Archive of Our Own

Armin brought his wrist to his nose for the fourth time that morning.

Nothing. At least nothing he could name.

He frowned, sniffed again, subtle, discreet, and still couldn’t tell if he smelled like a normal human being or like a trash can that had developed feelings. It was starting to worry him. A person could have an off day, sure. Anyone could miss a shower once, forget deodorant, wear a sweater one time too many. But every day?

He tugged at the collar of his coat and inhaled, eyes narrowing with genuine concern.

No. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t even weird.
 And even if it were, was it really bad enough to make someone recoil like they’d walked into a gas leak?

Armin pressed his lips together, the thought circling for the hundredth time,
Does he think I stink? Is that seriously it?

Because if there was any explanation for the past month, that was the only one that made even a hint of sense.

He exhaled, defeated, and leaned back in his chair.

A month.

Exactly a month since he’d started working at the lab, his dream job, the one he’d convinced himself he wouldn’t get, and then nearly cried when the acceptance email came through.

And honestly?

Everything had been perfect. Better than perfect. He had his own office, small, but with a floor to ceiling window that made him feel like he was inside a sci-fi movie. The paycheck was generous. The work was challenging, stimulating, exactly the kind of thing that made him want to roll out of bed in the morning instead of hitting snooze ten times. His coworkers were kind, supportive, funny in that nerdy science way he adored.

Yes, everything was pretty much wonderful.

Except for one tiny, persistent problem.

His lab partner.

Jean Kirchstein.

If Armin were a more dramatic person, he’d say they were mortal enemies.

But the thing was, they weren’t fighting. They’d never fought. Jean had never even said anything rude to him.

He just avoided him, like avoiding Armin was his entire personality. Every lab day was a new version of awkward hell.

The moment Armin walked in, Jean would automatically drift to the opposite side of the workbench, as if some invisible force repelled him. When Armin spoke, Jean inhaled sharply and then held his breath until he physically couldn’t anymore, releasing it in a harsh exhale like he’d been underwater too long. Whenever Armin reached for a pipette, Jean’s shoulder would twitch, whenever Armin leaned forward to read data on their shared screen. Jean jerked back so fast the first time that he bumped into the shelf behind him.

And the faces, god, the faces.

Scrunched nose. Tight jaw. Eyes narrowing like Armin had walked in covered in something toxic.

He’d even checked the bottom of his shoes once. Maybe he’d stepped in something.

Nothing.

It got to a point where Jean practically asked anyone in the hallway if they’d switch shifts with him. Once, Armin overheard him trying to trade with someone from a totally different department, someone who wasn’t even trained to handle half the equipment.

And the sick days.

Five.

Five “I can’t make it today” texts in one month, all magically landing on their scheduled lab blocks.

Armin rubbed his forehead, sinking further into his chair. He didn’t want to assume the worst.

Maybe Jean had allergies. Or anxiety. Or maybe he secretly hated working in labs and Armin was just caught in the crossfire.

Armin slumped forward until his forehead nearly met the desk.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. God, he had tried everything.

The “maybe I smell bad” crisis had started small and reasonable, one new deodorant, a different laundry detergent. But as the weeks dragged on and Jean kept acting like simply standing within a ten foot radius of Armin was an OSHA violation, things escalated.

He switched perfumes first.

Then he switched again.

The third one hurt his wallet enough that he pretended not to think about it, and he bought it just because the reviews said things like “light and clean” and “subtle but irresistible.”

It didn’t matter, Jean flinched anyway.

Then came the mint gum. A new pack every other shift, chewed to the point his jaw ached. Breath mints too, he kept them in his office, in his bag, in his coat pocket, like some kind of walking, anxious candy dispenser.

Still nothing, and that somehow felt worse.

Jean would turn his head away whenever Armin spoke too close, like Armin’s breath was some windstorm carrying the scent of doom.

He shaved more often.
 He changed his shampoo.
 He bought citrus scented lotion.
 He even washed his lab coat twice in one week.

His last attempt had been the most desperate one.

He showered right before his shift. Hair still damp. Skin pink from scrubbing. Clothes fresh out of the dryer. Jean walked into the lab, took one look at him, and blinked like someone had opened a door to the world’s worst smell.

It was honestly impressive.

Armin lifted his head and rubbed his temples, cheeks warming with embarrassment even now.

He had scientific reasoning, okay? He wasn’t being dramatic. When something doesn’t add up, you test variables. That was normal. That was methodical.

But nothing, literally nothing, explained Jean’s behavior.

Which led Armin to today.

The wrath of all or nothing.

He didn’t put on anything this morning. No cologne.
 No perfume.
 No hand lotion that smelled like oranges.
 Not even mint gum, he’d brushed his teeth like a normal person and left it at that. He’d kept the routine painfully neutral, almost boring.

If Jean was sensitive to scents, fine.

Maybe some people were. Armin wouldn’t judge. Though it was odd, extremely odd, considering the man worked in a lab full of chemical reagents and solvents that smelled like they could peel paint off the walls.

