For how long, Eren asks, and the answer is so easy. So simple. So impossible. Reiner knows better than to give it voice. He can feel its fragility on his tongue, the dreams it encapsulates no more than smoke on the wind.

He wants them to be solid. He wants them to be real. But how can that possibly be?

How can it be, when Reiner is stumbling toward twenty years? How can it be, when Eren is two years older? Two years closer to their date of death?

How can it be, when Reiner is faced with the very real possibility of outliving his Eren?

Reiner holds Eren's gaze, his fingers gently combing through Eren's long hair. Savoring that silky smoothness, the too-warm hands at his waist, the eyes locked on his.

"Always," he speaks at last, voice so filled with longing that the word almost breaks. Almost, but not quite. Just as Reiner almost but not quite manages a convincing smile, his expression too fragile as he adds, "Years."

Years. Plural. Something that Eren may no longer have. Something Reiner needs him to have.

He exhales a breath, that smile growing a little steadier as he gives voice to dreams. "I wanna see what you look like when you're old," he says. "I wanna see if you get white streaks, or if you go gray all over."

Words that dance around what he truly means: I want to grow old with you.