Chapter Text
“ Five little monkeys
Jumping on the bed
One fell off and bumped his head
Took him to the doctor and the doctor said:
No more monkeys jumping on the bed!”
Zeke hops from one rock to the next, swinging from the end of Eren’s arm as he sings. The lyrics change to four monkeys, then three, all the way to zero. Zeke giggles, screwing his face up in concentration as the rocks grow bigger and farther apart.
“Again!”
Eren sighs in exasperation, his grip on Zeke’s hand tightening slightly.
“Fine.” He starts over again. Eren must be in a good mood today. Usually, he would only sing it once.
Zeke rips his arm free from Eren and makes the huge leap to the final rock, scrambling along the smooth face as not to fall off. He can see the whole Strip from up here. Cars and motorcycles roar by, always in a hurry to get somewhere far away. Always honking at each other and calling loudly from open windows. Zeke watches them, sometimes, trying to guess where they’re going.
Zeke likes the buildings along the Strip, even though Eren says they’ve gone to shit, like everything else in this Ymir-forsaken dump . He says Paradis looked different before, before war and poverty and the never-ending stream of Marleyan tourists that thought the Island looked more authentic this way, streets crowded and filthy, reeking of garbage. Derelict buildings painted the shades of a fading sunset: pastel pinks and blues and soft yellows.
But the war ended decades ago. Eren wasn’t even born back then.
“Get down,” a familiar tiredness creeps into Eren’s voice, an indication that Zeke has used up his brother’s good mood.
Eren holds out his hand. Zeke slides off the rock, entwining his small fingers in Eren’s. Eren’s hands are rough and bony. There are tattoos on his fingers, shapes that don’t mean anything to Zeke but clearly mean something to Eren. Zeke traces them with his other hand, wondering what they could possibly mean.
The little bell on the door at Queenie’s rings out its familiar, exciting sound. Zeke closes the door and opens it again just to hear it one more time.
“ Zeke. Quit it.”
As fun as Eren can be, he can be painfully boring, too. He’s at his most boring at Queenie’s, his head bent over the newspaper, scouring the wanted ads. Zeke makes popping sounds with his mouth, watching Eren’s fingers twitch. He wishes he could have brought Konkey Dong for company, but Eren says he was too old for stuffed animals now. Konkey Dong. It still makes Zeke giggle. Eren laughed the first time Zeke said it, but he doesn’t anymore.
“The usual?” The pretty waitress knows them well. Eren nods, not looking up from the newspaper.
“Hi Zeke! How are you today?” Her name is Krystal? Maybe Krista?
“Really good! I made it all the way here without stepping on the sidewalk!”
“You did?!” Her smile is wide and bright.
“No, he didn’t,” Eren says.
“Did too!” Zeke throws a packet of sugar at his brother, whose resulting glare is sharp as a knife, cutting Zeke into a thousand tiny pieces.
There’s no AC at Queenie’s, like most places on the Strip, and the breeze coming through the open windows is hot and humid. There’s beads of sweat standing out on Eren’s tanned skin, shimmering in the sickly beams of sunlight filtering through the thin red curtains, the restaurant's sad attempt at cooling the place down.
Eren holds a pen between his teeth, occasionally removing it to circle one of the ads. His brow is furrowed, but not in his usual angry way, rather concerned. Upset. Zeke bends over the table, attempting to read the tiny words upside down.
“‘ Help wanted. Cleaning services. ’” Zeke reads. “What are you gonna clean?” Eren shrugs, circling the ad twice.
“Depends if I get it, I guess.”
The waitress comes back with their orders and Zeke squirms excitedly in his chair. Eren reaches for his coffee, sipping slowly. He swipes a hand along his perspiring forehead, frown intensifying. Zeke rips into his Little Royals meal, going straight for the toy.
“What is it this time?” Eren asks. Zeke tears open the packaging and his heart stutters and drops.
“Another Colossal Titan,” he says dejectedly, setting the toy down on the table. His chicken nuggets taste like sawdust after that.
“That’s bullshit,” Eren grumbles, tapping the spit-slick pen against his temple. Zeke grips the toy tightly in his fist, wishing it would turn into any of the other Nine. “Lemme see it.” Eren pries Zeke’s fist open, ignoring the boy’s soft cries of protest. He clicks his tongue.
