Archive of Our Own

He didn't like sleeping alone.

That truth had nagged at Levi since he left the front. 

There was irony to it. He enjoyed being by himself. It was a luxury after spending so many years in communal environments; it meant quiet, and for some time it had meant safety. Sometimes it still did—always in Prehevil, it seemed—but the front had taught him otherwise. There, alone meant danger. Vulnerability without a watch. 

Levi knew the others were up above, just up the ladder, but he could not hear them and the speakeasy was empty. He wouldn't go as far as to say he missed sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder against dirt and sandbags, but neither would he admit to wanting someone to come down, just to hear breathing besides his own.

One candle burned on the table, lit with a match when he first came down. It could have been an hour or several. Time was warped in this state. He did not know.

The shadows on the farther side of the room danced and roiled when he stared at them too long. He didn’t like the layout of the speakeasy; that blind corner around which the sigil and old supplies lay. It was just a space he couldn't see and it bothered him, even though he had gotten up and checked it two separate times. He knew it was empty, knew nothing was hiding around the corner, but still he stared, waiting for something to peek. A hand. The barrel of a gun. Eyes. A limb of one of those scorched souls or the tendrils of something less than corporeal. 

Maybe something had followed him from the orphanage. To close his eyes was to give it a chance to strike.

He had come down with the hope of sleeping. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him and the withdrawals would only get worse. He fantasized about sleeping through some of them, just for a few hours of conscious relief from the constant discomfort; reality was a bucket by the bed for dry heaving every few minutes, and a growing, physical sense of dread. Eating was a fantasy in its own right. His attempt lay splattered on the sidewalk somewhere. 

Even lying limp his body trembled, wracked by constant shivers yet sweating enough to make his coveralls stick to his back. He was glad he couldn't see himself. He probably looked a pathetic thing.

He hated others seeing him like this, hated the pity in their eyes. Pity didn't make the pain or chills stop. His only medicine came in a glass bottle and was delivered through a needle.

God, what he would do for some.

It was a frequent thought, of course. A kneejerk compulsion every time his stomach twisted or his muscles twitched like they wanted to burst from his skin. There was a perfect cure to all his symptoms and more—but he didn't have it.  

His jaw ached. Too long spent clenching his teeth.

The candle burned on.

Shutting his eyes was a tentative and repeating task. They always shot open at the slightest creak in the wood or quiet thump from up above, real or imagined. Sometimes it was just the mounting feeling that something was there and watching. 

He thought about climbing up the ladder and going to the bar—ask Daan to make him something with enough kick to knock him out—but the thought of drinking made his stomach churn more than it was then. He already felt like he was dying and he doubted alcohol would make that better. 

Maybe he should go back up anyway. Lying down was nice, but he could just as easily rest his head at the bar; nod off to the sound of quiet conversation and foreign accents he couldn’t quite pin down.

Judging from the fact that there was any quiet at all, he assumed the journalist had left, likely with some half of the bar's occupants. Her voice managed to pierce through the wood of the trapdoor and it had felt like an icepick in his ears before he came down. She had enough fight in her for the bunch of them. Particularly, when Daan was around, he noted, and Daan liked to hold down the bar. Arguments were not an “if”, but a “when”.

The dark and silence were soothing to his body, at least. 

Another spasm in his stomach left him grimacing and curled in the fetal position. His face was probably stuck in such an expression by now. 

He dug his nails into his scalp, hoping his mind would focus on that pain instead. His chest shook with each breath, clammy and aching and so, so tired of it all.

He shut his eyes tight, and hoped they would stay that way.

...

The sound that opened his eyes this time was real. A splitting creak as the trapdoor opened with the quiet whoosh of stale air in its place. He glanced in the direction of the ladder and the shape descending it, but did not move. Daan's form materialized from the darkness like a wraith.

The doctor peered at the bunks and gave an upturned nod when he found two eyes staring back.

“Still awake?” Not so much a question as a statement, and clearly not one unexpected.

He watched Daan come forward into the light, dress shoes clicking softly on the wood.

“Mm.” Was all he managed. 

Levi's eyes slid over Daan's form. The doctor was pale even in the dim light, and sharp—vest buttoned, collar straight, hair loose but combed to look just as neat as the rest of him, down to the dark shade of those thin painted lips. He looked untouched by the world around him and glaringly out of place outside, but here and behind the bar, he almost fit in. Almost.

His stomach turned and he lost his train of thought. When it settled again, he found his gaze on the eyepatch covering the man’s left eye, then returned to the lips, like one was meant to draw attention from the other. He wasn’t sure which.

He faintly noted the bag over the doctor's shoulder, the fresh glass of whiskey in his hand, but his eye snagged on the sparkle of glass peeking out of his front pocket. 

Amber. Brown cork. White label. 

He only needed that glimpse.

Medicine. 

His body jerked like he was a fish on a line, pulled towards the bottle before he’d decided to move; the doctor's raised hand stopped him before he swung his legs over the bed. He almost thought to leap at the man.

“Ah—it's alright, Levi, I'm coming to you. No need to move.”

His eyes went back to the bottle and his breath hitched at the contents in the glass. Just as quickly, his eyes fell to the floor.

Daan's half smile in the corner of his eye looked somewhere between pitying and empathetic; much the same as when they had first met. Properly, at least.

There was a deeper understanding in that singular gaze, something more than medical. Only that kept him from hating the look, which he still couldn’t meet.

He needed it. He needed it now more than ever.

His hands were trembling on the blanket. He couldn’t look away from the bottle.

He'd finished his stash two nights before the train stopped. Part of him was thankful they hadn't caught him the first day. It was obvious what he was—Daan had seen the needles in his bag, as if just looking at him and his track marks wasn't enough on its own—but if they had all seen him going through every bottle and reused-syringe he owned, dumping out his pack on dirty tile and damn near turning it inside out in hopes of finding just a crumb? He might have broken then and there. That kind of humiliation would have been too much; maybe he would’ve put a muzzle to his chin. Maybe he should have.

Instead, he spent his first day and night in Prehevil alone and shivering with just his rifle beside him. The withdrawals had only intensified since he joined the group; it was a wonder he could hit his targets with all his shaking. He would’ve been wasting bullets if he weren’t such a good shot.

