Chapter Text
Waking early was a new habit for Armin.
In Trost, he didn’t look forward to the day. Instead, he’d lie in his makeshift bed and stare at the house’s infrastructure as the dim light from the sun seeped its way into the building. Only when the inhabitants finished their morning routines and left for their day, would he toe the blanket off and crawl out from under the building.
They – he and Mikasa – lived in the crawl space below a family home in Trost’s middle income district. The family who owned it, each member left no later than midmorning and returned no later than late evening. This made his and Mikasa’s departures easy to time and go unnoticed.
It was an unpleasant existence. They needed to stay quiet all night long, and should they need to relieve themselves, they had to crawl out into the night and find a secluded corner further into the slums. But it was safe. Having the security to roll into each other’s arms, with the warmth from the house above, and knowledge that no one would find them… that was a treasure they couldn’t afford to take for granted.
But now?
Armin gazed at his idyllic surroundings. Even with a frost coating the ground, the chill of winter in the air, for the first time in years, Armin wasn’t scared of the sunrise and what it may bring. For the first time, in what felt like forever, he could wake before the sun and look toward to the day.
He watched his breath crystallize in the air.
They were ready. Their home was built, a storehouse packed with dried and cured meat; more meat than all of Trost, no doubt. They could build fires inside, like the home he once lived beneath. But this time, the home was theirs. No one could poke their heads in and say: ‘Is this a rat I see?’ and yank them from their safety.
They had skinned clothes, wool sandwiched between layers for extra warmth. They’d made new shoes, new hats, gloves… their new wealth was unfathomable.
Armin needed to escape the reminder that this was it: they made it out. He needed to watch the sun rise over the lake and feel it warm him.
He needed to breathe the air untainted by the stench of death.
His Grandpa would love this.
He shuddered. Before he could focus on him, Mikasa’s arm wrapped around his shoulders. She squeezed him tight, responding to his thoughts before he could even think them. She knew him well.
“It feels good.” She spoke, echoing his thoughts.
To be here, together. It felt good.
The sun climbed high, hues of pink, orange and red slowly disappearing into that same crystal blue of the lake.
Together they huddled for warmth as their bodies grew colder, even in the light of the sun.
It was odd. They hadn’t enjoyed the cold in a long time. Warmth was such a constant necessity at Trost, that it didn’t make sense to thrive in the knowledge that they could keep each other warm. But here, now, they hugged their bodies close and let the cold wash the desperation away.
Each new day felt unreal.
Yet here they were: free.
It feels nice, he thought, to be with my family.
He didn’t even realize they were missing their third until later when Mikasa said: “I can’t wake him up!”
Who? His first thought: who else was there, but them?
“I can’t wake Eren up!” She repeated, exiting the cabin, mouth twisted down.
That’s why it was so peaceful. Vindicative, he scolded the thought the instant it arose. That’s not fair. It’s not Eren’s fault he’s been so… different.
“What?” Out loud, he startled.
“He went to bed early last night, again. But now he’s slept long past his normal sleep-in time and he won’t answer to anything, Armin. What do we do?” She grabbed his hand and tugged him inside.
There Eren lay, further from the fire than either of their bedrolls. Typically, he was neat. With Mikasa’s troubled words, he could see she tried to shake Eren, slap him, and drag him from his bed. Even now, Eren remained slumped where he was, arms flopped where she must have dropped him, and head to the side.
He was so still.
“He must be exhausted.” Armin offered.
They’d both noticed how slow he’d grown these last few weeks. He faithfully left for his patrols, but would return later and later, with dirt in his hair and on his face. They’d found him sleeping against the cabin several times, nodding off in the sunlight. Then there were the nights he would go to bed early and sleep late the next day, like today.
“He’ll wake up once he’s rested.” He repeated, uncomforted by his words, but unsure what else to say.
If something was wrong, Eren would say so. Right?
Mikasa searched Armin’s face. When she couldn’t see any signs of deceit –why would he lie? – she nodded and crouched beside Eren, tucking him back into the bedroll. “I’ll add a few logs to the fire.” She announced.
Armin didn’t bother to mention how hot it was inside. Mikasa needed to tend to him, it’s how she found comfort.
