learning to fear men
Armin had taken to trying to figure out which notes Eren had gotten wrong. He knew because he'd more or less gotten the concept of piano playing down, and he could read the music fine, but applying it was a nightmare. Eren was just the opposite. He was a maestro of sorts when it came to making music on a whim, but ask him to read sheet music and he butchered even the simplest of scales.
Not to say he didn't try, because he did. Very hard. But the way Armin figured it, Eren's brain was just not wired to be patient enough to read the music and then immediately act upon it. All he wanted was to act without reading. So he skipped notes. Made up his own. Did things in such a frantic and unconventional way that the song no longer even resembled what it was supposed to be. Needless to say, his teacher was pretty tough on him.
"I bet," Eren had grumbled, slamming his hands on the keys so the screeching noise they made was like a cat toppling down a flight of stairs. "I bet if I quit, then I'd be allowed to play whatever I wanted."
"Do your scales, Eren," Armin reminded, sitting on the floor beside the piano and patiently waiting for his friend to be done practicing. It was a nice day out, but he didn't mind being in doors. Eren's playing was so nice, and so pretty, that Armin would much rather sit inside and listen.
"I hate the scales," he whined, leaning back at his little wooden bench. "My fingers get all tangled up!"
"You need to learn them if you want to get better at piano," Armin said.
"I'm already as good as I'm gonna get, though." Eren scratched his head. He hadn't meant it arrogantly, or self-deprecatingly, he'd only meant that he was comfortable with where he was in terms of talent, and he wasn't going to push himself at something he didn't want to get better at.
"I'm sure someday," Armin had insisted, "you'll look back and be super thankful that you took piano lessons. Just wait!"
"Well someday isn't right now," Eren moaned, prodding at middle C in a sharp succession of notes. "I wanna go outside and play with chalk. Let's go do that."
"You have to practice, Eren."
"I'm done practicing!" Eren leapt off his bench and marched across the room. Armin squeaked and hurried after him. "I just want to play outside. Piano gets in the way of fun."
"But piano is fun," Armin said gently. "Remember? You love it."
"I love it when I can do it when I want and how I want." Eren paused, and he glanced back at it. "Ugh. Crap. Now I feel guilty. Thanks."
"I didn't say anything!"
Eren grinned at him, and he shoved him playfully. "Calm down," he laughed, wandering back to his bench. "I'm just teasing you. Anyway, wanna hear a song I made up?"
"Yes," Armin said eagerly.
"Awesome," Eren said. He patted the spot beside him on the bench, and Armin sat uncertainly, watching as his fingers folded over the keys and he began to play a song by ear. It was a strangely fast paced, but somber song, the kind that reminded Armin of the jazz age. He watched Eren play, his fingers working from middle C up the scale and music colliding with the air, piano strings vibrating and humming along with his frantic movements. Eren didn't know what he was doing, but it didn't matter, because it was beautiful.
Every note was proof of how talented Eren really was. He didn't do sheet music. He just played, because he could, because he liked it, because it made him happy. Armin watched the fast strikes of his fingers across the ivory keys, darting upward to smash ebonies and then flickering back and forth in a hasty movement, and he almost looked like he was doing this intentionally. Maybe he was. Maybe he'd memorized this song of his.
Eren stopped, and he sat back.
"That's it," he said.
Armin was stunned. He sat, his mouth hung open, disbelief crawling over his features. "It's not finished," he'd said.
"No," Eren said, blinking. "I know. I'm still figuring it out. It changes a lot."
"It was awesome," Armin gasped. "Eren, have you shown that to your piano teacher?"
"It's not what I'm supposed to be doing," Eren said with a shrug. "So no. Hey, do you want to play too? Come on, let's make it a duet!"
"Uh…" Armin said nervously as Eren nudged him, pointing to a higher C key. He placed his fingers there, his thumbs over the C.
"No, no," Eren said, "you're holding your hands wrong. You can't have your fingers flat like that, they'll never move anywhere. They've gotta be curved like this." Eren demonstrated. "Like a spider!"
"Eek!" Armin winced.
"Okay, maybe not a spider, uh…" He drummed his fingers lightly against the keys. "Like when you're catching a ball! You don't want your hand to be flat like this." He banged his fingers against the keys, keeping each of them long and straight. "You want to curl your fingers so the ball stays in your hand!"
"Okay…" Armin curled his fingers. "What's the point of this?"
"I don't know," Eren said simply. "Okay, now try to follow my lead."
"I'm not very—" Armin began.
"Okay, go!"
Armin had immediately fallen behind in Eren's frantic piano playing, but in they end both of them were smashing keys and laughing at how horrible they sounded.
It was a long night in the hospital. He begged and begged and begged for them to let him into Mikasa's room, and finally near dawn, they did. Jean was home, probably asleep but responsible for collecting some of Mikasa's things, and she was asleep in her hospital bed. He felt like weeping, but he had no tears or emotions left in him. He sat in the seat beside her bed and observed her face. There was a long, narrow cut on her cheekbone that had been stitched shut, and a few small lacerations along her nose and chin and jaw. Purplish bruises stained her once flawless face, and Armin was reminded of years past, anxious for her to awaken so they could talk it out.
There were a lot of things Armin hated about hospitals. The smells, the anxiety, the downtrodden ambience and sense of solemnity that could be found in places like graveyards and funerals. He simply had no taste for staying in a place like this, and yet here he was. He'd never leave Mikasa alone, so this was where he'd stay.
The doctor said that Mikasa got off lucky considering the wreck, which had been salvaged and taken back to Mikasa's garage. She had a broken rib, a fractured wrist, and a concussion. Those were the extremities. The rest was just trauma, and Armin understood that well. What had Mikasa seen to make her brake? Had it been Eren? Had Eren materialized to her, only to make her crash her car? What the hell was with that?
No, Eren wouldn't do that.
But the ghost boy would.
The ghost boy who had tried to light him and Mikasa on fire.
The ghost boy living under Armin's bed.
Armin had to do something about that kid. Would an exorcism be too excessive? No, he couldn't do that with Eren lurking around, that'd be a disaster. Maybe he'd try something else. A paranormal investigator to just confirm that he was not losing his mind to this monster.
Mikasa stirred as the morning light splashed through her window, hitting her face. She squinted at it, and she groaned. When she covered her face with her hands, she saw the IV drip, and she saw the bandages, and she froze in horror.
"Morning, sleepy head," Armin said, relief spreading through him and warming him like a hearth. Mikasa's eyes darted to him, and she dropped her hands.
"Armin," she croaked. Her eyes darted around frantically, before she resigned to her position as a patient in a hospital. "What… what…?"
"You got into an accident," he told her cautiously. "Do you remember at all? The car flipped. A few times."
"What the fuck…?" She sighed, rubbing her face tiredly. "Ow… did I finish the race, at least?"
"Mikasa!" Armin chastised her, shooting her an angry look.
"Whatever," she said, staring up at the ceiling. "As long as the race stopped, and no one beat me, I should be okay."
"Mikasa!"
"I need the money, Armin," she said honestly, glancing at him. "If I don't have enough to pay the bills, Kenny will move back in."
Oh.
That was understandably disconcerting.
"I'll get a job," Armin piped up, suddenly eager and ready to please her. "It's the least I can do!"
"Armin, no."
"I'm an adult," he told her firmly. "I'm almost out of school, and I'm unemployed, so you have no right to tell me I cannot get a job. Also I've been mooching off you for way too long."
"I don't think it's mooching," Mikasa whispered. "I want you here."
"Then let me help pay for the apartment," he said, taking her hand. Both his and hers were bandaged tightly. What a mess they were. He wished Eren were there too. A dead boy, and a broken girl, and a boy without a clue.
"At least I'm not dead, I guess…" Mikasa mumbled, squeezing his fingers. "That's always a plus."
"Don't even joke," he laughed quietly, bitterly into his hand. "Don't ever joke about dying, okay? You can't die on me."
"I won't."
"Promise."
"I won't die," she told him, smiling wanly. "Not when you still need me."
"Not ever."
"Now that's unrealistic."
"I'm sick of realism," he said sharply. "I'm sick of death and being sad. I just want you to stay alive for as long as humanly possible, and be happy."
She smiled wider at him. "I love you," she said, sounding happier than he'd heard her in weeks.
"I love you too," he replied, swinging her hand idly. He imagined Eren's ghostly fingers around his other hand. Then they'd be whole again.
Jean showed up with coffee, which was much appreciated, and he explained to Mikasa that everyone had gotten away before the cops had shown up to Mikasa's car, which had been left on the Strip. He'd told the police that they'd been going to Trost in separate cars when she'd crashed, swerving to miss a small animal. They'd bought it. Especially considering Annie was there to testify to that lie.
