Archive of Our Own

“What do you think it will be like to go back?”

“Odd, probably.”

“Are you scared?”

“No. At least not if you’re with me.”

856, Somewhere Overseas

When he first opened his eyes, Jean caught sight of the grey sky, a sliver of it visible past the flowing curtain. Cool air seeped into the bedroom, and he could feel it even from under the blankets. He blinked, not fully adjusting to any of his other senses yet, not even the fingers gripping so hard into his flesh that there would surely be a bruise in a few hours.

It was early morning, that much he could tell.

He regarded the hand on his arm and the person attached to it. In the dim morning light and with their faces so close, Jean could tell that his eyes were glassy, the corners prickled with tears.

“Armin?” Jean whispered, wary not to startle him from whatever semi-lucid state he must have been in. “Are you alright?”

Armin’s eyes only flitted across Jean’s face, searching for something Jean was sure he didn’t have.

“Is that you?” His voice was hoarse and strained, maybe even hopeful. At least Jean would have thought so if his brain had been much more coherent, still struggling to adjust to consciousness. The fingers clung even tighter, but Jean paid the pain no mind. “Eren…” he whispered, confused and visibly far from clarity. “Is that… is that you?”

Gingerly, Jean brushed some hair off Armin’s clammy forehead, swallowing back a long sigh that would hit have him right in the face if he exhaled. He could see the distress on Armin’s face, eyes still darting back and forth to take him in but clearly not really seeing him.

“Armin,” he murmured, his own voice heavy and thick. “Sweetheart, no, it’s me. It’s Jean.” He stared for a moment longer, and Jean briefly wondered if he was even in the state to comprehend what was being said to him.

“Jean,” he whispered, quieter than before, something like relief slowly washing over him. Finger by finger, his grip loosened, shaky hand sliding up his arm to rest on Jean’s cheek, gentle now. His chin quivered. “Yes, it’s you.”

Jean continued to stroke his hair, soft, rhythmic touches. “It’s me.”

Armin’s hand slipped from Jean’s cheek to cup the back of his head, pulling him closer and tangling fingers tight in his hair, but Jean endured the pain once more. He draped an arm over Armin’s body, shutting his eyes and feeling him tremble and leave tears on his shoulder.

At times, words could only go so far, only do so much when it was this often that one of them woke in the middle of the night on the heels of a nightmare. He could only hold Armin, pretend that listening to him cry didn’t hurt, just hope that sleep might retake them both soon enough and that it’d be forgotten just as fast.

It was warmer the next time Jean opened his eyes.

He turned his head to see that the window was closed and the spot beside him was empty. It couldn’t have been more than just a few hours later than before, and the urge to stay in bed and sleep for ages more was evidence enough of that.

Armin was good at pulling himself out of bed the moment he woke up, always ready, or forcing himself to be at least, to prepare for the day with as much time as possible. Jean tended to drag his feet. If they woke around the same time he’d pull Armin tight, burrow his nose into his back and try to convince him to stay in bed just a little longer, where it was warm and quiet. Jean loved the quiet lately; the world just seemed so loud.

It hardly ever worked though, Armin sometimes close to caving in, but his urge to get moving always won out. Jean just considered it worth trying.

After a few more minutes of staring at the ceiling and thinking of ways he could get rid of the water stain directly above the bed, questioning why it looked bigger than it did last week, he stood.

He stretched the aching muscles in his arms and his back, cursed himself for being so stiff. A hot drink and some breakfast would ease the pain, or at least he hoped it would.

Greeted by the smell of coffee and a ‘good morning’ when he came into the kitchen, Jean couldn’t help but feel a little of that pain become the slightest bit more bearable already.

“What?” he asked when he caught Armin chuckling to himself. “Why are you laughing?”

“Your hair,” Armin said, turning back to the bread he was slicing at the counter. Jean reached up to feel that his hair was certainly unkempt, sticking up and tangled in that way it always was in the morning. Armin stole another glance up through his eyelashes, and Jean couldn’t help but think about how long and dark they were. “You’re so cute,” he muttered, like he was just now realizing it.

The kettle was already on the stovetop and Jean’s teacup was out and prepped with the loose black tea leaves that he liked. A small gesture.

Jean leaned against the countertop beside him. “I’m cute, huh,” he mused, eyes still on Armin.

He was already dressed, wearing a cream-colored sweater vest and crisp button down, tie done loose around his neck and dark pants pressed neatly. His blond hair was parted straight down the middle, only a bit of it falling from behind his ear. Jean realized he must have gotten himself together so quietly while he had still been sleeping, choosing not to wake him.

“I should probably get a trim sometime soon, what do you think?” Jean asked after the pause in their conversation had gone on long enough that the moment had passed for the most part. He had been growing out his undercut recently, meaning his hair was a lot shaggier and more difficult to maintain than usual. He had to spend a lot more time styling it, something that Armin teased him for, but he called him things like handsome and beautiful enough to know that he really didn’t mind the change in his appearance, or the time it took him to keep it up.

Armin glanced back at him, squinting like he had to think about it. “No,” he decided, giving Jean a teasing smile. “I like it how it is. I meant it when I said that you’re cute.”

Jean reached forward to brush some hair off of where it hung past Armin’s temple, just over his brow. Armin twitched, like the touch had surprised him.

“You’re quite cute yourself,” he murmured, hand stilling at the back of his neck, stroking the shorn part of his undercut with his thumb.

It was odd how palpable it was, but in a flash, Jean felt something tense settling between them. Armin shook him off and cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably with his eyes trained on the countertop.

“You’re not upset with me?” he whispered, words sticking in the thick air right after leaving his mouth. He had finished slicing the bread but fiddled with the hilt of the knife that he was still holding.

Jean dropped his hand back to his side and frowned, genuinely confused at the question. “Why would I be upset with you?”

He sighed and shut his eyes. “Last night, or this morning, rather.”

They didn’t typically talk about their nightmares with one another. Jean was never quite so sure why, but it just never came up, like a silent understanding between them that it wasn’t to be discussed. So it was odd when Armin seemed intent on changing the fact.

“I’ve told you before I was never in love with him,” he said quietly, and he didn’t have to speak the name for Jean to know who he was referring to. “I know I have, but I want to tell you again. I just… I think about him a lot lately, and he shows up in my dreams and-”

“Armin,” Jean interrupted, putting his hand back on his shoulder. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“I know.” He set the knife down and reached for his cup of coffee that sat on the countertop, probably cold by now, and took a sip, hand shaking slightly. “None of this is easy,” he said quietly, honest in a way that neither of them were with each other all that often. “And I don’t want to make it harder. At least not for you.”

Jean pushed himself off the edge of the counter, moving to stand behind Armin. He smelled of coffee and cigarettes, probably having smoked one, or more likely a few, before Jean got up. He chose not to mention it this time, seeing how distraught Armin already looked and not wanting to upset him any further.

“Hey, relax,” he whispered, pulling Armin into his arms, and though his body was tense, he didn’t protest the embrace. “It’s alright… I…” he sighed. “I miss him too.” He cringed at the pause that followed, realizing it might have been tactless.

“Jean…” He nudged him with his elbow and slid out of his grip.

Jean ran a hand through his hair, still a bit tangled. “I do,” he insisted, feeling something bubbling in him and his words quickly getting ahead of himself. “I miss him, but I can’t help but hate him for doing this to you.”

Armin let out a short laugh. “In that case you should hate me too then,” he said, daring a glance at Jean with dark eyes. “You know he’s not the only reason things are like this, right?”

Of course, I know that, Jean thought, trying to look through him, see whatever it was that was spinning around in Armin’s head that made him want to hear it, just so he could understand. “I could never hate you,” he said, and he knew right away it wasn’t the answer Armin wanted.

“Sure you could. I imagine it would be quite easy.” He picked his mug back up and took another sip, grimacing. Jean must have been right about the temperature. “I almost wish you’d try it sometime.”

“And I wish you’d try to stop blaming yourself.”

Armin’s jaw clenched and he put down his mug a little loudly. He let a breath out of his nose, short and hard.

Jean found himself already bracing for an argument, muscles tensing and brain running through all the responses he could muster in advance. They had a lot of those lately, and he was growing quite sick of it.

The whistle of the kettle jolted them both out of whatever tension had started to settle between them. Armin cleared his throat and moved past Jean to sit at the table and pick up the newspaper.

“You should have your breakfast and get ready. We have to leave within the hour.”

“Armin, I-”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

The morning was all meetings and paperwork. Their main focus as of late was getting exports back to Paradis Island, seeing as no nations were willing to trade, and the island had adopted a strictly isolationist functionality.

Communication had been difficult, and little to no agreements had been made. Without at least exports, there was no way that Jean, Armin, and the other ambassadors would be able to head back any time soon for peace negotiations. Jean hoped by next autumn they’d at least have the go ahead from a few countries, and even more so, the invite back to the Island.

Midday they had a lunch break. Typically, Armin would stay holed up in the library, pouring over his research and writing proposals, but today Jean was able to convince him to come on a walk with him. Though it was the beginning of winter, the weather wasn’t that bad, just a tad bit chilly.

The tension from earlier in the morning seemed to have been cut, replaced with a tenderness that Jean was much more familiar with as they walked through the local market, chatting idly.

“Hungry?” he asked Armin when they passed the fruit stand.

Armin hummed and shrugged. “A little. Not much of an appetite today.”

“Let’s just get a snack then.”

Jean fished a coin out of the pocket of his flannel lined jacket and stepped towards the stand. He greeted the merchant, a short, older man. He looked like a lot of the locals here; kind face, friendly disposition, but with the quick attitude that a lot of the people in the seaside city had. The market was bustling at this time of day, so it would be preferable for them to get to business quickly, not hold up any lines.

Jean tilted his chin forward at the fruit. “We’ll take an orange, please.”

The merchant nodded, taking the money from Jean and gesturing for him to take one.

“Anything else?” Jean asked while they walked away, heading towards the edge of the market, taking in all the smells and sounds before they left. “Mulled cider?”

“No, that’s alright.” Armin patted Jean’s lower back twice, fingers lingering when he pulled his hand away.

Jean wished they could hold hands, that he could wrap an arm around Armin’s shoulders, and Armin wrap one around his waist. He wanted to kiss him whenever he pleased, without caring if someone would take notice, but that wasn’t how things worked here. It wasn’t really how they worked anywhere.

The other people down at the promenade were enough evidence that if the sun shone bright enough that plenty would still want to be outside in the briny air.

They found a free bench and sat. Jean stretched his legs out in front of him and Armin sat close beside him, their shoulders touching.

The sky was quite clear – blue and bright without the sun hidden behind any clouds. There were some boats out in the harbor, and the docks were visible from here. The afternoon fisherman were just returning, unloading their catches from the day to be sold for today’s dinner.

Armin bumped Jean’s shoulder, looking over at him. “What are you waiting for?”

Jean raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so I have to do it?”

“I don’t want to get my hands all sticky.” He held them up as if to show how pristine they were, smiling somewhat playful.

