we are i m p e r f e c t {armin x historia x annie}

Good hair.

He instinctively raised a hand to his tousled mane and combed his fingers through the strands, contemplating her response. Then she laughed, and the melodic sound drew him out of his ponderous haze for a few moments. ”Not desirable hair, no. I wouldn't want your hair!" She giggled at him, and the sight and sound of it with the added alcohol thrumming through his tingling veins prompted him to smile and laugh with her. ”But it suits you.” He didn’t know why it was funny for either of them; blame the alcohol, perhaps. Not half an hour ago he and Historia had been sprawled out on the floor, cracking jokes like their personalities had been hijacked by children. Alcohol is a hell of a drug. He had heard that somewhere before, and now he kept thinking about it and about how intoxicated he was. That was such a pleasant way of saying it, “intoxicated.” He was drunk, wasted, plastered, and now he was already running dry of synonyms.

He supposed it was a fair enough answer. He had forcibly tossed that burden on her shoulders, fishing for hope somewhere where there was none. Not that he didn’t have nice hair. It was soft and…normal, and there was no reason to lie about such a simple characteristic. The message he had received felt like it was galaxies away from a compliment, however. It could be his own paranoia, but he had doubts, he always had doubts. Maybe she was dodging the question because maybe there was nothing desirable about him. Maybe his hair was well-suited to his face like she mentioned, but that was the extent of it. He knew he was weak, scrawny, leaning toward the short end of the height spectrum, so that probably meant he was unattractive. Plus, people were always attracted to strength. He lacked strength. He lacked most admirable qualities.

He knew he had to have some decent aspect to his personality. He was kind to most people, right? And respectful. Or maybe I’m just a pushover. Labels were complicated. I just know that I’m weak. He combed his fingers through his hair again, forcing a smile to hide his excessive analyzing of something that really shouldn’t be so important to him right now. He was a soldier, he should be thinking of the bigger picture. His duty was to protect humankind from beasts. He shouldn’t be worrying about desire or dates or anything of that nature.

Then again, he was only human.

”Thankss for being honest,” he slurred, cracking another half-smile as Historia stirred in Annie’s lap. She immediately babbled a few hurried apologies and scrambled to her feet, face flushed pink from ears to neck. Annie had been stroking her hair. He wondered what Ymir would think of that. ”You guys were amazing! It was fantastic drinking with you,” she exclaimed. She was always so polite. ”Don't worry about cleaning, I'll get to that when I'm sober." His eyes fell to the floor, which was stained brown in several areas due to spillage. Oops, he had forgotten about that. They would need to tidy that up before the Captain laid eyes on it. That would be a personified nightmare.

”Bye Historia!” he waved and shifted his position on the floor. He slid the empty bottle away from him to stop himself from his own incessant tapping and distanced himself from the full bottles by sliding closer to Annie. It was hardly subtle. His mind drifted back to the subject at hand, which was…his hair? No, features about him that were desirable. Time for a subject change.

…

He had nothing.

”So, um..”

The instant he opened his mouth a hand reached for his throat and jerked him by the collar. A pair of eyes that burned with blue fire met his own, and he felt his chest tighten. Whatever words he had formed in his head moments ago were wasted to dust, drifting off like a leaf in the breeze, leaving his head hollow and confused. She didn’t say anything to him, didn’t budge, only stared. He didn’t know whether he expected her to slap him because her grip was so strong, or to kiss him instead – a ridiculous notion considering she had danced around his previous question to avoid admitting the cold truth about what he was. The blood buzzing through his system involuntarily rushed above his neck again, and he felt it singing his cheeks along with the imaginary lump that had lodged itself into his throat. What was going here?

If she ended up slapping him, he could bear it. He had been taking beatings since he was a child, with Mikasa present to defend him and Eren present to endure the bruises with him. A slap was merely an unpleasant sting, although it would hurt a lot more coming from Annie, one of his friends. Why would she be angry with him? Had the question set her off? Moments ago they had shared a few laughs over the matter, awkward as it had been. What could be wrong?

