Chapter Text
Armin Arlert led a life painted exclusively in various shades of grey. He was the bitter feeling of Sunday nights bleeding into Monday mornings. He was a hazy city skyline, choking in its own smog. He was a rolling thunderstorm on the day of a picnic, lukewarm tea, and the feeling of wet socks. He was every mild inconvenience thrust upon humanity that left a sinking feeling in the gut and a small tear in the heart.
He was bland, and he was dull; a mirror's reflection of the hum-drum life he directed, but he was content.
His daily ritual was shrouded by consistency, day in and day out: silence the blaring alarm clock, brave yet another cold shower because the hot water heater couldn't quite figure out how to function in the early morning, throw fighting words at the coffee maker until it would begrudgingly begin to drip, leave for work half an hour earlier than necessary, and stay at the call center hours longer than he was scheduled. Rinse and repeat.
He was a grey man, living a pointedly unexciting life, but for reasons unknown to Armin and everyone around him, he genuinely enjoyed it. On most days, his job as tech support gave him a feeling of purpose and usefulness. Unfortunately, though, today was just not one of those days.
His first caller of the day was also his most agreeable.
"This phone y'all sold me ain't worth a shit," was his growling way of saying good morning. Immediately, Armin felt a headache coming on.
"I'm very sorry to hear that," Armin wasn't sorry at all, and he had to dig deep inside himself to find a professional tone that held an ounce of sincerity. "Please allow me to help you with that."
"You're damn right you're gonna help," the customer retorted, "I ain't callin' you cause I like the sound of your voice, princess."
The call lasted forty-five minutes, and Armin swore he felt his soul leave his body three separate times throughout the duration of it. If he was foolish enough to believe that he'd reached rock bottom at nine in the morning, he'd be dead wrong.
With four hours until his lunch break, Armin powered through 3 new callers. Each grated on his nerves, and all were unapologetic about it.
A woman with a voice shrill enough to shatter glass demanded to know why she was getting no emails on her new phone. Did she have an email address? Of course not. How did she receive emails before? Her old computer came with an email address, obviously. How could Armin not know that? After multiple insults and a curse word or two, she demanded to be handed to a supervisor. More than happy to oblige, Armin transferred the line and checked the time; an hour an a half had passed.
A man who sounded as dead inside as Armin felt was his third call of the day. He pleaded for someone, anyone, to help him speed his laptop up. It wouldn't even load Facebook, how, pray do tell, was he expected to survive without Facebook? Armin had no idea.
Finding the computer's control panel took ten grueling minutes, finding the Hard Disk Drives was yet another adventure that Armin hesitated to embark on, and cleaning files from the Hard Drive was an entirely different beast. In the end, the customer accidentally wiped all the files. He cried over the phone, and Armin had a hard time not doing the same.
His headache showed no signs of relenting.
Lunch was calling his name. Connie Springer, the best friend God has cursed him with, taunted him from the desk across from his own. Mouthfuls of salad were shoveled into his mouth, big enough to make breathing a struggle. When Armin sneered, he only laughed. Once he finally choked, Armin almost felt ashamed for laughing.
When Connie lifted two middle fingers his way, any semblance of pity he felt immediately disappeared. Thankfully, though, the traces of a smile still played on his lips.
Finally, mercifully, the crying fest came to an end. Armin apologized profusely for the other man's misfortune, despite having no fault in what had happened, and continued in his litany of regret as he placed the phone gently in the cradle.
Connie raised an eyebrow, salad now tossed in the trash. "The hell did you do?"
"I--" The phone rang. Armin almost wept. Meanwhile, his company snorted.
"Sucks, dude."
Armin picked up the phone, tried to introduce himself, and failed miserably when an elderly lady overpowered him.
"Young man," she began, voice quivering, "why is there a naked woman on my computer?"
Clearing his throat, Armin rested his forehead on his desk. He felt Connie watching him, and he could hear everyone in the vicinity look on and huff a laugh. "What do you have typed in the web browser?"
"The web browser?"
"Yes ma'am."
"What's a web browser?"
"It's like Google."
"Oh sweetheart, what's a Google? I don't want to buy any Googles. That's the problem with you people!," She declared, "always trying to sell something to us poor folk who just want to learn how to use the Internet," she huffed just as Armin sighed, "now, my problem is that it says here that single 'hotties'," she sounded thoroughly disturbed, "in my area want to spend a night with me. And she's naked!" The horror.
"That's just--"
"Disgusting," she said. A pop up, Armin had tried to say.
"Back in my day," she started on her own tangent, and Armin felt his eyes roll back in his head, "we didn't have to deal with this... this promiscuous behavior. We had morals. You know, I was married to the same man for 56 years. We didn't need strange sex women on the internet to feel accomplished. We had real needs. We had-" sometime during the tirade, Armin began to gently bump his forehead against the cluttered surface of his desk. He hoped for unconsciousness or death.
