If he was not composing, he was practicing. Even then, the only reason that Armin really departed from the keyboard was due to the looming threat of failing as a substitute pit musician.

He might have thoroughly enjoyed playing the music. Which, no, he did enjoy it quite a lot, in fact. His mind was simply too caught up on different notes that would be on pages not yet written.

He left the house at least once a day because of the necessity of attending the ballet rehearsals. The schedule leading up to opening night was more intense than what he had grown used to, but every time he thought to think about complaining, he bit it back and strengthened his resolve. It had been too long since he had worked this hard.

And, against reason, he could not help but look forward to seeing Mikasa at rehearsals. Her expression seemed warmer toward him than he had ever seen before. His thoughts strayed sometimes to that moment in the wind, when her face had grown soft.

"Hello, Armin? It's Armin, right?"

Armin blinked abruptly at the fingers snapping in front of him. He grimaced at the abrasive gesture while trying to recognize the man in front of him.

"Don't be rude, Porco," Reiner said.

Not that Armin knew Reiner much more than he knew Porco. He had gotten to know most of his fellow musicians more by instrument than by name and, until now, Porco had been 'second chair trumpet.'

"Ok, well," Porco said, eyes rolling, "Armin. You're from the symphony, right?"

"Yeah," he responded, though wary of the way Porco asked it.

Reiner pulled a well-polished trumpet from its case. Porco fiddled with the valves on his own, not quite so shiny, trumpet and let out a 'hmph.' Reiner smirked.

"Still thinking about that oboist, Porco?"

Porco's scowl betrayed him and Armin resisted grinning at the idea.

"Who, Pieck?" he said. What inspired him to fan the flames, he had no idea.

The lift of Porco's eyes was so sincere and obvious.

"You know her?" Porco said. He seemed to be attempting to keep his question nonchalant, but it was not working particularly well. Armin did grin this time.

"Only from rehearsal. But I don't really know her, sorry."

Porco scoffed, an ineffective mask for his disappointment. It almost made Armin want to put the two in touch.

"Bertolt!" Reiner suddenly called.

The lanky first chair cellist lifted his head, seeming to be exiting a daydream. He was the only one left in the pit who had yet to put away his instrument. They had only spoken once, but Armin enjoyed Bertolt's calm and quiet way of speaking.

Bertolt only hummed in acknowledgement.

"Dinner?" Reiner added enthusiastically.

Bertolt shrugged, nodded, and began the cumbersome process of packing away his cello. Armin shifted awkwardly, wondering if they might extend an invite. But when they did—when Reiner shifted his friendly demeanor toward Armin and asked him if he wanted to come along—Armin was suddenly reluctant to go anywhere other than home. Or, maybe he was simply nervous that they would quickly detect his oddities. Regardless, he found himself declining and waving them off while telling himself that it was simply so that he might gain more time to work on his composition that evening.

The hallways were quiet, most people having already vacated by the time the afternoon rolled close to five o'clock. The ballet dancers did not typically stay past four at the latest, and the pit orchestra did not remain much longer than the dancers. And so it was with surprise that Armin detected the dull thumping that he had come to associate with ballet rehearsals. So often the sound was above him more than not, but now it came from behind a door as he passed it in the hallway.

Armin peered through, most of the ballet rehearsal room doors being mostly glass. His heartbeat made itself known as he recognized the dark hair and perfect posture.

The more prudent side of him whispered in the back of his mind to continue on his way; to mind his own business. After all, this was simply her job was it not? But he could not tear his gaze away no matter how many times that little voice insisted he did because another voice always seemed to take its place.

She was so beautiful.

It was hardly new information. Even from a distance, anyone with eyes could tell the same. Although it was more than that, he thought. Every dip, every turn, every jump – Each was filled with a longing that seemed past that which even a character role demanded. A softness filled her face like he had never seen before, and her eyes looked far, far beyond the practice room floor.

And then she looked up.

