Aftersome

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at [Link]

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Major Character Death
Categories: M/M, Multi
Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman & Armin Arlert & Eren
Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman/Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager
Characters: Armin Arlert, Mikasa Ackerman, Eren Yeager, Hange Zoë, Levi
Ackerman, Bertolt Hoover, is mentioned pero like doesn't actually
appear
Additional Tags: Hurt No Comfort, We Die Like Men, i mean there's a little comfort but,
Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Manga Spoilers, up to chapter 135
or so, Grief/Mourning, Angst and Tragedy, can't believe i'm doing this in
the year 2021 but here we are, Character Study, Mild Sexual Content, i
mean not really but i'll tag anyways, Canon-Typical Violence
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of Solitario
Stats: Published: 2021-02-13 Words: 11,492 Chapters: 1/1
 Aftersome
by RosaTonta

Summary

Armin has heard members of the wall cult talk of sin. Greed, avarice, covetousness. Perhaps
he’s guilty of something like pride. Not in himself or his own achievements, but in Eren. In
his faith that he understands this man through and through. If neither Erwin nor Eren are the
saviors of humanity, maybe Armin isn’t either?

Maybe this is their downfall?

Notes

Aftersome
adj. astonished to think back on the bizarre sequence of accidents that brought you to where
you are today—as if you’d spent years bouncing down a Plinko pegboard, passing through a
million harmless decision points, any one of which might’ve changed everything—which
makes your long and winding path feel fated from the start, yet so unlikely as to be virtually
impossible.
via The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

See the end of the work for more notes

 i

He doesn’t feel different, usually. There’s the same falter in his step when he dismounts a
horse too quickly, the vestigial twinge from a former fear of his heel becoming stuck in the
stirrup. Illness takes him too easily, crawling down his raw-rimmed throat and settling its
watery weight in his lungs. He’s still the first to be bedridden that winter, still feels the deep
thrumming ache in his neck from falling asleep at a desk, still Armin Arlert. But when he
catches a brief flash of his own reflection while bathing (he hates what he sees, cannot look
for too long or he’ll spiral) his scars are gone from between the notches of his ribs, from his
palms, from the crook behind his knee. There are times when he wakes up, startled and
bathed in a thin sheet of sweat. He feels breathless, constricted, as if he’d just been snugly
cocooned in muslin. He’s always chasing the tails of memories as they recede into a place he
can no longer reach. Though he knows what they must be, from whom they’re borrowed.
Sometimes he finds himself in a place neither of dreams nor of reality, staring into the gaping
sorrowful eyes of Bertolt’s Colossal Titan. He never says a word, probably can’t in this form.
And they simply stare at one another until Armin’s released from this state. The first breath
of morning always feels sharper, then. Colder. Like a knife down his throat.

Now is one of those times when the differences throw into sharp relief just how unchanged
he is. Some distance from Karanes, vaguely in the direction of Shiganshina but just to the
east, there had been a small village. Its ruins stand just over a kilometer from the towering
shadow of Wall Maria. Armin can’t recall its name, it had simply been referred to as the
Eastern Testing Ground for so long that he’s not sure if anyone in Squad Levi does. It’s their
first time here, scoping out a base camp and transporting their equipment taking a day longer
than planned. It’s funny how the newly built roads, the plans for a train and a port, make one
day seem like significant time now. The air had buzzed with excitement that morning, a fresh
batch of recruits chattering about their luck at being posted for this exercise. Armin had
struggled to pick at his bread, certain that they had different definitions of luck. He’d been
new once, though that feels so long ago. He can remember the awe of being outside Wall
Rose for the first time, the longing to push further and further all the way to the sea. He can
remember how quickly that awe had curdled to despair. The Survey Corps hasn’t had a
recruiting problem since Maria’s reclamation. On a logistical level, this is good. It’s been a
long time since they’ve had personnel for a steady HQ building, for maintenance and large-
scale drills. But the new recruits are different, spurned forwards by a recklessly fevered
nationalism that Armin still can’t wrap his head around.

Dangerous, is what it is.

But those worries won’t help him now, so he folds them away for later and takes his position
at the village center. He stands between what was once a private home and a small
apothecary. The buildings here are older, built more loosely of piled stones and thatched
roofs. The apothecary has a painted sign, bleached by the sun until he can’t tell if it’s an
illustration of chamomile or coneflower. He takes a breath and gazes at a smashed window
shutter. He closes his eyes and says goodbye, wishing it didn’t feel so disrespectful to raze a
place whose name he can’t recall. They’d done this before, a kilometer offshore, and in the
gutted ruins of his hometown, but this is somewhere new. After all, with the effort to restore
Shiganshina they can’t just keep blowing it up. So they’ve found fresh earth to char.

He can’t help the familiar twinge as he slides the knife from his belt. Mikasa and Eren, he
knows, are braced behind Wall Maria. All of them are. Commander Hange is confident in
their calculations, that they’re at a safe distance behind proper cover. Yet still his heart sings
worry in his chest. Nothing feels as inevitable as fear’s cold grip around his neck. But he grits
his teeth against it and forces every breath until the blade bites the pink flesh of his palm. He
knows what happens next by heart. A wicked flash, a bolt of searing light before a great and
shattering exhalation. He doesn’t feel the explosion, but he feels an expansion. The ropes of
sinew, bone, and muscle climb up around him and raise him into the sky, swallowing him
whole. The first time it had felt as though a clap of thunder had shaken him apart, shattered
every bone and transplanted him into an unyielding mountain that he just couldn’t control.
Now his immediate complaint is simply the staggering, oppressive heat of it all.
The Colossal Titan is still a bit unwieldy, even with his sharp focus at the helm. Bertolt must
have had a natural aptitude to make it seem so effortless, and he’s spent many nights
punishing himself for his continued inability to be what they need most. Even Armin’s form
of the titan is thinner in places, sickly and dry where the wind chafes bare tissue and
ligament. The spine is exposed where the hollow of his throat would be, ghoulish and
vulnerable. He releases a tumult of steam, comforted slightly by the vented heat, and lifts one
arm into the sky. The movement still feels heavy as the limb responds to the command just a
moment late. However, such free control of anything is a hard-won victory. At the start, he
had been lucky simply to stand still without collapsing under the weight of it all and needing
rapid rescue.

Humiliating, is what he’d call it.

