chimera -

tongue moistens his own mouth. there was something different. he didn't see a guillotine blade that matched his own. he saw a a halo. it sits above nate's head knowing that they won't reach. why bother unless it were connected to a string. near was more mechanical then mello had ever said. smooth like unfinished plastic. shiny sure but obsolete the more time moved. side stepping past them. there would be no need for an old goose when it stopped laying golden eggs.

so they are not at odds today. the pedestal that usually housed the wind up L mimic was used differently. mello hates losing; people who challenge his authority even more. they hadn't spoken to him. one too many times had he mistaken words for him when they were meant for an ear piece. his hands are coddled by leather, tempting through albino curls. mello dislikes playing mouse. fox can never excell at it. “ nate. ” its a command.

eve knows better. despite adams instances, to give into sin. leave the japanese police to sort themselves out. they aren't guardians. nor did they ever claim to be. yet it made sense for the people to cling to the least threatening. strength in numbers. mob mentality. mello did know he was better at one thing.

impulsive. teeth move until they graze, nibbling into flesh. a claim. though it means nothing— the way it blemishes feeds into the rush. he finally meets the other's gaze and he smirks. “ finally. only took me biting you. why don't you let the police figure it out. petty theft really? you can't be that bored ” he takes nears hands, never asking. perhaps he's in a good mood because a relationship made them equal. its possible.

response sounds cryptic. small voice squeaks inside him. wondering why near spoke in codes. only ones he could decode. they never agree or disagree. power trips showed signs of staying youthful. ( NEAR INQUIRED : " follow your hormones, if you want. " PROMPTED ⠀۩ ۫ ⠀𔕛⃞𐧾 . CLOSED ) back to their game. figures. the roll of his eyes signals the end of whatever he had planned. torn out pages he stays irritate. “ right i forgot. you're are fixed much to your work. does it jerk you off when im not here? ” hand moving up chest, he lingers it on their heart. dull thumps for a dull detective. he's vulgar of course. his vice that fits on him snuggly. he steps back and teeth gnaw chocolate instead. with each step back he still keeps fingers laced, enough to direct their stride.

one foot. closer. its easier— mello figures if they never say it out loud. put words where they do not belong.

 then, mello makes himself worse still because he wants to be a fallen angel badly enough that it makes his smile acidic when he looks at near too closely.

the two of them could be reflections of one another, even if they were never persuasive enough to be doppelgangers. one runs cool, the other hot — within a mirror frame, they can nod at one another & call themselves the same. they can come to an agreement, but that doesn’t mean they exist within the same plane. 

when mello looks at near up close, then he sees them as better or worse. mello’s smiles spread acidity enough that they leave stings at the tip of near’s tongue — an apple bite with the promise of cyanide.

there’s a bit of a gamble there, wondering if a bite will release a poison. 

of course, near is prodigal at blending reason & reflex; it means that they will always be overconfident when they roll the dice. this is a gambler’s fallacy – but it’s fair. because it comes from deals made at crossroads, deals made with the wish of a fallen angel.

mello cannot poison them. to do so would be to poison some sort of ideal, some sort of dream —  mello has always been hesitant to hurt his vision of god. 

but mello sits there anyway, breath sweet & sticky like apple residue.

it’s hard to ignore mello, even when he’s quiet. there’s too much of a windstorm contained within him to keep still. his knuckles crack, & there’s always a steady drumbeat that he taps out with a restless leg. he stirs up electricity just in the way he moves, & leaves the air cracking & colorful.

sometimes, it makes near think of white noise, of the way that televisions render themselves black & white & colorful in pixels when they pick up too many signals all at once. 

near works better in white noise, so he works better now.

of course, it just makes mello look closer at him again & offer the taste of fruit. 

mello has yet to fully believe that near has ever succumbed to hunger. near understands – they’re not sure that they have ever been hungry. 

the prospect seems to delight mello. it amuses him, that there could be two fallen angels.

so he soaks up every piece of power that near offers him – there are gloved fingers in near’s hair, & it is so impersonal that it is tolerable. it is more white noise, & near keeps slotting puzzle pieces into place. he works – recent caseloads have been full of trivial things, but it has been satisfactory to see them made whole.

