Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When you grow up in a dysfunctional family, it shows. It really shows.

Yoojin isn’t sure how, exactly. Not like a scraped knee or a missing tooth. It’s not like anyone points and says, “Look, there goes the kid whose dad forgot his birthday last year,” or “Wow, check out that guy who keeps his dinner money to buy his little brother snacks instead.”

But it shows.

Maybe it shows in how he’s standing on tiptoe at the stove, trying to make scrambled eggs without burning them or himself, humming this half-song their mom used to sing; only, she never finished it. He doesn't know the words. Just the way her voice used to catch on the same note, soft and far away, like she was only half-there when she sang it.

“Can I stir?”

Yoohyun’s beside him on a little plastic stool, gripping it with his toes like a baby bird perched too high. His cheeks are pink from leaning too close to the stove, and his sleeves are pushed up like he means business. He's holding a wooden spoon in both hands, looking at Yoojin like it's the most important job in the world.

“You can stir,” Yoojin says, and moves the pan off the heat first, because he’s not going to let Yoohyun burn his fingers on his watch. He knows things. He read the box directions.

Yoohyun stirs with the full-body concentration of someone entrusted with a nation’s fate. He bites his bottom lip. The eggs squelch around the pan like yellow clouds.

Yoojin doesn’t tell him it looks kind of weird. Or that he used too much milk.

They're alone today. Again. But that’s not weird. They’re usually alone. The fridge has a note on it in their mom’s handwriting. Something about coming back soon. A promise, sort of.

Yoojin didn’t really read the whole thing. He just checked the important part: that it said back soon, and not don’t wait up.

He doesn’t tell Yoohyun that part either.

“We should make rice,” Yoohyun says, still stirring the same spot in the pan like he’s trying to create a whirlpool.

“We don’t have rice,” Yoojin replies. Then, because that sounds a little sad, he adds, “We can have toast.”

“Oh,” Yoohyun says. “I like toast.”

Yoojin does too, when it’s not moldy. He made sure this bread wasn’t moldy. He checked every slice. Like a grown-up. Like someone who knows things.

Yoohyun climbs down from the stool after he’s declared the eggs “done,” and Yoojin helps him plate it without touching the hot parts. They sit at the little table by the window, knees knocking together. The table still has glitter on it from some old craft kit Yoohyun had half-used last month. It sparkles when the sun hits it, like a fake kind of magic.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. No TV, no music. Just the tap-drip in the kitchen and the soft clinking of spoons.

Yoohyun swings his legs while he eats, mouth full, content like he doesn’t know anything is wrong at all. And maybe that’s the whole point. Yoojin wants it to stay that way.

He eats slow. There’s not much on his plate.

The note on the fridge flutters a little when the heater kicks on. Yoojin doesn’t look at it.

He hums the half-song again instead.

...

The next morning, Yoojin gets up before the sun.

It’s not because of an alarm; he doesn’t use one anymore. His body just knows. There’s a certain kind of quiet that means the day hasn’t started yet, but it will soon, and if he doesn’t move fast, everything will fall apart before it even begins.

The kitchen smells like eggs from yesterday. His wrist still smells faintly like dish soap.

The fridge hums behind him while he packs lunches. One slice of ham each. Two jelly sandwiches. A juice box and one yogurt cup, which Yoohyun always says he doesn’t like but finishes anyway.

He checks the expiration dates. He always checks.

Their shoes are by the door, a little crooked. His are starting to tear at the toe. Yoohyun’s still have the dinosaur laces, one frayed, but he won’t let Yoojin swap them out.

Yoohyun’s jacket is inside out on the couch. His backpack, blue with peeling sticker residue from a character he can’t remember anymore, is slouched against the wall, unzipped.

Yoojin zips it up. Doesn’t say anything.

“Hyung,” comes the small voice from the hallway, groggy and drahging. “My socks are gone.”

Yoojin pulls a clean pair from the laundry basket, even though they don’t match. One’s yellow. The other has a red stripe near the toe. They’ll work.

Yoohyun waddles over in his pajama pants, hair pointing in five directions, eyes squinty. He walks straight into Yoojin like a cat, pressing his forehead against his stomach, silent.

Yoojin runs a hand through his hair once, maybe twice, before tugging him gently toward the bathroom. “Brush your teeth first.”

“Cold,” Yoohyun mutters, but goes.

Yoojin brushes his own teeth at the kitchen sink, because there’s only one stool and Yoohyun uses it. The toothbrush cup clinks when he sets it down. He finishes dressing in the living room: shirt, hoodie, jeans that are too long at the ankles. He has to roll them.

The hallway clock ticks too loud. It’s always done that. He doesn’t remember when.

When Yoohyun’s finally ready, he’s holding Yoojin’s hand automatically. Still a little wobbly from sleep.

“Lunch is in your bag,” Yoojin says.

“Yogurt?”

“You’ll eat it.”

“...Okay.”

Yoojin shrugs on his own bag, then Yoohyun’s, adjusting the straps so it doesn’t slide off his tiny shoulders.

The front door still creaks when it opens. He pulls it shut behind them, turning the knob slowly to keep it from slamming. The air outside is cold. It wakes them both up a little more.

They walk in silence for the first few blocks, shoes tapping against the sidewalk in uneven rhythm. The world is a little damp, squishy, its been raining non-stop for weeks, their umbrella ended up broken after he had picked up Yoohyun from school. 

Yoojin keeps glancing over his shoulder, as if expecting to see their parents’ car parked somewhere, headlights off, door open like they just came back in the middle of the night.

He doesn’t see anything.

Yoohyun tugs his hand once. “Hyung?”

