Reiner offers no resistance to the steering, letting himself be maneuvered to the couch where he takes a seat. The tears are running freely now, Inferna having helped make Bertolt's death as fresh as the day it happened. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, and there's nothing Reiner can do to staunch the bleeding in his heart.

Not that he would want to. He knows what it is to have it stopped now. He would rather live with this pain forever than forget what happened to his partner.

In another life, Reiner might not have to tell Erwin about Bertolt. Erwin might know, just as Reiner knows things about his predecessor. Were that the case … Erwin's hunch is right: Reiner wouldn't be able to talk to him. But this isn't that reality. Here, Erwin knows only what he says—and what he says is enough to drag a small, tearful smile from Reiner.

"He was. Intimidated, I mean. He was shy, and strong, and more talented than he ever realized. He always wanted me to do the talking. But he was brilliant. He'd listen so carefully, and he'd figure stuff out way before anyone else."

He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

"He held so much power in him. Can you imagine how much strength it took to contain it? He thought he was weak-willed, but he was stronger than anyone I knew. He just… He didn't really show it until I…"

Until I almost died, he can't quite say.

His voice drops as he adds, "He'd sleep in the strangest positions. It's one of the only times he'd really relax."