“What is this now, 5? Soon you’ll have an army,”
Zeke knows it was supposed to be a joke, but Eren’s voice is so heavy it hardly feels right to laugh. He knows what it means when Eren’s eyes are glazed over and dead like they are now, viridian glowing from within bruise-like dark circles. It means Zeke has to be careful around him, that he’s wound up like a top, ready to spin into a rage at the slightest provocation.
“Hey!” Eren gets the waitress’ attention and orders another Little Royals meal. Zeke struggles to hide his surprise. Eren never gets food for himself at Queenie’s.
This time, they open the toy together.
“ What the fuck is this?! ”
Zeke flinches at the venom in Eren’s voice. He holds another Colossal Titan figurine between two tattooed fingers, wrinkling his nose like it personally offends him. The old Marleyan couple at the table next to them glance at the brothers with concerned, slightly disturbed looks. Zeke can tell they’re Marleyan because their skin is red, bright against clean, new clothes. He wonders how all the tourists get so red. Do they not have sunlight in Marley?
Eren yells at anyone who’ll listen, demanding to be told why every toy is a goddamn fucking Colossal Titan when there’s nine to choose from ?! His fists are clenched at his sides, shoulders shaking with anger. Zeke stays at the booth, Eren’s voice ringing in his ears. Everyone but Zeke is staring at the older Jaeger, now, mouths dropping slightly as he makes a scene, poisonous words and barbed expletives pouring nonsensically from his mouth.
“Sir? Sir! … Please calm down… ”
Zeke sets the Colossal Titan on the edge of his glass of chocolate milk, making it travel the circumference of it. If it was the real Colossal Titan, the whole restaurant would have gone up in flames, maybe even the whole Strip.
Eren’s hand is suddenly wrapped around Zeke’s bicep, pulling him out of the booth.
“We’re leaving.”
“Wait! I’m not done!”
The Titan toy falls into Zeke’s chocolate milk with an unceremonial plop .
There’s no singing or hopping on rocks on the way back to the Sunrise Motel. Eren walks ahead, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, head bowed, greasy dark hair falling in front of his face. Zeke struggles to keep up.
“You’re going too fast!”
“Maybe you’re just going too slow.”
Zeke breaks into a run, sprinting to Eren’s side and prying his hand from his pocket, holding it in two of his own. Eren sighs heavily but his arm relaxes, resigned to its fate.
They pass the Healers of Helos truck, the one where slack-smiled Marleyans in bright green shirts hand out bread and sweet pastries to anyone on the Strip. Eren says they shouldn’t be here, that Marleyans have no right to pretend to be benevolent, pretend to give a fuck about Paradisians beyond the services they offer. They only do this shit because if we all die, there’ll be no one left to serve them food and clean up after them. They won’t be able to vacation here anymore.
Zeke watches children leave the truck with bags of pastries piled in their arms, calling gleefully out to each other as they race through the crowded streets as if they’ve just done something illegal. He longs to be one of them. To know what the pastries taste like, at least.
But Eren would never let him. He hates the Healers of Helos.
Zeke pushes away the thoughts of gooey cherry filling and fresh bread as he squeezes Eren’s hand again.
“If you were one of the Nine Titans, which one would you be?” Zeke asks brightly. The Nine Titans is his favourite TV show, where cartoon Titans fight each other and save the world.
“I dunno,” Eren shrugs. His hand returns Zeke’s squeeze and he glances down at him with a rare gentle smile, “maybe the Armoured. The great protector. Isn’t that what they call him?”
“Nah!” Zeke laughs and he swears he could have seen Eren flinch.
“What? Why nah ? What the fuck?”
“I think you’d be the Attack Titan,” Zeke says, swinging Eren’s arm sideways, backwards, and forwards with no particular rhythm, “you’re too mean to be the Armoured.”
“... Oh.”
It’s Zeke’s turn to be the faster of the two as they turn off the main road and into the motel parking lot.
The Sunrise Motel is bright blue, as blue as the sky. There’s a mural painted on the side: birds of paradise, yellow petals extending like crowns from beak-like stems.
The hot summer air burns in Zeke’s lungs as he runs up the stairs, all the way up to room 213. The railings are made of rusty metal and Zeke’s hands stink like old pennies all day if he touches them. Sometimes he does it just for fun. He doesn’t mind the smell.
