Zeke often thinks of the time he still had a sister.
He was a sweet and doting brother; anyone would tell you that. Every family photo betrayed printed pixels of him holding his sister’s hand, or hugging her—towering inches taller, but always by her side. These photos were imprisoned in aged, golden frames and hung in their living room, holding those memories safe behind dust-veiled glass.
In them, the contrast between both siblings was evident. Day and night, they were. Zeke, always cooed at by everyone growing up, rosy like an angel with his freckled milk skin and wheat hair, and his sister, the mouthy forest nymph, her olive complexion that told all of sunny days spent outdoors, glowing with a warmth that practically emanated. Her straight, dark hair framed a long face in waterfalls, unlike Zeke’s fluffy cloud of light that hugged only the top of his head.
Zeke liked looking at the photos. They were a striking pair. Despite their physical disparities, he thought they complemented each other.
Raised with love, Zeke would only know to spread it further. He never fought with his sister over toys or food, never poked fun at her, always let her go first. She always got the bigger half of everything he owned. Sharing was not limited to caring—it was also giving up, avoiding, abandoning. That affection flowed through every fiber of his being, and it never wavered. Zeke embraced his role as an older brother with boundless devotion. From the moment this girl entered his life, he cherished her, as if she had been born for him.
Zeke taught her how to ride a bike, hands steady on the handlebars. He would run beside her, matching her speed, until she found her balance and pedaled away, in triumphant laughter. He was there to pick her up when she fell only seconds later, and wiped away her tears with kisses.
They shared everything—birthday cakes, bedtime stories, the flu. They had the childhood that books aspired to create, running around in make-believe chases, exploring the crop fields by their house, confessing secrets whispered in the safety of their shared bedroom. Together, they would explore the world, or at least their little corner of it, with boundless wonder. Sun-dappled afternoons were spent catching fireflies in the backyard. The world was a vast, magical place.
Their favorite haunt was the forest. It was a sprawl of towering trees and hidden nooks. Armed with nothing but their curiosity and hunger for adventure, they would spend hours roaming its winding, curling paths, unearthing nature’s treasures and weaving fantastical tales of knights, good and evil. When tired, they would spend afternoons sprawled lazily out on the grass, gazing up at the clouds drifting across the sky. Zeke would then share his dreams, and his sister would say,
“As long as you take me with you.”
It was all they had, each other, and having each other was everything. Their bond transcended the half of blood they shared, forging a connection that was as strong as it was tender.
“I would take you anywhere, pup,” Zeke always replied.
🌢🌢🌢
Zeke often thinks of the time his sister became a woman.
He was at a house party, fresh out of graduating high school, two fingers sunk inside a transfer student’s puss*. The girl was clenching around him with a youthful need, the kind that just begged to please, hips shivering for any friction that would push his knuckles deeper inside her.
Teenage hunger soaked the air. The rusty heat of it strained Zeke’s co*ck. His palm was lathered with spit and the milk white dribbling onto him from that puffy c*nt, waxed raw in foresight of being witnessed.
When Zeke felt his phone buzz inside his pocket, he simply patted it up with his free hand, the other remaining drowned where it was. The screen showed a photo of his sister. Had that white shirt always been see-through?
Zeke tilted his phone sideways, so the student wouldn’t see a girl was calling him, and swiped up. “Hey, pup.”
“Hey. Are you drinking?” she asked.
He thought nothing of his swelling erection jerking when he heard his sister’s voice through the speaker. “No,” Zeke replied, curling his index and middle fingers upwards. The girl beneath him grabbed at his wrist, hungry for more of what was given to her. “Only had a beer.”
“Cool. So… Man, I think I just got my period.”
He knew how worried she had been that her friends all got their periods years ago. Fifteen was late. He wasn’t stupid, but he played the nonchalance card anyway—no need to make her feel like it was ever paid much attention to.
“Aww. Congrats?” He said it like a question, to gauge her feelings about it.
“No, no congrats. it sucks. I f*cked up the living room carpet. Stood up, and it, like…”
Zeke stopped listening. He thought of his sister’s long, tan legs and imagined a line of red running down the inside of her thigh. When he thought of where the blood came from, the speed of his fingers sliding in and out of the student picked up. He found it almost sweet that the girl beneath him imagined it was because he wanted her.
“Is mom home?” Zeke asked. He also rolled his eyes, pretending not to care about his little sibling in front of his conquest of the night, and drizzled watery spit down on the pink cl*t, hoping his microphone didn’t pick up on the sound. His thumb swiped over foamy saliva, spreading the shine around. It was like it melted on her.
Sure, it was pretty. He didn’t care right now.
“They went out to eat.” His sister sighed. But through the speaker, it sounded like what he needed it to. “I can’t find tampons or anything.”
The more he stared down at the girl in front, her toned, carved, stretched abdomen shuddering, spreading into a waist framed by sharp hip bones, firm, full breasts jerking to every thrust of his fingers, navel butterfly piercing glittering in the low light as her body moved, the more he realized how much his sister had started looking just like this.
“I’ll pick some up on my way home,” Zeke said, pushing a third finger in.
The girl stared up at him through her brow, mouth shining with lip gloss, strands of hair stuck to her parted lips. Her hand slithered to pull at the waistband of Zeke’s jeans.
“Okay. Thanks,” his sister murmured. “Love you.”
“Love you.”
The girl thought he said it to her, so she moaned louder.
Of course, she couldn’t have known that the only girl he says it to is his sister.
🌢🌢🌢
Zeke often thinks about his sister starting to change.
He began to notice the shifts in her identity. They were subtle, but always there. In fact, he’d always known. He smelled it on her. Really, he just waited for her to grow into it.
She’d always been one with the boys. Crude humor, sitting with her legs spread, like all of them, spitting and smoking their cigarettes. Zeke’s friends were her friends. He liked that they had so much in common, but he also liked that she was a girl. It diluted the raging, newborn testosterone of their friend group.
With time, though, she also heightened it.
There was not much to wear in the pressing summer heat of their state, which still alludes to one of the reasons Zeke likes the season so much. Over summer break, he saw more of his sister, in more ways than just being out of school. It made him stuffy and lethargic; she carried a pollen of sex on her like a bumblebee that had just rolled in it.
Him and his friends often found themselves seeking refuge in the old treehouse or just the cool shade of the Jaegers’ backyard, lounging on lawn chairs with cold beers in hand, picking up ripe pears from the ground and eating them. They would toss the cores backwards, trying to hit the basketball hoop. Whoever made it won nothing, but it was dumb fun. They were boys. Competitive streaks over worthless things ran in their blood.
Since Zeke only had fun after doing all of his chores, he was always free to do whatever he wanted. His sister, in turn, prioritized fun in the sun, only to be herded inside by their mother at the least opportune of times. And so, amidst the backdrop of chirping crickets and the buzz of passing insects, Zeke’s conversations with his friends often switched shade from stupid to familiar topics—including his sister, who was usually no longer there to hear it.
With her departure, the language of Zeke’s friends took on a new flavor, skidding into locker room territory. They would trade stories and jokes about her, but their voices would be laced with a sticky, dripping wish to f*ck her. Amongst discussing other girls from their school, they would comment on her appearance, the way she carried herself, the shape of her ass, how much she looked like p*rn star this or model that, and every single word was always stained with that same braindead obsession to breed.
Still, Zeke would listen with amusem*nt, never letting it show. He would cradle his one bottle of beer, allowing the conversation to wash over him, foamy hops to wash through his mouth. All of what was said, he knew. He took a certain pride in the fact that she’d captured the attention of his friends. But amidst the raucous laughter, everyone knew to tread carefully around the subject. They knew that, while she may be the object of their fantasies, she was also Zeke’s sister, and that he was fiercely protective of her.
