Author: SYNdicate 930.
Summary: AU. Levi doesn't show his attraction to Eren, but does not mean that he is absent of it, and, when jealousy hits him upon discovering his lover's secret stash of racy magazines and pictures, he decides it's time to take matters into his own hands, even if his lover's a brat. (1/2). ON-GOING.
NOTE: PWAWEP—Porn Without a Well-Executed Plot? "orz Forgive me for any mistakes! Also, uh, I don't know if this should be Eren/Levi or Levi/Eren, so if you guys want to give me your opinion/vote, that'd be cool.~
As usual, Levi is over at the end of the week to tidy the mess Eren labels his 'apartment'. The pig-sty, though clean by the average-Joe's standards, falls far below Levi's, and he deems it unacceptable as they tackle the dusty boxes and stacks of paper in the corner of Eren's bedroom closet.
With legs crossed and stretched in front of them, the duo sort through the dusty sheets carefully, Eren, being insufferable, his large eyes sporting dark bags beneath his under-lashes, shimmies closer to Levi and leans his head against the latter's lazily, breathing in deeply the scent of his shampoo and sterile aroma of strong hand sanitizer. Levi, with a white mask over the lower half of his small face, and rag tied to cover his dark hair, finds himself unable to fathom how Eren manages to ruin all his efforts of cleanliness in only seven days' time.
"How someone can ruin their home as you—It is a mystery." He says.
"Mikasa and Armin always over, and sometimes he brings along Jean, and every now and then we have everyone over and—"
"Don't go blaming others for you being a slob."
"But it's true! Mikasa and Armin are neat, I'll admit, but—" Eren is caught off by a long yawn. "Is it okay if I just go nap for a few minutes? I swear, it'll only be a few minutes—"
"Eren, no slacking off. Now, what is all of this?" Levi questions, his eyes squinting to make out the chicken scratch in dark led pencil. "You write like you're seven years old."
"Maybe because I was seven when I wrote that," Eren's chuckle is always hearty, but this time there appears to be a lingering nostalgia that circulates through the vibrato of his tenor lightly. He reaches for the paper and feels his heart melt, the tips of his long fingers brushing over the poorly written print, his eyes warm. "When I moved out, my mom told me to clean out our attic and take whatever was mine that I wanted to bring with me. While I was up there, I found all my old school work and decided to bring it with me."
Levi rubs his middle finger and thumb together, dust sitting upon the rubber gloves he has over them with a frown hidden behind his white surgical mask. When he was young, he insisted his work be burned or disposed of, but, having been born to overly-loving parents somewhat similar to Eren and his endless affection, he instead would stare from the kitchen table every meal with narrowed eyes at his drawings and school assignments with red '+A' marks circled in the corner be hung on the refrigerator door.
"Why would you bring such useless garbage with you? Especially when you did so poorly. What kind of seven year old doesn't know how to do single digit multiplication? One times three does not equal four."
"Because it's always good to hold on to good parts of the past—You know, for memory's sake? It's something my mom used to say." Eren replies, ignoring Levi's negativity to look over the papers, flipping and looking over them in a sentimental manner, his fingers gentle as if they would break in his rough hands any second. He passes them to Levi proudly, who frowns at all his past errors and poor grammar and punctuation. He can only hope he's gotten better.
"You really are one of those 'mama's boys' I've heard so much about. It's disgusting." Levi uncrosses his legs and makes his away against the wooden floor to the corner of the room, stopping in front of the metallic garbage can and opening its lid with a foot pressing down on the black pedal. "Well, now that we've taken a look at them, it's back to business."
Eren comes fumbling from behind him, holding onto the other end of the stack of paper frantically before they are released. "W-What are you doing!?"
"Putting the garbage where it belongs—In the garbage. Don't tell me you intend on keeping these for any longer." Eren pauses to bite his lip in uncertainty. Being away from home and growing accustomed to living apart from his loving mother is difficult, and the transition into adulthood is incredibly stressful on him, but the little reminders of his childhood put his tense shoulders at ease. While wanting to impress Levi with his new found maturity and independence, he does not want to lose something that keeps his fears of failure at bay.
"Fine, fine, I won't throw these out." Levi, sighing, shakes his head and lifts his foot off the pedal to let the shiny lid fall closed. They return to their spot on the floor in front of the closet. The beat up shoe box and unorganized stack is unsightly, no matter how far it is concealed behind Eren's clothes and precise row of sneakers, all organized by Levi, of course.
The phone in the living room begins to ring, which prompts Eren to his feet. He hurries over through the door and down the narrow hallway, sliding against the wood in his white socks, knowing how much the noise bothers Levi if prolonged.
