Archive of Our Own

There is nothing Reiner would appreciate more tonight than sleeping in his own bed. To crawl into a warm pile of blankets, curl up, and sleep the rest of the weekend away. He is drunk and exhausted and sticky with beer stains. On top of that, he's drunk, and the dorm hallway smells more like day old piss. And he's drunk. He's drunk. He has a bruise on his leg from two hours ago when someone lost a round of beer pong and flipped the table in indignation. He's lost count of how many drinks he's had since then— a few shots when the party got boring, a beer or two at the pool table, drinks upstairs in the corner bedroom to let him down easy, and a bottle of whiskey swiped on his way out the door. Did he mention he's drunk?

He stumbled all the way home in the dark, in the cold, the whiskey bottle like ice in his hand, and now he's wobbling outside his bedroom door, staring at the white sock so neatly wrapped over the door handle. Now Bertholdt is in their room with someone else, and all Reiner wants to do is cry. 

He's being stupid. He's drunk, and he's tired, and he should've used his brain before he trekked ten minutes across campus in daisy dukes and a stolen hoodie. One that he never wants to wear again. One that he can never give back. He should've known. He should've crashed on the couch at the Gamma house. He shouldn't've been so stupid.

He leans forward, head falling against the doorframe, and he reaches around to his back pocket. Something clatters on the floor. Reiner blinks. His phone. His sneakers squeak on the linoleum as he slides down the length of the wall, plummeting to the ground. The whiskey bottle sits down beside him. So stupid. Quietly, he grabs his phone from the floor and draws his knees up to his chest. His shoes are still wet from his furious walk across the soccer fields, and they leave the floor wet beneath him. When he turns his phone face-up, the fluorescent lights shine across a jagged crack in the screen.

He buries his face in his hands. 

"Reiner?"

Colors spin before his eyes when he jerks up, blinking into the light. The floor sways beneath him, the stale taste of vodka sitting on his tongue. It takes him a second to register that the door to his room has been cracked open. He squints up, and Bertholdt stands over him in his pajamas, his dark hair ruffled.

"Hi," Bertholdt says drily. His voice croaks, and he turns to the side, eyes squeezed shut as he struggles through a long yawn.

"Hi," Reiner mutters.

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's fine," Reiner says. He's suddenly aware that he smells like beer, like marijuana, and he's sitting in a puddle of melted frost and mud, a half-empty bottle of whiskey by his side. He peers down the hallway, and he can see his drunken tracks stumbling on the floor.

Bertholdt stands over him. "You okay?"

He rubs his eyes with the sleeve of the hoodie. "M'fine. Just sitting down."

"Um, okay. Do you wanna, like, come in though?"

He blinks, eyes dry, red, and glances between Bertholdt's legs into the dark dorm room. "Can I?"

"Um, yeah? It's your room."

"But—" he tries not to look at Bertholdt's sock wrapped over the door handle, but his head is spinning one way and the floor is going the other. He slinks his hands deep into the hoodie cuffs and wipes his cheeks dry. "You know."

The handle springs when the sock is snatched off. "Sorry, um. I forgot. Didn't you get my text?"

"I broke my phone."

"What?" 

He nudges his phone towards Bertholdt's feet. "I cracked my screen."

"Oh. It's not that bad. Don't—" His voice softens. "Don't cry, Reiner."

The tears soak into his sleeves. "And I'm drunk."

"Okay, let's just— just come in, okay? Let's go to bed." 

The bright hall light glints sharply off the whiskey bottle when Reiner is pulled to his feet, his sneakers slipping on the floor beneath him. He winces at the sudden motion. The weight in his head, the way everything is unsteady except for Bertholdt, who holds him upright, a firm arm around his waist as he props the door open and guides Reiner inside. The whiskey stays on the floor, still and amber, and Reiner is sure he says something about it, sure that he warns Bertholdt not to it out there all night, but he's in the dark room before he can figure out if he did, Bertholdt shuffling around him.

He can't help but glance at Bertholdt's bed. Undone, but empty. He turns away, rubbing his eyes, and holds onto Bertholdt's shoulder as he kicks his shoes off.

Bertholdt lets go of him, and Reiner stumbles straight to bed, a dive headfirst into the mess he left unmade earlier that morning. So long ago now, before the party. He collapses onto his back with a groan, and the day unravels before him, like a shadow dancing on the ceiling. His fingers and wrists worn out, only halfway into the semester. His brain, his liver, addled by another night of drinking. His collarbones, still pink with kisses from the weekend before, and the one before that. Nights he'll never get back. Kisses that never meant anything.

Bertholdt sets a glass of water by his bed.

"Maybe save it for the morning," he says after a second. He is in the shadows when he peers down, but Reiner can tell that his face is fraught with lines of worry. "You look a little pale."

"I'm dizzy," Reiner mumbles.

"You're drunk," Bertholdt says. He fumbles with a drawer and pulls out something that rattles. "You need to eat something if you take any painkillers tomorrow, alright?"

"Mmkay."

