Work Text:
If I go to jail tonight
Promise you'll pay my bail
See they want to buy my pride
But that just ain't up for sale
See all of my kindness
Is taken for weakness
It starts by accident, Billy’s mouth acting without his brain’s permission. He and Goodnight had too many nights on the road as of late, and the solitude of that much open space turns men into reckless mess: they started to drink more and more, too many bottles of whisky passed between their hands even before they were off their horses. It was bound to fuck things up.
But this story isn’t going where you think it is.
Because, you see, Billy was a grown man, he knew how to control himself. He knew his own heart and he knew the dangerous game his desires would play with his mind, so he kept his hands to himself. He wanted to touch, he wanted so much to touch he sometimes lost his breath over it. Goodnight was gorgeous, in a way Billy wasn’t sure anyone else would be able to see: Billy spent his days trying not to stare at the expanse of neck Goody showed when he laughed with his head thrown back; trying not to reach for those long fingers who seemed so elegant; not to kiss the soft lips that so easily curved in a half smile. Billy trembled with want. But he knew how to behave. He valued Goody way too much to let himself slip that easily, so he kept his touches in check.
His words, not so much.
When it happened he was goddamn hung over, that was all. So when Goody rudely shake him awake with the first light of day – Billy hated to admit, but the son of a bitch held his liquor much better than he did, and always woke up first – Billy just tried to hide himself better under his hat, roaring:
“Fuck, Goody, stop it!” in a macho, strong, firm voice. Or that’s what he thought.
What truly happened was that he half moaned, half whined: “Jebal, Goody hyung, hajima, jebal! Hajima, hyung!”, begging and curling over himself.
It wasn’t until Goodnight answered “Now, mon ami, my Korean is not as good as your English, but I can clearly see you are not very inclined to wake up just yet. Would it help if I w’s to say there is coffee to be had in this gorgeous, sunny mornin’?” that he realized he had slipped into Korean.
Billy threw his hat on the other side of their pitiful camp fire, feeling his black hair cover his face in the most undignified way. “I hate you.”
Goody, gorgeous Goody with shining blue eyes, just laughed, his Adam’s apple ridiculously inviting. “I got that from your early session of Korean name-calling. Good morning to you too, mon cher.”
Well. Well. Goody thought he was being called names and, honestly? Billy was not about to change his perception any time soon.
The thing is, he had no idea his brain had started to perceive Goody as a hyung. Mostly, he thought he wouldn't ever have another hyung in his life: in America, words like hyung and noona didn’t have any meaning, any possible translation. The relationships Billy had in Korea were all framed by the age difference between people. Someone could be his chingu, a friend of the same age that would treat him informally; could be his dongsaeng, younger people who should show him respect. Billy, himself, was a nice dongsaeng, always careful and sweet with any hyung and noona. But in America he learned very soon that the delicate respect and admiration one would show his elders was taken for servitude, would be twisted into something ugly, a weakness to be used against him.
So, fine. No more hyung, no more noona. Just another part of his old life he left in the ocean. Billy kept to himself so much he didn’t form any lasting bonds to justify thinking of anyone as his hyung, anyway. Mostly he would add a mentally silent “ssi” after someone’s name, just to satisfy the manners he was raised with. The equivalent of sir, “ssi” was marked the people he respected, but wasn’t close – mostly, Americans were sons of bitches and didn’t earn the respect you should show a dog, and that was that.
And then came Goody. Billy knew he was older, two whole years. The first few days together, he remembers answering “Alright, Goody-ssi” out loud, by mistake, a couple times. Goodnight never commented, just smiled, large enough Billy was sure the man understood it was a slip into Korean. Billy silently wondered why it was harder to keep his Korean in check around the man, when he’d been in America since his 16th birthday. He eventually came to the conclusion that the small nickname, made by two syllables, was close enough to a Korean name for his brain to get cross wired.
Or maybe it was just that Goody was the first American to actually befriend him and make him feel comfortable. All in all, Billy figured the eventual “ssi” wasn’t such a embarrassing occurrence, what with the amount of French Goody barfed on a day to day basis.
It was all fine until that morning, when Billy suddenly remembered all that he didn’t have any longer: the affinity and closeness of a true hyung, someone who would demand respect but would pay back with attention and care. A hyung would worry about him, and ask him if he was eating and make sure he didn’t get a could in the winter; a hyung would call him Jungsoo-ah and pester him about the state of his clothes; would buy him food and make sure he got enough kimchi to last through the winter. But Goodnight wasn’t his hyung, and no one called him Jungsoo any longer. The trail of thought, first thing in the morning, left Billy wrong footed for the rest of the day, missing his home and his mother’s voice fifteen years after he left it all.
