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Zeke opened the door, and Eren shoved past him without a word.
“Good to see you, too,” Zeke called after his retreating back—broad shouldered. A man’s back, now.
He’d grown up while Zeke was away.
Grisha heaved a pronounced sigh, lingering just outside the threshold of his apartment. Like a vampire without an invitation, or a demon toeing holy ground.
Spot the difference.
“Behave for your brother, Eren.”
Eren threw his bulging duffle bag to the floor by the kitchen island and turned his head just enough to glare at his father. His hair had gotten long, Zeke noted. Stubble on his chin, too. Bags under his eyes. The perfect picture of an aimless eighteen-year-old.
“I’m not a child, dad,” he spat the title like a curse, and Zeke just so managed to keep himself from chuckling.
Two kids, neither of them with anything positive to say about their father. And yet, he knew that Grisha would never find the fault with himself for any of it, because he did his very best—threw money at the problem and hoped it would go away. No such luck, unfortunately.
Grisha didn’t respond. He turned back to Zeke, stress lines eating dark shadows into his haggard features. He had aged too. Badly.
“Thank you for letting him stay here. We’ll... try to find a resolution as fast as possible. A few weeks at most.”
Zeke shrugged, not particularly bothered either way. He didn’t mind letting Eren stay here; even looked forward to it. He hadn’t seen his little brother in years. The last time they’d been face to face, before Zeke had moved halfway across the country to take care of his declining grandparents, Eren had been a bright eyed, loud mouthed little brat.
He’d missed him.
“I don’t mind.” Grisha looked at him like he expected Zeke to start minding very soon. “Good luck with the divorce. I'm sure the next marriage will stick.”
“Ha!” Eren shouted from the kitchen, already rummaging through the cupboards like he owned the place.
Grisha didn’t say anything to that, either, but his expression soured considerably. Zeke resisted the urge to add on something about how maybe his next kid would finally end up liking him.
Third time’s the charm, after all.
“Thank you for letting him stay,” he repeated, much lower and stiffer this time. “Good luck.”
He turned and walked back down the hallway of the apartment building, and Zeke shrugged and threw the door shut.
“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” He wandered over and leaned the small of his back against the kitchen island, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he studied his brother’s rampage.
Eren paused and glanced back over his shoulder, eyes oddly... empty. Zeke remembered them differently. Like a storm front on the horizon, or the silvery reflection of sunlight on waves. They looked more like an old knife now, scratched up and dulled.
“Instant coffee.”
He raised a brow. “I’ve got proper coffee-”
“Instant,” Eren cut in, eyes narrowing, and Zeke took a moment to stare, incredulous.
Instant over real coffee? Blasphemous.
He heaved a sigh and pushed off the island, stepping up next to Eren. The kid was almost as tall as him now. His chest tightened.
“Let me see, I think I still have some of those travel pouches. The ones that look like teabags. If you require instant coffee, I guess I’ll pick some up tomorrow.”
He fished the half empty box out from behind the assortment of teabags his last girlfriend had left behind, ever haunting his pantry because he refused to throw perfectly good food items away, even though he didn’t even drink tea. Being raised by his grandparents who had lived through about fourteen recessions had really left its mark.
Eren snatched the box from him before he’d even managed to properly extend it, immediately stepping around him to get to the kettle.
Well.
“You’re welcome.”
Eren stayed silent, laser focused on ripping into two of the packs and putting on the kettle. He paused and looked up.
“Mug.”
Fucking hell.
“Yes, your majesty, right away,” he replied and fetched one from the cupboard, choking back his annoyance. “Mugs and glasses are in here, by the way.”
Eren blinked, and Zeke exhaled a long breath and handed the mug over. The kid dropped both pouches in and proceeded to stare at the kettle, perhaps telepathically commanding it to boil faster.
“So. How are you?”
Eren twitched his shoulders.
...okay then.
“Did you graduate already?”
“Dropped out.”
His brows shot up his forehead. Dropped out?
“Damn. Grisha must have blown a gasket. You're a braver man than I am, Eren.”
The kettle started bubbling, steam rising from the spout, and Eren switched it off and created his little concoction that had to taste of ass and graveyard dirt.
“Eh. He doesn’t expect much from me.”
That lodged itself deep between Zeke’s ribs. His expression softened, even though Eren couldn’t see it; he knew all too well what that felt like, to consistently disappoint, to try and fail and keep trying regardless only to never receive a nice word of acknowledgement for his efforts.
“Your grandparents died.”
Zeke was broken out of his bitter reflections by the non sequitur, brows pulling into a frown. An odd thing to just drop into a conversation, especially without offering any condolences.
“Yeah, they did. Grandma went a year ago, and I moved back just after. Should’ve reached out sooner.”
He had considered it then, but he'd been too aware that any contact with Eren would bring Grisha knocking at his door, so, selfishly-
He hadn’t. Instead resolved to wait until Eren turned eighteen.
Well, here they were, but in an unexpected twist of fate, it had been his father who’d reached out first.
“It’s fine.” Eren turned, sipping his dirt water without waiting for it to cool, seemingly unaffected by his singed tongue. “Do I get a room or am I sleeping on the couch?”
Zeke didn’t respond immediately, caught up in studying his little brother now that he was facing him properly at last, brows knotted with concern. His hair was greasy, dark strands falling into his face with every movement. The corners of his mouth seemed permanently turned down, dull eyes focusing on anything but Zeke. His tan skin held a sickly, greyish hue; he wasn’t doing well, that much was obvious. But then, what teenager was really doing well? He supposed it came with the territory, especially now, with his parents’ freshly initiated divorce upending his whole life.
