Jean remembers a book Armin read him once, it had been methodical and boring at first, before it finally picked up and Jean was sure it might have been exciting if Armin didn't have a soothing voice that lulled him to sleep. He couldn't remember much of it, though he did remember a quote that read, "Same shit, different day".

Jean had gotten a kick out of it, and adopted it as his personal slogan – practically saying it religiously – despite Armin's whispered protests.

Armin had complained it was too disheartening though Jean didn't see why he was so against it; Armin was the one he'd heard it from. Eren said it was annoying, the way he practically preached it; so Jean wondered if that was what Armin thought too. But knowing him, he probably disliked him saying it purely because Jean hadn't grasped anything else from the book – little things like that tended to get on Armin's nerves a lot.

The thing was; every day was shitty. When they and over half the population weren't caving in on themselves from starvation, they were working their bodies' way past their breaking point. It was the same routine everyday – things rarely changed. And when they did it was to hold a funeral for the malnourished children and adults that'd passed in the night, or to mourn over a body not retrieved – rotting outside the walls from where it'd be vomited up like garbage.

So yeah, Jean liked to think life was pretty shitty.

Armin said he was being pessimistic – and Jean didn't deny it because it was true.

There were happy moments – small seemingly insignificant moments that Jean cherished near and dear to his heart. He just tried not to dwell on them, because those happy moments just made the sad ones sadder.

For example, as a child he'd always wanted a pet but his mother would always turn him down. So one day, when stumbling across a stray dog in an alley, Jean decided he'd make it his pet. For months he'd run straight there after breakfast to feed it, and they'd play for hours, and it would trot along after him, and Jean was happy.

And then one day, with no forewarning whatsoever, the dog was gone. Did it run away, did someone take it in, did it die? Jean searched for hours and didn't see hide or hair of him – and Jean was crushed. It wasn't even a proper pet and yet he'd cried for days.

Another example, perhaps one that ran deeper in his veins and hit too close to home, was Marco. It might be crude to compare Marco to a dog, but he'd been Jean's companion and Jean had taken him for granted and then one day he was gone.

At times, often when he lies in bed at night, hands folded beneath his head, and tired eyes gazing up at the ceiling, Jean would wonder if he was cursed.

Because surely he had to be if everything he'd come to cherish ended up slipping between his fingers like water, only to disappear forever.

Sure, his parents were still around, and Jean supposed he should be grateful for that – a lot of kids these days didn't have 'em – but he couldn't keep the seed of doubt sowed into his gut from blooming.

So when he got the news that Armin had been injured – he'd panicked.

'I did this,' he had thought. He'd done so well at pushing others away and then before he knew it, Armin had found a way into his heart and was there to stay.

As soon as they got back within the walls, Armin, amongst dozens of other casualties were rushed to the infirmary, leaving Jean and everyone else left to sit and wait.

Jean had been a nervous wreck the whole night; hands trembling and stomach tossing, he hadn't been able to fall asleep because every time he laid his head upon his pillow images of an injured Armin flashed to the front of his mind and Jean would sit up, eyes burning and heart thumping.

Eventually, Jean had to have fallen asleep at one point, because he woke up to the familiar feeling of cold wet drool sticking to his face. He felt like shit and his body ached and he probably would have just lain there all day if it wasn't for soft fingers carting through his hair.

When he sat up he was greeted by a coy-looking Armin, hands behind his back as if he'd done nothing. His skin was a pale pallor and he looked the epitome of tired, but other than his subdued appearance he looked relatively unharmed – it didn't stop Jean from fussing over him though.

Immediately he dragged Armin into the bed with him so they could sit side by side, Jean's blanket thrown over Armin's shoulders.

"Your hands are cold," Jean said, squeezing Armin's hands between his own.

"My hands are always cold," was the succinct reply and Jean nodded – while the others were often seen with their hands stuffed in the pockets, of cupped around their mouths while they puffed hot air against them – Jean couldn't think of a time besides dinner and right now, that Armin wasn't fingering the pages of a book.

"Should you really be out of the infirmary?" he had asked and Armin looked sad before explaining how there were others who needed the help far more than he did.

The way things were, if you weren't missing a limb, you were ushered out pretty quick – Jean knew that first hand, as he'd had his fair share of head injuries. Those were a total pain too – because you had to sit and be asked these ridiculous questions by Hanji before she was patting you on the back and giving the all clear.

"You're sure you're okay?" Jean asked for the hundredth time and Armin just dropped his head on Jean's shoulder before puffing out a quiet reply.

