I always wondered what suho would have done if sieun were the one who fell into a coma :(
in my opinion, anon, if sieun ended up in a coma, suho wouldn’t fall apart the same way sieun did. he wouldn’t send desperate texts begging for him to wake, nor would he break down visiting with grief in his eyes. he wouldn't stop eating, he wouldn't lose sleep. no, suho’s way is different.
he’d show up every day like clockwork, sliding into sieun's hospital room with a kind of casualness that almost feels like denial. he’d drop his bag, pull up a chair, and start talking—about the cafeteria food, the ridiculous homework, some customer at his delivery job? things he used to talk to sieun about. things that kept the world tethered.
“you're still not talking to me? rude,” he’d say with a mock-annoyed voice, though no one’s there to hear it.
he’d fill the silence with his voice, like they were just hanging out; suho yapping, sieun quiet — their usual dynamic. like nothing’s broken. maybe he’d bring snacks, or games, or books sieun liked, but mostly, he’d just be present. no tears. no desperate pleas. just steady, stubborn presence.
because for suho, absence probably wouldn't be about waiting for a miracle. it’d be about holding the space where sieun used to be, refusing to let it vanish.
HOWEVER, the other side of suho? the side that wants revenge? what would he do? he wouldn’t lose control like sieun did. there’d be no blood trails, no shattered windows, no violent echoes through the halls. no screams, no raging outbursts, no expulsion letters from school. because suho doesn’t erupt like sieun.
think about the last time sieun got hurt? suho didn’t rage. he didn’t scream or flip desks or smash a dumbbell on a foot or stab pens into arms. he gathered names like pieces on a chessboard, lining them up on a rooftop like a teacher calling roll. then he broke them — one by one — methodically, like ticking off errands. when it was done, he took a photo. less of a threat, more of a proof. and sent it to beomseok with one cold line: answer the phone or i’ll kill your friends.
he learned that youngbin hurt sieun’s hand, so suho found him, pinned him down, and crushed his fingers underfoot—not with anger, not with haste, but with a casual quietness, like putting out a cigarette. like procedure.
so if sieun were taken from him — if sieun were lying in a hospital bed, unconscious and unreachable — suho wouldn’t collapse. he’d organize.
a car sliding off a road in the rain. a bottle of pills emptied too suddenly. a missing poster curled at the corners, fluttering on a telephone pole. there would be no pattern. no evidence. just absence. and suho would still be at school—on time, composed, making eye contact in the hallway. like everything's normal.
because this wouldn’t be revenge. it would be removal.
sieun fights like something cornered: raw, furious, desperate to be seen. suho cuts like frostbite. he's silent and precise. by the time you notice, it’s already done.
suho would always say "let's not cross the line," but he would, for sieun. and the most insane part is that suho wouldn’t even think he crossed a line. he’d believe there was no line left to cross.
because sieun was the line.
without him, there’s only silence. and a ledger of names waiting to be crossed out.
