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Eren thought it would never be possible that he could feel pain for longer than a week. The steam that rose from his skin, from in his body, was constantly sewing him up. The longest an ache had ever lasted for was three days. No matter what he went through, no matter how excruciating it was in the moment, the pain went away quick enough. Because of this, Eren thought himself untouchable.
That’s how he knows he’s dead. Just a moment ago, he was living and the world was shaking with what he did. His body was warm. Now everything aches. His body has caught fire, every muscle burning with something he can only vaguely identify as pain.
His neck is still leaking blood, still spilling all over him.
“Please,”
His throat burns like rope on skin. He needs someone to hear him. Anybody. A small thought comes to him, from somewhere buried in his mind, that Mikasa is coming. That she’s going to help, and is almost here.
In his mind he sees her running closer, eyes sharp like they were when she was angry. Her silence was scarier than anything she could’ve said. She has someone tagging behind her, and they’re both coming to save him one last time.
The ache amplifies in his chest, like a punishment for even hoping.
Eren trudges through the dirt, dragging himself on all fours. The mud, more blood than anything else, sucks him down and back. His skin grabs at his bones, tighter than he’s ever felt. He keeps one hand glued to his neck as though he can keep the blood from spilling out that way.
Around him stands rubble, the tall legacies of those who built them now crumpled. It strikes him for only a moment that he could be anywhere. The wreckage all looks the same: large footprints merged together in the ground, all turned into one giant crater. Some plants still stand, grasping onto whatever they can find. They spread through the cracks of rubble, as though it can fix them.
The memory comes to him faintly, Armin’s voice monologuing– rivers of fire and islands of ice. A lake larger than any piece of land. Enough salt a merchant could spend his whole life taking it and there wouldn’t even be a dent.
All of that is gone now. Crushed by the rumbling that he led. Regret doesn’t come to him. He knows it should. Those walls are just a cage now as they were then.
He hears a soft rushing. It bleeds in and out of his head. He clings to the sound.
He grabs at the dirt, fingers curling into it to try and pull himself forward. The soft rushing is drowned out, but the water sits before him.
He can feel the cold before he even touches it. The memory alone sends his body close to shock. In his mind he sees the ocean. He sees Mikasa and Armin, staring back at him. He sees the invisible cage that still held them even then.
He gives up only when he reaches the river bed, sinking into the dirt. He stares at the water, its body waving and reaching to wherever the end of the sky sits. His sight shakes with the throbbing of his head.
Eren reaches out his arms, grabbing at the small grass strands poking through matted dirt. The ache in his arms sores as he pulls himself in.
The cold water numbs him immediately. His first thought is the ocean, large and cold and salty. Ice sticking to him all over his body. Eren feels himself sink.
[]
Eren.
You will never read this. I’m sorry. I hate you. I really really hate you. You’re horrible. Whoever is left in this hellscape will spit on your grave. Their children will spit on your grave. For generations your name will be cursed and loathed and eventually forgotten.
But you’re not the only horrible person to ever exist.
For so long I thought I knew you. I thought I’d memorized you. For so long all I wanted was to have you understand that I knew. That you didn’t have to be alone.
I still don’t know who you are. I know you did what you did to protect us. But I don’t know why. I’ll spend the rest of my limited days thinking about it. Trying to understand it. Understand you. Is that what you really wanted? Was that really the only way we had left? I hope so. I hope that there was nothing we could change about it.
If we had a choice at all, then it’d be our fault, right?
I’ll never know. None of us will. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s better left in the dark about everything. You’d never be satisfied with that, though. Always wanting to know more. Never satisfied with what things were until it was free. And look where that got you. Got us.
The first time I had ever been beaten by those bullies I can't even remember. It doesn’t even matter now. It feels so small, looking back on that town and those books and those larger than life dreams. The ocean feels so small now.
It always hurt but nothing was worse than stooping to their low. (As if it wouldn’t have happened at some point. Those boys are dead now, I think).
Regardless, I remember the feeling of blood in my mouth. I used to think that maybe I hadn’t rinsed it out well enough, which was why it would always come back. Why they would always come back. Blood now lives in my mouth like a tooth.
Being around you two always made me forget about it. The taste didn’t bring hurt along with it. It was just a copper in my mouth, not a trophy of my shortcomings. It didn’t remind me of everything I wasn’t.
The time the blood hurt the most was when you hit me. You don’t need to hear this right now, I’m sure. The memory comes to me when I sleep:
The taste of blood hits before the pain does. A stinging iron slipping between my teeth. The first thing I think of is the first time I met you. You asked me why I couldn’t fight. I still ask myself that.
It’s too early in the letter to say this, but I love you. Even when the glass shattered over my head. When the shards hit I loved you. Everything was blurry and twisted but I still saw you. I thought I had.
Maybe you’re a ghost. Maybe I had thought you up in my mind, thought that if I had someone who could show me bravery that I could be that too. I was wrong.
