'Sir? Sir. Excuse me, sir.'
Armin barely registered the voice until a hand settled gently on his shoulder; it left the moment he startled and turned.
The man standing close behind him was built like a scarecrow, with a plain face and combed head of short grey hair. His uniform, besides the badge of the Military Police, was one Armin didn't recognise. He smiled in a mild sort of way, more polite than any measure of happy, and Armin resisted the urge to look behind himself to check for others in a hallway he knew to be empty.
No one had ever referred to him as sir before. Armin hesitated, the taste of uncertainty thick in his mouth. This undoubtedly had to do with Eren's trial, which would start in only a few days. While this would hardly be the first time he'd been approached by people wanting to know the truth, or why he wasn't telling the truth, or just wanting to shout – titan sympathiser, they killed my children, my parents, whoreson I hope you die – this felt entirely different.
'Yes?' Armin risked a glance down the corridor as he spoke. The man was too polite to be one of those rallying against Eren, surely – unless it was some sort of trick?
'My name is Tony Whishaw; I work for Lieutenant Colonel Franz Hasek of the Military Police. The lieutenant colonel would like to extend an invitation for you to meet with him privately, this evening if possible, in the greatest confidentiality. If you'll forgive me for speaking frankly I highly advise you to attend – you are, of course, aware of the current situation, and I will add that the conclusion of this meeting may be pertinent to the outcome of Mr Yeager's case.'
Whishaw reported the words in a smooth flow, fast and sure. His smile hardly faded throughout, and settled once more in his near-lipless gash of a mouth in the silence that followed. A meeting? With a lieutenant colonel? Armin barely stopped himself from gaping. Franz Hasek – the name was familiar, of course; it belonged to the man who commanded a significant portion of the Military Police force. Certainly far more senior than anyone who had ever bothered with him before.
But why the meeting? If it was to interrogate him about Eren's nature, why so private? Bribery, then? Perhaps blackmail to make him lie in court? His earlier doubt solidified uncomfortably in his gut, and Armin felt suddenly very aware of how alone they were in the hallway – the cold draft, the hard stone under his feet, the light from the window highlighting Whishaw, who stood just a little too close, a little too predatory.
'Yes, I will,' Armin said, before he could second-guess his decision. Eren and Mikasa trusted him, after all. He had to do what was right. Anything else was inconceivable.
Whishaw smiled a little wider, wrinkling the pale skin around his mouth. His eyes remained cool and hard. 'Excellent! If you head to the library for the second evening bell I can meet you there. You know where that is, don't you? No? On the fourth floor, in the west wing, past the guest suites and directly behind the gatehouse. There's a section there on historic poetry, very easy to find, in the second enclave to the right of the main doors. Meet me there. It rather goes without saying, I'm sure you'll understand, that you are not permitted to speak of this to anyone.'
Armin nodded helplessly, caught up in the onslaught of information. 'Yes sir,' he said, saluting, and that was that. Whishaw nodded a goodbye and walked away with the air of someone with much work to be done but no doubt that it would be finished, brisk and unhurried. Armin remained standing, feeling foolish, in the hallway. He had the creeping feeling that he'd just done something he shouldn't have – and with Eren's life on the line, he couldn't afford to misstep. But he could hardly back out of it now. No, he shouldn't overthink it. This could still go so many ways that speculation was pointless.
The first evening bell came and went, and though it would be a while before the second Armin slipped out of the mess to find the library. No one marked his departure. Mikasa's typical absence from the dinner hall did not surprise him – he'd seen her take food out to eat away from the prying crowds before. It still stung with something like disappointment. Loneliness. Perhaps as Eren's sister she'd been allowed to see him. Armin hoped so but didn't really believe it.
There were few people in the corridors, and those whom Armin did cross passed without saying a word. The question of whether Hasek wanted to help Eren, or help his execution, burnt at the back of his mind as he walked, threatening to distract from the directions he recited silently. He'd have to be careful, Armin told himself as he pushed open the heavy library door. He couldn't afford to be tricked.
The few rooms were empty of people but held a collection of books easily larger than any Armin had ever seen in his life, dozens of stacked shelves held thousands of old red and brown bound volumes, and for a few long moments he just stood there and took in the sight. He had a strong suspicion that he shouldn't be anywhere near the place.
