Author's Note: Written for MellaTheKnightmare who wanted "something angsty... like, unrequited love, Eren being gay, and Levi being straight." Which I tried to do. I seriously tried but baaaaaah, it came out like shit. Kinda had some difficulties rewiring my crapness cause I've generally got more of the Eruri n' Erejean mindset. So I was never sure if it was flowing right, and then I just...Uh...I don't know. It's like putting plastic in the microwave.

Sorry, Mella. I didn't mean for it to be plastic in the microwave. I'm sorry it's all vague and shit too, it's just that with all the shit that's hitting the fan in le SnK verse, I was having mass difficulty picking a spot where there's time for romantic brooding. So again, I'm sorry. This a worthless piece of crap like all my worthless craps, but this time it's even worse because it's melted plastic crap.

Slight, implied Mikaani for purposes.

It starts out as a crush, the crush you share with almost everyone. Because he's Humanity's Strongest after all. Admiration that quickens your heartbeat when you see him. A thrill of awe that knocks some weight off the ghosts on your shoulders. Competition tingling in your veins and propelling your blood that much hotter. You want to be like him.

Everyone wants to be like him.

Or rather, they all want to be that kind of brave. That kind of powerful, that kind of noticed. They don't truly want to be the blunt little man with a burry disposition who can't feel remotely satiated until every tile is spotless.

This is nothing unusual. Your feelings are normal.

Until they're not.

You're not sure when your feelings cross the boundary of something endearing to something deep, bottomless, as intrinsic as breathing and as mighty as the destruction your dual nature possesses. And with that feeling comes attraction. Not the kind of awestruck attraction you hold for that skill, but the kind of attraction that sizzles deep down in the pit of your gut. The kind that leaves your mouth dry and your hips hot, your cock hard.

Now you don't just want to be like him, you want him for yourself.

You want him carnally and you want him substantially, and you've felt a lot of fire in your life but never has there been an inferno quietly roaring behind your breastbone (you'd say your heart, but you already gave that to humanity and you're not one to recant promises).

You want this feeling to go somewhere. You have duties and he has even more duties and the absolute dedication to goals is something you both share, but selfish yearning tugs at you all the same, it fills your cheeks with heat when you look at him.

And you really look at him.

Whenever you get the chance, you gaze as long as you can and memorize every contour of him. Levi's diminutive stature has never fooled you into believing that he would be anything but strong and he isn't. He's all whipcord muscle, packed leanly from his study shoulders to his nimble feet. There are scars scattered variously on his skin, almost imperceptible, threadlike and pale.

You can't help wanting to touch that skin, to brush those scars with your lips and mouth your way up to his and hope you find something for you in those eyes that at least resembles this encompassing firestorm you carry for him.

Mikasa catches you looking once, measures you up silently and simply says, "Eren, no."

"No, what?" You regard her without breaking your gaze from him and even now you know she knows, because she is Mikasa and reading you comes naturally to her as much as you wish it didn't.

There is a pause. Not because she can't find anything to say but because there are many things she can say and she's deciding which one would be best.

"It wouldn't be healthy," is what she settles on. Whether she's referring to the age difference or your respective positions, the repercussions of romance in general in this reality, or all of the above is unclear.

"You're one to talk about healthy." You scoff at her hypocrisy because you can very vividly remember back during the years under Shadis's training, you can remember bruises and welts on Mikasa's skin that weren't from the training and even more jarring, a scene you glimpse accidentally of Mikasa's teeth buried in the throat of a certain cold-eyed blonde and Mikasa's knee jammed between her thighs.

"It's different," she declares in a voice as unmoving as rooted stumps. "You want love. I sought release."

You clench your fists and scramble for argument. You can't find one that's good enough so you just tell her to back off and she does not reply.

(you know she's right)

Does Levi love anyone? You can't help wondering. He probably doesn't have time for love. Or maybe he loves everyone, his heart's promised to the flutter of freedom's wings after all. You're incredibly tempted to ask. You do once, when things are momentarily quiet and the room smells like citrus and soap and he's drinking tea in that odd mannerism of his.

With death's ever lack of prejudice, it's only the two of you who occupy the room.

Levi doesn't initially answer and for a moment you think you only asked in your mind, inaudible to even his keen hearing. Then he raises a brow and those bladed eyes lock on yours, what flickers in them as clandestine as ever. If you had to bet, you'd say either thoughtful or unamused.

"And why do you ask?"

Because you want to know if it's you. Because you want to know whoever it is so you can make yourselves more like them so it could be you. Because if he doesn't give you a straight answer maybe you can pretend it's you.

"Just curious, I guess..."

He snorts, lips twisting in what might be a better smile.

"I did, she's gone now."

She?

An acute lance of pain impales your heart so sharply and suddenly that stars speckle your vision. You feel lightheaded, concussed. You feel like someone stole the air from your lungs and replaced it with gravel.

"You alright?"

"I'm tired." You voice is pithy and it's not a lie even if it's not what's wrong either.

It's the only conversation (if one could even call it that) that you have on the subject matter. You never confess. You think about confessing. You imagine what he might say in response, imagine it how you'd like it to go in a way that doesn't deviate from who he is as much as it can't. Sometimes when you have stolen snippets of time to yourself, you close your eyes and imagine it's his hand between your legs.

You usually feel like an idiot afterward and whether you do or not, it always hurts. Unrequited love is a toothache. It's not fatal but it's as infuriating and spot on as pain can get and it feels so personal with every searing throb. Your body can regenerate just about any wound in no time flat, its hurt forgotten and faded into the scars that never permanently remain on your skin.

But your emotions aren't like your unique physique, they're all too human and all too raw.

On the rarest of occasions you let a tear leak out just because you're keeping so much in you have to let something out.

Wounds like one-sided love don't heal. They might scab over from time to time because there's so much else to be doing, but then there are the knolls of pause between obligations and they rip right open again, sudden and piercing enough to jolt every synapse.