Who We Are Today

by LivianLynx

The battle for Shiganshina was won and the Survey Corps secured custody of the Colossal Titan. No one believed that they'd achieve peace with Marley's war machine by talking to the one enemy who could answer them but refused. No one but a single scout who'd believed in negotiation since the very beginning. (Canon divergent rewrite of AoT, Bertholdt survives Shiganshina)

12. Waves III: Tide

9

Armin barely managed to limp back from the stables to the Trost headquarters when he returned in the afternoon and sought immediate refuge in his room to dodge questions.

Sleeping it off didn't go all too well. His pelvis and spine hurt as he lay down and they kept him from going beyond a light doze well into the early hours, only for a sharp pain in his thigh to wake him up again. He found his femur blocked in his hip socket, leaving him unable to even walk to the kitchen to heat some water and ease his joints.

It was impossible to leave his bed without whimpering from the blockage. His stomach cramped up, his back felt like it had been cracked open, his thighs were chafed to hell, and his hips screamed out all their anger at him for his decision.

Okay, so maybe spending two nonstop weeks on horseback so soon after his hospital discharge would have consequences. How was he supposed to know his body wouldn't heal in time? He'd been perfectly capable of far more intensive exercise back when he was a trainee, but he'd already written it off for repetition in the future to bribe that nagging voice in the back of his head.

Maybe he was just getting old.

To make it back to Tourze the next Sunday, he'd need to cut back on physical activity. He wasn't going anywhere in this state, anyway. If he slept in, someone was bound to notice he wasn't around and come looking for him.

That guardian angel proved to be Eren, pulling Armin out of his nap as he stood leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed and an amused smile on his face.

After Armin explained his predicament, Eren helped support him on his way to and from the bathrooms, then fetched him a hot waterskin for his thigh and a healthy portion of breakfast to eat in bed.

It didn't quite show as he sat at the foot of Armin's bed making small talk, but Armin knew Eren well enough to see. He was tired of roaming outside Wall Rose every day to clean up titans. This opportunity to take care of Armin had been his excuse to stay in and catch up, something that had grown scarce in the past months. Armin thought it endearing but remained cautious not to deem himself too worthy of that amount of special care.

Eventually, by noon, Mikasa figured out where they'd holed up and joined them with three lunch portions. With all of Armin's busy Sundays and the Survey Corps' activity, it had been ages since they'd just had the time to unwind and laugh together, just the three of them.

Like they were home again.

For the first time in long, the events of the Battle of Shiganshina crossed Armin's mind again. He suppressed the thought, finding no good reason to add tension to their rare free afternoon.

It couldn't last, though. With Hange, Levi, and Jean reporting to Mitras about the Survey Corps' first expedition to Shiganshina after reclaiming Wall Maria, they had to regulate their own duties. Connie and Sasha had grown agitated by the way the three of them had just left everything to them as they came knocking on Armin's door asking Eren to please get the Garrison soldiers who were nagging about his absence off their backs and Mikasa to come help out with the recruits.

It was fine, Armin assured them, and they were off, leaving him alone once more.

Lying on his back staring at the ceiling quickly became a bore. He'd spent all this time and effort getting himself out of a hospital bed and into shape again only to return to being bedbound. Like nothing had changed. Like none of his efforts could've made a difference.

But he didn't feel like doing anything. He wanted to sleep and never wake up again, never have to worry about everything going on around him, every problem that was his fault and his responsibility to resolve.

He sat up, stretching his arms and upper body in every direction he could think of despite the pain and taking his time to rub oil into the most prominent areas where his skin was still scarring. His last doctor's visit had left him with the advice to take things slowly and keep in mind to exercise his skin just as much as he exercised his bones and muscles. Maybe it was a good thing that he was given time to get into the habit again. He only realised he'd fallen asleep when he was woken up for dinner.

That night proved to be a dreamless one.

---

"I know I can take it," he grumbled, sat against the wall his bed stood against with his knees pulled up and his arms crossed over his chest. The position was quite strenuous, but only like this could he show the full extent of his displeasure.

Eren scoffed over from the other side of the room, seated at Armin's desk.

"Yeah? And how long until your hip freezes in its socket again because you moved around too much?"

"My femur," Armin corrected. "And not if I take it easy. I overdid things, but I won't this time. I shouldn't be in bed all day, there's so much more I can do!"

"Mhm," Eren hummed back, taking a drink from his teacup before putting it down again. "If I catch you out of bed and you're not on your way to or from the bathroom or kitchen, I'm putting you back under your covers myself."

The threat went accompanied by a playful smirk.

Don't get caught, then, Armin concluded. He simply sighed in response to Eren's tyranny. He'd never let his freedom be stolen from him like this, how dare he take Armin's away?

Now Armin was just being petty for the sake of it.

"Come on, it's just a few days. You'll be back to training in no time. Plus, it'll be nice to have you around again on a Sunday."

Armin's eyes widened and Eren noticed, the way all playfulness left his face.

The way it would when Armin hid the truth from him.

Armin was not the only one who had come back from Shiganshina scarred, yet he could not fathom to think that Eren's damage was inflicted upon him by Armin's actions and not those of the enemy. Maybe that was why he didn't.

"There's no functional difference between Monday morning and Sunday morning. It won't matter when I go," Armin tried instead.

Hitch's words echoed through his mind. Skip now and Bertholdt would think that Armin had abandoned him, no matter how valid the reason.

"The doctor said you could ease into resuming exercising next Monday, not that you'd be fine by then."

"Then I'll take a cart instead of a horse."

Eren scowled at Armin, brushing an outgrown lock out of his face.

"Hange will be back soon. They won't let you go against medical advice."

"You'd tell on me?" Armin responded a little dejectedly. He crossed his legs, pushing himself upright painfully. "Eren, this is really important to me. I have no choice but to go, I can't afford not to. Doing this once won't hurt."

"Like how a horse ride there wouldn't hurt you?"

Now it was Armin's turn to grimace.

"Eren…"

"I want you to take care of yourself so that you can join us on our expedition later, Armin. Please. Don't miss it because of ideas like this." He crossed his arms over his chest, closing his eyes. "I'm not alone in this, either. The rest won't let you ruin your body for him."

For him.

He was right, but for all the wrong reasons.

"It's not for him," Armin answered. "It's always been for us. To make sure that when we meet people from outside the walls, we know what to expect. To have more allies."

Eren's eyes opened briskly, then narrowed. He supposed that Eren's sudden mood shifts had to do with the memories he had inherited from his father.

A compromise was the best he'd get out of this.

"Eren… How about we see how I'm doing by the end of the week and decide then?"

"Will you accept that you can't go if you haven't recovered by then?"

Armin took a moment to think, then nodded without meaning it.

---

He had a decent collection of books in his room. At the very least, he would get through some he hadn't had time to read when he was out morning to evening exercising, socialising, or instructing and training with the recruits. Several interesting ones on political studies and philosophy had surfaced after the relaxation of censorship laws and he'd been itching to comb through them ever since they'd fallen into the Survey Corps' hands.

Or he would've read, had the other 104th not turned his room into their new gathering spot to keep him company. Connie and Sasha flocked to him as soon as he showed his face in the mess hall to eat together with the others and followed him back to his quarters. Eren and Mikasa made regular visits. Jean showed up every once in a while in his typical aloof manner, but he was the most present one of all visitors.

Armin's sides still ached like hell. His seat and spine were slowly starting to allow him to sit again without wincing, but his scabbing thighs didn't make things easier on him, and neither did his pulled belly muscles. He was helpless, forced to accept what had happened and uselessly lie around.

As he was made to stay in bed all day and rest, he became increasingly aware of how his skin seemed to be deteriorating the longer he stayed put. In recent months, the pain had lessened significantly, and while his itching never went away, it did diminish. This past week, he'd noticed a steady increase in intensity and frequency.

In the absence of exercise and Survey Corps activity to distract him from his physical state, Armin took to sensations. Long, hot showers in the complex's modern infrastructure, lots of stretching and wading his hands through warm water, an increase in how much he ate, and an undeserved indulgence in the massages that Mikasa and Eren would offer him to more easily recover from his injury. Even the pain of his muscles was preferable over the itch, and as it grew, so did his antsiness to be free to go wherever he wanted again.

It was unlikely he'd get his wish soon. By Thursday, Hange had returned and backed Eren's decision, and by Friday morning, Armin knew he was going to have to sit this Sunday out.

After going to visit on a consistent schedule for two entire months, it felt odd to decide not to go. He stayed under his covers the entire morning, only emerging from his room in a bad mood to get some lunch when his stomach admonished him for skipping breakfast.

Seemed that only Jean was in to hold the fort alongside a handful of administrative personnel while the rest were out, which would explain why no one had come dragging him out of bed to feed him when he didn't make a public appearance. He knew they would go on a mission sometime soon. It wasn't much like him to forget a date, but thinking about it, he did vaguely recall hearing a goodbye break through his dreams in the morning.

Armin considered using the opportunity to go behind Jean's back on Sunday and go to Tourze anyway, but that'd probably end up biting him in the ass eventually. He shuffled over to the table and sat down next to Jean wordlessly, grabbing himself a piece of bread and cheese.

"Good morning to you too," Jean said, to which Armin only groaned in lieu of a greeting.

They sat in silence for a while as they ate together before Jean said something again.

"How're you feeling?"

"Adequate."

"Yeah, you're fine if you're using big words this early in your day," Jean jested. "Gotta say, though, you don't look adequate, you look terrible."

Armin hid his face behind his bangs. He hadn't stopped by a washbasin yet to clean his face and he didn't need a mirror to feel his hair was a mess. He'd suspected no one else would be around so he hadn't even bothered to change out of his pyjamas, knowing he'd lounge in bed all day when he returned to his room.

"I feel fine."

"You were limping yesterday."

"Jean, I said fine, not healthy. I know I can't go see Bertholdt this Sunday."

"Oh," Jean hummed, a bit flustered. "Right. Grump."

It looked like he was going to let Armin finish his lunch and sulk in silence after that, but he again broke it when he ran a hand through Armin's tangled locks.

"When did you last brush? You gotta take care of it if you want it long."

Armin swallowed the bite he'd been chewing on, shaking his head. "I'll take care of it. I just won't comb my hair twenty times a day."

He looked up at Jean with expectant eyes running over that well-kept outgrown mane of his.

Jean leaned back, running his hand through said mane to brush it into shape. "What's that supposed to mean, blondie? Some people take care of their appearance, you should try it."

To that, Armin just smiled and then took another bite from his sandwich.

"I'm getting a pair of scissors and fixing this. You're getting a short cut," Jean said as he stood up.

"No, don't!" Armin protested with a full mouth, digging his fingers into Jean's sleeve until he sat down again as he chewed to swallow.

His hair now touched down on his shoulders for the first time in his life. He hadn't gotten used to the sensation yet, and he wasn't so sure he would.

"I'll ask Mikasa to cut it back to its usual length for me when she's back."

Jean huffed, offended. "Oi, got a problem with me?"

"Yes," Armin said, with Jean's scowl as a result. "We've been cutting each other's hair for nearly a decade and she knows how I prefer it. I don't want anyone else to come near me with scissors and do something I don't like."

Jean eyed Armin's exploded mop. "Really."

"Really."

"Alright, man," Jean said, turning his hands up in defeat. "But brush it, and preferably before everyone comes back." He smirked. "You have a severe case of bedhead. Those tangles become more difficult to get out the longer you wait, you know? Might have to cut 'em loose if you wait too long."

He swung an arm over Armin's shoulder and ran his hand through Armin's bangs to ruffle them, sporting a pestering grin, with Armin's protesting whine in response.

"Okay! Okay, I will," Armin said as he swept Jean's hand out of his face again, "but only in exchange for something."

"Yeah?"

"I have a favour to ask."

"To do with this Sunday?"

Armin hesitated at the correct presumption. "Yes."

Jean sighed. "What errand am I running?"

"Nothing big. If I'm going to stay in this Sunday, then I might as well be the one to watch the headquarters. But there's something really important that I can't do."

"Mhm."

Armin subtly swallowed down his nerves. Jean already seemed miffed at where this was going, no point in padding his request.

"I need someone to bring Bertholdt some supplies."

"Uh… Wake up early and ask those suppliers who cart out in the morning?"

"I can't," Armin contested. "I don't trust them to give him everything and there are some things I need to pick up."

Not to mention the illegal food they'd find.

"Skip a week. He'll still be there next week."

"I can't. I need to be there every Sunday."

"Every Sunday? Why does it matter if you take a break once? If he cares as much as he should, he'd want you to rest when you're injured." Jean let go of Armin, leaning his arms on the table and looking at Armin with a scowl.

"Because…" Armin started. He tapped his index finger on the table a few times. "… It's not about the supplies. It's about the habit. He expects me to come, but I can't. I need to send someone else in my place so that I at least keep the pattern consistent."

"Why not wait until someone else's back?"

"The day matters. He'll know if it's a different day. My method is to get him used to a habit, then threaten to take it away again," Armin confessed. "If I break that habit now, everything I've worked on will collapse. I need someone to go there for me"

Though it was no longer his primary strategy, it would make his argument far more convincing. He really needed that habit to stay alive in case he was going to use it as a last resort gambit later on.

Jean looked at him wide-eyed, caught off-guard by the underhandedness of Armin's plan. Jean had been first to say that Bertholdt deserved what he got, so he figured the shock was more directed at Armin revealing his hand like that.