”Sorry, I..” she released him, and he didn’t move. He didn’t even bother to fix the stretched material of his shirt. ”I don’t really know what I’m doing.” He didn’t know either, but somehow it felt intimate. Or maybe that’s just your imagination. He couldn’t say for sure. Annie’s eyes were always difficult to read. Normally they were as dark as an oncoming storm, and it wasn’t due to the color. They weren’t cold and distant the way Heichou’s eyes were, they were something else, something less unsettling and more puzzling. But now they were lustrous, flickering with something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was all very confusing.

He could be imagining it, he realized. He did have the burden of a vivid imagination, and perhaps the alcohol had amplified it along with his emotions. There was a dash of courage added to the concoction as well, but he wasn’t sure what to do with that. ”I-It’s okay,” he stammered, immediately regretting the decision to speak when he hadn’t yet recuperated from whatever Annie had done to him. Neither of them seemed to have any idea what she had intended, but it had left him stupefied.

He still hadn’t moved an inch, and it felt awkward. He knew he should move back to where he was. That was the logical thing to do, right? Resume their previous conversation, as broken and strange as it had been. His brain was nagging him, though, and a wedge was pressed between his better judgment and the rest of him. Somehow it felt like he would regret leaning back, like he would miss a golden opportunity. A golden opportunity for what? There was no such thing as a golden opportunity for Armin. His brain was in a blender, and thinking didn’t seem to be effective at putting anything in its proper place.

His heart was pounding against his chest, alive with courage. It was developing a mind of its own. The alcohol was like gasoline feeding a dangerous flame, shrouding his judgment in smoke and ash as he felt a chill in the air. It made him shudder, it made him crave a warmth he couldn’t seek inside bottles of booze, and in a moment of oddly-summoned bravery he leaned forward with the intent to kiss Annie Leonhardt on the mouth.

As soon as he was close enough to feel her breath, his courage abandoned him in the dust. He abruptly pulled himself away and tried to look everywhere but at her. ”S-Sorry!” he stuttered like a fool, face heating like a furnace. ”I’m sorry, I don’t-“ Ripred, you just tried to kiss Annie Leonhardt! Are you out of your damn mind?! Those bottles of alcohol sounded like heaven right not. Screw it if he ended up vomiting. ”I-I don’t know what I’m doing either.”

He felt his heart seizing in his chest, overwhelmed by the consequences of his own actions. Regret dragged his eyes to the stained tile flooring, the temptation to shut out the world bearing heavy weight against his eyelids. Maybe if he closed his eyes, kept his head low and remained silent she would disregard his attempt at affection and pretend it never happened. In time he was sure he could recover from the embarrassment; he just prayed that the predicament wouldn’t damage their friendship. There were boundaries he had crossed, boundaries she probably didn’t want him to violate. Why would Annie Leonhardt want to kiss me?

”Why?”

For a moment he wondered if his own thoughts were answering him in Annie’s voice as a taunt of some sort, but then he remembered that alcohol was not an origin of hallucinations. He glanced up to see a mask of anger glaring at him. Excpected,, he thought, because Annie wouldn’t want to be kissed by somebody like him, so it was natural for her to express her displeasure on the matter. He was prepared to apologize and hang his head further in shame, even to plead for mercy and forgiveness if it would save their friendship. He would take whatever punishment she saw fit to inflict. He would leave if she asked him to. She could slap him if it was enough of a temptation. He was prepared for anything.

Well, almost anything.

”Why, am I not good enough for you?” she was on her feet, towering above him with a storm at her heels – a raging storm with consequences he couldn’t handle. He sat in stunned silence as she continued. ”I thought you said I was pretty!” There was a fresh bottle of alcohol in her hands, a fuel for her fire. Apparently he had been wrong about the source of this fire. She was furious because he hadn’t kissed her. She was angry at his cowardice, at his gutless decision to chicken out at the very last second. He had expressed an evident interest and withdrew it when she had been willing to accept it. I’d be angry with me too.. Yet so far he had yet to possess the decency to explain himself for the mishap. He was shocked by the idea of her wanting to kiss him, and shocked at the raw emotions being hurled in his direction. He could handle shouting, Eren did that all the time – but he had never seen Annie angry, and she had never shouted at him before.

