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It started with stillness. The kind of stillness that isn’t empty, but dense, full of everything unsaid. The space between them buzzed with it, the quiet hum of restraint and wanting.
They were alone in a borrowed room, tucked away from the noise of the world, nothing but four walls, a flickering lamplight, and the sound of their breathing. Outside, night pressed soft and deep against the windowpane, a rich indigo sky dusted with stars neither of them noticed.
Armin leaned against the sill, the golden glow catching his cheekbone, turning his hair to pale gold. He looked like something out of a memory, something Connie had never quite been allowed to keep.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Connie said, voice low, uncertain. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands loosely tangled between his knees.
Armin didn’t look away from the dark outside. “I was thinking.”
“About?”
“You,” Armin said simply.
The word struck like a bell, low, ringing, impossible to ignore. There was no smirk on his lips, no tease in his voice. Just truth, bare and unflinching.
Connie’s throat tightened. “I never know what to say when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me like you mean it.”
This time, Armin did look. He turned slowly, crossing the floor like gravity was pulling him to one place only. To Connie. He didn’t stop until he stood directly in front of him, knees brushing Connie’s thighs. His hands came to rest there lightly, fingers warm through the thin fabric of Connie’s pants.
“I do mean it,” Armin murmured, the air between them narrowing to a breath. “I’ve thought about this. About you. About what it would feel like… if you touched me like you meant it too.”
Something broke open in Connie then, something fragile and trembling that had been waiting in silence for far too long. His hands lifted as if moved by instinct, fingers finding Armin’s jaw, tracing the edge of it with slow reverence. His thumb brushed the soft skin beneath Armin’s eye, and when he leaned in, their foreheads touched, noses barely grazing.
“You think too much,” Connie whispered.
“I know,” Armin whispered back.
And then, he kissed him.
At first, their mouths met with hesitant tenderness. A question, asked and answered all at once. It was soft, almost shy, the kind of kiss that builds a bridge across years of silence. Connie tasted salt and heat, the faint sharpness of mint on Armin’s tongue. A tremor ran through him as Armin kissed back, lips warm and full and needing. Their noses bumped slightly as they shifted, tilting their heads, finding the rhythm of one another. The tension that had held them apart for so long unraveled in the heat between them. Armin’s fingers slid from Connie’s thigh to his waist, then up under his shirt in a slow, curious path. Skin met skin, warm, electric. Connie let out a quiet, broken sound, the kind that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but surrender. Their mouths opened more, deepening the kiss. Their tongues brushed, a slow, cautious stroke at first, then more sure, more desperate. Connie's hand moved to the back of Armin’s neck, fingers threading through his hair, gripping just enough to draw a breathy gasp from his throat. Armin responded with equal hunger, pressing closer, their bodies aligning in a full, unspoken confession.
Every breath became shared. Every movement, mirrored.
Armin’s hands roamed Connie’s sides, slipping under the hem of his shirt again, palms sweeping over the lines of his torso like he was trying to memorize every inch. His touch wasn’t hurried, it was deliberate. Savoring. Searching. Connie’s fingers explored in return, trailing up Armin’s spine, across the nape of his neck, brushing under his shirt to feel the soft skin stretched tight over his ribs. The kiss grew heavier, sloppier in its urgency. Their lips met again and again, tongues sliding, teasing, tasting. Then Armin pulled back just a fraction, his breath brushing Connie’s lips, and said with a quiet, mischievous heat, “You taste good…”
Before Connie could react, Armin leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly across Connie’s lower lip, a warm, wet flick that made Connie's breath stutter in his throat. The sensation struck through him like lightning: sharp, sensual, and entirely unexpected. Connie’s hands tightened at Armin’s waist, and he pulled him closer with a quiet growl that surprised even himself. Armin kissed him again, laughing softly into his mouth, then moaned when Connie kissed him back harder, more possessively now, their mouths crashing with a kind of beautiful recklessness.
There was no room for restraint now. Their bodies were pressed flush, heat and friction and soft, stuttering breath spilling between them. Hands tangled in hair, slid under shirts, pulled and pressed and held. Each touch became a question answered with a kiss. Each kiss, a vow sealed with breath. They weren’t just exploring, they were remembering. Something ancient, something long buried beneath fear and hesitation. Something electric and wordless. A closeness neither of them had dared imagine, now unfolding moment by moment.
The room disappeared. There was only the sound of their breathing, the heat of their mouths, the pulse of shared hunger. And the silent, trembling realization that this, this, was just the beginning.