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One rainy day, Armin finds a German Shepherd shivering on the front porch of his house, cold and wet and absolutely miserable.
“Hey there,” Armin cooes, because he’s always liked dogs. He kneels down and stretches a fist out for the dog to sniff. It whines at Armin and licks his fist pitifully, making sad brown eyes at him. Armin can feel his heart softening as he gently strokes the dog’s head.
“You wanna come in from the rain?” Armin asks gently, rising up and fitting his keys in the lock. The dog lets out a single bark and wags its tail excitedly, as if able to understand Armin’s words, and actually waits for Armin’s permission to enter instead of just bounding in like Armin expects it to.
Armin takes the dog inside and wipes it down with a towel. Its– his, Armin confirms with a quick glance– fur is of interesting colouration, black with one wide stripe of light brown fur running all the way down his back. He seems too trusting to be a stray; he stood still and let Armin towel him dry without any fuss, though he did, understandably, yelp and jolt away when Armin approached his male bits. Other than that, the dog is an angel, staring up at Armin with wide, intelligent eyes and letting Armin pet him all over.
He’s adorable, and Armin can feel his soft spot for the dog growing softer by the minute. He wishes he could keep it– but he’s really too busy to take care of a dog. Plus, with how intelligent and well-behaved this guy is, he probably belongs to someone who’s really missing him.
“Just for one night, okay?” he tells the dog, scratching behind his ears. “You can sleep on the sofa tonight, but I’m taking you to the vet tomorrow.” It’s Saturday tomorrow, so Armin can afford to spend the day at the vet.
The dog whines and looks betrayed that Armin would even consider letting anyone else take care of him. Armin figures he’s just projecting, and says a brief goodnight before turning off the living room lights. The dog is somehow intelligent enough not only to curl up on the sofa, but also take the throw from over the armrest and burrow into it. Armin decides then and there that if he ever gets a dog for himself, he’s taking it to this guy’s owner for training.
--
The next morning, Armin feeds the dog some stir-fry beef left over from Chinese takeout a day or so ago. The dog eats up like he’s starving, and Armin wonders how long the poor thing was out on his own. All the more reason to go to the vet and have him checked out.
The dog throws up a big fuss, barking and whining and staring pleadingly at Armin when Armin tries to get him in the car to take him to the vet. The dog just refuses to budge, even when Armin tries to bribe him with treats. He ends up somewhat fearfully manhandling the dog, hauling him into his arms, ignoring the dog’s yelp and squirming, and dumping him into the backseat.
The whole drive to the vet, it seems like the dog is staring reproachfully at Armin in the rear view mirror. “It’s for your own good,” Armin tells him firmly, feeling inexplicably guilty. “Your owner is probably worried sick about you, and I just don’t have the time to take care of you right now.”
The dog doesn’t let up with the guilt trip, and Armin finds himself avoiding his eyes– Armin is a coward, avoiding a dog’s gaze!– the whole way.
--
The vet declares the dog healthy as anything. She doesn’t find a chip, and hasn’t heard of anyone losing a dog around the area, but says she’ll get word out. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have the space to take the dog in while they’re searching.
“I can get him into a foster family maybe a month from now,” she says apologetically. “Until then, do you think you could…?”
Armin frowns. “I just don’t think I can properly care for him,” he replies. “I work a full-time job, I don’t know if I can take him out for walks and socialise with him as he needs and all that.”
“Well, if you can’t, then it can’t be helped,” she sighs, and Armin sighs with her, because he really does want to help. The dog, still standing on the examination table, whines loudly at Armin and noses at his arm, snuffling pitifully like he knows exactly what it does to Armin’s poor heart.
“Where… Where will you take him?” Armin asks hesitantly. The vet looks unhappy when she replies, “The pound. It’s not ideal, especially with how overcrowded they already are, but at least he won’t be forced to fend for himself out on the streets.”
Oh god, what was Armin supposed to do? The pound was horrible; he’d been there precisely once, and had been extremely sad to see so many “less-adoptable” animals sitting in tiny cells, the will to live drained out of their eyes long ago. He couldn’t imagine this beautiful, uncannily intelligent dog in the same place.
“I’ll take care of him,” Armin hears himself say, surprising even himself. “It’s just for a month, right?” The vet smiles at him like she’s extremely pleased. The dog looks like Christmas has come early, barking and jumping and his tail wagging a mile a minute. He practically pounces into Armin’s arms and licks him all over, unheeding of Armin’s laughed protests.
It feels good, like Armin’s done the right thing.
