Levi doesn't believe in miracles. There are only the things that tend to happen and the things that tend not to happen, and the rare anomalies in between. The philosophy is very simple. Most of the time, if you are born a poor wretch you will die a poor wretch. Your children will be wretches, too. They will die like you, wretched, and leave more poor wretches behind them. Likewise, if you are rich and important you will likely die rich and important, and your children will inherit your riches and your importance, and want for nothing. That is how some men come to own the earth and others merely grope for it in the darkness, gnawing at each other's ankles like rats.
He is wading through a sea of rats now--imperial sycophants and nobles with more money than could fit in the king's coffers. They are draped in heavy silks and nauseating perfumes, their faces caked in kohl and rouge. They are gorging themselves on delicacies and prestigious wines and behaving for all the world like there are no walls, no limitations. No ends to the earth.
"Just try to have a decent time," Hange had said earlier, helping him knot his tie. They had smiled in their crooked way, and Levi had sighed and acquiesced, because with Hange he is incapable of standing his ground.
Still, he knows who he is and why he is here, and it's certainly not because he belongs.
There are no pathways that lead up from Underground. It's a simple fact. Levi crawled out of that coffin by the skin of his teeth, and he is kept safe above it by the richness and importance of other men. Men who use him. Men who make him into pretty stories and coin. Men who want to own him, to own his body. To make him a hero.
Levi has never wanted to be anyone's hero. He doesn't believe in heroism, or altruism, or the good of mankind. He doesn't want to be put on high. All Levi has ever wanted was enough to eat and a warm bed. No riches or anomalies. No miracles.
Except that, sometimes, when he is standing beside Erwin Smith, Levi can't help but think: this is a miracle.
A miracle that Erwin is alive, a miracle that Levi hasn't killed him. A miracle that Levi isn't killing him right now, while the oaf clutches the hand of some interior noblewoman between his enormous palms.
I can't believe I let you bring me here, Levi laments, and he can't. He can't believe it.
He can't believe it because he and Erwin haven't spoken in five days, not since Levi's fucking horse died, and because Erwin has not replied to his letter--note--even though Levi is positive he was being very benevolent when he wrote it. He can't believe it because Erwin won't even speak to him, as though they are children. Because Erwin is acting like a child.
"Of course, I hear your next expedition will be rather prosperous, no? I heard perhaps the old silk mills to the southeast," says the woman, and Levi's eyelids twitch with the desire to roll them. She is nearly twelve thousand years old, Levi is sure, and her face is carved with deep lines which separate her flappy, hanging jowls.
"Just like Keith to share trade secrets," Erwin says pleasantly, and winks, "It's been discussed, but that's really all I'm at liberty to say."
He flashes a winning smile that Levi aches to smack away. Coward. Liar. Manipulator.
Promiser. Promise breaker. Levi hates him, has always hated him. Even when he wrote that fucking letter-- note -- he hated him. Levi is certain that loving Erwin without hating him is impossible, because the man so rarely graces reality with his presence, and you can't love someone who is delusional without hating them as well.
Erwin lives in a world of possibilities and future plans. Schemes. Loveable but unloving.
Levi should have killed him when he'd had the chance.
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Eruri stories(Erwin x Levi)
FanfictionJust A Eruri Book Oneshot's About My Fav Gay Old Men
