Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Summer 1994

Sticky. It's only eleven in the morning and the muggy summer heat is heavy and thick as butter. One of the neighbors is mowing their lawn for lack of anything better to do, and Levi is laying in bed, sprawled out like a starfish in his underwear and a white t-shirt. It's worn thin and too small. His nipples peek through the material in an obscene way, so he sleeps with his bedroom door locked in case Uncle Kenny comes in in the mornings without knocking. He hates having to cover up around the house when it's hot as hell and sticky, but he doesn't complain about it.

The old lace curtains Isabel picked out at that garage sale last spring are hanging in Levi's windows, resembling the shriveled, yellowing petals of his mother's lilies. They're from when she was sick in the hospital; and even though they're dead and she's home, she keeps them like a shrine unto herself. Maybe they're so she won't forget: when she looks around the family room and sees them on the mantle, she'll remember she made it through—face a little thinner and hair less full, but alive. Or maybe she's waiting for the other shoe to drop and doesn't want to waste money on flowers.

Levi always sleeps with his windows open. The nights are cooler and when he looks out from his second story window, the houses across the street covered in inky shadows, the gravelly pavement glittering under orange street lamps, Levi dreams about leaving his room, leaving this town, and actually being a part of the world. When everything's tucked away in the middle of the night and his brain unravels and expands in the darkness of his room, the world doesn't look too bad.

On hot nights when he can't sleep, Levi stares up at the ceiling and listens to the faraway sounds of vague, underwater-distorted rumbling and roaring happening outside his window, somewhere in the night sky—hollow and metallic—making him think of highways and traffic and the train tracks on the northside of town that barely ever runs. But at 3 a.m. everyone is in bed and the tracks are too far from his house to hear, anyways, even if there was a passing train.

Levi hates the heat as much as he hates summer. On oppressively humid days like today, the weather drains him of energy, leaving him bored and agitated. The town he's lived in all his life is small and suburban and eternally boring. There's nothing to do, so he stays inside all day. Lace curtains barely moving in the stilted breeze, small white seashells collected over family vacations to the shore lining the rain-chipped window sill, lawn mower running two houses over, the fan going in the background fluttering book pages and postcards taped to the walls.

Uncle Kenny only turns on the A.C. sparingly, so Levi had to bring up the dust covered fan from the basement. It barely does anything, the constant blowing of air only chilling his heated skin on the surface and drowning out the sound of the television playing downstairs.

The days drag on, while the weeks pass too quickly, melting fast like sugary, sticky ice cream that ends up giving him a stomachache.

There are small ways to break up the mundane routine of summer days. Levi's favorite is the ice cream truck. It's childish, but Levi remembers playing in the yard with Mikasa as children and running out to meet the truck as it stopped in front of their house. Now that Levi's older, things have changed, but the sound of the ice cream truck coming up the street still manages to grab his idle attention.

In the summer, the ice cream truck makes rounds during the hottest part of the afternoon; a tinny version of "Do Your Ears Hang Low" playing through the old speaker, churning out the familiar tune like soft serve vanilla custard. The melody makes its way into his bedroom through the open windows when it's still around the corner, and Levi has about five houses to decide whether it's worth the effort of getting out of bed and pulling on a pair of shorts. But that's all part of the fun and excitement, too.

Levi will dash down the stairs and run out of the house in his see through shirt and flip flops and smile coyly at the middle-aged driver of the dilapidated school-bus-turned-ice-cream-truck in order to grab a free popsicle. He takes the sweet treat—cherry flavor—with both hands and rubs the tip over his pink lips to make them glossy and red before plunging it slowly into his mouth, looking up at the man through thick, black lashes, giving the cherry popsicle tiny kitten licks with a teasing smile. His small white teeth showing. It's not coincidence that the truck drives past their house more than twice a day, even if Levi doesn't come down—which, more often than not, he doesn't—hoping to catch a glimpse of the waify teen. Levi rolls over onto his stomach and muffles his laughter into his pillow when he hears the aggravated voice of Uncle Kenny filtering up the stairs, grumbling about that damn truck giving me a goddamn earworm.

