Chapter Text
Your whole body is aching as you walk through the dimly lit parking lot. Another night of working hard. But you like the feeling. You like waking up in the morning with your muscles aching for rest.
Tonight didn’t go that well. There was a power outage in the middle of your performance. There wasn’t any rain but people suspected a lightning struck down some power lines. Whatever it was, it interrupted your show.
On top of that, you didn’t have that many customers to begin with. The number of tips for the day is low. Which is a bad thing when they make up the majority of your salary. You surmise it’s because the gay pride took place today. Most people either join the parade or stay at home to avoid seeing it.
You sigh and fiddle your car keys in your pocket. It’s well into the early morning. You can’t wait to go home and sleep. You have classes tomorrow as well. You just hope you don’t fall asleep in the middle of a lecture like you did today.
The parking lot is empty. The night club has already closed for the night and most people have left. Only a couple of cars remain, most of which belong to your co-workers. You’re contemplating your schedule for the rest of the week. You have classes tomorrow and Friday, then you work Saturday night. Luckily, you have Sunday off. You can just kick back and relax.
If it weren’t for the small grunt, you would probably have walked right past him, but the sudden sound makes you stop and look around. Your body tenses up in alarm. Most people who roam the streets at this hour are not up to good.
You see something in the shadows, a slumped form, and frown. Has someone passed out on the parking lot? It wouldn’t be the first time. Almost daily, the bouncers kick out people who are too drunk to stay, and sometimes those people can’t even comprehend ordering a taxi and just pass out.
You approach with caution. Nonetheless, this could still be someone pretending to be passed out just to grab and mug you when you get close enough.
But the form doesn’t move when you close in on them.
You kneel down in front of the person, ready to bolt at any time, and take a look.
He’s lying on the concrete on his back, his head resting on the edge of the sidewalk. He seems unconscious. You’d guess he’s maybe in his early thirties. His black hair is falling over his closed eyes and the steady rhythm of his breathing reveals that he’s very much alive. But that’s not what has caught your interest.
The attire he’s wearing is plain weird. He’s wearing a green cape over a brown jacket. Underneath is a simple white shirt. Tight pants and knee-high boots. And around his chest, hips and thighs, there are leather straps.
You think it over for a moment. This looks like some kind of military attire. You’ve seen similar ones at the gay pride, albeit not this exact one. You hum. He probably attended the parade in his Tom of Finland cosplay, got too drunk and passed out.
You contemplate leaving him there, but you know there are a few gangs operating in this area. This guy is just begging to get robbed.
“Hey,” you grasp his shoulders and shake lightly.
He doesn’t react. That out of it, huh?
You look over his attire and wonder if he has a cell phone on him. Maybe you can get a hold of someone who can come pick him up.
You pat down his chest but the jacket doesn’t seem to have any pockets. You move down his abdomen to his hips. You slide your hands down his thighs in your search for the phone, but there doesn’t seem to be one. But before you can do a thorough check, you’re interrupted by a quick hand snatching your wrist.
You look up. The man is now awake, looking at you with sharp eyes. They’re dark grey, almost black.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks with a steady, cold voice. The way he talks is a bit weird, the way he draws out syllables. It almost reminds you of those old Shakespearean plays you were forced to watch in high school.
“If you’ve got time to cop a feel, then you should…” His voice trails off as he looks around. His eyes widen slightly and he sits up abruptly. You wrench your wrist out of his hold and get back on your feet.
“Good, you’re awake. I’d suggest you get home before someone decides to mug you,” you tell him, now a bit wary, and rub your wrist. He has more strength than his appearance lets on. You turn to walk away.
You make it to your car before he calls out after you.
“Hey, kid,” he calls, his voice commanding. You turn to give him a raised eyebrow. He’s on his feet now, a scowl on his face as he looks around. He checks over his own body, then looks around again as if looking for something.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asks you sharply. He looks confused, but his stone-cold face is keeping most of it at bay.
“You had too much to drink at the pride and passed out on this parking lot,” you give him the most likely explanation. He frowns.
“Pride?” he repeats.
Is he really that drunk? Then again, his behaviour doesn’t seem drunken at all. He’s not swaying where he’s standing and his eyes are clear and sharp as he looks at you.
“You know, that annual parade where they celebrate gay culture,” you explain nonchalantly. He frowns even more.