At the signal, he knows they’ll be on the move. They’ve done drills before, testing his
endurance, his motor skills, the potential of combining the powers of the Colossal and Attack
titans. The first time he’d had Eren’s titan step into his hand, he’d felt so small. The same
titan Armin had ridden, anchoring himself to his shoulder by clinging to his unruly hair, now
fit neatly in his palm. He can still taste the terror in the back of his throat at the responsibility
of it all. What a great show of confidence and trust it had been from Eren, to allow him to
hold him and raise him high into the air. He’d transferred him from right hand to left and then
back again before sluggishly lowering him once more to safety and Armin had held his
breath the whole time. Eren had felt so light, the titan’s weight hardly registering on his hand.
And now, as he senses the Scouts’ approach, he almost doesn’t even notice Mikasa land
lightly on his shoulder. It’s the same sensation as looking down and noticing a mosquito
perched on your arm on a muggy summer night. He holds perfectly still, fright’s icy grip
tightening around his windpipe. It’s too easy to picture burning her away with steam, or
jostling her to her death on the ravaged earth below. But he knows neither will happen. She’s
leading a small squad of newer recruits, neither completely green nor experienced. The idea
had made Armin sick with worry when Hange proposed it, but he knows it’s as beneficial for
them as it is for him. Squad Levi may not always be there to cut him free. It’s a potential
reality whether he likes it or not, and other members should know how to do it in case of
emergency. It’s not their fault everyone who isn’t Squad Levi is, well, generally
inexperienced.
He’s learning how to free himself from the tremendous body, hoping to gain that
independence soon. But he holds still while Mikasa, watchful as always, prompts one of them
to swing at the thick cords of muscle on the back of the neck. It’s a tricky incision. Too
shallow and it may simply release a jet of steam and burn them, too deep and it could kill
him. Or maim him, not that it would have a lasting impact anymore. But it would still hurt.
He hears the telltale whiz of the maneuver gear and closes his eyes. He makes peace with
whatever happens before it happens, because he has to. And then there’s the sudden gasp of
air at his back and he’s tilting backwards out of the titan’s flesh as the titan tilts forward,
growing limp. He takes a deep, gasping breath. His shirt is slicked with sweat along his spine,
hair damp and clinging around his temples. Steam rises all around them as the monumental
body begins to decay.

“I— I did it!”

He’s blinking his eyes open blearily through the mist, as of yet unable to tell who the recruits
are by voice alone. There’s a moment of disorientation, a dizziness that seizes him upon the
transfer of consciousness from one vessel to another. But even through the haze, he knows
the hand alight upon his shoulder is hers.

“Armin,” Mikasa’s voice is a gentle sigh. He smiles at the very sound of it.

“How was it?” The main point of the exercise had been to see if he could manage the
transformation’s blast. If it’s not always an uncontrolled explosion, tactical options greatly
expand. But compacting all of that energy had been difficult, even with all of his focus.
However, Bertolt could do it. So they know it’s possible. So too, then, must Armin.

She pauses for just a beat too long. “Commander Hange will know for sure.”

Ah. He knows what that means. The fear is choking him now. But he doesn’t need that to
know he’s an embarrassment. A failure. He can barely walk in titan form, much less not
mindlessly destroy everything around him through the simple act of shifting. He nods,
knowing if he speaks his voice will waver from the sting of it all. Exhaustion tugs at his very
bones. The titan’s body suddenly lurches forward, speeding through decomposition. One of
the chattering recruits yelps, Mikasa’s eyes widening as he slides from the shoulder’s wide
berth completely. He deploys his gear, the high whine of the metal lines filling the air. They
find purchase.

Armin screams.

One hook embeds itself in the flesh just beneath his clavicle, it cleaves him through
completely, anchoring him to the remains of the titan’s neck. The second jams into the space
between his ribs. It pierces a lung and he lets out a desperate, choking cough. He’s dimly
aware that the wet gurgles are coming from him, blood spilling hot and fast down his side as
Mikasa orders the cadet to retract the wires now that he’s safely landed. Armin doesn’t need
to see his horrified face, doesn’t want to. He can’t even fully understand what’s being said as
flashes of pain fill him head to toe, locking his muscles with brilliant bursts from frayed
bundles of nerves. It would be wonderful if they failed like the rest of him, faltered in the line
of duty and stopped sending the command to suffer all through his flesh and bone. But of
course, this one piece of him holds steady.
Mikasa wraps her hand around his and squeezes. She presses near to his side and anchors him
against the violent snap of the retracting gear. The unmistakable crack of ribs as it exits lets
him know it’s over. He’s split open before them. Overripe, overwarm, iron and sweat on his
tongue. He can’t even scream again, a half-moan fizzling into a desperate gasp. His lung has
collapsed. The pressure in his chest has him seeing spots and gritting his teeth with every
shallow inhale. It’s all he can do to slump back against the titan’s hot flesh and stare vacantly
into the sky as blood bubbles up and out, spilling past his teeth and dribbling onto his collar.
It’s searing, even through his clothes, but he can’t move. The blood is too warm, slick and
sticky on his side. Hot, hot, everything is so hot. Mikasa’s voice barks something sharp and
he gurgle-coughs uselessly, fighting to draw another breath. Steam curls gently from his skin
as if from a bath. It’s slow, weak. It’s nothing like the vigorous plumes when Eren is injured.

“Armin,” Mikasa’s face comes into focus as she leans into view. Worry tugs her lips
downward, creases the smooth skin between her brows. He hates how it looks on her. “Armin
can you hear me?”

A half-nod, interrupted by a garbled groan.

“I’m going to pick you up now, okay?”

All he can do is moan hoarsely. She understands, scooping him into her arms as gingerly as
she can. It sends blinding pain all through him, like a branding iron. But he closes his fists
against it and struggles on another excruciating breath. Next thing he’s aware of, he’s being
laid out on the ground. The grass is gone, the sheer force of his transformation exposing the
loam. His head falls limply back and Mikasa stays by his side, never letting go of his hand.
They’ve sent up a flair, but he doesn’t know what color. He does know, however, that the
others will be here soon. He’ll be on display, dejected and weak, but he can’t even care
because it’s all he can do to draw his next breath and not choke on his own blood. She notices
this, moving to gently tilt his head upward. Her fingers are cool and soft at his nape and his
eyes flutter closed.

He’s not sure, but he thinks he hears voices, someone yelling. Eren, his mind supplies from a
distance. It’s too much to drag open his eyelids, so he doesn’t. His hand goes limp in
Mikasa’s grasp as he slips into the darkness.

It’s not that he’d thought that suddenly his strength would be greatly improved. But it feels a
bit in vain, to have his body stitch itself back together. It’s an act of love for a vessel he’s
always despised. For someone who’s never done anything but fall short of expectation. He’s
frail and pitiable, trembling under the very weight of being alive. It’s certainly undeserved.
Useless. Useless weak bastard. It’s a chant that he knows well, the words’ jagged peaks and
valleys a familiar taste in his mouth. They’re perfectly sharp and staccato, daggers he can
plunge into his side whenever he feels that he deserves it most. It’s all wasted on him and he
knows it. They know it too, Floch is just the only one with enough brashness to say it.

It should’ve been Commander Erwin.

As if summoned, the commander’s hollowed face comes to him. His clouded eyes are half-
lidded and staring unseeing into nothing, face an ashen grey. His cheeks are sunken and body
stiff. The Wings of Freedom are bloodied on his breast pocket. Armin can’t help the pitiful
tears as they well and burn in his eyes. Half-formed apologies press against the backs of his
teeth, flood his chest and reverberate uselessly in his skull. It’s too late for that.

“I can’t—” He bites back a sob, “I’ll never be— It should’ve been you! I should’ve stayed
dead!” He’d continue if he could, turning the blade of his own knife against himself in the
verbal abuse, but the air is suddenly cut from his lungs. Sputtering and gagging, the world
goes dark. There’s a full body wretch and he hunches over miserably. His hands fly to his
own throat, as if that would help. There’s a flash of annoyance at himself even now. He takes
a sharp, thin breath through his nose and gags again. There’s something...lodged in his
trachea. With horror, he tries to swallow but it won’t go down. Finally, a violent hacking
cough seizes him and he can feel it dislodge. Whatever it is, it lands in his palm with a little
wet smack. It’s almost frightening to look, but he still does. A small purple flower rests in his
hand. It’s partly crushed now, shiny with spit and blood. It’s a delicate little thing, narrow
spears of petals encircling a yellow-button center. He blinks sluggishly down at it. He’s seen
this before.

