Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bertholdt Hoover was a quiet, meek, but undeniably intelligent student at Sina High School. He never stood out much, always kept to himself, and consistently pulled straight A’s, maybe the occasional B when things got rough. He tried his best to blend into the background, but with his freakishly tall frame peaking at 6’4”, laying low was… impossible. No matter how much he hunched his shoulders, ducked his head, or shuffled quickly down the hall, he was always noticeable.

Still, despite his height, his awkward personality, and his shaky attempts at blending in, school itself wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Freshman year had been rough with his social anxiety at its absolute peak. Then again, wasn’t it that way for most kids? Socializing was not his strong point. Icebreakers? Hard pass. But if there was one upside, it was that he’d learned how to read people, figuring out who to avoid and who seemed safe enough to admire from afar. Sometimes he’d daydream about some miracle where one of them might wander over, start a conversation, and maybe even share his interests. But who was he kidding?

Sophomore and junior years had gone more smoothly. Surprisingly, he’d even managed to make some friends. Sure, he was still the same awkward, introverted guy everyone knew him to be, but he had a solid group now with people who helped him stumble through the mess of high school. Lunches with them made everything bearable. Bonus: their conversations distracted him from the questionable smell of cafeteria food.

Thanks to them, he actually looked forward to school sometimes. Well, except for the early mornings. If there was one thing he loved almost as much as his friends, it was sleep. Alarms? He could sleep through three. Vacuums? Sounded more like white noise.

So, when the first day of senior year rolled around, it wasn’t shocking that he slept through his first two alarms. He had set them fifteen minutes early, telling himself it would give him a head start on the morning, but of course, it hadn’t worked. By the time he actually sat up, it was exactly six a.m. Not exactly the best start to senior year.

“Ugh…” he groaned, muffled under the blanket, wincing at the shrill beeping of his alarm clock. Two blissful months without that sound, and now it was back with a vengeance.

He buried his head deeper into the pillow, rolling onto his side as if turning his back on the noise might make it stop. For two long minutes, he tossed and turned, half hoping the alarm was just part of a dream. But nope, it was real. Each beep jabbed at his skull like a needle, a cruel reminder that summer was over. With a reluctant sigh, Bertholdt dragged one long arm across his face, rubbing at the sticky sleep crusted in his eyes.

When he finally cracked them open, all he saw was a curtain of messy black hair hanging into his vision. It tickled his eyes until he groaned and pushed it back, sitting up slowly. His body felt heavy, his long torso unfolding like it hadn’t moved in centuries. He reached across to smack the alarm clock silent, his palm landing with more force than necessary.

For a moment, he just stared at it, glaring as though it were his greatest enemy. No matter how many mornings he woke up to that awful sound, he never got used to it. The clock had been with him at his worst, like late nights spent cramming for exams, mornings when he wanted nothing more than to stay in bed forever, but that didn’t make him like it any more. Still, this was his last first day of high school. If he could drag himself through two more semesters, maybe, just maybe, he’d never have to hear that alarm again.

He sat hunched on the edge of his bed for a while, staring blankly at the floor. The ticking of the clock filled the silence, steady and unbothered, while he fought the urge to flop back under the covers. Finally, with another groan, he sucked it up. Stretching out his ridiculously long legs, Bertholdt pushed the covers aside. His feet hit the floorboards with a thud, and he winced as the cold wood sent tingles racing up his calves. At least it woke him up a little.

Dragging himself upright, he shuffled toward the bathroom. His footsteps were heavy, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet house. The doorknob felt cold against his hand when he reached for it, and he twisted it open with little more than a groggy grunt, only to be greeted by his reflection in the mirror once he flicked on the light switch.

One look in the mirror nearly made him laugh. Droopy eyes stared back at him, rimmed with sleep. His hair stuck out in random directions, refusing to be tamed, and his pale skin from the light made him look ghostly under the bathroom light. His reflection practically screamed “walking corpse.” Okay, maybe he was exaggerating, but only a little. The switch from waking up at noon every day of summer to six a.m. was brutal.

He turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run over his palm before splashing it across his face. The icy sting shocked his skin, peeling back some of the lingering fog in his brain. He splashed again, leaning heavily on the sink with one arm, watching drops slide down into the basin. Finally, he reached for his favorite baby-blue rag hanging from the rack. It was soft from years of use, and he pressed it against his cheeks, patting away the water until his skin tingled.

Next came his toothbrush. He twisted the cap off the toothpaste, squeezed a neat line across the bristles, then held it under the water until it foamed slightly. The second he slipped it into his mouth, the taste hit sharp against his tongue, the mint almost spicy. He winced, but the burn did its job, forcing him fully awake.

He brushed slowly, methodically, his eyes half-lidded as he stared at his reflection. The toothpaste foamed at the corners of his mouth, and he rinsed quickly, cupping water in his hand before spitting it back into the sink. Afterward, he ran his fingers through his hair, trying in vain to flatten the mess sticking up in all directions. A quick brush made it look slightly less like he’d been electrocuted, though his bangs still threatened to fall into his eyes.

He leaned closer to the mirror, squinting at himself. Not great, but passable. At least enough to avoid comments from classmates.

With a quiet sigh, Bertholdt turned off the light and padded back toward his room. His long shadow stretched across the room, moving slowly as he dragged his feet against the floorboards. The thought of crawling back into bed tempted him with every step, but he forced himself onward. He couldn’t start his senior year by being late.

Finally, he stepped back into his room. The covers on his bed were still rumpled, the pillow indented from where his head had been pressed, practically inviting him back in. He lingered for a moment, fighting the pull, then shook his head. No. He’d gotten this far; now it was time to get dressed.

Today wasn’t just another morning. It was the first day of senior year. The last year. Somehow, that thought managed to spark a small flicker of excitement in his tired chest.

But he had to focus on the present, knowing it’d be a long year.

He turned his head slowly toward the dresser, eyes landing on the familiar piece of furniture tucked against the wall. His dresser wasn’t anything special, just a scratched-up, dark wood thing that had been with him since middle school, but on mornings like this, it felt like a mountain to climb.

Ah, clothes. One of his favorite rituals on the first day back.

Most of the faces he saw each year were already familiar. Some stayed the same, some transferred out, and new ones always trickled in. Did he care? Not particularly. But he always preferred the comfort of the same faces he’d seen since freshman year rather than the awkward adjustment to someone new. A new name to remember. A new personality to figure out. Another person to either avoid or, on rare, reckless occasions, admire from afar.

Still, even if he wasn’t the type to turn heads, he liked to make at least a halfway decent impression. Nobody was paying that much attention to him, sure, but first-day clothes mattered, even to someone who considered himself basically invisible.

He pulled open the drawers one by one, the wooden tracks groaning in protest. Shirts stacked crookedly, pants shoved in too tightly. He flipped through them, pulling things out, then stuffing them back in. The sound echoed in his quiet room of drawers opening and slamming shut, over and over again, until the repetition almost became a rhythm. He wrinkled his nose in frustration. 

Why did finding something to wear always feel like such an ordeal?

Finally, after too much back and forth, he settled on something simple. A dark blue wool sweater, thick enough to be comfortable in the morning chill, with a crisp white collar poking neatly from underneath. For pants, he chose tan khakis that fit snug enough to look put together without making him feel like a total scarecrow. Pants were always the problem. With legs as long as his, it was a nightmare trying to find ones that weren’t too short, too baggy, or awkwardly tight in all the wrong places. Ever since that middle school growth spurt when he’d shot up like a tree and towered over his fifth-grade classmates, shopping had been more exhausting than rewarding.

“…Eh. It’ll do.” Bertholdt muttered, rolling his shoulders as he stared at himself in the mirror.

He tugged at the collar of his shirt, adjusting it so it sat just right beneath the sweater’s neckline. His reflection stared back at him, tall and narrow, the clothes clean but simple. Nothing too flashy. He sighed quietly, tempted for a moment to grab his phone and text one of his friends for approval. But then again… did he really care enough to risk the “why are you overthinking your outfit” comments? Not really.

His eyes shifted in the mirror, catching a glimpse of his bed reflected in the corner. The rumpled blankets, an inviting pillow… it almost seemed to mock him. He felt the dread tug in his stomach again. If he let himself crawl back into that bed, he wouldn’t get back up.

Get it together, Bertholdt.

He shook his head, forcing himself away from the mirror. Reluctantly, he dragged his long legs across the room, grabbed the handle of the door, and slipped into the hallway. The old floorboards creaked under his weight as he made his way down the narrow staircase.

At the bottom, he glanced toward the kitchen out of habit, half-expecting to see his dad sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee. But the kitchen was empty, silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. His dad had already left for work.

Another early morning.

Bertholdt’s shoulders slumped, his eyes drifting down to the floor. He chewed lightly on the inside of his cheek before brushing the thought off. It wasn’t unusual. He was used to it.

He headed toward the front door, crouching down to slip on his shoes. They were his old, busted-up Converse, the kind that had once been black but were now faded to a dull gray, the rubber scuffed and peeling at the edges. He’d meant to get a new pair over the summer, but, like so many things on his list, he’d never gotten around to it. They still worked, and that was good enough.

He laced them up tightly, double-knotting just in case, then grabbed the worn strap of his backpack from the bench beside the door. He’d already packed it last night with new notebooks stacked neatly inside, a pencil case zipped shut, and a few essentials tucked away. Some of those things would end up untouched for weeks, while others would run out in no time. That was just how school supplies worked.

Standing again, Bertholdt slipped the bag over one shoulder and pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up, bright against the dim morning light filtering through the blinds.

6:45 a.m.

Perfect. Enough time to walk.

As much as he didn’t love walking, it beat the alternative of waking up thirty minutes earlier just to catch the bus. The school was close enough that walking made more sense anyway. It gave him a little extra sleep, and honestly, a quiet walk in the cool morning air sounded a lot better than cramming onto a noisy bus packed with people.

So, it was a win in his book.

Bertholdt adjusted the strap of his bag, exhaled slowly, and reached for the doorknob.

The first day of senior year awaited him.

Finally, with a twist of the knob, Bertholdt pulled the front door open. A light breeze slipped past him as if the morning itself had been waiting on the other side, cool air brushing against his face and making him squint at the sudden shift in temperature.

Thankfully, he’d remembered his sweater.

The air had that mid-September bite to it, still warm enough that the sun promised heat later in the day, but cool enough that the early hours stung if you weren’t prepared. Bertholdt tugged the hem of his sweater down, feeling the fabric settle comfortably against his wrists. He stepped out, twisting the lock on the handle with a soft click. The habit had him test it with a jiggle—once, twice—before shutting the door behind him for good.

Satisfied, he shifted the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder and moved down the porch steps to the sidewalk.

His walk was unhurried, the kind of pace that belonged to mornings like this. The neighborhood was still mostly asleep. Curtains drawn. Cars unmoved. The only sounds were the distant coo of mourning birds and the faint hum of an engine somewhere blocks away. Bertholdt breathed it all in, the air clean, carrying the faint smell of damp pavement and freshly cut grass.

The sunrise stretched across the horizon in strokes of gold, yellow, and orange that blended together like paint on a canvas. For whatever reason, it reminded him of one of those Bob Ross reruns his dad liked to watch sometimes, the calm voice, the trees, the “happy little accidents.” The sky almost looked fake, like something painted just for the sake of beauty. Almost too perfect to belong to a Monday morning before school.

It was the only real peace he ever got on days like these. Wake up. Walk to school. Sit through hours of classes. Then clubs in the theater, or errands his dad piled on after. The morning stroll was the one sliver of the day where Bertholdt could just exist without expectation. No eyes on him. No one needing anything. Just the rhythm of his steps and the world waking up around him.

He kept his gaze low, watching the worn rubber of his sneakers press into the cracked sidewalk. The shoes were beat up, scuffed from years of overuse, the edges fraying where fabric met sole. He pressed the toe of one against the pavement, scuffing it further, letting his mind wander. Thoughts about the day drifted in: what classes might look like, who he’d sit near, and whether the teachers would dump too much on them for the first day. A hundred possibilities for how it might go, most of them mundane, but all of them circling in his head anyway.

He was halfway lost in those thoughts when a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

“Bertholdt!”

His head snapped up immediately, caught off guard by the sudden break in the silence. A flush of embarrassment warmed his face as he realized someone had caught him staring at his shoes like they were the most interesting thing in the world.

Across the street, Armin stood on the opposite curb, his hand raised high in a wave. His blonde hair caught the morning light, shining almost as brightly as the grin on his face.

Bertholdt blinked. He’d almost forgotten they were supposed to walk together.

Lifting his hand, he offered a smaller wave in return. Just a faint lift of his fingers. Subtle. It was how he greeted everyone.

Armin took a quick step off the curb but immediately paused, glancing both ways down the road with quick, deliberate movements. Once satisfied that no cars were coming, he jogged across the street. His backpack bounced against his shoulders, and his fingers clutched the straps tightly, almost like a little kid gripping a lifeline.

When he finally fell into step beside Bertholdt, his grin hadn’t faded one bit.

“Morning!” Armin said, still catching his breath, though his voice held the same enthusiasm as always. His bright blue eyes practically sparkled against the early sunlight, as vivid as the sky above them.

Bertholdt couldn’t help but notice them. They weren’t the intimidating kind of blue he sometimes saw in others, the ones that made people look severe or unapproachable. No, Armin’s were softer. Gentle. Like water you could sink into without fear of drowning. He remembered thinking the same thing back on the very first day of freshman year, when he’d seen Armin across the classroom with his nose buried in a book.

“You're in a good mood today,” Bertholdt commented. His voice came out quiet, but there was a small laugh hidden in it, the corners of his mouth twitching up. It was hard not to notice how Armin’s smile seemed to warm everything around him.

The truth was, Bertholdt often compared himself to Armin. They liked the same kinds of things, like reading, quiet hobbies, and learning new little facts about the world. Their personalities overlapped, too. But where Armin carried all of that with a sense of light and energy, Bertholdt felt like the dimmer, quieter version of it. Awkward. Shy. Just… Bertholdt.

“Well, yeah!” Armin laughed, his voice buoyant. “It’s our first and last first day of high school! Obviously I’m gonna be in a good mood.”

He walked with a spring in his step, each stride full of an energy that seemed impossible for how early it still was. His blonde hair bounced with every movement, catching the light in little flashes. Bertholdt noticed, but he kept the thought to himself, choosing instead to look ahead at the silhouette of the school slowly coming into view down the street.

Still, it was hard not to feel it. Armin’s energy had a way of bleeding into him, steadying something in his chest, even if he didn’t admit it out loud. Bertholdt’s expression stayed calm, his features set in their usual quiet neutrality, but behind his eyes there was a flicker of something lighter. Something almost hopeful.

Beside him, Armin’s whole face glowed like a kid on Christmas morning, ready to tear into the day without hesitation. And though Bertholdt didn’t show it, a small part of him felt ready, too.

Eventually, after a few more minutes of small talk of Armin chatting about which teachers he hoped they’d get this year, Bertholdt, half-listening but chiming in here and there, Bertholdt finally spotted the school in the distance, reaching the main entrance. The crowd thickened as they got closer, the shuffle of sneakers and low hum of conversations filling the air as students, some new, some familiar, funneled toward the doors.

The glass panels reflected the glow of the sunrise, briefly blinding, and then they were pushing through into the familiar building. The faint smell of waxed floors and pencil shavings greeted them instantly, mixed with the stronger scent of too much cheap perfume drifting off a passing sophomore.

It looked exactly the same as two months ago when they’d left it. The banners for the upcoming fall pep rally still hung at slightly crooked angles. The lockers lined the walls in neat, endless rows, chipped paint showing the wear of too many years. Even the one light in the corner of the entrance, its bulb forever caught in a cycle of flicker, buzz, and dim, still hadn’t been replaced. Some things never changed, no matter how many summers passed.

“…Feels like we were just here,” Bertholdt muttered under his breath. His voice wasn’t meant for anyone but Armin, though Armin still hummed back in agreement, shifting his backpack higher on his shoulders.

The two lingered near the entryway for a moment, letting the wave of students push past them, all different voices and faces chattering with first-day energy. Standing there felt a little like hitting pause, taking in the place that would hold them for another nine months, steadying themselves before diving back into the rhythm of assignments, projects, and exams.

“Which way’s your locker again?” Armin asked, breaking the moment. He tilted his head up at Bertholdt as they started walking forward, careful to edge out of the path of a group of sophomores rushing by.

Bertholdt let out a quiet exhale. “By the gym bathrooms.”

The words slipped out without hesitation, almost rehearsed. He didn’t even need to think about it; the location had been burned into his brain after three years of walking past the same tiled hallway. Honestly, if not for the constant stench of the sour sweat, urinal cakes, and something unidentifiable wafting out of the guys’ bathroom, he swore he might have forgotten altogether. As it was, the smell clung to his memory more than the locker itself.

“Ah,” Armin hummed knowingly, like he could picture the exact hallway. He adjusted the strap of his backpack and let his gaze wander, flicking from one face to another in the crowd. It was instinct for him by now; Bertholdt knew that quiet cataloging Armin always did. He was already sorting through which kids looked new, who seemed lost, and who might need directions.

Armin had this unshakable dream of being the helpful upperclassman, the one who stepped in for freshmen the way he always wished someone had for him.

Bertholdt’s mouth twitched at the memory of last year: the group of freshmen Armin had guided down the wrong wing of the building, only to have them snicker at his haircut once his back was turned. The look on Armin’s face when he overheard had been somewhere between betrayal and hurt pride had even stung Bertholdt more than he wanted to admit. But the next day, Armin had been right back at it, hopeful as ever. That was just Armin: bruised easily, but never hardened.

Before Bertholdt could say anything, a voice cut through the hallway noise, louder than the rest.

“Are those my favorite nerds?!”

The shout carried easily over the hum of chatter, followed almost immediately by the pounding slap of sneakers against tile. Bertholdt didn’t even need to look. You never confused those voices. If you recognized one, you always recognized the other.

Sasha and Connie.

“Man, I missed you guys!” Connie’s grin was wide enough to split his face as he barreled into Armin, looping an arm around his shoulders with a wrestler’s grip. Before Armin could react, Connie’s free hand went straight for his hair, ruffling it mercilessly.

“Connie!” Armin squawked, but laughter bubbled up anyway, betraying him as he tried and failed to duck away.

Sasha, right on his heels, beelined for Bertholdt with her arms thrown wide. She clearly intended to mirror Connie’s ambush, but halfway into her run seemed to remember just how tall Bertholdt actually was. Instead of a full tackle, she ended up looping him in an awkward half-hug around the waist, laughing at herself as she let go.

“Is it just me, or have you grown again?” Sasha leaned back to squint up at him, tilting her chin so far he thought her neck might snap. She gave him a once-over like she expected him to sprout another inch right then and there.

Bertholdt let out a faint huff, shaking his head. “You saw me, like, last month at the mall.”

That earned him a smack from Connie, who swatted the back of Sasha’s head with exaggerated irritation.

“Quit exaggerating,” Connie groaned.

Sasha yelped dramatically, both hands flying to the spot as if she’d been fatally wounded. “You’re so mean!”

And just like that, they slipped back into their rhythm of Connie’s relentless teasing, Sasha’s theatrical whining. It was impossible to separate the two of them, impossible not to see how they fit together like mismatched puzzle pieces.

Bertholdt’s lips tugged into a quiet smile before he even realized it. Summer had felt long, stretching and dragging, but moments like this reminded him how nothing important ever really shifted.

“So,” Armin said once Sasha’s whining had softened into mutters, “are you guys ready to be seniors?”

He asked it with that mix of sincerity and nerdy excitement only he could pull off. The three of them exchanged looks in unison, because let’s be honest, no one else was nearly as thrilled. The title wasn’t what mattered. It was what came after. Graduation was suddenly closer than it had ever been.

Still, Armin’s enthusiasm had a way of lightening the air, making the weight of it all feel less sharp. Even if Connie groaned, even if Sasha rolled her eyes, none of them could quite erase the smiles tugging at their mouths.

“Dude, I think you’re the only person who can make school of all things sound exciting,” Connie teased, his voice dripping with disbelief as he side-eyed Armin.

Armin ducked his head, a sheepish laugh escaping him as his cheeks colored pink. The blush made his grin all the more obvious, that kind of grin that gave him away instantly. He knew he sounded nerdy, but he couldn’t help himself. Bertholdt caught it and, as always, felt a flicker of fondness that he wouldn’t dare say out loud.

“Oh, right!” Sasha suddenly blurted, louder than necessary, as if remembering something critical. She swung her bag forward in one dramatic motion, nearly clipping a freshman in the shoulder, and crouched slightly as she yanked at the zipper. “What’s your guys’ schedules? I totally forgot to send mine in the group chat.”

Her hand dove inside the depths of her backpack until she came up victorious, paper clenched tight.

Everyone else followed her lead immediately, almost like muscle memory. Three zippers in near unison, three hands fishing around for the folded sheets of paper they’d been handed weeks ago in the mail but had barely looked at since. It was tradition now to save the big reveal for the first day.

“…Uh, I have Calculus first period!” Armin announced, eyes darting across his schedule. His tone lifted with each word, bright and unashamedly proud, and Bertholdt could see the way his eyes actually seemed to sparkle. Of course they did. His paper was covered in nothing but advanced classes.

Bertholdt’s lips pressed together in a faint smile. 

Sheesh. That tracks.

“Shit, are you kidding me?!” Connie’s voice cracked like he’d just been handed the worst news of his life. He groaned, holding his schedule at arm’s length like it was a cursed object. “Spanish. I have Spanish first thing in the morning.”

He didn’t even bother with the rest, just crumpled the sheet into a messy ball with both hands and launched it toward the floor. A couple of sophomores gave him side-eye as they passed, but Connie quickly bent down and snatched the paper back up, cheeks puffed in irritation.

“…Shut up,” he muttered at no one in particular, smoothing out the wrinkles with the heel of his palm. It was peak Connie, loud complaint first, regret second. Everyone who knew him knew how much he dreaded language classes.

“Sweeeet!” Sasha squealed next, practically bouncing on her toes. Her eyes scanned her page once, then twice, before she squeezed the schedule so tightly the paper wrinkled. “I got cooking! This is perfect!”

She hugged the paper to her chest like it was a sacred gift, beaming from ear to ear. Bertholdt wasn’t surprised. With the way she’d dedicated herself to the cooking club the past few years with dragging them all into her taste-tests, filling their group chat with pictures of her experiments, it was no shock the school had slipped the class onto her schedule again.

Finally, it was Bertholdt’s turn.

He tugged his own folded paper from his backpack, careful not to rip the edges. The sheet had been sitting in there since the summer, untouched. He usually read his schedule the second he got it, but ever since becoming close with this group, it had turned into a ritual to wait until they were together. Either that, or someone caved early and spoiled it in the chat.

He smoothed the creases against his palm and unfolded it.

“And I have…” his voice trailed as his eyes scanned the top line. The first word hit him instantly, and something in his chest loosened. “…English.”

Relief colored his tone, subtle but there. Of all the possible first-period classes, that one was the best-case scenario. He’d always liked English, reading since he was little, and theater later on. It was the one subject that didn’t feel like work. A good way to ease into the day.

Maybe this year won’t be so bad after all, he thought, tucking the paper back into his bag. 

Or so I hope.

“Aw, I was hoping one of us had the same first period,” Sasha whined, her face falling as she flipped her paper around to compare with Connie’s. Her pout didn’t last long. Within seconds, the two of them realized their schedules were nearly identical. They lit up at the discovery, side-by-side like mirror images.

Halves of a whole. Of course they’d be stuck together.

“Well, look at the bright side,” Armin cut in, voice gentle, reassuring, “we still have to find the others and figure out their schedules.” His smile spread wide, the kind of smile that could take the edge off any disappointment. Still, Bertholdt couldn’t help thinking: realistically, the chances of anyone else having Armin’s advanced classes were slim. Maybe Marco. Definitely not Connie or Sasha.

“Speaking of the others, where are they?” Connie asked, craning his neck to look down the hallway.

The four of them exchanged glances, silent, wordless, each face saying the same thing: no clue. Their heads turned almost in sync, scanning the crowd for familiar hair colors or voices.

“Maybe the cafeteria? Getting breakfast?” Sasha offered, eyes already darting toward the hall that led that way.

Both Armin and Bertholdt gave quiet hums of agreement. It wasn’t a bad guess.

But Connie only smirked knowingly and nudged her shoulder with his. “Please. You’re just hoping you can bribe people for their food.”

Sasha gasped like he’d accused her of a crime, her hand pressed dramatically to her chest. “How dare you,” she whispered, eyes wide, playing it up like she’d been stabbed in the heart. But the corner of her grin twitched almost immediately, giving her away. Connie had her nailed. Everyone knew that the second food entered the equation, Sasha was already halfway there.

“Okay, okay! Yeah, maybeeee that too,” she admitted with a sheepish laugh, waving him off. “But think about it! They’re probably getting breakfast?” Her eyes darted to Armin and Bertholdt like backup soldiers she could call in for reinforcement, silently begging them to side with her before Connie tore her down with another “Sasha only thinks about food” rant.

“Well, we could just text the group chat—” Bertholdt started carefully, but his quiet voice didn’t stand a chance.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Sasha practically leapt at him, shoving her finger against his lips to hush him like he was a toddler about to ruin Christmas. “The fun part is hunting them down.”

She puffed her chest out proudly, like she’d just declared herself team captain in some post-apocalyptic scavenger hunt. Honestly, Bertholdt wouldn’t have been surprised if she actually dropped to her knees right there to inspect the hallway for crumbs like some wilderness tracker.

Armin, ever patient, chuckled softly. “Alright, I guess we'd better go to the cafeteria and look for them then. I wouldn’t mind food anyway… all I had this morning was a stale granola bar.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking faintly embarrassed.

“Yes!” Sasha squealed, snatching her finger away from Bertholdt’s lips like she’d just secured a championship win. She threw her fist in the air in a ridiculous victory pose, hair bouncing as she spun on her heel with every intention of bolting straight down the hallway.

Connie didn’t even hesitate; he latched onto the strap of her backpack with both hands, digging in his heels like he was holding back a dog lunging at a squirrel. “Heel, Sasha! Heel!” he barked, voice carrying down the corridor.

“Let go, Connie!” she screeched, kicking her legs backward in mock protest, though her laughter completely ruined the act. She tugged, twisted, leaned forward with all her weight, but Connie only doubled down, leaning back and letting her drag him a few feet like a stubborn anchor. The scene was ridiculous enough to earn a few snorts from passing students.

Trailing several paces behind, Bertholdt ducked his head, heat creeping into his cheeks. The clamor of Sasha and Connie’s theatrics bounced off the lockers and tile floor, making it impossible to pretend they weren’t the loudest people in the building. He fixed his eyes on the ground instead, half-polished tiles scuffed up with dirt, streaks from shoes, and janitor mops. If he just stared hard enough, maybe the whole hallway would forget he was with them.

By the time they made it to the cafeteria, after several minutes of rushed walking to keep up with their chaotic “dog and leash” routine, the sheer wall of noise hit them instantly. The air buzzed with the usual morning chaos of trays clattering onto tables, sneakers squeaking as kids dodged around one another, voices carrying in every direction. But the loudest sound of all came from a familiar source planted dead center: Eren and Jean, already squared off, their argument practically drawing a ring of spectators.

“—I’m telling you, it’s not that hard to draw a stick figure!” Jean barked, gesturing wildly, his hands slicing through the air like he was conducting an orchestra.

“Shut up, horseface! At least I don’t waste my time sketching ugly self-portraits!” Eren snapped back, fists balled at his sides, his whole body thrumming with energy like he might spring at Jean at any second.

Right beside them, Mikasa and Marco stood planted like the designated handlers. Mikasa’s expression was unreadable, her face blank and calm, as though she were watching two pigeons peck at breadcrumbs in the street. Marco, however, looked about five seconds away from cardiac arrest, his brows pinched tight, eyes darting anxiously between the two boys like a referee who knew he’d already lost control of the match.

“Found them,” Connie muttered dryly, finally releasing Sasha’s backpack strap and letting it drop with a soft thump against her back.

The group slid closer, weaving through the cafeteria crowd to join the chaos. Greetings came in bursts of quick hugs, claps on the shoulder, cheerful “hi’s” muffled beneath the rising tide of Eren and Jean’s yelling match. Before long, papers were rustling again as everyone compared schedules, sheets of folded white fluttering between hands.

Eren’s first period: U.S. Government.

Mikasa’s first period: U.S. Government.

Jean’s first period: Art I.

Marco’s first period: Calculus.

As Bertholdt’s eyes skimmed the schedules, he caught a hushed chuckle from Connie out of the corner of his ear, pitched just low enough for Sasha.

