it’s a sin; junhong knows.

When I was born, in all my bald headed glory all babies were born in, Yongguk was six.

Wrapped gently in baby blue sheets, Yongguk, with his big ol’ hands - large enough to smooth along the full of my back - held me like he would an injured puppy. And in that instant, he smiled so radiantly that I, even now, can almost swear I remember. But that’s just not logical; no one can remember that far in the past.

Later, when I was a little more grown up, Mom used to sit by the corner of my bed on the days I was kept from school, sick and dysfunctional, with this queer bittersweet smile on her lips, and tell me all about how Yongguk used to take care of me.

Your first steps were to Yongguk.

When I took my first steps, Yongguk was learning his abc’s. He was studying, oh-so-diligently, for school (he had, after all, always been quite the scholar, never losing that spot at the top of class), when I’d made my first wobbly steps toward him, screeching much like that of a banshee. When he didn’t look my direction, didn’t give me the attention I wanted, apparently, I’d taken matters to my own hands.

When Yongguk ate dinner with his chopsticks, I demanded to do the same. With lame and uncoordinated fingers, I’d supposedly flung dinner all across the table and onto people’s faces and shirts (let’s not even start with how much a mess the wall’d become).

And even later, when I was intelligent enough to go shopping with mom and Yongguk, I’d chosen all my clothes to be the like of his, throwing the biggest tantrum when I didn’t get my way.

Now that I think back on it, Yongguk had sacrificed too much for the likes of me.

And that, that was why I sinned.

That was why I loved Yongguk in all the ways that a younger brother should not.