[watch me fall apart, watch me fall apart] (Levi Ackerman x Reader)

Two

This is not a love story. This is a story of growth and acceptance. A coming-of-age in this time and circumstance.

Instead of studying hard, you party harder by drinking. And by party harder, it means drinking alone in the middle of the week. You have published another piece in a different journal and now there are commendations for you left and right. The literary publication has chosen you to become the next editor once the incumbent graduates. They tell you this calls for a celebration. But you were never really good with crowds, always a private person just like him. Levi finds you at your favorite bar, knows this is where you'll be, and shares a bucket of beer with you as a treat. It's a routine the two of you have settled into: late night stories over drinks and good food, the exhaustion from the burden on your shoulders leaving you for a while.

He begins his rant about how somebody asked him to jot down notes during a meeting with the higher-ups. Chairman Zackley has asked him to simply because he's a writer. As if it's something only writers can do. Levi cusses, rambles about how creative writing majors are stereotyped as people who take minutes of the meeting. It's not as bad as being thought of as menu designers, you think. Or, recipe makers.

"The world is in need of a creative response," you tell him, and it's probably the alcohol speaking on behalf of you. Then you lean in towards him. "The world needs to reimagine the ways it's been designed to think."

His face is so close across you that you imagine him going in for a kiss. You've dreamed countless times being in his arms, anyway, dreamed of all the sweet gestures that lovers do. You imagine a lot of things as far as your creativity goes. But you gave him an insight so heavy that he's still pondering about your words.

Levi nods, slowly. "I like that."

"I like that, too!" somebody says.

Two other people are clapping his shoulders from behind. You're not expecting his friends to join you. Levi introduces his other colleagues, Erwin and Hange, also writers-turned-professors, but in other genres. You don't complain when they sit across you, Hange almost pushing Levi off the edge. They shake your hand like they've been wanting to meet you all along.

"I've heard about you!" exclaims Hange. "That essay that got published... it's fantastic!"

"How did you know about that?"

The smirk from Hange is suspicious. "Oh, well, Levi told us."

"He's been talking nonstop about you." Erwin smiles. "Like you're constantly in his mind."

Your eyes travel to Levi who's sitting in a corner. He looks away as he downs his beer.

Being a science major who's also taking creative writing classes is a challenge. There are lab reports in the morning, essays to submit at night. You have to rush to an open mic at 6:30 pm but you have an exam in statistics from 4 to 7. It would have been wise to back out, but the event organizer is a friend of yours. "And people want to hear you read your work," she says.

Besides, Mikasa went with your event name among the other suggestions— This Is Not An Open Mic: An Open Mic. It's the most pretentious title you've ever come up with. You pat yourself on the shoulder, proud of your humor.

Unfortunately, your exam has eaten up another hour of your night. You panic because you can feel your phone buzzing in your pocket from the continuous calls and text messages. One of them is probably Levi, looking for you. You can't even take the calls or read the texts, lest you be accused of cheating. The minutes drone on. The questions on the sheet are just swimming in your eyes. The numbers don't make sense anymore. Finally, the anxiety weighs down on you. You shotgun your answers, scribble whatever solutions you come up with, and then hope for the best.