Chapter Text
Reiner was bored out of his mind.
He alternated between picking at the scab on his hand (obtained the week prior from burning himself on the stove) and flicking through a copy of a sports magazine, found beneath a pile of various self-help leaflets. The contents were far more illicit than he'd expected; he’d been hoping to read something relating to the game on Saturday–but was instead greeted by various, glossy pages of oiled tits. There was something almost fascinating about its grotesqueness; the beads of sweat rolling down tanned, airbrushed skin, the slightly ajar, wet lips, the absolute lack of any attempt at genuine journalism. Reiner admired the shamelessness. At least it knew exactly what it was.
Across from him, another man sat, head hanging limply from his neck like a marionette, if they sold marionettes that looked like alcoholics. His unruly, salt-and-pepper hair completely obscured his face. At first, without really looking, Reiner had thought he might be on the phone with somebody; eventually, he came to the conclusion the man couldn’t be talking to anyone but himself. Perhaps, in a different life, Reiner would have felt sorry for him. Instead, he just felt envy. That man didn’t have to pretend not to be mad. Everybody just took it as a given. Meanwhile, Reiner had to go to work every morning and smile at his colleagues, cook his meals, do his chores, pay his taxes, like he didn’t spend every waking moment daydreaming about hauling himself off the nearest bridge.
The waiting room smelt like bleach and wet paint. Reiner regarded the glass doors that would return him to the refuge of the building’s lobby. Was it too late to make a break for it?
“Reiner Braun?”
Reiner stood up instinctively. His coach at school had told him he’d make a good fit for the army, with his hawkish, reflexive response to orders. Reiner blamed that on growing up with a disciplinarian tyrant of a father, rather than genuine strength of character. Besides, he wouldn’t dream of joining the army. He wasn’t interested in dying for an abstract, intangible concept like freedom–he wasn’t Eren. When Reiner died, he’d be doing it for himself. Dying held such a selfish but undeniable appeal. No thoughts, no obligations, no suffering–just the endless slope of infinity. The idea was so seductive Reiner daren’t think about it too long.
No, when Reiner died, he’d make sure it was the most selfish thing he ever did.
These were the things he probably ought to be telling his new therapist. Although they’d probably throw him back in the psych ward. Then again, being pumped full of Haldol might be nice. Maybe then he’d get a decent nights’ sleep.
The woman who’d called his name smiled thinly. He was led down a narrow corridor, with walls that were unusually bland–free of any posters or adornments.
“Did it take you long to get here?” The woman asked, without looking at him.
“Only a couple hours in the car.” Reiner said. He was still fidgety and restless, eyes darting back toward the rapidly retreating door. He’d booked the appointment online, in some kind of sleep-deprived stupor that he could barely recall, aside from a vague memory of trawling through Google reviews with blurry eyes and a healthy glass of Southern Comfort.
The woman pushed open the door, pressing her body into the frame to let Reiner’s bulky form past.
Dr. Tybur didn’t stand up when Reiner entered; he just carried on scribbling in his notebook. The people on Google reviews liked him, apparently, for his calmness and professionalism. He had long, colourless hair pulled into a ponytail–more like a surfer than a therapist. Eventually, his eyes travelled Reiner’s face.
“How are you doing this morning, Mr. Braun?”
It almost sounded like an accusation.” I’m fine. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I know you must be busy.”
“It’s no problem at all. Would you like to sit down?”
Reiner nodded, sinking into the closest armchair. He was reminded of when he’d tried to off himself, all those years ago–how boring, how lifeless everything had been. Nowadays, that time in his life felt simple in comparison. Next to Dr. Tybur’s desk was a photograph framed with crocodile-skin style bronze; Reiner could see rows of bland, smiling faces, all with the same vacant eyes and thin lips. The clock hand slid to ten.
“I always start with the same question for all my patients.” Tybur pulled out a notepad, flashing Reiner another bland smile. “So… Mr. Braun–”
“Please. Just call me Reiner. Mr. Braun was my father, and he was an asshole.”
Dr. Tybur forced a laugh. “Well, Reiner –what made you decide to seek out treatment?”
Reiner thought about lying, then decided against it. Too much effort.
