42: Forever In Your Debt

The evening air is still quite nippy, but it's much fresher than the thick smog wafting around the skyscrapers. You wait beside the sedan with your arms crossed while Levi steps out and pockets his keys.

"Come on." He nods to a winding path. "Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, I'm fine." You start walking with his stride, pretending to be unaffected by the weather. "This better not be some way of stalling or something."

"It's not. I swear to you now, I will tell you everything." But he talks easier when he doesn't have to make eye contact, so he puts his gaze on the trail and keeps his frame facing forward. "Ask me anything. We'll take this one question at a time."

"Fine. First off: why did you move out of Mitras?"

"I can't afford rent anymore."

"Just out of the blue? Or is there some reason you can't afford it?"

"Most of my funding is going to the bank these days. I have to pay off a rather...hefty loan."

"A loan?" You take a few seconds to piece together memories in this jigsaw mystery. "Like, the money you paid Kenny?"

"Yes. I withdrew cash to pay him, and I'm still paying back the bank."

"Wait." A few quick calculations lead you to a devastating conclusion. "Just how much did you pay Kenny?"

He can't answer swiftly, nervous to give you the answer. Any more pity might kill him. "Enough to put me in debt," he answers vaguely.

"But—Levi." Your feet stutter and come to an abrupt stop, shock anchoring you down. With a dropped jaw, you stare at your meandering mentor. "What the hell, Levi?!"

He looks back and only halts once he realizes you're no longer beside him. His eyes narrow as he offers an innocent, "What?"

Regardless of the number's size, he still sacrificed his home to make up for the financial deficit. He can't juggle rent and bank payments simultaneously, so he's made the outrageous choice to go homeless in order to pay his uncle.

This must've been a choice he made in a mere ten minutes that fateful morning. His funds, his lifestyle—down the drain for the sake of one person.

It doesn't matter if you're goddamn royalty. What he did is insane and extremely overboard. You can't stomach it.

"I...I am not worth whatever you paid. I don't care how much—that's so fucking crazy—why would you—"

"I already told you. I had to have you back." He shrugs, reflecting none of your panic. "Money means nothing to me when that's the goal."

You're so shocked it angers you. Guilt morphs into an ugly form of rage in your chest, howling about how you alone are not worth heaps of wealth. In your mind, Levi is an idiot for wasting everything just to save you.

"Still—you didn't even think—"

"I don't have to." He steps close, striking down every craving to hug you and hold you and beg for your understanding. "You act like I'd even consider picking my comfort over you. I was ready to give my life for you—my damn money is a tiny price to pay."

"So you destroy your home, your finances—"

"Yes." He may respect your space, but he won't let you protest at all. Your words are crushed under his passion. "And I would do it again. A million times over. I'm sorry—I want to give you the prerogative in what we do—but I will not budge on this. I made my choice and I'm damn happy I did. I will not change my mind."

"But—" You feel a lump in your throat, one thick enough to clog your complaints in your lungs. "Why...why are you homeless? Can't you get a cheaper place?"

"Not easily. Even low-rent places put me over budget alongside my bank payments." He cards fingers through his hair, trying to seem nonchalant about his crippling debt. "And landlords aren't excited to lease to a flaky tenant. I'm wrecked financially, too, so I can't really make security deposit payments."

"Fuck, Levi." Sick of his situation—and his refusal to seek help about it—you're compelled into action. "I'm not letting you get away with this. You're going to be taken care of—and you're seriously stupid for not coming to me sooner."

"How could I?" he asks, and he genuinely means it. "I've done nothing but hurt you. The last thing I should do is grovel for your help."

Once again, he's right. The criminal knows his crime and carries out a sentence he assigned to himself, regardless of what his victim wants. You hate the ugly memories he's made with you, but you hate his vicious self-punishment even more. He's doing this intentionally, wounding himself for decades to come as payment for what he's done to you.

Perhaps that's all he knows. Perhaps he doesn't know the right thing to do when he encounters someone he actually cares about. He is, undoubtedly, an idiot.

"Well, you're not groveling. You're being forced to accept help whether you want it or not." Taking up the role of caretaker, you mentally plan exactly what this orphan needs. First off, he needs somewhere to stay, and he needs someone to deny him the chance to turn down the offer.

"Do me a favor, Levi." You hold out your palm. "Let me have your car keys."

