Chapter Text
Levi’s tea runs out under the paling August constellations.
It’s a bleak morning, Eren muses, scowling into the tin box containing the meagre remains of Assam. He’s been so careful rationing it. One cup a week. An extra cup when his symptoms hit. Never on a sunny day.
At first, it was a solid tactic. Indulging just a little on their long, long journey into the unknown. The tea helped to keep himself under control. It helped him to not feel alone amongst family. It helped him to not feel like shit.
Every leaf on the teaspoon looked like it smiled. Curling on both ends and sending Eren’s lips twitching at the sight. Easing the knot in his tight chest.
Brewing it in his tiny teapot was routine. Familiar. Like a friend sitting by his side, joining him with tea-steam-filled silence and calmness so strong it was a fortress against the noise battling its way into his head.
One dawn, the can’s metal walls began to overshadow the golden-tipped bliss inside, and the shielding reprieve the Assam provided before tilted into an unfathomable ache. Whereas the first half seemed to symbolise hope, the growing void in the emptying caddie soon equalled an unstoppable descent into darkness. Each leaf removed embodied loss. Another week gone, another seven days worn away, feeling gone astray.
One morning, the tea would run out for good, and with it every happy thought Eren can remember. All which would be left would be the eternal expedition. Going on and on and on. No ocean. No return. Only setting up camp and leaving it again to chase the horizon. Wading through muck and battling mosquitoes in the relentless heat. And map work. Endless, endless boring hours of map work.
Eren rationed sterner. No Assam on a rainless cloudy day. No Assam during a storm. Not a heaped spoon per cup, only an even one in desperate conviction it would last longer. The brew tasted dreary this way, though. Not right. Feeble, and too watery to provide the needed comfort. It was a waste of good tea. The best tea. Levi’s tea. Weak tea and Levi did not go together. Opening the caddie a week later, Eren forfeited and made the next cup properly again.
Now, with the sickle-shaped moon above sneering the thinnest smile, Eren wants to hit himself for that decision. If he hadn’t caved to his own insufficiencies, this single portion wouldn’t be the last bit left.
His fingers clasp around the tin until the sharp edges cut steamy marks into his fingertips, and the leaves at the caddie bottom tremble.
“What’s the matter now?” Jean asks, emerging from his tent and scratching his stomach with a yawn. “You look like someone died.”
“S’nothing,” Eren says, snapping the can shut and storing it away to retrieve his dwindling supplies of Gunpowder.
During the five months they’ve been on the road, he never figured out why, but brewing the tea Levi pushed into his arms in March feels sacred. He doesn’t want to share, neither the tea, nor the preparation ritual. Especially not with Jean and that stupid scowl on his face, light brown eyes provoking Eren in a mixture of too much understanding, pity, and taunt. It sends thorny heat up Eren’s spine.
“If you say so,” Jean says with a shrug. “Just asking in case you want to talk.”
“Talk about what?”
“Just…nothing, mate.” He raises both palms with a defeated sigh. “Nothing. Forget I asked. Have to take a leak anyhow.”
Glowering at Jean’s leaving figure, Eren pushes forward his jaw before refocusing on his tea.
He doesn’t need anyone’s sympathy. He’s fine.
*
The air smells odd. It carries a freshness that bursts with life, but underneath, lie cloying whiffs that remind Eren of decay. It’s like tasting one’s tears whilst looking at the aftermath of a battle, salty and overwhelmed by something Eren has no name for.
The scent floods their noses from midday on, settling on their sun-burnt faces in layers of wind-whipped fissures and cracks. Eren’s lips won’t stop steaming.
“We must be close to the shore,” Armin says, blue gaze flitting across the landscape in a constant jitter. A thin shawl covering his nose and mouth muffles his words before he pulls it down his chin. “That hill over there looks like a good shelter to stay at for a few days. Will be good for surveying too.”
“Great,” Eren mutters to himself. Surveying.
Though tired bruises mark Armin’s face, his eyes glisten so much, it’s like he’s that ten-year-old boy again who decided to travel the big wide world and convinced Eren there was more out there than Walls and Titans. Then he peers at Eren, and a shadow ghosts across his expression. He looks like Jean the other day.
“I’m fine,” Eren says before Armin asks, or Mikasa reaches them and argues about it. “I can go on. It’s your call.” You look pale too, he thinks.
Armin frowns, yet nods. “All right.” Clasping his reins, he signals his horse to trot on, and Hafsol obeys with a gentle snuffle, seemingly as driven as his master.
