The stars shine bright in the black sky tonight.
A crisp wind blows through the trees that surround the premise, and all he hears are rustling leaves as it sweeps up his hair and offers him some much-needed air to breathe after it got too hot inside. The smell of dead plants hangs in the air despite it being so early in the season.
The moon is out tonight, full and the way he loves it most. Flecks of orange burn into his retina, harsh against the darkness that lies beyond as they battle against the pale light of the moon for the right to light the premise.
How he wishes he could stand in complete darkness. Out in a field somewhere, maybe, with no moon there to steal all of his attention. He'd have the book from his childhood by his side to pinpoint the stars and think about all that lies out there, high above the clouds, far outside the planet's atmosphere.
But his book is still at home and he is here, so far away from anything he knows.
He sighs. He hasn't been himself since the events of the afternoon. Being unable to sleep is the most normal thing about his whole day.
Was it even his choice in the first place?
He'll have plenty of time to mull over such a pointless question soon.
So he enjoys the stars for what they are, where no one will look at him with pity when there is no one who comes looking for him.
Except it doesn't end there like it usually does. Not this time.
Instead, he hears a sound behind him. He doesn't look as a door opens and closes, and soon, he is joined by someone.
Someone who looks up at him with bright brown eyes that glisten in the moonlight. Someone who doesn't know whether he made the right decision either but who seems to be at peace with it anyway. Someone soft, and round, and with golden locks that–
He gasps and shoots upwards, grasping for his bedsheets as his breathing resumes.
How does one go about this?
What have the women of the past done when they needed such services?
He has one advantage over most people, and that is that he is methodical. He knows how to do his own research and where to go to find sources.
In search of a discreet answer, he travels far away, all the way up north to the inner city of Ehrmich, and holes himself up in its library for an entire day, collecting everything he can find about pregnancy and its processes. Out of a healthy hunger for knowledge, of course.
A thousand eyes burn into his back even when he is alone. He wonders how he hauled around an illegal book his entire childhood without a care in the world. Maybe, in a time when he was braver, he wanted to be caught and get the chance to change the minds of his captors about why this information was pivotal to the soul.
Draw any suspicion now and he could be accused of conspiracy to murder. Officially, he was listed in his paperwork as male, but that did not change that they could accuse him of wanting to offer these services to women who need them.
Their imagined reasoning is idiotic, anyway. Why join the military to do that? He could access these books with ease without permission and he'd be better off becoming a physician if those were his intentions.
He makes no notes. Best not leave any evidence behind. When he leaves in the evening ready to ride back to Trost, it is with a profound understanding of just how physical a process pregnancy is. He read about so much purely theoretical anatomy that it now feels alien. Surely, such a thing can't be happening to him, or anyone, for that matter; but especially not him.
Denial will get him nowhere in this stage of problem-solving.
An extra day to research things is all he needs. He has found a valuable lead just by dressing up in civilian clothes and going out to the poorer areas to ask around for information.
If pregnancy is a physical process, then so is termination.
Midnight has long passed. Under the light of a freshly-waning moon, he could risk being seen, so he brings a raincoat to conceal his features. He walks the streets of a city a little away from Trost, turning into a dark alleyway.
A large man stands in the shadows, his presence only given away by the reddening speck of his cigarette. Most bars closed not so long ago and he's still lingering between two buildings, exactly where Armin was told he'd find him at the time he'd find him there.
Armin stops a few paces away from him, swallowing his nerves. Nothing about this situation is safe. He should've learned how to use the Colossal Titan before this all started, but he ran out of time, and with no progress in his healing, there's no chance unless his nerves flare up in this situation the way they did when he jumped off Wall Rose.
Still, he made his small cut on his forearm right before entering the alleyway in case the wound helps him survive.
"Are you the one the people speak of?" he cautiously asks, keeping the tone of his voice lower than he usually would. He could easily pass for a young teenage boy. He made sure to dress the part and collect his hair in a ponytail with his bangs brushed into a parted style to appear more boyish.
"What do you want?" the man asks in return. He towers above him and could easily overpower him, and it reminds Armin of his days in Shiganshina spent standing up to bullies who would beat him up for their enjoyment.
This is no childhood bully. This grown man could pose a real threat to him, especially if Armin has been misinformed by the locals or he's more opportunistic than they let on. Now that he physically stands here, he frantically wonders if he couldn't have just used any other method, but nothing else would be as effective. It would just be a half-measure.
Armin doesn't answer his question in favour of a more important bit of information.
"My friend is waiting just outside the alleyway, he will come looking in a few minutes."
