Chapter Text
Mingi had flown far too close to the sun this time, truly. He was quite literally going to be burned up like the melted wax of Icarus's wings, dripping away in thick globs, and dropped into the dark blue ocean to drown. This was definitely making the list of top five worst hunting experiences of his life—not that he has nearly enough, yet. Mingi still considers himself a beginner hunter, especially after tonight's events unfolded.
How could he not see the signs?
The putrid smell, still stinging his nostrils and eyes, the giant, claw-marked pawprints, if you could even call them pawprints. Mingi could comfortably fit his long body into the prints and make a decent seat out of the depth they punched into the damp and dirty ground. And there was more than the typical four—he had counted six, four as if they were from a dragon and two from some breed of big cat on steroids.
Then there was the smoke, billowing around him and settling into a pit of dread in his stomach. Mingi had hated the smell of smoke for as long as he could remember.
Oh, Mingi finally realized, too late, this might not be a typical hunt, huh? His typical hunt didn't involve a thousand-plus-pound dragon-cat hybrid hell-bent on melting the skin from his bones.
And it wasn't, at all. The creature finally revealed itself in looming, hot red scales, luminescent under the silver full moon low in the sky, another reminder to Mingi to plan these hunts with greater intent. Mythical creatures, which this creature surely was, fed off silver moons such as tonight's. The corrupted spiritual power rolled off the creature's vermilion scales in undulating, dark rivulets, almost as hot as its fire-breath.
Mingi shuddered. He could feel the power rushing towards him in waves, leaving a burning sensation on his skin and amber-tinted eyes. He reaches for his daggers, suddenly feeling useless in the face of a set of giant wings, two heads, and two paws with four claws, which looked even bigger than the prints let on.
He was so fucked.
Well, this could be it, but Mingi would never go out without a fight, even though he was fighting trembling knees that threatened to force him to kneel in front of such divine, raw, and dark power held by the creature in front of him.
The creature shrieks, loud and all-consuming, and Mingi thanks his shaking muscles for their quick reflexes when he is able to roll forward to get behind the cave's onyx wall just in time to not get singed by the fire pulsing out of the dragon-head side of the creature.
Mingi realizes, way too late, once again, that the two heads seem to be of different breeds, too. Mingi can now make out the head of an imposing and snarling tiger set further back on the body of the creature. Currently, both are fighting to tear him apart—one with raging flames and the other with a full set of oversized teeth.
Mingi reaches for his knives, six strapped to each of his thighs, gripping tight to their crystal inlaid handles, letting his ring adorned fingers linger on the bloodstones and hoping they grant him extra-strength, somehow.
Dragons are weak in their underbellies, or the heart, if he can aim true. Mingi thanks the gods that he likes to research mythical creatures when he has downtime between hunts to visit local pavilions and record halls. Mingi can't say he's come across an oversized dragon-tiger hybrid in his research, unfortunately, but if he wants to make it out alive, every scrap of knowledge will surely be needed.
More fire reigns down on him, his leather coat beginning to smolder, hair and face protected by a broad-brimmed leather hat bought from a booth seller he'd found cute. The seller had claimed it was enchanted with protective spells and sigils. I guess they were cute and actually well-versed in magic, huh?
Mingi figures it's now or never and slowly unfurls from his hiding spot behind the only cave wall left standing, a dagger in each hand, ready to fight without regrets. Mingi sprints to the other side of the cave, using his speed as an advantage to gain a better vantage point of the underbelly, and hopefully, the heart.
One dagger lands, wedged into the tiger-side's underbelly, whaling shrieks vibrating the ground. The other dagger is used to wedge a hole in the wall for Mingi to lift himself off the ground and narrowly avoid the fire spraying down on him from all sides. Fuck, I'm gonna need a new coat. How am I gonna afford that?
Before Mingi has time to mourn the coat he'd saved up for months to buy, hunting not always being a paying job, and Mingi not brave or savvy enough to resort to scheming or thieving the rich as a lot of hunters would, another shower of flames is unleashed from the dragon-head's long snout.
He avoids the flames, mostly, by dropping his hold on the wall and rolling. His coat is singed all the way through, and some patches of hot flesh are pulsating with fiery heat on his calves and upper thighs from where he couldn't curl in on himself mid-roll.
I'm not dead yet.
Mingi grabs for another two daggers, clinging to the bloodstones like lifelines, and sprints towards the creature with all the false bravery he can dig up out of the grave plots within him. One dagger goes into a claw, the other deep into the scaly underbelly, barely puncturing the tough surface. It must do something, though, because the creature is anything but happy, thrashing back and forth and whining.
And oh, the tiger-head is back online, and snapping for Mingi's neck. He jumps again, the jaws avoiding beheading him and instead grabbing the thick neck of his jacket and lifting him off the dirty ground. He tries to reach for another dagger, but he's flailing like a fish caught on a sharp hook as he gets thrashed back and forth by the tiger-head. His latent fear of heights rearing its own pesky head.