“I have a guest room. Come on, I’ll show you.” He squeezed Eren’s shoulder in passing and didn’t miss the way the kid’s expression twisted into a sneer.
Didn't like being touched, then. Noted.
Eren set the mug down, grabbed hold of the duffel bag, and dragged it behind himself, following Zeke to the hallway. The guest room was a room without purpose; he didn’t really get guests, at least not the kind that required a separate bed. When he’d moved in, he thought he’d make it a storage room, only to realise he didn’t own anything that needed to be stored.
So, it just sat there. He wouldn’t usually pay for unused space, but this place was the only apartment he could find within a sensible distance to the vet clinic he was doing his residency at.
Now, he was glad to have it.
Zeke pushed the door open, revealing the sparsely furnished room that would be Eren’s for the foreseeable future.
“This is it. Bathroom's over there.” He gestured to the opposite door. “It’s not a lot, but at least you’ve got a bed.”
Eren stood and stared, completely blank. The silence stretched. Zeke suppressed the urge to fidget.
“I’ve stayed in worse.” He shrugged one shoulder and wandered in, bag dragging on the floor behind him, and Zeke finally let out a nervous chuckle.
“Haven’t we all.” There were no fond memories featuring the cramped rooms stuffed full of bunk beds they’d shoved them in on school trips, or the shared college dorm rooms with some freak watching porn on full volume in the bed on the other side of the room. He leaned against the door frame and watched Eren let down the blinds and drop onto the bed, duffle bag at his feet. “Make yourself at home, I guess. The dresser’s empty, you can put your stuff in there.”
Eren hummed, pulled his phone from his pocket, and rolled onto his side, back to him. The bright screen of the phone outlined his messy dark hair against the dim backdrop of the room.
“What’s for dinner?”
Zeke snorted under his breath, resisting the urge to shake his head even though Eren wouldn’t notice if he did.
Little brat, wasn’t he?
“Takeout. You want chinese?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I'm going to the store tomorrow after work. There's a notepad by the fridge, just write down what you need.”
Eren scoffed, rolling his head and craning his neck until he could fix him with a look. “A notepad? You're so old.”
He barked a laugh and crossed his arms. “Fine. If that’s too old fashioned for you, text it to me.”
The kid stared for a moment longer, then his eyes flickered away. “I don’t have your number.”
Zeke blinked, brows inching up his forehead. “...your father didn’t give it to you?” Honestly, he didn’t know why he was surprised. Why would Grisha do anything to help? “I’ll text you, then. Just save it.”
“Mhh.”
Wonderful. Sounded like a plan.
Eren ended up texting him a list of assorted nonsense.
Instant coffee, of course. Sour candy (strings only). Hot chips (BAG). Frozen pizza (no mushrooms, no tuna, no spinach). Specifically spearmint toothpaste. Hot sauce. Lemon juice. Ramen cups.
He supposed it wasn’t an odd list for a teenager to put together—mainly junk food, the least nutritional value possible. None of the organic health food his mother probably tended to buy, at the behest of Doctor Yeager.
Zeke decided to humour him. He wasn’t Eren’s parent, and what use was an older brother if he didn’t even agree to buy you junk food, anyway? Collecting all that random bullshit had taken a bit, but it wasn’t a big deal.
He returned home with two paper bags, one for Eren, and one containing real food items.
“I got you your-” Zeke halted half a step into the apartment, hand still on the doorknob. It was like he’d walked into a wall. The room was saturated with a sickly, artificial fragrance that was probably meant to imitate the scent of a flower of some sort. “Jesus fuck, what the hell is that?”
The door clicked shut behind him, and he made a beeline over to the window, ripping it open before even putting the bags down.
Eren was in the kitchen, watching him. Standing there in a hoodie and sweatpants, idly shaking a spray can back and forth. Empty, judging by the continuous ding ding ding punctuating the silence.
“Eren?” he prompted, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice.
“Mh?” His eyes ticked to the paper bags once Zeke set them down on the kitchen island. “Did you get instant coffee?”
He let out a long breath, clenching his jaw to stop himself from snapping. Nothing drove him to the brink of insanity quicker than some fuckass stench so heavy he could taste it at the back of his throat. His clothes would smell like this, probably. He'd have to wash his hair later.
This was a hell specifically engineered for him.
“I did,” he said, not as calm as he would have liked. “What the fuck did you do to my apartment?”
“Cleaned the kitchen.” He gestured at the spotless surfaces, entirely unperturbed.
Zeke’s eye twitched.
“What is that smell, Eren?”
“Oh.” He raised the spray can in front of himself. “Air freshener.”
Air freshener.
Air freshener?
“How much of that shit did you use?” He felt dirty. Steeped in chemicals.
“Whole thing,” he said and dumped the can into the bin, then went to rummage through the grocery bags without a care in the world.
Yeah, that seemed about right. Zeke raised a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, glasses knocked up his forehead. He couldn’t even take a deep breath to calm down, because this shit was already making him lightheaded.
“Why?”
Eren shrugged and unearthed the jar of instant coffee, cradled it against his chest like a beloved childhood toy.
He had to be doing this on purpose.
The little brat knew exactly how to push his buttons. Impressive, really, considering they technically didn’t even know each other anymore.
“You do shit like this at home?”