He tries to swallow the dryness in his mouth. Something moves in the darkness, and Reiner rolls his head to see Bertholdt clamber back into bed, stifling a yawn with one hand.

"Bert," he says softly.

Bertholdt falls back into bed. "Yeah?"

"I thought you were gonna be with that girl tonight."

The bed creaks as he shuffles around. "Well. I thought you were gonna spend the night with what's-his-face."

"You know his name," Reiner murmurs, as if it matters. He curls up onto his side, cheek squishing into the pillow. He holds back a yawn. 

"Why'd you come home?" Bertholdt asks. "If you thought she would be here?"

"Oh." Reiner closes his eyes. "I dunno. I guess I forgot."

He feels like he is falling, lying sideways on the edge of a cliff. Heat rises through him, the alcohol rushing through his veins one last time for the night. He kicks sheets down to his ankles and cracks his eyes open, suddenly breathless, to watch Bertholdt lie on his back, arms raised over his head to examine his calloused fingers in the dark. 

"She was here," he hears Bertholdt say. "But we didn't do anything. I texted you to tell you that you could come home." 

"I didn't see it."

"Yeah, you didn't respond, so..." He trails off, then lets out a deep breath. A sigh. "I mean, we talked for a while, but neither of us were... I don't know."

"Mm." Reiner reaches out and traces one finger over the rim of the water glass. He nearly misses and knocks it over. "She went home?"

"Yeah. I walked her back to her room."

"What a gentleman."

He hears Bertholdt sit up in bed. "What happened tonight?"

"Nothing happened."

"Reiner," Bertholdt implores. He hesitates for a moment, then softens. "You were crying. What happened?"

He presses his eyes shut. "Nothing happened."

"Just tell me if you're okay. Please, Reiner?"

"Nothing happened," Reiner echoes. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter. "It's not like we were really dating or anything. I don't know what I was expecting."

How childish he'd felt, sitting on his knees in the bed of his fraternity president, a senior with a winter graduation date, an adult with a law school acceptance letter. Wearing his sweatshirt, his hickeys all over Reiner's shoulders, his hands around Reiner's waist. How stupid, slipping in between his sheets with the hope of changing his mind, letting those lips leave stains all over him, wondering if that would make him good enough to keep. Leaving once it was over, once he'd had his last pity fuck, storming home with a bottle of whiskey, the silence on his way out the door telling him that no matter what he did or who he ever was, he would never be enough.

"I'm sorry," is all Bertholdt says.

Reiner can feel it in his voice— how softly he speaks. He feels it in himself, the emptiness growing inside of him, the fear. He pushes his face deeper into his pillow and murmurs, "yeah."

Bertholdt whispers. "Do you... want me to come over there?"

"You don't have to."

"I know. But..."

Reiner curls up tighter. "If you want to."

He hears Bertholdt slip out of bed. His socks pad across the floor until he reaches the other side, then the mattress dips as he clambers over Reiner to climb into bed behind him, pulling the covers back up around them. It almost makes Reiner laugh, the careful gymnastics that he maneuvers to get into bed as quietly as possible; and then it warms him, when Bertholdt curls up behind him and wraps an around his stomach. It's familiar, the way their bodies fit together, and at once, Reiner feels safe. 

"This okay?" Bertholdt whispers.

"Mm, yeah."

Bertholdt's knees brush against the back of his legs. "You're freezing."

"It's snowing," Reiner whispers. He feels Bertholdt's hand on his stomach, but he can't bring himself to hold it.

"Really?"

"I hope it sticks." He lets out a slow breath. "I hope it snows all weekend. I hope they cancel classes."

"They never cancel classes just for snow."

"I hope there's a blizzard. I hope it never stops. I hope we get snowed in and we never have to leave."

He's thought before about asking. Is this strange, the two of them, curling up in bed together with their arms around each other? But it's always been this way, since they were kids. Just the two of them. Just two boys who know each other too well to let go. 

"Good night, Reiner," Bertholdt murmurs, his breath warm on Reiner's neck.

Reiner lets himself drift away. "G'night."

From the other side of the door, Reiner can hear everything. The murmur of the radio and a nonchalant conversation, low tones and long pauses; it carries through the wall. He pauses to listen. He leans over the sink, avoiding the gaze of the mirror, and he turns his head to the door, where on the other side his friends sit, carefree on a normal Saturday night. Normal for them, at least. For Reiner, normal in other ways. A repeating glitch in his life, where he finds himself sick at his reflection every so often, while everyone else seems to go about their days just fine. 

A silence stalls from the room next door, and then he hears Pieck mutter something under her breath, hardly loud enough for Reiner to make out that she is speaking at all. Bertholdt's stutter cuts her off, but he falls short. Pieck begins to hum along with the music, and Reiner turns back to the mirror.

He watches the color come back to his face, slowly, as if it is being painted onto his cheeks. He purses his lips together— a sickly blue— and takes a deep breath. Glassy, unfocused eyes stare back at him, and he thinks, if he can just pull himself together, he can have fun tonight. He doesn't have to be a miserable excuse for a friend all weekend.

Someone knocks on the door.