"At least I didn't fuck up too badly," Mikasa said, sipping her coffee thoughtfully.
"Besides almost dying?" Jean watched her with wide eyes. "The car almost blew up!"
"Really?" She tilted her head, her hair falling limply across her cheeks. "Damn."
"How are you so calm about it?" Jean asked, looking unnerved. "Christ!"
"Because I'm okay," Mikasa said, "and I don't need anyone to worry about me."
"That shit was scary, Mikasa."
"I'm fine," she insisted.
Jean scowled. And then he glanced at Armin, and looked a little remorseful. "You should go home," he told him. "Get some sleep, okay?"
"What?" Armin shook his head furiously. "Wait, no way!"
"Armin," Mikasa warned. He glanced at her, and saw her face. She looked dangerous and scolding, which was scary enough when she wasn't all banged up. She looked fearsome now. He grimaced, and faltered.
"I want to stay here with you," he insisted.
"You don't need to," she sighed. "I'm okay, and you need rest."
I'm scared to go home, he wished he could tell her. Instead he nodded vacantly, bunching his cardigan anxiously in his bandaged hands.
He walked, taking his time to gather his thoughts and bearings, and finish his coffee off. The hospital was farther from Mikasa's apartment than, say, the police station, but Shiganshina was still small enough that it didn't take him more than forty minutes. He unlocked the door, wary of his surroundings, and entered the apartment. Firstly, he made sure to feed The Captain, scratching behind the tiny dog's ears as he came running for his breakfast. Secondly, Armin decided to pass out on the couch.
He was exhausted.
He'd never been so exhausted in his entire life.
He felt as though he was being pinned down, and darkness hung over his head, darkness and shadows and a glint of a knife.
He had no will to scream anymore.
Armin woke up breathless, a heavy weight on his chest that crept from his lungs to his throat, and he thought he might begin to cry if he did not move immediately. As he sat up, he came face to face with a flickering boy who was standing silently at the arm of the couch, his green eyes shadowed and his hair sticking to his face. Armin swallowed hard as Eren's form blotted in and out of existence, and he was suddenly hovering at Armin's side, beaming at him.
"You're awake!" he gasped, looking far too pleased for what he had just looked like a second before, standing at Armin's feet as he slept, watching him with a dark gaze and a shaky appearance. "Where have you been? I've been here for hours, but the only one that was here was dumb Horse Face! Does he live with you guys, or something?"
"Yes," Armin mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Eren made a derisive little choking noise, throwing his had back and laughing.
"What a joke," he said. "That guy's a total asshole. He's so full of himself!"
"You don't even know him, Eren."
"I've heard him," Eren sniffed. "He's a total first class narcissist. How can you even deal with that? Like, what a pretentious asshole. Who does he think he is, complaining about the under appreciated Disney movies? Armin, he doesn't like Hunchback."
"As someone who has actually read The Hunchback of Notre Dame," Armin said carefully, "I understand Jean's disdain."
"Okay, let's just ignore the book for a sec!" Eren waved his hands furiously. "The movie! Recognition of racial and religious prejudices! A badass soundtrack!"
"Singing gargoyles," Armin pointed out.
"Hey, I did not say it was without flaw." Eren scowled. "Talk him out of it. Make him take it back."
"Okay," Armin said, though he was certain that was an impossible feat. "Would you like me to change his mind about Pocahontas too?"
"Nah, Disney kinda fucked up with that one."
"Kinda." Armin stretched his arms above his head. "Hey, aren't you dead?"
"Hey!" Eren grinned at him broadly. "You remembered this time!"
"Oh man," Armin groaned. "Don't be so cheerful about it. There's kinda a reason why I didn't want to believe you."
"Kinda," Eren scoffed, mimicking Armin's voice. Armin scowled at him until Eren smiled sheepishly. "Aw, lighten up."
"Eren," Armin sighed. "Mikasa's in the hospital."
Eren's face fell so fast, Armin swore his skin flitted out of existence, leaving his skull bare for Armin to see for a fraction of a second, a terrible image that burned into Armin's mind. His image flickered subtly, and then rapidly as it sunk in, and Eren disappeared altogether in a blinking snap of motion. Armin sunk into the couch, feeling a little uncertain and scared.
"What do you mean…" Eren's voice curled like smoke inside Armin's ear. "She's in the hospital?"
Armin twisted around in his seat, staring wide eyed into Eren's face. He was very close, his nose only millimeters away, his skin sickeningly pale and flecked with dirt and grime and something dark, something… wet, wetter than the beads of water slipping from his damp hair. Armin's breath caught in his throat. Eren flickered again as his rage dissipated with every moment he stood staring into Armin's terrified eyes.
"I'm sorry," Eren said earnestly. "Do I look bad?"
"No," Armin blurted, flushing in horror of the thought of letting Eren know how scary he really was. "No, no, no, that's not it!"
Eren stared at him vacantly. "You don't have to lie," he said. "I know. It takes a lot of energy to keep up this appearance." He gestured to himself, and he smiled wanly. "The real me isn't someone you want to have long conversations with. I know that much, at least."
"The real you?" Armin asked curiously, sitting on his knees and peering closer at Eren's dark face. It fluctuated between deathly pale and golden brown, cadaverous and radiating health, a visual dissonance that burned Armin's bleary eyes. "So you don't actually look like this. The real you is the one that looks like a corpse."
"Well technically…" Eren joked, a weak grin folding on his lips. Armin watched him, and he ached to touch him, to prove that this was all a lie, that his skin was warm and brown and healthy, that his blood was still pumping and the vein below his ear was still pulsing. Armin's fingers twitched, but the bandages on his fingers kept him from scratching them.
"How did you die, Eren?" Armin asked.
Eren stared at him.
"Oh," he said. He looked down. And then up. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" Armin couldn't help but sound irritated.
"I don't remember."
"It's kind of important!" Armin's voice cracked miserably. "How could you forget?"
"It was a hectic night, okay?" Eren shuffled awkwardly, looking annoyed and frustrated. "I don't remember a lot of it. The stuff I do remember, I don't want to. Just leave it."
"No!" Armin leapt to his feet. "No way! You say you're dead, that you died, but you won't tell me how!"
Eren shook his head. "I don't know," he insisted, raising his eyes to Armin's and staring into them, a plea buried deep within his gaze, a plea to stop, a plea to understand. But Armin didn't understand anything. He was too angry. Too confused.
Living in ignorance was not something that Armin could ever do.
"Then I'll figure it out myself," Armin said firmly.
"Armin, no," Eren whispered.
"Don't you dare," Armin said, pointing a finger at Eren's face and taking a deep breath. "Don't you dare. You don't get to do that. Try to convince me to not figure this out. If you don't know what happened, and if you don't want to know, then fine! I won't tell you when I find out."
"Now that's just fucking immature," Eren said, squinting at him. "Why can't you just… leave this alone? If it's really been seven years, then… let's be real here, okay?" Eren's face seemed to crumple a little, his eyes dropping to the floor as his mouth opened and closed, the edges of his lips sticking together and peeling slowly apart as he struggled to speak. Armin watched this, and he felt guilty. "You're the only one still looking."
Armin felt a pang of despair. Eren must be feeling crushed at the thought, at the mere idea that his life could have meant so little to the people of this community. He must feel betrayed. Armin sure did.
"I'm going to figure this out," Armin said firmly. "And you know what I think?"
Eren perked up. His eyes darted wildly across Armin's face, and he tilted his head curiously.
"What do you think?" he whispered eagerly.
Armin glanced behind him. Around the room. He peered into the hall.
Where was that little beast lurking?
"I think this has something to do with Kenny."
"Kenny?" Eren sounded distant. "Creepy Kenny?"
"The one and only."
"You think he killed me?" Eren tilted his head from one side to the other. "That's kinda fascinating."
"I don't know why he'd want to kill you," Armin said cautiously. "But he's certainly not above that sort of thing."
Eren's expression became very dark. "No," he said, averting his gaze sharply. "I guess he's not."
"Tell me," Armin said, turning about in place, his eyes moving around the living room, roving the corners and searching the crevices between furniture. He would not be a victim in a horror movie, and he would not let that terrible little boy sneak up on him again. "What do you know about him?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well," Armin sighed, glancing at the Parables of Sina, which he'd left on the table. He was reminded that Eren knew something of this Wall Cult business, and so did Kenny Ackerman. Something here added up, and Armin just knew it. "I mean, you were always closer to Mikasa than I was."