“Hey!”

Armin swivels his head sharply, tears drying against his cheeks.

Oh.

When had he gotten here? The fields outside Shiganshina shimmer brilliantly in a
midsummer haze. The grasses are warm beneath him, soaked in sunshine. Clusters of purple-
blue flowers bob their heads lazily in the breeze. His eyes widen. That’s right. Bellflowers.
Eren wades through them, waving an arm happily as he approaches. He’s the wrong age. He’s
only about nine, one of his front teeth still missing. Armin’s brows furrow.

“Hey, Armin!” He repeats, jogging towards him.

The earth opens, a great yawning chasm blooming between them. But Eren keeps running,
his brilliant grin untarnished. Armin wants to warn him, to yell and scream and cry. But
there’s another flower blooming in his throat and all he can do is grip at his neck, eyes
watering, as Eren moves relentlessly, unstoppably forward. As he barrels down, down, into
the darkness.

Armin awakens with a startled gasp.

Someone has removed his boots and ruined shirt before placing him into a cot. His feet are
well-calloused now, but he can still recall the blisters from training. How they burst and bled
even through his doubled wool socks. Every step had come with a hiss of pain and he’d
swallowed them all so as to not worry his friends while he struggled to keep up. He blinks,
bleary, spots gathering in his vision in the too-bright afternoon light. He still doesn’t feel
right, but the unfathomable thought-terminating agony is gone. It’s familiar now, the phantom
ache of knowing there should be pain where there isn’t. His thoughts, always spinning wildly
in his skull, struggle to comprehend his knit-together body. He rolls his shoulder and sits up.
No discomfort rattles his ribs as he luxuriates in a full, deep breath. All that’s left is the flat
exhaustion that consumes him after healing.
“You’re awake.”

Armin startles.

“I’m glad,” Eren sits far from him, even in the small space. It’s the medic tent, larger than
their sleeping units but not by much. He has his back to the canvas, slumped in a squat
wooden chair. His hair is loose, nearly to his shoulders now as he leans forward and takes a
deep breath.

He looks so distant. In the past, he would’ve been so near that his knees would’ve scraped the
bedding. Armin swallows, unsure why he’s disappointed. All he can think of is child Eren
running so gladly towards his own destruction in the blinding sunshine, Armin’s own voice
muzzled and useless. He looks down, gathering the scratchy wool blanket in his fists at his
lap. He nods, feeling the ghost of that muzzle even now. He manages a noncommittal hum.

“Armin,” There’s the soft pad of footsteps against the soil before Eren forces his way into
Armin’s line of sight. The cot dips under his weight as he settles on the edge. Slowly, slowly,
he coaxes the blanket from between Armin’s curled fingers and intertwines their hands like
they’re children again. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you think Floch was right?”

“No. Absolutely not.” There’s no room for disagreement in his voice. It hardens along with
the clench of his jaw. But his grip remains gentle and comforting. The dissonance makes
Armin’s head spin. “Don’t say things like that.”

Armin raises his head to look into grey eyes he knows already are flickering with the ferocity
of righteous indignation. There are times when Eren feels far away. His eyes are open, but he
isn’t really there by their sides. He sees some great cavernous past, lost in memories that
aren’t his own and unable to wade back to the present. He’s confided in Armin about the
overwhelming rush of time’s current, but has never gone into great detail about the Founding
Titan’s ability. Armin can understand, on a smaller scale. He’s woken chasing Bertolt’s
visions against the black of predawn many times, leaving him melancholy and more tired
than he was before. He can’t help but fear losing Eren to that riptide, living more in other’s
minds and pasts than his own present. But here and now, with his hand held tightly, Eren is
right next to him. Armin swallows, knocked breathless by the weight of his gaze. It’s like
he’s never been anywhere else. It’s like Armin’s fretted over nothing. Perhaps he has.

“Sorry,” He nods, chided. “I know you don’t like it when I say those things.”

“I don’t like it because it’s wrong. It’s so wrong, Armin.”

“I failed the test today. Eren, if I can’t control the blast...”

Eren huffs, frowning. “It was the first try! Don’t you remember all the time I spent figuring
out the Attack Titan?”

“Ah...that feels so long ago, now.”

Eren gently squeezes his hand, “I told you about the time my arm transformed when I was
just trying to pick up a spoon?”

“Yeah,” He half-smiles, “You said it freaked everyone out.”

“There I was, hanging by the elbow from a giant steaming titan fist. I thought they were
going to attack me, everyone was so tense. I just wanted a spoon.”

He bites his lip and shakes his head, holding back a laugh. “I bet Hange was excited.”

“They were. Too excited, if you ask me.” He smiles. It’s a small gesture, but it makes some
unseen weight lift from Armin’s shoulders. “We’ll try again. You can reliably transform, you
can already walk and lift things. I bet you could even lift a spoon.”

This pulls a huff of laughter from the other, “Yeah. I bet I could.”

They quiet, the measured rhythm of Eren’s thumb dragging against Armin’s skin inviting his
eyes to flutter shut. He’s not sure for how long he was out, but exhaustion’s pull is nearly
eternal at this point. The touch isn’t apprehensive at all when Eren presses his other palm to
Armin’s forehead. He takes a breath and leans into it. The touch remains for longer than
necessary. He won’t complain.

“You were so feverish,” He explains and Armin can feel how close he is without even
looking, “You sweated and bled through your shirt. We’ll have to get you a new one.”

He makes a face, “Gross,”

It’s challenging, drawing his eyes open once more. But when he does, Eren is leaning so
close. Even when he drops his hand, he doesn’t move. He’s searching for something in
Armin’s pale face, and he lets him. Armin swallows, staring right back. Eren looks like he’s
going to say something, his lips parting briefly before he changes course and simply presses
their foreheads together for a moment. Armin’s fiercely longed for the days when casual
touches were a thoughtless indulgence they shared nearly constantly. Eren had never been
good at personal space, and it had never dawned on him before to question it. It likewise had
never occurred to him that he’d one day feel its absence like a missing limb. He wants to
soak in the revelry of Eren’s touch with an intensity that nearly shakes him. He has to catch
his breath.

“Ere— Oh, Armin! You’re awake.” Mikasa’s brushing aside the fabric flaps at the tent’s
entrance. She holds a bowl in one hand, a waterskin hanging from her wrist. She smiles, her
lips pressed together with relief glimmering in her eyes. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine, I promise.” He nods, watching as she comes to stand by his bedside. It’s a chore to
keep his face from falling as Eren pulls away. But they’re still connected by their hands in his
lap. “I’m sorry for giving you such a scare.”

“That wasn’t your fault. I’ve already told that kid before to be more careful with his gear.”
Her eyes flash, almost dangerously. “He won’t forget again.”
“Oh— um...there’s no need to terrify him. Though...if he’d hit anyone else, they might not
have made it.” He laughs feebly, humorless.

She doesn’t look convinced. “Here, eat.” She holds out the bowl and he can now see its
steaming contents. “There’s bread, too. I can bring some back. You need your strength.”

