13thcommander | Labrynthum Inbox

Reiner inhales a shuddering breath. Exhales it slowly, trying to control himself. Trying not to dissolve into tears. But he can feel them pricking at his eyes anyway, the pain of what he experienced still too fresh, too raw.

"Bertolt," he answers. "I… This place made me forget what happened to him. Then it all came back. All at once."

His fingers dig into the fabric of Erwin's shirt. Holding on tighter.

"I can't believe I forgot…"

"Let it out. It will hurt worse if you keep it in."

And there's no judgment here, none at all. Erwin has spent enough nights on his own, beating himself up for decisions he's made, lives lost on his behalf.

Bertolt. Reiner's other half. The boy who died at Shiganshina, the one who almost went down Erwin's throat, if Levi hadn't changed his mind at the last minute. Erwin wonders if Reiner would be here, wanting to tell him about it, if he'd been the one who killed the boy. Somehow, he thinks he wouldn't.

"This place can be very cruel sometimes. But you know that anyone who knows you, anyone who saw the two of you back then, doesn't believe for a second that you would ever forget that on your own, right?"

How could they? Bertolt is woven all through Reiner, as much as Levi is woven through Erwin. He wouldn't forget. He can't forget.

Let it out, Erwin says. And so comes the first shuddering sob, low and wounded. Reiner cries quietly, but he cries all the same, his shoulders shaking as his grip tightens on Erwin. Seeking the stability Erwin provides.

It helps, what Erwin is saying. Helps to have outside reassurance that he wouldn't have forgotten his partner. Not on his own. (Not as he made himself forget what happened to Marco.) But the fact that it could be done to him at all still claws at Reiner's mind, making him doubt his memories.

How could Bertolt's fate be carved so neatly from his life? How could Reiner's mind have filled in the gaps so thoroughly?

"I wouldn't," he promises. "I would never forget him. Not anything about him."

And yet, he did. Those memories were lifted from his mind with Reiner none the wiser.

Maybe later, once the raw hurt has been soothed a bit, Erwin will point out that Reiner didn't completely forget Bertolt. He'll look back on their previous conversations, and when they had them; he's all but certain Reiner has mentioned Bertolt to him during this time when he forgot. It doesn't seem like Reiner forgot the good things about him, but only his death.

Without letting go or loosening his grip, Erwin starts to gently steer Reiner towards the couch. They can mourn Bertolt just as easily there as here, and be more comfortable while they do it.

"Will you tell me about him?" Erwin makes the request gently, ready to be rebuffed if that feels like too much for Reiner. "I knew him so briefly. Most of my memories are of him standing slightly behind you and looking intimidated."

Which, in all fairness, is how a lot of Erwin's early memories of the 104th recruits went.

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."

Erwin would be lying if he said he's never thought about how things would be different if he had been the one to gain control of the Colossal Titan. It has crossed his mind more than once. He's not sure they would have necessarily turned out better, but they would have been very, very different.

Now, though, he's glad that he wasn't saved that day. He's glad that he is someone Reiner can turn to with this pain, and that he can be a shoulder to cry on, both literally and figuratively. He couldn't have done this back home; then, these talks tended to fall on Levi or Mike's shoulders, someone who could be down in the field with the troops.

"It's funny, isn't it? He was intimidated by me, when he had to power to squash me like a bug, had he so chosen." That Reiner had that power too, and had had more than one opportunity to do so and didn't, goes unspoken.

"I saw that, though. The way he used the gear was like someone much older, with more experience. Someone as tall and heavy as he was should have had more difficulty with it, but he used it like he'd been born wearing it."

Erwin hears himself talking, and realises how little that sums up the young man. It's all he has, though, and unless Bertolt shows up here, all he'll ever have.

"I can't imagine trying to contain that power. I can't imagine having it, and having the strength of will not to use it." Which is why Erwin knows it's probably for the best that he didn't become the Colossal Titan.

The shift in tone makes him smile, a little. "Did he? What did they look like?"

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