"Don't say that!" Eren looked angry, but not angry enough that his skin rippled. "You're just as close! Hell, she tells you she loves you all the time! She never told me that."
"She probably didn't think she had to," Armin whispered. "Anyway! Not the point!"
"What was the point?" Eren asked impatiently. "That I know something about Creepy Ackerman? Beyond that he was a gross, unstable, pitiful excuse for a human being?"
"Eren, I know you know something," Armin said. The room was so very cold, and Armin could taste the water in the air, the residual dirt clinging to his teeth and lips as he breathed it in. He stared into Eren's eyes, and Eren stared back. Why was he here? If he was really, truly dead, and not some hallucination, why was he still here? "If you don't tell me, I'm going to start snooping."
"What the hell am I supposed to know about that guy?" Eren glowered at the floor. "Just leave it alone. He probably has nothing to do with this."
"What's the Wall Cult?" Armin asked him, feeling along the walls and pressing his ear to one. He heard nothing from within, not a scratch or a sigh. Eren didn't seem to notice his odd behavior. He was fixed on the question.
"The Wall…?" Eren leaned back, looking alarmed. "What…?"
"You put a book on hold at Historia's antique store the night you disappeared," Armin reminded him gently, whirling to face him. "It turns out Kenny had the same book."
"Did he…?" Eren looked even more alarmed, his mouth falling open and his thick eyebrows knitting together. "Armin, look. Listen. I don't know anything. I don't remember what happened that night!"
"Why, though?" Armin growled, shaking his head furiously. He was unable to meet Eren's eye, afraid of what he might see. "What happened? What could have happened to you that was so terrible that you just forgot it happened?"
Armin knew, though.
He knew from Eren's flickering face, golden to pale, dry to dripping, fire-eyed to dull gazed.
Eren had died in Titan's Maw. His waxy skin was perpetually damp, and his lips shocked blue from the vicious cold.
Now. The question was… where was his body?
Didn't Historia say once, Armin thought dazedly, that even Reiner could sink to the bottom of Titan's Maw with something heavy enough?
The thought was jarring to Armin. It meant that someone must have wanted Eren to sink.
"I don't know," Eren whispered.
Somehow, Armin didn't believe him.
"Did you hate him?" Armin asked Eren sharply.
"What? Kenny?" Eren snorted in disbelief. "Uh, yeah. I still do. I want him to swallow cyanide. Fall into a pit of scorpions. I want him to be ripped to fucking shreds."
Armin could not disagree. "Because he hurt Mikasa," he clarified. "Yes?"
Eren eyed him warily. "What's this about?" he asked. "What does it have to do with me?"
"I don't know yet," Armin sighed, ruffling his hair furiously. "I don't know. Isn't that terrible? Me not knowing." He gave a bitter laugh of disbelief, and he whirled away. He had to think. It was so hard to think with Eren freezing the room over, turning the air stale and frigid, sucking the energy from the atmosphere.
Eren appeared before him, his eyes flashing furiously. Armin could feel his frustration, but it never affected his appearance, never stole away from the mask of wellness that Eren put on just for Armin's sake. He hated it. Let him be a frightening monster of a boy. Let him drip and sigh and moan, drag his nails across the walls and frighten the world with his unbearable nature.
"You're not obligated to know everything," Eren said to him gently. "And… it's probably better that way. You'd be better off, you know, living in ignorance."
"I'm not ignorant," Armin snapped. "And I refuse to let myself be idle while your corpse is sitting out there somewhere, rotting away! Fuck, Eren!" He buried his face in his hands, foolish and frightened and half-feigning his despair. He knew, he knew, he knew. He knew how Eren worked. Just as Eren knew him.
"Quit it," Eren snapped. "I'm fine with being dead, so you need to chill about it. You said it's been seven years. Stop worrying about me." He stared at Armin with softening eyes, his breath stinging the air. "Stop worrying about me…"
Armin shook his head. He shook it and shook it. It wasn't fair that Eren was doing this to him, trying to dissuade him from the truth. It wasn't fair that Eren was dead, and it wasn't fair that Armin had to deal with that. It wasn't fair that he had to accept that his best friend was gone, even if he was standing right beside him.
He had to figure this out, or else he might truly lose his mind.
Truly.
He turned from Eren, not bothering to respond that of course he worried about him. The boy was dead, dead, dead, gone and decomposing somewhere, his soul left to flicker in and out of existence. Armin hadn't even really known if he'd believed in souls until this point in his life. He was so lost, and he was not prepared for this sort of spiritual fuckery.
He left the room, left Eren standing there, and wandered outside, his bare feet clapping against the cool metal staircase. He needed to organize, and he needed to focus. Firstly, he did not know if Eren's death had been an accident. But considering his body had yet to appear, Armin was leaning toward homicide. Meaning he needed suspects.
His first suspect was Kenny Ackerman.
In the catacombs of Armin's memory, he could see it. The welts. The bruises. The bandages.
He paused as he stood in the middle of Mikasa's garage, staring at his disheveled reflection in the gleaming window of her bent up Camaro. He tilted his head, and the dead eyed boy's neck bent harshly, smacking against his shoulder as though dropped, as though held by a thin string that had been severed quite suddenly. He turned slowly, lifting his cardigan and then his shirt, eying his pale skin as it became bare in the black surface of the window. He watched his own eyes flicker, moving from his round face to the dip of his spine.
There had never been a scar. There had never been a real mark to begin with. It had hurt, certainly, to be struck with a belt, but Armin never bore a scar from Kenny Ackerman's cruelty. Not like Mikasa. Not like Eren. Those two… had always protected him… and now what? One was traumatized and one was dead. And Armin?
He was staring at a scar.
No, not a scar.
A scratch.
He ran his unsteady fingers over the raised skin, and hissed through his teeth when he realized it hurt. This was a fresh wound, a recent graze on his skin that was hardly a cut, and already half a scab. But it was real. It was there.
When had this happened?
He dropped his shirt, rubbing his face and ignoring Eren as he passed by him. He was watching Armin silently, his bold green eyes following his every movement, his face pinched with confusion.
Okay. Suspect one. Kenny Ackerman.
Motive?
Sadism? Rage? He certainly never cared for Eren. There was a cigarette burn on the inside of Eren's arm that proved it. He'd never told his parents, of course, too stubborn and too enraged. He'd wanted to get revenge on Kenny by himself. Armin wondered if he ever succeeded.
He grabbed a hammer from a toolbox sitting on a long metal table. It weighed heavily in his hand.
"What are you gonna do with that?" Eren asked warily.
Armin swung the hammer idly at his side, and he thought about it. Well, he could certainly kill someone with a hammer, but he'd never get away with it. It'd be a sloppy way to do away with Kenny Ackerman, and Armin was many things, but he did not think he was sloppy.
"I'm going to dig up some skeletons," Armin replied, exiting the garage. As he moved to the switch beside the folding door, he noted someone watching him. From the parking lot. Someone was leaning against their car, watching the building with a smile so big that it was blinding. Armin threw a glance behind him at Eren, but Eren was no longer there. Well, shit.
"Excuse me," he called, punching the button and ducking beneath the whirring mechanical garage door as it lowered. "We're closed."
"Oh?" The person was very lanky, dressed in loose slacks and a shapeless blue blazer. Their hair was a complete and utter rat's nest, tied up at the back of their head and knotted messily so strands stuck up and around and fell into their warm hued face. A pair of gleaming eyes watched him from thick framed glasses. "Is it because of the Ackerman girl?"
The hammer weighed heavily at his side. He stared at the person, his eyes widening momentarily before he schooled his features.
"Are you a customer?" he asked warily.
"I'm curious," the person laughed, pushing off their car. They strode up to Armin, offering out their hand. "My name is Hange. I'm a professor at the Uni."
"A professor in what?" Armin asked, genuinely curious now.
Hange beamed at him. "Ah!" they cried, clapping their hands. "I'm so glad you asked! I teach cultural and biological anthropology, but I have a degree in parapsychology. I actually lived here while I was doing my final dissertation."
"Your capstone," Armin clarified. "That's actually what I'm doing right now! Well…" He glanced away from their face quickly. "Not the parapsychology thing. I'm an investigative journalism major."
"Investigative journalism!" Hange's eyes twinkled brightly. "That's a fun field! What's your thesis?"
"Um…" He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. "I'm actually investigating… the disappearance of a boy who used to live here…"
"Oh." Hange's face fell a little. They glanced up at the garage, and they nodded sympathetically. "Man, that's tough. How's it going? How did you even build an investigation out of that?"
