Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/913879.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Shingeki_no_Kyojin_|_Attack_on_Titan
  Relationship:
      Armin_Arlert/Eren_Yeager
  Character:
      Armin_Arlert, Eren_Yeager
  Additional Tags:
      Fluff, Frottage
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-05 Words: 9788
****** Caretaker ******
by Ahmerst
Summary
     Eren is soft and warm to the touch. Or at least, Armin likes to think
     so; he couldn’t say for sure. But he knows the habits of animals, has
     grown up watching them, reading of them in books. Their behaviors,
     their ways of adapting to an ever changing world.
     The animal backed into the corner, wounded and deposited right on
     death’s doorstep, is the strongest. Its drive to stay alive is what
     keeps it fighting, instincts set on attack in order to survive.
     That’s where humanity is now, backed into its dying corner and ready
     to lash out at last.
     But then there’s Eren, who has more than that. Beyond instincts and
     drive, he has a burning anger, a ceaseless need for revenge. No
     matter how Armin watches, it keeps Eren at arm’s length from
     everyone.
     Armin suspects it’s something that Eren can’t turn off.
Notes
     This fic was done as a commission, and if you enjoy it please know
     I'm still open for more while I keep job hunting. You can find all my
     commission information right_here.
Eren is soft and warm to the touch. Or at least, Armin likes to think so; he
couldn’t say for sure. But he knows the habits of animals, has grown up
watching them, reading of them in books. Their behaviors, their ways of
adapting to an ever changing world.
The animal backed into the corner, wounded and deposited right on death’s
doorstep, is the strongest. Its drive to stay alive is what keeps it fighting,
instincts set on attack in order to survive.
That’s where humanity is now, backed into its dying corner and ready to lash
out at last.
But then there’s Eren, who has more than that. Beyond instincts and drive, he
has a burning anger, a ceaseless need for revenge. No matter how Armin watches,
it keeps Eren at arm’s length from everyone.
Armin suspects it’s something that Eren can’t turn off.
That’s he’s stuck now, perpetually in the fight mode of fight or flight.
Constantly thinking he’s weak and on the verge of being killed.
Then again, that rings true for all of them.
But at least the rest of them can quiet their instincts long enough for one
night’s sleep. Long enough to stop and sit and eat, exchange small talk and let
their guards down and feel human again, not like hyper vigilant soldiers ready
to die in a fraction of a second between snapping teeth and tearing hands.
Armin wants that for Eren, but books aren’t written on that sort of thing.
——-
It takes Armin a long time to notice how close Eren stands to him. At first he
thinks he’s imagining it. That this is how they’re supposed to stand in
formation, how to line up when they wait to get their evening meal.
But then the commander barks at Eren to stop screwing up the formation, get in
his place and keep his ass there. It’s in how Eren bumps against Armin’s back
when he moves forward despite there being no space in line for him to do so.
“What is it?” Armin finally asks when they take their seats, trays laden with
bread and vegetables, a hunk of meat just barely the size of a closed fist.
“It’s nothing,” Eren responds, his words already muffled by food by the time he
sits next to Armin. “Why does it even have to be something?”
Armin shrugs. It could be something, he wants it to be something. But for how
eager Eren usually is to spout whatever is on his mind, it’s impossible to rip
words off his tongue when it’s not his idea first.
“Thinking about titans?” Armin supplies, offering Eren the easy way out.
“Day in and day out,” Eren says.
Armin drops it after that. Watches Eren instead, those dark brows furrowing in
intense concentration, the reflection of candlelight in deep green eyes.
There’s a madness to his look, lurking barely beneath the surface, shallow
enough for its shadow to show.
It’s beautiful and intangible, something no one can touch. Armin wants to blame
it on titans, place the burden on the one that broke the wall, the one that
ruined the gate, the one that ate Eren’s mother.
He can’t though, because it’s been there since day one.
———
Eren reads in the library. Or really, he pretends to. Even with the open pages
of a book in front of him, Armin can tell from the lack of page-turning that
Eren’s doing nothing more than sitting with his elbows on the table, face
propped up on his knuckles in the silence of the library.
Armin doesn’t mind. The training schedule of the Recon Corps. is grueling, a
day in, day out routine of fighting like your life is on the line, preparation
for the minute you step into titan territory and it really is. It’s hours of
being shouted at, told to be better, reminded that one misstep can be not only
the end of one person, but the entire unit.
It’s all going very fast in a direction that Armin doesn’t want to face, but
knows he has to. At least he has the strength of Eren and Mikasa at his side,
reminders of why he’s fighting, why he won’t end up like his parents, sent out
on a suicide mission to cull the population, lessen the amount of mouths to
feed.
A soft, sleepy snort draws Armin from his inner thoughts, catches his ear and
turns his head to face the noise. It’s Eren, half slumped over his book and
soon to face plant in it.
Armin reaches over, closes the small gap between their seats to tap at Eren’s
shoulder. It’s been so long since he’s touched Eren more than that, the
childhood days or running hand in hand or hugging for comfort now only faint
memories from years ago.
“Thinking of heading to bed anytime soon?” Armin asks, hand lingering on Eren’s
shoulder for one, two, three seconds before he slips it back to turn the page
of his book.
“Tch, not tired,” Eren answers, voice thick. He places his palms flat on the
table, stretches and arches his back.
“Oh? I suppose you were simply too engrossed in—” Armin lifts Eren’s book
cover, studies the title. “—Irrigation and Drainage of Zone 1 Plants, to notice
you were nodding off.”
Eren laughs low and weak, sitting back in his seat as his hands scrub over his
face, push the dark bangs out of his eyes.
“Read it enough times it was putting me to sleep, sorry. Hoping that volume two
will be out any day now.”
That gets a laugh from Armin in turn, and oh, it’s so nice to laugh. Light and
easy, unworried. A stark contrast from the usual screams that meet his ears. It
breaks the tension like a pebble skipping across water, and soon Armin’s
speaking without thinking.
“So what is it?”
“What’s what?” Eren asks in turn.
“This- being here. Sitting in the library pretending to read when you could be
sleeping. I know you’re not the bookworm of our bunch, Eren.”
Eren’s smile is small and lopsided, topped off with the lightest hint of teeth.
“Don’t tell me I’m under investigation by the resident brainiac now. You’re
supposed to use your powers for good, not evil.”
