Author's Notes: This is just a sort of compilation for my Armin head canons. It's rather confusing and very self indulgent so sorry about that in advance.
I. Meter
"You can't sleep?"
Armin scrunched his eyes shut and tried to lay still. Fingers combed through his hair but he ignored it and tried to keep his breathing even and deep.
Armin didn't dare to open his eyes but he listened closely to the sound of absentminded humming and pages being turned. He didn't move an inch when he felt the bed dip behind him, giving away to his father's weight.
"Let's choose Tennyson tonight, okay Armin?"
It took everything that Armin had not to bite back a retort that he had no hand in choosing tonight's—or even any night's—selection.
" It little profits that an idle king
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me."
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"We'll be back before you know it."
Armin nodded. He didn't protest against the arms around his shoulder or the sloppy kisses pressed against his cheek.
His father squeezed him tighter and whispered gruffly against his ear, "I wish we didn't have to leave you."
Armin wished they didn't have to leave too.
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"Listen carefully Armin. Tonight I'm going to read you Shakespeare's sonnets. These will come in handy. I don't know how, when, or why, but these will help you when the time comes. Just ask your mother."
Armin huddled under his blanket and didn't speak. There were questions he wanted to ask (how could poetry possibly help him in the future? What were sonnets? What did mom had to do with this?) but he had decided that he was angry at his parents. They were supposed to come back two weeks ago. Not tonight, long after he and grandpa had cleaned up and prepared for bed.
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date."
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Half of the time Armin didn't really understand the meaning of his father's poems.
But there are phrases and verses that stayed with him.
Sometimes he caught himself thinking of tigers burning bright and kingdoms by the sea during quiet moments with Eren and Mikasa.
Sometimes he would wake from an uneasy sleep and think of the Angel of Death spreading his wings on the blast.
Sometimes, when he's feeling particularly maudlin, Armin would think if he would rather have the world end in fire or in ice.
He always chose ice.
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It's illogical, he knew, to blame his father for his insomnia. But he blamed him nonetheless. It was unfair of him to spoil him with bedtime poetry along with the accompanying analysis and the anecdotes attached to them.
He tried reading poetry out loud to himself once. He read all through the night. He only stopped when he noticed that night had turned to day and he should help grandpa with breakfast.
So, yes, Armin blamed his father a bit for his insomnia and for ruining poetry for him.
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II. Tone
"Armin, please stay still."
Armin rolled his shoulder reflexively and frowned. He had been sitting for hours and to be quite honest he would rather spend the day outside with Eren and Mikasa. It wasn't odd to be asked by his mother to pose for a portrait but he had forgotten how tedious it could get.
He stared at his mother from underneath his lashes. She was thinner than he remembered. Her cheeks were sharper and the circles underneath her eyes darker.
"What are you thinking about? You've started frowning."
"Aah, I want to play with Eren and Mikasa."
His mother looked up from her sketchbook. She smiled a small reassuring smile. "Don't worry, I'll be finished soon."
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He had been taught by his mother to say please, thank you, and sorry. So when a kid who looked his age crashed on top of him he spluttered out a 'sorry' instinctively.
Green eyes stared down at him. "I'm the one who should say 'sorry.'"
"Oh, well, sorry then."
That day, he and Eren Yaeger spent the rest of the afternoon arguing over who should've apologized.
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"Can I keep this Armin?"
This was his crude attempt at drawing the houseplant by the window. He glanced at his mother's sketchbook. She had drawn the same plant, only better.
"Yours is better."
His mother only smiled at him. "But you didn't draw it, didn't you?"
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"Comb your hair before you go out."
"Why? No one really cares." Armin was planning on leaving with that, but his mother's voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Armin, please sit down."
He considered running off but dismissed the notion immediately. As his father often reminded him, heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. Besides, Armin had various experiences to back up this universal truth so he obediently sat down.
His mother procured a wide toothed comb and was running it through his hair, when he told him, "Appearances are important Armin."
"Grandpa told me not to judge based on appearance."
"And that's why they're so important. Because people all too often do judge on appearance."
He frowned, "I don't understand."
"It doesn't matter right now. Just remember that keeping up appearances is important."
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Mother had the same blond hair as he does. Hers, however, is a lighter shade and the strands are thinner.
