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For a moment there, Annie thought she’d gotten the easy way out. No strings attached, no lingering thoughts or sensations. Only a past that happened and no longer is.
That was naive of her.
Making the split-second decision to crystallize her form in enemy territory was supposed to be Annie’s last call. She was meant to abandon all hope. Aside from the War Hammer Titan, no shifter has ever crystallized themselves and escaped. Annie wasn’t going to be an exception to the rule—an exceptional warrior candidate, for sure, just not above the rules of the world.
The past doesn’t matter. Growing up in a world governed by millennia-old struggles, that’s a revolutionary standpoint to adopt. But that’s nothing new, Annie has always worked for a future she thought was obtainable. Somewhere down the line, she must’ve missed the memo that the future is as volatile and as useless to consider as the past.
All she has is now and all she wants for it is to be like back then. In her crystal. Dark, quiet, cold, and unreachable.
With the winter months closing in and their collective travel pointing north, finding cold isn't hard. Keeping it hidden is less so. On days where Annie wakes up with a sharp headache from the bright light of day and skin that itches with what feels like a thousand minuscule insects crawling all over her limbs and body, she craves the cold.
Since they’re all adults here, no one follows how many layers the other is wearing. There are no seven-year-olds to scold and no four-year-olds to constantly tuck their tops into their pants to keep them from catching a cold. Getting ready every morning, Annie forgoes gloves and doubling down on socks, she sticks to two layers; a summery hoodie, layered with the same winter coat everyone else is wearing. Not as cold as she’d like it to be, but as cold as she could get without someone noticing she’s grossly underdressed.
Except for him.
It’s become apparent that one of Armin’s sole purposes in life is to wreck her plans. He always happens to have an extra scarf packed, a thick hat—the one with those ridiculous ear flaps that keep the warmth in—a vacant seat by whatever heating source they may be using that day, and each and every time, Annie accepts.
He always notices when she ‘forgets’ her snow mittens and lends her his own since it's ‘hard to flip pages and write with them on.’ Armin would slip the warmed wool onto her stiff-cold hands and she’d keep them there all day. She doesn’t attract his interest by taking them off, even if it makes her palms sweaty and causes the tension in her back to return.
She wonders if he knows.
She wonders what he thinks about it, what he’s hypothesized so far. Does he know she’s doing it on purpose because every minute spent with her body not engulfed in the frigid cold is one where her joints are liquid, her muscles are soft and lean, and her thoughts buzz like wasps.
One thing Annie hadn’t anticipated going into her indefinite lockdown was that the cold would slow down her thoughts. Not awake enough to go mad, but not dormant enough for the years to pass in the blink of an eye. An in-between hell that she’s attempting to recreate with her own hands in small bursts, mindful of her body’s natural intolerance to cold.
Annie doesn’t wonder whether Armin knows. Of course he does and he’s being sensible enough to let her be. At least, some of the time and Annie runs with it.
They reach a type of accord, one that Annie personally doesn’t recall agreeing to, but finds Armin enforcing either way. He’ll only intervene if he thinks she’s taking it too far. That she’ll end up hurting or maiming herself with the excessive exposure to low temperature.
On snowy days, Armin would let her rub the powdered ice between her bare fingers for no more than thirty minutes—she’s started timing him—before he moves next to her and takes her hand between his, rubbing warmth back into her digits and halting the development of frost bites. Annie lets him. Not because she necessarily approves of or appreciates what he does, but because every once in a while, leeching warmth directly from him doesn’t feel as bad.
On the nights they leave a window cracked open for ventilation, Annie sleeps next to it, lifting the edge of her blanket onto her knee to allow the cold air to seep through the gap and cool her entire body. She always wakes up with a second blanket weighing her down, though, she hasn’t been able to catch him doing it.
As far as she knows, the rest are none the wiser. Pieck might be thinking that Annie is just plain awful at taking care of herself, but doesn’t feel the need to intervene since Armin’s already doing it. The others… don’t seem to understand why Armin keeps going out of his way to make sure Annie's warm. She thinks they’re quite close to lecturing him on treating her like a child. Not sure if she wants them to do that, though. He wouldn’t stop, that she’s certain of. Annie doesn’t want him feeling any guilt about it or worse, talking to her about her ill habit.
It takes a while for the worst to happen and Annie blames herself for not seeing it coming. She builds tolerance to the cold. Not exactly. Her body’s physical threshold for injury most likely remains the same. Her brain, however, wants it colder. She can’t blame it, a pair of cold ears or a shivering hand barely compares to the feeling of being encapsulated in eternal ice.
The closest she could get to that would be to wait until the lakes start freezing over and throw herself into one. Though, Annie isn’t stupid. She knows that that would kill her for sure and she’s not quite ready for that. Not yet. Not like that. Like how? Annie would rather not think about it.
They don’t stay on the road for long. November really isn’t the high season for political work and they can’t cover the same distance in a day like they used in the summer and fall months. So, heading to the northeast, towards colonies controlled by the Hizuru nation, where they were invited to spend the rest of the cold season in a military-run commune. The ideal place to keep their group safe and well-watched.