Armin wasn't especially surprised that they knew who he was talking about, but he couldn't help but be struck silent. He flushed in embarrassment, and stammered to answer. "W-well…" He swung the hammer at his side, glowering at it, hating himself for his nervousness. "I… I started with the police, checking their investigation and… and going from there…"
"I didn't even know the police did an investigation," Hange said vacantly. "Huh! You learn something new every day, how about that? Well, you should keep me updated on that. They never found a body, right?" Hange was no longer smiling, and they stared up at the garage, their expression somber and hardened. "Do you live here?"
Armin's hands were sweaty. He nodded slowly. "Y-yeah…"
"That's interesting." They glanced at Armin, and they smiled wickedly. "You know, I don't mean to frighten you, but I think your house is haunted."
He was taken aback by their candidness, by their bright smile and glittering eyes. He glanced at the garage behind him, and then back at Hange. "Uh…" he said, his distress causing the pitch of his voice to heighten, breaking apart upon air contact.
"I received a call from your house last night," Hange explained hastily. "At around three am. I answered, of course, because I was awake grading papers— never become a teacher, okay, kiddo? You look like a nice person, and I'd hate to see you lose your head. Anyways, I was grading papers, and my phone rang, and I heard—" They laughed brightly. "Well, the voice was very breathy and small, like a child's. You don't have a kid, do you?"
"No…" Armin felt sick at the thought. "No, I… I… I'm sorry, how'd you know it was my house?"
Hange blinked at him. "I used to live here, remember?" They smiled at him gently. "I knew the number from before… well, you know." Their eyes wandered up to the apartment sadly. "I haven't been in the house since then. Kenny still lurking around, or did he boot it?"
"You know Kenny?" Armin tried not to sound too horrified, but it was too much. He couldn't do it. His voice came out sharp and disgusted, his face contorting and his lips twisting. Hange glanced at him fast, and they shook their head furiously.
"Ah, no, I wasn't his friend!" Hange laughed at that, a boisterous laugh, a forced laugh. "Wow, no, never. That guy needs a hot firepoker shoved down his throat. But I was a friend of Levi's. Oh, speaking of, how is that girl? Mikasa? I only met her once, and she was so tiny—"
"Levi?" Armin cut them off sharply, bemusement spilling into his voice and staining his face. "Who's Levi?"
Hange stared at him. Armin watched their eyes widen very fast, and then avert, and then, in a great swoop of anxious emotion, their entire demeanor changed. They were thinking fast. As was Armin. Levi. Levi? Armin felt like he'd heard that name before, but nothing was clicking.
"You don't know…?" Hange sounded very confused, and they leaned back on their heels. "Whoa. Okay. This just got weird." They checked their phone quickly, and a shrill shriek fell from their mouth. "Ah! Shit, shit, shit, okay, kid, I'm sorry, but I have a class—"
"It's fine," Armin gasped, blinking rapidly. "Also, Mikasa's okay. How'd you know—?"
"Here's my card," Hange said, clapping a tiny retangular paper into Armin's empty fist. "There's way too much to talk about, like I'd need a few hours. And also, I want to have a look at your house to make sure it's actually got activity. What's your name?"
"Armin," he said weakly, lost in this person's bizarre words and hurried pace. He could not understand what they were talking about, because they were thinking faster than him, and they knew something he didn't.
"Armin!" Hange whirled away. "Awesome! Call me if anything weird happens, okay?" They headed toward their car, and as they climbed into it, the paused. "Ah! Also, I want to hear more about your thesis! Like, a lot more! I want your entire investigation!"
"Okay…" Armin glanced down at the card. Hange Zoe, it said. Paranormal Investigator.
Well. Shit.
How did this even happen?
Armin watched Hange drive away, and his fist clenched around his hammer. Fuck. He wanted to smack himself in the face with it.
He was angry because… because…
Because he didn't know anything.
Who the fuck was Levi?
He didn't know a goddamn thing.
Armin trudged up the steps, his bare feet dragging, and he entered the apartment with a newfound sluggishness. However, he was motivated now more than ever to crack this case. He went to his room, swinging the hammer idly and biting the inside of his cheek as he gazed at the painting that had been dancing upon his last nerve for weeks.
He examined his options, and finally decided to just go for it. Subtlety be damned, he was getting to the bottom of this. He used the claw of the hammer to yank the first nail from the corner of the painting, and he stumbled a little as he put the majority of his strength into pulling it from the wall. He watched as it fell to the floor, clattering against the wood, and he took a deep breath and set back to work.
"What are you doing?" Eren asked curiously. He appeared on Armin's bed.
Armin ignored him. Another nail fell to the floor. The painting was growing crooked.
"That's an awful painting," Eren said. "Who even put it there?"
Again, he was silent. He had tears in his eyes. He hated this. He hated this.
Eren was dead.
He hated this.
"Why is it nailed to the wall?" Eren asked.
He hated this.
Who'd kill Eren?
Who'd have the heart and the strength to kill someone like Eren Jaeger?
Who could have possibly done such a terrible, cowardly thing?
Armin hated them.
He hated this.
He dropped the hammer, breathing heavier now as the painting fell askew, and behind it something peeked out, a triangle of gray beneath a layer of glass. Armin shook his head, and he held back his tears. He didn't want to understand this. But he did.
He mustered up his courage and he lifted the painting. It was heavy in his arms, the weight crushing his muscles and bones, his skin folding in itself from the force of it.
Before him, beneath the space were the painting had sat, there was a window. Beyond that, there was a room. That room was Mikasa's.
"What the fuck?" Eren exhaled in Armin's ear, peering over his shoulder and suddenly furious. "No way. No fucking way."
"Suspect one," Armin whispered. "Kenny Ackerman."
"He had a two way mirror installed…" Eren was breathless, and his face was stricken and white, sopping wet and bloodied on one side. "That… that sick fucking bastard, I'll rip him to fucking shreds!"
Armin leaned his forehead against the wall, his stomach stirring uneasily at the thoughts that surfaced in his mind. He thought he might've been in Miksasa's good favors enough that she'd tell him if Kenny had been sexually abusive as well as physically and verbally, but now he wasn't so sure. What did this mirror mean? Mikasa had known about it, clearly, and had made sure to cover it up when she could. But did that stop Kenny? Could anything have stopped him?
He didn't want to ask her, but after this…? How could he not?
"He was always creepy with Mikasa," Eren mumbled, sinking to the floor. "But not like this, Armin. Not like this."
"Are you denying it, or stating an absolute fact?" Armin peered down at him, his temple resting against the wall and his body slouching in exhaustion. "Some of her bruises… could have lined up with—"
"She would have told me, okay?" Eren snapped at him. "No. We're not going down that road. This…" Eren's gauzy eyes roved upward, searching the two way mirror dazedly. "This hasn't got anything to do with Mikasa. I'm sure of it."
"You're sure," Armin said uncertainly. "Absolutely?"
"Yeah." Eren's bad side, a side where a portion of his skull had caved in and blood had caressed down his neck and stroked his cheekbone, kissing the grooves of his ear and combed through the thick strands of his damp hair. Armin couldn't help but think, under any other circumstance, the pattern would be lovely. "I'd have known, okay? I would never let something like that happen to her."
"Okay," Armin sighed. "Okay, I believe you. But that doesn't explain this. Or… Kenny's connection with you."
"We don't have any sort of connection," Eren said fiercely.
"I just meant that he's a suspect."
"Because of some weird cult bullshit?" He shook his head furiously. "I don't know, Armin! I don't remember being into any of that."
"You could have been tailing Kenny." Armin hung the painting back up, unable to stomach looking through the mirror any longer. Even the creepy painting was far better than this terrible clue. He wandered over to the box, and he picked up Kenny's copy of The Cult of Walls. "I'm still working my way through this, but it looks like there was a lot of weird ritualistic stuff. Most of it was blood magic. Offerings and stuff to old gods who granted power, and stuff like that. Listen to this teaching here!" Armin flipped hurriedly through the stained, bleached out pages. "'Discipline requires pain. Victory requires sacrifice.' It's all about throwing yourself away to do what might be considered "right" on a cosmic level, but not on a human level. The worst part, I can't even tell if I agree with it or not."
"It…" Eren stood up, his brow furrowed. "It doesn't sound wrong. But... also, it's really vague. Pain isn't the only way to achieve discipline, and victory… doesn't require sacrifice… just a person willing to sacrifice." Eren sighed, and he rubbed his head. "I'm so tired. I've been awake too long."
"Go to sleep," Armin said, thumbing through the thin pages. "I'll be here or at the hospital with Mikasa."
"No, you don't…" Eren let out a loud, irritated sigh. "Never mind."