They didn’t know that their fantasies were his first.
Over the years, his sister’s chest had grown into a C cup, which he paid almost hazardous attention to. If he didn’t notice when her period started and ended by the trashcan in their shared bathroom, he would know by the fullness of her breasts. Leading to and during, they swelled, spilling a line of softness over the edge of her bra whenever a shirt was stretched tight enough.
Timid around others, but always comfortable with her big brother, she would lie splayed out in the sun. Shorts unbuttoned and rolled down over the hips so they caught more heat, no bra in the backyard, unless someone else was around, only two fingers of each hand covering her nipples, and not even doing that decent a job at it. Zeke thanked cheap, fast fashion and global warming. Summer clothing was so small and see-through—it was unbearable to even imagine wanting good, quality material, which would hide the perk of a nipple, or a stiffer pantyline.
Sometimes, while mowing the grass, Zeke would let his sister sneak sips of his beer with the promise she’d never tell their parents. Verbally, she didn’t, but he thought her body language did. He was never sure if it was placebo or the heat, but every time, when the yard had been cleared and he’d get inside to gather things for a shower, she would already be napping in their bedroom.
Usually, she slept on her stomach. Zeke fought his shame while he stood in the doorway and watched—same little shorts cutting into her ass, knee bent to stretch the denim firm, one bare, grass-stained foot dangling over the edge of the bed. God, has she grown tall, he always thought, eyes running down every one inch. It was only fair for their parents to send her into basketball. That kind of body you saw in the NBA.
Yes, summers were Zeke’s favorite, because his sister didn’t know what power she held over him. And fair enough—he was only her brother, after all.
🌢🌢🌢
Zeke often thinks of the time his sister became a man.
Their mother asked to at least honor her heritage when picking a name. And Zeke liked the new name—he liked it so much, in fact, that he struggled to remember if Eren had ever not been Eren. It was in his mouth every opportunity he got.
“My brother, Eren,” he would say, explaining his lockscreen to whoever asked. “That’s my pup.”
While Eren’s little heart soared, pulsing and happy to be settling into a new identity, it felt like they had never been further apart as siblings when the first changes started taking place.
The rift between them appeared early in the transition. Zeke was the elder child, so he enjoyed receiving less attention; it let him get away with more than Eren could. On the contrary, he hated that it put a wedge between him and his brother. Eren sat under the magnified lens of their parents, and Zeke knew he hated it. Too often the words “so why can he” rang through the hallway, penetrating Zeke’s bedroom door—as if Zeke being a “he” was the sole reason he would get away with things.
When they argued, and when Eren wanted to stick it where it hurt, he would say, “You’re not even my real brother.”
Zeke knew, if he wanted to stick where it hurt, he could say, “You’re not even a real brother.”
But he had never hurt Eren. Not since the day he was born, not since the day he was reborn, not in his new life—never. It was just that loving meant knowing how to hurt in ways that could break. That’s what love was, to Zeke.
There was a lost urge to satiate, and Zeke did his best. He knew the kind of girl he liked, after all—down to how specific of a skin tone he liked. Tan and olive, warm, with a sheen. How all of his new college girlfriends had long, cocoa brown hair. He was even specific about the way they parted it, too—straight down the middle.
“I don’t know,” he would say, if they asked, “I think it really suits your face.”
No, Zeke liked that they were girls. But he liked them more if they were on the swim team, with wide backs, or the rowing team, shoulders almost as broad as his, rippling with muscle. He liked if their jaw was more squared than soft, if their cheeks were carved from that baby fat, but especially Zeke liked green eyes, hugged by lashes very thick and very dark.
He found it interesting how no one ever made the connection. He’d get told so often that men seek their mother in the woman they love. Surprising how that was a normal thing to say. If he were to say he was seeking his sister instead, it was a fetish. Somehow, the imprint of a mother was more fair to the world—as if there was a lesser chance for the mother to desire him back, and greater for the sister.
And their mother wasn’t Zeke’s mother. She was Eren’s. She carried the divinity of his sibling, and their blood was as thick as any—but she was never Zeke’s mother.
So the curse must be in their father, somewhere.
🌢🌢🌢
Zeke stepped through the front door of their home, mother’s cooking greeting his nose.
Beside him was Frieda, who he had swooned over all first year of college, because she was a vision of Eren—possibly the closest he’d ever had. If push came to shove, he knew he needed to keep her, which meant that his parents had to sign off on it. If he could never have Eren, he could at least have Frieda, and if he closed his eyes, under his palms, she colored in enough blanks.
Frieda was also the big sister of Historia, who was one of Eren’s closest friends—only remotely a reason to have hesitated bringing her over, considering that, by becoming a man, Eren had also become territorial, lifting his leg to piss on every corner and every person. It was no longer “their friends”, because it was now “Eren’s friends” and “Zeke’s friends”, and no longer an “us” or “we” or “together” at all. Zeke sometimes feared that maybe Eren had recognized he was all Zeke wanted on his plate. That this was his way of pushing his big brother out. And for good reason. It was truly for the better, probably, even if it hurt.
Zeke had been struck by how much Frieda resembled Eren. It had been at one such gathering, a lazy afternoon at Historia’s house, when Zeke had first laid eyes on Frieda. Eren had been excited for Zeke to meet her, not knowing the depth of his brother’s fixation. She had walked into that sunroom, where they were all sat, dark hair cascading down her shoulders like the comfort of a home, large eyes a mirror image of Eren’s—but blue. He watched her laugh, saw the odd curve of her smile, and in it, that familiar light. It had been almost disorienting, the way it echoed Eren. He had found himself drawn to her, quickly, and not for who she was, but for the ghost of his brother that sat on every fine hair of her body.
Their relationship then developed quickly. Frieda was easy to charm, because Zeke wanted and needed her in a way that no one had before. She had been flattered by Zeke’s attention, his intense, one-way persuasion, veiled miserably by the lie that he had always liked her, and that he’d just been young and stupid before—but much smarter now.
He made her feel seen and cherished. What she didn’t know, what Zeke kept hidden beneath those outer layers of affection, was that every kiss and touch shot a new root into his heart, unearthing more than he thought it could. It was a way for him to get closer to the fantasy, and it was an awful haunt. Like eating, but not swallowing. Close enough, but not enough; their hearts beat just an inch out of sync, blood refusing to mix through skin like oil and water.
Frieda had the same pin-straight hair, the same low, dark brows, the same line between them when she frowned. She was, like a gift from God, a star athlete, and Zeke prized her body for how alike it was to Eren’s when he had been stuck on the threshold between sister and brother still. She was familiar to Zeke; so familiar that the brotherly love and possessiveness extended to her as well.
During their time together, Frieda often commented on how much she appreciated Zeke’s attentiveness, or how he seemed to see right through her. And he’d say,
“Well, I used to have a sister.”
In the privacy of Zeke’s dorm room, the fantasies took over. Frieda allowed him to do whatever he wanted, her compliance bred from the illusion of intimacy, when really, Zeke’s mind veered away from her, and on to someone else. She became a canvas, a vessel, on which he could execute in fine detail his misplaced desires.
Under the guise of some false, shallow parade of feminism, he would catch Frieda unshaven, coaxing her into a state of reassurance, saying that he just liked eating puss* and loved her and didn’t care about the rest of it. All those statements were like a veneer of respect for her autonomy. In truth, he didn’t care about her choices; he was using them as a means to an end. Each stroke of a razor she made was a sacrifice ritual, stripping away parts of her that carried Eren in it, pushing her further from the image of him.
