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The ocean roars as large waves rise and fall, crashing into each other, soaking large jagged rocks along the coastline, the monstrous amount of water thinning out, humbled as it reaches for the land, gently lapping at the sandy beach before retreating.
Bare calves and feet are soaked and speckled with sand, enveloped in the cold, shallow water. It smells of salt and aquatic life, a natural aroma classified as an acquired taste. The breeze it stirs and brings ashore is crisp and fresh, replenished after its time above the water. The water, a deep blue green with harsh dancing shadows and shimmering highlights from the proud sun high in the sky.
Washed ashore, a small blue shell rests by the boy's feet, catching his attention. He picks it up, finding it to be iridescent and sharp. Water spills from the spiraled opening, running through his fingers and reuniting with the ocean. He turns it in his hands, admiring its elongated shape and dulled spikes, resembling a heart and its arteries. The boy holds it to his chest, lowering his chin and closing his eyes. Warmed by the sun and lulled by the whispers of the sea, he smiles.
His mind remains quiet, he remains still, existing in a space without time or pressure. Despite standing for so long in the cold water, his legs don’t ache, they feel pleasantly like nothing, like they’ve found the spot they were made for.
Remaining for what must have been hours, when he opens his eyes the sun is saying its goodbyes. Dipping below the horizon, it appears to be melting into the water. It kindly gives him the last of its warmth while sinking lower until fully submerged, marking the end of another day.
His body cools without the sun's blessing, but still he remains. There is nowhere else in the world he wants to be.
The ocean is now dark and unknown, barely illuminated by the sliver the moon has to give. Everything is a deep blue, fuzzy edges fade into each other.
Off in the distance the boy spots a figure standing still in the waves, firm like the jagged rocks along the shore. Statue-esque perfection, passively, casually standing so strong while deep in the mighty waves. He lowers his hands, still grasping the shell.
“What are you doing out there?” He calls out, barely yelling.
The figure says nothing. It keeps its posture, no sign of a reaction.
He calls out again.
“Hey there!” He raises his voice, now waving his arm in an attempt to capture its attention.
Nothing.
He lowers his arm, his face dropping in confused disappointment. Turning his head, he looks around, trying to find an answer in the sand beneath him and the trees far behind him.
Finally, he looks forward, a strange urge in his chest telling him exactly what to do.
He raises his foot, the breeze freezing the wet skin, then plunges it back into the water just in front of him with a splash. He continues his advance, chugging along through the deeper waters that resist him. Now hip deep, his rolled up pants are soaked, but he stays fixed on his goal. The figure is unchanging.
He pushes forward, a wave effortlessly knocking him off balance. Falling back helplessly, waving his arms about trying not to drown in three foot deep water. He finds his center and plants his feet, now stepping with power and purpose. He continues, the water meeting his stomach, the figure just a few large steps away.
Through labored breaths, he greets it with a smile of recognition, now close enough to decipher its identity.
“Hey, I know you!” He laughs. “Bertholdt, it’s me, Armin!” He steps forward, the water up to his chest, his feet loosely on the ground.
Bertholdt is just barely out of reach, his head and shoulders comfortably above the water. He’s unresponsive. Armin, desperate to understand why he’s unmoving, tries to swim to him. Unfamiliar with the ruthless thrashing of the ocean, his body can’t keep up with its strength. The comfort of the ground is unacceptable, he waves his arms and kicks aimlessly, struggling to keep his head above water.
His heart drops as a wave comes towards them, blasting Armin beneath the surface, forcing him fully into the mercy of the current. He holds his breath, fighting the urge to hyperventilate, his eyes wide open in the dark, opaque water. All sense of direction is lost, he can’t tell up from down or left from right as he thrashes frantically. Terrified, heart pounding in his ears, he clutches the shell. Its spikes wound him, blood pluming out and further obscuring his vision.
He shuts his eyes, grappling with his possible fate, learning to accept that the ocean he loves so dearly might be the end of him. His body relaxes, letting the current do as it pleases. The shell slips from his grasp.
In his acceptance, the collar of his shirt becomes tight as he feels the water suddenly rush past him, like he’s traveling a million miles an hour. He hears the water leaving his ears as cold air hits his face. He gasps sharply, coughing and heaving with anxious intensity. He circles his arms and waves his legs, starting to find the rhythm of the sea.