Eren says this place is a shithole , but Zeke doesn’t see it that way at all.
Eren piles bubbles high on Zeke’s head, shadowy green eyes holding a glimmer of mirth. The dim yellow bathroom light flickers above them. Sometimes Zeke likes to think it does that because a friendly ghost is saying hi.
“Ah, ah, don’t move yet.” Eren scoops up more bubbles. Zeke giggles as the pile crumbles, bubbles falling to his shoulders.
“My turn!” Zeke scoots closer to his brother, the bath water sloshing onto the dirty tiles, permanently smutty blue and white checkerboards dotted with two sets of wet brown footprints.
Eren tilts his head forward to make it easier. Zeke’s pile is much higher than Eren’s had been.
“It’s a wizard hat!” Zeke announces proudly. Eren exhales softly through his nose.
“Uh-oh!” Eren’s voice is low. Playful. “Someone’s stuck in the bubbles.” His hand is moving, obscured by the thick layer of foam. Zeke pushes the suds aside, digging for Eren’s hands.
Eren hums the theme song of The Nine Titans as the Beast Titan rises from the bubbles. Zeke lets out a shrill squeal of excitement.
“Yes! Finally!” Zeke places the Beast Titan on the side of the tub with the rest. He has quite a collection now. 1…2…3…4… He counts 14. Most of them are duplicates. He’s still missing the Jaw Titan, the Founding Titan and the War Hammer Titan, but he knows he’ll get them eventually. He gazes up at his brother, eyes full of admiration.
Eren really is the best.
“Why’s that one your favourite, huh?” Eren tilts his head back, the tower of bubbles toppling. “It’s just a big monkey that throws shit.”
Zeke admires his Titan collection, tapping each one on the head as he counts them again. The light flickers once more, a low mechanical hum accompanying it. Zeke says a silent hello to the ghost in the walls.
“Is it just ‘cause you like monkeys?”
Eren’s knees jutt out of the foamy water, thin, tattooed arms draped lazily across them. He picks up one of the Attack Titans. It looks tiny in his hand.
“Hey! Give it back!”
“What if I don’t?” Eren taunts, holding his hand outside the bath. Droplets of water and bits of foam fall from Eren’s outstretched arm onto the grimy tiles.
“I use the Beast Titan to throw rocks at you and smash you up into a bajillion pieces!” Zeke makes the Beast Titan travel up Eren’s arm, up to the small, circular bruises blooming inside his elbow.
Eren snorts softly, putting the Attack Titan back in its spot.
“Damn, okay. I see how it is.”
The sound of Eren’s phone ringing makes both of them jump. Eren swears under his breath, quickly getting out of the water.
“You know the drill,” Eren says, flicking on the cracked plastic shower radio on the toilet lid. It’s held together with duct tape. Zeke briefly remembers Eren throwing it at the wall once. It plays loud rock music as Eren slips on a shirt and wrings out his long brown hair. He gets water all over the floor.
The song is Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ and Zeke sings along until Eren shushes him adamantly, gesturing to the phone pressed up to his cheek.
“Hey, yeah, yeah. Upstairs. Room 213. Hold on, I’ll come out to the balcony.” Eren answers the phone in a strange voice. It’s more high-pitched than usual and he draws out his words, enunciating painfully clearly. It’s his talking-to-tourists voice. Zeke always finds it funny to hear his brother speak that way.
Every time is the same.
Every time Eren gets a late-night call, he turns on the radio and tells Zeke to count to a thousand. Despite the blaring music, Zeke can hear strange noises coming from the motel room when he counts, grunts and groans that make him worry that Eren is in pain. When he’s done counting, Zeke can turn it off and get out of the tub.
Eren ruffles his hair and presses a kiss against his brother’s forehead, but his eyes are a million miles away. Zeke likes to think he travels to space in his mind sometimes, sees UFO’s and aliens and all sorts of cool things.
542…543…544…
“Zeke. You can come out now,” Eren’s voice calls through the door. The faintness of it lets Zeke know Eren is already in bed.
