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Armin shifts from one leg to the other, looking at Jean’s chest rather than his face. They’re standing in a tiny stockroom. Jean’s back is pressed up against boxes of supplies, but it’s necessary in order to carve out a private moment amidst all the chaos.
“I’m sorry,” Armin says, and as much as he’s breaking Jean’s heart, Jean reaches out and pulls Armin into a tight hug. Because Jean can still hold him right now, and that’s what really matters.
“Don’t apologize,” Jean says through grit teeth, holding back tears that want to spill over. He rests his head on Armin’s shoulder as he tries to make sense of what Armin’s just told him. “We don’t even know for certain if it’s true.”
Perhaps plausible deniability will be the way to go. Yes. Jean thinks about the possibility of losing the boy who stands in front of him—his brave, intelligent lover—and his heart throbs. No. He can’t lose Armin. Not like this. Not to time, not to a fucking curse. It’s horrific enough that he has an image of Armin dead on the battlefield seared into his mind. He can’t lose Armin to anything but old age.
Armin’s hand squeezes the small of Jean’s back. “Eren’s not lying, Jean,” he whispers. “I’ve thirteen years left.”
Hearing Armin confirm that he’s doomed shatters Jean. And it’s not fair to Armin, but Jean starts to cry into his lover’s shoulder, unable to hold back his emotions. Thirteen years. There’s no justice in that. Not Armin, who has dreams to accomplish and the whole world outside the walls to see.
“I’m so sorry, Jean,” Armin repeats.
And Jean finds himself shaking his head vigorously against Armin, mouth open, trying desperately to find words but only letting out broken sobs instead. He doesn’t mean to fall apart completely, but he just can’t find the words. Not Armin. They’ve just started their relationship. There can’t be a limit on them already.
“No,” he finally gasps out, lifting his head off Armin’s shoulder to look him in the eyes. “You shouldn’t—it’s not your fault.”
It’s not Armin’s fault in the slightest. He absolutely does not want Armin to ever feel guilty about his choices on that day.
There’s a part of him that wonders if he should feel grateful. If not for that blasted curse, Armin would be dead. But then again, if titans didn’t exist at all, they would never have to fight for their lives like this in the first place.
“I don’t want to leave you,” Armin whispers, voice cracking. There’s tears that’ve welled up in Armin’s eyes and Jean wishes he could wipe them all away. “I love you.”
And that admission causes Armin to join Jean in crying, filling the room with his own sobs. All Jean can do is hold Armin’s shaking body until it sinks in that Armin’s told him that he loves him.
“Armin,” he murmurs. “I love you, too.”
None of this is fucking right and it absolutely infuriates Jean. He should feel happy that Armin’s told him that he loves him. But instead, there’s truly only a sliver of joy inside Jean.
Because Armin only has thirteen more years left, and Jean loves Armin dearly.
———
Jean looks up from his book and holds back a chuckle.
It’s the middle of the day. The sun stretches pleasantly through Armin’s quarters, just to prove it. Yet Armin has passed out in his reading chair, head lolling backwards, drool pooling in one of the corners of his mouth, the book he’d been reading threatening to fall from his lap at any moment.
Jean finds it bittersweet. Armin looks adorable, but his exhaustion is evident. They—Hange, Jean seethes—have put Armin on a strict regiment following the appearances of Marlyean ships. It’s not right, in Jean’s eyes. Armin has been made to transform far too often lately. Armin has not uttered a word of complaint, but Jean feels ready give Hange an earful.
Because shouldn’t Hange know what it’s doing to Armin’s body? Jean grits his teeth. Perhaps he’ll speak to the Commander in private. Armin’s far too polite to ask for less work. But Jean, on the other hand, will do anything to protect Armin, even if it’s from their overzealous comrades.
Jean rises from his spot on the bed, placing his book on the nightstand. He quietly slides over to Armin and gingerly lifts the book from Armin’s lap, then places the book on top of his own.
“Let’s move you to the bed,” Jean murmurs, gently tapping Armin’s shoulder. “You’ll get sore sleeping like that.“
Armin rouses with a groan, peeking up at Jean through squinty eyes.
“C’mon,” says Jean, taking ahold of Armin’s hand and guiding him to his feet. Armin stands with little resistance, wiping his mouth with the corner of his sleeve.
“So sleepy,” Armin mumbles. “Sorry.”
Jean shakes his head as Armin practically collapses onto the bed. “Don’t apologize. You’ve been pushed way too hard.”
“S’fine,” Armin whispers, eyes already closed. Jean pulls the blankets out from under Armin with a tug before sliding into the bed next to him. He throws the covers over both of them, happy to feel Armin curl up into his chest.
