Armin sat cross-legged on the worn rug, shoulder brushing Mikasa’s as the bottle spun lazily in the center of the circle. The air was thick with sweat and smoke and whatever cheap citrus body spray Connie had drenched himself in. Some low-budget remix thumped in the background, but Armin’s attention was half-elsewhere—half on the room, half in his own head.

He wore his glasses tonight. He always did when he didn’t care enough to reach for his contacts. Hair slightly messy from the hoodie he’d pulled off earlier, tongue ring cold against the back of his teeth as he sucked it between his lips without thinking. People were already tipsy. The game was just starting to get interesting.

Someone laughed—too loud—and the bottle clinked to a stop. Armin looked up, catching only the tail end of the interaction. A kiss, sloppy. A cheer. Someone groaned. He smiled faintly, corners of his mouth twitching up, amused but unreadable.

He didn’t do this for attention. Not really. But there was something addictive about the pulse of it—how people leaned in just a little closer when it was his turn. How their eyes flicked to his mouth when he smirked. The tongue piercing had been Eren’s idea originally, a joke after a few too many drinks, but Armin had followed through. He didn’t regret it.

He tapped two fingers against his knee in rhythm with the beat, gaze drifting across the circle, not lingering on anyone for too long.