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"Bullshit," you hiss, a laugh trailing behind the word.
Armin elbows you to be quiet but in the corner of your eye, his lips are pressed to contain his own bubbling laugh. You nudge him back and smile, curling over the azalea to follow the young man wringing his hands raw for the good part of half an hour.
He's been staring at the canopy of flowers for just as long. You're starting to think he'd simply lost something or maybe found some coded message hidden in the flowers.
The sleeve of your uniform brushes against Armin. Shoulder to elbow, elbow to wrist flat against his, every small acre of skin touching skin skittering with sparks. What little attention Armin was paying to the customer was now given to you as you lean against him.
"It doesn't sound right."
Armin tears his eyes away from you. "Watch. He's been staring at the carnations. It's not good news."
Your brows pinch together as you look up at Armin. "Who buys flowers for bad news? He's obviously jittery about telling someone he loves them."
Armin shrugs, careful not to move even a centimeter away. He tries not to imagine what you would be like when you think of telling someone that.
Tries.
The young man does eventually make it to the cash register with the bouquet of yellow carnations he's been making eyes at for the last century.
"You ok?" You blurt out.
Behind you, Armin winces but you keep your worried expression plastered on your face. Maybe this guy will be too upset to comment on your lack of subtlety.
The man lets out a sigh. "I…," he pauses for a long awkward breath. A small smile curls on his lips. "I'm actually meeting my ex-wife to serve her divorce papers. I thought the flowers would be a good compliment."
You kind of stand there stunned, moving on autopilot until he waves you goodbye. You flick your eyes to Armin. He's studiously fixing the flowers in front of him when you spin your body towards him.
"How?"
He glances over before shrugging his shoulders. "He was staring at the carnations. It was pretty obvious he would pick them."
"But that doesn't mean you could have guessed it was bad news."
"People just kind of know what flowers mean intuitively," Armin shrugs again. To Armin's mind, the language of flowers had made a strange sort of sense that made it easy to memorize. It was a rudimentary language that even with the lack of syntax could convey so many complicated emotions.
Sometimes, on slow days like today, you'd ask him about a flower. Not exactly how to take care of it or what flowers best paired with it. You'd simply point to it and draw out what he knows, humming and asking questions as the words bubble up from Armin's throat. He'd once talked your ear off about the history of hydrangeas for a good 15 minutes before he'd noticed you hadn't said a word. You'd taken it in stride though, hanging off of every word, poking him with questions to get him to speak.
His stomach flutters thinking about it.
"They're yellow though," you protest.
He turns to you, hand cupping the back of his neck. "Yellow carnations mean rejection or disdain."
Your eyes widen in horror. "They're yellow," you repeat.
"They do. I promise."
You tap your chin, gears turning audibly in your head, then with a click you snap your fingers. A smile curls on your lips. "Ok, so you cheated."
Armin's hands raise halfway in defense but the gesture falls short only to be punctuated by him looking away from you again. "Kind of? How is that cheating?"
"The use of psychic powers is against the rules." You waggle your finger, admonishing half-heartedly.
"It's not—"He blusters a bit then regains his composure. "It's not written down, so it doesn't count," he says. The whiteboard, unfortunately, confirms it. You make a mental note to add that to the rules.
Your face pinches, very ready to change the topic. "But the yellow roses have to be joy, right?" You sigh, resting your elbows on the counter, your cheek pressed to your palm.
Armin winces, shakes his head, then leans over the counter beside you— body angled towards you and only a hair's breadth away from you. He points to the bundle of yellow roses and says: "They also mean rejection."
Your expression wilts. "No." He snorts. You slap his arm and he just laughs more.
You wrinkle your nose. Turning away from him, you search the store for another flower. "That one," you say, closing your hand around Armin's wrist, tugging it gently to the direction of the yellow acacia. He feels his face flush. The heat spreading across his skin, pink dusting his face, as he glances down at you.
Maybe he was right that people could sense the meaning of flowers.
