“ it can’t rain all the time ”
PLAYLIST: “like a villain” - bad omens, “another life” - motionless in white, “take me back to eden” - sleep token, “change (in the house of flies)” - deftones
WARNINGS: the crow! yunho, very loosely based on the 1994 film but I tried to at least fit the sad, grunge-y aesthetics, as such there are themes of death, drug-use, alcohol-use, sexual harassment, violence, and general criminal behaviors
A NOTE: this is heavily inspired by the 1994 film adaptation of “The Crow”, names and characters come very directly from the film and i tried to keep much of the atmosphere. but the plot of the film is glazed over for the sake of just getting the story out on the page. it isn’t necessary to know the film (or the comics/graphic novels or the newest 2024 adaptation) for the story, but it might be helpful/more enjoyable to know the plot. look–i just took some details, changed some others, and ran with them, okay?? i just needed to imagine yunho as the crow, and i made it happen for myself (and anyone who is willing to read this). do NOT expect this to follow the movie’s plot or the movies rules much at all.
Yunho’s head was pounding, sharp waves of pain that felt like knives being stabbed right into the grey mush that should have been his brain. He tried to blink his eyes open, but found himself flinching back, curling into a ball and pushing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. It was too bright and too dark all at once and sent electric currents right through him all over again. Like having shards of glass embedded beneath his lids. Hell, maybe there were, digging in deeper and deeper with each pass of his fingers over the burning pits that should have been eyes.
He breathed through it. Forced himself to inhale one shaky, hitched breath at a time. In - one, two, three. Out - one, two, three. Each inhale like ingesting flames, each exhale on a sob that came from the very bottom of his stomach. He lost count, started hyperventilating, unable to breathe. He was going to vomit - he was vomiting, the bile rising in his throat before he even registered it, splashing wetly against the ground beside him. He would have grimaced, recoiled, if he didn’t feel so weighted down.
He ached. His whole body felt like just one massive muscle spasm - every bone, muscle, ligament contracted too tight and on fire. Hot and cold; everything and nothing; heavy and weightless all at once. It was maddening. Insane. He had to have gone insane. Fucking crazy, cause why the hell does he remember dying? Why does he remember a frenzy of fists, sharp steel, and bullets? The shattering of glass? The sickening crunch of his own body landing on the rain-slicked pavement below?
Why does he remember seeing her die? Seeing the glint of a blade before it plunged right into her chest? Red soaking her shirt, the floor beneath her? Why could he still hear the joy-filled cackles of the man in their apartment, their home, their safe place away from everything?
The memory distorted, splintered and shattered like a broken mirror, tinged red like the blood spilling from his beloved’s wounds. Roaring filled his ears, filled his chest, his throat, spilled from his dry lips, the skin splitting to fill his mouth with the taste of metal. Of rage.
His screams echoed around him. Bounced off the walls of his skull, bounced off the walls of wherever the fuck he was.
Drip. Something fell on his face. Cool and wet, right in the center of his forehead. Again. A third time. His lashes fluttered, lids trying to lift but they were far too heavy. Sticky. He frowned, trembling hands swiping at his face. He stilled when fluttering filled his ears, and his eyes were finally able to open.
There was a bird right in front of his face. Big and oil-slick black and its beak dangerously close. Its head cocked to the side to keep one beady eye on him. He startled, twisting to the side and scrambling away until his back hit a wall. His breath rushed out of him in a harsh wheeze as his skin scraped against exposed brick, the rough material cutting deep into naked, exposed flesh. Slicing until heat dripped down to pool on the floor beneath his ass.
