Chapter Text
17/06/25
What they don’t tell you about grief is the anger that comes with it. Or they do, and Seungkwan has just never listened properly.
It’s a rough day; bawdy, dark, crude. Grey. The trees are shaking, their arms bending and cambering with the wind that throws itself against them, the grasses shivering in unity with them. They’re all suffering. Seungkwan thinks they’re overdramatic; he’s doing worse.
Seungkwan is amongst them. He’s standing, hands grasping onto his coat, fingers prickling from the cold, and he stares at the hardwood cross, shiny from the rain.
He’s been yelling, and whispering, and screaming at him.
Not him, it. It’s a grave; it isn’t him.
Now, though, Seungkwan is quiet. His throat is aching, his eyes burning. He can just stare, at the fresh flowers on the soil, the lilies and tulips and chrysanthemums that Seungkwan knows Hansol wouldn’t have cared about anyway, and he clutches at the hem of his damp coat.
“Your brother?” A voice. “My condolences."
A shrill din of silence rings in Seungkwan’s ears.
“What?”
Seungkwan doesn’t turn around, only huffs out quietly. Lately, he doesn’t find the power in himself to offer anyone politeness he socially owes them. At the same time, he also can’t find the power to be ashamed of it. He can’t find power to do a lot of things.
“I saw it on TV, it’s a shame. He was so young.”
Seungkwan feels something burn, and he knows it by name by now. He’s known it ever since he’s been young; a stranger that comes too close and never tells you their name, shadows over you like a predator, just waiting to attack. Seungkwan has always hated it, this part of himself.
He’s grown to know it like a friend however, and this friend has told Seungkwan his name. First name ire, last name wrath.
He feels it burn, deep in his throat, traveling down to his stomach, into the cold tips of his fingers grasping onto his coat more now to the point it hurts, and right into his toes that freeze from the cold soil even through his shoes.
It’s a man, he’s sure. Older than him, by far. Seungkwan turns around just a bit, to look at him. It’s the only source of energy he has, the anger, to do anything. It powers over the sadness; Seungkwan isn’t sure if to be grateful for it.
Mid sixties. Holding carnations. He means well. Gives Seungkwan a small, pityful smile. Oh, how Seungkwan hates that smile, and him, hates them all, these people coming to this place and pitying him, giving him gentle words and pats on the shoulder and wishing him the best. Every day for the past four weeks, without fail. Above all, he hates Hansol. And above even that, he hates himself for that thought.
“Then you should know he only has a sister. They mentioned it,” Seungkwan spits out, voice rough and low and shaking. If he didn’t know it was his own, he wouldn’t recognize it.
Has, he just said. He corrects himself, mentally. Had, had, had.
He pushes past the man, this faceless, nameless void he will never see again, pushes himself through the graveyard towards the exit, through the cold rain and wind hitting against his face. Maybe there’s tears. Seungkwan wouldn’t know.
He could find it blindly by now, the exit to the parking lot, a thought that never occurs to you before you deal with something like this.
That path you create yourself, the scrunched down weeds building a winding line from Seungkwan’s car to Hansol’s grave, all the other trails to the other fresh gravestones, and the overgrown weeds separating the older, dirty ones from the cobblestone path.
Seungkwan would trade them all for Hansol, every single one of these faceless people he’s met once and then never again over the last weeks, coming to see the wet soil and Seungkwan’s fresh flowers to, even worse, put their own next to them. Grieving Hansol, speaking to him as if they had anything important to say. Mourning a person they know nothing about other than a few keywords they have heard on TV.
Hansol Vernon Chwe, car crash, twenty-seven years old. One sister. Boyfriend.
Seungkwan doesn’t reach the exit, reaches the old oak midway that towers over him, and he sinks to his knees. He hates this, all of it, hates the old man who thinks Seungkwan is Hansol’s brother, and he hates this graveyard, because he knows Hansol wanted a sea burial, and Seungkwan hates how he’s not strong enough to just take this easily, and he hates how they all don’t know that Hansol wanted jasmines on his grave in case he died, because those were the flowers they put around Padme at her funeral in goddamn Star Wars, and they don’t know how Seungkwan had laughed at him for that, and yet he keeps coming here every day to put jasmines on his goddamn, goddamn grave. Seungkwan just hates, so very much.
“Why would you do this to me?”
Seungkwan’s hand grips against the wet wood of the oak, his nails digging into the bark, feeling it bite into the skin under his nails, and he cries out, because why, god, if one exists, why?