Maybe I was the ghost. Maybe I followed you around, trying to take your life from your chest hoping it could bring me back.
You kissed me in a dream, once. Sent me spiraling from heaven. You never meant it so it never really mattered anyways. The day after you wrapped up my bleeding arm.
I’ve only ever felt loved twice. The first time I can’t remember, but my body does. My parents were holding me, for the last time i think.
The second time was when I had been revived instead of Erwin. But before I felt loved I felt like dying. I still do. Every day I am reminded that my life rides off of the backs of all those soldiers. Whatever throne of bodies he laid on is now mine.
But after that, when you and Mikisa hugged me, I felt it. It felt like running up that hill again.
When the rumbling started I knew they were all right. Every breath until then had been a reminder that I had been the wrong choice. But what you did confirmed it.
It should’ve been Erwin. He wouldn’t kneel to the enemy, no matter what. He wouldn’t cling to your side this far in. He would’ve killed you before you even had the chance to kill anyone else.
It doesn’t matter now. It’s all happened.
What I failed to understand was that you carried it alone. You were drowning in that blood and it had filled your mouth and you couldn’t scream out for us. Maybe you didn’t want to.
Only when I saw your head in her arms did I finally understood you, Eren. all i had ever wanted and it was covered in blood before me.
Regardless, every day I will carry that burden with you, Eren. You were never alone in anything you did. All of us are drowning in the same blood. For so long all I wanted was outside of the walls. But when you get there it’s never as grand as you think it’ll be. The world outside of those walls is the same cage.
We thought there was a place where we would be free, where the Ocean goes on forever and where we’ll never see the end of it. Where you don’t have any more freedom to chase. Where we found the key and never needed to look back through those bars. I still want that. I want it so badly it’s going to kill me.
Once we’re both dead I hope I see you there.
[]
Armin wakes up from a dream. He wakes up from a house full of everybody he knows, all smiling and laughing and talking. The memory slips as he sits up. He feels the warmth in his chest even as he forgets what he was thinking about.
He stands, all of his thoughts fuzzy with the crisp morning air. The sun is soon to rise, though the sky still sits in shades of purple and pink.
The coffee machine hisses, the pour of his drink slowly growing faster. Armin stares out the window, out at the ocean. The waves are calm; rolling forward, foam eating at the sand, before retreating back into itself.
He leans forward, unlatching the lock and sliding the window open. The smell of salt and sand creeps into the house quickly, filling every room it can. Outside, seagulls cry and the ocean hisses as it dances. The sounds all fade into one, that of which Armin doesn’t grow tired of no matter how many mornings he hears it.
The slow stream of coffee dies down into a trickle. Armin reaches out, scarred hands shaking, and takes the mug. He smiles down at it, a small sign of victory. Three years ago he couldn’t have done that without dropping it. Three years ago he couldn’t even look at his hands.
A small pride swells in his chest. He had never thought there was a way to mark progress definitely, or in a way that was clear what check points he had made it to. But here he was.
The ocean breeze greets him when he opens his door. His face stings lightly, something he loves and considers the kiss of the ocean. He already feels sticky, the morning mist and ocean salt already clinging onto him.
He thinks about last night’s dream. The house was warm, the sound of people talking seemed so familiar. He could almost recognize the voices. He could still feel a hand on his arm, one that had long faded into that of phantom touch. He normally didn’t remember dreams.
Armin sipped his coffee, stepping forward and letting his ankles sink into the sand. The needles of cold water immediately stick into his skin, but he pays it no mind.
He stares out at the ocean and thinks of his dream. It sits beyond his memory, small dabs of deja vu fading in and out. The house, where had he seen it?
Armin takes a sip from his mug. It doesn’t matter. He goes over his schedule in his head:
He needs to go out to the dock and finish putting it together. He needs to get more oranges from his tree, though that can wait until tomorrow if needed. He needs to bake more bread.
The salty air on his skin reminds him that this is his life now, and it’s all he has to do. Nothing more unless he wants it.
Armin feels the seeds in his chest bloom. The lightness in his lungs comes with ease now. He feels as though the whole word is his.
[]
Armin had hoped that he could have finished the doc by now, but staring at it only leaves him more tired than before. His arms ached, the same robotic movement tearing away at him.
Mikasa had said something about not doing as much arm work, that it could damage the already torn muscle. But that was years ago, and Armin was sure it was fine now.
He puts the hammer down beside him, and sits on the ledge. He let his legs dip into the water. Small ripples cascaded away from him and out into the endless sea. The air and water had grown warm through the blazing hot day, nothing that Armin had minded at all.
The sun was drooping below the water and the fireflies were starting to find their way to him. He needed to go back soon.
But staring at the stars was always the best part of the summer nights, so he stayed.
Nothing could replace the small lights, each one infinitely bigger than anything that it faced. Each one almost immortal.
He stares up at the sky. The night air is gentle on his skin, softly kissing him.