"Secret love," he wants to say but his clumsy tongue fumbles and says, "Friendship."
A brief flicker of doubt crosses your features when you look up at him and Armin feels his chest fill with hope, hope that you might question him, force the truth from his lips. But the look clears, giving way to fascination that almost overshadows the disappointment coiling in his chest.
"So, the yellow ones aren't completely evil," you breathe. "That's a relief. That means you're not completely evil too." Your body nudges towards him, eating up what little space was left between you. It's a moment before his lungs fill with air again. It's the easy comfort at which you move around him that makes it difficult.
He's ok like this, he tells himself as he tends to the acacia.
Stealing long glances from across the room, brushing his fingers to your 'unintentionally', possibly persuading (bribing) people into switching shifts with him just to spend more time with you, and maybe nudging circumstances so you two can work in the back room together. That's enough for him.
But sometimes, he gets greedy.
He aches thinking of what it would be like to have your hand twined with his instead of wrapped around his wrist. Or he imagines what it would be like to have you rest your head on his shoulder and fall asleep. He is greedy for the sight of you but he doubts you can look at him the same way.
"Armin. Armiiiin! Tall, pale, and not paying attention. Hey!"
Your fingers jab into his ribs almost causing him to drop the clippers. "Sorry, what?"
"Sorry, my ass. I need a favor."
He turns to face you fully. "This isn't going to be about getting back at Eren for eating your lunch, is it?"
"He—"Your face crunches. "It's something else. For now."
"That's not reassuring," he says.
You laugh. "Seriously. Please," you say, clapping your hands together.
"I'm not agreeing til you tell me." He crosses his arms, looking as stubborn as he can. You both know he'll fold eventually.
"That's not reassuring," he says.
You laugh. "Seriously. Please," you say, clapping your hands together.
"I'm not agreeing til you tell me." He crosses his arms, looking as stubborn as he can. You both know he'll fold eventually.
You peek one eye open and sigh dramatically. "Fine," you say, hands on your hips. "Ok, I need you to take care of the plants I'm propagating tomorrow. Please make sure Jonesie won't die."
His brows furrow. "You're off tomorrow?" Armin feels himself physically deflate.
The soft smile gracing your lips as you cup the back of your head makes his heart thump. "It's sudden but Mrs. Jaeger said I could take a day off and I kind of have something special planned so ..." You brush your hair back sheepishly.
"Oh," he breathes. His body rocks back and he feels dizzy.
A date?
No.
No, it can't be.
You're looking away from him, smiling softly.
As someone who has watched love be expressed day in day out, to him, you look like someone who's in love. His throat constricts with the realization.
But still, for you, he forces a smile. "Of course."
"Armin, why do you look like one of Eren's plants?"
"I heard that!"
Armin stifles a sigh. "Probably a lack of sleep," he says.
Mikasa tilts her head and Armin turns away from her, not having enough energy to smooth his expression over. He doesn't have the energy to play dumb either. The only thing he can do right now is sigh and hope Eren can change the subject.
Eren comes through as usual.
"He's gloomy cus (Y/n) took a day off."
Thanks, Eren!
Armin tries to muster up a response but he can't, so he just turns back to the plants. At least they don't ask questions. Armin waters the plants dutifully, mindlessly, when the bell in front of the rings and in comes noon sun pouring in.
Armin forgets to breathe.
There you stand at the entrance— all morning due brilliant with the sun a halo behind your head and daffodils blooming on your sundress. Infatuation burns a new and pushes his heart all the way up his throat, crowding out words of greeting and smooshing them into a garble of syllables.
You wave at him and he waves back, all the gloom lifting.
The smile on your face shifts a little— still bright with amusement but with some concern coloring your features. You point down and suddenly, Armin feels the water he's been pouring on his shoe. He fumbles, dropping the watering can on his foot and yelping.
You try not to laugh.
You succeed.
Kind of.
You succeed only because Eren is laughing too hard for anyone to notice the little laughs leaving your lips. Trotting over to them, you elbow Eren. You may have puncture his lung. Maybe. It can't be that bad if Mikasa isn't throwing you through a window.