“You’re awfully quiet today, cher. The hangover still bad?”
“Not as much, no.” Billy sighed, opened his mouth, closed it again. Goody wouldn’t understand, white men never did. “Missing home, I guess.”
“Oh. Well, love, we all get that sometimes. It’s part of our life in the wild country.”
Billy suppressed the shivers that always came when Goody addressed him by one of his many endearments. Because that was also unfair, that Goody got to shower him with honeys and loves and chers, but he could not rightfully call him hyung.
“Different for me. One of them roads could very well take you back home. For me, not so.”
Goody kept his silence for a few moments, but Billy knew his words would come eventually.
“I won’t presume to tell you our paths are the same, since I’m aware you had it harder, what with the distance you traveled and the harsh world you met once you crossed the ocean. But Billy, I shouldn’t have to tell ya that fate works in ways that make some roads impossible for a man to travel back, even as they spread under his feet, should I?”
Billy smiled at that.
“Fuck, Goody. I just want some fucking kimchi.”
Their laughs filled the empty road.
*
Over the course of the next month, it happened again, as Billy knew it would after the first time his mind made the connection with his mouth. Stupid stuff, always stupid stuff.
“Hyung, do ya want more beans?”
“Hyung, those two are cookin’ up somethin’.”
“Hyung! Hyung, watch out! The horse!”
That time sealed, really, because all other times? He could pretend he was saying something else in Korean, or that Goody wasn’t aware he was talking about him. The moment Billy yelled, though, Goodnight immediately jumped out of Byeol’s – Goody’s black horse, that he insisted Billy named – way. The horse got scared over a snake and would have hit the sharpshooter hard, if it wasn’t by his recognition of Billy’s warning.
After the snake was shot and the horse was once again calm – the stupid beast would take bullets over snakes any day – they both stood there, staring at each other, while Billy realized how fucked he was.
“Well…” Goodnight’s hair was falling over his glittering eyes, and he threw his head back to get it under control, sending Billy’s heart in overload. “Thanks a lot… hm… reang? Can I call you that?”
Fuck, Billy thought.
“Fuck.” Billy said, because his mind to mouth filter was broken. “I mean, no. Uhm. No, you can’t call me that. It’s… uhm, not how it works.”
It was late afternoon, so maybe the only reason Goodnight was getting closer was to watch Billy’s reaction under a better light. Billy couldn’t breathe.
“And why’s that, hm, love?”
“Won’t say.” Billy answered, this time finding in himself enough to smile, since Goody himself had a half playful grin twisting his pink lips.
“Oh, c’mon, Billy. I told you what cher means!”
“No, you threw a French to English dictionary over my head and left me to my own devices a whole day before I figured that any time you haven’t been calling me love, you’ve just been calling me love in another language.”
Goodnight’s laughed freely, one of his hands finding Billy’s shoulder. Friendly gestures Billy repeated in his mind, like a mantra. This hyung is full of friendly gestures and that’s all that it is.
“Well, I found the way to let you know what it means, doesn’t it count for something?”
“’Course it does.” Billy agreed, straight-faced. “The second I get my hands in a Korean to English dictionary, I’ll let you have it.”
“Ya goddamn menace, ya know that, cher?”
“Oui, mon hyung” and Billy had to wince as he said, because French and Korean should not go together.
*
Sometimes, Billy wondered. He stood there, bathing in the cold water of another riverbank that looked just the same as the last five, watching as Goodnight scrubbed his own back and brushed soap over his chest and honestly, Billy wondered. Billy wondered why the hell the man kept so close when he washed, why the hell the man kept watching him as he got undressed. He wondered over all the loves and dears and chers, because he wasn’t new to this land, he’d been in America for almost two decades now and he knew that shit ain’t normal. Maybe he never had a true friend in this country, but he’d watched other men, he knew how they talked and how they expressed their affections, in the sense that they didn’t. Mostly.
They had been riding together for almost seven months now, Billy had been slowly growing crazy and calling this white man hyung for over a month, and still, still, Goody caught him looking and just lowered his eyes with a shy smile on his lips, a pink taint spreading over his cheeks as if he was a genuine Southern belle and not a fucking 33 years old grown ass killer soldier.
Billy's darker completion made it harder for him to blush, and he was never more grateful in his life.