He takes it from her, untangling his hand from Eren’s. It’s fresh soup, vegetables and barley
bobbing in the red-brown broth. He’s hardly eaten properly; he's been so busy between
diplomatic relations with the Anti-Marleyan volunteers and the Colossal Titan exercises. He
knows she watches him just as much as she watches Eren. She’s absolutely noticed the
hollows between his ribs expanding. It sends a pang of guilt down his spine and he forces
himself to grip the spoon. It’s almost too hot as he swallows. It could use a little salt, but field
rations are hardly ever luxurious. They both watch him expectantly, so he takes another sip
and then nods.

“Thank you, Mikasa. It’s perfect.”

“I’ll go get some bread.”

Eren tilts his head, “Look at that, you can lift a spoon.”

ii

A year later, he finds himself at the sea. The day breaks slowly, pink and gold filtering
through the wisps of clouds overhead. They float lazily over the water and as the veil of night
is lifted, Armin is already quite far down the shore. He isn’t far from the harbor, but he walks
steadily away from it and watches as the waters rush in. They’re fading black to navy to a
soft grey-blue and he can hardly believe how beautiful, even after years of the sight. He’d
slid on his boots in the dark that morning, and has kept them on even as he progresses
through the sand. It was a lesson he’d only needed to learn once, the coast’s brutal numbing
cold as of yet unheated by the sun.

There’s a detour up and through the dunes as he circles back, layered shallow root systems
cross hatching the ground. He holds a notebook beneath his arm. It’s been with him since
they were cadets, four years ago. The leather is softened at the edges and scuffed in places,
but he holds it gingerly as he kneels before a particular patch of plants. It’s a new species,
well new to him. He plucks one of its leaves and tucks it gently between the pages for later.
It’s possible one of the Anti-Marleyan volunteers will be familiar with it and can help him
identify the genus. The thrill of something novel, even if seemingly insignificant, will never
wear off. Trudging forward again, he eyes the open sky and watches until the sun is a wash of
pale peach and lilac. It’s easy, in the pensive early morning stillness, to wonder at the state of
the tides. To try to predict how much time he has until they begin to lower again. He’s
noticed that they come in cycles; narrowing down the average times becomes a burgeoning
pet project of his.

He smells smoke as he approaches camp. They must be awake. Still, his progress halts as a
spark of color catches his eye. A cluster of purple flowers waves and clings to the liminal
space between sand and soil. Armin’s eyes widen and he kneels to gaze at them more closely.
It’s unexpected to see these growing so far out. He wonders at the ingenuity of nature. The
universe has a demonstrable preference for life. Perhaps the seeds had been carried out by a
bird? Perhaps they had been created by a god who values these varied lives as much as Armin
does? Perhaps not. Maybe a flower is just a flower. But as Onyankopon had said, isn’t there
freedom in simply considering these things?

“Hey, breakfast is almost ready.” Eren’s voice interrupts from above. He nods and plucks up
the delicate blooms before standing. Eren watches his progress up the incline, only briefly
squinting at the horizon.

“Here,” He holds the flowers out.

He takes them and considers for a moment, “That’s nice, Armin.” Then he turns and heads
back towards camp.

Armin somehow feels chagrined, childish for marvelling at something so small. It only
dawns on him now that his action killed the blossoms, the very things he’d been trying to
appreciate. And it seems it’s for no reason as they hadn’t even lit a dim spark of recognition
in Eren’s eyes. The mornings are often like this, Eren adrift in thought and quiet as they force
down their dry rations. The fire beats back the dawn’s chill and Armin holds his fingers
toward it. They’re pink from cold, like his nose and cheeks. Mikasa offers her jacket to him,
but he declines graciously. It’s an old routine of theirs, but he and Mikasa dance the dance.
They know all of the steps, anyways. Eren’s stopped fussing over him like he used to and he
still hasn’t decided if it’s an intentional act of mercy or not. They lock eyes over the fire, just
for a moment, and Armin lifts a hand in greeting. He nods, unspeaking. It’s as if Eren needs
to warm up to the waking hours, his presence of mind inching back incrementally as the sun
rises in the sky.

Their little cluster of tents have clung between the dunes for three days now. There was
unusual Marley chatter on the radio waves, the miracle of the small voices drifting through
the receiver undercut only by the threat they’d presented. It could be nothing, the forces
taking to speaking in a code that they’re already working to decrypt now that they know
Marleyan units have been taken on Paradis. But it could be something. And with the harbour
an obvious target, they lay in hiding in the near-distance. It’s only for a little while, until they
can confirm the danger has passed. Other units of stronger numbers of soldiers are tucked
away, further back behind the low-rolling hills. But their greatest weapons must be on the
frontlines, Armin understands. So he sets up his small tent just a bit further from Eren and
Mikasa, where all he hears is the tumble of water and wind, where he can let the white
droning noise of it dampen his thoughts to silence in the dark.

They go through their morning drills, falling into the day’s routine. A meeting with Hange
reveals a half-completed cypher, a labor of love from a former soldier who’d helped author a
few of them for Marley herself. She’s quick-witted and sly of tongue, clearly bringing joy to
Hange’s routine check-in. Armin can’t help but feel the weight of this woman’s existence,
shrewd yet open-minded and willing to step into the den of devils. How many like her would
they be holding hostage, threatening the world with The Rumbling? Proving a point he wants
so painfully to disprove? They’re prepping now, Armin assisting in pinning down the final
details of their undercover scouting mission to Marley. They leave soon, and he finds himself
torn between the exhilaration of a new experience and the dread of discovering something
they’ll only find discouraging. Some overturned stones greet you with nothing but the ugly,
wriggling sight of venomous insects. But still, he hopes. Still, he has to make plans for a
future they can embrace together. He has to overturn that stone.

The morning passes to lunchtime, which passes to the inevitability of afternoon. When
Mikasa calls to him from the entrance of the commander’s tent, he’s glad to have the rote
routine of maintenance to pass the time. They haven’t used the maneuver gear in days,
they’re about due for their training drills. But they still have standard issue knives to sharpen
and extra harnesses to oil, keeping the leather soft and pliable.

Eren plops down next to him around their long-cooled fire pit, pulling the knife from his belt
and grabbing his whetstone. It isn’t often they’re so close anymore. Armin smiles just a little,
returning his oil to his kit and dropping his extra harness back in its bag. Mikasa’s on his
other side, glancing towards him before letting her own soft smile paint her face. The tide is
rushing out, receding down their small strip of sand steady as clockwork and the sound of it
echoes between them. Eren’s focused as always, intense about his duties as a soldier since
they were much younger. Armin can see the very tip of his tongue protruding between his
lips as his brows furrow. It’s another familiar sight, and it has him biting back the huff of a
laugh before he can stop himself.

Eren freezes, “What?”

“Nothing,” He shakes his head.

Eren bumps their shoulders together, and Armin nearly drops his whetstone. It isn’t clear if
the action is merely happenstance, and they’ve been so distant that it sends Armin’s heart
soaring into his throat. Some small, sick, part of him hates it. He hates how Eren can pull
away so hard for so long and yet still he’ll come surging back at the smallest indication that
Eren will have him. It’s as if he can reach inside him, manually coax his breath to come faster
and his pulse to race. It’s terrifying, the sway he has over them. But still, Armin can’t stop the
little jump in his chest. Perhaps worst of all, he’s not certain he’d want it to stop. His grip
tightens around the stone, fishing his knife from his side. Drown it out, drown it out. Push it
out to sea through the estuaries of his split consciousness, focusing on the task at hand as his
longing bleeds so vibrantly from him.