"I'm good as long as I'm with you."

Sometimes, Armin would say embarrassing things like that. Jean was used to it, but it didn't mean he didn't blush every time Armin said something so… intimate; if you could call it that.

If you asked Jean, he'd have to say his feelings for Armin had long since run a bit deeper than friendship. That didn't stop him from pushing such thoughts aside though – he still wasn't comfortable with being close to someone. They'd probably dance around the line between friends and something more for ages, because Jean was too cowardly to do something about it and because Armin, as far as Jean was concerned, was far too insecure to say anything either. Jean suspected, provided that Armin really did like him in that way, that the blond would never say it. Sure, Armin had grown a bit more confident in himself – a lot more actually – over the past few years, but Armin always had this habit of not speaking up when he wasn't sure if there was a chance.

Armin had once told him that matters of the heart were a little like war – you had to dive in head first with no guarantee you wouldn't lose. And Armin always did hate going in without a plan.

It was a bit intimate, sitting side by side, their hands clasped, Jean's bigger hand engulfing Armin's own dainty one. And that made Jean's stomach twist in anxiety and his heart race in excitement all at once.

They chatted for what seemed like hours, occasionally shifting positions whenever Jean grew sore or he thought Armin looked uncomfortable.

Eventually the topic of Eren came up, and when prompted as to why Armin wasn't with him, Armin had just shook his head and said, "He needs time."

It was a chilling comment that had Jean wondering how many casualties there had been. It seemed like every time another soldier was lost, Eren took it harder than the last. In all honesty, Jean had blamed Eren at first – they were, after all, fighting to "protect Eren at all costs". There had been a time where Jean didn't think it was worth it – that they were all giving up their lives for an idiot like him.

But when it came down to it, Armin had said it best - that it ran much deeper than just protecting the life of one kid – that one kid was the key to saving everybody after all. And Eren, again according to Armin, probably felt the weight of the burden more than any other – it would be tough having everyone's last hope resting on your shoulders.

"Hey Jean," Armin ventured, after a lull in the conversation had fell.

"What?" Jean asked, and if his voice was shaky, Armin didn't say so. Jean knew that tone – it was the one Armin used whenever he had been thinking too hard, whenever he was thinking about something that particularly upset him.

Jean squeezed Armin's hand in silent comfort – Armin didn't squeeze back.

"If I were to die tomorrow… What would you say to me today?"

And Jean wasn't sure which was colder, his heart which seemed to have frozen in his chest, or Armin's hand resting in his own.

"Why would you ask that?" Jean practically yelled, and Armin frowned, "It's not like—is there something you're not telling me?!"

Maybe it was irrational to get so angry, but the question had struck a chord deep in his chest. It had just been yesterday that he'd been worried about such a thing and then for Armin to go and say something like that and then not answer? It was too much.

"Hey," Jean said, his grip on Armin's hand tightening to the point it might have been painful, if Armin's hand weren't already calloused and used to the harsh conditions one in the military dealt with every day, "Promise you won't die so soon, especially without saying goodbye."

It was a childish request, Jean knew, one no one in their right mind could honestly expect to keep, but Armin smiled that coy smile of his and whispered, "I promise I won't die tomorrow, or any other day after that," and there was something about the way he said it that felt reassuring to Jean – like he could honestly believe it.

"But just humor me though," Armin added and Jean hesitated before using his unoccupied hand to scratch the back of his head.

"Well, I guess… I don't know. It always comes so fast. I don't know what I'd say. Maybe 'good luck' or 'your hairs a mess'? I hope it's not something stupid."

Armin pursed his lips, "Let me rephrase… If, say for example, we were going on a mission with a one percent success rate… What would you say to me before you set off?"

"Suicide mission, eh?" and Jean couldn't help the bitter look that consumed his face – he was sure such a day would come eventually.

"I'd probably say…" Jean paused at the look Armin was giving him, eyes wide and lips trembling – he looked vulnerable, scared, and Jean hadn't realized before but that near death experience of his must have really shaken him up.

"I…"

Armin once said, 'It's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all,' but Jean could hardly agree. It made life that much harder and that much lonelier when you had something to compare it to. If you asked Jean, he'd wished he'd never experience the pleasure of the companionship of man's best friend – if he'd listened to his mother he wouldn't have known what it was like to have a pet, and he definitely would not have tasted the bitter fruit of loss. The same thing went for Marco, he had been the best friend Jean could have ever asked for – Jean never really got along well with others, so it had been a whole new experience. And losing that had changed him so, so much.