"But why does it have to be me? Trust me when I say he doesn't want me to barge into his cell."

And neither do you, Armin thought with more compassion than judgement behind it.

"You're actually the best candidate."

Jean huffed out a laugh at that. "I'm probably the worst candidate, Armin. I didn't exactly get on his good side the last few times we saw each other.

"Did any of us?" Armin asked, and Jean raised a brow at the question, so he elaborated.

"We've all tried to kill each other, not just you two. I don't think Eren and Mikasa would be interested in going. Connie and Sasha don't want to see him like that, and I can't bother Hange or Levi about this. And Floch… He'd never agree," Armin explained. "I trust you, Jean. Won't you do this for me?"

Jean, who was leaning his chin on his hand, sat upright when called upon so directly. Instead of answering, he slouched again, letting out a sigh.

"Do you think he remembers what I did?"

"No," Armin immediately answered, his interest piqued by Jean's curious wording.

"You sound sure about that."

"I am, because I asked him. He told me what he remembered between falling and waking up again and the details were barebones. He hardly even remembers all the things he told us. It probably has to do with the way he died."

"Between falling and waking up?" Jean asked, folding his hands against his mouth. "What about after he woke up?"

"He didn't…"

Armin hadn't asked. He already knew what happened when Bertholdt woke up in the mine.

Bertholdt's intriguing account of drowning in the blood that flooded his lungs still had Armin scratching his head about how he came back and why he remembered some details but not others while he was unconscious, but there was nothing he could do with it that would help him.

From the start of the fight until Bertholdt remembered suffocating, he barely knew a thing. But Jean's question was irrelevant, because he woke up in the–

Oh.

The cart.

"… He did?" Armin sheepishly asked. "Before he was taken underground?"

"You don't remember?" Jean answered.

"I was in a coma, Jean."

"So you don't," Jean concluded.

Armin looked at him with wide eyes as he shook his head, so Jean turned and swung over his leg to straddle the bench and face Armin.

"I cut off Bertholdt's arms when I found him staring and mumbling at me and then he fainted again. Pulse was gone when they checked and it didn't come back for a whole hour. You were awake when I reported the incident. You really don't remember?"

Not the cart, then?

Armin searched as far as he could, but everything after he got burnt was a blur. Even the days when Eren and Mikasa had reported he was awake, he'd barely been there. If he had been awake, it either must've been hazy or he simply had forgotten again due to the severity of his injuries.

"I don't remember anything between engaging the Colossal Titan and waking up in the hospital."

"You weren't doing so well. It's better you don't remember," Jean bitterly answered.

In other words, Armin had been wailing and writhing in pain. He'd spent his early days in the hospital similarly when they'd prioritised his survival over his sanity and refused to administer a painkiller that could've potentially killed him.

Jean, upon noticing Armin's solemn silence, laid a hand on his shoulder and pushed lightly until Armin gave him his attention again.

"Hey. You've already done your part. You're not a lesser man if you call it quits now. Remember what he did to you. What he made you go through, several times now."

"I know," Armin said. "I know, it's just…"

He didn't finish that sentence. Jean lingered for a few more moments, letting go of him again when it seemed he was finished.

"I doubt he'd be happier to see someone who severed his limbs and killed him stroll in than to have to sit it out for one week, Armin."

He swung his other leg over the bench as well and grabbed his plate, standing up.

"Wait, Jean," Armin called upon him, but Jean was already walking off. Armin followed him with his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Why were you standing next to Bertholdt's body to discover he was alive? Were you asked to guard it?"

Jean placed down his plate at the dish table, head bowed and response delayed.

"Not… exactly, no. I went back to where he died a few hours afterwards. We'd already left his body behind by the time I discovered him. We were sure he was dead until I saw that his eyes were following me when I walked past him. He then gurgled something at me. Incomprehensible stuff. It was creepy."

Armin almost remained quiet, but his curiosity got the better of him. "Why did you go back if you knew he was dead?"

"Oh. I dunno why, man, maybe to clear my head after everything that happened. Retrace my steps. I didn't expect him to scare the fuck out of me. But we're lucky that he did, or he would've regenerated and gotten away right from under our noses."

Armin wondered if there was more to it, but judging by Jean's avoidance, he wasn't ready for it. It would be a discussion for another time, if he ever dared bring it up. For now, he accepted his loss. He'd have other opportunities before Sunday came around, and it being just the two of them didn't hurt his chances.

His legs screamed for some movement after sitting down for so long, so he left to go drag his feet through the halls to keep his muscles warm when he was too lazy to get dressed for a walk.

---

The next opportunity came around Saturday morning after breakfast, when the both of them sat around the veteran's lounge.

"You'd get to go someplace and meet new people, you know," Armin dropped out of nowhere, looking up from his book at Jean, who lay listlessly draped over one of the couches. It had been a deliberate choice to read something and let Jean marinate in his boredom for a while.

Jean didn't bother to crane his neck to look up at Armin, let alone open more than one eye to look at him as he spoke.

"What makes you think I'll get out of this couch for that?"

Armin exhaled a laugh. "You're lazy when no one commands you to do things."

"Yup." Jean closed his eye again and went limp. "That's me. Lazy piece of shit wasting taxpayer money."

Returning to his book, Armin wasn't reading the page to create a moment of silence between them. Jean's quip wasn't meant as a jab at him, but it landed like one anyway, and his back's itch suddenly occupied his mind's full attention again.

"You're annoyed that you couldn't join the others on the mission. Right?" he continued.

"Hah?"

"I know you don't like to stay put."

Jean stretched his arms above him, pushing one hand's fingers against his arm with several joints cracking as a result.

"I got to go join Hange and the Captain on their report to Mitras, I got my fair share of adventure."

"Yes, of course. But did you really have to stay behind here? I would've done fine by myself."

"Oh," Jean said, "you'd have held up on your own for sure if things stayed like this. But if anyone's needed who's more mobile, then I better be around. I give it a month before you're perfectly capable of everything you could do before this all happened. Then you get to be the waste of taxpayer money."

Jean shot Armin a pestering smile. Armin, in turn, stuck out his tongue and returned to his book.

"You're obsessed," Jean added.

"I'm not obsessed."

"Yeah, you are. And what for?"

"It's a responsibility, not an obsession. One I'm taking seriously. Dealing with a prisoner is something a fully-fledged scout needs to be able to bring to a good end at least once to be considered a modern veteran. We may be dealing with a lot of them soon if things go awry."

At that, Jean finally opened both eyes and propped his torso up by his elbows.

"C'mon, man. This isn't a prisoner like the ones we'll get. This is Bertholdt."

If Jean referred to him by name, then it must be serious. He only rarely did, preferring the colossal jerk or similar pejoratives.

"What's the difference? He doesn't want to be there and he's not cooperating. Standard prisoner."

"The difference is that he ain't a stranger."

"So he'll just be a degree easier to deal with compared to Marleyan prisoners."

"He can also explode. Think your average Marleyan can do that?"

"He can't. Not anymore."

"Oh yeah, you made sure of that." Jean yielded.

He pushed his legs out of the couch so that his feet touched down on the wooden floorboards, then pushed himself upright against the back until he sat hunched over, hands loosely folded between his wide knees. He sighed, a pensive look on his face.

"You really want me to go?" he asked, giving no indication of what he was thinking over.

"I want the pattern to be kept intact for the sake of being effective. There's only one way for that to happen," Armin pleaded.

"What would happen if you skipped once?" Jean replied. "I know you've considered that scenario in full detail. Tell me what'd happen. You're way too secretive about all Bertholdt business, I want to know what I'd sign up for."

"Well… I can't know for sure, but I suspect that he'll think that I gave up on him and see the world as cruel and careless. It's too early for that. He needs to fully believe that there's hope for him. He needs to have something he can lose again, and he's not quite fully hooked yet."

"Yeesh, Armin," Jean bitterly said. "Dark much? Where did you learn this stuff?"

"We're dealing with a serious issue, there's no way to avoid going to dark places," Armin advocated, closing his book and placing it aside on an end table. "It's not nearly as grim as the things that Hange was forced to do. My actions are much easier to live with than what happened the first weeks."

Jean said nothing, a mild twist crossing his features. He was almost there. One more push he'd tentatively reserved for this sort of occasion and he'd come around.

"There's something in it for you if you go, too."

"And what would that something be?"

"Whatever you want it to be," Armin suggested, locking eyes with Jean's.

To that, Jean straightened his back, looking at Armin wide-eyed and a little nervous. "Oh," he breathed. "Like… what did you have in mind?"

"Anything."

"Food and gifts? That kinda stuff?"

"Anything."

"Hah. You're implying… you know, stuff like the old days, or am I getting this wrong?"

"If you want that. Anything is fine by me, really."

Jean blinked a few times at that, then swung his arms over the back of the couch, eyeing Armin with caution. Armin didn't waver, though he did feel nervous over bartering such services for what he needed.

Armin had to admit that it was pretty far-fetched. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Heat pooled into his collar but he was already in.

They'd been trainees cooped up in a building after rigorous training; something was bound to happen to allow them to blow off some steam. It was a matter of who was available and willing. To Armin, that had been a casual friend who wasn't so close to him that it would ruin a friendship. But these days, Jean rivalled Eren in terms of closeness. It would be interesting to see if that would make Jean refuse.

With their transition into the Survey Corps and the subsequent missions that kept them busy, they'd outgrown their childish habits anyway. But Armin knew for sure they both enjoyed it. Enough to sway Jean's mind.

"Yeah, well," Jean finally said, throwing out his hand for dramatic effect, "I don't want you to think you have to, man. That doesn't feel right."

"Have to? I'm the one offering it. Do you think I didn't enjoy it the other times?"

"What? No, of course not." Jean added on a careful "Right?" to the end of his sentence.

Shaking his head, Armin laughed. "It was fun. It's been a stressful year and even though we're older and more mature now, I also know it's been a while."

He wrung his fingers over his lap, reddening as the reality of the situation dawned on him, but his expression didn't falter. It wasn't much like him to be this bold, but he really needed Jean to act. Without throwing away his dignity, he wouldn't achieve anything.

Of all people, Jean was the most ideal. Not so harsh on the eyes, tall and lanky as he had grown, and pleasant enough to be around.

Jean rubbed a hand over his neck.

"I wasn't gonna ask you while you were in the hospital. I'm not that much of an asshole to ask a dying friend, you know. And I wasn't so sure if it was appropriate after what happened during our uprising. With, uh… You know."

"That pervert?" Armin completed without showing any change of emotion.

"Yeah," Jean responded breathily, averting his eyes.

Armin tapped his fingers across his thighs. There hadn't been much time and space to process what had happened during their mission to play Eren and Historia's body doubles, so the wound didn't run as deep as some others, but the scenario had shown up in his nightmares a few times. He wasn't even entirely sure if it would be easy to get back into intimacy with others.

This, however, wasn't someone trying to take advantage of him. This was Jean. The incident hadn't even crossed Armin's mind when he concocted this plan.

"No time like the present to get past that."

"You'd trust me for that?"

"Of course," Armin said with a smile. "You don't have to feel obligated. I don't want to coerce you either. But if I'm going to ask you to travel a distance and do something unpleasant, I want to balance it out with something pleasant. I just really need someone to go visit Bertholdt tomorrow."

"And you're not still too sore?"

"I'm fine, Jean."

He was starting to lean into patronising territory again, but given the subject matter, for once, Armin appreciated Jean's overprotective caution. It was sweet that he wanted to make sure not to make Armin relive something he'd rather never think about again.

"You know, I was gonna do it anyway even before you offered this. You don't have to do anything. I'll go, no strings attached."

A lie, but a white one. He was ready to forsake his duty to the Survey Corps for Armin after all.

"Then let me do it as compensation," Armin persisted. "If you want me to take you out and pay for dinner or get you something instead, I can do that too. It's all the same to me."

"No, no…" Jean protested.

He crossed his arms over his chest, mouth pressed into a thin line as he thought it over, so Armin reached for his book to resume reading. Before he could even get back to the page he'd left off at, Jean spoke up again.

"When?"

"Whenever you want. No one will be in until Monday so we'll have a little while before we'd need to go behind others' backs again. Some privacy would be nice."

"Right," Jean said, stretching his arms above his head and he sat upright. "Meet me in ten minutes, then? I should… You know." He pointed behind him.

"Sure."

---

Jean wanted a shower before they planned, either to wash away the sweat or the shame. Armin figured that if he washed his face and rinsed his mouth, he would be good as new. He'd even get Jean to leave him alone about his hair after giving it a quick brush for good measure.

He made it back to the common room with plenty of time to spare before Jean would join him again. There was no time to take care of himself; he had work to do.

On a slip of paper, he prepared instructions for Jean to keep in mind when he went to visit Bertholdt. What to do and more importantly what not to do; what to say and avoid saying, what he couldn't tell him at all, but nothing incriminating. No evidence.

Armin was long done writing down his instructions when Jean entered the room, hair still wet and face red. He lingered at the door until Armin beckoned him, then shuffled over, sat down, and took the note.

"Is everything fine?" Armin asked.

"Yup."

Armin nodded in acknowledgement and let Jean read in silence.

"That all?"

"Not quite."

"What else?"

"I need to bring him some things," Armin said. "I'll put supplies and books into my backpack, all you need to do with them is drop them off in the crate and remove last week's used supplies. Leave clean and uneaten items behind."

"Uneaten?"

"They're starving him and I'm not putting us in any danger by giving him some bread and nuts."