“Kinda creepy how Mikasa and Eren always end up in the same classes,” Connie whispered, amusement dripping from his tone.

Bertholdt fought the twitch of a smile, biting down the laugh bubbling in his chest. Creepy, sure, but not in a bad way. More like in a funny, inevitable kind of way. Mikasa wasn’t just in Eren’s classes; she was in his orbit, his shadow, his bodyguard-slash-guardian angel. She never looked like she minded either, her rare, soft smiles almost always surfacing when they lined up their schedules side by side. Eren brushed it off every time, insisting it was just “dumb luck.” But anyone who paid attention could see the way his shoulders eased, the small flicker of relief in his eyes. He wasn’t annoyed. He was grateful.

They drifted into small talk, filling the gaps with random updates about their summers, even though, truthfully, there wasn’t much they didn’t already know. With the group chat constantly buzzing, everyone was well aware of Sasha’s failed attempt to make “midnight spaghetti tacos,” Connie’s tragic sunburn from forgetting sunscreen, and Armin’s rabbit-hole obsession with obscure naval history documentaries. Still, it felt different saying it out loud, laughing together in the same space.

And in classic Sasha fashion, she somehow managed to hustle four sophomores out of their breakfast by the time they were ready to leave. Nobody was sure how she did it; one second she was sweet-talking, the next she was walking away with a tray stacked like she’d just raided a buffet. By the time they regrouped, she had already torn through two milk cartons and was polishing off a sausage biscuit like she hadn’t eaten in days. She was less a teenage girl and more like a half-starved wolf who had learned how to smile politely while devouring prey.

On their way out of the cafeteria, chatter buzzing, they nearly collided with a familiar duo that always drew eyes no matter where they went: 

Ymir and Historia.

“Well, look what lovebirds finally decided to show up,” Jean muttered, a smirk tugging at his lips as he crossed his arms.

Ymir didn’t miss a beat. With the arm already draped lazily around Historia’s shoulders, she casually flipped Jean the bird where only he could see, her smirk sharp as ever. Historia, blissfully unaware of the exchange, beamed at the rest of them, her smile bright enough to rival the sun.

“Awww, someone’s just mad they don’t have a girlfriend as precious as mine,” Ymir fired back, tone dripping with smugness. She tilted her head down and buried her face against Historia’s hair, inhaling loudly just to make Jean scowl harder. Historia giggled, the sound warm and airy, and honestly? It was unfair how disgustingly adorable they were.

Bertholdt couldn’t even pretend otherwise; they were easily the cutest couple he’d ever seen outside of a book or a movie. There was a reason half the school called them “relationship goals.”

“Don’t mind her, she hasn’t changed a bit,” Historia joked lightly, slipping out from under Ymir’s arm just long enough to lace their fingers together. The gesture was so simple, so instinctive, it almost made Bertholdt’s chest ache. It wasn’t loud like Ymir’s bragging, no smirk, no flare for attention, but it carried a weight that spoke louder than anything else. That kind of quiet intimacy made their whole dynamic feel untouchable, like it belonged to a world of its own.

“…Yeah, and I doubt she ever will,” Jean muttered, the corner of his mouth twisting. He probably hadn’t meant for anyone to hear, but Marco did, of course. Marco always did. Ever the peacemaker, he gave Jean’s back a light pat. The touch was so natural between them that it drew out a reluctant smile from Jean, like he’d been caught soft-handed despite himself.

They all slipped back into conversation after that, trading quick updates and stories that tumbled over each other. Historia went down the line giving hugs, real ones, not the half-hearted kind that barely lasted a second. She hugged like she meant it, like she wanted people to feel it. It was almost unfair; every single person melted a little under her warmth. Even Sasha, who wasn’t usually shy about anything, looked a little flustered afterward, scratching at the back of her neck like she didn’t know where to put her hands. Ymir noticed, too, of course she did. Her narrowed eyes followed every hug, jaw tight in a way that screamed territorial, though Bertholdt knew she’d rather eat glass than admit it out loud.

Then came the schedules again:

Ymir’s first period: Gym.

Historia’s: Photography.

Bertholdt didn’t even bother saying his. His mind had already tuned out, too aware of the second hand ticking toward disaster. He loved his friends, he really did, but punctuality had a sharper pull than nostalgia. Especially today. Especially for English. His knee bounced restlessly, foot tapping a rapid rhythm against the tile, eyes flicking between the clock on the wall and the knot of friends laughing like they had all the time in the world. He could practically feel lateness breathing down his neck.

Couldn’t they save this for lunch?

“…Hey, guys, it’s almost time for class,” he cut in, words slipping out sharper than he meant. His voice landed in the middle of Eren and Jean’s latest bicker, something about who was worse at math, and for a moment, the whole group froze. Every head turned his way like he’d broken some unwritten rule.

Heat surged up Bertholdt’s neck. He instantly regretted opening his mouth, eyes darting away in search of anywhere else to look. He prayed someone else would take the spotlight off him, fast.

“Crap, you’re right! And my class is across the entire school!” Connie blurted, panic snapping his posture rigid. The reminder of his first-period Spanish crashed down on him like a death sentence.

“Shit, me too!” Jean said, his voice pitching up. He shared a look with Connie that screamed, "We’re screwed." Without another word or goodbye, the two of them bolted, full tilt, backpacks bouncing behind them. By the time they hit the far end of the hall, it had already turned into a race.

Eren snorted when he caught sight of Jean’s bag hanging wide open, papers threatening to spill everywhere. He knew exactly why, too. He’d unzipped it behind Jean’s back a few minutes earlier, and the smugness in his grin gave him away.

“Guess this means see you guys at lunch?” Eren said casually, shouldering his bag higher like he hadn’t just set up a disaster.

The group nodded in agreement. Sasha, unsurprisingly, was the most enthusiastic; her face lit up at the mention of food, like lunch was the only real reason she bothered to come to school in the first place.

With that, everyone peeled off in different directions, backpacks shifting higher on shoulders, shoes squeaking faintly against the tile. The group scattered fast, like marbles dropped on the floor, some still walking in pairs, chattering away, others darting down separate halls.

“See you later, Bert!” Marco said with that soft, dependable smile of his, giving a little wave as he adjusted his backpack strap over his shoulder. Bertholdt nodded back, trying to return it, but probably looking more stiff than friendly.

“Don’t be late!” Historia teased gently as she and Ymir veered off, hands still linked. Ymir just tossed him a lazy salute, smirk sharp enough to say she meant the opposite.

“Lunch,” Sasha said, like it was a vow, finger pointing at him for emphasis.

Bertholdt gave her a half-smile, small but real, and then they were gone.

And just like that, he was left on his own.

Not that he minded, really. It was almost a relief. Less noise, less pressure to keep up. His steps fell into a quieter rhythm as he made his way through the hallway, shoulders unconsciously hunching in the faint hope of making himself smaller. Which, of course, was impossible.

His head dipped low, eyes flicking over the sea of faces around him. Most of them he recognized in that vague, background kind of way, the same kids he’d seen for years, drifting through the same halls. A few new faces stood out, wide-eyed freshmen clutching their schedules like lifelines. Every so often, someone’s gaze would catch on him. He felt it immediately, like a spotlight cutting through. He always looked away too fast, eyes darting to the floor or a poster on the wall, heat prickling his ears. 

Ugh. Awkward. Why did eye contact have to feel like a crime?

His height didn’t help, either. Towering over nearly everyone made him impossible to miss, no matter how hard he tried to blend in. It was like he was walking through the hall with a neon sign that read “Hey, look at me! Yes, I know I’m tall, thanks for noticing!” Sometimes, he swore he could feel people staring just at the back of his head.

Still, as the crowd thinned near his wing of the building, a little of the weight eased off his shoulders. He knew where he was going. And more importantly, he reminded himself with a small, grounding breath, English was his favorite subject. That had to count for something. If there was any class worth showing up early to, it was this one.

By the time he reached the door, his nerves had mostly steadied. Mostly. He took in one last inhale, straightened his spine, then ducked, only slightly, to avoid clipping the top of the doorframe on his way in.

The room was already mostly full, chatter buzzing low as students slid into their usual seats. He froze for half a beat, scanning quickly. His gaze landed on the teacher, who glanced up just long enough for him to flash a small, awkward smile. Immediately, regret kicked him in the chest. 

Why did I do that? She’s not going to remember. She’s got twenty other kids walking in. But sure, go ahead and make it weird for yourself for the next nine months.

He shuffled toward an empty desk near the windows, halfway down the row. Not too close to the front, thankfully, but not all the way in the back either. Just… middle. Safe. From here, he could see the board perfectly, and the window beside him gave him a decent view of the quad outside. Not bad, he admitted, lowering into the seat and setting his bag down carefully at his feet.

DING, DING, DING!

The bell echoed sharply through the room, snapping the chatter in half. Conversations fizzled, notebooks opened, and the room gradually tilted into silence as eyes shifted forward. Bertholdt straightened a little in his chair, pulse jumping with that familiar mix of nerves and anticipation. First period. No turning back now.

20 Minutes Later

Not even halfway into the first period, and they were already doing icebreakers.

Shit.

That was all Bertholdt could think, though really, he should’ve seen it coming. First day of school, first class of the day, of course teachers wanted to force kids into “fun little games” to warm everyone up. Never mind the fact that most of them already knew each other from the last few years.

Still, Ms. Nanaba had that bright, practiced tone like this was going to be revolutionary, like they’d all discover something new and life-changing about each other if they just went along with it. Most kids did what they always did: tossed out half-baked answers to speed things along, like they were reading off the first three nouns that popped into their heads. Favorite color? Blue. Favorite food? Pizza. Future dream job? Uh… astronaut.

Then there were the others, the ones who treated it like a job interview. Full, detailed explanations with hand gestures and passion behind their voices, the kind that dragged the whole process on for an extra five minutes longer than necessary. Nobody cared. Really, nobody cared.

Bertholdt zoned out halfway through someone explaining their devotion to soccer, his gaze shifting to the window beside him. The sun cast long rectangles of light across the classroom floor, dust floating in the beams. Outside, kids crossed the quad between buildings, shoulders hunched under backpacks, laughter carrying faintly through the glass. A little muffled, a little distant, like background noise to the bubble of the classroom.

It wasn’t peaceful for long.

The moment was shattered with a sudden bang, violent, the sound of wood slamming against drywall like a gunshot in the quiet room.

The classroom door had burst open so hard it ricocheted, smacking the wall with a jarring crack that echoed through every corner. The noise sliced clean through the low hum of chatter, cutting off mid-sentences, mid-laughs. A couple of kids even flinched in their seats, shoulders jerking up toward their ears.

Conversations stopped dead. Pencils froze mid-scribble. Heads swiveled in unison toward the doorway like a flock of birds spooked into stillness.

Bertholdt’s head snapped up too, his chest tightening with an involuntary jolt. His heart gave a stutter, as if his body was bracing for the attention even though it wasn’t on him. He hated loud noises, hated how they yanked him out of his careful invisibility.

His gaze locked on the source.

A figure filled the doorway, the door itself still trembling faintly on its hinges from the blow.

The kid standing there looked… wrecked. Not wrecked in appearance, no, he was broad-shouldered, tall, hair swept in a way that probably would’ve looked purposeful if he hadn’t been panting like he’d just run a marathon. His chest heaved under his t-shirt, breaths ragged and uneven, loud enough that the silence in the room only made them sharper. One hand braced against the doorframe like he needed it to keep himself standing, shoulders rising and falling in heavy rhythm.

He wasn’t just winded. He was really winded.

Sheesh, Bertholdt thought, blinking slowly. 

Bit of a dramatic entrance, don’t you think?

The kid’s frame, built in a way most high schoolers weren’t yet, seemed to shrink the doorway. He stood bent slightly forward, like he hadn’t decided whether to fully enter or just keep leaning there and let the suspense hang.

“Well,” Ms. Nanaba finally broke the silence, her voice a careful mix of lightness and dry humor. “Quite the way to introduce yourself, huh, kid?”

Her tone wasn’t stern, wasn’t angry, just a little startled, a little amused, like she’d seen it before and decided it wasn’t worth the energy of a scolding.

The silence stretched again, taut like a wire pulled tight. Painfully heavy.

Everyone waited. For him to speak. For something. Even Bertholdt, who rarely gave new students much thought, found himself leaning ever so slightly forward in his chair without meaning to. He’d never seen this boy before, not in the halls, not in the cafeteria, and judging by the looks darting between classmates, neither had anyone else. 

Whoever he was, he had them all in his grip.

“Ah, right, right,” the boy finally said, words rough but enough to carry. He lifted one hand in a quick hang-on gesture, still catching his breath.

The sound of his deep voice cracked through the stillness, like gravel ground smooth.

Bertholdt’s brows knit. 

What the hell did he do before this to be that out of breath? Did he sprint here from across town? From another planet?

It felt absurd. Like watching a scene straight out of a movie, the cliché kind where some transfer student storms in late with perfect timing, dramatic music swelling behind him, the whole room stunned into silence. Except this wasn’t a movie. This was first-period English on the first day of school. And somehow, that contrast made it stranger.

Time dragged. Maybe it was only a few seconds, maybe half a minute. Either way, it stretched thin with nothing but the sound of the kid’s uneven breathing filling the room.

Then, finally, he straightened.

Slowly, he pushed off the doorframe and stood at his full height. His backpack slung low over one shoulder, straps loose, like he hadn’t cared enough to tighten them. He scanned the classroom, really scanned it.

His eyes were sharp, hazel, the kind that cut through people rather than skimmed past. They didn’t dart nervously like most new students who hated the spotlight. No. His gaze swept deliberately, pausing long enough to make people squirm in their seats. It was clear: he wanted to see. He wanted to be seen.

It wasn’t shyness. It wasn’t discomfort. It was presence.

The longer he stood there, the more it felt intentional, like he thrived on the attention, like he knew exactly what effect he had.

Bertholdt shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. His height already made him feel like he dragged a spotlight around, whether he wanted it or not. He couldn’t imagine wanting that kind of scrutiny.

Finally, the boy broke the tension with a low chuckle. “Excuse me for my, uh—entrance.”

The laugh was awkward on the surface, but Bertholdt caught something underneath it. Not embarrassment. Not an apology. It was… dismissal. Like he was brushing the whole thing off with a wave of his hand. The sound was deep, grounded, with that same confident roughness in it.

Masculine. That was the word Bertholdt landed on. Masculine in a way that felt deliberate, practiced even. Though whether that was good or bad, he couldn’t decide.

“My name’s Reiner,” the boy continued, his voice clearer now, sharper. He dipped his head in a small nod, and the corner of his mouth tugged into a faint, practiced smirk. “Reiner Braun.”

The silence broke, not with sound, but with weight. The weight of his name hung heavy in the air.

Bertholdt sat frozen for a moment longer, pulse ticking faster in his chest for reasons he couldn’t pin down. Maybe it was the delivery. Maybe it was the cut of those hazel eyes as they raked over the room. Or maybe it was the unshakable feeling that, for better or worse, “Reiner Braun” wasn’t a name he was going to forget anytime soon.

Chapter Text

POV: Bertholdt

Reiner. Reiner Braun.

The name had a salty taste to it on his tongue. He wasn’t sure why; he’d only “known” the guy for all of two minutes. Maybe it was the way he said it, like he owned the room already, like he was announcing himself as the main character of everyone else’s story. That tone, the way his voice carried in that confident, careless way. The kind of voice that already knew people would listen.

Bertholdt could practically hear the arrogance dripping from it. The kind of arrogance that usually came with a letterman jacket and a permanent smirk.

Great. Another one of those guys.

Now, Bertholdt never had a problem with most people in school. Sure, there were jerks, but he’d learned to tune them out, such as the loudmouths in the back of the room who thought they were comedians, the kids who lived for attention, even if it meant humiliating someone else. He’d gotten good at recognizing those types from a mile away. They were background noise, static in a place already too crowded.

But there was a special kind of person he did have a problem with.

The jocks.

The ones who strutted down the hallways like they owned them with their big arms, big egos, and small empathy. The ones who thought being on a team made them untouchable. They always had a new girl clinging to them, always had a story about their “big game,” and never, ever seemed to care about anything beyond their own little world of touchdowns and Friday-night spotlights. Grades? Who cared? They were already set for college with their “potential” and “scholarships.”

That’s what made Bertholdt hate them. Not just their arrogance, but their entitlement. The way they stomped through life like it owed them something, like other people were just background noise in their little highlight reel. The way they never seemed to notice how easily they stepped on everyone else.

And maybe, maybe he could’ve ignored them and just looked the other way like most people did. But it was kind of hard to ignore a problem that noticed you first.

He was tall. Too tall to fade into the background. The kind of tall that made him easy to spot across a hallway, easy to point out, easy to tease. Quiet, easygoing, never picked fights, but in their eyes, he was the perfect target, basically. He’d learned that pretty early on.

The first time someone shoved him in the hallway and called him “Stretch,” he’d laughed it off. Tried to act like it didn’t bother him, like he could take a joke. The second time, he’d just kept walking, pretending not to hear. By the third, it stopped being funny. By mid-freshman year, it was routine, not every day, not constant, but enough. Enough to stick with him. Enough to make him start walking with his shoulders a little more slouched, hoping maybe it’d make him less noticeable. It didn’t.

Armin and Marco had been the only ones who didn’t treat him that way. He’d met them by accident. Literally.

Some idiot had “accidentally” rammed into Armin during lunch, sending his entire tray of food flying. The plate had smacked straight into Bertholdt’s chest with a wet slap, sending gravy, mashed potatoes, and all right on him. Armin had looked mortified, stammering out apologies while frantically trying to wipe Bertholdt’s shirt with a stack of napkins that only made it worse. Then Marco had appeared out of nowhere, smiling like this was somehow normal, handing Bertholdt his own hoodie to wear and helping both of them clean up.

It had been awkward. Messy. Weirdly… nice.

That was the start of it. Chaos and kindness, the foundation of most of his friendships, honestly.

So yeah, Bertholdt had his reasons for side-eyeing the jock type. He could smell them from a mile away, that mix of ego, deodorant, and self-importance that always carried a hint of trouble. Like sharks circling the water.

And right now, every instinct in him was screaming that Reiner Braun was one of them.

“Perfect…” Bertholdt muttered under his breath, low enough that only his desk could hear.

He turned his head toward the window, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the faint streaks of sunlight cutting through the glass, anything to avoid making eye contact with the blonde at the front of the room.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to have you in my class this year, Mr. Braun,” Ms. Nanaba said, her tone cheerfully unfazed, as if a door hadn’t just slammed open like a crime scene raid. “Why don’t you find an empty seat so we can get back to our little icebreakers?”

Icebreakers. Fantastic. Just what Bertholdt needed, a forced social hour to start the year, where everyone overshared something personal and then forgot each other’s names by lunch.

Reiner didn’t move right away. He stood there for a few beats longer, scanning the room like he was searching for something, or someone. His gaze drifted slowly over each row, calm but assessing. When it finally shifted toward the back, Bertholdt could feel it before he even looked.

Oh no.

Of course. Of course, the only empty seat left was the one right next to him.

Bertholdt’s stomach sank. He leaned his cheek against his palm and stared even harder out the window, as if sheer willpower could make him invisible. Maybe if he stayed perfectly still, Reiner would mistake the seat for being taken. Maybe the universe would throw him a bone for once.

Nope.

The footsteps started in a slow, steady, unhurried manner, and somehow still loud enough to echo in his head. The kind of walk that said, “yeah, I know everyone’s watching me.” Each step came closer, confident to the point of obnoxious. Then came the smell: Axe. Of course it was Axe. Strong enough to peel paint off the walls. A scent so strong it practically screamed he was afraid of smelling normal.

Bertholdt’s nose twitched. He swallowed a sigh, resisting the very real urge to cough.

Then came the sound of the screech of metal chair legs dragging against the floor, sharp enough to make half the class flinch. Reiner dropped his bag on the floor without a care in the world and slumped into the seat beside him like he was claiming it, sprawling back as if the world would adjust around him to make room. His arms stretched wide, elbows jutting out until one came dangerously close to clipping Bertholdt in the face.

Bertholdt jerked his head back a little, shoulders tensing. Does this guy have zero spatial awareness?

“Sup,” Reiner murmured finally, voice low but confident, casual in that annoyingly easy way that only people who’d never felt awkward in their lives could manage.

Bertholdt froze. Didn’t look. Didn’t breathe. Just stared dead ahead at the board, where Ms. Nanaba was already calling on some poor kid to introduce themselves and share their favorite book.

He could feel Reiner’s gaze on him, waiting for a response. Probably wondering if he was deaf.

Nope. Not deaf. Just very, very uninterested.

After a long pause, Reiner finally seemed to give up, leaning back with an exhale that somehow managed to sound smug. Bertholdt didn’t have to look to know what he was doing: the telltale silence, then the shift of movement. The angle of his head tilted toward the front rows, where a group of girls was whispering and giggling.

Yep. Called it. Typical.

Bertholdt let out a quiet sigh through his nose and turned his focus back to the window, the glass fogged faintly from the AC humming overhead. Outside, sunlight filtered through the thin film of clouds, casting lazy strips of light across the trees beyond the football field. A small bird that was gray with flecks of brown landed on a distant branch, hopping once before fluffing its wings.

For a moment, Bertholdt let his mind drift there, following the small, meaningless movement. It was easier than focusing on the chatter around him. The room buzzed faintly with pens clicking, sneakers squeaking against tile, the constant murmur of small talk that filled the space between Ms. Nanaba’s occasional firm voice.

But even with his eyes on the window, he could still see that new kid in the faint reflection. Reiner. Slouched back like he owned the place, one knee bent out under his desk, his mouth curled in a lazy half-grin that somehow managed to look both confident and smug. There was an ease to him, like this classroom, this school, this entire world had been waiting for him to walk in and claim it.

Bertholdt didn’t need to hear another word to know what kind of person he was dealing with.

He also didn’t know whether to be surprised or not when he noticed movement in the reflection of those same girls in the middle rows, the ones who always whispered and giggled through half of every class, turning in perfect unison. They didn’t even try to be subtle. Their heads tilted, ponytails swinging, each one studying Reiner like they were looking over a menu.

Three seconds of hushed whispers later, a shared burst of laughter, and then the inevitable: a wave.

Bertholdt didn’t even have time to roll his eyes before Reiner noticed.

Of course he noticed.

That faintly disinterested look melted instantly into a sly, confident smirk. His head tilted just a bit, golden hair catching the light, eyes narrowing in a way that made it obvious he’d done this before, probably a hundred times. He gave the girls a slow, almost teasing wave back, like he was acknowledging loyal fans. The smirk deepened when one of them—Mina, Bertholdt remembered, from sophomore English two years ago—covered her mouth and whispered something to her friend, cheeks pink as she laughed.

A quick look. That’s all it ever took for girls like them.

That was all the confirmation Bertholdt needed. He could already tell he was in trouble, and not in any dramatic, life-ruining way, but in that “great, here comes another self-absorbed jock” kind of way. The kind of guy that never had to earn people’s attention; it just came to him naturally. Reiner had that energy. Confident. Loud without even trying. Too charming for his own good.

Bertholdt had seen guys like him from afar plenty of times. The ones who always took up too much space in hallways, lunch tables, and even conversations. But seeing it this close, watching it unfold one desk away? It was a front-row seat to everything he usually avoided.

He shifted in his chair and looked back toward the window, hoping to mentally block out the chaos brewing around him.

But then—

“Reiner,” Ms. Nanaba’s voice cut through the room like a whip, sharp enough to silence half the laughter. “Why don’t you introduce yourself since you’ve already seemed to be getting along just fine with our other students?”

Her tone carried that polite edge that teachers used when they were two seconds from losing patience but too professional to yell. She was standing near the whiteboard, clipboard pressed against her hip, one eyebrow raised high in warning.

Reiner froze for a second, his smirk flattening. He looked up at her like she’d just told him to do something unthinkable. His face said, “Seriously? Right now?” But Ms. Nanaba didn’t so much as blink.

The whole class fell into a thick, anticipatory silence. Even the air felt heavier, charged with that shared, silent thrill of waiting for someone else to get scolded. Bertholdt sat up a little straighter, lips twitching. Maybe this would finally be it, maybe Reiner would actually humiliate himself. Just once.

“…Uh, yeah, sure, why not?” Reiner finally said after a few seconds, breaking the tension with an easy shrug. He cleared his throat, sitting up slightly, one large hand rubbing the back of his neck like he was stalling for time.

The low buzz of the ceiling lights filled the silence again. Everyone’s eyes were locked on him, some curious, others clearly entertained. The girls were practically leaning forward in their seats, waiting for him to say something else.

Bertholdt leaned his chin into his hand, pretending to be bored while secretly watching every move out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, my name’s Reiner, obviously,” he started, voice deep and smooth in that effortlessly confident way that immediately got attention. “And I play football, which was pretty popular at my last school—”

He paused deliberately, letting the line hang there like bait. Then, predictably, he turned toward the group of girls, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“—and I’m single.”

The words dropped into the silence like a spark in gasoline.

The girls erupted into quiet laughter, one of them gasping an “oh my gosh” under her breath. Someone from the back of the room whistled, and the boys around them snorted in approval, that familiar mix of admiration and mockery that came with every dumb jock comment that somehow worked.

Bertholdt wanted to sink into his chair and disappear into the floor.

Wow.

He wasn’t sure if it was secondhand embarrassment or actual disbelief. Reiner had really just said that without hesitation, without shame, and the worst part was that it worked. It actually worked. The girls were smiling, the guys were grinning, and Reiner looked like he’d just scored some kind of invisible touchdown.

He sat there like a king, basking in the glow of his own ridiculous charm.

Bertholdt exhaled slowly through his nose.

Across the room, Ms. Nanaba rolled her eyes. Bertholdt did the same, perfectly synchronized, though for entirely different reasons. Hers said she was too old for this, while his said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Typical.

Reiner Braun had officially checked every box on the “arrogant new guy” checklist, and it wasn’t even lunch yet.

“Thank you, Mr. Braun, for such… unique points about yourself,” Ms. Nanaba said finally, her tone so dry it could’ve started a fire. She scribbled something on her clipboard, muttering under her breath, likely counting down the days until the next long weekend.

Reiner leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh, one arm draped carelessly over the backrest. The movement was lazy and unapologetically confident. His elbow brushed just barely against Bertholdt’s arm, and that was all it took for Bertholdt to tense up, shifting an inch to the side as if contact alone might infect him with whatever strange social magnetism Reiner had.

The smirk on Reiner’s face didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened.

Well, now that that was out of the way and he had all the proof he needed on Reiner, he could go back to staring out the window—

“Hmm… Bertholdt, mind introducing yourself next?” Ms. Nanaba’s voice cut through the lingering hum of laughter like the sudden snap of a ruler against a desk.

The sound in the classroom deflated instantly. A hush fell, quiet but charged, as though the air itself leaned forward to listen. Heads began to turn one by one, each slow glance catching the next, until every pair of eyes inevitably landed on him. On Bertholdt Hoover, the tall, anxious kid sitting stiffly beside the golden boy of the hour.

Of course she’d call him. Of course.

He should’ve seen it coming the moment Reiner Braun walked in with a bright grin, a confident stride, a new student aura that screamed “varsity athlete.” Reiner had barely said anything with the whole ten seconds of attention he had before the entire room collectively decided they loved him. The kind of guy who made people laugh within two minutes of existing.

And of course, out of all the seats left, he’d picked the one next to Bertholdt.

He’d actually dared, stupidly enough, to think maybe he’d be spared, that Ms. Nanaba would let him fade into the wallpaper like usual. But apparently, fate liked its comedy awkward and public.

Damn you, Reiner.

Bertholdt turned toward Ms. Nanaba like a man about to face execution. Maybe she meant some other Bertholdt. A different one. A cooler, more articulate Bertholdt who didn’t sound like a human buffering screen when asked to talk.

Yeah. Because there were just so many of those walking around.

“Uh…”

The sound slipped out weakly, barely recognizable as speech. He immediately wished he could reach out and shove it back into his throat.

The pause that followed was brutal, long enough to feel like the world had slowed down around him. He could hear the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights, the scratch of someone’s pencil stopping mid-doodle, even the ticking of the ancient wall clock that had been broken since last year.

A few students exchanged glances. One kid near the front bit back a grin. Someone else coughed into their elbow, the noise echoing painfully loud in the silence.

And then, from right beside him, came a low sound that wasn’t quite laughter, more like amusement pressed through a smirk.

Bertholdt didn’t even have to look. He knew exactly what Reiner’s face looked like right now. That smug, quietly entertained expression of his, like this was the most fascinating show he’d seen in the past five minutes of entering the room.

His palms were slick with sweat against the cool surface of his desk. He dropped his elbow from where it had been propping his chin and clasped his hands together tightly, just to stop them from visibly shaking.