“Gay culture? I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
“I assumed that’s where you were considering your attire,” you point out. You lean against the hood of your car and cross your arms.
“My attire? You don’t know what this is?” he asks you. His eyes are trying to remain calm and unaffected but you can see he’s getting anxious. You notice he’s breathing a bit faster than normal.
“Sorry, I really don’t recognize your cosplay,” you apologize. His eyes widen. Is he that upset that you can’t recognize his gay pride costume?
But you relax a little where you’re leaning against your car. He’s not approaching you. He doesn’t seem to be dangerous. Or even drunk. Maybe he just has narcolepsy and fell asleep on the parking lot.
“Where exactly am I?” he asks and folds his arms. He looks around again as if to confirm that the surroundings haven’t changed during the last few seconds.
“You’re in front of the Gartha Nightclub. 16th Cedar Street,” you explain. The words don’t seem to ring a bell, he looks even more confused.
“What time is it?” he asks.
“3:40 a.m. approximately. It’s the 21st of June.”
“What year?” he asks sharply.
“Year?” you give him a puzzled look. “2018.”
The man stays quiet for a long time. His eyes dart to map out his surroundings again, as if he’s looking for something, anything, familiar. Finally, he chuckles at himself in an unimpressed manner.
“I see. Maybe I finally lost my mind completely,” he snorts darkly to himself. He turns his eyes back to you. “2018 you say? That might just be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
He pauses.
“But it seems like I’ve got no choice but to believe you.”
You frown and look at him. He’s right. What he’s saying makes no sense. What he’s saying does sound insane. Maybe he needs acute psychiatric help? Should you call an ambulance?
“Do you remember your home address?” you ask him carefully. He looks at you for a while, clearly contemplating his options. Finally, he shakes his head.
“I can’t remember anything,” he confesses, though the words sound more calculated than sincere.
“Then, should I call an ambulance for you? Or maybe the police?”
“Police?” he asks and falls silent for a while to again think it over. A frown creeps on his face as he looks away.
“If they’re anything like the police I know it’ll do more harm than good,” he mutters to himself. “But it might be I’ve got no other choice.”
The police he knows? What is he talking about?
The things he’s saying are bizarre. And then there’s his weird outfit and the fact that he doesn’t seem to even own a cell phone.
You think furiously, trying to find an explanation for this weird situation you’re now shoved into. Then finally you find something that would make sense. Sort of.
“Are you a refugee? An undocumented immigrant?“ you ask. Does he not want to get the police involved because he knows he’ll get deported?
Your face darkens as you think about it. You’ve heard stories. Of refugees getting sent back to their home country and then getting tortured or killed.
The man thinks it over for a moment before nodding.
“That’s right. I’m a refugee. But, I can’t remember anything about where I came from.” Still, something about his words doesn’t sit well with you. He doesn’t sound sincere. He still sounds confused, but he’s trying to mask it under his cold expression.
You look at his face. You don’t know much about ethnic profiling but to you, he doesn’t look like he might be coming from Africa or Middle East. And there’s the fact that he speaks your language. Maybe with a weird intonation but it’s not an accent, it sounds more like a dialect.
“So please don’t call the police,” he requests and crosses his arms. “Or that ambu-thing.”
“You mean an ambulance?” You ask, taken aback. He doesn’t know what an ambulance is? Is there such a country that doesn’t have them?
He notices your dumbfounded look.
“Look. I can’t remember anything. Not where I came from or anything about how this place works. All I remember is that I’m a refugee and can’t get caught.”
“Can’t remember anything? You mean, you don’t even remember what ambulances are?”
“Yeah.” He’s standing still, gauging your reaction.
This turned out to be a lot more complicated than you initially thought.
What should you do now? He doesn’t want you to get officials involved in the fear of being deported, and you can’t leave him here to wander on his own. You sigh and curse a bit at yourself. You and your goody-two-shoes attitude.
“Get in,” you say and gesture towards your car. You take out the car keys and unlock the doors. He gives your car a wary look.
“You don’t remember what these are, either?” you ask. He shakes his head. You groan and open the passenger side door.
“It’s a car. You drive it to get from point A to point B.”
“Where are you planning to take me?” he asks and narrows his eyes. He doesn’t move towards the vehicle.
“My place. For tonight at least. I’ll figure out what to do with you tomorrow,” you tell him. It’s getting seriously late. You could just leave him here, but you know that if you read from tomorrow's newspaper that he got himself killed because he wandered to the wrong side of the city, you would feel guilty.