He nodded, let her be, and gave Eren another look. He would wake up.
Armin was wrong.
Anxiously, Armin reminded Mikasa of when they first came to the lake, how Eren slept for days. He was okay when he woke up. He’ll be okay this time, you’ll see Mikasa.
Eren still didn’t wake.
The peace—that’s why it was so peaceful—was uncomforting, with the heavy presence of Eren asleep in the cabin behind them.
Mikasa’s face was white, not from the cold, but from her fear. She looked at the lake, then back to Armin. “Maybe if we…”
“Let’s do that.” He agreed, thinking about how the water healed Eren last time.
Together they untucked him from the bedroll and half carried, half dragged him down to the water’s edge. Last time, he had injuries that steamed into nothing with the water. This time, there were no injuries they could see.
Armin held him by the knees and backed into the lake, hissing as the cold water slapped his calves. Mikasa guided Eren’s head and chest as they waded deeper in. By all rights, the cold alone ought to shock him awake. Or the water could create that same strange panic that locked his limbs tight and struck his eyes wide with terror. Either option would be preferable to the very real truth that Eren remained as loose-limbed as before, totally loose in their hold.
If they let him go, would he sink to the bottom, and not even try to live? Where was their brother, who sought freedom and life so passionately? Where did their Eren go?
Armin swallowed and pushed the questions away. “Maybe dunk his head?” He offered.
“Y-yeah. Okay.” Mikasa dropped to her knees and guided Eren’s head below the surface. Mesmerized, they watched as the bubbles escaped his mouth. Even then, he made no effort to wake up. There were no frenzied movements, no gasping for air. He seemed to accept whatever fate that lay in store.
“That’s enough.” Armin gasped out, realizing that he’d been holding his breath and that they were drowning Eren.
Mikasa choked and surged to her feet, forcing Eren to jerk up with her. His chest didn’t move.
“To the shore—!” In a single move they hurled him to the ground and forced out the water they put into his lungs.
Reflexively, Eren’s body regurgitated the water and breathed.
At least he was breathing.
Mikasa’s eyes were wet. She swallowed heavily. “We need to dry him off and warm him up and– and– and never do that again.”
“Okay.”
They almost killed him. They almost just watched him suffocate by their hands and they wouldn’t have even realized.
Why was Eren so light that the two of them could carry him with ease?
Sunlight helped, right?
They were wrapping Eren up in deerskin and placing him out in the sun as soon as it rose until it set. Mikasa had taken to tending a small campfire right beside him, adjusting his furs and smoothing his hair with every check.
Armin made sure she ate. Together they worked to slip broth down Eren’s throat.
His skin was so pale, and his bones were protruding from his skin, making Armin wonder how they didn’t notice how thin he was getting. We stopped setting a bowl aside for him after he left for the Cadet Corps and we never got back into the habit, did we?
That stupid, ugly thought from the first day reared its head again, that’s why it was so peaceful, as if the lack of Eren was peace. He wanted to throw up.
At night, they kept Eren close to the fire to stay warm.
Why had he been sleeping further from them every night?
Mikasa curled beside Eren and wrapped her scarf around his neck. “He needs to stay warm.” She explained. They both knew she needed him to stay warm.
In these quiet nights, staring at Mikasa sleeping fitfully beside the corpse-like body of Eren, Armin let thoughts of the past bubble up.
Eren ran hot for as long as Armin remembered.
As a child, his temper was quick to burn out in a burst of righteous fury. The first day they met, Eren saw Armin being bullied and decided to take on the five boys in one go. They thoroughly trounced him, but Eren grinned at Armin even as his Ma scolded him. In Armin’s eyes, Eren was a hero, even when he lost. Eren’s temper was molten and explosive and as hot as the sun.
In Trost, Eren kept them warm. He exuded heat which they clung to in the cold winter months. Armin often thought (illogical as it was) that Eren’s anger at the unfairness of life kept him running warm at all times.
And when Armin ran away from them, choking on sorrow and unseeing for all the tears that ran down his face, it was Eren that caught up to him first. It was Eren that wrapped him in the warmest embrace and whispered into his ear “I swear to you, Armin: They will pay.” It was Eren that placed Armin’s Grandpa’s hat on his head, who picked it up when Armin couldn’t bear the truth that Grandpa was dead.