The hair on Eren’s arms, and legs, and his unshaven face—these were the things Zeke yearned for, the manifestations of a synthetic, rugged masculinity that both fascinated and repelled him. He saw Frieda’s smooth skin as a blank slate on which he could project these fantasies. And when she removed a bit of body hair, Zeke felt both satisfaction and severe disappointment. Satisfaction, because she was becoming less herself and more an abstraction he could mold. Disappointment, because no matter what she did, she could never truly become what he desired, unless she took the same route as Eren—and even then, she could never be him.
It was already summer then, when exams had ended, and summer had suddenly become Zeke’s least favorite season. While he loved the exposure and shedding of layers during summers at home, Frieda would strip herself of the flimsy bridge that kept some similarity between her and Eren, and shave.
Driving, Zeke would run his hands over Frieda’s thigh, feeling the pedantic, mundane, sanitized smoothness with a certain detachment. Too bare. His fingers would glide over her skin, seeking something that wasn’t there. He felt like he was touching plastic—firm muscle, yes, but there was no longer that sun-bleached fuzz, nothing to liken his brother to.
In contrast, winter was now a sanctuary to him. Frieda’s armpit hair would sprout, and he would marvel at it in secret. He loved the way it peeked out when she raised her arms. They were perfectly muscular, rippling with an athlete’s fullness, and he saw a lot of his brother in them.
Of course, it was her pubic hair that drove him to the brink. Unchecked in winter thanks to enough excellent, sloppy, needy puss* eating that made Frieda feel safe and loved, it grew into a wild thicket that spread beyond her pantyline. Zeke would trace the edges of it, fascinated by the way it crept outward in coarse little curls, encroaching on the softness of her inner thighs. He would lie next to her, running his hand over her mound, feeling the texture change as he moved from her toned stomach to the wiry hair below—a fragile link to the masculinity Eren had made his.
In those moments, Zeke would close his eyes and imagine. And Frieda, unknowing, would nestle closer, leg draped over his forearm, head resting on his chest.
She thought it was love.
Well, it was.
But it was also like touching Eren through a glove. Through moist, chalked latex.
Because Zeke and Frieda went to the same school, they also came home together. Upon having arrived, they entered without knocking.
He lived here, after all.
Hand almost reluctantly gripping Frieda’s firm waist, both walked into the kitchen, looking around for the parents, who were nowhere to be seen. But the house was so big—and, really, Zeke was looking for someone else.
Eren was there, in the living room, sprawled on their beige couch, capturing Zeke’s attention like flypaper. The sight sent a heat through him.
The new transformation that had taken place during the time Zeke was away was striking. Clearly, Eren had continued working on his body, sculpting it through his infinite determination. His physique belied new strength, like some declaration of the growing and settling masculinity.
Eren's broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his t-shirt, contours of his chest now firm. His arms, which were once much more slender and delicate, had grown muscular, veins visible under skin as he rested them along the back of the couch. His legs, clad in loose shorts, were spread out casually, long muscles in his thighs and calves melting into double their size when relaxed. His face, too, had changed. The leftover soft of his cheeks had given way to sharper angles. A light dusting of stubble shadowed his chin and upper lip.
But the hair hadn’t changed. It had always been long, and it was long now—and all three of them in the same room made Zeke fear a very uncomfortable, impeding realization.
Eren’s stature on the couch exuded a newfound confidence, a relaxed and lethally potent assertion of his identity. He lounged with an ease, gaze on the TV steady and unflinching. And as Eren finally glanced up, meeting his brother’s eyes with a softness, it was like a magnet had slipped under Zeke’s skin again, drawing him in.
When Eren looked at Frieda, he struck her with an intensity that Zeke felt under his arm. It made her shift uncomfortably. Zeke noticed the change; how Eren’s posture stiffened, eyes narrowing.
“Hey, pup,” Zeke said—using the old nickname, thus hoping to bridge the gap that had formed during his time away, and during all the recent years.
Eren offered a curt nod, lips pressed into a thin line. “Hi,” he muttered, tone lacking any real warmth.
Frieda, almost diplomatically, said, “Nice to see you again, kiddo.” And reached a hand out towards him.
“You too,” Eren replied, fist meeting hers, though his eyes quickly darted away, as if the sight of her was something godawful to bear.
Zeke watched the interaction with a rapidly sinking feeling. He wondered if Eren’s vexation stemmed from the fact that Frieda looked so much like him. He never liked Zeke’s girlfriends—because they all did.
Dinner was strained. Their parents had always liked Frieda, because she was a good girl who came from a good family. Eren’s comments, though rare, were sharp, and mostly thrown at Frieda with an underlying hostility that made Zeke’s groin hurt. When she mentioned her studies, Eren scoffed, “Sounds like a lot of work for nothing,” dismissing her passion with something that could be a teenager’s sarcasm if Zeke didn’t know him better.
Zeke could see Frieda’s discomfort, the way she tried to maintain her composure, her eyes flickering to him for support. He reached out, squeezing her hand under the table, offering silent reassurance, while Eren adamantly kept kicking his shin every time he stood up and sat down. He wasn’t going to say anything to his brother. It was his brother.
Later, as Zeke and Frieda prepared to leave, Eren stood in the doorway of their childhood bedroom, just up the stairs, watching them with an unreadable expression. He stared as his own mother pressed a kiss on the cheek of someone who looked like a person he used to embody, and Zeke was almost completely sure that some gears in Eren’s head had started to turn.
The drive back to her place was silent. Frieda was quiet, sensing the change in Zeke’s mood, and didn’t know what to say.
“He gets like that,” was all Zeke could come up with.
Once they arrived, Zeke’s frustration reached a boiling point. He had already greeted her parents when they came by earlier, so when the door to Frieda’s bedroom closed behind them, he pushed her up against it, ignoring the loud thud it made, and kissed into her mouth like she hid a solution there.
Sensing his urgency, and letting her own unravel, she responded eagerly. Zeke’s touch was demanding, but it always was. He could always sweep it under the idea that bringing her home to his parents was nerve wracking, even when their families knew each other. Or whatever other good lie, because he always had some.
He kissed her, hungry and insistent, with a fervor, with anger. She tried to keep up, but Zeke had gone blind to what she wanted. His mind was elsewhere. As if Eren’s air was still on them, he moved against Frieda, breathing her in.
And then, he was thinking of his brother, f*cking his stand-in.
When Zeke pushed her onto the bed, he tore at her clothes, and thanked God it was already dark. He pictured Eren’s body, the hard, new, swollen lines of his muscles, and didn’t feel them under his hands—but Zeke had an imagination that could hardly be rivaled.
Frieda, sensing the shift in Zeke’s focus, reached up, cupping his face, trying to catch his gaze. “Zeke,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Look at me.”
So he did. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head, and immediately regretted it at the sight of her smoothly shaved armpits.
“I want to feel you,” Zeke said, knowing it would satiate her.
“God, you feel good,” Zeke said, knowing she wanted to hear it.
“I can’t take it anymore,” Zeke said, knowing it was true, those words he spoke.
Frieda cried out, muffling that high pitch against her shoulder as he drove into her, and if Zeke squinted, it was Eren beneath him. He saw Frieda’s jaw drop in ecstasy, but the sharp line in it was Eren’s. Her body arched to meet Zeke’s thrusts, and he f*cked her into a fever, chasing the release that he knew would not satiate.
But it was close.
It was the closest he could get, so he had to take it, and he couldn’t leave it.
When the sex was over, Zeke collapsed beside Frieda, heaving. She laid there, body and thighs trembling, hand over his damp chest, feeling how hard his heart was beating. She reached out, touching his arm, his face, seeking some connection, breathing into his ear how good he always was to her.