“I don’t need charity from you,” the man announces and clicks his tongue. “I’ll manage on my own.”
“You don’t know anything about this city. You don’t even remember what cars are. I don’t want to find out you got yourself killed and know it’s partially my fault.”
“I won’t get killed,” he says and sounds dead serious. Cocky even. You glance at his outfit and purse your lips.
“Do you even have any money?” you ask. He shakes his head nonchalantly. You sigh.
“I don’t have time to argue with you right now. You need a place to sleep and I trust my instincts enough to let you stay over. You don’t look like the type to strangle me in my sleep. Without money, your only option is to sleep on the streets. Or would you prefer me to take you to a homeless shelter?”
He looks back and forth between you and the car, weighing his options. As if to prove your point, a couple of gunshots echo in the night. Must be a gang dispute. The sounds seem to make him make up his mind as he finally walks to the car.
You climb in the car and fasten your seatbelt. He moves to sit down on the passenger’s side and slams the door shut after himself. You turn the key in the lock and the engine starts smoothly. You turn to look at him. He sits completely still, his shoulders tense. It truly looks like he doesn’t remember what cars are.
“What is it?” he asks and turns to give you a cold look, it almost looks like he’s blaming you for his unfortunate situation. You stare at him for a few seconds before sighing and reaching over. You take the seatbelt and pull it over his body.
“What are you doing?” he asks sharply.
“Fastening your seatbelt,” you explain dully and click the lock in place. You lean back. He gives you a suspicious look and tests the restraints.
“It’s a safety precaution. If this car crashes, it keeps you from being ejected straight out of the front window,” you elaborate.
“Ejected? This thing goes that fast?” He suddenly looks a lot less enthusiastic about deciding to come with you. If such a thing is even possible.
At that, you grin a little. Your car might not be new or particularly luxurious, but it reaches speeds up to 160 kilometres per hour just fine. And speeding along the freeway at night is one of your favourite things.
“You’ll see,” you hum and start driving out of the parking lot. You just wish your instincts are right and this man is truly not going to take advantage of your kindness to harm you. But out of the options you have, it’s the one you prefer.
You drive in complete silence. The few times you glance to the passenger seat, the guy is just idly staring out of the window, deep in thought. Only when you enter the freeway and step on the gas he acknowledges you.
“Are you sure it’s safe? I don’t want to die crushed inside this thing,” he tells you matter-of-factly. You snort.
“I’ve never crashed,” you reply and only to piss him off more, you press the gas even harder. From the corner of your eye, you see him clutch his seat but otherwise, he remains composed.
After about twenty minutes of driving, you pull up in front of your apartment building. You park your car and crank up the handbrake before turning to look at him.
“See? I didn’t crash.”
He gives you a mildly annoyed look and tries to yank his seatbelt off. You reach to release the buckle and then do the same for yourself. You step out of the car and start walking towards the building. The man stops for a moment to observe his surroundings and jolts a little at the honk your car makes when you lock it.
He’s quiet next to you as you ride the elevator to the 8th floor. You unlock your apartment and let him inside. You weren’t counting on having guests over today, so you haven’t cleaned. Your school bag is tossed on the floor in the hallway, next to a messy pile of shoes. You kick off your boots and wander to the living room. A half-drunk coffee mug is forgotten on the coffee table, a few used clothes sprawled over the backrest of the couch. He follows you in and wrinkles his nose at the slight mess.
“I showered before I left work but you look like you haven’t bathed in days,” you tell him. “Sit down.”
You gesture towards the couch. He narrows his eyes and carefully moves your clothes away before obliging. He crosses his legs and arms.
“What a dump,” he mutters to himself and looks at the used coffee mug on the table disapprovingly. You roll your eyes and leave him be. Talk about biting the hand that feeds.
You go to your bedroom and start sorting through the closet. He’s a bit short but you should have something that would fit him. Eventually, you find a pair of sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt. You take them and a pair of boxers and socks and carry them to the living room.
“Here,” you hand him the clothes. “They might be a bit loose but it’s still better than nothing.”
He looks at the clothes and utters a small hmm.
“As far as I can tell, those are men’s clothes.”
“I’m glad you’re able to tell as much,” you snort, unimpressed.
“Isn’t he going to be angry? Your lover,” he says lazily and makes no move to take the clothes. “His woman is dragging a strange man to her home and giving him his clothes.”