“Yeah?”

“I dreamed you were a dragon,” he says, very serious. “You had wings. And fire breath. But you didn’t burn anything.”

Yoojin blinks. “That’s cool.”

“You carried me on your back,” Yoohyun says, smiling now. “We flew away.”

Yoojin doesn’t answer at first. He just squeezes Yoohyun’s hand a little tighter.

He doesn’t say it, but he hopes that if they keep walking, if they go to school like normal, if they eat their lunches and come home on time, maybe this time, the note on the fridge will be true.

Maybe someone will be there.

...

Yoojin gets home first. He always does.

The key is cold in his hand, a little too big for his fingers, and he fumbles with it longer than usual. The door opens before he can turn it fully.

Their mother is there.

She smiles, wide and sharp like a slice of orange, and says, “There you are.”

Yoojin stares. She’s still in her work clothes, hair pinned too tight, lipstick slightly smudged at the corner. His father’s behind her, sitting at the kitchen table, eyes on something Yoojin can’t see.

The note’s gone from the fridge.

“Oh,” Yoojin says. It’s all he can say.

“Look how big you’re getting,” she says, as if he’s a nephew visiting for the holidays. She puts a hand on his shoulder, too firm, like she's reassuring herself. “You’ve grown, haven’t you?”

“I… guess?”

She laughs. His father chuckles too, even though he hasn't looked up yet. Yoojin’s not sure they heard what he said.

“Did you get your brother off to school alright?” his mother asks. Her hand lingers, then pulls away like she's just remembered something urgent she forgot on the stove.

“Yeah,” Yoojin replies. “I always do.”

She doesn't answer that.

The kitchen smells like coffee, but not food. The lunch Yoojin packed for Yoohyun this morning is still sitting in the sink, unopened and soggy in the lunchbox. He doesn’t mention it.

Instead, he stands awkwardly near the door, gripping the strap of his backpack.

Yoohyun doesn’t get out for another hour. He checks the clock. Plenty of time, but the weight in his stomach is crawling up toward his throat.

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks. “To get Yoohyun?”

His voice is small but steady. His eyes flick between the two of them.

They don’t look up.

His mom is already halfway down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “Maybe later, sweetie.” His dad rubs at his temple and mutters something that sounds like “next time.”

There is no later. There is no next time.

Yoojin waits for five minutes in the hallway, just in case.

Then ten.

Then twenty. The heater kicks on and the hum of it fills the space where voices should go.

When it’s finally time to leave, he doesn’t say goodbye.

...

Yoohyun runs into his arms when he sees him, clutching Yoojin’s waist like he’s been gone for days instead of hours.

“Hyung! I drew a frog!” he announces. His backpaack is lopsided again, paper sticking out like a tongue.

Yoojin nods, tucks the paper in, fixes the strap. He doesn’t mention their parents. Not yet.

They walk home together. Yoohyun chatters the whole time about crayons and milk cartons and a kid named Jaemin who lost a tooth during music class. Yoojin nods where it fits, hums softly when it doesn’t.

The front door is locked.

He knows it before he even checks, but he still rattles the knob like maybe this time, maybe-

There’s a jar just to the side. Not hidden, not obvious. Right where it always is when they leave for “longer than just a night.”

Inside: crumpled bills, loose coins. Enough for bread. Maybe milk.

Yoohyun’s hand tightens in his. He doesn’t ask anything, but his mouth is a line and his frog drawing is wrinkling in his grip.

Yoojin picks up the jar with one hand and unlocks the door with the other.

Inside, the table’s empty. The coffee smell is gone. The fridge is humming too loudly again.

“Let’s have toast,” Yoojin says.

Yoohyun doesn’t answer, just follows him inside and shuts the door behind them like he always does. Like it’s routine. Like it’s home.

Chapter Text

It’s raining again.

Yoohyun bounces beside him, rubber boots squeaking with every step, the umbrella wobbling over both their heads. He keeps tilting it toward Yoojin, trying to be helpful, but Yoojin’s already soaked from the elbows down and doesn’t say anything.

“You’re getting wet,” Yoohyun says, frowning.

“I’m waterproof,” Yoojin replies.

Yoohyun doesn’t laugh - he’s starting to get old enough to tell when Yoojin is joking and when he’s just pretending to. Still, he leans closer so more of the umbrella covers his brother. It means Yoojin has to walk sideways with his backpack at an awkward angle. But he doesn’t complain.

After school, they stop by the convenience store. Yoojin checks his wallet when Yoohyun isn’t looking: 3,000 won. Enough for fish cakes and maybe triangle kimbap if he skips dinner himself.

He lets Yoohyun pick a warm oden stick and hands over the coins like it doesn’t matter. “I’ll eat later,” he says when Yoohyun offers to share. “You’re the growing one.”

Yoohyun looks at him, quiet. Yoojin doesn’t meet his eyes.

That night, Yoohyun wakes up thrashing.

“Hyung,” he sniffles, tugging at Yoojin’s blanket, “the monster came back.”

Yoojin blinks awake instantly, dragging himself out of the futon with a grunt and crawling under Yoohyun’s bed on instinct. It’s a tight squeeze - he’s grown again - but he checks every corner anyway. He knocks on the wall for good measure.

“No monsters,” he reports, brushing dust from his cheek. “I chased them away.”

Yoohyun still looks scared, so Yoojin lies down beside him and pulls the blanket up to both their chins.

“I thought you were gonna eat later,” Yoohyun whispers.

“I did,” Yoojin lies. His stomach growls loudly right after.

Yoohyun scowls. “You said you’re waterproof. Not emptystomach-proof.”