"Alright, fine," Jean let it go, sensing from Armin's tone that this could turn into an argument.

"Then, you do the rest. Keep him company, greet him, connect with him, see if there's anything we can do for him. Stay at least two hours, but more is always better. Don't bicker, don't be harsh, don't fight—please, Jean?" Armin pleaded when Jean's face contorted. "Bite your fist if you have to. You can't destroy what brittle trust I've built up for so long."

It had been a good thing he'd divulged these specific instructions only after Jean had already locked himself into the deal, or he might've gotten cold feet. Armin didn't mind that it had technically been himself doing the coercing, but Jean could deal with having to confront his demons for one morning.

"Sure, man," Jean conceded, and Armin smiled.

And just like that, Armin had gotten exactly what he wanted, and with half a day to spare before his deadline. He still had his argumentative skills going for him. It wasn't exactly his humanity he'd given up today, but he didn't wish to repeat this all too often nonetheless to avoid earning a reputation. At least like this, he could assure that what Hitch had warned him about wouldn't come to pass.

Maybe he should tell Bertholdt he'd sold his body to make sure he got his supplies and company. Maybe that would help him see just how serious Armin was about this.

That was something to consider later. He'd gotten what he wanted, that was all that mattered.

---

The itch was driving him insane.

He'd been relieved until Saturday evening, but it returned full throttle in the middle of the night. The hour-long shower he took in the morning failed to distract him from it. Usually, the water's rhythmic stream would soothe his skin, but all it did today was irritate already prickled scars with its coarse texture.

Running into Jean on his way to Tourze as Armin retreated to his room vanished what little effect that shower had on his skin. When wading his swollen fingers through a lukewarm filled bowl ended up becoming a contest for which hand's nails could rake the most viciously into the other, he called it quits on that idea too. Water was not going to be his ally today.

So why not try a new sensation? One that may seem counterintuitive, but that was a sensation nonetheless?

Bad call.

But not bad enough to keep him from padding over to the common room until he stood staring into the darkness of the hearth, where wood lay piled atop tinder. He reached for the sill and grabbed a piece of flint, hooking his fingers into the loop of the striking steel and crouching in front of the hearth. The sharp and hard texture of both objects in his hands already felt divine against the itch, but he wanted more.

He pressed his hands into fists until the materials had imprinted ridges into his skin, then struck the steel against the flint but failed to produce sparks.

Funny how the world worked. When it wasn't searing itself into his skin all over again and making him wail, he contemplated using it as a tool to cleanse his past mistakes—yet here he was appealing to those ever-vengeful flames to for once comfort him.

Another strike, harder, this time giving him a few sparks.

He'd been so relieved that Jean would take over for him, and now, he felt the worst he had in weeks. Might have even been better if he simply had not gone and instead kept Armin company.

A third strike, but none of the sparks that flew off the steel loop ignited the tinder.

No, this wouldn't do.

He stung worse the longer he went without getting to start this fire, and when he continued to fail, he abruptly threw both the striking steel and the flint to the floor and stood. It hurt but he did not care. He groaned, which then evolved into a hum and eventually a shout that he could only justify because he was alone.

In frustration, he clamped his hands over his scalp, but the itch had crawled up there too and he was left scratching under his hairline until loose skin stuck under his fingernails, and he could only think about one thing: how this was all Bertholdt's fault.

If he hadn't burnt Armin and made him lose his physique.

If he hadn't fled and been away just long enough for Erwin's body to be hauled over the wall.

If he hadn't frustrated Armin with his refusal to be reasonable.

If he hadn't pushed him into a weekly several hour long horse ride to reach him.

Then none of this would've happened.

Armin's brows furrowed and his nose crinkled into a scowl. He could have it, then. He turned around and ducked onto his knees, gathering the steel and flint and striking metal over stone hard, harder, until pieces flew off the thin slate's torn edge, but he couldn't care less. If he was meant to face the fire, then he refused to run, and he struck with so much force that the flint clattered to the floor.

The flammable pile in the hearth crackled, and before his eyes, fire enveloped the wood and blackened the old newspapers underneath. The drizzle and mist of early May had left the quarters frigid, but the cold was instantly drowned by a radiant glow that trapped the breath in Armin's throat and flared up ridges in his skin as if it were the day they had been seared into him.

He pulled back forcefully but stopped himself physically with a hand placed on the stone floor behind him.

The flames danced before him. Almost like the waters of a steady stream, except they were teetered to the timber they devoured and had nowhere to flow to. The water had been too coarse, but these red flickering waves of heat almost seemed soft and gentle.

Why not finish what he'd started? Delve his hands into the flames, repeat that pointless ritual he'd been carrying out for months with nothing to show for it, and let them blacken his skin to coal.

No. No, what in the world? Why'd he do such a thing? He scooted back on his knees before his mind was once more consumed by such intrusive ideas, so that he'd at least be out of reach.

Armin shouldn't have to carry the brunt of this. This wasn't his fault, after all.

It was Bertholdt's.

He scrambled to stand and much too quickly for his battered body did what he was advised to never do by abandoning a roaring fire and taking to his room, throwing open the door, and ripping open the drawer of his nightstand.

For the first time with complete certainty, he pulled out a textile cover before removing it and unearthing a black-bound book.

The ninth and final one of its series—its cover decorated in expertly-painted white ink depicting a sun against the horizon of a scenic landscape framing the words Tale of Dawn. Once bought and rejected as a gift for Bertholdt on the day that he assaulted Trost, it was now Armin's, doomed to not even be passed between two acquaintances so that they could read a few chapters each and then discuss together anymore. Unopened since the day he'd gone to retrieve it in January.

His nails dug into the cover. He'd grown to so despise seeing the symbol of his indecisiveness set his mood ablaze.

Not anymore. He'd choose. He'd never run away again.

In slow strides, he made his way back to the common room, until he once again stood in front of flames that danced for him.

Had the steam danced that day, too? Had Bertholdt considered what took place right before his eyes a work of art the way Armin did this hearth? Did the others see beauty in the gentle swirls and pliant curves that marred his skin into a patchwork of acid?

Oh, how funny the world could sometimes be. He'd begged Jean to go bring Bertholdt provisions and company, sacrificed his image to pull a risky stunt like that, and now, Armin was plagued with these malicious thoughts. He was piqued, then fuming, then hunched forward, fingers clenched against the book before that no longer sufficed and he stretched out his spine and threw back his head to growl. He wanted to shout out his hatred, direct all his blame at him for all that had gone wrong, all he'd failed at. Rake his nails into Bertholdt, deep—tear loose the skin of his shoulders and arms and hands and face with his teeth, cry every droplet of his molten rage into those open wounds until they scald and hear how he wailed at being so horrifically maimed by an old friend.

Every muscle in his body contracted as his spine shot straight in a burst of energy. He'd been wrong. The book wasn't the poison. No, it was Bertholdt. He had tainted this part of Armin. He was the one responsible.

Armin stared into the flames.

It was Bertholdt's fault.

It was Bertholdt's fault.

It was Bertholdt's fault, and he should be the one to burn for it.

Satisfaction surged through his veins like honey; boiling hot, warmer than he'd ever felt as the glow seemed to emanate from him and not the hearth—and he panted and smiled and trembled with such carnal catharsis that when he sucked in the thick glob of saliva that the outburst had left behind on his lips between his teeth and realised what was running through his head, his heart stopped in his chest. In knee-jerk horror, like he was holding a smouldering coal, he threw the book to the other side of the common room, where it thudded against the wall and fell.

He stared at the book as it lay there on the floor, unaffected by Armin's toss and he hummed out his uneasiness through gritted teeth.

Not like this. Gods, he could not get his satisfaction like this. Not when he stood shivering within his bones and he pretended he'd found the answer to all of humanity's troubles.

This wouldn't even solve his own.

When had Armin ever been violent? When had he ever been so possessed by thoughts like these—useless spur of the moment wishes that wouldn't do a thing to right what had been wronged? Was that really right?

It didn't serve anyone to vent his anger towards Bertholdt, least of all himself. Good as it had felt, he came crashing down. What sort of monster took pleasure in thinking about the horrors Armin had come up with? What egotistical maniac would give it all up for a single burst of vindictive pleasure?

It attested to nothing but imbecility.

He breathed out a long, calming exhale and wiped those warm trails off of his cheeks. He'd never gotten this viscerally angry at Bertholdt before, and he never would again. He simply was tired of feeling useless this week, that was all. It had been no different when he was still in the hospital. Inactivity made Armin go off the deep end and think of things he'd never normally say or do.

Was Bertholdt just like him in that regard? Telling Armin he didn't care for peace, lacking action out of fear of the irrational, rejecting Armin's wish to reconnect through reading, pushing him away at every chance he got—was that also simply Bertholdt acting out on emotions whipped up by restlessness? If it was, then that was yet another vicious cycle.

Armin sighed deeply, shoulders slouching down as he felt truly listless again.

He had to know what was going on there. Confirm whether Bertholdt was only bitter at him because they tried to kill each other or if he'd also reject Jean's company, but he wouldn't be back for hours. He'd need to distract himself if he wanted to keep his aches under control.

Physical and verbal abuse would get him nowhere, but that didn't mean he was completely powerless to push back. Bertholdt didn't even have to know about it; it would merely be a way to offer himself closure in the privacy of his own mind.

He looked over his shoulder, to where Tale of Dawn lay on the floor. Scuffling over, he crouched and picked it up before he returned to the seating area in front of the hearth.

Flames remained stuck in their involuntary dance until their source burnt up and they faded into the dark along with it. But today, they would not feast upon a part that was so irrevocably Armin.

His fingers trembled over the cover and he had to still himself. It wouldn't become easier if he waited, so he forced himself to get into it, opening his book where he remembered they'd last left off: chapter 13 out of a total of 36, on page 84 out of a total of 263, finishing two-thirds down the page and three words into the line with three paragraphs printed onto that page, capping off the chapter with 'She cared not for any of that, for she knew she had to get her Squire back, no matter what the toll.'

He sat down on one of the couches and made himself comfortable. He breezed through the end of the journey, completely shut off from the world and immersed into another altogether—naive as if nothing had changed the last time he'd visited it. As if he was in any position to enjoy this piece of escapism right now, as if he weren't currently fighting tooth and nail to prove that he could carry the dead's legacy on his shoulders alone.

But what else was he supposed to do? This story had always been Armin's most potent poison. It had always been irresistible, luring him into bad choices since the day he'd first laid eyes upon it.

Neither time nor experience had diluted the tale. Wonder, nostalgia, terror, loss—they all gripped his heart as he read, but they were nowhere near the unpleasant iterations Armin had to deal with too often these days. They were bearable. Desired. Pivotal to enhance what he felt, so much so that when he read the book's final passage and allowed this adventure its end, the contrasting weight of reality plunged all it had straight into his chest and twisted.

And for the first time in very long, he wept.

It started as a remnant of those tears he'd shed every time the story hit an emotional beat that hit too close to home, every time he was reminded of one of those many theories he and Bertholdt had passed among each other, of those gripping moments they would point out, of the overarching patterns they meticulously mapped out in their heads to gush about whilst hidden away in the back of the library. It didn't take long to evolve into far more pathetic sobbing after that, and for once, Armin allowed himself to. He was so tired of fighting his emotions when they'd been pressing against his heart for months, crying out to finally burst and flow free.

Bertholdt would've loved this. In ways that Armin would never understand, that Bertholdt could never tell a living soul about—but Armin knew for a fact that it brought him comfort in his own secretive way and that it would've helped him heal, find an alternative to his suffering and see that there was hope for him after all. That he didn't need to be in pain alone, that there was beauty in the world, that he wasn't doomed, that he had friends who would stay with him until the end.

It would've helped him so much, with so many of the things he had to deal with, in so many ways that he could never articulate to Armin, but it would've been there, he just knew it.

And now, it was done.

Now, it was no longer theirs, but Armin's.

Now, it was something Armin had accepted was never going to be fixed again.

Now, it was finished and done, and he couldn't escape that by granting Bertholdt his wish and choosing to do this on his own, Armin had turned it into a token of his defeat.

He'd burnt a bridge, something that he could've used to lure Bertholdt back onto the right path. He'd accepted that even though he was alive and with them, Bertholdt would never again read together with him. Not the way they once had.

The thought left his muscles limp. He was tired of feeling this way, but now that it was laid out in front of him so clearly, it was undeniable: Bertholdt was the reason that he had been a mess for so long now. Bertholdt was why his emotions had become impossible to regulate whereas in the past, he possessed perfect control over them. Bertholdt fanned his anger, Bertholdt supplied his tears, Bertholdt stoked his nightmares, Bertholdt drove him away from his friends, Bertholdt made him think and say and do things he would never dream of.

And all because Armin cared for him. Worked himself half to death to offer him sympathy that neither Bertholdt nor Paradis cared much for. All because of this responsibility that he'd saddled himself with.

This pain he endured? He'd never get to heal from it unless he was relieved of his duty. He wanted to scream out at his past self and beg him not to undertake that first step—not even not to visit Bertholdt in the mines but not to retrieve Tale of Dawn from his stash of seized possessions with the intention to use this for the greater good. He'd be so much better off now if he simply hadn't, if he'd swallowed his pride and accepted that Bertholdt was a lost cause who didn't even want to be loved by anyone again.

Was he really going to put his life on hold for five, maybe six more years of this? Could he really bear that—to go visit the shell of a damaged man who would kill him if he stepped too close, trapped in a state that Armin could barely even look at without feeling pity and remorse and failure and personal accountability, all the while even one slip of his tongue, one crinkle in his tone could shut him down for the rest of the day and make Armin feel foul for his mistake?