Armin nearly tripped as he stumbled backward. The heat rose to his cheeks immediately and he fixed his focus on moving down the hallway.

Certainly, she would continue her practice. Certainly she would not—

"Armin?"

He froze in his wobbly tracks before turning slowly to face her.

"Mikasa," he acknowledged, his voice coming out a bit shaky to his unwelcome surprise. Was he always so easily startled?

"Did you need something?"

No. No, he had simply been loitering, if that is what you could call it. He shook his head.

"No, sorry, I—I was just going home, and I saw—"

He shut his mouth abruptly. Just, what? What could he say that did not sound utterly stupid? That he saw her dancing and that he could not bring himself to look away? Mikasa's eyes held his, as if in a challenge when it occurred to him that perhaps he simply misunderstood the intensity of her gaze. He had little time to develop this theory, however, as he had noticed how she shifted from foot to foot.

"I'm sorry, I'll let you get back to it," he insisted, taking a small step backward. One little step closer to home.

Mikasa appraised him with a raised brow and issued a quick sentiment for him to get home safe. He was sure that goodbye would have been even more awkward if she had not saved him by disappearing back into the rehearsal room.

However, suddenly the narrative that he had concocted that he would spend the evening composing seemed that much more genuine.

Armin's curiosity had taken root.

He had never known much about Mikasa, really, only having seen her from time to time since Historia met Eren. Her tendency for few words had always made Armin nervous and he had long assumed she was disinterested in making his acquaintance. He still thought so, if he were being honest, yet there he was—pleading with Historia and trying to bribe her with a coffee outing.

"Please?"

"Yeah. Ok, well, I'll do my best. I'm sure Eren can get one."

Armin took a long breath.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Historia sipped her latte before adding, "So, are you happy to be out of the pit orchestra? Or do you miss it?"

"Both. It's been really great. But very time consuming."

When the news had come in the morning that some of the previously ill violinists were up and about and eager to play, Armin was happy to be relieved of the gig. He was also optimistic about the precious few unscheduled days that stretched in front of him, full of time for him to hermit away at his keyboard and focus on the stack of pages that grew day by day.

"You still with me?"

Historia sat across the table with a questioning look on her face. He nodded quickly before pushing the last of a croissant into his mouth. Historia laughed.

"You must be writing music again."

"What?"

"Constantly zoning out? You always do that when you're working on something."

He was sheepish at this, nervously tapping a few fingers on the edge of the table.

"Oh, well, I—I think I have something started."

"That's great!"

"What makes you say that?" He said, a smile tempting his lips.

Historia searched for the words, an uncharacteristic pause for her. She smiled and sighed.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I feel like you've been more upbeat lately. Am I wrong? I don't know, like, you seem happier."

He chewed his lip.

"You're not wrong."

She beamed.

"Hey—" She tapped her phone. "Eren says he has a ticket for Saturday night."

Armin returned her wide grin.

After getting home from the cafe, he did not leave his apartment for three days. He had hardly left his keyboard, for that matter. Now he frowned at the circles beneath the eyes that stared back at him in the mirror. But he could not be too upset, as there was something victorious in seeing the side effects of what had been an extremely productive week. And if anything, he was sleeping better than usual (when he was sleeping, that is). He took more time than he had in a long time to pull himself together. Stray bangs had been reigned in by the hairdresser earlier that day. He had even ironed his clothes with care. Historia's knock at the door came just as he secured his tie.

"Look at you!" she declared.

He chuckled nervously at that but had to admit it was nice to know he still had it in him to shape up. They talked about work, the engagement, and anything else that came to mind as they made their way to the ballet. His anxiety had taken a seat on the back burner for the evening, for which he felt practically celebratory. Not to mention the excited buzz that ran through him at the prospect of finally seeing the performance itself.

He and Historia sipped at their wine and mulled in the main hall before the show, spending their time people-watching.