It was Eren who burned so hot and furious that Armin’s tears were dried up and his determination to live was ignited.
The hottest fires burn the quickest.
Was it Eren whose body was lukewarm and disappearing before their eyes?
Was it even Eren anymore?
“Why did he go back?” He asked.
Mikasa didn’t reply. She never did when he spoke like this.
By all rights, Armin should be over this. But with Eren a silent presence with each passing day, Armin’s bitter thoughts bubbled to the surface.
‘They will pay.’ Eren had sworn to Armin vengeance on Trost and the murderers the city was home to. With the Titans laying waste on the city, it was everything and anything Armin might have hoped for. Their demise was certain, and all the trio needed to do was escape, but he still went back.
“He saved them and told us to wait.” Like he didn’t need them. Like his promise to Armin meant nothing. Like Eren wasn’t there at all.
“It doesn’t make sense.” He reiterated.
These were the facts: Eren swore vengeance for Armin. Eren turned his back on Armin and Mikasa and chose Trost over them. The facts were mutually exclusive but wrong. The only rational solution was that “He’s changed. We’re the same but he’s different.”
Something happened that made Eren change. But they could find him and bring him back. Eren would return to his senses once they made him see that they were still here and ready for him.
“Right, Mikasa?” Armin looked at his sister. She was staring at Eren’s chest, watching it rise and fall. “We need to remind him that we’re his home.” She hummed. Armin nodded. “Yeah. Exactly. When he wakes up, we’ll do better.”
Don’t worry, Eren. We’ll guide you home.
Armin was collecting water by the lake, thinking again.
Eren shaking with fury, fists clenched tight, lips white from the pressure of biting back words. “You saw what they did, how they acted against that woman–”
“We can’t afford to fight back.” Armin tugged at his wrist again. “We need to go, Eren.”
“And flee while they beat her?” His eyes were bright as he resisted Armin. “I need to help her!”
“What will you do?” Armin hissed. “You’re eleven, Eren! I hate to break it to you, but these are adult men who’ve been trained in the military! You couldn’t beat boys your age, much less adults!”
“I don’t care!” Eren shouted. He tugged so hard Armin lurched forward.
“I do!” Armin yelled back, upset and tired of always fighting. Eren always fought, why couldn’t he just shut up and listen for once? “You won’t win, Eren! Just listen to me. Do what I say. I promise, we’ll be okay.”
That stopped him. Armin could always stop Eren. Because Eren trusted Armin and, in the end, he knew Armin was right. “Fine.”
This time, when Armin tugged him, he followed with slumped shoulders and a bowed head. Mikasa didn’t ask what took them so long. She knew. They all knew, because it was Eren.
Later, Armin had felt proud. He’d saved his brother from ruining everything in a burst of anger.
Armin stared at the ripples in the lake. “He used to need me.” To think for him. To tell him what made sense. Not anymore.
Now, Eren paused before speaking. He considered actions before offering a plan. He didn’t look to them. He didn’t ask Armin to help weigh outcomes. Eren thought for himself. But that’s not right, because we think together. That’s how it’s supposed to be. That’s how it’s always been.
The worst part. Armin kicked himself for this, but it’s true: the worst part is that Eren’s plans worked. Eren was able to save Trost and save them. Even in his semi-conscious titan state, he was able to come up with a plan, execute it successfully, and continue to the next step.
It wasn’t fair.
We’re supposed to do this together.
Armin clenched his jaw.
Together they could weigh the pros and cons, together they could consider their different parts to play and together they could decide. Together they were Mikasa and Armin and Eren. But now it felt like Mikasa and Armin, and Eren.
They were smarter that way. Where one faltered, the other two steadied.
But Eren hadn’t come to them. He’d fallen and they couldn’t figure out how to pick up his pieces because he was different.
Armin wanted his Eren back, the one who shouted and jumped without thinking. He wanted the Eren who saved others because it was right. (Isn’t that why he saved Trost?) No. No! Eren was different.