but power is diluted by impersonal things, so mello tries to to make it sting. he calls near by a given name, to compel near to look at him from the corner of their eye.

of course, nate was never a version of self that near wanted to know. 

mello bites it into them anyway, uninvited. when mello comes away, near feels its residue against his skin. 

their shoulders roll back, & they inhale too sharp – indignant or perplexed. they talk back, anyway, because they’re familiar: follow your hormones, if you want.

familiarity with mello is not enough to promise habituation. not when mello keeps his hand ensnared with nears, when he creeps their hand up closer to make them feel that they have heart. 

mello can feel their hand attempt to jump back, & near knows that a flush is threatening to stain their skin – proof that even if mello has been crass, it is still a victory won. 

near hates it. they’ve never liked sweet, & they’ve never liked sour. 

mello is probably the same, but mello differs from his reflection in that he likes the sensation of taste regardless. 

still, near follows & pretends that there is such thing as a throne.

‘ it’s not about that, ‘ he mutters though, reticent & sullen & compliant. 

IT ALL ENDS. zeke was a boy, ksaver was a ticket. he's overzealous with how often he needed it punched. sometimes when he stares at colt, hears the way he shows off his brand. the curse of their blood part of him dissolves. his father still puppeteering his thoughts. if zeke were bigger or stronger perhaps he'd stand up. face to face with the ones who held the key to his cage. bite their wrists and refuse to let go until they fulfilled his demands. instead he makes himself small as possible. slouches and keeps his back at the wall. the spot light is bright. like roach he's expected to continue living and thriving. ksaver wanted to die. zeke idolized him. so he takes the coat of woes as an embrace. its an unfortunate thing in the end like past ksaver son he'll be pinned to the frame. among birds and canines. taxidermy of what happens when you touch something diseased. sickness were expecting more out of life

hand is on his head. shaking him this way and that way. he's a teenager so he won't admit he doesn't know what to do. but there is something brewing. just within his reach. like dirt under his finger tips. this whole thing could be smoke and mirrors. ksaver was a magician with words; he saw it as he sat another face off stage listening to him speak of false research.

“ but i have to ask you something. ” they're walking. boy lingers back because he dislikes thinking they're equals. gut twists into a knot. shoulders brick themselves. he is not s stream in this moment instead pillars. its up to adult to see if he continues to be built into bridge. he glances around. there's always something new in the enclosure. hands grip at arm and they've stopped walking. though he swears internally how he feels the annoyance radiating off surrogate father.

it is a coincidence that ksaver has utility. he comes from a culture of zealots, & so he made himself an expert in all the biology that could make men into giant. that was before he committed his crime, so this is him in the public eye. 

unfortunately, it means that he has learned a lot – he has learned too much. he is snivelling & selfish & softer than he should have been – but what he has learned means that he should do better than bide his time. 

so he punches a ticket for himself, an employee of the state. then he remembers the way that his son’s blood stained a wooden floor & the way that he misses the way the child could laugh.

he punches in again. the jaeger boy is alive, & he does not want to be his own person. he wants for his own successor to have a youth – hypocritically, desperately, riddled in shame. the grice boy had been damned because of accusations that jaeger had needed to make. 

damage, even if it’s made collateral, still hurts.

there is camaraderie in that, the foundations for what makes him & the boy conspirators. this world has made them both ruiners, though ksaver accepts more blame.

the difference is what makes the boy a better person, a better candidate as a titan wielder than what ksaver could ever be. 

ksaver does have faith in the boy.

faith isn’t enough to make jaeger any less of a teenager, any less of an alien. jaeger does everything but keep holding onto ksaver’s shirt sleeve, forgetting that ksaver is a man wearing a circus collar – forgetting that he is slated for the same. 

ksaver resists the urge to shake him off. it’s hard to look at the boy sometimes. jaeger must know, because he sometimes hovers back just far enough that he becomes hard for the eye to catch. 

he has a question, he says. ksaver keeps shepherding them forward anyway, following his chain & leash. he would have kept going — 

except for now the boy can ruin everything.

ksaver stops, thinking faintly of the sweat accumulating at his temple. there is so much oil on his skin.

zeke jaeger, the son of restorationists, would be bad enough. if he is royal, then he is a bomb. 

ksaver is snivelling & selfish & softer than he should have been – but what he has learned means that he should do better than bide his time. the man grieves the fact.

he grabs the boy’s shoulder, sees him too well, studies him harder.

it is unsafe to say such things. especially here, especially in public, especially for one so young. 

