Armin can be kind. People always tend to make the mistake of assuming that makes him nice, and he can’t help but feel that mistake clanging dissonantly in his chest as he sprints down the last living member of his squad, blade already in hand, Eren’s sloppy chewing noises behind him.

Honor among thieves, or something close enough.

When Mikasa was still young enough to be carried everywhere she went, her mother would clasp her tight and spin them in slow, gentle circles, while her father hummed a gentle tune that she would later forget. When she was six, she watched her father take her mother in his arms and swing them around the garden, their legs somehow tangling without tripping, heads thrown back in laughter, and she clapped along with the rhythm of their footsteps. And when she was nine, a boy with a knife showed her a different kind of dance altogether.