The aches were getting worse. He knew the stomach spasms would become debilitating, and the sights and scents of the city had made him heave up anything he tried to eat and more. Worst of all was his skin. The itching and crawling and restlessness that nothing else would satisfy. He'd scratched his old scabs off while walking. He hadn't even noticed until he lay down.

A full night's sleep was a fantasy. A few hours, wishful thinking.

He was thoroughly miserable, and here Daan was holding his cure. And the man said he wasn't a real doctor.

“We need you rested for tomorrow. I don't have an inkling as to what we might encounter, but we should be at our best, yes?”

Daan said with a strained smile. Levi didn't want to think about it and he figured he didn't either.

“I only have enough for one more dose after this one. Two if we stretch it, I suppose.“

It won't be enough if we do that.

I don't want to stretch it. 

“If our luck holds, perhaps we'll find more. We have another district to peruse, and the locals seem to hide the most interesting things in their bins.” 

Daan's lip twitched like it might curl. “Sometimes.”

He wondered if their “luck” would be finding something so useful or simply surviving long enough to hope for it. He nodded in agreement, whatever the case. His focus was singular. Every passing second grated on him.

There was no hiding his eagerness as the doctor dragged the chair up beside his cot. The legs of the chair made their final screech of protest just as they reached their destination, and Daan sat facing him. His knees were almost crammed against the bedframe, and Levi would have found him very close if he had swung his legs over. The urge to shift toward the wall was there, something to put more space between them, but he resisted.

Why won't he just-

“Would you allow me?” 

Levi blinked despite himself. 

It was an odd offer, though he quickly realized it sounded closer to a statement of intent rather than a question. His features tightened before his thoughts came together to justify it.

He did this himself. Alone, preferably, it certainly wasn't something others did for him.

No, this was one of the few things he controlled—his private ritual that fixed his body and brain for a few hours—and here Daan was asking to take that from him.

But he wasn't the one holding the bottle, and the doctor wasn’t asking for his preference. He knew better.

Levi nodded again, even mumbling a strained “okay,” though Daan was already looking elsewhere. The result would be the same, he supposed.

His hands fidgeted while Daan worked by candlelight on the table. Quiet rummaging and clinking that wouldn't reach the monsters outside. He already regretted saying yes; he had to temper himself when doing it alone at times, but watching someone else was agonizing, like Daan was taking his sweet time with every little action.

The doctor didn't speak except to show and confirm the amount to prepare; there was no judgment in Daan's eye when he asked for more. He swallowed anyway, guilty, but not guilty enough to take it back. His skin was crawling at the sight of the powder.

It wasn't as if the doctor knew how much he needed anyway.

The longer he went without it, the more he wanted to use, like he needed to “catch up” for all he'd been through since his last prick. He tried to keep his dosing consistent, but he couldn't help himself right then.

Never did it occur that he should quit, put an end to this cycle of pain and sickness and relief. This was simply his life, repeating highs that clipped the sky and lows that brought him crashing down from it. Was there anything to his life beyond that release, and then thoughts of the next one?

He wasn't sure if the thought bothered him, but in his hunger, something else stirred.

Where did the bottles come from?

How long has he had them?

Was it before they joined up, or had he hidden the fact during the day somehow? Had Daan sneaked them into his bag while they were scouring crates? He had offered to stand watch several times while the others looked around. There were plenty of opportunities for Daan to hide it from others. To hide it from him.

The thought gnawed at him, that Daan had been watching his agony and said nothing and did nothing. His eyes narrowed.

He could've found relief from the withdrawals. Could've been less of a burden to the others in the constant life-or-death encounters they seemed to face. 

Yes, that was a good reason. Keeping it from him endangered the others. Daan should have given it to him earlier, as soon as he found it or him, so he could have been useful. What if his tremors had made him miss a shot that cost another passenger their life? It would have been preventable. And his symptoms—he wanted to hiss at the thought Daan had been watching him suffer for hours with the cure in his pocket. 

He had reason to be angry. His sudden urge to throttle the man wasn't completely unjustified.

He could imagine stealing the bottles from Daan’s pack when they took their breathers, their smooth surfaces against his palm. Or, with just one bullet…

Levi glanced at the doctor. Daan hummed quietly, as delicate in his work as with any other task and oblivious to his fumes. He could feel his rage die like a fuse dropped in water.

This wasn’t impunity.

What a shameful thing he was.

Levi stared down at his hands. His elbow appeared shadowed even when the candlelight hit it, bruised and with infected punctures staining his skin one color or another. A few dark veins stretched up his arm. Maybe the doctor's offer wasn't so out of place after all.

He almost chuffed at the thought he was lucky not to have died of an infection before now. His supplies had been used far too many times. The needles were long dull, and he could not or had not always cleaned them properly after using.

A clean needle. For my safety, or for theirs?

It didn't really matter, so long as he got his fix. Might as well put his skills to use.

A shadow fell over the room in the form of a spoon over the flame. Levi licked his cracked lips.

The syringe was on the table, a fresh syringe, beside a bottle of liquid Levi thought looked familiar but couldn't immediately place.

However, he did recognize the tourniquet. A proper item almost exactly like the ones issued to him and his fellow soldiers. He'd lost the one he carried long before, used on a comrade and never replaced. The boy hadn’t survived in the end. He would have been put out of his misery even if he did.

Like I should be.

Daan’s was of a slightly different make, likely from the Rondonian military rather than the Eastern Union. The main canvas strap was the same. It was odd seeing one clean.

He tried to imagine Daan as a medic in the field, exhausted and unkempt in a uniform dirtied over the course of weeks, cycling through dying soldiers like he was treating livestock. Levi couldn't reconcile that image with the silk vest and shiny leather shoes Daan had complained about getting in the mud, or that Daan was speaking to him like a human being.

“Your arm?”

Levi offered it obediently. The doctor's touch was gentle, every movement precise and practiced, too much so for something like this, he thought. All routine except for the medicine.

He was sitting somewhat awkwardly to be close to the doctor; the bunks lacked proper headboards, so he leaned on the wooden post until Daan urged him to lie down instead.

The tourniquet went on first, expertly wrapped and followed by the cold swipe of a swab over his skin. He recognized the bottle then from the smell: the reek of med tents, antiseptic.