And because he had to remain good to her, he took her slender fingers, padding over the short-clipped nails, and hid how distant he was by kissing her hand. Zeke stared at the ceiling, breathing hard through his mouth, trying to hold onto the glimmer of fantasy for just a little longer.
🌢🌢🌢
The next evening, Eren was sitting at the kitchen table when Zeke got home, staring intently at his phone. His expression was unreadable.
“Hey,” Zeke tried to break the ice by acting normal.
Eren barely glanced up, offering a terse nod in response before returning his attention to his phone.
Zeke felt a pang of hurt. He had missed his brother more than anyone back home. He knew that Eren was going to college once summer ended, and that he was going to be much further from their parents than Zeke was.
Undeterred, he approached the table and took a seat across from Eren. “Everything okay?” he asked, trying to keep the tone light; not too pushy, knowing his brother clammed up when pushed too hard.
Eren shrugged nonchalantly, still not meeting Zeke’s eyes. “Sure,” he muttered.
Zeke didn’t know how to bridge the distance. He busied himself with picking grapes from the blue ceramic bowl that stood between them, stealing glances at Eren, who remained just as he had been.
The silence between them stretched on until Eren stood up, pushing back his chair with a loud scrape against the floor.
“I’m going out,” he announced curtly, zipping up his jacket and heading for the door without another word.
Zeke wasn’t used to his baby brother having a car and no curfew. He had to hold himself from asking if their parents were okay with Eren going out so late.
Instead, he silently watched him leave.
🌢🌢🌢
The darkness enveloped Zeke as he lay in bed, only illumination filtering through the thin curtains from the streetlights outside. The silence of the house was not new to him. It was only broken then by the soft hum of Eren’s computer, and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall.
As Zeke listened to the steady wash of his own breathing, his thoughts drifted to his brother. In all fairness, there was never a moment they wouldn’t. He thought of what had caused Eren to retreat into himself, to shut Zeke out with such finality. It couldn’t have been Frieda—Zeke had brought girls home before. And even then, Eren knew he came above all.
Those minutes stretched into hours.
In the stillness of the night, Zeke finally heard it— that faint creak of the front door opening, followed by the muffled thud of footsteps in the hallway. His heart flooded with love as he realized that Eren had returned home.
As the sound of footsteps drew closer, Zeke held his breath, straining to hear any indication of his brother’s state of mind. Was he okay? Was he drunk? Had he come back in one piece, both physically and emotionally? Where had he been?
Where had they strayed from each other?
Finally, the door to their childhood bedroom swung open, casting a sliver of light across the room. Eren’s tall silhouette loomed in the doorway, figure all bathed in black shadow.
Zeke resisted the urge to say anything. He knew Eren, and he knew when Eren needed space. So instead, he watched in silence as his brother moved quietly across the room, stripping off his jacket, dropping it onto a chair. Zeke’s eyes followed every movement, heart pounding louder with each article of clothing that Eren shed. Pants fell to the floor, and then his shirt joined them. In the dim light, he witnessed the contours of his brother’s strong, muscular form. His new body; a body Zeke hadn’t had much grace to take in yet.
Zeke’s breath caught as Eren approached the bed he laid in, silent. And he lay there, staring at the ceiling, unable to move or speak, as Eren slipped under the covers next to him, instead of his own bed.
Zeke’s mind raced with conflicting thoughts. Eren was so close, closer than he had been in years, yet Zeke felt the chasm separating them. Even over that chasm, he could feel the heat radiating from his brother’s body. He turned his head slightly, stealing a glance at Eren’s profile. The moonlight painted strokes of shadows across his face, highlighting the edge of his jawline and the softness of his lips.
Zeke’s hand twitched, aching to reach out, to touch—to bridge the gap that had widened between them over the years. But fear held him back. A large, black dog of fear, the horror of crossing a line that could never be uncrossed, fear of shattering the fragile peace that had settled between them by Eren’s decision to lay in the same bed.
Minutes stretched into eternities as Zeke wrestled with all of his evil. Eren stirred beside him, shifting closer, unconsciously or not. His arm brushed against Zeke’s, sending a jolt of electricity through him.
“Where were you?” Zeke whispered as soft as he could, not to betray his obsession.
Eren shifted again, this time turning onto his side to face Zeke. Their eyes met. His breath landed right on the parting that ran down Eren’s hair.
His brother smelled different. Zeke wondered if that had anything to do with the testosterone, or if it had been the absence of him that soured their air. Eren carried a crassly different smell since starting the hormones, transforming him in ways both physical and olfactory. It was an all-new bouquet.
“Having sex,” Eren answered.
Zeke’s heart snapped at Eren’s blunt reply.
He swallowed hard, trying to compose himself. The moonlight shed ethereal patterns across his brother’s face, highlighting the changes wrought by time and transition.
“Who... who was it?” Zeke managed to ask. His throat felt tight, constricted by a sickening jealousy.
Eren’s eyes softened, but there was something guarded in them. “Does it matter?” he replied. “It was someone.”
Zeke wanted to scream, and demand answers, and shake Eren until he confessed every detail. But he held himself back, biting his lip to stifle it all.
Was Eren looking for his big brother in others? Did he find comfort in someone with the same shade of hair, the same height, the same build? Did he find someone with Zeke’s eyes, with Zeke’s hands, or his kindness? Trace over another’s skin, pretending it was his brother’s?
Eren shifted closer, his heat seeping into Zeke’s. The scent of him was like a poison—musk and sweat, overlaid with a deeper, more primal undertone that Zeke had never noticed before. It had to have been the sex. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to imprint every detail of it into his memory.
“I missed you, pup,” Zeke quietly said, instead of saying anything else.
Eren’s response was craved, but unexpected. Without a word, he pulled Zeke into a hug, their bodies pressing together in the darkness of the room until there was no space between them.
Zeke tensed at first, acutely aware of his body’s response. His groin stirred, a shameful reaction that he immediately recoiled from. He shifted slightly, tilting his hips back, desperate to conceal the physical evidence of what this did to him.
Eren mistook the motion and loosened his hold slightly. “Sorry.”
“No. Please—” Zeke buried his face in the crook of Eren’s neck, and pulled him back in, casting aside any worry, as long as it meant he could hold his brother again.
Surely, Eren made no attempt to conceal his awareness. He didn’t speak of it, or bring to it any more attention than it demanded on its own, but instead traced slow patterns on Zeke’s back, the tobacco on his breath brushing against Zeke’s cheek. His entire heart sank as Eren shifted his thigh in a movement that was nearly calculated to elicit a response. His co*ck stiffened and relaxed, only to twitch again. It was as if Eren perfectly knew the effect he had on Zeke, and reveled in the power of that forbidden knowledge.
He dared not speak, afraid that his voice would betray him. Instead, Zeke tightened his hold on Eren, pulling him impossibly closer. He could feel the fabric of his underwear clinging to his erection as it stiffened fully in its torment. Tension built within him, cresting in a wave. The tactile reality of his brother’s body drove Zeke beyond the limits of his well-groomed, perfectly caged restraint.
Eren shifted again, thigh pressing more firmly against Zeke’s groin. His co*ck twitched violently, responding to the unspoken command of Eren’s movements. His joy and agony were uncontainable.
Without warning, he felt a sudden, wet warmth spread in his underwear. He stifled any sound, shame muting him, body tense, muscles contracting involuntarily, which he tried to hide by shifting around, getting comfortable.
His brother said nothing, but Zeke knew that his heart was pounding hard. Shame stood in the same room with the afterglow, leaving him in a state of confused euphoria. He felt his sem*n liquify and leak outside the hem of his underwear, and said nothing as well.