Upon opening his eyes, he’s met with the previously unresponsive Bertholdt’s hand gripping his shirt collar. His face is now full of color, features alive and expressive. He pants, finding his own breath as well.
“Armin.” He acknowledges fondly, relieved.
Armin slowly processes what has happened, snapping to his senses when he’s pulled closer to the larger man. He cranks his head back to see the other’s face, which is looking to him with an odd despondence. Armin finally gets to ask his question.
“What are you doing here?” He inquires. He wraps an arm around Bertholdt’s waist, noticing that he doesn’t have to work to stay afloat while hanging on to him.
“Visiting you.” Bertholdt answers simply. He holds the smaller man up with one arm under his shoulder.
Armin lights up.
“Why didn’t you respond when I called out to you? Why’d you only move to save me?” He rapid fires his questions, encouraged by the intelligent response he received.
“I couldn’t. I only saved you because you were about to leave me.” Bertholdt is uncharacteristically blunt, his eyes reassuring what he says is true.
Armin is silent, staring at Bertholdt’s face as he develops his thoughts. A revelation strikes him.
“Bertholdt, are you real?” He asks.
“As real as I can be.” He responds, hushed, disheartened.
Armin stares at him blankly, thousands more questions forming in his head, his face contorting to reflect his confusion and curiosity.
“What is that supposed to mean?” He forces his words out, desperate for an answer, some clarification of what it all means, of why this is happening.
“Stop it with the questions for once, you’re driving yourself crazy. Can’t I just see you?” Bertholdt shuts him down quickly, his annoyance clear in his tone.
Armin lowers his head, biting his tongue to keep from talking. The questions he has still clutter his thoughts.
“Let me ask you just one more.” Armin bargains, his head still lowered.
Bertholdt is silent, he doesn’t affirm a yes or a no.
“Why visit me?”
Armin takes on a more bashful expression, the easily flustered guy that he is.
The larger man is suspiciously quiet before speaking.
“I’m lonely, Armin. It’s hard, wandering through the sand of space, cold and alone. You’re a lover, I thought you’d warm me.” His voice weakens. “But it seems that, even with you, the water's chill is stronger than your heat.” He trails off, looking away.
Armin notices in his peripheral vision that the land behind him is gone, replaced by a dark endless sea that surrounds him on all sides.
He looks back to Bertholdt, who’s avoiding his gaze, and feels a familiar drop in his chest. A churning, sorrowful ache that digs a hole in his gut. His lips form a tense frown like he’s holding down vomit. He wraps his other arm around Bertholdt's torso, wishing to provide comfort, create that warmth he sought out for in him.
All he can manifest are tears. Tears that sting and burn his sensitive eyes. Flashes of memories, some of his own, some of Bertholdt’s, bombard his senses. He mourns the life that never was, and the life he’s currently wasting. In his grief, he grasps Bertholdt’s clothes in his fists, squeezing his body tightly against him.
“I’m so sorry.” He croaks out through labored sobs.
He hides his face in Bertholdt’s chest, wishing to shrink away and disappear from the world. He cries, an over abundance of tears flowing from his closed eyes.
A gentle arm rests itself against his back, a large hand splayed out, grasping his side. He looks up to the larger man with glossy, puffy eyes. Bertholdt maintains a calm expression, only a hint of the agony he feels evident in his tensed brows. His head is angled down towards Armin, an almost intimate scene. He looks at him with a melancholic longing, his eyes heavy yet gentle.
Armin's sobs ease up, finally dissipating after a few moments longer. He simply stares at the other man, acknowledging his personhood, seeing an individual soul rather than a fault of his.
A soul that needs to be held.
He levels his head, turning it to press the side of his face against Bertholdt’s chest. He adjusts his grip, forming a gentle embrace, unlike his desperate clinging a few seconds prior.
A subtle warmth sprouts within his chest, a sensation previously unknown to him. It spreads slowly, the feeling opposite to his sinking ache, but reminiscent of it. Swirling around his heart, amplifying, flowing down his arms and washing over his hands, gathering in his palms, his body temperature rises and bleeds into Bertholdt. He presses his palms to his back, creating two circles of heat, like hot massage stones.