He’s been pursued by insecurity and denial, tailspinning together in his skull in a crashing
cacophony that he can’t escape. In the moment, he can’t tell if he’s made steady or more
unsure. He’s believed there’s no way that he doesn’t understand his best friend. He’s known
him for so long, sharing beds and fears and secrets. Sharing dreams. The idea that he’s sitting
next to a stranger unnerves him. That can’t be so. Eren is ultimately the same person, even in
the face of new challenges. He and Mikasa are home, and they always will be. The moments
of fear and memories of relief course through Armin’s wavering heart and leave him
flickering like a light in the wind. He recalls it now, the sweat that had rolled down his back
at the end of a long day laying railroad ties together. The modernization of Paradis came
faster than they could’ve imagined. He’d run the handcar with care, racing the sun back
home. Conversation had come easy, even if Eren had spent much of it a passive observer. But
finally, he spoke up. He had said he wanted them to have long lives. They were important to
him, still. He cared, he cared, he cared. And oh, how the words had made them so awash in
relief that they’d reddened and Armin blamed it on the sun.

Armin bumps him back now, gentle, as if testing the waters. Eren blinks at him for a moment.
There must be some thought running through him, but it startles Armin to realize that he can’t
even guess at what it is.

Finally, Eren settles. “What was that for?”

“You bumped into me,” He offers, realizing he may have miscalculated. To be so desperate as
to bet on intent when an accident was just as possible. Perhaps moreso. He runs the blade
against the stone and turns his gaze away.

“Sorry,” Eren sighs, quiet, “I was focusing.”

When they lapse back into silence, Armin’s grip only tightens. Ah. It was an accident. He’s
just a despondent little fool, dancing on a string that’s barely even being pulled anymore. He
swallows thickly, angling the blade and drawing it forward. He feels the strain of that string,
feels it tighten around his throat with each of his hands’ rote movements. His fingers lock
around the knife handle and press, press, press down against the whetstone. He presses and
presses and tries to blot out all but the sea breathing at their backs, but it all comes tumbling
upon him anyways until—

“Oh,” The sound falls limply from his mouth. Staring down at his bloodied hand is useless,
but he does it anyway. Long past the risk of accidental transformation, the crimson simply
wells up in the crook where thumb meets palm. It gathers in the rivulets, in heart and life
lines. The steam follows, lethargic as his raw flesh slowly begins to knit itself back together
again. His grip had grown so stiff that he’d simply slipped down the handle and to the biting
metal. The blood drips soundlessly to the ground.

“Here,” Eren fishes something from his pocket, an off-white square of linen. Very
methodically, he wraps it around Armin’s palm. There are no excess movements, careful to
avoid contact with the blood. Still, the tips of his fingers brush the thrumming veins beneath
Armin’s wrist and the blond shivers despite himself. His hands are steady and overly warm,
fingers nimbly gathering the fabric into a knot. Mikasa and Armin watch with wide eyes.

Armin blinks, confused. He worries at his lower lip with his teeth.

“You’ll bleed on the whetstone.” It’s all he says before returning to work.

Darkness falls slowly and then all at once. Armin finally abandons his field notes once
squinting by firelight becomes too much. His head aches and droops, lack of sleep beginning
to catch up with him. He isn’t sure where Eren’s gone, whether to the main camp or just on a
walk. Mikasa presses close at his side and simply watches the stars. Her fingertips play at her
scarf just as his seek out the handkerchief he has yet to free from his palm. Quietly, she shifts
until they lean against one another and he allows for it. Her warmth is welcome in the ever-
deepening night. There’s a separate, quieter devotion between them. Here they are, two
flames stubbornly flickering against the dark. He knows they’re both thinking it, because he
knows Mikasa end to wonderful end. Eren is right there and yet somehow he’s not. All they
can do is hold fast to each other and leave their extra hands open. They’re both dancing on
that string, tugged along through wind and mud until they threaten to come apart at the
seams. Their fingers intertwine and they sag into one another. Mikasa is human. She needs
comfort, too. Even if she doesn’t know how to ask for it. So, he whispers to her about the
stars until he feels the dip-jerk of her head lolling against the call of sleep. He kisses the
lovely crown of her hair, and rouses her. Eren still isn’t back when they part.

“I remember them.”

Armin jumps, nearly knocking over the low lamp in his tent. He hadn’t heard Eren’s
approach. He’d been swimming too far out to sea in his own head. He swallows, touching
gingerly at the lantern. The space is so squat against the ground that they both must stoop to
avoid hitting their heads. Eren even moreso. He closes the canvas flaps behind him and looks
to Armin expectantly. It’s the first time they’ve been really, truly alone together in nearly a
year.

“Remember what?” He asks lamely.

“The flowers. From outside Shiganshina.”

“Ah,” He casts his gaze downward, towards his wavering shadow. “Bellflowers.”

“Bellflowers,” Eren repeats as if testing the word, “Do you think it still looks the same?”

Armin shrugs, pulse thudding uncomfortably in his ears. “We...could go back and look
someday.”

He nods, “Sounds nice.”

“We can visit. When we return from Marley.”

“Yeah,” There’s a long, hard pause. “Yeah, we can.”

Armin’s hands tremble and he hates it. He hates himself. He hates the way his heart has
already lifted in his chest at the words. Clenching his jaw, he begins his nighttime routine,
unsure of what else to do. The harness must come off first, worn in case of emergency despite
not needing their maneuver gear that day. But his grip is unsteady under Eren’s watchful gaze
and he curses beneath his breath. Eren notices him struggling and clasps his hands over
Armin’s, stilling him. Without a word, he begins to unbuckle the harness. Armin freezes.
Eren continues, steady, freeing the thick strap from his chest. He works his way slowly
downward, and Armin can’t help the soft sound of relief when he releases the belts around
his thighs. They’re always too tight, chafing. But any looser and his gear won’t be anchored
properly. Eren looks up at him and his face colors, the tips of his ears going red. He manages
a soft thank you and if Eren hears the tremor in his voice, he doesn’t say so.

In the past, Armin had been so embarrassed by assistance. The other boys sometimes accused
him of being coddled and it left a sour taste in his mouth like bile. There were times during
training when he’d lost the strength to stand, Eren half-carrying him to bed before helping to
free him from their uniform. His protests were useless back then, but still he had to push back
against the humiliation of being less than. Of being weak. Of course, he’s still weak. Simply
in a different way, as he loses the ability to protest against anything Eren does. He can undo
the harness even through shaking hands, he has before. And yet he does nothing to stop him.
He can’t. He won’t. He doesn’t want to. He’s weak. When Eren straightens and brushes the
straps from his shoulders, the harness thumps softly against the bedroll. He doesn’t move, can
hardly breathe. He feels the string jerk sharply, painfully. Blue eyes blink to grey, the lantern
light casting his eyelashes nearly white. Eren’s so close he can feel his warmth and something
swells and rises between them. The roar of high tide fills his ears, echoes in his skull. His cup
runneth over and flushes out all thought.