*
After that conversation, Goody seemed more confident. Happier. He kept himself closer to Billy, and anytime they walked into a saloon, he would have his arm over Billy’s shoulder. Billy would hear “mon cher” more times than he would hear his own name, and some days, some days, before a show or just after they woke up, Goodnight would squeeze his fingers very quickly, as if Billy wouldn’t notice the hand holding if it happened under the five seconds mark.
Well, he noticed.
Maybe Goody had made the connection between hyung and cher and declared, in his mind, that the word must mean an endearment in Korean. He wasn’t exactly right – he wasn’t right at all – but maybe it was the only parallel close enough for a white man to understand. Billy wasn’t anxious to clear things up, anyhow.
And after every hyung, was it mumbled in distraction, whined in frustration or shouted as a call – and that started to happen more and more, as soon as Billy got confident enough – Goodnight would smile as if he had just received a gift. Once, Billy said it over some complete mundane subject – “I don’t think they’d like my mother’s cuisine any more that I like theirs, hyung.” – and Goody just raised his fingers and combed Billy’s hair back, as if he could…
As if he could understand what it meant. The bond that was implied in the word. And Billy… Billy knew how in love he was, and fuck, it was a lot.
*
Thing was, he couldn’t show. He couldn’t.
Billy made sure to almost never call him hyung when they had company. Mostly, Billy tended to keep quiet when other white folks were around, since the “mysterious chinaman” act was quite intimidating. Besides, folks tend to talk a lot when they don’t think you can understand them. So Billy kept his silence and a general bad ass air and hoped everyone would be wise enough to keep their distance.
The other reason was the implications of a hyung / dongsaeng relationship in Billy’s own mind. When he called Goody hyung inevitable he wished to, somehow, be a good dongsaeng: it was a silent offer of kindness and maybe even deference. He was never submissive, but he wished to be more agreeable, softer.
This kind of affection was never the “American way”.
Case in point: they’ve been in this town for the last week, the money was good and kept coming, the town was big enough he wasn’t even the only “chinaman” walking around the streets, and the saloon felt as comfortable as a home, if they had anything resembling a home these days. The girls knew them by name and didn’t bother to offer any services beyond another shot of whisky. The food was always warm and bugs free (a luxury Billy never thought would be this rare). His guard was down, that was all.
“Well, cher, I must say, we did good numbers these days, I might even by myself a new coat. Maybe a new pair of boots for you?”
“You do that.” Billy agreed, easily. “We’re celebrating, I believe. What should we dine today, hyung?”
“Actually, I think I’m more thirsty than hungry, let me just…”
“No, I got it, hyung.” And Billy was suddenly standing, serving Goody’s glass without overthinking it – he was younger, this was his hyung, the youngest always served the oldest, that was just… the natural order.
“Hey, mister!” a masculine voice came from the table next to theirs. “Ya boy is really well trained, hm? Do ya got him for a long time?”
Billy stopped right on his tracks. Of course. Of course. No one here would recognize the gesture for what it was. He wasn’t a dongsaeng, he was a slave, a fucking manservant, nothing more than…
“Sir, honestly, my mother always advised me to keep my silence before talking about things I know nothing about.” That was Goodnight’s voice, and Billy still stood there, unable to look either man in the eyes.
The man laughed. “Ain’t tryin’ to offend ya, mister. Just wonderin’ how long ‘till we break them ‘nough to be this well behaved. My father had three or four niggers, and I’ve always took to mutts, but never got me a chinaman. Figured it ain’t that much differ-”
Before he finished the word, Goody was on him, a hand around his neck and the other crushing his balls, pinning him against the saloon wall. Billy still couldn’t move.
“The only reason you’re alive right now, you asshole, is because Billy here is particular fond of Miss Sofia’s stew, otherwise he would had you cut in seventeen pieces as big as your fat tongue. I don’t feel the need to defend him because he’s a damn well better fighter ‘n shooter than either one of us, and I’m goddamn Goodnight Robicheaux, Angel of Death, you damn fool.”
“Mi-mister Roubicheaux, sir, I-”
“The only reason I am taking offense right now is because your stupidity makes me wonder if you’ve got no eyes. Can’t you see I’m this man’s partner, just as he is mine? That we are equals, bachelors?” Billy’s heart took a jump, because he damn well knew what being a bachelor meant, what being a bachelor couple meant, and in the middle of a saloon fight wasn’t the time for Goody to be changing their status. “Now show some goddamn respect to my hyung.”
