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“I am the king of everything so my feet shall not touch the ground!”
Eren is wearing a blue sheet as a cape. A cardboard crown atop his head of tousled brown locks. His older brother is rather irritable because the boy is using him as a mule. Eren digs his heels into his brother’s sides and tugs at his pretty blonde hair. Zeke’s hair is better suited for petting, Eren can privately admit. But he almost always yanks at it instead. “Take me to the kitchen, slave!” They’re in the living room. Sunlight is streaming in through the sheer curtains, bouncing off Zeke’s glasses. Eren’s mother sighs, lounging on the sofa. She flips through her cheap paperback book. There’s a tan God of a man on the front cover, shirt ripped open. Long bleach-blonde hair. He’s on a white horse and he’s a living bronze tumor atop it.
“Eren,” The woman turns a page, “Don’t call your brother a slave.”
Zeke grunts and crawls on his hands and knees passed the couch. Carla calls, “And if you’re going that way anyway Zeke, get your favorite step-mom a bit of cake okay?”
Zeke huffs, cheeks pink from overexertion. “Carla, tell him to get off of me!”
“Bring me my cake first, sweetie.”
It’s Saturday. Zeke stays with his birth mother during the week and most major holidays, but he visits his father on the weekends and Eren always looks forward to it. They stay up and play games. They eat too many sweets. And then Zeke carries him to bed, whispering that Eren is just so precious. Though… There have been more and more missed weekend visits, lately. Zeke is already sixteen. He looks forward to high school parties instead of playing pretend.
Eren worries the boy is thinking about things like college.
Eren worries the boy is thinking about marriage. Do sixteen year olds get married? Well regardless, Eren worries. His brother could leave him for any number of things.
If the child were to be perfectly candid, he is being crueler than usual because Zeke is annoying him with his constant… Growing up. There’s a ten year age difference and Eren will never catch Zeke, who’s rushing closer and closer towards adulthood and all the things that stage of life entails. He grimaces at the back of his brother’s head. Then, gives it a hard smack. Zeke cries out and finally tosses Eren off of him, who grunts as his back connects with the carpeted floor. “No hitting! You promised.” Zeke stands to his full height, rubbing at the sore spot and frowning down at Eren, who frowns up at him.
And called from the living room, in that droning tone only a worn, partially fed up mother can possess: “You did promise, Eren. Apologize to your brother.”
It almost always feels like she’s on Zeke’s side. Eren decides she’s as annoying as he is. Pushing himself to stand, he marches towards the glass sliding doors leading to the backyard. He snaps, “No! Slaves don’t get apologies!” over his shoulder. The doors slide open. They shut. They can’t be slammed. For obvious reasons. His dirty bare feet crush blades of grass. The lawn is perfectly manicured, mowed low. He crosses it. There’s a single evergreen, and he climbs it with this bitter, strained expression, crown perched precariously upon his head and tilting too far to the left.
Above, his treehouse. He pries the sheer, transparent curtain to the side (stolen from one of the guest room’s windows). Inside, milk crates used as chairs. Graphic novels and stolen kitchen knives. Dead beetles and old butterfly cocoons. When their father wasn’t as busy, he’d helped in the construction of their treehouse. Which was probably why the treehouse was doomed to one day collapse, as Grisha Jaeger was a doctor, not a carpenter. Eren curls himself up in a sleeping bag and hides until the sun dips passed the hard line of the horizon.
Creaking.
Eren snaps his eyes open. Lets them flit about, taking in the darkness of the treehouse. Night? He snatches at his flashlight and flips the switch. Casts the beam towards the shivering door-curtain. It strikes a pale face. The light bounces back at him, reflected, and he nearly grabs for a brick (he likes to keep a pile in the treehouse purely for self-defense related purposes). But, the stranger says, “Please don’t throw a brick, Eren.”
And Eren has to scowl.
“Go away, stupid. If mom told you to check on me, then tell her I’ve decided to move out and live up here, so there!”
Zeke sighs and crawls into the small, cramped treehouse. He sits on the floor with a stuffed animal and a plate. A cake slice, a peace offering. All the frosting makes his stomach somersault. Eren narrows his eyes sharply. He cannot be bribed. That said, he does move to sit close, tugging the plate towards himself with one hooked finger.
“Wow, moving out all on your own already huh, kiddo? The rent must be pretty low on treehouses. What’s a month here cost? Couple of acorns?”