Historical poetry, Whishaw had said. Most of the titles Armin could see were on mechanics, architecture and defence strategy.
He didn't even know what historical poetry was. Books and education were for the rich, not refugees.
Armin peered into each of the small rooms branching from the main one, one by one. They held yet more shelves of books, surrounding nondescript tables and chairs. He couldn't remember which room Whishaw had specified. At any second he expected someone to come in and start shouting at him for being somewhere he wasn't meant to be. What was the punishment for trespassing? He didn't know.
But he was alone. Armin hesitated then took out a book at random, cradling it in both hands. The title read: An account of natural history; essays on the formation and variation of fossil-shells.
Fossil-shells? Armin blinked at the words then carefully flicked to the first page, but before he could read more than a few lines footsteps sounded in the corridor, clear and hard and coming closer. Armin froze, snapped the book shut and slid it back into place. He just managed to whirl around and away from the shelves when Whishaw entered. His expression didn't change as his eyes latched on to Armin, either not seeing or ignoring his hasty guilt. He only smiled his polite smile, eyes like frozen chips of mud, and beckoned with a slight tilt of the head, leading the way back out of the library then through the corridors, silent but for sound of their boots on the stone, with Armin two anxious steps behind.
The floors were clean and the stonework smooth. Doors were made of polished dark wood, looking like they couldn't be touched for fear of leaving fingerprints. Armin thought back to the book he'd held, the memory of its weight and mystery still pressing in his hands.
There were no cold drafts in the corridor – the air hung quiet and warm. Stifling. Armin pushed away the thought of the book. Maybe he could return later, but for now he needed to concentrate. The silence buzzed in his ears as if with every step a tangible pressure mounted.
Whishaw stopped in front of a door, buffed within an inch of its life like all the others, and knocked. In the second between a voice from inside calling 'enter' and the door swinging open, Armin thought suddenly of Eren in chains waiting for execution. He thought of Eren, dead, and Mikasa turning stone cold, turning her back to him, quick smiles and ever-patient ear leaving him as surely as water trickling from cupped hands. Armin thought of finding oceans, and mountains, and animals strange as whimsy, and no one to find them with. No one to eat with, or talk with, or share last night's amusing dream with. No one to help him up when he got knocked down.
Armin swallowed with difficulty. He had to do whatever was needed to save Eren. Helping Franz Hasek or thwarting him – whatever it took, he would do it.
Ushered into the room and horribly aware of the door closing behind him with Whishaw on the other side, Armin saluted even before his eyes fell on the man behind the desk. Franz Hasek didn't move or speak but studied him openly, gaze reminding Armin unwillingly of people watching chickens in the market – at once considering, feeling the weight of coins warmed in one hand and remembering the rich taste of meat or creamy egg, but also amused at the idiocy of the scruffy bird that scratched at bare cobbles and wondered why it couldn't dig up any food.
Armin stared back, frozen in his salute, unable to take his eyes off the figure sitting at a lazy angle in front of him. Hasek was a large man, broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with a clean-shaven, rectangular face. He had deep-set eyes, small and sheltered beneath eyebrows that looked more like two bristling, dark moustaches, and a broad, straight nose. His lips were full but pale, near skin colour, and curling up at the edges in the kind of smile that came with enjoying a private joke. The light from the window highlighted his short brown hair, streaked with grey, like burnished waves of gold and silver. His uniform was immaculate, too well-fitting to be anything other than tailored.
He looked anywhere between forty and fifty – Armin automatically branded him old for a soldier, then corrected himself: Hasek was old only compared to real soldiers, the Scouting Corps, the ones who went out to fight and died soon after. Armin cut that thought off swiftly, mortified, as if Hasek could somehow read his mind and be insulted.
He looked away, wishing Hasek would say something. The room was square and warm, though the large hearth lay empty of fire, its logs untouched. There were curtains made of a thick red material, and an ornately patterned rug covering much of the floor. Apart from the desk there was a sofa, padded so full it looked like a fat, damask caterpillar, that together with matching chairs bracketed a low table. Each wall had a closed door, save for the one with the window.