All he received was a more intense version of his previous headache. She never stopped talking.
Intermediately, Armin tried to offer his advice to rid of pop ups, but was spoken over as she raged on about youth, and hotties, and why web browsers were the Devil's work.
Eventually she had herself so outraged that she hung up by her own free will, and for a moment Armin considered that God just might be real. When Connie slid warm food his way, he had absolutely no doubt in higher powers.
The day never really got better, rather Armin became more apathetic. People yelled, they belittled him, they called him every foul name that came to mind (there were quite a few clever ones), meanwhile; Connie had convinced Armin to play a round of paper football, and Armin barely heard a word.
Hours ticked by in elongated seconds, until slowly the number of people he was surrounded by began to dwindle. Connie jerked his head towards the elevator as he collected his coat. "You wanna hang at my place tonight? I think I convinced the chick from the Activations Department, y'know Sasha?, to come over and watch the game. You should come, too."
Armin waved his hand, noncommittal. "I'm gonna stay here for a while. I have to catch up on some paperwork." He gave a humorless laugh. "I didn't get much done with being on the phone all day and everything."
If Connie frowned, he concealed it before it ever settled on his face. "Cool, cool. The door's open if you wanna stop by later though." He side stepped and waved as he walked out. Despite the fact that Connie was far gone, Armin waved back before his hand fell limply to his desk.
"Hey," a voice snapped Armin's eyes to attention, "be sure to lock up when you leave, kid." His floor supervisor and something-like-a friend, Moblit Berner, spoke as he flipped various light switches on his way out. "And don't be here too late. It's a Friday night. Enjoy life a little; the company can survive without you for a night. Your work ethic is creepy."
"Creepy," Armin repeated. His chin rested in his palm, and the position distorted his forced smile.
"Yes," Moblit confirmed, "much like that expression. Don't look at me like that ever again."
This time, the smile reached his eyes, and Armin giggled. "I'll try my best."
With a nod, Moblit stepped inside the elevator when it chimed, and the doors creeped open. "Night, Arlert."
The doors closed, and Armin was alone.
Paperwork was the last thing Armin wanted to do. Minutes were wasted by beating his pens against his desk, making another five cups of coffee, and browsing social media websites only to be reminded of his own crippling loneliness.
Part of him almost considered walking to Connie's townhouse. It was minutes away by foot, and the office surely wouldn't miss him. Stubbornly, he sat firm in his seat, and watched the clock rather than the game. He kept company with empty desks and whirring computer fans rather than with Connie and his blossoming new love interest.
As soon as his self-pity filled head hit his desk, the phone rang, and Armin scrambled back, nearly toppling onto the floor.
While making sure his heart hadn't leapt from his chest, Armin shot a bitter look at the phone. It rang in return. A hesitant hand hovered over the phone; it retreated back and inched forward in a tedious cycle, before finally Armin jerked it out of the cradle. An act of self hatred, Armin was absolutely sure that that was the only way to categorize what he'd just done.
"Thank you for calling Maria Consumer Aid, this is Armin speaking." Throughout the entire day, Armin had yet to get this far in his intro. He was taking it as a good sign. "Could you please provide me with your name and reason for calling?"
"Holy shit you're still open," said an unbelieving man on the other end.
Two heartbeats passed while Armin examined the empty office, blank monitors, and dim lights. "Not quite," he admitted, "Your name?"
"Eren," the other man practically shouted, hurriedly. "Uh, Eren," he said more calmly. "Eren."
"And reason for calling?"
"I'm an idiot," the laugh that followed the statement made Armin's blood spike. "But if you're not open, I can call back tomorrow. I mean, like... like I said-- I'm kind of an idiot. This might take a while."
It was just a passing thought, but for a moment Armin considered that he might not mind if it took hours.
"I can try to make this as fast and painless as possible," Armin said, "for both our sake's."
"Dude," the customer- Eren -whispered, "you just might save my life."
Armin found that a lopsided smile had sneaked onto his face. He hid it behind his hand and denied it was there at all. "Let's hope so."
As it turned out, Eren Jaeger was technology's worst nightmare, and he broke everything he touched. This became evident to Armin when, despite his best efforts to help, Eren still managed to fuck up his sister's laptop even worse than before he'd called.
"Why is everything upside-down?" He'd cried.
"Just-" Armin sighed, "just stop touching things. Is it okay if I take control remotely?"
"Please," Armin had never heard someone so defeated. Even the man who had sobbed over the phone earlier that day didn't hold a candle to this kind of hopelessness.
While Armin worked in the computer settings, Eren watched and talked.
Boy, did he talk.
"How long have you done this?"
"This job?" Armin asked as he mindlessly clicked around the control panel.