Once dry and comfy in his pajamas, Zeke slides under the covers next to Eren. He wonders which mood Eren will be in tonight. Warm, strong arms pull Zeke in close, skin sticky with sweat. Zeke snuggles into his brother’s chest, feeling cold, wet strands of hair drape across his forehead. Eren smells funny after his calls, but Zeke’s grown to like it.
“Where’s Konkey Dong?”
“R’here.” Eren paws blindly at the edge of the bed, eventually pressing the clumpy, floppy stuffed monkey into Zeke’s chest.
“ Five little Konkeys, jumping on the Dong, ” Zeke sings, pulling at the little monkey’s ears. An elbow jabs into his ribs.
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
Outside the door, two people scream at each other. A bottle smashes. A car revvs. A deep rumbling voice accuses someone of being a dumb useless slut . Sensing Zeke’s fear, Eren’s arms tighten around him, his breath hot against Zeke’s neck. He’s safe here as long as Eren is by his side.
Dim beams of moonlight pierce through the blinds, illuminating the cluttered side table. It holds empty bottles and takeout boxes, a lighter and a burnt spoon balanced precariously on a stained styrofoam container. There are other things on there, too, a needle and one of those stretchy bands Zeke likes to pull tight and let go again just to hear it snap.
“Did you take your medicine?”
Eren is always cuddly and calm after taking his medicine. Sometimes he even smiles.
“Hm?” Eren hums into Zeke’s soft blonde hair. He doesn’t open his eyes.
“You know. Your special medicine.”
Eren’s body tenses. His voice is low and empty as he sighs: “Just go to sleep, Zekey.”
As Eren’s body curls around his, engulfing him in safety and warmth, Zeke can’t help but think that maybe he was wrong.
Maybe Eren would be the Armoured Titan after all.
Reiner is Zeke’s second favourite person in the whole world. After Eren, of course.
He’s huge, tall and built like a football player. Tattoos snake their way up his arms, but they’re nothing like Eren’s. Reiner’s are colourful and playful, whereas Eren’s are just scary. He likes how Reiner smells like cigarettes and beer and has that funny Marleyan accent.
“Great throw, Zeke!” Reiner catches it effortlessly, but pretends to make it seem difficult. Lying isn’t Reiner’s strong suit. He throws the ball back and it’s Zeke’s turn to pretend.
“Where’s Eren today?” Reiner shields his eyes from the glaring mid-day sun as he glances at the balcony above towards room 213.
“He’s having a Gone Day,” Zeke shrugs. Eren has those days a lot, where his body is in bed, wrapped up in all the blankets despite the sweltering heat, unmoving, but his eyes are far away. Like Eren is in space again.
Reiner scoffs; a harsh, derisive sound that makes Zeke flinch.
“That’s one way to put it.”
Reiner’s next throw is a hard one and Zeke’s hand stings through the glove when he catches it.
“What’d the unemployment people say?” Reiner asks.
Eren’s not Gone today. He’s sitting by the motel pool with Reiner, legs dangling into the water as Zeke plays with Porco. Marcel watches over his brother from the balcony above, refusing to come any closer. That’s hardly unusual. He and Eren don’t get along.
“Same shit as last time.” Eren’s voice is slow and groggy, like he’s just woken up from a long nap. He’s smoking something, but it doesn’t smell like cigarettes. Zeke thinks it smells like a skunk wearing a flower crown. The mental image makes him giggle every time.
“Apparently since I’m the one who quit, they won’t give me jack shit.”
The skunk-rettes make Eren calm, too. Zeke’s grateful for that, since Eren usually gets scarily angry when he talks about the unemployment people. And the welfare people. And social services. And tourists.
“Well, you couldn’t stay there .” Reiner crosses thick, tattooed arms over his chest, snorting harshly. “Your manager was a fucking psychopath, Eren, you can’t-”
“Zeke!”
Porco throws the beach ball at him, stealing his attention from Eren and Reiner. It splashes him as it lands in the water. Zeke scoops it out, throwing it back. He’s much better at this game than Porco is. Half of Porco’s throws don’t go anywhere near him.
The motel pool is painted light pink. It makes Zeke feel like he’s swimming in cotton candy. Bits of leaves and grass float across the surface and water bugs dance around on feather-light legs, hopping across the water like it’s made of glass. There’s a dead moth by the stairs. It’s big and freaky-looking and no one wants to touch it.