“Then he should have thought twice before dragging a strange woman here first,” you reply coolly. “I kicked his ass out a month ago and he still hasn’t come to claim the rest of his things. So, I’m just going to assume they’re mine now.”
He hums a bit, now looking mildly amused, and then grabs the clothes without another word. He gets up to follow you to the bathroom. You take out a clean towel from the cabinets.
“Here,” you hand it to him. You walk to the bathroom door but pause before exiting.
“You have no idea what a shower is do you,” you realize and turn. He’s staring at you expressionlessly. You take that as a yes.
You walk to the shower and turn the handle to make the water flow. He’s watching intently, his eyebrow arched up. It really doesn’t seem to ring any bells.
“Turn this knob to the left for hot water and to the right for cold water,” you instruct him. “And when you’re done, just turn this knob to the left.” You demonstrate and turn the water off. You go to the cabinets and rummage around a bit before you find what you’re looking for.
“Here,” you hand him a bottle of men’s shampoo and shower gel. “Use this for your hair and this for your body.”
He takes the bottles and you turn to leave the room. You close the door after yourself and sigh. Well, it’s a good thing your ex’s stuff is still here. At least something came out of that farce of a relationship.
You make some tea while the man is showering. You go through your fridge and finally grab a packaged sandwich you bought yesterday. You bet he’s hungry. You set the tea and sandwich on the coffee table and sit down on the couch with a sigh.
You still have no idea what to make of all this. You brought this man here because you felt sorry for him. Being in a foreign nation with amnesia, only remembering the fact that he can’t go back no matter what. Going to the immigration officials with nothing on him, no identification, claiming he has no memories, he’d probably get deported in a heartbeat. You got to admit, it is suspicious. As the refugee crisis continues in Europe, your country has tightened immigration laws considerably.
You think over his claims. They make sense given the circumstances, why he was all alone dressed up so weirdly. But something about it still doesn’t sit well with you. For someone with amnesia, he’s awfully calm. And when he claimed he was a refugee, he calculated carefully before saying it. But he did look legitimately lost when he saw your car and the shower. You doubt he would be able to fake such a reaction. And to you, for whatever reason it looked like he was trying to mask his ignorance.
The man comes out about twenty minutes later. He’s dressed in you ex’s clothes as he saunters to the living room. You were right, they are a bit loose on him, but not so much so that he’d be stumbling over the legs of his pants. He evaluates you for a while, water dripping from his hair to his shirt, before sitting down on the couch next to you.
“Eat,” you tell him and gesture towards the small meal on the coffee table. His eyes flash a bit when he notices the tea. He looks almost happy.
He takes a sip, and pauses.
“Not bad,” he finally relents and proceeds to drink it properly. You tilt your head to one side. Is that his version of a compliment?
“So, do you have a name?” you ask as he proceeds to take bites out of the sandwich in between drinking his tea. He doesn’t reply, and you take it as a no.
“I guess I need to give you one then,” you hum. You think it over.
“I had a dog when I was little. His name was Maurizio. How about that one?” you suggest and attempt a kind smile.
He pauses eating and turns to look at you. He blinks a couple of times, visibly annoyed.
“Levi,” he finally says, deadpan, and resumes eating. “But it doesn’t really matter. I’ll be gone soon enough. I just never want to hear such a ridiculous name being used when referring to me.”
“And what are you planning to do exactly, Levi?” you ask, unimpressed. “You have nothing. No money, no identification, no memories, nowhere to go.”
“I’ll figure something out,” he says. He doesn’t sound too worried. It sounds like he’s used to just figuring something out.
“But-”
“Listen, kid,” he interrupts you and places the tea cup down on the table. He gives you a cool look. “I can take care of myself.”
“Sure you can. You did a really decent job there, lying unconscious on the parking lot,” you snort. You lift your feet up to the couch and press your knees to your chest.
“Maybe your memories will come back soon. Don’t worry about it, just stay here for a couple of days.”
You feel responsible and it’s obvious Levi is in deep trouble. No matter where he’s from, it’s obvious he can’t go back. And if he ends up in the hands of the officials, they would probably send him out of the country. Or put him in custody while trying to figure out where exactly he should be deported to.
He narrows his eyes and looks at you, openly measuring you up.
“What do you want?” he suddenly asks.
“Huh?”