Reiner turns on the tap and lets the water run over his hands so he can ignore Bertholdt for a minute longer. He was hoping for snow this weekend, hoping that it would lift his spirits and make things bright again. It would make the world feel like a winter wonderland, and he could move into a new season, move on with himself. But it didn't stick, and instead he's been miserable all day. He stumbled through symphonic rehearsal all morning, his inner ear dizzily out of tune, and he found himself wishing (not for the first time, and probably not for the last time either) that he’d just be okay if he could sit next to Bertholdt again. It’s not a jab at Marcel— someone has to be first chair— but he and Bertholdt have played side by side their whole lives. It’s familiar, to be next to him, a comfort that Reiner would’ve given up his chair for this morning when he’d been chewed out by Dr. Mikkelsen for barely being able to keep his head up during rehearsal. He’d run to the toilet afterwards and sat on his knees for ten minutes before he decided there was nothing more in him to heave.

Another knock.

“I’m coming,” Reiner says. He turns off the tap and stares at the bags under his eyes. He’ll be okay. He just needs time. He’ll be okay.

Bertholdt is standing in his way when he finally opens the door. He fills the frame, his face uneasy, and his look of concern might be more effective on Reiner if he didn't have red war stripes painted under his eyes.

"Hey," Reiner says brightly. "I'm done. You can go admire yourself in the mirror."

"Are you okay?" Bertholdt asks softly. It's just the three of them, and the walls are thin. If he'd been sick, they would've heard. "You were in there for a while."

"I'm fine. Just hungover, you know."

"This is a pretty long hangover."

"Well, I drank a lot last night."

"Maybe you should take it easy tonight. We don't have to go to the game."

"I'm fine."

"Bertholdt," comes Pieck's voice from the bedroom, "if you're going to be a worrywart, we can't bring you along. I won't listen to you nag Reiner all night like an old hen."

He glances back at her, flushing. "I'm not nagging. I'm just—"

Reiner elbows past him. "Yes, you are." 

He knows he shouldn't be annoyed. He can't be annoyed for much longer anyway, because the indignation on Bertholdt's face at Reiner's brusque behavior is too much for him to handle. He splits into a grin, stumbling back across the small dorm room to join Pieck criss-cross on the rug, where she's arranged her face painting station with care. She's smiling too, even as Bertholdt huffs and slams the bathroom door. 

"I'm just worried about you," he insists. He still speaks softly, only to Reiner, as if Pieck is not there on the floor between them, her hand holding Reiner's chin so she can examine the symmetry of his face.

Bertholdt collapses into the beanbag in the corner of Pieck's room. "Please tell me you're not going to drink tonight."

He can't see Bertholdt from the corner of his eye. "Does apple cider count?"

"Reiner, you know what I mean."

"I know, don't worry." He's released, and he glances over at Bertholdt. "I know, Bert. I've had enough for one weekend anyway."

"Reiner's a big boy, Bertholdt," Pieck says without looking at either of them. Her fingers dance over a selection of paint brushes. "He'll be fine."

Bertholdt sinks further into the beanbag. "Will you at least try to eat something soon? That might help your stomach settle."

"If you're so keen on his welfare," Pieck says abruptly before Reiner can respond, "then maybe you can run downstairs and help the twins find a place to park, because my phone is being inundated with distressed text messages about the shameful state of student parking on this campus and if they get a citation for street parking, none of us will be going anywhere tonight."

She chooses a brush and smiles at Bertholdt. "We'll meet you down there."

He glances between her and Reiner, his face drawing tight and quiet. More worried than frustrated now, and something stabs at Reiner, seeing Bertholdt so worked up over his wellbeing. He's fine. He'll be fine, and it's not like Bertholdt doesn't know that. He's watched Reiner bounce back from a lot over the years they've known each other. Bertholdt seems to finally surrender, because he heads out without another word, leaving the door cracked behind himself. 

Reiner turns back to Pieck. "They're not twins."

She dabs the brush into a pot of red face paint. "I was being poetic. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," he says instantly. Then, "talk about what?"

"Whatever you want," she says. She leans forward, brush in hand, and begins painting on his cheek. "But I was thinking specifically about you and Bertholdt. What's going on?"

He tries not to meet her eyes. "Nothing."

"Oh, really? I suppose he frets over everyone like that."

"Nothing's going on."

"He's all over you, Reiner. Did you see what I had to do to get you alone?"

"He's not," Reiner insists, although his brain is furiously doing the calculations. "He's always like that. It's just because we grew up together."

"Hmm. So which is it: he's not, or he is?"

"He's not." He pauses. "Of course he's not."

She sweeps the brush across his cheek. "Why is that a given to you?"

Reiner glances at her when she turns to dip her brush in the paint. Something unsettling is stirring inside of him, and he doesn't know if it's just his hangover creeping back up, or if it's because Pieck is the most astute person he knows; and though they've rarely had such a private conversation, somehow, she knows exactly what he's thinking. Exactly what he's trying not to think, what he's been putting out of his mind for months or years or maybe even longer. It's hard to push it away when he can feel Bertholdt watching him from across a room, but it comes and goes. It's a wave, and it will pass again soon. He'll be okay. He just needs time.