“What the fuck is going on?” he blurted out, voice loud and echoing in the empty alleyway even as it was a mere croak of breath. He was cold - so fucking cold, like he would never be warm again, like he had never known warmth in his entire life - and his whole body was trembling as flashes of memories continued to fill his mind. Being held down by his legs, by his shoulders, face pressed into the glass-laden floor, forced to watch as she was stabbed. Over and over again, the precious body violated by the sharpness of steel. Over and over. Forced to watch as she sought him out in her pain, in her final moments. Her hand stretched out across the space between them and her eyes big and bright with tears and fear and love. Still full of so much love. For him. For them. And then the light was gone. Her eyes staring at him blankly. Dark in the wretched stillness of her face, gleaming in the harsh yellow fluorescent lighting of their home, still filled with yet unshed tears.
A sob tore its way from his throat so violently, he had to push his head between his knees to try to catch his breath again. He was going to cry; he already was crying, chest heaving and shoulders hitching with hiccups. He was going to vomit again, stomach lurching even though it was empty. Hollow. His fingers clawed at the tangled mass of his hair as he fought against falling back into hyperventilation, fought against the acid burning its way up his throat.
She was dead. She died, had been killed right in front. of. him.
And he had been too! Stabbed in the stomach and pushed out the fucking living room window. So why the fuck was he here? Alive and feeling and too fucking conscious.
The crow squawked, the sound shrill, echoing loudly. Its wings flapped as it hopped closer to him, sharp claws clicking and scraping against dirty, wet pavement. He flinched away from the sudden movement. Flinched again when the black bird spread its wings and took to the air, flying away from him.
All he could do was stare after the bird’s retreating figure, and as soon as it was but a mere speck of blacker black in the dark of the night, he screamed. He screamed and screamed. Sobbed anew, until his throat was raw and his tongue tasted of copper and he felt as dead as he should have been. The physical pain drowned out the emotions, drowned out the memories. Fueled his rage.
It began to rain as it simmered away in his system. The blood-boiling anger. The anguish. The deep seated need for revenge. He stood, bones aching, tears and blood mixing with the drops of water flowing down his face. He was going to find them. Find everyone who killed him. Who killed her. And he was going to kill each and every one of them.
⛆ ⛆ ⛆
He stumbled into the apartment - the one that had been their home, their sanctuary, for years. Rain dripped from his hair, slid down his arms and off his fingertips, to the ground. The place was trashed. Pictures and books ripped and strewn about, glass shattered. Blood still stained the floor, right where he remembered laying, right where he remembered seeing them plunge a dagger right into her heart. Her last breath still rattled off the walls of the apartment, of his skull, and he pushed further into the space, disregarding the pain of glass crunching underfoot, slicing right through sensitive tissue to leave behind prints and smudges on the hardwood.
He stopped to stare at them in awe. Somehow he was alive. He was bleeding, the evidence of it now all over the floor. Red against the grime of the old wood, fresh against the stains of where she had once lain. Stains being all that remained of her.
Another glance around the space had his heart clenching, stomach rolling like he might be sick again. Then, his eyes caught on something. Hanging on the back of the bathroom door, right where she had left it, the outfit he wore on stage however long ago. A whole lifetime ago. One she had taken great enjoyment in picking out, had taken pleasure in seeing him dressed in for his performance. All black, leather pants and torn cotton long-sleeve, adorned with chains and pins that she had spent hours sewing into the cloth.
To the side of the door, a vanity. His reflection stared back at him, her favorite cosmetics mocking him where they lie, toppled and dusty with neglect. The days they spent together, him watching her get ready for dates, her urging him to do a facemask with her, helping him with different stage makeup looks. The makeup look she loved on him so much he almost didn’t make it to the venue for his performance, black smudged down his chin and kissed down his neck, mirrored on her own skin.
⛆ ⛆ ⛆
Dove was cornered. Well, not really. Not entirely. But she couldn’t move if she wanted to get home undiscovered by the group around the corner. She breathed in silent gasps, heart fluttering away like a caged bird, trying not to jump with every shattered bottle and yelled curse from the group. All men, all bigger than her. All obviously under the influence of one thing or another and just looking to cause some kind of trouble.