He shrugged again, back already turned, more interested in the kettle now. “Sometimes.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed and stalked off to throw every door and every window open. This stench would ooze from his skin the whole night, contaminate everything he touched. “I’m not your fucking father, Eren!” he shouted from his bedroom and stomped back down the hallway. Eren was busy scooping coffee granules into a mug. “You don’t have to wage chemical warfare against me! I’m trying to help you, alright? You can stay here however long you want, even after your parents are done with their bitchfights, just- don't do shit like that. It's fucking disrespectful. Not to mention, bad for you.”
That spray could not be beneficial to the human body. Where had he even gotten it? Zeke had never in his life bought one of those things, he despised them with a passion on principle.
The kid gave no indication that he’d heard a word Zeke said. He poured hot water into his mug and stirred, deliberately clinking the spoon against the inside of the mug as if he was trying to drive Zeke up the wall.
“He’s your father, too.”
Eren grabbed his mug and his designated paper bag and walked past him to the guest room without sparing Zeke a glance.
Zeke stood there and stared at the closed door, pulse hammering in his neck, a ringing like the clink of Eren’s spoon in his ears. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached, and he sucked in a deep, chemically fouled breath to prevent himself from yelling something he’d regret.
He slammed the side of his fist to the door, once.
“Do not test me, Eren. I don’t enjoy being mad at you.”
The other side of the door remained silent, and Zeke forced himself to move off, to leave it at that.
Of course Eren would be a hopeless, ill-mannered, and spiteful little brat. He’d been raised by Grisha Yeager. Zeke had only narrowly escaped that fate himself, when his grandparents applied for custody after the death of his mother.
He made for the window and breathed, clearing his lungs and his head.
Patience, Yeager.
His patience did not get a chance to recuperate.
Zeke groped for his phone charging on the nightstand and accidentally knocked his glasses off into the ether.
The screen read 2:24, and Zeke really was too old to be awake at this hour during a weeknight.
A sliver of warm light spilled in from underneath his bedroom door, and he pushed himself up with a grunt, rubbing his eyes.
There it was again. The noise that had jerked him awake.
A resounding, metallic thunk. Like someone hit a gong with a stick.
Loath as he was to admit it, Zeke was starting to mind.
He stood and stumbled his way out the bedroom, practically blinded the moment he stepped out into the hallway. The light was on. No, the lights were on. Hallway, living room ceiling light, the assortment of lamps he kept on every available surface to avoid having to use said ceiling light, the built-in kitchen lights-
“Eren,” he groaned, leaning in the archway that connected hallway and living area, bare chested and groggy. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He dug his fingers into his tear ducts and let his hand drop, regarding his brother with helpless annoyance.
Eren was in the kitchen. Hair tied back, mug in one hand, spatula in the other. He waved it like a wand.
“Eggs.”
Something within Zeke died that moment.
Thank God he never wanted children in the first place, or he’d be having a crisis right now.
“It’s two in the goddamn morning.”
“Is it?” Eren replied mildly and stabbed the spatula around the pan on the stove. “Well. I want eggs.”
Zeke just stood there like an idiot for a good long moment. At almost thirty, his brain could not just recover from having REM sleep interrupted like it used to.
He couldn’t even tell what the fuck had made the noise that first woke him. Was Eren smacking the side of the pan with the spatula? On purpose? Just to annoy him? Hello?
“Do you have to have all the lights on?” he said, whinier than intended.
His fucking utility bills...
“Yeah.”
Well then!
He threw his hands up and turned around. “You know what, fine. Have your eggs. Keep it down. And clean up after yourself.”
Eren didn’t respond, but Zeke hadn’t expected him to.
First the brat tried to gas him out, now sleep deprivation?
He was pretty sure this violated the Geneva Convention.
He’d have to hand in a complaint tomorrow, he thought as he fell back into bed.
Despite all the hatred in his heart, Zeke softened the instant he stepped into the living room that morning and noticed Eren curled up on the couch.
He could... make himself really small, when he wanted to. Knees pulled up, head pillowed on his elbow, his other hand tucked up tight under his chin. Little T-rex hand.
He’d always done that. Zeke remembered seeing it when Eren was three, seven, twelve-
And now eighteen.
It made him ache. At his core, Eren was still just a kid; a kid with a shit father and no other family to fall back on, going through a lot. Being caught in the middle of your parents’ divorce, essentially as an only child, wasn’t fun at any age. Of course he was acting out.
His parents were preoccupied with each other, had been for probably quite a while now, and he couldn’t imagine Eren had gotten much attention lately, good or bad.
Zeke exhaled a soft sigh and grabbed the neatly folded blanket from the other end of the couch, shook it out, and draped it over his brother’s still form.
His hand hovered for another moment or two, itching to reach out and stroke long, messy strands of hair from Eren’s drawn features—but he didn’t. Eren didn’t like being touched, so Zeke wouldn’t. He withdrew.
Zeke departed with a last, lingering look, grabbed his bag from the designated Bag Chair by the dining table, and was off to work.
After he got home and was suitably showered, Zeke found himself in his kitchen, studying his pantry listlessly.
Dinner. His daily speedbump.
His declining, inching towards thirty at alarming speeds body was still reeling from the interrupted sleep last night, so he had to actively and continuously resist the urge to grab his phone and order takeout. Twice in a row was not viable. Financially irresponsible. And he couldn’t feed Eren exclusively junk food.
Their bodies required vitamins and nutrients to flush out the remnants of the artificially scented bomb Eren had set off yesterday.
