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Armin’s nervous where he sits, in the passenger seat of Erwin’s beat-up 2002 Dodge, eyes trained on his hands in his lap.
This isn’t the kind of nervousness he felt in high school at science bowl meets, or at debate tournaments just before they went on. This isn’t even the kind of nervousness he felt coming out to his grandfather, who’d thought about it a while, given him a pleasant smile and a gentle hug. This is a nervousness on a completely different intergalactic level than the one he’d felt simply hopping into the truck in the first place, watching Erwin scoop his mail out of the seat and jam it into the console in between them, already sort of overflowing with likely forgotten and unrelated envelopes.
He’s comfortable around Erwin. He can smile, be himself and be open with Erwin and he’s known that for years. They met in high school, when Armin was a freshman and Erwin a junior, captain of the debate team that Armin had so eagerly signed up for. They had met through debate, grown fairly close that way, and remained until Erwin’s graduation.
At the beginning of Armin’s own junior year, he’d gotten a part-time weekend job at the local library as a page. He ran into Erwin again there.
“I decided against a big university—for right now, at least,” Erwin had explained, grinning a little, a reference book and in one hand and some obscure murder mystery in the other. “Going for my associates here for now. In business. It’s not like it’s a bad place to study.”
He’d asked for Armin’s schedule. Armin saw him every weekend that he worked.
Now, he was the library’s only full-time page. He’d been accepted into a few universities (not quite his top pick, any of them, but one of them was the university he knew Erwin would be going to in the fall, one about an hour away from home) and he had it narrowed down, realizing this would be his last summer at the library. Afraid, even so, of this being his last chance, he’d worked up all of the courage he could have ever mustered, pulled Erwin between two rows of books, drew in a long breath and stared him straight in the eyes.
The nervousness he feels now, still, wringing his hands in the passenger seat of Erwin’s 2002 Dodge, is different from the time that he’d asked Erwin on this date in the first place.
And the date had been wonderful—they’d both been fairly comfortable going to a nice restaurant, nothing fancy (simply because Armin didn’t own a suit and neither of them could really afford anything extravagant), but comfortable. They’d always talked and shared a lot between the two of them, and conversation was easy.
Armin realizes in an instant why he’s so nervous, when he shoots a short glance over to Erwin and sees him chewing at the inside of his lip, brows drawn together, one hand resting on the console between them.
He doesn’t know what to do now. Neither of them really do.
Armin’s never been on a date before. He hadn’t really cared, of course, academics being his first love and something like food, probably, being his second. Now, though, it seems to make all of the difference in the world. He came into something unprepared. He knew the basis of a date, and he knew exactly what the process of a date was supposed to be. He’d seen it enough and he considered it pretty common knowledge. But what happened after the date was ambiguous. It seemed to vary from person to person, and glancing over to Erwin one more time, he realizes that he has no idea what kind of person Erwin is, for after-date procedure. He knows Erwin is experienced; he’d dated in high school like most normal boys, but Armin had watched his short relationships crumble as soon as exams or finals or mid-terms rolled around, the older boy having a knack for enveloping himself in his studies and shoving out the rest of the world.
It’s a trait Armin’s always found a little endearing, if not admirable.
Something unidentifiable lumps in Armin’s throat as he eyes the hand on the console in between them. It’s a strange kind of temptation. It’s like the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, except it’s really just a hand attached to the body of the man that, for some reason, he knows he doesn’t want to lose. There’s nothing forbidden about Erwin or his nice hand, palm down, his long fingers and his surprisingly clean nails.
Armin snaps his attention to the front, watching the road and houses that they pass on the route back to his house.
I’m thinking too much. I’m paying too much attention. I have to relax. Have to relax.
The fleeting consideration of a car accident enters his mind and exits just as quickly. The damage to Erwin’s truck would be unfair, and he doesn’t feel like it’d be a very plausible distraction from the ever-long struggle of whether or not he should hold someone’s fucking hand or not. It’s ridiculous. The truck definitely wouldn’t be in good shape afterward, and Erwin might even get hurt, too, and it’s a stupid thing to keep thinking about, why isn’t he just holding Erwin’s hand yet—
So he goes for it.
He reaches, very tentatively, and slowly fits his hand underneath Erwin’s. He watches their hands, instead of Erwin’s reaction, their palms touching as he intertwines their fingers. He smiles a little when he realizes he can practically feel Erwin’s heartbeat, just about as fast and erratic as his own, feel the sweatiness that he probably should think is gross but really can’t because he’s sweating a little too. Erwin gives his hand a little squeeze, chuckles softy under his breath, and Armin feels stupid.
It’s so stupid, he realizes, that he worried about it so much. Hesitantly, he peers up at Erwin, musters the courage, and then melts back into his seat. Erwin’s smiling to himself, face and shoulders relaxed, and he might even be slouching a little bit.
Armin heaves a loud sigh and slumps against the console, and Erwin glances to him for just a moment.
“I feel ridiculous,” the younger man admits, a whine lilting his voice. “I can’t believe I was so scared to do that. You’re just a big goof.”
Erwin laughs, loud and warm and hearty, and Armin squirms a little, glaring at him. The butterflies in his stomach are conspiring against him, attacking his sensitivity and kicking him while he’s down. Erwin is just one giant weak spot—his smile, his laugh, his voice, his eyes—everything of his does something to Armin, and he thinks it isn’t fair. He doubts that Erwin has half as much trouble as he does. He’s got it pretty bad.