Of course they had been friends.

Of course they had been close, way too close for comfort in hindsight.

Of course Armin wanted to rebuild their friendship, but Bertholdt wouldn't let him. He wouldn't let Armin drag him out of hell, he wouldn't take that chance to redeem his past mistakes and become an advocate for peace in a lifetime of war, he wouldn't take the offer to close the distance that his betrayal had put between them, he wouldn't want Armin.

How was he supposed to go on like this when there was barely any improvement? When at this rate, by the time Bertholdt finally died, the most he would've ever returned was maybe a smile? When after all was said and done, the outcome would be all the same: a dead man who would take all of their shared hurt and comforts to his grave, after which Armin knew for a fact he'd never dare open up about their history to another living soul?

Armin, Armin, Armin—was that all he could think about? That was exactly how he'd gotten to the point of his outburst by the hearth.

What about those legacies he was trying to honour? What about Erwin's death that was entirely Armin's fault—no matter how Levi tried to spin it—and the million who had lost the guidance and wisdom of humanity's hope when he didn't return from their mission? What about the hundreds who died in Shiganshina to afford them a victory? What about the survivors who needed the Survey Corps to convince its enemy that they could be allies?

Where was he supposed to go from here on out? The illusion had been shattered, he'd addressed that phantom that had been stalking him since the beginning, but he couldn't just stop now that he'd faced his true colours. He had a responsibility, he'd promised himself that he would see it through. What kind of a coward would he be if he ran now and left Bertholdt to his demons?

Bertholdt was ruining him. It would stay with him until the day he died, and each consecutive week was dragging him down farther into his ditch. What chance did he stand? What were his alternatives? How was he going to survive this?

He didn't know the answer. He felt so infantile, so helpless in his current state, that all he could do was let his body lead his actions and cry itself out.

Through it all, his itch was gone.

---

When footsteps echoed through the hallway, hours must've passed since he'd retreated to his room, and in a panic, Armin scrambled for the book that lay somewhere on his covers and tossed it underneath his bed when the movement was too sudden to return it to its drawer.

He was just in time to hide the evidence of what felt like his worst crime when a knock on his door and a "Hey, I'm back," signalled Jean's arrival.

"Great," Armin responded through the door, voice hoarse.

Uninvited, Jean opened the door and Armin felt naked, the way his face was puffy and red with his eyes swollen and rubbed raw. The eye contact between them immediately eclipsed Jean's face with worry, and hot tears again welled in the corners of Armin's eyes just from being perceived in this vulnerable state.

Jean stepped inside, clearing his throat and straightening his face as he closed the door behind him. He placed Armin's backpack down on his desk.

"You know, it all makes sense now why there were these particularly dirty clothes in the laundry pile every week when no one wears this size. I can't believe you've made us do his laundry all this time. Explains why you're always sneaking around the place. You made me touch his worn underwear, you jerk."

He turned around and leaned his hips against Armin's desk, smiling.

Armin was grateful that Jean didn't call attention to what should've obviously been a private moment of emotional outburst. What had happened between them a day prior had nothing on how intimately perceived Armin felt at this moment.

"How would you like to live in the same clothes for years?" Armin retorted, opening his bedside drawer to pull out a clean handkerchief to hastily tidy up his sticky face with.

Jean crossed his arms over his chest.

"No, no, I agree with your decision, actually. That would be pretty tough," he admitted, a surprising amount of humanity in his words as he averted his eyes in shame of what led Armin to make the comment.

Armin had half expected him to advocate for letting Bertholdt live in his own filth, and yet here, Jean 'Bertholdt deserved everything he got and more' Kirstein was showing sympathy for his living conditions. Did the mines have such a profound impact?

Good, then. Maybe Armin wouldn't have to be chained to weekly visits for years to come. Maybe he could steadily introduce his friends to taking interest in these visits, talk them into taking over from him every once in a while and broaden the range of exposure Bertholdt would get while lightening Armin's mental burden.

Maybe, if he dared to be more optimistic than the universe allowed him to be, they would collectively decide that they didn't want their former friend to be made to suffer like that and they could put pressure on Hange to bring him to a surface cell.

He still had to urge Hange to do it. His stomach ulcerated at the thought alone.

"You won't tell on me, will you?" Armin asked, wiping the dried crust out of his eyelids before deciding that was enough and stuffing the handkerchief in his pocket.

"I'm not getting you in trouble, man. Though that's a lot of stuff you're giving him. Clothes, food, those books. You do know what you're doing, right?"

"I believe I proved that I do. All it changes is that he doesn't have to cry himself to sleep on an empty stomach and an atrophied mind. He's not suddenly going to transform because of it. I've tested everything. It's safe."

"Great," Jean said.

"So how did it go?" Armin followed up, turning so that his feet now hung off the side of his bed and his toes touched the floorboards.

"Uh… Well? Could've gone a lot worse, if you ask me. He was in a terrible mood but I gave him everything you told me to give him and stayed with him for a while."

"Did you two talk?" Armin asked, curious to detect any bias in how Bertholdt treated either.

Jean sighed.

"Look, Armin, I did my best, but he really doesn't like me. He didn't say much when I talked to him. Half of the time, he just ignored everything I said. I stayed as long as I could, but eventually, it was tiring."

"Maybe I should instead ask if there was anything meaningful that he said."

"I learned a few things. Lemme think…" Jean answered, uncrossing his arms to rest his palms on the desk, then snapped his fingers. "Oh! We talked a little about last summer. You wanted to know if he remembered anything after waking up, right?"

"Did he answer?"

"Yeah. He remembers the cart ride back home. When he woke up, Eren tried to strangle him and I had to keep him from killing the bastard. Must've left enough of an impression on him to remember that, but not me lobbing off his arms. Makes things a lil' easier for me, eh?"

"That is lucky," Armin agreed. This was another instance where they'd talked that Armin didn't know of. No one told him things anymore.

"Really. He also told me he's remorseful and that really thought us friends, but that he'd do it all again if he got the chance. And he said sorry."

"Sorry?"

"About what he did."

He apologised? He'd never apologised to Armin for that before. For refusing to cooperate, yes, but not for what he had done. Did Jean evoke stronger feelings of remorse than Armin did?

"Oh."

"Yeah. That aside, he wasn't uncooperative, but he just… mostly sat there and listened to me, I guess. Good thing I had a lot of dumb bull to fill the time with, or we'd have held a staring match. He's also annoyingly good at chess. That's all I got, really"

Armin didn't respond. How he'd love to have seen the exchange for himself. But at least, Bertholdt wasn't overly friendly with Jean when he'd denied Armin that kindness. Armin wouldn't know how to process it if he were.

Still, that apology… What did it mean? Would Armin have to investigate later to find out more about Bertholdt's intentions?

"Oh, and he was snotty and coughing. Something nasty's doing the rounds with the police, he must've picked it up from them. Thought you oughta know, whatever good it does."

"Huh," Armin hummed. "Maybe that's why he was so tired last week. He was sniffling."

"Could be."

Silence fell between the two, and soon, Jean pushed himself to his feet again.

"Well, I'm starving. I get this feeling that you've been holed up in your room all morning. Come eat with me?"

"Go ahead without me," Armin responded, painfully aware that he needed a cold washcloth against his face first. "I'll catch up."

---

With great care, he pulled his arm tight against his collarbones to pull his skin as taut over his shoulder as he could, and held. The redness was leaving his face too slowly, he figured it was better to do something while he waited in the bathrooms to be presentable when washing his face started to irritate his skin even more.

Dropping his arms back to the side, he eyed his bare torso in the mirror. New fullness padded his sides. His muscle mass had a round texture and the folds of skin cast a milder shadow behind his collarbones, between his ribs, and by his sternomastoids than they had months ago. And when he looked at his scars–

His fingers tightened against the washbasin. A hand went up to gently touch the long locks that flowed down the side of his head.

If he wanted to examine those red ridges that had bitten themselves into the side of his neck, he found that he had to brush aside his hair to see them.

---

10

The expedition didn't return on Monday, as was initially planned.

Jean and Armin had already convened to discuss a potential course of action but it was unlikely that anything had gone wrong. If it had, they would've received word of it by now. Two old veterans, four new veterans, 33 recruits, and 35 loaned soldiers aided by Eren in his titan form wouldn't just disappear overnight, so Jean wasn't too worried. But regardless, he remained on standby in case they needed him on his feet at a moment's notice.

Armin knew they would hold their own without issue but he couldn't subdue the worry that something was wrong. They still didn't know when Marley would return.

At his physician's advice, he decided to stop lazing around and went for his first afternoon walk since his injury, relieved to find that his stamina hadn't deteriorated that harshly. He'd been capable of it before—he'd probably been better off if he started building earlier, but something had kept him nailed to his bed all week long, apathetic despite feeling restless. It was good to be out of the headquarters for fresh air.

The rest of the day and evening, he spent combing through one of those banned books in the Survey Corps' possession.

He'd picked The Nature of Absolutism, a book written by one Yannick Henze that laid out the foundations of a philosophical study his colleagues had coined as meta-ethics.

One glance at the introduction showed why this book had been outlawed: unlike traditional ethical studies, this branch examined not which actions are good and bad, but how one could possibly determine what is good and bad and what the distinction truly means, if it exists at all.

In the hands of the public, this could open many eyes to the unfairness of the censorship and suppression the people of the Walls lived under and cause a potential uprising. Now that the people were encouraged to be open and think for themselves, Armin thought that this publication should be reprinted en masse to teach the next generation critical thinking skills that would lead to better choices than the ones who put these laws in place.

It ended up both validating and challenging several of Armin's worldviews. He'd long agreed that anything could be sold as good or bad given the right arguments and viewpoints but that ultimately, neither existed—and Henze argued that morality was fluid, nothing more than a tool manipulated by its holder, and that striking the right balance was the key to ethical practices.

Henze, however, was a strong proponent of setting proactive boundaries on right and wrong, finding that bending moral law based on precedents could lead to authoritarianism and historical revision. Armin's own approach was to retroactively assess which benefits certain actions led to in order to justify their validity while staying open to the possibility of making previous wrongdoers useful to society once more. Henze had coined this morality of convenience and held strong opinions on its evils.

Evil was often no constructive designation when descriptors such as self-serving, lacking solidarity, and cruel came across more strongly where they applied. Armin's philosophy sounded too tame to apply such adjectives to.

He didn't get very far into The Nature of Absolutism, needing a while to acquaint himself with its specific lingo. Internally, he was still warring about whether taking this book with him to let Bertholdt read it was a good or a bad idea.

---

Shouts thundered through the building early Tuesday morning. The Survey Corps had returned just before dawn from what was their first ever large-scale expedition with zero casualties and minimal injury, if a single sprained ankle from underestimating the uneven terrain when dismounting a horse counted as such.

Armin took to the streets with Jean to witness their victorious procession and welcome their friends back home. Their return meant an early meeting so that their activity could be discussed and the exhausted scouts could follow their underlings' example and rest after a week spent in titan territory.

Their odds looked good. The titan guillotines had been effective, leading to a near-total extinction of the titan population of Wall Maria. More importantly, they'd tested out a new system that would allow them to spend periods of up to two weeks in titan territory interspersed with brief returns to the walled cities to restock and let both soldier and horse rest up.

They were one report to Mitras away from starting their large-scale operation to declare Wall Maria titan free. Had they not been exhausted, there surely would've been celebrations right now, but it looked like the new veterans had spent the previous night awake.

Hange, well used to staying up for extended periods of time, enthusiastically led the meeting as the others sat in their chairs rather quietly.

Talking points included plans for the expeditions that would take place over the next months, management of existing manpower, a quick rundown of the uneventful week Armin and Jean had, a schedule for when they could expect to help Shiganshina resettle and for them to travel to the harbour, and a rather long-winded rant aimed at Eren over needing to be more proactive in securing encountered titans, most of which Armin tuned out of.

"And finally, Armin!" Hange said, pulling Armin out of his daydream at the sudden prospect of getting chewed out next.

"Yes, Commander?"

"You've been visiting the Colossal Titan for… what, two months now? Three?"

Armin's fingers strained over his lap.

"Two."

"Have you made any new progress since the last time we discussed this item?" they cut straight to the point.

"Well, um…"

Finally, his chance to convince Hange to take Bertholdt to the surface stood in front of him.

But if he told them anything about Bertholdt's reasoning for not helping them, he would be told to stop visiting and spend his time elsewhere. Maybe then, they would give him that reason to absolve himself from continuing to do something that was destroying him from the inside out.

He couldn't think like that. He didn't want to be that kind of person. He couldn't just void his responsibility, no matter how badly it hurt to keep visiting.

"Commander, I've been making progress every week, but I'd be lying if I said that the rules that are in place weren't hampering my results. They are the primary problem holding me back right now."

"Ah. I thought you'd say that," Hange responded. "I have received word from the capital about your request to loosen up the meal protocols."

Armin perked up. Late, but maybe, if they budged here, they would elsewhere too.

Hange's features sank at his enthusiasm.

"Unfortunately, they don't believe it's a good idea. The current rules are staying in place for the time being."

Armin sighed out the tense breath he'd been holding. Of course. No revolution would ever fully rid any government of its fearful cowards.

Maybe it was time he had an audience with Historia to ask her to overrule these decisions. She and Bertholdt had been friends, hadn't they? Armin had seen them in the city together with several other girls during their training days. Her bond with Bertholdt and her camaraderie with Armin may cause her to see reason where others did not.

