Getting lost is indeed something that happens sometimes. Reiner knows that better than most, his mind turning itself into a maze to hide the things he can't handle. However, Reiner rarely becomes lost without cause, even if he can't immediately identify it. He suspects the same is true for Eren. (They're the same, right? Isn't that what Eren told him?)

Of course, Eren doesn't explain where his mind went or why he zoned out mid-conversation. Reiner wouldn't explain, either. It's a source of shame for him; he hates his own weakness, furious at himself for his mental collapse. Lately, he's managed to keep himself together—but how much longer can that last?

There is no warmth from Eren's fingers as they take their place between Reiner's, wet from dishwater. Still, their shape is familiar, burned into Reiner's memory on every part of his body that they've touched. He squeezes Eren's hand in his, their fingers entwined, hands molding together as if they've done this for years. Only the heat is missing. Only the proof of what they are: Titans, humans, alive.

They're alive, no matter what happened to their necks. They're alive, even though the clock is still ticking.

Reiner blinks at Eren's words, surprise chasing away the concern knitting his brow. The idea of that sort of payback didn't occur to him. Maybe it should have. Maybe he should've been cruel back on the beach, hurling the cutting words that sat on his tongue instead of keeping them tucked behind his teeth. Instead, he took Eren's hand in his, just as he has now. Just as he did that day in the rain, reaching for Eren even before he knew it was Eren he'd met.

Reiner arches an eyebrow, gold eyes searching green. "Is that what you want?" he asks, voice low. "For me to be mean to you?"

It wouldn't be the first time Reiner acted mean toward someone he cared about. It wouldn't be the first time he was mean to Eren, either.