“Honestly? I have no idea. I can’t even remember booking this appointment.” Dr. Tybur chuckled again. If he thought Reiner was joking, he was in for a rude awakening. “But…” Reiner continued, “I guess I started considering it a year ago.”
“What happened a year ago?”
“I went back to my hometown.”
Dr. Tybur cocked his head. His smile was cold and practised. “You know, Mr. Braun, most of us don’t require therapy after a trip back to our hometown.” Reiner averted his gaze, uncomfortable. “So, I’ll repeat my question. What happened a year ago?”
Reiner sipped at a lukewarm cappuccino–the milk overpowering the taste of coffee. His finger traced the rim absently as his eyes flitted periodically to the glass door, restless. He hadn’t even bothered to tell his mother he’d be back in Haling, wanting to be in and out as quickly as possible. He wouldn’t even stay the night here, and had a motel booked a couple hours away, in New Orleans, with the excuse that he wanted to see the sights. The waitress hovered close by, asking frequently if he needed anything–her boredom was evident from the way she fiddled with her fingers, from the way she wiped the already spotless tables again and again.
The doorway chimed. Reiner’s eyes went immediately upwards, hands tightening unthinkingly around his cup. Armin nodded, regarding him, then sat down. Reiner clocked the glint of a wedding ring on his finger.
“Sorry, I’m late,” Armin said, blue eyes fixed on his hands. He looked much older, somehow–like a faded photograph, all pale and seamless colour. Like he’d been left outside too long, bleached and washed out.
“It’s no problem. I was in town anyway.” Reiner lied. He gestured to Armin’s hand. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
Armin’s cheeks flushed. “Her name’s Frieda.”
“I’m happy for you. I hope you’ll make each other happy.” Reiner said. And he meant it.
“Thank you.” Armin lowered his voice. “And thanks for coming, too. I know this… can’t be easy for you.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
Armin shrugged. He was still as scrawny as ever, Reiner noted. “Yeah… I guess. I thought that would make things easier–but sometimes I get this feeling, like I’m choking. Like I can’t breathe, and it’s 2018 all over again.”
Reiner watched the waitress scrub at a corner of the table and re-arrange the sachets of sugar and sweetener. With her short, dark hair–she reminded him a bit of Mikasa. “I get what you mean. It’s been two years, but…”
“It feels like both ten years ago, and yesterday. All at the same time.” Not for the first time, Reiner wondered why Armin had asked him here. Licking each other’s wounds didn’t feel like a sufficient explanation. “How’s your mother doing, anyway?”
Reiner turned his head, embarrassed. Judging from Armin’s cautious expression, Eren hadn’t bothered protecting Reiner’s privacy to his friend. Unsurprising, somehow.
“She’s alright. Better.” He studied Armin’s washed-out face. “How’s Mikasa nowadays?”
Armin’s mouth opened then closed. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Outside, an ambulance sped past, the wailing siren slicing through the still air. Over the past couple of years, Reiner had developed the habit of imagining the scene each ambulance was on its way to. What carnage might be waiting for it.
“You’re probably wondering why I wanted to meet up with you.” Armin said, breaking a brief stretch of silence.
“I mean, it definitely crossed my mind.”
“I just… wanted to clear some stuff up with you. I think it might… I don’t know. Give you some perspective.”
Reiner’s eyebrow twitched. “Oh?”
Armin looked deeply uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. He fiddled with his fingers, eyes darting towards the door as if he were debating making a break for it.
“I get angry sometimes,” Armin murmured, “after it happened… everybody was talking about Eren like they knew him, when they didn’t know anything at all. I remember I found an article in a local paper–about some monstrous, evil kid murdering innocent pensioners for fun. I hate it when people act like they have the full picture when they don’t.” Armin ran a hand through his hair. “They act like they know him… like they understand him. They think he was some monster who killed them for no reason, they–”
“Eren was troubled. We all know that. He was a product of his environment.” Reiner scratched at his neck. “Like we all are.”
He noticed Armin’s hands had begun to shake.
“No… it’s not that. You don’t get it.”
“Are you okay, man? You’re sweating. Do you want a glass of water, or something?”