"I don't know," Reiner admits softly.

Pieck meets his eyes when she turns back; she's quiet, waiting for him to say something else, but everything seems to fall short on his tongue, so she leans forward and continues her work.

"Do you really find it that hard to believe?" she asks. She speaks like no one else he's ever met, low and curious, and the way she says it, he knows it's not rhetorical. Is it really that unimaginable?

"We're friends," Reiner says, and her dark fingers flicker up at his avoidance of the real question. "He probably just feels bad for me."

"Because?"

"Because I got dumped last night." He hesitates. "We weren't really dating, I guess. But it's definitely over now."

"Stop," Pieck commands, pulling back. Her eyes are narrow, and she cocks her head to one side. "Are you referring to the gentleman you've been sleeping with all semester but have never actually gone on a date with?"

"Well, when you put it like that..."

"Reiner, don't tell me that's what you've been moping about."

"Not him specifically," Reiner exclaims, and Pieck shushes him, grabbing his jaw to hold him still while she paints a delicate detail. His words come out through squished cheeks. "Just— how he made me feel."

"And how did he make you feel?"

He can hardly remember now. The party was less than one day ago, the last time he was in that bed, but through the fog of daylight and the haze of his hangover, he can't remember now what made it so special. That bedroom, that man, those lips on his body and those hands in his hair. The thrill of being held, kissed over and over on the same spots on his skin, the secret of being known. 

"Wanted," Reiner says when she lets go. He swallows the lump in his throat. Loved.

The stroke of the brush slows on his cheek. He thinks she is looking at him, but he doesn't want to meet her eyes. He stares past her instead, at the crack in the door where yellow light from the hallway is streaming in. Down the corridor, someone laughs.

"Bertholdt's just being a good friend," he says after a moment. "He's a worrier. He's just looking out for me."

She stays quiet, her brush moving gently across his face.

"Besides," Reiner adds, "he's never said anything."

"Neither have you," Pieck mutters.

"It's not that simple," he counters, glancing back to her. "He's my best friend. I don't know what I would do if..."

He trails off. "It's not like that for us. He was with some girl last night anyway."

"Who?"

"I don't know. She plays the flute."

"Well," Pieck sighs, swooping the brush along his skin, "that may complicate things. Did he sleep with her?"

"No. He said they just talked."

She pulls back with another sigh. "Oh, Reiner."

"What?"

"You're all done," she says instead. She hands Reiner a compact mirror to admire the neatly painted school letters she's written across his face in red. She packs her brushes in silence, humming along to the radio. Reiner's phone dings with a text.

"We should go," he says when he reads it. "They've been circling the block because they can't find a spot."

Pieck pushes her brushes aside and tightens her braids, pulling on the pom-pom ties at the ends. "You'd think with all the tuition we pay, we could park wherever he want. Oh well, let's go. I'm afraid of what Pock might do if the campus police pull them over."

He only hears half of what she says. He stares at his phone; Bertholdt's unread messages from the night before look back at him.

Bert 🐢 
you can come home if you're not spending the night there
have fun at the party 🥳
but please be safe!!
you know how much i worry about you 😣

The football stadium lies at the far end of campus, and though it's only a five minute drive, it's a long ride for five friends squeezed into Marcel's two-door sedan. Reiner is relieved, and feeling slightly less sick, when they stumble out and can stretch their legs again; the brisk October air, on the other hand, is a bit of a shock to the system, and he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his puffy vest as they leave the parking lot, wishing he'd had the common sense to wear a real coat tonight.

The autumn sun has just begun to set as their small group heads into the tailgate carnival— an open field of glittering lights, with tents of games and hot food, popcorn, pumpkins, and a beer hall, rows of benches stuffed to the masses with students dressed head to toe in red and white. A crowd funnels into the carnival, bundled tightly in coats and scarves, clinging to their friends. The carnival is a tradition before the homecoming football game (one that will undoubtedly be disappointing, given their team's track record), and at this point in the semester, it's even more than hat. It's a night of freedom and music and drinks, before Monday comes again and classes return to run their brutal course to finals week.

Tonight, friends gather for fun, face paint on, spirit sticks out. Reiner wouldn't miss a homecoming weekend for the world, but as he's sucked into the crowd with his friends, he's not sure how much he's looking forward to it all. The bright lights, the noise— not to mention, the people. The faces of everyone he knows. He should've been at the Gamma house a few hours ago, pre-gaming with his fraternity brothers, painting their bodies in streaks of red and white. He passed on that this year. Word must've already gotten around about the breakup.

Can he call it that, a breakup, when all they had was some summer sexting and a few weeks of drunken hookups in dark corners of the frat house? When neither of them ever mentioned feelings, ever wanted to move beyond hands and lips, until Reiner found out he was being let go, let behind for something that he could never be? Can he say that?

After symphonic rehearsal, he'd had one text from a conscientious Gamma brother: are you coming to the game with us? His silence was as good as an answer.