“Don’t patronize me.”
It’s a very big word. It is perhaps the only big word Eren knows, and he says it constantly.
“You can’t be mean to people you love. Okay? They won’t like you as much if you act like a brat.”
Eren is no longer particularly interested in the cake. He shoves it back towards his brother. “You already don’t like me anyway. So I’ll be as mean as I want. You didn’t come last weekend.” Or the weekend before that. Or the weekend before that … Zeke winces. The back of his head thumps lightly against the wall. He rests it there.
“Well I… I do have a life outside of you, you know. And I can’t take you with me when I go to meet my friends. You wouldn’t like hanging out with the big kids, it would be,” Zeke struggles to find a suitable excuse, “Boring for you.”
“Liar.” Eren eyes the bricks. It’s perfectly nonchalant. Zeke sees this and moves away from the wall. He crawls towards the pile and just as nonchalantly sits in front of it. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Eren, it’s that he knows Eren too well. “You have to pay attention to only me. Forever. Or I won’t be nice to you ever again.” Eren insists, and Zeke groans, fingers pushing up beneath his glasses and massaging his lowered eyelids.
“…You’ll grow out of this.” He drops his hand and fixes his weary eyes upon his scowling brother. “I can’t promise you’ll be the center of the universe forever and ever,” And he reaches out to ruffle Eren’s hair. “But I can promise you’ll always be at the top of my list. So maybe don’t move into your treehouse or stage any hunger strikes?”
Eren has staged at least ten hunger strikes this year.
He considers an eleventh, but eventually jerks a nod and drags the plate back towards himself.
Zeke fusses over the stuffed animal in his care for a moment, poking at protruding stuffing and picking at stray strands of stitching. Then, he holds it out in offering to the boy who has already managed to sticky his face with chocolate in the passed minute. Eren’s licking at his fingers, burning flashlight in his lap. He eyes the stuffed bear with that sharp, calculating gaze of his. “Eren. This is Mumkey Junior. And I thought that maybe… If you get lonely, he can keep you company. I’m a little too old for him so…”
“I don’t want your stupid monkey.” Eren snaps, licking at his chocolate coated thumb. “Bring me another slice of cake.”
Zeke sighs, lips fluttering upwards. It’s a faint smile, and his eyes are glittering like he’s looking at something unbelievably adorable. Eren looks around, perfectly clueless and searching for what could’ve provoked that reaction.
“You’re so mean to me, Eren.”
Eren spins in his chair, phone to his ear. He’s staring at the ceiling and ignoring the unfinished, very much due book report sitting on his desk. Handwritten. His teacher is so old-school, he’s surprised the old fart isn’t making him use a typewriter. Or a quill. Clay tablets and chisels on the mountain, where God can dictate the best way to reach the 1,500 word count goal. All his friends get the glory and brilliance of Microsoft Word and here he is straining himself with ink that stains his fingertips. “It’s awful, Zeke,” Eren is saying, “He’s making us all write in cursive.”
“It’s a useful life skill. No complaining.” There’s a woman speaking over an intercom in the background. Something about flights to Liberio.
“Oh yeah? When’s the last time you used cursive? The 1800s?”
“Eren, I’m only twenty-five.”
“That’s ancient, man. How many Sumerians did you hook up with in high school?” Eren stops spinning in his chair and reclines. He’s dizzy. The ceiling spins and blurs around the edges. He squeezes his eyes shut. “Hey, geezer, don’t worry about a souvenir. Just bring me money, okay?”
Laughter. It’s warm and flusters Eren, who stews in his silence. Skin hot enough to steam. He really… Likes that sound.
“Be nice to your mother, alright? And of course tell Grisha I say hello. I’ve got to get my boarding pass ready. I love y-!”
Eren hangs up and tosses his phone on his desk. He cracks his eyes open. He tries to remember when Zeke started calling dad by his first name. Those two dumbasses, they need at least a million fishing trips to work out whatever the hell has them so distant these days. His mind drifts. He hasn’t seen his brother in a while. No, not since his last birthday. Zeke’s some kind of “salesman”. Which feels like code for illicit services, at least to Eren.
Zeke is weirdly mysterious.
And, it really doesn’t suit him.
