Chapter Text
Armin's eyes flutter open slowly, laboriously, and he inhales. Exhales. The room is blurry, filled with dull and dark shapes. All he can hear is the constant beeping in the background and the loud, steady thump of his heartbeat.
"Armin?"
The voice is distant, slightly familiar, and he groans softly, opening his mouth to reply but it's dry and uncomfortable. He closes it as he feels a cool hand brush back his bangs, soothing and gentle, and he makes a soft whimper. There's muffled laughter, something that sounds like crying and when his vision clears, he can make out his childhood friends leaning over his bed, weary smiles on their faces.
"Good morning," he finally croaks and the last time he saw Mikasa with tears in her eyes, they had been in grade school and Eren had fallen out of a tree. "The surgery went well?"
"Yeah, everything's fine," the brunette cut in, tentatively laying a hand over Armin's heart as if he's afraid of breaking him. "You're gonna be okay now."
He's tired, so terribly so, and he lets his eyes fall shut. There's time to talk later. There's time now.
---
As a child, Armin had been terrified of dying. He had watched from the living room as a police car pulled into the driveway and an officer spoke in low tones to his grandfather. He had been shooed upstairs with a glass of milk and a plate of cookies, and had promptly forgotten about the ordeal until his grandfather sat him down and told him that his parents would not be coming home that night. He then watched as his only living relative withered away slowly in a hospital bed, voice so weak he could barely whisper his name. And then, when he started noticing sharp chest pains and finally collapsed after a long day at the library, he was told he only had a month to live.
"There's got to be something you can do," he had begged, desperately fighting back tears. There's still so much more to do, so much he hasn't done. He's only barely reached his twenties. He still hasn't discovered the cure for cancer, had his first kiss, or gotten his own apartment yet.
"There is one way," the man replied cautiously and Armin had jumped at the opportunity. The list was long, he had been told, his chances slim, but it was better than nothing. He's always been an optimist.
---
Armin places his hand over his chest, relishing the strong beating underneath his chest and he sighs as he fidgets on an unfamiliar doorstep, a large bouquet clutched in his hand. What is he even going to say or do? It had been an impulse move - and probably unethical, now that he thought about it - to track down his donor's family, but he had wanted so badly to thank them for giving him back his life. Finally, after a pause, he raises his hand to knock when -
"Can I help you?" There's a tall brunette standing behind him, a bag of groceries in his arm and Armin flushes, jumping.
"I..." The words have escaped him and he doesn't know what to do, so he holds out the bouquet nervously. Some of the flowers have since wilted, but they're still nice. He hopes. "I just... Wanted to give you these."
And before the stranger, Jean Kirstein if his records are accurate, can even react, the blond shoves them into his arms and makes a run for it, cheeks red as he slips into the elevator. When he's about to get into his car, he hesitates as he stares up to the seventh floor and wonders if this was a good idea. His heart is racing.
---
It's a week before they bump into each other again. Armin's discovered that they frequent the same supermarket but he's always hidden nervously behind displays when he spots the taller brunette. He's double checking his shopping list when a sharp crash gets his attention.
"It's you," Jean blurts out as their carts collide and the shorter male feels like he's about to die of embarrassment. "I... Thank you for the flowers?"
"You're welcome," he responds breathlessly, smiling shyly as he tries to hide behind a box of whole-wheat linguini and the other holds out his hand.
"I'm Jean. And you are?"
"Armin. It's nice to meet you. Er, Armin Arlert." Armin replies, shaking his hand briefly and the blood drains from the other's face as he begins to fiddle with a silver ring on his left hand. Jean manages a weak smile.
"Y-yeah. Er, listen, I have to go." He jerks his head toward the front and Armin watches silently as he checks out, biting his lower lip. Did he mess up? His heart aches as he heads up the dairy aisle and he wonders how exactly he had managed to talk himself into this mess.
---
He doesn't expect to see Jean again, not after the supermarket fiasco, but he's at Connie and Sasha's wedding in a simple black suit and a blue tie that reminds him of the ocean. They're seated next to each other at the reception and it's awkward, terribly awkward, and he's all alone. Eren is best man, stationed by the DJ, and Mikasa is on the other side of the ballroom with Annie. He sighs as dinner is served, picking listlessly at the herb-roasted chicken, until he finally lets his fork clatter to the plate and turns around.
"I'm sorry," he whispers hoarsely, hands clutching his napkin tightly. "I'm really, really sorry."
Jean swallows and looks away. "It's... It's fine. I guess I just wasn't expecting you. Sorry."
"For what?"
The brunette exhales loudly, taking a swig of champagne. "I don't know. For running away."
"I don't blame you," Armin murmurs softly and Jean laughs humorlessly before returning to his food. The tension eases up somewhat, and as the second course is served (Sasha had excitedly exclaimed that there would be seven courses throughout the night), they slowly fall into a more comfortable conversation. They exchange numbers at the end of the meal, Armin smiling shyly as he saves the contact information.
"So," Jean begins awkwardly, tilting his head toward the center, where Connie and Sasha are doing a weird tango-hip-hop remix and their parents look on in confused horror. "What do you say we get out of here? Can I get you a drink?"
---
Sometimes, Jean talks about Marco and Armin listens quietly as he sips his tea, reaching over to hold his hand when his voice cracks a little.