But if that was the case. If the issue had truly been scent sensitivity all along…

Then Armin was offended.

Deeply, thoroughly, soul shakingly offended.

How bad did he have to smell, hypothetically, for a grown man used to working with sulfur compounds and preserved tissue samples to react like that?

He sank back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

His own clothes still held yesterday’s detergent scent. His hair still smelled faintly of the shampoo he’d used last night. He was a perfectly normal smelling human being. He didn’t live in a cave. He wasn’t secretly decomposing.

God.

Today would be the test, the real test. No added scents. No excuses.

Just Armin, stripped down to his default human smell, facing the one coworker who behaved like Armin’s mere presence was an assault on his senses.

If Jean still reacted. Then Armin was out of hypotheses. And frankly, out of patience.

Armin didn’t know what he expected when he walked into the lab, maybe mild awkwardness, maybe the usual stiff nod. Maybe, if the universe felt generous, a normal conversation.

He did not expect, whatever this was.

Jean was already inside when Armin pushed the door open. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, a cold, sterile hum filling the space. Everything looked normal, gloves in their box, pipettes lined with obsessive precision, fume hood humming. But Jean.

Jean was not normal.

The moment Armin stepped in, his lab partner went rigid. Full body, spine locked, statue still rigid. His knuckles whitened around the edge of the lab bench, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His shoulders rose, slow and tight, like he was bracing for an impact only he could sense.

Armin froze mid step.

Okay, so, no perfume didn’t fix anything. Good to know. Great.

Jean still didn’t look at him. Not once. His head stayed angled down, jaw clenched, throat working around tense swallows like he’d just run a marathon through a desert. His breathing, shallow. Too shallow. And his eyes, when Armin caught a flicker of them from the side, they looked wrong.

Wide. Glassy. Pupils blown so dark his irises nearly disappeared.

He looked like he was in pain, and Armin’s stomach sank.

Oh my god. Maybe I really am rotting. Maybe this is what slow biological decay smells like to normal humans.

“Morning.” Armin tried, voice painfully polite.

Jean didn’t answer. Not exactly. He made a tight, strained sound, something between a hum and a grunt, and nodded once without lifting his gaze. His fingers dug deeper into the counter.

Okay. So… whatever was happening?
 Apparently still happening.

Worse, actually.

He set his bag down carefully, moving with exaggerated caution, like a single sudden movement might tip Jean into a full meltdown. Armin wasn’t sure whether to be offended or apologize to the universe, or both.

He tried to focus on the work. Small tasks first, inventorying the reagents, cleaning pipette tips, aligning tubes. Things he normally split with Jean, but today Jean hadn’t so much as moved from his corner.

Armin’s brows drew together.

This is unfair, he thought, irritation curling under the embarrassment. I’m supposedly torturing the guy with my smell, and I’m still doing all the work? Great. Perfect. Love that for me.

So he rolled up his sleeves and stepped into the thick of it.

He started prepping solutions, measuring out solvents, labeling glassware. He spoke softly as he worked, mostly out of habit.

“I’ll handle the dilutions today.” he murmured. “And the cultures after that. The medium needs warming, so I’ll start that too.”

Nothing from Jean. Just tense breathing, clipped and shaky.

Armin grabbed a scalpel to trim a piece of agar. Routine. Simple. His mind wandered, wondering if there was a polite way to ask someone if they had a medical aversion to human existence, when the blade slipped.

A thin sting sparked across his finger.

“Ah– ouch.” he muttered, more annoyed than alarmed.

He pinched the cut with his other hand to stop the bleeding and only then looked up, lifting his head for the first time since he’d walked in.

Jean was staring at him.

Full on. Direct. The first eye contact in days.

But the look on Jean’s face.

It was terrifying.

Hunger, panic, desperation, something feral flickered there, something that didn’t belong in any human expression. His breath hitched, loud in the silent room. His pupils dilated even further, swallowing up the hazel entirely.

And then.

Jean bolted.

No hesitation, no explanation.

He shoved off the counter, nearly knocking over a rack of tubes, and sprinted, sprinted, out of the lab. The door slammed into the wall as he fled the room like something monstrous had just crawled out of Armin’s bloodstream.

Armin stood frozen, finger still bleeding, mouth half open.

Okay.
No.
What?

“…Jean?” he called weakly, even though Jean was long gone, footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Silence. Only the hum of the fume hood remained.

Armin retreated to his office right after cleaning up the tiny cut and patching it with a bandage from the lab’s first-aid kit. His pulse had taken longer to settle than he cared to admit, and the image of Jean’s expression, wide eyed, starving, terrified, kept replaying behind his eyelids every time he blinked.

He kept trying to reason with himself.

Maybe Jean had a blood phobia.
Maybe the lab’s air system malfunctioned and released a tiny puff of some hallucinogenic chemical.

Sure, possible. Definitely possible. But none of that explained Jean’s pattern of behavior in the past month.

Or the way he’d looked at Armin.

