Kevin’s definitely a sociopath in-the-making. Normal six year-olds don’t have that smug, evil glint in their eyes when they shit their diaper at the dinner table for the nth time. Nor do they graduate from lobotomising insects to small rodents, dragging them in like an insolent cat just to get Mom riled up. Not that Dad notices what an absolute little monster they’re raising, your shared father thinks his son is his absolute angel, thanks to that ‘Gee, gollywinkers!’ persona Kevin charms him with. He really doesn’t know his son at all.

You’re Mom’s, and he’s Dad’s. By yourselves, though? He’s just your little brother.

“Make me a snack.” Kevin demands, standing there, with his arms flopped uselessly to his sides like wet noodles. He’s a slow grower, but he makes up for his height with the nimble, effortless way he’s able to gymnastics-leap his way onto the counter, making himself impossible to ignore.

It’s not a test. He’s just hungry. There’s no cold war going on between older sibling and younger. Hell, Kevin’s grin of satisfaction dissipates completely whenever you’re the one to change his nappies, or catch him in the act or something-or-the-other because you, for one; never let your parents find out. You just give him this knowing look, and rather than the manipulative evil mastermind he can be, he feels like a bratty ten year-old boy. It’s boring, and he knows you know all the little games he’s playing.

There’s just a raw, simplicity to each of your interactions, because he knows you know exactly who he is (unlike Dad), and you love him anyways (unlike Mom). Neither of you quite know how important that is.

“Asshole.” Kevin tacks on for good measure, and his usual forcefield of meticulously-structured apathy is non-existent. He looks almost pleased with the learned insult, legs kicking against the cabinet as he goes. You both know damn well he make his own snacks. He makes sure to knock around the kitchen, extra-noisy at midnight whenever he does.