Zeke heaved a sigh, feeling exceptionally sorry for himself, and reached for a pack of pasta. He was pretty sure he still had some premade sauce somewhere; he’d toss some vegetables in that bitch and call it a day.
Besides, Eren was perfectly capable of feeding himself if push came to shove, as Zeke had learned last night.
He smacked one cupboard shut and opened another, squinting at jars until he found something acceptable. Just as he was about to move off and start his pathetic dinner Eren would make his snide little comments over, something in his periphery caught his eye.
He paused and turned, but it took a moment for his brain to register what had distracted him. His brows pulled together, and he picked up the jar of instant coffee.
The one he bought yesterday.
It was over halfway empty.
Jesus Christ. Was Eren eating this shit by the spoonful? This could not be good for anyone, but especially not a teenager.
Zeke set the jar down on the counter and marched his ass out of the kitchen, knocking on Eren’s door before he even knew what exactly he wanted to say.
No response. He set his jaw and pounded his fist to the wood, less civilised this time.
“Eren! Open the door!”
There was no immediate movement on the other side. It took a good ten seconds or so until the bed creaked and feet shuffled across the room.
Eren opened the door. Not all the way, just enough for him to brace against the doorframe and stare up at him past the hair covering his face. The room behind him was dark, and Zeke exhaled a harsh breath, irritation giving way to concern.
“How much coffee do you drink in a day?”
Eren blinked. Folded his arms across his chest and averted his gaze. Not out any kind of guilt or discomfort, no—he simply didn’t seem interested in the conversation.
“Dunno. As much as I want, I guess.”
Zeke could feel a deep crease forming across his forehead.
No wonder Grisha looked like absolute shit.
“That jar is half empty, Eren. That's too much. It's not healthy.”
The boy rolled those dull eyes at him. Like the unseeing marble eyes of an old-timey doll rattling around their sockets.
“I’m tired.”
He huffed a disbelieving laugh. “No shit, you’re tired. You were fucking around the kitchen last night at half past two! Maybe taking a fucking nap would help.”
Eren scoffed and pushed off the doorframe, not a hint of emotion in his eyes but brows quirked in irritation.
“Mind your business. You're not my fucking dad.”
The door slammed in his face, followed by the distinct click of the lock.
And Zeke stood there, at a loss.
“Forgive me for fucking caring!” he yelled and forced himself to walk away, jaw working and fingernails digging into his palms. No reason to lower himself to Eren’s level.
He wouldn’t fight with a child, no matter how infuriating the child was.
When he arrived back in the kitchen, he grabbed the goddamn jar from the counter and tossed the whole thing, then ripped a pot and saucepan from the cabinets.
Couldn't exactly let the kid starve.
Even if the urge was strong.
The next day was a Saturday, and he was off work, so Zeke slept in.
He needed the fucking break.
His day started at a little after eleven AM and immediately took a nosedive upon his arrival in the kitchen to make coffee. Real coffee, in normal quantities.
The jar he threw away last night sat in the middle of the countertop. Empty.
Mocking him.
The fucking brat.
He dug his teeth into the tip of his tongue and tossed the damn thing again.
Zeke wasn’t buying him any more of that shit.
His morning routine slowed his racing pulse bit by bit, and by the time he sat down at the dining table by the window with his coffee, lighting his morning cigarette and blowing the smoke out into the noon breeze, his mental state was approaching something close to calm.
Still, his mind never fully strayed from Eren. His doll-like eyes, his patchy, unshaven jaw, his dismissive silences. The lethal amount of caffeine ripping through his still developing body.
He would have to mention this to Grisha when he came to pick him up. Or Carla. Whoever came to get him.
He was worried.
Zeke heaved a sigh and stubbed his cigarette butt out in the overflowing ashtray on the windowsill.
The doorbell chimed just as he had gotten up, and he halted half a step away from the table, empty mug in hand.
Huh. Surely the divorce proceedings couldn't have gone that smoothly.
He set the mug back down with a soft thunk of ceramic on imitation wood and trudged over to get the door, dragging a hand through his hair to comb it into something that loosely resembled order.
A part of him was expecting Grisha on the other side of the door despite it all, so his brain took a long moment to buffer when he came face to face with a teenager.
The kid smiled, obviously not surprised to see him.
“Hi, uh, Mister Yeager!” Jesus. Nothing quite managed to make him feel old like being called Mister Yeager by a fresh-faced youth. He bit back a grimace. “I don’t know if you remember me, it’s Armin. Eren's friend?”
His brows shot up his forehead, recognition slamming into him like a fist to the solar plexus.
Armin. Yeah, he remembered the quiet kid who used to follow Eren around when they were little. Remembered Carla saying how polite he was, what a good influence he was on her rowdy boy.
Well. Hadn’t stuck very well, that good influence.
“Oh, yeah, sure, I remember you. I didn’t know you guys were still friends- it's just ‘Zeke’, by the way,” he said and took half a step off to the side, opening up the doorway in case he wanted to come in.
Armin tilted his head and peered past him, but made no move to enter. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, those wide eyes ticked back up to him, and he offered a smile.
“Ah, Zeke then! Is Eren up? We made plans, but I know he’s not great with time.”
Very charitable.
Armin was, without a doubt, a good kid.
“I’ll check. Come on in.” He turned and made for the hallway, and Armin hesitantly stepped over the threshold and lingered there, just past the doorway.
Zeke pounded his fist to the door twice, not bothering with any niceties, not after how things had ended yesterday. “Eren! Your friend’s-”
The door opened without warning, and Zeke took a reflexive half step backwards. Eren ducked past him without a glance spared, shoes and jacket already on.