Bertholdt also was responsible for taking Ymir away from her. Krista would be merciful. There was no telling how tolerant Historia would be, if she weren't the one blocking Armin's request.

"Between those of us present here, I also think that if the rules in place do not serve the greater good, then you should continue to skirt them. I will not report this to the capital."

"What?" Armin immediately asked, flustered. He shot Jean a betrayed sideways glance, but Jean simply shook his head in quick, small motions, eyes wide in his claim of innocence.

"You're feeding the Colossal. Ain't I right?"

Several eyes shot Armin's way, horrified. He pressed his tongue tight against the roof of his mouth so as not to visibly swallow.

"How do you know?"

"Ha!" Hange almost shouted, pulling the few who weren't paying attention into the conversation. "So I was right?"

Dammit. He should've used plausible deniability.

At least Floch was no longer present at these meetings. It would be the final nail in Armin's coffin if he found out.

"He couldn't think through the hunger. I had to do something while I waited or I wouldn't be able to change anything. How would you fare if you had to get by on a single bowl of water with traces of soup in it a day?" Armin appealed to the others, looking over their faces that carried that trademark indecisive pity every time this subject came up again.

"Armin," Hange interrupted the appeal. "I've already told you that in this case, I think these are rules that are better off being broken."

"Oh," Armin sheepishly hummed. "What made you change your mind? You weren't so certain of it last time."

"I did agree that it could potentially be safe and helpful. The higher-ups blocking the request made me figure that they won't listen to reason even if we possess it, so sometimes, we have to take things into our own hands."

Armin gratefully nodded at the approval, but Hange stuck up a finger before he could get too enthusiastic.

"But, and that is a very important but, it needs to lead somewhere. If it does nothing for us, then you are taking an unnecessary risk and I want you to stop. And I need you to inform me when you do these sorts of things. Take no action without my approval. That's why I need to know about your progress, Armin. Do you still think this is going anywhere?"

"Yes," Armin said with confidence. "Yes…" he repeated, a little more softly.

The conference room looked at him, as if waiting for some grand confession.

"Do you think anything can be done to take him to the surface?"

"What, up here? With us?" Connie was the one to speak up. "Isn't the whole point of putting him underground that he can't hurt anyone?"

Armin eyed an unsure Connie. They all looked the way he did: like Armin had suggested the most heinous plan he could come up with to mess with them.

They didn't get it, did they?

"In a month from now, we will stand on that shore watching the ocean for ships," Armin tried, voice hushed to match the deadly serious situation, "and one day, something will head for us. Something hostile. They will want to know what they're in for. Can they take us on or do our titans pose too much of a threat?"

"Titan."

"Well… They might infer that we figured out how to pass them on and we gave the Colossal Titan to one of our own after its holder stayed behind here. I don't know if they will take the risk on the off chance that we won't destroy their ships and kill everyone."

How had Bertholdt put it?

"Remember, we are island devils to them," Armin pointed out. "We're the ones who fled and doomed the remaining Eldians to becoming the scapegoats. We sent their titans back home in shambles and managed to capture two of them. They know that we are capable of posing a threat and they believe us violent enough to actually carry through with it."

Like that, and not a word more.

"And what if they send their titans back?" he added anyway. "What if Reiner and Zeke show up for another round? What if they take along the Cart Titan and the new Jaw Titan?"

"New Jaw titan?" Connie asked with caution. "Isn't that Ymir's titan? What… happened to her?"

So Armin wasn't the only one who wasn't told things.

"We discussed it in a prior meeting. She was taken back to Marley to be eaten."

One Connie hadn't been present for. He didn't answer and just looked at the table with a slight quirk in his brows. It was easier to pretend that Ymir's final note hadn't spelled out her doom, but hope could only get him so far. They'd been told.

"Regardless," Armin continued so as to preserve his momentum, "we need to have a good relationship with Bertholdt in both scenarios. If we can show those invaders that we have spared and befriended someone who once was our greatest enemy that they all presumed we killed, they might believe us when we say we have peaceful intentions. And if Reiner is with them and learns that Bertholdt is alive and we treated him well, he may stave off an attack and we can start to bargain."

"What comes after in this scenario?" Hange asked. "Marley cannot obtain the Colossal Titan. It is too destructive."

"Reiner doesn't need to know that," Armin argued. "What we need from him is an audience with Marley. While Reiner might have enough sway over Marley's scouts to keep them from attacking for a few days, I doubt that he has the influence needed to make large decisions. If Marley can avoid the rumbling, the Colossal Titan is a price they are likely willing to pay. But we need to know how to approach him from Bertholdt. Maybe we can even show him alive and well and have him put in a good word for us."

"Yeah, I don't think we'll get him to put in a good word for us," Jean said.

"How can you know that?" Armin answered with a shrug. "I got him to do many things I didn't expect he would. But that is why he needs to come to the surface. Now. The sooner we build a good relationship with him, the easier it will be to convince him to help us. He wants peace too, and if we take him here and show him we have a plan and that we have goodwill without asking him for payment to be treated like a human being, he's much more likely to be on board with it."

He looked at Hange, the sincere demand visible on his face.

"So I urge you to please keep bargaining for his return to the surface. If they say no, appeal again and again. Contact different people, build rapport, convince them of the merit of the plan, anything to plant in their head that it's better than what we're currently doing. Because we all know that what we're doing now is pointless. We can't stop now that we have an ace up our sleeve for the first time in a hundred years, not when we are running out of time…"

Hange remained silent.

Pointlessly so. Armin knew that his argument was sound and that all disagreements came from a place that didn't have Paradis' best intentions in mind. He wasn't below implying that Hange was saving their own hide by refusing to fight if he had to.

They nodded behind their folded hands.

"It is true that we are close to our cutoff point," they said. "We may need to start thinking of more drastic measures soon. I can see the merit in your plan. But that leaves us with the issue of convincing Zackley of allowing us to bring him here."

"He doesn't need to be here. Use the old Rose headquarters. He can't harm many people in the middle of a forest. And why don't we ask Historia? She has veto power."

Hange hummed, a hand placed on their chin.

"Maybe. But she has been informed of Ymir's fate in Marley, one that she suffered at Bertholdt's hands. She may not think the merit is worth the risk."

"We can't know until we try it," Armin said.

"If we're reporting back to the capital anyway, can't we ask when we're there? She'll be present for our report, right?" Jean asked.

"Alright, then," Hange said, followed by a brief pause before they nodded. "It's worth a shot, we will bring it up when we report to Mitras."

Armin left the meeting in what was probably the best he'd felt in a month. He wouldn't have to abandon Bertholdt beneath the earth just yet.

---

The encroaching heat was getting unbearable.

Mikasa sat on a stone wall with Armin seated on the ground, back turned on her to give her an ideal view of his scalp with his cloak draped over his shoulders to keep his clothes clean.

"Do you want me to do what I always do?" Mikasa asked as she brushed out the full length of Armin's messy locks.

"Mikasa… Do you think my hair is too long to get in the way of our gear?"

"Sasha's hair is longer than yours," Mikasa said with a particularly stingy pull of her brush, "but she wears it in a ponytail. I cut my own short to avoid accidents."

"Ah." Armin tilted his head forward, a light blush on his cheeks. "Actually, I was thinking about keeping it long."

Behind him, Mikasa hummed with what he assumed was a nod. She went through his hair with brush and scissors using great care and Armin trusted her fully to listen to his request and just tidying him up instead of fixing him his usual bowl again. She finished up rather swiftly, asking Armin to turn around and come sit next to her several times to reach his bangs and cut his sorry locks back into pristine form.

Despite Armin's protests, when she was done, she kept playing around with his hair until she'd gotten it gathered into a ponytail, looser than the purely functional one that Armin made when he went exercising. Mikasa was surprisingly bold when she got the opportunity to mess around with his hair, fingers treading over his scalp in ways that he couldn't deny were sensual and pleasant.

"This style suits you," she complimented as they sat side-by-side on the wall, an endearing smile on her face as she admired her handiwork.

"You think?" Armin asked, patting his cheeks to subdue the pink that burned across them.

Mikasa hummed affirmatively.

"You remind me so much of your mother."

Armin froze. He hadn't seen himself in the mirror yet with this particular hairstyle, but it did resemble how he remembered his mother's—the one she always wore to keep her hair out of her eyes when she was hard at work. He'd gotten his tardy hairbrushing habits as of late from her, without a doubt, and people would always say that his eyes aside, he was her spitting image.

But she was beautiful, and he…

He was a mess with a carved-up face.

"Armin, I'm so sorry… I didn't mean to."

He looked up at Mikasa's concerned face and realised that tears had beaded in the corners of his eyes. He quickly wiped them away with his sleeve, embarrassed, and assured Mikasa with a laugh under his breath that it was nothing.

---

Despite his efforts to become more active again, he'd left packing his stuff until Saturday evening. After Jean had dropped a handful of books off, Bertholdt would be fine on reading material for a while. Instead, he prepared a small journal and a box of pencils for Bertholdt to write his thoughts in and pass the time with. Having second thoughts didn't mean he was going to rescind any care during his visits.

He opened his backpack to pull out the laundry he'd neglected to do, but it didn't matter. Bertholdt had enough clothes and towels in stock for it to not be an issue. Laid out on his floor, he stared into his backpack for a few moments, finding something was off about it until–

Oh. No. Gods, no.

His hands searched the inside of his backpack and he frantically turned the laundry inside out, and when he turned up nothing, he sat sunken to his knees in silence as dread descended over him.

His notebook was missing.

---

When Sunday came around, the best thing that could be said was that he had made it to Tourze. Like a little liar who thought he could hide from himself how horrifically he was failing his mission and skinning himself alive because he was too much of a coward to rip off the leech and quit his elaborate act of self harm.

Bertholdt had recognised Armin before he'd entered his cell, the way the relief in his eyes was already washing out by the time his lantern shone its light on his face.

"Good morning, Bertholdt," Armin greeted with as much warmth as he could. Just one break and he already felt like an invading stranger in this cell again. His breakdown last Sunday hadn't helped. Hopefully, Bertholdt hadn't taken Armin's absence personally.

Bertholdt responded with his regular greeting hum, but as Armin went to set his tea and backpack down, he muttered a shaky "Hello."

With his back turned on Bertholdt, Armin couldn't help but subdue a bitter smile. Progress when he'd so thoroughly hoped that Bertholdt would have regressed inward again and given Armin an excuse to do the same.

"I heard from Jean that the two of you didn't fight last week. I'm glad to hear that things have gone well. Did he provide you with everything you need?" Armin checked.

"Yeah," Bertholdt confirmed.

Armin nodded, crouched in front of the crate, and opened it, eyes glued to the contents. Laundry on one side, a few clean pieces on the other, an empty knapsack, and a pile of books, with at the bottom of the stack–

His journal.

Jean had followed Armin's instruction to 'just put the supplies and books into the crate' with too little critical thinking skills applied to it. His journal wasn't a book. His journal clearly, obviously was not a book.

At first glance, there was no way to tell if Bertholdt had noticed it when grabbing reading material. He'd have to examine it thoroughly for stains and folds in the paper once he was back home.

But his stomach sank at the confirmation that his notebook had been here for an entire week, at Bertholdt's full perusal. If he'd read it, that could mean trouble. Armin had been vague in his notes at the start but had made them more detailed as time went on, and there were several details that would reflect badly on him.

No, he couldn't go on with the assumption that Bertholdt hadn't. Asking was out of the question. He'd never answer truthfully.

Though maybe, this was a good thing. Maybe, this showed him Armin's thought process and eventual growing transparency in wanting better for Bertholdt without necessarily having a payoff. Maybe he'd appreciate that Armin had stressed to use no pain or discomfort, no matter what, and see that Armin's motives were pure. He'd see that Armin wanted to find him.

Maybe this was beneficial.

"I wanted to say…" Bertholdt pierced Armin's thoughts.

For the better, because he was staring inside the crate without doing anything. He quickly grabbed his notebook and wrapped it inside a shirt to stash away.

"I'm sorry. For everything."

Huh. Armin turned his head to look back at Bertholdt, who seemed more interested in staring down the gate than Armin, head slightly bowed. Under Armin's observation, a subtle pink dusted his ashen cheeks.

Curious. So he did intend to apologise to Armin too, despite having once claimed so openly that he didn't have the right to apologise for anything. He didn't sound like he'd put his heart into it. There'd be more detail if he had.

"Did Jean tell you to say that?" Armin asked before he could catch how accusatory that sounded.

Bertholdt bent his neck farther, sinking deeper against his wall.

"Um, I… He… Yeah."

What had Jean said to make him apologise? Had it been a fight or had it come up naturally when Jean brought up the events of the past? Should Armin try too, to at least create some peace between the two of them? The part of him that wanted to ruin what remained of their friendship well rivalled the part of him that wanted to hold onto it for dear life.

Armin let a solemn smile tug at his lips. Bertholdt had been right. No apology could make this right. Those weren't the type of words that would lead anywhere constructive, nor were they what he wanted to hear.

But it was a start. Maybe it would lead to a better relationship. So he locked eyes with Bertholdt and shot him a more convincing smile.

"Didn't I tell you, Bertholdt? I've already forgiven you for that. Right now, the best apology is action. It's still not too late for that."

Bertholdt mouthed something Armin couldn't decipher as he zoned out again, giving Armin his cue to resume restocking.