‘ your blood is eldian - no more, no less, ‘ ksaver tells him & almost pleads. it is not denial to warn the boy ( a child ) to safety. ‘ never — never — dare to say anything more. there are living hells that you can’t imagine, boy. ‘ 

he returns to step & for once, his hand does splay at the top of zeke’s back.

this is shock, this is an explosion.

‘ say your mother was a liar, if you must. when they ask questions. they’ll laugh. everyone wants to be more important than they are. ‘

he purses his lips, dry. ksaver’s son is dead, & zeke is a stranger’s child. but zeke is already more important than he should ever be. it makes ksaver responsible for things that should not be.

near doesn't mind playing dead, but they do think the game is unfair.

they aren't made for playing long-lasting games, & the kira case threatens to make everything last eternally.

near almost writes about it, on one of mello's old school photos: dear mello.

they leave it as an incomplete thought.

they aren't prone to leaving things incomplete.

when the chance arises, they stop at playing dead. just for a few bargained moments, & they trust that mello will call pause to their game.

'mello, ' near begins. ' it's an obligation for me to make plans in the event of my death. if my name is revealed, beyond that of I, will you be there '

THERE'S LOT MELLO LEAVES IN THE AIR. he is afraid of commitments. writing his name on things he doesn't understand. in case there's an exam. another reason for him to wear dunce and stand idle in the corner. no one needed him so like wound up toy he was bound to rust eventually. his bones ached and eyes couldn't adjust to bright rooms properly. yet he still walked without a master. able to brand an M over the L. with time his juvenile beliefs were ushered into the back room. a promise he'd revisit, this as he locked it. near and him— whatever it was he didn't say it out loud. the way it moved was predator like. rubbing against open palms when they were offered. were it love? mello had never noticed the weed until it obstructed vision of inferiority.

it whimpers so he removes his heel from its neck. he doesn't look when he's called, instead waiting until beats pass. eyes slowly move until he can raise a brow. near became more of an tombstone everyday. at least they masqueraded as one. wearing skin. it dragged behind them with each step and the applause was only louder. deafening as his ears popped. the ringing was a want to be a sword pointed at bystanders instead of @pontevoix. “ what? ” its quick snap. his softening expression is a lick to the wound afterwards.

brows raise and he feels grief trying to crawl up his throat. hand reaches to rub at the skin of esophagus. rubbing uncomfortable. knee shakes up and down. death was something he blamed on each person. they didn't even think of him before they keeled over. his presence demanded explanation. “ obviously i'll be there. where else would i ever be? you tryna run away from me. think again. ” he starts there. feet are stakes and he wears his crucified palms with pride. blonde made him human— this he was.

leaning back in his chair. he naturally quirks head until he stares up at the ceiling. a crack there, he searches until he finds another one then he calls them a match. ( NEAR INQUIRED: ' posted ' UNPROMPTED ۩ ۫ ⠀𔕛⃞𐧾 OPEN ) “ you're not dying first. give me life insurance if you believe in that shit. ” he weren't. what a waste chasing death. he's slow as it is. hand moves like a falcon until it rests atop head, white in fingers. shaking them back anf fourth as he hums in contentment. something cheesy— he were the romantic. “ you go where i go. ” he sets the turns because he's certain he breathed life into the corpse.

to sign a contract with a false name should mean a deal that would not hold. 

it’s a private joke, of course. because a devil’s deal doesn’t depend on technicalities, & near agreed to the terms.

near doesn’t believe in devils, anyway. he doesn’t believe in angels either. he was asked once, in a younger version of youth, if he had ever prayed. near hadn’t given a response, but he had rolled his eyes. praying wouldn’t suit him. 

it sounds too much like begging, which wouldn’t suit near either – though they can’t justify why. though they’re arrogant, they have never been much for pride. that’s why near allows the games mello choose to play, the ones where near pretends to be dead & mello sets fire to hell.