He shoveled those thoughts aside by burying himself in work, typing furiously, finishing the report he’d been meaning to update since last week. The rhythmic tapping grounded him, helped him pretend he wasn’t wondering if he should file a formal partner reassignment request.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair.

Would that make him a coward?
Would HR think he was too fragile to handle minor interpersonal difficulty?
Would Jean feel guilty or relieved?

Armin rubbed his thumb over the edge of the bandage, staring at the glowing screen. The document was finished. The system accepted it. His shift was basically over. He could go home. He should probably go home.

He was mid reach for his coat when a knock sounded on his office door.

Three soft taps. Hesitant.

Armin blinked.

“…yeah?” he called, voice pitching upward involuntarily.

A pause, half a second too long, then, “Ah. It’s me.” came Jean’s voice. Quiet. A little breathless. “Jean.”

Armin jolted upright. His first instinct was completely undignified, he grabbed the collar of his shirt and subtly sniffed himself. Just in case. Even though he knew. Even though he’d done nothing that could possibly smell like anything except the detergent he used last night.

Still. Habit.

When he was reasonably sure he didn’t reek of death or whatever sent Jean spiraling earlier, Armin cleared his throat.

“Um– come in.”

The door creaked open.

Jean stepped inside only halfway. He didn’t close the door behind him. Didn’t approach the desk. He hovered on the threshold like stepping any farther might trigger a tripwire.

He looked bad.

Not physically hurt, no, worse than that.

Nervous. Tense. Eyes too bright, jaw clenched tight, shoulders held like he was physically containing something. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, knuckles bulging through the fabric.

And the first words out of his mouth were.

“Are you okay?”

Armin stared.

That was not what he expected.

“Uh– yeah.” he answered, caught mid blink. “Are you?”

Jean flinched. Actually flinched. His gaze skittered to the floor, then to the hallway behind him.

He didn’t answer.

Instead he swallowed, blinked hard, and said, “Could we–” His voice cracked slightly. He cleared it. “Could we talk outside? For a bit.”

Armin’s brows rose.

Outside? As in… not in the building? 
Not where there are people and supervisors and cameras?


“…sure.” Armin said quietly, grabbing his coat. “Yeah. Okay.”

Jean stepped back instantly, giving him space, almost too much space, like he didn’t trust himself to be within arm’s reach.

They walked down the hallway in silence, Jean jittery and stiff, Armin trying to decipher the meaning behind every breath the man took. The automatic doors slid open with a hiss, letting in the early evening air.

Outside was colder than Armin expected. The sun had dipped low, brushing the tops of the surrounding buildings with a fading smear of orange. Shadows pooled between structures, long and distorted. The lab’s back exit led into a narrow service alley, clean enough, but rarely used, quiet except for a humming AC unit and the distant rush of traffic.

Jean stopped there.

Not on the sidewalk. Not near the main building entrance.

Here, where the light barely reached.

He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched, breath misting faintly in the cooling air. Armin tightened his coat around himself and waited, trying to steady the uneasy flutter in his chest.

Jean stood there, in that dim strip of alleyway, looking like he was about to confess to murder or propose marriage, something catastrophic, something irreversible. His jaw kept working like he was chewing words that wouldn’t quite come out.

Armin waited.

Finally, Jean exhaled, breath shuddering, and said something. Barely audible. More vibration than sound.

Armin blinked. “Sorry, what?”

Jean’s eyes flicked up, golden in the low light, too reflective, and he forced the words out again, barely louder.

“I’m a vampire.”

Silence.

Armin stared at him.

Jean stared back, shoulders tight, expression painfully earnest.

And then, Armin couldn’t help it, he laughed. Incredulous, disbelieving laughter bubbling out of him before he could think.

“Oh my god Jean.” Armin said, pressing a hand to his face. “If I smell bad, you can just tell me. You don’t have to invent folklore to soften the blow.”

Jean didn’t smile. Didn’t even twitch.

“I’m not making an excuse.” he said quietly.

Armin huffed another tiny disbelieving laugh. “Right. Sure. Vampire. That’s a new one, better than ‘I have allergies,’ I’ll give you that.”

Jean stepped closer.

Just half a foot.

But Armin felt it. Like a shift in pressure. Like the air tightened.

His voice came out low. Firm. A tone Armin had never heard from him before. “Arlert. I’m being serious.”

Armin’s smile faltered.

Jean’s eyes held his, not nervous now, not skittish. Something else. Something controlled, restrained, like he was bracing himself against an invisible tide.

“I’ve been… fine.” Jean said, choosing each word with painful care. “All these years. I’ve had control. I know what I’m doing. I know how to blend in. I’m not… dangerous. Not usually.”

“Usually.” Armin echoed under his breath.

Jean grimaced. “There’s something about you.”

Armin blinked, heartbeat jumping for reasons he didn’t care to examine.

Jean looked away, rubbing a thumb over his lower lip, frustrated. Embarrassed. “Your blood. It smells–” He stopped. Closed his eyes briefly. “How do I say this in a respectful way? Uh–”

Armin raised a brow. “…respectful?”