“I’m fine. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry. It’s traumatic for you… it was traumatic for me, too. I couldn’t understand why he did it, but I had to tell myself–”
“No. You don’t get it.” Armin’s voice was growing increasingly erratic. “The thing is… I don’t feel bad for that man. Everybody keeps trying to paint them as victims. But I don’t feel bad for them, and I know that makes me sound like a bad person, but I don’t. Not even one bit.”
Reiner’s brow furrowed. The outburst had caught him off guard. “What are you talking about?”
“I knew what was happening years ago. And I didn’t do anything. And now…”
“Armin,” Reiner attempted to keep his voice steady, “what are you talking about?”
“If I’d done something sooner–”
“Armin, please. Just tell me. You’re freaking me out”
Armin closed his mouth. He clasped his hands together, taking a long, deep breath. “Sorry.” He whispered. “I should probably explain.” He went silent for a few seconds, as if he trying to work up enough courage. Panic clawed at Reiner’s chest like a wild animal, as it always did when he was faced with uncertainty.
“When we were in middle school… he’d been wearing the same turtleneck sweater for a week, ‘till this one time when we were getting changed for gym, and I saw he had these bruises all around his neck. They looked like a necklace. At first, I made a joke about it. I didn’t put the pieces together–I just thought he’d fallen down and hurt himself–like he always used to. But he got this look on his face, then he put his shirt on and didn’t come back. I had no idea. He skipped class. I found him under the bleachers. By that point, I realised something had to be wrong, so I asked him. He burst into tears and said he’d been having sex with his foster father–that was how he said it. He didn’t say ‘rape’--which was what it really was. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. At the time I thought he might be lying–because he used to lie about everything, for no reason. He’d lie about all sorts of things, even when he had nothing to gain from it… but I feel terrible for thinking he’d lie about it now.” Armin took a brief pause, wiping a tear hurriedly from the corner of his eye. “And when I heard about it… even before I knew the details, I knew exactly what had happened. Even before they knew for sure it was Eren. Even before they knew it was arson and not an electrical fire. I knew he burned that place to the fucking ground because he felt like he had no choice.” Armin’s voice trembled with each word.
Reiner felt as if he were deep underwater, Armin’s voice deadened and difficult to make out. Water was flooding his windpipe, and he couldn’t breathe. His ears rang; he could hear Armin speaking, but Reiner was somewhere else–perhaps he was back in his mother’s living room, when he’d first heard the news. When he’d felt the air knocked from his lungs, when he’d felt so sure he was dying.
“I didn’t…” He managed, “I had no idea…”
“I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.”
Reiner’s vision swam. He still had glimmers of memories of Eren in high school, with his perpetually enraged expression, one that had been attributed at the time by his teachers and peers to a bad attitude. Could it have been that–
Reiner stopped that thought in its tracks.
“No.” He murmured. He looked out through the glass windows at the grey monotony of the street, unable to look at Armin directly. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me when it happened. I don’t think I would’ve been able to deal with it.”
It was happening again. Reiner was floating outside of his body, watching himself watch Armin. He imagined Eren splashing gasoline over the panelled wood floors, the smell flooding the air; he imagined the flames licking up the walls and furniture, consuming his childhood into a pile of ash. Burning the monster under his bed until he was a pile of charred bones.
What had Eren been thinking, in his final moments? While the carbon monoxide filled his lungs, making him dizzy, had he felt a sense of catharsis?
“I’m sorry if this is way too sudden, Reiner. This is probably a lot to process.”
“I mean, yeah… I won’t deny that.” Reiner laughed humorlessly, rubbing his temples. Maybe the coffee had been a mistake, since he was beginning to feel nauseous. He let his head fall into his hands, closing his eyes. The ringing in his ears grew louder.
“How do you feel?”
As much as he liked Armin, the question irritated Reiner. He was sick of being asked how he felt . What did something as intangible and inconsequential as feelings matter?
“I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know how I should feel.”
“...Do you want me to go?”
“No. I’ll go. Don’t take this the wrong way… but I’ll call you later. To talk about it properly.” Reiner rose to his feet unsteadily, worried that if he didn’t get some fresh air he’d end up vomiting. Shaking hands fumbling for his wallet, Reiner tossed a few bills on the table without checking the exact amount.
“I’m sorry.” Armin repeated.
