Chapter Text
The last unbroken day that Armin Arlert had began like this:
He was getting dressed in the barracks, the grey, damp morning warmed by puddles of yellow gaslight. He shivered, stamping his feet on the floor, sighing out a small plume of frosty breath.
"Cold as tits," Jean Kirschstein, his platoon partner, grumbled. The tall sergeant pulled a leather belt through the loops at his waist.
"Tits ain't cold," Connie Springer remarked cheerily.
Jean's hazel eyes slid sideways, to where Mikasa Ackerman was quietly and carefully laying out her gear.
"Depends on the tits," Jean snorted. He grinned then, twisting around to ensure that Eren Jaeger was glaring at him.
Instead, he spied Armin, one arm thrust through the sleeve of his white shirt. The sleeve, careworn and slightly threadbare, ended mid-forearm. Armin was staring at it, as if trying to work out how a shirt he'd treated so carefully since age fifteen, no longer had sleeves long enough for his eighteen-year-old limbs.
"Somebody grew," Jean chortled.
Armin continued to stare at his arm. He frowned.
"Here," Jean bent, reached into his footlocker and chucked his spare olive drab shirt toward Armin.
Armin caught it, snapping out of his reverie. "Thank you," he nodded. "Just until I can get to the quartermaster's."
Armin sniffed at the green shirt suspiciously, finding it reasonably clean but still smelling of Jean; faint sweat, musk and citrus. He turned away, cheeks colouring.
Jean smirked, looking up to find Eren's gaze locking onto his. Good, he'd managed to annoy Eren and it wasn't even morning parade yet. Eren gripped his bootlaces in his fists tightly, lacing up and looking as though he'd prefer to garrotte Jean.
Without breaking eye contact with Eren, Jean called out: "Looks great on you, Armin. Now we're a matched set!"
__________
Levi's squad hunted it's prey in pairs. As the war against various titan factions had intensified, the Survey Corps had evolved into an elite combat unit.
Major Ackerman was a living example of the effectiveness of combat pairs; he'd been at Erwin Smith's side his entire career. Even after his Commander had lost an arm, the two of them were brutally efficient when they worked as a tandem.
Levi's elite six, plus eighteen more auxiliary, were thus paired up in the field. He'd taken advantage of the natural chemistry which existed within his unit, pairing Mikasa with Eren, Connie with Sasha Blaus and Jean Kirschstein with Erwin's young marshal, Armin Arlert.
One of the ongoing pleasures of Jean Kirschstein's life was rubbing this formation in Eren Jaeger's face every chance he got.
As the sun finally broke over the frosted stubble of the winter wheat fields, shining pale yellow through the windows of the wash-house, Jean leaned over the sink, face and chin lathered in foam, shaving carefully.
Armin stood beside him, in his borrowed olive shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, washing his face.
On the other side of Armin, Eren ran cold water into a basin, cleaning his teeth.
Jean glanced down at Armin. "You going to report like that?"
"Like what?"
"You going to parade unshaven?"
Eren bristled, toothbrush poking dangerously against his cheek. Jean teased Armin constantly; seeming to take great delight in the fact the Armin took everything utterly at face value.
"Huh?" Armin's deep blue eyes widened. "I don't need to shave," he frowned uncertainly.
Jean shrugged indifferently.
"Up to you," he said lightly. "But you've got whiskers on your chin now. And your lip."
Armin leaned forward. "I do?" A ray of sunlight caught his delicate face. "I do!"
Jean placed a small blade onto the wooden shelf between them. A shard from combat, one end wrapped in leather lacing.
"Here," Jean said, "It's sharp."
Armin touched the blade thoughtfully. Then, he took off his shirt, squared his slight shoulders importantly, and lathered his pointed chin.
__________
It would be a meagre Yuletide. The arable land inside of Wall Maria had produced a wasting crop, and a scourge had thinned the livestock herds.
Still, the soldiers of the reorganized 10th Platoon, under Major Ackerman's command, assembled in the wooden chapel that was built on a hill between the forest and the river.
The chapel had been constructed from timbers salvaged from the battle of Trost, Shiganshina and other sites where soldiers had fallen. It would be in this simple chapel, in a fortnight's time, that the soldiers would hold a simple Yulemas to honour their dead.
There was to be song, tributes, silver stars awarded, and candles lit for their ancestors.