"What?"
"I said never mind."
Armin clapped the book shut, and he tossed it aside. "Kenny's the first suspect," Armin said. "The obvious one. Now we're heading into some risky territory."
"Oh?" Eren asked eagerly.
"Suspect two." Armin stared directly into Eren's eyes. The boy sat eagerly, his appearance flickering jauntily between warm and beautiful and wet and bloody. "You."
Eren's smile fell. He looked horrified for a fraction of a second.
"Tell me," Armin begged, "if I'm wrong."
Eren did not.
He opened his mouth. And then he closed it. His brow furrowed desperately.
"I don't know," he whispered.
That was the entire fucking problem.
No one fucking knew.
Armin hated this.
"It's not a good theory," Armin said, biting his lip. "But it's honestly not something I can rule out, not yet. You were acting really weird that night, Eren."
There were some flaws in this. Why would Eren take Mikasa and Armin with him if he planned on killing himself? Well, it's entirely possible it hadn't been his intention when he'd gone into the forest.
But who really understood Eren?
Certainly not Eren.
"You won't confirm or deny it," he said curtly, feeling despicable as he spoke. "So I'm not ruling it out. You could have killed yourself. It's not unusual. I think about it all the time."
Eren stood. His eyes were wide. His mouth was parted.
"Armin, that's…" Eren faded. Not flickered. Faded. His color was sucked away, and his outline lingered, his lips open and moving slow as he resurfaced dimly. "Not good… stop it."
"Stop thinking about dying?" Armin tilted his head. "That's ironic. Coming from you."
"Oh man, shut up."
Armin smiled at him weakly. "Sorry," he said, feeling squeamish and worn thin. "Was that insensitive?"
"A little."
"I'm really sorry," he said, earnestly this time. He hadn't meant to poke fun at Eren, and dead jokes hadn't been off limits before. Eren had encouraged them until this point. It could be that he was just feeling very uncertain because of the possibility that he had killed himself. Armin didn't like the theory. But he didn't like the idea that someone had successfully murdered him either.
"It's okay," Eren sighed. "I just… I don't know. It's killing me. Pun fucking intended, asshole."
Armin laughed for real, and it felt so nice to laugh, to let it fall away from him and smash the constraints that bound his heart to his chest and to his ribs, the stones falling to his stomach and letting a chain effect run wild, a string cut and a latch sprung and a thousand butterflies set free to bat their wings against the walls of his abdomen.
It was so nice to feel this way again. It had been too long since Armin had felt truly happy.
"I'm sorry," he said as his laughter died away. "All I've been doing is making you sadder. It's not my intention to cause you pain, you know, it's never been. I just need to know."
"But why?" Eren groaned. "Why is it so important? Do you want me to go away that badly?"
"What? No!" Armin could not fathom why he'd ask something like that. "I don't want you to go anywhere!"
"I'll disappear if you figure this out, Armin," Eren warned him, his head lowering to punctuate just how serious he was. "You should listen to me and leave it alone."
"I can't."
"I'm not going to help you."
"That's fine," he sighed. "I just… if the situation was reversed, Eren, what would you do?"
"I'd stop looking," Eren snapped. "If I knew finding out how you died meant I'd never see you again, that you'd disappear forever, maybe move on to some higher plane or be reincarnated or go to hell or just cease to exist entirely, I'd stop. Because I don't want to lose you." Eren folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not angry that knowledge means more to you than sentiment, but fuck, Armin. Give me a break. I don't want to go away yet."
For all it was worth, Armin did not burst into tears. He wanted to. He almost puked right then and there, a sob squeezing his throat like a noose tightening and squeaking as it hung him out to dry. He blinked back the bad thoughts and the painful tears, and he closed his eyes.
"Tell me again," Armin whispered, "to stop looking for your murderer."
It wasn't a warning. It wasn't a threat.
Armin's voice was soft and imploring.
He begged.
He hated this.
And Eren could not answer. Perhaps he was crying too. Armin could not tell, because his cheeks were already slick with moisture.
The doorbell rang, and in a sharp blink, Eren was gone from the room, and the icy air settled for just a moment. Armin exhaled, and he buried his face in his hands, swallowing a rigid sob. It scratched his esophagus on the way down.
He wiped his tears away, hoping he wasn't too much of a mess, and he wandered into the hall. Eren was standing beside the door, waiting patiently, his skin so very warm, and his eyes so very bright, and he smiled excitedly.
"Annie!" he gasped, looking so… very… happy…
Armin just felt sicker and sicker. He opened the door.
"Hey," he said, rubbing his eyes and sniffling a bit. Annie stared up at him, her eyes narrowing. "Hi. Sorry, I… just got up."
"You look like you've been crying." She shoved past him into the house. Typical Annie. "Is Mikasa okay?"
"She's fine," Armin gasped, astonished that Annie cared so much. "She will be, at least. She was pretty banged up, but it could have been worse."
"Good." Annie nodded distantly. "Good. Okay. Go get dressed."
"What? Why?"
Annie glanced at him. Her icy eyes had nothing on the air around them. She even shivered a little, her brow furrowing. "Just get into something presentable that's not completely filthy," she said, rolling her eyes. "We're going to see the Jaegers."
"My parents?" Eren blurted from behind Armin's head, his voice slithering sharply into Armin's ear. "Oh fuck. I don't think I'm ready for this. Oh my god. I think I'm gonna puke."
Armin refrained from reminding Eren that he was dead, so he could not, in fact, puke.
"Oh," Armin said distantly. "Wait, me too? Are you sure that's a good…?"
"Yes," she said, throwing him a sharp glare. "This is for you, so you better get your ass dressed into something presentable quick, because I'm on my lunch break."
"Oh!" He nodded quickly, whirling away from her. "Okay, uh… just stay right there, I'll be super fast!"
"Sure."
Armin ran to his room, closing his door and leaning against it, staring vacantly at his bed and feeling his heart pounding. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. What was he supposed to say to the Jaegers? I'm sorry your son is fucking dead? I'm sorry that I'm looking for his fucking dead body? I'm sorry I was a terrible friend to him? It was just a disaster waiting to happen, especially considering how much they blamed him for what had happened.
You're supposed to be the responsible one, Carla's distant voice crashed into his brain like a wave upon palisades. You know Eren, you know the influence you had on him! Why didn't you stop him?
It was a question Armin had been asking himself for years.
He stripped off his soiled cardigan, ignoring Eren as he appeared beside him, watching with shadowy eyes and a chilly demeanor. He was on edge, his body flickering so violently that it hurt Armin's eyes to look. He didn't want to see his parents, but at the same time he did, and Armin understood because he was just as scared.
"Annie can't see you," he whispered, bundling his dirty clothes in a ball and tossing them in a basket in the corner. Eren was still watching him. Armin reminded himself over and over that it wasn't weird, that they'd always been like this. Right? Armin hated the feeling of nakedness, but Eren and Mikasa… they'd never been shy with him. He should feel the same. Right?
Ah. Damn. He didn't know.
"No." Eren's voice was smooth and distant. "No, I don't know. I don't know why. I don't know who can see me and who can't."
Armin nodded. He dug through his drawers for something to wear, and he felt Eren lingering very close. He felt him in the air, not existing but not fading, and he was breathing with ice laying itself down on the pale hairs that stood on Armin's neck. He stood, his eyes widening as he felt the cold jolt along his ribs, dragging slow on the protruding bone, and he saw with a vicious clarity the sight of water rushing and he heard a scream so terrible that it rung like a crashing bell inside his ears.
Armin shuddered against Eren's touch, and he lurched away, hugging his arms around his chest, tears stinging his eyes.
"Don't do that!" he gasped, rubbing the bumpy skin where Eren's ghostly fingers had grazed him.
Eren stood sadly. No, he wasn't standing.
He was floating.
Half his body had disappeared, and he was hovering in a vaguely opaque state, looking sad and stark and stupefied.
"You're not eating," Eren whispered. "You fucking— you fucking—!"
Eren erased himself from existence as a knock at his door peeled Armin's soul from his skin.
"Are you okay?" Annie called.
"Y-yeah!" Armin cried, his voice breaking so pitifully that his tears could not be contained, and he rubbed his eyes furiously. "Yeah, I'm fine!"
"I thought I heard you shouting."
Armin sniffled, and he dragged a pair of jeans over his boxers, staring at his bandaged hands and wishing he were someone else. Someone who cared less or cared more. Someone who wasn't smart, who was brave and bright and bold. Someone like Eren.
It took a lot not to start sobbing.
"I'm fine," he called, his voice empty.