Come on. Just say something normal. Anything. Don’t overthink it.

“I, uhm… I like reading. Theater. And, uh—the beach?”

The words fell out too quickly, like he was afraid they’d evaporate if he didn’t say them fast enough.

The silence that followed was somehow even worse.

He could literally feel that collective, silent judgment. Or maybe it wasn’t even judgment, which was almost worse. It was apathy. The kind of polite, fleeting attention people give before deciding you’re not worth the energy.

Someone clicked a pen. A chair leg scraped against tile. Ms. Nanaba smiled thinly and nodded like she’d been expecting nothing less bland.

Bertholdt’s stomach twisted. He wanted to melt through the floor. Or at least rewind time by about twenty seconds and pick literally any other hobby. Skateboarding. Coding. Collecting baseball cards. Anything but “reading.”

He felt his face heating, starting from the neck first, then cheeks, until the flush burned behind his ears. He could practically feel Reiner’s stare on him, hot and constant, like a spotlight trained on the world’s least interesting act.

Yep. Called it. I hate icebreakers.

He glanced sideways, unable to stop himself. Sure enough, Reiner was watching him with that same faint, amused look with his head tilted just enough to seem lazy about it, but sharp in the way his eyes tracked every nervous movement Bertholdt made. There was something too casual about the way he rested his arm along the back of his chair, posture easy, like this entire room already revolved around him.

Unfair, Bertholdt thought bitterly. People like that don’t have to try.

He yanked his gaze back to his desk, tracing the faint lines in the wood grain as though they’d save him. He could hear Ms. Nanaba moving on to the next student, but it was all background noise now, muffled and distant under the pounding of his own heartbeat.

The quiet awareness of Reiner’s presence lingered like static, prickling just beneath his skin. He tried to ignore it, to breathe normally, but every inhale felt tight, and every exhale carried the weight of embarrassment over something he was surely overthinking.

For a brief, terrible second, he thought Reiner might actually say something. A comment, a joke, some easy little remark that would make the rest of the class laugh again and cement Bertholdt as today’s punchline.

But Reiner didn’t.

Instead, he leaned back with a soft creak of his chair, stretching those annoyingly long legs under the desk, and crossed his arms loosely over his chest. He looked satisfied, somehow, like just watching had been enough.

That faint smirk stayed, the kind that said he wasn’t laughing at him, but he definitely could if he wanted to.

Bertholdt pressed his lips together, trying to keep his sigh quiet. His shoulders slumped an inch as he slid lower in his seat, wishing invisibility were an actual, attainable skill.

The rest of the introductions went on, but he couldn’t focus. His mind replayed the moment again and again, like some cruel mental rerun, each time magnifying how awkward he must have looked. The stutter. The pause. The way his voice cracked right at “the beach.”

Meanwhile, Reiner sat beside him like a calm, unbothered storm. When Ms. Nanaba laughed at another student’s joke, Reiner joined in with a deep, easy laugh, the kind of laugh that drew people in. Bertholdt hated that it sounded almost genuine, too.

Almost. But he already knew what kind of person Reiner was.

Bertholdt exhaled slowly, sinking another inch lower in his chair.

Great. Day one, and he was already sitting next to the human embodiment of every cliché he’d ever read about: smug, charming, effortlessly magnetic, and way too aware of it.

And somehow, deep down, he had a horrible, sinking feeling that Reiner Braun was going to make him regret showing up to this class.

Probably for a long, long time.

50 Minutes Later:

The bell rang.

It was the kind of sound that usually promised freedom, but after fifty minutes of sitting trapped between the window and a walking stereotype in human form, it felt more like a mercy kill.

Bertholdt’s body ached from sitting so stiffly the whole period, pretending to take notes while half-listening to Ms. Nanaba go over the syllabus. His attention had drifted constantly to the sounds around him, like the scratch of pencils, the soft laughter from the middle rows, and every now and then, Reiner’s low voice when someone whispered something to him. He didn’t even have to look to know that half the class had already made it their mission to become Reiner’s new best friend.

So when the bell finally blared, it was almost euphoric.

But it also meant chaos.

As soon as the bell finished its metallic ring, desks scraped across tile and voices filled the room. Within seconds, a small crowd had gathered around Reiner’s desk. Girls from the middle rows, a couple of guys from the back, all talking at once, laughing, and leaning in like moths to a flame.

And Bertholdt, stuck right beside him, might as well have been invisible.

He muttered a quiet “sorry” as he tried to squeeze through the crowd, knocking his knee on the desk leg before awkwardly shoving his long limbs out from under it. His chair screeched as he pushed it back, earning him a glance or two that were immediately redirected toward Reiner again. 

How nice.

By the time he managed to stand, the space was too tight to move. Reiner was smiling at something one of the girls said, posture loose and casual, like this was already his natural habitat. Bertholdt sighed through his nose, muttered another apology when someone’s bag hit his hip, and began the slow, humiliating shimmy past the group.

“Excuse me—uh, sorry, yeah, just—sorry,” he stammered, eyes fixed firmly on the ground as he maneuvered around backpacks and sneakers until he finally stumbled into open space.

Freedom.

He exhaled a long, quiet breath and kept his gaze glued to his scuffed shoes as he made his way out. Not that anyone noticed.

“What a nightmare…” he muttered to himself once he was out in the hall. He took a deep breath, instantly regretted it, and coughed. The hallway smelled like the usual cocktail of body spray, pencil shavings, and whatever faintly sour scent the janitors’ mops hadn’t quite conquered. He wrinkled his nose. 

Right. Don’t breathe through your mouth at school.

He adjusted his backpack strap and trudged into the current of students flooding the hallway. Everyone seemed to be moving in groups, talking too loudly, clogging every available inch of space. Circles of friends gathered in the middle of the hall as if they owned it, and couples stood glued together like they hadn’t seen each other in years. Unfortunately, it was the same every year, just with taller people and better phones.

Bertholdt sighed again, weaving his way through the mess.

Senior year, and it was already off to a miserable start. Only nine months to go. Fantastic.

He finally reached his locker, the same one he’d had since freshman year, dented and a little crooked, sitting just beside the boys’ bathroom near the gym. The smell here was marginally better than the hallway, which said more about the hallway than it did the bathroom.

He gave the old locker door an affectionate pat before spinning the dial, the code muscle-memorized after years of the same routine. When the lock popped open, he stared into the mostly empty metal box, half-decorated with a few faded photos taped along the inside of it of him and the others, along with blurry group shots from previous years that had survived despite the corners peeling.

He smiled faintly, barely. The smallest tug of nostalgia before his brain reminded him how awful that first day had been, too. The memory faded as fast as it came.

“Dude, I fucking smell.”

The voice beside him made him flinch. He turned his head immediately, eyes blinking down toward the source of the voice.

Ymir.

Thank goodness.

“…Oh—Ymir, you scared me,” Bertholdt said with a startled laugh, relief seeping into his tone so naturally it almost sounded exaggerated. His shoulders relaxed a little as he closed his locker halfway, turning to face her fully.

Ymir grinned weakly up at him, her usual sharp smirk replaced with one that looked more like pain. Sweat glued her bangs to her forehead, and her gray t-shirt was plastered to her torso in dark, uneven patches. She looked like she’d been personally punished by the school.

“Oh, right, you had gym first period,” Bertholdt said, blinking at her in quiet horror as his brain caught up with her appearance. “…Was it that bad?”

“Bad?” Ymir repeated with a humorless laugh, dragging her hand down her damp face. “They made us run the entire track. Three times. I saw my ancestors on lap two.”

Bertholdt made a sympathetic face, lips pressed tight. “That’s… brutal.”

“Understatement of the year.” She tugged the stretched collar of her shirt and pressed it to her forehead in a futile attempt to wipe off some sweat. “I swear my lungs were about to quit on me.”

Bertholdt grimaced lightly, resisting the urge to take a small step back as the warm, humid smell of sweat and floor cleaner hit him. “Well, uh—” He fumbled with his backpack zipper, eyes darting down. “I’ve got some deodorant if you want it?”

Ymir looked up at him immediately like he’d just offered salvation. “Holy shit, yes. Please.”

She lifted the nearly empty water bottle in her hand and downed what was left, gulping so dramatically it made Bertholdt huff out a small laugh. While she drank, he rummaged through his bag until his fingers brushed the familiar small tube he always carried. He pulled it out and handed it over just as she finished, and without even looking, she tossed her crushed bottle over her shoulder. It clattered perfectly into the trash can, though, as always, she completely ignored the recycling bin right beside it.

Bertholdt didn’t comment.

“You’re a lifesaver, Bert. Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said with a small grin, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

Ymir popped the cap and, with absolutely no shame, lifted her shirt slightly to swipe the deodorant on. “Cold,” she hissed, then sighed contentedly. “Smells like coconuts. Fancy.”

Bertholdt turned back toward his locker, pretending to rearrange his books to give her some semblance of privacy, not that she really cared. His eyes flicked over the taped-up photos inside: a few with him, Ymir, Historia, and the others. Some were faded, curled at the corners from years of staying up. Still, he kept them there.

As he pulled out his chemistry notebook, his mind drifted back to first period. He could still see Reiner sitting there, surrounded by people already laughing at his jokes like they’d known him for years. Even Ms. Nanaba had given him that look, half exasperated, half amused. That teacher look that could tell he was trouble, but charming enough to get away with it.

Bertholdt rolled his eyes faintly at the memory, the faint taste of annoyance settling in the back of his throat.

Ymir snapped the lid of the deodorant closed with a satisfying click and handed it back to him after a final swipe under her armpits.

“Anyway,” she said, leaning sideways against the locker beside his, crossing her arms with the kind of lazy confidence only Ymir could pull off. “Enough about me. How was your first period?”

Bertholdt froze mid-motion, his hand still hovering over the pile of books inside his locker. For a brief moment, he considered lying and saying it was fine, that it was boring, that nothing worth mentioning had happened. But his brain and mouth weren’t exactly on speaking terms today. The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“Kinda sucked, actually,” he admitted flatly. “Some new kid’s already annoying me.”

That got her attention immediately. Ymir’s brows shot up, and the corners of her mouth twitched into an intrigued grin. “Sorry, new kid?” she repeated, tone dripping with curiosity. It was like watching a shark catch the scent of blood in the water. Her head tilted slightly, messy ponytail bouncing as her eyes lit up in gossip radar mode, already calculating how fast she could text Historia for a full report.

Bertholdt groaned softly under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. He knew that look too well. “Yeah. Blond. Muscular. Definitely a jock. Probably plays football or something,” he said, tone neutral as he began pulling books from his bag and stacking them neatly in his locker. His movements were slow, deliberate, too deliberate, like he was trying to prove how much he didn’t care.

But his jaw was tight. His voice had that barely-there edge of irritation that Ymir never missed.

She smirked knowingly. “Ah. Sounds right up your alley.”

Bertholdt shot her a deadpan look. “Hilarious.” He slammed his locker door shut, not aggressively, just enough for the metallic clang to echo faintly down the hall. A few heads turned, but Ymir didn’t even flinch. She just grinned, satisfied with herself as he leaned back against his locker to mirror her stance. His arms crossed loosely as his gaze flicked up toward the hallway clock. 

Still a few minutes before the bell. The second hand ticked forward with painful slowness.

He let out a quiet breath, tension still clinging to him from earlier. Nine more months of this. Nine more months of English class with Reiner Braun. Just the thought made his stomach twist. The guy had been in their school for what, less than a day? And he was already acting like he owned the place.

Ymir nudged his arm lightly, smirking. “Oh, come on, Bert. Don’t look so tragic. You’ll survive.”

“Maybe,” he muttered, his voice dropping lower as his eyes drifted toward the crowd moving through the hallway. “…if he transfers again.”

That earned him a snort of laughter from Ymir, loud enough for a few freshmen passing by to glance over before scurrying away. “Yeah, good luck with that,” she said between chuckles, pushing herself off the locker.

Bertholdt’s lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile tugging at them. It faded as quickly as it came when the memory of first period replayed itself.

He could still see Reiner sitting there, leaning back in his chair like he’d been at the school for years, not hours. The guy had this irritating ease about him, like everything he said automatically mattered. The kind of guy who smiled too easily and too often, especially when he knew people were watching.

And of course, everyone had been watching.

By the time the bell had rung, Reiner had a whole small fan club circling his desk, laughing at things that weren’t even funny. Meanwhile, Bertholdt had been sitting there, squished between his desk and the wall, practically being forgotten as nothing more than a breeze in the wind.

He’d barely managed to escape afterward, shuffling out from between desks like a trapped animal while people blocked the aisles trying to talk to Reiner. It wasn’t even his fault that he kept bumping into them, but the amount of awkward “sorrys” that left his mouth could’ve filled a small novel.

The memory made him groan softly under his breath.

“But jokes aside,” Bertholdt continued, raking a hand through his dark hair as he leaned his head back against the cool metal behind him, “I can already tell he’s a real pain in the ass.” His voice was more tired than angry now. “And if I have to sit next to him again tomorrow, I might actually fake a cough and ask to be moved.”

Ymir hummed, pretending to think about it seriously for a second. “Hey, cheer up, it’s only your first day,” she said finally, though her tone was dry enough to make him glance down at her with an unimpressed look. “Maybe it’s not as bad as you think?”

Bertholdt raised a brow, a small smirk breaking through. They both knew that was a lie.

Ymir cracked a laugh, elbowing him lightly in the side. “Yeah, yeah, okay, it’s probably that bad,” she admitted. “But still. You’ve survived worse. Like that one sub who thought you were thirty.”

Bertholdt groaned into his hand. “Don’t remind me.”

Ymir let out a short and breathy laugh. She always found a way to make the worst things sound funny.

For a moment, the two stood in companionable silence, the buzz of morning chatter filling the hallway around them of lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, snippets of conversations overlapping. Someone’s laughter echoed from down the hall. The smell of cafeteria pancakes still lingered faintly in the air, mixing unpleasantly with Ymir’s post-gym scent and the faint coconut deodorant.

“Anywho,” Ymir finally said, pushing off from the lockers with a stretch. “Gotta get going to meet Historia. We don’t have any classes together until lunch.”

Bertholdt smiled faintly, watching her roll her shoulders and adjust her bag strap. The way she said Historia’s name was almost soft, still teasing, but with that quiet fondness that always gave her away.

“Yeah, yeah, go meet your girlfriend,” he teased back lightly, lifting a hand in half a wave. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Damn right you will,” Ymir said with a grin, already turning away. “Don’t get lost in your thoughts before then, grandpa.”

“Not making promises,” he called after her.

She laughed as she jogged down the hall, her brown, sweat-soaked bangs sticking to her forehead, backpack bouncing behind her with each step. Students parted around her like she owned the place, and honestly, she kind of did.

Bertholdt lingered by his locker a moment longer, glancing toward the thinning crowd. His shoulders slumped slightly as he let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

One period down.

A few more to go.

And if he was lucky, maybe the next one wouldn’t include a blond, loud, muscle-brained transfer student who already had the whole school wrapped around his finger.

But knowing his luck?

Yeah, right.

With a small sigh, Bertholdt pushed off the locker, adjusted the strap of his bag, and started toward his next class, quiet, tall, and already counting the minutes until lunch.

Lunch Time: 12:15 p.m.

Bertholdt had just grabbed his pitiful tray of lunch that looked… miserable. A cold slice of pizza drooped on the tray like it had given up on life hours ago. The apple sitting next to it looked mealy and bruised in three different spots, and the small carton of chocolate milk was sweating condensation, as if even it wanted to escape. He never understood why the school served milk instead of water, like, what kind of place thought pizza and milk were a normal pairing?

Bertholdt sighed, shifting his tray onto his palm as he scanned the cafeteria. The noise was familiar, of hundreds of voices bouncing off tile floors and plastic tables, laughter, sneakers squeaking, the faint clang of a dropped fork. The smell wasn’t great, either; a mix of grease, sour fruit, and cleaning spray that always seemed to linger.

He wove through the crowd, heading toward his usual table near the back of the room. It was quiet enough there that you could actually hear yourself think. The front and center tables were dominated by the loud, popular crowds, the football players, cheerleaders, and kids who thought the cafeteria was their personal stage. The back tables were the refuge: quieter, calmer, mostly filled with people who didn’t want to deal with being noticed. It was perfect for him… and his friends, obviously.

“Damn, Eren, could you hold up the line any longer?” Jean’s familiar voice cut through the cafeteria noise as he finally appeared beside Bertholdt, dropping his tray onto the table with a dramatic thud. The pizza slice on his tray slid halfway off from the impact, teetering dangerously close to the edge. Jean stared down at it with pure disgust, his nose wrinkling like it had personally offended him.

“I swear this pizza’s older than I am,” he muttered, poking it with a fork like he expected it to twitch.

Bertholdt let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh. Jean always complained about the food, but Bertholdt had seen him finish every last bite every single time. It was just part of the routine now: Jean griped, then ate anyway.

“Oh, shut it, horse face,” came Eren’s voice before Bertholdt could even respond. Eren trailed behind Jean with his tray, or, rather, his small Lunchable that looked comically out of place next to everyone else’s meals. “I have a right to take my time and pick my lunch!”

Bertholdt raised an eyebrow. That was what took Eren so long? Five minutes of holding up the line… for a peanut butter and jelly Lunchable?

Jean turned, visibly offended. “You took five minutes in line just to pick that?”

Eren shrugged defensively as he plopped down into the empty chair to Bertholdt’s left. “Yeah? So what?”

Jean groaned, dragging a hand down his face like this single exchange had aged him ten years. “You’re hopeless.”

Bertholdt’s mouth twitched into the smallest grin as he shifted his tray, trying to ignore the way his pizza grease had already soaked into a puddle around the plastic. He didn’t really care what anyone ate, as long as they didn’t talk with their mouth full, which was something, unfortunately, half their table had yet to master.

“Do you guys ever stop fighting?”

Marco’s cheerful voice cut through the back-and-forth as he approached with an apple and a bottle of water balanced in one hand. He slid smoothly into the seat between Jean and Bertholdt, his grin easy and practiced, like someone used to diffusing this kind of chaos. “Every lunch period, it’s the same thing, it’s like you guys haven’t matured at all over the summer.”

Jean huffed, already mid-eye roll. “He started it.”

Eren scoffed, tearing open his Lunchable. “You’re just mad because I was right.”

Bertholdt smirked faintly, eyes still down on his tray. “It’d be a miracle if you two made it through one lunch without arguing.”

Marco snorted, nudging Jean with his elbow. “See? Even Bertholdt agrees.”

Jean only grumbled something under his breath about “throwing Eren into a trash can after school” before finally giving up and biting into his slice of pizza.

The cafeteria buzzed around them with hundreds of overlapping conversations, the metallic scrape of forks on plastic, laughter bouncing off the tiled walls. Bertholdt leaned back slightly in his seat, stretching his long legs under the table. It only lasted about three seconds before the rest of their group started trickling in, forcing him to retract again like a folding chair.

“Move over,” Mikasa’s calm, almost intimidating voice said as she sat down beside Eren, placing a neat Tupperware of homemade food on the table.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” Marco murmured, leaning her way with mock desperation. “Maybe now they’ll stop.”

But before Mikasa could even unclip her container, Eren was already starting up again, something about how Jean was “copying his haircut” this time. Without even looking at him, Mikasa reached over, grabbed a piece of bread from her lunch, and shoved it into his mouth mid-sentence.

Eren’s eyes went wide, muffled protests dying against the lump of carbs.

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” Mikasa said flatly, finally opening her container like nothing had happened.

“HEY!” a voice boomed suddenly.

Sasha appeared out of nowhere like she’d been waiting for the perfect moment to explode. “You wasted a perfectly good piece of bread! I could’ve eaten that!”

Connie trailed behind her, looking like he hadn’t slept in three days. “You can have mine, Sasha. Just, please… stop yelling about bread,” he said, sliding his entire lunch tray toward her before collapsing into the nearest seat.

Sasha gasped theatrically but didn’t hesitate to accept the offering. Within seconds, she was devouring her new meal, making sounds that could only be described as… wet. The mushy, slurping noises echoed just enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables.

Bertholdt and Marco exchanged a silent, horrified glance across the table. Marco mouthed, “Why is she like this?” And Bertholdt just shook his head faintly.

Jean grimaced and turned away. “...You’re gonna make me lose my appetite.”

“...Right,” Marco said dryly, poking at his apple. “Because cafeteria food didn’t already do that.”

The table burst into small, scattered laughter, Eren finally chewing in silence, Sasha still blissfully unaware of the chaos she’d caused, and Connie scrolling on his phone like this was just another Monday.

A few minutes later, Armin, Ymir, and Historia joined them, filling the last remaining seats. The small circle of friends now looked more like a cramped puzzle with knees bumping, trays overlapping, and shoulders touching. Bertholdt had to pull his legs in completely, knees brushing the underside of the table. He didn’t complain, but internally cursed his height for the thousandth time.

“Have you guys made any new friends yet?” Mikasa asked casually, unscrewing the cap on her water bottle. She’d made her stance on school milk clear since day one, and Bertholdt wholeheartedly agreed.

“Oh! I met this dude named Niccolo in my cooking class–!” Sasha announced mid-chew, her mouth full, half a sandwich visible between her teeth. The words came out wet and garbled, each syllable blending into the sound of enthusiastic chewing.

Everyone at the table froze.

Connie didn’t even look up from his phone. He’d clearly reached the acceptance stage years ago.

Jean, however, visibly recoiled. “You’re gonna choke if you don’t stop talking like that.”

Sasha just waved a hand. “Worth it!”

“Right…” Jean said slowly, turning away. “Anyone besides Sasha meet anyone?”

A chorus of hums and small replies followed. Historia mentioned a new girl in art class. Ymir immediately teased her for “making new besties already.” Armin talked about a couple of transfer students in his AP classes, but didn’t elaborate much.

Bertholdt just poked absently at his pizza, letting the noise of his friends blur into the background.

He’d seen new faces today, too, mostly freshmen and sophomores, kids still learning how to navigate the halls without looking lost. But one stood out.

That blond guy who’d practically kicked the classroom door off its hinges earlier. The one who’d shown up late, panting like he’d sprinted across school, and somehow made the entire room go silent.

Reiner Braun.

Even thinking the name made Bertholdt sit a little straighter without realizing it. Something about that entrance had stuck with him.

Maybe he’d bring it up, see if anyone else had noticed him.

Maybe.

“Actually, there’s someone—” Bertholdt started, his voice quiet, cutting through the lazy chatter that had been swirling around the lunch table. The group had been sitting in that familiar post-lunch lull where everyone half-heartedly contributed to Mikasa’s question about whether there were any new people at school, but it quickly devolved into idle scrolling and fork-tapping.

So when Bertholdt, of all people, spoke up, heads actually lifted.

It wasn’t that Bertholdt Hoover didn’t talk. He did, sometimes. But mostly, he hovered on the edges of conversation, an observer who chimed in when something genuinely caught his interest. He was the kind of person who remembered every detail of what others said, yet rarely offered much about himself. So whenever he did decide to say something, it had a way of drawing attention.

Armin’s brows rose a little. Jean looked up from his tray. Even Sasha paused mid-bite, sandwich hanging halfway to her mouth.

But before Bertholdt could finish, Ymir’s voice cut through the moment like a thrown rock.

“Ohhh, the jock from earlier?” she blurted.

Her words instantly triggered a ripple of groans across the table.

“Ymir.”

“Ugh, can you not interrupt for once?”

“Let him finish!”

Historia sighed, exasperated but not surprised, and clamped a hand over Ymir’s mouth in one smooth motion that looked entirely too practiced. Ymir’s muffled “screw off” vibrated against her palm, and Historia’s unbothered glare did all the talking for her.

Bertholdt blinked, lips pressing together as if unsure whether it was safe to continue. He looked caught between laughing and wanting to melt into his seat. His eyes flicked from Ymir to Historia to the rest of the table, and after a few seconds of silence, he finally cleared his throat again.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little softer now. “There’s this new jock in my English class. Reiner Braun.”

That name seemed to land like a small spark on dry kindling. Everyone suddenly looked interested again.

“New jock?” Jean repeated, his tone half-curious, half-skeptical.

“Huh, weird. I didn’t see him,” Sasha added.

Marco leaned forward, smiling in that polite, teasing way of his. “Guess you’re not as plugged into the gossip as you think, Jean.”

Jean scoffed, stabbing his fork into his pizza. “Please. If a new athlete was walking around, I’d know about it.”

Bertholdt gave a small shrug, his shoulders lifting slightly before settling again. “He’s… hard to miss,” he admitted, eyes flicking down to his tray. “Blond, short hair, tall. Built, too. Like—uh, football-player built.” His words trailed off as he looked upward, clearly visualizing the guy. “That’s about it.”

“So basically every jock ever,” Connie muttered, smirking as Sasha snorted beside him.

“Sounds like it,” Armin murmured, amusement soft in his voice.

Historia perked up suddenly, her face lighting as though she’d just remembered something. “Oh, wait! I think one of my friends mentioned him earlier,” she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “He transferred here from some other school out of district, right? Apparently, he’s already trying out for the football team.”

Ymir’s muffled scoff sounded suspiciously like jealousy. “Since when are you keeping tabs on new guys?” she muttered against Historia’s hand.

Historia sighed again, eyes closing in mild defeat but still smiling. “I’m not, Ymir. I just overheard it. Calm down.”

Ymir leaned back dramatically, eyes rolling so hard they almost squeaked. Historia gave her another sharp look that clearly said, “Don’t start,” and somehow, Ymir restrained herself… for now.

Bertholdt, meanwhile, tried to keep his voice casual. “Yeah, well, he’s definitely… loud. Or maybe just… popular already? I dunno.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of everyone’s attention still on him. “The class was kinda swarming him earlier. Thought at least one of you would’ve seen him in the halls.”

“Guess we were too busy watching Eren lose a wrestling match with the vending machine,” Armin said, smirking faintly.

“Screw that, that thing stole my dollar!” Eren shot back immediately as if he’d been waiting to chime in, his defensive tone louder than anyone’s at the table despite how quiet he’d been. “It’s rigged.”

Sasha snorted. “You kicked it.”

“Because it ate my chips,” Eren countered with a growl, and that earned another round of laughter from the table.

Bertholdt’s shoulders relaxed slightly as the focus drifted off him for a moment. He took a slow sip from his milk, silently grateful to fade back into the background again.

But, of course, peace never lasted long when Ymir was around.

She suddenly twisted in her seat, ripping her mouth from Historia’s hand, eyes glinting as she jabbed a finger toward him. “Sounds like your type—!”

“Ymir!” half the table shouted at once, their voices overlapping in a wave of groans. Historia instantly slapped her hand back over Ymir’s mouth, pinning her with a sharp glare while muttering something that sounded dangerously close to a threat.

Bertholdt, however, was already bright red. The words “your type” echoed in his head like an alarm, his entire face heating up as if someone had flipped a switch.

“…Shut up,” he said finally, the words coming out clipped and unusually sharp for him.

Ymir only grinned wider under Historia’s hand, clearly delighted with herself. Historia elbowed her side in warning, which earned her a muffled laugh. “What? I’m just saying,” Ymir managed to mumble through her palm.

Bertholdt exhaled through his nose, staring down at his tray with an expression that was half-scowl, half-silent mortification. He pushed a piece of stale cheese chipped from his pizza around with his fork, pretending to focus on it while the others chuckled quietly.

He wasn’t mad at her; unfortunately, this was just how Ymir was. Loud. Annoying. Relentless. Still, it stung a little that the one time he tried to add something normal to the conversation, she had to turn it into a joke.

His type. Yeah, right.

Like he’d ever see himself even remotely interested in some cocky jock who probably spent more time admiring his reflection than studying for class. He barely even knew the guy, just sat near him for one period that morning, close enough to catch how easily Reiner had commanded attention without saying much. The kind of person people naturally gravitate toward.

It wasn’t Bertholdt’s scene. It wasn’t even close.

Across the table, Armin leaned in slightly, voice soft but cutting through the surrounding chaos. “Don’t mind her,” he said, offering a small, knowing smile. “You know Ymir, she teases everyone to death.”

Bertholdt exhaled through his nose, returning the faintest of smiles. “...Yeah, I know. Guess I just walked right into it.” His tone carried a half-resigned amusement, though a flicker of color still clung to his cheeks.

Across from them, Historia finally dropped her hand from Ymir’s mouth, releasing a muffled snort that turned into a dramatic, gasping breath. Ymir exaggerated the motion like she’d been underwater for five minutes. “You guys are so dramatic,” she said, rubbing her jaw before leaning lazily against Historia’s shoulder.

“Only because you are,” Historia countered, though the fond tilt of her voice betrayed her amusement.