Jean snorted and shook his head, but still went to work at peeling the orange halfway, enough so that he could pick a slice off and hand it to Armin who accepted it graciously. He watched him bite into it, a bit of juice dripping down his chin so that he lifted a hand to try and catch it, giving Jean a sheepish look when he caught him staring.

“How is it?”

He chewed slow and deliberate, swallowed and nodded. “It’s good,” he said thoughtfully. “Ripe.”

Armin’s glasses were tucked into the breast pocket of his jacket, and Jean could see the way his eyes shone in the afternoon sun, and the light, barely-there smattering of pale freckles that spread across his nose. He looked so pretty, and Jean wanted desperately to lean forward and kiss the juice off his chin.

“Try it for yourself instead of staring at me,” Armin muttered, no malice in his voice but he was pink in the apple of his cheeks.

He pulled his eyes away, reluctantly, and peeled another piece off for himself, popping it into his mouth in one bite and sucking the juice off his thumb. “Good,” he parroted, muffled around his mouthful of fruit.

They fell into a comfortable silence, Jean peeling off orange slices and handing every other one to Armin. He gave him the last two when he realized the final slice wouldn’t go to him if they kept the pattern up.

Both of them took to looking out at the water when they were done eating. Jean risked draping an arm around the back of the bench, just barely grazing Armin’s shoulders. He kept it there when Armin didn’t protest, only just leaned into him a bit more. The barest transfer of body heat between them felt nice, a warmth on this cool day.

Armin tapped Jean’s calf with the toe of his boot and nodded towards a boat sailing in from far out in the harbor. “That’s the type of boat we’d take to Paradis,” he said. “It stores cargo but also has cabins for travelers.”

Jean looked at it, noting that it was longer than some of the other cargo ships and less utilitarian looking. He tried imagining what it might be like to be on a boat like that again, thinking back to when they had first traveled to Marley, and later, when they moved overseas.

“Yea, if we can get anyone to even send them imports,” he said, sick of all the effort it was taking to get something that seemed so simple to be done. “We’re not getting there anytime soon if no boat is willing to take us.”

“Yet,” Armin said and absently sucked a bit of juice off his finger, eyes still trained out on the harbor. “No boat is willing to go there yet.”

Jean watched him, seeing the odd sort of concentration on his face. “Well, yea.” He frowned at the implication that he didn’t understand that. “Obviously. We haven’t sorted out the negotiations nearly enough.”

He hummed again, soft in the back of his throat, but Jean questioned if he had even been listening.

“I’d like to go back soon,” he said after a minute, breaking the quiet that was settling between them. “I think it’s time.”

Jean snorted.

“What?” Armin looked at him, a frown on his face to match Jean’s. “Don’t you want to go back home?”

“Of course, I do. It’s just… you know it’s not that simple.”

“Never said it was simple.”

Jean sighed, short from his nose. “I know. It’s only that it’s hard to even think about it when we’re so many steps away.”

Armin didn’t say anything at that, just turned back towards the water.

The bell in the town square rang twice, signifying the hour.

“We should get back so that we aren’t late.” Armin stood and smoothed down his pants. He gave Jean a thin smile, lips pressed tight. “You ready?”

Jean found all he could do was look for a moment, squint his eyes and stare at Armin like there was something he could decipher. He felt frustrated at whatever it was he couldn’t puzzle out, but he had no idea what it was he was even looking for anyway.

“Jean,” Armin said impatiently. “We’re going to be late. Come on.”

“Alright.” He stood, trying not to groan at how stiff he was after sitting for barely even thirty minutes. “I’m coming.”

The walk back was quiet and they didn’t stand as close. Jean glanced at Armin, seeing how deep in thought he looked, and all he could think was that perhaps the tension from that morning hadn’t dismissed itself from them after all.

Weekends only brought Jean just the slightest bit of relief, seeing as Armin barely took time off, not allowing himself a minute to relax.

Like the rest of the week, Armin seemed particularly taken by whatever it was he was working on. He spent most of Saturday at the desk in their bedroom, writing and flipping through some books he had brought back from the library. He came out for dinner, but went back to work after they ate while Jean sat alone in the living room, drinking a couple glasses of wine while reading a book until he started to get tired.

He reclined back, stretching out his legs and placing his book on his chest. Looking at the clock, he saw that it was getting late, but he knew Armin would be up for a while longer with the pattern he was going at recently.

Being with Armin would surely grant him grey hairs by the time he was in his mid-twenties. It was hard not to worry, especially when he seemed to have such little regard for himself, staying up until the late hours of the night, barely sleeping, always working.

Jean brewed half a pot of tea. Chamomile. He looked out the window as the water warmed on the stove. The sky must have been a lot cloudier than it was the day before, because he could barely pick out any stars.

There would be history books written by Armin in the future, at least that’s what Jean thought. Being in the presence of someone so important to the telling of time and its events was daunting, but Jean admired him and his gall to record the past, with how traumatic it had been. Another burden, he thought. One that he wished Armin could live without. If only.

Armin didn’t react when Jean came into the room, standing in the doorway for a moment just to look at him and his setup. He had a lamp lit beside him and he could hear the scratching of his pen on the paper, quick, like he was writing down every little thing that came to his mind without stopping to think.

“Hey,” Jean said softly, placing a mug and the pot of tea next to him on the desk, leaning over his shoulder to kiss his cheek. “Thought you might need this.”

He hummed, eyes not leaving his notes. “Thank you, love,” he murmured, tipping his head to the side so that it brushed against Jean’s.

“What are you working on?”

“Just some notes on negotiations we’ll be going over Monday.”

“Still?”

“Still.”

Jean waited a moment to see if he had anything else to say but stood straight again when he clearly didn’t.

“I’m going to have a bath,” he said, hands running up and down Armin’s upper arms to his shoulders. “Loosen up my muscles a bit. Long week.”

Armin made that agreeable noise again and turned to the next page of his journal. “Your shoulder bothering you?” he asked.

“Yea,” Jean said, stilling his hands. “Want to join?”

He hesitated, pen stopping for a second before he started back up. “No, that’s alright.”

“You sure? Could be nice.” He felt Armin relaxing under his touch as he kneaded his shoulders with just the right amount of pressure. Armin stopped writing again, his pen going lax in his hand and his head lolling forward just slightly. Jean took the opportunity to lean down and kiss the bit of skin right at the base of his hairline. “Let yourself relax a bit,” he murmured, hooking his finger into his shirt collar, pulling it down to kiss Armin lower, drinking in the way that he shivered. “You work too hard.”

Armin let him kiss at his neck a bit longer, relaxing under his touch. Jean thought he might have actually won out, convinced him, but after a minute or so he straightened back out, gently knocking his head back so that Jean would move. “Next time,” he said, resuming his writing. “I’d like to get most of this done tonight.”

Jean suppressed the sigh that sat in the back of his throat and squeezed Armin’s arms one last time before he headed for the bathroom.

He dozed off for no more than twenty minutes after washing himself, the water warm and relaxing and his eyes slipping shut quite easily. When he woke his fingers had started prune and his neck had a crick in it from leaning back against the edge of the freestanding tub.

Armin didn’t spare him a glance when he walked to the dresser, naked, to pull on a pair of briefs. Jean looked at the back of his head through the mirror, listened to the incessant scratching of his pen on paper.

He laid in bed with his arms cradling the back of his head, gaze on Armin. The curtain blew above his head with every gust of wind, his blond hair fluttering with it ever so slightly. The lamp was burning dull, likely to go out soon, and Jean found himself thinking about how Armin was just going to strain his eyes.

“Sorry, am I keeping you awake?” Armin asked, sensing Jean’s eyes. He turned his head, pushing his glasses up his nose and furrowing his brow concernedly like he really thought he might have been.

Jean shook his head. “No.”

“I can go into the other room,” he offered. “I don’t mind.”

“No, really, it’s alright.” Come lay beside me instead. “Maybe you should get some sleep though.”

Armin gave him a guilty-looking smile, like he knew he should be resting rather than keeping himself up with work.

“I just want to finish with this while it’s fresh in my head,” he repeated, same as before.

Jean scooched over a bit, patting Armin’s side of the bed and smiling. “Come warm me up,” he tempted. “You know I get cold.” He put on his softest expression, adding for good measure, “please.”

Armin’s smile faltered a bit and he stared like he was really considering it, taking in the sight of Jean in their bed wearing only his briefs. He glanced back down at his notebook and then up again, letting out a soft sigh. Jean knew what he was going to say before he even said it.

“I really do need to finish this.”

Jean didn’t say what he was thinking, that Armin didn’t need to finish whatever it was he was doing on a Saturday night, and that he was being stubborn for not wanting to spend the night laid up with him and letting go for just a little bit. Though they were together nearly every moment of every day, Jean often felt lately that he and Armin never had time together to just be them. There was a lack of comfort sometimes and it was eating a hole right through him, even if he tried to ignore it.

But instead of saying any of that, Jean just smiled – nodded like he understood. Knowing Armin, and knowing how well he knew Jean, he surely saw right through it.

“Alright,” he said, struggling to keep the smile on his face. “Just come to bed soon, okay? You need your rest.”

Armin’s eyes lingered on Jean for only a moment more. “Yea, I will.”

Jean watched him a little while longer before he shut his eyes, listening to Armin’s pen on the pages of his book and the ever-present breeze outside their window.

For once, easier memories flooded his mind. It wasn’t nightmares like he had grown used to, but times that were softer, even the slightest bit naïve.

Jean remembered staring up at the nearly full moon, bright in the sky. Armin sat at his feet, scribbling in a notebook, back against the wooden panel of the watch tower. Even then it seemed he was always writing something down, recording whatever thoughts he deemed worthy.

They were hiding out, newly appointed to Levi’s squad, keeping watch over Eren and Historia out in a cabin in the woods.

“After all of this, what do you want to do?” Jean had wondered out loud, barely realizing he’d said it until Armin answered him.

“What do you mean?” Armin asked, earnest in his curiosity, always wanting to be sure he understood Jean to the fullest extent.

“If you weren’t a soldier. What would you want to do? Like, when you were growing up,” he explained, thinking maybe the question wasn’t clear enough. Jean thought about what his dreams had always been, and how only recently their shape had started to change, not of his own volition. “What did you want to be?”

They were only sixteen then, had just held hands under the table and stolen kisses whenever they could. No one else knew about them, except Jean had a feeling Mikasa was growing suspicious. There were a few times she had caught his eye when he’d been staring at Armin, but she never said anything. Maybe just the slightest glimmer of something in her expression, like she understood, but she’d always turn away and pretend nothing happened.

If he were more lucid, Jean would have surely smiled at the memory.

Armin had snuck up when Jean was on overnight watch that night. He brought his journal with him and Jean had been sure there was no way he could see it in the dark. Armin insisted all he needed was the moonlight, especially tonight when it was so cloudless.

“I’m not sure,” he said after a long silence. “I guess I haven’t thought about it much lately.”