“Hey! You ready?” Armin inched further into the room, impressively unbothered by Eren’s resting bitchface.
“Yup.”
Zeke wandered back into the living area, blowing out a harsh breath. Calm, Yeager. You're an adult.
Armin turned back to him, stepping up next to Eren. “I’ll bring him back later.”
Oh, a gentleman. Zeke wasn’t entirely sure why he needed to know that, though—they weren’t little kids anymore, running off with a promise to be back by curfew shouted over their shoulders.
“Sure. You kids have fun.”
“Come on, let’s go,” Armin said with a smile and took Eren’s hand into his own, pulling him along towards the door.
Cute.
He watched to see what Eren would do, about the touching, the pulling, the telling him what to do, but the kid stayed quiet. Didn't yank away.
No.
Eren smiled.
Zeke froze, unable to tear his gaze away, not even after the door clicked shut behind them, voices fading down the long hallway.
...he didn’t know Eren could do that.
Well then. Good influence, indeed.
Zeke had a very nice, very quiet day.
He had settled on the couch, feet up, beer on the armrest, halfway through some random netflix slop movie to conserve his precious brain power for bigger and better things, when two low voices seeped in through the crack under the front door.
They talked for a little bit. Probably said their goodbyes. Zeke hadn’t heard Eren speak that much in the entire time he’d been here.
Eren let himself in with the spare key, and Zeke glanced up but didn’t turn to look at him. There was a bit of colour in his cheeks now. The tight line of his mouth had lost some of its severity.
“Had fun?” he said before he could think better of it, which was good. He didn’t want to think better of it. Zeke was the adult; he couldn’t let himself clam up and go cold because a teenager acted like a teenager.
He wasn’t their father.
The kid hummed and toed off his shoes, left them next to the door, and padded across the room to the couch, where he proceeded to stand and stare at the TV like some kind of forgotten spectre confused by modern technology.
Then, he sat on the other end of the couch. Dropped onto his side and curled up, the light of the TV bathing his profile in flickering shadows.
“Was that your boyfriend?” he said, a little bit to tease him, but mostly out of genuine interest.
Eren exhaled a huff. Could have been a chuckle, maybe. Or a groan.
“No.”
Pity. Armin seemed like a good kid, and it was clear he cared a lot about Eren.
“Do you have one? Boyfriend, girlfriend?”
“No.”
Alright, damn. “Just asking.”
Silence settled between them, rippled by the constant stream of nonsense from the TV.
The last time the two of them had watched something together must have been... six or seven years go. Some cartoon Eren liked. It had been so cute, back then, the way his little brother had always wanted to show Zeke the things he enjoyed when he came to visit.
His favourite show, his favourite comic book, his favourite DS game.
Zeke didn’t know a single thing about this version of Eren.
“Are you still friends with that girl?”
Eren blinked slowly, fingers curling against the fabric of the couch.
“Mikasa?”
“Mikasa, right.” The name had escaped him. “The three of you used to play together all the time, if I remember correctly.”
His expression didn’t change, but his eyes flickered away from the screen, concealed behind dark lowered lashes.
“No. Her parents don’t want her to hang out with me.”
Zeke blinked, processing.
“Oh.” He took a swig of his beer to buy himself another couple seconds. “Strict parents, huh? No male friends allowed?”
Eren didn’t say anything else.
They finished the movie in silence, neither of them paying much attention. When the credits rolled, he got up and put his empty bottle in the recycling, pausing briefly to study the Eren shaped lump on the couch, illuminated by the glow of the TV.
“Well, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Eren.”
He wasn’t sure Eren had heard, but it would have felt wrong not to say it.
He woke up earlier this morning. Well, he did have a rather relaxing day yesterday.
Zeke rolled out of bed with a sigh, put on his glasses, and yanked an old, holey shirt over his head.
His grandparents always used to make a proper, big breakfast on Sundays. A nice tradition that had died with them—Zeke saw no reason to uphold it for just himself, but with Eren here... maybe. Depending on what he could scrounge up.
It could be nice, perhaps.
As he brushed his teeth, mentally going over what he thought was in his fridge, he faltered.
He hadn’t seen Eren eat once since that first night of silent chinese takeout at the dining table. He hadn’t even checked if Eren’s portion of Friday’s dinner Zeke had put in the fridge for him was gone.
But then, caffeine was an appetite suppressant. Going through a whole jar of instant coffee in just a little over 24 hours probably meant he hadn’t been very hungry.
Zeke emerged from the bathroom and trudged into the living space with a frown. The TV was still on. It had gone dark, but it wasn’t off. He shoved past the pinch of annoyance, determined not to let this sour his day straight away.
It was only when he rounded the couch to grab the remote that he realised Eren had fallen asleep there again. He heaved a soft, almost fond sigh and switched the screen off.
Eren was in the exact same position he’d left him in yesterday, curled up on his side facing the TV-
But his eyes weren’t closed. Not all the way.
His breath hitched, and his heart did a shocked little leap against his ribs.
“Eren?”
He didn’t stir. Zeke's brow wrinkled with concern, and he sat down by his hip, hesitating for a moment before finally reaching out. He gripped him by the shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.
“Come on, that can’t be comfortable.”
Eren's head lolled. His lashes fluttered, eyes moving underneath half-closed lids, but he didn’t wake, and Zeke’s heart dropped into his stomach.