That afternoon, about twenty Corpsmen gathered at the chapel to rehearse for Yulemas. Armin Arlert sang in the choir. As a small boy, he'd had a voice like a tiny angel, silver-sweet. The pure tone had held; despite other evidence of his burgeoning manhood, such as the blond whiskers that he'd proudly swished down the sink that morning.
Jean Kirschstein couldn't sing a note. He lounged on one of the chapel's wooden benches, booted feet up on another, his jacket slung carelessly beside him. Across it's epaulette were the three silver stars he'd earned in combat. Inside of the jacket, upside down, he'd scrawled words in ink: Die Laughing.
Eren had snorted at him. "Why'd you do that to your uniform?"
Jean had thrown back his head and laughed, clapping Eren on the shoulder. "Better die laughing than die crying, nutcase. And I'm fucking sure I'll die upside-down, anyway!"
The chapel was a soldier's place; the splintered glass in the windows had been rescued from the armoury that Armin and Jean had stormed in 850. The light streamed in as the choir sang.
There was a break in the music, and then Armin stepped forward. He spoke briefly with Hitch Dreyse, who led the ensemble.
He adjusted the small, round glasses that he wore for reading, and then began a soft, mournful tune. It was the Tribute to the Fallen. It resonated with every single soldier present, but Armin sang it for his commanding officer, Major Ackerman. Levi's ghosts still hung about him, like iron shackles, and yet somehow the small frame refused to bend, or to break.
Armin Arlert had sung the Tribute each Yulemas. The first year, he was still a cadet, standing upon an apple crate so that he could be seen. He'd been twelve years old.
The chapel stilled, as his voice rose. Jean watched his combat partner quietly. Armin was a slight man; he'd never be tall. His limbs had lengthened, knobby and coltish, and the front of his hay-blond mane was caught up in a silver clasp that he'd found in the river one summer. He had a graceful neck, solid stance and a defined jaw that had rendered his pretty baby-face into that of a young man.
And sometimes, when Jean watched Armin, he found that he couldn't breathe. Barns caught fire; so did bakers' ovens…he hadn't been aware that friendships could catch fire as well.
"Damn," he sighed happily, hoping that he could hide from the Major for another short while.
And then, in the middle of the phrase, Armin let out a horrible squonk. Heads shot up.
Armin's eyes widened in surprise. "Sorry, Dreyse," he gave a rueful smile and cleared his throat. "Can I start the line again?"
He shook his blond head, while the choir looked on.
He began to sing, softly, than as the note took flight, another rough break, like a strangled pheasant.
An utter silence, and then Armin muttered, "Aw, fuck."
Sasha Blaus burst into laughter at Armin cursing so uncharacteristically. Others tittered.
Armin flushed crimson, helpless and stricken. And he looked up, straight at Jean.
Jean's heart sank. It was one thing to tease Armin, quite another to see him humiliated. He stood up, slinging his jacket over his shoulder and proclaiming loudly, "Well, Sweet Rose's frozen arse, isn't that enough warbling for today? Cannon won't arm themselves!"
"Yes, Sergeant!" Hitch Dreyse nodded, and the soldiers began to gather up their belongings.
Armin stood, ignored as the others milled around him, staring at Jean and clutching his songbook. He bit his lip. Jean shrugged into his jacket, strode forward and took Armin by the shoulders.
Armin looked up. "I have to do this," a raspy whisper. "I have to do this, for heichou. It's the only thing I have to give him."
"You know that's not true," Jean shook his head. Then, efficiently: "Go get the boys, please. Need them up the wall today."
Collecting himself, Armin nodded. placing a hand onto Jean's arm.
"Ain't nothing," Jean bent slightly, to gaze into the blue eyes. He smiled.
Die Laughing.
__________
'The boys' were Armin's matched cream geldings. Poseidon and Neptune were seven years old, and Armin had driven the wagon team in and out of countless forays. He stamped into the barn and began preparing their tack.
"I can't sing anymore," he told them ruefully.
Poseidon whickered softly. Armin pulled on the horse's cream bridle gently, placing his forehead against the horse's. Poseidon, who was so stable and sure. Poseidon, who hadn't reared and bolted when Armin had fired the shot that had saved Jean's life. Armin closed his eyes. There had been two more incidents, since, where he'd nearly lost Jean. It was utterly bizarre to him that he, small and persecuted, coddled and protected by Eren and Mikasa, should time and again keep the brash sergeant out of harm's way.
"Stupid Jean," he smiled against Poseidon's blaze. "Stupid, stupid Jean….."
__________
Sasha cried out, clapping her hands together ecstatically.