“Oh, that’s not true. I know you’ve got all sorts of thoughts and dreams in that big head you’ve got.”

“Hey! Watch it.” Armin said, a hint of laughter in his voice as he swatted Jean’s calf playfully. Jean laughed along with him, grinning and knowing he must have been pink in the face. “Anyway, I don’t really know what I wanted to do. I was silly when I was a kid. Always dreaming about something or other… wanting to explore. Guess I sort of stopped thinking about stuff like that recently.”

The scratching of his pencil had stopped, and when Jean looked over, he saw that Armin was staring up at the moon. It cast a glow on him, blue almost, and even in the darkness Jean could see the gold of his hair and the brightness in his eyes. He swallowed, feeling breathless at the sight.

“Well, you still want to do those things, don’t you?” Jean asked, shifting a bit so that he didn’t have to turn his neck to look at Armin. “You don’t have to forget about those dreams.”

“I guess not,” he said, looking back down at his notebook, absently fanning the pages out with his thumb. “I do like writing, so maybe that.”

“About what?”

“I’m not so sure. Half the things I’d like to write about I haven’t even seen yet,” he laughed softly.

“Then how do you know you want to write about them?”

Armin turned, his eyes meeting Jean’s. It was still so new, whatever it was between them, that the slightest eye contact still made Jean’s breath hitch and the flush on his cheeks burn harder. He wanted to look away, embarrassed almost, but the look in Armin’s eyes had him mesmerized.

“I just… know,” he said. “I know that when I see it, whatever it is beyond these walls, I’ll never want to forget. I’ll want to put it all down on paper.”

They sparkled, those big, blue eyes of his, with something Jean would only ever know as hope, and he only wished he’d better appreciated that look. Years later, it was hard to remember the last time he saw it.

Jean barely registered the body that slipped into bed beside him, waking enough to pull it against him and feel the soft head of hair tucked against his chest.

The room was cast in the light of early morning, and Jean had the fleeting hope that Armin hadn’t been up working through the night.

There was the thought, half-asleep and to be forgotten in the morning, of asking him again sometime, hearing Armin’s answer now. Would he still look at Jean with that same hope in his eyes? Would he still talk about all the books he wanted to write, and all the histories he wanted to know? The things he maybe still wanted to see.

He wondered, but a part of him knew he’d be too afraid to ask, too scared to see that the light had gone out completely, and even the mere question wouldn’t be enough to bring it back.

Jean laughed, tipping his head back and putting his hand on his stomach as his shoulders shook.

“Don’t laugh at me!” Armin exclaimed, but he was laughing too, dabbing the dishtowel on the water that splashed his apron.

“How did you even manage that?”

“The bowl fell!”

He stood, taking the towel from Armin. “Let me help you.” He wiped at the sudsy water that had splashed on the counter when said bowl slipped from Armin’s hands into the sink. “You can be so clumsy,” he chucked. “Geez, look at this mess.”

Armin snorted, going back to washing the dishes. “I know, sorry.” Jean leaned over and kissed the top of his head and Armin leaned into him, tilting his head up for a kiss on the lips. Despite being wet, Armin put a gloved hand on Jean’s waist, the fabric of his shirt cooling at his touch. Jean hummed, twisting into his hold and putting his own hand on Armin’s back.

There was a knock at the door.

Armin pulled away and looked at the door then back at Jean. “Expecting someone?”

“Anybody home?” came Connie’s voice and another impatient knock. “I could hear you two cackling from down the hall, so I know you’re in there.”

“It’s just Con,” Jean muttered. He went to the door, looking out the peephole to confirm, even though it couldn’t have been anyone else. He opened the door and Connie let himself in, grin on his face. “What are you so happy about?” Jean grumbled, a little annoyed by the interruption.

“Sunday,” he said, like it was obvious what that meant. “You know what that means, Jean.” He looked over at Armin when he came out of the kitchen to meet them by the door. “Hey Armin.”

“Hi Connie.” He glanced between Connie and Jean, face pinched in confusion as he pulled off his wet apron. “What’s Sunday?”

Jean sighed and shook his head. “Andria’s new hours.” The barmaid Connie was attempting to court. “Connie, you don’t need a wingman every single time. Are you too dense to know that she already likes you?”

He frowned. “I don’t want her to think I’m some lonely loser.”

“Yea, so instead she thinks you’re some codependent loser who can’t get laid without his buddy there to cheer him on.”

Connie put a hand on his chest and gawked. “That sounded a bit too personal.”

“You’re going out drinking?” Armin asked, interrupting their banter. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Connie’s going out drinking. I don’t have to.” The urge for just one drink did itch under his skin though, but he’d stay if Armin asked. “It’s Sunday, I can stay in.”

“Why don’t you come too, Armin?” Connie suggested. “Yea, give yourself a break for once and have a drink. Can’t hurt, right?”

Armin shook his head. “No, that’s alright. I’ve got to catch up on some notes for tomorrow.” He looked at Jean, smiling softly. “Go ahead, have fun. I don’t mind.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Jean, really, it’s alright. We’ve just been sitting around all day anyway.” He waved him away with his hand when Jean still hesitated. “Go, I mean it. And get dressed, you look like a slob.”

Jean stepped forward to kiss him on the corner of the mouth. “I love you.”

“Tch.” Armin shoved him away playfully. “Go.”

He stood in front of the mirror brushing back his hair and examining his face to make sure he looked presentable enough to go out – face washed and beard trimmed. Last thing he needed was Connie’s girl thinking he was friends with a slob, though Andria already did already know him.

Connie and Armin were still standing by the door, talking about something or other when he came back out.

“You finished primping?” Connie asked when he saw Jean. “You sure like to take your time, and what, just to look like that?” he teased.

Armin looked over, eyes trailing up and down his form, and Jean felt his cheeks getting hot under his gaze.

“You look nice,” he murmured, pulling Jean’s jacket from the coat rack and gesturing for him to step a little closer. He helped him into the leather mackinaw jacket, the winter one lined with a soft plaid flannel. Jean frowned when Armin started to drape a scarf around his neck and batted his hands away harmlessly.

“Ar, I’ll be alright,” he said, smiling and tilting his head to the side. His chest squeezed at the way his face pinched in concern. “It’s a short walk.”

“It’s cold out,” he insisted, knocking his hands out of the way and pulling the scarf around him. He smoothed down his lapels, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

“You’re sweet,” he said softly, ducking down to kiss him on the lips. Armin hummed at that, hand rested on Jean’s waist, a ghost from earlier.

“Uh, maybe you should stay home, Jean,” Connie snickered, a smirk on his face.

Jean pulled back and ruffled Armin’s hair. “Shut up, Connie,” he muttered, but he was smirking too.

Armin swatted his hand away. “Don’t get into any trouble.” He glanced between them. “Neither of you.”

“We won’t,” Jean said and ducked down to peck him again on the lips. “Promise.”

“What does he do for fun?”

Jean looked at Connie, hands stuffed in his pockets as they walked quickly down the street, the cold air biting their skin. “Huh?” he asked, not exactly sure if he knew what he was talking about.

“Armin,” he said, like it was obvious. “He doesn’t seem to really… do anything, y’know?” He pulled a gloved hand from his pocket to gesture with it vaguely. “Besides work, I mean. Like… what does he do besides that? When we’re not at the embassy?”

What a dumb question it was, and god, did Jean need a whiskey.

He frowned as he thought about it, feeling Connie’s eyes on the side of his head, waiting, for what? An answer to whether or not Armin ever indulged himself in some time off? Armin did plenty of things besides work. Of course, he did.

Armin liked reading, to himself, or even to Jean sometimes. They hadn’t done that in a while though, lay curled up in bed and read a cheap pulp novel from the bookstore down the block.

He liked writing in his journal. He also liked to sit at the kitchen table and watch Jean cook dinner, talking to him about idle things that only the two of them could understand. Laughing over splashed water.

“He does plenty of things,” he said, a little defensively he realized when the words came out quite hot.

“He never comes out with us,” Connie continued, seemingly unsatisfied with that answer, like he was sure he had to prove the point to Jean, as if he were missing it or something. “Never lets loose.”

“What? Are you writing a book on him or something? He’s busy,” Jean snapped shortly, ready to dismiss the subject altogether. “Busier than the rest of us.”

“Hah,” Connie barked. “And whose fault is that? We all work the same shitty, thankless job every damn day. He could let himself enjoy one night out for once, I’m sure he could use it.”

“Connie,” Jean said levelly, feeling his patience with the conversation wearing thinner than it already had. “Respectfully, shut the hell up.”

Connie stopped walking, slapping his hands down on his thighs. “Oh, come on,” he called out as Jean took a few more steps forward before stopping. He let out a sigh, frustrated, and watched the air from his mouth turn to a little puff of vapor. “Don’t get like that, Jean-”

“No, really.” He turned to look at him. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He held up his hands, placating. “Alright. Relax, big guy.”

“I am relaxed.” He tried to let his shoulders fall back into place to prove it, but he was already so wound up that they stayed bunched under his coat.

Connie eyed him for a moment longer, and Jean stared back, challenging him to say a word more. “Sure,” he said, not pushing it any further, patting Jean’s back and urging him to keep walking. “Whatever you say.”

It was a pub they frequented a lot in the past year since moving to this town. Jean came here often with Connie, sometimes Pieck too, as it turned out she was quite the drinker herself if she wanted to be, usually after work. Jean couldn’t remember the last time he was here on a Sunday, and it wasn’t as packed as usual, but there were still some locals and regulars seated at the bar and some of the tables near the back.

They took a seat on two empty stools by the front part of the bar.

“You know this is the only time I’m doing this for you, right?” Jean said, taking a handful of the bar peanuts sitting on the counter. “Can’t spend my weekends going out drinking and waiting for you to finally ask Andria out.”

“Yea yea,” Connie dismissed him with a smack on the arm. “She’s coming,” he whispered. “How do I look?”

Jean pointed at his chin. “You do have something on your face. Miss a spot shaving?”

“Really?” His eyes got wide and he reached up to touch his face, face deadpanned when he saw Jean snickering to himself. “You’re an asshole.”

“I know.”

“Hi boys,” Andria said in her heavy lilted accent when she came over to where they were sitting. She had her dark curls pushed back with a red headband and was wearing a white blouse just as the other bar workers did. “Didn’t expect to see you here tonight. Well, maybe you, Connie.”

“Hi Andria,” Jean said, finding it hard not to smile back at her with how infectious her bright disposition was.

Connie clapped him on the back. “Yea, I pulled this guy out of the house tonight. Figured he could use a drink.”

“So busy, all of you,” she said, eyes fixed on Connie, her elbows on the bar. “How about some whiskeys on the house?”

“Aw, you don’t have to,” Connie said, mirroring her and leaning forward. Jean suppressed the laugh in his gut at how lovesick he was.

“Oh, it’s my pleasure.” She looked at Jean. “For you too, yes?”

“On the rocks, please.”

She brought them their drinks and Jean thanked her, insisting she take his money anyway.

