i wake up,

The needle being injected into his skin didn't even make an impact. All he could feel was a tiny prick.

It was odd sitting back here again. He'd only frequented the infirmary when he was younger--after his pride had kicked in, his determination barred him from seeking medical help from people. Instead, he recalled wallowing in his room trying to fix himself. He had the scars to show that he was never quite so great at reaching all of the touch cuts on his back.

"You still wear it," he pointed out idly, voice still thick with lethargy. A soft breath escaped his lips, a heave of some sorts because it was getting tiring just sitting alone. "The ring, I mean," he corrected, gesturing with his head to Myungsoo's hand.

He wondered if his was still back in his room--if his room was still in the same state of disarray he'd left it behind in.

There was an awkward sort of silence in which Sungjoon really didn't know whether it was time to say he was sorry or that he missed Myungsoo a hell of a lot.

Idly, he lingered before letting out another soft sigh. He was tired.

It was debilitating being weakened to the point that he couldn't even muster up an ounce of strength to utilize his own genetic mutation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept peacefully, the last full meal he'd eaten--but he was home. He was home, and despite the tumult he had left the Brotherhood behind in, there was peace at mind and it was comforting knowing that little had actually changed in his absence.

"Hey," he rasped out, lifting his head to lock eyes with Myungsoo. "Lend me your shoulders."

He rarely showed signs of weakness like this; it was completely uncharacteristic for Sungjoon to actually and willingly depend on others. His countenance, however, had been diminished over the past few months spent in isolation. He was exhausted, his bones felt brittle, and the broken bones in his legs couldn't support him any longer than they already had.

His gaze fell from Myungsoo's face to the rest of his body, analysing again how worn out the younger boy was. His eyes lingered, however, on the curled fist hanging by Myungsoo's side. It was hard to hide the glint of silver wrapped around the younger boy's finger and though he didn't say anything, the thought--the sentiment was much appreciated.

There was a brief pause, a lull in the atmosphere as Sungjoon exhaled sharply, rib cage constricting despite the bruised and shattered state of his ribs. Sungjoon cleared his throat uncomfortably, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck as he glanced up again.

He was successful, triumphing over the label of suicide mission itself for some god forsaken reason even Sungjoon couldn't identify because he sure as hell knew it wasn't some innate desire to live. He'd given that one up ages ago.

But he was broken, now, and shattered beyond repair--both literally and figuratively. There were bandages wrapped shoddily around every inch of his body, some of them far too worn out and stained with dried blood to actually serve any medical purpose. There were bones that were broken, untended to because priority permitted them to be put on the back burner. Cuts and bruises littered his skin and he knew he had new-found scars formulating beneath the cloth of his bandages.

Still--it was oddly satisfying limping into town, a cigarette previously lit with shaking hands balancing precariously from the corner of his lips. He knew things weren't the same (he'd made certain of that), but it was calming being back where he sort of belonged.

What he didn't expect, however, while stumbling into town was a face he thought had spurned him long ago.

He was tired, exhausted, and much too weak to ask questions--to wonder aloud or to himself why this was happening to him of all people. Instead, Sungjoon let his gaze fall onto Myungsoo's slight figure, emaciated over the time he'd been gone. He noted the black bags beneath Myungsoo's eyes, the new scars and bruises on his arms.

"No," came the slow response, words muffled by the cancer stick still balanced between his teeth. "I did it for myself."

And that was the truth, because despite all he paraded as his impassive stoic nature, Sungjoon was emotionally derailed beyond repair.

The bruises and the bleeding didn't mean shit to him--not when everything that had just happened by his own hand was still resonating at the back of his mind.

Chaotic. That's what it was. It was chaotic and horribly unhinged and even though he knew it was what had to be done, he couldn't ignore the nagging feeling at the core of his chest reminding him of how vulnerable Sungjoon's last look at Myungsoo really was.

And fuck, it hurt. It hurt too much for words and all Sungjoon could do was bury his face into his hands in a half-assed attempt to wipe away the blood when in reality, he was crying too. He was finally dwindling into absolute nothingness and his emotional defenses were rendered useless.

