Warm, is the first thought that enters Reiner's mind as Bertholdt grasps him, transforming Reiner's desperate scrambling into an embrace. Bertholdt is warm, so real and so warm, just as he should be. Their Titans burn hot in both of them, a curse they chose to bear, a bond they share.
They were supposed to spend thirteen years like this: Titan-hot and side-by-side, the weight of their burdens easier borne on two sets of shoulders. Best friends. Partners. Together until the end.
Only that's not how it happens in a future Reiner hasn't lived. That's not how their story goes.
Bertholdt cups Reiner's face in his hands, his touch tender, eyes grieved and worried. As if Reiner is the one who was lost. Hurt. Killed. Their foreheads press together, beautiful green eyes falling closed. Then Reiner finds his face buried in Bertholdt's shoulder—a place that has spelled "safety" to Reiner since they were children.
He breathes in, smelling home. Bertholdt has always smelled like home.
"No," he protests, unable to shake his head for how closely they're pressed; unwilling to risk dislodging Bertholdt's hand from his nape. His arms are wound around Bertholdt's back, one near his waist and one at his shoulders.
He doesn't reach for Bertholdt's nape in turn—not yet, at least. He knows he always squeezes too tightly when he's emotional, forgetting his own strength; and he only ever touches Bertholdt's nape with gentle hands.
"No," he repeats firmly, "you never did anything wrong. I—"
Reiner chokes again, the beginning of tears cutting his words short. I must've fucked up, he wants to say, certain that was the case. Instead, he clings even tighter, squeezing his eyes shut.
"I've missed you so much."
Words that feel entirely inadequate, but they're all Reiner has.
A CENTURY LATER
They were supposed to spend thirteen years like this: Titan-hot and side-by-side, the weight of their burdens easier borne on two sets of shoulders. Best friends. Partners. Together until the end.
Only that's not how it happens in a future Reiner hasn't lived. That's not how their story goes.
Bertholdt cups Reiner's face in his hands, his touch tender, eyes grieved and worried. As if Reiner is the one who was lost. Hurt. Killed. Their foreheads press together, beautiful green eyes falling closed. Then Reiner finds his face buried in Bertholdt's shoulder—a place that has spelled "safety" to Reiner since they were children.
He breathes in, smelling home. Bertholdt has always smelled like home.
"No," he protests, unable to shake his head for how closely they're pressed; unwilling to risk dislodging Bertholdt's hand from his nape. His arms are wound around Bertholdt's back, one near his waist and one at his shoulders.
He doesn't reach for Bertholdt's nape in turn—not yet, at least. He knows he always squeezes too tightly when he's emotional, forgetting his own strength; and he only ever touches Bertholdt's nape with gentle hands.
"No," he repeats firmly, "you never did anything wrong. I—"
Reiner chokes again, the beginning of tears cutting his words short. I must've fucked up, he wants to say, certain that was the case. Instead, he clings even tighter, squeezing his eyes shut.
"I've missed you so much."
Words that feel entirely inadequate, but they're all Reiner has.