“Hey!” He shook him again, less gentle this time, fuelled by sudden panic.
Eren jerked awake like a drowned man coughing up water. He snapped halfway upright, sucking in a handful of ragged, unsteady breaths, eyes darting around with more urgency than Zeke had seen from him these past few days combined.
“Jesus Christ, kid,” he said, thin with a mix of concern and relief. He shifted closer and wrapped his arm around his shoulders to steady him, his other hand nudging Eren’s jaw in an attempt to get him to face Zeke so he could check his eyes.
Eren shook the touch off, breath puffing from his parted lips in an irregular, too quick pattern.
“Are you okay? Are you feeling sick?” He pressed the back of his hand to Eren’s clammy forehead instead, and his frown deepened. Cold sweat, but no temperature.
“F-Fine.” Eren waved him off, bracing himself with a hand on the couch cushion as he struggled to get his legs under himself. Like fucking Bambi, and not in a cute way. “Dizzy. Is there coffee?”
Zeke paused and just... looked at him. Whatever colour his face had gained during his outing yesterday had faded back into a pale grey. His eyes couldn’t seem to focus, on anything. Eren wouldn’t look at him, so he couldn’t check if his pupils were blown, or different sizes.
“You look like shit,” he said softly, a painful lump scraping along the words on the way out. “Eren, did you take something?”
Eren shook his head and kept shaking his head, swatting at him weakly. “Coffee? Tired.”
Zeke huffed a sound that could have been a chuckle if he hadn't been so worried, high and nervous. “No, kid. You should have some water.”
Eren made a noise somewhere in his throat and managed to get up on his feet, swaying but unbothered, immediately on the move.
“Taking a shower.” He jumbled up the words so bad that Zeke didn’t understand them at once, and when they did click into place, it was too late. He scrambled up and after him, but Eren had already slammed the bathroom door and set the lock.
“Eren! You could pass out and hit your head!” He slapped his palm flat against the wood, just once.
The shower turned on thirty seconds later, and Zeke deflated, the adrenaline evaporating. His blood turned to slow moving sludge that crept through his veins and weighed down his limbs, made him feel heavy.
First thing in the goddamn morning.
He forced himself not to linger in front of the door like a creep and moved into the kitchen, busied his shaking hands with making coffee.
Was he an addict? Was that it?
No. Grisha would know. He might be a shit father, but he was a good doctor, and he would know if his own son was on drugs.
He leaned his hip against the counter and watched the coffee drip drip drip into the pot, arms folded across his chest.
Should he call Grisha? Tell him something was wrong, he needed to come look over Eren?
The loud shriek of a phone alarm shattered both the silence and his thoughts, and his barely slowed heart nearly dropped out of his fucking ass. He scrambled for his phone, hands shoving into the pockets of his sweatpants, only to come up empty.
His phone was on his nightstand. Still charging.
And the noise didn’t come from him, it was blaring from across the room.
Couch. Eren's phone.
Zeke blew out a slow breath and pressed a hand flat to his chest as he made his way over, heart hammering beneath his palm.
Eren's phone was vibrating merrily on the couch cushion, screen flashing. The screech of the alarm sawed away at Zeke’s already frayed nerves, and he picked it up and hurried to swipe it into silence.
He was about to put it back down when the text on the screen penetrated the fog of confusion and worry that permeated his skull.
08:47
Alarm:
TAKE.PIL;LS
His lungs froze in his chest. The flow of oxygen to his brain cut off abruptly, and he stood and stared and blinked, dumbly, trying to make sense of that and coming up empty at every turn. He couldn’t think.
What pills?
What pills?
The water shut off. Zeke couldn’t breathe.
Was he sick? Medicine? Or were these pills the bad kind of drug?
Surely Grisha would have told him if Eren was taking medication. He was a doctor before he was a father, always had been.
The bathroom door unlocked, and out stepped Eren. He was still rubbing the water from his hair, and Zeke could see the redness of his skin, the blue tinge to his lips, from all the way over here.
Must have been a cold fucking shower.
“What does this mean?” Zeke demanded, rounding the couch and waving Eren’s phone at him. “What pills?”
Eren stopped beneath the archway, forehead wrinkled in confusion; but he was looking at him. Seeing him. Listening.
“...you know. My meds,” he said and let the damp towel drop to the floor where he stood without a care. Drops of water clung to the ends of long, dark strands, dotting Eren’s grey shirt.
“Your meds,” he repeated, without a single shred of comprehension. “What meds, Eren?”
Eren stared at him blankly, a little crease between his brows, as if Zeke was the one spouting nonsense.
“My meds.” He grabbed his phone, unfocused eyes settling on the dark screen. His hands were shaking a little. Was that tremor from the cold shower, or had it been there before?
Zeke couldn’t fucking remember.
“I keep... forgetting,” he trailed off, and for the first time since Grisha had dumped him on Zeke’s doorstep, there was genuine emotion in his voice.
In his eyes.
He looked scared. Small and lost.
Like the kid he was.
“Show me,” Zeke said, clinging to his last iota of composure by the fingernails as it slipped away and further away. His voice shook.
He was scared too.
Eren turned and stumbled into his room, Zeke following close behind.
“Fucking hell, kid,” he mumbled and switched on the lights, illuminating the mess Eren had managed to make of the room in such a short time.
Crumpled wrappers and bags everywhere. An assortment of dirty mugs on the floor. Empty ramen cups stacked next to the bed. The occasional plate peeking out from underneath some trash.