It was unlucky that she stumbled upon them–this very specific group of men. They were notorious in the city, even to those outside of the crime circles. Perhaps even especially to those outside the circles. That’s who they loved to prey upon the most, after all. They ran the city, played through it like it was their own personal playground, making it everyone’s own personal nightmare.
The loudest of the men cursed, and she pressed herself harder into the grimy brick wall that kept her hidden, pressing her lips together to muffle the whimper threatening to spill out. It was dark, nearing midnight. The air wet and cold from the rainfall earlier in the day. Thank goodness it had stopped–even if only for a moment. That didn’t stop the chill that left her trembling, goosebumps lining her exposed skin.
She had been running late for her shift at the diner and forgot her bag at home, leaving her with the only option of walking home in her uniform. An ugly, too-short thing that left her far more exposed than covered. But the flashes of leg got her more tips and kept the boss off her back. At least she was shorter than most of the other girls, the nasty thing falling a little lower on her thigh. Some of the girls can barely bend to wipe the tables down without showing a flash of whatever they have on underneath.
Steps, shouts, the distinct sounds of a scuffle. She trembled, eyes squeezing tight, hoping against all hope that none of them came any closer. That she went unnoticed and would be able to make it home unharrassed. The alley way went quiet, but still, she stayed. Her hands gripped her skirt so tightly she could feel her nails digging into her palms even through the rough fabric.
Something passed in front of her, and she choked back a sob, refusing to open her eyes. If she couldn’t see it coming, it would be more painless. But…nothing happened. One deep breath, and she let her eyes flutter open, spooking when something moved. A bird, blacker than the night. A crow. Staring right at her.
It squawked, ruffled its wings, then took flight. She blinked.
A scream stuck in her throat, knees nearly giving out beneath her. There was a man in front of her. Shrouded in shadows and barely visible, but a man nonetheless. Dressed in all black and leather, slouched and arms crossed over his chest in a way that did absolutely nothing to hide how tall he was.
Long arms unraveled, fell to his sides, heavy combat boots scuffing against the cracked pavement of the alleyway, long leather jacket rustling with his movements. She squeaked, pushed further back into the wall behind her, lifting onto her toes as if that would help any. He stopped a mere step in front of her, face smeared with makeup enough to hide his expression but not the deep furrow of his brows or the intense darkness of his eyes. White base, black lines through his eyes and lips painted into a pointed smile–gothic and clown-like.
“Go home,” he said, voice gruff like he hadn’t spoken in a long time. “You shouldn’t be out so late.”
Fear transformed into irritation before she could get a handle on it. “Right,” she scoffed. “I shouldn’t be out so late.”
His brows twitched up, seemingly amused by her anger. But he didn’t say anything, simply tilted his head, over-grown black hair falling into his eyes, and started walking away.
Dove scoffed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. The anger dissipated before she was ready, forcing her breath to release from her lungs in a weary sigh. And when she turned the corner to go home, she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder.
The man was gone.
She didn’t give herself the time to dwell on it. Who the man was. What he was doing out, in that specific area at that specific time–just in time for the group of degenerates to get in a shuffle that ended in deafening silence. How a man of his stature disappeared so quickly. She didn’t have the time to dwell on it. She shook the interaction off, took a deep breath, and continued on her path home, steadfastly refusing to look around the corner where the group of men should have been, waiting to harass any unsuspecting, innocent person unlucky enough to cross their path. It didn’t take long, not with how fast she was walking, wanting nothing more than to be out of the streets and out of the nasty uniform scratching at her sensitive skin.
Before she knew it, her apartment building was looming over her. She rushed the squeaky stairs, avoiding the peeling walls of the hallway, coaxing her key into the door to push the creaky door open. Wet boots were toed off, keys thrown on the rickety kitchen table. Usually, she would throw her bag onto the floor by the sofa, but it was already there, the threadbare black fabric mocking her from where it was slouched.
