friendly reminder that sunggyu listens to muse. (and that time is running out was one of the songs he recommended)

on a side note, you might or might not find this  somewhat useful, but not really.

! sunggyu-centric; language; ual references i guess (not really)…?

I tried to give you up, but I'm addicted.

This story starts with the aftermath of an explosion.

Sunggyu tries to wipe off the blood from the corner of his lips, but it’s not as successful as he’d like to. His arm aches and burns, as well as his thigh. He can’t open his left eye, sweat and blood combined and so dense they cover half of his face. As far as he’s concerned, he might also have a broken rib or two.

When he tries to step off from the debris the royal library has become, he decides that, effectively, something on his body is broken. Around him, confusion and panic is wrapped on the palace workers like a second skin, fear of a second attack more than evident on their features. Sunggyu, however, is more focused on being annoyed at the dirty spots on his white suit.

Looking around, he thinks that these people should be better trained for these kind of situations. They give in to despair far too easily. On the hallway that goes to the part of the palace that still remains unbroken, people from the staff, mostly girls, are slowly trying to make their way up to go to the secure part. Their clothes once colorless and impeccable are now covered in dirt and possibly blood.

Disgusting.

He stops in front of a young lady, and as the gentleman he is, gives her his still clean handkerchief for her to cover . After all, being exposed to fresh air for so long can't do any good.

Unlike the soldiers think, the Young Emperor wasn't the target this time. They simply blew up the West Wing, where Sunggyu was resting on the library, reading. The sudden attack of terrorism wasn’t mean to kill the Young Emperor. If that were the case, they would have waited until everybody was asleep and attacked the entire palace, or simply the East Wing, where the Young Emperor's room is located.

When he reaches his bedroom, on the safe side, he finds a dark gray envelope carefully placed on his nightstand. He chuckles, taking it between his hands. He wants to read its contents later; now his priority is to take a bath and change his dirty clothes, and maybe get his injuries bandaged.

But curiosity never fails to betray, and he yields to the impulse of opening the envelope. Inside, it contains a simple, small note. The handwriting is familiar; it reminds him of afternoons enclosed on an office and correcting essays about political issues from before the Decadence.

It's a small message saying that, apparently, "crimson suits you better than white." And so his supposition is proven to be right. This act of terrorism wasn't mean to kill the Young Emperor, this was meant to be a warning.

A warning (an invitation) from no other than the revolutionaries. From no other than Nam Woohyun himself.

When Sunggyu is done with his bath (and bandages, courtesy of Dongwoo) he's called by the Young Emperor. Of course, this incident can't go unnoticed even by him.

The guard next to the Young Emperor's opens the door and announces him. There's a tint of anxiety lingering on her low and composed voice. She, as everybody in the Surface, holds her fear for the Young Emperor under layers and layers of respect.

When Sunggyu enters, the first thing he notices is the mess the room of the Young Emperor has become. There are scraps of mirror in a corner, probably product of the resonance the blown of the West Wing produced. There are also books scattered around the bookshelves and the Young Emperor's toys lying aimlessly on the floor.

The Young Emperor is sitting on the white couch in front of his bed, toy soldiers surrounding him. He has one on his hands, idly trying to connect the head of the soldier and the rest of the body back.

"I believe the toy is broken," he says, bowing. The boy stops trying to fix the toy and looks up, wearing a bored expression.

"And whose fault might it be?" he retorts with a dull voice hiding his annoyance.

Sunggyu ignores it, coming closer. He's used to the Young Emperor's sharp tongue. "Was I required, Young Emperor?"

"Yes," the boy states simply. He tosses the toy to his side, turning to a table close to the window. "Mind to help me?"

Sunggyu nods and approaches the toys. There are at least a dozen of broken soldiers, missing a leg, an arm, or the head. Before the attack, they were placed on top of the bookshelves. When the palace was shaken, the box fell. Sunggyu recalls the Young Emperor telling him they were extremely fragile, and now it's proven.

