It's easier to absorb the news with Eren's hand held in his. Easier to remain balanced with that strong, solid grasp steadying him, hands that could inflict so many wounds choosing instead to cling. It's easier with that mirrored heat telling Reiner that he isn't alone, green eyes embracing him.
It's easier. That doesn't mean it's easy.
Reiner has known when he would die since he was ten years old. But even before that, he knew what becoming a Warrior would entail. He knew the price he would pay, quartering his lifespan for the honor of carrying a Titan in his veins. He did it for his mother, wanting her to have a better life. For his father, not knowing that the man considered him a devil. For himself, desperately wishing to be a worthy son: someone his parents could proudly call their own; someone to whom acceptance, approval, and love would flow without condition.
Well, almost without condition. The only condition was that he died at twenty-three.
Reiner accepted that so long ago, readily sacrificing one piece of himself after another, carving himself up until he doesn't know who the hell Reiner Braun is anymore. To learn that he suddenly has more time…
He squeezes Eren's hand. Focuses on Eren's eyes, Eren's words. Gratitude rises within him—not about the news, but about the fact that he isn't alone in dealing with it.
"Yeah," Reiner agrees. "I didn't plan on much, either."
Not beyond becoming a "hero," a plan ground to dust beneath his father's heel, the remnants washed away by Marcel's blood.
"If we were back home, I'd call it bullshit. Just wishful thinking. But…" His gaze dips, resting somewhere around Eren's collarbone. "… You're right about magic doing weird stuff. This place doesn't care about time. Why would it care about a time-based curse?"
He's quiet for a moment before his eyes return to Eren's. A new light flickers within them, more determination than hope. "Maybe we can steal more time than we thought."
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It's easier. That doesn't mean it's easy.
Reiner has known when he would die since he was ten years old. But even before that, he knew what becoming a Warrior would entail. He knew the price he would pay, quartering his lifespan for the honor of carrying a Titan in his veins. He did it for his mother, wanting her to have a better life. For his father, not knowing that the man considered him a devil. For himself, desperately wishing to be a worthy son: someone his parents could proudly call their own; someone to whom acceptance, approval, and love would flow without condition.
Well, almost without condition. The only condition was that he died at twenty-three.
Reiner accepted that so long ago, readily sacrificing one piece of himself after another, carving himself up until he doesn't know who the hell Reiner Braun is anymore. To learn that he suddenly has more time…
He squeezes Eren's hand. Focuses on Eren's eyes, Eren's words. Gratitude rises within him—not about the news, but about the fact that he isn't alone in dealing with it.
"Yeah," Reiner agrees. "I didn't plan on much, either."
Not beyond becoming a "hero," a plan ground to dust beneath his father's heel, the remnants washed away by Marcel's blood.
"If we were back home, I'd call it bullshit. Just wishful thinking. But…" His gaze dips, resting somewhere around Eren's collarbone. "… You're right about magic doing weird stuff. This place doesn't care about time. Why would it care about a time-based curse?"
He's quiet for a moment before his eyes return to Eren's. A new light flickers within them, more determination than hope. "Maybe we can steal more time than we thought."