They are out of earshot when another rider approaches Eren from behind, and he braces himself for the impending reprimand.
“We’re riding too far today,” Mikasa says at Eren’s side. “You’ve both been steaming since noon.”
Eren pulls a face. As if it mattered where his skin cracks and heals and cracks again. “I would steam at the camp too.”
“It’s tiring you.” She thrusts a canteen under his nose. “You shouldn’t have told him to move on.”
Rolling his eyes, Eren snatches the bottle from her grip. “It’s only for another hour, Mikasa. And I didn’t tell him to do anything. This plain is shit for making camp anyhow.”
She purses her mouth, thin black eyebrows drawing together in a way that tells Eren she won’t cave. “I’ll talk to Armin.” With that she clasps her reins and orders her umber mare onward, her red scarf flapping in her trail.
Left behind with her flask, Eren takes a mouthful of boiled water and wonders how Mikasa can stand wearing that old thing in this heat. Her neck must be sweltering.
As the waggons and soldiers behind him clamour forward, he sighs, squinting against the descending summer sun. There was a time Eren loved the sun. He enjoyed standing in her shine, soaking up her heat, her energy. These days, she’s too bright. Stripped of everything he once adored, leaving harsh, blinding light and sticky sweat that doesn’t cease, clinging to them all and accumulating dust. He hasn’t felt clean since forever.
Today the light carries a brightness that shoots nauseating bolts through Eren’s brain. They ripple down his oesophagus and settle in his stomach, writhing and squirming, and sending too sweet saliva into his mouth. He gulps it down. It doesn’t go away. He clears his throat and swallows again. Again. The last thing he needs right now is having to ralph. Aside from people fussing over him whenever he does, it reminds him too much of mist, and dashing to his toilet around dusk, puking his guts out, disgusted with himself.
Beneath him Salka neighs. Pressing his lips together, Eren pats her chestnut neck.
“Go on. It’s okay.”
She huffs and shakes her head, looking to her right where Eren can see a near-black bay if he only closes his eyes. “I know you miss them,” he mumbles, running one hand over Salka’s dark mane when she huffs. “Maybe they’ll still be there when we return.” If they return.
Grey eyes look at him, far away and sad, bidding him farewell with a voice so closed-off it still aches on Eren’s skin.
Sometimes he wishes he could cut off his own head to never have memories ever again. It would make life so much easier.
*
Mikasa prevails, and Armin gives the order to halt in the middle of the plain.
Going by the exasperated look he shoots Eren as they dismount, he isn’t happy about it either. Eren snorts and rolls his eyes. Both of them have learnt arguing with Mikasa is pointless, and the further they travel, the more fanatic her clucking becomes.
Soon, near a hundred soldiers assemble in a loose circle, stretching, drinking water, and grousing about pausing two hours after lunch.
Mikasa glowers into the group, pushing protein bars into Armin and Eren’s hands. Rolling his eyes, Eren unwraps it before she can ram it down his throat. It tastes like dust.
“Okay, listen up, folks,” Armin says over the muttering. His blond hair blows in his face as it escapes his half-ponytail. “We’ll camp at the hill over there, so let’s get through the details. Kay?”
Kay scratches his hammer nose and nods. “Make the camps down the line…”
He hasn’t finished a sentence before Eren tunes him out. This will take forever. It always does, and it’s always the same too. The same every time they make camp. The same food, dry and bland or both. The same dust in his hair and on his skin. The same clayey mud on his boots, soiling them. The same tasks. Day after day. Month after month. Monotonous and bleeding from one moment to the next like that broken record his father used to play.
At least when Eren was a child, he could escape outside and go play or start a fight.
He would prefer one now.
“What’s for dinner?” Sasha asks, nibbling on a pear she must have picked on their way. Juice runs down her chin, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand before licking it off.
Armin smiles. “I don’t know, Sash. Take Connie and some men to hunt when we leave here and see for yourself?”
“Yes, Sir.” She grins and wolves the rest of her fruit down. “Wonderful.”
Tucking a strand behind his ear, Armin consults his journal. “Eren, I’ll manage the sample records again too,” he says. “So I need someone to take over with surveying.”
Sighing at the unuttered question, Eren meets Armin’s pleaful blue gaze. This isn’t about Armin needing help. This is about keeping an eye on Eren, but it’s not like this is anything new.
Eren shrugs.
“Good,” Armin says with a nod. “Everything going well with the compendium?”
