A/N: There are two things I love the most about France: Yann Tiersen's music and Paris, which I've had the privilege of visiting numerous times over the years (And it takes my breath away every time). With the ongoing fan theories that Levi has French roots and – as we all already know – an unscrupulous past, plus the fact that many Japanese establishments exist in the capital, this AU idea came to mind. Please also listen to Yann Tiersen's "Summer 78" on repeat as the background theme as you read (Perhaps once for each section) – the melody is what inspired most of the words below.

Reste
Rating: PG-13

Paris
January '78

The entryway bell dings, a customary prelude to the invasion of frigid winds during the recent weeks.

"Bienven—" Levi begins his wearied greeting but cuts off mid-word as he detects semi-East Asian features upon the newest customer. Above brown leather boots and a black pea coat, scarlet drapes across the young woman's visage in cashmere form, serving as her only facial shield from the biting climate. A trolley case of hunter green fabric trails behind, its surface still dotted by remnant snowflakes. Unease cloaks her expression as she enters, tussling momentarily with both her scarf and the stubborn wheels of her luggage. But as soon as the décor of a standard sushi restaurant comes into view, all hints of apprehension transform into curiosity and wonder. She is only slightly younger than him, but there is a familiar, subdued melancholy in her presence, as if the chill of winter and its tragic abandonment of vitality had infused far too deeply within her spirit.

Head lowering, he continues to work knives against the grindstone. "Irrashaimase." The shift in language requires little effort on his part, though his voice reserves its standard, impassive tone.

"Domo." Her Japanese is faultless as she settles right across from him, delicate long fingers still tinted pink from the outdoor temperature as she spreads them upon the counter. The voiced order that follows – miso soup paired with salmon sashimi – is as immediate and traditional as Levi expects. It's her first time within his restaurant – perhaps her first time in The City of Light at all - but as a visitor from the source culture of his style of cuisine, she is no doubt already familiar with the dishes and practices.

He takes note of her lack of a committal ring before turning towards the metal pot simmering at his five o'clock. The lid lifts to reveal fragrant, cloudy liquid ready for him to serve, and his every proceeding scoop is shrewdly executed as to not stain the stark white of his apron and cravat.

Dark grey eyes follow his arm as he positions the steaming bowl in front of her – centered to the neck, exactly six centimeters from her counter edge – before reaching for the fresh filet of salmon displayed to his right. In passing, he perceives that her grip upon the spoon seems carefully measured against the weight of the utensil's contents, as if she was in constant pursuit of perfection in all her mannerisms. As slice by slice of plump orange flesh surrender to the distinct incisions of his knife, he knows that his own movements are just as calculating.

"You are quite excellent with a blade." The tranquil words escape right after her first swallow. "But your miso needs work."

Her mild straightforwardness should shock him, yet it only reminds Levi of his own façade. "I honed my knife skills in a culinary school within Japan for many years." An identical level of sedation permeates his reasoning, though he conceals the fact that those were also his darkest days, where his proficiency with a knife had drawn blood in more ways than one. "The fish is decent in France, but the miso ingredients are not."

"My mother cooked it wonderfully from scratch, even with inexpensive ingredients." Her fingers gently push back obsidian hair behind an ear as she takes a second sip. "If you are willing, I can show you what they cannot teach in training."

No, thank you. His mouth threatens to utter with displeasure, but one look into her keen eyes prompts him to swallow his pride, and he sighs because she gives the same critique as his former instructors. "Perhaps next time you visit, mademoiselle…"

"Mikasa." She conveys absolutely no surprise at his reluctant acceptance, as if it were all part of a scripted play under her elaborate composition. "Just Mikasa."

"Hajimemashite, Mikasa." He acknowledges in her native language as he serves her second dish, with its pieces cut to perfection and the corner garnished with slices of ginger arranged in his own design.

"Enchanté." She flashes a faint smile at the makeshift rose.

March '78

Every morning she arrives at the restaurant precisely at the crack of dawn, greeting him just as he descends from his upstairs living quarters with fatigued eyes. She always borrows the pink apron that is littered with bunnies - my elderly neighbor gifted this to me long ago, he explained grudgingly the first time he retrieved it from storage – before diving into the new shipment of fermented soybeans to begin her work. There is strange harmony in the way they circle around one another within the limited confines between stoves and cabinets. He revels in the fact that in merely a month and a half, they can practically communicate without words, that whenever he extends an arm she knows exactly what he needs.

Levi constantly requests to pay for her two hours of daily labor, but it is always met with polite refusal. This gets me ready for the rest of the day. She shrugs. He wants for her to stay longer because the improved miso soup now runs out fast due to swelling popularity – at least it is the reason he wants to provide her – but the words never drift past the tension of his throat.

Two hours always passes far too quickly for him.

"Why are you in Paris?" He questions one day as he watches her sprinkle tofu into the pot.

"I am looking for my father." She sighs, a thousand unwound threads of sorrow tightening around each syllable. And he asks no more.