Armin begins to snore no less than a minute later. Jean tucks one arm underneath his head and places his other hand on Armin’s cheek, fingers stroking him softly. Armin is so dedicated. It makes Jean’s body twist with both pride and worry. He’s glad to have such a hardworking partner, but he can’t help but fret because he knows that Armin accepts too much without protest. Armin will allow others to burden him with work without full consideration for the toll it takes on his body.
Jean wishes he could protect Armin from everything. He sighs, well aware that he can only be a supportive pillar in Armin’s life. And he’s so grateful that even though Armin’s being worked to the bone, that they are still able to spend time together.
Eleven more years of this—being able to feel Armin rest at his side. Jean knows he needs to treasure each day. He doesn’t take the time they spend together for granted. He can’t afford to. Armin is so precious and his limited time on the earth reflects that.
Jean bites the inside of his cheek, then presses a kiss to Armin’s forehead.
———
“Stick to the plan, we’ll be fine,” Armin says as he buttons up the collar of his shirt. As if nothing is wrong. As if the world isn’t ending before their very eyes.
“Are you so sure of that?” Jean asks. He doesn’t mean to doubt Armin. He is well aware of his beloved’s competencies and capabilities. But everything’s gone to shit and Jean himself is supposed to pretend to become sympathetic to Eren’s cause.
“I have to be.” Armin turns to him, and Jean feels guilt twinge his body. He can’t let his own fear affect Armin. And he knows that Armin must feel equally as nervous, deep down inside.
“Just please be safe.” Jean steps toward Armin and intertwines their fingers together.
“I will ask the same of you.” Armin’s hand is warm in his, and he gives Jean a small smile, even though his eyes look so sad.
And Jean thinks that if they both make it out of this hell, that he’ll spend the rest of Armin’s days ensuring happiness for Armin. Armin, who has a too-short life ahead of him regardless of the outcome of the Rumbling. Armin has nine years left and Jean won’t waste a damn moment after the war reaches its climax.
His heart swells as he stares at Armin, whom he loves more than anyone else in the world. And he’s suddenly overcome with a rush of emotions that causes Jean to speak quicker than he can consider his words:
“Marry me,” Jean says, watching Armin’s eyes blow wide with shock, his mouth falling slightly open. “Listen. After all this is over, if we both survive—I want to marry you, Armin.” He knows it’s less of a question and more of a demand, and it’s decidedly the least romantic thing that Jean’s ever done, but he just can’t stand parting ways with Armin in this dire moment without stating his intentions.
And Armin can always say no, if he chooses. Jean squeezes their laced fingers, and he’s almost shocked when Armin returns the squeeze, cheeks rapidly turning pink.
“Alright,” Armin whispers, and Jean can hardly believe his ears.
“What was that?” Jean asks, barely trying to be cocky, just truly enamored by the possibility that Armin’s agreed to his hasty request.
“I’ll marry you, Kirstein,” Armin tells him, voice strong. “So you better keep living, okay?”
He pulls Armin in by his hand for a kiss that turns sloppy, impassioned, and absolutely perfect. Because Jean loves this man so fucking much that it hurts to think about sometimes. “I will,” he breathes on Armin’s lips when they break apart. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”
Armin nods, jaw set, ready to push forward. “I’ll see you later. That’s an order.”
Jean’s only able to consider the cheekiness of Armin’s command far later in the day, when they’ve both been separated by their diverging tasks.
———
“This is Armin, Ma,” Jean says, gesturing towards his paramour in a terribly awkward fashion as they stand in the foyer of his childhood home. As much as he outwardly pretends like he doesn’t give a shit about his mother’s opinions, he secretly chases her approval. Having Armin fall into his mother’s good graces is highly important to Jean, so he very desperately does not want to muck up his Ma’s first impression of Armin. They’ve been together for just under a year now, and Jean’s run out of excuses for why Armin and his mother can’t meet each other.
“It’s so lovely to meet you, Armin,” his mother says, pulling Armin into a tight hug. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you. It seems like you’ve been such a good influence on my son. Was it you that convinced him to start writing me?”
Jean forces down his knee-jerk reaction as his mother pats Armin on the shoulder. Damn it, his mother will forever know how to embarrass him!
“Yes ma’am,” Armin replies, a smile on his face. “Although I can’t take all the credit. Jean’s the one who’s followed through.”
“And that he has.” Jean’s hugged by his mother next before she ushers them toward the kitchen. “Dinner is almost ready. How ‘bout you two set down your bags in your old room, and then you can help set the table, Jean-boy?”