His fingers fumbled clumsily with the braid he's attempting. This one was more difficult than most since it used five strands. His arms were starting to get tired and he was only about a quarter of the way done.
"Do you want me to finish it?"
"No, I'll finish it."
The reward, when he finished the braid was a kiss on each cheek and an affectionate pat on his head.
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"Armin, please help grandpa with the house chores, okay? And remember to be good."
"Okay."
Armin was not crying right now. He thought that he must've ran out, since he fell asleep crying last night.
Mother crouched down to his eye level. "Can I have a hug before I go?"
He was wrong after all. The tears started again when he buried his face in mother's neck.
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III. Dialogue
This is the first lesson that grandpa taught Armin:
"Words have power. Use them well."
Grandpa held his smaller hand in his. "Do you understand, Armin?"
Armin lied and told him that he did.
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Grandpa sat across from Armin. He offered no soothing words for him or vengeful promises towards the bullies. There is only silence and his muffled crying.
"Do you know why they did this?"
"Y-yes. Because I was right. They were wrong. But they couldn't accept it so they hurt me. E-even though we've lived peacefully inside the wall for a hundred years we can't say for sure that we can live like this for the next one hundred years. You said it yourself grandpa, repetition is no guarantee for continuity and I'm right! I-I know I am, I just—"
Armin swallowed down the sob at the back of this throat. The tears that he had stubbornly rubbed away were starting to form again at the corner of his eyes. Armin took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down.
"Sometimes it's better to keep your head low and fit in with others."
"So, I should just be like them?" Later, Armin would regret the disrespect in his tone. Later, he would take note to be more level headed. But right now, Armin was tired, and beaten and bruised, and why were some people just so stupid?
"I didn't say that. Think as you like, but it's best not to attract too much attention. I also want you to think this over, Armin. What do you hope to accomplish by getting those boys to listen to your reason? Is the effort that you've expended worth it?"
"T-the truth," Armin hurriedly said. "Grandpa, you told me knowing the truth is important."
"Yes, I've told you that. And yes, the truth is important. But we can't do anything about those who refuse it." Armin heard the chair being pushed back as grandpa stood. He laid a hand on his head. "But more than anything else, take care of yourself."
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"Why are you crying?"
Armin tried to quiet down his sobs. "T-they told me that mom and dad always leave me behind b-because they hate me."
"And you believe them?"
Armin didn't answer and buried his face in his hands.
"What did they say to support their argument?"
Armin shook his head. He still didn't answer.
Grandpa enveloped him in a hug. "Armin, don't be so quick to believe just what anyone tells you okay?"
Armin clung to his grandpa. "O-okay."
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Grandpa pushed a steaming cup towards him. He said nothing about the cut on his cheek or the bruises in his arms.
"Eren got into a fight. It was one against four and they were all bigger than him! I had to help."
"Had to?"
Armin frowned. "I didn't have to but I-I wanted to help him."
"And were you of any help?"
Armin smiled ruefully at that. "I don't think so. Actually, not at all."
"The other option was not helping at all. You could have waited for the fight to end and simply tended to Eren afterwards."
Armin bit down on his lower lip and averted his gaze. "Aah… I didn't think of that."
"So you jumped in without thinking?" Grandpa was curious rather than admonishing but Armin winced nonetheless at his mistake being pointed out.
"Yes, but," Armin fidgeted trying to think of the right words, "even if I think about it now, I would have still helped Eren."
"You don't regret it?"
Armin shook his head. "I don't regret it even if we lost and got beaten up."
Grandpa chuckled at that. "I don't think you lost."
"I don't understand."
"Winning and losing are such flexible terms don't you think Armin?"
Armin still didn't understand.
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Grandpa had almost finished bandaging his hand when Armin finally spoke up. "I want to be strong."
Grandpa didn't look up. "Okay."
When grandpa finished, he tucked Armin's hair behind his ears and met his eyes. "Remember that there are different ways to be strong, Armin."
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Armin had been crying for so long. In all honesty, he doesn't know if he can stop.
"Grandpa, if you l-leave—"
He choked on a sob. He didn't think he could finish that sentence.
"—If I leave I won't be coming back. I know."
He didn't think it was possible but Armin cried harder.
Grandpa gathered him in his—frail, weak—arms and pressed a dry kiss at the side of his face.
"Sacrifices must be made. You understand don't you?"
Armin understood even though he didn't want to.