The liquid stung his punctures and seeped into the holes, but it was insignificant against the rest of his burning body. The suspense of waiting was almost more agonizing than the symptoms themselves.

It felt like every muscle he had was clenched as he watched the gentleman draw the syringe. Time slowed as that beautiful, tinted mixture drew up into the glass. His heart was in his ears. Satiation of his most desperate need. 

Daan had a way of making everything look natural, so calm and poised compared to himself. His very being seemed to exude competence, lulling one into trust.

He did not flinch when the doctor’s fingers pressed the thin skin over his elbow. He couldn’t tell if the hand was cold or if he was burning up.

His breath hitched. The thought disappeared as the needle pierced his skin like paper, and within the minute so did everything else.

Warmth. Warmth and comfort and satisfaction coursed through him like cool water soothing a burn—settled like a blanket over his body and weight on his chest. The aches were washed away, and soon every other pain with it.

His head lolled to one side. His breathing slowed. Vision unfocused. 

Perfection.

He didn't speak, just let out a sigh he'd been holding for well over a day. Surely he would have folded over or tumbled back off the bed if the doctor hadn’t lain him down. It probably wouldn’t have mattered to Levi if he had. This was more than a maintenance dose. He'd hit the mark and he was floating.

There was no fear. He could die as long as he felt like this.

He hoped death would feel like this.

Levi's eyelids fluttered. The tourniquet would have stayed on him half-tied if not for the doctor. It disappeared, and Daan held his heavy, limp arm. 

Daan gave one of his wiry smiles, warped in his unfocused vision. His voice filled Levi's ears more now. Warm, smooth, and all-encompassing.

“Better?”

Yes. God, yes.

He should thank him, he thought, and an indecipherable mumble came out in its place. Clarity gone like a leaf in the wind.

“It's alright, Levi.” His voice was honey, words so certain they landed like a command on the boy’s ears. “Relax. Just let go of… here. Forget about it all, for a while.” 

Levi's eyes fell shut. 

He started to dream. Not in complete sleep, but consciously reaching into his memories and pulling out the few scenes he could remember, things he dared not cling to sober, lest the grief of what was gone send him over the edge.

In this state, he could take them out. Roll them around in his hands and relive the sensations of someone he could never be again. In the present, “good” only existed in a needle.

The smell of something cooking. Swinging legs too short to reach the floor. A hand smoothing down his hair. Dinner will be ready soon.

A lap. A book. A voice reading beside him, patient and encouraging when he stumbled over the words. What a smart boy.

Warmth. Arms around him, and one cheek pressed against soft fabric. A quiet voice. I love you. Goodnight, Levi.

Memories. Dreams. One and the same.

His tongue felt dry and thick in his mouth. The thought of water didn’t even pass through his mind. He didn’t need it when he felt this good. Didn’t need anything when he had this.

Maybe it was the rumination, or his inebriation, but he didn't move when some touch became real. Someone stroked his hair, gently petting his head as if they were petting a cat. It blended into the swirl of euphoria and release, nothing more than an imagined manifestation of his memories. It felt like his mother. He longed to be that little boy again.

Without thinking, he pressed back, greedily seeking the fingers on his scalp and only feeling shame when he opened his eyes. 

He had forgotten Daan was there. It could have been minutes or half an hour for all he knew. He’d expected the man to leave after the shot, or at least move elsewhere. Lie down in the cot beside his own. Levi certainly didn't expect him to be watching like a hawk.

Daan's single, gray eye was focused on him. The rest of his expression showed little, but that eye froze his breathing. The orb was almost silver in the candlelight. Something bordering on the unnatural, a thing so exquisite it was no wonder he could only have one.

He felt pinned beneath it, unable to avert his own gaze. Silenced as if he were the one intruding. He wasn't sure he wanted to break the spell over Daan, but he wished he hadn’t seen what was there.

The eye flashed, and the petting stuttered but did not stop. 

Was he looking at me?

Daan's face softened and he was released from the stare, but he didn't know where to put his eyes. He felt caught.

The doctor's voice was low, soothing. 

“Does it feel good?” The words were a question, but the tone was something more.

Levi's hands scrunched and he almost grimaced, his coordination limited. He felt his skin flushing. Someone was touching him. Touching him, and it felt good. He’d only had a hefty pat on the shoulder, at most, from other men. He didn’t know what to do with it.

Levi's eyelids drooped as Daan's fingers rubbed the back of his neck, catching the spot with Levi laying partially on his side. Ecstasy from nerves he'd long forgotten were there.

His grunt came out more like a whine. It earned a quiet chuckle. And a sigh.

“Just rest,” the hand brushed a clump of hair from his forehead. The whiskey glass rested in his other hand. “You deserve it. We're safe here.”

He didn't know how long he lay there, always at the edge of nodding off but clinging to the hand caressing him. Long, delicate fingers combing his hair and lightly scratching his scalp in what always felt to be the right place. Sometimes it wandered to his face, back of a hand against his cheek, thumb stroking his jaw, then back to his neck. 

Distantly, he could recognize how odd it was to let someone touch him. Someone he'd barely known a day, as warped as time felt. His own history was written on his body and the place he was found in; Daan knew him, but he did not know Daan.

The thought couldn't dig in and take hold—not with hands this gentle.

He'd been nothing but a number since he was thirteen. He didn't feel much like a soldier then.

His eyes were dry, minutes of staring heavy-lidded but not blinking. The touch hadn't ceased, only pausing occasionally and often to reposition. It all blended together.

He was tired, but he didn't want to sleep if it meant he'd be missing this. Had anything ever felt this good?

Daan cupped his cheek, thumb rubbing across the little bit of roundness that stuck and kept him looking young.

The doctor smiled. It didn't reach his eye.

“I shouldn't be doing this.”

There was a strain on his sharp features; the way he looked in Levi's direction, but struggled to look him in the eye, not unlike how Levi usually was. Levi watched him lick his lips, pink tongue gliding over dry and scabbed skin. He could smell the liquor on his breath.

Daan's glass was empty. How long had it been?

“I shouldn't be here.” The man shook his head, a slow and subtle back and forth. His voice was quiet, but steady. Matter-of-fact. “You should tell me to leave. Tell me to go back upstairs, make myself another drink, and not step down here the rest of the night.”

