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It almost feels unbelievable, his hyung is warm and alive.
Unlike mere moments ago, when Han Yoohyun could feel the gush of warm blood over his hands, the life slowly draining from the body of Han Yoojin, his brother, his family, his world, his everything.
Now, Han Yoojin, his only brother, his only family, is five years younger and alive, caught in a deathly-tight hug on the worn-out sofa of his hyung’s rundown apartment. There’s a lingering smell of ramyeon clinging to his white graphic T-shirt. The warm light of the living room flickers overhead and makes soft clinking sounds as moths throw themselves against the bulb.
His hyung seems to be saying something, but the words are muffled against Yoohyun’s chest. His grip only tightens further until a sharp gasp snaps him back, and he lets go at once.
“Oh… I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Yoohyun trails off, head hanging low.
He hurt his hyung again.
That's the only thing he’s ever been good at. From the moment of his birth, all he has ever done is hurt him—ruined his relationship with their parents and their relatives, isolated him from friends, forced him to drop out of school. Abandoned him. Left him disabled. Allowed him to be humiliated publicly via the media.
He hates it. He hates it all, and most of all, he hates himself.
Yoohyun resents himself for letting his own brother die at the hands of Rauchitas.
Still, he is grateful to the system, to the wish stone, for this second chance.
He can fix things this time. He can do it right.
He can fix—he can—
A tentative hand reaches Yoohyun, then falters, as if recoiling from a current.
“—hyun… ah?”
The ticking of his watch punctuates every heavy, silent second, as does the frantic pounding of his heart. Somewhere, there’s a shaky sigh.
“Yoohyun-ah… are you okay?”
This time, the hand finds him, warm and steady against the side of his face.
Yoohyun meets his hyung’s eyes. Even after all he has done, they look at him with simple, unguarded concern. The moment is painfully familiar to him. It’s like he is ten years old again: his face cradled in his hyung’s hands, rough with calluses and patched with frog-themed bandages.
His hyung, only fifteen back then, far too young, far too burdened with responsibilities, still patiently brushed Yoohyun’s hair aside and blew on an “owie” at the neighbourhood park.
“I’m fine,” Yoohyun manages.
As if amused, his hyung lets out a weak laugh. “Then why are you crying, hmm?”
“I’m sorry…” Yoohyun says after a pause. Then, quieter, “I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for abandoning you. I know I’m being pathetic, you don’t have to forgive me. I don’t deserve to be forgiven, but can I… can I hug you one last time, hyung?”
Yoojin does not answer.
Yoohyun’s heart sinks into his stomach. Once again, he can’t bring himself to meet his brother’s eyes. Those same warm, worried eyes stare at him, too deeply, too long. He endures the weight of that gaze in silence until, after what feels like an eternity, his hyung speaks.
“What nonsense are you talking about?” Yoojin says. “Actually, I should be the one to apologise… I’m the older brother. I’m your hyung—”
“Hyung, no. I’m the one at fault—”
“Shh…” Yoojin presses a finger to Yoohyun’s lips. “Let me finish.”
“I was insecure. Too shocked to think clearly,” he continues with a heavy sigh, his gaze drifting. “But I should have known that you were trying to push me away for a reason. And because I didn’t see it, I failed… as your guardian, and as your brother. I should have paid attention. Just like now.”
He pinches Yoohyun’s cheeks gently. Only then does Yoohyun realise his brother’s hands are still dry and rough with calluses, just like before, only now, the small cuts aren’t hidden beneath frog-themed bandages.
“You avoid my eyes when you’re anxious,” Yoojin says softly. “You lick your lips when you lie. And you close your eyes when you hear something that hurts.”
“Oh,” he breathes, stunned.
“And what do you mean by ‘one last time’?” Yoojin adds. “Hug me however many times you want. I’m not going anywhere.”
This time, Yoojin is the one who pulls him into a deathly-tight hug.
If he were an average person, it would surely bruise. It’s a steady, grounding hug. Though his hyung’s body is smaller, Yoohyun finds himself sagging into the hold without thinking, letting the warmth envelop him as if his bones remember this shape, this feeling.
Yoojin doesn’t say anything. He only adjusts his grip, one hand resting firmly between Yoohyun’s shoulder blades, and the other cradling the back of his head. His fingers move slowly, smoothing down any unruly curls and tucking strays if they spring back up, over and over, unhurried. As if there’s nowhere else he needs to be.
Yoohyun breaks.
Hot tears spill over, and breath hitching, as punched out sobs tear out of him. It’s ugly, it’s uncontrolled. His shoulders shake violently, but Yoojin doesn’t let go of his hold; instead, his grip over Yoohyun tightens, pulling him even closer, if that’s possible.
A rough thumb presses at his temple before moving down to wipe his tears away.
“Sleep,” Yoojin whispers to him, like an order Yoohyun has always obeyed when he was younger.
The warmth sinks in deeper. His chest aches. His eyelids burn.
Right before everything goes dark, Yoohyun struggles to but forces the words out of his tight throat.
“I… love you, hyung.”
The hand in his hair pauses.
It resumes, gentler than before.
When he wakes, there’s an unfamiliar blanket draped over him. The dim living room light still flickers above him, but the moths are gone, and he’s lying on the same worn-out sofa of his brother’s apartment, the faint scent of ramyeon still in the air.
So, it wasn’t a dream. The thought fills him with quiet relief.
Then, embarrassment creeps in. He can’t believe he cried like a baby at the age of twenty-five, no, twenty? Whatever age he is now, it’s far too old to be sobbing in his hyung’s arms.
“Finally awake?” Yoojin says, setting a cup of hot chocolate down on the table.
There’s a mess next to the cup: an opened carton of milk, a tin of chocolate powder, and a jar of sugar. The execution looks questionable. There are some splashes of milk on the table and some sugar scattered like dust around the cup.
Yoohyun sits up, stirring his drink with a silver spoon before taking a sip. His hyung follows suit.
“… Did I not add enough sugar?” Yoojin mutters, sniffing his cup. He dumps two more spoonfuls and tries again.
His face twists immediately. He stares at the mug and takes one more cautious sip, then grimaces. “This milk has gone bad.”
Yoojin slams the cup down and reaches for Yoohyun’s, but S-Rank reflexes are faster. Yoohyun calmly tips his head back and chugs the rest, setting the mug down with a soft clack.
His hyung’s expression shifts, from disgust to shock to outright horror.
“Yoohyun! You didn’t have to drink that!”
“You made it for me,” Yoohyun says, with a genuine smile. “And it tastes good.”
“Either something is wrong with your taste buds, or you’re being polite. I should have just ordered chicken…,” Yoojin grumbles. “I thought I’d make you something since you came over after… a while. But, uh, there’s only beer in the fridge.”
“No.” Yoohyun tightens his hand around the empty cup. “I like the hot chocolate that you make.”
It tastes terrible, Yoohyun knows that.
But it also tastes like home.
And home is wherever his hyung is.