The Sea

They will sing of every one of your sins.

Armin’s sin—his obscenely wet eyes, parted legs, and bitten lips. Armin’s sin—his weakness, his trembling voice, his short nails raking desperate scarlet streaks. Armin’s sin—those blue eyes, in which Eren sees not just the churning waves, but his own

death.

Eren’s sin—the uneven thrusts, fingers clenched white-knuckled on Armin’s hips, lips pressed beneath the sharp angle of his jaw. Eren’s sin—licking away tears, growling into his mouth, moving until pleasure blurs into pain. Skin against skin—peel it all back, bare the bones, so Jaeger can see: See how wretched Armin truly is. How gaunt. How pitifully, disgustingly weak. How nauseating when he arches his spine, pressing deeper into Eren. How nauseating when his thighs tremble and his hands claw-claw-claw at Eren’s back, until blood wells beneath his nails. If Eren licks it from his fingers, if he presses a kiss to soothe—they’re both already corpses. Armin howls like Her Majesty’s obedient dog, breathes through his mouth, lets himself be squeezed, stroked, ruined. He allows it—digs sharp knees into Eren’s ribs, sinks nails deeper, deeper. Any moment now, they’ll crack through his ribs and pry out that titanic heart. “Armin.” Eren savors the name, grips his knee, drives in harder. Until it’s a howl. A scream. A sob. Eren doesn’t keep rhythm—Armin cries. Gasping, raw, smearing tears across his cheeks while Eren is everywhere. Eren above him. Inside him. Everywhere. Pleasure twists into pain—Armin drags nails lower. Eren answers with teeth at his throat, a muffled groan, something wet and metallic-salty on his neck. Not blood yet, but close. Like the sea—sand tangling in their hair, wind lashing salt into their lungs. The Corporal called it a breeze. Armin inhaled until his chest ached. Too much. Too little. Too good, right at the edge of pain. Between his legs, where Eren is—it hurts. Dry, tight. Eren knows—it has to hurt, or Armin won’t want to live. Two drops fall on Armin’s pale cheeks. He opens his mouth—but Eren steals the words. Wrists pinned. Bed creaking. Teeth marking collarbones, then lower—over his hollow stomach, over faded scars. Eren exists everywhere. Eren might be a god. And gods don’t die. Armin cries anyway. Eren collapses atop him—lips tracing his damp throat, nose tucked under his chin—then falls asleep. Armin’s brittle fingers tangle in his hair. He stares at the ceiling. No—the sky. Blue. Bright. Like Eren’s eyes. No. His eyes were green, like leaves underfoot. No. Now Armin is certain—they were gray. Like ash. Like Mikasa’s cheeks when she emerged from the smoke. Armin opens his eyes. His body aches. Mikasa presses her lips to Eren’s dark hair. Blood drips down her arms, soaking into that crimson scarf— —almost invisible. As if Eren were still alive. As if he were only sleeping. As if they were back in that room— —as if Armin were laughing softly, sated, eyelids fluttering shut. But it’s not. He’s the one falling to his knees, scraping them raw, pressing chapped lips to Eren’s empty eyes. They won’t open again. Armin will never know their true color—only the last memory. Only the sea. Only the heat of Eren’s body, his heartbeat. Armin hates. Hates himself. Empty. Mikasa strokes his hair gently as their clothes stink of gunpowder and war. She holds them both— —Eren, dead. Armin, who wishes he’d died with him. One last flash of memory—that night. That word. The last thing Armin feels—Eren’s lips on his forehead. “Sorry,” he whispers. But there’s nothing left to forgive.