This is not a good time to be getting vertigo, Song Mingi! Think, think, get it together!
He gains leverage, using momentum to swing himself almost one-eighty degrees to straddle the small sliver of space in front of the giant tiger head. Two more daggers are pulled—one to gauge into the tiger's amber-swirled eye and the other sent in a sweeping arc into the dragon-head's eye, popping both right out of their gaping sockets.
Mingi can't help the guttural shrieks that are ripped out of his throat when he loses the grip his thighs had on the creature, once again thrashed back and forth, voice scratchy from the smoke and soot and dirt clouding all the air in the cave. He figures, this is it, limbs no longer working with him and barely hanging onto the scaly edge of the creature's body. His daggers might as well be in another universe, now.
Then light flares, but not the all-consuming, sticky and hot light the dragon fire produced. It was pure and gleaming as if the silver full moon had manifested in this shitty cave Mingi was convinced would become his crypt.
Are they flares? From a gun, or maybe a talisman? Then Mingi falls to the ground, plummeting down with all his weight times ten from the height he was lifted to by slobbering, angry teeth. Ouch, Mingi is not getting out of this without a limp, at the least. He might even have a few broken ribs, and his shoulder feels like it's been torn out, too.
"Fuck." He sees more light behind his scrunched-up eyes, booms following each flash. So a gun, or guns? Mingi forces his eyes to crack open. He first makes out a silhouette in the silver moonlight, a lithe shape in curved lines of navy blue and confidence, then the writhing creature not ten feet from him.
A sharp boot kicks the dragon-head, a light-filled shot right to the center of its chest, aim true. Another, from a second pistol Mingi could now tell was loaded with enchantments, is aimed at the other side of the creature's chest, where it's covered with thick, pale orange and blood-caked fur.
Two hearts.
The man is definitely a hunter, and a seemingly tough one at that, with an elegant roughness to his movements that could only have been born of countless hunts.
A sword is strapped to the stranger's back but left sheathed. Mingi clocks that it's of a high grade despite the unclear details, the air surrounding the blade undulating under its latent spiritual power in wavy rivulets. Mingi has always fantasized about seeing a spiritual weapon, and his pulse quickens at the thought of being in its presence. Believed them to only exist in ancient myths told in bedtime stories through his grandma's solacing voice, "In ancient times, before hunters were called hunters, they carried marvelous blades that held the spirits of gods within them."
"Ew, what the fuck, never seen one of these before." Another kick to the creature, this time to the tiger's head. Mingi coughs and twitches, having no luck moving his body, which felt as if it had gained a thousand tons from the fall.
"Whoa, hey, man—you good?" Mingi is singed from head to toe, clothes covered in gaping burnt holes exposing patches of skin.
Blugh, he can taste ash in his mouth, nose, throat, maybe even in his ears.
"Yeah, I'm good." That's when Mingi gets a better look at his savior. Past the aura of confidence, he sees a face masked in black with a hat similar to Mingi's own covering his head, but in stark black leather so opaque it blends with the onyx cave walls and silver-moon casted shadows. Mingi notices navy blue peaking from the brim, falling into round, concerned eyes focused on Mingi's sprawled form on the ground.
Mingi's jacket is completely gone, the tiger-head tearing it from him in the fall. All that's left is his pocket-lined leather vest to cover him. He cringes at the amount of dirt that layers him head to toe and the bleeding scrapes left from the fall.
It sure was a close one, huh?
"T-Thank you for saving me." And Mingi means it with his whole singed and scraped being.
"You're very welcome." His savior says, accompanied by a chiming chuckle that doesn't match his rough exterior. "Would you like some help getting up, there?"
Mingi takes the offered hand, groaning from forcing strength back into his thankfully only burned and not broken legs. "Thank you."
"Aiyah, no need for thank yous between hunters, you know?" Mingi's savior removes the mask and reveals a set of white and smiling teeth that seem to fill up his entire face.
Wah, pretty.
"Pretty? Hm," Fuck, Mingi had said that aloud. His pretty savior spins on his heels to look at the creature, "I guess it could be considered pretty, eh? Definitely a rare sight to find a chimera in these parts. One hasn't been sighted in decades, and the tales being spread hardly seemed believable. I mean, two heads and six limbs?"
"I-I know, right. Wild. And two hearts, apparently," Mingi chuckles, giddy from survival or maybe at the sight of his savior's smile, "Good eye, by the way, and great aim… um-"
"Fangs," Mingi stares, awestruck. Fangs? This pretty, rough around the edges, quick-footed and elegant man is the Fangs?
"Fangs," Mingi cannot believe the Fangs just saved him from getting eaten or burned alive. He doesn't know whether to be delighted or utterly embarrassed. "Fangs. Right, uh, nice to meet you! I'm, well, I'm-"
"You must have a code name, correct?" Assessing eyes sweep up and down Mingi's body and land on the straps holding his daggers, where they are barely hanging onto his burning thighs, "You are way too decked out to not be a hunter."