He wanted to do this right – wanted to say the right thing – but he'd never really been good at that had he? But then again, he'd never really been good at keeping his mouth shut either.

This relationship he had with Armin – they could stay friends forever if Jean so wished it – but was that what he really wanted? Was it what Armin wanted? He was good at reading the blond most of the time, but Armin was just as good at keeping things to himself.

He must have taken too long to answer, because Armin slipped his hand from his and scooted backwards on the bed to put some space between them.

"… What about you?" Jean asked, fingers twitching because there was so much he wanted to say and yet he hadn't the slightest clue as to what he actually had to say, "If you knew I was going to die, what would you say to me?"

Maybe it was cruel, turning Armin's question around on him – Jean knew how much he hated it when people did that, but Armin's lips parted immediately, and he seemed to know exactly what it was he wanted to say.

"Me? If it were me, I'd say 'I love you,'"

And then Armin was glancing out the window at the sky and before Jean even had time to react, to think, Armin was saying how it was time for dinner and how he wasn't feeling well enough to go to the mess hall and if he could please bring him back something, and Jean thought, even in a situation like this, Armin was so nice – giving Jean an excuse to leave, to sort his head out, Armin was too nice – but Jean took the chance anyway and slipped out of the room with a hasty, 'be right back'.

Jean supposed that should have been the first sign. Armin never was one to ask for help, even when he so clearly needed it. It was out of character, and Jean wondered if he had noticed sooner if it would have made a difference.

When he got to the mess hall, everyone was silent. Jean felt like he was wading through molasses when he stepped inside and each step further into the room felt that much heavier.

Someone close, someone important must have died, and for a brief, horrifying moment, Jean had thought maybe it was Mikasa – and it made sense in his head, Armin's odd behavior, his comment about Eren needing time – but then he saw the raven-haired girl sitting with Eren and he relaxed.

From the looks of it, everyone close to him was okay, but he guessed that was hardly a reason to be relieved.

It was Sasha who had asked him why he had two trays – but she hadn't said it like she was starving, but rather in a confused one unbefitting of her, and when Jean looked he'd realized she had hardly touched anything on her tray - and he hadn't known it at the time - but that had been sign number two.

"… It's for Armin" he said, and it might have just been him, but it had seemed like the temperature dropped, and any other time Jean might have found it embarrassing that he'd spoken so loudly just as the conversation in the room died down – but then again no one had really been talking anyway. Just the occasional sniffle and whispered words of comfort.

"What did you say?" Eren asked, and he sounded angry – probably angrier than Jean had ever heard him before – and quite frankly it was worrisome. So he bit back the urge to tell him to mind his own business and repeated himself, "It's for Armin,"

And the fierce growl that tore through Eren's throat was all the warning Jean got, before a fist was colliding with his jaw and he found himself on his back, Eren on top of him and looking very much like the monster he claimed not to be.

Jean's first instinct was to be angry, to fight back, to hit, but with the second punch to his face, came the drop of something wet. And Jean had thought it was his blood, but when the pain faded enough for him to look at Eren again, he realized the brunet was sobbing. And just like that it was like the quiet sniffles in the room had intensified to full on sobs and Sasha was literally wailing, her scream a piercing wail, and by now Mikasa would have stepped into to stop them from fighting, but glancing over Eren's shoulder, all he could see was her face buried in her scarf and her shoulders trembling.

"You fucking bastard," Eren rasped, "YOU FUCKING BASATRD!" and Eren was swinging his fists once more, and Jean had half the mind to block his face with his forearms before Eren broke his nose or his jaw.

"Don't you dare joke like that, don't you fucking dare," and Jean was scared – not of Eren, but what had caused this, "You sick bastard – you're the worst – vile – awful – I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!" and then Eren was screaming once more, a deep guttural sob from the pit of his stomach, before he was rolling off Jean and howling in anguish.

Connie was the one who approached him - Mikasa having already pulled Eren into her arms - and lightly touched his shoulder. His eyes were red and puffy and Jean had already felt sick before when Eren had first lunged at him, but now he could feel the bile rising in his throat.

"I assumed everyone already heard, but Jean… Armin he… Last night he…" Connie's voice broke off and he had to cover his mouth, before taking a deep shuddering breath to collect himself, "Armin passed last night."

If Jean could describe the utter pain and confusion and denial he'd felt within that moment, he'd say it was the worst feeling imaginable – not a bit of eloquence, just a blunt in your face truth. His throat burned and his chest ached and it felt like he'd been doused in ice water all at once.