“Well I don’t think it’s that unusual that I’d want to find out what’s on my
friend’s mind,” Armin says. “We-re soldiers, both of us, but that doesn’t mean
we can’t be friends first and foremost. I’m allowed to look out for you off the
battlefield just like you’ve always done for me.”
“Hey now, someone’s getting excited over nothing. Maybe all I want is to spend
time with you. I see Mikasa and everyone else in training, hell, half the time
I get my ass handed to me by them. But they have you running smart-boy errands
and drafting up who knows what more often than not.”
“That’s… it?” Armin asks.
“Didn’t know it had to be more complicated than that. Nothing wrong with
wanting to spend time with someone before— in case, well. You know what I
mean.”
The look Eren levels Armin with is blunt and honest.
“Don’t talk like that, don’t mention those things.”
“I didn’t outright say it,” Eren counters. “And it only proves my point.
There’s no harm in lolly-gagging around you a little extra these days.”
“Lolly-gagging, more like following in my footsteps like a puppy.”
“Says the guy who practically looks like one.”
Another laugh from Armin, this one louder, echoing in the aisles. A member of
another unit looks up from where they study, and Armin’s quick to give them a
sheepish shrug of apology before picking up his book, Eren following suit.
Eren doesn’t let Armin shelve his own book. He slides it from Armin’s hold,
reaches above his head to nestle is back into its empty and waiting space.
Armin nudges Eren’s side in turn, knocks his cheek against Eren’s shoulder with
a teasing affection.
“If I knew you’d be waiting on me hand and foot, I’d have told you to hang
around earlier,” Armin remarks.
Eren ruffles his hand in Armin’s hair in turn, fingertips light, eliciting a
shiver that scrambles from the base of Armin’s neck and settles at his
tailbone. It’s warm and carries a certain spark that Armin could get used to
it.
Maybe Eren hasn’t been the one keeping people at arm’s length.
——-
The next day is one of rest, most soldiers still in their cots, sheets twisted
and thrown aside during nightmares of what’s happened and wha’s to come. But
Armin is awake, already bathed and clothed, shirt buttoned down and sleeves
pushed up.
The halls of the repurposed castle are quiet as Armin passes through, the only
one in them Levi as he attacks the floors with mop in hand. A quick glance out
of the corner of his eye is all Armin earns in recognition, the corporal too
invested in the matters of cleanliness to spare a moment of his attention.
The basement is drafty and damp, tiles choked with weeds in a windowless place.
Armin makes his way to Eren’s holding cell with nothing more than a cursory
sniff from Mike as they move by one another, passes the test that everyone must
face.
The bars of the cell are cool beneath Armin’s touch as his hands wrap around
them, half eager, half pensive.
Seeing Eren caged like a wild animal twists his heart, leaves it sick and
thumping slow in the bottom of his stomach. He wants nothing more than to take
those holding Eren and shake them by their lapels, shout himself blue in the
face that the one in the cell isn’t the monster.
But they all already know that, Armin’s convinced. They have to. This is just a
precaution, a measure they had to subscribe to for Eren to be spared from
death. Nothing more than a necessary evil.
The keys hang on the wall, and in the dim light of the basement Armin struggles
to find the one that fits. The clang of metal on metal followed by the heavy,
groaning shift of the cell door as it opens is enough to stir Eren. He rustles
under the faded covers of his bed, pulls them up until there’s nothing more
than a tousled head full of hair left uncovered.
Armin’s hand hesitates when he stands bedside, wavering over Eren. His mind is
a blank, and suddenly he cannot recall why he’s here, Standing in a basement
serving as a prison, in a castle made into a base.
Why he’s about to wake Eren when he has no need to do so, nothing to say.
But there his hand is, moving of its own accord as it falls on where he thinks
Eren’s shoulder must be. His aim is true, and his fingers squeeze lightly. It’s
hardly the usual wake up call they get, but there’s no rush here.
Eren shifts, a ripple of movement going from his head and reaching down to his
toes, all languid, lazy stretches and groggy groans. The mattress squeaks and
dip as he shimmies away from the touch, body rolling to force his back to
Armin.
“Five more minutes,” Eren says blearily.
Armin gives him that. First five minutes, then ten. The seconds tick slow and
steady, punctuated by the drip of water that leaks from the old ceiling.
Armin’s legs get the telltale burn of being stationary too long, and he shifts
from foot to foot at first only to give in and take a seat on the bed itself.
He leans back against the headboard, hands folded over his lap, one leg hanging
over the bedside as he watches Eren, sees the rise and fall of his side. His
breathing is shallower than it should be, edging toward wakefulness.
Eren’s not sleeping, he’s resting.
“What is it?” Eren asks when he rolls back over, eyes confused and unsure. The
sight of Armin seems to startle him, and the covers fall from him as he sits up
in a rush. “What’s wrong?”
“What is what?” Armin asks in turn, throwing Eren’s answer from the library
back at him. “Nothing’s wrong. I came to see if you wanted an early breakfast,
not to see if I could scare you awake.”
The words are sticky and awkward, but if Eren thinks that’s the stupidest
excuse he’s even been woken up early for, he doesn’t mention it. While the idea
of breakfast doesn’t drive him to his feet, it at least gets him rolling
closer, hand falling near Armin’s leg.
The shackle at Eren’s wrist that jangles is a fresh reminder of his lack of
freedom in this place.
He picks idly at a stray thread on Armin’s pants, eyes unfocused and half
closed. No words pass between them, and it’s comfortable that way,
companionable. Presence is enough, closeness is enough.
“Come to take the dog for a walk?” asks a voice from outside the bars, and Eren
snaps away like he’s guilty of wrongdoing.
Levi stands at the opening of the cell, leaning against the open door with arms
crossed. His neck cricks when he rolls it from side to side, and Armin finds it
easier than ever to believe the corporal used to run with thugs in the
underworld.
“Just be sure to have him back by dark,” Levi says. He fishes a new ring of
keys from his pocket, these ones smaller, more delicate. “You don’t think we’d
leave this around for anyone to use, did you?”
 
“No, corporal. I apologize, I shouldn’t have unlocked the cell door-”
“Did I ask you to explain yourself?” Levi asks, slicing through Armin’s
babbling excuse as he enters the cell, twirling the keys around one finger. “I
told you the rules, now show a little gratitude and treat him well. That or get
the shotgun talk.”
