Due to FF's unfairly restrictive guidelines around NSFW fanfic, this version will likely be seriously toned down in sexual nature despite sexuality playing a large role in the story. If you wish to read the unedited version, please visit my AO3 (LivianLynx) and find the full fic there under the same name. The work's ID there is 40320546.

There comes a time, when someone needs to act in the heat of the moment and all he has left at his disposal is himself and his strategy, that a man truly discovers what it is he is capable of.

Armin is caught in a tense daze, scarily close to letting himself be overwhelmed. He strains his brain to drive it to its utmost potential and rack it for something to help him; some technique that will help his odds, some way to spin this to his favour instead anyway, but he knows that it won't matter. All that counts here is action whose outcome is determined by pure luck, nothing he thinks up can make him snake his way out of this one.

No.

A cutthroat gambit. It's the only way to turn this situation around anymore if he wants to win this, and the odds are stacked against him, but what else can he do? He's done for if he just stays here and fails to act, so he swallows down every thought about how badly this could end and goes for the risk.

There is a lot that can be lost here today, and Armin knows it all too well — sweat prickles under the roots of his hair and runs down his neck, and coating the rest of his hot body in a layer of ice as he grimaces, fists ball under the immense adrenaline that keeps him going.

It's now or never. Win and conquer, or lose and pay the steep price for it. Now is when he decides his fate, and inadvertently, the fate of so many others.

With every nerve ablaze, every artery blown wide-open, every muscle tense in focus, he doesn't breathe as he casts his lot.

Snake eyes.

He wheezes out a disbelieving gasp, eyes wide and hands perched onto the table as his onlookers jeer and laugh at his gaffe. The host swiftly recoups all of Armin's previous winnings before he can decide to cut and run, and in an outburst of rage, Armin throws down his cards, kicks the table hard, grabs his glass, and gets up to leave.

His heart is going several hundred a minute, breathing so elevated under the tension and the public humiliation that he momentarily sees black. He could scream, but he doesn't want to add to how defeated he looks.

That's several months worth of wages down the drain, and no viable way to justify the losses that will inevitably trickle down to the rest of the Survey Corps eventually. He was so close, too, but his luck had other plans for him in mind. He could scream. He really needs to scream.

Dragging his feet across the stone floor, he seeks refuge at the bar, downing the last droplets of his cheap wine and placing down his glass.

"Give me the strongest you've got," he grumbles as he pushes the glass forward, knowing full well that that'll end with him hanging over some toilet bowl retching it all out again, but he really doesn't care right now.

The barkeep simply eyes him, arms remaining crossed on the bar without much movement. Armin taps his finger on the bar a few times to make his request's urgency clear, but he knows well enough that a man who just lost it all won't be served a drop of alcohol unless he has proof that he can pay off his tab with money he doesn't have.

Come on now. Like he isn't regular enough here to prove that he'll scrounge together the money he owes eventually. He always bounces back from these. All he needs is one more drink, but the barkeep gets tired of his now begging eyes and gets up, whisking away his empty glass and walking away from Armin's reach.

Looks like he'll be spending the rest of the night only slightly buzzed instead of getting wasted. Brooding without a drink to accompany him isn't worth it, but he's in no mood to take to the streets and search for a different venue. Not to mention that he's once again skint broke and he can't afford even the cheapest beer. He certainly isn't going home to brood beneath the covers or drink where his subordinates can judge him for raiding the Survey Corps' pantry.

Armin lets his head drop between his crossed arms, forehead pressed against the bar. He's in prime position to be pickpocketed, bent forward and distracted with his pockets unguarded, but there's no one who's going to go through the effort after seeing him lose it all.

Not long after the start of his sulking session, he is interrupted by the sound of a glass being placed down in front of him, shoulders jolting. He looks up and sees the barkeep grab for a bottle of strong whiskey, and he looks up at him puzzled.

"Treat from the guy over there," he answers while he fills Armin's glass, cocking his head to the other side of the bar, where Armin spots the person he must be talking about. A man who wasn't there earlier, he thinks, who's looking at him from the corner of his eyes as he has his hand on a full glass, tapping the rim with his index finger.

Tall and lean with short black hair and a small, stylish patch of hair on his chin, slightly overdressed for the seedy bar they're at, sporting a neat grey shirt with a black vest and slacks to match it. The only things that make him fit in better are the first button of his shirt that's undone and his rolled-up sleeves, revealing too much of his chest and his forearms for a more sophisticated setting.

"Paid off your tab too. Must've felt pity seeing you go dry," the barkeep continues before walking off to return his bottle to its place on the shelf.

Armin briefly looks down into his glass. He's not in the mood to talk right now, but it's the least he owes his saviour. Maybe he has found someone who will finance the rest of his evening. It's a sacrifice he can make given the potential payoff.