The realisation that each piece of furniture was likely worth five times the entirety of his parents' old house crept up on Armin and would not let go. He felt dirty and misplaced, a piece of litter blown in through an open window. What was Hasek waiting for?
Armin shifted nervously from foot to foot, gut tight with worry. Eren's life hung on the line and here he was, standing there like a fool.
'Well, Armin,' Hasek said, making him jump, salute falling sloppy. 'Shall I be blunt?'
His voice was deep, gravelly and amused.
'Yes, sir,' Armin bleated reflexively, too taken aback at the lack of formality to know what else to say. His voice paled with nervousness, embarrassingly high in the quiet room.
'For the upcoming trial I will argue against the execution of your friend Eren Yeager. A lack of concord in the military police will, of course, be of considerable advantage to him. The price for this is yourself.' Hasek watched Armin as he spoke, the line of his mouth arrogant. 'Your body, to be exact. Just for tonight.'
Your body, tonight. Armin blinked, opening his mouth, but the words withered and died, settling to clog up his throat. Surely Hasek couldn't mean – not that. But what else? What else could it be?
Hasek smiled at him.
Suddenly the walls felt claustrophobic, the air too still and heavy. Suddenly Hasek was no longer a man but something indefinably more, something titanic. An instinct in Armin, common in all animals, started to scream out in fear. It's a trap. Get out. Get out now.
Hasek chuckled and Armin closed his mouth with a snap. 'More blunt?' Hasek said, as if offering a drink. 'Tonight you will stay in my rooms and I will fuck you. You'll do precisely what I say.
Oh, don't pull that face, it's nothing you can't take. I'm not into that.'
Armin couldn't think of what that might possibly be, the mysterious euphemism not in the least bit reassuring. The whole evening had turned surreal, like the first stages of a nightmare. The thought of that man touching him, skin to skin, sweat and saliva and worse – repulsive. Shameful. He was trembling, tiny shivers through his whole body, and he couldn't stop; it felt like there were things crawling between his clothes and skin. He hadn't even kissed anyone, not yet, and the thought of this man intruding into his messy teenage fantasies made him feel ill.
He couldn't. This was wrong. Hasek was three times his age; his eyes held no affection, his voice nothing but business. It would hurt and Hasek wouldn't care.
But – if it could save Eren?
What was one night if it meant Eren could be his again, his and Mikasa's, for as long as they were alive?
Armin hesitated. He wanted to say yes, for Eren. For their future. He wanted to refuse and run away. How could he just give himself over to a stranger, trust them wholly, when the very thought made him feel sick in the deep tissues of his body?
Hasek was still watching him but his warm eyes had turned predatory and dangerous. Armin's back prickled, heart pounding like a fist. He needed more time. Could he even do whatever was required of him? What if Hasek assumed that he knew how to do, and was practised in – it? What if Hasek decided halfway through that Armin was not good enough and refused to uphold his end of the deal?
'Why me?' Armin asked, voice a pitiful croak. He felt dirty – that Hasek had chosen him, and that he was considering it. He still wanted to know why. Because Armin knew he wasn't good looking. Not like Jean, confident and sharply handsome. His body was a far cry from Reiner's, tall and muscled and strong.
'Because I want to,' Hasek said, voice amused but final, something in it that ran close to lost patience.
'How,' Armin began, knowing the words for a false step instantly but unable to stop: 'How do I know you'll keep your word?'
Hasek's amusement turned cold, unforgiving, and Armin's throat dried at his response. His patience had run out. 'Because I am a lieutenant colonel,' he said, 'and you, little Armin, are not.'
Silence. What else was there to say? Armin felt sick in his gut, skin crawling with the anticipation of touch as he realised he had never really had a choice to begin with.
'Yes,' he said, a hoarse whisper. 'I'll – I agree.'
'Good.' Hasek's smile widened, twisting from cold into heat. He sat back in his chair; Armin couldn't recall at what point he'd leant forward. 'Now that we're done with pleasantries: lock the hall door. Then remove your clothes – all of them – fold them, and put them on the table.'
Armin dropped his salute and turned slowly to the door. The space at his back felt like the space inside a titan's mouth – the heavy click of the lock turning the sound of teeth snapping shut.