The crowd stalls at the entrance to the carnival. Too many students all at once. In the front, Bertholdt turns around with a shrug, and Reiner turns too, glancing at the other three.

"Bit crowded," he says. Over the noise, no one can hear him.

"It's freezing," Porco hisses from the back of the group. His beanie is pulled so far down on his head that his eyebrows are barely visible.

Pieck huddles them together. "It's not that cold. Don't be such a wuss. We'll warm up soon with all these people anyway."

She glances around, craning her neck. "Bertholdt, what's going on?"

"It's just crowded, I think."

From Pieck's other side, Marcel blows a warm breath into his hands. "Apple cider first, once we get in? It's going to be a madhouse in the beer hall for a while."

The crowd begins to move again, and Pieck is determined to push them through; she loops their group together and propels them inside, rushing with the mob. Past the entrance, Reiner begins to feel like he can breathe again, but even as groups dissipate and split apart, the aisles of the carnival remain shoulder-to-shoulder and it’s hard to see over everyone’s heads. They pack into alleys, the sun disappearing over the horizon for good; it leaves behind a deep starry blue that shines overhead as they head deeper inside. The carnival weaves through long, winding aisles laid out in the field— colorful booths with string lights and lanterns, selling foam fingers and popcorn, or peddling games and contests, shouting over the loud music to lure in players to test their luck. Overhead, a ferris wheel spins; its lights glitter over the spectacle, and the line to ride wraps around so many narrow aisles that it chokes all foot traffic. They duck between booths to make it to a hot cider stand on the other side, Pieck pulling Reiner behind her, Reiner latching onto Bertholdt’s hand and dragging him along.

Apple cider in hand, they take another spin through the festival. The beer hall is predictably packed, with all benches occupied, so they carry on, coming to a row of games and competitions. Bustling with renewed energy from their hot drinks, they engage in an impromptu skee ball tournament, a bracket quickly forming between four of them. Bertholdt sits out, holding Reiner’s drink as he hurls skee balls up the alley. He’s not very good (none of them are) and he’s the first one out, losing to Pieck’s sharp aim.

He joins Bertholdt on the sideline, taking back his drink. Bertholdt’s been quiet since they arrived, a lingering presence over Reiner’s shoulder, always one step behind. It’s not the most unusual thing, and even after just a few more games, Reiner has to admit that the carnival is a lot to handle. The lights, the sounds, the crowd that never seems to cease. He hangs back too as Marcel and Porco try to outshoot each other in a mini basketball game.

He can feel Bertholdt watching him.

“I’m fine,” Reiner says without even looking at him. They’re stationed at the side of the booth, keeping themselves warm with the last dregs of apple cider. He glances at Bertholdt, who seems surprised at his interjection. “If you ask me again if I’m okay—“

“I wasn’t going to,” Bertholdt protests.

“Mm-hmm. Is that why you keep staring at me?”

Bertholdt’s eyes flick to Reiner’s face, before he turns back to his cider. Reiner frowns and gives him a jab with his elbow.

“I’d just feel better if you ate something,” Bertholdt exclaims, swatting him away.

“Seriously?”

“You haven’t eaten all day, Reiner. You seem a little— I don’t know— drained.”

“I’ll get a funnel cake in a bit,” Reiner promises. “And don’t tell me that’s not good enough. It’s homecoming! I'm trying to have fun.”

He pokes Bertholdt again. “You should too. You’ve just been following us around looking bored. Let’s play a game.”

A small smile blooms on Bertholdt's face. “If you want your ass kicked, you can just ask.”

Reiner cracks into a grin. “Alright, smartass, that’s a challenge.”

He lets Bertholdt pick the game, which he thinks he might regret with hindsight; Bertholdt is sometimes a man of few words, but he is always a man of many talents, and Reiner continues to be surprised by how adept he is at the strangest things. They leave the other three at the basketball game, and he follows Bertholdt across the crowded aisle, squeezing through a group of music students who they wave to. Bertholdt leads him straight to a shooting game and exchanges their tickets for two plastic water guns.

“You first,” he says to Reiner, who squints at him.

“Why do I have a feeling you’ve rigged this?” he asks, fumbling with the toy gun. It squirts water onto the grass. “Oops.”

“You’re supposed to hit the bottles.”

Reiner whacks him with the gun, Bertholdt cackling. “Shut up! I’m trying.”

He takes aim. He doesn’t know why he bothers, because he misses all but the last bottle, which circles forever on its platform before it topples into the grass and the bored girl working behind the booth gives him a slow clap.

“It’s harder than it looks,” Reiner exclaims, turning to Bertholdt. “It’s a set up, I’m telling you.”

Bertholdt takes up his water gun, leaning onto the booth for serious aim as the fallen bottle is reset. “Not if you know what you’re doing.”

Reiner watches from his side, barely holding back a toothy grin as Bertholdt’s face contorts into one of intense concentration. “You’re being pretty cocky. Think you have good aim?”

“Let’s find out,” Bertholdt says, and he fires.