"You really don't miss it?" she said as a violin-bearing musician in a black suit slipped through a side door.

"No, I'm happy playing with the symphony. It really was fun, though."

"Did you see Eren much when you were here?"

"Not too much. But I did see him a few times." He took a gulp of wine. "And Mikasa."

Historia bounced on her toes.

"Oh, I'm so excited to see them dance tonight! Eren said it's been going great, and that she's really good. As if she could do any better than she already does."

Anticipation prickled at him. An attendant was making the rounds.

"Five minutes," they called.

Historia abandoned him, setting a barely-touched wine on a stray table, while he suffered with the rate at which he downed the last of his. Historia pulled him toward their seats, barely allowing him a moment to snag a show program on the way in. Mikasa and Eren graced the cover of it like a magazine.

"Don't they look great?" Historia whispered as the lights dimmed, leaning into his personal space. Then promptly snapping back.

"Sorry," she said under her breath.

"No, it's ok," he replied.

It was fine, he thought once more, before his attention was stolen by the stage. Eren, looking quite transformed thanks to makeup and costume, danced out as the prince. Armin sat up, surprised to see the stateliness that Historia's same Eren could exhibit. Historia leaned over once more, a little slower this time, to whisper,

"Crazy, right? They're all so different on stage."

He nodded and barely managed to sit still through the remainder of Act I. Mikasa would not appear until Act II. The curtain dropped in front of Eren and Armin's heart rate ticked up. He tried to remember the last time he had felt this way. His fingers fidgeted with the corner of the program until the curtain lifted once more.

When she appeared, his breath caught in his throat.

Up until that moment, he had toggled between marveling at Eren's obvious skill and enjoying hearing the music he had grown so intimately familiar with over the past week. Now, his world held still. She lifted her arms as if making such a beautiful motion came naturally to her. The breath that had stuck in his throat came noisily back to him, no longer content with his lack of inhaling and exhaling. Her duet with Eren was nothing short of excellence. It was bared without question now how they had come to be two of the most esteemed principals in the company. He was so mesmerized, from top to bottom, that the lowering of the curtain took him by surprise.

"Hurry up," Historia urged, fleeing from her seat ahead of the crowd and saying something about the bathroom. He rose in a haze and wandered to the line for the bar in a dreamlike state.

"Armin!"

The familiar voice tore him from his thoughts. He could not place it until he saw them, waving at him from across the hall. They slipped easily through the crowd to hover beside him as he gradually made progress toward the bartender.

"Sasha," said the woman who had called his name. "And Annie," she added, taking over introductions for them both. "You're not in the pit tonight?"

"Hi, Sasha." He nodded at each of them. "Annie. No, I was relieved of my duty as a substitute."

"The violin section is done shitting itself," Annie explained much too candidly. Sasha practically guffawed.

"Excuse her. She's half-delirious from dancing all week. So, you came to see closing night? Do you usually come to the ballet? Is Historia with you?"

Armin shuffled awkwardly along with the line as he processed each question in turn.

"I don't usually come," he admitted, "but I wanted to see it. Since I've been playing it so much. Historia is somewhere. I think she went to the restroom."

"And you didn't come to see Mikasa?" Annie said smoothly.

"Annie!" Sasha hissed.

The heat blooming across Armin's face was painfully bright, he was sure. He avoided Annie's oddly keen gaze and Sasha's muted giggle.

"We'll see you!" Sasha called, dragging Annie away without further notice.

By the time Armin managed to get even close to the front of the line, the attendant called out the latest five-minute warning. He trailed back to the theater with Historia, not willing to chug any more wine, and unaware of what visuals awaited him next.

He spent the beginning of the second half watching the stage and then watching Historia watch Eren. She was fiddling with her ring absentmindedly when Mikasa returned to the spotlight at last, recapturing Armin's full attention. He leaned forward in his chair, never aware of Historia's childish smirk behind him, and found himself newly absorbed. His hands tensed with the swell of music. He knew the last part by heart, at least the accompaniment. He was the first to rise for the standing ovation, still unknowing of Historia's complete observation behind him.