Levi stared blankly. The full weight of such words didn’t register.

Don't go.

Instinctive.

“N…mh.”

His eyes rolled up briefly, eyelashes fluttering as the touch consumed his senses. No, he didn't want this to stop. That was all he understood.

“You don't know who… what I am.” Daan whispered.

“I’m a sick man, Levi. No one sees it, but I know.”

He reached up and tapped his temple twice, mouth stretched into a sardonic smile before it dropped off his face like a mask. Underneath was nothing but a grim visage.

The doctor rested his hand on Levi’s cheek, grey eye staring.

“I like to think its the city, this wretched place, Prehevil, pulling this rot to the forefront of my mind. It’s always been there, lurking and watching and waiting—but its never been so hungry. It wants to be nurtured and fed and this fucking town has set it a place at the table.”

His eyes must have widened in response to the man’s growing agitation, the touch tightening like he was going to dig his fingers into the boy. Daan seemed to catch himself, softening and lowering his voice.

“You're a good kid. You don't deserve to be here, to be in any of this mess. You should have a family, friends your age and a real place to go home to. God- you’re just a boy, you shouldn't be carrying a rifle the way you do.” A laugh like balling paper, dry and joyless. “You shouldn’t be carrying a rifle at all.”

The words should have bothered him. Instead they bounced off the cotton in his brain with no more weight than a feather.

“We are all tormented by something.” Daan’s voice had dropped further. “This city makes it fester.”

The hand slid down Levi's cheek, settling with his chin between the doctor's fingers. His eye continued lower. He seemed to have trouble drawing breath.

“Mine wants to dig its teeth into someone else. I know if I feed it, it will keep coming back.” He retracted his hand close like he'd been cut. Levi's head dipped.

“Please. Tell me to go. Call for help. Scream for one of our friends above if you feel the need. Marcoh could drag me out of here quite nicely, yes?” His voice rattled, threatening to break. “I don't know what I'm capable of. I don't want to find out but I know I will if I stay here with you. So, please—”

Levi wasn’t listening, not in any way that mattered. The words went in one ear and out the other. Beautiful, meaningless sounds. Why had Daan pulled away? He couldn't stop so soon. He needed the touch. He needed this.

He wished Daan would stop talking.

“Please Levi…”

Seconds crept by. A minute.

Levi stared blankly. Daan only matched his look with stark intensity, unmoving. How long, before it occurred that the doctor was waiting?

Levi averted his eyes.

“...Don't…go….”

His tongue felt thick in his mouth. Sluggish, and such odd words. A child tugging at his mother’s sleeve after being tucked into bed.

From the corner of his eye he saw Daan stare a moment longer, scrutinizing. The doctor's sigh shook his chest and his head hung lower. A great hesitation.

“...Okay…” the man nodded like he was trying to convince himself. He looked away. “Okay. As you wish.”

Levi stared up at the doctor expectantly. Daan pulled his chair up closer after a few moments; one side of the chair pushed flat against the frame now, his legs parallel to the bed. The petting resumed in silence.

Levi was happy.

…

Sleep, dozing, or whatever state he found himself in wasn't a choice. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, not just physically, but for once he wanted to cling to consciousness.

He was so, so starved for such affection. Even if Daan was just going through the motions, to him it felt like love. Pure and warm and sweet, almost like the drug coursing through his veins. How could he appreciate it properly in any other state? More likely, he'd flinch away at the first contact and never get the chance.

His head was nestled into the thin pillow, turned on his side and curled towards Daan. He shifted occasionally, a slight press or twist into trailing fingers or stroke of a palm. Soft breaths escaped on occasion. He wasn’t hiding anything now. He felt small, exposed before Daan.

The hand combed through his hair, nails raking his scalp and tracing a path down to his neck, around his ear and ending with the back of Daan’s hand along his jaw. Sometimes the hand would linger on a spot, pausing mid-pet as if caught for a photograph. Inevitably, it would resume its course, shaky as it may be.

“Levi…”

The sound washed over him, melting into the cycle as if it had always been there. Daan’s hand paused on the nape of his neck this time, warm where it touched bare skin instead of hair. His thumb rubbed small circles below his hairline, even dipping the digit into the collar of his coveralls. He could have whined when it stopped. He was sated with a palm over his cheek.

The stroking kept starting and stopping. On his cheek, the hand stayed. Slight movements, like Daan was repositioning in the chair without retracting his touch.

“Levi…

The world was blurry. The outstretched arm that disappeared above him was blurry. The form of the doctor and his movements— shifting, tensing, shuddering silently in the chair.

It didn't look real. 

The doctor's lips were parted but his teeth were clenched shut. His eye was wide and darting around Levi's form like a chained animal staring at a meal on a platter, and one not out of reach. No, one caught and tied for slaughter.

The sight didn't truly register. Daan's thumb rubbed across his bottom lip, catching a line of drool at the corner. Panting.

“Levi…” Desperate and frustrated. Something out of a twisted dream dancing towards a nightmare. A groan like a growl from that painted mouth.

Levi could only stare.

There was something entrancing about the sight. He heard his name once, then again, and again. Even in a growl, Daan's distinct inflection and intonation fell pleasantly on his ears. Even something as short as his name.

Daan was trembling. His hand had moved to Levi's hair and slowly grasped a handful. Feeling, sliding the hair over and between his fingers, but never yanking. 

Levi's mouth was dry. Not one part of him moved.

He knew this was something he should react to. He should care.

He felt more like an observer than a person.

The chair creaked in the silence. Daan cursed under his breath, and slowly he came to a stop. His eye glanced from Levi's face to the rest of his form, darting between the two points several times before pausing on one.

Something about it reminded Levi of a hunting cat; locking onto its target before winding up its haunches for the strike—but this one didn't pounce. There was no need.

Daan came forward slowly, deliberate in his movements. The edge of the thin mattress sunk with the weight of his knee.

Daan cupped his cheek, and when he leaned in Levi felt the man's lips on his other. A soft peck, almost chaste.

Levi blinked slowly, like he had to remind himself of the motion. 