Jean nods. “Going fine.” He stands beside Mikasa, arms crossed, brow creased. Neck spotted red from mosquito bites. “Added ‘bout fifty pages of new plants the past week…”
Stifling a yawn, Eren catches sight of a cloud at the horizon. He wonders whether it will rain any time soon.
It’s unlikely.
Soldiers laugh around him, and Eren pastes on a smile.
“Yeah, the animals are changing.” Armin squints his eyes at the sky. “See these birds? I think, they’re gulls. There must be other new species close too. Don’t hunt them; we don’t have enough room, and they’ll rot. But look for things they shed. Feathers, fur tufts, shells. Feaces too.”
“Yum,” Niv says, smirking when laughter breaks out. “You don’t want us to try it beforehand, do you,” he asks.
If you think it helps, fuckhead, Levi’s voice says, and Eren chokes on his snort when the words and accompanying smirk remain a mere fragment of his imagination.
Swallowing the subsequent lump in his throat, he stares at his boots, kicking some caked mud off the tip. He hasn’t heard the real Levi talk in months.
“No, Niv, of course not,” Armin says. “Just put it in the jars. Don’t touch it with your bare hands. If you have to, apply some alcohol afterwards. The medics still must have some of that.” He shoots a questioning glance into the round, and nods at the agreeing hums before he motions at Kay to continue.
“Right,” he says in his deep voice. “So on to latrine ditching…”
*
As expected, the new campsite is like every other place. Crammed with soldiers, horses, and guarded with a vigilant system so established, schedules aren’t much mentioned any longer. It smells as it does every other place as well, of rotting ponds, old sweat, and muck. Soon, the morasses will creep over them all and make them a part of the swamp. Sometimes Eren wonders if they already are.
“The plants look funnier every day,” Connie says, prodding a leafy tuft with the tip of his boot while his knife works on a small piece of wood.
Jean harrumphs.
Trying to poke sun-caked muck off his boots with a stick, Eren hums.
They sit around the fire, waiting for Sasha to decide her rabbit stew is ready while the camp around them bustles with evening life, from soldiers grooming their horses, to friends playing cards or rolling dice. Ray plucks a quiet tune on his guitar Eren is certain he can recite in his sleep by now. Cicadas chirp in the dimming daylight. Frogs croak. Storks knock with their beaks. Comrades laugh. The air is stuffy after the hot day. Eren’s short hair sticks to his neck. His armpits stink. They all stink.
“Yeah, Armin already packed a few of those weeds,” Jean says after glancing over his sketchbook. His eyebrows draw together. “I think.”
“He did,” Eren says when they both look at him as if he knows everything about Armin’s sample collection. His twig snaps, and he tosses it away. The mud is too relentless here. “We gathered some of those little shrubs with orange berries on them too. Jules got them packed for transport back to HQ.”
Connie nods. “Damn. With the scenery changing so much, we’ll run out of boxes soon.”
Eren shrugs. It’s not much of a surprise. They’re always running out of something. Then Hanji sends new supplies, and they’re set for another while.
“Running out of doves again too,” Jean says as if he read Eren’s mind. “Only the emergency pair left.”
Connie chips away a few wooden curls that land on the ground at their feet. “Hanji’s delivery should be here any day.” He seems to work on an animal, yet Eren can’t care to look close enough to find out which kind. “I don’t mind the boxes, though. Personally, I’d be far more worried about the salt.” His gaze lifts from his carving. “It’s running low as well.”
They all look at Sasha stirring in the copper over the fire.
Jean sighs. “Shit.”
“Yup,” Connie agrees.
Eren scowls.
Ray’s song plays through the evening. Sasha hums along over the big pot with stew. Niv slams a dice cup onto an empty crate, and curses with a chuckle as he checks the result. The other players exult with glee. Sovanna gives him a consoling kiss.
Feeling like he’s looking in from the outside, Eren picks at his nails.
Jean huffs a laugh as he peers at Eren over his drawing. “Remember when she told Shadis the stew needed more salting?”
Connie grins. “She says she still dreams about running for that one.”
“I’m still surprised he only made her run,” Jean replies, tending back to rub coal across paper.
“He liked her too much by the end.”
“Maybe why she never learnt,” Jean says, huffing again before falling silent.
Feeling both of their gazes slide to him, Eren frowns at his twiddling fingers.
It took Sasha a day in Levi’s squad to insist on more salt for their meals too. Not that they had much of anything on that farm, but this bothered her the most. Contrary to Shadis, however, Levi merely arched an eyebrow, muttered something about spoiled greedy brats, and that was it. The next noon, he had his first meal cooked by her. He took the first spoonful, stilled, shifted on his seat to stretch his—by then already hurting—leg, and continued with a little frown.
