As soon as they release each other's hands (Reiner just as reluctantly as Eren), Reiner mourns the loss of contact. His palm is cold without Eren's pressed against it, fingers feeling strange when they're no longer entwined. He manages to restrain himself from reaching for Eren's hand again. (At least, for the moment.) But as soon as they sit, Reiner finds Eren's foot beneath the table and casually hooks their ankles together, greedy for any sort of contact.

Was he always so greedy for touch? He doesn't know. He's always been physically affectionate, having no reservations about squeezing a friend's shoulder or patting a kid on the head. But this greed—this need—feels like more than that. Something centered on Eren, specifically.

Whatever the case, Reiner feels satisfied once they're touching again, even if it's under the table.

"Yeah, it is," he agrees. "Sometimes, I wonder why they invented certain things."

He gestures at the disc as if to say, Case in point.

Then he folds his hands loosely on the table, his gaze rising to meet Eren's again. Tilting his head to the side, he asks, "You said there was something you wanted to tell me in person, right?"

Not that Reiner remembered that, drunk as he was. He had to reread it once sober.