Kwanghee is fourteen years old when he and Taehee are put in different classes for the first time.
"Kwanghee," Taehee whines, tugging on his uniform sleeve. "3-A! Why did it have to be 3-A? I don't see you on the list, what class are you in?"
"Call me hyung, punk." Kwanghee smooths the shoulder of his button-up. "I'm in 1-A. We're two classrooms apart, Tae."
Tae swears—a teacher passes by and shoots him a dangerous glare. He bites his lip, bows his head.
"I'm sorry," Tae apologizes, and the teacher rolls her eyes and continues on her way. "Hyung, can you request to transfer? Or, shall I?"
"Can't we just bear with it for one year? We're together all the time; at school, at home. You even joined the same clubs as me. I'm worried that people will think we're the same person."
"No one will think we’re the same person, okay? I just feel weird about it—I don't know, it's like something’s wrong. Something bad might happen."
Tae is uncomfortable—his eyebrows knit together, cheeks stretched thin. He shuffles his feet like they’re crawling with bugs. Kwanghee pauses, inhales, stares.
"Listen to me, Lee Taehee. Nothing is going to happen. They're just different rooms. Do you hear me?"
"...I hear you, Hyung."
Kwanghee doesn’t give a shit about academics.
Tae is lightyears smarter—and more motivated—than him. He’ll be a brain surgeon one day, or an actual rocket scientist. Maybe a lawyer, like their parents. The whole world is at his little brother’s feet, and Kwanghee is content to watch his progress from the sidelines.
He’s always been more comfortable with a camera in his hands, anyway.
Kwanghee escapes through photography—there’s a certain sadness that comes from looking through the lens of a camera, a special kind of quiet melancholy. Pictures are still—a solitary cutout of a moment in the world, immortalized on resin-coated paper. If Kwanghee could do one thing with his life, he would take pictures.
“Tae, you’re going to join the photography club with me, aren’t you?”
“Of course. You’re going to lend me one of your cameras, right?”
Kwanghee flicks Tae’s forehead, glad his brother has forgotten his worries. “If you’re good.”
Tae adjusts to their separate classrooms better than anticipated—he makes a few friends right off the bat. Kwanghee isn’t surprised, because Tae has always been as charming as summer sunshine and as warm as the Indian Ocean. He’ll wave to Kwanghee in the halls when they pass each other, usually surrounded by giggling girls who tug on their short skirts and avoid direct eye contact. Tae has even garnered the respect of their upperclassmen in the photography club—less for his talent with snapping pictures and more for his bright, sweet smile.
Kwanghee knew there was nothing to worry about, that Tae was being paranoid. This separation is hard on both of them, even if Kwanghee tries not to show it. Everything is normal, and Tae is thriving on his own. Everything’s perfect.
Normal.
He notices something is wrong after a week.
The Monday after the semester begins, Tae doesn't show up for the club meeting. Kwanghee calls him, but the line rings and rings until it goes straight to voicemail.
It’s probably fine.
Tae might’ve gone to the library with his friends to do homework. Maybe he’s at the comic book store to buy the new volume he’s been anticipating. Tae will come to club tomorrow.
He doesn’t.
"Hey, Lee Kwanghee, is your brother coming?"
Namsook is an upperclassman that Kwanghee respects with all his heart—she’s a gifted photographer, and treats the club like other students treat university entrance exams. Namsook wears her camera on a strap around her neck, large glasses reflecting the club room.
"I don't know. He was already asleep when I got home yesterday, and he left early this morning. He isn’t answering his phone, either. I can't get a hold of him."
Namsook sighs. "I didn't want to say anything, but if Taehee isn't serious about the club, he should probably stop coming to meetings. He’s fun to be around, but he doesn’t take photography as seriously as you do. It's just a burden on everyone else, otherwise."
"I'll talk to him, sunbae. This isn't like him."
--- --- ---
Taehee is, however, completely fine when Kwanghee gets home that night.
“Whoops.” Tae grins. “I left my phone in my desk. I left right after school so I didn’t get your call.”
Kwanghee sets his textbooks back on the bookshelf of their shared room, crosses his arms. “Where did you go? And where were you yesterday?”