“I’m going to take mine over there,” he said and patted Connie’s shoulder before moving to sit down the bar so they could be alone.

The first cool sip of the whiskey burned on its way down, warming in his stomach almost immediately after. He shut his eyes, sighing, and nearly downed the rest of it in the next few goes. Another barkeep was quick to come over and offer him another. He nodded, letting his glass get filled once, twice, until a warm haze washed over him.

Like plenty of the times he drank, he could only start to think about Armin. The simple thought of them smiling and laughing in the kitchen made him feel even warmer than the drink. He thought of how he looked at him before he left, the way his lips felt when they kissed, his hand on his waist. Coming out tonight started to feel quite stupid, the more he thought about it.

He heard the clicking of heels and felt the overwhelming presence of someone next to him before Jean even looked to see the woman leaning on the bar to his left.

Her hair was long and dark, tumbling past her shoulders in soft waves. She was pretty, Jean noticed. Quite pretty, actually; tall with olive skin and deep brown eyes that met his own when he had turned to see who had approached him. Jean wasn’t a stupid man, he knew he was attractive, but he barely took note of her interest – certainly evident in the coy smile on her red-stained lips – for he had been too indulged in thoughts about blond hair that was smooth between his fingers, creamy skin that was so soft to the touch beneath his calloused fingertips. Cool eyes, blue like the harbor and the sky above it, that ignited something in him much more akin to fire.

“You look lonely,” she purred, resting delicate, lacquered fingers on his forearm. “Come here by yourself?”

Jean glanced at her hand only for a moment before looking up and nodding towards Connie, down at the other side of the bar laughing with Andria. “With my friend.”

“Your friend looks busy.”

He lifted his drink to his lips, her hand falling from his arm. “I have someone waiting for me back home,” he told her, taking a long swig of his whiskey, finishing it off, and gesturing for one of the available barkeeps to fill his glass. The woman didn’t seem to lose interest yet.

“I don’t see her here.” She moved in a little closer and Jean could smell the sweet-scented perfume that she wore, like candied citrus. He thought of rose-scented soap, lavender shampoo. “She must be foolish. What kind of lady lets such a strapping, handsome man go out and drink alone?”

Jean snorted to himself, shaking his head and starting on his new drink. ‘What kind of man leaves their partner home alone on a Sunday night?’ would have been the more accurate question.

She tried a few more things, but it didn’t take much longer for the woman to finally pick up on Jean’s disinterest and walk off.

Jean thought about it though. About having someone waiting for him back home – someone warm and beautiful and comforting.

It was Sunday and he sat at the bar with a glass of whiskey, turning it in idle circles with his fingers in the ring condensation left from it dripping down the sides. His sleeves were rolled up and his jacket hung over the back of the chair, and the chill from outside made him shiver each time someone came inside or left, regardless of the burn of alcohol that warmed his blood and bloomed in his stomach.

Connie would likely stay late and leave with Andria, just as he had hoped he would, but Jean had no other reason to stick around, and to do so alone. The thought got more ridiculous with each passing thought.

He took another swig of the dark liquor, swilling it around in his mouth and seething after he swallowed. The ice had melted and watered it down a while ago, but it still had some bite.

Here he was, drunk, sitting on a barstool, knowing Armin was back at the apartment, alone just the same.

Though it was cold out, Jean found that he was practically sweating, whiskey still hot in his gut. He unbuttoned the first few clasps at the top of his shirt, scarf haphazardly draped around his neck and jacket tucked over his arm.

There were a few stray couples and drunks in the streets, stumbling back home this late. On one block he passed a couple kissing under a streetlight, and on another, a man pissing into a rain grate.

He blinked hard a few times, trying to clear his head, looking up at the stars that were bright in the sky. Back home, he wondered if Armin was still up and at the desk writing, just as he had been the night before. He wondered if maybe Armin would look at him when he walked in the door, smile and reach out his arms, beckon for him to be held.

Jean shut his eyes, relying on his muscle memory to not trip and fall as he walked, and smiled at the thought.

He was surprised to see that Armin was already in bed; body facing the door and covers pulled up over his shoulder.

The window was open, curtains blowing, and the room was cold.

He tried to be as quiet as possible stumbling towards the bathroom but tripped over a towel – Armin had a bad habit of leaving them on the ground by the door instead of in the hamper or at least on the tile floor.

“Did you have a nice time?” His voice made Jean jump, coming quiet but still loud enough to cut through the lull of the room.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Jean whispered, avoiding the question for no reason other than the fact that he really didn’t have an answer. What was he supposed to say? That he had sat alone and watched Connie flirt with the barmaid, drank three, or maybe four whiskeys, been propositioned by a pretty woman, but –

All I could think about was you, he thought, but he stood in silence, waiting for something he wasn’t so sure of. He leaned down to pick up the stray towel, tossing it in the bathroom.

“You didn’t,” Armin assured him, a little louder now. Jean heard the rustling of the sheets as he moved around. “Can’t sleep tonight.”

His insomnia was bordering on concerning, but Jean didn’t think much to question it, or rather, maybe he chose not to think about it. He wasn’t sleeping either, at least not as of late. Maybe it was just a subject that he didn’t want to broach. It’s not like Armin ever brought it up either.

He looked in the direction of the bed a little longer, not a word more passing between them. A sliver of moonlight cut past the curtain and cast a glow across Armin’s face, illuminating his features just enough for Jean to see he was looking right back at him, eyes transfixed, just as Jean’s were on him. His skin itched with the overwhelming urge to lie down and feel how warm he must have been under the covers, a promising reprieve from the frigidness outside.

“Let me wash up quick,” he said, hoping that his words meant more to Armin that what they were at face value – hoping that Armin wanted to be near him too.

He pulled the string to the dim lightbulb that hung in the bathroom and listened to it buzz as it barely gave off enough light to see that well, but enough that it made him squint at the sudden brightness, as dull as it might have been.

Looking in the mirror, Jean could tell he was flushed high in his cheekbones and nose and that his eyes were tired. He rubbed at his beard and willed away the slight pounding in his head. Sure, he felt a lot more sober after that walk in the brisk outside, but he’d be due for a nasty hangover in the morning without a shred of a doubt.

He grimaced while slipping his shirt off, pulling at the sore muscle in his shoulder, an injury from a couple years ago that still smarted whenever he moved his arm wrong.

He couldn’t help but look back in the small mirror on the bathroom wall for a moment and thumb at the scar running across his chest, eyes drifting along the discolored marks left by ODM gear. There weren’t many qualms Jean had about his appearance – if any at all – but some of these harsh reminders of the past were rather upsetting, especially the ones branded into his body, constant and ever-present. He didn’t like remembering, not one bit, but with battered skin and aching muscles it was quite hard to forget. It would be a naïve notion to think it might be easy.

Weathered, was the first word that came to mind when looking at himself. Weathered, like those men he used to see within the Walls, at the barracks or the military headquarters in the Capital. The ones with the red-tipped noses and bags under their chronically tired eyes.

Jean used to judge them, question the purpose of getting piss drunk in the middle of the day when there was always more work to be done. He thought them quite selfish – stupid even.

But here he was, dark shadows under his eyes and a red in his cheeks that wasn’t just from the cold. He was 21, and those men back then had been at least ten years his senior.

Clumsily, Jean crawled into his space in their bed that sandwiched him between the wall and Armin, muttering a ‘sorry’when he accidentally elbowed him trying to fit comfortably. The bed was much too small for the both of them – Jean’s legs far too long for it and nearly hanging off the edge.

He rolled onto his side and put an arm over Armin, tugging him to his chest and burying his nose in his hair. He was warmer than he had expected, though Armin’s body always ran a bit hot, especially now, clothed in his soft flannel pajamas.

Jean could feel the strumming rhythm of his heart against his forearm, strong and steady. He kissed the back of his neck softly, right at the fuzzy base of his scalp, and let out a lazy sigh at the simple and familiar comfort.

“Figures you come back drunk trying to get me to bed you,” Armin said, light and a little muffled. He shifted a bit, melding into Jean’s embrace and tipping his head back so that Jean would kiss him again.

He chuckled, taking in a long breath of the hair tickling his nose, scented faintly of that lavender shampoo they both used. He smelled clean, like he had washed up not long before Jean came home.

“I’m not drunk,” Jean insisted, kissing him again. “And it seems I’ve already been successful at bedding you, anyway.” He pressed his lips to his neck, lower this time, detecting the slightest, barely-there shiver from him when Jean’s warm breath hit his skin. “So don’t flatter yourself, blondie.”

Armin shook with a quiet laugh, letting the weight of his body lean back onto Jean just a little more. “See,” he said, playful, like he was ready to indulge in a little of this back and forth. “That’s how I know you’re drunk.”

“I’m not.”

Armin laughed again. “You don’t call me shit like ‘blondie’ when you’re sober.”

“Fine. Maybe I am a little drunk,” he drawled, bumping at Armin’s ear with his nose and letting his hand ghost down his side slowly. “Blondie.”

The closeness felt nice, and so did the warmth, reminding him that Armin was here, alive and in his arms. Why wouldn’t he be? After all this time, they were safe. There was no more threat and there were no more real reasons to fear for their lives every day, but it was like an instinct that ran cold through Jean’s blood. He was convinced there wouldn’t be one day where he wasn’t so concerned about Armin’s wellbeing, and scared for the prospect of him ever being gone, out of his reach.

Maybe it was the drink, making him feel all sorts of odd things, but Jean felt like he might start to cry. His head was swimming and all he wanted was to feel something other than the sadness that often ached in his gut and left a void in his chest. He tried, time and time again, to tell himself that it was all okay now, that they were safe and happy, but often he needed the physical reminder. He needed to see it, feel it, hear it, rather than just try and believe it.

As if sensing it, Armin turned so that they were face to face, noses almost touching. This close Jean could see the way that Armin looked at him, eyes taking in every small detail that could give him even just the smallest indication of what Jean might be feeling. And though he felt like he was under a microscope, Jean just let him look, letting him see right through him and peel back each layer, hoping he’d maybe find something he didn’t even know was there.

“Yea,” Armin decided, lifting his fingers and brushing some hair from Jean’s face. “You’re a loser, too.” His breath was minty and cool, inviting on his lips when he sighed and brushed his nose against Jean’s. “You’re drunk and you’re a loser.”

“Maybe, but I’m yours,” he murmured, stroking some hair off Armin’s face. “Only yours, Armin.”

He could see the natural rosiness of his face, the pink blush of his cute nose, even in the dark. He lifted a hand to cup one of his cheeks, soft and round in his palm. Armin bumped their noses together again and let his hand drift up to grip Jean’s jaw, bringing their mouths together. He kissed him, a surprisingly wet and open kiss that Jean fell into quite easily.

He let his hand slide down Armin’s neck and to his waist, slipping under his shirt so that he could feel the soft definition of his stomach and skirt across to his back, fingers right at the waistband of his pants, thumbing at the dimples he had there. He felt the way he shuddered, how goosebumps prickled in the wake of his touch.