“...It’s a limited-time power,” Yoojin mutters, embarrassed.

There’s silence between them, broken only by the tapping of rain against the window. Then Yoohyun scoots closer, fists full of blanket, and whispers, “Next time I see the monster, I’ll scare it for you.”

Yoojin closes his eyes, chest tight.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice barely there. “But I’ll scare it first.”

...

They say things when they think he’s not listening.

"That boy’s too much work for just one kid to handle."

"Poor Yoojin. Just a kid himself, and he’s already ruined his chances."

"Should’ve left the younger one with the state. What does a thirteen-year-old know about raising anyone?"

He hears them. He hears all of it.

Yoohyun is silent behind the bathroom door, frustrated about...something. Maybe homework, or spilled milk, or nightmares, Yoojin doesn’t even know anymore. His ears are ringing from everything else.

He stands in the hallway, fists clenched at his sides, the walls too close, the air too loud.

He can’t do this.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but the thought comes anyway, cold and quiet:

“I could leave.”

Just go. Just walk down the stairs, out the door, and keep walking. Someone else will help. Someone better. Someone adult. Someone who won’t snap and yell and make Yoohyun flinch. Someone who won’t forget about the wet laundry until it smells. Someone who won’t cry in the kitchen at night when no one is watching.

He could leave. He’s only thirteen. Isn’t he allowed to leave?

But then he remembers Yoohyun, small and blinking up at him, asking if monsters are real.

And Yoojin had told him: “Not while I’m here.”

Except, he clenched his fists tighter - what if that wasn’t true?

What if the monster’s already inside the apartment?

He’d yelled yesterday. Not even real yelling, but that short, sharp voice that made Yoohyun curl in on himself like a cornered dog. He hadn’t meant to. He never means to.

But Yoohyun still said sorry like he did something wrong. Like he was the one who failed.

Yoojin presses his back to the wall and slides down, knees drawn up. The building hums around him - pipes, footsteps above, the dull whir of a fridge. Inside the bathroom, Yoohyun’s sniffles turn into silence.

Yoojin breathes through his teeth. Shaky. Shamed.

How is he supposed to fight the monsters,
when the monster is him?

The door creaks open.

Yoohyun stands there with downcast eyes. His voice is barely a whisper: “Are you mad?”

Yoojin stares at him. His chest burns.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says, voice raw. “I’m just tired.”

Yoohyun nods like he understands, then walks over and sits beside him on the floor, leaning his small shoulder into Yoojin’s side.

The toothbrush is sticky with paste, and Yoojin’s shirt gets stained.

He doesn’t move away.

...

“Hyung,” Yoohyun says one night, voice muffled under the blanket, “what would it be like if we had a mom?”

Yoojin doesn’t answer right away. He almost can't.  The implication that they don't have a mom almost makes Yoojin want to scream. because they don't, not in any way that matters at least. His hands are still damp from doing the dishes, a towel slung over his shoulder. The TV hums softly in the corner, some rerun with canned laughter they’re both ignoring.

Yoohyun peeks out. “Do you think she’d pack us lunch?”

“…Maybe.” Yoojin clears his throat. “She’d probably cut your apple slices into bunny shapes, or whatever.”

“And what about a dad?” Yoohyun asks.

Yoojin shrugs. “He’d yell if we left the lights on.”

Yoohyun laughs, and that’s that. 

The next day, Yoojin wakes him up early with a burnt piece of toast and a pencil behind his ear.

“Your mom said you gotta brush your hair or she’ll cry,” he says in a dramatic voice, gently tugging a comb through Yoohyun’s mess of cowlicks.

Yoohyun giggles, clapping like it’s a performance.

At lunch, Yoojin opens Yoohyun’s bag to show he packed one triangle kimbap and a juice box with a scribbled note:
“-From Management”

That night, Yoojin reads a bedtime story with the voice of a tired cartoon dad. Yoohyun laughs so hard he hiccups.

But when he finally falls asleep, Yoojin sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the wall.

Because tomorrow he won’t have time to play pretend. There’s no one else to wash the dishes, or go to the parent-teacher meeting, or pay the gas bill before it gets shut off again.

His throat burns. He wipes his eyes on the same towel from the night before.

He wishes he could do it again tomorrow.

He wishes he didn’t have to.

.

It starts with a spoon.

Yoohyun’s supposed to be rinsing it. Yoojin is watching the pot soak.

Instead, Yoohyun flicks the spoon and sends a soapy splash right into Yoojin’s face.

There’s a pause.

Yoojin stares at him.

Yoohyun blinks innocently.

“You wanna die?” Yoojin deadpans.

Yoohyun shrieks - delighted - and tries to run, but he slips on the wet floor and crashes into the sink with a loud thud.

Yoojin throws a sponge at him. It hits the back of Yoohyun’s head with a satisfying squish.

“Target neutralized,” Yoojin says in a fake radio voice.

“Allies inbound!” Yoohyun yells, grabbing the dish soap bottle and squeezing it like a water gun.

The floor turns into a battlefield. Bubbles fly. One of the forks goes missing entirely. The counter is an active war zone.

By the time they’re done, everything is soaked. Including them.

“You’re cleaning this up,” Yoojin pants, sitting on the floor in defeat.

“You’re older,” Yoohyun grins, eyes twinkling. “That’s your job.”

Yoojin flicks him in the forehead.

“Then go to bed early, like a good civilian.”

“Make me.”

“I will.”

And he does. Towel-dried hair, pajama shirt on backwards, tucked in by someone still dripping dishwater from his sleeves.

Their dishes are still dirty.
Their floor is a mess.
The kitchen light flickers like it’s about to go out for good.