When he had first came to help Eren move in, he'd notice an abundance of unused boxes scattered around the living room and spare bedroom. It had first bothered Levi to no end, but, alone and tired, Levi having decided the papers be the last task before he return home down the street, sauntering around the square room in search of something to place them in, can't help but wonder where they've all gone. Beat up and covered in scotch tape, the box he had found Eren's work in originally was already at the end of its short rope, Levi knowing its seen far better days and a much younger Eren while the young man's voice echoes through the suite softly.
Coincidentally, it is his mother checking up on him. By the sounds of Eren's replies, Levi can deduce that their conversation is that of a typical mother and son; she asks him how he is doing, if anything is the matter and insisting he return home if things become too difficult and money becomes scarce. Levi knows Eren to be the unruly, stubborn, independent brat he is, acknowledging the way he stands by his word despite the uncertainty that often finds itself wondering through the stutters and stumbling of his words, and doubts he'll be seeing him moving back with his parents any time soon as he gets on all fours to look beneath Eren's bed. A box. He needs to find a box and get this over with—Before Eren can manage to create any other messes before his next visit. Minus a loose white sock sitting in the far corner beside the wall, the space between the floor and the bottom of the mattress is virtually empty save for a red and white shoe box.
Brand new and without a spec of dust, the box looks virtually brand new and, possibly, empty, leaving him to decide this be where Eren's old school work be transferred to. However, when he pulls it closer to him, the way it slides against the floor feels heavy. Levi heaves the box onto his lap and gives it multiple, curious shakes; it appears as though it is already occupied. But by what? Levi does not remember seeing this when he assisted Eren just few months ago, trekking up the stairs with all of his belongings to the second floor one evening at the end of August. He surely would have remembered it; the stark, almost neon, red would have stood out incredulously in his photographic-memory against the image of all those dull-colored cardboard boxes of lifeless, taped-up beige and dark colored suitcases he packed his clothes into.
Then again, Eren had been meaning to buy a new of shoes just last week, so there is the possibility that he had gone shopping. By the weight of it, he can only guess he hasn't taken them out of their home yet. Walking over to the closet, he looks for an empty space on the rack to leave his new sneakers on. Spotting a little place on the bottom right, he flips open the attached lid and he blinks, lips pursing into a short, straight line, a tad jealous.
Just a tad.
It is snowing again. Levi doesn't mind the weather much, but it appears Eren does as they trek down the sidewalk, shivering, his teeth chattering obnoxiously. The clicking of his teeth makes Levi sick, like how the sound of knuckles cracking makes Eren wretch. The snowfall is light, and the wind is surprisingly calm, their puffs of breath visible, a quick shot of vapor before disappearing into thin air shyly.
Levi looks over to Eren through the corner of his eye, the young man's cheeks an ice-bitten red and his lips frozen and chapped. Unlike him, Eren had never been much of a winter person.
They are on their way to Levi's house for dinner. After a power outage in Eren's apartment complex, it'd been decided within minutes that they find refuge in the warmth of Levi's cozy house with the tall oak tree in his backyard that hung over his roof hidden beneath a thick layer of white, and green mailbox that stood proudly perched atop a metal post in front of the house.
Walking up the shovelled driveway, past Levi's snow-covered car, they shook off as much snow as they could in the door way and slipped out of their boots, hanging their jackets and scarves on the wooden coatrack and closing the door behind them softly.
"Go watch TV or something in the living room while I make us something to eat." Eren nods as he watches Levi disappear into the kitchen, his steps padded and light as he walks over in his warm, white socks, "If you fall asleep again, I'm not going to wake you up."
His home is small and incredulously tidy, not a single book out of place nor surface undusted and unclean; it has always felt more functional than it really did like a home, like something Eren recalls having seen in an Ikea catalogue, browsing through the thin booklet one day several weeks back in the lobby at his doctor's office as he awaited his annual physical. However, he realizes that is where the charm in the bungalow lies; the spotless surfaces, straightened furniture and gleaming wooden floors, the way everything sparkles with hygiene—it all screams Levi.
Following him down the hall, Eren turns in the other direction into the living room, his eyes falling to the couch pushed to the wall on his right, the dull beige of the suede textile soft against his skin as he hops into place, his feet propped up on one arm, his head atop the other comfortably, hands reaching robotically for the plastic remote on the wooden coffee table reflexively with a comfortable yawn. He guesses that's why he can find himself so much more relaxed in Levi's home than his own. The knowledge that this is where such a seemingly cold man can let his guard down, his defenses and ice at ease, is oddly comforting. People are rarely over as Levi's need for cleanliness and order is threatened by such foreign variables that people hold in their possession, a mind a maze, that Eren takes joy in knowing his lover can rest in peace, even with him around.