Then Armin, of all people, spoke again, his voice thoughtful. “Maybe he’s in here?” he suggested, glancing around the packed cafeteria. “Most of the seniors have this lunch period, right? If he’s new, chances are he got stuck in with us.”

The idea seemed innocent enough, but Bertholdt already felt a prickle of dread form behind his eyes.

“Doubt it,” Eren muttered, poking disinterestedly at his sad excuse for a Lunchable that was now soggy. His finger squished through the cracker spread like it personally offended him. “...I waited in line for this?”

He picked up one of the stale pieces of bread Mikasa had shoved in his mouth earlier, took one bite, then immediately spit it out into a napkin. “Nope. Hard pass.”

“Wow,” Jean deadpanned from across the table. “So brave.”

Before anyone could roll their eyes in peace, Sasha slammed her hands down on the table so hard the trays rattled and one of the milk cartons tipped over, leaking over the edge of the table.

“Why don’t we go hunt him down!?” she declared, her grin wide enough to rival the cafeteria lights.

The sound echoed through their corner of the room, earning a few stares from nearby tables. Connie practically jumped out of his seat, his phone nearly catapulting across the floor.

“What the hell, Sasha!” he hissed, clutching his chest. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack!”

But Sasha was already halfway out of her chair, energy crackling off her like static. She had that wild gleam in her eyes, the one that meant someone, usually Connie, was about to suffer for her amusement. “Come on! If he’s new and hot, we should at least see what all the fuss is about!”

Connie groaned like a man facing his last day alive. “Or,” he said, dragging out the word, “we could just… not?”

He didn’t get a chance to protest further. Sasha grabbed him by the arm before he could blink, hauling him up with the strength of a freight train. “C’mon, Connie! Adventure awaits!”

His eyes widened, disbelief etched across his face as his tray clattered to the floor. “Yay…” he muttered weakly, the sound nearly drowned out by the screech of his chair against the tile. The next second, he was being dragged bodily through the crowd, Sasha leading the charge like a commander storming the front lines.

“Good luck!” Marco called after them, laughter in his voice. “You’re gonna need it!”

The rest of the table burst into muffled giggles, the kind that tried and failed to stay quiet.

Before anyone could properly comment, Eren leaned forward, elbows on the table, a spark of competitive mischief lighting in his eyes. “Hey, horse face,” he taunted, voice dripping with challenge. “Bet I can find him first.”

Jean, mid-bite of his pizza, froze. Then he looked up, one brow arched in slow amusement. “You wish, Jaeger.”

Mikasa didn’t even look up from unscrewing her bottle cap. “Oh, here we go…” she muttered flatly, like she’d seen this exact movie too many times before.

Eren and Jean locked eyes across the table, and for one charged, ridiculous second, the air between them felt like the calm before a storm. Their lips curled into identical grins that shared, wordless understanding that something monumentally stupid was about to happen.

“...Three,” Jean said quietly.

“...Two,” Eren countered, leaning forward.

And then, without ever reaching one, they both shot up from their seats.

The cafeteria erupted. Chairs tipped. A tray hit the ground with a deafening clatter. Marco yelped as his water bottle nearly toppled into his lap. Eren darted left, shoving past a few startled freshmen, while Jean vaulted over the end of the bench and sprinted in the opposite direction.

Mikasa calmly set her water bottle. “They’re going to get detention,” she said, like she was commenting on the weather.

Historia, staring after the chaos, blinked. “What are they even gonna do if they find him?”

“Challenge him to a duel,” Ymir replied dryly, leaning back and stretching. “Or maybe arm-wrestle him for dominance.”

“Probably compare biceps,” Marco added with a sigh, resting his chin on his hand. “You know. Typical male behavior.”

“I should’ve known they’d do that…” Armin groaned, dragging a hand down his face. The regret in his voice was the picture of defeat. “Why did I even open my mouth?”

Mikasa’s tone was calm, matter-of-fact. “Because you forgot who you were sitting with.”

The group dissolved into another round of laughter, the kind that filled the small bubble of space around their table until the noise of the cafeteria seemed to fade behind it.

Bertholdt didn’t join in right away. He sat quietly, smiling faintly as the others teased and laughed and rolled their eyes at one another. The sight of Eren and Jean darting between tables, one tripping over a backpack, the other nearly colliding with a teacher, was ridiculous enough to earn a quiet laugh from him.

But as the chaos spread, his mind wandered.

He found himself thinking back to that morning in English class and the way the door had burst open mid-roll call, every head turning toward the tall, blond stranger who’d walked in with that effortless confidence people like him always seemed to have. Reiner Braun.

Bertholdt remembered the way the class had buzzed instantly, whispering and snickering behind hands, the new guy smiling easily like he’d been here for years.

And there Reiner had been, leaning back in his chair like he owned the room, flashing that practiced grin that seemed to say, “Yeah, I know you’re all staring.”

He was too confident. Effortlessly so.

Bertholdt had spent most of that period trying not to stare, though not for the reason Ymir would’ve implied. There was something about people like Reiner that rubbed him the wrong way by being too loud, too comfortable in their skin. Like they’d never once known what it felt like to want to disappear.

He brushed the thought away, annoyed with himself for remembering any of it at all.

Across the cafeteria, a familiar voice suddenly cut through the noise like a foghorn.

“FOUND SOMEONE TALL!” Sasha yelled, loud enough to make half the cafeteria turn.

Connie’s panicked shout followed seconds later. “THAT’S THE PRINCIPAL!”

The table exploded into laughter so hard that Historia nearly choked on her drink. Ymir clutched her stomach, doubled over, while Marco thumped the table helplessly.

Armin just sighed and covered his face with both hands. “…I’m never speaking again,” he mumbled, his voice muffled behind his palms.

“Good call,” Ymir said, wiping a tear from her eye. “You’ve caused enough chaos for one lunch period.”

Bertholdt laughed quietly with them, his shoulders relaxing. The embarrassment that had burned earlier from Ymir’s teasing and everyone’s stares faded into something easier. The noise, the laughter, the warmth of it all settled around him like a familiar comfort.

Still, if this was only his first day, Bertholdt had the uneasy feeling it definitely wouldn’t be the last time his name came up.

25 Minutes Later:

To the shock of absolutely no one, the group’s grand “hunt” for the mysterious new jock had been an utter disaster.

All it led to were awkward interruptions at random tables, confused glares, and an impressive collection of half-hearted shrugs from people who clearly wanted nothing to do with them. A few students had claimed to know who Reiner Braun was, but none could offer any useful details beyond that. The rest just stared at the self-proclaimed search party like they’d grown two heads.

And after Sasha accidentally spilled someone’s chocolate milk while leaning over their table to ask questions, the group decided to cut their losses and retreat before they got banned from the cafeteria altogether.

By the time everyone trudged back to their seats, red-faced and breathless, the lunch bell was only a few minutes away.

“You guys should’ve known better than to run around in a clueless line like that,” Mikasa commented flatly as they dumped their mostly uneaten food into the trash bin. She didn’t even sound annoyed, just deeply unsurprised, like a teacher who had long since given up on expecting anything different from her students.

The other four—Sasha, Connie, Jean, and Eren—stood behind her in a semi-defeated huddle, sulking like dogs that had just been scolded for tearing up the couch cushions. The embarrassment radiating off them was almost tangible.

“Especially you, Jean,” Marco chimed in, his voice soft but pointed, that signature warmth threading through his teasing. “You’re supposed to be a leader, not a follower.”

Jean scoffed and adjusted the strap of his backpack, as if that tiny motion could somehow disguise the faint pink dusting on his ears. “…Oh, shut up. Like I wanted to sprint around the cafeteria with these psychos.”

“Uh-huh,” Marco said with an easy smile, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sure you didn’t.”

Eren snorted, not even trying to hide it.

Jean snapped his head toward him. “Don’t start with me, Jaeger. I almost got tackled by the lunch monitor thanks to you.”

Eren shrugged with that irritatingly smug ease of his. “Sounds like a skill issue.”

“Yeah? Keep talking and you’ll find out what kind of skill issue I’ve got.”

“You guys are ridiculous,” Mikasa muttered, brushing crumbs from her palms like she was brushing off the entire conversation.

“Hey, at least it was entertaining,” Ymir said around a mouthful of granola, leaning lazily on one leg.

Historia, ever the optimist, clapped her hands together with a bright smile that felt like sunshine breaking through the cafeteria’s fluorescent glare. “It was a nice try, though, guys! Maybe we’ll see him later!”

“Yeah, maybe he’s in one of our classes,” Armin added, though his voice wavered with the kind of half-hearted hope only Armin could make sound polite.

The group began shuffling toward the exit in a slow, uneven line, merging into the stream of students pouring out of the cafeteria. The noise of trays clattering, chairs scraping, snippets of laughter and chatter blending into one restless hum was immediate and overwhelming.

It was the kind of chaos that only the first day back from break could create.

The hallways outside were already packed, a sea of moving bodies and overlapping voices. Students shoved past one another, the air thick with perfume, cafeteria grease, and the faint tang of overworked air-conditioning. The double doors ahead looked like salvation, if only they could reach them.

Someone behind Bertholdt muttered, “They messed up the lunch schedule again,” and honestly, that tracked. It was the only explanation for why this many people were trying to go in both directions at once.

Bertholdt didn’t complain out loud, though.

If anything, he was quietly relieved the search had failed. The idea of actually running into Reiner, likely surrounded by his loud, athletic friends, made his stomach twist. That kind of scene would only lead to Ymir’s relentless teasing or, worse, becoming another cafeteria headline.

He walked silently beside the others, his tall frame gliding above most of the heads around him. His hands stayed buried deep in the pockets of his khakis as he kept his gaze down, watching the shuffle of shoes across the glossy tile floor. The overhead lights reflected off the surface, making it look slick, like stepping across shallow water.

Connie groaned somewhere ahead after getting jostled by a kid with a massive backpack. “Man, this is a nightmare.”

“Move it!” someone yelled from behind, which did absolutely nothing except make everyone move slower.

“Yeah, that’s helping,” Ymir muttered, unimpressed as ever.

The heat from so many bodies pressed together made the air heavy, and the smell of half-eaten pizza, mystery meat, and too much floral body spray mixed into something almost dizzying. Bertholdt shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder, his long strides carrying him easily above the fray.

He didn’t mind being quiet; he never did. The hum of conversation was almost soothing in its chaos, a background noise that didn’t expect anything from him.

Finally, the double doors were close enough that he could see sunlight streaming through the glass panels, bright and gold against the dull hallway gray. He could practically taste freedom.

A few more steps, he thought, and he’d be home free, or at least free until his next class started.

He was almost out when it happened.

The doors loomed closer, the noise behind him fading just slightly, when Bertholdt turned his head to make sure Ymir and the others were still behind him, only to find the space at his side empty.

Before his brain could even register the thought, something, no, someone, slammed into his side with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.

It was like getting hit by a moving locker.

The impact sent him stumbling sideways, his long legs tangling with his backpack strap as he lost balance. The momentum was too strong to catch himself. He crashed backward into a cluster of unsuspecting students, hearing startled yelps as they jumped aside, creating just enough space for gravity to do the rest.

He hit the ground hard.

The thud echoed faintly beneath the steady roar of the hallway. Pain bloomed across his lower back and tailbone like an instant bruise.

“Crap—!” he hissed, blinking up at the blinding ceiling lights. His ears rang slightly, and for a second, all he could make out was the muffled chaos of the passing crowd, voices, laughter, and the squeak of sneakers on tile.

Then, cutting clean through it all, came a low, amused laugh.

“Yo, look what you did, Braun!” a voice called out, deep and unmistakably entertained.

Bertholdt blinked through his daze, rubbing the sore spot on his back as he pushed himself up onto an elbow. The name barely registered— Braun?—before he looked up.

And there he was.

Standing directly in front of him, framed by the harsh overhead lights and a halo of chaos, was him.

Reiner Braun.

The guy from English class. The guy whose voice had already somehow made itself at home in the back of Bertholdt’s mind after just one period.

He looked even more solid up close, blond hair cropped short at the sides and slightly messy on top, like he’d just come from practice despite it only being a few hours since he saw him. There was something sharp about the line of his jaw, something lazy and assured about the half-smirk tugging at his mouth.

Around him stood a few of his friends, all grinning or barely holding back laughter.

And Bertholdt, sitting on the floor with his knees half-bent, backpack twisted awkwardly around his arm, could only stare up at him for a long, mortified second.

Great.

Because of course, it was Reiner.

Out of everyone in this overcrowded school, it just had to be him.

Chapter Text

POV: Reiner

It had only been a few hours in this new school, and Reiner already felt like he’d cracked the code to popularity.

Walking through those halls was like stepping into a movie scene, well, his movie scene. He didn’t even have to try; it was like everything was being handed to him on a silver platter. Everywhere he went, someone was saying his name, clapping him on the back, or giving him one of those over-enthusiastic handshakes that turned into a half hug. Guys he’d never spoken to before were dapping him up like they’d known him for years, like he’d been part of their crew since middle school.

It wasn’t hard to figure out why. He had the look, the build, the confidence, y’know, the whole “new transfer jock” appeal that people seemed magnetized to. It didn’t take long for word to spread that he’d already been scouted for college football. Once that got out, people started treating him like he’d already made it big.

And the girls? Yeah, they were everywhere. Following him between classes, twirling their hair, finding excuses to “accidentally” bump into him at his locker. A few had even slipped him their numbers in the halls.

Was he complaining? Definitely not.

If anything, it was flattering, a little ridiculous, sure, but still flattering. It felt good to be noticed, to have people lean into his orbit like that. He was used to it by now, though. Back home, this kind of thing was normal for him;  the smiles, the laughs, the way people always seemed to want something from him. Whether it was attention, validation, or just being seen next to him, he didn’t care. He gave them what they wanted and got what he wanted in return: admiration, comfort, control.

That’s what Reiner liked: control.

Still, even with all the ego-boosting attention, there was something about the day that was starting to drag. The excitement of being the “new guy” had dulled by second period, and the adrenaline high of impressing everyone was beginning to taper off into boredom.

Especially when he got to his classes.

Ugh, his classes.

He had already decided he hated them. The teachers all talked like they were auditioning for a sleep-aid commercial with their monotone, passionless tones buried under their PowerPoints. The students were either trying too hard to impress him or too nervous to talk at all. Nobody interesting. Nobody fun.

Not that he was there to learn, anyway. He wasn’t dumb, he knew school mattered on paper. But for him, it was all about one thing: football.

Football was his ticket out. His way up and away. As cliché as it sounded, it was the only thing that made sense to him, the rush of the field, the smell of turf, the weight of the pads. He didn’t care about algebra or Shakespeare or whatever else they planned on cramming into his head this year. He was here to coast through the classes, keep his grades decent enough to keep his scholarship, and let the game carry him to college.

Grades? Whatever. He could sweet-talk someone into giving him a copy of the homework answers. Always worked before.

So there he was, sitting in his third-period Algebra II class, his brain slowly melting into mush while the teacher rambled on about something like formulas, graphing slopes, some tangent about parabolas that no one had asked for. The kind of lesson that sucked the life out of the room. He’d stopped pretending to listen ten minutes ago.

He leaned back in his chair, legs stretched lazily under the desk, one sneaker pressed against the metal leg in front of him. His pen tapped a slow, uneven rhythm against his notebook, the only thing keeping him awake. His notes had devolved into doodles and half-written equations that didn’t make sense, not that it mattered. He knew he’d forget all of this by tomorrow morning. Hell, maybe even by lunch.

The clock above the whiteboard ticked in a way that felt personal. Every second seemed to drag on longer just to spite him.

Reiner’s gaze flicked up at it, then dropped back down to the smooth wooden desk. He let out a low groan under his breath, folding his arms and resting his forehead against them. The surface was cool beneath his skin, a tiny comfort in the suffocating boredom of that classroom.

Maybe, if he was quiet enough, he could just nap through the rest of this torture.

The teacher’s voice droned on, steady and muffled like background static. “Now, if we look at the vertex of the quadratic—”

Reiner’s mind went blank. His breathing evened out, eyelids heavy. For a moment, he swore he could actually drift off right there, surrounded by the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the squeak of someone’s pencil.

Then, salvation came.

The bell blared loud enough to rattle the ceiling tiles, slicing through the monotony. A few students jumped; Reiner just grinned against his arm, teeth flashing in quiet triumph.

Instant freedom.

Chairs screeched against the floor, backpacks unzipped in a frenzy, and voices rose in a flood of chatter. It was chaos, beautiful, noisy chaos. Reiner quickly sat up, dragging a hand down his face before standing and stretching his arms overhead. His shoulders cracked, his spine popped, and he rolled them back with a low sigh. Sitting that long always made him feel caged; he wasn’t built for desk life.

Somewhere in the mix, the teacher tried shouting something about “homework problems one through ten,” but her voice was instantly swallowed by the stampede of feet bolting toward the door.

Reiner wasn’t about to hang around, either. He slung his backpack over one shoulder in one smooth motion, that lazy, confident smirk still tugging at his mouth as he joined the flood of students spilling into the hallway.

The corridor was a blur of noise and movement with lockers slamming, laughter echoing, people weaving around each other like a current he was just another part of. The air smelled faintly like floor polish, cheap body spray, and cafeteria pizza, fries, and something vaguely meat-like and questionable.

Not great, but food was food.

Then he spotted them: the guys he’d met earlier that morning.

Porco stood near the middle of the hall, gesturing animatedly while saying something to his older brother, Marcel. He had that kind of posture that screamed confidence without even trying, backpack hanging off one shoulder, one foot tapping against the tile as if he couldn’t stand still for long. Marcel, in contrast, looked calm and grounded beside him with hands in his pockets, smiling faintly at whatever Porco was saying, like he’d seen this routine a hundred times before.

And the girl… Annie, right? Reiner had only met her briefly earlier, and she hadn’t said much, but he was pretty sure that was her name. She leaned against the wall a few feet away from them, scrolling on her phone like she’d rather be anywhere else. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a lazy ponytail, her hood half-up. If the building caught fire, Reiner figured she’d be the last to react, not because she was slow, but because she just wouldn’t care.

A grin tugged at his mouth before he even realized it.

“Hey, Porco!” he called, his voice cutting through the noise of the hallway.

Porco’s head snapped up almost instantly at the sound of his name. His eyes narrowed for a second, like he was trying to figure out who was yelling at him, before they lit up with recognition. He smirked, raising his chin in that classic “what’s up” motion, then waved Reiner over.

Reiner didn’t hesitate. He started pushing his way through the crowd, his shoulders turning automatically to weave between people. It was like moving upstream through a river of backpacks and elbows. The hallway was alive with noise, conversations bouncing off the walls, sneakers squeaking against tile, lockers slamming shut like gunfire. Students moved in every direction, some heading toward the cafeteria, others up the stairs, and a few just standing still like they had nowhere to be and no sense of personal space.

“Watch where you’re going!” a guy barked after Reiner brushed past him a little too roughly.

Reiner barely turned his head. “Yeah, yeah, my bad,” he said, not bothering to slow down. The smirk on his face said he didn’t mean it. He doubted he’d ever see half these people again anyway.

Finally, he broke through the last cluster of students and reached Porco and the others.

“Ah, well if it isn’t the talk of the school!” Porco laughed, grin wide and teasing, holding out a hand for what Reiner assumed to be a dap.

Reiner raised a brow, amused but played along. “Talk of the school already? Damn, that was fast.”

Their hands met with a satisfying slap, one of those perfectly timed, dramatic daps that somehow made both of them laugh louder than necessary. They shook hands, then bumped shoulders like they’d known each other for years, completely blocking foot traffic in the process. Students squeezed around them with irritated sighs, but neither of them cared.

“Dude, Algebra sucks ass,” Reiner groaned, dragging a hand down his face as if just remembering the trauma. His voice carried over the hallway noise easily, lazy and dramatic. “I was in there for, what, fifty minutes? I swear I lost brain cells. Like actual, measurable brain cells.”

Porco barked out a laugh so loud a few students turned their heads as they passed. “Yeah, that class’ll kill you, man. I’m telling you; Ms. Azumabito could make anything boring. She could read the winning lottery numbers and still sound like she’s giving a eulogy.”

Reiner cracked up, the sound bouncing off the lockers. “Dude, that’s brutal.”

“True, though,” Marcel added, his tone lighter and more grounded than his brother’s, the calm to Porco’s chaos. “She’s been here forever, too. Our dad even had her.”

“Seriously?” Reiner’s eyebrows shot up, looking genuinely impressed as they rounded the corner toward the cafeteria hallway. “Damn. Guess she’s part of the furniture now.”

That earned a ripple of laughter between them, the kind that felt easy, natural, like the start of a rhythm that didn’t need forcing.

Annie, walking a little ahead, didn’t laugh. She didn’t even look up, just slipped her phone into the front pocket of her hoodie, expression unreadable. Still, Reiner caught the faintest twitch of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth before she tucked her chin down again. He almost grinned to himself. She had that quiet, unbothered energy that was weirdly magnetic.

The group fell into step together, merging into the thick stream of students moving toward the cafeteria. Reiner found himself in the middle, tall enough to see the whole corridor ahead, waves of backpacks and messy hair, sunlight slicing through the high windows. The air smelled faintly like floor wax and cafeteria fries, a weird mix that somehow screamed high school.

As they got closer, the noise ramped up of metal trays clattering, sneakers squeaking, the buzz of voices overlapping into one big blur.

Naturally, Porco was already talking about football. “So, you played before, right? You look like you played. What position?”

Reiner smirked, half-glancing over like he’d been waiting for that question. “Linebacker. Since middle school.”

Porco’s grin widened instantly, eyes lighting up. “Hell yeah, I knew it. Coach is gonna lose his mind when he finds out. He’s been begging for more muscle on defense.”

Marcel gave his brother a sidelong look, exasperated but fond. “Porco, maybe let the guy settle in first before you start recruiting him.”

Porco ignored that completely, nudging Reiner’s arm with his elbow, grin unbothered. “Nah, man, we need him. You gotta talk to Coach soon. Like, tomorrow.”

Reiner laughed under his breath, glancing between the brothers. Porco’s energy was relentless, reminding Reiner of a puppy who never learned the word relax. It wasn’t annoying, though. If anything, it was kind of refreshing.

Porco already seemed hyped at the thought of a new player joining the team, and based on how quickly they’d clicked, Reiner could tell the guy was probably more excited to have someone new to mess around with on the field. Marcel, though, was clearly the older one, calm, always half-amused, half-tired, like he’d been dealing with Porco’s antics since birth.

“I think the real question,” Marcel said after a moment, tone playfully dry, “is whether Reiner’s got what it takes to handle Coach Shadis.”

That earned matching laughs from both brothers, like a shared inside joke that carried years of experience, and maybe a little pain.

Reiner’s curiosity perked. “That bad, huh?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Porco said immediately, eyes wide in mock horror. “Guy’s a demon. Doesn’t matter if you’ve got a broken leg or just got back from a shift, he’ll make you run drills until you puke.”

“Or cry,” Marcel added mildly, hands in his pockets. “Sometimes both.”

“Sounds fun,” Reiner said with a half-smirk, clearly unfazed. He wasn’t sure if they were exaggerating or not, but it didn’t matter. He liked a challenge.

Porco laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, keep saying that now. Wait till he’s screaming in your face at six a.m. while you’re dragging tires across the field.”

Still, the way they talked about it made it obvious why their team had a reputation. Apparently their school had a serious record when it came to football with state championships, highlight reels, college scouts coming through to watch practices. Even if Coach Shadis sounded like a total nightmare, he clearly knew what he was doing.

Reiner tucked that thought away, a grin curling up on his lips. A tough coach wasn’t going to scare him off. If anything, that kind of challenge was exactly what he wanted. He didn’t move schools just to blend in, he wanted to make a mark. Bigger than any kid who’d been here since freshman year.

He let out a low scoff, shaking his head. “Oh, yeah? Where do you think these muscles came from, huh?”

Before anyone could reply, Reiner stopped walking just long enough to hook his thumb under the sleeve of his shirt and tug it up halfway. His skin was tan from summer training, the muscle underneath solid and defined. He curled his arm in tight toward his chest, fist near his shoulder, flexing slowly and deliberately until his bicep bulged beneath his skin.

The motion was half a joke, the kind of thing Reiner did just to show he wasn’t taking himself too seriously, even if part of him absolutely was.

“Oh, you are such a show-off!” Porco barked out, laughing as he gave Reiner a shove to the side. It was meant to be a playful, light push, but Porco underestimated how solid Reiner actually was. The blonde had the balance of a tree trunk, sure, but the shove caught him mid-laugh, and his foot slipped on the tile.

“Whoa—!”

Reiner stumbled, his shoulder clipping into another student passing by. The sound was a dull thud, followed by a startled grunt. The poor guy went down instantly, falling straight on his ass. A few people behind the guy had to stumble back just to not get knocked over, others turning their heads at the sudden noise, and Porco doubled over laughing.

“Yo, look what you did, Braun!” Porco wheezed between bursts of laughter, clutching his stomach like he’d just witnessed the funniest thing he’d ever seen. “You just body checked that guy! I didn’t even push you that hard!”

Reiner blinked, trying to regain his balance as the laughter around him echoed faintly through the hallway. He ran a hand through his hair, brushing it back into place before following Porco’s pointing finger toward the guy who’d taken the fall.

“Ah, shit—” Reiner muttered, shaking his head. He crouched slightly, not out of panic, but more out of curiosity than concern, trying to make out the face of the poor bastard sprawled on the floor.

And then he saw him.

That tall, lanky frame, the dark hair that always looked like it was one strong gust away from falling into his eyes. The slightly startled expression like he’d just been pulled out of a daydream. Reiner had seen that face earlier that morning in English class. The quiet guy who’d sat stiffly beside him while Reiner half-slouched in his chair, trying not to die of boredom. The one who barely looked over from the window even when Reiner had talked to him or the lesson continued.

Bertholdt. That was his name. Or something like that. Bertode? Whatever. Didn’t matter.

“Sorry about that,” Reiner said finally, his tone smooth but lazy, like he’d rehearsed it a hundred times. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smirk that was meant to look apologetic, but everyone could tell it wasn’t. His voice carried easily through the noise of the cafeteria entrance, which had dipped into a hush after the thud of Bertholdt hitting the ground.

“Didn’t see you there,” he added, like it was a joke only he found funny.

Reiner extended a hand, palm open and expectant. He was used to people taking it, used to people smiling back, laughing it off, wanting to be on his good side. Especially with eyes watching.

But Bertholdt didn’t move.

He just sat there, staring at Reiner’s hand like it was something filthy. For a second, his face was blank, that same unreadable, quiet expression from earlier, but slowly, unmistakably, it shifted. His brows drew together, eyes narrowing just slightly, and his mouth flattened into a tight, disbelieving line.

And there it was.

That look.

Not embarrassment. Not shyness.

But… disgust?

Reiner froze.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Maybe the guy was just embarrassed. Or maybe Reiner’s hand had dirt on it for some unknown reason. But… no. There was nothing uncertain about the way Bertholdt looked at him. It wasn’t confusion, nor was it disdain, but a deliberate rejection that landed heavier than any shove could’ve.

The smirk on Reiner’s face faltered before he could stop it.

For a guy who could talk his way out of anything, suddenly he couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

The air around them shifted; the hallway seemed to hold its breath. The sound of trays clattering in the distance dulled, replaced by a low hum of whispers. People started to move again, brushing past them, pretending not to look but definitely sneaking glances.

Reiner’s hand lingered in the air longer than it should have, the space between them stretching, tightening, uncomfortable. He could feel the eyes on his back: Porco’s amused stare, Marcel’s half-concerned one, Annie’s bored one, and the dozens of others surrounding them in the hall. He wanted the guy to just take the damn hand so this wouldn’t be such a scene.

But Bertholdt didn’t. He just kept glaring up at him like Reiner had done something far worse than accidentally knock him over.

Reiner dropped his hand at last, flexing his fingers once like he could shake off the weird feeling creeping up his arm. He forced a laugh, trying to defuse whatever the hell this was.

“...Suit yourself,” he said under his breath, but it came out sharper than he meant it to.

Then suddenly:

“Crap! Bertholdt, you okay?!”

A familiar voice cut through the tension.

Reiner turned his head, catching sight of a small blond kid pushing through the curious onlookers like a determined golden retriever, practically ducking between taller students to get through. He recognized him… Armin, if he recalled seeing him in the halls earlier. The guy was barely half Bertholdt’s size, but he still dropped down beside him without hesitation, grabbing at his arm.

Reiner stood there, suddenly feeling like the villain in some bad high school movie, while Armin tried to help the much taller guy off the floor.

