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At three-thirty, when the bell rang, Yoongi was already there.
The louder little ones came first, the elementary school's iron gate swinging wide and clanging. The sea of them spilled down the steps and out into the neighborhood. Then the older grades, more self-conscious, came out slower.
Yoongi stood with his shoulder leaning against the familiar red brick of the outer wall, kicking the toe of his sneaker into the dirt.
He had been away from the building for two years, and self-consciousness was a feeling Yoongi knew in his bones now. He had graduated to the wider, meaner halls of the middle school down the street, but his afternoon routine had not changed. His school finished at three-fifteen, so if he hurried, it took only ten minutes, even less if he took the route behind the market, and he had arrived every day since September without ever being late in a way that made any difference. He was technically the unofficial babysitter until their moms finished work, but to Yoongi, life had simply come with a built-in best friend.
He didn't look at the sea of kids pouring onto the sidewalk. He trained his eyes on the double doors, waiting for a distinct, familiar figure to emerge from the chaos.
When Jimin finally managed to push open the heavy doors, Yoongi picked him out of the crowd by the hair that always stuck up at the back, no matter what anyone else did. But that wasn't what Yoongi had been looking for.
Yoongi looked him over, checking the parts and looking for any damage.
First, the glasses. Crooked. Sitting high on one side, low on the other.
Second, the backpack. Jimin clutched it to his chest instead of letting it hang from his shoulders.
Third, the sleeves. The right sleeve, all the way up to the shoulder, was streaked with chalk dust.
Yoongi felt that same old anger settle in his gut.
Jimin spotted him leaning against the wall, and his whole face changed. He released his grip on the backpack and came down the last three steps in one jump.
"Hyung," Jimin greeted him, stopping in front of him and giving a small, bright smile.
"Your glasses are crooked."
"Oh." Jimin pushed them up with the heel of his palm and made it worse. "Are they?"
Yoongi pushed himself away from the brick wall, reached out and straightened them properly, wiped the dust from the sleeve, took the backpack, and slung it over his own shoulder.
"Are you all right?" Yoongi asked, and bit back the other question, the one about who had done it.
"I'm all right," Jimin said quickly. Though his smile didn't change, his eyes dropped to the dirt at the edge of Yoongi's shoes. "I bumped into the board on the way out of class."
It was a bad lie. They both knew it.
Jimin's shoulders slumped. That was enough. Yoongi looked at him for a second, but didn't say anything else, no point making him talk about it twice.
"I get it," Yoongi said simply. He turned toward the long walk home, slowing his usual pace so Jimin could keep up. "Come on."
And they went.
On the way home, the cracked concrete stretched ahead under a cool, crisp autumn sky, and the breeze cut through Yoongi's thin school uniform. Jimin walked with his hands jammed in his pockets, his eyes fixed on his sneakers.
A secondhand shop sat three blocks from the crossing.
Yoongi had never been inside it. He'd never had a reason to go in, and didn't have one now either, except that Jimin had gone quiet again, and the shop was there.
"Hang on." Yoongi brushed his shoulder lightly against Jimin's and angled them toward a faded awning.
Jimin let himself be steered without asking why.
"Here," Yoongi said. He opened the glass door of the small, dimly lit shop and nodded at the man behind the counter, who was watching a small television with the sound turned low.
A discolored brass bell jangled overhead, and a strong blast from the shop's heater rolled over them, chasing off the sharp autumn chill of the afternoon.
The warm air hit Jimin, and he let out a small sigh, his shoulders dropping a little. The place smelled like dust, old paper, and someone's grandmother. Shelves everywhere, packed with stuff nobody wanted. Jimin drifted over to the records. Curiosity beat out his bad day.
Yoongi leaned back in the narrow aisle, followed the boy with his eyes for a moment, then turned his gaze to the shelves.
He saw it resting above a rack of belts: a cowboy hat. The hat was made of stiff brown felt, badly shaped and covered with a thin layer of dust. It was clearly an adult size, much too large for Jimin's head, yet Yoongi reached out and pulled it down. Running his thumb along the curved brim, he thought of the pile of old western comics Jimin kept in Yoongi's room, their covers softened at the corners from being read until they fell apart.