Her gaze moved from the current bane of her existence to the small body curled in on itself beneath the ratty blanket usually thrown over the back of the piece of furniture. His little head poked out over the top of the material, dark hair a mess and crumbs still on his mouth from whatever after-dinner snack he must have had. The television was playing, casting white-blue light that made him look ghostly, that brought the shadows beneath his eyes, the deep furrow of his brows, and downturn of his lips into stark attention.
His face was pinched, but he wasn’t restless yet. Whatever nightmare was inevitably going to terrorize him wasn’t there quite yet. She didn’t have to wake him yet. She didn’t want to wake him yet. She would have to, eventually. He needed to sleep in the bed. But he already got so little sleep, plagued by bad dreams and night terrors since that fateful night.
She turned on her heel, socked feet quiet on the floor as she went to the kitchen. She would give him a few more minutes of semi-peaceful sleep before moving him. A note was stuck to the fridge, words messy and sprawling like the person who wrote them was in a hurry. I gave Gabe the food you left for him. He ate it all and did his homework. I’m so sorry I had to bail before you got here, work called and I can’t miss any more days without being fired. - Sarah
A sigh was all she could give in response. It was a frustrating situation. Scary, even. Any number of things could have happened to her little brother in the time it took for Dove to make it home. But she couldn’t find it in herself feel angry at her neighbor for not being able to stay any later than she already had. Dove had been running late as it was, and she knew the teenager’s boss was short-tempered and fire-happy, that she was trying her hardest to support herself and her drug-addict mother. Sarah needed to work just as badly as Dove herself did.
She stifled a yawn as she pulled the note from the single magnet she had on the refrigerator door. The paper crumbled in her grip, shook until she crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash. It bounced off the edge, falling to the linoleum floor with a soft sound that sounded all too loud in the dead quiet of the night.
She should eat. She needed to, even. Having forgotten her bag meant she also forgot her allotted lunch money. Which also meant she was running purely on the one free drink allowed to her at work. Her stomach felt hollow, but she didn’t think she could keep any food down. Not while the adrenaline from her walk home still pulsed through her, not with how much her stomach all but gnawed at itself.
A sound came from the living room. It was soft, barely there, but it was enough to make her freeze. Silence for a moment, then another noise came. A whimper–one she had become quite familiar with in the last year or so. Gabriel.
Her steps were hurried as she walked back over to the sofa. The boy had curled into himself, his little form shaking beneath the blanket. She shook the boy by his shoulder, fingers carding through his messy hair, careful to not startle him too much. Forcing calm where she always felt fear and guilt and shame. He had always been scared of sudden noises and loud emotions, and it had become worse after their mother died.
She was not a nice woman by any means, but she had always done her best to provide for Dove as a child and then for him after he was born, even though he was entirely unexpected. Perhaps more distant than she should have been, but she had never lost her temper on them, never cursing or yelling at them.
Her boyfriends were another story. Each one horrible, each one seemingly worse than the one before him. Always unkind and unforgiving. Thankfully, they treated the kids like they didn’t exist, but they were always angry at their mother. And those situations were always likely to create lasting impressions on anyone, child or adult, who had to witness them.
“Sissy?” he asked, voice thick with sleep, lower lip trembling and eyes wet, jerking her right back into the present
“It’s just me, baby bird,” she murmured, pulling him up and into her body, suppressing her own tears as he snuffled against her neck. “Let’s get you into bed, hmm?”
⛆ ⛆ ⛆
Yunho cursed himself as he watched the woman leave from his hiding spot in the shadows of the alleyway. What was she thinking walking through this part of the city so late at night? What was he thinking talking to her? Regardless, he shadowed her as she made her way through the city, scowling when she stopped at a derelict apartment building.
He couldn't dwell here any longer. He had shit to get done. People to find. Revenge to exact. He stalked through the night, feeling all the more like a predator as his vision blurred and shifted, aided by his crow companion circling in the air just ahead.