And then Eren’s lips are on his.

It’s a rough, insistent kiss. The force of it has Armin stepping back, nearly tripping over his
fallen gear, but Eren only follows. He catches Armin by the nape, his other hand at his waist.
He’s been treading water for so long, but this? This is enough to drown him. Stiff at first,
Armin melds to Eren’s touch, presses their chests together and follows him back for more.
They’ve kissed before, they just haven’t really talked about it. It began with the innocent
pecks of childhood, soothing against tears and bloodied knuckles. One winter in the work
camp, Armin had caught a terrible sickness. It had stolen every drop of strength from him
until he couldn’t rise from their threadbare bedding and Eren and Mikasa held him fiercely
against the cold all night, despite his weak protests that he’d give it to them. They’d both
kissed his feverish forehead and refused to listen. Finally, in training, he’d woken once to
find Eren on his side and gazing intently at him. He blinked owlishly, knowing that the other
was prone to terrible nightmares. Finally, he’d patted the bedding beside him and allowed
Eren to nestle closely to his side without a word. He still hadn’t spoken as he pushed Armin’s
hair from his face and gently, gently, brushed their lips together. Armin’s eyes had fluttered
shut and when he opened them again, Eren was already trying to sleep.

This time, it’s different. Eren moves relentlessly, unstoppably, forward. And Armin wants to
drown in it. Why this? Why now? Where have you been? Where do you go? Why won’t you
come back? The questions rise and tangle at the back of Armin’s skull and he mouths them
into Eren’s skin, unable to give them voice. Lips parting, he offers all on the altar and he’s
never felt so vulnerable. He’d do anything to believe in this man that he loves, would kiss
him a million times if it could restore this nameless, missing thing between them. And he
hates it. He hates that all Eren has to do is glance in his direction and he’ll run to meet him
even after so much painful silence. He’s missed him so much, but he hasn’t even gone
anywhere. And Armin knows that he and Mikasa will always leave a hand open for Eren, will
always reach for him across the chasm. They were born to be together, the certainty of it lies
in his very bones. There’s a fire in his gut as Eren holds him nearly painfully tightly and he
surrenders to it all. There’s no protest within him as Eren coaxes him down to his bedroll.
Eren slides off his own shirt before he cages him in, hovering above him with one knee on
either side of his thighs. They spare only a moment, Eren dimming the lantern until they’re
thrown into darkness.

“Is this okay?” It’s the first thing he’s said that sounds even remotely vulnerable.
Armin can barely formulate a thought, but he manages a small nod. “Yes. Please.”

Please. So he’s begging now, is he? Before he can decide if that makes him hate himself,
Eren brings his bandaged hand upward until he can tug at the loose end with his teeth. It
unwinds and he tosses it to the ground. The wound is closed, perfect new skin at his palm,
and Eren kisses each of his fingertips. The movement is slow and Armin can’t look away,
hypnotized. Finally he laces their fingers together and returns to Armin’s mouth. A hunger
grows between them, and when Eren tugs his lower lip between his teeth and sucks he has to
grip at Eren’s back to ground himself. He squirms and Eren pulls back for a moment,
searching. Armin moves a hand to the nape of Eren’s neck and brings him down to kiss him
hard. They’re learning each other’s tempo, how to breathe and tilt their heads so their noses
don’t bump. He can’t help but feel that something is changing, that there’s a sword above
their heads. It’s the rush of ocean water pulling back, back, around your ankles while you
remain stationary. It’s dizzying. When Eren begins untucking his shirt and working away at
the buttons, he’s too submerged to care. He should be self-conscious, always is despite the
fact that they’ve seen each other undressed so many times. And yet.

They pause so the shirt can be discarded to the side, Eren’s overwarm hand pressing to his
sternum and feeling the frantic thrum of his heart. Even in the dark, the skin there is so pale
it’s nearly translucent. Eren murmurs his name, leaning forward so the breath puffs against
his ear before shifting to catch the skin at the front of his throat beneath his lips. If he’s
murmuring words against his skin, Armin is beyond hearing them. When he finds Armin’s
carotid, he takes a moment to mouth loosely against his pulse, all tongue and teeth. The blood
rushes there, just beneath that delicate, pretty skin. He tastes of salt and soap and the tilt of
Armin’s head, allowing him access, is a show of trust. The blond is aware only of the
swelling, impossible heat as Eren closes his mouth around the skin and sucks. Hard. It’s
nearly painful and his hand fists in the brown tangle of Eren’s hair as he breathes out a quiet,
needy sound. His eyes flutter shut and Eren moves just a touch lower and does it again. Small
lilac-red bruises are already forming and will be gone before they can mean anything at all.
He kisses a trail along Armin’s jaw, allowing him to catch his breath. When he returns, he
sucks at the overly-sensitive skin again, as if to be sure he’s really been there. Armin can’t
muffle the short ah that falls from his lips, but then Eren’s teething at it experimentally before
finally, he bites down. A sharp flash of pain sears through him, but Armin can’t help but arch
his back, their bodies pressing together, skin against skin. A small strangled gasp of Eren’s
name is all that he can manage. Eren stutters, shuddering a hot breath against him. The
aftermath is a confusing patchwork of pleasure and discomfort. Something animal inside of
him warns of how easy it would be for Eren to tear it all out between his bared teeth,
bloodied and raw. He wonders if he’d even do anything to stop him. Eren groans when he
pulls him back for a slow, deep kiss.

Nobody else can unravel him with such efficiency, plucking at each seam until he’s coming
entirely undone. He pulls every last stitch and Armin lets him. Would beg for him to do it
again.

Eren is gone by sunrise, like it didn’t happen. Like it was nothing but one of Armin’s
desperate, humiliating dreams that he must deny by morning. But there are quickly-fading
bruises at his waist and collar bones, proof that he’s touched and been touched.
Overwhelmed, he throws open the tent. The wind whips biting and fierce at Armin’s cheeks,
chapping the soft skin there. Eren’s left him with nothing but an unspoken goodbye hanging
in the air.

iii

When they lose Eren in Marley, Armin feels that swollen chasm between them widen. No,
no. That isn’t right. They haven’t lost him. He wanted to leave. That was his choice. Eren had
known that he was going to do this to them. This was his plan all along. They can make
educated guesses as to his whereabouts, his intentions, but few are helpful and even fewer are
optimistic. Armin can still recall the bitter stab of Levi’s voice as he spat that damn kid into
his tea cup during their first meeting back in Paradis. It had sent tremors through him as their
predicament became impossible to deny and Mikasa steadied him with a hand on his back.
It’s been months now, and Hange is trying to remain sensitive to his closeness with Eren. But
even they struggle to keep the sobering hypotheses from running from their tongue like bitter
ichor. They laugh whenever they say something that makes Armin’s eyes flicker to the floor,
pat his shoulder and offer some small parcel of consolation, but he knows they’re right. It
would be foolish and naive to not consider every possibility.