He picks up the ones that are left unbroken, to later put them on the Young Emperor's desk. He looks at them and starts picking them one by one, aligning them in rows. The movements are so methodical and calculated they fascinate Sunggyu in a way. The Young Emperor's expression doesn't change; his eyes don't squint in concentration nor his lips move an inch. On his state, he could even be compared to a human doll.

Soon, Sunggyu grows bored to see the Young Emperor playing with his toys, and picks up a broken soldier from the floor. Against the light coming from the window, he observes, it looks beautiful. It's wearing an exact replica of the white, gray and gold uniform from the militia. His face is just like the Young Emperor's, expressionless. It's ironic, but the soldier gives out that feel of purity and peace. Saddly, it's broken, useless. It needs to be disposed.

"Sunggyu," the monotone voice from the Young Emperor shakes him out of his musing. He doesn't realize his hands have curled against the toy until it snaps (even more) broken. "Do you need to tell me something about this incident?"

In other circumstances, Sunggyu would find his irony amusing, but the dull tone gives away the feeling. Still, he answers the question, for the sake of conversation. "Everything is under control. What else do you want to know?"

"How will I face the people? They will be anxious with this. Now they will live with the shadow of yet another of these attacks of terrorism. We can afford that, can we?"

"Not to mention that the taxes will raise to pay for the repairs of the palace," Sunggyu can't help but add with a mockery tone, grabbing another broken toy soldier. The Young Emperor doesn't react at the acid tone of his words. "We can assure them there's nothing to worry about. After all, they will blindly follow you words, Young Emperor."

"But the Council is a different matter."

"The Council will be fine. I promise you."

"You are not in a position to promise. They have to stop." Sunggyu understands instantly. They; the rebels. "This is not an alienated incident."

Sunggyu nods, even though the Young Emperor doesn't bother to spare a look at him. He keeps focused on the rows of toy soldiers. The one of the first row, third column, is slightly crooked to the side. "I'll take that as a cue to leave, Young Emperor."

"I haven't dismissed you yet, Adviser." The toy on Sunggyu's hands snaps broken again, and he lets it fall. It breaks in another couple of pieces when it hits the floor. Useless, Fragile. "Before you leave, tell me how are your injuries."

"One of my ribs is broken, my lip is swollen, and my thigh and my left arm are burned." He doesn't whine, doesn't complain. He simply states the facts.

"You are strong, Sunggyu," the Young Emperor says with the same voice Sunggyu uses, "and dumb enough not to notice the simplest of things."

He can't help but feel offended, but he swallows his annoyance. "What kinds of things, if I'm allowed to ask?"

"You've lost the hearing from your right ear." the Young Emperor finalizes accommodating the toys. With a swift movement, he hits the first soldier in every row and, like in a domino effect, all the soldiers fall on the desk. Some of them roll over until they fall of the desk and hit the floor, breaking. Some others stay safe on the white surface. "Also, he's looking for you."

(He. The thought of him triggers unwitting excitement on Sunggyu's body.)

"It will get better," Sunggyu says, referring to his hearing. True enough, he didn't notice. Life at the Surface is so quiet is difficult to notice simple things like that. "I'm sure it's just momentary."

"When you head outside, tell someone to come and organize this mess." He stands up, picking up one of the books next to the desk. He sits back down, with movements full of grace, and opens the book. "And also, tell Dongwoo to prepare some men. You two are heading down to the Underworld."

After the phenomenon known as the Decadence, the country has become nothing like it used to be. South Korea doesn't exist anymore. Instead, Seoul has become the socioeconomic focus of what's left of Eastern Asia. Geographical division can't be accurate anymore and population censuses are the least of the problems. But everything's fine under the Young Emperor's (and the Council's) regimen, despite contamination issues and occasional uprisings.

Seoul is divided in two sections, conveniently called Surface and Underworld (Underground is also an acceptable term). Initially, the Great Emperor, along with the Real Council, assigned them the flat names of B1 and B2. But as time passed, people grew used to the street names.

