35. Eavesdropping
In retrospect, it's always been like this, Armin supposes: the distance between him and them, separated by a millimeter of glass, always a sort of outsider looking in. He remembers their days in Shiganshina, the three of them together at the banks of the river, poured over his parents' books, their shared dream to venture into the vast unknown. And in those moments it had felt as if the three of them were one and the same, inseparable, indistinguishable, the three of them, together, whole.
But even then, back in their Shiganshina days, when the sun crept low and it was time to go home, he saw as they went their separate ways, the two of them bickering back and forth as they went. He never bickered with either of them. Not like that.
He wouldn't call it jealousy—that's not it at all—but rather a loneliness in knowing that there exists an intimacy between the two that he will never share or fully comprehend, an intimacy born years ago in the cabin hidden in the woods that reeked of death.
It sprouted like a seed, and he is left to watch it bloom. Armin recalls the difference in their embrace upon Eren's return, the lingering gazes, and prolonged touches, knows he wasn't supposed to witness late that night when Mikasa had crept into their room, climbing into bed beside him, the foreheads of their silhouettes meeting. He doesn't know much about this foreign territory, can't decipher the meaning of their coded dialogue, but in these moments, he knows this: he's watching something unfold that's not meant to be seen by outside eyes.
These moments in which Eren runs a thumb along the scar beneath her eye, when Mikasa brushes the hair from his forehead, touch lingering just too long, are secrets whispered in a room made for two. And he is but an eavesdropper.