Eruri stories(Erwin x Levi)

Oneshot's 51

The night is winding low. Erwin's got his shirt unbuttoned to the first swirl of chest hair and his bolo tie hanging loose, knocking the ice around in his whiskey. Everything's got a pleasant blur around the edges. He's hearing the voices of his friends on a one-second delay, like the blast of a flare across the open fields beyond the wall.

There's a fire in the grate. Hange laughs, manically, slings their arms across Mike's taller shoulders, swaying back and forth. Mike indulges them, in that quiet, patient way he has. His eyes are hidden by the shag of his hair, but there's a smile on his face; he's got his civvie suspenders draped off his shoulders, obliging Hange's pestering, dancing them in small circles on the rug in front of the fire.

It's just them, more or less; Erwin, Hange, Mike, Nana, Mob. Levi, of course, their guest of honour, sitting with his legs tucked beneath Erwin's fat leather armchair. He's nursing his drink, his third or fourth or fifth, Erwin's been counting, but it takes a lot to get Levi drunk, he's learnt. Levi had fetched the ice for their drinks with his own two hands. There's still an air of novelty about it for him — he'd slid out onto the ice and broken the pond with something as close to childlike abandon as he can get.

It is not Levi's birthday. No one knows when Levi's birthday is, least of all Levi himself. But Levi has a sense that he was born in the midwinter, some memory of someone telling him that, once, and so for the past few years that is when they have chosen to celebrate. Levi is drinking, and Erwin wonders why — he wonders if there is something about tonight for which Levi requires courage, which would be strange, because Erwin has never known him to be cowardly. He toasts his drink, in Levi's direction, lazily; and Levi regards him, quietly, and does not toast him back, but downs what is in his glass all the same.

There is snow at the window, frosted against the pane, and their festivities are lit only by the fire in the grate. Most of the camp will have gone home for the midwinter sequester. In here, it is warm — Erwin feels quite content, to have a warm office, and good friends, and good drink, and even the promise of Levi, although he does not take part in their dancing and singing, but seems pleasantly surprised to be celebrated, quietly happy at having people notice him, and be a part of a thing.

The night winds down when Moblit, raging drunk, stumbles against the fireplace and throws his arms around Mike's shoulders, begging him to see what Hange is hiding in their laboratory, to 'stop them, before this madness goes too far'. And with that, Nana and Mike share a look, and drape Moblit in a coat, and Hange unwraps Moblit's tie from around their forehead and bids them both a goodnight. And then it is just Levi, and Erwin, the crackling fire, a ticking clock.

Erwin stubs out his cigarette on the table.

Levi looks surprised. "You're not smoking?" He asks. He sounds disappointed.

"Maybe later," Erwin tells him. "If you wanted to join me."

Levi doesn't answer with his words. Instead he stands, sits himself on Erwin's couch, sips his drink.

"How old are you today, anyway?" Erwin asks, ambiguously. He knows the answer, or the rough approximation of it: twenty-seven, twenty-eight.

"Old enough," Levi grunts, and then looks away. "It's all indulgent, anyway."

"Oh?"

"Marking your age," he clarifies. "It's, ah," he seems to be looking for a word. "A meaningless thing. The day you are born is as — as random as — "

"Arbitrary?" Erwin tries.

"Arbitrary," Levi agrees, "exactly".

"I suppose you would think that," Erwin sighs, feeling good and relaxed, stretches his legs out in front of him and swirls the ice around his glass.