Chapter Text
The invite to the party gets opened in full view of everyone, including their two housekeepers, as correspondence almost always is. Nobody has much motivation to keep anything secret, when six of them are sharing the same roof.
Liberio is a city of canopies, shacks, palisades, lodges, villas, monuments. Rubble hastily collected, assessed, and rearranged into a rough draft of its old self. Ashes are being plowed into the earth, communal kitchens summon crowds for a share of long-awaited fresh food, colossal footprints are lined with seeds as they’re smoothed out with the terrain. The campaign of rebuilding isn’t harmed by the fact that half of the surviving Alliance were born and raised on an island that is well used to scratching out survival against the odds, even if they’d deliberately been isolated from the world. Nevertheless, over the past two years, as surviving civilians on the mainland gathered, they reacted to these six young soldiers with a surprising sympathy. Because perhaps they deserved sympathy, after being enlisted into the war as children, vanquishing the curse on Eldia and somehow salvaging humankind, and, afterwards, offering themselves in service to Marley.
Maybe everyone had had more than their fill of death and bloodshed. Maybe everyone was exhausted and staggered at the sheer scale of the flattening of the world. And maybe it had, bittersweetly, presented a fresh start.
Their house is large and sturdy and pristine, but still very spartan on the inside, and hiding in a corner of the newly-rebuilt wealthy neighbourhoods, swaddled in foliage. It’s cosy, for six residents and two staff. Reminiscent of life in barracks, as well as serving as a great protective barrier against the outside world. There’s only one bedroom big enough for two people, and the walls are reasonably soundproof.
Not that Annie is loud. And Armin isn’t flashy either. They’d been sharing sleeping quarters since everyone was pitching tents on the battlefield outside Fort Salta, seeking not romance exactly, but comfort. Closeness for soothing instead of thrill. Love couldn’t be pretty at all, when grief was raw and wounds were fresh. What passed for passion was mostly just mutual catharsis, as they relearned their bodies together after shedding their Titans.
And for quite a while, they weren’t pleased about anyone talking about it. It was too personal. Scary. Difficult to explain. And almost shameful to admit, because of how vulgar it might sound. Especially for Armin - he’d endured more than his fair share of being lagged behind all the other men in his battalion. Being skinny and short and flimsy and pathetic; he’d honed his wits and intellect to compensate, and making himself useful in any way he could had proved brilliant, and he never disgraced himself or anyone. Alas, when Annie first looked at him with desire, Armin had felt profoundly helpless. His self esteem still remained stubbornly low, on top of the exhaustion from the fight. And yet, when she unbuttoned him bare and reclothed him with kisses, he had shed tears from bliss instead of misery - and then returned the same love to her. Finally letting their love breathe, after gripping it tight for years.
Annie of course keeps an eye on Armin as the invite is passed around for everyone to examine. Reiner is the first to make a complaint: he’s not built for being prettied up and smiling passively, being admired by politicians and bureaucrats and nobles bearing medals they did nothing to earn. He doesn’t growl upon being reminded of its importance, but just slouches like a big soft dog, pouting. Jean has the complete opposite reaction, his intrigue and excitement flaring up at the thought of a crowd of spoilt wealthy people to charm and cajole, hopefully to win some popularity for all of them, including gorgeous ladies to beguile, maybe… Pieck and Connie are simply pleased to be fed and watered without having to fight for a seat at the table - at least, not fight with weapons. Armin has long been showing how to fight with brains instead, and Pieck has her share of intelligence work under her belt, if just to make up for her lack of time lived on Paradis Island.
Armin is… philosophical about it. He made the position of a leader his own years ago, with grace and trust that he is repaid handsomely for, especially in moments like this, when they don’t have to be war heroes and aspiring symbols of peace, but simply a pack of friends close enough to be family.
And Annie waits for the ideal moment to get his answers out.
“Nah, no, I’m not worried. This’ll be fine. This is just… we won’t be the centre of attention. The people throwing this party were always doing this type of thing, wallowing in a cloud of smoke and brandy and candlelight, and congratulating each other on being masters of the universe. We’re just gonna be padding in the room. Being seen, you know. It’s just… politics. Completely performative. Nothing personal.”
Annie hmms, pulling a soft, solemn expression. Not that he’s incorrect, but his poker face is so much worse than hers, especially when his mouth just runs almost on autopilot. “Then why are you sweating?”
Armin blinks, incredulity flitting across his face for a split second. “I don’t know.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re a shitty liar.”