Just because they’re no longer traveling, doesn’t mean work is halted. The schedule for military relations and diplomatic meetings is fully booked from early spring and well into summer. They’re bust-deep in paperwork and studying the history and customs of nations previously unknown. Then again, if it wasn’t an enemy or ally of Marley, they had no reason to learn about it.
But that barely includes Annie. It doesn’t include her. Sure, she’s going over everything they’re meant to know by the time the meetings start, but her output on the topic is minimal, and she tends to find herself in a lot of trouble with the other soldiers alike.
Sometimes they bother her, calling her names or hitting on her. Other times, Annie’s the aggressor, and just because she wins every time doesn’t mean she escapes consequence-free.
Annie’s finding herself easily irritable, unable to find a spot to be alone in this crowded, three-story military base, and she can’t even distract herself. Apparently, they aren’t allowed outside unless in small groups. Something about wild tigers and bears roaming the snowy terrain when the population retreats for the winter. The building itself is well-heated using the latest Hizuru technology. It’s not for the comfort of the soldiers as much as it’s for the greenhouse attached to the property, allowing the soldiers to constantly top up their stock.
Annie ended up taking that work. Not because she gave a single fuck about participating or playing nice, but because it meant she’s one of the people responsible for taking the fresh produce and delivered poultry and seafood from the harbor area to the cold room in the basement. It’s kept cold partially by isolating it from the rest of the heat and the remaining warmth is extracted using a refrigeration technology of some sort—at least, that’s what Armin was rambling about when she let him tag along once.
She always takes her time shuffling things from wooden crates and onto shelves. While the cooks generously compliment the state of the freezer room every time Annie’s done with it, a ‘job well done,’ isn’t why she does it.
In a way, Annie falls in love with that one room underground. It’s what her crystal could’ve been if it was big enough for her to move; dark, dry, and awfully cold. Though, not as quiet. Despite being on the lower-most floor of the establishment, the area is still relatively busy and the engine keeping the cold room, well, cold, has a low whirring that doesn’t rest.
One thing about the engine is it uses large, circular blades to rotate the air in the closed area. That creates a draft. While working, Annie was warned to always use the crate loaded with stones by the door to prop it open. There isn’t a handle on the inside of the freezer door. Not that it’d make any difference in case of an emergency. It’d just freeze over and not work.
Over those past few months, Annie hadn’t lied to Armin about her habit, he just never asked. She'd never denied or argued when he asks if she were cold, already slipping a hood over her head before she could even answer. At least, she wishes she still has some credibility left in Armin’s account. A chance for him to believe her. She thinks about him when she hears the sharp scraping of wood against ice as the heavy door of the freezer room slides shut, leaving Annie in total darkness.
It’s not a problem, really. Apparently, it had happened numerous times to whoever is on freezer duty. The walls aren’t ridiculously thick and neither is the door. All Annie has to do—she was told—is to carefully shuffle closer to the door, feeling her way around, and call out. It wouldn’t take more than five minutes, guaranteed, before someone outside hears her—and notices the crate of stones pushed outside when the door slid shut—and let her out.
Simple enough. Annie pulls the scarf she’s wrapped around the lower half of her face to stop her nose from running while she works and breaths in. The low temperature of the air unobstructed shocks her lungs and they shrink, pushing part of the air back out. Annie’s panic is only momentary. She takes another inhale, deep, forcing her lungs to expand to take in more of the air that prickles her windpipe and chest, leaving her dizzy with every exhale.
Bracing for the darkness, Annie takes a step. Backwards. Another and another, until her back is met with one of the walls opposite the door. She slides down the icy metal until her bottom meets the thin coating of frozen moisture on the floors. She closes her eyes and then opens them to see no difference; she can’t even see the silhouette of her hand outstretched in front of her.
She should panic. Annie should be counting the seconds, making every one of them count as she awaits her rescue. Wrapping her arms around her shoulders, she lets her head drop to her knees. This is where she needs to be. Surrounded by ice of her making. Cold, unmoving, and sightless.
Any thoughts, whether of panic, worry, hope, anticipation, and boredom dissipate. She sticks to images running around in her head, tuning in to the distant sounds she could hear outside the door and through the ceiling. The busy footsteps working hard to make the world livable once more. Of course, not for people like her.
She wonders if one of the soles taping is Armin’s.
He wouldn’t be pleased to know she’s sitting here, getting high off of her body’s desperate attempt at warming itself against the odds, but she won’t tell him. He’ll end up knowing. Somehow. Armin always does, but she can still try not telling him. Annie decides that she’s going to sit here for a few more minutes and get up to call for help after that.
They said this happens often. People get stuck in the cold room on a regular basis. If asked, she could always say she was shocked and needed a couple of minutes to gather herself and find the door. Close to eighty percent of the soldiers on the base already consider her a useless little girl, there are no expectations to disappoint.