Jean had just proposed not even a month ago. They were going to have a small ceremony at his parents' ranch. It had been a faulty brake that had taken everything away from him, just a split second before everything had gone wrong and he found himself screaming for an ambulance, Marco's body in his arms. Armin's chin quivers and he tightens his grip as Jean's voice trails off.
"Sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry."
"You shouldn't be. It's not your fault he's gone."
But Armin can't help feeling that yes, it is his fault, and he wonders if Jean blames him, just a little bit. It hurts more than he'd ever imagined and he clutches at his chest with his free hand, missing the worried expression that flits over his companion's face.
"You okay? Your..."
"I'm fine." Armin smiles and he lets out a little breath he hadn't known he was holding when Jean smiles back.
---
They watch movies together. They catch each other for dinners every so often, exchange a text or two, and Armin feels like he's walking on clouds. Jean remembers how to smile, how to laugh, and their hands bump.
---
Their first kiss is an accident. They'd both had a little too much to drink and Jean offers to walk him home, shakily helping to steady him, when the heavens open up, letting loose a thousand years of rain. Armin laughs excitedly as he loops his arms around Jean's neck, grinning crookedly, and the brunette stares at him for the longest time before crushing their lips together. He tastes like beer and chapstick and something he couldn't quite place. He tangles his fingers into short, dual-toned hair as his eyelids flutters shut, and this feels a little like a movie.
When they finally pull apart, they're both breathing a little heavier and Jean's eyes are glassy.
"Uh, I live on the next block over," Armin blurts out and Jean just nods before he links their hands together, shivering a little in the cold. He can't help thinking that this feels so good. That this is what he's always wanted.
Jean stays over and after dressing in some borrowed clothes, he passes out on the couch and Armin watches him with a longing expression as he feels a headache creeping in. He's much too sober for this, he thinks, staggering into the bedroom, and curls himself into a ball.
The next day, they play it off like nothing's happened and Armin wonders if he remembers. The brunette doesn't say anything, so he won't either. With a smile, he hands him a glass of water.
---
It feels like they're walking through taffy to get to each other and Armin asks himself every day why he still does. He's lying on his kitchen floor, staring up at the fan as he thinks. Thinking is what he does. Thinking is what he understands. Jean is like a whirlwind, flinging him about here and there and Armin hates not being in control. He licks his lips and tastes him.
His heartbeat is steady and strong underneath everything and he closes his eyes.
---
The second, third, and fourth kisses happen when they're both sober and clear-headed. He fits against Jean like a puzzle piece, fists his hands in a cotton tshirt, and kisses him like there's no tomorrow. He doesn't expect Jean to kiss back, but he does, and he's not sure if he wants this to happen or not, because there are too many things left unsaid between them, too many buried ghosts and skeletons in the closet, and he desperately hopes, wishes, prays that he's not just a replacement. His fingers brush over a silver band on the other's left hand and his heart feels like it's breaking.
"Jean," he whispers against his lips and Jean murmurs his name back as he plays with his tie. "Jean."
"Armin," Jean hums, kissing him again, and it feels like he's melting, because Jean is here, with him, solid and real under his palms.
---
The couch is a little narrow for this, but it's the last thing on Armin's mind as they fall, tangled limbs and mingled breaths, and all he can think about is how good Jean's hands feel. He moans when he feels the other begin to suck on his neck, nibbling gently, and he arches into it, fingers scrambling for purchase before pulling him up for another mind-blowing kiss. When they remember that they're creatures that need to breathe, they pull apart, a thin string between them, and Armin wipes his mouth, blushing. "Uh. Did you want something to, you know, drink?"
"Water would be nice," Jean says breathlessly, patting down his hair as he follows Armin into the kitchen, a slight smile dancing on his lips as he roots through drawers for the candy he knows is hiding somewhere. The blond pulls out a glass and fills it at the sink, the sound of water rushing reassuring and calm as he tosses a candy bar over.
"I think I'm in love with you."
Jean doesn't respond, not even after a lengthy pause, and Armin's too scared to take the two steps to close the distance between them when it feels like everything's just come crashing down.
"God, Jean, say something back," he begs, his voice breaking. He can hear his blood rushing, his heart frantic. Marco's heart frantic. It hurts. "Talk to me."
"Like what?" Jean doesn't look at him, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth.
"Anything." He squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling deeply. His voice is a hoarse whisper and he sounds weaker than he'd like. "I'm baring my soul here to you, but you're not saying anything. Please."
"I don't know," he whispers and Armin doesn't even know what to feel anymore as he finally remembers to turn off the tab. The silence hangs heavily between them and Jean pushes himself off the counter, sighing heavily as he scratches the back of his neck. "I need more time."
He nods mutely as he watches the brunette leave, closing the door softly behind him, and then it's just him in his living room, kiss marks on his neck, feeling like the world's biggest idiot. He sinks to the floor, grabbing at his knees to anchor himself, and no, he's most definitely not going to cry because he's not hung up like some high school girl, but something hot and wet pricks at his eyes. Armin's not going to play this game, he's not going to fall for something he knows won't catch him. So he slams a lid on this chapter of his life, glues it shut, pushes it back, and grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge, resting his cheek against the cool glass. The drink is bitter and biting as it goes down his throat and he whispers Jean's name over and over again to himself.
"Oh my god, I definitely love him."