He couldn’t move, but Daan could and this time their lips met. Daan's were dry, but not hard and with the softness of his movements Levi hardly noticed. It was tender, gentle and sweet just like the petting. Daan's hand was in the back of his hair, keeping him there as if he had space to pull away.

He didn't know if he wanted to.

He'd never been kissed.

Such things had been so insignificant for so long, it ceased to feel like something that would happen to him. Any thoughts of pretty young ladies were left in the orphanage years ago… and this was a man. A man was kissing him.

Revolt coiled in his gut. He shut his eyes so he didn’t have to see the blurred detail of Daan’s face, but he couldn't imagine it to be anyone else; not a woman from the rare mag on the front lines or the pretty girl from the train, just Daan: Daan, the doctor.

This wasn't right.

“N-... Dnn-”

Levi whimpered. Opening his mouth invited the taste of smoke and expensive whiskey. 

Too intimate; too much of Daan.

He did not gasp when released, as gently as it had started, in spite of his burning lungs. He stared up at the wooden planks of the top bunk. Daan was moving down.

The doctor rolled him flat on his back and trailed little pecks from the corner of his mouth to the collar of his coveralls. He paused to hike his leg over the bed, and soon Levi felt his weight over him. Daan never scrambled; he gracefully situated his legs on either side like he was destined for that spot, placing himself in Levi’s line of sight. Silence, save for the brush of clothes.

Looking down as he was, the candlelight cast shadows on Daan’s face, accentuating pieces more than it hid. The sharpness of his features gave the impression of some bird of prey pressed into human form. He still looked close to the way he had in the chair; pensive, but undeniably hungry.

Daan looked down. Levi stared back up, limp as a body.

The man clenched his jaw and averted his eyes without a word.

Daan's fingers came up to his collar. 

“I'm not going to hurt you, Levi.”

Daan spoke softly. Even as his clothes came open more and more, he found the words comforting. He wasn’t sure they should be. Down to his navel was undone, but no breeze to cool his damp skin.

Still, he wondered who Daan was trying to convince.

Daan's hand slid underneath his clothing. Impulses pinged from his nerves, an instruction to shiver that didn't reach his muscles and instead settled as a burning under his skin. Levi knew he wouldn't be able to move if he tried.

His limbs were heavy. They would stay that way even after the rush subsided, but right then he felt like a doll—something meant to be handled and controlled.

“Good boy…” Low and breathy. Something swelled in Levi’s chest.

The hands traveled over his stomach and up his chest, grazing and palming every inch of his form as if Daan were mapping it by touch alone. He felt Daan shiver, as if their positions were swapped.

He didn't hate it. That fact existed somewhere beneath him, distant and unattached. Without the option to pull away he was left to endure, but enduring wasn't the same as wanting.

He watched Daan through half-lidded eyes, detached in the throes of his ultimate comfort.

Daan's eye wasn't wide, but it was locked with the intensity of one that should have been. He seemed hypnotized by the sight before him. 

His gaze raked over exposed flesh, pale skin stretched over the lean form that peeked from under Levi's coveralls. It was a mockery of a soldier's physique—too small and lanky to be anything other than a child. A body built through violence and a waning will to survive.

Various scars marked his form, from clean and white to the angry red of one's still healing; all were under a layer of grime. Dirt, sweat, dust, and oil with blood in a few unlucky spots. Something about the dirt made the scars less glaringly out of place on such a young frame. Blended the colors so one might glaze over the imperfections.

Levi thought himself lucky he didn't have to look in mirrors often.

The doctor traced a few scars with his fingertips—from shrapnel mostly, a couple from bullets. Perhaps he was mulling their origins, picking out their original shape through the puffy edges; Levi didn't remember when or how they appeared. To him, it wasn't worth remembering.

Daan's look made his skin crawl worse than the touch. He shut his eyes. It didn’t help.

“You're being so good…” Daan leaned close, dark lips brushing against his collarbone. 

Warm breath trailed down his sternum. His skin prickled, strangely electrified by the feeling. He stared at the wall through slits.

“Just… stay like this. You don't need to do anything. Just relax."

The hands smoothed down his sides and he felt a subtle grind against his bony hip, a distinct firmness underneath the doctor's slacks. It was almost experimental, soon followed by a hand snaking under his lower back to pull his hips up against the other man's. There was no tingle. No perverted warmth from the friction—nothing that answered it at all. Just silent disgust and the imagined taste of bile.

He wanted nothing more than to recoil into the mattress and disappear.

A startled sound came from his throat when the doctor wrapped his lips around a nipple, pressing his tongue against the base and pulling with a tight suction. The first sound he'd made in many minutes.

The sudden jolt of his nerves forced his muscles into motion.

Levi squirmed against the weight of his own body, weakly clawing at the sides of Daan's vest until his hands fell back to the mattress from the strain. Shoving was an impossible task and he flattened himself to the bed. Daan's mouth worked and those hands pressed down his form with reverence. Crude, perverse worship where he had become the unwilling idol.

There was a pang of regret somewhere in his mind that he’d allowed himself to fall into this position; set up a situation where this could happen at all. He tried to smooth it over with the thought he's not hurting me. It's fine. I'm fine.

Daan grinded steadily, pushing down harder and jerking when their clothes failed to make any friction. Levi whined, choking on air whenever he felt the tongue at the tip. It felt like the doctor was electrocuting him.

He thought of ripping the doctor's head up by his hair. How easy it would be to grab a handful—smash his forehead into that sculpted face.

Daan's lips came off with a little pop, and he moved back up, nestling into the boy's neck. A deep inhale against his skin and soft kisses that made him slowly curl around Daan's head.

The grinding paused, interrupted by the quiet clink of a belt and buzz of a zipper. Daan's other hand was pumping up and down now, knuckles catching on the wrinkles where his coveralls bunched up. Levi only glanced down for a moment. His face screwed up in disgust.

He didn't want to look at Daan. As much as he wanted to hold onto it, his idea of the man was crumbling to pieces before him.

Daan right then still looked like the Daan behind the bar, or the Daan that sewed and wrapped a gash on Marcoh's leg; a porcelain doll juxtaposed by the grey and ravaged stage of Prehevil. Save for the unzipped slacks and hair hanging down his forehead, he almost looked just as put together as before. The sleeves of his fine shirt were rolled to his elbows, baring wiry arms not unlike Levi's own. The doctor was getting his hands dirty after all.

