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“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep conviction, and of unspeakable love.” - Washington Irving
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It’s always the same reaction.
No matter how much he may try to control his impulses or emotions with logic (good old logic, never failing him), Armin fails at it every time. The only reaction his body — his weak, useless body — creates is crying.
It’s always goddamn crying.
And Armin hates himself for it.
In a matter of seconds, he’d watched all his friends get killed in the most ruthless, grotesque ways imaginable and yet he couldn’t move a single limb.
He wasn’t able to help them because he was weak.
Armin wasn’t strong like his best friends: definitely not as skilled as Mikasa and also nowhere near as brave and determined as Eren. He was just a useless boy who toyed with the idea of being a soldier, of being in any way useful to humanity. And, for a while, he went along with that notion, thinking he could be like Eren and Mikasa. That he could be someone who could make a change.
Someone who deserved to live when so many died.
.
The only memory he has of his grandfather is his old worn hat. Every time he’d stay too long admiring the hat, tears would fall and Armin hated himself just a little bit more for it.
Like Armin, he was a lover of knowledge first and foremost. He didn’t see the point of fighting when the world was so grand and there was much to see. In truth, Armin thought the same, even now. Shamefully, he kept those thoughts to himself, not even trusting to tell Eren or Mikasa. How could he when they also lost so much and risked their lives daily to fight titans? Hell, Eren himself was a titan, for some reason!
Still, Armin felt bad that he wished this entire titan situation didn’t exist. His one and only dream was to go see the sea with his friends. It seemed so silly and childish, especially as the years passed. But for him, it was special.
And with time, he started to see that what was silly was this very world that denied a child the right to see the sea.
.
Joining the corps turned out to be one of the best decisions in his life, he decided. He expected being awed by incredible soldiers — and consequently having what little was left of his self-esteem disappear — but he certainly didn’t expect finding people like him.
No, like him would be a disservice to them. They were far above him. The way Hange studied the titans religiously was inspiring. Sure, he felt sorry for Eren and his unending experiments, but he couldn’t deny the brilliance there. And he himself was quite curious about the results and what that could mean. Military knowledge was essential, yes, but this scratched a simpler need: the passion for knowledge. To understand how something alien worked — and then make it work for him.
Maybe it’s the safety and comfort in being next to another knowledge seeker or maybe he’s just exhausted from all-nighters, but the words with zero input from his brain.
“Do you… cry? F-from time to time?”, he asks Hange.
He doesn’t even finish the sentence when an “of course!” interrupts him, and Hange goes on about the most life changing discoveries and how much they cried. It’s so relieving. It’s the first time he sees someone talk about crying and it not being related to loss, grief or rage. It’s refreshing even. He really likes spending time with Hange.
.
At first, he was sure he’d spend all his time with Hange and her experiments, but things went in an unexpected (and frankly flattering if not terrifying) direction when Erwin himself, the leader, started requesting him to join planning meetings.
It was humbling. It was exhilarating. He honestly felt it was pretty insane that the sheer fact he could accompany such high level planning. Absolute confidential information on their troops, their strong and weak points, the strongholds that had to be kept at all costs and those they could do without, the best trails into the forests, the contacts they could trust, it was a lot. Not the learning part, really, but the trust involved in this process.
Erwin thought he deserved a seat at the table.
And he couldn’t help crying these days either. But for the first time in years, it was not from sadness. Armin couldn’t quite call it happiness and fulfillment — that was reserved for the sea — but for the first time in his life, he felt seen. He could stand to look at the mirror and feel a semblance of pride for once.
.
Mikasa doesn’t really cry. She swore she wouldn’t cry again and she’d protect them. Armin wishes he could be like her, so reliable and strong. But he worried a lot about her. Whenever he tries to talk about any type of feelings (except rage and revenge), he is always shut down.
As time passes, he starts wondering if Mikasa’s coping mechanism is really that helpful. Each day, it seems to be less and less.
Eren, on the other hand, cries a lot… although not as much as Armin. Eren’s tears are always rage induced. He feels a lot and can’t hold it in. Armin is the same except not with rage. His best friend hates crying almost as much as him. But his tears are more acceptable, at least for Armin. It feels okay, healthy even, that Eren gets to pour out all he’s feeling when he cries.
It doesn’t feel wrong.
Armin secretly hopes his best friend never stops feeling so strongly and loving so deeply. It’s what makes Eren… Eren.
