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They lay together — they stick together. They have explored each other enough this evening to know the choicest parts on either body, and their shoulders nudge up close, skin pressed until they're creased like folded halves. Armin's forehead is flush and bare; his hair is blown back, Eren having raked his hand through it, knuckles catching a snag while Armin bared his throat. Now Armin's blond is the aftermath of a summer storm, a wind that left as quickly as it had whirled. A little lock is stuck to his lower lip, gone nearly pomegranate in hue. The edges of Eren's teeth are always eager.
While Armin has gone from greedy — quivering thighs and clenched toes and always grasping Eren that much closer — to docile, drowsing in the down of his satisfaction, Eren has such twitchy fingers. He fidgets. He likes to find and touch the insides of Armin's wrists, feeling out the topography of raised veins and bones; he likes to turn over on his side and look at Armin and thumb different parts of his face. "Hmm," Armin says, tired, and that doesn't mean 'stop that,' so Eren touches the corner of his mouth. It's damp, and Eren decides to kiss it.
Armin has plenty of features to kiss, in fact, and so Eren attends to each of them, even as Armin's falling asleep. Eren kisses the side of his chin and the bridge of his nose, and the brown of his brow, and then his crown. He noses into Armin's hair and kisses next to his ear, and there's the barest taste of sweat. "Hey," Eren says, rousing Armin just enough. "The ocean's got to taste all salty, right?"
"Yeah," Armin says, too comfortable to question Eren's sudden seabound fancies. "It's all salt water. You'd probably be able to taste it right away."
So Eren leans in to kiss that spot again.