“…Uh—yeah, I’m fine,” Bertholdt muttered, his tone clipped, voice quiet but carrying enough edge that it still reached Reiner. He didn’t even glance up right away, just pushed himself up with Armin’s help, brushed invisible dust from his khakis, movements quick and irritated. His long fingers shook slightly, maybe from adrenaline, maybe anger, before he finally looked up.

And when he did, he didn’t look at Armin.

He looked straight at Reiner.

For a second, Reiner felt pinned in place. There was nothing hesitant in that gaze, like Bertholdt was sizing him up, deciding right then and there that he didn’t like him despite it only being their first day. Those pale green eyes didn’t waver, didn’t soften. They were cold.

That wasn’t the face of a guy who’d just been embarrassed.

That was the face of someone furious but too controlled to show it.

It threw Reiner off more than he cared to admit.

This morning, Reiner had pegged the guy as the quiet, awkward type that kept their head down and never spoke unless forced to. The kind that made it easy for people like him to ignore. But now, looking at him like this, with that rigid jaw, tense shoulders, and a glare that pinched Reiner’s ego, Bertholdt didn’t look timid.

He looked like he was done with Reiner already, and it was only the first day.

Then, before Reiner could say anything else, Bertholdt rose to his full height.

Reiner’s smirk fully vanished on instinct.

What the—

He blinked, taking in the sight in front of him. Bertholdt wasn’t just tall. He was towering. It was the kind of height that made even Reiner, who’d always prided himself on his build, feel… small.

“Damn,” Porco muttered beside him, under his breath but loud enough for Reiner to catch.

Reiner tried not to show his surprise, rolling his shoulders back as if to reclaim some ground, but he couldn’t ignore the weird twinge of jealousy gnawing at him. The guy looked like he’d stepped out of a damn magazine ad, lean and long-legged, with that calm face that somehow made him even more aggravating.

Seriously? This guy?

He was too busy this morning when leaving English to catch a look at him, so he expected him to be scrawny or slouched over, not that. Reiner almost laughed at the irony since he’d found it amusing a majority of the school was so short, and now here he was getting dwarfed by a guy who probably hadn’t said five words all morning apart from the icebreaker.

And of course, Bertholdt didn’t even use the height to gloat. He just brushed himself off, shoulders stiff, refusing to meet Reiner’s eye again. The lack of reaction somehow stung more than if he’d snapped back.

“…Come on, let’s head back to class,” came a quieter voice.

Armin.

The blond kid hovered beside Bertholdt, nervous energy radiating off him like static. His eyes darted between the onlookers and the floor, cheeks pink from all the attention. He tugged gently at Bertholdt’s sleeve, trying to lead him away from the crowd before things could escalate.

Reiner caught the flicker of embarrassment in Armin’s expression and almost felt bad for him. Almost. The kid looked like he wanted to disappear.

But that little flicker of sympathy didn’t make up for the fact that Reiner still had a dozen eyes on him, watching him get silently dismissed like some jerk who’d picked the wrong target.

Armin kept a careful hold on Bertholdt’s sleeve, steering him through the swarm of students like he was afraid to lose him again. The hallway swallowed them both, the back of Bertholdt’s sweater disappearing through the gap between two lockers and the stream of people funneling into the cafeteria.

For a few seconds, no one spoke. The noise of the hallway slowly started to return with doors shutting, sneakers squeaking, the general hum of chatter, but Reiner could still feel the sting of that look.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, scowling at the floor.

That hadn’t gone the way he’d expected.

“Looks like you’re not as likable as you thought,” Annie’s voice cut through his thoughts, dry as ever.

Reiner looked up, startled slightly at hearing her voice since she barely spoke a word all day. Annie stood off to the side, her phone now tucked into her hoodie pocket, blue eyes fixed on him with that cool, unreadable expression of hers. She wasn’t smirking, not exactly, but the faint tilt of her head said she was amused.

Reiner clenched his jaw. “…I never said I was,” he muttered under his breath.

Annie’s gaze lingered a second longer before she looked away, uninterested, and started walking ahead of them towards the cafeteria.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying not to let it show how much that comment irked him. What a joke. He didn’t care what some quiet guy or a girl who barely talked thought of him. He had friends already. He was fine. He wasn’t humiliated.

Except… maybe he kind of was.

Bertholdt’s stupid glare had caught him off guard. It wasn’t even the anger in it. It was how steady it had been, how much it ignored him. Reiner was used to being noticed, even when people didn’t like him. He was loud, confident, magnetic. People reacted. That’s what he did best, he made people react.

But Bertholdt? He’d looked right through him.

That stung more than anything.

“He was probably just caught off guard, guys,” Marcel said after a pause, clearly trying to ease the awkwardness. His tone was gentle, levelheaded, like he always played the role of peacemaker between them. “Who cares, it’s over. Let’s just go eat.”

Porco snorted. “Yeah, before Reiner finds someone else to steamroll.”

Reiner shot him a glare but said nothing, following the group toward the cafeteria.

The moment they pushed through the double doors, the familiar chaos hit them of clattering trays, overlapping conversations, and the unmistakable mix of smells that made Reiner’s stomach twist. Grease, mystery meat, and something vaguely burnt hung in the air.

“Shit,” Porco muttered, scrunching his nose. “Smells like the janitor cooked lunch again, guess that hasn’t changed since last year.”

Reiner barked a laugh despite himself, grateful for the distraction. “Guess I’ll stick to my protein bar.”

He fished it out of his pocket. It was a little warm, slightly flattened from sitting down all day, and probably inedible, but he tore the wrapper open anyway.

5 Minutes Later:

By the time they’d all grabbed lunch, the cafeteria had filled into that loud, chaotic hum that came with the first day back. Trays clattered, sneakers squeaked, the air heavy with the mix of pizza grease, tater tots, and cheap cologne. Marcel led the group through the maze of tables, eyes scanning for an open spot big enough for all of them.

“Here,” he said, motioning toward a table near the center, close enough to hear everyone but far enough that they weren’t completely swallowed by the noise.

Annie slid in first, dropping her tray in front of her and sinking into the seat across from the boys. She didn’t even look at her food, just started absentmindedly peeling the wrapper off her plastic fork. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands, her posture slightly hunched, and for a second, it almost looked like she’d forgotten there were people sitting with her at all.

Reiner dropped his tray beside Porco and sat down with a low exhale, the corner of his protein bar still hanging out of his mouth. He tore another bite off, pretending the earlier hallway fiasco wasn’t still playing in his head on repeat.

Porco immediately started in on football talk, tryouts, rivals, new plays he wanted to test. He was animated as always, half-talking with his mouth full, half-acting out imaginary passes with his hands. Marcel tried to keep him from getting too loud, nudging him every time his voice started to carry across the cafeteria.

“Bro, we don’t even know who’s on varsity yet,” Marcel said, grinning as he swiped a fry off Porco’s tray.

Porco shot him a glare but kept talking anyway. “Doesn’t matter. This year’s ours, I can feel it.”

Reiner let out a distracted laugh, chiming in here and there about training schedules and rival schools, but his focus kept slipping. Annie, sitting across from him, hadn’t said a word. She only half-listened, her gaze unfocused, until Porco started miming an over-the-top touchdown dance.

That earned the faintest twitch of a smirk from her. Barely noticeable, but there.

Reiner caught it. It almost made him smile too, but his mind wouldn’t let him stay present for long.

Because every time he blinked, he saw that look again.

That tall, black-haired kid.

Bertholdt.

The cold glare. The way he’d refused Reiner’s hand like it was an insult. The unmistakable disgust.

It hadn’t just been awkward. It had been intentional.

And it bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

He wasn’t used to people looking at him like that. He wasn’t used to not being liked, especially not right out the gate. Most people bent over backward to get on his good side, whether it was because he was good at sports, good-looking, or just… loud enough to take up space.

But Bertholdt hadn’t even hesitated to shoot him down.

Didn’t matter if Reiner had laughed it off. The sting to his ego was still there.

He told himself it shouldn’t matter. That the guy was probably just weird, or embarrassed, or whatever. But as Porco and Marcel’s laughter blended into the cafeteria noise, Reiner found himself zoning out again, his grip tightening around the protein bar.

The more he thought about it, the more his chest buzzed with irritation.

Finally, he let it out.

“You guys see that dude earlier? Bertholdt, or whatever his name was,” Reiner muttered suddenly, his voice cutting through the low buzz of cafeteria chatter. His words came out sharper than he meant, rough with the kind of irritation that clung to him even after laughing and talking for several minutes. “The look he gave me? Like I ran over his dog or something.”

Porco blinked mid-bite, crumbs on his tray. “You did knock him over, man.”

“Yeah, but I said sorry,” Reiner shot back quickly, his tone defensive before anyone could even press him.

“Well, it didn’t really sound like you meant it,” Marcel added, grinning lightly, trying to smooth things out whenever someone started to sound annoyed.

Reiner turned a pointed look on him. “I said it,” he repeated, slower this time, like saying it again might make it sound more true.

Porco leaned back, shrugging lazily. “Maybe he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Chill out.”

Reiner’s jaw tightened. He could feel the defensiveness rising before he could stop it, that hot little ember of annoyance settling behind his ribs. “Still, it’s not like I did anything for him to look at me like that.”

His tone came out almost sulky. He knew it, he could hear it. But he couldn’t stop. That look Bertholdt gave him had lodged in his head like a splinter. He hated the idea that someone could just decide not to like him. Especially someone like… that. Someone quiet, forgettable, the kind of guy who disappeared in a crowd unless someone pointed him out.

He’d brushed shoulders with half the student body by now, cracked jokes, earned smiles. People already knew his name, laughed when he walked by. But that one silent rejection? That glare? It stuck harder than all the compliments combined.

He scowled, unwrapping what was left of his protein bar like it had offended him. The wrapper crinkled too loud, drawing Porco’s amused glance. Reiner bit into it too hard, his jaw flexing, and if there was ever a picture of someone managing to look angry while eating, it was him.

Porco and Marcel shared a look, both half-amused, half-baffled.

“Dude,” Porco said finally, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Are you seriously mad about that? You’re acting like he ruined your reputation or something. It’s the first day of school. You’re the new guy, and everyone already seems to worship you.”

Reiner didn’t answer. He just chewed slowly, his eyes narrowing at the table like it had insulted him too.

That only made Porco grin wider. “You are, aren’t you?”

Reiner’s glare slid toward him, but before he could say anything, Annie spoke up for the first time since they’d sat down.

“Would you get over it?” she said flatly, not even bothering to look up. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut straight through the noise of their table.

Reiner blinked. “Excuse me?”

Annie lifted her head finally, expression unreadable as always, icy calm, the kind of composure that made it impossible to tell whether she was annoyed or just bored. “It’s just a look,” she said simply. “You’ve surely had worse. You’ll live.”

Marcel snorted, trying to disguise his laugh behind a cough.

Porco, never one to miss an opportunity, leaned his elbow on the table and grinned. “Damn. She’s got a point.”

Reiner exhaled sharply through his nose and looked away, pretending to be deeply interested in the vending machines across the cafeteria. His face felt hot, not from anger, exactly, but something smaller. Embarrassment. He could feel that same defensive heat creeping up his neck, and the more he tried to shrug it off, the worse it got.

He could tell they all thought he was overreacting. Maybe he was. But still… that glare. It hadn’t just been rude. It had meant something, or maybe he was just taking it to heart.

Porco leaned back again, stretching his arms behind his head. “Plus, Bertholdt’s a nobody. Probably shit his pants or something when he saw you.” He chuckled under his breath. “I heard he used to get bullied back in freshman year.”

That earned him three unimpressed stares.

Even Marcel gave him a look, one eyebrow raised, while Annie just slowly blinked, unimpressed as always. Porco coughed once, realizing maybe he’d said too much, and quickly took a long sip of his water to change the subject.

Reiner didn’t say anything. He just sat there, rolling Porco’s words over in his head.

Bullied, huh?

Now, Reiner wasn’t a bully. He didn’t think of himself that way. But he did enjoy teasing people sometimes, especially when they acted like they were above him. It was harmless, just a way to mess around, get a laugh, test boundaries.

Still, as he stared down at his crumpled protein bar wrapper, he could feel something else creeping in beneath the surface. That same little thread of justification winding its way through his thoughts.

If Bertholdt wanted to look at him like he was dirt, fine. Reiner could live with that. But if the guy was going to act like that on day one, when Reiner had done nothing but accidentally knock him over and offer to help him up?

Well.

Then maybe a little payback wouldn’t hurt.

Not bullying, no, just a reminder of who he was dealing with. A shove back, even if it was only to satisfy that bruised bit of pride twisting in Reiner’s chest.

He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. That he didn’t care.

But as Porco started joking again and Annie went back to silently eating the ice cream bar she’d bought, Reiner found himself smiling faintly to no one in particular, half bitter, half thoughtful.

An eye for an eye, right?

If Bertholdt Hoover wanted to play it cold, then Reiner Braun was more than happy to turn up the heat.

After School:

The rest of the day flew by, thankfully.

Between the dull introductions and teachers wasting time on icebreakers, it wasn’t nearly as bad as Reiner expected. Every classroom felt the same, that awkward tension of new beginnings, the hum of too many voices trying to make a good first impression. But Reiner knew how to play that game. A laugh here, a confident grin there, a well-timed joke. He didn’t even have to try hard; people just gravitated toward him like it was natural.

By the end of third period, he already had a handful of people asking for his number, and a small group of guys talking about football tryouts. They were practically begging him to join, throwing around things like, “You look like you’ve got the build for it,” or “Dude, we need someone who can actually tackle.” It felt good, effortless, almost. Like he’d dropped into a new ecosystem and immediately found his footing.

Reiner thrived in places with new faces, fresh reputations, and all the freedom in the world to rebuild himself however he wanted. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was win people over.

By the time the final bell rang, he was more relaxed than he’d been in weeks. He cut through the parking lot, tossed his backpack into the passenger seat of his car, and let out a long breath before driving home. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windshield, painting everything gold, and for a fleeting second, he thought maybe things were starting to look up.

When he finally stepped through his front door, the house was quiet. The kind of quiet that almost hummed in his ears.

He dropped his bag onto the bench by the wall with a dull thud and stood still for a moment, just listening. No TV, no clattering pans, no muffled voice calling out his name. So, his mom wasn’t home yet, not surprising. She’d probably have gone to pick up groceries or decided to stop by a friend’s place before coming back.

For the first time all day, the noise of the halls, the chatter, the scraping of chairs, the clatter of lockers and sneakers, all drained away, leaving only his own thoughts.

Reiner bent down, untied his sneakers, and kicked them off to the side. They landed unevenly, one toppling over onto the other. He didn’t bother fixing them. His shoulders sagged a little as he fished his phone from his pocket and thumbed it on, squinting slightly at the sudden brightness of the screen.

Immediately, his notifications flooded in.

Dozens of them.

He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.

Most of the messages were from girls he’d met between classes, or, more accurately, girls he’d barely talked to but who’d found some reason to ask for his number. A few sent simple “hey :)”s, others dropped compliments or comments about seeing him at lunch. There were even a couple of selfies, filtered, posed, smiling at him like they already knew he’d reply.

Reiner chuckled under his breath. He couldn’t deny it gave him an ego boost. He hadn’t even been here a full day, and already people knew his name.

Maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad after all.

He scrolled for a bit, half paying attention, deciding which ones were worth responding to. His thumb hovered over one chat before he sighed and locked the phone, shoving it back into his pocket.

He ran a hand through his hair, leaning back against the wall.

The move had been rough since the divorce, the packing, the late-night arguments that had echoed down the hall long before the split actually happened. The kind of fights that made you turn the volume up on your music just to drown them out. His mom had tried to sugarcoat everything, saying the change would be “good for both of them.”

Sure. New town, new school, new everything.

He was tired of pretending it didn’t bother him. But Reiner had already decided: he wasn’t going to let it drag him down. Not this time.

He’d make the best of it.

He’d rebuild himself here, bigger, better, more untouchable than before.

If he could get into the rhythm fast enough, get on the football team, make a few solid friends, maybe date someone cute, then maybe he’d stop thinking about the old house. About the silence that came after his dad slammed the door one last time and didn’t look back.

Whatever. Screw him.

Reiner cleared his throat, forcing the thought away, and pushed himself off the wall. He pulled out his phone again, thumb brushing the screen before clicking the power button. The display went black. He shoved it back into his pocket.

“Ma’?” he called out, his voice echoing faintly through the empty living room.

No answer.

He peeked into the kitchen just to be sure, only met with emptiness. A half-drunk mug of coffee sat on the counter beside a few unopened letters. The faint smell of perfume lingered in the air, mixed with the citrus cleaner she always used.

“…Guess not,” he muttered to himself.

He clicked his tongue and nodded slightly, for no reason at all, before heading down the narrow hallway toward his room. The floor creaked beneath his socks in some spots, old wood, probably.

He pushed his door open with his shoulder and fished his phone out his pocket and tossed it onto the bed, the screen lighting briefly before dimming again. The room still looked unfinished with a few half-unpacked boxes stacked in the corner, his posters rolled up on the desk, a laundry basket still full of clothes he hadn’t bothered folding yet.

He didn’t close the door all the way, just nudged it back with his heel as he unzipped the fly of his jeans and shoved them down past his hips to his ankles, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. They landed somewhere near the closet.

Finally free of the day, he let himself fall face-first onto the mattress with a low, tired grunt. The springs groaned under his weight before settling, the scent of detergent still faint from the wash his mom had done a couple nights ago.

Reiner laid there for a second, face buried in the pillow, before rolling onto his back with a sigh. He reached over to grab his phone again, thumb instinctively unlocking it. The familiar glow of the screen painted his face blue as he started scrolling through social media, half out of habit, half to fill the quiet.

Post after post blurred past his eyes of friends from his old school, old teammates, people laughing, moving on. He liked a few, skipped most, and tried not to think too hard about how strange it felt to be out of their orbit now.

Everything here was new. Every person, every hallway, every unspoken rule of this school. It still didn’t feel real yet, like Reiner was walking through someone else’s life and pretending it was his. The halls from earlier kept replaying in his head in flashes: faces, voices, the scrape of sneakers on linoleum, the clang of lockers, laughter bouncing off tile.

And for a second, as he laid there scrolling aimlessly through his phone, his mind drifted uninvitedly to that tall, awkward kid from English.

Bertholdt, right?

Even the name sounded stiff.

He could picture it perfectly now: that blank, cold look in the hallway, those tired, unimpressed eyes that had somehow seen straight through him. The memory stirred something sour in him, not anger exactly, but something close.

Reiner exhaled slowly, thumb still scrolling as if to distract himself. “Whatever,” he muttered under his breath, letting the thought drift off like it didn’t matter.

Coincidentally, almost on cue, a notification banner slid across the top of his screen.

Porco.

Reiner raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

He hadn’t talked to Porco since lunch; they had completely different afternoon schedules. If he was texting now, it was probably about something dumb, like a meme, a random thought, or maybe a complaint about his first day. Still, curiosity got the better of him. He tapped the banner open.

It wasn’t a meme.

It was a photo.

And right beneath it, a short message:

“This the kid you were talking about earlier, right?”

Reiner frowned, thumb tapping the image to open it fully.

The picture looked like it was from a couple years ago, maybe sophomore year, judging by the awkward haircut and the slightly softer features. The lighting was uneven, probably taken at some school event or ripped from a yearbook. But there was no mistaking him.

Bertholdt Hoover.

Even in the old photo, he stood out. Not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t help being tall, lanky, like someone who hadn’t quite figured out what to do with his own limbs yet. There was a faint stiffness to his expression too, like he’d been caught off guard by the camera.

Reiner stared for a few seconds, his brow furrowing slightly.

So this was the guy.

His new desk partner. The one who’d glared at him like he’d tracked mud into the room.

“…Huh.”

The sound came out half a breath, half a laugh. The corner of his mouth pulled upward. “Guess you’ve always looked like that.”

He leaned back against the headboard, holding the phone up at arm’s length for a better look. The blue light reflected faintly in his eyes as he studied every detail: the plain clothes, the unsure smile, the general “background character” energy.

Porco must’ve dug this up from somewhere. He seemed good at that, being nosy in all the wrong ways, but useful when you needed information fast.

Reiner scrolled up through their chat and noticed the message he’d sent earlier at lunch, when the irritation had still been fresh.

“Some kid in my english class giving me attitude.”

Of course Porco had decided to follow up. Probably spent the rest of the day on some weird investigative mission for fun.

Reiner typed back, thumb hovering just long enough to make it seem casual.

“Yeah, that’s him lmao. Where’d you even get that pic?”

A few seconds later, the typing bubble appeared.

“Historia’s insta. He’s in some of her old photos. Weird, right?”

Reiner blinked, the name catching his attention.

“Historia? The blonde girl? The one that hangs with that brunette?”

“Yeah. Guess they’re friends or something. Didn’t peg him as the social type.”

Reiner hummed under his breath, looking off toward the corner of his room like he might find the logic hiding somewhere in the shadows.

So, Bertholdt wasn’t completely invisible. That was… surprising. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who talked much, let alone had friends like Historia, the girl everyone seemed to know by name already.

He tossed his phone lightly onto his chest and stared up at the ceiling, thinking.

It was strange how one interaction, like a glare, a scowl, a passing moment, could stick in his head like this. It wasn’t like Bertholdt had actually said anything to him. He’d just looked at him, and somehow, that had been enough to make Reiner feel… off.

He tried to laugh it off, shaking his head. “Seriously? This guy?” he muttered to himself.

But still, that look, so unlike everyone else’s eager smiles, lingered behind his eyelids.

Reiner picked the phone back up and flipped to the photo again.

So that’s you, huh?

Up close, Bertholdt didn’t look intimidating. If anything, he looked exactly how Reiner had pegged him: quiet, awkward, a little too tall for his own good. The kind of guy who avoided eye contact and apologized for existing.

Reiner smirked, running his tongue across his teeth.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “this’ll be easy.”

He wasn’t a bully, he didn’t like to think of himself that way. He just liked getting a rise out of people sometimes, liked testing boundaries. Call it curiosity, or maybe just that competitive itch that came with being good at things.

If someone like Bertholdt wanted to glare, fine.

Reiner could play that game, too.

He could take a few dirty looks. Maybe even throw a few words back. Hell, maybe he’d get the guy to laugh, or trip him up a little, who knew? Sometimes pushing people’s buttons was the only way to figure out who they really were.

His phone buzzed again.

Another message from Porco.

“You gonna mess with him or what?”

Reiner’s smirk deepened, the question rolling around in his head like a dare. He thumbed back a response, one-handed, eyes still half on the photo.

“Dunno yet. Depends if he gives me a reason to.”

He hit send.

The typing bubble popped up for a second before disappearing again. Probably Porco laughing somewhere on the other end.

Reiner stretched, his back cracking as he leaned against the headboard again. The faint buzz of a new message followed a moment later, but he didn’t bother checking it this time. His phone stayed in his hand, resting against his stomach, screen dimming as his eyes drifted toward the ceiling.

The quiet hum of the house filled the background with the distant ticking of the hallway clock, the faint rattle of the AC vent, a car passing outside.

Somewhere between boredom and curiosity, he felt the corners of his mouth curve up again.

Bertholdt Hoover.

The quiet kid with the glare.

He didn’t know why, but there was something about that name—about him—that felt like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

And that, more than anything, made Reiner want to see what would happen next.

The Following Week:

The next week went by in a blur of practices, introductions, and endless new faces.

By Wednesday, Reiner had already cornered Coach Shadis after gym to ask about joining the football team. What followed wasn’t so much a conversation as a full-blown interrogation. The man’s eyes were sharp, voice booming, like he’d seen a thousand kids who thought they could handle it and snapped them in half by midseason.

Reiner swore the man enjoyed watching him sweat.

After what felt like an entire day of drills, running laps until his legs burned, doing push-ups until his arms gave out, and getting barked at for every mistake, Coach finally gave a gruff nod. “Fine. You’re in. But don’t think you’ve proved a damn thing yet.”

Reiner nearly collapsed right there on the field.

He’d played for years, but he wasn’t used to having to earn his spot. Every other school he’d gone to practically handed him a jersey the second they saw him throw. Marcel hadn’t been lying; this team was no joke. One of the best in the region. And, honestly, Reiner respected that.

Still didn’t mean he wasn’t dead tired.

But it was worth it.

Because once word got around that the new guy made the team, everything else came easy. His popularity shot up overnight, girls who’d barely looked his way last week were suddenly finding reasons to talk to him, and the guys treated him like he’d been there for years. In every hallway, someone was calling his name, slapping his shoulder, or asking about practice.

He’d built a new life here faster than he expected.

Not that everyone was thrilled about it.

Some people, the quieter ones or the ones with sharper instincts, seemed to keep their distance, probably smart enough to recognize the kind of crowd he ran with. Reiner didn’t blame them. Porco could be a handful, and Marcel had a bad habit of dragging everyone into chaos just for the hell of it.

Still, Reiner liked his group. The core was mostly football guys: Porco, Marcel, and a few others he clicked with quick. But then there were the extras orbiting around the edges.

Annie, for one.

He couldn’t quite figure her out. She never said much, and when she did, it was usually dry or cutting. Sometimes he thought she tolerated him, other times he thought she might actually like him, and then she’d stare at him with those cold, pale eyes and make him rethink opening his mouth at all. It was… weirdly grounding.

Then there was Pieck, Porco’s girlfriend. He had AP World with her, though “had” might be generous. She slept through most of it, cheek pressed to her arm, hair draped over her face, and somehow still pulled better grades than half the class. Reiner didn’t get how she and Porco worked; she seemed too calm for him. But whatever. They seemed happy enough.

And then there was Colt. Blond, good-natured, and apparently convinced he and Reiner were long-lost twins. The first thing he said when they met was, “You sure we’re not related?” and somehow, that was enough to start a friendship.

So, by the time Reiner found himself in the back of his tech class that Friday, it almost felt like he’d been there for months.

Almost.

The class itself, though, was a different story, by far the most mind-numbingly boring thing he’d ever sat through. The teacher was droning on about “digital privacy and online safety,” the same speech every kid had heard since they were twelve. Meanwhile, Reiner was half-slouched in his chair, phone hidden low in his lap, scrolling through his DMs.

He had a small army of unread messages, most of them from girls he barely remembered meeting. Some were nice enough, either funny, flirty, a few maybe worth talking to, but others were just… exhausting. The kind that wanted to talk nonstop or get clingy after one conversation.

Reiner smirked faintly to himself, thumb flicking lazily across his phone screen as he scrolled through his messages. His read receipts were already off for half his contacts, he’d learned that trick the hard way last month after getting guilt-tripped into hanging out three weekends in a row. These days, ghosting was simpler. Cleaner. No awkward follow-ups, no half-hearted excuses about homework or “family stuff.” Just radio silence.

He exhaled through his nose, amused, as another text popped up from some random group chat. A dumb meme, badly cropped, paired with a joke that wasn’t even funny, except, somehow, it got him. He snorted quietly, shoulders shaking once as his thumb hovered over the keyboard. Fine. He’d bite. He started typing a quick reply, something stupid back, the corner of his mouth curving without him realizing it.

He leaned back a little in his chair, the old plastic creaking in protest, knees spreading comfortably under the desk. His phone was half-hidden against his thigh, angled just enough so the light from the screen wouldn’t reflect on his desk. His other hand tapped against his knee, restless, matching the bounce of his leg. He was in his own little world texting, faint smirk, that faint, lazy buzz of distraction that made boring classes survivable.

Big mistake.

Apparently, a six-foot-tall linebacker in the back corner grinning at his lap like a lovesick idiot wasn’t exactly subtle. Because the projector cut off mid-sentence, the room's dim light suddenly broke by the faint sound of a remote clicking.

“Reiner,” his teacher said, voice cutting clean through the low hum of the machine.

He froze, eyes flicking up like a deer caught in headlights.

“Are you paying attention?” she asked, and though her tone wasn’t outright furious yet, it carried that dangerous, warning edge teachers got right before they really lost it.

“Huh? Oh—yeah. Yeah, totally.”

The words flew out too fast, too confident for someone who definitely hadn’t heard a single word of the video. A couple of kids snickered. One elbowed their friend. Reiner could feel the heat rising in his neck, crawling up to the tips of his ears.

She crossed her arms, unimpressed. “Really? Then maybe you can tell us what this video’s about.”

A few students turned to look at him, some openly grinning now, sensing blood in the water. The projector screen behind her froze on an image of a middle-aged guy sitting at a computer desk. balding, wearing one of those pale blue button-ups that screamed “educational video filmed in 2008.” No title. No captions. No mercy.

Perfect.

Reiner’s lips pressed together. Maybe he could bluff this. Maybe she’d nod and move on.

He squinted, buying time. “Uh…” He glanced between her and the screen, trying to look thoughtful instead of completely lost. “Yeah, it’s about… online safety or something.”