“Oh! I—went to dinner with some friends. Maybe I should have invited you! We were having such a good time I forgot to tell you I wouldn’t be at club.” Tae beams at him, and the warmth in his smile melts Kwanghee even now. “Sorry, Hyung. Forgive me? I’ll help you with your English homework.”
The tension bleeds from Kwanghee’s body. His shoulders slump, and the rigid line of his spine softens. “You went out to eat with friends?”
“Yeah.”
Thank god.
“Okay. You’ll let me know if something happens, right?”
“Of course,” Tae chirps, and that’s that.
He stops coming to club entirely at the end of the month.
Tae’s bright, sunlike countenance dims as the semester goes on. He starts walking through the halls alone, his gaggle of girls nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t smile or even wave if he sees Kwanghee between classes anymore, instead keeps his head down, his eyes on the ground. He’s asleep when Kwanghee gets home every night and gone every morning before the dawn. And then, when Kwanghee spies Tae hurrying to the restroom during lunch, he sees it.
An ugly, green bruise, blemishing the back of his neck and vanishing beneath his shirt collar.
Fuck no.
"Taehee-yah," Kwanghee begins over dinner that night, "is something happening at school?"
Tae drops the spicy rice cake in his chopsticks, and it smacks to the table. "What? No? Everything is fine."
Their parents are working late with clients, their high-profile client court dates only a few months away. It's a meager meal of street food, things Kwanghee picked up on his way home. Finding and convincing Tae to come back for dinner wasn’t hard, like he thought it would be. Tae had honestly looked…
Relieved?
"Are you sure, Taehee-yah?”
“Yup.”
“Is anything bothering you?"
He sniffs, and picks up another rice cake. "Not really."
"Is the homework hard?"
"It's fine."
"Are the kids nice?"
"Yeah." He shrugs. "Everything is great. Stop mothering me."
Kwanghee’s eyes lock onto a blooming, purple bruise that's not quite hidden by his sleeves. "Did you get hit?"
Tae bursts, and it’s with a tidal wave of anger, energy Kwanghee hadn’t anticipated. It shakes the whole house, hard and sudden, shocking.
"Shit, I said I'm fine, okay? I bumped into the wall on my way around a corner. Why can’t you stop asking me these stupid questions?"
“Tae—”
“Just—please, shut up and leave me the fuck alone.”
Tae is on his feet, stalking to the stairs. The house rattles again when he slams their bedroom door, and Kwanghee drops his head to his hands.
The next day Kwanghee hides Tae's shoes behind the television in their living room and leaves for school early. Tae might have to spend the whole morning looking, but Kwanghee knows he has to utilize this time. There’s a rage in the pit of his stomach, cold and heavy, and it’s eating him from the inside out. Soon there won’t be anything left.
Tae’s classroom is two doors away, and the hall is quiet in the early morning. A ghost town. Kwanghee scans the classroom from the door, looking over the neat rows of desks. The chalkboard has been wiped clean, and he takes in the particles of white, floating dust, caught in the air like snow on a spring day, made brilliant in the light.
Kwanghee’s eyes land on a desk in the last row, covered in dark, bold writing. It’s too far to read from here, but Kwanghee could recognize what this means anywhere. It's Tae's desk. His heart stops.
Something smacks the back of his head, hard.
"Hey, Lee Taehee. Are you fucking stupid? You’re blocking the door."
Kwanghee takes in the height of his attacker first—he’s built like a skyscraper, with shoulders as wide as a river. His bleached hair is the color of clover honey when Kwanghee squints against the harsh glare from the windows. His uniform is unbuttoned, and he wears an obscure band t-shirt underneath it like it's a crown, proof of his status.
He's flanked by two girls with skirts too short, giggling and whispering behind their hands. Kwanghee recognizes one of them from the group that followed Tae around the first week of school.
He grits his teeth.
"Lee Taehee, you aren't going to budge? How will Eunji get to her desk?"
But at that moment, the boy's eyes catch on Kwanghee’s name tag, and he blinks, the smirk fading from his face. His eyes narrow.
Kwanghee reads his as well, trembling hands tensing into fists.
“Gu Jaewook? Are you the asshole that's fucking with my brother?"
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