This Eren was a quiet stranger. He’d grown apart from them. This change was wrong. He thought thoughts Armin couldn’t predict.
Who was he?
Nor for the first, or even the tenth time, Armin was thinking aloud. With Mikasa keeping a silent vigil beside Eren, Armin felt alone. He needed to speak, to hear words spoken. To sound out the turmoil that was constantly gnawing away.
“I always told him to think before he acted.” Armin said, bitterly.
Armin wasn’t wrong, though. Eren was too hot-headed, too loud and brash. As long as Armin was around that was okay. Because Eren’s passion was balanced out by Armin’s wit and Mikasa’s calm. Then he went and left them for the military and changed.
When they were together, Eren stayed Eren.
Then Eren left, and he was out of step while Armin and Mikasa were still in sync.
He got what he wanted. Eren became calm, rational, controlled. And Armin couldn’t reach him anymore.
Armin didn’t like the quiet idea forming at the edge of his thoughts –maybe Eren is growing up, not abandoning us.
He shoved it down. No.
Growing up with them would’ve been fine. But growing up away from them? That wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t safe. That wasn’t right.
“Now he thinks, but they’re not the right thoughts. He should check with us. Because we’re one family.” Family grows together.
“He’s different.” He repeated. This was the fact that Armin could stand by. Eren had changed and this was bad. Mikasa nudged a log over, then added another. “He’s not the same.” He said more firmly, looking at her. “You’ve noticed too.”
Slowly, Mikasa nodded, still tending to the fire.
Armin shook away the idea that he led her to these thoughts. She was observant. She agreed with him.
They’ve settled into a rhythm. It’s awful, but they’ve become good at adapting. Mikasa adds new logs to the outdoor campfire, Armin drags Eren out of the cabin into the sunlight beside the fire, they pile blankets atop him, and then they go about their day. Mikasa chops firewood, Armin checks their food stores, and focuses on cooking, on tending the horses. They eat. They spoon broth down Eren’s throat. They fish in the lake, and heat water for bathing. Once the sun is setting, they let the campfire burn out and put Eren back into his place beside the fire.
It is a routine that maintains their sanity. And with it, they can live.
In the middle of the night, Armin woke from Mikasa’s touch on his shoulder. “Something’s outside.” She murmured.
He rolled to his feet and followed her to the door. Their home was simple: four walls, a single door, no windows, a fireplace and chimney. “Titans?” He asked, afraid.
If there were titans, there was nothing they could do.
They were out of air, per Eren’s examinations in the first few weeks in the plateau. The gear was useless without compressed air. Despite this, Eren had repaired the gear as best as he was able, sewing new straps with their animal hide scraps, sharpening blades and teaching them both how to wield them.
Armin gestured at the blades, and Mikasa nodded, grabbing two and handing one to Armin.
Careful, he nudged the door open.
It was dark outside. Only the moon cast light on ground, giving shape to the beast shoving against the storehouse door. Armin pulled the door closed again. “A bear.” His heart was pounding.
Of course, when they lived in Shigansina, they knew about bears. But bears were long since hunted to extinction within walls Rosa and Sina that no one remembered them or how to chase them off. There wasn’t a choice in this matter, the bear needed to be sent away, or they would lose their stores for the winter.
Armin swallowed. “If it’s still awake this late in the season, it must be hungry. I don’t know if we can chase it away with fire.”
“So we’ll have to fight it off?” Mikasa tightened her grip on the sword.
They could fight, sure. But they weren’t trained to fight and—Armin chanced a glance at Eren, still fast asleep in the corner. Would he even know if we were killed? Armin chased that thought away. They weren’t going to be killed. They hadn’t gone through everything just to die by a bear’s paw.
They dressed quickly, boots, furs, additional padding to maybe act as armor. Armin kept trying to come up with a plan, anything. But he was at a loss.
“Sneak up on it.” He decided. “I’ll get it’s attention and you attack.”
Mikasa nodded, lips pressed tight.
Armin hoped the bear couldn’t hear the sound of his heart thudding in his chest. They opened the door again and crept back out into the cold.
