Drabble: Levi x Writer!Reader | So Lucky

He remembers how you were always the poet, and how he was your pen. In him, you always found words to write, songs to sing, and nearly always thoughts to think. Like a sketchbook, you wore him out and used him, loving the place he gave you in his heart, deep and spacious, empty and to be filled, where once out of dreamland, he'd kiss you softly, saying "write me a story, and fill me up," and to the brim you did. 

To him, you would put Cummings, and Whitman, and Shakespeare to shame, and you'd write him a poem that made his eyes water, ones he would keep forever, and others that were already forgotten with the next. Like the TATE, or Louvre, you gave him an art collection of his own, priceless and unforgettable and all about himself, the glory only his, and his thoughts on thanking you. 

For once, the view of his heart was nothing but good, with his name being one that was sung and written like a mantra, Levi had never sounded more beautiful, a heavenly shine around him whenever anyone happened to utter the syllables, for yours was right next to his, and when compared to a rose that never wilted, a book that never ended, and a world with no poverty, all things people wish for but never can attain, he had never been more thankful to be associated as a luxury, than when he did in your eyes, or the swooning of others. 

So one day he asked you "What am I?" The smile you replied with one that melted his heart. And like usual, you picked up your pen;

'You are the sun after a storm, 
with rays that even the blind would be grateful for,' 

But he stopped you, hand delicately grasping your wrist, holding you back from continuing on, and he explained that this time, he didn't want any metaphors, or similes, and he said that this time, he wanted the truth, served on a platter of gold, matching the heart sewn on your sleeve. And so that night, as he slept, you picked up your pen and wrote.

You wrote, and then thought better of it, so you started all over again, until on and on the cycle was repeated, as the hours were chased and left behind, unsuspecting until the early hours of the morning peeked through. Frantic, your words seemed unstoppable, and on the paper were spat the words, 'If I can't think of the love I have for what you really are and thank you for it, have I ever really loved you at all?' 

But this too, you thought better of, condemning it to the trash, and the next morning, you were gone, your final words being those of a mere two: 'I'm sorry.' 

And like the people who seemed to forget the sun's benefits once the moon came out, he too forgot how lucky he was to have something that made saying goodbye so difficult.