Levi's second favorite way to divide and conquer the dull monotony of summer depends heavily on sporadic external variables. Every once in a while, Levi will bolt out of bed in the morning and rush to the window to watch the family across the street. The son has anger issues, and Levi would feel bad about it if he wasn't being woken up to the sound of violent banging and hysterical screaming. He feels like a coldhearted bitch whenever he watches another family meltdown occur in the driveway in plain view of his bedroom window, but it's summer and Levi is bored and not above indulging in family drama when it's not his own—especially when he has front row seats from the comfort of his room. Give him a good show and Levi will tune in every week. And it isn't like he doesn't pay it back in kind.

The Ackermans are somewhat of a fixture in town ever since they moved into the center house when Levi was a baby. Uncle Kenny runs the auto shop downtown and has a scandalous penchant for drinking and gambling. His mechanic buddies will visit the house for beers and shoptalk and Kuchel's hospitality. They mind their manners when she's around because everyone in town knows she's a good woman of faith, the kind who reads her bible and prays every night, but also isn't afraid to throw scripture out the window when it's used as a sacred weapon against those marginalized by the church.

Levi usually stays in his room when they come over anyways, but sometimes they'll come over unannounced and catch him washing Kenny's car in the driveway. They'll look over his tank top and shorts with smug grins. The sponge in Levi's hand will gush soapy water down his side, drenching his cut-off jeans, and threatening to tear in half with how tightly he squeezes the soft foam. They laugh at his little display of anger and call out to Kenny from the yard asking when they can take the piece out front for a ride. They say it's looking sweet and tight and ready to be handled by a real man. Kenny barks out an obnoxious laugh from somewhere inside the house and tells them off before warning them to keep their hands to themselves. Levi's not sure if his uncle is defending him or his car, but goes back to washing the hood anyway—Kenny won't give him his full twenty unless he does a good job—hating the fact that he's the butt of their lewd jokes.

They're not all disgusting pigs. One of the young ones, new, goes by Turret, is pretty sweet on Levi. He's always the last one inside and the only one who looks at Levi like he's more than just a piece of meat.

Occasionally, Levi will take pity on the poor bastard and throw some pretty eyes his way in exchange for some alcohol—Kenny knows his stash like the back of his hand and throws a fit when he catches Levi trying to sneak some for him and Farlan. It was a pretty sweet deal until the guy started bringing Levi peach schnapps like some love-struck virgin trying to get into his pants on prom night. Farlan said Levi would probably have to give him a blowjob to get the good stuff. Levi said only in Turret's dreams. Farlan laughed knowing how true this was.

Levi doesn't remember exactly when it happened, when men and older boys started looking at him differently—noticing him, paying him attention in ways they shouldn't. He remembers a barbecue a couple summers back.

Kuchel was trying to welcome some new neighbors to the area and invited all the families on the block over for some sweet, slow smoked barbecue; homemade potato salad; juicy, ripe watermelon; and her famous peach pie. Levi had wanted to stay in his room or hang out with Farlan, but his mother had insisted he come down, say hello to all the adults, and introduce himself to the new family. Apparently, they had a daughter around Levi's age. She had even set out an outfit for him to wear. It wasn't awful; his mother was just unaware that Levi had hit a growth spurt that year. He didn't blame her for not knowing; she had been in and out of the hospital for years. Levi had practically lived at the hospital with how often he had visited her.

She had hated the sterile hospital rooms and sleeping alone. Some of the nurses were mean, and most of the doctors couldn't tell their head from their ass as far as Levi was concerned. Levi hated how scared his mother looked when he had to leave and wished he could stay overnight.

In his mother's absence, Uncle Kenny was the one who had to sit him down at the laminate kitchen table one day and have the uncomfortable talk with him about how his body was going through changes, growing, err… filling out, and that he couldn't walk around anymore in those shorts or those tops that showed too much skin without meaning to. Levi hadn't said a word, just stared at the outdated cabinets Uncle Kenny kept saying he would replace and accepted the bills his uncle handed him after he was done talking, biking to the nearest thrift store that afternoon. There he discovered an affinity for oversized shirts and flannels that he wore over ripped jeans. When he visited his mom after school that week, she gave him a surprised smile and asked him when her little prince had grown up.