“Tips were shit… pay out Armin… basically nothing left by the end… fuckin' degrading anyway…”
Zeke knows Eren’s talking about his old job, the one at the big white palace near the Resort. Azure Eldia: Empire of Pleasure. He learned to read the sign when Eren worked there. He’d take Zeke with him sometimes, when Reiner and Marcel couldn’t watch him. Eren would smile sneakily, tell him to hide in the dressing room while he was on stage. It’ll be fun. Like hide-n-seek, Eren would say, don’t let Armin catch you, though, or he’ll get one of his goons to fuckin' skin me. And I’d look pretty scary without skin, wouldn’t I?
Zeke liked how sparkly Eren would be after a night at Azure. He’d have sequins stuck in his hair and glitter clinging to his skin, shimmering like tiny diamonds under the streetlights as they walked down the long hill back to the Strip.
The chlorine stings Zeke’s eyes when Porco splashes him, yelling at him for not paying attention to the game again.
“You suck at this!” Porco crosses his arms over his chest as he pouts, blue and yellow beach ball drifting towards the edge of the pool, pushed by the gentle ripples.
“That- That’s not nice!” Zeke protests. Porco laughs, scrambling for the beach ball. He throws it as hard as he can at Zeke’s head. The ball is so deflated that it doesn’t hurt much, but Zeke’s cheek still stings from the impact. Tears prickle his eyes as he runs his fingers across the angry skin.
“Yo! Marcel! What the fuck?!” Eren immediately steps in, plucking the beach ball from the water. There are blades of grass sticking to it, as well as a half-dead beetle weakly kicking its legs. “Tell your little brother to mind his shit, huh?!”
He pulls Zeke out of the pool by his bicep, which hurts a lot more than being hit in the face with a deflated beach ball. He cries out in pain as Eren hauls him across the wet cement to the deck chair he’d been occupying.
“You okay?” Eren doesn’t wait for Zeke to answer before aggressively rubbing a towel over Zeke’s hair. The rough movements jostle his brain, like what he imagines being on one of those big Resort rollercoasters would feel like. “ Marcel … what a fuckin' asshole…”
Eren frames Zeke’s face with both hands, seafoam eyes wild and intense as they meet Zeke’s.
“Hey. Someone tries to bully you like that, what do you do? Remember what I told you?”
“Hit them back harder,” Zeke supplies miserably as rivulets of water trail down his back. Eren’s arms wrap around Zeke, warm and strong. Zeke returns the hug, squeezing himself against Eren’s chest. He smells like sweat and skunk-rettes and something vaguely oily, like gasoline.
“ Twice as hard,” Eren mutters. “Jaegers don’t put up with that shit.”
He wishes Eren would let him keep hugging him forever, but he quickly breaks the embrace, peeling Zeke off him and urging him to: go play or something .
So Zeke plays with his Titan toys on the cement pool deck, hovering near Eren and Reiner as they pass one of Reiner’s cigarettes back and forth. One of those skinny Marleyan ones Eren says make him feel classy.
Porco comes over to apologize. Marcel stands nearby as he does so, glaring daggers at Eren the whole time.
Zeke wants to cover his ears when Eren screams at Marcel.
He doesn’t have to be so mean. It really didn’t hurt that much.
The Colossal Titans are lined up defensively, facing off against the Armoured and Beast Titans. Zeke finds some pebbles and dead bugs that the Beast Titan can throw at them. Porco joins him. Zeke’s glad he’s playing, too, because he has the Jaw Titan and Zeke doesn’t.
“...I don’t even know what the issue is, man,” Eren is telling Reiner. “I thought it was ‘cause of my record, but I’m not even getting that far... You don’t have to declare that shit until after the interview, and I’m not getting any of those so that’s not even it ! I don’t get it!”
Porco uses the Jaw Titan and Armoured Titan to take on Zeke’s Attack Titan. Zeke squeals that two on one isn’t fair. He brings in the Beast Titan as backup. “You’re dead! You’re dead!” Zeke sprinkles dead bugs onto the scene and Porco pouts.
“... didn’t even bother applying. The Resort won’t fuckin’ hire me. They do mad background checks. And you have to sound Marleyan, too, or they think you’re trash and’ll, like, steal from them or some shit…which, like, sure , I’ve done that before… but who hasn’t?”