Because this was it.

He could see his ring on the ground a distance away.

This was it. They were over now. There was absolutely nothing that could keep him grounded to the world anymore and for as emotionally distraught as he was now, Sungjoon knew that his future death would come over him like the calm subsiding after a storm.

He dragged his hands away from his face, letting one linger over half as he laughed--bitterly.

"Myungsoo," Sungjoon called out to a face that no longer remained. "Myungsoo, I'm so sorry."

He'd done it. He'd finally done what was necessary and proper but why did he feel so empty?

He wanted to stop this. He wanted to stop the creaking of the metal roof supports, he wanted to stop the fact that all he could concentrate on when Myungsoo's fist connected with his jaw was the crack of both of their bodies, he wanted to stop all of this--drag Myungsoo into his arms and apologize profusely for ruining this day for him.

But each punch brought him a dash of contentment because he knew that as long as Myungsoo hated him, there would be no regrets as Sungjoon went on the mission. There would be no bitterness to haunt him once he died.

His lip was bloodied and his jaw most definitely bruised but Sungjoon couldn't give two shits in this instance.

When he was dragged up once more, he let his gaze focus on Myungsoo's face, analysing the mix of emotions that flashed across the younger boy's features. He wasn't aware that he could cause such tumult, in all honesty, and it was heart-wrenching--all he wanted to do was lift a hand to wipe away the tears that threatened to follow.

Instead, he stared, imploring and beckoning. He said I don't care with his stare and held back the Please forgive me in his throat.

"Then don't," he said clearly. "Don't forgive me--I don't care."

His state of mind was disheveled.

And everything minutely pained him.

There was a mocking glint in Sungjoon's eye, an incredulous tug of the lips into a very minute smirk. He ignored the fact that his ring had clattered to the ground--that there was yelling going on. This was what was supposed to be happening. He was supposed to be happy--things were going as planned and if he didn't fuck things up, Myungsoo would live.

That was all he wanted. He wanted Myungsoo to live. He was willing to give up anything for Myungsoo to live.

"The Brotherhood is more important to me than this relationship ever was. I don't have time for worthless shit like this. I can't waste my time entertaining you."

The words slipped out of his mouth, practiced and poised but as venomous as he'd intended.

"Do you want to hit me?" he repeated, expression defaulting into a neutral one sans the rise of his eyebrows, inquisitive and taunting. "Do it. Nothing's holding you back."

When his body made contact with the concrete wall, a jolt surged through his veins and arteries and he made a conscious effort not to grimace. Instead, he let his body react as it would--it became limper, leaning back against the same wall that had shocked it into pain for support. And there was another tiny, mocking smile on his lips. One that spelled a challenge.

Because he was so fucking close to getting Myungsoo to leave the building just for a night or two--just long enough for him to convince Dongwook that the boy wouldn't be back in time to take the goddamn mission.

"Stupid," he pronounced slowly.

March 13th--a birthday, and anniversary--

"You mean nothing to me."

--and the very day Sungjoon decided that there was no better gift in the world than protection itself. His fingers clenched into one fist and he pressed that hand against the ridged concrete, letting the scratches and cuts he was garnering for himself remind him that this was no pain compared to what might have haunted him had he let Myungsoo take on this mission.

"Nothing," he repeated.

Two years. They'd been together for two years. Two fucking years he was throwing down the drain because he'd done what he swore never to do--he fell head over heels in love and compassion snuck into his ribcage like an old enemy.

"I know," he replied solemnly. He could see the ring on Myungsoo's finger, still silver but tarnished from the wear and tear of training. It'd been lovingly abused, however, and the pang of regret shot down Sungjoon's spine again.

He bit back the I like it too at the tip of his tongue and shook his head, instead, dropping his hand back down to the side.

And this was the hard part. This was where he prayed years of cold-blooded experience would deceive whatever faith Myungsoo had in him. This was where he'd lock eyes with the younger and rely on lies that had trapped Sungjoon in a horrible web for far too long.

