Swing Life Away [Ereri/Riren]

Issho Ni

Timeline: Levi's 58-ish, Eren's 54-ish. Charlotte is 30-ish, and Peter's in his early thirties. Alex is in her early sixties, as is Reiner. Carla passed away a while ago, and Mikasa's in her late forties.

If you really wanna milk the feels, listen to the song while you read. Yes, the chapter is named after it.

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"Knock knock," Eren murmured, one hand on the knob while the knuckles of the other tapped softly on the polished wooden door.

"You're back," came a raspy voice from beyond the threshold over which he stepped with a light smile playing across his lips.

"Of course," he replied casually, letting the door shut with a small click. "How are you this morning?" He crossed the room, sunk down into the chair adjacent to the upraised bed, using the arms to support his weight until his rear was comfortably positioned.

"A little better," breathed the other. His hand slid across the baby blue sheets in search of Eren's, who complied with ease by wrapping his fingers around the other's chilled hand. It was normal for his hands to be so clammy lately, and normal for his audible breathing despite the nasal cannula feeding oxygen through his nose. "Just waiting to die, like usual."

While Levi had a spark of amusement set in his deep gray eyes at his words, Eren didn't find the statement so funny; he didn't have to say anything for the other to get it, though, and the humor quickly faded.

"Help me sit up," he mumbled, already trying to push himself up on his own. His weak muscles protested by aching and he nearly crumpled back into the pillows before Eren lent an arm to assist his sitting up.

"You know the bed inclines, right?" Eren asked, grinning slightly.

"Hmph. Of course I do," Levi muttered, reaching for his hand again. Automatically, the brunet wrapped his fingers around his husband's clammy hands, holding them delicately between his own, partially for warmth and partially for affection. The younger could feel the light tremors rocking through Levi's limbs. As he rubbed gentle circles into his skin, Eren looked the other over, as routine for his daily visits. To see the changes. To see the deterioration.

These days the direction his health was going reminded Eren of the withdrawal days all those years ago. He was still healthy - or, as healthy as a former drug addict with a multitude of diseases could be. Not quite as...gray as those days, nor as malnourished. His eyes still smoldered like the remnants of a bonfire, and he still retained that impassive yet bitter personality. But every day the circles around his eyes darkened, his skin became paler and he grew slimmer and slimmer, even if only fractionally. Even his tattoos had faded over time. His voice was so much rougher than it used to be, his hands much less steady than that of the tattoo artist Eren fell in love with. Slowly, ever so slowly, he approached death's door. His days were numbered, though that number was one Eren couldn't be sure of.

Two months ago, he'd been put in an assisted living home after a fit of coughing up blood. A worsening of his lung disease, the doctor in the hospital explained to them, and immunity to the medication he'd been taking for a good fifteen years. They no longer had the means of taking care of him at home, what with him needing a daily IV and constant oxygen, among weekly check-ups and needing certain things in his diet.

It killed Eren that he could no longer care for his husband. He visited Levi every day without fail since he was admitted and stayed as long as he could before other aspects of life called or the nurses were bugging him to leave because visiting hours were over.

And nights were lonely. With the entire house to himself, no longer even in the company of a pet, it was too silent. Too spacious. His bed was too big and cold without Levi's warmth radiating from the other side, without the soft sound of his breathing to fill the deafening silence. He'd started falling asleep on the couch with the TV on instead, and eventually ended up with his own makeshift bed across it with a pillow and some blankets. More times than he'd ever admit to anyone, he cried himself to sleep, feeling warm tears seep from his ducts and make wet trails over his nose, his temples, as he waited to escape into unconsciousness.