"So good, right?" Historia insisted. "You should come with me more often."

"I might. I enjoyed it."

"It looked like it."

"Did it?"

"Yeah. Hey, let's go congratulate them."

Armin stopped in his tracks.

"What?"

Historia motioned toward the end of the hall.

"Let's go! I told Eren I'd meet him after the show."

"Oh, I—"

Historia did not let him finish. He pushed after her, through clusters of people, through a door he recognized too well. Backstage, an entirely different world awaited them. Dancers rushed about, buzzing in the wake of the night. They found Eren sprawled across the floor in a corner and Mikasa nearby, head tipped back against a wall and eyes closed. The grace of their performance was directly challenged by their now slumped figures.

"Help me up," Eren whined.

"Help yourself," Mikasa rebutted.

Historia laughed and nudged Eren's foot. He squinted at her and smiled.

"Hey there." Eren's squint traveled a little left of Historia. "Hey, Armin."

Mikasa's eyes flew open. Armin hesitated before waving awkwardly at her. She broke into a beautiful smile.

He left Eren and Historia to their own devices, side-stepping the lump of dancer that was Eren. Mikasa sat up from the wall and began to say something before a barking command came from above.

"Out of your costumes! Mikasa! You're going to rumple that!"

"Like this thing will make it another second anyway," Mikasa muttered under her breath.

Armin suppressed a laugh as she rolled her eyes and sprang up. She promised to return soon. Eren pulled himself up to standing, an arm wrapping Historia in a brief hug.

"Ok. I'm going to go get normal, too. See you in a minute."

Historia and Armin meandered to a side corridor in the meantime. A few dancers stopped on their way down the hall to congratulate Historia on the engagement. Among the well-wishers were two of Eren's co-dancers who had already made it back to 'normal,' in clothes that could generously be described as leisure wear.

"Looking sharp in your pajamas, Marco." Historia said.

"We're going straight home to sleep," he declared. The other got a glimpse of Armin.

"You've got a twin?"

Marco sighed.

"Eren told us that, Jean, don't you listen?"

"To Eren? Not if I can help it."

Marco ignored Jean's comment and outstretched a hand.

"Hi, I'm Marco."

Armin shook it.

"Armin."

"Did you enjoy the show?"

He found himself nodding emphatically.

"A lot. It was great."

"I'm glad! Thanks for coming." Jean tugged at Marco's sleeve. "Ok, sorry, but we've got to get home. We'll see you around, Historia? Congrats again!"

"Thanks, Marco. Bye, Jean!"

"Friends of Eren's?" Armin hazarded to guess as they watched them disappear down the hall.

"Yeah. You'll probably get to know them better, they're going to be groomsmen"

Right. As was he, he had come to learn recently. Historia sent a nervous look toward him. He raised an eyebrow.

"Actually."

"What?"

"The wedding is in two months."

"Two months?" His voice pitched on the words.

Historia shushed him.

"We're excited, ok? Just, don't freak out." She paused. "Also, you're getting your suit fitted next week."

"Historia!" he chided.

Eren appeared and pulled her into a hug before Armin could further question her on the condensed schedule.

"Let's go out." Eren said, too full of energy for someone who had spent the last few hours exerting himself on stage. "Mikasa?"

"Sure," she said from beside Armin, who had not realized her arrival. His body jumped before he got a good look at her. Even dressed down, she was radiant. Maybe even more so, as she looked a little relaxed for once. He shied away. Eren stretched his arms overhead and pursed his lips.

"Have you seen Marco and Jean? I couldn't find them backstage."

"They went home," Historia answered. "We just saw them."

"Rude. Sasha and Annie?"

Mikasa spoke up.

"They already left. They went to dinner."

"I'm surprised you didn't go with them," Eren said.