He frowns, petulant about giving up his property. "Why?"

"I'm going to drive us home. Just so you don't try to drive off after you drop me at my apartment."

"Stubborn." Though, he does surprise you when he drops his keyring into your hand. "Don't wreck it. I might be able to sell it if needed."

"Yes, sir." You hear him scoff at your ironic response. "Have you eaten yet?"

His arms are lifting to fold themselves. "Doesn't matter—"

You take his wrist before he can assume his aloof stance. "Levi, you're going to need to learn very fast that I will not take avoidant answers." Holding his hand hostage, you stare him down with as much intimidation as you can muster. "Have you eaten yet?"

His eyes trail up his forearm to where your fist grips it. Permissive of the touch—perhaps excited about it—he moves not a muscle to escape and merely cocks his head. "I haven't."

"Then let's get dinner. I'll pay."

He takes a step back, ready to pull away. "Absolutely not—"

"I'm paying." You draw his hand into your chest, grasping it with both your hands and tugging his frame closer to you. You won't let him escape. "That's my prerogative, isn't it?"

Stifling a grunt, he contains his reflexes and lets his body be leashed, learning to set aside his common instinct to fight. With his icy arm in your warm grasp, his resistant crumbles. "Damn you," he rasps. "You waste your compassion on idiots."

"Correction: just one idiot." Winning the battle, you deftly slip fingers in between his, finding the proper way to hold his hand. "And it's not a waste."

You hear him swallow as your hands merge, little anxious thoughts dancing in his head. He watches the spectacle even as you lower the combined hands to the space between you, marveling at the new privilege he's been granted.

He inhales. "I...fuck."

"What?" You have the power right now. You don't need to be shy like he is.

His face tenses, like he's getting choked up, but finally he sighs and gives your hand a squeeze. "I don't deserve this at all."

He might continue saying that until the day he dies. Regardless of its accuracy, it does not stop the mere fact that this behavior will continue.

"Am I allowed to do this?" you ask kindly, already knowing the answer.

"You have the right to do anything you want with me."

"Oh." With a fresh smile and a full laugh, you stand alongside him and touch your shoulders together. "Anything? That's not very workplace-appropriate, mentor."

"I—come on." He matches the slow pace you start even as he tosses an eye roll to the side. "Suddenly you care about workplace decorum?"

"Nah. Never. See this?" You hold up your combined fists. "HR nightmare, right here. We'd bring down Paradis if anyone witnessed this."

He gives that amused hum, the largest sign of humor he can accomplish. It's a victory in your book. "We wouldn't want that. You'd be depressed if your dream academy was destroyed."

You both are on a new topic and talking like usual. He's distracted enough, brought away from thoughts of terror and poverty and distress, able to just think about you. You're successfully carrying out your new role as his guardian angel, starting with taking his mind off his guilt.

You drive your mid-twenties adopted child to a quaint hole-in-the-wall diner, where he tries to order the cheapest item and you refuse any of the meager bills he struggles to reimburse you with. Afterward, you bring him to your apartment that, while shabby, is still your rented property and not leased away in lieu of a debt.

"You don't need to ask to use a single thing here." You shrug off your coat as you pace across the floor. "Bathroom, kitchen, closet—it's all yours. Just don't pilfer my underwear drawer or something."

"I'm not a goddamn creep." He walks as though there's a tightrope beneath him, unsure of how far he can come into this space. He's been here numerous times before, but the new context in which he's entered makes him skeptical.

"And you can take the bed, too. I'll have the couch—"

"No—no fucking way." Kickstarted into action, he strides swiftly to you and demands your attention with a hand on your shoulder. "Absolutely not, idiot. You're gonna sleep in your own bed—I'm taking the couch."

He's firm, but he underestimates your determination. "No, you'll—"

"No."

You both are stubborn. Two unstopping forces that are also immovable objects.

Indeed, those two forces continue to muster sharp glares and cold shoulders while they get ready for the evening. You shove a set of your old clothes into his arms and demand that he take a bath for as long as he wants, and that he's free to use any shampoo and soap he finds. He's bitching and moaning the whole time, but eventually you successfully shove him into the bathroom and you stay against the door until you hear the bathwater running.

While he's busy, you finish a few odd chores and change into nightwear, picking something more modest than what you normally wear. Old blankets are found in your closet and tossed onto the couch, creating your pseudo-bed for however long it'll take to rehouse Levi.

