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Armin remembers being ill once, when they were working in the fields. The winter prickled his fingers and froze him over until he collapsed in the grain house, his tiny body hitting the hay-strewn floor with a dull thud. He remembers watching the shadows of his friends hover over him as they called for help and received no answer. He remembers how blue his toes were between the holes of his weathered boots. He was hot with a fever, Mikasa later told him, and they lost three days of wages nursing him back to health. They didn’t care; Eren would have left the mill forever if Armin’s wellbeing depended on it.
They walked on eggshells around him after that. They wrapped him in every piece of fabric they could found just to keep him warm. They each took a quarter of his workload so he could have a chance to catch up. They took turns going without meals so that he could eat to rebuild his strength; until finally, he snapped and threw a fit.
He was a child then. Things were so much easier to say.
It’s happening again: the eggshells. The others doesn’t know what to make of him, so they make nothing at all. It’s been weeks now, and still when he catches Sasha’s eye across the dining hall or sits down next to Jean in the library, some excuse is made to depart, to be anywhere else other than with him. They don’t know who he is anymore. Armin pities himself until he passes a mirror in the hallway and drops the books in his hands with a start. It’s at terrible shock to see blue eyes staring back at him. Has he always had blue eyes? Suddenly, he realizes that he doesn’t know himself anymore either.
Eren and Mikasa insist that they do; he is theirs and he always will be. They say that nothing is different, that they recognize him for who he has always been, but Armin knows when they are lying and they are lying now. It’s not malicious, maybe not even conscious. They talk to him like they used to do, joke with him when the occasional mood strikes. But actions speak louder than words, and the tiptoe around him when they think he’s not looking. Mikasa searches for answers in his eyes; she’s desperate for a fight and she hopes that he can give her what they need. Eren rarely meets his gaze anymore. He doesn’t do it on purpose; when they get caught up in a conversation, Eren looks at him the way that he used to, with a smile in his eyes. But when things are quiet and purposeful, when his actions matter the most, he hesitates and lets his gaze flicker away. Armin can’t blame him. He doesn’t know what pain lies in his sullen eyes.
He doesn’t ask Eren about it. Things are unspoken between them these days: a guiding hand on the back, a cup of tea without request, a casual embrace that lasts a little longer than it used to. Armin has thanked him relentlessly for saving his life, and yet he feels like he has not thanked him at all. He doesn’t have the words to explain what he is feeling, at least not yet; so how can he ask about the ghost that haunts his dreams?
That is where it happens the most: while he is sleeping. He dreads the nighttime now, knowing that he will fall asleep here and wake up in another world. It’s a world that is not so different from his own, and yet it frightens him entirely. It is terrifying, to be at the mercy of another’s memory, and he never knows when the dream will end, when he will fall asleep in that world and wake up in this one. He always comes to in a sweat, gasping for air, and he never remembers the things he saw, only the things he felt: the pain, the longing, the guilt, the shame. He has always called Eren and Mikasa his best friends, but now he knows that there is another who he will always know best.
He stops sleeping. He doesn’t want to see that world anymore, not until he can see it for himself. He doesn’t want to understand the way that he does. He doesn’t want to feel the combined guilt that weighs in his heart: Bertholdt’s, and his own, because how can he fight someone when he knows them better than his own allies?
“You’ve been dreaming,” Mikasa says when the bags under his eyes grow dark. She doesn’t ask; she already knows. He has said nothing, but she has guessed. She brings him tea and bread, reminds him to wash when he is lost in thought, and takes care of him in her own way. She confronts him outside the new headquarters, where he’s been pruning the bushes.
Armin glances up, the gardening shears falling still in his hands, but he says nothing. Mikasa doesn’t need an answer. She lets him stay silent, just turns and stares at the white sky for a while before offering her advice.
“You should talk to Eren,” she says. “He’s remembered more than you think. You might find something in common.”
He’s remembered and he’s only told her.
“I don’t know,” Armin says. His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “I don’t know. I don’t think that would help him.”
“It would help you,” Mikasa says. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handful of sweets, each tightly wrapped in colorful paper: expensive. She pops one into her mouth and hands one to him. “Helping yourself would only help him.”
She leaves then, and Armin spends a long time staring at the sweet in his hand before he stows it into his jacket pocket and returns to the bushes.
