#u0:origin

he spent half of his life with the dead and the other half with the living;

his father was a funeral rite mortician who cleanses and prepares bodies for their final departure  ( ref:  nokanshi ),  sil grew up assisting him

but then his parents died in a freak accident

he was taken in by gale’s parents - of which the father’s a doctor;  so sil traded in sending souls off to saving them

pretty decent upbringing, pretty decent life, pretty decent guy

as long as you’re not too fazed by him making really intense eye contact... or invading your personal space... or caressing...

appreciates The Voice’s creations a little too much and may become infatuated with a unique physical characteristic you have  ( be it something normal like your eyes or your hair;  or something a lil more intimate like your tongue or your pulse)

takes care of people!  cleans!  cooks!  he creates beautifully plated dishes, but his cooking is a toss-up.  50% chance it’ll take like heaven, 50% chance you’ll end up at the hospital rip

but he’ll make it up to you by tidying your home and giving you massages and piggy back rides :’)

genuinely enjoys helping people, so catch him volunteering in his free time

mostly calm -- but when he’s angry or aroused, the rim around his pupils glows a soft red, so he can... never truly hide his feelings

has a really loud inner voice that aggressively articulates his thoughts.  he tries not to listen to it though, ‘cause The Voice told him not to trust himself 😔

super tall. like. 190cm / 6′3″ tall.  this is important bc if you’re short enough, he will use you as a headrest :3c  endearingly ofc

always wearing white or light neutral tones;  he only wears black for funerals  ( of which he tries to attend every single one... )

plot bunnies ---

you’re reckless;  he patches you up again and again

your pulse is irregular;  it intrigues him, he wants to study you, examine you

you went on a date with him, and he cooked something awful

you went on a date with him, but he’s making you feel uneasy

you went on a date with him, and for once, it’s not him, it’s you O___O

co-dependence - you’re drowning, he’s burning.   this isn’t anything good.

once upon a time you knew him intimately, but something happened and now he bears a grudge that carries through the universes.  ( tell me, how many times do i have to kill you for you to understand? )

he kabedons you for absolutely no reason LMAO

his parents and someone you’re close to died on the same day, so once a year, the two of you reunite at the graveyard / temple

he shows up at your relative’s funeral but he’s not even on the guest list??? mf just here to watch

his inner voice is loudest when he’s with you  ( read: he loses control )

maybe he volunteered at your workplace once?

or babysat you??  cooked for you???

im up for anything tbh lets get it

“... what are you...”

he crouches next to the mangled mess that is his adoptive father’s head and hair.  it’s the only part of him that’s bashed into the ground by the fallen tree -- the very same tree that they had planted many years ago for his adoptive mother, who wanted to play mahjong outside but found the sun ‘too blinding.’

thunder claps.

the ceiling cracks.

“... please help...”

his fingers tremble as they reach out to trace the silenced veins along his father’s arm.  down, down, down to the pale palm, then back up to the weakened wrist.  his thumb hovers the bit of flesh that separates him from a pulse.  

he decides not to check.

he already knows.

( it also rained that day, fifteen years ago. )

with his fingers still curled around his father’s own, he slowly sinks to his knees and lowers his head into the cold hand.

he’s been dead for a while.

immediately, no doubt.

( sirens blaring.  people screaming.  a car smashed into the hardened earth, headlights first, wrecked beyond recognition.  freak accident, they said.  such was fate -- his soul was meant to bleed red. )

too late.

always too late.

“... sil... help me...”

please.

( what are you doing?  why... are you standing around?  help them.  that’s my father -- my mother -- they need help.  they need -- why - why are you just standing there?  do something.  you’re a medic, aren’t you -- they’re bleeding - look, they’re -- look at me.  why are you just -- do something -- DO SOMETHING ALREADY.  WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?  WHY ARE YOU JUST STANDING THERE HELP THEM THEY NEED HELP THEY NEED --- )

SHUT UP.

calm down.

( we’ve never encountered this before.  we don’t know what else to do but pray. )

the voice to his far right grows desperate.

“... sil, please.”

annoying.

“i can’t breathe.  i can’t -- please.”

persistent.

“help me, i can’t... sil, please--”

“wait your turn,”  he snaps, his eyes sharp as they find his adoptive mother’s own.  “i’m with another patient.”

her expression scrunches, her lips quiver.  she utters his name once more, pleading him to pity her.

he lets her beg.

chaos reigns,

but he finds peace in a silent prayer.

dear deity, if you’re out there --  ( please save their souls.  they’ve ascended too young, and they’ve left behind a -- )

( they told him that his parents’ bodies were too damaged, too disfigured to prepare for burial.  natural would be best, no need for rituals.  but he was his father’s son, the mortician’s apprentice;  he refused.  at fifteen, he stood between his parents’ beds and cleansed their charred bodies with a steady hand and a shaken heart.  then, he sent them away.  far, far away. )

again.

a curse.

he raises his head,

and presses his lips upon dampened knuckles.

he tells him goodbye one last time.

...

...

...

that woman is relentless.

she gasps as he approaches and grapples at the hems of his trousers, her cheeks now stricken with unsightly tears.

“sil... sil --”

all things considered, she is a good person.  she doesn’t make trouble, doesn’t do much -- but she loves her family more than life itself.  he can tell by the way her body is angled toward her husband, how her arm is stretched beyond comfort in a futile attempt to share her warmth in his last moments, how her --

he steps closer.

she sucks in a breath but doesn’t make another sound.

he reaches down and grabs the piece of the brick wall that’s crushing her entire body.  as he begins to hoist it upward, slowly, slowly, he hears a distinct crack.

she screams.

he drops the bricks without thought.

“... ah, sorry.”

he removes his heel from her rigid fingers and finds distrust in those dark eyes.

“i’ll get you some ice.”

her mouth falls open as if she wants to chastise him for his senseless priorities, but in a smarter move, decides to let those reprimands die on a paralyzed tongue.  she waits for his return -- minutes upon minutes, a dreadful drawl -- but he doesn’t come back with ice as promised.  instead, he’s empty handed.

“you don’t look well.”

she doesn’t speak.  she only glares, her gaze glazed over with frustration.  in retrospect, he’s not entirely sure if she can speak with the weight now shifted over her chest.

he lowers himself to her level.

“... gale would be devastated.”

he brushes her hair aside.

she leans away -- in vain.

his thumb ghosts along her slender wrist.

pum pum, pum pum...

“i’ll look after him.”

pum pum... pum pum...

“you don’t have to worry.”

her eyes squeeze shut.

pum... pum...

he places a single mahjong piece at the center of her palm -- a trinket he’d picked up when he wandered the house for ‘ice.’  her fingers twitch, but they’re too broken to close around her one comfort.

“i’m sorry.”

pum...

i’m sorry you’re not worth saving.

pum...