Truly, how long will it take? He's financially ruined, left worse off than a bereft child. You don't know how long it'll take to pay off his debt, but until then he's left with few options. Right now, all he can do is share your intern's salary with you.

Putting the worry aside, you perch yourself on the couch and flick on the television, picking an unremarkable show to zone out to while you wait for your new roommate to return.

After an episode ends and another starts, the bathroom door finally creaks open. Levi steps out, rubbing his scalp with a bath towel he's borrowed. To your surprise, his top side is bare-deprived of the shirt you offered him. He wears the loose pants you gave him, though they sit low on his hips and the drawstring around their waistband is desperately fighting against gravity.

"Look—sorry, the shirt didn't fit right." He arranges the towel on his shoulders as if to give himself some decency. "I can put my button-up back on—"

"You don't have to." You say the words out of consideration, but a mere second later you realize how absolutely creepy you sound. "I mean—I don't care. Your old shirt needs to be washed, though—so don't wear that."

He exhibits an odd sort of bashful confidence when he slides the towel off his frame and tosses it into the hamper. Without it, his chest is free to boast its outstanding glory: gorgeous symmetry of muscle and bone, skin as pale and clean as his face, and shadowed curves that follow the contours of his physique. He's no bodybuilder, but he has vestigial bulk in his muscles from when fighting and brawling was common for him. It's an impressive sight, and one you spend a little too long examining.

"If the lady of the house insists." He combs back the damp locks that cling to his skull and rubs his nose.

"She does." Getting up, you pretend like you're not a lecherous fanatic as you walk past him, taking your turn to use the bathroom. "Pick anything on TV you want to watch. I have a few books, too, if you'd rather read. Make yourself at home."

When your teeth are brushed and your face is washed, you come back to find Levi has done absolutely nothing but curl up on the couch and engross himself in the same show you left on. It's like he doesn't want to touch anything. A respectful gesture, but one he ought to shed. You want him to be comfortable, and the way he can't seem to do anything but sit down suggests that your goal is not being met.

"You can watch in bed, if that'd be more comfortable." Pinning a shoulder against the wall, you grin lazily at your stubborn house cat.

"I'm staying here. You take the bed."

Here it comes. It's time for a fierce host to battle against her petulant guest.

You huff. "I already said you're taking it."

"I refused."

"I wasn't asking."

"I can still deny your orders."

"What happened to my prerogative?" You cock your head coyly as you ask.

He shoots an irate glare your way. "That crap has nothing to do with our sleeping arrangements. I'm staying on the damn couch."

"Okay." Plotting a new devious scheme, you slouch against the wall and cross your arms. "Then I'm staying right here."

"The fuck do you mean by that?" There's a reverberation of shock that courses through his body. He can tell you're about to play a stupid little game and he's mentally bracing himself for it.

"Just as I said. I'll stay right here, against this wall, all night. I guess the bed will stay empty."

He's on his feet. He will not take much more humor. "Are you fucking with me?"

"Nope." You're not afraid of him. If anything, it's enthralling to see him thrash in his struggle to be as self-reliant as possible.

But if he wants you with him, then he ought to let you care about him. Giving him the bed is the first step.

"Okay. Okay." Tonguing his canine, he finally acknowledges that you're not screwing around and that he is actually going to have to do something about this. Nodding, he makes up his mind and begins storming closer. "Sorry. I will give you a say in what we do, but this—I'm making the damn choice."

You're taken off the ground before you know it, swept up in his arms in the blink of an eye. A startled gasp slips out as you reach for the wall, desperate to get your anchor back. "Hey—Levi—"

"To the bed. If I have to physically put you there, then I will."

Your next target is his strikingly naked chest, a quality you try to ignore as you push palms into it. Your legs kick, but the fight is short-lived as within the next moment you're tossed onto your mattress like you weigh nothing.

"You—" Your first attempt to get off is met with hands on your shoulders that firmly pin you down. "Levi," you grumble, tossing in his grasp.

"There we are. Nice and cozy, isn't it?"

"Hardly. I—" The hand you shoot up is caught and forced back to the bed, Levi still the superior in agility and strength. "Hey—you—" Alas, the next wrist is taken, and within a few moments you're underneath him with wrists nailed down on either side of your head. He, in his half-nude splendor, looms over you without a shred of mercy in his eyes.