Annie didn't respond. He was angry with himself for lying to her, but he couldn't do anything else. He was too good at lying.
He wanted Eren to come back and yell at him some more.
He exited his room hastily, tugging a dark sweater over his head as he bumped into Annie, apologizing half-heartedly as he covered his pallid ribcage.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
She stared at him, her droopy eyes narrowing a bit, and she seemed to deliberate something quickly as she gave him a once over. Whatever it was, she ignored it, and grabbed his arm. It was difficult not to seem jumpy around her, to not seem distant and sad, and he was struggling to school himself. He was falling into old patterns, and she was watching him drown.
He sat in the passenger side of her cruiser, staring down at his bandaged hands which were folded in his lap. She glanced at him as she pulled out of the garage's lot. There was a wall between them, and Armin could feel it thickening. He wanted to be able to talk to her, because she was important to him, and she was known to be a recluse. But he couldn't bring himself to speak.
"You know," she said carefully, unable to meet his eye. She rested her wrist against the wheel, her shoulders tense. "You could have told me this upsets you."
"What?" he blurted, glancing at her sharply. "No—!"
"I know what you look like when you cry," she told him curtly. "Cut the shit."
"Annie…" Armin stared at her desperately. "I… Oh, god. I'm just… sad, I think. I miss Eren a lot."
"We all do."
"I know," he whispered. "I know. It's not… it's nothing. Forget it."
She blinked, her eyes focused solely on the road, but he could tell that she was disappointed and unsure. He wrung his hands, and the barrier between them became a chasm.
They were creatures of habit.
They would never be able to get around how truly awful they were.
He hated this.
He hated all of this.
He should never have returned.
He hated himself so badly for leaving and wanting to leave again.
Annie parked the car, but she did not get out. She turned to face him, and she watched him sternly. "Whatever is really bothering you is your business," she hissed. "But don't fucking cry in front of these people. They've been through enough."
"Yeah." Armin swallowed thickly, and he nodded. Annie's face softened for only a second, her eyes closing tight before she kicked the door open and climbed out, slamming it shut. Armin followed her, hugging his ribs and thinking of Eren's chilly touch, the horror of his fingers passing through skin and bone and dragging through him. The image that struck, the scream that sailed and wailed through his head, on a perpetually looping track.
Annie knocked on the door, and Armin stuck behind her, his head bowed. He heard screams like music notes striking in his head. He heard strings being plucked and struck and rubbed finely with flaxen bows. He heard percussion and friction and strumming. He heard strings snapping under the soul crushing crack of a head and a neck.
He could not take this anxiety.
Eren's death sung like a symphony inside Armin's brain.
Carla Jaeger answered the door, smiling vividly. Her eyes fell on Armin, and the smile was dampened only slightly. Then, quickly, she recovered.
"Oh my," she gasped. "Annie, you didn't say Armin was joining you!"
"It was a last minute thing," Armin explained hastily. "I met up with her, and asked if I could come. If I'm intruding—"
"Oh, don't be silly," Carla said, shaking her head and waving them inside. "I'll just have to make more tea."
Annie entered the house, and Armin reluctantly followed. Nostalgia carved itself into him, and he wanted to pull his skin off. This was difficult. He couldn't swallow. Don't cry, he reminded himself. Don't do it.
He smiled at Carla, wringing his hands behind his back. His heart was not in this. He heard strings in his head, melodies playing striking hard at his chest.
"It's really good to see you," she said to him, sounding genuine and throwing him off guard. "You've gotten so big…"
"I…" Armin blinked rapidly. He had not been expecting such a warm welcome. "I… well, I grew…"
Carla laughed, and she mussed his hair gently, reaching up and smoothing the bangs from his forehead. "Oh," she said, stroking the scar above his brow. "What happened here?"
"I fell," he said, holding back his emotional turmoil. "I hit my head on some concrete. I'm okay, though."
She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth very sternly. "You're still so clumsy," she sighed, smiling at him fondly. "You look very pale. Perhaps Grisha should have a look at you."
"That's not necessary," Armin gasped, waving his hands hurriedly.
"And you, Annie?" Carla led them into the living room, and Armin's eyes fell immediately upong the piano in the corner. "How's police work suiting you?"
"Boring as hell," Annie said. "I mostly handle paperwork. It's gross."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Carla sighed. Armin glanced, and he saw Grisha sitting placidly on the sofa, his legs crossed and the morning paper in hand. "Grisha, look who's here."
Eren's father only resembled him vaguely. His hair and eye color were passed down, but otherwise it was clear that Eren had received his smooth face and dark skin from his mother. So basically Eren could attribute the majority of his good looks to her.
"Armin," said Grisha, folding the paper slowly. His alarm did not reach his eyes. Perhaps he'd read Armin all along. Was he truly so transparent, even after so long? "You've gotten so tall."
"That's what I said!" Carla clapped Armin's shoulder, and she smiled at him so warmly he couldn't meet her gaze. "You've grown into a beautiful young man, you know."
"Thanks…" He flushed, and he rubbed the back of his neck. This was awkward. Annie was watching him, and he found himself turning an even deeper shade of red, mortified at how amused she looked.
"Sit," Carla insisted. Armin did, though he realized a little too late how strange he probably looked. Out of pure habit he took a seat on the floor beside the coffee table, where he'd often ate and chatted with Eren in years past. Annie decidedly ignored him and sat on a couch, folding her arms across her chest and looking rather awkward. "Tea?"
"Uh, sure." Armin sat, watching her pour it, and he thought about Eren. He'd been so distraught upon finding out Armin was going to see his parents. So where was he? Where had he gone? A shudder passed through him as the recollection of Eren's intangible fingertips brushing his ribcage.
"Cold, Armin?" Carla asked him.
"Ah." Armin rubbed his arms sheepishly. "A little. I had a long night, so I'm a kinda exhausted."
"Oh, we saw on the news!" Carla set down the teapot, and she glanced at Grisha. "I was going to visit her today, but Annie called. She said something about… about Eren?"
Armin shot Annie a sharp look, but she took no notice. "Yes, I did say that," she said. "Is Dr. Jaeger in charge of Mikasa?"
"No," he said. "I'm rarely in the pediatric ward. Which, despite her age, is where she's being kept. That was my suggestion, actually."
"You wanted her to be comfortable," Armin murmured, staring down into his teacup. "So you put her around kids."
Grisha smiled, tilting his head. "Very astute," he noted. "Yes, that was my reasoning."
"That was very nice of you."
"She's okay, isn't she?" Carla asked quickly. "I… I haven't spoken to her in nearly a year. I feel so terrible…"
"No, don't," Armin gasped. "She's fine. She'll recover really fast, knowing Mikasa."
"About Eren," Annie said, leaning forward. "I came here because I wanted to tell you that he never had an investigation."
Annie Leonhardt. Ever so subtle.
Their faces reflected just how shitty the situation was.
They were blank. Disbelieving.
"That can't be true, can it…?" Carla sat down very slowly. Grisha said nothing. "The police worked with us during the entire ordeal… they… they helped, didn't they?"
"Maybe they did at first," Annie said. "But as it happened, they stopped. Without putting the proper effort into finding Eren."
"All the case file says is who the witnesses were," Armin piped up, "and the events leading up to Eren's disappearance. Nothing else of value. No suspects or theories. It's as though they didn't want to find him."
Carla looked very pale, and Grisha glanced at her. He placed his hand on her knee. "Tell me," he said quietly. "Do either of you think my son is still alive?"
Annie stiffened. Armin crumpled.
He hated this.
If he cried now, what would they do? Had they not blamed him from the start? Rejected him for his lapse of judgment?
What had happened that night?
"I see," Grisha murmured. Carla stared at them, her jaw tightening and her eyes hardening. She was furious. He was calm. It was easy to see who Eren took after. "And you're telling us this now, Annie, because…?"
"Armin is doing an independent investigation," Annie explained, folding her hands in her lap. "He is not tied with the police, and therefore he's not restricted to answering to a higher up who might quell that sort of… insubordination." As Annie spoke, Armin began to suspect that she had been snooping around the subject of Eren's disappearance far longer than Armin. "Therefore he's free to actually give Eren the investigation he deserves. It might not mean much, so many years later, but…"
"And you?" Grisha folded his hands over his mouth, watching her from behind his glasses. "What will your role be in this investigation, Annie?"
"I have no role," she said simply. "I'm not connected to Armin or his investigation."
They got the hint. Carla's eyes were filled with angry tears. And Armin? He sat. He thought. Strings were striking hard in his heart, and he heard them and he felt them but he did not understand them. The music had never been something he could read or learn. He'd tried, but he'd never succeeded. Symphonies were coded in his soul, and he could not find the goddamn cipher.