The tips of Jean’s ears go red at his mother’s use of that humiliating nickname. “Of course,” he says through grit teeth. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Armin, for what it’s worth, makes no remarks about the behavior of Jean’s mother. Instead, he oohs and ahhs over the old artworks that Jean’s still kept over the years, and pats the worn-out quilt on his bed fondly. “I’d love to see you draw sometime,” Armin tells him. “You’re so talented.”
“It’s been awhile,” Jean admits. “But we can go into town later and I’ll pick up some supplies.”
That satisfies Armin, and they make their way back downstairs to find Jean’s mother stirring stew on the stovetop. Jean meanders over to the kitchen cabinets and pulls out three plates, noisily setting the table. Armin joins him, placing forks and knives on the table, his movements quiet as a mouse. When Jean takes a seat at the table, Armin joins Jean’s mother instead, helping her cook the rest of their meal.
“Thank you so much, sweetie,” Jean’s mother says as Armin finished cutting a quarter of a loaf of bread into small slices.
“Of course,” Armin replies, looking absolutely angelic as he places the tiny tray of bread into the table that Jean’s sat at. That might be Jean’s opinion, but it’s just objective fact, he thinks. Armin meets Jean’s eyes and gives him a small smile. It makes Jean grip his knee a bit tighter because dammit he loves this boy so much.
Chairs scrape against the wooden floors when Armin and Jean’s mother take their seats after placing the rest of the food at the table. Jean listens quietly as Armin tells his mother about the adaptability of many of Trost’s native birds after inquiring about the bird feeder hanging in the window.
Jean can tell by the way his mother replied that she’s absolutely enamored with Armin. He sighs contentedly when he takes a bite of his baked potato. It seems like Armin fits right in with Jean’s tiny family. That’s all he ever hoped for.
After they finish dinner, Armin helps do the dishes, letting Jean’s mother massage her aching calves at the table.
“I’m not getting any younger,” she complains, sealing her approval of Armin with a wink that she gives Jean. “What I’d give to be you boys’ ages again.”
“Don’t make me worry about you, Ma,” Jean comments.
She waves her hand in front of her face. “Sure.”
Later that night, after Armin’s retreated to the bedroom to read, Jean’s mother grins as she sips her tea. “I like that boy of yours,” she tells him. “You should keep him around.”
“Y-yeah,” Jean stammers out. “That’s the plan.” But her words have made him think about how he can possibly tell her about Armin’s…condition.
He’s gonna die, Ma, Jean pictures himself saying. He’s gonna die at twenty-eight but I still love him anyway.
She’ll understand Jean’s reasoning. That blasted woman has always known Jean better than he knows himself. It made him so angry growing up. He’s only now just started to come to acknowledge why he’d butted heads with her so much.
He shouldn’t have to think about how he’s going to break his mother’s heart, but here he is. And Jean detests every second of it.
———
Jean opens his eyes into slits as he feels himself begin to nod off. He’s propped between Armin’s knees, sitting on the ground while Armin sits on a stool behind him. They’re in Armin’s office. In front of Jean, there’s a table with a massive map of Liberio spread out across it. Armin’s marked it up with half a dozen little symbols that Jean couldn’t decipher if he tried.
There’s a familiar tug on his hair as Armin finishes yet another small braid. Jean holds back a pleased exhale when Armin begins to braid another section of his hair. It’s day five of this—sitting in front of Armin while he plans strategy, giving Armin something to do with his hands while he thinks. Jean wouldn’t trade it for the world. Having Armin’s nimble fingers on his head for hours at a time makes Jean feel as if he’s at heaven’s doorstep.
Armin, however, grows more and more frustrated as the night stretches on. His sighs grow more frequent, his little groans turn into growls, and he sometimes stops braiding Jean’s hair altogether until he remembers to keep his pace.
“Do you need to sleep?” Jean mumbles when Armin searches for a section of Jean’s hair that isn’t braided.
“Twenty more minutes,” Armin replies. He finds what he’s looking for and starts yet another braid.
Jean knows he looks ridiculous, but he’d gladly go into battle looking like this if it meant keeping Armin in the best shape possible. It also allows them to merge work with their quality time. Even though they don’t get to talk much, Jean’s just happy that he can spend time with Armin. He’ll happily take the teasing he gets from Connie and Sasha when he starts the next day with wavy hair.
Twenty more minutes turns into thirty, which bleeds into forty. Jean’s just about ready to demand that Armin retire for the night when Armin pats Jean’s shoulders and stands up.
“I’ve got something for you,” Armin murmurs, rubbing Jean’s back briefly before he meanders over to one of the bookshelves lining the south wall.
“Do you?” Jean asks, raising an eyebrow, unable to come back with a snarky response. He cranes his head to see Armin pull out a strategy book. Jean shakes his head and turns, unsure of what Armin can possibly produce from a dusty old book.