Panic seized him when she walked toward the exit. ”W-Wait!” He hastily scrambled to his feet and lunged for the doorway, sliding himself between the frames to stall her. He knew she could easily shove him out of the way like a lion could crush a rabbit, but he didn’t want her last memory of him to be his stupid silence and clueless expression. He must’ve looked like a deer in headlights. ”I’m sorry,” he started, ”I just..didn’t think you wanted to kiss me.” It was irrationally intimidating to look Annie in the face as he spoke, and as much as he wanted to avoid her blazing eyes he needed to be forward with her. He needed to stop being a damn wimp for once. ”I’m not trying to mess with your head, promise.”

The power of a promise could be faint or strong, and the outcome of this one was a gamble. He was being sincere, but her unrelenting rage may persuade her to ignore every word that passed his lips. He didn’t want her to believe that he had changed his mind because there was something wrong with her. It wasn’t like that at all. He had misinterpreted signals, thinking of himself as utterly undesirable when in reality she had actually wanted to go through with it. His lack of self-worth was continuously making him sink, and this time he might not be capable of climbing back up again. He would try, though, because this felt like an endangerment to their friendship. The last thing he wanted was to break ties with Annie, not after they had hardly spoken for a year.

”I-I understand if you want to leave,” he said, unable to cease his stammers. His brain was too overwhelmed with options and consequences and alcohol and emotions to enable him to speak calmly. The most likely scenario involved Annie leaving him to his guilt, and he was desperately eager to prevent that in any way possible. How could he convey that he wasn’t trying to “fuck with her head,” as she had so gracefully put it? ”If you're gonna kiss me, then kiss me,” she had said, and he wasn’t sure if that was an invitation or not.

”I could walk you home, or..” There were words slipping off of his tongue, but he was hardly listening. He was contemplating the weight of his next decision. Annie was angry, that was clear enough. The burning expression, the wild eyes, the magma dripping in her tone – everything screamed “do not provoke.” He shouldn’t try to make any points while she was still fuming. But what if this was the very last chance? What if she avoided him for the rest of their lives after this? A second attempt was a bad decision, and he knew it. Kissing angry people probably didn’t end well for anybody that tried, but he was prepared for consequences this time. She could push him, ignore him, punch him, whatever, just as long as he tried. Or maybe that's the alcohol talking again.

He was already hesitating, already second guessing himself. This is a bad idea. But apparently he was full of bad ideas tonight. The moment he started feeling a loss of opportunity he sprang, walking directly toward Annie to close the space between them and kiss her. It was poorly-planned and somewhat sloppy of a first kiss, and he could feel the embarrassment seeping into his cheeks when their lips connected. He was more concerned with the reaction, however. He tried to anticipate the worst so he could at least be prepared for it.

The kiss was hurried and over before he knew it, his cowardice drawing him away before Annie could react. It seemed like a pathetic attempt at a first kiss, and a weak success. He didn’t even know what kisses were supposed to feel like, or if his attempt was anything above adequate. He had imagined himself kissing people before, of course – but not in these circumstances, and certainly not with Annie, and definitely not while intoxicated. He could practically sense his own wavering judgment, as if the little voice in his head was trying to be heard above the static noise yet could only manage a squeak that echoed beyond the alcohol’s suppressing effects. How long would it take for him to sober up and take real responsibility for his own actions instead of standing around like a confused fool? Perhaps this whole drinking thing had been bad idea, worse than he had initially predicted.

He had mentally set himself up for rejection and scolding. Annie had been vexed by his gutlessness with enough steam coursing through her system to shout at him. It had even persuaded her to try and march out of the room and leave him there to soak in his guilt. He had rather impulsively decided to pursue her instead in some meager attempt to compensate for his mistake. After that display he tried to anticipate the worst reaction, so it wouldn’t shock him. Expecting the hurt would help minimize pain in the long run, at least that was how he saw it. Optimism within pessimism. It was better than relying on only one or the other.