"I- Yes, I'm a hunter." Mingi shuffles his feet, wincing, "You can call me Vermillion, or Million."
"Vermillion," Fangs is still smiling, and Mingi winces at the sight, "Or Million. I like it, kid! Is it because of the flaming red hair?" Fangs reaches for a strand of his hair but stops mid-way through to just point instead. "You know that color isn't the best for trying to be stealthy, right?"
Mingi can't help but pout. The times the hair had, in fact, been a hindrance during hunts became too many to count on ten fingers. Yet Mingi still refreshed the dye whenever he could afford it. "And you have bright blue hair."
"It's not bright. It's midnight blue."
"It looks pretty vivid to me, it's pretty, like.. sapphire, or the sky on a blue full moon."
Mingi thinks he may have gotten brain-damaged from inhaling too much smoke. Does chimera smoke have some sort of crazy side effects Mingi doesn't know about, is that it? Maybe he should ask Fangs, should take advantage of his favorite hunter's vast knowledge, get him to show more of those pretty teeth.
"I'm starting to feel really, really dizzy."
"Eh, eh, okay, big guy, come here—" The last thing Mingi sees is Fangs lunging towards him with quick feet that leave dusty clouds in their wake before his vision goes completely pitch black.
Mingi wakes up in a moving car with bumping bass thundering through his aching body. He notices bandages tied around his arms and legs, and a voice humming to lyrics backed by electric guitar, low drum beats, and an engine roaring dully under his feet. Where the fuck am I? Did I get abducted by a corrupted spirit, again? How many times—
"Ah, Vermillion, you're finally awake! What do you need, water? Protein? I think I might have some chips…"
Mingi just coughs dryly in response. Right, the chimera, the fire and smoke. Fangs.
"Fangs."
"That's what they call me!"
"I know—I've read your manuals."
"What, those old things? I didn't even know they published them anymore…" Mingi coughs again, slightly embarrassed that he'd admitted to knowing Fangs so early on. He is not going to admit he'd searched the lands high and low for mentioned manuals, pulling every contact he knows to get his hands on them. That he reads them before falling asleep every night like an anchor harboring him—especially the ones he spent sleeping under the bloodiest of moons.
"You need water." Fangs reaches behind them, hands steady on the wheel, the sleeve of his thick, embroidered button-up pushing up to reveal a tattooed forearm.
"Hm, butterflies?"
Fangs brightly chuckles, "What, you like them?"
"Mn. Very... well done." Mingi wants to trace his fingers over the expertly inked, delicate butterflies to see if they'd feel as soft as they looked. If they would flutter to life from his touch.
"Yours, too, Million." Mingi flushes, realizing the legendary hunter has basically seen him naked, seen the thick black and red ink covering his shoulders and curling down his arms. Latin characters and a few of his favorite mythical creatures, the azure dragon down one side and vermilion bird the other, meeting in the middle of his back in a tangle of blue and red lines.
"Ah," Mingi says, realizing he'd been spaced out, trying to picture how Fangs saw him, burnt and vulnerable on the dirty ground, and why he decided to patch him up and carry him to his car instead of leaving him to wake up scared.
"It's Song Mingi, if you.. wanted to. Call me that, I mean. My given name."
"Mingi, heh, Mingi Million. What a cute name! Vermillion Mingi. The red—" Fangs reaches for the vibrant strands, fingers grasping them for just a second before softly letting go and dropping to the top of his shoulder where the vermilion bird starts "—it suits you, Mingi."
Mingi's breath catches at his name being spoken, so soft yet landing heavy in his chest. No one has called him by his birth name since he'd left home and his grandparents' funeral plots at fifteen to hunt. He all of a sudden feels way too warm.
"Water, please."
"Of course, of course!" Their hands brush when Fangs passes the stainless steel canister, Mingi thankful it's icy cold to the touch, hoping it can cool the sparks running up his forearms from the light brush of their skin.
Mingi focuses on drinking the water.
"I'm Kim Hongjoong, by the way, if you wanted to have my name, too."
Mingi chokes on the water. Kim Hongjoong, it's pretty, ringing out of the hunter's mouth in rolling syllables that seem to match the music still playing from the car speakers.
He feels awe-struck and dazed to have the name of his idol. The title Fangs is still clinging in the folds of his brain from late nights reading his detailed manuals and listening to tales on his infamous hunts told by animated storytellers found in local inns throughout his travels.
"Hongjoong," Mingi tries, after he's done choking on the water, the name feeling almost holy as it comes from his unworthy lips, "Nice to meet you."
Fangs, no, Hongjoong, laughs, bright and high, "Nice to meet you too, Mingi. Now go back to sleep for a while. You need your rest—fighting a chimera is no easy work."
