roguearmin jearming diabolicallime
"You… wanted to talk to me?" Jean’s the perfect picture of indifference on the outside, and a nervous sweating wreck on the inside. He feels like he’s lying on the browning grass on his lawn in Trost, droplets from the sprinkler lazily hitting his face and evaporating by the time the spray circles back around to him. It’s hot, suffocatingly so, and he can’t move other that to take shallow breaths and press together chapped, bleeding lips.
Jean takes his lower lip into his mouth and sucks on it, and the red leaves a copper taste on tongue.
"Yeah…" Armin murmurs.
If Jean thinks HE’S a wreck, oh god, look at Armin. Armin’s shaking, his fingers all curled around the arms of a sweatshirt that absolutely dwarfs him. The sleeves are bunched up, shoved back so he could use his hands and the neckline dips down past his collarbone.
It’s a colossal fucking sweatshirt, and Jean’s insides set themselves on fire because it’s probably Bertholdt’s.
"I-It’s not… m-much…" he stammers, tucking his knees up to his chest. "Just… I mean… y-you should… you need to know this. I - I can’t keep it in anymore, I feel like I’ve wronged you."
Wronged me? How?
"I… W-We sort of.. a f-few, a w-while ago…" Armin coughs into the sleeve, rubbing it against his flushing skin. There’s a massive difference between a blush and… and THIS, Jean knows that instantly. This isn’t the pearly pink that spreads across Armin’s little button nose when he gets embarrassed, this is an angry red fire pooling into Armin’s cheeks and along the tops of his ears.
"Look, Armin, if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to. Just… go… go lie down. You look like hell. Just -"
"N-NO!" The word bursts out of him as he slams his hand down. Jean’s startled into silence - he didn’t even know Armin was CAPABLE of yelling. "I NEED to tell you, I -… I care about you, and - I want to make this right even though you’ll… you’ll never forgive me for this, you’ll h-hate me…"
Oh Armin, Armin, Armin.
Jean is far too weak to ever have any negative emotion last when it comes to Armin Arlert. Jean is weak and his resolve falls apart at the slightest hint of a smile and he’s accepted that.
"I doubt that, Armin." Such an understatement. It’s IMPOSSIBLE.
Armin sniffles, his blue eyes just as watery as the ocean they resemble before he blurts it out so fast Jean has to raise a hand to get him to repeat it.
When he does, it’s like Armin reached over, gently taking Jean’s face in his, kissing him until he can’t breathe and driving a deep, poison-laced blade into his heart with each word.
"We slept together."
Jean’s agony comes out as a laugh, broken and gutteral. “I - I knew it. I FUCKING… knew it, I knew that’s -!” Jean has to hold his stomach, banging his fist against the table as he laughs, laughs, laughs.
And on the other side of the screen, Armin’s pretty red lips are open in a little ‘o’, heavy puffs of air leaving them as his chest heaves. It seems like he’s going to say something more, but does Jean want to listen?
No, not really. Armin can trapeze around with his giant of a boyfriend all he wants. He doesn’t care. And he goes to press the off button on his laptop before the tears start falling when whatever Armin had lying on his chest slips out.
The clock ticks with each passing minute, and he can count of thirty - long after Armin’s screen goes dark and their conversation ends, that Jean can even more, much less speak, much less be able to function normally.
"And the entire time, I only wanted you."