But he wasn't going to just hand it over. If he did, Jimin would know it was a pity thing, and Yoongi didn't want that. So he looked around until he found a jar of cheap wooden toys by the counter and grabbed two slingshots. That was the trick. Just hyung buying something to keep them busy. The slingshots made them a posse.
"Hyung." Jimin had come up beside him. He wasn't looking at the hat or the slingshots exactly. He was looking at Yoongi holding them. "That's-"
"Some old junk I found."
"Yeah. Two slingshots?" Jimin said.
"Obviously there are two. What am I supposed to do, stand there?"
Jimin laughed.
Yoongi held the hat up like he was inspecting the stitching, which he knew nothing about. Then he tucked it all under his arm and carried on walking. Jimin followed him down the aisle, making a small, strangled noise he probably thought he was hiding.
Yoongi was heading for the counter when he saw the box.
It sat on the shelf with the tapes. Nearly all of them lacked covers and were cracked and dirty, but this one was peeking out. A man in a poncho, a cigar clenched between his teeth, his eyes hidden under his hat. Behind him, bare country with nothing else in sight.
Yoongi stopped walking.
He didn't even know if the clunky VCR on the TV stand at home still worked. It had been there under the television for as long as he could remember, and the last time anyone had put a tape in it was when he was eight. He picked it up anyway and added it to his pile.
The older man behind the glass counter tallied the items on a slowly clicking calculator and announced the price.
Yoongi pulled his old wallet out of his pocket and checked the bills. Allowance, savings, lunch money, bus fare. He counted it, doing the math in his head. His mom did the same thing every day, hiding how tight things really were. If Jimin's mom ever found out, she'd never accept any help, too stubborn to take charity even from a woman who had been her best friend since before the boys were born.
He shouldn't spend this.
Yoongi stopped for a moment and rubbed the edge of a 1,000-won note with his thumb, then looked over his shoulder.
Next to the shelf of snow globes, Jimin was humming the theme song from a cartoon under his breath. Even in the shop's weak fluorescent light, the streaks of blackboard dust on his sleeve stood out.
Yoongi looked down at the cash again. He knew exactly what his mother would do. She wouldn't hesitate. If it meant keeping that kid safe in his imagination just a little longer, she would spend everything in her wallet.
Yoongi slid the money across the glass counter.
The older man made change without taking his eyes off the television and pushed it back across the counter with a plastic bag. Yoongi put the change in his pocket and handed the bag to Jimin.
"Don't tell my mom I bought you junk."
"Where did you get the money?"
"Robbed a bank," Yoongi said as he opened the door.
***
The park was on the way if you were generous about the meaning of the word.
It was empty. Too cold for moms with strollers, too early for older kids to be hanging around. The ginkgo leaves were everywhere, piled up against the fence and the slide. The air was cold enough that Yoongi's ears stung.
Yoongi didn't hesitate. He dropped both backpacks by the bench, reached into the plastic bag, and took out the matching slingshots.
He gave one to Jimin, then immediately turned and dropped into a low, dramatic crouch behind an oak tree.
"Listen up, cowboy," Yoongi said, raising his voice a bit more than was dignified for his thirteen years, and aimed his empty slingshot fiercely at a clump of bushes. "We've got a situation. Black Bart's gang is hiding past the swings. They've surrounded us."
Jimin didn't crouch. He stood perfectly still, wooden slingshot in hand, and looked anxiously down the street to see if anyone was watching them.
"Hyung," Jimin muttered. His cheeks flushed pink in the cold air. "Come on. You're in middle school now. We're too old to be playing cowboys in the park."
Yoongi reached into the bag. This time he pulled out the dusty brown felt hat and put it directly onto Jimin's head.
It was ridiculously big. The stiff brim slipped down, engulfing the upper part of Jimin's face and settling heavily on the tips of his ears. Startled, Jimin squawked and reached up with both hands to push the brim back so he could see.