Zeke glances up at his brother as he listens in on his conversation. Eren is lounging between Reiner’s legs, his head falling back on the larger man’s shoulder as thick, pale fingers draw circles on tanned thighs or idly play with long brown hair. He looks so comfortable there, not as on edge as he usually is when someone touches him. Zeke briefly wishes he were as big as Reiner, then maybe he could hold Eren like that, too.
Zeke reluctantly turns his attention back to his Titans. Three Colossals fit on a leaf before they sink into the pool. Zeke and Porco take turns giggling as leaves sink into the water under the weight of plastic Titan toys.
“Dude… don’t… you need to slow down with that stuff-”
“Oh, fuck off, Reiner. I’m your best customer, aren’t I? ”
The golden afternoon sunlight illuminates the beads of sweat rolling down the side of Eren’s neck and face. It makes him look like he’s glowing. Like he’s sculpted of solid gold.
Eren’s eyes are half-closed, eyelids dropping more heavily by the second. A slack, Gone smile stretches across his features and he waves his fingers at Zeke, a silent request for him to hold his hand. Zeke does so happily, entwining his fingers with his brother’s, his Titans forgotten. Sweat and lingering pool water builds in the seams where their skin meets, but Zeke doesn’t mind. He likes holding Eren’s hand.
There’s a new needle mark between Eren’s knuckles, a tiny bead of crimson appearing from swollen red skin.
“Do you seriously have to do that right here?! What the fuck is wrong with you, Eren?!”
Marcel is livid as he urges Porco to go back to their room to have dinner. He whispers urgently to his little brother, and Zeke can’t make out all of what they’re saying but he thinks he hears the words: don’t want you to play with him anymore…
Eren’s grip is too tight.
He hauls Zeke along as he weaves through the teeming crowds outside the bus station. They’re a long way from the Strip, but it looks about the same here. Gnarled wrought iron balconies bleed rust onto crumbling stucco and cement walls. Sun bleached brick and faded pastels stretch as far as the eye can see. Zeke can glimpse the ocean over his shoulder when the streets curve just right, far below the hills, glittering in the sunlight, idyllic turquoise dotted with tiny fishing boats and gargantuan cruise ships.
The only part of town that isn’t falling into disrepair is the Resort. Paradis Island Resort: Paradise is Yours! The banners are gaudy and cheerful, pictures of rollercoasters and entertainers waving in the breeze.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” Someone shouts as Eren shoves by them. They have a thick Marleyan accent and wear a pristine baseball cap. Between that and the stark white trainers, this man immediately outs himself as a tourist. Eren squeezes Zeke’s hand twice, and Zeke feels his stomach twist. Game 2. It’s one of his least favourites.
Zeke reluctantly pulls away from Eren, ducking into one of the narrow alleys pulling away from the main road. It’s quieter here, the yelling of vendors and sputtering of motorbikes distorting in the distance. He peeks at the road, watching Eren play the game.
“My brother! Have you seen my brother?!” Eren is frantic, clutching at the Marleyan man as he gives a description of the small blonde boy. He’s using his tourist voice again. Eren swipes at his face though Zeke knows he’s not really crying. “He was right here! Please help me!”
Eren’s signal is a rapid flashing of two fingers. Zeke breaks into a run, dashing towards the Paradis Island Resort DreamRail.
“There he is! Thank Ymir! Sorry for bothering you!” Zeke hears Eren shout. He calls after him, but the name he says is someone else’s. A random one from a rotating list. Zeke hears the slap of flip-flops announcing Eren is catching up to him. All Zeke has to do is run fast enough to buy Eren enough time until-
“Oi! Stop that devil! He stole my wallet!”
Eren urges Zeke to run faster, hoisting him over the DreamRail ticket scanners before vaulting over them himself. A security guard screams out at them. Zeke recognizes some of his words as the ones Eren tells him not to use, the mean ones about Eldians.
“Fuckin’ run , Zekey! Faster!” Eren kicks off his flip flops, picking up speed as he pulls Zeke along, sprinting onto the DreamRail. They’re both breathing hard and wiping sweat from their faces as the train doors shudder shut. Eren pulls Zeke close, rubbing his back. “Good job,” Eren pants, leaning on his knees to catch his breath. Blue-green eyes are alight, gleaming with life. They remind Zeke of the ocean.