"Jeez Armin, you ok?"
Armin's throat is still overcrowded so he gives you a simple nod.
"Hey to you too, Slacker," Eren bites out, rubbing his ribs.
"Hey," you flick your hands in a way to acknowledge that you noticed him and a way to tell him to go away. His face crunches and his mouth opens to protest but Mikasa drags him away. Both you and Armin think of getting her a thank you gift later.
"Armin, I have a huge, double-decker favor to ask," you say, clapping your hands together. The gesture throws Armin back, remembering why you were on a day off. His heart plummets to the floor and pulls all of his organs down with it, leaving him feeling hollowed out. The beauty and happiness radiating from you now sear painfully against his skin. You're on a date or you're on your way to one. You're beautiful, radiant, and absolutely, astoundingly, incomprehensibly giddy for someone. Someone that wasn't him.
He feels lightheaded. His heart is aching. He feels like the threads holding the world around him are starting to fray and he can't do anything about it.
"What do you need?"
You shift your weight on your feet, rocking away from him. He does his best not to reach for you. The action is immediately halted when you cup the back of your neck, gaze falling to the floor. "I'm still not as good with what flowers say." Even without seeing your face, he can picture the slight narrowing of your eyes and the shy curl of your lips. Your press the tips of your fingers together. "I know it's kind of weird but I was hoping you could translate my words into flowers."
He could do that but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to hear whatever heartfelt message you had for someone else but he knows if he doesn't, he'll upset you, and really, are his feelings more important than yours?
No, not to him, so again he plasters a smile on his face and agrees.
You blunder through your message, too nervous to speak coherently. It's endearing and it hurts. To watch you try to piece yourself together, to listen to you be so vulnerable, to hear you be filled with too much love to contain it in words. It's wonderful and amazing and too much. Armin feels like his insides are being scraped raw with every word.
In the end, the bouquet turns out simple. Red carnations as the centerpiece with a sprinkle of pink camellias and a few sprigs of asters.
My heart aches as it longs for your love.
His hand tightens around the bouquet, wanting nothing more than to crush it and whoever this was meant for under his foot.
"Do you want a card with it?" He asks. Partially out of habit and partially as a way to find out who it's for.
You shake your head. "I'm planning to give it to them in person."
"Oh ... " He swallows back his emotions to tell you the total. He tries to make his movements as automatic as possible. It's so hard not to think or show the hurt especially when you cradle the bouquet so carefully, holding it close to your chest.
His feet move automatically, so very ready to run away.
"Oh Armin, one more thing," you thrust the flowers into his arms. "These are for you."
There is a long pause of you two just standing there.
The whiplash Armin feels renders his mind useless while the anticipation of his answer keeps you rooted to your spot. You're so very thankful that today is a very slow day. The very few patrons there are looking away from the scene you've caused.
It occurs to you how badly this could go and you mentally start to draft your resignation letter.
Armin looks between you and the bouquet cradled in his arms as his mind tries to piece together what this means. There is some kind of arithmetic going on in Armin's head and you're frankly too afraid to ask.
All those sweet words, flustered gestures, and shy, awkward faces you made were for him. The cold, empty feeling in his chest washes out as warmth floods in. His mind is still so very fuzzy but now the tickle of euphoria starts to grow into a buzz and then a jolt.
He pulls the flowers closer to his chest, the crinkling of plastic startling you and kicking your flight response into high gear. Your body rotates. You're ready to sprint out of the store and possibly into traffic when Armin rounds the counter to stand in front of you.
"Aren't you going to at least hear my answer?"
You feel the flowers in your hands as Armin cups your cheek. He presses a kiss to the corner of your lip. His smile is blinding. He is, at this moment, more golden and radiant than any bloom nature could produce. His love like yours swells and fills him to bursting and the joy of reciprocation is palpable in the air.
This man is well and truly in love with you and for the very first time, you could see how the flowers could fill the gaps the words left.