The blood smeared blades rest on the mahogany, crimson splattered over steel as Levi slides a rag over them. His office is quiet, like it always is post-expedition, a quiet melancholy falling over the base. The smell of blood fills the room, and Levi doesn’t even glance up when you step inside as he meticulously cleans his blood smeared blades, wiping them down almost religiously, like one would handle a lover.

You don’t say anything as you approach, knowing him too well to break the quiet of his routine, simply moving to sit up on the desk beside his blades. Your legs hang over the edge, just barely brushing Levi’s as he sits and cleans.

You study his face for a moment, the set of his jaw, the exhaustion clinging to his features like morning dew clings to grass, his steel grey eyes entirely focused on his blades.

You’ve always known he had a thing for cleaning, a need maybe to keep things well maintained and free of grime and dirt. It’s odd to think about, someone in such a messy occupation, surrounded by blood and sweat being so uptight about cleaning but you’ve come to appreciate that part of him because you know deep down, it means something to him.

Levi says nothing as he wipes his blades, tense after the expedition, probably replaying it in his minds eye as he cleans, the sound of cotton on steel filling the space. Blood flows on the field and grief clings to the walls of the base, it’s a fact of life for the Scouts.

Still you refuse to let your boyfriend get sucked into the cycle of what if’s and be haunted by the faces etched into the blood he’s cleaning. So you reach for him, just a hand, just on his arm, featherlight.

Levi pauses, like a record scratching to a stop, like he’s just realised you’re here. His eyes stay on the blades, still stained crimson with the blood of titans but his hands are motionless.

“You’re here,” Levi murmurs at long last, his voice low and quiet. You hear the strain intertwined between the syllables.

He always did take too much on his shoulders.