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The candles have all burned to nubs by the time Erwin lays down his pen.
He’s been up late writing reports, again. He is always up late writing reports. These days, it seems that sleep slips through his fingers, evading him like good luck and good sense and progress and funding, for God’s sake. The funding .
The interior is always tightening their leash, and this time is no different. Over fifty casualties, and not an inch to show for their sacrifice. Perhaps Erwin can admit that if he were seeing the numbers from their perspective--their cushioned, privileged, perspective--he might not have much faith in reconnaissance.
Erwin is not them, though, and he understands their perspective far too well. Afterall, how can such men comprehend the need for more, when what they have is already too much? More than they could ever possibly need?
In his own way, Erwin hates them. He hates their selfishness and their excess. Their sycophantry.
Humans are social animals, Erwin. Fear the man who feels no pain for his brothers. He is a true devil.
His father used to say that, in a grim voice with his spectacles pushed back into his hair. He would say it whenever Erwin spoke coldly, whenever he acted selfishly. He would say it for no reason at all. Now, Erwin knows it was to protect him. His father hadn’t wanted him to be selfish, or cold.
It is a shame that he is often both of those things.
You can choose to feel everything, or nothing at all. There is no in-between, son. Apathy is just another type of fear.
Erwin is afraid. He admits it. He fears for his men, and for the people within the walls. He fears death, pain, and injustice. He fears being forgotten. Most of all, though, he fears love. How can a man love a thing that was born to die?
He will outlive most of his men by his rank alone. The unfairness is only tolerable if he lives in utter denial, and so he focuses most of his energy on his plans and there is little else left to give to friendships, or to partnerships. On occasion, he’ll have a girl at the brothels in town. Even they are too close for comfort, their warmth a reminder that, underneath it all, humans are just skin and bones and teeth and blood.
Still, he is not as well-practiced as a stone. Sometimes, he feels, and those feelings overwhelm him, pushing his head under water until he is gasping for air.
Levi is one of those things Erwin feels. Levi, worth a hundred regular soldiers on his own. Levi, with his small, compact frame--his sharp, steel gray eyes.
Thinking about Levi makes Erwin uncomfortable, and so he tries not to think about anything at all as he scrambles to get his paperwork in order.
Levi hasn’t been coming to his office in the evenings as of late. Erwin wouldn’t say it's bothering him, exactly. Just that the shift came so abruptly, and Levi hasn’t given him any particular reason for the change.
Erwin is embarrassed to admit that he’s grown quite used to their routine. He is used to trays of tea, and quiet, raspish laughs. He is used to having pristine boots, and pressed shirts, and a floor so clean he could eat off of it. He is used to a lot of things he ought not to be.
Of course, he and Levi are of a different stock. While Erwin merely pretends there is more to him than his hard, hollow heart, he is certain that Levi’s is an ocean. Under Levi, none of the recruits will ever go hungry. They will never go unburied, or be forgotten, or die without a fight. Levi puts his life on the line for humanity and means it. Erwin puts other people’s lives on the line and can hardly be bothered with their names.
Not like Dresch. Of course, nothing like Mats Dresch.
Erwin sniffs, laying down his pen. It’s been nearly a month since Dresch was reassigned to the Corps, a transfer from the Garrison and a field doctor the Scouts have sorely needed. He is a tall and well-made man, with a low, quiet voice and kind, hazel eyes.
The cork makes a lewd, popping sound as Erwin pulls it from the half-drunk bottle of Seville. He pours two more fingers of rye into his glass, swirls, and throws it back, wincing at the heat.
Dresch.
He can’t help but hate the man.
Certainly, the man has been hated all his life--he is good looking, and kind-hearted, and warm. He commands a room and his laugh is loud and booming and infectious. Everyone adores Dresch, unless they don’t.
Erwin had thought, perhaps foolishly, that Levi might feel the same disdain for Dresch that he himself feels.
Erwin had forgotten.
He is always forgetting the fact of the matter: Levi’s cool demeanor is a shield, protection from abuse and neglect and loss. Erwin’s cool demeanor is his true self, buried beneath false smiles and pretty words and ridiculously overpriced pomade.
Erwin frowns. They are probably out by the stables this time of night, the two of them seeing to that dying horse Levi won’t give up on. Erwin can’t stand a dying animal--he’d sooner put the thing out of its misery. Dresch, naturally, is a lover of animals, as convinced the mare can be saved as Levi is. And fine, good for both of them. Erwin hopes they do manage to nurse the brute back to health--it would be the Corps first real victory, keeping something alive rather than sending it like a lamb to slaughter.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so insufferable if Dresch wasn’t always so near. It seems to Erwin that anytime he and Levi are together (discussing official military business, of course), Dresch appears with a bag of apples or a baby goat and Levi is off to the races. Not that it should matter, except that it does, and Erwin can’t really say why.
He was my friend first, he has caught himself thinking. He’d never dare say the words out loud--they are humiliatingly childish.
“You brooding in here again?”
Erwin jumps at the sound of Levi’s voice. Maybe he’s forgotten what it sounds like, with Levi spending so much time elsewhere. He frowns, pouring another finger of rye into his glass.
“I’m working, actually,” Erwin says coolly.
Levi is standing in the doorway, barefoot and out of uniform. He looks younger, in his cotton pants and oversized shirt. It is a shirt Erwin lent him months ago, after a disastrous flood in the barracks that had left Levi’s clothes wet and muddy. Erwin had had to send them to the interior to be cleaned professionally, or Levi might never have worn them again.
“Tomatoes, potatoes,” Levi replies, crossing to Erwin’s desk and sliding into the chair opposite from his. A vein is twitching in Erwin’s neck--he can feel it against the collar of his shirt.