Jean threw his hands up half heartedly. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m not joking.”

Armin stared at him, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

He crossed his arms. “Jean, come on. Vampires aren’t–” Real.

He didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Jean looked at him again, really looked. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing most of the iris, unnatural in the fading daylight. And there was a faint tension in his jaw, a subtle flex like someone swallowing down hunger.

Armin exhaled slowly through his nose.
“…okay” he said, grounding himself. “Then prove it.”

Jean blinked.

Armin continued, stepping a little closer but still leaving space between them. “If you want me to believe something that contradicts everything I’ve ever studied, you’re gonna have to do better than vague confessions in an alley.”

Jean’s throat bobbed. “You want me to prove it.” he repeated softly.

Armin nodded, folding his hands behind his back to appear calmer than he felt. “Yes.”

Jean stared at him for a long moment, breath fogging out in thin white wisps, something conflicted tightening behind his eyes.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t quite his voice anymore, deeper, rougher, like gravel under velvet.

“…alright.”

Jean lifted a hand toward his face, hesitating for half a second like he was reconsidering everything. Then he slipped two fingers under his lower eyelid and pinched lightly, pulling out a contact lens.

Contacts? Seriously?

Jean held it between his fingers, breath tight, eyes avoiding Armin’s like he was ashamed.

“Okay.” Armin muttered, crossing his arms. “Show me, then.”

Jean inhaled, very shallow, very careful, and finally raised his gaze. Armin leaned closer, expecting something dramatic. Neon red. Glowing. Slitted pupils. Hellfire. Anything worthy of the words I’m a vampire.

Instead?

They looked… normal.

Mostly.

A faint tint, pinkish red bleeding into the gold, soft but noticeable, like he hadn’t slept in a week or had cried recently. Not natural, but not supernatural either. Not enough to rewrite everything Armin knew about biology.

Armin squinted. “They’re… slightly red.”

Jean winced. “It gets worse if I don’t wear the contacts.”

“Worse.” Armin echoed. “But still, red eyes aren’t proof of vampirism. They’re proof of… I don’t know. Irritation. Genetic mutation. Bad lighting.”

Jean looked crushed for a second, shoulders falling a bit.

Armin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Anything else?”

Jean thought. Hard. Eyes darting around like he was scanning a mental list of acceptable supernatural demonstrations.

Then he said, quietly, “Would my teeth be enough?”

Armin’s eyebrows shot up. “Your... teeth?”

Jean nodded, visibly bracing. “Yeah.”

“I guess…?” Armin said, not sure what he was giving permission for, but unable to back out now.

Jean took a small, cautious step forward, leaning in. He moved his fingers to his upper lip, lifting it up just enough to show his teeth.

His canines looked normal.

Of course they did. Why wouldn’t they? Humans had canines. Nothing shocking. Armin was about two seconds from snorting.

And then.

The right canine elongated.

Not gradually.
 Not with some painful cracking sound or special effects growl.

Just, blink.

There it was. Sharpened, noticeably longer, gleaming a little too bright in the dim light.

Armin’s breath caught. His heart punched upward like it wanted to exit his body through his throat.

“What the–”
 He stumbled back half a step. “What the– what– what the fuck–”

Fear shot through him, cold and electric. Not enough to scream, not enough to run, but enough to make his hands shake.

But alongside the fear was something else.

A sharp thrill. An insane excitement sparking in his chest because, vampires? Real? 
Jean?

Jean let his lip go, hiding the fang again immediately like he was embarrassed. His eyes flicked away.

“Sorry.” he murmured, voice small.

Armin was still staring at where the tooth used to be visible. His mind spun so fast he could practically hear gears grinding. Biological impossibility. Evolutionary absurdity. Genetic anomaly. Myth reborn. How? Why? What mechanism? Regenerative tissue? Muscle attachments? Bone density?

Jean’s voice cut through the storm.

“Don’t… don’t think too much.” he said, gently. Almost pleading. “You’re just gonna freak yourself out. If you wanna know something, ask me.”

Armin looked up slowly.

And Jean was watching him, cautiously, shoulders tense, like he was ready to bolt if Armin made the wrong kind of face.

Armin swallowed. His pulse hammered. His brain raced. His fear and fascination tangled like live wires.

“Holy shit.” he breathed.

Jean nodded once, tiny, resigned. “Yeah.”

“So...” Armin said, lifting his chin a little, “What do you eat?”

Jean blinked. The question seemed to throw him off more than the fact he just revealed he was a supernatural creature.

“Uh– anything?” Jean replied, almost defensively. “Normal food. Human food.”

Armin narrowed his eyes. “But aren’t you supposed to drink blood?”

Jean sighed, like he knew this part was coming and hated it. “Yeah. We do. But… through the years, we uh– adapted. Evolved. Whatever word makes me sound less like a parasite.” 
He rubbed the back of his neck. “We can eat pretty much everything now. It doesn’t do much for us nutritionally, but it keeps us alive in public, y’know? Blood just fills us more, and for a longer time.”