Eren's bag was on the floor in the corner, clothes spilling out like guts. He picked up the toiletry bag sitting on top, zipped it open, and upended the whole thing onto the unmade bed.
Out tumbled multiple pill bottles, and Zeke’s stomach dropped. He crept closer as if in a trance and sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing one at random.
Asenapine. Clonazepam. Bupropion. Methylphenidate. Divalproex sodium. All prescribed to Eren Yeager.
None of this made sense to Zeke. He wasn’t studying this kind of medicine.
“What are these for, Eren?” he said, frail and quiet. Eren dropped to the mattress as well, making the bottles clatter. He picked one up, shaky hands trying and failing to twist the cap off.
“These are mood stabilizers.” The bottle rattled in his unsteady grasp, but Zeke didn’t reach out to help him. Eren blinked a few times, as if attempting to focus on the cap, but it didn’t look like he succeeded. “There are... antipsychotics. Anxiety meds. ADHD meds. Antidepressants.” He frowned. “You know that.”
That managed to break him out of his slack-jawed stupor. The sheer amount of medication fell to the wayside, and he zeroed in on that statement.
“No. No, I fucking don’t, Eren. I had no fucking idea, this is- insane-” he cut himself off.
That had been rather insensitive.
Eren looked at him like he was trying to figure him out, as if he wasn’t sure if he could believe him, and fuck, if that didn’t hurt. The bottle dropped from his suddenly slack fingers, and he averted his gaze and started to put them into order, lined them up on the bed.
“...dad said he told you.”
Nausea punched into the pit of his stomach, and Zeke almost gagged from the force of it.
“Told me? He said he told me?” he repeated, bile at the back of his throat.
Eren nodded listlessly.
“That man,” he spat, heartbeat quickening with all-encompassing and powerful rage. “did not say a single word to me about any of this.”
“Oh,” Eren said softly. Almost chastened. “I thought you just didn’t care.”
Tears shot to his eyes, and he had to blink and swallow a few times before he could even attempt to say anything.
“Of course I care. You're my little brother. Of course I care.”
Eren blinked slowly and didn’t respond.
And Zeke didn’t even know where to start.
“When- when did this start? How long have you been taking these?”
He twitched his shoulders, rolling one of the bottles between his fingers. “Had a psychotic break when I was fifteen. Spent four months in the looney bin. No one told you?”
Jesus fucking Christ. Psychotic break. Institutionalized. At fifteen.
And Zeke hadn’t known. Not a single thing. All this time, he thought his brother was a normal teenager, with normal teenager problems, and here he was-
“I’m so sorry,” he choked and pinched the bridge of his nose, knocking his glasses askew.
“You didn’t do anything.” He shrugged.
Zeke sucked in a shaky breath and nearly suffocated on it. His hand dropped away from his face.
“You take all of these... in the morning?” he guessed.
Eren hesitated and shook his head. “Some. Some a few hours later. Not in the evening though.” His blank expression dropped the slightest bit, a microscopical change. “I got confused. They make me really tired. I’ve been... out of it. I- I don’t know how often I’ve actually... taken them.”
That definitely explained these past few days.
“You don’t know? But you don’t have a problem keeping track of them at home?”
“Mom gives them to me.” His shoulders slumped, and he looked anywhere but Zeke’s eyes. “I don’t even know where she keeps them at home.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. “But dad said I’m old enough to manage on my own, so.”
The floor dropped out from under his feet.
Of course. Of course someone who required this amount of medication just to function shouldn’t have access to all the fucking medication. This was heavy duty stuff, precariously balanced out to ensure it would do more good than harm.
Eren could have overdosed right under Zeke’s nose, and he wouldn’t have known a thing.
Eren could have died, on purpose or by accident.
He swallowed hard and forced himself to focus. “You don’t know how much of any of these you’ve taken since you got here?”
He shook his head, and Zeke took the confirmation and ran with it.
“Okay. Okay. You're not taking any more. Pack them up and get ready. We're going to the hospital to get you checked out.”
The cold sweat, the shaking hands, the way he’d been passed out on the couch—Zeke had no idea if this was withdrawal or overdose.
“’Kay,” he mumbled. No fight, no argument, no nothing. Just agreement, small and lost.
Eren was not well. And Zeke hadn’t noticed.
He remained for another moment, watching Eren sweep the bottles back into their bag, all of a sudden very reluctant to leave him alone; but there was something Zeke needed to do.
“You gonna be alright, kiddo?” he checked a last time and departed at Eren’s weak nod, but didn’t close the door behind himself. He yanked the old, faded shirt up over his head on the way to his bedroom and pulled a sensible button down from his closet instead, shucked off the sweats and shimmied into dark wash jeans.
Then, he snatched his phone from the nightstand, stabbing at the screen until he found Grisha’s only reluctantly saved contact. His bedroom door slammed behind him when he stalked back out, the dialling tone loud and grating in his ear.
He paced down the hallway, past the kitchen nook, all the way to the front door and back to the kitchen. Agitated. Restless. Like a beast caged.
The beep cut off in the middle, and Zeke gritted his teeth, white knuckling the corner of the kitchen island. He didn’t let him get a single word into his dispassionate greeting before he started ripping into him.
“You didn’t tell me Eren was on a fucking pharmacy’s worth of meds,” he snarled, voice tight but shaky, anger oozing from every syllable.
For once, he didn’t care, didn’t try to conceal his true feelings from his father. Didn't give a single shit if Grisha knew he was upset, if he thought him weaker for the show of emotion.
