Himchan’s hand in mine, I tried another wary step into the world of makeup.

After confessing, much against my will caused heavily due to a prying Himchan, my attraction to Jaebum to my brother, he had made it a priority to get me what I wanted. His annoying younger brother’s happiness, he’d decided, was worth the time and effort.

Hands down, Himchan was the best brother.

My hand held firmly in his, we spent many lazy afternoons in his room, trying out products borrowed – and I used this term loosely, seeing as we didn’t bother attempt to save any – from his friends – female friends. To say at the least, our little experimentation came out as more of a success than it had when I’d tried during my littler days, grubby fingers dabbing away at the powders on my mother’s makeup table.

“Quit squirming!” I remember Himchan would laugh, slapping my upper arm – making the still remaining fat there jiggle disgustingly – before shoving me flat on my back onto the carpeted ground.

His slaps had always stung, but it didn’t keep me from laughing anyways, wiggling desperately in the high of the moment. “Stop tickling me then!”

Losing weight and drawing on my face, those had been the times where Himchan and I had gotten along the best.

Truth be told, he and I hadn’t always been the best of friends – we still aren’t. He’d always find something to nag at me about, poking me just where it hurts and with enough repetition to break me down into tears; then, and only then, would be come back, patting me lowly on the back with a chuckle. “I was only kidding.” Himchan was always just kidding. His dirty curses and physical abuse were nothing compared to what he could really do to me if so wanted.

While at times he acted just like a saint sent straight down from the heavens, at other points of the day, he’d find a way to make me regret every compliment I'd made.

Sometime during our misadventures, we’d even found a look for me that felt at least halfway decent.

What I didn’t know back during my baby days, I learned then, lending my face as a sketch book to my brother. You didn’t have to cut bones, grind cheek bones and stitch skin to make yourself look better. Make up was able to do just the same with less the pain and money.

Once we were done for the day, we’d always make sure to wipe my face clear of the substance, careful to not leave a single trace of our previous deed. It all seemed like a waste, washing off all the work we’d done to make myself look at least half way decent, but I wasn’t quite so sure of our physical wellbeing given our parents found out about our little past time.

I was almost sure another whooping would have been in store for us.