It was a good turn of events. There was a sign of guilt, and with guilt came the desire for redemption and absolution. He knew very well there was only one way to truly find peace with himself again, and it was through Armin's offer of redemption. Armin had nearly finished The Nature of Absolutism and he'd concluded that this book would be far too dangerous in Bertholdt's hands so long as he was still against them, but it had taught Armin some valuable insights into his current mission. How to play morality to his hand and warp Bertholdt's view of the world that seemed so set in stone earlier.

But that was only if Armin was ready for another long, tense debate that would throw his mental health into turmoil once more. He wasn't quite ready to make that step. He'd do it eventually, he promised himself, when he was more robust and had the energy to do it. Just not now. Later.

As he worked, he found hidden under the laundry a familiar little paper box that wouldn't close anymore from how badly it had been torn and weathered on all sides. Tarot cards, he knew. Specifically, Jean's tarot cards. Curious that this item had found its way into Bertholdt's possession a second time.

He stashed the deck into his coat pocket. There was another bridge he could use to nudge Bertholdt into the right direction that demanded his attention first. To offer a little bit of hope he could lean into to escape from his terror.

"I have talked with the Queen. She agreed to let you come to the surface if you agree to help us," Armin said as he finished up with his supplies and turned to sit down.

"You talked to the Queen."

"Yes."

"Directly." His fingers fidgeted with his teacup's ear, unimpressed.

To Bertholdt, this Queen was an inexperienced figurehead none of them knew after the previous King had been dethroned. Of course he would find it more than a little suspicious that mere scouts would have such accessible contact with nobility.

"And if I'm lying to you and you agree and I then can't take you to the surface, what would that have achieved for me? Why would I go through that effort?"

"Okay, fine," Bertholdt groaned. "You talked to the Queen, then. But… It changes nothing. Didn't you say you already had the means to get me to the surface if I talked?"

He had, and Armin had hoped that Bertholdt wouldn't catch on to that. But instead of wrestling his way out of the situation, he took a page out of Bertholdt's book and nodded his head before letting go of the topic.

He just had to know. He had to know that there was a guarantee that a condition under which he could give in and claim his promised reward.

It wasn't Armin who'd talked to Historia due to his still recovering injury, but Jean. The news they had brought back from the capital had been devastating. Historia herself was against the idea of bringing Bertholdt to the surface under any circumstance. Jean had been effective in changing her mind on the matter, but that still left Armin with only a hypothetical that if he got Bertholdt's word that he would help, she would merely consider letting him come to the surface.

Was that her opinion, or that of her self-serving advisors?

Even if he was successful, the upper brass could still block his appeal, and the highest authority on Paradis had now set this in stone. Now, it was in Hange's hands to push until they bent.

All had gone so well up until now, and yet for some inexplicable reason, his mood shifted and his morning in front of the hearth simmered in his stomach once more.

He felt mad. He felt so mad at Bertholdt that he couldn't suppress his next words from spilling out.

"I've finished Tale of Dawn."

No longer private closure. He had to see what Bertholdt thought of it, and it was shameful and spiteful but he instantly felt better.

Bertholdt's eyes widened at the sudden change of topic. He had to be aware of just how transparently vitriolic Armin's words were intended to be, and Armin already regretted it, but there was no going back.

"Oh."

"Mhm," Armin answered, averting his eyes in favour of looking at the tips of his boots. "And it was… Well, I really can't lie about this. It was fantastic. Unbelievably good."

He assessed Bertholdt's reaction and it punched him in the gut when there was none.

"Are you sure about your choice?" he whispered. Begged. Cast a last lifeline on a prayer.

Bertholdt simply nodded, pale and uncertain.

"It's not too late."

"I know, Armin. You shouldn't have to share this with me. You deserve to enjoy it."

Deserve.

Who was he to decide what Armin deserved? But then, no malice was legible in his eyes, only a certain type of… was that relief?

"Don't you?"

No, Bertholdt shook.

"I should've stayed away so that you didn't have to be friends with a…"

Traitor.

Murderer.

Monster.

Whatever it was that Bertholdt thought himself. Whatever name Jean had told Bertholdt that left a profound impact on him. This was the most responsible, self-assured compassion that Armin had received since his visits started, yet it felt empty.

Armin's conclusion had been lonesome. They'd been friends and Bertholdt would never see it as his right. Did he consider their friendship to have been impactful too, after all?

He certainly did not behave like he was open to rekindling.

This time, it was Armin's turn to shake his head. "It made things better."

"It also made things much worse."

That wasn't wrong, but it felt so dishonest. Not the way that Bertholdt was implying it. If they'd never met, if they'd never read together in the library for so many Sunday afternoons, where would that have left either of them?

Armin would've read on his own.

Bertholdt would've had far fewer people to be around during an already isolating mission.

It would've left both of them alone. At least like this, they were two lonely souls who got to be a little bit less lonely together. Armin wanted to believe that it had all meant something, that there was value in what had happened between them regardless of what the outcome had been.

Maybe he even longed for a time when he could pretend that everything was fine. Maybe, despite his outburst after finishing the story, there still was a part of him, larger than he knew, that hoped that if it made him depressed enough, the universe would reward him by making things alright for him again.

But things wouldn't be. Bertholdt was clear about it. They wouldn't be. Even after an agreement to help, Bertholdt would be too distant to become friends again. Armin was going to have to accept this instead of backpedalling every single time he reached that conclusion. He would have to learn to live with the hurt.

"I liked the time we spent together," Armin said, against all he knew was good, and surprisingly, Bertholdt responded.

"Yeah…"

No denial. No response to Armin's desire to reconnect. But undeniable reciprocated reminiscing.

Bertholdt had long accepted it as a thing of the past. Armin was behind.

Maybe he should threaten to tell Bertholdt how the story ended. Show him that he didn't care about sharing it anymore, that Bertholdt's feelings about it no longer mattered—but it would lead nowhere but to give Armin an outlet for his frustration. It wouldn't work considering Bertholdt's apathy, anyway.

Armin slowly and carefully let out a deep exhale to anchor himself. He couldn't get emotional while watched, so he locked away his reaction. Only one way out of this, and that was forward.

He cleared his throat. "Did you make any progress on any of the books I left behind for you?"

"Yeah."

"Are you lying?"

A pause and a blank, guiltless stare. "Yeah."

Again, Armin sighed. "Why?"

Bertholdt shrugged.

"Didn't you like the ones that I left behind?"

"I do, Armin," Bertholdt hummed in exasperation, "it's just…"

But he didn't continue.

Armin let the silence between them span, making clear that this question was getting answered. Bertholdt caught on and gave in with a sharp inhale and a grimace.

"Reading hurts my eyes and head."

He was acting secretive about it. Armin was ready to accept it as evidence that he'd read the notebook until an idea occurred to him. Something he'd read about once.

Opening his backpack, he took out a piece of paper and the box of pencils he intended to gift at the end of this session. As small as he could, he wrote a sentence on the corner before folding the paper and flinging it towards a curious Bertholdt, who hesitantly folded it open again and squinted closely at the letterwork. Armin observed carefully as Bertholdt examined it closer and closer with a notable occasional twitch of his eyelids until he lowered it again, his unfocused eyes looking past Armin rather than at him.

"I… haven't been seeing so well lately."

"Really?"

Bertholdt nodded.

A weight fell off Armin's shoulders. If that were the case, then it was unlikely that he'd read his journal.

"How much can you see?"

"Um…"

"Can you see me?"

Bertholdt looked up momentarily as if he had to verify it, then nodded his head and relaxed his neck again. "I can. But the details of your face are vague."

"Is this something that started just recently, Bertholdt?" Armin asked.

"It started shortly after they started doing those tests on me. I don't know…"

"December," Armin answered the implied question. "You haven't been seeing well for half a year?"

Bertholdt blinked a few times as he processed that information. He slowly turned his head towards the gate, though he kept his eyes pinned on that same patch of ground.

"Did the tests do this?"

"Ah… I would have to ask," Armin said. "Hange didn't say anything about eyesight, and I don't see what benefits we'd get out of slowly blinding someone. But if it's a toxic side effect, then that could be an issue, especially if it came from medicine."

Bertholdt tapped his finger a couple of times across his collarbones without much rhythm to it, then looked back up at Armin.

"Yeah, you would want to know that," he murmured before his gaze drifted again.

It was unlikely that Hange was behind this. Armin had read about rare cases of prisoners losing visual function for reasons beyond their medical grasp. The cases had been so underreported that it was hard to pinpoint a cause.

"Right, in that case…" Armin dug the notebook he'd just obtained out from its shirt and opened it where he'd left off. "I'd like to document this. If this is a side effect of something we gave you and this has been developed into medicine, then this is not something we'll want to distribute. I think you can agree that blinding citizens won't protect any Marleyans."

"Sure."

"What is it that keeps you from seeing things? Is it that what you look at is blurred?"

"It's blurred. And there are these, uh, little spots."

Armin noted it down in keywords.

"Light? Dark? Size? Number of spots?"

"Um…" Bertholdt squinted at his open palm. "They're blurry. A little dark. There's a large one on the left side of my right eye and one on the left side of my left eye too. The rest are small. About… Twenty?"

"Right. And what I gave you, could you make out anything?"

"I recognise them as letters, but they dance around the paper too much. They're too small to make out well. And, uh…" He uneasily wrung his hand into a fist. "I've always had a little issue reading your handwriting."

There was good news. Armin's chicken scratch seemed to have saved him for once. Beyond the beginning, he hadn't exactly paid close attention to his writing in the journal. On a good day, even he'd have issues reading his own notes. With partial blindness, the chances that Bertholdt would've been able to read much were minimal.

"So… Those little notes I used to leave inside the books we read?"

"It took effort"

Armin nodded, a mild blush on his cheeks over his past shortcomings.

"What did you write on that note?" Bertholdt asked, holding it up demonstratively before tossing it Armin's way, and Armin picked it up, unfolding it.

The Survey Corps will embark on its first mission to meet Marley the 20th of June.

"This sunny day, we are enjoying our first warm morning. Sunday the 12th of May." He put it aside again.

There was no visibly confused reaction to that, just a nod. Armin had on purpose written down information that should've caused a reaction of some sort, if not from reading it, then from hearing Armin's lie. That confirmed that Bertholdt was speaking the truth.

"The books I gave you. You couldn't read them?"

Bertholdt shook his head. "I could, but it makes my head hurt. It's just not worth the effort. Sorry."

Then he would've had issues with the cardgames they played, too. Perhaps some of the impaired memory Armin had taken note of was due to not seeing the cards well enough to play.

"Where is your crystal?"

Bertholdt didn't move for a few moments, as if Armin would confiscate it again if he wasn't using it to read, then reached inside his sleeping bag and pulled out the satchel before taking out the crystal and unwrapping it. He liked to keep it close. Hopefully, that meant he utilised it as often as possible to get some light.

"Can you hold it under your eye while pulling your eyelids open?" Armin asked as he stood. "How close will you let me come?"

"… The middle."

Armin nodded, then approached and crouched in the middle of the mineshaft as Bertholdt followed his instructions, focusing on his right eye. It took several tries to find the right position so that his fingers didn't block the light.

In the dark, it hadn't been properly visible, but illuminated so closely, it was clear. The veins in Bertholdt's right eye were coloured a light red, appearing particularly dry despite the tear that gathered at its corner due to the nearby light. Over his pupil and iris lay several lighter flecks, barely visible in the limited red lantern light but well-highlighted by the crystal's blue glow.

"Wow…" Armin whispered to himself.

Bertholdt instinctively lowered the crystal, tinged with worry, so Armin stood again.

"You have spots. Like little scars. I didn't even know you could develop those, with your healing."

"Oh…" Bertholdt breathed.

"Can you shine the crystal on your teeth while you pull on your lower lip? I need to see your gums."

Bertholdt looked at him for a moment, unmoving.

"Scorbuut doesn't affect the eyes."

"I suppose not."

But that definitely confirmed that Bertholdt had it. His healing wasn't counteracting the symptoms. They said that delirium and moodiness were possible effects of scurvy—or scorbuut, as Marley apparently called it. He'd be on the lookout for more terms that differed. Armin would have to smuggle in more diverse food if he wanted to help Bertholdt recover. On his own, he couldn't solve it, but he could dent it enough for his healing to take over from there.

Standing and returning to his side of the mineshaft, Armin thought for a moment. Then, when an idea entered his head, he snapped his fingers.

"If you didn't know there was physical damage on your eyes, maybe you could try to heal them."

With a nod, Bertholdt focused his eyes on his palm in front of him. Under the harsh crystal's light, any steam should be visible. After a few dozen seconds of concentration, Bertholdt closed his eyes again and shook his head.

"So… They're scars? You can get scars after all?"

"No, it's–" Bertholdt started but didn't finish. He breathed in and held it for as long as he could before slowly exhaling again. "It just can't be healed."

Armin tapped his fingers on his knees. "And what if we, uh…"

Hearing he'd stopped, Bertholdt looked up at Armin again.

"It's no more than a suggestion. But if your eyes are damaged and you can't heal them now because the wounds have already scarred, then maybe, if we removed them so that they could grow–"

"No!" Bertholdt hissed, pulling back against his wall with a scowl, arm wrapped over his torso.

"Okay, okay!" Armin placated, hands up in front of his chest. "I didn't mean in a way that hurts! We can put you under, and then you can heal them. You won't feel a thing, and–"

"No," Bertholdt repeated, resolute. He didn't want a repeat of what had happened in September, Armin understood.

There went his mood for the day. Armin had made his slip-up that would take until next Sunday to repair. Great.

"Do you understand at all that I'm trying to help you?"

"Oh, fuck off with that, you're not touching my eyes," Bertholdt snarled, looking away.

The harsh language was a little more than jarring, derailing Armin's thoughts.

"I… know, and I'm sorry for suggesting it in such a way, but I meant surgery. If you don't want surgery, no one will give you surgery. Can you please just believe that I was trying to help you combat your blindness? Could you please not be mad at me for looking for solutions together with you?"

Bertholdt still scowled towards the gate. Armin gave him time, and eventually, the expression softened.

"If you can see," Armin softly continued, "then you can read and do more things, and you won't be nearly as bored as you are now. All I do, I do to help you feel better. Please believe me."

"Maybe," came surprisingly quickly and subdued, "but don't cut me open. Not even without my knowledge. I don't want surgery."

"There won't be surgery. I'd never go behind your back if you don't want it, Bertholdt."

There was a chance that it would help, but it was normal that Bertholdt wouldn't trust the people who had put him through hell near him with a scalpel, let alone with the intention to cut. Another vicious cycle where Armin was clueless as to how to break it.

"Look, I will ask around," Armin concluded when he was done noting everything down. "See if we can find an explanation. Hange, doctors, books. It sounds like something that your limited diet may have caused, but I don't think that sitting in the dark all day long can be very healthy either. Are you using that crystal often?"

Bertholdt looked down on the crystal that lay next to him on his sleeping mat. "Yeah," he confirmed. "As often as I can."

"That's good," Armin said with a smile. "If it doesn't make things better, it'll at least keep things from getting worse."

Keeping his eyes pinned on the crystal, as if hypnotised by its unnatural hue, Bertholdt didn't react.

Armin stuck his hand in his pocket.

"Just… out of curiosity," he asked. "Can you tell what this is?"

He pulled the tarot deck out and held it up for Bertholdt to see.

Bertholdt's eyes didn't move away from that crystal and shook his head. Armin figured that having light different from his usual reds and yellows from flames was still captivating enough to keep his attention. How much of his use of the crystal was true and how long would it enrich his cell before it grew as stale as all the other unchanging elements?

"It's a tarot deck. More specifically, Jean's tarot deck."

No reaction from Bertholdt, except that his eyes grew slightly more squinted.

"I can't help but wonder how it got here."

"I didn't take it."

"I wouldn't even know how you could take anything from down here. But it must have gotten here somehow, no?"

"Jean," Bertholdt emotionlessly answered.

As was obvious.

"He brought it here to give you a reading?"

"He brought it here to ask me why I took it," Bertholdt corrected.

"Oh."

The day they'd gone to retrieve it was the day Armin wanted to look through Bertholdt's seized possessions and see if there was anything in there that would help him bridge the gap between him and Bertholdt. At the beginning of the year, a week before Armin made his first journey to Tourze.

While he would've accepted anything, Armin had gone specifically to find Tale of Dawn in the hopes that Bertholdt would accept it as a connection between them. Now, Bertholdt wanted nothing more than to distance himself and for the series to become Armin's. Not even that final act of defiance of reading it alone and shutting Bertholdt out could reach him anymore.

While Armin had been busy with his book, Jean had evidently found his tarot deck in there, bewildered that it was in Bertholdt's possession. Seemed that he'd used the opportunity to visit Tourze to find closure for his missing deck, as insignificant as it may have been.

Maybe it had meant something to Jean, the same way an insignificant fictional series had meant something to Armin. He shouldn't judge.

"But he did do a reading," Bertholdt added.

Ah. Bertholdt didn't seem like the type of person to believe in that kind of theatrics, but the way Jean presented it, it was clear that neither did he. It was all about the charm of the act and the entertainment it brought the people around him whenever he'd do readings in the training barracks, surrounded by the others who'd react to their fated cards before Eren would call Jean out for making everything up for attention and a fight would break out.

"Did anything good come out of it?"

"It's just make-believe."

There it was.

"But… It was fun," Bertholdt admitted. "Jean forgot the cards when he left. I put them inside the crate to hide them. I didn't take them. Now or when we were young."

When they were young.

Weren't they still?

"That's twice it's fallen into your possession by accident. A third time and it's significant," Armin playfully answered.

Despite thinking it all make-believe, Bertholdt did flash a small smile at that and exhaled with a hint of amusement. Armin looked at the deck and pulled it out of the cover to see if there was any indication of what Bertholdt would've pulled from the order.

"The Sun, The Empress, and The Hanged Man. Is that right? Are those any good, according to Jean?"

Bertholdt looked up to where Armin held the three cards. Then, he went back to staring into his crystal.

"There was a tower too. They're decent," he answered. "But it's just a child's game. It doesn't mean anything."

Armin looked at the cards in his hand. He vaguely remembered some of these while others made sense. The Sun was for hope and The Empress was more of a card for pregnant women, though he couldn't remember what The Hanged Man was for. Just that exactly like Death, he did not represent a literal hanging, but a metaphorical one. The Tower escaped him at that moment.

Maybe he should ask for a reading, too. It may not mean anything, but it was enjoyable to watch Jean fully lose himself in the astrologer's role and explain with big gestures and loud words how great and terrible a fate awaited them.

Armin stuck the cards back into the deck and pocketed it. It'd be for later. This morning, he had Bertholdt to keep company, even through his impending blindness.

---

11

With the rest of the Survey Corps finally out on their mission to declare Wall Maria titan free, Armin had to go elsewhere to find what he needed. Luckily for him, he knew just the place, and he was in good enough standing to justify his stay after he delivered his promised newest edition copy of Maria. Rose. Sina. It had been a while since he'd worn his combat outfit, and although it sat a little looser against his body than before, he was proud to have gotten back to a point where he could wear it once more.

As he hung hoisted up in the air, swinging back and forth by the mechanism to test his balance in various directions, it was with a rare bout of confidence. There were a few weak spots he'd have to work on, but since he already knew the technique, it couldn't take that long until he could join.

He'd have to stay put just a little longer.

"Looks a lot more solid than the first time you hung here, Arlert," came from his side.

Shadis was on his way over, hands behind his back with that typical permanent scowl of his as he studied Armin's hanging form.

"Don't think that just because you graduated that I'll let you off the hook. You're sparing your back and hunching over. Tense like that, you'll break something. Loosen up."

"Yes, sir," Armin responded, pushing out his chest so that he could shift a little more weight onto his legs. Just as he did, the trainee who'd come along released the latch and let Armin shoot to the ground, his reflexes barely quick enough to catch the fall.

"I wasn't speaking to you, Vint!" Shadis admonished the cadet, who hurriedly hoisted Armin back up. It was charming to be cast back into a world where the scariest thing to exist was the instructor.

"What do you do these days, Arlert?" Shadis asked as Armin got back into swinging and leaning.

"When I'm not revalidating, I teach, sir."

"That's where I always expected you to end up. I knew you would make a fine theoretical instructor. How is the Survey Corps doing?"

"They are well-prepared for their current expedition. Everything went great on the trial expedition, so this time, they're splitting up into smaller groups. The veterans of the group each lead a squad of scouts following a pattern that should leave no titan hidden. Kind of like a tightly-woven net."

"I still can't wrap my head around the fact that I let you all go little under a year ago and you're already veterans in the Survey Corps leading your own squads," Shadis said, his stern instructor's expression melting away for a more amicable tone by his standards. "Circumstances led to the necessity to pick up these roles, but you've all come so far."

"Thank you, sir," Armin accepted the compliment, a slight elevation to his breath from keeping his posture flexible after so long without having carried his weight by his core.

"Who drafted plans for the current expedition? Routes, formations, and such."

"Oh, uh… It was something we sat together for. But the Commander laid most of the groundwork based on experience working with Erwin and I helped plan routes around that."

"I always knew you would make a fine strategist. You helped draft plans to go into titan territory that your comrades now follow. That's impressive for a first-year."

Shadis looked off to the side.

"When Erwin died, I was worried about how great of an asset we lost. He brought about so much change in the Survey Corps and succeeded where I failed. But from the sound of it, the two of you make an effective team that might match Erwin. Good job."

His gaze returned to Armin and he tipped forward his head in a nod.

The effort to keep up this exercise masked Armin's blush well. One day, he'd learn to deal with compliments that were entirely undeserved.

They didn't want him and Hange to approximate Erwin, they wanted Erwin. There was no doubt that if he were still alive, he wouldn't be in any of the messes Armin was in. He'd have memories to guide him and would be effective in exploiting them to their full worth. He'd know exactly how to efficiently clear out the titans. He wouldn't have had to scurry between opportunities for small victories while missing out on most. It would've been the three of them working together instead of just two.

No, there wouldn't even be that dire necessity to have Armin be present at the strategising sessions.

"Thank you, sir," Armin chose not to deflect the compliment. He leaned forward a bit more, hands supported by his thighs. "But the Commander did most of the work collecting old records and providing us with the information Commander Erwin relayed to them. I simply worked with those."

"When are you joining them as a field strategist?"

"I hope to do so once I am in good health again. Ideally, that will be soon, but it all depends on how well this next month goes."

"You're well on your way there." Shadis cocked his head Armin's way.

"Unfortunately, sir, I lost everything I had when I got injured. I lay down for four months and my physique burnt away. I had to start from scratch."

"And yet," Shadis said, "here you are, holding up well for your first time back on cables. You're not shivering or folding and you're hanging steady. It took you nearly three years to build the bare minimum of endurance required of a soldier. You're already this far in. That's a much quicker development than I've ever seen out of you."

Armin wasn't sure if Shadis was just saying these things to encourage him to keep working, but this sounded leagues removed from the hardass instructor that had tormented him over his lacklustre physique for three years. Maybe it was a perk of graduating, but he sounded so similar to when they'd visited him to ask about Eren's father.

"Thank you, sir," Armin repeated for a third time. He kept his eyes focused on his gear to keep balance.

After a few moments of lingering, he saw Shadis nod at him again, a gesture he returned, before he walked off. He didn't get far before he stopped again, head bowed, and Armin stopped swinging around to pay him attention.

"Vint, go fetch Wagner," Shadis ordered the assistant trainee.

Armin heard a yessir and a click, and soon, Vint was on his way, leaving the two of them alone. Shadis waited until he was out of earshot before he asked something, very quietly in a way Armin had rarely heard him speak.

"Are you in touch with Hoover?"

Armin had to do a double take at the question. Out of everything to ask him, this was what he expected the least. How did he know Bertholdt was still alive in the first place? Only certain higher-ups of the military were aware, but Armin wouldn't have counted an instructor as one of the people who'd be in the know.

"I… What makes you think that?"

"I was under the impression that you were friends. It does not sound like you to let the opportunity to talk to him pass you by. You have the time."

Dead centre.

"We are in touch. I have been visiting him regularly since January to recruit him back to our side."

Back still turned on Armin, Shadis nodded.

"How is he doing?"

"Not so well. He refuses to budge. The conditions aren't so great in his prison. He's not getting enough food and water, he doesn't have a real bed to sleep in, and I've recently learned that he's going blind from spending so much time in the dark, and it all plays a hand in his refusal to cooperate. Still, I believe that I can convince him soon. Before we reach out to Marley, I hope."

Shadis bowed his head forward slightly, taking a moment to think.

"He was a talented soldier. He scarcely possessed a will, but when managed by the right leadership, he was the best weapon on any given team. One of the few who rivalled Ackerman. I understand why they chose him. He could've been an asset if he'd fully applied himself to the right cause."

Managed by the right leadership.

Maybe that was what Armin lacked. Maybe that was where he was supposed to go next.

"Why did you want to know, sir?" Armin asked.

To that, Shadis looked over his shoulder.

"I care about what happens to my students."

Armin's relaxed body tensed. He'd expected more fury out of a man like Shadis over his betrayal of both the Survey Corps and the military in general, over making use of his guidance as an instructor to teach them useful combat skills like vertical maneuvering—but he didn't sound mad in the slightest. Disappointed more than vengeful.

"You still do after what happened?"

Shadis looked ahead of himself again.

"He was mismanaged. If someone had gotten to him sooner and put him back onto the right path, things would've played out a lot differently for both sides."

With that, their conversation was evidently over and Shadis left Armin on his own again as Vint walked over together with presumably Wagner.

---

With his core condition verified, Armin had decided he was ready to move around again on his own. He joined a group of first-years who still had to hone their technique and who were bound to make mistakes, ensuring that if Armin got himself injured by overestimating his physique, someone would be around to notice it.

He soared through the forests absentmindedly, taking a break after just a minute of zipping around because his muscles couldn't keep up.

A group of trainees zipped past him, high up. There was something jarring about joining them after his own graduation. No one asked too many questions about it because it had been hailed as the right thing to do, but most of these trainees were between the ages of 12 and 15—full of hope and optimism now that the titans were finally being driven to extinction and they had a bright future ahead of them. He'd heard some instructors talk about preparations for an influx of new trainees in a few months. The people had been rallied into fighting for their nation now more than ever.

What was it they were signing up for? Would they be the robust defenders of peace or would they be conscripted into a war no one wanted and ultimately mowed down by the guns and titans of a far more advanced opponent?

These were the children Armin's successes could spare. These were the people who would pay for his entitled outburst about self-worth. These were the people quitting would kill.