Eren tries to picture him up to no good sometimes, but his face is so unbearably friendly it’s impossible. Eren settles his eyes on the stuffed monkey on his desk. He forgot its name like, minutes after his brother gave it to him. It sits beneath his desk lamp, and it’s just begging to be tossed in the rubbish bin. His mom has suggested it before, seeing as he’s too old for it. He grabs at the rotting monkey and sits it in his lap, poking at a glossy red button eye with his index finger.
Briefly, he peers over his shoulder at his firmly shut door. It’s locked, right? His hand reaches for the desk lamp.
Click.
He sits in the dark.
Eren is of course, perfectly aware that he is going to hell. He sucks in a breath as he begins to grind the stuffed monkey against his clothed swollen dick. Talking to his brother always puts him in the worst kind of mood. He had considered doing this while talking to him, but he doesn’t trust himself not to whine or do something equally mortifying. Eren supposes he should hate himself, or lament this, or contemplate hopping off the nearest bridge with cinder blocks strapped to his soles.
But, he really doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal. At least he doesn’t want to fuck dead people or eat bowls of heaping hot shit.
“Ah … B-Big brother.” Eren slumps forward, forehead smacking and resting against his desk. He spreads his legs, grinding the bear down. He’s never called Zeke that. He has always called Zeke these exact things: stupid, useless, and slave.
‘Big brother’? What is he, a law abiding citizen in the gum drop forest? He would sooner chew concrete than call him that. Zeke has tried to get him to say it before. When he was much, much younger. He’d plead, lifting a chubby, brooding Eren up into the sky: “Say big brother, okay? Can you say that for me?” Zeke, with his desperate, hopeful smile.
Fucking weirdo.
Still, it feels right when Eren does this. He curls his toes. Hisses quietly to himself. It’s hard to get off with this thing. The sensation isn’t all that great. It’s rough in his hand. Stuffings pumping out of it like guts and he swears the damn thing is down there staring up at him, judging him, like he’s the scum of the Earth. Stupid monkey. He’s done this for years and if the thing were sentient, it’d would scream on and on about the horror of taking three loads a day.
Still. Eren prefers this to his hand. There's something about knowing Zeke used to cuddle up with this thing nightly that drives him insane.
He tugs his dick out the front hole to his boxers and grinds the monkey’s face against his shaft. Along the wet tip. Precum clings to its light brown fur. Eren wraps his free hand around his throat and squeezes at his windpipe, choking himself into a state of pure bliss. He gags, eyes bulging. Tongue hanging passed his lips parted. Drool soaks his book report. There's a hole cut into the back of the monkey and he fucks his dick into it easily. Pumps the stuffed animal up and down his cock, even knowing in the back of his mind that the cotton insides of it are coated in all his old cum.
Eren doesn’t ever promise himself he’ll stop, because he doesn’t have any desire to. It feels so good. Makes him whimper and squirm. He wants to grind his dick against his stupid big brother’s face. He wants to make him lick it. He wants to make him choke on it. He wants-
“Eren,”
He snaps himself upright as his room is bathed in light, the switch on the wall having been flipped. His mother is peeking into the room, saying, “Dinner’s-“ The woman stops. Coughs and says, “O-Oh!” And the lightswitch is flipped back off. The darkness is abrupt. “Whenever you’re ready, Eren!”
The door shuts.
Eren beats his face against his desk.
Dinner is awkward. Grisha eats with that solemn, expressionless face of his. Carla says, “That monkey of yours really should be thrown away.”
“Oh my God mom.” Eren wants to bury his face in his mashed potatoes. “I wasn’t doing anything, okay?”
Grisha doesn’t look up from his dinner, disinterested, and probably mostly oblivious to whatever it is they’re going on about. He guesses though and murmurs, “Well he is around that age.”
“I said I wasn’t doing anything!”
Grisha cuts into his steak. Unbothered and shrugging: “Please be sure to lock your door next time you ‘aren’t doing anything’.”
“I hate you both.” Eren mutters bitterly, flicking a spoonful of mashed potatoes at the empty chair beside his mother. Where his brother usually sits. “And Zeke says hello.”
Zeke will never, not in a million years, ever get a ‘welcome home’ hug. This is not because Eren is ashamed of the sort of things he thinks about when he’s alone. This is because Eren despises being touched. He’s just… Not a very affectionate kid. So he gives Zeke a handshake when the man comes through the front door soaked from the rain. His mother is in the kitchen, putting a kettle on. She calls, “Welcome home, sweetie!”
Even though Zeke has not lived here in years and is only staying for a few nights.