"I don't have time for this anymore."

His gaze fastened on Myungsoo's figure, eyes devoid of any and all emotion. Sungjoon pointedly ignored how quickly his heart was beating, abandoning the warning signals his own fucking body was sending him for the sake of Myungsoo and just Myungsoo.

He had to pull this off. He had to--because without fail, in any bargain where it was Myungsoo's life or his own, Sungjoon knew which option he'd go with in a heartbeat.

"Dongwook hyung agrees," Sungjoon finally added. "I don't have time for distractions--the Brotherhood doesn't leave time for me to fuck around with shit like this."

He glanced at the box in Myungsoo's hand and then lifted his gaze once more, dull eyes and pursed lips focusing blankly on Myungsoo's face. "Take it. I don't need it or want it anymore."

March 13th was a special occasion in more ways than one. Not only was it Myungsoo's birthday, but it was their unofficial anniversary--it'd been two whole years now of dealing with each other in the best way possible. They were in love, for Christ's sake, and Sungjoon still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that he was minutes away from shattering that illusion of happiness for the sake of something much gloomier.

He thought back to last year, three-hundred and sixty-five days ago when he'd awkwardly stumbled over his words in the very same spot as he was right now. He'd extended a closed fist to Myungsoo and looked away, grimacing because of the embarrassment that followed.

It was a ring. And he'd tried to play it off as something casual, just a new accessory, but then his harried explanation had escalated into an exasperated--thanks for... staying with me.

And now? God, was Karma cruel or what? The partner to Myungsoo's ring was sitting in a small box, undecorated, no longer curled around Sungjoon's finger.

With each second he thought over the imaginary script running through his minds, the more apprehensive he became. But this was for a good cause--this was for a good reason because this wasn't just Sungjoon being restless and frustrated with the sentiment of loving too hard. This was Myungsoo's life at stake and Sungjoon's die ready to be hurled across the gambling mat.

"Fuck," he hissed. He tried to ignore how empty his hand felt without that stupid band of silver wrapped around it.

But he had no time to think--he had no time to revise his words to present something much more dangerous, something like let's run away together or let's get out.

Instead, the door opened and Sungjoon's chest clenched just a little tighter. The veins in his neck pulsated, agitated by the locking of his jaw. His teeth gritted together and he tried in vain not to speak too soon.

"Happy birthday," Sungjoon responded instead, placid gaze focusing on the smiling boy before him. Smiling--he was smiling that smile and Sungjoon felt so bitter realizing it'd never be for him ever again. "And happy anniversary."

He reached across the bedside table to grab the tiny box with his own ring in it.

Two steps. And he extended the box.

He wasn't sure how to say it.

He wasn't sure in the slightest how to formulate the words and say them with conviction so this could finally, finally be over.

So he lifted his own hands up and gently pulled Myungsoo's loosened fingertips away from his collar. He took one step back and held back the inhale he needed to remind himself that he could still breathe and that the suffocation he was feeling was all an illusion, a brilliant ploy to get him to take everything back and whirl both of their heads on the metaphorical guillotine.

He couldn't say it.

Not again.

"How many times do you need me to say it before you'll finally understand?" Sungjoon demanded, teeth gritted in a feeble attempt at keeping his sentences short and concise, free of any unadulterated apologies he couldn't afford to spill now. Not when he was so fucking close to finally cutting Myungsoo off.

"It's over," he repeated. "It's over, so let go."

He felt like a broken record, repeating the words that no one wanted to hear over and over again until they were drilled into bone.

The feeling of obligation sprung up again at the base of Sungjoon's chest and he swallowed the guilt, swallowed the regret and took another step back, making sure not to let the proximity distract him.

He felt the surge of biting pain upon impact and he held back the instinctive urge to block any of Myungsoo's assaults; he forced himself to stand limply through whatever else was headed his way: the punches, the words, anything--anything at all.

Why?

Because this was his punishment, and he was willing to accept it.

"No one told you to trust me," he continued, gaze fixated on the seething fury of the younger male. "In fact, I'm sure all of the fuckers around you suggested the complete opposite."