It’s different here. She can actually shiver. The tips of her fingers and toes burn with invisible fire where they rub against one another in her shoes and try to dig into the folds of her sleeves. Annie wonders if her time in the Military Police’s basement would’ve been any different if she was given the chance to shiver and whimper at the pain of ice flush to her skin for years on end.
Doesn’t matter. She’ll never know and she can’t stay here forever. So Annie decides to count to ten before hauling her ass to the door and call for help.
One—Annie inhales slowly, her whole body shivering at the introduction of cold into the core.
Two—she exhales, whimpering, her throat feels cut dry.
Three—her lungs refuse the following inhale.
Four—Annie forces it.
Five—she wants Armin to wrap a scarf around her neck and blow warm air on her fingertips.
Six—she wants out!
…
…
…
…
Seven—the count almost doesn’t come.
Eight—Annie tries to reach out to every single one of her muscles, preparing to move.
Nine—she wills herself to open her eyes and meet the darkness.
Ten—the light is blinding. It hurts her eyes.
It takes a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the bright light. It’s the same four walls she’s been seeing for weeks now; the room she shares with Pieck and a couple of female Hizuru soldiers. Breathing doesn’t come as hard and she’s weighed down by three blankets, the fourth folded in half and laid on her feet. Upon closer inspection, when her head stops hurting and her eyes are able to focus, Annie locates the sources of the numerous blankets, the other beds are left bare.
She’s warm. Far too warm and if it weren’t for the fact that she could barely feel the muscles in her arms, Annie would’ve chucked the blankets off the bed to give her sweat a chance at cooling off. She doesn’t. Annie crawls her way up the bed, shuffling her pillow higher up and leans against it, allowing the upper half of her body to cool off to room temperature. Flexing her fingers and wiggling her toes, they’re a bit stiff, but they feel okay. Most importantly, they feel.
With nothing out of place but a vacant chair by the foot of her bed, Annie’s free to wonder how she got here. She either doesn’t remember calling for help and getting rescued or she… hadn’t. It doesn’t matter. Annie doesn’t get the chance to finish either of the thoughts before the door opens and Armin walks in with a basin of water and a small towel over his shoulder. Ah, are those for her? A fever could explain why she’s feeling awfully hot.
His body jolts in place when he sees her. Wide ocean eyes, panicked and erratic meet hers, which she can barely keep open. He breathes out her name and she’s thankful he doesn’t yell it out, but the hard thud of the door as he carelessly pushes it shut makes her wince at the sharp pain it causes in her temples and so does the clatter of the water basin on the nightstand.
One knee dips into the mattress next to her hip as two hands cradle the sides of her face, angling her head to the side and slightly up to face him. Annie finds herself melting with a sigh into the warmth of his palms, letting the weight of her head drop into one. Maybe she isn’t as hot as she thought she was.
Annie.
He says her name again, desperate and pleading, but it’s a distant echo. Annie looks at him, letting him know she heard it still. The soft pads of his thumbs brush her cheeks, under tired eyes, and gingerly tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
Annie!
Once more. It’s a whisper that falters into a low sob that’s hard for him to swallow. Armin’s brows frown so tight Annie thinks it might be painful. His eyes implore her to talk to him, but all Annie can do is focus on her breathing as she tries to make sense of things; in and out, shallow and short, through her mouth.
The wetness in his eyes breaks and tears stream down his face. Armin cries and weeps and all but wails. His hands drop from her cheeks as he slips off the mattress and kneels beside the bed, where one of his hands seeks her own. Armin sobs as he begs and begs and begs her to never do that again.
He presses her hand to his cheek, the flushed skin of his face and hot tears sting against her frost-bruised palm and he pleads with her once more. He kisses her palm over and over again until his cries die down. Still, Armin doesn’t look at her not once after he’d sunk to the floor. Annie knows he’s thinking of every possible way he’s the one to blame for her misbehavior.
Annie wants to tell him no. That it’s not his fault and that if it weren’t for him, Annie would’ve been far worse much earlier on. She wants to thank him for all the times he made sure she never took it too far to get sick or injure herself. She wants to thank him for making anything but the biting cold a little more pleasant and familiar, and she wants to apologize for being a liability—always a little too much.
Instead, Annie tells him that she’s still cold, making his head snap up to her as she makes her way under the three blankets once more, managing to kick the fourth off. She wraps a couple of stiff and inarticulate fingers around three of his and tugs. Without skipping a beat or losing her eyes, Armin kicks off his shoes and joins her on the bed.
With Armin here, her head right by his shoulders, legs entangles with his, and arms locked around each other, he sheds the blankets one at a time as it gets progressively warmer between them until only one is left and Armin is underneath it with her.
His arms don’t shy away, one wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her to him, the other sliding repeatedly over the small of her back. She relishes in the weight of one of his legs snug on top of hers and the nose nuzzled in her crown, where he kisses her strands and pulls her to mold her body to his every time she unconsciously moves against him.
Perhaps Annie could get used to warmth if it’s like this.