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Four: the Grandfather

"Grandpa!" Armin called. "Food's ready!"

Turning back to the stove, the boy grabbed the two macrame pot holders, lifting the steel pot off of the burner. The stove was turned off, the little blue flame disappearing.

"Armin," his grandpa smiled, voice shaking as he shuffled in on his cane. "It smells delicious."

"Thanks." Armin smiled a tiny smile. It felt good to smile. Sometimes he hated being here, living with his grandfather. This loathing usually occurred when he was in bed, lying alone in a room that wasn't really his. But sometimes he enjoyed being there. It was like he was twelve again, visiting his grandpa during his summer break.

Armin rolled his sleeves up, exposing the Sharpie on his forearm. He felt a small re-ignition of hope.

"So," his grandpa started, settling down at the tiny wooden table. The wicker chair squeaked under his weight. "How has today been, Armin?"

Armin set the pot in the center of the table, pushing the newspaper aside. He opened the cabinet by the sink, pulling out two bowls. "It was fine." He pulled open a drawer. Nothing but matches and pens and a deck of cards. "Hey, Grandpa? Where do you keep the spoons?"

"Next one over."

"And the ladle?"

"Oh, I don't have one of those anymore," his grandpa mused. "Haven't made soup since yer grandma died."

Armin nodded. He didn't remember his grandmother. She had passed away when he was a toddler.

Grandpa laughed. "But I guess, now that I got someone to cook us some soup, I should pick one up, huh?"

Setting the plate in front of his grandpa, Armin feigned a quiet laugh. "Yeah."

The two ate in silence for a little while with only the sounds of blowing and slurping between them.

"How was school?"

Armin stopped a moment. He hadn't told his grandfather about what had been happening to him. He already felt pitiful enough; he didn't want to become a burden on his grandfather, the only one who had offered to take him in.

"It was fine." Armin hesitated, looking at the broth in his spoon. "I...made a couple friends today."

"Oh?" His grandfather smiled. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," Armin nodded, feeling a bit more talkative. "They're brother and sister."

"In your grade?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good, good." Armin's grandfather smiled at him reassuringly. Armin tried to return it.

Armin's grandfather was, by the teenager's standards, old. Seventy-four years old. He was a kind old man, wise and studious, too. He always offered to help Armin with his homework, though the blonde never needed it. He always offered to drive him to and pick him up from school, though Armin always politely refused; the man had difficulty getting up and down the stairs. Armin could never ask him to go so far when he could walk.

And he always patted Armin's head and rubbed his back when the tears would suddenly start to flow from Armin's eyes.

"What're they like?"

"Huh?"

"Your friends?"

"Oh." Armin grinned. "Ah, well, one is a girl and one is a boy. The boy- his name is Eren. He's...well, I don't know very much about either of them, but he's a bit hot-headed. And funny, too. And his sister's name is Mikasa. She's very beautiful and smart, too. Oh, and calm." Armin managed a small laugh. "Much calmer than her brother."

"Good," his grandpa nodded. "I'm glad you're making friends Armin."

"Thanks, grandpa."

"I really am, you know," the old man insisted. "You deserve them."

Armin nodded, sipping the soup from his spoon.

They weren't friends. Not really, anyway. They were assurance. A bartering chip.

But maybe, in time, things could change.

Sorry it's so short. The next two are already written and THEYRE WAY LONGER I PROMISE.

Peace, L.