Pages ruffle, and Armin’s boots clink against the floor before he takes his seat behind Jean again. He’s holding a thick sheet of paper between his fingers.
“What’ve you got there?” Jean asks, a little bit intrigued.
“Remember how ‘Kasa brought back that camera she bought in Marley? She’s just now figured out how to develop film…and I wanted you to have this,” Armin explains, fluttering the page in front of Jean’s face, whose eyes widen as he tries to take in the image before his eyes.
Because it is an image, and even after being confronted with the technology that’s cameras and photographs, Jean still can hardly believe that it exists. And he can hardly make sense of the fact that he’s staring down at a copy of himself and Armin, capturing their faces from several weeks ago. They’re sitting at a table after dinner, and Jean has his arm draped over Armin’s shoulder. Jean’s face is a tad blurry, as he’d moved a bit too much as Mikasa took the photograph, but Armin is crisp, smiling, and perfectly captured.
Jean remembers that night—can recall how Mikasa had insisted upon using her camera, can remember how he’d rolled his eyes and had barely managed to sit still, even after Armin had chastised him.
And all he can think about is how he’d been such a fool to act like that. He’d never realized that Mikasa would be able to develop the photographs. And he’s so grateful.
Because now he has an image of Armin, forever frozen in time. The gravity of the gift isn’t lost on Jean. He’ll always be able to remember Armin’s face, even after the inevitable. And that’s a privilege he won’t take lightly. Armin will never turn into a wispy figure, unlike…
Jean swallows.
Armin—or perhaps Mikasa—had fastened the photograph to heavy backing paper, making it sturdier. When Jean flips it over, he half expects there to be a long-winded letter on the back, because Armin’s always writing him sweet words. But Jean only finds a simple J & A, 854 inscribed in Armin’s neat handwriting. And somehow, that brings tears to Jean’s eyes all the same.
“You’re shaking,” Armin remarks, clasping a gentle hand over Jean’s.
“Shut the hell up,” Jean replies, wiping his eyes with the back of his free hand. He’s not often one to shy away from intimacy. But this just feels so overwhelming. “Armin, I…”
He trails off, words failing him.
“I’m so lucky to have you,” he concludes. Because that’s the truth. He’d much rather have the chance to love Armin for a shortened period of time, than to never know Armin’s love at all.
———
The war may have ended, but Jean still spends a decade holding his breath. He just can’t believe it, after all. Not after what they’ve all been through. There is no reason for Jean to believe that the curse placed upon Armin was lifted. The world has never been kind to either of them.
They wed four springs after the ending of the war. Armin had tried to get them to slink off to a courthouse wedding, but Jean had insisted upon a proper ceremony. And once Historia got wind of it…that had sealed their fate as she pulled out all her influence for their wedding. Even years later, Jean can still fondly recall how red Amin had gotten when he realized the full grandeur of it all.
But Jean still held his breath. Even when Reiner, Annie, and Pieck lived far past their expected time, anxiety still told Jean that he couldn’t get his hopes up. That somehow, even with the living evidence in front of his eyes, Armin would still succumb to an early death.
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Armin told him one day after Jean had voiced his fears. “I understand.”
“Logically, I know. But I spent so long coming to terms with the fact that you’d die so young, and there was nothing that I could do to prevent it,” Jean rambled. “It’s not like when we joined the Scouts. We lived unpredictable lives. But having something like that set in stone was so difficult to cope with.”
It’s why his nerves light with fire when Armin turns twenty-eight, and then when the thirteenth anniversary of the Battle of Shinganshina is commemorated. Because there’s a part of Jean that thinks that Armin will just drop dead one day. Inexplicably.
Yet still, Armin breathes. All while Jean holds his breath.
Jean finally exhales when Armin lives to see his twenty-ninth year.
“You’re footing’s still wrong,” Jean teases, their tiny house still in disarray from Armin’s birthday celebration. He has one hand on the small of Armin’s back, and his other hand is intertwined with Armin’s, held up near Armin’s cheek. The phonograph in the corner of their living room—a gift from Mikasa—plays a light piano tune. Jean’s tried to teach Armin a new dance form, to no avail.
Armin sighs and shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, Mister Kirstein. I’m just an uncultured peasant,” he replies, making Jean roll his eyes. Armin missteps again, and whether it’s by accident or on purpose, Jean doesn’t care.
“Well,” Jean says, fluttering his eyes closed as he presses their foreheads together, “I’ve got decades to teach you, don’t I?”
Armin lets out a light, airy laugh. “That you do,” he says before Jean kisses him, thrilled that he’s still able to feel Armin’s warm lips on his own.
They have a limitless future ahead of them. And Jean is more than happy to take his time to savor every second of Armin’s body pressed against his own.