Porco's lack of reaction to his burning hair doesn't help with Reiner's shifting sense of reality. Then again, what would in this situation? It's just one more indication that Reiner has lost his damn mind. He watches the hallucination nonetheless, blood staining his eyebrow and the hair near his temple; there's still no sign of steam from his wound.
Marco says he won't hit again. It makes sense since it's Marco and they're friends; it makes no sense since Reiner is Marco's murderer.
He shuts his left eye as blood reaches it. Takes the handkerchief from Galliard without protest or question, though the gesture does nothing to help with Reiner's fragile grip on the present. Since when does Porco care if Reiner is bleeding after a fistfight?
(Maybe he'll be touched later. Or maybe he'll think he imagined it, only the bloody cloth proving it was real.)
Reiner presses the handkerchief to his cut nonetheless, staunching the blood flow. Heal that, he's told, and he obeys. A weak stream of steam rises from beneath the cloth—one that would be unsurprising from the Cart but is far too weak for the Armored, looking utterly out of place.
Funny how not wanting to heal interferes with healing.
Reiner finds himself seated cross-legged on the floor with Galliard crouched nearby, hair finally returning to normal. Marco is in his peripheral vision. Reiner doesn't look at either of them. He stares at his ankles instead, nothing but white cotton socks covering his feet.
No boots today. Stupid.
"It's like he said," Reiner answers, that pained, pathetic tone exchanged for something hollow. "You heard him."
He can't bring himself to say the words, I killed him. It's true; no matter which version of events is real, Reiner knows that he alone is responsible.
no subject
Marco says he won't hit again. It makes sense since it's Marco and they're friends; it makes no sense since Reiner is Marco's murderer.
He shuts his left eye as blood reaches it. Takes the handkerchief from Galliard without protest or question, though the gesture does nothing to help with Reiner's fragile grip on the present. Since when does Porco care if Reiner is bleeding after a fistfight?
(Maybe he'll be touched later. Or maybe he'll think he imagined it, only the bloody cloth proving it was real.)
Reiner presses the handkerchief to his cut nonetheless, staunching the blood flow. Heal that, he's told, and he obeys. A weak stream of steam rises from beneath the cloth—one that would be unsurprising from the Cart but is far too weak for the Armored, looking utterly out of place.
Funny how not wanting to heal interferes with healing.
Reiner finds himself seated cross-legged on the floor with Galliard crouched nearby, hair finally returning to normal. Marco is in his peripheral vision. Reiner doesn't look at either of them. He stares at his ankles instead, nothing but white cotton socks covering his feet.
No boots today. Stupid.
"It's like he said," Reiner answers, that pained, pathetic tone exchanged for something hollow. "You heard him."
He can't bring himself to say the words, I killed him. It's true; no matter which version of events is real, Reiner knows that he alone is responsible.