He didn’t expect to feel two hands grab roughly at the lining of his jacket and tug him forward. He figured she would walk around him and leave, or accuse him of trying to mess with her head again. He didn’t have any arguments or defenses prepared for that, he was merely ready to accept defeat and stumble home, then assemble a rehearsed apology for the next day when he was sober enough to organize his thoughts and emotions. He didn’t expect her to respond to his advance with enthusiasm. She pulled him toward her and kissed him fiercely, to which he could only respond with a gasp that lodged itself into his throat. His chest tingled and the blood returned to his face, especially when he noticed how soft her lips were despite the strength of the hard kiss. He closed his eyes and awkwardly tried to find a place for his hands. They settled somewhere by her hips, slow and hesitant.

She tasted like whiskey fresh from the bottle. He didn’t even care. He was kissing Annie Leonhardt, for real this time. Whatever anger had plagued her system must’ve dissipated on the spot. Of all people, why did Annie want to kiss him? Surely there were men (or women) in the Capitol Police with superior qualities. There were people braver, stronger, better looking, the list continued. Maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe she just wanted to kiss someone she could trust, and he was the only candidate nearby, perfectly willing and a bit more eager than he realized. For all he knew this could be the only time Annie would ever let him kiss her, and he was okay with that. He had never kissed anybody before, and he had never actually imagined that he would be kissing anyone anytime soon. It was nice – more than nice, actually. He felt lighter than a cloud, with a warmth in his cheeks and a pounding in his chest as their lips melded. It felt like nothing could compare.

There were two types of intoxication he knew of: drug-induced, and whatever this was kindling between himself and Annie. Both were completely novel to him. The alcohol consumption was a trial, because sometimes the only way to learn about certain things was to experience them. Science could describe how alcohol affected the body and the personal sensations involved, but it was nothing like the real deal. It was all very fuzzy and jumbled and warm, like he no longer had control over certain parts of himself. Maybe that was how he had gathered the “courage” (was that what it even was?) to kiss Annie without warning. Science could also try to explain the art of kissing, but there was no use in trying to understand words on paper when the sensation itself was much more powerful. Words could make it sound so detached and simple. That’s probably why I have no idea what I’m doing.

No amount of knowledge written in a book or document could’ve warned him that Annie’s touches would leave tingles in their wake - especially on the nape of his neck - and it certainly wouldn’t warn him that accidentally holding one’s breath could happen during the process. It wasn’t until she pulled away that he opened his eyes and realized two things: one, she had been standing on her tip toes, which might’ve been one of the cutest things he’d ever seen Annie do. And two, his lungs were aching because he had been holding in a breath the entire time. I didn’t even notice. He discreetly tried to exhale through his nostrils and suck in the breath his poor lungs needed. He had a feeling this was something only beginners did.

”It’s getting late,” she said, resting her hand against his chest. Truthfully, he had no idea what time it was. He had lost his sense of time long ago, long before Historia had even departed. The clock was too far away to inspect, and the numbers too blurry for his weary eyes to focus on. It had to be past sunset, at least. Late evening, perhaps? Dark enough to feel cautious in the streets, which would be an issue for him once it was time to waddle home. He could get mugged or followed, and although he was a Peacekeeper his experience with self-defense could easily be made worthless by an unexpected knife to his throat or a gun at his head. Annie, on the other hand, would be perfectly capable of protecting herself, but that didn’t mean he would reject her offer to walk her to her room. It was an offer he had made earlier, he recalled, and apparently she was interested after all.

He smiled at her, and hoped his expression didn’t reveal how giddy he was over the kiss. It was one time, don’t act like a fifteen-year-old. ”Okay,” he said, his words less slurred this time around. Was he finally about to sober up, or was his body tricking him? Doesn’t matter, as long as I don’t do anything else stupid. All he had to do was escort Annie to her room. Everything would be fine.