But Yoohyun’s giggles echo down the hall, and Yoojin thinks - for one small, slippery moment -
We’re okay.

...

The backpack is too big.

Yoohyun tries, really. He hikes the straps up to his ears and leans forward like that’ll keep him from toppling over. But it keeps sliding off one shoulder, bumping into his knees as he walks. He huffs, stubborn, red in the face.

Yoojin watches from behind, silent.

He waits until Yoohyun stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, arms windmilling, and that’s it - he steps forward, unclips the pack in one motion, and slings it over his own shoulder without looking down.

“I’m not carrying this every day,” he says flatly, even though he already has. Every day this week. Every day this year.

Yoohyun doesn’t argue, just looks at him like he hung the stars. Like even when he stumbles, Yoojin will catch the sky for him.

Yoojin says nothing else the whole walk home, because if he does, he might cry.

That night, they go through their usual routine. Dinner. Toothbrushing. Yoohyun doing a weird little dance as he dries his face on Yoojin’s towel.

“Alright, get in bed,” Yoojin says, flicking the lights in the hallway off behind them.

Yoohyun’s already in his blanket burrito when he asks, “Hyung? Can you turn the light off?”

Yoojin blinks. The switch is right by Yoohyun’s bed.

“You’re literally two feet away-”

“But you’re better at it,” Yoohyun says, serious.

Yoojin stares, then sighs like this is the greatest burden in the world. He walks over and flicks the switch.

The room dims. Yoohyun smiles. “ Night.”

Yoojin stands in the dark a second longer than he needs to.

“Night, brat.”

...

The phone rings the next afternoon. Yoojin had just walked through the door, having left school early due to a job offering to mow someone's lawn. Except ot had to be within an hour, done a specific way, and he had to bring his own equipment. They paid really well, so Yoojin can't find it in himself to seriously complain about it.

Yoohyun got into a scuffle at school. Nothing major. Words were exchanged, someone pushed someone else.

“He said you weren’t a real family,” Yoohyun explains later, sitting on the futon with his fists clenched and eyes down.

“He said you were just a kid with a kid.”

Yoojin stares at him, the breath knocked out of him like a punch to the gut.

“You hit him?”

Yoohyun nods. “Only once.”

“You can’t do that,” Yoojin says quietly.

“I didn’t want to make it harder,” Yoohyun mumbles. “I didn’t want you to be mad.”

Yoojin drops to a crouch in front of him, reaching out before he even thinks. His hands are too big, too clumsy, but they hold Yoohyun’s like they’re breakable.

“I’m not mad,” he says, voice rough. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Yoohyun’s lip trembles. He lunges forward and wraps his arms around Yoojin’s neck in a tight, wordless hug.

And Yoojin - thirteen years old and no idea what he’s doing - just holds him there.

He’s not a parent. He’s barely a brother. He’s got holes in his socks and overdue utility bills on the table and no idea what tomorrow will look like.

But Yoohyun is breathing against his shoulder. Safe.

And Yoojin thinks maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

The hospital smells like metal and lemons. The bright lights overhead causes a stabbing ache on the side of his head.

Yoojin keeps his hands in his pockets because they’re shaking, and he doesn’t want the nurse to notice. He’s not supposed to be here alone. He knows that. The clipboard in front of him knows that too.

Guardian’s name:

The pen hovers.

He could write his father's name. He could lie. But they’d probably ask to see him. They always do.

Yoohyun is sitting two chairs away in the waiting room, swinging his legs, his right knee wrapped in a towel from home. The towel is already spotted pink where the blood soaked through. He keeps glancing up every few seconds, like he’s afraid Yoojin will disappear if he looks away too long.

Yoojin looks back down at the form.

He writes his own name.

Han Yoojin.

He hesitates again at Relation to patient:

Brother.

He writes Brother.

He can feel the nurse’s eyes on him, the kind where they pretend not to be judging but definitely are. He presses the clipboard back toward her, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

She takes it. Looks it over. Her lips pinch a little when she gets to the blank guardian section. “Your parents aren’t here?”

“They’re… busy,” he says. The lie sounds thin, even to him.

She hums, slow and skeptical. “You’re how old?”

“Fourteen.”

There’s a pause that stretches too long. She looks past him, toward Yoohyun, who’s now fiddling with the corner of the towel, his eyes wide and tired.

“We’ll need an adult to sign off on treatment,” she says.

Yoojin swallows. “Can’t you just - he just needs stitches. I’ll pay for it.”

“Do you have your insurance card?”

He doesn’t. His mom keeps it somewhere. Maybe in her purse. Maybe not.

He pulls out his wallet anyway, the one his homeroom teacher gave him for his birthday last month. It’s got a few bills folded inside - lunch money he’d been saving for Yoohyun’s field trip.

“Please,” he says. His voice cracks halfway through. “He’s bleeding.”

Something in that word must land, because the nurse sighs and takes the clipboard back. “Sit down. I’ll see what we can do.”

He does. His knees bounce the entire time. Yoohyun leans against his shoulder, eyes heavy now that the adrenaline’s wearing off.

“Does it hurt?” Yoojin asks.

Yoohyun shakes his head, even though it clearly does.

A nurse comes over with gauze and tells them to wait for a doctor. When she kneels to rewrap the towel, Yoojin feels like he should be the one doing it. It’s his job. He should know how.

But he doesn’t.

And as the nurse talks softly to Yoohyun, asking him what happened, Yoojin stares down at his hands. They’re still shaking.

He keeps thinking about the line on the paper where it said Guardian.

How empty it looked.

How it still is.