“Maybe,” Erwin says, grinning. The truck slows to a stop right outside of Armin’s house, his grandfather’s old Cadillac sitting outside in the same spot he’d left it in, all lights out aside from his grandfather’s bedroom. “Actually, no, yeah, you’re right. But to your benefit, I was kind of freaking out a little too.”
“If we’re making this a contest about being honest, I’m still freaking out.”
“Me too.”
Erwin tugs his hand from Armin’s to shift the truck into park. Armin’s heart sinks a little and he withdraws his hand, watching as Erwin, ever the gentleman, unbuckles and hops out of the truck, door shutting behind him. He rounds the truck to open Armin’s door for him, no matter how capable of doing it himself he knows Armin is. He doesn’t get the chance to step out alone, though, after he unbuckles, because that hand is reaching out to him again, waiting for his to return to what feels like its rightful place. A lump positions itself in the most inconvenient spot in Armin’s throat but he smiles, shakily accepting the hand offered to him and climbing down to the pavement from his seat. Erwin shuts his door for him, and leads him up the stone walkway to the porch.
Armin’s instincts to just dart, scream a thank you and lock himself in the house nag at the back of his mind, but he doesn’t want to ruin this. It’s gone well so far, and he doesn’t want to screw up his chances of being close to Erwin like this again. With his fingers between Erwin’s, their palms together, their arms brushing, he’s not worried about work, about getting a car, about college. He’s not worried about anything anymore, really, mind close to pleasantly blank when he decides against running.
That’s a lie. When they reach the porch and Armin takes the first step and turns around, his eyes land on Erwin’s, and then Erwin’s lips, and he worries that his hand may have just produced a pint of sweat in a matter of seconds.
The corners of Erwin’s lips turn up into a smile, though, that one that lights up all of his features, and Armin lets out a soft little sigh, smiling himself.
“Tonight was fun,” Armin says gently, voice a little shaky, like he’s about to give a speech. “Sorry I’ve been such a nervous wreck.”
“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” Erwin replies, stepping a little closer, the toes of his shoes touching the bottom of the stair that Armin stands on. He’s still taller. “I had fun, too.”
They’re so close that Armin’s pretty sure he might throw up if he tries to speak again. His heart hammers in his chest, in his head, in his ears and he thinks he can even feel it in his mouth. There’s less time to think about it, now, when they’re not riding in a vehicle towards his house in silence, and instead they’re face to face, able to read each other’s emotions clearly in the porch light. It’s stupidly romantic, something straight out of a movie, and he loves it and hates it at the same time.
Erwin’s free hand find’s Armin’s and Armin knows there’s no running away at this point. He’s screwed. Royally screwed. And not in the sexy way, because he knows he’s not ready for the sexy way yet. He’s not even ready for the not-sexy way.
He watches Erwin’s eyes drop down to his lips and Armin licks them, hyperaware of his every moment, his every breath, and his every flaw. I wonder if my breath smells. No, I ate one of those mints. What if it’s worn off? What if he notices that that one tooth is a little crooked and berates me for not getting braces? What if I just suck in general?
“Can I kiss you?”
Armin’s face burns as soon as the words leave Erwin’s mouth. He can almost feel steam rolling from his slack mouth as the gears in his mind work and work to catch up and work on a valid and reasonable response.
“You don’t have to ask,” Armin mutters, averting his gaze before he realizes that’s not a valid and reasonable response. He pauses for just a moment, listening to the soft rumble of Erwin’s chuckle, before he turns his gaze back to him and nods a little, still shaky, still nervous. “Y-Yeah. Go for it.”
And go for it, Erwin does. Armin’s glad that he’s initiating this, because he had the courage to ask Erwin out, and hold his hand, but not the courage to do much more. He’s used up his weekly courage expenditure. He broke his piggy bank and it’s going to take some time for him to glue it back together or give in and buy a new one.
When their lips meet, Armin feels his heart stop, but then it’s okay. It’s okay because Erwin’s lips are soft and sweet and they’re not moving, not forcing, not urgent, just the perfect amount of loving and patient. It isn’t even until Armin’s instincts finally do what they’re supposed to (and don’t urge him to run anymore) and he works against Erwin’s lips with his own that he moves, too. The kiss isn’t particularly long, or much beyond chaste, but Armin thinks that, considering his eighteen years of life, this is the most incredible first kiss a person could experience.
When they pull away, Erwin’s still smiling, or maybe he’d been smiling the entire time. He gives Armin a soft peck on the nose (one that makes him giggle a little, fight recoiling away because it does actually tickle), and then one on the forehead. He hesitantly pulls his hands free from Armin’s before he cups his cheeks and kisses his lips again, more comfortable and confident than the first, and Armin leans in, breathes Erwin in, takes it for what it is.
“Have a good night,” Erwin whispers when he pulls away, even if he hardly pulls away, nose brushing Armin’s still, eyes hardly open, a big dopey smile on his face. That smile is contagious. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Feeling Erwin pull away leaves Armin warm instead of cold; he’s satisfied, filled to the brim with a happiness he didn’t know existed, one he’d never experienced before. He waves as Erwin pulls away from the curb in his beat-up 2002 Dodge and drives away to his house that’s only a couple of blocks away.
A little while later, he more sinks into his bed than sits on it, clutches a pillow to his chest and smiles wildly.
He’ll see him tomorrow.