"Yeah," Eren confirmed.
"In years or in hours?"
"Is there a huge difference?" Eren asked, sounding amused.
Armin hummed idly. "When you work 60 hours a week, it feels like there is."
"God damn," was the eloquent reaction, "now I feel even worse for keeping you."
"You aren't keeping me from anything exciting," Armin offered, "I'm not all that social."
"How could you be working like that?"
"It's not all that bad," he felt almost defensive, "I learn a lot about people doing what I do. Eyes aren't the window to the soul anymore, electronics are. It's more fun this way."
"Yeah..." Eren said, voice trailing in thought. "How many people's souls are literally nothing but porn, oh Wise One?"
"There's a reason God doesn't talk to us anymore," Armin retorted. The barking laughter he earned made Armin swell with pride.
"Oh! Wanna see my soul?"
"Isn't this your sister's laptop? That's why your life was in danger?"
"We have the same passions," Armin heard the smile in the other man's tone.
Biting his lip, Armin smothered a smile of his own. "Considering you were just asking about porn, I'm almost concerned."
"Dude." He sounded truly affronted. "That's what we have an external hard drive for. You have to keep it classy when you're trying to impress the tech support guy."
"Right, classy." He paused and thrummed his fingers against the desk. What did he have to lose in indulging his new customer and learning about his life? They'd likely never stumble upon each other again, and his day had been shit. There was no downside. "Bear your soul to me," Armin said, finally.
Eren's soul, apparently, looked a lot like a breath taking picture of a man he claimed to be himself, a stunning woman who he claimed to be his sister, and a Pomeranian puppy that was more fur than anything else. Her name was Titan, he was informed. They looked so happy, glowing. Armin found himself smiling back at their faces captured in time.
It was his sister, Mikasa's, wallpaper. Eren was proud of it.
"There's no way that's you," Armin finally settled on saying once he'd fully taken them all in.
"A real hunk right?"
"That isn't exactly what I was going for," Armin snorted.
"Listen, puberty did ya man a solid. You should've seen me when I was a kid." Eren audibly shuddered. "I'm just glad my parents didn't feed me after midnight. Who knows what would've happened then?"
"Horrifying."
"Shit, who are you telling? I had to live with that Gremlin face."
"I'm sure you didn't look like a Gremlin," Armin argued. "They were hairy weren't they?"
"I did though! Hair and all, I swear to God," Eren said through bubbling laughter. Armin could hardly understand him. "Next time I'm gonna download some baby pictures to show you. You're gonna eat those words."
Despite knowing the likelihood of a 'next time', slim to none, Armin went along with him. He hoped optimism suited him. "I'll look forward to it."
They found themselves swimming in silence. Armin had long since finished his work, but was having a hard time admitting to it. He clicked around aimlessly to fill the empty space in the conversation. "It's getting pretty late," Eren finally spoke.
Regretfully, Armin checked the struggling analog clock across the office. Ten P.M. Two hours had passed in the span of a few minutes.
"It is," he agreed. An inexplicable heaviness settled in his chest. His fingers anxiously clenched the phone.
"I'm really sorry I kept you this long. I just- I thought it would be quick, and then I couldn't shut up."
There weren't possibly enough ways for Armin to express how much he didn't mind. He'd enjoyed it, actually. "At least you won't die now, right? The screen is right side up, and we managed to recover all those word documents. Your sister'll let you live to see another day."
"Yeah," Eren snorted, "we fixed it. Go ahead and give yourself all the credit. I'll only pout a little."
Armin hummed. The weight in his chest gained a few pounds.
"Thank you," Eren quickly tacked on, leaving no room for Armin to speak, "y'know for helping me, and being a really great person, and stuff. I owe you one."
"I'll keep it in mind," Armin informed him as he shut his own computer down for the night.
"Yeah, well," Eren cleared his throat to chase away a breathy laugh. "Bye, Armin."
Armin swallowed hard and offered a stiff nod, a show of resolution only he would know about. His fingers had gone numb from the tightness of his grip. "Feel free to call us anytime."
The pause that followed was pregnant, and Armin was convinced he'd already been hung up on. Just before losing all hope, Eren piped up.
"I'll keep it in mind."
Armin could've been fooling himself, and he probably was, but he could've sworn there was a smile hiding in those words. He hoped he'd heard a hint of promise, too.
With the phone held firmly in the cradle, Armin leaned back in his seat and stared upwards, hands folded over his stomach. The ceiling tiles were old and in desperate need of retirement, old paint was flaking from cinderblock walls, and, from somewhere in the office, something smelled vaguely like rot. Everything around him was grungy and dank, falling apart at the seams, yet somehow Armin felt alive. Electrified.
For a brief and fleeting moment, the grey world that Armin had built around himself began to dissipate, and there was a brilliant spark of red.