The Surface is where the Young Emperor, as well as the Real Council and elite families that represent a rough 30% of the population, reside. It is covered by an eternally gray sky, and air pollution is so severe people can die from lung disease as they could on a car accident during the days before the Decadence. Fortunately for them, glass-transport is a common measure. The use of government-provided white masks is regulatory, too.

In the Surface, skyscrapers are as big as they were before the Decadence, and the view of the city is, for the lack of a better word, breathtaking. Everything is calm and composed, provisions are given by the Young Emperor, and the lack of sound is, even though not encouraged, common on a daily life. There is no need for electric light, as the world has come to a point there is no such thing as night anymore.

The Underworld is another story. As its street name implies, it's more or less like hell. Unlike the Surface, it's located underground. People call it a skyless city. There are nine levels, faintly resembling Dante's Inferno, interconnected by a series of stairs and elevators. Five of them are constructed by the government and four made from the despair of the people living there. The inhabitants want to think the Underworld is not as disgusting and awful as the old writing from before the Decadence makes it seem.

The names of the levels have little to nothing to do with the actual suburb, though. But there are two levels, the eighth and ninth, where entrance is forbidden. In the eighth level, supplies for the inhabitants of the Surface are stored, guarded by soldiers with orders to shoot whoever comes closer; in the ninth, where waste from both the Surface and the Underground is stored and forms a vast lake, the levels of toxicity are deadly.

Undergrounders, a derogatory term given with the inhabitants of the Surface, never get to go up and see the sky. But if they do, they have their masks sent by the Young Emperor when they're born. They're black, and since most people never gets to see the Surface, they're mostly discarded or used for other things.

Black and white. People who live in comfort and people who crave for a better life.

Sunggyu leans against the wall of the elevator, waiting to reach the Underworld. Next to him, Dongwoo fidgets, playing with the hem of his shirt. They're both dressed in dark colors, both with old jackets and combat boots. It's for camouflage, and Sunggyu hates it. He prefers the white and gray suit he's required to use; it reminds him of neatness. But orders are orders, and a direct order to blend in from the Young Emperor is unavoidable.

"Blend in," he mumbles. "How can I blend in when I'm the second most-known man in Seoul?"

Dongwoo scoffs, mildly amused. "At least it's easier for you to move in between shadows, hyung," he says. "I can't."

A dozen of soldiers is already waiting for them when they reach the Underworld, low-ranked sheep straight from the military school at highest point of the Surface that will follow Dongwoo's orders like religious fanatics did to a god too busy to appear from before the Decadence.

"Great. Amateurs," Dongwoo mutters when he sees them. This time it's Sunggyu's turn to scoff.

"At least they'll follow you, lieutenant."

"I still don't get why does he send you here." Dongwoo ignores the taunting voice from the older male. "You're the adviser. You're not supposed to even step out from the palace."

"What can I say? I'm not like him." Sunggyu shrugs. "I'm not mean to be a caged bird. And besides, he said they wanted me."

"So you're serving as cannon fodder? I'm not buying that. You're still hurt."

"I'm getting him first." Sunggyu grins. "I'll make sure I'm not the one with scars this time."

Dongwoo shakes his head, skeptic, but says nothing. Instead, he walks up to his men and starts explaining the plan. Sunggyu watches him, growing bored, and then decides to go by himself. He's not the cannon fodder in here.

"Are you going to take someone with you?" He hears Dongwoo's voice when he's turning around to the stairs.

"No," he replies without looking back. "You know I work better on my own."

"We'll be searching between levels five and seven," it's the last thing Sunggyu hears. Besides a "don't get any more hurt" that he decides to ignore, that is.

The thing is Sunggyu knows the reason he's sent with Dongwoo. Unlike the lieutenant Jang, he can move along the shadows and get information in the quietest way possible. He might not get people captured as easily as his counterpart does, but information about the rebels is more valuable than a couple of lives to spare.