An hour later, he sent a messenger from Hanji’s squad to fetch more salt. When Eren asked him why a few years later, Levi smirked over his tea cup and said it was the only ingredient that was both handy and most unlikely to be eaten by her before putting it to good use. Eren still is convinced he also did it because the food indeed tasted better and because Levi quickly came to like Sasha too. Whatever the real reasons were, the Special Operation Squad always had the best salt supplies from there on, especially after that deal with Reeves.
Someone laughs, and shifting on his crate to pull himself into the present, Eren swallows.
Levi feels so far away. With every step towards the horizon, it becomes worse. Eren can’t even fully recall his smile. Just the warmth of it and the way it used to settle on his arms.
How Eren misses it. The smile and its feeling, yet most of all Levi himself. Their friendship. Everything on this expedition reminds him of Levi’s absence: their double tent he occupies alone now, tea drank alone instead of sharing it in easy silence. The lack of dry-humoured comments on daily happenings and silly questions. The noise. The constant, horrible noise with no prospect of escaping it. The empty space at his side wherever he goes, harassing his senses with a hollow ache, even when he’s surrounded by friends. People’s careful gazes on him whenever he thinks of Levi, even when it’s something as trivial as Levi ensuring Sasha had her salt.
Connie sighs with a scratch to his bald head, eyes redirecting their focus from Eren to his woodwork. “Yeah. Hell of a woman. Imagine the salt going out completely, though.”
“We’ll be fucked,” Jean sighs.
“Doomed,” Connie says.
Jean huffs. “She’ll be furious.”
“Yeah,” Eren agrees, just to say something too in the feeble hope speaking will ease the pressure in his chest. “She’ll be a pain to live with.”
Jean’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously. You wanna go there?”
Heat flashes through his body, bursting up his throat. “What’s that supposed to mean!”
“Oh-oh…” Connie lifts both hands, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Easy there, ladies. Otherwise, I’ll ask Sash to throw you both into the pot too.” He smirks at Eren. “Not that you carry much meat these days, but Jean sure looks tasty, don’t you think?”
Eren pulls a face. “I’d rather eat shit.”
Jean snorts. “Thanks, mate. Same.” He jerks his chin at Connie before he adds more lines to his sketchbook. “Maybe we should throw that bonehead into the pot.”
“I taste good, just so you know,” Connie says with a chuckle. “Wanna have a bite, Jean?” He lifts his shirt to reveal his mosquito-bite-ridden abdominal muscles, stroking them with the wooden piece in his grip. “Self-grown and sturdy. Rrr.”
“Really not my type, mate,” Jean says. “No offence.”
“I could be your type. Just give it a try. Come on. Touch them. I know you love some strength. I might not be an Ackerman, but–”
“Damn straight.” Jean’s smirks, and Eren has enough.
“Ugh. Must you?” He shudders, standing to flee their stupid conversation.
Connie calls after him, “Aw, come on, man. You’ll regret this, Eren!” His lifted shirt still allows unobstructed view of his flexing muscles. “This is a one-time offer.”
“The fuck it is,” Eren mutters as he scans the camp for a new place to sit.
Not too close to Ray playing guitar. People keep dancing there and will prod him to sing. Not with the gamers, they’ll want him to participate.
On another day, Eren would pass the time with construction work, yet they finished building another supply depot only the week before. Wood is chopped enough to last a day, the latrine ditch is dug, and Eren already scrubbed Salka’s saddle and groomed her too. Maybe he should retreat to his tent.
“Hello, great leader.” Niv interrupts his thoughts with a smile as Eren passes their group. “Care to try your luck?”
Jules scribbles something on a thumbed notepad while Nico rolls the dice and barks a heated “bloody shit hell, yes!” at the result. Tolbert curses with a shake of his head.
Niv sighs and grins at Eren. “I bet the dice like you better than me.”
Jules looks up at him with, one eye green the other brown, and though she grins, her voice is earnest. “The punkies certainly love him. These bug bites make you steam like a kettle, Eren. Maybe some playing will distract you.”
“No, thanks,” Eren says. He never liked dice games, and their appeal hasn’t changed with their noise following him on a nightly basis.
“Aw, man,” Niv says, palm pressing against his chest where the half-opened shirt reveals a row of tattooed letters reading ‘Forbidden Fruit.’ “If you keep saying that, you’ll break my little heart.”
Giving a dismissive wave, Eren walks on.