He gets up and makes his way towards the stranger, who has turned in his chair and is facing Armin as he approaches.

Taking a seat next to him wordlessly, Armin places down his glass and looks ahead of himself as he speaks, demeaning as it is to have to be bailed out like this.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," the stranger answers, his eyes pinned on Armin's face expecting to get something in return.

Armin accepts that his attention just got bought and looks up at him, observing the finer details of his face that weren't quite apparent from afar. He sports kind grey eyes bordering on green, slightly hooded as he's under the influence of alcohol, Armin can smell from his breath. He has the beginnings of stubble that adorns his jaw. He must usually go around cleanly shaven save for that small beard. Most notable is his curved nose, small in size but unusually bent in shape, reflecting the lights of the dimly-lit bar on its bridge.

Upon making eye contact, the stranger smiles. It's now Armin's turn to look away.

"Couldn't watch you be deprived of a drink after such a loss. That would just be cruel," he says as he turns toward the bar again.

Armin nods, looking ahead of himself as well. "Sorry about the tab."

"My financial setback doesn't compare. You've already lost so much tonight, a couple of drinks won't drive me to bankruptcy."

Armin sighs bitterly, grinding his teeth together for a moment. "I might as well have burnt a hole in my pocket. That's a few months of wages that I lost, all because of one bad roll…"

The stranger laughs at that, too jolly for the situation. "Moping around about it won't get you your money back. You wanted to drink, you got it. Just enjoy it. Cheers?"

He lifts his glass in the air, extending it Armin's way. Armin follows suit, clanking his glass against the stranger's before they both take a drink. The stranger's the first to put his glass down again, groaning while savouring the taste of his drink — the same as Armin ordered, he must've asked for it specifically. Hopefully, it's not too strong for either.

"My name's Bertholdt," the stranger volunteers.

"Armin."

"Nice to meet you, Armin. Do you come here more often or did you just have bad luck on the first try?"

Hah. He must be new here. If it were his first day, he wouldn't have played for so much money in one go. It always starts small and evolves into unimaginable proportions. Armin thought he had control over it until he started losing large quantities of money, turning a pleasant evening into a frustrating one. Each and every time, he decided that enough was enough and quit, and each and every time, it didn't take more than a week before he stood back in the exact same bar betting large quantities of money over cards and dice.

This is the first time that he's offered a consolation prize, though. If these bars knew what they were doing, they'd offer these themselves to keep him hooked instead of keeping him sober and capable of making good decisions.

Whatever. Their losses. He swirls his glass' contents, sibilating.

"I should've bet for less. It's hard to stop once you're on a roll, but every time — I swear, every time that's how they get you. I need a new hobby," he freely vents. Usually, he keeps his misery to himself, but he's too pissed off tonight.

Bertholdt simply laughs at that again, taking another drink from his glass.

"Seems that way," he says with sympathy Armin decides is genuine. "What occupies you in your daily life?"

Hah. As if he doesn't know. This is starting to seem more like a bit the more Armin thinks about it. Whatever Bertholdt's after, Armin may just offer him it.

He may also simply overestimate how shady the first stranger he runs into would on average be.

"If you don't know already, you'll find out soon enough anyway. If you stick around," Armin answers, taking another sip from his glass and swallowing down the burning liquid.

"If you say so."

If Armin has to guess, he'd say that Bertholdt liked that tease. Maybe, if he plays his cards right, there's more than just his wallet to dig in tonight.

Silence falls over the two men, drowned out by the fight that's escalating somewhere in a corner when one of the patrons is making a scene over what must be a loss and Armin finds comfort in the fact that another's misfortune has so soon overshadowed the talk of his own.

He's growing drowsy under the weight of the alcohol flowing through his veins, but he refuses to throw in the towel and go brood alone in the headquarters instead.

"You're just here to drink?" he instead pries.

"Yep."

"You were waiting for someone to lose and buy him a drink too?"

"Hah. No, nothing like that. I needed a couple of drinks tonight. You've got the right idea asking for the strongest they have." He pauses, tapping his finger atop the rim of his glass while he eyes the wall of drinks behind the bar. "Important decision. I don't want a clear head. You're collateral. I'm sorry if that's not what you want to hear."

His expression follows his words. At least he's polite enough to be forward about his intentions. Here Armin thought that Bertholdt may have come here looking for more.

He puts his glass down with a sigh.

"Most people pick a nice bar. Not one in a back alley where they might get stabbed."

"I'm sorry, I haven't been here for very long," Bertholdt apologises again. "I'm not familiar with the good spots. Don't want friends and colleagues to know I'm drinking again. This one looked like one where I'd get in no problem, so I settled."

Whatever that may mean. Armin's not feeling like solving puzzles.