He does think about it. He knows that he should talk to Eren, at least to thank him again and ask him what he’s remembered from his father. But to confront a friend is the hardest thing, and he finds himself at such a loss for words. His heart races when he thinks about it. He doesn’t know what he would say. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t know how Eren would react. They have grown closer since the battle at Shiganshina, but they seem more distant than ever. They know the ends that they would go for each other, but they have not the words to profess that.
A knock on his door that night startles him.
It’s Eren, when he opens the door, bearing a tray of tea and buttered bread. Armin feels utterly embarrassed for some reason, caught up late at night, reading in his nightshirt by the candlelight. He stumbles an apology and throws a blanket around his body to hide his bony knees. Eren says nothing about it, just smiles and pours tea for the both of them, but that is possibly the most embarrassing thing of all.
“You didn’t have to do this,” Armin mutters when the tea has cooled a bit.
“I want to,” Eren says.
Before, they would have sat next to each other on the bed, like friends. Tonight, when Armin scoots over to make room for him, Eren turns and leans against the desk instead.
“You seem tired lately,” Eren says. He doesn’t drink his tea, just watches as Armin does. “Are you eating enough?”
Armin fidgets with the blanket around his waist and takes another sip of tea. “I’m eating fine,” he says quietly after he swallows. “I’m just not sleeping very well.”
“Why?” Eren asks instantly.
The dreaded question: why, indeed. He should know; perhaps he already does.
“I’ve been having dreams,” Armin says, the words coming slowly and decisively. He doesn’t want to get into it, not now, not ever. He wishes he never had to talk about this, never had to think about it; he wishes he could be left alone with the nightmares, with the pain, to handle it on his own, to deal with it himself, and one day it would just be another part of life. He finishes his tea in the silence that follows, and when he looks up, Eren is watching him expectantly.
“Bad dreams?” Eren asks, cocking his head to one side.
“They’re not so much dreams,” Armin says, “as they are memories.”
Eren’s face changes then. He stiffens up, his shoulders rolling back, and his eyes flatline, going dark and serious.
“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Armin exclaims, much too loudly. The teacup in his hands can’t be worth much, because it’s standard military issue; but it feels immensely fragile between his cold fingers and he remains as still as possible for fear that it will splinter. “At least not right now.”
Eren hesitates before speaking. “Is there anything I can do?”
Armin shakes his head. “I just need some more time,” he says, because that is all he can ask for, and when Eren reaches for his empty teacup, he hands it to him. “I need some more time to think for myself before I’m ready to talk about it.”
Eren accepts that without another word. He packs up the tea set, the uneaten bread, and moves to lift the tray before he stops, suddenly, his back to Armin. He glances over his shoulder and makes eye contact.
“Maybe I should stay,” Eren says.
Armin blinks. “What?”
“I can stay the night,” he says, “just so you don’t feel alone.”
Stay the night? Armin’s heart thumps. Maybe- if he has Eren beside him, an anchor to this world, then maybe he won’t remember, maybe he won’t dream, and maybe he can finish the night without waking in terror.
“You don’t have to stay,” Armin says without answering the question.
“I want to,” Eren says: too quickly, so he frowns and backtracks. “Do you want me to?”
Armin hesitates. He can feel a blush rising to his face and he hates it, wants to rub it away with the blanket wrapped around his bare legs. He doesn’t like to ask for things; he never has. But if Eren has already offered, then it wouldn’t be a request, really, and it wouldn’t be weird…
“Of course,” he says with a voice smaller than he intended. “Of course, I want you to stay.”
It’s the next step in the tender blooms of their relationship. Armin doesn’t know what he has with Eren or where it is going, but he knows that there is something more to explore. He wants to water it and watch how tall it will grow. He stands awkwardly as Eren blows out the candles and disrobes for the night; he just takes off his shirt and hangs it by the window, but Armin still looks away, thankful for the darkness. They lie down in silence. He lets Eren go to the bed first, the stranger in this room. He watches him clamber on sideways, the frame creaking under his weight, and roll into a comfortable position before he looks up pointedly, waiting for Armin to join him.
