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Restlessness is, unfortunately, not an uncommon occurrence for Armin these days.
He sits at the small wooden desk in the corner of Eren’s cell, doodles aimlessly while watching the wax on his only candle slowly drip onto the tip of his nail, careful not to get it on his skin. He’s not sure how much pain it’ll take for him to accidentally transform, and the guards outside aren’t exactly well-equipped to handle a 50-foot-tall steaming titan.
Eren is snoozing away on the bed, his hand clutching the empty space on the side where Armin’s had been a while ago. In the low light, shadows are casted against the hollow parts of his cheekbones, and his hair is already sticking up in so many directions Armin knows it will take at least half-an-hour to brush it all out in the morning.
The urge to crawl underneath the covers beside him and surrender to exhaustion is growing more and more unbearable to ignore, but Armin forces himself to stay awake, the grip on his pencil tightening. Sleeping means closing his eyes, and every time he does, he’s met with flashes of horrible, distorted memories; Bertholdt’s screams, Armin’s skin melting off his bones in numbing flame, Shiganshina going up in a whirl of smoke. And—worst of all—the looks on Hange and Levi’s faces as Eren tells Armin that he’s been chosen over the commander. That, somehow, he has gone on living, while the commander’s body is still withering away in Shiganshina, unable to fully rest as they continuously try to solve the puzzle that is Eren’s basement, and the books, and the outside.
It makes him so sick he can barely breathe. Makes him—so—
The pencil suddenly snaps in his hand, and he blinks, watching the top half clatter onto the floor. He leans down to pick it up, cursing the fact that he’s going to have to request a new one be brought down by one of the guards, when Eren makes a low sound.
“‘Min?”
His eyes are still half-shut, but Armin can see the slight strain from attempting to keep them partially open. “What are you doing?”
“Go back to sleep,” Armin whispers, bundling both pieces of the pencil and placing them on the corner of the desk. “I’ll be there in a second.”
But Eren stirs anyway, pushing himself up with one hand and frowning. A red pillow mark is etched onto his left cheek. Armin has the sudden urge to brush his lips against it. “What time ‘s it?”
“I don’t know, but it’s late, so you should go back to sleep,” Armin says softly. “I’m fine, Eren. Really.”
Eren shakes his head. “Nah, I can see it on your face. Something’s wrong.”
Armin can’t help but take a shaky breath. Even after all these years of knowing each other, Eren’s ability to read him like an open book has never wavered. To take him apart with a single glance, then put all the broken pieces back together with the brush of his lips, the soft squeeze to his hand. Eren pats the empty space in front of him, and Armin needs no words to answer, feeling warmth bloom in his belly as soon as Eren’s arm is wrapped around his waist, bringing his back against his chest.
“What is it?” Eren murmurs, his breath hot against the back of Armin’s neck. The shiver that runs through him is purely involuntary. “You haven’t slept a full night since we’ve been here.”
Armin swallows. “A cell’s not exactly the most comfortable place for sleeping, Eren.”
“We’ve slept better in much worse, ‘Min,” Eren says, earning a small smile from Armin that he hides against the pillow. “I think I’d prefer this to a bunch of scratchy hay bales.”
“I guess that’s true,” Armin says quietly. Eren presses his lips to the nape of his neck, tingles setting against the skin there, and he feels his breath hitch. That spot in particular has become extremely sensitive, too—Eren must know it, must feel the stutter of Armin’s lungs, because he does it again, longer and more forcefully. “It has a bed.”
“‘Min.” Eren drags his nose against the slope of Armin’s shoulder, kissing the bare skin revealed when a bit of Armin’s shirt slips. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The stalling thing.”
“I have a stalling thing?”
“It’s one of many things,” Eren teases, and starts tracing harmless scratches onto Armin’s forearm.
“Things, hm?” Armin muses. Then he clears his throat. “I’m not trying to stall. It’s just—” he bites the inside of his cheek.
“Too much?” Eren asks, and Armin nods. Eren nudges his back, and he turns so that they face each other, so close Eren’s breath tickles his cheek. His hand reaches out, softly brushing back the hair in his face; it’s gentle, calculated, like Eren is afraid Armin will break if he presses too hard. The hole that has been steadily growing in Armin’s chest deepens, just a little.
Harboring any sort of harrowing feelings towards Eren has always been foreign to Armin. There’s never been a reason to, anyway—they’ve always been so in sync with each other, there, pushing forward no matter the obstacles between them. But ever since that day—since his pathetic revival— he cannot help the resentment deep in his bones, whenever he looks at him. The repeated question of why, why did you bring me back? What were you thinking?
I should have died that day.
I should have died.