When the nurse finishes, she tells Yoojin the doctor will be out soon, but the words blur. All he can think about is that clipboard, lying behind the counter, with his crooked handwriting on it.

A lie. A half-truth. A blank.

He wants to go home, but there isn’t really one to go back to.

So he stays sitting there while his little brother leans into him, trusting him completely.

And Yoojin thinks:

What if they say I’m not old enough to take care of him? What if they take him away?

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Yoohyun’s hand slips into his.

“Yoojin-hyung,” Yoohyun whispers. “Don’t cry.”

He hadn’t noticed he was.

.

The apartment smells like old ramen packets and antiseptic wipes.

Yoohyun’s asleep on the couch, his leg propped up on a pillow, the new bandage bright white against his skin. He looks smaller when he’s asleep - less like the boy who insists he’s fine and more like what he actually is: eight years old and too brave for his own good.

Yoojin sits cross-legged on the floor, the glow of the secondhand computer flickering across his face. The thing wheezes every few minutes, like it might give out, but it’s still better than nothing. He got it from the library’s “giveaway” pile last month after volunteering to stack boxes.

He types slowly, finger by finger.

“How to do first aid for cuts.”

The search bar blinks back at him, like it’s waiting for someone older to be sitting there.

He scrolls through the pages.

Apply pressure. Stop the bleeding. Clean the wound. Use antiseptic. Bandage it tightly, but not too tight.

He memorizes each step. Reads it again. Then again, until the words start to blur.

The computer screen buzzes faintly, and he glances toward the couch. Yoohyun’s chest rises and falls evenly. Good. He hadn’t stopped checking every few seconds since they got back.

Yoojin pulls the cheap first-aid kit they keep under the sink closer. He opens it carefully, straightening the gauze and tape rolls like that might somehow make up for everything else he can’t fix.

He practices wrapping the bandage around his own arm. Too loose. Tries again. Too tight. He breathes through his nose, frustrated, and keeps trying until the layers lie flat and even.

He reads the next section on the screen - How to treat fever, How to disinfect a wound, Signs of infection - and opens a new page to save them all. The list in the browser grows longer and longer:

“How to help someone stop coughing.”

“What to do if you run out of medicine.”

“How to make food that lasts.”

It’s quiet except for the computer’s hum; the kind  that makes your heartbeat sound too loud.

He looks back at Yoohyun again. The younger boy’s hand has slipped off the blanket, dangling over the couch’s edge. Yoojin gets up, tucks it back under, and smooths his hair the way their mom used to before she started not coming home.

For a moment, he stands there, watching.

He’s not sure what kind of brother he’s supposed to be anymore - when every day feels like a test no one taught him how to take. But if all he can do is learn, he’ll learn everything. He’ll make himself into someone who knows what to do next time.

He closes the laptop softly. The blue light fades.

Then he sits down again beside the couch, back against the wall, just to make sure Yoohyun doesn’t wake up alone.

...

The paper is folded in thirds and tucked halfway under the door when Yoojin gets home.

At first, he thinks it’s just another advertisement - maybe for fried chicken or a tutoring service - until he picks it up and sees the red stamp at the top.

Payment Overdue.

His stomach drops.

The hallway light flickers behind him as he reads the rest. The words are short and stiff, official. They talk about “arrears” and “final notice” and “vacate by end of the month.” None of it sounds like something a child should understand, but he understands enough.

They haven’t paid rent. Again.

Inside, the apartment is dim. Yoohyun’s sitting at the table with crayons scattered around, working on something that’s probably supposed to be homework but looks more like doodles of little dogs and suns.

“Hyung, you’re late,” Yoohyun says without looking up. “Did you buy the red bean buns?”

Yoojin forces his voice steady. “Yeah. They were out, though. I got honey bread instead.”

He puts the bag down on the table, then slips the paper behind his back. He doesn’t want Yoohyun to see it. The last thing he needs is for his little brother to worry.

He waits until Yoohyun’s humming quietly, bent over his drawing again, before he unfolds the notice one more time. The red ink smudged near the crease, staining the side of his thumb.

He sits down at the counter and looks at the words again, reading them slowly like maybe, if he pays enough attention, they’ll start meaning something else.

“Rent must be paid in full within ten (10) business days.”

He thinks about the envelope of cash his mom left last week. Grocery money, she said. It wasn’t much. It never is.

He thinks about the empty coin jar on the shelf, about the growing list of bills stacked in the drawer beside the sink.

He rubs the edge of the paper between his fingers until it wrinkles.

From the table, Yoohyun looks up. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Yoojin says too fast. He folds the notice again, smaller this time, until it fits into his pocket. “Just something from the building.”

“Oh.” Yoohyun goes back to coloring. “Can we watch cartoons later?”

“Yeah,” Yoojin says, but he’s not really there. His eyes are on the calendar pinned to the wall, counting the squares left in the month. Ten business days. Two weeks.

He wonders what happens if they don’t pay. If someone knocks on the door and tells them to leave. Where they would even go.

Yoohyun tugs on his sleeve. “Hyung, you’re spacing out again.”

“Sorry,” Yoojin says quietly. He reaches over, ruffles Yoohyun’s hair. “Go finish your drawing. I’ll figure something out.”

He doesn’t know what that means yet.

When Yoohyun goes to his room, Yoojin pulls out the notice again and smooths it flat on the counter. The red stamp catches the light. He stares at it for a long time, his chest tight, the kind of tight that makes it hard to breathe too deep.

Then he gets up, goes to the kitchen drawer, and pulls out the old notebook where he keeps everything that needs fixing - things he needs to learn, money he needs to save, things he needs to hide.