The first bottle flies from its post. The second comes right after.

“Okay,” Reiner says. “I’m gonna be pretty pissed if you picked this game just to be a showoff.”

“You know what they say about third chair cellists?” Bertholdt asks, taking aim again.

The third bottle comes down.

“No, what?”

“They’re really good with their hands.”

The fourth.

Reiner grins. “Shut up. No one says that.”

Bertholdt doesn’t respond, fixated on the game. He takes a breath; then without another word, he hits the last bottle dead on.

“What the hell?” Reiner exclaims. “How’d you do that?”

He drops the water gun and turns to Reiner with a smirk, shrugging. “It just takes talent, I guess.”

“Shut the hell up,” Reiner mutters. He picks up his water gun and smacks Bertholdt with it. “I want a rematch.”

“I already won,” Bertholdt says. He yanks the toy gun out of Reiner’s grasp, grinning, and sets it aside before gesturing to the prize wall. “Pick something.”

Reiner smiles. “Pfft. What?”

“Pick something,” he says. “I won, so pick something.”

“Seriously?”

“I won you something. So pick it.”

Reiner glances at the girl behind the counter as if she is somehow going to provide reassurance. “Really? What am I, your girlfriend?”

Bertholdt turns a little pink. "Just pick something."

He barely has to look at the array of stuffed animals in the booth before he knows exactly which one he's going to get. He doesn't hide his mischievous grin as he gestures to the toy giraffe that looms other everything else and says decisively, "That one."

The girl behind the counter tosses it to him, and Reiner turns to Bertholdt with the stuffed giraffe straddled in his arms, smiling.

Bertholdt gives him a look. "Really?"

"Yeah," Reiner says. "He's called Bertie."

"You cannot call him Bertie."

"Why not?" he exclaims. He maneuvers the giraffe to reach up and peck Bertholdt on the cheek. "He reminds me of you."

There are more games, and they squeeze in a round at nearly each booth before the crowd becomes overwhelming and it's impossible to find a place to stand. The fraternities and sororities are out in full force tonight. Reiner can't help but notice, as they're huddled together in an immovable sea of students. He tries not to look for Gamma letters. He wouldn't want to see any of them tonight anyway, and he's relieved when he doesn't. 

"I'm getting hungry," Reiner says after a full five minutes of arguing about where to go next. "Do you think we could find a place to sit down in the beer hall?"

"Not all of us," Pieck says. "But don't worry, Pock, you can always sit on my lap."

"Hilarious," Porco mutters, though his face is bright red.

"We've got time to go and see," Marcel adds, checking his phone. "The game's in half an hour, but I could eat."

Reiner nudges Bertholdt with the stuffed giraffe. "Will you share a funnel cake with me? I can't eat one all by myself."

Bertholdt purses his lips, holding back a smile. "I think we both know that's not true."

"Let me at least pretend to have some self-restraint, Bert."

By the time they worm their way to the beer tent, the crowd has swelled to an insufferable size. So bad that a group of fed-up seniors huff away to escape their crowd, and Pieck swoops in on their empty table before anyone else can claim it. It's a tight fit, but they squeeze in, all five of them squished up next to each other, barely able to move their arms. A freshly fried funnel cake sits between Reiner and Bertholdt, and they take turns picking at it, their fingers coated with powdered sugar. 

"Feeling better?" Bertholdt asks when Reiner's mouth is full. Through the music and the crowd, he's barely audible; he raises his voice and repeats himself.

He swallows. "I'm eating funnel cake, I'm happy."

Bertholdt glances over his shoulder as a waiter squeezes by hoisting jugs of beer over their. "This place is kind of a nightmare. I don't remember it being so crazy last year." 

Reiner tries to remember, but he stops short when a group of fraternity brothers stumble into the tent and squeeze through the narrow aisles between tables. One of them tells a joke, and the whole group laughs, raising their beers together as they clamor to find a table that can fit them all. His fraternity brothers, the ones he was supposed to be here with tonight. He tries not to scan their faces. He knows that it's not worth his time. Even if he could find the guy he thought he'd be holding hands with tonight— whatever. He looks away and takes a breath, letting himself inhale the sweetness of the powdered sugar in the air. He'll forget about it all soon enough, and then it won't be so weird to be around his fraternity brothers. It's just that tonight was supposed to be fun; something exciting, something special. Instead, he's secretly wishing that it could be over already, so they can all move on and he can find someone who actually wants him. 

He glances away and catches Bertholdt watching him. Something in his stomach twists with those taciturn eyes staring at him.

"Are you okay?" Bertholdt asks him. He lowers his voice so the others won't hear, and he barely speaks; but even his silence cuts through the clamor of the crowd, and Reiner can hear him perfectly.

He nods, looking past Bertholdt. "It wasn't that serious, Bert. I'll get over it."

Bertholdt leans in to speak. "You were pretty upset last night. I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to. It's just, you're kind of..."

Fragile. Emotionally vulnerable, in an empty, lonely way. A mess, no matter how hard he tries to keep it together. A wreck.

"I know," Reiner says without looking at him.

