✂ TOO MANY MEMORIES GETTING IN THE WAY OF ME
| tw: death, gore kinda |
jaeyong should thrive in war. he is made of blood and shrapnel, all shining violence and vicious glory.
maybe there is a part of him that even now can’t help but involve himself when he smells blood, or hears about the gruesome animal attacks on the news, the wild wolves through hunter circles he’s still a part of somehow, despite feeling like he isn’t.
it isn’t his war, but jaeyong always has a way of making everything about himself. this is no different, or maybe it is; maybe it’s about daeyong instead. daeyong, just as headstrong, just as likely not to bow to anyone, just as likely to pick a fight with his mere existence. jaeyong doesn’t know that daeyong is alive. all he knows is that he didn’t die the night everyone thought he did-- that he wasn’t dead as of halloween. maybe he is already a casualty of the werewolves’ feud.
jaeyong doesn’t believe it in his heart, because daeyong is also just as likely to drive a knife into a wolf’s eye even with jaws around his arm, just as likely to stab a wolf in the neck even with teeth buried in his own, just as likely to always fight, to always defy death. daeyong is a song, but more importantly, he’s jaeyong’s brother.
he wonders, if daeyong were really gone, if he would be able to feel it even now. he wonders if he would feel that familiar emptiness again-- if he would wake up with some new void in him, some minor black hole threatening to obliterate his tender heart once and for all. he wonders if it would be nothing, and one day their memories together would become hazy-- if he would forget what his face looked like if his own wasn’t identical.
he tells himself, when he heads out into the night, outfitted in his knives and his crossbow like always, that he is hunting to finish off any particularly weak wolves, or the ones that are desperate in the face of conflict, or any he really sees. he knows deep down that he is looking for his brother. he has been since the first declaration of war, casually, without telling anyone, without even admitting it to himself.
he doesn’t want daeyong to die at the hands of the very things they were sworn to kill.
he wants to end daeyong’s life himself. (he wants to see him one last time.)
jaeyong was raised for war, and also raised to be an opportunist. when a monster is distracted, jaeyong sees a chance to strike. this time, he stumbles upon a chase: two wolves he would guess are in a pack chasing a wolf on its own. they zip past him without paying him any mind, tunnel-visioning on their target or their escape. jaeyong breaks into a run after them, readying his crossbow as he does. he fires one arrow, imbued with wolfsbane, made to kill, into the rear of the wolf. it yelps and stumbles, then falls, and if it isn’t dead by the time jaeyong gets shots in on the others, he’ll come back to finish it off. he doesn’t hesitate in pursuing the other two wolves, neither of them slowing down even with the loss of the attack’s companion. jaeyong has to sprint to catch up enough to fire his second arrow, and the scene is much like the first: a whimper, a stumble, and one more wolf still running. jaeyong barely stops this time either, still chasing, only this time, it’s different.
this time, he’s out of the bolts that kill. he doesn’t hesitate when he reaches for one of the remaining bolts regardless and fires it, and then another. the first hits; the second doesn’t, and jaeyong makes a choice to let this wolf go. he would guess that it’s weaker than the other two, maybe even a lone wolf. it won’t get far, and jaeyong will come back for it after he makes sure the other two are dead.
he still runs to check, though, because he isn’t as cocky as he once was. he knows if he wants to finish the job, and add three more deaths at his hand to his tally, he needs to be quick just to be sure.
the second wolf of the night still lives, but a slit throat finishes it off. his first target is dead, the extra bit of time enough for the fatal poison to act. really, he could’ve just left them both, trusting his well-crafted weapon to do its work, but maybe he has a little more mercy now than ever. (maybe he still likes to see the way light drains from a monster’s eyes-- the reminder of what he is still capable of.)
with two bloodied crossbow bolts back in his quiver, he sets off again, following the trail of his final kill. it’s more difficult than he anticipates for a wolf he pinned as weak, and an injured one at that, but he soon turns the corner into an alley, crossbow raised, and finds a bloodied, very human figure in front of him.
he has some smartass comment on the tip of his tongue, probably hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it? this time, but when the now human wolf turns toward him--
“dae.” it’s not a question, a simple statement, nothing but an observation despite the weight of that single name, and of this single moment. he still raises his crossbow, but he doesn’t shoot. he half expects his father to appear and hold a gun to his head for hesitating here, too. it is too familiar, but he reminds himself that this time, they aren’t here. they aren’t the reason for his choices anymore, or they don’t have to be. (is it a devil or an angel on his shoulder that whispers you have a choice here too? he doesn’t know. he doesn’t know.)
you look like shit, he wants to say, because it’s true, because it feels natural even now, but he can’t bring himself to.
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