Something bumps against his leg. His first thought is that it’s a fish. Armin glances down at the black water.
A body stares back up at him. Its face is obscured with dirt and blood.
His chest constricts, the flower in his chest crumpling and his lungs growing tight.
He grabs at the body’s shoulders, pulling it up onto the doc. The motions come robotically. He presses its chest down, he breathes air into its mouth, presses its chest down.
Each step comes as second nature, arms straightened out and movements exact. He only realizes that he’s stepped out of his own body when he comes back into it.
The body is moving. A loud rasping comes from its throat, its chest rises and falls like the waves of the ocean.
The fear of returning to what life used to be starts to flood around him. The memories pool at his ankles and slowly climb up his body.
He picks the person up, hauling them over his shoulder. His feet sink into the sand as he runs to the house. The body’s head bobs up and down, its neck weak. Armin tries not to look at it.
He rushes into the house, opening the door with shaking hands. He stumbles through, fumbling his way to the bathroom.
As slowly as he can, Armin puts the body into the bathtub. Only then does he look.
It’s not the worst he’s ever seen by far. His stomach calms and his thoughts start to slow again. The person–a man, he thinks– is covered in dirt and blood, a little bit of vomit, but is mostly fine. His eyes are closed under the matted dirt.
How did he get here? How did he not drown? Where did he come from? Armin felt like his head was exploding. He couldn’t focus on that now. He’d figure everything out later.
Armin hesitantly touches the man’s chest, feeling for a shirt. There's fabric, but it’s barely held together and clinging to his skin.
Armin stops.
The man needs to be awake before he does this. But how the hell could that happen? What if his wounds are infected? Armin sits back on his legs, pulling his arms back and folding them over his chest. Why did it have to be him? Any other person would know what to do.
Maybe he should call Mikisa.
He stands up, already heading for the landline when a loud groan fills the bathroom.
His heart stops in his chest. It’s alive. The terror of it wracks his body.
The man starts coughing, one arm flung up and over the edge of the bath. Armin runs back, immediately kneeling at his side.
“Hello?” Armin says. He scans the man’s face.
His eyes open. He groans again, the sound loud and scraping against Armin’s ears. The man’s voice is raspy and somehow still manages to reach the volume of a scream.
“Okay, I’m going to take off your shirt so I can clean off the dirt.”
Armin looks into the man’s eyes. All he does is stare back. It strikes Armin for a moment how familiar he looks. Even under dirt and blood, his face shape is almost unmistakable.
He needs to stop being paranoid.
He peels back the cloth from the man’s chest, and only a small bit comes off. This is going to be much harder than he thought it would be.
Armin reaches over to the faucet, and starts running warm water.
“I’m going to go get you a drink, okay?
The body shakily nods, the movement so small it almost escaped Armin.
He stands, quickly going to the kitchen and grabbing a cup. The person could at least hear him, and was conscious. It wasn't the worst case scenario. But what would that be? Just a dead body, sitting in his bath tub? It could get much worse than that. Maybe it was too early to say what it was or wasn’t.
When Armin walks back into the bathroom, the man is sitting up. He stares at Armin with wide, bloodshot eyes.
“It’s good you can move.” Armin raises the cup to the man’s lips, letting him drink from it. When he pulls it away, the man’s mouth follows for a moment.
Armin jumps when the man speaks.
“More.” His voice sounds like rust, grating against Armin’s ears.
Armin nods, heading to the kitchen again.
The man seems to heal quickly, and he can already speak. It must’ve been a head injury, he’s sure.
His mind draws him back to the man’s face. It couldn’t be him, though. It’s impossible. He stares at the knife sitting on the cutting board, chopped carrots strewn out beside it from the morning. Armin considers grabbing the blade to make sure it’s not a nightmare.
He shoves his hand in his pocket.
He hasn’t had a nightmare in years, and they always plunge him in the middle of that fire. His mind never graced him with easing into it. But if it wasn’t a nightmare, that meant Eren was alive and sitting in his bathtub.
Armin watched him die. He saw the bullet go through Eren’s head and he saw his face tear into bits. He pulled the trigger. He was one of the only people who saw him buried.
Armin rules out that it's impossible that Eren is alive and in his bathtub.
He walks back, as slowly as he can, to the bathroom.
He doesn’t speak as he hands the man the glass of water. The man takes it urgently, drinking it as quickly as he can.
Armin stares at him, both sitting in the silence. As Armin opens his mouth to speak, the other man does too. This leads them both back into an awkward silence.
“I’m sorry.”
The man’s voice comes out choked. His breaths are heavy, each dragging out in the air between them.
“It’s okay.” Armin hums.
He still sits beside the bathtub, not moving.
The man stares at him, expressionless. It set Armin on edge. Maybe he just can’t see whatever face the man is making through all the dirt.
The man rests his arm on his chest. He begins mumbling, his words sliding and melting in with each other, all under the rough edges of the man’s voice.
“Could you repeat that?” Armin leans into the man, trying to hear as best he could.