So many opportunities, and that was the one time Goody decides to say a Korean word with the right pronunciation.
And that. That was it. Billy turned and stormed out of the saloon, unable to look back, certain that his face was even redder than Goodnight’s would ever get.
*
The problem with dancing around your partner was that you’d both jump at the opportunity to share a room, under the guise of saving money, just to have more chances to dance around each other.
That left you with not too many escape routes when you don’t want to face said partner and it’s raining buckets just outside.
The problem with white people is that they like to assume they understand everything, even when they don’t have the faintest clue of what the fuck is going on. They’re so sure they get it. It doesn’t matter if you tell them they don’t get it. They’re sure.
So you see, Billy had a lot of uncomfortable problems that night, and he still hadn’t got any dinner.
It wouldn’t be the first time he slept hungry. Damn, Billy was pretty sure it would only be the last time if he woke up dead the next morning.
An hour later the door opened, but Billy was committed to his sleeping act. He would not look over. He would not say a word. He would not change his breathing, even though he was quite sure he could smell food. Damn, he could smell stew.
Goody sighed. The end of the bed dropped a little under his weight, and that was fucking unfair, the man had his own comfy bed waiting for him just over there.
“Billy, I know sometimes it’s hard. I… won’t pretend to understand, since I’m quite aware the color of my skin makes me superior in the eyes of those fools. The Lord knows I would joyously share your burden, if I could lighten the weight in your shoulders. I can’t. But, sweetheart, you can’t let assholes like that sorry ass get to you like this. Do you think he deserves the amount of –”
“You think I give two shits about that fucker?” there goes the sleeping act, flying right out of the window, just as Billy raises himself enough to see Goody’s shock, as if he was waiting to see Billy’s face covered in tears. “Ya know what, fuck you, Goody. Sleep well, hope you fall out of bed.”
Billy laid down again. Fuck this.
“Wait, are you mad at me? Why? Because I defended you?” at Billy snort, Goody got enraged. “You know what, Mister Billy Rocks, that’s mighty hypocritical of you. Last time I checked, you were all about how we must take care of each other, we’re a team, Goody, we are in this together! Let me take care of you, Goody, let me hear about your nightmares and worst fears! What was I to do, just stand there and let that fucker talk shit about our partnership? Would you let him talk shit about me?”
“’Course not, asshole, we are in this together.”
“So what’s the point? Why you screamin’ at me for?” Goody stops, but soon enough restarts, because he can keep his mouth shut. “Was it something I said? About- about our partnership?”
Billy wants to say yes, but he knows Goody is focusing on another mysterious segment of his little speech, and fun as that sounds, Billy would very much like to avoid that discussion for the rest of forever.
“You can’t-” Billy swallowed, sat down, started again. “You don’t understand, you can’t call me that. Can’t call me hyung. That’s not how it works.”
And the thing was, Goody got it wrong too, sometimes. Got Korean costumes and the language wrong. At first, he couldn’t even point the damn place in a map, he was that ignorant. Billy had no idea why he was so mad, trembling with anger, over another simple mistake of another ignorant white man.
… except he knew, he knew he was frustrated because for a second he thought Goody got it, because there were whole days when Billy let himself sink in the illusion that Goody could understand what he meant, because Goodnight was the most intelligent man Billy had ever met, white or not, so he thought… and then he realized Goody understood just as much as that poor bastard calling him a dog, and he was alone, all alone, in a land where no one got his culture and no one cared.
“You can’t never call me that, do you hear me? That’s not how it works.” He repeated.
“Well, how does it work, then?” Goody shot back, getting up. He was mad, and Billy knew why, but he didn’t care. “You never told me how it works. You never told me what it means!”
“It means older brother!” Billy yelled, the closest to a translation he could get. “It means older brother, I’m younger, so you can’t call me that.”
“Oh.” Goodnight made the small sound, and then he sank in his own bed, heavily. There was silence. Goody stared at his own hands, and then over Billy. Back at his hands. Silence. Finally: “Okay. Sure, it makes sense now. Sure. I’m sorry, Billy. I won’t ever call it again, I-” he stopped, swallowed. “I am honored that you think of me that way. Truly. I won’t make that mistake again, mon… mon frère. I… wish you sweet dreams.”
And then he shut up, and Billy was exhausted, so they both went to bed, the stew forgotten.
*
The next weeks very miserable for everyone involved, and Billy realized he had no one to blame but himself. The thing was so miserable, so fucking miserable, he was honestly convinced they would never be able to get out of that hole of his own creation, and would have to live the rest of their lives in that ridiculous situation.