Levi‘s smile is so small as to border on imperceptible.
“Yes, corporal. Thank you, corporal,” Armin hastily replies.
“Corporal this and corporal that, you know he really gets his rocks off to that
sort of thing. You’ll make his head even bigger than it already is.”
“You ought to feel spoiled, having yourself a visitor so early,” Levi returns,
sparing no gentility as he pulls Eren’s wrist close, key sliding into the lock,
a telltale click before the shackle falls away.
Eren doesn’t have a retort for that. Merely rubs the reddened mark on his wrist
where the restraint once was as his feet take to kicking the sheets off the
bed. Levi takes the silence as a victory and leaves while he’s ahead.
Armin knows he should look away when Eren changes. Not that they haven’t
changed in the company of one another, but that’s always been in a rush.
Pulling on uniforms as fast as possible, tightening straps and shrugging on
coats, attaching their 3DMG.
They change in front of one another as soldiers.
This isn’t as soldiers.
Armin watches anyway, tells himself this is… not scientific, but observational.
In a way, it is. As a scholar at heart, Armin can’t help but want to watch, to
take notes on how Eren tugs his sleeping shirt from over his head, the exposed
skin peppered with bruises blooming in all the colors of a stormy sunset.
His muscles, strengthened through years of training and now showing even more
clearly through field work, bend with the rest of his body. It sends blood
rushing faster than it has any right to be through Armin’s veins, and he knows
exactly what this feeling is.
In such close quarters with so many young people, no one’s a stranger to the
heated, hazy mess of hormones pumping through their bodies in fast, hot rushes.
And while he’s been fond of Eren for years, it’s grown into something deeper,
more passionate.
Armin averts his eyes at last, directs them to his worn boots. Now isn’t the
time for romance, for this. Now’s the time for survival and fighting back.
It’s hard to convince his mind of that.
“Alright, ready to get my grub on in the hall,” Eren announces, bringing
Armin’s eyes back up.
Eren’s clothing, his hair, is nothing short of distracted. There are wrinkles
in his shirt that Armin wants to feel with his hands, to make disappear. The
same from his hand would make those flyaways lay smooth, tame those errant
tufts of hair.
But his hands remain at his sides, fingers curled and stiff, under control.
Hardly like the beat of his heart.
They walk to the dining hall with shoulders close and arms occasionally
brushing. Neither of them moves away. Neither of them moves closer.
“The both of you should take it easy,” Mikasa remarks as she leaves the hall,
dressed for training even on her day off. “You’re looking sunburned.”
Armin looks to Eren, meets his eyes. There’s the momentary lock of gazes, the
quiet study before the polite aversion of both parties. Red is glowing on the
both of their cheeks, creeping up their necks and settling on the tips of their
ears.
Sunburn, sure.
The line is short and they move through it quickly. Once or twice Armin is sure
that the tickling at the back of his neck is a breath, raising the fine hairs
there to stand on end. But the instant he looks over his shoulder there’s no
one there aside from Eren, eyes staring at an unseen point and still foggy with
sleep.
When Armin finds he’s forgotten his utensils and rises to fetch them, he comes
back to his seat to find his plate stacked with more food than he recalls
having ever received. Buttered bread is stacked on the corner, beans tucked
close against it. The cooked meat they receive in only the smallest amounts is
heaped so high it’s nearly spilling off the plate.
“Did someone take my place?” Armin asks, head turning from side to side as he
casts about for who it could belong to.
“Does it look like anyone’s aching for a seat?”
The nearly-empty hall leaves little room for discussion.
Armin drops down into his seat, shoulders shrugging in confusion. He spears his
fork through a piece of meat, brings it to his mouth and bites. It takes him a
few more forkfuls and a bout of thoughtless tine-chewing before he notices
Eren’s been done for a long time.
“Couldn’t even wait two minutes for me without starting, could you?” Armin
asks, light and teasing.
“I got enough,” Eren says.
“Here, have some of mine, I guess they gave me more than I realized.”
Armin lifts his plate, scrapes his fork to transfer the food only for Eren to
shield his own plate with his arm.
“I had more than enough,” Eren insists, scooting his cleaned plate from reach.
“You’re the one who needs to eat more, shrimp.”
“I can already hear your stomach growling again.”
“No you can’t.”
“Well I’m sure it’s about to.”
“How about this then, if my stomach gets to acting up, I’ll have some of your
food,” Eren compromises, scrubbing his hands through his hair in frustration,
the already mussed locks now wild as cowlicks.
Armin’s hand reaches up to press at a particularly messy spot of hair before
his mind okays the action, and the word that leave his lips next are stumbling,
falter like the weak legs of a newborn foal.
“Deal.”
It hardly takes an ounce of thought for Armin to calculate that the amount of
food on his plate is nearly exactly twice what it should be. That Eren’s own
plate was empty far too fast, and that he didn’t see him eat a bite of it.
So when Eren finally caves, reaches over to nab at a piece of bread, Armin can
do nothing but smile and encourage him with a nod of his head. After all, it’s
Eren who’s taller, shoulders broader, body stronger. He’s the one forever
fighting, first into the fray and the last off the battlefield, protecting and-
and caring.
This is the softness within Eren, what’s usually hidden under a bitter bite and
a survivor’s spirit. Sparse moments where his guard is down, where for once the
looming threat of titans can be pushed aside, present company and activities
enjoyed for their worth and not as filler before another day of bloodshed and
lost life.
When Armin’s plate is clean and other sleepy bodies begin to shuffle into the
dining hall, the both of them rise to leave. Neither have commitments,
schedules to follow, but Armin is content to wander the grounds watching the
world around them, and Eren doesn’t complain.
Though time passes in the lazy trudge of a Sunday, the red and orange shades of
dusk creep into the clouded sky all too quickly by the time they make their way
back to the castle. When Levi asks Armin in a gravelly whisper what they did on
their ‘big date,’ he stands there in silence as his cheeks flush.
There’s no way to recall the day without it sounding exactly like that. Sharing
their meals with one another, walking so close in the makeshift gardens that
their hands and fingers brushed. Needing nothing more than the company of one
another and light conversation to pass the time.
What had they even spoken of? It’s not the conversations held that sticks to
Armin’s mind, but what he had experienced during them. There’d been a warmth in
his bones where before there’d been a cold aching for comfort before, an urge
for something- someone, to take his mind from the past, the present, thoughts
of the future.