He cries, and he sobs, and for once, for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t scream, just sits there, gripping this gentle, old tree as if it was the one that killed Hansol, or as if it was his mother, and he only calms down when he sees the sun set in the crowns of the other trees, the maples and pines and others Seungkwan has never cared enough about to recognize.
Slowly, Seungkwan gets up, and knocks off the wet dirt and remains of the tree’s bark that have found themselves on his hands and under his nails, and meets eyes with a crooked-looking, wind-rumpled crow, staring at him. Seungkwan stares back, for a moment, furrows his eyebrows tiredly, and then wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, and shoos it away. He almost feels embarrassed, just for a moment, and shakes his head.
When Seungkwan arrives at home, at his small apartment in the middle of Hongdae, the sun has already set, and he digs the pile of mail out of the letterbox, and climbs up the three flights of stairs. Slowly, even slower than the cat lady from the fifth floor who has a bad ankle, and opens his door to a way too bright living room and the smell of fried chicken. For a second, Seungkwan thinks he’s dreaming. He unconsciously lets the mail fall to the ground, the sound echoing in his ears. He feels his throat close, and his stomach heat up. Seungkwan can barely breathe when he speaks.
“Hansol?”
A girl comes out of the kitchen, and gives Seungkwan a small eyebrow raise, and an even smaller hint of a pained expression. She puts two glasses on the dinner table, and looks Seungkwan up and down. She has his face. She has his face, and Seungkwan wants to cry.
“Sorry, Sofia.”
“No, it’s… I’m sorry for startling you,” she says, and takes a step towards him. “You were at the graveyard?”
… Again, she wants to add, Seungkwan knows. He’s grateful that she doesn’t.
He looks down, at his hands. Now, in the warm light, he looks even worse. As if he had tried to dig Hansol up, or something. Dark, dirtied hands, his boots wet and dark up to the vamp. He nods, and kneels down to pick up the mail.
“Take a shower, I’ll wait here.”
Seungkwan does. It’s the easiest thing for him these days, right after being angry. Following orders. And Sofia is good at that. She comes over often, she makes food, or, when it’s worse for her, she orders some, and they eat together. Seungkwan has told her before that it’s not necessary, that he can care for himself, that it’s fine. He has realized at some point that it’s probably as much of a distraction for her as it is for him. It’s only fair to give this to her.
He does it quickly, just washes off the dirt, and there’s much of that, and Seungkwan watches in slight disgust as the brown, dirty water flushes down the drain. He throws on the same shirt and sweatpants he’s been wearing for days now, and sits down to eat with Sofia.
They don’t talk. Sometimes they do; not a lot, but they do, and sometimes they’re completely quiet. Seungkwan can’t focus on the food, the silence too loud for him today, and god, his throat is burning.
“There was another man there, today. Asked if I was his brother.”
Sofia looks up at him, and blinks. She has been in thought, Seungkwan notices. She’s quiet for a moment, as if having to mentally go over what he said again, before she responds.
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. I left.”
Sofia nods, and watches him for a moment. Seungkwan can’t read her expression, just like he never could with Hansol. He remembers how much he used to wonder if Hansol hated him because Seungkwan just couldn't read him in any way. He is over it now, pretty much.
They eat again.
It’s odd, eating with the sister of your dead boyfriend almost every day for four weeks. The first time she came over, he had been dead for two days. The next time, it was four. The time after that, six days, Seungkwan had given her Hansol’s key card.
Seungkwan looks up at her as he finishes his chicken. He isn’t sure if it’s more painful for himself or for her. He would claim that it is worse for him. She has his face, the same eyes. The same small smile. Even the way she talks, the way she thinks before speaking, the way she chooses words carefully and never says too much. It’s like seeing him, again and again, every single day, haunting him like a ghost.
Sometimes, Seungkwan wants to tell her to leave and never come back, never contact him again.
Sofia gets up and takes the dishes to the kitchen, giving him Hansol’s small smile, and it makes Seungkwan’s heart clench in an almost physical way. He sighs, quietly, and takes the pile of mail, going through it, one by one.
Ad for the new pizza place in the neighborhood that, for some reason, also makes kebab. Bank letter, the second one this week. Ad for a mobile service provider.
Seungkwan hears the tap turn on, the water flowing. He sighs again, a little louder, and yells out, so Sofia can hear, voice powerless.
“I told you before, I’m doing the dishes.”
She doesn’t stop. Seungkwan knows she heard him. He doesn’t protest further.
He continues.
Store catalogue of the grocery store next door (his favourite brand of butter is off by 20% this week!), a magazine he forgot to end the subscription for, a yellowish envelope.