The DreamRail is packed with tourists. They wear athleisure and tacky collectible items, hats and t-shirts bearing smiling cartoon Titans holding up the words: I Love Paradis!
There’s no room to sit so they stand by the doors. Eren’s hand shakes against Zeke’s as he grips it. It always does on the DreamRail. Or any other time he’s surrounded by Marleyans, haughty eyes raking over him with contempt from plump sunburnt faces. Eren stares at his dirty bare feet and fiddles idly with the ratty cuttoff t-shirt and stained basketball shorts he always wears.
Zeke squeezes his hand harder. Maybe that’ll make the tremor go away.
“Did you get a Bad Card?” Zeke asks, swinging Eren’s arm as he traces one of his tattoos with his fingers. This one’s a centipede. It crawls all the way up Eren’s forearm and bicep, curling legs seeming to writhe as his muscles shift.
Eren grins as he pulls out the cards and a few bills and tosses the wallet on the side of the road. It was cheap. Velcro. As most real rich tourists’ are. Eren says the ones that look the richest usually aren’t. They’re trying too hard. The real rich ones save their money. Their stuff is new and clean, but cheaper. Practical, not flashy. They hold themselves differently, too; like they own everything they lay their eyes on; like all of Paradis exists solely for their pleasure. You’ll learn, Eren tells him.
Zeke doesn’t know how Eren knows all these things.
His brother really is amazing.
“Two Bad Cards!” Eren announces, fanning himself with the little plastic cards.
They call them Bad Cards because they don’t work a lot of the time. According to Eren, the bank shuts them off in a few hours after they get them. So it’s a sort of game. You buy everything you can as fast as you can before they stop working. You sometimes have to go to different stores, too, and buy small things from multiple places. Eren says that can keep the Bad Cards working longer. He says that only works when you're sneaky, though, when no one knows you have them. Marleyan tourists have so much fuckin' money, they won't miss a few hundred marks.
Electronics first. That’s the rule. Those are the easiest things to sell again afterwards. Eren buys phone chargers and portable battery packs, as well as headphones and bluetooth speakers. Those are the things tourists always forget. He hums an old reggae tune under his breath as he packs them into his and Zeke’s worn-out backpacks. The Bad Card keeps working for four stores.
Once they’ve run out of room in their backpacks, it’s time to get groceries. Eren is in an unusually good mood as he pushes Zeke around in the cart, getting a running start before gliding down the aisles. His smile is easy and genuine, not loose and empty like it is when he takes his medicine. Eren’s wearing new flip flops, neon green ones he let Zeke pick out.
“Zoodles are on sale!” Zeke piles the colourful cans into the cart and Eren snorts.
“We have a Bad Card, we can get whatever you want.” A sticky hand runs through Zeke’s hair. There’s AC in this shop because it’s close to the Resort, but Eren is always sweating.
Zeke chooses cakes and pastries and that cinnamon cereal he likes that Eren usually says they can’t afford. He gets the brand-name kind, not the fake kind that tastes like cinnamon-sprinkled styrofoam.
“Fuck vegetables, huh, Zekey?” Eren chuckles as he sets Zeke’s items on the conveyor belt. Zeke doesn’t like vegetables. He knows Eren doesn’t either.
The cashier has a Marleyan accent and narrows her eyes as she strains to understand Eren’s dialect. He uses his tourist voice, but the woman still titters softly under her breath as Paradisian slang slips through.
Zeke doesn’t understand why people near the Resort laugh at Eren like that.
Everyone who grew up here sounds like him. Eren should be laughing at them .
“Kiss the card,” Eren instructs. It’s a ritual, hoping to the Bad Card gods that it works this time. Eren grins when Zeke obeys, ocean eyes glittering as they catch the sunlight streaming in from the windows. “Spin around. Twice. Pray to Ymir!” Zeke screws up his face and crosses his fingers.
“Go, Bad Card, go!” Zeke cheers as Eren taps it to the machine. It beeps unhappily and Eren curses under his breath. The screen flashes bright red. The cashier’s eyebrows raise, lips twisting as if she’d just tasted something sour.
“It was declined.”
Eren’s hand is shaking again.