He sits on the edge of the bed, his mind racing. They’ve shared a bed before; they have for half of their lives now. But it’s never been like this: this quiet, this gentle, this naked. Their bodies are familiar enough. Cadets share a lot in training, including showers. There is no mystery lingering between them, no matter how much Armin still blushes at the sight of Eren’s lean muscles. All they dance around now is the anticipation of touch, and even that, they are about to lose. Armin swings his legs onto the bed, hastily pulling down his nightshirt as it slides up over his thighs. Luckily, it’s dark, and he throws the blanket over their bodies as he lies down beside Eren, his voice quiet, his heart loud.
He lies on his back, but he can feel Eren staring at him, and he doesn’t know what to say: so he rolls away from him, onto his side, and stares at the room instead, measuring his breath. He feels Eren lingering behind him. He wants nothing more than to roll back over and push their bodies together, to finally feel those arms around him in the way he has always wanted; but he is frozen, stuck in this awkward darkness, and he doesn’t know what to say. He thinks for a moment before finally sucking in a breath and leaping.
“You can put your arm around me,” he says without preface. His voice squeaks and he holds his breath; he feels Eren react, the mattress shifting beneath them.
“Do you want me to?” he hears Eren ask.
“Yes,” Armin mutters, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
“Okay,” Eren says. He props himself up on one elbow to adjust his position, then settles down slowly behind Armin. He throws an arm over Armin’s stomach and presses up against his back, sending dizzy waves through Armin’s head.
“That’s fine,” Armin breathes. He let his hand fall naturally into Eren’s grasp over his stomach. “Thank you for staying.”
He falls asleep with Eren pressed against him, breath in his ear, nose against his neck. He drifts for a few moments, the world lulling in and out around him as he hesitates to let himself go; he never knows what waits on the other side. Eren shifts in his sleep and rolls his hips against Armin, who jolts awake, his heart thumping at the heat. But eventually he drifts away, safe, warm, comfortable, and he falls asleep.
He wakes up in another world.
But it’s different than it has been before. Before he has always found himself in foreign cities or enemy barracks. Before, he has always had an acute sense of fear, a burning reminder in his chest that none of this is happening to him, that it is real- but not to him.
This is different. He finds himself blinking into the darkness. For a moment, he thinks that he is back in his room with Eren beside him. But then something howls outside; it is the wind, blowing viciously, and it rattles the walls around: the flaps of a tent, he realizes now. He tries to gain some bearings, but it’s always hard in these dreams: he slips in and out, blinks, then finds himself somewhere else, lets his body move along with the uneven flow of time. He can’t control what happens or where he goes. He waits for the scene to become clearer as the wind rattles the tent around him. He can feel it in his soldier’s bones, and just as he stars shivering, he feels something move.
Someone’s hands are wrapped around his stomach. They’re warm, but they’re not Eren’s. Armin looks around, but his eyes won’t move the way he wants them to. His head won’t turn from where it lies against the mat. He’s turned on one side towards the front of the tent, and as he lies there, he feels the someone on his other side slowly press closer, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. He doesn’t know where this is, what’s going on, but this is a memory that he does not want to see. He tries to move, but the body he’s in does not respond; so he lies there, someone’s arm wrapped around his waist, and he listens.
He fades in and out of the memory like he always does. The wind dies down, but then he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, the wind is howling outside, shaking the tent and sending a chill through his body. He hears something; he thinks they are words, but it is hard to tell. The voice is muffled, as if it is underwater. He can’t understand what they’re saying, and the memory flickers in and out like a light. He feels the hands move over his stomach, tickling his skin, reaching for his own hands; and when he sees them in his grasp, he realizes with a jolt that he recognizes them.
Armin wakes up with a gasp.
His eyes fly open. The rest of his body does not respond. He doesn’t even realize that he has awoken until an owl hoots outside his window, startling him, and his heart jumps, sending a course of blood through his veins. His limbs respond in kind, and he sits up slowly, wiping the sweat from his brow as he stares numbly into the darkness. He looks down at his trembling hands; they are his own. He takes a long while to catch his breath as thoughts race around his mind. He didn’t expect… He shouldn’t have seen…
He thought having Eren by his side would keep him from entering that strange world at all. He thought that having a companion would save him from the nightmares he was bound to endure. He didn’t expect it to produce such a similar moment. The love that welled through his chest when he took those hands in his own was undeniably the same love that pulses through his veins when he touches Eren like that. He shouldn’t have seen that memory.