And Eren had given him that.
———-
Riding comes easily to Eren. From the straightness of his back to the way he
sinks his heels into the stirrups, toes up and ready to disengage should he
fall and risk being dragged, is ideal. His leg aids are hardly perceptible, and
his seat is solid as the instructor’s.
It’s his hands that are the problem. Working hands with sturdy fingers and bony
joints. Square palms with all softness turned to thick skin and calluses. Most
of his nails are bitten raw to the quick, but what jagged edges remain have
dirt tamped under them.
None of that is a problem.
Instead, it’s how he holds the reins. Takes the leather and grasps it tight in
his hands, fisting them artlessly. His contact is too harsh with the horse’s
mouth, makes for a hot and hard to handle mount that doesn’t understand the
directions given. He’s saying one thing with his legs, screaming another with
his hands.
Armin watches from his perch on the fence, leg jogging up and down. The
instructor’s patience is waning along with the daylight. He shouts to Eren to
stop confusing the horse, that his directions need to be more clear and
concise, utilize his hands instead of throwing them about.
It all culminates with the instructor gesturing in exasperation, shouting an
order for Eren to keep practicing as he leaves for the night. Eren sits alone
atop his horse, and it’s Armin’s signal to intervene. He approaches with
nothing more than the faint sound of of boots treading through dry dirt and the
words to explain where the instructor had failed.
“You can’t really hold them like that,” Armin begins, moving his hands to cover
Eren’s.
The skin is hot to the touch, and Armin can feel the raised impression of the
veins on the back of Eren’s hands. The joints flex and curl for a moment before
they relax, loosening their grip under Armin’s touch, falling away in
submission to guidance.
“Get the reins between your thumb and pinky, like this,” Armin explains,
manipulating Eren’s fingers to hold them just so.
The fumbling dance of their fingers is hardly short, and twice Armin has to use
a hands-on approach to correct Eren’s hold again.
“This better?” Eren asks, showing his hands to Armin once he stands back.
“Perfect. Now, angle your elbow a little. Here, I’ll show you.”
The jerk of Eren’s elbow as Armin’s hands wrap around it in a gentle grip is so
slight that Armin wouldn’t have noticed if his hands weren’t already there. The
horse’s ears radar around in interest, and the way its hoof paws the ground has
it asking what the hold up is.
“Did that hurt? Is something wrong?” Armin asks, gingerly feels at Eren’s elbow
for any tender spots, contusions. Leave it to Mr. Spitfire to hide an injury.
“No, nothing like that. I’m totally fine,” Eren snaps back, voice teetering on
the edge of what Armin thinks might be a boyish crack. “I wasn’t expecting it,
is all. Anyway, am I all set to go now?”
“Keep the reins between your fingers like that, hands over the withers, and you
should be fine,” Armin says, his tone dipping dangerously close to dry and
overly-informational, like the droning of an old professor.
“Right, right. I’ll be sure to sit pretty-like while I’m at it, too,” Eren
says, already nudging his horse forward.
His lap around the ring is smooth and free of error, effortlessly achieves the
goal of horse and rider moving as one without argument from either side.
Armin’s lips curve softly as he watches, and he finds that the cold aching for
comfort is gone again.
——-
In a perfect world, Armin would abolish the need for Close Quarters Combat
training. He would do away with the need to attack with hands and feet instead
of knowledge and skill, to use brute force in lieu of drawn-up and thought out
plans.
But he does not live in a perfect world. He lives instead in one of strength
and brawn that overwhelms his own, leaves him sweep-kicked by muddy legs,
headlocked under sweaty arms, and lying face-first down in the dirt.
The only relief he’s allowed is when it comes time to partner with Eren. Eren,
who with anyone else, would attack like a savage beast with every intention to
kill. Eren, whose stance is now loose and half-relaxed, hands up but barely
fisted as he looks Armin over.
“Ready to get your ass kicked?” Eren asks, canines showing in small grin. “Last
time they complained it looked like we were two dogs playfighting, so at least
make it look believable this time.”
“Well I couldn’t help laughing when you decided to tickle me,” Armin spouts
back, voice carrying a petulant edge as he mirrors Eren’s posture.
Armin doesn’t mention what he’s been reading in the library lately. That while
his frame might lack the power of the others, that he’s been learning where
weakness is hidden in every human body.
The hollow noise of surprise Eren gives when he goes to grab Armin only to
receive a blow to his solar plexus would be satisfying if he’d meant to do
damage. But the wheezing gasp as Eren’s winded, the way his eyes go wide,
whites showing in shock, do nothing but freeze him in place as his stomach
bottoms out in icy concern.
Eren’s reaction is instantaneous and vicious. The look in his eyes is hazed,
glassy, those of a soldier in the midst of battle.
Armin isn’t sure if it’s his ass or his head hit the ground first. There’s pain
at both ends at the same time, but the dull crack that thunders heavy and thick
through his skull leads him to believe it’s top end first.
For all the stories he’s read, it’s not stars that burst behind his eyes, but
snowflakes, a flurry of them. White and blinding as though he’s been shoved
headfirst into a blizzard.
The breath is weak in his lungs as a weight settles on him, heavy on his waist
and hands pinning his shoulders, fingers inching toward his collarbones,
keeping his body from lurching upright.
“Easy, lovebirds,” comes a barking voice. It filters weakly through Armin’s
head, as though the sound is swimming away from him. “This is training, not the
real deal.”
The voice registers as Reiner’s as the blizzard starts to clear, the sky
overcast and gray above Armin as he looks up. The weight on his waist remains,
hindering his breath as he gasps weak and shallow, body craving air.
“Hey, I said to take it easy,” comes Reiner’s voice again. “I don’t need you
cracking the skull of the one person who actually uses theirs.”
The weight on Armin shifts, and his eyes flit to the figure of Eren atop him,
Reiner’s hand on his shoulder as he urges him off. Eren’s expression comes into
focus piece by piece. First the knitted dark brows, the set line of lips, the
tensed jaw.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Eren spouts as understanding at last fades into his eyes.
He’s scrambling to his feet in a second, hands a flurry of movement as he
reaches for Armin, grapples to find purchase to pull him to his feet as well.