Armin’s skin was soft. In fact, everything about him was soft – warm and all-encompassing. Jean wanted to melt into him, swallow him whole. He was intoxicating, much more so than those whiskeys at the bar. More than any other person alive could be.

A strand of saliva connected their mouths when Armin pulled away, dribbling onto Jean’s chin after it broke. They both let out hot, heavy breaths, fingers searching under clothing for more hasty, feverish contact.

“What was that all about?” Jean breathed, pressing the palm of his hand to the flat of Armin’s back and pulling him closer, drinking in the small gasp he let out when he did so. “All that talk about me being drunk and trying to bed you, and now this.”

“I was lonely,” Armin admitted easily. He smacked his lips quietly and wiped the stray spittle from Jean’s chin with his thumb. “You still taste like liquor. How much did you drink?”

“I brushed my teeth,” he said, quick and defensive. “And I’m not even drunk anymore, really.” It was just another avoidance, but another one that Armin didn’t bother to harp on. He rubbed at Jean’s beard, almost like he enjoyed the scratchiness of it against his palm.

“I know.” He leaned in to kiss him again, slower this time and with more intention. “It’s not that bad.” He caught Jean’s bottom lip between his teeth and pulled, letting go so he could speak again. “God,” he said, voice a little strained. “You’re so…”

Jean pressed his lips along his smooth jaw, ran his fingers up and down his spine. “You should have made me stay,” he whispered, feeling Armin’s arousal against his thigh and shifting a bit so that there would be a bit more pressure on it, listening for the hitch of Armin’s breath at the action. “Maybe we could have shared a bottle of wine… maybe taken a long bath… lit one of those candles you like,” he purred, kissing him between his words.

Armin huffed a short laugh, breathier than before. “You’re a grown man,” he said. “You can stay and go as you please.” His hand slid down between them, cupping Jean’s bulge and feeling how hard he was getting just from some touching and kissing. “Not just me I see.”

“Maybe I was lonely too.”

“Hah, maybe you should have made yourself stay then,” he retorted, a little colder than before. “If it’s wine and bubble baths you want.”

For the time being, Jean chose to ignore any ice that might linger below the surface, wanting instead to keep up the warmth, thaw out whatever might lay between them.

“And what if that is what I want?” He let his lips move to Armin’s ear, kissing him right below it. “To get a little tipsy with you, be close. Been a while since we’ve done something like that, huh?”

Armin whined, low in the back of his throat as Jean’s hand started to become more insistent, stroking in time with how Armin held Jean.

Jean’s eyelids fluttered, his breath coming out in a whimper that would have been embarrassing if he cared about such things anymore, but he was already far too gone for that. He was desperate for more, needing to feel closer.

His own fingers moved to the waistband of Armin’s pants, slipping beneath it to help him shimmy out of them so that they were just below the curve of his backside. He ran a hand over the swell of his ass and gave it a squeeze before moving back to the front. He could feel him twitch against his palm and Jean’s own arousal burned in his gut and in his head at the warm sensation, clouding his mind from any and all thoughts that weren’t purely Armin.

It still wasn’t enough. Even with Armin’s hand and his lips on his neck, he needed more, all of it, any little bit he could get. He wanted to cry out in frustration, not able to understand why it still wasn’t what he needed and why his head was throbbing with something that wasn’t liquor.

“I want you to fuck me,” he found himself huffing into Armin’s ear, mouthing at the lobe while rutting slowly into the long fingers that were still stroking him evenly. “Please…” he nearly whimpered. “Please, Armin, just fuck me.”

Armin pulled back at the sudden request. “W-What?” he sputtered.

“Please?” He didn’t care how pathetic he sounded – Jean would get on his knees and beg, if that’s what Armin needed. It wouldn’t be the first time either.

“Jean!” he exclaimed, just a shocked hiss like it was the crudest thing he had ever said. “It’s- It’s late. We have to be up early,” he added, as if that had stopped them before.

He watched as Armin searched his eyes again, more than likely seeing the need and desperation in them. Probably feeling pity for such the pitiful man in the bed with him. He hadn’t even realized he was crying until Armin was wiping at his cheeks with the soft pad of his thumb.

“Please, Armin,” he whispered, arms tightening around him. “Please, I need you. I want you to… I-”

“No, not now.” He cut him off with another kiss, gentler this time. “Shh, calm down. Shh, just… here.” Armin tugged down Jean’s briefs, just enough so that his own hard cock fell out. Armin took them both in his hand, letting out a stilted sigh. He took Jean’s hand and placed it over them, gasping again at the contact when he wrapped his fingers around them eagerly. “That,” Armin breathed, mouth hanging open. “Like that, Jean. Please.”

“Yea, like that,” he repeated, just as breathless, eyes locked onto Armin’s. He could barely feel it, but he knew he must have still been crying. Armin kissed his cheeks, sopping up the tears for him and letting his lips, salty, find their way back to Jean’s.

“Fuck, you’re hard,” Jean groaned, feeling lust and heat overcome whatever had been clouding his mind before, pumping his wrist just a bit faster. “Shit, Armin.”

Armin huffed out short breaths and moaned quietly, one hand gripping Jean’s shoulder and the other’s fingers digging into his hip. Jean brought his mouth back to Armin’s, licking into the openness of it and moaning in turn when he felt Armin’s own tongue, hot against his. Armin’s foot hooked around his ankle, bringing them closer and tangling their legs under the covers.

When Jean moved to latch his mouth onto Armin’s neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin, he pushed his face away gently. Only for a brief moment did he feel the rejection, before Armin started panting, the hand on Jean’s shoulder only gripping tighter.

“Right there,” he whimpered into Jean’s mouth as he circled his thumb over them both. “Jean, right there- there!” He came quick and shuddering without much more warning, and Jean stroked him through it, murmuring to him under his breath.

Jean felt his own climax peaking almost immediately after, driving him to half mount Armin and thrust against him until he spilled out over his stomach. His body stiffened and he groaned, thighs trembling as he spread his release over them to lubricate the final pumps of his wrist.

Armin’s body went slack beneath him, hands slick with the sweat on Jean’s shoulders. “Thank you,” he panted, giving him a pat on the side of the head. “I… I needed that.”

“Yea,” Jean said breathlessly, sliding off him and back onto his side, reassuming their face to face position from before. Armin slid his thumb over Jean’s wet, swollen lips while he spoke. “Me too.”

There was another long pause, just the sounds of them both catching their breaths. Jean went back to stroking the back of Armin’s neck, damp with sweat.

“We made a mess,” he mumbled after a while, tipping his head against Jean’s chest.

“Want to hop in the shower?”

“You know that will only add another half hour to all of this.”

“Just to rinse off.” He kissed Armin’s forehead, tasting the salty sheen of sweat there too. “Unless you really think I’ll distract you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he huffed, an echo from earlier. “I’m just tired. Still unprepared for tomorrow. Can’t even rely on getting some sleep.”

“Don’t you feel at least a little more relaxed now?”

Armin let out a hard breath from his nose, and Jean couldn’t tell if it was meant to be a laugh or not. “Takes a little more than a hand job to calm me down, Jean. I’m not you.”

He ignored the gibe. “Well, you spent all weekend on your notes, there’s no way you’re unprepared.” He stilled his hand at Armin’s lower back, pulled him a little closer. The booze from earlier still had him feeling a bit loose. “The offer still stands if you want to fuck me,”he whispered by his ear. “Might take the edge off.”

Armin didn’t respond, but he did move to roll out of Jean’s arms.

“Hey,” Jean said, tugging him back gently and feeling the slightest pang of something painful in his chest. “It was a joke, okay? Don’t run away so quickly.”

“Jean…” If he were more sober, he would have easily detected his impatience.

“Come on, I missed you all night. Just lay with me, please.”

“I told you, if you missed me so badly you could have stayed.”

But I didn’t, Jean wanted to say. You told me to go and I didn’t stay, so let us just have this.

“Let me hold you for a minute,” he said again instead, feeling the moment sour and dissipate quickly, slipping right out from underneath them, and he felt so achingly desperate to salvage it. “Please.” He wondered how much more he had to beg tonight.

Armin sounded hollow, that unmistakable tone in his voice when he spoke again. “I don’t want you to hold me,” he said, and just like that, the moment didn’t have to slip any further, because it all but snapped.

He extricated himself from Jean, flicking his arms off of him, like he was disgusted with him, or more likely with himself. Jean knew how he got when he thought too hard, tortured himself at the worst of times and everything inside him tore up.

“Why can’t you forget for five minutes?” Jean asked, lying flat on his back, frustrated that they couldn’t just be, not even for a little bit. “Can’t we just forget everything and enjoy each other’s company for a little bit without thinking about any of it? Really, would it be too much to ask, Armin?”

He sat at the edge of the bed, feet planted flat on the floor and head in his hands, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefingers. “God, do you ever just stop?” he croaked. “Just leave me alone. I’m not in the mood for this, so please, just shut up.”

Sweet as he was most of the time, Armin had a tendency to be cruel when he wanted to be. Usually just when he was overwrought and tired, like tonight.

It hurt, a lot of the times, when Jean wasn’t able to separate what Armin really meant and what all the stress had forced him to say, always wanting to just shut conversations before going any further. Tonight might have been one of those nights, and again, maybe he’d just blame the alcohol for why the words were so prickly under his skin.

“You can be so goddamn frigid sometimes,” Jean spit, a selfish desire to it, one that made him want his words to cut just as deep.

The silence only lasted a moment longer.

“I know,” Armin said, quiet before he stood, shuffling in the dark towards the bathroom. Jean jumped a bit when Armin shut the door, hearing then the flush of the toilet and the shower running just a couple moments later.

He didn’t question it when Armin got back into bed and laid as far away from him as possible in their little bed. It would be futile to try and make amends right now, but Jean found an aching part of him wishing they had fought instead of whatever this was. He wanted more harsh words, only to be followed by apologies, soft touches, sweet words. He wanted to be comforted and told it would be okay. Hold and be held. But all he could do was stare at the ceiling, listen to the breathing body next to him, knowing they’d both be awake much longer, probably needing comfort as well, something neither knew how to give.

Armin was already in the kitchen, standing by the open window and looking out at the harbor when Jean came out in the morning. The hangover was just as heavy in his skull as he knew it would be.

He smelled the cigarette before he even saw it, gagging to himself and swallowing back the bit of vomit that accompanied the headache.

“Morning,” he grumbled, heading to the stovetop and seeing that the kettle wasn’t on yet. He tried not to put any stock into that.

Armin started, sputtering on a mouthful of smoke like he hadn’t seen or heard Jean coming out of the bedroom. He turned his head to blow the remaining smoke out the window and pounded once at his chest to let out another short cough.

“Good morning,” he rasped, sniffling and clearing his throat.

“That shit smells, Armin,” Jean said but didn’t turn to look at him, busying himself with prepping his tea. “Snuff it out, please.”

“I didn’t complain last night about the booze.”

“You did, actually.” He turned to face him, catching the way Armin rolled his eyes. “Quite a bit. You must have forgotten.”