Yoongi gave him a handful of smooth pebbles he'd scooped up from the roadside. "Sheriff was shot in the back. Six weeks ago." He nodded at the bench. "Whole gang came down out of the hills and took over the place, and now no one comes out after dark."
Jimin looked embarrassed for him. Yoongi knew that look. He didn't love it.
"There's nobody out here anyway," Jimin said.
"That's because they're all inside. Because of the gang."
"I'm too old for this," Jimin complained.
"I know how old you are." Yoongi gasped and looked past him. "The trash can. That's Surly Sangcheol. He's the worst one."
"Why's he the worst one?"
"Because he's the biggest one, and the meanest one, and he's got the most guys." Yoongi crouched and started picking through the gravel at the edge of the path for anything the right size. "Don't ask so many questions, you're gonna get shot."
The first one Jimin fired went wide and skittered off into the leaves. He looked back over his shoulder like he was checking whether anybody had seen.
"Nobody's here," Yoongi said. "I told you. They're all inside."
The second one hit the rim of the can with a flat metallic pang that echoed across the park, and Jimin's head came up fast under the brim of the hat.
"That's one," Yoongi said.
After that it got easier. The sign by the gate was a lookout. The swing set pole was a man with a rifle on the bank’s roof. Yoongi kept inventing them as fast as Jimin knocked them down, giving them names, giving them crimes, and Jimin started correcting him, that one already got shot, hyung. You can't use him again. Yoongi said fine, it's his brother, and Jimin said that's stupid, and shot the brother.
Then Yoongi called out something about the man behind the slide, the one who'd been after him, and Jimin turned and fired hard.
Too hard. The stone pinged off the metal and flew over the fence, and the next thing they heard was the crack and shatter of a window. The sound hung in the air. The game came to a complete halt.
"Jimin-ah."
"I want to go home."
Jimin dropped his slingshot and stared at the ground. The hat slipped down, his shoulders up around his ears. He was about to cry. Yoongi had a choice. He could sit him down and talk it out, or he could give him something else to look at.
Yoongi chose the second one.
So he shot himself.
"Ah!" Yoongi gasped. He clapped a hand to his chest, dropped the slingshot, made a noise like a wounded animal, and staggered two steps sideways.
Jimin's head jerked up.
"They got me!" Yoongi wailed, spinning on his heel, and then, with a pained, dramatic groan, threw his whole body into the dirt and wet leaves in his good school jacket. He lay on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes.
"Hyung-"
Yoongi rolled over and stuck out one arm, reaching toward the air. "Hey, listen, listen to me. I've got something I gotta tell you before I go."
"You're being so embarrassing."
"Come closer, I can't, my lungs-"
"Somebody's going to see you."
"Nobody's here," Yoongi wheezed, "they're all inside," and then he died at great length, with several false endings, one of which involved a small speech about his horse.
"Your horse," Jimin managed.
"Her name was Biscuit, and she was the only one who ever understood me."
"Stop it."
"You have to take care of her."
"Hyung, stop."
And then a small chuckle escaped Jimin's lips. The laughter grew until he was bent over, standing over Yoongi in the dirt with both hands on his knees and his hat falling off, laughing so hard he had to sit down in the leaves next to him to do it properly.
Yoongi stayed where he was, cold leaves down his collar, and let Jimin laugh.
Jimin leaned over to grab his hat and pressed it back down over his ears, then jabbed Yoongi in the ribs with his sneaker.
"Hyung, you can't die yet." Jimin's eyes were bright with a whole new idea. "I didn't cover you!"
Jimin took over, and there was no more hesitation. "The rest of the gang is coming over the ridge!" He picked up a pebble, sprinted across the grass, and pointed at the trees.
"Watch out! They've got a guy on the water tower." He pointed at the top of the jungle gym with total conviction. "He's an eagle eye with that rifle. And he's been up there for days, and he hasn't come down once, not even to eat, or pee, or, or… poop!"
"That's disgusting."
"I know," Jimin said in breathless admiration, already loading. "That's why he's the best one."
He was loud. He was laughing. He darted through the dead leaves, making up new villains far scarier than the ones Yoongi had created, firing at the swings and the park benches while giving orders over his shoulder. Yoongi, following the sheriff's orders, happily took on the role of injured deputy and let him take the lead.