He furrows his eyebrows at the last one, so different from the advertisement mail and government letters, and opens it with his fingernail. He still has some dirt under it, he notices. He should have cleaned up better. Then again, what for?
Seungkwan folds up the piece of paper, similarly yellowish to the envelope, and reads. It’s handwritten, the letters small and neat, almost as if written digitally. He rubs his eyes, and has to squint a little.
‘Dear Chwe Hansol,
as I have learned, there seems to be a tradition to send a letter to your organ donor, or to their family, after you have fully healed, expressing your gratitude for the donation.
I wasn’t quite comfortable with that idea at first, since it would feel harsh of me to thank you for something that you didn’t give to me out of kindness purely, but rather due to your circumstances. Even now, I feel awkward writing this letter to someone who isn’t physically here anymore.
However, I still want to hold you in honor with some personal words.
Because of a past surgery, glasses or medication did not improve or stabilize my vision anymore. My corneas were damaged, and thus, I was in need of a transplant. Thanks to you, I am able to see again.
Even though I did not know you, I do feel like I carry some part of you with me. Which I physically do, I know. But I mean it in an almost spiritual way, which is strange for me to say.
I feel like I see the world with different eyes now. I watch more movies nowadays. I smiled at a baby in the metro days ago, and she smiled back at me. Can you imagine that?
I go to art galleries. I have been at the MMCA every weekend the past few weeks. Before, I didn’t even care for art a bit… or for babies, for that matter.
I know it sounds weird to say that you have changed something inside of me, because I don’t even know you. But something inside of me tells me that you were a good person. That I am honored to see the world with your eyes. I hope deeply that other people were also able to see that, and that I am correct about my assumption.
I am sending this letter to your address; it will probably not even be delivered. If anyone else finds this, I hope they at least can read and acknowledge my gratitude towards you.
Best regards
J.W.’
Seungkwan reads it again, and again. He feels as if he’s about to throw up, or cry, or rip the paper apart, or all three of them.
It feels wrong to hold this and read it.
Sofia comes back into the room, and Seungkwan doesn’t even look up, doesn’t even notice at first, and he reads the letter again. His eyes, this person has his eyes. A part of him. Seungkwan’s own eyes are burning, and he only looks up when Sofia speaks to him, her expression worried, arms crossed, voice softer than usual. Like Hansol, Seungkwan thinks. His brain burns.
“Are you okay, Seungkwan?”
He doesn’t have words, and he doesn’t even know if he is or not. He should be happy to see someone being grateful towards Hansol for something his boyfriend had given them, and yet, he feels his insides burn. Someone has benefitted from Hansol, from a part of him. And Seungkwan would give anything to have this person go blind forever and have his Hansol back.
He hands Sofia the letter, and stares at her as she reads. The way her eyebrows are furrowed, so similar to Hansol, the way her fingers weave through her hair as her eyes jump up again, to the top of the letter, to read again, just like Seungkwan. To see Hansol’s name in this stranger’s handwriting, the words of gratitude for something both Sofia and him would have never, ever wanted Hansol to give to them.
Moments of silence. Minutes, maybe.
“That’s… very sweet of them. To write this,” Sofia says, and Seungkwan can hear her words stumble, her voice crack at the word ‘sweet’. Nothing about this is sweet.
Seungkwan can’t respond, he just gets up, because he can’t sit anymore, and brings his hands up to his face, to cover his eyes, because the room is too goddamn bright, and because his eyes are burning, and because he hates this stranger, and because he hates Sofia for saying it’s sweet, and because he hates Hansol for leaving, and because he hates this anger, and he just hates, and hates, and hates.
“Seungkwan,” Sofia hushes, and gently touches Seungkwan’s upper arm, like you would do with an anxious cat that’s hidden in the corner of the room because the young child of your guests won’t leave it alone, and Seungkwan flinches. He imagines the cat would, as well, but the cat would also flee. Seungkwan can’t.
Against all the voices in his head screaming at him to yell that this stranger doesn’t deserve Hansol’s eyes, that he would trade this person’s eyesight for Hansol’s life in a second, that he wants to scream at this person for even showing the ounce of boldness to even thank Hansol for this, he stays quiet, lets Sofia hold him, and after moments, or minutes, or hours, it pulls him back to reality.
Seungkwan takes a deep breath, and rubs his eyes once again before looking at Sofia. For a moment, he thinks she might have the same idea as him, from the way her eyebrows furrow. He swallows, and hums out in a low, shaky voice, meeting her eyes.
“I want to meet them.”