Levi had approached their wooden table in the mess hall, plunking down a ham roll the size of a large fist.
"You deserve more," he said quietly to his elite six. "This is all there is."
As one, Armin and Eren pushed the ham back at him.
"Sir, we can't," Armin said softly. "Not when the little ones are hungry. The cadets, too."
Eren nodded acquiescence.
Sasha growled menacingly.
"The Commander has seen to them," Levi replied. "Besides,"- a sidelong glance at Armin - "You can't grow without food. Weak soldiers are of no use to me."
"Hai," Mikasa rose, saluting. The others followed suit.
Sasha had begun to shake. Jean laughed.
They carved the ham up into small pieces. Jean popped one into his mouth. It tasted heavenly.
"Fuck me twice," he swore happily, "Let's have a bit of cider to wash it down."
Glasses were poured. Jean turned to Armin, smiling.
Armin sat quietly, hunched, eyes downcast. Jean elbowed the thin ribcage. "Hey," he prodded, "Eat!"
"I wanted…to sing the Tribute for him. For his squad and for his family, from the underground. But my voice…."
Armin raised his eyes and they were misted with shame. Jean swallowed, a cold fist squeezing his heart.
"Told you," he ruffled the pale head, "You don't worry about that. Why…you'd think it'd be a fine thing, having your balls finally drop!"
Eren, sitting across the table, set his soup bowl down slowly.
Jean clapped Armin on the back. "Cheer up, buttercup! Hey, you gave the Yule goose some competition, didn't ya?"
"Jean!" Eren warned.
"SQUONK!" Jean brayed.
Eren shot out of his seat, hands braced on the table. "That's enough! Can't you see he's in bits?"
"HAWNK!" Jean thought he saw the corners of Armin's mouth lift just a little. He jostled Armin's leg under the table. "C'mon, Arm…"
"Say sorry!" Eren growled.
Jean snorted. His eyes flicked sideways, to Mikasa. He wasn't sure he wanted to rile her. If he did, he knew he'd be dismantled, and end up spending Yulemas in the infirmary. But the dark-haired soldier just shook her head at them dismissively, and continued to eat and talk with Sasha.
Antagonizing Eren, well, that was another matter. That was sport.
"Fucking apologize to him. What's the matter with you?" Eren challenged.
"Nothing wrong with me," Jean scraped back his chair, rising to his full height. He leaned over the table, nose-to-nose with Eren.
The hazel eyes narrowed. "Nothing wrong with Armin, either. He's had a disappointment, and he'll take a bit of ribbing from me for it. That's what we do."
"You bully him. You make fun of him….you always have. Heichou….must've been fucking insane, pairing him up with you!"
"We," Jean felt the heat rising in his face, "Are fine. We're better than fine. We're the best damn crack unit Levi has! No offence, Mikasa."
Mikasa dipped her bun into her soup indifferently: "Ah hmm."
Jean was angry that he'd let Eren get under his skin. "You're so fucking wrong, Jaeger. So wrong! I treat Armin like an equal. You….you're the one that coddles him like a fucking nursemaid. Both of you. That's fucking worse than teasing!"
"Eren," Mikasa called to her foster-brother. "Sit down."
"You," Jean said quietly, "can't accept that anyone else gives Armin something he needs, or wants. And I do. Believe me, I do…and it drives you crazy."
"Sit down," Armin tugged on Jean's sleeve. "Do we need to do this every time we get a bit of meat?"
Jean reached over, grabbed Eren's mug, and drained it's contents in one swallow. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grinning.
"Thirsty?" Eren spat. "Are you thirsty, Horse?" And he lunged at Jean, over the dining table.
"Woo-hoo!" Jean hollered, finding himself in an excruciating headlock, dragged outside by a smouldering Eren, and shoved face down into the freezing water of the horse trough.
"Drink your fill now, Horseface!"
Jean thrashed, gagging.
Eren jerked him up by the hair, "Had enough to drink yet? No?" And he was plunged into the trough again.
"Say sorry, Asshole!"
Jean gagged, laughing and choking. "Sorry, Asshole!" he mimicked.
Eren released him then, rising. "Ssh! Listen!"
Jean sat on the frozen ground, shaking water out of his ears. "Wha-?"
Eren's mouth compressed grimly. "That's the bell tower at Shiganshina….there's been a breach!"
His words were drowned out by the sound of the Survey Corps' own watch tower claxon, raising the alarm.
Levi strode into the courtyard, "Oi!" he barked, "Gear up! Let's move!"