Chapter Text
Reiner’s perspective
He notices Bertholdt first by accident—by the way his pencil scratches too softly against the page, almost like it’s afraid to disturb the paper. That kind of quiet doesn’t belong here, in the training barracks where noise is a kind of survival. Reiner, who’s always been told to speak louder, stand taller, act tougher, doesn’t quite understand why someone like Bertholdt Hoover is even here. But he can’t stop looking.
Bertholdt’s handwriting is small and slanted. His hands tremble slightly when he takes notes. He sits near the window and blinks too much when the light hits his face. Sometimes, during the lectures on titan biology or field tactics, he lowers his head like he’s trying to disappear into his uniform. Reiner watches it all with a mix of confusion and… something else. Something he doesn’t know how to name yet.
He tells himself it’s curiosity. That’s all.
⸻
They aren’t friends, not exactly. Reiner’s loud, always elbowing his way into conversations, always trying to prove he’s more than just another Eldian from Liberio. He shouts in drills, runs too fast, sweats too much. He’s the kind of boy who bruises easily but keeps pretending he’s made of stone.
Bertholdt is the opposite. He folds into himself. He speaks in low tones that get swallowed by the wind. The only time Reiner hears him clearly is when they’re paired up during hand-to-hand, and even then Bertholdt never tries to win. He just lets Reiner push him to the ground and blinks up at the sky like it doesn’t matter.
It’s infuriating.
It’s fascinating.
⸻
One afternoon, when the others have scattered toward the dorms or canteens, Reiner notices Bertholdt slipping away behind the training yard. He follows without thinking—without knowing why. Maybe he expects to catch him crying, or practicing alone, or hiding something forbidden.
But Bertholdt just walks. Quietly. Past the rusted pipes and broken fences, past the laundry lines and old sheds, all the way to the outer wall. He stops in front of a stretch of stone where a single vine has cracked through the concrete. A bright violet bugambilia clings stubbornly to the broken surface, its petals trembling in the wind.
Bertholdt stares at it for a long time. He doesn’t touch it. He just watches.
Reiner, crouched nearby behind a pile of crates, feels something shift. Like the world just slowed down. Like he’s watching a part of Bertholdt that no one else is supposed to see.
He doesn’t know what this feeling is. It’s not like fighting. It’s not like fear. It settles under his ribs like warmth and tightness at the same time. Maybe it’s admiration. Maybe it’s envy. Maybe it’s both.
Or maybe it’s something that doesn’t have a name yet.
But Reiner thinks, I want to stand next to him while he looks at that flower.
And even if he doesn’t understand why, that thought stays with him long after Bertholdt has turned away and walked home.