Bertholdt signals for the barkeep, who refills both their glasses before walking off elsewhere to do barkeep things.

"What would you pick?" Bertholdt continues after taking a generous drink from his glass when Armin doesn't follow up on the conversation topic.

"I can't pick if I don't know what the options I'm picking between are."

"Sure can," Bertholdt says, swirling the rich red liquid in his glass around his glass. "Just pick one. A or B. I'll take your word for it."

Armin looks up at Bertholdt, finding that he looks a little more out of it than he did before.

"How important is this decision?"

"Changes the trajectory of my life. That sort of stuff."

Ah. So Bertholdt does not need tables, dice, and cards, he simply needs alcohol and a stranger he paid off to make the difficult decisions for him without knowing what he's picking.

Broke, it may be the only game Armin can play.

"B."

"Ah… B," Bertholdt wistfully croaks. For once, his head turns to the left, to where Armin is no longer in his peripheral vision, and the swirling of his glass increases, spilling a few droplets on his fingers without seeming to care much.

"You're not happy with that answer."

"Huh? No, it's just… It's, well, B," Bertholdt continues his cryptic nonsense, looking down into his glass before downing it all and asking for another refill. He's way worse at holding his liquor than Armin, which is an achievement of its own.

"A, then," Armin says, taking a small drink from his own whiskey.

"Well now it's no longer genuine."

"I never knew what I was picking in the first place. But fine. Stick with B."

"Hah."

Bertholdt takes an even more careless swig from his glass, almost downing the entire drink in one go before grimacing and putting it back down with a sip's worth of liquor left over, wiping his mouth with his bare forearm. The burn must be too severe for him.

"Well, that's the answer I needed," he says, letting go and loosely placing both hands onto the rim of the bar itself. "Thanks."

"Welcome," Armin answers, and he gets a nod from Bertholdt in return.

Bertholdt searches his pocket for his wallet and leaves behind the appropriate amount of money for the drinks they shared.

"Nice meeting you, Armin," he says, using his arms to support his weight until he's gotten to his feet. He's even taller at his full length than he looked sitting down. At least two metres, Armin estimates as he towers so high over him.

"Likewise."

With a final nod, Bertholdt starts his way towards the exit, visibly putting effort into avoiding stumbling his way outside yet failing tremendously.

He makes it within three paces of the door when Armin can't take that nagging thorn burning inside his chest and he yells after him.

"Bertholdt, wait."

Bertholdt stops. He looks over his shoulder, awaiting Armin's reason to stop him.

Instead, Armin beckons him over, and Bertholdt follows his request, getting back in his chair when he makes it back.

"You can't just make me decide something so important for you and walk out of my life again without telling me the details. Don't you owe it to me to let me know what it is that I picked for you? What did I win?" he argues.

Bertholdt's eyes remain loosely pinned on the wall of drinks ahead of him. He crosses his arms over the bar, pulling his chair closer with his legs, before he clears his throat.

"It's related to my profession. I can show you, if you want?"

"Why not tell me?"

Bertholdt shakes his head. "It's better if you see."

"Right. Show me, then."

Still averting his eyes, Bertholdt's mouth pulls into a smile. "My place is across town. If I gotta make it there and back, I'll just be back by morning."

"So take me along," Armin invites himself. Not like he has anything else to do. Not like he has given up yet, either.

At that, Bertholdt breathes out a gentle laugh. "Paying a stranger a drink at the bar is one thing. I'm not taking you home. Sorry."

Finally, he looks off to the side to where Armin's sitting. He's not annoyed by Armin's forwardness in the slightest. In fact, he looks decently charmed.

"What if I come back here tomorrow with a clear mind? I'll show you."

Armin wrings the hand that lays on his lap into a fist, sucking in air through one corner of his mouth.

"I'd love to, but I have a busy week ahead. I can't come here tomorrow."

"Tuesday?"

"The rest of my week's fully booked. I'll be available at the earliest by next Sunday evening."

Bertholdt nods, moving around his glass atop the bar out of habit. "Sunday evening, then. If you can wait so long."

"Can you?" Armin challenges, to which Bertholdt simply laughs, amused.

He knows well enough he played right into Bertholdt's hand, but he's too curious to know what all of this is about. He wouldn't mind spending another evening talking to this stranger, if only to relieve his loneliness by a little and to mooch free drinks off of him.

"Alright, see you Sunday, then," Bertholdt says. For a second time, he gets up and moves to leave, but Armin once again stops him.

"Hey. Why don't you hold off on finalising that decision until I know the details? Maybe I'll change my mind once I know more."

Bertholdt stands still, lightly swaying from side to side as he considers it.

"Yeah, I will," he gives in, before he stumbles to the exit, leaving Armin all alone with one glass half full and one glass nearly empty.