“I may not have my memories, but I do know a few things about the world. Such charity from a stranger, there is always a catch. You know I don’t have money, so what are you trying to get out of this?”
“Nothing,” you reply with a shrug. “Is human decency such an unfathomable concept to you? You need help, and I’m giving it to you. That’s that.”
You get up from the couch and stretch your limbs. You’re tired.
“Just sleep. At least for tonight.”
You walk to your bedroom and take out a spare pillow and blanket. You hand them to Levi and he takes them without complaints. He doesn’t look like he’s given up on the idea of leaving first thing tomorrow morning, but at least for tonight he seems resigned to stay here.
He burrows himself in the blanket without a word until you can only see the tip of his head. He almost looks like a sulking kid.
You turn the lights off on your way to the bedroom.
“Good night, Levi,” you wish him. He doesn’t respond.
-
When you wake up the next morning, it takes you a while to remember everything. As you stare at the ceiling, you slowly recall back to the night before. You seriously wonder if you made a mistake bringing a stranger into your house like that. But at least he didn’t kill you in your sleep. That counts for something.
You get up and stretch your arms over your head. You hear a couple of satisfying pops from your back and let out a relieved breath. You scratch your head sleepily and look around. Everything around you is untouched, including your wallet on the bedside table and your laptop on your desk. So, he didn’t rob you, either.
You walk out of the bedroom, dressed in nothing but a pair of underwear and a loose T-shirt. As you reach the living room, you notice Levi is already up.
He’s sitting on the couch, his back against the armrest. He’s still wearing your ex’s clothes and you notice that as a result of sleeping, his hair is a slight mess. In his hands, he has a book. He’s shuffling through it with a tense expression.
You notice it’s one of your history books. You purchased a bunch from a flea market a couple of months back because they were practically free. He must have retrieved it from the bookshelf.
“Interested in history?” you ask as you pass by him and walk to the kitchen.
“Not really,” Levi replies. He doesn’t detach his eyes from the book. You turn on the electric kettle and take out a mug.
“Do you want some coffee?” you ask him as you take out a jar of instant coffee. He shakes his head. You shrug and take out another mug to prepare him some tea instead. He seemed to like it last night.
You still have a couple of hours before you need to leave for class. You prepare a simple breakfast of some toast and leftover boiled eggs from the morning before. You place his tea and toast on the coffee table and then saunter to eat your breakfast at the small dining table situated in the corner of the living room.
It maybe should feel a bit weirder, having a strange man casually sitting on your couch, but you notice that you don’t feel uneasy. Levi hasn’t done anything to raise any red flags.
Levi closes the book and glances at the food you gave him. Ignoring the toast and egg, he instantly goes for the tea.
“What do you know about the year 850?” he asks and eyes you over his tea mug.
“850?” You frown. “It’s the Middle Ages. Lots of wars, third of Europe died of plague, the church controlled everything, everyone was miserable and died young,” you repeat what you recall from your history lessons.
“What kind of wars?”
“Mainly nobles squabbling over land and resources,” you shrug. You don’t know the details.
“That’s all?” he asks, eyes flashing strangely. You cross your legs and lean your cheek on your hand, giving him a bored look.
“What else is there to war? Just people killing each other for this or that reason.”
“People killing each other… You haven’t heard the word titan before?” he keeps inquiring. You give him a confused look.
“Titan? What the hell is that?” You’ve never heard of such a thing.
He sighs and tears his eyes off you, thoughtful and grim. It’s as if your reply confirms something to him.
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” Levi avoids your question. You raise an eyebrow.
“Are you claiming you’re a time-traveller or something? Because if you are, I might just have to drive you over to the psych ward.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Levi snorts but he doesn’t sound so sure himself. “Either way, I’ve decided,” he announces. “I’m going to take you up on your offer and stay here for a couple of days.”
“Oh?” you ask and nibble on the corner of your toast.
“So long as you know that I have nothing to repay you with. I have no idea why you insist on being such a good girl, but my most realistic chance of surviving this mess is to take advantage of that shtick of yours for the time being.”
“A shtick, huh,” you repeat dully and stare into your coffee mug. Well, you suppose he’s right.
“Don’t expect me to bow down and cry at your selflessness. But you do have my gratitude,” he says, reluctantly so, and crosses his arms. You glance at him and chuckle.
“Sure.”
At least the next couple of days will be interesting, amongst your otherwise boring and ordinary life.