He crushed the butt of the cigarette on the windowsill and tapped the ash outside, tucking the rest of it into his vest pocket. No wonder his clothes smelled faintly of smoke sometimes.

There was a lapse of silence, a few moments where Jean stood staring at Armin, almost like he thought he could peel him apart just by looking. Undo every layer and get down to the core and figure out why exactly, beyond the obvious, they were doing this.

Armin must have understood what he was trying to do, shifting uncomfortably under the weighted gaze and turning to glance back out the window.

A boat blared outside.

“I’m going to head down to the embassy,” he said, pushing himself off the edge of the countertop where he’d been leaning and smoothed down his clothes. “Get myself ready for the meeting early. I’ll see you there.” He passed by Jean’s without another look, pulling on his coat by the door. “Don’t be late.”

The door shut behind him, and the room felt achingly quiet, save for the flame burning beneath the kettle, and the noise from outside.

He was five minutes late.

It wasn’t enough to be too unprofessional, but just enough that Armin would notice. Jean caught his eyes when he came in through the heavy chestnut doors, seeing the way he looked like he wanted to roll them, chewing the inside of his cheek.

The only free seat was beside Reiner and Jean took it, greeting him tersely. Armin was diagonal across the broad table, but he didn’t look over.

Connie was staring at him from his seat next to Armin, giving him an odd look, obviously picking up on their tension, which must have been somewhat apparent. He probably wondered what could have gone down in the less than twelve hours since he’d last seen him, but Jean wasn’t looking to have to explain.

Everyone straightened up when the minister of foreign affairs came into the room, flanked by his assistant.

They’d been working with this man for the past six months, negotiating terms between the world’s remaining nations, and more recently, focusing on imports and exports in the hopes that peace contract talks between Paradis and the rest of the world could come soon.

The minister was a tall man; broad shouldered with dark hair that he wore slicked back, and always dressed in impeccably tailored suits. They met with him twice a month, sometimes more, to explain the progress being made and any other things that might be worth noting. Maybe it was his own insecurity, but Jean always had the slightest feeling the man looked down on them all, saw them as six children playing politics, inexperienced and unreliable, even though they’d all been working their asses off since the war ended and were well versed in policy and tactical planning.

It was a stroke of luck that they’d even been accepted to live here, seeing as most countries still affiliated them with the disgraced nation of Marley, and with Eren Yaeger.

Here, they weren’t necessarily revered, but they were tolerated. The country they lived in had been one of Marley’s last allies, and the connection was the only thing they had in order to be accepted as refugees when they were no longer welcome on the Island, or anywhere else, really.

The minister sat at the head of the table, saying something to his assistant in their native language that Jean didn’t understand. Armin had started studying it when they moved here, always telling Jean he should consider trying to pick it up, but he never did.

“Let’s begin with progress reports,” the minister said after a quick greeting. “I’d like to hear how the trade negotiations are turning out. Miss Finger, please start.”

Jean zoned out as Pieck spoke, too distracted. He bounced his leg under the table, skin prickling with something hot and uncomfortable. It was often that he got like this after a fight, or an argument, or anything negative. He always found himself wanting to move past it, not deal with any of it or have to talk it out.

He wouldn’t have noticed how he’d been staring at Armin if he didn’t start to speak, prompted by the minister.

“Mr. Arlert? Any updates from your correspondence with Paradis?”

He cleared his throat, sitting up a little taller and holding his papers in his hands. “Actually,” he said, tapping them on the table to even out the edges. “I had a proposal I wanted to discuss today.”

Jean frowned. A proposal? Since when had he been writing up a proposal? And for what? All this talk about notes for the meeting and Jean had no idea it was for a proposal.

He caught Connie’s eyes again and his brow was furrowed, like he was confused too. This type of thing was usually run past everyone before a meeting of this caliber.

“A proposal?” the minister asked, seemingly surprised too. Something in his voice only made Jean’s frown turn further. “Alright then, let’s hear it.”

Armin cleared his throat again, gave a quick glance around the table before distributing papers from his stack. Reiner passed a handful to Jean when they made their way to this side of the table. He flipped through them, catching words that indicated a budget, a few spreadsheets, numbers, and names. His heart started to pound a bit, pulse heavy in his ears. How long had he been working on this, and why didn’t he let him know?

“I say we plan to be back on Paradis for the first round of peace talks in the Spring,” he started, and Jean felt his head start swimming even more. “Tensions are only rising, and I have concerns that if we don’t intervene soon there will be no peace to salvage.”

There was an aching silence that filled the room. Spring meant three months from now. They hadn’t even gotten any remaining nations on board with trading with the Island yet, let alone sending the ambassadors to meet with them.

The minister raised an eyebrow, folding his hands on the table and looking at Armin like he was ready to accept the challenge and entertain the conversation. “Spring? That’s quite ambitious, don’t you think?”

“Ambitious, maybe, but not impossible. If you look over the notes I’ve passed around the whole plan is outlined thoroughly. Page two has a detailed summary of what we can start doing today to make this work.”

Everyone flipped through the pages, a few whispered words as they assessed it. Jean could only look at Armin, his jaw clenched as he looked ahead at the minister.

“Well,” he started again. “First and foremost, how do you think the people of Paradis will take to the man who killed their revered martyr returning? All the rest of you involved in the war, too.” He looked down the line of them, eyes catching on Reiner beside him. “Those of you affiliated with Marley.”

Jean caught the stoic shift of Armin’s expression.

“I’m not sure they’ll take it well,” he admitted. “We have contacts on the Island that have said nationalism is rapidly growing under the Queen’s new regime. I’m not sure I’d be a face they want to see returning.” He glanced around the table, only catching Jean’s eyes for a fleeting moment. “Any of us, really, but some more so than others. Still, I do think we need to go back. Sooner than later, really, if we hope for faster results and want to cut any time where tensions might rise further than they already have.”

Something bubbled in his chest, warmed between his ears, and Jean found himself tuning out the next few minutes of whatever back and forth Armin and the minister had established.

To go back to this Island now would be a death wish. There was a sudden visceral image of them arriving at the port, that same one they used to spend so much time at. They’d be stepping off the boat, onto the docks, greeted by the Queen and her people. Maybe Jean’s mother would be there, maybe even Mikasa would come out to see their return.

The thought of a welcome reunion was little to none in Jean’s mind, because all he could imagine was a shot in the crowd, blood, screaming, and Armin with a bullet in his chest, his skull, anywhere really. There was no power of the Colossus, no healing. No steam to wick away scar tissue. He’d be dead. It would all be over, and the mere thought made him want to heave onto the table.

“I think we should wait.” He heard his voice without even realizing he spoke, like it had come from someone else.

Everyone’s eyes turned to him, even Armin’s, wide like he hadn’t expect Jean to speak up. He opened his mouth to respond, but the minister stepped in first.

“And why is that Mr. Kirstein?”

He sat up, sliding the papers forward on the table. “Well, for one, we’re not ready. Three months seems like a lot of time to do a lot of things, but it’s not nearly enough. Not one bit.”

Jean glanced at Armin and could practically see the gears turning in his head, already calculating his next point.

“It wouldn’t be safe.” He shrugged, trying to appear cool and collected, though his heart was beating hard in his chest, and his breaths were starting to feel shallow. Sweat prickled at the base of his skull, a bead cooling as it dripped down beneath his collar. “Not yet at least. Simple as that.”

The minister turned back to Armin. “They’re going to want you to pay for what happened, you know. With what little contact we’ve had, that much is clear. They’ve made themselves an isolationist state and from what the intel says, they’re bulking the military more than before.”

“And I think I should answer in some sense for what I did,” Armin said, firm in it. “Go back and face the music. We’ve waited long enough, and I think we can establish trade much quicker than our plans up until now have suggested. Once we do that, it could be soon after that they’ll have us.”

It was silent again, just shuffling of leather lined chairs as bodies shifted uncomfortably.

Jean huffed, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Just what we need,” he muttered. “Another decapitation.”

Armin’s eyes widened, incredulity evident on his face. Jean could feel him daring him to go on, to see what he would do if he did. “Excuse me?”

“They want your head on a silver platter. Go back and they’ll try and assassinate you at the port, or the Capital, or wherever the hell else.” He threw his hands up at the notion and scoffed. “Seriously, think about it.”

“I have thought about it.” He pressed the flat of his palm to the papers in front of him. “A lot, actually.” You should know, Jean half expected him to say. “If you looked at what I wrote-”

“You’ll be dead in no time if we go back. Period.”

“It’s the risk we take.” It was like he was talking about going outside on a rainy day without an umbrella. ‘Oh, we might get wet? Well, that’s the risk we take, I suppose.’

“I think it could be any of us they’d like to see dead, but we can’t allow that to stop us from returning. I don’t think that much will change if we wait longer. If they want me dead in three months, they’ll want me dead in six, in a year. It makes no real difference.”

Jean was sure he was the one who looked incredulous now. He sat up, leaning forward to look at Armin, truly curious about his next question. “Are you seriously that suicidal?”

In an instant it was palpable, like everyone was holding their breaths. Jean could practically feel the implication of what he said. Armin gave him a look that seemed to say, ‘don’t you dare start this with me now.’

Armin was interrupted again before he could start in.

“Jean’s right.” Reiner’s deep voice made Jean flinch. “Same likely goes for Annie, Pieck, and me. Jean and Connie too, if we’re being honest. Here, no one bothers with us. Our presences aren’t a threat to them, but back there they are. We’re a threat to their freedom and autonomy as an independent state. They don’t trust us, even without the titans and with such little support backing us. We can’t risk ourselves this early on when we’ve barely even gotten somewhere with the export contracts. It would be, for lack of a better word, foolish.”

Annie moved to whisper something to Pieck, and she nodded, jotting whatever it was down in her notes. Connie was fiddling with the corner of the pages in front of him, eyes trained down at his hands.

Jean watched Armin shifting in his chair.

He had an odd urgency about himself in a way unlike he did when they were younger. Then, he was timid when it came to his plans, but his confidence was always piqued once it seemed his age didn’t matter in decision making, that adults trusted him and validated his ideas. By the time they were 19, he was confident enough in his skills as a tactician, at least more than he had been before. Now, he was like a loose cannon at times. Some of his ideas were careful and calculated, while others were radical and impatient, like this one.

“As much as I hate agreeing with Braun,” Jean started back up. “He raises another good point. It’s not just you on the line here, Armin. It’s the rest of us too.”

It was like the nail in the coffin, as if Reiner calling him foolish hadn’t been enough. Armin shot daggers in Jean’s direction, and if he really cried that much anymore, Jean would be sure he saw the shininess of tears in the corners of his eyes.

“I think Armin gets that, Jean,” Connie said suddenly. “I understand his urgency. We really do need to get the other nations to agree with some sort of contact with the Island, maybe just-”

“It’s not urgency,” Armin interrupted, pressing his hand to his papers again. Jean could hear the frustrated deflation in his voice, only slightly. “It’s the idea that if we don’t act soon enough, it will only get harder. I thought this through, I really did.”