“Yeah, no shit,” he snaps. He quickly tacks on an apology when the lady’s eyes widen in shock. There’s people behind them in line, sighing and shifting as Eren tries the next card. Zeke holds his hand in two of his, pulling Eren’s arm to his chest. He hopes it helps keep him calm.
There’s another sharp beep from the card reader.
“Declined again.”
Eren’s skin is warm against Zeke’s fingers. Zeke can hear his breath hitch as he swears under his breath once more, this time more frantically.
“Right. Fuck,” he laughs nervously. “I have cash… I think… I- I dunno, my cards are touchy sometimes. Should really talk to my bank ‘bout that, I guess…”
“I’m sure they are.” A tight-lipped smile. Long fingernails drum impatiently against the till.
Behind them, someone switches to the next line over.
Zeke swears he hears a Marleyan man groan: come on. He thinks he hears the unsaid words, too, some more of those nasty words Eren hates.
“We don’t need all of it, Eren. It’s okay,” Zeke says quietly, hugging his brother’s arm tighter.
He knows what it means when Eren gets like this, shaky and hot to the touch. It’s like there’s an earthquake beneath Eren’s skin, tearing him apart inside, though the only indication on the surface is a slight tremor. Tectonic plates shift as unsteady fingers drop coins and their few remaining crumpled bills onto a polished conveyor belt.
Zeke holds his breath as the cashier counts it. Eren drums his fingers against the back of Zeke’s hand. A nervous habit.
“Yeah. You’re short.”
The cashier’s arms cross over her chest and clicks her tongue in annoyance. Her eyes say what her mouth doesn’t: Island trash.
Eren can see it, too, Zeke is sure of it. He feels it in the growing tension in Eren’s muscles, the way his head drops, good mood quickly evaporating into the fancy, air-conditioned store.
“It’s okay, Eren,” Zeke repeats.
Zeke starts telling the lady to put some items back, using his best imitation of Reiner’s Marleyan accent. He practices in the mirror sometimes. It’s gotten pretty good.
Eren hasn’t moved. He’s frozen still, breath coming sharp and ragged as his eyes become astronauts, flying into space, leaving the world far behind. There are more irritated groans from the line behind them, urging Eren to hurry it up, already. Bruised tattooed hands curl into fists.
“Eren, don’t. Please, don’t.” Zeke knows what’s coming next. He knows, but he’s powerless to stop it. The earthquake has triggered a volcano, and the Marleyan tourists have found themselves right in the path of Eren’s spewing lava.
“If you’ve got some shit to say, fuckin’ say it! SAY IT TO MY FACE, YOU PRETENTIOUS FUCKS! ”
Eren’s fingers twitch rhythmically against his palm. It’s supposed to be calming, but it never seems to work.
Eren snatches a chocolate bar from the shelves next to the till, hurling it in the general direction of the line, seemingly unfazed by the horrified looks passing across the tourists’ sunburnt faces. He inclines his chin to the tall blonde man who’d been muttering under his breath just seconds earlier.
“What’s got you so fuckin’ quiet, huh?! Where’s all that confidence gone, asshole!? Speak the fuck up!”
“Eren, please stop!”
“ Sir! I’m going to have to call the police!”
“Are you fuckin' entertained?!” Eren demands.
He blazes so hot Zeke is almost surprised he doesn’t spontaneously combust.
“Who needs the comedy channel, I guess, when you can just watch what happens when you fuck up someone else’s fuckin' country and then waltz around like the people who actually fuckin' live here exist just for you?!”
Eren’s not making any sense. His voice is cracked and shrill, slicing through the air, drawing every eye.
“Well, y’know what: Maybe I do! Maybe I’m just alive to give you all your own private show!” Venom drips from Eren’s words, an edge of mockery threading itself into every syllable.
“SO ARE YOU FUCKING ENTERTAINED?!”
His cheeks are flushed red, skin shining with angry tears.
The next thing Zeke knows, he’s begging Eren to stop fighting as two security guards drag him outside. The Marleyan tourists clap as they throw him out, chuckling quietly to one another, exchanging their version of events, events that are likely to be retold in pristine hotel rooms and at fancy dinner tables. An anecdote and nothing more.
The dramatic highlight of an otherwise predictable, relaxing day in paradise.