Besides, the Young Emperor wants to send his regards to their leader.

He's learned that the masterminds behind the attack are no other than Lee Sungyeol and one of the mercenaries from the deserts of North who goes by the name of L. It will be funny, he thinks, when General Daeyeol finds out. But that's only the word on the streets. Sungyeol and L might have plotted and put into action the act, but Sunggyu knows (wants to believe) that someone else requested for it. The Young Emperor said it himself.

He moves back and forth between the second, third and fourth levels. It's almost four am, the street clocks indicate, and his thigh is giving him some problems, but Sunggyu keeps going. Although it's late, there are still people walking down the streets, going on with their lives. He moves between shadows, trying to find a bit more information.

That bastard, he hasn't even left a clue.

Somewhere around the second level, where most of the clubs are located, Sunggyu is attracted to a bar with dim lights. The place holds nothing to make it stand out, but somehow he's led up to the entrance door. How stupid, he thinks as he observes the grotesque sign above the entrance, to be led by a hunch.

He enters, and the man behind the counter grins at him. He might be expected in here. Clubs and every other kind of mundane entertainment are the only things that keep undergrounders sane for the time being. The lights are dim, as in every place in the Underground, but music is loud and dirty, and the place is crowded with bodies pressed against each other are common. It represents an escape from reality.

Even though clubs are technically forbidden, the government has turned a blind eye to the second level. But hey, maybe that's the reason for the uprisings; the government has the tendency to ignore the Underworld altogether if it's not to arrest the people.

Sunggyu is making his way to the counter, unsuccessfully trying not to bump into random strangers who keep coming and going. If the place were bigger, this should be easier.

"Animals," he mumbles, annoyed.

He's about to reach a clear place to start looking for the person he needs, when a pair of strong hands grab him by the chest. He tries not to wince when they come in contact with his hurt rib, but it doesn't matter much. After all, the dirty beats from that type of music people before the Decadence called electro are able to muffle almost every sound.

"Got you," a certain voice mumbles close to his ear––his good ear––loud enough for him to hear. "How's the score, four to two?"

"Four to three, actually," Sunggyu replies, turning his head towards the person. He tries to turn completely, but his back is pressed completely against the chest, making the task hard to accomplish without producing more damage to his ribs. "And besides, I saw you since I entered, so this is a tie––Do you mind?"

A hand carefully sneaking under the black shirt stops before it reaches the bandages of the chest and moves back down. He's turned around, facing the marred skin from the so-called leader of the revolution, Nam Woohyun. The hands move dangerously close to his waist, but at least they stop moving once they settle.

"Sorry," Woohyun says, breath hot and tickling on his ears. Sunggyu knows he doesn't feel sorry at all. "You were saying?"

"Not so far from the counter," Sunggyu breathes, trying his best to sound composed. He's too proud to admit it, but the proximity makes him uneasy. "On the leather couch by the corner."

Sunggyu hates this kinds of places. Loud, crowded, and with the danger of a riot breaking at any moment lingering in the air. He hates how out of place he feels. He hates how the hot breath against his ear and the husky voice and the firm hands holding him and Woohyun's presence that speaks of chaos are the only things that seem real among this mess.

"Let's get out of here," Woohyun says, sensing the sudden quietness from the older man, "I'll lead the way."

He takes Sunggyu's hands between his, applying the right amount of pressure to stop Sungggyu from escaping.

"Let go. You know I'm not going anywhere." Sunggyu tries to free his hand, pissed. He's not sure Woohyun has heard him, but the amused look and the twisted smile he receives when the younger looks back is more than a confirmation.

"It's not like I'll let you."

The door closes and Sunggyu's pressed against the hard surface before his mind registers the events. He hears the faint click of the door locking, too focused on Woohyun's lips against his neck. Woohyun's body is warm, overwhelming. His chest feels firm against the palm of his hands, and a knee between his legs holding him in place plays as a restrain.

"Is this your place?"

"You would like to know."