He adds one more line to the list:

- Rent (Two Weeks). Find a way.

He closes the notebook and presses his hand over the cover for a moment before putting it back.

The honey bread sits untouched on the table.

The apartment goes quiet.

The rent notice sits folded on the counter beside the phone, its red stamp still visible through the crease. Yoojin stares at it for a long time before finally picking up the receiver.

He dials the number from memory. He’s done it enough times to know it by heart.

The line clicks once. Twice. Then the familiar voice plays:

> “You’ve reached-”

He doesn’t even listen to the rest. He knows it by now. Knows the tone, the pause before the beep. Knows that no one ever calls back.

“Mom,” he says. His voice comes out thin. “It’s me. I just-”

He stops.

He’s not sure what he was going to say. That they got another rent notice? That the landlord’s handwriting was angrier this time? That Yoohyun scraped his knee again and the hospital asked for an adult, and there wasn’t one?

He swallows.

The voicemail keeps going, telling him to leave a message after the tone, like always.

> Beep.

“I need-” he starts, but his throat closes.

The words don’t come. None of them.

For a second, the only sound in the room is the faint hum of the fridge and the muffled cartoon laughter from Yoohyun’s room.

Then something inside him just - snaps.

He slams the phone down. Once. Hard. The receiver rattles in its cradle, a sharp crack echoing through the kitchen.

Yoohyun’s laughter cuts off. A few seconds later, there’s the sound of small footsteps. “Hyung?”

Yoojin forces himself to breathe. “It’s fine,” he says, voice shaking. “Just dropped it.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than before.

He waits until Yoohyun’s gone back to his cartoons before he reaches for the old computer on the counter. The screen flickers to life, sluggish, as he sits down in front of it. His hands still sting from how hard he’d hit the phone.

He types into the search bar:

“Jobs for teenagers.”

The results are useless. Delivery work. Part-time shifts that need ID numbers or parental consent. He clicks through each one anyway, scanning for anything he could actually do.

Flyer delivery - minimum age 15.

Dishwasher - night shifts only.

Convenience store clerk - must provide guardian contact.

He tries typing “cash work Seoul” instead. More useless results.

The computer fan starts to wheeze again, like it’s struggling to keep up.

He presses his palms to his face and sits there for a while, breathing through his fingers.

Eventually, he opens a new document. Writes down anything he can think of:

Collect bottles. Deliver newspapers. Help at market. Sell old textbooks.

He adds “Call landlord tomorrow” to the bottom, then stares at it until his eyes blur.

In the other room, Yoohyun laughs again, softer this time. The sound cuts through the quiet like a lifeline, and Yoojin holds onto it for a moment before saving the list.

He turns off the monitor, the screen fading to black.

Then he looks at the phone still sitting on the counter - silent now, and cracked near the receiver - and he thinks, not for the first time, that sometimes being angry is easier than being scared.

.

The sun’s barely up when Yoojin leaves the apartment.

He doesn’t want Yoohyun to see him go.

He wrote a note instead - Went to the library. Be back soon. Eat breakfast.

It’s a lie, but it’s an easy one. The kind that doesn’t hurt to tell.

He’s been walking for almost an hour, going from one shopfront to another, bowing low, asking the same question again and again.

“Do you need help? I can clean. Stock shelves. Anything.”

Most of them don’t even look at him properly.

Some just shake their heads. A few tell him to come back with a parent.

At the bakery near the corner, the woman behind the counter frowns at him. “You’re still in school, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Yoojin says, because lying won’t change his face. “But I can work after.”

She sighs and gives him a leftover roll that’s already gone cold. “Go home, kid.”

He thanks her anyway. Eats the roll outside, sitting on the curb, watching people go by; students with clean uniforms, adults in pressed shirts, all moving like they belong somewhere.

He doesn’t.

By the time he reaches the edge of the market, the sky’s already starting to dim. His throat hurts from asking. His stomach hurts from trying not to cry.

He’s about to turn back when a voice calls out from behind a truck stacked with boxes.

“Hey, boy.”

Yoojin freezes. A man steps out, older, with a cigarette between his fingers and an orange safety vest half-unzipped. His face is shadowed under the brim of his cap.

“You looking for work?”

Yoojin nods slowly.

The man looks him over - his too-big jacket, his worn-out shoes, the exhaustion that clings to him like dust. Then he jerks his chin toward the truck.

“Help us unload this, and I’ll pay you something. Cash.”

Yoojin’s heartbeat stutters. “Cash?”

“Yeah. You don’t look old enough for payroll anyway.”

The man’s tone isn’t cruel, just matter-of-fact. He flicks the cigarette away. “You do good, I might let you come back. But it’s not easy work. Hot. Dirty. You good with that?”

Yoojin hesitates. There’s a part of him that whispers this is stupid, that his teachers would call dangerous. But then he thinks of the red stamp on the rent notice, the empty fridge, the way Yoohyun sleeps clutching his pillow against his head like it can keep the world out.

He nods. “I’m fine with it.”

The man snorts. “We’ll see. Gloves are in the back.”

The boxes are heavier than they look. Each one leaves his arms aching, shoulders trembling from the weight. He almost drops one, but the man doesn’t yell, just grunts and tells him to bend his knees next time.

By the time they’re done, Yoojin’s palms are raw and his legs feel like jelly. He’s sweating through his shirt, but when the man hands him a crumpled bill, his chest swells with something almost like relief.

“Can I come back tomorrow?” he asks before he can stop himself.

The man shrugs. “If you want. We need people who don’t mind hard work.”

People. He said people. Not kids.

Yoojin nods again. “I’ll come.”

