A/N: Yes, this is a repost from my AoS Rivetra drabble collection. The format was bothering me (aka it didn't fit the rest of the collection) so I'm reposting it separately.
I was experimenting with the writing style in this so please pardon me if it completely sucks. Any feedback would be really appreciated :)
There is: one table. six chairs. three empty plates and four empty seats and enough silence to fill them all.
Levi sips tea. It's gone cold, no steam wafting from the cup, the liquid bitter as it slides down his throat. His hair is still wet, droplets of water clinging to the back of his neck, but the dirt and blood and death will never leave his skin no matter how hard he scrubs. His eyes are lidded, his gaze somewhere far beyond the Walls.
Eren traces his fingers across whorls in the wood of the table before him, shifting uncomfortably in his seat every few seconds. The silence is worse than the captain's previous attempts at conversation, but every time he opens his mouth, his throat clogs and his breath hitches so he remains quiet.
"I'm going to sleep," Levi says at last. He stands in one abrupt motion, letting his teacup clatter to the table. Eren cringes; Levi's gaze darts ever so slightly towards the chair to his right. "Clean this up."
"Yes, sir."
He withdraws. His footsteps echo across the dining hall, uneven and fading. His shoulders are hunched, his posture stiff: a defeated man. The door slams shut behind him and Eren stares down at the neat arrangement of porcelain cups in front of him; he has difficulty swallowing the lump in his throat.
Clean this up, the captain said—so he picks up the saucers and heads into the kitchen, shutting out the image of soot-smeared circles ringing cold empty eyes.
x.
There is: one pen. one folder. four names on four reports documenting four lost lives.
Levi drinks coffee. It's black and hot, the liquid scorching the roof of his mouth with every gulp he takes. Something throbs in his temples, something burns behind his eyes, but each swallow helps push away the fatigue threatening to overtake his conscious.
He flips open the first file; the letters on the sheet of paper blur in his vision. There is one G and one T and two Us; he gives the page a cursory glance and scribbles his name across the line at the bottom, three loops and three curves and one dot.
The second file has a G printed at the top too, closer to the end of the name; he does not have to look at the paper to know where to scrawl his signature. He does not even open the third file, simply sliding the sheet of paper out from the bottom of the folder to seal its fate: three loops, three curves, one dot. Simple.
But he opens the last file. For one brief moment, the world contracts around him, and he closes his eyes, reaching for his cup of coffee. The heat of the ceramic jolts his nerves and the world releases its choking grip on him. He lifts the mug to his lips and drinks, and over the rim he sees one P and one E and two Rs.
He arrives at Erwin's office ten minutes later, slapping a manila folder onto the dark wood of the commander's desk. Erwin looks at him and ever so slightly, his brow creases into a frown.
"Levi—"
"I'm going to bed," he says, voice clipped.
Erwin watches his best soldier stalk out, the door clicking shut behind him, and pushes from his mind ash-gray shadows lining stony gray eyes.
x.
There is: one desk. one stack of forms. thirty-four theories about twenty-seven strategies and only one voice.
Levi scowls. The corners of his mouth tug down against the brim of his cup, but he does not answer anything that is said. His mind wanders to emerald-green foliage and sky-high trees and blue-eyed death, and he takes a larger gulp, pleased when the hot drink burns his tongue.
Hanji falls silent after a few minutes; he avoids staring into inquisitive brown eyes framed by thick black glasses. Hanji can always see too much. "What?" he asks when the silence becomes overbearing, a muffled presence demanding to be acknowledged.
"You're not listening."
But the words are quiet, sympathetic—and that makes it worse. His fingers clench into fists and the china rattles against his teeth.
"I'm leaving," he says shortly. He does not spare the papers littering his desk another glance as he sets his drink down and grabs his jacket from the back of his chair, hands fumbling against the fabric. When he breathes, the sound is shaky, something teetering on the brink of collapse. The slam of the door echoes long after he is gone.
Hanji looks into the cup he left behind, at curled black leaves and the bitter scent of something other than tea, and cannot help thinking of similar dark shapes edging wide blank eyes.
x.
There is: one target. two soldiers. two sets of 3DMG and four capable hands and three attempts to take the mark down.
