Our Love Will Be Legend

Armin's Witness

Okay, I have no clue what happens to Armin's book in the end. Does he still have it? I feel like he does. Well, in this story he doesn't, and you can correct me if I'm wrong.

The simplistic days surrounding their training seemed mostly like another life to most of the graduates in the 104th training squad. After all, in a world where the inevitable countdown to death is measured in days, hours, even minutes rather than years—even if they all knew it should be years—every moment counts; every moment has to count. But despite the obvious hazing that Shadis put them through—yes, despite all the humiliation and pain they underwent, the bonds they formed during those days put a sweet-scented blur of childhood over their later memories of training, a blur that ended with agonizing clarity on the day that Trost was breached.

The majority of the relationships formed there were platonic—excluding those pairs of best friends whose gazes held just too long, or those people who pretended they were enemies, but they none-too-subtly were holding hands through the cracks in the tables. But then, there was Franz and Hannah, as much an example of romance as anything they’d ever seen in their relatively short lives.

Armin remembered one time Jean approached him with a disgusting grimace, holding the trays with the meager savings they were allowed. It confused him somewhat—Eren had departed for extra training with Mikasa and Connie, and even though he got along eons better with Jean than Eren did, they never really sat together. However, he couldn’t, in all rights, just say, “What rat bit your ass?” as he was tempted to, so he settled for, “Are you okay, Jean?” (much more domestic and acceptable).

“Sort of,” Jean had said. “Jaeger’s not here, so I’m decent, I guess, but I can’t stand the two lovebirds over there.” He threw his head back in a pointing sort of gesture.

“Oh. Franzah?” Armin quipped, prompting a laugh from Jean.

“Sure enough. I think they’re trying so hard to hide it that they’re not.”

“That…” he trailed off. “Did that sound better in your head?”

Jean bit his lip and went slightly pink from embarrassment. “Most things do, actually. Did that make any sense to you?”

No, Armin thought. “Sort of,” Armin said.

Shortly afterwards, Marco walked over—he and Jean were best friends, after all—and Armin had to hold in a knowing smirk because suddenly, he understood perfectly what Jean meant. They were so focused on trying to hide the fact that they were more than friends, that their behavior made it perfectly obvious.

If Jean and Marco weren’t the same gender, Armin had a clear feeling that they would get married at the first interval they’d get.

But that really wasn’t the memory Armin was trying to call upon, despite being loath to let that mental image of a carefree once-upon-a-time go.

He’d been walking down the cobblestone streets of Trost. To the normal eye, the sides of the building were spotless. But Eren was dead, and so was who-knows-how-many people he’d come to hold specially in his hearts over the past years, and through the shadows in his eyes, the walls, the streets, the sky, were covered with and choked with blood. His stride was strong—he had to be strong, right? Despite proving otherwise, despite proving his lack of worth in earlier minutes, he had to show any of the remainders that he wasn’t broken (but he was, anyhow)

And he hoped so much that it wasn’t Mina’s broken body he saw slumped against a column, but through the slick and sickeningly beautiful veil of red that hid her face, and the dress of red that twirled over her body (all for her twisted, forced wedding with Death) it was definitely the sweet girl he’d befriended.