Outside, the world continued its march forward, unaware of the swelter of sin that churned within the furnace of their childhood bedroom.
And as the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, Zeke held onto Eren still.
🌢🌢🌢
He awoke to the warmth of Eren’s body still pressed against his. He lay there for a few moments, savoring the rare closeness, but knew it had to end.
Soon after, Eren stirred beside him, and Zeke reluctantly loosened his hold. As his brother got out of bed, there was a hard silence between them. Eren didn’t acknowledge the night, pulling on the same shirt, as if nothing had happened.
Zeke waited until his brother left before sliding out of bed. His underwear was still damp, and he smelled disgusting, as if his desires had turned him ugly. Changing into a fresh pair of boxers and wiping himself off with the same soiled ones, he wondered if Eren even recognized it happened. Maybe he had been quiet enough, stiff enough. Maybe he hadn’t betrayed himself yet.
Downstairs, their parents were already up, bustling about the kitchen. Zeke could tell they were happy the family was a pack of four again. Breakfast was quiet, as it always was in their midst, with only the clinking of cutlery and doused, sleepy conversation during. Zeke and Eren exchanged brief glances when passing bowls of food to each other, while their parents discussed plans for the day.
“Could go for a hike,” their father said. “Where that river was, remember?”
They set out mid-morning, the sun climbing higher in the sky. The trail, though walked years ago, was familiar, winding through the forest with its canopy of green leaves and the smell of dry pine filling the air.
Zeke walked a few paces behind Eren. He remembered how they would race ahead, laughter ringing out through the trees, how they’d explore every nook and cranny of the forest.
Today, the hike was quiet. Zeke was too acutely aware of Eren’s presence ahead of him, of every movement and every shift of his body. Their parents chatted, pointing out birds or plants, but Zeke’s focus remained on his brother—because it always did.
The trail led them to a clearing with a small, babbling brook. They paused there, and the sound of water sang one song with the rustling of leaves. Zeke glanced at Eren, who was staring down into the stream, and wished they could catch frogs together again.
The path eventually looped back to their starting point, and they drove home.
Back at the house, their parents settled into their routine weekend activities. Their parents settled into their usual weekend chores, while Zeke and Eren moved about the house, paths crossing occasionally. Each time they did, Zeke felt a zap of awareness. Their eyes would meet briefly, but only as long.
As evening fell, they found themselves in the living room, both parents engrossed in a movie. Old-timey, very point A, point B. Zeke sat on one end of the couch, Eren on the other. The distance between them felt both immense and insignificant. The television’s flickering light cast shadows across the room, and like submerged in dulling water, Zeke’s mind wandered back to the night before.
When the movie ended, their parents bid them goodnight, leaving Zeke and Eren alone in the dimly lit living room. For a moment, the silence was overwhelming. Zeke felt an urge to say something. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he turned to Eren, their eyes meeting once more.
In that silent exchange, Zeke felt something. And as they turned off the lights and headed upstairs, Zeke held onto that hope.
Back in their bedroom, they prepared for bed without a word. This time, Eren snuck into Zeke’s bed first.
He must have really missed his big brother.
🌢🌢🌢
The Monday noon sun cast short, stubby shadows over the backyard. The air was wafting thick with the scent of freshly mown grass and the hum of cicadas.
Both their parents were at work. Zeke and Eren had spent the past couple of hours individually tackling chores around the house, but ended up cleaning out the garage together. It was humid and stuffy, even in the shade, so after moving around enough boxes and sweeping the floor, there was no more spunk in either of them.
Eren headed inside first, while Zeke lingered for a moment, catching his breath. He watched Eren’s retreating figure, noting the way his sweat-soaked shirt clung to his back.
They had been doing alright. Zeke thought, the worst may be over, that initial hiccup. Maybe the longer Eren didn’t see Frieda, the better they would mesh back together again.
Inside the house, its cool air provided good relief. Zeke followed Eren up the stairs and tried not to look anywhere but his own feet. His brother entered the bathroom and shut the door behind—because Eren always showered first. As a lady, by their mother’s principles, but it had still stuck, even years later.
Zeke was waiting for his turn to shower on the edge of his bed. When Eren entered their room, Zeke automatically rose, brushing past him as he headed for the bathroom.
Then, he stopped at the door. He took a couple steps back and sat down on the bed again.
Eren was wearing a t-shirt that was once Zeke’s, and nothing else, it seemed; because the shirt barely covered his crotch, swaying with each step, hanging shorter on Eren’s lean frame than it did on Zeke’s—but Zeke’s trained eye also knew when to look, strategically, and when to look away. So he sat and watched as Eren moved silently across the room, gaze stitched to the hem of that shirt, waiting for it to slip up and reveal the skin beneath.
Eren paused by the window, soft sunlight highlighting the contours of his legs. He looked out, seemingly lost in thought, but Zeke knew better. He could see the slight tremor in Eren’s knees.
“You always wanted this room for yourself,” Eren said softly.
Zeke nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight before him. “Yeah, I did.”
When he turned to Zeke, Eren’s eyes flickered with a strange light. “Well, it’s mine now. And I still just envy you.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
Yes. He did.
Those subtle nuances of poison had always been present in their relationship; Zeke could never shake the feeling that Eren longed to inhabit his identity. To experience the world through his body. As if Zeke hadn’t earned it by birthright, but Eren had.
From a young age, he had observed the longing in Eren’s eyes. He knew of the way his brother—still sister, then—studied Zeke’s every move, as if they were clues that would break the padlock open. It was never just about gender, too. It was the confidence that was chained to it, a different sense of belonging. It was a privilege that came only with being seen, recognized, accepted and real.
Yet, clutching the envy, a deep and abiding love remained.
“Do you still love me?” Zeke whispered.
Eren’s eyes bore into Zeke, searing with their new blend of anger and confusion. That look cut through the space between them. His anger was very real, and it was there, threatening to erupt at any moment, born from years of resentment and unspoken desire.
And beneath the layers of animosity, Zeke saw a look that had endured, despite the bitterness, unbroken. Eren’s eyes could not entirely mask the warmth twisted by years of envy and longing. Zeke could see the pain etched into his brother’s expression, and a desperate search for the unattainable. And yet, there was solace in the undeniable truth that love, however convoluted, still remained.
Yes. He did.
Zeke stretched his arms out. “Come.”
With a shuddering breath, Eren collapsed into Zeke’s embrace, seeking home in the safety of his brother’s arms. And Zeke held him close, his own heart aching with the weight of Eren’s pain. He couldn’t remember the last time he had held Eren like this, on his lap. It must’ve been years.
He whispered soothing words of comfort, running his hands gently through Eren’s long hair. And he felt Eren’s hands moving over his body in patterns that were mindless, but almost surely circling lower and lower, intentions clear despite the gloss of tears that clouded his vision.
Zeke stiffened as Eren’s hands grew bolder. And he knew, somewhere, somehow, that it was deliberate. Because Eren’s fingers brushed over Zeke’s chest, sliding down his torso with a possessive drip, and because he had already stuck his tongue out to catch it millions of times before.
And he imagined it tasted like gold, Eren’s want. And he feared tasting it—because there was no turning back from a fruit that was so forbidden.
“Eren,” Zeke quietly said.
He didn’t respond. Instead, Eren’s hand moved lower, tracing the outline of Zeke’s abdomen before it slid down further, fingernails scratching against the denim, until they reached his groin. It was firm, and it was insistent—and Zeke suddenly felt ill.
Because when he wanted it, it had been from a distance. When he wanted it, he dreamed, and when he came to moments where his desire strained and begged to boil over, he’d touch someone else, f*ck someone else, holding Eren up on the pedestal of his mind.