So, of course she didn't know, and as much as it made Levi want to hide in his room, he put on the shorts that barely covered his bottom—he had wear them high above his hip bones in order for the snap to close—and shrugged on the nice white polo shirt he used to wear for picture days and tried to ignore the fact that it left the majority of his stomach uncovered. When he finally made it downstairs and to the backdoor patio, everyone had arrived, making small talk and mingling as they loaded up flimsy paper plates with food and found a place to eat.

Levi distinctly remembers the shift in Mr. Reiss' eyes when he turned around and appraised Levi's changing body, immediately honing in on the attractive curve of his waist and the coltishly long legs he hadn't grown into yet. He gave a wide smile and opened up his arms, beckoning Levi over for a "proper hello". The hug was too tight and lasted uncomfortably long, before Levi managed to discreetly squirm out of the embrace and avoid any adults for the rest of the evening.

It was around that same year that Levi noticed boys at school and around town also treating him differently. The same ones who used to push him down in the fourth grade were now asking to give him rides home after school or work together on projects. When they spotted him hanging out with Farlan and Isabel on the weekends, they'd try to show off in front of him or sweet talk him into sitting with them or going to a nearby party. Sometimes, the three friends would follow along not having anything better to do, but all attempts to draw Levi away from his friends was quickly shot down.

For some reason, the boys in town had seemingly agreed that Levi was their collective crush, the object of their wet dreams and adolescent infatuation. Some were more innocent, talking about classes they shared and how creepy Mr. Dok was while Levi listened with a polite, but disinterested smile before closing his locker and walking away. But it wasn't all puppy love and scribbling L-E-V-I in hearts and bubble letters over their notebooks during sixth period bio.

There were those meatheads who felt entitled; the type that got aggressive and grabby when they heard wait and exaggerated their Saturday night dates at the expense of some poor underclassman's ruined reputation. The same ones who would shout after Levi in the hallways while posturing and surrounded by a group of friends. Hey Levi, why don't you ride me home after school today? amidst wolf whistles and high fives before Coach Smith, who also taught advanced history, would stick his head out of his office adjoining the weight room and issue detention slips and extra laps at practice.

Rumors about Levi and Farlan spread around school. Born out of petty jealousy, many of them were vulgar and made up and tossed around in the locker rooms after football practice, where Farlan played on the team. Things like voting Levi as having the hottest ass in school and salacious speculations about his sexual experience, but when the conversation turned to wanting to have a team gangbang with Levi in the middle, Farlan showed up on his front porch with a black eye and nasty split lip. The two of them sat on Levi's porch, their backs against the wooden, whitewashed railing.

Levi didnt ask, but he suspected.

The afternoon sun pours into Levi's room now, and despite the drawn curtains throwing muted shadows in delicate patterns across his splayed legs, the trapped heat is suffocating him. Levi groans and rolls onto his back, but it does nothing to unstick his clothes from his tacky skin or offer any form of relief. He's contemplating going down to the kitchen for a glass of water when the sound of a large truck draws his attention to the commotion happening outside. Peering out of his window, Levi catches the back-end of four massive moving trucks barreling down the otherwise quiet street in an almost militant fashion. When they disappear around the block, the only sign that they were there is in the dusty, golden clouds kicked up by their industrial rubber tires still hanging in the air, floating above the curb before settling back down on parched crab grass and sizzling sidewalks.

If there was new meat in town, the news was sure to cause a scene come September.

Chapter Text

Depending on who you asked, Levi Ackerman was labeled as a prude or a tease. Somewhere between fourteen and fifteen he had managed to capture the keen interest of every man and the pubescent preoccupation of every boy he had ever come across. Whether he was buying milk from the grocery store or sunbathing in a strappy top on the front lawn, he would garner the attention of every hot-blooded American male in the near vicinity.

To the married men in town he was classified as jailbait: someone so demurely and maddeningly existing on the cusp of legal age, they had to bite down on white-knuckled fists in the privacy of locked home offices to refrain from indulging in behavior unbecoming of fathers and husbands. They managed to curb their whetted appetite with meaty hands clamped down on slender shoulders—savoring baby soft skin and tense muscles—and sugary pet names disguised as good-natured affability. They saw the way he walked the fine line between unassuming adolescence and burgeoning sexuality. The way the graceful slope of his neck was attractively on display when he wore thin spaghetti straps or the way his willowy limbs were slightly too long for his torso, but rather than tip over into the awkward, it only sexualized him further—made him look like sex on legs—reducing his body to the sum of its parts, rather than culminating in a whole person. For them, he was unadulterated eye candy: unrefined, inexperienced, and malleable. Amenable to shift and morph into the object of their various sexual fantasies.