It came out half-question, half-prayer.

Silence.

Then small laughs.

Not loud, but scattered around the room enough that it stung. A few kids in the middle row snorted. One muffled it behind a sleeve. Reiner didn’t even need to ask; the sound alone told him he’d struck out hard.

The teacher’s sigh was audible even over the projector fan. She pinched the bridge of her nose with the kind of long-suffering patience only veteran teachers had. “Way off, actually. It’s about keyboard shortcuts.”

Reiner blinked. “Keyboard—what?”

Her tone carried a mix of disbelief and disappointment, like she’d just caught him vandalizing the principal’s car instead of checking a text for crying out loud. The energy in the room shifted; everyone was watching now, waiting for the next move.

Reiner felt the weight of the stares, the simmering awkwardness hanging in the air, and tilted his head slightly. He wanted to roll his eyes so badly it hurt. What did she expect, an apology for not knowing the sacred art of Control + C?

He leaned back in his chair, muttering, “…Right. Anyways, continue,” under his breath as he set his phone face down on the desk.

If there was a worse possible answer, he hadn’t found it yet.

Her jaw actually dropped, like he’d just told her to calm down. “Sorry, Reiner? Continue?” she echoed that tight, clipped tone only teachers could master. “No apology?”

He blinked at her, brows knitting faintly, genuinely confused now. What did she want from him—a speech? A full-blown apology monologue? He’d already put his phone away. Case closed.

He lifted a shoulder in a small, nonchalant shrug, like he didn’t know what else she wanted from him.

That single movement was all it took for the atmosphere to shift again. Around the room, a few students exchanged glances, grinning behind their hands. One kid bit the inside of his cheek, trying to hold back a laugh. The whole thing had officially turned into third-period entertainment, better than any video on “keyboard shortcuts.”

Reiner wasn’t even trying to be difficult. Really. He just didn’t get why teachers treated every small thing like it was a declaration of war. Back home, he’d had stricter ones, sure, people who’d throw chalk at you for yawning too loud, but even they hadn’t taken it this personally.

This lady, though? She was acting like he’d spat on the Constitution.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressed tight as she waited. No movement. No words. Just that silent, suffocating teacher stare meant to make a student fold under pressure.

Oh brother.

Reiner sighed quietly through his nose, leaning back in his chair until it creaked, arms crossing over his chest. If she wanted a verbal response, fine. He’d play along. “…For what?” he asked flatly, his tone riding the thin edge between genuine confusion and total disinterest.

A few students blinked, caught off guard. Others grinned wider, sensing this was only getting better.

To them, it wasn’t a classroom anymore, but it was a show.

Pfft, privilege, someone probably thought. It wasn’t like Reiner was hard to read: good-looking, tall, popular, captain material on the football team. He had the kind of easy charm people didn’t even have to work for. The kind that made teachers go soft and students envy him, though half the time he didn’t even try. So when he sat there acting like the rules didn’t apply, it probably rubbed a few people the wrong way, and entertained the rest.

The teacher finally exhaled, voice clipped. “For disrespecting me and my class.”

Her words landed like she’d been waiting for him to hand her that opening.

Her patience was clearly thinning fast. You could see it in the small, tight twitch of her jaw, the way her arms unfolded from their stern cross and dropped to her sides, tension rippling in her shoulders. She’d probably dealt with dozens of kids like Reiner, acting bored, smug, convinced they were untouchable, and after years of teaching, she was likely two seconds from losing it.

Still, none of that mattered to the class.

To them, this was gold. Drama during a lecture on keyboard shortcuts? Unheard of. They could practically taste the chaos. All that was missing was popcorn.

Reiner rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the heat of everyone’s eyes burn into the back of his head. The air in the room felt heavier now, thick with anticipation, the kind of silence that only came before someone said something brave, or, in his situation, stupid.

He muttered under his breath, just loud enough to be heard, like he couldn’t help himself. “Not my fault this class sucks…”

That was the spark.

Gasoline on open flame.

A few students gasped. Others snorted out small bursts of laughter that died just as quickly as they started. Someone near the window whispered, “Holy shit, he actually said that,” probably half in disbelief, half in admiration.

The entire room changed in an instant. Chairs squeaked as people turned in their seats. A couple of kids tried to look like they weren’t staring, but the curiosity was too strong, every eye in the room was locked on Reiner Braun, the new guy, the golden boy, sitting there like he’d just challenged the crown.

Phones began to slide out under desks. Subtle. Sneaky. Half-hidden behind pencil cases and open notebooks. Just enough to get the shot if things got ugly. The teacher wouldn’t notice; her focus was a laser aimed directly at Reiner.

She let out a quiet scoff, like she couldn’t even believe what she’d just heard come out of his mouth. Then, her voice cracked through the tension like a whip.

“Sorry?”

That one word carried a weight that could make most students shrink in their chairs.

Her arms dropped from their folded stance, hitting her sides as she took a small, deliberate step forward. Her tone rose, not loudly in a booming way, but incredulous. The kind of tone teachers used when their patience finally ran dry. The authority in her stance slipped, replaced with something that felt almost personal.

Reiner met her stare evenly, his jaw tight. His hazel eyes flicked briefly around the room, catching the dozens of faces watching him. It hit him then, all at once, just how deep he was in.

Ah, shit. Well. No turning back now.

All eyes were on him, the whole room holding its breath, waiting for the next word like it’d decide whether this moment turned into a suspension or a school legend.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the desk, exhaling through his nose as if accepting the challenge. “Look,” he said finally, each word drawn out slowly and deliberately, his voice lower but carrying that same Reiner stubbornness that made people either love or hate him. “I said what I said. This class is boring.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Even the hum of the projector seemed to fade away, leaving nothing but the faint ticking of the clock and the collective disbelief choking the air.

A few jaws dropped. Comically. One kid mouthed “no way” to another across the aisle. Someone near the back actually choked on their gum, trying not to laugh.

Reiner didn’t flinch. His face stayed impassive, but in his peripheral vision, he caught the faint gleam of a phone camera being held up behind a desk, recording every second of this unfolding disaster. Great. Just what he needed, his first week at a new school, and he was about to go viral for mouthing off in tech class.

Keep your cool, Reiner.

He straightened a little, forcing calm, even though his pulse had kicked up hard against his ribs.

The teacher stared at him for a long, brutal few seconds, lips parted like she couldn’t quite believe what she’d just heard. Then she let out a small, humorless laugh and shook her head. “You know what—” she began, her voice tight and trembling slightly with irritation.

Reiner could tell she was done. He’d seen that look before. The clipped walk toward the desk, the forced calm, the little head tilt that said she wasn't arguing with him anymore.

He leaned back, watching her move, smirk tugging faintly at his mouth. “What? You gonna send me to the principal’s office?”

It came out casually, almost teasing, like he’d already seen this play out in his head and wasn’t impressed with the ending.

The class broke into a nervous ripple of laughter, that low, gleeful noise that filled the room when something went from uncomfortable to too good to look away from.

Reiner tapped a finger idly against his desk, feigning boredom. He’d been through this song and dance before. If she sent him down, he knew how to handle it. He’d charm his way out of it, flash a polite smile, play the “new kid misunderstanding” card, maybe even toss in a “won’t happen again” if the principal seemed serious about it.

He knew how to turn it off and on, and just gave whatever people needed to see.

The principal liked him already. The coach… well, maybe not loved him, but he was on the team. Point was, his reputation was armor.

Still, as the teacher opened her drawer and started rummaging around, Reiner felt the buzz of adrenaline hum under his skin. It was that stupid, dangerous kind of thrill of knowing he was in trouble but also knowing he’d get away with it.

Because, yeah, maybe this wasn’t the first time he’d gotten caught running his mouth.

And maybe, deep down, he liked the edge of it. The control. The chaos.

She stopped writing mid-stroke, the pen freezing above the page.

The soft scratching of ink against paper died, and instantly, the entire class went silent, like someone had muted the room with a single click. Every student stared, waiting. Even the hum of the projector seemed to fade under the weight of her pause.

Then she said it. 

“No, actually.”

Reiner’s head lifted right away, his brows pulling together. “…What?” he muttered under his breath, confused, the faintest edge of suspicion in his tone.

A shift rippled through the room: desks began to creak, sneakers scuffed quietly against the tile, but no one dared speak. Everyone knew this wasn’t the usual script. Normally, this was where she’d sigh, scribble a pass to the principal, and send the poor idiot on his way to face the inevitable lecture about “respect” and “conduct.” But her voice carried something else, something calculated.

She was calm. Too calm for his liking.

“I’m not sending you to the principal,” she said calmly, pen sliding smoothly across the paper again.

The statement alone was enough to confuse everyone. Heads tilted subtly around the room. A couple of whispers broke out in the back, but they died as fast as they started.

Reiner sat back in his chair, trying to mask the unease creeping up his neck. The usual confidence was gone for the moment. His eyes darted to her hand, following the rhythm of the pen, his curiosity getting the better of him.

A few seconds stretched out painfully. The only sound was the faint glide of her pen and the occasional squeak from the marker rolling off her desk.

Then came a rip.

The sound was sudden and final as she tore the pink slip from her packet. She turned to face him fully, a slow, knowing smirk curving her mouth.

“You’re going to the gym,” she said.

Her tone was maddeningly smug, too satisfied for someone handing out a punishment. Her eyes practically gleamed with victory.

Reiner froze. Blinked once. Then again.

He stared at the pass like maybe he’d misheard. “The… gym?”

The realization hit him like a dropped weight. His stomach sank.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

She was doing this on purpose.

Around him, the rest of the class exchanged confused glances. A couple of kids snickered, not fully understanding why Reiner looked like he’d just been sentenced to death. To them, gym class sounded like a break, not a punishment. But Reiner knew better. He knew exactly who was down there.

Coach Shadis.

Of all the miserable, spiteful fates in the world, she picked that.

He almost laughed, one of those tight, humorless sort of laughs that comes out when life smacks you in the face and you have to pretend it didn’t hurt. This was worse than the principal’s office. Way worse.

She knew.

Of course she did. Teachers talked. Rumors threaded through staff rooms faster than sneakers on polished gym floors, and Reiner’s name had already made the rounds: Reiner Braun, new transfer, star on the field, loud in the halls. The boy who’d “lead them to victory,” the guy who’d bragged about his position like it was carved into his locker. He’d worn that reputation like armor all morning… until she decided to use it as a weapon.

Damn it. Maybe being popular came with a curse after all.

“Are you serious?” he asked finally, more scoff than question, incredulity riding his voice. Part of him hoped she’d crack, laugh it off, and hand him some pale pink slip to march down to the principal’s office and be done with it. Anything but this. Anything but the gym.

She didn’t flinch. “Very,” she said, flat and precise.

She held the pink slip out like a dare, shaking it just a little as if she wanted to show him she meant business. The rest of the class shut up on cue, the sudden silence thick enough to taste. Nobody wanted to be the next target of her little theatrical punishments.

That smugness in her tone, pinched with the tiniest spark of entertainment pushed something hot under Reiner’s ribs. She’d done this before, he could tell. She had a list. He was probably number four on it that week. The difference was that this time, she’d hooked herself a golden fish and was savoring the tug.

The pink pass fluttered in her fingers with the weak whisper of the classroom’s air conditioning. For the first time that day, he noticed how small and ridiculous that slip looked, cartoonishly pink, like a ticket to a theme park nobody wanted to visit. He stared at it as if it were the physical embodiment of humiliation.

He hated how much his stomach dropped.

He glanced up at the clock like a prayer: Please let the bell save me. 

It didn’t. Forty minutes still crouched between him and anything resembling freedom. Forty minutes until he’d have to walk into the gym, into Coach Shadis’s radar, into a room that probably smelled of sweat, rubber, and old chalk.

Coach Shadis. The name was its own punishment. He could see the man’s hawkish profile: the barked orders, the no-nonsense count of ten sprints, the way he measured exhaustion on a scale of “not enough” to “you’re pathetic.” Shadis didn’t deal in leniency. Shadis turned teenagers into athletes the way a chef turns dough into bread, both with heat, pressure, and zero sympathy.

His thighs remembered yesterday’s punishment. They ached in dull, familiar ways already. The thought of doing it again, in front of the whole team, under the unforgiving eye of a man who made grown men cry, curdled his stomach.

And he couldn’t bargain his way out. Not this time. Not when the teacher had everyone’s attention and had the pink slip ready like a ceremonial badge.

Reiner brought a hand up to the back of his neck, rubbing at it like he could knead out the frustration clawing there. His jaw was locked tight enough that the muscle twitched. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, honestly, he hadn’t. But the words slipped out anyway.

“…Are you kidding me,” he muttered, louder than he realized until the silence caught it.

The teacher’s head snapped toward him like she’d been waiting for that exact moment. Her lips curled into not a smile, exactly, but a razor-edged satisfaction, the kind you saw right before a cat pounced.

“Sorry?” she asked again, voice light, pretending she hadn’t heard him perfectly the first time.

He knew the tone. He’d pushed it too far. There was no saving this.

He just straightened up in his chair, trying to look casual even as his pulse kicked harder. The chair creaked beneath him like it was tired of his nonsense too. “…Nothing,” he could’ve said. Should’ve. But it was too late, the look in her eyes said she’d already won.

“Reiner,” she spoke sweetly again, holding up the pink slip further like a game show prize. “Since you have so much to say, you can take this to Coach Shadis.”

Great. The cherry on top.

Every head turned toward him in a ripple of motion, faces catching the scent of drama like gulls catching a crumb. A few mouths dropped open; someone mouthed “Damn.” Someone else snorted, failing miserably to stifle their laugh.

Reiner stood up slowly, deliberately, dragging it out like he could at least control the pacing of his own downfall. The metal chair scraped against the tile, a long, nails-on-glass shriek that sliced through the noise. He could feel his ears burning. He reached for his backpack, yanking it up a little too hard, and slung it over one shoulder in one practiced, defiant motion. His phone disappeared into his pocket like he was arming himself as he dragged his legs over to her desk.

The teacher was still smiling that tiny, victorious smile as she held the pink slip out to him. It was more of a challenge than a gesture really. He took it anyway, fingers brushing the edge of the paper for half a second longer than necessary, his jaw still clenched. Maybe if he held it long enough, he could will the heat from his hand to burn a hole straight through it.

If only.

Her eyes met his for only a heartbeat. There wasn’t a hint of sympathy in them, only the smug, quiet satisfaction of someone who’d staged a scene and nailed the final cue.

“Have fun,” she murmured.

The words hit like a slap dressed as a smile. In the theater of high school cruelty, that was the curtain call.

He wanted to fight back, to explain he’d just zoned out, that the video was boring, that he’d been checking his phone for a message about football practice. He thought about apologizing, or maybe joking it off like he always did. But her face made it clear: the performance was over, and no charm was saving him this time.

He swallowed hard. The pink slip crackled softly in his palm, paper crumpling under his grip like it was made of something denser, like lead, maybe. It felt heavier than it had any right to. Through the narrow window of the classroom door, the hallway glowed under a wash of late-morning light. Dust motes drifted lazily through the beam, slicing through the fluorescent haze. He could hear faint echoes of other students cutting class, laughter ricocheting off lockers, sneakers squeaking against tile. Freedom. Loud, beautiful freedom.

For them.

From where he stood, it looked so easy. Like the world outside wasn’t waiting to chew him up and spit him out in front of Coach Shadis.

He pulled at the door handle. It resisted for a second, just enough to mock him, before giving in with a muted click. The sound was small, but it carried the weight of something final. He hesitated a second longer, then stepped out, shoulders slightly hunched, his sneakers dull against the tile. The door closed behind him with a second, louder click.

That one sounded like judgment.

Then came the laughter.

It started muffled, like air leaking out of a balloon, then burst fully into the hall.

“He’s screwed!” someone shouted, voice full of glee.

The sound hit Reiner like static, fizzing at the edges of his focus, crawling down his neck. His ears burned. He didn’t turn around. He just walked faster.

The pink slip tightened in his grip, wrinkled almost beyond recognition. The hallway stretched ahead in an impossible line of metal and tile, every fluorescent light buzzing faintly overhead. His footsteps echoed back at him, loud and hollow. Lockers loomed in perfect, endless rows like silent witnesses, their surfaces dented and stickered with half-peeled decals and sharpie graffiti. The air smelled like floor wax, sweat, and cheap cafeteria pizza reheated one too many times just to top it off too.

A pair of freshmen rounded the corner, and the instant they saw him, they froze. Eyes wide, like deer catching sight of a hunter. One elbowed the other and whispered something before both vanished down the hall, sneakers squeaking in retreat.

Perfect. By the time he made it to the gym, half the school would know he’d been sent there.

He passed a cluster of upperclassmen loitering near the vending machines. They looked up, recognized him immediately, and grinned. One of them lifted his hand and gave him that universal rip bro thumbs-up.

Reiner let out a dry, humorless laugh under his breath. Didn’t help. Not even close.

The hallway just kept going. His thoughts flicked in time with his steps, one part of him defiant, the other part anxious. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. Detention, maybe drills, maybe a lecture. He could handle that. He always handled that.

Then the gym doors came into view. Those massive, dented, and painted in that sad shade of institutional gray doors. They loomed like the gates of hell, swallowing the light that hit them.

He stopped a few feet short, staring at the chipped metal surface. His reflection was barely visible, now distorted and pale. He exhaled slowly. He could just turn around. Go the other way. Skip. Who would know? He could spend an hour in the parking lot, text Porco, have him cover for him with some stupid excuse. Easy.

Then the doors slammed open before he could finish the thought, like the universe had heard him and decided to end the fantasy.

Reiner jolted upright instinctively, his spine snapping straight like a soldier caught off guard during inspection.

For a split second, he thought: Please let it be a student. Someone late, maybe. Someone he could brush past and disappear behind.

Then he looked up.

Coach Shadis.

Welp. Screw that plan.

The man stood framed in the doorway like a statue carved out of malice and caffeine. His smirk tugged at one side of his mouth, more suggestion than expression, but the gleam in his eyes said everything: pure, sadistic joy thinly veiled by the stoicism of a career tormentor. His arms were crossed, posture radiating authority, and his mere presence seemed to vacuum the air out of the hallway.

“Braun,” Shadis said, voice already booming enough to make Reiner’s chest vibrate.

Reiner didn’t even get a word out before the man’s eyes flicked to the pink slip in his hand. He didn’t need to ask what it was. He didn’t even look at it properly, just let out a sharp bark of a laugh, somewhere between a cough and thunder.

“Let’s go, Braun. You know the drill.”

Reiner opened his mouth to speak. “Uh, sir—”

He didn’t get the chance. Shadis’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, his grip unyielding, steering him forward like he weighed nothing. Reiner stumbled a little, the sound of his sneakers scuffing against the tile echoing down the hall.

He didn’t even know if teachers were allowed to do that. But he wasn’t about to test it. Not with Shadis. Not unless he wanted to end up doing suicides until he puked.

The heavy metal door swung shut behind them with a clang that reverberated through the gym, locking the sound of laughter and freedom out in the hall. The smell of sweat, old rubber, and disinfectant hit him like a wall.

Awesome.

Reiner steadied himself, straightening up along the sidelines as he shoved the wrinkled pink slip deep into his pocket. The paper crackled like it was glad to be rid of him. His gaze swept the room of the glossy wood floors reflecting the harsh gym lights, the faded white lines zigzagging across the court, the old volleyball nets coiled against the wall like sleeping snakes. A few deflated basketballs sat forgotten near the bleachers, and the faint smell of sweat and rubber hung heavy in the air.

He turned toward Shadis, rubbing the back of his neck with a weak, nervous laugh that didn’t sound like him at all.

“Uh… sir, what am I supposed to do?”

The question barely made it out before Shadis’s glare cut through him like a thrown knife. That single look carried the weight of ten years of military service and a lifetime of disappointment. Reiner shut his mouth so fast it made a faint click.

...Right. No talking. Got it.

He shifted his weight, glancing toward the court again. There was movement now, he hadn’t noticed before how many people were actually here. A full class lined up along the opposite wall, staring at him with the kind of fascinated silence usually reserved for zoo exhibits and public breakdowns. Yay. Just what he needed: an audience.

Shadis clapped his hands once, and the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

“Alright, class!” he barked, voice booming enough to rattle the rafters. “Pair up in groups of two! Today, we’re playing volleyball!”

The announcement echoed through the gym, bouncing off the walls and up into the fluorescent lights.

Reiner blinked. Volleyball? Seriously? That was… fine. Totally fine. Not ideal, sure, it wasn’t football, and he hadn’t touched a volleyball since middle school, but it was better than running suicides until his lungs gave out.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening just a fraction. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad.

He hung back as the chaos began. The instant Shadis gave the word, the gym exploded into motion: voices bouncing off the high walls, sneakers squeaking across the floor, laughter and shouts overlapping in a blur of energy. Students darted across the court, calling out names, waving arms, pairing off like they’d rehearsed it.

Reiner stayed where he was.

He moved slowly, deliberately slowly, toward the far corner of the gym, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head slightly ducked like maybe if he didn’t make direct eye contact, he’d vanish into the bleachers. His usual confident swagger had dialed down to something more cautious, like he was strategizing his escape rather than blending in.

His eyes swept the crowd, searching for a familiar face to latch onto. Porco? Marcel? Maybe Pieck or Annie? Even Colt would’ve been a relief. But no luck, wrong class, wrong hour. Everyone here was either a stranger or one of those vaguely recognizable faces from the hallways, people he’d seen but never talked to.

Fine. Whatever. Let them all pair up and have their fun.

He could hang back, pretend to be deep in thought about something “important,” and wait it out. Surely Shadis wouldn’t care if one kid got left out. “Sorry, coach. Don’t have a partner,” sounded like a dream excuse. He could coast through this class, keep his head down, maybe sneak a glance at his phone once the chaos settled.

Yeah. Not a bad setup, actually. Maybe the universe was cutting him a little slack for once.

He almost smirked to himself.

Until—

“Braun!”

The voice cracked through the gym like thunder, echoing so sharply that half the class turned to look. Reiner froze mid-breath, his heart dropping somewhere around his sneakers.

Oh, hell no.

“You and Hoover pair up! Get your ass out there!” Shadis barked, his tone final and merciless.

Reiner’s brain short-circuited for a second. Hoover? The name sounded familiar, but his mind blanked. Hoover, Hoover… Where had he—

And then it hit him like a truck.

From behind Shadis, a tall, lanky shadow shuffled reluctantly into view, shoulders slouched like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

Bertholdt Hoover.

His English-class desk mate. His assigned project partner. His enemy, depending on the hour of the day and Reiner’s mood.

Reiner stared in disbelief as Bertholdt stepped out from behind the coach, looking every bit as horrified as Reiner felt. Their eyes met across the gym, a single, silent moment of mutual realization and horror.

Bertholdt’s face went from mildly uncomfortable to a full “nope, absolutely not” in record time. Reiner could practically see the despair radiating off of him, and honestly? Same.

Of course this was happening.

He’d been sent to the gym as punishment, and somehow… somehow the universe decided that wasn’t cruel enough. No, it had to throw this at him too.

Reiner dragged a hand down his face with a groan that barely hid his curse. “…You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.

Shadis didn’t care. The rest of the class didn’t care. But Reiner knew Bertholdt heard him, because the other guy’s expression twitched, like he was thinking the exact same thing.

Reiner exhaled through his nose, glancing skyward for a second as if to ask the universe, why me?

And somewhere, deep beneath the humiliation and disbelief, a laugh almost bubbled up. Because honestly? At this point, the whole situation was so absurd, it was kind of impressive.

He shook his head, muttering with a faint, incredulous grin, “…Man, I really am screwed.”

Chapter Text

POV: Reiner

Reiner, now standing face-to-face with Bertholdt, felt the tension practically thicken the air between them. Neither spoke, nor did they move; instead, they stood a few feet apart, like two opposing magnets forced to occupy the same corner of the gym. Coach Shadis stood a few paces off, arms crossed, glaring at them both expectantly as if daring one of them to protest.

No one did.

Didn’t dare it.

Reiner knew better. After a week of dealing with Shadis’s short fuse and military-style discipline, he already understood the man’s rules: don’t argue, don’t whine, and definitely don’t make him repeat himself. Especially not when you were technically a guest in someone else’s class. One wrong move and Shadis would have him running laps until his shoes melted.

Bertholdt didn’t speak up either. He didn’t have to. The defeated slump of his shoulders said everything. He probably knew it’d be useless since everyone was already paired, and even if he begged, Shadis wouldn’t budge an inch. The guy looked like he’d rather disappear through the polished wood floor than stand here next to Reiner of all people.

Well. This was going to be a fun period.

Reiner exhaled through his nose, the breath coming out tense, forcing a small, almost invisible nod toward Shadis as if to say, yeah, we got it. His throat felt tight as he cleared it, the sound catching awkwardly in the air before he turned and headed off to grab a volleyball.

Immediately, the difference between him and everyone else hit him again, like walking into the wrong rehearsal halfway through. Every other student wore the school’s standard gym uniform: gray T-shirts darkened with sweat, red shorts that were always just a little too short on some people, sneakers squeaking with every pivot and sprint. The bright color of the uniforms made the sea of bodies look coordinated, cohesive. Reiner, in his jeans and wrinkled hoodie, might as well have been wearing a neon sign that read outsider.

Great. Just perfect.

He moved toward the middle of the gym, weaving through the chaotic clusters of students who were already calling out names and tossing balls to one another. Two metal carts stood near the center court, their wire frames rattling as hands reached in and pulled out volleyballs. The sound of rubber thudding against palms, laughter, and the echo of sneakers against the floor filled the gym and rebounded off the high ceiling.

Behind him, Reiner heard the quiet, uncertain rhythm of another set of footsteps trailing just a few paces behind his own. Laces slapped against the floorboards in an uneven tempo, followed by the faint drag of someone walking just a little too carefully. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

He could picture it perfectly: Bertholdt’s long, awkward stride, his busted-up Converse with their frayed edges and perpetually untied laces. Reiner had noticed them earlier, right after Shadis had called their names, and his gaze had dropped there out of instinct, anything to escape that awkward second of locked eye contact between them.

If Bertholdt didn’t move, Shadis would’ve screamed at him to “get his tall ass in gear.” So yeah, of course he followed. No one in their right mind would risk being on the receiving end of another Shadis tirade.

When Reiner reached the cart, it was already half-abandoned, picked clean by the rest of the class. He bent down and scanned what was left. Not much. The good volleyballs that actually bounced were long gone. What remained looked like a graveyard of rejects: scuffed, grayish, deflated things slumped against each other. He pressed his palm into one and felt it sink immediately, the rubber giving way without resistance.

“Oh wow,” he muttered under his breath, voice dry. “It’s like this couldn’t get any worse.”

He sighed through his nose and tested a few more. One, maybe two, had the faintest trace of air left in them. He picked the least tragic-looking one and tucked it under his arm before straightening up and turning slightly toward Bertholdt.

“…Well,” he said flatly, a dry smirk ghosting over his lips though it held not even a trace of humor, “looks like we’re stuck with a deflated one.”

Bertholdt stood a few feet away, arms folded loosely across his chest, gaze fixed on absolutely anything that wasn’t Reiner. His posture screamed he wanted out of here. The guy’s whole aura radiated quiet discomfort based on how tight his jaw was, his shoulders drawn in, like he was constantly bracing for something.

Reiner frowned, tilting his head slightly. What was his deal? Sure, their first English class together had been… Well, awkward since they didn’t talk, and maybe Reiner hadn’t been exactly gentle that day in the hallway when they bumped into each other, but still. Days later, Bertholdt acted like being near him required a hazmat suit.

Still, the silence became thick enough that even the echoes of the gym didn’t seem to fill it.

Reiner rolled the ball between his hands, the soft rubber squeaking faintly, and scanned the room for an open space. Around them, volleyballs flew in chaotic arcs, thudding against walls, arms, and occasionally faces. The shouts and laughter blended into one giant storm of noise, and Reiner wanted as much distance from it as possible. The last thing he needed was to bean someone in the head with this half-dead excuse for a ball and earn himself another lecture from Shadis.

Finally, he spotted an open section near the far wall: a narrow strip of empty floor, away from the chaos but still within sight of the coach’s eagle eyes. Not perfect, but workable.

“C’mon,” he muttered over his shoulder, not bothering to check if Bertholdt was listening before heading that way.

He didn’t have to. The faint squeak of Converse followed.

When they reached the far side of the gym, Reiner came to a stop and claimed a spot, bouncing the ball experimentally against the polished wood floor. It barely rose off his palms. He tried again, yet the same sad result came.

He looked down at it, then up at Bertholdt, and let out a low, humorless huff that might’ve been a laugh if there’d been any real life behind it. “Yeah,” he said dryly, “this thing’s got about as much energy as I do right now.”