The man waves him off, already lighting another cigarette. “Alright then, squirt. Just don’t tell anyone where you’re getting the money, yeah? Keep it between us.”

Yoojin’s breath catches.

For a moment, he thinks it’s a threat.

But the man just looks tired. Not dangerous - just another person trying to scrape by.

“I won’t,” Yoojin says quietly.

He folds the bill into his pocket, fingers tight around it the whole walk home. It’s not much. It’s barely enough for groceries, let alone rent. But it’s proof.

Proof he can do something.

When he gets back, Yoohyun’s still on the couch, drawing again. He looks up and beams. “Hyung! You’re back!”

Yoojin smiles. His hands still ache, but he lifts them anyway to ruffle Yoohyun’s hair.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’m back.”

...

(He ends up asking for an extension to pay. Maybe they saw how pathetic he was, a child looking after his kid brother in an apartment too big by themselves; but the landlord allows it.)

((He ends up being able to pay in full plus a months rent. His hands are still chaffing.))

...

The letter was thin this time. Not the kind that came with a window showing a number Yoojin couldn’t read without his chest tightening.

He didn’t open it at first. Just stood in the kitchen with the lights still on, the air still warm, staring at the plain envelope that might as well have been a confession. Yoohyun was at the table, legs swinging off the chair, drawing a lopsided dragon with a green crayon.

“Hyung,” Yoohyun said without looking up. “We’re having curry tonight?”

“Mm,” Yoojin hummed, voice steady out of habit. “Something like that.”

The heater clicked once, twice, then fell silent. The sudden quiet made his stomach drop.

That night, Yoojin dragged out every blanket they had - mismatched ones from thrift stores, an old fleece one their dad used to sleep under, a worn quilt from a neighbor who’d moved away. He piled them in the living room, near the little table. The apartment had already turned cold, air sharp and biting.

When Yoohyun came out in his pajamas, he blinked at the candles on the floor. “Why’s it dark?”

“The power’s fine,” Yoojin said quickly. “Just… thought we’d do something different. Like camping.”

“Inside?”

“Yeah. It’s too cold outside anyway.” He forced a grin. “Campers make instant noodles on fires, right?”

Yoohyun’s eyes lit up. “Can I help?”

“Sure. Grab the bowls.”

They huddled by the tiny stove, Yoojin careful not to show his shaking hands as he poured water from the kettle he’d heated before the gas went off. It was still lukewarm. Not enough to cook properly, but enough to make the noodles soft. He stirred them with chopsticks and handed a bowl to Yoohyun, who didn’t seem to notice how pale the steam was.

They sat cross-legged, the flickering candlelight painting orange halos around their faces.

“It’s like we’re in the woods,” Yoohyun murmured around a mouthful of noodles. “You’re the camp leader, Hyung.”

Yoojin smiled because it was easy to smile when his little brother looked happy. “Then you have to follow my orders.”

“Yes, sir,” Yoohyun said, mock-saluting with his chopsticks.

When Yoohyun finished eating, he curled up under the pile of blankets, already drifting off mid-sentence. The candles sputtered, the room filled with the sound of small, even breathing. Yoojin tucked the blankets tighter around him and sat back.

He could see his breath now. Faint, like ghosts escaping.

His fingers ached from the cold, but his mind wouldn’t stop moving - cycling through numbers, bills, deadlines. Through questions that didn’t have answers.

He stared at the wall, where shadows danced with every candle flicker. Sometimes, he thought, the monsters weren’t under the bed. They were the quiet thoughts that crawled up your throat when everyone else was asleep.

He pressed his hands to his face. He wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Maybe the cold froze them before they could.

How could he keep pretending to be good? To be capable?

How could he protect Yoohyun from the monsters outside - when the one clawing at his chest was himself?

Yoohyun murmured in his sleep, small and content. “Hyung…”

Yoojin let out a shaky breath and reached over, brushing hair out of his brother’s face.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice catching. “I’m right here.”

He stayed like that all night, watching the candles die one by one, and trying not to feel like he was burning out with them.

...

By the time Yoojin hit high school, routine had become religion.

Up at 5:30. Make breakfast. Wake Yoohyun. Pack his lunch. Make sure his shoes match. Send him off with a pat on the head and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then - and only then - he’d run the twelve minutes to his own school, half-eaten toast clenched between his teeth.

His classmates didn’t dislike him. They just… didn’t notice him.

“Morning,” he’d say, sliding into his seat by the window. Someone might hum a reply, distracted. Maybe they’d nod. But no one looked up long enough to meet his eyes.

Yoojin didn’t mind. Or at least, he thought he didn’t.

It made things easier.

He sat in the middle of conversations without ever being in them; close enough to hear laughter, far enough that no one expected him to join. People liked him in that harmless, distant way you like the guy who always hands in his homework on time or lends out pencils.

“Han Yoojin’s nice,” someone once said when they thought he couldn't hear. “He’s just… kind of hard to remember.”

He laughed a little when he heard it. Quietly. Because it was true, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t that he didn’t want friends. It was just that friendship required time, and time was something he couldn’t afford. He couldn’t stay after class when Yoohyun’s school ended earlier. Couldn’t go to the arcade or grab tteokbokki after school when there were groceries to buy and a kid brother to pick up.

So he smiled, excused himself politely, and ran home. Every single day.

At home, Yoohyun would greet him like the he was the sun.

“Hyung!” he’d shout, running to the door, socked feet skidding on the floor. “We learned about dinosaurs today! Did you know the Spinosaurus could swim?”

Yoojin would drop his bag and crouch down. “No way. Really?”

