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Their first kiss was their second kiss was their third kiss was their fourth kiss. Interchangeable in retrospect, the succession between them hectic and rapid, their lips met again and again and again.
A storage room was their location, chosen at random, chosen out of necessity, chosen for urgency. They were two of few who returned without obvious injury, so the medics neglected them, let them leave and let them find each other and run.
They hadn’t come far, their hands still trembling with terror from the mission, their cheeks still wet with tears shed at the brink of death. Eren pulled Armin or Armin pulled Eren and they wound up in a storage room without light and without a lock on the door.
People would come looking for them, they would want to find Eren, they would want to take them apart and they would be filled with questions and confusion and fear. Not more so than Armin was, however, and not more so than Eren.
The questions could wait, for Eren and Armin kissed in a wordless declaration of love, and they touched in a speechless confession of lust.
Eren’s hands were shaky, still not fully restored, soft and non-bruised palms stroking against Armin’s skin.
Armin’s hands were filled with blisters from gripping his sword, calloused and wounded as they threaded through Eren’s unwashed hair.
Both bodies were sweaty and stained with dirt and grime, and even when they had stripped from clothing they were a sight for sore eyes. But the darkness robbed them of light and it was not for Eren’s strong back or Armin’s slight hips or Eren’s vibrant eyes or Armin’s bright hair that they did this. They kissed and stripped and touched and gasped and moaned and thrust and received because of Armin’s beating heart and Eren’s pumping blood.
The floor was poorly cleaned, and reeked of rotten wood. Armin got a splinter when his naked feet made contact, and Eren felt his pain when their lips met and he tasted it on his tongue.
They’d had worse so they didn’t mention it, for the same reason they didn’t mention the tears running down Armin’s face.
Both were experienced in touching each other, but neither were experienced with touching. Eren would sling an arm around Armin’s shoulder, he would grab his hand to calm him down, he would touch his forehead to make sure he wasn’t sick. Armin would help Eren stand, would be there for him to lean on, would be there for him to hold through the night. That sort of touching, they were not shy of.
This sort of touching was a novelty, new grounds to cover, new bases to learn. Would Armin like it if he bit his neck? Would Eren like it if he touched his ass? Would Armin like it if he sucked on his nipple? Would Eren like it if he sucked on his cock?
They had nothing else to do, nothing else they wanted to do, nothing else they could do but to try, experiment, explore. It had always been a shared dream for them, so it was natural. To explore new grounds.
Their bodies were joined against the far end wall of the room, their feet stumbling over ill-tended floors as they pushed against each other and breathed each other’s breath in their maneuvering. Eren ended up with his back against the wall, and then Armin ended up with his back against a shelf filled of somethings and anythings. Eren’s cock ended up strained against Armin’s stomach, and Armin’s cock ended up poking against Eren’s thighs, but the height difference was cancelled when Eren lifted him up and when Armin wrapped his legs ungracefully around Eren’s waist.
Armin was nervous and Eren was too, and they squirmed and they trembled and they kissed more sloppily and they breathed more frantically. Then they spoke, and their shaking stilled and their kisses got better and their breaths were moans of pleasure.
“Eren,” was what Armin said, skilled with words as always, needing nothing more than a name.
“Armin,” was what Eren said, his voice more desperate, but his meaning the same.
“I can’t believe we are alive”, was what they meant, and “I love you”, was what they implied, and “I wouldn’t live without you”, was what they proved.
Oil meant for their gears was what they used, courtesy of Armin’s quick mind on how to proceed, and fingers were also what they used, courtesy of Eren’s willingness for them to be united. And when preparation was done and cocks leaked of precum and hasty thoughts and pleasure, Eren pushed Armin against the wall and pushed his cock inside.
Thrusting was automatic, pain was accepted, panting was the norm and moaning became obligatory. Eren’s hands on Armin’s sides, moving him with strength found in his pumping adrenaline. Armin’s hands on Eren’s back, nails clawing into his skin with strength found in his lusts and needs. It became as obvious as breathing, as obvious as living, as obvious as freedom, to love and express it like this.
The fifteenth thrust became the sixteenth thrust became the seventeenth thrust, like all the other thrusts interchangeable in retrospect. All that mattered was the blood pulsing through their hard cocks and the hitched breathing, the essence of life.
Armin loved Eren’s shameless moaning and Eren loved Armin’s nervous groaning and they loved each other’s quickened breathing. They loved hearing their own names said over and over when the tension and friction and fullness became overwhelming, and they loved listening to each other’s heartbeats and holding hands when all was said and done and they were spent and living.
Alone in the dark room, naked and dirty on the floor, sore and pleased with tear stained cheeks and cum stained stomachs, they stayed. Armin’s head leaning against Eren’s shoulder, Eren’s head leaning against Armin’s, Armin’s and Eren’s backs leaning against the wall they had claimed together. Filling the room with their quiet panting and loud beating hearts, that was how they remained, in a place without time to waste.
On the other side of the door were rushing soldiers looking to find them and unthinking civilians looking to blame them and mindless titans looking to devour them. Nothing but questions, problems and invasions. They had escaped those traps, sure as they had escaped death and fooled it again. For a moment longer, at least, they could postpone it all.
Armin was keeping count somewhere in the back of head on the amount of kisses shared. He could tell which one was the seventy-seventh which was the same as the seventy-eighth which was the same as the seventy-ninth, his mind already and always filled with such trivia.
Eren could not keep track of the kisses shared. He couldn’t tell the difference between the first and the fifty-fourth the eighty-second, and he didn’t want to, he just needed to feel the kisses turn into an incomprehensible collection which never stopped growing.
They would live for another day and kiss again with each time they escaped the brink of death and each day they spent alive and each second of freedom they could find. Such a deal, they made without speaking, without seeing each other, without even kissing. Such a deal, they made when their hearts beat as one, as they sat in the darkness, hands entwined.