With his ear and cheek pressed to Bertholdt’s chest, he can’t tell if it feels soft or hard, or warm or cold. It seems to rise and fall with his breath, but that hollow sound of the air traveling is absent. There’s a gentle pulse, but no audible thumping of the heart that he feels from the outside.
An explanation for these oddities slowly dawns on him, creeping into his mind like an unwanted pest. Unfortunately, dreadfully, he becomes lucid within his dream. He opens his eyes and looks up to Bertholdt's face, which has become fuzzy and unreal. His nose is too short, eyes too small and close together, jaw entirely the wrong shape.
That soothing warmth within him is extinguished by this discovery. The ache returns, slow to put out the flames that dissipated throughout his body, traveling along the same path and leaving dense cold metal where it was. It weighs on his heart, ripping and crushing its way to his shoulders, putting the weight of the world back on them. His face contorts to a desperate grimace, eyes wide with terror. The roar of the ocean penetrates his mind, becoming louder, sharper, closing in on him from all sides.
He searches the blur in front of him for Bertholdt, wishing he was real, not ready for the new wave of grief that’s already gripping him. The ache inched its way down his arm, sending his head spinning with panic.
As his last desperate attempt to find him, he lurches his hands up to Bertholdt’s face, grasping the sides of his jaw. His palms burn and tingle, the warmth concentrated into pools of lava. His breath is erratic, panicked vocalizations being squeezed from his small frame. His hands tremble, the sensation of what must be skin against the pads of his fingers repulses him, unfamiliar and completely wrong.
A hand clasps around his forearm, the pressure of each finger both realistic and feign. It appears smudged and blocky, like painterly brushstrokes, dragging the deep blue of its surroundings into the pale white of his skin. Another shape resembling a hand rests itself on his own, pressing his palm flush against Bertholdt’s unidentifiable cheek.
His world spins, unimaginable volume and visual static assaulting his senses, sharp pain invading his eyes and ears as the crashing and colliding of waves starts sounding more like the heavy footsteps of the Colossal.
As his head verges on oblivion, a clear, gentle voice cuts through the chaos. A sweet blessing to his bleeding ears.
“Thank you.” A perfect replica of Bertholdt’s voice says. So distinct, it absolutely had to come from his very own vocal cords.
Armin is thrown into reality, gasping with a hoarse voice, eyes wide open and laying on his back, drenched in sweat. The warm light of day overwhelms his sore eyes, which quickly adjust and regulate, becoming clearer than ever before. Despite the horrible ringing in his ears, the swooshing of tree leaves and chirping of the song birds outside soothes him. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, eventually relaxing into a regular rhythm. He remains there unmoving, unable to move, unwilling to move. His mind rushed with thought yet stood completely still.
Bertholdt’s “Thank you” repeats in his head over and over, losing what made it recognisable, now sounding distant and foreign.
As his body continues to calm down, he notices he’d been clenching his fists this whole time, and mercifully releases them. He brings them above his face, staring at them like he’d never seen them before. He notices a small cut on his palm, a steady stream of titan steam flowing from it. Immediately, he’s reminded of the shell that pierced his hand within the dream, and he ponders how he got hurt in real life. He comes to the conclusion that he must have dug his nails into his palms, creating a similar injury.
From the other side of the room, he hears a click followed by the creaking of the door, and footsteps towards his bed. He lowers his hands to his stomach and turns his head to find Mikasa standing over him, dressed for the day. She kneels down to his level.
“It’s time to get up, Armin.” She states unremarkably, but gently. She places a hand on his shoulder, noticing his restlessness and flushed face. “Are you alright?” Her eyebrows raise in concern.
“I’m okay.” Armin promises. “I just had a nightmare, I’ll go get ready.” He remains ambiguous.
Mikasa frowns. “Okay. Don’t push yourself today.” She comments as she stands, posture leaning towards the door, but waiting for a sign that Armin truly is alright.
He sits up slowly, grunting as he flops his feet on the floor. Mikasa takes this as confirmation and leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
Armin lets out a horribly burdened sigh, dropping his face in his hands, elbows propped up on his knees. He groans as he rubs his eyes harshly, struggling to gather the will to stand and face the day. In his effort to compose himself, Bertholdt's last words continue to reverberate throughout his head.
“Thank you.”
Tears swell in his eyes.
“Of course, Bertholdt.”