Reiner catches a glimpse of Eren's eyes before he starts forward, wide and vivid green, blankness wiped away, the full force of Eren's focus on him, just him. It keeps the smile on Reiner's lips as they begin to walk side-by-side down Blossomcrown's streets, cherry blossoms swirling around their feet. Keeps his thoughts from drifting again, temporarily abating the guilt forever nipping at Reiner's heels (clawing at his back, dragging him down, crushing, suffocating). Keeps his focus on them, on this, on their stolen time.
He's eighteen now. Eren is twenty. There isn't much time left for either of them.
Reiner squeezes Eren's hand, his thumb stroking Eren's too-warm (perfect, so perfect) skin. Not much time, but they still have time for this. They still have time to be alive.
(That's enough, right? Three (five) more years? That has to be enough.)
Truth be told, Reiner hasn't been on many dates. (Has he? What counts as a date? Would he remember?) It's not as though he had much free time on Paradis. Besides, meaningless hookups were easier, less complicated. Holding hands is an important part of dates, as far as Reiner knows. But for once, Reiner isn't thinking about playing a role. He isn't thinking about how he should present himself or mold his personality into an appropriate shape. He holds Eren's hand not because that's proper date behavior: he holds it because Eren reached for him, and Reiner won't let go.
Is this the first time Eren has reached for him first? Not ever, not in their world—but here? Reiner can't always trust his memory anymore: it shifts beneath his feet, twisting and molding into different shapes, details lost and found. But he thinks this is the first time. He holds on as though it is.
"Yeah, that sounds good," Reiner says, his smile mostly faded but still lingering in his voice. "We can walk until we find something that smells good, right?"
Words that Reiner wouldn't have remembered on his own, drunk as he was. That's one advantage of text-based conversation.
"You get final say." He looks at Eren before adding, "We're celebrating your birthday."
Celebrating it on Reiner's birthday, sure. But his drunken self had been quite insistent, and personally, Reiner thinks he was onto something.
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He's eighteen now. Eren is twenty. There isn't much time left for either of them.
Reiner squeezes Eren's hand, his thumb stroking Eren's too-warm (perfect, so perfect) skin. Not much time, but they still have time for this. They still have time to be alive.
(That's enough, right? Three (five) more years? That has to be enough.)
Truth be told, Reiner hasn't been on many dates. (Has he? What counts as a date? Would he remember?) It's not as though he had much free time on Paradis. Besides, meaningless hookups were easier, less complicated. Holding hands is an important part of dates, as far as Reiner knows. But for once, Reiner isn't thinking about playing a role. He isn't thinking about how he should present himself or mold his personality into an appropriate shape. He holds Eren's hand not because that's proper date behavior: he holds it because Eren reached for him, and Reiner won't let go.
Is this the first time Eren has reached for him first? Not ever, not in their world—but here? Reiner can't always trust his memory anymore: it shifts beneath his feet, twisting and molding into different shapes, details lost and found. But he thinks this is the first time. He holds on as though it is.
"Yeah, that sounds good," Reiner says, his smile mostly faded but still lingering in his voice. "We can walk until we find something that smells good, right?"
Words that Reiner wouldn't have remembered on his own, drunk as he was. That's one advantage of text-based conversation.
"You get final say." He looks at Eren before adding, "We're celebrating your birthday."
Celebrating it on Reiner's birthday, sure. But his drunken self had been quite insistent, and personally, Reiner thinks he was onto something.