Yoongi sat in the dirt, jacket full of leaves and dust. He rested his arms on his knees and watched Jimin run. The hat flew off, Jimin caught it, and yelled as he shoved it back on.
Jimin burst out laughing, cheeks red, slingshot in hand, breathing hard as he looked out over the rooftops of a town that didn't exist.
"Yeah," Yoongi muttered, tilting his head back. "Worth it."
***
On the way back to the apartment building, it was quiet, and the adrenaline from the shootout had settled into a weary but comfortable warmth.
When they reached the dim concrete stairs, Jimin's small fingers slipped between Yoongi's. They climbed the stairs side by side, the large, dusty felt hat still swallowing the top of Jimin's head, its brim bouncing with every step.
The lock gave way with a heavy click, and Yoongi pushed the apartment door open. The apartment was dark and cold, which meant nobody was home, and nobody had been since morning.
Yoongi got the door shut behind them in the cramped entryway and toed his shoes off into the pile by the step. Jimin's cheeks were flushed a bright, wind-burned red, and he hadn't stopped talking since the second-floor landing, about the man on the water tower, who it turned out had a wife and three kids and also a brother, and the brother was the one who'd sent him up there in the first place.
Yoongi just nodded, shrugging off his uniform jacket.
"Shoes."
"I'm doing it." Jimin did it one-handed, hopping.
Yoongi headed straight for the small kitchen, his stomach suddenly demanding dinner, and tossed the plastic shopping bag toward Jimin without breaking stride.
"Put our stuff in my room." Yoongi flipped on the light as he passed it, already pulling the fridge open to scan the shelves.
He heard Jimin gather up both of their heavy backpacks and pad down the short hallway in his socks.
Yoongi chopped the green onions with a practiced, hurried rhythm. He fried the rice with the kimchi, the questionable onion, and a lot more sesame oil than his mother would have used. The bottom had gone past crisp into something else in a couple of places, and the egg was overdone on one side, but when he scraped most of the skillet onto two plates, Jimin attacked his portion like he hadn't eaten in days. They sat at the small kitchen counter, Jimin's math workbook open and ignored beside his plate.
"Move your leg," Yoongi said, coming past with his plate.
Jimin swung it out of the way and kept talking through a mouthful, still going on about the backstories of the unfortunate souls they had taken down at the park.
Yoongi reached across the counter for the soy sauce, but Jimin grabbed it first and slid it to him. Yoongi's hand stopped short. There, near the seam of Jimin's shoulder, the white of his undershirt showed through a jagged tear.
Jimin caught him looking. He shifted his shoulder to hide the seam.
"I'm fine, hyung," he mumbled cheerfully around his last mouthful of rice.
Yoongi frowned and took the sauce. Not tonight.
Jimin pushed the hat back off his forehead with the heel of his hand and eagerly held out his empty plate. "Is there more?"
"Living room once you've filled your plate," Yoongi said, pushing the skillet closer. "I'll go put the tape in."
Yoongi set his plate on the coffee table and fished the movie out of the plastic bag.
"What's that?" Jimin was away from the counter and across the room before Yoongi had it out.
"Nothing. It was in the bag." He wiped his hands on his jeans, picked up the black cassette, and fed it into the old VCR.
The machine ate it and did nothing. A click, a whir, and then the tape came sliding back out.
"Is it broken?"
"No." Yoongi pushed it back in. Nothing. "It's old."
"It's broken."
Yoongi swore under his breath, leaned forward, and brought his hand down hard on top of the plastic casing. Smack. The machine whirred defensively. It ground its gears, choked on the tape, and spat out a screen of harsh, hissing static.
"Don't say anything. Don't even breathe," Yoongi said.
The VCR clicked, surrendered, and the static gave way to the gritty, sun-bleached opening shot of a desert town.
They ate on the floor, backs against the sofa and plates in their laps, the glow of the television throwing dancing shadows across the room.
