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“If I am a knight worthy of you, then you shall never need to use any of these techniques,” Eren says when the lesson begins, his smile brighter than the sheen of their swords under the morning sun.
The concept of Eren ever being less than worthy of Armin is preposterous. If anything, Armin, the prince of the kingdom, feels inferior next to his childhood friend and personal knight, next in line to be captain of the royal guard.
“And if I am a prince worthy of you, then you shall never need to use any of these techniques as well,” Armin quips back, “for I never wish to put you in a position so vulnerable.”
Eren’s answering snort is unbecoming of a knight to his prince, but Armin loves it all the same.
In all honesty, while Armin enjoys learning a multitude of subjects, he prefers the knowledge to come from the thick tomes housed in the extensive royal library. While he had subtly insisted the day prior on Eren instructing him, his request had less to do with the noble art of swordsmanship and more to do with the nobleman teaching him.
Eren, second son of the palace physician Grisha Jaeger and his second wife Carla, had been born a little over seven months before Armin had come into the world. While Grisha’s first son, Zeke, had taken on the role of an additional palace physician, their second son had been designated to eventually become Armin’s personal knight and head of the palace guard; thus, Eren had been knighted shockingly early at the age of eighteen, just shy of a year prior.
That is not to say that Eren had only been knighted early due to nepotism—currently, he is easily the most talented of the royal guard, his swordsmanship second only to his adoptive sister Mikasa, who is technically not an active member. On the contrary, his close relationship with the royal family had forced him to wait to be knighted until after Armin had reached the age of majority, for his duty was to the prince first and foremost.
Eren frowns, his gaze traveling up and down Armin’s form, starting from the sword held weakly in Armin’s hands and the uneven distribution of weight in wavering stance. Armin wills himself not to flush under Eren’s rapt attention, focusing instead on holding his position.
“For all the studying you do, your swing is hesitant and your stance is weak,” Eren says, rolling his shoulders and demonstrating the proper form for his prince to see. “Why don’t you give this another try?”
Armin, ever a prince of great humility, feels no shame in his heart when chastised by his knight; he is resolute in his next attempt, spreading his legs and steadying his swing. Eren hums, not quite satisfied, and gestures for him to repeat the motion.
The palace gardens are hardly an appropriate setting for lessons in swordsmanship, but the impromptu nature of their meeting requires privacy that the training grounds cannot offer. The spring breeze caresses the petals of the blooming roses and the birds chirp a twinkling tune celebrating their freedom, and, more than ever, Armin feels emboldened in his affections.
Eren must notice his inattention, for the knight signals him to pause.
“Please, watch me closely,” Eren commands, assuming the correct stance once more.
Armin does watch him closely; the prince is convinced that his eyes are physically unable to look away from the natural confidence and honed expertise Eren exudes, both prompting his heart into a crescendo.
Finally, the barest outline of Eren’s biceps through his tunic convinces Armin into action.
With as much feigned innocence in his voice as he can muster, Armin says, “I see before me a knight of great caliber. Would you deign to come closer and instruct from beside me, Sir Eren?”
Quirking his eyebrow, Eren slowly pulls his arm down, sheathing his sword. “Pardon me, Your Highness?”
For as long as they have been acquainted, Armin only ever chooses to address Eren as “sir” when they are with company or when the prince wishes to engage in mischief; likewise, Eren only ever addresses Armin as “your highness” with others who may judge or when the knight purposefully wants to be difficult.
Judging by the growing smirk lifting across his face, Eren knows exactly what Armin is implying.
Armin delicately tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear, his gaze locked steadfastly at his feet, doing his best imitation of the blushing damsels starring in the books he has taken to reading. Though he is a prince rather than a princess, his knight in shining armor—or, at the moment, a simple hauberk and loose green trousers—is right in front of him, and he feels a connection to romantic methods that are supposedly tried and true.
“Well, if you insist, Your Highness,” Eren says, amusement tinged in the rising lilt of his words.
Before Armin can truly register the chaos he has just incited, Eren’s comforting weight is against his back, a familiar warmth that seeps through the thin layer of Armin’s silk under-tunic and feeds the embers of his unfailing affections. Settling underneath Armin’s thin, reedy arms—more accustomed to the strain of balancing a stack of books—are Eren’s own, solid and secure in their support.
Eren adjusts Armin’s form, and Armin complies like liquid metal to a mold, the two of them engaged in a private, precarious tug of war, unspoken emotions clashing against each other like tumultuous waves among the neatly-trimmed and carefully maintained greenery.
Eren’s voice against his neck reminds Armin of a midnight rendezvous they had partaken in their adolescence, an equestrian adventure under the cover of the new moon, long before Armin had known the difference between innocent friendship and all-encompassing love and everything in between.
A sword is clasped tightly in Armin’s hands, its presence serving as the only excuse they could offer an outsider for why they stand pressed together, the curves and edges of their bodies separated only by the fine clothes robing their forms.
“Do you trust me, Your Highness?” Eren asks. It is a question he already knows the answer to, a hand extended where it will surely be clasped.
Armin scarcely needs to think. “Absolutely.”
“Then follow my lead,” Eren whispers, voice barely rising above the wind, almost as if he is afraid to break the spell of the gardens, afraid to alert the attention of anyone apart from the silent rows of roses and the overarching magnolias, all bursting in a stunningly fragrant bloom.
Armin drops the sword and turns around, settling one hand on Eren’s shoulder and intertwining the other with Eren’s.
It is improper for a knight to lead a prince, especially in an activity as proper as a dance, where status is displayed in the way one’s feet step and body sways.
Here, though, secluded as they are, tucked away in the farthest corner of the oft-ignored yet sprawling palace gardens, their titles do not matter. Armin and Eren are not a prince and his knight; Armin and Eren are a prince and his lover, a lover and his knight.
Armin will follow Eren’s lead, just as he always has, and just as he always will.