"What?" he managed, and even Jean could hear the skeptism in his voice, "What?! No, no that's not true. Armin's in my room – Armin's fine – we've spent the whole day together!" and for some reason, it sounded crazy even to him.

Jean was aware of everyone looking at him with pity – but surely this was just some elaborate joke. It was just – everyone wanted to make fun of him is all – that's it.

But it wasn't.

It couldn't be.

They wouldn't joke about this – couldn't even if they tried.

But Jean was sure, surer then he had ever been, that Armin was alive and well, waiting for him back in his room.

And with that in mind, Jean scrambled to his feet before breaking into a run back to the barracks, faster than he'd ever run before, faster than he'd even want to run in his life.

When he slammed the door to his room open, Armin was standing by the window, bathed in the golden hues of the sunset and Jean's heart sored in relief, before crashing down to floor and shattering into pieces.

"I read a book once," Armin started to say, but Jean wasn't listening and instead was taking the short few steps to cross the expanse of the room and snatching up Armin's hand – just as cold as it had been all day.

"Armin-"

"In the book," Armin continued, "This little boy died, and the last thing he remembered was getting in a fight with his mother."

Jean remembered that book, the little boy had regretted not listening to his mother and he couldn't pass on until he'd made up with her. It was stupid, Jean had thought. Ghosts don't exist. Or at least, he had thought they didn't exist.

"Armin please," Jean croaked, throat aching and trembling hands wrapped around Armin's wrists.

"You probably don't remember but the little boy didn't even know he was dead at first, and hadn't even known what it was that kept him here."

Armin's voice was surprisingly steady, a monotone that Jean had never heard before.

"I guess I always assumed it would be that way for everyone. Who wouldn't die with regrets?"

Jean opened his mouth but Armin shook his head, it was a rhetorical question.

"I thought about Eren and Mikasa and the others, and even you – it was an interesting experience, albeit scary, I wish I could have wrote it down. Maybe it was because I'd been thinking about all the things I didn't get to do, all the things I didn't see – the things I never said… Maybe that's why I knew. I knew what it was that kept me here. I didn't want to say anything, not at first, but I know I couldn't hide it forever. There was no way you wouldn't find out that I…" Armin broke off, eyes squeezing shut briefly, before he was blinking them open, tear drops like the morning dew on spider webs clinging to his lashes.

"Armin," Jean gasped – it hurt to talk – everything hurt.

"Closure is really important – it's what makes loss an easier pill to swallow. Jean, if I had told you I loved you sooner – would you have said it back?"

This was it. The ball was in his field now, and this time Jean wasn't at a loss for words. What consequences would there be for admitting the feelings he'd tried so hard to bury? What more was there to lose when the person most important to him all along was already gone?

"I love you, I love you Armin," and Jean held onto Armin's wrists tighter, and they were still so cold, and it was too late, too late, so what if he said it, Armin was already – Armin was…

"… I'm so happy," Armin breathed as he pulled his wrists from Jean's grasp to cover his eyes, "I'm—I wish I had been more brave—I-I wish I had said it sooner. I-" Armin had always been a crybaby, so it shouldn't have come to a surprise to Jean when Armin broke off into a sob.

"Armin," it was a miracle Jean could still form coherent words, though not the miracle he wanted, "I love you, I really love you- Don't go-don't leave me-stay. Stay here. With me."

Armin just cried harder, and it was a testament to how Jean never could find the right words to say.

'Actions speak louder than words,' Jean remembered Armin saying that once, so he pried Armin's hands away from his face and cupped his cheek, the skin cold against his own, but Armin still nuzzled against him all the same.

"I want to stay- I don't want to go," Armin choked, "I don't want to be dead – I want to be with you. I want-"

And it was all Jean could do, to press his lips against Armin's own – pale and cold like the rest of him – to say 'I love you' with more than words.

And when Jean was left alone, standing in the middle of an empty room, with nothing but the cold embrace of a love long lost, he collapsed to his knees and screamed and screamed and screamed, hands clawing at the wooden floorboards beneath him.

If he had said it sooner, if he had admitted it sooner, would he still be here? Not a single living memory of the love he'd held – they'd held – to keep his heart afloat?

Or would he have had a kiss, the feel of Armin's warmth against his body, the soft caress of golden hair against his hand?

If he had just tried – if he hadn't doubted himself so much – would he still be as lonely as he was? As broken as he was?

'If I were to die tomorrow,' Armin had asked. It was such a cruel question. Tomorrow was still so far away; if Armin had died tomorrow, then Jean would have had the chance to love him today.