"I just want you to be okay," Bertholdt says. "You're important to me and stuff."

He glances up, barely holding back a smile. The face paint cracks across his cheeks. "And stuff. Okay, Bert."

"Well, you know. Um, you've got powdered sugar—"

He angles in, as if reaching to wipe it from Reiner's lips. But he doesn't, just stares with wide green eyes, round, glimmering under the string lights that rope overhead. Reiner stares back; a moment lost in time before he reaches up and touches the powdered sugar on his lips.

"Thanks," he says. His own voice sounds miles away. He wipes the sugar away. "It wasn't about him."

Bertholdt blinks. "What do you mean?" 

"Not really," he adds. He looks up to find Bertholdt reading him, eyes flicking across his face in a quiet study. "It's not like he totally broke my heart or something. You know? It's just because— I liked being something to someone. But he still didn't think I was enough. He said we weren't right together. And that's all I really want. To just be enough for someone."

He sees the way Bertholdt's lips move. The shifting light in his eyes, and he thinks Bertholdt is going to say you are enough, of course you are. But he cuts himself off. Instead he lets Reiner meet his eyes, a silent unmoving affirmation. Reiner falters, his pulse picking up, but he doesn't look away. Because they both know that Bertholdt would be right, and they both know it doesn't matter anyway. He doesn't have to prove himself to anyone, is what they're both thinking, even if neither of them say it out loud. 

"I'm okay," Reiner says softer. 

He smiles. He's surprised by how easily it washes over him, by how gently those words come. How true it feels when he says it with Bertholdt's earnest eyes on him. He's okay. He'll be okay.

Bertholdt says nothing at first. Then he sits back, his shoulders relaxing, and he smiles too. "Okay."

Reiner pushes the funnel cake towards him. "Do you want the rest of this?"

"Oh no, it's fine. You should eat it.

"You've barely touched it," Reiner protests. "C'mon, Bert, you paid for it."

"You needed to eat something. I'm fine, Reiner."

Someone screams at the next table, and a pitcher of beer goes flying across the tent. Sticky drops splatter their table. Bertholdt jerks out of the way, and Reiner ducks, unable to contain his laughter when he sees the foam that's landed in Bertholdt's hair. The crowd begins to squabble, students leaping up from the table to argue or flee; Reiner catches Bertholdt's eye, and he nods, both of them ducking out from under the crowd to escape the madhouse.

The grass underfoot is wet with beer and melted frost until they stumble back into the open air of the carnival. The night has gotten darker, and colder too; the warmth of close bodies and hot apple cider has disappeared when they step outside, and by the looks of the emptying aisles, so has half the crowd. In the distance, Reiner hears the stadium loudspeaker. 

He tucks Bertie under his arm and feebly wipes beer from his vest, before glancing around to find Bertholdt, who's not far behind him, rubbing sticky foam from his cheekbone. The red face paint under his eye smears, and Reiner smiles at him. 

"You look ridiculous," he laughs. 

Bertholdt glances up. "What?"

"Nothing," he says. He hesitates, then reaches up. "You've just got a little—"

His eyes catch Bertholdt's as he tries to wipe the smeared face paint away; Reiner's thumb hardly removes any of it, but he stops there for a second, his hand on Bertholdt's face like that, as something warm and unimaginable runs through him. The way Bertholdt is staring at him, eyes wide and full of stars, the space between them gone without him even noticing. It leaves Reiner breathless, and he drops his hand, but he doesn't step back. 

"Just your face paint," he says. "It got a little smudged."

"Oh," is all Bertholdt says. 

Reiner glances back to the tent, but the masses of students have scattered, and through the sea of red and white that floods towards the stadium, he can't see any of their friends. "I think we've lost the others. Should we just, um, go ahead to the game? We'll find them there."

"Oh, right," Bertholdt says. He hesitates for a moment, an absentminded hand touching the streaky face paint on his collarbone. Then his eyes alight. "Do you want to go ride the ferris wheel?"

"Aren't we gonna go to the game?"

"Oh, we could," Bertholdt says lightly. "If you want to, but..."

He trails off again. A pink blush pulls over his face as his breath fogs in the cold night, and he comes closer, his lips pushed into a thin line of concentration. He glances down as Reiner stares at him, brow furrowed. He reaches out with one hand and, softly, takes Reiner's fingers in his. The warmth of his skin sends a jolt through Reiner— a realization, and then he is the one blushing.

"I thought maybe we could be alone," he murmurs.

"Oh," Reiner breathes. Then quieter, "Bert."

Bertholdt glances up, and their eyes meet. He hesitates, then swallows and says, "if you want."

"Okay," Reiner breathes. "I mean, yeah. That sounds nice."

Bertholdt's cheeks turn even pinker, and he smiles, his eyes lighting up as he tightens his grip on Reiner's hand, sliding their fingers together into a firm clutch. He beams at Reiner.

"Okay," he says.

Reiner tries not to giggle. "Okay."

"Okay."

"Okay!" He squeezes Bertholdt's fingers. "Stop looking at me like that! Bertie's getting jealous."