Armin watched him closely, eyes sharp behind curiosity. “So… blood is like a supercharged protein shake.”

Jean made a face. “That’s a horrible way to put it.”

“But accurate?”

“Yeah.” Jean muttered, defeated.

Armin hummed thoughtfully, processing. His breath fogged in the cold evening air, little white clouds drifting upward.

“Okay.” he continued, already onto the next question. “What about your skin? You’re not as pale as the myth says. Actually you’re… kind of tan.”

Jean froze.

If vampires could blush, this was extremely close to it.

“That’s– uh–” he muttered, shifting awkwardly. “I just use those tanning creams.”

Armin blinked.

Jean looked away.

Armin blinked harder.

“You... use tanning cream.”

“I think I look better tanned!” Jean argued, defensive, gestures sharp. “Pale makes me look sick. Like, corpse-sick. I don’t want to look corpse-sick.”

Armin nodded slowly, biting back a laugh. “Right. Of course.”

Jean scowled at the ground. “Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not!” Armin said (he was). “Okay, next, sunlight? Does it hurt? Can you go out?”

“We can go out.” Jean said. “It doesn’t kill us. It just… drains us. Makes us sluggish. Tired. Like walking around with the flu.”

He gestured vaguely. “That’s why I take early or late shifts if I can. Less sun.”

Armin absorbed that, eyes flicking up to study Jean’s face again. Blood pressure steady. No sweating. Slight tremor in the fingers, maybe from the cold, maybe from nerves. Pupils still too dilated.

“What about your strength?” Armin asked. “Sense of smell? Healing?”

Jean blinked at him. “How many questions do you have?”

“A lot.”

Jean sighed. “Okay. Strength’s above average, but not, like car-lifting levels. Healing is faster, but not instant. Sense of smell is… good.”

“Good meaning…?”

Jean hesitated. “I can smell a person from across a room. Tell who ate garlic. Who’s anxious. Stuff like that.”

Armin looked faintly horrified and fascinated at the same time. “That’s insane.”

“Tell me about it.” Jean muttered. “It’s why I can’t sit next to people on public transport. Too much information.”

Armin nodded, absorbing everything like data, fitting puzzle pieces together, reorganizing his worldview with quiet intensity.

“What about me, though?”

Jean stiffened.

“Is there a... way to fix whatever my blood does to you?” Armin asked. His voice was small. Careful. Almost guilty.

“N–no, yeah– I mean–” He scrubbed a hand over his face, clearly flustered, clearly trying to find the right wording and failing miserably. “I don’t… I don’t know if it really works.”

The way Jean was talking, stopping and starting, frowning at the ground like he was reading instructions carved in tiny letters, made Armin brace himself.

“What is it?...” Armin asked. Very gently. Cautious, like the answer might jump out and bite him instead.

Jean swallowed. He looked like he wanted to be swallowed by the earth instead of saying whatever he needed to say.

“Uh, so–” he began, scratching nervously at the side of his jaw. “In the book um– well, not a book, more like a… like a medical log? It’s old. Really old. And it says that to… uh… normalize someone’s scent, like– make it manageable, so I don’t lose my mind trying not to attack you and/or pass out–”

“Jean.” Armin said softly. “Spit it out.”

Jean shut his eyes, inhaled, and forced the words out.

“You have to… I have to… taste the blood. Of the person.”

Armin blinked once.

Twice.

Jean rushed to clarify, hands up, palms out, panicked.

“Not like, kill-you taste, I’m not–I don’t do that, it’s more like– like small. Very small. It’s so the organism can get used to the scent markers and– and then it stops being overwhelming, like allergy desensitization but– gross.”

Armin let out a breath he genuinely hadn’t realized he was holding.

Oh, thank god.

“So…” he said, shoulders loosening, “that’s… that’s actually good news, right? We can do that. You don’t have to kill me or anything.”

Jean nodded quickly. “Uh–yeah. Yeah, I guess. It should work. Probably.”

Armin’s brow furrowed. “Probably?”

Jean winced. “It’s an old book…”

Armin sighed, but the relief stayed. “Well, It’s still better than nothing.”

Jean stood very still. His expression tightening like the worst part hadn’t even been said yet.

Armin noticed. “Jean?”

Jean cleared his throat. Looked anywhere but at Armin. The brick wall. His shoes. The sky. His hands.

Then, in a tone barely louder than a whisper.

“The blood has to be… um. From your lips.”

Silence.

A single long, cold moment of absolute, ringing silence in the dark alley.

Jean’s voice dropped further, mortified. “So, ah–yeah.”

Lips.

Not a fingertip, not a sterile medical sample, not a controlled environment.

His lips.

Oh.

Oh.

A strange, warm shock shot through him, straight to his stomach, his spine, the back of his neck. He tried to think scientifically, rationally, clinically.

His ears felt hot. His heartbeat felt embarrassingly loud in the quiet.

Jean didn’t dare look at him.

Armin’s mind bolted in every direction at once.