Through all his mumbling, words emerge: rumbling, sorry, forgive me, sorry. Armin realizes that it’s all the same few phrases and words. He opens his mouth to speak.
“The rumbling,” The man gasps, “I’m so sorry,”
Armin is now sure the man hit his head. It was almost impossible that he hadn’t.
“It’s okay,” Armin says softly. He has no idea what the man is talking about.
Armin slowly reaches over the man, to where he kept a rag on the other side of the bathtub.
In a jerking motion, the man grabs at Armin’s arm with surprising strength. Armin stops and stares at the man.
“Eren.”
The name sends a chill down Armin’s spine, and an ache in his scarred arm. His voice is clear, much more than it was before. It no longer scraped against Armin’s ears. It sounded more like a body hitting a lake.
“What?” he asks weakly. Maybe the man mistakes him for someone else. A friend or lover, maybe.
“My name.” He gasps out. “Is Eren.”
Each word is a drawn out breath.
“You…must remember…me…Armin.”
Armin’s hands freeze, cramping to the position they were in like armour. His arms feel on fire again. His chest tightens, ribs restricting and pushing into his lungs to the point he’s sure it’ll puncture. He hadn’t told this man his name and sitting before him is Eren Yeager.
He’s back in that hell again, flames swallowing everything around him. Smoke is filling his lungs and he can’t breathe and he’s staring at Eren who is staring down at him with the most disgust Armin had ever seen in anyone’s eyes.
He’s in his small bathroom, and this man is not Eren. This isn’t his Eren.
And yet he feels the fire dance on his skin, crawl up his arm and chest and he can’t feel anything but the searing flame. He carries a weight in his left hand and he lifts it and he feels the shot ring through his shoulder and blast it back and out of its socket.
This man does not know him. This man does not want to hurt him. He’s still in his bathroom.
His name is Armin Arlert, and he lives by the ocean, and Eren Yeager is not in his bathroom. At least not the same one. Eren Yeager is dead, and has been for five years.
He can feel himself screaming and all he can hear is the same gunshot, again and again and again.
His name is Armin Arlert, and he is not dead. His name is Armin Arlert and he is safe. His name is Armin Arlert and Eren Yeager is dead.
He does what Mikasa taught him, five colors. He sees the ocean, blue. He sees white tiles on the bathroom floor. Two colors. He sees the faded brown paint on the windowsill. He sees soft pink, the seashell sitting at the sink. That’s four. He sees the clouds, white. That’s still only four.
His thoughts start to slow down, back to their normal pace.
Armin sinks down against the wall, head in his hands. He counts his breaths.
Everything is back to where it should be, besides the corpse in his bathtub.
He doesn’t look up when he speaks. The words come out shaking and quiet:
“How do you know my name?”
There's a horrible silence that chokes them both before Eren speaks.
“You’re my friend.”
“Stop!” Armin turns to Eren. “What do you want? Why are you here?”
He can feel tears welling up in his eyes. He hadn’t cried in forever, why now? Why this? What had he done to deserve it?
“Armin, I survived. I… don’t know… how.” Eren’s voice is barely more than a wheeze.
“No you didn’t!” Armin is screaming now.
He shouldn’t. He dreamt of this for almost a year– asking Eren why he did it. Seeing Eren and cleaning his wounds, and he explains that he hadn’t meant any of it, that he did love Armin, that none of it had happened at all.
But it wasn’t true and there was no use wanting what he couldn’t have.
“I was in hell,” he rasps, “And I fell into the ocean.”
Eren looks down at the dirt and blood and vomit that still covers him.
“I’m glad it was you.”
“Shut up!” Armin is standing now. “I killed you! You’re dead! You’re dead!”
Eren furrows his eyebrows. “It wasn’t you.”
Armin shouldn’t give Eren the thought or time. He should’ve dumped him back in the sea and drowned him. He shouldn’t have taken him out. But he listens.
“What?”
“Mikasa,” Eren takes deep breaths between words. He sounds horrible. “She killed me.”
He raises a hand to his neck.
Armin doesn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before: the giant gaping slash on his neck. He has no idea how Eren’s head is still on his body.
Eren continues to talk, but it’s just noise now.
“When she stopped the rumbling, she killed me. I thought you knew, considering,”
And he drones on and on with words that Armin isn’t processing anymore. His mind is scattered in his skull, strewn across it.
He had considered the possibility of other realities before, but never seriously. It was something everyone always mentioned, always talked about, but never something anybody took seriously.
“Eren?” Armin croaks.
Eren stops immediately, staring at Armin. His jaw is tight. He can’t believe the words he says, or that it’s actually a possibility.
“I’m not… your Armin.”
Eren stares at him, silent. His lips are parted halfway through an unfinished word. Armin is sure he sounds insane. Maybe he is.
“Okay.”
Eren stares at the wall of the bathroom. He doesn’t look shocked, as though this was something he had accepted.