Armin turns back around, stiffening. The concern underlying Eren’s sharp inhale behind him is clear enough. “Nevermind. Just forget about it. Please.”
The bed shifts with Eren’s weight as he sits upright. But Armin doesn’t face him again. He can’t . Because all Eren will see is a coward—an unworthy, miserable excuse for a replacement. Useless. Even Eren must believe, deep down, that bringing Armin back was the wrong choice. It’s just a matter of time before it is pulled out of him, harsh and bitter. Armin can already imagine the look on his face when he says it; his hardened eyes, the furrow of his brows, the piercing sound of his voice: you should have died.
And Armin will not be able to bear it.
“Armin,” Eren murmurs. More kisses to the slope of his shoulder, placed with such care. Prickles of heat start behind Armin’s eyelids; really, how does Eren manage it? To treat him like he is something precious, to be protected? Like he is not an imposter walking amongst them? “Talk to me.”
Armin sucks in a breath. “You won’t like what I have to say.”
“I don’t care.”
Stillness follows, save for the continuous drip, drip, drip of candle wax. Eren’s lips still brush the slope of his shoulder, occasionally dipping lower to the skin on his chest. Armin tilts his head, nudges his nose onto Eren’s cheek, and Eren slots their mouths together, his hand cupping Armin’s face. They stay like that for a beat. Two. Armin lets his eyes shut, the blissful surrender to Eren’s touch taking over every inch of his limbs, before Eren pulls away, leaving him breathless. Even now, when the pain is so intense, Armin cannot help but indulge him. It is only nature.
“I hate seeing you like this,” Eren whispers, the pads of his fingers tracing Armin’s jawline. He sounds so helpless, saying that. As if he’s guilty.
Good, says the small, wretched thing within Armin. You did this to me. You brought me back.
I should have died.
“Seeing me like what?” Armin asks, trying to keep his voice level, but he knows the tension in his shoulders betrays him. He’s sure Eren would have caught onto him, anyway; Any armor they might have still hidden behind had been stripped from them—in every sense of the word—a very long time ago. They couldn’t hide anything if they tried.
“Don’t act clueless, ‘Min,” Eren says, an attempt at teasing, but Armin registers the hint of frustration in his voice. He stays silent for a moment, then, “In Shiganshina—”
“Don’t.”
Armin feels rigidness deep inside Eren’s frame, too. Building. “I thought,” he continues, despite Armin’s plea, slinging his arms around Armin’s waist again, pulling him close. Armin’s mind and body are at odds; he so desperately wants to lean into it, to bathe himself in Eren’s comforting warmth, but he knows that in doing so, the pain of everything will just be all the more excruciating, when this is over. When Eren won’t need him anymore. “I thought I’d lost you for good. And now—”
The words spill past Armin’s lips before he can stop them. “Maybe you should’ve.”
Drip, drip, drip.
Eren squeezes him tightly, pulls him even closer, like that will fuse their bodies together, somehow. His chest rises and falls in a ragged, broken pattern, and Armin instantly wishes he’d just kept his mouth shut. Because Eren in any sort of pain—no matter the circumstances—is something that snags at his heart so deeply, as if their souls are connected by some invisible tether. And, what’s even worse, is that he is the reason for it, right now. His own words, visibly cutting into Eren like a knife; he will never forgive himself.
And yet.
You did this to me, you did this to me, you kept me alive—
“Stop,” Eren says; it comes out like it’d been forced, beaten out of him as a virtue. It’s a sound so painful Armin winces. “Never say that. Don’t ever say that.”
He presses his temples to the nape of Armin’s neck, wetting the skin there. Is he crying? Armin wants to turn around, to pull him close and bury his face in his hair and whisper I’m sorry, I’m sorry, and kiss him until every last bit of pain is washed away. But he cannot. He cannot, because he would be lying, and lying to Eren is not something he will do twice.
“Okay,” he mumbles; it’s not a lie. He won’t. Ache spreads through his body as a result of Eren’s tight hold when he turns again, but the pain is a welcome one, dulling the hurt in his chest. Tear tracks stain Eren’s face, and Armin wipes the saltiness away with his lips, pressing them over and over until they’re dry. Eren lets out another shuddering breath, closes his eyes, and Armin kisses him once more. “Go to sleep, Eren.”
He does not get a verbal response; just the nod of Eren’s head. Armin pulls him against his chest, lets himself bask in his warm weight, and Eren keeps his arms around him, clasped so tightly. Like he’s afraid Armin will slip away at any given moment.
“You’re here,” he whispers, muffled by the fabric of Armin’s shirt.
Armin stills for a moment, then plants a kiss to the top of his head. His breathing steadies.
“I’m here.”