--
After that, it’s somehow easy to get used to the dog being in his life. Armin names him Stripe, because of the pale brown stripe down his back, which the dog seems to be a little annoyed with, but still responds nonetheless. Armin quickly decides that the first order of business is to make FOUND posters, which he does, and takes Stripe out for a walk while he puts them up around town. They run into several of Armin’s friends, most of whom are delighted by the well-behaved Stripe – with the sole exception of Eren, who tells Armin his name is unoriginal, which Stripe apparently takes offense to and henceforth refuses to stop snarling viciously at Eren. “No,” Armin tries to tell him authoritatively, but the snarling stops only when Eren flees for his life.
Stripe huffs through his nose like he’s satisfied. “Bad dog,” Armin scolds him, but while Stripe’s ears fall flat on his head in guilt, he doesn’t meet Armin’s eyes, and certainly seems no less apologetic than before. Armin sighs, and shakes his head, and just goes on with the walk, figuring he can train a positive response to Eren with time.
When they reach home, and both Armin and Stripe have had some water to rehydrate, Armin grabs a bag of treats and decides he should find out just how many tricks Stripe knows. “Sit,” he tells Stripe clearly, sure that Stripe, intelligent as he is, will know it.
Stripe stares at him blankly.
“C’mon, boy, sit!” he tries to encourage Stripe, but Stripe doesn’t react, just continues staring at Armin like he’s crazy.
Armin sighs, and pulls out a treat. Stripe’s nose twitches, and his ears perk up– Armin is pretty sure he can see Stripe drooling already. “Sit down, boy,” Armin commands, and this time he is rewarded by a slight dropping of Stripe’s hindquarters. Armin smiles; it’s working.
“Stripe, sit,” Armin insists, waving the treat at Stripe temptingly. “C’mon, boy, this is made of real pork!”
Stripe seems to struggle with it for a moment, then cautiously sits. Armin cheers and feeds him the treat, wrapping his arms around Stripe in joy. “Good boy!” he praises, scratching Stripe’s chin and neck like he’s learnt Stripe loves. “You’re such a smart boy,” Armin laughs. “You’re not going to perform tricks without some form of reward, huh?”
Stripe whuffs out what seems like assent, and licks the right side of Armin’s face from jaw to hairline.
--
After that, Stripe seems to get over his disinclination to performing tricks. Armin slowly finds out that it’s not the food that Stripe is responding so positively to, though that undoubtably helps – it’s the praise. The more Armin cooes and pets and praises, the more Stripe seems to puff up with pride. Even tricks Stripe seems to have trouble understanding he quickly picks up with a little guidance, and positively melts when Armin tells him what a good boy he is, how smart he is.
Stripe seamlessly integrates into Armin’s life. He’s well-behaved and absolutely precious, acting as Armin’s alarm with huge slobbery licks to the face, and the most comfortable cushion Armin’s ever had, soft and warm and awesome, and bouncing with delight when Armin comes home from work. It’s nice to come home to someone, even if it’s just his dog. Stripe pays attention to Armin’s concerns, eyes wide and soft, and noses at Armin with a whine when he senses Armin’s feeling down, and curls up next to him when Armin’s feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly lonely in the middle of the night. Stripe has quickly become Armin’s best friend.
It’s become habit to tell Stripe everything, so it’s normal to say, one lazy Saturday night, while he and Stripe are lounging on the sofa, “I haven’t seen Jean around lately.”
Stripe, surprisingly, jerks straight up and stares at Armin intently.
Armin starts, surprised, but just scratches Stripe’s side fondly. “I mean, I used to run into him at the bookstore every other day,” he continues, frowning the more he thinks of it, “but I haven’t seen him in two weeks. I wonder if he’s okay.”
Stripe whines, low and long, and licks Armin’s cheek as if to reassure him. Armin laughs. “Yeah, you’re right, I’m sure he’s fine,” he chuckles. “Still, I can’t help thinking…”
He trails off briefly, and Stripe cocks his head inquisitively, as if to say, go on.
“…is he avoiding me?” Armin’s voice comes out tiny and scared and pathetic, all things Armin thought he’d grown out of since leaving high school. He’s equal parts disgusted with himself and deathly afraid, because he remembers what a terrible state of mind he’d been in at the time.
What really shocks him, though, is how distressed Stripe gets, whining frantically and actually standing up and clambering all over Armin, rubbing and nosing and licking everywhere as if to comfort him. Armin appreciates the thought, but it’s a huge reaction unlike any other he’s seen from Stripe.
“Woah, buddy, easy,” he soothes his dog, catching Stripe’s head and stroking gently. Dogs are supposed to be incredibly attuned to humans’ emotions, right? Stripe’s probably reacting to Armin’s sudden spike of fear. “No need to get all worked up. It was just– memories.”
Stripe seems a little more calm, but still whines and stares at Armin desperately, like he’s trying to communicate something. Armin, unfortunately, doesn’t speak Dog.
“I wonder if Jean found out,” Armin says quietly, still stroking Stripe soothingly. Stripe’s ears perk up, and Armin continues, “That I like him, I mean.”