He’s always felt alone in a crowd. His own fault, of course, for never making much of an effort, but during this trip, people have become a foreign species to him. They talk and laugh and crack jokes. They dance to Ray’s music and sing, they enjoy boisterous evenings when there’s more to eat than dull protein bars. They drink water and pretend it’s wine, they tell each other stories under the moonlit sky, and go to sleep content with the world. With being alive and free of the Walls. Free of the Underground, free of the Titans.
How does one connect to that when one still feels caged? The war is over, has been for months, and though the Walls are no longer a border for Eren, it’s like he traded one set of bars for another. Words take immense effort to form, nobody here appreciates his jokes, and it feels like his laughter died months ago. Sometimes Eren wonders if one of the final battles took away his soul. He definitely hasn’t been the same since that foggy day last November.
Looking for a quieter spot, his gaze lands on a vacant crate close to Armin and Mikasa who seem deep enough in their talk to leave him the fuck be for the time being. All he wants is to sit in quiet, have his dinner, and then retreat.
Mikasa nods at something Armin says, her face serious, fingers rubbing at the thinning threads of her scarf. As a sprig snaps beneath Eren’s boot, she peers up, falling silent. A bit too silent. Eyebrows drawing together, mouth pinching shut.
Eren grinds his teeth. Great. They’re talking about him again.
“Hey, Eren,” Armin says. His smile looks false. “Feeling better?”
“Fine,” he says, hot-tempered heaviness settling in his stomach as the empty crate loses its appeal. He’d rather sit alone in his tent than join in this shallow shit. “Fuck this. I’m going to sleep.”
“What about dinner?” Mikasa asks. “You look too pale again.”
“Oh, fuck off and bother someone else,” Eren snarls. “I’m not hungry.” The omnipresent stench upsetting his stomach aside, he lost his appetite for anything solid months ago.
“You have to eat,” Mikasa says. The or we’ll return or send you back with the next waggons, stands clear on her face, even before she adds, “And you will.” Her eyes are sharp and adamant, and with the tone of her words such a perfect spitting image of Levi, heat explodes on Eren’s arms.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” he yells, voice threatening to crack for no good reason he can tell. “Just go fuck yourself and choke on a fucking bone. I’m sick and tired of you bossing us around, Mikasa, and Armin is too.”
“I’d appreciate if you kept me out of this, Eren,” Armin says.
Eren blinks against tears. “Of course, you would. You can look like shit and still smile at her, but I can’t. I fucking can’t! And I sure as fuck don’t need her to treat me like her child.”
“Oi,” Jean says.
Eren bares his teeth. When did he come to stand beside him? And when did the camp around them fall this silent? “What! You coming to defend her as always too?”
“I’m not defending anyone,” Jean says. “Just calm down. We’re all on your side, mate.”
Staring into tawny eyes holding his close enough their brows almost touch, Eren searches for an answer yet draws a blank. He hates this. All of it. Their worrying for him and the nagging and their careful way with him.
Two years ago, Jean would have sloshed him, and he’d slosh back, and Levi would separate them, and Eren would feel embarrassed for breaking Jean’s nose, but good too. Levi isn’t here, though, and never since the day they left, Eren wished him to be here more; just so he’d punch Eren and tell him with a calm voice to get his fucking shit together. It would be contact. It would be honesty. Company. It would be more bearable than this.
Eren jostles past Jean. “Oh, fuck off, all of you.” He turns his back to them and walks away.
Close to half a year they’ve been on the road.
It feels like forever.
*
The ground in his tent is hard and dry after the torrid day, whirling up dust as he sits and closes the flap, shutting the sounds out. It doesn’t help much, only muffles the voices and makes them more foreign and out of his world. They don’t need him to have fun. They might even laugh louder now that he’s gone and stopped spreading his spleen.
Jean is right when he says Eren is a pain to live with. He tries to smile during this expedition and contribute without pissing everyone off. Yet the more he fakes them the harder they come, and every reminder of Levi is like a vice tightening around his chest.
Levi never minded Eren’s moods. Not before their fallout. How often did they retreat, just the two of them, to be alone with each other? Either in the stables, on a small trip to train in the woods, to clean, to do paperwork together, or to spend an evening by Levi’s fireplace.
They often didn’t talk much then. Didn’t have to, didn’t need to, neither wanting to disturb the silence that soon became a far better conversation than the real kind. Little looks and smiles, a grunt, a huff, a gesturing hand. A tilting head. Tapping fingers. Exchanging a glance.