“Okay.” Armin Echos.
Armin leans his head back against the bathroom wall, staring at Eren. Now what? He tries to ignore all the questions that swim in his head, drowning him.
“Armin,” Eren’s voice is barely more than a wheeze, “forgive me.”
Armin looks at him, the man who ruined his life. The man who put scars on his body and mind. The man who tried to kill him and instead left him crippled.
But this wasn’t him. This was someone else. His gut twists in his stomach. This Eren hadn’t done anything to him.
He wants to ask what for, ask what he could’ve possibly done, but he doesn’t. He wants to believe that it’s his Eren, apologizing for what he did.
Armin stares at him. Eren looks so tired, more than his Eren had ever been.
He raises his arms and wraps them around Eren’s shoulders. His muscles go frigid as he does it. He wants to pull back, shrink to the other side of the bathroom, but he refuses to. All he really wants is to wake up and see an empty bathroom.
And yet, he does not move away.
“Do you still want to help me?”
Eren’s voice comes out in broken pieces.
The answer comes naturally, something Armin doesn’t even need to think about:
“Of course.”
Eren stares at Armin with his wide eyes. This time, they aren’t empty. Tears are visibly threatening to spill.
Armin walks to the kitchen. His hands are still shaking. He watches himself move, as though he has no control over any of it.
It’s reminiscent of the first year after Eren’s death. In that time everything had passed him by– therapy, going to get groceries, physical therapy, therapy, doctor’s– it all felt the same for so long.
Armin grabs a kitchen knife, taking extra care to hold the handle as gently as possible.
When he reaches the bathroom, he kneels at the side of the bathtub.
“I’m gonna cut off your clothes, okay?”
Eren stares at the blade with wide eyes, but nods.
As carefully as he can, he puts the blade up to Eren’s skin, sliding away at small chunks of the shirt. Every time a chunk comes off, he throws it to the side. He stares at the skin beneath. It’s burnt badly, with some parts still raw.
“How long have you been…like this?” Armin gently turns off the faucet.
Eren stays silent. He doesn’t even look at Armin.
Armin continues to cut off the shirt until he’s sure all of the chunks are sitting in a pile beside him. His hand hovers over Eren’s waistband, and he glances up to meet his eye. Eren only stares back blankly.
The pants come off much easier, and in much less pieces. Armin’s wrists ache as he puts down the knife.
“Can you wash yourself?”
Eren lifts his head from the ledge of the bath, staring at him.
“No.” he pauses a moment. “It’s fine. You can…” his voice trails off.
Armin pauses, sitting back on his knees. He lets himself breathe, some sort of mental preparation for this.
He’d washed Eren’s before, more than once.
Sometimes, when the nights were especially long and cold, Eren would call him to his room. Armin would take extra care to sneak through the giant halls, as not to wake anybody else. He’d sink into the water behind him, and he’d use the same soap every time. Neither would ever speak.
Armin can feel his chest restrict onto his lungs, choking him. The memory weighs more than he wants it to.
Slowly, he rolls up his sleeves. He takes the faucet, turning it on and letting warm water start to fill the bath. He takes the bar of soap sitting on the bath’s ledge, and he starts to scrub Eren’s chest. Each circular movement is gentle.
The dirt washes off much faster than Armin thought it would. Beneath it, though, is scarred skin that’s barely healed. The skin is warm to the touch.
Armin speaks as softly as he can.
“Why did you want forgiveness?”
“Most people do.”
“I meant–” Armin glances down at his burnt skin. “What did you do?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Armin takes Eren’s leg, gently lathering it in soap. The inner part of his thigh holds a large gash, one that looks similar to that of a blade’s mark. He tries to wash around it, and even when a small bit of soap leaks into it, Eren doesn’t react.
No matter how raw or fresh it looked, Armin wasn’t sure how far along it was to healing. He can’t tell how long ago Eren had gotten these.
“What was it like?”
Eren doesn’t move. He stays silent long enough that Armin almost starts speaking again, until;
“Like a prison.”
Armin keeps scrubbing at him, waiting for him to talk. He wipes over the soapy skin with a wet cloth, rinsing him. The injuries look like they hurt. And if they do, Eren’s face and voice don’t give it away.
“I don’t know what you have here. What it’s like here.” Eren mumbles. Armin still doesn’t speak. He takes a handful of shampoo, lathering it over his hands and combing through Eren’s hair. His fingers slid through much easier than he thought they would.
“But we lived behind walls. Giant walls, to keep us safe from the titans.”
Armin felt a pang of fear in his chest. “Titans?”
Eren pauses, before continuing.
“Large, towering creatures. Human-like. They ate people.”
Armin forces himself to listen. He puts conditioner into Eren’s hair, massaging it into his scalp.
Eren tells him about his world, about the titans and the troops and the wars and the rumbling. Armin can barely imagine it. He only feels the fear.