Mikasa shrugged it off before suggesting a place around the corner.

It was a cramped sort of place and Armin found her arm brushing against his so often that he could hardly catch his breath. His food sat largely untouched in front of him. Eren was talking animatedly about something but Armin could only focus on the water in his own glass, until her voice cut through to him.

"Are you ok?"

Eren and Historia were talking now, as Mikasa turned to him. Armin's fingers tapped on the sides of his glass.

"I'm fine."

His eyes flicked nervously to Historia, who trailed off from her conversation with Eren and looked back at him.

"Armin?"

"Sorry," he blurted out. "Sorry, I'm a little tired. Do you mind if I head home?"

Historia's 'Of course' was too understanding. Armin brushed it off with a mumbled 'thanks' to everyone. To Mikasa, who stood so he could get out from between her and the wall.

Armin pushed eagerly through the glass doors to the chill air outside, trying to ignore the fact that she was on his heels. His heart pounded and he had half a mind to just keep walking.

"Did I do something?"

Her voice was quiet, but it cut through and stopped him in his tracks. He squeezed his eyes and breathed, twice.

"No," he said, turning around. "Why?"

Mikasa studied him for a long beat. The cold air was cooling his racing pulse and he finally breathed two long and even breaths. She winced.

"Sorry. I'm being silly. I'll let you get home."

No, he was the one being silly. Crazy, really.

Really.

He forced his balled fists to relax in his coat pockets and exhaled slowly.

"No, you didn't do anything. I'm sorry."

Her shoulders relaxed.

"So, can you forgive me for shoving you into a closet?"

The laugh came so suddenly that he barely recognized it as his own. He shook his head harder this time.

"I'm not upset about that."

Not in the way she was asking, at least. Not on account of her, specifically. And maybe if things were different he might have even enjoyed their escapade.

"You're not?" she said earnestly.

"No, I," He trailed off as she smiled at him. He swallowed. "Did you drive?"

She took a few steps toward him, stopping a few feet away.

"No, I was going to take the bus. I'm not far."

"Do you want a ride? My car is in the parking garage." He motioned back toward where they had come.

"You don't mind?"

"I don't mind. Aren't you tired?"

"A little," she admitted. "A ride would be great. Thank you."

They walked in silence at first, but Armin cleared his throat as they neared the end of the block.

"You know the wedding is in two months?"

Her dark eyes widened in surprise.

"What?"

"Historia told me tonight."

"Wow. Is Historia," she paused, "Is there a reason?"

"Not that I know of," he answered honestly.

Mikasa groaned quietly. "That's why Eren asked me tonight if I would be in the wedding."

"As a bridesmaid?"

Mikasa glanced at him.

"A grooms-woman, I guess. Eren asked me to be."

Armin grinned at this, shaking his head.

"What?" she demanded.

"I told Historia to put me in the bridal party, but she said I had to be a groomsman."

Mikasa laughed, clear and bright. Armin smiled wider. She glanced at him.

"What, you don't want to be with the guys?"

"It's not that. I just don't know anyone very well."

"Jean and Marco are really nice," she reassured him. "And it seems like you and Eren get along."

"I like to think so."

"I guess you still have to worry about me, though?"

His heartrate took off again, this time for better reasons. Even if it was a small thing.

"I think if I avoid walking past closets with you, I'll be ok," he teased, shooting her a little grin.

Her shy laugh brought a flush to his cheeks. She cleared her throat as they climbed the stairwell up the garage.

"Hey, so. You never told Historia or Eren?"

"No."

"Why? I mean, I appreciate it. So, thank you. But, why?"

They slid into the car.

"I guess," he said, contemplating, "I guess it felt better not saying anything. I think, if we told them, they would think it was funny. But maybe it's better if it was just their moment."

Mikasa watched him from the passenger seat, her bag held in her lap. She glanced out the window. They said little for the rest of the drive, and somehow it only made the roots of Armin's curiosity dig deeper.