Yall Fw Aliwoo Or Wha

how do you write a eulogy for someone who isn't dead yet?

(text is from a journal entry from TLOU pt 2)

ao3 is crazy because you'll read the most gut-wrenching 200k word slowburn that leaves you sobbing into your sweater at four in the morning and the author will be applejacksmonstercock

sobbing AGAIN

This is a continuation of the cliff scene in which the Hwang brothers face each other on the same cliff again - and Jun-ho "pew-pews" himself

@crazyhappycat requested this

(trigger warnings: guns, violence, suicide, blood)

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

In-ho lunged.

Heart in his throat. Legs burning. The world narrowed to the sight of Jun-ho’s finger beginning to tighten on the trigger –

“Jun-ho!”

And then –

The shot.

It cracked through the air, sharp and merciless, echoing off the cliffs like the final word in a conversation they never finished.

Too late.

The recoil snapped Jun-ho’s head back, his body jerking once before crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut.

“No!”

In-ho reached him just as he tipped backward, just as gravity began to drag him toward the cliff’s edge. His hand shot out, grabbing Jun-ho by the wrist, fingers wrapping around cold skin as the rest of his bory crumpled.

“No. No, no, no –”

The wind roared around them, cold and merciless, howling over the crashing waves below. But In-ho didn’t hear any of it – not really.

All he could hear was the ringing in his ears. The echo of the gunshot.

The silence that followed.

He gritted his teeth, muscles straining as he hauled Jun-ho’s body back, dragging him away from the ledge and into his arms. The sea roared below, indifferent.

He collapsed to his knees, cradling Jun-ho’s limp form against his chest. His hands were everywhere. Desperate. Wild.

One clutched at the blood blooming at Jun-ho’s temple. The other searched blindly – his throat tightening – fingers trembling as they pressed against his neck. His wrist. His chest. Desperate for a pulse. Any sign. Any hope.

“Come on. Come on, please –”

But there was nothing.

No pulse. No breath. No flicker of life behind Jun-ho’s eyelids.

Just stillness.

And blood.

So much blood.

In-ho let out a sound that didn’t belong to any language – broken, raw, and guttural. A noise ripped from the part of him he’d buried so deep he thought it would never surface again.

“No,” he gasped. “No, no, no –”

He pulled Jun-ho into his lap, cradling his head with shaking hands. One palm pressed uselessly against the wound, trying to stop blood that had already stopped flowing.

His other hand cupped Jun-ho’s face, thumb brushing gently over a cheek that was already growing cold.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered. “Please, don’t do this. Not like this.”

He rocked back and forth, holding him close, forehead pressed to Jun-ho’s.

“You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay,” he mumbled over and over again, like if he said it enough, it would make it true. “I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m right here.”

But Jun-ho didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

In-ho’s arms tightened around him, curling protectively as if shielding him from the wind, the cold, the finality of it all.

He’d done everything – everything – to keep this boy safe. Raised him. Carried him. Loved him harder than he ever allowed himself to love anything.

This was the boy who had clung to his pant leg at five years old. The boy who waited by the window when In-ho came home late from night shifts. The boy who used to fall asleep with his head in In-ho’s lap during movies.

And now…

Now he was gone.

“Come back,” In-ho begged, rocking him gently. “Please… please come back.”

But there was only the wind. The sea. And the weight of the body in his arms.

The weight of failure.

The weight of the one thing he couldn’t save.

He rocked him gently, like it would do any good. Like it would pull the life back into him. Like he was five years old again and just needed to be held.

But Jun-ho didn’t stir.

In-ho sat there, knees scraped from the rocky ground, arms wrapped tightly around Jun-ho’s lifeless body. The blood had soaked through his sleeves, staining his chest, his hands, his skin.

It would never come out.

Nothing would.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that. Minutes. Hours. It didn’t matter. Time didn’t exist in this place anymore – not when the person who made it mean something was gone.

Did Sang-woo ever have his glasses again after he returns to the games in S1? If not, does that mean he wore contacts for games 2-6, or that he flat-out couldn't see for shit for games 2-6?

Either way, I feel like more Sang-woo analysis of his behavior in the games should take into account that either: a) this man was partially blind for the remainder of S1 after he returns to the games, or b) this man thought he'd be 'smart' by wearing contacts instead of his glasses when he returned to the games, only to then spend multiple days either burning his eyes out wearing the same contacts for 5 days straight, or was partially blind for the remainder of S1 after he took them out the first night and realized he still had four games left that he now had to play while only partially able to see.

And you know what, I might be ready to kill people, too, after a few days of living with a decision that seemed so smart in the moment had turned out to in fact be that bad of A Mistake.

amazing

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