Bertholdt tugs on his hand, smiling. "C'mon, let's ride the ferris wheel."

Electricity sparks in Reiner's fingers when Bertholdt pulls on his hand; he follows, the stuffed giraffe tucked under his arm and a never-ending smile on his face. He is warm all over when Bertholdt touches him. He thinks of nothing but Bertholdt as they walk hand-in-hand through the carnival, their shoulders bumping together when the round close corners. The colorful lights shining on Bertholdt's hair, the way he holds Reiner's hand: so firm, so gentle. The blush that still hasn't left his cheeks. Reiner's never seen him blush quite like that, smile at him quite like that, with stars in his eyes. The kindest smile he's ever seen, and it sends butterflies through him.

The ferris wheel is still running. There's one couple in front of them, arm in arm. Reiner and Bertholdt catch the next cart. They squeeze in next to each other, their knees brushing together. Bertie the giraffe is laid across their laps, the safety bar secured above him, and the wheel begins its slow rotation. 

The air chills as they rise, a breeze blowing over them. 

It's chilly atop the ferris wheel. Reiner shivers as he watches the lights of the stadium twinkle in the distance, and Bertholdt reaches over to take his hand again.

"Are you cold?" he asks, his breath clouding in the air.

"A little," Reiner says, through he's warmer when Bertholdt holds his hand. "But I'm fine. Just wishing I'd worn a coat."

Bertholdt smiles at him. Then he says, "Um."

Reiner's heart beats faster. "Mm-hmm?"

He glances down, running his thumb over Reiner's fingers. He's still so warm, and though it makes Reiner nervous to wonder if Bertholdt can feel his pulse racing, he knows that this is right. It feels right. So familiar, like home. Like they don't even have to say anything. Words may not even describe what he's feeling. But still, he wants Bertholdt to say it. He wants to have it all out loud in the cold October air.

"So, um," Bertholdt repeats. "I meant it when I said you're important to me."

He stares at their hands as he talks, his fingers moving tenderly. "I, um, I really like you, Reiner. I mean, of course I like you. But as more than a friend." Bertholdt's lips upturn into a secretive smile. "I think I've felt that way for a while."

"For how long?"

Bertholdt looks at him, still pink. "I don't know. A long time, I think."

Warmth floods through Reiner. "Why've you never said anything?"

He knows it's not fair to ask as soon as he says it. He's wondered for a long time— is this weird, the two of them? How close they are, how well they know each other? The way they sleep next to each other, or cry on each other's shoulders? The way he's sometime felt Bertholdt looking at him, the way he's always had a pit in his stomach when he saw Bertholdt kissing someone else? He wonders how long ago he stopped wondering and started pretending not to know.

"I don't know," Bertholdt says softly. "I didn't want to mess anything up. I didn't want to lose you."

Reiner squeezes his hand. "Bert."

"And I don't want to be with anyone else," Bertholdt continues. He raises his voice, and that's when Reiner's heart really begins to melt. "I've been trying to figure out how to tell you, because you're special to me. I don't know how to tell you just how much."

"Can you show me?" Reiner asks.

Finally, Bertholdt relaxes. His shoulders ease and he breaks into a smile, laughing out a breath as he looks at Reiner with wide eyes, full of light. Full of love. There is a moment of total silence at the top of the ferris wheel as they look at each other— and then eternity, because his hand touches Reiner's cheek and he leans in, something gentle and quiet overtaking the night as he presses their lips together. Heat rushes through Reiner, tingling down from his lips and outward from his chest; it fills him all at once, and it's exciting, coursing through his veins. He lets his eyes close, lets his hands fall against Bertholdt's chest. Their lips fit together easily, as if they were meant to be against each other.

Bertholdt kisses him softly as first, with tenderness; he pulls back from a breath, and Reiner's eyes flutter open, his hand moving to rest on Bertholdt's cheek as he pulls Bertholdt back in. Their kiss grows deeper. Reiner clutches at him, and he can't help but smile at the way Bertholdt hums into his mouth. Then they are both laughing, and Bertholdt pulls back, a blush rising high over his cheeks. 

"You're adorable," Reiner mutters, hand still on his face.

Bertholdt beams at him. "Stop. You are." 

Reiner kisses him again as the ferris wheel comes around to the other side, and this time Bertholdt moves closer, pulling Reiner against him. Their knees knock together, and they're giggling against each other's lips; Reiner sneaks an arm around Bertholdt's neck when Bertholdt kisses the corner of his lips, and he can't help but wonder what made them wait so long. 

"Do you still want to go to the game?" Bertholdt asks as the ferris wheel nears the bottom. He glances over his shoulder in the direction of the football stadium, where the bright lights are shining over the crowds. "We probably haven't missed much."

In the distance, Reiner can hear the stadium cheering, but suddenly, he finds that he much prefers the quiet. He reaches out to pull Bertholdt back to him, a gentle hand on his cheek. 

"I'd rather stay here," he says, and Bertholdt's smile blooms.

Reiner waves at the ride operator. "Hey! Can we go again?"