Of course he had to do this. Over a bottle. Over a bottle breaking.

Reiner is quick to lock himself in the bathroom, grimacing at the pins and needles in his hands that shuck off his flannel. He exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck and rolling his shoulders. Finding himself having difficulty sucking the next breath in, he curses to himself, trying to get a hold of himself before the panic attack can truly set in.

He turns the dials of the sink, wanting it to run so no one outside can hear him; only for the frat house’s shitty faucet to cough and sputter, producing a weak stream of water.

Can he fucking win?

He slides down the wall, his throat constricting and his lungs seemingly refusing to take in any air, no matter how hard he tries.

The thoughts that bloomed in his head when he heard the sudden pop! of a beer bottle shattering against the kitchen floor of the frat party, memories of his father crowding him, taunting him before raising his hand to strike.

This goes on for minutes, his dread and anxiety only growing as he now hears some people outside, other partygoers waiting to use the bathroom. How can he go back out there? What if one of his teammates are outside the door and sees him like this?

After what feels like an eternity, the static in his head seems to reduce when he hears the door knock, followed by voices outside.

”Hey, there’s a line…” He hears some drunk guy slur in the hall, followed by a muffled thud.

”Oh, fuck off…” Comes your response on the other side of the door. It takes him a moment to register that voice as yours.

“Reiner?” The door knocks again, and your voice comes through, soft yet urgent. “Reiner, it’s me…”

He swallows thickly, the action painful in his swollen throat, propping himself against the wall. He quickly swipes any tears and sweat off of his face, reaching a sweaty hand out to open the door. He opens it just enough for you to slip in through the crack, wanting you to come in as quickly as possible.