There were no more friendly touches: Goodnight would stand three feet apart from Billy at all times, taking care to keep his hands to himself. It was the end of every dear, love, sweetheart, and most certainly the end of any chers Billy might hope to hear: from that point on, he got dear brothers and mon frères.
Goodnight looked miserable with it.
But the man was trying, Billy had to admit. He was honestly trying, he always put on a big – miserable – smile on his face as he introduced “My dear, cherished younger brother, with whom the only thing I don’t share is blood, but we might as well have come from the same womb.” He put on a good show, and people were impressed that the Goodnight Robicheaux would consider a dirty chinaman his brother, and some people were impressed Billy would consider a Confederate his brother, all in all everyone was very impressed and they were…
Miserable, miserable.
And trying, both of them. Because now Billy knew that Goody wanted as well, but if Goody was willing to put on the fraternal love façade, wouldn’t it be for the best? Sure, Billy knew it was a misunderstanding, but surely they would both be safer if they could keep the innocence of pure affections, without getting tangled in their messy desires. So Billy tried as well, and even got some pleasure of hearing Goody say “Don’t worry, your hyung will take care of it for you.”, just like a friend would tell him in Korea. So close to the real thing that it was almost worth it.
Billy was sure it was worth it. They could be close and not risk their lives over things that wouldn’t bring any joy and would end up destroying them both. This way was better, they would still be together.
Except, which each passing day, they seemed further and further apart. Goody was punishing himself for an offense he never actually committed, and trying beyond his own strengths to erase any temptation: they would not bath together again, would not share rooms, would not talk over the fire. Anything that could remotely bring them to any form of physical intimacy – helping undress, feeding each other, tending to wounds – would be avoided by Goody, that managed to do so with a smile and quick feet.
In the short window of a month, their distance grew so much Billy could not bring himself to call him hyung any longer.
*
“Hey, this is… wow, this is too much. Goodnight, how much we made in the last bet? This seems way too much for my cut.”
Goody smiled, packing the shirts that were spread all over his room. Billy would have helped, except it was the first time he was setting foot on this room and he didn’t want to intrude.
“I can assure you, Billy, everything is in fair order.”
“You’re not tryin’ to give more than my share, right? 50/50, that’s what we agreed on.”
Goody sat down heavily on his bed, gesturing Billy to the wooden chair, the only other furniture in the room.
“50/50 for as long as our partnership lasts, that’s what we agreed. Well, since I’ll no longer be able to be your partner, I thought I should leave you with something to diminish the inconvenience of my departure.”
“Incon- Goody, are you leaving?”
Goodnight smiled again. He had a lot of smiles, these days, not one of them happy.
“I’m afraid I am, dear friend. I can no longer keep you company on your adventures.”
“Those aren’t adventures, Goody, this is our fucking life.”
“And I can’t take it anymore, Billy. I’m sorry.”
Billy stood, paced the room. What the fuck, what the fuck. Yeah, he knew they were falling apart, but he thought things could get better soon. They only had to…
“Goody, if it’s the dreams, I’ve told you, you can face it, we just have to…”
“It’s not the dreams.”
“Then what is it?”
“You.”
Yes. Yes. Billy knew, all along. Being partner of a chinaman couldn’t be easy. The laughter, the bullying. The humiliations. He thought… but then again, what could he offer to a man like Goody? Fuck. He knew that day would come, but the hit was so strong he couldn’t stop himself from flinching back, as if slapped.
Goody stood as well, both hands raised as if in surrender. “I’m not going to lie any longer, Billy. I know this is not what you want to hear, but I’m going away because I can’t lie another day, fuck, I can’t lie another second.” Goodnight stared him down, eyes clear and voice certain. “I don’t see you as little brother. I had little brothers once. You… you are not them. I can’t pretend anymore. I know you wanted something else. I tried to give you. I’m not… I can’t.”
Billy stood there, knowing the only good thing he ever got for himself in that fucking country was about to come down burning because of a stupid discussion a month before. A saloon fight. He raised his own hand, pushing Goody back with the tip of his fingers.
“Just sit down, would you. Just… a second.” He sat down himself, gesturing once again for Goody to sit in his bed. The man complied after a second, and Billy got his chair as close as he could without pushing any limits. “I might… look, I lied.”
“About what?”
“That word. Hyung. It doesn’t… it doesn’t mean older brother.”
“What?” Goody seemed taken aback, but he recovered fast enough. “What does it mean, then?”