________
The knife sang through the air when he threw it, the weapon landing with deadly precision, sinking into its own owner’s flesh. Wide, angry eyes losing all light the very next moment. Bodies littered the room, blood running in rivulets, air thick with the smell of gun powder and smoke. The heavy silence of finality–of death–was pierced by the shrieking of police sirens. The crackling of fire. The heavy rainfall against the roof of the building.
He jumped as the flashing blue and red lights approached, landing heavily on the ground. Heavier than he should have, feet and ankles jarring painfully before he rolled to the ground. The breath was knocked out of him–something that hadn’t happened since he had reawakened in the dingy alleyway however long ago. Pain blurred his vision more than the heavy rain did, and he could feel the pulse of the wounds in his abdomen trying and failing to heal the way it should have. But those bastards had set a trap, injured his crow–luckily, it had gotten away with its life (and his own by extension).
Yunho blindly made his way through the city, shivering and soaked to the bone before he realized where he was. The dilapidated building sagged over him, looking half-alive in the dirty yellow cast by the streetlights, lowhanging clouds obscuring the top like unruly grey hair, broken windows winking in and out of focus like ghostly eyes in the night.
He isn’t sure how he found the apartment or when he raised his fist to knock at the door, moving through the building with his mind only half present. He wasn’t in his own body, feeling numb and floaty. It was a choke noise of distress that snapped him back.
The woman from the alleyway stood before him, clutching the door like she might fall to the floor without its support. She looked frightened, eyes darting over him and then around the hallway. He had to look horrible. Pale and dripping water and blood in puddles. “Help me,” he choked out, barely able to push the words from his throat.
He was floating again, but present enough to see the shift in her expression. The hardening of her eyes and the firm press of her lips before she turned to look inside. “Gabriel, baby,” she called into the apartment. “I need you to go sit in the bedroom and wait for me to come and get you. Can you do that for me?”
A little voice answered back, trembling but strong. “Yes, sissy.” Soft footsteps pattered through, a door opened then clicked shut.
Silence settled heavy over the apartment before she grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside. Her grip was tight–grounding–but he could feel the tremors in her fingers as she dragged him further inside. The apartment is dark, lit only by the streetlights shining in from outside, but she navigated the both of them through the space with ease, pulling him quickly down a hall, keeping herself pointedly between him and the closed door just on the other side of the hallway.
“Shirt,” she said, voice clipped as she riffled through a cabinet beneath the sink. She straightened, first-aid kit in hand, brow arched when she saw that he hadn’t moved. “Do you need help?” she asked, something softer leaking into her voice as she set the plastic box on the sink, leaving it to balance precariously on the lip of the chipped porcelain bowl.
“Please,” he whispered around the lump sitting in his throat. His mind was back in his body again, and he felt heavy. So heavy. Like his skin and muscles were pressing in on his bones and weights were attached to his eyelids. He wasn’t sure he could lift his arms on his own even if he tried.
The woman was quick but gentle as she worked the tight black material from his torso. A startled gasp stuck in her throat, fingers worrying the soaked material and eyes stuck to him. She was trembling again, he noticed. And he looked around her to catch sight of himself in the mirror. Scars littering his skin. Some old, shiny and white against his already pale skin–the ones that had caused his initial death. But it was the new ones, bright red and obviously irritated, still leaking blood down his chest that must have shocked her.
“Where'd the blood come from?” she asked, stepping back from him, pink-stained fingers raising. “What happened?”
“It was mine,” he said. “Mostly.”
“Mostly,” she repeated, exhaling a sharp breath. “What the fuck does that mean? How the fuck are you alive? These wounds would have most people in the hospital right now. Most people would be dead already.”
“I’m not…most people,” he said. “I’m not even sure I'm a person.”
His knees were buckling before he could find the strength to stop it. Whatever questions had been blazing in her eyes left, and she scrambled to catch him before he could fall. Grip firm as she helped him a step back to settle his dead weight on the toilet.
