Paris was seven years old when his ribs first burned with envy.

Paris was seventeen when his fists carved a crack into the siblinghood between the both of you.

"I wish I was never your brother," he spat out. Because being your little brother meant being second to you, meant being the next best thing. He didn't want to live in your shadow, he wanted to be known as Paris—as what he could do, not who he shared blood with. He wanted recognition and he couldn't have that if he was your brother.