To the boys in school, Levi could be one of two things: a conquest or a crush. Numerous male students claimed to have had sexual encounters with the shy raven; their accounts succinctly objectifying and self-gratifying or unconvincingly detailed, the sequence of events often changing spontaneously, like one of those dollar store mood rings. His mouth tasted like cherry coke. I thought you said he was chewing watermelon bubblegum?

Some boys in his class dedicated hours to watching him from afar, scrupulous observation their only means of knowing this elusive creature and understanding the world of peppermint scented lip balm, strawberry kiwi shampoo, a hint of teasing collarbones, and milky pale skin even in the summer.

He was an enigma to them, so they studied him, scrawling messy notes in the margins of their spiral notebooks on the way his silky black hair fell around his heart-shaped face in the same exact way every day or how the afternoon sun would catch the peach fuzz on his left arm like gold flecks. They would count the pink scars kissing the rounded knobs of his knees and daydream about the bend of his elbow and the cute pocket of fat that would appear when he propped his head on his open palm.

The Tuesday he sat down in homeroom with wispy flyaways curling around the strands of normally satin-smooth hair set off an hours long debate about whether he had washed his hair the night before and slept on it wet or showered in the morning and allowed it to air dry. Jean Kirschstein, who lived directly next door to the Ackerman's, insisted Levi's weekly showering schedule never deviated from its routine, while Connie Springer swore he got a whiff of fruity shampoo way too fresh to have been slept on for a whole eight hours. When they came back to school after summer break, golden tan and sneakers minty fresh, Levi's wrists would be covered in beaded and braided bracelets, and the boys would memorize the color and texture of each one, watching them fade and fray over the changing months before disappearing altogether.

Levi Ackerman was the epitome of all their boyhood dreams and fantasies. Although, he rarely spoke a word to them, their collective adolescence would be defined by him.

For all the jocks and studs in town claiming to have popped that cherry, there was only one person whose account held any validity and stayed true through the years.

And that was Eren Jaeger.

He moved to town the summer before Levi's sophomore year, and his arrival made the rounds of idle town gossip before making its way to the Ackerman's dinner table.

Uncle Kenny talks animatedly over tofu meatloaf and kale dishing about the new family in town. Apparently, the new family is loaded. They moved into the seven-bedroom house on the end of Lisbon Boulevard; the one with the in-ground pool in the backyard. The house itself was 70s tacky—the interior overdone and tasteless—designed with floor to ceiling glass windows, gold accents, and ivory leather couch sectionals that scream new money and poor taste. It was your stereotypical bachelor pad, even had a swanky bar and ubiquitous shag carpet. It was an ostentatious eyesore to the otherwise vanilla suburb, where inoffensive beige tones and faded, sun-washed pastels made up the majority of houses.

The father is some sort of fancy doctor, but started as an army medic serving in the Vietnam War. Uncle Kenny was drafted in the war during what was known as "The Summer of Love": napalm and jungle warfare juxtaposed with psychedelic tie-dye, American youth counterculture, and flower crowns. Uncle Kenny can't listen to The Grateful Dead anymore—a side effect of the hallucinogens and the war. The clashing phenomena occurred on opposite coasts of the Pacific Ocean, but maneuvered on some twisted, parallel timeline—one where war burned and love bloomed. He served as a specialist—the guy in the tank loading up the flamethrower. He still wears his old platoon's dog tags around his neck, like some damning brand identifying damaged souls rounded up as unlucky lottery winners in their youth. Regurgitated, and now thoroughly middle-aged, walking amongst manicured lawns and underneath grocery store fluorescence, discount shopping for navel oranges On Sale 4 for $2!, lounging on cheap plastic folding chairs woven in white and green. Two clinking pieces of aluminum ground him in a haunted past that makes more sense to him than the commercialized present. He wears them every day to remember his fallen comrades who fought beside him and to carry the burden of guilt for his part in what he calls a travesty.