The bear was pushing against the storehouse door. He could hear the groan of the wood. He went to the right, towards the lake and picked up a large rock. He threw it at the bear, and felt his stomach drop as soon as the beast’s attention was on him.
Mikasa didn’t wait. She ran, silent and low, the reflection off the blade was the only warning before she struck.
It bellowed and turned fast—faster than either of them expected. It struck hard and fast and Mikasa was tossed aside like a ragdoll.
Armin rushed in, aiming for its back leg. But the cut was too shallow, too slow. He tripped and fell as he was trying to escape, but the bear’s attention was seized by Mikasa’s return. She stabbed its shoulder and held onto the sword too long, the bear caught her in the leg and she fell with a cry.
By then, Armin was up again. He was still in close proximity and jabbed upwards into its neck and it groaned loud and long, turning slower than before.
The world narrowed to grunts and snow and adrenaline.
At some point they lost track of time, too focused on not dying and not letting it hurt each other too bad.
Eventually, the bear turned, panting and limping, bleeding and confused.
Armin watched it leaving, then dropped to his knees as the exhaustion and painful gashes were felt. He wildly looked for Mikasa, to spot her leaned against the corner of the storehouse, right arm dangling, blood dripping into the snow.
They didn’t move for a long time.
“Are you—?” His voice hurt. They’d been yelling at the bear, at each other, during the fight. He didn’t even remember.
“I’m fine.” She wasn’t.
Later, once they gathered enough energy to move, they huddled against the fire. With their wounds cleaned and bandaged, Armin couldn’t help but think that hadn’t quite gone as planned. But what else were they to do?
Eren, despite everything, was still fast asleep, curled in a ball under his blankets. Armin didn’t think they’d be able to put him outside tomorrow in the sunlight. With Mikasa’s arm injured and Armin hurting badly, trying to carry Eren would only aggravate their injuries and it’s not like it will change anything.
Eren wasn’t waking up. Armin wasn’t sure if he would ever wake up.
It’s been a long time, Eren. Had he given up on living and abandoned them here to survive without him?
He hadn’t stirred during the fight, still in the same position they’d left him in after the sun set.
Armin looked away, back to Mikasa. He met her eyes. They were dark. Armin turned and added another piece of wood to the fire.
They fought a bear and won. They were strong.
If it comes to it… we don’t need Eren to survive.
Armin stared at the flames wondering how he dared think such treacherous thoughts about a young man he’d always considered a brother. And why did it feel like it wasn’t so bad, thinking these thoughts?
Because that’s not our Eren. That’s someone else and—I’m not sure why we’re trying to save someone who we don’t even know.
The fire popped and Armin let the heat scorch his face. His hands felt numb despite being so close to the fire. Everything felt numb.
Mikasa didn’t speak, she didn’t lie down to sleep. Like him, she sat and stared at the fire, chancing an occasional glance at Eren.
It felt like something shifted. They’d sat at Eren’s side since he fell asleep. They spooned broth into his mouth and carried him into the sun. They tucked him in at night and spoke to him, asked him to wake up, please? Nothing changed.
They went out, fought a bear, were injured in the process, picked each other up and now… nothing changed.
Like the streets, it was Mikasa and Armin against the world and, maybe Eren when he was not in the corps.
Nothing changed.
If they didn’t put him outside tomorrow, or the following day… if they didn’t tuck him in so carefully and stopped whispering his name… nothing would change.
Maybe that would be okay.
If he wants to die, maybe we should let him.
Armin pressed his hands into his knees and breathed deep, sharp. Exhaled through his nose to drive that mean, bitter thought away. It didn’t work. It clung to him, like burs on clothes.
He’d done everything right. He’d studied. He’d planned. He decided how they could survive and what they could do. He’d rolled over and let the pain of betrayal, of knowledge at what humans were doing every day, and he’d fought to survive, to live. Even when they were children, he’d known there was more to life and through these two, he’d had the courage to seek it. The world beyond the walls was worth more than comfort or safety or false gods.
Why do I feel like a villain in my own story?
He met Mikasa’s eyes. She was waiting. He was waiting.
He looked back to Eren, unmoving. Nothing changed.