Stripe yelps, apropos of nothing, and nearly falls off of Armin.
“That might be why he’s avoiding me,” Armin muses, letting Stripe get his balance. “I’m sure he’s disgusted that someone like me–”
Stripe barks loudly and interrupts his sentence, staring at Armin with what seems like anger. It’s crazy, how his dog can make him realise how he’s slipping back into his high school self, the him that’d had ridiculously low self-esteem and thought he would never amount to anything.
Man, how he’d proved that guy wrong.
“You’re right, Stripe, I have to stop putting myself down,” Armin says, giving Stripe a big hug around the neck. “Jean’s probably just– busy. I’m sure he isn’t avoiding me because he’s weirded out by my huge crush on him.”
Stripe whuffs in agreement and licks Armin’s face, seeming satisfied. Armin smiles at him, because he loves this dog.
“I don’t even think he even knows about my huge crush on him,” Armin admits. “I’ve been flirting with him for ages, but I don’t think he’s noticed.”
Stripe seems just as fed up with Jean’s obliviousness as Armin is, judging by the whine he tries to bury in a sofa pillow.
“I know, right?” Armin agrees, glad to have someone who’ll sympathise with him. Stripe is the best.
--
When Armin wakes up, it’s to sunlight streaming in from the gap in the curtains, and the glorious realisation that it’s Sunday. He yawns as he sits up, stretching as per usual, and expects to see Stripe curled up at his feet, basking in the warm patch of sun as he likes to.
Instead, there is a very naked Jean lying on his bed, the sun casting a warm glow around him, highlighting his stupidly attractive face and other stupidly attractive parts of his body.
Armin doesn’t scream, but it’s a near thing.
“Holy shit!” he squeaks instead, going absolutely red with embarrassment but somehow unable to look away. “What the fuck, how did you get in here?!”
Jean starts awake, and tilts his head at Armin, concerned and surprised and sleepy, and holy fucking shit Armin has seen that face before.
“Jean,” Armin begins lowly, trying to stop himself from freaking out despite the crazy, impossible conclusion he’s just drawn. “Were you– were you my dog this whole time?”
“Uh,” says Jean awkwardly.
--
As it turns out, Jean told a fortune-teller she was a fraud, and she turned him into a dog in retaliation. It’s ridiculous, and wouldn’t have happened if Jean were a bit more careful about what he says, but this is classic Jean. He can’t seem to not get himself into trouble. It shouldn’t make Armin like him more, but it does. He can’t help but be honest, even when he knows he might suffer consequences. It’s endearing, somehow.
Armin lends Jean some clothes and awkwardly putters about the kitchen while Jean puts them on. He must still be getting used to walking on two legs again instead of four, because it takes him a good while to get dressed and visit the bathroom. By the time Jean emerges, wearing clothes a little too small for him, Armin’s made breakfast– chocolate chip pancakes, because Armin stress eats sugar. They sit next to each other at the breakfast bar and make it through the pancakes somehow, the issue of Armin’s crush on Jean hanging over them like a tangible thing they both aggressively ignore. Armin actually thinks that he can survive this, that maybe one day they’ll look back at the whole thing and laugh, when Jean sets down his fork with the most serious expression Armin has ever seen on his face, human or canine.
“Armin,” he starts, and oh no, here it comes, they’re talking about it. “What you said, last night, about me…”
Jean looks like he’s having a hard time looking Armin in the eye. Or maybe it’s Armin projecting, because he’s struggling with the same thing himself. Nevertheless, Armin decides it’s time to face the music like a man. He swallows his apprehension, and nods for Jean to continue.
“I know I wasn’t– You didn’t mean for me to hear it, I know, but… did you mean it?”
What?
His confusion must show on his face, because Jean quickly clarifies, “I mean, did you want me to know about it? If you didn’t, I’ll respect your privacy and let you tell me –or not tell me– in your own time. You have that right, at least.”
How does someone not fall in love with this man?
“And if I want you to know?” Armin ventures, heart pounding.
Jean colours visibly. “Then I’ll give my answer,” he says simply.
Armin nods. His choice is clear.
“I like you,” Armin says, firm and clear and unwavering.
Jean’s hands, warm and strong and soft, cradle Armin’s face and pull him into a kiss.
--
The vet calls Armin three weeks later, saying that a foster family is ready to host Stripe. Armin tells her seriously that he’s decided to adopt Stripe, and bursts into giggles when he hangs up.
“Whas’so funny?” Jean grumbles sleepily, rolling over and throwing an arm over Armin’s hips.
“Nothing, go back to sleep,” Armin assures him, running soothing fingers through Jean’s hair. Jean obliges, too tired to argue.
Armin can’t help himself.
“Good boy,” he cooes, and can almost see a tail wag with delight.