Jimin slowly migrated. He started an arm's length away, then subtly shifted his weight until his shoulder was resting against Yoongi's arm. By the time the plot truly settled in, Jimin had folded his legs and tucked himself fully under Yoongi's arm, his plate balanced on his knee, his hat pushed back, and his shoulder wedged into Yoongi's ribs. Yoongi just adjusted his elbow to give him room and kept eating.
He watched the movie, but mostly, he watched Jimin watch the movie.
The man on the screen rode into town and let four men laugh at him without a word.
When a gang of outlaws cornered the Man with No Name and spat insults that would make any normal man swing a fist, the cowboy didn't react. He just chewed his cigar, cold and utterly unbothered. Beside Yoongi, Jimin went perfectly still, spoon halfway up, and stared. He stopped breathing, completely captivated by the idea that you could win a fight just by refusing to participate.
"He's not gonna say anything?"
"Watch it."
"But they're-"
"Jimin-ah. Watch it."
Later, the man came back down the street toward those same four, walking slowly, with his coffin maker already at work behind him.
Then came the quiet, dangerous drawl. "You see, my mule don't like people laughin'..."
Yoongi glanced down.
Jimin had stopped chewing. His spoon clattered onto his plate. The oversized hat was still perched on his head, the brim casting a shadow over his wide, reverent eyes.
By the standoff, neither of them was eating at all. The plates were on the floor. Jimin held Yoongi's hand in his lap and gripped it tight. The brassy, iconic theme swelled. The music rose, the camera zoomed in on the gunman's eyes, and nobody in the apartment breathed.
The standoff began.
Jimin leaned forward. He raised his arms toward the television, leveling two finger guns at the screen with absolute, breathless focus.
Yoongi tried to hold it in, he really did, but a loud, gummy laugh tore its way out of his throat anyway.
Jimin jumped and looked over at him. When he saw Yoongi laughing, his shoulders shaking and his eyes crinkling, Jimin's face split into a wide grin. He loved being laughed at, as long as it was Yoongi doing the laughing.
He scrambled up onto his knees. He hammed it up, throwing his arms out wildly, diving behind Yoongi's shoulder for cover, and popping back up to fire off an escalating barrage of imaginary bullets.
"Pow," Jimin said. Then, louder, delighted with himself, "Pow, pow-"
Yoongi laughed harder, trying to shove him away as Jimin dramatically collapsed against him, both of them loud and warm and tangled together on the floor, their laughter drowning out the gunfire on the screen.
Jimin kept it up for a while after that, but he was fading fast. He was still trying to narrate the plot, valiantly fighting off sleep, but his voice had dropped to a soft, mumbled slur. He was getting the characters completely tangled up.
"No, because the... the guy with the rifle," Jimin whispered, his eyelids fluttering behind his crooked glasses. "He thinks he has the money, but... but the other guy, the ugly one..." He trailed off, losing the thread of the story entirely, his words blurring together. "He didn't even know... he took the bullets out… Mm."
A minute later, the mumble faded into a soft, rhythmic exhale.
The oversized felt hat had slipped off, and Jimin breathed evenly against his chest, his mouth slightly open. Yoongi's arm was pinned at a terrible angle, the muscles already prickling with the faint, warning needles of falling asleep.
Yoongi stayed perfectly still in the movie light and let the tape play on.
On the television, the dusty desert landscape widened. The Man with No Name spurred his horse and rode off alone into the barren, rolling hills. That was it. No town to stay in, nobody waving him off. The brassy music swelled one last time, triumphant and empty, and the credits started rolling over the dust.
Yoongi watched the credits roll. Weird ending. The guy had shot the bad guys, sure, but everyone he liked was gone.
That's a bad way to end up.
Beneath Jimin's weight, his arm had gone dead somewhere around the shoulder. There was no getting it back.
The VCR clunked, and the screen turned to static. Yoongi couldn't reach the remote, so he just stayed put, letting the snowy light fill the room.
A moment later, Jimin made a small noise and burrowed in, and his glasses slid down to hang from the end of his nose. Yoongi reached over with his free hand, carefully removed them, and set them on the table. He settled back against the sofa and waited for their moms to get home.