Eren talks about Mikasa–
“She was the strongest soldier we had, I think.” His voice is lined with horse amusement. “She was much braver than anyone else. Up to the end.”
Armin laughs gently. Some things seem to be unchangeable, even across timelines.
Slowly, he takes the hairbrush, and starts to gently comb through Eren’s hair. It takes some actual effort, but he starts to make progress through it. He feels a lump swelling in his throat. Armin keeps brushing, as though that’ll make it go away.
He starts to rinse Eren’s hair, still running the brush through over and over. It’s long been clean and washed, but Armin can’t help it.
The question slips out on his tongue.
“What did you think? Of me?”
Eren looks up to meet Armin’s eye. The two sit in a heavy silence.
Everything that Armin had questioned throughout his life was bursting beneath his skin, soon to tear him apart. All the answers were right in front of him– Eren looked more like Pandora's box than anything.
Armin thinks about everything. He thinks of Eren finding him in that alleyway, taking his hand and helping him up. He thinks of Eren running into fights, even though he was certain to lose. He thinks about running up that hill, chasing behind Eren. Every moment of his life spent wondering if Eren really cared.
He prepares himself to hear what he knows is true. If it isn’t, that only makes it worse.
“I…” Eren furrows his eyebrows, staring intently at the floor. Armin knows he’s choosing whatever words will let him down the easiest. His heart is already breaking again. How many times does he have to pick up the pieces before he learns not to shatter?
“...admired you. And your intelligence.” each word comes out separate from the other. They almost don’t form a complete sentence. Eren slowly continues. “I trusted you with my life too many times to count.”
Armin almost laughs at the answer.
“Don’t lie to me.” His voice comes out sharp, demanding. Much angrier than he meant it to.
Eren leans in closer.
“I’m not.”
He reaches, taking Armin’s hands gently.
“You showed me the world. You showed me what was past those walls. You loved with a compassion I hadn’t otherwise known of.”
Eren glances out at the window.
“You loved the ocean. For so long that’s what you lived for– what you promised me we would see together.”
Armin feels like his whole body is falling apart. He can’t stop the tears that already sit in his eyes. He can’t stop the tremble in his voice.
“Did we?”
Eren stares at him, glancing down at his chest and arms.
“We did.”
Armin pulls his hands back from Eren’s grasp, now covering his own face. He can’t help the sobs that erupt from him, shaking his whole body. The weight of a life long friendship came crashing down onto him. The reality he had always questioned finally faces him, wearing no mask or disguise.
This was worse than any uncertainty. The ache that he thought would be sealed by knowing still sits in his chest, bleeding him out. But Eren had cared about him.
Armin feels Eren’s finger graze the back of his hand. Slowly, he pulls his hands away from his face.
Eren stares at him, eyes blank. “I’m not your Eren.”
The wound opens. Of course. This isn’t the same one. What should come as a comfort— the words he had assured himself with just hours ago— only opens the gaping wound in his chest further.
He swallows back a sob.
“I know, it’s just–”
He doesn’t let himself finish. He closes his eyes, and breathes in.
Armin unplugs the bath, letting the dirty water drain out. He shakily grabs a towel, handing it to Eren.
He stands on shaking legs, and takes the towel. He wraps it around his waist with one hand, the other planted on the wall for support.
He’s much scrawnier than Armin had thought he would be. Or much scrawnier than his own Eren was. Maybe it was all the burns and cuts that had deduced him.
“Come.” Armin gently leads Eren to his bedroom. After leaning on Armin for a few feet, Eren can walk on his own. His steps are shaky, but he gets himself moving.
Armin grabs boxers for Eren, the largest pair that he hopes fits.
“Do you need help…?” Armin’s question trails off when he turns to Eren, staring at the bookshelf that towers over both of them.
“They’re organized alphabetically." Eren notes.
He feels his face grow hot.
“Yes.” it sounds more defensive then he means it to.
Eren stares for a moment longer, before turning away. He shakes his head and takes the folded boxers in one hand. He slides them on and walks to the bed. He sits on the edge and stares at Armin.
“Could I have a shirt?” He mumbles.
Armin nods, before going to his dresser. He fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, before eventually pulling it off. He looks through his drawers for a shirt that might fit Eren.
Eren pauses. “Your chest.”
Armin looks up at him. “Yes?”
He feels dumb remembering his scars.
“Right, Uh, sorry if,” he mumbles, grabbing the first shirt he can find and fumbling to put it on. Of course Eren wouldn’t want to see those. His own Eren had barely been accepting of it. Even with all their differences, they were both still Eren.
“It’s not an issue. I don’t mind.” Eren doesn’t look away from him.
Right. It wasn’t an issue as long as Armin kept it covered. Eren was only tolerating it.
Armin hums but doesn’t speak. He goes through the drawer some more, only wasting time now. He grabs the largest shirt he has and throws it to Eren. It’s still a little too small. Armin feels like an idiot.
“I like how they look.”
Armin stares at him. The words come to him as warm, covering him like a blanket.