Who gave a flying fuck.
The silence stretched a moment too long, more deafening than the too loud dialling sound that had preceded it.
A long exhale crackled through the speaker.
“I didn’t? It must have slipped my mind.”
Zeke’s grip on the countertop tightened until the corner cut into his flesh, until his bones creaked in protest from the sheer force of it.
“Oh, I’m sure it slipped your mind,” he spat, heartbeat thundering in his ears, blood rushing so fast it made him lightheaded. The kitchen swam apart into blots of colours before his eyes. “Doctor Yeager.”
Silence. Nothing to say for himself now, huh?
It didn’t even feel good to finally explode at his father like he’d imagined doing ever since he was a kid—there was no satisfaction in this, no glee at saying something that left him speechless.
Because this was about Eren. Eren could have gotten hurt.
“Your brother is an adult-”
A red haze descended. His fingertips went numb from the cut off blood flow.
“Are you a fucking idiot?” An edge of genuine disbelief coloured the ire in his voice, lungs squeezing in his chest. “’Adult’ my fucking ass, he’s a kid with apparently every psychiatric condition known to modern medicine! Your kid! You can’t truly be so stupid, Father, so neglectful, so careless, that you would forget- are you trying to kill him?” His voice had climbed in pitch until he was screaming into the phone, and his ears rang when he fell silent, this new quiet filled only by his own laboured breath.
And that was when it clicked. When he took a metaphorical brick to the face. His hand dropped from the edge of the counter, his arm limp at his side.
“You’re trying to kill him.”
Grisha hung up, and Zeke dropped his phone. He heard the screen shatter on the kitchen tile, but he really didn’t give a shit right now. A sense of numbness spread through him, tingling like blood rushing back into a limb that had fallen asleep.
Zeke couldn’t imagine the toll it took to care for a mentally ill child on a day-to-day basis, and Grisha had never been a patient man to begin with. He’d gotten a taste over these past few days of what Eren was like undermedicated or overmedicated, who fucking knew, and he’d gotten angry too, sure, but still-
Eren was a person. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t fun for him to behave like that.
But that didn’t matter, because it wasn’t what Grisha wanted. He wanted normal kids who grew up into perfectly palatable adults, and he was shit out of luck because those fucking apples never fell far from the rotten tree.
And then there was the thing that mattered most to their dear old dad: money.
Acute and ongoing psychiatric treatment was not cheap. With that amount of medication, Eren had to be monitored constantly. By several medical professionals, most likely. He had to be in therapy too, and now that Grisha and Carla were getting divorced-
She'd been a housewife. A stay-at-home mom. She'd get alimony, one hundred percent, and not a small amount, considering.
Eren threw an even bigger spanner into the works. A son who should be taking the first steps towards independence by now, but who would be a dependant for far beyond the age of eighteen. Maybe even longer than twenty-five. There was no guarantee that he would ever be able to work or even just live on his own.
A money pit. One Grisha had no way of legally getting rid of. He could divorce his wife, but his son would always be his son, no matter how much he detested him.
So, he had handed him the medication his mother kept locked away. Told him to handle it himself. He was old enough, after all. Hadn't said a word to Zeke, and hoped the problem would take care of itself.
An unforeseen tragedy.
And he would have blamed it on him. Blamed Zeke for not keeping those drugs out of reach, as per the instructions he never gave, but who would have believed Zeke over Grisha? The father, a doctor. Grieving the tragic loss of a son on the precipice of adulthood.
He would have put his little brother’s suicide on him.
Zeke was going to be sick.
“Was that dad?”
He whipped around and stared at his brother, wide eyed and at a loss.
Eren stood in the archway, medication bag clutched to his chest, grey eyes searching his face. Lost. Alone.
He didn’t ask how much of that he’d heard, or what was going through his head right then. The kid's eyes shimmered a glossy silver, and he let his gaze drop to the floor, and Zeke ached.
He crossed the room in a few slow strides and reached out, rested a hand on his shoulder. When Eren didn’t sneer or swat him away, Zeke dared to pull him close and wrap his arms around him, one hand sliding into damp hair, pressing his brother’s forehead against his shoulder.
Eren stood there and let it happen. Unsteady breaths puffed against Zeke’s collarbone, and a part of him just wanted to stay here and hug the poor kid, feel the warmth of his body and the beat of his heart, but he swallowed that urge down and forced himself to lock in.
“Let’s go,” he croaked, reluctantly stepping away, though his hand slipped from Eren’s hair and came to rest on his shoulder once more; grounding. Anchoring him amidst the wind and waves of the storm that had just crashed over his head.
Zeke guided an unresisting Eren along, pausing to pick up his fucked phone and slip on his shoes, and then they were off. Walking down the hallway together, side by side, Eren’s fingers digging into the pouch pressed to his chest.
“You should call your mom on the way. Ask her to come meet us at the hospital,” he said in a low voice, thumb rubbing firm circles into the back of Eren’s shoulder.
He nodded without looking up.
“Good.” He ushered him down the stairs and out the door, towards his car. Zeke opened the passenger door for him and hesitated before stepping aside to let him get in. “You’re gonna be alright, kid. No matter what.”
Eren didn’t respond and got into the car without a word. It took a few moments for him to buckle his seatbelt, struggling to get a good grip on it with how badly his hands shook; but he managed.
Eren didn’t believe him. That was alright. Zeke wouldn’t believe himself either if he was in Eren’s place.
But his little brother would be okay—Zeke would just have to prove it to him.