"Is there news, then?" Carla whispered, tears brimming her dark eyes. "Armin? Have you found something?"
He wanted to be snide with her, to snap and scream that she'd blamed him for Eren's disappearance from the beginning, But he was not so cruel, and he was not so bold, and he scratched his bandages and thought. Was there something new? Had he honestly found anything?
Eren was standing behind his mother now, watching her with damp eyes. He flickered, and Armin's breath caught in his throat. How could he even say that Eren was real? He had no proof.
Eren could very well be a shuddering figment of Armin's wavering imagination. Reality? Reverie? Armin slept so little and dreamt so much, it was hard to say if Eren was not just some nightmare bleeding into the land of the wakened.
"I…" Armin pressed his lips together thinly. Eren's eyes met his, and there was a jolt of cello strings screeching against a flaxen bow. Eren had never played the cello. He'd played the piano. Piano strings didn't screech. They bellowed.
"Tell her why I left the house that night," Eren said, his voice a musicbox of melody. Every word struck the air with a shrill, sweet note. "Tell her that I went to kill myself."
But that's not true, Armin wanted to say, his eyes flashing wide as he squeezed his hands tightly. That's wrong! Right? Right?
"Stop looking like you're gonna puke," Eren sighed. "It's not true... Just tell her so she… so she stops worrying. If she thinks I killed myself, sure she'll… she'll be sad. But she'll get over that. She's waiting for me to come home, Armin." Eren strolled through the coffee table to stand at Armin's back, crouching down beside him and tilting his head. "Well here I fucking am. What good does that do anyone? None. I'm dead. What does it matter how it happened?"
Armin couldn't respond of course, that'd be too suspicious, and no matter the struggle of the words against his throat, strangling him and clawing him, he could not spit them out.
He jumped to his feet. It wasn't fair of him to steal hope from the Jaegers. If he could not crack this case, if he could not dredge up the secrets that had died with Eren, then who was he to take the last shred of light from these people, that last little wish for a happy ending?
Eren's words made sense, but Armin could not and would not oblige. He was a liar, sure, but he'd bury himself before her buried Eren under this fabrication.
"For right now," Armin said, turning from them, unable to look them in the face, "it's a matter of retracing Eren's steps. That's why I'm here." Eren was so close that he was sapping Armin's energy away, dragging him from his very skin by being in the air that he breathed. "I want to know Eren's behavior before he disappeared."
"You were there," Eren said from his place on the floor. "You know how I acted."
"Oh," Carla gasped, glancing from Grisha to Armin. "Well… he was very… moody, you might say. But you knew him, Armin, you know what he was like. He had a hair trigger temper, but it was… always for good reason…"
"Did Eren get angry that night?" Armin asked eagerly. "He never said. All he said to me was that he wanted to show me something in the woods."
"That doesn't sound like something Eren would do," Grisha observed. "He was very straight forward."
"Was I?" Eren appeared behind his father, staring down at him and frowning. "Maybe compared to you. Cryptic, lying, son of a bitch."
Armin decidedly kept his gaze away from Eren. "Eren could be secretive when he wanted to be," he said. "Let's not forget about how long he kept Mikasa's secret."
"Mikasa's secret?" Annie straightened up.
Eren looked at her. "Tell her it's none of her business," he said sharply.
"It's none of your business, Annie," Armin said quietly, unable to meet her eye.
She did not reply. If she was hurt she did not show it, if she was angry she let it die. Armin closed his eyes. He'd yell at Eren later for this.
"It's true," Carla pointed out. "Eren may have been outspoken, but he kept so many things from us…"
"Armin," Grisha said, "are you aware that Eren saw a doctor about a nervous condition?"
Armin did not like the wording choice there. His eyes narrowed. Eren was no longer by his father. Armin didn't know where he was. Annie just watched the scene unfold.
"That's an odd way to put it," Armin said carefully. "What does that mean?"
Carla sighed, shaking her head. "Eren was having trouble sleeping," she explained very hastily, so Grisha could not intervene. "He had… ah, not nightmares… but…?"
"Night terrors," Grisha said.
"Yes! Right, night terrors. Oh, and he was so bad with sleep walking… he had medication, of course, he just…" She shrugged very meagerly. "It wasn't really his fault, he was absentminded when it came to things like taking his vitamins in the morning. He remembered sometimes, sometimes I had to remind him. Some days he just went without."
"He never told me," Armin whispered. For all the times Eren had slept over, how had Armin never noticed?
"It was never a… a big deal, honestly," she said, blinking rapidly. "It was just the way Eren was, and it got to the point where we didn't think it was abnormal to find him outside in the middle of the night digging a hole or curled up in his closet, not really understanding what was going on, it was just…" She shook her head. "It happened. I won't pretend it didn't. And… I won't pretend like it's not possible that Eren wasn't fully awake the night he disappeared. Grisha and I tried to enforce the rule about medication— oh, not just for Eren, but for all of us and our various health issues. But we wanted to give Eren the freedom… and responsibility to know to take care of himself."
This was definitely something new that Armin had to take into account. He was angry it hadn't been in his file.
He was bitter he'd never been told.
"Thank you for telling me," he whispered. "I had no idea. It… definitely will give me a better idea of what was going on that night. Was Eren ever lucid when he had his night terrors? Did he ever talk to you?"
"Hardly," Grisha said quietly as Carla piped up, "Sometimes."
It was clear who Eren had favored.
"Like what?"
"Oh, such weird little things…" Carla pursed her lips. "I can't remember that well. Oh, but there was one time where he talked about Mikasa. Just, nonstop, he asked me if she was okay." She laughed at this now, but Armin felt a squirming in his stomach because he felt that fear of Eren's plainly. Was Mikasa okay?
"Okay," Armin said. "Good to know."
Why had Eren wanted him to tell them that he'd killed himself? What would that have solved?
"Does anyone use that piano anymore?" Armin blurted. He'd been eying it from the moment he'd stepped into the room, memories prickling his tarnished soul, and he found himself wandering to it. Nostalgia hurt like a bitch.
"Oh…" Carla sounded distant. Hazy. Where had Eren gone off to now? "No. Not since Eren… ah, even before that. He hardly ever played after he quite lessons."
Annie twisted in her seat to watch him as he sat at the bench. He'd never been good at piano. He'd never had an ear for music, and he'd never been able to hold a tune. But he felt compelled to sit, to place his fingers on the smooth ivory keys, and to listen to the percussion sounds of his coiled heartbeat.
"Armin," Annie said cautiously.
He placed some meager pressure on the middle C, and the note cried as it smashed through the air, a hammer striking a string, a heartbeat colliding with a rib. Armin grimaced. He stared at the indented key, and the keyboard smiled a gap toothed smile up at him. Symphonies were not for him. His mind could pull apart the technique and the pulse of each instrument as they melded together into one cohesive tune.
Why hadn't Eren told him about the night terrors?
Why hadn't Mikasa told him about Kenny's abuse?
Why didn't he speak up, and let the truth of his own head spill out for all to see?
They were so close, and they loved each other so much, but it didn't matter.
They could never bear the burden of forcing their hardships onto someone else.
"C sharp, now," Eren whispered at his back. Armin jolted, and released the key. It clicked heavily back into place. He didn't dare look behind him. He knew they were all watching him. Eren's here, he wanted to scream at them. He's been listening the entire time.
He hit C sharp, but it didn't sound right to him. Too shrill, too short, too much noise and not enough. It was a terrible sound. He couldn't do this. What had he been thinking? All he'd wanted was to remember something happy for once. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He couldn't even pretend that this wasn't his fault, he'd gotten himself into another glorious mess.
"Oh man," Eren muttered, his chilly presence seeping into the skin at the back of his neck. He reached around him carefully, and Armin stared with large eyes as Eren's cold cheek brushed his, no real feeling to his skin but icy air radiating from every pore, and the salient image of rocks and water. It was the feeling of unfeeling, the energy of Eren's soul crashing upon him. He'd never been this close before, at least not in a non-corporeal state. Armin watched Eren's dark hands, for even in death he seemed to have more color, more depth, more life than Armin ever could have. "You're kinda hopeless."
Thanks, Armin thought, swallowing his reply.
"Okay," Eren said, resting his hands on top of Armin's. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the bad things, but watching the flashes and the rushes anyway. "Let's try something. You okay with experimenting?"