Armin makes it halfway to vertical before the blizzard is back, a rush in his
head and across his eyes. The ground that was firmly beneath his feet seeming
to crumble and give, his body disoriented and with no idea of up and down.
The arm that slips around his waist, lithe and muscular and pulling him close,
is what keeps him from hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes. His own arm
is hauled over someone’s shoulders. They’re leaner, smaller than Eren’s. The
owner of the arm around his waist.
“He’s bleeding.”
It’s the voice of the one supporting him, calm and sobered, in control. No hint
of anxiety or unnecessary inflections, higher than Eren’s.
It’s Mikasa.
She doesn’t wait for Armin to gather himself before setting off one trudging
step at a time, her hold strong and sure as she guides him. Eren’s footsteps
are hardly more than a furious shuffle beside them, the apologies falling from
his mouth stuttered with concern as he tries to explain himself.
“It’s fine,” Armin assures, blinking away the snowflakes, syncing his steps
with the sound of Mikasa’s. It may not feel as though the ground is beneath
him, but he knows it is. Knows to trust in his knowledge and not his fear.
Hot droplets of perspiration drip down the nape of his neck.
“No, it’s not fine. I just cracked your skull like an egg, I bet. Shit, I swear
I didn’t mean to. I was just thrown off guard, you know?”
“He’s concussed at worst, not decapitated at best, Eren,” Mikasa breaks in.
”But he‘s bleeding, you said so yourself,” Eren argues. “What if I really did a
number and fucked his head up?”
For the first time since he’s stood up, Armin becomes aware of a sharp kiss of
pain at the back of his skull. It bites with each beat of his heart, a dull
ache dispersing each time.
“We’ll have Hanji look him over to make sure it’s nothing serious. Have enough
faith in Armin that he’d speak up if something was really wrong.”
Armin is too busy raising his free hand to wipe at the sweat on the back of his
neck to join the conversation. Too busy being startled by how slick it is, and
that to his eyes it’s not the clear color of sweat when he looks to his hand,
but red.
“Oh,” Armin gasps softly, his hand moving again to touch his neck, working up
the nape, following the damp trail up his hair until he hisses out a gasp when
contact with the wound is made.
“This is taking too long,” Eren barks low. His next words don’t quite reach
Armin’s ears, not when Mikasa’s arm slips away and he’s busy trying not to
stumble.
But then Eren’s arms are there, stronger and thicker, and the world goes topsy
turvy as all at once the ground is gone beneath Armin’s feet. It happens such a
blur that Armin spasms, writhes like a cat trying to right itself during a
fall. It’s only when his mind puts into place that there’s an arm under his
neck, another scooped beneath the back of his knees, that he realizes he’s
being carried.
Armin’s hands find their way to Eren’s front as he takes off in a run, gripping
tight to keep himself still against the jostling steps. His head rests heavy
against Eren’s chest, and he can’t tell if the fast thump that meets his ears
is his heartbeat or Eren’s footsteps. His head swims as his body struggles to
understand its own position, and he shuts his eyes tight as a wave of nausea
washes over him from head to toe, makes his muscles tense and his body curl.
Armin only opens his eyes when the heavy footfalls of Eren’s feet slow from a
thundering gallop to a tired jog. They’re inside now, pale walls all around
them, cobbled flooring beneath their feet. The air is thick with the scent of
clotted blood and cleaning products, and Armin knows they’re in the infirmary.
Mikasa’s already there, must have run ahead when Eren took Armin. She stands
with Hanji, the both of them involved in quiet conversation, Mikasa’s posture
stoic as Hanji gestures in great, excited movements.
“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour,” Hanji says as they’re spotted, waving
a hand at an open bed. “Down you go, then. Let’s get you all looked over.”
The way the world stills as Eren sets Armin down, gentle as a groom with his
new bride, is a sweet relief that nothing can rival, a sudden stillness that
settles the reeling of his head. The moment of respite is painfully brief,
stolen seconds later as Hanji’s stands over him, smile wide and warm, eyes
twinkling with interest.
“Now as I hear it, you two had a nice little tussle, a hot-blooded scuffle. Got
some noggins knocked, real good stuff,” Hanji says. All it takes is a small
coaxing motion of their fingers for Armin to be pushing himself to sit up,
Eren’s hands hovering awkward and ready to catch him should he falter.
“He accidentally pushed me down, that’s all,” Armin says. He holds still, takes
deep inhales, measured exhales, as a cold stethoscope slides under his shirt
and settles on his chest.
“Now a little bird named Mikasa tells me you got a right old punch in,” Hanji
says. The stethoscope drifts to Armin’s back. “That right. In, out, in. What a
champ, breathing like you’ve been doing this your whole life.”
“Something like that,” Armin says.
Hanji tells him to open his mouth, to follow their finger, observes the whites
of his eyes. Hanji moves with all the excitement of a humming bird flitting
from flower to flower, only checking one vital sign after the other instead,
finally coming around to observe the back of Armin’s head.
“Nice, nice. Must’ve gotten your head whacked on a rock,” Hanji comments,
tipping Armin’s head forward, parting the blood-dampened hair with careful
fingers. “Head wounds are always something. All kinds of bleeding even for the
tiniest scratch.”
Armin nods in agreement only to have his head still by Hanji’s fingers. They’re
long and thin, the delicate digits of someone who’d excel at playing strings or
performing surgery.
“Still looking, hold still a minute more and we’ll be done, okay?”
Hanji walks Armin through a discussion of the injury, inquires as to his
symptoms. It’s cut and dry, disorientation and loss of balance, difficulty with
vision and a certain nausea that came and went.
The sting of sterilizing agents on the wound is worse than the blow itself.
Sharp and shooting, it widens Armin’s eyes and makes his fingers scramble to
fist the crisp sheets.
“I lost my temper,” Eren admits during a silence in the examination. “I wasn’t
thinking straight and reacted like an idiot.”
“Hey now, the damage could be worse. A whole lot worse, considering what you’re
capable of,” Hanji says cheekily. “All things considered, this is relatively
minor compared to what this place sees on a daily basis. Nothing more than a
nifty little concussion as a souvenir of your first love’s spat.”
Armin’s laughter is pitched high and light in response. First Reiner with his
lovebird comment, now Hanji talking about a lover’s spat. He wonders how much
of this they think is true, and how much he wants it to be true.
