Gradually, the flush recedes from Reiner's skin, that hint of childish embarrassment waning. For a split second, he looks tired, as if every day of his abbreviated lifespan is weighing him down, dragging him into the dirt. But then his expression closes off, emotions slipping safely behind the hardened exterior with which he first greeted Jean.

Arguing with Jean is like arguing with a boar. Reiner ought to know that; he broke up enough of Jean and Eren's scuffles to have it memorized. Still, he'd hoped that Jean's brains might win, just this once.

"… Sure, Jean," Reiner says, in the same tone he might say, You're a moron. "Go ahead and believe whatever makes you happy."

He wipes the back of his hand across his lip, cleaning off some dried blood clinging to his skin. Then he dusts off the front of his shirt and starts forward, apparently intending to walk right past Jean and resume his interrupted stroll.

But before he makes it far, he tosses out, "You should ice your knuckles." It's a touch too cold to sound caring. More like a jab, pointing out the stark difference between them.

Reiner can take punches to the face all day and heal without a blemish. Jean, on the other hand, will wear those scars on his chest forever.