It's true that Eren can fight people bigger than him. Even though Reiner used to take it easy on Eren during hand-to-hand combat training, Eren still learned how to fight. Reiner blames Annie for that. He recognized a few of her moves when he and Eren fought as Titans in Wall Rose's shadow. Now that Reiner is no longer sick with worry over Annie's torture (fuck Armin and that lie), he can even feel a bit miffed about it. What was she thinking, training Eren like that?
Not that any of them knew what Eren was back then. If they did, it would've changed everything.
Still, he rolls his eyes at the comment, as if to say, "Yeah, yeah." How effective would even Annie's techniques be without room to dodge and maneuver on a narrow beam? Right now, Reiner doesn't particularly care to find out.
He's still hurt. Still angry. Still tired. Yet he remains where he is, side-by-side with Eren, waves lapping at their legs. The beam rises and falls beneath them, and for a short, quiet time, it's almost peaceful.
Then Eren speaks again. Reiner's gaze, which had drifted to the waves, turns back to Eren.
He could respond with a quick quip, saying something like, Then quit pissing me off. But there are too many maddening things about Eren. His stubbornness, his wrath, his impassivity, his bewildering sympathy. Too many things that make Reiner want to snap and snarl like a dog, though whether he's attacking or trying to protect himself depends on the day. Some of it is Eren's fault. Some of it is Reiner's. Most of it is just shitty circumstances.
Today, it was definitely Eren's fault. Who's to say it won't be Reiner's turn next time? How can Reiner predict anything when he doesn't know what the hell they're doing?
So Reiner doesn't make an empty promise about trying not to get angry; he isn't even sure that's possible with so much history and bullshit between them. Instead, he reaches out, braving the distance between their bodies to lay his hand atop Eren's fist. Grasping it. Squeezing.
Reiner's fingers aren't trembling anymore, grip strong and steady, as if he's as solid on the inside as he is on the outside. He isn't thinking about the eyes on the beach, the possibility that someone might see this despite the ever-changing angle brought about by the waves. (Besides, why would he care?) He's only thinking about Eren: the too-warm skin beneath his palm, the sweet words in the dark, the cruel ones in the light. He's thinking about the complicated mess between them, his own hands bloodied, Eren's burning with wrath. He's thinking about them, whatever "this" might be.
And he's reaching out. Holding on.
"Likewise," he eventually says, quiet as a confession. Admitting something he knows can never be.
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Not that any of them knew what Eren was back then. If they did, it would've changed everything.
Still, he rolls his eyes at the comment, as if to say, "Yeah, yeah." How effective would even Annie's techniques be without room to dodge and maneuver on a narrow beam? Right now, Reiner doesn't particularly care to find out.
He's still hurt. Still angry. Still tired. Yet he remains where he is, side-by-side with Eren, waves lapping at their legs. The beam rises and falls beneath them, and for a short, quiet time, it's almost peaceful.
Then Eren speaks again. Reiner's gaze, which had drifted to the waves, turns back to Eren.
He could respond with a quick quip, saying something like, Then quit pissing me off. But there are too many maddening things about Eren. His stubbornness, his wrath, his impassivity, his bewildering sympathy. Too many things that make Reiner want to snap and snarl like a dog, though whether he's attacking or trying to protect himself depends on the day. Some of it is Eren's fault. Some of it is Reiner's. Most of it is just shitty circumstances.
Today, it was definitely Eren's fault. Who's to say it won't be Reiner's turn next time? How can Reiner predict anything when he doesn't know what the hell they're doing?
So Reiner doesn't make an empty promise about trying not to get angry; he isn't even sure that's possible with so much history and bullshit between them. Instead, he reaches out, braving the distance between their bodies to lay his hand atop Eren's fist. Grasping it. Squeezing.
Reiner's fingers aren't trembling anymore, grip strong and steady, as if he's as solid on the inside as he is on the outside. He isn't thinking about the eyes on the beach, the possibility that someone might see this despite the ever-changing angle brought about by the waves. (Besides, why would he care?) He's only thinking about Eren: the too-warm skin beneath his palm, the sweet words in the dark, the cruel ones in the light. He's thinking about the complicated mess between them, his own hands bloodied, Eren's burning with wrath. He's thinking about them, whatever "this" might be.
And he's reaching out. Holding on.
"Likewise," he eventually says, quiet as a confession. Admitting something he knows can never be.