“This is all textbook, far as I can see. The usual headachey stuff, visual
disturbances, not feeling too hot about walking around.”
“I’ll take responsibility,” Eren pipes up. His expression is fierce and set,
lips thin as light as his eyes burn.
“Well that’s certainly one way to put it,” Hanji says, smile small and impish.
Eren’s cheeks glow a deep red as his eyes look everywhere except at Armin.
“How do I take care of him?”
“Nothing too difficult. Basically, wake him up a few times during the night,
make sure his symptoms don’t worsen, yeah? ”
Hanji’s hand tucks under their chin, eyes cast upward in thought, weighing and
calculating the options.
“I’ll have someone send down a cot to your, ah, downstairs room. That, and you
won’t be shackled or locked in tonight, since it wouldn’t do us any good if
Armin’s state worsened. Really though, he should be right as rain after a few
days of rest. If anyone kicks up a fuss about having company, say you’ll give
them twice what Armin got. ”
Eren nods along with rapt attention while Armin rubs at his temples, touches at
the building pressure beneath them. A couple days off isn’t something he’s
going to argue with. His body and mind are both weary, run ragged after what
feels like years of nonstop adrenaline and fighting.
“It’s looking like Mikasa already ran along, though considering what a bang up
job you did getting Armin here, I’m sure you two can make it downstairs without
much trouble. Be sure to find me if anything changes, but aside from that
you’re both free to leave.”
——-
Eren insists on carrying Armin, and Armin finds his limbs too boneless and
rubbery, head still hazy, to argue against that. Instead of the previous,
jariing sprint that he was first treated to, Armin finds himself artlessly
attempting to climb onto Eren’s back.
Eren is quiet and patient, crouches in an effort to aid. He doesn’t complain at
how long a process it is or how Armin struggles. It takes three tries, but they
finally manage. Eren standing, shaky on his feet for a moment as he adjusts to
the new weight on his back.
His fingertips dig into the soft underside of Armin’s thighs as he shrugs with
a deep roll, adjusts his hold on Armin and hikes him up further. Armin slings
his arms loosely around Eren’s shoulders, his nose coming to nestle against the
nape of Eren’s neck, dark hair tickling against his skin.
Eren smells not of sweat and dirt and hard work, but of shelter. A safe spot to
hide during a storm, protection from whipping winds and pelting rain. The spot
in front of the hearth, a fire crackling as snow drifts down outside.
It is a smell Armin is fond of.
And he is very fond of Eren.
The trip downstairs is short and unremarkable, Eren’s footsteps slow and
careful. It’s when they descend the stairs that Armin grips tighter, breath
flickering against Eren’s skin as his hold tightens.
Eren’s hands do the same.
“Don’t think that after all this I’m gonna drop you,” Eren says as they make it
to the final step.
He doesn’t put Armin down until they’re in the cell, the door wide open and
without a guard. There’s no second bed yet, and nowhere to sit but on Eren’s
own. Armin sinks down onto the edge of the mattress, mindful not to fall back
lest he spot the sheets with fresh blood.
The mattress dips behind him, and the covers rustle as Eren moves closer. His
hands brush the back of Armin’s head, moving the hair aside to check on the
wound. It’s hardly the mindful, professional touch of Hanji, but the concerned
pawing and tutting hums are just as appreciated.
“Looks like it stopped bleeding for now. How’s it feeling?” Eren asks, moving
to sit next to Armin.
Their shoulders brush, come to lean lightly against one another, propped
together like two dolls. It leaves Armin’s heart hiccuping too hard and fast to
answer right away.
“Still sore and all, but it’s no worse than before.”
“Good, good,” Eren says, more to himself than Armin. His hands ball into fists
as they rest atop his thighs, and one leg jigs against the floor. “Are you
hungry yet? I bet they’d let me bring your dinner here.”
The twisting growl of Armin’s stomach answers before his lips can move. When
Eren stands at the response, Armin nearly falls sideways on the bed as he’s
left without a counterbalance.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to get up so fast. I’ll give you more warning next time,
yeah?”
Next time. There’s going to be a next time.
Armin wouldn’t mind more next times.
“That’d be grand,” he says with a soft smile, and Eren flashes one in turn
before he sets off at a steady jog, nothing more than echoing footfalls within
seconds.
Armin’s mind wanders as he waits. Drifts from the present to what he wants to
be the future. How nice it’d be to sit with Eren again, close enough to hear
his breathing, close enough to feel it.
For now he’ll settle eagerly for anything offered, whether it be as small as
Eren checking his wound to sitting near him. It’s more physical contact than
they’ve had in years, something more intimate and close than Armin’s be treated
to for a long time.
Armin’s first reaction when he hears Eren’s return, sees his arms laden with a
tray full of food and candles to supplement the torches that line the walls, is
to help him. He stands to his feet without a second thought, the mistake
hitting him in the form of whited out vision and a sense of being thrown
underwater with no idea of where the surface is.
“Down, boy,” Eren says. “I can’t be catching you when I’ve already got my arms
full.”
Armin obeys, sits down where he thinks the bed must be, sighs in relief when he
finds he’s right.
“Anything good tonight?” Armin asks, well aware it’ll be the usual rations.
“Same old, same old.”
“You won’t take advantage of my state to give me your food again, will you?
After all the carrying and running around you did today, I might have to give
you some of mine instead.”
“Like hell I’d let you, you’d have to cram it down my throat by hand.”
“I bet I could if I really wanted to,” Armin says lightly. He can already smell
the steaming broth in the bowls, it tickles his nose and wakes his hunger
again.
“Feel free to step up to the plate and try then,” Eren says.
For the harsh, biting undertone of his voice, his lips are curved, teeth
showing in a mischievous grin. As the spots clear from Armin’s eyes, he watches
Eren set the tray on a small table by the bed, turning back to Armin with a
bowl of soup already in his hands.
“I’ll save you the embarrassment of explaining that you got in a food fight
with an invalid,” Armin says.
He doesn’t wait for a spoon, brings the bowl up to his lips the instant it’s in
his hold and tips it into his mouth. The heat is a welcome relief from the
hunger curdling his stomach, and before Armin knows it he’s finished half of it
without so much as a breath.
“Want me to head up and see about getting you seconds?” Eren asks.
“I’ll be fine,” Armin insists, hands still occupied by the bowl when Eren
approaches him with a roll of bread.