Armin didn’t think of the bear anymore. He didn’t think of the bruises forming on his ribs, or the pain stinging his every move. He didn’t think of Mikasa’s hurt shoulder, or the blood staining the snow red. All he could think of was how far they’d come to get here—this dark little house in the middle of nowhere.
And Eren just sleeps.
Armin closed his eyes. He ignored how his breath caught in his chest. He ignored the tears slipping down his cheeks. He ignored the tremble in his muscles that had little to do with the cold.
Nothing changed.
Later, though Armin was unsure of how much later, his tears were dried. He calmed enough that he could open his eyes again and see more than blurry oranges and blacks. What he saw first, was Mikasa, still crying, silent.
She was always silent, always echoing his feelings, his thoughts and words. Her eyes were wide open, unseeing.
She didn’t cry often, not like him, overwhelmed by his plans and how they kept failing. But when she did…
He remembered when Eren came out to see them, on one of his rare days off from training.
He found them at the edge of a forest, where they were living between two trees and a stolen tarp. He brought bread, dried meat, pinches of dried vegetables and two candles.
Armin remembered how clean he looked. He didn’t smell like smoke or sweat, instead like soap: government issued, mild. He smelled like fresh linens right off the clothesline, like summer days in Shigansina. He looked like he belonged somewhere, like he ate.
Still, Armin smiled warmly, happy for Eren. “You look taller. Are they feeding you well?”
Eren had ducked his head. “Something like that.”
What they didn’t know—they couldn’t have known—was how Eren was skipping meals all week, how he stuffed the rolls and jerky he brought them, pretending to eat. How there’d been a company-wide inspection and Eren had to smuggle the goods into a hole under the floor.
But Eren hadn’t told them that. He handed them the food like it was his right, not the reason he passed out the day prior from hunger.
And in kind, neither Armin or Mikasa told Eren about how they had nowhere to go. That they’d been found in attics and barns, chased away with brooms and bellowing words. That he’d had his knuckles beat until they bled for being caught stealing an onion. That Mikasa was sick with a fever they weren’t sure she’d survive only two weeks ago.
They didn’t want to burden Eren.
Eren didn’t want them to worry.
They’d sat there eating in silence, sharing quiet jokes, and pretending they were safe and happy and healthy.
Armin remembered that night because Mikasa cried.
A single choked breath, caught in her throat. She stared at Eren like she didn’t recognize him. Armin remembered thinking, in relief I don’t recognize him either. Because Eren was smiling too easily, like he was home, at peace. Like he was comfortable and happy. And how could he smile like that when they were still so broken?
“Eren,” Mikasa said, slow and unsteady. She reached out to him. “Stay.”
Eren had blinked like she slapped him. “Mikasa.” The happy expression was gone, dropped with the mention of his name. He looked startled, scared even. Like the sight of her tears had turned him to stone.
“I—I have to go.” Eren mumbled, looking away from her. “You know why I have to go. Please don’t ask this of me.”
Armin watched as she retracted her hand, settling it back into her lap.
“I’ll complete my mission and—and then we’ll all be together again. We’ll be free. You’ll see.” He sounded desperate.
Mikasa had turned her head away, letting her hair cover the tears crawling down her cheeks.
Armin hadn’t known what to say then; hadn’t known what to do. Maybe that was when it started—the beginning of the end of them. The moment Eren left, neither of them were sure he’d ever come back the same.
He didn’t.
This time, Armin stood and crossed the fire to sit beside Mikasa. He took her hand in his and held it. This time, he wouldn’t let her sit alone.
Even if Eren would.
After that, Eren was left inside. They kept him fed and watered. They checked his pupils and temperature. But that was all they did. They stopped tucking the blanket around him, stopped speaking his name with hope.
Their routine changed.
They worked on repairing the storehouse door. Then they worked on traps to warn them if the bear returned, or any predators, really.
The days blurred again. Like they had when Eren first joined the Cadet Corps. Back when Armin and Mikasa slept in trees; when they scavenged crusts of bread and hid from the sharp eyes of the Military Police. Back when everything ended with Mikasa asking, “Do you think he’s okay?” and Armin pretended to know the answer.
No one asked, now.