Daan groaned into him, hips rolling into his hand like he was fucking what was underneath.

Levi stared at the opposite wall. The candle burned a few feet away, only making the shadows dance when it flickered. The room looked like a still image. He almost felt a part of it; the only disturbance atop him. He craved that stillness.

“Daan…” a mumble. It slipped out like a thought, and surely Daan wouldn't have heard if he weren't so close.

“It's alright, love. You're being so—so good.”

“Love”? 

He rolled the word around in his mouth silently. What sounded sweet tasted bitter.

He could feel control returning to his limbs, but the heaviness wouldn't leave. It would stay for hours and coordination would remain a significant effort. How much force could he even muster like this? He asked for too much. Daan let him dose himself like this. Let him choose helplessness and then administered it like medicine.

He was a soldier, fresh off the front. Daan hardly looked like a medic. Even in withdrawals, surely he would at least be able to escape—finish the job if he could get his hands around that pale throat.

He imagined wrapping his fingers around it. The feeling of his windpipe under his palm, the crunch, squeezing and squeezing until the man's face darkened and he stopped doing anything at all.

 Daan wasn't a threat on his own.

Not that the thought helped him then. He'd locked up safety for the sensation of it.

The doctor didn't give the drugs to rest, did he? No, surely this was his intention from the moment he stepped down here.

What a fool he was. There was always a cost. Money, or labor, or whatever this was.

He still would have said yes.

He couldn't even break through the haze to hate himself properly. It was as if the thoughts were sliding around on the surface without ever really penetrating his brain. Thoughts without the feelings they should incite.

Something dripped on his navel. Warm pre dripping from the doctor. Levi had stilled in his berating, but the scene had continued.

Levi wrinkled his nose. His eyes narrowed. They fixed on what he could see of Daan—mostly his hair and one side of his face, too close to be clear in his vision. His muscles itched to be put to use and could not, so he bored a hole into the doctor's head instead. This was just something to wait out.

Daan's face was scrunched, eyebrows furrowed and a curled lip over clenched teeth; frustrated rather than blissful. Levi could feel the heat coming off the man in waves. Something was off.

“Fuck— hah, god—... come on—”

His growls were quiet, but seething. Daan's eye darted up and around his face for a few moments, never stopping the movement of his hand. Levi's anger fizzled to discomfort. 

There was something behind his eye that didn't fit the rest of his face. More than feverish desperation.

His hand moved furiously, and with visible frustration. Levi swore he saw a flicker of fear.

“Come on, come on..” Although the doctor's eye was on him, he could sense the words weren't aimed at him. It sounded to Levi like he was pleading with some outside force rather than himself. The frantic jerking and slight pump of his hips with his dark lips curled into a snarl, so out of place on him. His sounds were strangled—not suppressed, but dying before they caught air.

It went on for several long minutes. Daan looked closer to tearing him apart with each passing second.

He didn't understand what that meant for him.

“Fuck- I'm sorry.”

There was no attempt to unbutton, just an unceremonious ripping of each side of his coveralls apart, and then yanking the garment far enough down for him to kick it past the young soldier's feet.

Levi's briefs were soon to follow. He whined as they slipped past his fingers in his attempt to hold them up, his last piece of protection. It felt like standing in a field unarmed, surrounded by the enemy—or no. Worse, because his gaze met the bullet coming his way.

He moved one leg over the other in an almost childish attempt to cover himself. Daan pulled them apart with little trouble, forcing his body between the quivering legs and settling back on his knees before Levi.

“Get off of me.” He was breathing heavily, half through his teeth and half through his nose.

This couldn't continue. He didn't want to find out what it was leading to.

Levi watched the doctor spit on his fingers and rub the saliva over the digits, unable to look away and unable to pull his hips back enough to evade them when the hand descended. 

“It's going to be okay. Just relax.”

A finger pressed against a most private area, and when it forced in like a pop past the band of muscle, he nearly shrieked.

“I promise I'll make this quick. I know it's uncomfortable, but you've been through worse, right? This is nothing.” Panting, crooked off-white teeth.

Tears pricked his eyes then. Terror rose over and subsumed the warmth of his high like a flood over a dam. He couldn’t move. And then he could.

“N-no-!”

He tried to scramble. Tried to push and hit and crawl away—unable to put his limbs to any use beyond squirming and pushing himself into a general direction. Daan's hand followed his body, merely keeping its place and remaining inside him.

“Stop stop-I- don't like- I-I don’t want—”

He shook his head back and forth in a frenzy. Every move and word took too much effort. He could only push out so much air from his lungs.

“Daan I- I don't want to do this. Please, please-”

Wasted breath on pleads. He should've just screamed.

When he did manage to curl up against the headboard, bent awkwardly and ready to fall over it, the finger pulled out only for the doctor to grab him with both hands and yank him back down. He cried out.

Daan silenced him with a firm palm over his mouth. His eye flared, but both paused, ears turned to the ceiling and listening.

…

Nothing. 

The doctor breathed. Levi didn’t.

“I know, I know—It's okay Levi. I just need you to hold still—”

The second finger pushed in. He dug his nails into the doctor's wrist and Daan pressed down harder, palm pushing his septum up into his face and starting to smother him. His eyes went wider still when Daan pushed his fingers deeper, fully up to the knuckle and spreading different ways to ease the muscle apart. It wouldn't; tight as a drum, and all he felt was invaded.

Now he was crying. All of it pierced through the veil of his high and sank its teeth into his battered psyche. He needed more. He needed the rest of that bottle in Daan's bag now. He couldn't do this; and yet he would.

He fumbled to pry the hand off his mouth. His nails scrabbled at the doctor's thin fingers.

“Stmph! Stmph!”

He was wasting breath and his lungs were starting to burn. He stared up at Daan with wide, wet eyes.

He hated the way Daan looked back at him. The crack in his frustrated visage. A crack in the mask that showed something human underneath. Something that recognized and understood.

Daan?

The doctor looked away.

He knew this was wrong. Knew what he was doing. Levi could only gawk at the betrayal.

Why did he expect anything more?

The fingers pulled out and Levi gasped when the smothering ceased. One hand was holding his leg up by the crook of his knee. He lost track of the other one.