Did that make Zeke any better? In his head, it did.
Because when Eren wanted something, he got it. When Eren wanted something, he just took.
“Eren,” Zeke repeated, voice much less clear than before. He felt fingers curl slightly to grip him through the rough fabric. Zeke could feel the frantic need to grasp at something Eren felt he could never have, in more ways than one.
With a soft movement, Zeke tried to push Eren’s hand away, but his brother’s grip was unyielding.
“Just let me,” Eren finally murmured.
Zeke felt a wave of helplessness wash over him as Eren’s touch remained. “I can’t.”
To that, Eren had nothing to say. Instead, he pushed his leg over Zeke’s lap. When he tried to hold Eren back, with a sudden, almost violent shove, his brother forced him back onto the mattress that creaked like it was stabbed.
So Zeke stared up at him, mouth open, but mute. It only seemed to fuel Eren’s resolve, that he had nothing to say.
“Not me?” Eren said, in his silent venom, striking Zeke with, “Everyone who looks like me—but not me?”
“I’m your brother,” Zeke said, to both of them.
Eren leaned over him, face inches away, eyes boring into Zeke’s. As he shifted, Zeke’s heart pounded harder, feeling Eren’s groin slide over his stomach. Unmistakeable, it was, hotter than any other part of his body, hairy thighs on either side of him, the weight of his brother’s body pinning him down. Eren’s breath was hot against Zeke’s face, and the smell of soap and faint musk breaking through flooded Zeke’s sanity, making it difficult to think straight. His hands twitched at his sides, caught between the urge to push Eren away and the complete devastation that begged to pull him closer—a desire brewed, fermented, aged for years in the oak barrel of their home.
Eren’s expression softened. “I’m not asking for your permission,” he whispered, voice cracking into a grunt, as he reached down to unzip Zeke’s pants. “You’re my brother,” he breathed into Zeke’s mouth, pulling his stiff co*ck out of his pants, “so let me.”
“I can’t,” Zeke strained. He felt himself prodding against Eren’s heat, just barely beginning to sink into it with the underside of his co*ck, kissing the cooling wetness that coated it. He shook from the force it took to hold Eren back. Zeke’s arms against Eren’s shoulders were like the picture frames downstairs; they shone golden in the late sun, and held them locked away from making mistakes. The frames had served their purpose then: as children, they made no mistakes.
They were no longer children.
There were no recent pictures of them, either.
Eren was always more athletic than Zeke. But it was especially noticeable then, with the aid of manhood now in his blood, muscles pushed to exertion, ripped apart and healed to bloom greater in size. Easily, what little sister he’d had before, he could tackle; but Zeke was no match for his brother.
“You can’t…” Eren continued, in his same silent venom, striking Zeke with, “But I can. See?”
Immediately, he illustrated the power he could wield, taking Zeke by his wrists, forcing his arms to easily bend at the elbows.
Zeke realized then that Eren had been holding back the whole time.
His resistance somehow made Eren stronger. Demanding submission, his grip tightened, becoming almost—no, painful. It was painful. And Eren pressed his weight down harder, making it abundantly clear that he was in control.
“No. No. Don’t do this,” Zeke managed to breathe. “You’re going to regret this for—for the rest of your life. I… I swear. I—”
Eren’s response was a low growl. “f*cking my only friend’s sister. Always the f*cking sister.” He used his free hand to push Zeke’s pants lower down, positioning himself just at the base of his co*ck.
And then, he just stared down.
His grip on Zeke’s arms loosened as he shifted his attention, anger giving way to a small vulnerability. Zeke felt his brother’s thighs press tighter to his sides, and he followed Eren’s line of sight.
His co*ck was nestled between Eren’s legs. In awe, Eren took the sight in staring at the length between his legs as if it were his own, with a longing that curdled the air. The grip on Zeke’s wrists slackened further, almost forgotten, then.
The room was silent, save for their ragged breaths. Zeke watched Eren and the myriad of emotions playing out on his face. There was a reverence and a deep-seated need. It was boiling over, too.
Eren’s hand trembled as he brought it down to touch Zeke, brushing his shaft gently with his fingers. He could feel Eren’s legs tighten around him, anchoring him in place.
By the tag of it, Eren yanked his own shirt off, revealing his bare chest. Zeke’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight—the skin was smooth, marked with the faint trickle of scars. They were barely there, aged into the shade of milk.
He looked real.
Eren’s pubic hair stretched up for miles in a dark strip. It was nothing like Zeke’s golden fuzz that coated the tan ripples of his abdomen, bleached light from the sun, dusted everywhere eyes could land. But the builds of their bodies were so similar, birthed from the same seed, carried by different wombs—and Zeke knew this body like the back of his hand. It had significantly changed then, carved crudely like stone into a body much like his own, better than his own, barely any remnants of the softness he knew before.
And then, with no warning, Eren shifted his position. All Zeke managed to feel was wet—
And then, he was inside.
And then, he felt so hot with shame that he wanted to cry.
Zeke’s mind raced as he processed the breach. Panic and arousal warred within him, leaving him paralyzed. He couldn’t even speak. No, he couldn’t even think. He already fought to breathe, and all else was far from him. His body was betraying him, wired to sing and whine and rush blood at the sight of his brother, wrong on a cellular level, in the ground zero of his existence.
It had to have been their father, the one who carried that evil. It was the only blood they shared.
“You think I didn’t know?” Eren spat out, dropping his hips down so hard that his ass smacked against Zeke’s thighs. “No saving face now. You’re doing it.”
The pleasure tore at him from every angle—as did the shame.
He wanted to deny it, to say something, anything, to refute Eren’s words, but he couldn’t, because it was all true. His throat felt like it was closing up, and the only sound that escaped was a choked moan. He wanted to beg for more as much as he wanted to beg his brother to stop.
“I know what a piece of sh*t you are,” Eren continued, low voice dripping with contempt, as he moved. “What do you think of when you’re with her, Zeke? Do you think of me?”
Zeke looked away, trying to escape the anger Eren laid out. But Eren wasn’t having his guilt. With a sharp crack, his hand slapped across Zeke’s face.
The sting of the blow forced his eyes shut with the pain—but being inside Eren made his stomach flutter with lust. Before Zeke could react, Eren grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back straight, forcing him to look into his eyes.
“Look at me,” Eren snarled, his face inches from Zeke’s. “You don’t get to hide. Tell me. Do you think of me?”
“Yes,” Zeke admitted, his voice breaking. “I do. I think of you. I—”
The second slap burned worse. And it was harder.
Zeke’s body betrayed him fully, then. Panic surged through him when he realized, stripped down to somewhat of a child, that he was about to come inside his—
He did try. He tried to push Eren off, hands shoving desperately at his brother’s hips and chest, but Eren was unyielding. Like Zeke had done with Frieda, Eren grabbed his wrists, pinning them above his head with a force that left Zeke no room to struggle, sinking his co*ck as deep as it could go, leaving no room between their blood but skin.
“No,” Eren growled. “You wanted this, remember? You want this. Stop fighting me. You don’t even f*cking want to.”
With a trembling breath, Zeke quit resisting, body going limp beneath Eren’s weight. And with his submission and abandonment, he came, stuttering, whining, shaking so hard God could’ve left his body then, if He hadn’t already, unable to control the primal response that Eren’s bare presence elicited.
He felt Eren clench around him as he pulled back slightly. “There it is,” his brother sneered. “You can’t even control yourself. You’re disgusting.”
Without hesitation, Eren reached down. Letting Zeke’s co*ck slide out of him, hard and red, three of his fingers disappeared behind thick, dark hair. When they emerged again, they had scooped up what seemed like most of Zeke’s sem*n.