The man raises an eyebrow at Armin, and when it looks like he's going to leave, Armin holds up his hand to stop him, reaches for the bag that hangs on his hip, and takes out a small pouch, extending it the man's way. He accepts it and pours out the contents in his hand to count.
"This ain't gonna get you much," the man concludes.
"I don't need much."
He pockets the money and looks down at Armin again.
"Who?"
Armin swallows.
"Me."
That seems to surprise the man. It means that he passes to at least some degree.
"You? All of you?"
Armin shakes his head.
"The exact service you offer women. You'd offer it to a man, too?"
The man sticks his hands in his pockets, looking at Armin strangely now.
"Why, kid? Looking to get off from work easy?"
Since when do dodgy rugged guys ask questions?
Since when does Armin what dodgy rugged guys normally behave like?
"No, I…"
Armin looks off to the side of the alleyway before regaining eye contact.
"I hurt someone. I hurt someone I love really badly and I can never take it back. I deserve to suffer the same way she did because of my stupid actions. Treat me the exact same way you would a woman."
One long stare during which the man takes a drag from his cigarette, then throws it to the ground and grinds the heel of his boot over it. He balls his fist and pushes it against his open palm with a crack of his fingers.
"Aight, pal."
In one swift motion, he punches Armin in the lower belly so hard that his windpipe contorts from the air that gets knocked out of him. He tumbles to the ground and vomits the light dinner of vegetables and bread he had eaten that evening onto the muddy ground, seeing black as he hangs against one of the alleyway's crates on his knees wheezing and clutching his stomach to subdue the sickening pain that radiates from his pelvis into his spine and limbs.
The pain only deepens as the minutes pass by. It's like his spine has been broken and his feet amputated, and the pressure his organs exert on his lungs and shoulders would be enough to make him burst open. The man is long gone, likely left the second he had held up his end of the bargain to avoid being seen by Armin's 'friend'.
His pants are wet. He doesn't have it in him to check if it's blood, urine, or faeces, but with so much force being applied, the visceral pain, and the lack of stench of any waste products combined with the raw smell of meat, it can't be anything other than blood.
No, he knows it's blood. He's lightheaded and his pulse has grown irregular. The punch was low enough to hit him right where he needed it to.
He's done it.
By the time he's managed to stumble to his feet and make it back to Trost, the sun stands just below the horizon. He changes into his third pair of clean pants that day at the stables and has the excuse that he went for a morning stroll at the ready, but doesn't need it as no one is up yet to catch him.
When he stumbles into his quarters disoriented, he has just enough presence of mind amid the sharp pain in his belly to tie a sufficient amount of linens between his legs and around his waist to keep it in place.
There will be a lot of blood.
Now, he needs bedrest to prepare for the intensity of the next few days.
He can't stop throwing up and his insides wither. Something has definitely been knocked loose in him.
He has managed to convince the others that he's gotten ill and that he needs his space to get them off his back and conceal that he has started to bleed profusely. Hange isn't aware and he's glad, because they would certainly have an interest in researching this supposed illness' effect on a shifter's body.
In preparation, before he headed out to get his 'procedure' done, he'd gone out to collect disposable linens and textiles and placed them in his room. His laundry basket is filling up fast and the smell of all that blood is becoming problematic. He can sneak out of his room and into the bathing halls around the time the others are eating dinner, relieved that he can wash himself under a constant stream of water instead of having to rely on a lukewarm tub and a washcloth.
He hasn't bathed in a while. It's not common to go more than once every week, so he made sure to time his next bathing moment right. When he unbuttons his shirt and takes off his pyjama bottoms, he finds that even standing in his undershirt and underwear induces within his chest a crushing feeling that rivals the sting in his abdomen.
Like he is bulging out of his clothes. He hasn't taken any of them off unless it was for a change of underwear or a men's lavatory trip since he accepted he may be carrying, but he feels so horrifically monstrous beneath them.
Just like that, all of his progress of learning how to bathe and go to the bathroom without feeling watched from every side has evaporated and he understands he faces many years of self-induced shame once again.
He fails to fully undress, entering the shower in his underclothes and cleaning himself with a washcloth under his bottoms. He can't risk glancing down and seeing himself like that.
It takes him a couple of visits to the washing rooms to sneak all of his bloodied laundry out of his room and give it a hefty scrub until all detritus has been scraped out of the fabric. Luck is in his favour when no one bothers to come looking for him as he's busy and it looks like he may be able to go unnoticed after all.
Soon, it'll be over and he will be able to live with his body again. He just needs this volume gone as quickly as possible so that he can resume living his thirteen remaining years in peace.