There's something not quite right about the way Eren moves. Something lacking in his reaction. Not emotion, of course; Reiner can all but feel the frustration rolling off his friend, dark as a storm cloud looming above, ready to rain on everyone's parade. That part isn't surprising, even if it does make Reiner wish Eren would stop and put on a damn life jacket. Eren is intense to a fault, passionate even when prudence would prove a better option.

(That's not true. Reiner wishes it were still true. He wishes he could erase the impassivity that hangs on Eren like a shroud. He wishes he could undo all the damage those mysterious years have caused. Deep down, locked away in his heart, he wishes he could see Eren smile at him again.)

What's puzzling is the counter Eren chooses to use. It's not one that Reiner anticipates. Not one of the moves they drilled ad nauseam, practicing even in sleet and snow, ensuring cold fingers wouldn't cause them to falter. In fact, it doesn't look like a proper maneuver at all; it looks more like Eren is just improvising.

But why wouldn't Eren use the techniques they were taught? Sure, the sticks are longer than rifles, so adjustments are necessary. However, Reiner can't fathom why Eren would abandon those moves altogether.

Whatever the reason, Eren fails to properly counterattack, just shoving against him. Reiner frowns, the wet beam compromising his footing. Should he retreat a step? Disengage long enough to brace himself, then—

… Then Eren loses his footing on the wet beam, sliding down until he falls flat on his stomach. Loses the fight, too, even if he's yet to hit the water. Even if Eren wouldn't admit defeat until the bitter end, and probably not even then.

Reiner abandons thoughts of backing off, resolving to end this (doubtless embarrassing) bout quickly.

"Hold your breath, Eren," Reiner says, almost kindly.

Then he whacks his friend again, the foam stick striking Eren's shoulder, aiming to shove him off the beam and into the ocean.