when the chance arises, they stop at playing dead. just for a few bargained moments, & they trust that mello will call pause to their game.

near watches mello from the corner of his eye and studies the places that he’s been burned. scar tissue must be a sensitive thing.

near doesn’t think that he has ever been scarred - despite it all. 

if he has ever left a scar, then mello would be it. 

it’s never been secret, that near has never had someone else. not in the way that mello has, as he stalks the world & sears his name like a brand wherever he goes. though it’s a difference between them, they are similar, anyway; when they die, they both will be forgotten. 

mello must turn restless with life, & near can feel him stir the air as he speaks of obvious things & familiar things — & near tries to keep it clean. ‘ you’ll inherit from me, ‘ they say & refuse to make it a request. they refuse, too, to admit that they need to hear mello say it aloud.

they agreed to a new name, & even so - they won’t get a choice about whether the name should roll over again. someone else always chooses, & at least mello has always been good at making a choice.

so it’s simple, that they should discuss one of the last contracts near will sign with his former name. they’ve never been good at solitude, so they  want proof of leaving a scar.

& mello denies it, anyway, in the way near knew he would. mello believes in devils, believes in angels, believes in self-made prayer enough that he thinks it’s possible to steal a soul & keep it for himself.

he threads his fingers into near’s hair & calls it the spoils of war.  you go where i go, mello says - though he’s made a habit of crossing the world. 

he still noticed how some— not many. gawked. not like one would staring at exhibit behind glass. instead like a feast. something they were entitled to. zeke's no stranger. so he rots them both. spilled punctured fruit, spilling sludge onto table clothes with each conversation he had. robotic. practiced in order to draw them furthest away, he hadn't taught colt the uncanny nature of his erratic dances yet. because he was still here. when would first see greys then he'll pass baton.

first time @pontevoix asked. it was a quiet curious wonder. zeke weren't a parent so he gave him what he asked for to keep him quiet. because he needed them to rot. they don't sit close. scribbling at reports with practiced wrist. cigarette hanging low and lit on his bottom lip. ( COLT INQUIRED: ' mr. zeke, ' he starts & then thinks he sounds to pleading. ' sir, ' he tries again. he is too young to ask for vices, but they've come to him anyway like loose, stray coins that eventually spelled a habit -- so he smokes, finds relief in it, & he can't manage it regularly. ' i was wondering . . . if you could buy me contraband? i've got the money. it's only that you're the only one i can ask. sir. ' UNPROMPTED ☆. OPEN ) he sets pen down at the first sound.

something meek. prey laying out to die. brow arches as he puts out his own cigarette. ash tray full but he's too unbothered to throw out the past. “ contraband. ” the boy looks like he'll vomit— learned stage fright for mentor. shoulders lack. his favorite play were the boy and the man. he smiles like he always does. in that way where his eyes wrinkle. its a metronome swinging too and fourth each time they spoke. but more then not zeke settled on seeing that little boy who was too proud. no too shy to ask him to bend down and help him tie his shoe.

standing up he cracks his back. clearing throat as he nods to answer the question. “ of course i can. its alright you can relax. don't fidget so much its bad manners. keep your money, buy your little brother something else instead. ” warm hand on shoulder as he pats. he pushes up his glasses higher on his nose. like he'd need to pay. he wouldn't need to say anything at all. according to shop keepers; a blessing of his presence was enough. it made him sick. “ stay here, i'll be back with your cigarettes. ”

no one had ever heard the arlerts want for a child, so it surprises no one that armin is an only child.

his mother is twenty-six at the time of her pregnancy, & his father twenty-eight. they never intentionally tried for children before that, & this made them an anomaly.

even if marriage meant the prospect of family — the arlerts had married for love. to the point of notoriety, they married one another for their definition of love. more than that, they married one another for their definition of curiosity.

it proves to be a distraction. 

his parents were always in secreted conversation with one another, & they imagined that their fervor was contagious.