“How are you not dead?” she murmured, eyes locked on the gaping wounds in his chest, the one on his side, the one above his belly button. “You need to be in a hospital with all these.”
“I can’t go to a hospital,” he panted out.
“Why not?”
“I’m already dead,” he said. “I’m supposed to be dead.”
Her eyes were sharp, cutting, as they looked into his own again. “What the fuck does that mean?” Fear and impatience pushed her voice an octave higher.
His arm lifted on its own, trembling fingers brushing the warm curve of her cheek before she could stumble back. He saw the moment she fell into his memories, the moment the pain hit and she realized what she was seeing. Just enough to explain but not enough to harm her. His arm was falling heavily into his lap before she was gasping, tears clumping her eyelashes.
She didn’t say anything, blinking through tears and disbelief. She surprised him by reaching for the first-aid kit in favor of wiping the wetness from her face or asking questions. He let her. He let the silence hang in the air, unwilling to break it save for the sharp hisses that escape his throat as she cleaned his skin, disinfected the wounds, and covered them with sterile cotton pads.
“You’re good at that,” he said, watching her grab his shirt from the floor to throw it into the tub, wipe the puddle of bloody water from the cracked linoleum, then turn to the sink.
“I was a nurse.” Her voice was soft as she started to scrub at her hands, pink foam rinsing away before she went in for another round of soap. Then a third. Then she was hunched over the sink, water still running as her shoulders shook.
She was straightening before he could say anything else, eyes vacant and so far away concern settled in his chest. “You’re welcome to stay if you have nowhere to go. Don’t go near my bedroom. Goodnight.” With that, she turned and stumbled across the hall.
The water was still going.
⛆ ⛆ ⛆
There’s a tiny human curled into her side when she wakes up, the world still gray outside her bedroom window. Whether because it was still raining or because it was just that early, she wasn’t entirely sure. But she wiggled out of bed, anyway, carefully retucking the blanket around Gabriel to keep the chill of the apartment as far away from his skin as possible.
Flashes of the night before came to her as she walked to the bathroom. The man with his waterlogged clothes and smudged face paint. The blood running down his torso in rivers. The blurry flashes of his life now embedded in her brain. I’m supposed to be dead. How was he not dead?
Dove felt like she was sleepwalking as she went about her morning. Her coffee was warm but flavorless, her work uniform scratching at her skin feeling like nothing. The walk to work was a blur. Feeling and awareness didn’t come fully back to her until halfway through her shift, and the bombardment to her senses left her shaky and needing to step outside for a moment.
The alleyway behind the restaurant was empty, lined with trash, the asphalt wet. But blessedly lacking in people. The breeze was light and the mist cool as it fell on her skin. Everything she needed to calm down.
Something rustled, something else scraped against the ground. Reminding her of a few nights ago. Of last night. Of that man. She glanced around the alleyway, noticed a flicker in the shadows, a crow propped on the ledge of a building just above. Instead of fear, something else settled in her chest. Something almost warm. Something unexpected.
She didn’t dwell on it. Instead, turning on her heel to walk back inside.
________
The night was heavy, the clouds hanging low and fog blurring the edges of the world. The heaviness pressed down on her the closer she got to home. The night darker. The fog thicker. A smell swirling its way into her nose. Stifling. Smoke.
Her heart kicked in her chest, and her steps fell quicker. Harder. Water kicked up from the pavement to wet the backs of her legs as she sped home. Hoping against hope it wasn’t coming from where she was most afraid of it coming from.
She froze. Stopped breathing. Fire and smoke billowed from the broken windows, people scrambling from the one entrance of the building. She scanned them all, searching, heart in her throat, for a single head of dark ringlets. Where is he? “Gabriel?” she called over the bustle of the people and the crackling of the flames.
He wasn’t there.