The memory of Levi’s quietude is enough for the ruckus outside to accumulate in Eren’s head and add to the weight on his chest. He’s running out of air. He presses his fingers against his temples until the pressure hurts more and distracts from the pain inside. When that doesn’t help, he tugs at his hair hard enough it bites.
This part of the day is the same every night too. At the campfire, he wants to retreat, and once he’s here, the solitude presses in on him, louder than the noises outside. Empty and hollow. Everything is too still. No second bundle lies beside his own. No game of chess waits on the ground. No one complains about the persistent dirt in the tent creases or kicks his ankles with the order to stop fucking growing since his legs are in the way.
Releasing the grip on his strands, Eren rubs his eyes and folds his legs in anyways.
What might Levi do at this moment? He loathes summer, so he probably flees the heat as best as he can, scowling at the flimmering air as he opens his window in hopes of catching a rare evening breeze, and then grouses at the insects flying in. Eren used to catch the bigger ones, freed so many stray moths, beetles, and spiders from Levi’s merciless purge, he stopped counting over the years. Perhaps, with Eren gone from his life, Levi went back to slapping their lives out. Or maybe not. Maybe he is in his quarters right now, catching a butterfly with a jar before releasing it with the muttered remark to piss off.
Eren frowns at that last thought. Would Levi have been able to keep his office to begin with? Hanji mentions him in her messages without ever going much into detail. ‘Things are going well. Levi drives me up the wall, and I do my best to reciprocate, so we shatter each other’s convictions regularly.’
The words always make Eren smile and miss them both as he pictures them bickering with each other in Hanji’s office or in the mess hall. It always ends in the question if Levi even still lives there.
Maybe he left HQ altogether. Maybe he found someone to make him happy, now that the war is over and he is no longer a soldier. Levi never seemed interested in that sort of life, but who knows? Levi never seemed interested in sex either until it happened.
Maybe he’s starting a family. With little kids to look after and protect, soon counting their little toes and delighting in their toothless smiles. Grumbling at their poopy swaddling bands and loving them like mad anyway.
Sniffing, Eren ruffles his hair. Levi deserves to be happy. To not be alone.
His hand fastens around a familiar tin. Running his thumb over the smooth label, he clears his throat and opens the lid with a quiet rattle. The scent of Assam invades his nostrils. Takes over his thoughts.
One teaspoon left. One portion.
Are you sure? Levi’s voice asks, the image of him sitting two arm lengths away.
Eren scowls at what he’s about to do. It was sunny all day. It’s against the rules. Yet, it’s the last cup. The very last. It doesn’t matter on what kind of day he drinks it. If he doesn’t brew it soon, it will spoil. Better have it now while he’s alone.
No one should come looking for him any time soon. Not with everyone distracted having fun, and with his strop being out of their way.
Yes.
Better have it now when he is undisturbed. Plus, his chest aches. Levi’s tea will help.
Resolve settling in his shoulders, Eren presses his lips together and swallows. “Okay.”
Setting the caddie aside, he retrieves his tiny kettle, fills it with enough water from his nearest canteen, and opens a small flap of his tent for some air. He fetches the camper set—a bowl, the icefire, a matchbox, and the wobbly tripod for hanging his pot—laying them all out beside him. There is only one way to do this, and this is the right way. He must not make any mistakes. Have everything ready.
Tea sieve, tea leaves, pot, and sandglass. One final biscuit is left too. Saved for this very moment, and long crumbled to pieces, but that isn’t important. Important is it’s there and hasn’t turned mouldy or rancid. Eren dips his fingers into the sugary dust to check the taste, and nods. A bit too soft to be perfect, but maybe it’s even better this way.
The cloth-protected tea cup is the last thing Eren retrieves from his bundle. It’s fragile, white and delicate, with a little chip at the rim.
The tea looks good in the sieve, smells beautiful and rich. Like comfort. It comes with Assam powder falling through the fine mesh as Eren knocks every last bit out of the can, but it’s okay.
He lights the fire, and while he waits for the water to boil, he closes his eyes, blending out the noises from the camp. The blaze of the small flame shows through his eyelids, and if he thinks hard enough, he is at Levi’s quarters, and never left. He never screwed up either. Their friendship is still intact, and they are playing chess.
The image shifts to grey eyes looking forlorn by the end of the war, and Eren bites the inside of his cheek, battling the memory away, searching for another.