‘ armin, isn’t it exciting ? ‘ his parents murmur sometimes, when he’s six & half asleep. he doesn’t know what they’re talking about. they weren’t the ones who named him.

his grandfather chose the name armin for him. they don’t know if the name has any meaning.

his parents never forget to include him, but their inclusion is a shallow thing. they talk over him rather than speak with him.

his grandfather knows what they’re talking about, probably. he’s the source of their conversation.

he restores old furniture for work & keeps amassing second-hand items that keep collecting dust in background closets. from his collection, his daughter built the foundations for imagination that borders on conspiracy. 

she was a dreamer. so was her husband.

it was safe, until it wasn’t.

armin’s grandfather argues with them, sometimes, about priorities & what armin should be allowed to overhear.

mostly, it just means that armin prefers to spend nights at his grandfather’s home. he has a fascination with the farmer’s almanac. 

his grandfather had a collection that had belonged to a previous generation. most days, they collect dust & wait for their pages to yellow.

preference then became necessity & norm when dreams blended with conspiracy too much — 

no one can remember where armin’s parents went. they’re presumed dead.

— but no one can remember why. 

daily life with his grandfather is quiet, mostly. it comes with new habits, new routines – 

he does errands for his grandfather on sundays – retrieving firewood from a farmer out of the way. in exchange, armin’s grandfather provides repairs on equipment or family furniture that strained under injury or else swelled with age & humidity.

he learns how to cook a kind of vegetable stew with his grandfather, listens to a static-ridden rendition of the news blare as they cut carrots & potatoes on thursday nights. they eat over a scratched table that his grandfather had rescued from a pub that had long since closed.

they talk together about what it means to be bullied – about things that are right in the world, things that are wrong. 

his grandfather isn’t a religious man. but he comes from religious roots & has a habit of talking too easily about the natural way of knowing right from wrong; this kind of talk was something that armin embeds in himself. 

but even so, maybe his parents had been right in thinking that their fervor was contagious. still, the restlessness grows, just like it did in them.

he resents his parents sometimes.  

he finds a book that entices him to dreaming like they did, to conspiracy. 

he shows it to his friends.

he blends dreams with morality & shapes a future for himself as zealot. 

then, of course, the wall falls. 

he’s not even five feet tall when he sees the colossal titan for the first time, when he sees a moving mountain.

there is death, there is debris. 

his grandfather is reliable, the way he always is. 

he secures them on the ferry. he sees eren & mikasa, & he understands that something has gone wrong – 

& maybe it’s something that armin can’t really understand because he’s never been able to remember his parents’ properly — 

but his grandfather is reliable, the way he always is. 

except things are hard.

there is no system in place that makes access to food, work, & shelter an easy thing. 

his grandfather caters to three children rather than one, but they all learn the logistics – where the lines for food begin & when they end. they all learn to look for notices about who is accepting fieldhands for work.

even if his grandfather is reliable, there is not much that can be done.

but he allows for a dream of normalcy, for a minute.

until the ordinance comes that designates him as a number. 

250,000 were sent to reclaim maria. fewer than 200 return.

so his grandfather dies. 

for a while, he keeps his grandfather's hat in hand. it later gets lost.  at that time he, mikasa & eren are between shelters. they find it difficult to keep material goods that were not necessary items.

he’s angry, and selfish, claiming the grief for his own. 

his grandfather is a part of his story.

it’s one of the reasons he becomes a soldier. 

not that there was much choice. at least he has good company.

armin remembers calluses on his grandfather’s hands. he remembers a bad knee. he remembers a cane.

the cane had been handcrafted from maple. his grandfather thumbed its handle & promised that its craftmanship would carry pride into posterity.

armin wasn’t sure that his grandfather had ever really needed a cane. his grandfather felt immutable.

still, armin doesn’t talk about him.

he won’t. 

he’s an open-book except for all the secrets he doesn’t keep.

the world keeps ending a million times afterwards, anyway. armin blends dreams with morality, with war, with well-buried anger.

he is a zealot.

he is a healer.

at the end, armin stands on an international stage. he learns that his name might mean universal, warrior, whole.

his grandfather had given him his name. 