Should he do it?
Should he absolutely not do it?
Was it dangerous?
Was it stupid?
Was he about to participate in… whatever this was… with a coworker he barely knew?
What if there were side effects?
What if it didn’t work?
What if it did and then things got weird?
Could he get sick? Could Jean?

His thoughts spiraled like someone had shaken a snow globe inside his skull. He tried to latch onto logic, science, anything.

But all he could land on was, Jean is suffering because of me.

And if this ridiculous, borderline insane solution fixed that, and made lab work normal, professional, bearable, then.

Then he was willing to do it.

It didn’t have to mean anything.
No feelings. 
No implications.
 No cinematic romantic nonsense.

Just a coworker helping another coworker not implode from sensory overload.

Simple. Terrifying, but simple.

So he lifted his chin, inhaled deeply, and said it.

“Let’s do it.”

Jean froze. “…what?”

Armin stepped forward, heart pounding but voice steady. “Let’s try it.”

Jean blinked once. Then again. His whole face knitted into baffled panic. “No, what–Arlert, no–wait, what?”

Armin’s mouth tugged into an impatient line. “Jean, come on. You said it might work.”

Jean sputtered, hand pressed to his chest like Armin had just proposed marriage. “Are you– are you sure?”

“Yes.” Armin said, firm. Shockingly firm. “Stop asking before I change my mind.”

Jean opened his mouth again, probably to object.

Armin didn’t let him.

Instead, he reached out, grabbing Jean gently but decisively by the forearm, and tugged him back toward the building.

Jean stumbled after him, wide eyed, making a strangled sound that was definitely not a word.
 The cold air broke around them as they hurried inside the lab building, the warm hallway lights flickering softly overhead.

“Armin wait–hold on–”

“Nope.” Armin muttered, pulling him along. “You said it yourself. Blood from the lips. We’re fixing this today.”

Jean was almost tripping over his own feet, too stunned to resist. “Armin, people are–what if someone–”

“It’s late.” Armin shot back. “Floor below is the only one still with staff. Ours is empty.”

Jean went quiet at that, because it was true.

The elevator dinged softly, the empty car reflecting their silhouettes. Armin stepped inside first, still holding Jean’s arm, still somehow powering through the absolute meltdown his brain was having.

Jean followed more slowly, shoulders tense, eyes flicking to the security camera like it was going to rat them out.

Armin pressed the button for their floor. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss.

Jean exhaled shakily.

Armin didn’t look at him. If he looked at him, he might lose his nerve. Instead he watched the numbers blink upward, steady, unhurried, far calmer than his heartbeat.

The ride felt like forever and also two seconds.

When the doors opened, the hallway was dim, security lights low, workstations dark. Only the hum of ventilation and the muffled sounds from the floor below existed.

No one else.

Armin finally released Jean’s arm, walking ahead with purpose he definitely did not feel.

His office door clicked open easily, he’d forgotten to lock it earlier. The room greeted them with the faint scent of paper, old coffee, and the soft glow of his monitor screen in sleep mode.

Jean lingered at the threshold. Just like earlier. Nervous.

Armin turned back halfway, expression unreadable.

Jean looked mortified.

Armin couldn’t tell if it was nerves, can vampires even get nervous? or if it was still him. His apparently apocalyptic smell. His blood. The whole deadly temptation thing.

Either way, Jean stood stiff as a statue, eyes blown and throat bobbing, like he was waiting to be sentenced.

Armin sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. How do we… do this? Should I cut my lip? Or do you… just do that?”

Jean made a little noise, somewhere between a gulp and a squeak.
“I– I don’t know. Whatever’s more comfortable for you.”

Armin stared at him.

“…Jean. This is not a comfortable situation for either of us.”

Jean made another noise, this one almost offended, but he didn’t disagree.

Armin took a step back and looked around the office. As if he would find, sitting neatly beside his stapler, a convenient “lip cutting tool” labeled for exactly this purpose. He checked the clutter on his desk, papers, highlighters, a mug, a letter opener, but the idea of slicing his mouth open with office supplies made his stomach twist.

He exhaled dramatically. “You know what? Just… you do it.”

That shut Jean up.

They stood there for a full five seconds, silent, frozen, awkward enough to be a museum exhibit titled Two Idiots Attempting Ritual Vampire Allergy Desensitization.

Then Jean seemed to gather every ounce of courage existing in his undead body. His shoulders squared. His jaw clenched. He inhaled sharply through his nose, like a man preparing to face a firing squad.

Slowly, carefully, he reached out, fingers trembling just a little, and grabbed Armin’s sleeve.

Like touching actual skin would short-circuit him.

He tugged gently, guiding Armin backward until Armin’s hips hit the edge of the desk. Jean positioned him there, cautious, almost reverent, like Armin was made of glass or explosives.

And Armin… Armin couldn’t lie.

He was terrified.

His pulse was hammering. His breath too quick. His brain too full. Too much information, vampires exist, Jean is one of them, Jean’s fangs can grow at will, Armin’s blood is apparently a walking hazard, and not nearly enough time to process any of it. Everything felt hazy, blurry, like his thoughts were lagging behind reality.