Meraki eating an apple from his palm. Levi standing nearby, grouching about spoiling animals when they barely had enough food for themselves before he hands Eren a carrot to feed more. Flying through the woods in spring, following a green-cloaked broad back. A small, firm hand resting on his spine, adjusting him during training. Cleaning together. Buying soap together, and smelling each bar before choosing the best of them. Levi sitting here with him, smiling over tea steeped in their quiet sanctuary.
The water boils, and Eren pours it over the leaves, heart speeding as soon as the first drop hits the golden-edged smiles. He’s really doing this.
“Three minutes,” he mumbles to himself, turning over the sandglass. “You can’t sleep either way, and it tastes better than with four.”
The minutes run out as his heart maintains its agitated pounding, and his fingers tremble when the last sand grain falls.
He lifts the sieve from his tiny pot before he pours himself the infusion. Careful to not spill a single drop. He sighs at its scent. It’s perfect. He can tell already. It smells heavenly. Sweet and promising, like spring when you can’t feel it yet but know it’s in the air.
Eren grasps the cup, uncaring the heated china singes his fingers, and blows over the tea steam, eyes falling closed.
He slurps a first tiny sip. His shoulders sag and he has to clear his throat.
Yes. Perfect.
You don’t want to over-steep it, Levi’s voice says. It turns bitter otherwise.
“Like this?” Eren asked five years ago, handing Levi a cup and unable to hide his nervousness.
Levi tried it, grey eyes shining. “Not bad, brat.”
Sniffing in his tent, Eren holds the memory close.
Ironic that this last portion is like the first again. Glowing, and warming his chest.
His eyes spot the open caddie, and he sets the cup aside, smelling the empty tin. The scent is still there. He closes the can, trapping the flavour, and takes another swig. It scalds his tongue.
Greedy, Levi’s voice says with a little smirk.
Eren scowls and puts his cup down, staring at it.
It will get cold like this. Bitter. Assam tastes better warm and sweet. When it tastes like autumn, and leather. Like riding out with their horses under a golden October sun. Like laughter mingling with a snort in front of lit fireplaces and a foot kicking his shin for a bad poop joke. Like the wild swoop during flying with his eyes fixed on a green cloak ahead.
Eren drinks more.
More.
And more.
The cup empties too fast.
He sits on his hands to keep them away from the tea. It’s half gone already. His heart twists. Over soon. Far too soon.
A shudder ripples down his back. Spreads to his arms.
He shouldn’t have brewed the last portion. Now it’s gone, half of it anyway, and there is no going back. But he has to drink it. Must, as long as it’s fresh.
Stalling for time, he peers at the depleted leaves in the sieve. They aren’t good for a rebrew. Any further infusion from them would taste horrible, and disappoint. His teeth catch his bottom lip as he reaches for the sieve, scrambling fingers scraping the leaves out of the mesh before tossing them into the flames of his little hearth.
They land on the blaze with a protesting hiss and send sharp tannin flavour into the evening. It doesn’t smell as nice as the concoction in his cup, but like this he can’t cave to some weakness and reinfuse them. Eren squeezes his eyes shut so he won’t see them turn to ash.
Clasping tight around the cup’s china, he cradles the tea to his chest, inhaling again.
Levi used to say the last cup of a caddie means a new beginning. A new caddie to open and have the first cup. A new flavour to try. To Eren it came to mean sneaking out to the black market together after curfew, and returning to HQ with whatever spoke to them most.
Out here, that isn’t possible. All Eren has are crumbled biscuit remnants, and waning supplies of Gunpowder. Eventually, that will be gone too.
His index finger dips into the biscuit crumbs, collecting a few before lifting them to his mouth. They go well with the tea. Strengthening its sweetness with a buttery comfort that once tickled a smile out of him.
The tea is running cold. Its temperature drops by the second. Eren forces himself to take another, very small dram.
The last sip is the worst. Almost hostile and bitter cold, hurting as it rolls over Eren’s tongue before settling in his stomach like a stone. Tears press out of his eyes as the final drop runs out. Angry, desperate.
Gone. It’s gone.
Staring into his empty cup, Eren shakes.
He only realises he’s sobbing when he tries to inhale and his lungs seize. He presses his fist to his mouth to remain quiet. He doesn’t need attention right now. Has to remain quiet.
A tiny, last drop swims at the bottom of his cup, an amber-coloured spot on white china, and he dips his fingers into it, trying to catch it, licking it off. Over, over and over again. Until his fingertip squeaks against the fragile porcelain.
There’s still flavour in there.
He grabs the kettle with remaining hot water. Pouring it into the cup to wash every last bit of Assam out of its smooth material. He gulps the brew down, coughing when it scorches his tongue. His throat. Steaming from his mouth when he gasps for air.