Zeke watched in horrified fascination.
“Open your mouth,” Eren said. When Zeke only kept staring at him, Eren grabbed him by the hair again. “God, you f*cking— Open your mouth, I said.”
He complied, dropping his jaw as instructed.
With an unceremonious motion, Eren shoved the handful into Zeke’s mouth. The taste was immediate and repulsing.
Eren’s eyes bore into him, watching every reaction, every grain of emotion that crossed Zeke’s face. “Swallow it,” he quietly said. “This is who you are.”
Zeke’s throat worked convulsively around Eren’s hand.
“You don’t know what you’ve taken from me,” he continued, worming his fingers so deep into Zeke’s throat that he felt himself gagging. Coughing and sputtering, Zeke whined in protest, so Eren held his jaw from the inside, pointer and pinky pressed flat against Zeke’s teeth. “I’ve always known what kind of person you are.”
Slowly, Eren pulled his hand back out. It was glossed in Zeke’s spit and leftover sem*n, white, foamy bubbles gathering between the gaps of his fingers. He spread them, letting the saliva stretch in thin strings as light caught on.
And he swore, he didn’t want to ask, but,
“What kind of person am I?”
Suddenly, Zeke wondered if he had ruined his brother by loving him too much, and if that love had broken something fundamental between them. He wondered if the possession he carried had become a corrosive force that ate away at both of them, and if yes, he wondered when.
But one thing he didn’t have to wonder about: that nothing would ever be the same between them again.
“My brother.”
🌢🌢🌢
Zeke often thinks of the time he got married.
Years had slipped by in worthless milestones and distractions.
Like he’d promised himself, he stayed with Frieda. Graduated from college together, landed a lucrative job that saw their lifestyle elevate, and the comfort of success wrapped around them like a blanket. He’d gotten her pregnant twice by then, but begged her not to keep either, because—
Well—because. Let’s get married first.
He proposed to Frieda, just shy of two years out of college. Because—
Well… because. That’s what you do, when you love someone. Even if it’s through a glove.
Through all those years, Zeke never saw Eren, because he swore to himself that it would never happen again. Every family gathering was perfectly timed and meticulously planned so that Eren was never there. Birthdays, holidays, even casual, unannounced weekend visits—Eren’s absence was a gaping hole. It left a hole about the same size in Zeke’s stomach. He saw the careful orchestration that kept them apart, whichever side it came from. As far as he knew, neither of their parents knew, but they did see the shift that had already been in motion those last couple of years, so it was almost as if their family had silently agreed to shelter them both from the unbearable frustration of being in the same room.
He missed Eren like air, though. And he never stopped thinking about that summer, and how excruciating it had been, the rest of it. He didn’t realize how suffocating the house was until he left for college again, and then, how empty it was when Eren never came home for breaks or holidays when Zeke was also there.
The wedding invitations were sent out in spring. Frieda wanted a summer wedding. Zeke was okay with anything; he felt like he wasn’t there.
But when Frieda said,
“Hey, Eren’s RSVP came—”
Zeke was there.
His heart pounded as he opened it. And it read,
“[X] Joyfully accepts.”
“No plus one,” Frieda whispered over Zeke’s shoulder. There was a smile in her voice, the way she said it, as if it was meant to imply something.
It was a simple, direct response, but it held so much weight. Zeke clutched the card, trying to keep his hands from trembling. The thought of seeing Eren again… He had imagined it countless times, rehearsing what he might say, how he might apologize, where he would even begin. He had also imagined not talking about it at all, ever, until it was buried with him under soil, or incinerated—whichever one he picked.
He had clung to Frieda desperately, like a miserable dog clinging to its last bone. He poured everything into their life together, trying to fill the void that Eren’s absence had left. He showered her with all the affection he could think of, but not even that deep down, he knew that no matter how much he puppeteered a love for Frieda, there was a part of him that was irrevocably lost to his brother.
As the wedding day approached, Zeke’s emotional absence started staining with dread. The day before, he found himself alone in his childhood bedroom, looking down at the same bed. It was still there. All of the room was untouched, as if time had walked past it.
They got lucky. It was a beautiful day, their wedding day. Zeke barely knew if it was June or July, but it was plucked perfect for Frieda’s liking. It dawned bright and clear, without a cloud in sight, but with a sweltering heat that etched squints from every guest present.
Zeke scanned the crowd when he stood at the altar, waiting for his wife-to-be.
His heart leapt into his throat when he finally spotted his brother.
Eren stood at the edge of the crowd. He looked different—older, sadder—but his eyes had been on Zeke for longer than Zeke’s had been on Eren, and maybe that’s where the sadness had come from. An aching sorrow pierced Zeke to his core. He smiled, and Eren didn’t smile back.
His heart felt nothing when he finally saw his bride.
He pretended to wipe his eyes from tears, which rolled for all the wrong reasons, and used the opportunity to look at his brother again.
He recited his vows to Frieda, and his heart was elsewhere.
She recited her vows to him, and her heart was in his hands.
Zeke wondered where everything had gone so horribly wrong. He looked at his father and wondered whether his blood really was rotten.
There was nothing Zeke wanted to celebrate other than the fact that he and Eren stood in the same room again. So when the ceremony was over, and everyone could let their backs slouch a little, he took Frieda’s hands, and said—
“Go, go talk to him,” she said before he could, eyes gleaming with crystal clear ignorance. “It’s your brother.”
So he went.
They stood face to face, then. Years of separation and silence stretched like a good rubber. One step apart, one height solid, one father between them.
“Thank you. For coming,” Zeke said, and his mouth was dry, like all of his spit was still coating Eren’s hand.
“Had to,” Eren replied. “You’re my brother.”
It split him, like a wound in water, how Eren said it.
Zeke tried to focus on the festivities, but his eyes kept drifting to Eren. He watched as his brother mingled with the guests, and found himself drinking more than he should have. The wound refused to close. He knew he shouldn’t be drinking so much on his wedding day, but he also knew that he shouldn’t have f*cked his brother.
As Zeke watched the warm, rich icing of the cake being sliced by his own hand clasped around Frieda’s, he wondered why it wouldn’t gush red. He stood there, surrounded by all that white, sinking a knife into spongy layers, when that knife should’ve been sunken inside him. Red-tinged, his guilt was. Red-tinged, that desire, too.
Throughout the evening, their eyes met countless times. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t need to.
Zeke danced with Frieda, held her close, and smiled for the cameras. He was a good drunk, and she liked him drunk, which is probably why she agreed to marry him. But no matter how much he drank, he was still acutely aware of Eren’s every movement. None of it was ever buried, and Eren’s presence had still reawakened… something. He dared not ask what it was. He thought, this time, God would answer—and crudely.
As the night wore on, Zeke found himself standing alone at the edge of the dance floor, a drink in his hand, watching Eren from afar. He could’ve been watching his mesmerizing, loving, beautiful and smart wife, who was occupied with one of the most important days of her entire life, but he was watching his younger brother instead.
Eventually, then, Eren made his way over to him, and they stood side by side, holding drinks in opposing hands.
“Beautiful wedding,” Eren noted.
“Thank you,” Zeke replied. His throat was very tight.
They stood in silence for a moment, the noise of the party fading into its sudden irrelevance.
“I’ve missed you,” Eren finally said.
Zeke turned to him, concealing his surprise only as much as a bride’s veil would. It was enough to know that they were both still here. When it came from Eren, it could’ve been a choir of angels, and Zeke would have believed it.
He walked back to Frieda for the last dance, took her hand, and held her close. As he swayed with his wife, his fresh-out-the-oven wife who would give up her life for him, swirling her into his arms and down onto one dipped knee for hoots and cheers and hollers, all he could feel was how his heart ached.