.
“Eren… Why would you entrust me with this?” Armin is floored.
The operation to capture the female titan — Annie… no, he can’t think about that now — is a make or break it situation. Yes, he wanted to confront her one last time. He wanted to understand her. She’d always been kind and attentive and it was still hard to believe it was her… but logic had been his partner his whole life and he knew he couldn’t lose to feelings, especially not now.
“You’re good at making the right call when things go south, right? I thought I’d rely on that.” Eren says, every bit as determined as he’d always been, but Armin could detect fear in his voice as well.
Ah. The trust in their eyes is genuine. Even after all this time, even when life changed so brutally and they were no longer the children who yearned just for the sea, the same feeling of trust was there.
He was the one convincing himself that he was powerless, just a burden. They never thought such a thing… not for a second.
Eren and Mikasa trusted him with their lives. Armin, who was weak, could barely use his swords correctly, absolutely could not down a titan (or transform into one), and yet, they put all their trust in him.
There was really not much of a question in the first place.
“I’ll do my best!” He said, holding back treacherous tears.
.
When it’s all over, Armin tries not to think too much about Annie. His thoughts keep drifting to her but he shouldn’t. It’s traitorous to even try to understand her reasoning, try to find a way for her not to be executed. Still, in the quiet of the night with no one around, he lets himself be honest. And cries for the life that could never be.
.
Armin starts confiding in Erwin, of all people. Never in his life would he have assumed he could talk to someone on the commander’s level and that he’d care to listen.
Talking to Erwin felt like talking to a father. Not that he’d dare think so highly of himself, but the warmth and kindness the commander showed him made him feel… worthwhile. He was starting to feel like that more and more.
He’d say the words he buried over the years, followed by tears.
“I’ve lost count of the number of times they’ve saved me. Yet, I couldn’t return the favor even once.”
“How can I call myself an equal and a friend in such conditions? How could I possibly say I want to accompany them? I’m not even sure if I could keep up…”
Erwin always listened first, quietly. Never interrupting. Just taking it in, sometimes nodding, sometimes just looking.
It felt so stupid, wasting important time necessary to go over their plans on what amounted to a… what even was this? A conversation with him crying his guts out? It was embarrassing, he wanted to just hide and pretend he died…
Every time he wanted to just up and run from this suffocating office — too important, too special, too superior, too warm — but every time, like clockwork, Erwin would know the exact moment to say the right thing.
“I was just like you once.” He would confide quietly.
At first, Armin didn’t believe it. He thought it was the usual morale boost speech but this time a little more personal. But eventually, he started to understand. As incredible a person as the commander was, he also had his own inferiority issues. It was clear to see even before he’d explain: Levi and Hange were his superiors. Erwin didn’t believe his life was more important than theirs. No matter his contributions, his leadership, his skills and his intellect, he didn’t have such an impact on humanity as the other two.
Armin felt like he was looking at a mirror.
When Erwin eventually confessed, he cried as well, every time someone close to him would die. But always behind closed doors. A leader could never indulge in tears like that.
“It gets easier with time. It dries out.”
For some reason, this was one of the most terrifying things he’d ever heard from the commander.
.
Armin didn’t know how to talk to Levi. Unlike Eren and Mikasa, who somehow had a… way of understanding him — or more Mikasa, really, those two seemed similar. Eren just got punched and punished a lot. Armin didn’t know how to act like a normal person around Levi. He tried but in the end, he decided that being professional and sticking to the main points was what was necessary. That turned out to be exactly what Levi appreciated.
While he didn’t exactly avoid the best soldier of humanity, he certainly didn’t sit down and talk with him. Even so, he’d sometimes see the man observing him. Not judging him as a threat (like Eren) or as a soldier (like Mikasa) but something… different.
Armin never really understood.
Once, feeling brave after an intense day and when there were only the two of them walking down the halls on the way to meet Erwin, he braved the question he shamefully thought of often:
“Do you… cry?” He asked shyly.
Levi looked at him with those inscrutable eyes. Shit, he didn’t know if he was going to get punched or not.
Trying to backpedal, he started, “I-I mean, after people die? I-I know you know a lot more people who died than I… No, no, that’s not what I meant to say, sorry, sir-“
“Not really.” Levi answered. Not angry or sad. His eyes looked towards the end of the hallway, seeing something that wasn’t there. “You never forget them… but after a while… You don’t get time for that.”