The first time she requests to cut fish, he thinks that it's the ideal opportunity to grip her hand within his and showcase his expertise, yet when her initial slices fall away with nearly the same perfection that he has practiced for years, he is both impressed and disappointed.

She lifts her scarf to conceal a sly smirk. "Thanks to my mother, you're not the only one here good with sharpened blades."

He feels even shorter than her than he already is, but he does not mind it.

When clusters of green begin to reappear upon trees, he spontaneously closes the restaurant on a sunny day and brings her to Montmartre instead. They climb the hill with leisurely patience, savoring the gracious beauty of the neighborhood while he narrates the history of every building in ample detail. At a steep fork in the road she reaches out for him – the first time she actually bids for his help - and Levi's heart thumps with irregular delight as her fingertips dance tenderly across his palm, each miniscule contact impeding the passage of time in his consciousness.

By the time they reach the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur the sky is an overflowing canvas of unadulterated azure. Mikasa floats across the stone veranda like a nymph, basking in the splendor of everything above and below. The spring breeze lifts the unsecured section of her scarf into the air, rich scarlet hovering alongside the dark tresses swaying against the long column of her neck. He finds himself suddenly fearful of touching her ever again, for his own sordid past would no doubt stain her beyond repair. To him she now resembles freedom, and also something much more that he cannot bring himself to speak aloud.

"My mother passed away in Japan just days before I came here." With head raised to the heavens, she confesses without being prompted. "I have not seen my German father for years, but the most recent rumors point to Paris."

She turns back towards him, dark eyes flickering with optimism.

"If I have a good reunion with him, then I won't have to leave here."

May '78

On a stormy night, he finds her crouching against the restaurant doorframe when he goes to close up. Neither the disarray of her drenched hair nor the soaked fabric of her clothes mar her delicate beauty, but the slight emptiness in her eyes as he drags her inside alarms him to no end.

"You found him." He theorizes as he searches for extra clothes for her to change into.

Her voice is flat, though some strength still lingers. "I found his grave, at the Père Lachaise."

Levi halts at the shocking development, as recollections of his own haunting, orphaned experience return at an instant to devastate him. His instinct to protect, however, trumps all the previously suppressed memories, and his arms release everything he had gathered - including the weight of his tragedies, just momentarily - in order to embrace her.

Face buried into his shoulder, she does not release a single tear or even tremble. But against all restraint his own heart painstakingly mourns, both for her distressing loss and for the fact that she has no more connections to keep her within this land. She will not stay for me. His cynicism chants.

"I'm alright." She whispers as she tightens her grip upon his back. "I'm really fine now, Levi."

Without warning, her lips begin an independent voyage, marking invisible motifs against his covered collarbone before inscribing the artery of his neck. He gasps as the softness reaches his jawline, each kiss a caress as intricate as the way she prepares her miso for him. When the journey threatens to end at his mouth, however, his personal uncertainties return to claim the final victory.

"No…Mikasa…" He wrestles away, succumbing to his own doubts rather than the myriad of temptations. "Don't do this. You are going through stages of grief."

Her lips are still swollen red with vitality, but her eyes are now thoroughly hollow as she regards him with bleakness. Just that morning she had personified the usual ray of sunshine that glowed with all her might, but like the ever-fluctuating weather, she now resembles a tempestuous husk of her earlier self.

"I will not grieve for a deceased father who has never shown care for my mother or myself." She murmurs. "I only grieve…because the person I truly searched for since my first day here still refuses to be found."

The revelation thunders against his clouded mind, delivering echoes even louder than the sounds now booming outside. A flash of lightning blinds him for a mere moment, and when his sight finally recovers, she is no longer there.

July '78

Two months of pure agony pass before he sees her again.

She sits at the exact spot where they first conversed, scarlet scarf and beige summer dress adorning her lean physique as she waits for him to come down and begin his daily routine. A pale leg supports her hunter green suitcase, this time filled to the brim with what is certain to be endless memories. The pink apron rests at the counter's end, thoroughly washed and neatly folded with his preferred intricacy that she has learned over the months. His every step is cautious as he moves to stand across from her, for there is sufficient fear that she would return to occupy just a figment of his imagination if he acted in haste.

"I made one last batch for you." She pushes a bowl of miso soup in his direction, leaving it exactly six centimeters from his edge. Even while standing he can smell its enigmatic scent, a mixture of her subtle detachment and his flawed rectitude, of all the idyllic moments that transpired between their opposing yet identical qualities. The carousel of his emotions rotates rapidly as he regards the scene, with infinite words utterly ensnared within the reckless momentum and unable to find secure exit. The only thing his body manages to do is turn around, for he cannot bear witnessing her departure firsthand.

Sayonara. She whispers.

The excruciating sound of her footsteps are halfway to the door before he is overwhelmed by the exquisite image of her upon the veranda, and the constraints trapping his voice for months finally shatter.

"Reste." He pleads. Stay.

The entryway bell dings, and Levi's heart drops into a soulless cavern as he envisions her exodus from his life.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

"Levi."

Earnest fingers clutch at his lone wrist that still presses against the counter.

"Our first customer is here."

[Fin]