"Hmph, and I didn't even kill it, in the end. My pretty savior did." Mingi really does need to go back to sleep, preferably now, before the weight of the words he just said catches up to his ringing ears and, gods forbid, to Hongjoong's.
He slumps back on the already pushed back passenger seat, letting the black edges of his vision take over, still reeling that he knows Fangs' real name.
"Mingi, we're here." Gently forceful hands shake his shoulder. He starts with a jolt, taking in his surroundings—the black leather bucketed seat cradling him in all the right places, the faint peaks of sunlight now revealed through cracks in the dark sapphire horizon, and Hongjoong, who's fully turned towards him, no longer driving.
Mingi thinks he looks even prettier with his skin warmed by the first rays of morning light. Softer, too, his rough edges blurred out.
"How long was I out?" Mingi asks, vision still blurry and voice groggy from lingering sleep and smoke.
He felt slightly better, now, surprised that he could get rest in such unfamiliar quarters. Let alone a moving car. Maybe it was because the interior made nostalgia ring through him. Flashes of memories in his granddad's vehicle from the same era play behind his eyelids in saturated, grainy hues.
Damn, how much did he pay for this? Wondering how a hunter can afford such a luxury. Mingi doesn't even own a car, yet, and doesn't know if he ever will—relying on the strangers in need of a haunting to be cleared or corrupted creature to be slayed or spending long nights walking on foot in search of dark energy to hunt.
"Not very long, a couple hours, at most," Hongjoong reveals, "You snore, just a bit, yet you looked so peaceful—like nothing could have woken you."
Mingi doesn't think anyone has ever called his sleeping form peaceful. He has always slept on the defense, since as long as he could remember, a skill-set he'd sharpened like he would his dozen blades every night.
"We're here."
"Where-Where did you take me?" Mingi questions, eyebrows furrowing at the realization he hadn't even bothered to ask such a vital question when he'd woken up earlier.
Mingi can't deny he trusts Fangs—even before they were introduced in the cave. Then he met the hunter with a set of teeth that brightened the dark, tomb-like cave, and the feeling dried into hard cement.
"My house, or lair, as I like to call it. Makes it seem more bad-ass, you know?"
"I like it. Fangs lair." The other hunter giggles, and it ebbs the sting from Mingi's burns. "But you… brought me all the way here? Why?"
"Well, you were passed out cold back there, and injured to boot, and honestly looked like you might need a place to recuperate that isn't a dingy inn. If it's your gear and supplies you are worried about, I made sure to gather them for you, of course. And checked you out of the local inn, too—don't want Vermillion's valiant name to be smeared by any locals!"
"I-I wasn't worried, but thank you, Fang-, I mean Hongjoong, shit, sorry."
"That's okay, Mingi. You can call me whatever, really. I just felt like…" He pauses, hands grasping the thin beveled leather-wrapped wheel in a display of nerves Mingi hadn't had the privilege of seeing on him yet. "I wanted to give you my real name, you know? And not just because you gave me yours—your fight back there, I was watching, for a while."
Oh. Flashes of the scene play out from his still recovering memory, zeroing in on the series of desperate shrieks he'd let out near the end, hanging from the chimera's body with aching death-grips.
"You fought so hard, with almost every dagger on your thighs, and used your surroundings like you were… born for this. All without knowing what the creature even was you deduced its weak points with every scrap of knowledge you've gained. It was impressive, Mingi."
Mingi is speechless, left bereft and reeling, that Fangs was sitting next to him in his vintage, all black Chevy Impala, telling him what he's always longed to hear—that this was the right path for him, after all. That the call in his soul wasn't unfounded but real and true, like ghouls were foul, pesky creatures, and Fangs is called Kim Hongjoong.
"Impressive, huh?" Mingi is squirming in the passenger seat now, the singed holes on his leather pants causing his skin to stick to the hot leather, not ready to fumble through an explanation on how the words were stitching up a gaping hole in the lining of his gut. "You were more impressive, though—you only needed two shots to kill a corrupted ancient mythical creature. What do you know about the chimera?"
"Ah, thirsty for more knowledge, eh? I love it, one should never stop learning!" Hongjoong unbuckles his seatbelt, then Mingi's, light laughter escaping him at regular intervals. "Let's get you inside first. You've been scrunched up in here for far too long, and I need to patch you up properly. Get you into a new set of clothes."
His eyes scanned Mingi's body, lingering on the burned holes that exposed red-tinged skin.
"I have a room in my lair I think you might really, really enjoy."
Hongjoong's lair is more like a dark gothic cottage you'd find in an artsy film, rooms aplenty and decor on the quirky side, covering almost every jewel-toned painted wall. Well-taken care of plants lined every corner they could fit into and hung from the high ceilings, making the place feel alive, as if it were taking its own steady breaths. It's colorful despite the moody atmosphere from candles he lit with talismans as they walked through a sconce-lined hallway.
"Nice place." It was such an understatement that Mingi felt stupid as soon as he said it. For Mingi, who hadn't had a home in over a decade, it felt jarring to be someplace that screamed the word from every corner. He scrambles to add more, "It's… a magical home. Alive."
