Eren watches Reiner, the way he doesn't immediately speak. Whatever he's saying must mean more than just a few words, though Eren already knows that the idea that either of them can keep anything is delusional. No one gets to keep anything, not really.

They can dream, though, can't they? Can Eren remember how to do that much?

He still doesn't imagine growing old. He doesn't know how. He was always going to die young, before he even existed, all of it stretched out to the end of the world. He doesn't like to — often cannot — give voice to that. But there has never been any thought in Eren's head of what it would be like to be old.

In some part of his mind he is lying in a bed with Reiner, Reiner asking him what he wants to be.

Alive, he had said then. It's still true.

He still doesn't picture growing old, despite how he has stared at the photograph of something that still feels impossible. Eren will always exist in too many times and places at once. It's too late to untwist all of that.

But he'd also said they could be something else, over and over, thought it like a mantra, spoken it like a promise. Isn't that what they are now? Something else?

Alive.

His hands come and rest on Reiner's waist. He leans into the hand in his hair just slightly, smooth strands slipping through Reiner's fingers.

"For how long?" he asks, though he doesn't care about the answer. He just wants to hear it anyway.