Absolutely no part of this is decent. You swallow thickly.

"Levi," you try again, stripping your voice of anxiety. Or, perhaps, excitement.

"Keep protesting, but you're not going anywhere. I'll stay like this until you fall asleep if I have to."

"Creep. How am I supposed to sleep like this?"

"Don't know." He shifts his weight down, resting his ribcage on your chest and diminishing the space between your faces. "But you'd better figure it out. I'm not moving."

You're certain he can feel your heart pounding, or perhaps he feels the heat under your skin. Squirming beneath him, it's hard to find the right thing to say or do. He's close, intimate, and daring to push all the boundaries you keep breaking.

"I—" You're ashamed to hear how soft the syllable came out. Shutting your mouth, you look for what to do next in his eyes.

They glow in the dimness of your apartment, his irises like little moons sculpted of silver. His grip has softened ever so slightly, though not enough to free you, and by now he's grown confident enough to slowly rub a thumb against your wrist, the one he once kept shackled out of his own selfish fear.

His lips have parted, like he too is lost for words. He doesn't need to say anything though—the way his gazes darts down to your lips says enough.

Ah. So he's probably thinking the same thing.

But there's a barrier in your mind that keeps you from exploring the thought. You hesitate now, hearing that nagging voice in your head that reminds you who you are looking at.

Levi doesn't know what to do. He detaches one hand rather mechanically, then decides to cup your face with it like it's the next action in a predetermined script.

"Hey," he murmurs, his breath soft against your cheek. "I...hm."

Your freed hand comes to his shoulder, then glides to his neck and snakes back to palm his nape. He's warm, too, and the blood sprinting through his veins passes under your hand. At least you're not alone in your stress.

He's right here. You both are right here, alone, close. Free from terror, safe from the world, warm in each other's presence. Over the course of months, you two have merged into a nearly inseparable being. Why would the urge that's on your mind be anything different?

You can't move. You have a million thoughts, but you can't act on any one of them. Shifting again, you wait for some direction that he's not giving.

Alas, all he can do is tinily shake his head. "I...I can't make this choice. I don't have the right."

He's right. Fuck, he's right, and it'd be much easier if he wasn't. He can't keep forcing both of you to take steps forward in a relationship that has been nothing but aggressive. It is up to you, the nurturer of his compassion, to say what should be done.

In a moment of pained contemplation, your gaze slips down to the wrist that he still holds down. He's so intimate, but he is still subjugating you. Holding you close, but without freedom. Beneath him like this, you cannot give free rein to your hungry thoughts. It wouldn't be right.

Your chest tightens and a lump builds in your throat. That sight hurts you because it tells you what is morally incorrect. It is incorrect to reward the man that traps you, to bond with your tormentor.

"Dammit," you breathe, like you have to agree to the command of a tyrant without consent. "Levi, I...I..."

"I understand," he whispers. "I—hey, hey. It's okay."

You must've started trembling at some point, because he's coming to your rescue by freeing your shackles and sliding arms under your back to embrace you. Pulling you up against his frame, he hides his face in your shoulder and murmurs more reassurance.

"Sorry." Without knowing it, you're already apologizing. "Sorry—"

"Don't be. A lot has happened to us. I've done a lot—you have nothing to apologize for."

"But—" There is no better time. You two can be together, since nobody's watching right now. The only obstacle is yourself.

But he held you down. Despite your urges, the past still clings to you like a ball and chain. You're scared to proceed with that weight dragging you down.

"You've done nothing wrong," he promises. "Absolutely nothing."

"I just—" You have to find an explanation. You need to say something. "I can't—yet. Fuck, I want—I c-can't—"

"I know. Don't worry. I already told you I'd wait." He clutches you like a stuffed animal, gentle but passionate. "No matter how long—you can take your time. Take years, decades, however long. Hell, wait until we both die. I don't care."

You drop a small, sardonic laugh, a painful chuckle that pushes past the lump in your throat. "That-that's dramatic."

"So I'm dramatic. Fine with me." His cheek nuzzles against your neck, loving the vibration of your laugh.

Successfully bottling up tears, you permit yourself to bask in his embrace. He is flawed, but he is the only person that is here for you right now.

"Thank you, Levi. Thank you."

He wants to deny any thanks, but he stops before he can reject your gratitude. Without a word, he just nods against you and holds you tighter.