"Come, come—we haven't even gotten to the most magical part!"
Then, at the very end of the hall, there was the library. It was like a wet dream for Mingi, rows upon rows of ancient to modern scrolls and tombs and paintings of creatures Mingi had never thought imaginable. A whole wall of weapons was found to Mingi's left that ranged in styles from all the way up north to all the way in the southernmost deserts.
Hongjoong lets him ruminate in this moment, trailing behind with hands behind his back, walking in that elegant way of his, hips moving side to side like a cat locked in on its prey. Fluid and dangerous.
Mingi spots a long table lined with neatly organized tools, talismans, and soldering equipment, with a robot girl rapidly moving behind it. The robot looks human at first glance, shorter in stature than Hongjoong, but her movements are stiff and too methodical, as if she were built to be a production assistant. Her face is pretty and delicately carved by hands that obviously held deep care.
"Ah, Hyojin, look—I brought someone home!"
"Well, that's a first."
Hongjoong trips mid-step, covering it up with a hand thrown to one hip, "Vermillion, this is Hyojin, my dear protege and closest confidant."
"Only. Only confidant." Hyojin interrupts, voice deadpan, but Mingi doesn't think it has to do with her robot nature.
"Nice to meet you, Hyojin. You can call me Mingi, if you'd like." He doesn't know why he offers it so easily to this robot whose eyes somehow shone with human emotion.
"Nice to meet you, Mingi." Hyojin says, bowing, voice friendly and warm. Mingi was right—her voice can change from the deadpan, sarcastic edge it held before. Curious, he thinks, I've never met a robot quite like this one.
Hongjoong smiles with his whole face, "Hyojin, will you help supply some clothes to our poor Mingi? As you can see, he has been... de-robed." Hongjoong coughs, "And some more supplies—cinnabar from our best stocks. And bandages, cloths, a bath drawn up in my quarters—"
"In your quarters, huh?"
"I mean— my quarters, and the guest quarters, I need to bathe sometimes too, you metal freak, always questioning me, aish—" But Hyojin was already out the tall doors chiselled with patterns of leaves and butterflies to gather supplies and draw the baths.
"You must be starting to feel some of the pain again, huh?" Mingi wondered why he hadn't been in more pain during his ride in Hongjoong's car. It all comes rushing back when Hongjoong removes the cloth bandages to reveal sigils drawn underneath.
They were somewhat recognizable to Mingi but tweaked, more powerful, drawn with dark cinnabar in some of the most beautiful sigil work Mingi had ever seen. He had drawn one on his shoulder, too, where it popped out.
Mingi thinks he wouldn't mind getting it inked permanently to make a home with his vermilion bird.
"Yeah, just a bit." But Mingi has started shaking, the throbbing in his shoulders drowning out the pain from the burns and broken ribs, at least.
"Let's get you in the bath, big guy."
Mingi does end up bathing in Hongjoong's quarters.
"I just didn't want to go back and forth with Hyojin, but I need to make sure your wounds are properly cleaned and take a good look at that shoulder."
Mingi feels warm and taken care of, despite Hongjoong cleaning his wounds with brows pushed together and soft sounds of concentration escaping him. "Does it hurt?" and "Are you comfortable?" are asked multiple times.
"Hongjoong, yes, I'm comfortable, and no, I promise it doesn't hurt. Whatever you put in the bath…"
"Ah, yes! The herbs. Hyojin loves to grow them in the garden. Oh, I still need to show you our garden! I think you'd love it." Mingi thinks of Hongjoong and Hyojin, hunched in the garden together instead of in their library-turned-workshop, and feels his heart grow three sizes and pound into his aching shoulder.
"How," Mingi clears his throat that suddenly feels far too tight, "How did you meet Hyojin?"
"Well," Hongjoong, still focused on cleaning Mingi, now forcing him to sit up and rolling up his shorts to inspect the wounds on his thighs, "It's a long story."
Mingi's throat is still dry and tight. They are face-to-face now, and Mingi wishes Hongjoong would look at him, but he also doesn't know what he would do if he did. "I-I love stories."
Hongjoong chuckles, breathy and twinkling, and Mingi thinks it's the same sound a shooting star would make if you were close enough to hear it. He wants to put all his wishes into it and never erase it from the catalogue of sounds he's heard the other make.
"We met during the war and I… I saved her life. She wasn't going to make it, and I just couldn't bear to let go of her—she was so bright, and innocent, and I had one of my crazy ideas—a vessel, of sorts, that could hold a human soul. I don't know why I even…" Hongjoong sighs, "I guess I was terrified at the thought of losing another person close to me."
The war? Mingi's parents had fought and died valiantly in the war against demons, a story his grandparents had told him all his life—it was said they were targeted by the demon king before the final battle and burned alive. Mingi was barely four years old.
