Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s a bakery between Grisha’s clinic and his home. Carla almost never passes it without buying anything since Eren is obsessed with everything it has. 

A birthday cake was on display, right on the center of the window and a big ‘50% off’ banner next to it. It's a chocolate cake, or at least it has chocolate cream and chocolate sprinkles around it. The kind of cake Eren wouldn't stop eating unless Carla put it on the highest shelf. 

Zeke’s birthday was just around the corner, the realization hits like a wave crashing on a rocky shore. His stomach drops. Grisha marked the date with a red marker in his calendar in the basement, since he couldn’t mark the main calendar in the living room. 

Zeke was born with the first sunrise of August. His cries were loud and he looked like a perfect copy of his mom. His hair was straight and thin as a newborn. Grisha noticed later that while most of his hair is still straight, the ends started curling. By the time he started his Warrior training, it’s curly unlike Grisha’s and Dina’s. 

He wonders how Zeke’s hair feels like now. He used to stroke his head a lot when he was a baby. As he got older, Grisha noticed how happy the gesture made Zeke. The way his eyes sparkled and a tiny, barely-there smile formed in his lips. He looks significantly younger with that smile. 

Grisha realized how much this little gesture means to Zeke, so he saved it as a reward when his son achieved something significant. Like that time when he got the highest score in his written test. What kind of test is it? Warrior program entrance? He couldn’t remember. He also couldn't the last time he stroked the boy’s head.

Well he’s no longer a boy now. He’s 17.

There are moments when Grisha feels like he could see his son in the periphery of his sight. Like a ghost, pleading for him to look his way. When a teenager around that age passed by, he couldn’t help but stare. Is that how Zeke looks like now? How tall is Zeke now? Has he passed his father’s height? 

The last time Grisha saw him, Zeke hadn't had his growth spurt yet. He was a little short for his age, but both his parents are quite tall, so he’s probably much taller now. Both his height and weight used to concern Grisha, because it affects his physical strength. And if his physical strength isn’t enough, he can’t be the person he’s destined to be. 

When he watched Eren eat his favorite food, he tried to remember what Zeke’s favorite food was. Nothing came up. Eren would grin brightly, remnants of Carla’s stew in his cheeks, loudly asking for seconds. Has Zeke ever done that? 

He was a quiet eater, not even his utensils made sounds. Dina often ensured he had a balanced meal, rich in protein and fiber, as he tended to eat in small portions. And quickly, so he can get back to his studies as soon as possible.

Studying is all that boy does. Back when he’s younger, the three of them used to take walks. It’s not always a nice experience. People often threw them dirty looks, dirty water, rotten food. Grisha almost can feel the weight of the small body in his arm, the warmth, and how his son nestled his tiny head against his shoulder for protection.

Shadis asked him once, completely unprompted, “What’s your biggest regret?” They’re both so drunk they could barely keep their heads upright, and he answered, “I wish I spent more time playing with my son.”

Grisha didn’t get to experience that as a child. He remembers how his dad often put his big hand on Grisha’s head to keep him focused on the book in front of him. Later, when he became a dad, he did it to Zeke. Holding his head down, gripping his stiff shoulder. 

“You play with Eren a lot’” slurred Shadis.

Not this one, Grisha almost slipped. No matter how tired he gets at the end of the day, Grisha always tries to spend time with Eren. At least asking about his day. Eren would proudly show his bruised knuckles, saying he protected Armin from some bullies. “Good job,” Grisha would say. Carla always scolded him for encouraging Eren’s behavior, but he thought about his other son, whom he never praised.

"He’s trying his best," Dina always pleaded.

Zeke's best was never enough. 

Eren couldn't sit still for too long, he likes running around. He likes playing hide-and-seek too. Grisha had no idea what kind of games Zeke liked. He had this animal doll, but Grisha can’t quite remember what animal it is. Goat? Monkey? Horse? He can't run very fast, he often gets left behind during training. In retrospect, it's not that big of a deal. Grisha didn't know why it used to make him so mad.

Grisha tried to give Eren all the things he didn't give Zeke. Eren's birthdays are always celebrated with cakes and candles. Grisha tucked him in at night, praised him for little things, and spent time with him.

But Eren is not Zeke, and there's no way to turn back time to tell Zeke all the things he didn't say. Does Zeke even know that his dad loves him?

If Zeke could see him now, would he be relieved that Grisha treated his brother better? Zeke would love Eren; there's no doubt about that. Or would he despise Grisha, knowing he's capable of being a half-decent father but never tried for him?

Feeling like he has been in front of the building staring at the window for too long, Grisha decided to get inside. He wondered if he should take the chocolate cake. Eren definitely would like it. But it’s Zeke’s birthday and it feels wrong to buy something Eren likes on Zeke’s birthday. Not that Grisha knows what kind of cake Zeke likes. Does he even like cakes? Does he ever?

“This tiny cake, please.” It's a cup-sized cake. He just chose it because it’s the closest to him. He feels stained, as though lifting his finger is a task too heavy.

“That one's vanilla, with chocolate cream.”

“Okay.” Doesn’t matter how it tastes. Even if it is delicious, Zeke would never taste it.

“Just one?” 

He ordered a few more, and asked for separate bags so Eren or Carla wouldn't accidentally take it. He put the small cake inside his portmanteau.

At home, he put them on the dining table and went straight to the basement. 

It’s almost like a ritual for him. Every year on Zeke's birthday, Grisha locks himself in the basement. He can't talk to anyone, and there's no boy to congratulate. So he just sat there, looking at that old family photograph. The only one he has.

The cake he bought is already smashed, the cream spread all over the box. He couldn’t bring himself to even touch it. Maybe he’ll give it to Eren before it gets bad. Or maybe he just let it rot.

Tomorrow, after morning arrives, he’ll go upstairs. Eren would probably sleep with Carla, either in his bed or theirs. Grisha would squeeze himself to the bed, stroke that little head, kiss both foreheads, and force himself to sleep.

Behind his eyelid, he’d see a tall, lanky teen. His curly, blonde hair hides his face. Pointing at Grisha with a blank face.