Chapter 2: Armin on Gypsy: It Works Every Time
There was a single flame lit in the center of one of the many rooms in the backstage of the theater. Beside it sat a colorless worn photograph of an old man with an ancient nondescript play write in one hand- the man who had raised young Armin after the death of his parents. The singer had come to the minuscule chapel within the walls of the Trost Theater religiously on every anniversary of the death of his grandfather. Coincidentally, that exact night when everything changed for Armin on two separate occasions were one in the same.
The blond whispered several prayers in honor of his deceased grandfather. Over his words, a slightly audible voice could be heard from above. "Armin..." It half whispered. The singer noticed it, half-expecting it, and not taking any notice. Before the voice could repeat the call, footsteps flooded the room, and soon, Marco Bodt, dance captain of the Trost Theater, for once wearing a shirt, was seen racing to Armin's side.
"There you are!" his voice filled every corner of the premises "I was worried you went somewhere, and I would never have the chance to tell you something exciting."
"Yes, what is it?" The countertenor replied, a bit curious about what was to be mentioned. "Do you remember when we were young and I used to fantasize about the theater ghost?"
"Of course! What about a theater ghost are you going to speak of?"
"There's one actually here in the theater!" Marco exclaimed. "He lives here and pulls all those pranks on us."
Armin paused and thought for a moment, before continuing. "That is no ghost... That is an angel. My grandfather promised me that when he died, he would somehow supernaturally teach me to become musically advanced. It must be him. Today is the same date he passed away those few years ago, if you didn't know."
"Armin, I know that someone has been teaching you to sing. You used to vocalize like a baby seal being spanked to death," the brunette teased "but it can't really be your grandfather. That can't be right. It's just fantasy." Before Marco could continue, Armin cut him off "Then I suppose your epiphanies are, too, unless you get chills and become pale from them." he replied, standing up and walking upstairs. The dancer followed closely.
"I am frightened at times, Marco." Armin admitted. "Don't be." he replied quickly. "I think the angel part could be real. Don't doubt it. Who knows? The ghost topic was just a rumor. Also, there is other news that I should report to you. First, Hitch Dreyse has quit her job after the incident tonight. Second, that Eren Jaeger gentleman thought you sang charmingly tonight and wishes to treat you to dinner."
At the thought of Eren taking him out on incentive, Armin's heart sank. "If he is looking to glorify me in every way possible, that cannot be. My tutor, for whomever he is, forbids me from falling in love, as it will distract me from my work. Also, I should probably go rest in my room. Tonight was stressful as it was, and I do not wish to wake up with a broken voice." He replied swiftly out of fear, quickly leaving Marco in the chapel alone.
The blond dashed into his dressing room, and locked the door. How could he get out of this situation? There was enough pressure of life building up within him already. Armin began to calm down, closely listening for anyone, or anything outside of the room. Changing into his night robes, he sat at his powder station, gazing into the mirror. Out of the corner of his eye, a single deep scarlet rose with a ribbon tied around it, stood out from the other hundreds of flowers in various bouquets.
Out of curiosity, he gently grabbed it and studied it. For each performance in which he had been cast as a major role, he would receive one. Perhaps, it was the mysterious tutor, or a crazed fan. Armin wouldn't have known the truth if it weren't for his quick, yet wise decisions in the future. After his mind raced with questions of the strange single bud for a long while, a knock came to the door. The sound almost made the singer jump out of his chair before he began stammering to the one behind the door. "Wh-who is it?"
"Why, it is just myself, as I promised." Answered the Viscount Jaeger. "May I come in?"
"No, you may not." Armin replied "I am not looking for a relationship or anything like that. To be quite honest, I'm not in the mood for anything."
"Alright. I guess I'll just go, then" Eren sighed with disappointment. The countertenor was crushed by his comrade's tone. It hurt the blond to be so blunt and standoffish, but it was for his own good, as he thought. On the other side of the door, the wealthy teen was also in deep disheartening. What had caused his childhood friend to become so pessimistic had bewildered him greatly. He turned and left.
After it was too late, Armin ran to the door, unlocked it, and stepped outside, realizing that Eren had gone too soon. Turning back, and closing the door, someone had locked it from the outside as soon as he had closed it. The singer tried to open the door again, panicking.
"I thought I told you not to go falling for anyone!" boomed a voice from above- Armin's singing teacher, was most certainly strange, for being a teacher. "I apologize, teacher." He replied fearfully. "I wasn't thinking. Please don't leave me. I swear it won't happen again."
"Then, come. Look to the powder station mirror. Look slowly, though." The voice-coach started "You may or may not be surprised, and I do not wish for you to be frightened."
The countertenor turned almost reluctantly, staring into the mirror, noticing the shape of a mature teen- around sixteen or seventeen years old... But with a head in the shape of a horse's, obviously a mask. Armin wished to question the strange sight, but knew it was not polite. "Look to where my reflection is, and I want you to follow me. For your information, I am the reason you sing so heavenly." It said. "Take my hand and I shall train your voice to be even more extravagant than before."
Blindly, the boy in robes took the horse-gypsy's hand and it led him away from the dressing room. "What is your name?" asked the naive blond. "Jean." It answered almost immediately. "
"Do you live in the Trost Theater?"
"Why, yes."
"Are you a ghost, or angel of some sort?"
"If you want me to be."
"Are you a gypsy?"
"That's a little impersonal, but I must say, 'once a gypsy, always a gypsy.'." Jean answered. "Any more question's, like 'why the mask'?" he added, while leading the way up to the stage catwalks, many nauseating meters above the stage. "Why?" Armin stated simply. The boy turned, his mask emotionless, but his voice filled with pure expression, as the platform they were on swayed from their weight. "Do you know of secret inner beauty? Are you the type to find every person gorgeous in one way or another? Is it that even freaks are good people?" He asked, climbing a few wooden stairs into a crevice in the ceiling. "Of course." the singer replied.
Jean paused before continuing when Armin was safely inside the hidden lair, within the hole. "Then I shall show you what darkness is found within this horse." He finally replied, taking off the mask to reveal a boy with an impossibly massive, wide jaw and a mop of horribly trimmed, ashy brunette-blond-hair, that probably no mother could love.
Armin covered a gasp in disgust and fear. The ugliness was too much for him to bear. Before he knew it, the air turned musty, everything grew dim, and the lighter blond was out cold, fainted from shock.