"I didn't know you'd been practicing that long, Hongjoong." Mingi realizes he doesn't know the hunter's age—he doesn't look more than three decades old, maybe four, his face devoid of any serious signs of aging.
"I was very young." He pauses just for a second and Mingi notices a slight tremor in his usually steady hands, "I regret it, sometimes, the thought of her stuck in that body, human in feeling but nowhere near it in form… but I couldn't let her go. I hadn't yet learned how."
"She seems to really love you."
"But I fear she won't ever forgive me for tying her to such a.. lonely existence."
"Lonely? But she has you, right?"
"Yeah, I-I guess so. We have each other, but…" Mingi thinks Hongjoong wants to expand, reveal something deep within him, but he doesn't, just starts on the next topic, the next gadget or tomb back in the library he says Mingi would surely find interesting.
He finishes by drying Mingi off, still ever so gentle, running the softest towel Mingi has ever felt through Mingi's hair, and then his skin, everywhere but where his still pulled up shorts are covering.
Hongjoong draws the sigils back on Mingi, too. It's a marvel to see Hongjoong working—he's mesmerizing, brushstrokes sure and elegant where he draws symbols over his cracked ribs, as if he'd been practicing his whole life just to take the pain away from Mingi. It's soothing yet hot when they go into effect. Mingi is keeping tremors at bay from the feeling of Hongjoong's fingers brushing against his skin on a stroke, and when he adjusts Mingi into the position he needs, grip sure and absolute.
Next, Mingi's shoulder is popped back in. "One, two, three—" And then Mingi is reminded, once again, that Hongjoong is way stronger than he looks. "Feel better?" Mingi just nods, head spinning, knees weak, and shoulder back in its rightful place.
Then, Hongjoong pulls out a set of silk pajamas, a deep ruby in color, with a texture so luxurious that Mingi isn't sure even the Gods were privileged enough to touch it.
How does he have so many nice things? Mingi craved to see more. To see everything that made up this legend called Fangs across the lands that he now knew as Hongjoong.
"Can we head back to the library? I mean, I really did get good rest in your car."
"Of course! If you are sure you are up for it, Mingi Million."
Mingi wants to tell him to never call him that again—yet he is fighting a smile at the corners of his lips like one would fight to keep from falling off a cliff. He nods with a hum of affirmation and lets Hongjoong lead him to the library.
Hongjoong is completely and utterly an inventor. He walks him to a back part of the library Mingi hadn't seen earlier, rows and rows of gadgets and drawings, all colorful in their own way—like Hongjoong's house and Hongjoong's aura: blues and deep violets and shades of maroon. And they are sturdy and useful like Hongjoong, too.
"And this! Oh, this one, Mingi, you need. Here," he places it in Mingi's hand with urgency, "it detects dark energy. You can use it on hunts, even keep it on your body at all times for extra protection, and it should work from—ah, I'll say three to five miles away, but I'm not, ah," Hongjoong runs a hand through navy hair at the nape of his neck, "completely sure. As it's the prototype and only one around, aha!"
Mingi falters, the metal of the hourglass-shaped invention feeling cold and ten times heavier in his sweaty palms. The only one? "And you are just giving it to me? Hongjoong, I—"
"Ah, no, no!" Hongjoong waves his hands in abject denial with a pout fixed on his face. Great, Mingi's chest caves in, another expression for my catalogues. "You must take it, Mingi. Trust me, you will get much better use out of it than little old me! You can be like—my beta tester! Yes!"
"Ah, okay," Mingi agrees as he might to anything the older hunter wanted. "Will I need to turn in, like, a report, or something? Do you have a score sheet?"
Do you have a phone number? Mingi wants to ask.
He is suddenly hit with the fact that he will have to leave this colorful home that feels alive with each step and each piece of Hongjoong he finds within it.
"Mingi, no, just text me if any issues come up, or if you think of any areas for improvement." Hongjoong says, laughing again and reaching for the bag of Mingi's things on the worktable.
He takes out several jars that he must have used to gather the chimera's remains. They are filled with samples of its scales, fur, claws, and the gleaming amber tiger and opalescent ruby dragon eyes. And then finally, "Here's your phone!"
"Aren't you going to unlock it so I can add my number?"
Mingi had been completely on pause. Oh, shit. He rushes to unlock his phone and hands it over to Hongjoong before he realizes how embarrassingly worn and shattered it is. The Naruto wallpaper doesn't help his image either.
"Here you go, all set!" Hongjoong had typed Fangs instead of Hongjoong, which somehow makes this moment even more electric for Mingi. Fang's number.
"Nice," Mingi says out loud, "I mean—I will be in touch with a report on the tool."
"Sounds good, Mingi. Now—let me go over how the tool works—first, her name," Mingi snorts, "Yes, her name! And yes, Caro is a female. She changes colors with the phases of the moon, and look—you can flip her upside down like—" Hongjoong grabs for the hand Mingi is holding the hourglass in, Caro, Mingi corrects himself, and flips it upside down. "If the sand inside turns black, that means there is corrupted energy in the vicinity—and as I said, I am not exactly sure on her parameters—if the sand stays the color of the current moon, like right now, you are in the clear!"