To make it easier, less visual, less overwhelming, he closed his eyes.

Or maybe he squeezed them shut.

He wasn’t sure.

This was stupid. This was insane. This was kind of hilarious.

A nervous bubble of laughter escaped him. “This is insane.” he murmured, barely holding it together. “Just do it, Jean.”

Jean huffed out a breath. “Sorry.” he whispered, soft, apologetic, almost gentle.

Then he felt it.

A cold touch at the side of his face.

Slim fingers brushing his cheek, skimming lightly, almost trembling. Sliding back, slow and careful, toward the curve of his jaw, then along his neck.

The temperature difference hit him like a jolt, Jean’s hands were cold cold, ghostly cold. The kind of cold that sends a shiver racing through your spine before your brain even understands why.

Armin’s breath hitched.

And Jean’s fingers continued their path, curling at the back of his neck.

Then he shifted.

Armin didn’t see it, eyes still shut, but he felt it. The subtle press of Jean’s body closing in, the deliberate placement of a knee between Armin’s legs, the cold presence of him fitting into the space Armin was occupying like he’d been pulled there by instinct rather than choice.

Jean’s other hand planted on the desk beside Armin’s hip, the wood creaking faintly under his grip.

Armin’s heartbeat punched up into his throat.

He could feel Jean’s breath, shaky, uneven, ghosting across his cheek, as if even exhaling near Armin was a losing battle.

Then fingers at the back of Armin’s neck tightened, guiding, tilting, urging his head upward.

And Jean’s lips met his.

Just barely.

A brush. A tremor. A breath held too long.

Jean was clearly about to pull back, panic spiking in the tension of his hand, so Armin, acting on instinct or mercy or something in between, leaned forward and caught his lips properly.

A real kiss.

It lasted half a second.

Jean’s breath stuttered against him.

And then Jean whispered, almost against Armin’s lips, “Sorry.”

The word hadn’t even fully registered when Armin felt it. A careful pressure.

A slight drag.

Then the sharp, precise pinch of fangs. A bite meant for a single drop, a single taste.

Armin gasped. And that was the last moment of calm.

Jean shattered.

The grip at Armin’s neck tightened, not painful, just desperate, grounding, like he was trying to keep Armin anchored to him. His mouth returned to Armin’s with a force that almost stole Armin’s breath, lips parting, pressing, moving with a frantic precision that felt like he was trying to drink in every sound Armin didn’t make.

His lips moved with a pressure that felt almost desperate, cold mouth pressing hard against Armin’s warm one, chasing every breath Armin tried to take. His fangs stayed tucked away now, but his kiss wasn’t neat, wasn’t measured, he kissed like someone who’d spent years pretending to be human and finally slipped.

Armin couldn’t breathe.

Jean didn’t give him space.

He pressed in, following every tiny retreat Armin attempted, kissing deeper, harder. Every exhale from Jean was chilled, the cold brushing against Armin’s heated skin in bursts of shocking contrast.

Armin’s body reacted before his mind caught up. His hand shot out to grip Jean’s arm, needing something solid to hold onto. His other hand clung to Jean’s shoulder, fingers curling in fabric.

Jean’s breath shook.

His kiss didn’t.

It felt urgent.
 Raw.
 Starved.

Like Jean was trying to consume every ounce of panic and adrenaline thrumming through Armin’s body. The cold of him, his lips, his hands, his entire presence, clashed violently with the heat flushing under Armin’s skin, making Armin feel feverish and freezing at the same time.

Armin had kissed people before.

But never like this.

Never with someone who kissed as if instinct was breaking over him in waves, as if Armin’s blood had lit a fuse inside his chest. It wasn’t romantic or sweet or controlled, it was overwhelming.

And Armin didn’t stop him.

Couldn’t.

It felt like being dragged under a riptide. Being held too close, the world blurring, pulse roaring in his ears, body reacting faster than thought.

Jean hauled him closer and deepened it again.

His mind was a fizzing mess of heat and cold and confusion, and all he could feel was Jean’s mouth on his, ravenous and trembling and impossibly cold.

Armin’s lungs couldn’t take it anymore.

His hand shot up, shaking, and pressed flat against Jean’s chest. He didn’t shove him, didn’t have the strength for that, but the intention was clear.

Stop.

Just, stop for a second.

Jean froze like someone had cut a wire inside him.

For a moment they just stood there, both breathing far too hard for what they’d done. Jean’s breath came ragged and cold, Armin’s came hot and uneven, his chest rising too fast, his pulse thundering so loudly he could hear it in his ears.

Armin couldn’t even look at him.

His mind was spinning, stuttering, trying to reboot after being swallowed whole. His lips stung sharply, he didn’t know if it was from the cut or the kissing or both. He stared at the floor like the tiles might hold him together.

Thirty seconds.
 Maybe a minute.

Silence but for their messy breathing, the faint buzz of the monitor, the soft hum of the lights.

Finally, slowly, Armin lifted his gaze.