“Alright fine. I can’t dance.”
Her brow furrows.
Armin brandishes the invite like a scandalously headlined newspaper, his voice starting to squeak as he blusters. “Look at the typeface. This isn’t gonna be stuffy and lukewarm and sterile. Dress code says ‘black tie’, for Ymir’s sake. Of course there’s gonna be dancing.”
“Okay, okay… would you want some help with that?”
She’s so sincere, it almost robs him of his words.
His teeth catch his lip for a moment, and his gaze tilts to a gently playful angle. “Are you offering?”
“Yes.”
“A good dance is like a good fight, Armin. Well, a fight for sport, anyway. It’s about knowing what your body is capable of doing, and comparing it to the other person in the exchange.”
Annie’s put him right in the centre of the vacant retiring room, making him feel rather exposed, making him want to root around for smart words to get him out of trouble.
“But I do know that two dancers are not trying to grapple until one of them throws the other on the ground.”
She shrugs. “Alright, yeah. That’s true.”
Armin’s hands are opened up, a demonstration of how empty of ideas he honestly is. “I don’t know how they do that, except for spending so much time together that they can just predict each other’s movements until they can do it off by heart. Without having to think about anything. It’s so effortless.”
She finds herself spending a long moment gazing at his eyes, all huge and anxious and desperate for reassurance - and she knows how to fix that.
“Yeah well. Don’t worry about all the fancy-fancy stuff with your feet. Let’s just start with the basics.”
He lifts his arms up, anticipating her reaching up to mirror him. But -
“No. Don’t jump the gun.”
Armin gapes. “What? What did I do?”
“Arms down, please. Posture first.”
“Okay…”
“Chin up, shoulders down. Knees loose. I said knees loose.”
His nerves are jangling at the sudden sternness of her tone, and he responds with a jokingly dumb slump with knees buckling until he’s almost on the floor.
“Armin!”
He giggles, only getting more terrified as straightens back up.
There’s the gramophone on the sideboard, with one of their handful of records: a simple piano piece to a slow Marleyan waltz time. Annie switches it on, and lets the music hang delicately in the air.
Armin curls one hand around his other arm, pressing his elbow against himself, hoping the pressure might soothe him.
But he starts to sway a little, just his head and shoulders.
And yet, his feet stay glued in place.
They don’t move, even with Annie barking at him.
But then, as she huffs and scans around the room begging for something, anything to give her some inspiration, she spots a scarf, the floaty deep-blue thing belonging to Pieck, and she grabs it and brings it towards him. “I wanna put this over your eyes.”
He pulls a grin at her, challenging her suggestion with mischief -
She grits her teeth. “Get your head out the gutter.”
Armin’s smirk crumples into a ridiculously pitiable smile, crinkles all around his big golden eyes and creasing between his dense eyebrows.
She flattens her palms on his shoulders, giving him a very gentle shake. “I want to get rid of distractions. You need to just stop thinking and just… listen.”
Blindfolded, he truly has no choice. The music trails a dainty little tease in his brain, inviting him to follow, offering encouragement.
Barging into the twirling piano, Annie is close to begging. “For the love of all the gods, Armin, please can you move your fucking legs.”
And… he starts to move.
“Thank you! Thank you.” She could punch the air.
Armin pads in a slow, close pattern, helpless against the pull to move.
It doesn’t take long for Annie to cup her hands on his elbows, and then, slide her arms up until they’re looped around his neck. His hands don’t wait to catch her by the waist, but his grip isn’t tight; he maintains his balance nicely, and it’s not hard for her to keep step with him.
Their trust in each other never needs to be announced. It’s always close by, whether it’s resting on a shoulder, waiting at an elbow, tugging at their fingers, or reaching from one heart to the other. It’s as kind as a breath of air after years confined in the darkness.
Annie slides the midnight-blue silk off his face, and she sees how deep his trust goes, into those beautiful tawny-brown eyes of his. He doesn’t need to lead her, when the dance is as simple and gentle as this. All she needs is him to hold her.
“You can dance, Armin. You can be elegant. I’ve seen you fly on your grappling hooks, we all have.” Her voice is soft, so as not to risk hurting the tranquility.
“Like a chicken.” He mumbles.
“I’m serious. Have some faith in yourself. In your body.”
Armin blushes. And his hands slide a little more around her, and she softly rests her weight against him. Her crown fitting snug under his chin.
And, buoyed by the sweetly winding music, they sway together.