“Thank you.”
Eren slips on the shirt that barely fits him. He crawls back onto the bed, resting his head on one of the pillows. Armin realizes that it’s barely large enough for both of them when he lays down next to him.
“We could probably see Mikasa.”
“Tomorrow?” Eren’s eyes are full of hope. It doesn’t have the fire that Armin has gotten so used to seeing. It’s dull and calm.
“Yeah. You might need to give her time, though.” Armin avoids staring at Eren. The sight of him still sends his mind into a small panic. “We still… She doesn’t…” He trails off.
“Of course.” Eren nods solemnly.
And what would Mikasa think of it? Of him? He needed to call her ahead of time. But even then, how do you explain it?
He could figure that out the next day.
Instead, he stares at Eren, at his long hair, at his large eyes. A soft silence stretches between them.He finds himself combing through Eren’s hair with his fingers. It’s still damp, but he doesn’t mind.
“Did your Eren have long hair?” Eren asks, voice soft.
He shakes his head. “No.”
He whispers as though speaking any louder will shatter the moment. He continues to play with Eren’s hair for what feels like minutes but could've been an hour.
He could get used to this– the shared nighttime, the shared house, mugs, kitchen, everything. Armin imagines him and Eren dancing in their kitchen
Their kitchen.
The words that could confirm it, the words that he’s been dying to say, bubble up in his throat.
Armin stays silent.
Instead, Armin whispers, “Goodnight.” Eren’s eyes stay shut, and he does not respond.
When he is sure that Eren is asleep before him, he weeps.
He weeps knowing that somewhere, Eren had trusted his life into his hands. He weeps out of love knowing that not only Eren, but several people chose him over someone who held much more talent and skill than he did. He weeps in sorrow knowing that it was something he hadn’t experienced. He weeps in grief knowing that he would never see his Eren again, even if it was for the better of them both. He weeps under the weight of all the love that Eren had poured on him. He weeps knowing that somewhere, at some time, Eren had really loved him.
Armin does not stop the tears. He does not wipe them away in shame.
He stares at Eren, asleep across from him. He stares at his long stringy hair– reaching a length that his Eren never allowed it to be. At the scars under his eyes that look more like carvings than anything. The Eren before him looks hollow.
Armin thinks about what he had said, about the rumbling and the walls and the giant titans that haunted him. He tries to imagine what it would’ve been like, to be so scared of something you didn’t know how to defeat. He tries to imagine what it had to be like, drowning in that much blood.
He doesn’t even know how to start imagining it. He can’t even imagine what Eren’s love felt like. Did the other version of him know how much he cared? How much everyone cared? The blood that was shed in his name just because people loved him enough to?
Would that other version of him, the one on the back of the mirror, realities away, ask him the same thing?
[]
Armin.
Do not look back. After you read this letter I want you to burn it. I want you to forget everything that I wrote to you here and I want you to live as far away from all this as you can. You will not forgive me. I don’t want you to.
You must understand what I had to do. Never tell Mikasa I told you. Never tell anybody else.
I am sorry that this is what I had to do. I am sorry you disagreed with me. I’m sorry it came to this. You do not need to believe me but know I am not lying. For what I have done to harm you and Mikasa, I am the most sorry for. You two did nothing wrong.
You understand that none of us had a choice. That does not make it any less my fault. I cannot explain the memories to you. I cannot explain the time, or the way the paths lead. It was always going to be this way. That, I am sorry for too.
You won’t remember this. You might not even receive this. It’s pointless to write a letter when you’re dead. I don’t know what I am right now. I am writing.
I want you to see this, I really do. It’s selfish to keep haunting you like this. That is why I am not writing to Mikasa. I will write as little as possible. As soon as I finish this you will be able to start moving on. I never want you to get over me. I understand that you need to.
I tried to change it. I don’t know if you understand how hard I tried to change it.
The worst thing I can do is ask you to forgive me. And here I am.
Do you think I can atone? Can you alone forgive me? If I spill all my blood can it make me new? Did the blood in us ever matter more than our humanity?
Tell me we are not our mistakes. Tell me we are not what pain we have caused. Tell me there is more in this world than the wrongs we’ve done.
[]
Armin lays on his bed. When he wakes up, he does not move. His muscles are stiff, and any movement of them sends an ache through him. If he dreamt that night, he thanks whatever God is there that he can’t remember it.
He stands in front of the mirror, staring at himself. It wasn’t something he ever really did, but considering it was his last day alive, he wanted to.
He looked the same as he had the day before. He wasn't sure what else he had expected. It was like being asked if you felt older after a birthday– of course not. Everything felt the same. If it hadn’t looming over him for almost ten years, he wouldn’t have even noticed it was his last day alive.
Normally, Armin didn’t eat breakfast. He would immediately skip to whatever he had to do, and he would work and work until it was done. Then he’d eat.
When he walks out into the hall, Jean is waiting for him. He doesn’t speak, only leans over and hugs Armin.