“Stop saying sorry.” Reiner closed his eyes. Geometric shapes danced in front of his eyelids. “...Apologies. That came out… more aggressive than I would have liked.”
“Are you angry?” Armin asked anxiously. Briefly, Reiner’s vision sharpened; Armin’s pale moon of a face staring at him pleadingly. How must it have felt, to keep that in, for all of those years?
“Does… does Mikasa know?”
Armin snorted. Tears painted his cheeks, catching the sterile afternoon light. “Nope. And I’m not going to tell her. I don’t think…”
Armin didn’t need to finish the sentence for Reiner to understand. “I get it, I think you’re right. It would be too…”
He trailed off. Whatever it would be too much of, it was difficult to put into something as limiting as words.
“I don’t want to cause her more pain. I feel bad even for this.”
“No. I’m glad you’re told me. I can…” Reiner cleared his throat again. “...Make sense of things better, now. I think.”
“I’m glad.”
All those years, and Eren had never mentioned any of this to him. Reiner had, truly, believed he knew everything there was to know about Eren, warts and all–and there were plenty of warts. All that time they’d spent in one another’s company, fucking, arguing, or both-–Reiner had thought he knew Eren better than he knew himself.
Could it have been that he never really knew him at all?
“I have to go.” He choked out, spinning around before Armin could give him an answer.
Reiner hadn’t realised how much he’d needed fresh air until he stepped outside. His eyes remained glued on the sidewalk; he couldn’t stand the sight of Haling right now, with its washed-out colours and aimlessness–the way things stayed exactly the same, no matter how many years passed. Outside the café, a homeless man was slouched against the wall. Despite the can of beer in his hand, Reiner could tell he was high off opiates–judging from the unfocused look in his eyes, the uneasy smile, the way he mumbled and laughed unintelligibly to himself. Reiner looked away, embarrassed at his own repulsion. He jumped in his car, stabbing his keys in the vague direction of the ignition, missing the first couple of times. He reversed out of the parking lot, began driving well above the speed limit. He swerved erratically down residential roads until he reached the highway.
He rolled down the windows. Reached for the packet of stale cigarettes in the glove compartment, the ones that made the car smell like Eren.
Reiner didn’t dare look back.
A year later and Reiner was driving again, this time, unsure where he was going. Through the city this time, rather than through the colourless streets of Haling. The faded town where he'd been born and bred, the town that was more a part of him than he'd ever admit - more than this vast and anonymous metropolis. The therapy appointment had been more illuminating than expected – having left, a weight seemed to have been lifted from his chest. He'd always been cautious of therapy, afraid that someone holding a light to the depths of his soul would find something Reiner was better off knowing about. Afterwards, he’d returned to his apartment with a bottle of vodka and dissolved in a sobbing, hiccuping heap by the door. At least now, as night fell, the liquor had worn off. His lucidity returned in a weak trickle.
Reiner stepped on the gas, slightly. Perhaps he just wanted to explore the city at its most beautiful; after the rain had fallen, alleviating the tension that lingered prior to a storm.
He thought back to that hot, summer’s day in Haling. That cruel, hot day, nearly ten years ago. Drinking vermouth (something he’d never dream of nowadays, as an adult who experienced hangovers) in the repressive heat, with Annie, Armin and the others – when he’d seen Eren for the first time. Well, not for the first time – but it had felt like the first time he’d really seen him. When he’d first noticed the angular curve of his jaw, the way his irses were ringed with both green and blue, the way his veins protruded from his wrists, like a vast network of intersecting roads. How they’d run into one another a few days later, and how Eren had taken him home.
Back then, they’d still been children, really.
Reiner should have known he was done for.
Yellow and red light bounced off the rain-slick sidewalks. In the dark, the light resembled flames, engulfing the cars and the roads. Reiner fumbled with the radio. Golden oldies–The Ronettes’ Be My Baby. Reiner pictured the long road, going on and on forever, flames consuming it, turning the city – with its buildings that pierced a bland expanse of sky. The lights, blinking on and off in the dark, like creatures with a thousand eyes. Reiner could see it all, burning–the buildings crashing to the ground, the fire tearing through it all. Each person, regardless of wealth of background, dispensed into the same pile of snowy ash.
Reiner drove.