It’s too dangerous to go back. Even Mikasa knows this, and watching her gaze dim into a
somber flatness breaks Armin’s heart anew. They cannot simply rush into enemy territory
again, no leads and no guarantee they’ll even find him. They cannot chase after a man who
doesn’t want to be found. But the loss of a figure as important as Eren Yeager is not an
uncomplicated one. It’s an uphill battle to convince the leaders of Paradis that he’ll one day
return at all, much less that he doesn’t deserve to be strung up as a traitor upon that return.
Armin’s unsure that his words sway any hearts. Even his best efforts aren’t always enough.
At times he still awakens with the cannon blast from Trost ringing in his ears. Other times he
can’t sleep, knowing that Bertolt may still be alive if he had just been able to talk him down
in Shiganshina. It all fills him with a dread he fears he can neither name nor bear. But he
must persist, he knows that.

So, they wait.

Spring quietly sweeps into summer. The days stretch and lengthen, the sky a pale spotless
blue. Armin presses his back to a tree and stares up into the limitless expanse above. He’s
plucked a flower from the earth, the very same he’d gifted to Eren by the sea. They haunt him
now, the effect of never noticing something common until you go looking for it. He rotates it
idly in his grip, but doesn’t look at it. An ice cold pit of insecurity only grows into a deeper
and deeper well within him. It’s always been there, but now he feels so hollowed out. His
insides have been excavated and replaced with absolutely nothing. That stark all-consuming
emptiness numbs him. He’s simply a shell reporting for duty every morning and failing to
sleep every night. He thinks of those final days spent by the seaside with Eren and Mikasa, of
the late summer afternoons they spent as children, dipping their feet and splashing in the
shallows of a creek. They’d idle by the wall sometimes, swallowed in its shadow as Eren
glared daggers at their cage. He’d grasp his hand and tell him of the sea to soothe that
righteous anger.

Is all of this his fault for giving Eren this dream?

He still wants to believe the world is beautiful. Someday they’ll be able to see snowfields of
sand and planes of fire just as they saw the sea. But is it possible that the day he ran to Eren’s
side with that book was the day that he’d sealed their fate? Is Eren relentlessly, unstoppably
rushing them toward uncontrolled cataclysm? What could he possibly be doing alone in
Marley? And without telling them a word of his plan to depart?

Mikasa joins him, eventually. It’s a quiet routine they share. Being pinned down by their
friends’ pitying gazes can only get so old. Today, however, she breaks routine. She hands him
a worn book, the inscription long faded from the spine. The familiarity of it has his heart
dropping like a stone into his belly. He stares blankly at it and she waits for a long moment.

“Do you want to read with me?”

This makes his throat grow tight and something burns at the back of his eyes. Truthfully, he
hasn’t felt terribly interested in books in a while. Things that once brought him joy now
throw his misery into sharp relief. The book comes to rest in his lap and he plucks up the
flower again before tucking it behind her ear.

He nods, swallowing thickly. “Sure,”

His voice wavers a bit as he goes, but if she notices she doesn’t comment. She leans her head
on his shoulder and tucks her left arm through his right. The weight at his side grounds him,
just a little. And when a tear lands on the page that doesn’t belong to him, he doesn’t
comment either. He steadies eventually, slipping into a familiar lulling cadence as he flips
through illustrations of great red-wooded trees and impossibly deep silvery lakes. He knows
she likes the passages about the northern skies the best. So, he paints the picture for her:
Soaring wonders, ribbons of color and light slicing through the black and dancing slowly
through the night. They relax against one another, clinging like children again. Eventually,
reluctantly, he has to close the book. Obligations call even when the world is crumbling apart
in their hands.

“Captain Levi won’t like it if I’m late…” He murmurs, but can’t quite bring himself to move.

Mikasa is so achingly present. She sighs and the warmth of it curls at his collar bones. They
do straighten eventually, Mikasa offering a hand to help him to his feet. And just this once, he
takes it. The dark of her eyes melts like iron and for a long moment, he’s held in her gaze.

“Armin,” She still holds his hand in hers, “It’ll be okay. We just have to trust him.”

All he can do is nod mutely, gazing down at their fingers. So she tilts his head up gently, by
the chin. She kisses each of his cheeks, before pressing her lips against his, dry and soft. It’s
light and childlike, comforting. The touch is gone in an instant and they both know it’s time
to part ways. His head buzzes, the feeling of static gathering beneath his skin. The memory of
lips against his sends the sound of the ocean crashing loud and painful through his skull.

When Eren’s letter arrives, they’re crying before they can even read the contents. Armin
hates the tremor in his fingers, but neither Hange nor Levi say a word about it. The text itself
is so bizarre and cold. Detached. He and Zeke have a plan, and he’ll move forward with or
without them. Armin can’t help but feel he’s gotten word from a stranger, but he’d know
Eren’s handwriting anywhere. The script is slanted, etched in messy downward strokes as if
using a pen as a sword.

Mikasa smiles through her tears, “It’s him, Armin. It’s him. He’s alright.”

“Well, at least we know the kid’s alive,” Hange confirms, frowning.

Despite his nagging fears about if he’s truly alright, Armin has to smile and embrace Mikasa.
Still, he doesn’t miss how Levi and Hange look at each other when they think they won’t
notice. It’s etched clearly in the lines of their faces: A great and terrible doubt.

It’s him.

It’s Eren.

It’s…

The empty hole in Armin’s chest that has been numb for so long erodes just a bit, the edges
newly raw and red. Mikasa presses her weight against him, sags in relief, and he feels like
he’s going to be sick. Eren is mercurial. Ever-shifting, despite being a fixed point for others.
Mercury has its uses, of course. There is a place it belongs. In thermometers, in mirrors. But
ultimately, if the thermometer shatters between your lips, it’s still toxic. He hates this doubt,
this need to take a second look at him every time Eren glances away. But he’s beginning to
suspect him of some unknowable transgression. Suspecting him of being unknowable at all is
perhaps the most frightening part for him. The selfishness of it is stifling, but he can’t let it
go.

He feels the snakes in the grass, but he can’t tell which will bite first.

iiii

It’s not difficult to conjure the taste of iron and grit on his tongue, the memory of blood in his
mouth, on his face, dribbling to the stark white of his shirt. The betrayal had been searing.
The freedom described by Onyankopon and the freedom coveted by Eren Yeager were two
truly different ideals, it became clear to Armin. I’ve always hated you. Armin understood
each word individually, but strung together and lurching from Eren’s mouth...they were
incomprehensible. Unforgivable. They’d fought before, but never like this. Never with that
raw despair settled into the lines of Mikasa’s face. Eren had never been shy to bare his fangs,
but to be on the receiving end of that with such cold ferocity had shaken them both. It had felt
so sudden, and yet perhaps not. Perhaps the core of his anger, this feral capacity to lash out in
the face of something deemed unacceptable to him, had always been there.

Perhaps they had simply averted their gazes.

The crack of teeth and jaw hadn’t been as miserable as the sheer shuddering weight of
betrayal as Eren beat him until he needed Mikasa’s support to even stand. The bright flashes
of pain had cut through the white noise buzzing in his head at the whole alien ordeal of
Eren’s mannerisms. It awoke him as if from a terrible dream, to an even worse reality. Armin
had never expected to lash out at him. But before he’d known what he was doing, he’d
started the first fight of his life. Eren, of course, finished it. And yet still, even in their cell,
Armin couldn’t just let go. Dripping blood and steaming weakly, he’d heard the tumble of the
sea in his ears and felt the searing ghost of Eren’s embrace on his skin. It was Eren. It all was
Eren. It always had been. There had to be something they were missing. He wouldn’t go
along with Zeke like that. There was another puzzle piece that Armin simply had to find. He
had clung to hope and worked so hard to believe, to get the others to follow him in that
wavering faith like candles flickering in a storm. But oh, how he tasted that failure all over
again when The Rumbling began in earnest anyway.