“I’m not doubting that you did, Armin,” Connie said evenly. “I actually agree with you probably more than anyone else in the room does. I’d like to go back. Badly, really. I’m just not sure it’s safe. Mostly, for you, and some of the others.”

“Why don’t we take some time to look this over for the next month or so,” the minister said when another silence started to wash over the room. “Clearly it will take a while for all of you to be on board with one another’s plans, so I think it’s best that this one is put on hold for the time being. Continue to focus on the trading contracts, that’s our priority for the time being.” He looked at Armin. “And Mr. Arlert, though I do respect your ambition, consider running things by your colleagues beforehand next time.”

He stood, saying something again to his assistant as she gathered his things, and then they were gone.

There was a stillness for a moment, like they all felt someone should speak, clear the air, but there were no right words for it. Pieck was the first to stand, turning to Annie and talking about the work they should go do. Reiner followed suit, then Connie.

They all seemed to rush out of the room, taking their things and going so that they didn’t have to sit in the tense environment any longer.

Jean drummed his fingers on his thigh, watching Armin and waiting to see what he would do. He was staring down at his papers, an expression on his face that Jean couldn’t decipher. He was getting harder and harder to read these days.

When he finally stood, collecting his things, Jean figured maybe it would be good to try and smooth it all over now.

“Armin,” he started. “Listen, we’ll talk about it again another time. We’ll go back eventually, you know that, right?”

Nothing.

“Hey, just look at me for a second-”

“I don’t want to look at you right now.”

“Armin, come on.”

He left without another word, door shutting behind him, echoing loud into the empty room.

“What the hell was all of that about?” Connie hissed when Jean came out into the hall. His shoes slapped on the floor as he jogged to catch up with him, a clacking noise that drove Jean crazy when it synced up with his own footsteps. He could hear Armin in the other direction descending down the hall, and he curled his fists into balls at his sides.

“Nothing- I don’t know. Nothing. It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Connie grabbed his wrist and pulled him to a stop. “Jean, he just suggested we go back to the Island when he knows good and well there’s a bounty on at least half our heads. Did he talk to you about this?”

Jean didn’t say anything, avoiding Connie’s eyes and looking past him at the set of doors swinging closed at the end of the hall.

“Jean-”

“Go do your work.” He tugged his arm back and smoothed down the front of his suit jacket. “I don’t have time to talk about this right now and neither do you.”

Jean fixed himself in the filing office sorting letters and previous correspondence, although he should have been doing something a lot more productive. It was tedious work, but work that no one else ever wanted to do, meaning that he was left alone for most of the day.

When it was time to leave, he found Armin in the building library sitting in front of one of the typewriters at a long table. It was quiet, so of course the only sound was the quick, echoing click clack of his fingers on the keys, and Jean’s shoes on the shiny hardwood floor.

“Hey,” he said softly when he approached him, knowing he was on thin ice and not actively looking to press it any further. Armin didn’t acknowledge him, just kept typing. Jean caught the heavy sigh before it came out and got him into more trouble. “Ready to go home?”

His fingers continued to tap on the keys, pressing the return lever back each time he reached the end of the page. Jean started to get impatient when it didn’t seem Armin was going to answer him, but before he could say anything he pulled the page from the machine and placed it on top of a stack sitting beside it.

Jean grabbed Armin’s coat from the back of his chair and moved to help him put it on when he stood. He let him, but only for one arm before he yanked it forward, stepping away to slip his other arm in himself.

The twenty-minute walk home was quiet; hands stuffed in pockets, eyes trained forward, and boots heavy on the cobblestone.

Jean followed Armin up the rickety staircase of their apartment building, trailing back a few feet. Any knowledgeable man would know from the ice that had thickened between them that they were due for a fight the moment the door closed at their heels.

He braced himself, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath, but the surprise came when the first thing Armin said before heading into the bedroom was that they should eat dinner. He shut the door behind himself, far from quiet.

It only put off the inevitable. Jean knew they would fight – it was just a matter of when. He hoped that maybe a few minutes alone would cool Armin down, though their time apart today should have been enough for that. It had surely been enough for Jean to collect himself, even for him to consider apologizing, although he still meant everything he had said that morning.

He undid the top buttons of his shirt and pushed his sleeves up his forearms as he walked into the kitchen. Rolling his neck and letting out another deep sigh, he started to dig through the cabinets for something he could cook that would at least somewhat resemble a real meal. They hadn’t been down at the market in a few days, so there was no fresh produce or dairy in their kitchen, just cans of stuff that he’d be able to throw together into something edible but more than likely, unsatisfying.

Briefly, he found himself pulled by the urge to abandon the kitchen, follow Armin into the bedroom instead. Maybe he’d find him in the bathroom or at the desk. Maybe he’d be crying, hurt from today’s rejection and needing someone to hold him and assure him all his ideas were great, just some far too ambitious and dangerous for the time being. Maybe Armin would say he understood, that he knew how stubborn he could be, and he’d let Jean lay him down on the bed, whisper sweet words to him until they both fell asleep.

Maybe they’d finally find that middle ground – the one that seemed so unattainable as of late, that Jean was starting to wonder if it even existed.

He was pouring a can of beans into a pan when Armin came back in, brushing past him to snap the window open. The cold air seeped inside and Jean shivered, but he chose not to mention it. Better not to add another thing to the list of things they would argue about.

Like Jean, Armin had taken off his jacket and had his sleeves rolled up, a few buttons undone and showing the slightest sliver of his collarbone.

Wordlessly, he retrieved plates from the other cabinet behind Jean and silverware from the drawer. Jean listened to the sound of dishes on the table, trying to get a sense of how Armin was feeling without having to look.

Jean grabbed a bottle of cheap wine they had from a shelf in the kitchen while he listened, waiting for any sort of cue that maybe he should be the one to break the silence. He had started to pour them both a glass when Armin decided it was as good a time as ever to start up.

“You drink too fucking much,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for Jean to hear, clearly his intention. He wasn’t one to curse that often, but the words didn’t shock Jean – he had been naïve to expect anything resembling a peace offering this soon.

“What?” he said dryly, setting the bottle down before he poured any in the second glass. “We’re not allowed a glass of shitty wine with dinner anymore?”

Armin ignored him, continuing to spew what he must have been holding in since that morning. “I prepared and prepared for today and all you felt like doing was embarrassing me. Coming into that meeting late just to piss me off,” he snarled, but something in his voice sounded incredibly thin. “Talking to me like I’m an idiot in front of everyone. What the hell is wrong with you? Goddamn child.” He dropped a knife down hard on the table. “Goddamn drunk.”

Just like that, any thought of an apology slipped out of his head.

“Anything else?” Jean scoffed, downing his glass and refilling it. “You might as well keep going, I can take it. Coming from you, who smokes like a goddamn chimney every day, it’s quite rich. You know, maybe if you filled me in on your grand ideas, I wouldn’t have had to say anything.”

Armin ignored the last point. “The cigarettes calm me down,” he said evenly, not turning to meet Jean’s eyes just yet. “What they don’t do is turn me into an insufferable bastard.”

He laughed sharply. “Insufferable, huh?”

“Isn’t that what I said?” Armin asked mildly, fiddling with the silverware, trying to straighten it out next to the plates.

It was like the mood from last night had carried over into the next day, but part of Jean realized they’d probably still be fighting like this regardless of the night before, and regardless of what had happened in their meeting. They’d keep going at each other like this for who knows how long if they were never able to truly reach that middle ground.

In the heat of the moment, it was hard not to want to hurt him back. If Jean had been a stroke less of an impulsive man, maybe he would have thought about it a moment longer, taken a breath and cut his losses, but he wasn’t.

“You know what else is insufferable?” he countered, almost rhetorically, though part of him really wanted Armin to guess. “Listening to you talk about how little you value your life. Like you’re disposable. Acting like,” he threw his hands up, “like we’re old fucking men. Why are you so willing to throw yourself into the line of death?”

He didn’t answer, standing stiff, his back to Jean, still fiddling with a fork on the table. Jean felt himself soften the slightest bit, the wine already making his head feel thick and emotional, overwrought from all of it.

“I spent so long thinking you were going to die, and now you’re just asking to throw your life away.” He shut his eyes and shook his head, trying to push the past away. “Do you know how that felt? The idea that the person you love would be gone, no matter what, in such a short amount of time?”

“I think I have a pretty decent understanding, Jean,” Armin spit, bitter.

“We’re 21, Armin. 21. We’re practically kids! Don’t we deserve to be happy and have fun and live our lives for just a little bit before we die that inevitable death you’re so sure of?”

“We have a responsibility.”

“A responsibility I didn’t ask for!” he cried, frustrated that Armin wasn’t seeming to get his point. He flinched when Jean slammed his fist on the counter. “I wish you’d fucking quit it with the goddamn responsibilities. I’m not the one that… that promised him I’d try and save the whole goddamn world! Or what’s left of it at least.” He let out a humorless laugh. “I never wanted this, Armin, to have this promise rule our lives like this. Never. And you know that, so stop acting like I should be oh so glad to take on this goddamn burden of… of saving the fucking world, or whatever it is we’re here trying to do. It feels useless you know, what we’re doing. The whole world still hates us and the Island doesn’t even want us back, so what is the rush even for?”

Armin muttered something under his breath, too quiet for Jean to hear.

“What did you say?”

“I said maybe you should leave me and find someone else who doesn’t have the same responsibilities, who doesn’t shoulder this burden,” he said, only just a little bit louder. “If it’s too hard for you, just leave. I mean it.”

Jean clamped his jaw, tipping his head back and taking a deep breath. “That’s not fair,” he murmured. “No, not fair at all.” He turned to pour another glass, downing it in one go and putting it back down hard, letting out a sharp sigh and pouring another right after. His hand shook, some of the red wine sloshing onto the countertop as he spoke. “Stop trying to give me some shitty out. That’s not fucking fair and you know it.”

The silverware clattered and Armin finally turning to face him. “You know what’s not fair? You acting like you know better than me about my own life while here you are, still drinking. Pouring yourself another fucking glass!” he cried out in disbelief, flapping a hand towards where the bottle, already a third of it gone. “Still acting like some foolish kid. Wake up, Jean. Our reality will never be all flowers and sunshine and… and… happiness. Are you seriously that idealistic, after all of this? It’s never been like that. Not as long as I am who I am, the person that did what I did. It’ll never change. Why can’t you accept that? Don’t you get it? Don’t you understand?!”

Jean just stared at him. He could feel a lump in his throat, swallowing it down before the tears he knew were inevitable could come. He didn’t want to cry again. “You don’t think we can ever be happy?” he asked, looking into Armin’s eyes even if it hurt. “You’re not happy? Not with any of this? Not with me?”

Armin pressed his fingers to his forehead. “That’s not what I said.”

“That’s exactly what you said.”

“Well, that’s not what I meant.” He shut his eyes, scrubbing his hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know the stuff I say comes out wrong sometimes.”