Daan spit again. The tip of something pressed against his hole and through. 

His back came fully off the bed and tensed like a rock down to his core. Tensed around Daan. 

Daan leaned and pressed forward, pushing the caught leg towards Levi's shoulder until the thigh muscle stretched taut and stopped its movement. He braced himself with that arm and wrapped the other around Levi's lower half, pulling him into each thrust as he started to fuck him. 

Levi's mouth opened wide for nothing but a pained croak. He looked to be screaming.

Why?

“Fuck. Yes, yes.” The doctor was gasping beside his head as if he'd found the same ecstasy Levi had before, but in the roll of his hips rather than a needle. 

Daan was kissing him, small pecks down his cheek and jaw and around his ear, all the while murmuring in a broken stream.

“You're so good Levi. You're doing so fucking good. I promise it'll be quick. I know it hurts, I know it hurts. You're doing so good for me.”

Levi couldn't stop moving his hands. Clawing at the front of the doctor's vest and shirt, at the arm wrapped around his waist and the hand holding his leg tight to his chest. He shook his head and clawed and beat at Daan's back, but his hands settled on his own skin, scratching and digging into his cheeks and scalp. The awful fullness and movement inside him. He couldn’t make it stop.

He sobbed quietly.

Maybe he deserved this.

He knew he would let Daan do this, and again, if it meant a hit.

His nails drew angry red lines on his skin in place of blood. 

Daan leaned closer, down to his cheek and close to his ear. He exchanged the hold around his waist to grab one of the scratching hands and hold it against the mattress. Never hard. Never with more force than necessary to simply pin him and render one more part of Levi useless. Something that should have been tender and he wanted to rip the skin off his face so that it might distract him.

“I know, I know, buddy. You're such a good boy, Levi. You're such a good boy and you don't deserve this, and I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.”

He wasn't allowed to hurt himself in the middle of rape. He didn’t even deserve that.

“You feel so good. I need you.”

He really should have pulled the trigger.

There would be a fallout from this.

How could he look at Daan the same? Walk beside the man? Protect him?

He needed the others if he wanted to survive, and the others needed Daan.

So no, there was nothing to be done. The logic wasn't complicated.

Tell someone? What would he gain? He could imagine the tension, strung through the air like a tripwire. Those awful pitying stares. Empty promises of safety. He was a child in their eyes

All of them.

Daan was cradling his head, leading him to press his face into the fine silk vest. The fabric was cooling despite the heat coming off both of them. It was soft and smooth against his cheeks. He had never touched something so fine.

It smelled of expensive cigarettes, sweat, and fine cologne he couldn't begin to pin down the scent of. Tangible evidence that this man was beyond him.

“This isn't your fault. You don't deserve this. I-I'm a sick man and I- couldn't keep it in any longer. I'll, I'll make you a drink after this, okay? It'll help you feel better. Something-” he groaned, “-something sweet to put you out. You'll be okay. Everything will be fine. Okay?”

He didn't know if he was expected to respond. The words were aimed at him but felt like they weren't. The way he would choke and hesitate- like the doctor was trying to comfort himself as much as him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, taking refuge in at least being able to hide his face from Daan, from his gaze and his words if not his hands. He grabbed fistfuls of the doctor's shirt around his shoulders and lay there, a man he hardly knew between his legs and just drugged enough to keep from screaming at the sheer horror and unfairness of it all.

He was so much more naked than Daan, stripped to nothing but his socks and all while the doctor had hardly pulled down his slacks. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair for him to be so vulnerable while the only thing Daan had bared was inside him.

He lay there in the clench, rocking with the movement of Daan's hips and crying into his shoulder when the burn became too much. The silk vest and collared shirt rubbed against his chest, moving in the steady back and forth.

Would Daan’s scent stick to his skin—cling underneath the gunpowder and musk that had long settled into his own clothes? He couldn’t imagine finding a place to clean up anytime soon. He would die with the reek on his body and it would stay until he rotted.

Daan bit down on his shoulder, the sudden sensation startling enough to pull his attention back out. He banged his fist on Daan's back until the teeth released. He was sobbing.

A hand smoothed over his hair, settled on the back of his head and cradled it. Daan shushed softly. Coos so sweet he almost forgot the burn and sting of every thrust.

“Levi, it's okay, it's okay, love…”

Levi nestled his face into the vest. He hated crying in front of people.

But the words did not stop this time. They continued their soothing, smooth and certain unlike the rambling before, and slowly Daan's voice became a purr. Quiet praises whispered in his ear; how well he was cooperating, what a good kid he was, what a good boy he was. A steady stream he couldn’t help but listen and fall into the rhythm of even as he cried. The whispers promised comfort and a warmth different from what coursed through his veins. With his eyes shut it was as if they were coming from all around him. Something deeper was calling through them, something underneath that had no business being there.

For a moment, he let himself be lured in. He listened, and then he felt it.

The feeling that washed over him was something else entirely. It wasn’t like the drugs. It wasn't like anything with a name.

He’d never been in love, but somehow he knew this was what reciprocation and indulgence felt like. Heat that built up and kept growing in his rib cage until he swore it was going to burst from skin and bone. The feeling traveled lower and he couldn’t tell if his eyes actually rolled back into his head or not. A tremor ran through him. It was like being held and caressed from inside and out, and every nerve in his body found it electrifying.

The whispers coiled in his ears, around his mind and body. Words couldn’t do this, and it registered faintly that the whispers weren’t words at all. They were sentences, but they were not. They were sounds, but they were not. They were genuine, loving, and sincere, but they were not language as he knew it.

There was no mimicking it. He tried to hold onto them, to the syllables or even just the cadence, but they slipped out of focus like sand through his fingers. The pleasure remained, and without thinking he pressed his hips up in desperate search of friction that was already there. 

What?

Delicate fingers wrapped around a hard cock that hadn't stiffened in months. The air vanished from his lungs.

God, please.

The doctor's hand was pumping up and down steadily, more steadily than his thrusts, which seemed to have slowed. They rolled gently and hardly registered in the periphery. Nothing hurt anymore. 

The reality of it fell away in favor of chasing pleasure. He wasn't sure how the fullness contributed, but the hand around his dick was pushing him forward, frantic bucking against a man he had been clawing away from moments before.