The metal creaking around them was hard to ignore. He wasn't willing, regardless of the circumstances, to initiate any sort of physical argument--he was not willing to do anything beyond the necessary. The lies he had gently planted around Myungsoo's head, his impressionable imagination, were already growing into fruition. There was nothing else he could bring himself to do...

But continue to lie.

"I don't care."

It was clean, despite the bruise dotting the side of his jaw and the tingling feeling on the inside of his mouth where he'd bitten his cheek too hard.

"I don't care," he repeated, "so neither should you."

(Takehisplace.)

"It's over."

The fogginess of his memories cleared up and he could see soju bottles, a swinging wire gate, and a smiling confession. He could hear old phone calls, voicemails, and he could read text messages he'd neglected to delete for the sake of safe-keeping. He could see a boy wearing a jacket two sizes too big and a smile that was too wide for someone who belonged to the Brotherhood.

"So let it go."

It was more of a statement, not quite a question since the expression on Myungsoo's face spelled out his incredulity. It was a relief, in all honesty--maybe Sungjoon could get to his point quicker now. In spite of the tension surrounding them, he laughed. Lightly. It was more of a scoff, or maybe that mixed with uneasiness. He was always trying to cover up his anxieties with some facade anyways that depicted the image of a person who was sure of himself.

"No shit, you read me like an open book," Sungjoon spat out to himself. For the briefest of moments, he contemplated how much easier it might be executing this plan if he just pretended--pretended that Myungsoo wasn't there, that he was just lying to thin air and that in the end, Myungsoo wouldn't be hurt and he'd just have to fucking apologize before things would revert back to normal.

("Take his place."

"What?"

"Take his place, then he won't die. Simple, isn't it?")

Simple.

It could be simple.

"He told me to break it off, leave you," he stated--clearly and with no hesitation. He craned his neck in Myungsoo's direction and locked eyes with the younger boy.

He clenched his fists to stop them from shaking and the sensation of nails digging into bruised flesh slowly brought him back to his senses. The awareness--the emotions he should have felt moments ago slowly piled up atop his subconscious.

"So I did."

Sungjoon was in no position to test his luck or to test Myungsoo's patience, but the object of the game was to build up as much detest and hatred as he could inside of the younger boy's heart. He paused succinctly, waiting for the staccato moment of silence before continuing his barrage of lies. "Happy now? You got the truth you wanted.

"And now..."

("Take his place," Dongwook repeated. "Take his place and he won't have to die.")

The words refused to leave his throat. He relaxed his hands and then clenched them into fists again, hiding the pale skin stretched taut over bones beneath the table.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Myungsoo's voice and despite the hostility, it was still a familiar sound, something that sent thrums of comfort down Sungjoon's spine. For a split second, he felt like hesitating--like telling the truth, throwing aside everything Dongwook had told him on the phone.

But he couldn't help but wonder... was it worth it risking both of their lives when he could play martyr just this once for the sake of someone he did, in all honesty, care about?

The high-ended obligation stung and Sungjoon sucked in air sharply, trying to distinguish the metaphorical, mental pain with the physical pain that occupied his battered body.

"I've been out," he responded smoothly, hiding the grimace he was threatening to vocalize, "on a mission. Dongwook hyung assigned me to a mission."

It wasn't that simple. He knew what Myungsoo wanted to hear from him was an explanation, an answer to "why did you leave without saying anything?" And that, that was the trigger Sungjoon was silently waiting for. He needed that demand, that accusing tone of voice, that bitterness, that surge of guilt before he could lie to Myungsoo's face.

"He told me not to say anything so I didn't."

His nerves were frayed.

"He told me not to tell anyone."

The churning feeling at the base of his stomach urged him to leave, to isolate himself and let the sickness and the cuts and the bruises consume him as a person instead.

"So I didn't."

The words he couldn't bring himself to say out loud rang loud and clear from beneath what he uttered--"I care about the Brotherhood more than you."

It was getting harder and harder to speak.