Zeke smiles towards the kitchen, then settles his eyes on his younger brother, who is still pumping his hand up and down in a firm, perfectly manly handshake. “You’ve grown a little taller, Eren.” Zeke reaches out with his free hand to ruffle Eren’s hair, effectively annoying him. The offending hand is smacked and Zeke quickly retreats it, letting his wrist hang limply. “Okay, ow.”
Eren releases his brother from the handshake and leans down to get his suitcase. His fingers wrap around the handle. “Where’s my money, geezer?”
“I gave it to a nicer teenager. I’d say you’re probably just hormonal these days, but you’ve always been a bit of a brat, so…”
Eren scowls, picking up the luggage and swiveling on his heels. He marches towards the hallway, and Zeke trails after him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his drenched trench coat. The guy looks like one of those perverts in the park who flash innocent women. Eren considers suggesting Zeke maybe never wear that coat again.
He makes a beeline for his bedroom. The inside of it is an explosion of mess. Eren trips over a hill of empty pizza boxes. Rights himself and leaves the luggage near his bed. Then, sits upon the edge of his mattress and stares up at his brother expectantly. “You’re going to sleep in my room. No arguing.”
“I take it you plan to make me sleep on the floor with no pillow, no blankets, and no air mattress?”
“Exactly, Zeke.”
His older brother laughs, and as always, it flusters Eren. His scowl deepens considerably. Zeke sits at his desk, crossing his legs. His fringe is drip, drip, dripping and it’s hanging shaggy before his eyes. Eren watches a bead of water trail down one of the lenses of his glasses. Zeke swipes at it. “Girlfriend yet?” Zeke inquires. Eren shakes his head. “Boyfriend yet?” Another shake of his head. Zeke sighs and sets his eyes on the miserable looking monkey on his brother’s desk. He picks it up and Eren says nothing, dick twitching in his sweatpants.
“Any friends at all yet, Eren? Even just… Platonic ones.”
Zeke is implying Eren is a lonely mega-loser that eats lunch in bathroom stalls and gets constant wedgies from kids who are bigger than him. And maybe he looks a bit like he pities his younger brother. Eren wrinkles his nose and considers spitting. “I’m fine. So please don’t tell me to ‘just be myself’.”
“No, I’d suggest being anyone but yourself. I tolerate you because I love you, Eren. Anybody with common sense would run in the other direction.”
Eren hisses: “Asshole!”
He throws a pillow at his brother who ducks, laughing.
The pillow smacks uselessly against the closet door. Zeke examines his monkey. “Surprised you still have this.” He mumbles, drifting from one topic to the next. He sniffs a stain on the top of its head then adds disdainfully, “Though maybe I’d be fine with you tossing it in the trash at this point.”
Eren squeezes his thighs together. He watches a bit too intently as his brother gives the monkey the occasional sniff. The man’s face is twisted up like he’s entirely revolted and trying to pinpoint what exactly he’s smelling. Zeke pauses when he finds an odd hole cut in its backside, running his finger along the edges of it with a raised eyebrow like he has many, many questions. A hole big enough that a person might be able to fit several pens, or several fingers, or maybe just their-
Red-faced and standing, Eren snatches the monkey out of his brother’s hands and returns it to its rightful place on his desk. The thing looks like it’s screaming to be put out of its misery, but Eren’s really not all that merciful of a guy. “A seam ripped.” An explanation for a question Zeke hadn’t asked yet. “Anyway. You gave him to me so... Why would I throw him away?” Eren shrugs, rubbing at the back of his burning neck.
Zeke blinks at that, startled. Then, smiles a smile that makes the whole damn world melt. And Eren melts with it. “Oh.” It’s all Zeke says. Even his eyes smile, the skin around them crinkling cheerfully.
Eren really doesn’t need whatever’s going on in the depths of his stomach. It makes him feel like puking glitter all over the place.
As Eren is fifteen and not a lovable six year old with complete and absolute authority, Zeke is not terribly compliant and chooses to stay in his childhood bedroom instead of Eren’s. Perhaps sleeping cold on the floor with a sea of garbage to drown in just wasn’t an appealing offer. Eren’s family is in the living room. It’s late and the television is loud and there’s this long, boring argument about politics. Eren is sure they’re all drunk as hell because he poked his head out of his room about an hour ago and his mom was crying about how happy she was to have Zeke home again. And Eren swears she only sobs like that when she’s properly wasted.