His breath hitches in his throat, and it’s only then that he realizes he is crying. He wipes the tears away, but they keep coming. He feels irreversibly sad for the knowledge that he now bears. There is so much welling up inside him, all of a sudden, pouring through his veins and pounding in his heart; but the overwhelming feeling, the one that clenches his throat, sends tremors to his hands, and pushes tears to his eyes, is regret.
“Eren,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. He grabs one of Eren’s arms, his fingers digging into his warm skin, and shakes him. Eren mumbles something incoherent. Armin shakes him again, muttering his name, and soon Eren blinks awake, his eyes fluttering open.
“What is it?” Eren mumbles, reaching up to set a hand on Armin’s shoulder. He sees the tears on Armin’s cheeks and suddenly sits upright. “What’s wrong?”
Armin tries to speak, but his breath hitches in his throat and his words come out as a sob instead. He cries; he lets the tears spill from his eyes and he falls against Eren’s shoulder, his forehead pressing against Eren’s collarbone. He feels Eren stiffen beneath his sudden embrace; then two hands run across his back and pull him close, wrapping him in a tight embrace.
“What’s wrong?” Eren repeats when Armin pulls away, wiping the tears from his eyes.
Armin sniffles and clears his throat. “I just want you to know,” he starts. He cuts himself off, his voice falling short, and he bites his lip.
Eren’s eyes shine with worry in the darkness. “What is it?”
Urgency pulses through Armin’s veins, and he says nothing else: just reaches forward and kisses Eren. He grabs his face, the palms of his hands pressing against Eren’s jawbone, and he pushes their lips together, another well of tears spilling from his eyes. This time, Eren doesn’t hesitate. His hands clutch at Armin’s shoulders; they travel down his arms, fingers trailing across his skin, until they reach the hands that caress his jaw. Eren squeezes his hands, then grabs him by the waist and pulls him in closer. He lets Armin’s knee push between his thighs, and soon Armin is nearly on top of him, humming as he kisses Eren, the way he has thought about doing for so long now. Eren kisses him back, his fingers digging into Armin’s sides. Armin pushes in further, and just as he thinks they’re going to fall backwards onto the bed, Eren pulls away suddenly, a strange look crossing his face.
“Maybe we should stop,” he says breathlessly, pulling himself upright.
Armin sits back, confused until he notices the way Eren is covering himself with the blanket. “Oh, right,” he says, looking away. “Yeah, we should, um, go back to sleep.”
“Are you going to be okay?” Eren asks as Armin turns to settle against the pillows. “You woke up crying.”
He hesitates to answer, because he doesn’t know. “I think I’ll be fine,” he says after a moment. Eren lies down beside him, their shoulders touching.
“Thank you for staying with me,” Armin says softly. “I think it helped.”
“You had a dream, didn’t you?”
“It was different,” he says. “I think… it was a good memory.”
He knows that Eren doesn’t know how to react to that, but to tell the truth, neither does he. There is something unsettling knowing that other people, especially those who they have fought against, have lives just as complex as theirs. It hurts Armin to know that it could have been him, it could have been any of them; but at the same time, it is bittersweet, knowing that he will not forever be at war with this ghost in his head. They have something in common now, something precious, that they will cherish together in silence.
He falls asleep against Eren’s shoulders, his breath coming in steady waves.
When he wakes, he feels refreshed for the first time in weeks. He stretches in bed, throwing his arms over his head and reaching with his toes until he cannot stretch any further. He collapses back int the bed, yawning, and lets the sunlight fall over his face. He feels whole for the first time in a while, like he finally understands the ghost living in his memories. He rolls his head and glances sideways at Eren, who slumbers lazily next to him, a gentle snore rising and falling from his mouth. He’s got one hand tucked up under his chin, the other strewn carelessly across Armin’s hips. Armin watches him in a contented silence. He feels an overwhelming sense of love, knowing that Eren is here with him, knowing that Eren is safe. He would give anything to keep that feeling forever.
Then Eren’s sleepy fingers roll across his thighs; and Armin stumbles to the showers to douse himself in cold water until he can breathe again.