Levi stumbles. For one endless moment he scrambles for purchase in the air, and then his hooks shoot out and latch onto the last giant wooden Titan, now splintered across the trees, one arm hanging against a trunk, one leg broken on the ground. He swings himself down and retracts his wires, landing with a soft thump.
Mike crosses his arms. He stayed back and let the other soldier deal with this one; Levi took three tries. Two tries too many for humanity's strongest.
Levi curses under his breath, his fingers tangling in his gear. The metal boxes drop, steel parts clanging. He closes his eyes and exhales and Mike notes a whiff of anxiety clouding his breath.
"I'm going to rest," he mutters. His hands are trembling faintly, with exertion or exhaustion or something else entirely. He opens his mouth as if to clarify further, then closes it again.
Mike does not need to say anything; he walks over to the edge of the clearing and gestures at the path leading back to the training grounds. There is something like relief in Levi's expression, something like gratefulness in his nod, but the emotions do not reach his eyes. Mike smells something sour about his countenance, senses something amiss in his gaze, and he does not nod back.
He removes his own 3DMG, gathering it all together to store away safely, but as his hands are kept busy he cannot help worrying about dark mottled bruises fringing pale bloodshot eyes.
x.
There is: one table. six chairs. five plates of food and two hushed conversations and four hours until midnight.
Levi inhales coffee. He does not drink it; he swallows before the liquid has touched his lips. The pot rests on the table by his left hand; he pours another cup and then another when the first is gone. Erwin and Mike are discussing something in undertones, Hanji explaining something about Titan anatomy to Eren, but eventually all voices peter out until they sit in silence, the air heavy with unuttered words, the tinkle of porcelain the only sound as Levi methodically pours more coffee.
"How many cups have you had?" Hanji asks.
Levi does not look up; his fingers tap against the sides of his cup. He shrugs and Mike's brow furrows.
"Too much caffeine isn't good for you. You don't need that much to do a bit of paperwork."
Hanji doesn't have to be a scientist to see the signs—the red-rimmed eyes, the glimmer of tension, the spark of something too uncontained to be classified as rationality. Too much caffeine isn't good for anyone, and Levi has been consuming far too much.
"It doesn't matter," he says, voice impassive. There are no fluctuations in his tone, but there is something fragile and cutting about it all at once, glass shards in a cracked windowpane, and glass shards shatter.
Hanji has to object. "It does matter. You need to take care of yourself, Levi. Especially now."
He does look up at that. In a fraction of a second there may be something new, something alive in his gaze, but then he turns away again, inscrutable once more. His hands shudder and still against the handle of his mug; he sets it down and stands. "I'm going to my room," he says. "Good night."
His footsteps retreat steadily down the hall; the four of them watch him go. A sound of dismay escapes the back of Eren's throat and Hanji stands too, brushing invisible lint from a jacket sleeve.
"I'll go check on him," Hanji murmurs, because it is impossible to shake the image of those flat dead eyes, drowning in shadows.
x.
There is: one bed. one desk. one jacket thrown over one chair and one lone figure standing by the window.
Levi stares out into the ink-blue sky; the moonlight gleams with the gold of a hundred suns and the white of a thousand drained corpses. The beam shines straight into the room, then curves, and in the space between its radiance and the utter black of slumber he catches a speck of orange.
He speaks. His voice cracks and bleeds on its way out of his throat, a raw wound chafing against its bandages. His words tumble out of his mouth, half-whispered and half-shouted and all too unsteady, syllables rushed and vowels indistinct, consonants fighting each other for dominance. Only one word—one name—is clear.
Hanji watches, heart squeezing tight, a fist with fingers digging bloody crescents into palms. He continues talking as if there is no other presence in the room; the shadows under his eyes threaten to swallow his skin whole.
"Levi," Hanji says. "Levi, how long has it been since you last slept?"
x.
There is: one glint of amber. one hint of warmth. two bright eyes and a thousand strands of copper and a thousand shadows.
She only appears now, when the night has crept in, ghosts of twilight reaching out with brittle fingers, searching blindly for traces of heat. She only appears in the small space between light and darkness, a flickering silhouette of vibrant death and colorless life. She only appears now, when he cannot (does not will not) sleep, when spots start to dance in his vision, when the exhaustion of the days since the 57th expedition tries harder to drag him into oblivion, but when he blinks and shakes his head and says her name, she smiles at him, and that is all he needs to see.
(Levi never wants to sleep again.)