Bertholdt didn’t react, just shifted on his feet again, eyes flicking toward the rest of the class like he was watching a version of normalcy happening somewhere far away.

Reiner rolled his shoulders back, trying to shake off the silence pressing down between them. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d been stuck in an awkward situation, but damn, Bertholdt made it feel like standing next to a ghost.

Fine. Volleyball with Bertholdt Hoover. He could handle that.

Probably.

Reiner stood on one side of the gym, his back facing the wall behind him. The wooden floor stretched out between them, polished and echoing faintly with the squeak of sneakers and the rhythmic thud of volleyballs being passed around by other groups. Across from him, about ten feet away, stood Bertholdt, tall but awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his own limbs. The space between them felt wider than it actually was, filled with the kind of silence that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be awkward or hostile.

Reiner tilted his head slightly, spinning the volleyball in his hands. He looked at Bertholdt, brow raised.

“You know how to play volleyball, right?”

It wasn’t really a necessary question; most people knew how to hit a ball over a net, but Reiner needed to say something. The silence was starting to make him itch.

He wasn’t expecting Bertholdt to suddenly turn into a chatterbox or anything, but the guy’s quiet made the air feel thick. Not the peaceful kind of silence either, but it was the awkward type that weighed down on your shoulders and made you feel like you had to lighten it before it crushed you.

And Reiner wasn’t used to it. Not one bit. He was used to being the loudest in the room, cracking jokes, saying dumb stuff just to make people laugh, being the one to steer a conversation when no one else would. But with Bertholdt?

It was different. Uncomfortable. Like talking to a wall that could look right through him.

Well, blame Bertholdt for that. I tried being nice, and look where that got me.

Bertholdt blinked, then gave a hesitant nod in response to Reiner’s question. The movement was small and almost apologetic, like he was sorry for even being looked at. His shoulders looked stiff under his T-shirt, his long arms hanging awkwardly at his sides as if he didn’t know whether to cross them or shove them into his pockets. His entire posture screamed tense.

Reiner exhaled quietly through his nose, his lips twitching with mild irritation.

What’s his problem? Is he nervous? Or does he just not like me?

Honestly, either would make sense. Bertholdt didn’t exactly look thrilled to be standing across from him. The guy’s whole vibe screamed he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

And, to be fair, Reiner didn’t really like him either. Not after that bump-in-the-hall incident on the first day. That look Bertholdt had given him wasn’t angry exactly, but it was something close. Cold. Judging. It stuck with him longer than it should’ve. He didn’t know what it meant, but it definitely wasn’t friendly.

And that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Because Reiner wasn’t used to people not liking him.

They weren’t enemies or anything, just… not companions. Not even close.

Reiner adjusted his stance, bouncing the volleyball once, twice, catching it again with a quiet slap of his palms. He glanced up, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Alright then,” he muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders back. “Let’s see what you got.”

Not that Reiner himself was an expert at volleyball. Far from it. His sport was football. He enjoyed the weight of the ball, the satisfying sting of a perfect throw, the rush of dirt under his cleats, the noise of the field when the play landed just right. Volleyball, by comparison, felt light and airy. Flimsy. Like pretending to spar with pool noodles.

Still, he knew the basics. He’d played enough gym matches in middle school to remember how to serve without embarrassing himself.

He positioned himself properly, holding the ball at hip height with one hand while the other swung back and forth a few times, loosening up his wrist. His motions were mechanical, maybe a little overconfident, but he didn’t care. Between each swing, he flicked a glance up at Bertholdt, who still wasn’t saying anything, standing there stiffly like he was bracing for a hit.

The sounds of the gym filled the air around them: sneakers squeaking, the rhythmic pop of other volleyballs, Shadis’s whistle from somewhere far off, laughter echoing between the high walls. But between them, it was quiet.

Reiner’s smirk returned. He needed to break that quiet somehow, so he did what he did best. Show off.

He tossed the ball up and swung, hitting it with more force than necessary. The smack of his palm against leather echoed through the gym, cutting across the other noise for just a second.

The ball arced cleanly through the air, spinning as it glided toward Bertholdt.

For a brief moment, Reiner thought it might actually look cool. His serve wasn’t perfect, but it had power behind it, precision, too. He followed its path, watching the white blur sail across the distance.

Then Bertholdt moved… or tried to.

His reaction was a half-beat too late, a shuffle forward followed by a stiff, uncertain raise of his arms. He formed a platform with his forearms, but his elbows were bent awkwardly, his stance off. He met the ball with the flat of his arms, but the contact was uneven.

The sound it made was a dull thunk instead of the crisp pop Reiner expected. The ball floated weakly upward, lost all its power midair, and then dropped straight to the floor a few feet short of Reiner.

It bounced once, twice, then rolled the rest of the way until it came to a lazy stop against Reiner’s sneaker.

He just stared at it.

Then his gaze flicked slowly back up at Bertholdt.

Seriously?

Reiner’s eyebrows rose, the disbelief practically glowing in his expression. He wasn’t sure what was worse, the bad hit or the fact that Bertholdt looked like he wanted to disappear into the wall behind him.

The guy’s face was tight, his jaw flexing as he kept his eyes locked on the ball like it had betrayed him. His ears had turned a little pink, his posture folding in on itself a little.

Reiner’s mouth twitched into something between a grin and a grimace. He bent down, scooping up the volleyball with a lazy motion, turning it over in his hands as if maybe the ball itself were to blame. He squeezed it once, testing if the ball would’ve magically changed in some sort of way. It was still firm, a little deflated as he figured, and muttered under his breath, “Figures.”

Then, louder, with that acerbic tone he couldn’t quite keep out of his voice, “That’s the best you can do?”

The words came out harsher than they sounded in his head. What was meant to be a throwaway jab came out more like an insult.

Bertholdt flinched, barely, but enough for Reiner to notice. His shoulders stiffened, hands brushing nervously down the sides of his gym shorts before falling still again.

That tiny reaction stirred something in Reiner, not guilt, not even close, but a flicker of satisfaction. The kind that made him feel in control. Like he’d gotten under someone’s skin.

Good. That’ll teach him a lesson. 

Whatever lesson that was supposed to be.

He told himself it wasn’t bullying. Just teasing. Harmless. The kind of thing everyone did.

Reiner straightened, rolling the volleyball between his palms, shaking his head with a faint scoff that echoed off the polished gym floor. “You didn’t even get it halfway back,” he added, smirking faintly like it was all just a joke.

Bertholdt’s shoes squeaked as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes flicked up for half a second, enough for Reiner to catch the quiet annoyance there, before dropping back to the floor. He didn’t say anything.

The silence between them stretched thin. The rhythmic thud of volleyballs hitting the floor around them filled the space, kids laughing, calling out to their partners.

Reiner rolled the ball again in his hands, brow arching, waiting for… something. A comeback. A joke. Anything. But Bertholdt just stood there, his tall frame awkward and motionless, like he’d rather disappear into the gym floor.

Reiner’s patience frayed. Babysitting someone who barely talked and couldn’t hit a ball wasn’t exactly his idea of a fun class period.

“…Just pass it again,” Bertholdt mumbled quietly at last, his voice edged a little awkwardly, maybe a little bitter. He still wouldn’t look at Reiner, eyes fixed on the wooden floor as if it might swallow him up. “We still have time.”

Reiner gave him a quick sideways glance, like he didn’t really want to admit he was right, and instead let out a short breath through his nose. “Whatever.” He positioned the ball in his hands again, arms tense, setting up for another serve.

He hit it with more force this time, enough for it to soar cleanly across the short distance between them. Bertholdt braced and bumped it back, the ball wobbling slightly but reaching Reiner’s chest height.

“Better,” Reiner muttered under his breath, though it wasn’t really praise. He locked his fingers and sent it back, his form technically wrong, but he didn’t care. If it worked, it worked.

The two kept the ball going back and forth for a while, their rhythm uneven but improving. Occasionally, one of them would misjudge the hit, sending it rolling off into another group’s space, and they’d have to jog awkwardly after it. Each time, Reiner’s irritation simmered a little hotter; each time, Bertholdt’s jaw clenched tighter as he muttered a quiet “sorry.”

Around them, the rest of the class had already fallen into the same lazy rhythm of repetition they had: dozens of pairs passing the ball back and forth, laughing, chatting, letting the minutes crawl by. The air was full of the hollow thuds of volleyballs, the squeak of sneakers, and the low hum of conversations that blurred together into white noise. The gym smelled faintly of old floor polish and sweat, the lights above buzzing quietly like even they were tired of being here.

By the fifteen-minute mark, everyone looked bored, restless, ready for something new.

Then, all at once, Coach Shadis’s voice exploded through the gym like a gunshot.

“Alright, attention! You kids are gonna be playing a scrimmage! Line up on the sidelines while I pick your teams!”

The shout cracked across the space, echoing off the bleachers and instantly overpowering over every noise. Conversations died mid-sentence. Volleyballs hit the floor one by one with dull, guilty thuds as students froze on instinct, heads snapping toward him like they’d just been caught doing something illegal.

The air shifted in the blink of an eye, expectant. No one dared to move too slowly. Even Reiner straightened up immediately, catching the ball against his hip like a soldier waiting for orders. Shadis had that kind of effect on people, unpredictable and very capable of humiliating anyone who got in his way.

As the words finally sank in, the spell Shadis had cast over the room broke just as suddenly as it had begun. The gym, silent for a moment, burst back to life in a flurry of motion. Sneakers squeaked harshly against the varnished floor as kids scrambled in every direction, the air filling again with voices and the heavy thuds of volleyballs being gathered up. The metallic basket in the center of the court rang out as the first few balls clattered against its wire sides, the sound echoing all the way up to the rafters.

A wave of shuffling students followed suit, each trying to toss their ball in before someone else’s ricocheted back out. The noise became a mix of laughter, muttering, and that steady clang, clang, clang of rubber on metal.

Bertholdt bent down to grab theirs. His movements were quiet, efficient in that unassuming way of his, no wasted effort, no words. He tossed the ball neatly into the basket, barely making a sound when it landed on top of the pile.

Reiner didn’t move an inch to help. He stood a few feet away, watching with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His expression was unreadable, but there was a faint crease between his brows, like he wasn’t sure if Bertholdt was being considerate or just ignoring him again.

The basket filled fast. A few students wheeled it away toward the storage closet, the squeal of the small rubber wheels moving against the gym’s constant hum. 

Coach Shadis’s voice broke through again, barking feisty commands that echoed through the gym. “Line it up! Sidelines! Move, move, move!”

No one needed to be told twice. The class hurried to obey, sneakers scuffing against the glossy floor as everyone filed to the wall, shoulder to shoulder. The line curved unevenly, a sloppy mix of slouching teenagers, but no one dared to stand out of formation. Reiner folded his arms loosely over his chest, glancing down the row.

Bertholdt ended up a few feet to his right, posture straight but tense, hands clasped in front of him like he wasn’t sure what else to do. He didn’t look at anyone. His eyes stayed fixed somewhere near the opposite wall, distant, like he was mentally already home.

Coach Shadis paced up and down the line, arms crossed, the sound of his sneakers dull but deliberately slow, like a shark circling its prey. His eyes flicked between them like he was inspecting a military unit, calling out names with no hesitation. “Braun, team one. Hoover, team one. Carolina, team two. Jackson, team two. Wagner, team one.”

Every name snapped someone else to attention, and every few seconds, the line shifted as another kid broke off to join their assigned group. The tension was comical, but no one laughed. Shadis wasn’t the kind of teacher you wanted to test.

When he was finally done barking orders, he gave a quick nod. “Teams on opposite sides. Let’s go!”

The two groups broke apart, crossing the gym in an orderly scramble. The chatter started again, voices overlapping as students tried to figure out who they’d be playing with.

At the far end of the court, Shadis and a taller student dragged the old volleyball net out of the supply closet. The metal poles screeched in protest against the floor, loud enough to make Reiner wince. The net itself sagged in the middle, uneven and frayed in a few spots from years of use.

“…Man, this thing looks older than half the class,” Reiner muttered under his breath.

Still, despite the state of the equipment, everyone seemed eager enough. Once the net was up, teams began organizing themselves into loose formations, calling out positions like they knew what they were doing.

It was clear most didn’t.

“Wait, what’s a setter again?” someone asked from the other team.

“It’s the one who, like, hits it to the person that spikes it?”

“Does it matter?”

Reiner sighed under his breath. 

We’re doomed.

Even so, there was a faint buzz of excitement in the air now. Even the least athletic kids seemed willing to give it a try, if only because it was better than drills. A few students stretched, a few practiced underhand serves into the air. The sound of bouncing balls and sneakers returned, rhythmic, restless.

Reiner and Bertholdt, both easily the tallest in their group, were pushed toward the back row without question. “You two stay back,” one of their teammates said. “You can cover the high stuff.”

“Sure,” Reiner said with a shrug, not really caring. Less running, less hassle.

Bertholdt didn’t respond. He just gave a short nod, adjusting the waistband of his red gym shorts awkwardly.

They stood side by side, Bertholdt now in the middle back position, Reiner to his left, and another kid to Bertholdt’s right who already looked exhausted before the game even started.

Reiner let out a slow sigh, one hand resting on his hip while the other dangled at his side. His gaze drifted to the sidelines again, where Shadis stood next to his “assistant,” clipboard in hand, looking far too intense for a glorified gym scrimmage.

He’s really taking this seriously? Just throw us the damn ball and let us play already.

Still, he wasn’t about to complain. The longer Shadis talked, the longer Reiner got to stretch, and maybe show off a little. He wasn’t oblivious to the fact that there were a few cute girls in the gym. One of them, blonde and grinning at something her friend said, caught his eye for a moment. She looked back, half-smiling.

Not bad.

Reiner began stretching his arms over his head, twisting at his waist, rolling his neck until it cracked. He knew how he looked when he did it, and he wasn’t subtle about it either.

The problem was that his jeans weren’t helping. Unlike everyone else, he hadn’t bothered changing into gym shorts or a T-shirt, obviously, since this wasn’t his class, so every movement felt stiff and restrictive. The denim clung to his legs and made the back of his knees hot under the bright fluorescent lights. Not exactly ideal for showing off.

Still, he tried. He cracked his knuckles, rotated his shoulders, and even did a few pointless lunges that had nothing to do with volleyball. Confidence was half the game, anyway.

While he stretched, his gaze flicked over the opposing team. He scanned them lazily, mentally sizing everyone up. The scrawny kid with glasses? No threat. The girl still giggling with her friend instead of watching? Easy point. There were maybe two or three that looked like they knew how to play, probably actual volleyball team members, but he wasn’t worried. Piece of cake.

Then, his focus drifted back to his own team. The guy standing in front of him couldn’t have been taller than five-six. The girl to his right was more invested in picking at her nails than in winning, and the other dude to her right looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Reiner sighed internally. 

Great. So much for this team.

His eyes finally landed on Bertholdt to his right.

The guy was tugging at the hem of his red shorts again, faint irritation written all over his face. They were clearly too short for his height, stopping a few inches above his knees and making his already long legs look impossibly longer. His shirt didn’t seem to help either, hanging awkwardly, too tight across the shoulders but loose everywhere else, like it wasn’t meant for his frame.

Bertholdt muttered something under his breath, probably a curse, as he tried to pull the shorts lower, to no avail. His movements were small and clearly self-conscious, his head tilted slightly down, hair barely falling over his eyes. He looked completely miserable.

Reiner watched him for a few seconds longer than necessary, one brow lifting.

Then, a faint smirk tugged at his mouth. 

Sucks to be him, I guess.

“Alright! Team One, you’re serving!” Coach Shadis barked suddenly, his voice booming through the gym. He caught the volleyball tossed to him by the student assistant standing loyally at his side, then lobbed it with one curt motion toward the kid stationed beside Bertholdt, their designated server.

The ball smacked solidly into the server’s palms. He bounced it once, twice, testing its weight, rolling it between his fingers like he was trying to gauge how much air was in it. The faint rubbery squeak that followed said it was a good one. Good enough to not embarrass himself on the first serve, anyway.

He took a step back, glancing at his teammates. A few nodded lazily, others just stood ready, knees bent in vague imitation of focus. Reiner barely lifted his chin, already in position, his expression more bored than competitive. Across the net, the opposing team looked a little more put-together, at least pretending to care.

Shadis raised the whistle to his lips.

The entire gym seemed to hold its breath.

Then, FWEEEEEEET!

The shrill, high-pitched blast of Shadis’s whistle split the air like a blade. The sound bounced off the walls and rafters, making a few kids flinch. The nervous yet determined server tossed the volleyball up in one quick, practiced motion, his palm cracking against it a second later with a hollow, echoing slap.

The ball spun fast, a white blur soaring through the air, sailing in a clean, arcing trajectory over the net.

Reiner followed it lazily with his eyes, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. His stance looked casual, but his muscles were taut beneath the surface, ready to move at the slightest opening.

Team Two scrambled immediately, sneakers squealing against the polished floor. One girl darted forward, bumping the ball up with a startled “Got it!” before another lunged to set it. The sequence was messy with their arms flailing, balance barely kept, but it worked somehow. The volleyball wobbled, then crossed back over the net in a lopsided spin.

Reiner straightened up, his jaw tightening in anticipation. This was it. His moment.

He locked his hands together, wrongly, of course, his elbows sticking out at awkward angles as he braced himself, eyes glued to the incoming ball. His heart ticked up, already picturing himself nailing the perfect hit, maybe even spiking it hard enough to draw some impressed stares. But before he could move, the short kid in front of him that he’d written off earlier as completely useless suddenly dove into action.

The guy bent his knees, arms steady, and bumped the ball with clean precision, sending it perfectly up over the net.

Reiner blinked, thrown off. The ball soared up and over, landing neatly within reach of one of the front-row players, who smacked it back across the net with a loud, satisfying thwump.

Reiner’s brows rose slightly. Okay… maybe he underestimated that one.

The next several minutes devolved into somewhat organized, clumsy chaos. Sneakers screeched, palms smacked against rubber, and the sound of laughter and yelling ricocheted around the gym. Someone shouted, “Mine, mine, mine!” right before another yelled, “Get it! No, you dumbass!” The scoreboard flickered to life, the red numbers cruelly reading 3–0 in favor of Team One.

Team Two wasn’t so lucky.

Half their side already looked defeated, shuffling around like background actors in a bad sports movie, while the so-called “try-hards” were busy losing their minds.

“Come on, dude, at least move!” one guy snapped after a missed pass.

“Maybe if you called it out, I would’ve!” came the bite back.

Reiner rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, “…It’s gym, not the playoffs.”

Still, his fingers flexed in quiet frustration. As much as he pretended not to care, something inside him itched for a little competition. A challenge. Anything to break up the monotony.

When the next serve went up, he tracked it immediately. The ball spun high, curving, and he realized halfway through its descent that it was coming straight toward him. Finally.

A grin ghosted over his lips. Took long enough.

He bent his knees, locked his fingers, still wrongly, and braced for impact. The ball came down faster than expected, but he was ready. His arms shot up to meet it with a forceful, overconfident swing.

THWACK!

The impact echoed like a gunshot. The ball shot across the net at lightning speed… only to keep going. Past the opposite team’s back line. Past the boundaries. Straight out of play.

For a few exaggerated seconds, no one moved.

Then came the whistle.

Point, Team Two.

Reiner froze. His expression blanked in disbelief, as if someone had just told him he’d failed a pop quiz in P.E., something that should’ve been impossible.

Are you kidding me.

Across the court, Team Two whooped in celebration, not out of skill but pure amusement. A couple of them clapped mockingly, grinning to each other like they’d just witnessed a miracle.

“Nice one!” someone called from the sideline, snickering.

Reiner didn’t even blink. He just stood there, face blank, while his teammates groaned around him. The kid who’d made that perfect bump earlier turned around, glaring at him with an annoyed scowl.

Reiner’s jaw flexed. He almost said something, like “at least I’m trying,” or maybe “nice teamwork, short stack,” but he didn’t. He just let out a long, slow exhale through his nose.

Just a game, Reiner. Just a game.

He repeated it once. Twice. It didn’t help.

The next serve came before he could think too long about it, the whistle slicing through the air again. The ball flew over the net, and play resumed, going back to the endless rhythm of shouting names, half-baked strategies, and the constant squeak-slap echo of sneakers and balls hitting the floor.

The gym was sweltering now, heat clinging to the skin like static. The smell of rubber, sweat, and floor polish filled the air.

And somewhere in all that chaos, Reiner finally found his rhythm.

He stopped overthinking. Stopped trying to look good. The next time the ball came toward him, he adjusted his stance without hesitation, bent low, and hit it with clean, focused power. The ball zipped over the net, and this time landed perfectly inside the line.

“Point, Team One!” Shadis barked.

Reiner’s grin broke wide before he could stop it.

“Let’s go!” he shouted, pumping a fist in the air. His voice rang across the gym, and the energy shift was almost instant.

Team One—his team—had actually started to care.

Somewhere between the save and Reiner’s over-the-top shouting, the lazy scrimmage had shifted. The gym, once filled with bored chatter and bouncing sneakers, now crackled with noise. Students called out names, clapped, groaned, and celebrated. They moved faster, yelled louder, and high-fived after halfway decent plays. The rhythm came alive all on its own, everyone feeding off each other like they’d just realized this counted for something.

And at the center of it: Reiner.

He hadn’t planned on giving a damn. It was supposed to be a punishment, not a showcase. But once the game started, instincts took over. His body remembered how to move, how to chase the ball, how to win. Sweat trickled down his temple, clinging to his hairline before sliding along his jaw, but he didn’t care. His jeans became way too thick and stiff for this, now clinging to his legs, but he barely felt the discomfort anymore.

He was running on adrenaline.

“Nice save!” someone shouted after Reiner threw himself sideways for a low hit, his palms scraping the floor. The ball barely arced up and stayed in play.

He grinned, still catching his breath. “I got us!” he called back, voice bright with adrenaline. His heart hammered as the rally kept going, every nerve buzzing with that addictive charge of movement and sound and focus.

The energy was infectious, and his team was actually hyped now, laughing and shouting as the rally carried on. He could feel it pulsing through him, the same wild buzz that came with a real game. This was what he missed. That pulse of movement, the sound of sneakers and heartbeats and people depending on him.

Out of habit, his eyes flicked to the back row.

Bertholdt was still there, standing stiff and quiet like he was watching from a distance instead of playing. He hadn’t moved much at all, arms folded awkwardly, gaze fixed somewhere near the ball but not really part of the rhythm.

Reiner caught his eye mid-rally, a little charge of curiosity sparking through him. Everyone else was looking at him with excitement, calling him “dude,” and “bro,” and “holy crap, nice save.” 

But Bertholdt?

Bertholdt just stared back.

No smile. No nod. Just that same blank, almost bored look that made Reiner want to throw the ball right at his face, just to get something out of him.

And then he looked away. Like Reiner wasn’t even worth watching.

Reiner huffed half a laugh under his breath.

Alright, man. Sure. Someone’s jealous.

That’s what he told himself at least.

Reiner continued to move like the game revolved around him. The way every classmate’s eyes followed his every step, their cheers louder each time he touched the ball. He was literally sent here as punishment, yet had somehow turned gym class into his personal highlight reel.

The next serve went up high and fast, zooming through the hot gym air. It bounced off the lights for a split second before curving down in a clean arc, heading straight toward the back corner of the court.

Reiner tracked it immediately. His pulse kicked up, eyes flicking between the ball and the tall, scrawny shape waiting beneath it.

Bertholdt.

Finally, the guy had something to do.

He shifted his weight, arms up, eyes narrowed on the descending ball. There was a steadiness in him that surprised Reiner slightly with how focused he seemed, plus his tight posture and knees bent just right. The guy looked… prepared. Like he might actually pull it off.

Reiner’s instincts prickled. He should’ve let him take it. He really, really should’ve. But the ball’s path drifted just a little too close to center, like, right in that gray zone where it wasn’t totally clear whose hit it was supposed to be.

And that was all it took.

Reiner’s body moved before his brain caught up.

“Got it! Got it!” he yelled, his voice shouting clean through the echoing gym before he’d even realized he’d opened his mouth.

The adrenaline hit. His sneakers squealed against the polished floor as he bolted forward, crossing half the damn court in three long strides. His heart pumped hard in his chest, and he could feel the hit before it even happened.

Except he wasn’t the only one moving.

Bertholdt had already stepped into the perfect position.

Their eyes flicked toward each other a second too late.

Then—

THUD!

Their shoulders collided midair.

The ball struck Reiner’s forearm at the wrong angle and force, then died. It hit the floor between them with a soft, humiliating thud.

Whistle. Point lost.

Reiner staggered back a step, catching his balance. Bertholdt wasn’t so lucky.

The guy went down hard.

His knees buckled first, the sound of them smacking the glossy gym floor echoing loudly through the open space. His palms followed a split second later, skidding against the polished surface with a muted slap before his weight crashed down completely. The noise turned a few heads nearby, enough to pause the rhythm of the game.

“Ah—crap…” Bertholdt muttered quietly, almost to himself. But it was loud enough for Reiner to catch it.

Reiner blinked, still standing over him. For a heartbeat, the sight yanked him back to the first day of school in the same position, the same height difference, Bertholdt on the floor, him above. Only this time, it wasn’t exactly an accident.

Or maybe it was.

…Mostly.

The whistle blew across the gym, signaling a reset. Team Two erupted in cheers over their free point while a few kids on Team One groaned. One of the girls turned away, shoulders shaking as she tried not to laugh.

Reiner exhaled through his nose, brushing the front of his hoodie like he could wipe off the dirt that wasn’t really there.

He could’ve helped Bertholdt up. The thought crossed his mind, and just as quickly, he shoved it away. After the hallway incident, the looks, the quiet attitude… yeah. No. He wasn’t setting himself up for another cold brush-off or that stone-faced glare that never left him knowing where he stood.

So instead, he did what came naturally.

He smirked, shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, and walked it off.

If Bertholdt wanted to be mad, fine. Let him.

When Reiner finally glanced back, Bertholdt was already pushing himself up, each movement stiff like every movement was being calculated to keep from snapping. His hands trembled faintly as he brushed his scraped palms against his gym shorts, red marks streaking across the base of his thumbs.

His face told on him, though, the small shifts that gave it all away. The faint crease between his brows. The sharp inhale through his nose. The way his mouth pressed flat into that barely contained line of irritation.

And when he straightened to his full height—still taller by a few inches, not that Reiner would ever admit it mattered—he looked right at him.

Directly.

No blank expression this time. No nervous half-smile to hide behind.

If Reiner didn’t know better, he’d swear Bertholdt was glaring. Not the explosive kind of anger, but something quieter. The kind that simmered for a while before it burned.

Reiner’s lips twitched up again. He wasn’t sure if it was amusement or surprise.

Then Bertholdt spoke.

“Do you not understand how positions work?”

His voice wasn’t raised, but the weight of it carried in some restrained, colder manner than it had any right to be. His eyes didn’t waver.

Reiner raised his brows, smirk deepening. “What, your spot? Relax, man. It was just instinct.”

“...Instinct,” Bertholdt repeated under his breath, as he brushed his palms again. The raw skin across his hands caught the light, a faint reminder of the hit. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

There wasn't any attitude exactly, like no trace of sarcasm or heat, but something worse. That cool, careful precision that made Reiner’s defenses spike harder than any yelling ever could.

“Relax, I had it,” Reiner scoffed, his tone brushing off the tension like it was nothing. He stared up at Bertholdt like he was the one being dramatic, but beneath it, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. He liked it when the quiet ones cracked, when they slipped up and showed something for once. After all the looks and silent treatment, maybe now Bertholdt finally cared enough to bite back.

So he expected this to end how it usually did: the quiet kid stewing in silence while Reiner walked off with his ego a little higher, the unspoken score tilted in his favor.

But Bertholdt didn’t drop it.

“No, you didn’t,” he said simply, eyes locked on him. “You got in the way.”

The words landed softer than a shove but hit harder. There was no aggression, no bite, just a clean delivery that made it sting worse than if he’d yelled.

Reiner blinked once, thrown off by how calm he was. It wasn’t what he’d expected.

Bertholdt, for his part, seemed to catch that flicker, the split-second of surprise breaking through Reiner’s confident mask. Like he’d realized, in real time, that this whole interaction had been a setup for a reaction, and he wasn’t going to give it. Not this time.

Which somehow made it worse.

A ripple of confusion moved across Team Two when the ball didn’t fly back over the net. Eventually, sneakers squeaking against the floor abruptly stopped, a dropped conversation hung unfinished as two boys stood frozen mid-court, the rest of the class slowly realizing they were watching more than a scrimmage.