Zeke and Eren shared one last, lingering look as he carried Frieda away to the bridal suite.
🌢🌢🌢
As the door clicked shut behind them, Zeke felt an almost crushing sense of confinement.
Frieda’s hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, and Zeke let her undress him, trying to summon the desire he knew he should feel. He kissed her back, more out of obligation than passion, but remained an excellent actor. She led him to the bed, and he followed, lying down underneath her, their bodies fitting together in a way that should have felt much more natural.
As Frieda moved against him, pulling the hem of her pristinely white dress up so he could see, Zeke realized there were certain things he couldn’t work an act on.
“Whiskey dick,” she giggled, wafting sweet champagne herself.
“Yeah,” Zeke murmured in a voice that didn’t belong to him. “I forgot we had to consummate the marriage.”
Laughing, his wife kissed his cheek. “I like it better in the morning anyway.”
Zeke forced a smile. “I’ll go for some air. So maybe, when I come back…”
“Help me undo the corset first. Yeah?”
He did, like he would do anything for his wife. But he would always do more for his brother, and she had to know that by now.
Dressed back into his suit, albeit messily, he left the room. The corridor was sparsely lit, and the noise from the party had faded to a distant hum. He walked briskly, and his mind raced.
Zeke didn’t have a specific plan. He just knew he needed to find Eren, and he knew that Eren had to be there still. He moved through the hallways, trying to stay out of sight most of the time. He checked the usual places—the bar, the lounge, even stepping outside to the garden where a few lingering guests were enjoying the night air—but Eren was nowhere near.
Finally, he turned a corner and saw a silhouette he could never forget, leaning against the wall near the back entrance of the venue. Eren looked up as Zeke approached, holding a cigarette to his lips, and his jacket slung over his shoulder.
He straightened.
They watched each other. They stood, in a silent standoff, both predators and prey, both knowing exactly what the other was saying. Zeke knew, almost clearly now, that Eren wanted him just as much, if not more. That thought hit him so hard he could’ve sworn he was going to faint.
Eren exhaled a plume of smoke. The corner of his mouth lifted in a bitter, almost triumphant smile as he flicked the cigarette away.
“On your wedding day?” he quietly asked, low and incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe it.
Zeke’s heart pulsed in his chest. “Family comes first,” he breathed, shedding years off his shoulders.
Without another word, they moved. With an urgency that propelled them, they almost ran, ducking through side exits and weaving between shadows, dress shoes barely making a sound against the cobblestone.
Unlit was the tulip garden, which was not in bloom for the summer, and Zeke felt better that the flowers wouldn’t be watching—lest they whispered to all the others who sat clipped and tucked in decoration all across the venue, betraying them.
Eren turned to him, drawing breath in short, ragged gasps. He reached out, grabbing Zeke by the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him close. Their faces were inches apart, and Zeke inhaled the linger of that cigarette; he swam in it.
“Did you think of me?” Eren asked, question welded inside a cage of desperation. “All this time. When you were with her, did you—”
Zeke kissed him on the mouth, for the first time in their lives.
His hands moved with a purpose he hadn’t known he possessed. A man starved, a prisoner’s last meal before death—or first in freedom. He cupped Eren’s face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, slid his hands down his neck, tasting the rapid pulse beneath his tongue and fingertips.
He moved to Eren’s collar, fingers trembling as he yanked the shirt free from his brother’s pants. The fabric tore under the force, buttons scattering like confessions on the grass. Zeke’s hands roamed over Eren’s bare chest, lining the scars with them. He touched Eren in ways he had never dared with his wife—how he wanted. He touched his wife in ways that he wanted, through a glove.
Eren’s hands were just as eager, tugging at Zeke’s suit jacket, pulling it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the ground. They stumbled together, until they fell onto the soft grass. Zeke knew the elbows of their shirts were stained with green, and he knew he had to burn his shirt after, if he wanted to have a marriage.
Zeke hovered over his brother. Eren’s hands tangled in Zeke’s hair, pulling him closer, and Zeke felt a surge of desire so powerful it was almost—
No, it was painful.
Eren’s chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes flashing, reflecting only the moonlight in them. “You never touched her like this,” he gasped, half accusation, half plea.
Zeke looked up. “Never.”
“None of them.” Not a question.
“No.” Worthless answer—he already knew.
They rolled in the grass, hands pulling at each other’s clothes with frantic urgency, and they were children again. A wedding gift from God, he thought. Zeke was convinced, in this very instant, that some divine force had brought Eren to him on this night, as if to sanctify this forbidden union. It was a justification born of desperation. Forbid a desire, in good spirits, so it manifests tenfold, evil.
Zeke’s hands slid down Eren’s sides, gripping his hips, feeling the hard lines of muscle with his thumbs and sinking into them. Perfect, they fit, there and then, and the sheer rightness of it made his head spin. He kissed Eren again, pouring all his pent-up desire and love into that one act.
An urgency that defied logic, driven by a force neither could control, seeking, craving, needing. It was utterly consuming.
They had been restrained for years.
The sounds of their bodies coming together echoed in the quiet of the garden. Zeke knew how to f*ck him, intuitively or by blood and since birth, drawing out grunts and moans that spoke of a need too deep to be sated by one night alone. He could feel how wet Eren was, because it was glazing his co*ck, it had run down his thighs when Zeke stifled his pants down, and it had soaked all the way through his underwear before he did—but at the root of it, Zeke just knew how his brother smelled when he wanted something.
Moaning too loud for someone whose wedding day it was and much too loud for someone who was splitting their own brother in two, Zeke relentlessly drove back in. He knew Eren had a cervix, and he knew he was ruining his insides f*cking him this way, and he just wanted it to hurt him tomorrow. He knew that, if Eren saw him for who he was over the years, then Eren was that just as well, and that they were both on the same edge of the same blade, like they always had been.
It was love, of course, pushing them closer to a precipice they both longed to fall from. Combined, they created a being close to God.
When Eren came, he stiffened around Zeke like the frilly garter belt that he had pulled down Frieda’s thigh with his teeth.
When Zeke came, filling Eren with the same evil their father had given to their mothers, he knew to get rid of it. All of Eren’s wet coating his beard, he made sure to swallow every drop of sin there was, as if swallowing his guilt had ever done him any good.
🌢🌢🌢
Zeke was a devoted husband to Frieda, just as he was a devoted brother to Eren. He had never known anything but devotion.
His meetings with Eren were clandestine. They were, still, two sides of the same blade, dancing on top of it, but cutting into each other and themselves, unable to fully part ways. Zeke made a lot of promises to himself, but they were quickly broken at the sight of his brother waiting for him in a hotel room. Every time, he fell to his knees at the sight, and kissed the womb that wouldn’t bring him children.
Zeke’s marriage to Frieda was functional. Frieda noticed the distance sometimes, the way Zeke would become lost in thought, eyes clouded with a pain he never spoke of. She asked once if something was wrong, but never again. Maybe she didn’t want to know, either.
When they had their son, and he had Zeke’s wheat-blond curls, something inside him groveled.
When they had their daughter, just years later, and she had Frieda’s dark, straight hair, he was fully haunted by the legacy he feared he had passed on to them.
Their son, with his gentle nature, reminded Zeke of himself as a child. He feared for him, feared that the same darkness might find its way into his life. And their daughter, with her untainted innocence, was—
Well, of course she was.
The curse was in the father.
Every time Zeke looked at them, he felt the weight of it. He had inherited a generational evil, and he thought he had passed it on to his children, just as he had passed it on to Eren. And when he watched his son stare at his daughter across the yard, he thought,
“Maybe I should just kill him.”
