Eren scoffs, and Reiner can't make sense of it. Maybe "shitty" isn't a strong enough word? Surely it can't be a dismissive sound; Eren, of all people, knows what Reiner is, what he has done, what he's capable of doing. Eren squeezes his hand, and Reiner can't make sense of that, either—but he mimics it, grip tightening, instinctively returning the gesture. Holding on to Eren just as tightly as he is held.
Then Eren speaks: "But I'm worse."
For a moment, Reiner just stares. Worse? Why would Eren call himself worse? Has time dulled Eren's recollections of what Reiner has done? Are the moments seared into Reiner's memory warped in Eren's, a gauzy film blurring sharp edges?
Maybe Eren doesn't mean the entirety of what Reiner is. Maybe Eren only means anger or hatred. Eren has always had him beat in that regard. But…
A suspicion builds in the back of Reiner's mind. Awful. Horrific. Unthinkable. So unthinkable that Reiner's mind recoils, sweeping the possibility aside. Crushing the picture struggling to take shape, disparate puzzle pieces trying to create something coherent.
("This can't get worse. Of all people, he's the worst person to possess the Coordinate.")
It's all wiped from Reiner's mind as Eren continues.
Forgiveness isn't something Reiner expects, nor would he ever ask for it. He doesn't deserve forgiveness. Not from Eren; not from Jean; not even from Annie or Bertolt. Reiner made his decisions, damned thousands to death, and inadvertently kicked off a famine that killed hundreds of thousands more. How could any of that ever be forgiven? Justified, yes—Reiner justifies it to himself all the time; he has to—but not forgiven.
So why does Eren trail off? Why does he leave that "but" hanging in the air, a possibility that connects to nothing?
Reiner's lips have parted, his eyes slightly wide—half questioning, half surprise. He wants to drag whatever followed that "but" from Eren's lips. He wants to know what Eren was going to say before choosing something else. Something that still hits Reiner hard, memories of kisses in the dark enveloping him, that warmth burning brighter.
It was easier to believe they could be something different in the dark. It was easier when they were alone, two boys holding onto each other against all odds. It was easier when all the people Reiner betrayed weren't in the next room, and his beloved cousin wasn't in their midst. It was easier in those precious moments when the present was all that existed, and Reiner could just … be.
What are they? What is he? What are they doing?
Stealing time, they agreed. Stealing as much time as they can.
Reiner lifts their joined hands, bringing Eren's to his lips. Heedless of the icy temperature, he presses his lips to the back of Eren's hand, kissing softly. Then he kisses again, his lashes lowering, trying to communicate what he can't articulate. Trying. Just trying.
A lull in the next room brings Gabi's voice above the rest, her words indistinct. Reiner glances toward it then returns his gaze to Eren's face.
"I should get back," he says, too-cold breath ghosting over Eren's skin.
no subject
Then Eren speaks: "But I'm worse."
For a moment, Reiner just stares. Worse? Why would Eren call himself worse? Has time dulled Eren's recollections of what Reiner has done? Are the moments seared into Reiner's memory warped in Eren's, a gauzy film blurring sharp edges?
Maybe Eren doesn't mean the entirety of what Reiner is. Maybe Eren only means anger or hatred. Eren has always had him beat in that regard. But…
A suspicion builds in the back of Reiner's mind. Awful. Horrific. Unthinkable. So unthinkable that Reiner's mind recoils, sweeping the possibility aside. Crushing the picture struggling to take shape, disparate puzzle pieces trying to create something coherent.
("This can't get worse. Of all people, he's the worst person to possess the Coordinate.")
It's all wiped from Reiner's mind as Eren continues.
Forgiveness isn't something Reiner expects, nor would he ever ask for it. He doesn't deserve forgiveness. Not from Eren; not from Jean; not even from Annie or Bertolt. Reiner made his decisions, damned thousands to death, and inadvertently kicked off a famine that killed hundreds of thousands more. How could any of that ever be forgiven? Justified, yes—Reiner justifies it to himself all the time; he has to—but not forgiven.
So why does Eren trail off? Why does he leave that "but" hanging in the air, a possibility that connects to nothing?
Reiner's lips have parted, his eyes slightly wide—half questioning, half surprise. He wants to drag whatever followed that "but" from Eren's lips. He wants to know what Eren was going to say before choosing something else. Something that still hits Reiner hard, memories of kisses in the dark enveloping him, that warmth burning brighter.
It was easier to believe they could be something different in the dark. It was easier when they were alone, two boys holding onto each other against all odds. It was easier when all the people Reiner betrayed weren't in the next room, and his beloved cousin wasn't in their midst. It was easier in those precious moments when the present was all that existed, and Reiner could just … be.
What are they? What is he? What are they doing?
Stealing time, they agreed. Stealing as much time as they can.
Reiner lifts their joined hands, bringing Eren's to his lips. Heedless of the icy temperature, he presses his lips to the back of Eren's hand, kissing softly. Then he kisses again, his lashes lowering, trying to communicate what he can't articulate. Trying. Just trying.
A lull in the next room brings Gabi's voice above the rest, her words indistinct. Reiner glances toward it then returns his gaze to Eren's face.
"I should get back," he says, too-cold breath ghosting over Eren's skin.