He didn’t elaborate further.
Armin nodded, as if he understood. He didn’t really.
He wondered if there would come a time when he’d man up and stop crying so much.
But the idea of becoming numb like Levi, having those eyes and an attitude too used to death scared him more than not crying.
The subject is forgotten once they reach the lab. Hange immediately lightens up and starts describing the discoveries of the day while Levi scoffs, seemingly… happy maybe? Armin wouldn’t dare guess.
.
The world ended but he was still alive.
He didn’t deserve to be alive, truly.
How could he, crybaby useless Armin who barely passed the maneuver classes and still had so much to do (to prove), how is he alive when Commander Erwin is dead?
Dead.
It felt like a horrible, disgusting joke.
For a second, he thought maybe Levi had a lapse of sanity. Maybe he confused them — how could that even happen with humanity’s best soldier, though — maybe something happened and he gave Armin the serum by mistake. Because it couldn’t possibly have been his choice.
How in hell did he choose Armin to survive over their commander?
Though his expression says it all. It was a sudden choice, yes, it was done under unimaginable stress and terror… but it was Levi’s choice.
And he’s clear when he says he doesn’t regret it — perhaps saying it more to himself than Armin.
It seems like a mistake. It is a mistake, clearly. But not one they can go back and redo.
And so Armin swears to himself that he will honor that choice — not for him, but for Erwin and Levi.
Even if he dies trying.
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“It’s what he would’ve wanted.” Levi says once to him, quietly, at the end of a meeting, when they’re left alone.
The answer to the question he didn’t know even existed.
For all he thought he’d learned from the commander and understood, Armin still feels floored. He wants to deny, to confront that affirmation Levi says so clearly.
But that would be to deny Erwin’s will. And if someone knows what that is, it’s Levi. It’s always been Levi.
As if a conversation had happened — it didn’t, Armin was still flapping like a fish — humanity’s strongest soldier nodded and left the room.
They didn’t discuss this anymore. Not only was there no time, with all the revelations and plans happening around Historia, but Armin understood: there’s nothing to discuss.
It was Erwin’s will.
This was the first night Armin cried in relief and not only grief.
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As the years passed, the meaning of weakness changed to Armin. No longer did tears mean weakness.
Rather, it was the lack of empathy, dehumanizing fellow humans, the will to destroy, the insistence on only seeing your own side, the resulting wars that arrived from human nature… Now that was true weakness. It’s the absence of the capacity to feel and empathize that is the real sign of weakness. You couldn't cry or empathize if you didn’t consider the other side just as human as you.
Crying wasn’t a sign of weakness. To feel and empathize isn’t to be weak.
That realization came slowly the more Armin saw the brutality of the world. He started seeing things differently.
Now, he no longer feels ashamed when he cries. It’s so silly to think he conflated ideas like manliness with the very biological urge of crying (when animals cried too and he knew it well). It felt like one of the last remnants of childhood, leaving at last.
He only wishes he’d understood that much sooner in life. Maybe he could’ve been better, done better. He could’ve been a better friend, a better subordinate, a decent leader if he’d known that before.
Maybe he could’ve spent less time worrying about crying and being a man and using those feelings in an actually productive manner. But he couldn’t change the past.
He could only hope to teach the future generation of everything he learned — while there was still time. Maybe he could be to a child what Erwin, Hange and Levi had been to him. Even if it’s only one child, it’s enough.
Maybe by passing on life’s hard-won and cruel lessons, he could assure there wouldn’t be any more wars or persecution.
Hopefully, the next generation would learn and truly understand what took him years: that crying isn’t a sign of weakness.
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“So what if you’re a crybaby?” Annie asked, annoyed, as if this were a personal insult to her and not him.
She smiled softly — still such a weird (but very welcome) sight — and pinched his nose playfully. “Being able to feel and care for others is rare, Armin. It’s like a goddamn miracle in this shitty world. You should be proud of that.”
As much as he loved and respected Annie, he still couldn’t feel proud of crying so much. Especially when she didn’t. But every time he did, she would hold him and whisper apologies that they both knew were never going to be enough to all those who died. To him, though, it did feel like enough.
He thought he was defective for crying so much. Annie thought she was ‘born wrong’ for being unable to cry, which she thanked her father for.
“Cry for my sake too, ‘kay?” She’d ask in that sad, awkward smile of hers.
And every time, he would feel a little better and the world would seem a little kinder.