The touch comes as unexpected to him, and for a moment he can only stand there and take it.
He melts into Jean’s arms, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.
The two stand there for what could’ve been forever, until pulling apart.
Breakfast goes by silently and Armin hates it. The floor is covered in the shattered glass that he is, and everyone is trying to tip-toe around it. Then he feels bad for being angry at them. In the end he’ll just be another loss to them.
He goes for a walk after. He should be tying up his work, setting everything right for whoever was going to take his job. Instead, Armin wanders the streets around him.
The streets are alive with people, carrying groceries, holding the hands of their children, talking, laughing.
Armin quickly walks back.
Mikasa is already sitting in his office when he enters.
“Hello,” She nods.
Armin nods back, and sits down across from her. A twinge of guilt sits in his chest. She had to be meeting with people today, but there was no way she would tell him to leave.
The two sit in silence, not looking at each other.
“Armin, I hate to bring it up, but,”
“I know.”
It had been all anybody would talk to him about for the past months, maybe even year. The question crawled its way into every conversation, and once it was in there it never got out. It could’ve been the easiest thing in the world to talk about if you weren’t the one who had to actually deal with it.
His eyes stay glued to the tile beneath the table. “I know what I want to do.”
It was less of what he wanted and more of what he needed to do. When he inherited the titan, choice was taken from him.
Mikasa stays silent. Her dark eyes stay unmoving, a calm water before the storm he’s sure is coming. Not a storm he’ll live to see.
He tries to imagine her crying. He tries to imagine his funeral, comrades gathered around the ocean, staring off into the waves. Nobody cries, only stands in silence. It does not rain.
“Okay.”
He’s grateful that she doesn’t ask any further.
The rest of the day feels numb. It goes by without anything happening. It all passes by him. Before he knows it, the moon is shining through his window.
A knock at his door draws his attention.
“Goodnight,” Jean hovers at Armin’s doorframe. He looks like a hopeless teen, trying to find a way to say something he really didn’t want to.
Armin stands, walking to him. Jean lingers, glancing around them. Armin waits for him to move, and when after a whole minute he does nothing, Armin reaches for his face and kisses him.
Jean immediately pushes into it, wrapping his arms around Armin’s shoulders and holding the back of his head.
They hold each other, and stay like that until they hear someone coming down the stairs.
Jean doesn’t look Armin in the eye, only smiles.
“Goodnight,” Armin smiles.
Jean scans his face, as though he’s going to speak. He only smiles back and nods.
He closes his door, and he’s alone again. Or finally. Both seem right.
This night is almost no different from any other. He changes his clothes, careful not to catch his own reflection. He brushes his teeth, and only now does he savor the taste of mint, knowing he’ll never taste it again.
Armin slides into his bed and waits. He pulls his softest blanket over himself. He tries to memorize the feeling of it, how the softness touches his skin. He kicks the other blankets off the bed. Summer nights were too hot for even just one blanket, but he can enjoy it a final time. And he won’t have to pick it all up in the morning. He won’t wake up sweating or uncomfortable or needing a shower.
He waits for his eyes to grow heavy, for the world to come crashing while he sleeps.
Instead he stares up at his ceiling. Armin’s mind rushes like a river, each thought crashing against the banks of his mind and making his stream of consciousness go faster and faster. Whatever the hell that meant.
He thinks about everything. Anything. What do people usually think of when they die? When they’re about to die?
He feels his skin ache with the remembered heat of the colossus titan. It was almost thirteen years later, off by a day. What had he thought about then?
Eren, Mikasa, and the ocean. Because what else was there in the small world he lived in? Those were the only things that his life was made up of. But then his world got bigger, and so did those three. He felt like he hadn’t.
Sometimes he still feels like that small child, curled up against the bricks. The people and world around him keeps expanding, and even now he can’t catch up. Maybe he’ll always be running up that hill, chasing after what he’ll never get.
Even now, laying on his deathbed, he never managed to catch either of them. A lifetime of everything you want just beyond your grasp. He lets out a bitter laugh.
For the first time in years, and the last time in his life, he weeps.
He doesn’t know why. He feels fine, more curious than afraid. The tears keep rolling down his face, warm and wet. Maybe he’s cracking under everything, that this is the first step to decomposition and it’s already started.
It doesn’t matter now, though.
Death was something that he had wanted for a while, and then something he avoided at all costs, and then something he no longer cared for. Most of all death was something that now stood before him, its shadow giant and looming and swallowing him whole.
What had he not done in life? Achieve world peace. He lets out another laugh, this one choked with tears. What had he done in those past 13 years that made it worth it?
Of course, the answer comes with as much ease as breathing or blinking or thinking:
He saw the ocean with the two people he loved the most.
Maybe that made it worth it. Maybe he could spend forever running behind them and it would be enough. He could sit at the ocean shore forever and that would be enough.
Armin smiles, and for the last time, he closes his eyes.
That was enough.