He just wanted to check.

To see if Jean was okay. To see if he had freaked out, or was about to pass out, or had come back to himself.

Their eyes met.

And Jean moved.

No warning. No hesitation.

Jean surged forward like instinct grabbed him by the spine and yanked. Armin barely had time to gasp before his lower back hit the desk, his fingers clawing for balance, nearly knocking over the keyboard. Something clattered to the floor behind him, a pen holder maybe, or his stapler, but Jean didn’t even flinch.

Jean’s hands were everywhere, one braced at Armin’s waist like he needed to hold him steady, the other sliding up his back, pulling him in, pressing him close. Jean kissed him hard, so hard Armin felt it all the way to his toes, a rush of cold and pressure and want crashing into him like a physical force.

Armin almost slipped off the edge of the desk from the sheer momentum, catching himself with a palm behind him.

He wasn’t prepared.

Not for this.

Not for Jean coming back twice as intense, twice as desperate, but actually holding himself together this time, barely, but enough that the kiss had shape instead of chaos.

Jean’s mouth slanted over his, deeper, hungry but guided, less feral and more intentional now. His lips moved with focus, with a trembling control that somehow made the entire thing worse, better, more overwhelming.

And then, Jean’s mouth pressed directly on the cut.

A firm, precise pressure.

Armin made a sound before he could stop it, a sharp, breathy gasp of pain that shook out of him like it had been pulled straight from his ribs.

That tiny noise destroyed Jean.

He kissed harder, almost desperately, like he was chasing the sound, like he needed it, needed him. Armin felt the urgency spill into the kiss, felt the way Jean’s hand pressed harder at his back as if to fuse them together.

Jean’s lips parted slightly against his, hungry for more space, more contact, more of him, and the kiss deepened, messy and breathless. Jean tasted him like he was trying to memorize every edge of his mouth, every shiver, every tremor.

Armin’s knees nearly buckled.

His hand clung to Jean’s shoulder again, fingers tightening reflexively, sliding down Jean’s chest until it found the curve of his collarbone and held on like he might drown otherwise.

Jean kissed him through every shaky inhale Armin tried to take. Through every tiny sound he made.
 Through every moment Armin’s balance wavered.

It felt like too much.

Too cold, too hot, too close, too overwhelming.

Jean wasn’t trying to take his blood now.

He was trying to take him.

And Armin’s body, his shaking, overwhelmed, over warm body, was letting him.

Whether he meant to or not.

He was still kissing Armin, still pressing into him with a hungry, impossibly cold mouth, still shivering with every taste of blood he managed to steal. Armin felt it in every nerve, the intensity, the strange mix of desperation and restraint, the way Jean’s lips trembled like he was losing a fight no one else could see.

Then it broke.

“Someone’s coming.” he whispered against Armin’s mouth, voice so low and tight Armin barely caught it.

They both went still.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, slow, lazy, like someone who didn’t care what they found.

Closer.

Closer.

Right outside the office.

A door opened.

Closed.

Footsteps faded again.

When silence finally settled, Armin let out a tiny breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
 Jean’s came colder, shorter, like he was holding too much inside and had no idea where to put it.

Their lips were still inches apart, swollen, reddened, tasting like copper and heat.

Jean’s eyes met his fully.

It was the first time they’d truly looked at each other.

Not across a lab bench.
Not through flinches or avoidance.
Not through instinct.

Eye to eye.

Jean’s eyes, usually averting, usually hidden, usually refusing to land anywhere near Armin, were finally on him. Direct. Steady. Slightly wide.

The red that had rimmed them before was still there, but softer now, muted, warmer somehow. Almost–

Armin blinked.

For a second, a split, impossible second.

Jean’s eyes flashed.

A shade that shouldn’t exist.
A blue-red-purple spark, like light refracting through amethyst. It wasn’t bright, just a shift, a flicker, something that curled into the air and slid along Armin’s skin like static.

Something changed.

Armin felt it before he understood it, like the air thickened, like the room dipped in temperature, like something electric crawled under his skin.

Jean felt it too.

Because his expression collapsed.

Jean inhaled sharply. “Oh no…”

Armin’s stomach dropped. “What? What happened? Did it not work?”

“Yes.” Jean said quickly, voice cracking. “It worked, but–”

“But what?” Armin’s voice trembled despite himself.

Jean didn’t answer.

Instead, he stepped forward helplessly, like his body had made the decision without asking him, hands landing on Armin’s waist again as he leaned in, not to kiss him, but to rest his forehead against Armin’s shoulder with a small, frustrated sound.

Armin’s hands hovered awkwardly at Jean’s sides, unsure, heart hammering.

Jean’s voice came out rough, nearly a groan.

“We just… zinged.”

Armin blinked. “Zing…?”

Jean’s fingers curled into Armin’s shirt, gripping like he needed the fabric to keep himself upright.

Then, quiet. Honest.

Unprotected in a way Armin had never seen on him.

“Armin.” Jean whispered, breath cold against his neck, “I just fell in love with you.”