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Levi Ackerman hates having his picture taken.
At least, that’s what you’ve come to realize. He has a unique talent of always knowing when a camera has found him, because every time your lens focuses on him from your place near the first-base line, his eyes seem to cut through all of the fans and uniforms and advertisements, past the fence and flashing lights, until they land directly on you. Then he scowls.
You lower the camera the first time it happens. Then Levi turns away, rolling his shoulder as he talks to Jean Kirstein, subsequently making Connie Springer burst into laughter.
You lift your camera again.
Click.
Levi standing at shortstop with his cap pulled low, his face blank beneath the shadow of the brim.
Click.
Levi tugging his glove tighter around his wrist, his mouth pressed into an irritated line while Eren Jaeger talks at him.
Click.
Levi catching a friendly throw from Marco Bott during break without even looking like he’s trying, the ball smacking into his hand.
It’s just professional interest. He’s the team captain, after all. He’s got a face that cameras love and a presence that turns even his unbridled boredom into a picture worth framing. Besides, your blog covers the whole team. You photograph everyone.
Mostly.
By the end of the night, the Scouts win by two runs. Jean is yelling, Connie is trying to climb onto Reiner Braun’s back, Armin Arlert looks like he’s about to collapse, and Levi walks off the field with dirt on his uniform and absolutely no joy on his face. You’re used to it, at this point, having photographed their games for the past few months.
You’re in the middle of reviewing your shots when you hear a voice directed at you.
“You always point that thing at people like you’re planning on blackmailing them??
You look up so fast the camera strap catches against your neck. Levi stands on the other side of the low barrier, cap in one hand, his hair slightly damp with sweat. His uniform is still dusty from the game. Up close, he’s shorter than you thought, but that doesn’t stop the sheer force he holds.
“Only the suspicious ones,” you say.
He lifts an eyebrow. Great. Fantastic first impression. But Levi only looks at the camera, then back at you. “Press?”
“Independent. I run a few sports photography blogs.”
“A few.”
“You know, teams, highlights, game recaps. That sort of thing.”
“Hm.” He narrows his eyes slightly, assessing you. “Name?”
You blink and point at yourself. “Mine?”
“No, the camera’s.”
You laugh. You can’t help it. It surprises both of you. You can tell because his expression shifts by an almost microscopic degree, but since it’s coming from Levi Ackerman—a man who didn’t even blink when a group of men streaked across the field naked once—it sets off fireworks inside you. You give him your name. He repeats it once, then nods toward your camera.
“Try not to make me look stupid,” he says.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” you tease.
His mouth twitches, just barely.
.
The next game, you’re sitting near the dugout during warmups, adjusting your lens when Levi suddenly appears in front of you, his shadow falling over you.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
Your finger slips against the focus ring. “Tell you what?”
The smug look on his face already tells you exactly what he’s about to say. Before you can even open your mouth, he recites, “‘Captain Ackerman has a rare ability to look annoyed even in victory. A difficult subject, but a rewarding one.’”
Your face flushes with heat so fast you almost tip over. “You found the blog.”
“You gave me your name.”
“I didn’t think you’d look me up.”
“That was stupid of you.”
You press the back of your hand against your mouth, torn between horror and laughter. “In my defense, most people don’t immediately investigate photographers after one conversation.”
“Most people don’t have an entire page dedicated to my batting stance.”
“It’s a good series.”
“There are almost twelve photos from just one game.”
“The lighting changed.”
“Sure it did.”
You glance toward the field, where Eren is shouting something at Reiner. No one—the team, the staff, the fans around you—seems to notice that you’re currently being confronted by the subject of your most popular blog, which is good, because you might actually evaporate if some crazed Levi fangirl comes and breaks your camera for daring to talk to him.
Levi leans one arm against the barrier. “So?”
“So what?”
“Am I your favorite?”
You make a small slightly shocked noise. His face is perfectly blank, but his eyes tell all. Teasing, maybe. Testing, definitely. You scoff and lift your camera, mostly so you have something to hide behind.
“You’re not as bad as everyone says you are.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It answers several questions.”
“Not mine.”
You focus on him through the lens. It’s easier to be around him that way, with a little distance, with his face inside a frame where you can ignore the fact that you absolutely have a crush on this man.
“You’re interesting,” you say.
Levi’s gaze flickers to the camera. “That another word for difficult?”
“Sometimes.”
This time, the almost-smile is clearer. You take the shot before he can stop you.
.
After that, Levi becomes a problem—in a good way.
He knows where you stand during games. He knows when your camera follows him after a clean catch or a stolen base or one of those impossible throws that makes the entire crowd erupt into cheers. He knows when you catch him in the dugout with his arms crossed, staring at the field after a particularly difficult inning.
And because he knows, since you’re incredibly embarrassed by the fact that he knows your blog now, you photograph everyone except him.
Marco laughing with Armin during warmups. Reiner cracking his knuckles before stepping up to bat. Bertolt looking terrified until the exact moment the pitch comes, when his whole body seems to just suddenly remember what to do. Floch, surprisingly, looking particularly handsome as he slides into second base.
You still take a few of Levi. A few. Not many. Barely any really. When you post the gallery that night, you title it and close your laptop, pretending to not wonder what Levi will say about it tomorrow.
.
The next afternoon, Levi finds you before the game even starts.
“Are you trying to make a point?”
You look up from your camera bag, fighting the smile already sneaking onto your face. “Well, good afternoon to you too, Captain.”
“Don’t start with that shit.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You posted three photos of me.”
“Four, actually.”
“One was the back of my head.”
“Just appreciating your haircut.”
He stares at you. You stare back. Levi doesn’t look away from you. “You had twenty of Floch and Marco,” he says.
You lose the fight and smile. “Were you counting?”
“No.”
“Really? Because it sounds like you were counting.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Okay.”
“Floch looked smug in half of them.”
“He had a good game.”
“He tripped once. You didn’t photograph that.”
“You’re very invested in this.”
“I’m the captain.”
“Right,” you say, tilting your head. “That’s definitely what this is.” You don’t know what it is—maybe it’s the fact that he’s standing so close to you, or the leftover thrill of being noticed—but bravery surges inside you. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”
Levi looks at you like you’ve just insulted his ancestry. Then his eyes drop, briefly, to the camera hanging against your chest.
“I’m not jealous of Floch,” he almost mutters.
“Marco too, apparently.”
“I’m not jealous of Marco either.”
You laugh loudly. The sound should irritate Levi, but it doesn’t. Instead, a warm feeling spreads through his chest, his attention latching onto the sound. He likes your laugh. A lot. He’s almost willing to come over every single game just to hear you laugh again.
Then he reaches over the barrier and taps two fingers against the top of your camera. “Take better pictures today,” he says.
“Of the team?”
He looks at you, a dangerous half-smile playing at his lips. It’d be invisible to anyone who hasn’t spent far too many evenings studying his face through a lens.
“Don’t be stupid,” Levi says, and walks back toward the field. Then, a few steps in, he turns back around, unable to help the full smile that spreads.
You raise your camera before he can hide it. Click. This one, you already know, is going on the main page of your blog.