She rushed to the entrance, ignoring the hands and cries of people trying to keep her outside. She pushed them away, running inside and up the rickety stairs. Sweat beaded on her skin, smoke choked her lungs. She didn’t stop, kept running down the hall, fighting her apartment door open when she finally reached it.
The fire wasn’t in her apartment. Not yet. “Gabriel,” she called again, coughing as smoke continued to assault her airways. “Where are you, baby?”
A muffled voice came from down the hall. The bedroom. She ran harder than she had just a moment before, down the hall and into the room. He wasn’t where she could see him. “Gabriel, where are you?” she called again.
The closet door was pushed open, dark curls and sparkling eyes peering up at her in fear.
She rushed to him, too scared to worry about frightening him. “Pull your shirt over your nose, baby. Can you do that for me?” She didn’t wait for him to answer, pulling the material up before he had the chance and pulling his hand up to hold it there. “Keep that there, okay?”
The roar of the fire was getting louder, the temperature rising, the building creaking. They needed to leave. She hurried him out of the room. Out of the apartment. There was a sharp crack, and something fell behind them as they turned into the hallway. Gabriel screamed, gripped her arm tighter, and she ushered him to the stairs.
They were halfway down when there was another creak. Loud. Ominous. The step beneath her feet gave way, and she fell through. Gabriel screamed again, his grip tight on her, like he was trying to pull her up.
She was dizzy–from the heat, the smoke, the adrenaline. Unable to focus her blurring vision, but there was no mistaking the sound of footsteps, even with the sounds of the fire and her fear-muffled ears. No mistaking the shadow creeping up the stairs, the long black jacket and large frame.
He stopped before her, looking every inch an avenging angle in the flickering orange of flame and the haze of smoke. He didn’t say anything, simply hauled her up, set her on her feet, and rushed her and Gabriel the rest of the way down the stairs and outside. He didn’t stop when they got out, pulling them across the street and onto the cracked sidewalk.
Sirens rang through the air, cutting through the sounds of the fire and the cries and curious murmurs of everyone standing outside, and Gabriel jumped. She startled back into awareness to crouch down to his level. He was crying, struggling to breathe through his sobs. Her heart squeezed as she pulled him into her body. She hushed him, murmuring into his hair, “It’s okay, baby. Just let it out, hmm? There you go. You did so good. Listened to me soso well.”
⛆ ⛆ ⛆
As if Yunho couldn't stop himself, he was reaching out, trembling fingers brushing the wetness from her cheek. And then memories were flooding into him.
“You knew her?” he asked, unable to stop just how broken he sounded.
“Who?”
“I saw her,” he said, swallowing hard enough she could hear his throat click. “The woman I was going to marry. My Daisy. You knew her. I saw it, saw her through your eyes.”
“Daisy,” she whispered. Her voice was soft, wet with a sadness she thought she had long-since gotten a handle on. The memories came back to her Of a hospital and blue scrubs, the smell of disinfectant, a woman lying unconscious on a bed. “Daisy Draven?”
His expression said more than words ever could.
“I was her nurse when she was trying to get clean. Before…before I quit.”
“You stayed with her,” he said. “You sat with her all night.”
“I didn’t want her to be alone,” she whispered, voice thick with tears. “But I ended up leaving her, anyway.”
The words hung heavy in the quiet between them, and she hugged her brother tighter to her body, stifling a sob as he shuddered in her hold. It was raining again. The chill pressing in, wet and oppressive, as she willed herself not to break right there.
He gave a humorless bark of a laugh, pushing a hand through long, wet strands of hair. “Guess we have that in common, then.”
⛆ ⛆ ⛆
ANOTHER NOTE: and it ends here! i had thoughts on how i wanted this to go, but didn't get them down quick enough and entirely forgot. so, there may be a second part or there may not be. that remains to be seen. anyway! if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed this! and HAPPY HALLOWEEN!! 🎃🍬