Now they rose with the sun and worked even when the wind bit too hard. They cooked small meals, held small conversations, and slept early. Sometimes he’d catch her peeking into the door, checking on Eren. She stopped going in, she stopped touching him.
Their world shrank to the size of the cabin, to the path down to the lake and to the pasture the sheep rested with the horses. It was a hard rhythm, quiet—but it was theirs. Rebuilt after the bear, rebuilt without him.
The only time they said his name now would be “It’s time to feed Eren.” The other would nod. The silence was overbearing, consuming, exhausting.
At night, they huddled under a shared blanket and slept to the sound of the crackling fire and howling wind. Armin wondered in those quiet hours how long they’d been alone. Was it since Eren fell asleep, or even, since he left them to join the military?
How long?
The winter was passing. They could see it in how the sun rose a little earlier, hung in the sky a little longer. They could see it in dripping icicles and the need to shed layers of clothes.
With the change in weather, Armin dared to speak.
“He’s not going to wake up.” The statement felt unnecessary, it was as obvious as when the fire needed feeding, or a trap line needed resetting. He wasn’t angry or bitter when he said it.
Mikasa closed her eyes and breathed. She didn’t flinch or ask him who he meant. Instead, she said, “We’ll need to plant soon.”
Armin blinked. “The ground is still frozen.”
“Not for long.”
He nodded. Paused. “We might want to consider moving on. The longer we stay here, the more likely more bears or wolves come looking.”
“We’ll leave?” She didn’t sound surprised, more thoughtful.
“I think we should. We’ll take what we can carry, leave what we can’t. We were trying to find home, maybe we can still find Shigansina.”
“What about Eren?”
Armin let the question wash over him. He looked at Eren, sleeping. Winter was almost past and all Eren did was sleep. His chest rose and fell, he swallowed when they fed him broth. That was all.
“…we can’t carry him far.” Armin finally said. “We’ll have to decided what we’re willing to leave behind.”
The words felt loud. Like thunder in the middle of the night, like the sound of the gates being crashed in, like giving up.
Mikasa’s breath hitched, a quiet sob. She swallowed it, pushed it away. “We were supposed to be free together.” She whispered, the words catching. “That’s what he said.”
Armin didn’t respond. Not because he disagreed, or because she was wrong. There was nothing to say. He lied. He was wrong. He changed his mind. He didn’t mean it.
His chest ached. He wished he could say it didn’t hurt anymore, but that would be a lie.
Eren was a raging inferno, he was light, he was their passion and joy and life.
—and now he was a corpse with a pulse.
Armin’s hands curled into fists. “I hate him sometimes,” he admitted, voice tight and small. “I hate that he left us behind. That he still gets to lie there while we… while we keep going.”
Mikasa didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Her silence was louder than any agreement.
The fire popped. Ash shifted, fell apart. They both stared at it.
“I know it’s not fair,” Armin said after a while. “He saved us. Again, and again. He kept us alive.”
“But we were supposed to be alive together,” Mikasa said, and this time the tears didn’t stop. They slipped silently down her cheeks, carving warm trails through skin gone numb from too many cold nights.
They sat like that for a long time. The three of them—two breathing, one only surviving.
Spring was coming.
It didn’t feel hopeful; it felt like a warning.
The storehouse door was open.
The line they'd strung with bells—lazy, a simple perimeter warning—was swaying, faintly jingling in the wind.
Mikasa stopped beside him. Her eyes sharpened.
“An animal?” she asked, voice brittle.
“Maybe,” Armin said. But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure.
They approached carefully. Mikasa drew her knife with her good hand. Armin raised the small hatchet he’d taken to carrying.
Closer now—they could hear it. Movement. Scraping. A rustle of cloth, then the wet sound of chewing.
Mikasa opened the door.
It took a second for their eyes to adjust.
Then they saw him.
Curled in the back corner, knees to chest, surrounded by torn bags and loose jerky, was Eren.
Not asleep. Not exactly awake either.
His eyes were open, but wrong—filmy, distant. He didn’t look at them. He didn’t even flinch. He was chewing, methodically, mechanically, tearing meat with his teeth and shoving more into his mouth with trembling hands.
“Eren?” Armin asked, breath catching.