Tears batter his legs.
“No,” he whimpers, sniffing and wiping his nose. “Please, please, please…don’t be gone…please…”
But it is, and he is all alone in his tent. Alone with his too little fire and snot running down his upper lip. No October sun warming his back, no leather scent comforting him. No secretive smiles across tea cups. No Levi.
A whine pushes its way out right before his lungs contract again. He can’t breathe.
Feverous eyes search for something, anything, that might help, he spots the emptied caddie.
It’s from Levi. Levi gave it to him, wanted him to have it. It may be empty now, but it’s still a gift. The last connection. No one can take it away.
Eren leaps onto it, hugging it tight to his chest.
The tin protests in his embrace, and he tries to loosen his death grip, his tears a ceaseless stream down his cheeks. His windpipe still won’t cooperate.
“Eren?” a voice says over boots crunching across gritty floor.
He tries to answer, wanting to tell the intruder to go to hell and leave him be. The attempt at least sends some air into his lungs. He sniffs, trying to remain quiet while his chest heaves, in need of oxygen.
The footsteps come closer.
Eren sniffs again. Why do they always have to look for him?
“Leave me alone,” he gasps. Effortless.
A shadow darkens the entrance to his tent, followed by a hiss.
“Shit,” Armin says, crouching down at his side. “Are you in pain?”
Eren can’t answer. He can’t even nod or shout what a stupid fucking question that is. He is aflame; it will never stop.
“You need to breathe, Eren. Give me that. It will help.” Armin tugs at the caddie.
“No!” The yell is out before Eren’s mind can catch up. His hands cling to the can as his body curls tighter around it. “It’s mine. No one can take it.”
“I don’t, I just want to help. I’ll just put it aside. You constrict your lungs like this.” He tugs at the caddie again. “Come on, Eren, don’t be melodramatic. He isn’t as perfect anyway–”
"No!"
White heat explodes before Eren’s eyes. His fist meets warm skin, and hard bones crunch under his knuckles.
Armin hisses and holds his face.
Eren stills. Stares.
His chest heaves. His hand begins to tremble. He thinks his knuckles are broken. Eren doesn’t care. All he cares about is that this isn’t right. Armin did nothing wrong…
“Okay,” Armin says, taking a step back. “Okay. Calm down. I won’t take it.” His voice is muffled. Dark red glistens on his lips. His jaw starts to steam. “Well, at least you’re breathing now,” he says.
He steps forward again and pushes long blond strands out of his face before placing his hand on Eren’s shoulder.
The touch compounds his temper, and Eren pushes Armin’s hand away. Resentment lashes in his chest. Why doesn’t Armin hit him too? Why does Armin never hit back? He should. He should kick Eren and curse at him, and tell him to go to hell where he belongs. He should punch him until his knuckles are warm with Eren’s blood and insult him and resign their friendship. Not reach out and talk like Eren never does anything wrong.
“What happened?” Armin asks, both hands aloft.
“What do you want from me?” Eren says. He doesn’t give a shit about how shaky his voice sounds. He has to get Armin out of here. It’s bad enough he found him like this at all, but Eren can feel his eyes burning, and he won’t cry in front of a witness. “Finished talking about me, so now you have to patronise me in person?”
Hands dropping at his sides, Armin scrunches his nose. Frowns. “I just came to tell you dinner is ready.” His jaw is bruised. His entire face steams. “I know Mikasa went too far, but you have to eat, Eren.”
Placing his cheek back into the compressed dust, Eren closes his stinging eyes.
Sometimes he hates Armin for always knowing what he wants, for always being aware of what he does. For always being kind to him and showing him how despicable he is in return. It makes the pain seep back in.
“I’m not hungry. Go away.”
Silence falls, followed by rattling china and a sigh. “Did you drink the last portion of the tea?”
“Out!” Eren yells, vocal chords cracking from the strain. “Get out! I want to be alone! Why can’t you for once let me be the fuck alone?”
Armin’s voice is quiet. “I’m just trying to help, Eren.”
“Fuck off.” New tears cloud his vision as he coils into a ball around the caddie. “I don’t need your help. Never wanted your help. Please, just let me be…please.”
It seems to take forever, but Armin turns, movement gentle enough that it hurts in Eren’s chest. “I’ll set a bowl out in front of your tent. You need to eat something, Eren. You know that.”
With that he leaves, closing the tent behind him, and Eren can finally weep himself to sleep.