When Eren rips a chunk off and holds it up, Armin doesn’t hesitate to lean in,
teeth and lips gentle as he takes it from between Eren’s fingers. It becomes a
rhythm that they set, Armin gulping down heated broth, body warming as his
stomach fills, nibbling at the bread Eren feeds him until it’s gone.
“Too full,” is Armin’s final word on the meal, propping himself back on his
hands, gaze cast upward.
“I’d be surprised if you tasted half of what you ate,” Eren says, returning to
the desk. He consumes his dinner with a measured quickness that nearly rivals
Armin’s, not so much as bothering to sit.
Eren lights the candles with one hand as he eats with the other, the dark
cobbled walls lit by the dim light. Armin watches, eyes not quite focused on
anything, body sated and wanting nothing more than a good night’s rest.
“They ever bring down a cot?” Eren asks.
“Not yet, no one came by when you were gone.”
Eren shrugs at that, wipes the corner of his mouth with his sleeve and stares
at the now-empty tray.
“That’s fine. I can take the floor if no one gets around to it,” he says.
“I’m not making you sleep on the floor,” Eren says quickly. “Getting tapped on
the head is hardly a reason to put you in the doghouse like that. Plus, it’s
not exactly the smallest bed, you know? I don’t mind sharing if you don’t.”
“Fine by me,” Eren says, a little too quick for it not to have already been on
his mind. “For now though, let’s get you ready for bed before you pass out in
your training clothes.”
Armin finds that undressing himself is a non-option very quickly. When he tries
to stand, there’s a tutting growl to greet him, firm hands pressing on his
thighs to keep him on the bed. His cheeks flush hotly, and any argument he has
dwindles in a sputter.
“We’ve done this for years, Armin. Hold your horses and I’ll have you out of
your belts. I figure I won’t have anything that’ll fit you too well, but one
night in my clothes isn’t the worst thing someone could suffer through.”
The thought of it is hardly suffering to Armin, and it’s something that
occupies his mind as Eren crouches low to the floor, hands sliding over the
belts until he settles at the lowest one. It’s a curious sensation as he undoes
them, fingers slow and attentive. There’s a grace in the touch that’s normally
absent, a fondness that Armin can’t pinpoint.
It’s no longer dinner that’s keeping him warm, but instead the quickened
beating of his heart. The heated pinpricks along his skin as the fine hair
stands on end, the way his throat feels three times too small for the amount of
air he needs to fill his lungs.
“Lift your hips a bit for me,” Eren coaxes, finishing the final belt and
sliding them down Armin’s thighs. They fall to the floor with a low clank, and
Eren pulls Armin’s shoes off next, scoops everything up in one go, setting the
boots aside and leaving the belts on the table.
He comes back with a rumpled tunic in his arms, beaten in and comfortable from
good use.
“I swear it’s not dirty, I just never folded it.”
Armin doesn’t doubt that as he tugs his own shirt from over his head, replaces
it quickly with the tunic. It smells like Eren, warm and safe, and Armin finds
his hands gripping lightly at the well-worn fabric.
Eren makes less of a show of undressing himself, methodically stripping his
belts and shoes in seconds, peeling off his shirt before tossing it lazily over
the back of the single chair in the cell. Armin doesn’t mean to watch when Eren
starts to shuck his pants, but it happens.
Those legs are long and well-muscled, the hair on them starting to darken as he
comes into adulthood. He steps into a pair of sleeping shorts as Armin’s eyes
drift upward, lingering over Eren’s thighs, one of the few places not bruised
or scarred.
“I’d give you sleeping bottoms, but well, only got this one pair and I’m pretty
sure they’re big enough for you to kick off in the night. It’s not like that
tunic isn’t already a dress on you. You’re free to sleep without pants,
wouldn’t bother me a lick.”
Armin waits until Eren’s blown out the candles with a puff of breath and
climbed into bed before stepping out of his pants. The covers slide against his
bare legs as he slips beneath them.
It’s an awkward tango, fitting their bodies together. The space of the bed has
been severely miscalculated by the both of them, and there’s no way to sleep
secluded. There are hushed apologies and grunts as they move, limbs coming into
contact before sheepishly pulling away, only to come together again when
there’s nowhere else to go.
Armin finds himself tucked into the crook of Eren’s arm, head resting on his
chest. He can hear Eren’s heartbeat going, fast as a horse’s gallop. Armin
hikes his leg over Eren’s, and though there’s a startled jerk, Eren doesn’t
make him move.
There’s hardly room for his arms though, and he folds them neatly between
himself and Eren’s side, the alcove he’s created cozy and comfortable.
Armin falls asleep more quickly than he means to, seems to only just close his
eyes once he’s settled in before he’s opening them again, Eren’s voice in his
ear.
“How’s that head feeling?” he asks.
Oh, that’s right. That’s why they’re set up like this.
“Feels fine,” Armin murmurs.
His bare legs rubs against Eren’s under the sheets, tired and comforting. He
feels Eren’s hand at the back of his head, fingers carding light as mist,
considerate of the sore spot. Armin tucks himself nearer in his groggy state,
like an animal seeking warmth and closeness.
When Armin wakes again, it’s to soft voices.
He sees them when he lifts his head, two figures backlit against the torches on
the wall that faces the cell. One tall, one short. Both of them in conversation
with one another.
“Ah, to be young again,” comes Hanji’s voice, light and endeared.
“Wouldn’t want to go through that shit twice,” says Levi.
“Guess it worked out that the cot didn’t make it down here, at least,” Hanji
says, ignoring the biting comment.
In the near-darkness, Armin sees Levi nod, and from what he knows, that’s as
close to approval as it gets. The two of them walk away, still absorbed in low
conversation.
Armin drops his head back on Eren’s chest, bows his back in a sleepy stretch
that pushes his belly against Eren’s side.
“Mm? Head bothering you?” Eren asks, keeping with his caretaking duties.
“It’s not that, I thought I heard something.”
“And did you?”
“No, it was nothing.”
——-
In the morning, Armin wakes to find he’s shifted onto his side during the
night. Eren’s still there, curled and warm against his back. He’s fitted
against him, two spoons in a drawer. There’s an arm slung heavy over his waist,
one snuck under him, the both together holding him close like a child clinging
to a childhood toy.