“You’ve got that expression wrong,” he says stiffly. He is being cruel and he knows it, but he can’t stop himself from adding, “Although, I’m hardly surprised, given your, ahh... education .”
Levi balks. It is the only way Erwin can describe his reaction, the way his head rears back and his eyes go wide. It is an expression Levi would never let slip beyond this room. It is Erwin’s, and he pounces, possessive.
“Oh, don’t be so sensitive, Levi. I expect better of you.”
“What are you-- why are you saying that?” Levi demands. His face is flushed red and his eyebrows are wrinkled and Erwin thinks if they had a different sort of relationship, Levi might leap over the desk and throttle him. Erwin is taking inches--the ones he cannot grab hold of beyond these walls. He grabs hold of them here. Inches, feet. Miles. All Levi’s, and Erwin won’t let them go, not for anything. Certainly not for a horse doctor.
“What do you want?” Erwin asks, impatient.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Levi says, defensive.
“Oh, I see. You can’t wait until daylight hours like everyone else, is that it? You think you’re very special.”
In a way, Erwin enjoys this. If Levi wants Dresch, he may as well have him. Erwin is under no illusions, and he won’t let Levi be under any either: he is not a good man. He is not a fair man. He is not kind hearted, or warm, or infectious. He is a devil, just as they say, and if Levi won’t admit it then Erwin will make him feel it.
“Where is this coming from?”
Levi is already out of his chair. Standing, he is only slightly taller than Erwin seated. It is an unfair advantage--Erwin didn’t earn his stature, but he’ll use it anyway. He lifts himself out of his chair, towering over Levi, both his hands on his desk as he leans close.
“What do you want, Levi?”
“I...I just wanted--”
“What? What did you want? Get to the point.”
“I wanted to--” Levi tries again. He’s raised his hands, as if to protect himself. Erwin wets his lips, his face hot.
“To what? To scrub my floors? To lick my boots clean? Do you want to have another go at my fucking shirts? Surely, Dresch has enough laundry to keep you busy,” he hisses, eyes narrowed, lips turned down.
Levi is angry now. Erwin can see it, in the rough lines of his face, the curl of his lip. In this way his fists clench, as if at any moment he could make this physical. Erwin wonders if Dresch has ever been in a fistfight. He doubts it. Someone as banal and uninspired as Dresch couldn’t summon the passion--the desire to see blood.
“You fucking idiot,” he says. He’s not wrong--Erwin is an idiot. “Fuck you, Erwin. And fuck your stupid shirts.”
The door to his office slams so hard it rattles the trinkets on his shelves. Erwin looks around, bewildered by the sudden silence.
It is then that he notices the two teacups. A small bowl of sugar.
It takes everything he has not to swipe them onto the floor.
--
Erwin wakes up alone in his chair. His elbow is resting on the hard wooden surface of his desk, so stiff he can hardly move his arm. His knuckles are pressing a bruise into the sharp bones of his cheek, his neck aching from its untenable angle. He doesn’t remember when he’d finally passed out, just that there had been sunlight on the horizon.
Groaning, he lifts himself out of his chair, his head heavy with hangover. He’s so thirsty he feels he may die of it, and stumbles to his washroom for a drink. The water in the sink is cool, soothing when he splashes it over his eyes and mouth.
It is impossible not to think of Levi as he pulls off his rumpled clothes, or when he pulls on his fresh, clean ones. Levi with his fucking tea, and his thoughtfulness. His hurt.
Erwin closes his eyes, seated back at his desk with the sun burning hot on the back of his neck. Shame has draped itself over his shoulders like a cloak, heavy. He’s sick with it, his stomach tied in horrible little knots.
“Captain Smith?”
It is Ral at the door, a small girl with red hair and a pretty face. She’s one of the newer recruits, green around the gills and nervous to get things right. Erwin schools his expression, offering a pleasant smile.
“Cadet?”
“The gravedigger is coming for Eleanor, sir. He should be here within the hour. Captain Hange asked me to bring you this.”
She crosses the room and tepidly hands him a form that requires his signature. It is the death record for the horse. Levi’s horse.
Has Levi ever mentioned her name to him? He can’t recall, or he didn’t listen. The knowledge sits on his tongue, acrid.
“Thank you, Cadet,” he says quietly. Ral hardly makes a sound as she scuttles out of his office, shutting the door so softly that it doesn’t even click.
Erwin exhales. His father’s words come back to him, sobering.
Fear the man who feels no pain for his brothers. He is a true devil.
He rubs the place between his eyebrows, too tired to even look at the stack of fresh paperwork in front of him. He should apologize to Levi, he thinks. He should apologize and offer his condolences. He should apologize and give his blessing to Dresch. He should apologize and try not to sabotage the only relationship he’s ever had that feels worth anything.
What if he doesn’t forgive you?
The thought sits like a stone at the back of Erwin’s throat. The thought is suffocating. Erwin can’t stand it, refuses to let it linger. He swallows, pushing aside his half finished report from the night before, searching for a distraction. Something to dull the ache that hits him, all at once.
There, on the desk, is a small scrap of paper. The scrawl is tiny and messy and nearly illegible and Erwin knows it like his own. His hand is shaking when he picks it up, his heart beating so hard that he can taste blood in his mouth.
He’d taught Levi to write himself. They’d sat at this very desk, had spent countless nights giggling over the ledger and drinking away frustrations and dropping pens--Erwin could cry, thinking about those pens on the floor. Moments of joy. Moments of humanity.
His humanity, or what is left of it.
The note is brief, and does not mince words. Levi has always been very direct. It is something Erwin appreciates, something Erwin loves about him.
You’re the one I want, dumbass.
And Erwin knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he smiles anyway, because he is not a devil yet.