He doesn't want to give up to the heat and the friction that threatens to take him to a limit. It's a matter of giving in or holding on, and if Sunggyu is not careful enough, he will come back with a new scar. He pushes Woohyun off him, but the younger man knows him too well to let him go. He pulls Sunggyu with him until they land in a small bed on the corner of the room, Sunggyu landing on top in a half sitting position.

"My, my. I didn't think you wanted to play rough in your state," Woohyun muses aloud.

"What about my state?" Sunggyu plays the teasing card, giving his best look. He doesn't want Woohyun to know he's trying his best not to succumb.

"Your lip is swollen." Without Sunggyu noticing, Woohyun sneaks a hand back around his waist. The other hand tracing his lips with something close to affection is enough distraction. "Your arm doesn't look too well." He moves on to grab the leather jacket and get rid of it. "And what do we have here?" He asks, lifting Sunggyu's shirt enough to see the bandages. "How many broken ribs do you have?"

"One," Sunggyu sighs, looking at him directly on the eyes. "And not to mention that my thigh is burnt, and I can't hear from my right ear. Those ers did a good job this time."

"But not the marked one, right?" Woohyun says without breaking the eye contact. "I'll remember to congratulate Yeol and L later."

"Tell me where they are and I'll congratulate them personally."

Woohyun barks a laugh in reply. He doesn't stop his hands from exploring Sunggyu's body, either. When he's done with the jacket and the shirt, he takes Sunggyu by the hips and switches their positions. He has that predatory look on his eyes that thrills Sunggyu, the same cold charcoal seas and the ghost of a smirk he remembers since the first day they met.

He stops midway to caress the bandaged chest. Even under the dim lights coming from the street, Sunggyu can see his face changing for a second, his eyes softening and his smile disappearing. But the change is brief, and the same scathing Woohyun comes back almost instantly.

"Do you want me," he starts, face coming closer until their lips are mere centimeters apart. Sunggyu is the first one to look down, unable to stand it anymore. With the proximity, he can make the shape of three ugly scars marking the face of his declared enemy. They're like lines, curving from his ear and moving along his neck until one of them barely touches the lower lip. Sunggyu has the urge to trace them, as he does every time they're close, but the other male continues, "to be gentle this time?"

Sunggyu keeps looking at the scars, at the well-constructed cheekbones, at the lips; anywhere but the eyes. He snorts, or tries his best to. "Since when do you take into consideration what I want?"

Woohyun's lips curve to a smirk again, like a reflex. He leans forward, capturing Sunggyu's mouth before the other can protest. He's imposing himself, and Sunggyu hates to be the one controlled instead of controlling. But then Woohyun bites and tugs at his lower lip with just the right amount of strength and carnality it sends jolts of electricity throughout his body and he's not sure it matters anymore.

But Sunggyu doesn't want to be left behind. His hands move as an impulse and bury on his hair. He pulls Woohyun on top of him so now they're completely lying on the bed. His tongue moves smoothly with Woohyun's, nothing but instinct leading their movements. Sunggyu feels a brief sense of accomplishment when he sees the man on top of him closing his eyes, before closing his own.

"Should I take that as a yes?" Woohyun asks when the kiss is broken. Sunggyu grunts in disapproval, slightly gyrating his hips to meet Woohyun's.

"Do as you please," he says before leaning for another hungry kiss.

Woohyun takes out a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, along with a lighter, while he stares through the window from his position at the bed. It's one of those silvered, small sized ones from before the Decadence. Sunggyu observes his movements from the corner of his eye, but doesn't move from his place in front of the window. The younger male takes his time lighting it up with a smooth movement. It stays on his lips while he puts the lighter back on the nightstand. The room is fairly illuminated by the lights from the street, but the red glint from the cigarette is more enticing.

Woohyun takes a long drag, and Sunggyu can barely make the shape of the smoke. If Woohyun notices the longing look, he says nothing about it. He's also staring at the window.

"Hey," Sunggyu calls him, "at least make it look like you're not trying to kill me from cancer."