Unless he wanted to count himself a miserable failure who'd amounted to nothing in his life but the death and suffering of thousands, he'd need to think his future course of action through very thoroughly. It was his comfort or their lives, there was no way around this.

If he wanted to stop visiting Bertholdt, he was going to have to accept that he was putting himself above so many others.

But if he were to look at it through Henze's philosophy, then as long as he booked no results, his intentions didn't matter; whether he spent the rest of Bertholdt's days going down into that mine or he abandoned him, if Bertholdt continued to refuse support until his final breath, then morally speaking, both options had been equal. Only success would change the moral character of his actions. Right?

And if he left…

If he left, then he could finally devote all he had to helping Paradis avoid this war instead of being constantly distracted by a potential lead. He could make a difference by being fully present, especially now that he was finally ready to leave the safety of the Walls again.

Could he do that? Could he really justify giving up after spending months of his time on this without anything to show for it?

Surely his chances would improve the longer he threw himself at an impenetrable wall and his sunk cost would pay off eventually.

But what else was there to do? Send his friends, who could barely back him up even in vouching for a minor gain in Bertholdt's comfort, who looked at him in horror for feeding a starving comrade and not at their Commander for starving him?

Throughout the week, Shadis' words had stayed with Armin, and they surfaced once more.

What if he asked Shadis? He possessed iron leadership and the guts to apply it. If he went in there and shouted at Bertholdt to help them when Bertholdt had previously been his subordinate, maybe he would respond positively and obey the command. Maybe he'd be intimidating enough to sway Bertholdt. And if he cared about his students, then he would care enough to do anything he could to put Bertholdt back onto the right path himself.

What were the odds that Bertholdt wouldn't end up a bloody puddle on the floor because he refused and Shadis established his authority? He had no qualms about harming the students under his care to teach them; this would be no different. Just because he was reasonable with Armin didn't mean he would be with a traitor once they stood face to face. Not to mention that he was needed at the training grounds to evaluate his graduating students for their final ranking. It was a bad, unrealistic idea altogether.

Maybe Armin should think and act more like him. Be more proactive and tell Bertholdt what to do. Be his new leader. Be not only someone whom to trust, but also someone he had to listen to.

Would such a thing even work?

A loud thud sounded behind him and he ducked as a trainee zipped past just above his head, almost hitting him with her boot before her apology followed her through the forest. He should get back up in the air where it was arguably safer. He'd had more than enough time to rest up.

---

Lying on his side in the creaking bed they'd given him for the night and watching the drizzle outside his window collect into droplets on the glass above him, something was keeping Armin awake. The moonlight broke through the rain but it did not bring him peace. Something had entered his thoughts and refused to leave.

That question about why Shadis knew about Bertholdt's survival and Armin's contact with him.

Sure, he would deduct that Armin would go talk to him, but to conclude he was alive in the first place?

To Armin, it sounded more like someone had talked to him, and the most likely candidate was Hange. Rumour had it that they apparently had been close at one point.

Hange did everything they could to hide it from their subordinates and from Levi, but they were under a lot of duress holding up their duties as Commander. The events of the past year had cost them about everyone they knew, any possible figure in the Survey Corps that they could confide things in. Levi was fighting his own battle and the tensions between the two of them weren't getting any better. He was no option, either.

If Hange and Shadis had been close enough that Hange had shown interest in him, then he might've been the only person left for them to vent to, not accounting for family or friends that Armin had never seen or heard of.

The subject of Armin's visits must've come up when they talked. Apparently, it had been a tough one. Hange always spoke about what had gone down with confidence, vengeance, and humour. There were no signs that they were struggling. If there were, they hid them well.

So was it Armin who was the one who was causing them grievances? Was he the one causing them harm by returning and trying where they failed? Why? They'd been enthusiastic just as often as they'd been frustrated by his endeavours.

He knew he was a menace asking them to negotiate difficult matters with the upper brass that supervised their activity and using the resources Hange had given him against them. He was absent, both in person and in spirit. He wasn't fully dedicating his heart to the Survey Corps in the way that was expected of him.

He was, ultimately, a failure, and if they could've traded him for anyone else to have survived—Erwin, Moblit, anyone—they would've done it. Happily so. Not just for the merits they would've brought to the table, but for peace of mind.

Armin was in the way. He was getting on the nerves of the Commander of the Survey Corps and he was in the way.

He really was better off dead.

Sleep didn't find him until late in the night, when he finally let go and gave in to the world's desire to purge itself of him.

---

This wouldn't be easy. By no means could this be easy.

Above all, it was a huge risk, and maybe that was exactly what he wanted: the chance to ruin it all in one go—but that didn't make it any less terrifying.

Only one way out: through. It was a matter of being self-assured and knowing who he was, even if he had to feign every word he said.

"We need to talk about my offer again," he started when he was done depositing his weekly supplies to a solemnly quiet welcome, tone strong and steadfast.

"We don't," Bertholdt answered. His voice was especially gruff today for reasons Armin didn't bother to think about.

Armin shook his head, folding his hands over his lap.

"That is not an option, Bertholdt," he said, to which Bertholdt's eyes shot his way. "We've beaten around the bush for long enough, but it's time to stop and get serious now. I have documents with me on which we'll draft your terms of cooperation, and I will bring them to the surface, where they will be approved. You're coming with me."

Bertholdt reflected a nasty expression, blindsided, with his nose crinkled up slightly on one side as he peered at Armin with confusion. As per demonstration, Armin grabbed the folder with pen and papers from his backpack and opened it on his lap.

"What do you want me to negotiate for you?"

"Nothing…?"

"Oh. That makes this much easier for me," Armin replied, closing the folder again and putting it away. "I'd like to get this done as soon as possible, so I won't be able to stay around. I need to go to Mitras straight away."

With that, he stood.

"Where are you going?"

"Mitras, as I just said."

They exchanged stares as it slowly dawned on Bertholdt what Armin meant, before in a shock his eyes widened and he shook his head. "Wait, what? No, you're… I didn't agree to anything!"

"And I'm not playing around anymore. If you want me to write down the terms, we can do that, but if you give me none, then we're done here for the day. We'll have much more time to talk once you're on the surface again."

Gritting his teeth, Bertholdt hunched over, livid eyes pinned onto Armin. There was a good chance that he'd pounce, so Armin prepared himself to grab his backpack and get out of there before Bertholdt could reach him. But Bertholdt stayed in his spot, breathing audibly while he grew more and more frustrated.

"I'm not doing this. If you want me out, you'll have to drag me."

"Then that's what I'll do," Armin calmly went with the threat. "I want you to be protected when you're up there. Make sure nothing can go wrong in the first place. That's why I really need you to give me terms. Don't make yourself vulnerable."

Bertholdt sat back up against his wall, panting lightly.

"I will not help you. They'll go through all that effort to take me up to the surface and I won't speak. It's– It's nothing compared to what I've been through already."

A sudden change of his mood, but also a good sign. A stutter. A hint of a wavering mind.

Armin let a pause fall between the two, looking down at Bertholdt as he was trying to manage his enraged breathing. He was unravelling.

"Do you think I'm doing this to hurt you?"

"Yes," Bertholdt spat.

Armin shook his head, posture the way he knew well enough mirrored Shadis'.

"I'm not. This is all to help you, Bertholdt. You will feel much better when you get as much food and water as you want, you sleep in a bed, and you get to breathe fresh air while the sun shines on your neck and you finally find relief from five years of feeling like the worst monster to walk the world. All things you've been denying yourself out of a need to punish yourself. It can't go on like this."

Against his better judgement, Armin approached. Bertholdt backed up farther against his wall as Armin crossed the centre but stopped before he could get within swinging range. The closest he'd ever gotten to him after his incarceration, at least without the physical barrier of the crate between them.

He looked at him sympathetically as he got down to one knee to get as close to him as he possibly could.

"You don't think you do, but you deserve better. You really do. You need to tell me exactly what you'll need up there so that you can be as comfortable as you deserve. Only you know exactly what you need. Work with me?"

Eyes small and brows knitted upwards, Armin made clear that he meant it.

"No… No, I don't," Bertholdt's frantic voice muttered. "I shouldn't be up there! Don't take me up there… I deserve to be here. I… I deserve to stay here."

"No, you don't. You never did. Not for even a second."

For a moment, it looked like Bertholdt was softening up and the strategy would work, but then, his face crinkled, red-rimmed eyes glaring straight into Armin's soul as he lurched forward and Armin jumped to his feet. Bertholdt lay folded over again, never breaking eye contact.

"You're no different than any of them," he hissed through gritted teeth. "You're just another devil."

The crudeness of his accusation left Armin's lips parted.

Armin was a devil. Bertholdt thought him a devil. The same as Hange and the police who had tormented him so.

One moment, Bertholdt had been in control, and suddenly, he'd turned this accusatory, this visibly furious with Armin, that he would air his grievances in such an abrasive manner.

Why?

What was so bad about what Armin had said that caused Bertholdt to forgo his usual languor and turn to wasting his energy on spitting venom at the one person who ever helped him?

Did he know Armin was lying?

"A devil wouldn't feed or dress you."

Armin put his effort into keeping his expression as neutral as possible as Bertholdt remained folded over but finally gave up on eye contact.

He turned and went back to his side of the mineshaft. Either Bertholdt had called his bluff or he was too mad to think about it rationally. Armin wanted to scream his lungs out, but he had to keep up his image now that he had apparently entered his final all-or-nothing gambit and it was starting to look like he might lose.

Picking up his backpack and strapping it to his back again, he turned to Bertholdt one final time.

"Bertholdt. Tell me what you need. Don't let me leave here without demands."

Shaking his head, Bertholdt's expression wavered. The determination was melting away, making way for a grimace, the way Bertholdt's lips were contorted to bare his teeth and his breathing grew more and more unstable alongside the uncontrolled shivering of the corners of his mouth, the shaking of his head, and the tremors that shook up his body as he softly rocked back and forth.

This was no longer anger. This was fear. Bertholdt sensed he was being abandoned and he was searching for ways to avoid it without having to give in. Armin hoped dearly that a surrender didn't come with an ingrained desire to plunge a knife into Armin's gut the first chance he got.

Nothing came. No answer, no acknowledgement of his defeat, no insults. Bertholdt just sat there, trembling as tears welled from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks and all Armin could do was look on with helpless compassion. It would be a fearful few weeks for either of them, but he'd already committed to the part. There was no way out of it anymore.

Commit, don't regret. He wasn't actually abandoning Bertholdt. He was still taking care of him.

So he cleared his throat, causing Bertholdt to still through his shaking.

"If this is the way you want it, then I–"

"This is NOT the way I want it!" Bertholdt spat back, tilting his head back as far as he could to look up at Armin.

"–can't change anything about that, Bertholdt. I'm taking my request to Mitras straight away, and you will–"

Bertholdt shook his head vigorously.

"No! Don't!"

"–see me again as soon as I have an answer. It can take a little while, but I will be back as soon as I can, and then, we will take you to the surface."

"You're abandoning me!?"

Unlike Bertholdt's previous words, these were far less steeped in anger and came from a place of shock. His parted lips trembled as he looked up at Armin, hoping to change his mind.

"No. Of course not," Armin reassured him, struggling to keep his voice steady and nurturing. "I will never abandon you. I'm leaving for today, but I will be back very soon. This is only temporary. I will return as quickly as I can, I promise you, and I will advocate for all of your needs. I will take care of you."

Bertholdt began to frantically shake his head. This was getting out of hand. He needed to leave now, or his authority could be undermined by having to pacify Bertholdt again. He was already in too deep, the emotional reaction was something he'd have to live with.

"Preparations to leave take about an hour. Should you change your mind… Shout for a guard and they may be able to catch up with me in time."

With that, Armin grabbed his lantern and headed for the gate.

"No!" Bertholdt shouted behind him, now completely derailed. "No, don't!"

There was nothing left Armin could do here that would aid his cause. He laid his hand on the gate and pushed it open.

"Armin!" Bertholdt shouted after him, voice lacking any semblance of control.

He pushed the gate shut behind him and his fist tightened over the metal handle of his lantern until his fingers hurt from their imprints.

"Armin!?" Bertholdt screamed once again, his voice cracking.

No. Sorry, but no.

"You're fine with them hurting me again!?"

A push in his heels accompanied by a swallow.

"They're liars!" Bertholdt screamed at the top of his lungs, echoing off the rocks that led Armin away from his cell. "How could you trust them!? It'll happen again if I go!"

Fuck.

It took everything out of Armin to keep walking despite the continued screaming of his name that evolved into indecipherable shouts thundering through the passage leading to the policemen's cavern. He had to swallow a lump in his throat as he got farther and farther away from that cell and the sound reduced to an echo that reverberated through the dark.

Bertholdt's control over his emotions had been completely shot. That he'd react heavily, Armin had predicted, but not like this. Not in a way that completely destroyed him and reduced him to what practically amounted to a child shouting into the void. Not for him to lose all rationale and fail to see the merit of Armin's actions.

Something in him was completely broken, and only now did Armin realise just how thoroughly.

This was the path Armin now walked. This was what he had to endure if he wanted to book success. No regrets. Absolutely no regrets. Not for a decision this large, this drastic, this idiotic, this outlandish, this absolutely improvised, this rash, this thoughtlessly crude.

Something inside him twisted and bent out of shape, lodged somewhere between his heart and his stomach. Deep within, he knew exactly what he'd done, how he'd look back on this day for years to come. He could vomit, the way his lips tingled and his head was close to bursting.

He had chosen for discomfort and pain. There was no going back.