“Then tell me,” Jean said, quieter now. “Tell me what you meant. Please, so I can understand you.” He breathed, taking another sip of his wine, hand shaking when he placed the glass back down, carefully this time. “I want to understand you. I want whatever it is that’s standing between us to go away, so just talk to me, Armin. Please, talk to me.”

Armin sighed. “I’m just… I’m stressed. Okay, Jean? I’m just stressed. That’s it.”

The stress Jean could understand, but he knew it wasn’t just that. There was so much Armin wasn’t willing to give him, and there was only so much Jean could do to try.

They fell into a silence, like maybe they were done tearing at each other’s throats for the time being. At least Jean hoped that they were, but Armin seemed to have other ideas.

“Are you seriously still drinking?”

“What? I can’t have something that calms me down, too?” He lifted the glass to his lips and took a long sip. “You’re not the only one that’s stressed.”

They stared at each other, and Jean watched the way Armin’s face twisted. “You’re an asshole,” he spit, turning towards the living room, pulling his jacket off of the coat rack by the door.

“So are you,” Jean called after him. He downed his glass and started to pour another, just to piss Armin off. He was pulling on his shoes when it fully registered to Jean that he was about to leave. “Hey, where are you going?”

He didn’t bother with answering, practically out the door already. Jean stumbled into the doorway, supporting himself on the wall. “Stop running away from this, Armin-”

The door slammed shut in the middle of his sentence.

With Armin gone, the air felt sickeningly still, quiet. The wind from outside still swept inside, goose prickles standing on Jean’s skin. He stood, staring at the door like maybe Armin would come back, but it must have been five minutes that he waited, only to still be alone.

The wind howled outside.

Jean turned back towards the kitchen, finishing off his glass and staring at the little drop of red that sat in the well of it. His chest burned, his ears were hot, his cheeks were wet, and it felt impossible to suck in a full breath of air.

“Damnit!” His back hit the counter and he slid to floor, landing hard on his backside, burying his face in his hands. “Shit. Shit shit shit.”

He wept on the kitchen floor, drank the rest of the wine. What a crybaby he was recently, especially with the booze in his system.

Armin didn’t come home and so he slept in their bed alone – or at least tried to. He kept the window open, watched the curtains flutter, and thought maybe there was the chance the wind might bring Armin back to him.

They managed to avoid each other for three days.

Work came and went, and Jean knew Armin was good and well, catching glimpses of him in the library or the conference rooms. He wasn’t sure when he found the time to sneak back into the apartment for clothes, and Jean briefly considered if he had some stashed at someone’s apartment, anticipating a time like this.

Jean stuck to the filing office, wanting to avoid any questions he could from Connie or the others, but mostly Connie.

He’d return to an empty apartment, eat shitty canned food and drink cheap wine he bought at the shoddy liquor store across town.

Jean would sit in the living room or at the kitchen table sometimes and watch the door. Waiting. The second night he nearly went to everyone’s door, planning to knock and see who he was staying with. He was pulling on his shoes, stumbling, drunk, until the more stubborn part of him told him to let Armin come to him. See who could hold out the longest.

And so he just continued to wait. Working, drinking, waiting.

People in the Corps drank. Hell, when they were dumb kids back in the day they drank, stealing booze and liquor from some of the officers and getting drunk around a campfire or in the bunks. Jean would never forget the time Captain Levi caught him, Connie, and Sasha with a flask of cheap moonshine they’d bought off a soldier a few years older than them, and drank it out past curfew in the courtyard when they were seventeen. He only found them because, well, the moonshine was cheap, and all it took was a few good swigs for Connie to be throwing up in the bushes. The Captain, with ears sharp as a cat’s, must have heard them trying to calm him down, planning out how to sneak him back to the bunks.

They were made to scrub the floors for a week after that.

It was always just for fun, and Jean never had the desire to drink to drown out his problems. That was until the war ended and then they moved here, and all the pain just seemed to get worse. It was lonely a lot of the times. So much pressure, and Jean yearned for just a touch of the past, even if that was painful too.

Liquor dulled the pain of his shoulder. It made him forget his losses, the memories, the nightmares. The booze made him hazier, happier, numb. When he drank, his problems seemed to melt away into a blur, only to come back in the morning, coupled with a bruising headache, an even achier body, and an angry lover.

What Jean really craved was to forget. He wanted to tap back into those selfish desires of an easy life. The cushy kind, where he could relax, raise children, be married to someone he loved. To Armin.

Was it wrong to have selfish desires? After years of hardship, why should Jean forget dreams of family and peace for himself, not just for the world. Armin had promised something to someone that Jean wasn’t as willing to give, but he knew without a doubt he’d never leave him behind just because of that.

They’d been through it all, hell and high water, so what value was there in getting so impatient now?

He wanted to dream, and he would replay those old dreams in his mind sometimes, but they were bitter now. Impossible.

When he dreamed, or rather, when he lied to himself, it was never easy to believe, and it only made him hate when they never came to fruition, so unattainable that there was no comfort to it. But when Armin lied to him, Jean found he could close his eyes, listen to his words, and forget.

It was colder than it had been all week, winter really starting to set in. Jean blew a puff of air into his hands and rubbed them together. He leaned on his forearms against the railing of the promenade, looking out at the harbor and the boats sailing in and out.

One blared in the distance getting closer to the shore, a cargo ship. The sun was starting to set and the city was starting to wind down, earlier than usual now that the days seemed shorter. Jean was tired, but he hadn’t had a real sleep since the fight. It was hard, being alone in a bed for the first time in a long time. It was cold too.

“Jean.”

The voice was so quiet that it was a wonder it wasn’t completely carried away with the wind.

Jean turned, eyes landing on Armin just a couple yards away from where he stood. He had his arms pulled close around his midsection and a scarf wrapped tight around his neck. He was shivering and his nose and cheeks were pinker than usual.

Jean thought he looked so small bundled up in his coat – the nice, woolen one that he had bought him when the weather got cooler. Armin had chided him for making such a purchase, but Jean insisted the quality would outweigh the price when the colder seasons came.

The setting evening sun cast him orange, shadows dark on his face, visible from their short distance apart, and the cool breeze tousled his hair across his forehead.

“I could see you from the window,” Armin told him, like Jean was wondering what made him come. “You’ve been out here for a while.”

“You were watching me?”

“Just for a bit.” He looked at Jean just a beat longer before turning his gaze to the water, then back. “Aren’t you cold?”

Jean shrugged. He wasn’t wearing as heavy a coat. “A little.”

Armin regarded him, and Jean could tell he was waiting too. “It’s getting late. You should come up,” he suggested softly, a little hopeful in his subtle way of saying he’d returned home. “I’ll make some tea.”

A peace offering, but Jean was wary.

“If I come up, will we fight again?” He was earnest in asking, speaking level, not looking to accuse.

Armin gave him a weak smile, and he could see it didn’t meet the sadness in his eyes, not as visible behind his glasses. “Can I stand with you?” he asked. He rolled up onto the balls of his feet when he spoke, a little louder this time like he knew the wind might swallow him up.

Jean only just stared at him for a moment. “You know you don’t have to ask,” he said.

Still, Armin didn’t move, just bounced between both of his feet a little, clearly cold. Jean sighed at the realization that he was waiting for a definitive verbal confirmation that he didn’t mind his company.

 “Yes,” Jean sighed, beckoning with his head. “Of course, you can, yes.” He moved over a few steps even though there was enough space for him already. Not many people wanted to be outside in this cold, at least not down by the water.

Armin stood beside him, their shoulders almost touching.

“Where have you been staying the past couple days?”

“Annie’s.”

He sighed, figuring it might be best to shove down his pride, tired of trying to stick it out much longer. “I missed you,” he said. “A lot.”

Armin sighed back. “Yea. I um, I missed you too.”

Jean tried to find contentedness in that. There was a comfort in being near each other, but comfort wasn’t enough. Comfort wouldn’t change anything. When he looked at Armin he saw home, his only home, and that was at least something.

“We’re alright… right?” he asked, also in need of a verbal telling that things might be okay.

“Of course, we’re alright.”

“I’m an asshole,” Jean admitted. “A real asshole.”

Armin glanced up at him, a ghost of a smirk on his face. “Maybe,” he said. “But so am I.”

Jean laughed short through his nose and Armin bumped him with his shoulder. “Listen,” he sighed again. “I’m sorry for what I said about… about everything, really-”

“Stop,” Armin said. “You don’t have to say it.”

“I want to apologize.”

“You were right.” He let out a heavy breath. “About a lot of things.” The wind swept past them and they both shivered. Jean moved a little closer.” God, if I could forget about him it would be… so many things would be easier.”

Jean looked at him. “But you can’t.”

“I can’t.”

Jean caught the way he wiped at his cheek with his gloved hand.

“I don’t think you should have to.”

He looked up again. “What?”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he repeated. “Contrary to what you might think of yourself-”

Armin scoffed, quick to be defensive without even hearing what he was going to say. “Who says you know what I think of myself?”

Jean gave him a knowing look, to which Armin gave a sheepishly small smile, nodding for him to continue, like he remembered they didn’t always have to fight, and that Jean knew him better than he knew himself most times.

“Contrary to what you might think of yourself,” he continued. “You’re a really good man, Armin. A kind one. Thoughtful, loving. You just… You dwell on these things. Never give yourself a moment to breathe, or to just be. I think you deserve that. At least that. Neither of us will ever forget the past. It will always be there, so what’s the worth in wishing we could forget.”

He was quiet at that, letting the words simmer between them, but Jean wasn’t finished.

“Armin… I was stupid in saying what I did. God, I’d go to hell and back with you if you asked. Even if you didn’t ask me I’d still do it.”

“You already have,” Armin whispered, sad almost, like he felt bad about something that wasn’t even his own fault.

“And I’d do it again. I’d do it over and over if that meant making any of this easier for you. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this all alone, because you don’t. You have me, and you’ll always have me.”

Armin was quiet again, but Jean could feel him lean a little closer to him, their shoulders pressed together. Jean looked back out at the water, the boats in the distance.

“You don’t have to mean that,” Armin said after a while. “I hope you know that. I… I meant what I said, about if it gets too hard.”

He considered all the hurt, the arguments, the tension. He thought about their bad habits, the smoking and the drinking, everything else. He thought about the way they struggled to communicate when it mattered most, but of the tender way they held each other, no need for words sometimes.

“And I meant what I said.”

If Armin thought he had flaws, Jean would surely love each and every one, regardless of if he saw them or not. He’d make it his life’s mission to serve as Armin’s reminder that he could be loved, that he deserved it, even if he were the only one alive to think so.

“We’ll be okay,” Armin whispered after a while, sounding like he was talking more to himself than to Jean, a tear running down his cheek – one that he didn’t wipe away this time. The sun was settling further down beneath the horizon and it would be dark soon. He shivered against the cool winter wind blowing in from the harbor and Jean wrapped an arm around his waist, feeling Armin’s head fall against his shoulder as he continued whispering to himself. “We will. We have to be.”