In other times, he thinks, the joke could have been dismissed as a lame joke. But now it has acquired a darker connotation, given the circumstances. People die as easily from cancer than they do from injuries.

Woohyun turns to face him with those acquiescent eyes of his. Something flickers on them for a second, (understanding?) but he shakes his head and turns to the window again. After some time, Woohyun sighs, mildly frustrated, and stands up.

"It should be easier to kill you by using other measures," he says. By now, he's already behind Sunggyu, close, but the elder doesn't bother to spare a glance. He takes another drag and finally throws the cigarette on the floor, while Sunggyu's eyes look through the stained glass.

Sunggyu finally looks at him with something close to annoyance reflected on his eyes. However, every emotion is ignored when Woohyun takes his lips again. The kiss is rough, but not as much as the ones from before. Woohyun holds him by the nape, tangling both hands on the dark brown hair. They come closer and closer until their chests bump, and Sunggyu's hand––the injured one––is weakly placed on his shoulder, while the other still resides on the windowsill.

There's a sense of alienation, of stiffness. It's like the kisses they shared years ago, like the ones when their relationship wasn't so stained but they still kept their distance. Only that this time, Woohyun's lips taste like plumb and revolution, and Sunggyu is not sure if he'll be able to hold back against his own fears anymore.

"I believe you'll be going," Woohyun mutters with irony after giving an experimental to the bottom lip. That annoying grin of his is back on his lips.

"I believe so," Sunggyu agrees, but makes no attempt to move. Then, he knows what will happen next.

As always, he will clarify that this is the last time it happens, that his mistakes are just transient; that Woohyun and his group will regret hurting him and the Young Emperor will destroy them ("and any other attempt of uprising"). Then, Woohyun will laugh and shake his head, muttering something about how he can't regret something he hasn't done, and he will ask how is the Young Emperor doing? with that mocking tone Sunggyu secretly loves to mimic when he's talking with the Council.

Sunggyu knows all of that will happen. And it does. It's pure routine, useless empty words and threats. Woohyun knows that too, that's why he ignores the sharp words that Sunggyu puts so much effort into, and holds him close. Sunggyu resists at first, but then gives up, as always.

"You shouldn't go back," Woohyun suggests. It's useless, like every other word shared between them, but he tries anyway.

"I have to," Sunggyu replies. At times like this, when the smell he identifies as tabacco is harsh against his nostrils and Woohyun's voice is more intense than usual, he doubts for less than a second he does. But then he remembers the Young Emperor sitting on his room, playing with the toy soldiers, and the power (and responsibility) it conveys the fact that he is the one in charge of him. And he remembers how he's bound to be at the top, to be the second most known man in Seoul, and why Woohyun's scars were created. "You know I side with the winners."

He knows by experience that his actions will push Woohyun's buttons once again. The younger male will shove him against a surface (any kind, really) and take him roughly him until he takes his words back. Of course, that will never happen, and Sunggyu will go back to the palace still hurt and with a newly formed scar, along with some information, while Dongwoo will have two or three men captured––cannon fodder, scapegoats; call them as you please––ready to interrogate.

But now it doesn't happen as he expects. Instead, Woohyun chuckles and holds him. He looks through the window to the skyless city, lips turning to an enigmatic smirk, before looking back at him again. His smile is ironic yet sad. It takes all of Sunggyu's willpower to stop himself to surrender. The lingering feeling of alienation increases, and merges with something different, like the prelude of a storm. The hands on his back move in circles, almost comforting, and Sunggyu is ready to ask what's up with the odd behavior, when the man opens his mouth again.

"Then you will be switching sides soon."

so i sit here in front of a bunch of top!sunggyu, and i'm like "b-but why ._." anyway… here, have some kind of dominant woohyun. ah, i'm too lazy to talk about this one-shot. what else? oh, i'm still working on the second part of of mortality and all that jazz.

sunggyu's almightiness is distracting me. (not that i'm complaining)

thank you for reading!