DIVORCES WERE CONFUSING. zeke had always thought they were. ksaver spoke of his marriage like a collar around his neck, each day wife adding another prone. something to shock him into submission so he claimed. he was younger once and even then he'd say a martyr. disliking a woman he never had or would meet simply because of the propaganda he was subjected to. his own parents were baked on separate trays. he was the run off; canal that forced long expanses of land. it'd worked for awhile. zeke blamed himself because he was motion itself as all water was. feet buried in the ground as time drags him along. practically limp in its embrace.

its wrong to say ksaver caught him. more so he happened to look back on his own stride. ask what was wrong. acknowledgement was enough. mold had grown until it went to the man's sleeve up his arm. his mother ever docile. growing up in small cramped cell of her faith. she yearned for freedom. once grisha handed it to her she gifted it to her only son. an heirloom of casualties. zeke expected to have outgrown that small ditch grisha dug inside him. it started smaller but time helped it grow as the world grew around him.

high-rises of opportunity. empty and vast but impressive for the simple fact a minor had built them. he sits on leather sofa nursing the cold tea in his hands. divorce was messy and @pontevoix was no creative. no he didn't make art with his problems he simple dwelled. spit like them tobacco. he had no manner. tentatively he sips from the mug using that as an excuse to look away. the average man enjoys withholding knowledge to keep the distance between them. it makes man easier to control over all. zeke had no idea about marriage. ksaver references it anyway and urges he keep up.

“ well. i don't think its very nice. for her to um— lie in court ” a stumble of a response. lamb's neck is already between wolves jaws. he must be convinced to let him go. ( KSAVER INQUIRED: " since  it’s  impossible  in  this  world  we  live  in  to  empathize  with  others,  we  can  always  empathize  with  ourselves. " PROMPTED ☆. CLOSED ) he smiles. because boy doesn't wanna seem hostile with his misunderstanding. man's tone is bitter as he motions. piece of a complex wedged into the young man; like sharp glass his skin has grown over.

an urge to rescue. “ i empathize with you mr ksaver. i think you're the best. she's crazy. maybe you can date someone better now. ” he sets the cup down fully to focus though he isn't good with eye contact. after all grisha seemed happy with carla. his mother was happy too. a boy climbs a mountain and everyone surrounding him calls it a molehill. ksaver likes him because he's the best player, a good listener. those are medals zeke wears because he enjoys their talks. smile is easy. content to not only talk to stuffed monkey. so he praises again when the man doesn't speak. “ and you're so cool. ” again. “ and well you're a dad too. which is impressive. you know. my dad says life is precious and you made that. that's cool. ” again “ and you're smart too. it'll be easy. ”

his explosion was dramatic. dina had warned grisha— once even twice about his eyesight. a stray ball that made impact with his face. a bloody nose was all he thought he'd gained that day. grisha's hands cupped his face and he'd flinched worse then. were it hell or heaven? boy couldn't decide because he couldn't understand why if the man were capable of being so gentle. why hadn't he ever? grisha wasn't good with children. zeke had grown up as fast as he could.

eyes stare at the get well card, shape of a baseball. befitting since his tomb. vocal cords on rest as he refused to speak. retina stil red behind white bandages. overly sterile. he feels awful— castrated against his will. bitterness roots into hands that grip sheets until they bundle. scratching at his skin. half of him prayed to two gods. one each for the religious parents he was caught between. strike him down he's sinful. nothing good would last because zeke's passion over waters. drowning and leaving the mess once its beyond his control. his wings are clipped he's forced to wince at the sound of door opening.

hospital room suddenly suffocating. teeth tear at his bottom lip, a soft glance. before thorns demand he looks away with the uncovered good eye. @pontevoix asks how he is. scowl. teenagers aren't kind because their skin is freshly molted. “ i'm shocked you came. eren's not here. ” poison shoots. doctor has many antidotes. the man lingers near his flowers and brushes fingers against pedals. inhale. the silence hangs in the room, grisha always stared at him like one day he'd use it like a noose.

they can't play at supportive father and doting son without a script. zeke only tilts head oblivious. maybe med school taught him to read rooms. hope fills his gaze, eye(s) wide with want. it was dangling there. something to acknowledge his torture of the last week. a motivating word. a pat on the back for his future. grisha is bad with children. ( PONTEVOIX INQUIRED: " son, we are not born to be idle. we are not going to sit & watch as the world goes by. " - grisha UNPROMPTED ☆. OPEN ) mouth falls open. he's shoved quickly from the fence he was sitting on. belly up and biten into. heart stings, and he feels throat close up.

