Cold water, cold sweat, a cold chill down his spine. The push and pull of waves, utterly unlike a river. Why did Reiner think they could be rapids? Why did he forget?

He remembers now, the cold plunge shocking him back to his senses. His eyes are already shut against the salt water, but he squeezes them tighter, a vehement curse exhaled in a stream of bubbles. Fuck. Fuck, why does this keep happening? Why does he keep forgetting?! He's not a fucking soldier! He never was! It was just a stupid fantasy. A pathetic, last-ditch effort to save himself as he crumpled beneath the weight of his sins.

His head breaks the surface, blond hair plastered to his scalp, beads of water running down his face. He sees Eren's extended hand, an offer to help that twists a knife in Reiner's chest. Eren knew precisely what he was doing, asking those questions. And Eren accused Reiner of cheap shots?

But the hand is still there, offering help. Offering to haul Reiner out of the cold water. Even though Reiner doesn't necessarily need assistance—even though Eren was the one who put him here in the first place—he still reaches for Eren's hand. Still takes it, just as he did when he had a broken arm atop Wall Rose. Still burns the moment into his memory, as he has every time someone has helped pick him up when he's down.

Reiner can only hope Eren won't notice the trembling in his fingers.

He quickly releases Eren's hand once he's hoisted onto the beam. Plants his feet, finds his balance, and retrieves the foam stick, willing his hands to quit shaking. Then he raises his eyes, traces of shame and (irrational, clearly irrational) hurt almost entirely concealed by anger.

Almost.

"Again," he snaps, lifting the stick into position. Eager to win for real. Eager to prove that he's not that fucking weak.