π’ππππ πππππππ.
SETTING: the nethers β ko's funeral parlor. NOTES: rest in pieces to siwoo (and blythe). he really said, βall my homies said bye.β music inspiration is βsweet nothingβ by taylor swift. MENTIONS: referencing seojun's self para: βvague hopeβ, siwoo's last reply to fynn's thread βescaping deathβ, siwoo's self para: βbellowβ. TAGS: #siwooselfpara #wpc02
written for my oc ko si-woo in IVORY CITY. 2022.
CONTENT WARNINGοΉ character death. body horror.
γ €γ € he never bothered to pick up the ashes on the concrete, nor remove the mold in the tiles of the walls.
if only siwoo had known that it was his last day, maybe he could've made a lovely bed for himself.
the idea of death had always fascinated him because the dead always accompanied him on the days when he thought would be his last. they were always a delight to have around, because they can't ever think to betray or hurt him. they were always around him ... in the death of his lost memories, the death of his innocence, the death of his only first love... his heart.
to make up for the time spent in shackles and hands restless from shaking, he designed farewells for every guest possible. the funeral parlor under his direction made genuine arrangements that would send comfort and assurance for their travels to wherever it is that They Who Fell fucked off; and that was one good thing he can be proud of.
and although siwoo knows he'll meet his end someday; he always wished it to be something kinder.
not to go down without a fightββsiwoo tried his best.
not to go down from induced illness to a human body, or a possible greed of an alexandrian's appetite for power.
not to go down with hands wrapped around his neck so he can be pulled like a dead fish down the staircase, ending up ironically near the mortuary table. not even a luxury of being placed on it is allowed, while the half-angel's consciousness has been in and out. his chest has been overworking, compensating to supply oxygen to slowly dying brain, to a slow working vision.
he laid still on the same spot where he buried his predecessor, where he felt her arms reaching out to cradle his cranium so gently that he felt himself choke.
the wolves finally got to you, my dear, she kept whispering; turned out she never stopped since that day.
the hybrid tried to ignore the last tricks his mind conjured to alleviate the pain; broken bones, burning hot flesh, blood trickling continuously through porous, torn flesh. and he couldn't hear anything else but the final pulses of his heartbeat within his ears, couldn't feel anything else but the accepted terror nestled within remaining calcium.
his vision continues to dull; darkness merges into jet black as he stares ahead across the open door of the basement. the paraphernalia of the dead sit across in shelves, gouged out eyes looking back at him.
and he laughs.
if only siwoo had known that it was his last day, maybe he could've been kind.
he would've told jett that he still loved him, that it was his fault for the fallout they had, for falling for the fey even if that wasn't part of the terms. he wouldn't have walked out that night, accusing him wrongly about the demons that grappled siwoo whenever the taste of his lover's lips or the dust itself cannot make him forget about his fears. he would've apologized and make it up to jett, ask him for another redo, for a truthful and trusting connection this time.
...instead of sending jett a gift of a preserved heart in a jar, requested to be delivered on his doorstep after a day of his death.
he would've visited juniper and fynn more; adored and loved them like a real brother, treat them like real family. he would've asked juniper for help in creating a thousand paper cranes, his new obsessive hobby, because siwoo wanted to wish the best for the one who saved his life. he would've given fynn whatever fynn wanted, because siwoo wanted to extend his help unconditionally, without ifs and buts whenever fynn needs him to be there.
...instead of hurting them with unnecessary words, unnecessary violence written in every movement, every wink, every jest.
he would've handed hosu back to his owner, he would've given blythe that closure, and the truth that siwoo did not hate him; rather, he was scared of so many things, scared to be taken apart and build again, especially when he began to feel the exact same thing whenever the muse would share kind gestures that made siwoo felt safe. he saw himself dancing in blythe's kitchen, dancing with him, sharing a life he once dreamed with somebody.
...instead of sending their relationship to flames, allowing the fire to consume that certificate, letting the hate devour any chances for something new.
but to be fair, siwoo does not know to be kind. he doesnβt know how to. he is sharp tongue and sharp words, jagged pieces smashed together, uneven shrapnels of a boy cursed with divinity.
and he laughs more.
maybe in another life, he will learn to be kind.
maybe in another life, he will be soft curves, vulnerability worn like a coat with delicate words and caring gestures.
maybe then, he will never turn out like this.
a half-dead baby bird who is falling with the heat of a supernova, with the end ahead of his sight.
maybe.