A/N: Up now is young Sven. He's a little mature for his age, with reason, but I hope I still made him kid-like...maybe.

Warning: he didn't grow up easy...

Chapter 03 - Weak

A baby cried for what felt like the twentieth time. Sven Nass brought a hand to his head, staring at his math homework. The crying continued.

"Dad!" he yelled. "I think Jakob's hungry! …Dad!"

"Quiet, Boy!" His father's voice boomed from another room.

Sven slammed his pencil down. He wasn't a boy; he had just turned ten today, a preteen. Not that the man cared to remember his birthday.

"Will you shut that brat up?" his father added.

It wasn't a question, and Sven knew better than to remain seated. The redhead huffed, head throbbing from his brother's cries, then left the kitchen. He entered the living room with his eyes set on the sour-smelling man slumped in a recliner.

"He's right beside you, ya know?" Sven asked.

His father kept watching TV and scratched his bubble gut. "Not my job."

"You're the grown-up."

"Would you rather I shut him up?"

A jolt ran through Sven as his eyes fell on a purple spot on his forearm. He swallowed hard, praying the man didn't notice. Luckily, his father kept drinking from a beer bottle, so the redhead moved towards the pack-and-play without fear. A baby sobbed in it, eyes puffy and red like his onesie. Sven leaned over—a hard task at his height—then picked up his brother.

"I have fractions to solve, Jakob," he said.

Jakob didn't care. He only wanted food and he squirmed in his brother's hold until the weight almost become too much to handle.

"Alright, Jak. I'm going."

If anything, at least the baby no longer ate formula. Sven could easily remember how nasty it tasted that one time his mother had spilled it and it got in his mouth…

"I had some cheese and crackers for dinner," Sven said. "How's that sound?"

The ten-year-old slipped his brother into a highchair in the kitchen, next to the table. After a quick look through the pantry then fridge, Sven had a complete meal. Well, sort'a.

"Will you eat any greens tonight?"

Jakob looked up, rosy cheeks overstuffed with crackers, and scrunched his nose.

"They're good, though. Mom used to make them for me all the time before…" Sven sighed. "Guess that's my job now."

"Hey, Boy! Get me another!"

Ugh, the lazy ass. When will we ever get his own stuff?

Sven rolled his eyes, but opened the fridge anyway. Inside was full of bottles in many colors and a milk carton with an old date. He reached for the center shelf, where the green bottles were. Tonight, Heineken was the drink of choice.

Never forget to pay attention to that.

"Here," Sven told his father.

He offered the cold bottle, which the man took without any thanks. Sven watched him chug it, running a foot over the bottles that littered the floor around the recliner.

"How many have you had?" he asked.

His father belched. "None of your business, Whelp."

"You said you'd let up today. I have a test tomorrow. You…you promised to help."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did! Last night, after I put Jak to bed."

"Are you callin' me a liar?"

The man turned in his seat. A bad sign. Sven stepped backwards before their eyes connected and moved his arm all too late. His father caught him with large hands—right over his bruise. Sven flinched at the sudden pain, yet refused to kneel.

"I asked if you're callin' me a liar, Boy."

Alcohol smelt worse coming from someone's mouth. It made Sven gag then turn his head.

"Don't look away when asked a question," his father spat. Strong fingers gripped Sven's chin, forcing him to look into the man's unfocused eyes. "God. With such weak kids, it's no wonder your mother left."

"Mom left because she couldn't stand your stench anymore!"

Hot pain spread across Sven's face. He twisted then hit the floor, head banging against some empty beer bottles. Something bitter filled his mouth as he rolled on his side. Blood? The redhead spit then rubbed his fingers over his mouth. Yeah, definitely blood.

"Don't you ever disrespect me like that again! Understood?"

Slurred or not, his father's words still made Sven shiver. He hesitated before lifting off the ground and kept a straight face when he looked up. The man was colored red, especially at the ears and nose, and he wobbled on the leg that kept him up.

"Sven! Understood?"

"Understood," Sven grumbled.

"What was that?"

"Understood," Sven said, louder.

His father nodded then fell back into his recliner with a grunt. "Good. Now clean up this beer you made me spill, get me another drink, and for the love of God, stop that damn kid's crying!"

Jakob was crying again? Sure enough, his whines came from the kitchen. He hadn't fallen out of his seat again, had he? Chest tight, Sven scrambled up and dashed towards his brother. The baby was still in the highchair, but kept making noise until Sven came close.

The redhead let out a big breath. "Don't scare me like that."

Jakob sniffled, reaching for his big brother's shit. Sven caught his tiny hand and pushed it back.

"Don't touch that," he said. "It's blood."

Jakob stared up with clueless blue eyes.

"Don't worry, Jak. You won't see much more of it. Promise." Sven smiled, although inside he felt heated.

That's right; he wouldn't stay small and weak forever. One day, he'd be able to swing back. Maybe then his father would understand how it felt to be trapped…

A/N: There's a reason this guy grows up to be so distant from others. Blah. I got the next five drabbles planned. But again, if you have questions about these characters, leave 'em in a review. C: