There are exceptions, of course. A recent viewing of a BL drama series alerted me to a case where death might be an acceptable ending.
*Spoilers (more than already mentioned)*
Make Our Days Count, 10 episodes, ends with the death of Yu Xi-gu, the lover of the main character Xiang Hao-ting.
It still pains my heart (one reason I usually avoid death endings--real life is complicated enough). But I'm not pissed about it, and with death endings, I often am since I feel manipulated.
Why doesn't the ending annoy me?
1. The primary protagonist, who changes the most, doesn't die.
The story is Xiang Hao-ting's; he is a tall, friendly, extroverted, glib senior who has learned to tease and maneuver himself out of tight situations. He is quick and quite intelligent but has given up on getting good grades and getting into a university. He is also inherently fair, kind, and moral. (And carries himself like a young Lou Diamond Phillips.)
The arrival of studious, somewhat frail, and focused Yu Xi-gu changes his priorities, though not his fundamental character.
One of the best episodes in the series shows Hao-ting's moral growth regarding what he initially considered to be a funny trick. In "revenge" for Xi-gu reporting his "bros" for harassment, he keeps the other boy from attending a final exam--at which point, the severity of what he has done catches up to him.
Because his family is well-off, he has options, he doesn't care what university he gets into and therefore doesn't care about exams, Hao-ting makes the (unfortunately not implausible teenage) leap that the "trick" is not that big a deal.
But Xi-gu needs perfect grades to get a scholarship--to get into a top university--to get a good job, so he can rise out of a lowerclass income. His parents are dead, and he doesn't want to be a burden on his aunt. The issue here may not be entirely comprehensible to Americans, but in a country where debt can follow generations, the parents' death is an emotional and financial burden on Xi-gu, who is living alone.
Hao-ting attempts to make up for what he has done even before he begins to fall (completely) for Yu Xi-gu.
That is, the story is run by the "bros."
Again, the translation to "American" here may lead to confusion, especially since some BL stories include actual (step)brothers, who use "bro" as the designator--plus older adults of non-blood are often referred to as "auntie" and "uncle."
Hao-ting has a group of approximately four to five unrelated-by-blood friends, a group into which serious-minded (with a delightful penchant for grand-dad jokes) Xi-gu is eventually admitted. The romance is the vehicle by which the group's friendships are tested and revealed. Hao-ting is one of two young men in the group who form romantic partnerships with other men.
The friends' acceptance is not--thankfully!--accomplished in a lecturing, are-you-now-properly-tolerant? way. In fact, one of the remarkable things about the series' writing is that the young men remain fairly typical young men in terms of behavior and insight. That is, they don't suddenly become profound, self-reflecting, intuitive thinkers overnight (the described transformation occasionally happens in BL with high school characters). The series ends with them because that is where it began.
3. The characters age.
In fact, the makeup or grooming here is remarkable. The actor, Wayne Song, honestly looks 6 years older. The "bros" have also aged. Sun Bo, though he grooms himself much the same (unlike the others), has greatly matured. He is now the wise man of the group; as a teen, he was sweet and goofy and hot-headed (though also thoughtful and good-natured). As an adult, Sun Bo continually reaches out to his lover's family to create a reconciliation; he also kindly and quietly and straightforwardly comforts Hao-ting at the end.
4. The death is foreshadowed.
However, when they occur in fiction, the "a-ha, death happened when you least expected it!" event more times than not feels lazy and manipulative: the writer couldn't figure out where to take the characters next so decided to kill one off and have everyone grieve. Ready-made three to four extra chapters or 20-minute graveyard scene.
In this case, there are several indicators of what is coming (I was still surprised--but not shocked):
- Yu Xi-gu is cute, incredibly thin, and not entirely healthy. In fact, for a few episodes, I thought I might learn that he had a debilitating disease.
- Yu Xi-gu often talks to his dead family on the rooftop of his building. He alone survived an accident (and dies when hit by a car). Like the marvelous Sweets from Bones and John from Person of Interest, the implication is that he got a few extra years lease--but it was going to run out.
- Death is discussed verbally and hinted at visually. In, I believe, episode 9, Yu Xi-gu is seen talking to a mentor about his relationship with Hao-ting on a grassy lawn (near a resort). In the next shot, Yu Xi-gu is alone--the implication is that he is remembering the conversation. But later, the implication is that he is in heaven, remembering the conversation.
All four points illustrate a difference from death endings that use death as easy plotting and cheap shock to achieve supposedly uncontestable profundity--rather like celebrities who preach their noble opinions while taking money from countries and institutions that promote the exact opposite of what the celebrities claim to believe--as if the adoption of a "profound" ending will excuse bad writing any more than the adoption of spoken labels will excuse bad choices. Make Our Days Count, despite a few unanswered threads, is superb writing.
