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Like most things, it started gradually, unnoticeable, irreparable. Without any say on the life lived and damage done.
From time to time, Zeke studies Eren.
It's been years since Zeke's seen his younger brother's face, and the dark, dull eyes that used to have that determined sheen completely disarmed him, like a creature of prey, prehistoric and antique amongst the apex predators and marks of evolving time. Eren was no longer so young. Time. Zeke had missed out on all the time of Eren's childhood and coming-of-age. Eren was this larger-than-life husk of a man, silent, opposing, ominous, grand. Zeke had previously been looking back on the past, chasing Grisha—that's right, Grisha, the one who caused Zeke's deep-rooted insecurity, Grisha, Eren had Grisha's eyes—but now, now he was looking back at his brother, while in his own perpetually bleak, stuck state, and it hit him, god, where did the time go?
He wanted so badly to be Eren's hero. Even more, he simply wanted to save Eren from the cycle of hurt. He wished he could have found him earlier. Wished he could have been there this whole time.
And now, in the Paths, there was nothing but time.
They sit together, silence stretching far and wide, liminality breathing in the man-made language of their hurt. Zeke would sometimes try to articulate his views, his philosophy, of the nature of hurt. Sometimes it went like I'm very sorry, or Can't you see I'm doing this for you? or perhaps he quoted something he had read in his studies like The dependency of one organic being on another, as of a parasite on its prey, lies generally between beings remote in the scale of nature. This is often the case with those which may strictly be said to struggle with each other for existence, as in the case of locusts and grass-feeding quadrupeds. But the struggle almost invariably will be most severe between the individuals of the same species, for they frequent the same districts, require the same food, and are exposed to the same dangers.
Glancing at his younger half-brother, Zeke feels a pang in his chest. How badly he wanted them to share these chains. Both out of love and hurt. But he wanted Eren to understand his love outweighed the hurt.
Eren, Grisha did this to us.
Eren, you don't have to hurt anymore.
Eren, we share all the same pain.
Eren, we feed on the same pain.
Eren, there is no one else who can understand me the way you do.
Eren, I understand. Please believe me when I say that.
Eren, I just don't want you to suffer anymore.
If they made contact, if they wished together to save the world from eating its own tail in destruction, perhaps there would be forgiveness for having existed, for having loved. But they were still stuck. Looking out across naked sand. Don't touch, this might be the end. Zeke gently tucks Eren's dark locks behind his ear, careful not to brush his fingers against his face for too long. A fleeting movement during waiting in the infinity. Does one second amount to anything at all? None of Zeke's paleontological and zoological studies ever gave him the answer his heart needed. It never fully provided with the exact human reasoning he so desperately wanted to understand and accept, that human nature could not only prevail but deserved to.
All Zeke knew was that it was at least meeting Eren and sharing with him his soul. He'd drain all of his being on command for it. He'd even do it unprovoked. Perhaps loving his brother was a suicidal mission in that sense. "But even with your flaws, part of me is healed."
And I miss you all of the time.
In the case of varieties of the same species, the struggle will generally be almost equally severe, and we sometimes see the contest soon decided: for instance, if several varieties of wheat be sown together, and the mixed seed be resown, some of the varieties which best suit the soil or climate, or are naturally the most fertile, will beat the others and so yield more seed, and will consequently in a few years quite supplant the other varieties. To keep up a mixed stock of even such extremely close varieties as the variously coloured sweet-peas, they must be each year harvested separately, and the seed then mixed in due proportion, otherwise the weaker kinds will steadily decrease in numbers and disappear.
Arguing with Eren was never fun.
Zeke knew Eren was mad when he sharply turned his head away. He was an expert at the silent treatment, something that sent Zeke's nervous system into overdrive since it was the exact same tactic Grisha would use. In return, Zeke realized his tells were the quiet sigh he'd drawn out, like he was exhaling cigarette smoke, or Eren's own presence. He'd rub his temples, more weariness than overt frustration. Another habit from Grisha. They had both inherited such small tics from him, and such grand doom. Karmic tension resting in silence. Zeke believed in mortality as the greatest truth. Eren believed in cheating fate. They came from the same dirt but mixed like oil and water.
"I don't think you know me as much as you think you do," Eren snapped, and Zeke's heart panged with hurt, though he saw in Eren's eyes a mix of truth and regret as soon as he said it. Of course, Zeke couldn't ignore the reality of it all for too long.
When Zeke sees Grisha's memories, it dawns on him just how much he projected, how much he had assumed based on his own miserable existence. Before he felt relief he felt jealousy, like a knife twisting everything pure within him into a black pool of pathetic longing and regret. Every warm glance, every miniscule display of affection, Eren had everything Zeke wanted. Funny how love was the ultimate killer. Perhaps it was meant to be; they weren't meant to be mixed because... because why? They couldn't share the same childhood because then Grisha would have no one to sacrifice. Grisha would have no one to mourn and make him a better man. Zeke would have no reason for sacrifice, no one to mourn and make him a better man. The cyclical return of finding kin and returning home, spirals from parallel points lost in space. Half-brothers. Brothers mixed with the same father-blood. Sewn from his skin. Brothers sewn and etched into each other. A mix of ancient, royal blood yearning for ritual return, for the womb, giving up identity and ego for the perfection of nonexistence, versus fresh blood, yearning, spilling and denying, the avenger and the punisher. Half-blood, and half something else. The conflict of Cain and Abel. You want to destroy the thing you love most. Bloodline shrinking smaller and smaller. Unknown love language and distance between father and son. Meet me halfway there. Meet me at the end. Break the chains, mend the headless Apparition. Please, love is a two-laned street. Meet me halfway there. Better to die together and damned and extinct than alone.
"Tell me," Zeke begs, "do you see any future for us whatsoever?" What are the answers? What did it all mean?
There's a pained look on Eren's face. He didn't nearly know the answers as much as he pretended.
It's only later when Eren speaks with softness.
I'm sorry about dad. And, You deserve better.
Zeke adjusts his glasses. "Well, it's all alright."
"No, it's not."
Lifting his head up, he gazes into Eren's eyes a bit longer.
"You're right that we're together now. Let's just drop it." A pause. "You're still my brother, after all."
So again with the varieties of sheep: it has been asserted that certain mountain-varieties will starve out other mountain-varieties, so that they cannot be kept together. The same result has followed from keeping together different varieties of the medicinal leech. It may even be doubted whether the varieties of any one of our domestic plants or animals have so exactly the same strength, habits, and constitution, that the original proportions of a mixed stock could be kept up for half a dozen generations, if they were allowed to struggle together, like beings in a state of nature, and if the seed or young were not annually sorted.
Is it better to die? Truly better?
The one solace was that simply, they were together. Sure, there wasn't much of anywhere to go, but Eren could have easily walked off, wandered around in the Paths. But he stayed with Zeke, sitting by his side. Zeke caught him observing Ymir Fritz with saddened eyes. They would soften after some time, and he'd start to absentmindedly play with the sand around them, letting the grains slip through his fingers.
The day he made Zeke smile was when he silently began to cover Zeke's hand with sand. Eren had barely any expression, but there was almost a playfulness in which he did it, like a silent apology. Zeke couldn't be mad at him; that's his little brother. Zeke chuckled softly. Eren then pushed some sand toward him, and before Zeke knew it, they were quietly building a sandcastle together. The way Eren sat was very reminiscent of Zeke's own childhood, sitting quietly and playing by himself. But of course, it was two of them now. Life was going to go on, because life has no interest in dying prematurely. That would go against the natural order.
"Goddamn it," Zeke muttered lightheartedly, "you beat me to the punch."