“Dude, it’s just gym,” Reiner said, hands lifting in a lazy shrug as if dusting off an insult. He meant casual, but the edge in his voice flattened the attempt. He’d cut in purposely; he knew he had, and owning it wasn’t in his playbook. Pride didn’t fold quietly. It folded with a smirk.

Heads swiveled between the two of them. Nobody could decide if it was a fight that was about to snap or some awkward joke neither of them understood. That was what made it weird: Bertholdt didn’t do scenes. He was the kind of kid who fit into the background of a yearbook photo, polite, quiet, the student teachers mentioned when they wanted a “good example.” Seeing him stand there, shoulders tense, eyes darker than anyone remembered, dislodged the room’s expectations.

“…Then stop treating it like it’s a competition,” Bertholdt said, clipped, the words trimmed as if he was policing the volume of his own anger. He rolled his eyes, an almost invisible motion that landed heavier than a shout.

Reiner registered the roll like a physical thing. It flicked across his face in the same instant Bertholdt’s gaze slid away, the guy suddenly aware of the dozen pairs of eyes settling on them. The squeak of sneakers, the rustle of gym clothes, the coach’s assistant's clipboard tapping… everything just narrowed to a spotlight on their little standoff.

For a second, Bertholdt seemed to panic at the attention. His jaw tightened, he inhaled, and closed his mouth. But Reiner had already seen the look, the one that hadn’t been there the first days of school when they’d barely exchanged more than a glare. This one was measured. Not the explode-and-move-on anger Reiner was used to; this was the simmering kind that didn’t need an audience to validate it.

Reiner couldn’t help the scoff that escaped. He’d provoked this. He’d watched Bertholdt’s discomfort like a sport the first day in English and liked the way the quiet boy flinched at just his name being called on. He didn’t plan cruelness; it just happened after that hallway incident, and the reaction fueled him. Now, that same reaction sat across the net, and it felt… satisfying.

“Are you always this fun?” Reiner drawled, sarcasm smooth as practiced muscle. It landed with a few suppressed snorts from their teammates, the kind of laugh that rolled around and came home to him like applause. He loved that sound; it was a small audience at his feet.

He bent to scoop up the ball, fingers brushing the scuffed vinyl, and flipped it in his hands like a prop. The motion was deliberately casual, the show of a guy who didn’t care because he knew he mattered anyway. He stood, back half-turned to Bertholdt so he could watch the effect unfold without appearing to be watching. He was a little performer, and the gym was a stage with fluorescent lights.

Bertholdt stayed stiff. Shoulders bundled up near his ears, jaw working like he was chewing on a bitter word. Reiner saw the thin red marks on his palms from the fall, something he noted with a small, private satisfaction, then watched as the quiet broke.

“…You couldn’t last ten seconds without being the center of attention, could you?” Bertholdt muttered barely above breath, the words intended to be private, yet ended up buried straight under Reiner’s skin.

It mattered that Bertholdt had tried not to speak. It mattered more that he had. Reiner hadn’t expected it. He’d pictured a simmering silence that would let him walk away feeling like he’d won, a little private retreat. Instead, Bertholdt had delivered a single sentence that landed like a slap to his face. It burned differently than a shout. It was a yardstick measured across Reiner’s ego.

For a moment, Reiner simply held the volleyball, fingers pressed into the scuffed surface until the rubber bit into his skin. His pulse thudded at his wrist. Around him, the gym hummed, yet all the noise seemed to cancel out: sneakers squeaking, someone shouting to serve, the patter of footsteps getting back into positions. Shadis’s barking orders blurred out of existence. Time did something odd; everything sped up and then slowed, the world narrowing to the line Bertholdt had spoken: “You couldn’t last ten seconds without being the center of attention.”

He served out of muscle memory: toss, pop, follow through. The ball arced over the net in a clean curve. His body flowed through the motion while his head stayed stuck on that line. Bertholdt shifted across the court to cover his zone with the awkward, long-limbed motion of someone still learning how to use their height; his limbs seemed to lag the intention of his brain by a fraction, and it made him look unbearably human. People bobbed and called, spiky rallies rose and fell, but for Reiner the game became a backdrop to the small irritation at his ribs.

Grudges usually burned like fireworks for Reiner, bright and then gone. This one hissed. It lodged. The look in the hallway had been a sharp needle; Bertholdt’s quiet accusation was a hook. It wasn’t the loud, performative anger Reiner knew how to drown out with a grin and a joke. It was real, and because it was real, it stuck.

He found himself noticing the other boy more than the play. Even while sprinting, diving, and spiking with the animal enthusiasm that drew cheers, Reiner’s gaze drifted back. He wanted something, like an apology, a wince, anything that would validate the nudging he’d done, but Bertholdt didn’t provide it. He remained composed: arms awkwardly at his sides, jaw set, eyes that flicked and then looked away. That refusal to give him what he wanted unfurled something irritated in Reiner that he hadn’t expected.

A mishandle by a teammate sent a serve lopsided; Reiner’s foot clipped a misstep, and the ball bounced off a knee and tumbled out. Team One groaned; Team Two howled as if they’d scored the point of the century. Reiner’s practiced smirk cracked for a moment, then he shrugged like it didn’t matter and let the heat wash over him in the manageable way of an athlete used to minor bruises.

Later, a ball pinged toward the back where he and Bertholdt were posted. Reiner lunged without thinking; it was instinct, the sort of reflex that had won him games. He would’ve intercepted it if the smaller guy from earlier hadn’t beaten him by a half-second, meeting the ball with a bump that sent it over the net. Reiner didn’t like losing even these tiny races. He preferred being the one others turned to. That miss tasted like salt.

By the time Shadis blew the final whistle for a break, Reiner’s chest was full of the same high a touchdown gave him, exhilaration braided with ache. But it wasn’t uncomplicated. The collision in the hallway on the first day, the fall in the gym today, the look that never left Bertholdt’s face, those threads braided into something that prickled under his skin. He’d dominated the floor; the crowd had cheered, and peers slapped his shoulder in congratulations. Still, that one line replayed, and it made even the applause feel thin.

As teams filed off, Reiner accepted pats and banter, toggling his grin like a practiced mask. He could perform adulation as well as anyone. But when his attention snagged on Bertholdt one more time, across the gym and alone on the bleachers, something tightened inside him that wasn’t simply pride.

Bertholdt sat slightly hunched, elbows on his knees, hands folded together, the red scrapes on his palms a reminder of the fall earlier. He watched the flow of people with a careful sort of reserve, not interested in the post-game chatter or the loudness. He seemed to be measuring something, not that Reiner knew what. He wasn’t theatrically angry, just quietly calibrated. That restrained feeling focused into a kind of heat that pushed through Reiner’s usual defenses.

Reiner rarely let things lodge. He pushed back, then shrugged and let it wash over him. This was different. The sting of Bertholdt’s quietness, the implication that Reiner fed on attention, made him feel exposed in a place where he was used to being untouchable. He found himself replaying the moment again and again, and something like curiosity frayed the edge of his irritation. 

Why did the guy react this way? 

Why did a single, quiet line get under his skin when the shoves and snide remarks of other kids didn’t?

As the last of the students began packing up before the bell rang, Reiner kept stealing glances. Each one tightened the knot in his gut a little more. By the time he grabbed his backkbag from the bleachers and stepped in front of the gym doors, the ache in his muscles was familiar; the knot in the space where his self-image lived was not. It sat there, like something that wouldn’t leave until he did something about it.

If Bertholdt wanted to play that game, then fine. Reiner decided, with a kind of animal certainty he didn’t often admit to, that he’d respond in kind. Not with a public show, not with some loud, easy win. No, he’d make it personal. Strategic. Something Bertholdt wouldn’t see coming until it was right in front of him.

And for the first time since he’d transferred to this school, the idea of the chase felt like more than sport. It felt like a purpose.

After Class:

When the bell finally rang, the gym emptied fast, most of the guys heading straight to the locker rooms, dragging their feet, still joking around and smacking each other’s backs, while the girls quickly headed to touch up their makeup and reapply perfume. Reiner didn’t bother. His jeans were already sticking to his legs, and he wasn’t exactly shy about walking through the halls looking like he’d just stepped out of an energy drink commercial.

He slung his bag over his shoulder, his blond hair still damp at the edges of his forehead, and made his way down the corridor. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as he passed clusters of students chatting against the lockers. A few girls turned when he walked by, some whispering, others offering smiles that he returned with lazy winks. Each reaction fed into that automatic boost of ego that came with being him.

By the time Reiner reached his locker, the irritation that had been simmering in him earlier had all but vanished. His stride carried a lazy kind of confidence again, returning as soon as he was back in his element. He spun the dial in one fluid motion, the combination clicking beneath his fingers before he yanked the locker door open.

Inside was pure chaos. Crumpled worksheets stuffed into every corner, Algebra homework half-buried beneath an empty Gatorade bottle, and a football practice schedule from his first day on the team taped haphazardly to the back wall, now curling at the edges. The scent of sweat, ink, and old paper hit him faintly as he rummaged through the mess.

His hand finally landed on what he was looking for: a half-empty can of Axe. He grabbed it, shifted his backpack higher onto one shoulder, gave the can a quick shake, and popped the cap with a click. Without hesitation, he lifted the edge of his hoodie and sprayed it directly underneath, the hiss of aerosol filling the air.

The familiar musky, unmistakably high school boy smell hit instantly. It overpowered the lingering sweat that clung to his hoodie and skin, but instead of satisfaction, Reiner frowned faintly and gave himself another liberal spray. Because, of course, more was always better.

He barely had time to lower the can before a familiar voice called out from behind him.

“Yo.”

Reiner paused mid-motion and turned, the deodorant still in hand. Porco was walking toward him, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, his expression half-amused already. Beside him was Pieck with her arm looped loosely through his, her body language somewhere between graceful and exhausted.

Reiner’s gaze flicked over her. Pieck looked like she’d been up for three nights straight. Her hair fell over one shoulder in lazy black waves, and her head rested against Porco’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded as if she might fall asleep standing up.

“Sup, man… and Pieck,” Reiner greeted, giving a small nod down at her. Pieck offered a slow, sleepy smile, barely more than a twitch of her lips, and made a quiet sound that could’ve been a greeting or just a sigh.

He hadn’t really talked to her much since transferring, but from what he’d gathered, this was pretty much her default state: calm, half-asleep, always glued to Porco.

Porco leaned a shoulder against the locker beside him, one brow raised. “I thought you had tech class,” he began. “Why’re you comin’ from the gym? You look like you just ran a marathon.”

Reiner clicked the cap back onto his deodorant and tossed it into the mess of his locker before turning to face them. “Don’t even get me started,” he groaned, slamming the door shut with a metallic clang. His arms crossed over his chest, the stance he always fell into when he was about to start ranting.

Porco smirked, waiting patiently. He already knew how this went. Reiner never needed much prompting once he got going. Pieck made a low humming noise against Porco’s shoulder, like background commentary, but didn’t lift her head.

“Well, first of all,” Reiner began, holding up a finger with mock seriousness, “my tech teacher got pissed ‘cause I was on my phone.”

Porco let out a low chuckle, not even pretending to be surprised. “Let me guess, texting one of the hundred girls who’ve been staring at you all morning?”

Reiner tilted his head, half-considering, then shrugged. “Maybe. Doesn’t matter. Point is, she got pissy over nothing.”

Porco made a noise somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Uh-huh. Sure, man.”

“Secondly,” Reiner continued, holding up a second finger, “she decides to send me to the gym. Like, that’s her idea of punishment. The gym. In jeans.” His tone turned with mock offense. “Can you believe that? I’m sweating my ass off in denim while everyone else is just chillin’ in shorts.”

Porco’s grin widened. “Tragic.”

“Right?” Reiner said, exasperated, gesturing with his hands as he talked. “And I’m thinking, ‘whatever, I’ll just coast through it.’ But then—” He paused deliberately, letting the moment hang for a second, his lips curling into that dramatic, storytelling smirk. “Guess who’s in there.”

Porco blinked slowly, humoring him. “Who?”

Reiner leaned forward just slightly, lowering his voice like he was about to share a piece of top secret intel. “Bertholdt.”

Porco groaned instantly, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, that guy again.”

Reiner pushed off from the locker, the story clearly not done. His grin was growing now, alive with something between annoyance and excitement. “Yeah, that guy. And you should’ve seen the way he looked at me the entire time. All quiet like he’s too good to even blink my way. I swear, it’s like he can’t be impressed.”

Porco snorted. “So what, you showed off until he blinked?”

Reiner’s eyes narrowed in mock offense, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a grin. “No,” he said, drawing the word out, the word lazy and dripping with that usual self-assurance. “But maybe I will next time. Just to piss him off.”

Pieck let out a sleepy laugh, muffled against Porco’s shoulder. “You two sound like you’re in middle school,” she murmured, her tone flat but fond in that half-conscious way she had.

Porco chuckled, brushing a hand through her hair without thinking. “You should’ve seen him last week,” he said, the grin that followed wide enough to show teeth.

Reiner rolled his eyes, but the grin stayed glued to his face. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up.” He shifted his weight, leaning a shoulder against the locker again. “I’m just saying, something about him’s—” He stopped mid-thought, a faint frown pulling at his mouth before he forced the words out. “—off… He gets under my skin.”

Porco tilted his head, one brow arching in that look he used when he was about to tease but wanted to pretend he was being serious. “You probably get under his.”

Reiner scoffed, adjusting the strap of his backpack on his shoulder, slinging the other side up like he was done with the conversation. “The dude barely knows me,” he said.

And that was true, technically.

They’d only shared a pinch of interactions, most of which could barely qualify as, well… anything, honestly, apart from the bump on the hall and today. But somehow, Bertholdt had already made up his mind about him, or at least, that’s how it felt. That unreadable, mildly irritated expression said enough.

Who the hell judged someone before even actually knowing them?

As quiet as Bertholdt was, he clearly had a strong dislike toward him, and the more Reiner thought about it, the more that unfamiliar pressure in his chest returned, like something was wedged there.

Porco’s grin widened slightly, eyes flicking up and down Reiner with amused suspicion. “Eh, it’s always the quiet ones.”

Reiner let out an amused scoff, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he agreed easily. “Plus, the guy acts like he’s allergic to a little fun in volleyball.”

Porco’s grin grew wider, sensing the opening. “So that’s what this is about.”

“Shut up,” Reiner muttered, though he knew he was just joking. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and stared down the hall like he wasn’t bothered. “I’m just saying, dude’s got an attitude problem.”

Porco smirked knowingly, the kind of look that said you’re full of it, and I know it. Pieck mumbled something quietly into Porco’s shoulder, but the words that slipped through were suspiciously like, “you both do.”

Reiner ignored it, even as his smirk faltered for a split second. That knot from earlier, the one that had settled somewhere deep in his chest during gym, still sat there, twisting tighter every time he thought about it.

The image of Bertholdt standing his ground, eyes locked on him, voice quiet, but didn’t back down anyway, replayed in his head without permission. Reiner wasn’t used to that. People didn’t usually talk back to him. They laughed him off, rolled their eyes, or just avoided confrontation altogether.

But Bertholdt had looked right at him. Unflinching.

He brushed the thought aside, forcing a scoff to cover it. “Anyway,” he said, continuing the story as if it didn’t matter, “he got all pissy toward the end ‘cause I accidentally knocked him down during the game.”

Porco’s eyebrows shot up immediately. “Accidentally?”

Reiner met his look with practiced confidence, lips curling. “Yeah, accidentally.”

Pieck, still half-asleep, cracked one eye open. The moment Bertholdt’s name was mentioned, she perked up slightly, her expression faintly curious for the first time since she’d entered the hallway.

“Bertholdt?” she repeated softly. “You knocked the guy over again?”

Ah, Porco must’ve told her about the hallway incident.

Porco barked out a laugh before Reiner could even answer, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. What’s that—two times now? You’re on a roll, man.” He snickered, clearly amused by the absurdity of it. “You realize people are gonna start thinking you’ve got it out for him, right?”

Reiner shrugged, grin returning full force. “We were playing volleyball. The dude got in my way.”

Porco laughed louder at that, the sound echoing faintly off the lockers. He leaned forward a little, hands sliding out of his pockets. “Classic. Blame the guy you flattened.”

Reiner smirked, the validation soothing that stubborn irritation he hadn’t realized he was still carrying. That was the thing about Porco, he just got him. He didn’t judge, didn’t overthink, just backed him up with the kind of laughter that made things feel lighter.

Validation always made him feel like he was still winning, even when something inside him was itching for more.

Sure, maybe he’d been a bit of a dick. He could admit that much to himself, maybe not out loud. But it wasn’t like he was out to ruin the guy’s life. People messed with each other in high school; it was a rite of passage. You took hits, gave some back, and moved on.

If Bertholdt couldn’t handle a little shove, maybe that said more about him than it did about Reiner.

“And what’d he do?” Porco asked, eager for more. “One of his friends come to rescue him again?”

Reiner opened his mouth, but before he could answer, Pieck lifted her head just enough to give Porco a look.

Her still half-tired expression had shifted, eyes narrowing in that quiet, warning way that carried weight. It wasn’t angry, more knowing. The kind of look that didn’t need words, the kind that said don’t start.

Porco caught it instantly. His grin faltered into something more sheepish, his shoulders shrinking slightly as he raised both hands halfway in mock surrender. “…What?” he said, laughing under his breath. “I’m just saying.”

Pieck didn’t respond, just exhaled through her nose, resting her head back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut again, though her point had been made. Her presence had that way of keeping things balanced, like a leash that stopped Porco from pushing too far.

Reiner noticed. The way Pieck wasn’t laughing, the way her tone had flattened, apparently, she didn’t seem to think teasing Bertholdt was all that funny. Porco only did it when Pieck wasn’t around, when the leash was off. When it was just him and Reiner, he’d poke fun without thinking twice.

Reiner understood that, though. He liked the freedom too.

“Uh—no, he kinda snapped at me instead,” Reiner said, leaning his back against the cool metal locker, finally letting his shoulders drop. He acted casual, but his mind still replayed the scene. Students passed by in waves, shuffling to their next class, but Reiner didn’t move. He never cared about being late. He’d take the tardy; hanging around with friends felt more worthwhile anyway.

Still, Bertholdt’s words stuck with him.

Not the snide remarks; he could handle those. He’d actually kind of liked them. But the one that hit harder:

“You always need to be the center of attention.”

Reiner told himself he didn’t need it. Attention came easily for him, so what was the big deal? He didn’t crave it, did he? Maybe Bertholdt thought that because he was one of those quiet kids, the kind people forgot were in the room until they spoke. Maybe he thought that made him better somehow.

But it still got under Reiner’s skin that Bertholdt thought he had him figured out.

“Snapped at you? For real?” Porco blinked, genuinely surprised.  That was the last reaction he expected. 

Porco had known Bertholdt since freshman year. Everyone did. He was that quiet, polite background character in every class, the one teachers forgot to call on because they didn’t even register he was there.

If he had that kind of fire in him, it was news to everyone.

“Yeah,” Reiner said, pushing off the locker with a low chuckle. “It was kinda funny watching him get so worked up.”

He couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at his mouth as the memory played back of Bertholdt’s face, usually unreadable, twisting in frustration. The sharp lines in his jaw, the way his voice rose just slightly when he was trying not to lose it. Reiner could still see the way his eyes had locked on him, like for once he wasn’t afraid to stare back.

There was something in that look that Reiner hadn’t expected.

He’d always been the type to push people, to test their limits, to see where they broke. And when they finally did? He usually didn’t feel a thing. But this time… something about it sat differently.

Maybe it was the fact that Bertholdt didn’t seem the type to break.

Maybe it was the fact that Reiner sort of wanted to see what else was hiding under that quiet, polite surface.

“So this wasn’t the first time you’ve messed with him, is what I’m hearing?” Pieck’s voice chimed in suddenly, cutting through his thoughts. She was fully awake now, head lifted from Porco’s shoulder, one brow raised as she looked Reiner up and down.

Her tone was careful, but there was something behind it, something that made Reiner’s smirk falter for a second.

He shrugged, trying to look unfazed. “It was my second mess-up with him, alright? Calm down.”

Pieck gave him a look that seemed like that wasn’t the point.

Porco, meanwhile, grinned. “Damn, Braun. What’s next, you gonna make it a weekly thing?”

“Shut up,” Reiner muttered, though there wasn’t much bite behind it. “It’s not that serious. He’s just got… I don’t know, an attitude problem or something.”

Porco laughed, leaning his shoulder into Pieck again. “Yeah, yeah. You keep tellin’ yourself that.”

But Pieck didn’t laugh. She was still looking at Reiner, her expression softer maybe, but still pointed. “You know he’s not really like that, right? Bertholdt.”

Reiner blinked, caught off guard. “You know him?”

She nodded slightly. “We had film class together last year. He’s quiet, yeah, but he’s not a bad guy. You probably just caught him on the wrong day.”

Reiner didn’t respond right away. He just stared at her, then scoffed under his breath like the idea of that being true was ridiculous. “Guess every day’s a bad one for him, then.”

Pieck didn’t answer. She just hummed faintly and rested her head back against Porco’s shoulder, signaling the end of the conversation.

Porco snorted, clearly amused by the tension. “Man, you two are both dramatic. You knock him over, he snaps, and now you’re brooding in the hallway about it.”

Reiner rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile. “I’m not brooding.”

“Sure,” Porco shot back, grinning widely. “You’re just worked up about a guy you ‘don’t care about.’ Got it.”

Reiner opened his mouth, ready to fire something back, but stopped halfway through a breath. His tongue pressed against his teeth as he exhaled through his nose, that stubborn smirk barely clinging to his face. “You’re an idiot.”

Porco shrugged, looking smug. “Takes one to know one.”

That earned a quiet laugh from Pieck, genuine enough to break the tension hanging in the air.

Reiner rolled his shoulders, a low sigh slipping out as he shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets. This was just how things went. He joked around, pushed a few buttons, stirred the pot until people snapped. It wasn’t serious. It was fun. A distraction. Something to keep the day from dragging on. He’d been doing it for years, in every school he’d ended up in, he’d test people somehow, seeing what made them tick, what made them look his way.

He told himself it was harmless. Just teasing. Just banter.

But deep down, Reiner knew the pattern; he just didn’t like naming it. The way every place started was the same. He’d make an impression fast, join the team, and get popular quickly. Then, somewhere along the line, he’d pick someone to mess with. Not because he hated them, but because they were easy to read. Or maybe because they weren’t.

He didn’t think of himself as that guy, though, the one people whispered about in hallways or made up stories about in locker rooms. He wasn’t cruel, just… confident. If anything, people liked him for it. He knew how to own a room, how to make noise.

Still, if he really stopped to think about it, which he rarely did, he probably used that confidence the same way someone else might use armor.

The bell’s shrill ring tore through the hallway, echoing down the halls and snapping him out of his thoughts. A collective groan rose from the stragglers still hanging around.

Porco sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “There it is. Music to my ears.” He pushed himself off the locker and adjusted the strap of his backpack. Pieck, still half leaning against him, lifted her head, blinking slowly as he helped steady her.

Reiner stood straighter, watching the two like they were stuck in their own quiet rhythm. Porco turned to him and held out a hand. “See ya later, man. I’ll text you.”

Their palms clapped together in an easy, practiced motion before Reiner pulled back, smirking. “Yeah, sure. Don’t get caught wandering again.”

Porco shrugged. “Can’t make promises.”

He turned to Pieck and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head through the curtain of her dark hair. She hummed quietly in response, lifting her head just enough to plant one on his cheek before watching him stroll down the hall in the completely wrong direction.

Reiner caught it, of course. He and Pieck both did. Neither said a word.

They just exchanged a knowing glance, hers half-amused, his half-smirking, both silently agreeing that Porco could deal with the consequences himself.

“I’ll, uh, see you later too?” Reiner said, his tone a mix between friendly and awkward, followed by a slight laugh that scratched the back of his throat. The odds of them running into each other again before the end of the day were slim unless Porco dragged her along. And even then, Pieck wasn’t exactly the texting type unless she was awake enough to type in full sentences, which was rare.

Pieck gave a slow shrug, like she wasn’t committing to an answer. “Maybe,” she said softly, but it came with the faintest, sleepy smile before she turned and started down the opposite end of the hallway.

And just like that, he was alone.

The noise around him faded until it was mostly the sound of sneakers squeaking on tile and a few stragglers sprinting toward their classrooms, shouting something about attendance or detention. Lockers slammed, doors shut, and the hum of chatter died into that weird, echoing quiet that always hit a minute after the bell.

Reiner sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck. Guess that brief window of freedom was over.

He adjusted his backpack, started walking at his own slow, unhurried pace, the soles of his sneakers dragging just enough to make a faint scuff against the tile. He wasn’t worried about being late. Detention didn’t scare him. He’d sat through worse.

Besides, he was heading to French, which was basically his personal victory lap of the day. Easy class. Barely any work. The teacher loved him because he actually pretended to care, even though he spent half the period zoning out or joking with whoever sat nearby.

Plus, there was the bonus of that girl, Historia.

The thought alone made a grin creep onto his face. She was the kind of girl who looked like she belonged on the cover of a yearbook: soft blonde hair, shiny blue eyes, a voice so gentle it almost made people lean in just to catch every word. She carried herself neatly, always organized, always smiling, the sort of girl who color-coded her notes and probably had her whole future mapped out in a pastel planner.

Reiner had tried to talk to her a few times, throwing out that same charm that worked on almost everyone else. Once, he’d even slipped his number across her desk, grinning like he already knew how the story would go.

But Historia had simply smiled, that polite, impossibly kind smile, and handed the paper right back. No hesitation. No playful teasing or second glance. Just a small, apologetic, “Sorry.”

That one hit a little deeper than he expected. He’d brushed it off at the time, told himself she was probably just shy, or taken, or too focused on her schoolwork to notice a guy like him. But still… rejection from someone like her felt different. Like she didn’t even need to think twice about it.

Of course Reiner had laughed it off in front of everyone. He always did. Played it cool, threw a joke to Porco later about “dodging a bullet,” like it didn’t matter. And maybe it didn’t. There were other girls, and plenty of them already gave him looks when he passed in the hallway, kinds of looks he was used to.

He exhaled quickly, shaking his head as he turned a corner toward his classroom. The hallway stretched ahead, almost empty now, his sneakers echoing against the scuffed tiles. Torn flyers clung to the walls of clubs he’d never join: Chess Club, Student Council, Debate Team. All of them boasted slogans about leadership and community.

He barely glanced at them.

Reiner didn’t care much about any of that. Never had.

He had football.

The field was enough for him, especially the attention. The sense that he mattered somewhere, even if it was just for catching a ball and knocking people over. For now, that was all he needed to keep himself going.

And as for the rest of everything, like the jokes, the little digs, the way he got under people’s skin, even Bertholdt’s, well, that was just how Reiner operated. Show up, stand out, and make people talk. Whether that meant scoring touchdowns, cracking jokes, or getting a rise out of the quiet kid who looked at him like he already had him figured out…

That was his business.

And Reiner always made sure he left a mark.

Later that Night:

Reiner sat on his bed, back pressed against the wall, stretching his legs out with a groan. Practice had been canceled thanks to the weather, a sudden downpour during the last period that flooded half the field and soaked everyone unlucky enough to be outside. Honestly, it worked out for him. He’d already played volleyball earlier and hadn’t gotten a chance to breathe since.

Now the rain still rhythmically drummed against the window, filling the quiet of his room. He glanced toward the ceiling, mind wandering as he scrolled absently on his phone, half-reading messages he didn’t care about.

And speaking of volleyball… Bertholdt.

Somehow, he’d almost forgotten about him.

Almost.

But the thought flickered back, and he caught himself wondering what to do with him next. Not like a real plan, more like a challenge sitting in the back of his head. Something to entertain himself with. He figured it’d come to him over the weekend. Maybe he’d brainstorm something with Porco, Marcel, maybe even Colt, though definitely not Pieck, she’d scold them half to death. And Annie? Forget it. She already looked at him like she was one eye roll away from strangling him.

Reiner smirked faintly to himself, then pushed off the bed long enough to reach for his charger. His phone buzzed when it connected, screen dimming to black as he dropped it back onto the nightstand. He grabbed his shirt by the collar, tugged it off in one lazy motion, and tossed it across the room, missing the laundry basket by a mile. He stared at it for a second, decided it was tomorrow’s problem, and flopped back onto his mattress.

The bed dipped under his weight, the familiar comfort swallowing him up. His head sank into the cool pillow, the heavy blanket dragging over his bare torso as he adjusted, letting out a tired breath.

His thoughts blurred at the corners as sleep began to pull him under, eyelids growing heavier by the second. He didn’t fight it.

And just before he slipped completely into dreams, the last flicker of consciousness he had, the last face that crossed his tired mind, was Bertholdt’s.