For a few moments, Eren busies himself with the medium-sized flat screen in the living room, flipping through the news in search of something childish and colorful until he remembers Levi has removed all sorts of entertainment from his home—or, at least what Eren likes to call 'entertainment'. He settles for a television sitcom wedged between a middle aged woman reporting a tragedy somewhere Eren could not be able to point out if given a globe and the internet, and a cooking channel. He laughs along here and there, listening to the familiar noises Levi makes in the kitchen. First he opens the cupboards and drawers to retrieve pots and pans and anything else he'll need. From there, he would gather plates and bowls and then set the cutlery and then go to the fridge. He would scan the inside carefully, possibly out of consideration—should he make some sort of soup or pasta out of simplicity, maybe a homemade dish he'd learn from his childhood, something he would like, something Eren would like?—or critically, eyeing what must be thrown out before expiry and bought out of shortage—it is hard to tell with him sometimes.
Time passes as does the sitcom with the sound of an unseen audience applauding and laughing. Slowly but surely, Eren begins to feel the day taking its toll on his weary body, his eyes growing heavier with the clock's soothing ticking, the flashing of the television screen. He tries to will himself to remain in the realm of consciousness, Mr. Sand Man sprinkling his dust, enveloping him, dragging him into his depths, his genteel comatose before he catches the ending of the credits against his will.
There has always been a strong attraction towards Eren, Levi realizes, wondering if there has ever been someone he's gone out of his way for like this, though, he feels it to be a bit of an understatement. It did not take a genius like himself to realize the young man was good looking in and out, but things like sex are not popular topics that cross Levi's mind very often. But, now that the thought of being so intimate with Eren has slithered its way into his head, the idea has rooted itself there, refusing to leave. Is this still for Eren, for himself, for the sudden jealousy—the abnormal possessiveness—that surged through him?
In the kitchen, he shuffles around, opening cupboards and pulling on the handles of drawers here and there, moving pots and pans and some plates and cutlery for show before making his way to the metallic fridge, brows furrowing as he looks over his shoulder.
Ever since his last tidy of Eren's Hell hole of a home just a few days back, the image of those magazines hidden within that shoe box, the various women, exposure, crude poses, and how undeniably recent and used they were have been plaguing the man's mind incessantly, his brows furrowing further at the thought, frown deepening. Despite the annoyance, Levi figures that this should have been expected from a young man like Eren, who, like a teenager in high school, innocent and seemingly always in a state of unquenchable heat, just wants to touch and be touched, especially from someone he's called a lover for several months now, with a libido in need of attention. For a while, Levi has noticed Eren's multiple attempts of getting him in bed and hints being dropped here and there, only to be turned down or ignored completely, and guesses, without any internet connection until he completely settles down in his apartment, this is the latter's only method for his sexual need and, possibly, frustration.
Glancing over to the time on the stove through his periphery, his small frame leaning against the show white of the wall by the refrigerator, Levi pushes himself off to head towards the kitchen door. He pushes the dark wood slowly, slightly, just enough for his left eye to peer through into the living room. The television is on, the credits of some awful television show rolling down the screen with the generic noises of men and women laughing and clapping, and Eren lying on the couch, sleeping. No matter how many times Levi tells Eren to stay awake while he goes off to make them something to eat, the young man can never do as he's told—Something he is currently grateful for.
With a bored yawn, Levi slams the door open. It screeches and the sound it makes as it hits the wall echoes throughout the bungalow. Casually, he strides through the living room to the hallway where he makes his way to his bedroom, thankful to have such a heavy sleeper for a boyfriend. He could have turned over every chair and table, and the likelihood of waking Eren would still be minimal.
Slipping out of his trousers, and heavy sweater, he folds the denim neatly and hangs the cozy wool on a wooden hanger he remembers receiving as a home warming present years ago. At the foot of his bed, Levi stares at his reflection in his dresser mirror; long button-up shirt and boxers, ironed and pressed, everything in order, his hair combed perfectly, though a little damp from the snow on the walk home having melted. Levi reaches a hand to undo the buttons of the white shirt. One. Two. Three. Four and five. The contour of his collarbones and coy beginnings of his pale torso that run down before disappearing where the buttons have yet to be meddled with as he tries to remember the page in one of Eren's magazines that looked to have had been paid more attention than others.
He stares at his reflection, yet what stares back at Levi does not appear to be enough. Levi musses his hair over with a haphazard comb of his meticulous hand. He looks messy and hot—something he'd notice about those awful pictures in the garbage some moron labeled as 'magazines'—But something was missing. Levi stares at himself contemplatively, his hand fisting the plain material of his undergarments with a frown. It appears as though he is not missing a thing—He simple has too much. If this is what the boy finds intimately appealing, so be it, he guesses as he begrudgingly shimmies out of his boxers, letting the thing fabric fall to his ankles and his skin to flush in embarrassment at the person staring back in his mirror.
"This brat is going to be the end of me." He sighs. Purposely making a mess of his kitchen and himself—the boy is something special, and if this wasn't proof of it, Levi was at a loss for words.