"Curious," Mingi says, "How does she work with the moon?"
"Good question," Hongjoong shuffles around in a pile on one of the work tables, "Aish, where is it, just—why is everything such a mess?" As he makes an even bigger mess in his quest. Mingi thinks he looks like a cat on the defense, limbs sure and quick but feral and desperate.
"Here it is! My guidebook—here, Mingi, this is yours now! Anything you need to know about Caro will be found in this guide here—the steps I took to make her, what colors mean what, even her origin story, and why I decided to create her in the first place. Everyone—" Hongjoong points to the rows of shelves around them, filled with all his inventions, "has a guidebook to go along with them. Finding it, well, you've seen how that goes. Maybe I need a librarian…"
Mingi pictures himself as Hongjoong's librarian, living in his house, cleaning up after him and trying to decode the way his brain works. Color coding his inventions that all had names and stories and stacking guidebooks with utmost care and precision.
"I will take care of it—and her," Mingi shows off Caro, still gripped in his palm, "and read it carefully."
"Sounds good, Mingi."
Mingi wakes up feeling more rested than he has in decades of being alive—in Hongjoong's guest room, which spared no luxury in the slightest: a king bed, silken sheets, and a thick down comforter, with large windows and tasteful decor. And of course, the plants, which are a constant throughout his home.
Hongjoong had led him here last night, after hours spent exploring the library, letting Mingi lose himself in any tomb detailing monsters, sigils, or Hongjoong's inventions that he was drawn to. Which was pretty much all of them.
They all shouted Hongjoong from every weld, color, and shape, as if they were a little piece of his soul that he alchemized into the physical world. Mingi was almost afraid to touch them, but Hongjoong encouraged him whenever his gaze lingered with a soft touch on his shoulders, "Go ahead, Mingi."
Mingi sighs. Thinking of Hongjoong looking at him, a book on ancient talismans clutched in Mingi's hands, completely engrossed, but eyes drooping and body slightly falling to the side in the emerald velvet chair Hongjoong had placed him in.
"Hey sleepy, wanna go check out the guest suite, huh? Does that sound good?"
Mingi nods, realizing how tired he actually was, the weight of the day catching up to him. The smell of smoke and the day he'd spent with Fangs. With Hongjoong and his snarky robot assistant and colorful home. He dreads this day ending.
"Mn. If that's okay? I can sleep here?"
"Of course, Mingi. You are sleeping here." And then Hongjoong hoists him up underneath his arms to lift him, "C'mon, let me take you there, big guy."
Mingi sighs. He has to leave this home that seemed to envelop him in air that felt alive, and in all the small touches that made up a whole, beautiful picture. The residents who bled warmth and care with every movement. He doesn't want to get up and face the reality of leaving it.
But his stomach grumbles and his throat hurts, so Mingi gets up and makes his way to where he hears loud voices coming from the kitchen at the end of the hall.
The kitchen is surreal for Mingi—it looks like it belongs on the cover of a home decor magazine—but lived and laughed and loved in. There are piles of stationery in stacks on the dark marble island, half opened and spilling over, unique cookie jars lined up in a row on the counter, and Hongjoong and Hyojin, bent over the stove together and bantering back and forth, "Get away! Last time you helped there was a fire. I do not want to melt today, Kim Hongjoong."
"But I want to cook breakfast for Mingi!" Mingi freezes in his steps, "Come on, I can handle toast, at the least."
"No, you can't. You burnt it to crisps last time."
"Fine—Ah, Mingi, you're awake!" Hongjoong startles, his eye catching Mingi standing in the entrance. "We are making you breakfast!"
"No, I am making breakfast. You and Mingi are setting the table—Mingi, grab the plates, first cupboard to your right."
Mingi moves to follow her instructions—it was hard not to. She had the demeanor and command that just made you want to follow her.
"Hyojin! Mingi is our guest—he's not setting the table."
"It's fine, Hongjoong, I wanna help." And he does, marveling at the set of plates embossed in gold flowers and butterflies, so delicately crafted they had to be made out of the finest porcelain. "Uh, are these the right plates to use…?"
"Of course! We only use the best plates for our guests!"
"Guest. Singular. Since you're the only one we've ever had." Hyojin interrupts, and Mingi can't help the string of giggles he lets out.
"That—That's not completely true! We used them to give cookies to the neighbors, so—" Mingi is now laughing so hard he's choked with it. "Hey! You two are ganging up on me? It's been one day."
"I think I like you, Vermillion. You get me."
"I like you too, Hyojin."
"Enough, enough! Let's just set the table." Hongjoong turns on his heel and rushes towards the table. Mingi follows and matches Hyojin's laughter on his way there. "I can't with her."