It’s peak bizarre.
Zeke’s not even her real son. Eren chalks it up to Zeke’s company being a little more pleasant than Eren’s.
Eren stares up at the ceiling, the heavy bags under his eyes acting like anchors. He’s wide awake. There’s a crash somewhere in the house and he sighs as laughter follows. Can he just point out how weird it is that people drink fermented poison to feel a bit dizzy for a while? He rolls out of bed and pokes his head out of his room. Lights are being cut off. His parents pass, Grisha carrying a giggling Carla. The woman peers over her husband's shoulder, slurring, “Back to bed mister.”
“Sure thing mom.”
Eren grimaces. He really hopes they just fall asleep. He’s heard his parents fuck before. It was enough to get him to stop jerking off with the monkey for at least a week. He’s relieved to know his brother is the only member of his family he wants to sleep with. Count your blessings, right? Their door shuts. Zeke is the last one coming down the hall, yawning, tie undone and the first couple of buttons to his dress shirt unbuttoned. The man scratches at his beard, drowsy blue eyes briefly setting on Eren. “What are you doing up?”
“You guys kept arguing about whether we should have a monarchy or a government run by our military. By the way, we should obviously have a king.”
Zeke nods, tossing an arm around his younger brother’s shoulders and leaning too much of his weight on him. He breathes hot against his ear and makes Eren’s stomach twirl and twist. “Yeah, a monarchy, and… You would be that king, right? Ruling over us mere peasants?”
“Exactly.”
Eren ducks from underneath his arm, uselessly shoving at Zeke to get him to keep walking to his room. Of course, Zeke is bigger, and heavier, and immovable. He barely budges. So, Eren gives up.
“Night, Zeke.” Eren shuts the door. Or, tries too. His brother’s foot gets wedged in the doorway. Zeke’s toes wiggle in his sock impishly. Eren scowls down at them. “Uh?” He grunts and stumbles back as Zeke worms his way inside, clearly the stronger of the two. Zeke wastes no time and drags himself to the small bed, collapsing face first on it.
“Hey, hey , not in my bed!” It’s a whisper-shout and Zeke just waves him off, grumbling about how the guest room is too far. Zeke is too tall, too big. His feet are sticking out from the end of the bed, just hanging there. Eren frowns rather darkly and sits on the edge of his bed. Then yelps as he’s dragged down by his brother’s arm. “Zeke!”
“I’ve got another long business trip after this visit.” Zeke points out, releasing Eren to pull the blanket over the two of them. “Let’s spend time together.”
Eren blushes in the dark, gripping at the sheets. Pokes his head out the top of the blanket so he isn’t trapped down beneath it with all that persisting tension. He hisses, “Whatever. Do what you want.” It’s difficult not to be stiff as hell with Zeke being a big fat weirdo right behind him. The man moves close to cuddle and Eren would scoot away, but then he’d fall onto the floor and be swallowed whole by the sentient blob of rubbish below.
“Do what I want? So then… Anything, Eren?” Zeke repeats, voice husky. It makes Eren shiver. He can feel a heat pooling in his groin. He fixes his eyes on the dark lump of the monkey on his desk. Eren says, quieter, “D-D… Depends. What do you want to do to me, big brother?”
Eren is erect.
And his mind is in the darkest, grimiest of gutters.
He listens to Zeke wetly suck on one of his own fingers. Eren wonders if this is really happening. He’s dreaming- right? He opens his mouth to speak (or to whimper) and just about shrieks as his brother’s finger crams its way into his ear.
“You asshole! I hate you!”
Zeke’s laughing. He’s rolled over onto his back and is wiping his finger on the sheets. All the noise is enough to bring the cavalry. The door is flung open and there’s Grisha in his bathrobe, glasses slightly askew and eyes hazy from wine or whiskey or whatever the hell he’d had with his eldest son and wife half an hour ago. The light is flicked on.
“Eren, stop terrorizing your brother.”
“He’s the one terrorizing me!” Eren snaps, using one of his pillows to smack his brother’s face. Zeke is still laughing, cheeks burning red. If he doesn’t stop laughing as much as he is, he’ll probably actually die. Lack of oxygen and all. The creep deserves it. Zeke’s always been hopelessly oblivious, or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t see Eren as seductive with his mustard stained night shirt and his frizzy hair and his ever present scowl.
Plus there’s the whole thing about them being related.