Stipends had been paid out that week, and that meant Armin was off to the bookstore. Eren and Mikasa usually accompanied him, but this time, they had been waylaid at the local bar — having demolished all other competition in the establishment, Mikasa and Annie were facing each other at arm-wrestling, and their standoff didn't seem ready to end any time soon.
Armin stepped out of the bookstore and into the streets, arms heavy with his purchases. He squinted in the dim light, stumbled on a loose cobble; the days were getting shorter, and the days colder. He tucked in his shoulders, the breeze cutting through his military coat. He would have to consider putting his next few paychecks together toward a warm sweater or two, but then with books to purchase on top of that —
"Hey!"
Armin huffed a sigh, his irritation visible as vapor in the cold night air. He knew that exact tone of voice, and what it meant: "I am deeply dissatisfied with my own lot in life and lack the appropriate coping mechanisms to deal with it in a socially conscious manner. I see you there, boy with books! Books have words and those make me frightened and alarmed! I am more than likely intoxicated!"
The thing was, Armin mused as he kept walking, the heavy steps of the man who'd jeered at him coming closer. The thing was, it was one thing for a bunch of preteen bullies to pick on a defenseless little boy. It was quite another for some drunken moron on the streets to pick a fight with a uniformed soldier.
The man caught up with him and slapped the books out of his arms, laughing. Armin rolled his eyes and bent to pick them up. The man seized him by the scruff of his jacket, and Armin wrenched himself free in two swift motions. He side-eyed the man as he continued to collect his scattered books. That was a basic defensive move; day one of close-quarters-combat training. Armin was, in fact, awful at close-quarters-combat training. Just how bad was this joker?
"Nice dancin' moves," the man drawled, reaching out one filthy hand to grab for Armin's hair. Armin rose, books neatly stacked, and continued walking. "Aww, come on, I just wanted to see if that pretty hair of yours was real, you fuckin'—"
Then came the slurs against his sexuality, gender, parentage. If the man wasn't too drunk to understand him, Armin would have considered the psychoanalysis route (you insult me due to deep-seated insecurities about yourself, brought on by the relentless crush of societal expectations), or the psychological warfare route (severing the Achilles tendon is generally accepted as the best way to down a Titan, as its weight will bring it down and forward, leaving the nape of the neck exposed and vulnerable. Incidentally, did you know that humans will also die when you carve a chunk from their necks?). But Armin preferred to save verbal assaults on those who were lucid enough to remember them later.
In any event, Armin had reached the bar where his friends were, and the man's drunken tirade against Armin had attracted their attention. Specifically, Eren's attention, which is how the man wound up taking a flying chair to the head. Armin gently guided Eren back into the building and off the unconscious stinking drunk by offering him an armful of books to help carry. (He could not deny Eren one last kick to the man's skull.) He was eager to get inside where it was warm, settle down with his new books, and rake in the winnings from the bets he'd laid on Mikasa in the arm-wrestling competition. Papa needs a new pair of sweater vests.