"I think she's great." You are like a family, Mingi wants to say, still smiling and warm all over at Hyojin's teasing and Hongjoong's, "I want to cook breakfast for Mingi!" He must look a fool right now.
"You would! Since you two are similar." Hongjoong proclaims with his arms crossed. They are? "Cute on the outside but menacing on the inside."
"You-You think I'm cute?" Hongjoong scoffs, uncrossing his arms to throw his hands up in the air like Mingi had made an oath with a demon or destroyed his vintage car.
"Of course you're cute! You carry around all those blades and have that deep voice, but get so giddy over a library, and have that look of wonder when you find something that interests you. And you kept nodding on and off while reading that scroll on ancient talismans—I wanted to scoop you right up."
"Didn't you?" Mingi asks, deflecting with teasing to distract from his burning hot face pulsing with blood. Hongjoong thought he was cute. And gave reasons.
"Yeah-Yeah, whatever. C'mon, the plates aren't gonna set themselves—why are you just standing there?"
After breakfast, Hongjoong and Hyojin finally take him to the garden. It's massive, rows and rows of fresh vegetables in neat, well-tended rows, but somehow still cozy and colorful like their home. They could feed a whole village with this amount of vegetables. No wonder breakfast was so good.
"How did you get so good at cooking, Hyojin?" Mingi couldn't help but ask after he cleared the second plate Hongjoong had insisted he needed, "You fought a chimera, Mingi, please eat more."
"Well, Hongjoong here would often forget to eat when he got too into whatever project he was obsessed with." Hyojin glares at the offender, "I made it my mission to make sure he was eating properly after I noticed a whole day had passed without the kitchen being touched. He also hated eating anything green—until we started the garden, of course."
Hyojin is animated and very knowledgeable about gardening, explaining the harvest times for each plant in their garden and the proper steps to care for them, pointing out the differences among each squash or cabbage, down to their roots. Some were so rare that Mingi had never heard of them.
"We use some magic, of course, but mostly it's just our hard work."
"What work does Hongjoong do, exactly?"
"What is that supposed to imply? That I do nothing? I'll have you know—"
"Basically nothing." Hyojin clocks him. "Planning, mostly, and one round of watering a day, it's like pulling teeth to get any help with the weeding—"
"This is slander on my name!" Mingi is once again in fits of laughter, Hyojin breaking as well. "I also take donation shipments to the local villages. It's a lot of work, carrying all those heavy crates…" Mingi thinks of Hongjoong all sweaty lifting crates and is no longer laughing—of course he would donate homegrown vegetables to children in need.
"That's very valuable work, Hongjoong." Mingi wants to make sure he knows the teasing doesn't mean anything—that he knows he's a treasure.
"It-It's nothing, actually, I don't do anything, ha." Hongjoong waves him off, looking away into the distance, "Hyojin, lead us to the greenhouse—Mingi was very curious about the herbs in his bath."
Hyojin points out the herbs used in his bath last night as they enter the greenhouse. "This one here reduces pain. It's only found on the mountain of a remote island. We journeyed for weeks to find it." And they used it on him? Mingi is misty-eyed. "And this one, here, kills any infection under the moon. Hongjoong here actually invented it."
"You made up a new plant?" Mingi exclaims. It's beautiful, with delicate little leaves and tiny orange blossoms that look as if they were painted by Monet. What can't he do? Well, cook, apparently.
"It was nothing, really, I just got really into plant science for a summer."
"It took you only one summer to come up with a whole new plant?" Mingi wonders not for the first time what it would be like to live inside Hongjoong's brain—he wants to crawl inside with a torch and inspect the place until he's learned every single thing. He pictures it to look like his library, only even bigger and even warmer. Even more interesting.
Mingi's fantasies are interrupted by the incessant buzzing of his phone in the pocket of the silk pajama pants he's still wearing, "Your ring tone is Metallica? Good taste…"
"Aha, yeah." And he listens to Metallica. "Let-Let me take this. It could be important." Mingi has many ads running in local papers for his hunting services and will every now and again receive a call requesting his aid.
"Of course, Mingi."
It is in fact a call for his hunting services from an inn owner dealing with a haunting, "I saw your ad in the newspaper. You deal with hauntings, correct? I tried to ignore the signs, but the complaints keep piling up. I don't know what to do. It's starting to cut into my profits, and my daughter is getting married this year! Could you help?"
Mingi agrees, of course. He could be on his deathbed and still run to help someone in need. A few gnarly burns, deep gashes, and even missing out on asking Hongjoong about his sword wouldn't stop him. He assures the inn owner he will be on his way.
"I-I guess I will be going, then. Hongjoong, Hyojin, it was truly so nice to meet you, I hope that—"
Hongjoong grabs him by the shoulders, "I'm coming with! How will you get there, Mingi? I know that inn—it's at least a few hours south. And I still have a lot to teach you about the chimera. Nuh-uh, no way, no argument—I'm your ride."