“Well… actually it does mean older brother, but wait!” Goody seemed about to take off, and Billy could not let that happen. “You don’t… fuck, you don’t understand, and I don’t think you will.”
“If you stop treating me like a stupid child, I might.” He snapped, and Billy clearly deserved that one.
“Okay, asshole, listen. Just, just fucking listen. If you’re a man, or a boy, whatever, and there’s someone older than you, you have to respect them. You can't just go around calling them by their names, like you do here. I could call them by “mister”, but that implies a relationship more…”
“Formal?”
“Yeah, that. Anyway, whatever. If you’re close enough to someone, and that someone asks you to, you can call them as your older brother, or older sister. It changes if you’re a man or a woman… like. Since I’m a man, I call older men hyung, older women noona. If I were a girl, I’d call older man oppa, and girl’s unnie.”
“And it all means older sibling?” Goody asked.
“Yes, but… see. If…” well, that was fucking embarrassing. “Let’s just say I’m a girl? And I have this boy who I might marry someday. And we are still not married, but we, hm, you know. We’re getting there. I might call him oppa, even though he’s not my brother and we don’t… we don’t love each other in fraternal ways. At all. So, yeah, well. It means 'older brother', but not just, ya know?”
Goody looked at him for a long, long time.
“I don’t think I understand.”
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
“No, I understand your etiquette rules quite enough, thank you.” Goodnight glared at him. “What I still don’t get it is if you want to be with me. You’re downright confusing. And exhausting.”
“Be with you? You’re the one leaving!”
“Billy, so help me God, that’s not what I’m asking and you goddamn know it.”
Billy took in Goody’s stance on the bed, long legs spread invitingly, the way he was framed, the little smile on his lips, and he realized something.
“I refuse.” He watched with satisfaction as Goody deflated on his spot.
“What do you refuse now, you asshole?”
“You sit there, with your legs open, those ridiculous tight pants, your half smile and you think you won, but let me tell you, Goodnight Robicheaux, I refuse to kiss you just to end this stupid argument.”
Billy turned around and walked himself over the window. Was he being ridiculously dramatic? Yes. Yes, he was.
Soon enough a pair of arms held him by the waist and Billy actually melted against the solid body of Goody behind him, shivers raising on his neck as the other man's breath reached his skin. “What if I kiss you? Is that alright? Something your hyung can do?”
Before any other word in any other language prevented them, Billy closed the distance himself.
*
BONUS
*
“RED-YA, why did you not eat your fish? Aish, brat, don’t you think you’re being a bit too much? Comes winter, ya gonna catch a cold. Is that what you want? To catch a cold?”
Sam signaled Goody to come closer. Goodnight himself thought it was a wonderful opportunity to get some distance between his own sweet self and Billy screaming with Red Harvest.
“Goodnight. Do you care to tell me…”
“AND DON’T YOU DARE ROLL YOUR EYES AT ME, RED-YA!”
“what the fuck is going on?”
Goody looked around. A couple paces away, Faraday was burying his face in Vasquez coat, trying and failing not to laugh too obviously. Jack was watching the whole exchange with huge eyes, his half eating fish held half away on the path towards his mouth, but clearly forgotten.
“AISH, RED-YA, YOU’RE TOO SKINNY!”
“It’s…” Goody tries to explain, but it’s still hard for him, even after ten years living with the man. “It’s something cultural, my good friend. You see, in Korea they care greatly about age and how much you respect your elders, and Billy explained to me… usually it’s just the two of us, you see, and I’m the oldest, so I should take care of him. But now we are all a group and, well, he explained to me that because Red Harvest here is the youngest…”
“YOU’RE THE WORST MAKNAE TO EVER-”
“Yes, that word!” Goody pointed towards a Billy that was emotionally incapable of listening to anyone else. “Maknae. Or something. Since Red is… that, and we are older, we should take care of him. Only, I don’t think Billy ever got much experience being on this side of things? He left Korea at a very young age, you see. So maybe he just didn’t figure the right tempo, yet? Because I seriously doubt everyone screams like that all the time, Korea seemed like a much more reasonable place in the books I’ve read.”
“I swear to you, if you catch a cold this winter I won’t make you any soup, go cry over someone else.”
“He seems obsessed with colds.” Sam commented, slightly disturbed.
“Yeah, also cultural. I think. Maybe it’s just Billy and we got the short straw.”
“Think Korea will take him back?” Sam smiled, even as they watched Billy hit Red over the head with his half eaten fish.
“No refunds, they said.”