Armin wanted to laugh, but he already felt too bizarre, so he merely nodded and let it happen as it happened. Eren's fingers disappeared as they melted into Armin's and the sensation was like sticking his fingers in a revolving fan and watching as his hand was slowly devoured from fingertip to wrist. It was vividly painful at first, but then, in a stark moment of breathlessness, his fingers were numb. And they were moving.
As Eren struck the keys of the piano through Armin's jittery hands, Armin realized something. This would be the closest he ever got to touching Eren again.
Ever.
Death was cruel but life was crueler.
The sound was too much. Chords blew Armin away, leaving him bare boned and breathless. Eren didn't know what he was doing, that was clear with the way he fumbled with the keys, but he was laughing in Armin's ear, his chin sinking into Armin's collarbone, and he laughed some more in utter joy.
He was filled was a crippling sadness when he realized that they would never hear Eren so happy again.
When he stopped, it was because Eren could not hold his hands inside Armin's skin any longer, and he stuttered like a small voice, his entire body flickering in a strobe light motion for a moment before he sunk away into the air, devoured by the light and the shadow. Armin's numb fingers were trembling against the polished white keys. Tears prickled his eyes.
How unfair.
He sunk into a slump, and imagined how incredibly strange he must look.
A hand brushed his back, real and warm, and a sob left his lips before he could stop it. Carla Jaeger rubbed his back gingerly.
"Eren taught that to you, didn't he?" she whispered, her eyes watery and dim. She smiled down at him, but Armin didn't feel very much like forcing his facial muscles to do a dance that they were weary of. He could not smile when he was so inexplicably devastated. "It's okay Armin. We all miss him."
You don't understand, he thought wildly, his head bowing in shame. He's dead. He's dead, and I don't know why, and I feel responsible for that. It's all my fault, isn't it? Tell me that again, please, please, please, tell me it's my fault, because I'll believe you!
But Carla Jaeger no longer blamed Armin for her son's disappearance. He could feel it in her stare, in her faint touch, and he wanted to scream.
"Armin," Annie said, "I have to head back."
"Yeah," he said. His voice was dead, and his heart was oozing from his grief. "Yeah. I'm coming." He lifted himself from the bench shakily, blinking dazedly at Carla as she held his shoulders. She was studying him quizzically. He nodded to her gratefully, and he shook Grisha's hand, and he hid behind his large eyes and parted lips to make them see some child that they'd known forever ago. He wasn't that little boy anymore, no matter how much he wished it.
Annie did not speak to him on the way back to the apartment. Her eyes were glued to the road. Finally, she parked, and she turned to face him with sharp eyes.
"You're hiding something," she said.
He stared into her harsh, pretty face, and he did not respond. He exited the car and did not look back. The chasm between them became a ravine, and a waterfall spilt across the gap, spitting and raging and swallowing up any remnants of geniality. They were creatures of habit, and he'd never opened up to her before, so why start now?
I can't do this, he thought, resting his head back against the closed front door, staring into the dimly lit hall and taking deep breaths to keep himself from crying. I honestly can't do this, I can't solve Eren's fucking murder, I just can't!
Thinking about Eren being dead made him want to wash the lies from his mouth with bleach.
He wandered to his room. He peered under his bed. He whistled. The Captain barked from the kitchen. Armin shook his head in disbelief, and he rubbed his eyes, checking his phone blearily. Jean had called him twice. He'd sent a bunch of texts too. Most of them were asking if he'd eaten, and if he was planning on coming back to the hospital before Mikasa was released later that night.
Armin tossed the phone onto his bed, and his heart bled a melody that he could not comprehend, percussion and strings, fucking cello bows striking the grooves of metal cables and spitting smooth, sharp, screeching scores of songs.
He dragged the box of books from his closet and emptied it onto the floor.
"I can hear you," he called when the scratching began. It stopped immediately. He shook his head and stacked the books order of relevance. Some of them were stolen library books, others were bought at yard sales, others brand new, some were torn up and some written up and some cut up with scissors and missing chunks of sentences.
Eren had been into this Wall Cult business, for whatever reason. Suspect two. Eren Jaeger.
He'd said he'd killed himself. And then he said he hadn't.
What was a lie and what was a truth?
"Sacrifice," Armin murmured, glancing up at the ceiling. "Order."
A loud crash peeled his skin from his muscles and tore his heart from his chest, only to punching it back into his stomach. He might've broken his back twisting to face the wall behind him, staring with wide eyes at the window that was now bare to him, the painting of Isaac and Abraham lying on the floor on its side.
He pushed himself to his feet, tilting his head. Sacrifice. Order. Nature. Fuck? This was so weird.
When he wandered to the window, he saw into Mikasa's room. Her closet door was open. It hadn't been the last time Armin had checked, had it?
God fucking damn it, was he going to be that stupid kid in horror movies?
Wait. He already was.
Oh well.
Armin went into Mikasa's room, nudging the door open and glancing at her mirror. She'd taken down all the pictures and decided to decorate the walls with them instead. Armin shivered. The room was even colder than the rest of the house. Was this where that little boy hung out, then? Mikasa's room?
"Hello?" Armin felt like an idiot. This was the worst thing to do in a situation like this. He had the urge to call Eren's name. But he knew it wasn't Eren. "Mind if I come in…" Armin fingered at a glass ballerina figurine sitting on Mikasa's dresser. "Or… something…?"
No reply. Great.
Armin hadn't been in Mikasa's room for a while. He considered for a moment that he was intruding. To make himself feel better he began opening her drawers, tugging out comfy clothes she could wear when she was released from the hospital.
As Armin shuffled through her clothes, he found himself not really looking for an outfit for her, but searching. His suspicions got the better of him. He slammed a drawer shut and started on a new one, his jaw tight and his breath short. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be this person.
What was he even looking for?
"Nice," Armin muttered as he unfolded a gun from a sock. He folded it back up and stuck it where he'd found it. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, slamming another drawer shut and leaning back on the heels of his hands. He was missing something.
Mikasa, Mikasa. She didn't just leave things lying around, but she wasn't meticulous like Armin. So where would she hide something?
He leapt to his feet. He ran to her dresser, lifting Mikasa's ballerina figurine and setting it aside. There was a square wooden jewelry box beneath it. He dragged it closer, and hesitantly opened the lid. He held his breath as he peered inside it, and realized he'd done it.
He pulled a folded up scrap of paper from beneath the tangled vines of gold and beads and silver and pendants. She didn't have much. They were mostly gifts.
Armin unfolded the paper carefully, his heart thundering in his chest, and he could hear a pedal being pushed, echoes of notes bleeding into new ones and it was all a mess of melodies that pounded and stuttered.
The handwriting was messy and thin.
I can't do this anymore, it said. I can't do this. I can't live like this. I'm done. Good fucking bye.
Armin blinked rapidly. He turned the note over, but that was all.
It wasn't Mikasa's handwriting. Hers was thin, but neat and easily recognizable by the swoop of her m's and r's, which were perpetually uppercase. This handwriting was rapid and sharp, lowercase everything. Blots of ink stung certain letters, staining the mouths of n's and v's and y's. Whoever had written this had been in a hurry. Or, maybe, in distress.
It wasn't Eren's handwriting. It wasn't Mikasa's. So… whose was it?
Something sailed past Armin's head and collided with the wall, a soul crushing bang that rocked the entire room and left a dent in the sheetrock as a faded red ball dropped down onto the dresser and knocked over the glass ballerina, whose pretty face caved in and smashed into pretty painted pieces.
He whirled around, his heart thudding inside his throat. In the doorway of the open closet, a man stood.
He was soaked head to toe.
Red, red, red, so sickeningly red.
Armin swayed. He could see the man's eyes beneath the gore. They were shadowy and emptied of life.
He opened his mouth, and Armin saw his gleaming white teeth beneath the streams of blood.
"Get out," he said. His words shot through Armin's skill like two bullets scrambling his brains. He didn't move.
The bloodied man cocked his head. Armin's eyes widened as he flickered, and appeared very suddenly before him, the stench of something rotting burning his nostrils. The blood was caked to the man's skin, and dirt was smeared across his neck and legs and staining whatever clothes he might've been wearing, which were now torn and ragged.
"Get out," he said again, this time in a harsher voice, and the sound was splitting. Armin didn't know what was happening, but he felt it like he felt thunder in a storm. It ran him through, and caught in his lungs.
"No," he blurted, clutching the note to his chest. The man's eyes flashed, and he flickered again. For a moment, the blood disappeared. For a moment he looked a little lost and confused.
He slapped Armin across the face.
Backhanded him with a bloody fist.
Armin felt it.
Blood ran hot down his cheek, and unable to contain his terror any longer, Armin buckled. He screamed.
