Birdie (Levi x OC)

sixty-three

My mornings had become a ritual of sickness, with my head constantly in the porcelain basin. Its new home was now a permanent fixture on my nightstand, moved there by Levi after the first catastrophic bout.

Levi always woke up—a fact I felt terrible about, considering it always occurred in the early hours of the morning. Every morning, without fail.

I was weak and utterly exhausted; the repeated sickness left me with little energy for the day's tasks. Levi insisted I stay in bed, saying he would create some excuse for my absence if the others inquired. Although we both knew the glaringly obvious truth; we maintained the silence.

I walked stiffly to the window, gripping the sill to steady myself. I desperately inhaled the fresh air, searching for some ounce of clarity amidst the relentless nausea and exhaustion.

I leaned my forehead against the cool glass, watching the headquarters stir to life below. Scouts were running their morning drills; the engineers were already moving crates of equipment for testing. Every clang and shout was a sharp reminder that the preparation for the Marley mission continued, entirely unaffected by my hidden condition.

We were supposed to leave in six weeks. Six weeks to gather the most crucial intelligence of their existence. Six weeks until Levi and the entire squad were gone. Until I was supposed to be going.

I felt a sudden, familiar hand settle on my shoulder.

"You should go back to bed," Levi said, his voice quiet. He was already dressed for the day, his appearance a stark contrast to mine. I felt brittle and weak.

"I needed air," I said, turning to face him, his face grim.

"Once I get over this exhaustion and this sickness, I'll be okay. I promise. I just have to get through the next couple weeks," I pleaded, my eyes communicating a totally different thought: Don't leave me behind when you go to Marley. Please.

"The only thing you should focus on is keeping food down," he said, grabbing my wrist and guiding me back to bed. His eyes were filled with cold, concentrated concern. "You've lost weight. Weight you don't have to lose, and fast."

I looked down at my wrist grasped in his hand, grimacing at the sudden, bony protrusion of my wrist joint. "I can't eat, Levi. I'll just be sick again."

He released my wrist and sat beside me, his usual rigid control wavering slightly as he took in my frail appearance. My shift hung off my body at an abnormal angle. "At least some broth, please. And water."

I pressed a hand to my forehead, the dull pain blooming at the base of my skull. "Okay, okay," I said. "I'll try."

~

The next day's morning was no better; it was another hour spent over the basin, leaving me weak and shaking. But by the afternoon, the crippling nausea finally subsided enough for me to get out of bed and leave the room.

My legs felt wobbly, and the sudden shift in posture brought on a wave of lightheadedness, but I fought through it. I figured showing my face would ease Hange's official concerns and allow Levi and me to keep this secret just a little bit longer.

I dressed in my usual uniform, choosing the loose-fitting outer jacket to hide the recent weight loss, and focused on maintaining my posture. Every step was a deliberate act of will.

I needed to see Hange. She was currently running the logistics for the Marley deployment, and I knew Levi would be glued to her office, finalizing mission objectives.

The walk across the compound was harder than I anticipated. The smells—the stale scent of the cooking oil from the mess hall, the damp earth, the heavy metallic tang of the ODM gear being cleaned—were relentless, threatening to undo my fragile recovery. I pressed the heels of my hands into my temples, fighting the dull, hormonal headache.