And just like that, the world became small again - two people, one tiny apartment, one warm meal, one laugh echoing off the walls.

At school, though, he was a ghost. The teachers knew him as the quiet one who always handed in neat work. The students knew him as “uh… that kid with the black hair, right?”

(Every kid has black hair.)

During lunch, Yoojin sat by the window, watching other kids throw snacks and laugh over inside jokes he’d never understand. He wasn’t lonely - not in the way he recognized. Just… hollow in places he didn’t have time to fill.

Once, a girl tapped his shoulder. “Hey, Han Yoojin, are you going on the class trip next month?”

He blinked. “Ah, no. I’ve got… something.”

She nodded like she’d expected that. “You’re always busy, huh?”

“Something like that.”

She smiled, small and polite. “You’re nice. You should talk more.”

He smiled back. “Maybe.”

(She never talked to him again.)

That evening, he picked Yoohyun up from cram school, listening to him chatter the entire walk home. The streetlights buzzed overhead. The city smelled like rain and convenience store ramyeon.

Yoohyun grabbed his hand without thinking, swinging it between them. “You’re quiet today, Hyung.”

“Just tired,” Yoojin said, squeezing back.

“Wanna skip dinner and sleep early?”

He smiled at that,  not because it was funny, but because it was something only Yoohyun would think to say. “No, dummy. You’ll starve.”

When they got home, Yoojin reheated leftover rice and let Yoohyun take the last egg. He watched him eat, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, and thought about the girl in class who said he should talk more.

He wondered if she’d recognize him outside school, walking beside a kid who called him “Hyung” and held his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Probably not.

And that was fine.

Because Yoojin didn’t need the world to see him.

He just needed to keep it from seeing how tired he really was.

...

Yoojin hadn’t meant to forget about it.

But the note crumpled at the bottom of Yoohyun’s backpack said otherwise.

“Hyung,” Yoohyun said that morning, tugging at the sleeve of his worn uniform jacket. “Teacher says we have parent-teacher day today.”

Yoojin froze halfway through tying his shoelaces. “...Today?”

“Mm.” Yoohyun’s eyes were wide, uncertain. “You’ll come, right?”

“Of course,” Yoojin lied, voice soft but steady. He’d learned how to sound steady. “I’ll be there.”

He’d figure it out later.

(He skips school.)

By the time he arrived, the classroom was a parade of pressed suits and perfume. Moms chatting near the doorway, dads standing awkwardly by the windows, teachers smiling too wide.

And then there was him  a fourteen-year-old in his father's too-big jacket that wasn't as dusty as the other clothes in his parent closet, pretending he wasn’t out of place.

He found Yoohyun’s class easily. The teacher, Ms. Park, smiled at him in that polite, puzzled way that adults did when something didn’t quite make sense yet.

“You must be…?”

“Han Yoojin,” he said quickly. “Yoohyun’s-” He hesitated for half a second too long. “Guardian.”

“Ah.” Her smile didn’t falter, but her eyes flickered - that subtle kind of adult calculation he’d come to recognize working with them. “It’s wonderful you could make it.”

The conversation started easily enough. She talked about Yoohyun’s grades, how bright he was, how kind. She brought some concerns up about how quiet he gets; how he sometimes looked distracted, like he was thinking about something far away. Yoojin nodded at all the right moments. He even smiled when she did.

But her voice softened when she said, “I tried calling your mother a few times. It seems her number isn’t working.”

Yoojin’s chest tightened. “She’s… busy.”

Ms. Park’s gaze lingered a second too long. “I see.”

He kept smiling, but his hands were gripping his knees beneath the table. “I help out at home a lot, so…”

“That’s very mature of you,” she said gently. Too gently. “It must be difficult sometimes, being the one who takes care of things.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. She wasn’t accusing him of anything, just saying it like a fact, but it made him feel seen in a way he didn’t want to be.

Yoojin ducked his head. “Someone has to, right?”

Her expression softened. “You’re doing well, Yoojin. Really. But… if things ever feel heavy, you can always tell someone, okay?”

He nodded, already wishing the floor would open up. “Thank you.”

When it was over, he found Yoohyun outside, standing by the shoe racks. His little brother’s face brightened immediately when he saw him.

“You came!”

“Of course,” Yoojin said, forcing a grin. “Told you I would.”

They walked home together, Yoohyun talking about his drawings being displayed in class. Yoojin nodded, listening, but the teacher’s voice wouldn’t leave his head.

It must be difficult sometimes, being the one who takes care of things.

He wanted to laugh. Difficult didn’t even begin to cover it.

Halfway home, Yoohyun asked, “Did teacher say I’m good?”

“The best,” Yoojin said. “She couldn’t stop talking about you.”

Yoohyun smiled wide, the kind of smile that made it all worth it.

But that night, after Yoohyun fell asleep, Yoojin sat by the kitchen table, staring at the half-finished homework and the unopened bills beside it.

He thought about Ms. Park’s eyes - kind, knowing, and full of pity.

He hated that look.

Because if she saw how hard he was trying, if she guessed how close everything was to falling apart, then what?

Would they take Yoohyun away?

Would they decide a fourteen-year-old boy couldn’t be someone’s parent?

The thought turned his stomach. He pressed a hand over his mouth, shaking once before forcing the breath out slow.

No. He couldn’t let that happen.

So the next morning, Yoojin smiled wider than usual when he dropped Yoohyun off. He waved to the teachers. He stood a little straighter.

He made sure to look like a boy who had it all handled.

And the world, as always, was happy to believe him.

(Ms. Park ends up transferring to some high-end prep school at the end of the year. He never sees her again.)