There’s also a hardness bussing up against his backside, right where Eren’s
hips should be. Right where they most certainly are. It’s heated and incessant,
and Eren’s curls with weak thrusts in his sleep. The thin fabric of his
sleeping shorts leaves little to Armin’s imagination, has his breath catching
quick in his throat and head getting hazy.
“Eren. Eren wake up,” Armin urges in a low pant.
“Nhh, what is it?” Eren asks, his hold on tightening on Armin, breath puffing
against his neck. His hips rock again, pressing harder this time.
Armin blurts it out with hardly a thought for decorum, his hand reaching back
to slap at Eren’s thigh.
“You’ve got your dick pressed up against my ass, okay?”
Eren jerks away with too much force and momentum, manages to roll himself off
the other side of the bed and hit the floor with a yelp and a thud.
“Shit, sorry- sorry, I didn’t realize it,” he says, hasty and apologetic.
Armin peers over the bed, watches Eren scrub his face and shake his head. The
hard outline of his erection is still pressed against his shorts, and it makes
Armin shift his legs, too-aware of where the blood in his body is rushing.
“It’s fine,” Armin says. “I mean, I think it’s fine. I didn’t really mind, it
was more that I thought that, uh, you wouldn’t want to do anything you didn’t
mean to by accident.”
In all the romance novels Armin’s read, there’s an untroubled escalation. Words
well-picked and sentences smooth, gazes sultry and passions lit. But this isn’t
one of his books. This is a fledgling romance with two unsure boys and heated
hormones, no previous experience to speak of, no way to woo one another.
“I wasn’t saying you had to stop,” Armin spits out, tongue heavy and hard to
speak around.
Eren’s eyes go as wide and calculating as they are on the battlefield as he
pushes himself up on shaking hands. His tongue darts out, pale and pink as it
wets his lips. He’s thinking, deciding will all the quickness that they’ve been
trained to harness.
“Not here,” Eren says, clambering to his feet. “Corporal Cockblock’ll get in
the way.”
“The washroom?” Armin offers. “I doubt he’d barge in if he thought you were
dedicating yourself to personal hygiene.”
“You’re so smart I could almost kiss you,” Eren says, pulling Armin from bed.
He seems to think better of what he said, snakes an arm around Armin’s waist
for a second to press him flush, brings their lips together.
The kiss isn’t practiced, but it’s perfect. It’s hungry yet measured, and Armin
yields to it, eyes closing as he takes in the texture, softer than he imagined,
sweeter than he could have dreamed.
The kiss ends as quickly as it starts, and Armin can’t tell if it’s his
concussion or the embrace that leaves his head swimming. His fingers grip
Eren’s tightly as they traipse upstairs, feet bare and light as they sneak,
breath held and ears alert.
They make it into the washroom without being spotted, without so much as
passing another person in the barely-morning hours of the halls. Eren locks the
boor behind them, jerks the handle to ensure its sturdiness, before he speaks
to Armin again.
“We don’t have to go fast, we don’t have to rush this,” he says, voice softer
than Armin’s heard it in a long time.
“Then we won’t,” Armin assures.
They take their time drawing a bath, the water filling slow and steamy as they
watch. Eren’s hands are gentle, so gentle, as he tugs the worn tunic from over
Armin’s head, leans in to pepper kisses and nips, nuzzles along soft, pale skin
that he leaves red and blushing.
“Better get in while the water’s still hot,” Eren says when he pulls away,
tugging his shirt over his head, pushing his shorts down his hips.
It’s quick and without a show, but Armin watches all the same, eyes skimming
over the entirety of Eren’s body. Taking in the bruises and pink, fresh scars
that still shine raw and pink. There’s hair dusting Eren’s stomach now, leads
down his navel, takes Armin’s eyes to rest on Eren’s dick.
It’s fully hard, flushed with blood and the head smeared with precum. Veins run
along the shaft from tip to base, and Armin wonders what they’ll feel like
under his fingertips. Wonders if they’ll feel the same as when he’s been able
to steal private moments to himself and sate his needs solo.
The bath isn’t meant for two, but that doesn’t stop them. Eren slides in first,
back bracing against the tub, offers his hand to help Armin in. He fits neatly
between Eren’s knees, but it’s not enough, and soon he’s moving closer,
straddling Eren instead, a thigh on either side of his hips.
Eren’s hands settle on Armin’s hips as he pulls him closer, heated flesh
pressing together, followed by their bellies. There’s a soft gasp from them
both, Armin’s hands coming to rest on Eren’s chest, eyes shut tight as he feels
Eren’s dick against to his own, nothing but heat and hardness and wanting.
They move slow and unhurried, careful not to slosh water from the tub as they
rock, all slick friction from soapy water, quiet whines and murmured half-
words. Armin runs his wet fingertips through Eren’s hair, dampens his locks
before nails grip, bringing Eren’s face closer.
Their kisses are as languid as their movements, lips parting easily, teeth
clicking. Their tongues tangle gradual and lazy, tasting one another with
hushed, needy noises. It’s Eren who makes the next move, his hand sliding over
Armin’s skin, thumbing the exposed hip bone before sinking beneath the
waterline.
His calloused palm wraps loosely around the both of them, slippery with suds.
He sets an easy rhythm in time with their breathing, tentative strokes to
start, pressure tantalizingly light at the end of every measured thrust.
There’s a burn building, an increasing pressure that’s growing in both of them.
Armin pants against Eren’s mouth, snares him closer and rocks his hips more
deeply. His hand falls beneath the water as well, covers Eren’s and urges him
on until they’re both gripping, pumping in time with the quickness of their
heartbeats.
They still as the come, breath catching in little panted hitches, warm against
one another’s lips. White disperses into the water, clouds it where their hands
still lay together, movements once again slow and deliberate, milking one
another as the afterglow of orgasm emerges, stealing the last few moments
before sensitivity sets in.
When they kiss again, it’s sweet and chaste, the curve of Eren’s lips pressed
soft against Armin’s, quiet laughter passing between them in the next breath.
Armin slumps forward without ceremony as he brings his hand back up, lets his
body ease and drift in the now tepid water as his head comes to rest on Eren’s
chest.
A wet palm comes up to stroke his hair, tucks a wet strand behind his ear. A
kiss is placed on the crown of his head, and now Armin knows for sure that that
Eren is, as he’s thought for so long, warm and soft to the touch.
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