Maybe Eren hadn’t changed? Maybe, he simply never knew him in full.

Even so, he can’t just declare that it’s over. It’s like touching a stove without checking if it’s
hot. Armin gets burned over and over again, but he can’t stop trying. He can’t stop believing
that there’s another way. Not until they’ve exhausted every option. Not until it is fully, truly
over. After all, he’d sooner die than be a burden. If Eren is moving forward, so will he.
Perhaps they had always been set to diverge. To be back in that room, raw and bloody at
Eren’s hands, would be a nostalgic comfort now. The colossal titans move relentlessly,
unstoppably, forward and he chokes on the dust and the wind. It sets his eyes watering and he
must blink up against the sun and think and think and think. Armin has heard members of the
wall cult talk of sin. Greed, avarice, covetousness. Perhaps he’s guilty of something like
pride. Not in himself or his own achievements, but in Eren. In his faith that he understands
this man through and through. If neither Erwin nor Eren are the saviors of humanity, maybe
Armin isn’t either? Maybe this is their downfall?

But he won’t concede. Not yet.

It both takes a lifetime and happens in the blink of an eye. They touch down upon Eren’s
great shuddering mass, cutting through impossible hoards of titans while they work towards
their goal. He knows what it may come to, he really does. Mikasa may be in denial, but this
dark and terrible thought had occurred to Armin before any of their comrades had even
voiced the question. Can you kill Eren? He’s always been so prone to dark and terrible
thoughts, hasn’t he? It’s a question he’s asked himself so many times that its contours are
worn and dulled in his mind. What are you willing to sacrifice? Can you throw away your
humanity? Can you throw away the man that you love? He’d placed his still-beating heart on
the altar by the sea and it hadn’t brought him back.

When his world is blotted out and he reawakens in an unearthly plane, absent sun or sound,
he can hardly bring himself to stand he’s so exhausted from the fight. It’s an unimaginable
realm of endless sands, bursting into beaming tendrils of light on an impossible horizon.
Neither moon nor sun watch over him, only strange clusters of stars unlike any constellations
on earth. There is no wind, no weather. It’s simply uncanny in its stillness. He’s frozen in the
sand, blinking up at the sky. How had he— ? He remembers being cornered by a titan and
scooped into its terrifying maw. It had been hot, clammy, and blacker than night. And now
he’s…

There’s a hand extended into his line of sight.

He’d know the contours of those fingers anywhere. But they’re smaller than he remembers.
He gazes up into the face of a child, eyes wide and shining with something he can’t place.

“E-Eren…?”

The child doesn’t move, simply offering his help. How painful it is, to reenact something so
familiar from a childhood they’ll never revisit.

“I don’t need help to stand.” He insists, as he always has, and pushes up from the sand. It
looks even more uncanny now, the horizon on all sides lacking anything but that staggering,
pulsing light. It’s a place where nothing can bloom. A place outside of time where no growth
will ever prevail. Eren has gone where they cannot follow. He remembers Mikasa’s broken
words atop the wall, that time years ago after Reiner took Eren from them. All she wants is to
be by his side, but it always ends up like this. Doesn’t it? Armin can’t help but feel the same.
He is their North Star, forever shrinking into the distance before he winks out entirely. And
still, they keep their hands open. Still they reach across the chasm, as impossible as it may be.
And they will, they will, they will, until they have no strength left to reach.

Armin has to try, one last time. “Where are we, Eren?”

The child tilts his head and blinks up at him. But in one dizzying moment, he’s gone. Armin is
left to swivel on his feet, disoriented, until he’s turned all the way around. And there, there is
who he’s been looking for this whole time. Eren Yeager stands, the right age, the right height,
the right everything, except not.

“Eren, please—” He opens his hand and offers it to his best friend, “It isn’t too late. It’s
never too late.”

He merely shakes his head, eyes hard and far away.

Armin steels himself. He steps forward until they’re within arm’s reach. “Everyone is out
there, Eren. They’re in danger. They’re dying. Marley isn’t a concern anymore. And the rest
of the world won’t bother with us for a long time. Can’t we please just—”

“No.”

Armin nearly flinches. “No?”

He shakes his head again, grim. His palms close into fists at his sides.

“Oh,” What else is there to say?

He scans Eren’s face, traces the outlines of features he’s spent years admiring from afar.
There had been envy. Envy of strength, of courage, of ambition. But that had never been the
full picture. His longing, he knows now, had never been about that. For all of the praise that
he receives for being a tactical mind, it’s taken him far too long to realize this. What is he
willing to sacrifice? He’s pledged his heart. Now what will he do? He swallows, mouth
suddenly very dry. The sword above their heads looms dangerously and in a mere moment
he’s decided to commit Eren’s face to memory. He raises his outstretched hand and Eren
doesn’t stop him. He presses his fingertips to Eren’s jawline and traces them up to the fevered
apples of his cheeks. Eren simply watches, expressionless. Carefully, he leans forward. He’s
nearly on the tips of his toes when he brings their lips together. Eren is so still, unmoving as
they kiss. He does not close his eyes. Armin feels his heart shatter on the altar, fears he’s
leaving it behind in this timeless space. This is a farewell.

When they pull away, Eren closes his eyes only for a moment before he commands, “Fight.”

“Okay,” He steps back, but refuses to look away. “Okay, we will. I will.” He presses his palm
to Eren’s chest and feels the thud of a heartbeat, so eerily even and calm. “Goodbye, Eren.”

And then he’s being cut from a titan’s mouth, thrown into noise and chaos and light. The
choice has been made. Their fate has been sealed.

Their world ends in an all-consuming bolt of light. It mushrooms into the sky and expands,
obliterating everything in its path. The god of destruction has made his presence known and
the thunder of it is a great wailing sob. The oppressive heat licks at Armin’s nape and limbs,
dizzying. He hardly feels it. He hardly feels anything at all. He doesn’t have to be close to
Mikasa to know that she’s crying. It’s with a small jolt that he realizes he is, too. Their world
was born between the three of them, holding hands and having the audacity to dream. And
now, it’s over. It’s irreparable. All that’s left of the one they love is a steaming pile of bones
evaporating in the soil. Armin leaves the Colossal Titan’s body with it, returning to dust
together.

Mikasa has to catch Armin in her arms, his maneuvering is so shaky. The others cry in relief,
Connie letting out a yell half of anguish and of reprieve. Armin can’t identify any of the
words being said to them. Mikasa wraps her arms around him and holds him fiercely,
pressing her wet face to his collar. They collapse in on each other and drop to the ground,
small clusters of purple flowers crushed beneath their boots. They don’t even notice them,
shaking and heaving and sobbing together. All they can feel is each other and the great
unnerving sensation of a missing limb.

Neither has the strength to stand for a long while.

But eventually, painfully, they do. Together.

End Notes

gay, but make it sad this time.

i left a few bits kinda open to reader interpretation because i feel like that's fun. (':

anyways, armin arlert is the only reason i'm still here. love that kid. <3

thanks for reading! if you have any feedback/comments, i'd love to hear it!

please take care!

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