Levi knows the war did a number on his uncle, understands it's the reason why he drinks most nights and falls asleep in front of the TV. The familiar drone of syndicated programming providing white noise in the background as he drifts off on a light buzz; the screen turning to snow before Levi blinks it off with the remote. Self-medication, Uncle Kenny calls it, when he's sober and deprecating. Levi supposes it's justified; hospitals administer cannabis to those with terminal illnesses. His uncle was far from dying, but a part of him had already passed away thirty years ago. Levi wonders if that dead part of his uncle was passed onto him, if things like that are genetic.

Uncle Kenny hates the boujee, upper-middle class. Says they're everything that's wrong with the country. Calls them all capitalist pigs. He says the doctor gets a pass for serving the wounded and for being a widow. Even if he is an elitist prick, the universe has screwed him over enough. It's his rough admission of compassion and grace and it makes Kuchel smile.

Levi learns the doctor has a son named Eren—older than Levi by two years—some type of golden boy already turning heads and dropping panties. It's unusual to change schools senior year and people don't miss the implications. A widowed doctor and his alleged bad boy son is high-grade material for juicy and outrageous speculation. There are rumors floating around that he was expelled from his old school for illicit drug activity after a family vacation down in Acapulco. Another claims he was involved in an altercation with a teacher that ended in the hospital. Levi scoffs at the wild conjectures and works on finishing his plate, tuning out the sound of his uncle and mother talking. The conversation now having moved on to the usual small talk that makes family dinners slightly painful. He's over the days of getting his panties in a twist over some boy.

Last summer it was all about Moses Braun, the garbage man. Levi would wake up at five in the morning and hang out on the front steps like it wasn't completely obvious. He wrote his name in marker on all his underwear.* Uncle Kenny found them and threw them all out. Levi was crying on his bed all day. The following morning, Uncle Kenny was standing on the porch and staring down the man as he dumped the trash in the back of the truck. A week later, they had a new garbage man. That's when Levi started doing his own laundry.

As bored as Levi is during the day, the nights are worse. During the day, when every room in the house is stuffy and the open windows only invite more moisture inside, Levi is grounded by the physical in its every cloying form. By the humidity that lands on every surface like cling-wrap. Sticky elbows on the kitchen table. Soft thighs pulling away from supple leather like velcro straps on those sallow, waxy, flesh-color geriatric shoes. The night dissolves those tangible distractions.

Once his mother heads up to her room after tidying up the kitchen and Uncle Kenny takes out the trash, checks the locks, and turns off all the lights a sort of sighing, heavy gloom settles over Levi, burrowing just under his ribs like poison ivy, vicious and out of reach.

Some nights, Levi will stand in front of the mirror and lift up the side of his shirt and check for a bite or a rash, any indication of something unusual underneath the thin layer of fat that covers his ribcage. But if he's hoping to find proof for his mysterious ailment, it always eludes him as he runs his fingers over the smooth skin in confusion and disappointment before pulling down his clothes.

Once everyone has gone to bed in their respective rooms, Levi only has whirring fans, open windows, and diffused street light to keep him company in the dark. The shadows swallow him up like he's a part of the wallpaper or the couch he sits on. Melancholy drapes itself lovingly over his form, knowing every curve and cascading along his silhouette, covering his silver eyes like a bridal veil that obscures his vision. It visits him every night like it thrives on heat and restless bodies, exhausted, but barred from sleep.

Levi turns his head lazily, staring at the boxy shadows on his wall. His arms lay outstretched from his body, like he's about to make a snow angel, except it's the middle of July and one arm hangs limply over the edge of his mattress. He slips one hand underneath soft cotton, gliding over sharp hipbones and the hollow curve of his stomach before traveling up to tease a nipple, swirling his finger around in languid circles, his arousal building slow as molasses. He's not trying to get off; he just wants to bring himself back into his body, ground himself in the warm cotton of his sheets and the sure weight of his head on his pillow. When he feels that delicious stirring start to gather heat between his legs, he squeezes his thighs together and turns on his side, trying to find comfort in dreamless sleep.