he's a child. lip wobbles fearful between his teeth as he grits. there's no struggle after a few moments. sniff. its covered by load beeping of the hospital remote allowing bed to lower back down. wherever grisha wanted to ship him to he'd go. fit into his box and be lifted onto plane. his father is kind. he'll find some way for him to fly. that's all he asks for. “ yeah. guess not. i can re enroll in school. sure open enrollment is soon. ”

as it stands, carla is forgiving anyway. she is a little unamused when she settles on the tips of her toes to nosy about who grisha is texting at odd hours of the day & sees the name of reiss – but carla understands there is a child between them, & that there is business preceding even that. 

diplomatically, carla has tried to include zeke in planning sometimes too – has tried to remember him & connect him to her son. she might have been more successful, too, if they had not lived separately from one another.

zeke & dina live in the main city – about a three hour commute. grisha still makes the trip frequently enough for work, but it is harder to uproot the lives of two sons so that that they look each other in the face & pretend to be siblings. 

distance had been part of the reason that custody shook out the way it did. work made grisha travel more than it could be allowed to make him a reliable guardian on his own, & that left him landless. 

zeke had been representative of so much: of the things that could befall him, & of the ways that he looked like grisha. it made sense, then, that grisha had struggled to see zeke for himself when their proximity had been close. he was symbolic more than person.

that has consequences. grisha knows them & wears damnation as a business suit. he hasn’t ever looked for chances of redemption. 

that stalls him, more than not. because maybe he could be better too, if he bothered to forge himself the space. the thought of it makes himself feel awkward, like a thorn on a lily. 

despite it all, dina had trusted him enough to call when zeke was subject to injury. she wants his insight on hospitals, on care, on all the rest. 

so grisha drives three hours for a hospital room & for wilting flower petals on a bedside table. 

there’s no prognosis yet when he arrives, so he cups his child’s face to study an injury already bandage. 

in older days, it would sometimes befall him to check scrapes & bruises when they would come. few aches needed more tending than ointment & bandage, & so the prognosis has always had always been simple, forgettable: ‘ we’ll keep an eye on it. but you’re good to go – ‘ 

grisha speaks from a mind that is accustomed to scattering, that could never be assuaged of safeties that were not there – they came to him often as a way to glue his tongue to the roof of his mouth, to stop him from asking that people be angry on behalf of the sister he lost. 

grisha speaks as one who has never understood, properly, the sweetnesses children need. it had never been sweet to him, & so he thinks honesty should be better.

in the meantime, he thumbs his finger over the petal of wilting flower on zeke’s bedside & listens to his eldest shoot childish jealousy into the space between them. his half-sibling is years younger than he, & they two have never run the same race.

the jealousy is natural, grisha knows. it makes sense for children to vie for the attention of their parent. however, that doesn’t equip grisha any better with understanding how to give a response. 

he sees a different version of himself through eras of life, not through each child. he has failed both of them, certainly, in some ways – but not the same ways. more than that, it doesn’t do any good to compare two children. eren is louder than zeke ever was, more demanding of attention. eren acts out more, & eren loves so comfortably that it is hard to look in the eye.

zeke is a shrewd thing, sweet at the start & then sour. he does not love himself, does not love life. he does love the stories he tells, some of them macabre & fatalistic. he had always favored the stories of martyrs – &  it’s because of this that grisha had told him: son, we are not born to be idle. we are not going to sit & watch as the world goes by.

even if a portion of your life is ending, the world will not end. we are meant to be a part of it, & that is an effort that must be made. there is bad that befalls us, & there is more that you can do. what is the good of grieving ourselves? 

grisha has struggled with self-grief too, & so his spoken mantra  is meant to be a kindness. but zeke’s wavers anyway, looks stricken in the way that he always does.

zeke is grieving the loss of a team sport with no other team members here. 

grisha nods once as zeke concedes that he will seek re-enrollment in school, in next steps provided.

he knows he has fallen short in his reprimand. even still, he has learned some in separated years – so he pushes his fingers through his eldest son’s hair.

there is love there, even if it is foreign.

they won’t know how to speak to one another as men. 

‘ that will be fine, ‘ grisha says, & it’s the truest version of what he can say.