huffs.

Jean hisses at Connie, “You shouldn’t have jumped on him like that, dumbass!”

Levi finds a patch of grass. He stares at it long and hard. You really didn’t want to see him. You really just looked away.

His eyes are fucking burning. His throat is burning. The pit in his stomach opens up to an abyss, and he wants to slam his head against the nearest surface he can find and forget that this ever happened.

Levi goes and takes pictures. He hates it. No one expects him to smile though, even if Kenny prods him like a belligerent father. As if he could ever be a father to him when all he does is drink himself half to death.

He remembers why he doesn’t give a shit about things. He remembers the way you looked at him. Vacant of anything. So fucking empty that it reminded him too much of himself.

He’s having dinner with Erwin’s family. It goes by in a blur.

When he gets home, he finds himself sitting in the dark. Alone. Kenny is downstairs and the television is on, playing some random show as background noise to drown out his drunken snores. At least he tried today. At least he tried. At least he’s still here.

He tries so hard not to care, and he hates that it’s impossible not to.

With a wet face, he tiptoes downstairs and tosses a blanket over Kenny’s legs. He prays to fucking God he will wake up in the morning.