He never knew it could feel like this. 

At some point his body had simply stopped asking because he got nothing from it. It shouldn't feel like this. This wasn't natural, and it was too good for him to care. 

He jerked his hips desperately, holding the doctor’s shirt so tight he could feel his own nails through the fabric. He pressed his forehead into Daan's shoulder hard, pulling himself closer and no longer muffling the sounds that left his mouth. For that moment, he wanted everything Daan could do to him. Every caress, every stroke, every kiss, every bite. Stepping stones guiding him to a release he couldn't even comprehend.

He'd never heard himself make such noises. Whimpers and moans so full of frustration they came out as feral growls.

“Cmm- ” his face screwed up, feeling the pressure in his gut starting to build in full. He wanted to squeeze his arms between them so he could finish it himself, but he couldn't bear the thought of it stopping for a moment.

“Please, please.” Shame was beyond him.

Daan began to move properly again too, starting at a slower pace and then increasing to faster than before. Eager and egged on with every sound from Levi's mouth.

“That's it, come on, love.”

All he could feel was Daan's hand, his world narrowed to that one point of contact. Up and down. Up and down. 

Levi wanted to scream, and he almost did in the form of a prolonged cry when it peaked. Daan quickly hugged his head into his shoulder to mute, and soon the boy was jerking into his hand like an animal in its death throes, clawing and crying out.

He felt the doctor jerk, barely able to keep his hand pumping as his hips stuttered. He hugged Levi so tight it was as if he were trying to merge their bodies into one flesh, unified in shared ecstasy. The last thing he registered was the smell of iodine and cigarettes.

He didn't feel the evidence of the doctor's orgasm, so caught in the throes of his own that he wasn't even sure where he was. He could have been in the train, at the bar, in the middle of the paved streets and empty shops, for all he cared.

His eyes rolled up, drool slipping from one side of his mouth as his body shook and convulsed. Warmth clipped the doctor's vest and painted his own stomach and chest. Tangible, thick hot shame.

His mind went blank.

...

Slowly, the doctor's hold loosened, until his limp head fell back into the pillow. Both of them were panting. Sweat-soaked strands of Daan's hair hung down in clumps; Levi's stuck to his forehead.

They sat there looking at eachother, and the moment grew longer.Levi gazing, dumbfounded, and Daan's single eye looking back.

He was still high, but the adrenaline was petering out. The heaviness was returning in full, now led by a renewed rush of exhaustion. He was disoriented, trying to wrap his head around what happened.

He looked down at the mess on his stomach. A mess he made. Behind it he could see Daan still partially inside him. The doctor caught his look and pulled out.

Levi shivered. He'd never felt… empty, in such a way. He shifted his eyes to the vest, not wanting to linger on that disgusting sight. He was disgusted enough by what was on himself. 

The discolored splotch on that expensive vest just looked like a wet spot in the candlelight. Daan examined it after zipping up and muttered what sounded like a curse.

He shifted uncomfortably. Many things hadn't truly registered, but he felt dirty and the longer he lay there the worse it felt, soiled inside and out. His quivering hand hovered over the mess, knowing better than to wipe with it but finding it too difficult to keep still.

He breathed easier when Daan finally got off of him, leather shoes clicking back on the floor. There was a sense of finality to it. This was over.

“...Here, let me…” The doctor took a dry cloth to his stomach.

Levi grasped for his wrist shakily. Daan took the hint and passed it to him.

The silence was heavy, only cut by their shuffling and cleaning. He needed a bath—even just a wet rag in a bucket would do—but reality was a cloth and scooting away from the wet spot that had formed under his bottom.

What do I do about—?

He flinched at the helping hand on his back when he started to sit up. He would have apologized for it a few hours ago. He did not this time.

The doctor set his clothes on the edge of the bed, comfortably within his reach. This was some sort of apology, he knew.

Daan packed up his practice bag while he dressed. Every moment the doctor wasn't looking at him was a relief. Daan had nothing to say. And it seemed, neither did he.

Levi took comfort in buttoning up all the way back to his collar, practiced enough to do it in whatever state befell him. He folded back onto the bed immediately after, unsteady and not willing to test himself. There wasn't any burning or other pain to his surprise. He felt there should be—he hadn't imagined that tearing.

He glanced at his elbow. It was numb too.

...

The bandage could stay on until morning.

He sat with his shoulder to the wall and his back balanced against the corner post, staring at Daan's half-turned back from the corner of his eye. There was no anger, no terror in the muddled warmth that hadn't yet left. He just wanted him out.

Daan clipped his bag shut. Levi held his gaze when he turned, but only for a moment. He looked far away from the doctor.

“...Will you be alright?”

He understood on some level that he should've felt angry at that. He should yell, scream at him, leap for his throat or get his rifle leaning against the bed.

Was he apathetic to himself, or the world around him? He didn't know. He didn't care.

“...I'm fine.” He wanted to be alone.

“Do you want something to drink?”

“No.”

Levi rubbed his elbow. The candle had burned lower and still flickered, undeterred.

Two quiet clicks of a lighter. For a moment there were two lights, highlighting every shadow on Daan's face until the red glow of a cigarette replaced it. Daan took a small puff, breathing it out slowly.

Levi missed the smell of the forest, or at least air that would circulate and carry the stench of smoke away. It would suffocate him like a presence.

The doctor sighed, rubbed his eye and adjusted his eyepatch.

“Let's keep this between us. Just, at least until this festival business is finished.” His voice was soft, pleading as much as stating. Another puff before his dark lips pressed into a line.

“Do what you will afterwards.”

He said nothing. Daan shifted his weight between his feet.

The doctor reached for him, just a hand on his ankle.

“...Levi-”

“Don't touch me.”

He pulled his legs closer and scratched at his bandaged track marks, eyes on the candle, away from the doctor. He only saw Daan stiffen from the corner of his eye.

“... Okay.” Resigned. No debate.

A clink as the doctor set a bottle from the floor on the table, beside his emptied glass. Nicer than any beer he'd gotten his hands on as a kid.

Daan's shadow approached the ladder. With a hand on the first rung he paused.

“Goodnight, Levi. Sleep well.”

He didn't shut his eyes until morning.